So which is it? The end of the old year, or the beginning of the new year? What sort of person are you?

Are you currently in the throes of looking back—happily or sadly—on 2011 and saying “damn, that was something” or are you held in thrall (demonsweatlive) of the looming twelvepocalypse and saying “damn, this will be something”?

I really don’t know where I fall between those two camps. On the one hand, 2011 was very good to me—my own little mopster!—but on the other hand, I lost my dog; another quiet casualty of the motherfucking world turning.

I am, however, looking forward to whatever is on the horizon with 2012. It promises to be full of new and exciting things for me as a father, and of course, not to take work/business for granted, but I’m sure if I’ve got the will, I will find a way to keep that thing ticking, too. Toys are either getting more exciting or less exciting—depending who you ask—and so I’m sure there will be plenty to talk about in that neck of the woods, too.

But what about me? Let’s get to me. As you know, O loyal order of Bloglin, I make this shit about me. I lure a bright magenta hook in the water and wait for you to come hither and nibble at the legitimate awesomeness that is this brand and then boom. A razor-sharp piece of middle-aged shrapnel screams right through your young and tender gills. You are now unwittingly reading about me and my feelings.

I’d like to find time to write more. I’d like to be here more often. Hell, I’d like to actually READ this blog…something about this past year has made me all but immune to new and exciting things on the internet. That probably includes everything—music, videos, memes—I don’t even think the porn I’ve been looking at is altogether new or fresh. Go fig.

I have wondered several times in the past few months at whether or not I’d ever return here (as an author, at least)…and I suppose I’ll keep wondering that between posts. Mishka has been such an awesome entity to be associated with….even in this loosest of ways, that I would hate to fall out of touch with that. Of course, on the other hand, I’m not gonna write about stuff just to write about stuff…I mean, it’s gotta be interesting, right? I worry about my predilection towards kid stuff now, as of course, I’ve always worried about my distance from ‘you all’…not just in terms of locale, but also in terms of age. Perceived age?

Why is it that I constantly do that to you? Why do I assume that I am at home, kicking back with Stephen Ambrose and PBS while you’re out at some sort of epic topless comedy club? I’m pretty sure that assumption is rude to both of us…but why can’t I shake it? #sorryBroDidn’tMeanItLikeThat

Are we all growing up together? Is this what that feels like? As time goes by, and we all sit here and mutate and feed and grow these ideas that are all rooted in nostalgia…is that what growing up feels like? And how many of you are so young and new and fresh that you don’t remember the first time that Air Jordans incited violence on the street? How many of you think My Pet Monster is something new? #seeAboveHashTag

Jesus. What a bummer. Why am I being a bummer all of a sudden? I came here to talk about toys. Didn’t I?

Reflection is good. It’s good to know what you do and why you do it. Right? There is absolutely nothing wrong with asking questions of oneself to really get a handle on how one feels. Maybe the weird part is that one is asking these things of oneself while 10,000 or so other ones sit around and wait for one to get to one’s point. Maybe?

As life—in all it’s forward-moving glory—progresses ever forward, I know I feel good about looking back. I know I feel good about toys. And I know I feel good about talking to you, The Bloglin, about all of that shit. I’m getting ready to enter my fourth year of posting here (which is sort of a lie…I don’t really count ’11, as I wasn’t really ‘here’) and I’m excited. I have absolutely NO idea what I plan on talking about, but I know I want to talk about it…and I know I want to talk about it to you and you.

I read a really fantastic article in GQ the other day (I was sitting on a couch in a hair salon waiting for my beautiful wife to get her eyebrows done…the kid was on my lap and I was feeding him cheerios with one hand and turning pages with the other [note: looking to get laid? find a kid {any kid} and take him to a hair salon.]). It was about how Aziz Ansari, James Murphy and David Chang sort of stumbled into this rad situation in which GQ was paying for them to go to Japan together and geek out on food and each other, etc.

