Filing Cabinet of the Damned

The End

2006-12-29T11:12:00.000-05:00

After two years and two hundred-some-odd posts, I'm ending Filing Cabinet of the Damned.

I began this blog shortly after discovering the miracle of the Comic Internet Blogosphere Talkathon. The delightful madness of dickering over comics and pontificating about What It All Means beckoned to me. I had to join in.

Among my friends and family, I’m the only comic book reader. Filing Cabinet of the Damned provided an avenue to discuss matters that would only generate confused stares and eye-rollings from them.

Harv: “The prophecy says that Darkseid would be killed by his son…but who is his son, really? Orion, the child of his hated wife, a boy he traded away as a youth, a boy he never knew? Kalibak, the offspring of his mistress, a boy he ignored? Or Mister Miracle, the son of his greatest enemy, the boy entrusted to his care? The only boy he himself raised, the only boy who Darkseid cared to mold? Scott Free is Darkseid's true son. Scott will be the one who kills Darkseid in the end!”

Mrs. Harv: “That’s nice, dear. Is this ‘dark side’ the same one Darth Vader talked about? Is Pink Floyd involved? Whose son got away scot free?”

Filing Cabinet was intended to be an outlet for my enthusiasms and pet ideas, and as such, it succeeded, and succeeded brilliantly.

But after a while, I just plain ran out of things to say.

I still enjoy comics, but my excitement over yammering about said funnybooks isn’t there anymore. Recently I picked up a decent-sized stack of comics and the long-awaited Essential Defenders Volume Two, enjoyed the books quite a bit, and yet felt no desire to blog about either of them.

I also farted around with a jokey piece paralleling trends in modern comics and the horrors of Prog Rock, but the damn thing just wouldn’t gel, and, unlike a few months ago, I felt no urge to tinker with the piece.

And thus, I knew I was done.

Playing critic and the general yapping fool was fun for a time, but criticism is not, nor has it ever been, in my blood. Constructing semi-intelligent pieces about other folks’ work no longer feels rewarding. Instead, it feels like time lost from my own work.

All that said, I am not disappearing from the comic blogosphere, nor am I retiring the dumbass pseudonym of “Harvey Jerkwater.” The greatest joy I’ve derived from the comic blogosphere is the connection to like-minded fans it provides. It’s why I blogged in the first place. I’ll continue to read other folks’ comic blogs and make the odd comment here and there.

I’ll also be found elsewhere on the internet, though in non-comic-blog media. Pendant Productions has an upcoming anthology podcast show called Seminar, and I have scripts in the first and fourth episodes. Other junk from my fevered brain will wash up from time to time in other places, I’m sure.

On my way out, I’d like to thank some folks in the blogosphere who’ve made me feel welcome.

Mike Sterling, Neilalien, and Tim O’Neil, a trio of kind gentlemen who gave me my first taste of sweet, sweet publicity.

Scipio Garling of the Absorbascon and Devon Sanders of Seven Hells, who took significant time out of their busy Free Comic Book Day 2006 at Big Monkey Comics to chat with me about a great many things comical.

Dave Campbell, of Dave's Long Box, for his hospitality during my recent visit to Seattle. While in the Emerald City, he charmed the hell out of my wife; for the Dave, the Dave is a smooth devil. He also entertained us with a fine anecdote about Erik Estrada. Sadly, I myself have no anecdotes about Erik Estrada.

The whole crew at Comics Should Be Good, where I was an infrequent poster.

Peter B. Gillis, who wrote not only one of my all-time favorite comics, but a supportive e-mail as well.

Steve Englehart, who granted an interview to this psuedonymous nobody from nowhere.

And, most of all, a big fat thanks to all the readers and commenters on this here blog. I appreciate all of you folks. Really. No foolin'.

It’s been groovy. I’ve had fun.

And rather than drag on a blog I don’t feel like continuing simply for the sake of dragging it forward, it seems proper to end the whole enterprise.

------------------------------

Truth be told, there's another reason beyond simple burnout. My burning out isn't new--I’ve nearly killed this blog a half-dozen times out of disinterest, only to come back when my enthusiasms for comics and nattering about comics rises up again. (“You know what the world needs? A country song about Garth Ennis…I should write one…”)

However, new demands on my time, attention, and enthusiasm have emerged, and, as per the grand cliché, my priorities have been rearranged, likely for a long, long time.

Said priority-rearranger is small, bald, and loud. And it’s not Brian Michael Bendis.

Wee Baby Jerkwater is coming in a day or two.

Damned if the prospect of figuring out how to fit clothes on a squirming baby and which end of the kid to diaper hasn’t sapped my will to prattle on about Steve Ditko and Alan Moore.

(It’s the head, right? The diaper goes over the head, doesn't it? Dammit, where’s that book…)

Eh, who knows. Maybe in three months I'll come crawling back to comic bloggitry, desperate to escape the tyranny of the tot. Probably not, though.

To all the fanboys and fangirls out there, keep it four-color, yo.

See you in the funny books.

Your Internet Bud,

Harvey Jerkwater

The Kirby Character Meme

2006-11-22T15:19:00.000-05:00

I’ve been tagged by Plok of A Trout in the Milk with a simple meme from Sean Kleefeld.

Here’s the original challenge from Kleefeld:

The past few years, I've been writing a column for Jack Kirby Collector that looks at Kirby's visual design of characters. It's been infinitely fascinating for me, and I almost always find some surprises in my research on Kirby's design processes for the characters I write about.

I thought I'd bring other people into the fold by my first attempt at starting a blogosphere meme. Here's the premise:

Forget Jack's overall storytelling, forget his characterization, just look at the visual representation of his characters -- the actual drawings themselves. Now tell us what YOU think is the best character design Jack Kirby ever created and why. The challenge, it seems to me, isn't so much finding a good (or even great) character design; it's narrowing the field down to just one!

What is my favorite Kirby character design? Before I give my answer, I’ll start by saying that I love Captain America, and Kirby did a tremendous job with him. But the costume is more than a little goofy.

The basic idea is great: a modern-day knight, with chain mail, gauntlets, and a shield. The flourishes, though, are strange. Wings on the head? The striped midriff? Ah, well.

Much as I love the guy, he looks a little like a dork.

Who is Kirby’s best design?

Who else?

DOOOOOOOOOOOM!!

Doctor Doom is the counterpoint to Mr. Fantastic. He is the Dark Side of Genius. Where Richards lives in a bright white tower, open to the public, Doom lives in an ancient fortress in a police state. Richards wears a bright blue jumpsuit and creates inventions to push back the boundaries of human knowledge. Doom wears armor and a mask, and his work is purely for the Greater Glory of Dooooooom!

Richards represents intelligence for the good of all and looking to the future. He is the American Space Age. Doom represents intelligence for personal gain and anchored to the nightmares of the past. He is the Gothic Villain.

Doom’s design has a few great touches. The basic form of his costume is the armor. The armor looks medieval, hinting at Doom’s preoccupation with the occult, as well as Doom’s status as an old-tymey genius, the sort who was feared by the populace and kidnapped local maidens for purposes too horrible to contemplate. Over the armor he wears a green tunic, a little reminiscent of Greece and Rome, and a hooded cloak, which reinforces Doom’s sorcerous flavor.

The true genius of Doom’s design is in the mask. Doom’s look is, for the most part, simple: smooth armored limbs, circles at his joints and clasps, the simple green clothes, and the holster. Nothing notable. Doom’s mask is entirely different, without betraying the basic thrust of the design. It draws attention to Victor’s face though it does not disrupt the harmony of the design while doing so.

Nooks and crannies give the mask a sinister look, and draw attention to Doom’s crazy, crazy eyes. The mask’s mouth is full of techno-gadgetry, hinting that Victor’s true insides are not man, but machine. Moreover, the ugliness of the mask hints at the horrible, scarred face beneath it. Doom’s mask is as ugly and frightening as the man who wears it.

(That’s my pet theory as to why cartoon versions of Doom fail—without the details in the mask, the strengths of his design are lost.)

Kirby’s Doom was the greatest ranting, larger-than-life villain the comics have ever produced. It’s a hell of a look.

Of course it is!

For he is DOOOOOOOOOM!!

Who do I tag?

Oh, let's see if the Big Dawgs of the Blogosphere are paying attention.

Dave Campbell, paging Dave Campbell. Chris Sims, paging Chris Sims. Bully the little stuffed bull, paging Bully the little stuffed bull. Devon Sanders, paging Devon Sanders.

Kirby meme on the line.

(Devon doesn't much like Kirby, as I recall. That'll make it fun.)

Today's Obvious Joke

2006-11-21T15:09:00.000-05:00

Coming This Fall!

MARVEL: RECONSTRUCTION!!

In the aftermath of the world-wracking, senses-shattering miniseries event CIVIL WAR comes RECONSTRUCTION!

Wounds will heal!

Alliances will be reformed!

Shattered friendships will be mended!

NOTHING WILL CHANGE!!! EVERYTHING WILL BE THE SAME AGAIN!!

With malice toward none, with action for all... RECONSTRUCTION!!

A just and lasting series, coming this winter from Marvel!

You Could Remake Wings of Desire. Or Not.

2006-11-16T15:00:00.000-05:00

[I’ve been puttering with this for a few days, and then Tom Foss of The Fortress of Soliloquy posts something very similar. Dammit. Ah, well…]

The Martian Manhunter, beloved by many comic fans and ignored by the general public, has a miniseries out now that’s supposed to redefine and reinterpret the character. This isn’t a big deal. J’onn J’onzz has been redefined and reinterpreted a half-dozen times. What reviews I’ve read of the miniseries have been negative, and that this revision of J’onn (a grim, X-Files-esque grim-n-gritty conspiracy character) is wrongheaded.

Superman is considered a challenge to write by many because of his vast powers and strength. What can give the Ultimate Man difficulty? The Martian Manhunter possesses that challenge squared.

J’onn’s powers range so widely, it’s hard to make a comprehensive list. To begin with, he has the “Superman Package:” super-strength, flight, invulnerability, “Martian Vision” (a sort-of heat vision), and the now-ignored super-breath. He doesn’t have these powers at the same level as Superman, but he’s not that far off.*

Then there’s his telepathy, shape-shifting, intangibility, and invisibility powers.

I’m probably forgetting a few.**

The Martian Manhunter has been around since the mid-fifties and has never been a major player. In all likelihood, he’ll never be one. But consarn it, the character can be a good one, and I’d love to see him carry an ongoing series again.

Because ideas are cheap and easy, and so am I, here are a couple of ten-cent ideas out of my four-color brain for a workable ongoing Martian Manhunter series.***

…

Beetle-Brows of Desire
The Logic: J’onn can read minds, travel invisibly, and become anyone. He is also the last of his kind, a lone Martian among billions of humans. More than any mainstream superhero, J’onn could transition to a Vertigo title. The “alienated outsider moping” potential for a Martian Manhunter series is enormous.

The High Concept: Wings of Desire meets The Fugitive. An invisible protector and agent of change, the Last Martian rights everyday wrongs among a group of unhappy people and seeks his place in a world where he does not belong.

You can just smell the clove cigarettes and coffee, can’t you?

“I walk among them unknown. I am with them, but never of them. Alone, forever and ever, to know them to the depths of their souls and yet never truly know them.” And so forth. Anguish! Angst! Arty-fartyness!

A doomed love would be a necessary component to the series, I’d imagine.

Soundtrack by Morrissey.****

…

The Hunter of Men
The Logic: Most efforts to shape interest in J’onn as a solo character stress his Martianness. But that’s only half of his name. Put the accent on the second half: Manhunter.

J’onn has had flirtations with detective stories throughout his history, and a brief superspy career. During the James Bond Era of popular culture, also known as the mid-sixties, the Martian Manhunter infiltrated, fought, and brought down the eeeevil criminal conspiracy V.U.L.T.U.R.E.

Given J’onn’s less common abilities (telepathy, shapeshifting, etc.), espionage is a genre for which he’s well suited. Particularly comic-book espionage, with its orbital laser platforms, mad scientists, killer robots, and so forth.

The High Concept: The Human Target meets Nick Fury, Agent of SHIELD, with a hint of Superman. J’onn joins Checkmate, the superspy organization. They may or may not know who he really is. The Manhunter infiltrates and thwarts threats to humanity ranging from the globe-spanning Cult of Kobra to a handful of disaffected soldiers causing trouble in Mexico City. He can uncover anyone’s secret, reach any spot on the planet, and has the power to obliterate whatever stands against him. He was made for low-profile work.

Also, conspiracy masterminds make more sense as foes for J’onn than most villains. With his ability to read minds, the only way to keep him from discovering your plans is to make sure that the people you send against him don’t know your plans. Or know the wrong plans. Or use robots. Y’know, mastermind stuff.

…

My Three J’onzz
The Logic: The Martian Manhunter has been on Earth since the nineteen-fifties. He’s from a highly advanced civilization that was dedicated to both science and spirit. He’s been reading our minds and living among us for sixty years. In short, despite being a Martian, nobody knows the human heart half as well as J’onn.

Moreover, he’s well-known for being kind, loving, and compassionate. He was a family man on Mars, and he has close bonds with many humans. Due to his great losses on Mars, he appreciates the value of those bonds.

The Manhunter’s greatest success as a character came when he acted as the “heart” of the Justice League, especially in its comedy years. J’onn the kindhearted ringmaster of a loopy circus was a character readers loved.

The High Concept: The Brady Bunch meets Runaways meets Explosiones Grandes en Cuatro Colores. Plus jokes.

Cast J’onn as the patriarch of a clan of orphaned and/or abandoned superhumans. The children of fourth-rate supervillians, like in Runaways, or maybe just random kids. They range in age from ten to eighteen, and include Cindy Reynolds, also known as “Gypsy,” a teenage superheroine towards whom J’onn has felt paternal since her days in the Justice League, oh so many years ago.

The kids can vary in personality and be downright loopy. I figure there'd be about four of 'em, each with different whacked-out powers. A robot dog would be mandatory, as would Oreos. Lots of Oreos.

The Martian Manhunter knows that to keep the kids safe, they have to pretend to be a normal human family. The kids may or may not put up with this at any given moment. Also, since they’re the only superhumans in the greater Denver area, they’re also called upon to act superheroically on occasion.

To round out the family, J’onn and the kids share the house with Elaine Cannell, a character I just made up. Elaine is an ordinary woman with an ordinary life, despite being a telepath. She hides her power, since it freaks people out. Her telepathy is remarkably similar to the Martian flavor, which captures J’onn’s attention. She’s also warm and groovy. They fit together perfectly, and dadgumit if J’onn doesn’t have a love interest.

J’onn helps support the family through detective work with his old partner, Diane Meade. When not on the job, he trains and protects his proteges, as irritating as they can be. And, when the need arises, he leads them into big ol’ super-fights.

The series would have to be kept light and fluffy, with the occasional dip into Big Scary Drama. Sibling rivalry with superpowers! Date night drama! Lex Luthor has sent an army of Bizarros to attack, and they’ve torn up the vegetable garden! The world is ending and Gyspy has a term paper to finish! One of the boys has built nine robot dinosaurs and is attacking the school!

…

Just spitballin’.

------------------------------
* Also in the Superman vein, he has a signature weakness, in the manner of kryptonite: fire. For most of his career, he’s been pretty much a Superman copy with a stronger emphasis on the alien side.

** Ye gods. It’s almost easier to make a list of things he can’t do. I’m pretty sure he can’t speak to fish. Though I suppose he could talk to fish if he applied himself…dammit, this is hard. He can’t time travel! There ya go.

*** Please note that all of these are “continuity lite.” No retroactive changes, but also not a lot of attention paid to the past. The brief ongoing Martian Manhunter series often got bogged down in explaining old storylines or retrofitting assorted junk into a more coherent shape. As a fan, I appreciated the effort to sort out the past, but it didn’t help the series. As far as these proposals are concerned, the Ostrander/Mandrake interpretation of J’onn J’onzz’s history is just fine.

Comics that exist only to clarify how old comics fit into new comics makes me sad. Infinite Crisis depressed me.

**** I date myself by my musical references. For you kids today, replace "Morrissey" with "Dashboard Confessional."

Weird Comics: Avengers #1

2006-11-10T12:06:00.000-05:00

Early Marvel was really, really strange. Take Avengers #1.

The story begins with Loki, the evil Norse god, tricking everyone into thinking the Hulk was a menace. (Which, come to think of it, he was. Details, eh?) To keep safe, the Hulk goes into hiding...

As an elephant-juggling robot clown in a circus.

Which, when you think about it, makes perfect sense.

Ahem.

Better still, people fall for it. They "just happened to find" a giant green clown robot with superhuman strength. For that to seem normal, well, let's just say that Marvel Earth must be a very cool place.

Yes, the people fall for the Hulk's cunning disguise. The ant in the panel's lower-left corner doesn't. Take that how you will.

Said ant alerts Ant-Man, who has been searching for the Hulk. Ant-Man rushes to the circus and unleashes his secret weapon and a great catch phrase: "Release the steel cylinder, my tiny warriors!"

Righteous.

Later on, the Hulk fights the Wasp, a tiny flying heroine, with the best tool for the job, and a tool I suppose he always keeps on hand: fireplace bellows.

Sweet.

Near the issue's climax, the mighty Thor comes after his eeeevil brother, only to fall prey to...mad, hot, sweaty hairy-backed troll love.

Yeah, I love comics.

The Sub-Mariner's Rogue's Gallery, Improved

2006-11-08T18:51:00.000-05:00

Today's dippy thought: The Sub-Mariner's name is "Namor." A good faux-foreign name. Twenty bucks and a box of doughnuts says it was derived from spelling "Roman" backwards.*

That being the case, shouldn't he have a Rogues' Gallery made up of villains named Labinnah, Nainigahtrac, Htogisiv, and Ladnav?

I'm just sayin'.

--------------------------------------
*The Wikipedia claims that Namor's creator, Bill Everett, got the name to Coleridge's "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner." I'm not buyin' it. A quick scan of the poem shows no such name, nor even a similar-sounding name. I sez it's "Roman" backwards. The poem may have inspired the character himself, but the name? Nah.

Like a Thief in the Midafternoon

2006-11-07T17:47:00.000-05:00

It’s amazing the things a blogger will do to come up with content, especially during National Novel Writing Month.

Take this lame-ass stunt: Chris’s Invincible Super-Blog is taking reader questions. The best question wins a prize.

What’s so lameass about that?

The lameass thing is that I’m stealing a bunch of the questions and answering them myself.

Yeah, yeah, it’s weak. Real life has made me its bitch of late and demanded a lot of my time. As always, the blog is the first thing to suffer.

So...on to the stolen questions!

----------------------
Fiendenstein said...
Beta Ray Bill is an alien, a cyborg, and an 80's icon....but why does he have a skeletal horse's face?
--THE ANSWER IS: Intimidation purposes. Criminals are a superstitious, cowardly lot. Thus, he became…an alien cyborg thunder god horse. Makes sense to me. C'mon, tell me that a real-life Beta Ray Bill wouldn’t strike bowel-loosening terror in you and I’ll call you a liar. A dirty, horse-faced liar.

Dave Lartigue said...
Could Lockjaw clamp down on Mjolnir hard enough to prevent it returning to Thor?
--THE ANSWER IS: No, but it would rule if he could. Instead, he’d latch onto the hammer and get dragged back to Thor. I have to say, Lockjaw is far and away the coolest character named after tetanus. Other Inhumans with similar names, such as “Rusty Nailgun” and “Brigadier General Stiffness of Muscles,” were not as popular.

Gordon said...
[Harvey], why isn't there more punching in comics?
--THE ANSWER IS: Kicking is all the rage these days, especially with the rise of soccer-style kickers in the modern era. That being said, I predict a “back-to-punching” movement in the next few years as heroes age. Easier on the hamstrings.

Jim said...
If you were bonded to a disembodied head that only you could see and talk to, who would you want as your Prof. Stein?
--THE ANSWER IS: Emeril Lagasse. He’s cute, he's friendly, and he's so close to a perfect superhero catch phrase it breaks my heart. If Emeril were my Invisible Disembodied Head Buddy, I’m sure I could push him over the top and it work. “BAM! Let’s kick him up the crotch!” And I would.

jacob munford said...
I was reading some comic blog the other day and it posited the theory that due to the insular nature of the superhero comic book industry, it is only a matter of time before Marvel and DC become the same thing. Which made me think...Can Batman and Luke Cage coexist in the same world? And if so, what happens when they run out of thugs to brutally wreck and then sass?
--THE ANSWER IS: Yes, they can. And if that happened, the two of them would put aside their super-identities and open an erotic bakery. Bruce would shape the cakes with a Bat-knife, and Luke would perform the delicate icing work. He's a demon with a pipette. Sweet Christmas!

Shon Richards said...
What reccomended music do you suggest as the soundtrack for your blog?
--THE ANSWER IS: The Tom Jones cover of “Kung Fu Fighting,” available on the soundtrack to the Jackie Chan movie “Supercop.” Or the Tony Bennett album “The Beat of My Heart.” Tony Bennett + Art Blakey = Unfettered Awesomeness.

Brandon said...
Super-expensive Dr. Doom replica costume, jetpack and laser pistol included? Or lifesize remote-controlled Devil Dinosaur that you could ride around on?
--THE ANSWER IS: Assuming the Doom-suit was functional metal armor, I'd pick the Doom suit. Why? Because I already spend an inordinate amount of my time plotting revenge against the Accursed Richards, building super-science gadgets, and yelling “Bah!” The suit would complete the look. A Devil Dinosaur replica would be pure radness, but it’d be hell to keep the damn neighbor kids off of it.

Norrin2 said...
If the original Green Lantern was powerless against wood, how did he handle unwanted erections?
--THE ANSWER IS: His comedy sidekick, Doiby Dickles. “Doiby” was an old hobo term meaning…um…never mind. Hi Mom! Anyway, the answer is “Doiby Dickles.”

Ragnell said...
I can't believe no one else has asked this: What is the meaning of life?
--THE ANSWER IS: A friend of mine struggled with the Meaning of Life for years and then one day it came to him. The key insight? “You know what’s good? General Tso’s Chicken. You know what sucks? That movie Point Break.” He lives his life by these words, as do I.

Christopher said...
Why do people like the Authority so much when the characters are two-dimensional, it doesn't address the implications of its premise, and the fight scenes are purfonctory and lacking in suspense.
--THE ANSWER IS: Because it caters to people’s contempt for others. Reading it allows fanboys to vent their misanthropy and feel superior at the same time. There’s a little portion of each and every one of us that wants to rule the world and suspects the only reason that we don’t is a lack of (metaphorical) balls. The Authority indulges that portion of us. Thus, The Authority is a purer wish-fulfillment book than most, and thus, it stinks at the zoo.

Anonymous said...
such a horrible time for us blog readers;
Dial B for Blog ends
the 4th Rail was already gone
Hypno Ray said he was quitting.
Dave's Long Box takes vacations
the fortress keeper hasn't reviewed much for nearly 3 weeks
The Absorbacon is witty with Golden Age Bondage but where's the review section?
and Devon's slacking.
C'mon [Harvey]...you've been the one constant guy...don't stop now!
My buddy trent told me to start a blog. I did and it's already on hiatus.
JettBlackBerryX
Alan
--THE ANSWER IS: I myself am going to stop writing this blog at the end of the year. I’ll explain why then. (Of course, I might change my mind. I’ve nearly killed this thing six times.)

Ryan O said...
is the springfield monorail faster than the flash?
--THE ANSWER IS: In my family, we call fires “uh-ohs!”

Johnny said...
where do babies come from?
--THE ANSWER IS: Diamond distributors. I have one on back-order. She’s a holofoil beauty! Hope she has the right number of staples.

djmikerdee said...
Dammit! Why have you not done an overview on the greatest comic series of all time: "Skull the Slayer" - 8 whopping issues of Marvel madness with dinosaurs, aliens, Aztecs and - for two Marvel Two-In-One issues - Benjamin Grimm! C'mon [Harvey]! It's the bestest!!!!
--THE ANSWER IS: I own one or two issues of Skull the Slayer, purchased from a quarter bin. Holy crap, it was a weird series. Also, during the mid-seventies, Marvel experimented with "jackass heroes," and Skull was one of ‘em. A very unpleasant man. A strange, strange book. I may have to dig it out for a post.

Brian said...
Oh no, a huge stack of longboxes full of Good copies of 'Rom Spaceknight' has collapsed and crushed your body! Fortunately it's a Wednesday, and there's a mad scientist at your store ready to transplant your brain into a new body. What body, m'friend? A super-ape? Luke Cage? A cyborg whale with laser cannons sprouting out of its blowholes?
--THE ANSWER IS: An air-breathing octopus with laser-eyes and suckers so powerful they could open up tiny wormholes in the space-time continuum, should I so desire. And I would. Also, the body would have a voice like Barry White. And smell like maple syrup.

Devon said...
Don't hate the playa, hate the game, [Jerkwater]! *wink*
--THE ANSWER IS: I have enough hate for everyone. Not to worry. Plenty to share.

Rick said...
Can you confirm or deny that Batman is the Chuck Norris of the DC Universe? In Justice League Unlimited episode: Destroyer, Batman starts to yell at someone as their bodyguard readies to attack him, yet runs into batman's fist, all with batman focused on talking to his target!
--THE ANSWER IS: I deny it. The Chuck Norris of the DC Universe is…Chuck Norris. His comics have never been published,* because the technology does not yet exist for a printed page to kick each and every reader in the head.
(*No, “Chuck Norris Karate Kommandos” does not count. That was Marvel, and he’s already kicked to death everyone invovled in that fiasco.**)
(**Except Steve Ditko. Even Chuck Norris won’t mess with Steve Ditko.)

El Dia de los Muertos

2006-11-01T12:47:00.000-05:00

Today, November 1, is the beginning of the two-day celebration Dia de los Muertos, or "Day of the Dead." The holiday has special meaning to me, as part of my mixed heritage.

To honor my Mexican-American heritage, I celebrate the day by decorating my house in festive skulls and bake some tasty pan de muerto in memory of loved ones and friends who have passed away.*

To honor my Ninja-American heritage, I celebrate the day by killing a lot of people.** The Day of the Dead is big in Ninja culture, what with the traditional emphasis on killing. Killing and family, that's what Ninja are about. Well, and barbeques. Nobody barbeques like Ninja. Anyway, killing on this day ensures that I'll have plenty more friends and loved ones to mourn and celebrate next year. I ask you, what is a Day of the Dead without plenty of dead? A lame-ass holiday, that's what it is.

Even if you aren't of Mexican origins or trained in the deadly arts of ninjutsu, I suggest you take some time out today to remember those who are no longer with us, and celebrate their lives.

And if the mood strikes, go ahead and kill someone. That'll make next year's celebration all the richer.

-----------------------------
* This is a blatant lie. I am not Hispanic.

** This is a blatant truth. So watch it. That noise behind you five minutes ago that you didn't hear? That was me, and that was a warning.

Self-Defense Tip #1

2006-10-30T08:02:00.000-05:00

We here at Filing Cabinet of the Damned feel it important to give back to the community from time to time. Not only do such acts serve the common good, thus benefitting each and every one of us, it also cuts into the public service time mandated by the courts.

Below is a diagram of a vital self-defense technique, certain to be of use should you ever be threatened: the Twisker Sock.

With this, no one will dast to risk your fisk.

I’m Just Saying, Is All.

2006-10-25T16:12:00.000-04:00

The Cranberries’ song Zombie, a mid-nineties hit, would have been a lot cooler had it not been about The Troubles in Ireland and instead been about The Troubles with the Living Dead.

But you see, it's not me, it's not my family.
Eat your head, eat your head, they are biting,
With their stench and their lurch,
And their lurch and their mung.
Eat your head, eat your head, they are coming.
Eat your head, eat your head,
Zombie, zombie

Not everybody is Irish. Everybody fears zombies. Simple as that.

--------------------------------------------

Quote of the day:

“Now and then we had a hope that if we lived and were good, God would permit us to be pirates.”
--Mark Twain, “Life on the Mississippi.”

--------------------------------------------

I miss super-villain deathtraps. Cheese-laden though they were, they combined ingenuity with visual flair, capturing the purest heart of comic book madness.

There should be a deathtrap renaissance. Fans might dig it.

At least one of the traps should revolve around a theme of air hockey.

--------------------------------------------

Marvel Comics is tying into the soap opera Guiding Light. The soap will have a character get super-powers and mention the comic in episodes, and a few Marvel comics will have Guiding Light stories in them.

It would work so much better with Wife Swap.

“Sue Richards, mother of two and full-time adventurer with her science-hero family in New York City, is changing places with Alice Dolphy, a fun-loving junk food junkie from Tallahassee!”

Well, y'know, assuming that comics were real and stuff.

--------------------------------------------

The expression “a crimp in your style,” meaning something has hindered you, should have an opposite expression. I suggest “a chimp in your style,” meaning that things are going great.

“That raise put a chimp in my style, man!”

--------------------------------------------

National Novel Writing Month kicks off in about a week. To prepare, I absconded with a stack of “how-to-be-writin’-books-and-suchlike” tomes from the public library. After a few days of scanning through them, I have reached a conclusion about books on writing.

To paraphrase Triumph the Insult Comic Dog, I poop on them.

I’m very, very tempted to review the books as a NaNoWriMo countdown. They’re not all entirely useless, just most of them. Then there was John Gardner’s The Art of Fiction: Notes on Craft for Young Writers, which, while giving a few very fine points, also went out of its way to intimidate the reader and stress the need for perfection in all aspects of writing. Ugh. I drew a bit of stone-hearted comfort in the knowledge that Gardner’s own fiction falls well short of his standards.

--------------------------------------------

A recent post by Booksteve reminded me of a movie that every lover of cheap cinema should check out: Roger Corman’s production of The Raven. Not only did it inspire Dr. Strange, the movie itself is a riot.

Roger Corman, King of the Hacks, made a string of Poe-inspired movies in rapid succession. The common themes meant he could re-use sets and even shots, thereby saving tons of cash. This was a typical Corman idea. The Raven was one of the last Poe movies, and he had fun with it.

The cast was incredible. It starred Vincent Price, Peter Lorre, Jack Nicholson, and Boris Karloff. Ye gods. To see the traditional actors Price and Karloff against the Method Acting madness of Nicholson and Lorre renders the movie worth the price of rental.

It didn't take itself at all seriously--the story begins with a raven speaking with the voice of Peter Lorre. How cool is that? Very. The Lorre-bird tells sorcerer Vincent Price that he had been transformed into the bird by an eeevil sorcerer and he needed Price's help. The movie gets loopier from there. And yes, it has a woman named Lenore.

The Corman Poe movies were hurried, slap-dash affairs, and they were all the better for it. The very last one, The Terror, took this approach to the extreme. Corman had Karloff on contract for one last day, so he shot a few scenes of Boris doing assorted things. Later, Corman and a group of assistants (including a very young Francis Ford Coppola and Jack Nicholson) shot a bunch of other footage around the Karloff footage, making the story up as they went, creating a glorious mess.

Hell yeah.

--------------------------------------------

After decades of avoiding them, I've started reading The Legion of Super-Heroes. A reboot, plus Mark Waid, got my attention. So I bought the first two trade paperback collections.

Danged if I don't like it. Waid plays into the zeitgeist very well. He is a clever, clever bastard. I'll write a longer post about it soon.

--------------------------------------------

I would kill a man right now for a sweet, sweet doughnut.

Mark Trail's Newest Ally in the War On Naughtiness!

2006-10-20T17:19:00.000-04:00

The Mark Trail comic strip for Thursday, October 16, 2006 introduced a bold new character, one certain to become a fan favorite:

CRIMEFIGHTER DUCK!
He's ready to lend a bill to help Mark Trail arrest a pair of dastardly poachers!

He'll find them and bring them to web-footed justice if he has to tear apart the city to do it!

Crimefighter Duck is a relentless manhunter! No crooks can shake this drake!

WAAAUGH!

------------------------

On a mostly unrelated note, I just found out that the upcoming Dr. Fate ongoing series will be written by Steve Gerber. The Gerb was responsible for some of the great whacked-out comics ever produced, including the recently-cancelled and damn fine book Hard Time. His fondness for the absurd, his gift for strange imagery, and his strong humanism should make the series a high point for DC.

Sweeeet.

Whoever hired The Gerb for the job, I owe you a fruit basket.

The Joys of Super-Villainy

2006-10-17T13:37:00.000-04:00

Bully over at Comics Should Be Fun recently asked:

[What about the] lower level of science villain who's smart and savvy enough to create technology powerful enough to at least temporarily go up against Spider-Man or Superman or Batman or the Flash, but doesn't cash in on it: what's his story, I always wonder? Why has the megalomania gotten in the way of him seeing that he just developed a dandy radioactive-powered ice gun for which world conglomerates would pay millions to lease or buy the technology, and instead decide to use it to rob the Second National Bank of Keystone City?

