My Brief But Illustrious Pugilistic Career, Part One

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

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

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

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

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

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

Conference Ball

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

'Battlestar' Finale

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

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

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

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

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

The Highwaymen: Solicited!

Here it is, fresh from the DC Comics website:

THE HIGHWAYMEN #1 (OF 5)

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

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

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

Black Like Me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Larry Young Knows All

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

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

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

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

Night and 'Day'

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



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

Dumb-Ass Press Release of the Week

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

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

BEDFORD WOODS STABLES TO PROVIDE EDUCATIONAL MAPLE SYRUP EXCURSIONS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Feel the Hate. Love the Hate.

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

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

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

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

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

I Didn't Expect THAT

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Favorite '300' Headline

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

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

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

I Wanna Know What Pluto Did

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

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

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

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

But he did something, and I wanna know what.


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

Black History Month

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

I'm just saying...

More NYCC Stuff

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

Crossing Over: How the Comics Boom is Changing Entertainment.

Wildstorm/CMX.

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

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

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

The Highwaymen

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



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

The Hands-Down Best Part of NYCC

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

New York Comic Convention

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

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

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

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

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

One of the Craziest Things I've Seen All Year

Just...look:



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

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

A Choice for Our Times

Penelope Cruz or Salma Hayek?

(And no, both is not an option.)

Finally...More 'Aliens'

Maybe.

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

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

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

Maybe this is the cure for what ails...

Dumb-Ass Press Release of the Week

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

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

Dear Marc,

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

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

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

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

Thank you for your time and consideration.

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

Eeesh.

I Am Not a Pyromaniac

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

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

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

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

If you do, then I am a happy man.

Too Revealing...

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

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

I do so for three reasons.

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

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

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

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

Pimp My Enterprise

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


Because that's just how Sulu rolls, bitches.

Are YOU Man Enough?

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

Because I am man enough.

You'd Buy it For Me If You Loved Me

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


Yes, you can buy me Ecto 1.

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

The Latest Thing I'm Pissed Off About

Joel Schumacher and The Sandman. Together again.

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

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

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

I'm Itchin...

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

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

How Much For These Two?

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

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

Poker With the Stars

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

Cosmetic Surgery

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

32. Mint and chocolate together gross me out.

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

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

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

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

27. I don’t run unless chased.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

14. I’ve never eaten borscht.

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

12. I am a first generation American.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Back in the Saddle

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

More later.

Me & the Famous People

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why I Love Travel

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

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

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

I love travel.

Off to Mormon-ville

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

Wisdom

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

And that's one to grow on.

Misdirection

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

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

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

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

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

The Greatest Commercial Ever

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

Woman in Peril

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



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

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

(Thanks to the Occasional Superheroine for the tip.)

I'm a Professional

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

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

No, not a gay weekend at all.

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

That sound you hear is a very muffled victory dance.

"There Was A Time"

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

Another one bites the dust. Merry Christmas.

Under the Tree With Care

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

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

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

Hope yours was a good one, without any tears.

Some Things Bear Repeating

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

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

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

Stupid tequila.

Shuffle-ography

I hate celebrity playlists. Okay, hate is a very strong word. But I don’t like them because I think they’re disingenuous. You look at one of those rundowns of the 10 or 15 songs picked by whoever and you know that you’re not actually seeing a slice of that celeb’s personality…you’re seeing the slice they want you to see.

You can absolutely tell a lot about a person by the kind of music they listen to. Music, much like movies, can also function as a personality rorschach. But if you’re really trying to get a handle on someone, you need to look at their wall of CDs. (And if they don’t have a wall, that tells you something right there.) You can’t hide from your own collection. This is the stuff you held on to. And with each and every disc there’s a reason why.

But, since we live in the iPod age, there’s an easier way: the shuffle. The shuffle is merciless. The shuffle is aware. The shuffle will not let you hide. And this is how we can know a person.

So, here’s my Shuffle-ography. Ten songs, chosen at random. And what each title brings to mind.

