A QUOTIDIAN LIFE

I am a cartoonist. I have been a cartoonist for over forty years. I've only sold my drawings to a few venues--as illustrations--not as "comics". I save the strips for myself.

Years ago, I discovered that keeping a journal was not only risky (my Mom found my diary in high school...ick...)but problematic. So much energy that could be used in other writing was drained away by a diary. I also learned that some situations are better left to "steep", than to immediately put into print. Still, an examined life seems like the only life I could face living--comic strips became the answer.

I've always been a reader (and a collector) of cartoons. From super-heroes to "educational classics in comic form"--anything that was a line drawing pulled me in. Animated "funnies" were great, however, there was something about the drawings on a page--paired with word balloons--instant addictions. Like my other addictions, it continued to grow into adulthood. When I discovered "underground comics", in the sixties and seventies, I discovered a world that was filled with all the weirdness, humor and shocking brutalities of the human mind. I discovered that people were writing about their actual lives! Stuff like break-ups, drugs or losing a job filled their panels. I discovered Harvey Pekar.

Harvey Pekar was a Cleveland file clerk with more depression and neurosis than anyone I had ever met. His low-level civil service job acted like Prozac, though. His mind was free --to deal with his lot in life in a creative way. Though it cost him two wives, and kept his life-style ridiculously humble (boy, can I relate!), it allowed him to develop into a poor-man's intellectual. He became a respected, widely published jazz critic. His personal collection of jazz records was where he sank his money--both feeding his knowledge and comforting his heart. Then, (just like me!) Pekar discovered the underground comic revolution.

Pekar realized, comics had more than "pow" and "zap" appeal--they had intellectual muscles that could be excercised into something insightful. With the right artists, become even beautiful. Pekar knew he was not visual artist. But, he could write. So, for the first time in his life, Harvey began to put to paper the details of his existence. Using stick figures and "balloons" to encircle the words, he wrote about his file clerk job, his divorces, his quest for the perfect jazz "side", his longing for love. But mostly, he wrote about the American people of Cleveland.

When he bumped into the underground cartoonist, R. Crumb, he showed Crumb his scribbles. Crumb recognized a like-minded genius. Crumb took Harvey's work home and illustrated the stories. However, Harvey didn't want to cash in on Robert Crumb's fame. Harvey was Harvey. He wanted to control the process of his comics. So, instead of buying thousands of dollars of records a year, he invested in himself, and began to send the collaboration to a printer, with his own dough. Somehow, he figured out a way to get small distribution of his self-published work. "American Splendor" was born. Later issues contained the illustrations of other artists,whom Harvey paid to bring his scribbles to life. The constantly changing roster of illustrators made "American Splendor" visually fresh. The constantly same themes made the comic a guilty pleasure.

One of David Letterman's writers was from Cleveland and helped get Harvey on the show. But Harvey hated show business. He felt it was all a fake, far less interesting than the people on the streets, struggling with real drama. He let Letterman know. This, along with the poor payment he felt he received, cut his return engagements to the show. Harvey didn't care. The appearances didn't impact on sales of his comics. However, they did impact on his notoriety. Harvey Pekar and "American Splendor" became the new buzz in comicdom. A movie deal was cut, based on the comics, and Harvey was on his way.

Later, Pekar battled cancer, twice, and with his third wife (and true love), Joyce Brabner, wrote about his illnesses in a comic book that became a national book award winner. He and Joyce adopted a daughter,Danielle, and Harvey went on to publish more "American Splendor". For thirty years, this common man, like Walt Whitman, worked on his autobiography. From the streets up. Under his own steam. Realizing the illumination in the ordinary. He was unafraid to share his fears. He touched readers because he showed readers: "We aren't alone." Life IS tough. The rich are in another reality. If we aren't good to each other, in this one, we only make ourselves miserable.

However, Harvey Pekar also wrote about love. He wrote about a man in middle-age, neurotic, funny-looking, rough edged and cranky, who, in the midst of another bout of angst, discovers a woman who will save him. A woman with her own issues, but who sees the real "him" and loves him ,only for that. Like two hedgehogs backing into each other on a dark night, they begin a love affair that saw them through to his death, a few days ago. A working class epic. The real deal. Harvey Pekar called it "the quotidian life".

I call it magic. Thank-you, Harvey. The world is a little darker, today, with your passing.