David Wynne is a cartoonist and hospital porter from South East London. He is highly opinionated and somewhat anti-social. He refuses to make the seemingly obligatory knowing and mildly post-modern (but horribly cliched) joke on the subject of writing about himself in the third person.

Location name

The Zoo Illogical

Remember to look into

Thorium

Place name that comes with built in awesome

Metrotown

Me Rambling At Length Up My Own Bum

So, I write a column over at the Geek Syndicate website called The Rattling Skull. This is a rough draft version of the fourth and latest of them, posted here mostly so I can look at it in a context other than Word. If you like it, well, you’re a bit weird; but you can get more over at geeksyndicate.co.uk - I try to write a new one about once every week and a half. If you don’t listen to the Geek Syndicate podcast, you really should, it’s very good. They have a particularly enjoyable episode available right now, an interview with Jonathan Ross, of all people.

Anyway. The Rattling Skull, number 4…

#####

I moved house Tuesday before last. Twelve hours of lugging around boxes, mostly full of books, and, of course, comics.

My back still hurts a little.

I tell you what, there’s something more than a little mentally unwell about us comic collector types. Ten bloody longboxes. Among them, most of the individual issues of Preacher, a fair chunk of Transmetropolitan, several issues of Tom Strong, lots of Hellboy… even though I have all of them in trades. Which means I lugged those bastards out of our flat, onto a lorry, off the lorry, and up a flight of stairs to the new flat for no logical reason. They sit at the back of a cupboard now, completely inaccessible, laughing at me derisively.

The other day, while (still!) unpacking, moving furniture around, and generally trying to get the new place to look like a home rather than a (very small) disorganised warehouse, I had to stop and rearrange my shelves- because I could no longer bear the fact that my hardcover of Tom Strong’s Terrific Tales Volume 1 was on a different shelf from the rest of the ABC books, and even more frustratingly, Batman Black And White Vol. 1 was at the other end of the shelf from volumes 2 and 3.

In the end I wound up spending a good forty minutes shuffling around books, just to satisfy my own weird sense of order. My comics being out of order just made me too uncomfortable to ignore it- meanwhile, I can’t see across my front room because of the great wobbly piles of boxes full of CDs and DVDs. And bear in mind, when it comes to film, I’m the kind of guy who has multiple favourite directors and can recite their filmographies; and as for music, well, I spent seven years or so of my life plugging away in bands trying to make it as a musician. But the comics come first. I can’t find the phono-leads to connect up the stereo? Pffft, the Batman books are out of order, that can wait.

(I tell you, though, this move has just eaten me alive. Near enough three weeks of my life have disappeared into this endeavour. My webcomic, MINDHACK, hasn’t updated in over a fortnight, for example. And yes, I am mighty proud of myself for having got through three columns before allowing myself to mention my ugly little baby; if you wish to see it and marvel at how awful it is (actually, more than a few people seem to like it, so what do I know?) you can do that at mindhackcomic.com – the language is truly foul at times, as is the violence, so be aware of what you’re getting into before you make with the clicky.)

I don’t know where the madness began. I always marvel at forum threads, blogposts or podcast interviews where creators and fans recount, often in great detail, the exact circumstances of they became interested in comics. They’ll talk about the first comic they ever read, tell you what issue of what title it was, and where they got it.

Me, so far as I can remember, I’ve always been in to comics. As a young kid I was, like most boys of my generation, heavily into He-Man. But I distinctly remember being just as enamoured with the little dinky comics that came with the action figures as I was with the figures themselves. I have Superman comics, bought at the newsagent, dated 1982; I was only born in ‘79. I remember being fascinated by the way Curt Swan drew the musculature on Superman’s chest- I thought that swift, curved line that delineated the divide between old Kal-El’s pecs was a part of the symbol. To be clear: this is a pre-literate memory. I did not yet recognise the symbol on Superman’s chest as a letter s. Admittedly, I learned to read very late, but you get my point.

