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Received in email from the band:

"Hope you're well... I just saw your review of the 93 feet east show - You wrote that Vincent had ditched his old band in favour of a new taller, shinier, smoother model. They are certainly taller... The old Villains left of their own accord. We were devastated. The two new Villains are long time friends of Vincent - we're not being groomed by anyone to be anything.... we're unsigned."

Damn. Much as I didn't think the 93 Feet East show was their best gig, I did rather hope promotion and riches were flowing their way courtesy of a large label. Because of any of the local bands I go see, they could actually be big mainstream successes.

93 Feet East, last Wednesday night. Dark, mostly empty. I wanted to see the opening act, so we were early. Mr Watson is engaged in buying us more beer. I'm checking out the scene. A guy comes up. Thirties, medium height, dark hair. Black slacks, pale collared shirt, black zip-up jacket/windbreaker hybrid. Mobile phone on quick-draw in his paw. The sort of way software execs dress when they think they're being modern and trendy.

"Do you know who's playing tonight?" he asks. I look at him blankly. Of course I do. Why else would I be here? "I just moved here," he explains. "My friends said this was a really trendy venue, so I thought I'd come check it out. You know of any other trendy places?"

"N-no," I stammer, thinking Jesus Christ, I've just met my first looky-loo. Those of you only recently Of This Parish may not have heard me mention Dave Hickey's book Air Guitar, simply the most stone beautiful collection of writing about art and life that I've had the fortune to read. It's from him I get the expression "looky-loo", from an essay about the relationship between performer and audience:

"A month or so later, I find myself standing at the bar in CBGBs with Lester Bangs and David Johansen. We're listening to the Tuff Darts... When the noise subsides, Johansen tilts his head and nods theatrically towards the door. Lester and I turn to watch as a limousine load of uptown trendies file slowly into the back of the club, settling their coats on their shoulders and waving smoke away from their nostrils with frantic little gestures.

"Who dat?" Lester says.

"The beginning of the end," says David Jo. "Spectators."

My dad called them "looky-loos". He would come home from playing in some bar or listening to someone else play, and Mom would ask, "How was the crowd?" If those in attendance were not up to his usual standard, he would say, "looky-loos"... We all knew what he meant. [Looky-loos] were non-participants, people who did not live the life - people with no real passion for what was going on. They were just looking. They paid their dollar on the door, but they contributed nothing to the occasion - afforded no confirmation or denial that you could work with or around or against."

What's more, the Looky-Loo (in between dashing off to make important phone calls - he owns his own company) seems to have decided that tonight my status on the person/object border is firmly in the category of object. He drapes his arms over me. The proximity of Mr Watson (goth, has a good line in glowering) and Mr West (Glaswegian; 'nuff said) as my wingmen seems not to dissuade him in the slightest.

The first band starts. They're called Somebody's Mind, a early U2/My Bloody Valentine-style threesome, and they're... well, the best way I can describe how they were is to explain a little something about yacht racing. When you race a sailboat on the upwind leg of an Olympic course, it never pays to sail up the middle of the racecourse. The trick is to choose one side of the racecourse or the other and head out there. You don't have to bang the right hand corner; you just have to be more right than everyone else.

Somebody's Mind are sailing up the middle of the racecourse. There's nothing unique, no hook, nothing new there. Much as I detest U2, in the early days they had those three ringing chords, and that put them out in their own water on a winning side of the racecourse.

Next up were The Bishops, skinny tie-wearing Jam-style goodness. I want to hear more of them; I only half-listened to their set because I was too busy trying to keep the Looky-Loo from putting his hands on me again, and from pulling me over to go sit down. (Sit down! At a rock gig! Who does that, except for a looky-loo? Mind you, who when sober paws a girl he's just met?)

Headlining were Vincent Vincent and the Villains, who I've seen three times now. Or, more accurately, I've seen the singer three times, as between then and now he's ditched his old band and gotten a new one: taller, shinier, smoother with the instruments. In doing so, their edge has gone - along with the porkpie hats, the two-tone creepers, the lo-fi fun. It feels awfully like a label is grooming them to be the next Kaiser Chiefs.

Part of me wishes them well. If you've ever tried to pay your rent from creative endeavour, you get an awful lot more forgiving about this thing they call "selling out". But part of me is still recidivist indie kid, snarky and a little disappointed. They ended a rather antiseptic set without playing "B-Side Baby". I fled, without saying goodbye to the Looky-Loo.

