the past editorial

How To Be An Editorial Cartoonist: Tip #01 The Garfield Eyes Principle

Copy and paste the first panel into the other panels. erase the eyelids on the last panel to give the illusion of change:

You can also rotate the head a bit. Nobody will be able to tell it’s the same drawing:

If you change one thing, people won’t notice that you just copied and pasted your drawing:

Add a hand. people will be thrown off and unable to tell you copy and pasted the drawing.

Copy and paste one character next to a different character. people won’t be able to tell 3 of the 4 are exactly the same:

WELCOME TO DREAMLAND - models: Selena Forrest - photography: Alasdair McLellan - styling: Benjamin Bruno - hair: Matt Mulhall - makeup: Lynsey Alexander - i-D Magazine Fall 2016

featured designer: Chanel jacket, scarf & hat

  • “Oh we do like to be beside the seaside! Take a trip to Margate, as Alasdair McLellan lenses and Benjamin Bruno styles two of the industry’s freshest faces, in a shoot that blurs the lines between our bright future and a storied past.”
brighter than the sun

(I’ve been rereading Harry Potter lately and fic was only inevitable. Mostly canon-compliant, diverges from DH just enough to indulge all my little headcanons.)

Harry watches him with wary eyes, and all at once Ron wants to either snatch him into a tight embrace or shake him until his teeth rattle.

“You,” he says, very clearly, “are an idiot.

Harry doesn’t blink, but he draws away somehow without moving at all, and Ron stalks a solid step forward that makes sure his friend is cornered.

An article appeared two days ago in the Daily Prophet, one that boasted The Chosen One’s Secrets Revealed! with exclusive interviews conducted by none other than Rita Skeeter herself – interviews with Harry’s rotten Muggle family, who, Ron thought with more cruelty than he was used to thinking with, probably saw a stack of shiny Galleons and were happy to sit in the same room with a few freaks for as long as it took to land that gold in their greedy pockets. Nevermind what it would do to Harry, nevermind the kind of conclusions Mind-Healers and scholars and Harry’s teachers and friends would rightly draw from the article.

It’s not like the Dursleys came out and said they locked Harry in a cupboard and fed him through a cat-flap and left bruises on his arms from where they grabbed and yanked too hard, but what they did say – even looking past Skeeter’s blatant editorializing – said more than enough.

And in the wake of the public outcry, Harry disappeared. Locked the Floo in Grimmauld Place, strengthened the wards to keep out even owls, and Ron stood on the Apparation point and stared at the front door just out of his reach, drowning in a cresting wave of dread and worry and aching sympathy.

Then he went to George for a way to get through Grimmauld Place’s toothed defenses. And without hesitating, George put aside the horrible-looking device he had been working on –

“For Skeeter,” he offered, without smiling –and gave Ron a violent hammering spell that would work.

(If Ron is ever, for some reason, asked to rank the members of his family by their levels of iron-clad devotion to Harry Potter, George would only be second to himself. Harry knows grief and loss and hopeless yearning better than anyone, and comes the closest to understanding the gaping hole in George’s heart after the war, and is probably the only reason George could be coaxed back from the terrifying, perilous edge he had been living on since the day that Fred died. They’re still close, even now, and George loves Harry dearly.)

As in the way of all Wheezes, benevolent or otherwise, George’s spell did its job better than well. Ron felt the wards break without remorse (it’s not like Harry would have to fix them on his own, after all) and ignored the heavy ache in his limbs as his wells of magic all but drained in favor of kicking the front door open and stamping into the entrance hall. 

And that’s where he found his best friend – wand in his pocket and out of reach, because he could pick Ron’s magical signature apart in a crowd of thousands, and he knew who it was storming their way inside – staring at Ron like he had never seen him before.

He’s still staring, with eyes the color of lightning, and that only means he’s two seconds away from either anguish or anger, and Ron has to force his temper down under the heel of his foot to make sure neither of them blow up.

“You’re an idiot for thinking you had to hide from me,” he clarifies with forced calm, fists clenching. “How could you think – honestly, mate, I’m at a loss here.”

