A. 1000 hours to pencil. 1 hour to ink. More on this below.
B. There were two parts of the gathering I went to over the weekend. First was in a desolate near post-apocalyptic town (population 200, yes just two zeros) in the desert. The second was a gloriously poolside party. You can see a bit my trip here. It was like a wedding but it also was not one. My friend announced a few years ago that she likely wouldn’t get married and if she hadn’t by 40 she wanted a gathering of people near and dear to her. Some of the older white heteronormative folks gathered were a little bemused and confused. I arrived single as well. The world is strange as a single person. Folks assume you’re alone and dateless all the time which I am not. I am not a commitment-phobe or a Peter Pan. Like, I was married for 10 years and monogamous for 13 years. I got the resume, son. Job free moments aside, I like my life. At events like these, full of white hetero-people it does make me feel like I’m wearing a human suit. Fortunately at this party was one of the Host’s best friends: Preston (names and details changed to protect the innocent). We all should have many many Preston in our lives.
On the night before, I arrived late. Later than me was Preston. He arrived in LA and drove into the night with no cell service. He was out of minutes so he had a printed map like it was 1996. A dot matrix mapquest print-out and taste for adventure. Preston had returned to his home state to tune up his life a bit after a few years of partying. Drugs, co-dependancy and some legal trouble funneled him to his dad’s guest room the past few months. He had found some drugs and stayed up most of the night swimming naked in the pool. He opted to stay home and swim while the group went to Bombay Beach a way station for elite weirdos. Preston waved as we left out the front door to the van he sashayed through the glass sliding doors wearing a massive sun hat, bug-like seventies sunnies, a sheer flowing bath robe and a tiny Speedo bathing suit. There’s an annual Burning Man type art festival there. When it’s not there’s still contemporary art littering the landscape near the Salton Sea. The Salton Sea is a damn near poisonous body water made by American hubris. A failed oasis with living ghosts populating this tow of trailers. The Host genuinely loved this place after researching a paper for her master thesis and wanted to share it with us. We were respectful but it still felt uneasy. Our wealth and gawking was a lot.
The party was a tuxedoed affair. Preston wore some kind of black martial arts outfit he found at a thrift store that day. His face sparkled with makeup, dark hard curved lines shaped his eyes. Everyone seemed straight from a perfectly curated social media feed, Preston playing the quirky friend. There were a lot of quiet weirdos at this party. Polyamorous, artists, kinky, queer…but with a group of old rich hetero babyboomers everyone was mostly on their best behavior. The drugs were done in the bathroom like gentlemen. I’m sober so my oddness grew progressively with the crowds substances. It was hardly rowdy. Most of us dipping our feet in the hot tub, though some jumped in. Preston was wearing a jock strap and a sailor’s hat. A massive bruise was clear on his ass. We talked a bit about his court case and mandated up coming sobriety. “As of next Wednesday I have to be done.” he told me holding three drinks. All of which were his. Weirdness is an armor in some ways. A secret shame in others. The rich people couldn’t imagine living in Bombay Beach while a few of us whispered about how it seemed like a dream.
A. 1000 hours to pencil. 1 hour to ink. Ok, dull house keeping stuff. I’m crushing the inking of the pages and thoroughly enjoying it. Sooooo fast once you’re done pencilling. You can see A LOT of updates on my Instagram account. Please follow me on Twitter and Instagram and like some posts for you buddy, Mark. It helps a lot. I have a bunch of second round day job interviews this week. The whole Bay is on fucking fire. My area is cool but this climate change nightmare is terrifying. Like, I’ll be okay but, fuck, it’s going to get rough for a lot of people. Overall….I think I’m kind of ok? Weird. Like, if I get a job I think I’d be reasonably happy and making this comic is part of that. Thanks for supporting me. For reals. Hugs to y’all.
C. Refunds, as always, are still available.