Monday, February 24, 2014


Sunday, February 23, 2014


From 1987.

Sketchily Yours, MK


Saturday, February 22, 2014


Irony has been supplanted by "post-ironic", which is more narcissistic and childish.


In the early 1980s, because there was no alternative besides going “home”, I took a room in a transient hotel off 14th Street and 8th Avenue for three months. (I was waiting for the first, perpetually delayed publication of HUGO to bring in additional cash; it didn’t.) It was on the waterfront, on the corner of Jane Street and West Street, and was cleverly monickered the Jane West Hotel!

The place was promoted in the classifieds as having “Old World Charm”. The rooms themselves were tiny cells with bars on the window, usually facing a brick wall. No refrigerator; I had to eat “out” with the pittance I had. I had few change of clothes, and must have stank, because the shower was three widely spaced strands of water.

I searched the papers for a better hotel while I was there; one I inspected was a room of flophouse cells with only bent wire fences separating them. It was dankly depressing, and made my cement block look good.

This was during the winter. There was a time I was walking home in the snow, and my Payless shoes were literally falling apart with the moisture. On the pavement, I found a pair of cumbersome, unlovely shoes that I wore for the next few months. I was proud of them, and called them “Noah’s Shoes” because they turned up like God’s will, were ancient, and was the title of Max Fleischer’s novel. (My mother, horrified by them, insisted on buying me a new pair a few months later.)

Almost brainlessly, I drew cartoons for publications on a wooden board propped on my lap while sitting on the bed. It was the skanky, characters-fucking-in-squalor SCREW cartoons that were truest to my heart, although veterans told me it wouldn’t do anything good for my “future”. I know I was deliriously hungry and psychologically freaked. Yet women seemed to find me especially attractive at the time. Go figure.

Like many of the theatrical bolts from the blue that have changed my life, an artists’ agent who was dealing with one of my porno magazines decided I would be a “hot happening” and promoted me to my "garden" (read: unstoppable weeds) apartment in Brooklyn. It wasn’t great, and the partnership did not last, but I SURVIVED THE JANE WEST HOTEL!!

A song from THE GREAT GABBO (1929) that expresses my feelings about those days well:

I don't see the Hugo days as a good time.
If I ever do write an autobio, it will be in text instead of comics form. I find plain text can convey inner feelings more naturally than multiple panels in a comic.

Auspiciously Yours, MK


Wednesday, February 19, 2014

A fragment of fiction I wrote about my comic book characters, Hugo the court jester, and his love, Princess Trish.
The King's daughter also had interest in this Faire, but only regarding her shopping list. The occasion marked her yearly opportunity to hunt for those diaphanous silks so dear to her heart and body. 
The first day was naturally the merriest, though this did not keep her from dozing through breakfast. Awake now, still in negligee, the princess sang as she sorted through her closet, casting away old gowns to make space for the new. Some frocks were discarded because they were, admittedly, now a tad tight. Yes, Trish had gained another pound or two in the last year...but not regrettably. 
She was well aware that the love sonnets sung by her courtiers were in truth hymns to her gentle bulges. The facts were obvious, thrilling; eerily so, but never stated and often denied in this sweet merry-go-round of sexual tension that was Trish's life. 

There was only one professional songster in this crowd of males; the jester, Hugo. These heavy breasts and buttocks weighed on his mind more than anyone's. Trish knew.  Forced to gape up at her, deliciously subservient, from his standpoint, the jester beheld an imposing Amazon, a monument to womanhood, one whose height must be matched by the quality of pure love undoubtedly coursing through her veins, pounding powerfully in her huge heart. Here was love, walking and talking and in Hugo's life! And she must stay! Hugo would do anything, anything...!  as he proclaimed, often, to her whenever in fear or doubt. From her view, the princess looked upon a sweet, scrawny lad whose charms were clouded by his cupidity. His caresses were potent, his devotion so unquestioning that it was often sheer delight to know he was alive. But the pained pleading in his imploring, so guileless. He was a type easy to take for granted, even to despise. Of this, Trish understood she was guilty. Guilty because Hugo did not merit such mockery. Yes, he was lowborn, indeed, as low as one could get. Consorting with him was a bawdy joke; her peers were eager to see her throw him down, and laughed out loud when she did. Trish did not savor standing out unfashionably from the pack. Yet, her heart, in a fashion, was the jester's, and it was a Princess' privilege to consort with whom she pleased. 

Though a commoner, Hugo posessed power over the royals; when he held them spellbound by the fire with a tale, or stirred them with a song.  Then Hugo became something noble. The respect, however grudging, any person holds for a master artist elevated him in their eyes; they confided in him, took him on their laps, drank with him like an old friend. They even would strive to make him  laugh, attempt to attain his  status, struggled for the glow of being closer to the true professional, to be a tiny part of the magic that only he can make.

But when he was summoned to employ tricks such as tumbling or juggling, the effect was more plebian. When he played the clown, spewing ribaldries or cutting grotesque capers, Hugo descended into the depths. He was funny, but his artistic side was forgotten, and he became a professional figure of fun for the entire castle household. A clown must be honored with contempt; otherwise, the entire order is in danger. It was easy, even relieving, for the young, the stupid and the stupefied to forget the qualities once admired; to deal the clown jolly insults, casual kicks; to pelt him with the foulest offal. It took true grit to shun sliding into this attitude, and sometimes Trish lost her internal battle. This caused her painful guilt she could only handle by avoiding it. 

Avoiding it once more, she eyed her body's profile in the mirror, and gave its most imposing features a few appreciative pats. She allowed her palm to remain on her buttock for some loving circular strokes. But not too great a number of them! The princess was cautious not to let her narcissism stray into obscenity... A tap at the chamber door. Then a call: "Oh, Trish! 'Tis I!"  Trish felt that ghastly reflex. That voice inside that groaned, 'And what of it?' Hugo popped his head into the room. His eyes popped, too, at the princess, resplendent in her nudity. Hugo toddled up behind her, throwing his arms around her thighs. He was very short. The princess caught a view of him over her shoulder. Hugo gawped up at her with a most idiotic beam. The princess smirked.  "Now, Hugo, don't drool on me."

He was looking presentable that morning; very cute, in fact. His red hair was neatly combed, and his thick forelock swung over one eye. He was bedecked in an outfit he did not wear commonly. As ever, it was stitched together by the jester himself from cast-offs thrown him by the other castle folk; but the blend of mauve and yellow hues was a nifty one. A special outfit. A special day?... Trish didn't comment on it. She immersed herself in her wardrobe. Hugo unraveled himself. "Hi, Sweet One. I missed you at breakfast." When the princess said nothing, he added: "I hope you had a good sleep." Trish turned an imperious eye toward him. "I hope I am allowed to sleep in every so often." "No, no, Trish, I didn't mean it that way", Hugo said as he took a seat on her bed, cursing himself for uttering a word, a single syllable, which could be misconstrued. "I just meant that...well, your presence is always missed. And I was just worried that you weren't down because you weren't feeling up to par or something."

"Thanks", Trish said, turning to the gowns she held in each arm. She didn't look up while adding, "You're all dressed up this morning." Hugo brightened. "The Faire, Trish, the faire! That's why I was so concerned!" "Hm?" "I want to take you with me this first day! There's a splendid batch of acrobats...they were members with the troupe I traveled with for years. The word is they're gonna be performing in the square at noon, and..." Trish scowled. "Hugo...If your cronies care to perform before me, let them come to the castle! Heaven knows, my father will get a bigger kick out of it than I will!" So spewing, she flung an unwanted dress behind her onto her bed, just missing Hugo. The jester was stung. He, too, was an acrobat. 
Hugo knew he would be useless shadowing Trish on her shopping orgies. The only entertainments he could endeavor to coax her with were mere peasantries. But hope sprung eternal...

"Well, there must be something at the faire we can both enjoy..." , he said.
"What makes you think we're destined to go together in the first 
Stung again, Hugo strained for the right words. But Trish persisted before he could find them: 
"Look, Hugo; thanks. Thanks very much for thinking of me! But I don't go to the faire to gawk at acrobats and sword swallowers! " She tossed another dress behind her.  Hugo was blanketed under it. At this, she had to chuckle.
Wallowing under Trish's garment, Hugo was thrice stung. 
"That...that's not funny", he stated gravely. His voice, muffled under the silken stuff, sounded not unlike a kazoo. Traces of Trish's perfume lingered in the material, and the sensation as it slid about his body was not unpleasant. His loins stirred, confusing him and worsening the situation by ten.  Hugo was a game lad, though, and determined not to betray his emotions. So he did not struggle to disentangle himself. Instead, he blundered blindly to the door with the dress tented over him, his pinched face hidden from the cruel world. On the way, he grazed a table, muttered an unintelligible oath, then turned and tumbled beanpot over bootlaces on a footstool's leg. The cuteness of the kitten's dilemma amused the princess no end. What a humorous jester!

