Posts Tagged ‘middle school’


middle school cartoonist

DISCLAIMER: The following comics, though originally intended for entertainment purposes, are presented here for historical value only.  No entertainment derived from reading the comics contained within this post will be non-ironic in nature.

Now that I table at comic conventions, I get to talk to comics readers.  I cannot express the gratitude I feel when someone takes the time to read my work.  Even if they don’t buy it, the fact that they form an opinion about something I’ve written makes all the work worth it.

One interesting statement I hear a lot from comics readers is something to the effect of, “I wish I had the talent to draw comics.” This always makes me laugh.  (No, I don’t laugh at them.)  If only talented people drew comics, there might be three cartoonists in the entire world. The rest of us have had to work at it for many, many years. I’ve been drawing comics since I was ten and still haven’t mastered the craft. Talent has very little to do with comics. It’s more about willpower and a dash of obliviousness.

To prove my point, I present to you, dear readers, three comic strips I drew when I was 13 years old – in 7th grade. In 7th grade I already knew I wanted to be a cartoonist.  I had, by that point, changed my style. It was a big decision.  When I was in elementary school I drew people with huge eyes and no head.  The hair grew from their eyes, the ears grew from their eyes.  The nose and mouth hung somewhere below the eyes, and the body hung below that.

My new way of drawing was inspired by Bill Watterson.  After copying Calvin and Hobbes, I saw the potential for a full face, and for connecting the head to the body.  I was basically learning how comic characters worked.

Eager to inflict this new style on an unsuspecting populace, I joined the school paper with my friend Andy.  Andy, it should be noted, is not a cartoonist, yet the examples below prove that he was by far the better artist.  Had I not been so stubborn and kept at it, I would still be drawing like a cloven-hoofed farm animal. Talent has nothing to do with my improvement. It’s all practice.

The following is my first published comic strip.  It appeared in the first semester of my 7th grade year. vol-1-issue-1-oct-1993

Nobody knew what it meant.  I had to explain this comic to people for weeks after the newspaper came out.  It was so poorly executed I will probably blow up the internet by republishing it here.

Undeterred, I kept submitting comics for publication.  The next few I drew were wisely rejected by our newspaper coordinator (a brave woman who was also my English teacher).  Finally, in the spring semester, I came up with these two winners:vol-1-issue-3-march-1994

The origins of the jokes are hazy to me.  The first reads a lot like something from Calvin & Hobbes.  Note the headline on the dad’s newspaper.  Bill Amend used that joke all the time in FoxTrot, and I always liked it.  I hadn’t yet learned to size the lettering, so the joke is not as subtle as intended.

The latter strip was taken from a conversation with a friend.  Of course, nobody was actually strangled – even then I preferred making stuff up.  But the basic germ of the idea was ripped from the headlines of my life.

Again, I got nothing but grief from my classmates.  I hear stories from other cartoonists about how they liked to draw comics and their peers encouraged them to draw more.  That didn’t happen to me.  I drew comics with no encouragement (outside my family and close friends) and, sometimes, outright disdain.

It is a testament to my boundless optimism that I continued at all.  Looking at these now – heck, even back then – it’s clear there is absolutely no talent on display.  Based on the meager panels above, Andy should have been the cartoonist.

There is a silver lining to drawing bad comics when you’re 13.  Other 13-year-olds are not afraid to tell you exactly what you’re doing wrong.  More ruthless than a 15-year-old, a 13-year-old may be the most cynical, meanest person on the planet.  By the time I began high school, I knew what not to do.  And I got better.

Middle school was, without question, the lowest point of my life.  For some reason, though, I stuck with cartooning.  Not because I had talent – you now know I didn’t – but because I could see myself in the future, drawing good comics.  I propelled myself into that future.  And here I am now, living in the future exactly as I imagined it: riding in my hover car and married to Elisabeth Shue.

There’s a lot to be said for wishful thinking.

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middle school yearbook

I used to want to hide from my past. Specifically, the three years I spent in Middle School. With the recent unearthing of my middle school yearbooks, however, I felt compelled to revisit those years. Not for reasons of nostalgia, but to have something to post on this blog. Eventually I’ll have my entire history right here, for easy access.

Some Like It Hot is my seventh grade yearbook. That was the year of my Bar Mitzvah, the year my friend Andy began going to the same school as me, and it was smack dab in the middle of middle school. The deepest, darkest depths in the most horrible phase of my life.

Ramblin On was the motto of my middle school. We were the Cross Rams, so we rambled. We rambled around until we were allowed to go to high school.

The theme of the yearbook explained.

Mr. Dooley, a fantastic teacher. He looked like a Biology teacher from the 50’s, but in fact he was a Biology teacher in the 90’s.

This year, the yearbook staff was unable to finish the yearbook in time. Instead of the actual book, we received a four-page insert that our friends could sign. Then we’d stick the insert into the book when they finally arrived.

Against all odds, almost all four pages of my insert have been inscribed by multiple people.

If you’re wounding why I’m not posting my mug shot, it’s because there is no un-posting something as embarrassing as that on the internet.

 

I remember a distinct feeling of disappointment when I finally received my book. This is what we were waiting for? On the other hand, I knew a true account of my life and times would have looked much, much more hideous.

The gap between Some Like It Hot and my real life may be larger than any of my other yearbooks. I’m not sure how many memories will be warped due to this disparity, but my guess is all of them.

I wonder of there is a subgenre of book criticism called “yearbook criticism.”

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