DAY ONE: Saturday September 24, 2005
BeBop takes inventory of the comics I will be taking with me. Then grows bored.

My father wants to Power Wash my car's engine. "It will help your engine keep cool and get you better gas mileage." I think my dad, newly retired, is looking for something to do. I figure
I can fenagle a few loads of quarter-hoarding-free laundy while my dad assaults my car's body and engine with highly compressed jets of water.

I get to my parent's house and chat with my mother while my dad works on my car and my shirts and underwear get a thorough wash and tumble. My mother offers me lunch - a grilled cheese and bacon sandwich - and I accept. I watch as she puts six humongous slices of thick, applewood smoked bacon in a pan to fry. These are no itty-bitty IHOP-sized strips of swine. No, these babies are about the length of the entire pig and a good quarter-inch thick. The edges of the bacon hang over the edge of the 14-inch skillet. It smells delicious.

Out of the corner of my eye I see my father walk by outside with a Costco-sized bottle of Armor All in one hand and various wiping implements in the other. I sprint out of the door.
Too late. All of the interior surfaces of my car are glossy, oily, and completely friction-free. It looks beautiful, though. My dad loves detailing cars and mine hasn't looked this sharp since
I bought it. I slide in - I swear he Armor All'd the cloth seats as well - and notice that there are new super heavy duty floor mats under my feet. "Yours were full of salt," he says. "I put them
in the back seat, too." I look over my shoulder and sure enough there are new mats back there as well. That's what dads are for, I suppose. Armor All and floor mats. Oh, and WD-40.

My mom calls me in to eat. She places the grilled cheese and bacon sandwich in front of me. On the plate there is a pile of green and white vegetables. Apparently my mom has learned
to pickle. (Really? This is how my mom occupies herself these days? With pickling?) So my lunch is accompanied by heavily vinegared cucmber, green tomatoes, onion, and cauliflower. I eat the cuke and cauliflower let my mother have the rest. I grab half of the sandwich - yes, she cut it - and my teeth have barely pierced the bread when I realize that all six ginormous pieces of bacon are in there. I thought she was making enough for sandwiches for her, my father, and me. Nope. I feel my heart lock-up and skip a beat. Does my mother remember that I'm nearing 40? I can't be eating bacon like...like....aw, the heck with it. Bacon is good. Further examination of the sandwich reveals that she made it on that bazillion grain bread. You know, the kind that looks like a loaf of bird seed? And the cheese is...Velveeta. My mom made me a fancy bread and expensive bacon sandwich but used gov'ment cheese to hold it together. Somewhere Julia Child is smiling down on my mom's kitchen.

When my underwear is clean, I pack up and say good-bye. My dad hands me two items for my trip: a can of that emergency tire inflater and what looks like a half-size bar of police lights. He hands me an adaptor for the thingamabob. "You plug it into your lighter if there's an emergency." He pops the item on. One end acts as a regular old flashlight. On the bottom is a large flat light for, I'm assuming, using to light the engine if you need to see it in less than daylight conditions. (Like say, in the middle of nowhere on I-80 at night?) And on top are three lights - red, white, and yellow. The red and yellow flash as warning lights. The middle light is a blinding strobe. I laugh because it is oh-so very much my father. I thank him and tell him that this will come in handy when I need to signal the mothership as to my location.

Later, I have dinner with Kamilah. We split a concoction called Twinke Tiramisu for dessert. It's only after a few bites that I remember my high bacon consumption earlier in the day. The dessert is too good to not finish. "Screw it," I think. "Let the bacon and tiramisu fight over which artery they get to block. I'm on vacation."

DAY TWO: Sunday September 25, 2005


BeBop knows I'm going away. She is not at all happy about it.

I finish packing. I swear it's all socks and underwear. When did I acquire a habit of having hair care products that I simply must bring with me? Thank heavens I am so bad-ass that I don't blow-dry my hair. I have four heavy bags to bring. I'm so glad I don't fly because I imagine dragging all of this stuff through an airport must be a nightmare. I mean, it's bad enough that
I'll be trying not to take a header down three flights of stairs in the morning as I try and get everything to my car in one trip. Yes, I am that stupid.

Tomorrow I hit the road and and about 24 hours from now I will be in Lincoln, Nebraska for the evening. I cannot wait. Driving is therapy.

DAY THREE: Monday September 26, 2005


All of Iowa looks like this, command central, greeted by indigenous wildlife at my hotel in Nebraska.

I'm finally on my way. I target Lincoln and head on my way before the sun rises.

Tragedy strikes in Amana Colony, Iowa. (What? Was it colonized by Radar Ranges fleeing the oppression of microwaves?) I fill up my gas tank ($2.67 a gallon) and go inside the gas station to use the restroom. Ah, nothing says clean like the smell of urine barely masked by cleaning solvent and cheap air-freshener. The room is dark but I leave my sunglasses on. I know if I take them off I will only see the horror show in all it's glory. As I move to leave the stall, it happens: my keys fall out of my pocket. Onto the floor. The wet, nasty floor. Oh, wait. They fall onto the drain on the floor where the, uh, run-off goes.

I seriously consider leaving the keys and calling off the trip.

DAY FOUR: Tuesday September 27, 2005


What a great day to travel! Um, uh oh. And finally, oh fuck.

The remnants of the hurricane dukes it out with a Canadian cold front and I lose. Sixty mile per hour winds are whipping across I-80 and I spend the latter part of my day fighting to keep my car on the road. I watch as folks in motor homes sway back and forth across the center line. I don't care if I get a speeding ticket (even though I have yet to see any sort of law enforcement at all on this trip) I want to be as far away from those deadly RVs as possible. (The best RV I whipped past had his n' hers rascals hitched to the back) To save gas, I get behind a semi and draft along for almost 250 miles. He doesn't seem to mind and waves as he leaves me just over the Wyoming state line.

At the height of the storm I am forced to pull off and get gas in a less than ideal situation.
(Kris' Rule for Getting Gas on Major Interstates - if there isn't a McDonald's at the exit, don't get gas there.) The winds are howling as I pull into Elk Mountain's sole attraction - a shack that houses a Conoco station. As I step out of my car my glasses are nearly torn from my face and the pumps are shuddering from the force of the wind. I fill the tank and then head inside to pay. The hillbilly running the place says, "I bet you're used to this, being from Chicago." Yeah, Windy City. I get it. I don't have the patience to tell him the origins of that nickname. I go to the restroom and as I get to the sink to wash my hands I see a small sign posted beneath the mirror.

DOnt nOt drink the watter

Hoo boy. God bless America.

I get to my hotel on the edge of Wyoming, my neck and shoulders in great pain. The Comfort Inn shares a lot with a restaurant with a drive-through liquor store and an, ahem, adult entertainment shop. Called Romantix ("We put the X back in romance!"), from my room I have a direct view of the back door which promises "new penny arcades and adult mini-movies." I take a stroll around the building as I go off in search of some food. Parked in front of Romantix is a pick-up truck (what else?) and written in white paint on the back window is "JUST MARRIED! HUSBAND AND WIFE!"

I really, really regret not having my camera with me at this moment

DAY FIVE: Wednesday September 28, 2005


Woke up with Wassatch.

A long yet uneventful drive. I arrive in Portland. Now the real adventure begins.

DAY SIX: Thursday, September 29, 2005


Nate rocks the house, then he rocks it some more. Cabbage rolls and coffee! Mmm mmm good!


Nate learns to work the button box. And that's not a euphamism.

Noho's Number 9 - Teriyaki chicken with rice and macaroni salad. And then some more macaroni salad.

I spend my first day in Portland holed up in Nate's apartment while he's at work. I've been up since 5AM because I'm still on Chicago time and am loopy and tired. I hijack Nate's DSL and spend the day, well, making this webpage.

A trip to Fred Meyer's last night resulted in me buying a DVD of Logan's Run - a movie I thought I liked. I watch it this afternoon and laugh at how utterly cheesy and goofy it is. I mean, this flick won an Academy Award for special effects yet during the carousel (Cirque de Lastday) scene you can clearly see the wires as the men and women "float" up into the air. And don't even get me started on the acting, although Peter Ustinov does a good job despite being surrounded by Shakespearian over-the-topness. I liked the book better.

