tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-188277212024-03-07T17:39:19.142-05:00Superheroes, etc.Mick Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06320185841491084888noreply@blogger.comBlogger292125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18827721.post-53954774935499043252022-02-22T09:51:00.001-05:002022-02-22T09:51:56.038-05:00Save It For Later<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhPq_8lOm8lJGYNzSH3_OR9ZCxX6rOE91UEYVvFpILPk5hM0DYtpI3v5yU2NoeRFhDDySkp8yFeERdw0D9ja7axcdOpIOAsGnTPkdY_dEFVSMrXdDnaz3uUdip5SDmdOk9pJd13tWfokdHSB0jaHHTRJ0fu_nuuRiKSlwwQp1kDKkL4S3KsAQ=s600" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="328" data-original-width="600" height="311" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhPq_8lOm8lJGYNzSH3_OR9ZCxX6rOE91UEYVvFpILPk5hM0DYtpI3v5yU2NoeRFhDDySkp8yFeERdw0D9ja7axcdOpIOAsGnTPkdY_dEFVSMrXdDnaz3uUdip5SDmdOk9pJd13tWfokdHSB0jaHHTRJ0fu_nuuRiKSlwwQp1kDKkL4S3KsAQ=w567-h311" width="567" /></a></div><p>"My soul was empty -- and it's up to me to fill it."</p><p>That's from <i>Grosse Pointe Blank</i>. John Cusack. During a break in a gunfight, Cusack explains to Minnie Driver -- from the other side of a bathroom door -- why he stood her up at prom a decade earlier and started on a path that led to him becoming a professional hitman. He references his dysfunctional home: a mentally ill mother and an alcoholic father. This isn't an excuse, he says. It's a reason. "My soul was empty -- and it's up to me to fill it."</p><p>I find myself looking down a similar barrel. Minus a lot of specifics.</p><p>I have never felt such overwhelming despair. There is my girlfriend. There are my cats. Everything else is darkness. In an uncharacteristic move, I will avoid details. On one hand, making my particular bummers public will only invite more negative consequences. On the other, in a similarly uncharacteristic development, I am too thoroughly bored with my own despair to elaborate. I am always on the edge of stupid, useless tears. There is nothing waiting on the other side of the bad things. There is bad and more bad and sleep and then repeat. </p><p>So here is my response. I will lose the weight and take the pills and stop the binges and work and write. I will keep having the ineffective talks and making the ridiculous schedules and going to the gym. I will budget and save and take my vitamins and drink my water and recycle. </p><p>None of it will mean anything. I will look better. My body will be able to do more. People will like me more and pretend they don't like me more because I look better. Maybe I'll make more money. None of it matters. </p><p>But I have nothing else. Everything is gone. It wasn't flushed -- it wasn't there in the first place. The beacons were never lit. God was always dead. There was never a light at the end of the tunnel. There was never a light or a tunnel. There is nothing more than a yawning void. Everything is suffering and I will keep going because there is simply nothing else to do.</p><p>My soul is empty and it's up to me to fill it. I'm not sure what I'll find. Jesus, I hope it isn't Jesus.</p><p>Dave Wakeling of The English Beat said "Save It For Later" is about the transition from childhood to adulthood -- like one dude is saying to another dude, "save it for later, don't grow up yet." He also said it was originally about fellatio; as in, "save it fellater." </p><p>I think the interpretation of song lyrics is highly subjective. </p><p>I also think Dave Wakeling is a motherfucking liar. </p><p><i><span face="Roboto, arial, sans-serif" jsname="YS01Ge" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-size: 14px;">Sooner or later your legs give way, you hit the ground</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span face="Roboto, arial, sans-serif" jsname="YS01Ge" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-size: 14px;">Save it for later, don't run away and let me down</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span face="Roboto, arial, sans-serif" jsname="YS01Ge" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-size: 14px;">Sooner or later you'll hit the deck, you'll get found out</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span face="Roboto, arial, sans-serif" jsname="YS01Ge" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-size: 14px;">Save it for later, don't run away and let me down, you let me down</span></i></p><p><span face="Roboto, arial, sans-serif" jsname="YS01Ge" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-size: 14px;">I know what "Save It For Later" is about. I listen to the song every day. And every time I listen to it, I make a promise. It's not a hard promise to keep because I'm a coward. Always have been. Always will be. But still. I save it for later. I keep going. The alternative is unthinkable, as much as my feelings scream at me otherwise. </span></p><p><span face="Roboto, arial, sans-serif" jsname="YS01Ge" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-size: 14px;">Also, just to keep everything above board -- more often than not I listen to the Harvey Danger version from the soundtrack of <i>200 Cigarettes</i>. I like it better. </span><span face="Roboto, arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-size: 14px;">Don't judge me. Or do. Everything is stupid.</span></p><p><br /></p>Mick Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06320185841491084888noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18827721.post-64515235015040955872020-08-25T04:36:00.003-04:002020-08-25T04:39:58.555-04:00Wanna know my secret?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit9ExOlUCZV1SI3xdvsoZYYtKvjV7wrXpxr8sT_2JeoBzwwqXWojjc0WPrTPFuJyiH7WhVsEN3Yt0Zf2sg-7FCjaWl_kKe1cFbVqEdW7MKxunJt8Dz3g8Vd7tXeHz9hZQW9EIv/s500/secretbanner.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="281" data-original-width="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit9ExOlUCZV1SI3xdvsoZYYtKvjV7wrXpxr8sT_2JeoBzwwqXWojjc0WPrTPFuJyiH7WhVsEN3Yt0Zf2sg-7FCjaWl_kKe1cFbVqEdW7MKxunJt8Dz3g8Vd7tXeHz9hZQW9EIv/s0/secretbanner.jpg" /></a></div><p>My best pandemic secret is that I didn't need this long, dark night to lose everything. My work already suffered. I already couldn't pay my bills. I already spent most of my time in my apartment. My eating already went to shit. When I look at my scale or my bank account or my employer's latest comments about my job performance, I can lay zero blame at a plague's doorstep. It's all me.</p><p>It's not complicated. I just want to eat and sleep until I die. I wake up, I shower, I eat breakfast, I go back to sleep. I sleep as long as I can and once I can't sleep anymore I watch TV and play video games - anything but work. </p><p>I need to work now, but I don't want to work now. I need to write about a comic book character who's going to be showing up in a movie sometime this year or next year or maybe in 2022 or who the fuck knows. But I don't want to. Even though I know nothing's open and I know I can't afford to pay this month's bills, I want to find a store and buy enough chocolate and peanut butter to kill a Klingon. I want to sleep and stay asleep. </p><p>I owe so much fucking money to so many fucking people I may as well be the president. </p><p>My back hurts. My shoulders hurt. All I can do is throw anti-inflammatories in my face and apply heat and ice and icy heat and hope it's enough to help me avoid an urgent care visit I can't afford.</p><p>I'm doing things. I'm on meds I can't afford. Maybe I should call the psych NP and ask for better or more meds, but I already owe her for my last appointment. I'm back in OA. I go to Zoom OA meetings. I like them better than in-person meetings actually. I don't know any of these people and haven't learned to dislike them yet. They're all in NYC and LA and Spain and Australia and beyond. I send my sponsor my food. I've lost a little weight. For two days in a row I've gone outside for walks, twice per day. Just like Jesse Owens.</p><p>Things have improved enough that when I tell myself everything's hopeless, a tiny sliver of me smells a lie. But sometimes that doesn't feel better. Sometimes hopelessness would be a comfort. Hope creates expectations. Expectations mean less sleep.</p><p>I'm not okay. I still haven't figured out any good reason for me to be alive other than someone has to feed my cats. But I'm doing the things I said I would do even though I hate every second.</p><p>I have to write about a comic book character now. I'd rather be sleeping. Not going to promise I won't go to sleep. My pillowcases are in the wash, but that won't stop me. I'll sleep with naked pillows. Just like Davy Crockett. </p>Mick Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06320185841491084888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18827721.post-64335552216044416852020-02-17T10:19:00.002-05:002020-02-17T10:21:05.450-05:00Demons at my door<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
The meds seem to be doing their job. I am not crying at every song I hear. I am not crying at every episode of <i>Star Trek </i>I watch. Not <i>every </i>episode of <i>Star Trek.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
The depression is dialed down but louder than ever is a constant sense of anxiety revolving around my financial situation. I don't know if I regret my decision to leave the State to become a freelance writer full time. I am a professional writer. I am the thing I always wanted to be. But every dark possibility is always outside my door. What if my car breaks down? What if my cats get sick? What if my frozen shoulder comes back? What if my cancer comes back and I don't even know it?<br />
<br />
When I reach deep I find something that tells me that this is my path. It's going to be hard, but it's where I'm supposed to go. But I don't know how to live every day with every demon pounding on my door.<br />
<br />
And what's worse is that I don't have a clear idea of why I'm enduring this. What am I hoping for? Because <i>this</i>? This is not enough. But I don't know what is. Getting a full-time writing job at one of these sites so I can go to a medical appointment occasionally? Publishing a novel? Getting a job writing for a sitcom? Ghostwriting memoirs? Or maybe just grabbing onto whatever regular 9-5 job will have me whether it involves writing, filing, or calling up strangers all day to find out if they've considered this miraculous new weight loss drug?<br />
<br />
I don't know. I just don't want to worry anymore. Every dark possibility will be there whether I worry about it or not. Fate doesn't need my imagination, and my worry doesn't provide a force field against it. But still I feed it and I don't know how to stop.Mick Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06320185841491084888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18827721.post-12408085325985578592020-02-12T08:27:00.001-05:002020-02-12T08:27:35.169-05:00Mick + Meds, Day 1<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
Outside my psychiatric nurse practitioner's office yesterday, I cried listening to a Jewel song playing in the waiting room. I wasn't even listening to the words. I don't know what she was singing about. I know it was one of her hits and I could find it easily enough, but I don't care. I just cared enough to cry, but I cry at anything.<br />
