I've been traveling the country on a book tour for my new graphic bio of cyclist Marhsall Walter "Major" Taylor. The tour brought me to Washington,, D.C .,on September 10th – or 9/11 Eve, if you will. I had a reading at Solid State Books, followed that weekend by Small Press Expo in nearby Bethesda, where I was the featured guest. This was all exciting, given my long, small press, dirtbag history.
I had a fast turnaround after landing from Worcester, and had just enough time to make myself decent and still catch my train. I grabbed three Celsius energy drinks on the way. I’m a horrible sleeper under the best circumstances. Undertaking my first national book tour, I slept like a cat on meth. I desperately needed caffeine to pass as human or vaguely awake.
I emerged from D.C.’s cavernously deep subway to the street and face to face with the National Guard. I was aware they’d be present, but hadn’t given it much thought. These young men and women were just toy soldiers to America’s first elected dictatorship.
I drank my first Celsius on the train and took the second one down in one long, satisfying gulp while walking down the street. It was hot! And humid! This California boy isn’t used to such extremes. As I walked along, admiring the architecture and sweating through my author togs, I considered splashing the last Celsius in my face, but opted instead to treat passersby to a Tom Jones level of unbutton, but not the same level of chest hair. Not sorry; I can’t imagine how hot I would’ve otherwise been!
Solid State reminded me of the bookstores of my '90s youth; comfortable, airy and welcoming. My friend Dru Ryan moderated that night and fielded some of the more sports-y questions. For someone who has ridden for over 20 years and spent a chunk of that time writing about cyclists, I’m woefully ignorant of modern-day sports comparisons. It’s a shame Taylor couldn’t come on the road with me. The next stop, I would probably just stare back blankly and shrug when someone asked anything above my pay grade.
The following day, the convention’s special guests were invited to an annual visit to the Library of Congress’s comics art archive. I would try to find my notes to give you a more accurate of accounting of how many pieces were there, but I’m lazy so I’ll just round up to roughly a metric fuck ton.
George Herriman drew me from across the room like a siren song. Krazy Kat and Ignatz is one of those odd touchstones from me. I’m not a big comic strip guy, there are just some artists whose line almost sings to me, and Herriman is one.
Miguel Covarrubias is somewhat new to me. I didn’t know I’d been enjoying his work for years, stumbling upon random pieces before my friend Bak introduced me to the artist and his body of work as a whole. His wide and wild variations in style is one of those very mid-century commercial artist things I always admired. Seeing his tiny gouaches up close, I shuddered at his level of skill.
Then I shuddered at the walls, hundreds of feet apart, but still somehow closing in. I’m pretty solitary by nature, so crowds are strange and sometimes difficult for me. Traveling, I also wasn’t able to indulge my soothing habit of manically pacing around my neighborhood several times a day or cycling, so I was fit to be tied.
I told Tracy, one of my Drawn + Quarterly colleagues, I was gonna make a break. She got me to cool my heels long enough to gather the rest of our Drawn + Quarterly posse. There were several bookstores that wanted us for stock signings, and this way they wouldn’t have to track me down.
We were joined by label mates Arizona O’Neill -(Opioids & Organs) and Paul Rainey -(Murder School(. James Spooner (High Desert) also joined. He and I had met before, but hadn’t had a chance for a long chat. We two old Black punks had much to learn about each other.
I was struck at the massive scale of things in D.C. I was also struck by how heavy and joyless the decorations celebrating America’s 250th anniversary were. I wondered if the fonts they used had names like “Sinister Citizen - San Serif” or “Nuvo Colonialist - Really Fucking Bold”
The Washington Monument had kids selling 12-ounce bottles of water for eight dollars. I was glad I brought my own, especially since the heat and humidity had turned me into a sweat monster. We continued down The Mall; drained fountains and barricades abounded. As did Christian nationalist shirts, one after another, the wearers as joyless and heavy as the 250th anniversary decorations.
To say I have a complicated relationship with religion is an understatement, having grown up with a minister father who felt more at home sharing his impression of God’s rage than fathering. More immediately, I’m a former graphic designer. Seeing these star0spangled crosses, looking past their inherent white supremacist association, read as branding. I couldn’t help but imagine Golgotha, the crosses atop painted bright red, white and blue, with Jesus crucified on one with the stamp of “made in America “ on the side. That would make us the Romans.
There was just enough time for Arizona to take in the Lincoln monument before we had to make our way to our stock signings. Nothing sounded better than that to me because after a couple of hours on the mall. I wanted nothing more than to be surrounded by books again.
