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Where would you be without me?

My wife and I have been married for ten years, so I’ve heard “where would you be without me?” a number of times. Early on, I would answer that question honestly. I was blissfully unaware that it was supposed to be rhetorical. She wasn’t interested in gaming out scenarios alternate-me was experiencing in alternate timelines. She simply wanted me to say I needed her in my life. That her presence had somehow changed me.

I have a vague recollection of the before-times — the year when I was single after the dissolution of my first marriage. During that year, I always seemed to know exactly what I wanted for dinner and what movie I wanted to watch. I also knew where my socks were at all times. I knew which outfits looked best on me, I knew how to decorate my home, and I knew what colors looked best on my walls. Ten years later, my wife’s begun informing me that I’ve apparently off-loaded most of those functions to her like she’s an external hard drive, to free up resources in my own brain for other mental computations. I think that’s one reason breakups (no, we’re not breaking up) leave us feeling untethered and hollowed out. We’ve lost our external hard drive and have to recreate the data we lost bit by bit.

Which is how a relationship is supposed to be, I guess. We each focus on what we do best. That’s probably why opposites attract. Person A is happy to let person B take charge of the aspects of their lives Person B is good at, because person A isn’t interested in mastering it anyway, and vice versa. Makeda hasn’t taken out the trash or plunged a toilet in a decade, and I think it’s been just as long since I knew where my clothes were without asking someone (and I know she’s been moving them around just to make sure I need her to find them — it’s the only logical explanation).

New Candorville Book: “Color-Blinded”

Get your copy of the brand new, eighth Candorville collection: “Color-Blinded“!

INSIDE:The 8th collection of the syndicated comic strip “Candorville” by Darrin Bell. Lemont’s a single dad raising a mysteriously smart two year old. He’s also a journalist single-handedly running one of the top news sites in the country. Will he figure out how to cover breaking news in Uganda and Russia, interview every buffoon in the 2016 presidential race, and win the never-ending struggle to get his toddler to go to sleep at night, while still trying to find the perfect woman? Will he figure out how to explain to his son why he’s supposed to respect the police, when the police don’t seem to face any repercussions for killing so many unarmed people who look just like his dad? Meanwhile, despite his best efforts, people start to wonder if the dumb “thug” C-Dog is secretly the smartest, most morally upstanding man in the neighborhood. At the ad agency, Susan discovers why her boss won’t ever let her fire her evil, conniving assistant. And Lemont accompanies the recently-departed comedian Robin Williams on his final journey.

Contains more than 500 comics, an introduction about Black Lives Matter and police brutality, and an article about the Robin Williams story arc. Many of the strips are also annotated by the author.

To order:

Get the Kindle e-Book edition ($2.99) or the annotated paperback edition ($19.99) straight from AMAZON

…or you can buy an autographed edition ($30+shipping) right here:

Inscription? (optional)


You can also complete your collection by getting the first SEVEN Candorville books!

Get the NEW Candorville Book: COLOR-BLINDED

Get your copy of the brand new, eighth Candorville collection: “Color-Blinded“!

INSIDE:The 8th collection of the syndicated comic strip “Candorville” by Darrin Bell. Lemont’s a single dad raising a mysteriously smart two year old. He’s also a journalist single-handedly running one of the top news sites in the country. Will he figure out how to cover breaking news in Uganda and Russia, interview every buffoon in the 2016 presidential race, and win the never-ending struggle to get his toddler to go to sleep at night, while still trying to find the perfect woman? Will he figure out how to explain to his son why he’s supposed to respect the police, when the police don’t seem to face any repercussions for killing so many unarmed people who look just like his dad? Meanwhile, despite his best efforts, people start to wonder if the dumb “thug” C-Dog is secretly the smartest, most morally upstanding man in the neighborhood. At the ad agency, Susan discovers why her boss won’t ever let her fire her evil, conniving assistant. And Lemont accompanies the recently-departed comedian Robin Williams on his final journey.

Contains more than 500 comics, an introduction about Black Lives Matter and police brutality, and an article about the Robin Williams story arc. Many of the strips are also annotated by the author.

To order:

Get the Kindle e-Book edition ($2.99) or the annotated paperback edition ($19.99) straight from AMAZON

…or you can buy an autographed edition ($30+shipping) right here:


Inscription? (optional)


You can also complete your collection by getting the first SEVEN Candorville books!

