I want to say something about art and commerce, about fame and failure. I’m using episodes from my life and the lives of people I know to do so. Inevitably, feelings will be hurt and my intent will be questioned. That’s the price of playing the game of art. I’m okay with that. What I want to assure you of in this, perhaps unnecessary, break from the action, is that it took me many years to conclude that I could say something true without sticking to the facts. I’m using fictional tropes because I’m convinced they will get at what I’m trying to say better than if I tried to chart out a painful tell-all, with fact-checkers and lawyers poring over every sentence. This is not an exposé or muckraker’s screed. I also have no interest in holding myself above or apart from the monsters I describe. I’m one of them. A willing participant. Likely worse than most of the others. Because in sober moments—often the middle of sleepless nights—I know there are better ways to be. More noble paths to follow. Orso and Carey are oblivious, or such accomplished liars that they’re convinced of their own righteousness. I have neither excuse to fall back on.
120 pages, 50 illustrations, 5x7 inches
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