250 Words on Solar Power

[I try to start my day writing 250 words on anything. I’ll post one every Tuesday until I run out of good ones.]

Twenty years ago, I was a science writer working for some of the top people in renewable power, energy storage, and distributed generation. I glibly described my science writing job as “taking 500 pages nobody can understand and turning them into five pages anybody can understand.” I ghostwrote articles and books on cutting-edge topics for very smart people, and considered myself an expert by proxy. 

I once asked a client what the tipping point would be for solar power’s mainstream acceptance. He replied, “You’ll know solar has made it when the environmentalists turn against it.” 

That time has passed, as some large-scale solar projects sited in deserts have been decommissioned or canceled due to their ecological impacts. However, solar photovoltaic panels are everywhere, and installed capacity has surpassed the most optimistic projections. 

When we rebuilt our house in 2018, we put solar panels on the roof. Why not? Their cost was trivial compared to that of construction. Our local power provider offered incentives to install an electric vehicle charger even though we didn’t have an EV, and again: why not? Of course, we eventually figured we should buy an EV to make use of the charger, so now we power our home and fuel a car with free photons from the sky.

I’ve noticed that whenever I drive our gas-powered car, and particularly when I refuel it, I feel a twinge of shame. This is how broad social conventions change: gradually, one early adopter at a time, and then suddenly. 

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The Madness of King Don

 

(Photo of Fort Sumter (center) is from the National Park Service; photos of Alcatraz (left) and Columbia are by me.)

Until this weekend, the stupidest thing I'd seen a president do was when Trump ordered the Army Corps of Engineers to release millions of gallons of water from two California reservoirs to fight fires in Los Angeles--after the fires were mostly out and the water in those rivers had no way to get to L.A. so it just flowed into the ocean instead.

Now I think Trump has topped himself by ordering that Alcatraz be reopened as a federal prison. Keep in mind, it got out of the prison business in 1963 because it was many times more expensive than any other prison to run and maintain. The economic argument has not improved since. 

I live in the Bay Area and have visited Alcatraz many times. It's been a national park for more than 50 years. Its infrastructure--electrical, gas, water, sewage, foundations, buildings--would all need to be redone. The only way to open a prison on Alcatraz Island would be to scrape off all the existing structures and build a new one from scratch. 

Trump ordering Alcatraz to become a prison again is exactly as stupid as ordering Fort Sumter to be recommissioned as a modern military base. It's exactly as stupid as pulling Apollo 11's command module Columbia out of the Smithsonian so NASA could send astronauts back to the Moon in it (note that Alcatraz has been out of operation longer than Columbia has!). 

This is Mad King George territory. If any Republicans ever had the guts to open Amendment 25 proceedings, this could be Exhibit A in just how detached from reality our current president is. 

250 Words on Time Slipping

[I try to start my day writing 250 words on anything. I’ll post one every Tuesday until I run out of good ones.]

“Time keeps on slippin’ slippin’ slippin’ into the future.” –Steve Miller Band.

When I was young, every middle-aged person had lived through World War 2, and many had served in it. Today, anyone old enough to remember the war, born before say 1940, is at least 85. The Greatest Generation that endured the Depression and beat the Nazis will soon be gone.

While we are evidently cursed with short memories and need to relearn the lessons of defending freedom and fighting fascism they taught us. 

All of us are navigating our own raging rivers through time, though sometimes it feels as if we’re standing still and time is flowing through us. We peer through tiny dirty windows at eternity parading by. 

I have mixed feelings about my memories becoming history. I feel lucky to have seen Apollo astronauts walk on the Moon, as momentous a step as Lewis and Clark wading into the Pacific or Caesar crossing the Rubicon. I laughed when my daughters studied South African apartheid and I was able to show them clips of newspaper articles I’d written about divestment demonstrations at the local university. Watching documentaries on the Civil Rights or Women’s Liberation movements, it’s hard to believe they happened in my lifetime. 

