Facing Poker

I have this theory—which, when I told my wife about, shocked her for its uncharacteristic-of-me superstition—about card games. And by card games, I mean Blackjack and Poker. (I don't play anything else. I thought about playing baccarat once, when I was in Monte Carlo, but they kept yelling at me in French, so I beggared off.)

The theory goes something like: There is but one well from which all cards come. And don't pull from the well if you don't have to.

I play online poker every now and again. Never for money, because I know myself and know that that way lies madness and brokeness. Just for fun, because I like poker and don't get to play with real people all that often. I've also got a stupid little poker app on my cell phone, for those times when I'm standing on the long train ride into Manhattan and don't feel like maneuvering a book. Same with blackjack: computer & cell. Whoopie.

Last night, I was invited to play in a poker game; first time with these bunch of guys. All strangers, save the ringleader, who I'd been email-friendly with for a couple of years but never actually met. My wife asked if I'd been practicing in anticipation of the event. And that's when I hit her with my theory. And she hit me with her something that tasted like a mixture of incredulity and scorn.

I won't play fake cards if I'm in the near future hoping to eventually catch real ones. I was going to need all the good hands I could get, and I didn't want to waste them for nothing.

And it paid off. Once you take away my $100 buy-in, I walked away with $1515. Which is the most I've ever won gambling anywhere.

Don't ever laugh at my theory.

(But I am so fucking tired.)

Newsarama Follow Up

In which I respond to JK Parkin's thoughtful, tender questions:

JK: When you look back at San Diego 2007, what memory do you think will stand out more than others? (Besides what you mentioned above, of course …)
MB: Aside from taking a whiz next to the sheriff from Eureka and having Lucy Lawless flip me the bird in front of 6,000 people? It was sitting down at the DC booth for our first signing. DC’s Con wizard Fletcher Chu Fong disappeared into his Bag of Holding and pulled out a couple of cardboard name placards that had our names on ‘em and the Wildstorm logo: “Marc Bernardin. The Highwaymen.” It felt like we weren’t crashing the party anymore…we’d been invited.

This is Just How We Roll

The Monster Attack Network crew, kickin' it live in San Diego.

Things I Learned in San Diego, 2007 Edition

For this year, at least, Star Trek is dead
Yes, J.J. Abrams unleashed his Spock on the masses and all was right in the world. But I didn’t see a single Klingon on the floor. I heard rumors of one, but no actual visual confirmation. I saw three Starfleet officers…and one Hogwarts student with a shoulder-mounted Tribble, the poor man’s owl. Just last year, Star Trek was a thriving fan community, and it’s members came out in droves to represent. This year, I saw more Ghostbusters than emisaries from the Final Frontier.

Women are amazing
Okay, I already knew this. But this con put things into sharper relief. As a guy, I know full well that there are things that I will do—begrudgingly—for my wife that I have no interest in doing. She knows this and after 13 years together, she’s pretty good about not asking me to, say, follow her through Saks while she shops and I hold her bag. Because I would go and grumble through the whole Bataan death march experience. I saw women on the convention floor who clearly didn’t attend of their own volition, who were pleasantly taking in the sights and ignoring the smells. (And you can immediately tell the women who are not “into it.” They look, somehow, more optimistic. Maybe because they didn't know what to expect and are surprised by everything they see.) When we were signing at the DC booth, a woman came up and asked Brian Stelfreeze for a sketch; not for her, for her boyfriend. He was, you see, attending a panel of some sort and she volunteered to collect sketches for him. Now try and picture your average male citizen, getting swatches from dress designers at a bridal convention, while the missus-to-be is watching a floral demonstration. Ye gods, you are amazing creatures. And you almost always smell good.

In Two Years' Time, There Will Be No More Male Pedi-cab Drivers
In my incredibly un-scientific recounting, about 70% of San Diego Comic-Con attendees are male. I'm sure some of them were gay—the numbers are large enough for a statistical sample—but most are dudes that, even if they have left their parents' basement (and I'm being glib here, I know), still like to gaze at the female form. So, given this demographic, who do you think got more passengers for their pedi-cabs: the swarthy young immigrant fellas OR the tanned, toned, twentysomething immigrant women? I saw rows of those dudes, idling by the train crossing, while a watermelon-thighed Sharapova look-alike hauled Red Squadron up Harbor Drive. Natural selection, baby. Survival of the species.

Mary McDonnell is the sweetest person alive
I moderated the Battlestar Galactica panel on Saturday. Seeing as my bar of success was not vomiting on any of the cast, I declared it a win. But Mary (we’re now on a first-name basis and, if its okay with my wife, she’s gonna come live with us) tried to soothe my nerves beforehand, and when it was over, she gave me a hug and a “Well done.” And when I ran into her at the EW/Sci-Fi Channel party, she stopped to talk for 20 minutes when she absolutely didn’t have to. A wonderful person. And absolutely, positively, drop-dead gorgeous. (Don’t get me wrong, the other Women of Battlestar were perfectly gracious—except for Lucy Lawless, who flipped me the bird in front of 6,000 people. In all fairness, it was after I introduced her as a man.)

Terrence Howard would dominate my obit
I'm pretty sure he was on my plane, flying back to New York. And I realized that if this plane went down, the news story would read: “Oscar-nominated actor perishes in a plane crash; 150 others also dead.” I’m one of "the others." Just so you know.

Comics is Hard Work
I was behind the AiT/Planet Lar booth for a total of 6 hours over the course of 4 days, selling copies of Monster Attack Network. And it was brain-thuddingly exhausting, hard-selling our book to people who, allegedly, are at the show to buy comics. I can’t imagine what it must be like to be a small press vendor, strapped to a table all day, every day. No wonder the bar at the Hyatt is so packed. I’d want to numb the pain, too.

What a difference a year makes
Last year, we’d locked the Highwaymen deal, but no one else knew that. The book wasn't announced until the New York show this past February. We were just guys rolling through the hall, same as thousands of other creators, talking about the book that was coming…but we had nothing to show. This year, everything was out: Two issues of Highwaymen, and the M.A.N. graphic novel. And they’ve all gotten glowing reviews. And now, people who wouldn’t give us the time of day last year were taking us to lunch.

Pay it Forward
God, I hated that movie.

But seriously
I’ve made a few friends in this industry, some of them after giving their books some love in EW. I did so because they did good work and, for me, the mission at EW was to expose people to the best that comics had to offer. And now that I’m in the same boat they are, they’re introducing me to people that can help me out. They don’t have to do that. But they do anyway. I suppose you could call it returning a favor, but I just think these are good folks. I appreciate everything they do. And I hope they know that.

And Now, Finally, the Best M.A.N. Review EVAR

From some dude named Iain Jackson, who totally nails it:

"Picture a lovely, tropical isle. The balmy breezes blow, tourists plague the natives, and all is right with the world.

Enter the giant worm. Takes the top off a few buildings, rampages a little here and there. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just another day on Lapuatu. But thanks to the Monster Attack Network (or M.A.N.), the rampaging is limited, fewer tops of buildings get done in, and the monster eventually gets led back to the sea, or the hole in the ground, or wherever, because that's Just What MAN does.

The main characters are Nathaniel Klinger, lead field agent and operations manager for the Monster Attack Network, and Lana Barnes, newbie agent who may have a Deep Dark Secret. Zeke (whose last name I don't believe we find out) is Nate's best friend and fellow agent... and black. And gay. (That last detail doesn't come out until late in the book, at which point my love of the tragically heterosexual writing team was locked in stone.) There is, of course, a villain (aside from the monsters) as well. There's inappropriate sex! (Alas, not involving Zeke. Next time, maybe.) There's angst! There's drama! There's giant flying microbats and giant robots! And here and there, we see snippets from the MAN Manual, with cheery little anime-ish figures saying things like, "From time to time, you will need equipment not available at MAN headquarters. Every business' charter includes a clause stating that they must, when presented with due cause by a MAN operative, place any requested equipment/personnel at said operative's disposal. They won't want to do this. But it's the cost of doing business on Lapuatu. Tell them to suck it up." (This is followed immediately by a scene in which Zeke commandeers a van and does indeed tell someone to "suck it up.")

The writing and art are well matched -- mostly -- and both very good. Nima Sorat's artwork is wonderfully expressive, and does a great job of showing character and feeling. Unfortunately, it isn't the best for showing clear action scenes, which is a problem in a book that's almost nonstop action. Most of the time, it works out OK, but there are some scenes, especially when the various creatures are crashing into the built world around them, where all you can do is scratch your head and wonder what exactly just happened. The writing also has this weird moment at the very end, which is wonderfully inspirational, and hits exactly the right emotional note ... and ten seconds after you close the book, you realize that it's absolutely and completely wrong, but in a weirdly right way. Given what we've been told about the characters involved, it simply shouldn't happen; certainly not without a lot of angst and agita, at least some of which we should have seen or heard about. But ... it feels like the right ending, so you kind of don't mind.

I really really really want there to be another one of these. Perhaps a Monster Attack Network annual! Something to look for every summer! (Plus, if there's another one, maybe next time, Zeke can be the one having the terribly inappropriate sex. One can but dream...)

Highly highly recommended. Go. Buy. NOW. You will read and read again. Really."

Viva 'Las Vegas Weekly'

Whose J. Caleb Mozzocco says:

"Nate Klinger is the chief of the Monster Attack Network, a highly trained team of first-responders who specialize in evacuation and rescue in the face of giant monster attacks, which happen more frequently on the island of Lapuatu than in the Toho film company’s catalog.

You’ll notice Monster Attack Network acronyms quite nicely into MAN, and that’s just what Nate is—a manly, all-man, man of a man. Built like a barrel-chested Bruce Timm superhero design, this two-fisted man of action may be the star of co-writers Marc Bernardin and Adam Freeman’s debut graphic novel, but the book itself isn’t about manliness as much as monsterliness.

The creators, and the characters, love their giant monsters, and the philosophy of MAN is that monsters are something to adjust to, not hunt down and kill—“No different than California,” Nate says of the monsters. “Their palm trees come with earthquakes and fires.”

Lapuatu’s palm trees come with a Godzilla-like Gygax, a giant slug monster, a giant Rodan-like bat, a giant octopus and more, and the arrival of a mysterious woman and a sinister industrialist escalates the MAN vs. monster dynamic into an all-out-war.

It’s a little like a half-dozen Japanese kaiju flicks, with all the boring (i.e. non-monster) scenes cut out, and the rubber monster suits replaced with state-of-the-art special effects. Only better."

More M.A.N. Love

From Bill Sherman at Blogcritics:

"Recently, Starz Action channel played host to a quartet of nineties era Godzilla movies (Godzilla Vs. King Ghidorah, Vs. Mechagodzilla, Vs. Space Gorilla, Vs. Destroyah), introduced by Steve Van Zandt in an affected accent. Over six hours of building tromping action. Yeah, I set the recorder for it.

I'm thinking, though, that at least one of the minds behind the new graphic novel Monster Attack Network (AiT/Planet Lar) was sitting at home and marathon-viewing these babies the day they first aired. Clearly, these are people who appreciate the beauties of a big ol' monster foot coming down on some fleeing unfortunates.

Written by Highwaymen team Marc Bernardin & Adam Freeman—and drawn with a heavy predilection for the big black brush stroke by new-to-me Nima Sorat—M.A.N. is a comic book tribute to monster rampage movies. Set on the wealthy tropical isle of Lapuatu, the book follows the workings of a group of men and women hired to fend off the island's periodic monster attacks, a fairly regular occurrence that island inhabitants see as part of the price for living in a global economic powerhouse.

Where the monsters come from is never explained, nor does it need to be. It's the Monster Attack Network's job to chase off each attacking creature (rarely, we're told, killing 'em), then rebuild ("And repave. And re-upholster. And re-spackle. And re-wallpaper") each trashed-out area. From the very first monster attack depicted—a flying beastie named Gygax that we only get to see as a shadow and a giant eye peering into an office building—it's clear M.A.N. has found a need and filled it.

The book's two main characters are Nate Klinger, a hypermuscled block of a man who is M.A.N.'s operations manager, and Lana Barnes, a shapely exotic beauty and new M.A.N. hire who, it is obvious to both Nate and us, is hiding a secret or two of her own (for one thing, though her name's plainly Anglo, she quickly has to own up to being Lapuata born).

Klinger is aptly described by another character as built for "standing on top of a wall, pushing herd animals onto Saxon invaders." Though relatively new to the monster attack biz, Lana proves equally capable, hopping on top of an attacking giant slug to ride it out of the city, for instance, without once having her fulsome breasts pop out of her improbable dress. Nate has his odd tingling suspicions about the lady, but obviously these two heroically shaped figures are meant to work together.

The plot of M.A.N., such as it is, revolves on a sudden increase in island monster attacks that naturally proves to be human instigated. Soon as the story's maniacal mastermind is introduced, readers'll immediately suss much of what he's up, and, to Bernardin & Freeman's credit, they don't work overtime to mask this fact. They know what we wanna see—more giant monster attacks, not a lotta talky pages filling us in the villain's motivation.

And giant monster attacks is what we get, right down to the inevitable "mecha" monster assault by the bad guy in a giant robot. "Now that's one [expletive] with too much money," Zeke, the profanely amusing second-in-command observes. In stories like this, plot mechanics are largely secondary to the specifics of fight and flight in the face of monstrous stomping doom.

That noted, our two scripters prove as adept with snappy word balloons as they have in their current Wildstorm Highwaymen series, even if they do stint somewhat when it comes to fleshing out the secondaries. Sorat's stylized gray-scaled art blends both Jack Kirby and Mike Mignola with the somewhat more weighted art of a Paul Pope, though at times it's a little too loose and choppy to get the job down. When the giant slug crashes into a theatre showing a monster flick, for instance, it's not always clear how the sequence is supposed to work, particularly when Sorat cuts to two moviegoers blissfully unaware that the monster attack's taking place.

Still, the large panel of a humongous Harryhausen-esque cephalopod perched atop a skyscraper is as engagingly out-there as any of the giant monster comics Stan Lee & King Kirby used to serve up back in Marvel's pre-superhero days—which is as it should be. Gotta love them four (or is it five?) tentacled giant cephalopods..."

Oh, yeah...the Con

Is going well. I'm not gonna write all that much about it, as I'm writing a piece for EW about my first con as a professional creator, and I don't wanna steal material from myself.

But, we've met some good people, caught up with some great people, and all but sold out of every copy of Monster Attack Network that Larry Young drove down from San Francisco to San Diego.

We just wanted to save him having to repack.

I Barely Believe It Myself

So, when I returned the smashed up Mustang to the Dollar Rent-a-Car people, they asked me, when picking up the replacement if I wanted the insurance. You know, the same $15/day insurance that allows you to wrap their cars around a phone pole with nary a worry in the world. The same insurance I declined the first time.

Of course, I said no. "I haven't been in an accident in 15 years...what are the odds that it'll happen twice in three days?"

It happened twice in three days. Literally, on my way to return the second car.

I'm Not Fabulous

You know how I know this? Because I'm in LA, staying that the alledegly fabulous Mondrian Hotel, home to the Skybar, glamorous pool scene, and Korova Milk Bar-style rooms, and I'm on the verge of "can't stand it."

I got to my hotel last night at about 11:30pm, after ramming my rental car into the ass-end of an Infiniti SUV because I was busy counting the street numbers to find the Mondrian. Which, as it turns out, doesn't have a number. Or a sign saying, you know, "Mondrian here, turn right/left." After exchanging information with the lovely young actor who I rear-ended (I can crack wise with the gay jokes, too, you know), I pulled my now-sad Mustang into the valet—who looked at me like a car-jacker—and checked in.

Given that it was, according to my internal clock, 3:00am, and I'd flown 3,000 miles, I just wanted to crawl into bed and give up. But, sadly, sleeping wasn't on the agenda, seeing as seven floors below, the party at the Skybar was raging. Thump-thump-thump-thump went the music. I actually—in a move cribbed from Andy Capp, I think—put another pillow over my own head to fall asleep.

I sitcom-snuffled myself out.

And, I'm typing all of this while sitting in an uncomfortable chair at a desk with the word "THINK" inscribed on the wall directly in my eyeline.

I fucking hate fabulous.

Off to the Races

Heading out to the West Coast, y'all. I'll be in touch when I can, and I'll see you when I see you.

Will Someone Stop Me...

...from procrastinating? Please? I've gotta write this review of 300 before the end of the day, and I'm finding anything, everything to do instead.

That cursor is just sitting there in a recessed window...taunting me.

My Dad's Hands

My father's an accountant. Which means that, while he was never one for hard labor—its from him I get the credo "Why should I [insert home-repair task here] and fuck it up when I can pay someone to do it right?"—he still worked with his hands. He was a number-cruncher before people used computers to do everything, and all of his work involved a desktop Texas Instruments calculator and a mechanical pencil.

Every tax return, every ledger entry was done the old-fashioned way: with his fingers to the grindstone. And I remember, when I was growing up, looking at his hands as he would help me with my math homework. (I'm now jealous of his having a skill that could be readily employed to help a kid out; my skill set, honed by years of on-the-job journalism training, is blunt at best. I don't know, as Captain Kirk would say, why things work in a sentence. I just know that they do. When my kids come to me with their English homework, I'll be reduced to "This is the way it sounds the rightest. Don't ask questions. Go.")

Anyway, his hands were corded with veins, souvenirs of long hours of penmanship. That feeling you used to get in college, when you had to take a day's worth of notes at lectures? Times a hundred. I used to wonder if my hands would ever look like that. Like they'd earned it.

I was in the backyard over the weekend, inflating a big rubber pool for the knuckleheads, er, my kids. My lovable, knuckleheaded kids. (Of course, I was using an electric pump: see credo, above.) But this thing took forever: big pool, pussy pump. And I had to hold the pump nozzle into the little air nipple thingie for about an hour, during which time I notice that my own hands had developed those same crazy veins.

They say that, in time, we become our parents. It's true. What they don't tell you is that it sneaks up on you.

PCS on MAN

Those two guys, from just below, the ones who sorta split on Highwaymen #2? Here's their take on Monster Attack Network:

"Brendan: This book is what AiT/PlanetLar does best. With one part stoic lead, one part mysterious beauty, and about a hundred parts super gigantor chaos monsters you get the blockbuster that is Monster Attack Network. The concept is simple; huge monsters arise and destroy the island of Lapuatu, and M.A.N. rebuilds. When this happens once every month or so, it isn’t a problem. When it starts happening damn near everyday… well, that would be spoiling it.

The story doesn’t give us any more than we need to enjoy ourselves. It has all the banter and action one would expect from a story about fighting monsters. The only trip up comes in the art. Nima Sorat has a unique style and vision for the book, and the characters manage to be familiar while remaining original. When we do see the monsters they are as horrific and awesome as they were when you were ten. The problems arise when the style overwhelms the narrative, and when the lack of consistency between pages impedes the transitions. The opening action sequence takes the knowledge that there are monsters for granted, and fails to give us that one big establishing shot. It evens out towards the end, progressively getting better.

Don’t think too much about this one. You’ll love it.

Adan: This is Marc Bernadin and Adam Freeman doing crazy shit again. This time, instead of blowing things up with guns and cars, though, they do it with huge freakin’ monsters! Nate and company at MAN (I just love calling it that) save the island nation of Lapuatu from the rampaging monsters they coexist with. Coexist, you ask. Yes, coexist. These monsters are usually peaceful, but sometimes they throw a tantrum and MAN has to step in to corral them back to safety while saving humans and fixing the damage. They try very hard not to kill the monsters, as they are also the rightful inhabitants of the island.

Bernadin and Freeman write in so many action sequences, it’s unfortunate they didn’t get a better artist. Nima Sorat is good when the story is slow and relaxed: tender moments between colleagues, conversations with bad guys, dudes sitting in front of banks of computer screens. But once the scene calls for action, the inks get all muddied up and I can’t tell what the hell is going on. Maybe MAN 2 will have an artist with a better sense of space and moving forms.

Other than that, though, good stuff. These two guys are really impressing the hell out of me."

No. 2 for #2

From Adan Jimenez at PopCultureShock:

"This is just all kinds of fun. It’s what every buddy movie should be like. Two guys who don’t really like each other but have to work together for the greater good. One guy shoots, the other one drives. And oh yeah, it’s set in the near future. It’s from my head, people!

Marc Bernardin and Adam Freeman (who you will hear more of soon) write an awesome, awesome story about two guys have to do all kinds of cool and crazy shit to protect a girl from sinister forces. The who and the why don’t yet matter (except for Able Monroe and his partner McQueen, who may be so cool that he doesn’t need a first name) because things blow up, people get shot in uncomfortable places, and cars do things cars were not meant to do. At some point in the near future of this mini (probably the very next issue), we’ll be told the why and who, I’m sure.

The artist Lee Garbett is one part Brian Stelfreeze (who does the cover, actually) and two parts Frank Quitely, but in a good way. Garbett’s men look like the old, craggy bastards they are, but his women do not, as Quitely’s so often do. And his action sequences look like all the best parts of The Ride. And take look at the expression on the matador’s face when his bull is unceremoniously shot in the head. Priceless!

This book is all the best parts of Die Hard, Speed, 48 Hrs., and Bullitt all rolled into one fantastic, fluffy confection. It’s like comics can be fun once in awhile or something."

His buddy Brendan isn't so much with the effusive praise:

"I don’t think I’ll be back next issue.

This is one of those times when I get real pompous and say that comics need to have a reason to be comics. The reason superheroes dominate the industry so wholly, at least in part, is because spandex works way better on the four color page than it does in reality. Just ask a biker. I think that on some level the writing team of Marc Bernardin and Adam Freeman know this, because their Monster Attack Network book shows this perfectly. Monsters make good comics. And no matter how many times I see Brian Stelfreeze or someone who emulates him try, I don’t think cars make particularly good comics. They don’t engage me enough as a reader for me to be willing to wait 30 days to find out what happens next.

Don’t get me wrong, I did really enjoy this story, and I will be eager to read it in trades when the time arrives, but I don’t want to wait six months just to finish a buddy-cop action movie. I could do that in two and a half hours by renting any of the movies Adan listed. I dug this, and keep checking the singles if you’re already waist-deep. If you have yet to start this, though, do yourself and the story a favor and wait until you can chug through it all at once."

Fair enough

First Review for #2

From Comic Book Resources, where, again, we're on the Buy Pile:

The Highwaymen #2 (Wildstorm/DC Comics)
Jump from the Read Pile. Speaking of delightful, you can't beat the style and panache with which these two retired instruments of policy go about their work in retrieving a rogue government asset is just plain fun to read. The entire opening sequence, escaping a CIA field team, is the stuff of action movie legend, as Mr. Monroe and Mr. McQueen practically waltz through super powered assassins and deluges of high caliber ammunition flying their way, firing quips back and forth at one another the entire time. It's wonderful analog enjoyment, as Lee Garbett (with colors by Johnny Rench) perfectly depicts almost everything from car chases to gunfights to dialogue (the automotive somersault could have been a smidgen more clear, but wasn't bad), and the script by Marc Bernardin and Adam Freeman is so tight that you could bounce a paper dollar off of it. Now a "buy-on-sight" as this mini is firing on all cylinders.

San Diego schedule

Should you want to find me in San Diego, here are the places I'm guaranteed to be, and when.

Thursday:
1:00-2:30: Signing at AiT/Planetlar Booth (#2001)
3:00-4:00: "DC: Crossing Over" panel (Room 5AB)
5:00-6:00: Signing at AiT/Planetlar Booth (#2001)
6:00-7:00: Signing at DC Booth (like you need me to tell you where it is)

Friday:
10:00-11:30am: Signing at AiT/Planetlar Booth (#2001)

Saturday:
12:00-1:00pm: Signing at AiT/Planetlar Booth (#2001)
2:00-3:15: Moderating the "Women of Battlestar Galactica" panel (Ballroom 20)
4:00-5:00: Signing at DC booth
5:00-6:00: "Wildstorm: Storm Front" panel (Room 5AB)

Sunday:
Hungover in the San Diego airport, waiting to schlepp on my flight home.

Newsarama Q&A

In which JK Parkin extracts some Monster Attack Network goodies as well as our game plan for San Diego:

"If I were to get everything I want out of this year’s con, we’d have another book lined up by the time I get on the plane coming home, I’d have met more people than I knew going in, I’d have drank my fill, I’d have spread the word far and wide about The Highwaymen and Monster Attack Network, and I’ll have a kiss from Katee Sackhoff resting on my unwashed cheek."

The Cover For Highwaymen #5

...which I'm totally in love with.

M.A.N. Love

Our first Monster Attack Network review, from Graeme over at The Savage Critics:

"I'll say this about pull-quotes: Sometimes, they work. The evening that I got my copy of the new AiT/PlanetLar graphic novel MONSTER ATTACK NETWORK in the mail, Kate found herself reading the testimonials on the back cover from the likes of John Rogers, Jeff Parker and Ivan Brandon and becoming more and more excited to read the book itself. Me, I was sold on the name alone, and the realization that the acronym was M.A.N.

"Like the recently-released first issue of their Wildstorm series, The Highwaymen, Monster Attack Network shows that Marc Bernardin and Adam Freeman have absolutely no problem writing popcorn action fiction - There are set-pieces here that are perfectly constructed in terms of mixing the spectacle of the main action with the cutaways to add scale and humor (I especially liked the massive monster slug-riding rushing past the window of a restaurant, with the shouted "Shit! Shit! Shit!" as parents talk to their son), and their High Concepts and snappy dialogue hits the spot repeatedly. Where they're lacking - and considering this was their first book, despite it coming out post-Highwaymen, it's really not that bad a flaw - is the ability to slow down; the story feels like it's always "on", and even the scenes that should be quieter and more still end up vibrating with the energy of the crazy.

"The art has a similar problem; Nima Sorat's work is stunning in places, Paul Pope does the Venture Bros does early Marvel monster books, but there are times when the desire to wow the viewer overwhelms the clarity of the storytelling (There are, to be fair, other times when the art just clicks and sells the story to you - I don't want to imply that this isn't good art, because it is); it's as if everyone involved is so excited about working on the book that they can't stop wanting to really, really impress the reader and maybe go slightly overboard.

"They needn't have worried; this is a really enjoyable book, despite the overeagerness: The central idea and plot are so strong that, even if the execution hadn't been as Good as it is, it still would've been worth a look. Like I said; I was sold on the name alone."

Got This Funny Feeling

A big ol' box showed up at the house over the weekend, filled with finished copies of Monster Attack Network in all it's giant-monster-stomping glory. The funny feeling showed up because it's done and in hand.

It had been waiting, hovering at various stages of completion for so long, that to see it completed has got me feeling a bit separation anxiety-ish. (Which, in case you're wondering, is a little like fluish, with a lot less mucus discharge.)