<br />
She gave me meds (my psychiatric nurse practitioner gave me meds, not Jewel). I finally have meds again. A kind I've never tried before. They might work in a week. In a week I'll be happy I started them when I did, today I'm just regretting the absence of a silver bullet. I took my first pill after breakfast and I told myself a hundred thousand times it wouldn't fix everything and I wouldn't feel anything right away and then I didn't feel anything right away and I thought, "this is bullshit."<br />
<br />
I'm going to OA again. It's hard. It's hard to be present. It's hard to not be angry. It's hard to grieve my mother and be surrounded by all these my-mother-aged women. It's hard to keep hearing about God and God and God and God and God and God. Someone said they know God is there because when she can't find a parking space she asks God for a parking space and hey, alakazam, there's a parking space. I wanted to ask her where "Higher Power" was when I "put my intention to the universe" for help in the wake of my mother's death and the universe gave me a middle finger, because at the time I strongly felt like I could find my own fucking parking spaces. I wanted to ask her if she's considered traveling to places where people have seen their families chopped up by machetes so she can share with them the miracle of her available parking spaces. I wanted to ask her if she's ever considered she finds the parking spaces because roughly 73 fucking percent of America is fucking parking spaces. Saying any of these things would, I suspect, be frowned upon in a 12-step meeting, I think. So instead I just sat there and hated.<br />
<br />
But the meetings help. They do. I don't know how but they do.<br />
<br />
When I am writing, I am okay and then I have to go home to my neighbors who are just people but their slightest sound drives me to rage. And the rage only exacerbates the constant, doubtless, torturous sense that everything is wrong and everything is futile and everything is pain.<br />
<br />
I just want to sleep. I want to sleep and I want to be warm and I want the world to go away.<br />
<br />
I care about myself. This is a revelation. The other day, I mentioned to Jolene that I knew something was terribly wrong because as depressed as I am, I don't want to binge on food. The urge is not there. I don't want to go to the drug store and buy five different "party" or "family" size bags of candy and finish them all before it gets dark. It wouldn't help. It wouldn't even give me a temporary respite, and I know that, but that's never stopped me before. So, I told Jolene, that was a bad sign. Like, I care so little about anything that I don't even have the energy to engage in my usual method of self-destruction. And then I said I was worried I might start using alcohol. Because I'm not immune to that yet. It <i>would </i>give me a couple of hours of comfort. Maybe.<br />
<br />
But then I thought about all that yesterday, and it occurred to me that, yes, the alcohol would give me a temporary comfort but I'm not drinking it. So maybe the urge to binge on food isn't there because I care about myself. Because I want to get better. That, in fact, maybe that was the <i>only </i>possibility.<br />
<br />
Because things are harder than they have ever been. This is grief but this is also more. This is constant, unceasing despair. There's no break from it, it's always there - there are simply times when it takes me over and times when I'm distracted so it's waiting to take me over and there are times when I'm asleep. So if I didn't care about myself, if I wanted to destroy myself for the sake of temporary relief, I would.<br />
<br />
So I give a shit about myself, yay. And that's good. That's great. That's as close to a miracle as I'll get. But I'm still in Hell.<br />
<br />
Maybe it'll be better in a week. I think it might be. I feel like it will never be. I hope feelings are stupid.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Mick Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06320185841491084888noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18827721.post-76627954561449546272020-01-06T14:12:00.000-05:002020-01-06T14:12:01.360-05:00Mick, Dinosaur News Manager<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA5NvDrXNZaiacMihqV7Z9OxWFVTubrX8nQrNHfEgZtS9wKYpu4SK2uQ1U0TahpM8_mlKhaGHnjopZ7qW3YRP3am1dpkFFT7GvX1-uVIv_xa6XUWn_hsr1qPgDTHs42_epJMfJ/s1600/dmanhattan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="281" data-original-width="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA5NvDrXNZaiacMihqV7Z9OxWFVTubrX8nQrNHfEgZtS9wKYpu4SK2uQ1U0TahpM8_mlKhaGHnjopZ7qW3YRP3am1dpkFFT7GvX1-uVIv_xa6XUWn_hsr1qPgDTHs42_epJMfJ/s1600/dmanhattan.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
This is me. There will be typos. I'm not going to edit. I don't have the time.<br />
<br />
--<br />
<br />
This morning I got on the scale and it told me my weight was "E." You step on it and first it say 0.00 and then it does this cycling thing like it's thinking about your weight and then it should give you a number, but my scale says I weigh "E."<br />
<br />
My weight is Extraordinary. Exciting.<br />
<br />
I weigh Empty.<br />
<br />
Other people weigh numbers. I weigh E.<br />
<br />
I don't know what E means. It could mean anything or Everything. I weigh Excellent. I weigh Everyone. I weigh Elephant.<br />
<br />
Ask Sesame Street. The fuck do I know.<br />
<br />
--<br />
<br />
I should be writing. I mean, I am writing, but I should be writing something else. I should be writing about Harley Quinn or samurai or Jean-Luc Picard<br />
<br />
(okay, I should mention I am going back and correcting things as I write them, just for full disclosure)<br />
<br />
but I'm not because I can't stand to.<br />
<br />
Here is a complete list of things I am capable of doing right now:<br />
<br />
1. Sleeping.<br />
<br />
--<br />
<br />
My mom's been dead for over a year and at this point I'm supposed to be fine according to the rules but I'm not. I have not been okay and I am not okay and it is still impossible to imagine I will ever be okay again.<br />
<br />
I am supposed to be able to do my work. I <i>was</i>, in May 2018, supposed to be able to get up out of bed and go to work and sort through patient files and sign up people for Medicare and Medicaid and food stamps, but I couldn't do it. I couldn't do it, so since I was already freelance writing part time on the side, I stopped going to work and started freelance writing full time.<br />
<br />
Everyone thinks this was brave. Everyone thinks I made a bold move to realize my dreams. I did not.<br />
<br />
There is a show called <i>The Office</i> about a stupid, privileged, self-absorbed moron named Michael who runs an office and there is a character on that show, played by Leslie David Baker, named Stanley Hudson. To most people <i>the </i>hero of the office is Jim, the torch-bearing salesman. Or Pam, the secretary scared of her true feelings. Or worse, the idiot boss himself, or his ignorant survivalist douchebag assistant Dwight. Most people will not tell you this, but Stanley is the true hero of <i>The Office </i>because he is the only sane member of the staff. Stanley doesn't take center stage often. He does his crosswords and weathers his stupid, racist supervisor's idiocy with eye rolls and grunts. Because that's the only sane way to both stay in this ridiculous work environment -- to not care, to do the bare minimum, and distract yourself until retirement.<br />
<br />
In season 3's "Grief Counseling," Michael's old boss dies and because in his limited mind everything in the universe orbits his dumb face, Michael makes it all about himself. He insists on running a faux grief counseling session even though few people in the office even knew his old boss. He uses a toy and tells his staff anyone holding the toy must speak about a death in their lives that cut deep. He tosses the toy to Stanley, who refuses and tosses the toy back. Michael insists Stanley share and throws the toy back to him. Stanley, now upset enough that his usual facade of apathy crumbles, throws the toy back at his boss as hard as he can and says<br />
<br />
I WILL NOT.<br />
<br />
This is Stanley's most naked moment in the series. It's brief and it comes without fanfare, but in this exchange you see Stanley has true grief but this baboon throwing a toy at him is not worthy of its sharing. Michael and his coworkers are not his family, are not close, are not even truly friends, and Stanley makes his boundaries clear.<br />
<br />
I WILL NOT.<br />
<br />
That's all I did. Except no one was asking me to share my grief at work. My coworkers were good people and so was my boss. But I could not be there anymore because I couldn't help but share my grief because it was all I had left. I spent hours sobbing in my cubicle, trying my best to do it quietly and praying no one heard me even though I knew they had to. I did that for months. And I could see the confusion in my coworkers' faces, that my mother had died in October and it had been Halloween and thanksgiving and Christmas and New Years and then January and Valentine's Day and St. Patrick's Day and I <i>still </i>was a wreck? There was no help. It's not their fault, I don't blame them. It was as if death was as far from them as Mars.<br />
<br />
The Monday that I didn't go to work didn't come with courage or boldness. It just came with a refusal. I will not be there today. I will not sob there today or any other day. I will not be enveloped in utter despair and need to act as if it's just another day. I will not. I can't.<br />
<br />
I wasn't brave. I wasn't bold. I had the courage of a trapped animal gnawing off its own paw.<br />
<br />
--<br />
<br />
So now I'm writing full time and all I've ever wanted to do is write for a living and holy shit, look what I'm writing about! Comic book movies and Star Wars and samurai. It's a geek writer's dream come true.<br />
<br />
But I don't want to do anything. Here is a complete list of things I want to do:<br />
<br />
1. Sleep.<br />
<br />
2. Stop. Fucking. Crying. for <i>one. fucking. day.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
--<br />
<br />
God this is all bullshit and so am I.<br />
<br />
--<br />
<br />
There is a comic book character named Doctor Manhattan. He does not experience time as humans do. He is simultaneously in the past, present, and future. When he narrates a story, he is constantly going either back or forward saying things like, "It is 1968 and I am killing Viet Cong" or "It is 1985 and I am killing someone in the snow." The main character of Kurt Vonneut's <i>Slaughterhouse-Five</i>, Billy Pilgrim,<i> </i>experiences similar non-linear time jumps.<br />
<br />
I feel like I finally understand Doctor Manhattan and Billy Pilgrim, to a certain extent. Often -- sometimes it seems like every few moments -- I am somewhere and somewhen else.<br />
<br />
It's July 2018 and I am in my dining room feeling the cold of the air conditioning.<br />
<br />
And then it's July 2016 and I am in the hospital with a foot long zipper across my torso, a day after the doctors pulled out my kidney and removed the tumors.<br />
<br />
I don't think I'm there. I don't hallucinate. I am not divorced from reality. But in every other way, I am there. I am back in the hospital room and the orderly is cleaning me or my then girlfriend is taking pictures of my scars for her friend. Or it's August 2018 and I've spent 5 hours on my recliner watching <i>Star Trek: Deep Space Nine</i> because I'm weak and my side still hurts and even though it's the middle of the night my then girlfriend, Amanda, keeps running outside every hour because I live kitty corner from a church which is a "PokeStop" and every time she leaves I worry about what I could possibly do if someone attacks her because it's the middle of the night (and I don't live in a warzone but it isn't fucking <i>Leave it to Beaver</i> out there either) and I can't because I can barely move and everything hurts and it's all I can do to wash the dishes (Amanda will only wash dishes she uses and not all of them) and feed the cats (which Amanda refuses to do before 10 pm) and change the cat litter (which Amanda refuses to do).<br />
<br />
I'm not there, I don't think I'm there, but in every other conceivable way, I'm there.<br />
<br />
--<br />
<br />
Not long ago, my girlfriend Jolene's cat died. I wish I got to know him better. He was already 18 by the time we were going out, and he lost his sight not long after we started dating. In fact, the few times he let me pet him I was pretty sure because he couldn't see me and so didn't know where to hide.<br />
<br />
He died on her kitchen floor and I drove over to help. She was heartbroken and of course she was, and I hated myself because I wanted to be there for her, because this <i>is </i>the time you have to be there for people. It was already late so we were going to wrap him in a towel and Jolene would bring him to the vets in the morning.<br />
<br />
I picked him up and put him on a towel. Jolene came over and started petting him, saying sweet things to her sweet boy.<br />
<br />
And then it was October 2018 and I was standing over my mother's body. Her hospice nurse was cleaning her with a wash cloth, saying sweet, wonderful things to her. And my mother was not my mother. It was her body and there was nothing of her in it. Deflated. Lost. She was not there she was not in her body she was not anywhere that I could see. And as much as I thought this hospice nurse was sweet and kind, and as much as I was grateful that my mother had her and other nurses to help care for her, I couldn't help but think who the fuck this stupid fucking little nurse <i>thought </i>she was talking to because she was talking to <i>meat</i>. She was talking to a silent stranger. My mother was not there on that bed with her mouth hanging open. My mother was gone. That was not my mother. <i>Who are you talking to?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
--<br />
<br />
The face won't leave me. The face of this thing that wasn't my mother anymore. This face tells me there is nothing. There is no light. No hope. There is no paradise beyond the veil. There is no fucking veil. There are these years and then nothing. Oblivion. Buried under an avalanche of nothing. Vapor. We are blasted into a million pieces and we are gone. We are flies heading for a wall.<br />
<br />
--<br />
<br />
I cannot handle this. And I cannot handle life.<br />
<br />
Here is a complete list of what I want to feel:<br />
<br />
1. At the end of <i>Henderson the Rain King</i> by Saul Bellow, the main character is on a plane that has to land on or near a frozen lake. He has a lion cub with him and he holds the cub in his arms and he dances and jumps, laughing, across the ice. It's a man joyously defiant in the face of the bleak, cold inevitable.<br />
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Two or three times in the past week I have tried to describe this scene to different people, and each time I sobbed before I finished a single sentence of my description. I want that. I want that to live in my heart and my soul and my mind, but all I see is death and utter meaninglessness.<br />
<br />
--<br />
<br />
My mother is gone. One day I will be gone. What's worth doing? What's worth achieving? I don't want to die, but I don't know what's worth doing while I'm here. Who cares what a fly's wings do on its way do on the way to the wall? Would it be any better if I believed in a magical hereafter?<br />
<br />
--<br />
<br />
Last night my friend Jen asked me what I believed about the afterlife when I was a child. The main thing I remembered? I was sure that after I died, I'd be able to ask God anything and that excited me because it meant I could find out what happened to the dinosaurs.<br />
<br />
--<br />
<br />
<b>THE AFTERLIFE</b><br />
<br />
GOD: Come on in, that's St. Peter -- he confirms your reservations. And <i>this </i>is Mick. He lets you know what happened to the dinosaurs.<br />
<br />
MICK: Aliens -- <i>no</i>, I know, right? I was betting on an asteroid too. Fucking aliens, man.<br />
<br />
--<br />
<br />
When I sleep everything is warm. Mick Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06320185841491084888noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18827721.post-17255058622917327262019-10-10T22:18:00.001-04:002019-10-10T23:15:50.881-04:00From My Mother's Basement, With Hate: A letter to the celebrities who trash Marvel<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="clo4v" data-offset-key="8sooo-0-0">
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Years ago when I was a child, I saw a daytime talk show where the guests were men who preferred larger women. I was surprised by the emotional reactions of some of the "normal-sized" women in the audience. They had no connection to the men on the stage, yet they responded angrily -- sometimes standing up and yelling at the men, and in some cases bursting into tears -- as if these men had betrayed them. </div>
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The women's response bothered me because I didn't understand them. After all, how did it impact them that these specific men preferred larger women? <br />
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Because I was a fat child and because I was used to people's responses to me, my interpretation didn't take long to form. I figured that these women were told all their lives they needed to do anything and everything they could to be thin, this show's guests had revealed that in fact some men preferred women who weren't thin, and suddenly all the pressure these women had responded to for decades were revealed as lies. They had spent so much time and energy berating themselves for their imperfections, and the fact that these men preferred something different from the unobtainable physical perfection they chastised themselves for not having was too much for them to bear. It didn't seem like they were actually angry at the men -- they were simply shattered. They'd been presented two opposing truths and didn't know how to cope with it. <br />
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It is precisely my memory of this talk show and the reactions of the women on it that I remember when I read of yet another celebrity director or actor bashing Marvel movies. <br />
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Growing up a fat child and a fat teenager and a fat young man, there was nothing cool about me and there was nothing cool about the comic books I liked. I have to admit to some feelings of envy and anger knowing the pastimes I followed with such passion in my youth -- for which I received only disgust from peers and adults to the point that walking into a comic book shop felt akin to walking into a porn theater (and, honestly, both businesses may have had a lot of the same patrons) -- seem now so universally embraced and encouraged. When I pulled into a local library parking lot last week and saw it was advertising <i>Dungeons & Dragons</i> sessions for kids on an electronic sign next to a busy road, I did not think, "Finally, we are accepted." My response was more along the lines of "Fuck you and Fuck <i>Stranger Things</i>."<br />
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Comic books, <i>Star Trek</i>, <i>Doctor Who</i>, <i>Dungeons & Dragons</i> and so much of what now populates a much more chic "nerd" or "geek" culture were not cool. It was more okay to like <i>Star Wars</i> than <i>Star Trek</i> because, well. Let's be honest, because it didn't take as much work to understand <i>Star Wars</i>.<br />
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Even among those who read comics, superhero comics were not cool. The only superhero comics that were cool were darker, grittier comics like <i>Batman: The Killing Joke</i>, <i>Watchmen</i>, <i>The Crow</i>, etc. Reading <i>Transmetropolitan</i> and <i>Preacher</i> and <i>Strangers in Paradise</i> and <i>Sandman</i> was totally cool. If you regularly picked up <i>West Coast Avengers</i>, that wasn't so cool. YOU were the reason the actually "cool" comic book readers buying <i>Grimjack</i> and <i>Hellblazer</i> and <i>Death: The High Cost of Living</i> were lumped in with the rest of the man-boy virgins. Even in a world of rejects, you were the bottom.<br />
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And then someone let Peter Jackson make three <i>Lord of the Rings</i> movies. And Hugh Jackman learned how to eviscerate black ops soldiers. And Toby Maguire learned how to wall-crawl. And Christian Bale beat up Heath Ledger in an interrogation room. And Robert Downey Jr. lost his heart. And the world changed. <br />
<br />
When I read an article about Jennifer Aniston saying there are too many Marvel movies, or Martin Scorsese saying they're "not cinema," or Simon Pegg complaining that they're dumbing down science fiction (presumably in-between takes for the latest of the Michael-Bay-in-Space <i>Star Trek</i> movies he stars in), or Jodi Foster likening Marvel movies to fracking, or Bill Maher claiming <i>Avengers </i>got Donald Trump elected, my objection to every single one of their stupid opinions is simple - I don't think they're actually stating their opinions.<br />
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Simon Pegg is a singular case, I think, because you can likely boil down every criticism Pegg's ever expressed about any Marvel movie to "Marvel shouldn't have fucked over my friend Edgar Wright." It's a fine opinion to have and one I happen to agree with, but it'd be nice if he, you know, was honest about it every once in a while rather than making statements about them dumbing down science fiction... on his way to the set of <i>Mission: Impossible - Fallout</i>. <br />
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But the rest of them? Jennifer Aniston and Jodi Foster and Martin Scorsese and James Cameron and Mel Gibson and Bill Maher and all the rest? When I read their criticisms of Marvel, I do not read opinions. I hear those same angry "normal-sized" women who suddenly found themselves in a world where what they were told had no merit suddenly has merit. Where what they were told has no value suddenly has value. Where what they were told was uncool is suddenly so very, <i>very</i> cool. <br />
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They are the pieces of shit who dogged me every day. They are the ones who threatened to jump me on the way home from school. The ones who tortured me in every classroom and every hallway. Jodi Foster and Bill Maher and Mel Gibson and Martin Scorsese and Jennifer Aniston and James Cameron are the ones who turned me into an insect for the first 20 or so years of my life and turned the world into nothing but cruel little boys with magnifying glasses on a sunny day. They are the ones who told me shut up about my "faggot shit" when I talked about a <i>Fantastic Four</i>/<i>Incredible Hulk </i>crossover I didn't like. <br />
<br />
And they are the ones with wives and families and children -- children they have to take to see <i>Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse</i> and buy all sorts of superhero backpacks and sippy cups and lunch boxes. They're the meatheads who called me a satan worshipper for playing <i>Dungeons & Dragons</i> and now their wives binge-watch <i>Stranger Things</i> and <i>Game of Thrones</i>. <br />
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It is, of course, not an insane position to take that Marvel movies do not have the greatest depth of passion. They are more concerned with spectacle than with exploring the human experience. Yet you Scorseses and Peggs and Fosters seem to have a very narrow scope for your targets. You are not saying the same things about the tits-explosions-subtle-racism films of Michael Bay. You do not take aim at torture porn flicks like the <i>Saw </i>franchise or action flicks like <i>Fast & The Furious</i>. You could. You very, very easily could. Yet you don't, and that's what exposes you for the thrashing, elitist, culture bullies you truly are. Because while sure, <i>Avengers: Age of Ultron</i> is no <i>Schindler's List</i>, neither is <i>Hostel</i> or <i>Hobbs & Shaw</i> or <i>Transformers</i>, but you don't mention them. It's as if action movies never existed until Robert Downey, Jr. became Iron Man. As if, before 2008, every single movie was an art house hipster magnet. <i>Commando</i>? <i>Rambo</i>? <i>Bad Boys</i>? Nope. Never existed. Every movie until 2008 was <i>Serpico</i> or <i>Amelie</i><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><i>.</i></span><br />
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You are, like Howard the Duck, in a world you never made, in a world contrary to the one you were promised, and all you can do is cry and yell. You feel betrayed, and all you can do is lash out at the people who are simply smiling and saying, "This thing you hate, this thing you always spit on, this thing you were always told was worth nothing? Actually... we always preferred this."<br />
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Martin Scorsese and Jodi Foster and Simon Pegg and James Cameron and Mel Gibson and Bill Maher and Jennifer Aniston. <br />
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Go ahead.<br />
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CRY.</div>
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Mick Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06320185841491084888noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18827721.post-68682349215461301222019-03-26T19:54:00.001-04:002019-03-26T20:02:00.908-04:00Skyrim proves Dwarves are better than Elves<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I've been playing a lot of <i>Skyrim </i>lately because as a cutting-edge gamer, I just won't play it if it's more than eight years old. Tonight, while strolling through the Dwemer ruin of Mzineceuheffe-or-whatever with my lovely digital wife Jenassa, it occurred to me that <i>Skyrim </i>is yet more proof that dwarves are totally better than elves.<br />
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As any <i>Skyrim </i>player could tell you, of the 10 playable races in the game about 563 of them are elves. You can play a cat, a tadpole, a few different kinds of humans, and one of 948 different species of elves. You cannot play a dwarf in <i>Skyrim</i>, however that doesn't stop that swarthy people's presence from being felt in the game. Dwemer, or dwarves, are extinct in <i>Skyrim </i>but the ruins of their vast underground cities can be found all over the ancient land; just waiting for an adventurer to crest a ridge, spot the instantly recognizable towers of a dead Dwemer city, and say, "Oh f--- another f---in' dwemer thing." The steaming, gear-filled dungeons are patrolled by magic robots, still guarding their master's shit after they've been dead for, like, forever basically.<br />
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Well great Mick, you scoff. So how does that prove dwarves are better than elves? Well I'll tell you, you scoffing scoffmaster from scofftown.<br />
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1--THE DWEMER WERE <u>NOT</u> DWARVES<br />
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That's right. Even though the ignorant, goat-farming bigots of <i>Skyrim </i>call the Dwemer "dwarves," they weren't. The Dwemer, as one of <i>Skyrim</i>'s many loading screens will tell you, were one of the 3,403 species of elves. They weren't even short. They were just as tall as all the other filthy elves.<br />
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Which means Dwarves are so f---ing awesome, the elves of <i>Skyrim </i>couldn't survive without them. They actually had to get together and MAKE UP a dwarf race, even though they weren't really dwarves. Of course, we can't <i>prove </i>that because they're all dead. How <i>convenient</i>.<br />
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2--THE DWEMER HAD THE COOLEST SHIT<br />
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Dwarf ruins are filled with magic robots so resilient they're still working today, millenia after their creators died in whatever filthy elf way they died.<br />
<br />
<i>Also</i>, the full title of <i>Skyrim </i>is <i>Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim</i>. Do you know <i>where </i>you find the Elder Scroll when you play <i>Skyrim</i>? Not in a shopping-mall-sized tomb filled with viking zombies. Not in a ruined castle where a bunch of bandits are hanging out so they can support each other in walking back and forth in predetermined paths. <i>NO</i>. They put the Elder Scroll -- THE NAME OF THE SERIES -- in a Dwemer ruin. Because that's were all the coolest shit is.<br />
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3--ALL THE DWEMER ARE DEAD<br />
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How does this help to prove dwarves are better than elves? Well, we already established that the Dwemer weren't really dwarves, but just dead elves no one can prove were <i>not </i>dwarves, and so elves retroactively assigned them dwarfness because they knew their game was <i>balls</i> without some kind of dwarves. And what happened? It killed them all. That's right. Elves are such <i>shit</i>, that when they infected an entire race of dwarves with elfness, it just wiped out all the awesome dwarves -- like introducing the cold to a species that was too awesome for illness, so it hadn't built up a defense.<br />
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4--YOU CAN'T PLAY ONE IN <i>SKYRIM</i><br />
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You can play f---ing <i>anything </i>in <i>Skyrim</i>. You can play a cat or a lizard. You can fly on the back of a dragon. You can play any and all of its 673,000 elf species. But you can't play a dwarf. Dwarves are <i>too awesome </i>for <i>Skyrim</i>. Kind of like how in old biblical movies, if Jesus showed up they would never show the actor's face because the studios didn't want to suggest than any single actor could portray Jesus. It's just like that. Bethesda knows dwarves are too awesome and don't want to offend dwarf fans by putting them in their game. Dwarves are the Jesus of <i>Skyrim</i>.Mick Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06320185841491084888noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18827721.post-22262831679904477612018-08-29T18:37:00.004-04:002018-08-30T07:57:37.640-04:00The Ballad of Assface John<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Someone pissed me off today. Let's call him "Assface John."</div>
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For most of the last year I have been writing- primarily about comics and comic book movies - for actual honest-to-Hulk money. I love it, I am insanely grateful for the opportunity, and can't wait to do more. </div>
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Today, shortly after posting links to my latest feature article about why certain actors no longer appear in MCU flicks, I received a passive-aggressive and insulting instant message from an acquaintance. Here it is. </div>
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Isn't that considerate of him? He likes what I do "to a certain extent." Awww.</div>
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And it's SO NICE of him to let me know that interesting things are going on in comics! I only spend about $300 on them per month. So it's refreshing to get a more informed view of things. </div>
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Since Assface John was clearly a big fan of top 10 lists, that's how I chose to respond. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwCCrd0c9gJeb7wE6RcH-zuaM3SPRXIB6nA_e-zN3gOk-i0bSvbc-hbcL-Oz7Wqi4N0D9TWhZr56KNQCL6J4uz7K7LITQSy545Er85WbJ578Yylq_B6nNU70DpdYLIHVSWK1Rz/s1600/assfacejohn06.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="596" data-original-width="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwCCrd0c9gJeb7wE6RcH-zuaM3SPRXIB6nA_e-zN3gOk-i0bSvbc-hbcL-Oz7Wqi4N0D9TWhZr56KNQCL6J4uz7K7LITQSy545Er85WbJ578Yylq_B6nNU70DpdYLIHVSWK1Rz/s1600/assfacejohn06.PNG" /></a></div>
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He did write back and, as I predicted, was <i>so </i>confused about how I could possibly consider his initial message insulting in any way. And then he was blocked. Farewell, Assface John. Don't forget to wipe.</div>
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<br />Mick Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06320185841491084888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18827721.post-8347937124160456312017-08-21T13:45:00.001-04:002017-08-21T13:45:43.327-04:00Defenders is kinda crap <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnUmMVbgJqwrTvVuZua1Y6RLe_GwgbCKaFQATp1NeNfUyS7HT1XgphCX9_0ATkxyLDYSIz-E86cipl76Ql7YgODpgWlVVHwPSTpaFIpR7Xf1deO8iSfzBHX4saUmpzE7UBZSXo/s1600/defenders4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="252" data-original-width="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnUmMVbgJqwrTvVuZua1Y6RLe_GwgbCKaFQATp1NeNfUyS7HT1XgphCX9_0ATkxyLDYSIz-E86cipl76Ql7YgODpgWlVVHwPSTpaFIpR7Xf1deO8iSfzBHX4saUmpzE7UBZSXo/s1600/defenders4.jpg" /></a></div>
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Since it was first reported - before even the release of Netflix's <em>Daredevil - </em>that the different Marvel Netflix shows would culminate in <em>Defenders</em>, a pure fanboy piece of me groaned. I'm a fan of the original <em>Defenders </em>comic book series, and that team was nothing like the Bendis-wet-dream this version was. But as time passed and the first two Marvel Netflix shows - <em>Daredevil </em>and <em>Jessica Jones</em> - proved their worth, I could begrudgingly admit something cool might be in store at the end of all this and even the disappointing first season of <em>Iron Fist </em>didn't spoil my hopes. <br />
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After watching the first season of <em>Defenders</em>, I am unpleasantly surprised to say my inner fan boy has been vindicated.<br />
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<em>Defenders </em>isn't bad. It has great acting talent and some fun, gripping action scenes. But it's a square peg in a round hole. It just doesn't work.<br />
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What resonates about the best of the Marvel Netflix seasons is that they are far more than super-hero stories, or far less depending on how you look at it. Strip away all the super crap and there's still powerful stories there. <em>Daredevil </em>is about a man fighting his inner demons. <em>Jessica Jones </em>is the story of a woman surviving horrific trauma. <em>Luke Cage </em>is about redemption and investing in your community. <em>Iron Fist </em>may even be about something worthwhile, but it was too much of a ball of crap to make the effort thinking about. <br />
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But <em>Defenders</em>...<em>Defenders </em>is about <em>Defenders</em>. <em>Defenders </em>is about hey-they're-all-together-now! <em>Defenders </em>is <em>Avengers </em>without all the fun. <em>Defenders </em>is just another f---ing super-hero story. It doesn't have the disarming believability or raw emotional power of <em>Daredevil </em>and <em>Jessica Jones</em>. Just super people doing super shit in a super way.<br />
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And, you know, I can't help but wonder if it isn't because unlike most of the Marvel properties that have been adapted, <em>Defenders </em>just comes from vapor. It has no foundation in the comics. There is no source material. Yes, all four characters exist in the comics, and yes there has - on and off - been a super-hero team called The Defenders. But these four characters have never existed in this way, and the Defenders of the comics were never anything like this. <br />
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Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying if Marvel Studios had given us a TV series that featured the Hulk, Doctor Strange, and the Sub-Mariner fighting a techno-wizard named Yandroth (the origin of the team), that this would have given us a powerful yet fun super-hero thrill ride. <br />
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I'm saying that the best of Marvel's adaptations are rooted in the source material. Sure, there are many differences, but there's always something, some connective tissue between what's in the comics and what's on the screen. <br />
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This <em>Defenders</em> had no source material. Sure, there's a comic out NOW with this team, but that only happened because the series was already planned. This team has no soul. No foundation. This team is the outcome of someone asking Brian Michael Bendis "Who would your Fantastic Four be?" And they slapped the Defenders name on it because it wasn't being used anywhere else yet. <br />
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I am looking forward to the third season of <em>Daredevil </em>and the second season of <em>Jessica Jones</em>. I am cautiously optimistic about <em>Punisher </em>since Jon Bernthal was one of the best things about <em>Daredevil</em>'s second season. But if <em>Defenders </em>or <em>Iron Fist </em>have second seasons, well. That's what owning books is for.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0-_LHQ1brrHm-mUQNIvC0yaZIOh44z3V-qbkR_Vtv0j7JZSlAKQ1ZEvAoyos6eDnZ1gLu9rA7hieG57X9-XWp488T2rBqUoZqSPgnkAF73cwQraRGoh4w7SUGR-CnJGhxpOuc/s1600/ironfist.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="250" data-original-width="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0-_LHQ1brrHm-mUQNIvC0yaZIOh44z3V-qbkR_Vtv0j7JZSlAKQ1ZEvAoyos6eDnZ1gLu9rA7hieG57X9-XWp488T2rBqUoZqSPgnkAF73cwQraRGoh4w7SUGR-CnJGhxpOuc/s1600/ironfist.jpg" /></a></div>
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P.S. I cannot stand Netflix's Danny Rand. And I mean it how I say it. I have no issues with Finn Jones. I just find the version of Danny Rand they've chosen for the Netflix shows - the no-sense-of-humor Captain Destiny Danny Rand - annoying as hell. Ironically - despite all my talk of being faithful to source material - this Iron Fist is quite accurate in regards to his earlier stories, whereas the hero I grew to enjoy was the much later and much less ass-clenched version written by Ed Brubaker and Matt Fraction in <em>Immortal Iron Fist</em>.Mick Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06320185841491084888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18827721.post-61310626853569312692017-03-22T09:00:00.000-04:002017-03-22T09:00:15.521-04:00Shut Up and Take My Money 3/22/2017: Trump and Night ValeSo my girlfriend sent me news about a book yesterday that immediately made me think, "Shut up and take my money." Then, just this morning, I saw a link to a graphic novel which inspired the same response. In the hopes that the future holds more of these moments of blissful anticipation and dreadfully involuntary money drain, I decided to make a tiny little feature of it. I welcome you to today's brief edition of...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5_70AFVIMGkBmUHUkcnQK7hBl7wGhbFGQsEt4Z-_RTdZ2vPBMLtVktSulXx8LLMw3T71SmxqJ9TTZyBd3WKf_wTpCPjM2LfNTaBbMvyhD78i6lxPr0P48aee9Il99Meiw29lD/s1600/shutupmoney.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5_70AFVIMGkBmUHUkcnQK7hBl7wGhbFGQsEt4Z-_RTdZ2vPBMLtVktSulXx8LLMw3T71SmxqJ9TTZyBd3WKf_wTpCPjM2LfNTaBbMvyhD78i6lxPr0P48aee9Il99Meiw29lD/s1600/shutupmoney.jpg" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKkd6no7WHMhrBMUM4QpREIkuq7bh_gE6wieFgqYiwO7LM2wNMlNHzWcqjSBKRkW30iPqs7WhLv2WQwQDHk5vkIRs4KDBL0ljCznevyrVGpcMGAxviTQdCn-NTe3k2iVmu_D21/s1600/itdevours.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKkd6no7WHMhrBMUM4QpREIkuq7bh_gE6wieFgqYiwO7LM2wNMlNHzWcqjSBKRkW30iPqs7WhLv2WQwQDHk5vkIRs4KDBL0ljCznevyrVGpcMGAxviTQdCn-NTe3k2iVmu_D21/s1600/itdevours.jpg" /></a></div>
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First, it just so happens that I am on the last 50 pages of the <em>Welcome to Night Vale </em>novel by Joseph Fink and Jeffrey Cranor, so it can't help but feel a little portentous to learn a second <em>Night Vale </em>novel <em>- It Devours</em>! - was <a href="http://www.welcometonightvale.com/news/2017/3/15/its-coming-and-it-devours" target="_blank">recently announced for release</a> this October.</div>
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And just this morning I was lucky enough to read <a href="https://www.idwpublishing.com/top-shelf-productions-release-shannon-wheelers-sht-president-says-illustrated-tweets-donald-j-trump/" target="_blank">the announcement</a> that Eisner award-winning Shannon Wheeler has created a graphic novel of illustrated Trump Tweets<em>: Sh*t My President Says</em>. </div>
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I will be pre-ordering both books, like, yesterday.</div>
Mick Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06320185841491084888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18827721.post-19621514958299095752017-03-15T10:00:00.000-04:002017-03-15T10:32:12.464-04:00Band Name Ideas March 15th, 20173. Butt Dust<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEite3SKT_bMKhP4ARPmyv0D80xxd_7Qr33JgjSvtwcE7y2wxzt64QNRf9N4n6nJ3TTjFH_oFh7FvORxVMtU8g1Mjad_fiaj9AwjpI27ROSY_99_XRD9afcdNI2qLJfe73D05EDD/s1600/dust.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEite3SKT_bMKhP4ARPmyv0D80xxd_7Qr33JgjSvtwcE7y2wxzt64QNRf9N4n6nJ3TTjFH_oFh7FvORxVMtU8g1Mjad_fiaj9AwjpI27ROSY_99_XRD9afcdNI2qLJfe73D05EDD/s400/dust.jpg" width="307" /></a></div>
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Date: 3/8/2017<br />
Source: From Jen R., who found it on the Captain Grammar Pants Facebook page.<br />
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4. Cerebral Scandinavian Comedies<br />
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(I cannot even begin to figure out what picture to use for this)<br />
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3/9/2017<br />
Source: A disturbingly specific category recommended to my girlfriend by Netflix<br />
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5. Bug Army<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcrRF3h02yghkD2SSA3DA1lJKCkzaf2uVcizx2CoomUGMx2_7xtmwcjavwWaMNNPho5lqhXSTFzYheqfaTNINyBJiy_pgfYO8CVx2uDTckIOrerh1eVphyjKOjpZxehGf35NnS/s1600/bugarmy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcrRF3h02yghkD2SSA3DA1lJKCkzaf2uVcizx2CoomUGMx2_7xtmwcjavwWaMNNPho5lqhXSTFzYheqfaTNINyBJiy_pgfYO8CVx2uDTckIOrerh1eVphyjKOjpZxehGf35NnS/s1600/bugarmy.jpg" /></a></div>
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(This image is from the anthology comic <i>Cinema Purgatorio </i>#8 published <a href="http://www.avatarpress.com/" target="_blank">Avatar Press</a>; specifically from the strip <i>A More Perfect Union</i> by Max Brooks and Gabriel Andrade)<br />
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3/11/17<br />
Source: My girlfriend describing the gathering of Boxelder bugs in her apartment.<br />
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6. Disruptive Kisses<br />
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3/11/17<br />
Source: My girlfriend describing how my kisses always tend to change the subject (awwww).<br />
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6. Evil Ratbird<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4c0qqUmgSEtZ0d8bvML88dvfwt20TzupKqFdmthf_jtBCeaHfZowCludCYEZs0HvrS99e5l8Cv9pIKWx37WgYpYi_W-5Oihw2wS_jN3V8fuRTqHxtzIp7WhCE7LZklqUR-qXD/s1600/evilratbird.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4c0qqUmgSEtZ0d8bvML88dvfwt20TzupKqFdmthf_jtBCeaHfZowCludCYEZs0HvrS99e5l8Cv9pIKWx37WgYpYi_W-5Oihw2wS_jN3V8fuRTqHxtzIp7WhCE7LZklqUR-qXD/s1600/evilratbird.jpg" /></a></div>
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(This image is from some damn DC comic; probably a Batman one)<br />
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3/11/17<br />
Source: My description of what bats look like during a discussion with my girlfriend regarding why people are freaked out by bats.<br />
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7. Honking Bobos<br />
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3/13/17<br />
Source: A term my girlfriend created to describe sex. Nope. Really.<br />
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<em>Band Name Idea list amassed since March 8th, 2017:</em><br />
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DICKHAED<br />
Drugged-Up Government Bear<br />
Butt Dust<br />
Cerebral Scandinavian Comedies<br />
Bug Army<br />
Disruptive Kisses<br />
Evil Ratbird<br />
Honking BobosMick Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06320185841491084888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18827721.post-18813850515657479482017-03-14T11:26:00.002-04:002017-03-14T11:26:51.449-04:00Mick's Choose-Your-Own-Review: Doctor Strange & the Sorcerers Supreme #6<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhidlHIsMdhez_tlkIPuRhsLt7y0tgyvGqkyf8vmokmqNgcGuTPPiIbu2B4NLg5qDqlPPQppexzusV0N2g1fK-5Mw86vb5vb1BP9dTcywfzlVq_6zAoP75jQDv_LHCGNMfvphU/s1600/dssorc06cov.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhidlHIsMdhez_tlkIPuRhsLt7y0tgyvGqkyf8vmokmqNgcGuTPPiIbu2B4NLg5qDqlPPQppexzusV0N2g1fK-5Mw86vb5vb1BP9dTcywfzlVq_6zAoP75jQDv_LHCGNMfvphU/s1600/dssorc06cov.jpg" /></a></div>
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<b>By Robbie Thompson and Javier Rodriguez, et al.</b><br />
<b>From<a href="http://www.marvel.com/" target="_blank"> Marvel</a></b><br />
<b>$3.99 USD</b><br />
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<i>Doctor Strange & the Sorcerers Supreme </i>#6 is written as a choose-your-own-adventure story.<br />
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If you think this is awesome, click <a href="http://www.superheroesetc.net/2000/01/congratulations-you-are-correct.html" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />
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If you think this is stupid, or if you think this is cool but does not necessarily reach a level of creativity or quality which you would define as "awesome," or if you think that the word "awesome" has been corrupted to refer to quality when it was originally meant to be something that literally inspired awe and so resent the use of the word in this context in general, or if you feel completely neutral, or if you just think the lone fact that <i>Doctor Strange & the Sorcerers Supreme </i>#6 is written as a choose-your-own-adventure story is not enough to make an informed opinion, click<a href="http://www.superheroesetc.net/2000/01/you-chosepoorly.html" target="_blank"> here</a>.<br />
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<br />Mick Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06320185841491084888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18827721.post-55710863840877522592017-03-13T12:00:00.000-04:002017-03-13T12:00:23.540-04:00Single Issue Voter - Royal City #1<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b>By Jeff Lemire</b><br />
<b>From <a href="https://imagecomics.com/" target="_blank">Image</a></b><br />
<b>$4.99 USD</b><br />
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I had no fucking clue Jeff Lemire could draw.<br />
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I had no clue because I came to Lemire's career like a punk, like a jerk, like everything else Robert Deniro's character will call you before he cracks your head open with the bottom of his boot. I know Jeff Lemire only through his more recent work at Marvel; specifically the impressive series <i>Old Man Logan </i>and <i>Moon Knight</i>. I suppose those titles should've been enough to let me know Lemire might be just as talented with drawing, since the visuals in those books are compelling enough that even the guy who just wrote the script had to know a thing or two about how to make things look.<br />
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<i>Royal City </i>#1 opens up with elderly Peter in his kitchen. Peter's nagging wife chases him into the garage where he keeps a hoard of old radios. We think he's the narrator at first, even after hearing an impossible voice come out of one of his radios triggers a stroke, but we're in for a surprise there.<br />
<br />
Lemire's drawing style is the perfect companion to his story. The faces of family we follow around Royal City have an unfinished, sketchy, yet extremely expressive and distinct look. The result is an irony: that while Lemire's renderings are less concerned with hiding the reality that they're drawings, their non-style expressiveness makes them seem more real than the comparatively sleeker and more carefully inked geriatric Wolverines or Egyptian themed crime-fighters of Lemire's Marvel work. <br />
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I am hesitant to say too much about what we know so far regarding the story of <em>Royal City </em>for the sake of aoviding spoilers. Suffice to say, all the members of the scattered family we meet in <em>Royal City </em>live with a common absence that is also a common presence, and there is some wonderful mystery around the nature of this thing. There is, to be sure, a supernatural element to <em>Royal City</em>, but this is no <em>Twin Peaks</em>. It's too soon to tell, but I don't think we'll be seeing any séances or battles with Lovecraftian cult members or anything like that. I don't think anyone's going to find a hatch with numbers or a little dancing man in a Black Lodge. <em>Royal City </em>feels like, first and foremost, a very human story about a family that has been in quiet agony for decades, and it's a welcome addition to my pull list.<br />
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Mick Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06320185841491084888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18827721.post-54885278524532900162017-03-13T10:00:00.000-04:002017-03-13T10:00:05.433-04:00Single Issue Voter - Astro City #42<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<b>By Kurt Busiek and Matthew Clark, et al.</b><br />
<b>From <a href="http://www.vertigocomics.com/" target="_blank">DC/Vertigo</a></b><br />
<b>$3.99 USD</b><br />
<br />
Familiar and new, the latest issue of <i>Astro City</i> gives us the story of Mister Manta: a super-villain marooned on an island after a battle with the aquatic hero Mermaid. Separated from civilization for decades, Mister Manta has built himself a home on the island as well as an experimental set of rocket powered wings he hopes will get him home and back on top of the bad guy food chain.<br />
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Regular penciller Brent Anderson is replaced with Matthew Clark in this issue, and his sharper edges bring a nice change of pace without contrasting too much from the rest of the series, and the same could be said of his more modern sensibility.<br />
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The theme of this issue - of a character feeling trapped and coming to question his/her perception of being trapped - is not a new one to <i>Astro City</i>. Mister Manta's shelter on his island, while constructed from nothing more complicated than bamboo and grass, is more impressive than anything that Gilligan and the Skipper ever slapped together in a hurry. The house is a multi-leveled structure and when we first meet him he is considering adding a new "wing." But soon he pushes aside the notion, opting instead to throw his energies toward his escape. Once opportunity arises however, Mister Manta finds himself questioning exactly what it is he wants.<br />
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The theme is a recurring one in <i>Astro City</i>, but Busiek's dressed it in interesting new clothing.<br />
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Regular visitors to <i>Astro City </i>will likely be reminded of the villain Junkman from <i>Astro City </i>#10 (from the second volume, published by Image). Junkman wants to pull off one more perfect heist before he retires, and he succeeds: getting away with millions under the noses of Astro City's heroes. We see the ageing crook relaxing on a sun-soaked beach, but eventually the fact that Junkman's greatest victory was such that no one will ever know about it is too much for the old fool, and he returns to Astro City where he predictably returns to his life of crime and is more predictably captured and put on trial.<br />
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<i>Astro City </i>#42 turns the Junkman story on its head. Mister Manta is already on the sun-soaked beach, has been there for decades, and is trying desperately to get home. But once the possiblility to return becomes a reality, Mister Manta doesn't know what to do.<br />
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It's also interesting to wonder if maybe <i>Astro City </i>#42 is the answer to the question of why and how so many super-villains have headquarters on remote islands. Maybe every super-villain is just someone who is A) trapped, B) resourceful, and C) never sure whether or not they want to go home.<br />
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<br />Mick Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06320185841491084888noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18827721.post-31590674742765347222017-03-10T13:57:00.000-05:002017-03-10T13:57:05.752-05:00Single Issue Voter - All Time Comics: Crime Destroyer #1<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<strong><br /></strong>
<strong>By Josh Bayer and Herb Trimpe, et al.</strong><br />
<strong>From <a href="http://www.fantagraphics.com/" target="_blank">Fantagraphics</a></strong><br />
<strong>$4.99 USD</strong><br />
<strong></strong><br />
I am not usually one to speak in memes, and have been known to knee-jerk a sigh as soon as someone responds to any kind of online conversation with a meme. However when I saw an article announcing that Fantagraphics was going to feature its own cooperative super-hero narrative, that it would fuse the work of contemporary indy creators with that of old school pros, that the very first issue of this new comic book line would posthumously publish the final professional comics work of the late Herb Trimpe, and that the first hero to get the spotlight would be a dude with f---in' giant purple fists sticking out of his shoulders, I suddenly understood all you meme-happy trolls because there was really only one reasonable way to respond:<br />
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So far, this <em>All Time Comics</em> is pretty great. As expected, it's a love letter back to the Silver Age of comics; to the days of letters pages and goofy ads, back when we heard super-heroes saying "Sweet Christmas" and still thought they were gritty. Every page looks like an old Doctor Strange blacklight poster with vibrant, unreal colors. Alessandro Echevarria's colors are spectacular, and have the seemingly impossible effect of rendering the comic both startlingly new and wonderfully set in yesteryear. <br />
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Thankfully, in other ways, it isn't what I expected. When indy guys do super-heroes, they tend to rev up the snark. Not just in indy books like <em>Project: Superior</em>, but even in the majors' own comics, like the <em>Strange Tales </em>anthology series Marvel released with indy creators handling their blu-ray selling headliners. And snark is good, snark is great, but eventually it just gets douchey. Eventually you just get tired of all the hipster-happy bullshit with the super-heroes with funny names and the incredibly poignant revelations. You feel like Tyler Durden on the airplane, asking his weaker half how being clever has worked for him so far. <br />
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Or they go the other route. They forget the snark and get very serious. They let us know that what they're about to show us are the true guts and bones of that thing we call "super-hero." That they will cleverly show us in ways we could never have imagined on our own exactly what super-heroes say about the creators of super-heroes, about the consumers of comics, about America, about the world, and ultimately, about the Human Condition.<br />
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<em>All Time Comics</em>, thus far, is neither of these. Which is not say it doesn't have it's funny moments or its own tongue-in-cheek, but it doesn't wallow in it. Josh Bayer and Herb Trimpe want to give you a good, fun comic book story with <em>Crime Destroyer</em>. That's it. They want to let the super-heroes be as ridiculous as they should be as well as being as psycho-crazy and brutal as they would be. They don't want to give you slick science fiction explanations to make you think what clearly could never happen could maybe happen. They aren't trying to endlessly lampoon or to redefine anything. <em>Crime Destroyer </em>seems like nothing more than an honest attempt to create a fun and colorful comic book with the soul of the Silver Age couple with the wonderful lack of boundaries today's comics enjoy, and it goddamn succeeds.<br />
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Even though this is clearly not a Hulk comic, <em>Crime Destroyer </em>fills me with more Hulk-fan pride than anything I've read from Marvel in years. <br />
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Herb Trimpe was best known for his work on <em>Incredible Hulk</em>, including drawing the first couple of issues that introduced Wolverine. I recall years ago reading an issue of <em>Fantastic Four Unlimited</em> which was the last Marvel series Trimpe worked on. The book was downright ugly and I thought age had been unkind to Trimpe's talent, though having finished reading <em>The Incredible Herb Trimpe</em> a few months ago, I now know Trimpe was experimenting with a new Trimpe-cum-Liefield style that, while producing unfortunate results, was admittedly brave.<br />
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But <em>Crime Destroyer</em>, man. <em>Crime Destroyer </em>is gorgeous. If I had never read the interview book mentioned above, <em>Crime Destroyer </em>would have set me straight regardless. Maybe I'm seeing it through rose-tinted, crazy Hulk-fan glasses, but Trimpe's work on <em>All Time Comics: Crime Destroyer </em>#1 is as good as, if not leagues beyond, any of the work he did on <em>Incredible Hulk </em>or <em>Godzilla: King of Monsters </em>back in the heyday. And Trimpe was 75 when he passed; 75 when he drew <em>Crime Destroyer</em>. Show me how many other comic book artists' work have evolved this well with age. <br />
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I am understandably skeptical about whether or not <em>All Time Comics </em>will get the financial support it needs from a market much more bonered up for watching Batman fight Rorschach, but I know it deserves it. If you like comics, you should buy this one. And if they keep being this good, you should keep buying them.<br />
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P.S. By the way, <em>All Times Comics </em>team: asking Johnny Ryan to do a variant cover and then letting Al Milgrom trash <em>Prison Pit </em>on the back page? That's, well. That's kind of awesome. Not because I love Milgrom or hate <em>Prison Pit</em>, but, I guess, just because it's allowed. Because an artist was allowed to state an honest opinion about another artist's work. I don't know. I like that it was allowed.<br />
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Though if I were Johnny Ryan, I might be pissed. <br />
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<br />Mick Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06320185841491084888noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18827721.post-39738598486284818812017-03-10T12:00:00.000-05:002017-03-10T12:00:02.608-05:00Single Issue Voter - Scooby Apocalypse #11<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<strong><br /></strong>
<strong>By Keith Giffen, J.M. DeMatteis, and Dale Eaglesham, et al.</strong><br />
<strong>From <a href="http://www.dccomics.com/" target="_blank">DC Comics</a></strong><br />
<strong>$3.99 USD</strong><br />
<strong></strong><br />
I know the team of Keith Giffen and J.M. DeMatteis have left some memorable marks on comicdom- perhaps the best remembered being their game-changing <em>Justice League International - </em>but there is something inherently more impressive about granting staying power to a post-apocalyptic Scooby-Doo comic.<br />
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I don't know about everyone else, but one of the main differences between my comic book buying experience these days with those from back in the day, is that with all the C and D and freaking Q list properties getting thrown against the wall and with all the reboots and everything else, I am never quite sure whether or not a new series is supposed to be an ongoing or a mini. <em>Scooby Apocalypse </em>is a prime example. I mean, you hear about a post-apocalyptic Scooby-Doo comic and you kind of have that <em>Archie vs. Predator </em>response, right? Like ha ha, yes that is funny and will make a great conversation speed bump, and maybe you'll check out an issue to see if they skin Jughead, but they can't make a whole series out of that, can they?<br />
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And here we are, eleven issues in, and I can't speak for the rest of the mom's-basement-loving world, but I'm invested for the long haul.<br />
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Suffering guilt over her part in the nanite infestation that caused the apocalypse, Velma abandons the rest of the Scooby gang. Shaggy and Scooby track her across the emptied landscape while Fred and Daphne go through the laptop Velma left behind, detailing her involvement with doomsday, and argue about whether or not their bespectacled comrade even deserves their help. <br />
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I'm hoping Dale Eaglesham's work in this issue was only meant as a fill-in and that series regular Howard Porter returns soon. Eaglesham's work is great, but is better suited to a more action oriented comic. Sure, there's plenty of action in this issue of <em>Scooby Apocalypse</em> (including a battle with a pair of what are quite literally <em>Monster </em>Trucks, and in all fairness Eaglesham's renderings of them are fantastic), but Porter's more cartoony style lends itself better to the inherent humor of the story. <br />
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<em>Scooby Apocalypse </em>#11 brings us another back-up story showing us a different view of the monster-ravaged world, and in particular we finally meet one of the Infamous "Four," (and am I the only one who keeps reading "The Four" referred to as villains in this series and keeps thinking of <em>Planetary</em>?). Though once I saw there was a back-up, I hoped to get more of the Scrappy-Doo story (hey, guess how many sentences I wrote today I never thought I'd write), meeting Rufus Dinkley was pretty great, too. "The View from the Tower" ends on a particularly violent note, and it's a perfect example of how well the storytellers are balancing the different pieces of this series. The competing dark and childish cartoon elements of <i>Scooby Apocalypse </i>could be very easy to unbalance, to tip over in either direction, but the storytellers are doing a great job.<br />
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Each issue costs $3.99, meaning to date I have spent over $40 on Scooby-Doo comics. Never thought that would be a thing. Kind of nice to be surprised.<br />
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<br />Mick Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06320185841491084888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18827721.post-26815333895810840362017-03-10T00:01:00.000-05:002017-03-10T00:01:17.793-05:00Parking Paralysis from Arrival at the Day Job (retroactive) March 3rd, 2017PARKING PARALYSIS: When you've arrived but the song just started so you have to embarrass yourself with headbanging and shit before you turn off the car and go do whatever the hell.<br />
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Only song I remember enjoying from that album. I suspect the dog didn't enjoy it that much either.Mick Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06320185841491084888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18827721.post-8662656222214423282017-03-09T16:00:00.000-05:002017-03-09T16:00:15.245-05:00Single Issue Voter - Deathstroke #14<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<strong>By Christopher Priest and Joe Bennett, et al.</strong><br />
<strong>From </strong><a href="http://www.dccomics.com/" target="_blank"><strong>DC Comics</strong></a><br />
<strong>$2.99 USD</strong><br />
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While DC Comics is earning more of my money these days than at any other time I can remember, and while I have a history of gravitating mainly or solely to super-hero titles, <i>Deathstroke </i>remains the only title from DC's main cooperative universe (a.k.a. Batman Town) that I pick up. And considering the meh to jesus-please-kill-it quality of the last few <i>Deathstroke </i>titles, I sure as hell wouldn't be picking it up if DC hadn't gone and done the thing I didn't dare hope anyone would be able to do: they convinced Christopher Priest to write funnybooks again.<br />
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I don't like admitting it, but sometimes Priest confuses the hell out of me, and the slick bastard does it in such a way that I can't help but say to myself, "well, it's probably me who's the asshole for being confused."<br />
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Many of the hallmarks of Priest's innovative <i>Black Panther</i> continue here with <i>Deathstroke</i>, and sometimes it's not the easiest stuff to parse through. Here, just as in the Marvel series, Priest weaves intricate conspiracies too complex to not be based on real global socio-economic fuckery and injects it into the comparatively cartoon world of a man in bright blue-and-orange tights. He also hasn't been shy about employing the Tarantino-esque time shifts that helped define his <i>Black Panther</i>. Put all of that into a mixing bowl with the simple fact that I do not know my DC continuity as well as I should whereas Priest (who apparently did not know who Deathstroke was when he was approached by DC to write the series) has done his research as thoroughly as ever and his stories reflect this, you can end up with a bunch of comic books that impress the hell out of this grown up Marvel kid, but also leave him feeling a little dizzy.<br />
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Whether it's just my imagination or not, as <i>Deathstroke </i>has continued, Priest has eased up on some of his more defining tools, and honestly it's been a relief to me. For example, in this most recent issue, Priest still reserves a black panel to give us each scene's name, but as far as I can tell, each scene actually unfolds in chronological order. Like, linear. Like, as if one thing happened and then another happened and, hence, this is how these things were portrayed.<br />