Nate comes home and surprises me by revealing his ability to play the accordion. He says he's been playing a month and I am quite taken-aback when, instead of churning out a stilted "Mary Had a Little Lamb," Nate rocks out "La Napolera" and "La Tuna Waltz." (Don't tell me you all don't know those.) Nate was born to play the accordion.

For dinner, Nate, Stephanie, and I go to Noho's, a Hawaiian restaurant that Nate took me to when I was in Portland two years ago. I've been craving their amazing macaroni salad since then. We indulge in Teriyaki chicken with extra macaroni. Gut-busting good. I sleep well and finally adjust to the time change.

DAY SEVEN: Friday, September 30, 2005

Food of the gods: Chicken fried steak, eggs, blueberry pancakes. Denver omelete, blueberry pancakes.

Nate and I eat a healthy - in terms of sheer mass - breakfast at Pig'n Pancake and spend
the morning running errands. We get office supplies, change for the con, and Nate gets
some cool new shades. We end up at Old Navy buying shirts. It was the girliest day I've ever had and it was all with Nate.

Later in the afternoon Nate drives me to a signing I'm doing at a local comic shop. I arrive late and when we walk in and I introduce myself to the owner he says, "Oh. I didn't know you were
a girl."

I ask him if the, oh, female slant to my comics didn't give him a hint to my gender.

"Well, I just thought you might be gay," he replies.

"I am."

Nate said you could actually hear the needle scratching across the record.

The evening is spent at a party filthy with cartoonists in town for the convention. Held at Kip and Jenn's fabulous home, I am surly and cranky. Why are people so charmed by that? I'm not feeling social (big surprise there, eh?) so I'm sure my mystique is still intact. That or everyone is offended by my lack of party participation. Either way, I win.

Tomorrow is Stumptown. I promise I'll be nice.

DAY EIGHT: Saturday, October 1, 2005

Words later. Pictures now.

Our heroes.


Kris and Bill Mudron, Dylan Meconis, and Erika Moen. Erika did ask if she could pick her nose.


Patrick Farley caffeinates, Jenn Manley Lee colates, Nate Lilly contemplates.


Why, yes! We have comics! Poor Jenn finally cracks. Ah! That's the Kris we all know and love!


Comics for as far as the eye can see.

I loved looking at these David Kelly faces all day.

Stumptown was alright, I guess. As a social and hang-out-with-cartoonists event it's swell. As a way of selling comics and trying to earn some money from my chosen art form, it's not so great. Unlike SPX and MOCCA where I can't keep my stuff on the table fast enough and attendees walk around with armloads of comics, Stumptown is, as is my experience with APE, a browser's con. Lot's of people are looking, but nobody is really buying. I notice one guy at the show all day and as I'm leaving I see that he has purchased two books.Now, I don't blame the organizers.The show is in a great space and isn't cramped or an uncomfortable temperature. It is too long. Nine AM is too early to start and going until 6PM is just too long to sit at a table and sell comics. Nate and I leave at 5PM - an hour before the show ends - because my patience has run out.

I am particularly irked with the lesbians who come to the show. Hey, sisters, why are so many of you so unsupportive? Now, I know that there are a great many who do support my work and I truly appreciate it, but at this show y'all are the worst. How many of you stop at my table, pick up into sunday morning, read the whole thing, and when I tell you that it costs a dollar - a dollar - you put it down like someone slipped bacon on your veggie burger? Oh, and you. Yeah,you. The woman who stands at my table and reads all of Maggie Bitter, laughing the whole time? When you put it back down on the table and walk away without buying it? I have never loathed any other human more. I mean, the most expensive thing on my table is $2! You can not save a whale for a few more paychecks and support the damned lesbian artists. And do you know who I sold most of my comics to? Gay men. So there.

Ahem.

Nate, on the other hand, is charming the stripey-tights crowd and sells lots of his minis. Yay, Nate!

Sadly, I don't buy anything other than an issue of Giant Robot. I'm beginning to think that my time has passed. The nineties were great but the goths and emo kids just don't relate to the comics I draw. I decide that this is the last con I will table at for a long, long time if not ever again.

( Oh, boo freaking hoo, Kris. Get over yourself already.)

Exhausted, Nate and I pass on after-con activity to order pizza and watch Robots. Perfect.

