Wednesday, August 23, 2017

Eclipse 2017: Roadtrip to Infinity!

My hand-marked map for our journey. Dashed green line is approximately the south edge of totality; solid green line is the eclipse path's midpoint.

Interstate 5 is a (mostly) four-lane ribbon of pavement that runs from San Diego to Vancouver, right up the spine of the West Coast. A few friends told me my plan to drive I-5 from the San Francisco Bay Area to Oregon for the August 21 total solar eclipse was mad. Millions of others would be making the same trip. Better a rutted gravel trail in Wyoming than I-5!

Nevertheless, my daughters Laura and Robin and I made our plans and hit the road.

This was my girls' first total solar eclipse and my second. In February 1979, some college friends and I hopped aboard Amtrak's Coast Starlight (by "hopped" I mean in the non-fare-paying sense), slept overnight in the lounge car and got off in Portland, which turned out to be the only spot in the eclipse path completely covered in clouds. It was still awesome. Night fell in the morning, and I sensed in my bones a bit of the terror my ancestors must have felt when dragons devoured the Sun. This time I aimed to stare the dragon in the eye.

I have relatives and friends along I-5 in Oregon but didn't want to impose on them, especially when we rolled through town at 5 a.m. Ours was a commando raid requiring speed and stealth. My contingency plans had contingency plans. "If we get stopped by traffic here, then we'll detour to there or there." For weeks ahead I lost sleep driving the backroads of the Willamette Valley in my mind.

I needn't have worried. Going up I-5 was a dream. Traffic was occasionally dense but rarely dipped below the speed limit. We even relaxed enough to stop and take in some sights. Photos below by me and my girls.

Mt. Shasta floated like a spectre through the smoky air. Nearby wildfires produced a choking haze through northern California and southern Oregon, but cleared completely as we drove north.

I chose the town of Jefferson, Oregon because it was near I-5 and just south of the eclipse path's centerline. I figured that if I went north of the centerline I'd be jockeying with mobs coming down from Seattle and Portland. I also wanted to be east of I-5 in case I needed to flee coastal clouds. We rolled into Jefferson about two hours before the eclipse began around 9 a.m.

I'd scouted out Jefferson on Google Maps' satellite view and found three possible viewing sites: a cemetery on a hill that'd have great views to the east, a junior high school, and a high school. I also had visions of offering random homeowners $20 to let us sit in their front yard. Unfortunately, Google Maps couldn't tell me that the Jefferson cemetery's gate was locked until 8 a.m., nor whether the local schools had opened for fall classes. A sign on the high school read "School pictures and orientation August 24." They were still on summer vacation! Lucky break! But the school's parking lot gates were locked. Bad break! But around the corner next to the junior high school was a city park I hadn't noticed.

Best break of all.

I'd run through a lot of scenarios when I planned our eclipse trip, but in none of those scenarios did I imagine I'd find an empty picnic table in a beautiful 20-acre park I'd be sharing with only a few dozen other people.

Our park companions were an almost stereotypical cross-section of folks you'd expect to turn out for an eclipse. Families with kids and lawn chairs and a solar pinhole projector made from a Pringles can. A group of amateur scientists who set out a fleet of telescopes and cameras. A hippie waiting to dance in the energy of a cosmic convergence. If we'd wanted to be alone there was plenty of space to move to another corner of the park, but these people were good company.

We set out our little buffet breakfast on the picnic table and waited.

At our picnic table for breakfast, including a bag of little chocolate donuts, the Official Waxy Snack Cake of the 2017 Eclipse. That's the Science Gang behind us, and Jefferson High School in the far background. Lots of empty open space and blue skies!

A good overview of our set-up. We took the picnic table to the left, another group grabbed the one on the right, with the Science Gang at back right. The exact latitude and longitude of our bench is 44.730696 by -123.011945 if you wanna look it up.

The Science Gang brought some nifty equipment, including a telescope with a hydrogen-alpha filter, which reveals details in the Sun's surface, and another that projected an image of the Sun onto a white screen.

This projected image shows a nice string of sunspots and, at upper left, the very beginning of the Moon taking a bite out of the Sun.

Laura and Robin and me. Also the hippie in the background limbering up to dance.

I'd brought only modest equipment. Mostly I just wanted to watch. I set up an old digital camera on a tripod to record video of the entire eclipse--"old" because I wasn't sure whether staring at the Sun for five minutes would destroy it, and didn't mind taking the chance. (It didn't.) I set up another camera on a tripod to take snapshots. I brought binoculars, with firm instructions that they only come out during totality. And I brought a piece of pegboard I found in my garage, which turned out to be the most fun and useful of all.

The hundreds of holes in a sheet of ordinary pegboard (or colander or anything with hundreds of little holes in it) act like pinhole camera lenses to project an upside-down image of the Sun. Here Laura holds the board while Robin finds a nice focal length with a paper plate screen.

I asked my girls to take some pictures of me lit up by crescent Suns with the idea it'd make a neat Facebook profile pic, and maybe a future author's photo for a book jacket. I think this one's my favorite.

Once everyone saw me do it, they all wanted to be photographed aglow with crescent Suns. Here I'm holding the pegboard for a couple of women who might have been visiting from Sweden (not sure, their English wasn't good and conversation was irrelevant). 

Eclipse. First contact. "Diamond ring" effect. Totality.

It didn't get as dark as I expected. In 1979, Portland fell into midnight blackness. This time, the sky felt like dusk an hour after sunset, with an orange-pink glow all around.

Photographs don't do a total eclipse justice. There's a richness of color and an almost three-dimensional effect impossible to capture except live with the eye.

The solar corona--the white hairy wisps of energy sweeping outward from the Sun--is achingly beautiful.

The disk of the Moon itself may be the blackest black I've ever seen.

I tried to take some still photos that, with one exception, failed. I shouldn't have bothered.

I forgot to use the binoculars, but my daughters both did.

A photocell-controlled street light at the nearby swimming pool turned on.

Two minutes went by really fast.

My daughters noticed these wavelike clouds, called Kelvin-Helmholzt clouds, which I don't think had anything to do with the eclipse but lent it a little artistic flourish.

The same clouds appear here near totality. As my daughter Robin noted, compare these two photos to get a feel for how the quality of light changed as the Sun shrank to a sliver. It's neat and eerie. 
As totality approached, everyone's smart phones throughout the park began to chirp and bleat as officials broadcast emergency alerts. The last one is interesting: exactly how many rock climbers did the authorities expect to need rescuing during a two-minute eclipse?

Totality. The iPhone automatically adjusted its exposure to make the image look brighter than it was. You can't tell in this picture that the Sun was blocked, but it was. Notice the 360-degree "sunrise" on the horizon and the street light that clicked on at lower left.

My one good picture. The three prongs of light coming off of it were real--that was the solar corona, which to the eye was a wispy web of light. There's also one small spot of light to the lower left of the eclipse. I assumed it was a speck of dust on my lens until my friend Teri told me her pictures had the same speck. Turns out it's Regulus, the brightest star in the constellation Leo!

We packed up and hit the road with alacrity, and joined a pretty bad traffic jam going south on I-5. Still, it wasn't intolerable--we all compared it to a typical Bay Area rush hour backup, and settled in as patiently as we could. Thirty or forty miles later the jam was largely broken up, though knots and slowdowns persisted for another couple hundred miles. Still better than reports I heard from friends who took many hours to drive a few miles out of remoter spots.

All in all, I-5 served us very well. The two minutes were worth two and a half days on the road. We got home exhausted but glad we went (at least Laura and Robin said they were glad, but they may have just been humoring their old man).

I hear the next U.S. eclipse in 2024 will cast a larger shadow, which means it'll last twice as long and make the sky much darker. That's only seven years from now. Time to start making some plans.

Monday, August 14, 2017

The Schulz Museum's 15th. I Got More Than A Rock.

Cartoonists, Schulz Museum staff, and Schulz Studio staff gathered for a group photo at the end of the day. Somewhere in this photo are Svetlana Chmakova, Donna Almendrala, Maia Kobabe,Tom Beland, Denis St. John, Paige Braddock, Lex Fajardo, Andy Runton, museum education director Jessica Ruskin, Andrew Farago, Nathan Hale, Jeff Smith, Jeannie Schulz, Raina Telgemeier, and a lot of other fine people. Also me. Matching names with faces is left as an exercise for the reader.

Saturday was a good day. I got to help the Charles M. Schulz Museum celebrate its 15th anniversary. One of the museum's secret weapons is the impressive amount of cartooning talent within an hour's drive (which includes San Francisco), both working for the Schulz Studio and doing their own things. Virtually all of them grew up loving and influenced by Peanuts, so when the museum calls they answer.

The celebration began with a talk by Jarrett Krosoczka, creator of the bestselling Jedi Academy and Lunch Lady series. Honestly, I missed that part because I was setting up for immediately after, when folks got to meet more than a dozen cartoonists, including me, in the museum's Great Hall. A lot of these photos were shot by my daughters Laura and Robin, who are much better tablers and salespeople than I am.

An overview of the Schulz Museum's Great Hall packed with cartoonists. I'm at center right in a black t-shirt with silver (sigh) hair.

I loved that woman's dress and hair ribbon with the Charlie Brown stripes. Hard to see here, but her skirt was all Peanuts characters, too.

Lots of great people in this shot. In the foreground is Rosie McDaniel, talking to author and Cartoon Art Museum curator Andrew Farago. Rosie is a very special lady whose important role in local comics is hard to describe: her late husband Mark Cohen was a comics collector and agent, Rosie has published a couple of books about comics, and she's on the board of the Schulz Museum. But mostly she's just Rosie, who knows and is loved by almost everybody. In the red shirt/black cap is Tom Beland, from whom I later bought a drawing. The woman sitting next to Tom is bestselling author Svetlana Chmakova, and beside her, just visible under Rosie's nose, is my pal Alexis Fajardo. In the background behind Tom Beland is "Prince Valiant" artist Tom Yeates, whom I'd never met but spent quite a lot of time talking with because I was sitting next to him, where my daughter Robin (purple dress) is filling my seat. Tom Yeates brought some original Valiant pages and I was impressed by how clean his artwork is--very little penciling or corrections. Very confident. To Robin's right is "Atomic Bear Press" creator Brian Kolm.
I added this charming drawing by Tom Beland to my small collection of original comics art. I think Iron Man is sad because the Hulk smashed his Lego town. I admire how elegantly Tom conveys form and line. It's hard to make it look that easy.

From my perspective, I enjoy three benefits of doing events like this: I get to hang out with my cartoonist friends. I get to meet cartoonists I don't know. And I get to talk to nice people, especially kids, who really like comics and cartooning. Also, I get to sell a few books, though that's really not my main motivation. Let's call that another half a benefit. Three and a half.

The Museum hadn't announced that bestselling graphic novelist and my comics buddy Raina Telgemeier would be appearing, so it was a surprise to most of us if not to her. She signed books for several dozen people whose days were made when they found her there. On my other side is cartoonist Andy Runton, whom I'd only met very briefly when he won an Eisner Award in 2006 for his series Owly. I really enjoyed talking with both of them.

My friend Denis St. John from the Schulz Studio peddled his own work, promoted with his dazzling smile. Behind Denis in the hat is Astro City artist Brent Anderson. It's always nice to catch up with Brent and his wife Shirley, whom I usually run into at a local Farmers' Market because we live about six miles from each other.

The event's guest of honor was Jeff Smith, creator of the hugely popular Bone series, now available in more than 30 languages worldwide. Jeff did an interview-style panel with the Schulz Studio's Paige Braddock and Lex Fajardo that covered pretty much all of his origin and career. Lex and Paige approached the job from different angles and managed to elicit answers Jeff probably hasn't given a hundred times before. It was a good panel, topped by Jeff being given the Cartoon Art Museum's "Sparky Award," named after Schulz for services to comics above and beyond the call of duty. Jeff seemed genuinely surprised and moved. It was a great moment.

