The OFFICIAL Unofficial Achewood Message Board
Achewood => Achewood => Topic started by: melack on January 11, 2008, 05:41:07 am
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http://achewood.com/index.php?date=01112008
I have no idea why, but I absolutely love this strip. Maybe I'm just a sucker for bright colors?
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Wow. I really like how the characters are rendered in color without their customary outlines. This strip's color and bold artistic style make me happy, but the subject matter is incredibly depressing. Someone get Onstad another Dave lamp, stat.
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Cartooning, is masturbation.
Girls, don't spit on a dudes leg. It is the kind of thing he remembers in his quiet moments as a thing that sucked about his life.
Guys, next time you're throwing your genetic material into a toilet, remember that right now is the beginning of the rest of your life.
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man. why's he gotta make fun of Chris Ware. I like that man's comics. Mostly the art style... it looks like instructional diagrams to me, if that makes sense.
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Acme Novelty Achewood.... I like it.
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Guys, next time you're throwing your genetic material into a toilet, remember that right now is the beginning of the rest of your life.
My life is just packed with new beginnings.
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man. why's he gotta make fun of Chris Ware. I like that man's comics. Mostly the art style... it looks like instructional diagrams to me, if that makes sense.
Perhaps it's more of an homage...
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I could stand to see more Achewood strips in color, especially if they're as surreal as this one.
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They all look fatter without lines.
Except the immortal otter, who looks pretty much the same.
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I admire Chris Ware, but he begs for parody and this feels quite affectionate, more an Achewoodian take on Ware's aesthetic than pure mockery force.
Oh and brilliant, best strip in ages.
I'm content-free since 2008
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Oh Man Oh Man Oh Man.
'Cartooning'
Shit. Yes.
Best strip ever, would read again and again and again.
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This is gorgeously done, and the content is deeply sad, which I think makes it all the better. Poor Teodor.
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This is why I love Achewood in the first place. This is fuck*ng art. This is not comics elevated to the level of art, but comics realizing they were art all along and needed only to click their silver slippers. And aside from that, the content in this just rocks. Yes, it is true, everyone does have an old cement bridge. It does mean something different to everyone. Joss Whedon once said that Firefly was about "nine people loooking into space, and each one seeing something different". That touches me in special places for some reason. That shit resonates with me. This is fuck*ng beautiful. Oh, and I will definitely be Googling Chris Ware. I'm excited to find out who the hell he is.
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Perhaps it's more of an homage...
Yeah. And it seems kind of pretentious and makes me cranky. Maybe it's just been a long week. I'll try again later, since so many of youall think highly of it.
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yeah, in this, I see everything about Chris Ware that is a little too much exaggerated even further.
I mean, especially the "cartooning" part.
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Yeah. And it seems kind of pretentious and makes me cranky. Maybe it's just been a long week. I'll try again later, since so many of youall think highly of it.
Phew, I was thinking I was the only one.
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Yeah, except for the "cartooning" bit, this one gets a resounding "meh" from me.
But then, I'm hormonal ATM.
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So none of you have your own concrete bridge?
Mine was around the corner from my parent's house. In a large freeway construction project, the width of it was doubled from two lanes to four. It was over a concrete-embanked creek that had been modified by the Corps of Engineers for flood control purposes. And it was all mine.
Every day during the summer I'd sit underneath it with my sunflower seeds, my CD player (a real Sony Discman!), my Dr. Pepper, a book, and my cigarettes. Egrets would come and go with their slender, orange bills. Raccoons would wash their catches in the slow moving water. And no one hardly ever came down there except me. The path that wound along with the creek provided a wonderful walking space, quiet and serene in the midst of old suburban bustle, improvised and simple as opposed to those carefully sculpted "greenbelts" affluent communities create to make themselves feel better about their Yukon Denalis. And unlike Teodor I had some wonderful intimate escapades there, too.
Years later they put up a fence with a big, threatening sign about tresspassing. Ignoring it got dogs set upon me by paranoid neighbors I once waved to, when I damned the sign and went to a place I called my own.
You can never go back.
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Man, this has me thinking that al my freinds and I should all go back to our old cement bridge. I bet that would be all Hell of nostalgaic. All, like, "This is where we traded Pokemon", and "This is where you almost died", and, "This is where I threw up on you. Twice." I think it would be even better if I tricked them into going there, and I did it to all of them separately, so that they would all just find each othere there coincidentally, and I would come out from behind the brick wall and be all like "Good times. Good times" So theatrical. I love it.
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I have never lived close enough to any of my friends to have a place like that. Damn. we were never really able to hang out without parents having to get involved to drive us. Hell of lame.
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The house I lived in from 4th to 6th grade sat on 5 acres of undeveloped bushland. The lot was rectangular and sat high on the flanks of a small hill, completely overgrown with eucalyptus and bushes of one sort or another. The other side of the hill had a huge sandstone quarry (from which the local houses were built), and back 50 yards or so from the house was a natural sandstone "cave". I think it was carved out by wind - it wasn't anything like the limestone caves you might be thinking of. It was deep enough to get you well out of any rain, but was pretty open to the world around it. My brother and I used to play pirates and whatnot back in there, and read books, set off firecrackers, and set fire to green army men. I bet now if I went back and found it (assuming it hasn't been bulldozed for housing developments) it would be a lot smaller than I remember - but it was a magnificent cavern to us at the time.
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The one, and I mean only one, plus of modern style (fequently gated and sidwealk-free) strip-developed suburbs is the number of neighborhood kids. You ride training wheel bikes with the kids who later introduce you to pot and take your virginity. It helps if your county does middle and high schools neighborhood by neighborhood.
Sin while you're young. So many things get less fun after highschool / the first couple of years of college. Be bad while it still feels *bad.*
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All of you dudes flashing on your concrete bridges...me, I'm remembering my own bad head story. I checked with her on the finish to make sure she was okay, but she decided to quit anyway and spat like she had a mouth of bird seed. Not only did it get my #####...oops I guess this story is too detailed for this forum. Sorry.
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My old cement bridge was actually an old wooden bridge. Then they tore it down and put in a new cement bridge. Which was a sad event.
These bridges, are they magnets of sad?
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My old cement bridge was a old wooden stage in a park. Also the swings and forest there.
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OK, I like it better this afternoon, but I still think it would have been just as good without the Chris Ware references. But maybe that's just because I'm such a philistine that I've never read any Chris Ware because, as I said recently elsewhere, I never read comics printed on paper and bound together.
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...oops I guess this story is too detailed for this forum. Sorry.
Forgive him guys, he's new.
pope, don't you know we're the dirtiest dudes in town?
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One of my personal cement bridges from childhood was the old gravel pit near my house. I spent way too many summer afternoons out there swimming, rain and shine, finding shiny pieces of mica and getting the chiggers. The day that they closed it off to anyone not living along it was one of the saddest and strangest of my childhood. They tried to rename it "Lark Pond"... but that was stupid. It was a gravel pit, and I loved it because it was just a gravel pit.
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My best friend/neighbor and I had a place called "the woods." We lived in suburban Ohio, though, so "the woods" consisted of a swath of overgrown brambles and wild berry vines about six feet wide and running the length of her backyard. It was behind her father's tool shed, so it afforded more privacy than would have otherwise been the case in the thin undergrowth. We built a clubhouse back there with scrap lumber, taking care to make use of the natural environment to the greatest possible extent -- the fork in that tree was an easy chair; this particularly low-hanging branch served as a "door." Basically, we used plywood to smash down the vines for the floor, and the rest of the architecture was in our imaginations. That summer, the local zoo secured a special exhibit with two pandas from China (http://query.nytimes.com/gst/fullpage.html?res=940DE2DB123EF937A15756C0A96E948260), so much of our time in "the woods" was spent playing as our alter egos, a pair of pandas named Panzee and Panzoo. I was about nine and she must have been seven, and that fall when we returned to school we each wrote a story about the adventures of Panzee and Panzoo for a school-wide creative writing contest. She won for her grade level, and I won for mine.
The next summer, as a too-cool-for-you rising middle-schooler, I told her that I couldn't "ride hosss" with her anymore -- this was the imagination game we played on our bikes -- because my "hoss" had died. (We're still friends anyway, somehow.)
The Summer of Pandas marked the last period of true freedom in my childhood.
It was like "Bridge to Terabithia" except nobody died.