Fuck…where am I going with this? Long story short: Bloglin Summit needs to happen. I have become pretty good (internet-, but still) friends with several of the dudes who post here, and I would just love to get in a room—any room—with them and shoot the shit. About whatever.

I guess this is more of an aside that I originally planned intended, but anyway, I guess the gist is that I love the Bloglin. I love you, the readers. And most of all, I’m oh-so-very fond of the friendships and acquaintances I’ve made through this site over the past three years, and I look forward to this next one. Very much so.

Happy New Year, Bloglin. Thanks for letting me play.

Oh. Shit. Right. I made a movie for you to watch and enjoy. Please watch and, um, enjoy.

Until next time.

So have you forgiven me yet? Or are you completely and forever numb to the sound of my voice? Has my inexcusable ignorance of mighty mighty giants like John Romita, John Romita Jr., and Sal Buscema completely blacklisted me from your bloggy wiles? Or do I live to fight another day as you turn a sympathetic mouse toward my tenuously temporal and peevishly personal writeuppery?

I suppose that, either way, I’m still just that Yahoo From Nowhere who gets up here from time to time and starts spouting about mildly strange and unassuming stuff. At least, I guess, when you take into account that I’m in my thirties.

And so fear not! Love or hate (ho ho), slice or grate, here I am on some super-duper Niche Fetish bullstuff, son. Back at ‘em.

A couple weeks ago, my wife came home and dropped a couple of foil packets in my lap. I thought they were poprocks or something. She had been at Target, plumbing the depths of their baby department for diapers and such. Oh, and, by the way, for clothes for 2-year-olds as our 8 month old kid is in beast-mode. #beastMode.

They were not pop rocks, friend. They weren’t even trading cards. They were random chase LEGO minifigures. I’ll save you the suspense: even though you will very much want to, you cannot put them in a pipe and smoke them. You will want to.

So went my addiction. Aw shit dog, gotta go to Target to get socks. And some minifigs.

Damn girl, gotta go to Target and get some Ghost Dots. And some minifigs.

Yo pahtnah, boutta jump out to Target and stock up on Armorall and some Ni-Cads.

And some minifigures.

Then I found out that while Target had Series 5 (of which I was starting to get dupes), there was a Toys R Us in the next town over that had some Series 3 shits. It was on.

Fast Forward a week and I was on Amazon Marketplace #primeSteeze straight creeping on the hazmat dude. And Mr. Mariachi. And Small Clown. Cheating. I’m not even sorry about it.

Blackout. Lose a day.

I’m up in my attic, digging through bins of LEGOs looking for all the Star Wars dudes that I KNOW I have somewhere. How did I get up here? Where did these brand-new minisets of Pharaoh mummies and space aliens come from? Who assembled this motorcycle?

You get it. These little photographically-confounding, shiny-faced bastards were haunting me. Full time. So I worked through my issues. I stole their souls. Dropped ‘em in a hotbed of microzags and glow bugs and creepy as fuck #lurkers.

So yeah. It’s not my best work, but I had fun playing with these little dudes, and I hope you have fun watching. Enjoy.

Until next time, friendz. Love, Your Friendly Neighborhood Hateball.

I’ve been an absentee Hateball, I know. Was it last time that I told you (all?) that I wouldn’t start posts like this? Sadly, I do not have the time to go check…which is the first (and second) rule for how to spot a poor interjournalist. I suppose you will have to just shoot me.

Alas—forsooth!—I have been busy with my other family. My secret family. The one that doesn’t really translate to my internet life. Sure, they are involved, but, well, it’s different. If you’re my real internet folks, then this beautiful creature sitting next to me is my hidden mistress, and this not-so-tiny version of myself at my feet is—yep—a keep-a-Hateball baby.

But! Like any deadbeat would say, I’m here now. And that counts for something…right, champ? I know I been busy, but I been out there—up on my grind, steady mobbin, cold lampin on them curbs, stunting like a daddy. Like an actual daddy. So ya. On the real. Haters at east, playas say please. Let’s talk about some toys.

