CLEANING HOUSE

So I guess a few weeks ago I did something stupid enough to piss my computer off, and it hasn't been talking to me ever since. The exhaust fan in the power supply is more worn out than a recyclable condom, and the damn thing quit spinning, thus making my computer time infrequent and slipshod: Right now I have an oscillating fan aimed directly at the back end to keep it cool enough to write this, even though I know it only makes it worse.

As a result of this, I have been, for all intents and purposes, successfully atrophied from the World Wide Web and its gaudily superfluous assortment of comics-related websites. I have no idea which one of my favourite comics has been cancelled this week, what inspired new creative team hooked up, or who is suing the shit out of CrossGen this week.

And I gotta say, I don't mind it so much. All that time I was using to surf comics-related websites - probably four or five hours a week, minimum - is being used to do something I haven't had the time to devote to with any serious commitment: reading comics.

Two weeks ago I took a look around my room and noticed all the books I'd read but didn't have the time or the immediate interest to read. I have a tendency to purchase quickly and consume slowly, and over the years I think it's caught up with me a bit. This new technological solipsism has given me time to pore over the books that have piled up in my room like odd stacks of Legos improperly connected: teetering collections of hardbacks and paperbacks of different shapes and sizes, threatening to capsize like a game of Jenga or something else that can capsize.

'The time I devoted to surfing comics websites is now being used to read comics.' There are a lot of "great" books in here: books that may not necessarily be great, but have a reputation for being great -- and I hate to be the last one to the party by saying this, but BLANKETS is one of them. I can understand why some people believe it's great: fantastic artwork, a fairly engaging story, and an interesting journey through the darker corridors of Craig Thompson's life. It's a good book, and these are the things that make it good, but deserving of so much praise and coverage? I don't think so.

There's an unrelenting tendency among comics readers to devote startling amounts of attention to anything that has a potential crossover appeal, and I can admit my guilt in this too. We're all so desperate to prove to people that we're not stuck in a perpetual adolescence: that comics are as valid an art form as any other, and worthy of the same grand-scale awareness as other media.

I agree with both of these points, obviously, but I think we have a bad habit of going about it the wrong way: by forcing marginally impressive books down 'normies'' throats simply because they can appeal to broader sensibilities, approach the form with a more serious bent, and are remarkably accessible to anyone because of their overall, well, blandness.

Think about the books that have been pushed on the overall public by the more serious comics readers: GHOST WORLD. OUR CANCER YEAR. SUMMER BLONDE. Good books, all of which I own and enjoy, but largely unremarkable when compared to the more daring or complex works that comics has to offer. These are the books that are inflated to greatness because of their broad appeal rather than their quality. They're all, at best, well written and/or well drawn, and perhaps a little quirky, but mostly semi-autobiographical, or at least dreadfully realistic.

'We have a habit of forcing marginally impressive books down people's throats.' I'm not saying that I dislike realism in comics, but within the independent and alternative circles, it's as abundant as superheroes in mainstream comics. And just like superheroes in mainstream comics, autbio/realism in independent books gets very old very quickly. The emphasis placed upon realism has resulted in quite a few mediocre works being labelled great simply because they depict the same 'real' things over and over again.

Boy, relationships are hard. Work sucks. I can't get along with my parents. I sure am coming of age. Men are stupid, women are crazy, people are sad sometimes, et bloody cetera. People complain about the hegemony of modern superhero comics but rarely notice the same patterns in the soap opera and sitcom-influenced smaller press.

Everything gets old eventually, and unless a creator takes a fresh approach to a work of autobiography - Eddie Campbell is a spectacular example - it burrows into the same artistic rut that hundreds of others have ploughed before. No new ground is broken and few great works are written, but because they portray something familiar, we treat them as if they're reinventing the medium.

Next time your computer shits itself and you have some spare time, leaf through a few of the books you have lying around, whether you've read them or not, and ask yourself, as Jack Nicholson once said, "sure, it's realistic; but is it interesting?"

Probably not. We've just managed to convince ourselves otherwise.

TALES FROM THE CRYPT

You always hear how fantastic those old EC Comics were, don't you? It seems to be a general consensus among the informed that William Gaines's comics line just about defined the early possibilities of the medium through their intelligent and finely-crafted collection of anthology titles - TWO-FISTED TALES, WEIRD SCIENCE FANTASY, TALES FROM THE CRYPT, and, of course, MAD.

'Few modern artists could keep up with Craig, Kurtzman or Krigstein.' Unfortunately, we don't generally have the option to make our own judgements, because the collections for most of these comics are out of print. There are a couple of MAD paperbacks here and there, and the Fantagraphics Krigstein books (which are fucking fantastic), but other than that it's pretty barren.

So I consider it fortuitous that I stumbled across several collections of the old EC stuff at a garage sale six blocks from my house. For less than the cost of a pack of cigarettes, I walked away with an armful of hardback collections printed in 1982, and yes, Virginia, they really were that good.

After devouring every story in every collection in less than a day (like I said, no computer), I was utterly convinced that there are no more than a handful of modern comic artists who could keep up with Johnny Craig, Harvey Kurtzman, or Bernie Krigstein. Because the art form was so new, they were forced to invent as they went along, defining many of the processes that would define comics themselves. Remarkable stuff.

But there's very little in today's mainstream genre work that could be justifiably compared to the late greats, mostly because our current frame of reference stretches back only so far. The generation of young artists draw the bulk of their influence from the late 1980s to early 1990s, a particularly wretched period in the quality of sequential art. Every other art form has its touchstone, its originators that set the standards that define the form, and it's usually readily available in some format or another.

As of right now, it's very difficult for anyone to sponge up knowledge from EC's publishing line. Hopefully some entity will take it upon itself to offer reprinted collections in mass distribution, and provide the late greats an opportunity to influence some future ones.

John Parker lives, works, and writes in Kansas City, Missouri.

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