DAY NINE: Sunday, October 2, 2005

Nate's paintings. The one in the middle hangs over his bed. Sleep tight!

Even after a pretty decent fit of sleep, I'm still cranky about comics. Just to be clear, Stumptown itself is a great show. I'm just hugely disappointed by the lack of sales and support by the audience I thought I was filling a need for. What? Disappointed by comics? Surely I jest! I mean, why bother doing queer gal-centric comics if everyone except queer gals are buying them? And before I burn every bridge before me, those queer women that do support my work and have for a long time? And the ones that are just discovering my work? You're the best. I love you all. And queer boys and straight folks are always welcome. (Of course it would help if oh, say, women's - pardon me - womyn's bookstores supported my work, but that's another rant for another time.)

It's a lovely chilly and rainy Sunday here in Portland. Nate and I, once we stop monkeying around on our computers, are off to Powell's.

Nate feeds the beast, the dashboard of doom, does this lapbelt make me look fat?

Nate drives a 1964 Ford Galaxy 500, a car that's older than both of us but not by much. It gets about 30 yards to the gallon, rumbles like King Kong's belly, and gets hoots and whistles from grown men who really should know better. It's safety features are basically a dash mat that will absorb any blood and brain matter when the lap belts cuts the torso in half as it is hurled forward through the window. Getting in and out of the backseat involves yoga positions that master students take years to accomplish and the rear window defroster is a squeegee that Nate keeps on the backseat.

It's an awesome car.

We make the pilgrimage (for me at least) to Powell's. Once inside we promptly run into
David Kelly, long-time comics pal and our table neighbor at Stumptown. I'm not one to browse
for hours on end so I hit my favoites: children's, comics, art, and in a surprise, the erotica sections. I score a copy of The Mammoth Book of Illustrated Erotica, Playboy Redheads (Nate better give it back to me before I leave), and as my non-smut purchase Fashion Kitty, a kid's graphic novel by Charise Mericle Harper. (OK, who doesn't have a deal to illustrate a kids graphic novel?)

Now Nate's on the couch in his old man's pants as we watch The Simpsons and digest our Thai dinner.

Vacation rules.

DAY NINE: Monday, October 3, 2005


Random acts of eating: farmer's omlete, spider roll gams, sweet, succulent sushi.


Dylan's soy suace sunshine, erotic-looking pastry, bacon bleu cheese chicken sammich.


Nate works his magic at the drawing board. "Hey, ladies. Do you like cartoons?"

DAY TEN: Tuesday, October 4, 2005

Take me back to Chicago. When did my hair get so blonde again?

Today is my last day in Portland. Nate is at work and I'm sitting amongst his clean underwear that is piled on the couch. I'm about to go pack my belongings up and compulsively check weather.com to make sure the driving conditions for the trip home are favorable. (They are.)

It's been a fun and relaxing trip. Instead of the con being the focus, it was just something we did one of the days and that made all the difference in the world. I'm still not thrilled with the lack of sales, but hey, it's Portland's loss since I doubt I'll be coming back this way anytime soon.

My trip would have sucked if not for Nate Lilly's generous hospitality, DSL abuse, and super comfy accomodations, Jenn Manley Lee for entertaining me, Bill Mudron for not drawing Japanese porn in my sketchbook (but am honestly sad that he didn't), Dylan Meconis for the quotes and nekkid lady, and David Kelly for just being David Kelly. On the homefront big, big thanks to Barbara and Kamilah for keeping my felonic trio fed and watered.

Goodbye, Nate's car! I will miss your leaky passenger seat!

DAY ELEVEN: Wednesday, October 5, 2005


I've decided I don't like mountains. I mean, look at it being all ominous and stuff!

DAY TWELVE: Tuesday, October 6, 2005


Driving up a mountain into a cloud. Ooooh, this ain't good. Eee! Why am I taking pictures while driving?!

I remembered to get a snap of Romantix. OK! Who wants to do the coffee creamer joke?

DAY THIRTEEN: Tuesday, October 7, 2005

Cool clouds in Iowa, endless construction on the final leg, downtown butts it's head against the ceiling.

So that's it. I'm home. Portland was fun. Doing this cross country drive yet again? Not so much. Now I can unwind and get ready for wherever next year takes me.