Author: Marc Alan Fishman

So, I just watched the trailer for The Avengers. I had to change pants. Because I pooped them. Why the premature defecation, you inquire? One movie with Iron Man, Thor, Captain America, The Hulk, Worthless Chick and Bow and Arrow Man… that’s why! In all seriousness (that would be the seriousness of a comic nerd geeking out at maximum dorkatude), it’s because this is the culmination of years of planning on Marvel’s part. And simply put, it looks like they aren’t going to screw it up.

In their own rights, each of the Marvel heroes who have been given a solo movie have done spectacularly well. Iron Man grossed over $318,000,000; Thor nabbed over $181,000,000; and the glorious Captain America took in over $175,000,000. Bob Wayne at DC once said “You vote with your dollars…” and by the looks of it, America (nerd and non-nerd alike) has proven its love for the Marvel movies.

Speaking purely from a fan-boy perspective, I’ve had nothing but mad love and respect for their cinematic endeavors. Iron Man was grounded in reality (for 4/5s of the film), and elevated by a continuously energetic performance by Robert Downey Jr., Thor was able to mix the completely ridiculous with powerful mythology and gave us perhaps one of the hardest to believe Avengers such that we as an audience believed a God could be a superhero. Captain America was able to build a fantastic period piece that gave the world an iconic and fearless leader. And now, Joss Whedon and Marvel Studios is cramming all of them (and a handful of others) into a single picture.

The basic fear most fanboys have had since the idea of an Avengers movie was dropped on our collective consciousness revolved around over-complexity. Rumors of Loki, the Kree/Skrull war, Red Skull, and numerous other villains danced on message boards. And let’s face it. Putting 4 or 5 “A-Types” into a team picture will potentially numb any chance at character building and nuance. If Iron Man, Thor, Captain America and The Incredible Hulk each required their own picture, how can they share the limelight? And on top of it… Samuel L. Jackson’s Nick Fury looks to be far more than just a cameo to boot. In simpler terms, The Avengers could easily become 10 gallons of Superhero in a 5 gallon hat.

If the trailer is to be any indicator of what the final product will be, I feel like Marvel is headed in the right direction. With the origins of every character now “public knowledge,” things feel natural. Iron Man and Captain America are both formidable leaders in their own right. In the trailer, they knock heads almost instantly. Whedon, who wrote the script, has a real clarity of character. Tony’s response is pitch perfect. Thor, while not uttering a word, carries himself as we expect… Regally, with a dash of arrogance.

Other glimpses of the titular characters are equally impressive. Mark Ruffalo’s Bruce Banner certainly holds himself with a quiet struggle. And the choice to make Loki the villain creates a real urgency for the assembling. A mad god? Yeah, that’s a job for the Avengers. I know this all seems a bit of a hyperbole of analysis, given that all we’ve really seen is 12,000 seconds of footage (with a solid third of that dedicated to ominous shots of New York, explosions, and Iron Man flying)… but I’ve watched the trailer a couple times now, and each time I retain the same silly grin.

Marvel’s missteps – Wolverine, Elektra, Daredevil (which I actually liked), and most likely one (if not more) of the Blade flicks – all shared a plethora of groan worthy moments. In each, the self-seriousness never felt earned by the fans. That, and Wolverine was given Clark Kent’s origin part-way through his movie. I wish I could pinpoint exactly why the Avengers, with its surplus of superheroes, seems to capture my glee, with no bitter aftertaste of “this could be a train wreck.” Could it be I just want it to succeed too much? With Iron Man, Iron Man 2, The Incredible Hulk, Captain America: The First Avenger, and Thor all leading up to this, it may very be such that I can’t fathom this flopping. I’ve dropped far too much cash at the multiplex to see Marvel bellyflop.

At its core, the Avengers is true fanboy porn. An assembling of Marvel’s best and brightest (and Hawkeye, cause, you know…) to fight the biggest of fights, is the stuff dreams are made of. To see it in live-action glory, with a bevy of computer effects and explosions is everything comic fans have dreamed of. I postulate it’s akin to The Dark Knight, where the general masses will appreciate our medium in a new light. It raises our collective mojo up just a notch. And anytime a comic nerd looks better than a Trekkie or LARPer… well, that’s just gravy. If you haven’t checked it out yet, do go watch the trailer… and come back here to tell me if I should stave my excitement, or just invest in a few more pair of paints prior to its debut.

SUNDAY: John Ostrander

This past weekend I was graced with the presence of ComicMix EIC/Columnist/Cranky Elderly Statesman Mike Gold. He invited me out for a brisket sandwich and conversation. For those not in the know, Gold and I are Jews – and as such, after circumcision, Bar Mitzvah, and a wedding to a Jewish bride, “brisket and conversation” is the next milestone in the Hebrew circle of life. In a day I’ll not forget for a good long while, we waxed poetic on a bevy of topics. It was like “Tuesday’s With Morrie,” except no one was dying. One point that seemed to come up again and again revolved around the state of the comic book industry. And when the dust had settled, and my brisket was fully digested, it came to me. There’s plenty of good going on in comics today, but for all the bad the finger of shame is pointed heavily at the editors’ desks.

