Nate Beaty's Journal

Turds for Sale -- Cheap!

Tue, 24 Nov 2009 11:25:57 PST

One of my first clients as a freelance webdesigner recently relaunched their site. This is the homepage from my design, a hand-coded site complete with custom cart and checkout, which survived for almost six years:

It was replaced with this abomination:

How you present yourself, either in print brochures, advertisements, storefront, or website, is incredibly important to customers. This just seemed to me a perfect example of why it’s important to find, hire, and keep a good designer.

My original design isn’t perfect whatsoever, it’s one of my first after all. Yet I put a lot of care into the ease of use and overall look continuing through the homepage, product detail, cart and checkout pages (as I have with all my sites). As a customer, you get one seamless experience, and you are confident through the whole process in the quality of whom you’ve chose to do business with, quite likely to return.

On the web, you don’t have the advantage of being the only shop in town, or it being more of a pain to walk or drive the distance to the next shop: people have millions of options at their fingertips. It’s a much more competitive market. You also have to consider search engine placement, which is greatly aided by someone coding clean, semantic code.

This is a short addendum to my previous ranting in How I Learned To Miss The Wheelbarrow, lamenting “webdesign” not being recognized as a legitimate contractor craft. I’ve been thinking a lot recently how many people look at websites as a singular thing to purchase, like investing in a bbq at Walmart, something you’ll have for a few years and maybe have to replace or repaint when it starts to look tired. They expect to spend a few hundred dollars for a department store-like purchase, and when they see a bid with 15 hours of work for $1200, it sounds preposterous.

Yet this is the type of work you’ll get. Half-broken in many ways on different browsers, cluttered and confusing navigation, poor placement in Google, disjointed and inconsistent aesthetics, a 99% bounce rate with no return visits. In short: you get the turd you pay for.

Eatin' Lazy: In the Spell of the Dripping Ham Jibarito

Mon, 9 Nov 2009 21:02:07 PST

I’ve gone to the dark side. It’s hopeless. After being somewhat of a health nut, at least food-wise, for some 15 years, I’ve switched over. Yesterday I fought back a nasty hangover with about five pounds of greasy Chinese — not much is open on a Sunday in Chicago.

My tough decision for the day was between Tastee Freez and China Fast Wok.

I of course went with China Fast Wok, which I haven’t been to in about 10 months. I had a brief affair with their $5 Szechuan Chicken Lunch Special last year, yet every time I succumbed to this savory, sodium-drizzled MSG delicacy, I was even hungrier about 10 minutes after wolfing it down. Something funny with their food. They do, however, actually have decent fortune cookies, which goes a long way.

Today I had a sad little egg sandwich for breakfast, then at 4:30pm stumbled like a Warner Bros mouse after cheese: led only by my hunger, a drifting zombie down dingy back alleys towards Shephard’s Sandwich, fries, and a coke. Hunger reset. Back to coding.

I’d have to say that living in Los Angeles was the start of these trends, both eating more crap than normal, and eating out. More expendable money and less time is a prime recipe for these habits. Plus, L.A. has some of the best food in the States as far as I’m concerned. Koreatown alone puts it in that category, for Korean BBQ is the holy grail of guiltastical food splurges: expensive, delicious, and the equivalent of three meat-heavy meals.

The problem really peaked and solidified on my 4-day drive cross-country. I arrived with eyeballs bulging, breathing heavily, doing my best Stimpy impression, with the cab of the Penske thickly littered with Coca-Cola, Midnight Milky Ways, Jolt gum, take-out boxes, chocolate wrappers, and black iced teas. I hadn’t enjoyed pop since I was suffering through highschool. All of sudden I saw that little red can in an old familiar light. Like a delicious, battery-acid elixir, making me one with The City. Slurp, slurp, fizz.

Also, with the aid of Chicago’s vicious winter wonderland, I have finely tuned an unfortunate habit of avoiding eating for as long as possible until I’m doing the zombie-walk to greasy grub. At that point everything sounds good.

