This comic was written back in the 1970’s at a time in my life when I was really questioning whether there was any legitimate and honest way to express yourself anymore. Was art “lost”? Music seemed dead, the commercial world just launching their latest creation, “punk rock” and Warhol had pretty much finished treating art like a toddler does a bowl of peas: smearing it all over face, clothes, diaper and highchair. People had previously turned to eastern cultures and philosophies hoping they offered some new novelty or way to feel special about yourself, but by this time the exotic smells and chants blended into the background drone of ennui – just another addition to the twisting, heaving, collective filth that is north america.

I was also heavily into downers, man.

Uhhh, actually Pagz really likes Star Wars. If he had his way all the time, it’s probably just about all we would make comics about. Fortunately, George Lucas was just a twinkle in some meter maid’s eye when I was in my prime watching smurfs and A-Team reruns everyday. Holla.