Last night was King Biscuit Time at Cargo. Cargo's a pretty venue, but you can guarantee that half the audience will talk loudly through the gig. It's Cargo. It always happens. You get over it. I was a bit worried about this gig, truth be told. I loved the Beta Band. I don't mind their breaking up - they had four great albums and that's enough. But with the recent Lone Pigeon CD (Schoozmi) being a disappointment, I was growing concerned that nothing would rise out of the ashes of the Betas. Silly me.

"The trouble with your own thing is ...you end up on your own."

Do you ever wonder where the balance of power and creativity lies in a band? Whether everyone gives more or less equally, or it's really one manic personality driving it all? Well, I now know where my bets lie with the Betas. Steve Mason owned the audience from the moment in the first song when he grabbed a cowbell to use as a slide for his guitar. Like Bob Mould, Mason is as talented a performer as he is a musician. His two-member backing band held their own, but it really was The Steve Show.

Two new tracks from the upcoming album were corkers. The single Ciam 15 is out now, but we have to wait until January for the rest. Boo. I Walk The Earth, from the No Style EP, is still a gorgeous bit of dancey electronica. It wasn't a Betas gig, but there were a lot of similarities: loads of rambling between peculiar instruments; a similar electronic-indie sound; Mason going nuts on drums. There were even two Betas songs. Mason, alone on stage, did acoustic versions of "Dr Baker" and "Simple", and somewhat surprisingly the tunes lost none of their appeal for losing all the bells and whistles. There was also a 60-second calypso version of "Anarchy in the UK", which deserves to be immortalised.

From the live versions I've heard, the two British albums I'm most looking forward to are the new Flipron album and the new King Biscuit Time album. Through the kindness of strangers, I was sent an advance copy of the Magic Car album "Family Matters", due out on the 10th. The standout track is "Baltimore", and it's been on heavy rotation chez moi. New King Creosote just out too, backed by the Earlies. That should be good.

Been consuming films like a girl possessed. Go see Chetyre: it's like some unholy marriage between Tarkovsky and Takashi Miike, with some genuinely disturbing moments. I won't be forgetting the mask scene in a hurry. Also see A History of Violence. Great fight-scene directing, and brilliant work from Mortensen and Hurt. Avoid The London Nobody Knows/The World of Gilbert and George. There's a great documentary to be made about hidden/forgotten London, but this 1960s curio isn't it. Also, Gilbert and George should never be allowed near a videocamera again. Ever.

Up tonight is a double feature of Barry Lyndon (I always like the memory of Kubrick films more than I actually enjoy the experience of watching them, but I keep trying) and Les Enfants Terribles (A collaboration between one of my favourite writers and my favourite director. I have The Fear that it cannot possibly live up to my expectations.)

Night shift at last over; Monday was my first time in seven days going to sleep in the dark. The sense of luxury was almost pornographic.

"You're Alex? Wow, I love to get stoned and read your website." - drummer of band whose gig I went to see.

"Dude, you write just like a guy!" - LA producer, after getting three pages into my spec action screenplay.

Autumn, and the sunlit hours ebb away by a hen's stride each day. First the surprise of darkness at eight, and now the resignation of dusk passing seven. My debut on the night shift passed without incident (insomniac with mis-spent youth in "good at staying up all night" shocker) and I am perversely enjoying the feeling of displacement it has caused today.

The London Film Festival has released its schedule (November! Yikes! What happened to this year?) and I thought I would mention a few of the releases I find interesting:

Good Night, and Good Luck: Clooney, Downey dramatise Edward R Murrow vs Joe McCarthy. Downey's a terrific actor and Clooney quite a good director. Plus, it's B&W. Thurs 3 Nov, 7pm. It will get distribution (as will Walk the Line and Kiss Kiss), so it's not necessary to see it at the comparatively expensive LFF screenings... but why postpone joy?

Walk the Line: The eminently watchable Joaquin Phoenix (Buffalo Soldiers is still one of my favourite films) playing the young Johnny Cash. The on dit is that it's fantastic. 8.30 on Thurs 27 or 12.30 on Sun 30.

Kiss Kiss Bang Bang: By Shane Black, who was responsible for Lethal Weapon and Long Kiss Goodnight. Stars Robert Downey and Val Kilmer. Won't be great art, but will be great trash. And I love me some trash. Fri 28 Oct 8.30 and Sat 29 Oct 3.30.

