Well, back in the late 60s and early 70s, tribes of ink-stained wretches gathered across the nation. These underground cartoonists put out their own comics (or "comix") on their own terms. Comix full of dirty pictures, dirty words, twisted thoughts, dangerous politics, steaming loads of bullshit, and true art. They did it in San Francisco! In New York City! Chicago! Detroit! Cincinnati! Austin, Texas! And Sarasota, Florida. Well, almost.
Here's the story of that particular tribe.
These wacky outsiders were late to the game. Got together in late 1979, when Reagan was gearing up to be president. Underground comix were not the latest campus craze. College kids dressed for success and all that shit. But these rebels didn't care.
At first there were only two: Avi and Larry.
Avi. A disciple of George Herriman. True genius, on the autism spectrum. His stuff was big, weird, surrealistic, beautiful, funny, original, and did not conform to any known commercial format.
Larry. A purveyor of science fiction comic book parody before it was cool. Almost married.
On a bright sunny day, Larry bitched about the lack of cartooning opportunities to Mort, the owner of Cheap Clothes, who immediately offered to print his comic book. All Larry had to do was supply the art. After regaining his powers of speech, Larry said "yes." He cut his pal Avi in on the deal.
Comic book name: Utopia. A satiric jab at a certain pretentious upscale seaside burg's claim to be any kind of paradise. Sarasota, in case your wondering. Larry's hometown.
Group name: Kartoonists Kollective. Two guys. It's a joke.
But Avi blabbed to his sister and she blabbed it to everybody.
Larry and Avi showed up at the first meeting with the Capitalist Angel at the back of his second-hand clothing store. Five other cartoonists showed up, too. What with Mort's share-the-wealth hippy ideals, there was no way to kick them out.
So now there were six more.
Chad. Political poser and a bully. A disciple of Spain Rodriguez, at least in his own mind. Chicks dug him for some unknown reason.
Betty. Talented. Angry. Not necessarily in that order. Hates being labeled so we won't.
Layla. Anorexic pre-Raphaelite mermaid swimming in involuted Oceans of her own mind. She had lots of lovely ideas and never finished anything.
Zach. Insanely great surf artist. He lost a lucrative t-shirt gig at West Coast Surf Shop when he ripped off the owner's secret stash.
Keith. A pervert with a set of Rapidographs. He's constantly sucking on them and filling his mouth with ink when they clog up. Considers himself the next R. Crumb, but he's not even close.
Speedy. Can't draw, can't write, lousy storyteller, but for some reason is amazingly prolific. He sucks up to Chad.
Aside from dooming Larry's dream to failure, the meeting with Mort went swell. The week that followed was not so swell. Without naming names, a few cartoonists worked like hell, most just fucked around. Larry punched a fist through a wall and called for another meeting. A private meeting. They all actually showed up.
Before Larry could open his mouth, Speedy started yapping.
Speedy: OK guys. Here we are! We're all here, we gotta be here now, because it's the only dance there is. Anyway. Before we start, we gotta make a decision.
Larry: To stop talking and start drawing?
Speedy: No, no, no, no. No, man. I mean, yes. We gotta keep drawing. I ink therefore I am, ha. But we gotta do more. We got to go to the source of the problem. You know what the problem is?
Larry: Nobody's buying my stuff. And I'm sick of washing dishes.
Speedy: No, no, no. EHH! Wrong answer. Capitalism, man. That's the problem. The Monopoly Man with his monocle! We don't wanna be him.
Layla: The Monopoly Man doesn't have a monocle!
Speedy: Yes, he ...
Larry: What's your solution, Speedy?
Speedy: Revolution evolution! Because the solution to pollution is ...
Larry: Stop doing that! What's your solution?
Speedy: OK, OK, OK. Uh. After we print all the comics, we'll donate all the sales money to the Revolution.
Larry: Work for free?
Speedy: Work for freedom.
Larry: Fuck you, Speedy. And how the fuck do we give the money to the Revolution? Where the fuck do we send the check? I need the Revolution's fucking address. Santa's too, while you're at it.
Speedy: No, no, no. Storefront, man. Give the money to Storefront.
Larry: Oh, Storefront. Storefront. Right. You mean the phony not-for-profit drug clinic your dad runs? Scams all that grant money? Pockets the street drug samples the kids drop off for ...
Speedy: Fuck you, man! Your stuff sucks!
Speedy runs out. The group sits in silence for a bit. Then Chad talks.
Next page. Extreme close-up of Larry.
And that was it. The Kartoonists Kollective broke up. The comic was never printed. Larry got married and it turned out badly. The other cartoonist's got real jobs (or didn't) and most are now lost to history. We can tell you that Chad is now a right-wing media crank with a market share rivaling Rush Limbaugh's. Thanks to his Dad's ill-gotten money, Speedy's now the publisher of a glossy city magazine targeting Sarasota's upscale demographic. The bad guys won. Sorry.
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