Not to say I don’t cook a lot in Chicago. I’ve gotten a lot better. I actually had a nightmare a few nights ago about moving into a new apartment and it having a much shittier kitchen. I was crushed. It really helps to have a deluxe kitchen with lots of light, good gas stove, decent water pressure and lots of counter space. The latter being new to me, a neighbor moving out left his exactly-what-I-needed kitchen island.

What are you, dear reader? A dripping ham jibarito or a raw hummus cucumber spelt sandwich?

Carl and Eva, Guest Appearance by Beluga

Thu, 5 Nov 2009 21:24:55 PST

Wherein Nate holds his nose and blogs about pets.

We always had cats growing up, often too many of them. Living in the country tends to produce litters. I don’t remember there being as much of a moral imperative thrust upon all citizens that spaying or neutering pets was absolutely, unquestionably necessary. Besides, you often get feral cats hanging around when you’re in the woods, and one thing leads to another with any mammal.

I considered getting a dog here in Chicago. But I just can’t see cooping up a dog in my tiny apartment, especially when the snow kicks in. I’d love to have a dog, but I keep thinking it’s best to wait until I have property, or at the very least a yard.

My last two cats, Nadia and Oin, were country cats. We got them in the hopes that they’d cure the scuttling in the walls keeping us up every night. Nadia was much more useful than Oin in this regard, unless Oin produced poison drool and/or emitted rodent-confusing waves from the power of his mind because otherwise, he was a terrible mouser. Every once in a while he’d stumble over something alive and his claws would mistakenly attach and perhaps he’d crush or suffocate the critter by tripping and bringing down his massively furry body upon them. Nadia had obviously spent some time in the wild and was a deft hunter.

But Nadia was also completely disinterested in cohabitating with Captain Poof. When I moved to Portland, she disappeared multiple times until I finally couldn’t track her down. The drooler, however, was there to stay. He stuck it out for another 7 years before disappearing into the Los Angeles ether.

After traveling quite a bit this summer, I decided I could bear to be shackled down with a few kittens. I set out for the shelter, determined to track down my gray-furred soulmate. I came home with two!

After two weeks, Eva let me pet her for the first time tonight. She did hiss at me, yet stayed put, laying on my bed next to Carl for an afternoon nap. After about 10 seconds, she decided I was once again the Great Hulking Evil Thing and scurried under the bed. I have hope she’ll warm up eventually.

Carl is a total charmer. He’s got the odd habit of running in and chomping food every time I take a piss. He really enjoys waking me up in the middle of the night by biting my nose — hard. He enjoys jumping in front of the computer and staring at what I’m doing for long periods about 1mm away from the screen. As soon as I can get him to type something more complex than 0000000000000000000000000000[[[[[[[[[[]]]]]]]]] I’ll have him coding for Clixel.

I never like people blathering about their pets, so let’s just say this post is for my mother. But for those who know Beluga, here’s a video of Aaron getting him actually damn close to saying “I Love You” (at Laura Park’s pad) — DOG GENIUS!

Oaktown and APE 2009

Wed, 4 Nov 2009 08:56:41 PST

When I first tried screenprinting some ten years ago, everything went smoothly. We bought a large roll of crappy screen and haphazardly stretched it across barely-square frames held together with cheap staples. In Scott’s parents’ garage, we smeared the emulsion with cardboard and retreated to the basement for a pot-addled session of Doom while it dried.

A few hours later, we set the transparencies on the screen, hung a shoplight socket from the ceiling at an arbitrary height for an arbitrary amount of time above the screen, and went back to gaming. We took the screen into the bathroom to rinse off the unexposed emulsion: success! We made all sorts of t-shirt designs, and I sold them as a value pack for $15 with two hits of acid and an issue of White Space, my art/poetry zine at the time. Those were the days!

Years later we tried our luck with amateur screenprinting again, only to butt our heads against all manner of fail. We tried a 150W bulb at various intervals: emulsion would either completely rinse out or burn permanently into the screen. We tried sunshine for exposure and it did work, but the emulsion had dried with large globs that didn’t rinse out. Eventually we gave up and realized that our friend working at a bona fide screenprinting shop was a much better idea.

This time around I figured I should do everything by the letter. Of course I managed to put off the whole process until a few days before APE, so there was no allowance for error. My first attempt was a disaster: I was using a 150W outdoor flood bulb from Walgreens, elevated 12” from the screen using my drawing table lamp with a disposable aluminum cake tin for reflection. The transparency ink baked onto the screen and the black plastic portfolio I had used for a backdrop melted and warped until the screen was pushed up and tilted to the side. The flood bulb was extremely hot, and apparently heat can set the emulsion as well as light. Not to mention: heat melts plastic. Panicked, I immediately ran to the bathroom and scrubbed with screen clearer. It barely came out, and only after 20 minutes of elbow grease and chemicals.

Luckily things eventually worked out, and I soon had 40 Piecemeal covers and 30 t-shirts draped on every horizontal surface I could find in my apartment. Elated, I immediately jumped on my bike and went to the copy shop to produce the meaty innards for my freshly printed covers.

Early the next morning I hauled my goods in a rolling suitcase a mile through Logan Square to the California El, then along the 40-minute train trek to O’Hare. I landed in San Francisco and shot north on BART. My cousin Johnelle met me in Oakland and showed me around her shop, Mignonne Decór. Later we hung out with Petra and Izzy and made a delicious dinner and slurped whiskey and wine. The girls decided they wanted to dress up and show me around Oakland, which in retrospect was a very odd decision, considering all the cat-calling and general harassment that ensued for the rest of the night. At some point I became drunk enough to booty dance with myself.

APE was great as ever: a sweaty, nervous, sometimes-drunken mass of socially awkward cartoonists peddling their life work on folding tables. Alec Longstreth and Greg Means graciously let me share their table. Alec brought along the third Basewood chapter to the delight of many fans. He also introduced me to his new flame, Claire, who he managed to remain intertwined with for a good portion of the rest of the show (see header illustration).

After the show I somehow separated from the general flow of cartoonists seeking food and drink. I ended up walking a few miles (where I became convinced that San Francisco is truly a concentrated epicenter of human freaks), eating a ghetto deli sandwich, then jumping on a Muni bus towards Jeremy and Grant’s Giant Robot show. The bus lurched at an almost vertical angle, slowly making its way through tiny San Francisco streets tossing its occupants about. An attractive woman boarded and soon after a man jumped inside and let loose with an obviously innebriated outburst: “SHE’S EMBARRASSED OF WHO SHE IS!!” He jumped off and the bus continued its lazy lurch forward.

I was quite late to the Chip Beef, Chipped Tooth show and it had pretty much cleared out. We took the Muni to the Isotope awards which were incredibly packed. The whole room seemed to just be a line snaking away from the bar where Brett Warnock was serving up what I hear were tasty margaritas.

The rest of the night quickly became blurred as the contents of the Maker’s Mark in my backback diminished. We stumbled across a Michael Jackson themed party, with a spirited-if-clumsy impersonator dancing on the sidewalk to a boombox. We had a near-spiritual experience gobbling down street tacos. We crammed into a tiny bar where Eraserhead was being projected on the wall. (Nothing like consuming beverages against a giant image of David Lynch’s mysterious “baby” coughing up life juices.) We then retired to Karl’s pad and crashed.

I was a hungover zombie for the next day of APE, hiding in a chair while nursing my water bottle, cursing my thirst for whiskey. That night a huge gang of us took over Lanesplitter’s pizza. Everybody drew an entire spread of cartoon dicks in my sketchbook. Damien and Melanie drove Grant and me to their deluxe Oakland pad where we cavorted with their many pets. After hanging out with their cats, I made the decision to get kittens when I got back to Chicago.

Some Comics I Enjoyed

Rina Ayuyang has collected the best of her minicomic Namby Pamby and many new stories in Whirlwind Wonderland. My favorite parts are her large Filipino family get-togethers, how she illustrates her mind wandering while waiting in traffic, and the struggles with coming to grips with being pregnant and what the future will hold. Rina does a great job changing the style up to best illustrate each mood and story.

