On Yer Bike

Almost a week on the pills, and I can’t say it’s been very productive. I stared at the packet for a couple of days before finally taking one, feeling like I was breaking an ethical resolve or something (not to mention being vaguely unsettled by the possible side-effects listed on the leaflet). The first couple of days were moderately hellish—an upset stomach, worsened depression, astonishing torpor—but it seems to have settled down. Now I’m just very tired a lot of the time. This is possibly not as bad today, but time will tell.

For all that, after the first couple of days I haven’t felt hugely depressed. Time will tell with that too.

My mood might have been worsened by some other blogger writing some kind of speculative piece about my previous posting… but I didn’t permit it to get me down too much, and he later deleted his comments (I am not, unlike him, going to provide a link). I’m not quite sure what was being implied, but seemingly it was either that I wasn’t really depressed, that depression isn’t that big a deal, or possibly that I just fancied like sponging off the state. You know, the truth is that I didn’t make a claim for benefit till I was practically skint. Friends had been urging me to do so for a couple of months, but my aversion to signing on again was so intense that I put it off as long as I possibly could. Meanwhile, my depression over the situation was getting worse and worse, capped by contacting the better part of 100 prospective employers and getting nothing back.

There’s practically nothing about the current situation that I’m happy about. I haven’t heard back on the benefit yet, either, let alone been paid. It’s just as well that I’ve been able to scrape by, isn’t it? ‘Oh, never mind, next month will do!’ In any case, if I want to know Norman Tebbit’s opinion on all this, I’ll write to the man himself…

—Chrissie, 13:04 | Permalink | 1 Comment »

I Am A M.I.L.F. Don’t You Forget

Yup, Chrissie’s been AWOL for a while again. It’s been an awfully depressing time… to see my savings evaporate rapidly before my eyes, a load of job applications fail to yield fruit, and my freelance ‘career’ resume its stasis after a brief flurry of activity. But yeah, I had to do something.

Anyway, my application for income support’s in progress. *sigh* I need a rest, and I don’t mean from activity, cos I ain’t exactly been busy. I need a rest from immediate pressure. I’m shattered. It’s been such a tough couple of years or so. I saw my GP today and got sick notes. And a scrip for anti-depressants. Only half-dose, to see how it goes. Maybe a couple of months of being a ‘invalid’ will help me gather my thoughts, and maybe the pills will even help a bit. We shall see.

I admit to being mildly bi-polar long-term, but up to this point I have stuck by Stephen Fry’s attitude that chemical assistance is best avoided if you can cope on your own terms. But these past couple of years have taken too much from me, so I’m standing down from this position for a while.

Strangely enough, in spite of being utterly fucking stressed out, my blood pressure was only 132/81. This isn’t low, but it’s certainly not high either. I expected it to be through the roof. So, I appear to be in reasonable health in spite of everything.

I handed in my sick notes and benefit form at the Jobcentre this afternoon. I’ve not been in the place in almost five years, and wouldn’t you know it, they’re still complete arseholes. I had a ten-minute argument with the man at the ‘welcome’ desk, with him insisting I couldn’t hand the stuff over without an appointment. Eventually he called through to someone and was told that, yes, I could do that. He simply had to waste ten minutes of my life first, though. I imagine that even if my blood pressure wasn’t high earlier in the day, this did the trick pretty well.

I took a ride into Dudley to unwind, and for once, the cosmic scales decided to be kind to me. Justice says, every kick in the teeth deserves a nice sweety. This doesn’t happen to me often, tho.

I went to the cashpoint to get a tenner out (oh, yeah, it has to be just a tenner at this point!), and when I turned round a young guy was standing about six feet away with a clipboard or somesuch under his arm, looking straight at me. I thought he was about to launch into his pitch, but no, apparently, my dazzling beauty had made him forget all about that. ‘Will you marry me?’ he said, in an Irish accent.

As I walked past him he added, ‘Is that a no?’ I just smiled. And, for sure, it was a sincere smile. This was no ugly fella, you understand: closer to Johnny Depp than Johnny Vegas, and all of 21 years old, so young enough to be… well, my much younger brother, let’s say. It seems I have very recently become a sex symbol amongst the younger crowd. What’s that all about?

A couple of weeks ago, on the forecourt of the garage round the corner one night, a group of young guys in a car decided to shout ‘MILF!’ and ‘MILFY!’ at me. If you don’t know what that means, Google will provide the answer. Mostly I’m disillusioned that I do appear to be in my 30s… I thought I might pass for 28 in a good light. Still, I’m in good company: check out Tori Amos’s “Big Wheel” for a provocative statement on this particular subject. (Edit: I forgot to put a title on this posting originally. Obvious, really, wasn’t it.)

