There are so many cartoons that have inspired me to become what I am that it’d be impossible for me to expound on all of them fully. In fact, I’ve avoided discussing the five greatest cartoons of them all because they are so huge, and so powerful, that the thought of exhaustively describing their every wonderful aspect scares the hell out of me.

Still, I think it’s worth a shot.

Over the next few weeks, I’m going to blab about the five biggest, boldest, bad-assiest cartoons I know. All of them are feature-length, and all of them are well-known…to the right circles, anyway. The choices themselves might not be surprising, but I think that my reasons for choosing them are, so please look forward to them!

Don’t Rainn on His Parade

So that new Backstrom show just came out, and already, things are looking grim for it. When I first saw the ads, I didn’t have high hopes for the show, as it looked a little too much like NBC’s The Michael Richards Show, in which the kooky guy from a previously successful series attempted to make it on his own (also as a detective). Now, I hate television as much as the next hipster, and I can think of a lot of shows I’d love to see ripped from the air, but for some reason, I feel bad for Backstrom, and I don’t want to see it fail.


Like AMC’s Low Winter Sun, Backstrom was cursed before it had a chance. The comedians I follow on Twitter tore into it weeks ahead of its premiere. The ire was strong, too. They called Wilson’s character “Dwight Lite.” They said he was the afterbirth of House M.D. And man, they hated that damn Slurpee cup. I mean, really hated it.

I admit that I shared some of the same feelings, but hey, I gotta be honest, that’s not the show’s fault. It was the marketing. The ads tried to sell me on all the wrong things. It’s like with Breaking Bad. I didn’t start watching the show until it was well into the third season, despite the accolades and gushing word-of-mouth. The reason for my delay? That fucking first-season DVD set, the one with the picture of Walter in his undies on the front:


I mean, come onWhat sensible person would look at this and say, “Hey, now here’s a complex, fascinating thriller!”?

I realize that Fox’s marketeers want to re-introduce Wilson to us in a way that feels familiar. He was iconic as Dwight Schrute, after all, so they might as well remind us of that, right? Shoving Wilson’s “different-ness” in my face, though, doesn’t earn my interest. In fact, it gives me the impression that the show has little else going for it. What about the setting? What about the cinematography? What about the rest of the cast? There’s got to be more to it than just a grumpy genius who annoys everyone.

Maybe there is, who knows? Wilson might have a chance to show some impressive range with Backstrom. Maybe, as we discovered with Bill Hader, there’s a dramatic edge to Wilson that we haven’t yet seen. I know he seems like a one-note nutball, but so does DJ Qualls, and he was surprisingly eerie as Detective Getz in Breaking Bad. And speaking of Breaking Bad, who would have thought that this guy…


…could turn into this guy?


My point is, Backstrom might actually be good. Must Wilson, and all the creative people who poured their hearts into the show, suffer such invective? It’s not their fault that Fox pushed this show, and pushed it, and pushed it, and kept pushing it until we all got sick of it. I mean, here’s this actor trying to continue his career, and people are just shitting on him. That’s got to be painful. Where does this all come from? I mean, Wilson was pretty funny before, right? Why would we want him to go away? Is it tacky and disgraceful that he wants to try something new?

I suppose this is bothering me because I know wouldn’t appreciate such preemptive judgment. If I wrote a novel that was criticized simply because my publisher screwed up the marketing, I’d be highly pissed. And hurt. And disappointed with the audience that I thought would give me a chance.

Am I going to watch Backstrom? Hell no, I hate television. But that just means I’m not the target audience. I’d like to think that people who do enjoy TV are a little more open-minded than they seem. After all, they fucking got Snooki her own show; why can’t we let someone talented have a shot?

Support Beam Excerpt

Hello. As promised, here’s an excerpt from the short story I entered in Glimmer Train’s New Writer’s Competition. Maybe you can find out where I went wrong! 🙂 Enjoy!


