The 'Monster' Lowdown

Monster Attack Network
Written by Marc Bernardin and Adam Freeman with art by Nima Sorat

MARVEL! At the Pacific island of Lapuatu, perfect in every way…except for the giant monsters. THRILL! As Nate Klinger and his daring team of first-responders at the Monster Attack Network expertly deal with the frequent rampaging-beast-related crises. WONDER! If the shady American industrialist who comes to the island bearing "gifts" and the mysterious, gorgeous Lapuatuan ex-patriate are up to no good. ENJOY! The hair-raising adventures of the noble men and the drop-dead sexy women of the MONSTER ATTACK NETWORK!

Diamond: Ships July 2007
ISBN: 1-932051-50-3
$12.95 96 pages

Head to the AiT/Planetlar site for more. Or, actually, the same info. But there will be more...

Flash....Aaaa-wha?

So, this is what the Sci-Fi Channel's new Flash Gordon looks like (thanks EW.com!). And Dale Arden. There's something kind of Mutant X about it. Vancouvery. Of course, I haven't seen any of the "awesome" sets or effects or, well, anything at 30 frames per second. But it's just so...Smallville.

Say what you want about the '80s movie, but that thing looked alien. And sounded alien. (Queen, after all, is what it sounds like if you gave superintelligent space monkeys a bushel of PCP-laced bananas and let 'em loose in a room full of guitars and keyboards.) And Sam Jones probably thought there were aliens, so astonished does he seem to be by what's around him: "Oooo, these floors are so shiny. Hey, Mr. Von Sydow! That helmet sure is neat!"

I'm just not feeling it.

Glorious, Glorious, Cover Action

The Highwaymen #3, on sale in August.

August Challenge

A couple of weeks back, John August hosted a contest on his blog in which readers were invited to introduce a character. Any character. Write the first time we see them. So, here's what I did...

INT. SEWER TUNNEL

And it’s a big tunnel, too. Wide enough for a sidewalk-y platform on the edge of the river of sludge heading to the ocean. The strange thing is that there’s a small storefront on the sidewalk, like one of those tiny, barely-noticeable places in the West Village.

A MAN in a track suit that costs more than your mortgage payment walks up, looks behind him to make sure that no one’s on his tail, and ducks in the door.

INT. SUPER CLEANERS

Here’s a place that looks out of place: it’s a dry cleaners, complete with the conveyor belt of clothes that vanishes into the dim recesses, the 75-year-old Singer waiting for pants to hem, and the counter-top bell.

The MAN enters, gingerly closing the door behind him. It’s been a while since OLIVER made his vast fortune, but you wouldn’t know it to look at him. His blond hair just long enough so that he doesn’t look like a Suit, his goatee neatly tousled, Oliver is in excellent shape…even though his exercise gear looks like it’s never been exercised in. He rummages in his pockets for something.

ARIADNE (OFF)
No need, sir. Your clothes
are ready.

ARIADNE, an old woman with a black silk sash covering her eyes, comes walking over. She doesn’t bump into anything.

OLIVER
How do you do that, Ari?
You never let me get a word out…

Ariadne presses a button attached to the clothes conveyor belt, and the parade of plastic covered togs begins.

ARIADNE
It’s the hundred dollar soap
and Old Spice, Mr. Queen.
Dead slumming-billionaire
giveaway. Ah, here we go.

Ariadne pulls a hanger from the belt. All we can see is a hint of green beneath the plastic clothes condom.

OLIVER
Sorry, Ari. It was a rough week.

ARIADNE
That what we do here, Mr. Queen.
Repair tough weeks. Now, the
slices were easy enough to
mend, as were the punctures. Spear?

OLIVER
Spiked gate.

ARIADNE
Of course. The burns were harder.
I just hope the dye matches.
Hard for me to tell, you know.

Ariadne hangs the clothes on a rod on the counter, and we finally see what they’re talking about. It’s an emerald green vest-y jerkin thing, with laces criss-crossing the chest. A pair of green boots are slung over the hanger.

It’s GREEN ARROW’s costume.

OLIVER
Looks perfect. Put it on the
League account?

ARIADNE
Of course.

OLIVER
Got someplace I could change?

END.

Gandalf, Merlin, Dumbledore, ...of Id

All wizards! Thus, here's the Highwaymen interview that's up at Wizard.com:

Clickety-clickety

Samurai Steel, Indeed

I thought I was familiar with most flavors of samurai flick, but one sub-genre seems to have escaped me. And so, here's Hanzo the Razor...



That's right: He's like Dirty Harry, but instead of a .44 Magnum, Hanzo's weapon of choice is his massive, battle-hardened penis, with which he cowes men and "interrogates" women.

Say what you will, but that's the best training montage I've ever seen.

Wait...is HE the Vitruvian Man?

I used to love the mid-'80s Nick Mancuso show, Stingray, when I was a kid. What was not to love: A mysterious drifter with a vintage Corvette Stingray who helped people out of their episodic-TV jams (greedy real estate baron, missing kid, rogue biker gang, etc.) but asked for nothing in return...except for the promise to perform a favor for the drifter, whatever it is, whenever he asks. I remember some line like "And I may never ask you for that favor, but if I do, you must."

Essentially, it was Knight Rider without the talking car. Or The Dukes of Hazzard if you add a roadmap out of town and subtract the casual racism.

But look at this credit sequence and tell me if you get any of that:



Yes, there's a bad-ass muscle car. But the judo? The stock shots of diamonds and slipping mickeys into cocktails? The crazy huge triangle? The obsession with sunglasses? Da Vinci's Vitruvian Man??!!

You'd think that the star of this show was Mike Post's music. What the hell were they thinking, not selling your concept—especially if you have one—and choosing for mindless, meaningless flash? (And not even flash that would be as good as Miami Vice.)

How quickly they forgot the lessons of The Six Million Dollar Man, for my money, one of the best credit sequences ever. Oh, and Buck Rogers, too.

So...THAT'S What It'll Look Like

I tell you, it is the weirdest thing in the world to pick up a random comic, as I did with Stormwatch: PHD, start reading, get to the center spread and see an ad for your own debut book in there. Both surprising and familiar at the same time. It's like I jumped myself in a dark alley.

Didn't know I was coming.

From Jim Lee's Mouth...

To fans' ears:

Woo-Hoo, and Inter-View

The first real Highwaymen interview is now up at Comic Book Resources.

Check the goodness.

Some 'Monster' Love

From PopImage (scroll down a bit):

"Writers Marc Bernardin and Adam Freeman have a mini series from Wildstorm, THE HIGHWAYMEN, that starts in June and it looks like a hoot of a book. MONSTER ATTACK NETWORK looks like a big, fun, action book. The MAN is an international crisis squad that handled the oversized creature issues you might have.

I’m seeing it as sort of a “Ghostbusters meets The B.P.R.D.”

Bernardin and Freeman are relatively untested at this point, but if Larry Young thought it was good enough for AiT/Planet Lar, then that’s enough for me."

Not quite an international crisis squad, but close enough.

My Brief But Illustrious Pugilistic Career, Part 2.5

When I was in my senior year of high school, I had this girlfriend. Let's call her G. She was my first girlfriend and, as such, I loved her with all the heat of a thousand novas. Or, at least, I thought I did, since one's first experience with love is informed by nothing beyond teen movies and Catcher in the Rye. But G was my girl and I was her boy and I was happy as could be. Because I was getting some.

I was a relatively popular guy in high school, predominately because I crossed a lot of cliques. I was on the football team, so I was in with the jocks. I was pretty creative and took a bunch of art classes, so the theater kids were okay with me. I was black—still am—so the black kids were cool with me, and the hispanic kids kind of came with them. I was smart, if unmotivated, so I was good with the brains, as well as the faculty. Knew a couple of stoners, but they didn't really care one way or the other. I was sitting happily at the center of the vin diagram that is the pre-collegiate educational system.

