250 Words on Gluten

[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 wife, Karen, has to eat gluten-free. It’s not always easy, but there have been unexpected benefits.

It made us better cooks. Gluten, in the form of wheat flour, is hidden in many prepared foods, so we cook from scratch much more than we used to. The result is invariably tastier and fresher than whatever we might have pulled off a shelf.

Mexican and Indian restaurants are a dream, Italian and Asian are a challenge (soy sauce has gluten). We’ve found many good pasta options—look for noodles made from a blend of rice and corn flours rather than straight rice or oddball substitutes such as chickpea. Boil it al dente so it doesn’t get gummy.

Gluten is the protein that gives yeasty dough its stretchy, airy quality, and there is no decent alternative. We’ve had some tolerable pizzas with gluten-free crusts, but none great. Likewise, palatable breads are difficult, but not impossible, to find. 

We judge gluten-free foods on a scale. The gold standard are those so good we’d eat them even if they weren’t gluten-free. We have favorite brands of pretzels, pancakes and muffin mix that fall into that category. Next are foods that are adequate enough, like pastas and cookies. Anything worse, we don’t bother.

I do not eat gluten-free. Indeed, I am an enthusiastic savorer of gluten. But whenever I go without for a while, and then scarf down a couple slices of bread or pizza, my gut feels the difference. If I’m gassy, blame gluten. 

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Wasting Dam Water

I've just returned home from a quick trip to and from southern California via Interstate 5, a flat straight freeway through some of the most productive farmland in the nation. Dotted along the route are many signs like these, reading "Newsom: Stop Wasting Our Dam Water!" and suchlike.

I expect all those parched farmers will be editing their signs to read "Trump" after he recently ordered the Army Corps of Engineers to release 2.2 billion gallons of water from California reservoirs to fight fires in Los Angeles, despite the fact that there was no way for that dam water to get to L.A. It just flowed out to the Pacific, where it will do the farmers' crops no good during the hot dry summer to come. Trump literally did the thing on the sign. 

Yes, they'll be rewriting them any day now . . .

I am 99% sure that Trump believes water somehow flows downhill from the Pacific Northwest to L.A. because Canada is above California on the map. I am completely serious. 

(Photo credit: KBAK-TV in Bakersfield, because I thought it imprudent to take photographs while driving 75 mph.)

250 Words on Tough Jobs

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

“There's nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein.”
—attributed to Ernest Hemingway (but maybe not actually by him).

The Tortured Artist is an archetype. Creativity is agony, but that agony yields exquisite beauty. 

Well . . . maybe if you’re Hemingway, Van Gogh or Plath.

I had other careers before becoming a professional cartoonist in my forties, and one perspective I gained from that late start was that a bad day writing and drawing is better than most good days doing those other jobs. 

I see it like this: In a previous career, I was a journalist. If I got a story wrong, I could ruin a life or a business. Later, I was an environmental chemist. If I did an analysis wrong, I could endanger public health.

One of my sisters was a registered nurse. If she made a mistake, a patient could die.

A college friend analyzed terrorism for the CIA. If he made a mistake, thousands could die.

Making art takes thought and skill but it ain’t curing cancer or fighting terrorists. Don’t be too precious about it. If I have a bad day writing or drawing, I toss my disappointments into the bin. I’d like to do it well and be successful, but if I fail? Nobody dies. Nobody cares. Nobody gets hurt but me. 

Create art or don’t. If it’s such agony, find something else to do. The world will still spin and life’s too short.

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Enjoy Beautiful Lake Illinois!

My delight of the day comes courtesy of Illinois Gov. J.B. Pritzker, who called a press conference to announce that he was changing the name of Lake Michigan to Lake Illinois, and that his state would be annexing Green Bay, Wisconsin "to protect itself against enemies, foreign and domestic."

It's expert trolling that only slightly exaggerates the ridiculousness of the actual federal policies, which I think makes it very effective. Autocrats hate being laughed at. I'm laughing.

A Suggestion for Troubled Times

I go light on politics online because Internet arguments don't change minds and few care what I think. Still, I think it's worthwhile to clearly state where one stands from time to time, and I have what may be a helpful approach for some of my friends . . .

I am as distressed, anxious and enraged as any intelligent American who's mourning our apparent national suicide. I can't think of any time in the history of the world when a dominant empire simply decided to take itself out at the height of its power--to threaten its allies, cozy up to its enemies, and withdraw all the peaceful levers of soft power (USAID, CDC, WHO, NOAA, the G20) that make it a leader. It's inexplicable to me.

Here's the problem: if I stay revved up about that continuously, I don't get anything done during the day and I don't sleep at night. Me being anxious and sleepless doesn't do anything to help the good guys or stop the bad guys.

Here's my solution: engage during the first half of the day. Read the news, Heather Cox Richardson, Rebecca Solnit, half a dozen writers I follow on Substack. Give money to causes, contact my representatives, work up a solid knot of stress and agita.  

Then disengage during the second half of the day. Stay off social media. Write my little 250-word essays, work on my art and new books I'd like to get published someday. Watch funny YouTube videos and TV programs. Read books. Try to go to bed with a clear mind.

This is a new approach for me but it seems to work. Every day I try to get a little something done to defend my country plus a little something done to nourish my career and soul. That, in addition to our regular work for the local food bank and other do-gooders, seems like a balance I can live with.

It's a marathon, not a sprint. Democrats simply don't have the votes to stop the carnage, so nothing's going to change until Republicans' constituents start to feel the pain. They will. Then, as Ms. Solnit wrote this morning, I think the challenge will be not to say "I told you so" but "Welcome."

250 Words on Musical Appreciation

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

One of my life regrets is that I have little facility or deep understanding for music. 

I’ve tried. I can’t sing. I played violin for a bit when I was very young, then picked at guitar through my teens, but showed no aptitude. I don’t think I’m tone-deaf but I may be tone-impaired; simply tuning an instrument was a struggle because I couldn’t really tell when two close notes sounded the same. I think if I’d stuck with guitar I could've become a competent player, but no more. Never a musician. 

I love classical music and took deep dives into Beethoven and Bach in college, which became slogs of sheer brute force memorization. Harmonics, counterpoint, the circle of fifths: music theory might as well have been quantum theory, which I actually understood better. Those two classes taxed me more than most physics coursework did.*

And music composition? Sorcery!

Watching a good musician play fills me with admiration and envy. They’re not thinking about where to put their fingers or how to move their hands. It’s all muscle memory—playful, expressive, intuitive. Beautiful.

I think I know what that feels like when I’m doing art, particularly using a brush to ink or paint. I’m not conscious of pressing hard or light, moving fast or slow, or how the medium will flow. It just does what I want it to. It’s my instrument and sometimes I can make it sing. 

And sometime it surprises me. I bet musicians get that, too. 

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*I expect some smart readers to point out how music actually is physics, with mathematically related vibrations and such. Yes, I know. I don’t find that as helpful as you might think. Why does a major chord sound triumphant while a minor chord sounds sad? How does a composer weave melodies together to tell a story and, while they’re at it, know to play some notes with an oboe and others with a trumpet? How can a song make you cry? That’s the ineffable magic. 

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POW! BAM! LumaCon 2025!

I had a terrific Saturday at my favorite little comics convention in the world, LumaCon, organized by librarians in the town of Petaluma, Calif., to promote reading and creativity. Admission is free, and it's a family-friendly event for people who like comics, manga, anime, fantasy, science fiction, cosplay, and related tomfoolery. 

I love it for a few reasons. One, I get to see my cartooning friends, some of whom are shown in the accompanying photos. Two, I love the energy of the event: everyone is there for fun and love, and these days that feels necessary. Three, I get to sell some books.

Fourth and foremost: I love to talk to young people (and some older ones) about making comics. Most people don't give much thought to how stories get published. It just seems like something that other people somehow magically do. But it's not magic, it's a process. I like to show my original art beside the printed page and describe how I turn THIS into THAT. I make the point that if you fill two sheets of paper with words and art, fold them in half and staple them in the middle to make an eight-page comic, you're doing pretty much the same thing I do. I have fancier toys, but that's not what's important. You told a story only you can tell. THAT'S important. 

