Category: Columns

Emily S. Whitten: Hello, My Name Is Entitled Fan. You Ruined My Fandom. Prepare to Die!

I haven’t talked about Deadpool around here for, oh, say, two whole minutes, right? Time to rectify that!

You know why Deadpool’s my favorite character in the whole wide world of comics? Well, actually, there are several reasons, but one of them is that no matter how dark the character gets, there is also levity there. And call me grandiose, comparing the adventures of a wisecracking merc to the daily toil of Real Life, but really – that can be a true reflection of what we experience. In the depths of disaster sometimes we just have to laugh (possibly inappropriately), and in the midst of our merriment, suddenly one little sentence may bring the room down. That’s life – a perfectly imperfect mix of random ups and downs.

What’s important about the often unexpected comical moments is that they remind us that it’s not all doom and gloom out there, even when sometimes it’s been feeling like it is. And if we don’t get enough laughter in our lives, I fear some of us might turn into this guy. As I’m sure everyone knows, Joe Kubert passed away a few days ago. I didn’t know Joe personally, but I know and like some of his work; and I had a nice chat with one of his sons at a con; and I know several artist friends who have gone to his school (in my home state of New Jersey, no less, which makes it extra-cool). All in all, I’ve never had a bad thought about him, and admire him as much as I do any of the other Greats in comics (yes, he most certainly was one of the Greats, with a capital G). But even if for some reason I hadn’t been a fan, or even if I hated his art (which I don’t), I’d never, ever, have posted something like what that supposed fan of comics said; and then failed at properly apologizing for such insensitive and offensive comments.

The comparison that was made is just inexcusable, and Mike Romo has a good discussion of that at the iFanboy link, so I will not rehash it all here. But I will say that as a fan, I am continuously disappointed in other fans who turn their dislike of a piece of creative work into a giant, seething, pulsating ball of wrath and disgust, to be lobbed at creators and fandom and the internet so we can all experience the pus and bile of some fan’s misplaced sense of entitlement as it oozes down our screens.

Okay, that metaphor was disgusting. But then, I feel disgusted when I read shit like that. And it really does all boil down to entitlement – fans who think that their hateful view of whatever-it-is is more important than the fact that they are throwing vile words or accusations at a Real, Live Person who most likely doesn’t deserve them. A person whom they might even have admired at some point (or still do admire). Likening an upstanding and recently deceased comics creator who worked on a comic you don’t think should have been made (Before Watchmen) to a man who failed to report child sexual abuse is an extreme example, of course, but still; this isn’t anywhere near the first time I’ve seen this kind of disproportionate hatred towards someone whose only fault was making a creative work someone else didn’t enjoy.

Look, I’m not saying we can’t critique what we don’t like. I’m a true believer in the importance of free speech and discussion. But that also means that if you’re being an asshole on the internet or in fandom, I have a free speech right to call you out for being an asshole. And calling hardworking people who make their living making comics “known hacks” or “scab artists” because you don’t like their work or work choices is being an asshole. [See also: anyone who’s ever said so-and-so “raped their childhood.” Because using the word “rape” in that context is another form of entitlement; in which the user assumes it is more important to dramatically emphasize their disappointment in Prometheus than to not casually throw around a word that has terrible connotations for over 17.7 million women and 2.78 million men in America alone. Plus, I just hate that phrase.]

But I digress. Neil Gaiman once wrote a fantastic journal entry on entitlement issues which I think every fan ought to read and re-read. In fact, if someone ever wrote a computer program in which that entry popped up every time some entitled asshole was about to hit “post” on a needlessly vitriolic diatribe about creative works and people they hate, I’d be ecstatic. (Seriously, hackers – stop making useless pop-up viruses and get on that.)* But since that’s not the case as yet, I’d also be happier if we all just read that entry, and tried to remember before hitting post that creators are real people with real feelings and families and needs to put food on the table and all of that. And that it’s probably not necessary to wear a t-shirt saying a real person sucks just because you didn’t like a movie about aliens.

Maybe we could also just run a little test in our heads, similar to the one I wish misogynists would use before speaking (“How would you feel if someone said or did that to your mom/sister/favorite female person in the whole world? Or to you?”) in which we think about how we’d feel if someone likened, say, our dad or our best friend to a guy who ignored reports of child molestation. I’m pretty sure for most of us, that would make us remember that it’s not all about us, and hit the delete key before doing something asinine. So maybe we can all give that some thought before posting something so unwarrantedly hostile about what is, as Romo said, “just comics” (and other pop culture).

Or, as the LOLcats would say: we can fan moar better; and then maybe instead of encountering so much petty bitching, we will instead be rewarded with more things that remind us that life is not all doom and gloom – like this and this. (You’re welcome.)

So until next time, Servo Lectio!

* Disclaimer: I am not actually encouraging anyone to hack anything. Please do not go and do this and then say it’s all my fault, hackers. Thank you.

TUESDAY AFTERNOON: Michael Davis’ Milestones, part two

WEDNESDAY MORNING: Mike Gold, Who Do That VooDoo?

 

Mindy Newell: Butterflies Are Timey-Wimey

Before I get started – or let’s pretend that I have just stopped time – just want to say regarding Martha Thomases’ column of last week:

Shit, Martha, why the fuck didn’t I think of writing that?

•     •     •     •     •

See, about two months ago I hurt my middle finger at work. It got caught between a stretcher and a door. The noted and very adorable Dr. Christopher Doumas used the C-arm to check it out. Nothing was broken – be thankful for small miracles, right? – but there was plenty of soft tissue damage, meaning I bruised the fascia, muscles, tendons, and ligaments. Plus broken capillaries and such. Which caused my ahem middle finger to swell up and turn several shades of purple.

But you know how they say that soft tissue damage hurts worse than a broken bone? – well, maybe you don’t, but trust me, they do say that – so believe me when I tell you:

Goddamn, it hurt!

Anyway, I had to write an incident report, which meant I had to go to the boss’s office. The boss is from the Midwest, and, imho, the outfit that owns my ambulatory surgery center reflects that what’s the matter with Kansas? mentality. So I’m sitting there trying to write, which was extremely difficult because said middle finger was on my right hand, and I’m a “righty” – the only thing about me that is.