What is a comic book editor? Well, he or she is many things to many people. To artists and writers, they are the boss. They assemble the parts, and roll out the final product. They help dot i’s, cross t’s, and make constructive criticism to ensure that the book that hits the shelf is the best it could be. To the fans, they are mysterious figure-heads who get their names right under the talent on the title page. They are the kings at conventions, giving sage advice one minute, and spinning bad fan-reaction the next. In the days before the Internet they were the keepers of secrets – the walking Wikipedias of their brands.

And today? They are that and more. Constructors of continuity, ruiners of rumors, and dolers of dreams. They say absolute power corrupts absolutely. Has their hubris finally caught up with them? I offer some proof, by way of my all-powerful-never-wrong-because-I’m-a-columnist opinion.

How about the Epic Cross-Over of Infinite Magnitude! The first time it happened it sure must have been novel. Upend the whole universe and throw all the heroes together in a big fight. Sounds cool, right? Sure. And I bet it sold like hot cakes. A chance to see Spider-Man, Captain America, The Thing and Ben Gallagher all fight Dough Boy, Red Skull, and Avalanche no doubt equaled a nice spike in sales, and plenty of direction for the respective players, when the dust settled. But be it the editors, or the powers that be behind them. what was a once-in-a-decade deal has now become a yearly escapade. And it drags down the whole industry with it. And where it used to be a single book to encapsulate the ruckus, thanks to those editors, it now permeates the entire line of comics coming out.

I’ve been truly enjoying Matt Fraction’s Invincible Iron Man now for two and half years. But lately, the books have been disjointed, discombobulated, and terribly boring. Fear Itself has consumed it, and because I’m not interested in Marvel’s excuse to dress everyone up in spikes and Tron lines. I’m buying a book that makes little sense. And when the crossover is over, I’ll invariably have to suffer for at least an issue or two more to deal with the eventual fallout. And the whole time, I can’t help but see the puppeteer’s grimy hand placed sorely up Matt Fraction’s asshole.

And yes, I know he is the lead architect/writer of Fear Itself. But I doubt he walked into the editor’s office with the pitch saying “This needs to bleed into seven different mini-series, and 13 other books.” The fact is with each passing summer “epic,” the publishers invariably encompass more and more books. And every time they do it, it stops any forward momentum on a series cold.

Invincible Iron Man was an amazing deconstruction of Tony Stark, full of intrigue, new and old villains, and a strong cast of supporting characters. Thanks to Fear Itself, I’ve had to suffer three or four books of Tony building weapons with dwarfs while he drinks. The intrigue? The drama? The 30+ books of character building? Gone with a swing of Odin’s Budweiser and a fight with a mud-monster.

But I digress. With the New 52, DC’s Dan DiDio stuck his neck on the line and said “this is what we need to do to shake things up.” And I whole-heartedly agree. But he chose to end the current continuity by way of one of those aforementioned epics, and then give all of us a do-over on his “One Year Later” trick. Remember that? And to boot, while countless writers sit on the sidelines waiting for a chance to shine, Dan hands himself a job on OMAC.

I’m curious. Did he pitch the book to himself? If the editors exist to challenge their artists and writers to make the best books possible, if the New 52 was supposed to exist to make it not only easy for new readers to jump in, but to hold the industry to a higher standard of quality. How do books like Voodoo, Hawk and Dove, Mister Terrific, and Grifter get published?

Furthermore, what about the books that were universally “meh’ed” like Red Lanterns, JLI, Catwoman, or Red Hood and the Outboobs? Did the editors really sit back at their desk with the assembled pages, and say “now here’s a book I am proud of” or did they just get the damned thing done and hope for the best?

Stay tuned next week, when all the ComicMix columnists will be editorially mandated to write on the same topic: Honey Badgers!

SUNDAY: John Ostrander

So after a few weeks of daydreaming and being all cutesy-wootsie, I figure it’s about time I stir the pot a little. Let me get behind this wire mesh wall, force field, and don some protective gear. There. Safe and secure. Ahem…

Marvel’s female superheroes suck.

Don’t believe me? OK. Name the first few Marvel superheroes that come to mind. I’ll give you a minute. Who did you say…Spider-Man? Thor? Captain America? How about Iron Man? Hmm. No double X chromosomes there. The last big event to revolve around a woman? Oh yeah! House of M. The one where Marvel showed that a chick who ain’t barefoot and preggers goes crazy and resets the universe at will. Now there’s a feather in a feminists’ cap.

When I say “important women of Marvel,” aren’t they are always the yin to the yang of a more powerful man? Pepper Potts. Sorry Matt Fraction, you can put a repulsor in her chest, you can give her a code name, but she’s still just Tony’s secretary. Mary Jane Watson-Parker-Watson-by-way-of-a-retcon? Face it tiger, she’s just there to fall off buildings. Maria Hill? Nick Fury’s assprint hadn’t even cooled off before she was ousted back down to who-cares-ville. And when we open the discussion to those ladies who carry the hero badge? It doesn’t get any better.

Sue Storm, the matriarch of the Future Foundation. The soul of the Fantastic Four. Completely boring and useless without her husband. The best writers of Sue have always pegged her as a strong and independent woman. But take her away from Reed, Ben, or the children and the only bullet point left on her resume is part-time booty call for Namor.

Black Widow: slut with guns. How about Ms. Marvel? I’ll be completely honest. I don’t know a thing about her. Best I could tell? She was brought in because Marvel has no Wonder Woman, so they threw her on the Avengers. Beyond that I assume they keep her around because cute girls can show off their butts by cosplaying as her. What of the X-Men? Well, Jean Grey has died only 17 times, and has changed names to various permutations of “Phoenix,” all to what effect? She’s Cyclop’s gal. She maybe did Wolvie in a closet while Slim was waxing his car. And in the Ultimate Universe, maybe she did Charles too.

Let’s not forget Storm. She was married off to Black Panther so they could make super-black-babies that will invariably land on some future iteration of the X-Avengers. Not because they’ll be well written mind you… but they will add that “affirmative action” flavor John Stewart was used for back in the JLA.

I say this obviously not just to be cranky. I openly yell to the heavens for someone to come in and make the women matter again. Joss Whedon put Kitty Pride and the White Queen front and center in his amazing run on Astonishing X-Men. More than that, he made them more than worthless eye-candy in butt floss. He gave them dimension, and class. They weren’t in peril for perils’ sake.

Given Whedon’s pedigree for good female characterization, it didn’t come as a surprise. Whedon aside, other Marvel writers certainly have the know-how. Matt Fraction, Brian Michael Bendis and Jonathon Hickman are all amazing writers who know the ins and out of nuance. They’ve each made the females in their books (yes that includes Pepper in the aforementioned Iron Man series) very potent. But my gripe remains the same.

It’s not enough to write a woman as powerful, smart, and put-together. It’s the act of writing them as such that they are more than decoration. Throughout Marvel’s recent history, it’s been a literal boys-club. Civil War? Captain America and Iron Man fighting in the sandbox. Secret War? An excuse to make Norman Osbourn king of the playground – until sales dipped, and people stopped caring. And now we have Fear Itself, which as far as I can tell is only an excuse to half-kill Thor, and dress everyone up in Tron-stripes.

I yearn just once to have a female character in any of these situations stand up and set the world straight. Not to say it’s happened in the DC ever… but I actually believe Marvel has the smarts to actually do it. In this day and age where the DCnU turns Starfire and Catwoman into sultry sluts with no character trait beyond their cup size… I look to the House of Ideas to set the industry right.

When DC was making up Kryptonite and the color yellow the ultimate weapons against its heroes, Marvel figured out that debt, responsibility, and a guilty conscience was far better. Let us hope that in the coming times, they take the next step and realize that women are more than tits and tiny costumes. They are the fairer sex, the stronger characters, and perhaps the last untouched resource for superior fiction.

SUNDAY: John Ostrander

Welcome back to the Fishtopia, gentle readers. Once again, I’m refraining from dumping all over DC. I know, bold move. But boldness is what I’m known for. Boldness, being Jewish, and uhh… having a beard. I thought I’d tickle my fantasy bone today and open a door to a magic land. Come with me, won’t you? We open on a cool, crisp Chicago late afternoon. A chilly breeze blows through my thick beardly-locks. The lake air wafts past my nose, bringing with it the scents of a city. A hotdog dragged through the garden. Buttery deep dish pizza choked with cheese and sausage. Hipster-douchebags in knit caps, skinny jeans, and too much Old Spice. Ahhhh. I gaze longingly at the Lake. A lonely boat drifts in the distance. My iPhone rings. Oh! It’s Marvel calling.

Me: Hello?

Them: Marc-E-Marc! It’s Axel!

Me: The Axe-Man! What’s the happy haps?

Them: So we just have to get you on the payroll here. It’s been too long!

Me: I know, I know. What do you have in mind? Another Slingers mini? Maybe Matt and I can knock out that Darkhawk book we keep pitching to you?

Them: Oh no, bubbala. I got something better. Something you’ve been dying for.

Me: No.

Them: Oh… oh yes.

Me: Say it. I want to hear you say it.

Them: OK Fish. Malibu. It’s yours.

At this point my legs go a bit limp. I find a bench. All is right with the world.

It’s no secret. I loved Malibu Comics’ Ultraverse. I owned nearly every book they published. If a genie were to grant me three wishes… bringing them back is the first thing I’d ask for (after world peace and a carb and calorieless Mac and Cheese). For those who aren’t familiar, let me dial up the pop-tart sized Wikipedia entry for you to wolf down before we proceed.