Lex, Jeff and Paige talking in the museum's little auditorium. 

After Jeff's talk, he signed books in the Great Hall, which was cleared of all the cartoonists' tables during his panel. That took him more than an hour.

After the official event, all the participants were invited to walk across the baseball diamond and past the pumpkin patch to Mr. Schulz's studio, which is still the nerve center of Peanuts creative work and product licensing, for a pizza dinner.

That's where I had a chance to talk with Nathan Hale, who does young-adult historical graphic novels for my publisher Abrams. We compared notes. The irony of a guy actually named "Nathan Hale" writing about Revolutionary-era America did not go unremarked, though I'm sure he's bone-tired of it.

It took a lot of guts to ask Jeff Smith to pose for a selfie. He had many people vying for his attention, but we managed to talk about our mutual artistic hero, cartoonist Walt Kelly, and what it's like to scrap a project and start over from scratch after you've already completed 100 pages of it, which we've both done.

In the corner of the studio where Mr. Schulz used to work, his widow Jeannie set up his drawing table and chair from home (his original studio furniture is now exhibited in the museum). All studio tours for cartoonists end in this corner. Timidly, in hushed tones, they ask if they can sit in the chair. Yes they can. I've visited the studio a few times, and a couple of years ago even posted some pictures of me sitting in the chair, but I hope I never get so cool that I don't feel a little jolt of electricity when I get to do it again.

I asked one of my friends who works at the studio whether that feeling ever wears off. They said they feel it fresh every time someone who's never been there before enters the room and their eyes go wide. In my friend's experience, only cartoonists really get it: sitting at that board is like walking into Camelot and grasping Excalibur.

If you angle the light just right, you can see Mr. Schulz's lines and letters impressed into the soft wood of his drawing board. In fact, I think that reads "Schulz."

In addition to a variety of freshly fired pizzas and salads, the museum generously provided beverages, including bottles of "Museum Merlot" blended by Jeannie Schulz herself, according to the label on the back. I helped empty one and seized my opportunity, taking home what I'm pretty sure is the only wine bottle in the universe signed by (top to bottom) Raina Telgemeier, Andy Runton, Jeff Smith, Brent Anderson, Paige Braddock, Jeannie Schulz, Tom Beland and, sideways at lower right, Nathan Hale. I'm embarrassed to say how much I'll treasure this.

There's a big part of me that'll always be 15 years old and amazed that not only do I know people who make comics professionally--some incredibly successfully--but that I get to do it, too. It's a lonely business and there aren't a lot of people you can talk shop with. Events like these are great fun and the public seems to get a lot out of them, too. Thanks to the Schulz Museum for letting me come play with my friends.

Friday, July 28, 2017

Robotic Ruminations

I had a comment/reply on my "Last Mechanical Monster" webcomic, currently running on, I thought was interesting enough to share. (Background info: my story is a sequel to a 75-year-old Superman cartoon.) A reader questioned a drawing in which I showed my Robot full of gears, saying gears'd be too heavy and slow. My reply is a good example of how I approach a story:

"(That's) something I actually spent quite a lot of time mulling over before I even began 'The Last Mechanical Monster': How does the Robot work? I thought hard and seriously about it for some time, drew a lot of diagrams, and decided it simply can’t, especially with a mostly hollow chest cavity (as shown in the Fleischer cartoon). There’s no way to attach the arms, no place to put a motor for its neck-propeller, no room for an engine or batteries, etc.

"Basically I had to decide if I was telling a science fiction story or a fantasy story (I think it’s fair to say Superman himself could go either way), and the total impossibility of the Robot convinced me I was writing fantasy. If this were science fiction, I wouldn’t have filled his chest with gears; since it’s fantasy, and I thought gears looked cool and fit with some themes I develop later in the story, I went for it.

"Think of the gears less as a way to move a robot and more as a metaphor to reveal a character."

Friday, June 30, 2017

Taking Turns by MK Czerwiec

I like it when friends write good, interesting, even important books. It removes any awkwardness from your next meeting when they ask you what you thought and you can honestly say it was great.

