#17. Went into Black Hole optimistically expecting to wallow in a surreal mudbath of adolescent angst and found my wallowing quotient rapidly exhausted. I think you had to be there.

“Optic Nerve” by A. Tomine is no big shakes IMO, but it´s certainly not bad.

If the wife has shown some affinity for European comics, it´s likely that “Berlin”, an ongoing series by Jason Lutes, will be up her alley.

Marjane Satrapi´s stuff (Persepolis, Embroideries, etc.) should prove interesting. If the wife´s a terrorist-appeasing pinko, the tale of Satrapi´s life between Iran and the West will warm the cockles of her bleeding heart. If she´s a neoconette, well, know thine enemy and all that.

JLA/Avengers.

No, really.

I mean, Superman vs. Thor.

“Blankets” is OK. It pulls off the emotional exhibitionism routine that is a staple of so many indies with unusual verve. I still find it a tad lightweight, though.

Under no circumstances should the purple wool be pulled over the wife´s eyes, i.e. if somebody recommends “Sandman” as a wife-friendly comic tell him or her to fuck off.

Word on the Jimmy Corrigan caveat above. For a desolate comic that delivers its punch with great economy of means, try Hornschemeier´s “Mother, come home”.

Not unlike “Maus”, Keiji Nakazawa´s sprawling “Barefoot Gen”, a reflection of the author´s harrowing experience in Hiroshima, is a comic made indispensable by the gravity of its subject-matter. Actually, it can be easily argued that its storytelling choices are more felicitous than those of Maus. That is, not all the folks who have a hard time getting their heads around the whole mice/cats/dogs/pigs thing that “Maus” has going on are necessarily dense.

The wife needs to get in on the Danny Clowes love. You get extra condescending phallocrat style points if you use “Ghost World” as gateway drug cause it´s about two teenage girls.

I bought “Black Hole” by Charles Burns after stumbling upon a few glowing reviews. Haven´t got around to reading it yet, though.

Blow the wife´s mind with Jim Woodring´s “Frank”. Get´r done.

At the end of the day, what the wife and all other heathens need to understand is Teh Potential of Sequential Art™. This will cast the infinite tolerance towards crap of any comics fan worth his or her salt in a new, tragic, heroic light. Atlas will shrug and Jesus will weep.

You can try for example “Bardin the superrealist” by Francesc Capdevila aka “Max”. It meets all the requisite conditions, like being ambitious, displaying impeccable, beautiful, masterful storytelling, and –most importantly– disappearing up its own rectum halfway through.

This thread reminds me that I’m thinking of writing a romantic comedy screenplay with this plot:
A young actress used to a glitzy life insults the unglamorous city where she’s filming a movie.
The equally young accidental mayor says that the problem is “she needs to get out with us regular folks.”
So to repair the PR damage the actress decides to let the mayor show her around town.
etc.

But I need a better title than Mysteries of Shitsburgh.

(I hope at least jroth enjoyed that. Thanks for lending the space.)

There’s also Chris Ware’s Jimmy Corrigan, which is brilliant, but a bit on the dense side.