Breaking News!

"Gay" Man Understands Women.

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

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

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

Like Crystal Meth, But Better For Your Teeth

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

And the Hits Just Keep On Coming...

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

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

More 'Highwaymen' Sweetness

This, from Blogcritics Magazine:

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

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

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

"If You Read Nothing Else..."

This, from some dude named Eric:

If You Read Nothing Else

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

Also:

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

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

Sorry...

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

A See-Saw of A Morning

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

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

And then there are days like today.

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

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

So, yeah, today started well.

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

Highwaymen #2: Solicited!

Boo-yah!


The Highwaymen #2 (of 5)

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

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

Wildstorm | 32pg. | Color | $ 2.99 US

On Sale July 18, 2007

Dumb-Ass Press Release of the Week

Ultimate Chargers/Unilever
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
April 10, 2007

MEDIA ALERT

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

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

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

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

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

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

Comicky Goodness Update

Well, let's see.

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

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

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

My Brief But Illustrious Pugilistic Career, Part Two

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

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

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

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

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

And it didn't.

She Makes a Good Point

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

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

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

Back From Vegas

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

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

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

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

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

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

Off to Vegas

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

My Brief But Illustrious Pugilistic Career, Part One

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

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

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

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

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

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

Conference Ball

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

'Battlestar' Finale

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

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

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

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

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

The Highwaymen: Solicited!

Here it is, fresh from the DC Comics website:

THE HIGHWAYMEN #1 (OF 5)

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

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

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

Black Like Me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Larry Young Knows All

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

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

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

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