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Sof' Boy Econo Combo
Paperback
First published November 1, 2000
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Displaying 1 - 3 of 3 reviews
April 11, 2020
Feeling Low? Expose Yourself to the Infectious Optimism & Bullet-Proof Good Will of Sof' Boy, as he is Amusingly Brutalized by Water-Balloon Chucking Demon-kids in the Hell of Chicago... Without Ever Losing his Polite & Cheerful Demeanor
My 2020 revisitation of this hilarious, adorable, 48-page chunk of comic-book perfection was a much-needed shot of econo-format joy, as I continue to seek out nostalgic favorites in my paranoid hermitage, awaiting the lurking-looming viral miasma that will allegedly-possibly claim us all (or has already claimed us all, according to a now out-dated, conveniently self-debunking mathematical vector-model that predicted "total/near-total infection within 20 days"...30 days ago).
In this confusing, decidedly indecisive, passive-aggressive apocalypse, Sof' Boy's indestructible body & equally indestructible mental positivity remain far more helpful & inspirational than whatever shitty hodge-podge of pseudo-spirituality you've slapped together for yourself, in order to avoid screaming stock existential queries into the void... until finally admitting to yourself that the only 'true' answers you'll ever get are the ones you dream up yourself.
We haven't seen much 'Sof' Boy' since the late 90's, and it's hard to deny that all the problems to have popped up in the world since then are obviously related to his absence. O Sof' Boy, where art thou?
Well... he's probably been crammed inside Archer Prewitt's head for most of the millennial horror-show, serving as ear plugs. He's a good-natured generic anthropomorph, but he's timid, and has a habit of getting stuffed inside of things. Prewitt started off as a cartoonist in the early 90's, belonging to the talented Chicago clique that included Dan Clowes, Chris Ware, Glenn Head, Terry Laban, and a couple other names I'll make up later. None of his hideous, self-obsessed pals could have known that Archer was leading a terrifying secret life. They weren't very interested in anything happening beyond the margins of the drawing page. But as his geekboy friends slept and jerked off and stared into their own navels, dreaming of comic-book glory, Prewitt's band 'The Sea and Cake' was creating the kind of catchy, testosterone-free rock-pop that made all the girls... sleepy. As the sea-cake rose, the dough-boy fell. When Prewitt started his solo career, Sof' Boy did his doughy best to help, and devoted himself to the thankless life of ear-plugs.
The 'Sof' Boy Econo-Combo' collected the first two issues of the 3-issues to appear through Drawn and Quarterly. Trying to describe the twisted simplicity and perfection of Prewitt's art is difficult, so... I won't do it. Look at the fuckin' pictures ferfucksake! And I suspect the bizarre-yet-banal humor of the catastrophes that our innocent little freak waddles into - with his indefatigable politeness and adamantium optimism - might not appeal to everyone. A Jerry Lewis/Three Stooges type thing, perhaps? Perhaps. But the only Stooges I dig had a lead singer named Iggy, and I still love Sof' Boy.
Usually, SB is a happy little homeless... thing... who tries to befriend drunken bums, whores, drug dealers, juvenile delinquents, junkyard dogs, stray cats, rats, and pigeons: all the cast-offs of urban life. His friendly overtures are typically rejected with extreme prejudice, resulting in some kind of whimsical destruction or degradation. Fortunately, his body is just as invulnerable as his pleasant demeanor.
He was clearly too good for this world, and we are diminished - and perhaps damned - by his absence. No I'm not joking. Dead fucking serious. Sof' Boy wandered the garbage-strewn sidewalks and syringe-scattered alleys, trying to make friends of the friendless. You could be a filthy crackhead loser or a drunk dead-beat, and he'd still smile and say hello and giggle like he was retarded. Psychotic teens could use a fire hydrant to turn him into a bathysphere-sized water-balloon, push him off a highway overpass into oncoming traffic, and he wouldn't get upset. Psychotic pre-teens could stuff an M-80 fire-cracker in his head, but he didn't mind being the 'straight man' for their exploding head routine. He lived in filth, amongst the dregs he came to save, yet his plasticine pallor remained as white and pure as the driven arctic snow. He suffered for our sins, hilariously, and we pissed on him. Well, technically some drunken bum pissed on him, but whatever. He was too beautiful for this world. *sniff*
Fuckin' musicians. Get back to the drawing board, Prewitt! Forget that satisfying musical career, and make more Sof' Boy... so me and 14 other people can read it and complain it's not as good as the early stuff, then crack wise about how 'you really should have stuck with the music, because you suck as a cartoonist'.
