Meanwhile, Nate Aguila makes his first appearance as he checks in on his younger brother Luis.

Remember, you can subscribe to the Utopian: Foundation and have every new episode delivered directly to your news reader or inbox. Your mom says she’s a big fan.

Of course, this would be the time I started getting heavily into music, but it was also at a time when cassette tapes — both commercially produced and consumer grade — were still a big thing. CD recorders for the home computer were still a few years away, and most every car still came standard with a tape deck, so record stores had about equal amounts cassettes and CDs (vinyl hadn’t entered its renaissance yet, and back then was a very niche item outside of used/specialty retailers).

Hence, the bulk of my music exposure in high school came either from mix-tapes friends had made for me, or albums on cassette I’d purchased at record stores. This worked out pretty well, as I spent a lot of time in my car with its cassette deck, or locked up in my room with said boombox. The component system eventually moved into my bedroom, and when I moved out at 18, I took it with me. Eventually, though, it either a) died, or b) I left it somewhere, but either way, it didn’t last long into my adulthood.

The first device I owned that could play CDs was the native CD-ROM drive inside my first Mac, a Performa 6360 that I bought (and put myself into debt over) in early 1997. Yes, kids, I did not own a CD-playing device until almost the year 2000. At that point, I started acquiring discs, an effort jump-started somewhat by enrolling in one of those Columbia House mail-order deals (no, really). But I never got really into purchasing CDs (admittedly, neither did I with tapes, as all I ever have owned fit into a small (1-foot-tall?), three-drawer storage unit), so my would-be collection grew very slowly. I’ve always been more interested in making music than “collecting” it.

The CD tower you see pictured above, purchased in the early 2000s, is the only one I’ve ever owned, and it’s never been much fuller than what you see there. I own more than what’s shown — at any given time, a fifth of my discs are in my car (because, of course, I also don’t own a real iPod or have a way to connect such a thing to my stock car audio system) — and a lot of what I’ve acquired over the last few years has been comped discs given or sent to me by publicists and record company reps. Most new music I buy is digital, because even though I prefer to have a physical item to accompany the purchase, I am also a cheap mofo and $5 (or less!) MP3 albums from Amazon are awesome.

All that said, there’s a lot of history in that gleaming tower of music that, for the most part, collects dust in a spare bedroom save for the occasional seeking of soundtracks for road trips. So let this serve as an introduction to a series of blog posts I’m going to do over the next year or so looking at the stories behind each CD on the brushed-steel shelves. Some of these posts will be abysmally short; others will be painfully long. But what they definitely won’t be are “reviews.” I’m not analyzing the music on the discs. I’m more interested in seeing what stories unfold from noting where, when and how each CD was acquired.

I hope you tune in for the tour, and maybe we’ll both learn a little something about each other on the way. Or kill a few minutes here and there. Whatever.

I’ve been meaning to share this story for a while, but didn’t really have an impetus until I recently posted some related Homemade Comics on the subject. So a lot of this is culled from a few posts over there, but I know nobody reads words on Tumblr, so it should be fresh to most of you.

When I was about 13 (maybe going into 14 a bit), I worked as a stock boy at the 7-Eleven around the corner from my family’s apartment in Bensalem, Penn. My job was relatively straightforward: stock and straighten shelves, refill soda and Slurpee machines, restock the refrigerator, and sweep and mop when necessary. I think I also occasionally changed out the pretzels and hot dogs, experience that would serve me well in high school while running the concession stand at a movie theater. Working there in the summer was awesome, as hanging out in the cooler during hot, muggy days definitely beat being outside. In the winter, though, it could be brutal just to do things like taking out the trash. But for the most part, I loved it. It was easy, it earned me play money (which I presumably spent on comics and trips to the mall; I sure as hell didn’t save it), but the best part of the experience had nothing to do with the job itself.

