Intro by Dave "BOB BURDEN: The Man Who Proved the Earth is Flat"

Hi, Everybody!

Hey Look! It's The Flaming Carrot:

BOB BURDEN

The Man Who Proved the Earth is Flat

by Dave Sim

Snapshots in the eighteen-year kaleidoscope: Marching to the beat of an indifferent drummer.

 

"I know how to fly- even if it is straight down." Is Bob Burden a position or a vector? Is the carrot-on-fire the beacon on the hill or a first glimmering of the devil's eye socket glimpsed behind the infernal gates? "I need a bigger bucket or less sand." In Alan Moore's Thought Space, Bob Burden is the migrating bookmark, selling mercury leashes to unwary periodic-table owners. "Look- it's a miniature Abraham Lincoln." "Aww- he's so cuuute." The universe is askew, but it never knew how to tie a decent Windsor knot anyway.

 

Flash forward to the present. A Flaming Carrot movie? Picture Eraserhead sensibility with "Animal House done with super-heroes" as the template. When Bob Burden is a position, Hollywood is a vector. "What's you vector, Victor?" I can't see anything, says the candy store with it's nose pressed up against Bob's glass. 

[picture of a flying saucer] 

To the new reader: you're either going to "get" it or not. No elitism should be inferred. Bob Burden's Flaming Carrot exists in a comic-book no-man's land that will put you under only if you had the right kind of breakfast this morning.

 

As with any creative work, the Carrot is out of Bob's hands once it is done. I look through the eyepiece, and each successive work moves into and out of focus- sharp, an almost excruciating clarity, then soft, indistinct. Everyone has an eyepiece, but Bob's the one doing the adjustments. I don't know what it is Bob sees. I. Do. Not. Know. What. It. Is. That. Bob. Sees.

 

As a host of angels disco dance on the head of a pin, an insanely dressed super-hero eats lunch at the bowling alley, while in the background: kissing dogs, a woman breast-feeding a dictionary, a baby-headed politician, and the assassination of the leading members of the Chihuahua In A Teacup Fan Club! The chair is not my son!

 

I. Do. Not. Know. What. It. Is. That. Bob. Sees. Call it "Bob's Burden."

 

Bob's Burden.

 

In person, this mercurial talent's personality and appearance are like the Van Allen Belt around the terra firma- the largely terra incognito- of his glimmerings of genius. He was once described as Dr. Zhivago and Gabby Hayes rolled into one.

 

He shifts his weight sideways in a chair in a honky-tonk bar, clearing his throat with a rumbling sound that calls to mind the phrase, ancient of days ("I've been around the block so many times, I feel like my turn blinker got stuck"). The band blares out a dubious rendition of "Reverend Blue Jeans" that sounds like Perry Como on crack. We are surrounded by the kind of people who'd rather curse the darkness than light one candle. Gerhard is talking to a woman with lipstick on her teeth and a dress that looks like it was just hit with a dessert tray.

 

Bob cannot be kept on the subject. "I'd rather pay retail than go through this." "Suggested retail?" "Yes." Is he talking about the band or the conversation?

 

Ionized particles coalesce behind the cool, brown-gray eyes as his inquisitor (me) tries to corner him on a specific point. Even as the argument's endgame reaches its climax, the last avenue of escape closed off, the radiation flares, and he says, "You see that girl at the table over there?" And he relates an anecdote- something written about Thelonius Monk, or something William S. Burroughs said to him in a dream. The story seems to end, but I'm left wondering who really put the overalls in Mrs. Murphy's chowder. I eye Burden suspiciously. A sudden insight dawns- like white sheet lightning on the horizon- that anecdote applies to the discussion. Tangentially. No- not tangentially, but rather it inhabits the authentic core, is a thematic distillation, a small key, a cake with a sign that says "Eat me"; it is a rocket-powered pogo stick that has carried Bob to safety. ("Yes, Mr. Death...I'll play your game! But not chess!!! Bah...Fooey! My game is WIFFLEBALL! HA! HA! HA!")

