If I was able to keep up a pretense for a moment, I would pretend this is not a confession at all, but is instead expert coverage of the 29th Salón Internacional del Cómic de Barcelona, which I attended, full of tapas and Voll-Damm, over four days in mid-April at the base of Montjuïc. But I’ve never won a game of poker in my life. This is a guilty admission with some stuff about a comic convention gracelessly wedged in the gappy bits. It is a coat hanger over which I will drape a heartfelt apology to Mr Busiek’s wife.
And so:
