Tagged: Mike Gold

Emily S. Whitten: It’s a Cold! It’s a Kryptonian Virus! It’s The Winter Plague!

Whitten Art 130205Remember that time when Superman caught a Kryptonian virus on Lois and Clark: The New Adventures of Superman? And he spent practically the whole episode laid out on the couch, barely conscious? And all he could manage to do was sort of thrash his head about and moan a bit? Having spent the entirety of this past week laid out at home with what I have not-so-fondly dubbed “The Winter Plague,” I suspect I know just how he felt.

I also suspect that when it comes to the Winter Plague, I have not been very heroic. Or at least that’s what it seems like when looking back at my pathetic tweets over the past week (tweeting being about all I’ve had the energy to do, since I can do it from my phone, while lying down in bed). But I guess I could look at the whole matter in another way. You see, because the Winter Plague might sneak up on people when they’re not paying attention, it could be argued that while I was suffering untold miseries I heroically catalogued for all of you, via Twitter, the most common Signs of the Winter Plague, which I can now share. This way, maybe you can recognize that you are coming down with the Winter Plague in time to get to a doctor before it brings you to your knees.

So here are the signs. Read them carefully, ensuring that none apply to you, for if you find yourself identifying with any of the following, you may just have become a victim of… (cue dramatic music here) …The Winter Plague.

Signs of the #WinterPlague:

  1. Too sick to want to watch TV and/or read comics.
  2. “So, self, what have you done all week?” “Uh, slept? Coughed? Sneezed? Slept more?”
  3. It’s 3 pm! I am up! …Because I have to take my meds. Now, where’s my bed again?
  4. Dry toast? Unappetizing. Toast with Nutella? …Still unappetizing. :(
  5. *blows nose* I can breathe! I can…! :( Never mind. *blows nose again* I can b…! …*sigh* *blows nose again*
  6. Not sure if head hurts from illness or blowing nose so much. Possibly both?
  7. Plague not immediately vanquished by @neilhimself magic. Dear Neil pls send more? 1st round scared Plague but it came back!
  8. Drinking orange juice. Don’t like orange juice.
  9. Can’t get through three bites without coughing. :(
  10. My oxen have died.
  11. Slept for five days, still tired. D:
  12. Considered turning on laptop in bed to watch show. Didn’t have energy to press button. Crawled back under covers.
  13. “Productive” things done in last week: 1) Read Dresden Files graphic novel. 2) ……..
  14. “Hey self! It’s 5 pm. Know what that means?” “…Naptime?” “Yep! How did you know?” “The answer’s always naptime.”
  15. “So, body, we just took a three-hour nap. What should we do now?” “…Take a nap?”
  16. Clearly my body needed More Napping. Just woke up from another coma-like sleep.
  17. Did NOT go to @PressClubDC to see Dave Barry today, despite really, really wanting to. Could not leave bed. :(
  18. “What day is today, self?” “……..?”
  19. I have never, ever had the heat on this high before.
  20. “Body! You’re finally a bit hungry! What would you like to eat?” “Toast.” “Just…toast?” “All the toast.”
  21. Oh, hello, cough. You wanted to get up now? I guess we will get up for a few then.

So there you have it! If any of the above seems eerily familiar to you, get thee hence to a doctor immediately (seriously. I’m not kidding about that part. Get some antibiotics, at the very least, so you don’t continue to spread the Plague to unsuspecting people like me).

And please note that other signs of the Winter Plague can include temporary insanity, so if the above column seems a bit loopy to you…well, I’m gonna blame it on the Winter Plague.

Until next time, stay healthy, and Servo Lectio!

TUESDAY AFTERNOON: Michael Davis

WEDNESDAY MORNING: Mike Gold

 

Emily S. Whitten: Another Day, Another…Death Threat?!

whitten-art-121225-4490372We’ve talked about being disrespectful of the dead because you don’t like their creative work. Now let’s talk about being disrespectful to the living.

As has been reported elsewhere, some pages from Dan Slott’s Amazing Spider-Man #700 have been leaked to the Internet prior to its December 26 (tomorrow!) release date, including the big conclusion to the current plotline that fans have been speculating about. Despite this being its own unfortunate situation (of spoiling a story conclusion Slott has spent a slew of issues building up), that’s not what I want to focus on.

As it turns out, the spoilered ending appears to drastically change the status quo of the Spider-Man story. This is not the first time that’s happened in comics or anything (not even the first time in Spider-Man, as I’m sure we all remember (hello, Clone Saga and One More Day!). But this particular change, which Slott knew would bring controversy, has drawn a huge amount of venom, and all of it is being heaped on Slott’s head – in many cases, in the form of death threats.

Death threats. Against a writer of fiction. About a fictional character. Whom he has been writing to great acclaim for quite a while now. People, I think we need to step back and think about our priorities and our behavior for a minute, here.

I can understand disliking the work of a writer who takes on an already beloved character and then does something unexpected with him or her (hello, certain Deadpool writers). I can also understand liking a writer’s work but not liking the turns they decide to have a story take. I can even understand taking to the Internet to discuss your unhappiness with the whole situation. What I can’t understand is threatening to physically harm someone because they wrote some words (or drew some pictures) you didn’t like. That is just not okay, and even if the people making the threats are being facetious (and some of them may not be, which is scary), that sort of behavior encourages an acceptance of a casual attitude towards violence, that, especially with the recent tragedies this year, should certainly be discouraged.

Look, I love comics just as much as anyone out there. I get invested in the characters and the stories too. I might get upset, or even stop reading a series, because they’ve changed the direction and I don’t like the result. And that’s A-OK. As readers, it is our prerogative to stop reading a comic if we no longer enjoy it, and it’s also one good way to show our dislike of the current direction of a story, since the companies pay attention to sales data. And as readers, it’s also fine to express our unhappiness in public forums, and can even influence further changes in direction, as these companies also tend to take note of the aggregate level of satisfaction we the readers are expressing about story direction. We are actually lucky in that way; it’s a pretty special thing to know that our opinions on a work of fiction might actually mean something to the future of that fiction. So hooray for us, consumers of a medium that, uniquely, tends to listen to its consumers sometimes and adjust its story accordingly. That’s cool.

What’s not cool is forgetting that this is a creative medium and a fictional world, produced by real people without whom it would not exist and who deserve our consideration as fellow human beings. What’s also not cool is getting so involved in hatred for a storyline that you forget what comics are – a series of stories that, by their very nature, must change and adjust with the times, and to keep the series from stagnating; a fate which to my view would be worse than a change in the status quo. The plots of ongoing comics will inevitably include some crazy stories like the Punisher turning into Frankenstein, or people making a literal deal with the devil (or demon) which makes them forget they were married and brings other people back to life. That’s actually part of the fun and wonder that is encompassed by the medium – that writers can do that kind of stuff (whether it turns out well or not) and then do something else, and then something else – and the story keeps changing, even when the fundamentals (generally) remain the same.

In this instance, I doubt the current turn of events will remain in place forever… and even if it did, well; would it really be so bad? Maybe it would. Maybe it wouldn’t. We don’t know, because the rest of this story hasn’t been written yet. It may turn out to be an amazing story. And if it doesn’t; well, then in time, it may be replaced by something better. Either way, it’s kind of how comics work, and it’s not worth threatening to harm a real, living, breathing person.

Slott has said that he’s taking the threats to his person seriously, and I’m glad. But I’m sad for the fact that he has to do that. Imagine living in that situation for a minute – being a known entity, with your picture out there for all to see, and knowing that more than one stranger out there has expressed the desire to hurt you, and could possibly do so. That’s a terrible and undeserved thing for someone to have to deal with. He shouldn’t have to be worrying about that, especially in the midst of what is probably some well-deserved time off for the winter holidays.

I didn’t realize when I started writing this piece that it would happen to fall on Christmas, but I find it apropos at a time when we are supposed to be experiencing the joy of the holidays and expressing goodwill towards our fellow people, to be posting this request to comic fans at large, and particularly to those who have been taking their fandom much too seriously lately:

Let’s keep remembering, as a community, that comics are a wonderful thing, created by wonderful people, and that those people deserve our respect and consideration as fellow human beings.

Oh, and one more thing: let’s remember that real people are more important than fiction. And not threaten to harm them, because that is terrible.

Thank you.

And now, all that remains as the year draws to a close is to wish everyone out there a Merry Christmas! Or a Happy Hanukkah! Or a happy holiday of whatever sort you may celebrate!

And until next time, be kind to each other, and Servo Lectio!

TUESDAY AFTERNOON: Michael Davis

WEDNESDAY MORNING: Mike Gold

 

Mike Gold: Why I Didn’t Cold-Cock Walter Simonson

gold-art-121107-7949877There’s been a lot of high-quality books lately that reprint classic stories straight from the original. My friends at IDW do a lot of those, so they’ll be deeply depressed that I’m not going to be talking about one of theirs. And of course there’s no reason to believe a comp list wouldn’t change my attitude.

