Attention, Children.

Everybody Just Calm Down

2011-11-04T11:17:00.000-07:00

So it looks like plagiarism is still something of a hot-button topic, at least enough to get me to dedicate a blog post to something other than comic books or my own raging ego. I won't get into specifics because I'm assuming if you're reading these words, you're probably at least passingly familiar with the weeks-old controversy, or barring that, you know how to work the Google. Aside from that, my take is less about the act itself than it is people's reaction to it. Babies, your Uncle Jimmy loves you and he wants you to be happy. Part of that is just calming the hell down.

To begin with, plagiarism is a big deal. When one plagiarizes another's work, it is an attempt to earn monies from efforts that are not one's own. This is not cool, no matter how you slice it. The good news is that since it's such a big deal, the likelihood that one is going to get away with this specific act of getting something for nothing is almost nil, since people simply won't stand for it.

Plagiarism is an abstract offense. Like homophobia or racism, it stems from a selfish and insecure mindset that can hurt others and is ultimately self-destructive. Unlike homophobia or racism, though, it has never been socially acceptable in the western world, not to my knowledge. When one plagiarizes, one is guaranteed to be caught in the act and vilified, ousted from any formerly friendly community. This is good news, my loves. It means that there are still some things people just won't put up with, and we should take that to heart. This is not to say we should be lax in our attitude towards the act of plagiarism, but it does mean we should all breathe easier knowing it will never get far enough to do any real damage to the victims nor make any gain for the perpetrators. So, just chill, huh?

Like I said, plagiarism is abstract. It is not cut-and-dried theft, to which I've heard a lot of people compare it. It's related, yes, and if left unchecked, can be just as damaging to one's physical well-being as the theft of one's wallet or Social Security number. But as established, it doesn't go unchecked, at least not for long. A writer for whom I have deep respect and admiration said recently on his Facebook something to the effect that a writer stealing another writer's words was the same as if he came over and stole your car because his wasn't working. It's a tempting analogy: his point was that a writer's stock-in-trade is words, and to have some dickhead come along and take a writer's words and slap his dickhead name over them and set about collecting cash and glory for the work that the original writer put into those words is as good as taking food out of the writer's mouth. But it ain't. I mean, it's almost the same, but if I come steal your car, you no longer have that car, unless the cops can beat me to the border (and given my geographic location, that's only a 50/50 shot). If I "steal" your words, you actually still have them. And thanks to the Internet-age, it's a lot easier for concerned citizens to track me down and bring me to justice than it is for the fuzz to outrun me to Tijuana. It's not only easier, but folks out there are much more invested in this sort of thing, even more than the police are in chasing down car thieves.

Plagiarism is not stealing. Stealing is stealing. Let's not let our love for metaphor and figurative language cloud our rationale here.

Now, for those of you out there who think I'm sorta wise-ass po-mo apologist, well, you're half-right. I'd never even heard of the concept of post-modernism until I was 25, and it opened some pretty marvelous doors for me. No longer do I have to struggle to justify my love of Looney Tunes or Batman to anybody, because now I have the tools at my disposal to make effective arguments for the textual relevance of seemingly shallow "pop" artifacts. This is good. However, I do not have near the grasp on these concepts to attempt to explain away plagiaristic acts as something other than a form of something-for-nothing. This doesn't mean it's impossible, however, and I would plead with you darlings out there to whom this might apply to not only relax as regards your rabid anger towards plagiarists, but also don't allow yourself to be closed off to other avenues of intellectual pursuit just because you think it might be some backhanded college-boy way of screwing the little guy outta what he's worth. Anti-intellectualism of this stripe still runs rampant in the good ol' U.S. of A., but seriously, I think all our dads have got a handle on it. Let them get incensed at people smarter than they are; it's one of the few things they're really good at.

But speaking of post-modernists: you guys are a buncha fuckin' dicks. Seriously. Despite what I just said above, I think the reason a lot of people are anti-intellectuals is because a lot of you intellectuals think you know everything and are not shy about it. I get it, y'know, antipathy breeds dissent and girls in high school were less attracted to you than they were your intellectual inferiors, but dude, we're a long way from homeroom now. When this latest plagiarism story was breaking, I read a lot of comments on a lot of articles that could be summed up as: "You people just don't get it." That might be so, but are you at all familiar with the flies and vinegar/sugar conundrum? If the po-mo-fos out there could manage to phrase their arguments so that they weren't so pretentious and antagonistic, they might find that they'd actually change some minds, which in the long run they'd likely find more satisfying than proving (once again) that they're pretty fart smellers. All's I'm sayin'.

And finally, I'd like to address my brethren and sistren in the writing field, especially those of you down here with me in the largely-unpublished trenches. To be blunt, nobody gives a shit about us. Still. This issue only affects us distantly, if even that. The most vocal contingent in this whole teacup tempest seems to be guys and gals at about my level of experience and expertise in the biz, who are incensed that somebody would steal a writer's work; meanwhile, we can barely give ours away. I read a lot of comments along the lines of "I've been busting my ass to get a writing gig, and this guy gets one by stealing it." Well, yeah, that sucks, but it only sucks as much as me busting my ass at a shit-job while some other jerk robs a bank. It sucks, but the good news is if the guy gets caught, he's really fucked. And as established, when it comes to plagiarism it's not a matter of if one gets caught, but when. The plagiarist in question here got busted and how. You and I and the other poor wordsmiths have got our entire careers ahead of us; this guy is gonna be shining our shoes, if he's lucky. Some have conjectured that Johnny-Come-Plagiarize stands to gain in other ways, that this newfound notoriety is actually just what he wanted. Yeah, that's irritating, but so what? It's just as bad as those Jersey Shore or other reality-TV types being famous for being douchebags. It's a fact of life, the way of things. Doesn't mean you have to like it (I sure don't), but you're gonna have an aneurysm over it? Take that energy and put it into your work and you'll be fine, I promise you.

Okay, I think that's everything. I gotta go illegally download some movies and then steal a car. I'll talk to you guys later.

Love,
James Dean Callaway
c. 2011
On pain of death

Criminal Fucking Complex

2011-10-21T05:43:00.001-07:00

Oh, babies, it has been too long. Where has your Uncle Jimmy been this whole time? Well, the big top-secret project that I couldn't mention all summer finally jumped off like a successful bank-job. Yes, loves, Criminal Complex has arrived and is kicking you right in the teeth.

For those of you paying attention, since about a year ago I've been writing (ir)regularly for a little site known as Gestalt Mash, which itself is part of Boomtron.com. Back in May or June of this year, Jay Tomio, one of the main men over at Boomtron World Headquarters, asked me if I'd be at all interested in running a crime-intensive wing of Boomtron--all the latest and greatest news and features about crime fiction: movies, TV, books, comics, games, noir, hard-boiled, action, thrillers, chillers, and Phyllis Dillers.

Naturally, I said I'd be all up for something like that, since the whole working-for-a-living thing has not been going all that well for the past 16 years or so. So I rounded up my crew, the finest writers that I know: Cameron Ashley, Josh Converse, and Matthew Christian Funk. I say something like the finest writers I know, and it can sound like I'm blowing smoke, but nothing could be further from the truth. Even before the site went live last month, these three guys have worked their asses off so we could make this site the best it can be, and I wouldn't have thought I could be closer to them as friends and as colleagues.

And if there's any doubt, the proof is in the eating: check out Converse's piece on the clusterfuck that is the John Gotti bio-pic project. Dig Ashley's on-going series on the frantic panic of Japanese crime fiction. And Funk has written what has rightly proven to be our most popular article yet, "5 Terrifying Crime Films That Actually Happened."

And these are just our main corps. We also have featured such delights as Keith Rawson and his tremendous interview with Drive author James Sallis. The nation's most-incarcerated reprobate, Johnny 99, gives us the Lonely Planet of prisons with his Wrought-Iron Round-Up. And yes, your Uncle Jimmy aims to be the Pete Rose of this team, acting as player/manager as well as betting on his own team. My biggest editorial indulgence is my on-going recap of NYPD Blue, "NYPD Blog." And honies, allow me to remind you that this is a daily enterprise. Monday through Friday, me and the Double-C boys are working our fingers to the bone(r) to bring you all-new material. So check the site and check it often. And if you ain't already, why not follow us on Twitter @CriminalComplex, like us on Facebook, and encircle us on Google+? It's good for what ails you.

Well, Satan knows I've been a busy boy these days, and not just with the ol' Double Cranch. My fiction these days has been focused on longer, more substantial pieces than the flash-fictions I often crank out. So with luck, 2012 will see a lot more stuff from yours truly. But aside from the rash of anthologies I told y'all about last time, I've got another story in yet another antho for youse out there. America's sweetheart, Alec Cizak, has gathered together the motliest crew possible for the debut issue of Pulp Modern, including art by my dear friend Brian S. Roe and stories by some of personal favorites as Dr. Glenn Gray, Garnett Elliott, and Lawrence fuckin' Block. Yeah, I have a hard time believing it as well, but it's true: I am sharing page space with none other than living legend Lawrence Block, whose works include the Hitman series as well as the Matthew Scudder books, one of which, Eight Million Ways to Die, I count as one of my bigger personal influences, on writing and in life.

If that's not enough to entice you to buy Pulp Modern #1 (and who are you then, the fuckin' Queen of England?), perhaps I can help sweeten the pot. If you buy this issue, I will send you one (1) 80-minute mix CD, fat-packed with my near-flawless taste in music. All you gotta do is buy an issue, read it cover to cover (which will be no sweat), and then write up a little review over at Amazon. Then just send me the link to it and your mailing address to letsexploiteverybody@gmail.com, and bada-beep, bada-boop, one CD for you. A few lucky fuckers have got CDs incoming, though I've yet to send them. But send them I shall. So get cracking, kiddies.

And if you thought I was neglecting this blog, it's been months since I've been able to get it together for one of the exploitation film bloggy-woggys. Fortunately for me and you, there are a few more-than-competent individuals stepping up to the plate. Why, just today in fact, the above-mentioned sweetpants Alec Cizak turned in this piece on the 1982 euro-slasher, Pieces. Sadly, Alec feels he has not been able to find the perfect slasher movie, and is thus retiring from slasher-crit as a reigning champion. Bad news for us, I know, but the good news is Mr. Cizak assures me that he is likely to write elsewhere for the Let's Exploit Everybody! quartet. Take, for example, Let's Fight Everybody!, which has been doing some very brisk business these days. Newcomer to these pages, Garrett Cook, delivers an excellent reading of the Vincent Price classic, the 1971 film The Abominable Dr. Phibes. From all the way down under, Crime Factory's own Andrew Nette brings us the even more hardcore Australian version of Hardcore, 2008's The Horseman. And New Jersey's own Thomas Pluck has not one, but two entries where revenge is the only argument makes any sense: Shane Meadows's 2004 flick Dead Man's Shoes and the 2007 Jodie Foster vehicle The Brave One. Woof, it's a big pallet of high-end and low-brow film criticism, the brand of which your Uncle Jimmy simply loves to bring you. Enjoy, my darlings, enjoy.

And with that, my loves, I bid you a fondue. I hope to have another entry up in here pretty quick, but even if I don't, I want you all to take care of yourselves and come back and hang out later. Yeah?

Yeah.

Filler

2011-09-24T20:29:00.001-07:00

An Anthology of Anthologies

2011-08-22T21:25:00.001-07:00

Hey there, kids. Pull up a seat, set a while.

No, not there. That's the broken chair.

So, your uncle Jimmy's been hard at work along with his co-conspirators on The Project That Cannot Yet Be Named. But August has been quite the month for me, fiction-wise. Though I haven't been able to write a whole lot of it lately, I sure as hell have had quite a chunk of it become available for public consumption lately.

But before we get into that, let's address some celluloid, shall we? Firstly, that workhorse, Alec Cizak, has got a brand-new entry over at Let's Fight Everybody! about 1982's Fighting Back. If you're even passingly familiar with the good Mr. Cizak's critical writings, you know he's not one to pull any punches, and this entry is no different, giving the Reagan years the kick in the balls they deserve, even after (especially after?) all this time. Meanwhile, over at the Crimespree blog, they've been running a li'l series on the guilty pleasures of various and sundry writers, and yours truly was recently asked to confess to his own. Like so many, I tend to feel one shouldn't feel guilty for anything that gives them pleasure (unless one takes pleasure in rape or cutting me off in traffic). In fact, I was hard-pressed to think of any of the stupid, goofy movies I do love as really guilt-inducing. And then it hit me: 10 Things I Hate about You. Yeah, there's no getting out of that one, is there?

Anyways.

A few months back, Chris Rhatigan and Nigel Bird wrote me to ask if I'd like to be involved with a little e-book they were putting together, an anthology based around the soundtrack to that ol' crime-film stand-by, Pulp Fiction. Naturally, my answer was a resounding affirmative, and the title assigned me was "Misirlou," which suited me right down to the ground, hardcore Dick Dale fan that I am. Rhatigan and Bird truly knocked themselves out, rounding up such big-name contributors as Gary Phillips, Hilary Davidson, and Allan Guthrie. And finally all that hard work paid off in the form of Pulp Ink. This little bastard of an antho is now available at the Amazon Kindle store (and if you're reading these words over Labor Day weekend 2011, it is right now a mere 99 cents)(!), and also at Smashwords for all your non-Kindle e-reader needs. This antho also includes stories by such close, personal friends of mine as Matty Funk, Jason Duke, and AJ "Billy Bob" Hayes. So get to downloading. You bring your pair of pliers and blowtorch, and we'll supply the rest.

At last year's Bouchercon in San Francisco, California, I had a hell of a time meeting and greeting so many writers whose work I enjoy. Meeting these folks in the flesh was a tremendous, booze-soaked blast, and had that been all that came of my experience, these friendships and bouts of partying, I'd have been pleased as punch. But something else came of this wild weekend as well. See, Greg Bardsley and Kieran Shea were already favorite writers of mine, and within minutes of meeting them, they'd become swell drinking buddies as well. But as we sat around the hotel bar with the above-mentioned Messrs. Funk and Duke, as well as my hive-mind roommate, Cameron Ashley, Greg and Kieran hipped us to this anthology they were putting together, an anthology wherein all the stories would be based around America's 46th vice-president. Naturally, we were all put into paroxysms of giggles, but then these two nuts asked us if we wanted in on this action. I daresay I needn't tell you what our collective answer was. It's been nearly a year since that fateful eve, but it has arrived: D*CKED: Dark Fiction Inspired by Dick Cheney is now available for your Kindle, your Nook, and even in glorious old tree-killin' print. Not only need I thank Greg, Kieran, and the luscious Jed Ayres for including me in this fine collection of patriotic fiction, but especially to Mr. Greg Bardsley, my heartfelt and sincere thanks in getting me to really punch the ending in. The original draft was suitable, but Greg felt I could do better, and goddamn if he wasn't right.

Hey, I'm glad you mentioned Greg: not long ago, that stalwart monolith of the publishing industry, Publishers Weekly, previewed an anthology that Mr. Bardsley is to be published in. This particular anthology is entitled Crime Factory: The First Shift, and the reviewer has some very kind words for some of the stories, like Dave White's and Dave Zeltserman's. But as for that Greg Bardsley's "Microprimus Volatitus," "revolting" is the watch word of the day.

Now lest you think I should agree with this assessment, allow me to assure you that I absolutely do, one hundred percent. In pure point of fact, after reading the above-mentioned story, I immediately wrote to Mr. Bardsley and informed him that he was (and I believe these were my exact words) "a sick fuck." I also then expressed my continuing envy of his body of work and how I greedily anticipated more.

Oh, did I mention that I too have a story in this self-same anthology? And did I also mention that I, in fact, am co-editor of this book, along with Cameron Ashley and Keith Rawson? I must be slipping, in which case allow me to mention here that Crime Factory: The First Shift is now available for pre-order in anticipation of its official release later this month of September 2011. So order now and prepare to revel in all of its revolting glory.

Now, I know and you know that Christmas is for suckers. But I also know as you must that to refuse to participate in the yearly Christmas shopping season will only contribute to our fair nation's continued economic decline. So as long as it falls upon your shoulders to keep the country--and by extension, the very world!--from further financial collapse, why not buy one or all of the books mentioned above? You'll keep America financially strong yet still add to its cultural downward spiral. Everybody wins!

See you next month, my children.

Life Ain't Nothing but a Big Ol' Con

2011-07-24T17:13:00.000-07:00

Oh, babies, July has been non-stop, lemme tell ya. Probably the biggest, most time-consuming aspect of it was San Diego Comic-Con International 2011 (or Con, as I call it, having known it long enough to be on a first-name basis). You'll be able to read all about my adventures there this year forthcoming at Gestalt Mash, but suffice it to say, it was a doozy. Aside from all the great comics I bought and wonderful creators to whom I spoke, I managed to snap off a couple shitty camera phone pictures. Firstly, Adam West of TV's Danger Theatre was on hand at the Fox Broadcasting Network's booth to sign glossies from his hit film, Zombie Nightmare. I know it's hard to tell from these shots, but he's the one in the middle background, in the yellow sweater with the seemingly unironic sense of grandeur.

But even better, my loves, was getting to see in the flesh the greatest professional wrestler known to man and Winnipeg's favorite son, "Rowdy" Roddy Piper. He seemed really friendly and approachable, but I was still too big of a puss to go up and shake hands with him. Ah, well.

What else is going on in Callaway-land? Well, we've had three exploitation bloggies go up this month, which is the first time that's happened in a while. Over at Let's Kill Everybody!, Eric "Beets" Beetner gives us the scoop on 1982's Basket Case. Brian S. Roe (the "S" is for "sexy") pours us three fingers of 1945's The Lost Weekend over at Let's Drink Everybody! And Kevin "Bunny" Dillon subjected himself to the soft-core tortures of 1979's Malibu High just for you at Let's Fuck Everybody!, so I think you owe it to him to go read the hilarious (for us, anyways) results.

My fiction output has been spotty at best lately, and it may stay that way for a little while, I'm afraid (as regards the secret thing I mentioned last month that I still can't talk about). But fret not, my small wonders, for I have a couple new bits for you to chew on all the same. First up is this little paean/piss-take to Brian K. Vaughan called "Why the Last Broad" over at The Flash Fiction Offensive, in whose fine pages I have not appeared for a little while. And then we've got one out of the vault called "Food Is Other People." You know I wouldn't lie to you kids, so I'll tell you straight up that I am pretty damn sick of zombie stories. But when A Twist of Noir's own Christopher Grant started up this new site, Eaten Alive, dedicated to that sub-genre and invited me to contribute, well, my ego and I just couldn't resist. Had I been required to write a new story, being as fed up as I am with the zombie glut, I may have had to refuse. But as it happened, I'd been sitting on this particular story since around about 2004, quite literally unable to give it away. And despite everything, I think it's not a bad little story. So I am as always eternally grateful to our Mr. Grant for giving this bad boy a home. Take a look for yourself and see if you agree.

And finally, I've got another little cinematic adventure for you. After the release of Black Heart magazine's NOIR issue (co-edited by me and still available for download here), Laura asked if maybe the boys and I wouldn't wanna knock together a little book trailer. Of course, we acquiesced, but time was of the essence. So I quickly wrote it at my day-job (don't tell my boss), Chuck knocked together a shot list, and we filmed it in my living room with our buddy and sometime-bowling team member, "Dangerous" Dave Swain, who can often be found touring with punk-rock legends The Queers. It came out pretty well, which only matches the reception of the issue itself, especially if Chris Rhatigan has anything to say about it. So dig the trailer, dig the issue, and then dig your way back here next month for another few shovels. Sweet dreams, jellybeans.

From My Black, Black Heart

2011-06-27T16:27:00.001-07:00

Big doings this month, you beautiful fuckers.

First off, the long-awaited and oft-fellated noir issue of Black Heart magazine is now available right here. For a lousy three bucks, you get a couple dozen short-short stories and poems that are so suicide-inducing, you'll want to live forever. Published by the lovely Laura Roberts and guest-edited by the not-quite-as-lovely me, this issue features more than a double fistful of your personal favorites, such as Kieran Shea, Cameron Ashley, Keith Rawson, Matthew C. Funk, Nik Korpon, Jonathan Woods, Dan O'Shea, Josh Converse, and many, many more exclusive hits by the original artists. With a cover designed by those RSquared cats, Brian Roe and Ronda Pattison, you know you can't go wrong, especially at the cost of an average comic book. Now, get some!

Second off, the celluloid trashcan continues to overflow over at the Let's Exploit Everybody! quartet. While all four are not banging away on all cylinders at the same time like a well-oiled machine, we've at least got a couple pistons pumping. In one of those rare instances of timeliness at Let's Kill Everybody!, Alec Cizak serves up this piece on 1981's Graduation Day, just in time for dad or grad. And then your humble editor and narrator, James Dean Callaway, touches on a subject near and dear to his heart--nerd persecution--and finds that 1984's Revenge of the Nerds is less about revenge than it is about justice in this month's Let's Fight Everybody!

Third off, I had another book review go up over at the Pop Matters and found out my objectivity has kind of a double edge. See, I wrote a fairly favorable review of Shann Ray's debut collection of short stories, American Masculine, and I still stand behind it. The stories in the book are a serious, no-frills look at the state of masculinity in this country today, a subject I feel goes overlooked far too often. When my friend and yours Matt Funk read the review, he became convinced he would also find this collection to be satisfying and phoned me up to ask if he could borrow my copy. Thing of it is, even though I gave the book 8 out of 10 (which I fucking hate doing by the way, rating stuff like that. I give the act of rating stuff 1 star out 900,000), I still didn't bother holding on to my review copy, having that day sold it on Amazon for six bucks. So even though I highly recommend it, I can't be bothered to keep it. Yeah, I dunno what I'm on about either over here.

Fourth off, I've shown you loves out there a handful of short films now featuring myself and my bowling team, but--and how rude of me--I've never bothered to introduce them. So before I present to you our latest effort, "Pig's Ear," allow me to correct this oversight on my part. E. Charles Jensen, Jr. (or Chuck, as we call him [give him a screen credit and he thinks he's DeMille, this guy]) have known each other since high school, when we bonded over professional wrestling and shitty movies. For a while, Chuck pursued an education in film, but pragmatic as he is, he switched over to a business major when we went back to school (and to be fair, the film program at SDSU is pretty lame, it would seem). But Chuck continued to keep film as a hobby, and has got this really nice camera, editing software and stuff. It'd be a shame to waste all that, hence the shorts. Pretty boy Eric "The Roc" Rochester is another original member of the gang going back to our high school days. Since hurting his shoulder a while back, Rochester had to totally change up his bowling style from a straight ball to more of a curve, but it works for him most of the time. Since he's so easy on the eyes, Chuck and I often write him into leading parts (that or I'd just rather play guys that get killed each time). Chris Fields didn't go to high school with us, but he may as well have. When we all started going to punk shows every weekend, we often went to see local favorites Jon Cougar Concentration Camp, of which Chris was the leader. Over time, we got to know him and discovered our mutual love for The Twilight Zone and beer. Soon enough, our buddy Dave Swain was playing in Jon Cougar and Chris was inextricably linked to a bunch of goofs from Granite Hills High for the rest of his life. That'll learn him. Also featured in this new short are Amanda and Max Macke, two absolute dear hearts who are also in fact newlyweds. When Chuck came up with this little script, I figured (correctly, as it turned out) that our meager acting talents paled to our bowling skills, and what we'd need for this project are a couple who have actually done some legitimate acting. Also, this was the first time I'd gotten to hang out with either Max or Amanda in years, so that in itself was worth the effort of putting this thing together. Anyways, enough of my blah-diddy-blah. Ladies and gentlemen, the Fighting Unicorns bowling team presents to you: Pig's Ear

Fifth off, stay tuned to this station for a fairly big-deal announcement next month. I love you all dearly and sincerely hope that all your dreams come true, except for the ones where I get run over by a bus.

Here Comes the Summer

2011-05-25T05:57:00.000-07:00

Hey there, dumplings. Don’t seem like there’s a whole lot to go over for May. Most of my work this month has been in progress, and as such, I don’t have a whole lotta links for you. But let’s see what I do have.

First things first, the Let’s Exploit Everybody! quartet keeps a-trundlin’ along, thanks to my threadbare motley crew of writers I’ve got making class-A contributions across the board (and of course, there are spots for the lot of you: get a hold of me at letsexploiteverybody@gmail.com for all the deets). First up, Alec Cizak takes 1981’s The Burning to task, and the irony is not lost on me how well he deconstructs its supposed deconstruction of the sub-genre. Matthew C. Funk sent me this here next piece on the 1974 soft-core flick Emmanuelle a few months back when all this Charlie Sheen nonsense was burning up the charts. Being a regular ol’ stick-in-the-mud, I tend to shy away from anything smacking of a distinctly topical flavor, but I’ll be goddamned if the Funkster didn’t nail this particular topic right on the head. If anybody could, it’d be that guy.

Reviews are always fun, except when they’re not. Fortunately, the couple I had go up this past month were. Over to the Pop Matters, I read Betty White’s latest book, If You Ask Me (And of Course You Won’t). When you get right down to it, the book is just kind of a fluff piece, and were I even more cynical, I would say it was clearly published really quickly in order to capitalize on that actress’s new-found resurgence in popularity. But as you can see from my review, I find Betty White to just be too damn nice for me to be that cynical. Plus I’ve enjoyed her work my whole life, so that buys her a whole ton of slack, as far as I’m concerned. Also, my good buddy Brian Roe has started running comics reviews over at the RSquared Studios blog, and he was sweet enough to ask me to pony one up. So read my review of Brian Clevinger and Juan Doe’s Marvel one-shot Iceman & Angel here, and then dig the other reviews and neat stuff featured at RSquared.

Holy cats, I almost completely forgot: new Crime Factory, kids! Issue #6 features such highlights and lowlifes as Jed Ayres, Libby Cudmore, Tony Black, as well as Eric Beetner, who gives us a story with my favorite title of the week, "My Asshole Brother." Punch the clock, you workin' stiffs.

Last but very far indeed from least: Chris Rhatigan recently opened up his own bloggyspace to short reviews of crime fiction on the web, and that old softy AJ Hayes recently contributed this little number about Luke Nineteen Twenty-Seven, the collaboration by Cameron Ashley and me that is available for your reading pleasure at Plots with Guns. As you might imagine, Cameron and I are flattered beyond description to be recognized by one of our esteemed colleagues in this way. I’ll tell you, kids, though I’m sure you don’t need me to: this writing gig can be a pretty rough one at times, and a lot of those times, it has to do with self-doubt. Y’know, it just feels like you’re talking to yourself after a while, and sometimes, it’s as though you’re shouting into the void. It can make your throat sore, I don’t mind telling you. So when work you’ve done manifests this sort of recognition, it’s a very welcome salve.

Jeez, I just don’t feel like I’ve given you kids enough to read. Luckily, the back files have got us all covered. Last year around this time, Laura Roberts of Black Heart magazine (for those of you keeping score at home, yes, this is the same lovely lady for whom I am guest-editing Black Heart’s upcoming noir issue) had planned on running a feature including some summer reading lists from writers whose tastes she trusted. I was summarily delighted that she asked me to contribute, but alas, the feature itself never saw the light of day. So, seeing as how it’s just about summertime again, I thought I’d share with you dearhearts of mine this little ol’ list I knocked together which, as per Laura’s request, consists of books that hold rebellion as a central trope in some way, shape or form. I leave you with this, my babies, and I’ll see you all back here in thirty or so...

Hey, kids, it’s your uncle Jimmy here. That sultana of the sultry, Ms. Laura Roberts, asked me to add my five cents to your summer reading list, focusing on a theme of literary rebellion. And as my track record clearly shows, I never refuse the request of a well-read woman. So get them library cards out and them bifocals on, we got some book learnin’ to do this summer.

1. Catch-22 by Joesph Heller—If you’re over the age of 25 and still haven’t read this, now is the time to correct that woeful misstep in your life. Largely based on Heller’s own World War II experiences, this novel does little to add to the romantic rose-colored visions of that ever-popular war that permeate our culture. Yossarian, the novel’s protagonist, is far from a typical hero; if anything, he’s a total coward. But the anti-establishment themes set down by this book were indispensable to the anti-war movement in America that soon followed the book’s original 1961 release. And speaking in strictly literary terms, this book defies normal expectations, creating a decidedly non-linear narrative that will leave you in the dust if you don’t pay attention. Trust me, you’ll look a lot smarter on the beach reading this rather than Jacqueline Susann or anything like that.

2. The Wheelman by Duane Swierczynski—Speaking of non-linear narratives, do yourself a favor and check out this 2005 crime novel by one of the neo-masters of the neo-genre. A crime novel full of anti-hero types with nary a sympathetic character in sight hasn’t exactly been a fresh concept since George V. Higgins wrote The Friends of Eddie Coyle in 1972. But Swierczynski puts a new spin on the whole she-bang by writing in a Mustang-paced, quasi-vignette style, with plot twists that’ll break your neck if you’re not wearing protective gear while reading. Double up with Swierczynski’s non-fiction history of bank-robbing, This Here’s a Stick-up!, and you’ll never wanna have to work for a living again.

3. Please Kill Me: The Uncensored Oral History of Punk by Legs McNeill and Gillian McCain—Even thirty-five years later, despite everyone’s best efforts, punk rock is still the most rebellious form of the already rebellious rock and roll music the kids like so much these days. Of all the reading one can do on this subject, Please Kill Me is the only book I know of where the entire story is told straight from the horses’ mouths, with no framing questions or agenda aside from giving the straight dope (pun very much intended). Since McNeill was on the ground floor of the original New York scene of the late ‘70s, you won’t get a whole lot in here about the burgeoning west coast scene of the same time period. But you will get to read all about the misadventures of the Stooges, the New York Dolls, the Ramones, the Dictators, and many, many more of the biggest names in music that your grandparents hate.

4. The Devil and Sonny Liston by Nick Tosches—Muhammad Ali is still widely considered to be the greatest boxer who ever lived. But ask Beowulf: what’s a hero without a villain? Charles “Sonny” Liston was at one time officially the greatest boxer in the world, although few concerned wanted such a mean, mad giant of a man to be the representative of the sweet science. From his murky beginnings as the son of a sharecropper to his mysterious death in the early ‘70s, Liston’s true story is painstakingly crafted here by Tosches, one of my personal writing idols. Tosches clearly sympathizes with Sonny and his tragic life, but this does not prevent him from keeping an unflinching look at the man’s life and career, including charges of dive-taking and sexual assault. Sure, Ali may be a symbol for the civil rights movement, given his conversion to Islam and refusal to fight in Vietnam. But you want a rebel? Look no further than Sonny fuckin’ Liston.

5. The Satanic Bible by Anton Szandor LaVey—It don’t get much more rebellious than this, children. Really wanna make your parents re-think sending you to public school? Then bring this slender black tome to Aunt Sally’s to read before Sunday dinner. Originally published in 1969 by little Howie LaVey, this book proves the hippie era wasn’t as totally boring and lame as most of its hold-overs are. The detailed rituals towards the end are kind of a snore, and a lot of LaVey’s philosophy is pretty much the warmed-over Nietzsche his detractors claim it is. But it’s got Satan! Read this, and then go read Paradise Lost again and try and tell me Satan ain’t the hero of that story.

All right, my loves, that’s all for me. While you’re all out playing in the sprinklers and counting your mosquito bites, I’ll be in my room, digging for more literary gems for your perusal. You’re quite welcome, indeed.

My Very First Crush Was on April.

2011-04-28T14:18:00.000-07:00

April Haines. Mrs. Levinson and Miss Kropko's 3rd grade class, Cyrus J. Morris Elementary School, 1985-86. I'll never forget her. Blonde hair, freckled cheeks. Or, wait, was it "Haynes"?

Anyways.

Hoo boy, April's been a big month, kiddies. For openers, I had a short story, an article and a niece all come out in the space of a day. Three's the magic number, as De La Soul tells us.

About a year and a half ago, my hetero life-mate Cameron Ashley wrote me and said we oughtta collaborate on a tribute story to Lee Marvin, our surrogate father. We went back and forth for a few months, each writing a few pages at a time, until we got this monster, "Luke Nineteen Twenty-Seven." It's a wild west ride through Smashley's and my hive-mind, and I'm proud and pleased as punch of the story and of my name right there, next to one of my best friends', on the site that really started it all for me. It's a bit on the long side, but I think you'll find it worthwhile. Also, dig the layout of the whole issue: that's me on the "cover" being strangled by Lee Child. Also, you'll find photos of some of my other buddies being assaulted by our crime-writing superiors, like Cameron getting the sexiest chokehold ever from Christa Faust.

About three years ago, I read a little book called I'm a Lebowski, You're a Lebowski. In those pages, I was exposed to Dudeism, the religion dedicated to taking it easy. Since I'm a follower and not a leader, I joined up right away, taking my certificate of ordination in the Church of the Latter-Day Dude and hanging it in my work station. It was mostly a lark, y'know. Kicks. But after a rough few years, I found that some actual spiritual guidance might be just what I need. Sure, I still have the X-Men, and my allegiance to my dark lord Satan is as steadfast as ever. But after much thought, much soul-searching, much bowling and many White Russians, I realized that the path of Jeffrey Lebowski was the righteous path, the mellow path, the path that hates the fucking Eagles as much as I do. Over at Gestalt Mash is this essay, "Takin' 'er Easy for All Us Sinners," outlining the gospel of the Dude. Enjoy, my brother shamuses.

And oh yeah, new baby. My little sister, Tracy, finally got married last year to her long-time beau Adam (fun fact: Adam is the eldest son of basketball legend, Bill Walton), and they wasted no time in getting in the family way. The kid was supposed to get here last Friday, but she only just showed up today: Avery Rose Walton.
My list of candidates for nicknames for her are so far: Tex Avery, Fred A-very, Rose Nylund, and Smushface.

What else is going on in the world? Ah, yes: exploitation. Once I began accepting submissions for Let's Kill Everybody!, John Carpenter's 1978 film Halloween was high on the list of requested assignments. At first, I was selfish enough to wanna keep this honey for myself. But after it became clear I wasn't gonna get around to it anytime soon, I put it back on first-come, first-serve status, and good ol' Matthew C. Funk, everybody's favorite Orange County cupcake, snapped it right up. So after you read it here, despair not. I know some of the kids were a bit disappointed that Funkster beat 'em to the punch, so here's what your uncle Jimmy's gonna do: submissions for the LEE! quartet are still wide open, and if someone's done a film to which you feel you could add a new spin on, by all means, take that bessie to market. This is to say, if you wanna do Halloween, then make like Joe Don Baker and go ahead on.

