The magazine “Sisters, Pow!” only survived one issue. Created in the mid 1980’s, it was dedicated to the art of sibling rivalry, a subject I was passionate about. I was the writer, illustrator, editor and publisher.
The inspiration for the magazine: My sister, who was around eight at the time (I was 10 or 11). She was small, but freakishly strong and would stop at nothing to win a fight. I produced this magazine as both a warning to her, and a cry for help.
You can picture the scene. Me, hunched over the desk in my room, scribbling like a crazy person. Probably fresh off a fight that I lost. Using the weapons of words and drawings to detail the ways I would finally, finally get my sister — and get her good.
Let’s take a look.
Here we have the Table of Contents. It promises a well-rounded, if somewhat violent, line-up of articles.
Page 2 features a highly disturbing sketch of my “ideal fighting outfit.” Note the “hole opening so you can bite.” Easy there, Silence of the Lambs.
I can only assume this page was shown to many mental-health experts.
I do like how the Metropolitan Life logo appears in the lower left, though, as if they are sponsoring this whole getup.
Later, on page 5, I share strategies for how to… well, the headline explains:
I won’t subject you to all the ways. But here are a few — in case you’re planning to see your sibling this weekend and want to bust them.
This, of course, is a classic move that often works. But if your sister isn’t home, it’s a lot less effective.
I cannot overstate the importance of having an “alaby.”
The next suggestion (below) says: “Go to where your parents can hear you, slap your arm and say ‘ow’ run back into where your sister is and get tangled up in her and your mom thinks she did it so she gets Busted!!!”
Evidently, I was so excited by this strategy, I forgot to use periods.
So there you go. A dose of unsettling advice and how-to’s from “Sisters, Pow!”
The magazine did offer up one intelligent bit of insight, however. “Fighting can be prevented by separating your kids for the rest of their natural lives,” I wrote.
“But after that,” I added ominously, “who knows?”
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