My mother claims not to like comics- she says she just doesn’t enjoy them on a technical level, that the juxtaposition of words and images doesn’t work for her (this doesn’t extend to MY comics, of course, which she rightly considers to be masterpieces that transcend the restrictions of their form… *cough*). My father used to say much the same thing. And yet, for people who didn’t like comics, both their homes seemed to have an awful lot of comics in them as I was growing up. Whether it was Raymond Briggs’s father Christmas, or collections of Steve Bell’s If…, or even big glossy books about pop art and alternative culture that would feature excerpts from works by Jack Kirby or Robert Crumb; there seemed to be a lot of stuff knocking about that, while my parents may not have thought of them as comics, most definitely were as far as I was concerned. I suppose it was inevitable that this combination of the literary and the visual would hook me; my mother was a librarian, my father an art teacher. Mum, as well as being a disgustingly talented and able painter, is also a connoisseur of genre fiction; dad was a master draughtsman. Both, despite being artists, instilled in me at an early age the idea that writing novels is probably the greatest thing a human being can aspire to. It seems obvious, from a cod-psychologist standpoint, that this is where it all stems from.

But.

My mum tells a story, when trying embarrass me in company: I was very, very small, barely able to talk- that age when children are only just about able to communicate with you, and will scribble masterpieces in crayon that, if you squint really hard could be a person or possibly cow or maybe, just maybe, a choo choo train. Well, at that age I was surprising nursery school carers by being able to pick colours pretty accurately- when I did a scribble that was meant to be Superman or Spider-Man you could tell because there’d be a lot of blue and red. If they were fighting the Green Goblin then there’d be some purple and green in there too. One day mum, after realising she’d not seen me for ten minutes or so, found me in my bedroom, making pictures of Superman on the wall. A series of them, in a row; which I then patiently explained to her depicted Supes going from a standing position, to running, and then flight.

Or, to put it another way, I’ve been making sequential art since before I can remember, let alone appreciating it. Which, worryingly, rather suggests something a little more, well, in-born. Makes me wonder if perhaps this obsession is in fact a genetic disorder, some kind of chemical imbalance in the brain perhaps.

I mean, there has to be some reason why I can’t bring myself to throw away my issues of Punisher 2099.

See you next time. Hopefully with something resembling coherence. Perhaps I’ll finally get around to talking about Unknown Soldier.

‘Till then, look after yourselves. Toodle-ooh.

A PEEK INTO MY PERSONAL CREATIVE PROCESS:
THIS IS A SCRIPT FRAGMENT FROM SOMETHING I’M
WORKING ON CALLED “BLANK GENERATION”

###

Hi.

My name’s Blake.

Perceval Blake.

But if you ever use my first name I’ll
shoot you in the face.

###

I’m a detective.

It’s a living.

And frankly, I don’t really know how to
do anything else.

###

Of course, the detective trade is like
any other business.

If you want to get by, it really helps
if you have some kind of edge on the
competition.

###
___________________________
###

This is my edge.

It’s a spicy little concoction.

There are two active ingredients; first
of all there’s a generous serving of
these things called nanosquids.

###

basically they’re these tiny little
machines that monitor brainwave
activity within a radius of about ten
metres or so.

The other ingredient is a carefully
measured dose of a hallucinogenic drug.

###

Now, if you happen to have just the
right kind of brain…

…my kind of brain…

…this particular little concoction
allows you to read minds.

###
______________________________
###

Of course, this has it’s upsides and
it’s downsides.

For a detective, telepathic abilities
are pretty damn useful.

###

On the other hand getting as high as a
kite on psychoactive drugs on a regular
basis isn’t necessarily the best thing
for your health.

Or your sanity, for that matter.

###

So, you know, I try to keep the mind-
reading part of the job to a minimum.

Rely on my finely honed detective
skills.

###
_____________________________
###

Of course, it’s a little difficult.

People come to me for the party trick.

###

Luckily, I don’t work very much.

###

Just enough to keep me in whisky and
cigarettes.

And, you know, other stuff.

###



NOW WHETHER THIS IS GOING TO BE THE
NEXT MINDHACK STORYARC, OR RUN
ALONGSIDE THE CURRENT ONE, WELL…

…I’M NOT TELLING.

It’s an old science fiction idea to have an alien race arrive on Earth in the present day or near future, and to use that as a starting point/allegory to explore ideas about immigration, integration and cultural conflict. Obvious recent examples range from the Alien Nation film and TV series to the film District 9 that’s coming out soon- but it goes back further than that; for example, depending on what kind of parameters you set, Superman could be said to be an iteration of the idea.

