So, it's over, yeah?

Yeah, it's over. My fifth San Diego Comic-Con, under the belt. What did we learn this year?

That it's great to do the hard work before the show. We had already locked up Push (licensed six-issue series from Wildstorm, out starting this November) before the con even started. Same with with another Top Cow book. And, contracts willing, another mini with a promising upstart publisher. It made for a pressure-free show, comics-wise.

I love funny people. The panel I hosted—in Hall H—might've been a clusterfuck had it not been for Kevin Smith and Judd Apatow. Moderating a single-topic panel (say, for Battlestar Galactica or Ghost Whisperer or Watchmen) isn't easy, but at least everyone on said panel has the work in common. ("Who's the last Cylon?" "How are you dressing up Jennifer Love Hewitt's boobs this year?"). There's only but so much that Frank Miller, Zack Snyder, Kevin Smith, and Judd Apatow have in common besides being awesome. (And I gave serious thought to doing the whole panel like Chris Farley: "Remember that time, in Dark Knight Returns, when Batman beat the snot out of Superman? That was awesome.") So I had to lob a whole mess of general-question softballs over the plate, and hope someone would step up to the plate. Kevin and Judd are fucking sluggers. Zack gets on base more often than not. And Frank's the dude who surprises with a clutch double just when you think he won't.

The secret to getting people to attend your panel is in the name. We were on an AiT/Planetlar panel, hosted by Larry Young. We thought it was gonna be, like, AiT's 2009 lineup—and he asked us to be on it because we had the Disney deal to announce. Instead, Larry called it "So, You Wanna Make a Graphic Novel." And the room was standing room only. Hundreds of people. Because, while people might be mildly interested in the AiT slate, they're overwhelmingly interested in being in the OGN business. And it was an hour of very lively Q&A. Smart man, that Larry.

Liquid courage works. I met a bunch of people this year who've I've long been interested in meeting, and probably wouldn't have without a couple of drinks in me. (Yes, it helps that EW can open a few doors, but still.) Damon Lindelof, Tahmoh Penikett, James Callis, Darwyn Cooke, Josh Friedman, Felicia Day, Javier Grillo-Marxuach (god, I hope I spelled that right), and I reinforced the bond of brotherhood/man-crush with Nathan Fillion. But, damnit, Joss still eludes me. He tasks me, but I will have him.

I am an old man. My hips hurt. I've never said that before. And I didn't even walk the floor until Sunday. Most of my con was going from booth-signing to booth-signing, with off-site meetings tucked in there. And is was staying at the Hilton, right across the street. And my hips are funky, my calves are sore, and my dogs are barking. When did 36 become the new 50? Egads, I sound like Warren. But it's true.

One of these years, and probably soon, I think I'll skip it. It's fun and all, and I really like the people, but if we can continue the trend of locking work up before the show, there will come a time where it's not going to be entirely worth the time away from my family and the roughness of the reentry back into the real world. Plus, I didn't see a single panel that I wasn't involved in either the planning or moderation of. I'm a geek, and I missed 95% of the geek crack. I know there's no way I'll be able to do this show as a pure fan again and, while I'm not saying there aren't some perks to being a pro, I do kind of miss that innocence. The weird thing is that while I'm well aware that I gave some of that innocence up willingly, the show is responsible for some of it vanishing as well. Just five years ago, you could run from a panel in Hall H to something in Ballroom 20, hit something in Room 6A, and then back again, and get seats in all of them. Not any more. Having fun shouldn't be this much work. It is, as they say, what it is.

Oh, and flight-delaying weather systems that strand a fella in an airport for hours suck. I'm just saying.

And...We're Off

You know where. And, thanks to the handy schedule right below, you know when. Come find me, and I'll regale you with tales of gilded wonder. Or sullied dreams. One or the other, depending on how much I've had to drink...

SDCC: Where I'll Be And When

A busy show this year, but if you're trying to track me down, here's where I'll be, fo' sho:

THURSDAY
11:00am-12:00pm
Genius signing at the Top Cow booth (#2329)
12:00-1:00pm
Monster Attack Network signing at the AiT/Planetlar booth (#2001)
3:30-4:30pm
Milling around EW's Comic Creators panel (Room 6A)
6:30-7:30pm
AiT/Planetlar graphic novel panel (Room 3)

FRIDAY
12:00-1:00pm
Genius signing at the Top Cow booth (#2329)
1:45-2:45pm
Milling around EW's TV Showrunners panel (Room 6CDEF)
5:15-6:15pm
Moderating (!) EW's Filmmakers panel (Hall H)

SATURDAY
2:00-3:00pm
Genius signing at the Top Cow booth (#2329)
3:00-4:00pm
Monster Attack Network signing at the AiT/Planetlar booth (#2001)

"The Hammer...is my penis"

Every time Fillion says that, it makes me laugh.

What, you haven't seen Dr. Horrible yet? Then we're totally going to take away your internet.

Wallcrawlers? Really?

What is it, exactly, that makes people want to climb shit? Is it something genetic? Can you trace it back to something in their childhoods? Why is it that they look at something mundane and say to themselves, "The only way today would be complete is if I rolled up my sleeves and crested that motherfucker"?

I guess I can sort of understand mountaintops: If you can make it to the top of Everest, then you get a view that only a rare few have ever taken in. But these schmucks that climb the New York Times building in Manhattan? Three guys in six weeks have just up and scaled it's rod-encrusted walls...for what? To get a good look at a city that you can see from any one of a dozen legal observation points?

I went to an event at the Explorers Club Mansion on the Upper East Side last night, primarily to see inside the Explorers Club Mansion. And it was cool, in a "it'd be really neat to throw a small wedding in here" sort of way. But it wasn't, as I expected, like the Batcave, with giant pennies and stuffed T-rexes and glass cases containing Sir Edmund Hillary's climbing gear. (To be fair, there was a stuffed polar bear and a canoe that must've been someplace cool.) There were other floors that were roped off, ostensibly for members only. I guess that's where one finds the super-sweetness, the rooms that look like the headquarters for the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen.

As I left, I grabbed a brochure—really just to prove to myself that I'd been there. And on the last page there's a bit about becoming a member. To do so, one must "demonstrate credible contributions to field research, scientific exploration and educational dissemination of that knowledge."

Where's the "sitting on one's ass thinking up cool ways to blow shit up with lasers while drinking Bass Ale and eating nachos" club?

Oh, right. San Diego.

I'm About Done With Anti-Comic Book Bias

I was reading New York magazine last week--which is a rather good mag, despite what I'm about to say--and I came across the following phrase in their review of Wanted:

"Jolie is a happy distraction from a lot of twaddle (the movie is based on a comic-book series)..."

And I'm sick to death of that, the idea that simply because something is based on a comic means that it inherently is starting from a place of inferiority. What is it going to take for some people to understand that "comic book" is not an adjective, not a paint-brush term with which you can instantly convey juvenalia?

I get that many magazine writers, hell, many mass media professionals got their first exposure to comics, and movies and TV shows based on those comics, when they were uniformly shitty, with the rarest of exceptions. At times, I've had to serve as a watchdog for that knee-jerk application--I made it my mission to make sure that "comic book" wasn't used as an interchangeable stand-in for "silly" or "stupid" or just plain old "bad." And I'd like to think the writers I worked with got on board. But in a day and age when Persepolis, Ghost World, From Hell, V for Vendetta, American Splendor, Spider-Man, and Batman Begins can all emerge as mature films that can stand next to any movie based on the more cognoscienti-friendly novel, it's time for folks to wise up.

WALL*E

is so goddamn good its not even funny. Seriously. Go see. And if you're not blubbering by the end do not be troubled, for you are in Elysium...and you are already dead.

Robin Banks: She's Back

Okay, so we established that Robin's a she, she's a thief, and her world is the pre-Vietnam '60s, probably based out of Los Angeles, but she can travel wherever the gig takes her.

