Monday, July 28th

We saw this last night because Lisa was sick, but let me tell you how we thought that it was bad: we thought it was bad, folks.

In other news a cat peed on my backpack and I was forced to throw out Don Quixote, which (maybe thankfully) acted like an absorbent pad. I only found out when I got to work and I was not happy about it, not too happy about it at all.

Friday, July 25th

This isn’t so much a comic as an elaborate doodle with a punchline that hinges on the fact that you won’t notice that the pun doesn’t make any sense at all, or even work. Basically I decided to draw myself like a matador and… that’s basically it. I… I love you?

I think I’ll like Scott Pilgrim better when I read the next few books, it just wasn’t enough for me to get into, I think. Is this an accurate statement?

On Playing Sexual Games at the Age of Fourteen

Sometimes I think about the possibility of being a gorilla and how my shoulders hang back and how the flesh (of which there is perhaps too much) hangs off in a healthy way and how I don’t have time for the same games others do, and how that’s not through posturing but from the plain facts of inclination and experience, and how it hasn’t always been nice, and it’s just a fact.

It applies to almost anything but I remember once when I was in grade nine two girls who were in love with me, who sat near me, and the one who “talked about me every day” to her friend when I wasn’t around. How the girls dressed up like a cat and a devil for Halloween and wore shorts and fishnets that began at their ass, while we were only fourteen, I was only fourteen, maybe I was twelve because the girls were in grade nine, that’s definite, and to me it seemed too much and something else I didn’t understand.

I remember the girl that I liked, how I made her laugh by saying the word ‘communism’, how she wore a leather jacket which I didn’t care for but had a smile that used to kiss me on the cheek, which I loved. How we didn’t do any work and watched sad old Borgatti, Harvard grad, dance and flirt with the young preps at the other end of the class.

Old Borgatti came over to me once, on the first day of school, and said something, I don’t remember what, but my response wasn’t engaging enough so he just left and found someone else, some group, some girl who wore shorts that ended at her ass every day, not just Halloween. How my idea of Borgatti is his smug, fat face, and the image loop (I’m not sure if this ever happened) in my mind of him flirting with a young girl, playing keep away with something she loved, some young guy playing too, challenging Borgatti in the way that men sometimes do even when it seems like they’re on the same side.

In those early days when I was still young and wondered which girls were having sex, because you could still wonder then, it was before everyone went sex-mad, sex-crazy, and you heard about girls you thought you knew taking their tops off for older guys in an above-ground pool at a party you fell asleep in a hammock at, the one where you and the other boys opened the door just a crack and the van light came on and you saw half a glimpse of half a man having sex with half a woman, the rest all girls and boys.

As I was saying before I got sidetracked by tales of old handsy teachers and misplaced sexual delinquency, sometimes I think about the possibility of my being a gorilla and my unwillingness to play any kind of game and how the girl with the smile and the Halloween fishnets told me what I later discovered was a lie, that she was seeing someone, someone older, from the United States, and she visited him sometimes by herself and I guess I figured they were having sex because a branch in my head turned off and I thought “Hey, no thank you; no thank you, hey.”


THIS IS NOT today’s “pseudo-Grind” comic. That’s at home, waiting to be scanned. This is something else. Earlier, when I was looking through my photobucket account I realised that I have a lot of good comics hiding deep in the archives, from when they were posted on my old livejournal. That livejournal is gone. Gone a long time. Forever.

Anyway, I decided that I should post my favourites on here. Why not, right? Well, I kind of forgot about it until today, when I was looking back through the album. I started to get really worried, wondering about how presumptuous and indulgent it was to think that people who had friended this journal would want to read my old hand-me-downs from two or even three years ago. I decided I probably wasn’t going to do it.

I still feel that it’s presumptuous and indulgent, I guess. But the thing that I realised between now and then is that this is the internet. I know that statement is used to justify a lot, but it’s true. It’s the internet! If you don’t like it, tough! Scroll down or up!

These are from the Summer of ’05, which feels crazy to me. They’re from a short series meant to be a longer series called “The Secret Agent and Friends”, which I got bored of before I could put the website up.

I am thinking about creating a post, which is why I am here. I want to string letters into words, words into sentences, and sentences into images which float up into your mind.

What I am thinking of writing about, briefly, is the pure white coat of the Ermine. The Ermine is a creature so meticulously well-kept that it stops dead in its tracks if hunters manage to corner it with carefully placed pits of mud. It does this to ensure that its coat remains pristine, whatever the fate of its body and life.

r o b o t   s u b t e x t

WeTchatted H at E the valet S RBC A tent D at D the E Canadian S Open. T You told T me H you O are U at G McGill H and T I S told you A that R I E went to T Western, H Mac E and U O of N T. E You S have an U awesome N smile S and A great I legs. D Interested . in . a . coffee??

but thought a hundred times.

Dog snarled and picked up his garden shears.

            “You’ve had these for weeks. They’re mine. I need them to trim the hedges. How ungrateful. How ungrateful you are when I lend you my nice, fine things.”

            I scratched my left hand.

            “You’re right you’re sorry,” he continued. “Look at this shrub. It’s unbalanced and all out, it’s everywhere. I need to trim it right now,” which Dog did.

            “I’m sorry, Dog. Dog. I’m sorry. I’m sorry Dog. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I did all that I did.”

Photorealism is standing at the window and watching the rain land on the industrial-courtyard roof, with the gravel-on-concrete floor, and thinking “This isn’t photorealism, this isn’t photorealism at all, that’s something else.”

Violence is a man punching another man, a man punching another man and kicking him in the chest. So that you don’t really know which man is punching which man, so that the camera zooms in so close and fast that you see the action which is only explained by the motion after it, the movement of the violence-ghosts explaining the results of the last scene.

Realism doesn’t exist and you sometimes think that it does or that it could, but it doesn’t yet, not yet.