Pay attention now. There’s a lesson to be learned here today and you should believe what I’m about to write, but we’ll get to that later… after we produce some evidence.
Here’s the lesson – in italics to emphasize its importance: Authority figures are often full of shit.
I’m not saying all authority figures are wicked per se. They are, after all, a gift of evolution and anything that evolution offers has a reason for being. But keep your skepticism at the ready when visiting the experts, especially if they’re speaking outside of their specialties.
You might want to heed a brain surgeon’s recommendation regarding your gray matter, but pass on his political opinions.
And about those specialties: be at least a tad skeptical there, too. A few months a medical specialist with the white jacket and the framed certificates on the wall – the whole package – gave Marifran a pretty alarming diagnosis. She accepted it – he’s the doctor – and we got on with our lives. Then the lovely Perri Pivovar suggested we visit a university-affiliated clinic that specializes in the kind of illness Mari allegedly had. But she didn’t. A thorough examination revealed no trace of the illness, just some residual damage from a stroke Mari had seven or so years ago, eminently treatable.
Now, that evidence. But first: by some criteria I’m an authority. No kidding. Not a claim I’d make for myself, but over the years I’ve occasionally worked as an editor and a college professor, and those are authority-type jobs. So here is what this “authority” wrote last week:
“The best of them was Master of Kung Fu for which Roy Thomas had the bright idea of making his hero the son of Fu Manchu, a master
The only problem here is, Roy did not create Master of Kung Fu. That chore was handled in 1972 by Steve Englehart and Jim Starlin. It was published by Marvel Comics, of which you may have heard. Roy and Gil Kane created another martial artist hero: Iron Fist, a.k.a. Danny Rand, who first appeared in 1974 and was the subject of last week’s column and of a television series that may be streaming on a TV set near you if you’re a Netflix subscriber.
Now, I’m willing to affirm that everything in the preceding three paragraphs is true and the only reason you may have to doubt it is that it comes from someone who has admitted to being an authority and we have agreed, have we not, that authorities are inherently untrustworthy. What to do?
Perhaps you could join a cult? Scientology may have a few openings.
BURBANK, CA (March 10, 2017) – Class is back in session at Super Hero High as Warner Bros. Home Entertainment and DC Entertainment bring you DC Super Hero Girls: Intergalactic Games, the second feature in the new, groundbreaking universe celebrating young girls! The Intergalactic Games are here and Super Hero High is facing off against Korugar Academy, with a little help from the most prominent DC Super Heroes and Super-Villains in the galaxy. DC Super Hero Girls: Intergalactic Games will be available on Digital HD starting May 9, 2017, and on DVD ($19.99 SRP) on May 23, 2017.
Special Features on the DC Super Hero Girls: Intergalactic Games Digital HD and DVD release include seven animated shorts. Additionally, exclusively on the DVD is the music video for the song “That’s My Girl” by powerhouse girl group Fifth Harmony.
Wonder Woman, Supergirl, Batgirl, Poison Ivy, Harley Quinn, Bumblebee and Katana square off against Korugar Academy in the Intergalactic Games, but trouble is in the air as Lena Luthor takes advantage of the gathering of the Supers to enact her villainous plan. It’s up to the DC Super Hero Girls to fight the forces of evil and protect their school. With Wonder Woman’s strength, Supergirl’s speed, Batgirl’s strategic knowledge, Poison Ivy’s ability to make things grow, Harley Quinn’s energy, Bumblebee’s ability to shrink, and Katana’s fearless personality… anything is possible.
From Warner Bros. Consumer Products and DC Entertainment, the DC Super Hero Girls universe encourages young girls, ages 6-12, to explore their own powers and strengths through original content, including all-new films, webisodes and TV specials. The franchise offers young fans inspiration and encourages teamwork, friendship and empowerment. DC Super Hero Girls: Intergalactic Games will connect with fans throughout the world via a treasure trove of digital content, including DCSuperHeroGirls.com, the DCSHG App, YouTube Channel and Instagram, as well as a global licensing and merchandising program.
DC Super Hero Girls: Intergalactic Games features some of the top voice actors in the industry. Grey Griffin (Wonder Woman), Tara Strong (Harley Quinn/Poison Ivy), Anais Fairweather (Supergirl), Mae Whitman (Batgirl), Teala Dunn (Bumblebee), and Stephanie Sheh (Katana) join forces to portray the youthful versions of some of the world’s best known Super Heroes. Cecilia Aranovich Hamilton directs from a script by Shea Fontana. Jennifer Coyle serves as producer with Sam Register as Executive Producer.
“We are thrilled to continue our dedication to empowering young girls with the release of our second DC Super Hero Girls title,” said Mary Ellen Thomas, WBHE Vice President, Family & Animation Marketing. “We feel that Intergalactic Games presents strong role models in a new, unique and fun way.”
DC Super Hero Girls: Intergalactic Games – Special Features
“That’s My Girl” by Fifth Harmony Music Video (DVD only)
I saw two different kinds of ads for The Belko Experiment before it came out. There were ads that were pitching it as a more or less straight up horror movie, and then there were ads that were selling it as a kind of comedy-horror hybrid. It used a quote from an early review saying it was “Office Spacemeets Battle Royale” and while that’s a fine thing for a critic to say in a review as a shorthand to explain the movie, as an advertisement it’s completely inadequate. The Belko Experiment isn’t funny and 99% of the time doesn’t even seem to be trying to be funny. It’s more like Battle Royale meets a tall building or Battle Royale meets Die Hard if you want to just completely ignore anything that made Die Hard a good movie and just want to focus on the general aesthetic of the sets.
The titular experiment in Belko is: they seal an office building up and demand that the inhabitants kill each other in escalating quotas. If you’ve ever seen any movie before, you can probably get from here to the end of the story. There’s an everyman main character, a love interest, an antagonistic coworker, a friend coworker, a boss, and a bunch of nameless drones (allegedly 75 other office workers, but I would be absolutely floored if they had 80 actors in this movie). The beats are all telegraphed, and there are no surprises bigger than something you knew was going to happen happening a few moments before you expected it. This is a shockingly mundane affair for a movie with so much bloodshed. There’s supposed to be some grand moral conflict here but it never gets off the ground; at best it’s like having the movie read you the Cliff’s Notes of Lord of the Flies.
I’m a bit of a baby when it comes to horror movies, so when I tell you that The Belko Experiment didn’t scare me at all I want you to understand what a low bar that was to limbo under. Perhaps I’ve just been too desensitized to violence over the year but sudden violence is all this film has— and while I don’t love looking at gore, it isn’t inherently scary. There’s very little tension events just sort of smoothly follow each other. There’s no doubt in the outcome (although I suppose I never watch a slasher movie expecting the killer to win, those can still be scary) and so the audience is left watching the movie go from scene to scene checking off boxes until the finale can start. The marketing for this film couldn’t wait to tell you that this was a James Gunn script, but left out that it was one from seven years ago that he didn’t think was strong enough to make on his own. The Belko Experiment needed two more drafts and a compelling antagonist to be even close to a competent horror movie.
The real shame is that John C. McGinley gets a stunning star turn in a movie that no one will remember in five years. I doubt anyone who has really paid attention to his career is surprised that McGinley has the chops to steal a movie from a cast full of TV actors and marginal film stars, but he runs away with every scene he’s in. He’s given a wide berth and no specific tethers to any sort of reality after the first ten minutes. He’s the closest this movie has to the Joker— which is to say not particularly close, but a shining star compared to the dull surroundings.
The Belko Experiment is a Blumhouse film, and I think that explains a lot of what’s wrong with it. It’s clearly made on a shoestring budget, and it very clearly doesn’t have the passionate backing of a big studio behind it. What I don’t get is how this movie got put in to theaters instead of straight to digital. This is an okay movie for $5 on iTunes or as part of Netflix or however the other Blumhouse movies get out there. Nothing about The Belko Experiment feels like it has the polish of a feature film except the name James Gunn in the opening credits.
In this space two weeks ago, I wrote about the death of cartoonist and comix legend Jay Lynch. I noted his half-century friendship with Skip Williamson; despite their physical distance, I don’t think two people could have been closer.
As fate would have it, Skip died eleven days after Jay. Each was 72 years old. For long-time friends of the pair, for long-time fans of the pair – and I count myself among both groups – the timing was crippling. Skip long had heart problems so even though it was shocking, it wasn’t totally unexpected. However, there’s a kind of appropriateness about that timing that makes complete sense.
I won’t repeat their mutual history other than to mention the first comic book they pioneered was Bijou Funnies. Both had contributed to Harvey Kurtzman’s Help! Magazine and, later, to Playboy. Skip’s most revered character was Snappy Sammy Smoot, a hippie take on Ernie Kovacs’ popular character Percy Dovetonsils, only – and incredibly – even more surreal. His Neon Vincent’s Massage Parlor might have been better known as it was published monthly in Playboy, but it was Snappy Sammy Smoot who endured.
In fact, one of Smoot’s final appearances was right here at ComicMix. When we brought back John Ostrander’s fabled Munden’s Bar feature, I asked Skip if he would do our first new story. It has been reprinted in trade paperback and continues to be available here online in our comics section. Skip and I also worked together on many other projects for the Conspiracy Trial (the underground comic Conspiracy Capers was the first comic book with which I was involved; that was in late 1969 and was financed by a one thousand dollar bill I talked Abbie Hoffman into giving me), on the Chicago Seed, for the National Runaway Switchboard, and on various music and radio projects.
Skip’s contributions to Playboy paid off well: he became art director and frequent cover artist at Playboy Press, publisher of many books and paperbacks. It was through this connection that Skip introduced me to Harvey Kurtzman… at the original Chicago Playboy mansion, no less.
Skip maintained the radical political point of view that was typical of the late 60s and early 70s – and he kept it all his life. Physically, as you can see from the photo, Skip actually looked like he drew himself. Not in comics; in real life. Such as it is.
For a while, Skip lived in a nice apartment in Evanston Illinois, just north of the Chicago city limits. From there he would occasionally take LSD and gawk at the folks who lived in next-door Skokie, a town that was known, somewhat undeservedly, for its middle-class lameness. Amazingly, when I moved back to Illinois after my first stint at DC Comics in the late 1970s, I rented Skip’s old apartment. But I wasn’t the one who actually found the apartment, my first wife Ann scouted the place out before I got there. I walked through the flat when it was empty and got a funny vibe, as though I had been there before. I finally realized that I had, and I stayed there nearly nine years until I went back to DC Comics here in the Atlantic Northeast.
A man with a great sense of humor and a truly unique worldview, Skip was a proud father and a wonderful husband. And a swell friend.
In the realm of cartoonists, in addition to the underground crowd populated by such friends as Robert Crumb, Art Spiegelman, Gilbert Shelton, Kim Deitch, Ralph Reese and Denis Kitchen, Skippy shared the same slice of the comics pie as masters like Jack Cole, Basil Wolverton and Dick Briefer – but, somehow, moreso. Like Ernie Kovacs, Skip believed in the concept of nothing in moderation; at least in cultural terms.
It’s hard to believe Skip and Jay are no longer here. In recent years I’d see them together at various conventions; that’s how us old-timers stay in touch with the rest of the donut shop. But now we’re two stools light.
• • • • •
O.K. I’m ending with a personal note. I might sound like I’m whining, but I’m just overwhelmed. We’ve lost a lot of great people in the past two weeks or so. Some, like Jay Lynch and Skip Williamson and Bernie Wrightson, were friends of many decades standing. Others like Dave Hunt were co-workers who I knew and liked, and still others – the unbelievably gifted Jimmy Breslin and the George Washington of American music, Chuck Berry – are people I’ve interviewed and worked with. So it’s been a bit tough here in La Casa del Oro. Michael Davis gave us his Bernie Wrightson story in this space yesterday. We’ve got to stop losing all these great talents, now when we need them the most.
This past weekend a giant of entertainment left us. Chuck Berry was 90 years old, and I must admit I would from time to time wonder if Little Richard, Chubby Checker or Chuck were still with us.
I’ve not only had the pleasure of meeting each of these legends, I spent time with them. I worked in the music industry running the film and television arm of Motown Records for a click. Although a fantastic dancer and unbeatable in a lip-synch battle, I have no real musical talent, and at Motown I had almost zero to do with the core business.
Didn’t matter. Motown provided me access to anyone and everyone in the music industry. The music business can be very much like you see in TV and movies.
Sex drugs rock and roll complete with groupies’ wild parties and wilder people. What you see in the media does indeed happen, folks. Been there, done her, got video. I have, in my musical narrative, played many roles. What you may find hard to believe is this to some is commonplace and necessary to do their jobs.
I’ve seen a record company executive put coke on his expense account. I’ve done that as well, but my Coke came in a bottle. On occasion I’ve been cast as a witness-alibi-go between- victim-judge-jury-referee-bodyguard and bodyguarded. I’ve had some crazy days and nights.
None were crazy as when I met Chuck Berry.
I planned on telling that tale today, but as John Lennon kinda said, “life is what happens while you’re making up shit to stall so as not to write something that will tear your heart apart.”
This was to be the week I went back to running different articles on Bleeding Cool and ComicMix. I don’t like running the same article on both sites I tried running some articles part one here part two there and vice versa but neither Rich Johnston nor Mike Gold over at ComicMix said rather or not that was ok.
I like the idea of funneling readers between both sites. I think it’s a win-win, but I fixate on rather or not it’s OK and nobody wants to tell me it isn’t. Oh, I’m told who is not my bitch, but I’d better leave that be less I risk saying something that will not end well.
Yep. Still stalling.
If you’re wondering why I just don’t tell the Chuck Berry story, I don’t blame you.
That story is a perfect mix of real life craziness comics and return to the swagger that will inevitably invoke my haters on BC to chime in with why they hate me.
But as much as I like pushing people’s buttons to tell that story before I related this story would be inappropriate.
Enough stalling.
As you’ve no doubt heard by now, Bernie Wrightson died over the weekend. For my money, Bernie was just a big a star in comics as Chuck Berry was in music.
Swamp Thing #7 guest-starring Batman turned me on to Bernie’s work, and in turn, I took a significant leap in my education, and I do mean education when it needs it most in grade school.
I never wanted to draw like Jack Kirby even though I loved Kirby’s art. As a kid who loved to draw, I never thought I that I copied artists. When I would copy from comic books, I’d copy characters, not artists. It didn’t matter who drew it if the character was in an excellent pose that’s what my grade school mind was telling me I was copying.
When I discovered Bernie, all that changed and Batman swinging across the pages of Swamp Thing #7 changed it. I had to draw that way. I kept that book as part of my never trade and would kill you your mother sister father dog and cat if you even asked me.
When Ronnie Williams bullied me though 2nd and 3rd grade, I had finally had enough when he took my Fantastic Four # 73 in the 4th grade. I picked up a metal backed wooden chair and cracked him over the head with it.
If it had been Swamp Thing #7, he took from me my weapon of choice may have been the Saturday night special (a cheap handgun) my sister said I should use on Ronnie – jokingly. My mother acquired the gun to keep in the house after a series of robberies in our building.
She thought my sister Sharon and I didn’t know where she hid it. We knew, under the mattress along with the shells. Everything my mother hid we found.
Parents, that’s what kids do they find shit.Get a fucking gun safe.
Another stall.
I just want this fucking pain to go away, and anger may help, but I can’t get there from here so my apologies.
This article is as hard a thing for me to write as any tribute I’ve ever written.
Bernie’s artwork made me read comics that had no superheroes in it and by read, I mean read look at the words try to pronounce them and figure out what they meant. I was already becoming a decent reader from the horrible how the fuck do I spell ‘I’ student I was.
I was beginning to like reading, but all I liked to read were comics. Bernie’s work on House of Secrets which I sort out had no superhero in it.
Seeking out that book was dangerous and enlightening. I lived on Beach 58st in Far Rockaway Queens. I got my comics from a mom and pop store on Beach 51st.
There was another store on Beach 40th and one on Beach 77st. Yeah, that’s a lot of beaches. All stores were a quick bike ride away but only (B51) was in my hood. If I wanted to go to the others, I risked a beat down or worse my bike stolen.
So, I walked. Looking for more of Bernie’s art was well worth a black eye.
Nowadays you hop on the computer and you can find anything. Back in my day, I had no idea if there was even any other Bernie art out there. I had no clue what Swamp Thing was. I purchased the book because I saw Batman on the cover.
I mentioned Bernie’s art helped my education here’s how. My sister had a cheesy romance novel paperback which featured a cover font very similar as the title of the House of Secrets comic book.
I thought it was. Because there were no superheroes in the comic somehow my mind thought it was possible this featured some Bernie artwork.
When I discovered it didn’t and had no art at all, I did the unthinkable.
I read it anyhow. All I can tell you is my little mind was blown.
Who knew there could be that much adventure and excitement in a book where nobody was drawn? All I had to do was skip all the girly parts, and I had discovered a new love, paperbacks.
Then I found Conan in paperback no girly parts to skip over and Frank Frazetta on the covers. From there I began reading hardcover books and spent my entire first paycheck ($10 bucks working for my cousin) on a hardcover book, All in Color for a Dime.
Bernie started all that.
Years later…
Denys Cowan and I were leaving DC Comics in 1988. We were going to grab a bite to eat. As we were departing in walks this guy. “Hi, Denys,” the man said. “Hey!” Denys said.
“Bernie, I want you to meet my friend, Michael Davis. Michael, this is, Bernie Wrightson.”
I lost what little mind I had.
Bernie was there for a meeting and was rushing. I did something I have only done three times in my life, and he was the first: I asked for an autograph.
I’ve met some of the most famous people in the world and only asked for an autograph three times. Each time I had something for them to sign. Jack Kirby signed a comic book, James Brown a CD cover.
I had nothing for Bernie to sign I didn’t care I just wanted something to remember the moment.
I didn’t get it.
Bernie apologized but was late for a meeting, so he ran in.
That stung.
All though our meal Denys kept telling me what a great guy he was and not to worry I’d see him again yadda yada yadda. I was thinking; yeah… right.
I realized with a start while looking for something for Bernie to sign I’d left my portfolio upstairs at DC. I told Denys I’d be right back and hurried to get it. When I entered the office there by the statue of Clark Kent was my case and coming out of the door to the inner offices was Bernie.
There was a God!
“Hey Bernie!” The voice came from behind him calling him back.
And he hates me.
I grabbed my case left the reception area to wait for the elevator which quickly arrived with a ping!
“Hey hold it,” Someone said. I was in no mood to hold the elevator and make small talk with someone, and for a moment I considered being a dick but slapped the door to make it recede nevertheless.
“Here you go,” Bernie said with a smile. He reached in and handed me a sheet of DC stationary with his autograph and a quick ball point pen picture of Batman.
He then ran back into the offices. I never even got a chance to say thanks.
Bernie and I became friends over time and as such would grab a bite at a convention or a NY deli if we ran into each other in Manhattan.
As always, he would brush it off my gushing over him with sincere thanks but clearly didn’t think he was such a big deal.
Then I ended all of that and started to refer to him as simply Mr. Living Legend. I didn’t think he liked it, so I stopped.
The last time I saw Bernie was walking the SDCC convention floor with Wayne Brady. When we ran into Bernie, I introduced Wayne with a “Wayne, this is Bernie Wrightson.” Bernie put his hand on my shoulder gave me an affectionate squeeze and said “That’s Mister Living Legend, get it straight Michael.”
Wayne, who loves comic books said gleefully; “Yes sir, you are indeed a legend.”
A legend yes without a doubt.
Also an inspiration to a poor black kid the man he became and the one he hopes one day to be.
This past weekend I found myself at a convention once again with Molly Jackson, but now joined by ComicMix’s own Glenn Hauman. It was an island getaway. Sure, it was Long Island, but it was still technically a getaway so I’m sticking to it.
The convention in question was I-CON, and no, it is not a convention dedicated to the superhero Icon of Milestone Media fame, but he should really be used more over at DC and his original run written by Dwayne McDuffie and penciled by M. D. Bright should be collected in its entirely as it has never been before.
I-CON is a long running non-profit science fiction, fact, and fantasy convention. This show was billed as I-CON 32, but the convention was on hiatus after I-CON 31 in 2012. This new iteration debuted at a new location, Suffolk Community College.
Having grown up on Long Island, I had attended a number of I-CON conventions over the years. In fact, I volunteered at I-CON 31; I worked the indie film track. It was tough and took a lot of time and effort and even more meetings, so I understand how hard it is to put a show like this together. Five years is a long hiatus, and while many of the original volunteers were back, they no longer had Stony Brook University as a potential venue and really had to start fresh in a lot of ways.
Anyway, let me get back on track. The con was this past Friday through Sunday. ComicMix had a table that Glenn arrived early to set up, and we’d alternate watching over while taking time to walk the floor and speak on panels. I even got to moderate one.
I’m getting ahead of myself here so let me back up a bit. This past Friday Molly and I arrived in the evening to be on a panel about socio-political commentary in comics. Also on the panel were Adam McGovern, Beth Rimmels, Alitha E. Martinez and Christopher Helton with I-CON’s Patrick Kennedy moderating. It was a nice discussion about politics and the industry. One of the questions was about the comics we think had some of the best socio-political commentary. My answer was The Question written by ComicMix’sDenny O’Neil, drawn by Denys Cowan, and edited by ComicMix’s fearless leader Mike Gold, and Transmetropolitan by Warren Ellis and Darick Robertson which was inked by Rodney Ramos who was also a guest at I-CON.
Saturday we were there pretty early and stayed for most of the show and really starting feeling the con experience. We were tabling next to David Gerrold, the well-renowned science fiction writer who created the Tribbles over at Star Trek, and it was a great experience. There was a whole table of Tribbles for sale that shake and coo when you touch them. While they’re fun, a whole table of shaking cooing Tribbles can get a bit intimidating.
Molly and I were on a panel about if indie comics can save the comics industry. The short answer is the industry might not need saving right now, but… probably… yes? Unless by indie they meant Indian Jones comics, in which the answer is a very firm yes. We were then joined by Glenn to talk about comics journalism later in the day. I’d tell you about it, but you’re already reading some arguable comics journalism.
Sunday I got to moderate the panel on Gender and Sexuality in Sci-Fi, Fantasy and Comics with David Gerrold, Molly Jackson, Alitha E. Martinez, and Beth Rimmels. I spent a long time pondering on what to ask the panel despite the fact that it’s the topic I write about here roughly every other week. David Gerrold told me he liked the questions so that’s good enough for me.We touched on women written as men, trans representation, toxic masculinity… lots of tough stuff that could cause all sorts of Twitter drama.
Other highlights included talking a while with Pat Shand about comics, getting another sketch cover from John Broglia, and meeting and talking movies with Christopher Golden.
While I-CON 32 seemed less attended than the previous ones I’ve been to and I do miss it being at Stony Brook, this was a valiant effort to give a convention a rebirth after five years and was definitely the con at which I’ve been best fed. They have a few kinks to work out, but it was good to be back at I-CON and I’m excited for what the future will bring to this Long Island tradition.
Death has been everywhere lately this March of 2017. Actor Bill Paxton. Rock and Roll pioneer Chuck Berry. Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist and author Jimmy Breslin. The great artist Bernie Wrightson. Underground comics’ Jay Lynch and Skip Williamson. ComicMix’s Tweeks Maddy and Anya Ernst’s grandmother. Fellow columnist Marc Alan Fishman’s college friend. My dad.
As Martha Thomases said last week, although in an entirely different context – Too Much! Too Much!
Radiolab, which airs on NPR – check your local station – is a show that features issues both philosophical and scientific. In its 15th year, I was listening on Saturday as the hosts, Jay Abrumrad and Robert Kulwich, discussed a case brought to their attention by reporter Ike Siskandarajah. It was called “Mutant Rights.”
Two international tariff lawyers, Sherry Singer and Indie Singh, discovered that the legal classification of “doll” were taxed at a higher rate – 12% – than the legal classification of “toy,” at 6.8%. This was because dolls are considered “human,” and toys, such as figures of robots and demons and vampires and monsters, are not. A very strange idea to begin with, but what really piqued their interest was that Ms. Singer and Ms. Singh happened to include in their client list none other than Marvel Entertainment, also known – around here, at least – as Marvel Comics. And Marvel was importing its action figures as “dolls.”
This meant that Ms. Singer and Ms. Singh set out to save $$$ for their client by using the X-Men action figures to claim that these representations of the mutant superheroes were not human, and therefore should be taxed at the same lower rate as toys. To help illustrate their point, the two lawyers collected between 60 and 80 samples of action figures, and especially the mutant X-Men.
Bryan Singer, oft-time director and executive producer of the X-Men movie and television franchise, discussed the history of the X-Men with Ike and the two lawyers, reflecting on the history of the X-Men, and how, throughout their history, they have represented those who are different from or outside the society in which they live, whether by skin color or sexual preference or religion or place of birth or, well, whatever.
But the crazy thing is, the court case, which lasted over ten years, became to be about what it means to be human (as did the segment). And the final verdict? All Marvel actions figures, whether representing mutants or not, are now classified as “non-human” – therefore, toys.
But does that ruling apply to all the action figures from all the companies from all the world? I mean, not all action figures are created equal. Kal-El is Kryptonian, so that’s easy, and Diana is either made from clay or half-goddess, depending on which origin you prefer (YMMV), so that’s easy, too. Buffy’s powers come from the demon darkness, Willow and Tara are witches, Oz is a werewolf, Angel and Spike are vampires. But what about Giles? And Xander? And what about Bruce Wayne, and Dick Grayson, who may classify as superheroes, but are totally and completely human?
I’m guessing that, having set a precedent with this ruling, imported action figures, if they are connected to comics or other popular media specializing in science fiction and fantasy, are paying the lower 6.8% import tariff. But…
This is a case for ComicMix’s resident commenting attorney.
When you think of a comic shop or a card store, you might think of the fans who shop there or the folks who run it and how they are so passionate about the things they love. Retail shops like these are always the epicenter for focused geek authenticity.
And when you think of Las Vegas, you might think of gambling, or partying, or glitzy entertainment. Vegas isn’t about deep or thoughtful enthusiasm about your passions, it’s about giving vihttp://www.comicmix.com//?p=109466&preview=truesitors a license to be enjoy the moment, and to be both indulgent and shallow without any guilt.
So it’s incongruous, in many ways, that over 400 of the nation’s card/comic shops attend the GAMA trade show this past week in Las Vegas. For more than 20 years this event has helped connect, educate and motivate hobby stores. The Expo focuses on card games (Magic: The Gathering, Yu-Gi-Oh!, Pokemon, Cardfight!! Vanguard, etc.), board games, miniatures and all the related products and services.
Trade publication ICV2 recently reported that the hobby games business is growing at about 10%. Amazingly, this is the 8th year in a row of growth. This growth comes from many different segments. On one hand, Magic: The Gathering grows the business for established fans, and parent company Hasbro seems to be noticing more than ever.
On the younger side, the incredible resurgence of Pokemon proves to be the perfect gateway property for whole industry. The game community does a good job of onboarding and cross promotion.
GAMA estimates there are 3,200 game stores nationwide. And although last week’s GAMA trade shows focused on card games and board games, many of these retailers are hybrid stores and also carry comics.
In fact, there were a lot of the “usual suspects” from the comics world here. It didn’t take long to run across folks like Diamond’s Chris Powell, Skybound’s Shawn Kirkham, or ICV2’s Milton Griepp.
And on the show floor, familiar booths to a comic fan included:
Paizo – This publisher was showing off their new Starfinder property and their enthusiasm was contagious. Publisher Eric Mona was on hand, and he also spoke about his writing for Dynamite’s Pathfinder Worldfinder comic, co-starring Red Sonja, John Carter and Tarzan.
IDW’s games division was showing off their new board games. I was especially impressed by the gorgeous the cover art to their Planet of the Apes
Off World Designs is a geek-culture T-shirt design company and familiar site to many San Diego Comic-Con attendees. Each year they have two booths at that Nerd Prom, who’s formal name is still Comic-Con International, even though nobody ever calls it that.
These retailers are a strategic thoughtful bunch. Since they play strategic gamers and hang around with folks who play strategic games, that makes sense. But card shop owners are, at the heart of it, pretty much like comic shop owners. And as mentioned, they are often one and the same. They are a fun group to spend time with, and you can’t help but be pleased that they could get away for few days and rejuvenate with their peers. They are hard-working entrepreneurs whose DNA is over-stuffed with optimism and persistence.
I’m hesitant to outright recommend almost anything – books, movies, music, TV shows, and so on. Invariably someone acts on my recommendation, doesn’t like it, and blames me for the waste of their time and/or money. “It sucks, Ostrander”, they say, “and so do you!”
However, from time to time I encounter something I truly enjoy so I’ll share my enjoyment and you can decide if it’s something you want to try.
I’ve recently read the three novels in The Chronicles of Kazam (and really wish the fourth and final volume was available right now) by Jasper Fforde and had a wonderful time with them. I’ve enjoyed Mr. Fforde before with his Thursday Next series and the Nursery Crimes novels but the Chronicles of Kazam had eluded me until brought to my attention by my very good friend, Jim Murdoch (Hi Jim!). The bit of irony is that I introduced him to Jasper Fforde in the first place.
A word or two about Mr. Fforde. He is very British and, not surprisingly, a bit mad. The author I can think that is most like him is P.G. Wodehouse, the creator of the butler Jeeves and his dim employer, Bertie Wooster, except that Fforde works in very different genres. There is a love of wordplay, of whimsy, of puns with very tight plotting and keenly drawn characters. In fact, he won the Wodehouse prize for comic fiction in 2004 for the third book in his Thursday Next series, The Well of Lost Plots. There also seems to me to be a Monty Python-esque sensibility to his work.
The Chronicles of Kazam are technically Young Adult novels dealing with magic in an alternative dimension where the United Kingdom (U.K.) is known as the UnUnited Kingdom (UnU.K.) which is made up of various kingdoms, empires, duchies, and so on. Magic is not as common or strong as it once was and is used most often for clearing drains and re-wiring houses and that sort of thing. A sorcerer with a threadbare flying carpet is most likely to be delivering pizzas. In the Kingdom of Snodd, where the stories largely take place, magic is very tightly regulated and forms must be filled out every time a spell is cast or the spell-caster can be burned at the stake.
The novels focus on Kazam, an employment agency for a group of seedy sorcerers with different abilities and power levels. It runs out of a former hotel now dubbed Zambini Towers and is supposedly run by the Great Zambini who, unfortunately, is missing. A spell went wrong and he keeps popping in and out of reality. In his place, Kazam is managed by Jennifer Strange, a 15-year old foundling (orphan) from the orphanage run by the Sisters of the Lobster. Jennifer, who narrates the books, is indentured to the agency until her 18th birthday and is herself not a magic user but she is gifted with smarts, moxie, and courage and is fully capable of running the business in the absence of the Great Zambini.
Not all is whimsy and fun in the books. Events happen that have real consequences and characters die, including ones we’ve come to like very much.
Fforde appeals to me a great deal but I can see he might not be for everyone. If what I’ve written about it sounds all a bit to twee for your tastes, best to avoid them and all of Fforde’s work. However, if they sound like fun to you, by all means give them a try. The first in The Chronicles of Kazam in The Last Dragonslayer and it’s available in paperback.
After he finishes with Kazam, what I would really like to see is Fforde tackle the superhero genre. I think what he could do with the capes and tights crowd could give me almost terminal giggles.
Last week, I teased a trilogy of convention-specific posts that would take you, my loyal readers (let’s assume it’s up to eight or nine now), on a journey for my li’l indie company to our personal Wrestlemania. But as with all things in life, the unexpected occurs and shakes our world down to the foundation.
A week ago Tuesday, my friend from college, Brandon McDonald, suddenly passed away.
Brandon was one of a trio of friends I would quickly make at the Herron School of Art when I stumbled into the aging halls of the now-historically-preserved original building where classes resided. Brandon himself was as most friends were in my life at the time: a suburban punk, with a wide breadth of talents, a quick wit, and a crappy car. It wasn’t long after befriending him he happily called me Jerkface. It became a term of endearment then shared by nearly all who ran in our little circle. Brandon was opinionated, gangly, and driven — if not specifically towards any major, as much as just a widely-chased desire for artistic creation.