Oh, innocent stuffed bull. So young.

Say you've been puttering around your garage and accidentally invented The Mighty Veeblefetzer, a device that allows you to transform, um, adult contemporary radio hits into deadly force blasts. A Phil Collins CD would be enough to shatter a mountainside, Kenny G albums could liquefy the flesh of an entire city from a distance of twelve kilometers, that kind of thing.

If you took your mind-blowing invention and went legitimate, a typical day might go like this:

Begin the day with a board meeting. Then enter a conference call with two subcontractors, a customer, and a government observer. Later spend six hours going through spreadsheets to calculate monthly EACs. Stay at the office late into the night to polish up a report that will hopefully keep the research funding flowing.

If you took your invention and went eeeevil, a typical day might go like this:

Begin the day by donning your Invincible Battle Armor. Take to a stage in front of millions of your brainwashed minions. Bellow to them that you will destroy the world should the fools in Washington not accede to your all-too-reasonable demands. Tell your minions of their need to sacrifice themselves for your glory. Then shake your fists above your head in triumph as you cry out "WHO WILL DIE FOR ME?" and celebrate as those hapless millions scream their desire to end their lives simply to please you. Feel the world tremble in fear beneath your feet.

Granted, the first instance would probably end with a viewing of "Law and Order" reruns and a nice conversation with the spouse back at home, and the second would probably end with a gaggle of super-beings caving in your skull or disintegrating you.

Until that moment, what a rush.

The key to villainy is that it's so much fun. Life without the occasional power-mad cackle or cry of "seize him!" is a life hardly worth living. Super-villaining is choosing to live in a universe ruled by a bipolar god: the lows are lower than you'd ever believe, and the highs are greater than a normal person could ever fantasize.

Imagine that your favorite sports team has won the World Series/Super Bowl/whatever, you've struck a massive gold vein in your backyard, the Sexiest Man or Woman Alive has shown up on your doorstep seeking your affections, and the news announced that your face will be added to Mount Rushmore in light of your total awesomeness.

Now imagine all of that happening at the exact same time.

The best parts of super-villainy are like that. But better.

The finest explanation of villainy comes from a true American pioneer in the field. Henry David Thoreau stalked the forests of New England in the mid-nineenth century, clad in a green mask and tights. He called himself "The Verdant Caesar" and used a primitive robot, a "steam-boiler man" of his own construction, to attempt a conquest of Concord, Massachusetts.

Though he failed due to the interference of an unnamed "Wonder Horse," Thoreau's account of his career inspired generations of super-villains. To quote from the original, unedited text of Walden:

I went to the woods because I wished to live villainously, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, to discover that I had not lived.

Preach on, brother Harry. Preach on.

By the way, I'm starting up a super-secret world-conquering conspiracy. So far I've got a few telepathic gorillas, a ninja clan on retainer, a mid-sized flying saucer, some doohickey I bought on eBay called a "Magma Bomb," and a line on a fixer-upper Giant Nazi Robot. (I'm good with tools, so it should be operational by Christmas.) Those wishing to volunteer now as either elite guards or goon-class henchmen, please notify me in the comments section. We will conquer, they will bow at our feet, the world is ours, etc., etc.

Hector Hammond, MODOK, and Me: The Benefit of the Epic Melon

2006-10-10T15:17:00.000-04:00

I have a big head.

Not just in the figurative sense; it is also true in the strictly physical sense. According to current medical literature, my head fits in the technical category of "Epic Melon."

How epic? I cannot wear hats, save for those available at Big Head Caps. My skull's circumference is greater than two feet. The only people I know of with larger noggins than mine are a pair of NFL linemen, both all-around enormous men, both over six foot six. I'm five foot ten.

The advantages of giant heads have proven to be few. I do save a lot of money in souvenir caps, since nobody makes 'em in my size. Nobody dares to engage me in head-butting competitions.

Today I ran across this tasty tidbit from Reuters News Service:
Head growth in infancy tied to later intelligence

Head growth in fetal life and infancy is associated with later intelligence, new research hints. Moreover, catch-up increases do not appear to compensate for poor early growth.

"Brain growth in early life may be important in determining not only the level of peak cognitive function attained but also whether such function is preserved in old age," the study team writes in the journal Pediatrics. "Older people with a larger head circumference tend to perform better on tests of cognitive function and may have reduced risks of cognitive decline and of Alzheimer's disease."

Several studies in children have shown that those with larger brains, measured with imaging studies or as head circumference, tend to score higher on tests of cognitive function. Similar associations have been found in adults.

For their study, Dr. Catharine R. Gale, of the University of Southampton, UK, and colleagues examined the effect of head growth in fetal life, infancy, and childhood on brain power at the ages of 4 and 8 years. Included in the study were 633 term children who had their head circumference measured at birth and at regular intervals thereafter.

By age 1, mean head circumference increased from 34.9 cm at birth to 46.6 cm. Head growth after infancy was slower. Mean head circumference increased to 50.9 cm by 4 years and to 53.4 cm by 8 years.

Average full-scale IQ was 106.3 at 4 years and 105.6 at 8 years. The investigators report that only prenatal growth and growth during infancy were associated with later IQ.

At 4 years, after adjusting for parental factors, there was an average increase in full-scale IQ of 2.41 points for each 1 standard deviation increase in head circumference at birth and 1.97 points for each 1-SD increase in head growth during infancy. This was conditional on head size at birth.

Head circumference at birth was no longer associated with IQ at 8 years. However, head growth during infancy remained significantly predictive, with full-scale IQ increasing an average of 1.56 points for each 1-SD increase in head growth.

SOURCE: Pediatrics October 2006.

That's right, bitches. Fear my Alzheimer's-resistant mega-mind.

The article speaks of "tendencies" and "averages." Bah! As the proud possessor of a considerable coconut, I know perfectly damn well that I'm extra-brilliant, courtesy of the extra skull space. Moreover, that extra space isn't just for holding random facts about comic books, either. No, no. It serves a special function.

Should you ever see me, or any of my massively-meloned bretheren, squinting, it's because we're using our extra-big brains to read your puny mind.

Think nice thoughts, human.

A Notion, Rooted in Cross-Dressing

2006-10-06T16:34:00.000-04:00

Since I'm sharing random brain farts today, here's another.

Something that would be super-cool to see in the upcoming Iron Man movie...

A conceit from the movie Tootsie.

Tony Stark, a boy genius grown up, an alcoholic womanizer, and a multimillionare munitions magnate, is forced by circumstances to assemble a mechanized battlesuit. He uses the suit to fight monsters and do good deeds. This public-spiritedness is supremely out of character for the arrogant Boy Wonder. Even he is a little mystified by it.

It has a parallel with Michael Dorsey in Tootsie, an actor who masquerades as a woman, Dorothy Michaels, to get an acting job. Dorsey, to his surprise, finds himself acting differently when pretending to be a woman. Midway through the movie, Dorsey relates to his roommate a difficulty he'd had that day on the job. "If it were me, I would have bawled the guy out," Dorsey explains. "But she didn't." Michael then has a minor epiphany. "I think Dorothy is smarter than I am."

Imagine a scene where Stark's on-again, off-again girlfriend, Whitney Frost, finds him in the armor, sans helmet. She asks, "Tony...really? Fighting bad guys and saving kittens in trees? You?"

Stark sputters for a minute, confused. He stares at his helmet and then blurts "Iron Man is better than I am!" He pauses again, confused at what he just said.

Once freed from expectations and his past, Stark discovers that he isn't the petty bastard he always thought he was, or that he at least has the potential to be a good man.

(...okay, okay, the movie is almost certainly centered around this very idea. It's kinda obvious. I just wanted to work in the "I think Dorothy is smarter than I am" quote into a post. I think it translates well to the world of superheroes and the nature of the secret identity. Plus, I don't work in enough references to cross-dressing in my blog. Have to work on that.)

.....

A bonus picture: Abraham Lincoln at RFK Stadium, working the crowd during a Washington Nationals game. He'd just participated in the "Presidents' Race" down the first base line.

The Viola

2006-10-06T12:50:00.000-04:00

The viola. Every team has one.

The mid-range character who never truly establishes himself or herself as a major player, but without whom, the team feels wrong somehow; off-balance. Violas generally fill in harmonies, occupying the gap between the violin and the cello. They play vital roles in chamber music. But few solo concerti or sonatas have been written for them.

Violas are not “second fiddles,” backup characters who labor in the shadow of a superior version of themselves. No, violas provide something unique, yet something ill-suited to stand alone.

The Martian Manhunter, Wonder Man, the Vision, all are classic violas. They provide texture and depth to their teams, but seem ill-suited for solos. The Black Knight. Maybe Cyborg? I don’t know.

I ask you, o comic fans: What makes a character a viola? Is there a surefire technique to spot a viola-in-the-making? Can a character overcome that status? I can’t think of any off the top of my head, though I’m sure it’s happened at least once. Is Cyclops the viola of the X-Men? Who are some key violas? Who is your favorite?

This is the kind of stuff I think about during my commute.

Gray Hat: Hooerhouse America and an Appreciation of the Peculiar Heroism of One Mister Jonah Hex

2006-10-03T13:01:00.000-04:00

The last Western hero in comics was a disfigured bounty hunter, a man of dubious moral fiber who brought pain and death wherever he went. Long after every other cowboy hung up his sixguns, he rode on. He lasted because he brought something to comics that no other hero did, and he brought it well.

------------------
Little Bill Daggett: I don't deserve this... to die like this. I was building a house.
Will Munny: Deserve's got nothin' to do with it.
Little Bill Dagget: I'll see you in hell, William Munny.
Will Munny: Yeah.
--Unforgiven
-----------------

Jonah Hex was a killer. He’d kill to fulfill his job, and often he killed to carve out a little justice. Yet there’s a difference between him and the killer vigilantes of comics set in the modern era, such as the Punisher.

The Punisher’s stories are also filled with horrible crimes and murderous retribution, but they center on a different idea. The story of the Punisher is, at its heart, the story of a good man’s fall into hell. Frank Castle’s world is forever split between the Good Life of before, when order and love reigned, and the Nightmare World that an act of senseless violence threw him into, where all is chaos and hate. The Punisher kills to restore order to the world and to give himself the satisfaction of punishing those he feels to be evil.

Hex’s world was of a wholly different substance. Jonah had no fall from grace, no lost golden age. He was not trying to restore order to a world gone mad. The heart of Hex's story is that the world was always mad, and Jonah had to live in it. Hex was never on a great moral quest; he was just trying to get by.

He was decent and honorable in his way, simply because that’s who he was. A form of decency was innate to him, something he couldn't ignore even when he wanted to. And therefore he killed, because sometimes his world required that a decent man kill.

-----------------
Mordecai: What happens after?
The Stranger: Hmm?
Mordecai: What do we do when it's over?
The Stranger: Then you live with it.
--High Plains Drifter
------------------

Hex’s world was filled with the greedy, the immoral and the amoral. Examples abound in his recent Showcase Presents volume. In one story, a cute, bumbling sheriff with a pretty little lady love sets off on the trail of violent thieves, joined by a protective Hex. In short order, Hex found that the sheriff was in on the gang’s crimes, seeing another woman on the side, and ready to kill Hex to keep it all secret. In another story, a young boy sold out Hex to a gang of killers for a quarter. A story about a corrupt tollbooth owner showed two children drown in swamp muck on-panel. Hex later finding the corpse of their mother rotting in a lime pit. It’s a cold, hard place, that West.

The worldview of Jonah Hex isn’t sophisticated. “The whole world ain't nuthin but a hooerhouse” is hardly a groundbreaking idea in and of itself. But it was unusual for both comics and westerns, entertainments notorious for clearcut black-hat villains and white-hat heroes, where virtue won out and everything was always fine in the end. By contrast, Hex’s gray-hat world was confusing and cruel, where good men were warped into villains by necessity and bad men often got away with their crimes.

In the seventies, Superman and Batman comics told you that bad men wore silly costumes, gave obvious clues to their intentions, and were always stopped by the forces of good. A kid could find issues of Superman Family, Batman Family, and super-teams a’plenty, and there he would find brotherhood and clean-cut adventure. On that same spinner rack, Jonah Hex told kids that the world was a treacherous place, everybody looks out for number one, and that when it matters, we all walk alone.

------------------
Will Munny: Hell of a thing, killin' a man. Take away all he's got and all he's ever gonna have.
The Schofield Kid: Yeah, well, I guess he had it comin'.
Will Munny: We all got it comin', kid.
--Unforgiven
------------------

Constant messages of shiny hope and glowing optimism feel false after a while. Hex was a counterbalance to regular comics, a recognition of the unsavory side of existence. Rather than wallow in power fantasies of conquest with Superman or the Legion of Super-Heroes, the Hex reader wallowed in dark fantasies of alienation. Marinating in a stew of cheap cynicism can be a hell of a lot of fun.

Both the new ongoing Jonah Hex series and the recently-published Showcase Presents volume reprinting his early years are worth the time and money. Buy ‘em, fanboys, and enjoy the bitter taste of a world long gone loco.

So Close To My Childhood, It's Spooky

2006-10-02T22:08:00.000-04:00

I haven't heard a lot of positive things about Judd Winick's superhero comics. Not having read them, aside from a few issues from his stint on Green Arrow, I am in no position to talk about them.

About his masterpiece, I will rave: The Adventures of Barry Ween, Boy Genius. So good. So very good. Barry is, as one would hope, a hoot with loads of charm and imagination. But more than that, it captures the flavor of being a young boy--the close friends, the misadventures, and the foul language. Oh, the foul language. Below is a little introduction Barry gives to the reader in his second miniseries (click to enlarge).

The comradery, the sense of possibility in every single day, the bad hair, the endless cursing...it all rings true.

Despite the superscience, aliens, and occasional cloning, Barry Ween is a hell of a lot closer to my childhood than Peanuts ever was.

I had a strange childhood, yes.

C'mon, Winick...the third and best Barry Ween mini finished a long time ago. Make with the funny, dang it!

Two Plus Two Does Not Equal Four Thousand, Nine Hundred and Twelve: A Partial Defense of Mark Millar and Civil War

2006-10-02T13:17:00.000-04:00

Mark Millar and Marvel editorial painted themselves into a wicked corner with the Civil War miniseries. They announced their intentions to both approach the issues of the day and to give the differing sides an equal hearing. Online critics have been blasting them for failing to live up to this goal of even-handedness.

In Millar's defense, that has to be tough.

Not in terms of the “Superhuman Registration Act,” the core of the comic story. Looked at in a vacuum, there are many good arguments to make on both sides of the Act, and the story could be a rich exploration of the politics of a science-fictiony universe. The Marvel Universe would be pulled in a different direction, and characters would be pushed and pulled in directions that they’d never seen before.

However, that’s not what Marvel is doing, now is it?

The motivator behind Civil War (aside from sales, of course) is dealing with the political issues of the real world, not their fictional one. The entire series is, as we’re all well aware, a hamfisted allegory of the struggles between civil liberties and security in America. As is the case of so many badly-written stories in serial fiction, the writer had a story he wanted to tell, and crammed pre-existing characters and situations into that story, deforming and distorting those characters to say what he wants to say. The goal was to interpret real-world events through fictional-world constructs.

In the real world, the split between sides of the issue is difficult to approach with even hands.

One side argues that the threat of terrorism is real, and that to fight it requires that it be pursued vigorously while maintaining a sense of proportion. They argue that if we could maintain our civil liberties in the face of a nuclear-armed Soviet Union, surely we could maintain them in the face of a dork whose plan was to stuff explosives in his sneakers. This side argues that the threats to our safety lie not only with bombers, but also in our own fears, and that courage and responsibility in the face of terror is the only valid response.

The other side is a combination of shrieking hysterics and power consolidation. Insisting that a handful of tragic bombings and terrorist acts have created a paradigm shift in human history, they support secret prisons, the suspension of basic legal protections for individuals, and the suppression of dissent. We must trust our leaders to do the right thing without oversight, because dammit, they said so. This side argues that the threats to our safety lie with both a unified army of shadowy operatives in far-away lands and with the countless quislings at home who would open the gates of America to let the terrorists run rampant, because, well, because they’re spineless traitors or something.

(Thankfully, the latter side is small and largely confined to the White House and Fox News. Finding a regular citizen of any political persuasion who takes that side anymore is a tough one. Honestly, I’m not sure if even the White House believes it.)

When Millar wrote his story, he was confronted with a significant problem. How does one present the sides even-handedly when one side argues for courage, steadfastness, and getting the job done, and the other side screams “AAAAAH!!!! DO ANYTHING!!!! FREEDOM BE DAMNED, I DON’T CARE!! ROUND UP SCARY-LOOKING PEOPLE BEFORE I WET MYSELF AGAIN!!!!! AAAAAHHH!!! DO ANYTHING YOU WANT, JUST LET ME BE SAFE!!!!”

The Civil War storyline begins with a tragedy that leads to hundreds of deaths. A group of concerned governmental-types exploit this tragedy to enact legislation they’ve desired for years. That this new legislation happens to increase their own personal power, well, that’s just a happy side-effect of Making America Safer, now isn’t it? That the legislation is both of dubious effectiveness and questionable legality, well, that’s not as important as rallying behind it, right?

Yeah, that’s not a direct comment on modern America or nothin’.

How can one present this situation and “be fair to both sides?” When one side argues that two plus two equals four, and the other argues that two plus two equals nine thousand eight hundred and twenty, should one tell a story where two plus two equals four thousand nine hundred and twelve and call it “fair?”

And thus we are led to Civil War, where Millar resorts to the only sense of even-handedness that one can have in such situations: page count. The sides do have equal time to express themselves.

If one side happens to express itself by creating killer clones and recruiting armies of violent psychopaths to accomplish its ends, so be it. In the real world, its counterpart side has declared checks on executive power as outdated, rejected the long-held and carefully-crafted structure of law as an enemy of security, and exploded with outrage when its program of secret prisons was exposed. It’s hard to paint that as other than exploitive power-hunger at its worst.

Granted, were I in Millar’s shoes, or those of Marvel editorial, I would never have told the story in this fashion. Men in multicolored tights punching each other out can indeed tell allegorical tales, but they tend not to be the subtlest of fictional creations. To force these characters into stories that violate their long-standing appeal is wrongheaded and makes for bad comics, and moreover, it ends up making weird, simpleminded, and confused comments on the actual events.

Real-world issues tend to be complex and lacking in absolute clarity. Comic books revolve around men and women in primary-colored tights kicking each other in the head. "Exploration of complex political issues" and "boot-to-head make-with-the-explodo four-color action" are difficult to reconcile. Politics in superhero books isn't, and I'd argue can't be, much more complex than what you'd find on a bumper sticker.

I suppose the inclusion of sophisticated politics could be done well, but I can't think of a place where it actually has been. No, I don't read Ex Machina.

("Politics are complex and lacking in clarity" is a notion that runs counter to the spirit of this post, I know. Generally, my political thinking is filled with caveats and conditionals, but some issues are simpler than others. Plus, you'll have to excuse me, I'm ranting today.)

All that being said, if you’re gonna hew to the real-world parallels and political relevance, “balance” can’t be done at the cost of reality. Millar understands that two plus two does not equal four thousand nine hundred and twelve, and that calling people traitors for pointing it out doesn’t change the facts.

Civil War isn’t much fun or a comic I’d recommend to anyone. But I can see where it’s coming from.

First I Cook, Then I Chill: A True Story

2006-09-28T10:39:00.000-04:00

On my wedding day, a delivery truck came to my door. In the truck were several large boxes, addressed to me. Within the boxes was a gift. A gift from an absent friend.

The gift?

Two hundred and forty dollars worth of pudding.

It arrived in seven-pound food service cans. Cans that, to this day, rest in my house.

Why two hundred and forty dollars worth of pudding?

Some of you know why.

For those of you who do not understand or appreciate the gift, here's Levon and Barry Sagittarius to lay it all out.

Awwwww yeah.

'Scuse me, while I kiss the sky.

What Is to Be Done About Nightwing?

2006-09-22T15:29:00.000-04:00

Nightwing nearly got himself cacked in Infinite Crisis. Lots of bloggers around the internet have lamented that the cacking didn’t happen.

Ouch.

What can be done with this guy?

As many others have pointed out, Dick Grayson’s root problem is simple: he’s redundant. He’s not Robin anymore, he can’t be Batman, and so he’s just sorta…there. Stuck as a "Junior Batman," Nightwing hasn’t been established as anything in particular over the last twenty years.

Tim Drake has taken his place as both Robin and The Next Batman. The recently-resurrected Jason Todd has taken the gig of "embittered ex-sidekick." What is Dick?

Best I can tell, Nightwing’s current niche is "Emo Batman." He's a Batman who feels emotions beyond rage and frustration. He’s a brooding avenger of the night with a pseudo-Byronic angle. Oh, the torment! Oh, the agony!*

Which, while it does differentiate him from his stoic mentor, can be powerfully, profoundly irritating.

Twenty bucks and a box of doughnuts says this has been forwarded by many others before, but hey...that never stops me. Here’s my ten-cent Monday Morning Quarterback idea:

Make Nightwing the Batman of the Sixties.

Facing a murderous rampage by axe-wielding Filthy Pierre the Breton Butcher? Call Batman. Need to fight a fourth-dimensional pirate on top of a giant typewriter? Call Nightwing.

With this split, Batman can maintain his "dark avenger of the gritty streets" gig and Nightwing will have a new niche, one that Batman abandoned decades ago. Dick will become the tech whiz/strategist/acrobat for the Justice League. He'll be the laughing daredevil with the brilliant mind and the undertones of dark violence who spends time with Superman and Wonder Woman.

Set him up not as "Junior Batman," but "Social Batman." He's the one the League calls when they need help. He's the one who jet-sets around the world and romances the ladies. He's the one who gets tied up in spy rings in Indonesia. He's the one who invents crazy gadgets, travels through time, and solves murder mysteries in Gorilla City. If anyone should have a Whirly-Bat one-man helicopter, it should be Nightwing.**

In essence, I'd flip the team memberships. Nightwing belongs in the League, the most visible superhero group in the world. Batman belongs with the Outsiders, hiding and fighting the weirder menaces.

This isn't all that different from Marv Wolfman's original interpretation of the character, of his "graduation" from being Robin. (I think.) Because dammit, this approach makes sense. Nightwing is a circus performer by birth, a detective by training, and a whoopass fighter by nature. Robin was created to fill the gaps Batman left. Why not continue that as he reaches maturity?

It would not lessen Batman to have his foster son become a different man in his own right, nor would it rob the character of Batman of anything. It's not like he's fighting four-dimensional pirates on giant appliances these days anyway.

Bring on the Gorilla City murder mysteries and the mad scientists. Dick is ready.

-----------------------
* Granted, I haven’t read Nightwing in a while. I’m going by the reactions of the blogosphere and issue solicits. If I’m wrong about this, please let me know.

** Or me.

Giggety!

2006-09-19T15:16:00.000-04:00

Today I found that the two Big Fat Reprint editions I'd most longed for will, in fact, be produced!

--The Essential Defenders, Volume Two (the Steve Gerber years) and
--Showcase Presents: The Brave and the Bold (the Bob Haney years).

The two I wanted most...the foremost icons of lunatic comics...and I found out about them on the same day...on Talk Like a Pirate Day, no less.

Oh, so sweet. So very sweet. Or, more appropriately, "yaaar, har har!"

I had to share this most excellent news with the blogosphere. I've preordered The Defenders on Amazon, and will throw in B&B as soon as I can. Ah, so good. Those two volumes will contain the high points of whacked-out comics produced by the Big Two in ye olden days. I have dreamed of their publication for some time.

GIGGETY!

Greatest Hits and Personal Favorites

2006-09-15T18:21:00.000-04:00

This used to be on my sidebar, but it seemed like a bit too much shameless promotion. Plus, I couldn’t cram in as much self-love as I’d like into such a tiny space. I loves me some me.

Below are links and synopses of my more popular and/or interesting posts.

THEORY, THEORY, THEORY
I churn out theories on everything, all the time. It’s a bad habit, I know.

The Frisson of Woo, or “Thirty Seconds to Grab ‘Em”
Probably my biggest hit, and a lot of fun to fart around with. A theory of superheroes and icons, filtered through the magic of Hollywood. It was preceded by The Essential Superhero, or Why Captain America is an Anglo Bruce Lee, and followed by Rehabilitating the Lame.

The Mister Teeny Test
How can you tell if a work is an intriguing work of genius you just don’t understand or a bunch of crap thrown against a wall that’s meant to fool you into thinking it’s great by creating confusion? The Mister Teeny Test can answer that.

Penetrating Insight or Flatulent Nonsense: You Be the Judge
A theory of superheroes, linking their personality types to their powers, particularly their ability to survive harm.

Origins of a Marvel Fanboy
The difference between old DC and old Marvel, and why, deep down, I will always belong to the House of Jack, Stan, and Steve.

Oh, Damn, the Critics Adore It: The Love of Yawnfests
Why the hell is it that critics tend to love works that laymen find dull beyond belief? I got me a theory.

Hittin’ the Juke Joint
Comic books descend from comic strips, right? Sorta. Comic strips are the parents of the comic book, but pulp novels were the cool uncles who taught the kid how to smoke, set off firecrackers, and swear.

I Wanna Eat Your Brain: Zombie Zeitgeist
A throwaway theory on the popularity of zombies.

When Theory Meets Blood
An actual straight-up analysis of the blood-spattered smiley face in Watchmen, like something you’d write for English 101. Sorta.

A Parallel Notion, Plus Disco
My other Watchmen post, discussing panel layouts, Brecht, and Explodo Jones: The Quest for Ever More Radness.

Aquaman, Tell Us About Your Mother
Phallic imagery on covers is nothing new. Aquaman’s old series offered a…different image.

Great Scott! The Fiend!
The logic of Lex Luthor.

The Appeal of Red Sonja, Courtesy of Beverly Hills 90210, Lisa Simpson’s Bad Boy Crush, and the Taming of the Hottie
T&A characters tend to appear and fade away quickly. Why does Red Sonja keep coming back?

You Know What Really Grinds My Gears?
Debunking a common theory on the end of the Silver Age and the depravity of the Modern Era.

Character Versus World and Suchlike
An explanation of the overarching difference between modern DC and Marvel’s approaches to the superhero.

MONDAY MORNING QUARTERBACKING
Like most comic fans, I harbor the idea of writing my own stuff and visions of “how I’d do it.”

The Champions Project
My great white elephant. I had an idea of doing my own version of the Seven Soldiers of Victory Project, a la Grant Morrison. I got eleven issues in, then petered out. Here’s the post that links to everything.

Rolling and Fixed Timelines: The Captains America and Retcon Fun!
One of my favorite bits, though I may be alone in digging it. Retroactive continuity can be fun, provided it fills large gaps, not niggling stuff. Forty years of Caplessness seemed like a good place to fart around. It’d form the basis of a good miniseries, I think.

Mallah-Droit
An intelligent silverback gorilla with a French accent and his lover, a brain in a jar. To think that in comics, these are throwaway characters. Amazing.

Post-Dorkpocalyptic Press: My 15 Titles
A meme that was a lot of fun to try: strip the world-o-comics to fifteen titles, no more. I set up some additional rules and went to town. More fun than I expected.

Harveyizing Green Arrow
A revamp of the Connor Hawke Green Arrow based on a few ideas of mine. Granted I’m biased, but I think it’d be a huge improvement over the current Green Arrow status quo. I love the Rogues’ Gallery. It’d work, dammit! Another “Harveyizing” experiment, Harveyizing Hourman, was much more ambitious and less successful. This was a full-on reboot of Hourman in a four-issue miniseries, The Fire That Consumes. The synopsis is long and shot through with plot holes and logic flaws. Given time and rework, I think it’d be a hoot. Heroes! Robots! Time travel! Dinosaurs! Rebellions! Love! Revenge! Hoo-hah!

Impractical, But Hey, It's Not My Company
Of my many bad ideas, this one’s undoubtedly the worst from a business perspective. Any company that did this would die in a heartbeat. Ah, well. Artistically it could be a triumph, but it would require a strong and consistent editor.

Evil Thought of the Day
Marvel used to capitalize on fads all the time. Kung fu, blaxploitation, roller disco, whatever. What if they did that again?

HARVEY ANNOYS THE PROS
A few times I’ve made contact with the world of comic professionals, often badly.

Eisenstein, Cheese Fries, and the Joys of Bloviation
A group of comic book creators meet weekly at a bar about a mile from my house. The DC Conspiracy, headed by Hoarse and Buggy editor and all-around good egg Jason Rodriguez, was welcoming and interesting.

Due to a number of factors (they meet on the one day off I share with the missus, I’m more than a bit of a poseur tool, I’m the laziest man in four states, etc.) I only went to one meeting. In case you’re wondering, yes, it’s difficult to be as lame as I am. Don’t try it yourself without protective headgear and safety netting. It only looks easy.

Rising and Advancing: An Interview with Steve Englehart
The only actual interview I’ve conducted for the site. Distressingly generic questions on my part. Ah, well. I’d hit a dry patch, and thought I might try shifting the site to interviews with writers. I reconsidered this idea quickly, but did complete this one interview first.

OH, COME ON!
When I go overboard busting on a cover of Ms. Marvel painted by David Mack. Mack responds in the comments. I then apologize for the overheated rhetoric and proceed to strengthen my argument. The original piece is not great—I shot from the lip and lost myself to snarky rhetoric. The comments section is where it gets good, and where the better arguments can be found.

Marvel and Malibu: The Full Story
Tom Mason, writer and former bigwig of Malibu Comics, wrote to me to set the record straight about Malibu’s buyout by Marvel in ye olden days. Interesting stuff.

Mary Sue, Mary Sue, Pretty Pretty Pretty Mary Sue
A grouse about “Mary Sues.” In retrospect, I was kinda wrong in this article. I blurred the lines between “character very clearly based upon the creator to the point of distraction” and “character based upon creator wish-fulfillment,” which are similar faults, but not the same thing. Moreover, the piece is also too dang snarky, like my David Mack piece. Why is it under this heading? Because of the last, anonymous note in the comments section.

Did I hack off Matt Wagner with my ill-formed rant? I hope not. (It also could have been Elmore Leonard, who also gets some grief in the piece, but the typos would suggest otherwise. Novelists know how to use apostophes.) Probably it was some random numb-nuts, but I can dream.

Cousin Larry
Dickering with Larry Young, of AiT/PlanetLar, about comic criticism. He’d said some inflammatory things in December 2005, and the blogosphere freaked out. I took a step back and dissected what he actually said, which proved to be none too flattering to Young. The odds that Young saw this are near zero, but hey. I’m sure he’d find it annoying.

ASK A SUPER-VILLAIN
Because deep down, we all wanna be the bad guy.

Stilt-Man
Wilbur Day may be a loser with a stupid gimmick, but he has one quality that made him perfect for “Ask a Super-Villain:” he returned my phone call.

Batroc the Leaper
Zee Leapair ees back from anozzer a’venture and weel charm us all weeth hees outrageous accent!

The Magus
A mad god, a dark twin, and possessor of the best afro in comics history.

MODOK
A gentleman, a scholar, a giant mutated head in a flying chair. Such is MODOK.

Blackrock
He’s a super-villain! He’s a television executive! He’s both! He’s…Blackrock! Could I resist interviewing the villain based on broadcast legend Fred Silverman? I could not.

RANDOM WEIRD CRAP
Sometimes it’s just weird crap.

The Knave and the Bold
A personal favorite. My George Plimpton-esque misadventures with the Justice League of America.

The Awesome Majesty of Nature
Details of a trip to Mexico and the wild Chihuahuas of the state of Chihuahua.

The Safety Word Is “Alfred”
Subtext? What subtext?

Fight the Cliches by Embracing Them
“…before America lost its innocence…” Heh. Heh heh. BWAH-HA-HA-HAAA!! Yeah, try another one.

Larry Young Is Wrong
A play in one act, starring me, Archie, Reggie, and Jughead, about the creative process.

Taxonomy
Nerd, dork, dweeb, spaz, geek. It’s time we settled on what each one means.

The Fanboy Schisms, or, Is Dan DiDio the Pope of Avignon?
When the website Fanboy Rampage still ran, I liked to follow the senseless bickering of the fanboy world. This was my plan to help out.

Too Easy, Sure. But Fun
Jerry Lewis comics + Dimestore Freudianism = Big Time Komedy Laffs.

Viva! La Procrastinacíon! and Bliggity-Blog, a pair of posts where I venture an idea to create a “radio show” like Pendant Productions.

POLITICS
Sometimes I can’t keep my big yap shut.

The Ten Most Harmful Books
The conservative magazine “Human Events” produced a list of the Ten Most Harmful Books of the 19th and 20th centuries. I felt their list was inaccurate, and suggested one of my own.