But G, flush with the newfound power women realize they have over men and unable to temper her use of that power, liked to play games. And she got it in her mind to see if I was willing to fight to preserve her honor. Or something. So, I was talking to a bunch of friends in the Commons area of our high school—it was towards the end of the day when people had some free periods scheduled, so it was pretty crowded—when I look over and see this underclassman (let's call him Shaun) shove my girlfriend.

I grabbed him by the shirt and threw him against the aluminum shutters that closed up the cafeteria. He told me that G pushed him first. Which I flatly didn't believe. Why would she? But I think I scared him, and he backed off. And the bell rang and life moved on.

But it didn't. Because Shaun was buddies with his kid named David. And David decided that he didn't like me. And David had friends. And David decided that he wanted to go to war. For pummelling his friend, who shoved my girl. And it escalated to USA/Soviet Union levels of finger-on-the-trigger madness. Setting dates for schoolyard confrontations which never happened. Walking around with football team protection. Shouting matches. Sharks and Jets without the dancing.

It got so bad that the Principal of the school called David and I into his office, so he could get all Colin Powell on our asses and defuse the situation. He wanted to know the problem. I told him my side. David told him his. Mr. Principal believed me, since I was a good kid who'd never been in a fight my entire time in high school. We all decided that this level of hysteria was silly, shook hands, and went our separate ways, letting go and letting God.

Except David didn't. Not that he started anything, but he endeavored to make the balance of my senior year as uncomfortable as possible. Which he only partially succeeded in. Not that I was afraid of him, or any of his cronies, but I didn't really want to have to analyze every situation I was in, looking for defensible positions or high ground.

Only later, after I graduated and decided to attend a commuter college to be closer to my girlfriend, did she reveal her actions and motivations. And later still, she cheated on me and we broke up.

Bitch.

So, that's the non-fight which took over Baldwin Senior High School for, like, a month.

Cinco de My Ass

I'm not a holiday guy, really. Once you hit, I dunno, 14, Christmas loses its luster. (Especially if you're not a religiously observant cat.) Easter, same deal, but revise that age down to 10, the last time you get really excited by candy. Thanksgiving is, at this point, a holiday sponsored by Purdue. But at least there's something legitimate to remember—even if it is the rape of the natural world and the beginning of the end for the indigenous peoples of North America. Still, corn!

But Cinco de Mayo is a holiday invented, promoted, and sustained by tequila companies. And Corona. A holiday for alcoholics. And sorority girls. But mostly drunks. There's just something distasteful about that. (And, while I am painting with a wide brush, at least there was, actually, a St. Patrick. That's a holiday that's been co-opted by drunks.) Hell, do you even know why anyone gives a shit in Mexico about May 5th? Neither do any of the people crowding the bar at Chili's. (For the record, it commemorates the victory of Mexican forces led by General Ignacio Zaragoza Seguin over the French occupational forces in the Battle of Puebla in 1862. Or not, if Wikipedia is up to their usual fact-free standards.)

I'm all for drinking. I just don't need excuses to drink. That's why I never understood drinking games: Getting drunk is fun enough, I don't need to wrap it in a silly activity to want to do it.

But if we've gotta have a Booze Holiday, then I want a Gambling Holiday, too. Fuck that, we should just have Vice Day, when anything and everything bad for you or at one point illegal is encouraged.

Vice Day, brought to you by Baretta and Trojan.

I could get behind that.

Verne Troyer's Recurring Nightmare

Thanks for Chris Nashawaty for tipping me off to this, the Greatest Thing Ever of the Week.

Breaking News!

"Gay" Man Understands Women.

The media, or People.com, is all over it:

"I got teased in school because people figured I must be gay because I understand women," the phenomenally popular American Idol castoff says. "I think that's why guys didn't like me – because I got along with girls so well. When I went up to girls they would give me a hug and a kiss on the cheek like I was their gay friend. But I was the straight guy that understood them."

(I put the "gay" in quotes only because Sanjaya claims not to be. Not that there's anything wrong with it. But I've never met the straight man who will wear his hair like that. On purpose.)

Like Crystal Meth, But Better For Your Teeth

I swear, I could spend all day combing the internet for items about The Highwaymen. I don't know how other writers/artists get anything done. Imagine if I had, like, TWO books out.

And the Hits Just Keep On Coming...

From Randy Lander at the best-named comic-related site out there, Comic Pants:

"The Highwaymen #1 (DC/Wildstorm): Entertainment Weekly editor Marc Bernardin has serious geek cred, writing the weekly “TV Watch” for Battlestar Galactica and having moved around in comics circles for some time. Now he’s writing his first series for Wildstorm, which looks like a solid action offering about a pair of old couriers coming out of retirement for one last job. Sounds fun."

More 'Highwaymen' Sweetness

This, from Blogcritics Magazine:

"The Highwaymen sounds like a great idea for a Hollywood buddy movie, albeit a geriatric one. Able “Speed” Monroe and Alistair McQueen were the ultimate couriers and they’re coming out of retirement for one last job, transporting a top secret package for a dead President. Writers Marc Bernardin and Adam Freeman team with artist Lee Garbett to bring this one to life. I’d love to see Sidney Poitier and Clint Eastwood in the inevitable film version. Coming from Wildstorm June 20. Anticipation factor: 7"

I can live with being one factor of anticipation lower than two new Warren Ellis books. Oh, yes. I'm fine with that.

(Though Sidney Poitier and Clint Eastwood are a tad older than I'd imagined. More like Morgan Freeman and Sean Connery.)

"If You Read Nothing Else..."

This, from some dude named Eric:

If You Read Nothing Else

"This month, I'm most excited about The Highwaymen, a mini-series about two guys who used to courier items around the country. One of them drives fast while the other shoots fast. It's been years since either of them worked together (and, apparently, they might hate each other's guts a little bit). However, when they are recruited out of retirement to run one last job for a dead President, they have to step up. That's just a darn nifty idea...gotta love the old-codgers-coming-out-of-retirement bit."

Also:

"This storyline actually seems like it might have a little game if carried out properly. Driving, shooting, and death-defying antics... who could ask for more, really?"

The nicest part about this is that I have absolutely no idea who Eric Jacobson is...but I dig that he digs it.

Sorry...

Had a few days off, and have neglected you. I apologize, baby. I hope you'll forgive me.

A See-Saw of A Morning

I woke up my daughter, Sophie, much like I do every morning. I knocked on her door (not that she cares, just as a courtesy), walked over to her closet, picked out what she was gonna wear for the day—a lovely royal blue ensemble—and went to the edge of her bed.

Now, mornings with Sophie can go any number of ways, as any parent of an autistic child will tell you. There are the nights when she doesn't sleep solidly (awake at, say, 4:00 am, clapping and laughing) and, as a result, wakes up a clingy, weeping, inconsolable terror. There are the times when I'll open the door and find her stripped of her pajamas, sitting on her dresser making faces at herself in the mirror, reciting dialogue from an episode of Dora the Explorer she saw three months ago.

And then there are days like today.

I walked over to her bed and she was laying there, head on her pillow, eyes fluttering open. She looked at me, smiled and—in a rare moment of clarity, where the fog that she lives in lifts—she said "Daddy!"

Parents of typically developing children get this every day, but for us...this is rain in the desert, a candle in the dark. This is magic.

So, yeah, today started well.

Of course, while running to catch my morning train, I split the crotch of my pants wide open. Even so, sitting there, balls exposed to the elements, it was still a good morning.

