The Snakepit book By
Ben Snakepit Gorsky Press
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This is one of the most amazing ‘graphic
novels’ I’ve ever shamefully sped through in a half-hour. Not because of its
sweeping cinematic style (it’s a little too, uh, ‘home movie’ for that), or
for it’s highly detailed artwork (it’s minimal, Joe Matt-style
cartoon-realism), but for it’s epic scale. See, Ben Snakepit – part
time comic artist, full-time modern-day slacker- devoted three comic strip
panels for each day of his life, for three years. The last three, to be
precise. Every lame party, every tiresome day at work, every sweaty band
practice, they are all meticulously catalogued here without any hype or
glamour whatsoever. Me, I’d look at this endless parade of low-level punk
bands and girls with cheating hearts and record store jobs and just start
making stuff up, lest my whole life look like a post-teenage wasteland. I’d
toss in serial killers and giant sharks and Russian hookers, just to keep
things moving. Not Snakepit, tho. Snakepit’s keepin’ it
real, baby. Like on 4/20/02:
“This morning I did laundry/Then Kids in Service of Satan played a TERRIBLE
show/Then I went to work”. Or on 2/10/03: “Today I didn’t do much of
anything/I wish I would hurry up and get a job/After that, I had band
practice”.
3 fuckin’ YEARS worth of stuff like that, man. Crazy.
Remarkably, tho,
The Snakepit Book never gets boring, even when Ben himself
is bored to death. I dunno if it’s just the voyeuristic kick of it all, or
Ben’s finely-honed storytelling skills, but after shrugging through a month
or so of early entries, you really start falling into the rhythm of this
cat’s life. You root for him when he applies for a new job, empathize with
his money problems and apartment hunting blues, and hiss when his long-time
girl sleeps with some other punk band dork. And ok, so nothing much happens
during this story arc, but in Ben’s defense, he smokes a
LOT of pot, which
probably explains the lack of forward notion.
Then again, I suppose we all live pretty tedious lives, in the cosmic scale
of things. Only difference is, Ben Snakepit’s not afraid to admit it. My
guess is, you’ll either love this one to death, or toss yerself out the
nearest window after soaking in the existential nightmare of it all. Me, I’m
in former camp. I just wish it had more serial killers and Russian hookers.
________________________________________________________
This is one of the most amazing ‘graphic
novels’ I’ve ever shamefully sped through in a half-hour. Not because of its
sweeping cinematic style (it’s a little too, uh, ‘home movie’ for that), or
for it’s highly detailed artwork (it’s minimal, Joe Matt-style
cartoon-realism), but for it’s epic scale. See, Ben Snakepit – part
time comic artist, full-time modern-day slacker- devoted three comic strip
panels for each day of his life, for three years. The last three, to be
precise. Every lame party, every tiresome day at work, every sweaty band
practice, they are all meticulously catalogued here without any hype or
glamour whatsoever. Me, I’d look at this endless parade of low-level punk
bands and girls with cheating hearts and record store jobs and just start
making stuff up, lest my whole life look like a post-teenage wasteland. I’d
toss in serial killers and giant sharks and Russian hookers, just to keep
things moving. Not Snakepit, tho. Snakepit’s keepin’ it
real, baby. Like on 4/20/02:
“This morning I did laundry/Then Kids in Service of Satan played a TERRIBLE
show/Then I went to work”. 
Remarkably, tho,
The Snakepit Book never gets boring, even when Ben himself
is bored to death. I dunno if it’s just the voyeuristic kick of it all, or
Ben’s finely-honed storytelling skills, but after shrugging through a month
or so of early entries, you really start falling into the rhythm of this
cat’s life. You root for him when he applies for a new job, empathize with
his money problems and apartment hunting blues, and hiss when his long-time
girl sleeps with some other punk band dork. And ok, so nothing much happens
during this story arc, but in Ben’s defense, he smokes a
LOT of pot, which
probably explains the lack of forward notion.