Much to my sort of huge shock and surprise, I was recently asked to participate in an upcoming book. A book about collectors. Apparently, when approached by the curator of the project, my good galpal Skinner told the person that my collection puts his to shame. Or something. Which was both very very nice and very very wrong. Still! This person reached out, and I sort of half-jokingly accepted, assuming that any book/publication (present company excluded, of course) that would have me MUST be a joke. So let’s joke. When it’s on it’s on.

And then I decided to take it seriously. Really wanting to document this year of our Lord (and baby) as it relates to my toy collection. Who knows? Maybe something will change in the next year or two and I won’t have it anymore (no plans, but still). It might be good to get things in order and do a survey..and hey! what a great opportunity, right?

So, for the past week or two, I’ve been diligently trying to push myself to take ‘good’ photos of my ‘best’ stuff. I’ve been attempting to ‘actually’ write answers and be ‘interesting’ in response to interviews. I’m thinking of themes for essays. That’s right: I write essays. No shit.

One of the stipulations of my participation in this thing—a stipulation I outlined at the beginning—was that I would not, under any circumstances, attempt a ‘collection’ shot of my toys, as I did not really want to tear my office apart. I didn’t want to learn about photography in that way. And I didn’t want to take the time. It was out of the question.

And so, in true Hateball fashion, I present to you a super-quick 2-minute flyby of the setup for the ‘collection’ shot I just took. The final shot will be submitted for the book and of course be rejected because of some flaw in craftsmanship. Or something.

REJECTED

SRSLY: To get all photogeek for a second. I took it at 20mm in 1 shot at F/22 with natural light. Was OK. Bad reflections. Then I decided that I wanted it crisper, so I took it at 50mm (also at F/22) in 2 shots and bungled the stitch. THEN, I returned with my 35mm portrait and also still had to get it in 2 shots, and the result was good once I removed the doors from my cases. And foiled the windows and switched to fluorescent light. Which I count as a sin. Against God and nature.

Finally, I used my business partner’s micro 4:3 shooting RAW at 90mm and stitched no less than 12 shots together. Unreal. It took, literally, the computing power that I assume UNREAL took a few years ago.

This thing here, though, was done in about 30 minutes using the Flip we got at our baby shower. I had a Jericho-sized headache at the time and could only see out of my right eye. I hope to return to the scene of the crime and take something longer…possibly narrated (that’s what she said). We’ll see. Please, at the very least, enjoy the sound of Danzig’s voice.

For now, Hateball’s gotta go away for a few days. I’ll be right back I promise…maybe we can go on that fishing trip NEXT weekend. Be good for your Crook while I’m away. And download Relics of Dune if you haven’t already. Best mix I’ve heard all year.

Someone once told me that those of us who live in beautiful Northern California are super-lucky because we have the distinct privilege of living within 45 minutes of any sort of climate anybody would ever want to live in. We’ve got the cool and breezy coast. We’ve got sunny valleys, temperate forests, and chilly mountains. It’s like, the Great Valley or some shit.

And you know, I don’t totally disagree. Granted, the whole state is a bankrupt parking lot filled with dirty diapers and rave fliers, but, well, yeah. It’s nice here. I suppose that’s easy to forget when you’re paying $5.19 for a gallon of gas and—I don’t know—$36 for a pack of cigarettes. But all in all, it seems worth it.

Even more so up in the beautiful Shasta Forest, where I had delightful and bliss opportunity to drag my little seedling family to a few weeks ago. My dad—mountain grandpa (we’re hoping this sticks in lieu of ‘pot pop’)—has a few acres that my buddies and I migrate to each summer for a work/drink weekend (have I talked about that here?), and the Mrs. and I decided that we should take a little trip. With the kid. While there was still snow on the ground.

Granted, it’s more than 45 minutes away from our humble abode, but, aside from the screaming banshee strapped into the backseat of our very sensible SUV, it’s not the WORST drive in the world.