Well, this is an improvement on being offered money for sex. The Irish lad was very cute indeed, and his compliment pulled my mood up a bit. On the gigantic off-chance that he reads this: no, I won’t marry you, but feel free to buy me dinner. ;-)

—Chrissie, 21:04 | Permalink | 1 Comment »

Motivation?!

Well, I won’t kid around, yesterday was pretty damn miserable, and I have no special reason to feel any better today, but today IS the day I’m gonna try to sort my sleeping pattern out (again), and my campaign started with vacuuming the living room whilst singing at an obnoxiously loud volume that probably annoyed the neighbours above quite intensely. Followed now by some loudish music and generally trying to create a positive mood. I’ll probably be bummed-out in a couple of hours but I feel all right at the moment.

By the same token, next week has to be the week where I sort a few things out one way or another. Becoming skint is not an option.

—Chrissie, 08:03 | Permalink | 1 Comment »

Glass Half Wotsit

Sleeping patterns: messed up like crazy. No, really. Hmmm. I suppose a ‘normal’ job would help to sort this out. This isn’t necessarily selling me on the idea, you understand, but that would be part of the ‘glass half full’ perspective, wouldn’t it?

At least I’ve been doing a spot of ‘real’ cooking recently. I mean, my best friend is the microwave most of the time. Sheer laziness. Last two nights, actual fresh food cooked by moi—two nights in a row might be a record. ;-) Firstly, couple of baked potatoes with some Mexican beans and a few red jalapenos for good measure. I like spicy stuff anyway, but I only tried the red jalapenos recently and I’ve become a fan. Just as hot as the regular ones but with an added sweet tang. Very neat. And last night, stir-fry veg, consisting of shiitake mushrooms, potatoes, red onion, green chillies and a few jalapenos (of course) for good measure. I figured it was about time I christened my new frying pan, over two months old and not yet used.

Stir-fry is something I have done once in a while, but I didn’t try a particularly hot one before… I was hoping that the chillies (those thin ones that are super-hot) would lose some of the heat in the frying, that it would distribute evenly, which did prove to be the case—nothing in there was mega-hot, but everything had a slight kick, which was exactly what I wanted. I should do this more, seeing as I’m gonna be skint before long. It’s cheaper as well as healthier than bunging crap in the microwave.

But depression can eat into your activities a lot—it causes a kind of laziness that is not real laziness but a sort of tired apathy. Which I’ve had a lot recently, I think since coming back to the Midlands especially. It’s done my head in quite a bit, wasting so much time and money down South only to come back to this goddamn flea-pit… and much as I hope it isn’t permanent, my work situation isn’t exactly making me optimistic… a pox on freelancing! No security, always wondering what comes next, unless you can latch onto regular clients or assignments, which I’ve not been able to do at all recently—just one-offs, and one-offs don’t pay the fecking bills unless you have a steady stream of them.

No, I really think freelancing sucks. But finding an actual job I might think is okay, round here? Yeah, the heart of creativity and everything avant garde, the West Midlands, as I’ve been forced to notice at great length most of my life. If I had found somewhere decent to live down South, that would’ve been okay. Instead of moving every five minutes. Lots more opportunities down there, but no bloody good if you’re not in one place for any sustained period of time. So I am pissed off about everything, really. I mean totally pissed off.

Hah, what else is new? Life exists to piss me off! Bring it on, muthafuckas!

—Chrissie, 06:03 | Permalink | 1 Comment »

Reading Room 03/08

Current reading material has included the ninth volume of Krazy and Ignatz, reprinting the Krazy Kat Sunday pages—only one more volume to go before (I believe) Fantagraphics will go back and start reprinting the ones published by Eclipse many moons ago. I love these strips so much. George Herriman was pure talent, arguably not a perfect draftsman but someone who delighted in exercising his visual imagination with complete freedom… thankfully, his publisher, Charles Foster Kane, liked what he was doing even if a lot of readers were scratching their heads… and the writing matches the visuals, if not exceeds them, from the eccentric poetry of the dialogue to the actual content, which so often works on so many different levels.

Be it Krazy’s indeterminate gender (a lot of critics like to make the cat one thing or another, in spite of Herriman himself making it clear that Krazy is neither—or both—possibly depending on his/her mood), hir apparent masochism (taking the bricks Ignatz Mouse throws as objects of love rather than scorn), or Officer Pupp’s very unambiguous love for the Kat he consistently refers to using male pronouns… clearly, unusual things are going on here. You can’t say that many cartoonists in the first half of the 20th Century snuck queerness into a newspaper strip, but, whether it was Herriman’s specific intention or not, in effect he did exactly that.

It also works as a rather clever commentary on racial issues and the nature of subjective perception, hidden in plain sight. Ignatz appears to have no reason to throw bricks at Krazy. But Krazy is notably a black cat, and in one (in my opinion) significant story idea—important enough to Herriman that he repeated it almost exactly several years apart—Krazy goes to a boutique and is dyed white. Ignatz sees this white creature and is immediately smitten… until he spots a dropped hanky with the initials ‘KK’—then he’s straight back to reaching for the nearest brick. It mirrors Herriman’s own life, passing as a white man although he had black blood in his lineage… and the strip seems to be a comment on the superficiality of how one’s colour can have such a dramatic effect on how people see you and feel about you.

You could also say that in Krazy taking Ignatz’s violence as a gesture of love, rather than hate, the Kat rises above such matters in a wonderfully ironic and moving way.

And it works as a cute, sweet and endlessly entertaining funnybook… tho it’s clear that it’s a little more than simply that. The best art always works on different levels. Dipping into this material always cheers me up—it has such a unique and endearing point of view. One of my all-time faves.

Up next, excited by the news of a new Tor series by Joe Kubert coming in May, I plan to read the 2003 Sgt Rock graphic novel, Between Hell and a Hard Place. I’m not a fan of war stories, or in fact an awful lot of the genres Kurbert has worked in, but it’s hard to imagine that anyone couldn’t love Kubert’s artwork… still brilliant, dynamic and characterised by expressive economy to this day (he’ll be 82 in September)… he makes it look so annoyingly easy, and I don’t think this is an illusion—this man can just draw, where most of us fiddle, contrive, whittle and shape at length our attempts to make something coherent on paper.

It’s not so often, for me, that I can pick up a new comic and feel that sense of undeniable awe. Most of the people in comics today, I can admire their skill (there are a few exceptions), even wish I had that skill, but generally I don’t see them as being on a different plane to where I am… but there are a few artists—a lot of them dead, unfortunately—where I can only sit back and accept and admire someone far beyond anything I can imagine on my own, flawed plane of creativity. Kirby, Kane, Eisner, Toth—all gone in the last 15 years, and many other names besides. Doesn’t it make you grateful that we still have a Joe Kubert?

—Chrissie, 23:03 | Permalink | 2 Comments »

If You Have the Money

I haven’t started thinking about the Webbery involved to effectively promote it (hmph, promotion isn’t my strong point), BUT… for what it’s worth: I’m available for commissions. Hell, I haven’t even formed a plan on moving forward yet (benefits, rat race, freelance success?!), but I shall briefly take some encouragement for having had a bit of work recently and keep plugging for more wherever I can…

If you like my Killer Squirrels or my Butch Wonder Woman and would like to buy a piece of me (meaning my artwork, as opposed to the offers I usually get), please get in touch and we can discuss it more. I’m not anticipating a great business plan forming here, but, money’s money and if you have any to spare and would like to trade it for a nice drawing… subject of your choice… I’m game.

C’mon, you rich people, give a poort artist a bit of support!!

—Chrissie, 23:03 | Permalink | No Comments »

Thursday in the Smoke

I was up rather late today, having not had much sleep Wednesday night, finishing off the slideshow for PaulG’s exhibition on Chinese Comics. I think it all worked out okay. I went down to London to deliver the slideshow on a USB pen drive, and I got my travel expenses back. The event itself wasn’t massively interesting to me, but it was cool to meet up with a few people, including AndyL, and I had a nice meal before coming home, so it was an okay day.

The payment for this will give me an extra week of breathing space while I figure out what to do next… by my current estimate, I only have 5-6 weeks of money left unless lots more work comes my way… too close for comfort. Had a couple of e-mail rejections come in today for ideas I’m pitching to various magazines/publishers. Don’t accuse me of not trying. I just don’t seem to be selling anything that anyone wants to use.

My mood is neither here nor there at the moment.

—Chrissie, 21:03 | Permalink | No Comments »

For Fuxake!

After what I wrote about my ‘incident’ in Ilford, I feel like someone’s just set me up. I’m wondering where the hidden camera was. Truth is stranger than fiction, they say…

Walking the dog earlier, an Indian chap of about 20 asked me the time. Then he says, ‘You’re looking very nice. Would you like to come out with me sometime?’ Uh-oh.

So I said, no, i’m spoken for. (I’m not, BTW.) He goes on, ‘You’re beautiful’—wait for it—’and I have money.’

ARRRRGHHH!

Some other comments about money, my beauty, and a blow-job was mentioned. Well, it was still more-or-less daylight so I was laughing out loud about it and walked off, possibly leaving him confused about exactly what was amusing me so much.

