Before Alice was having tea with the Mad Hatter, Sir John Tenniel was skewering the politics of Victorian England with his satirical drawings in Punch magazine.

Although Tenniel had formal art training, he wasn’t a fan of how it was taught—so he taught himself. He was rumored to have a photographic memory and preferred to draw entirely from memory. Remarkably, he did all of this after losing the sight in one eye from a fencing accident in his youth, though he rarely mentioned it. It wasn’t long before he landed a job at Punch magazine, which you can think of as the internet of the Victorian era. His sharp, often biting cartoons gained widespread recognition and helped shape public opinion for decades.

What I found fascinating while learning about Tenniel is the evolution of the word cartoon. Originally, it referred to a preliminary sketch on paper—coming from the Italian cartone, meaning “paper.” But it wasn’t until Tenniel and Punch (and the satirical drawings of Victorian England) that the word took on its now-humorous meaning. By the 20th century, the term expanded again to include animation.

Although Tenniel is best known today as the illustrator for Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking-Glass, it’s important to remember that he was already famous in his own time as the lead political cartoonist for Punch—essentially the visual voice of 19th-century satire. Over his fifty years at Punch, he produced more than 2,000 cartoons.

That’s why, when Lewis Carroll was told his own drawings for Alice weren’t up to snuff, he was advised to hire a professional. Carroll, being an avid Punch reader, immediately thought of Tenniel.

My research shows that Tenniel found Carroll to be… well, a bit of a nuisance. Carroll had something to say about nearly every drawing Tenniel produced—except for Humpty Dumpty, for some reason. The constant revisions drove Tenniel nuts. One argument even centered on Alice’s hair color: Carroll wanted brown, Tenniel insisted on blonde. We all know who won that one. It’s safe to say Tenniel defined the visual identity of Alice in Wonderland as we know it.

The art process for Alice was meticulous. Tenniel began with rough sketches, refined them, then traced and transferred the final design onto a wood block, where he redrew it carefully. From there, it went to the engravers—the Brothers Dalziel. Their company, which employed a team of artisans, would cut Tenniel’s lines into the wood block. It was an incredibly tedious process. Once completed, the wood was used as a master to create electrotype plates—metal copies used for printing. (Fun fact: those original wood blocks were thought lost to time until they were rediscovered in a bank vault in 1985.)

In 1893, Tenniel became the first cartoonist ever to be knighted. And while I think modern knighthood is a little silly, it’s still nice to see a cartoonist get that level of recognition. Tenniel’s work on Alice continues to be printed today, and his legacy at Punch runs deep—it’s in the DNA of modern satire and political cartoons. Maybe even in the DNA of Bud, Nick, and Joe.

If you enjoyed learning about John Tenniel, please subscribe. I’ll be sharing more stories about cartoonists and illustrators from history—because honestly, I just love learning about them.

A Related Thrift Store Find

While working on my short story, Malice in Wonderland, I found the centennial edition of Alice in Wonderland at the thrift store. These include Tenniel’s 92 drawings for Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass. It is one of my cherished book possessions.

Take it easy,

James

Trump has called Portland a warzone; he claims it’s burning to the ground.

Spoiler: it’s not.

A quick fact check shows his “the city is on fire!” routine is nothing but theatrics. Do your own digging, but I’m sure you’ll land where I did—he’s trying to paint the left, and protesters in general, as violent extremists. Some folks think he’s inching toward using the Insurrection Act. Who knows.

What is clear is that we all need to stay sharp—do the homework, question the noise, and keep our critical thinking tuned up.

That kind of political exaggeration inspired my latest Bud, Nick, and Joe comic. In it, Bud’s dressed for war. Nick’s confused—because they’re just going to the bookstore. Bud can’t believe Nick hasn’t heard: according to the president, Portland’s a combat zone!

Then they see three people across the street dressed in inflatable frog costumes, leading to Nick’s (hopefully) funny punchline.

If you’ve caught the footage, you know what I’m talking about. It started with one person and turned into an entire army of inflatable animals at the protests—mocking the “warzone” narrative. And honestly? It’s brilliant. I laughed out loud.

It reminded me of that perfect John Lennon quote:

When it gets down to having to use violence, then you are playing the system’s game. The establishment will irritate you – pull your beard, flick your face – to make you fight. Because once they’ve got you violent, then they know how to handle you. The only thing they don’t know how to handle is non-violence and humor.

I recently saw a video of inflatable animals—including a unicorn—marching in lockstep behind a MAGA guy. It’s so silly, I have to laugh.

That’s the kind of protest spirit we need more of—non-violence, humor, and a little creative chaos. If Bud, Nick, and Joe can deliver even a sliver of that, I’m doing my job.

Oh, and Joe? He’s not in this comic… or is he? Maybe he’s one of the protesters in costume—or maybe he’s already inside Powell’s Books (a bucket-list stop for me).

My Thrift Store Find

Today’s find: an opium pipe. Yep, at a thrift store. You don’t see that every day.

After a little Googling, I’m not even sure it’s legal to sell—depends on how you label it. Opium pipe? Water pipe? “Decorative conversation piece”? Who knows.

It looks like jade, it’s got some heft, and it definitely doesn’t feel cheap. I’ll get it appraised and report back once I know its age and material.

Stay tuned.

Take it easy,

James

It was the early ’90s. Sea Isle City, New Jersey. 3:00 AM.

Sean, Joe, and I decided to take our six-pack of Killian’s Irish Red down to the beach and drink until sunrise. We were already flying high, but it was a manageable drunk—the kind that makes you feel like everything is right in the world. My future felt wide open, and I was celebrating life with good friends. We were young, away from the real world, and I was in a band with real potential. I was writing songs nonstop. Sitting there on the sand in the middle of the night, just talking—it felt perfect.