Just trying to use the keyboard was a pain in the ass – or finger – and I muttered “Fuck, that hurts.”

My what’s the matter with Kansas? boss looked very disturbed. Did she say, “I’m so sorry, Mindy.” Did she say, “Do you want an Advil?” Did she cluck and coo and offer other bromides?

Nope.

She said, “Don’t use that language. It’s not professional.”

I looked at her. I thought are you kidding me?

And I said:

“I’m from New York.”

 

•     •     •     •     •

I will now allow time to resume its normal linear course.

I have always, always loved time-travel stories.

Last night I was watching The Timey-Wimey Of Doctor Who on BBC America when, all of a sudden during a commercial break, I remembered a Silver Age Superboy story in which the Boy of Steel discovers the origin of Cinderella’s glass slipper – all of which inspired me to write about time travel today. Anyway, I was sure the Cinderella story was featured on the cover. But guess what I discovered when doing my due diligence?

The Cinderella thingy was only a “side-trip” in a very famous and critical-to-DC-mythology story written by Robert Bernstein and penciled and inked by George Pepp. The story was “Superboy’s Big Brother” (Superboy #89, June 1961), featuring the introduction of Mon-El – whom I’ve also always loved, but that’s a topic for another day and another column. Leaving Mon-El to hang out at the Kent home with his parents, Clark goes to school ‘cause he has a test he can’t skip. I guess it was an English class, or maybe history, or maybe even creative writing because one of the questions on the test is about the origin of fairy tales and uses the Cinderella story as an example.  Clark remembers meeting the real Cinderella in the past. I guess to jog his memory – although since Superboy has super-memory I don’t know why it needs jogging – he decides to revisit the past to make sure he’s got the details right.

Clark asks permission to get a drink of water. (The teacher says okay, which means allowing him to leave the room during a test. Try doing that these days, kids!) Changing into Superboy, he flies through the time barrier to Egypt, circa 4,000 B.C. He takes a drink of water from the Nile – ‘cause, you know Superboy never tells a lie, and this way he can honestly tell the teacher that he got his drink of water. While getting his allotment of H2O, he sees an eagle steal a sandal from a girl putting a bassinet made from reeds into the Nile. There’s a baby inside. It floats down the Nile to where the Pharaoh’s daughter is bathing. The Pharaoh’s daughter finds the baby in the bassinette, and names him Moses….

Strike that.

Superboy is about to go after the eagle when that super-memory of his is jogged once again, so he does nothing. Instead he watches as the bird drops the sandal in the Pharaoh’s palace. The Pharaoh searches for the woman whose foot fits the sandal. He finds her and makes her his queen. Aha! thinks Superboy. This is the Cinderella story he came back in time to see. Now it’s time to go back to school and finish that test.

So Clark writes up the story, but the teacher says he has no proof, so only gives him an 89. (Guess it wasn’t a creative writing class after all.) And Clark isn’t unhappy, because if he had aced it, the teacher might suspect he’s Superboy because Clark is so smart. (Huh?)

Meanwhile, suspecting that Mon-El is lying about being his brother – um, excuse me, but aren’t you the one who assumed that he was, Clark? – Superboy exposes Mon-El to a meteorite that looks like Kryptonite but is really made of lead.

Oops. Your bad, Superboy.

Mon-El is really Lar Gand, a native of the planet Daxam. And Daxamites can’t handle lead. In fact, it kills them. Like the Roach Motel: once they check in, they don’t check out. Swearing that one day he will find a cure to the fatal lead poisoning, Superboy has no choice but to send Mon-El to the Phantom Zone in order to save his life.

Leading in a timey-winey, butterfly effect way to the other time travel story that added-to-the-DC-mythology big time, the introduction of the Legion of Super-Heroes (Adventure Comics #247, April 1958, by writer Otto Binder and artist Al Plastino). And if I have to recount that story, you shouldn’t call yourself a comics fan! J The Legion traveled through the time barrier by means of a “time bubble,” which maybe was inspired by the bubble in which Glinda, the Good Witch of the North, travels to Oz. Only they don’t ask Superboy if he is a witch. They also don’t think Krypto is a witch.

It was Brainiac 5 of the Legion of Super-Heroes who, in “The Secret of the Mystery Legionnaire” revealed that he had discovered a permanent cure for Mon-El. This happened in Adventure Comics #330, March 1962, by Jerry Siegel and John Forte. This is only a year for us poor Earth-Prime Homo sapiens who are cursed to experience time in a this-way-forward linear manner, but it was about twenty centuries as a phantom for poor Lar Gand.

No wonder he went nuts.

TUESDAY MORNING: Emily S. Whitten, Esq

TUESDAY AFTERNOON: Michael Davis, PhD

 

John Ostrander: What is True?

One of the primary rules for writing is “Write what you know.” As I’ve discussed before, the corollary question becomes “what do you know?” I can write characters that, on the surface, are totally unlike me because underlying there are elements that true for both of us. Granted, I need to get the details of those lives correct but the essentials – the feelings, the doubts, everything that makes us human – are the same. I just have to find out where that is in me and what it looks like.

So, for me, the more important rule is “Write what is true.” That will vary from person to person, from character to character. The corollary question then becomes “What is true?” I’m not asking “What is The Truth?” because I don’t think that The Great Objective Truth exists or, if it does, it can be perceived as such by each of us through the lenses of our own existence. What I’m asking is “What is true?” for each person, be they a living and breathing reality or a fictional creation.

Socrates famously said “The unexamined life is not worth living.” I would add: “The unquestioned belief is not worth having.” As kids, we’re all given a set of beliefs, be they about God, country, family, love, values and so on. That’s fine; we all have to start off somewhere. Parents have their beliefs about what is right and wrong, good and bad and it is both their job and their duty to instill those in their children. As the children grow and come to adulthood, it is their job to examine those beliefs and see if they are true for them. Do you believe something because your own experience, your own questioning, has brought you to that place or are you there because someone told you that is true and it’s what you must believe?