Support Beam
by Daniel Rocha


When I traced the thread that ended with my suicide, I found it began in an art class. Sculpture, in fact. Beginning Sculpture. Big, tin-shit studio with high ceilings and harsh fluorescent lights. It in was that ugly place that I discovered I wasn’t an artist. Yeah, the train kind of jumped the rails from there.

My mother is an artist. Born artist. By that, I mean it goes all the way down to her cells. Back in 1999, she exhibited and sold a gigantic sculpture, and she’s still famous for it. Hell, the thing is so huge, it looks more like some archaeological relic than any piece of modern art. She spent years on it. Nights, weekends. My brother and I were in high school at the time, and we had to fend for ourselves some weeks.

The first time I saw it in her studio, I thought she was walling off a new room in the corner. It’s a two-level iron cage standing twenty feet tall. On each level is a stone figure, one male and the other female. They’re exquisite. Lean and muscular, like the stuff you see when you’re studying Michelangelo. The male figure is on the bottom level, and it’s sitting on a stool, staring into space and smiling. The woman is on the top, and she’s standing with her hands on her chest. She’s looking in the opposite direction as the man, also smiling. They had to crate it up and load it on oversized pallets when they took it to the gallery.

Folks took a lot of photos of her in front of that cage. I kept the newspaper article. I can visualize her modest smile and stance. Her hands are clasped in front of her. The ends of her scarf hang from her shoulders. Her long, thick, gray hair falls around her. The sculpture looms tall and black behind her.

Colleges wanted my mom to work for them, but she despised the thought. She said it would only distract her from her real purpose here. That’s how she put it.

My mother and I look alike. It’s uncanny, really. When I see pictures of her as a teenager, with her wide hips and droopy eyes, I see myself as I am now. I enjoyed doodling and cartooning as a kid, and when my mom dropped me off at the library, I always went to the back of the children’s section to look at the Peanuts treasuries. I never created anything on the scale of my mom’s works, but my family and friends still saw an artist in me. Knowing less about myself than they did, I followed the plain trail.

A few weeks into the sculpture class, a gangly girl with thin blonde hair approached me. She had poor posture: a permanent slouch that made her ribcage sink inward. She always wore black, which accentuated her gaunt look. I imagined that hugging her felt like hugging a plant.

“You’re mom is Myra Levins, huh?” she said.

“Yeah,” I answered. I got asked this a lot.

“Oh,” said the blonde girl. She picked at one of her nails. She wore black fingerless gloves with cartoon skulls on them, and the polish on her nails was black. I was surprised she didn’t wear black sunglasses and black contact lenses. She paused after that, as though expecting some embellishment on my part. “What’s your name?” she asked.

I thought this was strange. “Tara Levins. How’d you guess who my mother is, without knowing my last name?”

“I saw the resemblance,” she said. “Your mom is amazing, you know.”


“I’m Acceptance,” she said, and held out her hand. It was cool and limp, and she didn’t put a lot of effort into the shake. “Most people just call me Cept.”

I wanted to ask how many nights she stayed up before she decided on that name. The person I am today would have said it. It was my first semester in college, though, and I didn’t have any friends, so I slid the thought away. “A pleasure,” I said.

“I like your necklace,” said Cept. She pointed at the little gold cross I used to wear. “What denomination are you?”

“Oh, I don’t really have one,” I said. “It’s kind of different from all that.”

“Yeah. It still hits me from time to time.”

I thought that she was referring to the tendency of young people to vacillate to and from God. I was never serious about God. When my mom gave me the necklace, she told me to think of it as a reminder “that there are always greater spirits around us.” That was how she put it. I never knew what greater spirit to follow, and it didn’t seem wise to me to take a random guess, so I just wore the necklace.

“I guess we all turn to religion at some point or other,” I said.

“No,” said Cept. “I mean I still get the marks. You know?” She looked at me very seriously. She had big blue eyes with heavy purple bags below them.

Of course, I didn’t know what she was talking about, and I shook my head.

Cept pulled off her right glove and presented me with the back of her hand. Her skin was pasty, and the blueness of her blood vessels leapt out at me. “See?” she asked.