But wait a minute. Aside from my subtle and alluring tourism pitch for sunny California, why—in the world—should I think that you want to hear about all this? Why do you care about my family trees? You shouldn’t. BUT! I was able to smuggle some toys up. The good kind. And while there, I was able to sneak away for a very brief amount of time and take some shots. Some videos. Some…well, shots.

Let’s be honest—way real—: you can fucking TASTE the HASTE with this clip. It’s certainly a sketch of a sketch. But I had fun, and I finally got to use this quirky little They Might Be Giants tune in one of my projects. A bonus.

The shrewd and avid Hateball fan will also notice that I’m broadening my horizons—to questionable gain, but still—with this one. My strict-ish rule of ‘no transitions or titles’ that I’ve maintained since the first couple is being broken here. I even got down with some advanced cutaway titles, which was neat for the first few. I’m not sure how I feel about it, but, well, I guess I feel OK enough about them to share with you all.

It’s a pretty random clip, now that I think about it, but, sometimes random is so ugly as to be enchanting. Like life. And iTunes DJ.

With that, please enjoy my latest. Briefly:

Briefly… from Justin Hateball on Vimeo.

TTFN.

Oh, hello. Been a minute. Did you know that your typical rhinoceros sleeps standing up, and he only eats at night? It’s true. I also heard somewhere that a hippopotamus’ sweat is clear and pink (or something). What a weird wild kingdom.

And so yeah…this is me ignoring the fact that I’ve not checked in with you in a couple months. I am working on it. BUT! I wanted to do something special (well, SOMEthing) to commemorate our dudes down at Toy Street getting their nerd #swag on. Or, I guess, their nerd dragon. It’s really the same thing I guess. You know my steeze (this is a Drag-On joke…remember him? Didn’t he appear on a Gang Starr remix? Something like that.)

Gargamel x Bwana Spoons HP Rootbeer Boris the Bee & HP Pocket Globby

So. Not empty-handed in the theme department. I stood on a little footstool this morning while my coffee brewed and took photos of some of the toys sitting on top of my refrigerator. The light was nice, and I was all, this is nice, and so there. Brightly colored photos for all my NF dogs (if there is such a thing).

Max Toy x Martin Ontiveros Booska

I was so impressed with this sculpt…plus, it was a gift! Yeah!

Some of these dudes have shown up here before, and some haven’t…but again: I just snapped the shit that was up there. In the overflow. The top of my fridge is my overflow parking. It is both sad and happy.

Buff Monster KFGU (Clear Green)

Additionally, I am listening to the Foo Fighters’ back catalog this morning (after, of course, my daily dose of The D) and I had originally intended to tell you how I’m not getting tired of you, and, like, how all my life I’ve been searching for something (or something), but I figured I’d let you off easy today. No more bad meta jokes.

I will however just remind you to listen to the Foo Fighters. And read Crook’s review of their new album. And, if you can, catch the boss Rockumentary (ugh) that VH1 put together for it…it watches like a Dave Grohl Goodfellas: fall. rise. fall. rise bitter. fall. rise happy. Way gangster.

King Bee x Zollmen Jellybean Popy Dog (w/ wearing Bobongo’s Deathmask…again, gangster)

Zollmen Pink Bobongo

Blobpus Dokugan DX

Born of sin. It always all comes back to Dokugan forever and never. Always. Ever.

Marmit Glitter Hedorah (one of my favorites!)

Elegab Hitogomira (The People Puker)

Anyway. Miss you. KIT.

This daddy game is 25/7, yo.

Actually. Scratch that. Right off the bat. Wrong again.

That mommy game is 25/7, yo. This daddy game is, roughly—approximately—something like 15/7. Maybe 18/7 on a really bad day. I mean this with the most golden, upstanding, respectful intentions: if you’re a dude, you won the lottery without even buying a ticket. Sure, we got the shaft on a few other things, but our bodies don’t revolt against us and switch over into some sort of ‘other’ mode when our (eventual, sure) kid starts screaming. It’s like being married to a really responsible, extra-hot Manchurian Candidate.

