parrish baker, kansas city comic artist since at least 1995, was born as the old sepia-tone world was finally fading away, four days before nixon narrowly won a first term in the white house. parrish grew up in the countryside of missouri, not quite in the plains but neither quite in the ozarks. the summers are hot there, and the winters cold, and there is often a great deal of wind. eventually he received an adequate education--primary, secondary, and college, and even bothered to get a master's degree in a useless topic. he walked out of the halls of academe into the heart of a recession. moving to kansas city, he luckily found a temporary job that lasted twelve years before he decided that it had become permanent, and decided to move on to other endeavors. somewhere along there he began drawing mini-comics . . . or something like drawing . . . judge for yourself . . .

he still lives in kansas city, drawing his ridiculous indy comics like there was no tomorrow. of course--if you watch the news . . .

just what is it about comics in kansas city?

The year was 1996. Or 1997. Your call.

1995 . . . 1996 . . . 1997 . . . 1998 . . . a golden age for comic book art in Kansas City. 40 Oz. Comics was alive and well, and, most importantly, here, Jim Mahfood’s Grrlscouts and Cosmic Toast were in wide circulation, and Thereyago! Studios was about to produce the first (and last) issue of Meanwhile... and other folk were busy drafting out comics and cartoons left and right.

Like all Periclean ages, it was probably better in memory than in reality, and like all such ages, it did not spring out overnight and from nowhere, but drew, god knows, its strength largely from the illustration department of the Kansas City Art Institute. People who could draw and people who had something to say walked and breathed amongst us, and we were willing to listen.

Amongst those paying close attention was a youngish scrawler who, encouraged, authored the dreadful comic book Calyx, after sitting in the Broadway Cafe for the better part of a year pretending to teach himself drawing. This little science-fictional horror fading instantly from collective memory, he looked for something else to create.

Why did he do it at all? Obviously he was talent-free, that much at least could be said. He felt, nonetheless, that he wanted to say something, and in those days saying something seemed possible, mandatory even. An emotional catastrophe had taken the ability to write from him; the inability to draw would have seemed to conspire keep him in his place. He ignored reality, however, persisting in making wretched things that are safely contained, like industrial waste, in sketchbooks to this day.

If he’d had half a brain, he would have despaired.

But he didn’t. Chance encounters with no less than two possums birthed the characters of Possum and Hot-Dog onto paper; a failed attempt to sell the idea to the Pitch cemented a thick distaste for that paper that survives to this day. However, the Possum flourished, and, by a metamorphosis whose details have been lost to memory, a little cartoon called Sparrow’s Fall was born.

Little of Kansas City’s comics heyday remains: an unfortunate exception is Sparrow’s Fall. It has endured, continuously published, since November 1996. The author of this long spiel of angst, irritation, and occasional perverse humor can’t understand why. More to the point, he can’t understand why other people do not try to hide his dreck with work of their own.

It is becoming urgently necessary that people do it. Our culture is becoming suffocated with one great universal Voice, the AOL-TimeWarner-Disney/ABC/CBS giant that neither is interested in, nor wishes to hear, what we have to say. Comics, believe it or not, are an important part of the resistance. They and zines (which also seem dead, evidently a victim of the internet,) occupy a corner of visual and textual media the entertainment giants simply cannot fill or block. We must have a voice, we must draw, we must write. If not to drown out AOL altogether--then at least to distract attention from that dreadful Sparrow’s Fall.

The author is gloomy. Where are the Mike Huddlestons, Jim Mahfoods, Daniel Spottswoods, and Scot Stolfuses of tomorrow? And why aren’t there more women here in Kansas City doing comics?

Well . . . maybe one is looking at this right now. If you are--turn off the computer, and start drawing.