Then Joe decided to go into the ocean. It didn’t matter that the fog was so thick we could barely see in front of us. It also didn’t matter that Joe was in no condition to swim. Sean and I waved him off and went back to our Killian’s. A little sand got on the bottles, but I drank mine anyway. Only the first sip had that crunch. After that, it went down smooth. I don’t remember what Sean and I talked about—probably life, or one of those “I love you, man” conversations that became a Bud Light commercial later that decade.

What I do remember is that mid-sentence, Sean held up a finger—the universal “hold on a sec”—turned his head, puked in the sand, and then went right back to talking as if nothing had happened. I wasn’t even concerned. That’s just what you did back then: you drank, you puked, you kept drinking.

An hour or so later, we realized Joe hadn’t come back. We didn’t panic or even call out. We just looked at the water and wondered where he was. Not long after, he came staggering out of the fog—soaked, out of breath, and grinning. “The waves were great,” he said. We sat together and watched the sunrise before heading back to the beach house. (You can read more about that place here.)

This whole thing became a cartoon idea I’d been sitting on for a while. I wanted to draw it the way it still exists in my mind. Most memories aren’t movies—they’re snapshots. Unless it’s something monumental, like Kennedy’s assassination or 9/11, we remember in flashes. These three panels are my flashes: the beer on the beach, Sean puking, and Joe emerging from the sea.

I didn’t want dialogue or exposition in the comic. This post is the explanation. Maybe the strip wouldn’t make sense without it. Perhaps that makes it a failure. But I drew exactly what I wanted, and that makes it a success to me.

It’s also the first time I’ve used ink washes to create shades of gray. I might do more like this.

That’s all I got.

Take it easy,

James

In the movie Heathers, J.D. says, “We scare people into not being assholes.” But fear doesn’t really change people—I believe it pushes them even further in the direction of assholery. In that same movie, Veronica writes in her journal that suicide gave Heather depth, Kurt a soul, and Ram a brain. Death, in other words, created a false nobility.

And that’s exactly what happens when someone resorts to violence in the real world. Take Charlie Kirk. I barely knew who he was. I’d scrolled past his posts, disagreed, and moved on. But when someone decided to murder him, suddenly, he was elevated. Overnight, he was given a status he never would have had if people had just let his words stand on their own.

It reminded me of a quote from The X-Files: “Killing him, you risk turning one man’s religion into a crusade.” That’s the truth. Killing doesn’t win arguments—it silences discussion. And if you want to change minds, you don’t do it with a bullet. You do it with better ideas, sharper debate, and the courage to challenge someone in the open.

Right now, we’re living in a world where “canceling” has become a weapon for both the left and the right. First, people were punished for saying the “wrong” thing. Now, people are punished for saying anything against someone considered untouchable. It’s out of control. The result? We are losing the very freedom of speech that makes debate possible.

Here’s the hard truth: lowering flags and placing someone on a pedestal doesn’t erase the terrible things they’ve said. You can oppose murder and still call out harmful ideas. You can respect life while refusing to romanticize a person’s rhetoric. That’s not hate—it’s honesty.

The answer isn’t violence. The answer isn’t silencing. The answer is courage: the courage to debate, to disagree openly, to break down bad ideas with logic and integrity. You won’t convince everyone, but you will plant seeds of thought. And you can do it without tearing the country further apart.

We’ve lost the art of disagreeing without destroying. Of being rivals in thought, but still neighbors in life. That’s where we need to return. If we want a healthier society, we need to argue like adults and live together like citizens.

Take the recent uproar with Jimmy Kimmel. Not long ago, the left wanted to cancel anyone who crossed a certain line. Now, the right is doing the same thing, going after Kimmel for speaking his mind. Both sides are guilty of the same reflex: punish instead of debate, silence instead of challenge. And while people cheer when it’s their “opponent” being canceled, no one seems to realize we’re all losing the same freedom.

And that’s exactly what inspired my latest comic. It comes from this frustration—that we can’t seem to say anything anymore without someone trying to silence or punish it. My comic is my way of reminding people that free speech only matters if it protects the voices we don’t agree with. It’s a call to calm down, to listen, to understand, and maybe even laugh at the absurdity of how far we’ve taken things.

So here’s my takeaway: you don’t have to agree with everyone. You don’t even have to like them. But don’t kill them, and don’t cheer when they’re gone. If your vision is better, then speak it boldly. Debate hard. Stand firm. And if your ideas are truly stronger, people will follow.

That’s how you change the world—not by silencing, not by killing, but by proving your voice is worth hearing.

If you found this post worth reading, please share it with someone who you think would enjoy it as well.

Take it easy,

James

At least once a year at my day job, we all get herded into the annual “Respect in the Workplace” training. You know the drill—it covers all the big “isms”: racism, ageism, sexism, and so on. The format is always the same: you’re shown a workplace scenario, then given multiple-choice answers so painfully obvious that picking the wrong one should earn you a one-way ticket to HR.

And yet, clearly, people do make these mistakes—otherwise we wouldn’t need the training.

As a white, middle-aged Gen X guy, I’ve been lucky enough to dodge most of these “isms” in my own life. But now that I’m firmly in the “seasoned” column, I do notice ageism still flies under the radar in a lot of workplaces. If I weren’t so easygoing, I might even take offense. But I love a good burn—just don’t call me a boomer. That’s where Gen X draws the line.

After finishing this year’s training, my brain naturally drifted to a far more important question: how would Count Dracula fare in the workplace? I imagine people would be a little uneasy around a vampire in the workplace. And then there’s the dress code—are capes business casual?

That thought became my latest Between the Screams cartoon. This one isn’t for Book Worms Horror Zine—it’s something I created outside the zine—but it still lives in the same world. The real horror this time wasn’t Dracula—it was drawing the office. Perspective is a cruel beast, and figuring out what not to draw is its own challenge. I kept the detail light, because that’s something I’m trying to get better at. I also drew Dracula four different times before settling on the final version.

I knew the punchline from the start, but there are so many ways to tell a joke—and you never know if you’ve put the words in exactly the right order until it’s too late. Am I happy with the cartoon? The joke—yes. The artwork—50/50.