Cache. European pyschological thriller, all about observation. Juliette Binoche, Daniel Auteuil. Sat 29 Oct 8.30.

Election. The newest from Johnnie To, one of Hong Kong's best action/thriller directors. Triads, stolen seals of authority... and no guns. Thurs 20 Oct 3.30 and Fri 21 Oct 6pm.

A Cock and Bull Story. Winterbottom takes on Tristan Shandy... and rips the piss out of film-making, adaptations, and actors' egos at the same time. Will either be terribly luvvy (seems like everyone in British film is in it) or quite good. Fri 21 Oct 8.30; Weds 26 Oct 4pm.

Factotum. Matt Dillon does Bukowski. Yeah, I'm a Bukowski groupie. Weds 2 Nov 8.30 and Thur 3 Nov 1.30.

Hustle and Flow. Pimp wants to become star rapper. The LA crowd said this was ace. Tue 25 Oct 7pm and Wed 26 Oct 1pm.

The Piano Tuner of Earthquakes. Brothers Quay. Surreal, absurdist wonderscapes, mixing Jules Verne, Adolfo Bioy Casares, and Magritte: yes please. Mon 31 Oct 6.30.

The Matador. Pierce Brosnan as vulgar, drunken, faded hitman. Sold! Mon 24 Oct 6pm.

Takeshis. Beat Takeshi's new one, all about identities and possibilities. If you don't know who Beat Takeshi is, go to movie jail. Tue 25 Oct 8.30.

Sympathy for Lady Vengeance. Oldboy director Park Chan-Wook continues his singlehanded effort to create a modern-style Jacobean revenge play. This time, with girls. And therefore so much more vicious. Sat 22 Oct 11pm.

Where the Truth Lies. Kevin Bacon and Colin Firth in an Atom Egoyan film about the coverup of a Hollywood rape/murder scandal. I have a soft spot for films about Hollywood scandals. Tue 1 Nov 7pm and Wed 2 Nov 3.30pm.

Mirrormask. Gaiman/McKean. Girl runs away from circus (geddit? so clever!). Goth navel-gazing ensues, in fantastic dreamworld. Sun 30 Oct 4pm Tue 1 Nov 3.30.

Blood Rain. Korean period detective thriller; think The Name of the Rose with katanas. Fri 28 oct 6pm or Mon 31 Oct 12.30

The Wendell Baker Story. Wilson brothers, Will Ferrell, Harry Dean Stanton. Won't go down in the annals of cinematic history, but should be entertaining. Sun 23 Oct 3.30.

Major Dundee. One word: Peckinpah. Re-edit of the famously controversial Western, the closest yet achieved to Peckinpah's intention. Peckinpah is one of my all-time favourite directors. Sun 30 Oct 1pm.

The Great Silence. Spaghetti Western by Sergio Corbucci. I'd go see it for the Morricone soundtrack alone, but for the rest of you, there's Klaus Kinski playing a nutcase bounty hunter, opposite Jean-Louis Trintignant. Mon 31 Oct 6.15.

The Passenger. Very rare Antonioni, almost never screened. New print. I have limited tolerance for Antonioni, but I'm quite keen to see this. Sat 29 Oct 3pm.

Book early (or become a member of the NFT), as many of these films will sell out before public booking even starts.

A few recent Smoke reviews I missed:

Wil Moss, in the Nashville City Paper: "It's refreshing to hear from new voices in comics, especially when they sound as professional and talented as that of Alex de Campi, who really knocks one out of the park with Smoke." Wil's column is really one of the best and most comprehensive columns on comics in America. I'd love to see it fixed up with an RSS feed or echoed onto Livejournal.

Rob Nott, in Comics International: "Alex de Campi has created something really quite unique within the pages of Smoke. Her multi-faceted story straddles several genres with its satirical thriller set in a dissolute Britain of 2012. In many ways it reminds me of quality BBC dramas like Dead Head and Edge of Darkness. A fresh and exciting voice in contemporary comics."

The Smoke paperback collection and a limited-edition hardback will hit stores in November. The hardback is signed by both myself and Igor, and features a fairly substantial amount of extra material by me outlining some history of the world in which the story is set.

