Harvey Pekar is dead at 70. I realize there are several really critical ways to read his sadsack, lonely, pessimistic art, and I don't want to give the impression I read more than a little of his work, but I thought it was moving and honest. It had a sort of terrible but also shallow and slightly sour and metallic-tasing sadness that I knew. It's easy to take that kind of sadness though and try to heroize it. Make it romantic or something. Like you're better or more moral for your sadness. I didn't feel like Pekar did that, though. He didn't go for sappy. He made you feel like shit and like crying. May he rest in peace.