Taking Turns: Stories from HIV/AIDS Care Unit 371 is by my friend MK Czerwiec, who as "Comic Nurse" is a ringleader of the Graphic Medicine community. It's the story of her experience as a nurse on a pioneering hospital unit through the 1990s, from the early days of a mysterious deadly disease to the day AIDS treatment became so effective that Unit 371 closed and MK was the last one left to turn off the lights.

Done as a graphic novel, Taking Turns is part memoir, part oral history, and mostly journalism. It's deeply personal. MK writes about her struggles as a young nurse learning the job and finding her place, the panic of an accidental needle-stick, and the challenge of maintaining professional distance--or even knowing if she should maintain professional distance. Doctors, nurses and volunteers broke some rules getting close to patients who were mostly going to die, and while none of them seem to regret it, it took its toll.

A two-page sequence with MK (in the pink shirt) and Tim, a patient and artist whom MK got to know away from Unit 371. Tim's experience is a major arc through the book, and must represent the fate of dozens of patients MK cared for. The first panel also touches on the motif of stars, to which MK returns throughout the book. Pay no mind to the dark bands on these pages. I scanned them myself and didn't want to break the book's spine to lay it flat on the scanner, so they curved a bit. 

I know from talking to MK while she worked on her book that Taking Turns is primarily intended as an oral history of Unit 371 and the AIDS crisis, captured while memories are still fresh but with the perspective of time. MK needed to record these stories before they faded away. At that, she succeeds tremendously.

MK credits fellow Chicagoan Studs Turkel as one of her influences, and I see that. What strikes me as unusual and ambitious, though, is that MK isn't writing about individual people or even an entire generation, as Turkel might have. Although the story is set in a particular time and place, they aren't her true subjects. There's not much that specifically pins her story to the 1990s, and little that requires it to be in this hospital in this city rather than Miami or Baltimore or San Francisco. Her story, and the stories of all the people she interviewed for Taking Turns, focus on what it felt like to do this job. They were eyewitnesses to history. In that respect, I see Taking Turns foremost as first-person journalism.

A watercolor by MK illustrating how HIV destroys the immune system.
Parts of MK's interviews with the two physicians who started Unit 371. Text-heavy pages like this are interspersed throughout the book, separated by other multi-panel pages that often have little or no text. MK's not afraid of white space and silence. Taking Turns is dense in parts but doesn't feel heavy as a whole. Again, ignore the dark stripe on the left caused by my scan.

Let's talk about the art. The excerpts above are representative; that's how it looks. For some comics readers, MK's style would be a barrier. I like it. Her drawings provide all the information needed and tell her story clearly. I know that she put great thought into her color palette and the deliberate decision to use flat tones rather than all the gradients and flashy flair that are only a Photoshop click away. It's a "just the facts" approach to comics and, again, journalism that suits the topic. MK is a documentarian whose camera is locked on its tripod and pointed directly at its subject. I respect her choice. It works for me.

A close childhood friend of mine died of AIDS in his early thirties. I don't claim any special insight from that, except that I was there and aware during the time MK wrote about. I think she gets it right, providing the unique perspective of someone working on the side we don't often hear about. Her observations have the types of detail and truth that only an eyewitness would know. I'd like to think and hope that my friend Jim had a nurse like MK looking after him. What I appreciate about Taking Turns is that MK helps me understand what it was like to care for hundreds of Jims during a time of tragedy and hope that shouldn't be forgotten.

Taking Turns is published by Pennsylvania State University Press as part of a Graphic Medicine series that's on its way to becoming an impressive library. Other recent titles in the series include My Degeneration by Peter Dunlap-Shohl and The Bad Doctor by Ian Williams. Penn State is building a special and unique body of work that's worth supporting. Keep an eye on it.

A truly terrible selfie I took with MK in Seattle two weeks ago. Apologies.

Monday, June 19, 2017

Graphic Medicine: Seattle

I did not have to go out of my way to find Starbucks in Seattle. However, I understand that the one at top left is the original coffee shop that built an empire, which would explain the constant scrum of pilgrims snaking out the door and down the block.