Why Batman v Superman was Smarter Than its Critics

cv-batmanI’m sharing this Batman v Superman review because it’s representative of pretty much every negative review of the film. An entertaining critic who generally gives thoughtful reviews gives a few valid critiques, but ultimately seems to have not paid attention to huge chunks of the film. And seems not to remember that part of a film critic’s job is to look for metaphors (maybe because, as good as Marvel’s films have been, they seem to be straight-forward, relatively metaphor-free and easy to understand, and they may have trained us all to expect that from superhero movies).

Watch this review, and then read my own beneath it. If you haven’t yet seen the movie, there are MASSIVE SPOILERS ahead, so don’t watch the video and don’t read on… 

Still there? Ok:

One of this critic’s main gripes is that Batman kills people in this movie. Several people. Well, Batman’s been murdering people left and right in films ever since 1989’s Batman (where he did it with a psychotic smirk. Go back and watch it). This Batman’s body count isn’t any higher than Keaton’s, or even Bale’s. This is as strange as all those people who claimed “Superman doesn’t kill” when Superman’s killed plenty of times (even killing Zod twice in the comics and again in Donner’s Superman II… again with the psychotic smirk that we all found charming at the time. Maybe it was an Eighties thing.).

The critic says the movie didn’t even attempt to explain why Batman’s moral code has been abandoned. Of COURSE it explained why his moral code had eroded over the years. Bruce delivered an entire monologue about it to Alfred, just after Alfred (contrary to what this guy says) told him he was going too far.

If the critic’s real complaint is that Batman doesn’t seem to feel any *guilt* over the killings, well, maybe. But here’s the thing: that’s one of the main themes of the movie! Possibly THE main theme! It’s the reason your gut is probably telling you this was more a Batman movie than a Superman one: it was about *Bruce’s* painful journey into darkness and back out again.

Batman’s taken a step into the dark side. Alfred warns him that his branding criminals and becoming more ruthless is crossing a line. He told him that sort of thing is what turns good men bad. Bruce himself said it’s rare that good men (at least in Gotham) remain good, and whether he knew it or not, it was pretty clear to the audience (the audience that was paying attention) that he was also referring to himself. The movie was showing us that Bruce was at a crossroads. Seeing Superman as a two-dimensional alien monster who needed to be murdered was representative of that, and if he’d gone through with it there may have been no coming back for him.

Zack Snyder brilliantly shocked Batman back into his senses during the moment that most critics seem not to have understood at all (and if they did understand it, they just didn’t appreciate it): the moment when Batman was stunned just by hearing Superman utter the name “Martha.” And here is where the film is at least an order of magnitude smarter than its most vehement critics:

“Martha” was not just Martha. 

In Bruce’s nightmares, his mother Martha represented the good in him. We didn’t see her get shot over and over again just to remind us Bruce had a traumatic childhood. The repetition of that nightmare was to show us the goodness in Bruce being snuffed out by the surrounding evil. When the dream finally showed the light fading from Martha’s eyes, and Bruce’s father whispered “Martha” with his own dying breath, that was a *metaphor* for Bruce completely losing his way. Bruce knew this himself on some level. That’s why hearing Superman also whisper “Martha” just before he was about to die gave Bruce pause.

The necessity of murdering Superman had been a two-dimensional, black and white matter to him. But then Superman said the one word that reminded Batman of the goodness that was supposed to be within him. And Lois (the reporter, a metaphor for “the truth”) dived between them, literally adding a third dimension to the fight. This combination forced Batman to see Superman not as an alien object to be destroyed, but as a person with a human mother — a person who, even as Batman was about to murder him, was only worried about the safety of his own “Martha.” A person who was BEGGING Batman to save her once he’s gone. That’s why Batman threw away the kryptonite spear and swore “Martha will not die tonight” (metaphor, people); he didn’t just decide to save Clark’s mom, he decided to save *himself.* To pull himself back from the precipice.

The resulting fight with Batman alone in the darkness facing more than a dozen killers, culminating in him shielding Martha (who was now the personification of goodness) with his body from the exploding flame thrower couldn’t have been a more blatant visual metaphor for his jaded, blind rage at last being burned away in a crucible. That was the significance of Bruce NOT branding Lex at the end. The encounter with Superman and Bruce’s choice to save “Martha” had restored him to the man he’d always tried to be.

It’s just astounding to me that very few professional critics seem to have noticed any of that. They’ve been too busy saying how confused they were, and how disappointed they were that it wasn’t a simpler story, to even bother dissecting the abundant – and expertly deployed – visual metaphors. I remember a time when that’s the sort of thing critics loved to discuss. I remember a time when critics saw a “confusing” movie and were eager to find the meaning in it, instead of annoyed (or even oblivious to the fact) that they were being asked to.

