Author: Marc Alan Fishman

Marc Alan Fishman: Rejected!

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This past week, Unshaven Comics was once again given the most sincere and polite brush off from a show promoter to be a part of the Artist Alley. The show was ReedPop’s C2E2, in Chicago.

For the record: Unshaven Comics has never missed exhibiting at this show. We consider it our home show. But a few years back, we were denied access to the part of the floor where we feel the most comfortable. We were faced with a hard choice — pay over twice the cost to have a table in the Small Press area, or forgo the show. We bit the bullet. We sold our beards off. And we still made profit.

For the record, Unshaven Comics is not a small press company in my estimation. We’re a studio that produces a single book, penalized for having the gall to want to share a single 8-foot table.

I’m not going to lie: I’ve been bitter ever since. Bitter still now, the third year in a row I have cut a check for a larger sum of money than I’d like, to ensure our localish fans know we still are alive and well.

Am I mad at the promoter, ReedPop? No. I don’t even fear repercussions for posting this op-ed. Reed isn’t concerned about the comings and goings of a speck of dust on the outskirts of the indie comic market. For as much as I’d like to inflate my resume of comic bookery, the simple truth is if Unshaven turned off the lights in the studio tomorrow maybe a few dozen people would really notice. I’m not saying this for pity. I’m just well-aware of the beast we’re trying to slay. In the land of content, he who can only produce (at best) a book a year, is not high in demand.

ReedPop, as all show promoters, are in business to do one thing: get butts in a building, spending wads of cash. And with the advent of on-demand printing, digital publishing, and affordable content creation tools out there, the industry feels choked to the nines with creators all vying for the same spaces. Granted, some of these artists are just trying for a quick smash-and-grab, applying a few filters and a few simple style choices to produce a litany of printed kitsch meant to attract the lowest common denominator. This is a topic for a whole other piece.

At the end of the day, show promoters must choose from those who apply for their space who will best attract those aforementioned butts. Whatever their selection process may be, Unshaven Comics must adhere to the same application rules as literally every other artist in line. Whatever boxes we check or don’t check off is all in the eye of the beholder. But this article isn’t really in defense of those choices. I am not a show-promoter. I know some amazing show-promoters. They have an unenviable job in my humblest of estimations. I write this week to tell you honestly how it feels to be told we’re not good enough.

But before I do, let me dog-pile on the pity party. C2E2’s rejection of Unshaven for their Alley wasn’t the least bit surprising to me. Since we’ve upgraded to the small press area the last few years, I believe we’re earmarked as suckers who they know will pay… and so we pay. And we still make it work. So it goes. It’s the combination of their rejection compounded on being recently turned away on a pair of smaller local shows that really shook me more than I’d honestly thought they would.

To hear from shows that are in my backyard declining to offer my studio a spot while I see literally dozens of my friends and colleagues being welcomed as guests of honor leaves me feeling truly rejected. On the precipice of finishing the final chapter in our Samurnauts mini-series (seriously… it’s being colored right now. We’re so close I can almost taste it.), 2017 is a do-or-die year for me and my bearded brethren. Every show counts. Every show is an opportunity to declare victory over a beast that has taken five years to slay. And to be told we’re not good enough, while our friends are lauded with social media call-outs is a gut punch I’m finding hard to shake off.

We have an amazing fan base. That I can include people like Mike Gold, Martha Thomases, John Ostrander, and Glenn Hauman amongst them is one of those little factoids that keep my heart beating and pen moving every night. That we still have fans — strangers met at conventions who have purchased our wares and continue to support us — clamoring for Unshaven to continue to fight our way into any show that will have us? Well, it’s the lit matches I’ll continue to use every time our fire begins to dim.

And I know right now, this article may be reaching any number of compatriots in the exact same boat as my little production house. Talented, driven creators being denied access to tens of thousands of potential customers… all so the guy who just sells posters of cheesecake pinups or indie darlings whose ‘zines aren’t worth the artisanal rice paper they’re printed on can hock their wares next to the same standby medium-famous artists and celebrities that are always there. Well, to you, I say be bitter with me.

We live in a gilded age, whether you believe it or not. There are more cons out there now than ever before. So, if ReedPop says no, so be it. Take the anger and the money you would have dropped on that show and find another. And another. Take your books to the local comic shop, and offer to do a signing. Do anime shows. Book shows. Craft fairs. Flea markets. Go anywhere and everywhere. And keep making your comics and art. The more you produce, the better you’ll become. The better you become, the better your product. And eventually, the better your product, the more people will notice. Those people have butts. And those butts wind up walking into big shows. And with that…

…you just might be see the acceptance you deserve. If you don’t believe me, be my guest and quit. More room for Unshaven Comics.

Marc Alan Fishman: A Guide To Geek Gifting

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Well, it’s about that time again when the goyem are all a’flutter over black Fridays and Christmas lists and all that jazz. I admit, in my family, the holidays were never extravagant excuses for excess. My birthday is December 28th and I was a little mercenary (as my mother would tell you), so more often than not I was never the type who had to have the thing. I was more or less a “give me cash so I can go get myself something nice” kinda tot. Just roll Chanukah and my birthday into one and drop me off at Best Buy.

But then, like all nerdy children, I got older. And while I retained my love of monetary tribute, amongst my own brood of kin (a.k.a. Unshaven Comics), there was a desired propensity to give actual gifts that were sincerely well thought out and received with aplomb. Kyle one year got me a brick of rewritable CDs. I have yet to forgive him. But I digress.

When we have those people in our lives who are of a certain persuasion – some label it as nerdy, others say geeky, and the refined say collectors – being able to produce a gift that shows we love them and that they will actually like can seem impossible. Well, my friends, here’s one collector’s key tips to getting your nebbish nerd a knickknack they’ll cherish for a good long while.

Find out where they shop and play detective

Most comic book fans will have a local comic emporium from which they procure their pulp on a regular basis. Why not visit said shoppe and inquire as to their taste. If your local proprietor is anything like mine, they can shuffle through the subscription box of your giftee and steer you in the right direction. More often than not we covet random statues, action figures, and Absolute editions of books that are just beyond the pale of normal purchasing. Any of them are entirely perfect choices, as directed by someone in the know. You look like a hero, and they get something to display and or read!

It’s OK to go Gift Card if you think Experience not Product

Look, I said it above: I am a fan of monetary gifts. But as a nerd? I actually love the challenge of a gift that forces me out of my comfort zone. If you give me a gift card to a store I wouldn’t normally frequent, well, now I have an opportunity to shop someplace new. For the nerd at heart this is actually a great thing. An even better expericnce: when the gift card is an experience not just a collectible. A gift card to a nice restaurant, the movies, the local arcade, paintball range, etc., is the perfect excuse to lure your resident nerd out of their man or woman cave out into the real world. And if they scoff, tell them it’s a LARP quest and pat yourself on the back.

Subscriptions are the gift that keep on giving

There’s little to no doubt that a well-connected nerd is likely to have a subscription or two. Netflix, Hulu, Amazon Prime, Spotify, Xbox Live, Playstation Network, ComicBlitz, or any odd MMORPG out there… all tether their user base to a monthly fee to enjoy their wares. I’ll bet dollars to donuts that your special little guy or gal isn’t subscribed to all of the ones I mentioned. Pick up the tab on any one they don’t have, for even three to six months And you’ll be opening a world of content to them that they’re otherwise not enjoying. And in case it wasn’t clear before? For geeks, nerds, dweebs, collectors, and nerf-herders alike… content is king.

When all else fails… Ask them!

I would rather admit to someone who is hard to shop for that I want to please them than simply give a bad gift. More often than not, the nerds in our lives (myself very much included) are always ready to blather on and on about the random assortment of hobbies we’re tending to at a given time. To have a loved one, or cherished friend reach out and want to be involved in the minutiae of our modest loves is oftentimes all we’re really seeking in the first place – something to celebrate (ahem, geek out over) with those who can appreciate it too. The day my wife sits down with me to ask what’s going on with the WWE is the day we… uhh… well… none of your business.

And on that note? Good luck in your shopping escapades. Of course, you could always check out ComicMix’s (or Unshaven Comics) fine offerings of books and related bric-a-brac for your favorite comic connoisseur.  Not to be shameless here folks… just fearlessly capitalistic!

Happy shopping!

Marc Alan Fishman: Where’s Superman When We Need Him?

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This morning (I prep my stuff on Tuesday) I flicked on my Facebook feed to see a pair of news stories — real ones — that caused me to sincerely take pause. The first was vapid enough: Internet D-Lister Tila Tequila sieg heils at an Italian eatery. The second one, a bit less oh who cares, denoted that a room full of white nationalists (a.k.a. “The Alt-Right,” a.k.a. fucking Nazi Klansmen) had a conference ending with their leading ideologue declaring that Jews may be “soulless golem” amongst a litany of other unabashed hate-speech. For the first time in the wake of the presidential election, I actually took a breath to be floored — save only for Tuesday the 8th when Donald Trump was declared the winner of the highest office in our nation.

hitler-reads-superman-6557643And my only thought that came into focus was… Where’s Superman?

You see, Superman was created by a pair of Jewish children from Cleveland, born of immigrant families. Their greatest creation was (and still remains) a bit of a nod to the Jewish struggle. Kal-El, an alien born to an alien land was rocketed to safety as an infant by his parents who were unable to leave their land. He was a hero denied his homeland, granted amazing abilities that would separate him forever from those he would live and love on his adopted planet.

To be clear: Jews don’t have superpowers, save only for their amazing ability to control Hollywood, the media, and all global economies. But I digress.

The truth of the matter is I’m not oblivious to the world around me. But I’m certainly privileged, self-absorbed, and mostly invisible to the real hate that exists. In my own life, I’ve personally never been anything but celebrated for being Jewish. I grew up in a nice community where Jews were plentiful… all things considered. When I moved to Indianapolis for college, I saw bits and pieces of a different swatch of America, but, again, never once did I feel like my religious identity was truly ever under attack.

Please denote again that this was all from my sheltered, suburbanite, self-absorbed viewpoint.

Here and now, with swastikas swathed across my feed, my eyes squinted at the seething idiocy of it all. By all accounts, Tila Tequila is a waste of atoms. My only knowledge of her comes from the blurred memories of promos for some off-kilter reality show or two. That she has recently turned heads by being a Hitler apologist, pro-Trump, sieg heiling what-have-you? Only screams for a need for attention. When one’s relevance dies out, I suppose this is one road you could take to stop your declining fame.

The National Policy Institute, as run by the aforementioned Hitler youth, causes me no small amount of undesired stress. While Richard B. Spencer was only amongst 200 or so supporters in Washington D.C. when he decided to quote Nazi propaganda in the original German and liken my kin to animated clay statues, the fact that it has risen up the viral flagpole and ignited both pro and anti-movements is what leaves me clutching pulp and ink for solace. Mr. Spencer and his ilk are emboldened by our President-Elect and his appointment of Steve Bannon as a chief advisor. The King of the Alt-Right Internet sounding board (Breitbart.com) is now a stone’s throw away from the man with the nuclear codes. How could that not put a bit of pep in the step of the white-power movement? Even if Trump denounces them… actions speak louder than words. And Bannon is in. Christy is out.

It helps when one builds his election on locking up one’s opponent, erecting walls and disenfranchising immigrants, banning others from entering our country based on their religious beliefs, and generally winking and nodding at being a randy rascal who grabs attractive women by the kitty cats. But. I. Digress.

I never imagined that over the next four years— as my two sons begin to understand more about the world in which they live — that I would need to explain hate the way I’ll have to. When I was in Hebrew school and learned about the Holocaust, I was told of the devastation it caused within my family. My grandmother’s entire hometown was massacred. Much of her family did not survive. That personal connection was numbing. But, again: I lived in a nice suburb where The Holocaust was saved for special movies and solemn history lessons.

Modern-day civics had nothing to do with that kind of hate. That kind of hate had been pushed to the fringes of society, and me and my Jewish brethren were thriving. And now? Internet celebrities and fascist sycophants are being given headlines on CNN and round-the-clock coverage. Hate is now covered for ratings. Hate is now part of the zeitgeist.

And once again… I ask where is Superman now?

 

Marc Alan Fishman: Kooky Kickstarter Plugging Parade!

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This week I’m going to keep my preamble short. I’d like to call out some friends whose hard work has been poured into their Kickstarter campaign. Without being asked, bribed, or otherwise cajoled, I’d like to use my little corner of the interwebs this week to highlight them — and give you the skinny on why I’m compelled to gush all over their wares. Before that though… a quick digression:

Yes. Last year around this time, my studio successfully funded our own Kickstarter campaign to launch our very first graphic novel. And yes, we’re still working on it. And boy howdy are we a bunch of heels for thinking we could finish a book barely started in half the time the other books had taken us. Lesson to be learned: Don’t bite off more than you can chew. To be fair, the DNC told us the polls were in our favor. Suffice it to say the campaign I plug for you now are for a project that will be in your hands when the respective authors promise they’ll be. Unlike me, they are honest and trustworthy. Digression over.

Pencil Ink Presents: Neutron City Comix #1

I love all-ages comics. Period. Akin to Jerry Seinfeld, I believe that going blue is often less challenging (the cheap pop, if you will), and a quicker means to an end. In comics, this is a more grey-area, I admit. But here, Neutron City Comix is an unabashed equal-opportunity riot for everyone under 97 (but certainly anyone over 99 would love it too). In a nutshell, the book combines meta-humor, slapstick, wordplay, visual gags, and a tongue so firmly in cheek I’d fear biting off the tip if I giggle too much.

Neutron City is what happens when a web comic is literally forced off the web onto a conventional page for no better reason than the meta-reason of because the editor said so. The fact that the book refers to this, wraps pseudo-science jargon around it, and devolves (as too many things in pop culture) into yet-another-Star-Wars pastiche is equally hilarious as it is snarky.

The book follows a gaggle of nerds being nerdy, revolving around a comic shop. Haven’t seen that before? You’re a liar. Luckily, Neutron City knows it, and proceeds without wavering. Your normal collection of archetypes (the socially awkward genius, manic pixie snarky girl, slightly dimwitted every-kid, and a handful of adult-ish hangers-on) wax poetic in media res. If Deadpool had a G rating, no predilection for violence, and was totally not like Deadpool, you’d absolutely get Neutron City Comix. Natch.

Under many circumstances, the amount of wit required to be so rote would cause my eyeroll to be audible from space. Danny Limor (artist & writer du jour) is up to the task. When I’d read an advance copy (again, Danny and his brother / partner-in-crime Yoni, did not under any circumstances bribe me to do this), I was admittedly skeptical. To have a book know it’s a book, and continuously hang lampshade after lampshade on that fact requires a depth of comedic talents that Limor excels at. It helps that he’s a standup comedian. Combined with his simplified (but polished) cartooning skills, what makes it to page is a bright and inviting romp that made my four-year old giggle — even if I was the one getting 102% more of the jokes. Balancing act, indeed!

The book itself is 48 pages and is ready to bash your inner snark into submission. Which is helpful, as it was written (and drawn) a long time ago in a galaxy far away. Or… it was written like a year ago, and drawn around the same time. In… like… Nashville. I forget.

See. This is what they do. You get famous for writing on ComicMix, and they just give it to you. I like to grab ‘em by the newsprint. OK, Danny. Can I get my check now? Crap is this still on!?

Marc Alan Fishman: The New Old Local Comic Book Store Conundrum

zone-unshaven-comicsFor those of you who follow my life religiously, you’ll recall there was a time where I considered owning my own comics shop. In the end, I’d determined the barriers to entry and risk of the business was too rich for my blood. But I held out hope that soon, someone more willing than I would take the reins.