Stealing from the Long Box, or the Political Education of Young Harvey
An old issue of What If shaped my understanding of politics. And that’s not a bad thing. Check it out.

Where Would You Hide, the Laws All Being Flat?
I will not surrender safeguards against tyranny because I’m afraid of a dipstick with a truck bomb. Those who would, please pick up your chains at the front desk, and don’t forget your lip balm. The asses of the mighty require lots of kissing. Hiding under your desk and hoping Big Daddy will protect you is irresponsible and cowardly. I say this as a man who lives and works very close to the White House and Pentagon.

Jesus Wept
In case anyone forgot, back in January 2005, the US government openly considered training death squads in Iraq. I took exception to the idea.

To Iraq
My best friend from high school spent a year as an infantry sergeant in Iraq, getting fried by the desert heat and ducking bullets.

Putting on the Rant Pants
There’s a lot of stupidity in this world. Thus do I rant about “The Mindset of the Moron.”

COMIC APPRECIATION
I loves me some comics.

An Eleven Panel Master Course in Comics
Breaking down eleven panels from Bernard Kriegstein’s story “Master Race,” showing what goes on in a well-designed comic. One of the posts I’m proud of writing.

When the Wheel Turns
Spider-Man revealed his identity to America. The status quo is forever changed? What, are you new here? Of course it’ll go back. Here are a few ways it might.

How to Tell a True War Story
An appreciation of the EC Korean War comics and their creator, Harvey Kurtzman. Never been anything like them before or since.

Like Jesus, But With Fisticuffs
Captain America has died and come back so often, you’d think he’d have his own religion by now. Or at least a revolving credit line with a mortuary.

Treasures Abound
The recently cancelled series The Thing was beautiful. Here’s proof.

Why I Love Hitman in Two Words
I could go on, but why? The two words sum it all up.

Banish All the World
Silliness in comics: a good thing. Despite what many say.

The Beauty of Rough Edges: The Women of The Spirit
No comic ever had women like The Spirit. And that is a damn shame.

Dirty Little Secret: Marvel’s “Essentials” Line
The first post I wrote that garnered a few “hear hears!” Because it’s true.

Mister Miracle’s Mad Opera: Taking Comic Lunacy to Another Level
An appreciation of Jack Kirby’s Fourth World and the crazy Christmas-colored hero at its center.

The Master of Glomp Glukkle Shlik Shlorp Ghomp Glunk Glik Shtork
Don Martin, master. Bow before his greatness.

Go Away, Scary Man: “That Yellow Bastard” and Frank Miller
The first “Sin City” was cool and different, and I dug it. “That Yellow Bastard?” Not so much.

A Lost Character: The Charms of the White Tiger
An appreciation of a character discarded from Marvel Comics all too quickly: Christopher Priest’s version of the White Tiger. He coulda been great.

Lines Are Busy
A rundown of the many lines of comics produced in the last twenty years, ranging from Marvel’s New Universe to Valiant to CrossGen. I got into the motivating idea of each line, what happened, and my own read on it. This was one of my bigger hits, since Mike Sterling, one of the tentpoles of the comic blogosphere, linked to it.

Pull the Trigger: Why Walt Simonson Rocketh
He does.

"Groo Week: A Salute to a Great Series"
Groo the Wanderer is the only comic series I bothered to put in mylar bags. For I love it so. I spent a week of posts drooling over it.
The Greatest Comic Ever Printed
A Wanderer, A Kat, and a Mice with a Brick
A Process of Inbred Fertilization
Am I Not Lovely, O Man?
North by Southleft

With a Heart Full of Napalm: Iggy Pop, Kill Bill, Chris Farley, and Why Gødland Doesn’t Suck
Parallels a’plenty.

Behind the Times and Proud of It: Grooving to New X-Men
Why I don’t like the X-Men and how Morrison did a hell of a job fixing it.

A Lake of Hot Chocolate: Stan Freberg Shows the Way
A review of the original graphic novel The Long Haul through the prism of Stan Freberg, radio god, and basic comic book aesthetics.

"Mister President, You're All...Scaly!"
The President of the United States, comic book style.

REVIEWS FROM "COMICS SHOULD BE GOOD"
Once in a while I contribute a review to another website, Comics Should Be Good. A few of 'em were even decent. (CSBG moved recently, and can now be found here.)

Great Expectations and the Graphic Novel
A review of several big-ish "coming of age" graphic novels: Jimmy Corrigan, the Smartest Kid on Earth, by Chris Ware; Blankets, by Craig Thompson; and the Buddy Baker stories in Hate, by Peter Bagge. I loved one of 'em.

Viva La Weirdness: Marvel’s Whacked-Out Comics of the Seventies
A tour of some of the deliciously insane comics Marvel put out in the Seventies. I review Essential Defenders Volume 1, Essential Howard the Duck, Essential Killraven, (sic) and Warlock: Special Edition. Whacked-Out Marvel is one of my very favorite types of comics.

We Are the Valets: Why Superheroes Aren’t So Superheroic Anymore
A counter-argument to the oft-floated idea that "modern creators don't like superheroes."

A Near Thing: Smoke #1
Writer Alex Di Campi said “I’m more of an auteur than a mainstream writer, anyway. I’d rather be known for creating five amazing books, and five awful ones, than for being ‘Little Miss Continuity’ who wrote 50 mediocre books.” Reading that, I had to check out Smoke #1. Did she succeed? Check it out.

CSBG Roundtable: Local #1
CSBG ran a couple of roundtable reviews. This one, coordinated by yers truly, reviewed Oni Press's Local #1. I think we did a good job of dissection and explanation. Consarn it.

Nat Turner #1 Review
Kyle Baker's Nat Turner work is brilliant. It should be a runaway hit. Here I try to explain why.

MOVIES AND TEEVEE
Pop culture mania!

Masked Men, Melted Cheese, and the Great Lost Film
Nacho Libre…as made by Billy Wilder?

Disrespecting the Bing
At the end of the penultimate season of The Sopranos, all I could say was “what the hell was that?” This post was me hashing it out. Turns out it did have an underlying theme. A dumb one.

Let’s All Go to the Lobby: Tim Burton and Freaks
Why I don’t like Tim Burton, the short form.

Let’s All Go to the Lobby: “It’s Like The First Ones Were Jokes!”
Why Batman Begins was so much more satisfying than the earlier four Batman movies.

Eternal Verities
For the Bob Dylan fans out there. Or for those sick to death of Bob Dylan.

One Thing I Miss

2006-09-15T15:29:00.000-04:00

Ah, the pseudo-scientific explanations for phenomena both major and minor.

I do miss those in modern comics.

Origins of a Marvel Fanboy

2006-09-13T16:48:00.000-04:00

Many of the bloggers out in blogland are dedicated DC fans. My own pull-list these days is heavily weighted towards DC, and that’s not likely to change anytime soon.

That being said, I remain in my heart a Marvel fanboy. The reason, as is so often the case amongst the comic fans of the world, dates back to my introduction to comics.

As a wee tadger in the late seventies and early eighties, I was exposed to the standards from both companies. Superman, Batman, The Amazing Spider-Man, and Fantastic Four were the most common funnybooks you’d find on my bedroom floor. How I remember them from yonder days can best be summed up with a hypothetical.

Monstroso the Giant Robot Earwig is attacking [insert city name]! [Insert superhero] has attacked the beast head-on and been rebuffed, his body smacked into a building! What’s the first thing that comes into the hero’s mind as he climbs from the rubble?

SUPERMAN: “Great Rao! I’ll use my super-[insert power] to hurl the Giant Robot Earwig into the depths of space and into the heart of the sun!”

BATMAN: “Hmm…I’ll have to head to the Batcave and develop the Bat-[unstoppable super weapon]! I’ll stop this beast yet!”*

SPIDER-MAN: “Oh come on! How the heck am I supposed to stop that thing? It’s bigger than Shea Stadium!”

The DC heroes met setbacks with iron-jawed resolution. The Marvel heroes met setbacks with exasperation, then iron-jawed resolution. That moment of hesitation added a lot.

The iconic heroes of DC were undaunted by the dangers they faced. The Marvel heroes were daunted—but they saved the day anyway. Which inspires more? Perfection and victory, or imperfection overcome and victory?

This is not to say that DC didn’t later pick up on this idea. Nor that Marvel didn’t hose it up on occasion--the idea of imperfection proved easy to twist into great gaping flaws. Great gaping flaws are as boring as perfection.

But when we debate “Marvel Versus DC” in the abstract, it is this split that forms the core of the fight.

Scipio of the Absorbascon, a DC fan, sums it up nicely:

And, as I've mentioned before many times in my "DC vs. Marvel" tirades, I don't want heroes who make me feel better about who I am (à la Marvel); I want heroes who inspire me to better myself (à la DC). I don't want heroes who view their abilities as burdensome responsibilities (à la Marvel) but as wonderful opportunities (à la DC).

My counter-argument is to ask why would I want a hero whose experience is so alien to mine that we may as well be different species (à la DC), as opposed to a hero who lives in a world with the mixed messages I have to parse out myself (à la Marvel)?

The achievements of Superman and Batman were nothing to me beyond pure spectacle. Courage meant little to Superman, since he didn’t seem even capable of fear. The possibility of failure meant nothing to Batman, because he never failed. Right and wrong were always clear, the line between friend and enemy was obvious, and doing the right thing always brought reward and renown. Their problems were direct: The Joker is on the loose, Cheetah is kidnapping scientists, Luthor’s stolen the ocean, and so forth.

The achievements of Spider-Man and the Thing resonated better with Wee Harv. Courage mattered to them, because they felt fear. The Marvel heroes failed as often as they succeeded. On occasion they had to struggle just to figure out what the right thing to do was. Virtue wasn’t always rewarded. They even quit being superheroes in frustration a few times.

But they always came back, fought the good fight, and saved the day.

Take the moment often regarded as the Great Break in Marvel history: the death of Spider-Man’s girlfriend, Gwen Stacy. The moment is considered seminal in superhero comics for any number of reasons, such as permanent continuity changes, the “end of innocence,” and so forth. But what about its core? What is the story about?

Spider-Man does everything right, tries to save the love of his life, and she dies anyway. There was nothing he could have done. Being brave, being right, being heroic just wasn’t enough. Sometimes nothing is.

That’s some heavy shit to lay on a kid.

It’s also the way to reach a fan that more standard heroic tales cannot. The follow-up story is equally important: Spider-Man hunts down the Green Goblin and, in his rage, nearly murders the villain. But he does not, because his sense of ethics won’t let him. Confronted with the chance to indulge his desire for revenge, he struggles with himself and his better nature wins out.

That is heroism. It is inspiring, and illustrates how one can become a better person. Iconic heroes cannot match this inspiration, because the iconic heroes did not even acknowledge this struggle, much less fight it. Wee Harv recognized the problems instantly and drew from Spider-Man’s example. There Spider-Man was a hero fighting evil within and without, not just some dude in a funny suit punching out another guy in a funny suit.

Moreover, the fact that Gwen died despite Spider-Man's best efforts added an emotional flavor lacking in most comic stories, a hint of the tragic. The depths of tragedy provided a counterpoint to the heights of brightly-colored adventure, making both stronger.

Could it flop? Sure, and it often did, sinking into cheap pathos. But the flatness of old-style DC did not and does not strike me as preferable.

Looking over the giant reprint volumes that have come out recently has reinforced my opinion of ye olden comics. Old-style DC comics are full of fun and spectacle, but the struggles were only external, and thus of limited interest. Old-style Marvel was full of fun and spectacle, but the struggles were internal as well as external, adding a second dimension to the one-dimensional heroes of old.** (A full three dimensional superhero? Haven’t seen one yet.)

True, modern Marvel is dull and convoluted, and modern DC is a riot of awesomeness. I can’t deny it.

But it weren’t always so.

----------------------------------
* That’s how Batman rolled Back in the Day. When was the last time he went back to the Batcave to construct something to defeat a bad guy? I’d kill to see a new issue of Detective Comics where Our Hero creates some sort of specialized “Bat-Dingus” to stop a rampaging dimetrodon in Gotham Park.

** Old-style Marvel also had a sense of humor. Not the bemused grins of DC, but full-fledged jokes and smartassery. This was no small draw for Wee Harv. Or for Big Harv, either.

Proposals That Never Made It #1

2006-09-06T14:37:00.000-04:00

Many are the comics that could have been. Here at Filing Cabinet of the Damned, we like to look back upon some of the comics that almost were. Here's one that almost was, and, in my opinion, should have been.

TOPO, THE WONDER OCTOPUS

Aquaman's octopus pal Topo strikes out for adventures of his own! Using only his suction cups, his ink sac, and amazing deductive skills, Topo the Wonder Octopus smashes spy rings, catches smugglers, and still finds the time to kick out the jams every Friday night at a backstreet joint in the Big Easy.

Courage is his middle name!

He may be an invertebrate, but he isn't spineless!

Criminals are sorry...to meet this calamari!*

-----------------------
* Yes, "calamari" means squid. But c'mon. It's a good tagline.

Character Versus World and Suchlike

2006-09-05T13:54:00.001-04:00

Jim Roeg, over at Double Articulation got me a'thinkin'. He said:

...a renewed focus on the hero’s civilian alter-ego characterizes DC’s new approach to [Batman,] Wonder Woman and Superman...Historically, Superman has had the strongest relationship to his civilian identity, and, beyond his “blue Boy Scout” persona, it is perhaps for this reason that the character has often sustained a sense of lightness and fun more effectively than either Wonder Woman or Batman. Across the board, DC’s strategy for reinvigorating its Holy Trinity has been to humanize them through a focus on their civilian personas (Diana’s new job over in the superb new Wonder Woman series and the Clark Kent-focused “Up, Up, and Away” and “Metropolis stories” over in the Super-titles).

Very true, and a big part of why I've been digging DC's books lately.

To keep the thought going, it also explains why I've abandoned Marvel over the last few years.* Marvel has, quite publicly, ditched all of its secret identities from its heroes. I don't think there's a single major Marvel character left with a double life. Why does it matter?

The difference, I believe, shows the animating principles behind the Big Two's current worlds-o-superheroes.

Marvel's abandonment of secret IDs and its ongoing Civil War project are built upon the idea of superhumans in the real world. Marvel roots its stories in the question "What would it mean if tomorrow a few hundred people around the world were mega-powered?" It focuses on the gulf between our world and a world with superhumans in it.

DC's maintenance and new care about secret IDs is built upon the idea of superheroing, not super powers. DC roots its stories in the question "What would it be like to be a superhero?" It focuses on the gulf between the everyday life of a regular person and the everyday life of a super-being with powers, tights, and a split life.

In essence, Marvel takes the approach of "Assuming you got superpowers, it would go like this..." DC takes the approach of "Assuming you were a superhero, it would go like this..." That's a heck of a big difference.

The Marvel approach is more interested in world-building, like a science fiction novel describing a world-o-superhumans. The DC approach is more interested in character interplay and the genre of superheroes itself. I've never had a lot of interest or patience in world-building, so I've drifted away from current Marvel.

Moreover, the direction the world would take if real superhumans wandered around...well, it wouldn't be a happy one. Imagine if just telepathy were a proven phenomenon. Think about the paranoia it would generate. Now throw in alien invasions, killer robots, and mutants. Sound like fun?

I don't think so either. Marvel's been going down that exact path to see where it heads and unfold new story directions. The problem is that it's not hard to figure out where it heads, and it's nowhere I'd want to be. On the other hand, being a superhero sounds like warped fun.

This all strikes me as kind of odd, since old-school Marvel was built upon the core now being used by DC. What makes Marvel work is the strong relation its readers can make with its characters. They're downplaying that in favor of playing sci-fi "what if" games with the larger world.

None of this is brain-blowing analysis, I know, but it does help me figure out why Marvel's turned me off lately.

Man, I hope a change of editorial direction comes along soon to play up the fun in Marvel again. They certainly have the characters for it. The Thing? Spider-Man? Hells yeah!

Any thoughts?

-------------------
* The exception being (aside from the recently-cancelled Thing) the Annihilation miniseries-es. They rawk. They rawk hard. Good, fun books about a giant space war and superheroes. Annihilation reminds me quite a bit of the Invasion! miniseries/crossover DC put out in the late eighties. Which shouldn't be that big of a surprise, since the head writer of both was the Immortal and Beloved Keith Giffen, Pagan God of Comics.

He Pantses the World. Also, Captain Kangaroo's Evil Double

2006-09-01T11:18:00.000-04:00

A pair of internet goodies:

The site Fametracker does periodic "Fame Audits" of celebrities. Usually they're kind of amusing. One was brilliant. The Shatner Audit. To quote:

Most stars are lucky to have a three-phase career: young heartthrob; blowsy superstar; Austin Powers cameo. Or some careers play out this way: heartthrob; handshakes; U.S. President.

By that yardstick, Shatner's had ten careers. He's had twenty. He's had entire careers before breakfast. You could tell your life story twice in the time it would take him to tell the story about that one time he pantsed DeForrest Kelley. Shatner has conquered. He was cool, then he was nerd-cool, then he was kitsch, then he was kitsch-cool, then he was knowing-wink cool, then just plain cool again, and now he's something better than cool. He made himself a punchline with such debonair cunning that -- guess what? -- the man is not a punchline anymore.

When the world zigs, he zags. When the world zags, he zigs. When the world zigs back, he records an album with Ben Folds. When the world chuckles, he pantses the world.

The recent Comedy Central Roast of Shatner reminded me of the audit. "He Pantses the World" is one of the top six phrases in the English language, and it deserves to be revived. Check it out.

-------------------

The mind-blowing dull smugness of the comic strip Mary Worth has taken an exciting turn of late. As the Comics Curmudgeon has followed breathlessly, Mary Worth has a stalker. The stalker?

Captain Kangaroo.

Check him out. "Aldo Kelrast" puts the creepy moves on Mary below. Tell me "Aldo" isn't the Good Captain in a polo shirt.

Here's a link to the Houston Chronicle's comic page for Mary Worth. Check out the last month or so to indulge in Aldo-mania. The storyline, written in the manner of someone whose only regular contact with humanity is through daytime television, is strange enough. Throw in Aldo's uncanny resemblance to the late Bob Keeshan, and damn. You've got yourself a hypnotic comic strip.

Stalking isn't funny. Mary Worth being stalked by a demented alcoholic Captain Kangaroo is a rich vein of pure comedy gold.

My fervent hope is that the storyline will end with a knock-knock joke and hundreds of ping-pong balls falling from the sky onto Mary's head.*

---------------------
* If you didn't get that reference, you're too damn young. Get the hell off my lawn, turn down that infernal hippety-hop music, and listen up.

Back in my day, things were different. We didn't have this "inter-netting," like you kids today. When we wanted to "blog," we had to use actual logs! Why, I remember when me and Vern McCort took a nine-foot long piece of fir tree and whittled onto the side of it a long satire of President Reagan and Secretary of the Interior James G. Watt using nothing but our buck knives! Then we put our "blog" into the river and let it float through the middle of town for all to read! We shook things up that day, I can tell you.

I pulled a muscle and Vern dislocated a finger moving that "blog!" But we were grateful! Grateful for the chance to do it! Not like you kids today! Eeennnhhh...consarn it, my lumbago's acting up.

The Safety Word is "Alfred"

2006-08-31T13:42:00.000-04:00

I feel weak for posting such an obvious and overused bit, but I couldn't possibly leave this alone. I just couldn't.

To borrow a line from Dorian of Postmodernbarney:

"Subtext? What Subtext?"

Seeing Bruce Wayne tied to a chair by an underage boy in chainmail panties and elf boots while he himself is forced to wear a yellow and red spandex costume, and being told that "it is all for his own good," well, it brings back memories.

Hey, I had to pay for college somehow.

I think that on the next page, a mutant banana-man wearing a rooster mask attacks them with a bullwhip made from a chain of linked sausages.

Nope, there's no subtext here.

Move along.

Eternal Verities

2006-08-31T10:19:00.000-04:00

Some things are eternal, divorced from ephemeralities.

The sun rises and sets.

Rivers flow.

And music critics will proclaim each and every new Bob Dylan album "the greatest since 1975" and his "return to importance."

Oh Mercy, Time Out of Mind, Love and Theft, and now Modern Times, among others I can't recall right now, have been lauded as The Masterpiece Bob Dylan Comeback Album.

And each one is forgotten about three months after its release, only to be dredged up as the mere precursor to the new, better, true Masterpiece Bob Dylan Comeback Album of this year.

A Bob Dylan record review Mad Libs would be easy. To crib a bit from Slate.com, here's a rough draft of one:

But the real achievement of the last decade is his magnificently rejuvenated career as an important recording artist. On [most recent album] and [second most recent album], Dylan reconnected to his songwriting muse.

Whether shouting above the supercharged rock on his classic mid-'60s albums or singing these [style of current album], he's always been [practitioner of style of current album]. Hardscrabble blues, 19th-century parlor ballads, gospel testimonies, ragtime, Tin Pan Alley tunes, [insert genre of current album]—Dylan's music has carried these echoes from the start, but never with such a sense of mission as in his recent work.
For those of us who've waited since [either "Blood on the Tracks" or "Blonde on Blonde"] for the Dylan of our youth, the great visionary artist, to return and grace us with his genius once again, it is time to celebrate.

Whatever Dylan's next album will be--perhaps a collection of eighteenth century folk tunes, perhaps a cover of songs from Guys and Dolls, perhaps a song cycle about Barney the Dinosaur, you can be certain that various press outlets around America will read just like this.

For some things, they are eternal.

For Your "Vocabulary Builder" Word-A-Day Calendar

2006-08-25T16:47:00.000-04:00

A few cool-ass neologisms from a once-hip, now mostly forgotten source: the novel Generation X: Tales for an Accelerated Culture, by Douglas Coupland.* The book stuffed a bunch of new-fangled words in sidebars. A few of the best ones:

2 + 2 = 5-ism - caving in to a target marketing strategy aimed at oneself after holding out for a long period of time: "Oh, all right, I'll buy your stupid cola. Now leave me alone."

café minimalism - to espouse a philosophy of minimalism without actually putting into practice any of its tenets.

celebrity schadenfreude - lurid thrills derived from talking about celebrity deaths.

clique maintenance - the need of one generation to see the generation following it as deficient so as to bolster its own collective ego: "Kids today do nothing. They're so apathetic. We used to go out and protest. All they do is shop and complain."

derision preemption - a life-style tactic; the refusal to go out on any sort of emotional limb so as to avoid mockery from peers. Derision Preemption is the main goal of Knee-Jerk Irony.

emotional ketchup burst - the bottling up of opinions and emotions inside oneself so that they explosively burst forth all at once, shocking and confusing employers and friends — most of whom thought things were fine.

fame-induced apathy - the attitude that no activity is worth pursuing unless one can become very famous pursuing it. Fame-induced apathy mimics laziness, but its roots are much deeper.

me-ism - a search by an individual, in the absence of training in traditional religious tenets, to formulate a personally tailored religion by himself. Most frequently a mishmash of reincarnation, personal dialogue with a nebulously defined god figure, naturalism, and karmic eye-for-eye attitudes.

mid-twenties breakdown - a period of mental collapse occuring in one's twenties, often caused by an inability to function outside of school or structured environments coupled with a realization of one's essential aloneness in the world. Often marks induction into the ritual of pharmaceutical usage.

musical hairsplitting - the act of classifying music and musicians into pathologically picayune categories: "The Vienna Franks are a good example of urban white acid folk revivalism crossed with ska."

I consider these perfectly cromulent words.

--------------------
*Yep, Sweet Dougie Fresh and his novel Generation X were briefly considered vital touchstones to the generation of Americans born between 1961-81. Like most everything designed to tap into a generation's consciousness directly, the book was forgotten in short order. True generational touchstones, such as Gen-X's beloved Mr. T, aren't planned as such.

Perhaps when my age cohort grows old and surly and decides to look back upon itself with goopy nostalgia (VH1's current broadcast practices notwithstanding), rather than fill the televisions with images of Jerry Garcia and the overused phrase "what a long, strange trip it's been," as my parents' cohort did, we will show Mr. T and the phrase "I pity the fool."

This One's For Burgas

2006-08-24T17:43:00.000-04:00

Greg Burgas, Marvel Comics has produced The Comic For You!

(For those unfamiliar with his work, Burgas is the blogger who writes for Delenda Est Carthago, The Daughter Chronicles, and Comics Should Be Good. He's a former schoolteacher, father of two adorable li'l girls, and all-around decent fellow.)

What comic is this? Which is The One For Burgas?

The first issue of the upcoming series Blade.

Check out this publicity blurb (boldface mine):

The star of three blockbuster movies and a hit television series is finally getting what he deserves…his very own ongoing comic series. Blade #1 sees the return of the Blade to his own comic ...the Lord of the Undead, Dracula, makes an appearance. But what’s scarier than the most fearsome vampire in history? How about Blade having to face down an entire classroom of bloodsucking fourth graders? And all of this is just in the first issue!

A classroom of vampiric fourth graders.

Entering a classroom to find a score of tiny little monsters, each one a half-human, half-demon, all a second away from flying into an animal frenzy, hungry for your blood?

Any schoolteacher could relate, I'm sure.

"I'll put you in time out. Time out...forever!"

A Parallel Notion, Plus Disco

2006-08-23T14:31:00.000-04:00

The Wikipedia's entry on Watchmen contains this groovy tidbit:

"Watchmen Observations" notes that Watchmen uses a three by three panel structure and that there is little variation in this format. The effect is to "reduce the scope for authorial voice--the reader has fewer clues how she should react to each scene; also, they heighten the feeling of realism and distance the novel from standard action comics."

Hurm.

A cheap parallel came to my head: that the same description could be applied to soundtracks in movies. The rise-and-fall of intensity, the sudden rushes of feeling, and the changes-of-pace that comics express through panel shapes are more than a little like the same effects created in movies by their music.

Big scenes in movies are embiggened by music swells, and often musical cues are clues for the viewer to figure out how to react to a scene. (e.g., "Is the breakup scene funny or tragic? The dialogue is unclear, but the music is boppy. Ah ha! It's supposed to be funny!") Minimizing the music in a movie increases a sense of both realism and distance; heavy use of music creates deeper involvement in the action and a stronger emotional connection to the story.*

When our hero Dirk Squarejaw punches out a dude in the climax of Explodo Jones: The Quest for Ever More Radness, and the music is bopping along, it feels like no big deal. It's just Our Hero decking a dude. Replay the scene with brass and strings at high volume, the music peaking just as Dirk connects with a hook to the bad guy's head (BWAAAHH!! BWAAAHH!!), and it'll feel like A Very Big Moment. The audience will feel it in their guts.

The comic book adaptation of Explodo Jones: The Quest for Ever More Radness would show a minor dude's punchout in a small panel. A major villain's comeuppance via uppercut would take a splash page, the comic equivalent of a BWAAAHH!! BWAAAHH!! The reader will feel it in his gut.

That's my theory.

---------------

For your enjoyment, I give you: DISCO-DANCIN' FIRESTORM!

His head blazes! Blazes with a Disco Inferno!

And if I had Photoshop, I'd put him on a discotheque floor! But I don't! So instead he grooves in the inky blackness.

Go Ronnie! Go Ronnie!

---------------------------------
*The problem is that the emotions engendered by the music (or, one could argue, panel size and placement) are largely unearned. If the story requires musical cues to be effective, it's a crap story, isn't it? It should invoke its emotions without aid.

Then again, one could argue the same thing about any element in art. What constitutes illegitimate manipulation? The Dogme 95 movement rejects as many "artificial" elements from their films as they can, claiming that elements such as music, optical work, and special lighting are dishonest:

"As never before, the superficial action and the superficial movie are receiving all the praise. The result is barren. An illusion of pathos and an illusion of love."

Which sounds like a load of self-deluding twaddle to me, but there you go. The line between drama and melodrama, sentiment and sentimentality, is a matter of taste. Cartoon sound effects and thought balloons are rejected by most modern comic folk as "unreal," yet so are panels, cross-hatching, and a world that's drawn on paper. But at the same time, it's so easy to overuse emotion-creating effects and cheapen a work...gaaagh.

Drawing attention to the artifice of the panel by rejecting it in Watchmen invokes Brecht's alienation effect. Another nod to Brecht is the Black Freighter story-within-story, a recasting of Pirate Jenny in the Threepenny Opera. My ever-so-clever supposition? Moore liked Brecht. Yep.

Realtors Hate Superheroes

2006-08-22T15:39:00.000-04:00

My morbid side wants to know: how many cities and/or countries have been destroyed in the DC Universe?

Off the top of my head I can think of several:

Coast City, nuked by Mongul in the "Death of Superman" bit.
Bludhaven, annihilated just recently in Infinite Crisis.
Tampa, squashed by a giant meteorite in an old issue of Firestorm.
The nation of "Qurac," nuked by Cheshire just to prove a point in an old issue of Deathstroke the Terminator.
Topeka, destroyed by Imperiex Prime in the Our Worlds at War crossover.
Fairfield, a city in the midwest somewhere, nuked by the robot Mister Atom in Power of Shazam.

That's not counting the cities that are nearly destroyed but bounce back:

Gotham, destroyed in an earthquake, abandoned by the government, and eventually rebuilt.
Metropolis, destroyed in Luthor's last mad grasp at power before he "died," sometime in the late nineties.
Moscow, flattened badly in the Invasion! crossover.

Plus, a good-sized chunk of San Diego fell into the ocean, killing most of its inhabitants and leaving the rest mer-people. (The sunken section is now called "Sub Diego," which is German for "a whale's penis.")

Man, I would hate to be a realtor in the DCU. "Buy real estate in Springfield! We haven't been nuked, destroyed by aliens, or sunken into the sea! Yet!" Worse still to be an insurance agent.

What's sad is that I know this list is far from complete.

Can you folks help me out?

What other cities and/or countries have been reduced to rubble in the DCU?

Or the Marvel U, for that matter. I don't recall Marvel destroying any cities wholesale, though New York does take an awful beating on a regular basis.

(Edited to add: I forgot that the Marvel Universe's Washington, DC area was smooshed by Kang the Conqueror in The Avengers a few years ago. How could I forget it? When I read it, I looked at a panel of kabooms and thought, "Hey, wait--based on landmarks in that picture, my house would be in the middle of that particular kaboom. Marvel Universe Harvey and the Missus would be dead, toasted by Kang's Space Army from the Far Future. Murdered by a dork in green and purple named 'Kang.' What a drag." DC Universe Harvey and the Missus live on, as best I can figure.)

----------------------
At the risk of being unbeliveably, unbearably tacky, I just remembered that this is the anniverary of Katrina and the loss of New Orleans. My subconscious remembered this and got me thinking about destroyed fictional cities rather than deal with the horror of a real one.

Thanks a lot, four-color brain. Way to be sensitive and humane.

(smacks self in head)

For those of a charitable bent, please donate a bit to Direct Relief or another reputable organization. There's still a lot to be done.

Fifty-Two Answers, More or Less

2006-08-21T10:15:00.000-04:00

Over at the Absorbascon, Scipio asked fifty-two questions about the series 52. Rather than clog up his already-overflowing comments section with my answers, I put 'em here.

Heed my wisdom, yo!

1. Do you like Steel's new look and powers?
--No. I liked that John Henry Irons built his powers, that he’s a hero because he wants to be, not someone cursed by fate. Also, the giant hammer he used to use ties in the John Henry motif, which I think is snazzy. Losing that would be like having a hero named Paul Bunyan Woodman with a super-axe and taking away said axe after ten years.

2. Is Supernova the real Booster Gold?
--That’s a good guess; I hadn’t considered that. Whoever he is, he has a terrible costumer. Egh. Supernova’s too noble to be the greedy Booster we all know and love, though. Would Supernova go in for a Justice League casino on the island of Kooeykooeykooey? I think not.

3. Will Isis survive 52?
--Nope. She’s doomed. Will she die in such a manner as to deeply affect Black Adam and forever change the whole Marvel Family situation? Duh, of course.

4. What exactly IS Egg Fu?
--The Giant Egg Mastermind of my dreams. HEE-HO!

5. Are they going to kill the Question?
--I hope not. I dug the O’Neil/Cowan Question series and love the look. Then again, would it matter? Every incarnation of the character is pretty dang different from the last. The Ditko Question is not the same as the O’Neil one, who is nothing like the Veitch one from the recent miniseries, and the guy in 52 doesn’t feel like any of those prior incarnations. So the version of The Question I liked is long gone anyway. Killing off “Vic Sage” wouldn’t matter much. I hope they don’t, though.

6. Are you as tired of Montoya's Sam Spade act as I am?
--Oh my lord yes. How can she be the “strong and silent” type if she won’t shut the hell up?

7. Now that Luthor's uncorked the metagene bottle, how will DC ever get the metagenie back in?
--Deadly side-effects, it’s only temporary, Luthor’s actually using stolen alien tech and will run out of it soon…there’s a jillion ways. I’d bet on “deadly side-effects.”