The individual issues of Smoke sold out at many comic shops the day they arrived, and the anecdotal evidence I've had from many readers of having to go to three or four shops to find the issues suggests that it might be worth pre-ordering the collected editions to avoid frustration. Diamond order codes are at top right. If you're not a comic-shop-going type, I'll be putting up a link to the book on Amazon a bit closer to the date.

There will also be German (Egmont) and Spanish editions of Smoke coming out next year.

Minicomics guru Shawn Hoke recently reviewed my mate Rob Croonenborgh's I Love Short Shorts collection, which contains a story I wrote called "Six Characters": "It's no secret that I would rather read a story where someone functions as a cartoonist (both art and writing) rather than read something by a creative team. It's a preference I have. It doesn't mean that I'll ignore or dismiss something by a creative team; it just means I have a preference. De Campi's tale is an atmospheric meditation on the creative process and Croonenborghs' moody art suits it perfectly. Here the black pages and borders are a natural fit as a writer seems to be haunted by a book that she hasn't written yet. She's obsessed with it regardless of how much time she's spent putting pen to paper. This is a great short story and it's the first thing I've read from de Campi."

"Six Characters" is also collected in my own Defective Comics anthology, which can be ordered by going here and scrolling down. There are only about 20 copies of Defective left, and when it's gone, it's gone forever.

There is also a recent interview with me in the Millarworld webmagazine. Warning: they've been a bit cackhanded with closing the href tags, so vast swathes of the text is bile-green.

In a few weeks' time (once I have image-editing software again) I'll be announcing my sequential projects coming out in 2006. There are at least four creator-owned series, with one or two more possibly being finalised by year end. No Image work, no Marvel or DC. Not that I have anything against them; they're fine companies... I just haven't needed them.

...staring at the walls, staring at the girl in the mirror...

Doggerel continues.

I have updated the liner notes for Orpheus in Shoreditch to include English translations of the sampled lines from Orphee, as several of you emailed me and asked.

Saw Brian Friel's Aristocrats on Monday with Mr Nathan and The Pope. In brief: Upper-class Irish Catholic family reunites at Big House for wedding; drama and Bushmills ensues. It's not the most original of topics, but Friel has wrought from it something truly amazing, subtle, and searingly accurate. I have rather more experience with crumbling houses and crumbling families (especially of the left-footed variety) than I tend to admit, and I watched the play with that sort of horrified fascination that descends when one realises that oh my god, I know that family. Hell, I was married into it.

If your reaction to the line "Casimir was sent to the Benedictines at age six" is to think, "how horrible, what sort of beastly parent will do that", you'll enjoy the play. If your reaction to that line is "Hm, was H. bundled off to Worth at six or at eight?" you'll enjoy the play even more, and you'll be wanting a strong drink afterwards.

In contrast, The UN Inspector (also at the National) should be avoided. Shit-poor adaptation, starts shouting in the first five minutes, realises it has nowhere to go, so keeps shouting for the next 90 minutes hoping we won't notice. If Michael Sheen keeps appearing in dross like this, I'm going to forget about Caligula and fall out of love with his acting ability.

Torture Garden: Erghm. Ick. I am way too repressed to have enjoyed that. Also, I have now used up all my tolerance for bad techno music for the rest of 2005.

I had this dream, you see.

No. That's a lie. First, I had insomnia, so I technically wasn't asleep when it happened. Second, it really started with Gillen coming up to London unexpectedly and all of us piling down to the pub and talking shit about music. We also played a game I learned from my film nerd friends, where you propose the worst hypothetical remakes ever. Example: Andrei Tarkovsky's Charlie's Angels 2: Full Throttle. Seymour Butts' Harry Potter. John Woo's My Dinner With Andre. (If you're no good with directors, you can also do it with books and actors. To wit: Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan in Oedipus At Stalingrad. Jennifer Lopez and Ben Affleck in Master and Margarita.) The turn came around to me. I sip my pint and consider. Aha: Michael Bay's Orphee.