But you’re not here to hear about her. You’re not here, reading; needing some heeding about breeding. You’re on your alltime favorite partyblog number one you love forever. Daring it to not entertain you. And boom. It is here. And it’ll take that dare, Schwartz.

Anyway. Don’t call it a comeback. I’m very likely not back in any sort of dependable or consistent way. I am, simply put, just bursting at the seams with all my dumb jokes and puns and sight-gags and type-gags, and just HAD to—at the risk of life, limb, spawn and mate—do some playing on the internet tonight. I’ve quite literally got a baby who sleeps with his eyes wide open and farts worse than my dog strapped to my chest while I type this. And, of course, I’m elated. I have taken nothing short of 700 photos of this kid in the 5 short weeks he’s been around, but, you know what else? I have been waiting HIS WHOLE LIFE to get back in touch with you. My friends. At the Bloglin.

And that’s not for shortage of ideas and/or material. You should see my Drafts folder. I got more drafts than a woodshed, son. Compose more notes than Beethoven, buddy. BUT! But. I have convinced myself that you, O reader, will do with nothing but a long, overwrought, overpunctuated 700-word opus to accompany each thought cloud (brainstorm!) and so, they are trapped in skies that are decidedly less friendly than yours. For now. Thank god none of it’s topical.

Zounds (@Caff). I missed you. I haven’t even started talking about this ‘movie’ yet. I guess I should start, because this thing on my front is starting to flare it’s nostrils. I think that means something.

As I mentioned in my last post, I’ve been collecting odds and ends here and there. I think the main thing I’ve been focusing on in the past few weeks is—no shit—bottle caps. But those are for later. I think. The other thing I discovered—and this is dangerous, as I have twice proven so far—is that you can buy a randomly assorted assortment of polyhedral dice on Amazon. By the pound.

I know, I know. Instant collections are for wangs. But that’s only sort of right. Instant collections are for wangs with new babies and who think 20 bucks for a pound of plastic is a ‘deal’.

These dice have been sitting on my desk for a few weeks, taunting me. Skinner came over a few weeks ago, and we used a couple of 20-siders to map out the next 5 or so years of his career. #trueStory. And so I decided today, after weeks and weeks of looking longingly at all my toys and my tripod and my nudie calendars and my bottle caps and my other shit, that i was going to do something ‘creative’.

And so here. I created this. For me. But also for you.

And oh, I’m Hateball, by the way. I’m the autobiographical toy guy here. Nice to meet you. Hope to jabber at you again soon.

XO.

Stills and titles on Flickr.
Other NF videos on Vimeo.

PS: There is just so much I want to talk about here, but my time is short. I know and love this song from National Lampoon’s European Vacation…where they’re hurrying through all the museums. That was originally the idea behind flipping so quickly through the dice. Blah blah.

So yeah. It was a busy week. So busy in fact, that the week in question is not this week. It’s last week. Ish. Last weekish. It has not just been a busy week in collecting. It’s been a busy week…period.

But! Busy-ness aside, it’s been a very exciting week for my borderline unhealthy collecting habit. I have acquired…things. I acquired a lot of cool shit in a span of 7 or 8 days, and I thought it might be cool to sort of try to write it up and poke fun at how diverse and ridiculous it all is. So behold. The following is an attempt at that. At writing up and poking fun at the 8 or 9 things I straight copped (homie) in a week’s time.

Oh, and one note. I am…home this week. Normally I’d be at my office taking photos of all my weird gears, and as such, you’d see the normal wood floors, white backdrop, and/or crazy crap everywhere. Not so this time. I’m coming at you (live and direct) from my very own New Janky Workshop, yo. I have invited you into my garage—onto my workbench—and as such, it would be good if you put on a jacket (or bathrobe) and maybe popped a bottle of beer before proceeding. Garage rules.