“Mosquito Song,” Songs for the Deaf, Queens of the Stone Age
I bought this album simply because it was on EW’s top 10 list one year. And because Dave Grohl played the drums on the whole album. I dig Dave Grohl. Imagine how tough it must be to be the drummer in the Foo Fighters, Dave Grohl’s band, knowing full well that if the boss doesn’t like what you’re playing, he could step right in and do it better. The fact that, by all accounts, Grohl’s not a dick about it is impressive. Somehow, this dude managed to extricate himself from forever being a member of Nirvana. He didn’t have to do that; he could’ve coasted for the rest of his life on that. Like Krist Novoselic. But he wanted something else, something more, and I can respect that.

“Quills,” Phrenology, The Roots
When I was in high school, I was into rap in a big way. I was a 15 year old black kid on Long Island; I was supposed to be into rap. Luckily for me, those were the halcyon days of hip-hop: Public Enemy, De La Soul, Eric B. & Rakim, Queen Latifah, A Tribe Called Quest. But as gangsta rap moved in, I moved on. That was a music that didn’t quite speak to me. (I was from Long Island, remember?) I discovered Hendrix, Zeppelin, Clapton, Parliament Funkadelic, James Brown, Beethoven, Oscar Brown Jr., Dave Brubeck, John Coltrane. But I swung back around in my late 20s and found musicians on the rap scene. People like Jurassic 5, Mos Def, the Beastie Boys, and, yes, The Roots.

“Come Away with Me,” Come Away With Me, Norah Jones
When my daughter was born, she slept like all babies do: in short bursts, punctuated by long stretches of crying. My wife and I would take shifts, since no one should be expected do fly solo on that front, not unless you have to. A couple of weeks in, I couldn’t listen to any of the dozen lullaby CDs we got any more. The last thing you want to hear at 4:00 am is “Hush Little Baby” for the 152nd time. So I brought in a couple of my CDs: Nat King Cole, Stevie Wonder, Antonio Carlos Jobim, and Norah Jones. I spent countless hours holding my daughter and dancing her to sleep to "Come Away with Me." I still mist up a little when I hear it.

“Get Me to the Church,” Sinatra at the Sands, Frank Sinatra
This song actually depresses me a little. Not because of some time-related nuptual fiasco—one of which I actually had at my wedding—but because of how young Quincy Jones was when this was recorded. He was 33 years old, conducting Count Basie’s orchestra and arranging Frank Sinatra’s songs. He was still a young man, and he was operating at the peak of his talents, and at the top of his field. Not that 33 was a bad year for me, but I wasn’t on a movie set, directing Tom Hanks and Kate Winslet in a film written by Paddy Fucking Chayefsky either.

“You Really Got Me,” Van Halen, Van Halen
My friend Nick and I used to take these road trips. I must’ve been in my senior year in high school, maybe freshman year of college. Anyway, these trips would consist of us starting at his family’s house in upstate New York, picking a direction and driving. Sometimes we could camp out (we were both Boy Scouts at one time, at varying levels of accomplishment), a couple of times we would just pull over and crash in his car, a maroon 1983 Pontiac Grand Prix. Now, this was before his Guido the Killer Pimp phase, in which Nick listened to nothing but shitty club music and Billy Joel—and way before his current fixation on shitty country music—so we were listening to classic rock. That’s where I first heard a lot of things (the one most vivid in my head is “Veteran of the Psychic Wars,” by Blue Oyster Cult, which is the closest thing to comic book radio theater I’ve ever heard), as well as “Eruption,” which floored me. Of course, it was followed by "You Really Got Me." Which is, in and of itself, not a bad song either.

“You Give Love a Bad Name,” Cross Road, Bon Jovi
Ever buy a CD for one song, and then kind of get stuck listening to the rest of it? I bought this Bon Jovi greatest hits album for “Wanted Dead or Alive,” which is, legitimately, one of the greatest arena rock songs ever written. (Also, my favorite karaoke song…if for nothing else than the Richie Sambora part.) But I get bad MTV flashbacks whenever I hear this. I should really relegate this to the “Runaway” bin so it never shuffles up on me again.

"Cellphone’s Dead," The Information, Beck
I’m just digging into this album, so I don’t really have all that much perspective on it. But I like Beck, especially his willingness to take chances. Plus, that marionette performace on SNL was awesome.