That’s my problem with dogma. It tells me that this is the truth and this is what I must believe whether my own experiences agree with it. It may be that my own experiences and my own questioning will bring me to the same place, the same conclusion or belief and that’s fine. I will have then earned that belief; it’s not a hand-me-down. It’s mine.

Dogma, whether religious, political, social or what have you, is easier. Questioning takes time, takes effort and may take you to places that you’re not comfortable to visit. It can shift your foundations. My questions about the existence of God made me feel like I was on a trapeze in the dark. I had just let go of one bar but I couldn’t see if there was another trapeze swinging towards me or if there was a net below. It’s still that way. I’m on a boat in the ocean but I don’t know which port is the destination or how long it will take to get there. The voyage, however, is necessary.

Where I wind up may not be your truth, and that’s fine. I accept that what is true for you is your truth and valid. It just may not be mine. Our truths could be opposite and we both may feel compelled to act on our truths and that may bring us into conflict. That’s also fine. I can oppose you and respect your truth without accepting it for my truth.

As for us, so with the characters we write. The best stories challenge the characters on a deep level, on what they regard as true. The situation challenges or shatters the character’s beliefs. They must find out what is true. If you as the writer have never done that yourself, how can you write it? First you must live it and understand the process and then it becomes useful to you as writer. Aside from talent, aside from skill, all you have to offer as a writer is who you are as a person and your own strengths and weaknesses as that person will become your strengths and weaknesses as a writer.

MONDAY: Mindy Newell

 

Marc Alan Fishman: Hey Wizard – You’re Running Outta Magic!

This past weekend Unshaven Comics attended our fifth Wizard World Chicago Comic Convention … as creators. As fans, we’ve been going to this every year since 2000. It is, for all intents and purposes, our home show. We sell the most books, meet the most fans, and generally enjoy an amazing time. Some, if not all of this is derived by selling the most books, but don’t quote me on that. I am quite proud to report that we hustled and bustled our way to our “soft goal” of a 10% increase in sales over the year past. 333 books left our table, and into the eager hands of friends, fans, and passersby who were lured by the pitch of Kung-Fu Monkeys and Zombie Cyborg Space Pirates. For that? We’re elated creators.

That being said, this was easily the worst Wizard World we’ve ever been a part of –be we just fantastic fans or curmudgeonly creators.

Where to begin: how about show length. As I recall this show used to be over a Saturday and Sunday. Then they added Friday. Then they added “preview night.” This year? They made it a full four days. Hey if it works in San Diego, right? Wrong. When the two largest booths on the convention floor are Chevy and “Smell Like An Avenger” and your panel listings fit on a black and white 11 x 17 photocopy? You don’t have four days worth of con. You have a weekend con stretched to the absolute limit.

Next? The floor plan. There’s a saying, I’m not sure if Wizard is familiar, that goes: If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. It’s a great saying. Since Wizard obviously hasn’t heard it (and they most certainly are reading this) let me make it clear as the Invisible Woman. For 20 years the show floor has followed a very simple layout. Enter into the exhibitor zone with small press booths behind them, move to the dealer zone, and then the Artist Alley. Autographs and appearances? Wrapped right into the exhibitor booths. This year? They littered exhibitors with dealers all over the floor, put the autograph area smack dab in the middle of the convention hall, and then shoehorned the Artist Alley in the back third of the hall, split by a few jutting walls and the ATM.

And just to stick it to artists on the far end, they placed the photo op zone right at the end of the hall, ensuring a lengthy queue that stretched into the alley at all times during the convention. Nothing better for book sales and fan interaction like a line in front of your table that only cares about snagging that shot with Lou Ferigno, right? Wrong.

Far too many of my friends extended smiles coldly bookended with sighs of exasperation. Our neighbor from Mid-Ohio Con, the always amazing Eliza Frye, was forced to move her table three times. Three times! Which meant this show, which she flew in for, was a wash at best. Our close personal friend and arch nemesis, Dan “Beardo Comics” Dougherty, was one of the unlucky ones shoehorned near the photo op booth. He “made table” (as we in-the-know like to say) but didn’t quite reach his personal goal. Given that he makes comics for a living? This means less living for Dan. On one hand, I’m glad my arch nemesis failed. On the other hand? He’s an awesome creator who got the shaft by Wizard.

Concerning our Unshaven table… life was somewhat better. Our neighbors, both very awesome in their own ways, out-flanked our paltry table decorations with elaborate PVC and metal shelving installations. Our roll-up sign, and clear plastic tabletop book holder certainly didn’t impress. So much so that we heard from several fans after the show that they simply didn’t find us. It didn’t help that we were table “3113,” but there were no markings on the show floor (or provided program map with font size only Hank Pym could read) that would have assisted people in finding us. It also begs to note that prior to the show, Wizard e-mailed all the artists asking who we might want to sit next to. We listed six friends, all similar in fame and similar in style. We sat nowhere near them. While traffic on the floor itself was steady, it was always apparent how weary the fans were. Suffice to say (and it’d been said before) four days for a two day show does not make for an energetic crowd. Had it not been for our fevered pitching, I doubt we could have even topped the prior years’ sales.

Ultimately the show was just okay. Most creators saw enough sales to warrant their appearance. Most dealers left pissed at their spotty placement. I’m sure all the celebrities enjoyed being the star attraction of the show, in addition to getting to charge anywhere from $20 to $50 for signing their name.

There was a time when Wizard World Chicago was the crown jewel of a Chicago comic geek’s summer. Nowadays? It’s a second rate flea market peppered by those of us fighting in the trenches to earn one fan at a time. Will we be there next year? In order to be successful, we have to be. Will be bitch about it then, too? You better believe it. Wizard has a whole year to improve upon the car wreck they displayed a weekend ago.

In the simplest terms: Put the show floor back the way it was, attract more comic creators and publishers to return, make panels that celebrate the medium that spawned the creation of the show itself; You’re not San Diego, and you’ll never get close. It’s time to own that, Wizard. Excelsior.

Footnote: Post show, we received an e-mail from Wizard asking all creators to “put a good word in” for them to respective fan bases and with other creators. Nothing like owning up to shared feelings of failure, right?