And she needs a crew. Gotta have a crew...what's a thief without a crew? Lonely, that's what. One of the things I'd like to play with is the idea of a woman who's tired of working in the world of men. Or, at least, tired of working for men. It's the '60s, after all, when the ladies were beginning to step out, when Women's Lib was gaining traction.

The first issue of this miniseries would have Robin on a heist that goes badly, for the most part because the men who brought her in on the job didn't pay attention when the details were laid out. And it was compunded by the fact that, during the gig, they were too focussed on her ass instead of the job at hand.

So Robin forms her own crew, a crew that's used to dealing with a female safe-cracker, made of thieves able to do the job without wondering if they're going to get "a job" when it's over. In other words, a crew made up of other women.

(Yes, I realize that it could have a Fox Force Five vibe, and I don't care. Superteams are awesome. Period.)

If Robin is the safe-cracker/lead planner, she'd need a couple of other disciplines to complement her: a driver, a pistolero, an electronics/communications wizard, and a legbreaker. Five beautiful, multiethnic women, all masters of their craft and all dedicated to a life of crime.

They need a name. Sort of like a girl group--this is the 60's, after all. At first I had Robin Banks and the Crackers, but that sounded both racist and salty.

Robin Banks and the Liberators. They "liberate" your hard-earned wealth. And it plays nicely into the Women's Rights theme.

Done. On to the proposal...

Strange Days

When the world surprises me, it does it in increasingly surprising ways.

I'm not sure how many of you know this feeling, but I've encountered myself in places I never expected to. I'm a geek, as previously stated. And, as a geek, there are people I'm a fan of, and have been following for years...in some cases, decades. Neil Gaiman, for one. I discovered The Sandman in college--an artist friend was a devotee and all but forced me to read it. And I loved it, much like the rest of the English-speaking world. As time went on, and I got me some internet, I bookmarked Neil's blog/site, and made it one of my daily reads.

Flash forward a few years, and I'm at EW, editing our comics stuff, and I've an occasion to commission a piece on Neil's update of The Eternals. Written by Neil and drawn by John Romita Jr. Sweetness abounded. And Neil and I emailed back and forth a couple of times, got a little friendly, and thus as it ever was. One of the highlights of my professional career is the relatively frequent opportunity to meet people whose work I respect and admire.

Yesterday, I'm looking at his blog, as I do every day, and have the incredibly weird sensation of seeing my own name there.

I don't do this to name drop, or brag, or make it clear that not only do I know Neil Gaiman, but that he knows me. I'm just trying to get across how profoundly odd it is to come across yourself in the incredibly familiar place you still least expect.

Now, hearing Kevin Smith talk about me on SModcast was just fucked-up cool.

I Hope He's Safe at Home, Too

'Genius' Review Roundup

Some more love from der intarwubs:

Pop Syndicate

Weekly Comic Book Review

And, finally, the top of Comic Book Resources' Buy Pile

The people, they seem to like it. And at the signing we held last Friday at Jim Hanley's Universe, we sold out of their entire shipment of 35 books in the first hour. Afua had to send her boyfriend to Midtown Comics to buy out their stash, and bring it on back—and by 9:00pm, we only had 5 copies left.

Genius: Some Love it...others, not so much

As always, in effort to be fair, here are two reviews of Genius, both with differing opinions.

From Ain't It Cool News:

There are some that may be intimidated by the content in this, one of Top Cow’s first issue “Pilot Season” issues. A brilliant military and strategic mind, much like the brainchild of Napoleon, Hannibal, Patton, is born and raised in South Central Los Angeles and starts an uprising against a corrupt system. It’s one of those scenarios that’ll be sure to make suburban white American readers cringe a bit. But this first issue seems to handle this heavy concept with a serious tone and never hams it up for shock value or preachy reasons. I like the imagery as our star genius, Destiny Ajaye, is able to see what’s going to happen three or four moves ahead of her opponents. The art by Afua Richardson is extremely strong here with Cully Hamner/Tony Harris-esque mixes of exaggerated body posturings coupled with minimalistic lines suggesting dynamic shapes and movements. The writing is crisp too, from the guys who brought you MONSTER ATTACK NETWORK; Marc Bernardin and Adam Freeman. I haven’t read many of these “Pilot Season” books, and it’s up to the readers to decide which one moves on to become an actual series next year. All I know is that this is a strong candidate. We previewed the book in last Monday’s SHOOT THE MESSENGER Column. Check it out. -Bug

And from Comic Book Resources:

"Every generation has one: Hannibal, Alexander, Washington, Patton. We might just be dealing with the greatest military mind of our time. A genius." That's the paraphrased, PG version of the dialog from Reggie, a detective on the LAPD. The genius is a 17-year-old named Destiny who leads folks in her neighborhood with charisma and a quick pistol-hand.

And therein is the first small issue I have with this book. The main characters are not completely identified for us. Not that I need a flow chart or a program to read this story, but it would certainly help to know who the players are on the field.

The story, regardless of knowing the stats of the players involved, is straightforward and easy to follow. Sometimes, however, it seems to take itself a little too seriously and tries to stress its own seriousness through a liberal use of the f-bomb. Bernardin and Freeman offer a tale that, like all comics, asks you to suspend your disbelief, as an organization of gangs being able to escalate to this point without any notice, concern, or infighting seems almost as credible as a flying man with heat vision. This is comics, after all, so I suppose anything is possible, but I get the notion this story isn't quite complete with this issue.

And it's not. This is the Pilot Season event from Top Cow. "Pilot Season" is Top Cow's annual initiative to attempt to let readers take control and vote on which one shot they'd like to see made into a series the following year. The problem with this story hooking into the Pilot Season initiative is that it's not complete enough to truly leave me wanting more. It reads as an interlude. This story is a clip on the evening news that blows by, never to be revisited again.

Afua Richardson hits the pages with some artwork that is brilliant in spots and rushed or incomplete in others. Some pages are well composed, some are more traditionally composed, and some are experiments that try, but fall short. I'd like to see more of her art, as I appreciate the effort and the talent. I'm just not completely convinced that her arsenal couldn't be a little sharper.

Overall the story feels kind of flat. For an issue that needs to build excitement and generate some buzz, this title just shows up. Sure, it's a new take on an older concept. The art is different than a lot of art on the stands, but nothing in this book really blew me away. I'm sure some folks would enjoy an ongoing featuring Destiny and her efforts to bring her war to those who deserve her righteous fury, but this story just didn't hook me enough.

More 'Genius' Love

From The Quarter Bin. And, let me say, I'm encouraged that people are receiving this book with an open mind.

Genius is a far cry from the futuristic fantasy of Lady Pendragon. The latest Pilot Season book takes place in a modern-day South Central L.A. neighborhood, a place where violence and animosity have long ruled the streets. However, things have changed as of late, with different gangs and rivals coming together and working as one, despite their differences. The reason? Destiny, a short, skinny young woman with the mind of a military genius. Under her tutelage, the residents of the neighborhood have been training for war with their one common enemy: the cops. This war, she believes, is the only way to take back her neighborhood.

I honestly wasn’t sure what to make of this book the first time through. It took a second read for me to really get into it. It’s not that it’s not a good, well-written story, because it is. Bernardin and Freeman have carefully crafted each line of dialogue and every move in this war for South Central. I just wasn’t sure about Destiny’s message, that the only way for her to makes the streets safe was to kill every police officer who dared come into the area. Sure, the residents are no longer fighting each other, but with the streets still running red with blood, were things really any better?

Of course, that’s the point–like the neighborhood men and women who have been instructed in the ways of military tactics by Destiny, the reader needs to trust her instincts. She’s a girl with a mind like Bobby Fischer and absolutely no formal training. However, she sees how everything is going to play out before it actually happens. That is who she is, and everyone else needs to get on board or get out. By the time I finished reading Genius the second time, I was anxious to find out what was going to happen next.

Richardson’s artwork really stands out as well, largely because of the different perspectives he gives the reader. Different points of view, like through a sniper rifle, from the ground, from a rooftop, make every frame seem unique. Without fantasy elements like magic and dragons, it can be a little harder to make your artwork stand out. Richardson gets the job done, however.

Genius #1 will be on sale tomorrow, June 18, so be sure to check out your local comic shop if you want to see more of Destiny’s war to take back her neighborhood. Man, if the rest of Pilot Season continues like this, it’s going to be really hard to pick favorites!

(I wonder why people think Afua's a he? Needless to say, they wouldn't if they saw her.)

'Genius' Review!

From Christopher Herbert at Comic Book Goblin:

From the dramatic first page, a Splash panel in which we see a cop being shot, blood flying, you can tell that this is something slightly different. Set in South Central, Los Angeles, Genius is centered around one ‘Destiny Ajaye’. A 17 year old girl, she has united her community with one purpose. War on the LAPD! The police are no longer welcome in her neighbourhood, Destiny has declared Martial Law, HER law!

This is a nice ‘Pilot Episode’ for a series. A simple premise effectively executed, Genius introduces us to the characters quickly, setting up the plot and direction of the story without bogging itself down with unnecessary exposition. Marc Bernardin and Adam Freeman are obviously very talented writers, as with seemingly little effort they have made the characters interesting and intriguing. I, for one, would like to know more about them (the characters, that is).

Afua Richardson has a simple, clean art style that I wasn’t sure about to begin with. I initially felt that the comic would have benefited from a darker, grittier look, with a bit more detail. However, as the story progressed Richardson’s style grew on me. It’s a nice contrast between the darker elements of the story and the art, which works quite effectively. The action sequences are particularly good. Richardson manages to give the comic a cinematic feel.

All in all, I would welcome Genius to return as an ongoing series, but I guess that’s down to the voting public. This is a comic as written by Spike Lee, with a little of TV’s The Shield thrown in. Highly enjoyable and a welcome change of pace….Recommended.

Ain't It Cool News: 'Genius' Preview

Seven pages, up at the house Harry built, complete with my favorite description of the book thus far: "This looks to be a pretty politically and racially charged story. It reminded me a lot of the BOONDOCKS stuff, but waaaay more serious." Nice.

'Genius' Signing: Be There

I know...where am I?

Been crazy-busy, doing shit for EW.com, setting up pitchery and meetings pre-San Diego, doing press for Genius (out Wednesday, go buy—and then go vote!), and guest-blogging at Newsarama (go look, it's cool).

But I'll be back soon, with more Robin Banks development.

Damn...I Gotta See Him Live, At Least Once More

Yes, My Son Has Years of This to Look Forward To

Give a geek a broadband connection, rudimentary PhotoShop skills, and an excuse, and this is what he'll do for a four-year-old's birthday party:

Sexy or sad?

As much as I like pictures of scantily clad knockouts, there's something kind of depressing about photos like this. I know that sex sells, but do you really have to go this far to sell a show as good as Battlestar Galactica?

Robin Banks: No Time Like the Past

I remember first watching the not-as-good-as-the-first-but-way-better-than-the-second Ocean's Thirteen, and there was a scene early on when Brad Pitt's Rusty is on a safe-cracking job, and he uses this crazy x-ray plastic-computer sheet to see through the safe door to the lock mechanism inside...and while it was cool, it wasn't Cool, if you get my drift. Sure, the tech was neat, but you're losing something from the Heist Formula if all the skill inherent in being an expert thief can be obtained if you've got the right phone numbers and account balance.

So I decided to set Robin Banks in the mid-1960s. Not only do you get the kind of retro-Bondian tech and people who crack safes using stethoscopes and touch, but you get the terrific mod/deco look.

Did I mention that this would be set in Los Angeles? Because if ever there was a city that thought it was set in the future, it's LA.

Plus, in the '60s, you get the backdrop of the Women's Liberation movement. And given that the heroine is a, you know, heroine, that's really intriguing.

Up next: Robin's posse got velocity.

Robin Banks: Sexual Healing

Okay, so I decided one thing, for sure. Robin Banks is a woman. When I wrote that passage, I defaulted automatically to a male protagonist—read into that what you will. I'm a dude, I tend to write what I know. Except when I don't: The lead characters of both The Highwaymen and Genius are both women. (Whether they're fully realized women is for the reader to gauge—but we tried.)

But I think it's interesting to have someone "trapped by their name" into a line of work that traditionally falls to the opposite sex. Not that women can't be bank robbers....

More later.

Trying Something New: Robin Banks

I'd been thinking a while about what to do with this blog, since simply having a forum for reprinting press clippings surrounding whatever comic I've got on shelves tends to get boring. (I'm sure there are more than a few of you who'd agree with that statement.) And while I do occasionally have big thoughts on topics of merit—like the "Why Didn't Highwaymen Sell" discussion we had a few months back—I'm not in the business of being a media critic. Not here, anyway.

So I've decided to use this, for the time being, as a workblog. I've got an idea for a new comic book—and no more than the idea. And I'm gonna work on it in public, in plain view, so y'all can see what goes into the process. My process, anyway. We'll take it from idea, to proposal, to script, to publisher, to release...or as far as it gets.

(Oh, and lest you think me an idiot, if you check down at the bottom of the sidebar, you'll see the Creative Commons widget down there. This mutha's mine, unless and until I say it ain't.)

Now, on to the idea. Or, rather, the barest hint of an idea. What you're about to read popped into my head as you see it back around when Adam and I were toying with renaming The Highwaymen's Monroe and McQueen. So, this is where we start:

“They say that a person is trapped by their name. That what a man or a woman is called has a quantifiable impact on the future he can make for himself. And I buy that. Like, I honestly don’t believe we’re ever gonna have a president named Tim. Just isn’t gonna happen. And if your name is Crystal, I think you’ll find the rungs on the ladder to corporate success are made of hollow plexiglass and filled with swimming goldfish. Your name is your destiny. My father loved adventure books. Loved. Wouldn’t put ‘em down. That’s why my mother eventually left him. Didn’t deter old man Banks, though. Just kept on reading. Anyway, he named me after his favorite. Robinson. But I’ve always gone by Robin. Robin Banks. Guess what I do for a living?”

Using my powers for 'Good'

There's an interview with me up on ForcesofGood.com. Disregard that silly picture.

Casting About for a M.A.N.

Let's pretend, shall we, that we were making a movie out of Monster Attack Network, our book about a Pacific island that's lousy with giant monsters and the organization that keeps the populace safe and rebuilds after those giant monsters flatten everything. (What, you haven't read it yet? There's a link just to your right: click and buy. We'll wait.)

So, who do we cast? Because that's all part of the pitch: building an image in the pitchee's head of the movie it would be. We've got three main leads, and a villain. Our hero, Nate Klinger, is a four-square tough guy with a sly sense of humor. If this was 20 years ago, you'd want Harrison Ford. Thirty years: Burt Reynolds, or maybe Clint Eastwood. Sadly, we pretty much don't build actors like that any more. But I'm gonna go out on a limb and say that, strangely, we'll find the guy we want overseas. Ewan McGregor could pull it off, but he can read a little slight. Russell Crowe's a hair too old, but could work. Hugh Jackman might fit right in. But the dude I really like? Kevin McKidd, late of Journeyman and Rome. A real solid dude, with on-screen heft, who's face looks like its been hit once or twice. Salt of the Earth.

Now, for our female lead, the sultry, mysterious Lana Barnes. The temptation is to go straight to Rosario Dawson. As the saying goes, I wouldn't kick her out of the movie for eating crackers—and she'd be totally fine—but I like Moon Bloodgood for this one. Exotic without looking weird. Drop-dead gorgeous. And she'll be coming off the new Terminator flick, so maybe she'll have some heat.