 

One gives up. But only temporarily. Even as you walk away from the chessboard, you cant's shake the feeling that whiffleball makes more sense. Bob was telling me something- or, more exactly, something inside Bob was telling me something- and I'm just too stupid to see it. 

[picture of a flying saucer] 

Scene 18- "The Making of 104: Ten Days that Shook Atlanta"

 

Ext. The Back patio of Bob Burden's Atlanta estate. Bob is seated at a card table with a manual typewriter of 1903s vintage. It is a clear, warm day in late October.

 

ME: (operating the video camera) Look. It's Bob.

 

BOB: (wary, squinty-eyed) Good morning.

 

ME: Whatcha doing?

 

BOB: (clearing his throat noisily and getting up) Writing a script for the next issue of the Carrot. (sits down again, reads) "Flaming Carrot! Flaming Carrot! You better come quick! Uncle Billy's new mail-order bride arrived and she's a...WILD WOMAN!" (standing up and indicating his shoes) Pan down and get a shot of these.

 

ME: Very nice. What are they?

 

BOB: Penny loafers. With Canadian nickels in 'em.

 

ME: In honor of our visit?

 

BOB: In premonition of this visit These have always been there! For fifteen years I've worn Canadian nickels in my loafers. Good things come to those who watch and walk around...

 

ME: Well, sit down. Let's get a shot of you writing.

 

BOB: (sits down) Let's...see here. Page 29. "Hey! It's that crazy dame again!" (begins typing)...the Jungle Girl jumps down and hits the bad guy and says...she s-a-y-s..."Gwaloompas Go Away" (smiles broadly at the camera) Hey! Why not? (types it furiously, smiling the whole time)

 

In the final version (issue 18), the Jungle Woman says, "Gwaloompas pugi! Go Away!!!" Bob's Burden. Why is "Gwaloompas Go Away!" wrong and "Gwaloompas pugi! Go Away!!!" right? It is no small matter, though the reader can be forgiven for thinking it is. Bob's Burden. In the realm of the surreal, where even the term surreal is inadequate, how do you know when what you're doing is right? Insight, instinct, gut reaction, craft, winging it- all wrestle together at the doorway of creation. And after that comes the reaction, and Bob's reaction to the reaction, and Bob's reaction to Bob's reaction to the reaction. But all I have is my eyepiece, and Bob's the one doing the adjustments. Bob's Burden 

[picture of a flying saucer] 

 Bob has finally consented to allow the early issues of the Carrot to be reprinted. For at least ten thousand people in the comic-book industry, we are finally (finally) able to stop breathing through straws from below the surface of a pond. What does this bode for our industry? Commenting on these times, Bob reminds me that if you graph the incidence of Flaming Carrot publications and compare it to the comics industry's health and volume over the last fifteen years, there is a direct correlation. When this information is then set against the statistics of sunspot activity, UFO sightings, and the number of women reported to be seen wearing rubber dresses in the Balkans, you have more than ample proof of the one conclusion we can draw from these specious but interesting facts. Within these calculations, he claims, lies the secret formula to a legendary, fifth basic food group he has referred to all these years as the source of his arcane creativity. "Wild horses will not drag the secret from my lips; a thousand dollars will not by it. But since you freely gave me the most guarded secret of all Aardvark-Vanaheim, the secret of Gerhard's last name..."

 

As he leans over to whisper in my ear, my mind scours the clues. Like Citizen Kane's Rosebud, it all makes sense to me. Life is a circle. The rise and fall of tides. A whispered secret from lips that have always been a mystery even unto the owner of the lips. A secret I have always known but always wanted to know better. A secret whose clues lie in pages and pictures. 

[picture of a flying saucer] 

 It looks like the Flaming Carrot is getting ready...I think I saw him getting up...you always say that...no, really, I think he's really getting up this time...he's moving around- he hasn't moved around in a while...that's gotta be a good sign, right?...you would think so...I'll believe it when he actually gets up...maybe we shouldn't talk about it- maybe talking about it is the problem...he's getting up...yeah, right...he's moving around more than...no, look...

 

LOOK!!!

Copyright 1997 Dave Sim

 

Reprinted by the permission of Sponge Boy

 Next Time: Sunday!