The Candorville Top Ten Elements of Passion List

The Candorville Top Ten Elements of Passion List (don’t settle down with anyone who’s never done any of this for you):

10. Hours feel like minutes. Minutes feel like heartbeats.

9. The entire universe is no bigger than the space between the two of you

8. Epically fogged car windows

7. Rug burns, grass stains, hickey, seatbelt impression, twisted ankle… any other badge-of-honor injury

6. The other person’s thumb brushing along your palm makes your toes curl or go numb

5. They bite you and you don’t want to press charges

4. You feel like you’re falling into their eyes

3. Before you part, you go in for “one last kiss” at least 50 times.

2. You really, really want to make them a mix-tape (or “custom playlist” for anyone born after 1990)

1. Their voice sounds like music, their lips taste like honey, and their scent makes you hungry (hopefully not because they smell like bacon).

*originally published here.

Get the NEW Candorville Book: Goodnight Grandpa

Get your copy of the brand new, seventh Candorville collection: “Goodnight Grandpa“!

INSIDE:Lemont’s written a memoir, but when Susan gets to the part where Lemont explains how he and the demon La Llorona accidentally caused the end of the world, Susan questions his sanity. Also, can couple’s counseling fix Lemont’s dysfunctional relationship with his television? After discovering she was Phil Anders’ “other woman,” will Susan give the jerk a second chance. or will she find true love thanks to the sure-fire Date-a-Dude.com profile Lemont writes for her? When Susan runs afoul of the cops in Arizona, can she talk them out of deporting her to Mexico? Plus, Lemont’s political blog explodes, but can he win the war at home where it’s his need for a good night’s sleep vs. his baby boy’s pathological need to jump on the bed all night long? And lastly, Lemont accompanies a 94-year-old World War II veteran on his final journey.

Contains more than 470 comics, the author’s 2008 election night blog post about watching the election of the first black president with his 90 year-old grandfather, as well as his account of the last few months he was able to spend with his grandfather as his caretaker.

To order:

Get the NEW Candorville Book: Goodnight Grandpa

Get your copy of the brand new, seventh Candorville collection: “Goodnight Grandpa“!

INSIDE:Lemont’s written a memoir, but when Susan gets to the part where Lemont explains how he and the demon La Llorona accidentally caused the end of the world, Susan questions his sanity. Also, can couple’s counseling fix Lemont’s dysfunctional relationship with his television? After discovering she was Phil Anders’ “other woman,” will Susan give the jerk a second chance. or will she find true love thanks to the sure-fire Date-a-Dude.com profile Lemont writes for her? When Susan runs afoul of the cops in Arizona, can she talk them out of deporting her to Mexico? Plus, Lemont’s political blog explodes, but can he win the war at home where it’s his need for a good night’s sleep vs. his baby boy’s pathological need to jump on the bed all night long? And lastly, Lemont accompanies a 94-year-old World War II veteran on his final journey.

Contains a whopping 470 comics, the author’s 2008 election night blog post about watching the election of the first black president with his 90 year-old grandfather, as well as his account of the last few months he was able to spend with his grandfather as his caretaker.

To order:

PAPERBACK: $16.95
Support independent publishing: Buy this book on Lulu.

(If the button above doesn’t show up, go to http://tinyurl.com/Candorville7)

You can also complete your collection by getting the first SIX Candorville books!

Interview about Candorville’s “Robin Williams” Tribute

Michael Cavna of the Washington Post interviewed me about this past week’s Robin Williams tribute.

Having seen friends suffer from a range of difficult symptoms as a result of Parkinson’s, hearing [that Mr. Williams was in the early stages of Parkinson’s] helped me imagine a little more clearly what Mr. Williams knew he faced.

Yet every fellow cartoonist and comedian I spoke with couldn’t shake that sense of just how humane and sensitive and life-affirming Robin’s comedy and performances had always seemed — and how caring the man himself appeared to be, not only behind his comedy, but also through it.

Then, last Friday, I found a balm in seeing this week’s “Candorville” strips. In reading creator Darrin Bell‘s six-day tribute, I recognized a fellow traveler — another cartoonist who had studied and deconstructed most every stage of Williams’s compelling career.