There've been eight international Graphic Medicine Conferences since 2010. I've been to six of them. We've developed some traditions, one of which is that I always write a long and windy blog post when I get home. Another tradition, as explained by graphic medicine (GM) guru Ian Williams, is that if I don't proclaim every conference "the best one ever," they'll know they've failed.

Luckily, this was the best one ever.

Comics and medicine seems like an odd combination, but it works. Patients make comics about being patients, doctors and nurses make comics about being doctors and nurses. Comics teach kids how to use inhalers, encourage Australian aborigines to use public health clinics, and get informed consent from hospitalized children. In addition to tons of graphic memoirs that touch on medical topics (mine, Epileptic, Cancer Made Me a Shallower Person, Pedro & Me, Special Exits, Hyperbole and a Half, Can't We Talk About Something More Pleasant?, Tangles, Marbles, Psychiatric Tales and many many more), people find myriad fascinating ways to work comics into healthcare themes or practice.

Professors, students, doctors, nurses, writers, artists, cartoonists and others get together at these conferences to meet and compare notes. People come from all over North America, Europe, Australia, Japan and more. It's a big tent.

In every previous conference, I've done some sort of talk or workshop. It took me this long to figure out I could just go to the thing without doing all that work. I recommend it!

Some people who'll show up in the photos below:
  • The aforementioned Ian Williams, one of two proprietors of the GM website, coiner of the term "graphic medicine," a British M.D., author of The Bad Doctor graphic novel, co-author of The Graphic Medicine Manifesto, and recent first-time father.
  • "Comic Nurse" MK Czerwiec, the other proprietor of the website, a Chicago nurse and teacher, another co-author of The Graphic Medicine Manifesto, and author of the new graphic novel Taking Turns about her experience on an early AIDS ward.
  • Mita Mahato, an associate professor of English and cartoonist who does beautiful cut-paper art, has a book of poetry coming out in the fall, and was the on-the-ground lead for the Seattle conference.
  • Susan Squier, professor of English and Women's, Gender and Sexuality Studies at Penn State University, yet another co-author of The Graphic Medicine Manifesto, and part of the organizing committee.
  • Michael Green, an M.D. and bioethicist at Penn State University, yet another co-author of The Graphic Medicine Manifesto, and part of the organizing committee.
  • Juliet McMullin, a cultural and medical anthropologist at UC Riverside, who led the organizing for 2015's conference in Riverside, Calif.
I hope I got all that right. I'll introduce others as they come up. Assume every name I mention is preceded by the words "my friend." Pictures (most of which were taken on an iPhone in poor lighting) to prove it happened:

The conference was held at the main Seattle Public Library, a modern steel and glass building with a strange fourth floor, where some of our sessions were held. The whole level was painted red, with intense spotlighting and twisting, rounded walls. It felt like being inside a living heart and was a little unnerving.

The fourth floor. Lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub, redrum.

Ian Williams and MK Czerwiec, photobombed by Mita Mahato. I love this picture.

Smart and talented Shelley Wall and Dana Walrath have been important parts of these conferences. Shelley organized the Toronto conference in 2012 and helped organize this one; Dana authored a book titled Aliceheimer's and presented on her latest project in Seattle.

Tangles cartoonist Sarah Leavitt, MK, and Marbles cartoonist Ellen Forney pretend to peruse an anthology of comics produced for the conference because they saw my camera and wanted to look impressive.

"So four doctors and a lawyer walk into a bar . . ." In front, cartoonist-physicians Ian Williams, cartoonist-physician Theresa Maatman, and non-cartoonist physician Michael Green. Behind, professor and attorney Dan Bustillos and Australian psychiatrist-cartoonist Neil Phillips.

A few interesting themes spontaneously emerged over the weekend. One concerned the growth and spread of the GM concept. I heard a lot about Graphic Anthropology--not sure what it is or who does it, though I suspect Juliet McMullin is a ringleader. Professor-lawyer Dan Bustillos, whose classes I occasionally crash via Skype, introduced me to Graphic Justice, which is what happens when comics meet law. There were a lot of young first-timers at this conference, and, it seemed to me, a real explosion of recent books that fit under the GM umbrella. When I did Mom's Cancer there were maybe one or two dozen in the canon; now it seems like there are hundreds.

