Trial and Error

I generally try to avoid politics here, if only to honor the old adage, “if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.” It’s been a pretty sorry decade or so for American politics, and there’s honestly no relief in sight. Responding to every outrage and disgrace that hits the headlines is like complaining about every individual drop of rain that falls, and about as effective.

The last few weeks have seen a new low, however, as we endured an absolute train wreck of an impeachment trial that precisely no one believed would come out any differently than it did. Predictably, the president is claiming exoneration on all charges, even though acquital only came because his party controls the Senate. Even most of the senators from his own party won’t go so far as to say he was innocent, only that what he did wasn’t “bad enough,” because “abuse of power is not an impeachable offense.” (Translation: we value our jobs more than justice).

On the other side are the Dems, who managed to catch Trump dead to rights in a flagrant abuse of the powers of his office and still couldn’t gain much traction in the court of public opinion because they’d spent his entire presidency — starting indeed a few months before he even took office — calling for his impeachment by whatever means necessary. It might’ve been easier to adopt the role of the dedicated public servant, indignant at the shocking revelation of a president’s misdeeds, if they hadn’t been chanting “resist” since November of 2016.

So now in my lifetime I’ve seen two impeachments, two Senate trials and two acquitals. The upshot is that with two failures on the books, “impeachment” has gone from what it was intended to be on paper — a somber process to protect the nation from an unchecked despot, or crook — to what it now appears to be in practice: an exercise in political Kabuki the outcome of which depends, in the end, not on facts or ethics but on which party holds the most seats. If Democrats held the majority in the Senate, he’d have been “guilty,” but with the GOP in control he’s “not.” Everyone on “the jury” was also a complainant, or defendant. Impeachment, then, is devolved into a political cudgel, and going forward, any outcome — be it acquital or conviction — will never be seen as the impartial administration of justice, merely politics.

As a bonus, we’ve now tossed away one of the core tenets of the Constitution: that the Legislative, Executive and Judicial branches hold each other in check to avoid abuses by any one branch. This president, and all who follow, are pretty much free to do as they will, so long as their party holds a majority in the Senate.

As exhausting and unpleasant as it is watching the antics of the White House’s current occupant, what’s really depressing to me is what this era portends. Everything we’d come to historically regard as “presidential”: a sense of decorum and manners, a refusal to stoop to personal attacks against critics, at least the appearance of eschewing nepotism and cronyism, are all revealed as non-essential to the office. And now little things like using government funds and the power of office to further your own personal interests are fair game as well (as Alan Dershowitz would say, it’s okay as long as you’re convinced that whatever’s good for you is also good for the country). Having set the bar so low, why would we expect any future president to aim higher?

But whenever I get worked up about this stuff, I realize what I’m really mourning isn’t so much decency and propriety as it is the shattered illusion of shame. Deep down, I know that the vast majority of presidents were probably jerks and crooks who behind closed doors were as crude, petty, opportunistic and unpleasant as could be. What I’m mourning is the thin veneer of civility and class that was thrown over those clowns, the little acts of make-believe that made the office seem dignified and respectable. Maybe in a way I should be grateful to The Donald for shattering all those illusions so we could stop fooling ourselves.

Still, it’s hard to be too grateful, all things considered. Not so long ago, we thought presidents had to act presidential, and that impeachment was a powerful tool to save us from ruin. Now we know that “presidential” needn’t mean anything more than “what the current guy decides to do” and impeachment is a toothless tiger, intrinsically flawed in its basic concept and utterly without value to our system of government. Our old illusions may have been false, but they sure made it easier to sleep at night.

With a whole year of campaigning to look forward to, I’m probably going to crawl back into my hole and leave this the last political post for a while. If you can’t say anything nice…

Another Art Project Goes “Splat”

I got a set of nib pens for Christmas in hopes of finally figuring out how to do “proper” inking. Historically, I’ve used fine-tipped markers and tried to recreate the effects of nibs and brushstrokes through “fakery.”