But I digress. My other special guest stars this month include Eric Beetner, co-author of One Too Many Blows to the Head and its brand-new sequel, Borrowed Trouble. When Beets sent me this write-up of one of my faves, Steven Soderbergh's The Limey for Let's Fight Everybody!, my immediate internal response was, "Man, this is too short." But as I read it and re-read it, I realized Eric had absolutely nailed the essence of the film and its inherent study of revenge in a simple, precise manner--a manner I rarely exhibit, for certain. So then, naturally, my internal response was one of envy and cold fury. I'm kidding, of course--Eric's a sweetheart. Go buy his shit. Speaking of buying his shit, Pete Risley (whose Rabid Child I talked up last month and which should still be number one on your list of things-to-do-today-already) sent me this little number on Red Roses of Passion for Let's Fuck Everybody! Now I dunno if you noticed, but my grasp on the scope of sexploitation films is not all that firm (har). So it's not only a pleasure to further expose (har har) you to such great writers as Pete, but it's a distinct load off my editorial shoulders that such great writers as Pete are able to supply my site(s) with the insight I sorely lack. And now I place that load onto you (but, y'know. In a good way).

The book reviews over at the Pop Matters this month have taken on a nice(?) polarity. First up is this real stinkburger, AC/DC in the Studio. When my editor over at PM sends 'round the list of books available, my eyes always drool at the massive selection. Of course, I want them all, but I restrict myself to one book at a time. On a particular list a couple months back were more than a few real eye-droolers, but this AC/DC book caught my attention first, and so I figured it must be kismet (or the alphabetical order of the titles. Either way). To say I was sorely disappointed would be the understatement of this sentence. I like to think I kept the review itself objective, but between you and me and the fencepost, I really wanted to rip into this one, and not kindly and scholarly. It's there if you read between the lines, of course, especially if you read between my index and ring fingers.

Happily, my other book review at the PM was a sheer delight. Nathan Larson made a name for himself in the NYC punk scene of the early '80s (though I sheepishly admit here that his work of that time was unbeknownst to me until just lately), and then went on to a fine career scoring music for many feature films. No grass growing under this fella's feet, however, as he now has his first novel published, and I am a lucky sum'bitch that I got to read it even before it was released for mass consumption. Go read my review of The Dewey Decimal System, and if that doesn't entice you to read the book itself, well. You suck. It's about that simple.

Oh, sugars, that's all quite a bit, isn't it? Just a couple last little things before I'm off to beddy-byes: first, my most recent contribution to Rejected by Covered is actually my first attempt at drawing since high school, this little reinterpretation I did of Two-Fisted Tales #18 before I even knew Covered or any of its satellite sites existed (hell, they may not even have existed then). And then second, that perennial sweetface Chris Rhatigan had a couple nice words for me and certified lunatic, Matt McBride, over at his bloggy-house, Death by Killing.

And there is plenty more where all of that came from, you gang of beautifuls, you. Your time's about up to submit to my guest-edited issue of Black Heart, which means you'll have a faceful of noir soon enough, courtesy of myself, the lovely Laura Roberts, and the army of worthy writers we are to unleash on your unworthy selves. Plus I'm gonna be appearing in at least three (3)(!) anthologies this coming year, so more updates on those as they occur. And then of course, there's the series of stand-up comedian profiles I'm putting together for G-Mash as well as the next in my Punisher essays for that site, more book reviews, more flash-fiction, more writery words than you can shake a stick at.

But now, bed.

Well, some comics and then bed.

Good night, my angels. Sleep well.

Lord Loves a Working Man

2011-03-30T06:39:00.000-07:00

Hey there, my angel-faces. It sure seems like March was a less productive month for your uncle Jimmy, but it could just be that I cranked a shitload of stuff out during February, which is the shortest month of the year even (ooh, lookit me, I can read a calendar). Regardless, I've still got all the Callaway vittles from the last four or five or nine weeks here for you, in easy-to-swallow gel-cap form. Let's watch, won't we?

First off, if you have yet to submit to me, there is still time. On the off-chance you haven't heard, my good buddy Laura Roberts, she of Black Heart Magazine and also of general awesomeisms, is gonna start themes for that aforementioned e-rag, the first of which is "Noir." It is a most certain honor and privilege that she has asked me (me!) to be the guest-editor on this maiden voyage for her lovely site. Already we've had many grand submissions from all kindsa make-out-with-able writers and artists, but that doesn't mean the rest of you can slack off. You have until the end of this month--April the 30th, 2011 anno Domini--to get your submissions in via the Submishmash account Laura has set up here. Specifically, we're looking for flash fiction of up to 800 words (give or take), poetry (3 submissions per author, please), and any and all artwork that pertains to that ever-delightfully suicide-inducing theme of noir: booze, broads, bullets, and all their attendant peaks and valleys. Again, you've got about three weeks from the time of this posting, so get cracking.

Over on the Let's Exploit Everybody! front, things have slowed a bit. I dunno if you've noticed, but I've constantly got a shitload of projects going at once, inspiring one of my man-meat mates, Brian Roe, to once quip that I write like a plate-spinner on Ed Sullivan (to which I was heard to retort, "Only slightly less culturally relevant." Oh, aren't we droll)(No). Anyways, it's occurred to me that the effectiveness of this approach can often be outweighed by the mental toll it takes. More direct to the point, I am too pooped to pop with this movie bloggity project these days. However! This means not that you (as I've mentioned) may slack off in submissions (which you may--nay, must!--send to letsexploiteverybody@gmail.com). Why, just this month I received a handful of plum analyses from such scions of sub-text as Matt Funk and Pete Risley (whose recent debut novel Rabid Child should be in all your TBR stacks. Along with my other favorite debut novels of late, Benjamin Whitmer's Pike and Michael Harris's The Chieu Hoi Saloon, Rabid Child will challenge you in places you'd really rather not challenge yourself. These are novels that should be required reading in schools and also will never, ever be required reading in schools. Those without balls can go read something else [a challenge to your masculinity oughtta get you to do what I want, right?]). And although my own entries for March are yet to go live (though I am halfway through my write-up of the original Texas Chain Saw Massacre, coach, I swear), over at "Let's Fight Everybody!", you can--right this very minute!--read Laura Roberts's ('member her from before?) take on Fight Club (which is not technically a revenge movie, but Laura's write-up from that point-of-view is just too good to go ignored), as well as that delightful old softy Alec Cizak's take on Bad Lieutenant at "Let's Drink Everybody!" It does an everybody good.

Book reviews! Or as I like to call 'em: "I can't believe they just gimme these things for free and all I gotta do is write about 'em." Yes, Pop Matters continues to not get wise to my scam, and so I have another book review for you to peruse and delight(?) at. It's one I actually forgot to mention last month, and it's the official biography of Roald Dahl. Although it has been a few years since I've read or re-read anything of Dahl's, it would not be inaccurate to say the guy is one of my earliest influences, and he remains the yardstick by which I measure my or anyone else's short stories. It may have to do with my age at discovering the man's work, but I maintain the guy did more for the short-story form in the 20th century than anybody, except maybe Joe Lansdale. Anyways, the book is called Storyteller and it's written by Donald Sturrock, who was fairly close enough to Dahl when he was alive to get some nice insight into the man and how he works, but not too much so that it colors his objectivity at all. The book is really, really long, and kind of a slog at times, but overall, I found it to be pretty enjoyable. But you don't have to take my word for it (or no, wait, you do).

My latest couple of entries over at Rejected by Covered went up, which I believe means there's only one left in the hopper. And so that also means I need to finish up the one I've been working on so Covered can reject it and I can send it to those RbC boys. Anyways, this first one here came about fairly organically: I drank a pot of coffee and then a twelve-pack of Natural Light, all while The Big Lebowski played in the background not once, but twice. I think that all shows here. And my other entry here is yet another of my interpretations of the work of Evan Dorkin, 'cept it's drawn instead of written. And yes, I think I'll stick to the writing.

On the fiction front, Crime Factory released their special two-fisted edition entitled Kung Fu Factory, available here in either PDF or print-to-order formats. I am tickled a deep shade of pink to be featured in this special edition, not only because it'd been a while since I'd worked a swear word into a title, but--are you serious?--I get to share space with such names as Christa fuckin' Faust and Duane fuckin' Swierczynski, who are such names that I feel the need to rechristen them with swear words in the middle (now those are names). And those are just the headliners; we also have such dear hearts as Anthony Neil Smith, my matey Cameron Ashley, the kid Liam Jose, and a fuckload of others. Hi-yah.

And finally, I opted this year to get back to that ol' rock and roll a bit more than I have over the past few months. My dear, dear friend of many years, Hadi Fever, started up a little synth-punk combo called The Stalins of Sound last year, and I recently joined their ranks as drum machine operator/keyboardist. The fact that I don't know how to play keyboards has only been a minor obstacle, and we debuted this most current line-up this past Saturday at San Diego's own Tower Bar. It went really well, if this vicious cramp in my neck is any indication. You can direct yourself over to the MySpace here--even though it hasn't been updated in forever (and probably won't be), you can hear a couple of the tracks Fever banged out by himself before he got me and Dave to back him (it's really Fever's show; I'm just glad to follow him in this regard), and then you can go over to the Faceybook page and like the shit outta us.

All right, I think that's it, my loves. Flowers and orgasms to all of you.

Don't ever trust Whitey.

See a doctor and get rid of it.

All Creatures Great and Irregular

2011-02-25T19:36:00.001-08:00

Hey there, honey-pies, how have you been? A lot's been going on since we spoke last, so let's get right to it.

Y'know, as I began my foray into this wacky world of writerliness, I certainly did not bargain on meeting and befriending as fine a group of people as I have, and most definitely was not prepared for the huge talents these folks would have. Take Daniel Ames, for instance. I first "met" this handsome fella when he participated in Dan O'Shea's Let Us Prey flash-fiction challenge last year, and I was quite blown away by his entry (although I sadly can't find the link to it now--hey, Ames, what up with that?). And now I find that not only does the guy crank out hardcore hardboiled, but he's a poet as well. Now, to my chagrin, I admit that what I don't know about poetry, you can just about squeeze into the Hollywood Bowl. But I got here in my hot little hands an ARC of Dan's forthcoming poetry collection, Feasting at the Table of the Damned, and lemme tell you kids, it is really something else. Dan's poems effortlessly slide back and forth from beautiful imagery to bitter humor back to beuatiful imagery. It's really something to behold, and I don't mind telling you, more than a couple of these poems choked me up more than a little bit. Then he would turn around and make an Animal House reference. So when this book is released this April, do your eyes a favor and pick one up.

On the electronic front, Chuck Wendig, whom I had the pleasure to meet and hang out with all too briefly in San Francisco this past fall, has put together a collection of his own short fiction called Irregular Creatures. Again to my chagrin, I don't read that many e-books, although publishing on the web is my own bread and butter. I suppose after spending hours at a time working on my own stuff and dicking around on Facebook, I get a real bad headache trying to get any further reading done on this here monitor. But Wendig proves that this format truly is the future of publishing, not only by making Irregular Creatures a steal at 3 lousy dollars (sorry, publishing industry, but you've been lining your own pockets for too long. Say hi to broadcast radio for me), but also by delivering short stories of the highest quality. Wendig's stories tend to hover in the arena of magic realism, and as such they do Gabriel García Márquez proud. The lead story, "Dog-Man and Cat-Bird (A Flying Cat Story)," really hit close to home for me, seeing as how it's all about the artist's responsibility to his/her muse, a subject which I've given a lot of thought and energy lately. But all of the subsequent stories follow this lead excellently. Wendig has got a pitch-perfect ear for dialogue, and his plots are astonishingly original. Get this now.

Speaking of get this now, Anthony Neil Smith--the man, the myth, the main catalyst to my own publishing career--has been a busy boy himself lately with two new e-books available. One, co-written with X-Men scribe Victor Gischler called To the Devil, My Regards, which you should buy just for the title alone, and a shorter solo effort entitled Choke on Your Lies. In conjunction with the above-praised Mr. Wendig, Mr. Smith lovingly shot a video depicting the average day in the life of a scumbag writer. Ladies and germs, Anthony Neil Smith:

"Jimmy," you say, "Clearly, you have very talented and sexually attractive friends. No one is disputing that. But what about you, what have you been doing with your own very talented and sexually attractive self?"

Well, first of all, you're too kind. Second of all, what I've been doing with myself couldn't be less interesting. But what I've been doing with my writing could be.

Firstly, allow me to direct you to one of my rare forays into the graphic arts. I don't draw that often for much the same reason I don't get laid that often--I usually get frustrated about halfway through and give up. But Robert Goodin started up this site, Covered, which I simply could not resist. Sadly, it could resist me. Unsadly, Josh Blair and J.B. Sapienza began the aptly-named Rejected by Covered and were kind enough to host one of the handful of my own rejects here, with the promise (threat?) of more to come.

Speaking of comical books, over at Gestalt Mash is an essay of mine on writer Garth Ennis's work on Marvel's The Punisher, entitled, "Run, Micro, Run." Ennis is hands-down my favorite comics writer, and The Punisher is, in Ennis's own words, the character he was born to write. As a late-'80s/early-'90s kid, I've always loved the Punisher, but it wasn't until Ennis took over the book in the late '90s that I saw just how much potential the character had and how little that potential had been met before, even by greats like Mike Baron and Chuck Dixon (not that their runs weren't phenomenal). In this essay, I talk about The Punisher's former sidekick, Micro, and just how Ennis deconstructs that whole notion of sidekick-as-conscience. This will definitely not be the last of this sort of essay from me.

As always, the Let's Exploit Everybody! quartet of movie criticism bloggies I run have been churning out the smart-ass pop intellectualism the kids all rave about these days. Brian Roe salutes the recently-late Charles B. Pierce over at Let's Kill Everybody! Chad Eagleton brings the sexiest quest for vengeance in the Old West to Let's Fight Everybody! At Let's Fuck Everybody!, we go through the pervy looking-glass with Alec Cizak. And we go south of the border with Josh Converse at Let's Drink Everybody! And not to be outdone, I have my own entries for the past two months here, here, here, and here. And as always, I still need submissions, so fuckin' get on that already, jeez (Hayes, Long, Elliott: I'm looking in y'all's direction...): letsexploiteverybody@gmail.com

Last month, I mentioned that that Scottish flower, Donna Moore, had issued a flash-fiction challenge based on the musical stylings of the Ramones. My own entry was entitled, "The KKK Took My Baby Away," and not long after banging it out, I got together with my bowling team and we made a short film of it, which was a lot of fun to do and not just because I got to play a Bruce McCulloch-esque flirty secretary. So without further ado, Attention, Children is proud(-ish) to present for your viewing pleasure, The KKK Took My Baby Away:

Despite what the above may imply, I have a deep and abiding love for comedy and vastly enjoy its study--how it works, how it's done, how it gets girls to make out with me. Over at Pop Matters, one of their blogs is named Mixed Media, and it's a nice little outlet for quick but fun analyses of various forms of media (video, audio, not so much olfactronic). A few months back, I began a little series I like to call the Comedy Vs. blogs, beginning with this one about the Kids in the Hall. Then, over this past month, I've had three more go up about Mystery Science Theater 3000, Monty Python, and Mr. Show. It's a fun way to wring all the fun out of fun.

And speaking of comedy jokes, another article of mine that went up on Gestalt Mash this month is something of which I am quite proud. Jordan Brady, former stand-up comedian and perennial fave of mine, recently made a documentary about stand-up called I Am Comic. Now, I have sought out and devoured every sort of media I can concerning this heavenly enterprise, and I think I may have finally found a real milestone in this film, as a fan, as a critic, and as somebody who enjoys a good laugh more than even a bean-and-cheese burrito or the doggy-style position. But most importantly, I Am Comic reinforces the theme I seem to be hovering around most in my writing these days, fiction or non: there is no greater enterprise than to create art. Please read my piece on this here, and please enjoy the trailer for the film below:

All righty, home stretch now, gang. On the fiction front, I, as usual, have a million things going at once. But since these are all works-in-progress and/or stuff I'm not quite at liberty to discuss yet, you're just going to have to take my word for it. One thing I can most definitely talk about is Crime Factory. Since my buddies, Keith Rawson, Liam Jose and Cameron Ashley re-booted this rag last year, it has consistently been a solid collection of fiction and fact revolving around the joyous world of crime lit (and I'm not just talking about the stuff I wrote). I recently had occasion to read the CF anthology that will be coming your way, and boy, are you in for a treat. Kids, I read a whole lotta anthologies, and trust me when I say, this is going to be the best bang for your buck. Not a dud in the bunch, and I mean it when I say that. Stay tuned for updates as they occur.

On top of that, yours truly has recently been asked to officially join the editorial staff of stated e-mag, and suffice it to say, I am near to bursting with pride to inscribe my name on that particular door. As I was saying before, I never dreamed I would find myself so utterly surrounded by so many lovely and talented people, hanging out with them, reading and re-reading them, and now working with them as well. It does a body good, I'll tell you.

And with that, I leave you now with this: Patti Abbott, that mère fatale, recently threw down another flash-fiction gauntlet, the Scarry Night challenge. I now invite you, dear reader, to enjoy my own entry, a little story I like to call "Nueva Localización."

Kisses for all your faces.

The New Trend

2011-01-07T19:08:00.001-08:00

Hey, baby-dolls, your uncle Jimmy here. So I've been giving it a think, and I realized that the reason I ground this bloggity to a halt last month wasn't just that I've got quite a few other projects going at once over here, but it was also that I've just kinda run out of things to talk about concerning comical books. See, back in 2007, 2008, when I first turned my jaundiced eye to comics criticism, I did so with a fairly specific purpose in mind. I wanted to simultaneously bolster the more serious, more academic side of comics criticism--especially as regards superheroes--while keeping a distinct tongue-in-cheek sense of humor about the whole affair, y'know, keep it readable. And if I may pat myself on the back, I think I pretty well hit that target. But after a little less than a couple of years now, plus the comics writing I've been doing for other sites, I'm just plumb outta stuff to say. I'm sure that'll change after a while, but for now, that vein is fairly played out.

But I still have found it handy to keep this blog as a home for myself, a showcase of all my other writing out there. So what I think I'll do here during the duration is once a month keep all you cats and kittens out there up to speed on where you can read your fill of Callaway good(?)ness. For the three of you who aren't on my Faceybook, this'll be a good way to keep track of the various articles and short stories I crank out like a bad counterfeiter.

So first and foremost, we have the four bloggies I run that are collectively referred to as the Let's Exploit Everybody! quartet. First at Let's Kill Everybody!, we have my favorite guy, Cameron Ashley, and his excellent take on 1978's The Toolbox Murders, with one of my other favorite Camerons, Cameron Mitchell. Then yours truly attempts to dig the revenge angle out of the 1975 kung-fu scorcher, Master of the Flying Guillotine, but has to settle for just the kick-ass action scenes (which is just fine, as it turns out), in December's Let's Fight Everybody! entry. Over at Let's Fuck Everybody!, Laura Roberts goes boldly where no man has gone before (wink wink, nudge nudge) with 1968's Barbarella. And finally, I again marvel at the power of comedy with the 3-B classic 1983 film, Strange Brew. So like, okay, go check 'em out, eh?

And yes, submissions for all four blogs are now more wide open than your mom on a Tuesday night, so please for the love of God, send some stuff in. I have a few in the hole from our regulars like Brian Roe and Laura Roberts, and some exciting stuff from the newest kid on the exploitation block, Alec Cizak. But seriously, I need subs for these bad boys. This means you! letsexploiteverybody@gmail.com

Over at Pop Matters, where I've been writing for the past year or so (mostly about comics), things have slowed a bit. But I'm still regularly contributing book reviews. My latest was on a book entitled Toilet, which is a quite interesting social study of the public restroom and all of its attendant politics (that is politics attendant to public restrooms, not the heated elections for head men's room attendant at 4th & B). Check it out, even if only to reminisce with me about that one Mr. Show sketch.

Over at Gestalt Mash, I recently wrote about a subject that's been on my mind much over this past year, and that is artistic responsibility. Or should I say, the perceived irresponsibility of artists. I feel strongly that artists should only be responsible to their muse, whatever form she may take. Bill collectors and ex-girlfriends whistle a different tune. But if you watch The Goonies, you can see clearly why they should, each and every one of them, go fuck themselves if they don't like it. I ain't riding up Troy's Bucket.

The end of every year means the beginning of a buncha no-names contributing their lists of the top ten (or so) consumables of the year. So why should I be any different? Over at Day Labor, the blog for the web-zine Crimefactory, I pony up my top ten books that I read this year (obviously, not even close to the actual number of good books I read this year). And over at Chris Rhatigan's Death by Killing, I offer five of the finest stories I read within this little on-line community of scumbag crime writers (a number even less close to the actual number of searingly good crime stories posted this past year). So by all means, check these out and read and support these highly talented (if somewhat pained and borderline psychotic) writerly types.

Also, over the past year Nigel Bird has been running a series of interviews called "Dancing with Myself," wherein authors ask themselves a few questions. My aforementioned fave Cameron Ashley and I were flattered to have Nigel invite us, but we also both felt that we were each close enough to schizophrenia that engaging in this activity might finally push us over the edge. But since Cameron was gonna be state-side this past fall, we instead interviewed each other as I guided my 1993 Ford Probe down the 101 from San Francisco back to sunny(-ish) San Diego. Nigel then ran the really, really long result in three parts under the not-overly-romantic title "Dancing Cheek to Cheek." You can read the first part here, and then figure the rest out for yourself (I can't read it, though, I fuckin' miss that guy too much)(how gay).

Why were we driving back from San Francisco? Well, aside from the obvious gay jokes you can make here (go ahead, I'll wait), Smashley and I were in attendance this past October for BoucherCon, that yearly conglomeration of mystery/crime writers and readers and the booze that loves them. Of the many, many grand things to come out of that trip, one of them arrived in my P.O. box yesterday. Yeah, your old uncle Jimmy finally got something printed on paper and ink that was not a public retraction. The most recent issue of Crimespree (#39, for those of you keeping score at home) features an article aptly titled "Jimmy's First BoucherCon!" So get on over to the ol' Crimespree website and see about wrangling yourself up a copy or six.

Jesus, does it ever end? The answer is yes. My short fiction output seems to have taken a minor downturn, but believe you me, I got a lot in the hopper. Lately, most of my fiction has popped up over at Title Fights, with such titles as "Parade of the Wooden Soldiers," "Use Your Mighty Wisdom," and "The Large Majority of Normal Women." I also took part in Donna Moore's Ramones flash challenge with my effort, "The KKK Took My Baby Away" (which is also currently being made into a short film by my bowling team and I). And over at A Twist of Noir, the 600-to-700 challenge marches on, despite poor Christopher really getting the short end of the stick in his personal life lately. My work will be bookending these one hundred stories, starting here with "Six Hundred," and ending in a couple months (I would guess) with "Seven Hundred," which I sent off to our esteemed Mr. Grant just a few weeks ago. In the meantime, you can catch up with all the other stories, including those by such heavyweights as Chris Benton, Eric Beetner, and my favorite New Year's date thus far, Matthew C. Funk.

As always, the above links as well as links to just about every other single goddamn thing I've written in the past couple years are just to your right (no, your other right).

All right, enough of my yakkin'. Let's boogie.

Filler

2010-12-15T15:05:00.000-08:00

Smell You Later

2010-11-28T09:52:00.000-08:00

Babies, I'm gonna take a few months off from writing about comics here, so I can concentrate on the boatload of other projects I've got going. Please be sure to check back as I continue to add to the ever-expanding list of links to your right, and/or check out the links below here for more of my Internet presence.

Excelsior.

http://gestaltmash.com/author/jimmy-callaway/

http://www.popmatters.com/pm/archive/contributor/553

http://a-twist-of-noir.blogspot.com/search/label/Jimmy%20Callaway

http://letskilleverybody.blogspot.com/

http://letsfighteverybody.blogspot.com/

http://letsfuckeverybody.blogspot.com/

http://letsdrinkeverybody.blogspot.com/

http://twitter.com/Jimmytheworm

http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=688820056&v=info#!/profile.php?id=688820056

The Just-World Fallacy

2010-10-26T19:01:00.000-07:00

As you may or may not know, I've never been much of a fan of The Walking Dead. Could be I tried the first three trades and didn't find it to my liking, could be I've about O.D.'ed on zombie stories, could be I'm just one of those assholes that dislikes things that are popular just because they are popular. Regardless. Lucky for you readers of the ol' AC, my dear friend Matthew C. Funk happens to be not only a fan of said book, but a hell of a writer, too. And as such, I asked him to convince me to give this book another chance, and my friends, I fear he has succeeded. Read his article below and see why exactly.
--Jimmy

The Walking Dead

Spoiler alert: Everyone dies at the end.

True fact. Don’t let Stephenie Meyer sell you on wet dreams of sparkly immortality. Everybody’s going to bite the big one sooner or later. That’s life, as they say.

The Walking Dead throws this fact at your face from page one by having the central protagonist, Deputy Rick Grimes, laid out by a near-mortal shotgun blast. Written by Robert Kirkman and with art by Tony Moore and then Charlie Adelard, The Walking Dead is a black-and-white graphic statement that The End isn’t just Nigh—it’s already here and will take you when it damn well pleases. To get the technical tips of the cap out of the way, I’ll point out that Kirkman’s dialogue plays it straight, like a pared-down Bendis, letting his characters wax large in vernacular over their inner thoughts. And Adelard, the main source of ink for the series, has a style straight out of an EC Horror Comics flashback. This is no bite size Tale from the Crypt, though. The Walking Dead goes for epic.

It may be headed for that recognition—now with a 2010 Eisner Award for Best Continuing Series under its belt and an AMC TV drama, created by The Mist’s Frank Darrabont, on the way. In The Mist, Darrabont inflicted the most emotional desolate ending in recent cinema history, and so may have the chops to do the kind of damage that The Walking Dead demands.

The first fatality taken in the series is civilization.

For those unfamiliar with the plot or unable to deduce it from the title due to a recent head injury, know that The Walking Dead is a Zombie Apocalypse book. It popped onto shelves under the Image Comics label around the time Max Brooks’ Zombie Survival Guide was getting heat, but the subject couldn’t be less similar. In The Walking Dead, we follow Deputy Rick as he ambles through a world already devoured by the undead, searching for his family and then trying to keep them safe.

This means the dead don’t just roam the Earth—they rule it. Rick has to batten the hatches against an enemy that does not need sleep like he does, does not need food like he does, has no fear of the dark or fatigue or friends to support. He’s forced to try to keep hold of a whole world of problems—disease, cold, starvation, sanity—while death itself, with relentless hunger, bears down on him and his loved ones.

Zombies are simple creatures, while Rick has only more problems. And the everyday nature of those problems drives home the central message of the work: We could all go at any moment. We could starve, suffer aneurysms, slip and break our necks. We could eat one another—figuratively, if not literally, taking bites each other’s success, security and well-being. We persist, living in the face of these threats, fighting them and one another.

In essence, we go through life on borrowed time, and we do so at the expense of others, whether it’s starving sharecroppers in Mexico or our own spouses. We can—and will—die, but we keep moving, keep feeding. We’re the walking dead.

Rick represents the argument that yells back at that void—which is why it’s crucial that he’s a lawman. His shiny Deputy’s star and embrace of ethics are a big middle-finger at oblivion—symbols of how mankind builds and secures and controls in denial that everything can be taken away at any moment. The Walking Dead drives this home by pointing out that the towering monuments to lasting achievement—our cities—would become death traps, stuffed with hungry hordes of flesh-eaters, if social niceties took a nosedive. So Rick hits the road with the wife, kid and some fellow survivors, keeping to the countryside.

This is key to the theme of The Walking Dead: We’re going back to nature here, dear reader—back to humanity without the PDAs and the WWW, to a time where scarcity dictates desire and not the other way around. Rick and his crew live off the land, trying to scrape up four walls and three meals in order to see another day.

If you English Majors can already hear Dueling Banjos playing, you’re hearing right—The Walking Dead’s narrative has a lot in common with James Dickey’s Deliverance. Only in Rick’s case, the foray into the not-so-great outdoors isn’t optional. He craves something to hold onto that won’t bite back or turn into dust. Problem is, just like in Deliverance, shit gets real once you leave the streetlights behind. Other people turn from passers-by into rival predators, and Rick is soon having to battle against nut jobs, dimwits and challengers to his tribe. The zombies play the role of another hostile form of nature, serving mostly to stir up the rival animals or pick off the weak. On an Earth where all rules have been stripped away but Sartre’s, Rick’s real Hell is other people.

He keeps swinging, lifting, walking on despite it. The Walking Dead Compendium, Volume I, covering issues #1-48, sees Rick have to fight off dotty county doctors, suspicious prison inmates and an enemy tribe as nasty as anything from ancient Sumeria or The Stand, run by The Governor. If I tallied Rick’s losses here, this article would double in size. Suffice it to say that the Book of Job has nothing on Rick Grimes. All the same, Rick stands strong—with increasing bitterness and decreasing body parts—that a shiny badge, a sturdy back and a sunny disposition will see things right one day.

They don’t. Everybody dies at the end.

* * *

“Status hominum naturalis antequam in societatem coiretur Bellum fuerit; neque hoc simpliciter, sed bellum omnium in omnes.”
--Thomas Hobbes, Libertas, Leviathan

Just about everybody gets mad about death penalty cases. In The Walking Dead, Rick Grimes has to play the balancing scales for both sides of the debate: Placate the people who lose sleep over the innocent being punished and soothe the savage breast of those crying for ultimate justice.

Rick doesn’t just want people to be happy. That kind of Machiavellian attitude is reserved for bad-asses like The Governor, who stages hillbilly versions of UFC fights in an octagon lined with chained zombies. No, Rick genuinely wants to do right and to believe it matters. He’s our white hat, our John Wayne—the Duke from The Alamo and The Green Berets. But Kirkman makes it clear that The Governor—and just about all the still-living enemies of Rick’s tribe—is a hero in his own mind too. He’s Wayne in The Searchers, willing to take any life to protect a lifestyle.

The America of Kirkman’s The Walking Dead isn’t America anymore; it’s not even a nation—it’s a place where the rules are being re-written in blood. Cooperation and mutual security are just memories. They’re sweet and solid enough for people to pine nostalgic for them, but when the chips fall, it becomes man-eat-man. Rick goes from deferential Daddy-figure to dictator, driven there by the gruesome consequences that trusting other people brings him. Every step forward Rick takes with his son in his arms and his wife behind him, he’s echoing the plea of the Rodney King riots: “Can’t we all just get along”?

And every step, the abyss where civilization used to be echoes back, “No.”

Read The Walking Dead and it becomes apparent that it’s different from your usual horror comic—even your usual narrative. There is no character whose development is essential to the plot—except perhaps Rick—and there are absolutely no rules to what can’t happen to them. The ‘hero’ of this series is the lack of rules. And that makes for some scary shit.

See, it casts Rick in the role of everybody’s favorite character: The Just-World Fallacy.

Proven through a study by psychologists Melvin Lerner and Carolyn Simmons—and by almost the entire course of human history—the Just-World Fallacy is one of the fundamental glitches in the human brain. It’s a logic trap, and we all stumble into it. The Fallacy is that good deeds must be rewarded and that bad deeds lead to punishment. And yes, on the face of it, it’s easy to sniff at what bullshit the Just-World Fallacy is. We all know murderers go free sometimes and that infants stop breathing for no apparent reason. But it’s more than that—it’s also the notion that there’s any sense of cause-and-effect, of right-and-wrong, that holds ultimate sway. The adage that luck runs out eventually is just as full of shinola as the belief that hard-luck will change.

Still, Rick keeps marching on. He keeps planting his fields, even though they get taken from him at the end of every issue arc. Each time, he loses something more, forever.

That’s the hero of The Walking Dead—the complete oblivion where cause-and-effect used to be. In that sense, Rick is the enemy of the story, just as much as The Governor. They live in the same world and that means that while they don’t fight by the same rules, there are no universal laws preventing that. That means there are no reasons not to go all out.

This predatory outlook—the idea that we’re only The Walking Dead when you strip away all the make-believe—is nothing new to human understanding. It’s actually the foundation of one of the two primary schools of modern political thought. Thomas Hobbes put the capstone of that foundation in place with his treatise, Leviathan, where he writes of mankind’s natural state:

“Status hominum naturalis antequam in societatem coiretur Bellum fuerit; neque hoc simpliciter, sed bellum omnium in omnes.” In people speak, that means, “The natural state of men, before they were joined in society, was a war, and not simply, but a war of all against all.”

Read that again to believe it. Let it sink in. Because The Walking Dead believes it, no matter what Rick Grimes may like to think. And you’ll get the message soon enough. Rick is at war with everyone, just like everyone else is.

By issue #46, when the scrap with The Governor is about to become a shooting war, Rick has already realized that there are no battle lines. He hasn’t just had to put a bullet in a close friend and father of two. He’s also put a pre-emptive .38 round into a man’s back, beaten another pal into submission and walked away from his pregnant wife into near certain doom on several occasions. If this sounds harsh, it is, but to Rick, it’s what he has to do. It’s for the good of them all. It’s the rules—his rules.

Sound made up? Sound like egotistical bullshit? Good. It is. But it’s all Rick has. In that Hobbes-ian state of nature, Rick’s at war with his wife, with his risk-prone kid, with anybody who second-guesses him. All he’s got, like Nietzsche says about “the war of all against all,” is his own brain and the morality he makes up to be comfortable.

Nietzsche would say to Rick, “Insofar as the individual wants to preserve himself against other individuals, in a natural state of affairs he employs the intellect mostly for simulation alone.” But Rick doesn’t have time to pick apart what that bullshit means. He has his own bullshit to shovel—namely, the bullshit idea that he can keep his family alive and healthy, without having to eat too many lives in the process.

But sorry, Rick. Sorry, Just World. Sorry, folks.

Everyone dies at the end.

* * *

“On this road there are no godspoke men. They are gone and I am left and they have taken with them the world. Query: how does the never to be differ from what never was?”
--Cormac McCarthy, The Road

Why even read this damn thing, then, if it’s going to be such a dick about everything?

My answer would be that I have zombie dreams, too. I have to confess it. And I don’t mean “zombie nightmares,” either. I mean dreams. They’re better than anything I’ve ever seen on Pay-Per-View.

Sometimes, my pineal gland treats me to my own epic horror adventure, where I wake up to find the world overrun by a plague of flesh-eaters. Living by my own resourcefulness and my own rules, I dash across the devastated Southland, fighting off hordes and gathering supplies from places like the Costco on Washington Avenue and The Travel Store off of the 55 Freeway. Then I link up with my best friends and family, and we head to Big Bear. There, in a snow-gartered mountain lodge, we hole up and live with a warmth hearth inside the protective ring of a mine-laden kill zone.

It’s clear what they mean: I’m as crazy as Rick Grimes. My subconscious casts me as the Bigfoot-driving champion. The faceless masses of humanity that get in my way during waking life are, well, the faceless masses of undead humanity who are trying to eat, corrupt and kill my loved ones. It all turns out fine.

