Tuesday, July 17, 2007

Oh, I know you're all long gone

I mean, I haven't posted here for months. But still...

I haven't read many comics. You should try it for a few months. It's good therapy.

But, like a Austin Metros pouring off a 1970's British Leyland conveyor belt, comics have continued to arrive every month, and are now sitting in a huge pile in my spare room.

You know what? They're stunning. The modern American comic is gorgeous. Thick and glossy and lustrous. I'd willingly stick my right hand in a mincer if my left could draw with a tenth of the mastery of Finch or Mack. These artists are geniuses. If reputation had any relationship to talent, their statues would tower over major thoroughfares. We should talk about them in daunted, reverential tones, and when they died, massed ranks of soldiery would fire volleys as horsedrawn carriages took them past distraught crowds to their cathedral resting places.

Instead they're the obscure talents of a geek pastime regularly traduced by ignoramus herds. Not fair. Not fair at all.

I can't make an economic case for the continued existence of comics. They shouldn't even be viable any more and, chances are, soon enough they won't be. But what a magnificent folly they are.


Blogger doppelganger said...

Hey, I'm still here... though my arse is cold with all that waitin' around...

I'm glad to see you back.... I was reflecting upon your absence only a day or two back - though you are exhibiting some fairly standard blog neurosis defence mechanisms - paticularly the notion that your blog is 'about' something..... It's about you!

I flatter myself that my blog is about nothing except me - or at least a version of me - though not always necessarily the same one...

Comics are pretty and shiny though aren't they? I cannot understand how they survive independently of summer blockbuster film tie-ins - but I'm glad that they do....

10:52 pm  
Blogger Disintegrating Clone said...

Neurotic? Me? Nah, can't be.

"A version of me" is about right. The real me is less, well, neurotic, than the blogging version. Also, the real me can leap small huts with a single bound and barge through concrete with adamantantium-laced shoulder pads, but I can't tell anyone because of my frail Auntie Ethel's weak bladder. A shock like that could flood her nursing home.

But should a blog just be about the author? That seems wrong. Think I'll just keep hacking around till I figure it out.

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