Four of my sketch cards have been discovered.

Gamorrean Guard sold on eBay for $40.

Quarren is currently listed for $150 but not sold yet.

Darth Vader is listed at $10.50 and climbing.

The fourth, Boboicullar, was found by a collector on the Scoundrel Publishing boards.

44 more to go – very exciting. I anxiously await my case from Topps, if only to have a piece of something I was a part of – but there’s been no mail for three or four days here due to the weather.

[Addendum : a fifth card emerges! B'omarr Monk listed on eBay for a starting bid of $99, BIN for $200.]

[And a sixth! Myo is listed at $150.]


What I learned from reading Hi Fructose : Do what you love until it hurts, and then do it some more. This is the only way to true happiness.

What I learned from reading Juxtapoz : Go to the right parties and wear ironic clothing.


I’m trying to do something important every day. Or at least something that can potentially build towards the life that I really want – contacting publications, applying for better jobs, finishing projects. Anything that I can call a landmark, in any small way. I’m keeping a record of these things in Google’s calendar function.

Today, shots from the studio-ette, which may or may not be mine for much longer.


These are the Star Wars Galaxy Series 5 trading cards that I’m being asked to destroy with my art-things. I’ve been doing sketches of the sketches I want to do, and I think that I’ll go with my first inclination – nothing too cute, but definitely something kinda geometric, and a shot of color, and a series of intricate lines… you’ll see. They’ll all see. This whole thing is surreal to me. Star Wars. Me. Official merchandise.

The other thing I’m working on is a piece for the Droplet Series 2 release show in Bristol, in the UK – another show that I was invited to participate in, rather than had to beg to be in.


I’ve got the blank Droplets, and I’ve got the sculpted face. I tore the hands off of a bunch of old wrestling figures that my estranged father sent me a few years back – his own weird way of saying ‘hello’, I guess. We didn’t maintain contact, once again, and I never thought I’d have any use for a mess of weird, dirty old wrestling toys, but my tendency to hang onto everything and extract every possible use from it has paid off. These are far sturdier than any hands that I could sculpt, which is an absolute necessity after having so many toys break in the mail this past year.

I wanted to include some tendrils and stuff, but again, I’ve had to adjust my style to suit traveling across an ocean. I plan on assembling it all (perhaps with a bunch of arrowheads sticking out of it also), painting it up all coppery and verdigris, and accentuating the human (and inhuman) details with fleshtones. I guess I have a recurring theme of sticking old man faces onto things when I send them off to toy shows. This one is markedly more cartoonish.

I’m kinda happy with what I’m seeing in my mind with all of this.

I’ve sent out 20 postcards and two or three e-mails to publications who might want to hire an artist. There’s an exciting Threadless contest for $10,000 this month, as well as a New Yorker Contest to interpret Eustace Tilley, and yet another ‘self portrait’ contest that entitles with winner to 6 months of free rent in an amazing building in Williamsburgh – which is exactly what I need to get my art on for serious.

It’s 2AM, and my hands just get tired and shaky when it gets this late, so no more art for me, but the ideas are coming together, and it’s going to be an incredibly busy month for art. Wish me luck.


The most recent cover of Bud’s Art Books features a cover by the amazing, amazing Peter de Seve.


At first, I noted a few of the small similarities between this and an ink piece I halted work on this summer, which featured a makeshift group of super-bad-guys sorta posing for a yearbook picture. It was delicately titled ‘The League of Fuckin’ Shit Up’, and I hope that it’ll see the light of day as a print before too long. But I digress.

What struck me was the skull-headed spaceman on the far right, half off-panel. I went in search of more information, because it looked familiar. I was even more surprised to find a year-old blog that featured an extremely similar image to deSeve’s. It is all detailed here, including a polite apology from de Seve for accidentally / subconsciously / unknowingly creating a piece so similar to the original.

That’s not why I went hunting. That skull-spaceman bears a remarkable similarity to MonstreHero’s Intergladiator figure.


Under those helmets are skulls. The V-shaped suit, the helmet as wide as the body – striking similarities. I have absolutely no doubt that MonstreHero created their figure completely independently of a relatively obscure illustration, but there’s something in the collective creative unconscious that’s all about the skeletal spaceman.

Of course, there’s this guy from Dr. Who.


This amazing science fiction book cover.

Our fear and fascination with space is deeply enmeshed with our fear and fascination with death.


I love MonstreHero.

I chatted with them for a few minutes when I ran into them at NYCC, while I was still writing for ToyCyte. They are a revelation about the amazing, innovative art that can be made by two dudes working with limited space and materials, and a lot of genius. I took a photo of them that I’ve never published before – they seem to be behind-the-scenes kinda guys, like many of my favorite people. I’ve still never seen a picture of Bob Conge, but was immensely honored when he actually sent me a brief e-mail to compliment my Spaceman.


I bought the PITA Intergladiator figure from them this past summer, and recently, I bought one of their Lazer Blazer Skullminions. There were six and they sold out within 48 hours, I believe.


You need to fill your life with small reminders of inspiration and beauty, not just ‘things’. You can always buy things later. Or sell them, and buy them back when they matter again. Meaningfulness is a cycle.

Addendum : Apparently, my order never went through, because the Internet is a fickle mistress and I am a disappointment magnet. Maybe next time. I really liked these, too.


