The Freaks Come Out on the 8:05am

There I was, sitting like a good commuter on the train this morning, listening to my iPod. I've taken to buying stand-up comedy albums and funneling them in there. I've already become bored of the 3,200 songs in my library, and don't want to get so involved as to listen to an audiobook. I prefer my books on papyrus. Rolling papyrus.

So I'm listening to Patton Oswalt's second CD, and he launches into this bit about Robert Evans doing the voiceover for these ESPN radio spots. And each one gets progressively dirtier. This train, mind you, is standing room only. I was lucky enough to get a seat, but I'm crammed in with people right next to me, and people standing above me. No one's talking, as we've all tacitly agreed, even with friends and loved ones, not to speak and instead give our brains time to boot up.

The whole time, I've got my arms crossed, and my fingers pressing on the bridge of my nose, trying to stifle the laughs that are starting to build.

And he gets to this passage, where he describes Loretta Swit's pubic hair as large enough to hide a VCR, and I lose my shit. In the cacophonous silence of that metal tube, the sound of my laughter echoed for what felt like a minute.

Of course, I can't tell anyone what I'm laughing at. Because that would be wrong.

And, apparently, you can't cover that kind of outburst by raising a clenched fist to your mouth and pretending it was a hi-LAR-ious cough.

Ain't It Cool News Weighs in

On Monster Attack Network:

This book is a bit of a change from the other books I have read from Ait/Planet Lar, but it shares the same attention to fine storytelling. This drama set in a world where giant monsters attack on a frequent basis was a fun yarn. The blasé way the main characters do battle with these big beasts was thoroughly entertaining to witness. The art is loose and I have to admit, at times, I was a bit at a loss as to what was happening in some of the tighter panels, but when artist Nima Sorat pulls back in the large panels, they are quite a sight to behold. There is a real VENTURE BROTHERS feel to this comic with overly-muscular men and sultry babes battling giant things science and nature shouldn’t have spawned. There’s a lot of fun in between the covers of this book and it’s a welcome change from some of the more serious or fact-based books from Ait/Planet Lar. —Ambush Bug

By the way...

Despite all that highfalutin racio-sequential-art examination of the previous post, I'd have loved to write a totally blaxploitation Black Lightning: Year One book.

If only so I could write the sentence: "Now that's one crazy electric nigger!"

(Which, of course, would never have seen print. But I'd have gotten to write it.)

Heroic Creation Myths

Walk with me for a bit.

Bruce Wayne + Asian vacation = Batman
Lamont Cranston + Asian vacation = The Shadow
Stephen Strange + Asian vacation = Doctor Strange

Now, I know that a good deal of this is a by-product of the era (apparently, there was a great deal of cultural fascination with the Far East pre-WWII), as well as some wanton plagiarism (in the same way that Doc Savage was the Man of Bronze and Superman was the Man of Steel). I guess uniqueness wasn't valued all that highly when creating pulp heroes.

And I was almost thinking that white heroes were the only ones with such a firmly encoded origin—but when you look at black or native american heroes, they've got the same ticks.

Jefferson Pierce + ghetto = Black Lightning
Luke Cage + ghetto = Power Man
John Proudstar + reservation + Vietnam = Thunderbird
Forge + reservation + Vietnam = er, Forge

There are, apparently, no black heroes not from the Hood and no Native American heroes not born on a reservation. While those locales can be defining elements, they're not exclusive. John Proudstar couldn't have been from Santa Fe? Luke Cage couldn't have been raised in the rural south? He couldn't have been the child of freedom riders? Sure, you get your odd men out like Black Panther, ruler of an African Kingdom, or Storm, goddess of the African plains, or Blade (wait...a vampire hunter from the ghetto), every now and again, but they're the exceptions, not the rules.

And, jeez, try finding an Asian character not adept in the martial arts (I'll give you Jubilee, find another one). Maybe that's not entirely fair. I've been combing through the Marvel Universe and pretty much every character is "an expert in various forms of martial arts."

Maybe the get-rich scheme inside the Marvel world is to open a friggin' dojo. In the hood.

Some Newsarama MAN love

Check the technique (scroll a bit):

Monster Attack Network Graphic Novel (AiTPlanetLar Reviewed by Tim Janson): Ever wonder who gets to clean up all the damage crated by the giant monsters in those Japanese monster films? Who rebuilds the cities and infrastructure? Well, it’s the Monster Attack Network. This new graphic novel from AiT Planet Lar shows just how the men and women of the Monster Attack Network deal with giant monster attacks. The setting is the South Pacific island of Lapuatu. Nate Klinger is the group’s leader and we first see Nate coming to the aid of residents who are trapped in their building during one of those attacks. All buildings are built to have special escape chutes to be used when some great beast rises out of the pacific to attack the island. For the residents, it’s as if they live in tornado alley…giant monster attacks are just something they live with. The Team gets a new employee, Lana Barnes who Nate suspects has some secrets in her past that she is trying to hide. Funny thing is, ever since Lana, and an unscrupulous land developer have shown up on the island, the monster attacks have increased in their frequency as well as their intensity. Nate smells something bad and it’s not the stench of rotting monster bodies. For fans of Godzilla films and the like, Monster Attack Network is a blast. Loaded with action and sarcastic humor, this is a wildly entertaining book. The dialog is razor sharp and the black and white art by Sorat is lush and expressive. Giant Monsters have not been this fun in a long time!