Since the object was to concentrate on technique and self-instruction, I didn’t spend a lot of time coming up with an original pencil image to start from. Instead, I “swiped” an image of Jack Kirby’s Captain America and another of Sheldon Moldoff’s Batman. Trying to copy their styles was another sort-of test for me, though I’ve done something similar before with an image where Kirby’s Silver Surfer met Al Plastino’s Superman. I’ve always been struck by the huge gulf between Marvel comics art styles of the early to mid-60s (generally energetic and innovative) as compared to DC’s output from the same period (fairly bland and still stuck in the previous decade). I like the idea of these characters running into each other back when they were most different from each other. Sort of a “changing of the guard” thing.

Steve and Bruce throw down

Anyway the brush work went a lot more smoothly than I expected, but it took a lot of trial and error to figure out the nibs. I used Speedball’s “Cartooning Project Set” and leaned heavily on the “B6” nib for wider lines and the “100” nib for the finer stuff. I couldn’t work up the courage to try the wider ones.

About 3/4ths of the way through, I had a temporary bout of insanity and changed nibs over the board (!) which resulted in some splatter. I considered (a) using white-out to cover it or (b) tossing the whole thing in the wastebin, but then I decided it might be fun to add more splatter, on purpose. So I traced the figures to make an overlay mask, dipped a toothbrush in the ink and ran my finger over the bristles. I couldn’t figure out why the results were so uniform — lots of tiny dots of almost the exact same size, creating a “static” or “fog” effect — so I tried going over areas again to make some parts darker, but that didn’t help much. Eventually I realized what I needed was more variety in the size of the droplets, so I switched to smacking the toothbrush against a pencil. The end result is a lot “busier” than I wanted, but at least now I know better how to control splatter.

I finished it off with watercolors, which was fun as the ink was waterproof and didn’t run. With some practice, I think I could do some interesting projects with these methods.

Scott at 15 (!)

Yesterday was Scott’s birthday, incredibly placing him halfway through his teen years.

He picked out an acoustic guitar that looks and sounds terrific and better yet gives him one to play other than mine. Or so I thought: now he’s got mine to play downstairs and his upstairs. Altogether that makes an acoustic and two electrics (with two amps) in his arsenal, with my acoustic in reserve and somewhere around the house an old folk guitar (though an admittedly lame one). Plus Grandma gave him a mandolin and Granny and Grandaddy gave him a 17-key Kalimba Marimba (with an electric pickup so he can plug it into his amps!). Already in his collection were an electronic keyboard, a melodica and the Reuter family accordion on loan from a cousin. And our upright piano, where it all started.

In case you couldn’t tell, he’s kind of into music. Sometimes I confess I take it for granted that there’s always music in the house and I just tune it out, but I know the day will come when it’s quiet again and I’ll be wishing I still heard those snippets of Pink Floyd, Bowie, Metallica and Rage Against The Machine. If only I could talk him into playing more Beatles. I’ve made the mistake of expressing my distaste for certain tunes, like Wham’s “Last Christmas” (or pretty much Wham’s anything) and the Eagle’s “Hotel California,” which plays so often on Richmond radio that I feel like I’m stuck in a remake of “Groundhog Day.” So whenever Scott sees or hears me coming, he’s sure to stop whatever he’s playing to regale me with one of those songs I hate most. He thinks I don’t know he’s doing it on purpose.

Once in the car I mused aloud how it was interesting that certain chords made the human brain feel good and others were unsettling or jarring, and wondered why. Scott piped up and explained it had to do with frequency ratios and went into which ones worked best. I thought I was asking a rhetorical question. Another time we were raking leaves in the back yard and he stopped under a set of wind chimes. I figured he was just shirking, but then he said, “These are on the pentatonic scale, so whatever random order they strike in, it still sounds good. Otherwise it’d be awful half the time.” Musical mind on that one, for sure.

Scott’s a sweet kid who’s always eager to help out where he can, and it’s joy to have him around. In fact, we hit the jackpot three times in the “kid lottery,” and being a dad is still the coolest job I’ve ever had.

Happy birthday, Scott. Keep on rockin’ in the new year.