The relationship between Williams and visual comics was longstanding and organic. When friend and colleague Tom Shales interviewed a rising Robin Williams in the late-’70s, he noted that the comedian had Zap comics in his carryall bag. Williams famously frequented comic shops, always seemed to have a new favorite graphic novel and new manga toy, and of course wrote the foreword for one “The Far Side” collection. (And on a personal note, acquaintances told me he read my ’90s comic strip in L.A. and S.F.)

So something about Williams doing a posthumous cameo in “Candorville” feels right and respectful and deeply informed.

Comic Riffs caught up with Bell to learn more about how he created this inspired week of strips:

You can read the interview at the Washington Post’s website.

Remembering my Grandpa Roscoe, who passed away 2 weeks ago today

My first memory of my Grandpa Roscoe was when I was about three or four. Like most black people of his generation, his living room furniture was shrink-wrapped in plastic. I didn’t know what that meant. I climbed up onto the couch, and as soon as I stood up, I slipped and fell off. I didn’t know what was going to happen, but I knew it was going to hurt. Just then, a figure rushed in through the door and caught me in one hand. I looked up, and it was my grandfather. He looked so strong, so big, so still. Like a statue.

The statue smiled at me, put me back on the couch, and then in an instant he had disappeared around the corner into the dining room. I peeked around the corner thinking I’d see him, but he was gone. I remember panicking, thinking I’d never see him again. But he’d just gone on ahead to the barbecue outside. When I went out, myself, I saw him and I was happy.

Scroll down to read the rest after the video:

My grandfather lived to be 94 years old. He endured and prevailed over racism with class and dignity. He fought in World War 2 at the Battle of Guadalcanal and many other places. He raised a family. He drove cable cars and then a bus for LA’s Rapid Transit District for over 40 years, and when he retired he turned his attention to creating the semi-annual Bell Family Reunions. He became the family historian. He was our living history. Grandpa Roscoe lived his life exactly how he wanted to, with integrity, humor and perseverance. He was devoted to his church, to his family, to the community, and to helping and setting an example for young people in Sunday School and beyond. Everything I ever did well in life, was in an effort to make my grandfather as proud of me as I was of him. But I always suspected I could never quite measure up to what he wanted in a grandson.

I found out in the mid-90s that I was wrong about that.

My grandfather subscribed to the LA Times because they were running my editorial cartoons, even though he resented the paper dating all the way back to how they covered the 1965 Watts Riots. Years later, he carried around a rolled up copy of the LA Times comics page, to show friends, family and even strangers, what his grandson did. Later in life, I got to know him. When I moved back to LA, I started interviewing him on camera about his life. And to my surprise, over the next few years he became one of my best friends.

My friend gave me the most incredible, indescribable honor there is: he chose me to be with him to the end. Mine was the last face he ever saw, the last voice he ever heard, the last touch he ever felt, in this world.

Several weeks ago, my fiancee and I moved in with my grandfather because he’d had a stroke and didn’t think he should live alone anymore. As we pulled up with the moving truck, my uncle Nathaniel Crawford was leading Grandpa Roscoe out to his car, to take him to Kaiser. He was never the same. He declined rapidly after that. When doctors asked whether we wanted him in the hospital or at home, none of us had to think twice. Grandpa worked hard for his house; he loved it as if it were a member of his family, and there was no way we would allow him to spend his last days surrounded by strangers and tubes, in an unfamiliar place.

I knew that this meant I would be the one to find him, when the day came. And I tried to prepare myself for that.

I had the honor of being his primary caretaker, and together with my fiancee Makeda Rashidi, Uncle Nat, my Aunt Alta Faye Crawford, and my grandfather’s companion Dr. Bennie Reams, we made sure Grandpa was never alone. I cared for him from sunup until I put him to bed, and then I would check on him throughout the night. A few times, I had to choose between staying by his side and going into the other room to draw my cartoons or update this website, and for me it was an easy choice.

He rapidly went from walking around (quickly) with his cane, to using a walker, to needing a wheelchair, and finally to being bedridden for the final two weeks of his life.

I spent priceless hours talking and laughing with him, watching over him, learning from him, sharing stories, sharing TV shows, sharing photos, sharing visits from family and friends, sharing moments helping him do things I never thought I’d enjoy helping ANYONE do… and lastly – when he could no longer speak and was somewhere far away from us all – I would just rest my hand on his chest, sit beside him and share the silence.

