Answer: We know too much about action and characters and society already. We can now write about people knowing."

The above two sentences are perhaps the dullest of the non-book
555-1212, but even they bring on a reaction. The reaction is one of disagreement. You, Ihor Todoruk and Stephen Gross, are characters about whom we don't really know enough. As far as action and society and all that, there is enough in your book to fill 10 books that call themselves "just stories." You even had enough sense to write an autocartography of your self-characters immediately after writing your thoroughly agreeable error:

"The creators: Hazy tinted forms prowling through Stanley Park mists two and a half miles behind the plugged-in pack, in the middle, where the road isn't anymore and the world, seen through their own English Bay perspectives in a new woven with minute into-it care, staying close to the white water, trolling the abyss downtown for footnotes beneath the Lions Gate, is a little like the trim tabs on an airplane in a power dive."

In other words the authors, or rather the writer and artist, did a mooding picture show of Vancouver, seen through the aware eyes of a hip, generation. There are some things that the authors don't care to explain:

The book is a big, slick paperback with artwork and script appearing on usually alternate pages. You can look at all the artwork by flipping the pages from back to front, and vice-versa with the writing.

And more physical characteristics:
Writing is on fine onionskin paper so the reader can see through to the artwork. The amazing thing about all these tricks is that more often than not, they work. Pages of artwork are variations on photoengravers' dots. Or, maybe, like the extracurricular patterns on an untuned television set. Ihor Todoruk's lines are almost objective little drawings before the mind wanders through breaks in the pattern to find its own subjective answers.

The written pages are filled with gentle little put-ons like the title: 555-1212 is a telephone number for information, but you have to dial an area code first. Otherwise you get a whining signal verging on the psychedelic.)

If Vancouver were around during the Middle Ages, some monk or other would have written this type of local-personal chronicle. Only the Vancouver we know is 1967+1, according to the authors, and the sights and sounds vary according to the modern mood.

This book is a barrel of very clever monkeys, and should be approached accordingly, with lighthearted love.