Jonny Numb

I didn’t want to jinx the trip.

In our obsessively self-interested online world, where the promise of a dopamine rush from posting “content” for likes is nigh irresistible, the temptation to make some “heads up!” tweet or Facebook post can be hard to resist.

I was excited, yes. And sometimes you want those sweet, sweet likes. And, on rarer occasions, you want to signal to those who might also be showing up at the event.

I had even gone to the trouble of acquiring and printing out a copy of the “free” ticket.

But in a world where nothing is promised, and one’s survival on a daily basis is often dictated by pure dumb luck, my mildly superstitious side didn’t wish to do anything to imperil my journey, which would take me along the perilous Schuylkill Expressway, through Central Philadelphia, and to my final destination: South Street.

While a busy tourist attraction, South Street still remains one of my favorite places to visit in Philly. Containing a wide array of shops and restaurants, it’s also home to the Theatre of Living Arts, where I’ve seen many live performances over the years.

My reason for heading into Philly on Thursday, October 5 was an anomaly. I was going to the Partners and Son art gallery to meet comics artist Daniel Clowes on the occasion of the release of his latest graphic novel, Monica.

In this life, our journeys of self-discovery flow from one thing to another. Near the end of high-school, I rented Crumb and had my mind blown. I immediately wanted to acquire everything I could from the underground cartoonist and ’60s counterculture icon. I also mentally bookmarked Terry Zwigoff as a filmmaker to keep an eye on.

So when Ghost World was released in 2001, I patiently waited for it to hit video, and promptly fell in love with this outsider tale that, to further wear down a well-worn cliche, “mirrored my own aimless life at that point in time, blah blah blah.”

Moreover, I sought out the source material from Comix Connection (which, at the time, was located in York’s Delco Plaza – a near-empty shopping center in its death-throes), where I also picked up a significant pile of The Complete Crumb Comics as well as collected volumes of Peter Bagge’s Hate!

Upon reading, I was surprised at the differences between the source material and the film, but came to acknowledge both as complementary pieces of art. While Clowes’ black-and-white-and-blue-green hues presented a stark, slightly nauseous vision of two school friends, Enid and Rebecca, adrift in the existential muck of the post-high-school world, Zwigoff’s film (which Clowes co-wrote) streamlined the focus to Enid’s infatuation with a flawed, record-collecting misanthrope (Steve Buscemi) who reflected her own willfully nonconformist traits.

From there, I went down a Clowes rabbit-hole, consuming one book after another. I was afraid of going too quickly and having nothing left to read (that was okay, since I just started re-reading his stuff when that happened). His work is so consistently good, it’s difficult to play favorites, but I’ve always been partial to the mind-blowing grotesques who populate the nightmarish fairytale of Like a Velvet Glove Cast in Iron.

Maybe what’s most striking about Clowes’ work is its honesty. Despite their sometimes exaggerated traits, there is something distinctly relatable about his protagonists and the supporting characters who enter their orbit. They may not be likable at all times, but there’s something known about them. Filmmakers and writers often fail when they attempt to adopt the rhythm of a culture or a personality type they don’t understand. Clowes, however, possesses an empathy that bleeds from the pen onto the page.

And, as I’ve outlined elsewhere: the drive into Philly has almost become relaxing to me since, after two decades, it’s become so familiar. Sure, I always kind of dread the asshole who tailgates in a congested area, but my attitude is one of, “if you’re in such a goddamn hurry, find a way to pass me.” I’ve become the Old Timer who keeps as much distance as possible between the car in front of me (while keeping within the speed limit, of course), and this practice has served me well.

The final stretch of the journey (after going through the toll plaza at the Valley Forge exit) typically winds up being 2-3 times longer than whatever the GPS anticipates. It’s stop-and-go, stop-and-go, all the way into the city proper.

Once on South Street, I dumped my car in an underground garage a block up from the TLA. I’m not adventurous or patient enough to parallel park in the surrounding neighborhood, let alone obey the janky rules on the parking signs. So, yes, parking garage – shut up and take my money (and piece of mind) for a few hours.

After a week or more of seasonal temperatures in Central PA, Mother Nature played a dirty trick and put us back in the upper-70s/low-80s range. While others were no doubt enjoying an unseasonably “balmy” October day, I started to perspire almost immediately after walking up the garage ramp to street level.

It was around 4:45, and the signing was set for 6 – 9. Unsure of what to expect from the event (would Mr. Clowes be doing a Q&A in addition to signing books?), I decided to make my way toward Partners and Son by no later than 5:30.

I made a quick stop at one of my favorite South Street haunts, Digital Underground, and perused their new and used CD shelves. I wound up picking up 2 used albums by Bella Morte, and a 5-disc(!) March Violets box set.