Damien is so adept at presenting a believable world in comic form. His deceptively loose lines and shading in The Natural World #2 look like they’ve fallen onto the page exactly where they need to be. He also has some of the most beautiful lettering I’ve ever seen. Damien was awarded an Ignatz at SPX for his Natural World offshoot story in Papercutter #10.

Thirteen thousand carefully drafted snowflakes and another six inches of Longstreth beard and we have the latest chapter in Alec’s Basewood adventure: Phase 7 #007. Many surprise twists and some great little details to be found in this immaculately crafted comic. Alec has an intoxicating enthusiasm that shines through in all his comics. You can follow the progress of his hair growth during the creation of the final two chapters of Basewood on his Flickr.

Joey writes some of the most gut-bustingly hilarious comics. I was looking forward to picking up Just So You Know, which explores her coming out as transgender and deciding to live her life as a woman. I’ve known a few folks who’ve made this decision, and I love that Joey’s brave enough to write this and explain to people who, like myself, don’t wholly understand why or what’s involved. As often poignant as it is funny. For example, she struggles through a longwinded coming out to her parents and offhand mentions that she likely did drugs for years as a coping mechanism, all they can say is “Wait?! You did drugs?!!”

Melinda Boyce came and visited the Trubble Club last winter. There’s a wide range of stories in Scarface, some sad like her last conversation with her grandpa before dying, others are more upbeat like her first mushroom trip. Melinda’s got a real gift for capturing moments and has a wicked drawing hand. (Her other comic about meeting her boyfriend, “Okay? Okay!” was a bit sappy for my taste, but still very good.)

The bad: Jesse Reklaw has finished his year-long run of his daily diary strip, Ten Thousand Things to Do. The glad: you can now get all six amazing issues as a box set for $20 with free shipping. I’ve blathered my love of this strip before, so I’ll keep it short. Besides, Jesse puts it best himself: “candidly details the cartoonist’s lifestyle of inking, drinking, and anxious thinking.” So true! Do not miss out on this comic.

I hadn’t heard of Robert Sergel before picking up Eschew #1. Clinically exquisite linework and a very quiet tone throughout, managing to creep you out on one page and make you giggle on the next. Or just stare at the page wondering what. Many pages have an airline escape brochure feel to them, detailing a simple, odd moment. Robert also seems to enjoy drawing men puking.

Gorgeous production with gold foil stamping and some of the most versatile use of 2-color printed innards I’ve seen. Add to that superb story and illustration — what else can you ask for? John Pham really delivers with Sublife #2.

One of few comics that will make me giddy when a new issue comes out. I managed to get the last copy of Ganges #3 at APE, stuffed it into my suitcase, and hovered over it like a paranoid junky protecting my last fix. Huizenga is perpetually exploring the medium, every issue gets me excited about the untapped potential of comics. In Ganges own words: “OH MAN! MAMMOTH RIFFS.”

Honing my Cartoonist Impersonation at SPX 2009

Tue, 3 Nov 2009 13:26:11 PST

Part of my reason moving to Chicago was to really embrace my self-image as a Cartoonist, finally moving away from self-image as Coder. I mean, I grew up drawing, and I grew up playing on my ancient Commodore 64. Not much has changed. But right before I exited teenhood, I rebelled from my hacker nerd roots and sold all my gadgets and drove to an isolated island and lived in vans and cabins without amenities for a few years. At the end of a five year computer hiatus, I’d done a pretty bang-up job of scrambling what meager social graces I’d accumulated as an Oregon bumpkin, while missing the most obvious opportunity in history to make a fortune from being a hacker nerd. Bye bye dot com boom! Life truly is all about timing, and I’ve apparently been brought into this world with a cheap Timex knockoff calculator watch for my internal timekeeper.

Of course, the best way to fulfill your destiny as a cartoonist is to shut the fuck up, hide in a room, and put pen to paper. Step two is to meet up with your fellow afflicted, stuff yourselves in a giant convention hall, splay your wares on a table and stroke your beard while slurping the brownbagged whiskey, right? Hence, this year I decided to make the trek to the oft-touted SPX in Bethesda, Maryland.

