Anna had a boy:



He's yet to be named, but everyone looks happy, and that's what's important. Well, maybe he's tail.

Nowhere Near Savannah will be stopping for two months, and returning on the 23rd of July.

We're at the middle of the comic now, in week 26, and the grind of doing this every week since October last year has worn me down and I need a break to catch up and organise how the final half of the comic will resolve itself. Since it's autobiographical, I may need to go outside. In response to this break, Anna, who spends her spare time rescuing people from villains and so forth because she does not need sleep, has decided to have a baby. I believe this has been done to show what a lazy fuck I am, and should you all need to make that comparison on facebook between us, feel free. Anyhow, this child should be around any day now, and hopefully I'll be able to scam a pic of him/her to post here.

I know two months might seem like a long time for a break, but we're going to try and do a couple of things between it, so there should be a little bit here and there so it doesn't seem so long, but part of the reason for the long break is that it isn't worth rushing things and doing it before we're ready. When you're in charge of your own project, you can say how things go, and that's what we've done. So, anyhow, what I ask is that, if you've been digging it, you just hold in there for us, because it'll be back, and it'll run another twenty-six weeks, and you'll be able to see all the little jokes, all the foul language, and the reason why if you were a real terrorist, you'd blow up Disneyland and not the Empire State building.

That's a nice camera. New?



Timely.



Give us a look?



Yeah, fuck you, pass it over.



...

Tell me you're not taking—





Are you looking at them now?



Well, we're in McDonalds at the International Airport.

Also, there's an old lady behind you.



Maybe she'll want to star in your next set.



From night shift manager to pornographer, huh?



I'm going to leave that camera in the hands of children, you know that, right?



...



...



Told you.



Well, she wanted to, but I said that'd be an invasion of your privacy.

When I said that, she offered me fifty bucks.



Totally.

By the way, you are aware of the fact that traveling with you for two weeks with a camera full of relationship porn is asking for trouble.

I mean—you know how this is going to end, right?



For two weeks?



Restraints? On a holiday?



Holiday's in another country are consequence free. Didn't you get the memo?



You've always been shockingly conservative on vacation, you know that, right?



Should I get t-shirt?



Why not?

Seriously, man, it's a holiday. I just spent two months grinding through HSC tutoring. My students, they're going to go to away to Schoolies and drink and fuck like there's no tomorrow. Outside the drinking, that sounds like the way to be to me.



Sounds good, that's what it sounds. Just kick back, have fun, and know that in two weeks, I got to be back here, broke.



Probably.

The children, you understand.



Maybe you should keep the photos for a resume, then?



Being a porn director?



I reckon there'd be a lot of cleaning.



What you and your girlfriend do in your spare time is none of my business.



The shiny upper middle class life, hey?



Maybe you should take photos of that?



Yeah. I reckon there's a whole market for it. Cute girls cleaning your house. Dusters, mops, but nothing hardcore. None of that—that sex with appliance shit you might be thinking of. I mean, maybe naked, but it'd be pure cleaning. Down on her knees, scrubbing a floor, up on a ladder, getting cobwebs out of the corner.

And the end—the cum shot of the whole thing, is a wide angled shot of a whole house in pure cleanliness.



We'd be millionaires.



Yeah, okay. Just let me say goodbye to the old lady behind you first. I feel that we've bonded today.

One of the most difficult things about Nowhere Near Savannah is how I use reality in it. It may not seem like much to you guys and girls reading this, but my friends have agreed--based off their experience of 26Lies--to let their current lives be pulled into this little comic, but more importantly, to let me take what exists and fashion it into thematic concerns, narratives, and a sense of drama without the safety net of 'Is it true?' that 26lies had.

Sometimes, however, it's a difficult line to walk. Yesterday's comic might not have sat as well with Dee as it might have if I'd cut the last quarter out and, when he called last night, I offered to take it out if he wanted, but he said no, it's cool. All my friends have said that, though a couple of them have asked for names to be changed--Cas, for example, didn't want Charlie's name to be used, and Michelle asked for Cock Boy's name to be removed from the dialogue, but they're minor things, and I'm not too bothered by it. It strikes me, however, that I have a certain admiration for my friends--on top of my usual friend admiration--because not one of them has said that they wish to be left out of the comic, or have certain things cut away. Indeed, as the thematic concern of late 20s, early 30s lifestyles become more and more stronger, and as I test my ability to write about each in the most interesting, non-judgmental way that I can while keeping the autobiographical strand strong, and not changing characters, the comic has begun to play it a lot closer to the bone on various things going on in each life.

Not that my friends aren't participating. Here's the comment Djae left on his plan to hide drugs up his ass in a Kinder Surprise:

And in the end....?
I'll have you know that it was a complete waste of time! There wasn't a single member of law enforcement at either airport! Not a dog to be seen (excluding those looking forward to the leather themed party)

So cunning was my subterfuge I was practically begging to be strip searched (nothing new about that i admit) and yet?
Zip
Nada
Nothing

Thin Blue line 0
Me 1

Crikey it was a good holiday n' all tho

But still, there remains the concern that one day I will over step a line, and one of them will get pissed at me. If you're asking what I'd do at that stage, the answer is that I would likely scrap that comic--at 22 weeks into this comic, and with 26Lies behind me, I don't think I can say that anyone who appears in either of the two hasn't given enough life to it.