Of course, it won’t turn out fine.

I’m going to die. So are you. Not to be a jerk, but it’ll happen. And this article may or may not outlive me. And Rick Grime’s son may or may not outlive him. And it may not matter.

Cormac McCarthy’s The Road, the story of another father and son trying to survive in a world already mortally wounded by apocalypse, has been called a “lyrical epic of horror.” The Walking Dead could just as readily be called a graphical epic of horror. It has the same pulse and just as much punch in its themes. And at its heart, yawns the same void.

In Rick’s countryside, like on McCarthy’s road, there are no godspoke men. There’s no civilization and the Deputy star is just a piece of metal. The world goes on anyway.

That’s the hard bottom-line of The Walking Dead—that whether you, I or Rick Grimes are good, bad, lucky, unlucky or just plain bonkers like The Governor, matters nothing to the never or the never was. They’re going to be the same—lacking us but moving on. We’re not outliving this world. It’s the other way around. We can eat and eat as much as we want, but we get eaten in the end.

Rick is the living stubbornness that insists otherwise. Somehow, he’s going to have a legacy. The more he fights for this cause, the more people and shame and pain it costs him. Rick and we all have that in common—all of us cancer-risking, collision-prone, fragile people. We know we’re starving and we know we might eat one another, but we keep walking anyway.

Rick is us. More than just us. Rick is life itself. He’s the urge that faces Nietzsche’s abyss—faces McCarthy’s never and never was—and tries to fuck that nasty void into giving him a legacy before he snuffs out.

Not because it matters to the void. But because it matters to him. And in a war of all against all, that is all that matters.

We’re dead, but we have to keep walking.

See what I mean? Now, go check out Matt's other writings, beginning here at http://matthewfunk.net/ If you need me, I'll be out drumming up the bread for this Volume I compendium.

Lead Me to Your Comics, Gonna Read 'Em Alphabetically

2010-09-29T15:35:00.001-07:00

Astonishing X-Men: Xenogenesis #3 of 5: The only problem I didn't have with Kaare Andrews' Spider-Man: Reign was the art. And even though his art is not as...pronounced (for lack of a better term) here, it's still excellent, although I think the cover to this issue is kinda...I dunno exactly, but Emma's boobs just look weird. It provokes a reaction in me not dissimilar to my friend Lauren's newfound interest in corset and waist-training.

It seems there's been a theme lately in a lotta comics that Africa is kind of a sucky place to be. A lotta super-powered Idi Amins seem to be cropping up lately. You could see this as a disturbing trend, exploiting the vast Otherness of the dark continent for mere thrills and chills. But I think Warren Ellis' script--especially that concerning the villain here, a certain Dr. Crocodile--is less exploitative and more expositional. Like, instead of callously exploiting, it's actually more shining a light on why Africa seems ripe for this sort of treatment in comics today. Or maybe since making Middle Easterners the bad guys is so 1987, western pop culture has turned its sights a little further south.

In any event, this is still a good book, even if it adheres to its strict whenever-we-get-around-to-it publishing schedule.

The Avengers (vol. 4) #5: I know it's been said a million times by now, but how many disasters can the city of New York deal with? While they've got Galactus and a bunhca other anomalies running rampant in this book, New Yorkers are also facing demons and an apparently evil Ancient One in New Avengers. Makes the summer of '77 look like a day at Palisades Park.

That Brian Michael Bendis is more or less in charge of the Marvel Universe nowadays, I wouldn't have it any other way, really. He seems to have an nearly omniscient grasp on continuity, and his dialogue is as cracking as ever. But I think he may be starting to spread himself too thin. Especially if you consider this story-line--Kang, what with all his battles with Ultron and other Marty McFly sports almanac shenanigans, has all but destroyed the space-time continuum. That could be pretty easily read into the Marvel universe as a whole, y'know? The center cannot hold. Of course, it's kinda like the "Itchy & Scratchy & Poochie" episode of The Simpsons, where if you're paying attention, you'll see the writers are saying, "Please let us put this show to pasture already. The well has run dry (to mix farm metaphors)!" And of course, that'll never happen.

Oh, well. John Romita Jr. pencils with Klaus Janson inks, anyways.

Avengers Academy #4 Now here's an Avengers book I can sink my teeth into, not unlike its predecessor, Avengers: The Initiative, which writer Christos Gage also worked on. Gage has got a very workman-like writing style, which I mean as the highest of accolades. There's no flash-bang style, y'know, the dialogue is witty without ever being precocious, and it serves to move the plot along at a good clip. This book has introduced several new characters, super-powered teenagers that Norman Osborn had sought to exploit while he was in power. Now, Hank Pym is in charge of them, and they're not entirely sure if he's not really just out to do the same.

This is why Marvel's comics continue to strike a chord with so many. Spider-Man, the X-Men, all of these are pretty much just kids becoming adults, and they're trying to find their way in a fucked-up world. There's still the backdrop of action and adventure like in the Golden Age, but there's no overstating how vital it is to the story-telling process to have relatable characters. Even guys like The Punisher, The Thing, Wolverine, the Hulk--they're all pretty much broken people, trying to put things back together in some way that makes sense to them, and really, most of the time, failing miserably. It's so depressing sometimes it makes me want to do cartwheels, I'm not even kidding.

Black Widow #6: I grabbed this up because Duane Swierczynski wrote it, but I dunno. For one thing, the spy genre has never really done it for me. Gadgets and subterfuge are neat and all, but they're most often set into these world-spanning crises that are mostly political (as opposed to the Devourer-of-Worlds-type crises), and almost anything political puts me to sleep. The art in this book is passable, but nothing to write home about. Just kinda meh, all around.

CBGB OMFUG #3 of 4: I was re-reading those Instant Piano stories that Evan Dorkin
and Kyle Baker did back in the early '90s where they would review shows they'd gone to, and every time they went to CB's, they would totally trash it, calling it overrated and overhyped and overpriced and over-whatever. Now, I never got to go there at all, but like most know-nothing punk rockers, I still revere the Bowery club that birthed such bands as the Ramones. At the same time, I'm a grown-up, and I realize that most things/people/places that are held reverent are usually done so for no real reason. In other words, they're overrated, overhyped, etc., etc. Especially for punk, this is a real dumb attitude, despite its ubiquitousness.

The first couple of issues of this mini-series, though, have managed to devote more energy to what CBGB represented, especially in its early days. The club, for better or worse, has come to not only represent punk rock in the minds of many, but also that weird cultural evolutionary period of the late '70s/early '80s, when a lot of the hippies' children were coming of age and realizing how full of shit their parents were, however "groovy" they may have been at one time. And this is obviously an attitude that transcends generations, not to speak of cultures and geography. So this mini is a real neat tribute to one of the places where all of these artists, etc., crossed paths and led onward into the murky gray of the latter decades of the 20th century.

Just this issue kinda blows, is all.

Fantastic Four #583: A lot of people, myself included, were excited to see the return of the letters page to many favorite titles. But at this point, I think we should go back to not giving the average reader a venue to voice his opinion. Not to sound superior, but these people are fucking idiots and should be soundly ignored.

All right, that's a little harsh. But it can be extremely frustrating to give this wide-reaching forum to the same old crybaby fanboy-types who all basically like things as they were, never as they are or might be. Personally, I'm a big fan of where writer Jonathan Hickman has been taking this title, but that doesn't mean I won't listen to contrary opinions. I only ask that these be (heaven forfend!) well thought out and sensible opinions, not varying degrees of "I don't like it, wah." Simple whining never solves anything and is just embarrassing for all involved. Why you'd want that published in a high-circulation comic periodical is beyond me.

G.I. Combat featuring the Haunted Tank #1: This fifth-week series from DC is pretty good times all around. Well, actually, I passed on the first issue because I was buying a ton of other books that week and, frankly, it just looked pretty bad. But the subsequent one-shots have been pretty good, this one being no exception. Even for a guy like me who's pretty much O.D.'ed on World War II stories, this book has got a solid story, good art, just an all-around smart purchase.

Hit Monkey #3 of 3: If you told me, "Hey, Marvel's coming out with a book about a monkey who becomes a hitman," I'd go, "Hey, quit trying to keep me from buying Marvel." But then if you said, "Hey, Daniel Way created and is writing it," I'd say, "Well, of course." Only Way could take an idea as dumb as this and make it work. And sure enough he did. Would you expect pathos and emotion from a book with the synopsis above? That would be a big no, but there it is, plain as day. Also, Way writes Bullseye into this story, which hearkens me back to Way's earliest comics, and is just good times all around.

Hulk #25: I woulda thought for sure this book would be aced after the World War Hulks storyline, but I guess the Red Hulk has proved to be a pretty popular character. I'm grateful because it gives Jeff Parker yet another monthly to write, and I'm liking his stuff more and more all the time. He's teamed up again with artist Gabriel Hardman in this issue, and it's a very well done transition from that tumultuous story-arc mentioned above. There's plenty of scenes between General Ross and Bruce Banner, and their on-going hatred for each other is now taken to new levels, which is good since that rivalry's been going on for almost fifty years now.

There's a little back-up story featuring Rick Jones which was kind of a let-down. I mean, the story is good and all, and the art's fine, but it takes place in San Diego. As a resident of that fair metropolis, I always get a little excited when my hometown makes it into a movie or a comic or something. But then when the city is pretty much represented as a harbor and a couple of palm trees, it's a bummer. I mean, for one thing, it'd be nice to see where I live depicted in a funny book, and then I can somehow rationalize that I myself am in a Marvel comic. But also, it cuts my suspension of disbelief. I know I'm in the minority here, y'know, not everybody who reads this book is gonna know what San Diego looks like for reals and isn't gonna think much of how it's drawn here. But even so, once I see that this is just a couple buildings on a waterfront, I'm reminded that I'm just reading a comic, and it just yanks me out of the story. And who wants that?

Nemesis #3: There seem to be almost as many reasons to hate writer Mark Millar as there are people who do hate him. Me, I couldn't care less, really. The guy does seem something of a tool, but it's not like I have to hang out with him or anything. It does get up my back sometimes that he doesn't seem to really give a shit about comics, that they're just a springboard into Hollywood for him. But first of all, again, what do I care? He's not gonna destroy comics single-handedly with this attitude, and I sure as hell am not required to see the god-awful flicks his comics properties have spawned.

But also, the guy continues to put out comics, unlike others who seemed to have jumped ship completely at this point (i.e. Brian K. Vaughan, J. Michael Straczynski), and they also continue to be high quality books. He works with artists like Steve McNiven, whose talents speak for themselves, and to judge by the sample script pages in the back of this issue, he sure seems to give these guys free reign to do what they want creatively. He also effectively deconstructs the superhero genre, which I theorize is exactly why a lot of hard-core comics fans hate him. I love superheroes as much as the next dork, but you can slaughter my sacred cows all you want. In fact, I insist on it most of the time, if my fealty to Garth Ennis is any sign. Anytime a creative team depicts superheroes fucking or swearing or doing anything else that'd make Kal-El blush, I know I hear a lotta grumbling down at the comic shop. And say what you wanna about Millar, at least he's not as big a pussy as those guys.

Secret Avengers #5: Ugh. Seriously, I'm on espionage overload. I've been a huge fan of Ed Brubaker's for years now, and I still really like that I always get a sense of glee from his scripts because he's writing Captain America stories. But this fuckin' evil twin shit is getting boring. I think I'm junking this book.

Shadowland: Daughters of the Shadow #2 of 3: Colleen Wing has always been pretty much a C-list character, so it's nice to see her getting more of the spotlight here. This group of lady ninjas is pretty fun to read, even though I still find it hard to believe that bad-ass Japanese girls always wear little school-girl outfits, despite Quentin Tarantino as well as my raging libido insisting otherwise. Also, this is a good twist on this crossover, where Daredevil has pretty much become the villain. In this series, we see Colleen's point of view, which is that DD's new martial law in Hell's Kitchen may have some really positive points. Overall, you pretty much know those aren't gonna outweigh his fascistic leanings by the end of the story. But it's refreshing to see a little more of this viewpoint than I think you normally would.

Shadowland: Moon Knight #2 of 3: I think Shadowland is the first major Marvel crossover wherein I've purchased every single title since the goddamn Infinity War. And so far that hasn't been a bad thing, but this book is definitely the weak link. For one thing, I was never the hugest Moon Knight fan. And Gregg Hurwitz is a good writer and normally I'd say the character is in capable hands, but I dunno. See, it's like this: these characters tend to go through some very screwy changes over the course of their existence. About fifteen years ago, The Punisher became possessed by a pony-tail wearing demon, and nowadays he's a Frankenstein monster, of all things. And he's one of Marvel's bigger guns. When you get down to the more low-rent heroes, like Moon Knight, they get all kindsa re-writes and re-boots and re-what-have-you.

So it seems like Hurwitz is trying to pull a judo move on all that and cram all the past character changes into Marc Spector's head as a multiple-personality disorder. And while I still think that's a really good idea, it doesn't come off that well in the execution. It just comes off as vague and confused. A valiant effort, but not quite there. There's only one issue left, so I'll stick it out, especially with the neat stuff Hurwitz is doing with the god Khonshu. But over all, an A for effort.

Ultimate Spider-Man (vol. 2) #14: (I know this isn't technically alphabetical, but in my filing system, this goes under Spider-Man, Ultimate. Take it up with my OCD if you don't like it.)

Back when Marvel started up the Ultimate line (basically, a full re-boot of the Marvel Universe, for those of you not in the know), people flipped their lids. A lotta guys did not want their precious characters messed with. This is silly for any number of reasons, not the least of which being that none of these books at all replaced the ones that had been going on for years. They're just kind of a sidebar, and they really open up the possibilities for the characters. Writers are able to re-tell some of their favorite parts of Marvel lore and add any twists they see fit. It's like a really, really good cover band.

Ultimate Spider-Man under the helm of Brian Michael Bendis has pretty much always been the best of the line, and one of the few to survive the mass cancellation of various Ultimate titles last year. Hell, it may be the only one, I think. Anyways, I wouldn't have thought he'd missed a trick, that Bendis, until this arc when he introduces The Chameleon. Man, how did I not notice his absence before? He was Spider-Man's first super-villain, for chrissakes. And not only that, but in this universe, good ol' Ruby Thursday is his sister. What a great idea. This is why I like the Ultimate line: in regular continuity, Ruby Thursday is just kind of a re-hash of The Chameleon, a female version of the evil shape-shifter. So in the Ultimate line, we can kinda correct that, and just make them related. Makes perfect sense, don't it?

Well, it does to me, anyways.

Thor #615: I didn't realize how much I'd missed this book or character until they finally brought him back a couple of years ago. And it also seems like these Marvel guys have really been reading up on their Norse mythology, introducing aspects of the pantheon that I'd never heard of before. And since Marvel Comics is about as close as I'm ever going to get to religion, I can use all the additional info I can get.

This is also Matt Fraction's first issue as writer, and I've been enjoying his stuff since his indie book tribute to Charley Varrick on AiT called Last of the Independents. Right away, Fraction brings a kind of younger, more hep sensibility to the book than Kieron Gillen preceding him, or even J. Michael Straczynski before him (although both of those guys parted quite a bit from the old "thee, thine and thou" characterizations that Stan Lee and Larry Lieber set down way back in the day and which nobody moved from for the next forty years). This is not a bad thing at all. Also, Fraction likes to take time with the sub-plots, opting for point-of-view characters who are fairly insignificant to the over-all story, but which provide a pretty unique take. That sorta Citizen Kane thing is fairly standard in a lotta regular literature, but I sure don't see enough of it in the funny pages, I can tell you that.

Ultimate Mystery #3: So, like I was saying, the Ultimate universe is pretty much over with. In case you missed it, Magneto went nuts for good and killed millions of people, and a buncha other characters bit the big one, like Wolverine
and Nightcrawler and Daredevil. Normally, that would be that, y'know, we'd all move on to the fiftieth or sixtieth Avengers title and forget all about that other imprint, like New Universe, 2099, or Heavy Hitters.

But I kinda like that this title seeks to cross all the t's and dot all the i's of the aftermath of Ultimatum. Ultimate Fantastic Four may have been nixed, but let's check in on the characters and, oh what the hell, throw a few curveballs their way. So now these parallel characters have really changed. This isn't a book I couldn't live without, but it's interesting to see how these books are getting on in the line's afterlife.

Uncanny X-Men #528: Uh-oh, Africa's at it again.

Hope, the first mutant born since M-Day, is now no longer the only mutant to have been born since M-Day. Mutant children are cropping up all over the place, and this issue finds a new X-recruit in deepest, darkest Africa. Of course, the backwards militaristic junta is convinced she is a witch and is trying to kill her. So Storm has to go in and hand them their asses. Again, I don't really have a problem with this set-up or anything. Wherever you go in the world, there are gonna be shitheels with guns. But it just seems to be cropping up a lot lately (or maybe I'm just harboring some residual resentment over the cancellation of Unknown Soldier). And then, call me nuts here, but to have Storm handle things just seems too easy. I know she was born in Africa, but for all intents and purposes, she was raised as a westerner. Maybe back in the Claremont/Byrne days, she was more of an outsider, but she's all acclimated now, I'd say. And yes, she's queen of Wakanda now, but if anything, that puts her even further out of touch with the indigenous peoples, no? Having Storm go clean up the mess in Africa just smacks too much of white guilt, that's all. Or maybe it's my own white guilt that makes me feel that way.

On the other hand, there's more Kitty Pryde in this issue, which makes me glad. She begins to get into it a bit with the White Queen as well, which is great because I've been getting kinda bored with her, so having her interact more with Kitten piques my interest.

I'm still not sure I like Namor being considered a mutant these days. I know he's technically been considered Marvel's first mutant for some time and all, but isn't he more of like a halfling or something? Also, and I dunno why this never occurred to me before, the guy has a real thing for blondes, don't he? Namora, Susan Richards, Emma Frost. I'm surprised he hasn't put the moves on Magick yet. Probably because Colossus would fuck him up.

Man, I think about this stuff way too much sometimes.

Detour Down Memory Lane

2010-08-27T17:08:00.000-07:00

Hello, out there. Peabody here. And this is my boy, Sherman.

-Hi, everybody!

Put a sock in it, four-eyes. And then set the WABAC Machine for the summer of 1994.

-Which direction are we headed, Mr. Peabody?

The small, rural suburb of Alpine, California, where that mediocre writer, Jimmy Callaway, was raised.

-Sounds like a real Dullsville, Mr. Peabody.

Sherman, I've told you before, don't bring that nonsensical jive-talk into my laboratory, or it'll be the rack for you again.

-Yes, my liege.

In any event, we will witness the creation of Mr. Callaway's one comic-book-related, self-published magazine, or "fanzine," as they were known then. It was called Spa Fon, and fortunately for all involved, it lasted merely one issue before dying an unremarkable death.

-Sorta like Pink Lady and Jeff, huh, Mr. Peabody?

Oh, just shut up, boy.

Obviously, I was pretty heavy into EC Comics at the time. And yes, that is a self-portrait in the "Dorks!" circle.

You'll notice the staff list on the left-hand side. That was all bullshit. Matt and I were the only real guys, and he only did one strip. The other two names were just a couple of the clever little noms de plume I'd make up for myself, so it wouldn't seem like it was just me in my bedroom by myself writing all this crap and laying it out. Why I didn't want it to seem like that, I don't know. I was an idiot. I also can't remember what the newspaper article was from which I cut out that little chunk in the middle there, but I really wish I could remember.

The intro there was written by me on my old Brother word-processor, the apparent offspring of a Smith-Corona and an Apple IIe. I used that thing all the way through college, believe it or don't.

That "Notes" page was torn out of the instruction booklet for Excitebike. Nothing made for space filler like those booklets.

The "What Is A Comic Dork?" article is easily the most embarrassing thing I have ever written, barring my mash notes and rap lyrics. At the age of 17, I was trying to assert myself as a mature young adult, who pooh-poohed such infantile fantasies of power like superhero comics. That could not have been farther from the truth, but that virginity of mine had been hanging around all my life, and I was convinced this stand would help me get rid of it (I was wrong, of course).

"The Fanboy" and all the jokes therein were mostly observations Matt and I shared about comics fandom. Reading this now, aside from the sheer buffoonery of it all, what's really terrible is this attitude of "If I make fun of it, then I am exempt from it." Never mind the fact that just two years previous, I myself had lined up for two hours to meet the whole starting line-up of Image Comics, and had nearly shat myself when Todd McFarlane singled me (me!) out as exemplary of the kind of audience he was trying to reach. Yeah, too cool for school, that's Callaway, all right.

"The Comic Snob" was not only how I saw myself, but moreso, how I hoped guys I knew who collected comics and were in their early to mid-20s saw me. These were the guys I sought to impress the most. Yes, it was a sad childhood. Those cartoons on the bottom there were drawn by my buddy, Greg Bass, while we were stuck in Career & Family class that summer.

Shannon Wheeler, as I mentioned last month, was one of the many cartoonists cool enough to let me interview them, and himself a very cool guy indeed. Still is, even. I still think this interview came out pretty well, and I remember showing a very uncharacteristic tendency to edit it down to where it was readable, as opposed to some of the other interviews I ran in other zines, which just went on and on and on and on. And on. I dunno why I didn't capitalize all the "I"s either. I'd say I was being cutesy, but it's more likely I was just being lazy.

I'm still really proud of myself for using this as the centerfold. In fact, I think I'll print this up and hang it in my work station. Also, if you can remind me which issue of Weird Science this was in, I will give you a hug.

The top strip there was by Matt Swain, my best friend in high school and probably the most talented cartoonist I've ever known personally. We did a lot of zine stuff together, as well as just pretty much hang out all the time. We had a falling out when I was 19 and didn't speak for years, sadly. Fortunately, I pulled my head out of my ass and gave him a call up in Portland where he's been living for a while, and we shall be working together again, sooner rather than later, it is hoped.

The "Quarter-Bin Comics" was a favorite of mine, and I had a bunch more of these written. Sadly, the quarter-bin is all but extinct, replaced by the more expensive and less-fun-to-root-through dollar-bin. If I'm nostalgic for anything from my halcyon days of youth, the quarter-bin is probably it.

More of Shannon Wheeler. Fun fact: I dated a girl named Shannon Wheeler for about a year. No relation.

Jeff Levine, in his own much better and more well distributed comics zine, Destroy All Comics, actually took issue with that last comment Shannon made there about comics being easy. He wrote an editorial about how comics wouldn't ever be taken seriously if people just crapped 'em out like they were disposable. He put it better than that, and he had a point, but I don't think that's what Shannon was getting at, really. Y'know, it was so long ago, I really shouldn't be trying to even quote Jeff here (another super-cool guy who I also interviewed that summer. Does anybody know if that guy is still doing stuff anymore?). I mostly bring it up now because I was fucking elated that something I had published had gotten mentioned in a mag like Destroy All Comics. Too bad I didn't roll with that momentum when I could. Ah, well.

I stole this picture from a Gilbert Shelton comic, I can't remember which one. I have that quote written in Sharpie on my short boxes at home. I don't remember what a comic dork starter kit was. Probably something I thought might get people to write in. They didn't.

-Gee, Mr. Peabody, that was kind of a filler blog entry, wasn't it?

Yes, well, Sherman, you must recall that our Mr. Callaway doesn't have a WABAC machine in order to extend deadlines or such like that.

-He doesn't have much talent either, does he, Mr. Peabody?

Oh, you're a fine one to talk. Have you even finished my laundry yet? Schnell! Schnell! Mach schnell!

Panels, Schmanels, Gimme Some Comics.

2010-07-26T22:32:00.001-07:00

Nearly every year for the last ten years, I've almost dreaded the Con (that's San Diego Comic-Con International for all you G4 viewers out there). No longer was summer a time of anticipatory delights, but more worries about where I was gonna park. And nearly every year for the last ten years, my low expectations have been delightfully exceeded. This year was no different.

Because we're young ones! Bachelor boys!...oh, and girls.

I've been single for a good chunk of the year of Our Lord, 2010. And one thing that's been driven home for me more than ever before is that I suck at dating. Like, out loud. I'm not a hopeless case, mind; in fact, I've dated more women than the average bear, especially an average bear that collects comics and lives at his mom's. But for some reason, this year, it's really been driven home for me that Ted Bundy is a far more successful paramour than I've been lately.

As usual, comics save the day again. This time in the form of Amy Martin's self-published Bachelor Girl. Ms. Martin has a delightful style that was able to interrupt a rant I was giving to John, y'know, one of those things where you're all het up about something, but then you trail off because you see a kitten playing with an old sandwich sword or something.

I've been racking my brain all day for a comparison for her comics, and the best I can do is "If Peter Bagge had set out years ago to draw for The New Yorker." Not only does that not do Ms. Martin's stuff justice, it also overcomplicates a deceptively simple style that will throw you off a bit when she uses swear words (but throw you off in a good way). Whenever artists can pull a switcheroo like that, it's always good times--dig Sherry Flenniken's stuff if you don't believe me. Anyways, I hope I've been able to convey how much I like this book. Go to Amy Martin's website here and heap large amounts of praise on her. A quick glance in her Etsy store as of this writing reveals nothing to be found(!), but hopefully that will soon be remedied. Had I more cash to hand, I woulda bought more than just the one book.

Oh, speaking of which: Bachelor Girl #2 has a few strips and one-panel gags, but most of the book is taken up by the story "Kitchen Wares," in which our intrepid heroine attempts to purchase all of that tomfoolery that girls seem to like (here was my only typical dude reaction. It never interfered with my enjoyment of the story, but I've never even shelled out money for an actual dinner plate, so I dunno even know what a salad spreader is. Hell, I barely know what a fork is. Digression). Just when it seems like the ugly spectre of mid-nineties autobio comics is gonna rear its ugly head, the story takes a turn for the satirical. I don't wanna give too much away here; I'm just saying confessionals are boring, but when you can twine that into a fictional narrative that gets all silly but never loses sight of the story's reality, then you are banging on all cylinders. Again, I'm overcomplicating things. It was my minor in college.

Yeah, me and him go way back...

In 1994, I was still heavily enamored of superhero comics, but was beginning to really broaden my horizons with more of the indie stuff, which also blended nicely with the punk-rock ethos I was beginning to manifest as a young snot-nose. I was already pretty thick in the zinester scene at this point, and I decided I'd do a comics zine. It only ended up going for one issue, but it was still the precursor for this little bloggy before you. To me, the big-time Marvel and DC guys were rock stars, largely unapproachable. Plus, they had huge marketing machines behind them, so I couldn't see where they'd really need me on their press list. But not only were the indie guys more accessible, they were also putting out some great stuff that I was proud to spread the word about, even if it was pretty much only to my tiny little corner of the world. Anyways, that year, I wrote to a ton of artists and asked 'em if I could interview them for my zine. Not a one of them refused, unless they weren't gonna be there. And even then, those guys wrote me nice little notes thanking me for my interest, even Zippy the Pinhead's Bill Griffith. Bill Griffith! Each and every one of them were super-nice and really, really interesting to interview, including but not limited to Greg Hyland, Steve Remen, Daniel Clowes, Jeff Levine (where is that guy now?), and Sam Hurt. And it was very much a thrill for me at the tender age of seventeen to be hanging around these creative-type dudes who weren't much older than me, but were creating comics and had probably done things to girls, two things I could not yet lay claim to.

Of all of those interviews, the Evan Dorkin one made it into my punk zine, Frontal Lobotomy, but the main draw of the only issue of Spa Fon was the creator of Too Much Coffee Man, Shannon Wheeler.

I'm pretty sure I talked to Shannon a lot more than any of those other guys, the year before, and the years after, until my attention kinda wandered away from comics for a little while. I did see him at the Con in like '02 or '03, somewhere in there, but we only talked briefly. This year, I made sure to chat him up, and he did remember me after I reminded him how I used to go by "Jimmy the Callaway" back then (remember how clever we all thought we were in high school? If only we could remain that deluded...). The guy's stuff continues to be top-notch, and I really wish I woulda bought the preview of the condensed Bible he's working on, but I'll be sure not to miss it when it comes out (another digression: I also discoverd that Basil Wolverton has done a version of the Old Testament, and along with Crumb's Book of Genesis, there really seems to be a trend for comics Bibles these days, and as an avowed Satanist, I am pleased no end by this. My only regret is that Don Martin died before he could take on a project like this. If that's not proof of the non-existence of God, then I dunno what is).

Anyways, go to Shannon's site here and throw money at him. It was really good to see the guy again, even if I do suck for not seeing the Too Much Coffee Man opera while it was in town this week.

Stop me if you've heard this one...no, wait, I mean, don't...

Another guy I unfortunately did not give any money to (yet) is José Cabrera, writer and artist of the web-strip Crying Macho Man. Even though I'm a deadbeat sad sack, Mr. Cabrera was a consummate gentlemen, probably the friendliest guy at the Con. He gave me and John a couple'a freebies, and I think John even bought a postcard off him. Crying Macho Man has a very similar humor to Robot Chicken, except that every annoying hipster douchebag you know hasn't discovered it yet (unless you count me), so they haven't ruined it for you. Get in on the ground floor, kids; another tip from your Uncle Jimmy.

Crying Macho Man is also great because it acts as a depository of jokes for its creator. Mr. Cabrera was telling us that he has trouble remembering jokes people tell him, so he draws them in order to do so. And it's really something seeing your favorite dirty jokes come to life on the printed page. On a personal level, I was also delighted to hear this, because a lot of my fiction comes about in a pretty similar way. So it's always refreshing to know others are in the same boat with you, creatively speaking. Not that that's all Crying Macho Man is, just reworkings of dirty jokes, but if that's not enough to rope you in, I'll also say it's the funniest web-strip since A Softer World. If that doesn't convince to swing by the site and drop something in the tip jar, then I have no use for you.

Uncle Sam and Uncle Ho

A lot of guys I know have a war they're into. World War II and the Civil War are fairly popular, but I've always been a Vietnam guy. So I've done a lot of reading up, not to where I'd consider myself a buff, but I have more than a passing interest. And the strangest thing I've learned is how dopey I am when it's come to this particular intellectual pursuit of mine. That is to say, it never occurred to me to explore the Vietnamese side of things until just a few years ago. I guess it's not a major surprise that I got kinda swept up in the whole video-game pyrotechnics and huge amounts of swearing that comes from the American side of things. But I am glad--relieved, even--that I've finally branched out some.

The very first purchase I made at the Con this year was from artist GB Tran. He had some really nice eye-catching artwork on display, and I was immediately enamored of the pro-NVA propaganda posters he had up. I asked if they were based on actual ones from the war, and he told me that they were in fact from his upcoming graphic novel, Vietnamerica, the story of his family's experience during the Vietnam War. He told me he's the youngest of his family and was born stateside, but his parents refused to discuss their experiences with him when he was younger. I told him I had a fairly similar situation with my dad, who did two tours in the 'Nam. My dad would abide my questions, but I don't think you could describe him as being candid about that time in his life. Unless I'm overreaching here, from talking with Mr. Tran, I gathered that we were about the same age and both had trouble relating to our parents in this regard because they would not open up this understandably uncomfortable chapter of their pasts. Mr. Tran told me, though, that by the time he got to be in his thirties, his parents began taking his questions more seriously, and this fed the fuel that lead to his forthcoming comic. I am very excited to read the book when it comes out early next year, as I am to frame and display the two prints I bought (for only fifteen bucks! A steal at any price!). Go check out GB Tran's site here and drink in the art that should make Joe Sacco slaver.

Man, crime really doesn't pay.

The last of my major finds this year is the work of Mr. Benton Jew, whom I embarrassed myself in front of by not recognizing his name immediately from his superior work on Marvel's Agents of Atlas, one of my favorites of the last couple years. Among other goodies, Mr. Jew had for sale a mini-comic called Art of Crime. Of course, I am a major sucker for all things crime (except I draw the line at my house being burgled), so I snatched it up. Lemme tell you: when a guy uses the old EC LeRoy lettering just for the indicia on the inside front cover, you're in good fucking hands. Continuing with that, the first story, "They're After Me!" feels like it was originally published in Crime SuspenStories. The second story is based on a script by the always top-shelf Scott Hampton, and then there are some lovely wanted poster pin-ups, which, as it turns out, also tell a story. Mr. Jew really shows off a breadth of material here within the same genre, which is really hard to for anybody to do well.

While I was busy going nuts over crime comics, Mr. Jew told me something quite provocative: apparently, editors are having trouble with crime comics. Everybody says they love 'em, but the sales numbers tell a different story. Or so it would seem. I mean, I know I buy a lot of 'em, and most of my no-account friends do as well. But I guess it doesn't really matter, because you should own Art of Crime anyways, whether or not the dopes at the Big Two (or is it the Big Five by now?) are hip to it. Go to Benton Jew's blog here and see if you can't buy a copy off him.

FLASH!--Jesus Christ, now I'm even more embarrassed: Benton Jew drew the cover to Screeching Weasel's goddamn Bark Like a Dog record, you guys! Fuck! If I had it together, I woulda brought it down for him to sign. Man! I knew I knew that guy's stuff. I suck.

So again, I am glad to be proven wrong: the Con is not just a big fat sell-out of a Hollywood ass-kissing marathon. I mean, there's no denying that it's largely become that. But again, comics rule over all. It continues to be the superior art form of modern civilized man, and no amount of middle-aged women swooning over the cast of Twilight is gonna change that. So do your part for the art form that loves us all so dearly and pile cash and adoration upon the creators listed above. And I'll see you all down at the Scottish Rite Center once this Comic-Con fad blows over.

Squared Away

2010-06-21T05:54:00.001-07:00

My waist-high to-read stack of single issues has finally been whittled down to shin-height, right in the stratum of The Uncanny X-Men. So lately, I've renewed the attack on my to-read stack of trades with vigor. Let's discuss, won't we?

Rabbi Harvey vs. the Wisdom Kid (Jewish Lights): The Jews are funny. This is an irrefutable fact. Jerry Seinfeld, Milton Berle, Red Auerbach, and the Three Stooges are all firm proof of this predilection of the Hasidim for comedy. So when I came across this little book, the third in a series, and saw also that it was a western, another favorite genre of mine, I was immediately intrigued.

And I was far from disappointed. Artist and writer Steve Sheinkin spins a familiar western fable, only instead of a draw-down at high noon, we get the wisdom of the Torah. I infer that this book's main purpose is to make Hebrew school less boring for the kids, so that they're not tempted to steal their Uncle Max's toupée and glue it on their faces to portray Moses. But this certainly doesn't mean that the goyim can't enjoy it as well. Even though it's geared towards kids, it's genuinely funny and the ancient Jewish wisdom abounds, if you're into that sort of thing. I wouldn't say I couldn't live without this book, but it pleasantly killed a half hour or so.

