by Dean Yeagle

I bought Dean’s Scribblings 1 & 2 at Comic-Con a few years back. If I ever have a kid, I look forward to the day around age 11 when she or he surreptitiously rifles through all my shit and covets those books with hormonal awe. Maybe it’s naive, but anatomically-impossible girlies seem less unhealthy when they’re goofy and cute, as opposed to the cold Nagel illustrations I unearthed at a similar age.

In other words, those flimsy paperbacks are an investment.