See, the 7-Eleven gig afforded me first dibs on things like comics and magazines. I’d literally be the person to help unpack the new periodicals when they came in, so I kinda treated the Sev (as I like to call it) as my own personal comic book store. In addition, this was about the time the 1989 Batman movie came out, so there were a lot of inexpensive Batman toys coming in there (Do convenience stores in other states still carry toys? Because here in Nevada, they sure don’t.) — you know, cheap stuff like plastic detective tools, stickers, etc.

When there were things I wanted, I’d put them in a paper bag and hold them under the cashier counter until payday, at which point, one of the managers would ring me up for my stash, mark it “paid,” and at the end of my shift, I’d take the stuff home. It was like having a pull box at a comic shop. All good, right? Well, yeah, until I finally quit the job there (not sure why, I guess it just ran its course), and on what was probably my last day, I walked out with a bag full of stuff marked “paid,” as I often did, except … I didn’t pay for it.

I don’t know why I did that. I gamed the system. I took the trust of these nice people who employed me (and they were great to work for), and kinda threw it in their face (although they had no idea, until now maybe?). OK, to be fair, this was penny-ante stuff, maybe $30 worth of comics and toys. But it was super lame of me to do, and though I’m not proud of it, I can at least admit it now while chalking it up to stupid things we do as kids.

Anyway, to this day, when I smell burnt coffee left sitting in a pot on a burner, it instantly takes me back to the Sev, and those innocent times when my biggest decision was whether to have a free hot dog or free pretzel for lunch, and my worst sin was stealing plastic Batman handcuffs and a Quasar comic. Good times.

As Sagebrush High School gears up for the big fundraising gala celebrating the opening of the James Douglas Center for Conflict Resolution, fears that sabotage may be lurking rear their ugly heads.

Remember, you can subscribe to the Utopian: Foundation and have every new episode delivered directly to your news reader or inbox. All the cool kids are doing it.

Want to help homeless animals but you’re either not a pet person or don’t have any room left in your house? Well, then, get down to Blackbird Studios (1551 S. Commerce St., Las Vegas) tomorrow (Saturday, May 19) at 6 p.m. for the “Further our Furry Friends” art show and benefit. For your entertainment, there’ll be live music, live painting, prizes, likely things you can put in your mouth, and more. Most importantly, though, there will be affordable, original, animal-themed art you can purchase, and all proceeds will be donated to the Animal Foundation shelter and Foreclosed Upon Pets, Inc.

Unfortunately, I won’t be in attendance, because some friends are tying the knot tomorrow, and I’m going to drink and eat on their dime to celebrate. But I did donate a piece of brand-new, original art to the show, “Superpets,” seen above. It’s an 11×14-inch piece in pen-and-marker on Bristol board, framed for your pleasure. I have no idea how much it will be listed for sale, but if you like it, you should get over there and trade in Greenbacks for it. Or for any of the other dozens of pieces donated to the show.

I’m not entirely sure why, but lately I’ve been really busy with illustration work, mostly commissions for various publications. I’m not complaining at all; it’s just odd how these things tend to come (and, sadly, go) in clusters. I’ve been doing some fun stuff, and hopefully you’ll be able to see most of it soon.

The above piece, a digital painting deviating from my usual line-art-based style, was done for a new digital magazine that’s about to open minds and break hearts, NSFW Corp. The brainchild of writer/recent Vegas transplant (by way of one of those countries where they speak something called “English” but it sounds funny) Paul Carr, NSFW Corp — currently only launched in “private beta,” though you can get on the waiting list for a paid subscription (seriously), is a strange beast. I don’t think I can put it better than Paul does:

A news-weekly that’s published daily. A magazine without bylines, but with an accompanying radio show in which its writers discuss their work. An electronic publication where “comments” are permanently closed, but where letters from readers are always welcome.