Ghostopolis (Scholastic): For those of you not in the know, I pay the bills by being a warehouse schlep for a joint that deals largely in kids' books. The company gets a lot of advanced reader copies of kiddie-lit, and a good chunka that includes the funny books, and an even gooder chunka them end up in the Free Box in the breakroom. Most of 'em aren't even worth the (non-)price, and most of the good ones are stuff I already have (like the Scholastic reprints of Bone). But when I saw this title in there about a year ago, I think it was, I recognized Doug TenNapel's name from his Iron West, which I enjoyed but didn't bother to hold on to. So I grabbed it up and it sat and collected dust for months on end.

Well, imagine how sheepish I felt when I finally cracked this bad boy open and found it to be one of the finest comics I'd read in years. It reminds me greatly of the aforementioned Bone: a very Campbell-esque quest story, very kid-friendly but never pandering, and just very enjoyable on all levels. I don't remember noticing what a huge Chuck Jones influence TenNapel shows in his artwork before, but here it is very clear indeed. My only regret other than not reading this sooner is that, since this is an ARC, only the first few pages are in color, and the contrast is far too noticeable for me to justify not shelling out the bread for this when it is officially released this here July.

I was talking to Cameron about this book, and from what he'd seen, he was surprised that I dug on it. But when I threw down the Bone comparison, he seemed convinced, as should you be. And I don't mind telling you that the last couple pages brought tears to my eyes. I may be a big pussy, but that sorta thing doesn't happen as often these days now that they got me jacked full of the anti-depressants. So do yourself a favor and buy two copies: one for yourself, and one for your ten-year-old nephew who always gets picked last for kickball.

Jonah Hex: Welcome to Paradise (DC): One of the few really good things about Hollywood adaptations of comics is, in the case of a character like Jonah Hex, the publisher will try to take advantage of the renewed interest in the character by reprinting some of his earlier adventures. This movie may bomb like the Enola Gay, but I've already got this nice little trade, so my troubles are over. The second volume of the Jonah Hex Showcase is permanently in publication limbo it would seem, even though it was solicited a handful of years ago. And even though this volume is a lot more slender and contains a good chunk of stuff from the first Showcase, the color reproduction is well worth the price of admission alone.

Though I feel the current monthly Jonah Hex by Jimmy Palmiotti and Justin Gray is by far the best rendition of this character, there is much to be said for the original. As I've said before, DC's westerns had it all over Marvel's back in the '70s, in much the same way that the spaghetti westerns of the 1960s kick the living shit out of the oaters of yesteryear. Like the films of Sergio Leone and his ilk, DC's westerns like Weird Western Tales portray a heavily de-romanticized version of the Old West, where morality is not worth more than what's printed on a wanted poster. Particularly striking in this collection are three stories by long-time Hex scribe Michael Fleisher, who is often also remembered for his losing lawsuit against Harlan Ellison and The Comics Journal, which he filed after Harlan playfully (according to Harlan) called him "bugfuck" among other things in an interview in that mag (having read the interview myself, I'd say Fleisher was pretty much misinterpreting things, and really only cemented anything negative Harlan may have had to say by going so far off the deep end).

But really, none of that has any bearing on the man's comics output, and if shitheads like me would focus on that instead of interdisciplinary gossip like this, we'd all be better off. In "Face-off with the Gallagher Boys!" we meet the title gang, who are largely folk heroes for their war of crime against the big-shot railroad companies. But during their encounter with Hex, they're revealed to their supporters to be just as much a buncha greedy capitalistic opportunists as their antagonists. It's a lovely bit of a cautionary tale about the underdog and what a rat he can often be.

The next two stories are pretty much one narrative which finally puts to bed the sub-plot of the mysterious Mr. Turnbull who'd been trying to have Hex killed almost since the beginning of the character's run. It also fills in the blanks as to Hex's reputation as a coward and a traitor to the Confederate States of America. Seems that young Lieutenant Hex could no longer fight a war to keep a race of people enslaved. Although he dearly loved his southern home, he surrendered himself honorably to the Yanks, pledging to never betray his homeland. But due to the manipulations of the petty Union captain, Hex is framed as just that: a traitor who not only gave up the location of his unit, but who then lead them to slaughter during an escape attempt.

It is this story which can be pointed to as mostly deftly characterizing the bounty hunter known as Jonah Hex. It's from this point on that Hex becomes a country unto himself, polarizing himself from society by not only continuing to wear the uniform of a Confederate, but by becoming a hunter of men, a profession largely looked down upon back then (as opposed to now, when it gets you a TV show despite how stupid your haircut might be). The reader is often witness to Hex acting in the interests of justice, but that is always despite himself. His deeply abiding hatred for humanity is well reflected on himself, especially in a beautiful sequence in "The Trial." Hex stops in a saloon in Virginia, and is soon recognized as the traitor of the 4th Calvary. Every single patron leaves in disgust, as does the proprietor, leaving Hex there alone to ruminate. Staring at his disfigured face in the big picture mirror, Hex smashes it into shards. The loathing of one man for his kind as well as for himself practically slaps the reader in the face.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again: Jonah fuckin' Hex.

FreakAngels, vols. 3 & 4 (Avatar): Look, either you're already reading this series for free on-line or buying the trades like me and the rest of the suckers or you're not gonna bother. So instead of telling you that this is more Warren Ellis goodness with more of Paul Duffield's excellent art, I'd like to take this opportunity to talk about on-line comics.

Way back when, when I first read the preview of Scott McCloud's Understanding Comics in the back of Cerebus, I had only an inkling of how indispensable this book would be to the study of comics literature. By the time the follow-up, Reinventing Comics was released in 2000, I was all primed to have my mind blown further as to the possibilities within the greatest medium known to man.

Well, I'm still waiting on that mind-blowing. The furor that this book caused, with its intensive focus on on-line comics as the future of the medium, lead McCloud himself to consider the book "dangerous." I'd say the most dangerous thing about the book is how much it insults my intelligence. At one point, he even says something to the effect of, "I drew this whole book using a computer and nary a pencil or piece of paper, and you couldn't even tell, could you?" What am I, a fucking moron, McCloud?

But that was ten years ago. As should be obvious, I've become far more accustomed to our futuristic on-line society, with its rocket-packs and space-pets. But I still hedge at considering the on-line world the next logical step for comics. I mean, really, if comics become (or as they may already have become) as interactive as McCloud predicted a decade ago, well, then they're hardly comics anymore, are they? I mean, I know McCloud technically considers Egyptian hieroglyphics and medieval French tapestries to be forms of comics, but I ain't bagging and boarding them big clunky things. And the same goes for the future: on-line comics are more likely poised to become some blend of sequential art, video games and viral video, deserving of a terminology a little more specific than "on-line comics." I mean, otherwise, we'd still be referring to movies as kinetoscopes.

In the meantime, your more traditional on-line comics, which are pretty much static, Internet-only versions of the things stacked in my closet, are fine as far as comics goes. Some are good (read LaMorté Sisters now, if you aren't already. If I recommend a vampire story to you, you can be reassured that it's worthwhile, since I find vampires more boring than I do your girlfriend), some are for sucks (oddly, I find LaMorté Sisters' creators Johnny Zito and Tony Trov's The Black Cherry Bombshells to fall more under this category), just like any print comics. Personally, I spend plenty of time as it is on this computer machine, so I generally prefer to read my comics the old-fashioned way, and yeah, I'll pony up good money to do so rather than reading it for free on this contraption. But that's just me.

This is all to say, read FreakAngels.

Blankets (Top Shelf): I'm as surprised as you are that it's taken me this long to read this book. I remember hearing a lot about it, but I dunno. For one thing, I'd never heard of this Craig Thompson guy, and since I buy so many books, I usually don't have the money to roll the dice on stuff like this like I did when I was in high school and was a non-smoker. But John let me borrow it, and I am plenty glad he did.

Thompson is a very talented cartoonist as well as a top-notch story-teller. Really, even given my above comments, I should just buy everything Top Shelf puts out from now on, because even if I don't keep it all, it's all still very worthwhile.

All that being said, I do have a few...well, not problems, or even criticisms. I dunno what you'd call 'em, but here goes: first, I think I still have a major hang-over from the indie autobiographical comics boom of the '90s. Seth, Joe Matt, and Chester Brown formed this confessional Canadian troika back then, and even though they put out some good comics, I really got fed up with reading about sensitive guys and their sensitive up-bringings. And if I'm really being honest here, a lot of the embarrassing crap these guys go through tends to strike pretty close to home as well, and I just wanna shove it away. Not the most mature attitude to take, I know, but when you consider how much time and effort I dedicate to the adventures of grown men in spandex, this attitude shouldn't come as much of a surprise.

Another feeling that is a little difficult to pin down is the notion of child molestation. It's gross, to say the very least, and I should hope that I don't have to point that out to anybody here. Since Blankets is autobiographical and since the episodes with child molestation relate directly to the narrative, they're not only disturbing and powerful, but they play an important part in the story. I can get around my own personal discomfort with the subject enough to read it (hell, I've been reading Hubert Selby's Last Exit to Brooklyn this week, so I oughtta be practiced enough at reading icky and gross stuff), but I guess my problem comes from the over-use of this sort of thing in modern story-telling. Not to say that Thompson is pulling this at all, but it seems that including child sexual abuse is a short-cut for writers to a volatile emotional reaction. And like any short-cut, if it's used too often, it defeats its own purpose. The reaction in the audience is in danger of becoming dulled. The possibility that this may extend to reactions to actual child abuse is for somebody else to worry about, like the argument that violent movies and video games desensitize people to the real thing. But what I am more concerned about is when a book like Blankets comes along and deftly depicts a horrible action like this, and my first reaction was almost an eye roll: "Here we go again." That's fucked up, and rather than take responsibility for my own reactions, I'm gonna blame lazy writers and generally worthless shows like Law & Order: SVU for such a saturation of this particular market.

Way to go, assholes.

The Killer, vol. 1 (Archaia): Again, I'll just briefly say this is a very fun read, written by Matz and drawn by Luc Jacamon, originally released in France ten years ago, about a bad-ass hitman and his bad-ass hitman adventures. And now I'll go on a tangent.

Pulp and noir fiction is some of my favorite stuff, as you should know by now. Not only do I enjoy reading it, but it also a big part of my own creative output. Out of the Gutter is one of today's premiere print rags of hard-boiled lit, and when one goes to submit something to them, they have a list of stuff to avoid, clichés that the genre is already full of. And yes, hitmen hold a firm place on that list.

Hey, who doesn't like to read about guys who kill guys? I sure as hell do. But I think one of the reasons the hitman has become such a boring crime archetype is unfortunately one of the most noticeable things about this first volume of The Killer. I already think that narration in comics is largely unnecessary: if you can't convey what you wanna through dialogue and pictures, then I'd say you're not using the medium to its utmost. Of course, there are a million counter-examples to that, but to me, it's a pretty good rule of thumb. But if you insist on using narration, especially first-person, please do not front-load all the motivation there. Especially with a hitman character. It seems to me that a lot of writers feel a need to make it clear why these guys are hitmen, why they would partake in such a detestable occupation. Is this trip really necessary? Why wouldn't I just buy that these guys are sociopaths? Hell, I'm a bad week away from becoming one myself. So all this tired nonsense of "Hey, it's just my job, and if I didn't do it, someone else would, and the people I kill are generally scumbags" and blah blah blah. Max Allan Collins is the only guy I've seen pull it off, and maybe Lawrence Block, and even then, I tend to skim over those parts, quick as. And those guys are legends in the field. Chances are, you ain't.

So stop it already. The guy kills people for money. If you feel the need to explain that further, watch Grosse Pointe Blank again and see what you're doing wrong.

West Coast Blues (Fantagraphics): As if predicting my reaction to The Killer, Jacques Tardi shows up with this adaptation of a Jean-Patrick Manchette novel and proves them frogs really do know what they're doing over there. One of my first thoughts on this book was how much it reminded me of Jean-Luc Godard's movies. And while that may be true, I'm suspicious of my own ability to make that call, since Godard is pretty much the only French pop culture I've had any interaction with.

But regardless, this book is loaded with more existenialism than you can shake being and nothingness at. And it's fucking awesome. I really can't get enough of this sorta stuff, not since I read The Stranger in high school and pretended to understand it, even though at the time, the only understanding it gave me was of The Cure's "Killing an Arab." The main character, average le schmuck George Gerfaut, has an attempt made on his life by two guys he's never seen before. So naturally, he bails on his wife and kids and goes to live in the mountains for a year. The narration in this book is largely expository, but only in real general terms, and it certainly doesn't allow us an open window into Gerfaut's mindset. That's for us to figure out, and I'm glad these boys left it that way. It makes for a much more staisfying read if I have to fill in my own blanks. Plus there are lots of drawing of penises.

Tardi is widely known in Europe and has been for years, so it only makes sense that I've only just become aware of his stuff. Apparently, Fantagraphics is gonna be reprinting a buncha his stuff, even the stuff that Dark Horse already put out a few years ago. So you have no excuse to grab this up and look real impressive down at the coffee house.

All right, kids, that's it for this month. See you next time.

Intercontinental Ballistic Miscellany

2010-05-25T16:36:00.000-07:00

Speaking of intercontinental: my buddy Evan Quiring, up in the great white north, just released his latest self-published comics effort, and kids, it's worth the wait. Los Luchadores Mysteriosos features the action-packed adventures of Rey Diablo, the cigar-chompin' North American champion o' Mexican wrasslin' back in the mid-'60s. With more zombies from space than you can shake a Tor Johnson at, this bad boy is like reading a Cramps record in four colors. Do yourself a favor and visit blackswanstudios.ca to order yourself up a copy for a measly half a sawbuck.

Speaking of buddies of mine: international sex object and fellow PopMatters alum Kevin Brettauer is officially one of Earth's mightiest heroes. Marvel recently had this deal where you could upload a picture of yourself and then they would consider it for inclusion in a photo collage entitled "I Am an Avenger." Naturally, I submitted a picture of myself, but as is obvious upon seeing the finished product, they clearly had plenty of pictures of bespectacled white guys. So mad props to Kevvy--get your hands on a Quinjet and let's go pick up chicks.

Speaking of picking up chicks: Even though I bought Marvel Illustrated: the Swimsuit Issue back when it came out, I'd never really considered myself one of these weirdoes who has an unhealthy sexual obsession with super-heroines or their villainous counterparts. My sexuality was already well a-brew thanks to such TV icons as Elvira, Suzanne Somers, and Phylicia Rashad. So by the time I discovered comics in the late '80s--coincidentally enough, around the time when more and more female characters were beginning to be drawn wearing less and less--I found it a little weird that so many of my peers seemed to get off on, say, Psylocke's ninja costume (or lack thereof). All that being said, the recent revelation that Rogue and the Sentry, y'know...did it, I dunno, I think it's kinda hot. Am I a weirdo now, too? Or have I not just been getting laid enough lately? Either way, I need to find me a 1967-era Marvel Girl costume and a cute redhead to fill it, ASAFP.

Speaking of PopMatters: I know I've mentioned this site more than once here, but if you have yet to check it out, you really oughtta. I haven't paid much attention to comics journalism since high school, but the vast majority of it that I glance at still seems to be sodden in that Wizard-y fanboy-ish, gosh-wow-neat vibe, which is just embarrassing for all. You've got stuff like The Comics Journal, but even that isn't available in a print format anymore. So as long as you're looking at smarty-pants criticism about comical books on the internet machines, you might as well see what we've got cooking in the PopMatters kitchen. There's me, Kev-Kev, my buddy Oliver Ho (and both of these cats will also soon be found on our sister site, Let's Kill Everybody!), and a buncha others, including our editor, the inimitable if obscurely-named shathely Q, who is the hardest working man in comics journalism. So g'wan over there already and let us know how you feel. Hell, submit something if you wanna; seems they're always on the look-out for writers about whatever goofy shit you might be into.

Speaking of computer machines: I've been a huge fan of Peter Bagge's stuff from when I discovered his "Vomit Glossary" poster at the age of 11, all they way up to and beyond the age of 32 when I taped up his "Esas Locas Ex-Novias" poster in my station at work. When Vertigo solicited orders for his first original full-length hardcover, I hesitated not a moment in ordering it. Frank and John decided to wait until
the softcover edition, a move I can get behind normally, but in this case, I had no patience. And my impatience was well rewarded. Other Lives is the story of four people and the way computers and the Internet have allowed them and/or cursed them to undergo extensive identity changes. It's really a masterful piece of story-telling in this regard and, like all of Bagge's stuff, it is fucking hilarious. Surely by this point you've read Hate, and this is without a doubt his best stuff since that beloved title ended. Get it now, softcover be damned.

Speaking of being damned: Obviously, I'm running a little low on ideas around here. Anybody got a topic they want me to cover, a book or several books they wanna see reviewed, what have you? I'd sure appreciate it. You can get a hold of me here, or down at the laundromat, riffling through the dryer lint.

Seriously: Let's Kill Everybody.

2010-04-27T16:20:00.000-07:00

Slasher movies suck really bad.

Actually, all movies suck really bad.

Actually actually, everything except for comics sucks really bad.

Actually actually actually, comics suck really bad.

Whoa, wait. Back up a second.

Slasher movies suck really bad. I think we can all agree on this, fans and non-fans alike. Therein lies the charm, right? The I-don't-know-what, as the French say. I have the same sort of love affair with the Police Academy movies: I know full well they suck really bad, yet I can't stay away (a fairly apt metaphor for most of my relationships, now that I think about it).

I've been spending a lot of time watching slasher movies lately, as well as reading and writing about them in conjunction with the other site (not "blog," mind you, but "site," dear reader; semantics are everything) I run, Let's Kill Everybody! The one seemingly unifying suck factor with these flicks, though, is that they so often come close to not sucking, which is a very fatal flaw in American popular culture. Sometimes, it's because the budget is simply too tiny, but more often than not, it's what I interpret as just plain laziness on the part of the creators (a crime which will be dealt with most severely once I take over). I believe I merely need to point to the deluge of sequels to and/or rip-offs of the classics like Halloween and Friday the 13th, et al, to support this claim.

But movies in general are a sticky wicket as far as this goes. They cost an obscene amount of money to make, and so they're often produced with a fairly broad appeal designed to recoup the most money. This does not strictly preclude any genuine artistic expression, mind, but why bother with all that shit when the people just want tits and explosions (full disclosure: these are three of my favorite things)?

I'll allow the above is a very simplified version of things, and as usual I'm taking a quasi-Marxist leaning, although I am very bored with that stance (I dunno, I'm weird). But what I'm getting at is that this is an area where, once again, comics proves itself to be the superior medium, in this case because they are cheap to produce and to buy, relatively speaking (maybe not if you have a habit like mine, which is tantamount to, say, heroin, or even Fabergé eggs). Take WildStorm's A Nightmare on Elm Street series, which I recently raved up over at Pop Matters. Special effects in the movies may seem more "real," but they're still really just static, two-dimensional images, not unlike those in a comic book. And though it sounds cliché, if you take the fertile imaginations of two truly creative individuals like writer Chuck Dixon and penciller Kevin West (and Kick-Ass Karl Marx sez: "Kids! You can trust a comic book writer/artist, 'cause they clearly ain't in it for the money!"), then you don't need to rely on flash-bang gee-whiz effects. Although there may not be surround-sound capabilities with comics, you can still have Freddy Krueger fighting an Aztec sleep demon and have it be as believable, as "real" as anything in a motion picture. Plus it only costs you, the reader, three bucks if you buy 'em new, and you don't have to sit in a theatre full of pinheads or a living room full of loudmouthed roommates to enjoy it.

So the movies are cool if you're underage and can't bring dates to your bedroom to make out. But other than that, I'll take a comical book any day of the week.

Logophobia

2010-03-02T15:08:00.001-08:00

I've been reading a lotta Bronze Age stuff lately, a lotta Marvel comics from the 1970s. And as fun as they can be in a nostalgic sense, they're also pretty goofy and cringe-inducing. It's not difficult to see sometimes how superhero comics developed the reputation of being juvenile and brain-decaying. The exposition is overly repetitive, the characters can be fairly two-dimensional, and little space is accounted for nuance and subtlety.

But what really sticks out to me is the dialogue. Yes, the corniness can be overlooked or dismissed as simple charm. But there is one aspect about a lot of this dialogue that really calls attention to itself, and that is all the fake swear words. This was pretty common practice up through the late '90s, but it seems the '70s is when you'd find a vast amount of dialogue like, "I'm so mad, I could spit!" or "I'll send you back to Hades!" And by heck, that stuff makes me so gosh-darned annoyed, I could brown my no-no's.

The obvious reason for this is that Comics Code Authority standards at the time were very stringent but also a very necessary business decision, since these books were to be sold mainly at newsstands and drug stores. This was well before the direct market and comics specialty shops allowed for a system of mass distribution that didn't hinge on the puritanical ethos of so-called community standards.

But there's more than one way to skin a foul-mouthed cat. If the rainbow of profanity is not made available to you as a writer, then I would say it oughtta be completely hands-off. To employ these silly substitute curse words is a form of cheating and is just plain lazy writing, which we all know is the most cardinal sin of all.

The analogy that pops to my mind has to do with one of rap music's greatest acts, the Geto Boys. Individually known as Willie D, Bushwick Bill, DJ Ready Red, and Scarface, the Geto Boys were one of the filthiest, most vulgar combos to hit the music scene, especially for the mid to late 1980s. Any word, phrase, or concept you'd be uncomfortable mentioning in front of your mother or the Pope is covered on their brilliant self-titled album on Rick Rubin's Def American label, so much so that Def American included an advisory sticker that proclaimed they themselves found the material to be "violent, sexist, racist, and indecent." Genius, right? I know.

But at this time in American cultural history, radio airplay was indispensable to any working musicians, not unlike newsstand distribution once was to comics. And the practice of "resinging" the offensive language as is the custom today (I think that's the term I want--y'know, when the vocal track drops out for a second or two and it's really disconcerting) either wouldn't do or just no one had thought of it. So at least one radio-friendly track was required per album.

Now, as much as I could not do without any of these three rappers, the skills needed to pull off a full track without a single swear word belonged to only one Geto Boy. Bill and D were some angry dudes, and that raw emotional power is what helped put them at the top of their game. But if they ended a lyric with the word "sucker," you knew what the next rhyme would be. Same deal if they used the words "trigger," "bigger," or "snigger."

Scarface takes sole vocal duties on the track "Life in the Fast Lane" not because he was better or more vital to the group, but merely because he more than the others was able to hone that rage to fit within the prescribed boundaries and do it with skill and finesse. When it comes to artistic expression, there is technically no outside obstruction conceivable that a true artist cannot overcome. Yes, Scarface uses the words "butt" or "brother" at times on this song, ostensibly in place of more choice words. But those are fair game, words well within the lexicon, not made-up nonsense surrogates.

Thankfully, as we get this century rolling along, a lot of "profanity" is finding a more sympathetic home. This should come as no surprise, y'know, when in olden days a glimpse of stocking was looked on as something shocking and blah blah blah. But even if the symptoms are changing, there is still a lot of this disease going about. What all this stems from is that people are afraid of words, and as it pertains to comics, people are afraid of the effects these words are going to have on their kids. And when people are afraid and act out of that fear, their decisions are often rash and ill-informed.

Recently, in the pages of Fantastic Four #574, little genius Valeria Richards calls her brother Franklin a "retard," in the manner that all siblings take pokes at one another. But this choice of word by writer Jonathan Hickman caused at least two readers to write in and take Hickman to task in the letters page of the next issue. The motive of these letter-writers is very, very difficult to impinge, since they sincerely acted out of concern for those who, through no fault of their own, must live in a sometimes debilitating condition. But in the course of their defense of this segment of the population, they claim that Hickman and Marvel Comics itself hold an inherent responsibility to not use language like this.

And that's where they jump track. Famous writer and all-around smarty-pants George Orwell once claimed that he wrote solely with political purpose, meaning the “desire to push the world in a certain direction, to alter other peoples’ idea of the kind of society that they should strive after.” Hey, super. Orwell would go on to claim that he couldn't understand why any writer would write for any other reason. Again, that's fair enough. Fortunately, for every other writer in the world, we don't have to make that clear to anybody, not even Mr. Big Deal Political Purpose Orwell.

The only responsibility inherent to any writer is to the craft of writing. That's it. Anything else is certainly up for debate but remains subjective. If a writer chooses to use substitute swear-words in order to tell the story as well as possible under certain restraints, then that is his or her responsibility, and he or she can thus be criticized for it. Which I just did, but you never heard me call into question any writer's responsibility to anything other than the story. He doesn't owe me real curse words because I shelled out the money for the comic, but as a writer he owes me a good story. Just as Scarface may partially owe his career to reigning in the profane for at least one track, he also completely owes his audience a decent work of art all the same. Same with Orwell and his hewing to an agenda of social upheaval; that's his call. And though he can't imagine why other writers write for any other reason, he certainly never attempts to prevent them from doing so (that'd be ironic, wouldn't it?). And as boring as parts of 1984 can be, Orwell was a good enough story-teller to be just that, even when he was hitting his audience over the head with political purpose.

Therefore, Hickman cannot be blamed for what his characters say. That sounds weird, but it's true. Hickman remained true to the character of a three-year-old girl in her relationship with her older brother, and though the choice of word wasn't one Hickman may have used himself (he does respond to those letters saying that he hates it when other kids insult his own with such callousness), it's what the character called for. To put any other word in Valeria's mouth would have been irresponsible.

I feel bad for any mentally challenged kid who read that FF and was insulted by it, I truly do. But here's the thing: it's just a word, man. As a writer myself, I am well aware of the power that words have. But they still remain abstract. They're not really real, when you get down to it. And they simply can't hurt you. A bullet, that can hurt you. Somebody's fist can cause damage. I couldn't throw a word at you if I tried. You've got nothing to fear.

Let writers rise or fall based on their ability as writers, not as sensitive-types. If we begin assigning them some sort of greater responsibility, then we run a very real risk of killing their muse altogether. If words make you uncomfortable, it is solely your responsibility to examine why that is so before trying to lay the blame at the foot of the writer. They're just words, baby. But at the same time, the only responsibility the writer has is to them.

Follow the Leader

2010-02-01T14:16:00.000-08:00

As I was working on this review for Pop Matters, it occurred to me that lately, the Hulk has become one of the more interesting and relatable characters to me in the Marvel Universe. Just about all successful characters are one or the other, but Bruce Banner, his alter ego, and the supporting cast of the title(s) generally connect with me most often and on more than one level.

Now, in the pages of this here world-wide-web-log, I've already done the daddy-didn't-love-me bit, so I'm gonna opt out on that parallel here, even with the patricidal Skaar being a major player these days. I could also quite easily compare Bruce Banner's temper problem with my own similar lifelong struggle, but if I can be frank, that subject hits just a little too close to home nowadays. So instead I'm gonna discuss that keen rivalry between the Hulk and the Leader and what I see as the age-old battle between the jock and the nerd.

When I was in junior high and high school, I didn't really get picked on or bullied at all, and I simply don't have the words to describe how disappointing this was. I mean, c'mon, fellas, what do I gotta do? I'm runty, I wear glasses, my nose is buried in a book, and I collect comics, for chrissakes. I gotta draw youse a picture?

Nope, the jocks had better things to do, catching lateral passes and getting to third base with the j.v. cheer squad. Sure, I might get called a fag now and again, but then I'd be forgotten about almost immediately. Even though I held a grudge well into my twenties, a rivalry can't really evolve if there's only one party willing to put in the effort. It just doesn't work.

The best comics rivalries, for my money, are between characters who parallel each other. Mr. Fantastic and Dr. Doom, Wolverine and Sabretooth, Spider-Man and Dr. Octopus--these are all guys who match each other in intelligence and ability. The instigator, who is usually the antagonist, may have individual reasons for carrying on this personal war, but it doesn't take much reading in between the lines to see that each feels threatened by the very existence of their adversaries. They've got to prove they're better, and what better way to test that than against a guy who's as smart, or as savage, or as able to walk up walls?

But the tack taken is much different with the Leader. Samuel Sterns was irradiated with gamma rays, not unlike Dr. Bruce Banner, but with a nearly opposite effect. Where puny Banner transformed into the incredible Hulk, the puny-brained Sterns transformed into the super-genius Leader. What challenge to his vast intelligence does the Hulk really present? The big galoot can't even talk in first person, for crying out loud.

It is just this similarity that spawned Sterns's hatred. In their earliest meetings, back in the Tales to Astonish Lee/Ditko era, all the Leader really wanted to do was study the green-skinned
brute. Clearly, they had both obtained their power from the same source, and a man of the mind like the Leader was naturally curious as to why they had been affected so differently.

Of course, instead of simply trying to buy the Hulk lunch and having a chat, he had to send a horde of Humanoids to tackle him. But it should come as no surprise that these nerdy types are not fraught with social graces. And the Hulk isn't exactly Miss Manners either, fighting the androids off and leaping somewhere to be away from "puny humans."

Teenage boys are pretty much the same creatures. And when one becomes isolated from his peers, he does crazy stuff, like spend all his time overanalyzing the plots of comic books written fifteen years before he was born. So when nerd-boy sees a buncha football players gussied up on their way to prom, he may peer down his nose and claim he has better things to do. But he really just wants some of the action. And since we've been irradiated by the same kind of gamma rays, i.e. adolesence, what more do we need to have in common? My hormones are raging, and I wanna make out with cheerleaders, too!

And it would be a while yet before the Hulk and the Leader would even interact personally. The Hulk didn't even know Bighead existed yet. And being ignored is worse than taking a beating. As masochistic as it may seem, at least violence is a form of attention, a justification, a raison d'etre. C'mon, man, I got a heart full of rage, so will somebody please run my shorts up the flagpole so I have somebody concrete to direct it against?

Fortunately, it's looking as though the Leader may finally get his wish. For those of you not in the know, there's a new kid in town, the Red Hulk. No one knows who he is or exactly what he's doing here. He just showed up one day, shot the Abomination, pounded on Iron Man and She-Hulk, and then literally beat the Hulk out of Bruce Banner.
As of late, we've found out that the Leader and MODOK were the creators of this monster, and have recently become rivals of his as well. Perhaps, over all these years, Banner's humanizing influence on the Hulk has kept him from acknowledging the Leader as a true rival, to engage him as such rather than as a nuisance. But the Red Hulk is clearly a big enough jock asshole to finally pants the Leader in front of the girls' gym team.

Then he and I and all of us over-tensed, hot-headed, four-eyed dorks can finally breathe easier, can finally allow our bottomless hatred for the world to take over and to purely direct our actions.

Oh, happy day.

Support Your Local Shithead

2010-01-04T06:36:00.001-08:00

I've been at this little bloggity for just over a year now, and you, dear reader, may have noticed that whenever I tell you about a comic you can't live without, I implore you to go down to your local comical book retailer and fork over your money to them rather than to a major chain bookstore or convenient on-line outlet. I've asked you to eschew the ease of Internet shopping for the hands-on touch of a live human retailer specializing in the greatest medium known to civilized man. I've attempted to appeal to your sense of fair trade by pointing out that not only does supporting a small businessperson add to the feel-good ledger of the soul, but is also less of a blow to the pocketbook. I've done all this because it's one of the very rare causes I feel is important enough to forgo complex thinking and take the black-and-white, right-or-wrong view.

But we all know how full of shit I am.

When you get right down to it, comic book stores have a reputation for being murky dens of testosterone-fuelled nerd-dom, rife with pale virgins avoiding the sunlight and employees with the customer-service skills of the DMV. And if we're being honest here, it's a reputation generally well deserved.

Back in high school, my regular comic shop was called Amazing Comix, on N. Magnolia Ave., near Madison, in scenic El Cajon, CA. The owners had a few other stores spread around the county, but I believe this was their hub store, since they themselves seemed to work there the most often. Nice enough folks, I guess, but Christ, if they'd been running any other business, they'd have starved to death years before.

Here's a f'r-instance: almost out of the gate, Image Comics began developing their iron-clad infamy for shipping books late, beginning with the sixth issue of Spawn. Nowadays, late comics are nothing to lose sleep over, especially since I've got so goddamn many to read anyways. But at 14 years old, I found the months-long delay in this continuing saga to be excruciating (as opposed to how I just find the saga itself excruciating in general at my age now). The week it finally arrived in stores, I rushed down to the shop that Saturday morn to find it not only missing from my bag, but also nary a copy to be found in the store.

The fuck?

It seems silly now, but I was thoroughly crushed. Naturally, I expressed my disappointment to the owner lady. To her credit, she at least seemed sincerely sorry to inform me that, alas, the distributor had shorted them, and that it may be two more weeks before I could get my sweaty hands on a copy.

O, lamented Sisyphus knows not torture so grand! said I (or words to that effect).

Yeah, she says and, as if to console me, mentions how good the issue is; in fact, she herself had personally acquired five copies.

Yeah, well, at least you got--wait, what?

Yes, dear reader, this was the early 1990s, and speculation in comics futures was the latest craze. And I do mean that literally. Such a craze was it that this nutty broad could say something like that to me without batting an eye. Never mind that I, as a loyal paying customer, was to have a copy reserved in advance according to my pull-list agreement, an agreement in which I had never fallen short on my end. Never mind that I would actually read the one (1) copy I wanted to pay cash for right then and there, while (at least) four (4)(!) copies she had would sit encased in mylar, bringing joy to none. No, none of that mattered.

It never seemed to occur to her that I might take offense at this, much less take my business elsewhere. Because really, what choice did I have? I wasn't old enough to drive, and it was already an hour-and-a-half bus trek to this shop for me. What am I gonna do, beg? Yell? Pop my zits at her? As formidable as that last option now seems (how my horrible acne would have helped then, instead of hindered!), seriously, even had I done all of the above, after all was said and popped, I was still gonna come crawling back the next week and the week after that. And why? Because I was a pale virgin avoiding the sunlight. A doormat, a schlub used to being pushed around. And none of that put me in a very exclusive club amongst comic book collectors.

What's your point, Jimmy?

There's no reason--here's my point, dude--there's no fucking reason why anybody should have to put up with shit like that from any merchant. And it's my educated opinion that the reason a lotta comic shops treat their customers like this is because we're like junkies: willing to do anything for a fix, and so out of shape and jacked up that we're easily handled in case of trouble. One of the main reasons I cooled it on my comic collecting in the late '90s was the shitheel business practices within the industry. But when I started collecting in earnest again, I put a little effort, a little elbow grease into it, and researched the stores in my area and found one where the owner wasn't out to cut my throat, but was in fact as big an enthusiast as I am. And you don't have to take my word for it, just check out the San Diego Comics page on Yelp (you can even catch a glimpse of my fat head if you look close).
I've been shopping there now for just about 8 years, and working there for nearly 5, and I think you, dear reader, know me well enough to realize that I'm not gonna frivolously devote that large a chunk of my time and money to anybody or anything.