I had finished the last few pages of my new comic, Piecemeal, while in France. It wasn’t easy finding the time to hole up and draw while traveling in Europe, but I somehow managed to get in just enough to complete the issue. I also managed to get terribly ill in Paris and spent an entire day in bed. The next day I barely recovered and crawled to the Eiffel Tower, determined not to waste my last day in France, propelled by copious painkillers and wine. The day after that I had to get up at 7am and haul my luggage through the metro to Charles de Gaulle airport, barely making my flight and pulling off an impressively ’80s-esque montage of running through the airport in socks while coughing and hacking and freaking out about my name being bellowing out over the intercom for LAST CALL TO CHICAGO! Nine hours later, I’m on the El, then a mile walk home with my luggage. By the time I got home I was spent.

I then had basically ONE DAY to scan my comic, finish the last few details, print, assemble, pack, and then BACK TO THE AIRPORT! And I’m still sick! And my ears decided to plug up from the cabin pressure changes so I can barely hear a thing! ON & ON!

Everything turned out pretty well despite the odds, and I was soon landing in Washington DC, figuring out yet another metro system. At this point I was feeling like a well-seasoned traveler. I shot off towards the Marriott in Bethesda with comics in tow.

Photo of Kazimir Strzepek and Nate Beaty by Tom Neely

Greg hadn’t shown up yet and I soon ran into my doppelganger Kaz Strzepek. Turns out he and Bodega fellas Randy and Pete were heading to Atomic Books for the Nerdlinger awards and readings by Gabby, MK Reed, Liz Baillee and Julia Wertz. We hopped in the car and were soon in bumper-to-bumper traffic towards Baltimore. It took over an hour to get there, and as we drove in I realized “Hey, isn’t this where The Wire was filmed?” Sighs, “Yes.” “Can we turn around?” Light laughter. Oh, Nate! You’re a crack up.

Atomic Books was very cool. Baltimore not so much. Of course I didn’t see much of it at all, but what I did see didn’t woo me. The depiction from The Wire didn’t help either. However, Atomic’s well-stocked, free bar made up for everything. The readings were great, which was kind of a shock. I’ve never really understood the concept of reading comics on a screen in front of a group of people. But keeping it short and sweet really worked well and everybody did a great job. My faith in comics readings was.. well, kindled.

The Nerdlingers were distributed to those who were present (very few), we drove back, and then dispersed to get a bit of shuteye before the convention. Greg and I had a great heart-to-heart as long as we could before heads crashed onto pillows.

Anyone who’s been to a convention knows there’s not much point in describing it. You walk around, you look at comics, you talk to folks. Well, I did that. I found a lot of great comics, I reconnected with many folks I hadn’t seen for ages, I took photos, I slurped the whiskey. I managed to stumble to the Ignatz award ceremonies and hooted and hollered for Lisa Hanawalt, Damien Jay and Jordan Crane’s well-deserved wins. Then we broke formation and scattered towards various parties.

SPX is unique in that it’s pretty isolated from any outside-the-convention activities, and most folks stay in the hotel right in the same building. This allows for an even more concentrated drunken celebration following a day of peddling wares.

Dustin Harbin did a damn good job of describing SPX and the various parties located in around the Marriott, including the many SHHHHHH! rooms. The stories were true: SPX really was the most fun convention for after-parties. I had a great time and accosted many folks with my giant camera.

At some point Grant Reynolds and Jeffrey Brown and I stumbled over to Arby’s for some cardboard sandwiches. Despite the terrible food we managed to enjoy ourselves.

The next day I was feeling pretty out of it, still recuperating from the Paris Grippe, as well as jetlag and still-compressed ears and general fatigue, not to mention a wicked hangover.

Some Comics I Enjoyed

Grant’s first book, Comic Diorama came out on Top Shelf for the con. My favorite part is the first story of an explorer’s journal, but the whole thing is beautifully drawn and as with all of Grant’s work imaginative and expertly drafted.