Highwaymen #2: Solicited!

Boo-yah!


The Highwaymen #2 (of 5)

Written by Marc Bernardin and Adam Freeman; Art by Lee Garbett; Cover by Brian Stelfreeze

The explosive miniseries continues as the Highwaymen, after surviving an ambush at their secret desert HQ, head south of the border to retrieve the package they were hired to transport: a college co-ed named Grace Anderson. But what's so special about her that this pair of retired couriers are willing to face off against biologically enhanced CIA agents and the entire Tijuana police force?

Wildstorm | 32pg. | Color | $ 2.99 US

On Sale July 18, 2007

Dumb-Ass Press Release of the Week

Ultimate Chargers/Unilever
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
April 10, 2007

MEDIA ALERT

Bilingual Ultimate Chargers Activation Tent at Texas Motor Speedway
The Ultimate Chargers is capitalizing on one of NASCAR’s fastest growing demographic, Hispanics.

WHAT: Stop by the bilingual Ultimate Chargers fan zone tent and try delicious food samples, ride in a car simulator, win prizes, get great recipes in English and Spanish and home solutions ideas that put you in charge of how your family eats, lives and plays. Samples handed out daily!

Hellmann’s is the official mayonnaise of the Texas Motor Speedway. ¡Hellmann's da lo mejor! ¡Muestras gratis todos los dias!

Also, be sure to check out the Ultimate Chargers blog for the latest on the Ultimate Chargers, the 2007 NASCAR Busch Series races, and the nine Unilever sponsoring brands that back the Ultimate Chargers at www.ultimatechargers.com/blog

WHERE: Located at the Display Midway near Gate 1 towards Turn 4 at the Texas Motor Speedway, Fort Worth, TX

WHEN:
-Friday. April 13, 11:30- 3:30
-Saturday, April 14, 8:15 - 1:30
-Sunday, April 15, 8:15 - 12:30

Comicky Goodness Update

Well, let's see.

We're about to deliver the last script for The Highwaymen to our editor, Scott Peterson, today. We took our last pass on it over the weekend, now just rereading to make sure that we pay off everything we set up over the course of the five issues. We've seen a lettered version of the first issue and, after rewriting most of it, it reads like a real comic book. We've seen the first three covers, and the first couple of passes at logos. And we got a half-a-page in the April issue of Previews. Hot damn.

Monster Attack Network is steaming along. Proofed the whole damned thing, and sent our text edits back to AiT/PlanetLar Central Command and our requests for fixes back to the artist. In a month or so, that too will be a real comic book.

And the scouring the earth for new work goes well. Taking part in a couple of anthologies, waiting for approval on a couple of other books, got a standing offer we need to figure out how best to take advantage of, shaking the trees and seeing what else will shake loose. We are not above swiping at the low-hanging fruit.

My Brief But Illustrious Pugilistic Career, Part Two

FIGHT TWO
I was a fat kid. Not as fat as I am now (I've since earned it), but that kind of 12-year-old fat that just looks unfortunate in a t-shirt and shorts. It was the summer between my seventh and eighth grades and I was going to a park a few blocks away with my next-door neighbor. Let's call him Hunter.

We hit the park, which was just on the edge of the mythical Bad Part of Town. Baldwin, where I grew up, bordered a few different municipalities. Some of them, like Rockville Center, were just peachy. But others, like Hempstead and Roosevelt (hometown to Eddie Murphy, Howard Stern, and a whole shitload of criminals), were not so peachy. These were towns where you'd swear the Jim Crow real estate practices were still in full effect. The Stern family notwithstanding, these were towns entirely populated by black folks. And, while some of those families were completely upstanding and just people who wanted a better life for their children, some of them just didn't give a fuck and raised thugs. Or, probably more accurate, just let thugs raise themselves. We're not talking South Central drive-by-ville, but it could be a dangerous part of Long Island.

So, me and Hunter were in the park. Doing what 12-year-old kids do. Playing tag. Climbing in the jungle gym. Swinging on the swings. Whatever. And then we were set upon by a pack of Older Kids. Freshmen in high school, from what I recall. Seemed like 30 year olds to us. Led by a guy named Harold. Tall and skinny. Beginnings of a moustache. And they proceeded to pick on us. Mercilessly. They threw stuff at us. Pushed us. Shoved us. When we tried to run, they cut us off. They herded us to the entrance to the park, and then trailed us as we started to make our way home. We took the longest way home we could devise, hoping they'd eventually get tired and not actually follow us to our houses—thereby rendering our sanctums sanctorum vulnerable.

Never raised a fist that day. I was too scared to. I just went home...and never spoke of it again to Hunter, or anyone.

But I started working out. Lifting weights. Like a fiend. Probably more than a 12-year-old should. I didn't care. That wasn't ever going to happen again.

And it didn't.

She Makes a Good Point

...and not just because of my love for Las Vegas.

Katherine Keller wrote an editorial for Sequential Tart making a case—a pretty solid one, actually—that the big San Diego Comic Con should actually leave San Diego and move to Las Vegas, a town built for conventions with nothing but hotel space and con floor space up for grabs. Granted, Vegas can be miserably hot in July, and I'd miss being able to dine on the Waterfront, but I won't miss the insanely jacked-up prices for decent hotel rooms or the crappy flight options.

And I'd probably gamble my savings away. But it'd be a fun town for that kind of con. It's worth thinking about...

Back From Vegas

If I hadn't been suffering from a chest-bursting cold—complete with enough cold sweat, shivers, and rib-quaking coughing fits to fill a buffet—this Vegas trip might've been one of the best. As it was, it was pretty good.

Ate well (and held off on the Halls long enough to taste the high-priced steak), saw a decent show (Beatles Love, at the Mirage—better for the soundtrack than the interpretive dance), and gambled a lot (and got my clock cleaned steadily...but never went to an ATM and still came home with money in my pocket). What more can you ask from Vegas?

Here's my favorite moment: We were down at the Old Strip, on Fremont Street, in a casino called Four Queens. I'd bounced off my losing streak by sitting at a $10 double-deck blackjack table. When they changed dealers on me, I took my $175 and left to go find my wife, who was playing Roulette. I watched as she placed her bets—a set litany of numbers with special significance to her (birthdays, anniversaries, etc)—and placed a $5 chip right on top of hers on "30," the day of the month on which we were married.

Of course it came up. And it paid out 35 to 1.

In hindsight, I should've but a $25 chip down, but I'm not that kind of gambler, especially not on Roulette, which is only a hair more strategic a game than a slot machine or pick-up-stix.

Still, I was fiscally raped for the balance of the weekend. But I had a great time.

Off to Vegas

Sin City beckons, so I'll continue the tales of me getting my ass handed to me next week. Until then, remember, "Always bet on black!" (And don't bet on Wesley Snipes unless you're up for some serious legal hassles.)

My Brief But Illustrious Pugilistic Career, Part One

I have only been in three-and-a-half real fights in my life. (I'll get into the half-a-fight later.) I am, if you can imagine it, a violent but non-confrontational person. I am fine with the idea of physical combat. I like the sensation one gets from hitting something, be it a heavy bag, a running back or, in the days of my youth, the occasional wall. I studied martial arts for a good long while because I wanted to get better at it, to learn it as discipline. And because I found I enjoyed discovering new ways to crush bones. Even if I never used any of it. (But it comes in handy when writing fight scenes...)

But I've never been the type of guy to leave the house seeking conflict. That doesn't play into my personality. In theory, I'm a live and let walk away kind of guy. Never once got into a bar fight. Never intentionally put myself in a position where a physical confrontation was going to be the only way out. (I've been in them, but they weren't my idea.)

