Help Me and The Harshest Critic

Wednesday, July 20, 2005

Can someone please recommend me some good comics? I got my stash today and with the exception of Y I just skimmed through them all. What am I missing, please, tell me. Tell me something I’m missing in the comments section. Or over email. Please. Just throw out a comic I may not be reading that you’re enjoying. All the good stuff, it seems, I get irregularly when I play catch up at cons.


Following yesterday’s story and putting the humor back in…

Back in High School I went to my first Patterns meeting after my teacher recommended two of my poems for the anthology. I was nervous going in; the president of the group was this senior that wrote some vicious stuff as I remember it. Of course, I didn’t know shit about poetry then and still don’t; his “vicious stuff” was probably just one of the millions of e.e.cummings’ clones you encounter in high school and college.

“Ohhhh…look how he put that period in between the ‘sk’ and the ‘y’. It symbolizes how the sky was only partially blue, perhaps his psyche interrupting him and letting him now that all is not well as the speaker perceives it.”

My hatred for bad poetry is second only to my hatred for bad improv.

Regardless of what his writing was really like, he was hot-shit in the Midwood High writing community. You know what it’s like? It’s like when you’re trying to break into comics and you meet someone who says they were published and shows you his book and it looks like ass but who cares, he’s published! As you make it further and further you realize that for most people, published means they had their work printed on some form of paper or the internet, even if they did everything themselves and never sold a solitary issue.

That’s what Patterns was like. A bunch of people that have been “published” in a high school poetry anthology that's only bought by people that are in it. Put a bunch of those people in a room and you have ego-trumping for an hour.

My poems were set up to be read that day but there was one poem before me. This girl is reading it, not the writer (the writer wasn’t present) and the poem was decent as I remember it. I t(hin)k the wri(te)r made gre(a)t use of par(enth)esis to reall(y) say som(e(t)hin)g to the re(ader). (Did I mention I hate bad poetry, yet?).

Anyway she read the poem and some people clapped and the main guy, the king shit, looked over inquisitively and said, “Let me see that.”

The girl hands it to our exalted leader as he looks at it for a moment, stands up, and hacks the biggest loogie possible right onto the page.

And then rips it in half.

And then drops it to the ground.

And then steps on it.


And my first thought was, “Woah, that’s the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.” And my second thought was, “Fuck, I’m next.” But it went fine, both of my poems were accepted and I made it into their little clique.

Now, whereas the spitting on someone’s work thing is most likely the dorkiest, egotistical, and most unprofessional response I’ve ever seen – it was pretty friggin’ funny and I use it whenever I can, albeit jokingly. I used a variation of it once in college when a friend of mine asked me to look at his term paper. After reading it, I pulled out my lighter, set it on fire and threw it at him. He jumped out of the way and screamed, “What the fuck?”

“It was good,” I responded. “I like the whole ‘pushing up the timetable of the Apocalypse’ theory. It was a really strong point.”

We both just laughed. Because, you see, it’s funny as a joke. But in retrospect, that dude at the Pattern’s meeting was insane. As was I, for thinking that he was cool.


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