I’ve never been the sportiest of fellows. The fact that I think “sporty” is a state of existance should be all the proof you need. My relationship with sports has ever been somewhat strained. But by God, if there’s one sport I can respect, it’s hockey. The next few Joe-Dean-and-Bronson strips is my love letter to a sport that I don’t really follow, but which grabs my attention in a way no other sport does. Not baseball, with its snails-fucking pace, or football with its six-inch-thick rulebook, or basketball with its ridiculously high scores.

Hockey moves at a blistering pace. It’s rules are relatively simple–punch people in the face and knock the puck in the net. And when you score in hockey, it means something. Seriously, EKG a basketball fan. Someone hits a three-pointer, the needle will barely move. That’s what you get in a sport where every game ends with a score in the low hundreds. When you score a goal in hockey,  it’s a Big Damn Deal. In this, it’s second only to soccer, where a single goal can motivate the fans to reduce an entire stadium to ruin and ash.

On a technical level, this was one of the more complicated strips I’ve ever done, and as a result, I actually had to change the bleed color to help separate one panel from the next. I realize that’s not something to be proud of, and I’m not. Just saying that this one took me a while. But, since it’s a strip I’ve been waiting to do for some time, I think it was worth it.

One last little note: the sign being held by the redhead behind Dean reads “I Want TJ Oshi’s cock”, but I’m pretty sure you can’t see that in any one panel. Eh.

Joe

Boy, I’m a verbose motherfucker this week. These last two strips have been just chock-damn-full of dialog, to the point that I don’t see a whole lot of point in explaining this one. You get the point, right?

So, for those of you who didn’t get the way-too-obscure panel 4 reference from Tuesday’s strip, “Barbelith” is the name of a crazy metaphysical something-or-other in Grant Morrison’s beautifully brain-fucked series “The Invisibles.”Of the seven trade paperbacks, six of them are downright magical in their ability to make you really think. It’s the kind of book that, if you read it when you were at that critical turning point age range of around 16-22, it would mean the difference between going to law school and going to art school. It’s that kind of awesome.

So, of course, Morrison fucks the whole thing in the end. Many of his themes carry through, but they’re executed in such a way as to make them entirely unsatisfying to anyone who’s been following the book through the run. He’s so invested in fucking with your head that he forgets to tell a story that’s the least bit palatable in the end. That’s why, despite the fact that it’s absolutely breathtakingly awesome, you don’t hear anyone talking about it, like, ever.

If you liked “Lost,” but weren’t really happy until you found out that the showrunners weren’t going to solve any of the mysteries in the end, then this is the book for you. If you thought the end of Evangelion made too much sense and was too satisfying from a narrative perspective, then this is the book for you. But! If you like shooting heroin directly into your brainstem, then this is most definitely the book for you.

Joe

So Zara and I were walking down the street in Chicago some months back when we wandered through a group of people who were having a much more interesting conversation than we were. And that kind of sums up what I like best about cities that, unlike our native St. Louis, has places that attract foot traffic. It’s like spinning the dial on an old-school analog radio tuner if the FCC suddenly decided it’s okay to broadcast rants about butt sex. You just never know what’s going to flash past.

One little liner note–I don’t know how well you can read it, but top marks if you can place the word scrawled on the background of panel 4.

Joe

Zara and I, we have this problem. She doesn’t do so hot at the whole girl thing. Baby showers, batchelorette parties…no. Not her bag. And me? Take me to the ballpark and I’ll be happier taking pictures of the architecture of Busch Stadium than I would be cramming myself into a tiny seat in the searing sun between two sweaty strangers. Call me strange.

I can’t speak for her, but I’ve always just found women more interesting. I mean, I’m a guy. I know how *I* think. I’m still studying the female of the species. There’s still so much to know. And yes, there’s the whole boob thing. One can’t discount that.

Joe

In high school, there were THOSE kids. The ones with the graph paper who knew what the singular of “dice” was. I would walk past them and shake my head. Until the day I became one of them.

In college, there was THAT guy. The one in the stretched and faded Green Lantern shirt sitting alone in the dining hall. I would walk past him and shake my head. Until the day I became him.

So, it was with great caution that I approached what I always considered the third Great Toxic Nerd Property. When the ads started coming out about Steven Moffat’s revitalized Doctor Who series, I was instantly curious, and that curiosity filled me with great dread. Sure enough, after the first episode, I was a drooling fanboy.

It’s official. My journey to the dark side is complete.