So don't go to your local comics retailer out of some bullshit punk-rock ethos of mine to support the little guy, especially if that little guy is an asshole. If your local comic shop won't order you the stuff you want or laughs at the clothes your mom dresses you in or just generally makes you feel like you're a pain in the ass, then by all means, shop on-line or at Border's. But first you need to get a grasp of the situation, find out where your money should be going. And you can't do that without knowing all the options.

And five copies of Spawn #6 in near-mint ain't worth the paper they're printed on, then or now. So fart noise on you.

Phoning It In

2009-12-15T18:20:00.000-08:00

Well, as usual, the Christmas season has sat on my head and farted. So naturally, this piece is late, and naturally, I've been scrambling to come up with a decent topic to write about. So for this month, neglecting the sort of clever(?) framing devices I so often go in for, I'm just gonna talk briefly about a couple hardcovers I read recently that I can give my highest recommendation, before I have to get back to all the other writing I've been putting off because the day job has been kicking my ass.

Thanksgiving Day is the last day of serenity I'm allowed over the normal course of the holiday season, before the grindstone rams itself into my nose. I tend to eschew the generic family get-togethers, not becuase I don't like my family or anything, but because I'm awful goddamn selfish with my time. Happily, this year, I got to spend a lazy day laying around with a cute chick, a Band of Brothers marathon, and a copy of Harvey Pekar's The Beats: A Graphic History.

Generally speaking, I've never met a beatnik that I liked. I've never found the iconoclast-lit from the Ike years to be anything much to write home about on a roll of butcher paper while all whacked out on bennies. I think the main reason I even ordered this book, aside from Pekar's involvement, was that I've been kicking around an idea for a piece of fiction that takes place in the '50s and I thought this'd be a good piece of research. That didn't turn out to be the case so much, but I am glad I dropped the twenty-two bucks on this book, as it turned out to be the first truly unflinching look at this admittedly highly influential generation of creative-types.

My own personal tastes aside, the main reason I'd never really dug the work of these way-out cats was that their adherents are so volatile and steadfast, it's nearly to the point of mania. Nothing will put me off something quicker than a buncha other jerks really liking it. On top of that, most of the rabid beatnik fans I've known in my time have been utter morons in every other sense. Kinda guilt by association. I mean, I always liked Ginsberg. Kerouac seemed like a cool enough dude, but his work was so boring to me. And even though I've never actually read any Burroughs, my opinion of him was colored negatively 'cause he had all that nice calculator money with which to cultivate a fashionable heroin habit as well as a shooting-my-girlfriend-in-the-face habit (although he kicked one sooner than the other). Now Pekar, et al, clearly have a sense of respect for these writers and their work, but they don't let their personal feelings intrude nearly as much as I do. The book is broken down into extended chapters on the Big Three mentioned above by Pekar and artist Ed Piskor (who has a real nice, very Clowes-y style that suits the topic well). Pekar's usual charmingly straight-ahead prose style is in full effect, giving the leaders of the Beat movement their due, while far from ignoring the seamy underbelly. Drug abuse is not romanticized, but rather shown to be just as detrimental to these writers' careers as it was helpful (how did they get any writing done when they were throwing up so much?). Kerouac's womanizing is discussed as thoroughly as his contributions to world culture, not to mention his own complacent involvement in a murder. Pekar presents all these simply as facts, not wishing to influence the reader in any other way, which is such a refreshing take on this (or any) subject, that I find words are failing me now. Needless to say, I feel the urge to give some of these guys and their work another shot. The book finishes out with short sections on a number of lesser-known writers within the beat scene, guys I'd actually read before, like Amiri Baraka and Robert Creeley, to a slew of guys I'd like to read more of, like Phillip Whalen and Tuli Kupferberg. So whether you're already an avowed beatnik or merely curious about what the hell they were on about back in the 1950s, give this book a whirl. In fact, if you don't wanna shell out the cash, you oughtta go check and see if it's at your local library. And if it ain't, tell 'em I said to order a copy already.

Next up is Josh Cotter's Driven by Lemons.
I am an unabashed fan of Cotter's work, considering his previous book, Skyscrapers of the Midwest, not only the best book of 2008 (along with Jeff Lemire's Essex County trilogy) but also probably the most important comic book of my generation. For his next outing, Cotter decided to go for something a little more experimental. Apparently, he just started doodling in a sketchbook and then just kinda let it go from there. According to some interviews I read (my memory may not be doing Cotter service here, but I think you'll be able to follow me), Cotter said he wasn't gonna go back and edit or "fix" anything, that he wanted the narrative to evolve naturally. Now, as much as I like to put up a kinda artsy-fartsy pretense (even if with a façade of macho-ness), this sorta talk made me as nervous as anybody. Skyscrapers was not only hilarious but heartbreaking, and although he often went into the symbolic and the sublime, Cotter never jumped the narrative track so totally that it became opaque or came off as pretentious or obtuse. Running the risk of that now had me worried, especially at the cost of a double sawbuck, MSRP. But I kept the faith, and reasoned that something like this would probably much more likely succeed right out of the gate, like if I took the plunge right along with the guy, I wouldn't regret it, rather than if I hemmed and hawed. And turns out, I was right (I know, I could scarecely believe it myself). Driven by Lemons is not conventional by any means. But not only is it aesthetically lovely, doing things in a format not entirely unfamiliar yet markedly different, also the story isn't as hard to follow as I had worried. Granted, a lot of it went right past my head, but not unlike a Pynchon novel, it's hilarious and exhilirating even when I don't know what the hell is going on (not unlike life itself either, now that I think about it). For twenty bucks, I got plenty to chew over and digest, leaving plenty left over for multiple re-reads, so the book even pays for itself. How often does that happen? So do yourself a favor and pick this book up. If nothing else, you'll look a lot smarter to foxy art school girls. Trust me, I know what I'm talking about.

No, I don't.

The Only Crime Is the Cover Price.

2009-11-03T16:28:00.000-08:00

I was as excited as anyone, if not more so, at Vertigo's announcement of its new crime imprint, Vertigo Crime: a line of original hard-cover graphic novels specifically within the noir/mystery/crime genre. And despite uncharacteristic optimism on my part, right up until the first two books were delivered to my store, I was pretty damn disappointed.

Crime fiction comes a very close second to comical books when it comes to my personal favorite media (rounding out the list are cave paintings and smoke signals). And probably the very best part of the super-hero speculation market bottoming out in the late '90s is that other genres began to thrive. Yes, superheroes still are king, but the spate of quality horror, sci-fi, western, and crime comics over the past ten years is proof that this is not an unchallenged monarchy. Yes, yes, a lot of it is crap; 90% of everything is. But guys like Brian Azzarello and Ed Brubaker have helped to truly blaze the trail of crime comics today (I'm not gonna cram 100 Bullets or Criminal down your throat now, although your throat would certainly thank me later).

At one time, I was a registered Communist. But then I figured out that people really pretty much suck, and that put the kibosh for me on any notion of workers (or anybody) uniting. But Marxist theory still manages to color a lot of my thoughts on art and artists, particularly (and naturally, I'd say) as concerns the business aspect. I really wish I could ignore all this stuff and just accept the creation for what it is, but sometimes what it is truly seems to me to be a cynical jab at a genre I dearly love strictly for the sake of a buck.

This is not to impinge the creative impulses of the writers and artists involved, as much as it may sound otherwise. I like to think of it more as a calling on the carpet of Vertigo and its editors and what I see as a concession to their parent company that they make all too eagerly. What do I, an industry outsider, know of the machinations of Time/Warner's editorial policy? Fuck all. But I'm the one plunking my hard-earned money down to read this stuff, and I am well able to tell you just how worth it I think it is.

Here's what all this babble boils down to: Vertigo are a buncha pussies. I've said as much before, but right now, I don't feel like I can belabor this point. Back when Vertigo was just starting--before it was a specific imprint even, but really just a "Mature Readers" warning on the covers of Swamp Thing, Sandman, Animal Man, et al--they were really taking some risks, hiring these heretofore relatively unknown writers and artists to tell some realistic, oftentimes discomforting stories. Now, they hedged their bets by generally relegating these creators to characters that had no real following, that were B-list at best. It would still be most of a decade before DC or Marvel let guys like Neil Gaiman or Grant Morrison near their real money-makers. But in my opinion, this kind of editorial limiting turned out to be a plus because by kinda forcing (and hell, I'm not altogether certain these nutty European dudes weren't queueing up for these also-ran characters) these guys to work with unpopular characters, they had a lot more room to explore, a lot more stories to tell.

But now here we are today, in a much unfriendlier economic environment. I will allow that Vertigo is already an imprint of DC Comics, which is itself a subsidiary of Time/Warner, which is conglomerated with whichever faceless, soulless corporation it's conglomerated with these days. Therefore, I'm well aware that the bottom line is always gonna be profit, and so creativity is often (if not always) going to take a backseat to this motive.

But do they have to be so fucking obvious about it?

The only realm wherein Vertigo is getting any real trouble from Marvel MAX (its direct rival) is in the crime genre. Criminal is an obvious feather in Marvel's cap, and I would argue that Incognito acts in much the same way, even if the story premise is fairly different. Also, the gravy train that Garth Ennis made of The Punisher puts much of Vertigo's output to shame. But that's about it, that's almost the entirety of Marvel's muster on this front. Vertigo, though known for more of the mystical magical Gaiman-esque stuff, has also produced some masterful crime/crime-related comics, 100 Bullets not being the least of them. But there was also the Gary Phillips-penned mini Angeltown, Andy Diggle and Jock's The Losers and Peter Milligan's revamping of Human Target (both woefully cancelled a few years ago), and the fortunately still rather successful Scalped. So clearly, Vertigo is capable of making some good creative decisions.

But I would say upon launching this admittedly ambitious crime imprint that now is the time to take some real risks. Publish some classic noir stuff. And not classic in the sense of the same ol' thing, or anything like that. But classic in the sense that 100 Bullets was a classic almost from its initial pitch: tough guys, bullets, tits, and swear words. How hard could that be?

Well, instead the first two releases were boring rehashes of Vertigo's flagship character and of its top-selling crime title, respectively. Dark Entries, written by Ian Rankin and illustrated by Werther Dell'Edera, is toted to be a classic haunted-house tale (as espoused on the cover by Warren Ellis, if memory serves)(I've already re-sold my copy, so I don't have one to hand). Yeah, that sounds good, I guess. But couldn't I just read one of the million fucking other classic haunted-house tales Vertigo has published in its nearly twenty year history? Do I really gotta cough up twenty bucks for a hard-cover that I finished over lunch?

Oh, but it's a Hellblazer story, you say, with that John Constantine character. And I say, re-read the last paragraph, but substitute the phrase "classic haunted-house tale" with "John Constantine story," and I'll meet you in the next paragraph.

Filthy Rich, Vertigo Crime's second offering (which came out the same week as the first--thanks, Vertigo! I didn't need to buy groceries this week anyways!) was a bit more satisfying, but I still felt a bit cheated. It was written by Brian Azzarello, whose stuff I will probably always read. The guy knows his crime, and he writes cracking dialogue. But the art by Victor Santos...I dunno, I feel like I may be going out on a limb with this, but I'm gonna do it anyways: Santos is a fine artist in his own right, and his style certainly fits well with this genre. But for my money, his similarity to long-time Azzarello collaborator and co-creator of 100 Bullets Eduardo Risso is simply too close for comfort. It could most definitely be argued that the use of negative space, black-and-white, and a lot of pictures of guys lighting cigarettes are simply part of noir-comic art, of which Risso has done tons. So naturally, there's gonna be some areas of comparison. But if you also factor in the notion that since 100 Bullets concluded not too long ago and Vertigo has lost a major money-maker in that book, it's also completely possible that they're trying to recoup that loss by proffering up this substitute, that I would at my most charitable describe as weak.

And the future does not look too bright. The next offering from Vertigo Crime is a book by reputed crime novelist Jason Starr. This may raise some eyebrows amongst my fellow crime cronies, but I really haven't liked anything I've read by Starr so far, so I fear no end to my trepidations with this line of books. The next two books, though, are written by two of my favorites, Peter Milligan and Christos Gage. But at twenty bucks a pop? My comics budget is stretched thin enough. Had I reason to believe that my investment would be worth it, I'd find the money somewhere. But so far, I've been disappointed in this line, even if not with the works of Milligan or Gage. So it seems I'm not immune to the profit-motive either. Thing of it is, I don't have the backing of one of the wealthiest entertainment conglomerates in the world.

And that's my base-line complaint: can't Vertigo afford at least some balls? Yes, I concede that the business of business is business, but with this business, isn't the smart investment quality product as opposed to tired "legacy" characters and in-house rip-offs? Especially from a line that has thus far produced some of the highest quality output of the past two decades, and with the money and marketing to get those books into the hands of folks who'd never cross the threshold of a geeky-ass comic shop, am I asking too much of them?

Believe it or not, dear reader, I'd rather light a candle than curse your darkness.
Fortunately, there are other books out there worth your time and money. Just a couple weeks ago, Dark Horse Comics released the anthology Noir. For a mere $12.95, you get stories by such heavy-hitters as David Lapham, Jeff Lemire, and the team that brings you Criminal, Ed Brubaker and Sean Phillips. That story alone is worth it as introduction to that fine monthly. There's also The Mammoth Book of Best Crime Comics. I'm not a hundred percent on the availability of this tome at your local shop as it is at least a year old, but I'm sure the magical internets can produce you a copy if you simply ask. I haven't had a chance to dig into this giant myself, but it's on the TBR stack as we speak, and its beautiful Jordi Bernet cover beckons me daily, as do promises of stories by Alan Moore, Will Eisner, and Dashiell Hammett, author of what I consider the finest crime novel ever, Red Harvest. This book has a cover price of $17.95, yet easily outweighs both the twenty-dollar Vertigo Crime books put together.

So be a good Commie, and only buy crime comics with the Jimmy the Worm hammer-and-sickle seal-of-approval. And I'll see you all down at the Hugo Chávez rally this weekend.

In My Corner

2009-10-01T09:16:00.001-07:00

NOTE: I wrote this a couple months ago, but didn't post it because it was too whiny. I still think that, I just don't care as much. I hope you gag on it.

After so many years, I finally got fed up pissing and moaning about my childhood, particularly my relationship with my father, so I more or less knocked it off. The old man and I actually get along okay these days, although I only talk to him twice, maybe three times a year. Even less, come to think of it. There's still a lot of that bile simmering beneath the surface, and it tends to come out in my writing more often than not. I don't fight that, because at least it's a creative way to deal with that sort of shit, much moreso than going on Dr. Phil and crying about it. But I still tend to avoid talking about it directly, if for no other reason than it's very un-Dude.

Worry not, this still has to do with comics. But I've had a couple things knocking about in my head that I've been wanting to write about, but have been lacking a (somewhat) interesting way to go about it until today. Today, I read Ultimate Spider-Man #133, and there's a really nice interview in the back with writer Brian Michael Bendis. If you've read any Marvel comic at all over the past ten years, chances are Bendis either wrote it, or a major story-arc that he wrote had a large editorial influence on it. The guy has more or less become the Stan Lee of this current generation, and in no way is this more obvious than the fact that he re-started the whole Spider-Man saga and saw it through to its timely end (well, sorta. I guess the book will continue, but the Ultimate universe as we've come to know it so far is pretty much nixed). So the interviewer made sure to address this, and Bendis talked about not just how much of an influence Lee was on him as a writer, but as a person. And he said something that I can certainly relate to, and is a subject I've given considerable thought over the years: in regards to how emotional he got over Stan Lee's gracious acceptance of him as Lee's title-bearer, Bendis says, "So I didn't have a father and then Stan Lee is nice to me and I act like he's my father."

This type of psychology should be no stranger to those of us fellows immersed in comics. Comics, particularly super-hero comics, are largely escapist. As young lads, what we're often trying to escape is dissatisfaction with our home lives. I'm painting in broad strokes here, but I've noticed that most of us fall into three categories: we had no friends, we had no fathers, or our fathers were total shitheads. I've read where Ed Brubaker has said, since he was an army brat and was moved around constantly, comics were the one constant in his life, as he was never in one place long enough to form any lasting friendships. Bendis, according to the aforementioned interview, dearly loves his mother and has no problems with how she raised him and his brother, but he definitely felt the absence of a male role model.

Guess which category I fall under. Boo-hoo, I know. But if you'll humor me, I'll explain why Stan Lee, as much as I love the guy, isn't my father, nor is Steve Ditko or Harvey Kurtzman or even Alan Moore or Chris Claremont or Frank Miller or any of the hundreds of other comics creators who began molding me into a man from the tender age of 11.

When I was 13 years old, me and Ryan Moore (no relation) were playing Butts Up after school. The plan was to hang out, go back to my house around the block and hang out for a while, and then come back for some lame-ass 8th grade dance. Only Ryan thought it would be more fun to pull the fire alarm while I wasn't looking. Ooops. So naturally, as the klaxon sounds and the day-care kids are lined up out on the softball field, I panic, hop on my bike, and book it home. Only thing is Mr. Reinike had seen me and Ryan down there on the handball courts just a few minutes earlier. So Dr. Quiocho, the principal, calls my house just as I pull huffing and puffing into the driveway. Man, was my dad pissed, so pissed he barely said a word as we drove back. Dr. Quiocho, bless her, a woman I'd always found to be fair even if kinda scary, waited until Ryan had been hauled onto the carpet as well before accusing me of anything. And Ryan, being in general an all-right guy, 'fessed up immediately and made it clear I had no hand in any of these shenanigans. Dr. Quiocho then excused me before she ripped Moore a new asshole in front of the firefighters who had been called down there erroneously. I followed my dad out as Quiocho blamed Ryan for the hypothetical deaths of orphans as their house burned down because the fire department was busy down at Joan McQueen Middle School because of him.

We weren't two steps out the door before my dad turned to me and said, "You probably dared him to do it, didn't ya?" Now, I'm a little guy, physically, and I was a little kid then. Yet never, before or since, have I ever felt smaller. I looked up into the face of the man who had sired me, and I saw there the disappointment that he would be denied giving me a whipping, as well as the utter surety that my worthless snot-nosed ass was the brains behind this operation. There was no way I was not culpable in any, if not all, of this because I was a miserable piece of shit, all overwhelming evidence to the contrary be damned. I looked over my shoulder at a couple of the firemen outside the office. They'd heard what my old man said to me, and I swear I saw the pity in their faces: "Man, tough break, kid."

I certainly don't believe this one incident led me and/or my self-esteem down the road to wrack and ruin. But it is, I think, pretty indicative of the environment I was raised in, and that environment had a profound effect on me. I've spent the rest of my life feeling like I never really have anybody in my corner, that the only person who gave a fuck about me was me. This is an exaggeration: I'd take a bullet for any one of my friends, and feel certain they would say the same. But when I talk with people who are close with their families, the one saving grace those families seem to have, even when they're driving you up a wall, is that "they're always there when you need them."

Yeah, well, I'll have to take your word for it.

But let me tell you another story now, a much happier one, as far as I'm concerned. This is a story I first read about in Gerard Jones' excellent Men of Tomorrow: Geeks, Gangsters and the Birth of the Comic Book. Back in the late '30s, Will Eisner, creator of The Spirit, was running his own "shop," as they called it--basically, an office where comics artists could rent out space (that's really simplifying it, but I digress). Now, at this building, there was a towel service that was run by some Mafia goons, and they were constantly jacking the prices up, as Mafia goons will do. So one day, Eisner demands to see a representative about these price changes, and up comes a guy straight from central casting: big, broken-nosed, black shirt, white tie. Eisner says he's gonna find another towel service, and the guy lets him know, subtly but firmly, that that would not be a good idea.

Just then, in walks one of Eisner's fellow comics artists, a little five-foot-two guy. Before Eisner can even say anything, his buddy knows just what's going on: this is a goddamn shakedown. "Is this guy giving you any trouble, Will?" he says, ready to fly headfirst into the shit. And Eisner's like, No, hey, it's all under control. "Do you want me to beat him up?" the artist says, and at this point, I can only imagine the expression on this mobbed-up dope's face: here he is at a 'business meeting,' and in walks this sawed-off Jew threatening to beat him up. "Who is this guy?" he asks Eisner. Eisner says this guy is one of his best artists, and nothing had better happen to him or nobody's gonna be able to pay for any towels anyways. The goon says, "We don't want no trouble; we just want to do things business-like." And that was it; the price hikes stopped (for a while, anyways).

Who was that guy, Eisner's best artist?

Jack fuckin' Kirby, that's who. The guy who would go on to pretty much co-create the Marvel Universe as we know it with Stan Lee: the original artist of Captain America, The Fantastic Four, The Incredible Hulk, Thor, Iron Man and The X-Men, just for openers. The guy whose name is probably more closely associated with comics than any other.

"Let me know if he comes back, Will," he says to Eisner, "Tell me if you want me to beat him up." This little half-pint was ready to start swinging before he even knew the play; all he saw was his buddy Will Eisner getting bullied, and that was that. Didn't matter that the guy was probably twice Kirby's size. Eisner's his associate, and ain't nobody fucking with anybody associated with Jack Kirby.

Nobody.

I've not always been the biggest Kirby fan. I don't buy The Jack Kirby Collector. I went to one of Mark Evanier's Kirby panels at WonderCon '08, and those guys are far more familiar with the man and his work than I'll ever be. And if you wanna get technical, the guy was far from the best artist ever, with no formal training at all. But I'll tell you one thing for sure: Jack Kirby's always been there when I've needed him.

Always in my corner.

No Fun to Hang Around

2009-09-01T00:09:00.000-07:00

Greg and Bert down at the shop seem to prefer the days when comics were fun. When I rolled my eyes at the Fantastic Four movie, Bert defended it as being a "fun movie." And yeah, I guess I may be a little on the cynical side. Sure, I still get a boyish thrill from a lotta comics, books that I grew up on, books that I probably wouldn't care less about had I not been reading them since sixth grade. But many superhero books, especially from the Silver Age, are really cornball, moreso than even nostalgia can overcome. So, generally speaking, I find that fun just ain't no fun.

The rise in popularity of the anti-hero during the '80s was a backlash to this notion of fun, and can be traced back to Frank Miller's The Dark Knight Returns. That book is nothing short of genius, and it was so huge that its aftereffects are still felt in the genre today, what Wayne down at the shop refers to as a "watershed moment" in comics. In Comic Book Confidential, Miller himself talks about how the Silver Age Batman stories became so trite and goofy that no kid could really relate to him, y'know, there was no depth to the character. Kids may be dumb, after all, but they're not idiots; if you give them stories with depth and meaning, they're going to respond to them. Plus you'll have stories that grown-ups can enjoy as well. So Miller brought this notion into his work by making Batman darker, more of a tortured soul, and the world of crime and depravity in which he fought more bleak. This way, when the hero wins at the end, he's overcome something more meaningful than second-rate Bond-villain-type traps, resulting in a much more satisfying kind of story.

The Dark Knight Returns truly did save the character from the Adam West-type goofball crap, but unfortunately, the trend took off and just went too far. In this, comics are really no different than any other mass media: hey, everybody, jump on the bandwagon! Soon, Batman became a parody of himself in the other direction, this brooding, mopey sad sack. Anti-heroes like the Punisher, Ghost Rider, and Wolverine skyrocketed in popularity, guest-starring in more books in the late '80s/early '90s than Barack Obama does today. Embarrassing attempts at making characters more relevant to the times abounded--the Black Knight went from being a medieval man-at-arms to a mullethead in a leather jacket, complete with five o'clock shadow and earring. Yeesh. I tried to no avail to find visual support of this goofy move on Marvel's part, but trust me, he looked like how your uncle might dress if he was trying to fit in at a Zeros show. It's really a shame that the comics industry perpetuates this follow-the-leader mentality that is so prevalent in movies, TV, etc., especially since the medium is superior to any and all of these other forms.

But that's nearly twenty years ago now, and this current generation of creators seems to be instilling a trend of its own, a trend one would hope won't get hammered into the ground like the Vision in Incredible Hulk #300. As I've been drafting this piece in my head, I've been trying to come up with a term to describe this trend. These aren't traditional super-heroes by any stretch, but they're not quite anti-heroes either. They share many traits with that latter, but like Frank Miller's Batman before they both became cartoon versions of themselves, there's more depth, more character, more for the reader to chew on and digest. So, until someone comes up with a better name, I'm gonna call them the no-fun heroes (cue the Stooges).

There are already a number of titles out there that well exemplify the no-fun hero, so I thought here I'd give you the quick skinny on a few that are available at your local shop right now, and then a short list of others you can dig out of the back-issue bins. So first up, we have the latest book by one of the writing-est motherfuckers in the biz these days, Absolution by Mr. Christos Gage. The main character is John Dusk, one of a small band of superheroes (or in the parlance of the book, "enhanciles") who work with the police department to combat super-powered crime. In his nearly ten years on the job, Dusk has seen some terrible, terrible things, humanity (super or otherwise) at its very worst, defilement of human beings that haunts him. He can't sleep, he hallucinates, he's generally more miserable than when he started this do-gooder business, and the cracks begin to show. First, he uses excessive force on a supervillain. Hey, no big, the guy had it coming, right? So if Dusk covers it up a bit to keep himself out of trouble, we understand that. Later, Dusk arrives on scene at a domestic disturbance where a guy has bashed in his old lady's head. Pushy and loudmouthed, the guy keeps needling Dusk. And needling him. And needling him.

What really strikes me about what Gage and artist Roberto Viacava are doing here is simply how exhausted Dusk is. Dusk doesn't sit in his cave and look stalwart. He's not menacing or brutal; he doesn't even have perpetual stubble. He's just a guy doing his job, and nothing will tire a guy out quicker. When anybody gives in to the temptation to sit around and navel-gaze, even so-called heroes, it's understandable, but it's also a form of giving up. A guy like Dusk is like that tree that won't bend in the wind. Eventually, it breaks. He begins to utilize his powers, not to strike a blow for justice and ensure the safety of all, but just to try to get some fucking sleep without the victims of horrible rape and disfiguration pervading his dreams.

As far as I know, Christos Gage has created the first story about a superhero/serial killer. Stories about either one are a dime a baker's dozen, but to combine the two, I mean, shit, that was probably the entirety of the pitch. Gage: "Hey, I wanna do a book about a supe who goes John Wayne Gacy." Avatar: "Where do we send your check?" And it's a topic simply overripe for a superhero book. Take any one superhero--Spider-Man, let's say. The guy is indirectly to blame for the death of his beloved uncle, his best friend's dad throws his girlfriend off a bridge, an alien tries to possess him and then later eat his brains. Hell, the shit Carnage did alone would be enough to send anybody around the bend. Yet, Spidey's still out there fighting the good fight, cracking jokes all the while like an agile Henny Youngman. And it just doesn't fly with me anymore.

The superhero as a model of morality in the face of extreme adversity is not a trope that must be done away with. I'd say it still has some relevance, even in these modern times with their modern socks. But hey, why not explore some other avenues? The days of white hats and black hats are long over. It may not be much "fun" to not have a good guy to root for or a bad guy to boo and hiss. But I think it's plenty of fun to read about a truly conflicted character, a character divided against himself, and losing moral ground in this battle by the day. So go down to the shop and by issues 0 and 1, or however many are out by the time you read this. Absolution ain't no fun, which means it's tons of fun.

Absolute power corrupts absolutely. That's the Machiavellian sensibility that the old-timers like Siegel & Shuster and Stan Lee were working against. Those guys wanted a world where those in power accepted that power as a responsibility, not a burden. Sure, it's a lofty concept, but never mind the fact (or, if not fact, at least high probability) that it is unrealistic, it more importantly just gets really boring when it's the only idea being bandied about.

So what happens (if and) when that corruption takes place? Irredeemable, Mark Waid's current no-fun monthly over at Boom! Studios with artist Peter Krause. Not unlike what Alan Moore did with Supreme a while back, Waid is using the recognizable archetypes from the Superman diegesis to tell a Superman story that DC would never publish in a million years. Here's Waid's own basis for the book: "How do you go from being the greatest hero in the world — someone that everybody knows, and everybody loves, and everyone recognizes — to the greatest villain in the world? What is that path? It's not a light switch, it's not an on-off switch, it's not something that you wake up one day and just become evil."

Irredeemable is the complex story about what would happen if Superman (in the personage of the Plutonian) figured he'd had enough and decided to take over the world. He slaughters millions, destroys whole cities, and generally terrorizes the human race. When his former teammates attempt to track down Modeus (the Plutonian's Lex Luthor) to help stop this, the Plutonian, in his omnipotence, begins picking them off along with his rogue's gallery. The guy's had enough. He's been toying with humanity for too long, and their petty bickering amongst themselves and their underlying intense fear/hatred of him and his power finally pushes him over the edge. A guy tries to do his job, and it just wears him out. Like with Absolution, we can see that superhumans ain't so super sometimes. Now in fandom, I get the feeling that guys who still look to their superheroes as models of behavior seem to think there's something wrong with this idea. But shit, fellas, you're grown men now, and I shouldn't have to qualify this by saying you don't have to agree on any kind of moral level with these stories. I mean, I happen to, and quite a bit in fact, but I can still remain objective, so that really has little bearing on the discussion here. And one thing anyone would be hard-pressed to argue is it's at the very least an interesting concept, one that's been flirted with but rarely so directly addressed.

Mark Waid, unabashedly the biggest Superman fan on the planet, really shows a lot of balls in taking this subject on. But what pushes the parallel with Superman all the way home for me is Krause's very John Byrne-esque style. To tell this story in the style of the guy who a lotta people think fucked Superman up is pretty telling, indeed. That's a bit of speculation on my part, perhaps, but clearly Waid and Krause are interested in the exploration of other themes within superhero comics rather than just good guys versus bad guys. Also, notice how in none of these are we departing from the other earmarks of superhero comics: there are still super-powered beings and plenty of slam-bang gee-whiz action. But enough already with the high-handed morality of the Golden Age, the Silver Age with all its goofy trappings and greasy kids' stuff, and none of this bad-assery of the 1980s and 90s covering up for a severe lack of real depth. Let's tell some fucking stories here, yeah? That's my idea of a fun time.

Waid and Krause may love the subject of their criticism, but Garth Ennis hates superheroes. Always has, it seems, and even though he writes like a maniac, he really hasn't written that many super-hero books. Probably his most well-known book, Preacher, was basically a modern-day Western that decried the existence of an omnibenevolent God. Heady stuff, to be sure, but these days Ennis is going after a much more sacred lamb. The Boys is about a black-ops CIA team formed precisely to keep super-humans in line. For in this comical-book universe, the most common super-power is corruption itself.
Here's where the cynicism train pulls into the station, so have your tickets ready. Super-hero comics are escapist not only because these characters can perform feats of unbelievable strength, thereby giving vent to daydreams of power for the average reader, but also because they tend to be idealized personifications of high morality. In kind of a Platonic way, a character like Superman, or Captain America, or whomever, represent the capital-"G" Good that we all aspire to, the Form of Good (man, it's been awhile since I've read The Republic, so I hope I'm not fucking this up too bad). Now, never let it be said that I'm somehow against escapism. But on the other hand, I tend to lean more towards existentialism and nihilism than I do idealism, and pretty much believe in nossing, Lebowski. It'd be great if there was an ideal form of Good to aspire to, especially if that form was written by John Arcudi and drawn by Lee Bermejo. But there isn't: there's just people. And people, to the extent of a vast amount of my experience, are miserable pieces of shit. So if any of most the people in the world were actually to acquire super-powers in real life, I don't believe they'd become anything more than super-powered pieces of shit.

And I think it's pretty safe to say Ennis feels much the same way. With Darick Robertson, he's populated a world where the "super-heroes" all look great for the cameras and their books sell like Thanagarian hotcakes. But in reality, these heroes exploit their powers for their own personal gain, more worried about the bottom line of their merchandising deals than they are in dealing with the public they're supposed to be protecting, more worried about where their next piece of pussy is coming from than in rescuing cats out of trees. These supes are, to a one, over-sexed, drug-addled, and cash-obsessed. There is truly no level of depravity they won't sink to. On top of that, there is also an analogue Bush administration that works hand in hand with the attendant arms manufacturer (which, of course, manufactures supes), and with this, Ennis drives home the fact that there are no heroes, no pie in the sky. In the aforementioned Comic Book Confidential, Stan Lee talks about how during the early '60s, superheroes enjoyed a renaissance because Kennedy was in the White House and there was a feeling of heroism in the air. But clearly, those days are long behind us (I mean, the new guy is working out, but a lot of damage has been done). If the Bush administration proved anything, it's that there are no heroes, that people in power will utilize that power only to fuck more power out of those with less than they. The only ones who can save us are us.

My words cannot begin to describe the world of unbridled hedonism and pure unadulterated amorality Ennis has set up for these characters. But honestly, it's nothing less than anyone in the real world has sunken to. The Boys themselves, being of all different backgrounds and motivations, represent how each of us as individuals are responsible not only for ourselves, but also to keep the assholes out there in line by denying them the power over us they so need. Sadly, Mighty Mouse is not in fact on his way. But fuck the superheroes--we can do it ourselves. That may not be the most fun message, the one most enabling of escapism, but that's kinda the point, isn't it?

As I said, all these books should be well available at your local comic shop. Absolution should just about be up to issue #2 as I post this. Boom! has got a great deal going right now: the trade paperback collecting the first four issues of Irredeemable is now on sale for a mere ten bucks (less than I paid for the individual issues--not a complaint at all, they're well worth it, but just so you, the discriminating consumer, knows), and the 5th issue has a cover price of a mere 99 cents. So get on top of that. The Boys is now up into the 30s, but there is currently a spin-off mini-series, Herogasm, which would be a good jumping on point while you're waiting around after your shop orders you the four trades already in print. Then, while you're down there, you can dig around for some other titles that fit this no-fun bill: No Hero and Black Summer, both by Warren Ellis and Juan Jose Ryp for Avatar; The Punisher Kills the Marvel Universe by Garth Ennis and Dougie Braithwaite for Marvel (obviously); The Pro by Garth Ennis and Amanda Conner (see a pattern forming?) for Image; and of course, the book you all should have read by now, the book that really opened this discussion and proved what super-hero comics were capable of, Watchmen by Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons.

Until next time, I'll maybe go out, maybe stay home, maybe call Mom on the telephone. Well, c'mon.

Distinguished Competition

2009-08-04T18:47:00.000-07:00

I like the Beatles more than the Stones. Mostly, I think, 'cause I grew up on them more, but also 'cause, like Rev. Norb once said, "Oh, sure, the Stones are bad boys, but the Beatles were better because they were funnier and smarter." These kinds of simple distinctions are kinda annoying when people lob them at you--Beatles or Stones, Raw or Delirious, Joel or Mike--but that doesn't change the fact that they're true sometimes.