It strikes me, though, that while I’ve always found it to be a fascinating concept, every version of it I’ve ever encountered is pretty cowardly in one way or another- more often than not, the alien race is basically human apart from a few superficial characteristics; this allows an easy shortcut to the obvious (and entirely laudable) message that “underneath our differences, we’re all the same really”. the problem with this, of course, is that you might as well just write about *real* people and cultures- the science fictional elements become mere ornamentation, genre as set-dressing. A waste of everyone’s time. And on the rare occasions that the aliens are presented as truly, well, *alien*, the message is often lost or subverted horribly- the afore-mentioned District-9 appeared, based on early interviews with the director, to be a rather poorly conceived comedy in which the aliens were bumbling space-clowns; it seems since then to have morphed into a formulaic alien-invasion story- the resulting implications of how to read the film as an immigration allegory are somewhat unfortunate.

It sems to me that a more interesting thing to do, and a more interesting idea to explore, is to have a truly different, truly alien race arrive on Earth, and follow through on the idea that even if underneath our obvious differences it turns out we still don’t have much in common, then it’s still better to find a common ground and learn to live together and co-operate. That in fact, a genuinely alien race might have more to offer to our culture.

This is, you understand, a basic transcript of idle musing while waiting for the kettle to boil just now.


(An addendum- has anyone ever done it the other way round? With the humans as the refugee interlopers, arriving on an alien world and learning to live within that culture? It seems like such an obvious idea that I can’t believe it hasn’t been done, but I can’t think of any examples.

If you can think of any, let me know on twitter. (@davidwynne) )

My Friday Night.

My beloved and I (and a couple of friends) went to see Static X at the 02 Islington Academy on Friday night. We’ve been to a few gigs there now, and it’s an odd little venue; despite the name Academy suggesting a largish size, it’s actually about as big as your average pub. And for some reason there seems to be a much higher areshole-quotient than other places. I get the feeling that, unlike most modern music venues, the place has a contingent of “regulars” who turn up to pretty much anything going on there. I may be wrong about that- it’s not like I’m recognising faces from gig to gig or anything, but every time we’ve been, there seem to have been an awful lot of people there who are only mildly interested in the actual music. A lot of moving around the venue and traffic at the bar, even while the headliners are on stage. This, of course, is intensely irritating if you’re actually there because you really want to see/hear the band- having some moron physically push to get past you (through the crowd watching the band) so they can get to the bar, and then again to get back to the other side of the room, and then again ten minutes later and so on- and then multiply that by about fifty people, and you see how it could impinge on one’s enjoyment. Just stay by the fucking bar, you dicks. Or better yet, save yourself twenty quid (or whatever the tickets were) and just go to a pub for fuck’s sake.

Another odd thing: the sheer number of people filming the thing. If you’re a regular heavy metal or hardcore gig goer, you’ll recognise a certain ritual that takes place at every show before the headliners come on; men of a certain age (early to mid twenties) will stake out, with the judicious application of alpha male stances and “don’t fuck with me” glares, good vantage points from which to view the stage. They kind of spread out so that none of them impinge on each other’s territory, so that whereever you may be in the venue, you’re bound to be within a few feet of at least one, maybe two or three. Usually, they’re pretty benign, using their little outposts simply to enjoy the gig, and get a bit of groove on without bothering anyone else. I tend to keep an eye on them though, because about every tenth one seems intent on starting his own little mosh pit, one were HE is KING, and will punch anyone and everyone he can see repeatedly in the head. Funnily enough, a quick dose of the patented David Wynne Loom And Stare usually calms these ones down a bit, although if that doesn’t work, well, I’m there to enjoy the music not get in stupid fights, so we’ll move. Anyway, this gig was the same as any other in that respect, untill the band started playing- when suddenly every one of these dicks pulled out a digital camera and started filming. And I’m not talking about a song or two, I’m talking about the whole damn gig. I don’t know if this is something that is peculiar to the band, or one of those “sign of the times” things, but it struck me as really fucking odd.

Static X were great, though. They put on a pretty no-nonsense show; aside from having a round of shots brought out to them every three songs or so (Wayne shouts “Let’s do some shots!” each time- it’s like a recurring sketch in a comedy show, almost), they just play the songs, and their music works remarkably well live. I was surprised by just how chilled out and upbeat they are when performing- laid-back smiles seem to be the default facial expression for the whole band, and Wayne in particular- especially considering how aggressive their music is. They played a good mix of stuff, too- three songs from the new album (Lunatic, Stingwray, Z28) four from the first one (Push It, I’m With Stupid, Love Dump and the tremendous Stem) and a pretty even handed selection from the releases in between. Like I say, they were great.

Modern Popular Politics OR Oh God We're All Fucked Everybody's Stupid

It’s a strange new world, we’re living in.