Because the hardest part was nailing the office background, I think I’m going to spend some time copying New Yorker cartoons just for the backgrounds. Using reference builds skills, and I like having as many tools as possible in my drawing toolbox.

So that’s where I’m at. Let me know what you think of Dracula in the workplace. And remember: no matter your job, a cape is always a power move.

About Between the Screams

Between the Screams is my cartoon series that imagines classic movie monsters living their everyday lives in the moments between the horrors we know them for on screen. It’s the stuff the films never showed us—like what Dracula’s HR meetings might look like, or how Frankenstein handles heartache.

Even though this particular cartoon isn’t part of a Book Worms Horror Zine issue, if you like it, consider picking up Book Worms—each issue includes an exclusive Between the Screams cartoon you won’t find anywhere else.

Get Book Worms

I’ve stopped worrying about whether a cartoon lands or flops. Honestly, if I sat around waiting for a perfect idea, I’d never make anything. The only real path to improvement is repetition—making things, putting them out there, and doing it all over again.

Cartooning is a strange beast. It’s equal parts art and punchline, and both require regular workouts. Study the greats, practice often, and eventually the muscles grow.

Recently, I had one of those serendipitous moments that keep me going. I came across a Charles Addams cartoon and nearly dropped my pen. The gag? Almost identical to one I drew many, many years ago (which has been lost to time). The setup, the payoff—everything was the same, except mine had a modern twist (the sign, to be specific). I had no idea at the time, but apparently I’d been channeling the great Addams without knowing it. That kind of accidental parallel thinking made me weirdly happy. Like, “Hey, maybe I am on the right track.”

Now, my latest cartoon was born somewhere less glamorous than a haunted mansion or foggy graveyard—it came from therapy.

I was mid-rant, complaining that the design of life seems fundamentally flawed. Why is it that the younger versions of ourselves—naive, hormonal, broke—are the ones making decisions that define the lives we’re stuck living later on? It’s madness. My therapist chuckled and said, “You should draw that as a cartoon.” Challenge accepted.

So I drew it.

In the cartoon, the older me confronts the younger me via a time machine. (And yes, if you’re a nerd like me, you might recognize that the time machine is the same one from a classic Far Side cartoon. My little nod to Gary Larson.)

Anyway, that’s the origin story of the latest cartoon. It’s a weird mix of Addams, therapy sessions, and time travel. Hope it makes you laugh—or at least mutter “Yeah, that checks out.”

On to the next one.

—James

A peek inside the making of “The Real Demons of Pop Culture”

Every comic starts the same way: I crack open a dusty old grimoire and pick a demon. No, seriously.

The series kicked off with me flipping through the Lesser Key of Solomon — a 17th-century how-to manual on summoning demons, because apparently, demonology was the original self-help. This ancient spellbook is broken into five parts, but I’m hanging out in the Ars Goetia section for now. That’s where the “fun” demons live — 72 of them, each more bonkers than the last.

The process? I read the demon’s description, then start sketching ridiculous versions of them in my cartoony universe. I look for something in their bio that makes me laugh. In the case of Amdusias, the line that got me was:

“He’s the demon in charge of the cacophonous music played in Hell.”

Cacophonous music? That’s too classy. I took some creative license and imagined Amdusias as the evil DJ of Hell, spinning songs that could make a demon’s ears bleed.

And what would be on that playlist? I asked a friend what song would torture him in Hell. Without skipping a beat, he said: “Hey, Soul Sister” by Train. That sealed it — boom, comic title.

Other songs that nearly made the cut for Hell’s Top 40:

• “Baby Shark”

• “It’s a Small World”

• “Achy Breaky Heart” – Billy Ray’s cursed legacy

• “Who Let the Dogs Out” – You’ll wish you didn’t ask

• “Macarena” – Now featuring zombie backup dancers

• “Friday” – Rebecca Black’s eternal punishment

I like to think these are all on vinyl, spinning non-stop in Hell’s infernal radio station. Even though we know Hell probably went digital, the visual of demons rocking out to scratched-up records makes me happy.

Once I’ve got the character, it’s time to set the scene. For Amdusias, I knew I wanted him in the studio, cueing up the worst song ever. I think a lot about layout — camera angle, background, how many lost souls to cram into Hell’s DJ booth. And then I go back and take half of it out. That’s the lesson I’m learning as a cartoonist: less is more. And wow, is that harder than it sounds.

Trying to distill a visual gag into as few lines as possible? Torture. But the good kind. Demon-approved.

Anyway, I’m proud of how this one turned out. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m heading back to the Ars Goetia to find the next infernal weirdo who makes me laugh.

Stay tuned. Or don’t. The demons don’t care either way.

Take it easy,
James

Bensalem High School, 1988.

The house lights dimmed.

My band hit the final song of our set—“Rock & Roll All Nite” by Kiss—and all hell broke loose.

But before we get to the chaos, let me rewind the cassette a few years.

The One That Got Away

I was just a kid—middle school, maybe eighth grade—when my older brother played Battle of the Bands with his friends at Bensalem High. They didn’t have a bass player, and I practically begged to join. I had the bass. I had the passion. What I didn’t have was a driver’s license or facial hair, so I got a hard “no.”

I wasn’t bad. I was just… not cool enough yet. Fair.

They went on without a bassist, and I went home with a chip on my shoulder and a dream lodged firmly in my gut:

Someday, I’ll play Battle of the Bands.

Bringing It Back from the Dead

Flash forward to my senior year—and guess what?

No Battle of the Bands. It had vanished like perms and parachute pants should have.

So, I did what any determined teenage bassist with dreams of rock glory would do:

I went to a teacher and asked how we could bring it back.

He pointed me toward the Chess Club, of all places—they needed a fundraiser.

Now, this might sound like the setup for a sitcom, but I pitched it:

“A rock show. Live bands. Multiple genres. And in between acts, students with random talents—magic, juggling, whatever—fill the gaps.”

The Chess Club teacher asked if it could raise money.

I looked him dead in the eyes and said, “Absolutely.”

Spoiler: We sold out the auditorium.

Morning announcements hyped the event.

Kids bought tickets.

The bands signed up.

And the Chess Club? I still wonder if they spent the profits on gold-plated pawns and bishops carved from rare obsidian.

The Musical Class War of ’88

Now, let’s talk about music snobs in high school during the ‘80s.

You had the Prog Rockers—Rush and Yes and odd time signatures that gave them nosebleeds of superiority.

The Jazz guys. The Classical purists.

Then the “Heads,” who lived on Zeppelin, Floyd, and Sabbath.

Then the Metalheads, who would fight you over the proper pronunciation of “Mustaine.”

And me? I liked it all.

U2, Metallica, Huey Lewis, Jaco, INXS, Zeppelin—if it had a groove or a riff, I was in.

So we built a setlist to reflect that:

• “Sunday Bloody Sunday” – U2

• “Need You Tonight” – INXS

• “Babe I’m Gonna Leave You” – Led Zeppelin

• And we closed with the chaos bomb: “Rock & Roll All Nite” – KISS

Now, here’s the kicker.

Today? That would all be labeled Classic Rock on the same radio station.

But in 1988, those songs lived on totally different islands.

Mixing them was musical blasphemy.

The Riot

By the time we launched into KISS, the audience had snapped.

People were out of their seats, running around, screaming.

Some were yelling insults at us.

Police showed up. I’m not even kidding.

It was like we’d brought an entire cafeteria’s worth of genre tribes into one room and dared them to coexist.

And they said: Nope. We riot.

We didn’t win.

We took second place.

First went to a wholesome family act called The Solleys who sang “Under the Boardwalk.”

(They didn’t start a riot. So, sure.)

Third went to my buddy Kyle’s band—an original prog rock group that honestly should’ve taken first. Those guys were next-level talented.

There was a Metallica cover band too—and let’s be real—they were probably the ones most outraged by our INXS/U2 crime spree.

Zeppelin fans? Too stoned to care.

The Bigger Picture

Looking back, I wish the other bands had seen the bigger picture.

Without that fundraiser, without the planning and coordination and morning announcements and chess-club partnership—there wouldn’t have been a show.

For many of those bands, it was their first time playing live.

But that’s high school, isn’t it?

Genres are sacred.

Lines are drawn.

And if you mix INXS with anything “cool,” you’re asking for blood.

Still, I wouldn’t change a thing.

I got to bring back Battle of the Bands.

I got to play in front of a sold-out auditorium.

And I learned that music—real music—is about taking risks, shaking cages, and playing what moves you.

Even if it starts a riot.

Shockingly, the podcast did well—like ten-thousand-downloads well. It’s still out there haunting your favorite podcast platforms if you’re the type who likes your trivia with a splash of unholy terror. But here’s the thing: producing it nearly summoned a demon into my spine. Between health issues and the sheer workload, I hit pause. The last episode (on Psycho and Ed Gein) nearly broke me—and not in the fun, possessed-by-a-hellbeast kind of way. If I can’t go full beast-mode on an episode, I’d rather not do it at all.

But… I missed it. The lore. The laughs. The demonic résumé deep-dives.

So I did what any semi-recovered creator would do: I turned the whole idea into a comic strip.

Enter: The Real Demons of Pop Culture (the comic). It asks the big question no exorcist ever dared: What happens to demons no one remembers to summon anymore? I mean, what’s a forgotten prince of Hell gotta do to get an agent in this town?

The first strip stars Beleth—an actual king of Hell—whose biggest claim to fame is… helping Ham, Noah’s son, write a book on mathematics. Yeah. That’s in his official demon résumé. You can’t make this stuff up. (Except someone did. In the 1600s. Probably while possessed.)

So that’s where we are. The podcast lives on in comic form, the demons are still thirsty for fame, and I’m having way more fun drawing infernal has-beens pitching movie ideas than I ever did wrestling with audio levels.

Go check out the first strip. It’s weird, it’s nerdy, and it’s unholy fun.

More to come. These demons aren’t done auditioning.

The other morning, I was at my local mom-and-pop sandwich shop, pouring myself a to-go coffee, when I overheard an older couple talking about education in America. The man—who looked like the human version of Bud the beer can—was ranting about how teachers aren’t educators anymore; they’re “activists.” According to him, everything from history to writing is laced with political bias.

I jotted down “activists, not teachers” in my notes app, knowing it had the makings of a Bud, Nick, and Joe comic.

Later, I googled that phrase. One of the top hits? A story about a teacher being asked to take down a classroom poster that read “Everyone is Welcome Here.” The article is worth a read: link

That hit me hard. The phrase “Everyone is welcome here” seems pretty basic. You’re either for that idea—or you’re not. And if you’re not, the follow-up question has to be: why? The poster shows hands of different skin tones. If that imagery is what offends you, maybe the problem isn’t the poster. Maybe it’s what it reveals about you. That’s a conversation worth having—with yourself.

I suspect the real issue for some people isn’t the poster, but what they think it represents. To them, it’s a gateway to a larger political agenda. Ironically, many of those same critics are the ones pushing to bring their version of God back into schools—not all gods, just theirs.

We can’t move forward as a society if we’re only making space for some and not others. No, I’m not saying classrooms should be plastered with personal political opinions. But “Everyone is welcome here” isn’t political. It’s just decent.

As for the comic’s punchline—“Bud, what were you doing at the elementary school?”—that came later. It cracked me up. Because let’s be honest: it’s often the people preaching the loudest about morality who turn out to be hiding the most.

The comic’s making waves on TikTok. People are picking apart every line, finding meaning I didn’t even put there. But hey, that’s what art does—it starts conversations. And apparently, it’s doing that pretty well.