Everything's Coming Up Redheads

Two more for the casting rondelay:


Lauren Ambrose, and


Megan Fox (who may come off a tad too slutty).

It has, also, been pointed out that in the coif-tech future we're living in, hair color is infinitely malleable. But while this "film" still exists only in our heads, let's keep it pure.

EDIT: Adding Laura Prepon—thanks, Alex!—who was a much hotter Donna as a redhead:

Stupid Lindsey

I wish that Lindsay Lohan wasn't such a goddamned train wreck. Yes, I feel bad and all, and "what a shame that her parents didn't do what parents are supposed to do and keep their children from fucking up their lives."

But, honestly, she'd have made a great Grace Anderson for the inevitable (if I keep saying it, maybe it'll come true) Highwaymen movie. She's young, a redhead, and can actually act. The list of redheads who fit that bill is, sadly, very short. Isla Fisher. Alyson Hannigan.



Who else, because after that I'm drawing a blank?

EDIT: Now that I think about it, Alyson Hannigan is probably too old. Grace is a college student and Ms. Hannigan (Alyson if you're nasty) is around 32. Though, she plays young pretty well. This, I say, as if we're actually casting the movie.

A Strange, Hollow Sadness

Found out today that comics artist Mike Wieringo died over the weekend. Massive heart attack, apparently. 44 years old. I've never met the man, but we sorta crossed paths a few years ago, back when we were looking for artists for Monster Attack Network. He was one of the first guys that Larry thought of, and we'd have been thrilled to have him.

If the email he sent back to Larry is any indication, he was a hell of a guy to know:

And so, all that goes to say that I'm afraid I wouldn't be able to work on the MONSTER ISLE project. And I probably wouldn't have had the time, in any case. But I have to say that I'm incredibly flattered that I'm the first person that Marc thought of....! When I get some free time, I'm going to settle down and read the script... I'm sure it's a hoot.

Kept his sketch-a-day blog bookmarked. He was one of those artists I came across that I was hoping to, eventually, get to work with. And to have a drink with.

Alas.

News Flash: San Diego 2008

The Hyatt, the Marriott, and the Omni hotels are already booked. For an event that's 11 months and two weeks away.

Scored a room at the Hilton...for twice what we paid for our room this year.

Holy crap. We'd better have something to push.

If they ever make a Stones movie...

this dude (Jemaine Clement, from Flight of the Conchords) should play Mick Jagger.

See?

The Girls Next Door

I was at a birthday party over the weekend, held at a home in a chi-chi gated community. This party was for a grown up, so there were no children present. Just lots of booze and white people. (And me.)

At some point, after the very expensive wine was flowing for a while, the DJ threw on a little 50 Cent, "In Da Club." And, to a woman, every thirtysomething suburban housewife there completely lost their shit. Once the choruses of "Go shorty, its your birfday" died down, Akon's "Smack That" came on...and these SUV-driving, brood-ferrying ladies proceeded to spank each other like porn stars.

Power to 'em...I just missed the pop-cultural moment when Caucasian women on the cusp of middle age decided to go buck-wild for hip-hop.

By the time the party was over everyone, and I mean everyone, had been in the pool. With their clothes on. (Yes, including me.)

There's some freaky shit going on behind those gates, I tell you whut.

There's a M.A.N. Stuck in the Pipeline

Augie De Blieck over at Comic Book Resources' Pipeline weighs in:

"Dialogue is important to comics, in much the same way as sound is important to a good movie.

Let's see if I can explain what seems like something that's so obvious. I plugged in the DVD for SAVING PRIVATE RYAN the other night to see how it looked on my relatively new television set. It looked fine, but I didn't feel it. There was something missing that took a lot of the impact away from that harrowing early scene on the beach. It was the sound. Listening to it in stereo as opposed to 5.1 surround sound makes everything feel flat. If you can't hear the bullet buzzing past your ears, then you're not getting the full effect.

In high concept comics, the thrill is in seeing how a crazy idea can be executed. Whether it's pirates stuck in the modern world, or Zombies fighting Robots, or a Robot and an Angel learning life lessons from each other, you're sucked into the comic from an always-farcical sounding pitch. The crazier, the better. The plot is important. The art is important. And the dialogue needs to match that level of energy.

MONSTER ATTACK NETWORK has all of that in spades. The new original graphic novel from AiT/PlanetLar is the story of an organization much like Marvel's Damage Control, entrusted to protect a Pacific island from the monsters the humans cohabitate the island with, and then clean up any of their messes afterwards. The pitch from Marc Bernardin and Adam Freeman is killer, the kind of thing to spaek any comic reader's imagination. The art from newcomer Nima Sorat is a true discovery. I know nothing about Sorat, but the art looks like something a fashion design artist might render, complete with wonderful gray tones and a thick brush strokes. There's movement in every panel. While you could make an argument in a couple of spots that some storytelling suffers for it, there's always enough there that you get the gist, can follow the story, and have a good time without stumbling.