SATURDAY: John Ostrander

 

Martha Thomases Is Talking Dirty

Martha Thomases Is Talking Dirty

They say “shit” on cable now. And “ass.”

And not just pay cable where not only has this been going on for decades, but it’s often a selling point. Need proof? Watch the reruns of The Sopranos on A&E, where they bleep so much that it sounds like having the hiccups is a requirement for being in the Mafia.

I don’t know when things changed. So many people in my daily life say “shit” and “ass” (and lots of other things) on a regular basis that I don’t really notice. This is how people talk in 2012. It’s how people have talked for the last 50 years, maybe longer (my memory is limited to my lifetime).

Still, when Ellen Burstyn said “Shit” on Political Animals. I had to pay attention. I think it’s in her contract that she has to say “shit” at least five times per episode.

Next up, I noticed they say “shit” on Suits, a show I started to watch because Gabriel Macht struggled so nobly in Frank Miller’s The Spirit that I rooted for him. I don’t think anyone says “shit” in Don Quixote, but if someone did, he would sound like Macht.

I didn’t notice if they said “shit” on Common Law, but they do say “ass.” I wonder if there are rules on the USA Network that you can say one word formerly deleted on basic cable, but not all of them.

On Louis, I think I heard them say “fuck.” I also saw a scene set in my local drug store, so I may just be projecting the neighborhood ambiance.

All of these shows (except Louie) are on in prime time. Louie is on at 11. So is the Daily Show with Jon Stewart, but they are still bleeping “shit” and “ass” on that show. I don’t know why there is a difference.

It’s also possible that, on scripted shows, the writers insist that “shit” and “ass” are necessary for the artistic integrity of their work. I’d agree that it’s hard to imagine back-room politics, high-powered law firms, or Los Angeles police departments where such language isn’t used. And the life of a stand-up comedian is an f-bomb waiting to happen.

Comics are still following the old rules. If a writer wants to say “fuck,” there will be a “Mature Readers” warning on the cover. When I was publicity manager at DC, part of my job was to answer the letters from parents outraged that a bad guy in a Superman comic said, “damn.” I think I told that parent that it was a way to demonstrate the person was a bad guy.

I didn’t lecture the parent about how, if I was trying to protect my impressionable child against bad influences, I might be more upset that a character in Superman had a gun and shot at people. I might have started a discussion about Bruno Bettelheim and The Uses of Enchantment. I might have said that the word “damn” is in the Bible. Instead, I commended that mother for being so involved as a parent.

I was really good at my job.

The language on these shows is realistic, within the boundaries of the form. In real life, we use profanity, but we also talk aimlessly about the weather, politics, sports, and what we’re going to eat for lunch, none of which is normally found in television dialogue. Many brilliant scripts have been written without cussin’ (see Casablanca  for example), but, for the most part, I think writers should have as many tools at their disposal as possible to show character.

I can’t recall any discussion about this in the media, certainly no outrage. Perhaps these shows are so focused on their target demographics that those who fall outside that range don’t even know this is happening.

Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.

Does anybody?

SATURDAY: Marc Alan Fishman

 

Dennis O’Neil: Modern Times

Dennis O’Neil: Modern Times

Don’t believe the trash talk. I am really a religious guy. Let me elucidate.

It began with long phone conversations. Very, very long. Several of them. How many technical support people did I talk to over the last three days? Five? Six? I lost track. And then there were the trips to the computer store in the mall. Two of those. The first had us at the “genius bar” for two hours-plus. The second – today’s – went much quicker. Home again, home again, lickety split.

The weekend shot. Maybe I’ll get this column to Mike Gold reasonably promptly (and maybe not) but the book proposal I’d hoped to finish? Forget about it.

What was wrong? Good question nobody seems able to answer. A virus? Could be. Something else? Wouldn’t rule it out. Anything I can do to prevent recurrences? Well, if I don’t know exactly what the problem was…

I wish there was such a thing as an anxiety-o-meter and I wish I could buy one. At the mall, maybe. (Doesn’t the mall have everything?) Because I’m curious; I’d like to calibrate the amount of angst dealing with this, ahem, labor saving technological miracle has produced since Friday the way the MD calibrates my blood pressure. (And while we’re at it, can we have measurements for frustration, anger, and feelings of helpless inadequacy, too?) Bet the reading would be off the chart – depending, f course, on the chart

I used to write my comic book scripts on portable typewriters and once in a while, one of them would break down. Plenty annoying, let me tell you. But I don’t recall these mishaps causing much anxiety, maybe because I could understand them. I could wrap my primitive brain around the problem. I could see it. The little thingy that attached to the other thingy’s come loose. Or: my gosh, the letters on the page are blurred because the keys are so dirty… The dirty keys I could, me, myself, fix, with a toothpick. The other stuff would probably require a trip to the typewriter shop. But I knew what the problem was and I knew there was an algorithm that would right the wrong. (Step 1: Take the machine to the repairman. Step 2: Come back in a day or two and give the nice man some money. Et cetera.)

I spent much of the past weekend doing…I don’t know what. Phone pressed to (slightly defective) ear, or looking at a pleasant young man across a counter, I obeyed instructions. I had no idea why I was doing what I was doing, or what it was, or what to expect from it, or if it would solve anything. Finally, the pleasant young man did a cyberversion of Sherman’s march to the sea: offloaded, uploaded, reinstalled and home again, home again…

And back, when I couldn’t download the app the pleasant young man suggested I use. Stand. Wait. Another pleasant young man who seemed eager to help, and did. And now, having just watched a brilliant episode of Newsroom on HBO, I’m at the keyboard trying to honor a commitment.

Am I angry/bitter/frustrated? Do I feel I didn’t deserve this grief and that maybe, just maybe, we were all better off back in the day when electronic brains were the stuff of pulp sci-fi?

Or how about going back further, to when hunters and gatherers offered sacrifices to the beings – call them gods – that they knew must be out there because their lives were constantly disrupted by things they couldn’t understand, much less control and somebody had to be responsible. So they gave the gods livestock or grains or maybe cousin Matilda, the one who smelled bad. The calamities didn’t stop happening, but at least the sacrifices gave the tribesman a feeling of doing something.