But still. Do I look like a hooker or what? :-/ Before anyone wonders about this, no, I don’t wear mini-skirts and fishnets. I usually wear jeans and boots. Nothing remarkable. I don’t mind having a moderate rock-chick vibe, but tarty, no sir!

You couldn’t make this shit up. Next dude who offers me money, please let it be David Bowie’s long-lost son and I will be sorely tempted…

—Chrissie, 19:03 | Permalink | 2 Comments »

Not in the Best of Moods

Friday was a London visit. Only my second since coming back here, but I’ll back down there again on Thursday. I’m putting together a Chinese comics slideshow for an event PaulG’s involved with. (Details here, if you’re interested.) It’s my second paying gig in the last month, so I guess this is a slight improvement on the complete absence of work I’ve ‘enjoyed’ for months. I was able to show Paul my progress on Friday, which he was pleased with.

Otherwise, I am struggling with some considerable amount of depression, unfortunately. It’s a general, all-round depression. I will be in pretty serious financial trouble very soon if work doesn’t pick up majorly or I don’t resign myself to getting some kind of rat race crap. The former, great, show me where the work is! The latter… massively depressing, tho if it’s a choice between that and being on crappy benefits again…

I have been pointed towards the Power of Positive Thought recently. I’ve also had a couple of people suggest anti-depressants to me again (for about the millionth time). I’m even tempted by that, in spite of loathing the idea of being dependent on drugs for a reasonable frame of mind. That’s how desperate I’m feeling at the moment, all in all, though neither of these ideas is going to pay my fucking bills if I end up skint, are they?

So, as always, I do question my so-called ‘talent’, which I’ve spent half my life doing. It hasn’t done me any good. In fact, it’s given me aspirations I’ve consistently failed to realise. To what purpose, except, right now, being faced with being totally penniless?

—Chrissie, 18:03 | Permalink | 1 Comment »

Tales of Ilford

Well, there is at least one, ahem, ‘interesting’ story from the six weeks I spent living in Ilford. I didn’t have Internet access at the time, so only now can it be told. And no, it has nothing to do with cockroaches.

Basically, someone tried to ‘buy my services’. :-O

I guess it was mid-November. One lesson I didn’t entirely learn down South is that it ain’t like round here. I mean in the sense that you really shouldn’t go out on your own after midnight. It’s reasonably safe to do that in most areas round here. (It’s all relative.) So I took Fred out for a walk at about 12.30am, and on the way back, a black guy on a bike starts asking me questions. ‘What’s the dog’s name? What’s your name? What do you do for a living?’ I was a bit nervous, but he wasn’t threatening.

Turning into the street where I lived, I did start to get a vibe about where it was leading. (Yeh, I’m slow.) I thought maybe I could shake him off, so I walked straight past the house and carried on down for a while. By this time he was getting to the point a bit more. ‘You’re single, I’m single, we can do what we want, yeah?’ I also was getting lost. I didn’t live in Ilford long enough to fully map-out all the streets, so, I realised I would have to head home regardless of his continued presence.

So he followed, still trying to talk me into funny business. I got to the front door and he got off his bike and walked up the path. I got inside sharpish, but I was slightly worried that he might just try to force his way in if I told him to fuck off… so I continued to try to put him off gently. This worked against me, really, as he observed how ‘nice’ I was to not tell him where to go like ‘the others’ had done.

Well, it took me an hour to get rid of him. Oh, he went in the end, in some state of quiet dejection, but getting rid of him was quite a chore. And in the process of that hour, YES, he offered me money. ‘I’ll pay,’ he said, fishing out his wallet and showing me a frankly huge wad of money. He said it was £700, and I’m sure it was. He started off asking for half an hour of my time. Then it was 20 minutes. Then it was ten minutes. He offered me £150 for ten minutes. ‘Please, you’d be doing me a favour! I need it!’

Then it was £150 for a hand-job. Finally, in desperation, just for a ‘kiss and cuddle’. No, really, i’m not kidding. I continuously told him I did not do this kind of thing, but it seemed like it fell on deaf ears and I might be there all night. Much begging and pleading. A second flash of the big wad. Etc.

But, as I said, finally he got the message and slunk off…

So there you go. This is how much fun Ilford was, on top of no Internet, cockroaches galore in the kitchen and… yeah, my relationship with Name Withheld had already gone tits-up and the aftermath got plenty ugly, etc, so, all in all, moving back here seemed the only sane thing I could possibly do!

Now I’m not so sure… ;-)

—Chrissie, 21:02 | Permalink | 4 Comments »