Take it easy,

James

I first discovered Negativland sometime in the 1990s, most likely while scanning the college radio airwaves of WPRB in Princeton. That station — unpredictable, raw, alive — was a lifeline to music you couldn’t find anywhere else. It still is. Even now, decades later, I find new sounds flipping on PRB. There’s something comforting about that — the spirit of discovery still alive in a world that’s gotten much louder but not necessarily more interesting.

One of Negativland’s standout tracks, Christianity is Stupid, appears on their 1987 concept album Escape from Noise. Built on cut-up sermons by Estus Pirkle (specifically his 1968 LP If Footmen Tire You, What Will Horses Do?), the song remixes phrases like “Christianity is stupid! Communism is good! Give up!” into something unsettling, funny, and deeply subversive. It marches forward on heavy metal riffs and chaotic sound effects — a prank, a protest, and a warning all at once.

That spirit — creating work almost defiantly not meant for mass approval — pulled me toward experimental artists like Negativland and Miranda July. Around the same time, I stumbled onto Miranda July’s 1998 The Binet-Simon Test CD, released by Kill Rock Stars (and yes, again, discovered on WPRB). Neither Negativland nor early Miranda July were chasing popularity. They were building strange little worlds, knowing most people would never bother to visit. And somehow, that made it even more vital.

Today, Miranda July has crossed into the mainstream: critically acclaimed films, bestselling books, 328,000 Instagram followers. And yet, her work remains weird and honest. She didn’t sell out — the world just, somehow, caught up to her a little. Meanwhile, Negativland quietly goes on, with just over 4,500 Instagram followers. And to me, that obscurity almost feels like a badge of honor.

It was through Instagram that I saw Negativland was printing Christianity is Stupid. Give Up T-shirts — and of course, I had to have one. It arrived this week, and I couldn’t wait to wear it.

Then I read the news.

President Trump signed Executive Order 14202, creating the so-called Anti-Christian Bias Task Force. The order claims to protect Christians from government discrimination. In reality, it elevates one religion above all others, which flies directly in the face of the First Amendment’s Establishment Clause. This isn’t an anti-discrimination measure — it’s a political tool to reinforce the myth that Christians, who still make up about 67% of the U.S. population, are a persecuted minority.

That myth is dangerous. Because when the dominant culture starts to see itself as “oppressed,” it justifies extreme actions in the name of “self-defense.” History shows us where that path leads — censorship, exclusion, even violence. When a government starts making special protections for the majority faith, it isn’t preserving freedom. It’s dismantling it.

I haven’t worn my Christianity is Stupid shirt out in public yet. But I will. Maybe my experience won’t be as extreme as poor Nick’s in our comic strip. But if we ever slide into that dystopian future — if the ideals of free expression and religious neutrality really do collapse — then people like me (and probably a lot of you reading this) will find ourselves on the wrong side of the wall.

Speaking of censorship — this comic was actually the second one I’ve created that’s been removed from Webtoons. I received an email that read:

“We are writing to inform you that the episode titled The ACB Task Force from your series Trash Talk with Bud, Nick, and Joe has been removed for violating our Community Policy due to unsuitable content.”

The thing is, I can’t for the life of me figure out what “unsuitable content” they’re talking about. Unless — and this is where it gets chilling — it’s simply because I dared to criticize Christianity. If that’s the case, then my point has already been proven. That’s scary.

And that’s exactly why you should be subscribed to this Substack.

Substack doesn’t censor. Here, I can still say what needs to be said.

If you haven’t already, hit that subscribe button and stick around. We’re going to keep talking about this — loudly, critically, and freely.

Take it easy,
James

My recent one-panel comic I just drew for Modern Art hit a little too close to home. Our singer-songwriter character is onstage, mic in hand, sweat still drying on her brow as she calls out, “Thanks to everyone who came out tonight!” The panel pulls back, and we see a janitor mopping the floor. And he’s smiling like this is the best concert he’s ever seen.

It’s funny, but it’s also real.

Because I’ve been there. Too many times to count. I’ve loaded in gear, tuned up, and played full sets to audiences that could fit into a sedan. Sometimes it was a bartender half-listening as they wiped down the counter. Sometimes it was a sound guy who gave me a thumbs up before going back to reading his book. Sometimes—just once or twice—it was no one but the walls and my echo.

But here’s the thing. Every time, I played like it was Madison Square Garden. Not out of delusion, but out of respect—for the craft, for the venue, for myself. And for the person who might be listening.

And every so often, one person was. And they’d come up afterward, nervous, like they weren’t sure if they should say anything. But then they’d tell me how one of the songs hit them. Or how they’d never heard someone put those feelings into words before. Or they’d just smile and say, “Thanks. That was great.”

And I didn’t always appreciate it.

Back then, I was too busy counting heads. Too busy equating value with volume. I was measuring my success by how full the room was, not by how full I made someone feel.

That comic, with the smiling janitor? That’s not a punchline. That’s the truth. That’s art doing its job. And it made me wonder—how many beautiful moments have I missed because I was too disappointed in the turnout to notice I made one person’s day?

We all want to be heard by the masses. But maybe the real magic happens when we’re heard by one. Maybe the janitor goes home and tells his family, “You won’t believe the music I heard while working tonight.” Maybe he finds your album online. Maybe he becomes your biggest fan. Or maybe he doesn’t. But for those 45 minutes, you made his workday something different. Something memorable.

That matters.

So to all the artists out there—musicians, writers, painters, weirdos whispering your heart into the void—don’t discount the quiet wins. That one smile. That one DM. That one person clapping at the back of the room. That’s connection. That’s resonance. That’s success.

Art isn’t a stadium. It’s a moment.

And sometimes, that moment belongs to just one person.

And that’s enough.

Take it easy,

James

It’s not the performers’ fault—they’re giving audiences what they’re willing to pay for. The real problem is the audience itself. Somewhere along the way, people decided it was more satisfying to squint their eyes in a dark venue and pretend they were watching The Beatles or Taylor Swift (who, by the way, is still alive and touring) than to open their minds to something new.

Venues aren’t the enemy either—they book what sells. And when what sells is nostalgia in a Halloween costume, guess what gets pushed off the stage?

Talented, hungry artists with something original to say.

I get it. Familiarity is comforting. Singing along to songs you already know is easy. But if we want a world with fresh voices, new sounds, and unexpected ideas, we have to actually show up for it. Otherwise, we’re just letting the algorithm win in real life.

In the current state of affairs, we need art more than ever. We need it to speak out against what worries us, to challenge injustices, and to inspire change. Sure, tribute bands might offer an escape, but hiding out lets the bad things continue and fester. With federal arts funding being drastically cut—like the recent cancellation of $175 million in National Endowment for the Humanities grants —it’s up to us to ensure that original voices are heard.

So I’m making a personal commitment: I’m going out to see more original local music. It’s affordable, it’s real, and it needs support.

Here are two upcoming events in Newtown, PA, that I’m planning to attend:

🎤 ARTWRKD Presents: SPEAKeasy

📅 Friday, April 25, 2025 | 🕕 6:30 PM – 9:30 PM

📍 ArtWRKD, 126 S State St, Newtown, PA 18940

Experience the art of storytelling performed live at ArtWRKD’s first-ever SPEAKeasy event. This immersive evening combines creative writing, live performances, and a vibrant community atmosphere.

More Info

🎶 Music in the Shop: Those Looks and PA Star

📅 Friday, May 9, 2025 | 🕖 7:45 PM – 9:15 PM

📍 Newtown Book & Record Exchange, 102 S State St, Newtown, PA 18940

This intimate, in-store concert series features local musicians performing in the cozy confines of the Book & Record Exchange. The May 9 concert will showcase Those Looks and PA Star, offering a blend of indie pop, alt-country, surf, and psychedelic rock.

More Info

I’ve spent enough time being annoyed by the state of things. Now I’m putting my money—and my ears—where my mouth is.

And if you say you care about music, maybe you should too.

Meanwhile, she can’t even make art. She’s too busy making content.

When the therapist suggests taking a break from social media, she stares at them like they’ve lost their mind. A break? From the only thing keeping me visible? From the thing that lets people know I exist?

That fear is real. We’ve been conditioned to believe that if we’re not online, constantly posting, we’ve disappeared. That if we take even one day off from shouting into the void, someone else will take our spot.

But what if that’s a lie?

What if logging off, even a little, is exactly what our art needs?

⸻

5 Offline Ways Creatives Can Promote Their Work (That Might Actually Work Better)

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1. Create or Join Small-Scale Local Events

Readings, house shows, pop-up exhibits, open mics, creative meetups, skillshares—whatever your medium is, there’s a way to share it live. You don’t need a massive crowd. You need a room of 12 people who actually care. That’s more valuable than 1,200 likes from strangers.

⸻

2. Collaborate Across Mediums

Musicians teaming up with writers for zines. Comics creators working with podcasters. Poets scoring short films. Creatives working together make unique, memorable projects—and everyone brings their own audience to the table. You become part of a network, not just a solo feed.

⸻

3. Make Tangible Work (and Put It Where People Can Touch It)

Zines. Chapbooks. Hand-burned CDs. Flash drives with secret content. Live bootlegs. Folded lyric sheets. Photocopied manifestos. Hang them in cafés. Drop them in library book returns. Leave them in bathrooms. The real world is full of unexpected spaces waiting to be claimed.

⸻

4. Use Email (It’s Not Dead)

Start a monthly or seasonal email or get on Substack. Make it feel like a letter, not a sales pitch. Share your process, what you’re struggling with, what you’re excited about. People who sign up actually want to hear from you—and no algorithm will bury your message.

⸻

5. Make Yourself Discoverable in Analog Ways

Print a small flyer. A one-sheet. A calling card. Leave it in places where your people go—record stores, bookstores, bulletin boards, coworking spaces. Include what you do, where to find more, and why it matters. People still look at stuff. Especially when it’s made with intention.

⸻

Social media can help. But if it’s making you miserable, stealing your time, and keeping you from actually creating—what are you really building?

This comic’s songwriter is fictional. But the feeling is real. As the guy who made her up, I’ve felt it too.

So here’s the truth: you don’t have to be online all the time to matter. You just have to make something worth sharing—and then share it in ways that don’t drain you. That’s not giving up. That’s choosing to exist in a way that keeps your art alive.

Take it easy,

James

This wasn’t a “giant leap for womankind.” It was a designer-branded skip. A $450,000 joyride dressed up as progress. And after reading the women who wrote about it—women who actually understand the history and future of feminism—I realized I wasn’t alone in my disgust.

Let’s be real: Blue Origin’s latest launch was less about science and more about optics. Katy Perry, Gayle King, Lauren Sánchez, and others were hailed as pioneers… for sitting in an autonomous rocket for 11 minutes. Floating in zero gravity. Taking selfies. Wearing Barbie-core flight suits reportedly designed by Bezos’ wife. And then being called feminist icons.

Please.

There was no science conducted. No exploration. No barrier-breaking. Just a flashy photo op that let Bezos spin space tourism as empowerment while siphoning money from the public and rebranding billionaires as benevolent feminists. As Moira Donegan wrote, “This wasn’t a mission for women everywhere. It was a luxury joyride, dressed up as empowerment.” And she nailed it.

Meanwhile, back on Earth—where most women live—real rights are disappearing. Roe v. Wade is gone. Access to reproductive care is dwindling. Trans women are fighting just to exist. Women of color are being pushed out of science, tech, and healthcare as DEI programs get slashed under right-wing pressure. Just last year, federal funding cuts led to hundreds of layoffs across NASA, the FDA, and the NIH—many of them women scientists and researchers. So while Bezos launches his fiancée and a pop star into orbit for content, actual women doing actual work are losing their jobs.