In 1993, a small publisher, Malibu Comics, decided to put out a line of superhero books. Hey why not, everyone else was doing it! The “Ultraverse” as it were, was a fun romp not beleaguered by decades of history (like Marvel or DC), knee-deep in boobs and guns (Ahem, Image…), nor entrenched in wads of super-science and hyper-continuity (like Valiant). Malibu’s line was just about the fun. Characters with barely believable backstories fighting baddies with a wide array of appropriated super-powers. As a 12-year old, I ate it up like a church group at a Sunday buffet. Yeah, I went there.

Fast forward to the mid-nineties… and sales dropped. Turned out all those issues of the Death of Superman weren’t worth thousands, and people were getting tired of counting the flaps of Spawn’s cape in a book of 17 splash pages. Marvel picked up the ashes of the now unpopular Ultraverse, and laid them to rest after a failed crossover. Ever since, I’ve wanted to grab those dirty ashes and reanimate them to their former glory. Here’s how…

Keeping things to their own li’l separate universe would be key. Call me crazy, but usurping an entire universe and rewriting continuity just to force a few has-beens into a modern setting seems like the dumb kid trying to wedge the square into the circle hole. Sound like anyone you know? Nah, me neither. Anyone here reading Voodoo and Grifter yet? But I digress!

I would make a batch of four or five books, akin to Marvel’s successful (turned boring, turned Jeph Loeb nightmare, turned interesting again) Ultimate line. A solid solo adventure book. A sturdy team book. Something to explore the fantasy/sci-fi angle. Maybe a nice villain-centered book. And then? A book with Wolverine in it. Hey, even in my wildest dreams, I need to sell some books. Allow me to pontificate.

My solo book? Prime. Here’s a character that begs to brought back. Taking the original Captain Marvel concept (a boy who can transform into a 20/30 something super-man), but adding a pinch of angst… makes this a title to appeal to teens and not-teens alike. Billy Batson is gee-golly-gosh cool. Seriously. I loved Mike Kunkel’s Johnny DC title. But we ain’t talkin’ about Billy.

Prime’s alter-ego is (was) Kevin Green… troubled youth. With a chip on his shoulder and an attitude problem, he’s the quintessential anti-Batson. Where a Peter Parker or Clark Kent have that “boy next door” charm, and a happy demeanor in and out of costume… Kevin is at that perfect age where he knows all the answers, and still can’t get girls to dig him. But when danger is afoot, he activates his liquid flesh power, and becomes the hyper-muscular Prime. Unlike a Marvel or Captain America though… Prime is instinctively still a teenager. He’s quick to anger. Quick to fight. And he’s powerful enough that no one is going to tell him otherwise, by force or not. Add in some crazy scientist arch nemesis and robots to trash? Maybe a love triangle where Kevin has the hots for a teen girl in high school, and a seductive Super Heroine as Prime? The book practically writes itself! Will Kevin lose his virginity to the super-slut, or save himself for prom? And how can he fight the evil mutant army, when he still needs to clean his room!?

How about a team adventure? Well, look no further than The Strangers. When a group of seven random passengers aboard a San Francisco trolley get hit by sentient alien lightning, they are imbued with super powers. They must unite to fight a mysterious eighth citizen who’s bent on taking over the city! OK, simple pitch aside, what I loved about The Strangers back in the day still holds true now. The pure oddity of powers given matched with completely dissimilar character types makes a book that never stops being fun for fun’s sake. The team is led by an art school student with Firestorm level matter-altering powers (and he doesn’t have the restriction of needing to know how to convert matter a la Ronnie or Jason). His best friend, a hot-head with a Guy Gardner level chip on his shoulder, is constantly trying to steal the spotlight. There’s a street urchin who’s more interested in using his super speed to score and sell drugs. A fashion designer who could care less about her new powers… she’s got a business to run. And did I mention the team has a hooker-android with electrical powers that may be remotely controlled by a mad scientist? What wouldn’t this book have people?!

OK, one more before I go. Mantra. For the sword and sorcery set who dig a little gender bending to boot. A warrior cursed to live eternally is reborn once more, after a thousand years… but this time, in the body of a woman! Having to acclimate himself to a modern world he’s not ready for, in a body he can’t get used to! It’s a fish out of water, with boobs. Marvel at Mantra as she fights against evil modern-day warlocks and demons… while trying to get the hang of sports bras and depilatories. Sex and the City meets Dungeons and Dragons, folks. Come get some.

Of course, you can’t actually get some. Malibu’s contracts were coated in leagues of red tape and legal roadblocks. Marvel tried to unearth the Ultraverse in 2005, but it go no further than a wish on the wind. And while no one of importance cared… I cried that lone American-Indian-on-the-side-of-the-road tear. Normally, I’d figure out a nifty way to end my column. A nice summation told via a pun or a wicked barb aimed at a worthy foe.

But I’m too sad right now. So I’m just ending with a bitter plea. Someone out there give me a million dollars, so I can go make this happen. No? You’re a bunch of jerks!

SUNDAY: John Ostrander

Hello all. Welcome back to my angry little corner of the interwebosphere. Last week I bitched and moaned about variant covers… and well, you all agreed with me. Thank you. Not that we’ll see that stop mind you, but at least I know I’m not alone when I scoff. I know everyone this week has the DCnU on the brain. But honestly? I’m tired of it. Some books are amazing (Action Comics, Animal Man), some are profoundly underwhelming (Justice League, JLI), and some defy all logic for being printed (Voodoo. I know it’s not out yet, but come on.). Six months from now, when 1/3 of these comics are poop-canned, will anyone be surprised? Nope. DC has never shied away from gimmicks. So enjoy the ride. But I digress. Instead of adding to the tidal wave of blather about DC this week, I want to talk about something far more important. I want to talk about my son.

This past Tuesday, September 13th, my wife and I got our 20-week ultrasound. Breaking tradition (we’re totally into SPOILER ALERTS) we decided to find out the sex of our baby. I can’t tell a lie (ok, I can, but for the sake of argument… I won’t.) – I wanted a boy. And right there, in blue and black, my little guy waved hi to me. It was an experience I’ll never forget. The fear, the joy, all of it combined in that little hospital room. My best friends (Matt of Unshaven Comics and his lovely wife, Amy) are two weeks ahead of Kathy and me. They found out last week they are having a boy too. Thus the scions of Unshaven Comics will be here in January/February of 2012. When they enter this world, there’s no way to escape it: comic books will be an integral part of their lives. The question is… what comics will be?

Growing up, my parents didn’t read to me. I don’t have a single memory of my parents sitting by my bedside reading Goodnight Moon. My folks aren’t readers, honestly. It’s never bothered me. I myself don’t consider reading all that much of a hobby. Every moment I’m awake I’m generally working. For my employer. For Unshaven Comics. For ComicMix. For my wife. For your wife. Confession time kids. The only time I read (and 99% of the time we’re talking comic books here) I’m on the can. Only an idiot like me would try to be double productive when I’m pooping. Why just defecate when I can be entertained at the same time?!

All this being said though, I’ve made it a point to myself to share the joy of the written word (and the drawn picture) with my son. The escapism, imagination, and craft of a good book, or good comic for that matter is something I want my son to enjoy as early in his life as possible. Not just cause his daddy loves it mind you… Because in this day and age where 140 characters has come to represent a complete thought, stopping to read even 20 pages of muscly guys punching other muscly guys is better than the ADD-riddled alternative. The TV, the computer, the cellphone? All have a place in my son’s life, but it’s not going to be the end-all-be-all for his entertainment needs.

So what’s my evil master plan? First and foremost, Daddy is gonna read Fishy 2.0 all of Unshaven Comics. I yearn for the day my son is on the playground and an exchange goes something like this:

Random snot-nosed other kid: Superman would beat the Hulk!

Lil’ Fishman: And Liberty’s Torch would beat Superman!!

Random snot-nosed other kid: Who’s that?

Lil’ Fishman: Just the coolest super-est hero that ever lived! Duh! (Little Fishy then proceeds to detail all he knows about his Dad’s super-hero creations. Soon, the entire elementary school is ready for The Samurnauts… and I’m a millionaire.)

All ego-stroking aside, when introducing my future son to comic books, the plan is simple: What Dad reads, the son shall read as well. As soon as possible, I want to introduce my son to great “all-ages” books like Tiny Titans (or essentially anything by Art and Franco) and a little Archie. As he grows up, I’ll open up my collection to him. If he’s receptive to it, I’ll proudly read just about any book I own with him.

Obviously I’ll turn on my parental V-chip to ensure the content is kid-appropriate. But one thing that I’m a huge proponent of is not shielding my eventual child from the world. I’ve never smoked a cigarette. Simply put, child rearing scares the hell out of me. Last night I read for an hour about baby poop, how to help a child say his first word, and how to look for warning signs if baby is gonna spray you when changing a diaper. But when it comes to entertaining my son, there’s no question. The entire world of comic books is open to him. I’ll start small, and simple, and slowly introduce him to all the great genres – be it superhero, western, sci-fi, horror, love, fantasy, pulp, noir, and maybe even a little of all of it (i.e. GrimJack). Ultimately, my son will gain his own identity, and I know it’s my job then to nurture it, and let him find his own way. Even if he ends up liking the X-Men. God help me.

I’ve never been drunk. I’ve never taken an illegal drug. And my parents never once had to sit me down to explain any of it. I watched what I wanted to watch. I read what I wanted to read. And they were always quick to explain to me anything that was confusing or “adult.” I intend to do the same. Does that mean my son will read the Watchmen at 8? Probably not alone, but his dad will gladly read it with him. He’ll learn about history through the lens of fiction. It will create a curiosity about the world… and I can’t think of a better way to help my son learn, grow, and come into his own.