I grew up on Marvel way more than DC. But for a while there, when I came back into collecting full force again after my little on-leave a while ago, DC piqued my interest a lot more than it ever had. Maybe it was 'cause I didn't really have a history with those characters. Like, after not reading any books steadily for about five years, I couldn't enjoy a Marvel book because I was just too anxious worrying about all the continuity I'd missed or (even worse) forgotten. But right around when 52 ended, my interest in DC all but waned entirely, while Bendis has pretty much insured that I'll buy every major Marvel crossover until it actually is 2099.

That being said, I'd like to talk about some of the things DC does right, stuff that Marvel never seems to be able to do. For openers, DC's current weekly Wednesday Comics. If you haven't seen these, do yourself a favor and go grab 'em up. I believe the fifth issue should just be hitting the stands as I write this. Just buy one so you have something nice to look at. What these books are, see, are over-sized newsprint comics, the format of the old Sunday funnies where comics got their start back in the Golden '30s. Unless you're gung-ho, the creators' names won't mean much to you, but heavy hitters like Azzarello & Risso and Kyle Baker were enough to get me to pre-order them. The format is kinda awkward (don't try to read them in the park on a breezy day), but I'll tell you, and not to sound cornball, but they are simply beautiful works of art. Big, lavish splash pages; intricate sequential plotting; it's enough to make my mouth water just thinking about it. And they're on actual newsprint! I don't care what a cranky old man I normally sound like, I'm not nearly old enough to be nostalgic for the radio days, but newsprint was used for comics almost exclusively up until the mid to late '90s, when everybody started using that higher stock paper that's still just way too slick, especially for my punk-rock sensibilities. So hop on down to the shop and grab these up.

The western is a genre on a whole that DC has all over Marvel, always has and always will. I've raved about Jonah Hex in these pages before, but that's really just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to the vast and colorful western back-catalog DC has. El Diablo, the Jekyll-and-Hyde of the Old West. Bat Lash, the pretty-boy ladies' man who can blow your guns out of your belt at fifty paces. Scalphunter, the baddest redskin to ever wield a tomahawk and, now that I think about, at least a distant relative to Scalped's Dashiell Badhorse. What does Marvel have? The Rawhide Kid? Hey, I love Kirby as much as the next guy, but c'mon. Plus, Marvel had to go and try to make that character more relevant recently by making him gay, and we all know how well attempts like that work out (Northstar, anyone?). Sure, it was done tongue-in-cheek (ahem), and the book was still worth it for the Severin art, but I dunno. Just kinda gay, you ask me. Who else? Two-Gun Kid? Kid Colt? I dunno, these characters are to DC's stable as the corny oaters of the old days are to the spaghetti westerns of the '60s. Two-Gun Kid and Kid Colt are like Gene Autry: boring in their stark morality, that bullshit "good guys always win" routine. Jonah Hex is Clint Eastwood; there ain't no morals in them thar hills, and it ain't always the best man who wins. Usually the opposite, in fact. When you wanna a good western, go to DC.

And finally, there's Gail Simone. It's rare that I follow the works of any women writers. I say this just as a statement of fact, not to further any kinda misogynist agenda (I can do that later, if you want). But there it is, and this is not just in comics, but in pretty much all other media I enjoy. Why that is, I don't really know, or at least I don't have a really good reason. But when it comes to writers like Gail Simone, then I notice how much I could be missing by having my comic collection be such a sausage-fest. I'd seen her name around a bunch and I'm sure I must have read a thing or two by her, but the first thing I remember really grabbing me was her opening run on the current Atom series. I began picking that book up originally because Grant Morrison had had much to do with it editorially, kinda setting the book up and then letting Simone run with it. But after a while, you could really see how much was his and how much was hers and how grateful I was for it. Normally, that kinda disjunction would be really off-putting, but in this case, it was really nice to see the story come into its own on its own, and pretty much under Simone's own power.
If I wasn't so lazy, I could go dig those out, re-read them and let you know where exactly that happens, but there you go. You oughtta just go down to the comic shop and pick up the first couple trades of that series, and also her Secret Six, also on DC. And as far as I know, she's never done anything for Marvel, not anything of as much significance anyways. Maybe she will at some point; I mean, hell, it's not like the old days when you had to sign a loyalty oath or anything. But until then, Gail Simone is another feather in DC's cap, one that Marvel is sorely lacking.

Of course, there's Vertigo, which is still DC's strongest asset, and WildStorm puts out some good stuff, but I still think of that as Jim Lee's company, I don't care where the money's coming from now. Marvel doesn't really have much in the way of direct competition there in the way of (for lack of a better phrase) smaller press-type stuff, although what they do have is pretty significant: Ed Brubaker and Sean Phillips' Criminal and Incognito, and of course, Garth Ennis' pure-genius run on The Punisher. The strength of those three books alone is almost enough to fairly well eclipse DC. Still and all, Vertigo has alone put out some of the most important comics of the last couple decades, and WildStorm continues to open doors for a lotta unknown guys (notably here, Ed Brubaker and Sean Phillips). So that's technically another win in their column.

But DC still sucks. Their characters have been around a whole lot longer than Marvel's and therefore are way more overused, even compared to how overused characters like Spider-Man and Wolverine are. Both companies have pretty equally painfully embarrassing eras, but Marvel still manages to come off as the younger, hipper publisher, the Pepsi to DC's Coke. I mean, to any non-collector, a passing glance at books from either company from any era would look about the same, so an argument like this is mostly intellectual (so to speak). But then, internally, within the comics industry, I think DC has fucked up way worse and way more often than Marvel. We can all agree Quesada's pretty much a putz, and Stan Lee's high visibility these past few years has been more embarrassing than the Invisible Girl's costume from the '90s. But! DC has thoroughly angered Alan Moore and his giant snake-god, and that's just not cool. WildStorm sent Ennis and Robertson's The Boys packing, which is incredibly short-sighted and immature of them and definitely Dynamite's major gain. They killed Vic Sage, but that's more of a personal complaint, since The Question was actually one of the very, very first comics I read that really grabbed me. Need I mention the Tim Burton Batman movies? Oh, and the current logo from since about '05 is still lame.

So I'm still a Marvel zombie, through and through (ironic, since I think Marvel Zombies is one of the lamest books out there right now). But that doesn't mean I can't tip my hat when the Distinguished Competition comes along and shows me a great comic book. And maybe if they keep it up...

Well, let's not lose our heads here.

Jeff Lemire: #1 in Our Hearts

2009-07-01T05:56:00.001-07:00

Hands down, my best experience at the Con last year was meeting Jeff Lemire. Moreso than completing my Ultimate Spider-Man collection; moreso than getting a free copy of the first two seasons of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia; moreso even than the time I ate my weight in Godfather's Pizza.

I was at the Bud Plant booth (or was it Comic Relief?), and I saw the third volume in Lemire's Essex County trilogy. I nearly lost my mind. Although it had only been providence that I'd come to pick up the first volume, I know for sure I would have ordered the third volume, but as near as I could recall, it hadn't been solicited yet. But then again, I get so much stuff every month, and even purposefully try to forget what I order (so as to be surprised when it gets in my hands or less disappointed when it don't), so who even knows now? As you can imagine, I was in a panic.

Fortunately, cooler heads prevailed, and John suggested we go over to the Top Shelf booth and get to the bottom of this. As we approached said booth, I coould see the volume in question there on the table. I marched up and asked the first guy I saw if this volume had in fact been solicted by Diamond yet. He informed me that no, it hadn't, but they'd brought some copies down just for the Con. So I said set 'em up, country music, my buddy here and I will relieve you of a couple. The guy said, yeah, all right, and when he got up to transact the sale, I saw his badge: "Jeff Lemire, professional." "Oh, shit, it's you," I said. Jeff nodded, as though it had never ocurred to him that he wouldn't be him.

So we shot the shit with him for a bit. It's rare that any professional I've met has ever been less than gracious, but when they're as engaging and friendly as Jeff was, it really makes me re-think the whole misanthropy bit (but only until I go outside again, usually). Jeff had a stack of original watercolors for sale of DC superheroes, and John bought a couple off him (my budget was sadly depleted by that point). And then listen to this: when John mentioned that he'd gotten his mitts on a copy of Lost Dogs, one of Jeff's early books, and then I added that I'd been yet to track a copy down, Jeff says, "Oh, just e-mail me your address and I'll send you one." Are you kidding me? Of course, I took him up on it, and he not only sent me one, but also another early book of his, The True North, all complete with a big sketch on the envelope. Is this guy a fuckin' sweetheart or what?

If you haven't read Essex County yet, then lucky for you, the collected edition will be available this August, complete with all three volumes as well as the two mini-comics I also bought from Jeff last year, and tons other bonus stuff. The story follows the lives of Lester Papineau, Lou Lebeuf and Anne Quenneville, three people whose only connection at first seems to be the small Canadian town they live in, but which turns out to be only the most obvious connection. Their individual stories tie into each other in much deeper, many more complicated ways. Lemire masterfully reveals their roots and the commonality of their ostensibly disparate lives. Essex County is tied for my favorite book of 2008 with Skyscrapers of the Midwest by Josh Cotter (about whom you shall be hearing more from me, as well as his upcoming new project, Driven by Lemons, in these very pages), and that is no limp competition.

As beautiful as the book is on a whole, it is the first volume, the story of young comic-book collector Lester, that hooked me, since it is very much like looking into a mirror of my own lonely childhood, and the story truly captures how a life of fantasy and imagination can be very necessary and, at the same time, extremely frustrating. But regardless of who you are or your background, if you are unable to identify with the characters in Essex County, you might want to check with your doctor because you may not be a human being. And those are the stories that tend to resonate: stories about people.

Also lucky for you, Jeff Lemire has wisely been scooped up by Vertigo and will now get the wider exposure he and his work so richly deserve. First, we have shipping this month, July 8th, the hardcover The Nobody, Lemire's loving tribute to The Invisible Man. Then, mark your calendars for September, for that is when the first issue of Jeff's first on-going monthly will hit the spinner-racks. And your luck has yet to run out: the first issue (also from Vertigo) carries a cover price of a mere dollar. To pass up on that would be foolish, to say the very least.

As if Lemire didn't have enough on his plate, he was so kind as to allow me to pester him with a few questions via the electronic mails. So without further ado, Jeff Lemire in his own words.

This is gonna sound dumb, but: is it Le-MEER? Or Le-MIER?

Le-meer.

Has being a new dad dramatically affected your work routine? I imagine it must be handy that you work at home, no?

It's hard to stay focused some days, but in general he is still new, so he sleeps a lot and I haven't really had to sacrifice much work time, because my wife is so fantastic to watch him most of the day. Sometimes he sits next to my drawing desk when I work. And his tiny tiny hands are great for cleaning out my ink jars too!

In the March Wizard interview, you talked about how you've read The Invisible Man a bunch of times and seen the Universal film as well, and how this was the genesis for The Nobody. Were you at any point worried that the source material would begin to sort of interfere with your adaptation? Like the ghost of H.G. Wells hovering over your shoulder while you worked or something?

Ha! No, not really; from the start I knew I wasn't doing an adaptation, just taking the basic set-up and doing my own thing with it, so I didn't really rely or think too much about the source material once I got started, other than to make a few nods and allusions to it here and there for fans of the book to pick out.

Unless I'm mistaken, the up-coming Sweet Tooth is your first monthly book. Is the pressure on? I've read where you said Essex County took you three or four years to get finished. How sorely are you going to miss being able to take that long on a book?

It is my first monthly, but luckily I work really fast. I generally do 2-4 pages a day, so keeping up the deadlines on Sweet Tooth is not a problem, and I am also able to juggle working on longer form work as well, so each has its advantages. It can be freeing to work in 22 page chunks and then let it go and keep moving forward.

Sweet Tooth takes place in the U.S., even if it's a kinda warped vision of one. I wonder if you could talk a little about Canada vs. America. What I mean is Canada has a distinct culture and perspective, but a lot of Canadian artists who tackle the American problem seem to get it spot on. I guess what I'm getting at is do you think Canadians have such an insight into the American perspective because theirs is very similar? Very different? Or is it just because we're neighbors?

I think anyone who can take a step back and look at anything from a little distance can bring a fresh and insightful perspective, that someone who is in the middle of it may not always have. I think that's why Canadians are generally so adept at commenting on America. We are similar enough that we can relate to and understand the American experience, yet just far enough removed that we have a broader perspective sometimes.

You've done album cover artwork for bands like Art Brut and catl. Are you a big music guy? What kind of stuff do you listen to? Do you draw with music playing or do you need silence?

I am a big music fan, and am constantly listening to music while I work. My favorites would be Nick Cave, The Pogues, The Clash, Tom Waits, John Cale, Warren Zevon. I also have a soft spot for 80's pop like Depeche Mode, the Cure, New Order, The The.

You've said in interviews that you'd like to do some superhero stuff in the future, especially the Doom Patrol. Without giving too much of any future plot-lines away, what kinds of stories would you want to do with the Doom Patrol, or Batman, or any other beloved characters?

I would really only take on an established character if I could take it and do my own thing with it, really tell a story my way. Having said that, I would strip The Doom Patrol down to their original incarnation. They are freaks, grotesque outsiders who want badly to do the right thing, but the other superheroes look at them as unfortunates. They are the pariahs of the superhero world, and only have each other in the end. A really sad, lonely superhero story.

I want to ask you about alienation in your work, but I'm having a little difficulty framing a question around it. I'll try this: do you feel that comic-book collectors (y'know, guys who were a lot like Lester when they were kids) experience a special form of alienation?

I know I sure did. I spent a lot of time in my own head as a kid, and still do, and I think that seems to often be a shared trait of comic book fans and creators. I'm not sure why that is, but comics seem to draw people looking for escape and adventure from their own experiences.
*************************************************************************************
As always, I encourage you to go to your local comics retailer and ask--nay, demand--that they order any and all of the above for you because you're a law-abiding citizen who supports his/her small retailers instead of going to bullshit supermarket Borders or something. But if your retailer is dragging their feet and/or you're just a lazy-bones, follow the link for ordering information on the complete Essex County, and check back here for further info on how to get your greasy mitts on some of the finest comics being produced today.

The Post-Apocalypse Always Rings Twice

2009-06-07T10:11:00.000-07:00

One of my favorite episodes of Mystery Science Theater 3000 is episode #501, Warrior of the Lost World, a big Road Warrior rip-off. I remember reading somewhere (I've been digging through my copy of The Amazing Colossal Episode Guide, but I can't find the exact passage) where Kevin Murphy was ragging on the makers of this flick (or maybe it was City Limits, I dunno), but his point was this was one of the more boring sub-genres to come out of scienti-fiction, the whole end-of-the-world thing.

Now I've always been a big fan of the end of the world and have been looking forward to it for some time. But I also remember thinking Murphy was right; it's a shame, but that shit's been done to death.

It's too bad nobody told Bob Fingerman.

I've been a fan of Fingerman's since before I even started reading comics. In fifth grade, I got big into Cracked, actually preferring it to Mad. And Cracked of that era was full of great artists: John Severin, Bill Wray, Daniel Clowes (known then as "Stosh Gillespie"), as well as Fingerman. It went downhill pretty quick, and then I started blowing all my money on X-Men comics. All of the above guys, though, stayed visible to me still: Severin, I came to realize, was already a legend in the field; Bill Wray's contributions to The Ren and Stimpy Show were instantly recognizable to me; Clowes, of course, went on to do Eightball. But I completely lost track of Fingerman. I've finally found him again, but unfortunately, it was after World War III when I did.

The first issue of Fingerman's From the Ashes came out this last month. It stars Fingerman himself and his lovely wife, Michele. The time is now and the place is New York City. After the bombs have fallen, Fingerman and his wife find that they are among the very few survivors in the rubble of the Big Apple. The cover pretty much says it all: Michele looks vaguely worried and Bob yawns loudly as the mushroom clouds devour civilization. Now, the perspective of being just kinda bored with the death and destruction of everybody and everything you've ever loved is an interesting one to be sure, but the thing of it is, the whole premise is just kinda boring. I still love Fingerman's art, and there's a couple of chuckles here, but overall, it's a big so-what.

Frankly, I blame zombies. I love the works of George Romero, and Shaun of the Dead is a brilliant movie, but zombies have made zombies of us all. How Kirkman's The Walking Dead has lasted this long is beyond me. I read the first couple of trades, and while the art is pretty decent, especially when Tony Moore was on the book, the story was only not completely boring when it was bald-facedly ripping off any number of zombie movies. And then it was just boring and kinda aggravating.

Look, my point is this: I love the tendency of creators towards the destruction of the entire human race. It really rings of that Reagan-era punk-rock ethos that spawned Road Warrior and its many Italian-made knock-offs. And as things seem to do every couple of decades, this attitude in the popular arts seems to be enjoying a resurgence, all the less surprising given the Bush Jr. administration's similarities to the Gipper's. But here's how it is, folks: unless you're Simon Pegg or Cormac McCarthy, you're bringing nothing new to the table. This shouldn't stop you entirely (in the interest of full disclosure, I myself have dabbled with this topic in my own fiction and, as of this writing, have a zombie story now awaiting rejection from Murky Depths), but it oughtta at least make you stop and think of a new angle. Y'know, technically, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy could be considered "post-apoc," but it's seldom remembered that way since it has so much else going for it. The same could be said for McCarthy's The Road or any number of episodes of The Twilight Zone.

So flog this dead horse if you must. But in the meantime, I'll be re-stocking my fall-out shelter with Joe R. Lansdale novels.

Whaddaya Want for Nothin'?

2009-05-01T06:13:00.000-07:00

All right, this is probably gonna be a short one because I'm gonna try to not lapse into the negative, sorehead that I am.

Saturday, May 2, 2009 is Free Comic Book Day. But before you get all amped up, you oughtta know that not every comic book store in the land participates. Most do, I think, but then again, I don't really go to any comic shop regularly besides the one I work at (which will not be participating). Thing of it is, the "Free" in Free Comic Book Day only applies to you, the consumer. The retailers still have to pay for these books. Ostensibly, they will make their money back when the droves of people who come in for their free comics--people who normally wouldn't peruse a comic book store--find that they cannot resist plunking down a few bucks for some non-free comics. On paper, that sounds great. But the reality can often be a whole 'nother story.

For years, I worked at 7-Eleven. I know that sounds like a real sweet gig, but you might be surprised. Anyways, every July 11th (7/11, get it?) is Free Slurpee Day. Without fail, our store would be jam-packed with people slavering for their massive 8 oz. cup of iced sugar water, absolutely free of charge. And not just the regular customers, of which we had plenty. But people I had never seen before, people I feel certain hit every 7-Eleven in the county in order to really clean up on this whole free Slurpee deal.

All right, I get that. It's difficult to resist the allure of something for nothing. But here's where it's gonna be hard for me not to lapse into negativity. One year, my boss decided he wasn't gonna participate in Free Slurpee Day. As a franchisee, he had to pay for all those cups every year, and apparently he wasn't seeing much return on his investment. Whatever, I didn't really think much of it at the time. In retrospect, I should have expected the uproar this caused that mid-summer's day. I guess it was sorta like if I called you up and said, "Hey, cruise by my house and I'll give you a dollar." Then when you showed up, I was like, "Sorry, dude, I'm flat broke." It'd be really annoying, but hey, it was only a dollar, right? What's the big deal?

Jesus Christ, you shoulda seen some of these fuckin' people. One guy in particular stands out: this big, red-faced guy, losing his shit on me because he was gonna walk out of the store without a shotglass' worth of free Slurpee. "Well, what's the point of this promotion if you're not gonna participate?" I dunno, sir. To piss you off, I guess. Certainly makes me happy.

But what the Southland Corporation was probably hoping was that instead of going to the Arco to buy your cigarettes or to the grocery store to buy your beer, you'd hit up your local Sevvie instead so you could also get a piffling little frozen treat. It's the same reason they put toys in Happy Meals: it's usually the best-tasting part. But if you're just gonna come in and grab your free crap and take off, well, then, who needs you?

My point to all of this is to ask all of you out there who are planning to go get free comics to do me and you and everybody concerned a real favor: buy a comic book, you cheap fuck. I know some stores will limit how many books you can take, but I also know that the one time my store participated, we let everybody have one copy of all 17 or 18 titles we had available. So let's say you walk into a comic shop this first Saturday of May and grab up six free comics. Once you're done with that, take some time and pick yourself out a non-free comic. The average cover price is $2.99, and every comic shop in America will knock at least 15% off the cover. That's why comic shops opened in the first place: they cut out the middleman newspaper distributors by dealing with the comics companies directly (more or less) and are able to pass the savings on to you. So instead of just getting six free books, you're getting seven for the price of one, with a discount, no less. A damn good deal, no matter how you slice it.

If you don't know what you might like, ask somebody who works there. Generally speaking, comic-shop workers are just a hair below record-store clerks when it comes to customer care. But again, I know I am always happy to foist a book I like onto some unsuspecting sap, and if the shop you're in is participating in FCB Day, it's because they want you to be there. So they will more than likely fight every anti-social urge they have (and believe me, that will be no small feat) in order to hold your hand and help find the right comical book for you. And if you're a halfway (hell, a 1/3 of the way) decent-looking chick? You'll have more assistance than you'll know what to do with, I assure you.

Also, this may seem silly to have to point out, but all comics are not superhero-oriented, nor are they all for kids. Some of the books stores will be handing out gratis revolve around The Simpsons, Star Wars, that Pixar Cars movie. If you like tattooed devil chicks, check out Mercy Sparx. There will be a sampler of Love and Rockets, one of the more well-known alternative comics of the past 25 years. All sorts of shit; here, see for yourself. And from there, you oughtta be able to find comics tailored to whatever goofy thing you're into. It really doesn't take much effort.

So support Free Comic Book Day by going out and buying some comic books. Don't be such a goddamned cheapskate all your life.

(There, how's that for positivity? Tune in next month when I try to join Up with People.)

Giving the Virgin Finger (or, Douche ex Machina)

2009-04-07T15:35:00.000-07:00

(Note: this blog takes place after the events of Ex Machina Special #4--Jerk-off Jimmy)

Brian K. Vaughan is one of the finest writers in comics today, and the guy I often point to when asserting that this most current generation of comic book creators is the best yet. Taking a large cue from the likes of Alan Moore, Vaughan is able to deftly and seamlessly weave all manner of symbolism and synecdoche into his stories, with sub-plots running perfectly parallel until just the right moment of reveal, while the overall work most often parallels itself with the world as we know it. His dialogue is cuttingly clever without ever being cute. The characters are always multi-dimensional, and his cliffhangers no less than nail-biting.

But above all this, the one thing about Vaughan's writing that I've especially come to appreciate is the sort of backwards route he sets for himself in his story-telling, literally so in his issue of Midnighter a couple of years ago. It's often very much as if Vaughan starts at the end of the story and then works backwards, allowing himself a different insight into the characters and their actions. But in his mode of story-telling, he also leaves landmines behind him, inherent gnarls in the weaving that he can't ignore or jump over. Vaughan forces himself to not only take on tough stories, but with such an engaging style, he forces his readers to come along with him.

Take for instance Ex Machina (quick recap: Ex Machina is the story of civil engineer Mitchell Hundred, who gains the power to communicate with machinery. Naturally, he becomes a superhero, and not long after saving one of the two towers during 9/11, he successfully runs for mayor of New York City). In an editorial Vaughan wrote a while back (I tried to dig it up, but no soap), he talks about how a lot of interviewers have asked him if Ex Machina is a love letter to New York City. And he began just saying yes because it was easier than explaining that the book is more like hate mail, that even though he loves the city dearly, there remain many and varied issues which need to be addressed critically. So again, we see the seemingly contradictory style of Brian K. Vaughan: let's take something beloved, let's explore its seamy underbelly, and therefore we can make it more beloved.

Ex Machina Special #4 is hate mail to comic book nerds.

The plot of this issue revolves around the Gardener, a nutcase who thinks he can talk to plants. The plants tell him to kill Eddy Romans, newspaper publisher and one of Mayor Hundred's most vocal critics. The Gardener believes he's gained his Floronic Man powers from close interaction with Hundred, and is therefore acting on the Mayor's orders to kill Romans. It's not implausible within this universe, and Hundred is a little worried. But as it turns out, the guy is just a looney tune. And the Hundred mayoralty lives to fight another day.

It's a hell of a good story, in more ways than one. There are a few times where Vaughan seems to be critical of both the comic book industry and collectors. And again, my hat is off, not just at the balls one needs to take a crack at something like that, but being able to pull it off as well, even if part of me was more than a little offended.

If I sound a bit divided, there's good reason. Since reading this issue, I've had quite the internal struggle between my personal awe at Vaughan's ultimate point and my personal awe at the path he took to get there. I've been trying to somehow conciliate these two attitudes, and I'll tell ya, I'm having a bitch of a time.

In these following first two examples, I'm being made uncomfortable, and that's just fine. If any kind of literature doesn't jar you at least a little bit, then it really should make no claim to being literature. Early on in the book, Hundred takes a crack at the intelligence of Romans' readers, and Romans responds with "Coming from a man who was weaned on comic books?" Now, you know and I know and Vaughan knows that readers of comics are not stupid, at least not because they read comic books. This is an old attitude, ingrained in a lot of writers, especially journalists. My hackles sit up here a bit, but that's it.

Later, Romans tells his girlfriend that he actually genuinely likes Hundred, but what pisses him off is that Hundred is "a nerd. He's constantly trying to...to impose order on an inherently chaotic world, like the asexual fanboys who obsess about continuity mistakes in bad sci-fi shows." Okay, again, fair enough. This hits a little bit closer to home, but Romans is not the most reliable narrator, the most informed critic of such things. People like Romans seem to define nerds as those clinging to an ideal of perfection that is impossible in the real world, and must sublimate that in their chosen realms of fantasy and science fiction. This is a sign of weakness to Romans and his ilk because nerds don't have the strength to deal with reality head on.

And I'm going to have to go ahead and concede this, at least partially. His implied judgement that nerds are foolish or pitiful for engaging such behavior can most certainly be debated. But it has been my experience that a lot of us so-called nerds are more than a little obsessive-compulsive and have a hard time living happily in what can be a cruel and harsh world.

But then the Gardener, Romans' supposed antithesis, chimes in. After murdering Romans, he explains to Hundred that Romans was debilitating the planet with his newspaper, and that the comic book industry was next on the Gardener's hit-list: "They're the worst offenders of them all. At least newspapers are eventually recycled. But comics are virgin paper going into virgin hands that tuck them away into poisonous plastic. Forever."

I admit here to my utter chagrin that the effects of comic book collecting on the environment was an issue I had never given any thought. And even for a fairly socially unaware guy, I think this is something that should have occurred to me before, just as an intelligent(-ish) person. But really, since I do tuck my books into plastic in order to keep the environment from destroying them, it does seem anathema for me to be especially considerate of the environment. Since Hundred ends up pretty much agreeing with this diamond of logic in the Gardener's rough, I think it can be inferred that Vaughan does as well. Therefore, he remains critical of the industry he loves and has made such spectacular use of. Further, even though I think it's safe to say that Vaughan doesn't believe that comic book collectors are, to a one, sexually frustrated social retards, it is also safe to say that he's not totally off the mark as regards our lifestyle and its (certainly, in my case) heretofore ignored detriments upon this island Earth. So he remains critical of his industry and his public. To take such a stance, which may be considered "biting the hand," takes sheer guts, and I heartily commend Brian K. Vaughan for doing so, all the while delivering a hell of a good read.

That being said.

I honestly do my best in every day of my life to remain logical and rational. And every day of my life, I fail spectacularly. As I hope I've illustrated above, I am capable of coolly analyzing a work, remaining as objective as is humanly possible, and thereby reaching a conclusion based solely on the merits of that work and not just my personal gut reactions to it. But I still have personal gut reactions, and I'd only be hurrying the approach of my impending ulcer if I tried to tamp those reactions down.

So here goes:

Hey, man, I ain't been a fucking virgin for years now.

Calling comic book nerds on the carpet for a socially irresponsible lifestyle must have seemed like a good idea at the time. But here's something you may not have thought of: what do a buncha asexual fanboys give a shit if the world blows up tomorrow? Sure, no more new comic book day. But if it also means that every jock meathead, every numb cunt, every smarmy hipper-than-thou douchebag in the world writhing in pain and agony? Count me the fuck in.

I didn't get into this shit to make any friends, chief. I fucking hate people. I truly, truly do. People as a species are miserable, loud, brutal and stupid. And cries of "Save the planet!" are just thinly disguised pleas of "Save the people!" Fuck the people. The earth can save itself, man, it's not going anywhere. If the environment is altered to where we as a species can no longer live in it, I dunno, sounds like problem solved to me.

I've got no use for your society, your reality. Am I trying to impose order on an inherently chaotic world? Why would I bother? I already have the Marvel Universe. I know a lot of nerds want to champion the ideals of their funny-book heroes, want to move those ideals into the real world. And yeah, I'd say that's pretty stupid. I'm not interested in attaining ideals of perfection in this, the "real" world. I get to work Saturdays in a comic book store, e.g. perfection attained. Everything else can take a flying fuck at the moon.

You want comics on recycled paper? I can get behind that, sure. But taking a dig at my lifestyle, ostensibly to shame me into it? That's like me calling the gay community a bunch of faggots for letting the state of California tell them who they can and can't marry. It's not the name-calling I find offensive; it's the very idea that I'm gonna be stupid enough to fall for such a bullshit argument. That's the kind of "logic" gym teachers and drill sergeants use, and it's just that sort of asshole behavior that led me to withdraw so completely from society-at-large. Get this straight, motherfucker: I love comic books more than people. You wanna improve life on this planet for everybody? Hey, I won't stand in your way. But if you're gonna be a fuckin' dick about it, you can just cram your social awareness up your ass sideways, pal, because the sooner the human race dies out, the better off the human race is.

Get bent.

You Never Open Your Mouth Until You Know What the Shot Is.

2009-03-07T21:55:00.000-08:00

(or: Peter David Was Kind of a Jerk to Me Once, and It Was One of the Better Things That Has Happened to Me.)

When I was 15 or so, Peter David wrote an article for Wizard about how to become a writer. Like most adolescent comic book nerds in the early '90s, I dreamed of working in comics one day and idolized the aggressive art stylings of your Jim Lees, your Todd McFarlanes; these guys were bigger than rock stars to me. But I was also aware that to be a comics artist, one had to be able to do things like draw really well (Rob Liefeld, the obvious exception here). So I had kinda resigned myself to a more realistic aspiration, like lettering or being a janitor at Marvel or maybe even scripting.

So although I seemed to feel that a good script was second to representations of giant guns, big tits, and intricate capewear, I still knew a fine writer when I saw one. And Peter David most certainly is that. I was well familiar at the time with his work on The Incredible Hulk and X-Factor, and I was also well familiar with the notion of some that he was an opinionated loudmouth and something of a blowhard. Whether or not this is true matters little to me, because not only does this bear no relevance on his work, which continues to be of the highest quality, but because simply put, the guy knows what he's talking about. And as I've come to find out, if you know what you're talking about, it doesn't matter how you put it; conversely, if you don't know what you're talking about, then shut your big yap.

What I remember of the above-mentioned article was nothing ground-breaking, a point I believe David concedes immediately within said article. But it was certainly the first time I'd read anything strictly pertaining to the art of writing, and it stuck with me. Obviously, I don't remember it word for word, but his advice consisted of stuff I'd never really thought of, like read constantly and showing your works-in-progress to friends and family is not a smart move. Stuff like that stayed with me well into my early 20s when I decided I wanted to be a professional writer.

My writing regimen at the age of 21 was basically this: get home from work at about 10 PM, watch NewsRadio, then write and drink until I was too cross-eyed to see what I was doing. Do this once, maybe twice a week. Every other night, go out to the bar and talk to your friends about all the genius ideas you've been having until they're bored too cross-eyed to see what they're doing. Self-discipline is important to an aspiring writer, so I was very strict with myself on this, and at the risk of sounding immodest, I can say I was able to produce some of the worst short stories and most bored friends ever seen in the late twentieth century.

When I was 25 or so, I met Peter David at the San Diego Comic Con. Although I'd remained a big fan of his work, I was always too intimidated to talk to him before. But at this point, hell, we were practically colleagues. So I stood there at his table, a copy of his novel Sir Apropos of Nothing gripped in my sweaty hands. And while I waited for him to finish his rendition of "Trouble" from The Music Man (hey, don't ask me), I daydreamed about me and Pete getting together for drinks and discussing our current projects in between his bouts of enthusiastic praise for my stuff. Man, it was gonna be great.

When I finally put my book down in front of him, I told him how that article in Wizard those years before had been great and was an early inspiration for me to go into writing.

And he said, "Yeah? So how many comics have you written?"

Well, the answer was (and technically still is) none. I was quite taken aback by his bluntness, being nervous enough already, and I muttered something about having written some short stories (which, I believe, at the time could have been counted on one hand if you only counted the ones that were even passably readable).

And he said, "Yeah, short stories are sorta like comics. That's good."

What a fucking dick! I screamed in my brain. But as it turns out, I was screaming at myself. Yeah, Peter David was kinda abrupt with me, kinda harsh. I mean, his actual words were fairly harmless, as you can tell, but it was more the directness of the questions, the tone that wasn't encouraging so much, like that of my elementary school teachers ("Good job, Jimmy!"), as it was demanding. I remember kind of jerking back like I'd been struck. But if anybody needed a slap in the face right then, it was me. Having been (and mostly still being) an amateur writer with dreams of literary grandeur, I had managed to overlook a trifling detail: work. I wanted all the trappings of an artistic lifestyle, all the attention and not having to work at 7-Eleven, but without any of that bothersome effort. There have been many, many times in my life when I've wanted to kick my own ass, but few stand out in my mind like this one.

And so kick my own ass, I did (figuratively speaking, of course. I'm in no shape to beat up a 5th grader or even a less formidable opponent like myself). I got back to work. I wish I could say that I wrote day and night until my right hand cramped into a useless claw, eschewing all social interaction or personal grooming in order to heed my muse. That wouldn't quite be true (except maybe the personal grooming part). But I certainly began to focus more on what I was doing than on what I wanted to be doing after the Edgar Awards ceremony. And, in actuality, my output decreased significantly, but definitely for the better. Any shit-faced moron can crank out three stories a week, just so long as those stories suck royally. It takes time and effort to write something decent, and even more time and effort to shut the fuck up about all the time and effort you're putting into your work. Let the work speak for itself, I realized, and that way, if nothing else, I just won't need to talk about it. It'll be right there in black and white.

