Saturday, April 5, 2008

Meow Yow

A little delayed, but a new strip is up.

Available either here or with other fine strips at Jaded Publishing.

Wednesday, April 2, 2008

Today we sing with Heino, tomorrow we conquer the world*

I first heard about the Teutonic troubador known as Heino from an interview with Jello Biafra in one of the "Incredibly Strange Music" books from Re/Search publications. (These books went a long way towards seriously effing up my musical sensibility.) Heino's considered something of a national treasure by older Germans and ironic hipster Americans. Heino is certainly a visually arresting figure, what with his tall, oddly shaped platinum blonde hair and his omnipresent dark sunglasses. (Heino suffers from Graves-Basedow disease, which makes his eyes buggy and sensitive to light.)

The most noticeable thing about Heino's music is that it is waaaaay fucking German. I mean we are talking Kraut-To-The-Infinite-Power. Even when Heino is singing one of his many songs about Central and Southern America, there is no doubt of his Deutschland-ness. Seriously, this Octoberfest music could make Utah Mormons drink beer. Heino's baritone will not be denied.

I have a certain affection for Heino, having once made him a guest star in an early comic. Below are a couple of tastes of the HEINO EXPERIENCE.

The men in this first video who are "Singing Mit Heino" have got to be the most dead butch em-effers ever...even the guy with the neck kerchief.


*The menacing quote used as the title for this post is from the David Letterman Show, on which Heino made an appearance.

Tuesday, April 1, 2008

Paperback Babylon

One of our cherished inheritances is a good chunk of the collection of paperbacks my Wife's late Grandmother had built up. I think the original appeal was the cover art. I've become a big fan of the work of the talented and prolific Robert McGinnis who I consider to be the Gustav Klimt of the drugstore racks, and who did the covers of a large number of these books. (Pond Press not too long ago released a nice book collection of covers with a checklist.)

Also, it's just plain nice having the books around as objects, what with their slight whiff of paper decay and the conjuring up of mid 20th century America mass entertainment. (I like to imagine Tommy Newell's character Richard Sherman in The Seven Year Itch working for these publishers.)

Finally...THOSE BLURBS! Heaven's to murgatroid that's some racy-ass man fantasy! I wonder if the publishers ever realized that their product would have devoted followers who were older women living in Northeast Vermont?

Hey, despite not being an older woman, I suppose I should read one some time!

Here's a few covers from one of her fave series Mike Shayne along with the blurbs from the backs. Sorry I can't provide smell too, but I encourage you to huff any old paper you have lying around.


Not that Mike Shayne had any objections-who would when the lady has violet eyes, full lips and hair the color of cornsilk?

Still, with her husband dead of a heart attack only two days before, even tough, torrid Mr. Shayne was shocked when she whispered, "I want you."

Especially with the strong possibility that in this case the death of the lady's late husband had been a matter of murder.


First there was a murdered man-Mike Shayne's client.

Then there was the murder weapon-a filing spindle from Shayne's office.

And then there was the pair of dainty panties left behind-belonging to Shayne's secretary.

All the clues added up and pointed to the killer-Michael Shayne, private eye.


She was beautiful, blonde, and willing, with all the right measurements and all the wrong morals. To a guy just out of stir, she was the kind of dream that had warmed him all those cold nights in an icy cell.

She had provided everything. The food, the drinks, and herself as the entertainment. Now to top it off, she wanted to stake him to a bankroll and cut him in on a job with a $200,00 take.

During his 13 years in the prison, there were only two things he had wanted. The second was the soft warm body of a dish like her-in his arms. But the first was the cold, dead body of Mike Shayne-in the morgue.