I knew when I first stepped foot into the Locust Moon Comics compound that I'd suddenly been hazed into a tribe. These cats wore the faces of enthusiasts and entrepreneurs but they were straight up gangsters putting their monies and their souls where their mouths and hearts were. Comix lifers imprisoned by their passions to break-out and make a dent in an industry that doesn't know what to do with itself anymore. So what if some rules got broken. Who cares if the ink was paid for in blood. Dream another dream? Get in line. That's what sparked their books, events and festivals, and keeps comix street. I'll miss the backyard pow-wows under the canvas teepee where peace pipes perpetuated the night with friends and peers (going AWOL with Pope & Scioli, Playboy proverbs from Kitchen, waxing weird with Sienkiewicz, swapping brushes with Mack & Thompson, getting real with Wimberly, bonding Hang Dai spirits with Cassano & Benton, etc.), but I know that nothing can stop Josh from spreading light with his smile, Chris from whispering cuckoo voodoo, and Andrew for keeping the trains on time. A three musketeer operation flanked by the the likes of David, Sugar Bear, Proch, Kelly, Ed and other lieutenants. Locust Moon made an old bruiser like me feel like a damned luminary while reminding all of us we're only as good as our last page. Cheers to a mighty transition from sassy retailers to full-time taste makers. Long live Locust Moon Comics.