An overview of the big, main auditorium where the keynote speeches and some of the panels took place. Other panels were in rooms on the red fourth floor (shudder) upstairs.
The Seattle Public Library pulled several GM comics from their shelves for display and browsing, and provided reading lists for dozens more. The white sheets of paper on the wall were taped up for people to draw on.

Conference co-planner Meredith Li-Vollmer, Eisner-winning cartoonist David Lasky, and Nikki Eller talk about public health comics they've made for King County (Wash.) that have been translated into two dozen languages. Behind them is original art for a silent auction. 

Juliet McMullin on "Accessing Land-Based Health with Indigenous Graphic Narratives."

Courtney Donovan of San Francisco State University on "Graphic Narratives and Nomadic Subjectivities."

Susan Squier moderating a panel in one of the smaller rooms.
Juliet McMullin, Amerisa Waters (who's working toward her PhD in Medical Humanities), and Neil Phillips.
Journalist-comedian-cartoonist Aaron Freeman and Mita Mahato.

Ian Williams illustrated a wry and dry progress report on his next book with a drawing of his family.

Michael Green has medical students make comics about the hardships of medical school. The results are enlightening.
Dan Bustillos is a strong, dynamic speaker. I'll bet he's a good teacher. That's Michael Green raising his hand.

Some people told me how much they appreciated Mom's Cancer, and many cited it in their talks or said they teach it in their classes, which is a deeply gratifying legacy. One story I want to tell at the risk of immodesty: a young PhD gave a talk on "Webcomics Building Communities," focusing on Allie Brosh's Hyperbole and a Half but mentioning Mom's Cancer along the way. I thought she made some good insightful points, so during the panel Q&A I stood up, said that I'd done Mom's Cancer, which started as a webcomic and went to print, and had some thoughts on the topic. We had a good exchange.

In private afterward, she said she'd had no idea I was there and would have been terrified if she had. I confessed that the opportunity to have my Marshall McLuhan "Annie Hall" moment ("You know nothing of my work...How you ever got to teach a class in anything is totally amazing!") was nearly irresistible. We'll keep in touch.

The conference ended with a marketplace for people to sell their stuff. I'd brought a pretty big stack of cash to spend, but still ran out of money--and, more importantly, space in my carry-on luggage--before I hit all the tables. Sorry, I did my best.

Peter Dunlap-Shohl (My Degeneration), MK Czerwiec and Ian Williams selling well at the marketplace. All three are published by Penn State University Press, whose Graphic Medicine Series is growing into an impressive and important library.

Kurt Shaffert (second from left) and James Sturm (right) from the Center for Cartoon Studies have committed to hosting the next GM Conference in White River Junction, Vermont. Fools. Mark your calendar for August 16-18, 2018.

My haul from the marketplace. I'm looking forward to reading it all.

Mild Night Life
Both nights of the conference were capped with extracurriculars. After the first full day, many attendees made the long trek south to the Fantgraphics Bookstore and Gallery, which for fans of sophisticated comics literature is a bit like a pilgrimage to Mecca. It's a small space packed with terrific stuff. After the second day, we adjourned to the Raygun Lounge, another funky space providing beverages, gaming tables, and vintage pinball machines.

Fantagraphics Bookstore and Gallery

One little wing of the Fantagraphics store.

As I wrote on Facebook, what I really love about these GM conferences is the improbable confluence of events that would put cartoonists Ellen Forney, David Lasky and me talking shop in a corner of the Fantagraphics bookstore. Before that moment, I wouldn't have bet those odds.
Another selfie, this one the next day with MK at the Raygun Lounge.

You can tell these people are artists because they all have their heads down drawing instead of drinking, talking, brawling, or dancing on the table.

A second table at the Raygun covered with butcher paper for art, with Neil Phillips at the head and our wonderful final keynote speaker Rupert Kinnard to Neil's left (your right). Do yourself a favor and click the link on Rupert's name; his life and work cover a lot of struggle and history. I'd been sitting in that empty space along the window and did that black scribble that I'll show you after I explain something . . .