And so.

A Bevy of Mini-Miniature Keep Watch New Era Hats

When the first mini KWNE hats were released, I was beside myself. I was taking a nap at the office—I sleep awesome there sometimes, and I’m not entirely convinced that it doesn’t have everything to do with the huge towel I use as a blanket—and my iphone buzzed and it was the Mishka newsletter telling me that these hats were available. The 4 1/4 ones. And so I bought a couple. Posted about my excitement. BUT! Right after I placed my order, I noticed that there were these, even smaller keychain versions, but they were all sold out. Bummer.

The phenomenon that was not having these tiny lids continued to bum me out until I got the recent opportunity to buy some and so of course, I bought 3. I am looking forward to getting into the office and seeing what toys they fit on (looking at you, Bobongo.)

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A 1909 Wheat Penny

I found this while crossing L Street in Sacramento on my way to a place that serves super radical deep fried pickles. It was heads up, from more than 100 years ago, and, well, a wheat penny. A trifecta of awesome. I love this penny.

The Sighting by Arik Roper

This incredibly hard to get/find print was gifted to me for no good reason by some dude with a ton of fingers. I met this person in just about the craziest way one could meet someone, and as such, I have come to cherish his friendship and have a sort of standing date with him twice a month to just get on the phone and talk about Big Trouble in Little China and shit like that. This print is…amazing. It has all the Rastan/Argonath vibe that I’m always whining about here, and the printing is just top notch. It helps that it’s done by Arik Roper, another buddy of mine who happens to be a king among men. Always nice when something this awesome can ALSO have some sentimental value. Winwin. (Photo borrowed from the Internet. I think it originally came from the Burlesque printing blog. Mine’s out at the framers’)

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Blobpus ‘Omake’ Duo

Once again, a cool dude whom I’ve known (and felt lovely things for) for years now drops some rad gifting on me. This dude who owns a toy company just moved his San Francisco shop location and found these guys just hanging out in the stockroom. I get a text ‘hey, next time your down, I got some blobpus for you. I know what you like…try to take care of you when I can.’ What a mensch. And what goldy golds…right?

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I know. I know. Were we not on the internet. Were we all sitting around some giant quad where dudes like me spun yarns meant to entertain everybody else, you’d think I was talking about music. Super slowed-down music that makes you feel like you’re in some weird candle-burning k-hole. Right? Which house?

But! The House of which I am speaking is not that kind of witch house. It’s House Industries. Again with the typing jokes, Hateball. I know. I just can’t help myself.

So yeah. House Industries. A superlative brand of excellence. The tip-top of awesome.

If you work with creative stuff, design, advertising, or web design—something, ANYthing like that—then you may well already be quite aware—familiar, even—with House Industries. In addition to being super-super at curating modern classics—The Modern Classic—House is mainly known as a slam-bang font foundry. Or at least they used to be. Or still are. Or something. And hey: we’re talking amazing stuff. They consistently dance the line between so-pro- and so-fun-it-hurts, and have a knack for making the two synonymous with each other…which is no easy feat. Their creative range is really a sight to behold.

In fact, their typographical acumen is so advanced that they have plenty of time and energy to devote to all sorts of other rad products, events, prints, objects, clothing, textiles, environments, studies, experiments and are just, well…here I go again…awesome.

And. AND. To boot. They used to have their own clothing line called House33 (RIP)…which—surprise surprise—was totally rad. Talk about experimentation. Talk about lush. Talk about o-yeah they also had chance to collaborate with Mishka on at least one occasion, once upon a time, and the results were maddeningly complex in their simplicity. Like a fine canned lager. (And I mean that in a good way).

So. So what. Right?