And when he turns 16, I’ll lend him The Pro. That outta’ keep him… interested.

SUNDAY: John Ostrander

When my mother asked me why I was buying up all the comics I could, I made an attempt to satisfy her underlying problem. “I’m not wasting my money, Mom, these comics are worth money!” She bought that. Years later, she asked me when I was going to sell them and enjoy the tidy profit. Wouldn’t you know it? All those copies of Night Man and Mantra weren’t worth the paper they were printed on. And my Walgreens copy of Cyberforce: Bloodstryke? Nary a nickel would be given to me by any one aside from maybe Marc Silvestri. Had I been smart enough, I would have picked up the holo-foil variant cover, and nabbed me a dime.

You see kiddos, when I got into comics, the ‘Variant’ cover ruled the land. In the go-go-nineties, when people suddenly thought comic books were highly coveted collectables, the publishers followed suit by releasing a veritable tidal wave of ‘comicas con variantas.’ Short supply equaled high demand, and before you know it… even your next-door neighbor (who can’t tell Batman from Man-Bat) is collecting comic books. Me personally? I couldn’t care less. Have a seat. Get comfy. Let me pull out my jar of poetry wax. It’s time to polish up the Rant-O-Tron 5000.

Collectables by and large bother me. The idea that you would purchase a toy, a poster, a print, or a talking rubber fish all with the notion that it’d eventually mint you a tidy profit seems ludicrous to me. Toys are meant to be played with. Art is meant to be displayed. And those talking rubber fish? They’re meant to be in RVs in the south.

The same goes for comic books. Maybe I’m alone in this sentiment (and I hope in fact that I’m not) but comic books are meant to be read. Comic books as collectables just irks me a bit. Scratch that. Comic book collectors who don’t enjoy the medium for anything other than the potential profit? They irk me.

Unlike commemorative plates, baseball cards, or Hollywood memorabilia, comic books are made with the intent to entertain. Writers sat at typewriters concocting amazing fantasies for their fictitious creations. Artists slaved over their drawing boards meticulously adding nuance, detail, and action to the written word. And a literal team of other players had their hands in the pot… from the letterers, colorists, inkers, designers, and editors who spent their work week fretting over deadlines to eventually put their book on a store shelf… and you don’t even take the time to read it? Next time do me a favor, buy a limited edition Billy Bass.

But Marc, you protest, what about those smart people who minted thousands upon thousands for their rare Action Comics #1, or Detective Comics #27? What about them, indeed. Neither were a “Holo-Foil Sketch Blank Autographed Variant.” And 75 years from now, if you think your copy of the “B” cover of Justice League 2011 will be worth thousands of dollars more than the standard “A” cover… well, you are welcome to dance on my grave if it’s true.

Suffice to say, I’ve never bought a comic strictly for the purpose of profiting. And for those who do, while I don’t deny you the right to spend your money however you see fit: I scoff at you on principle alone.

For the publishers who produce them, it must seem like a brilliant idea. In John Ostrander’s piece a few weeks back, we learned that the comic book market is such that the publishers don’t sell to the consumers. They sell to retail shops who in turn sell to us. So their spin-off squeeze play is nothing more than an attempt to hike up sales a bit more. Dynamite alone must produce an Alex Ross variant every other week, for every other book they publish. In turn the shops might feel compelled to order enough of the base book to “earn” those packed-in variants, and in-turn mark them up for sale to the saps, err, collectors who come into their stores. I love Alex Ross’s work kids, I do. But they day I’m chasing down a Green Hornet Year One Sketch Cover Variant C, break a NASCAR Jeff Gordon plate across my face. Before anything else, a comic is there to be read and enjoyed.

Agree? Disagree? You know the drill. Let me have it below.

SUNDAY: John Ostrander

Ladies and gentlemen… We gather here today to mourn the loss of a cherished friend. DeeCee was many things to many people. Entertainer. Educator. Detective. Optimist. Friend. Let us take this time to recount those times that touched us, before DeeCee passed on into the ethereal void of blackness.

DeeCee, above all else, seemed impervious to the mortality we all must face. Since his birth in 1934 (back when we call just called him Nate Alypub) DeeCee has been one to cite the changing times as his own catalyst for reinvention. The world went to war, and with it, so did DeeCee. When our world became fixated on the cosmos above, did he not put on his space suit and power ring? Against his better judgment, DeeCee proudly sported a mighty and magnificent mullet in the late 80s. He was never afraid to put on a pair of cowboy boots. Let us never forget when we all thought he was dead, back in 1992. Even from those bleak times, he rose once again, stronger than ever. When the world grew grim and gritty, DeeCee broke his back in that tragic accident. But did he not pick himself up and reclaim his mantle without pause?

I want to take some time now too, to acknowledge DeeCee’s extended family. We were all crushed by the tragic end of his cousins Tan Gent and Elle Swirlds. DeeCee was always so proud of their accomplishments! I’m touched to see in attendance today DeeCee’s brothers, Vern Tigo and Wiley Storm. Vern, DeeCee was always quick to note how you were the sobering realist and macabre dreamer to his starry-eyed optimist. And Wiley… How could we ever forget when DeeCee adopted you, and kept you afloat during your more troublesome past?

DeeCee was rich in family, but even richer in friends. I see gathered here today a veritable pantheon of personalities, in support of the loss of our friend. Marv-El… we all know how you and DeeCee butted heads throughout your friendship. Before you moved out to Hollywood, you and DeeCee could always be seen sitting in the park, debating this and that. And who among us didn’t beam ear to ear when you two ended a years-long feud and amalgamated your friendship! Also among us are some of DeeCee’s friends from later in life… Val, Imogene, “Boom-Boom” Burt, Ava Tarr… so nice to see you all.

It may very well be the elephant in the room today, friends. DeeCee’s untimely demise was something so many of us saw coming. Who here didn’t scoff just a little this past spring, when he told us all about his trip to Flushing? “Everything will be different after this!” he told us. And we just let him go. He’s had these flights of fancy time and time again. Crisis after Crisis, did we not keep supporting him? He’s always bounced back stronger, we told ourselves. And sure, this trip didn’t sound like anything we hadn’t heard him rant about before. Time travel? Alternate futures? It’s all old-hat for DeeCee. Who would guess though that in a single splash, he would be forever lost to us all. Who among us today thought his last words were anything more than the usual hyperbole DeeCee was known for using?

But I digress. Today’s service isn’t meant to wallow in the demise of our cherished friend. DeeCee would want us to look to the future, as he always had. Most importantly, he would want us to acknowledge his biggest legacy, his son, DeeCee Jr.

Junior is just a week old, and it will be a challenge for him to live, thrive, and survive in these tough times. DeeCee’s legacy will live on in Junior. Though his first steps seem to have stumbled, let us all here in attendance support him here in his infancy. He has the world at his fingertips, and his potential is limitless. May he be inspired by the past, but now wallow in it. May he grow into his own man over time. Let the world adopt him with new eyes and old hearts. For within his gleaming eyes are infinite worlds of infinite possibilities.

Let us now rise, as DeeCee’s charred, limp, decimated body is lowered into the ground. Amen.

SUNDAY: John Ostrander

So, there I was, doing what I suppose I do far too often… scouring Facebook for status updates. A quick refresh, and there was an update from a friend saying how “This is not my Bucky Barnes.” He was referencing a purchase he’d recently made of a golden age Bucky figure, and how he hated the new Winter Soldier-era Barnes figure. Suffice to say, after seeing his umpteenth remark how a modern interpretation of one of the classic comic book heroes he loved so dearly rubs his rhubarb the wrong way, I had enough.

Call it being cantankerous in my own “Hey, I know you think I’m too young to form a real opinion, but screw you, I can anyways” way… but I’d like to say that this kind of general malaise towards interpretation and experimentation grinds my gears to a screeching halt. In short? Quit your bitchin’ gramps. It’s 2011. Your childhood memories remain intact, in spite of your fear that they won’t.

It’s this common thread amongst the older comic book fans that I truly find offensive. Maybe that’s not the right word. I’m not implying it’s anyone here on ComicMix mind you, but the conglomerate of silver/golden-age dick-chuggers who poop their pampers anytime anything changes in the fictitious worlds of their youth, drags us all down. We’re all entitled to our opinion, mind you, and I don’t deny anyone their right to express that opinion. See folks, I’m young, under-appreciated, and don’t know shit-about-nothing; But I’m taking this time to start a large debate. Mind you no one will answer my call, but I’ve never not had fun at screaming into the black abyss of the internet before.

This notion, that the creators of today can’t reinterpret a character because it’s not their version of the character, is a waste of breath. Ed Brubaker’s retcon of Bucky Barnes as the Winter Soldier was an amazing feat. He took a character that was long gone, and brought him back in a story that got real attention from new fans. Here was this relic of another era, repurposed for modern times, done with a deft hand. His origin remained intact. He never took away from the character who he was. Yes, he turned a once chipper, bright-eyed innocent kid (who had no problem murdering Nazis with guns) into a cold and ruthless killer.

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Welcome back to ComicMix’s resident snark machine. So far, I’d taken a nice big steaming load all over Barry Allen, Hal Jordon, and the X-Men. Last week, for those counting, I shilled for my own book. Based on the lack of comments, I realized ya’ll don’t care bout that. I figured I needed your love back, so I should turn my attention back to being a mean so-and-so.

I wanted to folks, I really did. But wouldn’t you know it, I’m still all fuzzy inside from last week. Since it’s rare I’m not completely bitter about something, it’s high time I send up some praise for something I’m reading. Simply put, of all the books I’ve read in the past four to five years, none have been more consistently good as Secret Six. Now that’s it’s over, this article is my way of uncapping the twist-off to my bottle of Old Milwaukee, and pouring it out on the street corner. My last week of cheerful glee is dedicated to you, Catman and company.