You have to understand that Orphee is my favourite film ever. It's a black and white French art film by Jean Cocteau that manages to say more about the nature of art and creativity in 90 short minutes than most people do in their entire lives. Plus, it features the ever-divine Maria Casares as a couture-clad Death in a black Rolls Royce. (It's out on DVD, although the BFI edition is incredibly frustrating if you don't speak French as the subtitles only translate about half the lines. Most gratingly, they omit possibly the best line in the entire film: the end of Heurtebise's "secret des secrets" speech, "...comme des abeilles dans une ruche de verre".) If you're interested in the philosophy and symbolism of Orphee, try to get your hands on a copy of Tom McCarthy's Calling All Agents, a slim 2003 volume in which McCarthy, a man who combines overeducation with an ability to free-associate to a degree which frankly leaves me burning with jealousy, takes on Cocteau's greatest film. Available from the ICA Bookshop or the Necronauts.

Unable to sleep that night, I became obsessed with figuring out what the Michael Bay remake of Orphee would be like. There'd be a Deathmobile, for starters. I mean, really. Orphee is the perfect film for Michael Bay. Nobody gets their kit off, and there's potential for vehicular mayhem galore. I lay in bed and laughed like a fool. What would Orpheus do? He wouldn't be a poet. No, that - as they say - wouldn't play in Peoria.

Gillen, always despairing over the archaic state of my music knowledge, had just that day forced me to listen to LCD Soundsystem's "Losing My Edge". Its lament for a fading hipness brought to mind nothing so much as Orphee talking to his companion in the Cafe des Poetes. That's it, I thought. Orpheus would be a DJ. The whole idea of borrowing and changing bits of old songs fit very nicely in with Cocteau's theme of Orphee finding inspiration from the garbled radio broadcasts of the dead Cegeste. Then somehow the story got transferred to London, and Michael Bay was removed from the equation. Then I sort of lost consciousness for a while, I think.

Or maybe I didn't. The point is that the next morning I had this little story in my head. Now let's have the house lights down please, and the curtains open. Ladies and gentlemen, Orpheus in Shoreditch. Liner notes contain details of the story, as well as my usual rambles about the music.

Please note: I have made this mix as a way of introducing friends to some music I adore and think should be better known. It will be put up for 30 days only. If you enjoy the mix, please purchase these or other tracks by the artists. If you are a rightsholder or the representative of one, and you object to this mixtape, please email me and I will take it down immediately. I am not making money off this, and I do not have lawyers.

Things are falling apart and re-combining themselves so quickly in my life right now that I look forward to each zooming day with a mix of trepidation and breathless excitement, because I truly have no idea how it will end.

I have begun the latest in my amusing litany of nickel-and-dime jobs which pay the rent and permit the writing. This one ("suitably vampiric", quips Mr Dunning) consists of working 14 nights a month at a press clippings agency in South London. To get there by bicycle - the cherry-red urban groove machine - I am having to... well, judging by the past few days, I am having to break a truly impressive amount of traffic laws, even for me.

My route takes me through some parts of London where I never go anymore: Mornington Crescent, King's Cross, and then the long drop down through Clerkenwell and over to Southwark. For my previous job, the route was Regents' Park and then Hyde Park, and down through Knightsbridge. I have traded roses for warehouses, and it's not a bad swap. London shows me another face, and I fall in love with her again.

This change in my current through the city made me think of the seashore of my childhood: the brutal, magnificent crash-rock granite coast of the Maine islands, a coast which yet held surprising amounts of delicacy. (I think it is due to this early visual experience that I always side with the sublime over the beautiful.) From tiny cranberry bushes or baby juniper struggling up between fractures of rock to the strange gain of storm-torn lobster buoys and "lucky" white-ringed stones to be discovered tide-side, every inch was paradise for a child with an overactive imagination.

The best were the tidal pools. There was one huge one, just on the Seal Cove side of Green Cottage, halfway down a particularly forbidding mass of granite. You had to know where it was; you'd never just discover it. It was the best tidal pool on the island: a good three or four feet deep, some eight feet long, and refreshed twice a day. It supported an entire mini-ecosystem of fish, crabs, plants, periwinkles, mussels, sometimes even a whelk or a limpet. My mother and I would visit it at least once every summer, with pomp, ceremony and sandwiches, to review the changes in this our pocket world.

The habit persists. But last time I went back to the Island something had changed in the way the tides addressed the shore, and the thriving little tide pool was nothing but an empty gash in the rock. Couple of barnacles. Bit of seaweed.

And this afternoon riding up Gray's Inn Road I wondered if cities are just collections of tidal pools. We think we're free and moving and part of everything, but we're mostly just circulating in our own mini-ecosystem. The water gets refreshed reguarly, a few creatures are lifted in or out every so often by the tide, but my London existence still strikes me as a retreat into a series of mini-cities.