Nate Klinger's second-in-command at the ol' Monster Attack Network is Zeke Holder. Big, black, and dapper. (And gay, but not that you'd know it.) Again, there's a knee-jerk desire to see Michael Clarke Duncan here, and he'd be fine. But I'm gonna throw out two more: Common, the rapper who was in Smokin' Aces, shows up in Wanted (I think), and also signed on for the new Terminator movie.


And, go with me on this one, Michael Jordan. When we were explaining how Zeke should come across to Nima Sorat, our artist, we told him to imagine a basketball player in one of those flashy post-game suits. Big, and muscular, but not hulking. Smooth. And Jordan always had charisma coming out of his gilded arse. It'd be surprising, and I think people still have a lot of love for him.


Finally, the villain. We described him as Malcolm McDowell-meets-Donald Trump. But I don't know if that guy really exists. Thinking about it now, it'd be a hoot to get someone like Tom Selleck. Especially after seeing Ted Danson as a baddie on Damages; maybe there's something to taking old friendly TV faces and subverting that perceptional-baggage for evil.

So, is that a cast you'd pay to see...as they run from massive beasties? I would.

Okay, But These Gloves Really Chafe...

Eisner Voting...Catch it!

I just voted for this year's Eisner Awards. Online. That's right: We're in the future, baby!

And, because this is just how I roll, when it came to vote for Best Limited Series...I rocked a Write-In for The Highwaymen. If you're a professional, and you love me (or would like to be) you'll do the same.

A vote for The Highwaymen is a vote for America!

They Were THIS Close to True Awesomeness...

How much cooler would this cover have been if they had just transposed two little words?

Geek is the path to glory.

Where I've Been...

Well, you know, a certain videogame came out earlier in the week. So I've been a little busy. So I leave you with this, a look at the kinder, gentler GTA IV.



Be back soon with some new hotness, I swear. Cause we gots shit to do, yo.

Me and Xena: A Love Story

Perhaps love is the wrong word.

I moderated the Battlestar Galactica panel at the New York Comic Con over the weekend. Before me and the cast members I was "grilling"—Tigh (Michael Hogan), Anders (Michael Trucco), and Tory (Rekha Sharma)—went on stage, they asked me if I was nervous. I told them that whatever happened, it couldn't be as uncomfortable as the last time I did this, at the 2007 San Diego Comic Con. And I told them the story I'm about to tell you:

I get into the green room (really, just an inconspicuous, cordoned-off meeting room in the convention center) about 30 minutes before the "Women of Battlestar Galactica" panel was set to start, to meet the cast and to go over the protocol of the panel: how it was supposed to flow, etc. Meeting everyone was perfectly shiny; they were all, to a person, quite nice...and I've already made my feelings for Mary McDonnell known. I sat down to go over my questions one last time (and try not to vomit on anyone), and one of the Sci Fi Channel publicists comes over and says, "Okay, our big surprise for this panel is that we're going to bring out Lucy Lawless—who's returning to the show as D'Anna—mid-way through. How do you think we should do that?"

So I said, "Why don't I ask Tricia Helfer, 'What was it like to share Baltar with another woman?' And then the Other Woman would walk out..."

"Perfect," replies the publicist, and she bounded away to deal with something else, leaving me to stew in my thoughts and try not to look at the crazy-bare-backed dress that Katee Sackhoff was wearing. And continue not vomiting on anyone.

Showtime rolls around, and we all start walking to the San Diego Convention Center's second-biggest ballroom, which holds something like 6,000 people. We're in a loading hallway, all of us like NASA astronauts heading to the Apollo capsule. (Or Spinal Tap.) Just as we get backstage, the publicist runs through the order of the panel one last time: "First, you head out. Intro the clip, then intro the panel. Couple of questions, then 'What was it like to share Baltar with another man,' Lucy comes out, more questions, toss to the crowd for fan questions, wrap it up, drink heavily."

Of course, I corrected her: "What was it like to share him with another woman." "Yeah...duh," she said.

What do you think I said, in front of the 6,000 people sitting in the crowd (and the other 300-400 standing in the aisles)?

So, Tricia, what was it like to share Baltar with another man?

Out comes Lucy, who hugs everyone else on the panel, turns to me, and flips me the middle finger. And I just took it, because there's no coming back from that. You just gotta swallow the faux pas, take your shot to the nuts like a man, and keep on moving. Which I did.

But you never forget your first time...being flipped off by a warrior princess in front of the entire geek nation. (The fact that it lives forever in online-video infamy is just icing on the cake.)

The Big Wazowski

Two years old, I know, but it still made me laugh...

Me and the New York Comic Con

Yes, I will be there, once again. Soundly smarting from The Highwaymen not getting an Eisner nomination for Best Geezer Oriented Series. (I kid.)

So, if'n you're really dead-set on tracking me down, here are a few places I'm guaranteed to be:

SATURDAY, 4/19 12:00-1:00pm: Battlestar Galactica panel. Hall 1D
I'm moderating, so I'll be the substantially less-beautiful person sitting with Grace Park and Tahmoh Penikett.

3:00-4:00pm: TopCow panel. Room 1E15.
Where I'm assuming I'll be talking a little about our Pilot Season 2008 book, Genius. And mercilessly ribbing Rob Levin. And basking in the light of Joshua Hale Fialkov, The People's Choice.

6:00-7:00pm: Signing at DC Comics booth.
Or, how I learned to stop worrying and love the fact that no one will ask me to sign a book that no one actually bought. (Again, I kid.) But I do a mean stick figure sketch.

Friday will be spent hustling my ass on "the track" and Sunday I'm doing a quick roundelay on the floor with my son. Who I may or may not be willing to trade for an ongoing series.

The Right Way to Do Drunk

I really, really miss Insomniac with Dave Attell. If you don't remember, it was the Comedy Central show in which comedian-drunk Dave Attell would drink his way through a different town each week. Drunks are funny enough, but funny drunks are like ambrosia spiked with awesome.

My Gods...Just Listen.

Never mind the photo montage, just listen to that music. It's...sustaining. Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong. The mind, it reels.

What You Talking About, Foo?

This was a while back, now...but I'm just getting around to it. And it stuck with me, so that counts for something, right?

I went to the Foo Fighters concert at Madison Square Garden back in February. I don't go to many concerts, primarily because I'm lazy/busy and, secondarily, because I'm not that big a fan of anyone enough to get off my lazy/busy ass to get the tickets. But my love for the Foos is well-documented, so I decided to see what I can do. Now, since I work where I work, trying to get into a concert doesn't involve constant calls to Ticketmaster, or angling to win a radio contest. I call in some favors. And because I never ask for this sort of thing, people are generally willing to help me out.

So I'm in a luxury box in Madison Square Garden, courtesy of the fine folks at Fuse—which I've never really watched, but, apparently, they show music videos, which is more than I can say for either of the channels that are supposed to show music videos. (The irony of me getting seats that would cost a fortune for nothing isn't lost on me at all. Neither is the distinctly un-rock-ness of attempting to rock out in a corporate suite.)

We discretely headbang our way through the show—a fine performance, to be sure—until we get to the encore. One of the Fuse publicists tells me that there's a Make-A-Wish kid who met the band during soundcheck; that he was really sweet, and that Dave Grohl took a liking to him. Just as she says this, Dave steps up to the mic and says something like, "Hey, guys. This here's my buddy Josh...he's gonna play a song with us." This teenager walks out, sits behind the drum kit, and the band launches into "Long Road to Ruin."

And this kid is phenomenal. No one spoke in the luxury suite for the whole four minutes Josh was playing. Personally, I couldn't. A smile had plastered itself on my face, goosebumps broke out everywhere, and a frog had taken up residence in my throat.