When I was young, it seemed like the USA had been around forever. When I got older, I realized I’d been alive for something like one-fourth of its existence. That’s an interesting change of perspective. My country feels very young and fragile now. 

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Feeling Like an Antique

Hilarious and depressing at the same time: we were cruising a big antiques fair that took up a few blocks of downtown Petaluma, Calif., this morning, when on a table full of old magazines, newspapers, comics and prints I saw a familiar image: an 11 x 17 miniposter I made of my original "Fire Story" webcomic. I sold (or often gave) them to folks before the book came out and I had nothing else to offer. This one was inscribed to "Troy."

The story gets a little better: when I asked the proprietor what he was asking for it (it's always interesting to see what I'm worth on the open market), he broke into a smile and I realized he's a long-time fan/acquaintance and, in fact, the "Troy" to whom I signed the print. Which was not for sale. He just keeps it in that portfolio.

While I'm sure there's SOME price that would induce Troy to sell it, I didn't try to tempt him. I still have a stack of them in my studio, and can sign as many as I want.

Happy Holidays!

My day's clothing choice that started all the trouble.

My wife Karen, who keeps track of such things, tells me today is both National South Dakota Day and National Dueling Dinosaurs Day! I can connect them.

Not everyone knows that I spent my childhood in Rapid City, South Dakota. We moved to California when I was 11. I've always been proud and happy I was raised in the Midwest--I think it gave me a solid core that made me better--but also glad we left when we did. The West has a lot more opportunities for a teen and young adult.  

South Dakota is also where paleontologists have found a lot of dinosaurs, dueling and otherwise, which is a real point of local pride. In fact, high on a ridgetop above Rapid City is Dinosaur Park, topped by concrete dinos built by the WPA in the 1930s, which I remember from my childhood and revisited with my family in 2008. 

At Dinosaur Park, Rapid City, S.D. in 2008. Somewhere there exist photos of me in that same spot at the age of 4. If you're ever in the area, pay a visit. Can't miss it; just look for the apatosaurus looming over the city.

One of the wellsprings of dinosaur fossils is the Badlands National Park east of Rapid City, a geological wonderland I visited many times as a kid (don't miss the famous Wall Drug Store!). I happened to get up and put on a Badlands shirt this morning, which is why Karen told me about National South Dakota and Dueling Dinosaurs Day, which is why I wrote this post and that's the Circle of Internet Life. 

Celebrate as you see fit.

Dueling Dinosaurs at Disneyland. My understanding is that these two species were actually separated by tens of millions of years and never would have faced off in real life. Real life can be a real buzzkill sometimes.

250 Words on Stingers

[I try to start my day writing 250 words on anything. I’ll post one every Tuesday until I run out of good ones.]

For most of my early life, I had a phobia of bees and wasps. It started with a wasp sting when I was very young. After that, if a stinging bug got into the house or car, I full-on panicked.

I later learned that bees are sociable and industrious, and have no beef with me as long as I let them be. I can peacefully coexist with bees, and happily watch them buzz about our lavender.

Conversely, wasps are evil assholes.

The summer after I graduated high school, my dad and I did an Outward Bound rafting trip on the Green River. Outward Bound expeditions were reputed to be a true test of wilderness fortitude. Ours was easy. We ate and slept well, and floating down the river covered most of our ground for us.

Everyone took turns cooking and cleaning. One dinner, my job was stripping chicken meat from its bones. A whirling cloud of wasps descended on the chicken and my goo-slathered hands, but I couldn’t disappoint the team. Fighting through blind terror, I finished the job, unstung. 

At the end of the journey, we sat around the campfire sharing what we’d discovered about ourselves. Campers spoke movingly about experiencing nature and transcending handicaps.

I talked about deboning chicken. People laughed, but I meant it. Preparing that meal was the bravest thing I’d ever done. Wasps largely lost their power to panic me, although I still feel a spike of adrenaline when one sneaks up on me. Assholes.