The Herron School of Art, when I attended it, was a small art school clinging to the bottom of a major university hull like an unwanted barnacle. If there were a hundred kids roaming the halls in total, it’d be considered a busy day. Because of this, my entering freshman class become a loosely piecemealed family. We didn’t all know one another specifically, but we each splintered and jaunted into one another’s bubbles long enough to feel an indescribable bond to one another.
Here, as off-campus pariahs, we — the class at large — were the Lost Boys of Indiana University (or, for a more formal tie-in: Indiana University / Purdue University at Indianapolis). Brandon existed in several of my circles, none more personally relevant than someone I ate lunch with daily, shared several classes with, and made time with socially outside of class. It never even bothered me that he chain-smoked like a chimney and I was deathly allergic to cigarette smoke. He was, as I was, a Jerkface after all.
I attended my first truly indie concert when his band, Naked Thursday, played a show in a barely-passible-as-a-venue warehouse. I watched in glee when he presented his homemade zombie movie, Oh No! Zombies! I attended my first and last party with Brandon, wherein I learned quickly how drunk people make me uncomfortable. Brandon was one of a few who made me uncomfortable. But in accordance with who he was beneath the veneer of alcohol, was quick to enjoy my company the next Monday at class without even as much as a passing conversation as to my own proclivities.
Over time, as the basic narrative of aging, Brandon and my tighter-knit group found our individual callings. One of us drifted towards ceramics. Another towards painting. Others towards illustration, photography, or in my case general malaise. To be fair and honest to you all, I don’t even know specifically what Brandon felt was his calling at Herron. I simply saw him daily, and maintained the friendship as we both took classes and built portfolios. The specifics of it all are a distant blur — sad, considering that I’m barely a decade and change away from the memories— but Brandon as a person, as my friend, remains in focus.
We graduated, and I stayed in Indianapolis long enough to build a résumé. On January 1st, 2007, I moved back to Chicago. Brandon and I were always close, but never close enough that it warranted any extended goodbye. In all likelihood? I sent him a message on MySpace that resembled something like “Hey Jerkface. I’m leaving your crappy city. Good luck. LOL.” And with it, closeness waned into acquaintanceship.
Brandon and I did play catch up often as life continued. I was invited to his small wedding — to our Herron classmate Candice — and truly cherished seeing him find love. I was touched to follow his journey, if only digitally, as he became a father. Two years or so before I would myself, I saw Brandon truly embrace becoming a dad. I freely admit now how settling it truly was to see this punk-turned-proud-pop as he built tribute websites to the calamity his kids caused. A few times a year, Brandon and I would trade notes on our comings and goings. As it were, we both wound up graphic designers. We both wound up with a pair of kids. In between the usual bitches and moans of our daily lives, we sought solace in the sameness. The gangly punker and fat-suburban Jew had grown up enough to be men. Any lingering desire to refer to one another as Jerkface slowly dissipated.
Brandon called me some time ago to tell me things ended with Candice. He was distraught, but still positive. The love of his kids fueled him. He’d taken to more development and coder roles in his freelance business. He sounded down, but driven. Our conversations grew further apart. I wish I could say “life got in the way,” but frankly, I dodged a few of his late-night calls to me, out of selfish desire for “me” time. But, inevitably, we connected again, maybe a month or so ago.
He was distraught and confused. Everything to him had seemingly become a struggle. Literally every offering I made of a brighter side was met with sorrow and disagreement. When I mentioned his children, he lit up. “They’re so bright, and curious, man. Like, it’s so amazing to me…” he said, mind drifting. I reminded him that as with everything, putting the work in everyday would see him eventually turn a corner on all that seemingly was dragging him down. He murmured about a few dates he’d been on. How a few friends were trying to keep him afloat — from reminding him to eat, to bringing him to church. He waxed and waned. Before we parted in what would be our final conversation, he thanked me, soberly. “Hey, though, for real? Thank you. It’s good you know, just to have, like… a little human interaction. Thanks, Marc.”
Unlike tributes I’d penned to lost mentors and family over the years, I’m left uncertain of a proper ending. There’s no greater good to celebrate here. When we last spoke, Brandon could not see the light left in his grey world. I’d be remiss if I didn’t plainly admit to feeling guilty myself of not making my way out personally to see him, or even connect with our old group of friends to see if people might check in on him more. I left it all up to faith, and had that faith trounced with a bitter reality. Two bright and curious children left without their father. His story an incomplete chapter in their own narratives to come. My heart aches for them with a listless energy I’ve not felt before. I’ve felt loss in my life. But never before has it come on so unexpectedly.
There’s no witty pop culture reference to end on. No perfectly chosen lyric to leave. Only the pain of regret, and the waning celebration of a life not lived to the fullest. Take heed of it all, my friends; every life is simply too short to be truly enjoyed.
