One of the granddaddies, the iconoclastic point man, of the underground comix movement.
An absolute wild man.
One of the most original humans to have walked the planet.
And before that his drawing in the Yellow Dog tabloid in 1968
The first time I saw S. Clay Wilson:
I was hanging out with Gary Arlington at the San Francisco Comic Book Company (Circa late 1969 --or maybe early 1970).
Wilson came into Gary’s shop just at closing time, wearing a shiny new (to him) light blue jacket.
I didn’t realize who it was—all I saw was a big, booming, long-haired, jolly guy. Forceful, completely pleased with himself and his new jacket. Showing it off to Gary, talking loudly. It took me a few minutes to realize it was the (even then) legendary S. Clay Wilson.
Then I tensed up. My sense of awe kicked in. (I was a scrawny barely out of high school hippie kid and wanna-be cartoonist)
I could not remain relaxed after I knew I was in the presence of the creator of Capt. Pissgums the Pirate, the Checkered Demon.
He looked like a deranged biker and he filled up a room but Wilson wasn’t truly threatening. He demanded a lot of attention and was always likely to change up a situation.
In the olden days: I never knew him but I was often around him, like a background extra in his show.
I always think of the occasion, in 2005, that a bunch of us gathered to clear out Gary’s flat to clear it out after he went to the Laguna Honda Hospital and Rehabilitation Center.
Wilson had entered the place (utter chaos, filled with rare comics and cat urine). On his way out carrying a box down the front porch stairs he shouted in a monotone “Bring Out Your Dead”.
A couple of drawings from my collection below:
And here’s my drawing for a Loonies event hosting Wilson
The last time I saw Wilson:
The Alternative Press Expo (APE) convention in San Francisco, November 1, 2008.
It was the end of the convention day. A significant rainstorm was brewing outside.
I was hanging out at a table not far from the main entrance chewing the fat with cartoonist Jaime Crespo.
Wilson had spent the day at the Underground table.
He was on his way out. He sauntered by us, smiled and tipped his hat, and walked out.
That was the night he wound up drinking with friends and never made it home. He was found the next morning, unconscious, laying between two cars in a large puddle of rain water on Landers Street, in very bad shape, near death. (He was either mugged or fell. I don’t believe it was never determined).
He never really recovered from that. He, too, wound up at Laguna Honda Hospital.
No comments:
Post a Comment