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Cartoon-a-Thonning

I was improbably set up at the first table visitors encountered entering the museum's Great Hall. I'm holding a portfolio of some of my art because I enjoy explaining to folks, especially young artists, how my drawings become books. I like to demystify the process. Write and draw your story; the rest is details. Immediately behind me was illustrator Eric Martin; to his left was comic book artist Brent Anderson; and to his left was cartoonist Tom Beland.

I spent the afternoon at the Schulz Museum with a flock of other cartoonists to celebrate Paige Braddock's 25-year career as the head of the Schulz Studio (hired by Mr. Schulz himself the year before he died). The museum has one of these "cartoon-a-thons" every few years to mark special occasions, and they're always fun. Cartooning is a solitary profession so I appreciate a chance to catch up and talk shop. Plus I talked about comics with some nice people and sold a few books. That's a real good day.

Heroic local independent bookseller Copperfield's stocked many participants' books, including "A Fire Story," so I sent people to buy it there.

An angle on the Great Hall over my left shoulder. The hat in the foreground graces the head of Brent Anderson.

My friends Amber Padilla and Mary Shyne, with Brett Grunig and Emily Martin at the next table over. Amber did a story for the same "Marvel Super Stories" anthology that I did, so I sent three people who bought the book from me down to have Amber sign it as well (she was not offering it, so I wasn't stealing any sales from her.) Mary has a new graphic novel coming out soon that looks terrific and I expect will do very well.

My wife, Karen, took this photo of me talking with Brent Anderson and Tom Beland, two of my favorite (and very different) comics stylists.

I was especially looking forward to meeting cartoonist Julia Wertz, whose work I've been a fan of for years. I knew she had moved to the area a while back but we didn't cross paths until today. Turns out she'd read my stuff as well, and we're scheduled to do a panel together at a small con next month, so good thing I met her! Made my day.

Cartoon Art Museum (CAM) board chair Ron Evans chats with Justin Thompson while Lex Fajardo leans into his hard sell. Ron was there to present CAM's prestigious Sparky Award to Paige Braddock, but she didn't know that yet.

Lex interviewed Paige in the museum's theater about her life, career, and time with Peanuts. It was a really nice retrospective, including a look at her long journalism career, during which she drew the illustration of Martin Luther King on the screen. I especially appreciated her insights into character-based cartooning. Paige was genuinely surprised and touched when Ron Evans gave her the Sparky Award at the end, and immediately credited her team for their hard work. Also, her blue blazer matched the color of her eyes, which I thought was a real heads-up play on her part.

Cartooning at the Schulz

HEY KIDS! Here's a fun thing some cartoonist pals and I will be doing at the Charles M. Schulz Museum next Saturday afternoon: a Cartoon-A-Thon to celebrate Paige Braddock's 25 years working for Peanuts (that "working for peanuts" joke is very old but I still love it) and General Excuse to Get Twenty Cartoonists in the Same Room.

Unless I'm mistaken, Paige is now the only person at the Schulz Studio who actually worked for/with Mr. Schulz. In fact, she's the artist who laid out the very last "Peanuts" strip that ran on February 13, 2000, the day Schulz died.

I've done these Cartoon-A-Thons before and they're always a hoot. I committed to it long before a nationwide demonstration was scheduled for the same day, so while I am at the museum talking about comics, sketching pictures, and selling books, I'm counting on the rest of you good freedom-loving folks to hold the fort. I will man the ramparts with you next time. 

Hope to see you at the Schulz!

Color in Practice

I've been corresponding with a student doing a master's dissertation who asked me about the use of color in Mom's Cancer. Honestly and immodestly, this isn't the first time an academic has asked about that. I liked my reply enough I thought it would make a good post about how I approach making comics.