Hermione is out of the country, on holiday with her parents in France; a holiday Ron opted out of, in favor of the case that had landed on his and Harry’s desks last-minute, and thank Merlin for that. He doesn’t know what might have happened if both of them had been gone when this fresh hell broke loose. 

As it stands, he wrote to Hermione immediately, hardly more than two lines of urgent need you along with a clipping of the headline story that turned the Wizarding World on its ear, and he knows it will only be a matter of hours before she comes home and brings her own special brand of wrath down on Skeeter and the Prophet and any unfortunate soul who happens to be standing in between.

It isn’t often they get to bare their teeth at the world and protect him, for a change. Harry is strong enough to weather most blows without flinching, with his wild magic – fractured irreparably, ever since that final, day-long duel with You-Know-Who – and his iron-clad control of that wild magic, and his working knowledge of Defense that’s as deep and rich as a sprawling forest. But certain things can cut his legs out from under him as easy as breathing, and never before in such a big way as this.

(Harry stands unflinchingly between his friends and danger as if that’s all he’s good for, but Ron has always known why. Ron was twelve when he saw the bars on Harry’s windows, but it’s not as though he’s forgotten.)

“I didn’t – ” Harry starts, and stops, and then pushes on again with the same remarkable courage that called Gryffindor’s sword to him in the Chamber of Secrets. “I wasn’t hiding from you, Ron.”

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The thing about the town is that everyone has a novel in their back pocket. 

Leonard fucking hates when he goes out on a date, meets a friend of a friend, goes to pick his daughter up from kindergarten and they immediately start talking to him about their story. He doesn’t fucking care about their story. 

He almost hates it as much as when his boss, Chris Pike, makes him babysit the interns.

“Jesus, Chris, their just babies. What do you want me to do, give them a manuscript and left them color on it?”

Pike raises an eyebrow at him from across his desk. “If I remember correctly that’s exactly what you had Joanna do during bring your kid to work day.”

Leonard grins at him. “It was a shit manuscript anyway.”

Chris hands him an application and resume. He groans. If he has to read another cover letter about how the kid was an NYU creative writing major who desperately wanted to write novels just like Enterprise Books published he was going to quit.

“James T. Kirk. George Kirk’s kid?” He asked and flipped a page to skim the resume. Not an NYU student then.

“Yep.” Pike says and pulls a manuscript, thicker than his father’s old dictionary sitting on a shelf behind his own desk, toward him. 

“And?” Leonard waits for more information. 

“And nothing. Looks like a good recruit. Like you to train him.”

“Wait, you hired him already?" 

"Yeah, he’s on the Bridge." 

Pike flips open the manuscript and props up his elbow as he settles in to read. 

Leonard rubs at his temple and tries to remember that he does this for the writing, the feeling of coming across a good manuscript, raw and open for suggestion. He does this for the finished product, of seeing the book hit the NYT best seller’s list. Not to oversee crap interns. Even if they happen to be George Kirk’s kid. 

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Hello! Sorry for neglecting this blog lately, but I’m still alive!  Good news is, my original manga, JAKANOVA, is finally running as a series in Shonen Fight Magazine starting June! I’ve been struggling with such a tight deadline and editorial these past three weeks. I hope I can get used to it _:”D 

I’m really sorry I haven’t replied any messages yet but will do it soon! Thank you so much for encouraging messages, if you’re wondering if I still like dmmd or kouao, my answer is yes! In fact I’m planning to make third KouAo doujinshi for local doujin market in August, my love for this pairing is not dead yet o<-<

About KouAo yokai AU, I’m still continuing it, don’t worry! :”D Before working on the fourth chapter, I’m thinking to make chapter 3.5 first to refresh the reader’s memory (it’s gonna be shorter than the usual chapter) then I will continue on the fourth chapter.

Also, thank you for joining preorder of my KouAo doujinshi! I didn’t expect it would be so many people who interested to order. I will start to send the books from 24th June!

Have a good day!

Watch on

Juergen Teller for i-D

On People.

I understand that, for the most part, those of you who visit this page do it because you like my music.

I’m grateful for that, and try as best as a human being can to not take that for granted.