Gabby’s book Monsters finally debuted. By far one of my favorite graphic novels in a long time. Not only is it educational on our favorite friend herpes, it’s really a tour de force in perfect storytelling and comic timing. Highly recommend picking this up.

Another favorite was Lisa Hanawalt’s I Want You put out by Buenaventura Press. Lisa manages to draw the most disturbing things and make them sexy. She also draws the sexiest things and makes them disturbing. Bugs, tumors, well-dressed animal-headed humans and exquisite smashed cars. Add one more cartoonists to my “must break fingers” list.

So many great comics debuted at SPX, including Driven By Lemons by fellow Trubble Club member Josh Cotter. When I sat down to read this, I couldn’t put it down. By the time I was done, one word came to mind: “mindfuck.” Yes, that’s extreme, but I’ve never been affected by printed matter like this. It triggered strong memories of my many hallucinatory experiences, including my near-death experience in the hospital. Josh has captured so perfectly something I’ve always longed to write about but could never figure out how. It definitely connects on a conscious level with stunning drawings and fascinating abstract storytelling, but he’s also exploring dark struggles with sanity and losing grip with the ability to piece together reality. The production on the book is immaculate, basically an exact reproduction of a sketchbook he drew it in, spine, cover and all. (The book even has an iPhone preview.)

Corinne’s bizarre & dry humor oozes from Buzz #3. Who else would think to draw an anthropomorphic strip called “Little Ol’ Expiration Date Discovers the Fountain of Youth”? All sorts of thought-provoking subjects, like sloths concerned about teeth whitening, 36-hour clocks, and nostalgic twenty-something cavemen.

I left SPX with warm fuzzy feelings for my fellow cartoonists and a heap of inspiration, with only 2 weeks until the next con, APE!

Drinking the Frog Soup

Mon, 2 Nov 2009 23:46:23 PST

It’s been a little over a month since my three-week stay in France and I figured I should post a bit more from my experience, partly from my cousin Kim harassing me about not writing much during the trip, but also because I have a godawful memory and my future self will surely appreciate jotting a few things down.

My other excursions outside the U.S. were much more shocking. Surely one is more able to adapt to other cultures on each trip abroad, but I also wonder if the fact that our massively-accelerated human communication abilities are causing the world to increasingly homogenize. It saddens me to see this happening because it really feels like the U.S. is the potent, festering pool of bland future existence oozing out like a destructive, osmotic mold. But that’s just my cynical artnerd self repeating the same slightly retarded, simplistic leftwing socialistic yellow pinko drivel that’s been rattling around my can for years, right? Ever-honing my anti-American sentiment, how better to chisel that point with a trip to France! Right.

My trip to Spain when I was 16 left me quietly shellshocked that the States really wasn’t the epicenter of human existence, but more of a Christian bully brat who can’t think past his fist. My trip to Mexico when I was 19 first had me in awe of the enticingly simple living in a tiny pueblo, then fleeing in horror from the migratory gaggle of ‘murican mouthbreathing jocks taking over southern Baja. Then, South Korea when I was 30, which was a wonderful trip, but definitely contributed to me wondering about the shrinking world. Korea felt very comfortable, very modern, very cars and television and mobile phones and malls and orderly cities and new apartment complexes. I was expecting a bit more rustic of an experience. The food was definitely a drastic change, which I loved: salty, fishy, spicy, pungent, fermented, pork-tastic, raw eggs sizzling in cabbage soup in searing claypots and a dozen tiny dishes at every meal and rice rice rice. Yum!

Of course, Europe is no rustic trek to foreign back country, but my cousin has found a terribly idyllic and quiet village to call home. Brantôme was easily one of my favorite parts of France. Waking early every morning (well Kim would, my lazy ass would sleep in!), a short walk away from fresh, delicious baguette and croissants, passing by the slowly moving river reflecting the towering abbey along the hill. Narrow streets that wind and branch out to dead-end human-sized alleys, tall, medieval stone buildings with crumbling façades, ornate ironwork balconies and centuries-old decorative stone details, carefully tended gardens and well-utilized tiny spaces.

