Earlier this week, I was deeply saddened by the death of my good friend and former collaborator Harvey Pekar.

I first met him and his wife Joyce Brabner in 1995, on tour with Our Cancer Year. I was too nervous to say much to either of them, pretty sure they would want nothing to do with a scruffy blue-haired self-publisher in a hand-made dress. Not big fancy people like they were. After all, Harvey had steadfastly rejected compromising his integrity in exchange for financial security.

The deliberately anti-corporate message of his July 1987 appearance on the David Letterman show was ham-fisted, but had made him a legend among the dirty punkers I hung out with, and revealed Letterman to be a corporate shill. Of course, Harvey’s calls to highlight the criminal violations of GE, the owners of the National Broadcasting Corporation, didn’t sink in for most, punctuated as they were by actual commercials, but those who had already suspect that media consolidation was decreasing the volume of information we had access to, saw it play out that night before their very eyes.

Ten years after we first met, Harvey was my first choice to work on the new Best American Comics series from Houghton Mifflin—at the time an independently owned company. My agenda was clear: Harvey not only had a keen eye for talent, but was also an eloquent speaker on the big big business behind the increasingly popular medium. When I called to ask if he would work on the book with me, we decided to meet in person. By then, in addition to the three decades of comics—which I owned individual and collected editions of—Harvey had appeared in the very popular film made from his autobiographical work, American Splendor, which was nominated for 33 awards including an Oscar. Still, Harvey was worried about how we would recognize each other. “I have less hair now,” he said, so nonplussed was he by his own fame.

My fury over his death is palpable. He was a good man, and should still be here to call me up, forget to hang up the phone completely, and then have a lengthy conversation with his wife about breakfast. He was an excellent wingman: constantly on the lookout for a suitable partner for me during our 2006 tour together. He knew what mattered—everyday life—and he allowed it to fuel his art and his politics.

Yet it is no longer in fashion to resist the supposed inevitability of corporatization, and the ways that it forces us to make decisions about our lives that are not in our own best interests. Harvey never cared about fashion, and this truth sickened him. His curmudgeonly nature was always a bit of an act, a comedic put-on he worked hard at, considering pacing, language, and delivery. It belied a deep concern for others. But when it came to “the kids today,” I’m not sure his rage was all joke. Harvey was a fighter, engaged in unpopular battles. He didn’t just popularize an entire genre of sequential art—autobio comix—he demanded they be published in a manner that benefited their creators and allowed for full freedom of expression.

When the kids today stopped caring, I wonder if he thought that battle had been lost. But it’s not a battle I’m willing to give up.

Anne Elizabeth Moore is the author of Unmarketable: Brandalism, Copyfighting, Mocketing, and the Erosion of Integrity and of Revision Street: America for WBEZ Radio.