To get to meet your favorite band, to play with them at soundcheck, to be asked if you wanna get out on the stage of MADISON SQUARE FUCKING GARDEN, and then to knock it out of the goddamn park.... If that's not a wish coming true, then they flat-out never do.

And the thing of it is, if I hadn't been sitting in the Fuse box and hadn't gotten that information from the publicist, it just would've been the second song of the encore. Instead, it was heartbreakingly wonderful.

Just one of the times when I really, really love my job.

Here, so you can feel it too:




P.S. Ask my buddy Adam to tell you the story of the time he saw U2 in LA and Bono brought a bunch of teenage girls on stage to play with them.

"I'm Smaht..."

Why I Can't Stop Watching 'Terminator'

Terminator: The Sarah Chronicles is far from a perfect show. It's got a whole host of problems, not the least of which that Lena Headey isn't all that interesting as The Mother of the Future. The Inspector Javert-like FBI agent tracking her feels like either a wasted character or he's being wasted. And I still don't know what the driving impulse of the show—what each season will be building towards—aside from "Don't let them kill John."

But at least once an episode, something just jaw-droppingly stunning occurs that keeps me tuning in. And this one...man, it just fucking slams it home.

The uncle from the future introduces his nephew from the present to the father he's never met. Beautiful stuff.

EDIT: Apparently, the clip is no longer available and I am now not as in love with Hulu as I used to be.

Real 'Genius'

Since the book was officially announced at Wizard World Los Angeles over the weekend, I guess we can talk about it. The next book from Adam and I (and the wicked-talented Afua Richardson, who's drawing the shit out of it) is called Genius, and it's coming from Top Cow this June. Part of their gladiatorial Pilot Season program, where six comics compete for the hearts and minds of readers and whichever gets the most votes goes on to a miniseries. Rather ingenious, it is, in that Pilot Season allows Top Cow to take risks on books that might be too risky to commit to. How risky? Well, here's the Previews solicitation text:

Alexander, Hannibal, Napoleon, Patton. What if the greatest military mind of our generation was born in strife, surrounded by violence and combat since birth? When the gauntlet is dropped, the question isn’t “How did 17-year-old Destiny Ajaye unite the gangs of South Central into a killer army and declare war on the LAPD?” No, the question is, “Can anyone stop her?”

So, yeah, a book about a teenage gangbanger killing cops isn't a publishing no-brainer. For more on Genius, and the whole Pilot Season 2008 initiative, head over to Comic Book Resources and listen to editorial poobah Rob Levin 'splain it all.

I'm sure we'll talk more about Genius soon, but for now, it's just nice to let this particular cat out of the bag...cause I love this fuggin' book.

Invulnerable: Revise

Judging by the headache that I had for much of the early part of this week, I'm pretty sure my snowmobile fracas gave me a mild concussion.

Still, I did not go to the hospital, for I am not a puss.

Quote of the Week

From the Contentious Curmudgeon over at Comics Should Be Good:

"If Alan David Doane thinks The Highwaymen, which is just a generic action comic but is competently done and occasionally entertaining, is one of the worst comics of 2007, then he obviously doesn’t read a lot of comics."

Amen, brother.

They (Still) Like Us

A review of the trade paperback from ComicMix.com:

"There are many things the new Highwaymen comic (Wildstorm, $17.99) is not: It's not complex. It's not very serious. It doesn't have all that much character development. What it does have, though, are all the elements of a perfect action movie, simmered to near perfection.

Writers Marc Bernardin and Adam Freeman follow the action rubric to a T, installing the plot (a young woman has a weapon of mass destruction inside her and everyone's after her), the heroes (the aged Mr. McQueen and Mr. Monroe are killer and driver, respectively), and the villain (a shady leader of a U.S. government anti-terrorist organization).

I'm sure there will be those who dismiss this book as popcorn, but the thing about popcorn is, it's hella good every once in a while, especially when it's popped just right.

The Highwaymen is pretty well nonstop action along a taut storyline, executed quite well by artist Lee Garbett (his work is similar to that of John Cassaday, except Garbett actually draws backgrounds). In short, the book just tries to be a really good action story, instead of overreaching for some grand purpose. It's just violent and frivolous and fun, and there's not a darn thing wrong with that."

I Am Returned

Not dead, but not for lack of trying.

Had a most restorative break...provided you, like I, get restored by topping out at 75 mph on a snowmobile. My wife is a huge skier, has been for decades. I, personally, can't stand it. I don't like careening down a mountain with neither steering nor brakes. And I don't like the people—not the people themselves, just the amount of them. Hundreds of them, all doing the same thing at the same time. Kind of like snow lemmings. I understand why they do it; the speed, the rush. I just don't like the method or the environment.

But for most of the four days, I didn't see anyone but the nine others in my traveling party. We were alone in some of the most beautiful wilderness in the country. And that's the only reason I'll freeze my balls off: solitude.

We rode more than 350 miles in those four days. Some of the trails were tight, twisting little paths through pine forests, while others were long, flat, straightaways, like my favorite, called "Piston Alley." And considering that I hadn't been on a sled in eight years, I did rather well. Kept up with my fellow drivers and, for the most part, kept up with our ninja-savant guides...until the last day, about five miles from our final destination. I was "on the leader," carving the turns and blazing the straight-shots, until I followed him over a rise, and was surprised by a 90-degree turn. Which I didn't make.

I plowed my sled over the lip, into a ditch, and up against a tree, at about 40 mph. Through the visor of my helmet, I saw branches and then snow. I never blacked out, but I gave it a moment before I tried to move. Arms first, then legs. Nothing in pain, I rolled over and clawed my way back up onto the trail, and looked down at what could've been the site of an icy disaster. But wasn't.

So I hopped back on my still-functioning snowmobile (it just had some miraculously minor cosmetic damage) and drove it back to our base lodge, comfortable in the knowledge that after 36 years of never breaking a bone, never enduring a sprain, never spending a night in a hospital...I am still invulnerable.

Signal Silence

I'm off, boys and girls, for an arctic vacation filled with speed, snow, and—most likely—a well-calloused ass. Heading to Maine for a snowmobile vacay. If you don't hear from me in a week, I'm either dead or somewhere in the northern wilderness seeing how much nutritional content there is in a fake snowmobile seat. And fending off the rare Winter Chupacabra.

While I'm gone, though, the trade paperback of The Highwaymen will be landing on stands. On March 5, to be exact. I got my copies a couple of days ago, and there's an incredibly, satisfyingly final feeling to hold it in your hands. It is the very, very last stop for us on our journey with these characters. The trade is the terminus—holding the collection in our hands is the first, best destiny we could've hoped for. Sure, it'd have been nice if it sold through the roof, and we were busy plotting their further adventures. Alas, that was not to be. But as so many books go uncollected, hence unpreserved, this was a gratifying bookend. Literally.

An idea that began with nothing more than the words "Two men...one shoots... one drives" is now a completed book, with our names on the glorious spine.

Wherever I am on Wednesday, whatever part of the frozen tundra, I'm gonna take a moment and bellow at the Fates, thanking them for granting me that one request. And then I'm gonna gun it until I see God—or a reasonable facsimile thereof.

See y'all in seven.

Rising Stars

Adam and I have been nominated for the "Rising Star Award" by the panel of the 2008 Glyph Comics Awards—which honors the best in black comics and creators—for our work on Monster Attack Network (and, though it's not made explicit, I'd have to think The Highwaymen played a little in that). Adam must be especially pleased, as all those years working on Yo! MTV Raps and Wildin' Out have finally borne fruit.

One of the things I'm proudest of in that book is that not only did we tell a big, rollicking, monster story, but that one of the main characters, Ezekiel Holder, is a gay black man...who is no way defined by either "gay" or "black." He's just a hero...who digs furry chests and doesn't need a tan.