It was such an exquisite change from a typical walk down Main Street, USA, good lord. Sure we have some quaint towns, I grew up in between a tiny milltown, an indian reservation and what was once a quaint fishing village. We’d visit my grandparents in Snoqualmie and walk along the late 19th century traintracks to the enormous falls. About as old as you get on the west coast. But even now everything has spread out, the towns are barely alive, and people speed through town towards the ubiquitous malls and giant shopping centers a few miles out before jumping on the freeway. Nothing is made for humans, and nothing is made to last. It was a delight to experience a town built long ago, not geared towards cars and rapid expansion and continuous economic growth. A piece of history still standing, even thriving as a livable space.

Of course that’s not to say that France isn’t getting their share of big box stores just outside of town. Albeit charmingly diminutive in comparison to our Home Depots and Wal-Marts, they’re still popping up.

I loved all the tiny, efficient, diesel cars. I loved that so many folks still get their bread, their meat, and their vegetables from either tiny dedicated shops, or from the weekly farmer’s market. And how delicious the foods! Fresh! Flavor! Living in Chicago has been the first time in almost 15 years I’ve not been eating organic produce regularly. The shit that I bring home from the fruteria is certainly cheap, but I feel like I’ve become a living Monsanto experiment. “Let’s see how long this organism can survive on colored cardboard!” I could ride my bike the 3 miles to the extremely expensive (and immense) Whole Foods, or I can ride the few blocks to the Puerto Rican market. Since I’m an idiot artist who procrastinates on eating until I’m starving, I of course choose the latter, if not a greasy sandwich from the cafe up the street!

Kim stocked her kitchen with the most amazing meats and cheeses and we’d often just munch on those with pieces of the day’s baguette. Always a tasty red wine on hand or a Belgian ale, lazing about between her next-door boutique and the house, or yacking in the sunny backyard. It’s a charmed existence and I couldn’t help but keep reminding her. The only downside of course is there not being many folks around to visit with. Brantôme’s a damn small town.

I spent most of my first few weeks walking around, sitting by the river Dronne, doodling stone causeways, alleys and trees. Apparently a lot of folks come to the area to paint and I can see why. There are caves along the edge of village where the monks used to live behind the abbey, and many houses, garages and shops are built in varying integration along the stone. One night we went to the local pizzeria which was tucked away in a claustrophic cave, complete with a brick oven in the corner. It’s very difficult to describe and was unfortunately too dark to photograph. Let’s just say I felt like I’d stepped into a Harry Potter set.

A 45 minute drive south to Périgueux and we were standing at the foot of an enormous Roman pillar, randomly located in the midst of a medium-sized French town. Staring up at this 2nd century relic, I was floored. The thought that nothing like this exists where I grew up, where I’ve spent most of my life, and here it stood, a largely ignored anachronistic totem, a thing to drive around every day. Probably the closest experience was walking through the Alhambra as a teen, but that didn’t register nearly the same.

I pictured the process of building the structure, all the modern detritus around me nonexistent, dusty stone and dirt and vegetation, the shuffling of horses and people about their day — what was their day like, 1,800 years ago?

I snapped photos with my digital camera and we got back in the car and drove to get some pâté.

Un Petit Paris Blurb

Sketches from SPX 2009

Thu, 1 Oct 2009 18:21:45 PST

My France trip is more summed up by my photos and drawings than I could ever blather about with words. Translated: I’m too lazy to relay my experiences with another journal post with more details. I said I would, but just thinking about it bores me to death.

I also thoroughly flickr photo-documented my recent SPX attendance, the Bethesda, Maryland comic convention. I don’t have too much more to add except some sketches from the weekend, mostly from “The New Action” panel, with Shawn Cheng (the one person I couldn’t manage to draw, wtf?), Benjamin Marra (super easy to draw), Frank Santoro (who I made look like V) and Kazimir Strzepek (also kind of difficult to draw).

Kaz as an highschool woodshop teacher.

That drawing of Benjamin Marra is spot on.

Frank Santoro as V.

Closest I got to capturing Kaz.

And the closest I got to Shawn Cheng.