8. What is Egg Fu hoping to do with the kidnapped mad scientists?
--HEE-HO! That is not for us to know, Westerner!

9. Will we see Bruce and Diana at all in 52, as we have Clark?
--I’d be shocked if we didn’t. Bruce playing shuffleboard, Diana punching out rhinos, stuff like that. Both will have Moments of Rededication when they do something Terribly Noble in the face of Great Evil. Many capital letters will be involved.

10. Will Ralph stay bonkers?
--Nah. We have to have our “hero rediscovers what it means to be a hero” story. He’ll snap out of it when a big crisis forces him to act. See #9.

11. Do you love the idea of a permanently bonkers Ralph as much as I do?
--Not a weepy, delusional Ralph, no. A basically-coherent Ralph with a permanent bend in his mind would be good, though.

12. Who is the trenchcoated man in the background behind Ralph?
--The ghost of former Secretary of the Treasury Lloyd Bentsen.

13. What is the Dominators’ connection to the 52?
--Probably trying to harness them for their own fiendish purposes. (All Dominator purposes are fiendish.)

14. So does Adam Strange have one eye or two, and will be getting any of them back?
--He’ll get ‘em back. Never count out Adam Strange. He may have to improvise a new set from the body of a salmon, a box of pop rocks, and the unspooled tape from an 8-Track recording of Frampton Comes Alive, but he’ll do it.

15. When will Rex the Wonder Dog meet Krypto?
--Better still, when will Rex the Wonder Dog meet Topo the Wonder Octopus? That I would pay to see.

16. Hey -- where is Krypto while Clark is powerless?
--Krypto’s back? Man, I’m so out of the loop.

17. Am I the only person who wants to see them bring back Destructo [Krypto’s evil super-dog counterpart]?
--Hell no you’re not the only one! An evil super-dog with a pirate-flag cape? Booyah!

18. What relationship -- if any -- is there between John Henry Irons and the new Commander Steel in the Justice Society?
--I’d guess none. If I put on my Grant Morrison hat (the one with the pork chop coming out of one side and smells like Tuesdays), I’d have the new Commander Steel be Steel’s niece, Natasha. Her brain is transplanted into the cybernetic body of an insane white man to become a new superhero! A more pedestrian possibility is that the technology used to make the new CS is based upon Irons’s research.

19. Will Lois become pregnant?
--Yeah. She’ll lose it by week 45. Drama!

20. When is Rip Hunter and how soon before we see him in person?
--Rip will make at least one “oogy-boogy-boogy, the End is Nigh!” appearance in the next month. He won’t figure into the story as a full character until week 30, and will only speak in portentious phrases until week 45. The death of the Kent baby may be tied in with it.

21. Will Lex be one of the kidnapped mad scientists?
--Yep. Because that would be awesome. Imagine Luthor, Sivana, Morrow, and Magnus all trapped together and plotting their escape…dude, they should form a regular team and be an ongoing series. The Mad Scientist Brigade. I would so read that.

22. Having been fused into one body, do Firestorm and Cyborg keep in touch?
--It’d be too awkward and raise too many arguments. “You got the liver!” “Up yours! You got the spleen! You ever try to live without a spleen?”

23. Will Haven (the "Eureka" for bad people) become a fixture in the DCU?
--I have no idea what this is. Let’s say, um, sure, it becomes a fixture.

24. So, did the Batfamily just take a cruise while the Red Hood is running around killing people or what?
--Basically yeah. Modern Batman isn’t so much about protecting regular people as he is about punching out bad people. Taking a break from the villain-whomping is about “getting his head together,” not “abandoning people to the monsters.” Dillhole. What’d be funny is if in his absence he uses his influence as Bruce Wayne to help the city, something he neglects as Batman, and returns to find the city much safer than before.

25. Will we see Harvey Dent at all in 52, given how active he is supposed to be in Gotham?
--Probably, but only in passing. The whole Dent story played out in Batman's own books already, so there's little to be gained by covering it in 52 at any length.

26. Will we get to see Bullock expose the corruption in Commissioner Akins' department?
--Definitely. I look forward to it. Unless it involves more bad first-person narration, like Montoya’s.

27. Will Bullock and Film Freak get a New Earth rematch?
--I have no idea who “Film Freak” is, so I’ll say…um…no.

28. Will the feminist bloggers stop cataloging every rape and attempted rape if I start cataloging every time a female character kicks a male one in the nuts?
--No, I don’t see that happening.

29. Will we ever find out what the heck is happening in Sub Diego?
--Years from now, some writer will go back to Sub Diego. It'll be a while. The odds on it being raised back up to rejoin San Diego in that story are very strong. Or it’ll be totally destroyed. One of the two. I doubt any writer would keep it status quo.

30. Will we ever find out why somebody sunk Sub Diego to begin with?
--I thought we did. But I didn’t read Aquaman back then, so I dunno. In retrospect, that was a bad call on my part.

31. Shouldn't Black Manta be one of the missing mad scientists?
--Maybe he’s just not mad enough. Work on the crazy, Manta!

32. Any guess about the status of Lorena, Mera, Tempest, Dolphin, et al.?
--In Comic Book Limbo for the foreseeable future.

33. Does anyone care about the status of Lorena, Mera, Tempest, Dolphin, et al.?
--Negatory.

34. Is Wonder Girl brainwashed or just tragically stupid?
--Her history suggests “tragically stupid.” Make that “her history screams ‘tragically stupid.’”

35. What is Devem's connection to Krypton?
--None. He’s a Durlan screwing with us.

36. Am I the only person who'd really prefer that Starfire never return to Earth?
--Nope. I never liked her. “Alien sex kitten/vicious warrior/naif” is a little too Chris Claremont for me.

37. Is the character of Natasha Irons now irredeemable?
--Nope. Unless she goes on a kill-spree, she can come back. If she finds Luthor’s Secret Evil Plan and, in her horror, opposes it, she’ll be back.

38. Will there be a Batwoman costume available this Halloween and, if so, who (other than me) will wear it?
--Yes, and it will be worn by those with advanced fashion sense. I will not, as my man-mammaries are insufficient to fill the suit. Alas, my he-hooters are small. I lack adequate boy-boobs.

39. What will Skeets do with his spare time now that Booster's dead?
--Two words: “Hollywood Squares.” I’ll take Skeets to block.

40. Does anyone know or care what Holly's last name is in Catwoman?
Know? No. Care? No. Willing to make one up? Sure. How about Hohenzollern?

41. What does the return of the Metal Men portend?
--Awesomeness. It portends awesomeness.

42. Is Captain Marvel really going to stay stuck in the Rock of Eternity?
--The Wizard Shazam will return, or a suitable replacement will be found, before 52 ends.

43. Given that Todd & Damon were dating before 52 and still are after it, doesn't that make them comics' longest standing gay couple (aside from Apollo & Midnighter)?
--If we skip over Batman and Robin, then yes.

44. Will we ever get to see Damon meet Alan Scott?
--I’d wager yes. Brief awkwardness followed by laughs and hugs. Alan’s a mensch.

45. Is anyone still reading Outsiders and, if so, why?
--I can’t answer either question. Perhaps they’re just really big fans of S.E. Hinton.

46. Will Batwoman come into conflict with Harvey Dent?
--The only questions are how much, and will she punch him out.

47. Am I the only person brushing up his Chinese for the first meeting of Egg Fu and the all-new Atom?
--Probably. I just got the first two issues of the All-New Atom, and yea verily, it rocketh. If it adds Egg Fu, it will rock so hard as to spontaneously transmute matter.

48. Speaking of the Atom, is that Luthor who's handing out "shrinking belts"?
--I hope not. I’d rather see someone different. Either a new guy or an old mad scientist with a new gimmick. Dr. Doog, perhaps?

49. With Whisper Adaire and the Monster Society running around and mad scientists being kidnapped, why doesn't anybody remember Professor Milo?
--Give them time. That Radium dude just came back. Milo can’t be too far off.

50. Am I the only person really excited about the idea of the evil Titans East, including the return of the Joker's Daughter?
--Probably not, though I could never give a crap about any Titans.

51. Will we meet Miss Martian in the J'onn J'onzz miniseries?
--I’ll bet she’s toast before the end of 52.

52. Who do you want to see turn up in 52 who hasn't yet?
--J’onn would be nice. I like that goofy bastard. The Connor Hawke Green Arrow. ‘Mazing Man. Grodd.

Concord of the Long Boxes

2006-08-21T09:44:00.000-04:00

Eye-bugging and mutterings of "oh, holy crap, would you look at that!" came from my oversized noggin last Saturday. Left to my own devices for an afternoon, I decided that rather than do any number of useful things, I would instead begin the great Concord of the Long Boxes. My collection was split into two chunks in 1997 and has been in disarray ever since.

Saturday, I organized and fused together all of my non-Big Two comics. A few bizarro treasures revealed themselves.

For example, Lust of the Nazi Weasel Women, a series by Fantagraphics from the early nineties. The book starred the Easter Bunny, and contained the brain of Hitler transferred into the body of a parrot, as well as the titular (though never seen) Nazi Weasel Women. A fine premise, though I don't recall the series being particularly good. (I didn't have time to re-read 'em this weekend before actual work intruded and forced me to return them to the long boxes.)

That being said, man, what a title. As a teenage boy with a love of both absurdism and boobs, could I have possibly resisted a comic entitled Lust of the Nazi Weasel Women? Of course not.

I remember trying to find the fifth issue back in my completist days, and wondered how long the series survived. How many Nazi Weasel Women did I miss? A quick scan on Ye Olde Internette shows that the four issues in my long boxes are all that were published.

I don't know if I should be proud of that or not.

Oh, what the hell. Let's say I am.

Hot Rods is one of my "mystery comics," of the sort that every collector has somewhere. You know the kind: the comics we not only forgot we owned, we forgot how they ended up in our collections or what possessed us to get them in the first place.

An added bonus of coolosity: the issue was cut improperly. The right-hand edge of the book is at a slight angle. Ah, old-skool production values. Better still, if you look closely on the cover, you can see the "hoodlum" being tackled by one of the heroes is clearly a young Robert Blake, fresh off the set of In Cold Blood. Everyone remembers him for Baretta and his murder trial. How often do we bring up his work as a comic book actor?

Mystery comics are the prizes in the bottom of the cereal box. They aren't great, but after you blow away the Cap'n Crunch dust and open the little plastic bag, they bring a little joy. In my case, all of my "mystery comics" were the product of the early days of collecting, when I snapped up anything and everything comic-esque and tucked it away. Old Beetle Bailey comic? Sure! Captain America Versus Tooth Decay? Righteous! The Adventures of Kool-Aid Man? Oh yeah!

Ah, to be young and foolish.

Behold The Green Hornet #1. This cover is pure radness. Jim Steranko did a kickass job, as you'd expect. The Green Hornet series itself, not so much with the radness.

The Hornet was the tentpole for NOW Comics in the early nineties, and a comic I stuck with for longer than I should have.

The Green Hornet ran for two series, the cover to the left being the first issue of the first series. The first run spent seven issues setting up the family lineage of the Hornet, tying in the old radio show, the teevee show of the sixties, Bruce Lee, and it even managed to work in the Hornet's familial tie to the Lone Ranger without violating copyrights. This is all good. But the comics weren't all that exciting.

It felt like...well, it was written like an "action" television show of the period. Not awful, just not fun or wild or cool. Jeff Butler's art, which I enjoyed in the Marvel RPG game books of oh-so-long-ago, felt stiff, which didn't help.* The first series wheezed to an end after fourteen issues.

The second series improved on the first. More fluid art and an overheated writing style by new guy Chuck Dixon turned the Green Hornet into a decent crime comic.** I lasted fifteen issues into the second volume of GH before I gave up. It never reached the heights of kickassery suggested by the Steranko cover. Nor that of very first issue of the first volume, which was pretty darn cool.

Still and all, finding the Green Hornet stash was rad. The comics were unremarkable, but the memories they dredged up were happy ones.

I do so love digging in the longboxes.

Another discovery: the detritus of my eBay madness. For a few months in 2002 or 2003, I forget which, I went nuts on eBay buying runs of comics I'd ignored in the nineties. I coughed up a few bucks here and there to satisfy my curiosity about the Would-Be Third Major Publishers of the past. Harbinger, Archer and Armstrong, Eternal Warrior, Savage Dragon, Shadowman, I got lots of 'em. Sometimes the slabs-o-third-company-comics are downright curious.

How the hell did I end up with a full run of Ninjak?

--------------------------
*Though the coloring process added to that--early Valiant comics had the same color printing method and the same stiffness. I doubt that's coincidence.

**The Hornet v2 was my first exposure to Dixon, or at least the first time I noticed him as a distinct writer. His writing was a marked improvement, and I've had a warm spot for him ever since. In the letter page for the first issue, NOW's staff dubbed him "The Master of Action." That is a title I covet and must someday claim for myself.

I read a blurb by Dixon regarding the Hornet job. Someone asked him what he remembered from writing the Hornet. "I remember having a hard time getting paid," he answered. Ouch.

Things Showcase Taught Me

2006-08-17T11:00:00.000-04:00

DC's long-running anthology series Showcase was more than entertainment. It educated a nation of youth. A few things I learned:

The Brain Robbers of Satellite X target men in boring purple jumpsuits, using their mind-control powers to change their victims' attire to green miniskirts and yellow go-go boots. Thus, the Brain Robbers of Satellite X are, in fact, Space Fashionistas, spreading fabulousness throughout the galaxy. And I, for one, am impressed.

Grimace used to be a real dick.

The tragedy of Jonny Double was not his trauma-scarred past, nor his craving for violence, nor his alcoholism. No, Double's real tragedy was the displacement of his digestive organs by an oversized red woman's head that floated in his midsection. Because of her, he could not eat, and survived only on the nutritive content of her copious tears.

I think I saw a show on the Discovery Channel about this syndrome once.

The name "B'wana Beast" invokes terror. Who knew? Also, gorillas are purple.

Brachiosaurs are herbivores, but even they cannot resist feasting upon the flesh of a man named "Corky." For some reason, they just taste really good.

Don't look at me like that. They do.

Because I Must

2006-08-16T13:19:00.000-04:00

The "Batman Panel" gag making its way around the comic blogosphere is too good to leave alone. Thus, I give you my entry:

It was either that or "post-coital." Bruce's face shows the relaxed satisfaction that one feels only after ruthlessly buggering one's youthful ward and best chum in the waters of a secluded pond. It's a face I know well.

Hm. Did I say "well?" I meant "not at all."

Not at all.

Alright then.

The Literary Meme

2006-08-16T12:03:00.000-04:00

Poking around the blogrolls, I found that I’ve been tagged by Chris of 2 Guys Buying Comics with a meme. Since I’m still blocking on a comic-related post, I thought I’d fill it out.

The Literary Meme

One book that changed your life:
Herzog by Saul Bellow. Right after college I rediscovered reading for pleasure. One of the first books I cracked on this binge was Martin Amis’s collection of essays The Moronic Inferno, which made several references to the greatness of Bellow’s work. As a result, I bought a copy of Herzog to read on a cross-country train trip.

The book is amazing. Its plot is almost non-existent: a literature professor, Moses Herzog, putters around the country seeing friends and family and writes letters he never intends to mail. And it’s beautiful. It portrayed everyday, unremarkable life as high art. Overpraised, boring New Yorker-style slice-of-life novels that clog the “literature” section of bookstores are attempts to reach the heights that Bellow did. Herzog showed me how good modern literature can be. Other novels impressed me just as much. But Herzog was the first.

One book you've read more than once:
The Thought Gang by Tibor Fischer. A lazy professor of classics at Oxford flees to France after being caught embezzling money from the university. Within hours of arrival, his ill-gotten cash is lost in a car fire. Not long after that, he meets with a stick-up man who lacks a few body parts and is dying of “a fashionable blood disease.” They pair up to become philosophical bank robbers, and prove to be brilliant at it. The Neoplatonic Bank Robbery is a sweet moment. Great stuff. Robberies, jokes, bar fights, histories of philosophy, odes to laziness, and more uses of the letter “z” than you’ll ever believe. An all-time favorite of mine.

One book you would want on a desert island:
Aside from the obvious “how to survive/how to build a boat” books (we’ll assume I have enough supplies to survive and somebody will pick me up in a year), I’d go with In Search of Lost Time. I’ve always wanted to read it. Sticking me on a desert island with nothing else around would make that happen.

One book that made you laugh:
Life With Jeeves, a collection of three novels by P.G. Wodehouse. Wodehouse is always funny, and is at his best in the Jeeves stories. He described his books as “musical comedies without the music,” and the description is perfect. They’re light, airy, charming, brilliantly written, and damn funny. Wodehouse is the literary equivalent of Fred Astaire; he’s so good he makes it look easy. It isn’t. Read just about anyone else’s “humorous” novels for proof. The man was incredible.

One book that made you cry:
Eichmann in Jerusalem. Cold despair and sad truth on paper.

One book you wish you had written:
My next one. Must get off lazy ass…must get off lazy ass…

One book you wish had never been written:
I’ll skip the easy choices (Mein Kampf, etc.) and go strictly by the book(s) that annoy me beyond belief. At the risk of offending many of the internet folks out there who quite like her, I’ll go with the Ayn Rand collection. My apologies to her fans.

Her “philosophy” is essentially Nietzsche minus the self-awareness, insight, or depth. Her work is not taught in universities for a reason. Not because the academy is “afraid” of her; academics frequently teach works that disparage academics. It’s because there’s so little substance to her books, and what bits can be found are shallow and inferior interpretations of much better work.

Plus, not to be overlooked, the books are written like ass. When one rejects the richness and complexity of the human experience in favor of binary thinking, one cannot understand humanity and loses the ability to write characters at all. Forget three-dimensional characters; she couldn’t manage two-D.

She tells her readers that it’s all very simple, that moral complexity is a sham, and that those with Reason and Purpose and Self-Esteem (implicitly defined as “those who read my books”) should rule the world. But they’re held back! Back by the forces of Unreason! Who would stand against Reason? Why, the Evil and Petty who would strip away what is Rightfully Yours and give it to the Parasites!

--cough-- Yeah, that's why. Sure.

Ahem.

She provides paper-thin rationales for the frustrated little men of the world to cast themselves as misunderstood geniuses and rage at the world around them for failing to acknowledge that fact.

A cheap irony is that Rand’s work is the product of anti-communism, yet her books have the exact same faults as a hack Marxist tract cranked out by a crackpot “revolutionary.” That’s comedy.

In short, her work tells resentful people what they want to hear and bolsters their sense of aggrieved entitlement. It feigns depth and spews nonsense, taking very basic truths (“use your head, maintain your self-respect”) and rockets them way past the point of real-world relevance, straight to Crackpot Junction and Tinfoil Hat Town.

We could use less of that in the world.

For those of you who love her works, enjoy. I can’t stand 'em.

One book you are currently reading:
Rats: Observations on the History and Habitat of the City’s Most Unwanted Inhabitants by Robert Sullivan. I am a complete sucker for the “popular history/science/weird crap” hybrid, such as Cod: A Biography of the Fish That Changed the World, The Secret Life of Lobsters, and Longitude. Not only are they entertaining reads, they give me all sorts of weird bits of knowledge to fling out at inopportune times.

Me: “Did you know that lobsters pee out of their foreheads?”

Normal person: “No, but thanks for sharing.”

One book you have been meaning to read:
Aside from the previously mentioned Proust, there’s Thucydides. I have a super-snazzy edition of his History of the Peloponnesian War with maps, timelines, and all sorts of spiffy stuff in it to provide context. The translation is solid. It’s freakin’ sweet. It teases me from the bookshelf.

Why don’t I read it? Because dammit, man, there’s television to watch!

Tag five people:
Meh. I’ll pass on that.

Ten Years Later, The Emerald City Trembles

2006-08-09T22:46:00.000-04:00

The Lovely and Delightful Mrs. Jerkwater and yours truly have jet across the country to spend a week in Seattle. We haven’t been on a non-family-mandated vacation in quite a while, and needed the escape.

Why Seattle? In part, because she’s never been to the Pacific Northwest.

In part because I have.

When I first stepped onto the ground at SeaTac airport, it was difficult for me not to bellow out “I’M BACK, BITCHES!” at the top of my lungs.

Let’s travel back in time a decade.

You remember the mid-nineties, right? Oklahoma City, O.J. Simpson, the Yugoslavian war going apeshit, Bill Clinton and Newt Gingrich. The economy started to boom, baseball cancelled the World Series, paranoia became a theme of pop culture, the comic industry went into freefall, and politics’ descent into the vitriolic hackery we know today picked up a lot of steam. Me, I graduated from college, armed with a double major of “history” and “unemployability.”

Lacking any direction or understanding, I decided to split away from the world I knew and start fresh. Had it been 1926, I would have gone to Paris. But it was 1996, and thus I went to the City of the Hour: the Emerald City, Seattle.

Once there, I got a crap job, lived in a crap house in the Lake City neighborhood, and spent a year in the venerable post-adolescent tradition of “finding myself.” This entailed underemployment, lots of coffee, kung fu, strange men, stranger women, and the dreaded Twelve Egg Omelette at Beth’s Diner on Aurora.

I grew up in the Rust Belt. Seattle's gleaming downtown felt only one step below Oz.

God, I loved this city. God, my life here sucked appalling amounts of ass.

I haven't been here in ten years. I left a battered but wiser young man, unemployed and alone.

I return in triumph.

I'm back, bitches.

Let the city tremble.

HOO-HAH!

Why I Love Hitman in Two Words

2006-08-01T12:28:00.000-04:00

Those two words? "Zombie" and "seals."

Coke Floats and the Gateway to Perdition

2006-07-31T13:31:00.000-04:00

The comic blogosphere has made mention of two of the SciFi channel's new shows, Who Wants to Be a Superhero? and The Amazing Screw-On Head. All well and good.

But they're ignoring the show that comes between them. A triumph of television.

What is it? A British import from Channel Four, yes. But it is more. It is the mind-blowingest show in the annals of blown minds. The zenith of the television arts.

Or perhaps not.

It is...Garth Marenghi's Darkplace.

To explain the show, a quote from Garth himself:

This week Garth Marenghi's Darkplace, my hospital-based horror medical drama set in pre-apocalyptic Romford, debuts on Channel 4. "Garth Marenghi," a lone voice cries, "who be he be?" "Fool!" the crowd retorts. "Why, he's the chillmaster célèbre, whose extensive cannon o' chillers include The Ooze (can water die?), The Ague (dare you sneeze?) and Afterbirth (a placenta wants payback)." Still, a woman, eyes bedewed with tears, laments: "Hast then our humble fabulist deserted his loyal readerhood [50 million sales worldwide and counting] in favour of televisual terrors [scary TV]?"

...

Darkplace was a project conceived, written and filmed in the 1980s. My aim was a simple one: to change the evolutionary course of Man over a series of half-hour episodes. I would write, direct and star. My publisher Dean Learner would produce. I would exec produce. I set about composing my visionary scripts. Blessed with innate foresight from birth (one of my first words was "sooth"), I've always been a portender, having the knack of knowing what road mankind is heading down and, more important, whether or not there's a services on the way (often there's not - so evacuate what needs evacuating before setting off).

The show is a manufactured "lost series" by a fictional horror novelist. Metafiction abounds. Oh my. The show, Marenghi's "vision," synthesizes cheesy eighties hospital dramas, even cheesier horror, and low-budget ineptitude, all done with the breathtaking confidence of the man too dumb to know he's dumb. Bracketing the "Darkplace" segments are "interviews" with Garth and his publisher/co-star, Dean Lerner.

Marenghi stars as "Dr. Rick Dagless, M.D.," the hotshot surgeon, occult expert, and embittered tough guy of Darkplace Hospital. Each episode is a tribute to Dag's courage, fortitude, and really bad hair.

Damn, it's mighty. Below is from the first episode, "Once Upon a Beginning:"

Sanchez: So what happened between you and this Renwick customer?

cut to: HOSPITAL CANTEEN. DAY.

(The trio are sat a table in the canteen, Dagless is smoking a cigarette)

Dagless: Larry was a colleague of mine when I first started here at Darkplace. God he was brainy. And brave. He saved my life once. I saved his twice so I was one up. We made a pact to push each other's minds to the limit. And beyond. Naturally, we both became fascinated with the occult. One night, Larry suggested we try and open the gates of Hell right here in the canteen. I pleaded with him, I said "no, don't", but he insisted.

(cuts to a flashback of the event in question, with voiceover by Dagless)

Dagless (v/o): That night, we performed the rite and opened the gate. Halfway through, I went to the kitchen to fix us both a coke float, and by the time I got back, he'd gone insane. (Renwick is shaking violently and shouting, Dag screams, holding the two coke floats) Plus he'd left the gate open and there was evil everywhere. (Liz looks frightened) ...I need to grab a shower.

As a comic book fan, Garth himself felt terribly familiar, as did the stories. Snotty humor abounds. Plus it has flamethrowers, unsynchronized sound, Skipper the Eye Boy, and an episode called "The Apes of Wrath." Sweeeeeet.

Thursdays at 10PM, SciFi Channel. Harvey Jerkwater says check it out.

Lo, There Shall Come Awesomeness

2006-07-27T11:47:00.000-04:00

Last night I went with a bunch of my crew to RFK Stadium. The Washington Nationals were playing the San Franscisco Giants.

RFK is a craphole. It's a relic of the ugly multi-purpose stadia of the sixties and seventies, and it stood nearly abandoned for a decade. Beyond its basic charmlessness, RFK is cursed with peeling paint on rafters and seats, a terrible sound system, and a grungy field. The Nationals' new stadium, a breathtaking white elephant that will soak the local taxpayers and entertain us with dozens of stories of corruption and cost overruns, is years away.

The Nationals, formerly the Montreal Expos, were the orphan of Major League Baseball for a few years. Just recently, they finally got an owner: Theodore Lerner, local real estate magnate. One of Lerner's first actions as new owner was to shore up RFK and get fans back in the place. A good plan.

Couple Lerner's fan-recouping efforts with the Nats/Giants game on the field, and last night I was treated to the following:

--A three-dollar seat. Upper deck, behind the left field foul pole, but not terrible for all that. Three dollars, yo. (RFK now has $3 and $5 sections. Righteous. That's cheaper than the area's minor league games.)

--The opportunity to heckle Barry Bonds in person. Every ball fan should do it at least once. It's good for the soul. However, it is not easy to do well. It's hard to work "human growth hormone" or "deca durabolin" into a rude chant. Yet we did. It felt good.

--A "Presidents' Race" between innings, where four guys dressed in period costumes topped with Mardi Gras-style giant foam heads "raced" down the first-base side of the stadium. (George Washington won, followed by Jefferson, Lincoln, and TR in a cluster. Last week, TR won by cheating--he used the bullpen car.) The Presidents' Race used to be a computer-graphic "game" on the jumbotron; now it's dudes in goofy giant heads cavorting on the field. That, ladies and gentlemen, is progress.

--Alfonso Soriano successfully stealing third base when, caught in a rundown, he was pegged in the back by the shortstop's errant throw. The ball hit Soriano dead between the shoulder blades. It bounced off of him and fell dead at his feet, a good distance from any infielder. He took the base without much trouble after that.

--The Nationals coming back to win in the bottom of the ninth. Hoo-hah!

How much aweseomeness was there? The ultra-cheap ticket, the Barry-mocking, the foam heads, the victory?

For this baseball fan, it was like looking out the window to find it raining little chocolate doughnuts.

Throw in that I'm a long-suffering Detroit Tigers fan enjoying their first (probably) winning season since 1993 and their first good season since 1987, and I'm in Baseball Heaven.

More teams need goofy novelty races and $3 tickets, dammit.

Strippin'

2006-07-26T14:58:00.000-04:00

Newspaper strips are fun, but usually lack the rich charms of the full-blown comic. Stories are rare, gags proliferate. Even by comic book standards, it's often a crude, unsubtle place.

Save for one strip.

One strip, month after month, brings with it a delightful wit and artistic japery that elevates the entire comic page.

Mark Trail.

Sure, on the surface it appears to be a leaden soap opera/nature cop strip about a dork named Mark Trail. But underneath? Oh, underneath such wonders can be found! Tim O'Neil spent over a year admiring their brilliance. A shameless follower, I must ape O'Neil this once, if only to commemorate The Greatest Mark Trail Panel Ever. Honor demands it.

Jack Elrod, creator of the strip, has a sly wit that comes out in a number of ways. The finest is the misplaced speech balloon. Take a sample panel below, where a grizzly bear with an arrow in its ass talks about its own wound, and seems to suggest putting the arrow itself to sleep.

One could argue that Elrod's balloon placement is merely sloppy, and that his often-amusing panels are merely the results of mistakes. That the myriad talking squirrels, chatty porcupines, and drug-dealing raccoons of the strip are gaffes.

I considered that possibility too. Until the sheer staggering genius of The Greatest Mark Trail Panel Ever.

The current storyline has the strip's quasi-vamp Kelly schmoozing some dude named Rick. (I can't tell you why, because it's hard to pay attention to the plots of Mark Trail. The beauties of the strip lie on a deeper level than mere plot!) Behold the panel and marvel at its many layers of meaning.

Rick puts the moves on Kelly...and is thanked...by her crotch. I defy you to find another comic strip that would have the balls to give a major character chatty genitals!

There are so many ways to interpret the panel, each one more interesting than the last. There's the obvious sexual subtext, but the sheer absurdity of Kelly's Talking Crotch implies secondary and even tertiary meanings.

More than anything, the panel is sheer visual poetry. A haiku about the coexistence of wholesomeness and depravity, an ode to the eternal dance of male and female, a gentle Italian sonnet about getting one's freak on, it is all of these and more. It is Art with a capital A.

O Elrod! Refining and elevating the artistry of the comics pages on a daily basis!

------------------------------
Bonus snark:

A recent panel from Curtis:

An LL Cool J stapler? That's genius. There could be a whole line of rap star office supplies. Snoop Dogg tape dispensers. Jay-Z sticky pads.

But why restrict ourselves to office supplies? Think of the hip-hop product tie-ins begging to be made!

"Get Chamillionaire's Car Wax! Don't get caught...ridin' dirty!"

Putting on the Rant Pants

2006-07-25T10:49:00.000-04:00

Rant time!

The Mindset of the Moron
(inspired by “The Principles of the American Cargo Cult,” located here.)

Below are a few ideas that seem to form the mindset of the moron. These traits are not belief-specific or tied to politics. I'm a liberal Democrat, and yes, I know that "my side" has a lot of people who possess this mindset. Don't get smug, though. Conservatives have plenty of morons. Plenty. There's no shortage in this world--dimwits abound. And they make me nuts.

Based upon careful obesrvation, hard thought, and some plain ol' spleen-venting, here are a few traits that mark the Mindset of the Moron. You don't need to have all of them to be a moron, either.

Complicated explanations are crap. The world is simple, and there is a simple explanation for everything. No issue in the world requires more than one or two variables to understand. Nuance is evasion, and complexity is just a smokescreen for self-interest or stupidity. If someone’s reasoning confuses you, he’s trying to pull one over on you. Don’t believe him.

Certainty is strength, doubt is weakness. Considering alternatives undermines one's own beliefs. Changing one's mind means one has wasted the time spent holding the prior opinion. Therefore, consideration of alternatives or changing of mind means you’ve failed as a person. Never changing one’s mind demonstrates strength of will and firmness of purpose. (However, this only applies to you. When someone else won’t change his mind to agree with you, he’s an inflexible moron.)

There are two sides to every argument. But only two. More than two is impossible! It's A or B! There is no C! D is nonsense! E? E is just a version of A! Also, one of the two sides is the right one, and the other is the wrong one. How can you tell which is the right one? It doesn’t matter. Once your decision is made, you know the other side is wrong, wrong, wrong, and should be treated as if they’re both stupid and evil. Which leads to the next element.

People who disagree with you are simply stupid. They don’t have reasons for taking opposing stances to you. They’re just stupid, hateful ass-clowns. Only your side has reasons. All the other side has is pre-formed opinions and reflexive hatred. Any reasons proffered by those against you are lies intended to cloak their irrational hatreds in faux rationality.

Your opinion matters as much as anyone else's, and usually more. When a person has studied a topic and then offers an opinion, he has no more real knowledge than you do, just more ways to push for his agenda. The facts are just props for his viewpoint, nothing more. The only issue that truly matters is the intensity with which you feel it. Also, the only facts that are truly facts are the ones you believe. Everybody else's facts are either lies or irrelevant.

All interconnection is obvious. Otherwise, complicated explanations would be necessary. Since complicated explanations are always crap, so are subtle connections.

You have a right to your share. Your share is, of course, whatever you decide it should be. An ounce less and shriek cries of injustice. An ounce more means you should readjust what you “deserve” so that it matches what you have.