I thrive for a while, then something in the current changes - a storm, a big wave, or maybe a little one at just the right angle, and I am washed out back into the drift, another pool to find. The old pool takes little notice of my going. "What are you up to these days? We haven't heard from you in aaages... Writing? How fascinating."

Patrick McGrath on the moment he decided to become a writer, after ten feckless years of trying other things on for size: "It felt like a coming home. It felt like solving the big problem of life." Yes. Exactly so.

Comes With A Smile 19, the UK's best music 'zine, is accepting pre-orders. Go, purchase. (Matt Dornan of CWAS and I are both gigging friends of Mr Brown, although we are never at the same gig at the same time.) You should also purchase the quite lovely comics zine Sturgeon White Moss, who is now Six. New Yorkers: go see Bob Mould when he plays your linear and towering city on 5 October. His London gig was a sheer noisy no-holds-barred object lesson on how to do rock concerts right.

For those of you who wish to download my August mixtape but have not yet done so, you have little time left. The Day Stone Affair ends on Sunday (providing I'm not too much of a club casualty after Torture Garden), to be replaced by this month's model.

In last night's State of the Union address, US president Bush sought to combat his plummeting approval ratings by announcing that Antarctica has been added to the now four-nation Axis of Evil along with Iraq, North Korea and Iran. "Our intelligence briefings have shown that Hurricane Katrina is clearly linked to Global Warming, and the ringleaders of Global Warming are Antarctic glaciers."

Bush went on to comment that the destruction of New Orleans and the staggering death toll meant that glaciers were a bigger threat to America than Osama bin-Laden and he would re-prioritise American military objectives accordingly. Partial excerpts of the address follow:

"My fellow citizens, at this hour American and coalition forces are in the early stages of military operations to disarm the glaciers, to free the native penguins from their Emperors, and to defend the world from grave danger.

On my orders, coalition forces have begun striking selected targets of military importance to undermine Global Warming's ability to wage war. These are opening stages of what will be a broad and concerted campaign.

In this conflict, America faces an enemy who has no regard for conventions of war or rules of morality. Global Warming has placed Weather of Mass Destruction in civilian areas, attempting to use innocent American men, women and children as victims for its own propaganda campaign and committing untold atrocities against our great country."

Hollywood celebrities have already begun vocal protests against the Antarctic War, with Susan Sarandon allegedly saying, "Iraq was one thing. But endangering the lives of innocent animals is unacceptable. Will nobody think of the seals? President Bush should resign." Sean Penn was reported as saying, "Which one's Antarctica? Is that the one on the top, or the one on the bottom?"

In a later announcement it was confirmed that Fox's Glacier Mints shall be re-named Freedom Mints in a show of solidarity and that sales of tickets to 'March of the Penguins' have dropped to nothing following protests to distributors and lobbying from morality groups.

When asked for comment by our Antarctic correspondent, an emperor penguin said "eeep."

(click here for Hurricane Katrina relief charities)

SYNDICATION: LiveJournal

ARCHIVES: October 2004 November 2004 December 2004 January 2005 February 2005 March 2005 April 2005 May 2005 June 2005 July 2005 August 2005 September 2005 October 2005 November 2005 December 2005 January 2006 February 2006 March 2006 April 2006 May 2006 June 2006 July 2006 August 2006 September 2006 October 2006 November 2006 December 2006 January 2007 February 2007 March 2007 April 2007 May 2007

& FOR HER NEXT TRICKS:

KAT & MOUSE 2
January 2007
ISBN-10: 1598165496
$5.99 / All Ages

AGENT BOO 2
January 2007
ISBN-10: 1598168037
$4.99 / All Ages

***

RECENTLY:

MESSIAH COMPLEX 1
October 2006
ISBN-10: 2731617667
EUR12,90 / Teen

AGENT BOO 1
Sept 2006
ISBN-10: 1598168029
ISBN-13: 9781598168020
$4.99 / All Ages

KAT & MOUSE 1
July 2006
ISBN-10: 1598165488
ISBN-13: 9781598165487
$5.99 / All Ages

SMOKE
December 2005
ISBN-10: 193323928X
$24.99 / Teen

***

Brief Loves:
Music: Berlin Cabaret Songs
Film: Chetyre (4)
Book: Camera Lucida