Let’s get the wiki-notes on the series here first, for those eternally late to the party: Secret Six used to be a hero book back in the late 60s. I didn’t read it. It was retconned/updated in the late 80s. Didn’t read that one either. In 2005 though, the team was brought back as a villainous mercenary team (by way of Gail Simone) in Villains United. I read it. I liked it. A year later, the team surfaced again, in a mini-series. Bought that one too. Loved it. And in 2008, the book was given on-going status. And into my subscription pile it went.

Oh, Secret Six… how I love you. Let me count the twisted ways. First and foremost? The characterization. The book has always followed a cast of ne’er-do-wells, and it knows that. They kill. They maim. They slaughter. But it’s never violence for violence sake. Unlike the bloated 90s where villainy became a trend, here it’s used to drive the book. I’ve never liked the idea of a mercenary book. It’s akin to playing D+D. Just because your character wants money, doesn’t make it interesting. Simone, with her cast of cretins keeps the book running on a near existential exploration of what bad is. But never is that drive just there to run the book through it’s paces. Only in a single set of issues did I ever find myself musing on if the book was on cruise control. But I digress. Gail Simone’s best asset throughout the three year run was never forgetting that a team book is best served through its characters.

The heart of the book began with Catman. Once nothing more than a complete joke (see Brad Meltzer’s run on Green Arrow), Simone put the claws back on, so-to-speak. Driven by a moral code, but knowing his own strengths… he rooted the book firmly as a natural leader. By the final stand of the Six in #36, one could picture him going toe to toe with any of the cape-and-cowled, and easily being top cat.

Over time, the focus of the book shifted to many others on the team. Simone never left a teammate as just a warm body. Ragdoll, Deadshot, Scandal Savage and badass banshee Jeanette all took turns in the limelight. More than any of them though, it was the treatment of Batman B-Lister, Bane, that stole the show for me.

Once relegated to his “oh, the guy who broke Batman’s back” status, and then a brief (and terrible) turn as an anti-hero left him as a carcass of a character. Placing him at first as just the “big guy who looks good standing in the back” on the team… it was a beautifully slow burn Simone lit under the character that ultimately ended the book. It was a thing of beauty. Spoiler alerts be damned. With the books cancelation upon them, Simone and her team (including the always fantastic, and forever underrated Jim Califiore) let Bane close the book. Driven by the idea that his own moral code would bring him 666 feet under heaven, Bane snapped.

In spite of his better efforts, Simone had hid his truly evil ways under layers of humor, sincerity, and near genial moments since his addition to the book. With literally nothing left to lose, the beast hands out viles of venom to the team for a last stand in Gotham. Ten years ago, it would have been fodder for “hulked-up villains” for an issue, devoid of depth. Here? Gail lets his heart bleed out on his sleeve; It was an emotional catharsis for a character I’d grown to honestly love reading every month. If someone at DC is reading this, I only pray they don’t let this get shuffled in the impending star-wipe.

For all I’ve bitched and moaned about in my column thus far, Secret Six represented every counter argument to my problems. Barry Allen? Milquetoast personified. Try out Ragdoll, who can’t deliver a single line in 36 issues that didn’t equally creep me out, make me laugh, or give a glimmer of depth when most writers would relegate him to just comic relief. Hal Jordan? Once a cocksure ring slinger turned “just another heroic white guy.” Give me Deadshot any day. In 36 issues, he was rarely without a quip, and a “I’m here for the fun, seriously” attitude. Brilliant.

And the X-Men? They change teams more than I change polo shirts. Secret Six has too, but somehow they never lost their core. And when new members entered the team, Gail hasn’t just thrown them into the background to fill out an action sequence. Hell, with the addition of King Shark (a mort if I ever saw one) just a handful of issues before their demise, she still managed to make him a hilarious and awesome addition. I think that bears repeating. She made king fucking shark a character I liked. While Johns, Lee, and DiDio continue to de-pants its women, Gail, Nicola Scott, and eventually Jim Califiore opted to display their women with class, grit, and nuance. Class. Grit. Nuance. Someone please pay attention. This is how books need to be written.

I tried to find a counter point to the love-in kiddos. I really did. But Secret Six for the last three years has been nothing short of wild entertainment. Simone and her excellent artists brought balance to a team book that focused its time and efforts in who they were as much as what they were. I for one will miss them, and honestly, because she’s not attached to the newly minted Suicide Squad (a sister concept to this one) I have little plan to return. They say go out with a bang. Gail went out with a nuclear explosion to the nads. Until her name (or maybe Ostrander’s…) graces a villainous page again, I’ll nurse my new-found cancer left in its wake. Ain’t that a shot of Tabasco in the eye.

Please note… I don’t actually have cancer. But there’s a hole in my soul where this book dug its claws in. Knowing that it’s replacement is a book with Harley Quinn dressed as a psychoslut is such that I cry myself to sleep at night.

SUNDAY: John Ostrander