All of that said, most of my fights have ended with me getting my ass kicked.

FIGHT ONE
I was in fifth grade, I think. New to Shubert Elementary School in Baldwin, Long Island. My family had just moved to the suburbs from the Bronx. I can't recall exactly how I got in a fight with a sixth grader (not that it would've been an interesting tale—it's not like we were disagreeing over Carter's handling of the Hostage Crisis). But there I was, faced off against a kid who's name I can't even remember, a few feet away from the industrial-strength jungle gym, surrounded by a hundred some-odd kids who wanted to see what the new guy was made of.

The fight went very quickly. He popped me in the nose, starting a little bleed. I summoned all of my martial arts knowledge—accumulated from years of watching bad Stephen J. Cannell action dramas—and executed a spinning roundhouse kick that would've made Michael Knight proud. Of course, Michael Knight wasn't often wearing shitty Jordache sneakers and standing on a patch of loose dirt. My kick didn't make contact with my opponent, but my ass did make contact with the ground.

It's possible that I could've regained my feet and trounced my opponent...if the Elementary School Thunderdome wasn't laughing hysterically. Demoralized, with my snappy white polo shirt covered in red droplets, I slunk away. Luckily, I only lived a half-a-block from school, so I didn't have to slink far.

Conference Ball

The really strange part about this is that the longer you watch it, the more your brain tries to pretend that the balls they're talking about are widgets or something. Anything but actual balls.

'Battlestar' Finale

I can't claim to have loved it...at least not all of it. Dug the Lee stuff on the stand. While completely inappropriate from a legal standpoint, at least it gave that character something to do. Hated Kara coming back.

And while I didn't mind the Cylon reveal at the end, I intensely disliked the "All Along the Watchtower" method. It just didn't feel right that not only do these four people—and only these four—hear this song, but that the song is one from Earth canon. It bothered me. (Here are the rest of my conflicted thoughts on the finale.)

That said, I kinda dug the cover, so I did a little digging into it and came across the site of Battlestar Galactica composer Bear McCreary, who rearranged the tune for the finale. And I came across a noteworthy nugget of information, among his details of the construction of the cover:

"I happened to catch Ron Moore in the hallway at Universal and, in a brief conversation, got everything I needed to know. I learned that the idea was not that Bob Dylan necessarily exists in the characters' universe, but that an artist on one of the colonies may have recorded a song with the exact same melody and lyrics. Perhaps this unknown performer and Dylan pulled inspiration from a common, ethereal source. Therefore, I was told to make no musical references to any 'Earthly' versions, Hendrix, Dylan or any others. The arrangement needed to sound like a pop song that belonged in the Galactica universe, not our own."

Which sheds a little light. For the rest of McCreary's "Watchtower" tale, head on over.

The Highwaymen: Solicited!

Here it is, fresh from the DC Comics website:

THE HIGHWAYMEN #1 (OF 5)

Written by Marc Bernardin and Adam Freeman; Art by Lee Garbett; Cover by Brian Stelfreeze

Two men. One drives, the other shoots. In their prime, they were the Highwaymen; a special breed of couriers capable of ferrying anything, anywhere, anytime. But that was long ago. Now Able "Speed" Monroe and Alistair McQueen are a little worse for wear, almost obsolete...until they are called out of retirement and must cross the river of bad blood between them to deliver some very dangerous cargo for a dead President. If only they knew what is was — and why everyone else wants to kill them for it.

(Of course, we've changed his name from Alistair since this went out. But, whatever...)

Black Like Me

When people ask me to describe The Highwaymen, I launch into The Pitch: two guys in the sunset of their lives who used to be the best at what they do are called back into service for One Last Job. And when I describe what's unique about the story, I talk about how, unlike most comic book heroes, they're old. And an underlying theme of the book is one of fighting the gravitation pull of obsolence.

What I almost never mention is that the main character is black.

Maybe its because I think the book is interesting for a whole host of other reasons. Maybe it's because the life I live is a fairly integrated one and it just never occured to me that Able Monroe's race is something of note. And then I read this story in the Toronto Star, which talks about the dearth of black heroes in mainstream comics.

"According to their own figures, the Marvel universe contains more than 5,000 characters, yet even a generous count reveals that only 100 or so of these are black – less than two per cent of their fictional population. This pales in comparison to the nearly 14 per cent that the U.S. Census says makes up American society at present."

I've never been the type of cat who rallies to causes. Or takes part in movements (of the non-bowel variety). And so the fact that 1/2 of The Highwaymen is an older African-American gentleman is not a statement. It's not meant to be a corrective. I don't have a soap-box that I want to get up and stand on. In the story, Able's race is a non-issue. Not that race shouldn't be an issue—I was really impressed with The American Way, by John Ridley and Georges Jeanty, which deals with a Negro hero during the Civil Rights era—but for me, The Highwaymen isn't 48 HRS. It isn't about partners overcoming the racial divide and getting the job done and learning to respect each other. It's about partners getting the job done and finding a place in a world that might've passed them by.

The fact that Able's a black man is just a natural extention of the story I wanted to tell. And isn't that the best way for change to happen, organically?

And I realize that when it comes time to start the PR machine, one of the threads of the Highwaymen quilt that will get tugged on is the fact that I'm a black comics creator, one who put a black man front and center—and on the cover—of a mainstream comic book. Because I'm a mercenary bastard who wants his first book to do as well as it possibly can, I will chocolate-milk it for all its worth.

(Know what? There's a black dude in Monster Attack Network as well, the hero's No. 2. More grist for the mill. He didn't make the cover, though.)

What's that? Ebony magazine on line 2? Be right there.

Larry Young Knows All

Or, at the very least, everything you need to know:

[M]uscle cars are the new zombies. Which were the new pirates. Which were the new ninjas. Which were the new monkeys.

Not that The Highwaymen has pirates, ninjas, zombies, or monkeys—we'll save that for the inevitable ongoing series (and by inevitable, I mean, please let us continue the story)—but it is packed to the gills with a tricked-out '67 Shelby Mustang doing a whole mess of awesome shit.

Maybe if we do another Monster Attack Network book, we'll stick in a few Dodge Challengers, just for good measure.

Night and 'Day'

The trailer for Daywatch, the second in a crazy-ass Russian sci-fi trilogy.



While there is something preponderously silly about 'The Chalk of Fate," that last bit with the car driving along the building is just bat-shit awesome.

Dumb-Ass Press Release of the Week

Here's another winner. Again, not that there aren't outlets that might be interested in the following ridiculousness, but clearly not Entertainment Weekly.

I will say, however, that any class that begins with the students "defining their sugarbush" gets spotted 50 Intriguing points right off the bat...

BEDFORD WOODS STABLES TO PROVIDE EDUCATIONAL MAPLE SYRUP EXCURSIONS

Educational opportunities for teachers, history buffs and lovers of natural foods

Temperance, Michigan - Bedford Woods Stables is offering the public an opportunity to learn the time-honored tradition of Maple Sugaring and how it got its start over 400 years ago from the Native Americans. While a major focal point of these excursions is to increase people's understanding of the history of maple syrup production and to help them gain an appreciation for this rich heritage that was so ingrained in the lives of the settlers from this region of North America, a great deal of attention is also paid to teaching attendees every aspect of maple syrup gathering and production.

Those attending classes on the "Art of Maple Syrup Production" will learn every aspect of how to make maple syrup starting with defining their "sugarbush", then gathering and processing, and finally packaging their product, doing so through hands-on participation. Students completing this course will receive a certificate, finish with a comprehensive knowledge of the complete maple syrup sugaring process, and be informed enough to actually set up their own maple syrup facility.