Okay. So what I’ve been up to, recently, is offering sacrifices. There’s not a lot of livestock or plant food lying around the house, and heaven only knows where Matilda has got to, so I’ve sacrificed commodities I do have: patience and time.

Told you I’m religious.

(Editor’s Note: As usual, Mr. O’Neil delivered this column right on time, despite the technological distractions.)

FRIDAY: Martha Thomases Talks Dirty

 

Michael Davis: Milestones – African Americans in Comics, Pop Culture and Beyond, Part 1

Michael Davis: Milestones – African Americans in Comics, Pop Culture and Beyond, Part 1

Starting in February 2013 I will have the honor of curating what I hope will be a wonderful exhibit of African American comic art and related pop culture. The show will run for a year at the Geppi Entertainment Museum and the Reginald Lewis African American Museum. I’m at a lost for words for just how proud and overwhelmed I am for being asked.

Helping me with the show will be many people and chief upon them will be Tatiana El-Khouri, John Jennings and the wonderful Missy Geppi. I wrote some thoughts down in advance of the show to try and give myself a reason and a scope from which to work from. What follows in my next series of ComicMix articles are those thoughts, reasons and insight as to why I think this is important, with the occasional rant so you don’t forget my boyish charm…

In 1956 the two-year old Comics Code Authority (CCA) tried its best to stop EC Comics from publishing a particularly offensive comic book. Founded in 1954, as part of the Comics Magazine Association Of America the CCA was created in answer to an uneasy American public fed up with gruesome, shocking images and stories in comics.

Simply know as “the code” within the field, the CCA took to the task of cleaning up the comic industry like the new sheriff in town taking to the task of ridding said town of whore houses so decent people could live in peace. The Comics Code just would not stand for America’s sons being subjected to the evils of comic books. EC Comics was among the top targets the moment the code was formed.

Pushing the limits of what at the time was considered obscene was nothing new to the publisher of explicit horror books. The mainstay content of EC was carnage, viciousness, crime and a productive heaping of gore thrown in for good measure.

To some, an above-reproach case could be made even today that EC was glorifying criminals and their actions as well as violence for the sake of such. This, years before we see the same argument being used against Rock and Roll and decades before we see it used against Rap and Hip Hop music. Crime and violence aside, the Comics Code also took great offense at sex. To be fair, what would the 1950s be without someone objecting to sex?

With the moral backdrop of the 50s and the onslaught on standards deemed obscene by mostly old white men regarding everything from juvenile delinquency to portraying married couples in the same bed on TV its no surprise there were senate hearings on comic books. Those hearings, spurred on in no small measure by Dr. Fredric Wertham’s book, Seduction of the Innocent, took place April 21, April 22 and again on June 4, 1954.

Wertham’s book said in effect that comics would lead America’s kids down a path ripe with crime, violence, homosexuality and a hated for all things patriotic. It was clear to Wertham and he made it clear to the rest of America, if your kids read comics they would most certainly end up anti-American queer murderous criminals.

Because of Wertham, his book and the Senate investigations less than three months after the hearings ended the comics industry decided to regulate itself in advance of Congress doing it.

So, enter the code.

What’s completely overlooked in the sanctification of the 1954 Senate hearings on comic books is how they dealt with race. The thunderous judgment most people took away from the hearings was the focus on sex, crime and violence.

Almost hidden in the interim report on Comic Books and Juvenile Delinquency was a passage on racial stereotypes.

The following passage from the Comics and Juvenile Delinquency interim report of the committee on the judiciary/ a part investigation of Juvenile Delinquency in the United States:

One example of racial antagonism resulting from the distribution of American-style comic books in Asia is cited by the former United States Ambassador to India, Chester Bowles, in his recent book, Ambassador’s Report. He reports on page 297 the horrified reaction of an Indian friend whose son had come into possession of an American comic book entitled the Mongol Blood-Suckers. Ambassador Bowles describes the comic book as depicting a-superman character struggling against half-human colored Mongolian tribesmen who has been recruited by the Communists to raid American hospitals in Korea and drink the plasma in the blood banks. In every picture they were portrayed with yellow skins, slanted eyes, hideous faces, and dripping jaws.

At the climax of the story, their leader summoned his followers to and attack on American troops. “Follow me, blood drinkers of Mongolia,” he cried. “Tonight we dine well of red nectar.” A few panels later he is shown leaping on an American soldier with the shout, “One rip at the throat, red blood spills over white skins. And we drink deep.”

Ambassador Bowles commented: The Communist propagandists themselves could not possibly devise a more persuasive way to convince color sensitive Indians that American believe in the superior civilization of people with white skins, and that we are indoctrinating our children with bitter racial prejudice from the time they learn to read.

13 Bowles, Chester, Ambassador’s Report, New York, 1954, p. 297.

It’s refreshing to see that some American lawmakers in the 50s were concerned about racial stereotypes, at least in principal if not in practice.

Ambassador Bowles statement really underscored that as Americans we would not tolerate any sort of racial bigotry. Yes, his remarks were hidden in the body of a report that focused on crime, sex and violence but they were there nevertheless.

Because of the public outcry caused by the hearings the CCA was enjoying major influence over the comics industry. When they began calling the moral shots in the comics business most publishers bent like a weed in the wind under the pressure. Some publishers simply adapted some cancelled books and a few went out of business altogether.

Above all else the CCA was intended to be a moral angel sent from above. The task made easier as this was that America after World War II, a country faced with many ethical dilemmas. The youth of America had returned from war but no longer were they young.

They were a hardened group of men and women who were determined to steer their children in the right direction in the choice between rather America would be a Heaven or a Hell for their children.

Heaven was the America they just fought for.

Baseball, Hot Dogs, Apple Pie and Chevrolet.

Hell was the impending darkness of the Communist menace.