I think demystifying the creative process matters. Every comic, painting, song, novel, etc. you've enjoyed was made by a real person. No tricks or shortcuts, they just sat down and did the work. I know that at least some kids need to hear that because, when I was young, I was lucky enough to see some original cartoon art and meet some published writers, and it meant the world to me. If they could do it, so could I. 

And if I could do it, so can you.

That's my pitch, anyway, and I met some young (and older) people at LumaCon who seemed receptive to it. That's why I keep going back. 

In addition to the friends I got photos of, I touched base with too many others to list. I enjoyed quick greetings with many and quality conversations with a few, with promises of "We've got to get together soon." I'd like that. 

Thanks, LumaCon! I hope to catch you next year.

My set-up. I accidentally arranged my table with my nonfiction books on the right and my fiction books on the left (or, as I sometimes called them, "my serious books and my happy books") and it turned out to be a nice way to talk about them. I'll remember that for the future. My portfolio is open to two pages of original art that became the two pages from my Avengers story in the "Marvel Super Stories" anthology on the table in front of them. I like to talk about process. I sat beside Maia Kobabe (on the right), which is interesting because Maia's book "GenderQueer" is the most banned book in America and yet I always overhear two or three people telling Maia how it saved their lives. Go figure.

An overview of the main LumaCon room. Notice all the young people sitting at tables and peddling their art. That's one of this con's main missions. I took this photo standing on a stage with tables for kids to glue together craft projects. Other stuff happens in the lobby and a few side rooms. It's a friendly full house. The LumaCon organizers don't track attendance, but I'd guess 2,000 or more people came over the course of the day.

A vaguely helpful signpost in the lobby.

The Art Room, which was nothing more than a quiet place with paper, pens and crayons for people to draw with. Isn't that terrific?

Some finished drawings pinned to the wall of the Art Room.

The Bake Sale! Every comics convention needs a bake sale. The kids at the table to the left sold baked goods, while the kids behind the window in the back wall were serious culinary students turning out legitimate food. I enjoyed a fancy chicken sandwich as well as a cup of mac and cheese with bacon.

Inside the Cosplay Room. Pros, semi-pros, and kids with cardboard boxes over their heads. Everybody's welcome.

A trio of cosplayers. I didn't notice the head peeking through the neck of the character on the left (Khonshu from Moon Knight) until just now. Smile!

Luckily, I did not witness this Dalek exterminating anyone.

My friend, cartoonist, and Schulz Studio staffer Denis St. John.

The creative couple of Emily C. Martin and Brett Grunig. We have comics in common but I really wanted to talk to them about printmaking, at which they are experts. Brett even teaches it, and it's something I'd like to get better at. 

Maia Kobabe in intense conversation with my friend, cartoonist, and Schulz Studio editor Lex Fajardo, with creative powerhouse Gio Benedetti (in yellow-sleeved shirt) at the table behind them. 

Librarian Nathan Libecap, one of the core group of high school and public librarians who put on LumaCon, and make it just a bit bigger and better, every year. The blue flannel shirt in the background is on cartoonist and Schulz Studio Creative Director Paige Braddock. 

As much as I enjoyed my day, walking down an aisle and finding Steve Oliff was the highlight for me. In some circles, Steve is a giant. He's won multiple Eisner and Harvey Awards, and is known primarily as a colorist. In fact, he was one of the first artists to do digital coloring in the early 1980s. A pioneer. Steve is also a few years older than me and grew up in Point Arena, on the northern California coast, and when I was a teenager his name was whispered in reverent tones at the local comic book shop as "the hometown guy who turned pro." That was a big deal. So I had a chance to babble all that to Steve, and I think he appreciated that not only did someone there know who he was but seemed familiar with his entire career. Being able to talk to someone like that as a peer is a real treat.

Rain did not dampen the enthusiasm of kids for pummeling each other with swords, pikes and maces under the covered walkways of the Petaluma Community Center. Astonishingly, no casualties were reported.

My last photo is dedicated to the librarians, not just for putting on this event but for being heroes of civilization in an increasingly hostile world.