I also believe part of what you like about my music, at least some of you, is what it communicates, what it articulates, and that it does its best to communicate and articulate those things directly, and, wherever possible, with some degree of empathy, some effort at understanding the irresolute, complicated gray area in and around us, which I believe is scary, and is actually more abundant than life’s scant inarguable certainties, its primary colors supposedly pitched above, below, around.

I feel like I rarely see those, or trust them, and envy people who do.

I’m not an especially political person - I’m a lot more interested in social justice than politics - or an activist in what I consider to be the strict sense of that word.

As far as public figures go, I’m certainly not a celebrity, or anything close.

I’m a person/artist/entertainer with a platform at the corner of a niche, and I try to take that exactly as seriously as it’s to be taken.

I say all that because, what I’m saying here will send some of you away. Simply retweeting news in the past week without editorial commentary has done that already, which is, of course, fine, and doesn’t even rate on the scale of importance given what we’re discussing here.

I’ll be sorry to see you go, but I won’t try to talk you back in.

I’ve felt this way since at least Make The Clocks Move: there is no shortage of songwriters who never address/discuss/acknowledge this stuff, and if listening to one who does, even in roughly 10% of his recorded output, is distasteful to you, I absolutely understand, and we can agree to disagree on what my role’s meant to be, etc.


I come from New York cops. My dad, his dad, two of his brothers, several of my cousins, friends of our family. I love them.

I remember being confused when I fell in love with Nirvana and saw a sticker on Kurt Cobain’s guitar that said, “Vandalism: As Beautiful As A Rock In A Cop’s Face.” I was 12, and I couldn’t square that initially my impressions of my family, and the men & women I’d met through my family. It was a real fraught, dissonant moment. Why would anyone want to throw a rock at my dad’s face?

I grew up some, and found myself realizing why that sticker existed, and empathizing with the rock throwers sometimes. I felt guilty about that, some vague sense of betrayal, an urge to defend police even in situations where their actions seemed excessive, wrong.

It took time to understand more than one thing can be true at the same time.

I don’t believe all cops are “bad.” Some are; some aren’t. They’re People.

But I also don’t believe that is what’s at issue here. Because individual people are never all one thing or another, on a moral or any other scale.

But systems rot, systems mutate, systems corrupt. And, to me, that’s what this is. What’s at issue is the basic value of a human life in an American society that’s gone bad in its prezteling efforts to protect power and privilege at any cost, and when cops are quasi-militarized and deployed to that end, and people end up killed in highly questionable-to-outrageous circumstances as a result, well….that’s “bad.”

Because people of color are also People, and People are scared, and angry, and exhausted. People are tired of seeing their kids, friends, family members killed, hurt, jailed at mind-boggling rates of disproportionality. People are wounded, fed up with seeing power abused, with seeing the gap grow wider between their reality and whatever shreds of the American Dream are left dangling at a distant, increasingly-hypothetical horizon. They’re sick of seeing injustice manifest itself in dead bodies, empty political rhetoric, no follow through, no protection, no change.

I’m a straight white male, and I don’t know what it’s like not to be. I should never be the loudest voice in this conversation. I think we (people like me) all have deep listening to do if we have any hope at making the people who aren’t us feel safe, valued, equal in this society. We have real & increased responsibility to bear as the power brokers, which we are, and have been. Anyone arguing otherwise, suggesting that we’re a “post-racial” society etc., is skirting offensiveness at worst and…sticking to a willful & highly selective understanding of America’s history, at best.

It’s not hard for me to empathize with the outrage of a person who watches their loved one murdered. And it’s not hard for me to empathize theoretically with someone making a catastrophic, fear-based, over-reactionary fight-or-flight error in judgement in the heat of a pitched moment that has violent, horrifying results.

But things don’t happen theoretically, or in a vacuum; they happen in context, bundled in absorbed information, under behavior-warping cultural weight.

And this is why we are where we are. We don’t value all lives the same in this society. And until we do, we’re in trouble, in our streets, in our souls.

There’s no bowtie here, no knot to tie neatly. It’s too brutally, endlessly sad and messy for that. My thoughts, my heart, are with Eric Garner’s family, and focused on the belief in our better nature, even when it is, at times, so difficult to see.