Others, attending family-friendly two-hour guided maple syrup tours, will experience an informational excursion consisting of a hayride through the "sugarbush" for tree tapping and sap gathering. Then they will head back to the sugar shack to witness the production of maple syrup, performed in a rustic outdoor setting.

Classes and tours will only be available on weekends during the sugaring season lasting roughly 4 to 6 weeks in spring. Stable owner Steve Sattler expects the season to last until the first and possibly the second weekend in April.

All attendees will leave with an increased appreciation for this historic craft, and with their very own pure maple syrup.

The stable will be providing two-hour tours for ages 4 and up at a cost of $10 per person: Saturdays & Sundays at 10 a.m., 12 noon & 2 p.m.

Maple Syrup Classes will be provided to adults 18 years and older at a cost of $50 per person: Saturdays & Sundays Minimum 12 contact hours total.

Feel the Hate. Love the Hate.

Every week, I write a review of the most recent episode of Battlestar Galactica for EW.com. I do it because I love the show. LOVE. I think many of you already know this. I don't do it because it's fun—while I like writing, I don't especially like writing about an episode that airs Sunday nights at 10pm. When I don't get a review copy (which happens more often than I'd like) it means that I only start writing at 11pm. And trying to digest a show that can be as meaty as BSG that late, and then write 1000 words on it can be taxing. At the very least, it's not easy.

But I do it because I love the show, and want to spread the word.

However, the people that read my reviews and leave comments on them don't seem to understand that I can love Battlestar Galactica and still be critical of it at the same time. And because I point out storytelling problems or conceptual flaws or thin characterization doesn't mean I don't like it, or that I wish I was watching Law & Order or CSI or, as one poster suggested, Blossom.

Love is not thinking a thing or a person is perfect. Love is accepting the imperfections as well as the strengths.

I'm mentioning this here and now because I know than in a month or so, Adam and I will step bravely into the publicity colisseum for The Highwaymen and Monster Attack Network. And then, when those books come out, we'll be subject to the whims of internet fandom. And, judging by some of the people who hit my BSG reviews, the level of discourse out there is a little worrysome.

I Didn't Expect THAT

$70 million opening for 300. I mean, I knew it was gonna be big—trust me, I was the only dude at work who had any sort of faith it was gonna do anything—but I capped it at $30-35 million. $70 million is huge. 300 will probably go on to make $300 million global, if not more...it's got no real like-minded competition until Grindhouse in early April.

I like what it means, how it could play out.

Because it means that you can open a movie for adults, for action junkies, for men, without compromising. Because that's who went, men. 75% of the audience. And that 75% was split evenly between young and old. Sure, there were some changes made to the 300 story to accommodate women—namely, the Queen Gorgo plot—but by and large this was a movie for boys. And we don't get too many of those anymore.

The Hollywood fixation on making the four-quadrant film—young men, old men, young women, old women—pretty much eliminates the possibility of a film making it through the system that targets just the one, especially if that film costs what a blockbuster costs nowadays. You simply don't make a $250 million movie like Spider-Man 3 or Superman Returns or Pirates of the Caribbean 3 unless you aim as widely as possible. But 300 came in at $65 million. You can almost take a risk with that kind of budget.

(Inversely, this should also prove that targeting any one or two of those quadrants could prove financially viable. Why there aren't more movies like Something's Gotta Give or The Holiday is beyond me. Women will also turn out in droves, especially if the weekend is all about blood and Spartans, and you can make those movies for dirt cheap.)

I hope that more studios will step up to the plate, point to a specific point in the bleachers, and swing away.

My Favorite '300' Headline

Which they, in all their wisdom, wouldn't let me use:

A Handful of Spartans is Better Than A Whole Pack of Trojans

I still like it, and wanted to save it for digital posterity.

I Wanna Know What Pluto Did

Not the planet(oid)—he got punished for just being too far away from home and never calling. No, the dog. He musta done something very, very bad...so bad that he's been demoted to a second class citizen. Come, walk with me for a while while we talk.

Now, Mickey Mouse is a mouse, as is Minnie. Donald, a duck. Ditto Daisy, Huey, Dewey, Louie, Scrooge McDuck. All animals in the Disney Universe, and all walking upright and wearing clothes.

Then we get to Goofy. He's a dog. Walks, talks, manipulates objects with his hands, capable of complex, if often flawed reasoning. And then there's Pluto. Also a dog, but wearing a collar, spends most of his time on all fours, barking.

In a world of anthropomorphized animals, Pluto is the only pet. He's unique. I can't imagine the natural forces in that Universe that would render only one animal, of all the others, incapable of Higher Functionality, and willing to accept a life of slavery. The only conclusion I can come to is that Pluto is being punished for something. Maybe he sniffed a little too close to the Private Reserve Cheese. Perhaps he tried to put the moves on Minnie. Hell, maybe he's serving time for chipmunk-slaughter.

But he did something, and I wanna know what.


(This is the kind of shit that floats into the head of a ridiculously bored adult when faced with watching the same three episodes of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse for six months straight.)

Black History Month

Is all but over. And I just hope that NBC realizes that The Black Donnellys doesn't qualify as minority-oriented programming.

I'm just saying...

More NYCC Stuff

Here are a couple of links to Newsarama reports from the panels I was on, should you really and truly desire to sample my scintillating wit in a public forum.

Crossing Over: How the Comics Boom is Changing Entertainment.

Wildstorm/CMX.

My favorite quote, which didn't make it into either of these write-ups, came during the Wildstorm panel. A fan from the audience asked whether or not the Wildstorm Universe was turning into a PG-13/All-Ages affair. The answer was (and I'm paraphrasing) "Yes, it is, for the books that take place within that Universe. But some, like The Highwaymen, will exist outside of that Universe and won't be under the same restrictions."

And then I chimed in with: "Our book is totally, unapologetically profane. Like if Billy Connelly and Redd Foxx went on a Tourette's road trip, with guns."

I think I heard 100 Bullets' Brian Azzarello, who was sitting next to me, snort.

The Highwaymen

Now that our five-issue Wildstorm miniseries has, offically, been announced at the New York Comic Con, the very least I can do (or, maybe it's the most I can do) is show off the awesomeness of the cover. Even though the interior artist, Lee Garbett, is doing fantastic work, there's just something about a Brian Stelfreeze cover.



It'll be on sale June 20th. I'll give a little more info about the book in the weeks to come...but for now, it's about kick-ass old dudes called back to do One Last Job.

The Hands-Down Best Part of NYCC

The New York Comic Con that is. I'll let the pictures do the talking.

New York Comic Convention

I'm girding my loins for this 2nd annual whorefest. (I call it that because that's pretty much all I'll be doing, selling myself to whoever's willing to bid.)

If'n you're desperately looking for me, here's where you can definitely find me:

Saturday, 5-6pm
DC Presents Crossing Over: How the Comics Boom is Changing Entertainment. (Come and thrill at me sitting next to Paul Dini, Brian K. Vaughan, and Greg Rucka as they offer cogent thoughts on the subject while I shout random obscenities!)

Sunday, 12-1pm
Wildstorm/CMX: 'Gon' Wild (Where BKV has to tolerate me once again, while Gail Simone continues to pretend not to know me.)

I'll be the devastingly normal-looking black guy.

One of the Craziest Things I've Seen All Year

Just...look:



Now, I know that these scenes from Neil LaBute's The Wicker Man remake are taken wildly out of context and butted together in such a way that renders them ridiculous. But firstly, let's remember that this is a Neil LaBute movie, starring Oscar-winner Nicolas Cage. And then let's recall the shot of Cage, dressed like a bear, punching out a woman.

After this, I totally can't wait to see Ghost Rider.

A Choice for Our Times

Penelope Cruz or Salma Hayek?

(And no, both is not an option.)

Finally...More 'Aliens'

Maybe.

A company called Bluefields Creative (looks like a VFX firm) is developing a quick-hit animated series, much like Cartoon Network's Clone Wars, based on James Cameron's Aliens—which is, for my money, the greatest action film ever made.

According to Ain't It Cool News, always a bastion of reliability, there's some interest in Aliens: War Games, but it hasn't made it to Fox proper yet. But judging by the presentation footage (click on "Animated Boards" to see it), they've got a pretty good handle on the world.

Will it fly? Who knows? But I've got my fingers crossed. I've always wondered why Fox didn't milk this franchise and do a Colonial Marines vs. aliens TV series. Seemed like a no-brainer to me. (I'd have much rather watched that than Space: Above and Beyond.)

Maybe this is the cure for what ails...

Dumb-Ass Press Release of the Week

Working, as I do, for Entertainment Weekly, I get hundreds of emails a day. Some of them are important, some of them are interesting, and others are just plain stupid. And the stupid ones invariably fall into two categories: 1) The ones that are promoting the most laughable products you've ever seen and 2) the ones that approach an entertainment publication with story ideas that would never fly in an entertainment publication.

So, here's the Dumbest one of the Week (thus far).

Dear Marc,

This year National Arbor Day - which celebrates the importance of planting and caring for trees - will fall on April 27th. Have you started thinking about what your Arbor Day story will be?
(snip)
Following please find examples of story ideas that I think will interest you in particular:

• Just three trees strategically placed around a home can decrease utility bills by 50%
• Residential property values can increase 5 - 20% if trees are in the landscape
• Sales at businesses on tree-lined streets are up to 12% higher
• Crime rates decrease in areas with more greenery
• Children who have a view of greenery perform better in school
• Access to green spaces relieves the symptoms of ADD, resulting in better concentration
• Access to green areas helps reduce stress and aggression in urban environments
• Each year, an acre of trees absorbs the amount of carbon produced by driving a car 26,000 miles

Would you like to receive a press kit about the tree planting celebrations and other National Arbor Day Foundation programs?

We are excited about the 2007 tree planting efforts and hope you will be able to support the extreme importance of trees to future generations through your coverage of Arbor Day. I am ready to help with photos or additional information and can quickly put you in contact with a representative from The National Arbor Day Foundation or The Home Depot Foundation.

Thank you for your time and consideration.

So long as we can drape Hayden Panetierre from the branches of a mighty oak, you got yourself a deal!

Eeesh.

I Am Not a Pyromaniac

Nor do I smoke, but I love me a Zippo lighter. I've got two on my desk right now. There's just something perfectly elemental about that hunk of metal. You can hear the simplicity when you flick it open. That sound is rewarding, in a strange way. It's like an E chord on an electric guitar: it's not complicated, but it's satisfying.

I'd been thinking about writing, recently. That I want to do more of it. That I want to get better at it. We're coming to the end of the line on the Wildstorm book, the writing of it, anyway, and doing this miniseries has reinforced something that I think I knew about myself, but hadn't really...faced is the wrong word. Codified is better.

I'm a power-chord of a writer. The stories that float in my head are not the kinds that lend themselves to multi-level narratives, they're not dense puzzle-box mysteries or deep character studies. They are about mashing the pedal to the floor, pulling the trigger, or getting the girl. Scotch, not martinis. I deal in base pleasures.

You turn to the first page of a comic I had something to do with the writing of, and my goal is to make you hear that click of machined simplicity. That Zippo magic.

If you do, then I am a happy man.

Too Revealing...

I know, but I'm just gonna put it out there.

Whenever possible, I use the handicapped stall. (And, for the record, I'm not handicapped.)

I do so for three reasons.

1) It's usually the deepest into the men's room, and the stall furthest from the door affords the most privacy, no one walking past trying to get a read of your identity by your shoes.

2) It's got the most room. Yeah, I know, usually it's for a wheelchair. But sometimes, if you've got a coat and a bag, every little square inch counts.

3) Those metal bars on the walls offer leverage. For when you need leverage. You know what I mean, damnit.

It probably makes me a marginally horrible person, but there it is.

Pimp My Enterprise

Whitney Matheson over at USA Today's Pop Candy pointed this out, and it's too cool not to share. Remember in the last episode of Heroes, when George Takei—playing Hiro's stern Japanese dad—pulls up in his sleek Mercedes? Here's the license plate:


Because that's just how Sulu rolls, bitches.

Are YOU Man Enough?

When I was a kid reading what I thought were the best comics ever printed (and which, looking back today, we actually not all that great), they all had the shittiest advertising. We all remember the Insult that Made a Man out of Mac (and how he sent away for a crappy book which probably came with the most basic of workout instructions and directions to a small shop in Tijuana that sold horse steroids), and the Sea Monkeys, and the 500-piece plastic army dude set.

I spent a whole summer trying to convince my mother that I'd be the best Grit salesman in the state, because I just had to have that Apollo 3-speed bike. In her wisdom, she explained to me that no one knew what, exactly, Grit was and as such, no one would buy it just so I could have a bike. (And it does sound like the worst name ever for anything that's not a really hardcore gay porn mag.)

But my favorite comic-book ad was for Megaforce. It was on the back cover of what seemed like every comic I bought for three straight years. And it was the perfect clarion call for a 12-year-old: Come see our movie featuring guys in slick jumpsuits with great Bee Gees hair as they ride their pimped-out, armed-to-the-teeth dirt bikes and dune buggies into battle against mysterious Arab bad guys! Are you, boy with nary a pube, man enough for this breed of adventure?



Bet your ass I was. I, too, wanted to be able to pop wheelies on my Schwinn and fire rockets from my handlebars, just like Barry Bostwick. (Naturally, me scotch-taping bottle rockets to my bike and lighting them ended badly.) I wanted to be able to lure Persis Khambatta, with her fresh new hair, into my Aqua-netted lair and make sweet pre-pubescent love to her.

I bought the comics, saw the movie, and lived the dream.

Now that I've got a comic on the way from the very same company that plastered those ads everywhere, I asked my editor if he could do me a solid and print the Megaforce ad on the back of our book. He barely laughed as he crushed my spirit.

Little does he know that I'm gonna find the best color printer than someone else's money can buy and mock up my own back cover. And then I'll be rolling like it's 1983, reading my own comic with the best ad ever on the back.

Because I am man enough.

You'd Buy it For Me If You Loved Me

With Valentine's Day an even week away, I figured I'd let you all know what you can get me to show your undying love and affection. Now, it might be a little pricey, so you may want to pool your resources.


Yes, you can buy me Ecto 1.

It's only going for $149,998. Hurry up.

The Latest Thing I'm Pissed Off About

Joel Schumacher and The Sandman. Together again.

Ye gods, I hope this doesn't happen. But, you know, it probably will. With Joss Whedon off of Wonder Woman, and all the injustice that entails, this would probably balance the scales. After all, the forces of good can't win every time.

(And, if anyone out there has access, I would LOVE to read Whedon's script, or whatever there was of it. That goes in the "Pop Culture Buried Treasures" bin, along with Kubrick's first movie, Fear and Desire, and D.A. Pennebaker's lost Dylan doc, Eat the Document, likely never to be seen again.)

Please, let the powers that be do two things: 1) Watch Schumacher's Batman & Robin, the whole damned thing. 2) Read The Sandman, the whole damned thing. And then try to synthesize a world where those two aesthetics should be in the same fucking zip code.

I'm Itchin...

To talk about the comic-booky stuff that's afoot. Covers are coming in, the art is just about done (for the first issue of the Wildstorm book, for the entire OGN from AiT/Planetlar)...