One interesting theme that emerged through the conference was "catharsis." More than one presenter talked about how making comics about illness and medical care isn't really cathartic at all: it's too hard, too slow, and doesn't accomplish the "expelling and healing" that catharsis implies. So some of us were sitting around near the end of the last day agreeing that that was a good point when Rupert Kinnard talked for an hour about comics as catharsis and introduced the humorous past-tense verb "catharted."  Rupert confused and unconvinced me.

So later at the Raygun I did a doodle of my Last Mechanical Monster and the Cosmic Kid, to which my friend Mita Mahato added the red word balloons "I Catharted" and "Um...I know." And then we just doodled together while we talked, adding a mountain landscape, UFOs, and a little outhouse on the Moon in a way I haven't since my kids and I drew on restaurant placemats when they were toddlers. I highly recommend it.

Seattle is a good city for hosting an event like this. Its core is very walkable, public transit is convenient and not too hard to figure out, and its setting is beautiful. The vagaries of flight schedules made it best for me to arrive a day early and fly home a day late, immediately after a reading and signing for MK's book Taking Turns at a local bookstore.

Of course I walked the waterfront and Pike Place Market. With time to kill and a passion for World's Fairs of the past, I also visited the site of the 1962 World's Fair, riding the monorail built for the event to its centerpiece, the Space Needle. Imagine my astonishment finding the Museum of Pop Culture (MoPOP) right next door, then my giggling delight at finding it had a wing dedicated to "Star Trek."

A. Star. Trek. Museum.

The 1962 ALWEG monorail, built by the same folks who did Disneyland's. Retro cool transportation of the past future. Or the future past. Whichever.

An angle on the Space Needle shot through some floral metal sculptures (hard to tell from this angle, but the flowers are about the height of light posts).
Seattle from the tippy-top.
The Space Needle does that thing where they have visitors stand in front of a green screen to be superimposed onto different backgrounds (it's free, which it isn't most places). Since I was alone and didn't care, I asked the photographer if I could do something odd. She was game. Later, when scrolling through possible backgrounds, I saw this one, guffawed, and knew I'd found my match. You take one wrong step . . .

The monorail track ends in this Frank Gehry building that houses the MoPOP.
Ohmygod. It's Captain Kirk's actual chair, and Sulu and Chekov's actual console. And Kirk's actual tunic. And Uhura's actual dress.

Ohmygod ohmygod! And actual phasers and tricorders and communicators and hyposprays!


The MoPOP also has these guys . . .

. . . and those guys . . .
Plus a special exhibition on these guys . . 

. . . and those guys . . .

. . . and all the other pop culture, rock-and-roll, and show business artifacts that Microsoft money could buy. I really enjoyed MoPOP, all the more because I didn't know it was there and just stumbled onto it. What a discovery.

Going Home
My flight home was one of the best I've had in years. The plane was only about a quarter full and took off due south at sunset, giving us wonderful views of the snowcapped Cascades. I took a few photos out the window, knowing that they never capture one-tenth the beauty you see by eye.

Mount St. Helens in the foreground, Mount Adams in the background. Notice the shadow of St. Helens stretching off to the upper right behind it. Neat!

Crater Lake National Park, Oregon.

What a wonderful trip. As I told several people during the conference, I always go home from a big comics convention, such as the San Diego Comic-Con, feeling tired and beaten. I always go home from a GM conference feeling energized and inspired. Today at lunch, Karen asked me why that was.

I really think people at a GM conference, besides just being generally smarter (face it, they're mostly RNs, MDs, MAs, and PhDs), are more deeply interested in the potential of comics as a medium--and stretching the boundaries of that medium---than your typical comics fan. Some of them are trying to make comics do things they've never done before. I went away with ten new approaches to think about and five new ideas I'm just going to outright steal.

The best conference yet. And not entirely because I found a "Star Trek" museum.

Out there. Thataway. Dork Factor 5.*

*Not THE actual chair.