My prayers were answered, and to my delighted surprise the new proprietor reached out to me via Facebook to e-introduce himself and to welcome Unshaven Comics back to the Zone Comics and Games, 18107 Dixie Highway in Homewood, Illinois. And there was much rejoicing!

Across several conversations that followed the new owner was truly interested in partnering with my studio in as many ways as we could both conceive, beginning with inviting us to the grand re-opening (we’ll be signing tomorrow at noon in case you’re making the trek out!). Discussions of future workshops are on our collected docket. And to seal the deal with commerce, The Zone went ahead and placed the single largest order of books my little studio has ever seen.

zone-comicsNow, don’t get me wrong: to date we’ve only sold to individuals at conventions. We’ve long contemplated branching out to distribute to stores around our great city. But without a full series to sell (and time between books that is… well… sad), it never seemed appropriate for me to chase down retailers to have them shelve books that their customers couldn’t be sure to return for the next chapter of, the next week. It’s bad business for them, and us. But the Zone has the benefit of us being right in town. So, they’ll push our wares, no matter the time gaps between issues.

With all this support, I kvelved at the notion that finally Unshaven Comics would be considered the comic makers of our tiny burg. While a solid set of kids may know of us from our appearances at local and less-local comic-cons, now we’ll be placed on the front counter in a special display, telling kids that “Yes, some cool dudes in this town are making awesome books!”. It’s given me a feeling of pride that I’ve truly never felt before. Combine this with our recent partnership with our local Parks & Recreation department to offer a “Comic Book Making 101” class in the winter, and 2017 is shaping up to be a rather Unshaven Year.

But this leads me to my titular conundrum. You see, I’m not just a maker of comics. I, too, am a consumer. As such, my recent return to buying books monthly lead me to do business with my friends at Past Times Comics and Games in not-so-nearby Niles, Illinois. I shop with them because their manager is a long trusted friend whose original shop was the one where Unshaven first sold a book. I am loyal to a fault, and Past Times has served me wonderfully.

But now, oy, my heart aches. For you see the Zone now has me wondering how to support my comic buying habit as means of supporting their newfound life. After careful consideration? I’ve come up with a plan I think is quite worthy.

I will shop at both stores. From the Zone, I will procure the mainstream brik-a-brak that I’m presently enjoying (The Flash, Green Lanterns, Batman, Captain America, and Titans). From Past Times? I’ve concocted a truly interesting idea. I’ve given them carte blanche to create a package of books for me monthly — totaling no more than $20, and compromised of only non-mainstream books (Image counts. Vertigo, too. Essentially, as I’d told my pal: Just no capes I’d already know.) This way, I win and win again. My local shop will see monthly revenue for my guilty pleasures. My former shop — complete with my trust and blessings — will provide me new windows into the medium which will in turn help me provide new and interesting things to talk about here on ComicMix. As Michael Scott would say, that’s a win-win-win.

Your local comic shop needs the same amount of love. In a world of Lootcrates and the like, local businesses are forces to splinter and bend to the whim of a continually finicky consumer. To be the shop is to be the hub for the non-jocks. In our world where Doctor Strange mints over 90 million dollars domestically, the time to be a nerd has never been better. Our hometown pulp and paper slingers need to be at the center of our nerdy lives.

I’m now doing my part. How about you?

Marc Alan Fishman: Paint It Black

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Of the many shows I’ve consumed as of late, two spring to the front of my mind when I want to spice up dinner conversation: Marvel’s Luke Cage, and FX’s Atlanta. They are a yin and yang both birthed from the peanut-butter-chocolate combination that is nerd and black Americans. One show is about a noble black man granted the superhuman ability to rise above white hate. The other is about a loser just trying to get a win in a world built to see him fail. What unites both shows is the through-line of Black America.

Each show is intrepid in its fascination, celebration, exploitation, and segregation of the African-American experience in today’s Trumped-Up United States. Each show on its own is solid, thought-provoking at times, and flawed in their details. Taken as a pair,they become something astounding. At their core, neither could exist without black being right at the forefront.

I’ll spare you my snarky synopsis of each show. Suffice to say you’d be doing yourself a disservice if you choose to ignore either. Cage is on Netflix. Borrow your cousin’s login. Atlanta is on FX. So, in a month or two it’ll be on Hulu. Borrow your other cousin’s login for that one too, I suppose.

With Luke Cage, I freely admit my desire to enjoy it came solely on the knowledge that it was birthed from pulpy roots. I knew little to nothing of the character. Luke works with Iron Fist. He’s got impenetrable skin. He used to dress like a pirate princess. Now he’s a yellow shirted black Stone Cold Steve Austin. Jessica Jones had (has?) his baby. Yup. That’s literally everything I knew of the character. Based on the pedigree of Daredevil and Jessica Jones (vis a vis Netflix) though, I knew Cage would be a quality watch. What I didn’t count on was (as many on my feeds commented on as well) the show actually being about Harlem and the black experience… not just a strong black dude fighting super villains.

With Atlanta, I ensured my series record on the ole’ DVR based solely on my appreciation for all things Donald Glover. And for those following along? This is yet another time I’m eating my own words. Where I once lambasted Glover for being angtsy, it was shortly after writing that article I found myself accidently in love with Because the Internet. The former ensemble cast member of the cult-favorite Community became a near-daily listened-to recording artist on my Spotify playlists for his work as Childish Gambino. Glover on the mic is pensive and egotistical in the same breath. His beats – which some truer rap fans than I lambast him for cribbing from more popular nerdcore artists – are slick interplays of techno-screeches, dub-step-warble, and delightful shoegaze. To think that guy would choose to pen “Twin Peaks, with rappers” as an episodic dramedy sounded like a match made in heaven for my mind. Never mind that I considered whatever that output was going to be, was ever going to be… purposefully black.

While the shows contrast in their nature – one acting as a literal homage and elevation to Blaxsploitation, the other acting an arthouse flick spiraling out somewhere between a serial and anthology – they both share a love of microscopic explorations of black culture as means to build their narratives around.

In Cage, we got a well-read, black-culture-versed hero who is enthralled about authors like Walter Mosley and Ralph Ellison. And while he could jaw a bit with Method Man about his favorite Wu Tang Clan album, the series was sure to celebrate the breadth of black music – from Raphael Saadiq, Faith Evans, straight to legends like The Delfonics and Sharon Jones and the Dap-Kings. With Pop’s Barbershop as the “neighborhood Switzerland,” we got a central part of modern black culture woven straight into the fabric of the series. And while not every character on the show was given depth… even background players like Bobby Fish and Turk were allowed to show how they worked to provide for their own through the seedy underbelly of Harlem Luke Cage would be coerced to protect by season’s end.

Atlanta’s black America is far less united in history and shared gravitas. The Big Peach of Glover’s pen is dissected across multiple social strata. Glover’s character, Earn, is a burnout trying to burn less; lending managerial services to his mix-tape slinging cousin. Through the lens of the local rap-scene, we see how Earn and Paper Boi are celebrated by some, loathed by others, obsessed on by posers, and ignored by the players. Throughout the season Earn and those in his orbit wind up in a litany of stereotypical black locales – a BET inspired Charlie Rose interview show, a high-society Southern Gothic ball, the city lock-up, and the backwoods of Georgia for some illicit drug deals. In Atlanta, there are no super heroes to save the day, just the stub of a blunt or a bong made from an apple.

A visit to a dance club in the show is antithetical to Luke Cage’s Harlem’s Paradise. Where Paradise is all class, the club in Atlanta is hot ass. A barely-seen more-famous-rapper keeps a bevvy of hangers’ on in his private VIP section while Paper Boi remains in his self-proclaimed Oktoberfest (a joke so deft, I paused to relish it). When gun shots eventually erupt at both clubs, Cage is at the center of the action to protect and defend. Earn and his cousin duck, run, and get late-night-breakfast. That Paper Boi would then be announced as a potential suspect (when he was far away from the action) serves as a tongue-in-cheek reference to the modern victimization of innocent black men and women. Earn and Paper Boi see the story, snicker, and go back to their waffles.

In both cases I found a window to a world I’m often purposefully excluded from. That both shows do so well to feel lived in without feeling like purged-pandering is a testament to the niche media worlds we’re enjoying on modern TV. I’ve never been more excited for the future.

Marc Alan Fishman: Danger – Driving While Plotting!

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I often receive puzzled looks when I tell folks that Unshaven Comics makes the trek from the southern burbs of Chicago to the New York Comic Con by car. I reassure them that if we could afford to ship an entire booth setup and merchandise to the Javits, convince ComicMix’s own Glenn Hauman to pick us up from La Guardia (a hell I wouldn’t wish on anyone, let alone our most gracious host), and then be beholden to said Haumans for most of our transportation needs, we would. But, rest assured, we’ve made the trip enough for me to admit I actually look forward to the nearly 14-hour jaunt across Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania, and New Jersey.

In those middle-hours of driving, somewhere between lunch and arriving in New York, we found ourselves unpacking The Samurnauts as a concept. You ever want a first-class ride on the creative-process express? Buckle-up, Sally.

When we finally complete Curse of the Dreadnuts (which by my estimation will occur before it’s 2017), Unshaven Comics decided that the next course of action would be to test each of our mettles to be the best creators we could be – individually. With The Samurnauts, we afforded ourselves an immortal mentor. This allows us to spin off the series into a bevy of period pieces that allow Unshaven to explore literally every genre and art style that tickles our fancy. Cool, no?

Over the course of the car ride, we came to a few conclusions. Matt Wright will plot and draw the entirety of a Samurnaut tale set in a sleepy Mexican village in the 1920s. There, Luchanauts will save humanity from the threat of an inter-dimensional demon with the power of their lucha libre. Kyle Gnepper will pen (and art chores will be a still-undetermined new deputy Unshaven lad) a tale of an early Samurnaut team waging war against Repsimian – the monkey-dinosaur hybrid bent on destruction.

And me? Well… I’m headed for a completely different direction. One that requires a bit of an odd digression. Follow me. It’s worth it.

Every year for the past two years, I’ve lent my artistic hand to my friend Nina Rose and her “Speak To Me: A Pole Event for Autism” fundraiser show. The evening is a raucous blast where hobbyist and professional pole dancers perform marvelous numbers all to raise money and awareness for Autism. I provide the posters, programs, and last year… collectible trading cards. The theme was the 1980s. It was the excuse to let my inner Patrick Nagle freak flag fly. And while sitting in the front row during the performances would render most with a carnal reaction to whoop and holler? I was left slack-jawed. I saw comic book stars in waiting. The spark of an idea for The Samurnauts was born in between twirling loops on a ten-foot pole.

Smash cut back to my Dodge Caravan, midway through Ohio.

My 2017 Samurnauts project? Well, it’ll be an all-female team fighting a Communist-Mutant-Hive-Mind of femme fatales… all set in the 1980s. We make no bones about it: Samurnauts is homage to the tropes we grew up with, recast in a modern light. What better tropes to mine than those directly from our time growing up amidst Sailor Moon, Battle of the Planets, M.A.S.K., and Jem and the Holograms? There are none better, and I won’t listen to you if you try to disagree.

Matt rides shotgun with notebook in hand, and Kyle leans far forward from the middle row of our packed conveyance… I start the ball rolling. As often is the case, I am the most lofty of the Unshavens. I immediately blather about girl power and passing the Bechdel test. Matt – the gear-head of the gang – is immediately drawn to discuss costumes, weapons, and accentuating my clean-line style. Kyle, the stalwart left-brain, cracks the whip on setting up an outline.

Exits whiz past as we bounce ideas from one bearded ne’er-do-well to the next. “We need to have a roller derby fight scene.” “Al (the immortal monkey leader…) needs to have a dojo in need of saving.” “They should all pilot attack ships.” “The Commie-Chics needs to have a spy, a close combat expert, a ballistics expert, and the strategist.” “We absolutely need the bitch on wheels business chick…” And so on.

By the time we needed to gas up the van, a scrawl of pages lay on the Caravan floor. A complete outline spanning two 36-page issues lay amidst character notes, weapon choices, set pieces, and big reveal plot points. And underneath it all, a personal challenge to myself to stretch my boundaries as an artist and a writer. To keep my tongue in cheek with the obvious choices, in lieu of smarter ones. To keep my designs clean and memorable. To ensure that the Samurnauts of this story are heroes, regardless of their gender. That the final book be fun, clever, and full of monkey-fighting. And this time? With way more Hammer pants and day-glo makeup.

And with that, the pages were tossed into the cashbox. Energy drinks were popped open. New fresh sheets were exhumed from the notebook. With five hours left to go, we had plenty more to plan for the future.

Marc Alan Fishman: Kosmic Serendipity

norah-2-2322876I’m a fan of eating crow. Truly a student from the school of tough love. The other day I happened to be perusing my archive of articles here on ComicMix when I hit on the one where I vowed to buy more indie books. That article was published August 14, 2014. Shortly after it hit the site I threw out my mainstream subscription box that was brimming with Marvel Now! and NuFiftyScrewYou floppies.

Blink, and a few years pass by. And my vow? Beaten, battered, and broken. I could spend the entirety of this week lamenting on specifically why I broke my promise. But, that (as Alton Brown would say) will be for a later show. This week, I want to start making good on my promises. You know… a mere 26 months later.

One of the many awesome side effects of being an indie creator is the wealth of newfound friends across one’s social media streams. Enter Kasey Pierce. Whilst trolling my number-one-frenemy (Dan Dougherty, a.k.a. Beardo), a tagged photo on his stream peaked my attention.  Donning a Touching Evil tee-shirt-turned-tank-top with a brawny bicep hoisted up to a nonchalant smirk stood Ms. Pierce. Like all millennial creeps, I clicked her name to see what-the-what. Hanging her hat in the Detroit area had aligned her to a plethora of palookas I had a ton of love for. Hence, I clicked “Request Friend” and sat patiently awaiting the green light to stalk… err… peruse (yeah, that’s the ticket) her timeline.

In doing so, I learned she was a many an important things to me: writer, well-versed in sci-fi, lover of the WWE, and Britpop. I was able to look past her love of Dougherty and came to the conclusion (months ago) that my smart money would be to give her comic series Norah a try when our paths crossed.

pieces-2610879Enter the New York Comic Con. On one of the few jaunts I courageously took into the wild (a.k.a. the con floor), I made my way to Source Point Press – the small press publisher of many a Michiganer, dealing wholly in the horror and sci-fi sects. A few pleasantries passed (mainly me attempting to glean if Kasey knew who I was after our back-n-forth bantering over wall posts and what not) and two issues of Norah made their way into my mitts. They survived the journey home, and were consumed with the tepid worry that my friendship with Ms. Pierce might color my often-snarky synopsizing.

Luckily for both of us, my snark remained intact, and Norah was very promising.

Before I dust off my old MichaelDavisWorld chops though, let’s get the elevator pitch of the book into the ether:

Norah Seizhelm is a “Coma Fisher” for hire. With the ability to tap into the mind’s eye, she’ll either find and retrieve you or help you cross to the other side. A mission of peace, to be sure. But how she obtained this skill is a story filled with government secrets, the death of thousands, and a threat of mass genocide.

I picked up the available issues (1 and 2 out of the first 4 of volume 1, for you number types) for a whopping $6. Kasey’s Source Point compatriot upsold me on a horror book I’ve not opened yet for a cool $10 in total. But I digress.