By 1954 the Red Scare was firmly in the mind of the American psyche. The Red Scare with its focus (mostly imagined) on the United States of America being infiltrated and ultimately taken over by Communism. These were the issues that kept the good citizens of this great nation up at night. If they were not kept up all night dreading the coming apocalyptic death of the American Dream they would be as soon as they heard Senator Joe McCarthy.

McCarthy’s crusade against subversion and espionage within the United States government made him at one point arguably the most powerful man in America. Certainly the most feared.

At the height of the Red Scare, Julius and Ethel Rosenberg, a couple which at that moment in time were more hated than Adolf Hitler, were executed for selling the secrets of the atomic bomb to the Russians. If nothing else, the electrocution of two people who looked like your next-door neighbors certainly brought the message home. The event, based upon evidence many (but not all) find dubious, made the Communist menace a clear indication of impending disaster.

America had its hands full with impending doom, sex, crime and violence. They had to protect the kids by any means necessary.

Makes you glad that the 1954 is light years, and real decades from the what 2012 brings us. I mean who would cast that sort of McCarthy like crazy shit out there now a days eh?

Michele out of her fucking mind Bachman that’s who, but I digress.

See? There’s that occasional rant.

In 1954 this concentration on moral outrage did not leave a whole lot of time or interest to focus what many thought were second-class American citizens, African Americans. Funny, considering that treatment of African Americans was exceedingly immoral.

Yeah, I managed to use funny and immoral in the same sentence… and this is just part one.

Next week, part two.

WEDNESDAY: Mike Gold and Joe Kubert, Personally

 

Emily S. Whitten: The Construction of a Convention Costume

Dragon*Con is right around the corner, and if you’re going and you like to costume at cons, that means you’re probably scrambling to finish up your costume(s). Well, okay, that’s true if you’re me, at least. See, I’d like to plan really far ahead, but Life just doesn’t make that possible sometimes, which is how I often find myself finishing a costume’s jewelry the same morning I’m putting on the costume; attempting to dye corsets to their “authentic movie costume color” at 3 a.m. in hotel bathtubs (in a leak proof plastic bag; don’t worry, hotels); begging people to lend me last minute bits and pieces; and occasionally even enlisting roommates to help me make things when really they should be downstairs eating the complimentary hotel breakfast (bless you, Erica).

In June I wrote a column on women and costuming, in which I made the point that there are numerous reasons women costume (as opposed to the often-posited-by-men-reason of costuming to attract a man’s attention). For me, the actual making or putting together of the costume, as complicated and time-consuming as it can sometimes be, is a main reason why I costume. I like the challenge of making something coherent and recognizable and as authentic or creative as possible out of bits and pieces of craft supplies and found items and regular store-bought items that I can adapt.

As I mentioned a couple of weeks ago, recently there’s been a great deal of talk about women and costuming from other quarters, including from people in the fandom who honestly ought to know better than to attack women about how they choose to celebrate their geekdom at a con, and whether they have the right to dress as they please without checking in with menfolk first (hint: the answer is yes). I don’t know why some geek men think they have some sort of prerogative to dictate these things, as if they were somehow “there” first, planting a flag on top of Geek Mountain and thus earning the right to lay out the rules and whine about people who don’t meet their “standards” of who should be allowed at a con or accepted as a geek; but it’s patently ridiculous.

Regardless, that kerfuffle was far from the first time the suggestion that women costume only to attract male geeks and get sexual attention reared its silly head. And both to further illustrate that suggesting this is pretty silly (because putting together a costume is a lot of work, and most women undoubtedly have to enjoy actually doing it, or they wouldn’t bother just for the minimal (supposed) payout of some random dude hitting on them at a con) and because I like talking about making things, let’s explore the process of producing a convention costume, and how I go about it.

I’ve talked about putting together costumes before, but for this column, we’re going to look at my biggest challenge for Dragon*Con: Arkham City Harley Quinn, and the steps involved in developing that costume.

Step 1: Accuracy

The first thing I do with any costume is decide exactly how I want it to look. In some cases, some of the look is up to my imagination, because I’m going as a literary character who has a basic description but no picture (see: the young Duchess of Quirm), or a mythical character who’s already been interpreted in umpteen different ways (see: the Absinthe Fairy); but when I work from a character who’s been visualized, I like to try to stick to the image and get the details right. Therefore, for Harley Quinn, I spent, oh, countless hours on Google searching for every picture I’d need to get an accurate costume supply list. In Harley’s case, this turned out to be seventeen pictures from all angles and with close-ups for detail; and about thirty pictures of how other people were interpreting the outfit as a costume, to give me construction ideas. Then I study the collection and list out the individual costume pieces needed and each detail of how they are made, including for accessories and make-up. For the Harley costume, this list totaled approximately twenty-seven items, several of which are very unique – a fairly complicated costume.

Step 2: The Hunt

Once I have my list, I need to make or find every item. Sometimes it’s easy – like buying white make-up, which is in every costume store. Sometimes it’s super-hard – like Harley Quinn’s complicated corset, which is hard to make and not similar to something you’d find anywhere else. Here’s how my quest for Harley’s bits and bobs is going:

The make-up is easy, and I’m about 2/3 finished with acquiring it. Since you can get all of it in places like Sephora or costume stores, I usually don’t worry about it first. The hair color and tattoos on the costume are harder; I’ve had to special-order colored hair spray, and am going to attempt to recreate the tattoos with a combination of rose temporary tattoos and face paint (since I couldn’t find any Joker temp tattoos that would work).

Harley’s clothes are pretty complicated. I knew from the start that the corset was beyond my skill to master in the time I had to try making it, so as soon as I settled on the costume, I searched around and found someone to custom make it – though I try to avoid that generally, because it can be pricey. As time went on I searched online for boots that matched the general cut of Harley’s and acquired them in black; to be adapted. I found a bra with the proper eyelet lace at yet another online store and speedily acquired it as well. For her pants and cropped top, I first thought to make them from whole cloth; then decided it would be easier to adapt ready-made clothes, and headed over to my favorite basic costuming bits store, American Apparel. There I acquired red and black tank tops and black leggings; to be adapted. I needed to get both shirt and pants from one store so the reds would be the same shade. Tragically, my local shop was out of the correct red pants. “No worries!” I thought. “I’ll just order them from the online store. Tragically again, though, the online store only had XS; which would be a pretty tight fit for me. Therefore it was back to the internets! until I managed to find what was apparently the one remaining pair in the proper size that would ship in time. Whew!