I begged him to start eating, told him that when I have a child he’s going to be named after him, and I’m going to want him to help me raise him. At night, every night, I would rest my hand on his forehead and say a prayer over him, then lean over and kiss him on his forehead, and say “Goodnight, Grandpa. I love you. I’ll see you in the morning.” I was strong for him when I was in his presence. But then I’d go into my bedroom, close the door behind me, and sometimes weep like a baby into the arms of my fiancee. One night, I just buried my face in my pillow and cried “I’m not ready!” over and over again. I begged God for just two more years with Grandpa, but not if it meant he’d have to suffer.

The final words Grandpa Roscoe spoke with his voice, before he lost it, came when I was putting him to bed a few weeks ago. He struggled to say it. He said “I love you Darrin.” Then he tried to say “goodnight,” but nothing came out. I never heard his voice again.

At 4:30am on the morning of April 21, I checked on Grandpa Roscoe. His breathing was shallow and punctuated by gasps. Otherwise he was motionless. I realized he was only hanging on for me, now. I laid my head on his chest and listened to his heartbeat. I cradled the top of his head in my right palm and I stroked his right arm with my left hand. I raised my head and whispered into his ear. I thanked him for making me the man I am today, for trusting me, and for letting me care for him. I told him what he’s meant to me all my life, and what he’s meant to the family. I told him again that my child would be named after him, that I would tell him all about him until he was sick of hearing it, and that I would live the rest of my life in a way that would make both Grandpa Roscoe and Little Roscoe proud of me. I told him for the first time it was ok for him to rest. That I would be ok. That we all would be ok. That HE would be ok, and that I would see him again.

Then I did what I had done every night since I moved in: I laid my hand on his head and said a prayer over him. Then I leaned in and kissed him on the forehead, said “Goodnight Grandpa, I love you. I’ll see you in the morning.” I felt him lightly squeeze my hand. I backed away, not taking my eyes off him, watching his stomach rise and fall as he breathed. I turned out the lights. I stood at the doorway and tried to take a picture of him with my mind. Finally I went to bed.

When I checked on him two hours later, my Grandpa was gone.

He gave me the greatest gift one person can give another: he let me be with him as the world began to fade from his eyes. He let me watch him and care for him and hold him as he had one foot in each world — I saw him go far away… and then slowly fight his way back whenever family visited. I knew he was only coming back to check on us, to make sure we were all going to be ok, to give everyone who visited him a last chance to commune with him. And then, as soon as they left, Grandpa would rush back to wherever it was he was going.

I got to see him have his conversation with God and with his loved ones who went before him. I got to see him looking miles away. I got to ask him what he was thinking, see him consider telling me, and see him smile a little bit as if he’d slowly been made aware of a glorious secret. Every time, he would stop himself from telling me the way you stop yourself from speaking when you don’t want to spoil an incredible surprise.

Among all the gifts Grandpa Roscoe gave me in the end, the greatest was this: I no longer have any fear of death, because I know for certain from being with my grandfather – from watching how every time he came back to us he came back with more peace and more excitement about where he was going – I know for certain that there’s something more, after the end of this. Grandpa Roscoe is not gone; he’s just gone on ahead. And I know that when this shrink-wrapped world falls from my eyes like it finally did from Grandpa’s, my grandfather will be there to catch me again.

We laid Grandpa to rest three days ago on a sunny day in Inglewood. I spoke at his funeral, to try and share the gift my grandfather gave me. Every moment is burned into my memory. The first Navy honor guardsman asked if I would receive the flag, then she slipped off her white glove, touched my hand and gave me her condolences. My brother, my cousins and I put on our white gloves, and carried my grandfather’s bronze-colored coffin across the bright green grass and rested it on his grave. I sat with Grandpa Roscoe’s sister and brother beyond the foot of the coffin on the east. My brother and Grandpa’s oldest grandson Eric sat to my right. Everyone else gathered to the south. We stood, and covered our hearts as the second guard slowly played taps. My Uncle George gave a final salute; he’d served in the Navy in WW2, alongside my grandfather and three other brothers who’ve already gone home. The guards removed the flag from grandpa’s coffin, walked toward me, and parted, stretching the red, white and blue cloth until it was perfectly straight. Then they folded it. They stepped over other names in the grass on their way to me. The first guard handed me the flag. She slipped off her glove one last time, and knelt before me. She said quietly, to me alone, that she was authorized to give me the condolences of the President of the United States. As she said this, my eyes watered and I smiled at the same time; because from the beginning of my awareness of Grandpa Roscoe, to the last moments I glimpsed his coffin over the crisp, white-uniformed shoulder of the honor guard, I was never, ever, anything but proud of him.

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