And, to top it off, it's got me nervous about the future. M.A.N. was, to me, kind of like a yet-to-be-released laurel we could rest on. Regardless of whatever else we were working on, we always had the "And our graphic novel will be coming out, sooner rather than later" in our hip pocket. And now, everything's out of the barn. Not counting some anthology work that's in various stages, we've got no "major" works on the runway.

Wait. I know what this is: Empty nest syndrome. We'd best get to making some more babies.

I'm A Mother's Worst Nightmare

My wife is coming back tomorrow. She left me with the kids last Wednesday while she toured Ireland with her sister. No one has been to hospital, so I consider this stint a "win." But, it's a win with what I can only define as an error.

Tonight, for dinner, I fed my son McDonald's french fries, Swiss Miss vanilla pudding, and Lorna Doone cookies. That's it. No real food. Side orders and dessert. Sorry, two puddings, as I wondered if he'd had enough to eat.

I am the father that mothers have nightmares about.

Cheers.

Oh, and by the way...

That Fudd thing is still mine.

So hands off.

Fudd

I was recently reminded (by the Occasional Superheroine) that it's the 50th anniversary of Chuck Jones' majestic "What's Opera, Doc?" Which is, perhaps, the greatest of Warners' incredibly great Looney Tunes shorts.

A long time ago, when I wasted my time hatching ideas that I could never possibly in a million years do anything with (someday, I'll tell you about the Running Man screenplay—faithfully adapted from the Richard Bachman novella—I wrote for no good reason), I came up with this movie, a pseudo-documentary about Elmer Fudd. How he was the tragic hero of the Warner Bros. cartoon universe. But it'd be shot as if Fudd were a real guy, a flesh-and-blood actor. And the techno-trick of the Warners "cartoons" was that they built real sets and filmed them with a special camera that flattened the image into the 2-D world we're familiar with.

Fudd was the ineffectual villain, the butt of all the jokes, the idiot of that universe. But, like so many actors, he was frustrated at the pigeonholing. He felt that he had so much more to offer, but no one would give him the chance. Until, after years of dutifully showing up to the set to be the laughing stock, he got a script under the door:

"What's Opera, Doc?"

And for once–actually, the only time in any Warner Bros. cartoon—he got to act, he got to sing, he got to be the hero. Fudd carried the show, with all the Wagnerian heft he always thought he had. And, for the first time, he heard the applause for him. He had moved the audience to tears. (Hell, I cried at that short, and I dare you to deny that you did too.)

And it was bittersweet, because it was the last time he'd be allowed to show the kind of performer he really was. But "Opera" was his moment to shine. And that's where the documentary ended, an old Fudd, bones creaking, scar tissue evident, holding the Oscar that he won for killing Bugs Bunny.

One more for the pile.

It's Bullitt Time!

Because this still is the coolest thing I've found today.

I Will Say This For Sting

He may look a bit like an old man—during the Live Earth broadcast, his arms looked like they only retained a sense memory of tone—but he can still hit the notes. That voice still does everything it used to...and that's saying something.

The LesterBot

He watches. Waiting. His emotionless, chitinous exoskeleton looks amiable. Harmless, even. But beneath that calm, fleshy exterior, a symphony of metallic death churns.

In the name of all you hold sacred, don't look into his eyes.

The Championship Season

Every year around this time, I get a little tennis bug. It lasts from late June to mid-August, from Wimbledon to the U.S. Open. Only started about seven years ago, and I don't even know why. I think I just sat down and started to think about tennis, as an actual sport. Once you get past the silly method of scorekeeping (why is having nothing but love a bad thing?) and the cultural-etiquette holdovers only surpassed by golf, playing tennis at a championship level is a wonder to behold.

We can all agree that trying to hit a Major League fastball is one of the hardest single feats in all of sports. 98 mph worth of ball hurtling at you, trying to make contact with an object that's just a hair wider than the ball itself. I'll give you that. But try doing the same thing, but while sprinting. Yes, we'll give you an instrument significantly bigger, but we'll ask you to hit a ball back in the opposite direction, deciding in a split second where to hit it, and ask you to place the ball in a zone inches wide. And then recover to do the same thing again, when the ball comes whizzing back. For hours.

That's tennis, and that's why I watch it. No other sport has that same combination of power, speed, finesse, reflexes, and skill. (Yes, asking which sport is harder to play well is like asking who'd win in a fight, bear or shark, I know.)

That's why I was watching Wimbledon the other day, and so saw one of the most amazing things I'd ever seen on the sporting stage.

Serena Williams was playing some Russian chick—Hantucova or something (all those tiny Russian chicks sound the same). And Serena was playing well. She'd won her first set and was battling to win her second and finish out the match. She was walking away from a point, full of energy, bouncing on her toes like a prizefighter, when she suddenly dropped to the ground in pain. Her left calf seized up on her, cramping like a steel trap. Crying, screaming, pounding the ground in both agony and frustration, Serena looked to surely be out of the match. Her father knew it, watching from the stands, as did her mother, who wiped away a tear or two. Her sister, Venus, knew all too well what this could mean, and she pulled her jacket tight, as if warding off the cool, humid London breeze would somehow keep her safe from the same ailment.

After a few minutes, Serena was helped to her feet, where she stood ramrod straight as Hantucova served out the balance of her game, watching the serves just fly by. Now, Hantucova was up 6-5 in the second set, and Serena had to serve her game or forfeit the match. During the TV time out, the trainer taped up Serena's calf and sent her out there. She couldn't jump, could barely run, and for a tennis player as agile as Serena, that's a crippling predicament. But she went on court, the pain still evident on her face, and started to serve. Like so many other things in sport—from a baseball swing to a boxer's punch—the power of a tennis serve comes from the legs, from the jump and twist. But Serena couldn't jump.

And still, through sheer force of will and arm strength, she muscled in a 100 mile-an-hour serve. A couple of aces. And she won her game to force a tiebreak.

When people say that athletes are like warriors, I usually dismiss it as hyperbole, as something announcers say to fill the time during a three-hour broadcast. But this woman fought, against her body, against time, against her opponent. And it was clearly a losing fight, but she picked up her racket and walked onto the field and refuse to surrender. It was an amazing thing to watch.

But there was no way she could win that tiebreak. She shouldn't return a serve, and when she did, couldn't engage in a volley. She was absolutely on her way to losing that match, unless fate swooped in to save her. Which it did.

It's as if God himself was watching that match and, impressed with Serena's valor, granted her a reprieve. With the tiebreak slipping away, and the rest of the match on its heels, the sky opened and it started to rain.

I'll admit, there was a tiny frog in my throat when this happened, when the rains that had plagued this year's Wimbledon saved Serena from defeat. It was as perfect a story you could imagine, one that if it hadn't actually happened you'd think was fabricated. Of course, there was talk of divine intervention, that the Almighty had stepped in to give Serena—a devout believer—a second chance.

Now, I'll ask you, which is worse, not believing in God (my default position), or believing in a God that not only watches tennis, but takes a break from his laisse-faire policy to, of all possible things that could benefit from His attention, intervene in the course of a match?

Me and My Self-Promoting Mug

Why I'm putting this up here, I don't know. Because I'm a glutton for punishment. But the dudes at Pop Culture Shock were nice enough to ask me to do it, so it's the least I could do.

A Little Bit O' M.A.N. Goodness

Adam and I were interviewed for Silver Bullet Comics about Monster Attack Network—which, as you'll see if you read just one entry below, is coming out July 18th. Larry gave 'em some lettered pages to run, and I'm stealing them for my own nefarious purposes. Which, pretty much, consist of posting 'em here.

July 18th

Promises to be a hell of a day. I've got two comics out on the same day. The Highwaymen #2, and we'll see if the great reviews for No. 1 will translate to sales, and Monster Attack Network, the original graphic novel from AiT/PlanetLar. If you liked the high-octane pitter-patter of Highwaymen, you're perfectly primed for MAN.

And then, a week later, we're in San Diego, signing both books like madmen taking out mortgages.

Crazy times, man. Ka-razy.

The Voodoo Child

There ought to be a Jimi Hendrix movie. Really. There's just no excuse. Yes, I know all about the music clearance problems, and the headache with the Hendrix estate, with the squabbling family members who can't get on the same page. But they should just get over themselves and work it out.

Movies are about a great many things, but when we look back on them, what we remember are the moments. The pearls along the string of story that beg not to be forgotten. The moments are the memory anchors, the things we hold on to that remind us how good a film was. The trench run in Star Wars. The fingernails on the blackboard in Jaws. The jewelry case snapping in Pretty Woman. The spontaneous invention of "What'd I Say" in Ray. The cropduster attack in North by Northwest. The "whistle" in Road Warrior. The food fight in Animal House.

And, by God, the Jimi Hendrix story is overflowing with those moments. Playing rhythm guitar for Little Richard, Sam Cooke, and other Chitlin Circuit acts. Impressing Keith Richards' girlfriend, who introduced him to Chas Chandler. Meeting Eric Clapton in London. Covering "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band" days after it was released—live, with Paul McCartney and George Harrison in attendence. Blowing the doors off of the Monterey Pop festival and lighting the guitar on fire. Opening for The Monkees. The studio albums. "All Along the Watchtower." Drugs...lots and lots of drugs. The breakup of the Jimi Hendrix Experience. Woodstock and "The Star Spangled Banner," the greatest protest performance ever. Legal woes. An apocryphal kidnapping. The ladies. The overdose.

Is that a fucking movie, or what? A blaze of glory, famous faces, genius derailed, and the best popular music ever made.

Jesus Christ...

Variety...the Spice of Reviews

From Tom McLean at Variety...

The Highwaymen #1 (Marc Bernardin and Adam Freeman, writers; Lee Garbett, artist; Wildstorm; 32 pages; color, $2.99) is a satisfying chunk of action fiction. Story set in the future sees a “I’m-too-old-for-this-shit” cop-like agents called back to duty by a message from a past president to find a long-lost “package” and deliver it to the Centers for Disease Control. Of course, the package is a person, who’s most likely in Mexico. The plot at this point is less important than the action. The centerpiece of this issue is a chase involving a bus that manages the trick of being well-staged and very cool without pushing the boundaries of believability too much (aside, that is, from the idea that there are buses in Scottsdale, Ariz.) Serious and tough, this is a cool book. Grade: B+

The Signing

Went better than I could've expected, given that I expected that I'd be sitting there, next to a bevy of cooler-than-thou indie cartoonists, watching people blithely pass by my little pile of Highwaymens.

But the indie dudes could not have been nicer. Nick Bertozzi, who seemed to be the big draw, was signing copies of his Houdini book as well as The Salon. He also contributed to Syncopated #3, the book he did with the other signers (signees? signors?), who were also swell. So swell, they invited me to play a game of Pictionary as the signing was winding down.

(Hint: If you're a writer, don't play Pictionary with people who draw for a living. You will always lose.)

Turns out, Nick is a good friend of an old coworker of mine, and we hit it off like dudes who are friends with the same guy and, as such, have been tacitly vouched for.

But a good handful of EW coworkers came out to show their love, as well as an ex-coworker (hi, Nancy!), and my l'il brother, Eric—who bought three copies all by his lonesome. Because he's cool like that. Went out for beer and deep-fried food afterwards and read my own comic on the train-ride home.

There were 16 copies of The Highwaymen in front of me when I sat down and, over the course of the two hours, they had to replenish me. Which I'd like to think is a good sign.

Now We're Just Getting Ridiculous

This, from Brian K-Fucking Vaughan, who calls Highwaymen #1 one of his top picks:

"This new Wildstorm mature readers miniseries from Entertainment Weekly's Marc Bernardin is a perfect example of one of my favorite action sub-genres, Badass Old Geezers With Huge Guns."

Again, that's Brian (Y: The Last Man/Ex Machina/Doctor Strange/The Escapists/Pride of Baghdad) Vaughan.

I Just Had a Fangasm

It's the name of a site, silly...and they dig on the Highwaymen, too:

"The Highwaymen" No. 1 (DC/Wildstorm): Remember the Highwaymen, that country group from the ‘80s made up of Johnny Cash, Waylon Jennings, Willie Nelson and Kris Kristofferson? This has nothing to do with them. But the stars are an old bunch and they make their own sweet music ... of the explosive variety. One of the best new titles this year, "The Highwaymen" might as well be Warren Ellis reimagining "Lethal Weapon," as two 60-something former special operatives - a black Mississippi native and a white British MI-5 agent - reunite in a future time (we know it’s the future because there’s mention of the year 2021, the president is an Asian woman and the shoutout "Holla at yer boy!" is antiquated). A theft leads to the delivery of a message from a dead president to his pair of Highwaymen - guys who saved media moguls' daughters from cults and took out terrorist cells with an anthrax attack back in the day - and kicks off a race to find a mystery girl in Mexico. The Highwaymen are out to resolve the mistake made by their former boss, but the current government would like to use this result of a secret program for their own nefarious goals. If the action doesn’t hook you, the Murtaugh-Riggs witty banter will keep you salivating for the second issue.

Can I just say...

The fact that Highwaymen is being compared to Planetary, 100 Bullets, and Human Target (let alone 24, Mission Impossible, and the late-and-lamented Drive) is kinda freaking me out.

Ah-ha! Review Revenge!

Another good 'un, from Justin Eger at Silver Bullet Comics:

"The first issue of a series should do one thing and one thing alone: make you want to read the next issue. I don’t care what else goes on, I don’t care who is involved and what they’re doing or why, if you can’t get me to pick up the next issue, you’ve completely failed. I don’t care if you’ve got the coolest plot on earth, you still need to get me involved before the end of 22 pages or you can go to hell.