If it's good for you, it's good. Society is everyone else.

Good intentions are all that matter. You can always apologize later if you hurt someone. It’s not a big deal. After all, you didn't mean to.

There is no long term. Live like there’s no tomorrow, even though there will be. Thinking ahead means thinking too much. Tomorrow is an abstract, muzzy-headed notion, a scam to get you to do things you don’t want to do, like put money in a savings account or eat vegetables.

Consequences are things that happen to other people. Good things that happen to you are because of your actions. Bad things that happen to you are the product of others’ malice. There are many evil people and institutions, and surely one of them is responsible for the bad thing that happened. Somebody did that to you!

You are never the problem. You are a beautiful and unique snowflake. Other people? They’re the herd.

You're special. Bad things shouldn't happen to you. You're the exception to the rules, you radical, you. Other people's thoughts and actions are dictated by their circumstances and upbringing (e.g., "Of course he'd say that--he's a Canadian") but you are a free agent.

The other side is a mindless unity. Yours is multifaceted and rich. Whatever you think of as "the other side" is populated by robots moving in lockstep or simpleminded buffoons working from outdated ideas. Your side is rife with disagreements and infighting, ever in danger of losing to the other side, but reflective of the rich variety of the human condition.

Pain is wrong. Life should not hurt. Ever. If it does, it’s not because life can be hard, but rather because someone is intentionally harming you.

There will be justice. Bad people get punished for their sins. You, however, will be forgiven.

Banish All the World

2006-07-24T16:37:00.000-04:00

Ragnell of Written World found a shocking quote from writer Judd Winick.

Again, polling the panelists, DiDio asked which character each creator would want to die or come back to life?

Winick: G'nort. I want him dead.

I love Winick's The Adventures of Barry Ween, Boy Genius more than almost any comic published in the last ten years. But here, the man goes and says something awful. Silly man!

A DC Universe that has no use for a G'nort is a DC Universe that has no room for kittens, rainbows, and peeing-on-hydrant jokes.
And that would be a sad, sad place indeed.

G'nort is reviled for reasons of "realism." Not because he's a talking dog from outer space with a magic ring, because that's just fine. No, G'nort's sin is that he's silly. He undercuts the DRAMA! by interrupting overheated space opera for "chasing his own tail" jokes.

Realism? It's a touchy subject among many fanboys, since our choice in fictional entertainments tend to be larded with space aliens, demigods, and magic rings. That being said, I hate to break it to people, but "silly" is a key component of reality. Trust me on this one; I've been real for almost half my life.

As for DRAMA!? Adding dashes of humor enhances, rather than betrays, most any DRAMA! Remove it, and more than just a few cheap chuckles are lost.

Killing G'nort would be like outlawing paprika. You'd deny everyone a wonderful spice because it bugs you? You would remove from the world countless tasty dishes because paprika does not fit with your vision of cuisine? Fie! Fie upon you, sir!

G'nort is, in a sense, the Falstaff of the Green Lantern Corps (though not quite as bright or libidinous as his forebear). Thus do I end with Jack Falstaff's own lament as he faced banishment from his longtime friend, Prince Hal:

If to be old and merry be a sin, then many an old host that I know is damned....No, my good lord: banish Peto, banish Bardolph, banish Poins; but for sweet Jack Falstaff, kind Jack Falstaff, true Jack Falstaff, valiant Jack Falstaff, and therefore more valiant being, as his is, old Jack Falstaff, banish not him thy Harry's company, banish not him thy Harry's company. Banish plump Jack, and banish all the world!
--King Henry the Fourth, Part I (II, iv)

Hal banished Falstaff as part of his coming of age. One could argue that the killing of G'nort would be part of the Green Lantern Corps coming of age. Bosh and nonsense! It would be part of the narrowing of the GLC's range of stories and emotions. It would be the rejection of breadth and charm. Denial of laughter is not to be confused with maturity; denial of absurdity is not the same as honesty.

Long live the Shaggy Dog Story of the DC Universe.

When the Wheel Turns

2006-07-24T10:58:00.000-04:00

So...Spider-Man revealed his secret identity to the world in a press conference.

From what I can recall, the current Marvel regime doesn't like secret identities, and has been getting rid of them over time. Off the top of my head, I can't think of any major Marvel characters whose IDs haven't been blown in current continuity. (Then again, there weren't that many who bothered to keep it secret.)

That being said, the genie will go back in the bottle someday. Probably someday soon. Why? Because (a) Spider-Man's essence is tied to his secret ID as a regular guy and (b) hey, it's comics--everything significant that happens un-happens sooner or later.

The comicbook wheel of samsara ever turneth.

That raises the question of how will it be done? What particular broom handle will be used to cram the genie back into the bottle?

Some classic techniques of the past include:

"Alfred in the Batsuit." Peter Parker makes a public appearance, and Spider-Man joins him. "Spider-Man" explains that Parker pretended to be him for some reason or other. Like when Alfred pretended to be Batman back on the old Adam West/Burt Ward teevee show. Not long ago, Daredevil did this very trick using Peter Parker. With his secret ID blown, Matt Murdock shows up in court and in swings...Spider-Man disguised as Daredevil. It's a classic bit.

"Who Is Steve Rogers?" Early in the days of Captain America's revival, he publicly outed himself as Steve Rogers. Doing so made him a constant target for bad guys, so he pulled off one of my favorite stupid ID-salvaging tricks: he got into a brawl with an army of HYDRA goons, then sped away on his motorcycle. He then put a "Steve Rogers" rubber mask on a mannequin, dressed it in a Captain America suit, and threw it into a crossfire of HYDRA bad guys. The "body" is discovered, riddled with bullets. And lo...it is wearing a "Steve Rogers" mask. The press lept to the conclusion that Rogers was a fake-out identity, and the status quo was restored.

"Lois Loves Robots." How many times did Superman recover his blown ID by having a robot duplicate of himself show up and confuse Lois? An old Marvel prop is the "Life Model Duplicate," or LMD, a lifelike robot. All it'd take is one LMD and it's all over. This is "Alfred in the Batsuit" with the additional radness of robots.

"Dammit, Hal!" A genie-stuffing operation recently completed in DC Comics for the Flash. The Flash's ID had been public for nigh on twenty years. In the end it led to the deaths of his unborn twins and estrangement from his wife. Enter Hal Jordan, now the Spectre. With a magic whammy from Hal, everybody forgot who the Flash was. This included the Flash himself. This in-story retcon included a back door: anybody who saw the Flash take off his mask would suddenly "remember" everything. So the superhero community knows, but the general public doesn't anymore. And, oddly, they now "never did." Ahem. I'm almost positive this was done for Iron Man not long ago, using some satellite or some such. Anyway, this could be adapted to Spider-Man without too much difficulty through two words: "Doctor" and "Strange."

But why delve into the old toy chest? A few slightly-fresher ideas:

"No, you're not." Parker comes out as Spider-Man. Nobody believes him. They accuse him of trickery and attention-seeking, and write him off as a crank.

"I'm Spartacus!" Parker comes out as Spider-Man. So does a guy named Aundrae in Brooklyn. So does a guy named Jorge in Staten Island. So does a guy named John in Hoboken. So does...

There’s the variant "Live from New York!" Captain America comes to a press conference podium. He pulls off his mask…and he’s Peter Parker! The whole thing is a publicity stunt for Stark Enterprises. Several superheroes "reveal their identities," each one being Parker, who then pitches Stark’s latest robot vacuum cleaner. "Picks up dirt like a superhero!" He’d then be forgotten as just another pitchman jerkass.

"Get me a tinfoil hat!" Parker later calls another press conference. "I’m not really Spider-Man. A villain controlled my mind and made me say it. Uh…I was being controlled by the…uh…Puppet Master. I had, um, cut him off in traffic, and he wanted revenge." Considering the nature of everyday life in Marvel World, that’d be a perfectly acceptable excuse.

I wonder which tool they’ll use. Consulting the massive oeuvre of "Superman fooling Lois" should provide a healthy selection of identity-preserving nonsense. ("Super-hypnotism and a rock slide? Or maybe an inflatable duplicate of Spider-Man and an alien hologram?")

Any suggestions from the internets?

Bliggity-Blog

2006-07-17T13:53:00.000-04:00

A couple of half-assed entries are floating around my hard drive. Rather than subject the reading public to them, here are a few bloggity bites.

----------------------

A poem by James McIntyre (1827-1906), furniture maker, Canadian patriot, cheese enthusiast:

Ode on the Mammoth Cheese

(Weighing over 7000 pounds)

We have seen thee, queen of cheese,
Lying quietly at your ease,
Gently fanned by evening breeze,
Thy fair form no flies dare seize.

All gaily dressed soon you’ll go
To the great Provincial show,
To be admired by many a beau
In the city of Toronto.

Cows numerous as a swarm of bees,
Or as the leaves upon the trees,
It did require to make thee please,
And stand unrivalled, queen of cheese.

May you not receive a scar as
We have heard that Mr. Harris
Intends to send you off as far as
The great world’s show at Paris.

Of the youth beware of these,
For some of them might rudely squeeze
And bite your cheek, then songs or glees
We could not sing, oh! queen of cheese.

We’rt thou suspended from balloon,
You’d cast a shade even at noon,
Folks would think it was the moon
About to fall and crush them soon.

------------------------------------

My high school bud is back from Iraq, shrapnel-free! Woo-hah! We talked over the weekend, and made tentative plans for him and his wife to visit me and the missus sometime. He didn’t talk much about his deployment except to say that (a) it was really hot over there, (b) he hated it, and (c) he’s really glad to be back. He’s spent the last few weeks adjusting to life without snipers, IEDs, and mortar attacks.

While he was over there, one of the packages of goodies I sent him came from Treat Any Soldier. Early in his deployment, I asked my bud what he wanted most. The answer? Junk food. Apparently a lot of guys answer the same way. The site sends the packages to either a soldier you specify, or a random soldier they pick. It’s a fine service. The "goodie time" package was a raging hit. (Also useful is Amazon—DVDs are appreciated.)

I still believe that the war was a melonheaded idea born of wishful thinking and sold to the public by a sack of lies and irresponsible fear-mongering. I also believe that the military folks in Iraq are doing the best they can in nigh-impossible circumstances. It’s not their fault they’re stuck in a godawful and dangerous situation.

Protesting the war and sending longed-for Doritos to the soldiers strikes me as a way to express these beliefs. I recommend both.

------------------------

I haven’t abandoned my Audio Comic Book idea. Part of my slowdown of blog posting is due to a shifting of free time away from Filing Cabinet towards Radio Comics. (Also, I haven’t had much to say about comics lately. Dang.)

The initial project is Green Lantern, a four or five episode arc about the switch from Hal to Kyle. Rather than hew to the comics, I’m doing an “animated series” approach, mucking with the story as necessary for good drama. Figuring out what to leave in, what to strip away, what to change completely, and how to adapt all of it to audio has been both a hoot and a holler. Writing, she is fun. Kilowog was born for radio, I tell ya.

This “animated series” approach means that I don’t fit with Pendant Production's schemes, so I’ll have to host the sucker on my own website. (Or find someone else who wants ‘em.) I do understand why: their three superhero shows are interlocked and pride themselves on close linkages to existing comic continuity. Ah, well. They inspired me to do this, so I owe 'em a little.

With luck, Green Lantern will be gripping space opera with wit, drama, excitement, charm, and Hal getting hit in the head. Without luck, it’ll be a disjointed fanboy wankfest with wooden dialogue and Hal getting hit in the head. Thus far, it feels promising, so there’s that.

Here’s to hoping that my fruit-fly-esque attention span won’t give out. Fortunately, I’ve got a few people working with me already. Peer pressure makes me do things. Maybe this time it’ll make me do a good thing. For once.

(“Set that chicken on fire! All the cool kids are doing it!” Man, what was I thinking?)

Details on the GL project will pop up as it develops. Upcoming deets will include the opening of the new website, audition calls, and timetables for release.

-----------------------

I really do have a plan for the Champions Project thingy. I do. Got the arcs for all six minis and the conclusion worked out. Themes, motifs, big action set pieces, it’s in my notes.

But there’s my fruit-fly-esque attention span, cited above.

Ah, hell with it. Second “issues” of Mephisto and the Reject are a’comin’.

Really, this time.

-------------------------

This site is in danger of going all fan-fiction, isn’t it? Oh dear. I’ll have to scrounge up some good criticism shortly.

Masked Men, Melted Cheese, and the Great Lost Film

2006-07-09T19:26:00.000-04:00

The new movie Nacho Libre stars Jack Black and is the story of a Mexican friar who becomes a masked wrestler to raise money for his orphanage. All well and good.

But it had almost been done before...by legends of the cinema, no less.

From Conversations With Wilder, a book of interviews of the legendary filmmaker Billy Wilder, conducted by writer/director Cameron Crowe:

Crowe: The Masked Marvel was another idea you had for [Charles] Laughton.

Wilder: The Masked Marvel. Yes. He was a wrestler who wrestled in the provinces, not too far from where he lived. He wore a mask when he wrestled--he was an English lord. And he did not unmask himself when he wrestled. But each week he would wrestle and take that three hundred dollars and drive off....In verity, in truth, he was the minister of a church, and there were insects eating away at the furniture. He needed the money to keep the church going. This part of his life was all without the mask.

Crowe: Did it ever get to script form?

Wilder: No. Never got to script form.

Crowe: Good idea, though.

Wilder: Yes. It was a good idea, the first one I brought to him. We had Laughton masquerading as an English lord who had lost his fortune. Some of his fights were fixed, some he won. He wrestled under the name of "the Lord," which people called him, not knowing that he was in fact wrestling for the Lord. He liked the idea, but later I brought him Witness [for the Prosecution], and that we did together.

Now that would have been a weird movie.

The Knave and the Bold

2006-07-07T13:51:00.000-04:00

My first non-fiction book goes to press soon! Hoo-hah!

Here are a few excerpts from The Knave and the Bold: An Amateur’s Experiences in Superheroing, by Harvey Jerkwater.

From the Introduction:

“Claret is the liquor for boys, port for men; but he who aspires to be a hero must drink brandy.”
--Dr. Johnson

Quarterbacking the Detroit Lions. Pitching to the National League All-Stars. Getting punched out by boxing legend Archie Moore. Playing goalie for the Boston Bruins.

George Plimpton did it all, and wrote brilliant and hilarious volumes of participatory journalism about each experience. Thus, I blame him.

Him, and a lot of brandy.

It began a year ago, as I reread his classic Paper Lion. Midway through the book, and a third of the way through a bottle of Penedès brandy, an idea entered my head. The idea was clearly mine, as it was a bad one.

Plimpton wrote about the spectacle of sports from the perspective of the average man. What would it be like for an ordinary fellow to be an NFL quarterback, if only for a brief time? It fires the imagination just to think about it. I knew I had to follow in the footsteps of Plimpton. I would pull every string I could and investigate every lead it took to arrange an “everyman” participatory experience of my own.

With the Justice League.

It wasn’t easy. Nor was wrestling with a giant snake in the Shenandoah Valley.

But I get ahead of myself.

From Chapter Two, “Defying Death and Good Taste”

“Are you sure?” my editor asked. “You don’t have any superpowers.”

“A lot of the greats don’t,” I replied. “C’mon, Ed. Imagine the boost in circulation when you publish the excerpts.” I replied. “It’ll be the biggest issue of The New Yorker in ten years.”

“It’s been done,” Ed replied. “Altered Egos?” He referred to a similar stunt in the Forties by a novelist with the unfortunate name of “John Law.” Law donned a pair of tights, took a few high-tech gizmos, and became “The Tarantula” to both fight crime and write a book, the aforementioned Altered Egos.

Knowing he would bring it up, I had an answer prepared: “In the forties, three-quarters of the super-people were regular guys in tights and masks,” I explained. “Now they’re demigods. Look, Law wrote about guys with good right hooks and tight pants. I’m talking about guys more powerful than locomotives. In tight pants. What I’d see would be a whole different world than what Law found.

“Besides, Altered Egos was a novel. Semi-fictional. This would be straight-up reportage. People want it.

"Imagine the ancillaries, Ed. Imagine them.”

Ed pinched the bridge of his nose and stared at the floor, his habit when thinking. I considered this a good sign and kept going. “Do you really need another profile of a major politician? Every magazine does that, and you know people don't care. This stunt will touch the Walter Mitty part of every reader in America.”

"You'll be killed," he said, not looking up.

"Nonsense! I have years of martial arts training and I'm strong as an ox!" I replied. "Besides, the League won't let me get killed. Bad for publicity."

A moment later, he let go of his nose and said, “You’ll have to sign a waiver. If you get your head blown off or devolved into an ape-man, I don’t want your wife suing us.”

I signed the waiver with a flourish and immediately headed to a nearby costume shop. I had a name in mind, a name that would strike both terror and awe: The Chromium Pugilist.

Now, I thought, to develop The Look.

From Chapter Four, “The Secret Origin of the Chromium Pugilist!”

Constructing the proper superhero suit is a challenge, particularly for a fellow of my peculiar physical gifts. Built, as I am, like a fire hydrant that has abandonded itself to the joys of doughnuts and television, my dignity would not long survive in the traditional spandex superhero suit.

“Armor. You need armor,” Stuart Quinn told me. Quinn, an expert in the field, held up a breastplate. His shop, known for its super-suit replicas, was not busy that afternoon. He handed the breastplate to me. “At the very least, your paunch’ll be hidden by this.”

“Paunch?” I replied, sucking in my stomach and dropping my voice an octave. “I am in peak physical condition!”

Stuart laughed. “A gently rounded peak, yeah.” He later assuaged my pride by providing me with an outsized codpiece. “That’ll intimidate ‘em,” he said.

From Chapter Five, “Charm and a Caveman”

How does one get a cameo spot on the Justice League?

Ed and I considered a few avenues. He himself had a degree of pull with the famous organization. Ed not only coordinated three charity events for Wonder Woman, he was on good terms with Superman. Ed was instrumental in saving Superman’s young friend, Jimmy Olsen, from the clutches of Mok-Turath, King of the Astro-Cavemen.

From Chapter Seven, “Ramen Noodles in Outer Spaaaaace!”

The armature servos of the trainer robot whined as the Batman shut it down. Once the whines stopped, I was able to spread apart the claw clamped around my neck and free my body from the device’s grip. I collapsed to the floor like a sack of wet cement.

Despite his face being hidden behind smoked plexiglas, I could feel the Batman’s scowl at my ludicrous performance. Years of martial arts training, coupled with weeks of getting myself into shape for the job and weeks more gathering up crime-busting gadgets, led to an outcome worse than I’d predicted even in my nightmares. The only saving grace was that I hadn’t soiled myself.

Later, after the room stopped spinning and the glowing dots dancing in my field of vision shrank to the size of dimes, the Flash led me to the canteen of the Justice League satellite and handed me a printout. The sheets contained the results of the exercise. My eyes darted to the concluding equations and their result:

Combat Efficiency: 0.2%
Notable Combat Proficiencies: None
Preferred Mode of Combat: Falling Over

I let out a moan. The Flash laughed. “Don’t let it bother you, Harv,” he said. “We all gotta start somewhere.” I nodded. He went on, “For what it’s worth, you lasted longer than I thought you would.”

With a light “whump” noise created by his displacement of air at super-speed, he brought a cup of hot ramen noodles on the table in front of me. From my all-too-human perspective, it emerged from nowhere.

I lifted the cup and sipped, embarrassed and exhilarated. Huh. Ramen noodles and superheroes in outer space, I thought. Arching my back to work out stiffness brought about by a blow from a robot's fist, my inner monologue continued. Oh hell yes.

I then vomited with tremendous force, befouling the tile of the satellite canteen.

From Chapter Nine, “Dementia Pugilistica”

Two weeks in the JL satellite had taught me a great deal about the workings of a super-team, but the team’s continued denial of granting me first-hand exposure to action rankled. How could I write a book worth reading if I couldn’t face a super-villain myself?

To pass the time, I studied the team’s basic tactics manuals as well as their super-villain records. I’d predicted that such goodies would be fascinating reading. As per usual, I was wrong. For the most part, the archives read like tractor repair manuals translated from Portuguese to Russian to English. The Leaguers, save one, lacked any writing ability, and a few were downright awful. Green Lantern proved to be a hideous speller, and Aquaman? I cannot bear to think about Aquaman. The only good writer among the Leaguers was Superman.

(Searching the archives, the only evidence I could find of Superman not being utterly perfect at everything was a video recording of him singing along to a recording of “Radar Love” while on monitor duty. His singing voice was excellent; his air guitar, however, was atrocious.)

Boredom had overtaken me. By this point, I’d thoroughly explored the League museum. I’d acquainted myself with the teleportation tubes. I’d even learned a few breakdancing moves from archived video footage of the late Justice Leaguer Vibe. Locating a piece of cardboard upon which to spin was difficult, but I managed. The League has lacked skilled dancers, and I considered that perhaps by emulating Vibe I would be able to fill a niche.

As I worked on my pop-and-lock, I imagined hearing the Batman declare, “We’re doomed, unless we can find a superhero who can breakdance!” The odds were against it, of course, but who was to say for certain it would never happen? A bored mind can create many circumstances in which breakdancing would be vital to world peace.

Breakdancing, however, was not the answer. What saved my sanity and ingratiated me with the League was my discovery of a long-forgotten foosball table. The table was marked as a gift from a "Funky Flashman." Several Leaguers became enamored of the game. The Martian Manhunter in particular was taken with it.

During a hard-fought match with Aquaman, I heard an alarm go off and the computer announce a low-level situation. This time, I swore to myself, this time I will not be left behind. “Aquaman,” I said, letting him score a cheap goal as I spoke, “if it’s low-level, how about I come along?”

The king of the seas furrowed his brow. That he thought it a bad idea was plain. That the idea also amused him became clear as he spoke. “Sure, Harv. Let’s go,” he said, swallowing a snicker.

From Chapter Fourteen, “Sharper Than a Serpent God’s Tooth”

Rockingham County, Virginia, is a lovely place, a thinly-populated area along the northwest corner of the state, and part of the Shenandoah Valley. Its hills and pine forests possess a gentle majesty that lure vacationers from all around the region. That it contained a cell of Kobra’s snake cult should not be held against it.

Aquaman, Green Lantern, and myself, having dispatched an army of Kobra Kultists in a grove of pines (through super-strong fisticuffs, a giant green boxing glove summoned from a power ring, and yelling “get ‘em, guys!” in a cracking voice, respectively), took stock of the situation.

In hopes of salvaging my standing with the fellows, I offered up everything I could remember about Kobra outposts from the archives. The two men ignored me, and one could hardly blame them. A jittery chatterbox going on at length about the plumbing systems preferred by the Legions of the Dread Lord Naga-Naga could not be a help in a potentially lethal situation. After my nervous energy subsided, I shut my mouth. The two men failed to react to that, either.

“Oh, nice one,” I thought, my internal voice sounding like Moe Howard. “You finally get to go out on a mission, and all ya can do is talk about plumbing. Oh, and try not to pass out. Yeah, you’re a real asset.” While my inner Stooge berated me, Green Lantern took to the air and Aquaman knelt down to examine the gear of the unconscious Kultists.

I stepped back and tried to figure out how to help. My brain chugged into motion to evaluate what I knew from the JL records. Hmmm…uh…Kobra outposts are always…well-stocked with instant coffee, I recalled. Beyond that, I drew a blank. Nervous energy rose up again and caused me to smash together my steel gloves in a faux-boxing manner. The “k-tang!” noise made Aquaman flinch and cast a glance back at me. I shrugged a bit in embarrassment and left the grove.

I walked to the edge of a long stretch of road. Once I stopped, my inner monologue grew into a twin-voiced harangue. The Moe Howard voice continued to berate me as a poseur and a clown. But there was now a second voice, sounding like Pittsburgh Steelers head coach Bill Cowher. Cowher’s voice screamed at me “DO THIS! YOU CAN DO THIS! STAND UP AND DO IT!”

The pep talk got me to loosen up my shoulders and punch a little bit at the air. Yeah, I thought, I can do this. I’ve got what it takes. I know how this works. I began to hop in place. Oh yeah. I’m the man. I’m the man. Gonna earn a spot on this team! I can run with the big dogs! Hell yeah! Woof woof woof! Cowher’s voice screamed in agreement.

Then the road in front of me cracked and split down its length, right between the painted yellow lines. From out of the road bed arose a hundred foot long viper, an expression of the Kobra Kult’s zeal for destruction.

Later investigations revealed that the Rockingham County facility was constructed to raise giant serpents for the cult, and that our presence had forced the scientists to activate a specimen ahead of schedule for protection. Through a combination of gravity dilation, genetic engineering, and cybernetics, the cult had transformed what should have been a foot-and-a-half long Agkistrodon contortrix into a sky-darkening monster.

According to a few herpetologists and xenozoologists of my acquaintence, mutating the snake to such a size was quite an achievement. That being said, similar work had been done in Spain three years prior with a Vipera aspis, though the Spanish reptile was not enlarged to the same degree.

At the moment of the snake’s emergence, little of this xenobiology, herpetology, or Spanish scientific history was known to me. Instead, I thought “Holy crap. Big snake.”

The snake shook its head to throw off clods of dirt and asphalt.

The football coach voice in my head screamed again. “NOW! DO IT NOW!”

A blur of notions flew through my mind, none of them clear. Then a single idea popped into my helmeted head, something I recalled from my weeks of perusing the archives. Aquaman was a hundred meters to my rear. Green Lantern was a half-kilometer above. Of course!

Gripped by a sense of purpose, I activated my Justice League transciever. I knew what to do.

I bellowed into it, “MANEUVER DELTA NINE-FOUR! DELTA NINE-FOUR!”

Expecting that, as per the maneuver, the Lantern would swoop down and restrain the beast with a ring construct and that Aquaman would close in to attack. I undertook my responsibility in the tactic: distract the beast long enough for the others to get in position. I cocked my fist back to punch the snake in the side.

I felt like Superman! Like a titan! Like a demigod!

I landed my blow with all the force my hefty frame could muster, accompanied by a lusty battle cry!

Later, I told my wife that my mighty blow scuffed a scale along the snake’s length. This was purely a salve to my vanity. For all the effect it had, I may as well have punched a boulder. In Beijing.

The snake looked down at me and hissed. It opened its jaws. A gullet wide enough to fit a school bus yawned above my head.

I felt a little less like Superman.

In my head, Moe Howard’s voice returned. “You knucklehead…”

From Chapter Nineteen, “Postgame Chili”

Scents of chili powder, meat, and beans mingled and reached my nose. I could not yet bring myself to put a spoon into the bowl. Instead, I stared at it and wondered when my sense of foolishness would lessen. Or the dull throb in my head. The rest of the League did not share my hesitation and partook of Green Arrow’s chili and other dishes in an informal going-away party for their newest recruit, the Chromium Pugilist.

The mission was not a failure; Rockingham County was saved in short order. Green Lantern and Aquaman had taken care of the giant serpent and shut down the Kobra facility. Though none of it was accomplished by following my shouted instruction.

Maneuver Delta Nine-Four, I remembered upon returning to the satellite, required that I fly at faster-than-light-speed in circles around the monster, opening a rift in time and sending it back in time to the Age of Dinosaurs, while the other Leaguers would fly into space to repel an alien invasion. Excepting the Batman, who would be in charge of locating large supplies of quicklime. Not the best maneuver for the situation, in retrospect. In my panic, I had conflated it with “Maneuver Four.” Maneuver Four could be summarized accurately as “get the big monster.”

That the Leaguers chose not to bring up the gaffe was something I appreciated. It would have been a gross overstatement to say that I felt any sense of camaraderie with the Leaguers, but they were polite and friendly enough that I felt less of a fraud among them than I had any right to expect.

Over time I recovered myself well enough to partake of the chili and join my “teammates” in conversation. Green Lantern used his power ring to show me the giant baseball mitt he’d constructed to catch my body as I arced across the Virginia sky. “What model is it?” I asked.

“McGregor. Willie Mays autograph,” he replied. The green mitt rotated in the air to show the star-pattern of leather between the thumb and index finger, as well as a replica Willie Mays autograph below the middle two fingers.

Green Arrow clicked his tongue. “When he catches me, he always uses the Rawlings Cal Ripken model. You got Mays?”

“The Pugilist here still owes me money from foosball,” Lantern replied. “You, I can drop. But Harvey here needs to stay intact. Until I get my ten bucks.”

I mingled with the other Leaguers, and a few expressed regret that we hadn’t “teamed up” on my one mission. Superman noted that his best friend, Jimmy Olsen, was perpetually facing situations like mine, and that he proved to be of great help on occasions. “When he wasn’t turning into a giant turtle or getting married to a gorilla,” he added.

Wonder Woman smiled and offered me a position as her new sidekick, explaining that her life would benefit from the addition of gorilla-marrying turtle men. I turned her down, explaining that my marriage, though strong, would be sorely tested by any major mutations to my physical form or engaging in bigamy with a lower primate. Wonder Woman suggested that I consult with my wife regardless. “You never know,” she said.

Two hours into the dinner, I was feeling better about the whole affair. The Leaguers had accepted me with varying degrees of warmth, the chili was delicious, and I’d persuaded everyone present to autograph my badly-dented helmet. I sat in a chair and reflected upon the experience.

Until the Batman crashed in. I had noticed his absence earlier, but paid little attention. He was a busy man, I knew, and he had little time for frivolities such as a going-away party for a journalist. When he arrived, I halfway expected him to ignore me. He did not. He stalked straight towards me.

His body language was clear: he was angry. Standing a yard in front of me, he began a tirade. “You put the lives of Aquaman and Green Lantern at risk by your stupid stunt! To write a book, you jeapordized a mission against a major super-villain!” He stabbed his finger at me. “Who the hell are you to do this?”

The accusations burst out, one after another, in a staccato fashion: That I was a dilettente in an arena that demanded dedication. That I was lucky to be alive, and that in a more just world, I would have been devoured by a giant snake. That my presence made a mockery of the brave and noble people who risked their lives to protect others.

Gothamites speak in awed whispers about the Batman’s ability to inspire fear and to intimidate. They say he could terrify the dead. They understate him. It's much worse. Being on the receiving end of his invective was no less terrifying than facing the jaws of the giant copperhead the day before.

I tried to formulate sentences in my head to rebut his accusations, but none would form. His bullying manner worked too quickly. I could not speak. Even the other members of the League were silent. He ranted on.

An aside: raffinose is a complex carbohydrate, a trisaccharide composed of galactose, fructose, and glucose. It is also known as melitose, and may be thought of as galactose + sucrose connected via an alpha(1-6) glycosidic linkage. Due to this structure, raffinose can be broken apart into galactose and sucrose via the enzyme alpha-galactosidase. Unfortunately, human intestines do not contain that particular enzyme.

A common delivery vector for raffinose in the human diet is the legume. Specifically, beans. Raffinose, undigested by the enzymes of the stomach, passes intact into the intestines, where locally-residing bacteria devour it instead. Byproducts of this activity include hydrogen, carbon dioxide, occasionally methane, and a few sulfurous gases.

Green Arrow’s chili was loaded with kidney beans. I had devoured three bowls.

Thus my attention was forced to divide. Three-quarters of my mind was caught up in the Batman’s accusations. It struggled to rally in self-defense, it weighed the justice of his attacks, it shuddered in fear. The remaining quarter fixated on the sudden and dangerous distension of my digestive tract by expanding gases. Moment by moment, the percentages of concentration shifted towards the growing bloat in my midsection and away from the haranguing vigilante.

Within seconds, I ceased to hear the Batman. My consciousness was lost to the intestinal struggles. Then my willpower won out, and the gas pressure retreated. Once again I could hear the voice of the Batman. “This is a deadly serious business!” he bellowed.

A light squeal interrupted him. I bit my lip as the squeal deepened, gaining richness and volume. I had lost my battle.

The irregularities of the escaping gas created hesitations and sudden pitch changes in the sound. How long it continued, I do not know. Were I to hazard a guess, I would place the event in the six-to-nine hour range. From my perspective, it felt no less than that.

At last, it ceased. Quiet returned to the dining hall. The Batman, struck dumb by my bout of flatulence, resumed his complaints. Only to be overwhelmed again by the first delicate, then thunderous roar of my bowels. The second bout lasted as long as the first, if not longer. Finally, it too stopped.

The Batman did not speak. He gathered his thoughts, then left the dining hall without another word.

Seconds after the door closed behind the outraged Batman, Green Arrow offered me a full-time position in the League.

From Chapter Twenty-One, “Home Again”

I type this in my home office. The autographs of most of the Justice League decorate my dented chrome helmet, which sits on my desk. To my joy, several members of the League have kept in touch since my disasterous outing. Wonder Woman repeated her offer to take me on as sidekick. My wife, as I predicted, threatened me with divorce should I take the job.