Oh, and that "Holder" is my grandmother's maiden name. Snuck that one right in there to please no one but me.

It Was a Good Death...

Jumper...How Did it Go So Wrong?

So I went with the missus to see Jumper over the weekend, as I was flat-out unwilling to see Fool's Gold. (And everyone she told about my unwillingness chimed in with a "It got half-a-star in the Post," even the waitress at lunch. Which irked her.) I knew that the reviews weren't great for Jumper either, but I can sit through a mediocre sci-fi movie way more easily than I can a mediocre romantic comedy.

The biggest problem with Jumper wasn't that it was bad. (Which it was. It's as if Doug Liman thought that the last 30 minutes of Mr. and Mrs. Smith—where he gives up any pretense of caring about story and proceeds to simply blow shit up—was the best part, and decided to make a whole movie like that.) No, the problem was that I could see all the pieces, all the building blocks for a good movie, just sitting there...wasted.

To break it down (and FROM HERE ON OUT, THERE BE SPOILERS): There are people who can teleport, called jumpers. There are people who, for reasons unknown, want to stop them, called Paladins. Our main character, David (Hayden Christensen), robs banks by jumping in, snatching a bunch of cash, and jumping out. No higher purpose than the amassing of money, so he can buy shit—he's the enabled slacker. He's also a bit of a douchebag. Meets girl he had a crush on in high school, but keeps his big secret. Which blows up in his face as Big Bad Paladin (Samuel L. Jackson) follows them on their trip to Rome and gets electro-sticky with it. Meets fellow jumper (Billy Elliot), who hunts Paladins for fun and profit. Big fights, lots of jumping, roll credits. Oh, and David remains a douchebag; he never pays for his crimes and gets the girl anyway. Lesson unlearned. Oh, and he finds his absentee mother, who is also a Paladin, and left the family to protect him...because she loves him.

As we're leaving the theater, I just couldn't help but think how it could all have been so much better. Here's my infinitely better Jumper (or, if not "infinitely better," has the virtue of both having an internal logic and not sucking):

The Paladins—who've been hunting jumpers for (according to the film) centuries—finally have a secret weapon: one of their own has just given birth to a jumper. Once they discover his ability, he's pulled from his suburban life, and the beginnings of a relationship with a high school girl, and they train him. He is to infiltrate the loose society of jumpers around the world and, eventually, lead the Paladins to their quarry.

So, David goes undercover. He's set up in a series of ever-more-lavish flats all over the world so that he looks the part. Jumps all over the place, leaving enough jump-scars (momentarily visible rifts in the space-time continuum) so that any fellow jumper could follow him. David believes he's bringing these people in for the greater good. He was raised to believe as much. He was also told that the captured jumpers are given a cure for their condition—an amped-up pacemaker that would disrupt their ability—and released back into the public. What he doesn't know is that the jumpers are all killed; the cure is a bullet to the head.

Confused, David returns to his childhood home to find his father, who he hasn't seen in a decade. He learns that pops was killed—in a manner that reveals Paladin involvement. He reconnects with the girl he left behind, they share a little something, and she grounds him enough to realize that the life he's led has been wrong, and he's gotta do something about it. He's the only one who can.

He assembles a small group of jumpers, reveals who he is, and convinces them to band together for an assault on the Paladin headquarters, and bring them down. Big explodo ending, the bad guys are shut down, the good guy gets his girl, and the jumpers are told to change their larcenous ways. Because, despite the destruction of the Paladin HQ, there is one Paladin left and he's the most dangerous of all: David. And, for him, anywhere is possible.

Sweet Jesus, was that so hard?

Depressing...No, Disheartening Is the Word

If you look at that little sidebar to the right, the one that lists all of the projects that I'm working on, and their various states of completion, you'll see a book there called Adora and the Distance. It's something I've been working on for a couple of years now, trying to find my way into it, stumbling my way through. Because it's unlike anything I've ever tried to write before.

It's about my daughter. It's about autism.

Well, sorta. It's about a girl who goes on a quest to save her mythical homeland from an invading force that threatens to destroy everything she holds dear. But beneath that gossamer, kid-lit fantasy disguise, it's about a girl trying to escape the imaginary-prison of her own mind and get back to the real world, and what she gains and loses in the process.

It is, needless to say, very close to my heart. It is the closest I—the dude who loves explosions and gratuitous nudity—will come to creating a story About Something. And it is, currently, falling on deaf editorial ears.

Every person I've told this story to has responded to it. Every editor I've pitched it to thought it was a really touching take on what's become a universal affliction. One of them said that it's a financial no-brainer: Sadly, this is a book with an audience, one that's getting larger every day. But when I went looking for a lit agent, not a one of the few who have any experience with graphic novels wanted anything to do with it. (One said "I'm not sure there's a readership for a book like this"; despite 1 in 150 children born today making their parents a part of that readership.) When I've been able to get the proposal to some publishers, I either got the "It's a children's book, and we don't publish those" or, "We only do children's adventures, and this doesn't quite fit" or "Intriguing...how about if we change these 58 things about it?"

I know, this is the sort of thing that confronts untold numbers of writers every day of their lives ("I've got this awesome idea and they...just...don't...understand!"). And, yes, there are publishers I haven't approached yet. I'm sure that if the book I was writing was "One father's autobiographical experience raising an autistic child" and it was black-and-white and maybe I also happened to discover I was gay in the process — then, I'd lock up a deal toot sweet. But I don't want to write that book. I don't want to read that book. I'm not that guy. I want pirates and swordfights and oracles and children realizing that the world isn't too big for them to handle. I want high adventure.

What I can't figure out is why no one else seems to.

Sorry...

I've been a horrible landlord, I know. The internet is an insatiable beast. Honestly, it's like I'm on a locomotive going balls out, and I'm in charge of laying the tracks just before we run over them.

But I'll be back soon. Promise.

Five Places I Wish I Could Work

This should, in no way, lead anyone to believe that I don't love where I work now. You'll notice that none of the places I list here are other magazines; that's because I'm exactly where I want to be, as a journalist. It's just that these other places are/will be doing very special things, and I'd love to better myself for being part of their process.

1. Pixar
As close to a perfect brand as there is. Think about it: They've never made a bad movie. Never. They're batting 1.000. No one does animation with the same attention to storytelling detail and craft like Pixar. They follow where the story leads, and they're not afraid to fix it when it's broken. Egads, what a fella could learn from them.

2. Rockstar Games
I'm a gamer and these guys have pumped out more groundbreaking videogames than anyone. While Bungie created the defining shooter in Halo, Rockstar has done more—the Grand Theft Auto series, Table Tennis, Bully, Manhunt—and done more right.

3. Bad Robot
J.J. Abrams seems to have taken the baton from Joss Whedon and become the geek factory. He knows what people want to see before they do and, maybe more importantly, he knows how to tease them into wanting it even more. As a company, flush with Cloverfield success, they can do whatever they want to.

4. Production I.G.
I almost put down Hayao Miyazaki's Ghibli anime studio but, while all accounts point to that being a terrific place to work, it seems like Ghibli is in the Miyazaki business. Which is great but feels a little like Lucasfilm in that regard: a company set up to execute the vision of one man. Production I.G. has been churning out terrific anime for years now—it'd be great to learn to learn to tell stories in that format from the folks who did the Ghost in the Shell cycle, the toon segment in Kill Bill: Vol. 1, and Blood: The Last Vampire.

5. Cartoon Network
Why? Because they gave The Venture Brothers a third season. Obviously, they know what time it is. And it's the last place on TV for original animation for grown-ups.

The Man Who Knew Too Much

I love my job. I'm an entertainment junkie, so this is the perfect place for me to be: the eye of a perfect pop-cultural storm. I am, as they used to say in the '60s, "in the know." I know, before most people, the latest developments with this show or that movie, or which star dropped out of which role...you name it, and if I don't know it, I've got the access to find out.