That said, there are some terrific talents involved with making this thing happen on the back end, including Josh Ellis and Roger Erik Tinch, and bringing the first issue to life on the front end, such as Hernan Valencia and, um, ME, so … yeah. It’s optimized for your sexiPad, but also works wonderfully on an old-fashioned web browser (well, not “old,” just “fashioned”). It’s a bold experiment, but then again, so was The Daily, and that’s doing all right for itself, yeah?

Plus, it’s a Vegas-based start-up. So, inherently, it’s at least held together by liquor, cigarettes and desperation. Check it out.

I was going to title this post “Where I’ll Be,” etc., but the truth is, while it would be great to see you all at the Arts Factory this Saturday, May 5, from 5 to 10 p.m. for HellPop!‘s Free Comic Book Day celebration, I’d be happy if you just went to any local comic book store that day.

And you’ll probably be happy, too, because — as the name suggests — the first Saturday in May, comic book retailers everywhere give away free comics. All you have to do is walk in. Yep. Free Comic Book Day has been going on for a decade now, as a way to encourage new readers, provide added exposure for stores, and just plain celebrate the awesomeness of comic books. Publishers of all types produce special editions to offer for free, and most participating retailers host sales, parties and special events.

Here in Las Vegas, we’re lucky to have some amazing comic book shops, and they’re going full-bore this year. Cosmic Comics is, among other things, giving away a copy of the original Avengers #1 from 1963. Alternate Reality Comics will have local artists such as Warren Wucinich, Brice Gilgens and Sam Gorrie, the Sausagefest food truck, and costumed helpers. MaximuM Comics will also have costumed guests, free tacos (it IS Cinco de Mayo, after all) and other refreshments. Friend and occasional collaborator F. Andrew Taylor writes more about local FCBD action in the View Newspaper.

Anyway, let’s get back to where I’ll be. HellPop! will be throwing down all day, starting at noon, offering free comics and collecting food donations for Food Not Bombs Las Vegas. But HellPop! is going to pick up where some other shops leave off, getting going at 5 p.m. with a line-up of punk and underground bands on the Arts Factory’s back stage (including The Mapes, Pigasus, Fred Ward, My First Rodeo, and more), artists Heather Mulvey and Joseph Garrison, and labels GeyKido Comet Records, Think Speak Publishing, and of course, Pop! Goes the Icon. I’ll be manning the PGTI table with (I believe) Warren Wucinich (doing double-duty that day!) and Deryl Skelton. We’ll be doing sketches, signing comics, and, um, other stuff. Probably enjoying libations from Bar+Bistro. Who knows.

So, yeah, even if you’re going to another store with your kids or whatever earlier in the day, come by the Arts Factory later that evening to say hi, have a drink, watch some bands, and hang out. It won’t be the same without you.

(Photo of me at MaximuM Comics for last year’s FCBD nabbed from Cara Vescio on Facebook. Hope it’s OK, Carla!)

When I posted the last page of The Utopian in October 2010 (technically, I probably posted it a month earlier), a weight was lifted off my shoulders. I’d been producing that webcomic entire — writing, art, coloring, lettering, etc. — at a pace of one-to-two pages a week for a year-and-a-half. While I never missed a scheduled posting, there were definitely some close calls and late nights, and when it was over, it was nice to go back to single-project-based work. I put out the trade paperback and effectively closed the door on that chapter of my creative life.

Or so I thought. But then a weird thing happened:  readers started asking about a sequel. They naturally assumed there was more coming. It’s not that I hadn’t considered it (the ending was deliberately left open to interpretation ), but I had no concrete ideas about what to do next with that particular world I’d created.

Plus, even though I was done with the story, I had put a lot of effort into protecting and securing the “Utopian” name, something that only happened toward the end of the series. Sure, my hand was forced by external parties to do so, but why bother if I hadn’t intended to do more with The Utopian? And, so, on April 15 — the third anniversary of the original strip’s launch — a new Utopian comic debuted online, subtitled “Foundation.”