I'm usually good with secrets, but I want to talk so bad it hurts. Maybe come the New York Comic Con the muzzle will be off, since I'm scheduled to be on a couple of DC-organized panels...and I have to assume they'll be wanting me to talk about something besides my extraordinary awesomeness.

How Much For These Two?

Apparently, Sean "P. Diddy" Combs wanted $2 million for the rights to the first pictures of his kids. He settled for high six figures, from People magazine, I believe. Good for him. It's ridiculous, the idea that someone would pay that much for pictures of people who aren't even dry yet, let alone accomplished anything. And it's not like Diddy needs the money. It's just some perverse set of bragging rights. I'm sure there's some secret celebrity Babies R Us location where famous parents gossip about how much they sold the first pictures for, rather than the nightmare experience had at the Sears Photo Studio.

Anyway, how much are y'all willing to spend for pictures of my knuckleheads? I got bills to pay and, I promise, they haven't appeared in any other publications. You'd have an exclusive.

Poker With the Stars

Or, more accurately, the marginal stars. Anyway, pop on over here to read an entry from my Sundance diary.

Cosmetic Surgery

Looks different, I know. Was just getting a little bored of the old me.

50 Things You Don't Know About Me...Nor Did You Ask.

And, because people like the Mad Pulp Bastard are doing it, I feel compelled. I am nothing but a blog lemming.

50. I was born a poor black boy in the ghetto. Seriously, in the Bronx. And we were poor, even if I didn’t know it then. Because kids never do.

49. I have never done a recreational drug. Of any kind. I’ve drank until I puked shamrocks, but no drugs.

48. I am neither a cat person nor a dog person. Both will cause my lungs to seize. I need no pets, I have children.

47. My younger brother used to own a rabbit, but that little fucker ate all the buttons off the remote control.

46. I am a videogame savant. Unless it involves the words “dance” or “mario” or “kart.”

45. My first screenplay was about a crime-fighting yeti who rode around in a pimped-out ice-cream truck. Yeah, I know.

44. I once shook Ron Jeremy’s hand and debated washing it afterwards. After all, if humanity suddenly died out, I had enough genetic material in the palm of my hand to repopulate the earth.

43. I’ve never seen All About Eve. Or The French Connection. Or The Third Man.

42. I have, however, seen Willow more than once.

41. I don’t like mushrooms. Or asparagus.

40. I have never broken a bone. Or sprained anything. I am invulnerable, so far.

39. When I was 16, I “borrowed” my father’s car and was stupid enough to call my friends from his car phone. I got caught.

38. My brother has better hair than I do. And he’s taller. And he wanted to make comic books long before I ever did. Sorry, bro.

37. I played football all through high-school. I started as a running back, until I got a look at the playbook and all that I’d have to memorize. The next day, I became a defensive lineman. Because all you have to do is hit.

36. I don’t like the beach in the summertime. Too many people, too little space. Besides, it’s not like I need a tan.

35. I believe in spanking one's children. Pain is an excellent teacher. What can I say? I'm old school.

34. My moral compass was calibrated by Conan the Barbarian novels and Star Wars.

33. I learned my first storytelling lesson from my father. He took me to see the Flash Gordon movie and, as I covered my eyes when Flash stuck his hand in that Arborian stump with the creature living inside, my dad leaned over and said, “Don’t worry, they never kill the hero.”

32. Mint and chocolate together gross me out.

31. I’ve only been in two real fights, and I’m one and one.

30. I know how to work a Grass Valley switcher. And, consequently, fire the main cannon of the Death Star.

29. I once fell asleep in a car on the side of an upstate New York road, and woke up in total darkness. It had snowed during the night. Freaky.

28. Steve Guttenberg thinks he knows me. He doesn’t.

27. I don’t run unless chased.

26. I saw Aliens before I saw Alien. As a result, Alien kinda sucks for me.

25. The scariest movie I ever saw was A Nightmare on Elm Street. Gave me nightmares for weeks. Nightmares about nightmares are tough on a 13-year-old kid.

24. I have stolen something from every place I’ve ever worked. My favorite scam was at Red Lobster, where I was a cashier in high school. When someone called in to place a take-out order, I was the one who took it back to the kitchen, retrived the food, and gave it to the customer. I figured out I could put in slips for fake take-out orders, and just tell the manager that the customers never came to pick it up, and then I could keep the food for myself. We ate well at the cashier's stand that summer.

23. I have held a job, without a break, since I was 13 years old.

22. I haven’t paid out of pocket for a movie or a DVD in 8 years.

21. My wife hates Die Hard. And yet I still love her.

20. I was the singer in a rock-rap band in college. We played around for three or four years. Our most requested song: a cover of “Oompa, Loompa.” Which did actually kick ass.

19. Our “Message in a Bottle” didn’t kick quite as much ass. No ass, to be precise.

18. I have never skydived, nor do I want to.

17. I once saw lightning strike a tree, and detonate it from the inside-out. I was standing 8 feet away.

16. The worst job I ever had was at my friend’s father’s factory. They made innersoles for shoes. I was on an assembly line. I had to pop the soles out of the foam sheet after it was stamped by the cutter. Eight hours of mindlessly popping soles. I quit after the first day.

15. The best job I ever had was at a mom-and-pop video store when I was in high school. I sat around, watched movies, talked movies, and played the coin-op Contra videogame. Free rentals, and all the porn I could smuggle home. Kind of like my current job, but minus the porn.

14. I’ve never eaten borscht.

13. Despite growing up in both the Bronx and on Long Island, I have no accent whatsoever.

12. I am a first generation American.

11. I got kicked out of the Grand Casino in Monte Carlo. For being bad.

10. The first student film I ever made won the grand prize in the St. John’s video competition.

9. The first TV script I ever wrote won the grand prize in the Nate Monaster Writing for Television competition.

8. I haven’t won anything since college…though I’ve got my eye on next year’s Eisners.

7. I do not believe in God. Honestly, it’s better that way. Because if I did believe in Him, I would have to hate Him. And that hate would also have to be capitalized.

6. I’m a breast man. Though, it must be said, I prefer two.

5. I would write a novel, but those fuckers are just too damned long. I don’t have that kind of time.

4. I do not have a PDA, a Blackberry, a Treo, or a Sidekick. No one should be that accessible.

3. The first song I learned to play on the guitar was “Smoke on the Water.”

2. I am not a feature writer at EW because I hate the way my voice sounds on tape. The last interview I did was with Frank Miller, for The Dark Knight Strikes Again. And I sounded like a tool.

1. I am the kwisatz haderach. The sleeper has awakened.

Back in the Saddle

Returned from the icy climes of Park City, Utah. Mostly safe, mostly sound. Saw a lot of movies—would've seen more if that EW Party hadn't effectively disabled me for a whole day. Got to play poker with some famous people and push all-in on Doyle Brunson's son...and have him fold.

More later.

Me & the Famous People

I'm usually okay with meeting the celebrity folk. As far as I can tell, I don't embarrass myself, I don't gush, or fawn, or beg for autographs (with one notable exception: I just had to get Neil Gaiman to sign a copy of Sandman: Endless Nights during a press dinner. Couldn't resist.). Part of being a professional journalist (scoff!) is being able to play it cool.

Last night, though, was a little difficult. EW held their annual Sundance party which is, on the first Saturday of the festival, the only ticket in town. (I heard that first-hand from Jake Busey, who shared my cab to the event.) As such, it's thick to the rafters with celebs of every stripe: Paul Rudd, Kevin Bacon, Gretchen Mol, Nick Cannon (who DJed for about an hour, and wasn't bad), Parker Posey, John Cusack, and Winona Ryder. And those were just the ones I saw. And I was cool.

