Looking back, of course, both those attitudes are ridiculous and, in many ways, an accident of youth. When I was moving to the US, I culled my music collection by burning CDs with only my favorite songs from the countless singles and albums I had, creating my own Best Ofs for the Rolling Stones, David Bowie, Small Faces, and so on and so on. A lot of it was for practical reasons; I literally didn’t have the space to bring all of them, but there was also a sense of, “I don’t need to listen to half of these songs again, and I really don’t care about remembering which songs come from Hunky Dory and which from Low anymore.” I’m not sure whether that counts as maturing, or just getting older; there are times and bands for whom I miss that level of intensity and compulsiveness (Don’t get me started on the difference between the two versions of Gorillaz’ “Latin Simone” and why the original is better than the album version), as well as the fetishistic attitude towards albums as art objects, meant to be listened to as a complete and final thing instead of zipped about through iPod playlists, after all. But for everything else, “Greatest Hits” suit me just fine. As long as they don’t have to include the hits I never liked in the first place.

(The above, of course, doesn’t apply to those of you who have heard of it; you were the ones who, instead of a confused look, read those two words and thought, Yes, that’s a great choice. Well done, you.)

Tate was one of the many strips that ran in Deadline, now two decades old (Jesus Christ!) and still not outgrown the title of “The magazine that gave the world Tank Girl.” Outshone at the time by Jamie Hewlett and Wired World’s Philip Bond - And, as an aside, why is there still no Wired World collection? Yes, it’d be dated, but that’d be half the fun (The other half would be reliving my teenage crush on Pippa, one of the strip’s two leads, but that’s another post) - Abadzis’ strip benefited from the freedom that came from the relative lack of attention, managing to grow and change as Abadzis did, coming into focus in such a way that felt organic and real, unlike so many other contemporaries.

At heart, I guess, Tate is a series about people and relationships. Its title character isn’t always the lead - there are episodes without Hugo altogether, dealing with his friends and relatives - and even when he is front and center, the stories aren’t always necessarily about him; they could be a retelling of a dream, or his discovering the diary of a forgotten relative, or whatever else Abadzis wanted to write about at that particular moment. The messiness and discontinuity was a blessing, though, despite what it sounds like, in part because of the cohesiveness of Abadzis’ intent if not always his voice, and because of his skill: Every episode felt genuine, and heartfelt. Every one felt like a handwritten letter from a friend, no matter what they were feeling at the time.

The series came to a head - and, I think, an end? - with the O, America storyline, where Hugo ran away from his problems and ended up losing himself (in multiple ways) in America. It’s the only storyline to have been collected, although it’s fallen out of print a long time ago, and well worth searching eBay and second hand stores for: Imagine a cross between Kerouac, Eddie Campbell’s Alec and British kitchen sink drama, and you’re pretty close to what it’s like. In the more-than-a-decade since it finished, I’ve often looked for something similar, something that’s as hopeful and realistic and honest, with no success. It’s like a friend you’ve lost touch with, and occasionally wonder where they are and what they’re doing at that very moment, struck by a sadness that seems silly to admit to.

It’s a weirdly insidious scheme, on behalf of the Oregonian, though; now, if the papers were to stop arriving, I’d miss them. They’ve become part of the morning, like the essential cup of tea and trying to stop the dogs from eating our/the cat’s food (delete as applicable). I’ve become accustomed to pulling out the sections that I don’t care about (Sports always, Business oftentimes, the classifieds and the several million trees’ worth of advertisement sections), scanning the regular op-ed writers, reading Pearls Before Swine… It’s the classic “the first hit is free” thing, except the first hit is actually the first three months’ hits and newspapers instead of The Horse.  Dammit, whatever happened to print dying already?

Of course, newspapers are just much more fun to read than laptops at the breakfast table, as well. That’s what they need to fix before the iPad is a winner…

The dream, or what little I remember of it now, weeks later, had me meeting with Stan in some strange television studio that was also his penthouse apartment. I was there under work-related pretenses, I think, even though my family were all waiting outside for me (And outside, in this case, was the steps of the San Diego Convention Center; I remember, at one point, looking out and seeing them all bake in the sun, hoping I’d be finished soon), both excited and nervous to meet the man they actually call The Man. And, it turned out, with good reason: the Stan Lee in this dream was a sleazy, uncomfortable man who stood too close to you when he talked and kept a comically large, leatherbound journal of all of his sexual conquests with him wherever he went. And that’s where all the trouble started.

Upon hearing my name, you see, Lee declared that he had had sex with my mother back in 1976 and so therefore, was my father. Never mind that fact that 1976 is actually two years after I was born, or that the woman who he thought was my mother was - he showed me her entry in his journal, complete with headshot; Yes, my dream was this disturbing - not, in fact, my mother at all. He was convinced, and started angrily telling me that I was his son, and there was nothing I could do about it. I had to just accept it and bask in his reflected glow. I didn’t, of course; I tried being polite and then, as he started describing the night of my perceived conception, simply tried to leave, but he followed me, trying to convince me that I was his creation and the sooner I admitted that to myself, the better off everyone would be.

The dream ended with me leaving the building, and rejoining my family. “How was he? Did he live up to his reputation?” they asked, and I shook my head in a “You don’t want to know” way, smiled, and told them that, no matter what Stan Lee said, they should never, ever, take him seriously.

Sometimes I worry about my relationship to comics.

Of all the photos taken that day, this was the one that our friend loved, and used as inspiration for a particular painting. She pinned it to her wall as she worked, and would turn to look at it every now and then, studying details and translating them in her head so that she knew where to put the brush next. All of this happened as Tina and I fell from friends into notfriends, and it was a weird feeling every time I visited the friend’s studio and this photo was staring out at me, making a face, blowing smoke towards me.

Looking back, Lisa dealt with my crush - a ridiculous, embarrassing crush that made me tongue-tied and assured to say or do the wrong thing at almost any given time she was around - ridiculously well, a mixture of humoring me and finding it humorous but also dealing with it (and me) with such kindness and grace that I was let down without the heartbreak that the me I was then was eager to jump into and wrap around me. Not that I was really aware of that, at the time; I don’t think I really realized the many ways in which she was a wonderful person until years after we’d lost touch, which seems both fitting and sad at the same time. She was one of the sweetest people I’ve ever known, and wherever she is now, I hope that’s still true.

May the future make up for all of this bullshit, and may all those I care about find themselves in happier situations. Starting right now, please.

(Still, that Quasi riff is pretty great…)

The British music scene of the pre-Britpop early nineties was a fractured beast, maybe even moreso than it is now; there were cheesy “pop” versions of techno and indie bands who hadn’t understood that part in The Manual about the public not wanting to look at sullen people’s facial disfigurements on Top of The Pops every Thursday evening, and everything seemed so dull until grunge made it to our shores. I remember hearing Nirvana as the, what, sixteen year old I was at the time? Something like that, and it was a weird mix of “Well, this is interesting” and revulsion at the same time - I wanted to hear more of it, but not more of that particular it, it seemed like, so when Pearl Jam’s more radio-friendly brand came along, I happily signed up.

(Don’t worry, I soon saw the light on the Nirvana train. I still prefer their poppier side, though; “About A Girl” is easily my favorite song of theirs, and it’s pretty much a Beatles song in all but volume.)

Sixteen and seventeen, nowadays, feel like the right age for Pearl Jam. Maybe a little younger, even; there’s something about their anger and sadness and intensity that feels particularly adolescent, after all, but maybe I was just a late developer in those respects. But before they turned into my generation’s Grateful Dead, there seemed a youthful purity about them, some kind of overwhelming “they care so much” that lacked irony or distance or, looking back, common sense at times, and that’s what I was drawn to as much as their music or lyrics. Whereas Nirvana seemed more nihilistic and arch, Pearl Jam were the cuddly face of grunge, the Monkees, and there was something less scary about that that I found easier to follow. I remember listening to Ten and Vs. over and over, convinced that it said something to me about my life, man, if only I could work out what. But by the time the third album came out, Britpop and real life had taken over and all of the old thrill was gone; I’d discovered something brighter, more pop and more who I felt like at the time, and Pearl Jam sounded at once too young and too old for me.

These days, they’re a guilty nostalgic pleasure; something I like, but pretty much only because it reminds me of being younger and everything that comes with it. Happier, simpler, more melodrama-friendly times. Those were the days.