Noir Favorite Things

A while ago, I started listening to podcasts, and I soon learned that some really talented people were doing old-timey radio shows. I quickly zeroed in on writer and voice actor, Gregg Taylor and his baby, Decoder Ring Theatre, home of the superhero adventures of Toronto’s Greatest Champion, the Red Panda and my favorite, Black Jack Justice. Set in the fifties, the show is about a Private Detective and coffee snob, Jack Justice, and his partner, Trixie Dixon, two-fisted Girl Detective.

Taylor is an enormously talented writer. The styles of Red Panda Adventures and Black Jack Justice, as well as the anthology plays he does are wildly different. The tone between episodes of a single show will veer out of control. Black Jack Justice has had episodes that leave me laughing aloud on the train or episodes that break my heart with the injustice of it all. His dialogue is spot on, and I wish I could pull out a few quotes to share.

I picked up a couple of his novels when I was a reader, and his conversational style in the shows translates perfectly to paper. He’s been a big inspiration to me, as a writer and as an artist, so I did this little piece a while ago.

Tooting my own Horn

Evidently, farting is funny. There are fart jokes in ancient Roman murals. We all know who Shakespeare is because 60 percent of his writing was baffling language, and the other 40 percent were fart jokes your English teacher had to explain to you. Fart jokes are mighty.

I don’t understand the appeal, to be honest, though I think it may be the taboo nature of farts, mixed in with “there but for the grace of God go I.” Farts smell really bad, and there’s something funny about being people being disgusted.

Some people are really proud of their farts, and some people don’t ever admit to having them. But the fact is, we all fart. Kim Kardashian farts. And since it’s a shared experience over the world, a vocabulary is going to be built around them. And that brings me to my question.

You know how some farts just explode, real attention-grabbers? Other farts are the opposite, hissing out of your anus with nobody the wiser. The problem is, these are also the most fragrant, so what do you call them? Silent-but-deadly? This is the one I hear the most. I understand the appeal of the gag, where it’s like a ninja of discomfort, but it’s not as good as the other one. I learned of this one in middle school, and I loved it for its sheer poetry: silent-but-violent.

I never hear it anymore, even though it is the superior of the two by every means. Silent-but-deadly describes poison gas, but silent-but-violent knocks you around a bit, gives you a bloody nose. And it rhymes.

When you were a kid and the scent of a microwaved dead skunk marinated in used gym socks comes from the bowels of someone in this room or elevator car, what do you call it?

Silent-but-deadly?

Or silent-but-violent?

Meet Gretchen

Gretchen West is a former intern at a sleazy New York City tabloid who graduated to fotog. She’s a bombshell, she doesn’t have an insincere bone in her body, and she’s actually a really good photographer. She balances out her good points by being really obnoxious. She is a gum-chewer, a belcher, and a knuckle-cracker. She can unleash a silent-but-violent at will. And her laugh. Oh, God, her laugh.

Parenting in the 70s

I would like to start working on comics again, but it’s been so long, between Newcastle’s final days in February and Oscar moving in in April, that I’m concerned I won’t be able to restart. I’ve been spending my weekends at the coffee shop, drawing little lots of little fully rendered sketches, hanging out with Oscar, etc., that I can’t bring myself to return to my half-penciled page.

So I did a one-page short, set in 1977, starring my parents and their kid, who only likes to play with toys if they can kill him.

I Ink, I Can

Last week was a terrible week at work (this one’s not looking much better). I was just basically buried in work, but I fell sick for half of Tuesday and all of Wednesday, and no matter how efficient I was, no matter how much Adderall I took, I could not catch up.

Some of this momentum must have carried over to the weekend because I chose to work on a project I needed to finish by this morning at the latest, but I also wanted to finish some art I’d worked on during my busy week.

In addition, I was thinking about ink-washes and the fact that I had several bottles of ink left over from when I was writing my books by hand. I rushed through these drawings, so they are not great drawings. I’m not sure I really enjoyed them very much, but I’m also not sure I did them right.