In addition to it being warmer than usual outside, I also realized that shops in Philly seem to run the air conditioning as a last resort. It didn’t help that the CD shelves were illuminated by overhead spotlights that only worsened my sweaty and repulsive disposition.

In any case, I checked out around 5:30 and made my way over to Partners and Son, which was as small as it looked on their website. Shelving had been moved off-sides to make a clearing leading up to the signing table (at the back of the shop, next to the checkout). Immediately inside the front door was a meticulously-stacked display of the Monica hardcover (maybe 200 or 300 copies?), but I wandered around for a bit, just eyeing the inventory.

In addition to Monica, I also picked up Chris Ware’s latest, Rusty Brown (a barbell of a book, if I do say so myself). I was also beguiled by a new tome by Charles Burns…but when I picked it up, saw it was in French. The co-owner of the store explained that an English version was slated for release in 2024. He also said the evening’s event would just be a signing (which I was fine with).

By now, more people had found their way inside, picking through the inventory and pre-paying for their copies of Monica. As I headed back toward the entrance to give other people room to mill about, I saw Mr. Clowes and a small entourage out front. I tried to act all “cool” and disinterested as they entered the store, but couldn’t help the smile that came to my face.

For as fast as it’s gone by, 2023 has been a pretty monumental year for me: doing the “VIP experience” for Skinny Puppy and L7, and now meeting one of my favorite artists. Perhaps this is mortality subconsciously kicking in: nobody knows how long they will be able-bodied, or how long they will be alive. Who knows? Maybe I’ll just get sick and tired of going places and decide to spend the rest of my life catching up with all the Blu-rays and DVDs I’ve accumulated over the past decade or so.

(Speaking of missed opportunities: it wasn’t until I left Partners and Son that I realized, with 95% certainty, that Charles Burns was part of Mr. Clowes’ entourage. I kicked myself for forgetting he resided in Philly; even as one of the staff stacked copies of Black Hole, as if in anticipation of not one but two comics geniuses gracing the establishment with their presence, the connection flew over my distracted mind.)

In any case, by the time I paid for my short (yet heavy) stack of books, the store had filled in nicely, and the first guy to approach for an autograph had a hardbound volume half the height of a screen door that he presented to Mr. Clowes for signature.

I asked the young woman behind me if she’d mind taking a picture when it was my turn. She acquiesced, but something in her expression suggested she was put off by the request. There was conflicting information as to whether there would be signing and selfies, or just signing. I recalled using the word “starstruck” to explain my state of mind, which probably didn’t help her perception of the perspiring, hirsute creature in her midst.

When it came my turn to approach the table, I told Mr. Clowes how I’d been a fan of his work for “half my life, since Ghost World.” As he opened my copy of Monica to the inside cover, he paused to reflect for a moment before saying he’d been drawing comics professionally for 39 years. “It’s something when you get to a point where you can measure your life in decades,” I said as he began to apply his signature.

I also snuck in a question about Like a Velvet Glove Cast in Iron, and whether he’d ever been approached to have it turned into a movie. He confirmed that he had, but at a time before streaming opened up greater possibilities for longform storytelling. “And the time to do it would’ve been 5 or 6 years ago,” he stated. I mentioned that a proper adaptation would probably resemble something like Twin Peaks: The Return, to which he agreed. (And, while I think Velvet Glove could be adapted quite brilliantly, I am perfectly fine just re-reading the book.)

In any event, he passed back the book and was amenable to a photo. While I look horrendous, I wanted an additional memento to mark the occasion. The Monica book tour wasn’t extensive, and I felt very fortunate that Philly was selected as one of the stops. I also figured I’d be a fool if I let anything but a flesh-eating virus get in the way of what could very well be my only opportunity to meet one of my artistic inspirations.

So yeah, I’m glad I made the trip.

As for Monica, I read it over three sittings, so perhaps I did myself a disservice in breaking the spell of Clowes’ storytelling by not consuming it all in a single marathon session. That said, it is a dense read in terms of its unconventional takes on time, space, and character. It’s a tale of the titular protagonist’s attempt to find out about the enigma that was the mother she never really knew (supposedly lulled by a cult and never seen again), a search that takes place over a span of decades. It’s impossible to undermine the meticulous effort that goes into Clowes’ work – the way he writes dialog and description, and his frequent trick of obscuring or omitting words from thought and/or word balloons – but there’s something that left me a bit cold about this one. The final page feels like a tease for a sequel or an instance of the author not knowing quite how to bring his premise to a satisfying end. But I remembered feeling a similar way toward Clowes’ more straightforward Wilson, and that one has grown on me considerably over time. I’m sure I’ll give Monica another chance sooner rather than later.