Wednesday, September 24, 2008

The Gospel of Tug Benson: 3am to Dewberry

Hey party people, I'm working on a web-comic for my last quarter in school. It's a conflagration of a lot of stories I've already written fit into a story about a man in the middle of a union power struggle and a mill owner's greed. I had to write a definition of the comic and I'm pretty proud of it.

The only Web Comics creator, who consistently produces soundly researched character driven stories of alienation, turmoil, and class struggle in a composite industrial world situated between the 1870’s to the 1950’s for Neo Wobblies, Anarcho Syndicalists (better known as anarcho-communists or anarcho-collectivists), Traditional Socialists, Beat fans, Unionists, and Anti-Dispensationalists in the U.S.A, Canada, and Europe, who enjoy surveying congruencies of our nation’s disintegration under the weight of industrial avarice and individualism, both then and now, in a time when the themes of alienation, personal struggle, and classism are constantly reoccurring in new and increasingly more complex contexts.

It sounds a lot more complicated than it's going to be.

Monday, September 15, 2008

liam "The Eye" Leahy

Just finished another and maybe my last poster for a while, classes are looking pretty heavy in the work area. This is Liam, who was pretty essential to the jump of of my politicization.

Sunday, September 14, 2008

Falling (working title.)

I knew her before we met. She was one of those girls that juggle their almond eyes to each bright spot in a dark alley. The kind of girl that found joy in even the longest, darkest hour. But some pain hung under her shining celebration.
We met in a neon studded windowless pool hall in Santa Barbara. Her face floated close to my ear as she slured into my ear the end pieces of all her adventures. She trailed off and I stuck close to her pretty curls. She would rise up every other minute, sometimes standing on her stool, and expel a dodgy enlightened exhaltation. Her face would flash with a fading beam, only to dim when she'd collapse in my arms like a whales tail into a placid sea.

I wrapped her up in my arms and we swung to Nina and Billie between tightly wound old couples in tweed over coats and sun worn summer dresses. She smiled a deep smile.
Imagine if I found my one and only tonight, she cooed.
I'm one to be sure, maybe not the only, I said.
But our bodies belied our distant conversation and squeezed together tighter and tighter still.
You'll do as my only one. Her eye lashes grazed the crestof my cheek. We funnled our bodies into the Packered and our night's destiny on the road ahead. All the world's a stage, she said, let's tear down the lighting and set the curtains on fire! Her tiny fists pounded my rust bucket's sloping roof.
You listening to me, she asked with spiked accusation, anybody home?
Nobody but us chickens, I said as I started up the car. It jumped and I led us out on to the howling streets, where men and women roam in tenative clusters like starved dogs. My wheels flung the street dust and grime from us and we fell into the unyeilding nighttime.

Saturday, September 13, 2008

The bee's wax

Nothing much to report as of late. I'm resuming my posters more slowly than surely these days as my long trip has worn away a few layers of my resolve. I'm playing at a few new strips for We Think For You and a story line for my next comic for portfolio. Work, work, work is in my near future. Sorry to be so monotone and dismal.

On a lighter note I've learned a new appreciation for viking handshakes.

The less-than-honorable Revrend Ben Passmore