"Jewel of the Summertime," Revelations, Audioslave
I always wanted Chris Cornell’s voice. His, or Sting’s. Preferably a combination of the two, to both scare the shit out of the ladies, and then woo them back. When I was in a shitty post-high school rock band, I always wanted to belt in Cornell’s crazy-ass wail, but could never pull it off. And my bandmates told me as much, continually. I still try in the car, though. And tear my throat out every damned time.

"Pictures of Success," Take Offs and Landings, Rilo Kiley
Can’t help you much here. Just got it. Haven’t listened to the whole thing yet. But, hey, it must say something that I got it in the first place, right? I just don’t know what.

"Across 110th Street," Jackie Brown Soundtrack, Bobby Womack
I’ve only ever bought two copies of the same CD because the first one was worn out once, and that was the Pulp Fiction soundtrack. Man alive, I played that one into the ground. There’s just something about the way Quentin Tarantino assembles his soundtracks that speaks to me. He just knows the perfect pop song for the perfect moment, much in the way that Scorsese does (even if he dips into the “Gimme Shelter” well a little too often). And so, the first time we meet Pam Grier’s Jackie Brown, standing on an airport moving sidewalk, being drawn inexorably to her fate, this is the song we hear. All about the hustle, and the price. (I’m also a big fan of "Strawberry Letter 23" from the Jackie Brown album, and was thrilled that I already had the song when I heard it on that Kellogg’s commercial for Special K cereal.)

So, that’s my shuffle-ography. A life is a collection of snapshots, all of a specific moment in time. These are just 10 of mine.

What does your shuffle-ography look like?

As Much as I Love Lynda Carter...

I would, in no way, have a problem with an Indian actress playing Wonder Woman, so long as she looks like this:


She, by the way, is Priyanka Chopra, a Bollywood actress who may or may not be on Joss Whedon's list.

(Thanks to Heidi for the tip.)

EDIT: Just to be clear, I am not in favor of this Indian actress simply because she's hot. (Which she is.) But the idea of an Indian actress is intriguing. Wonder Woman is supposed to be an exotic creature, from a place far different from our normal, everyday world. And, let's face it, a white brunette no longer qualifies as exotic...even if she is Catherine Zeta-Jones-Douglas. And an accent isn't enough. She needs to look...other-y. And an Indian actress would get you there. Plus, many of them are hot.

Strip Teased

I visited a very specific kind of place over the weekend, a type of establishment I don't go to very often. I went to a strip club.

I've never been the type of guy who frequents nudie bars. If I think back, the last time I was at a strip club was my bachelor party, more than seven years ago. Now, I like naked women. Really, I do. They are a few of my favorite things. But the prospect of "strange titties" (as one guy in the bar was loudly looking forward to seeing) changes some men and makes them believe in fairy tales in which they're the star.

Strip clubs are like special effects movies: Everyone going in knows that what you're seeing isn't real, but we all agree, for the time we're in that darkened room, to pretend that they are. But me, I'm always aware of the artifice. And I'm unwilling to give in to that fantasy. Because I know—and have never been able to make myself forget—that it's not real.

The women who work at these places are very good at their jobs. But, oddly, their job is not really selling sex. They're selling the idea that you, the patron, are attractive, are desirable, are worth wanting. They are selling you your own manhood. And that is the thing that some men are willing to go into debt for. Every man wants to believe that they have it in them to attract women who look like these women look and who seemingly love sex as much as these women do. After all, these are women who could have their pick of any of the other schmucks who walked in that night. But she stopped to talk to you.

She will hug you, and hang on you, and let you buy her drinks, and give you a massage, and, if you really want to, she will take you someplace else. And do things to you. What, precisely, depends on how much you're willing to spend. And that is where the bargain comes in. Not "bargain" as in 30% off—in that respect, titty bars are the polar opposites of bargains: Everything is, like, three times as expensive as in the real world...including sex. (I overheard one guy, a few seats down at the bar, musing to no one in particular: "150 bucks for a blowjob?! I could buy a shitbox car for $150 bucks!")

No, when I say bargain I mean a deal, a contract. And it goes like this: She will take your money and make you feel like a golden god. You will pretend that you never gave her any money. And together, everyone gets what they want.

