I don’t know David Heatley, but after reading his “graphic memoir” MY BRAIN IS HANGING UPSIDE DOWN, I sure feel like I do. Intimately. As in, too much information. And yet, to borrow an oft-repeated phrase from his own work, “I love this guy!”
Prior to BRAIN, I’d mostly been familiar with Heatley’s work that turned his actual dreams into illustrated strips, which popped up in indie comics and best-of anthologies here and there. And some of those are here again, but most of this book is glimpses from his real life. I thought it’d be a quick read, but he crams a ton of tiny panels onto each single, oversized page, so it took several nights. And yet, I never wanted it to end.
With tackling sex right up front, the book is bound to grab readers from the start. A couple of those aforementioned dreams ease you into the quite lengthy (no pun intended) “Sex History,” for which BRAIN will no doubt garner the most attention. Befitting of that title, it’s a chronicle of every sexual encounter Heatley’s had in his life. It’s painfully funny, sometimes sad and remarkably brave. I mean, there are things in here that if they had happened to me, I wouldn’t admit under oath in a court of law. An early childhood pastime of tugging on the penises of his willing and reciprocal friends falls into this category.
But better yet in every way is “Black History,” which falls in the next section — concerning race, naturally — and is the largest piece in the book. Like “Sex,” it’s a life-spanning account — in this case, every African-American person he’s ever come into contact with, whether as part of a long-term relationship or a mere fleeting moment. Heatley’s no racist — far from it, in fact — but this piece is hardly PC. And yet it helps burst stereotypes and is probably the best white-man perspective of black-and-white relations I’ve ever read. This is what we honkeys think! Oh, and it’s supplemented by the occasion of reviews from the author’s extended collection of hip-hop and rap CDs.
The remainder of BRAIN covers his family, with collections of short strips paying separate tribute to his mom and dad, including many uncomfortable moments they’d likely rather not be out there for all the world to see. Despite what kids think, parents aren’t infallible or immortal; they make mistakes. That Heatley shares them is honest; that we can all relate births most of the humor. Even when his folks are painted in the best light, it’s clearly done so out of love, not spite.
Ditto for the final piece, “Family History,” which tells the story of his kin, going back several generations. I kind of got lost on how this ancestor related to that ancestor, but all’s crystal-clear by the time he hits his parents. Much of this story is devoted to the family he’s created with his wife, and the account of her delivery of their first child is endearing, touching and wrought with nervous anxiety. I got a contact high from my own first-time dad experience just reading it.
By this point, it should surprise no one that I find Heatley to be immensely talented. (His skills extend to making music, too, as BRAIN has a bouncy, six-track soundtrack available at iTunes.) In an age where we’re encouraged to tiptoe over our own opinions and experiences, his absolute frankness is refreshing. The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth should be told more often, especially when the results are as witty and wonderful as this.
When you buy it — you are buying it, right? — be sure and remove the jacket, because bonus strips appear on the cover then revealed. I’d ask him for much more, but he’s got to live a lot more life first. —Rod Lott
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