What does concern me is that, in the comic, I run the risk of becoming nothing but a foil for everything that happens each week. If someone, for example, is required to look like a moron for a joke to work, then that someone is going to be me; if someone has to say something to say, then my own voice becomes very narrative driven, allowing the beats to exist. Mostly, I don't mind, and it means that I've had to work the characterisation in different ways, which is usually for the cumulative effect. By that I mean that while the other characters in the comic get what I consider a strong burst of identity each time they appear, my own personality is measured across the various comics. Hopefully that is working, but I'm not actually sure if it is or not. Guess we'll see by the end.

Overall, I have to say feedback has been pretty good. I haven't run across anyone who has hated it, though I'm sure there's a few people out there that do. You can't please everyone, so why try--but I think the comic has gotten a little audience, and I'm certainly enjoying writing something different, something without any weird, and which is a mix of comedy and drama and in a different form.

Anyhow, shit to be done today.

How's Melbourne working out, then?



Adult?





That is kind've adult.



No shit?



Doesn't your girl already own a house there? Albeit without a golf course, I'm sure.



Fuck no?



The Star Trek house?



So your dream of Kirk and Spock slash in real life is over now?



Why the extra?



There was a golf course?



Oh?



Haha.



You ever wonder if other races got the same comparison?



That version has Denzel Washington in it.



Word.



...



Yeah, I'm going to the States in a few weeks, man. I need to work on this shit.



That's the American experience I want.



I can't believe you even looked around at one. It's kinda fucked up—I mean, living in a place where you can control who comes and goes? Maybe you're too young to get in, maybe you're the wrong colour, maybe you're dressed all wrong...



There's a depressing thought for the day.



Looks it.



What's that, the third time this year?



Shit, huh?



Quickly?



And?



More?

Dude, the only thing left is—

I got asked it yesterday, so I figure it can't hurt to say it here, but Nowehere Near Savannah will only run for 52 weeks. One year, in other words.

When Anna and I decided to do it, it was a fairly off the cuff, spontaneous decision--I had had, if I was being truthful, another in a sequence of bad girl decisions, and thought that the string of them would make a nice comic and Anna emailed me to see if I was up for doing something, again. On my end, it morphed, to become a little larger, a little different: I decided I would write an autobiographical comic for one year, and let real life events dictate the narratives, and let it sort of become a mediation of what it is to be living now, in your early 30s. Fortunately, my friends were in the process of ending relationships, starting them, and progressing them, so a nice balance in terms of theme and narrative emerged, as well as the stock answer of, "Well, I don't want to censor you," when I ran it past them, which I took to mean that yes, of course they wanted their lives detailed in our little project.

Of course of course.

I never asked twice, by the way.

But, you can only do the autobiographical thing for so long. In fact, most works of art have a life expectancy, which a lot of people don't seem to understand. A lot of the stagnation in American comics can be put down to property that should have, decades ago, been put to bed--sure, they might show signs of life, but that's usually when a talented collection of individuals are working together, and honestly, those same individuals could be doing something new. But it's true elsewhere: Happy Days should have ended long before the Fonz jumped the shark, MASH dragged on through to many wars, and Buffy the Vampire Slayer should never have left High School. Nowhere Near Savannah is nothing like any of those projects, of course, and maybe the comparison won't sit right with everyone, but I'm a firm believer in ending things before they drag out and ruin everything good you've done. Which is why I went in with a set time frame, and also, in part, because I knew that Anna would send midgets to beat me up if I kept this thing going forever. Also, she probably wouldn't have done it.

I like to think, at this point, that Anna and I will do more work after, but we'll have to wait and see. In another 33 weeks, we might hate each other. But once Savannah is done, any work after that will have to involve cash and a publisher, I believe. As crazy as it might sound, I only work part time so I can write, and money makes the down period across Xmas and New Year less of a bitch. Of more concern for me, however, is that Anna works full time, has a boyfriend, a kid, and another on the way--and if anyone is deserving of the cash that can come from having a publisher, it's her. Anyhow, I'm not looking to bitch about money: I've been doing this gig for too long now and I've long ago made the decisions that ensure that I only write what I want, so suddenly turning hack-writer for cash isn't going to be on the cards, but I think it's a realistic opinion to view any future projects that Anna and I do as earning us a bit of cash to make life easier.

Still, that's for after Nowhere Near Savannah, which we're both having fun and committed to the end for.

And, you know, I might even know what that final strip looks like.

Okay:

Run this by me again.



Right.



That's very kind.



I understand.



That's what I thought you said in this aisle at Woolworths.



Please.



No, man, it's good to see you're not using plastic bags after last time.



Well.

I thought you were cutting back?



Didn't I have a conversation a month ago about how you were giving this up?



I believe it had something to do with your brother.



Something about sending the wrong message to him, and how you wanted to be a positive role model to him in responsible drug usage.



And a couple of months before that, it was how crystal meth was messing with your gym time.



I'm just noticing a trend here.



Yeah, you saying it's time to cut back, and then two to three weeks later, you haven't. Usually, not worth mentioning, except if you were dating your drugs, I'd have to tell you that you should decide if you want be there or not.



What?



Yeah, TV show in the eighties. Punky grew up to be really cute.



Did they all get high?



Someone sounds a little defensive.



Right, cause this conversation is totally not Leave-Me-Alone-Mum-I-Know-What-I'm-Doing.



No, man, I'm just pointing a trend that has come up since the crystal meth arrived—



Point me to a happy crystal meth story.



I have never met anyone who said, “I've used crystal meth for years, and I'm fine with it.”

What I've met is people who got addicted to it real quick, got themselves bad teeth, money issues, and generally fucked up.

Thing is, I don't even like saying this shit to you, man. It's Punky Brewster, like you say, and I don't give a fuck what drug people take. Snort it, smoke it, inject it, I don't really care what anyone does, so long as they're good with it.



Really?



See, I heard this one before, too.



What?



Publishing, I'd give up publishing.



Yeah, well.



And?



No, man, that's fucking cool. I appreciate the Kinder Surprise, except, correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't we learn a few years ago that the chocolate is kinda shit?



I thought it was love and kindness?



Drum roll?

Anna and I are fifteen weeks into Nowhere Near Savannah now and it seems to be finding its audience, which I think corresponds nicely to the fact that I've found the voice and beat for it now.

It's turning into a strange ride, however, from the perspective that I am suddenly becoming an audience for my own behaviour. If I was asked to describe myself in real life, I'd say I was easy going, laid back, and didn't really give a shit about much. Oh, I don't mean that I don't care, but rather that I am content to let people think what they want to think, so long as it's not stopping me from doing what I want. But fuck me, if I'm not looking at this comic, and looking at future comics, and seeing how whenever someone fucks with me or my friends, how I think it's not only fine, but fun to fuck with them back. I was having this discussion with Cas today, who read yesterday's comic and had the same experience as me. He reckons that he still doesn't believe that he did anything wrong in fucking with Snake Boy like he did and, indeed, I see nothing wrong with it either--though there was a moment when it happened that we both thought that him ending up in hospital was a touch excessive, but it didn't detract from the fact that he got what he deserved. It still gives us a chuckle.

It got me thinking about this blog, too, and the fun I've had on it. It's arguable that it has toned down a bit since I stopped talking the Australian Awards and the fiction of Australian writers, who were mostly made of glass when it came to the comments, and ended up calling me all sorts of fun names. But then and now, I've always treated everyone on this blog pretty much how I treat everyone in real life, which is cool and easy going right until they start calling me a cancer or something like that, at which point, I'm out to fuck with people, and I'll pretty much take any opportunity to do so. Some will argue that I bought a lot of it on myself by critically writing about their work, but seriously, if you can't make a distinction between your work and yourself, you've chosen the wrong form to perform in. Try flower arranging or some shit.

Which I suppose is why the most common comment of people who meet me in real life is to say that I'm alright, quiet in a way, funny even, and then to ask other people who know me why I'm such a dick. I'm sure a few people think I make it worse, but the truth of it is that I am alright here, too, right until someone decides to be a dick, in which case I do what I've done since for-fucking-ever, and I take a shot back. I'm not real fussed who it is, either: high up, low down, what the fuck do I care?

Perhaps none of this is worth mentioning, but I find it amusing and slightly disconcerting to watch my behaviour, and the patterns in it. It's not actually going to impact on me--I am, by and large, quite happy with how I am in life--so it's not like this post is all Ohmygodivegottochangenow.

In other news, I bought an Iron Maiden album for nine bucks today.

I don't know how grown men write these lyrics without laughing, but fuck me, it's glorious in its own way.

...



You talking to me, yeah?



You just walked through the door, dude. Where's my hello?



See, civilization has begun in my living room.



What you in a bad mood for?



You tell her you're the only guy I know who faints at the sight of his own blood?



Probably didn't think of the children who could use your blood, either.



You know I haven't.



Apathy?



If my girlfriend asked me to go, I would.



Which is why I don't give a fuck. But, if I had an accident, I want other peoples blood, and I want it quick fucking smart.

I mean, I might die I don't get it.



...





The politics of blood isn't good enough?



Can I grab a drink beforehand?



Right then. Start it up.



What'd you do?



You did?



This is the same Snake who is trying to steal your girlfriend, right?



Sounds like a bad choice, man.



No?



What?



Get the fuck out.



What'd you do after that?



Should've talked to the couple.



So you tell your girlfriend to ask him so he says no?



He will?



Wow.

That's—that's kinda diabolical, playing the dude like that.

And—

And?



Heh.



That is so cool.

You are now my new personal hero, it's that cool.



You going to tell her?



I got news for you, man: you're not in a healthy relationship.



Aw. Come on, think about the poor guy, lying there, in hospital, knowing you sent him to give blood, knowing that you played him, and he looks like a retard...



...

I'll be there for the opening night. So should you.

Even if it is in Wollongong.