Harley’s accessories are a mix and match of easy and hard to gather. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t find leather cuffs with the correct pyramid studs; so I had to acquire the cuffs and studs separately. The gloves would be impossible to find ready-made, so instead I made a pilgrimage to JoAnn Fabrics, where I acquired bolts of the red and black pleather material from which the corset was made. The hair-ties will also be made from that. The buckled choker was found after much searching on Amazon, and had to be ordered twice after they ran out the first time. The belt chain was acquired at the craft store; and as I was writing this column I realized I hadn’t yet ordered the belt (oops!) and so went on over to get that (costume-making in real time!). Glad I’m writing this, or I might have left that bit until too late!

Step 3: Crafting

As you might guess, much of the above needs to be worked with or adapted to match Harley’s look. The pants and shirt are going to be hacked, slashed, and Frankensteined via experimentation into black/red combos; buttons from JoAnn’s will be added to the shirt, and the pants need diamonds, and have an additional weird brown belt-sort-of-thing that needs to be sewn on as well. The bra needs to be covered with the red and black pleather and stitched to match the image. The boots will be painted with fabric paint to match the color and design of Harley’s boots. Extra holes need to be added to the choker for proper fit. The pyramid-stud cuffs need to be assembled; and the gloves and hair-ties will be made entirely from scratch using the red and black pleather and elastic. In short – it’s a lot of work (but it will get done in time. I hope).

Step 4: Troubleshooting

It’s always a good idea to try on the whole shebang before a con. Inevitably, something will not fit right, or won’t look right, or the make-up won’t be the right color after all, or something will fall off, or…who-even-knows what. I always try on the whole costume when I’m done, and things still sometimes go screwy on the morning of a con. So it’s really good to try to prevent what you can with a pre-con trial run.

Step 5: VICTORY!

I shall wear my awesome costume to a con and be so proud. Woo-hoo!

Well! As can be seen from the above, costume-making can be fun, but is also time-consuming and complicated. The more I do it, the more I realize there are things I can still learn about how to do it better. I hope some of you other costume-y folks out there liked hearing about my process, and I’m always interested in learning how other people make their costumes, or any tips and tricks they may have. Feel free to share in the comments.

And as for those (frequently men) who’ve raised the argument about women costuming for sexual attention in the past, or still believe that it’s a single motivator for women who costume; read the above again, think about how much time and effort people put into making their costumes, and instead of assuming you know everything about everything or it’s All About You, have a little respect for their hard work, skills, and creativity.

Until next time: Servo Lectio!

TUESDAY AFTERNOON: Michael Davis’s Milestones

WEDNESDAY MORNING: Mike Gold – Joe Kubert, Personally

Mike Gold: Joe Kubert, Personally

One of the hardest questions for me to answer begins with the phrase “What is your favorite…?”

My Top 10 movie list has over 100 movies on it. My Top 10 television shows list must first be categorized: is it fair to compare Rocky and Bullwinkle to The Prisoner? Well, maybe that’s a bad example, but I think you get my point. If you were to ask me to name my favorite musician, I’d go into a fugue state and you’d get scared and leave.

There is one exception. If you were to ask me who my favorite comics creator is – and you were to ask me this question at any time in the past half-century – I would immediately and firmly respond “Joe Kubert.”

As we reported, Joe died Sunday evening. It was one of those moments when time… simply… stopped. For the past decade I’ve been in amazement that Joe was still giving us a graphic novel and a mini-series or special or something every year. Jeez, if I make it to 85 (and I’m nowhere in as good a shape as Joe was) I’m planning on lying there bitching until somebody changes my Depends. Joe was still at it, producing great stuff.

I was fortunate to know both Joe and his wife Muriel (predeceased by four years); Muriel knew the depths of my affection for her husband’s work, Joe knew it as well and was quite gracious but, as to be expected from an artist of his caliber, I could tell he wasn’t connecting with my praise for something he had finished months ago. He already was on to the next thing. Or maybe the one after that.

When I first started working at DC Comics back in 1976, my office was two doors down from Julius Schwartz. Denny O’Neil had the office next to me. Joe Orlando – Joe Orlando! – was a few doors down from that. And, three days a week, there was Joe Kubert. The best of the best.

I was a 26 year-old fanboy and if I wasn’t breathing I would have thought I had gone to heaven.

Kubert had been my favorite comics creator since the day my mother bought me Brave and the Bold #34, cover-dated February-March 1961. It featured the debut of the silver age Hawkman. We were getting on Chicago’s L, headed towards the Loop for my first visit to the eye doctor. I was anxious to read the comic; it looked really cool. Exciting. Different. And new superheroes were few and far between in those days of buggy whips and gas lamps.

Of course, my eye doctor did what eye doctors do: she put those serious drops in my eyes and everything got all blurry and then she exiled me to the outer office while my pupils dilated to the size of manhole covers. I was told to sit there quietly for an hour. I was ten years old; the concept of “sitting quietly” was well beyond my understanding. Certainly, not with that awesome-looking comic book on my lap.

I tried to read it. My mother started to scream about how I’d permanently ruin my eyes. She was supportive of my reading comics, she just had odd theories about how I’d go blind. Being me, I continued to try to read the Hawkman debut but now more defiantly, with purpose and determination – despite the fact that each panel was more blurry than the previous. I went through that book several times, trying my damnedest to understand it. To see it.

The book was astonishingly great – a tribute to writer Gardner Fox and editor Julie Schwartz as well as to Joe. After I finally read the comic in focus, it was clear to me that it was worth all the effort. That’s probably what made me a Joe Kubert fan.

By 1976 I had learned first-hand that a lot of the public figures I admired weren’t really worthy of such tribute on a personal level; if you were going to meet a lot of celebrities, you had to learn how to divorce yourself from the person and remain married to that person’s work. This is a lot less the case in the comics field, I’m happy to report.