Well, the other totally secret totally worth it thing about House. Boom. If you ever buy anything from them—from the cheapest little print or t-shirt or set of rags, to the most expensive, most complete set of completely professional fonts—you get signed up to receive their way boss promotional materials, which are o-so-fucking-choice. Like, painfully choice. Choice your own Adventure, choice. (Actually, you don’t even need to buy anything…you can just sign up to receive their catalogs here. Free. Woo.)

Way. Fucking. Boss.

And herein lies the real essence of what makes House Industries instill the desire into a professional email writer like myself to rant and rave about their soft delights: these catalogs and flyers exude an unparalleled dedication to quality materials, hands-hewn printing, and a super-human, almost personal connection from the goddamn PEOPLE that obviously worked so hard in putting them together. There is no constant contact logo at the bottom. No, this information is not being brought to me courtesy of Emma. These things don’t just cost someone money (not you though), they cost love. Blood. Sandwiches. No cheap newsprint here. No copy bond. These are high grade papers printed with high grade inks, assembled by a high-grade company full of high-grade people.

And the design. The design.

(more…)

Bonjour. Welcome to the third and final installment in our ongoing zaga. What?! Did you see what I did there? Holy crap. My command of the back half of the alphabet is commanding. Makes me want to shift into uppercase. Zing. Whoa! Did that get any more or less clever this, the second time you’re reading it? 4th wall, say who?

Anyway. Niche Fetish is hitting the print side of life this week, and I would be overjoyously overjoyed to have you come along. This is a voyage, and it is fantastic. If you’d like to get up to speed with what I mean when I say Zine, or, even, what I Zine when I say meen, please feel free to check out our first installment here, and part 2 here. Enjoy.

CSU Long Beach Graduate Studies in Art Promotional Booklet

Another gem that was deisgned by some long-lost friends…this has the sort of mountainside charm that is a trademark of these dudes. Flipping through these pages takes me back to hanging out with those guys…Definitely learned a lot about what it means to put oneself into one’s creation from those dudes. Sigh.

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Black Is Beautiful Zine

I used my deep and influential backroom connections to procure a copy if this zine that was being offered as a freebie with instore purchases at 350 Broadway. And boy am I happy with my decision to spend a favor. So awesome. A dude after my own heart (or vice versa): his passion for black markers of all varieties is immediately evident in this awesomely produced and designed zine/sketchbook. A treasure.

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Oil #1 and 2 by Mark Murphy

This is definitely one of those things that I just got and kept…pretty sure that they were handed to me while talking with Jeff Soto at the Murphy booth at Comicon in 08 or 09. I feel bad for never flipping through them, as they are pretty totally awesome. I didn’t really know that Murphy was an artist in his own right…I thought he was just a publisher. Glad I kept ‘em…better late than never.

(more…)

Bonjour. Welcome to part 2 in our ongoing zaga. What?! Did you see what I did there? Holy crap. My command of the back half of the alphabet is commanding. Makes me want to shift into uppercase. Zing. Whoa! Crushin’ em.

Anyway. Niche Fetish is hitting the print side of life this week, and I would be overjoyously overjoyed to have you come along. This is a voyage, and it is fantastic. If you’d like to get up to speed with what I mean when I say Zine, or, even, what I Zine when I say meen, please feel free to check out our first installment here. Enjoy.

Jeff Soto Zines (2007-2009)
Brain Decay MIB, ya heard. Jeff is one of those dudes that makes pictures of things you’ve been thinking about since you were 3 years old.

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Activity book from GUM Vol. 2.
How awesome is this? The Cornelius Coke bottles are especially awesome-town. GUM is/was one of those things that came with so much extra stuff that I could write about it for a few thousand words.

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Another rogue mini-print in the stack of minizines. This one from Bwana Spoons’s handpainted Bubbletea Pocket Globby. Globby for life.

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Chip Kidd & Jon Spencer minicomic from GUM Magazine Vol. 1. So how do you make an interview between two critically acclaimed industry insiders more interesting? You illustrate it, format it as a vintage comic book, print it in your company’s flagship colors, and package in with your incredibly incredible publication. Booya.

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