I think it’s a sad indication of how far our pampered, privileged culture’s political consciousness has become detached from reality that as I was mucking about with predictive text earlier, I discovered that my phone already knew how to spell libertarian, but I had to teach it the word socialist- meanwhile thousands of people on twitter think that they’re helping the cause of democracy in Iran by helping to disseminate completely unverified information, and redecorating their avatars in the colours of the political party they believe are the rightful winners of the recent election. They know the election was stolen; an anonymous twitter user told them so.

Many of these people, by the way, advocate not voting in elections in the country they actually live in because politicians are “all as bad as each other”. Apparently this principle does not apply to Iranian politicians?

I feel like it’s necessary to say at this point that I consider President “there are no homosexuals in Iran” Ahmadinejad to be a pitiful excuse for a man, and I in no way support his rule.

But, if these anonymous Iranian twitterers are to be believed, there are rumblings of a military coup in offing (if you ask me, it’s no coincidence that Ahmadinejad’s fucked off to Russia- I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he never went home, for his own safety) and any regime that takes over now can claim to have international grassroots support. No matter what kind of bastards they turn out to be.

Which is why my twitter avatar isn’t green…

Well. Here We Are, And Here We Go

And so I begin my third blog. As I mean to go on, in fact; with a stonking great grammatical error.

that’s right, my third blog. My name is David Wynne, and you may know me from such other blogs as… Well, my livejournal, and possibly the blogger account I set up a while back during one of those times when it looked like livejournal might be about to go up the spout. If you do know me, it’s most likely from twitter, actually. Or possibly my webcomics, although I’m not convinced more than a couple of dozen people actually read those. Or maybe you might know me from various comics blog comments sections… I spend rather more time on the internet than is really healthy. And I don’t really entertain for a second the idea that anyone reading this who didn’t get here by clicking a link in my twitter has even the slightest hint of a clue who I am- all this is really just a long roundabout way of saying I get about a bit, on the internet.

But when all’s said and done, I’m a livejournalist in exile.

Let me explain that.

Anyone who’s ever maintained a livejournal account will know that every so often the apocalypse descends, and suddenly all anyone and everyone can talk about is how lj is about to shut down.

And two weeks later, it’s all back to normal.

After a few years, and several apocalypses, I’d just about got used to the that- and then I had my own personal apocalypse.

My work blocked livejournal.

I work nights, and in a role that basically requires that I spend a certain amount of time idle (so as to allow me to have a decent “response time” for jobs). Which is my excuse for doing most of my surfing at work.

Over the last few years, I’ve come to compensate for the damage nightwork does to one’s social life by living on the internet between jobs. My main home for most of that time was, yes, lj. I made good friends there, and I really love the way the place works; the ability to filter your audience from post to post is a stroke of genius.

Anyway, the blockage instituted by my employers- the NHS- applies not only to livejournal, but to every “social networking” site you can think of. I use quotation marks, because the NHS definition of social networking apparently covers every free blog hosting site you can think of too. So that was the back up blogspot sunk as well.

And, yes Tumblr is blocked too, but I’ll get to that.

So, I’m sure at this point you’re wondering why I don’t just blog from home. Well, here’s the thing: I Work what we laughingly refer to as “part time”, which is admittedly only thirty hours a week, but I do each month’s hours in two eight day chunks, running thursday to thursday. Now, anyone who’s ever worked nights will be able to tell you that your first day off doesn’t count, because you spend it either sleeping or shambling around like a particularly unattractive zombie. So that leaves ten days a month for blogging from from home- but four of those are weekend days, and there is simply no way I’m spending them in front of a computer.

That leaves six days a month, of which you can safely assume at least half will be taken up with all those little everyday things that I can’t get around to the rest of the time because of work… And you get the idea.

So, I’ve been desperately casting around for a solution for the past year, which for me at this point means a way to blog from my phone. Which, in turn, means blogging via email.

Now, both livejournal and blogger offer the facility to blog via email, but neither handles it well, at least not from the phone- I mean, I guess it’s okay if you don’t mind your blogs posts looking like they’re meant to be some kind of blank verse poetry. But, well, I do mind.

Enter Tumblr, which handles it very well indeed.

So here I am now, slowly getting to grips with predictive text, blogging with my thumb. I expect said thumb to soon become a prodigious and powerful digit, of nigh full limb status. I’ll be a supernaturally skilled hitch-hiker, like Uma Thurman in that Gus Van Sant movie.

I hope you’ll join me.