My 2020 revisitation of this hilarious, adorable, 48-page chunk of comic-book perfection was a much-needed shot of econo-format joy, as I continue to seek out nostalgic favorites in my paranoid hermitage, awaiting the lurking-looming viral miasma that will allegedly-possibly claim us all (or has already claimed us all, according to a now out-dated, conveniently self-debunking mathematical vector-model that predicted "total/near-total infection within 20 days"...30 days ago).
In this confusing, decidedly indecisive, passive-aggressive apocalypse, Sof' Boy's indestructible body & equally indestructible mental positivity remain far more helpful & inspirational than whatever shitty hodge-podge of pseudo-spirituality you've slapped together for yourself, in order to avoid screaming stock existential queries into the void... until finally admitting to yourself that the only 'true' answers you'll ever get are the ones you dream up yourself.
We haven't seen much 'Sof' Boy' since the late 90's, and it's hard to deny that all the problems to have popped up in the world since then are obviously related to his absence. O Sof' Boy, where art thou?
Well... he's probably been crammed inside Archer Prewitt's head for most of the millennial horror-show, serving as ear plugs. He's a good-natured generic anthropomorph, but he's timid, and has a habit of getting stuffed inside of things. Prewitt started off as a cartoonist in the early 90's, belonging to the talented Chicago clique that included Dan Clowes, Chris Ware, Glenn Head, Terry Laban, and a couple other names I'll make up later. None of his hideous, self-obsessed pals could have known that Archer was leading a terrifying secret life. They weren't very interested in anything happening beyond the margins of the drawing page. But as his geekboy friends slept and jerked off and stared into their own navels, dreaming of comic-book glory, Prewitt's band 'The Sea and Cake' was creating the kind of catchy, testosterone-free rock-pop that made all the girls... sleepy. As the sea-cake rose, the dough-boy fell. When Prewitt started his solo career, Sof' Boy did his doughy best to help, and devoted himself to the thankless life of ear-plugs.
The 'Sof' Boy Econo-Combo' collected the first two issues of the 3-issues to appear through Drawn and Quarterly. Trying to describe the twisted simplicity and perfection of Prewitt's art is difficult, so... I won't do it. Look at the fuckin' pictures ferfucksake! And I suspect the bizarre-yet-banal humor of the catastrophes that our innocent little freak waddles into - with his indefatigable politeness and adamantium optimism - might not appeal to everyone. A Jerry Lewis/Three Stooges type thing, perhaps? Perhaps. But the only Stooges I dig had a lead singer named Iggy, and I still love Sof' Boy.
Usually, SB is a happy little homeless... thing... who tries to befriend drunken bums, whores, drug dealers, juvenile delinquents, junkyard dogs, stray cats, rats, and pigeons: all the cast-offs of urban life. His friendly overtures are typically rejected with extreme prejudice, resulting in some kind of whimsical destruction or degradation. Fortunately, his body is just as invulnerable as his pleasant demeanor.
He was clearly too good for this world, and we are diminished - and perhaps damned - by his absence. No I'm not joking. Dead fucking serious. Sof' Boy wandered the garbage-strewn sidewalks and syringe-scattered alleys, trying to make friends of the friendless. You could be a filthy crackhead loser or a drunk dead-beat, and he'd still smile and say hello and giggle like he was retarded. Psychotic teens could use a fire hydrant to turn him into a bathysphere-sized water-balloon, push him off a highway overpass into oncoming traffic, and he wouldn't get upset. Psychotic pre-teens could stuff an M-80 fire-cracker in his head, but he didn't mind being the 'straight man' for their exploding head routine. He lived in filth, amongst the dregs he came to save, yet his plasticine pallor remained as white and pure as the driven arctic snow. He suffered for our sins, hilariously, and we pissed on him. Well, technically some drunken bum pissed on him, but whatever. He was too beautiful for this world. *sniff*
Fuckin' musicians. Get back to the drawing board, Prewitt! Forget that satisfying musical career, and make more Sof' Boy... so me and 14 other people can read it and complain it's not as good as the early stuff, then crack wise about how 'you really should have stuck with the music, because you suck as a cartoonist'.
April 26, 2011
A sacred text.
February 4, 2008
The Best Comic Book in the World!!!
Displaying 1 - 3 of 3 reviews