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July 21, 2004

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David and Dale were at the 2005 Mocca Art Festival in NYC June 10 and 11th.

A Lesson Is Learned has been nominated in a bunch of categories in 2005 Cartoonists Choice Awards.

Dale has written a review for Mcsweeney’s in their Reviews of New Food section.


Interviewed by Xenex.org, David and Dale reveal their true ugly natures.

Dale has contributed to Ryan North's collaborative web comic project, Whispered Apologies.


Christopher B. Dino has kindly reviewed our comic in his blog, Totally Jawesome.

Here A Lesson Is Learned is discussed in a lively debate over conceptual webcomics.

There is a review of A Lesson Is Learned in The Webcomics Examiner.



A LESSON IS LEARNED BUT THE DAMAGE IS IRREVERSIBLE updates with incredible regularity, adhering rigorously to a pattern which remains elusive to the world's greatest mathematicians. If you would like to be notified of updates, join our mailing list. We promise to only use your email for our narrow, selfish purposes. You can quit any time you want.



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Archaic creature climbs out of primordial ooze. Dreams of new life for disgusting ooze covered family.

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Dale, who writes the comics.

What are you doing in my house?
I am your computer.

Thanks for joining us. I'm broadcasting from ALILBTDII studios, my squalid bedroom, at the late hour of 2:44 am in nothing but my underwear which my stomach is sagging over ever so gently. So press a nostril and snuff up some of the fairy-dust in the air; this evening will be enchanting.

Actually I'm thinking of going to bed soon, lured by the French supermen I found in my basement. No, those aren't my new lovers! Don't get jealous ladies, you perverts!

I'm talking about these old superman comics I found in my basement from France, "Superman Poche!", which means, "superman you can fit in your pocket!" The French is dumb enough for me to understand and actually, they read better en francais. Kal-el dooms the Kryptonian outlaws to "l'eternite dan le zone phantom!" His last journal entry: "Journal de Jor-El 67 Eorx 9999, 'un monde est mort!'"

But really what's important?

The important thing is that we've pushed that high class broad named A Lesson is Learned but the Damage is Irreversible out on the streets to fend for herself. Her pearl necklace in her hands, her evening dress unkempt, a stocking torn, and heel tipped over, and I am speeding away in my expensive car. That's right. With the fourth comic, we've decided it's time to show our site to other people who are not people on the site already. I hope if you are reading this you are a complete stranger to me or at least a friend who has
never seen this before; and you're like, "wow, Dale, you're the belt on my slack".

There will be a new comic every week, and they will get better and better until your brain bursts in to flames ferociously since we have opened the secret door to your most ardent desires by way of subtle craft. No, no promises. Not yet. Just shove the nose of your mouse in to that special place that says "bookmarks", dust off your yearbooks, and tell everybody you ever knew ever.

Alright cut it out.

Shall we discuss politics?
very well.

When I get drafted to defend the spice-mines of Arrakis-- I’m not very big, maybe 5’7’’, so I want to pilot a machine that I slide snugly into, like a tank or some sort of mobile destroyer, where I squeeze right between the cogs, a perfect fit. Naw, I’m jes’ messin with ya! I’ll probably mutilate myself, since I could never bear to kill another human being. Just kidding again! I’ll be sipping champagne in my stretch limo hot tub, riding through the warm night air, letting the bubbles run up my back, watching it all unfold on the
tv. What a miracle! We might even stop at taco bell.

" -Voici une carte du ciel! Elle vous indique une planete du systeme solaire appelee terre!
-Comment vous remercier Jor-El?"

--un morceau de "Orphelin des Etoiles"

bon soir!


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David, who draws the comics.

Please don't bother me. I bother you.

My new job is bothering people all afternoon. I won't say much more than that, except that it involves walking through a neighborhood and knocking on every door, and sometimes, after I knock on their doors, people write checks and give them to me.

Sometimes you've got to knock on a lot of doors before you make any money. It's a bit like prying lids off the tupperware in the refrigerator. Most of what you find has passed from the realm of food acceptable to the living, but occasionally you come across something wholly satisfying, which immediately validates the seconds -- perhaps moments -- of toil before an uncertain future, a dual projection, two extrapolations from the present world, one in which you have found something acceptable to eat, and one in which you have not. Hanging between these disparate futures, you wait for the winds of fate to gust and reveal to you your fortune.

That's what I was doing yesterday. Several hours into my shift, I had collected zero dinero. I came to a house with a deep front lawn, thick with healthy grass. The path that ran in a straight shot from the street to the porch wasn't the usual trail of stones set into the earth; it rose sharply from the lawn, its immaculate concrete surface gliding a few inches over the soil. It was really more like a sidewalk, but not sidelined at all. My eye followed it to the peculiar house with the form-stone facade, which was either exceptionally wide or short. Arriving at the porch, I found that the house was not very wide at all, but indeed very short. The path branched just before the front steps, moving left towards a shed, which sat even lower to the ground. The shed door where the path ended was a normal width, but almost square.

There was no bell, so I knocked on the door.

There was a letter taped to the door. In that suspended moment, I read it.

Kevin -

It has been over a year since you promised to redo the unacceptable job on the back shed. Are you going to be pleased to wait over a year for the money I owe you?

I want the mess cleaned off from the shed + thrown away and new shingles of the correct color bought.

You take no pride in your work and you are teaching this lesson to your son. Look at the cuttings on my walkway. They get brought into the house by the soles of my shoes.

Let me know when the job on the shed is done correctly. No excuses! You are filled with excuses. If you don't know how to do a job correctly, don't offer to do it!

I am sure you wouldn't want me to take this matter to a higher level.


It looks fairly short when typed, but this was a full 8.5 x 11" page of crisp, adamant script.

Opening the screen door to which the page was taped, I read the other side:




A brief schedule of events followed.

The neighborhood made no clear indication of anything, just far-away sounds of traffic, the leaves, a few radio stations mingling and dispersing in the humidity. All the other houses were hiding behind the dense foliage that overwhelms them in the summer.

By this time, anybody could have traversed the interior of that little house a half dozen times, even a particularly old and mean person, so it seemed unlikely that I was about to have a conversation. Furthermore, I estimated that the author of the letter was not one to write checks for being bothered. I peeled the page carefully from the door and folded it into my bag.


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(c) David Hellman and Dale Beran 2005