If that was all Highwaymen did, hell, it’d be worth the read. However, the book exceeds where most new books tend to fail and makes sure that you not only want to read the second issue, you enjoy the entire ride through the first one, enough that you’ll both remember the plot by the time issue two comes out, but also enough that, even if you didn’t, you’d read it again just for that rush that comes with a new find.

And speaking of rushes, people, get on board the bus now, because brother, it ain’t slowing down to let your sorry ass decide. And that’s both a reference to the quality and the story… how often do you get that? It’s a book that makes you think fast and doesn’t care if you can’t keep up. People, it’s a book about fast-talking, fast-thinking, fast-acting couriers with a job to do. If it’s not fast, then it’s nothing.

When the book was solicited as a pair of old-school couriers getting back in the game, I could see the potential. Mix the ill-fated Drive with some Jack Bauer action and you’ve got an idea that can kick some serious butt. However, in this day and age, the book could have become a victim just as easily. Thankfully, writers Marc Bernardin and Adam Freemen didn’t just have a good idea, they had a lot of good ideas, and that makes the book work from the first page on out. Toss in some cool stunts and plenty of really funny talking, not just witty banter, and you’ve got some cool stuff.

And, hey, it’s got Bill Clinton in it. Sure, he’s dead in the book, but it gives you the impression that Slick Willy could have been a much cooler president that we ever thought possible. That alone is interesting enough to carry a book, but the fact that it’s only a minor part of the plot makes you realize just how much detail that the writers put into this before it ever even saw print. Good stuff.

Adding to the mix is artist Lee Garbett, who paces out the story provided by the writers in a kinetic and ultimately appealing way. Lots of driving, lots of shooting, some Mission: Impossible style opening sequences and a couple particularly brutal executions on the parts of parties both good and bad move with a pace that makes you feel like you’re right there in the thick of the action. It feels like you’re watching a good television show or movie, hence my earlier references to Drive and 24.

Maybe that’s something important here, too: The ‘feel’ of the book. Rarely does something click on all levels, but it does happen. When it does, there’s a feel to it. 100 Bullets felt that way, and so did Human Target, two other books that play with the idea of covert operations mixed with furious action and gunplay. The only difference here is that, really, main characters McQueen and Monroe aren’t as morally ambiguous as those other characters. They’re in this for the right reasons, and that’s something they’ve both missed in retirement: doing something just because it’s the right thing to do. That’s a refreshing take that even a few superhero books could do with a dash of.

The fact that they’ll be in a Mustang next issue just adds icing to the cake.

It was Bound To Happen...

The first bad review for Highwaymen #1, from Comic Book Galaxy:

The Highwaymen #1 -- Perhaps sensing what a creative loss it is for the excellent series Planetary to be mostly over (writer Warren Ellis says the final issue is written, but it's allegedly a PS to the already-concluded main story), Wildstorm inflicts this shoddy effort upon the world.

Conspiracies abound and a droll old guy in a white suit leads an effort to uncover the hidden BS that will be far less interesting than anything Ellis cooks up for the final issue of his far superior series. Highwayman guy in white suit, I knew Elijah Snow; you, sir, are no Elijah Snow.

An image here or there echoes Frank Quitely -- the lumpy visage of President Bill Clinton looks swiped straight from Quitely's first issue of The Authority, but for the most part the art here is rubbery and unimpressive and as dull as the story. Check out the fourth page from the end's final panel for the most blatant Planetary nod.

I found nothing to like about this first issue at all, from the generic cover art to the painfully forced "banter" between Elijah -- I mean, the white-suited Highwayman, and his reluctant partner. It all takes place in the future, at the request of long-dead President Bubba via video file, and it all has been done far better before. Save yourself the three bucks and re-read any random issue of Planetary, or even Planet Terry. You'll thank me.

---------

I'm posting this because, despite my strongest protestations, I have something of a journalistic integrity. The strangest thing? That didn't hurt nearly as bad as I thought it would. Because I am from particularly hardy stock.

Review #3

A rather longish rundown from A Comic A Day. Here are some snippets:

Just as the first ten minutes of a film make or break an audience's attention, the opening sequence of this inaugural issue, which I read in the comics shop, sold this issue for me....

Yes. I will pick up the next chapter, and since the WildStorm website identifies this issue as one of five, if it maintains this outing's level of intrigue I'll undoubtedly remain aboard until the very end. The parallels with Ex Machina are striking to me, since my regret fueled this purchase in the first place; just as Vaughn's series is about a former hero that ventures into politics, The Highwaymen is about a pair of retired transporters in the year 2021 that reluctantly reunite to complete one more mission for President Clinton, whose pre-taped video is a call from beyond the grave to find a woman, presumably a "defcon dangerous" test subject from a defunct government project. The sending of this message was triggered by the special agent's theft at the beginning of this issue, and just as her bosses killed her for the security oversight, they seem equally dead set on defeating this book's namesake before they dig too deep. Everyone is still fairly ambiguous in their identity and significance, but the combination of Die Hard-like action and The Manchurian Candidate political conspiracy are enough to pull me in.

Review #2

From Comic Book Resources where we are, apparently, #1 on the Buy Pile.

THE BUY PILE FOR JUNE 20TH, 2007

Highwaymen #1 (Wildstorm/DC Comics)
Jump from the Read Pile.
From the very first page, the best adjective for this comic book is "gripping." Like the first issue of the lauded Warren Ellis mini "Red," plans within plans trigger plans within plans, and the old guard left machinery in place -- in the form of people, here -- to make sure that old business stayed historical. The lead characters -- I. McQueen (solicit copy calls him "Alistair," but if it ain't in the comic ... oh, and he dresses like he's the Third Man from "Planetary") and Able Monroe (nicknamed "Speed" in the solicits ... don't just trust, check it out yourself) -- work together with the kind of practiced ease and sniping amiability that can only come from years of experience, and the characterization on the two of them is top notch given the close quarters available for it. Their opposite number -- Jacob Sterne, the deputy director for the US Department of Clandestine Services "a few years after tomorrow" (nicely put) -- is more of a stock type from Central Casting, a straightlaced and brutal bureaucrat who you could see meeting Norman Osborn for lunch. The entire package, however, is thrilling and well worth checking out, with clear and solid visual depictions and storytelling from Lee Garbett with Johnny Rench's flawless coloring helping things stand out even more. A fantastic debut which has many interesting possibilities.

Podcastyness

Wanna hear me mumble and stumble my way through a Highwaymen interview? Then make with the clickety-clickety over to cIndyCenter.com.