If you can make that sort of bargain, then a strip club can be a magical place. There were guys in there last weekend who, I'm sure, spent a shitload of money to feel like Jamie Foxx feels every night. Four, five figures worth. Once you realize that that's the deal, then its incredibly easy to understand how, in one night a couple of years back, that one guy dropped $100,000 in a Scores club.

I can't make that bargain. I've tried, in the past, and failed. And it's not because of the money. I spend money on dumber shit than my ego—I bought a laserdisc player. But I just can't make myself believe that these women believe in me. They don't. They can't. Would be bad for business. They can whisper whatever they want, but I know it isn't real.

And I'm all about the real. If it ain't real, I don't want it. I've already got real, and I like it.

But I can admire the special effects.

STILL RELEVANT: The Secret Service's Super Bowl

Or World Series, or U.S. Open. Take your pick. Whatever you wanna call it, that's what it's gonna be for the Secret Service if Barack Obama does, indeed, run for President.

Why? Because, for the first time, a black man has a legitimate (and, depending on who you talk to, likely) shot at winning the White House. (And Jesse Jackson's run, however well-intentioned it may have been, never really had a shot.) Even though it's been a scant 40-odd years since the Civil Rights movement, I'd like to think that we, as a society, are ready for that.

But there are still pockets of this country who won't stand for it, who aren't ready for a Negro in Chief. And those happen to be incredibly well-armed pockets.

So this is when we see, exactly, what the Secret Service is made of. Because those nuts are gonna come for Obama...whether the general public hears about it or not.

Put your game-face on, fellas. Show time.

=====

I originally wrote this back in 2006. And every word still applies now that he's taken the Oath of Office. Now we play for all the marbles.

MySpace, but For A Special Kind of Geek

I just joined ComicSpace, a networking site that operates much like MySpace, but look like its populated mostly by comics pros. It seems to be run by some guy named Josh who lives in Maine. Maybe out of his basement. I say this because it keeps crumpling, like someone who got punched in the yarbles and the throat at the same time. Warren Ellis killed it once, with an email.

So, stop on by, if'n you like:

comicspace.com/marcbernardin

EDIT: Yeah, it's down again. Must've been a swift blow.

If I Still Was the Band-ing Type

I would name my band one of three things:

Calrissian.
Decahayek.
Pushy Galore.

That is all.

(And no, you can't have any of those names.)

Wizard Whirled

Lots of talk on the internets about the editor-in-chief vacancy over at Wizard Magazine, the slick market-leader in comics "journalism." I put that it quotes because it's not a very good magazine. Mediocre writing, poor presentation, editorial myopia, all of which add up to a sophomoric catalog for Marvel and DC.

I was reading Augie De Bleick's Pipeline column today, and he laid out some very valid points about what needs fixing over there.

For my part, I won't run down my litany of suggestions. And, no, not because I'm saving them for some job interview. I haven't been offered the gig and probably wouldn't take it if I was. (For lots of reasons, chief among them: they couldn't pay me enough to leave EW and stop suckling at the Time Warner golden teat; I don't particuarly wanna commute from Jersey to upstate New York; and going back into comics journalism would prohibit me from writing comics themselves.)

But I will say this: Wizard should aim to be the Sports Illustrated of comics. Bet you thought I was gonna say EW, right? No, our focus is too wide. SI, on the other hand, is all about sport, in every possible permutation. You get the meat-and-potatoes coverage you're expecting, of the NFL or the NBA or the or MLB or the PGA, but you still get stories about up-and-coming atheletes, veterans, sports you never thought were sports (spelunking, anyone?), and breaking news about sport (steroids, gambling, sex-offender high-school coaches, etc.). You get everything you could possibly want, as a sport fan: something about that particular sport you're interested in, something about sports you might not be, and a "deep dive" into a surprising arena you hadn't thought of.

So replace "sport" with "comics" and "athlete" with "creator."

Why isn't Wizard covering these reports of gender discrimination and sexual assault? Why aren't they doing a reported piece on the effect shipping delays have on readership? If you've gotta cover Hollywood, why not a piece on all the capeless comics that are becoming movies? Or the shift in the firmament that has occurred thanks to the old Hollywood gatekeepers—the ones who shunned comic flicks—dying and being replaced with younger ones that grew up with comics? All right alongside stories about the latest Marvel and DC books.

All I'm saying is that there's a way to make Wizard a real magazine, one that covers its industry without talking down to their readers, without pandering to the marketplace but still giving it what it wants. Yes, they will lose a few friends, maybe a few advertisers. But if what you're after is a legitimate journalistic enterprise instead of a PR outlet, then it's worth it.

Look, I did what I said I wasn't gonna do. Stupid blog.

M.A.N. Preview

Not too much, a few unlettered pages. But you can see it at All the Rage (scroll down a bit), along with a witty couple of grafs I wrote about the project. (Not that you lot haven't already hear more than a couple of grafs about MAN—and you know for yourselves if they were witty or not.)

And while we're talking about upcoming projects, I will tell you all there is to tell about the Wildstorm book Adam and I are writing. We're halfway through the script for the third issue (of five). An artist has been retained, a wickedly talented bloke named Lee Garbett, and he's busily cranking out character designs and the like. And, according to our editor, things look good for a Summer '07 launch.

So, Adam and I will be busy boys at Comic-Con next year...

Papa, Please Don't 'Preacher'

I would like nothing more than to be filled with joy at the news that Preacher—Garth Ennis and Steve Dillon's seminal mid-90s comic series, about the wandering mission of a man of the cloth who is given the power of the word of God—is in development as an HBO series. Really, I would. I've always thought that HBO needed to get in the comic book property business, and Preacher, with it's language, nudity, and vampire content, couldn't be done anywhere else as a TV series...and there's plenty enough story to sustain five 13-episodes seasons, at least. (I've also thought that the only way to do The Sandman justice would be as an HBO miniseries, a la Band of Brothers.)

But Mark Steven Johnson? The guy who gathered the forces of mediocrity to ruin Daredevil? The guy who probably destroyed Ghost Rider? (I say probably, because I haven't seen it in its entirety, but the fact that I've sat through two underwhelming presentations at two separate Comic-Cons does not bode well.) He's the guy who gets to write the pilot script and executive produce? Really? And they get Howard Deutch to direct, he who has demonstrated his visual flair and character acumen with films like Grumpier Old Men, The Whole Ten Yards, and the pilot for Melrose Place?

Could they have found two people less suited for this? You want a project like this to be in the hands of someone with a relentless intelligence as well as an unbridled geek creativity, like Ron Moore, or Damon Lindelof, or John Rogers, or Gough/Millar. Not these guys. One hopes that the underlying material is strong enough to shine through whatever gloss of shite this lot coats it with. And maybe the casting will help to steady the ship.

But, right now, it looks like Preacher would probably be better served by never being a TV series at all.

Dear Famous People...

Put on your fucking underwear.


How hard is that? You know you're leaving the house, you know there will be people with cameras...put on your drawers. Regardless of how ugly your grann-ties may be, or how uncomfortable a thin layer of cotton/silk may be against your nethers, it's gotta be preferable to having your cooch plastered on every website known to man, right? (Yes, including this one...because I, actually, am in favor of female nudity, just not stupidity.) There are only two jobs where having no underwear is acceptible: prostitute and two-year old.

I mean, Jesus...

Things I Know

I've got a birthday coming up in a couple of days. Turning 35. A friend of mine got herself in a bit of a tizzy when she hit that mark...apparently, that's how old Jesus was when he died. (Or was it 33? Or is that the number on Rolling Rock bottles? Amazing how often Christ and beer appear in the same sentence.) And she started tallying her life achievements—a futile endeavor, comparing one's life's work to JC's, unless a paralyzing depression is what you're after.

But there are some things that I've come to realize about myself, settling into my thirty-fifth year:

I am probably always going to be a shade of fat. Just the way I was built. Honestly. I've got shoulders the width of a subway door...and I haven't worked out once this century. I was always a heavy kid, but that was ameliorated by an abundance of physical activity. Now, the genes–and my jeans—are having their revenge. I am simply not gonna get down to my football weight of 180, not without a tapeworm, and I'm starting to come to grips with that.

I am not the writer I could be. Part of this is just because I don't do it enough. There are people out there who live, breathe, sweat writing. I'm not that person. I like it, and think I'm good at it, but it is not what sustains me, and so I'm not driven to do it every waking moment. And because I don't do it as often as I could, I'm not improving as rapidly as I could be. My writing partner, Adam, wisely pointed out that I lean too heavy on the one-liner, the too-cool-for-school characters that allow me to crack wise with a hint of satire. All my protagonists are like James Bond if he grew up with a subscription to MAD. So far, it hasn't hurt. People seem to like that. But they won't forever.

I will always be the parent of an autistic child. The hardest part about learning that your kid is handicapped, for me anyway, was the revision of expectations. In all likelihood, I'm paying into a college fund that she won't get to use. My wife and I may never experience empty-nest syndrome. Yes, it is absolutely possible that she'll make remarkable, astonishing progress and can eventually be mainstreamed back into the regular school system and go on to lead a fulfilling life. But she will always be autistic. And I will always be her dad.

I don't like roller-coasters. I just don't. If I'm gonna be going that fast, I want control, dammit. Same reason I don't like skiing: No friggin' brakes. (Plus, it's too cold.) My wife is a nut for roller-coasters (and skiing) and because of me, she's cut back severly on both. C'est l'amour.

I'm not leaving EW any time soon. Because it is, for lack of a better word, easy. I know the people. I know the system. I know the subject matter. Yes, it can be a grind, but I know how it's done. And I'm good at it. With rare exceptions, it doesn't hurt my brain to do my job. It leaves me with enough mental hard-drive space to do what little writing I do (see above). They pay pretty well and have a very generous benefits package. And I get six weeks of vacation. So why the hell would I want to leave?

I don't ever want to eat Indian food again. I had a bad experience when I was 13 years old that involved roti on the island of Trinidad. Today, the smell of curry makes me throw up in my mouth a little. My wife is a recent convert to the wonders of Indian cuisine. If you like it, too, give her a call. You can eat it with her. Not me. I'm done.

Thank You, Fox...

For not letting OJ send himself to hell.

Dear Orenthal...

Now I, like many other black folks, have been willing to extend you the benefit of the doubt (even though, rationally, I know there's not a lot of doubt left). A court of law found you not guilty of killing your ex and her boyfriend.

But if you go on TV and do this thing, you're going to hell. I'm just saying.

If you're a Hall of Fame football player and you're dead-set on embarassing yourself and tarnishing your reputation, at least go on Dancing with the Stars. Emmett's not going to go to hell for that. He's just gonna look back at it and be a little sad. You...well, you're going to hell.

Love,
Marc

That 'Thing' You Do

While I'm not normally a big fan of remakes, especially horror remakes (not that I'm some kind of over-the-moon horror nut; it's just that, Zack Snyder's phenomenal Dawn of the Dead redux aside, most horror remakes forget to include what made the concepts scary to begin with, and don't replace that with anything new), I'm kind of jazzed by the news that Universal's taking another whack at John Carpenter's The Thing. And the only reason I'm jazzed is that Battlestar Galactica alcalde Ron Moore is writing the script. Because, aside from the "Black Market" episode in Season 2, he's been pretty bang-on.

See, I love The Thing. It is, hands down, Carpenter's best film. While I have a very, very soft spot in my heart for Big Trouble in Little China and do think that the first and last 20 minutes of Escape from New York are positively adrenal, neither holds a candle to The Thing, which saw Carpenter squeezing every last drop of talent from his rock of a brain. (Carpenter is a walking proof of the idea that a director should know when he's lost it and walk off into the sunset before sullying his reputation with things like Ghosts of Mars and In the Mouth of Madness and—damn his eyes—Escape from LA.)

I always thought there should've been sequels to The Thing, or maybe even a TV series (that probably would've sucked). There was so much more you could've done with that concept. Maybe, today, in a world of terrorism and suicide bombers, the idea of a homicidal alien shapshifter would actually play better. And maybe this remake is just the ignition cap for a franchise. I could swing with that.

The Coolest Hotel Room Ever

The "Comic" room at the Arte Luise Kunsthotel in Berlin. All of the edges of the walls, furniture, everything, were outlined with hand-drawn black lines. It's like you're living inside a comic panel.















(Found via The Engine)

Roughing the Passer

No, that title isn't an allusion to something writer-y, or even something naughty. This is gonna be a sports post, folks. Probably the only one you'll ever read here. (Of course, that statement is, like every other statement on this blog, a blatant lie. Including this one. Oh, what a tangled web I weave.)

Roughing the passer may be one of the dumbest, incongruent penalties ever. In case you're not clear on what this penalty's about, here's the textbook definition:

"Flagrantly running into or hitting the quarterback after the ball has been released. Can also be called when a defender hits the quarterback in the head."

Now, the reason I call bullshit on this penalty is because it singles out the quarterback as, essentially, the single most precious player on the field. He is to be protected at all times. Now, as a matter of course, that's correct. The purpose of the offensive line is to either create holes for the running back to shoot through, or to give the quaterback time to pass the ball. To protect him from the defense, who would like nothing more than to pulverize him. Fair enough.

But this penalty is saying that in the process of trying to flatten a QB, the defensive player cannot touch him in any real way after he's thrown the ball. They're saying that a 220-lb. guy, running flat-out, has to be able to pivot like a ballerina to avoid hitting a guy—and here's the crux of it—who is willingly playing a game where people get hit.

That bears repeating: football is a full-contact sport. Since when do quarterbacks get to pretend they're playing in a separate, partial-contact arena? If you strap on those pads and put on that helmet, you should be prepared to get hit as hard and as often as anyone else on that field. (And the I-can't-touch-his-head thing is ridiculous. I absolutely agree that the face-mask penalty is necessary to avoid, you know, snapping players' necks. But to claim that just touching his helmet is a violation is just silly.)

It would be like an accountant for the local volunteer fire company donning all the gear and going to a two-alarm blaze and then getting pissed off he got burned. Because the fire should know that he's precious.

If you talk the talk, then you gotta walk the walk.

Sports tirade over. We now return you to your irregularly scheduled broadcast, already in progress.

The Fountain of Youth

I'm not sure exactly how I feel about this. A little skeeved, I think. But it's also a little cool. (Only a little.)



But you'd have to think that Connery's still got Bond money coming in.

How Did We Ever...

...fall out of love with outer space? When I was a kid, going into outer space was the paragon of cool. Maybe it was because we didn't know any better, but movies like Star Wars and Flash Gordon and TV shows like Star Trek and Buck Rogers totally inflamed desires to travel in the great beyond. And, even though we were idiots, we knew that astronauts were the guys who really got to blast off. So, when we weren't dressed up as Superman or indians or inmates for Halloween, we were spacemen. (At least those of us whose parents kept a bolt of aluminum foil and an empty goldfish bowl handy did.)

But as I was out this past Halloween, trick or treating with my kids, I saw nary an astronaut. (And Anakin frakkin' Skywalker does not count.) For further proof, I went to the internets and found these lists, of the top 20 costumes for 2006 and 2005:

2006
1. Princess
2. Pirate
3. Witch
4. Spider-Man
5. Superman
6. Disney Princess
7. Power Ranger
8. Pumpkin
9. Cat
10. Vampire
11. Angel
12. Fairy
13. Ninja
14. SpongeBob SquarePants
15. Batman
16. Cheerleader
17. Football Player
18. Tinkerbell
19. Monster
20. Star Wars Character

2005
1. Princess
2. Witch
3. Spider-Man
4. Monster
5. Darth Vader
6. Superhero
7. Star Wars Character
8. Batman
9. Ninja
10. Clown
11. Pirate
12. Angel
13. Pumpkin
14. Power Rangers
15. Cinderella
16. Vampire
17. Cheerleader
18. Cat
19. Ghost/Ghoul
20. Soldier/Sailor

No astronauts. What the hell happened?

It's tempting to blame Republicans. For almost everything. But, while the manned space program was kick-started by Kennedy, it was carried out, by and large, by Republicans. (Back then, they were the good Republicans.)

I think we just got bored, as a culture, with the idea of going into space. Especially since no one ever brought anything cool back down with them.

I was watching this Discovery Channel special on the unmanned probes and it mentioned something that just completely stunned me and reminded how much I too have given up on the dream:

Voyager has, most likely, crossed into interstellar space. It's out there, where no man has gone before. It has left home.

Suddenly, I wanna be a kid again, flush with dreams of distant exploration and currently up to my pits in tin foil.

Mrs. Butterworth...

in the hottest condiment. I'm just sayin'.