“I accepted ‘for better or for worse,’ not ‘for human or devolved into australopithicus,’” she said. Not wishing to argue, nor to be killed by angry super-villains, I acceded to my wife’s wishes.

All is back to normal, save for one thing. The interior of my car has acquired a funk that I cannot explain. Foulness hangs in the air to such a degree that I can feel beads of stench collect on my tongue when I breathe. Cleaning the car interior twice did nothing. The source remains mysterious.

Sabotage.

Touché, Batman.

It…Could…Work!

2006-06-28T17:07:00.000-04:00

I’ve read next to nothing of their actual comics. But man, I’ve always loved the idea.

Dig it, hep cats: The Challengers of the Unknown.

They have one of the ass-kickin’est hooks in comics:

A giant monster threatens Mumbai! Space aliens are kidnapping thousands of people! Mad scientists have united to create an unstoppable robot army! Armageddon is nigh!

Who can save us?

A godlike man with amazing powers?

A space cop with a magic ring?

An Amazon princess?

Nope.

All we got is four regular guys. No super-powers, no magic, no legendary gods. All they have is toughness, smarts, and courage. Lots and lots of courage.

It’s an inversion of the Superman power fantasy: rather than the readers enjoying the idea of being greater and more powerful than the rest of the world, the Challengers revel in the idea of a world that’s big, powerful, and nasty, but where the good guys win anyway.

They’re about guts and brains beating out overwhelming force, about feeling small in the face of a dangerous and powerful world and fighting like hell regardless.

Righteous.

The only old-style Challs story I own is an issue of the Super-Team Family where they travel to the Bermuda Triangle and save Henry Kissinger. It was beautiful seventies cheese.

The idea of the Challs has been revived three times in the last fifteen years. The first, the Jeph Loeb/Tim Sale miniseries, tried to update the original team, to mixed results. The second, by Steven Grant, was an X-Files-esque series about the paranormal. The third, by Howard Chaykin, was a weird political satire unrelated to the original idea. All of them were worth reading.

But dammit, I like the "Four Regular Humans Versus Time-Travelling Dinosaurs Bent on World Conquest" approach. There has to be a way to make that work again today. Dang it.

Thoughts Copped from a Master

2006-06-28T14:57:00.000-04:00

Real life has intruded, once again. In lieu of more silence, I give you a few fine quotes from the critic Pauline Kael. Because I am a jackass, I've replaced the word "movies" with the word "comics" (and tweaked the surrounding language, since we don't "go to" the comics). The ideas transfer across media nicely.

Comics are so rarely great art, that if we cannot appreciate great trash, we have very little reason to be interested in them.

When you clean them up, when you make comics respectable, you kill them. The wellspring of their art, their greatness, is in not being respectable.

If we make any kind of decent, useful life for ourselves we have less need to run from it to those diminishing pleasures of the comics. When we read comics, we want something good, something sustained, we don’t want to settle for just a bit of something, because we have other things to do. If life at home is more interesting, why read comics? And the comic world, frequented by true fanboys—those perennial displaced persons in each city, the loners and the losers—depress us. Listening to them...as they cheer the cons and jeer the cops, we may still share their disaffection, but it’s not enough to keep us interested in cops and robbers. A little nose-thumbing isn’t enough. If we’ve grown up reading comcis we know that good work is continuous not with the academic, respectable tradition but with the glimpses of something good in trash, but we want the subversive gesture carried to the domain of discovery. Trash has given us an appetite for art.

Yep.

Impractical, But Hey, It's Not My Company

2006-06-16T18:43:00.000-04:00

An impractical idea I've been chewing over, brought to the fore by Focused Totality's recent piece on Why Marvel Can't Reboot.

Comic companies have to clear the decks one in a while, chucking aside the past, since so much damn backstory builds up that it forms a choking mass. (e.g., "Batman can't dance the polka! It was established in Detective Comics #412, back in 1987. Doesn't this new writer know that?") It's better for storytelling sanity to scrape off the barnacles once in a while and start fresh. Or fresh-er, in the case of comics. And I say this as a big ol' fanboy.

DC just did a halfway-reboot with Infinite Crisis and the One Year Later setups, and that's groovy. Marvel's never really done one. Instead, they spawned off the "Ultimate" universe, which is what a rebooted Marvel would look like. But they left the old Marvel Universe intact.

So for both companies, there's a big freakin' backlog of backstory, the sense that it's all been done, and that everything's going in circles. (At least to me. I know a lot of fans disagree, but hey, my blog.)

So...how about this for a dumb idea:

First, have one or both of the Big Two do a full-blown reboot. It's never been done--the closest was DC's Crisis on Infinite Earths back in the mid-eighties, which was about a three-quarter reboot. This time, everything starts from issue #1, everybody. Old backstory is gone, lost, it's Casper.

Then...

Second, and more importantly, give the "new universe" an expiration date in real time. Say, seven years. At the end of the seven years of publication, the entire universe of stories wraps up and ends.

This would not only allow for fresh starts and new takes while keeping the icons in play, it would face the problems of serial storytelling head-on. Everything would be going somewhere. The end would always be in sight. Rather than running in circles, the super-stories could have definate ends, be it a simple wind-down or a giant freakin' Ragnarok.

Then, when the old universe is wrapped up, blammo...a new one, different from the old one, though not necessarily all-new.

I like this idea. I do. Stories that end have much more power and potential than stories stuck in a status quo. Ends in sight would prevent boring-ass meandering. Old-tymey continuity could be used or ignored as the creators saw fit, without resorting to Superboy punching the walls of the universe to create time hiccups.*

There are drawbacks, of course. A healthy chunk of the fan base would have me boiled alive if somehow I made this happen. Plus, let us count the ways that this plan would be business suicide. One, two, three, four...hm...five, six...oh, yeah, can't leave out seven... And there's always the chance that rebooting everything time and again would simply result in tired-ass rehashes or idiotic change for the sake of change. ("It's Spider-Man! He's back! But this time...he's a drum major and a NASCAR driver!")

I still like it.

What say you, o comic fans?

--------------------------------
*To my small non-comic readership: please don't ask. Just don't.

The Crazy Cat Lady Test

2006-06-16T11:36:00.000-04:00

Have you ever wondered if you qualify as a “Crazy Cat Lady” or “Crazy Dog Guy,” or “Crazy Cat Couple” some variation thereof? Lots of people do.

Through careful observation, scientific measurements, consulting dozens of monographs on Crazy Cat Ladies, and making stuff up, I’ve developed a test that resolves this long-disputed question.

Please note that in this piece, as per the conventions of Crazy Cat Lady Studies, I will refer to all variations of over-the-top pet owners as “Crazy Cat Ladies,” or CCLs, because (a) most owners of multiple cats are, in fact, women, and (b) the phrase is common parlance. Regardless, the gender of the CCL is not relevant to the findings. Also, “cat” is shorthand for any large mammalian (i.e., non-caged) pet. Could be dogs, could be pot-bellied pigs, could be ferrets. Hamsters, guinea pigs, and rabbits do not count, as they are kept in cages. Any beast that is free to roam the house counts.

First, a key explanation of my theory's differentiation: CCL status is not a simple binary situation (CCL versus normal). Rather, there are three states: “Pet Owner,” “Borderline Case,” and “Crazy Cat Lady.”

To determine into which state you fall, here’s a back-of-the-envelope basic test:

If the number of adults in the household is greater than or equal to the number of large mammalian pets, the people are Pet Owners.
If the adult(s) are outnumbered by large mammalian pets by one, the people are Borderline Cases.
If the adult(s) are outnumbered by two or more, the people are Crazy Cat Ladies.
No matter how large the house or how many adults live in it, five or more large mammals indicates a Crazy Cat Household.*

One exception to this rule:

If the household is in the countryside and the animals roam over large spaces, the formulation does not apply. A key aspect of CCL-ism is the confining of several animals within a single house.

I’m not sure how children would factor into the equation. For now I discount them entirely, as a two-parent family with three kids having four cats would strike me as a Crazy Cat House. But that's just an educated guess. Determining the precise figures is for future generations of Crazy Cat Lady scientists.

Also, the intensity of Cat Craziness is a separate issue. Dear friends of mine in a nearby city have three cats and two dogs. They are Crazy Pet People without a doubt. Yet the only manifestation of Pet Overload is loose fur on everything and the occasional cat underfoot. Other Crazy Cat Ladies of my experience are downright unsettling.

This test is not designed to assess the level of Crazy Cat issues, merely their existence. The most widely accepted measurement of CCL Levels, the "Mister Bootsy-Binkums-Woo-Woo Scale," though developed in 1957 and found in even the most basic textbooks on Crazy Cat Ladies, is still the tool of choice for that task. The MBBWWS is a classic for a reason.

Peace out.

------------------------------------
*An exception may be possible for very, very large houses, since my research indicates that “cat-per-square-foot” is the true issue. Yet “cat-per-capita” is also vital, and may mitigate the effect of vast houses.

If my Genius Grant from the MacArthur Foundation comes through, I’ll be able to return to my research and answer these questions definitively.

Viva! La Procrastinacíon!

2006-06-14T12:53:00.000-04:00

Rather than get work done or make progress on my writing, I’ve been distracted by ideas from another avenue of popular culture goodness. Consarn short attention span.

If there is a way to procrastinate, I will find it. Oh yes.

Scipio at the Absorbascon recently mentioned a website called “Pendant Productions.” Pendant produces new “audio dramas” and distributes them as free MP3s. They're focused right now on big-timey pop culture items, particularly comic books. Thus far they’ve created series around Superman, Batman, and Wonder Woman, and have made quite a few "radio" episodes for each.

Upon this discovery, my inner nerd said “Giggety!”

I haven’t listened to them much, I admit. The inner giggety arose from a desire to do it myself. I have a long-standing affection for old radio shows, four years of college radio experience, a love of nerdiana, and a damn sexy baritone voice. (Really. I do.)

Fuse comics, which I love, and radio shows, which I could make? Hell yeah!

The Pendant website explains how they do it. The key is audio mixing software, several sorts of which are freely available on the internet. Folks audition and record their lines from their own homes, sending in MP3s via email. Then, one lone sucker assembles a sophisticated radio program all by his lonesome, splicing in the lines from the actors and sound effects.

Giggety.

I’m already monkeying with the free software package Audacity to see how it works.* I’ve downloaded a buttload of sound effects from the internet. Shortly I’m gonna get me a microphone and headphones. I'm gonna see if I can make this jazz work.

Fans of old-time radio call it “the theater of the mind.” Any dang thing you want can be put into audio, provided you supply a few basic noises. Pteradactyls wearing top hats? Sure. A ninety-foot tall robot Spiro Agnew that spits oatmeal? Easy. Comics, with their outrageous visuals, are a natural for translation to audio.

Translating comics requires one key change in style: regular comic-style violence doesn’t work. Sounds of gunfire, clashing swords, or punch-ups don’t convey much excitement when piled one atop the other. Violence, to provide excitement, has to be brief and the result of the story’s path. Simply throwing in the odd dust-up won’t do anything beyond bore and confuse listeners. Get the listener all keyed up about a situation and then throw in a single shot or kaboom…that’s how you get ‘em to jump.

A few comic characters seem natural for radio.

Daredevil: The man is blind, for crying out loud. His superpowers are based on his super-hearing and other super-senses. You can’t see the Gladiator? Neither can Daredevil. The sound effects could put you in DD’s shoes easily and effectively. Righteous.

Shadowman: He’s a jazz musician and he works in darkness. Again, an audio bonanza. Plus zombies. Everybody loves zombies. Horror, action, mystery, drama, music--sounds like good radio to me.

Captain America: His foes would translate to radio brilliantly. Batroc’s outrageous Frrranch accent? Zut alors! What would MODOK sound like? His hoverchair? His bizarro voice? Sweet. Cap’s customary punch-ups would have to be downplayed, though.

The Question: Detective shows were common on radio, and for good reason. They provide lots of tense dialogue, plenty of story flexibility, and suspense. Throw in the basic ookiness of The Question (“My god! He has NO FACE!”) and it’d work.

The Warlord: Take one (1) standard-issue modern Action Hero. Place in one (1) whacked out fantasy world inside the hollow Earth. Oh hell yes. Audio could construct the wild, wild world of Skartaris nicely. Shrieking dinosaurs, insane landscapes, sorcerers, gunfights, slave revolts, beautiful queens, major battles…yep.

Jonah Hex: Westerns work on radio. Gunsmoke was one of the best radio shows ever made, consarn it. Plus, people’s reactions to Hex’s face would horrify listeners better than comic art could. His stories depend an awful lot on mood, something audio can provide. Hex’s sad and violent stories, coupled with fitting music, would tug hard on listeners.

But when you get right down to it, there’s one character who is custom-built for radio. Power of imagination? Rooted in visualization? Strange, alien settings?

Who fits the bill?

Who else? Green Lantern.

For yuks, I’d start it with Kyle Rayner. An artist and general pudknocker, minding his own business, is stopped by a tiny blue man who calls himself a "Guardian of the Universe." The little blue man gives Kyle a magic ring and tells the boy that he's the last of a galactic police force. The little blue man vanishes, leaving Kyle with a weird story and the most powerful weapon in the universe. Shortly, Kyle finds out that the ring can create anything he can imagine, that it is driven by willpower, that it must be recharged by a "green lantern" battery every twenty-four hours…and that the only other human to ever wield the ring was also the one who destroyed the Green Lantern Corps.

Our Hero would protect the Earth from cosmic menaces, travel in space, meet embittered former GLs (“Another human? Wasn’t the last one enough?”) rebuild the shattered Corps, and forever look over his shoulder, certain that soon the great destroyer, Hal Jordan, will come for him.

I’m not a big GL fan. Still, the power ring is so obviously right for audio drama that it’d be my first choice. (Picking Kyle over Hal, well, I like the idea of rebuilding a shattered GLC and the looming menace of Jordan out there somewhere. Recast the story with Hal, and I suppose you could do it with Sinestro, but I don’t think it’d work as well. A good Hal Jordan setup would be fine too.)

Now…only to get off my ass and do this!

Herein lies the challenge.

Regular readers will notice the blistering pace I’ve maintained with The Champions Project (cough, cough). Now, I am finally happy with the story for Mephisto #2, and I will post it soon. But my self-imposed deadlines are long since dead, as are my dreams of getting this sucker done in a timely fashion.

Soy el slackass grande.

That being said, I will finish the whole freakin’ project, dammit. It just won’t be on schedule. Let us not even discuss the progress I've made in revisions to my novel.

Here's the plan. This weekend I will throw myself into the Champions Project and learning how to mix together a basic “radio show.”

Shortly thereafter I will begin work on my own audio project and offer it to Pendant once it's done.

Yes…yes, I will…I will overcome my slackassery! I will! YAAR!

Probably.

Any suggestions for comic-to-radio translations? Who would work and why?

--------------------------------
*The song "Kung Fu Fighting" plus reverb equals Mega-Rockitude. Whoa-ho-ho-hooooo!

Evil Thought of the Day

2006-06-09T17:01:00.000-04:00

Today's evil thought:

Marvel Comics used to exploit fads like crazy. The mid-seventies craze for martial arts led to Shang-Chi and Iron Fist. The early seventies craze for blaxploitation movies led to Luke Cage, Hero for Hire. The disco fad led to Dazzler.

What would happen if they revived this approach today? What fad would they exploit?

You know as well as I do: Poker. They would create a superhero with a No-Limit Texas Hold 'Em theme. Search your feelings. You know it to be true.

-------------------------------
"Coming soon, BECAUSE YOU DEMANDED IT: The All-New, All-Exciting Jack of Hearts, Card Shark Superhero!"

Beware his arch-nemesis, the DEADLIEST MAN ALIVE OR DEAD: the Suicide King!

Or the other villains who vamp the virgins of Vegas: The Sandbagger, Ante Em, and Dead Hand!

Be there for our first five issues:

The Fatal Flop!
Death Rides on Fifth Street!
When Folds a Titan!
Kill Pot!
Dying to an Inside Straight!

THE CHIPS ARE DOWN!! THE ACTION IS UP!!

Face facts, frantic ones! This is the series YOU CANNOT MISS!!
------------------------

...yeah, it'd go something like that.

Giving in to Peer Pressure

2006-06-08T15:50:00.000-04:00

Two of my very favorite series are ending this month: Dan Slott's humorous and charming superhero series The Thing, and the Steve Gerber/Mary Skrenes prison drama Hard Time. Even thinking about this depresses me, as both were exactly what I love in comics: entertaining, smart, fun reads that earned my cash.

I'm so cheesed. The Thing was the only Marvel book I read; as a former big-league Marvel Fiend, to find myself still reading comics but not touching Marvel is amazing. And Hard Time? Jeebus. Someday soon I'll have to write a postmortem on the series and why it gave me hope for the medium. With any luck, it'll be remembered as an unjustly ignored oasis of Damn Good Comics.

Therefore, out of solidarity with most of the other bloggers I read and because I'm running perilously low on comics I like, I'm giving a new, widely-beloved underdog a shot: Manhunter. The basic premise does little for me, but when so many smarty-pantsed bloggers rave about it and go into hysterics at the prospect of its cancellation, then fine, I'll give it a shot.

A few thoughts:

--Much as I grouse about the cheesecake covers on Dan Slott's other smart, funny book, She-Hulk, twenty bucks says that the horndog appeal of said covers keeps it alive. Betcha. -sigh-

--Hawkgirl: a letdown. A letdown with protruding nipples and what I can only describe as "comedy breasts." Man, what the hell is that about? Or did I answer that question with the previous thought?

--When I go into the shop, there's so much material now that rests in a nebulous gray zone, where it interests me enough to want to read it, but not enough to part with three bucks to do so. Stacks and stacks of stuff catch my attention, but almost never quite enough. I have a hard spending cap, not a large one, and it's ingrained in me a high standard of comic buyin'. That which is boring, derivative, or suckass must go, and it must go immediately. That which is okay but not gripping tends to stay on the shelf too. This leaves a shockingly thin field from which to draw. Also, it means I do a hell of a lot of fishing, picking up random issues of stuff I've never heard of, in a foolish hope that something will strike my fancy. Seldom does it succeed. Argh.

--Someday, when the Comic Book Gods are less cruel, they will allow the publication of a Showcase Presents volume of The Brave and the Bold when Bob Haney was writing it. The insane Whirly-Bat, Earth-Haney, Batman-checking-out-hot-girls-on-a-sunny-afternoon days of yore. And on that day, I will do the Happy Fanboy Dance.

--Essential Defenders Volume Two, the fruit of Crazy Marvel at its craziest and best, would also generate this dance, at an even greater intensity. You should see it. The Happy Fanboy Dance is part MC Hammer, part polka, part lambada, and just a smidge of morris dancing. The ladies, they love it.

--The small-time indy comic Elk's Run got a glowing mention in Entertainment Weekly some time back. Two things should be noted here: first, Elk's Run really is excellent. It's one of the few comics I recommend wholeheartedly, even to non-comic fans. It does the medium proud. Second, EW has a circulation of over 1.6 million. Net result of this staggering publicity, the likes of which few comics could even dream? An increase of about three hundred issues sold. Yes, the distribution system for comics is powerfully messed up. Gads.

--I read a chunk of Nextwave in the shop, and to my dismay, I didn't find it funny. Absurdist humor is tough. The issue (the one with Fin Fang Foom and his giant pants) felt tone-deaf. "Giant Chinese Dragon from Outer Space + Superheroes + Giant Pants" should equal comedy gold, but it didn't pull it off. Argh. Had I the money to spend on comics I don't dig, I'd buy a few issues and dissect the crap out of 'em, see why it doesn't resonate for me.

--Conan: Fun. Loud. Interesting. But I always burn out on him after a year or two. Just can't keep that stuff up for too long before it becomes a blur of over-muscled swordsmen, monsters, and angry self-pity crafted into sullen contempt. Bored with him again.

--Thinking of this, is anybody reading the new Warlord series? Is it any good? The blogosphere, at least the part of it I read, has been silent. Bart Sears art scared me away.

--I'm so bored and frustrated with the bulk of the world-o-comics that I'm inching towards picking up another Internet Darling, in hopes that maybe it is as good as people say. The target? Scott Pilgrim. My hesitation? The last few Internet Darlings I tried were huge letdowns.

Blankets was a young adult novel written by a young adult. Reading it as a grown man felt bizarre. Polly and the Pirates never caught my imagination. Two issues of boredom was enough. Street Angel was okay, but not nearly as clever or interesting as the blogosphere seemed to think. It's a trifle, a pleasant diversion, jammed with pop culture riffs. Not the stuff of greatness. A friend loaned me the first collection of Invincible, and it was pretty good, but...I just can't work up the interest to buy it. The first issue of Fell was online, and I read it. Lemme just say that cynicism is both boring and unsophisticated, and that to shock me takes a lot more than sexual deviance or violence. Thus, I give it a pass. Leafing through the works of Internet Darling James Kochalka turned me off of his works completely. Again, I'd be more than happy to discuss it at length, but I'm not paying for one of his books. Maybe if the library has one.

Scott Pilgrim has the earmarks of another book I wouldn't much like. I was born a few years too early to catch the manga vibe. The world of small-time musicians is one I've lived, and it holds no interest for me anymore. I can't romanticize it. The video-game-esque approach sounds like a recipe for meaninglessness, and thus, boredom.

And thus I hesitate. Could be great, could be something that Everyone Loves But Harvey. Hurm.

So I throw it open to you, the comic book internet folks: what's good out there these days? Is there anything you'd call great? Right now I'm reading Action Philosophers, The Black Coat, Blue Beetle, Godland, Rex Libris, Jonah Hex, Shaolin Cowboy, Aquaman, Elk's Run, and one or two others that I can't remember off the top of my head. Oh, and 52 for the goof, at least for now. Graphic novel recommendations would also be appreciated. Assume I have the classics already.

--You know what would be cool? If ATMs dispensed not only cash but donuts. "I'll take...forty bucks...and a cruller..."

Disrespecting the Bing

2006-06-06T13:31:00.000-04:00

A turn away from comics for a second...kinda.

The Sopranos season ended last night, and I was horked off. What the hell was that all about? What the hell did it all add up to? Felt like squat.

It took me a while, but I think I've got it. There is indeed a single idea running through this last season of The Sopranos:

Everybody tries to change and fails. Everybody is given a look at a new life and rejects it.

This way, when the hammer falls on everybody in the final season, nobody can say they were trapped. Everyone chose to return to their old ways. (Well, most everybody. This theory doesn't fit Uncle Junior, for example. Batshit crazy from episode one to episode thirteen, and it's hard to say he "chose" anything.)

Look at the character arcs:

Tony
Gets shot by a delusional Uncle Junior. Has a near-death experience. Revives and realizes "every day is a gift." Tries to abide by this policy: less violence, fidelity to Carmela, etc. Slides back into his old ways by the end of the season: sex with random women, violence, etc.

Carmela
Becomes very attached to Tony during his coma. Grouses about her "spec house," the deal that got her to return to Tony last season. Realizes something's hinky about Adriana's disappearence. Awakens to a larger world when she goes to Paris. Ends up losing interest in the broader world when Tony, to keep her from digging into Adriana's disappearence, gets the spec house approved. She'd rather have her business than find out the truth.

Meadow
Waffles between law school and med school. Demonstrates her willful blindness to her family's business in an argument with Finn. Takes an internship with a law firm. Moves to California to be with Finn and avoid a decision about her future.

AJ
Spends almost all season as a club-hopping loser, a wannabe gangster celebrity. Confronted with his loser-ness and the fact that his loser friends hang out with him only because of his mob ties, he gets panic attacks again. Tries to smuggle a knife into the nursing home where Uncle Junior is kept, to avenge his father’s shooting. Gets caught, and would serve jail time if not for Tony’s influence. Forced into a construction job by his father, in the last episode, he suddenly becomes a pretty decent guy, as his father insisted he was. Gets a girlfriend who is several years older than him and has a three year old son, both of whom AJ treats well.

Paulie
A putz from beginning to end. Discovers that his aunt is really his mother, and his mother is really his aunt. As befits his stupid nature, he cuts off both of them in a rage. Later, he returns to the woman who raised him when he finds out he has prostate cancer, acting like a scared little boy.

Christofuh
Knocks up and immediately marries a new, random girlfriend. Still has dreams of Hollywood and has a dumbass mafia/slasher movie “in the works.” Falls in and out of drug use several times. Takes as his mistress a woman whom Tony nearly had an affair. They take up drugs together.

Vito
Has the biggest story arc of the season. Spotted at a gay bar by mafiosi on the job. Flees the area to save his life, ends up in a small town in New Hampshire. Discovers life different from the mob, where he can be open about his homosexuality and have a real job. Falls in love with a local fireman and moves in with him. Takes a job in construction. However, cannot deal with the difficulties of actually working for a living and being a regular guy. Ditches his lover and returns to Jersey, hoping to start again. While Tony considers what to do with Vito, Phil Leotardo, Vito’s brother-in-law, has Vito murdered for “disgracing the family.”

Johnny Sack
Spends the entire season in the joint. Runs the operation through his #2, Phil Leotardo. Attends the wedding of his daughter, gets dragged from the reception by the cops. Ends up pleading guilty to a lot of stuff to lessen his sentence, and is regarded as a traitor for doing so.

Phil Leotardo
Starts out as Johnny’s loyal retainer, grows into the job more and more. Maintains a personal beef with Tony over Tony Blundetto’s murder of his brother. Kills Vito for “disgracing his family.” Pushes hard against Tony time and again, eventually plots to kill “someone close to Tony.” (We never find out who.) Then has a heart attack. While in the hospital, had a possible rapprochement with Tony.

Bobby Bacala
Mocked for his lack of initiative and love of model trains. Eventually, due to Janice’s pushing of Tony, the possibility of promotion arose. Bobby screwed it up. Making a late-night pickup in a rough neighborhood, gets beaten up and blinded in one eye by a group of surly kids. Returns to his zerohood.

Uncle Junior
Delusional from start to finish. Has no idea what’s going on.

Janice
A pain-in-the-ass drama queen from beginning to end. Has a slight reconciliation with Tony.

Silvio
Given the job of acting boss during Tony’s coma. Proves unfit for the task, has a severe asthma attack from stress. Happy to return to his toady status.

Schmuckface from the first episode whose name I forget
Gets a massive inheritance. Tries to leave the mob. They won’t let him go. The Feds are also onto him. Rather than go to jail or flip, he hangs himself.

-------------------------------

This would also explain why the season felt so unsatisfying. What fun is it to watch a group of people run in circles, changing briefly and then changing right back?

Which, come to think of it, does make this a comic book post of sorts.

"Batman's a troubled loner who rejects his friends? Again? Jeez..."

The Champions Project: The Reject #1

2006-05-31T16:56:00.000-04:00

The Reject #1: City of Lights, City of Bees!

Page one: A six panel grid, each one showing a television program. We see a group of intellectuals seated in a row of chairs, outside. The host of the program introduces the group: Jean-Pierre Duval, a robotics engineer; François Leclerc, an economist; Sophie Le Mel, a mathematician; and Karkas, a philosopher exiled from the undersea empire of Lemuria. Karkas, a giant red monster, is wearing a striped sweater. He also has a false moustache above his lip, or where a lip would be, if he had one.

The panel of intellectuals discuss the remarkable breakthrough in robotics being celebrated in Paris today, a joint venture of Ordinateurs de Lyons and a Dutch firm. The “camera” moves to show the Hotel de Ville and, standing in front of it, a handful of strange robots. Dominating the background is a robot Tyrannosaurus Rex. Karkas can still be seen along one side of the panel. Standing next to him is a handsome man in what can only be described as white armor. The man looks bored, like a four-year old who’s had enough of the grownups talking.

The fifth panel is a blur. The camera swivels. We can’t see anything clearly except for the word balloons showing panic and a sound effect: bzzzzzzz

The sixth and last panel is from the perspective of the ground, as the camera has fallen over. We see a cloud of bees, with a human shape suggested in the center. We also see a white-armored figure charging the bee-man.

Double splash page: A handsome man in white steel armor swings a two-foot long metal rod at a man made entirely of bees! The bee-man, Swarm, gestures dramatically, spewing killer bees in several directions at once! Ordinary people flee, swatting at the stinging clouds of fuzzy, buzzing death!

Caption: “The Place: Paris!”
Caption: “The Villain: a Nazi made of bees!”
Caption: “The Situation: Dire!”
Caption: “Our Only Hope: He Who Haunts the Nightmares of Monsters!”
Caption: “THE REJECT!”

Title: “City of Lights, City of BEES!”

On the next page, we see the Reject collide with Swarm. They both hurtle down into the stairwell of a nearby Metro station. As they fall, the Reject lets out an inhuman roar.

We then jump to back to street level. Near the Metro entrance, Karkas shepherds the people away from the scene. Meanwhile, we see a trio of masked men dressed in black emerge from the shadows of a nearby building. As Karkas searches for people trapped by the bee-filled madness, he spies the three masked men abducting Dr. Duval. He moves in to stop them.

We jump down to the Metro station, where the Reject is faring badly against Swarm. The Reject swings his rod and shrieks. Bees sting the crap out of him. Swarm gloats, in typical Nazi Bee Man fashion, that such tactics are of no use against an army of unstoppable mutant bees.

We jump back to Karkas above-ground. He charges the three masked men, yelling for them to release Dr. Duval. One of the men binds the doctor with handcuffs while the other two point strange-looking firearms at Karkas. As the Deviant reaches the men, they fire their weapons. Two small green canisters fly out from the weapons’ barrels and adhere to Karkas’s red skin. One gloats to the now-collapsing Deviant that the gravitation mines now stuck to the monster’s body will grow in intensity until his body collapses under its own weight.

Karkas, pinned to the ground, watches as an oddly-shaped flying craft appears overhead. It casts down a mauve beam that lifts the three masked men and Dr. Duval off the ground. As they fly away, Karkas curses his inability to help.

We jump again to the Metro. The Reject howls and fires a particle beam from the end of his power rod. The beam cuts through the dead center of Swarm. Swarm couldn’t care less. Dude’s made of bees. In true Nazi Bee Man fashion, he gloats further in his Colonel Klink accent. “Zo, Deviant, your puny mongrel rage ees no match for ze zcience of zee reichhhh!” The Reject falls to one knee, succumbing to the bee sting toxins. Swarm is obnoxious; he’s also right.

Meanwhile, Karkas feels the air pushed out of his lungs. Consciousness flickers in and out. His weight has grown so vast that the sidewalk beneath him cracks and buckles. “Not like this…” he thinks.

Swarm moves in for the kill.

Karkas’s increased weight sends him crashing through the ground and into the Metro station. Directly on top of Swarm.

The Nazi Bee Man’s body scatters under the impact of the Big Red Dude. The skeleton that holds together the Bee Man’s form pulverizes. Swarm is dead. Again.

The Reject looks through badly swollen eyelids to see his only friend in the world, Karkas, being crushed to death. Heedless of his thousands of stings, the Reject aims his power rod and shoots both of the green canisters with a single shot. “Well...well done, my brother,” Karkas wheezes.

We jump to a massive room inside what looks to be a mansion. The room is dark except for the light coming in through a wall of arched windows. In the middle of the room is Jean-Pierre Duval, strapped to a chair. He is gagged. We see fear in his eyes, a not unnatural reaction to being kidnapped by Euro-Ninjas.

For a moment, all is quiet. Then we see his face react with fear as noises emerge. klanklanklankwhrrr. KlankKlankWhrr! KLANKKLANKKLANKWHRRRRR!! What causes this racket, we cannot see. All we can see is a terrified Duval. The sound grows deafening, deforming the panel borders themselves!

Then it stops, and silence returns.

A voice comes in from off-panel. “Bonjour, Jean-Pierre. It’s been a few years, has it not?”

We jump to a hospital, where Karkas explains to the doctors that the Reject can heal himself quickly, a product of his strange heritage and upbringing in the battle arenas of Lemuria, and that attempting to restrain him for treatment would only lead to--

An orderly hurtling through the air completes Karkas’s thought.

The giant Deviant rushes in to find the Reject grappling with two orderlies. A thought bubble appears from the Reject’s head. It shows a cartoon of a doctor’s head being hit by a pipe. Yes, the Reject thinks in images.

Karkas mollifies his enraged “brother” and suggests they leave the hospital. Reporters clog the exit to the hospital, asking questions about the attack, and we see the Reject’s thought balloon in reaction: an image of himself going ape on the reporters.

To defuse the situation, Karkas removes his large fake moustache and sticks it onto the Reject’s lip. The Reject likes the giant moustache and is content to simply walk through the crowd of reporters, beaming with pride at his new facial hair.