Our First Honest-to-God Review

From Comic Pants:

Randy Lander Read and Thought:

Highwaymen #1 of 5
Writers: Marc Bernardin & Adam Freeman
Artist: Lee Garbett
Company: DC/Wildstorm

I have a fondness for buddy movies and action movies, and it’s clear from reading Highwaymen #1 that Bernardin and Freeman do as well. Highwaymen has it all, from the old pros pulled in for “one last job” to shadowy government bad guys to a stunning action chase wherein our heroes deal a smart, satisfying beatdown to better equipped, better informed pursuers. The flavor of the writing is a mixture of solid action tropes like you’d expect from Chuck Dixon, but with a touch of wit and character you’d see in a Warren Ellis comic. The story is full of great banter, nice touches of sci-fi futurism and a couple of clever/funny references to modern-day politics, but the biggest draw is definitely the action. An opening heist scene sets the stage, the car chase between the reunited protagonists on a city bus is brilliant, and Lee Garbett carries it all off nicely, with an art style reminiscent of J. Scott Campbell and Frank Quitely.

Today.

Comic out today. Can't get sphincter to stop clenching.

That is all.

Back

And out of the shit. The siege is over, and I'm on vacation. As well-earned a vacation as a fella working in publishing--and not sword-fishing, or bounty hunting, or oil-fire-putting-outing--can get.

Oh, and The Highwaymen #1 is out tomorrow. And I'll be signing at Jim Hanley's Universe in Manhattan to celebrate. (And, by "celebrate" I mean sitting behind a desk watching the people pass by while I lamely hold out copies, begging them to buy.)

Back later with more, but just sending up the A-OK flare now.

'Great' Ideas: Addendum

A Thundercats live-action movie will probably suck--or look like Cats: The Musical but with more swords and less singing--but at least I kind of liked the cartoon.

Still, far less than inspired. Unless we're talking inspired lunacy. In that case, totally touched in the bloody head.

Me and the Not Being Here

Things have been absolutely, positively fucknuts at work for the past week, and will be for the next week. I'm writing the cover story for the issue on stands next Friday (The 25 Greatest Action Movies of All Time) and co-editing the massive 65-page cover package for the following issue. And then I've got a week off to put my brain back together.

I'm not sure what day it is. I don't seem to be in the office, so that must mean that it's either a weekend, or that embolism has finally erupted.

I'll peek in when I can, but feel free to talk amongst yourselves.

A coupla more 'Highwaymen' hits

Look, ma! More interviews!

Here's one on ign.com.

And another on Broken Frontier.

Oh, and if you're in the NYC metropolitan area on June 20th, come on down to Jim Hanley's Universe (on 33rd Street, right across from the Empire State Building), where I'll be signing copies of The Highwaymen #1...and whatever body parts get put in front of me.

Yes, even those. Because I will do anything to hawk my wares, including sign yours.

Nervous

Quite nervous, in fact. In 17 days, the first issue of the Highwaymen will hit stands. And readers. And, despite the many assurances to the contrary—to a person, everyone who's read it thus far really likes it—I'm still sort of petrified.

And it's not the idea of strangers reading my work. I've written hundreds of pieces for Entertainment Weekly, feature stories, reviews, essays, you name it. And our circulation is something like 3.6 million eyeballs per issue. So I've put myself out there before.

But this is different. This is the first time that a story I've told is being released into the Wild. This is unzipping my fly and allowing myself to be judged. And its not a little unsettling. And drafty.

I'm a Less-Fat Bastard

I've always been a heavy dude. Probably a little heavier than I look, because I've got the kind of frame that carries it well, or so I've been told. I'm built like Wolverine, short and squat, but my healing factor doesn't so much as eliminate the toxins in beer as much as it converts it directly into fat. I don't have a Danger Room that keeps me on my toes; I've got a Living Room that keeps me off of them.

But, yeah, I'm a big dude. Black guys can pull off "Big Dude" easier than white guys can. (We can also do bald much better. For the record.) A caucasian fella carrying my weight might look like he's never left his basement, for fear that his carefully-painted D&D figurines will finally succumb to that "animate" spell he's been casting for the past 15 years and he'll miss it. A black fella will just look like someone you don't want to fuck with. (There are, of course, exceptions to every rule. I'm just saying.)

But enough was enough. I drew a line when I got on a scale and was pleasantly surprised that I hadn't hit 300 pounds. And that's fucked up. So, the diet.

Severely cut back on the carbs. Two slices of breadstuff a day. Or a serving of low-carb pasta. Salads. Fruits. Lots of protein. Gallons of water. Walking to work. The occasional McNugget. Because otherwise, life is just too damned cruel.

I started at 285. I'm now 258. A nice, round, dyslexic figure. But still just the beginning. I'll see what I can drop before San Diego, when it's almost impossible to eat like a sensible human being, even with the walking 3 or 4 miles a day.

So if you see me on the street, shouting obscenities at the hot dog vendor, those obscenities are borne of a love lost...

'Great' Ideas

It's entirely possible that history will prove me wrong—as it so often does—but, for my money, adapting He-Man and The Sims into live-action motion pictures may be the worst ideas I've heard in years.

He-Man is bad because, well, we've already seen what a He-Man movie would look like. And even if you added state-of-the-art effects and someone less ridiculous than Dolph Lundgren, you've still got a dude in a thong announcing that he's got the Power of Greyskull.

The Sims, jeez, I'm not even sure where to start. It's a videogame where you micro-manage people's lives. Make 'em eat, go to work, date, buy furniture, etc. That just screams to be a movie. "The Sims has done an interactive version of an old story, which is what it's like to have infinite power and how do you deal with it," said Sims studio head Rod Humble in today's Variety. So, basically, we're in for another Bruce Almighty, with even less of it's mediocre charms.

Horses? Really?

I really want someone to explain to me why the hell there are police officers on horseback in New York City. I've been thinking about this all morning—okay, for about 15 minutes—and I can't see the logic in it.

First, they're Fucking Horses in New York City. Which makes no sense. While Central Park may have a decent chunk of natural landscape, not so much that you need the friggin' cavalry.

Second, they shit everywhere. Why I should have to dodge massive mounds of hay-strewn feces on my way to work—which is not on a farm, mind you—is beyond me. The New York's Finest are keeping your city clean...so their giant method of transportation can poop all over it.

Third, they can't be cheap to stable. Those nags can eat. Are they any cheaper than a good motocross bike? Yes, I know motorcycles wouldn't help the enviornmental conditions in New York. But see point No. 2: shit boulders.

Fourth, they are animals with minds of their own. Who may not feel like engaging in a criminal pursuit. And let's say this is an armed criminal, who decides to take a shot or two at the mountie. Now two creatures with free will have to decide to continue the chase, as opposed to one dude on a Honda. (And this chase, mind you, is being executed on a beast who's tiny piggies are designed for almost every other kind of terrain besides asphalt.)

I'm sure there are some who call it tradition, a throwback to a simpler, stinkier time. And tradition is fine...in moderation. But when tradition gives way to a total ignoring of fiscal logic and peacekeeping methodology, that's when I call horseshit.

Just Because

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.