Her bubbling laughter echoing in his ears, Hugo halted on reaching the doorway. His hand on the knob, he turned to issue some pithy pronouncement. But, since his voice was muffled and he was lost for lectures anyway, he surrendered just a few angry bleats. This set Trish to carry on cackling, but more forcibly; partially to spite him, partially to drown out any words which might find their way through the fabric. Thus strode Hugo through the hall, occasionally ramming his face into a piece of furniture. Others in the household bustled about, preparing to visit the faire. They cast their eyes upon him in wonder, a few not being able to control themselves from firing weak witticisms: "Fine ensemble", Sir Loin of Beefcake commented. And from Olaf the roustabout, "If you're playing ghost, your sheet should be white." They could not be blamed. Hugo knew he made a ridiculous picture. Yet another reason not to undrape himself. So as not to see their grinning faces...  Lodged in the roof of the highest tower of the castle was Hugo's bedroom. Thanks to the jester's sharp aesthetic tastes, it was as hospitable as any cubbyhole could be. The walls' rough plaster barely shielded their slat construction; but discarded draperies, used ingeniously by the jester, concealed the most unsightly spots. A barrel and a scrap of broken mirror atop it were lodged against a wall, serving as a kind of bureau. A tatter of tapestry was his rug. 

Having navigated his way into the room, Hugo plopped into his bed, a wee wooden box stuffed with bits of cloth. Trish's gown was now his blanket. Already having run a round of emotions, from hurt to hate to humiliation, Hugo was now concious of another feeling taking over...exhaustion. 
Fragmentally Yours, MK

Tuesday, February 18, 2014


You've got to kiss the ass!
Realize when to back down,
And give way to the clowns;
The time to kiss the ass.
As I've implied,
You've got to throw aside your pride,
And simply keep those thoughts inside.
Kneel down and kiss the ass.
No matter what the movies say,
It's truth that rarely wins.

Sometimes just to live a day,
We must muddy our chins...
So smile! And kiss the ass.
Please don't reject my words in haste.
Could be you'll grow to love the taste!
Come on! And kiss the ass!
-A Lesson still Unlearned by MILTON KNIGHT


Saturday, February 15, 2014


Felt bad leaving the barber shop the other day. I don't know how to do those weird Afro American handshakes.

I shall embrace my inner fogey.


Here are a few images done as proposals at studios that didn't make it through. Sights you will see here and only here!

A rejected idea for TWISTED TALES OF FELIX opening titles. (About 1995.)

Commissioned sketches for a show that didn't make it. (About 1995.)

Charismatically Yours, MK


Thursday, February 13, 2014


It's tattered and worn, but I still have it: A comic I made summer of '75 (age 13) starring "Mousey & Meowy". Meowy talks with his girl:

Some things never change.

And now, a Terrytoon: JEALOUS LOVER (1933): Street brawlers pursue Terry mice in the big, bad city. Some animators: Bill Tytla (scenes with crooner), Jerry Shields, Frank Moser.


Romantically Yours, MK


Sunday, February 9, 2014


A selection of background paintings for a pet project of mine since 1998. I've decided to skip it. I may post more info on its history another day.

Below, a link to a series of animated tests. Shots are missing from this sequence:

Monster swallows Caprice, she heckles him, springs off his snout, mocks him atop mountain. Monster swallows planets, shoots them at her.
Multiple levels of action will make the action hard to 'read' at times.

A link to my (failed) Kickstarter trailer.

No regrets; it's a relief to let this thing go. I've learned a great deal, and have a lot of other work to do.

Contentedly Yours, MK


Friday, February 7, 2014


Weird how a layout idea will seem fine when I visualize it, doesn't look as good when I put it on the paper, and gets worse and worse as I try to fix it. The day is gone; I think of a different idea, begin it the next day and it flows like water. Wish I could cut out the middle part more often.


"folks suggested to Milton Knight that he try his hand at autobiography; this is what resulted." *chuckle* It makes sense that The Comics Reporter blog would choose to latch onto this one. Giving the people what they want, I guess. Voyeuristic kicks. But I don't want to play Crumb. I don't find it "therapeutic". It hurts too much.

The intelligentsia can go fuck themselves.

Wednesday, February 5, 2014

THE 100th POST!

A few paintings to break up the black & white.

Happy Sailing, MK


Tuesday, February 4, 2014


For a long time, people were telling me I "should" do an autographical comic.

My response has been that not many people would understand a lot of my life, in fact, not want to understand because much of it would make unpleasant reading. (I made one therapist cry by just being honest.)

In the mid 2000s, I gave it a shot, putting my character, Slug, in my place. What follows is from the middle of part 1. There are a few non-crucial pages missing. I've a feeling the "should" folks would be sorry they brought the matter up.

I've had a few experiences that would make Speiglehead's (not his father's) life experiences look like

Funkily Yours, MK


Monday, February 3, 2014


Here are links to a pair of YouTube playlists I've assembled.

1930s Dance Music: Hot & sweet, a cluster of my favorite recordings from the era.

"Silent Cartoons". It's international in content, and will contain, hopefully, some unique items, or at least some you haven't seen too often.

Enthusiastically Yours, MK