I'm certainly not breaking any publishing records these days, nor do I expect to any time soon. But I did have another short story accepted for publication this week, just days after yet another short story was published. I've got a lot of projects going, and actually have other irons in the fire as far as future publishing prospects go. And I've got Peter David to thank for a large part of this. So, if you ever read this, Peter, I'm sorry if I make you sound like an asshole here. But I simply wouldn't have you any other way.

Q: Quis Custodiet Ipsos Custodes? A: Quis Gives a Shit?

2009-02-16T16:10:00.000-08:00

I watched the movie version of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead when I was 18 or 19 years old. I didn't get it. It had been a couple of years since I'd read Hamlet, and even then I don't think I'd been paying close enough attention. A few years later, I had to read Hamlet again for some other class, so I also read the play Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead. I enjoyed it much more, a lot more of the Hamlet stuff certainly made sense to me. But there was still a certain something lacking (in me, not the play). Finally, a couple years after that, I saw a performance of the play Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead. Despite the fact that, aside from the three leads, it was really typically as bad as every other community college production I'd ever seen, I finally really got it. This is a play about two characters in a play who realize what shitty roles they have in this play with the help of another character in the play who plays a guy in another play. It's a meta-play, and by the very dint of what that term implies--a work of art that attempts to address the heights and limitations of its own medium within itself--it can be nothing else. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead only works as a play, just as Scream could only work as a slasher-flick, not a TV show or an interpretive dance. It's Garry Shandling's Show was a show; it wasn't ever It's Garry Shandling's Post-modernist Sculpture.

Watchmen is a super-hero comic book about comic book super-heroes.

The first time I read Watchmen, the pirate comic sub-plot confused the shit out of me. I knew it had to mean something, as it was featured so prominently, but by the time I finished the book, I'd forgotten all about it, immersed as I'd been in the rest of it. The next couple times around, I got closer, but still didn't know what it was all about. Then, it finally clicked and I got what I'm sure you who have read it also get: the whole thing is an allegory for Ozymandias and how, in his rush to save humankind, he's lost his own humanity. I dunno about you, but when the gentle delicateness of this imagery hit me, well, to say I was moved would be an understatement. Watchmen is a comic book about superheroes and examines what a world with actual superheroes would truly be like. And how do Moore and Gibbons underpin this? With a comic book within the comic book.

For all the movies I've seen that have changed my life, either drastically or in small doses; for all the film moments that have made me weep until my chest hurt or laugh until my throat was raw; for all the stories, characters, and bits of dialogue that have stirred me, inspired me, helped to shape the very man who writes these words, I am well aware of the power of the cinema. But there is one thing a movie can't do for sure and that's create a comic book within a comic book.

It can be argued that the above trailer shows that Zack Snyder and his associates feel that, while Tales of the Black Freighter doesn't quite fit into the over-all film adaptation of Watchmen for its theatrical release, it is still a highly regarded aspect of the story, which is why they have made a separate animated production of that sub-plot to be released in conjunction with the DVD of the Watchmen feature film, to be enjoyed in your own home.

It could also be argued that the hype machine has been working so much overtime that Warner Bros, et al, know they can sell one and a half movies for (at least) the price of three: when the legions of suckers see Watchmen in the theaters at least one time each, and when they each buy both DVDs.

I'll think I'll just go rent Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead again.

The Magnificent(-ish) Seven

2009-01-22T14:57:00.000-08:00

So, check this out: I go down to Thirsty Moon Records the other day and pick up the recently re-released King Khan and BBQ Show self-titled album. Nate the Nail burned me a copy a few years ago, but I don't feel like I own a record until I own the record, y'know? When I get home, the first thing I do is rip that sum'bitch open, this big-ass gate-fold double LP (well, sorta--it's got three sides instead of four), and my record player is all a-tremble with anticipation for side A to be slapped upon it. Yeah, except there is no side A. Those knuckle-knobs down at the pressing plant thought it'd be funny to give me a coronary by slipping two of the second, one-sided record into each dust sleeve. All's well that ends well: the guy down at the record store was super-cool about it and assures me I oughtta have a proper copy in my hot little hands within the next week or so.

What does this have to do with comics, you may ask. First of all, hold your water, I'm getting to that. Second of all, that self-same day was also new comic book day, so on my way home from the record store, I swung by the comic shop for my weekly armload. And despite that little King Khan snag, the day was shaping up to be pretty swell: I had only worked a half day, I'd gotten some other, properly packaged records (The Pixies and The Stooges, for the record)(har) to listen to while I waded through a fat stack of new books. I could have been doing a lot worse, let me tell ya. So the day passes languidly like so, and I make my way to the final book in the stack, X-Men: Manifest Destiny #5, the final issue in a mini-series I've been rather enjoying. Only when I go to read it, what's this? It's goddamn X-Men and Spider-Man #3! Those chuckleheads down at the printing plant, not to be outdone by any record pressing joint, thought it'd be funny to give me a second coronary by slapping the Manifest Destiny cover onto a book that wasn't even supposed to come out until the next week. All's well that ends well: Marvel fixed their goof-up and I've got the right books with the right covers now, although now that I think about it, I dunno if my boss didn't charge me for the new one like he said he was gonna.

But the big question is what are the odds that two things I'd buy that day would end up having the wrong thing in 'em? Good thing I didn't buy any Twinkies.

Speaking of comic book anomalies, I only bought seven books last week. I can't remember the last time I didn't buy books in the double digits, and a lot of times a trade or two I've ordered will at least come in, except I guess I have been taking it easy on those since I have no less than ten unread ones stacked next to my bed. So this actually works out well for me. I've got a thigh-high stack of back issues to read that I've now managed to whittle down to knee-high. I couldn't work at the shop that week due to my brief yet court-mandated foray into public service, so at least I'm not into Greg for an arm and a leg as I usually am. And also I'm kinda late on this column and generally so lazy I can't even admit that I'm lazy. So even though I'm getting kinda bored with this format (and it shows), I'll now take a closer look at the Seven of Week Two. Join you, won't me?

Deadpool #6: A while back, my old band got booked to play Danny Way's birthday show. You can imagine my disappointment when I found it was Danny Way the professional skateboarder and not Daniel Way, the professional comic book writer whose career I've been following with high interest since his collaboration with the legendary Steve Dillon on Bullseye: Greatest Hits.

My utter enjoyment of this Deadpool series is testament to Way's writing prowess, since I've never really given much of a crap about the character. A lot of these anti-hero types that rose to such prevalence in the early to mid-nineties like Deadpool, Venom, etc., were pretty boring to me even back then when I knew no better. But let a decent writer get his mitts on 'em and it's, quite literally, a whole 'nother story. As noted in an earlier piece, I had lost all interest in Cable and Bishop as characters until Duane Swierczynski started penning their adventures. I hadn't read Ghost Rider since sophomore year, but then first Garth Ennis re-booted it with good ol' Johnny Blaze, and then none other than Daniel Way steps in for a solid run before handing off to Jason Aaron (writer of The Other Side, the best book of 2006), who in turn brought back Danny Ketch and Blackout and a bunch of other characters from that '90s run that I'd also forgotten all about but in whom my interest is now thoroughly rekindled. As long as Marvel keeps giving the reins over to hard drinkin' dudes who are around my age and who all probably own every Sergio Leone movie and Richard Stark novel, hell's bells, I'd buy a new fuckin' Darkhawk series, and no lie.

Like I said, I'm not all too familiar with the Deadpool character. In an earlier issue, they kindly re-printed his Marvel Universe profile, which more or less brought me up to date, continuity-wise. But as far as the narrative in this book goes and how the character is depicted, I don't know how much Way is picking up from the old Cable and Deadpool title. But given that I've been solidly reading Way's stuff for the past five years, I can rest assured that he is staying true to the character while simultaneously bringing his own well-appreciated touches to the book. For example, Deadpool's deeply hallucinogenic perspective of reality, his constant internal feuding with two (count 'em--2) narrators, and the Misfits reference in the previous arc are all hallmarks of Way's style, which is obviously pretty goddamn rock 'n' roll. But it's never so rock 'n' roll that he leaves us continuity freaks in the dust, which is even more ironic considering the guy only just started reading comics not long before he started writing them (rock 'n' roll as fuck in itself, that). Therefore, I can highly recommend this book to buddies of mine (Converse, I'm looking in your direction) who haven't read many comics since junior high, so they can not only take a nice stroll down memory lane, but can also see how much better these characters are when they're written for us as grown-ups (or reasonable facsimiles thereof) as opposed to being written for us as snot-nose kids.

And if Daniel Way is reading this, let me know if you want my band to play your birthday party.

Final Crisis #6 (of 7): This book eats. I dunno how final this crisis is, but it's the final DC superhero clusterfuck I'll ever read, I'll tell you that much for free.

G.I. Joe #1 (IDW Publishing): From San Diego's own IDW comes the 53rd G.I. Joe comic book series. I had almost every reason to pass this one up. Hell, I didn't even order it. I was never that into G.I. Joe as a kid, much preferring Star Wars (although I did rather enjoy making my friend's Destro and Baroness figures hump each other). I am a big Chuck Dixon fan, but I still do find the guy's stuff to be kinda uneven at times, which I think is only natural considering the volume of books the guy's written. Like, in the short time he was at CrossGen, he must have written no less than 5,000 issues of different titles, and while half of 'em like Way of the Rat and Brath were killer, others like Sigil and Crux were not so much killer. The Dave Johnson cover for this G.I. Joe, which was what convinced me to pick this book up, is also solid, but still probably something I could have lived without. The book itself is not bad, but a lot of it is kinda wasted on me, having only a passing familiarity with these characters. Not that the story's not engaging enough on its own, but still. Nothing for me to write home about. But I would still highly recommend this book to my friends who were/are heavily into G.I. Joe (Fever, I'm looking in your direction). In fact, I think I'll just give this to Fever. And you should also ignore my inexpert opinion and buy this book for the G.I. Joe nerd in your life.

Gravel #8 (Avatar Press): Having fellated Warren Ellis enough in these pages (or "pages," if you will), I don't really need to tell you again that you should be reading everything this guy does. I will, however, take this opportunity to talk about how Avatar Press has pretty much won me over by now.

When I started buying comics regularly again, Avatar suckered me more than once. They would take a property owned by a big-name creator and then get a couple other dudes who I'd never heard of to adapt it into a comic. So they'd take old Robocop teleplays by Frank Miller that never got produced, adapt them into comics, and slap Miller's name all over 'em. Nothing against the creators involved on these projects, but I found this to be kinda underhanded. Like when Red Heat came out and the posters said: "Schwarzenegger. Belushi. Red Heat." Yeah, it wasn't the talented Belushi obviously, but it made people look twice at least, I'd bet.

But then 303 came out, an actual, honest-to-Christ Garth Ennis book. Not Garth Ennis' grocery list "re-imagined" as a comic, but a script by Garth Ennis. Since then Avatar's managed to get a few more heavy hitters like Ellis, Jamie Delano, and Christos Gage, so they must be doing something right, probably not unlike how Pacific used to be able to snag guys like Jack Kirby and Neal Adams back in the early '80s.

The art in these books is another story. I used to really not like their stable: guys like Mike Wolfer, Juan Jose Ryp, and Jacen Burrows. And even though there's something I can't quite put my finger on about their stuff, I have finally begun to come around on it. Maybe that's just because there's been so much of it lately attached to writers I like so much. Maybe the kinda ultra-slick production Avatar uses put me off at first (the paper is damn near an inch thick and just plain feels weird under my fingers). Whatever is going on, I am starting to really like the art, especially Ryp's, whose stuff I used to complain was "too busy" (and I'm frankly embarrassed now that I ever spoke those words aloud). Gravel remains my favorite of the four Ellis titles Avatar is currently printing (the others being Anna Mercury, No Hero, and Doktor Sleepless), so you should order Strange Kiss and then go from there.

House of M: Civil War #5 (of 5): A couple years back, the first thing I did with my tax refund check was not to try to dig myself out of crushing debt, but to instead purchase my treasured Magneto Was Right t-shirt from the sadly now-defunct mutant-america.com. Magneto is, to me, the quintessential villain: kinda long-winded, completely unswerving in his mission, and truly the hero in his own story. He's also the hero in this story, which is a nice P.S. to the big House of M crossover Marvel did a few years ago, in which the Scarlet Witch rigs up a brand spanking new reality wherein mutantkind is the dominant species and the Master of Magnetism himself rules all that he surveys. Definitely an idea I can get behind. This mini details Magneto's rise to power and his final domination over the oppressive Vice-President Trask and his Sentinels. Christos Gage, another writer's who's been impressing me no end for the last few years, scripts this series and it's probably my favorite of his stuff that I've read so far (and that's pretty impressive considering his kick-ass little arc on Iron Man recently). This series oughtta be collected into trade paperback soon enough, so do yourself a favor.

Punisher War Zone (vol. 2) #5 (of 6): I'm gonna suspend comment on this book for now, as I'm planning a complete retrospective on Garth Ennis' Punisher work. Suffice it to say, this book makes my dick hard: the reunion of Ennis and Dillon for a return to the seminal "Welcome Back, Frank" storyline. As great as all the swearing and occasional titties in the Punisher Max series were, Ennis is a versatile enough writer to be able to return to Comics Code Authority standards without losing his balls. And Steve Dillon, for my money, still draws the best pictures of guys getting shot in the face.

X-Men and Spider-Man #3 (of 4) (non-error cover): Hey, look, it's Christos Gage again. Man, this guy's in more books than Wolverine these days. All the luckier us, then. This is a nice little mini, tailor-made for lifers like me. The series begins back in the '60s era, and then each issue goes forward from there. Therefore, those in the know can pat themselves on the back by guessing the era only by noting the costume changes the X-Men go through. That sort of wink-wink insider thing can be dangerous to play with, since one can easily overdo it, like the writer is sitting next to you while you read, nudging you in the ribs every few seconds and going, "Hanh?" But Gage knows what he's doing. The plot itself mostly centers around the old Spider-Man Clone Saga, which I took a big pass on way back when. But it's still interesting to see how the X-Men and Mr. Sinister are tied into it now. Christos Gage is definitely the go-to guy for mini-series these days.

All right, that's it for now. Tune in next time for something other than me babbling about the same old shit (well, sorta). For links to some of the creators mentioned above, direct yourself rightly (to the right of this page, that is). Also I wanted to list some of the titles mentioned above along with their Diamond order codes, but them codes are hard to track down. So here's what you do: go to your local comic shop and tell 'em you want these books or you'll be forced to utilize the convenience of shopping on-line. I mean, don't be a dick about it, but y'know, make it clear you wanna give your money to them and not some anonymous jerk on the internet. Then, if that doesn't work, get a hold of me and I'll order it for you myself from the shop I work at.

The Other Side trade paperback by Jason Aaron and Cameron Stewart. Published by Vertigo, an imprint of DC Comics

Deadpool: Secret Invasion trade paperback by Daniel Way and Paco Medina. Published by Marvel Comics

Bullseye: Greatest Hits trade paperback by Daniel Way and Steve Dillon. Published by Marvel Comics

Strange Kiss (the first William Gravel story) trade paperback by Warren Ellis and Mike Wolfer. Published by Avatar Press

House of M: Civil War by Christos Gage and Andrea di Vito. The trade is not out as of this writing, but I'd be surprised if you couldn't order it yet. You also would probably be able to track down the single issues.

I'm Thankful for Two Decades of This Nonsense.

2008-12-02T19:56:00.000-08:00

So this past Thanksgiving, me and Carmen drove up to my grandmother's in Palm Desert for family din-din and all that. Whee. Two-plus hours driving in pissing rain with bad directions given to me by my mother. It wasn't all bad, of course, and the trip actually held some significance for me besides securing any future inheritance. See, it was in that exact house on Zircon Circle, on Thanksgiving Day 1988, that my grandmother gave me a five-dollar bill. And it was in that sleepy retirement community of Palm Desert, CA, that my aunt took me with her to the Thrifty's to buy batteries for my cousin's birthday present. And it was in that Thrifty's, right there in the magazine aisle, that I stepped across a threshold from which I have never returned.

Twenty years ago this Thanksgiving, I began collecting comic books.

How I'd gotten to this point--a sawed-off, buzz-cutted, short-pantsed 11-year-old, clutching an Abe Lincoln in his sweaty hand and facing a spinner rack for the first (but certainly not last) time--is a whole other really pretty boring story. But that fall I had gotten it into my head that I was gonna collect comics. And so I have. I still have those first five books, so, y'know, I thought it'd be a good idea to go back and read them and share whatever observations I have about these, my first baby steps into the wasteland of comic-dom. It probably isn't a good idea, but since when has that ever stopped me?

Groo the Wanderer #'s 47 and 48: But where to begin? I had a few titles in mind on which to cut my eye-teeth, but being presented with a good thirty or forty dollar-priced collections of four-color wonderment, I was quite understandably overcome. Fortunately, my good buddy, Sergio Aragonés, showed up to help me out.

Although I'd just discovered comics, I'd known about and been into Mad magazine for some time, and Aragonés was generally undisputed among my friends and I as the best of the usual gang of idiots, or at least, the one we enjoyed the most (Don Martin was practically tied for that spot with me, but I digress). But I had no idea that aside from his monthly Mad piece, plus all the Marginals, that Sergio also did a full-blown, full-color comic book. If this wasn't a sign of providence, then I'd be goddamned. #48 was technically the first one I saw and grabbed, but #47 got snapped up also and was a damn fine issue to begin with. Granted, I didn't catch a few of the running gags (though I soon would), but nearly the whole Groo universe is in this issue: The Sage and Mulch, The Minstrel, Arba and Dakarba, Taranto, Gravito, Arcadio, Grooella, and of course, Rufferto. When I reported this find back to my friends, it was an instant hit. Jeremy Howell was an even bigger Mad nerd than I, so he couldn't resist, and I also believe this was the bug that bit Chuck Maldonado and infected him with comics fever (by the way, Chuck, if you're out there, I still have your Cerebus phone books).

Speaking of my 6th-grade crew, the copy I now have of #47 is not the original Palm Desert Thrifty's one. I am certain that was kiped by one Brian Mann. Not the Brian Mann I ended up going to high school with, but this other guy that I'd known since we were seven or eight years old. We were friends and stuff, but our friendship would often hit a low ebb, and I basically just didn't trust the slippery fucker. And with good reason. When I discoverd this issue missing one day after school, I called all my friends to see if I'd left it over at their house or loaned it to them and forgotten or something. None of 'em had seen it, but Brian was particularly emphatic: "No, dude, I don't have it, you can come over here and look for yourself, it's not here." The whole lady-protesteth-too-much schtick. I knew he had it, but without any proof, I knew there wasn't much I could do. So I just shrugged and let this putz make a monkey out of me, an action that would become a disquieting habit as I grew older. I heard a few years later, after I'd moved away, that Brian had become some sorta goth-type. So I'm sure he's had his ass kicked for me a few times over by now. Still. Cold comfort, that.

Say, that reminds me: Jere Hoskins, I know you stole my copy of Daredevil #258 in the seventh grade, so I owe you a punch in the nuts, too.

Uncle Scrooge #'s 231 and 232: I mostly got these because I thought my cousin would like them. He did seem to enjoy them, but, y'know...he was one year old. I coulda waved The New York Post in front of him and probably woulda gotten the same reaction.

What also strikes me about these is just how fucking terrified of adolesence I was at the age of 11. I certainly couldn't have put it into words then, but instinct told me change was on its way and that things were gonna get worse before they got better. I could hear puberty coming up the drive to beat me in the face with an acne-bat, and I was, naturally, frightened out of my gourd. So I began regressing in the trenches. I remember clearly at this age taking a sudden, intense interest in all that could be labelled childish: cartoons, toys, the Muppets, you name it. Girls? Are you kidding me? When Duck Tales is on? I knew it was inevitable, that I was gonna have to grow hair in weird places and stuff like that. But I sure as hell wasn't gonna go quietly.

Having come out on the other side of that now (mostly, anyways), I'm really glad I had the foresight not to grow out of that stuff. I'm not treading any new ground with these discoveries, I know. But I came to realize over the years that only dead-eyed, soulless fucks turn their backs on the things that bring them joy and try to pass it off as maturity. I'm certain you've known or know people like that, and when you look in their faces, you can see how ripped-off they feel and how much they hate themselves for it. Now all they can do is sit around and wait for Scatman Caruthers to show up and teach them how to play kick-the-can again.

Well, I'm certainly not too grown up to say: ha ha on you, suckers!

The Uncanny X-Men #239: I suppose that my then-new passion for comics in general, not just Disney stuff, can be seen as an 11-year-old wishing he was a one-year-old again. But I think my interest in superhero comics can rather be read as an 11-year-old wishing he could hurry up and be a 31-year-old already, working weekends in a comic shop and getting laid regularly. In other essays (one of which I will post here at a later date, I'm sure), I've attempted to argue against the commonly-held misconception that super-hero comics are merely an outlet for pent-up adolescent power fantasies, but are instead a vehicle for young men (gender-specific in this case because that's what I was and am) to use in order to come to terms with their own identities. So to put it in the half-assed Freudian terms I've been using, Uncle Scrooge represents regression, and The Uncanny X-Men represents a type of sublimation (I guess. My Freud is pretty rusty).

Speaking of Freud, Marc Silvestri is not a very good artist. In Understanding Comics, Scott McCloud talks about how by this point in time, comics had reached their own adolesence, and how the pre-pubescent, more cartoon-y stylings of the old-timers had made way for the more line-y, jagged edge renderings of your Silvestris, your McFarlanes, your Liefelds. Y'know, representative of the teen angst felt by many comics readers. This makes sense to me, but it's still no excuse for all the mullets. Really, what were we thinking back then? That was never a good look, and you can't tell me otherwise. Technically, I've got no problem with Silvestri's art. As opposed to the laudable techniques of Liefeld's stuff, say, the guy could actually draw. But as far as the general asethetic of comics goes, the party line definitely had its head up its ass back then.

But all the above is fodder for a later discussion, I think. As it was, I wanted a comic with Wolverine in it. I couldn't find any of his solo title, but I had read that he was in the X-Men too, so I grabbed this up. Like Groo #47, this should have been a fairly good jumping-off point. It's the prologue to that summer's big "Inferno" crossover, so the whole issue is pretty much a run-down of who's who and what's what. But unlike Groo #47, this book is dealing with a much more vast, less cartoon-y universe. So to say I was confused would be an understatement. I mean, Colossus and Mr. Sinister look almost exactly the same, especially in their head and face area. That threw me off quite a bit. Apparently, Lorna Dane (a.k.a. Polaris) and Malice were the same person or in the same body or some shit. That didn't make any sense at the time, but of course, I caught on with comic book logic pretty quickly. I knew it was just all new to me, and that everything would become clear soon enough. And it did for the most part. In my naivete, I overestimated the caliber of superhero writing in assuming that everything would be made clear eventually. But it more or less was, even if what became clear was some shit wouldn't be made clear because the Marvel universe is just too damn big and convoluted by this point. So, y'know, no big.

The good news is, as I'm sure I've intimated before, a lot of this shit is coming back, but it's being handled much better. Mr. Sinister has been in recent issues of X-Force, Wolverine: Origins, and X-Men: Legacy, and Maddie Pryor seems to be on her way back, and it's nice to see old faces again. We can argue all night and day as to whether the team of Chris Claremont and Silvestri (or whoever) is superior to that of Matt Fraction and Terry Dodson (or whoever), but I think an inarguable fact is that Claremont, et al, were relevant to their time. God bless, but it was a lot goofier time. I shouldn't say Silvestri's a bad artist, and I certainly wouldn't say Claremont's a bad writer. But what guys like Fraction, Ed Brubaker, Christopher Yost, and the rest are doing is stripping down the narrative and getting rid of all that, at times enjoyable, but all around useless techniques like the melodramatic narrator and flashback monologues. Again, a product of their times. I noticed that when TV shows began including a "Previously on..." at the beginning of each episode, comics took a cue there and did away with editorial asterisks. A lot of guys I know bemoan the ommission of these little things, claiming comics aren't the same.

I say, neither are we. And neither should be our comics.

All right, I gotta go take the trash to the curb. For those of you keeping score, I ditched the "Hey, Kids! Comics!" thread if for no other reason than I used a silly-ass phrase like "liquid journal" at one point. That, and it was just taking me too damn long. I'm not sure what's up for next month, but I'm sure it'll be too damn much to read on a monitor without your eyeballs drying out. So grab some Visine and I'll talk at you next time. Kisses.

Hey, Kids! Again with the Comics!

2008-11-06T19:16:00.000-08:00

Yeesh, I didn’t realize how big this stack of books I had to wade through was. For those just tuning in, I’ve taken what I believe to be a nice snapshot of my weekly purchasing patterns and am discussing (to death) what I’m getting out of the whole deal. I think what I’ve learned the most is I really fucking need to cut down. The problem I’m having these days with that idea is that foregone conclusions are getting harder to come by. With my last big purge, I could just say, “Fuck it,” on a lot of titles that I had been buying merely out of habit (Action and Detective, for example). Whenever a mini-series starts to really blow (like Spider-Man: With Great Power...), they’re already over with. But there seem to be a lot of titles I buy that then sit in my to-read stack and stare at me like orphans. I wonder why the hell I even bought them, and then I read them and say, “Oh, that was actually pretty good,” like with the current Eternals series. So, you see, it’s not as easy as all that to just drop titles. It’s gotten to the point where I no longer complain when Diamond shorts my orders (although, in principle, it still really hacks me off)(Today, I seriously toyed with the idea of writing an angry Grampa Simpson letter to Diamond, but then I got paranoid that it would fuck up any future hopes of being a comic book writer and pussed out [as though my lack of ambition or talent isn’t already handily fucking up any future hopes at all]). I almost wish Marvel would go ahead and ruin another few titles like they did so well with Amazing Spider-Man. And now that I think about it, they probably will.

Problem solved.

The War That Time Forgot #3 of 12 (2008): Speaking of books I’m dropping. I dunno how you make dinosaurs and Nazis boring, but here you go. Like a lot of folk, I got into writer Bruce Jones’ stuff while he was writing The Incredible Hulk (actually, just after he left, but same difference). Then I found out he was the same Bruce Jones that used to write for those Warren rags and those rad old Pacific sci-fi titles that I’ve always liked. So, good. Then his first couple minis over at D.C. (like Man-Bat and especially Vigilante) were really good, but then, I dunno, he started to go kinda downhill. There was that so-so OMAC series, and then some other stuff I can’t think of right now, and now this stinkburger (The moral here: just stay at Marvel; they’re better [there, I said it. I’ll say it again if I have to]). With this issue, I realized that I couldn’t remember who any of the principals were from the last time, not because I’d crammed my head with so many other storylines and plot threads in the intervening month, but because I simply didn’t care. I suppose I’d cut a similar Marvel title some slack on the nostalgia factor, but I was never that into D.C. as a kid. I guess they should have thought twice on the media blitz that accompanied the first Burton Batman flick that effectively soured me on a great deal of their output at the time and kept them from sinking their hooks into my tender pre-adolescent buying power like Marvel did. Better luck next time, suckers.

High Rollers #1 of 4 (Boom! Studios): I often get pangs of hipster intellectual guilt from constantly stuffing the coffers of Big Two while I know so many talented creators and truly enjoyable books die alone, unmourned and unloved, because jerks like me are too busy with our Civil Wars and Final Crises to give a shit about indies. But I go through Previews each month with a pretty fine comb and come up with mostly bupkes in the smaller press section. If I want book after book filled to the brim with vampires or zombies or army guys or whatever the hell, I can get enough to choke a camel from Marvel and D.C. (not to mention Dark Horse and Image).

So when a book comes along that has at least a little something to offer over the mainstream, I get all excited like a dipshit college kid who goes to the Chomsky lecture but still Tivos Gossip Girl. And in this book’s case, it’s writer Gary Phillips. Although he’s apparently an accomplished crime novelist, Phillips first came to my attention with his Vertigo mini Angeltown with Shawn Martinbrough. I’ve yet to track down any of Phillips’ book books (maybe because what I remember of his story in L.A. Noir was pretty awful, or maybe it was okay, but “okay” wasn’t gonna cut it after slogging through some of the other crappy stories in that anthology), but he did me a favor and wrote another comic that is gonna be solicited directly to me, with none of the fuss and bother of actual book shopping. (Addendum: naturally, #4 of this series came in for me this week—11/6/08—meaning Diamond didn’t send me #2 or 3. Thanks, assholes. Way to support the indies.)

I’d actually started writing this ready to tear this book a new one, since I clearly remember being pretty disappointed at first read. But this time around, I really liked it. Hardboiled gangster shit, just like Angeltown, which also had predominantly African-American characters, which you really don’t see much of in comics. I think what might have left such a bad taste in my mouth before was the artwork. I’ve never been much of a fan of the digitization of comics. But while I’ve grown used to it for the most part, a lot of art still really suffers from it, in my opinion. If this book was done in four colors on newsprint, I think it’d come across as an avant garde-ish, Frank Miller-y sort of thing. But thanks to the latest technology, this art’s been rendered flat, lifeless, and just plain goofy-looking (although to play devil’s advocate, Phillips’ occasional gaffes in the dialogue don’t help matters, goofiness-wise [“HA. HA. HA,” laughs a character at one point. Really? I’ve never heard anybody laugh like that for reals. Perhaps I’m not hearing it the way he’s writing it, but if that’s the case, I think that since I’m bringing enough reading experience to the table, I’ll qualify that not as an M.P., but a Y.P.]). Or maybe it’s just plain shitty art, and I’m trying to make excuses for it because I feel like a tithead for criticizing a guy’s artwork when I can’t even draw stick figures. Either way, I woulda dropped this book if I hadn’t read it a second time. I’m glad I did, but I still think a book like this oughtta grab you the first time around. So take from that what you will.

House of Mystery #3 (Vertigo): I dunno about you, but I think I’m getting kinda sick of Vertigo. Call me nutty, but I’ve been noticing a bit of a pattern for the last couple years: The nearer it got to Y: the Last Man ending, the more irregular the books seemed to come out. As of this writing, 100 Bullets is about seven or eight issues away from ending, and I can’t remember when that book came out on time last. Paranoia on my part? Probably. But here’s this, too: As Y drew to a close, Vertigo began pushing hard on American Virgin, which is far from being the same book, but definitely touched on a lot of the same subjects as Y and fit that general tone, I think. Same with Loveless and Scalped as far as being heirs apparent to 100 Bullets. Two of Vertigo’s top-selling books are either gone or on the way out, and three of the books I’ve mentioned above have been cancelled (and woefully, might I add. I want it clear that these three titles of which I speak were/are all very solid contenders on their own, especially Scalped [still going, hopefully for a very long time], and it is hardly to Vertigo/D.C.’s credit to try and pull the ol’ switcheroo on us [unless, like I said, I’m just being paranoid][stop staring at me]).

So, if my theory is correct, Vertigo’s attempts over the past few years to bail out their line have failed, and so, they have re-grouped and gone back to what made them a powerhouse in the first place: more books with fairies. Swamp Thing, Sandman, Fables, all perfectly fine books, but also the kinds of titles that attract hairy female college students (god bless ‘em) who have more money to spend on another Bill Willingham book because they’re not clinging to adolescent male-power fantasies (hey, good for you. Let me know when the Indigo Girls are coming through town next; in the meantime, I’ll be over here re-reading my back issues of Alien Legion)(man, I am a dick).

Naturally, my take is a bit skewed here, and again naturally, I’m taking the low road by launching petty personal attacks on a demographic that is generally very polite and smells nice, all because Jessica Bowman wouldn’t go out with me in the tenth grade (that’s theory for you). House of Mystery is thus far a fine title, carrying on that Vertigo tradition of re-vamping an old D.C. book, for better and/or for worse. Gone are Cain and Abel (though they made a brief farewell appearance [I guess you could call it] in the first issue), which kinda sucks for me after I had fallen in love with them all over again after finally getting the entire Moore run on Swamp Thing a couple years ago. Now the House has taken on that hotel at World’s End thing (remember that Sandman arc? ‘Cause I only just) where all kindsa characters sit around and swap stories. There’s a Mafia-y gangster one in this issue, so I luck out, but the overall theme of stories and story tellers gets kinda lame to me after a while. I get that it’s all meta and post-modern and everything, but unless it’s really, really well done (i.e. 1963), it just gets wanky. Like when Hollywood (again with the movies!) makes a movie about the movie business and think they’re being all clever and satirical, when they just really come off as self-referential, self-satisfied, and some other adjective with “self” as the prefix. Not to say House of Mystery comes off like that at all, but there is that threat lurking. Bill Willingham (here sharing his writing duties with Matthew Sturges) is a fine writer, but even he couldn’t keep my interest piqued with Fables (try as we both did)(and the guy’s never been anything but super fucking nice when I’ve met him, and if you ever get a chance to see him speak at a panel or anything, take it, for not only is he smart and engaging, but he handles wiseacre questions from the audience with a deftness that is a true delight to behold).

So I’m thinking I’ll give this book a solid year, and if it’s not seriously kicking my ass by then, I’m throwing it back.

Joker’s Asylum: The Joker #1: I tend to dig these fifth-week books, have since before I knew what a fifth-week book was. The screwy numbering they usually have gives my OCD side a pain, but I’ve gotten better at ignoring shit like that. And like a lot of people, I really like the Joker as a character. But after re-reading The Killing Joke for the umpteenth time recently, I’ve realized that Alan Moore has ruined that guy for me in a lot of ways. The depth of character Moore gave him in that book is more than enough to make most other writers’ interpretations of him either really goofy (which isn’t always bad, mind) or really flat (which is always bad). Add to this problem the fact that it seems every writer in comicdom has an insatiable boner for the Clown Prince of Crime, and what you’ve got is probably the most over-used character ever created. This probably comes as news to only me, which has probably got a lot to do with how few D.C. books I read, even fewer as time marches on.

But like I said, fifth-week books can be fun, and Arvid Nelson wrote this issue. I read Rex Mundi back when it was on Image, but that was mostly because my friend Eric drew it. Not that it wasn’t a good book, but if a guy I didn’t know personally and therefore wanted to support hadn’t been on the book, I probably wouldn’t have bothered, and in fact, I commenced to not bother once Eric bailed. But I still kept Nelson in mind and picked up his next book, Zero Killer, which I enjoyed quite a bit. Frankly, the post-apocalyptic story has become, in this post-Cold War world, rather post-worth doing. But I still have a little Road Warrior-kinda fanboy in me, and Zero Killer also features a black hero, which, again, I like to see. Sadly, that book’s been put on the shelf interminably after only three issues, so tough shit for me on that score, I guess.