And let’s not forget: this entire spectacle happened while Congress passed the SAVES Act, compromising voting rights for women. But hey—at least we got lash extensions in space, right?

Here’s the part that stings a little: I originally had Joe—the lefty coffee mug from my Bud, Nick & Joe comic—calling bullshit on the launch. But deadlines are real. Comics need to hit when the story does. Joe, flawed as he is, wanted this to be true. A lot of us did.

But it’s not.

This wasn’t a milestone. It was a marketing campaign. A pinkwashed, billionaire-endorsed spectacle meant to keep us clapping while the floor is pulled out from under us. And yeah—fuck Katy Perry. You don’t get to turn feminism into a punchline by talking about “putting the ass in astronaut” while wearing lash extensions in orbit. You’re not the future. You’re a distraction.

I’m a man. I know that. But the women who helped me see through this charade—journalists, feminists, scientists—wrote with clarity and anger and truth. I’m just amplifying what they already knew: this wasn’t for women. It was for the men who built the rocket and the brand.

If you want to empower women? Start on Earth. In clinics, classrooms, labs, and courtrooms. Not in a glorified party bus shaped like a penis, blasting into the sky so billionaires can sell us equality they’ve never had to fight for.

Take it easy,
James

Our journey starts with an unnamed singer-songwriter (she’ll get a name eventually—this isn’t Cheers), sitting at a coffee shop with a friend, beaming over the fact that her song just hit 1,000 streams on Spotify. That glow quickly fades when she realizes her big payout won’t even cover a bagel. If you’ve ever celebrated a creative win, only to realize it comes with no rent money and a side of existential dread—you’re in the right place.

This strip is just the beginning. Modern Art will spotlight all kinds of creators—musicians, actors, writers, visual artists, and anyone else brave enough to keep making art in a world that often says, “Cool, now give it to me for free.”

I’ve lived this life. I’ve played shows for an audience of one drunk guy at a dive bar. I’ve auditioned so poorly for a play that I still wake up in a cold sweat thinking about it (no footage exists, thank the gods). And I’ve uploaded music that somehow found its way to people in Norway. Big in Norway. Broke everywhere else.

Back when I played in bands in the ’90s, I would’ve sold my soul for this kind of distribution. But here’s the reality: today’s artists don’t struggle to get heard—they struggle to get paid. Streaming is fun, but it doesn’t pay. The dream now? Sell some merch. Go on tour forever. Try to survive.

That’s why I’m asking you—yes, you—to support an independent artist this week. Skip the mass-produced tee from Target and buy a shirt from a band you love. Need some art for your walls? Find a local artist or someone grinding on Etsy. Art isn’t disposable. It’s personal. And it’s hurting.

Let’s make indie art less of a pity party and more of a movement. Comment below with what you picked up. Better yet—post a photo. Tag the artist. Spread the love. We can change things, one meaningful purchase at a time.

**Like what you’re reading? Subscribe and pass it along to a friend.**

This comic’s been simmering in the back of my brain for a while now. I kept seeing people—mostly on the left—posting things like “I didn’t vote for Elon Musk.” And while I’m not exactly on Team Elon (I mean, DOGE? Really?), that kind of comment gets under my skin. Not because I disagree with their concerns, but because that’s just… not how our government works.

In the U.S., a whole lot of people in powerful positions are appointed, not elected. If we’re going to shout about how systems should change, we need to understand how they work first. Otherwise, it’s just noise. Saying “I didn’t vote for Elon” makes as much sense as saying “I didn’t vote for Anthony Fauci.” You didn’t. No one did. That’s not how it works.

Now, let’s not pretend this is just a left-leaning problem. On the far right, there’s another kind of chaos—where folks will repeat literally anything Trump says, regardless of whether it’s been proven or completely debunked. And believe me, fact-checking that man’s quotes is a full-time job. The misinformation is exhausting, and honestly, kind of dangerous.

So when I started this strip, the goal wasn’t to dunk on one side or the other—it was to highlight how extreme thinking on both ends of the spectrum leads to bad takes. I found it easier to spot blatant falsehoods on the right, but when you go far enough in either direction, logic tends to fall apart.

After I posted this on TikTok, someone commented, “Am I supposed to identify with the cigarette?” The answer is: not necessarily. Bud, Nick, and Joe are characters. They’re not meant to be avatars of you—they’re little trash beings with exaggerated traits I throw into messy situations to spark a thought. If you’ve ever watched All in the Family, you didn’t have to agree with Archie Bunker or Meathead to understand what the show was saying. Same idea here.

What I hope people take from this isn’t a team to root for or an enemy to boo—it’s a nudge to think. To ask: How am I consuming information? Who am I trusting, and why? Am I challenging my own biases—or just doubling down?

When I post these comics, some folks want them to clearly target “the other side.” They want me to pick a villain and stick to it. But that’s not the point. We don’t need more shouting. We need more listening. We need to find the threads that still connect us, even if they’re tangled.

If I were going full tinfoil hat for a second, I’d say: maybe someone out there wants us fighting. Maybe we’re all playing a game someone else designed, and we’re too busy yelling to notice.

But maybe if we unplug for a while—step away from the screen, go for a walk, sit in stillness—we might actually hear something worth listening to. Or maybe just our own thoughts. That’d be a good start.

Take it easy,

James

Yes, everything is being tracked. We know this because every true crime docuseries now includes a scene where detectives read out Google searches like “how to dissolve a body in vinegar” as if they’re bedtime stories. The dystopia isn’t coming—it’s already on Hulu.

This comic may exaggerate some of the conversations I’ve heard in tech circles… but not by much. And now that AI is here, quietly absorbing everything about us—individually and collectively—the weird future is arriving faster than a software update you forgot to install.

Because let’s be honest: if the machines don’t decide to eliminate us like in Terminator, they might go the other way and decide we’d make excellent pets. Which, frankly, might be the best-case scenario. Just ask Perry Farrell.