But there are times, every once in a while, when I wish I didn't know. When I wish that I could come to a piece of entertainment and be surprised by it. Not to say that I don't get taken unawares, but those times are far and few between. (My favorite time was when, on a lark, I went to a pre-release screening of The Iron Giant. It was a toon, and I'm EW's resident geek, so I figured it was my solemn duty. I came out of that screening room—I was alone in that room, like so many people were when it was released to deafening indifference to theaters—having to shammy off my face. The end of that movie wrecked me, all the more because I didn't see it coming.)

I watched the pilot for Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles—which I quite liked, by the way—and wished I didn't know a goddamn thing about it beyond having seen T2. If I was truly ignorant of the show itself, I could've been genuinely surprised when it's revealed that the teensy brunette that John Connor meets in his new school is actually a Terminator, sent to protect him. But, since I knew that Summer Glau was cast in that role, all I could do was sit there and think, "That was pretty well done; I'll bet there's a rube somewhere with no internet access and who only turns on the tube for fishing and football who was completely blown away by that."

Sometimes, I miss that ignorance. S'why I can't wait until my kids are old enough to be able to digest movies—I've got thousands that I want to show them and vicariously revel in their eyes opening to the possibilities.

Is it Wrong...

...that, at least twice a week, I earnestly, seriously, intentionally try and use the Force? You know, in the way that you did when you were a kid: concentrate intensely on, say, the light switch across the room; furrow your brow; reach out a hand and try and turn it off.

It's a vestigial part of my childhood, one that hasn't atrophied and withered away in the years since. But I vividly remember sitting in my childhood room, giddy with Star Wars fervor, trying to become one with all things and make stuff move with my mind.

I don't know what I'm expecting, trying it today, because I know that it will never happen. But I try just the same. (Not that I make time for it or anything. Tuesday, 3:45 pm: Use Force.) Otherwise, how would I know that I didn't develop telekinesis overnight? Seriously, how would a superhero know he was superheroic unless he tried to perform superhuman feats on a regular basis? Unless you tried to lift a bus, how would you know you could? (Again, I'm not an idiot: That logic does not extend to jumping off shit to prove that I could fly or taking a hot round to the chest.)

I guess I'm just waiting for the world to surprise me. In a good way.

Digging It

So that post, about how awesome the Sci-Fi Channel should be, the one that's two posts below? It got Dugg in a serious way, and drove a ridiculously immense amount of traffic to EW.com. Which is great. Because they pay me to write stuff that drives an immense amount of traffic.

But I know that if I'd have posted it here, it would've vanished into the ether. Which just goes to show how important a platform is. Which is why my first webcomic, when it launches, ain't gonna launch here.

I'm just sayin'.

Catching Some Last Gasp 'Highwaymen' Love

Hannibal Tabu over at Comic Book Resources put us at the top of his Best of 2007 list, new limited series division. Click and scroll, my brothers. Click and scroll.

Monroe would approve.

An Open Letter to The Sci-Fi Channel

[Crossposted from EW.com]

Dearest Sci-Fi,

Why are you not way more awesome?

Don't get me wrong, when you're good—like with Battlestar Galactica or Eureka (and I'll even give you credit for Doctor Who, despite that being a BBC show you just imported)—you're a phenomenal destination network. But let's be honest here, there's not a lot of "good" on your schedule. The Stargate franchise is stale, Flash Gordon is a derisible, stillborn remake, and ECW Wrestling is…wrestling! (And I swore an oath never to speak of Who Wants to Be a Superhero again.)

The thing that infuriates me is that you have so much potential. We're living in the Age of the Geek, where pop culture has finally come around to our way of thinking. Where the most-watched shows on TV are geek-nip like Heroes, Lost, and Bionic Woman; where we buzz about movies like Pan's Labyrinth, Spider-Man, I Am Legend, and Iron Man. The audience could not be more primed for this material, so why are you offering them Ghost Hunters International and crappy "original movies" like Mansquito?

Again, why aren't you more awesome? Why aren't you adapting more classic sci-fi texts—like you did with Dune—into miniseries events? (Ones that, hopefully, will fare better than Tin Man.) Where's the Foundation saga, or Ender's Game, or Footfall, or The Man in the High Castle, or The Forever War?

Why aren't you engaging today's premiere purveyors of genre material and giving them ten episodes to do whatever the hell they want? I'd watch contained, BBC-style series from folks like Neil Gaiman, William Gibson, John Scalzi, Cory Doctorow, Warren Ellis, Charlie Huston, Neal Stephenson, or China Mieville. The names alone would attract viewers by the truckload. And even if what they produced were failures, they'd be interesting failures—marked by reaching too far, instead of not far enough.

Why don't you try a daily sci-fi soap opera? Airing late at night, so people could actually be home to watch it—or DVR it. Why can't the same kind of serial storytelling that's worked for 50 years on shows like General Hospital be marshaled to create compelling science fiction? (Actually, I've got to give Evan Narcisse a tip of the hat for this one. Because I'm just that kind of bloke.)

Mark Harris was right when he said that science fiction needed to ditch the nostalgia if it's going to reclaim its integrity. Lucky for those of us who love sci-fi that there's a whole network devoted to it. I just want them to fulfill their mandate.

Imagine that. (No, seriously. Get to work imagining.)

The Coolest Thing I've Seen in A Long While

Eric Tan's poster for the Stan Lee exhibit at LA's Gallery 1988 later this month. As others have noted, I'd give someone else's left nut for a poster of this.

Happy New Year

I guess. Right, that's what we do this time of year, mark the passing of one into the next? Reminds me of my grandfather. Every time I'd have a birthday, he'd ask me, "So, how do you feel?" And I'd always say, "Same as I did yesterday, but with a couple more presents."

So, hey, Happy New Year.

In other news, The Highwaymen was just nominated for Best Limited Series by Broken Frontier. (And Rob Leigh, our letterer, also got a nod...though I suspect it was more for his work on Justice League of America or Green Lantern. But, hey, good for Rob.)

Also: Scott Pilgrim is almost criminally good. I know, I'm like the last dude to discover it, but holy dog shit. I pulverized all four volumes in three days. Someday, my writing will follow its own muse like that. Bryan Lee O'Malley just fucking goes for it and pwns the shit out of it in the process.

Also also: Rock Band is more fun than should be sold in a box. My hands actually started to callous up from whaling on the drum kit.

The Year in Review

2007.

Professionally, a monster of a year. The first comics work I've ever done hit the shelves within a month of each other—both in time for SDCC, and both getting terrific reviews.

THE HIGHWAYMEN had been sitting on my hard drive for nigh on 8 years before making it out. And, despite criminally low sales for a DC book, it's getting collected into a trade next March. (Ahem, order code DEC070283.)

MONSTER ATTACK NETWORK survived release date shifts, artist crumbles, and hard drive meltdowns to sell out in San Diego and actually make a Best of 2007 list.

And we've got enough stuff in the pipeline—and the relationships to, hopefully, generate more—to keep us busy for 2008. Some Big Two work, some indie work, a webcomic and, lit-agent-discovery willing, a major publishing house OGN.

Personally, the second most challenging on record. I will say this: Autism will find new and interesting ways to kick you in the soul every chance it gets.

So, here's to 2008.

My Favorite Sentence of the Month

This one, which came at the end of a Variety piece about John Singleton's eventual A-Team movie:

"Story has been given a modern twist by involving oil tycoons and laser technology."

How modern is it? It's oil tycoon modern. You know, because there have never been any old movies featuring oil tycoons. Hell, the word tycoon invalidates any claim of modernity.

And when you refer to it as "laser technology," it sounds so, I don't know, Real Genius.

Best Of!