We jump to the forensics laboratory of the Paris Police. Two forensic scientists examine the smashed remains of a skeleton. Their dialogue tells us the bones are those of Fritz von Meyer, whom we know as Swarm. They joke a bit, until one pulls out a strange looking gun and shoots his coworker. The shooter then arranges the broken bones of Von Meyer and produces a small vial from his pocket. Inside the vial? A large bee.

We jump again, this time to a large room filled to the brim with techno-gadgets. Many of the gadgets look like standard comic book technology: robots, death rays, and the like. Other bits and pieces are quite bizarre: gelatinous quadripeds, four-dimensional fentoozlers, and the like. Our view of the room moves, as though we were walking down the length of the room. We see nobody, but we hear many voices talking.

The voices describe the joy at acquiring Duval and his successful integration into the project. They dicker back and forth about Swarm. Then one suggests the value of bringing in the Karkas, whose philosophical achievements and knowledge of the Deviants would add a great deal to the project.

The “scene” stops at a large techno-aquarium filled with bubbling fluid and a weird device that looks much like a robot chainsaw. One voice speaks. “Thus we are agreed. Fetch Karkas’s Brain!”

We jump to the robot exhibition outside of the Hotel de Ville. Karkas stares at a robot gorilla and wonders out loud what nefarious plot has led to Duval’s kidnapping, and to what insidious ends the doctor's knowledge will be applied. The Reject says nothing. His thought balloon shows a ham sandwich.

Then the Reject’s eyes fill with amazement.

The robot Tyrannosaurus Rex is moving!

Robot jaws rush towards Karkas! The Reject shoves his friend out of the way and is captured in the mouth of the beast! Rearing up, the robot T. Rex cannot quite close its jaws. The Reject holds it open!

He hears a shrill whine. He swivels his head to see the barrel of a sonic cannon in the back of the beast’s mouth, pointed outward. The cannon’s mouth glows blue.

Meanwhile, Karkas finds himself under assault by Swarm! And a half-dozen Euro-Ninjas! To their displeasure, they find that Karkas’s thick hide is impervious to bee stings and most of the small arms of the Euro-Ninjas. The thugs carry a whole lot of weaponry on their persons, and they use it all. Karkas swats aside a pair of annoying Euro-Ninjas when he hears the cry of the Reject and the whine of the sonic cannon’s buildup.

We jump back to the Reject in the robot’s mouth. His thought balloons pop up. The first shows the cannon firing and destroying him. The second one shows the creature’s mouth firing the cannon without him in the picture. The third shows the creature firing the cannon with its mouth shut, destroying its front teeth. The light bulb goes on!

He stops holding open the robot’s jaws, knowing that they’ll have to stay a little bit open to fire the cannon. Instead, he hurls himself at the cannon! The jaws swing downward but stop before crushing the Reject! He smashes the cannon with his power rod!

Karkas grabs a Euro-Ninja and smashes him against the ground. Swarm curses him and sics thousands of killer bees at the red monster, hoping to find at least one vulnerable spot.

Then the robot tyrannosaurus lets out a mighty shriek! The Reject leaps from the robot’s mouth as strange energies burst forth from the beast! The Reject lands on top of Swarm, howling a battle cry! The robot grinds, shrieks, and stops!

Karkas dispatches the last Euro-Ninja and sees his friend get stung again and again by the Nazi Bee Man, as their struggles move towards the Rue de Rivoli. An idea enters into Karkas’s head. He grabs a canister off of the belt of an unconscious Euro-Ninja and fumbles with it for a moment. He curses his thick claws and misshapen form for not being able to use it himself. He hurls the canister at the Reject and yells for him to pull the ring!

The Reject grabs the canister and, lacking a better idea, does as Karkas suggests. Smoke pours out from the canister.

Exposed to smoke, the bees that make up Swarm’s body immediately become docile. They putter around, ignoring Swarm’s orders to attack.

We see the Reject’s thought balloon: a big yellow smiley face.

Then he brings down his power rod against Swarm’s head, shattering the Nazi’s skull. The bees scatter.

We jump to an apartment. The television set is on, and it dominates the panels. It shows Karkas being interviewed by a reporter about the battle. The Reject, once again wearing the giant false moustache, stands next to his Big Red Buddy, all smiles. Karkas assures the public that everything is fine, and that they will rescue Jean-Pierre Duval.

In the background of the shot, the robot Tyrannosaurus’s mouth-mounted sonic cannon fires and shatters the entrance to the Hotel de Ville. The robot then falls over.

Karkas mutters and holds his head in his hands. The Reject offers Karkas the moustache.

The television set turns off. Our view shifts to the apartment’s sole occupant: an expensively-dressed woman. “No…they’ve begun the Akvan Protocols!”

She reaches for a cigarette, and we see that her left hand is unusual. Though shaped like that of a normal woman, it lacks flesh and blood. Instead, it is a slice of outer space. In her hand, we can see stars, nebulae, and the blackness of the void.

To be continued soon in The Reject #2: Shall Earth Survive?

NOTE: The index to "The Champions Project" can be found here.

The Greatest Book Ever

2006-05-28T12:05:00.000-04:00

Courtesy of the now-defunct blog Gutterninja, yesterday I found online a copy of The Greatest Book Ever.

What is it?

War and Peace? The Brothers Karamazov? Aunt Erma's Cope Book?

Ha! They wish they possessed a fraction of the art and wisdom as this text.

Online can be found the full book The Monster at the End of this Book, Starring Lovable, Furry Old Grover, by Jon Stone and Mike Smollin. You can read it here, where it's been posted as part of Smollin's website.

It is genius. It is literature at its finest. It is Grover's shining hour.

What literature lacking Lovable Furry Old Grover can make any claim to greatness, true greatness? None. None, I tell you.

Grover is life.

The Four-Color Spice Rack

2006-05-25T15:09:00.000-04:00

A few elements that, applied in spare, careful amounts, make any comic better, more satisfying, more pleasing. The spice rack, if you will, of the four-color world.

Wonder Dogs.
The Generation X Quadrivium: Ninjas, Robots, Monkeys, Pirates.
Big-headed aliens.
Ads for selling “Grit.”
Octopi, earthly and otherwise.
Jimmy Olsen getting hit in the head and thinking he’s a viking.
Elves with guns.
Time-travelling gorillas.

Should they be overapplied, ruin is certain. But ah! Careful application of these provide a vigorous zest to any story, be it a Silver Age tale of Communist spies out to subvert capitalism or a modern alterno-indy comic about how the foolish, myopic world fails to understand the genius of the tormented nerd.

Rehabilitating the Lame

2006-05-23T15:48:00.000-04:00

Seeing as how people dig my frisson of woo idea, I thought I’d go to that well one more time. Chewing over various characters’ woo-giving abilities in an effort to write another post, I thought of something. Possibly dumb, likely wrongheaded, but hey.

I think it’s possible to rehabilitate the nineties-era whipping boy and poster child of lame superheroes, Darkhawk.

No, really. It could work.

For those unfamiliar with the character, here’s the rundown, courtesy of the Wikipedia:

While spying on his father at an abandoned amusement park, teenager Chris Powell discovered a mysterious amulet that, with concentration, transformed him into a powerful android. Suspicious that his father, a policeman, was accepting bribes from a crime boss, Chris vowed to use the amulet as "an edge against crime."

Darkhawk's powers include "darkforce blasts" which emanate from the amulet on his chest, a small energy shield from the same source, a grappling claw on one arm, retractable gliding wings and night vision. Darkhawk's face, covered by a helmet, is intensely ugly or terrifying, a feature that can be used to stun enemies. When the android body was damaged, Chris could heal it almost instantly by transforming into his human form, and then back into his android form again (injuries to Chris' human form could not be healed this way). Darkhawk originally glided through the air, but later gained the power of flight…

Chris discovered that the source of his powers was a living vessel in deep space, where his and other Darkhawk bodies were stored and repaired. When Chris was Darkhawk, his human body was stored in the ship in the android's place

If’n you search online, you’ll see that a lot of comic fans regard Darkhawk as a symbol of bad nineties comics. I read the series back in yonder days, and I agree it wasn't great.

He has a lot of weird junk in his story, but what’s the essence? What’s the core of the character?

Darkhawk is a fusion of Captain Marvel (“Shazam!”) and Batman. That’s it. Darkhawk’s core appeal is “being a powerless teenage kid who can transform into a scary-ass killer robot superhero is cool.”

I think it could work, though striking the right tone would be a bear. Play up the powerlessness and confusion of Chris Powell with the terrifying appearance and kickassitude of his mysterious alter-ego. Chris goes from being scared to scaring, from being the powerless victim to the powerful avenger of wrongs.

It’s a very straightforward power/revenge fantasy, with the advantage of the main character remaining a kid. Batman required fifteen years of incredible training, a Nobel Laureate’s brain, and a fabulous fortune to get his revenge. Darkhawk required a “magic amulet.” That could be a plus for reader identification.

Imagine the ad for Darkhawk: The Movie. Chris Powell is the son of a dirty cop. His family is falling apart. His school life sucks and involves frequent beatings. Crime is rampant in his neighborhood. Then one day his father disappears and Chris finds a strange amulet. Smash cut to a scary vigilante with razor-edged wings flying around and kicking ass. Revenge on crooks! Revenge on bullying schoolmates! Muh-ha-ha-haaaa!!!

Not Proust, I grant you, but I think it could work. Teenage nerd and perennial victim can become a killer robot badass whenever he wants? You’ve got Big Action (“The Menacing Man-Mollusk is attacking downtown!”), Big Drama (“Dad’s a dirty cop and he's missing! The family’s falling apart! Stacey won’t talk to me!”), and, if desired, Big Komedy Laffs (as a nerdy teenage boy trying to act tough could be hilarious).

I think Darkhawk could be transformed from a punchline to a good character, consarn it.

To throw the topic open to the world: are there lamewad characters you think have promising woo-giving traits?

Who has the stuff to be big but never was, and why?

The Frisson of Woo, or “Thirty Seconds to Grab ‘Em”

2006-05-22T11:48:00.002-04:00

A few posts back, I wrote about essential traits and core appeals of super-characters, and forwarded a theory of how to determine said trait. Astute readers debated my ideas of what constituted essential traits of a few major characters.

So I’ve come up with a new test, a refinement of my earlier approach. Lemme know what you think.

Super-characters, particularly iconic ones, have appeals that one can grasp quickly. Yes, Superman has a winning personality, an understated wit, and a bitchin' spitcurl, but what the folks like to see is the superpowers. That’s what gets folks to buy the comics, see the movies, and wear the jammies.

I believe that every great character, every character capable of carrying his or her own comic series, should regularly provide a frisson of woo. The character should have the ability to make anyone, not just a regular comic reader, occasionally feel a little shiver of excitement and emit a little internal cry of “woo!”

The point of this silly exercise is threefold. First, it’s a test of a comic’s current creative team. I’d say that abandoning the woo-giving trait(s) is a bad, bad sign. It doesn't happen too often, but it does happen. Second, it’s a test of a character’s potential for public acceptance. If you can’t find a straightforward woo-generating trait for a character, said character is never going to be more than second-tier big-comic-crossover fodder. Third, it's fun to fart around with nonsense like this.

How to find that kernel of woo-ing?

Here’s my idea: imagine that a stack of new big-budget Hollywood movies starring the big comic book characters is about to hit the theaters of the world. Superman has his movie, Batman, Wonder Woman, hey, even Plastic Man, Doctor Strange, Green Lantern, Thor, and Wildcat all have their own movies. (For the sake of this essay, the movies capture the characters basically as the comics depict them.)

And you, you lucky fanboy/fangirl, are in charge of putting together the teevee commercial for the movies.

You have thirty seconds to assemble images and scenes to make John Q. Public interested in the character. You have thirty seconds to grab ‘em by the nose. Thirty seconds of precious, precious teevee time.

What goes in the thirty-second trailer?

I think that your answer to that would be whatever provides each character’s frisson of woo. It boils away the inessential and uncovers the characters’ core appeal.

There’s no time for sophistication in a thirty second ad; it requires bonk-them-over-the-head directness. Which shouldn’t be a problem. Head-bonking directness is something at which costumed super-folk excel; subtlety is not a superhero’s stock in trade.

Look at the thirty-second long teevee trailer for Superman Returns. It’s “dude in suit flying around, doing super stuff.” And it’s cool.

How about the ads for Batman Begins? It’s “dude dresses in freaky costume scaring the crap out of bad guys, gets revenge for feelings of powerlessness.”

Now, what about these theoretical ads?

…

Hawkman: A dude with giant bird wings flies around and hits stuff with a giant mace. He swoops around cities and mountains, pounding stuff and looking cool.

[Dude, that visual sells itself. Show a well-rendered Hawkman smashing up an in-flight Cessna or something and you’ll get people’s attention.]

The Question: A cloud of odd-colored smoke curls out of the corner of a darkened room. Following the cloud is a well-dressed man. A man with no face. He says something both vague and menacing, then disappears.

[That’ll stick in folks’ heads. Batman scares like a monster. Raar! The Question scares like an episode of the Twilight Zone. Creeeepy. People dig creeeepy.]

Green Lantern: A regular guy (test pilot, architect, artist, whatever) finds himself recruited by a massive space police force. He can make anything he imagines out of green energy by using a magic ring.

[The visuals of the 3,600-strong Green Lantern Corps, and crazy green ring constructs? That’ll catch people’s attention.]

Thor: A giant freakin’ dragon-serpent thing menaces a city. Trolls burst out of the ground. Then thunder booms, lightning bolts arc down, and a very large man with a very large hammer looks very pissed off. He warns the beasts to leave. They don’t. He swings the hammer and brings A Mighty Beatdown, shaking the heavens themselves.

[My pet guess for Thor’s woo-generation is when his normally placid exterior cracks and he uncorks the oceans of whoopass he keeps in reserve. When Thor goes into “I’ve had it with you” mode and Brings the Pain, I feel a hint of woo.]

…

Now, my readers, what would you put in your thirty-second trailers for your favorite super-folk?

How would you get people to want to see Wildcat: The Movin’ Picture, or Doctor Strange? Iron Man? Aquaman? Wonder Woman? Captain Marvel? Plastic Man? Vibe? Swamp Thing? Or any other character you love?

Come on, fans. Hollywood is calling!

Rolling and Fixed Timelines: The Captains America and Retcon Fun!

2006-05-20T13:01:00.000-04:00

I love The Justice Experience.

They’re the big DC Comics super-group from the 1970s.

Sort of.

Certain comic book characters and events are fixed in time. Lots of important characters for both major companies are fixed around the Second World War. Other characters have their pasts strictly tied to the Vietnam War or the Cold War.

But most of comicdom works on a sliding time scale, with the heroes of the modern day emerging no more than “fifteen years ago,” to keep the big-name heroes young-ish. Can’t have Batman in his sixties, after all.

This creates an ever-widening gulf between "then" and "now." The Golden Age ended right after the war. By current comic timelines, the new heroes emerged no earlier than 1990. That’s one heck of a gap.

There are a lot of cheats to bridge this gap: anti-aging tricks for older heroes, suspended animation, and the like. But there’s also another, cooler way.

In the last decade or so, the Big Two have done some backfilling. A prime example is the aforementioned “The Justice Experience,” created for DC Comics. The Experience first appeared in 1998, in a short-lived series called Chase. The title character, Cameron Chase, was the daughter of an old-time hero, the Acro-Bat. The Acro-Bat was active in Seventies and had died decades ago. But "the Acro-Bat" had never existed until the first issue of Chase. The comic created, out of whole cloth, a super-group to fill the gap between the “golden age” and the modern era. Characters referred back to the Experience, stories derived from the team, all sorts of cool stuff.

Dang, that's snazzy.

Marvel did something similar with a miniseries called Marvel: The Lost Generation. The mini depicted whole passels of superheroes and villains that allegedly existed in the gap created by forward-rolling timelines. Who protected the world in 1965, long after WW2 and long before the Fantastic Four? Why, the Black Fox! And Flatiron! And…um…some other guy they just made up!

Later this year, Marvel’s putting out a similar miniseries, called Agents of Atlas. Agents takes place in the Fifties and stars Fifties heroes, many of whom were actually created in the Seventies.

Yes, it gets a little weird.

Much fun to be had with this particular sandbox. The freedom these backfilled characters allow is enormous. They can be anything, and one isn’t bound by the need to leave stories open-ended. Particular moments in real-world history can be included. Characters can age.

Also, backfilled characters can have story arcs that resolve fully, rather than cycle between poles over and over. Batman alternates between “alienated loner” and “patriarch of huge vigilante group,” and has been at either extreme a half-dozen times in the last twenty years. A backfilled hero could do it once then retire. Or die. Or try to change and fail.

Captain America is just the man to benefit from this sort of shenanigan.

According to internal Marvel chronology, there have been ten Captain Americas. Many of these Captains are pegged to specific points in time.

.......................

TIMELINE OF THE CAPTAINS AMERICA:
(Note: modern-era dates are based on the idea of the “modern heroic age” kicking off between ten and fifteen years ago.)

Captain America I (1941), Isaiah Bradley
Bradley was a test subject of the Super-Soldier Project. Participated in one mission against Germany, then spent 1942-1960 in prison. While incarcerated, Bradley’s mind degenerated to a childlike state due to flaws in the early version of the super-soldier serum he received. Still alive, though he has the mind of a five-year old.*

Captain America II (1941-45), Steve Rogers
The main Captain America. The biggest hero of his era. Rogers was a scrawny 4-F turned into the apex of human ability through the Super-Soldier Project. Thought killed in ’45 on a mission. Actually frozen in an Arctic ice floe and trapped in suspended animation until the modern era.

Captain America III (1945-46), William Naslund
A minor hero (“The Spirit of ‘76”) who dropped his old gig to take up the shield of the lost Captain America. Killed in ’46 by a robot.

Captain America IV (1946-49), Jeff Mace
Another mostly forgotten hero (“The Patriot”) who dropped his old gig to take up the shield after Naslund died. Retired in ’49, died of cancer as an old man.

Captain America V (1953-54), “Steve Rogers,”
A schoolteacher and wannabe superhero who rediscovered the Super Soldier Serum and made himself into the new Cap. His recreation of the Super Soldier Serum was inexact, and he ended up a paranoid loony who saw “enemies of America” everywhere. Captured by the FBI and placed into suspended animation. (Released in the modern era to bump heads with the original Cap, dies whilst a-villaining.)

Captain America II Redux (1995ish-present), Steve Rogers,
Revived from suspended animation, returns to break his foot off in evil’s ass.

Captain America VI-VIII (2000ish), Three mooks: Bob Russo, “Scar” Turpin, and Roscoe.
The original Cap once quit in disgust over his disillusionment with America. Three guys tried to fill in. The first two got the crap kicked out of them and quit. The third, Roscoe, was killed by the Red Skull. As a result, Rogers returns to the job, though with a new conception of his purpose.

Captain America IX (2003ish), John Walker.
Walker was a professional wrestler and superstrong meathead who put on a goofy suit and called himself “The Super Patriot.” The US government had tried to rein in Rogers and render him a government employee again. Rogers, rather than lose his longtime independence of action, quit. They hired Walker as the new Captain America. Walker proved unable to live up to the duties, flipped out, and eventually had to be stomped by Rogers. Regaining his sanity, Walker gave the job back to Rogers. Walker currently operates on the fringes of the Marvel Universe as the “USAgent.” Still a meathead.

..................

Three of these “Captains” are simple retro-fits (Naslund, Mace, and “Steve Rogers”) created to explain how the character of Captain America could have been frozen in 1945 but still appearing in comics from ’46-’49 and ’53-’54. Just a little extra historical texture to the story.

Those three, plus Bradley, are all fixed in time. Naslund, Mace, and “Rogers” were created to address a disconnect between comic book history and “comic book history,” locking them with the dates their comics were published. Also, “Rogers” was retrofitted as a McCarthy/Red Scare allegory. Isaiah Bradley has to be part of the Second World War, and he had to be inactive since the early Forties, since his existence was supposed to be a secret until recently. Had Bradley been trashing bozos in the Post-Cap Gap, he would be widely known, and his backstory as it now stands would be demolished.

Thus, none of these men could act as Captain America after 1954. This leaves roughly forty years (1955-1995ish) with no Captain America.

Marvel seems fine with that. I, however, think that such a gap cries out to be filled. Or, if not “cries out to be filled,” I think it’d be fun to fill it.

Aside from placeholders Naslund and Mace, all of the “replacement Captains” have all been comments on periods in American history. Bradley addressed the brutality of racism in mid-twentieth century America. “Steve Rogers” was a look back at the paranoia of the mid-Fifties.

The modern-era “replacement Captains” were also tied to the zeitgeist of their publication dates. The real Cap quit the job in 1974, out of disgust at the Marvel Universe’s equivalent of Watergate. His retirement led to the three mooks trying to fill the job and failing. John Walker got the job in 1987 to serve as a comment on the gung-ho “superpatriotism” of the 1980s.

To follow in this tradition, I’d figure that any Captain America thrown into the Post-Cap Gap should be strongly tied to his era.

......................

TIMELINE OF THE NEW OLD CAPTAINS AMERICA
To the American public, Captain America was the biggest superhero of all. He threw his weight around from 1941-1949, then he disappeared. An obvious nutball took his place for a year in the mid-Fifties then disappeared.** Since then, various men took it upon themselves to dress in a ridiculous costume and throw a garbage can lid at criminals, hoping to cast themselves as symbols of their nation.

Who are these men? I’m glad you asked.

Captain America VI (1962-1973), Ian O’Malley
O’Malley was a graduate student of chemistry at the University of Chicago who fell victim to a lab accident. Sabotaged by a Cuban superspy, the Apexotron-9000 ruptured and exposed O’Malley to a combination of mutagenic gases. Rather than die or become a hideous monster, O’Malley found himself the possessor of an odd pair of gifts: tremendous agility and resistance to physical harm.

He assumed the role of his childhood hero, Captain America, to thwart the menaces of his day: The Annihilist, the Devil’s Swordsman, and The Man With the Atomic Brain, who led a cult of Doomsday Men. O’Malley served as Captain America during the height of the Cold War and through the Vietnam War. His ties to intelligence agencies were strong, though they faded as conflicts in Southeast Asia increased. O’Malley was friendly to the emergent counterculture and became a divisive figure. He spoke out against the Vietnam War and was wanted by the authorities more than once.

Captain America VII (1967-1973), James Stephens
Stephens was a fireman who had been gifted with preternatural strength and toughness since childhood. The gifts came from his mother, a sorceress-cum-housewife, who wished to keep her son safe. Stephens grew disgusted and enraged by O’Malley’s Captain America and his disregard for the traditions of the nation. Stephens took up the shield to fulfill what he believed to be the true mission of Captain America.

Stephens allied himself with the US military, and went so far as to perform several missions in Southeast Asia. He also fought supervillains by the truckload, such as the Octo-Ape of Zero Street and the Murdermaster.

O’Malley and Stephens came to blows a dozen times between 1968-1972, neither backing down, both claiming to speak for the “true” America. Their conflicts ended in 1972 when they each discovered the machinations of the Secret Empire, a villainous organization bent on world domination. Moreover, the Empire had extensive ties to the White House. The two men set aside their differences to ally in ’72-’73. In a desperate battle against hideous odds, they stopped the Empire’s master plot. Their heroics saved America from a coup d'etat, though it cost the lives of both men.

Captain America VIII (1975-1981), Damon Bollea
Bollea, a car mechanic and a mutant, took up the mantle of Captain America to serve as a rallying point to a discouraged nation, and possibly make a few bucks on the side. Bollea’s power, a control of magnetism, allowed him to perform outrageous stunts with his shield. He “surfed the skies” riding the disk, fought the occasional villain, and become a celebrity, benefitting in particular from the upswing in patriotism surrounding the Bicentennial.

A pleasant and kind man, Bollea fought only a few supervillains before disappearing from the public eye. The Secret Empire had learned his identity and threatened to expose him as a mutant. Rather than risk the safety of his loved ones in the certain anti-mutant hysteria that would follow, he gave up the role.

Captain America IX (1982-1989), Jason Freytag
Young Jason Freytag’s shattered body was pulled from a car crash in 1981 and, in desperation, given over to the prosthesis department of Wyman/Davis Industries. The eighteen year old boy was rebuilt with the finest technology yet developed. Though seventy percent of his body was replaced by technology, Freytag looked entirely human.

Wyman/Davis hired Freytag to act as their spokesman and loaned him to the Pentagon for a number of missions. Captain America IX’s face dotted army recruitment ads for years and raised W/D’s profile. Freytag himself was brash, none too bright, and happy to be kicking asses. He was killed on a mission on the border between Peru and Colombia, destroyed by the unexpected presence of a local guerilla leader with tremendous mutant powers.

Captain America X (1991-1995), Josiah al hajj Saddiq.***
Josiah, the son of Isaiah Bradley, inherited his father's physical gifts. After years of wandering and finding himself, Saddiq took up the name and the shield in 1991 in response to a series of bombings and strange robot attacks. He avoided the spotlight, emerging only as necessary to combat the menace.

In 1995, Saddiq found the source of the attacks: the revived Secret Empire, once again on the cusp of instigating a coup d’etat of the United States, led by Richard Nixon's brain in a jar. Saddiq singlehandedly smashed the operation in a massive battle against impossible odds at the shipyards of Norfolk, Virginia. The threat ended, Saddiq abandoned the identity. Saddiq is known as the legendary “Black Captain America,” a figure about whom little is publicly known.

.................

…and then the modern heroic age begins, Steve Rogers emerges from the ice, and history continues as Marvel Comics depict.

Heh. I love playing in the sandbox.

Anybody out there got ideas for different backfilled Captains?

Perhaps a “gray flannel suit” Cap for the latter half of the Fifties? Psychedelic Cap, with olive, puke-yellow, and green colors? Heh.

Comics is fun.

-----------------------------
* The timeline is a little messy. Logic would dictate that Bradley preceded Rogers, as Bradley was a test subject. However, Bradley’s story (told in The Truth) takes place in 1942, and Rogers had been active for a year by that point. Since (a) The Truth didn’t sweat continuity, (b) changing history is accepted practice, and (c) we’re only talking about comic books for cryin’ out loud, in this here essay, I’m saying Bradley’s story happened in ’41-’42, not ’42-’43, and that he did precede Rogers by a little bit.

** I don’t know if Fifties Cap’s status as a replacement was publicly acknowledged in the Fifties. But I figure most people would suspect as much, what with “Steve Rogers” acting like a lunatic. Rumors would be widespread. Well, in my version they are.

*** Could I resist casting Josiah as “Captain America X?” I could not. Besides, I like the character and think he has tremendous potential. I was pissed that his series, The Crew, was cancelled so quickly.

OH COME ON!

2006-05-17T09:37:00.000-04:00

Over at Comics Should Be Good, there's a piece examining upcoming Marvel Comics covers.

Going down the page, I thought to myself, "Okay, okay, boring, boring, kinda grabby, good one, bleah..."

And then "OH COME ON!"

The cheesecake covers of She-Hulk are terrible, but this...this is ridiculous.

"I have an idea!" says the artist for this issue of Ms. Marvel. "Womens is pretty, but when they look at me looking at them, I get all icky feeling. Howsabout I cut off the top part of her head, so she can't stare at me as I look at her body! It's like she's just there for me to stare at! The good parts are all in the middle anyhow! I'm a genius!"

Ah, sweet objectification.

This cover is like something out of a women's studies textbook.

I can feel my hands wanting to reach through the screen to grip the lapels of the artist, David Mack, and slap the stupid right out of him. Why, David? What's the point of this cover, beyond "huh huh huh, BOOBIES!" Why reduce the title character to a sexualized object? Isn't she supposed to be a character? One about whom the reader is supposed to care? Or is the book simply wank fuel for the saddest of my fanboy brothers?

I love comics. But man, sometimes I hate 'em too.

...

Postscript: Below is a cover lovingly created on Like Scratches in the Sand, making the same point by using photoshop. Lo, and it was hilarious.

Nice.

...

EDITED TO ADD:

David Mack himself has commented on this post, explaining his approach to the cover. I responded with a longer explanation of my reaction to the piece.

Check out the comments section below for a more detailed and rational debate on the cover design.

The Essential Superhero, or Why Captain America is an Anglo Bruce Lee

2006-05-15T16:20:00.000-04:00

The first issue of Civil War has hit the stands, and I let out a teeny grin when I heard the Comic Blogosphere make reference to one scene in the issue, time and again. It reinforces a pet theory of mine.*

Comic book superheroes are inconsistent and vague. They have to be. Even if a writer intends for a character to be distinct, that distinction tends to get lost over the years when the character falls into different hands. Nineteen writers later, who the hell can say what Batman is “really like?” Is he a driven, borderline-loony vigilante? A smiling scoutmaster with a cool belt of tricks? The patriarch of a huge clan of like-minded adventurers? He’s all of the above; it depends on what issue you buy.

If you step outside of comics, I believe it gets a little different. To regular folks, the heroes are understood as icons. They represent basic, simple ideas in funny clothes, a visual shorthand for something. Each successful character has one, maybe two, core traits.

These core traits form the character’s appeal to a reader, traits that both Phineas Q. Fanboy and a regular person on the street can appreciate. Ignore that trait and the hero becomes a cypher, an indistinct brightly-colored blob on paper. Include the trait and any portrayal is basically right.

My pet theory is that you can identify a character’s essential trait, the trait without which the character ceases to exist, by the little frisson of “woo!” you get when you see it used.**

Granted, this is all my opinion, but I think it holds up.

Take the most iconic of superfolk, DC Comics’ big three.

Superman, for example, has the essential trait of “Super Powers Are Cool.” He flies! He lifts heavy stuff! Sure, he stands for truth, justice, and swell-osity, but those are byproducts. What’s the Essential Trait of Superman? The old ads put it best: you will believe a man can fly.

Superman provides the frisson of “woo!” when he uncorks his mighty powers and makes with the awesome.***

Batman has the essential trait of “Scaring People Is Cool.” He skulks! He fights human monsters! Granted, there was his “happy Scoutmaster” period of the Fifties, but that was an aberration. For most of his history, and when he has been most successful, Batman was about scaring bad guys, casting that menacing shadow. Batman provides the frisson of “woo!” when he frightens those who frighten normal people. (His "scoutmaster" period is derided to this day because it failed to make with the woo.)

Wonder Woman is stickier. I’d say her essential trait is “Magical Princess Come to Kick Ass Is Cool.” She’s the Fairy Princess from a magical kingdom, come to dispense two-fisted justice and a kind word to the ugly brutish world we live in. Wonder Woman provides the frisson of “woo!” when she brings out her otherness in contrast to the “Man’s World.” (I think. WW fans, please lemme know if you have a better idea.)

Marvel’s biggest name has an obvious one. Spider-Man’s essential trait is “Everyman With Powers Is Cool.” Spider-Man is, at his core, a regular guy who happens to have superpowers. The gulf between his regular life of spotty employment, girl trouble, and head colds and his superhero life of high adventure and fame has long been his central appeal.

Superman also carries the appeal of the gulf between hero and schmuck, but the flavor is different. Superman is a god in disguise as a mortal. His “everyday man” travails last just as long as he decides to let them. Spider-Man is a regular guy whether he wants to be or not. His powers do not end his problems, they just change them. Spidey’s frisson of “woo!” comes when his Spider-life and his regular life collide: he loses a job because he was busy saving the city one afternoon; Peter’s high school bully is Spider-Man’s biggest fan; and so forth.

Then there are the others. It’s not too hard to determine a popular character’s essential trait. Hulk? “Angry Child Breaking Stuff Is Cool.” Wolverine? “Stabbing Stuff Is Cool.”****

Which brings me back to Cap and Civil War #1.

What did all of them bloggers dig?

When Captain America unloads a giant crate of whoopass on a room full of high-tech soldiers and escapes from an impossible situation.

Sure, Captain America is often saddled with all sorts of political ideas, or at least the writers try to do it sometimes. After all, he’s a walking flag. And there is his status as the cleanest of the clean-cut, the most righteous of them all.

But that’s not his essence. Not really. The symbolic importance of his name and flag-jammies come and go. Englehart and DeMattis made a lot of hay out of it. Kirby and Gruenwald didn’t. His purity of heart is important, sure. But what’s the core? Cap’s sine qua non?

The essence of Cap is “Kicking a Lot of Ass Is Cool.” The quintessential Cap moment is not him giving a speech about freedom. It’s Captain America entering a room with fifty bad guys and smashing the whole group singlehandedly. Preferably as their leader yells, “He’s just one man!”

Granted, most superheroes could do it. But very few of them actually do. Wiping out a Room Fulla Suckas™ is a distinctly Captain America scene, made fun and exciting by his lack of superpowers. Sure, Iron Man or Thor could crush a room full of goons by blinking, which makes it dull and a little disturbing. Cap has only courage, his fists, and a silly-ass costume. Thus do his mass beatdowns provide the frisson of “woo!”

