Spike and Mike, Sick and Twisted
Warning: Not necessarily office-friendly words abound.
Unless you go to an animation festival, and you should go to an animation festival, the only way to see independent animation is to look out for the traveling cartoon programs. For a while it was Fans Only. We clustered in this or that museum auditorium for the International Tournee of Animation, now defunct.
This was the traveling hothouse for the short cartoon, where animation lived on as an art form, not a commercial proposition. The films came mainly from studios run by a government or a college mixed in with a few made by individuals. And the individuals almost always had a grant. Civilians in the audience were always surprised that at least half of these pictures are serious, not made to make you laugh; quite often a meditation on unpleasant things or a non-linear succession of disturbing images.
That’s show biz.
Then came Spike and Mike. They were into animation, going to a festival or a traveling program now and again. As showmen, they were dismayed that only, say, 20 percent of these films, on a bad day, would be what you would call entertainment. They were all worthy of contemplation by the prepared, patient mind, but keep ‘em in their seats, keep ‘em hollering for more? No.
Spike and Mike made change. Their Sick and Twisted Festival of Animation began with a core of cartoons from the museum shows that were fast, stupid jokes or slightly slower jokes that were quite filthy. They packed the rest of the program with other funny or gross films too low for the museum crowd. They marketed it to regular theaters, to be shown as a regular attraction, not the weekend midnight slot.
They’ve been at it so long they have created their own sub-genre (and I certainly don’t mean than in a derogatory way, unless that would make you more likely to attend, then yes, I mean “sub” in the most demeaning, degrading sense possible). Spike and Mike is now a learning tool, like a video game, that teaches you how to do something very specific, in this case to make a cartoon that can get past the gauntlet.
Consider if you will an audience. An audience of mostly men, like what you used to see at the San Diego Comic-Con. If the center wasn’t dry, a lot more of these people would be working on a cheap high, a perfect attitude for the gauntlet. They’ve been whipped up by having free t-shirts thrown at the crowd. They say, “Fuck Stoners,” or “I Fucked a Backstreet Boy;” a few are kind of rude. Then they’re ready for the gauntlet.
Ah, August. The birds are singing. The bees are buzzing. The barbecues are cooking. And that means it’s time for — 
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Last week at the San Diego Comic-Con I was hosting a forum called “The Black Panel.” The panel was filled with heavy hitters from comics, film, television and animation. At one point during the Q&A a young man asked that more creators recognize and do stories about black atheists. I made a joke that the characters battle cry would be, ‘I don’t believe!’ 
Overheard at my local comics shop this week:
