Got This Funny Feeling

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

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

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

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

I'm A Mother's Worst Nightmare

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

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

I am the father that mothers have nightmares about.

Cheers.

Oh, and by the way...

That Fudd thing is still mine.

So hands off.

Fudd

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

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

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

"What's Opera, Doc?"

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

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

One more for the pile.

It's Bullitt Time!

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

I Will Say This For Sting

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

The LesterBot

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

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

The Championship Season

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me and My Self-Promoting Mug

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

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

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

July 18th

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

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

Crazy times, man. Ka-razy.

The Voodoo Child

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

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

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

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

Jesus Christ...

Variety...the Spice of Reviews

From Tom McLean at Variety...

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

The Signing

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now We're Just Getting Ridiculous

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

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

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

I Just Had a Fangasm

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

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

Can I just say...

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

Ah-ha! Review Revenge!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was Bound To Happen...

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

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

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

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

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

---------

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

Review #3

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

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

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

Review #2

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

THE BUY PILE FOR JUNE 20TH, 2007

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

Podcastyness

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

Our First Honest-to-God Review

From Comic Pants:

Randy Lander Read and Thought:

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

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

Today.

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

That is all.

Back

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

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

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

'Great' Ideas: Addendum

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

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

Me and the Not Being Here

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

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

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

A coupla more 'Highwaymen' hits

Look, ma! More interviews!

Here's one on ign.com.

And another on Broken Frontier.

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

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

Nervous

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

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

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

I'm a Less-Fat Bastard

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Great' Ideas

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

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

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

Horses? Really?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just Because

The 'Monster' Lowdown

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

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

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

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

Flash....Aaaa-wha?

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

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

I'm just not feeling it.

Glorious, Glorious, Cover Action

The Highwaymen #3, on sale in August.

August Challenge

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

INT. SEWER TUNNEL

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

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

INT. SUPER CLEANERS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

OLIVER
Sorry, Ari. It was a rough week.

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

OLIVER
Spiked gate.

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

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

It’s GREEN ARROW’s costume.

OLIVER
Looks perfect. Put it on the
League account?

ARIADNE
Of course.

OLIVER
Got someplace I could change?

END.

Gandalf, Merlin, Dumbledore, ...of Id

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

Clickety-clickety

Samurai Steel, Indeed

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



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

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

Wait...is HE the Vitruvian Man?

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

Didn't know I was coming.

From Jim Lee's Mouth...

To fans' ears:

Woo-Hoo, and Inter-View

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

Check the goodness.

Some 'Monster' Love

From PopImage (scroll down a bit):

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

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

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

Not quite an international crisis squad, but close enough.

My Brief But Illustrious Pugilistic Career, Part 2.5

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bitch.

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

Cinco de My Ass

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

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

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

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

Vice Day, brought to you by Baretta and Trojan.

I could get behind that.

Verne Troyer's Recurring Nightmare

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

Breaking News!

"Gay" Man Understands Women.

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

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

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

Like Crystal Meth, But Better For Your Teeth

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

And the Hits Just Keep On Coming...

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

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

More 'Highwaymen' Sweetness

This, from Blogcritics Magazine:

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

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

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

"If You Read Nothing Else..."

This, from some dude named Eric:

If You Read Nothing Else

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

Also:

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

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

Sorry...

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

A See-Saw of A Morning

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

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

And then there are days like today.

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

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

So, yeah, today started well.

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

Highwaymen #2: Solicited!

Boo-yah!


The Highwaymen #2 (of 5)

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

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

Wildstorm | 32pg. | Color | $ 2.99 US

On Sale July 18, 2007

Dumb-Ass Press Release of the Week

Ultimate Chargers/Unilever
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
April 10, 2007

MEDIA ALERT

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

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

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

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

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

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

Comicky Goodness Update

Well, let's see.

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

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

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

My Brief But Illustrious Pugilistic Career, Part Two

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

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

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

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

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

And it didn't.

She Makes a Good Point

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

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

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

Back From Vegas

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

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

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

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

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

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

Off to Vegas

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

My Brief But Illustrious Pugilistic Career, Part One

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

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

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

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

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

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

Conference Ball

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

'Battlestar' Finale

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

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

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

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

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

The Highwaymen: Solicited!

Here it is, fresh from the DC Comics website:

THE HIGHWAYMEN #1 (OF 5)

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

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

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

Black Like Me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Larry Young Knows All

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

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

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

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

Night and 'Day'

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



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

Dumb-Ass Press Release of the Week

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

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

BEDFORD WOODS STABLES TO PROVIDE EDUCATIONAL MAPLE SYRUP EXCURSIONS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Feel the Hate. Love the Hate.

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

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

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

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

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

I Didn't Expect THAT

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Favorite '300' Headline

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

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

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

I Wanna Know What Pluto Did

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

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

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

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

But he did something, and I wanna know what.


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