I don’t want to give away anything to anyone who hasn’t read the first volume of The Utopian (and if you haven’t, here, buy it for 25 percent off), but basically, the title protagonist’s story was completely finished, leaving me only supporting cast to work with. I knew what I wanted to do with some of them, but where I came up with the idea for a lead character in a wheelchair? I don’t know. I can’t pinpoint when I first started brewing ideas for this sequel of sorts, actually, I just know that once I laid down the initial foundation (get it?), it sort-of built itself from there.

So what we have is a twice-weekly webcomic serial that’s vastly different from its predecessor, yet taking place within the same “universe” with many of the same characters. Instead of being told from the singular perspective of a lone protagonist, it’s being told “soap opera” style, bouncing between the interconnected lives of various players. Even the presentation is different — a landscape format more comfortable for web reading, whereas the previous volume was laid out in standard, portrait comic book format.

I have no particular goal in mind other than to let these characters tell me where their stories should go next. That’s the biggest difference — this comic is all about the characters. Plot is secondary. That doesn’t mean there’s not a definitive, linear story — there most certainly is. But like The Wire*, how all the pieces fit won’t be obvious at first. You have to watch all the threads slowly being woven together into a tapestry. Or something like that.

So, check it out. Subscribe, if that’s your thing. I’m slowly building, but the pace will pick up. The stuff I have written for down the road is snappier, tighter, as I find a rhythm to this new (for me) style of storytelling. And if it sucks, I want you to let me know. Of course, if you like it, I’d love to hear that too. Either way, I appreciate you giving The Utopian: Foundation a look.

*Yes, from here on out, everything I write will be influenced by/compared to The Wire. Deal with it.

Yes, this is a photo of a cat chilling out on a couch. Inside my house. Inside a space in which I live. Yes, dear reader, somehow, I have become a cat owner. Kind of. Purely by accident.

As most people who would call me “friend” or who simply stalk me on Twitter should know, Casa Awesome already houses two Pekingese dogs, who at first came as part of the Sara package, but have become my surrogate fluffy, stinky children. Rosie and Sophia don’t ask for much — just all the attention in the world ever, whatever food you’re eating, and as little sleep for their masters as parents of a newborn baby might enjoy. They aren’t particularly social with other animals, their usual reaction to other dogs ranging from dismissal to disdain. Basically, they’re a couple of snobby, spoiled princesses. But we love them and do little to discourage this behavior.

Now, as only a few of you know, I’m generally allergic to cats. For me to even tolerate being inside a house with feline residents, I typically have to down a strong antihistamine. As a kid, I had cats around, and was fine with them, but sometime during my late teens, that changed. I get instantaneously sneezy, my eyes water, my nose runs, etc. This, along with the fact that cats are usually known as selfish jerks who will ruin your house and lives for their own pleasure, had led me to believe they are evil creatures made of allergenic spores. Or something like that.

Well, a few weeks ago, this orange-and-white stray appeared in our backyard, on top of our tall, cinder-block walls. We knew this because Rosie and Sophia — who normally bark at invisible things in the night — were now barking at a visible thing. The cat wouldn’t come down off the wall, and wouldn’t go to any apparent home, but it kept meowing, so I figured it was hungry and gave it some food. On the wall. But it staying of the wall continued to cause the dogs to go nuts, so I braced myself for some claw action and reached up to bring it down — but the cat seemed pretty OK with me handling it.

We basically set up a camp outside our kitchen for the cat, with a pet carrier, blankets, water and food. I took photos of it, contacted local vets and shelters, put fliers up around the neighborhood, etc., hoping to find its owner. This cat was VERY friendly with both people and dogs, was obviously domesticated and not feral, and really wanted to come inside the house, so I figured someone was missing it. One old woman did respond to the fliers, but she ended up being very confused about the physical details of her lost cat, and our stray did not like her very much.

