Neocurtilla hexadactyla

I've been hard at work on preparatory material for the new Trackrabbit. Buoyed by the achievement of usurping the last available table from an aging yuppy couple, I finished writing the plot yesterday in a cafe in Hayes Valley. Then I went home, drew some bugs and got drunk. I'll start posting finished pages next week. Until then, make friends with these guys.

Character Designs for Trackrabbit #4

Here are some character designs for the next issue of Trackrabbit. The story centers around a scientist named Beanie Boylan who quits his job as a robotics engineer to move to a farm and lead a pastoral life with his new bride, Deborah. The shackles of robot-ology do not prove so easily cast off, however, as Beanie builds a new robot out of old boiler parts to help him around the homestead. The robot, Ponchito, seems sweet enough at first, but he doesn't like having to compete with Beanie's wife for attention, or deal with the sneering derision of their neo-hillbilly neighbor Brian. Also, the farm is infested with mysterious alien insects. Hilarity and chemical warfare ensue.

Visually, Beanie (center) is sort of a cuddly version of Steve Albini; Deborah is sort of an amalgam of Beverly D'Angelo and Goldie Hawn; Brian is based on my ex-girlfriend's dad, a rugged, out-doorsey type who once bought me a head-lamp for Christmas. The Robots Poncho (right) and Ponchito are based on a cylinder and a sphere, respectively.

A Knight in Shining Denim

Many claim that I come off as a cad in my work, and their criticisms are not unfounded. There are, however, moments like this, when I can be the very picture of chivalry.

There's Only Room in this Panel for One Success Story

Here we have another excerpt from my next comic for auto-bio anthology Not My Small Diary, the first page of which I put up earlier this week. Watch as I roll my eyes bemusedly while discussing my retail career with a future New Yorker cover artist. Who's laughing now? Nobody.

Showing the Hemlock the Scars of Your Recent Break-Up

Hey kids. I know you were all crushed when there was no new panel here at 12 am last Monday, so here's a whole page by way of reparations. Don't get used to this. I know you'll go to conventions and buy Fart Party books after reading it all for free online, but that's because you're a creep and you'll take any excuse you can to talk to that cute Wertz girl. Dudes gotta work a little harder to drum up attention at those sausage fests.

This one takes us all the way back to the halcyon days of 2003. Skinny jeans were just for gutter punks, Damon Che still had a few shreds of credibility, and people remembered Andrew Bird as the violinist from the Squirrel Nut Zippers (if at all). See if you can guess the identity of my chubby male co-star in this anecdotal buddy comedy. I'm not great with likenesses, so I'll give you a hint: if you're female, live in San Francisco's Mission district and were linked here from my MySpace page, you've probably slept with him.

Have Fun in New York this Weekend, Suckers

Really, this panel only touches on the myriad reasons why I won't be attending any conventions for the foreseeable future. Anyone venturing to brave the wretched hive of scum and villainy that is the Javits Center this weekend is encouraged to kick a Storm Trooper in the shin for me.

I've Never Heard That One Before

Here's an excerpt from my latest opus, a two page autobiographical comic entitled Look Back in Squalor. I have returned to this, what some girl once referred to as my "more confessional" work, merely as an exercise. I need to re-familiarize myself with the actual nuts and bolts of making comics, and the most readily available material can be found within the remnants of what I once called a life. I will probably collect these stories into another volume of A History of Increasing Humiliation, because people who read mini-comics will buy anything if you tell them it's autobiographical.

Rest assured, I do not intend to tarry in the auto-bio ghetto for much longer. I will soon return to genre fiction, thereby ruining what little credibility I have left in the small press community. In the meantime, my beloved readers will have to be content with stories about my relationships with women who suffer from strange maladies (of whom there are many).