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Wow. I really have a knack for writing positive reviews that can tend to sound pretty snarkily negative, huh?<br />
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Okay, so let me be clear; I liked <i>Deathstroke </i>#14. I like <i>Deathstroke</i>. It seems likely I'll keep picking up <i>Deathstroke </i>as long as Priest is writing in it. Because of awesome.<br />
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<br />Mick Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06320185841491084888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18827721.post-74341619678661729772017-03-09T14:00:00.000-05:002017-03-09T14:00:02.933-05:00Single Issue Voter - AmeriKarate #1<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgecd9sTo8nxKnP2HH7IAWzE6WcTbz4tPJXfTUROZk0cenksgMXxoZYsZ-O6NaJcfC25X7khE73Q5hhFCa1zfFmnxK_hpyNp-0KcOPzpQruaKP8OATf9VcIQ4MXdNFk842y21h8/s1600/amerikarate01cov.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgecd9sTo8nxKnP2HH7IAWzE6WcTbz4tPJXfTUROZk0cenksgMXxoZYsZ-O6NaJcfC25X7khE73Q5hhFCa1zfFmnxK_hpyNp-0KcOPzpQruaKP8OATf9VcIQ4MXdNFk842y21h8/s1600/amerikarate01cov.jpg" /></a></div>
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<strong>By Corey Kalman, Brockton McKinney, and Devin Roth, et al.</strong></div>
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<strong>from </strong><a href="http://www.actionlabcomics.com/" target="_blank"><strong>Action Lab Comics</strong></a></div>
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<strong>$3.99 USD</strong></div>
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With an impressive crotch bulge and an American flag belt buckle, Sam the karate master and his legless, armless brother Rick come to the troubled town of Baconville - the town that hates karate - and their lives will never be the same. </div>
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So, yeah, the biggest weakness I think in naming your comic <i>AmeriKarate</i>, is that it is perhaps the greatest title of anything ever in living memory, meaning you will have a lot to live up to. </div>
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You get exactly what you'd have to expect from a comic called <i>AmeriKarate</i>: humor that's as merciless as its ridiculous violence, absurd parodying of all things Chuck Norris, lampooning all those eighties action movie tropes, and - sure - boobs.</div>
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I'm not completely sold on <i>AmeriKarate</i>, but I'm not giving up on it just yet either. Most of us, myself included, are saturated in the ironic, mature, cartoon parodies and satires that fill our pop culture landscape. Without <i>Archer </i>and <i>Family Guy</i>, <i>AmeriKarate</i>'s job would be a lot easier.</div>
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(though to be fair, it probably wouldn't exist, either) </div>
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There seems to be a marriage between Roth's art and Kalman/McKinney's writing that just isn't there yet. Stuff that should be funny isn't. You just kind of go, "Ha, yes, that is provocative and very much like how the movies do things but slightly funnier. No, I said slightly." </div>
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I was convinced this would be my last issue of <i>AmeriKarate</i>, but a well delivered line toward the end of the issue reeled me back in. I'll give it a few more issues, at least. There is potential here. And, as was noted, possibly the greatest title of anything ever. </div>
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<br />Mick Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06320185841491084888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18827721.post-31935861958760931632017-03-09T12:00:00.000-05:002017-03-09T12:18:12.854-05:00Single Issue Voter - Man-Thing #1<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b>By R.L. Stine & German Peralta, et al.</b><br />
<b>from <a href="http://www.marvel.com/" target="_blank">Marvel Comics</a></b><br />
<b>$3.99 USD</b><br />
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So, Man-Thing talks now? The f--- did that happen?<br />
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Of all the new titles Marvel's letting off the chain this month, <i>Man-Thing </i>is the one I've been most looking forward to. The original series from the seventies is probably the first bonafide horror comic of which I could ever call myself a fan (though I didn't start reading it until long after the first and second <i>Man-Thing </i>series had closed their respective doors). I've never read anything by R.L. Stine, though I figured he's sold more books than I so trusting him with Marvel's favorite plant monster might be a fine idea. In fact, I was so convinced it was a smart purchase that rather than ask my local comics seller to just hold the first issue for me so I could decide whether or not I'd add it to my regular pull list, I bypassed the screening process entirely and had him go ahead and throw it on my list of monthly reads; affording the new <i>Man-Thing </i>a privilege I usually reserve only for the kind of proven creative teams that just never miss, or - alternatively - anything with the Hulk in it.<br />
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Kind of regretting that now.<br />
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The issue opens on what appears to be a battle between Man-Thing and some kind of giant bug monster thing. Soon, we learn Man-Thing is in a movie studio and the giant bug monster thing is just a dude in a suit. While being urged to stay as far from his office furniture as possible, Man-Thing is fired by a heartless studio executive who is disappointed with Man-Thing's test screenings and the nausea the swamp monster inspired. Wandering the streets of Hollywood and bemoaning his luck, Man-Thing is attacked by what appears to be the older, mindless version of himself.<br />
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There is something deadening to the narrative tone of <i>Man-Thing</i>, like it doesn't know what it wants to be. Once you learn the monster is an aspiring actor on a movie set, you think it's going to be something in the vein of the Chip Zdarsky/Joe Quinones <i>Howard the Duck </i>series, but it doesn't seem to know it's own place in its own absurdity.<br />
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<i>Man-Thing </i>is unsure about whether or not it's supposed to take itself seriously. It's got a Sliver Age sense of humor that's poking fun at the Silver Age, but not ironically. When Man-Thing says to his mindless doppelganger, "You want to dance? How about if I lead!" and then punches him, you aren't actually sure whether or not Stine thinks, "How about if I lead," is funny. Like, does he think that's oh-let's-lampoon-the-corny-old-comics-dialogue funny? Or is he actually thinking it's funny ha-ha, like I will make a noise while reading this that is largely involuntary and signifies being entertained?<br />
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I don't know. I don't know which. Not a fan just yet.<br />
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I don't know if this will be standard for the rest of the mini, but this issue also ends with the 4-page Stine-written back-up story "Put A Ring On It." The story features wonderful art by Daniel Johnson and Mat Lopes, but the story itself feels like an afterthought, and its surprise ending will tear a horrified "meh" from your quivering bowels.<br />
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So Stine & co. get one more issue to prove to me I'm stupid. Otherwise, I'm flushing this series and picking up a copy of one of the Steve Gerber collections instead.<br />
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(though probably not right away because money)<br />
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(and honestly I'll probably eventually pick up the Gerber collections regardless of the quality of this series)<br />
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(but I needed some kind of closer)<br />
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<br />Mick Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06320185841491084888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18827721.post-63074031708802803592017-03-09T00:01:00.000-05:002017-03-09T00:01:19.634-05:00Random from March 2nd, 2017The symptoms of the great disease of America can all be summed up with "Gimme Gimme Gimme" by Black Flag.<br />
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<br />Mick Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06320185841491084888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18827721.post-73082785429523492312017-03-08T12:00:00.000-05:002017-03-08T12:00:29.364-05:00Parking Paralysis from Arrival at the Day Job (retroactive) March 1st, 2017<br />
PARKING PARALYIS = When you park, but the song already started and you can't leave until the fucker ends.<br />
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<br />Mick Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06320185841491084888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18827721.post-58161829279402512302017-03-08T00:01:00.000-05:002017-03-08T00:01:04.003-05:00Band Name Ideas #1 March 8th, 20171. DICKHAED<br />
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DATE: 2/23/2017<br />
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SOURCE: The metal railing in front of the Walgreen's across the street from my office. <br />
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2. Drugged-Up Government Bear<br />
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DATE: 3/6/2017<br />
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SOURCE: <em><a href="http://www.welcometonightvale.com/" target="_blank">Welcome to Night Vale</a></em>, Episode 26, "The Faceless Old Woman."Mick Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06320185841491084888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18827721.post-11685187018789336592017-03-07T18:28:00.000-05:002017-03-07T18:28:47.676-05:00Welcome back!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Mick Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06320185841491084888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18827721.post-87083381906646461922014-12-21T18:48:00.000-05:002014-12-21T18:48:13.531-05:00Recent HistoryIn June of 2013, this is where I was:<br />
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As of this morning, this is where I am:</div>
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By either the end of this year, or early 2015, I will have finally cracked this one, and I will have done it for the first time in over a decade:</div>
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I am happy, I am scared, and I am alive.</div>
<br />Mick Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06320185841491084888noreply@blogger.com2