Michael

Michael is an important name in my life.

Michael is the name of my late brother, a young actor turned renowned Mego toy collector and customizer, who died from complications of Juvenile Diabetes at age 37.

Michael is the name of my best friend since sixth grade. We bonded over The Avengers #3 comic book. He grew up to become a criminal defense lawyer. Married with two kids.

Michael is also the name of the 80-year old man who was dropped on his head as a baby, causing brain damage so severe it compromised his speech and motor skills, and is the caretaker of Carroll Street in Brooklyn, NY where I’ve lived the last 29 years.

Like Boo Radley in Harper Lee’s To Kill A Mockingbird or Sloth in Richard Donner’s The Goonies, Michael is our very own Carroll Gardens gargoyle. The neighborhood night watchman. He keeps an eagle eye out for scallywags and makes sure the garbage cans are ready for the sanitation department to rid of our collective trash.

To describe how Michael appears is an unfair assessment and unkind assumption. Most people, including myself, would dismiss him as mentally-challenged and grotesque. His shirt drenched in a pool of perpetual drool leaking from his nose and mouth. A stalactite of swinging snot. He can’t form words but barks, wails and huffs a litany of sounds begging to be interpreted. Understood.

Michael is up all hours and is privy to every secret Carroll Street tries to hide. He sees things we don’t and has things to say with no way to say it. He uses his bent claws to gesticulate nouns. To warn us about parking spots, impending construction, who died, who’s moving in, and other valuable street news.

Sometimes Michael wears a neon yellow reflective mesh vest, something a neighbor or local cop gave him so he would shine during his nocturnal patrols in case a drunk driver comes careening down the street.

Like every neighborhood that started one way and evolved into another, Carroll Gardens has a complicated history. Already in his late 70s, it’s evident by the way he sees, the porch light behind his eyes, that Michael has witnessed many stories from communal to criminal. But it’s also clear he’s not a rat or a canary. He couldn’t be. Has no way to snitch. Can’t string a proper sentence together. No ability to write. And if he could spill the proverbial beans, I don’t think he would. They say “loose lips sinks ships,” but Michael’s been keeping this boat afloat all his adult life. Like a mute oracle, Michael is the keeper of the truths that never gets articulated. Archived in a language only he can decode.

I think about the things that inspired me to show and tell my stories. Growing up reading comic books. Watching television and movies. Indulging other people’s tales while I learned to craft my own. Convince editors and publishers and, more importantly, readers to take a chance on me until the internet and social media made everyone an author. Gave everyone a platform. A face. A voice.

Except for Michael on Carroll Street.

Michael makes me think about the stories my dead brother will never get to live, much less share. The abominable lies and tragic testimonies my best friend navigates in jail and fights in court until he gets home and replaces his tie with a t-shirt to write science fiction in order to make sense of human beings.

I think about my mother who helped reward New York state-funded art grants to creators to tell their stories. My father who has spent a lifetime of loyalty publicly honoring an eight-year friendship with a world famous actress. Jen who can depict the experience of landscape in her paintings. Whitney who can write thirty exquisite short stories in thirty days. The voices people get to flex if they so choose to use it. And I think about how agonizing it is for Michael to impart the simplest advice. Say the simplest hello. And how he never let his handicaps hinder him. Not once.

I think about how I use a non-repro blue pencil to draw my comix so I don’t have to erase anything after I apply inks. But if you look close enough at the original art, you can still see remnants of indigo hues and cyan scratches, the stuff that didn’t get scanned and published. Like Michael of Carroll Street. A human library of all the stories, feelings and thoughts his disabilities can’t lend while struggling to remind us to sweep the front of our building so the fall leaves don’t clog the drain.

I’m a guest at Plastic City Comicon on Saturday, August 22nd from 10am - 4pm. I’ll be bringing comix writer/singer/song-writer Jeffrey Burandt aka Jef UK to table with me. If you’re near Leominster, MA, come on by!

I wrote a new, short play called “Assets” being performed by JB Rote and Callan Shattuck during Onur Tukel’s salon at Pinky Swear in NYC on Tuesday, August 25th from 7:30pm - 9:30pm.

I was honored to be chosen to illustrate the cover (and interior) to the recent Yaddo newsletter celebrating 100 years of hosting nearly 7000 artist residencies in Saratoga Springs, NY. Cheers to another 100 years!

My self-published comic book, CHEST FACE, was nominated for a Ringo Award for ‘Best Short Story.’ Comix creators have until August 26th to vote! Click HERE.

It’s time to tell your story. In this workshop, a Ringo and Emmy-winning artist will teach you about layouts, scripts, and the iterative process of bringing your ideas to life in comics. Students are encouraged to come to class with a story to tell and the materials (traditional or digital) they wish to illustrate it with.

This workshop includes a lecture and exercises on the fundamentals of storytelling. Students should expect to produce a finished layout of their story or a scene from it. The instructor will be present throughout and will offer individualized feedback as well as general tips on approaching the craft. All skill and experience levels are welcome; however this class is designed for students who are comfortable drawing from their imagination.ENROLL HERE

See you in the gutters—

—Dean

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