I have a lot of projects/road trips. Let's see how fast I ink

Happy New Year to anyone who goes in for that sort of thing. Even if this time of year weren't personally traumatizing as Hell for me, I can think of a few more fulfilling ways to indulge in masochistic tendencies than New Year's Eve in NYC. Drunk screechy yuppies roaming everywhere, subways packed to the gills and stalling every 15 minutes, and all the usual dilapidated venues charging five times as much as usual, all so people can convince themselves they are having a "fabulous" time. I'm more than content to lock myself in with lots of art to work on, a six-pack, and a sexy husband. :)

So anyway, this comic is one of those things I was mad about at the time and think is hilarious now (a recurring motif when it comes to our neighbors...) This rigamarole with power bills was going on before we moved to this space, and it's still going on now Stop reading here if you're not into spoilers (do journal comics have spoilers?) but later in the year we'll discover (courtesy of an annual FDNY building inspection) that someone jacked into our power meter for a period of time, so I don't find it out of the question, looking back on this strip, that the same thing happened to them.

So I the time I sketched this out I thought this was going to be the end of our housing troubles. Not wanting to face the idea of everyone in the collective having to shoulder an extra $180 in rent just to keep a room in a space that could generate no revenue, we and the other collective member downstairs had decided to take empty rooms upstairs. There was really no other feasible option, given that we were told in no uncertain terms we could not hold events for profit, rent it out as a rehearsal space, or even accept donations for activities. The space had gotten too on the authorities' radar to attempt to run it as an underground thing - we'd been infiltrated by undercovers in the past. At that point in time as well, due to a number of non-paying tenants and other circumstances, the collective was too financially in the hole to begin to apply for the proper licenses and such to run it as a proper venue. (Indeed, much of the heat was generated by the fact that some members of the house seemed unclear as to whether they were doing an underground party space or a big venture - at one point promotional materials for an underground rave party were sent to fucking Time Out New York.)

I wasn't so much a fan of the raves, but I loved the art events the more cultural and cerebral things that we hosted and sometimes created or participated in. That was the aspect I was sad to see go. But, again, with no feasible way to do them, who were we to demand everyone else pick up the tab for this albatross? We felt it was more important for everyone to be able to keep a secure and affordable roof over their heads.

We'd begin the process of moving our things upstairs over the next few months, and some other developments would happen as well.

Delivering art, swiping posters.

Since this was a quieter day than many I've recorded, put some focus into capturing a poster and wheat paste covered Bushwick wall. It's something I've experimented with in a few of these comics--you see I love the way my neighborhood is a slapdash mix of street art and rusty, corrugated metal and brick structures. I've tried to capture the feel of this type of environment without cluttering the backgrounds or drawing attention away from the characters and action (as much action as you get in a journal comic anyway).

The Posters Came From The Walls  is some sort of documentary about Depeche Mode fans/the Cold War/censorship/etc. that I have not seen (but would like to)--I just liked the phrase. The poster that's actually coming from the wall here is one for Blank City, a documentary that came out last year about the No Wave and Cinema of Transgression film movements that happened largely in New York in the late 70's and 80's. It's good--though something I'd recommend even more is hunting down the actual films talked about themselves.


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