I squinted at it, but no, I didn’t see. I shook my head again.

She withdrew her hand and studied it herself. She furrowed her brow and said, “Well, they usually heal pretty quickly. I wake up with wounds in my hands some mornings.”

At this point, I decided to take an interest in the block of clay I was supposed to be working on. Cept didn’t notice, though, and she kept talking. “I asked my spirit guide what it means,” she said, “but I still can’t hear him. That reminds me, I need to practice my listening again tonight.” She pulled out a small notebook (black, of course) and scribbled something in it. Then she looked back at me as I sized up my clay. “What are you going to make?” she said.

“Not sure yet,” I said. “I’ve never worked with clay before.”

Cept’s eyebrows jumped. “You haven’t? Where did you hide while you grew up? Didn’t your mom share anything with you?”

“No, she didn’t,” I said. “She was always kind of protective about that stuff. She didn’t even let us in her studio until we were teenagers.”

“Who’s us?”

“My brother and I.”

“Oh. He an artist, too?”

“No, he’s not.” My brother Mark wanted to be a policeman.

“I’ve been working in clay since I was four,” said Cept. “I made a dreidel for my Jewish friend. I wanted to surprise him with it, but I needed his help to write the Hebrew, so I couldn’t.”

“You did this when you were four?”

“Yeah. Do you ever think about getting your clit pierced?”

I blinked for a couple of seconds, computing. “Excuse me?”

“I’m thinking about getting a stud in my clit this weekend. I have a friend who can do it for me. I’m having second thoughts, though. Have you ever thought about it?”

I can’t say I was entirely shocked. My mom asked bizarre questions like this, often without prompt, and right now Cept was channeling her. “No,” I said. “Never occurred to me.”

“It’s more for my boyfriend than for me. My sister got three, and she told me she’s very happy with them. You should see the patterns she makes with her piercings. She has these amazing clusters in her ear cartilage that swirl, kind of like a nautilus. She’s also got these rivets in her back that look like the waves in an ukiyo-e painting. She got a picture of it in our magazine.”

“What magazine is that?”

“We call it Tits ‘n’ Tats. It’s about body modification. I work on it with a few friends downtown. My friend Shell does the photography, my other friend Kari writes most of the articles, and my other other friend Rad does the printing at his Dad’s shop. I’m the editor. We even have a pretty big readership here on campus. Yay!”

Yeah, Cept bounced around a lot. She wasn’t afraid to let her mouth drift, and I found that perplexing. Had no one in her life at least give her a funny look?

I still remember my first lesson in socializing. I was four or five, and we lived in a new neighborhood with about a half-dozen undeveloped lots. I spent a lot of time in the dirt and ditches, daydreaming and searching for bugs. One afternoon, I listlessly grabbed at a passing grasshopper and was shocked to feel it struggle in my grip. I was terribly excited. I ran to a couple of girls making chalk drawings on the sidewalk down the street, holding the little bug in my cupped hands. I smiled and hopped in place, squealing about my achievement. A chubby girl with clipped black hair looked up at me, unimpressed, and said, “Good for you.”

I guessed that, in all her years of floating and flailing in the river, Cept had never heard someone say “Good for you.” Or maybe she had, and she didn’t care.

All these thoughts marched through my head as Cept made her introduction. The last one made the tumblers fall into place. I heard them. The sound they made was this: artists express. They share, they shout, they scream. They think they can pierce the noise, and not just add to it. My mother expressed.

I’ve been going on about Mom a lot already, so I suppose I should talk about my father too. He died in a car crash before I could remember him, and he left my mom a hefty life insurance policy. My mom’s first act was to cash out a third of it for use in a ten-foot-tall collage. At the center of the piece is an enlarged overhead photograph of her lying naked in the dirt. Dozens upon dozens of real hundred-dollar bills surround her, pasted onto the board at mad angles. It looks like a parody of a rap album cover, though I’m sure Mom would tell you that wasn’t the point at all.