Until I saw him. Captain Tightpants himself, Nathan Fillion.

I'm a big Firefly fan, see. Huge. Not that I bought myself a brown trenchcoat and ran around practicing my Chinese profanity, but I thought Joss Whedon's aborted Fox show was some heady televisioning. I reviewed the DVD set when it came out. I pushed for us to do some serious Serenity coverage when the film was being released—two separate feature stories, one on Joss and his cult following, another on Fillion himself.

So I'm doing a lap through the super-crowded party, and he's in the corner, dancing his chisled head off. (Okay, yes, I've got a teensy bit of a man-crush on him. Shut up.) My friend and coworker Whitney was talking to Elisabeth Banks' husband (still unclear on how they got to be buddies, but doesn't really matter...although I got to meet Elisabeth, who was really sweet), who asked "Hey, have you met Nathan? He's a good guy, lemme go get him."

He ambles over and talks with us for a good 10 minutes, the usual actor-journalist-festival conversation: What are you working on, Do you have a film here, Have you seen anything good, When do you fly out, etc. Super-nice guy. I decided to continue my lap, and leave him to his reverie. As we were shaking hands good-bye, I leaned in and told him "Hey, I'm one of the original EW Browncoats. It was really good to meet you."

And when I said that, his already-friendly face shifted a little, and got, I dunno, sincere. He pulled my hand a little closer and said, "Aw, man. Thanks for that. That really means a lot to me."

Best Sundance moment so far, hands down. Almost makes the skull-crushing hangover worth it.

Why I Love Travel

What is it about air travel that gives me gas? Not metaphorical gas, but real, full-blown intenstinal inflation. It must be the cabin pressure, or maybe the dryness in that recirculated air. But midway through the first leg of trip to Park City, Utah, it was getting a little out of control. And airplane gas is the worst kind, because there's nothing you can really do about it. There's no "walking it off," really. No stepping outside to vent the chamber. You're stuck, sitting in uncomfortable seats, way too close to strangers, and your stomach is expanding and contracting like the trash compactor on the Death Star.

And, of course, by the time you make it back to the closet/bathroom, all that pressure magically disappears. Until you sit back down.

Yeah, didn't have a great set of flights. On top of that, Delta lost my luggage. So, after a 12-hour travel day, I finally checked into my hotel unable to shower and change my clothes. I was doing Sundance like a European backpacker, and I smelled about as good.

I love travel.

Off to Mormon-ville

Headed out to Sundance, y'all. Off to see lots of movies about personal growth and mental abuse. I'll try and keep in touch while I'm away, but I make no promises. After all, there are free drinks with my name all over them.

Wisdom

"I had this theory that superheroes were disastrous for humans, that even if you postulated an infallible hero, the things this hero set in motion fell eventually into the hands of fallible mortals. What better way to destroy a civilization, society or a race than to set people into the wild oscillations which follow their turning over their critical judgment and decision-making faculties to a superhero?" —Frank Herbert, author of Dune.

And that's one to grow on.

Misdirection

You know how, in your better action movies, the villain's plan involves creating so much noise and chaos and ruckus in one place so that the heroic forces pool all their resources there...while carrying out his true agenda somewhere else? Kinda like the plot of Die Hard with a Vengeance. It's also the basis for every magic trick: Keep your eye on the pretty girl while I do a little sleight of hand.

Crucial to the villain's plan is finding the right way to draw the forces of the righteous into this trap. Or, sometimes, simply taking advantage of a moment where the armies of good have their eyes fixed, their resources stacked on one specific place. The thinking on the side of the forces of good is always noble, but myopic. And so, while all the cops in New York City are occupied with evacuating every school in Manhattan thanks to a phony bomb threat, the bad guys are removing all the gold from Wall Street.

Of course, in those action movies, the hero figures out this nefarious plan and thwarts it just in time. Kiss the girl. Credits roll.

But here we are, the "forces of the righteous," overextended and precarious, all our attention focussed abroad. Our finest military veterans claim that to overextend even more would render our military power insufficent. The army is all but broken.

If I was a villain, this would be exactly what I'd been praying my entire life for.

The Greatest Commercial Ever

And the best part? It's for Old Spice.

Woman in Peril

I had never really thought about it all that much—probably because, aside from the magicalness of Lynda Carter, I haven't given Wonder Woman tons of mental hard-drive space—but for a character with titanic strength, descended from the gods themselves, she finds herself tied up, trussed up, or chained up an awful lot. Yes, in the back of my head, I know about the bondage undercurrents, what with the big ol' metal bracelets and the lasso. But, well, take a look at this video...



Weird dudes in drag aside, the sheer number of times this "hero" is in peril is kind of staggering. It seems like putting her in jeopardy—or covering her in goop—is the quick route to a Wonder Woman cover. It's actually amazing that she's still seen as a model for female empowerment considering that if you go by these images, the only person she ever rescues is herself...and only after she's done something boneheaded enough to wind up strapped to a buoy with a big phallus-torpedo heading her way.

Don't get me wrong...I like the character, I just don't like, by and large, what's being done with her.

(Thanks to the Occasional Superheroine for the tip.)

I'm a Professional

It must've been 15 years ago, at this point. I had just finished a camping weekend with my friend Nick and a couple of other guys, and we retreated back to Nick's family's upstate bungalow. (Why they always called it a bungalow and never a house still eludes me.) I took it upon myself to cook breakfast for the guys because, A) I was hungry and B) I wanted edible food and I just didn't trust any of them to make a breakfast that was more than fast or broken.

So I set to work making pancakes, scrambled eggs, and bacon. Easy enough. But I'm very good at breakfast. Almost as good as I am on the grill. Anyway, Nick asked me what I was cooking. I said "Relax, buddy. I'm a professional." He then asked me, "Has anyone ever paid you to cook?" I shook my head. He told me "Then you're not a professional. You're a talented amateur. And I'll reserve the 'talented' until after I've tasted your bacon."

No, not a gay weekend at all.

But he was right. Until you've been paid to do a service, you can't claim to be a pro. And, as of yesterdays mail, which included a sparkly check from DC Comics, I'm a professional comic book writer.

That sound you hear is a very muffled victory dance.

"There Was A Time"

That's probably my favorite James Brown tune. Inasmuch as you can call rhythmic assaults like that "tunes." I haven't got much to say about James Brown that you won't read or hear someplace else. He was just one of those guys—and there aren't a ton of them for me—who I would've killed to have seen in concert in his prime. James Brown, Jimi Hendrix, Ray Charles, and Stevie Wonder pretty much are the list. Maybe add Ella Fitzgerald. And Stevie Ray Vaughan. That's it.

Another one bites the dust. Merry Christmas.

Under the Tree With Care

Yes, we're pretty much halfway through the Christmas march. Christmas Eve with In-Laws is over, the last bottles tossed into recycling, the last leftovers imprisoned in their tupperware cells. Tomorrow is my folks, shuttling out from Long Island because we are the owners of the grandchildren, and they're still young enough that they are the holiday magnets.

"You, there. Person with full control over your bladder and a driver's license. Get in your car and come to us!"

But it's all good. Holidays. Can't really complain. Except for when I do.

Hope yours was a good one, without any tears.

Some Things Bear Repeating

I've said it before and I'll say it again: Tequila is not your friend.

No matter how good your night is going, a shot of tequila will suddenly bring everything to the edge of madness. And last night, it was through sheer force of will that I kept myself from making the floor of the 10:41 pm NJ Transit train very, very slippery.

The only reason I abandoned my better judgment was because I was goaded by a mother of three. And when a mother of three calls you a pussy for not taking a shot, you take the shot.

Stupid tequila.