Which brings us to this book. And it’s not bad. But it’s not great. The Joker’s dialogue isn’t quite as cutting and ironic as I’d like it to be. But it’s serviceable. The plot is kinda, y’know, clichéd, I guess I wanna say. One of those “Who’s the real crazy one here?” stories. The Joker takes over a game show and terrorizes everyone in the studio, and in so doing, exposes the producers of the show for the immoral and uncaring ratings-hounds that they are. Any one here not know that already? So the actual execution of the story is fine, with a cute little Cryptkeeper-type framing device, but overall, it’s a pretty ho-hum book if you ask me.

The art also didn’t quite grab me at first, but Alex Sanchez does this neat little trick that’s gonna have me keeping an eye out for him in the future. There are a couple panels where the Joker laughs or shouts a line—“Now shut up, all of you!”—and aside from the normal lettering, Sanchez also includes it as part of the art, lettering it himself with big red words. It’s a nice, subtle touch, the kind of thing this book could have used more of.

Jonah Hex #33: Jonah fuckin’ Hex (to be uttered with the same reverence one would give “Lee fuckin’ Marvin” or “Rock and fuckin’ roll”) has been a favorite of mine since I was a teenager, but I had no idea of the true potential of this character, or even this medium, until the writing team of Jimmy Palmiotti and Justin Gray began this book near onto three years ago (which is kinda weird, because aside from their work on Friday the 13th, I haven’t been all that gung-ho on the grip of other stuff they’ve done). I never used to dig the Western genre much, with schlock like Louis L’amour and Gene Autry clogging most of its arteries. But once I discovered Sergio Leone and his Italian cohorts, I finally saw the Western as what it could really be: the last bastion of the honest-to-Christ tough guy story. My favorite stories of the recent past tend to be about men pitted against the elements as well as their fellow humans, and overcoming such obstacles by sheer (in a word) balls, losing none of their pride and remaining fiercely independent. This sort of theme is obviously not restricted to Westerns (e.g., the private eye/hardboiled genre, which is also quite beloved to me), but despite glaring exceptions like Preacher, the traditional Western tends to most freely allow the exploration of themes and characters like those described above. And no current book quite encompasses this breed of Western like Palmiotti and Gray’s Jonah Hex.

And this issue is a near-classic example of the template they have set down. There isn’t often a narrator in this book, but I don’t believe that this is the first time the story has been told entirely from a different perspective than that of the man himself. Regardless, most writers utilize this to not only better (or, at the very least, differently) characterize the protagonist by allowing the reader an outsider’s perspective, but to also more greatly show the protagonist’s effect on others in the story. The plot here revolves around a young boy whom Hex saves, but then essentially abandons to the elements. This of course seems cruel, until the issue’s end when we see that the boy has been taught to fish, so to speak, and will doubtless become the tough guy he needs to become in order to survive.

If you’re sensitive to overdoses of testosterone, this story and its ilk may not be your poison, but I sure as hell am gonna have another round. All that being said, this issue is lacking in one teensy thing. During the first year or maybe year and a half, Palmiotti and Gray did this neat thing where they used the second panel on a page for a simple chapter title, written in that old-timey script, like vaudeville placards. It’s a simple trick, but effective, giving the book not only an extra dash of setting, but a nice added sprinkling of tough-guy-ness with fucking genius titles like “This Town Needs a Bigger Cemetery.” Like I said, they were in every issue at first, and still crop up every now and again, but alas, not in this issue. It’s understandable because them things must be hard to come up with every month, plus this issue has kind of a different narrative and stuff. But I still miss ‘em.

The artists on this book operate on a revolving-door basis, which fits fairly nicely with the (mostly) self-contained issues, and Darwyn Cooke is up this time. I think it’s pretty neat that a pretty hot shit artist like Cooke does stuff like this, but while I think the guy is a hell of an artist, I also think his particular style is not quite as suited to this material as those of past Hex artists like Jordi Bernet and the great Tony DeZuniga (a framed autographed sketch of Jonah Hex by DeZuniga hangs proudly in my room, acquired on me and Window’s trip to WonderCon this year, a score eclipsing even the original pressing of the first Nuggets record I also obtained on that trip). But that’s not a complaint, nor even a criticism, really. I dunno what it is, exactly.

So, yeah. Jonah Hex: one of probably three monthly books that I simply could not do without right now. D.C. should quit publishing superhero books altogether (c’mon, 70 years of Superman? Do we need any more?), and focus more on their fringe stuff—Vertigo, Wildstorm, and books like this. Although Marvel’s doing better for themselves with the Icon and Max imprints, D.C. still holds sway with books like these, and so they should lean much further in that direction.

Marvel 1985 #2 (of 6): Mark Millar seems to be getting a little full of himself these days, but it’s a little difficult to argue with him since he keeps putting out such quality output in such high quantities. And this book in particular feels tailor made for me. As I’ve mentioned before, I’m sure, it does my heart loads of good to read comics written by guys from my generation. And this book is now the most obvious example of one taking the comics of my childhood and, for lack of a better word, updating them to suit my adult tastes as well as those of my side arrested in its development. And since I either have already covered that or will eventually, I’ll leave that point lie for now.

First, a very quick synopsis before I make the one observation that picks at me while reading this book. A young lad in Middle America circa 1985 discovers there’s some weird dimensional portal in his hometown through which the pantheon of Marvel characters begins to pass, alternately terrorizing and rescuing the denizens of the sleepy burg. A fine concept, well executed to boot, and certainly one that speaks to every thirty-something dork who’s been reading comics since the Reagan administration. The only thing holding this book back (and really, only a little bit) is the medium itself. This is very much a meta-superhero comic, in the vein of Watchmen and The Tick. But the whole crux of the premise is that it takes place in the real world. Even when the “real world” is depicted in comics, it’s still pretty difficult to completely and absolutely suspend disbelief in that regard, but even in such highbrow fare as Watchmen, that complete suspension is not so strictly required for the story to achieve its ends. See? If it really has to be the real world, then it really, really has to be the real world, and as great as Tommy Lee Edwards’ art is, it’s still too...well, comic book-y to really get that across. Tony Harris’ work in another meta-comic, Ex Machina, is far better served by his very realistic style, and I think something like that would have been just as useful here. Alex Maleev also leaps to mind with his nearly photographic style. But even then, I think this would still nag at me. It’s a weird paradox. The medium of comics itself is the simultaneous cause and solution to the (again, minor) problem posed by this brand of story-telling; after all, despite what I’ve said here, where else but in comics could this story have been done correctly? TV? Movies? No fucking way. The only place superheroes/villains don’t look goofy is in comics, and even if a TV or movie could achieve a non-goofy yet traditional look to these characters, the usual problem with a production that size would just be too many goddamn chefs.

Besides, I hate movies.

Christ, still not done. My original intent with this now seems to be altered yet again, and I now kinda consider this running commentary on the books of early July to be more like a liquid journal on a bunch of ideas about comics and all things related that I have, so it’s nice to kinda get these down on paper in some sort of readable form (although, I suppose the readability here could be argued). So, see you next time.

Hey, Kids! Comics!

2008-11-06T18:53:00.000-08:00

I’m in a much better mood starting out than I was last time, although that’s quickly being tried by the two chunky middle schoolers next to me playing Magic: The Gathering (apparently, there are no life points rewarded for using inside voices)(although God save you from the unholy wrath of the portly middle-aged security guard lady should you smoke a cigarette within spitting distance of the front door. The Spring Valley Library: where the peace can be disturbed, but not pussy-ass non-smokers).

So anyways, what I thought I’d do this time around is write about the comics I’m reading these days, using some of the books I bought the first two weeks of July to serve as a nice cross-section. I’m sure I’ll find plenty to piss and moan about, but I wanted to try and mix in some sunshine, which is much easier to do if I’m just talking comics themselves versus comics-related stuff. So, yeah.

American Splendor #4 (Vertigo, vol. 2): Although I’ve known who Harvey Pekar is for some time, I’d had relatively little exposure to his actual work until Vertigo put out first his The Quitter with Dean Haspiel, and then the first AS mini that came out last year or whenever. I coulda sworn I had an issue of the original series, and I wanna say it was magazine-sized, but I’m probably wrong (I don’t have it now, and I don’t think I woulda gotten rid of it).

Anyways, my first (and for a long time, only) real exposure was through the superlative documentary Comic Book Confidential, which I taped off the Learning Channel in high school (and which I believe is now available on DVD, so do yourself a favor and hunt it up. And then do myself a favor and burn me a copy). The story he reads in that documentary about his obsession with collecting jazz records struck an immediate chord with me, having myself (as I’m sure goes for a lotta you) been saddled at an early age with that unyielding compulsion to collect all manner of (what can be summed up as) useless shit.

And then of course, there’s the movie, the cult popularity of which I’m certain is why Vertigo became interested in publishing Harvey’s work in the first place (not that Harvey’s talent went unsung until it was displayed in the moving pictures, but that I don’t see Vertigo [as friendly as they can be to stuff off the beaten path] as part of a massive conglomerate [in fact, the same massive conglomerate that distributed the movie American Splendor on video] putting money and effort into something they may not see as particularly marketable). Back before that flick came out, when I read that Paul Giamatti was gonna play Harvey, I was not only excited to see Giamatti in something decent for a change (I saw Duets not for him so much as the great Huey Lewis)(no, I didn’t), but because you don’t often see such smart casting (hey, I thought I wasn’t gonna talk about movies this time)(but one more quick movie-related anecdote: of all people, my father actually saw this before I had a chance to, and he called me all excited about it and how I should see it immediately because “Jim, you’re just like this guy.” Maybe not exactly true [Harvey Pekar, for example, is talented], but the point is I wasn’t sure whether I should be flattered or insulted).

Anyways, all this to say that my familiarity with Pekar’s body of work has mostly been passing, but always enjoyable. As noted, I identify heavily with Harvey and his life, for even if I’m not a crabby packrat of an old man, it’s only because I’m just rounding the corner of age 31. As usual, this issue is all about Harvey and his day-to-day life as a writerly, mildly hypochondriacal techno-phobe, but this is the first issue (that I’ve read, anyways) where all the little stories connect to tell an overall one about Harvey’s writing process (which is [again] not remarkably a lot like mine. In fact, just last night, as so often happens, I thought of an idea as I was drifting off to slumberland, and as also so often happens, instead of doing the sensible thing and getting up to write it down, I [like Harvey] tried to etch it into my brain and found today that I [unlike Harvey] had failed). There’s also art from a buncha great guys, including two of my all-time favorites, Darick Robertson and San Diego’s own Rick Geary (actually, I guess he and his wife moved to New Mexico last year. And this shithole town is all the worse for it, let me tell you).

It only took fifteen years or so, but I’m damn glad I started buying American Splendor.

Astonishing X-Men #25: I was damn excited for this issue, since the main reason I bought all the trades in the first place was because one of the finest writers in the industry today, Warren Ellis, was taking over and I wanted to be up to speed when the Internet Jesus saw fit to take his pen to one of Marvel’s top books. Needless to say, I wasn’t disappointed (it should be pointed out here that I’m likely to read Ellis’ grocery list if it gets published, so any notions of objectivity on my part very well may fall to the wayside). Coming as no surprise, Ellis turns in a noir detective story working undercover as something else, in this case, a superhero story (see Gravel, a noir detective story working undercover as a magic/fantasy story; Anna Mercury, a noir detective story working undercover as a cyberpunk story; Wolfskin, a noir detective story working undercover as a sword and sandal story; and Fell, a noir detective story working undercover as a...well, a noir detective story). So that’s good for all concerned (i.e., me), except that I am a bit anxious to find out what’s to become of Kitty Pryde (unless that’s been answered in a book I don’t read. I don’t think Kitty’s even mentioned in this issue, which leads me to think this is the case, although it wouldn’t be unlike Ellis to eschew previous storylines in order to start fresh [along with the team itself in their new San Francisco headquarters][those of you who remember my Spider-Man rant a while back may wonder why I’m not being a bear for continuity here, and with good reason. What it mostly boils down to in this case, I guess, is that Ellis isn’t seeking to change anything, just to bypass this particular character/storyline. Also, the true mark of a good writer is one who can sneak shit past you and you don’t care. I submit the film Pulp Fiction as Exhibit A][and who’s to say he won’t come back to little Kitten eventually?][stop me before I parenthesize again]). Ellis does bring back Storm (perhaps this’ll be a tradition for Astonishing writers: re-introducing female X-Men that we [and by “we,” I mean, “I”] have lost touch with) for what seems to be an extended visit, thereby (along with Armor) balancing out the testosterone levels in the group, and also giving the White Queen someone else to catfight with. Never having been a slouch in the dialogue department, Ellis also hews closely to the book’s well-established snappy patter (and I mean, not that Whedon’s dialogue did anything less than pop off the page, but seriously, who better to continue with that brash, ice queen, razor-sharp sarcasm of Emma’s that was first established by that nutty limey Grant Morrison than yet another nutty limey like Warren Ellis?[yes, I realize that Morrison, as a Scot, would take deep umbrage to my terming him a “limey,” but I’m an American. If you talk funny and watch a lot of soccer, you’re a limey]). So all the possible new writer pitfalls seem to have been avoided, or at least satisfyingly danced around.

As far as Simone Bianchi’s art, yeah, it’s good. But what one should know about my take on art is that it pretty much sucks (my take on art, not art itself [usually]). I have a laundry list of artists who I consider to be nothing short of genius. But in my day-to-day comic book reading, I’m really far more interested in the story. I feel that art best serves the story if it isn’t distracting, either by being terrible (far too often the case) or those rare occasions when it’s just too damn good. Take Alex Ross, for example. I don’t really like reading the stuff he’s done because I read pretty damn quick, and with the vast amount of talent shown upon his pages, it seems sacrilegious to burn through, say, Kingdom Come. I can easily put on my art appreciation hat and come all over artists all day (though I’m sure that would make them, if nothing else, uncomfortable). I dunno, I guess what I’m trying to do here is not come off as some sort of philistine, y’know? Maybe it would just be better for all concerned if I just kept my trap shut unless I have something to say about the artist, not a bunch of claptrap about what I don’t have to say (I should probably just keep my trap shut altogether...).

All that being (not) said, the only quibble I have is with how Bianchi signs his covers, with one of those big obnoxious autographs-in-a-box, which is followed in short order by those of the inker and colorist (they’re not gonna be outdone, by God). This habit of cover artists seemed to spring up about 15, 20 years ago (I’m looking at you, Todd McFarlane), but didn’t really bother me until a few years ago, I guess, when I became a pain-in-the-ass nitpick. But, pain-in-the-ass or not, I maintain that it’s touches like this that make comic book art interfere with the rest of the overall project. I’m not saying Bianchi’s swinging his dick around and saying, “Hey hey, looka me!” But my eye can’t help but be drawn to these nearly caption-sized signatures, and that’s just annoying. I’d be willing to give a pass for anything about the size of Tim Bradstreet’s signature (and that’s a pretty good size), but anything bigger than that, you’re running the risk of being a big douche. And nobody wants that.

Cable #5 (Vol. 2): I began this by writing a big rave about the works of Duane Swierczynski, mostly for the stellar novel, The Wheelman. But I was digressing over here like my grandfather on a Sunday afternoon drive, so I’m trying to at least stay a bit on topic now.

Cable was never a favorite character of mine. Oh sure, I was swept up in Liefeld fever back in the early ‘90s (as if those awkward early adolescent years weren’t painful enough, I had to latch on to all that crap so I could remember it years later and wince), but I just didn’t care. Yes, I bought Cable’s solo series well into high school, but I couldn’t tell you a single thing about it now. I haven’t blocked it out on purpose (oh, if only it were in my power to do shit like that, and I could erase those dreadful few weeks in my early 20s when I greased up my hair like a four-eyed Fonzie), it’s just that that stuff was so bland, I couldn’t have retained it if I tried.

Bishop was a little different. I really dug Whilce Portacio’s stuff, and although that doesn’t really hold up all that much, I’ve always liked the character. His back story was nothing new, really (hell, he was just kind of a black version of Cable, if I’m remembering at all correctly), but despite his dumb mullet, I always thought he looked pretty cool with that face tattoo and all. And he was certainly a much better black character than most of Marvel’s at the time (remember that god-awful Cage series? Yeesh)(a lotta bad memories in this piece. Such is [my] life). I mean, that’s kind of a dippy fanboy-ish thing to say—“Bishop rules!”—but y’know. That’s what I was.

Now I find it no surprise that writers of my generation are harkening back to halcyon days of our youth and reviving these characters. But what is so invigorating is how they are going about it. Guys like Swierczynski (and in this group, I’m including Ed Brubaker, Brian K. Vaughan, Brian Michael Bendis, etc., all guys who are about my age and have a fuck of a lot more to show for it) clearly have soft spots for all the crap we devoured between bouts of Gyromite and that week’s new episode of In Living Color. But they’re more interested in the spirit than the execution of that time (I’m mostly talking from about 1990-1993, which I see as being one of the darkest for superheroes), and that is a good, good thing.

For example, in this arc of the current Cable series, we find ol’ Nate on the run from Bishop just after the events of Messiah Complex. Now, I’m such an idiot, that I didn’t even see the parallels between the two characters as clearly as I do now that I’ve begun writing this (I knew there was a reason I was doing this shit). Two guys with opposing agendas but both from a bleak future (and both with bad-ass cybernetic anatomy). One’s white and one’s black, although I hedge to make this a racial thing. For one thing, it’s clearly more about drawing physical distinctions between the two principals, much like in the movie Unbreakable (which, although a piece of shit, still had some things right). For another, I’m not even sure how conscious the decision was to have this weird anti-Defiant Ones (enough with the movies already!) vibe, but I’m relatively certain no one’s out to make the black guy look like an asshole.

In fact, now that I mention it, Swierczynski does a swell job painting these two as well-matched antagonists, guys who used to be friends but have had a major (really major—one could even say “apocalyptic”) political falling out. Bishop is not demonized, nor is Cable an angel straight from heaven. It’s not easy to not demonize a guy who wants to kill an infant (oh, did I mention that was going on? Ah, fuck it, this isn’t a synopsis, go read it if you want the plot laid out. Come see me if you want meandering analytical bullshit), but Swierczynski is that kind of a writer.

(Whereas I suck at writing. See, I’m writing this Cable part straight on the computer instead of hammering out a rough draft first, so I’m adrift on a poorly-made idea in a sea of even more poorly-made ideas [like this analogy].)

Well, let me just say this about Ariel Olivetti’s art: the first I really came across it was in the current Punisher War Journal, and while I thought it was good, it seemed a little too cold and computer-y to me. Maybe this book just suits his style better, or maybe he’s just growing on me.

All right, kids, that’s enough from me for now. I have a bunch more books that I wanted to get into this time, but as usual, I fucked around and waited too long. Plus I’ve got a buncha other shit I wanna get to tonight. So more from this July stack next time.

Let's All Go to the Lobby and Never Come Back.

2008-11-06T18:03:00.000-08:00

(Note: Originally, in the first half of this piece, I made my first attempt at [what was hoped to be] an on-going criticism of what I oh-so-cleverly labelled "talking heads," that photoshop shortcut a lot of artists seem to use these days wherein they digitally repeat panels instead of [God forbid] having to draw the same thing more than once. But frankly, I was unable to say quite what I wanted to say. It's still an idea I may call up from the minors one day, but honestly, now that I think about it, it's not even a practice I've been noticing as often. So maybe some day. Anyways, on with this crap.)

Like a lot of you, I was really looking forward to the Iron Man movie, and like a lot of you, I was far from disappointed. I generally think the summer movie season to be, at best, a big snore, and this year (so far) has done little to dissuade me of that. But no, Iron Man was great. I’ve been a fan of Jon Favreau’s for years. And Downey playing a rich womanizing alcoholic? That’s just smart casting. So yeah, great movie.

The Incredible Hulk (henceforth referred to here as Hulk, for brevity's sake), I wasn’t so excited about. I didn’t see the last one since, like so many Ang Lee movies, it was directed by Ang Lee. But I figured I’d see this one ‘cause I like Edward Norton and Tim Roth and it looked like it’d be okay. I hadn’t planned on seeing it opening weekend, but my hand was forced a bit. See, in Kevin Murphy’s A Year at the Movies, he explains how Hollywood bases each movie’s success on its opening weekend. No matter how bad it is, if a movie hits number one at the box office the week it opens, Hollywood pats itself on the back and throws itself a hot tub party before cranking out a shitty sequel. This isn’t an exact science, of course, and there are obvious exceptions. But I still can’t shake the feeling that if I had just waited a week or two to see Austin Powers 2, then Austin Powers 3 (which I didn’t see on opening weekend, or any other weekend, for that matter) would never have been made.

But then Windowpane comes home after seeing Hulk on opening day and off-handedly remarks that there’s a cameo at the end. I hadn’t known there would be any such thing and would have liked to have kept it that way. God bless Window, y’know, he didn’t say who it was, but imagine my surprise and delight while watching had I no knowledge of any cameos whatsoever. Then, Russell comes home ready to punch a hole through something because some dickhead at work out and out told him who shows up at the end. Then, Carmen tells me that her sister called her and blew it for her, too. Well, fuck it, I figured, and me and her went that day before I would have been forced to knock a loudmouth’s teeth down his throat.

And even though it equaled Iron Man in pretty much every area (leading lady notwithstanding), I actually liked Hulk a wee better, and all because of a one-liner. Y’know, when I watched Predator as a kid and Schwarzenegger throws a knife into a guy and quips, “Stick around,” why, I thought that was the most witty and urbane thing a chap could say in a situation like that. Fast forward ten years to when I watch it again, and my eyes roll nearly audibly. Sure, that kinda shit can still be kitschy and fun, but so can hanging out with my grandma, which also doesn’t cost me $10.50. So, now remember in Iron Man when all the bad guys really open up and give it to him with both barrels, resulting only in a bunch of little dings in his armor? Yeah, I know, it was rad. But then before he lets loose on them, he goes, “My turn.” Ugh. That’s not even kind of clever. Does that one line ruin the movie? Christ, no. But since the Hulk is generally not a really chatty character (in dramatic representations, anyways), I don’t have to worry about any cornball shit like that. The closest Hulk came was the requisite “Hulk smash!” which is more a catch phrase than a one-liner, and it really hit me right in the giddy nerd spot.

One thing that doesn’t hit my giddy nerd spot, but rather bull’s-eyes my pissy cynic spot is the adaptation of the Mark Millar/J.G. Jones book Wanted. Wanted was, I believe, the first thing I ever read by Millar, or at least the first of his work that made a real impression on me. It’s very Fight Club-y, which is A-O.K. with me. And from what I’ve read about the flick (I normally eschew reviews of movies I have any intention of seeing, but no danger of that here), it comes off as Fight Club meets The Matrix (at least, that’s how the yokels who write poorly orchestrated reviews on the IMDB describe it. But isn’t Fight Club just The Matrix without The Matrix? Or The Matrix just Fight Club with The Matrix? And aren’t all of these just the “Den” segment from Heavy Metal?). But it’s like this: Fight Club is a fine adaptation in that it really succeeds in keeping the original spirit of the novel. But it also wasn’t a dopey summer action blockbuster.

It seems the going wisdom is to expect nothing more from these movies than tits and explosions. And that’s fine by me, I love tits and explosions. But I don’t see the necessity to rape decent source material in order to serve up tits and explosions.

A lot of times, people complain that a lack of faith to the source material automatically equals a crappy adaptation. I disagree. I think Catch-22 is a really good movie, although it departs greatly from the novel. But if you’ve read the novel, you can see that it doesn’t exactly lend itself to film.

So all right, fair enough. But if you take a fairly action-packed comic like Wanted, which, being of a visual medium, can lend itself to film, why fight it? Why buy the rights to the comic and then re-write it until it no longer even remotely resembles the original? God forbid somebody with some actual creativity and talent get their hands on it.

And then further to the re-writing, it is a totally pussified re-writing and, worse yet, a pussified re-writing that thinks it has balls. Like a junkyard dog that’s had its teeth yanked yet still tries to gum trespassers into submission, it’s pathetic and more than a little embarrassing to witness. The comic can be pretty goddamned disturbing at times, which personally, I enjoy in my fiction—to be challenged, to be fucked with. I also enjoy it in movies, much more so than “popcorn’ ” movies, which make me feel like I’m being condescended to. And that’s hardly any “fun” at all. If I wanted that, I could track down my cunt of an ex-fiancée and hang out with her.

The comic Wanted features truly evil supervillains committing all sorts of vile and heinous acts (which, as the 21st century marches on, is not easy to do. When we have so often been exposed to [particularly in popular culture/fiction {I’m not sure what the difference is, really}] all sorts of evil sonsa’bitches, from John Wayne Gacy to Freddy Krueger, it sure ain’t easy coming up with more genuinely scary individuals. But Millar does it, God bless ‘im), not the least of which being enjoying a life of true hedonism on the backs of work-a-day suckers like you and me.

However, the movie Wanted features, what I gather, truly philanthropic assassins who keep the world peace by killing those deemed necessary by the Loom of Fate (if I never write those words again, it’ll still be too soon). Aw, isn’t that nice? They’re cuddly little anti-heroes, li’l teddy bears who fuck and have back tattoos.

Wesley, the main character in the comic, learns nothing popularly considered positive by the book’s end, at first rejecting the life of power and greed forced on him by familial ties, before deciding on his own terms to grab the brass ring with both hands. It’s a fairly disgusting peek into the dark side of humanity, and it kept me giggling the whole way through.

Wes’ final line in the comic of “This is my face while I’m fucking you in the ass,” appears to have been changed in the movie to “What the fuck have you done lately?” Oooh, a curse word. That’s enough to make something edgy and “now,” isn’t it? Besides, we don’t want any of that, y’know...that sort of...well, anything that sounds, y’know—gay. I mean, sure, the line in the comic is not meant to be taken literally, but I guess people won’t find the “fun” in that sort of “mean-spiritedness” (which is a word I ran across more than once in the negative reviews of the movie [which somehow came off as even more moronic than the reviews that called the movie “fun”]). And speaking of gay stuff, I can all but guarantee you the homosexuality (there wasn’t a ton of it, but still) depicted in the comic was the first thing excised from the screenplay. Guys are there to slaver over Angelina Joile and her weirdly shaped mouth, not to see a bunch of queers.

And now it appears Chosen, another Millar book, is next to be given the Hollywood treatment. So when that comes out, just replace the pertinent words above (y'know, the title, the star, the female lead) with Chosen's respective ones, and save you and me a lot of hassle.

To paraphrase Bill Hicks, movies suck and there needs to be less of 'em.

Spider-Sense No Longer Tingling.

2008-11-06T17:40:00.000-08:00

(Note: I already don't like Blogger because I can't properly indent my paragraphs. Does anyone know how?)

For this essay, I originally was gonna tackle the by-now infamous re-tooling of The Amazing Spider-Man earlier this year. But in the course of knocking this paper out, I realized my problem was less with the actual changes and more with the somewhat flip attitude taken by Marvel in regards to these changes. This is a pretty weighty charge, I realize, to basically say that Marvel doesn’t give two shits what its readership thinks about the direction it takes with its flagship character. But I think few would argue that comics are not an art form taken altogether seriously by most; even its most strict adherents will often dismiss criticism by saying, in effect, who cares, it’s just comics.

Even though neither really comes out and says it, Amazing Spider-Man writer Dan Slott and editor Steve Wacker reflect this attitude in a (quasi-)recent interview on Ain’t It Cool News . Actually, thinking about it, I don’t think either actually thinks it, but they still give off that vibe (to me, anyways). Before I start chewing their asses, however, I’d like to point out that if there were more interviewers out there willing to really press creators for answers with some depth, instead of accepting the smarmy wisecracks that so many creators will often resort to (whether they do this out of frustration or simple cynicism [both of which I can assure you follow any kind of artist around like some kinda neuroses entourage], either is understandable to me, but that still doesn’t tend to satisfy any questions I may have), then there would be less room for me to speculate about these creators’ intentions and come up with my own cynical wisecracks regarding. Let it also be known that my familiarity with comics journalism fizzled out at Wizard circa 1994. So for all I know, there are plenty of funny-book Woodwards and Bernsteins out there (while I’m thinking about it, check out the The Comics Journal Library, Volume 6: The Writers to read some interviews of the caliber I mean here)(or just check it out ‘cause the Harlan Ellison interview is hilarious)(y’know, either way).

Okay, that all out of the way, let me get down to mildly(?) defaming the character of a writer I actually really like. I’ve enjoyed Slott’s work for a couple of years now, particularly taking notice with his woefully short-lived Thing series. And although his is not the kind of writing I instantly gravitate towards, Slott’s goofy yet just-shy-of-being cutesy style is really pretty enjoyable (which is saying quite a bit from such a dried-up sourpuss as myself). But this style doesn’t really transfer well into interviews, if you ask me.

Slott explains that “Brand New Day” “isn’t a ‘Crisis’ or a reboot,” but a “mind-wipe.” Yes, good, that clears things right up. He then points to similar devices used in the past with Iron Man and Dr. Strange. Fair enough. But just because it’s been done before, it should be done again? Slott’s Iron Man example took place ten years ago, for chrissakes, a time when I had quit reading comics altogether, they sucked so bad (although apparently, Kurt Busiek co-plotted the issue in question, so I might hunt that bad boy down). So if we’re gonna start doing comics like they were done in the ‘90s (I mean, shit, they already brought back Rob Liefeld and fuckin’ Onslaught, didn’t they?), I guess I’m gonna have to start spending my lunch money on records instead, like I did in the ‘90s (the mid to late ‘90s, anyways).

Where Slott really loses me, though, is with this quote:
There ARE solutions to ANY continuity problem you can come up with. Honest. WE know how they all work. But who wants to go on and on explaining it all? I mean, just look at how long THIS response is. See? Getting sleepy yet? Me? I'd rather use that time telling stories!

Yeah, man, I’ve been collecting comics for more than half of my miserable life. I know how they all work. And that’s just it, isn’t it? That’s why, for example, in “The Other,” Straczynski, David, and Hudlin brought a whole bunch of new shit into Spider-Man’s continuity, shit I didn’t see coming even after almost twenty years of following the adventures of the long underwear set, shit that actually seemed kinda obvious in retrospect because it worked so well. All of this shit in “The Other”? Those were some solutions, son. See, to me, it’s not that there’s new problems with continuity; it’s that there’s no new continuity.

For some time, I’ve felt this current generation (turn of the century on) of superhero books is the best yet, and part of that is because the story-telling has matured greatly, especially in Marvel, where that Crisis reboot crap indeed doesn’t have much of a place (except all this Spidey nonsense, obviously), where storylines are taken to their logical ends and torpedoes be damned. Daredevil, for example. I realize the specifics between the unmaskings of Matt Murdock and Peter Parker are pretty widely divergent, but there are obvious parallels. For instance, Murdock’s wife is now in the booby hatch because Matty made it absolutely clear to the underworld as to who owned Hell’s Kitchen. You don’t unmask in the middle of Josie’s Bar after handing Wilson Fisk his own large ass without inviting trouble onto you and your loved ones. Is a wife in the nuthouse the same as a dying mother-figure? Maybe not, but it was still no walk in the park for the man without fear, and he still didn’t go running to Mephisto when his horns were up against the wall (I’m still undecided if the irony of that, if it were to happen, would be kinda clever or just kinda lame).

But it takes time to tell a story like this. Or, to put it another way, to go on and on explaining it all, explaining to the reader what is continually happening to the protagonist—his, to use a word, continuity. Or, to put it yet another way, to tell a story like this. Brian Michael Bendis spent a good four years fucking up (in a good way)(for us, the readers, anyways) Murdock’s life, and Ed Brubaker’s been carrying on that tradition since. And I haven’t fallen asleep once. Again, if anything is sleep-inducing, it’s resorting to “the classic Peter Parker set-up,” as Wacker calls it. I already own the Amazing Spider-Man omnibus; I can read the classic set-up anytime I want.

All right, well, now that I’ve gotten off track somewhat, I might as well go all the way. So finally, if Marvel just wanted to return Peter Parker’s secret identity, that I could understand. I felt at the time (and still do, for the most part) that Pete’s unmasking was the ballsiest move I’d ever seen in mainstream comics. And though I’d hoped and prayed Marvel would stick to it, I guess I wasn’t all that surprised when they didn’t. But I had good reason to think that they might, pointing again to Daredevil. Back in #25 of this current series, after Murdock had been outed by Sammy Silke, Daredevil/Murdock was being sued for property damage, when who should take the stand but Daredevil himself. What the—?! We come to find out it’s none other than ol’ Parker in Matt’s spare duds. But now people are starting to wonder. And I hesitate to throw this example in since it’s not a Marvel book (Note: since I was writing this for The Marvel Zombie Society, I did my level best to only talk about Marvel comics), but I will because it is contemporary superhero stuff as well as mainstream-ish: Astro City. In the Local Heroes mini-series, Busiek (hey, him again) also plays up this angle beautifully by having a supposedly open and shut case get thrown out since, in a world of time-travelers and shape-shifters, what can any jury know beyond the shadow of a doubt? And finally, more recently and relevantly, we have Avengers: The Initiative #7, written by none other than Dan Slott(!!)(and might I add: !), wherein the seeds of public doubt are sown when there appears to be three Peter Parkers, all with the same spider powers, in Midtown beating on the Vulturions. The public really starts to scratch their heads at that one: How can there be three of these guys? Which one is Parker? Is Parker even one of them? Well, dude, we just don’t know. But shall we take our time to find out? I mean, it would take years to re-establish Parker’s secret identity this way, right?

Well, yeah.

What, you got something better to do?

Weblog of Spider-Man

2008-11-06T16:38:00.001-08:00

So, back a few months ago, I found out one of my roommates was part of a comics APA called the Marvel Zombie Society. I was not only surprised that such a thing still existed, but that I actually could get it up enough to contribute. Of course, that couldn't last. So now in a further effort to remove myself from my early 20s-era Luddism and to save essential paper resources for truly important things like hardware store circulars, I'm going live with this here blog thing. I actually started one a little while ago about NYPD Blue, but I actually managed to bore myself. I've got a new entry brewing up in the old noggin, but to hold you until then, I'm gonna reprint the articles I did for the APA, re-edited to make it seem as though I'd just written them for my vast Internet audience. Everything is about comics, although I occasionally lapse into movie criticism and other various shit, whatever burr I've got up my ass at the time. But nothing non-comics related. If I'm gonna bore you with sob stories of my misbegotten existence, you can be damn sure there's a comical book angle in there somewhere. I try to be all smart-alecky and post-modern (and try doing that without using the term "graphic novel," it ain't easy), not because I think I'm better than everybody (although I do think that), but because for the last 7 or 8 years, I've found the conversational tone in comics fandom is like that you'd find at an 8th grade dance. And I fucking hated 8th grade dances. So I won't be crapping out any top ten lists, or starred reviews, or any of that Entertainment Weekly horseshit. Criticism at its brashest and generally soaked in Bud Light, that's the Callaway way. So welcome aboard.

In closing, the Watchmen movie is gonna suck really bad.