When the world ends, who's gonna read this?

Chapter 1 (Part 1)

2006-01-23T07:15:21Z

I ask my apartment what it thinks of me. It doesn’t respond, only sits there with a pre-fab, unfurnished look to it, which is just as telling as if it had said something. It’s small, like me: A kitchenette and another larger room with serves as living room and bedroom; meanwhile, I’m a compact unit, entirely contained within myself–no extensions, no need for the neighboring units.

Lou Reed was never alone in a city. Even if he was ever physically alone, the man could never be entirely alone–he was always being thought about, always being considered, and there was always someone wishing they were alone with him in that city. A man like Lou Reed is never truly alone–or maybe it’s that a person like him would never even feel lonely.

Obviously, I’m not Lou Reed, and I am alone in a city. My parents aren’t thinking about me right now–my father is thinking about his comeback album and my mother is thinking about Fashion Week in New York. I have been in Boston only about five hours–the city is not thinking about me. Through the window in my bathroom I can see Coolidge Corner, the lights at the theater pretending it’s still the 1920s, the stickers on street signs pretending they’re meaningful to someone other than their creator.

The truth is, part of me probably wanted to be forgotten. I had the option of living with my parents for the rest of my life, never in need of anything, mooching off faded success until the end. Sales of old Crisis albums still brought my Dad money, and my mother’s clothing line spoke for itself. I grew up both cynical and idealistic, and with that came a choice with two possibilities: should I stay or should I go? To consume or be consumed? I decided to go, and in the process, be consumed–eaten alive by Boston and the hoards of people a million times more interesting, focused, ironic and bohemian than me. I took my drawings (knowing that graphic novels were already losing their indie-cred status) and my meager book deal with a basement run publishing company and struck out on my way to save or shame the world.

What do I need? What I need is a few more tee shirts with antique illustrations paired with Smiths song titles or lines from Tennyson poems. What I need is a collection of kitschy action figures and medical diagram posters. What I need is a undying faith in an obscure suburban band just unknown enough to be barely relevant. What I need is a pair of vintage cowboy boots and large sunglasses. However,I know that my upbringing was too perfect to be perfectly quirky. Lying on the bare mattress in the middle of my studio, I can see the very top of a flashing red sign, barely visible through the window, and a lyric from one of my father’s songs seems to not want to leave my head: burn this city burn this city burn this city burn this city.

PROLOGUE

2005-11-07T22:05:45Z

The following is an excerpt from the online 'blog of Tiny Sims.

When I was born, I was only 4 lbs, 3 oz. My father was high, and mother was hopped up on numerous pain-killers. And those are the reasons why I am named Tiny.

My parents are famous, which doesn't mean much because everyone's parents are famous these days. I'm told I'm smart, which also doesn't mean much because everyone thinks they're smart these days. But I'm also told not everyone graduates from college at 19. It's hard to know who to believe.

Whenever I meet someone, one of my first questions is, "What do you do?". I like to see if their automatic response is the stuff they genuinely love to do, or if it's just some job. So what do I do? I sing in the rain; I look at clouds from the roof of my apartment building; I people watch; I sew my own dolls. I'm also a cartoonist. You might have heard of my graphic novel series, Electric Dollroom. I was told the New York Times reviewed it, though I was too scared to actually read the review.

(What Tiny doesn't want you to know is that he also dances naked in his bedroom, pretending he's Mick Jagger; Has a weird man-crush on Rivers Cuomo; is afraid of that guy on "Dateline NBC"; owns every album Elton John put out; and secretly likes wearing dresses sometimes. But you didn't hear it from me.)

When I was 11, I made a 6-page comic about David Bowie traveling to Mars with Mick Ronson. It was the first thing I'd seriously drawn, other than stick figures in the margins of my school notebooks. I showed it to My Father The Rock Star, and he told me a story about a time when he saw Bowie making out with Mick Jagger at some party in the early '70s. My mom was at Fashion Week, and by the time she came home I'd forgotten to show her. I ended up mailing it to Bowie on a whim--I didn't really have any friends who would understand. After all, what pre-pubescent kid writes tales of rockstars and intergalactic space travel with slightly homosexual undertones? Not that I even knew this was abnormal. I just knew that no one would be interested. I did get a letter from David--a pretty dry form letter, thanking me for my support and asking how my father was doing.

A few months later, one of the panels from my comic showed up on one of Bowie's tour posters. I guess my dad gave him permission to use it, and didn't let me know--I didn't care. David Bowie liked my artwork, and that was enough for me. I knew what I wanted for the first time in my life--I wanted to be an artist. I wouldn't be sucked into the celebrity life my parents led--I wanted to be a real person with an honest profession. Of course, things never really work out the way you plan; But really, that's alright, sometimes. First I couldn't get into any art schools, since my high school didn't offer the required art classes. Second, My Father the Rock Star and My Mother the Fashion Designer decided that art wasn’t a serious profession (I don’t think that needs any commentary, do you?). I ended up with the next best thing: a degree in Communications from UC Berkeley. Art is a form of communication, and the underground punk scene that sprung up around me provided a lot of inspiration. There was a huge underground 'zine scene, too--lots of kids were making their own cut-and-paste, Xeroxed mags. They traded them with each other, gave them out at shows, and left them in stacks at Rasputin Records. I'd gotten into the habit of drawing short, one or two page comics while I traveled around the city on the train. They were mostly strange true stories from my life, bits and pieces of my odd upbringing and life: Being babysat by Elvis Costello on New Year's Eve; the time a stranger fell asleep on my shoulder on the bus; when, as a child, I ran down the street naked, carrying a bright orange umbrella--and how my parents thought it was the greatest thing ever. I didn't have any use for the comics, so every few weeks I'd collect them together in a little, no-name 'zine and drop them off at Rasputin.

I soon had people finding my home phone number, calling me asking if I had extra copies for their girlfriend, art class, psychologist, dog-walking club, tenant's association, etc. So, I made more. I think I ended up single-handedly paying for the CEO of Kinko's vacation home in St. Bart's. Of course, my parents got a hold of every single copy, though I was a bit embarrassed. My two-cent sketches weren't much compared to forty million records sold, or dressing people for the Oscars. For some reason...mom and dad loved it. They even loved the thinly disguised versions of themselves that popped up here and there.

After college, I ended up in Boston with my own loft and, somehow, a book deal. Whether my publisher was counting on a graphic novel series about a girl whose family runs a circus and her imaginary friends, I'm not sure. But they haven't dropped me yet, so for now I'm living panel-to-panel.

I don't own a car yet. My best ideas still come from the train.

("Tiny wants you to know that he loves you. Yes, you specifically, the person reading this right now. As you're lying in bed with your laptop on your stomach, or hunched over one of the Dells in the school computer lab, he wants you to know that right now he is madly in love with you. He loves it when you fall asleep on top of the covers, when you turn up your car radio when that song comes on, when you stare at the sun from under the water at the beach. He loves you because he is so much like you, he knows how it feels. So keep in mind that this is really just a love story."--Note on the last page of "Unnamed 'Zine" number one.)

Love always (and not just sometimes),

Tiny

CHARACTERS

2005-11-07T22:05:05Z

NAME: Tiny Sims
AGE: 24
HISTORY: Son of Zach Sims (of the legendary 70s band Crisis) and Janine Burwell (of the famous designer clothing label in her name). Grew up among the rich, famous, spoiled and soiled. As a kid drew comic strips about David Bowie--a panel from one was later used on a tour poster. Graduated from UC Berkeley at age 19 with a degree in Communication Arts. While in college wrote and illustrated a 'zine comprised entirely of his hand-drawn comics, which gained a cult following. After college, moved to Boston and got a book deal. His first graphic novel, Electric Dollroom, is soon to be published.
PERSONALITY: Shy and self-depricating with a noticable inferiority complex, but a geniunely sweet, kind-natured person. 24 years old, yet gives off the impression of a 15 or 16 year old--underdeveloped and immature. Outlook varies between his natural tendency to be idealistic and romantic and the bitterness living the celebrity life has forced on him. Despite what he's seen behind the scenes of Hollywood, he is still very much an innocent. Sexuality questionable.

NAME: John "DUCKY BOY" Johnson
AGE: Refuses to say. Probably late 20s.
HISTORY: Very little is known, as he is a habitual liar and his story changes with each telling. What we do know is that he was born with one leg cut off above the knee, has lived in Boston all his life and is somewhat of a legend in the underground music scene, despite a relatively young age. Believed to be the same Ducky Boy that played bass for a short-lived '90s punk-ska band called Urban Sprawl. Currently works in a local record store and is a session drummer and bassist for a small local studio.
PERSONALITY: Hyper active with a very postive outlook, often described as "insane". Extremely random in what he says and does, but there's a method to his madness--he has moments of startlingly brilliant clarity and insight. Ducky has big ideas but isn't quite sure what to do with them. Has an amazing appreciation for the world around him and lives each day to the fullest.