And it most certainly was not the case with Joe Kubert. We could be diametrically opposed on certain political and social issues, and we were, but it didn’t matter one bit. Part of that came from Joe’s upbringing in the Talmudic arts where discussion and debate is encouraged and honored. But most of that came from Joe’s simply being a great, great guy.

That’s what I have to say about Joe Kubert. He was a great, great guy.

Here’s what I have to say to Joe Kubert.

Thank you.

THURSDAY: Dennis O’Neil

 

Mindy Newell: A World Of Pure Imagination

Charlie Bucket lived with his mom and his grandparents in a dirty, downtrodden industrial city that used to be a thriving center of commerce, with factories making cars and furniture and steel and zippers and paper clips. The citizens of the city were happy to work in the factories, because they were well-paid and had wonderful benefits thanks to their unions, and all their kids were able to go to college because of the money they were able to save and the national student loan program. But then all the factories moved to China and Vietnam and India and Malaysia because the CEOs of the companies who owned the factories needed more money for more corporate jets and limousines and private islands and new mansions with elevators for their cars, and the people in China and Vietnam and India and Malaysia didn’t have unions that forced the CEOs to give wonderful wages and pesky pensions and hardy health insurance to their slaves…uh, I mean, employees.

So all the factories in Charlie’s city closed – except for one, Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory. Charlie’s father died because he didn’t have health insurance, and Charlie and his mom got kicked out of their 3 BR, 2 BATH, RMS W/VU apartment overlooking the harbor because the Social Security money which they depended on had been privatized, and when the market crashed, there went the monthly checks for Mrs. Bucket and Charlie. They had to move to a little, tiny house that was really too small for the two of them, and then Mr. and Mrs. Bucket’s parents came to live with them because their homes were foreclosed after the mortgage securities crisis, so things were really crowded in the little house.

Charlie tried to help out by delivering newspapers, which is how the family found out that Mr. Willy Wonka, sole owner and proprietor of the one factory left in town, had hidden five Golden Tickets in the wrappings of his Wonka Bars. The five people who found the Golden Tickets would not only win a lifetime supply of Willy Wonka chocolate, but also be taken on a private tour of the factory.

Four of the tickets are bought and found by Klaus Rave, a man who looks just like the chief pig in Animal Farm; twin brothers named Donny and Cain Coke, who are very rich and give money to philanthropic organizations like Success For All Amerikans and The Birthright Society; Alice Coltrane, a girl with a sassy, big mouth known for making hilarious barbs; and a boy named Pablo Rico, who saved up all his Social Security money after his father died and used it to go to college. But he doesn’t like women too much.

There’s only one ticket left, and Charlie is sure he is going to find it. But then it is announced that an eccentric millionaire who claims to wear magic underwear bought the final ticket. His name is Mingus Wilbur Rosary.

So Charlie is among all the other onlookers as Klaus and Donny and Cain and Alice and Pablo are greeted by Willy Wonka and led inside the magical, wonderful, chocolate factory.

Inside Willy Wonka has them all sign a contract before the tour can begin. There is lots of small print on it, and everybody grumbles, but they all sign it, because Klaus and Donny and Cain and Alice and Pablo and the eccentric millionaire whose name is Mingus Wilbur Rosary really want to get inside and look around.

The factor is full of mind-blowing, mouth-watering, stomach-rumbling marvels like a real chocolate river, tasty flowers and mushrooms, and even delicious wallpaper. Wonka’s workers – considered the luckiest people in town, not only because they have a good job with benefits and a guaranteed pension, but also because they work for Willy Wonka – are all hard at worker. Willie Wonka warns his guests not to touch anything unless he says it’s okay, but Klaus and Donny and Cain and Alice and Pablo and the eccentric millionaire whose name is Mingus Wilbur Rosary ignore him, and one by one, they disappear.

Klaus gets sucked into the chocolate works, after falling into the chocolate river from which he was trying to drink. Donny turns into a giant blueberry after chewing on a piece of Three-Course Dinner Gum, which was still in the experimental stages. Cain falls down a garbage chute that is for the “bad eggs” in the Chocolate Golden Egg Sorting room. Alice opens her big mouth and makes some sassy barbs about Wonkavision television, and finds herself stuck in a TV land where there are no commercial breaks and she can’t go to the bathroom.

The eccentric millionaire whose name is Mingus Wilbur Rosary sneaks into the Bubble Room and tastes the Fizzy Lifting Drinks. He starts to float up, up, up, and is nearly whisked into an exhaust fan on the ceiling. But he starts burping to let out the fizz and floats back down to the floor.

The tour is over. Willy Wonka says goodbye to the eccentric millionaire whose name is Mingus Wilbur Rosary, but before he can leave, the eccentric millionaire whose name is Mingus Wilbur Rosary demands his lifetime supply of chocolate. But Willy Wonka tells him he has violated the terms of the contract by tasting the Fizzy Lifting Drinks, and snaps out the signed contract to emphasize this.

But suddenly the eccentric millionaire whose name is Mingus Wilbur Rosary pulled his own contract out of his magic underwear and flaunts it in Willy Wonka’s face. He revealed that Klaus, Donny, Cain, and Alice are all actually employees of the eccentric millionaire whose name is Mingus Wilbur Rosary, and they have actually worked together, through the lawyers of the Success For Amerikans Organization and The Birthright Society, to have become the primary shareholders of the Chocolate Factory, with the eccentric millionaire whose name is Mingus Wilbur Rosary as Chairman, President, and CEO.

“We are moving the Chocolate Factory to China, Vietnam, India, and Malaysia,” said the eccentric Chairman, President, and CEO of the Chocolate Factory whose name is Mingus Wilbur Rosary.

“You can’t do this!” said Willie Wonka.

“I can, and it’s already done. Look around, Mr. Wonka.

Willy Wonka looked around. All his workers were gone, and men in black suits and dark sunglasses were supervising other men in overalls as they took down and broke apart the Chocolate Factory.

“And you, Mr. Willy Wonka, are out of a job.”

Artwork courtesy of The Daily Share.

TUESDAY MORNING: Emily S. Whitten

 

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