Why I Can't Stop Watching 'Terminator'

Terminator: The Sarah Chronicles is far from a perfect show. It's got a whole host of problems, not the least of which that Lena Headey isn't all that interesting as The Mother of the Future. The Inspector Javert-like FBI agent tracking her feels like either a wasted character or he's being wasted. And I still don't know what the driving impulse of the show—what each season will be building towards—aside from "Don't let them kill John."

But at least once an episode, something just jaw-droppingly stunning occurs that keeps me tuning in. And this one...man, it just fucking slams it home.

The uncle from the future introduces his nephew from the present to the father he's never met. Beautiful stuff.

EDIT: Apparently, the clip is no longer available and I am now not as in love with Hulu as I used to be.

Real 'Genius'

Since the book was officially announced at Wizard World Los Angeles over the weekend, I guess we can talk about it. The next book from Adam and I (and the wicked-talented Afua Richardson, who's drawing the shit out of it) is called Genius, and it's coming from Top Cow this June. Part of their gladiatorial Pilot Season program, where six comics compete for the hearts and minds of readers and whichever gets the most votes goes on to a miniseries. Rather ingenious, it is, in that Pilot Season allows Top Cow to take risks on books that might be too risky to commit to. How risky? Well, here's the Previews solicitation text:

Alexander, Hannibal, Napoleon, Patton. What if the greatest military mind of our generation was born in strife, surrounded by violence and combat since birth? When the gauntlet is dropped, the question isn’t “How did 17-year-old Destiny Ajaye unite the gangs of South Central into a killer army and declare war on the LAPD?” No, the question is, “Can anyone stop her?”

So, yeah, a book about a teenage gangbanger killing cops isn't a publishing no-brainer. For more on Genius, and the whole Pilot Season 2008 initiative, head over to Comic Book Resources and listen to editorial poobah Rob Levin 'splain it all.

I'm sure we'll talk more about Genius soon, but for now, it's just nice to let this particular cat out of the bag...cause I love this fuggin' book.

Invulnerable: Revise

Judging by the headache that I had for much of the early part of this week, I'm pretty sure my snowmobile fracas gave me a mild concussion.

Still, I did not go to the hospital, for I am not a puss.

Quote of the Week

From the Contentious Curmudgeon over at Comics Should Be Good:

"If Alan David Doane thinks The Highwaymen, which is just a generic action comic but is competently done and occasionally entertaining, is one of the worst comics of 2007, then he obviously doesn’t read a lot of comics."

Amen, brother.

They (Still) Like Us

A review of the trade paperback from ComicMix.com:

"There are many things the new Highwaymen comic (Wildstorm, $17.99) is not: It's not complex. It's not very serious. It doesn't have all that much character development. What it does have, though, are all the elements of a perfect action movie, simmered to near perfection.

Writers Marc Bernardin and Adam Freeman follow the action rubric to a T, installing the plot (a young woman has a weapon of mass destruction inside her and everyone's after her), the heroes (the aged Mr. McQueen and Mr. Monroe are killer and driver, respectively), and the villain (a shady leader of a U.S. government anti-terrorist organization).

I'm sure there will be those who dismiss this book as popcorn, but the thing about popcorn is, it's hella good every once in a while, especially when it's popped just right.

The Highwaymen is pretty well nonstop action along a taut storyline, executed quite well by artist Lee Garbett (his work is similar to that of John Cassaday, except Garbett actually draws backgrounds). In short, the book just tries to be a really good action story, instead of overreaching for some grand purpose. It's just violent and frivolous and fun, and there's not a darn thing wrong with that."

I Am Returned

Not dead, but not for lack of trying.

Had a most restorative break...provided you, like I, get restored by topping out at 75 mph on a snowmobile. My wife is a huge skier, has been for decades. I, personally, can't stand it. I don't like careening down a mountain with neither steering nor brakes. And I don't like the people—not the people themselves, just the amount of them. Hundreds of them, all doing the same thing at the same time. Kind of like snow lemmings. I understand why they do it; the speed, the rush. I just don't like the method or the environment.

But for most of the four days, I didn't see anyone but the nine others in my traveling party. We were alone in some of the most beautiful wilderness in the country. And that's the only reason I'll freeze my balls off: solitude.

We rode more than 350 miles in those four days. Some of the trails were tight, twisting little paths through pine forests, while others were long, flat, straightaways, like my favorite, called "Piston Alley." And considering that I hadn't been on a sled in eight years, I did rather well. Kept up with my fellow drivers and, for the most part, kept up with our ninja-savant guides...until the last day, about five miles from our final destination. I was "on the leader," carving the turns and blazing the straight-shots, until I followed him over a rise, and was surprised by a 90-degree turn. Which I didn't make.

I plowed my sled over the lip, into a ditch, and up against a tree, at about 40 mph. Through the visor of my helmet, I saw branches and then snow. I never blacked out, but I gave it a moment before I tried to move. Arms first, then legs. Nothing in pain, I rolled over and clawed my way back up onto the trail, and looked down at what could've been the site of an icy disaster. But wasn't.

So I hopped back on my still-functioning snowmobile (it just had some miraculously minor cosmetic damage) and drove it back to our base lodge, comfortable in the knowledge that after 36 years of never breaking a bone, never enduring a sprain, never spending a night in a hospital...I am still invulnerable.

Signal Silence

I'm off, boys and girls, for an arctic vacation filled with speed, snow, and—most likely—a well-calloused ass. Heading to Maine for a snowmobile vacay. If you don't hear from me in a week, I'm either dead or somewhere in the northern wilderness seeing how much nutritional content there is in a fake snowmobile seat. And fending off the rare Winter Chupacabra.

While I'm gone, though, the trade paperback of The Highwaymen will be landing on stands. On March 5, to be exact. I got my copies a couple of days ago, and there's an incredibly, satisfyingly final feeling to hold it in your hands. It is the very, very last stop for us on our journey with these characters. The trade is the terminus—holding the collection in our hands is the first, best destiny we could've hoped for. Sure, it'd have been nice if it sold through the roof, and we were busy plotting their further adventures. Alas, that was not to be. But as so many books go uncollected, hence unpreserved, this was a gratifying bookend. Literally.

An idea that began with nothing more than the words "Two men...one shoots... one drives" is now a completed book, with our names on the glorious spine.

Wherever I am on Wednesday, whatever part of the frozen tundra, I'm gonna take a moment and bellow at the Fates, thanking them for granting me that one request. And then I'm gonna gun it until I see God—or a reasonable facsimile thereof.

See y'all in seven.