I’m coming off of the end of a 5-day weekend I made for myself. I don’t know how much I got done – some comic inking, eBaying, cleaning. The struggle of the hyperproductive is that there is never enough done and there’s always a nagging sense of disappointment in yourself for not conquering the universe every day.

I’ve thrown away much, much old, bad art. I spent a lot of high school drawing disproportionate fairies and delicately penciled surrealist scenes that were weirdly violent and sexual (which I didn’t recognize until looking at them now). A period of poorly emulating Dave McKean without understanding that there are certain fundamental skills that you need to develop before you can draw mock-carelessly and have it look worthwhile. High school photography with feathers and broken wine glasses. All of these things, each one, despite being unpresentable if anyone is to take me seriously, was vital in its own way. Each thing was a step towards a greater whole, a record of a fleeting idea that was essential to the next idea, and the next, until it became something nice and moved that much closer to what it had to be.

I was pretty messed up in my grade school years, anyhow. All of this bad art is thrown in a huge garbage bag now, in the empty room where I’ve sat on the floor until 3 AM remembering and not remembering what these things were, and who I was, and what they slowly became. I know that it’s a little bit sinful to just throw out art, but it’s becoming increasingly clear that we make our own forevers. I can’t carry old ideas, pounds of old papers around with me wherever I end up. Thousands and thousands of little ideas were just spread around me on the floor and I was at the epicenter and it reminded me that I’m here for a quiet reason.

When I was in high school, I had dreams of illustrating Alice in Wonderland. I don’t know precisely what I was thinking, but I produced a whole mess of sloppy pages that are frankly embarrassing, but I remember being proud of them at the time. Isn’t this always the way. While I maintain that I’d like to illustrated anything by Lewis Carroll someday, this was not the way to go about doing it. I was still heavily under the influence of McKean and the evidence suggests that I intended to go back into these with digital manipulation (as evidenced by the ‘pool of tears’ image), though I probably realized the error of my ways.

Witness my cold humiliation, and a perfect example of what happens if you think you’re better than basic color theory.


I don’t drink. When you have a family with a history of alcohol and substance abuse, the whole scene loses its appeal. Sure, I have a few bottles of mead lying around, and a bottle of absinthe that my sister gave me a few years back which is waiting for the right occasion, and I’ve even made blog posts about microbrewed beers – but generally, I don’t drink.

I guess that this was never more apparent than at this year’s Halloween party. The thing is that I don’t go out to parties much, either – usually due to the fact that there’s nothing around me, I have eyes that won’t allow me to drive long distances after dark without killing myself and everything around me, and the fact that I’ve had a few too many negative experiences being around people who are drunk. The few positive experiences I’ve had were quickly negated by the dreaded ‘next morning’ and the realization that I probably wasn’t nearly as charming as someone’s beer goggles had led them to believe, and I was too gentlemanly to take advantage of the situation.

In addition to wanting to avoid the substance abuse issues that certain parts of my family are prone to, I’ve always been put off by people asking what kind of drugs I use to come up with my imagery – as if nothing creative can be done without somehow altering your mind. As if the human mind isn’t capable of taking apart and reassembling things without assistance. Maybe yours isn’t. I’ve never had a problem.

I used to be adamantly anti-drug, because of the really disastrous ways that the drugs around me messed up my life, even though I wasn’t ever using them. Now, I’m more of the opinion that ‘you can do whatever you want, just keep it away from me’. I’ve seen and lived enough examples of substances influencing behaviors to know that it’s just not something I can trust. In high school, hanging out with the potheads in the woods while they fashioned pipes out of aluminum foil and never, ever became anything worthwhile. Being cheated on by girlfriends. I never really fathomed how this was fun. They never seemed to be having a good time, and they still went back to it. Maybe it was a real physiological need. All I need is raw fish – though the costs of both habits are probably comparable.

In a perfect world, my every waking moment would be dedicated to making things. Nothing pretentious as ‘art’. I’m not a fan of the word ‘art’. I guess that I firmly believe that as a person on this planet, there’s a certain moral obligation to dedicate yourself to a greater cause after you’ve met the basic need to suvive – which is not to say that what I think I do is great, but I’m working towards it – and alcohol cannot possibly be something that helps that cause. There’s a certain amount of infidelity we display towards our ego, towards ourselves, towards our ideals when we’re drinking in excess. Tom Waits notwithstanding.

I just can’t bring myself to believe in this. I can’t bring myself to justify the escapism. If you feel the need to alter your mind to feel creative or to feel better about yourself, you don’t have enough control over your mind. If you need alcohol to have fun, you’re doing it wrong.

Most of the time, when I hear people talk about how art is their body and their soul and blah blah blah rainbow moon crystals, I take a look at their MySpace and get treated to a gallery of amateurish horrors. There’s the obligatory disproportionate nude, or something with anime eyes, and maybe something that looks like a Silver Raven Moonfoxwolfbear book threw up. Not to be an elitist, but if this if your soul, your soul is fucking ugly. Try harder. If this if your life, you’d better make it beautiful. There’s such a rampant, disappointing acceptance of art mediocrity, or artists blatantly copying the hard-fought styles of other artists. Why this is accepted I’ll never know. I have some ideas.

But no matter what your purpose is – spirituality, athleticism, art – it requires dedication. If you don’t have it, don’t get in my way. I don’t have enough time to be in a stupor, or step over you while you’re in yours.