Norah combines Pierce’s love of neuro-science, bio-weapons, and government conspiracy… wrapped in the candy coated shell of a bitch on wheels solo book. In concept? It’s a potent potable of pulp. With a personality that harkens directly to the Jessica Jones stock, combining with a compassionate mission that leverages medical procedural plots, the book is inherently niche in scope. Where it shines the brightest is truly there in the pitch. As presented in media res, we find Norah meeting drifters in infinite blackness… cajoling them to join her as details of their sur-reality come into focus. We grow accustomed to the truth of catatonia as the patient does. It’s neat narrative trick, no doubt.

The biggest positive beyond the pitch comes solely on the mystery of the soul of the titular telepathic. As she reads on the page, Norah is a foul-mouthed malcontent until she reaches the patient du jour. With what feels like a gang member? She is curt. With his absorbed twin residing in his psyche? She softens. In the real-world, she is passive and melancholy. To see this much nuance stacked on someone who is also bio-weapon engineer? Gives credence to a fully-realized heroine far beyond the traditional manic pixie dream girl. The hook of the book is tied totally to figuring out the whole picture of Norah Seizhelm.

Where Norah falters a bit for me comes with the presentation. The striking covers to the series – monochromic kinetic fields balanced under graphic forms — sets the tone for potentially fast-paced sci-fi. The interiors, by Sean Seal, are a murky mélange that counters the covers in stark contrast. Seal’s painted panels are a bit too unbalanced to be beloved as a whole. Some sequences are clearly coated in hours of careful detail. Others are slap-dashed and sloppily strewn across the page. Some faces are rendered in proportion, others are left feeling unfinished. Taken as a complete product? The sparse prose over the unbalanced art creates an inconsistent book. But heed me: Norah is still very much worth consideration.

The beauty of the indie scene is inherent in Norah. It’s an unfinished house with a sturdy foundation. A diamond still stuck under a bit of coal. As a character study and concept, it’s lightyears ahead of standard cape and cowl pulp… and commensurate with the better parts of early Dark Horse Presents… and the like. A mature concept that isn’t gory or salacious for the sake of a sale. Kasey Pierce has a larger point to explore in her heroine, and two issues in has left me desiring the necessary closure she’s selling. While the book may not show the sheen artistically (yet), the prose is more than enough to make my first deeper dive into the indie scene a successful one.

Here’s hoping my next venture down the alley for new reads is as nuanced and notable as Norah.

Marc Alan Fishman, In A New York Minute

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I know each and every one of you sat dumbfounded last Saturday morning – your coffee in hand, and morning paper tucked firmly under arm – when perusing ComicMix and not seeing your weekly dose of Fishtastic opinions. I apologize to you. There’s no excuse for it. Simply put, I was at the New York Comic Con with my studio, Unshaven Comics, and I was too busy to produce a column worthy of your eyes. But I return this week with my now yearly diatribe about the largest pop culture convention my Lilliputian league of ne’er-do-wells attends.

If I were to be bold… it sucked. Our sales were levels of magnitude lower than any year past. As it’s the most basic measure of our meager success, I am apt to shake my head and angrily declare the six-day excursion a near-bust. But why?

On paper, everything was in our favor. While we did not come ready with the final issue of The Samurnauts: Curse of the Dreadnuts, we did have a new original piece to offer: Toolbox, as written by our own sales-machine Kyle Gnepper, and drawn by Dark Horse’s newest human acquisition, Kristen Gudsnuk. We also busted our bearded humps to produce a triptych of political posters – mashing up Bernie Sanders with Magneto (“Bernieto: Master of Social Magnetism!”), Hilary Clinton with the Scarlet Witch (“No more e-mails!”), and Donald Trump with Apocalypse (“Make Armageddon Great Again”). Simply put, product was not the problem with our final tally of sales.

And what of our now-infamous closing ratio… well, a look over my data shows an average closing ratio holding firm at our near-standard 42%. That meant nearly every other person we pitched to plunked down cold-hard cash for our wares. But unpack the specifics of that data and you start to see the bends in our bucklers. From our perch proudly in Small Press, sitting adjacent to the always-wonderful Brian Pulido (creator of Lady Death, amongst many other marvelous titles held by the diminutive powerhouse), Unshaven Comics simply couldn’t get enough warm bodies to stop and hear about our comic book. Specifically, we found a 21% decrease in available pitches to the equally sized crowd of attendees when compared to our numbers from 2015.

It’s at these times we analytical types start looking for answers. Did our bubble finally burst? Did we pitch our idea so many times it over-saturated the market? Do people not find us adorable anymore? Gleefully, the answer to all of those questions is a big fat no. Of the 723 people pitched over four days, only two dozen of them made mention of already knowing us. And in 18 of those cases, they still found something new to buy from us. The Samurnauts is still as novel a concept as it was when it debuted around the same time Donald Trump was giving pick up advice to Billy Bush. And let’s be clear: if anything, Unshaven Comics is even more adorable than in years past. So, don’t even. At all.

Why the sales slump? Perhaps it was location. Last year, Unshaven Comics took a corner spot in the back of the hall. Too often we found show-goers using the single expanse of dead space to be perfect for resetting costumes, counting swag, and reorganizing themselves. Listening to our pitch? Not so much. With that in mind, we opted for the significantly more cost effective booth in the front of the small press area. Lesson to be learned: towards the front of the hall, attendees are all trying to get somewhere. In the back? They’re just taking stock of their cash. As my grandfather would often tell me… “There is no utopia.”

Further to our real estate issues came the most interesting problem my studio’s faced in the last five years of conventioneering. ReedPop – the show runners – decided to book a live band to play their geek-twinged rock’n’roll just one aisle over (for fifteen minutes every hour, every day). I don’t know if you know this, but attempting to pitch your book amidst loud music doth not a sale make. While the band was plenty fine, their placement on the show floor was a calculated misfire on all counts. With little to no space for a crowd to assemble, they were at best audible evergreen to the folks perusing various vendors in the main exhibit hall. But one aisle over, sat angry small press booths all being drowned out. While we all scrambled to notify Reed of the folly… the best they could resolve to do was ask the band to play quieter.

All in all, I still find it hard to complain about New York Comic Con as an experience. Being in the car for twelve hours (or more, thank you New Jersey traffic) makes Unshaven Comics stronger (more on that next week). Being able to pitch to thousands of new customers every year bolsters our mission to grow our little fan base. And being a stone-throw away from ComicMixers like Mike Gold, Martha Thomases, Emily Whitten, and more? Well, it’s the gift the show keeps giving to us… if literally any of those people would have stopped to say hi. I’m not mad mind you… just disappointed. #DadVoice

Suffice to say it’s times like these I’m apt to be introspective. To look at the meager bank account of our studio, and the pile of unsold product, and wonder out-loud why others I knew at the show all boasted record-breaking revenues while we floundered. It’s at these times though that I stick to the thoughts and feelings that have gotten my little assemblage this far, thus far:

This past weekend, nearly 500 people handed their cash over to Unshaven Comics because they liked the comics we put in their hands and pitched. I got to see the smiles of my brothers-from-other-mothers as their work was complimented by complete strangers making snap judgments. It’s never been about the end. It’s always going to be about the journey.

And I’ll be damned if we don’t seek to complete the journey again next year… and come back stronger than ever.

Marc Alan Fishman On Villains – Super, Real, or Other

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kathy-fishmanThis past Sunday my wife screamed for me from our upstairs bathroom. I found her on the floor, convulsing in agony, attempting to decide which tile looked the most comfortable to lay on. Minutes later, our boys were packed up and whisked to our sitter. My wife and I rocketed towards the emergency room. Some pain meds, some x-rays, and plenty of doctors’ questions later, Kathy was diagnosed with cholecystitis. Surely this was the work of Red Skull, Circe, or possibly King Shark. Or, you know, the ravages of having a baby six months ago who was all up in that tummy pushing and prodding on various organs.

Over the next three days my wife and I sat around a hospital room perusing daytime television. Amidst paternity tests, minor civil cases revolving around shoddy craftsmanship, and Jeopardy, my mind wandered towards villainy.

For Kathy, her own body was the ne’er-do-well. What she’d largely chalked up to multiple bouts of unlucky food poisoning turned out to be her gallbladder — that nefarious cur — carpet bombing her colon with rocky misiles of doom.

For the denizens of daytime TV, villainy was found in deadbeat dads, crooked landlords, and “I’ll take Potent Potables for $1000, Alex.” Elsewhere in the real world, villainy is found in the acts of terror around the globe. Villainy is found in the unfair treatment of citizens by equally scared and confused police. Villainy is even found in a fluorescent orange bully of women, somehow competing for the most important job in our country like many reality stars who used their heelish tendencies to land themselves in the final spots on their respective TV shows. Apropos, no?

The politicians? Scary, yes. Villains? In real life, not even close. The blowhards, dirt bags, and the writers on Jeopardy? Mean, sure. Villains? Nope. Hell… even my wife’s gallbladder? It was acting out in self-defense.

Funny thing, our bodies. Mine under-produces insulin, and over-produces uric acid. But it’s never purposefully held me hostage or demanded the secrets of the jade monkey.

So often in our fiction, we take these minor malcontents and extrapolate their worst tendencies to create true villains. What separates the fiction from fact typically is the glut of nuance that shades our world from the graphical black and white on the page (or screen, what-have-you). Since the dawn of our narrative prowess, humankind has often simplified the world to make better sense of it. Think back to the rudimentary recitations of history taught to you in grade school. England was mean, the pilgrims sailed across the sea, befriended the native Americans, and poof! America. Never mind the fact that there were political issues, religious issues, and plenty of interpersonal conflict. But it’s hellasimple to call the King of England a villain and then start a revolution.

I believe that villainy exists, but villains do not. There are those amongst us who prey on the weak, who rape, steal, lie, murder, or act only on selfish impulse. But it’s too simply a concept to label someone as solely a villain. It’s too easy a label. Too easy to cast final judgment.

“A man that believes that we should take an eye for an eye… eventually leaves the whole world blind.”

So, retreat then to the pulp paper for your super-villains. The maniacs and eaters of worlds. The corrupt and lost souls who ravage without remorse. Who toy with their fellow man to play a larger game against their arch nemesis. But know that in the real world… nothing is ever that simple. For you see, my wife’s gallbladder is now long gone from her body. But that’s not to say her appendix isn’t scheming against her, while you read this very sentence.

Villains, indeed.

(Editor’s Note: our dear friend Kathy Fishman, we’re happy to say, is back home and recovering nicely, surrounded by two small boys and a confused but doting larger boy who produces comic books.)

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