The next step was to take the cat to our vet to have it thoroughly checked out, scanned for an ID chip, and brought up to speed on any shots before we tried to give it away to a good, cat-friendly home. By this point, however, the cat was already starting to grow on us. The weather got really bad (rainy/windy) one night, and I felt really bad, so we let it inside the house, because even its mobile pet shelter wasn’t protected enough. At the vet, we spent $150 on the exam and shots, found no chip, and got that much closer to tossing out the idea of finding it a new home, especially because it had become quite attached to me by then (it would only let me put it in the carrier or handle it).

I don’t remember there being a definite decision to keep the cat, but somehow it just happened. It went from living outside most of the time to living inside most of the time. It went from not being allowed into the bedroom side of the house at all to being allowed, supervised, in any room except our master bedroom. We dropped another $100 on supplies for it. Even the dogs no longer avoid it at all costs — instead, they either just ignore it or mildly tolerate it. And my allergies? They don’t appear to be any worse than normal (and normally I have mild hay fever, so it’s hard to tell). Maybe it’s the cat’s dander isn’t so bad. Maybe it’s that we don’t let it in our bedroom. Maybe it’s that I still wash my hands after handling it. But whatever it is, my sinuses aren’t freaking out (yet).

So, yeah, we have a cat now. Her name is Cat. Because I think naming animals is kind of stupid. I mean, sure, for dogs, it helps to get their attention, but for cats? They won’t listen to you. Anyway, she’s still sad that she’s not allowed in the bedroom (deal with it), the dogs keep trying to/succeeding in eating her food, Sophia still ignores her, Rosie sometimes tries to fight her for food, and we’re trying to break Cat of her rug-scratching habit. But otherwise, all is well in our now three-pet household. I just wonder how things will go when Sara’s parents show up with their dog tomorrow …

I originally had a few blog posts planned for this week, full of the usual self-promotional and/or irreverent bullshit I usually sling at you. Then I found out yesterday — as most of us did, through Facebook (this itself a topic to be later addressed) — that Tommy Marth had died early Monday morning, likely by his own hand. At that point, feeling like all the air had been forced out of my gut, I kind of just went offline, aside from dealing with answering other mutual friends’ questions about what happened.

Tommy and I weren’t much more than acquaintances. We’d spent plenty of time in the same rooms, we knew hundreds of the same people (EVERYONE knows Tommy), we’d probably shared a drink or two together; he may have even done sound for my band. Thanks a lot, awesome memory of mine, for not remembering more. But, the thing is, this is the second time a relative peer (Tommy was 33) died this year, but unlike when the dearly missed Doug Frye left this realm just after New Year’s, there was no prepping for this. Doug — like Tommy, a long-time mainstay of the Vegas music scene, both on and behind the stage — had cancer, and even though it accelerated faster than anyone expected, we were all sort-of prepared, you know? But Tommy killing himself? Based on the conversations I’ve had with other acquaintances, it came as a complete and total surprise.

See, Tommy drank in life with a voracity rarely seen. He packed more into 33 years than most people do in twice that time, if ever. I’m not going to repeat his resume here — Mike Prevatt’s solid eulogy on the CityLife website does that more than adequately. But even though he was a few years younger than me, Tommy set an example of how to live one’s life to its fullest, and I admired — and somewhat envied — that. He was well-read, well-traveled, and man, he rocked going prematurely bald like no one else. To think that someone with so much not just behind him but ahead of him would say “fuck it” to it all, well … it’s hard to conceive, and it’s why my initial reaction was “fuck you, Tommy.”

And that’s basically the sentiment echoed by someone who can far better explain why Tommy’s death is such a loss to so many people in general, and to Las Vegas in specific: Joshua Ellis. In a blog post entitled “Dick move,” Josh tells some great stories, gives some personal insight, and does a much better job than I ever could in doing him one proper while telling it like it is. Go read it. Even if you have no idea who Tommy Marth was, go read it.

In the meantime, I do what I can do, and that’s draw a picture. It’s not enough. It won’t bring him back. But it’s all I have.

As I said on Facebook: Tommy, I wish you were alive right now so I could fucking hit you.