On top of it all, though, Bernardin and Freeman didn't skimp on the dialogue. It would have been very easy for them to let the art tell the story and NOT add that extra spark. They didn't. There's great rapid-fire banter and one-liners throughout the book, all without dragging the book down. Characters are best defined by their actions, true, but you can learn a lot about them from dialogue that cleverly expresses their personality as much as their action. The authors never get lost in expository dialogue, or conversations that last too long. Nothing has a chance to overstay its welcome in this book, as it just moves too fast, and that's a good thing. This is an action comic about men fighting monsters. You don't need to weigh it down with expository dialogue. You don't need to deeply explore the monsters' motivations. (You see how well that did for the HULK movie.)

MONSTER ATTACK NETWORK is the best offering from AiT/PlanetLar, I think, in some time. It's snappy, fast-paced, high-concept, and oodles of fun. It's available today for a mere thirteen of your hard earned greenbacks."

Embarrassing Geekery

I left out this story out of my pre-San Diego LA wonderfulness recounting, partly because I'm so damned ashamed of myself. If I had a geek membership card, I'd have to turn it in.

I was meeting my friend Phil* for dinner in Glendale which boasts a terrific little downtown area as well as, according to Phil, the home base to a bevy of Armenian mobsters, all with horrible driving skills. We left said friend's house, drove a couple of blocks to a parking spot—hey, it's LA—and walked to the Tiki-style steakhouse that Phil enticed me with.

As we were walking, Phil points to a storefront. There were a couple of random paperbacks on risers in the window, with drapes concealing the store's interior. The glass doors were blacked out, so we couldn't see inside. "This is one of the last great sci-fi bookstores," Phil tells me. "If you want, we could take a quick walk through." I dig me some sci-fi, and I'm a sucker for buying books I'll probably never get around to reading, so I agree. The ravenous beef hunger can hold for a few minutes.

We open the door and, right there in the vestibule, is a small crowd of people. Maybe 25. And they're looking dead at us, as if we interrupted some cabal meeting. Which, it turns out, we did.

Because right to our left, sitting next to each other at a small folding table facing the crowd with their backs to the windows, was Ray Bradbury and Ray Harryhausen. In case you don't know—and, if you're reading this blog, I'm probably pointing out scripture to the choir—these two gentlemen, the two Rays of sci-fi/fantasy, are responsible for many a warped childhood.

Bradbury is a titan of science fiction literature, having written Fahrenheit 451, The Martian Chronicles, The Illustrated Man, Something Wicked This Way Comes, etc. And Harryhausen is the stop-motion wizard behind Jason and the Argonauts, Clash of the Titans, The Golden Voyage of Sinbad, 20 Million Miles to Earth, One Million Years B.C., and so on.

These guys were holding forth, like preachers in the Church of Christ Science Fiction, and we just stumbled into it. Cool, right?

Yeah, but we were hungry. So hungry, we tracked down the manager—who was so jazzed that she had these two legends in her store—and asked her to let us out the back door. Because we didn't want to look like the dicks we so clearly were by walking past the Rays to head back out the front door.

As we walked to the steakhouse, we couldn't even look at each other, the shame was so thick between us. So, whomever is the Secretary of the Geek Society, you can come and collect my membership card whenever you're ready.

* His name has been changed, so as to not tarnish his own good geek reputation.

A Bacardi M.A.N.

From The Johnny Bacardi Show:

"Hey, somebody got their Japanese giant monster movie in their romantic comedy! Moonlighting meets Gammera the Invincible and perhaps Marvel's old '80s series Damage Control as we get the adventures of a group of men and women who deal with crises involving oversized behemoths, who tend to level cities at the drop of a hat. We center on Nate Klinger, head of our particular branch, and the new recruit, a gorgeous young lady from the island nation of Lapuatu. They meet cute, fight creatures, bicker, and have a little bit of the old in-out in-out until the frequency of monster attacks causes suspicion to fall on a visiting industrialist...and perhaps even the new recruit as well. A wise man once said, "Creativity is the art of disguising your sources", and while there are many sides to this we've all seen before, they're presented in such a breezy, fast-paced fashion that one is inclined not to care and just go along for the rollercoaster ride. Between this and The Highwaymen, I believe Bernardin and Freeman are looking like rookies of the year as far as giving us entertaining comics so far. Sorat's art reminds, as so many these days seem to, Paul Pope or a looser Becky Cloonan—in fact, he's often too loose and coherence is often sacrificed at the altar of swooshy speed lines and exaggerated anatomy during the course of the story. It's a problem, but not a big one, and I expect him to get better as time goes on. Inoshiro Honda would be proud, I'd bet. A-"

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.