COLUMNS
The Tallest Pygmy - You're Too Cool For This
Sinclair Klugarsh
In my initial emails with Josh, regarding a new column for The Noyse, we tossed a few ideas around. I suggested maybe something skewering Pop Culture, but that shit’s been done to death, and I’d written it off almost as soon as I’d typed it. I suggested something on modern & historical politics, “Political Suicide,” was the title I wanted to use, but I haven’t got the fortitude to stay so well informed as to keep something like that alive. I suspect the title was a subconscious reference to the fact that if I attempted to follow that shit so closely as to comment on it every fucking week I’d be in a coffin by autumn. The idea of an advice column was also pushed (by me), but the more we considered the potential pitfalls, the more it took on the same deadly caste as the political column.
My final Big Idea was a column on Comic Books.
What in the name of fuck is wrong with me? Why must I do things like this to myself? From whence does this perverse drive to throw myself in front of social & political trains derive? Christ… I just can’t help myself. I did an interview on Food Is Not Love a couple of weeks back. I don’t so much as make my first smart-ass remark before I’m off like a Geek Rocket, discussing the very first comic I read; an issue of the X-Men, after the return from the Secret Wars, when Wolverine was going to kick Colossus’ ass for breaking Kitty Pryde’s heart.
Doug, the host, stopped me & said, “You know you’ve just alienated 90% of our audience, right?”
When you listen to the show you’ll notice that none of this made it into the final edit.
So I shall return to the question at hand; why the hell am I doing this to myself? I have a wife, groupies, & a family which has already seen more than enough shame from my shenanigans over the years. I have gallery shows, and fans around the world, from California, to Britain, to such bizarre & unholy lands as New Zealand & Texas. Most of all, I have aspirations of working in the comics industry, doing more than just my silly comic strip, & damn it, I do not need the decision to write a column on the industry, in which I will offer honest opinions on new comics, merchandise, & comic related films to completely fuck over my chances of ever illustrating Brother Voodoo.
I mean, let’s face facts, when it comes out that I think Bryan Singer’s departure from the director’s chair of the X-Men films, to do Superman Returns, ultimately led to the production of two, vile, stupid, & morally reprehensible piles of steaming, cinematic dog vomit I am not going to be in good standing. When I state that the Fantastic Four film, released last year, was no less embarrassing than the FF film which was produced & held from release back in ‘94, well, actually, ain’t shit gonna happen, because everybody knows I’m right. That notwithstanding, I am placing myself in rather a difficult position: I am, through this, going to stand as a de facto Critic.
Nobody wants to be a Critic.
So I am left to erect a barrier of words, a literary prophylactic, to ensure that no mistakes are made in your bizarre, damaged brains as to my intentions. I am an artist, with a love for a bastard medium, and I am here to shine a light on the glories of that medium, as well as to strike down with great vengeance and furious anger the deleterious crap which clutters the shelves of comic shops, bookstores, booze outlets, and bodegas.
I am here to kill a few idols, and effect a few new ones.
This space, this column, is hereby dedicated to the exposure & discussion of Comic Books, comic related films, and all of the nonsense, tomfoolery, balderdash, monkeyshines& horsefeathers that come in tow.
It is dedicated to those Tallest of Pygmies, the gods of comic books, who enrich your pale, tedious lives with entertainments & ideas you can scarcely comprehend, and to those who simply provide further claptrap with which to clutter your drug-addled minds with superficial thrills, & pedestrian distractions.
Here we will examine the marriage of art & commerce, and here we will blather on about banal nonsense. Here I will attempt to demolish the notion that comic books remain nothing more than the inane pabulum of childhood fancy, and demonstrate that, while the citadels of pabulum remain, sublime new palaces of craftsmanship, humor & intellect have been erected.
In 2005, sales of comics & merchandise in specialty comic book stores alone -this does not include box-office takes, or toy stores, or the aforementioned booze outlets, or anything else- exceeded $600 million dollars.
This shit’s no joke, kids. This isn’t greasy kid’s-stuff. This is a big money, big ego industry. The minds behind it may look like dwarves to you, but from the inside they are giants. They are entertainers, and they are raconteurs, and they are the hailstone hands of God.
Coming along soon I’ll be presenting you with further ranting, as well as interviews with such comic creators as Jim Silke, Harvey Pekar, Rafael Navarro, John Heebink, and others.
This is no time to turn chicken-shit. This is the turning point, and I am the harbinger.
The column picture was done by The Stray, a talented artist and good friend of Sinclair.