Back in high school, my friends and I would get into heated debates—not about sports or prom dates—but about our favorite classical composer. Was it Bach, Beethoven, or Mozart? There were plenty to choose from, sure, but those three were always the holy trinity.

The funny thing? We were all in metal bands. Shredding guitars by night, but secretly swooning over Baroque counterpoint by day. Guys like Yngwie Malmsteen made that connection easy—he brought Bach to the fretboard like a lightning bolt in leather pants. Inspired, we all tried (and mostly failed) to master Bach’s Two-Part Invention No. 4 in D Minor on the piano. Some of us even jammed it out with one part on guitar and the other on bass. I remember recording a few classical pieces on the bass myself. That love never left.

Then one day in the ‘80s, I stumbled across Switched-On Bach by Wendy Carlos—a revelation. Bach on a Moog synthesizer? It was like aliens had landed and decided to throw a Baroque rave. I was instantly obsessed. To this day, if I hear a Moog, I’m in.

But shortly after I bought the album, someone felt the need to “inform” me that Wendy Carlos was born Walter Carlos. “She’s a man,” they said. Not “she transitioned,” not “she’s a trans woman.” Just: “She’s a man.” I don’t remember exactly how I reacted—maybe with confusion or discomfort. But one thing I know for sure: it didn’t change how the music made me feel.

The same thing happened when I gave a report on David Bowie in class. After I finished, the class clown—pretty sure his name was Scott—asked, “Is Bowie gay?” The room erupted in laughter. I didn’t flinch. I told them he was bisexual. I saw the teacher give me a subtle nod. Maybe for the report. Maybe for not playing into the juvenile nonsense. Maybe both.

Back then, being gay was the taboo. Now, it’s trans rights that are in the crosshairs. And while things are better, we’re still a long way from good. Wendy Carlos released Switched-On Bach in 1968 under the name Walter, and the album absolutely crushed. It hit #10 on the Billboard 200, dominated the classical charts for years, sold over a million copies, and won multiple Grammys. She came out as trans in a 1979 Playboy interview—bold move, considering how hard it still is today.

Wendy once said she’d always been concerned with liberation and just wanted to liberate herself. That hit me. Because really, why should an artist’s gender or sexuality matter to anyone consuming their art? If it doesn’t hurt you, why let it bother you?

In my comic, Bud enjoys Wendy Carlos’s music—until he learns she’s trans. Suddenly, he feels like the synth has been “tainted.” Like transness is contagious. Joe steps in to remind him that Wendy isn’t the one who’s confused—Bud is. And the only real cure for that confusion is education and exposure. Most transphobia isn’t rooted in experience—it’s rooted in ignorance.

Back in 1966, New York sexologist Harry Benjamin published The Transsexual Phenomenon, a book that helped guide Carlos’s own journey. That was almost 60 years ago. There’s no shortage of information—just a shortage of willingness to read it.

Look, I’m not trying to start a war on TikTok (though who knows, maybe I will). My comics don’t hand out answers—they ask questions. I hope those questions spark meaningful dialogue. But yeah… sometimes it’s just noise.

Still, I think it’s worth making the art that asks anyway.

In the next episode of Bud, Nick, & Joe, our beloved Trash Trio is loitering outside their usual haunt, HEBGB’s (pronounced heebie-jeebies, naturally). Bud, the ever-loyal right-wing beer can, is on his way to perform with his band, CANTHRAX—yes, that’s their actual name, and yes, it sounds exactly like the kind of noise Bud would make if he stubbed his toe.

Outside the bar, Joe—our radical left-wing Trans Mug—is holding a handmade protest sign and passionately objecting to Bud’s lyrics. CANTHRAX drops enough offensive language to make a sailor blush and a cancel committee salivate.

Then, just as Bud’s about to fire back, a young woman strolls past, spots Joe’s beret, and says, “That beret is cunt.”

Cue record scratch.

Bud flatlines.

Nick starts Googling.

And, totally unfazed, Joe says, “It’s okay to say that word now.”

This strip wasn’t pulled from the surreal corners of my imagination—it was inspired by real life.

At my day job, I’m surrounded by Millennials and Gen Z, which means I’m also surrounded by mysterious slang and the kind of cultural shifts that make you feel like you just woke up in a different dimension.

One rainy day, I decided to wear my $6 London Fog trench coat (a thrift store treasure, thank you very much). Everyone seemed into it—nods of approval, nice comments. But then, as I was heading out, a younger coworker said:

“Your coat is cunt.”

I blinked. Asked her to repeat it. Four times.

Each time, same word.

Finally, someone jumped in to clarify: “Yeah, you’re hearing it right. It’s a compliment now.”

At some point in time, the C-word was rebranded. What once carried the sting of shame is now fashion-forward, femme-fatale praise.

And it got me thinking—what is a “bad word,” really?

Language evolves. Words change meaning depending on generation, culture, race, intent, and context. Certain communities reclaim some words. Others are off-limits to outsiders. And some are still landmines, even when said with the purest intentions.

We live in a time where saying the wrong thing—on the wrong platform, to the wrong crowd, at the wrong time—can cancel you faster than a Netflix series with promise.

But here’s the thing: I’m a firm believer in free speech. Yes, even the ugly parts of it. Hate speech, as disgusting as it is, is still legally protected speech—but that doesn’t mean it’s useful. It usually just outs the speaker as a certified jerk.

For me, the question is always intent. Words on their own are just sounds and letters. It’s how we use them—and why—that gives them power. Demonizing language too broadly can lead us into dangerous territory, where fear replaces nuance, and everyone walks on eggshells instead of talking things out.

I never want to live in a world where a single spoken word could land me in prison—or worse. But I also don’t want to live in a world where we use language as weapons just because we can.

So what do you think?

Are words just words?

Or are they sacred?

Are we evolving or just arguing in new fonts?

One thing I know for sure: language is messy, humans are messier, and humor might be the only thing keeping us from tearing each other apart.

Take it easy,

James