Superman, 2020

I’ve always been interested in the ways comic books imagined the future, especially when I was living in the “future” in question.  As a kid, I read a reprint of an old Captain Marvel (“Shazam” variety) tale that featured a time traveler from the distant era of 1977.  It was almost 1977 when I read it, and nobody I knew had a time machine.

In 1980, Superman #354 introduced a backup feature called “Superman 2020,” positing what the future might bring for the Superman family 50 years into the future.  This was one of several such features introduced in hopes of generating reader interest in a time when Superman comics were increasingly viewed as old-fashioned and dull by most of fandom.  Another “let’s try anything” back-up feature followed the adventures of a married Clark Kent and Lois Lane on Earth-2, while another examined what would have happened if the infant Superman had landed in Gotham City to become “Bruce Wayne,” not “Clark Kent.”  In the case of “Superman 2020,” we see what would happen if Superman aged in real time, had a son and then a grandson, who operated in the titular year.  In the end, the answer to all three “what-if” scenarios was that, ultimately, a Superman story is pretty much a Superman story regardless of the details.  All Superman stories boiled down to how to creatively use super-powers to combat the challenge of the month, be it earthly criminals, alien invaders, scientific threats or natural or man-made disasters.  At story’s end, the varying iterations of Superman might go home to a bachelor apartment, to the missus, to Wayne Manor, or to a futuristic floating city depending on which version’s in play, but aside from those variations, they’re all the same stories about the same guy doing the same things.

That said, it’s always interesting seeing what comics creators thought life would be like in 2020.  For starters, according to writer Cary Bates and artist Curt Swan, the entire East Coast of the United States would be one sprawling metropolitan entity:


I understand the implied commentary on “urban sprawl,” but it’s hard to imagine something like this working.  All those absorbed cities — and a lot of smaller ones in between — would have to agree to a shared government, which means a lot of mayors, councilmen, boards, planners, etc would have to give up their positions and/or influence.  And think of all the ball teams that would have to be retired! But anyway, it’s an interesting concept.

Even with cities this size, there’s still not enough room for everyone in 2020 given the population explosion, so the city of New Metropolis has been constructed, snow-globe style, in Earth orbit.


Again, lots of questions about how this could work physically as well as politically (how would a foreign government feel about an American city passing overhead from time to time?) but the interesting take-away is that someone in 1980 could think, even in a comic book story, that we’d progress this far scientifically in just 50 years.  We sure dropped the ball on that.  I mean, iPads and Bluetooth headsets are cool and all, but it’s remarkable how our former daydreams of massive-scale engineering achievements have been surrendered in favor of advances in personalized technology that fits in our pockets.  We don’t get a big bubble over a floating city, but we do get lots of metaphorical little bubbles around each of us, shutting us out from our real-world surroundings, and each other. 

Anyway, the hero of our story is Kalel Kent, or at least he goes by that name for about a page and a half.  For reasons that remain unclear, Kalel decides to kill off his “secret identity” so he can adopt a series of new ones.  Step one is to get himself declared legally dead by crashing his “Vexor” flying car (because it’s 2020) into the side of a cliff.


Here we see a time-honored trope of comic book logic: vehicle crashes and burns, someone says “No one could have survived that crash,” and that’s good enough for a death certificate.  Never mind that no body is found.

Also, it’s interesting that for all the starry-eyed prognostications of technological development, no one foresees the future’s higher standards for establishing, documenting and verifying proof of identity.  Kalel is confident he can just make up a new name and start a new career whenever he wants, with no birth certificate, proof of citizenship, diplomas, degrees, certifications, tax records, you name it.  And indeed that’s just what he does for the rest of the series.  In the comic book year of 2020, creating a new identity is as simple as it was in 1400.

You also have to wonder why a revolving door of secret IDs would be a good idea, and really there is no reason whatsoever within the logic of the story.  The reason is rooted in OUR world, where changing things up every couple of months frees writers — theoretically — from worrying about issues of continuity or “sameness”, and the cast of supporting characters, workplaces, etc can change the moment they start to feel stale.  Except, again, a Superman story is a Superman story, and it doesn’t matter much whether he slips away to go on a mission from his job as a reporter, a cab driver, a mailman or a schoolteacher, as this series will eventually bear out.