Captain America is the dude who fights the hordes and wins. He is the Tough Guy. He is Badassedness Incarnate. He is Bruce Lee recast as Anglo.

No, really. He is.

Early in “The Chinese Connection,” an angry Bruce Lee visits a Japanese karate school, seeking to challenge its headmaster to a fight. The students, contemptuous of the man, get in his way. Lee unloads three metric tons of whoopass upon the crowded room of trained fighters, smashing them all in record time.

Now that there, that was a Captain America moment. One man, with only skill, courage, and great abs, takes on a small army and kicks the crap out of every last mother's son?

Woo!

---------------------------------
* I have a lot of pet theories. Most are crap. I kinda like this one.

** A corollary to my theory is that any character whose essence can't be defined will never be iconic. If you can't find the woo, the character's a second-stringer.

** Traditionally, Superman had another Essential Trait: the secret identity of Clark Kent and its accompanying “love triangle” with Lois Lane. I'm on the fence about it as an Essential Trait, as it’s been gone for fifteen years and it hasn’t killed the character. Remove the “love triangle” and he’s still distinctly Superman; remove the Super Awesome Powers and he’s not Superman anymore. Then again, to the non-fanboys of the world, the Clark/Supes/Lois "triangle" is huge. Hm.

*** Well, it is.

Disco Inferno!

2006-05-12T16:17:00.000-04:00

Humidity is rising - Barometer's getting low
According to all sources, the street's the place to go
Cause tonight for the first time
Just about half-past ten
For the first time in history
It's gonna rain Supermen-men-men!

It's Raining Supermen! Hallelujah!
It's Raining Supermen! Amen!
I'm gonna go out to run and let myself get
Absolutely soaking wet!
It's Raining Supermen! Hallelujah!
It's Raining Supermen! Every Specimen!*

It's been a day for cheap jokes. I apologize.

--------------------------
*The rhymes don't work with "Superboy." I had to make do.

Thankfully, no one's ever written "It's Raining Boys."

That'd be oogy.

Ah, Romance

2006-05-12T12:47:00.000-04:00

True Tales of Romance...

That somehow miss the essence of "romance."

Honey, the loathing and contempt come later. No sense rushing straight to disgust.

Man, I love comics.

The Monkey Was Big

2006-05-09T14:48:00.000-04:00

FCBD is an event I usually avoid. Comics and I are well acquainted, and I feel like a dork for taking the free books. The event is an outreach program, and believe you me, comics “reached” me a long time ago. Spread the four-color love to the heathens, I say. I’ll come by next week for my regular binge.

Despite this, last Saturday's FCBD saw me venture into a comic shop to pay my respects to two fellows I knew only by reputation. Big Monkey Comics of Georgetown was open on that beautiful Saturday afternoon, and it held two Legends of Bloggitry: the store’s manager, Devon of Seven Hells, and the store’s owner, Scipio of the Absorbascon.

Both men proved to be more than willing to take time out of their very busy day to chat with yers truly. As their blogs would lead you to believe, these men know their stuff. The three of us yakked about comic blogging and the powerful symbolism of Hal Jordan getting hit in the head. We threw around our ideas on what makes for good comics, the value of the modern age of comics, and how one pronounces “Busiek.”*

Moreover, as the three of us approach comics from different angles, our conversation left me with a number of ideas for future posts. Wedged into my own corner of comic book fandom, I can’t help but appreciate alternate views of the medium and the genre. Scipio’s understanding of the Big Two got me thinking about my own tastes and interpretations. While I agree with him that Vibe is a character of great potential, there are other areas where we do not see eye-to-eye.

It was a good FCBD. I contributed an apropos “Simpsons” reference. Devon made many fine points and at one point lept over a crouching customer with fluid athleticism. And Scipio? Scipio omnes sale superabat.

An embarrassing postscript: proving that I have the manners of an ill-tempered goat, I forgot to buy anything at Big Monkey, despite hogging two hours of Scip and Devon’s time. Nice, eh?

D’oh!

At least I didn’t compound the oafishness by taking any free comics or belching audibly.

That’ll be next year.

---------------------------
*According to Big Monkey, it’s pronounced “Byuu-sek.” Works for me, yo.

The Champions Project: Mephisto #1

2006-05-08T13:49:00.000-04:00

Mephisto #1: Robinson, the Man of Mystery

Page one, panel one: A young man in a sweatshirt points a revolver at the reader. He looks nervous. We can see him from the waist up. He’s standing on a stage, with the footlights covering his left half in light and sinking his right half into shadow.

A caption reads: “This man has paid three hundred dollars for the chance to kill Mephisto.”

Panel two: From the head-level of the theater-goers, we see the crowd staring up at the gunman, excitement evident on their faces. Standing next to the gunman is a beautiful woman in a rhinestone-bedazzled outfit. One of her arms is raised high, the other is parallel to the stage floor; she’s “gesturing magically.” We can tell by her navy blue skin and unusually smooth facial features that she’s a mutant.

The narrator goes on: “Stage magic is huge these days. In the last fifteen years, the fantastic shoved its way into people’s lives. Monsters. Robots. Aliens from outer space. We resent it. We want to reclaim the fantastic for ourselves. To see an ordinary man, like us, do the impossible. Even if it’s all phony.”

Panel three: A black and white panel showing a man in a turn-of-the-century Manchu robe lying prone on a stage. Black blood covers the chest of the robe, pouring from a hole in the center of the man’s chest.

The narrator continues: “Though it's not just that. Everyone here knows the bullet catch is a trick. Everyone here also knows that it’s gone wrong in the past and killed magicians. Everyone here relishes the possibility of it happening tonight, deep in the parts of themselves they’d rather not admit.”

Panel four: Close on the gunman. He’s sweating badly.

The narrator continues: “That man loaded the gun himself with six bullets of his choice. He fired a few shots into a block of gel to test it. Nobody touched him, the gun, or the bullets since he got onstage. He even scanned Mephisto with a mutant detector to prove he’s gene-normal. All possible avenues of cheating have been cut off.”

“Right now that man is thinking what everyone else in the crowd is thinking.”

“How will he escape? I've seen the act a dozen times, and I've got it figured out."

"What’s the trick?”

Pages two and three: Double-page splash. The picture is drawn from the foot of the stage, on the right-hand side, where the gunman and Tamara, the Lovely Assistant, stand. The gunman fires. Tamara looks freaked out. The crowd, visible on the fringe of the page, looks freaked out too. The magician, dressed in a red tuxedo, is falling backwards. He’s been shot in the face.

The one and only caption reads: “There isn’t one.”

The title of the issue runs across the top of both pages: ROBINSON, THE MAN OF MYSTERY!

(I’ll stop with the script style of writing now, or this thing will be ridiculously long.*)

After lying still for a moment, the magician lifts his arm, reaches into his mouth, and holds up the bullet. He then stands up and bows. The magician's name, according to the narrator, is Robinson Yeung, popularly known as Mephisto. We see he's a handsome Asian man of indeterminate age.

We jump ahead in time to see the narrator, an attractive woman in her late thirties, approach Mephisto and Tamara in a hotel restaurant. Yeung is wearing all white, sipping a drink. The narrator tells us that Mephisto is on the last leg of his national tour, “The Gentleman from Hell,” and that this is her one shot to get help.

She introduces herself to the duo as Fabiana Downs and apologizes for the interruption. Mephisto is friendly, Tamara less so. Fabiana mentions the beauty of the bullet catch. She adds, "I've figured out how you do it." Tamara's eyes widen; Mephisto remains calm and amused. Fabiana continues, "Other magicians can't figure you out. They say your tricks are impossible. Background checks on you can't find anything beyond seven years ago."

Fabiana leans in close to Mephisto and whispers, a wry smile upon her lips, “You really are the devil, aren't you.”

Mephisto and Tamara laugh. “Of course,” he says.

Fabiana asks, "Can I buy Your Infernal Majesty a drink?"
Fabiana explains to the magicians what she's after. Two years ago, her husband George staked the future of his mattress store on a new product, the King Vibro Sleep-o-Tron. The product failed to catch on, and worse, the local chain stores were taking away his business. In desperation, he tried a dozen silly schemes, all failures.

George went so far as to try sorcery. “The crazy thing was,” Fabiana explains, “the sorcery worked.” Competing stores suffered from mysterious mechanical failures and flu outbreaks among their staffs. Then there was an inexplicable shift in taste among the locals, and the King Vibro Sleep-o-Tron was the bed everybody wanted. All of the sudden, Downs Beds was booming. “It was great,” she explains.

Tamara asks, "So?"

Fabiana looks away. "The magic became too much. George's lost his mind. He wants to use his magic in all sorts of awful ways, and he's threatened me. I think he wants to kill me."

Tamara responds, "Why should we care?"

Mephisto ignores his assistant and leans forward on the table, his eyes fixed on Fabiana. "We can't have that."

Tamara looks at Mephisto as though he's lost his mind, though she says nothing.

The scene shifts to a McMansion in St. Petersburg. It’s nestled in a community of McMansions, next to a golf course. An alligator swims in a water hazard. Fabiana's narration explains that she and George bought it a year ago, just as their success began.

Mephisto and Fabiana head into the backyard, where a tired-looking man in his late forties sits by a pool. He's wearing a salmon-colored golf shirt and chinos, both of which strain at the seams to contain the man's corpulence. "George?" Mephisto asks. He holds out a deck of cards, a large smile on his face. "Pick one."

George ignores the magician and instead addresses Fabiana. "Who is this?"

Fabiana ignores her husband and speaks to Mephisto, her eyes wild. "Take him! He's been holding out on you! Take him and let me go!"

George struggles to his feet, sweating and yelling. "What are you talking about, Fabiana? Who is this guy?"

Fabiana shoves Mephisto in the back, towards her husband. "Take him! He's evil and deserves what you can do!" She then points towards George. "This is Mephisto! He's come here to take your diseased soul to hell, where it belongs!"

"My preference is for slight-of-hand," Mephisto states. "Would you care for tickets to a show?"

Fabiana loses her grip. "You...fraud! George, get him!" George tells her to do it herself. In a rage, she reaches into her purse, pulls out a small revolver, and points it at the stage magician.

The gun flies out of Fabiana's hand and hangs in the air. It then disassembles into its component pieces and falls to the patio cement.

For a moment, no one speaks or moves. Then Fabiana clutches her husband's arm and yells for Mephisto to take George, not her, as George was the one who stole lives, and she was forced to help. George yells back that it was all her idea, and that she lured people to their traps.

She calls him a liar. He retaliates by using a hint of magic to hurl her onto the grass, akin to a hard shove. With this exertion of mystic power, George glows a little and loses some of his ample body fat. George then faces the magician. With a grunt, he grips Mephisto with solidified magical power and forces the stage magician into the pool.

George glows and slims as he uses his power to throw various objects into the pool on top of Yeung: a gas barbeque grill, lawn furniture, and so forth. The now-thin George yells to Mephisto that drowning is a horrible way to die, and that it should take a long time.

Fabiana rejoins her husband, speaking to him as though he were a child throwing a fit. She cajoles him to calm him down, sounding terribly phony. They bicker as Mephisto drowns. We see that George is not insane, but he's close. Determining who's the dominant member of the couple is far from clear.

The water from the pool explodes upward! The grill, the lawn furniture, the table rocket from the water. Following them is a levitating Mephisto. He looks pissed.

The couple flee and head into their house. They reach a room bare of furniture or ornamentation. Instead it contains arcane markings spray-painted upon the walls, a smattering of tools, and two dozen earthenware jars, each one the size of a child, scattered around the floor. "I'll get the hammer!" Fabiana cries. She grabs a sledgehammer from the wall as George positions himself in the middle of the room.

Mephisto walks through the house, taking his sweet time.

Fabiana smashes open a jar. Out of it comes a disembodied soul. George pulls it towards him and absorbs it, growing fatter. In a panic, she smashes more and more jars. George inflates and crackles with mystic energy. As Fabiana raises the hammer to smash another jar, George lets out a howl. He cannot contain the huge influx of mystic energy.

An arc of power courses off of him and strikes a jar, then another, and another. Every jar shatters.

The room is lost to a whirlwind of angry souls and mystic energies. George inflates more and more.

Mephisto reaches the door of the room.

And George explodes.

A brief time later, Fabiana awakes. She can feel the life leaving her body. She grows cold and sees that most of the house is gone.

From out of the rubble, Mephisto approaches. His face and body show several long cuts. The various cuts bleed in different colors: red, black, green, and gold. The many hues run in streaks down his white clothing.

Mephisto kneels beside her.

Fear fills her eyes as she whispers her last words: "You...the devil..."

Emotionless, he replies, "You'll find out."

He stands up and leaves her. She dies amidst the debris.

To be continued soon in Mephisto #2: Fatima the Dancer

NOTE: The index to "The Champions Project" can be found here.

-----------------------------------
*All that text on page one shouldn’t be too much. According to an interview with Alan Moore I dug up, Mort Weisinger, the legendary editor of DC Comics in the fifties, had a strict rule of no more than 210 words on a page. More than that, he insisted, would overwhelm the pictures. Page one of Mephisto #1 has 204 words. So it’s yappy but not over the limit.

Blog Bits: Batmania, Baseball, Burgundy

2006-05-01T15:57:00.000-04:00

Sorry about the lack of posting. Real life has taken me by the upper lip and pulled me around something fierce. Actual important crap, serious events concerning life, death, and finances have kept me from blogging.

I must say, I much prefer four-color comic book DRAMA! to the real thing. My everyday life plays much better as light comedy than heavy drama.

Plus a spate of long-assed workdays lately haven't helped the noble cause of blog blather. Ugh.

----------------

For the three or four of you who actually read 'em, the next two entries in "The Champions Project" are just about ready.

Mephisto will be played pretty straight. I'm gunning for coherency and a sustained mood, neither of which is my strong suit. We'll see.

The mood of The Reject is best summed up by the first story's title: "City of Lights, City of Bees!"

In said story, I promise you Paris, a Nazi made of bees, Karkas (that big red dude on the right) wearing a moustache while being interviewed on French television, and a robot Tyrannosaurus Rex destroying the Hotel de Ville with his sonic breath.

It's time to Bring the Wacky.

Putting up first drafts of writing projects is more nerve-wracking than I expected. Even glancing at the bits later, I can see weak spots, dropped subplots, and outright holes. I comfort myself by saying I would fix it in rewrite, if I were rewriting anything.

----------------

For your viewing pleasure, here's a picture of Batman and his Evil Universe Counterpart, Cody.

In the picture, Bats is demonstrating to Cody the value of stuffing the secret compartment of one's belt buckle with a survival kit. If you look closely, you can see it holds a Swiss Army knife, food for three days, a rebreather, a signal flare, novelty prophylactics, a pad of sticky notes, a Svengali deck of trick cards, an English-to-Basque dictionary, all six of the starting lineup of the 1979 Philadelphia Flyers, a surface-to-air missile, and a quarter for phone calls.

----------------

Essential Thor Volume 1 is boring and silly. Essential Thor Volume 2 is kickass.

Volume 2 shows Kirby gone wild. (Thankfully, his shirt stayed on. Perhaps had we offered him more beads?) He unleashed the crazed mythological imagery that he later brought to his Fourth World books. The stories in Volume 2 grew away from the series' earlier approach of "man acts as pagan god" and its repetitive plot hinge: "must...regain hammer...before sixty seconds...elapse!"

Instead, Kirby shifted the focus of the series to the world of Asgard and all manner of things divine. The comics revel in the grand sweep and strange feel of Norse myths.

Ya know, the only other period of Thor's history that was kickass was the Simonson period, when Walt took the same angle.

I'm just sayin'.

---------------

A blog I greatly enjoy is "Management by Baseball." Jeff Angus uses baseball to explain business ideas, and makes a lot of sense. If nothing else, one's success or failure is pretty obvious in baseball, making it an excellent source for seeing what works and what doesn't.

Angus uses a term (which I think he coined, but I'm not sure) that could be well-applied to fanboy discourse. When writing about managers who refuse to change because "it's always been done like X in the past," folks who hate anything different, he refers to them as "bitgods." It's an acronym for "Back In The Good Old Days."

Granted, I'm a fan of old-school comics, but bitgods drive me freakin' nuts. Ever forward, ya bastids.

--------------

Several of Steve Ditko's later creations had secret identities as television newsmen: the Question, the Creeper, Shag... He seemed to love the idea of the noble and dogged crusader who would dig for the truth and then broadcast it to all. Plus stomp hippies. Ditko's heroes loved to stomp on hippies.

Then there's the great fictional anchorman of our times, Ron Burgundy. Burgundy, ably played by Will Ferrell, was a great newsman and a fine human being. Plus his apartment smells of rich mahogany.

You can see where I'm going with this, can't you.

Oh yes. And it's so very right.

The Question, starring Will Ferrell.

"You stay classy, Hub City."

It could work...the crackpot "objectivist" philosophy Ditko infused into the character...the "faceless man" jokes his mask would inspire...the warped conspiracy theories...

Vic Sage, crusading reporter and self-appointed "Last Honest Man" declares war on the underworld of Hub City, convinced that an alliance of hippies and traitors are poisoning hair products and using the Mafia to distribute their foul chemicals. During his hippie-stomping activities, he trips across an actual criminal conspiracy, though he can't tell nor can he understand it...

Yes...it could work...

What Separates Me from Pagan Godhood

2006-04-23T17:12:00.000-04:00

A careful combing of the works of Ovid, Homer, Stirluson, and Marvel Comics has convinced me that only three things separate me from pagan godhood.

What keeps me from joining the Norse Gods in Asgard?

First:
When Thor swings his hammer in a circle around his head, he can create whirlwinds, draw down thunder, breach dimensional barriers, and travel through time.

When I swing my hammer in a circle around my head, I annoy my wife and scare the cats. Not one whirlwind.

Stupid hardware store clerks! I specifically asked for the enchanted hammer that only the righteous could lift and that could...oh, never mind.

Second:
I lack the fuzzy slippers of the mighty god of wisdom, war, battle, and death, Odin.
How could I possibly have them? They are wrapped in mystery! Do they have vinyl non-skid soles? Or are they perhaps rubber? I do not and cannot know! And thus I am denied divinity!

Cruel fates!

Third:
I could never get away with wearing this hat. It's far too rock star for a puny mortal such as myself.

Were I to dare such a feat of fashion splendor, surely the jealous gods would strike me down as a threat to their fabulousness.

Tempt not the gods, my brothers. Do not attempt to wear such a hat.

The Champions Project: The Black Knight #4

2006-04-22T12:15:00.000-04:00

The Black Knight #4: The Black Knight Must Die!

Splash page: In the wreckage of an apartment building, a scrawny blond-haired man dressed in surgical scrubs points at the reader. Though is face is mostly covered by his surgical mask, we can tell he's angry and more than a little crazy. Floating in the air around him are a half-dozen large firearms, all pointed at the reader too. The captions tell us that we're looking at Doctor Danger and the Invisible Gunmen.

Voice balloons appear in thin air near the guns. "Let's get him!" "Bloodbath, baby!" "Locked and loaded!" "Aaaahhm the human weeeeedgie!"

And one big voice balloon comes from the Doctor himself. "THE BLACK KNIGHT MUST DIE!"

On the next page, we see James Gates, the Black Knight, on the ground, trapped in the debris from the fight. His thought balloons fill us in. "Crazy...shooting up Baldwin Park...why can't I hit the gunmen..." He is not armed with the Ebony Blade. Instead he has his photonic shield and a lightsaber of sorts. "Computer systems in the armor gone all wonky..."

The guns open fire. The Black Knight raises his shield and saves himself, though the shield shorts out afterwards. Doctor Danger raises his arms in a strange pose and howls.

Gates then recognizes the patterns in the wonky sensor readings. The "doctor" is at the center of a strong, highly-focused magnetic field. "Oh hell yes," James thinks. He pushes a button on his arm.

The guns fall out of the air. Doctor Danger looks around, terrified.

The Black Knight gets up. "There are no invisible gunmen. Just magnetic fields and ventriloquism." Without ceremony, he belts the villain. Doctor Danger drops. The Black Knight shakes his head. "Weak."

As he crawls out of the wreckage of the apartment building, the Black Knight sees the Ebony Blade, half-withdrawn from its scabbard. He leaves it.

Later that day, Dr. James Gates commiserates with Jivraj Mehta in Jivraj's apartment over bad coffee. Gates is pointing at the screen of his laptop computer. "Look at the news. 'Black Knight Stops Gunman.' 'Black Knight Fights Loony.' Since I'm a black man, I have to be called 'the Black Knight,' don't I. Gotta make sure to work 'black' somewhere in there." Gates is wearing several necklaces and bracelets, all of weird design.

Mehta bites into a scone. "Isn't that what you call yourself?"

"Yeah, but I didn't tell anyone at the scene. They just dubbed me that. Couldn't be 'the White Knight' or the 'Shining Knight," oh no. Black Knight."

Jivraj thinks. "Why are you running around like a superhero anyway? Can't help your chances for tenure."

"It's either punch out super-lunatics or kick the hell out of the faculty." Gates gets up and goes to Jivraj's refrigerator. "Which would be--"

He opens the refrigerator door and the Ebony Blade falls out of it.

"Damn," he mutters.

We then move to a montage of the sword appearing in weird places in Gates's life. In the trunk of his car, in his bed, everywhere.

The montage ends with James alone in his apartment, the Ebony Blade on his table. His eyes are fixed upon it, deep concentration evident upon his face. Unlike before, when Gates's apartment was bare of ornamentation, the walls are now covered in pictures and crude geometric murals that mimic the patterns on his bracelets and pendants. Throughout the room are mystic trinkets from cultures around the world: African, Asian, Native American.

"You can't get away from it, Jim," comes a voice from behind.

Gates doesn't turn around. "Dane, why are you here?"

"I broke the curse twice. It always comes back."

Gates stands and faces the ghost of his cousin. "Merlin sent you."

"I understand you better than he does."

"Tell him to find someone else." Gates turns back to his table. The ghost of Dane Whitman disappears.

We then see Gates in his full armor, driving a rusty Toyota Tercel. His thought balloons clue us in: he can feel in his mind that Merlin will give him one last chance. To prevent other people from getting hurt, James has decided to give his answer at the Salton Sea. It's the largest lake in California, the product of an accident in 1905. Fed entirely by farm runoffs, the lake is saltier than the ocean, of unstable size, and unable to support life.*

The sun sets. On the shore of the dead lake, the Black Knight is ready, the Ebony Blade in his hand.

Merlin appears, his lime-green leisure suit glowing in the moonlight. "Come, my knight."

James Gates raises the sword to an on-guard position. "No."

Merlin's rage distorts the world itself. The lake bursts into flame. Ground buckles and ripples. And the ghosts of every single Black Knight in history materialize. Their armors and looks vary. All of them carry copies of the Ebony Blade.

"KILL HIM!" cries the sorcerer.

The Black Knight does his best to protect himself from the army of spectral Black Knights as the world buckles around him. Surfing the crest of a wave of rock, he slices at a pair of sixteenth century Black Knights. The blade passes through them. The only part of the ghosts that feels solid are the sword blades.

A few of their swords do find their mark, slicing open Gates's powered armor and cutting into the man himself. Yet he does not die. The protection of the Ebony Blade keeps him alive.

Merlin growls at him, "Over a thousand years and not one man has proven fit to be the Black Knight! Each one a waste!" Merlin then beckons down lightning. Struck, Gates falls. He rises, still alive.

The sorcerer's rant continues. "Whitman was too willful! Garrington too foolish! And you! You ungrateful child!" The flaming water of the Salton Sea takes on the shape of a humanoid creature, three hundred feet tall. The flaming water creature lashes at Gates. "I have made you a man! The song of battle echoes in your once-cowardly heart! And still you would deny me!"

The battle pauses for a moment. Gates is surrounded by the ghosts of previous Black Knights. For the first time we can see the faces of a few Black Knights. James sees Dane Whitman in the forefront of the ghosts. Whitman locks eyes with Gates and whispers, "Through me..."

A light bulb goes off in Gates's head.

He charges at the Black Knights, swinging his sword and letting out a battle cry. He passes through the ghosts. His sword swings accomplish nothing. But neither do theirs. They can cut him, they can inflict great pain upon him, but since he holds the Ebony Sword, he cannot die.

The Black Knight tears through the last of the ghosts and comes face-to-face with Leisure Suit Merlin. He raises his sword up high...

Merlin raises his hand to catch and shatter the blade...

And in a big splash page, James Gates, Ph.D., kicks the old man square in the nuts.

Merlin topples over. The ghosts of the Black Knights gasp in unison.

Gates towers over the fallen and injured old man. "Maybe I'm stuck with the sword and the curse. But I'm not stuck with you. I'm done."

He then faces the shocked ghosts. He cries out "It's OVER! THE BLACK KNIGHT IS DEAD!"

A chorus of ghostly cheering rises from the shores of the Salton Sea.

We then jump to a calm suburban morning. Darrell is reading the LA Times with his wife, Janice. "Got a call from Jimmy yesterday," Darrell says.

"How's he doing?" she asks.

We see the front page of the paper. It's Gates in a slightly modified version of his battle armor, using the Ebony Blade against the Bi-Beast in the middle of the LA Freeway. The headline reads "New Hero 'The Swordsman' Saves Commuters."

"He says he's doin' great."

...

To be concluded in The Champions #1, in a few months!

Come back next week for the next issue in the Champions Project, The Reject #1: The Demon in Cell Thirteen!

NOTE: The index to "The Champions Project" can be found here.

----------------------
*Okay, okay, in the real world, the Salton Sea isn't dead yet, though its salinity is rising rapidly. In the MU, I'm declaring it to have already become a giant freakin' dead zone. Maybe that's where HYDRA dumped its munitions waste or Tony Stark's ill-fated waffle empire had to dispose of its petroleum-based faux-maple syrup.

Releasing the Inner Beavis

2006-04-20T15:40:00.000-04:00

My inner Beavis must have its day.

Thus, I give you...The Atom.

Hehhehehehehehmmmheheheheh. He said...he said... hehehehehemmmheheheh!

And...uh...nice butt, dude. Yeah!

Hehehehehehehmmmheheheh!

Maturity will return with later posts. Relative maturity, at least.

A disturbing confession: I have Beavis's hair. Seriously.

The only member of the comic blogosphere who's ever seen me in the flesh is Devon of Seven Hells. He could probably vouch for my Beavis-do, provided he remembers my brief visit to Big Monkey Comics.

The ladies, they love the Beavis 'do. The sniggering immaturity and nose-picking, not so much. But the hair? Drives 'em wild.

(I could also be described as a possessor of "the Terry Long look," but he's too dang skeevy. I'll stick with Brother Beavis. There's more dignity in the nose-picking couch-surfer than the creepy ex-professor-guy.)

-------------------------------
Apologies to Dial B for Blog, from whom I copped the panel. He avoided the sniggering jokes. Me, I have to drag everything down and ruin it for everybody. Because that's the kind of man I am. Heh.

The Champions Project: Moondragon #4

2006-04-15T10:57:00.000-04:00

Moondragon #4: I and Thou

Splash page: Moondragon kneels in tall grass over the body of Alice Coughlin. Alice has a long bar of metal protruding from her back. Blood covers her back and forms a pool around Moondragon's boots. Captions read: "Moments ago, Alice Coughlin was impaled. Nearly slain twice before by strange beings for reasons unknown, she has been under the protection of Moondragon. The Priestess of Pama employed Alice as a way to understand humanity."

Moondragon has a single thought balloon: "Disappointing."

Another caption reads: "Her understanding is incomplete."

On the next page we see the Laughing Killers from the previous issue emerge from the smashed-open entrance to the MegaMart. They are silent. Moondragon comes to her feet and assumes a fighting stance. When the nine Laughers see that Alice is dying, they turn from Moondragon and walk away into the parking lot. As they leave, Moondragon feels the psionic jamming from the attackers fade away.

She scowls. "I'll follow them later," she thinks. She then turns back to Alice. Alice has not yet died, but it won't be long. Frustration etches Moondragon's face. More than anything, she's burning with curiosity about who would go to such lengths to kill such a useless person as Alice Coughlin, fake psychic. Two armies of orangutans, a group of nine laughing middle-aged superpowered assassins...she had to know.

She places one hand upon Alice's bloodstained face. Before the woman dies, Moondragon decides, she will perform one last probe of the unremarkable woman's mind.

We see a small checkerboard montage of Alice's life: childhood, marriages, and so forth. No luck. "Alright," Moondragon thinks. "To the depths." And so she digs herself deep into the core of Alice's mind.

Double-page splash. Structured exactly like the double-page montage of Moondragon's life back in issue #1, we see the full scope of Alice's life.

A lot of it is less than pretty, and most of that is Alice's own doing. We see that Alice is greedy, a liar, and dishonest. Her life is pathetic, shallow, and venal. And yet it no less a treasure for all that. Despite her shabby character and foolishness, her life is beautiful. It has a value beyond price. And we see that though her story is different from Moondragon's, the feeling is the same.

We come back to Moondragon, kneeling beside Alice. Tears stream down the heroine's face. She still does not understand why Alice was attacked, but she now knows Alice as well as she knows herself. For the first time, Moondragon sees Alice as a person instead of a puzzle, an impediment, or a joke. The Priestess of Pama has discovered what humanity is, and that, despite her longstanding resistance to the notion, she is a part of it.

Using her telekinesis, she withdraws the spear from Alice's back and does what she can to keep her newfound sister alive.

Meanwhile, three police cars squeal into the parking lot of the MegaMart in front of the now-silent Laughing Killers. Six police burst out of the squad cars, guns drawn. They yell at the Laughers to halt.

All nine middle-aged killers begin to laugh again.

We jump back to Moondragon, lost in concentration. She's trying to suture together Alice's ruptured organs and stop the bleeding with her telekinetic powers. Large patches of dirt and blood stain her white sci-fi outfit. Grief and loss distort her face.

Cracks of gunfire draw her attention.

We see what she does: the police officers are being manhandled by the Laughing Killers. One has levitated a squad car nine feet in the air. Another is arcing lightning bolts from her body. A short man has lifted an officer above his head. Laughter barks across the asphalt.

Until a mud-caked sci-fi superheroine tears into them. Her kung-fu skills unloads generous portions of whoopassedness to two of the Laughers. They skid across the asphalt, losing a bit of skin. We see that beneath their skins is metal, blood, and a green viscous liquid.

Moondragon fights harder than we've ever seen her. Her psionic powers muted by whichever of the nine cyborgs is the psi-jammer, she has only her physical skills to take care of business. As she fights, dodging lightning bolts, punching men in the head, and flipping around, the captions tell us what she is thinking: I will protect my sisters and brothers. Every single one of them. I will die if I must, but I will not let a single one be hurt. Not one. Never. These sentiments are spread among panels of carnage.

The floating squad car hurls towards Moondragon. She dodges it as it smashes against the pavement. The car flies at her again, this time sideways. She leaps at the car and passes through the smashed-open driver's side window. Her momentum and the movement of the car help her pass through the smashed-open passenger window as well. She hits the ground, rolls, and comes up with a devastating punch into a cyborg woman's face.

As the cyborg woman collapses, Moondragon feels the psionic jamming stop. She hit the right one at last.

"Now, you animals," Moondragon declares. "It ends."

She levitates all nine cyborgs and smashes them together with a mighty WHOOM! She then "switches off" their minds and drops them to the asphalt.

One of the officers approaches her and asks her if she's okay. Moondragon looks back to the spot where Alice lay. "I don't know," she says.

We jump to a hospital. Moondragon has a few gauze pads and whatnot stuck to her face. She's in a waiting room, fear and impatience evident in her manner. As she paces, she barks at the hospital staff. (She's come to appreciate the value of human life--that doesn' t mean she's mellowed in the least.) She sits down and fumes. Her telepathic abilities have told her that the surgeons aren't done yet with Alice. They think she'll pull through, but aren't sure.

A middle-aged man takes a cup of coffee from the nearby machine and sits next to her.

It's John Massero.

"Alice Coughlin," he says. "Amazing."

Moondragon looks up in surprise. "Who are--"

"About thirty years ago, Alice turned down a boy named Warshaw for a date." Massero drinks his coffee. "He holds a hell of a grudge."

Moondragon rummages through her memories of Alice. "Charlie?"

"Yeah."

The fury in Moondragon's eyes is enough to blister the page. "Charlie did this? Because of high school?"

"Yeah. He wanted to 'get even' with her before his big move."

Moondragon makes two fists. "Where is he?"

Massero smiles. "I'm going after him. You want in?"

We end on Moondragon and John Massero shaking hands. Oh yeah, she's in.

To be concluded in The Champions #1, in a few months!

Come back in two weeks for the next issue in the Champions Project, Mephisto #1: Robinson, the Man of Mystery!

NOTE: The index to "The Champions Project" can be found here.