The question was basically: why is so much of the story black-and-white, and how did I decide where and how to use color? I said: 

I have a lot of respect for black-and-white art as a medium, in the same way that critics respect black-and-white photography or movies. It’s a different medium with a long tradition, with its own rules of visual storytelling that are different than those of color.

Honestly, it was also faster and easier to not color all the pages. Back then, trying to document my Mom’s illness and treatment as it happened, I was in a hurry. 

Color has a very specific meaning and purpose in Mom’s Cancer. It is similar to the way color is used in the movie “The Wizard of Oz,” where Dorothy famously walks out of the black-and-white ordinary world of Kansas into the Technicolor fantasy world of Oz. In my book, color indicates that something out of the ordinary, subjective, or unreal is happening. It is first seen during Mom’s transient ischemic attack (TIA) as light blue spots that are meant to suggest the phenomenon is happening inside her head rather than actual blue bubbles floating through the room. Fantasy sequences, like the superhero fight, are likewise in full color. 

I also used golden-brown sepia color in the sequences that looked back at Mom’s past, to instantly signal to readers that this flashback was different from the regular storyline. My favorite use of color in the book is a very subtle example toward the end, when my grandmother’s casket is colored sepia, indicating that the past is being literally and metaphorically buried, and the flashbacks are done.

In general, color is an often ignored and underutilized tool in graphic storytelling. If you’re just coloring the sky blue and grass green, you’re missing half the fun! Different palettes can set a mood, establish character and place, convey emotion, and guide a reader’s attention and feelings in ways they don’t even realize. More cartoonists should think harder about color and do more with it!

250 Words on the Prisoner

[I try to start my day writing 250 words on anything. I’ll post one every Tuesday until I run out of good ones.]

The Prisoner is the best TV series I’ve ever seen. Not my favorite, although it would be near the top of that list, too, but in terms of artistic intent and execution, smart use of the television medium, innovative storytelling, and good fun, it’s outstanding.

Patrick McGoohan conceived, produced, and starred in the 17-episode British series, which was first broadcast in 1967. I saw it a decade later, when U.S. public broadcasting stations picked it up. 

McGoohan plays an unnamed government agent who angrily resigns, goes home, gets gassed, and wakes up in the Village, where he’s called “Number Six.” The boss of the Village, Number Two, wants information. The inescapable hamlet is populated by shiny happy people who may be prisoners or guards. The game is afoot! 

The Prisoner is a very ‘60s meditation on individuality, collectivization, conformity and dehumanization. You may think you’re free, but maybe you’re as much a prisoner of your own self-made village as Number Six is of his.

One reason The Prisoner is special to me is that my mother and I watched it together. We puzzled over the meaning of every episode, debating the characters, themes and subtext. I saw another side of Mom: she had some serious literary analysis chops! 

The Prisoner is an admittedly weird series that wouldn’t be right for everyone—it’s the ancestor of shows like Twin Peaks and Lost that kept viewers off-balance and guessing—but it was right for Mom and me, and that made it great.

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250 Words on Manly Models

[I try to start my day writing 250 words on anything. I’ll post one every Tuesday until I run out of good ones.]

My biological father left my life when I was 3 and my stepdad entered it around age 10. I think those years between are important to a boy figuring out how to be a man. My grandpa and uncle did their best, but they had their own lives and concerns, and didn’t know what to do with me after it was evident I wasn’t destined for baseball.

Although I grew up in the era of heroic Space Age astronauts, I didn’t know enough about them personally for them to shape my conception of masculinity. I wasn’t interested in their ethics, values, or approaches to life. I just wanted to grow up to do their job.

Make-believe men filled the gap. Batman (both comic book and Adam West), Superman (both comic book and George Reeves), Captain Kirk, the Lone Ranger, Zorro, Robin Hood, King Arthur, and similar characters taught me the ways of manliness. 

I could have done worse.

Fictional heroes distill a culture’s highest ideals into easily digestible archetypes. They were paragons with few flaws, which made them impossible to live up to but not bad guides. They taught me the importance of loyalty, bravery, and grace under pressure. Protecting the weak, defending your principles, controlling your passions. 

That’s a good list!

I never felt I missed anything being raised by a single mom, although I know she worried about it. I had my fictional mentors, while she was a living model of courage and strength I witnessed every day.

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Hands Off!

Karen and I with our homemade signs. Karen hand-lettered hers. I suggested she make the "P" stand for "Poopyhead" but she didn't go for it. I did NOT hand-letter mine, but I did draw and watercolor the penguin.

Making good trouble in downtown Santa Rosa, Calif., today as our little part of the "Hands Off" rallies happening in some 1400 cities across the country. Hard to estimate how many turned out, but we filled the town square and the sidewalks on both sides of three city blocks. Maybe a few thousand? Not the hundreds of thousands who demonstrated elsewhere, but a nice group of witty people with a lot of positive energy. 

We ran into several friends because we know quality people. Someone on Facebook cautioned about posting photos of people at these events without their permission and, while I'm not that paranoid, isn't it a shame that we even have to give a thought to the government rounding up protestors and shipping them to secret prisons? That's why we're there. Anyway, I won't out them in this post, but if you were one of those friends it was great to see you.

Look: I have no illusions that a few thousand people in my hometown are gonna change the world. That's not the point. Community, fellowship, letting other people know they're not alone and we have their backs--that's the point. Pebbles make an avalanche.

Makin' trouble. Woot. I pointedly wore my red, white and blue Fourth of July shirt to reclaim its iconography for the good guys. RIght-wing fascists don't get a monopoly on patriotism or the flag.

My view for most of the event, across the street from the park at the center of town, Courthouse Square.

A long shot down Third Street. I was standing on the right side of this street about halfway down when I took the previous shot; Courthouse Square is out of sight to the left. This was just a fraction of the folks who came out today.

250 Words on the Leader of the Pack

[I try to start my day writing 250 words on anything. I’ll post one every Tuesday until I run out of good ones.]

I carefully observe my little dog, Riley, trying to figure out how her brain allocates its resources. 

It’s around 50 percent food and treats, 25 percent pee, 15 percent poop, 5 percent guarding her territory from any bicyclist or cat that wanders past, and 5 percent a sense of affection for the apes she allows to love her on her terms.

That deal’s OK with me, but I try not to fool myself that it’s more than it is.

I often recall my writer friend Mike Peterson’s observation that a dog’s extraordinary sense of smell must make the world feel like being on psychedelics all the time. Riley and I have totally different experiences walking around the block.

I got one insight into Riley’s mind a few years ago, when I helped a neighbor close her broken garage door. My fingertips momentarily got caught between the hinged panels, and I let out a yelp before yanking them free. From a couple hundred feet away, Riley rocketed down the street like a fur-covered torpedo, ready to fight demons by my side. 

“I’ve got your back, boss!”

That kind of courage and loyalty earns a lifetime of unrequited belly rubs.

I do tell Riley how much I appreciate her many contributions to the team. Dogs are dogs and people are people, and anthropomorphizing doesn’t do either of us any favors. But as inscrutable as her mind is, I’m certain we’d both fight fiercely for our pack. I’ve got your back too, pal.

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NOTE FROM BRIAN: I wrote this essay a while ago and randomly assigned it to post today; it is a very sad coincidence that Riley died last week following a bout of congestive heart failure. She was a month shy of 13. Riley was a terrier mutt that someone had left tied to a bus stop when she was a pup, and we gave her the best home and family any dog could have had. 

My wife, Karen, read today’s essay and told me to edit it to read, “Riley devoted 50 percent of her brain to loving her Mom.” That sounds about right, if not low. 

George Carlin said that getting a pet means "you are purchasing a small tragedy," and here we are. For being such a small dog, she leaves an enormous hole. 

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