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...oops I guess this story is too detailed for this forum. Sorry.
Forgive him guys, he's new.
pope, don't you know we're the dirtiest dudes in town?
I think a joke was being made. He "saw" that ##### was filtered and assumed that meant he'd gone too far for our delicate sensibilities.
Unless you got the joke and were making a counter-joke that I missed.
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The closest thing I have to a place like that was a closed road in the neighborhood I grew up in. I would ride my bike down there in afternoons and such. Although I never did it with friends (because when I lived in that neighborhood, I didn't have any friends until my junior year of high school, by which point bikes weren't cool anymore), and I can't say the worst head of my life came there, because I never got head there.
Re: The strip... I dunno. Maybe if I knew who Ware is/was, I would get it. It seems like an inside joke of sorts, and I'm on the outside looking in.
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OK, I like it better this afternoon, but I still think it would have been just as good without the Chris Ware references. But maybe that's just because I'm such a philistine that I've never read any Chris Ware because, as I said recently elsewhere, I never read comics printed on paper and bound together.
I don't think this is all that great and I've read Chris Ware.
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I think this is insanely good and I've never heard of him.
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The Summer of Pandas marked the last period of true freedom in my childhood.
It was like "Bridge to Terabithia" except nobody died.
Okay, I think I get now why all of you like this strip, even though I've never read Bridge to Terabithia, because I figured based on the blurb on the back cover that it was one of those books I wouldn't like at all.
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we read that book in 3rd or 4th grade and I cried at the end. I remember being terrified that I'd cry when we read it out loud in class, too. Luckily for me, the kids in my class mispronounced every other word, and that kept me from getting too into it.
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This is why I love Achewood in the first place. This is fuck*ng art. This is not comics elevated to the level of art, but comics realizing they were art all along and needed only to click their silver slippers.
Onstad is far, far from the first Glinda though.
I liked this. It reminded me a little bit of In the Shadow of No Towers by Spiegelman - the different, but connected stories told through different art, different sequences going different directions in the same space.
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This is why I love Achewood in the first place. This is fuck*ng art. This is not comics elevated to the level of art, but comics realizing they were art all along and needed only to click their silver slippers.
see, Chris Ware's book, Jimmy Corrigan, is like a whole book of that. After a while, you start thinking "ok, we get it, you realize that comics can be art. wow, that is really pretty and cool." and start backing away slowly.
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see, Chris Ware's book, Jimmy Corrigan, is like a whole book of that. After a while, you start thinking "ok, we get it, you realize that comics can be art. wow, that is really pretty and cool." and start backing away slowly.
Thanks for the warning!
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I mean... I also really really like it. don't get me wrong.
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You know those bumper stickers that say "a bad day giraffeing is still better than a good day at work?" My feelings on oral sex are like that. Even if it's bad, it's still pretty good.
Same goes for pizza.
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Not always... teeth, lack of enthusiasm, sometimes you just want it to end and start messing around some other way. There's no really polite way to ask someone to stop giving you head.
Jimmy Corrigan is a beautiful book. I hate to sound like this, but it changed my life. It's a novel. It's not funny or full of adventure. It's about a lonely man who tries to reconnect with his father, and also about the grandfather of this man, and his childhood experiences surrounding the 1893 World's Fair. It's really amazing. It's not pretentious, in that it isn't pretending to accomplish anything that it doesn't accomplish.
All of those little "And So..." transitional panels that are all over Onstad's cartoons from the past few years are a Chris Ware invention.
I hear his newest section of a new book is good too. His sketchbooks are unreal... as good as Crumb's.
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During my semi-annual stroll through the archives, I have come across this strip once more.
This rereading of it has come at a fortuitous time, for it was only a scant few weeks ago that I discovered Jimmy Corrigan and Ware, quite by chance while idly browsing the goods offered at my local Books Etc. Taken in by its bold coloring and the quality of its artwork, I purchased the book with out knowing anything of its story or the acclaim in which it is held. I can only read a few pages at a time, for it is to be contemplated. savored and appreciated.
So, as I read this strip again today, I now recognize it for what it is in way which I was unable to the first time I read it. To me, it is a loving homage to one of the masters of the craft, and I enjoy it all the more so because of it.