Attendee of the panel sporting a full jean outfit.

Un Petit Paris Blurb

Mon, 21 Sep 2009 20:06:42 PST

Turns out Paris isn’t the best opportunity for keeping up a journal. For better or worse, I came down with a terrible (and hopefully one-day) bug that I had to spend the entire day sleeping off. I had planned to visit comic book shops with Damien and Melanie but instead I laid in bed sweating and hallucinating, fearing le gripe A (h1n1).

Our first night barhopping.

Egyptian palette. I totally want one of these.

Pigalle Place sex district.

The primary image that kept repeating was our visit last night to Le Caveau Des Oubliettes (per Christine’s recommendation), a night spot housed in the Latin Quarter in a 12th century underground prison. When we arrived we ordered a few whiskies, which the girl proceeded to pour in two glasses, hold them up to compare volume, pour a bit from one to the other, then scoop her hand in the ice to drop into our drinks. It was hilarious until, when we sat down, we realized she was the busser filling in for a moment while the bartender disappeared aboveground — and that she spent the entire night rounding up glasses from tables, carting dozens of glasses by the rim. I’m the furthest thing from a germophobe, but the fact that I fell ill immediately upon returning home didn’t sit well with me. Honestly it could be any number of things, most likely the fact that I’ve been accompanying every night of pretty heavy drinking with a very French habit of rolling cigarettes. But the image of her scooping those ice cubes without washing her hands kept repeating over and over, along with Kim relaying how fanatical the French government has been about le grippe A.

Sun setting on a walk home.

Riding the metro with Lucille.

Crazy Saturday crowd. There was a roaming rave we ran into at one point which I took video of.

Paris is, as most people raved to me, indescribable. You can walk around anywhere and every corner seems to hold some giant, ancient, ornate, stunning building of some sort. We’ve tried to alternate museum days with visiting friends and barhopping or making dinner at either our small flat or at Johnelle’s friend Lucille’s apartment. I’ve tried to absorb and experience places instead of studying up on them in guidebooks. I tend to see different details and get a general feeling for a place in my own way, then compare by reading what’s usually a history that stretches back two millenia. This has been made possible by Johnelle and Izzy speaking French and being able to navigate Paris well.

Cathédrale Notre Dame de Paris.

Inside the cathedral.

Cathedral silhouette.

Tonight is the first time I’ve had some solo time in weeks, which is a shock after spending a year alone in a Chicago apartment. It’s definitely been a fun Paris experience, but I have to say the sudden silence is delicious.

Minty, Johnelle, Damien.

Me being a dork in front of the Eiffel tower at sunset.

Bouring Ultimatuzzzzzz

Fri, 11 Sep 2009 08:13:17 PST

In my continuing yearly movie review series, I’ve reduced the yawnsville Bourne Ultimatum to two sentences, accompanied by stills which capture the riveting camerawork:

“Something happened to me.”

“And I need to know what it was.”

This is Living!

Wed, 9 Sep 2009 21:32:21 PST

I’ve been doing my best to fit into the slow-moving little village of Brantôme the last week. Farmers markets, thrift store shopping, lazy drives in the countryside, sitting by the river drawing medieval steeples, many luxurious meals, and of course: boozing it up in a wonderfully serene backyard, soaking up the French sunshine.

Today we went to the Perigeuex farmers market, about 45 minutes south, to get a freshly butchered chicken and local vegetables for dinner. Here are some doodles from the day:

Nate Beaty's Journal

Turds for Sale -- Cheap!

Eatin' Lazy: In the Spell of the Dripping Ham Jibarito

My tough decision for the day was between Tastee Freez and China Fast Wok.

Carl and Eva, Guest Appearance by Beluga

Wherein Nate holds his nose and blogs about pets.

Oaktown and APE 2009

Some Comics I Enjoyed

Honing my Cartoonist Impersonation at SPX 2009

Some Comics I Enjoyed

Drinking the Frog Soup

Related:

Sketches from SPX 2009

Un Petit Paris Blurb

Bouring Ultimatuzzzzzz

This is Living!