That's right, baby! Monster Attack Network made a Best of 2007 list. Check the specs:

"No book this year gave me a bigger nerdgasm than Marc Bernardin and Adam Freeman’s MONSTER ATTACK NETWORK (AiT/PlanetLar). An island where giant monsters attack all the time? Bitchin’! A special police force dedicated to diverting the monsters and rebuilding in their wake? Fuggin’A! That’s totally what I wanted to be when I grew up. I’m not one to pant like a dog for sequels in any medium, but this book? It needs one. Right. Fucking. Now."

Marc Mason (who I now am totally in love with, and not just because he spells his name correctly) is not, for the record, in my employ. But he does, as the kids say, "get it."

The Possibilities Are Endless

I've got some friends who are new dads, and I envy them. Not the pre-dawn bottle raids and the never-ending supply of fresh shit. I'm glad to be past that, into the realm of potty training and pre-Christmas bicycle building and personalities and, from one of them, conversation.

I just miss that golden, magical period when the world was still on the horizon. When everything was possible. When they were nothing but raw, boundless potential. When everything was...fine.

Sorry. It was a tough night.

What Is Best In Life?

I've been watching movies for a good portion of my life. As have we all, I'm sure. And in that time, I've figured out for myself what works for me in a film and what doesn't. And I've boiled it down to a pretty simple list of three things that a film must have for me to like it. Said movie doesn't have to have all three, but at least one will suffice.

And they are:
1: Explosions
2: Gratuitous nudity
3: Lasers
3a: Ninjas are the lasers of feudal Japan. (Otherwise known as the Last Samurai amendment.)

Now, have I liked films that didn't have any of the above? Yes, but, they had to work extra hard to get over the no-explosions-nudity-lasers hump. And have I seen shitty movies that have had all three, and in abundance? Damned skippy. (Flesh Gordon, I'm looking at you.)

But that's my code of cinematic conduct, and it hasn't failed me yet.

Don't Call It A Comeback

Or, if you really want to, you can. I don't mind.

I'm back from a relatively well-earned 10 days off. (I say "relatively" because I'm well aware that my day job does not involve the lifting of heavy things or hours of exposure to the elements.) And while I was off, I learned a few things.

1) There need to be more meals that one can serve stuffing with. I don't care what it does to my gut, stuffing is a universal good.

2) Superman: Doomsday was pretty good. Even if I kinda hated the facial design. Supes looked about 20 years older than he should've. But there was a beat there—when Lois Lane goes to Martha Kent's house and breaks down in tears because these are the only two people who know that Clark Kent is dead, too, and they can only share this grief with each other—that was as affected as anything I've seen in a long while.

3) All movies should be in 3-D. After seeing Beowulf in Manhattan, I became convinced that every film should be as tastefully —which I quite liked—at the big IMAXimmersive. Of course, I know not every filmmaker who will eventually work in 3-D will be as talented as Robert Zemeckis and will resort to lots of goosing the audience tricks. But as far as giving you something you absolutely can't get at home? Can't be beat.

4) All videogames should be as bad-ass as Assassin's Creed. Play it, and you'll agree. Smart, fast, and vast. Even if it does end with a blatant hook for a sequel.

5) Serenity's a pretty good little movie. But you already knew that.

6) I hate my car dealership. Here's why: Because the loaner car they gave me is too nice. I've got a '96 Audi, see. And when it goes bust, I take it to the Audi dealership for service. (Apparently, your neighborhood mechanic has no idea what to do with an up-market Volkswagen.) They needed to hold my car for a few extra days, so they gave me a loaner. A 2008 A4. When the service manager gave me the keys, he told me, "Okay, you're gonna hate me, because you're gonna have to give this back to me in a couple of days, by which time you'll have already fallen in love with it." And he's 100% right. Fucker.

So, that, if you can put it all together, is pretty much what I did with my Thanksgiving vacation: watch movies, play videogames, eat like Mongul raiders were coming to town, and drive a car I can't afford.

Why?

Because it's my birthday, and I can not blog if I want to.

The Highwaymen: Was It Really That Bad?

In a shocking twist, The Highwaymen #1 was voted (part of) the Worst Comics of 2007 by Alan David Doane.

And I quote: "The creators of this exercise in generic tedium were shocked when the title was canceled after a handful of issues. I sure as hell wasn't."

Now, every bloke is entitled to his opinion and, as one who has worked closely with professional critics for most of his career, I know that a critic must be allowed to express viewpoints that run contrary to an overwhelming tide of popular sentiment. (Granted, The Highwaymen was never "popular," except among those rare few who sampled and, by and large, enjoyed what they got. "Beloved" is the word I'm gonna use. Because this is my keyboard.)

And, as much as I'm inclined to discount Mr. Doane's statement outright for its glaring factual inaccuracy—I, and many others, have explained that we solicited a five-issue mini and Wildstorm published a five-issue mini; The Highwaymen was never canceled—I'm just going to say this:

Of all the comics published over the course of 2007, could this really have been one of the worst? Really? I understand if people didn't like it, if they didn't respond to what we were going for, or plum didn't have a good time while reading it...but does it really fail on every level one can aspire to when creating comics? Is it illegible? Unreadable? Insulting to the readers' collective intelligence?

Or is it morally reprehensible, my usual barometer for giving something an F? Filled with hate and bile and misogyny?

I don't think so. Granted, I'm biased. But I still think I'm right.

The Highwaymen: An Update

Even though we're not going to be telling any more McQueen/Monroe stories for the forseeable future, you haven't seen the last of The Highwaymen.

Come next March, you'll see a shiny new Highwaymen trade paperback on shelves. Woo-hoo!

The Strike

Given my apparent lack of topics worth expounding upon, it was suggested that I write about the WGA strike.

No, but thanks, though.

See, I'm not in the guild. Would like to be at some point, sure. But not yet. So this strike—while I agree wholeheartedly with the matter, if not the manner of the proceedings (both sides could've avoided it, if they really wanted to...and I don't mean by the writers caving)—doesn't affect me personally. I know a few people on strike, and feel for them in their time of future uncertainty, but it's not kicking me in the nards daily.

Besides, the strike is being covered, from lots of different bloggery angles, and covered well, so I've nothing useful to add to the discussion.

Except to say that, even though it pains me, I'm not catching up with missed shows online. That's the extent of what I can do...so I'm doing it.

Jeff Vader

Because it's funny. And I've got nothing else to say.

Really?

Ebony magazine. Michael Jackson. Oh-kay. I guess Used-to-be-Ebony-But-Freaked-the-Fuck-Out-and-is-Now-Mostly-Ivory magazine had already booked it's November cover.

Here's the Thing...

I'm running out of things to say. I am. I'm not pretending to be a journalistic endeavor, like The Beat or Blog@Newsarama or The Comics Journal. And this isn't a review site, since even if no one else holds me to it, I've got enough respect for the conflict of interest to refrain from doing that. (Not to mention the fact that pissing off publishers I might want to work with by reviewing their shitty books is a big ass conflict of self-interest.)

And with the new dayjob at EW.com, writing for their Popwatch blog and doing all kinds of lists and stuff, the things that might've found it's way here is paying the bills over there.

I'm not an expert in very much. A journeyman in a few things, sure, but not a professional whiz at anything. I've already taken you inside the depth of my experience as a would-be screenwriter, and let you ride along on my summer of comic-book deflowering. Sure, there are a bunch of other things in the works, but they're just that, in the works. Can't talk about them for a good long while. (And I can't take you inside the high-stakes world of magazine journalism...it's a line I can't cross.) And while I have opened the door just a teensy bit on my life as a father raising an autistic daughter, that door will have to remain where it is. For the time being. Not everything is for public consumption.

I guess all of this is to say that I'm at a bit of a turning point with this here blog. Not sure where to go from here. I've got some ideas, but time is proving a rare commodity.

Stay tuned.