As you’ll note from the image above, the Superman of 2020 is missing the famous “S” logo on his chest.  That’s because it’s passed down in a formal ceremony from generation to generation, and today’s the day he’s due to get his “badge” from Pa and Grandpa Superman.


I love that “21st century slang” note from the editor.  Shouldn’t slang be more succinct, or at least catchier, than the verbiage it replaces?

Elsewhere, we see that 50 years of progress has not eliminated evil and small-mindedness from society, as we witness a gathering of “racial purity” zealots in a sort of “Make Earth Great Again” rally:


This group tricks the young Superman (referred to here as “Superman III”, because nobody knows yet how bad the movie will be) into following a hologram of his father and grandfather, whereupon he’s trapped in a metallic cube.  In time he will be able to smash his way out, but in so doing, he’ll trigger an explosion that destroys New Metropolis, accomplishing the twin goals of avoiding possible alien contact and besmirching the “Superman” family brand.

The xenophobic “Purists” group adopts a none-too-subtle variation on a Nazi swastika as their symbol, but interestingly their salute rather presciently suggests the controversial “OK” hand gesture that’s become associated with racist ideology in the real 2020.


Superman III figures out the plot, emits a supersonic whistle that alerts his dad and grandfather, and then proceeds to hammer away at his cube-shaped trap to generate a morse code message about the hidden bomb in New Metropolis.  His elders hear and decipher this message, find the bomb and remove it, so when Superman III escapes the cube, the city is not destroyed.  You know, the usual perfectly feasible comic book stuff.


With that settled, the ceremony proceeds as scheduled and Superman III takes his rightful place as a defender of the Earth.

The feature will return for a handful of additional installments, each finding Superman III in a new identity and solving new problems, but again aside from the futuristic cityscapes and fashions, there’s not much to differentiate this strip from “regular” Superman, so it never really picks up any momentum.  Almost immediately Bates and Swan are gone as the strip is handed off to (in my opinion) lesser lights like Bob Rozakis and Alex Saviuk.  Basically, it never feels like more than “filler.”

If anything, I’d rate it even lower than the “Married Superman” or “Bruce Wayne Superman” backup strips because here, there are three Supermen, more or less identical aside from grey hair and wrinkles.  It can’t help but diminish the stature of your hero to make him just one of three, and the least experienced and powerful of the three, at that.  Even when the elder Supermen aren’t featured in a tale, you always know they’re around somewhere to take up the slack if this kid fails.

So if I could tell my 1980 self how close this story came to predicting 2020, I’d have to say not very close on the good stuff (floating cities and flying cars) and too close on the bad stuff (racist movements and neo-fascism).  Probably younger me would be more fascinated to learn I can now read and discuss this story through a computing device connected to the rest of the world.


I was finally coming to grips with the fact that I’m living in the 21st (!) century and now here we are in the previously inconceivable year of 2020.  I mean seriously, doesn’t “2020” sound like a subtitle at the beginning of a sci-fi movie? Arguably, we are several years into a post-apocalyptic dystopia at this point, so it’s not like it totally came out of nowhere, but still, that number is nuts.


Or maybe it’s just an age thing.  I wonder how my grandparents felt when the calendar rolled over to 1970, or 1980, considering they’d been around for the Great Depression and World War II?  My Dad’s dad was born two years after the Wright Brothers’ first flight in Kittyhawk, and lived to see men land on the Moon.  Surely towards the end of their lives, they thought the numbers were getting just as far-fetched as I find 2020.

The weird thing is, I remember being in the car on New Year’s Eve, 1969, on the way home from visiting relatives, and the announcer on the radio was wondering what surprises we had in store for us in 1970.  That means that at this point, I’ve lived in parts of SIX decades.  That’s pretty much the textbook definition of “sobering.”

Anyway, I drew a doodle on the fridge to kick the year off:



I seem to have a lot of trouble coming up with stuff to post here, while at the same time I’m always doodling something or other, so this year I hope to share my drawings, good and bad, warts and all, just so there’s some content for a change.