Return with us now to those thrilling days of yesteryear; in this case, about two months ago. We’re at the vaunted Baltimore Comic-Con – in specific, the Harvey Awards dinner. Walter Simonson had an advance copy of Titan Books’ hardcover collection of the Alien movie adaptation, as done by Walter and the late and much, much missed Archie Goodwin. This book was the exception that proved my point that doing an absolutely first-rate adaptation of a movie is a near-impossibility.

The needs and treasures of the comic book medium are different from those of the movie medium: we have total control of time and space and we’ve got a special effects budget that is limited only by the collective minds of the producing talent. Movies, on the other hand, have going for them music, motion and the benefit of the shared-experience. Apples and oranges.

The Goodwin-Simonson Alien was one of those rare exceptions; perhaps the best of those exceptions. Either way, it was and is worthy of this new high-quality format.

So when Walter was showing off his advance copy like a proud papa before an audience of some of the most talented people in the artform (Mark Wheatley snuck me in), I thought about doing what every other red-blooded comic book fan would think of doing: cold-cocking the son of a bitch, stealing his book, jumping into my Ford Focus and driving back to Connecticut, laughing hysterically while leaving my daughter to fend for herself.

I maneuvered into position in the darkened room, avoiding Louise Simonson. While I’d take Walter on, I do not have what it takes to take on any person who could be so gifted and so nice after working for James Warren. Then, and only then, did I have an epiphany.

I’ve known Walter for decades and decades. We lived near each other on Manhattan’s Upper West Side, we played on the same volleyball team. We’ve dined hither and yon – he once drew a massive prehistoric landscape on the linen tablecloth at a Skokie Illinois restaurant in order to “illustrate” a point. I respect and admire Walter as one of the nicest human beings on the planet… with the exception of the volleyball courts.

But that’s not why I didn’t cold-cock Walter Simonson. Clearly I’ve gotten old, an aging lion gumming his dinner in the corner of the cage while the younguns are preening themselves for pussy.

No, I didn’t cold-cock him because I remembered I already ordered the book. So stealing his simply wasn’t worth the energy.

But it was worth the wait. Buy it before it sells out.

Alien : The Illustrated Story (Original Art Edition) by Archie Goodwin and Walter Simonson • Titan Books • 96 oversized pages • $75.00 retail

THURSDAY: Dennis O’Neil, who’s also a very nice guy

 

 

Mike Gold: Little Ole New York Comic Con

ComicMix associate editor Adriane Nash and I knew we were in for it when, on Thursday morning last, there were nine other people waiting for the same commuter train who clearly were headed not to work but to the New York Comic Con. Trains run every half-hour, and ours is but one of a great, great many such stations. Do the math.

In total… one hundred thousand people. Some of whom bathed.

Sure, San Diegoans might smirk at a mere 100,000, but there are major differences between the two shows. First, it only took NYCC six years to reach the 100,000 mark. Second, the Javits Center is smaller and much more out of the way than the San Diego Convention Center. Third, the NYCC has a lot more to do with comic books than the SDCC. Actually, the SDCC barely has anything to do with comic books, despite its title and its not-for-profit mission statement. And finally, NYCC has more European artists and writers while SDCC has more Asian. Of course, this is neither better nor worse, but it is an interesting difference.

For me, there’s another important difference: I don’t have to fly from sea to shining sea to get there.

I’ll gleefully admit six years ago NYCC really, truly and totally sucked. I said so right here in this space. It was the worst planned, worst programmed, worst run major show I’d ever been to, and I started going to New York conventions back in 1968 (I cosplayed Swee’pea). It improved, slowly, and achieved adequacy in its third or fourth year.

This time around the show was very well run – although I agree with Emily’s comments about their panel programming decisions being less than knowledgeable. They should endeavor to overcome this problem.

My biggest complaint – they’re called “issues” now, aren’t they? – was rectified mid-way through the show. They had the exits blocked off, forcing the mass of humanity through narrow corridors back to the small entrance way, making it dangerously difficult to leave, particularly for those who were mobility-challenged. This policy was enforced by a part-time minimum wage crew and, while I sympathize with their difficult job, there was no reason for them to lie to us – they weren’t upholding fire laws; quite the contrary – and there was no reason to act like Cartman without his truncheon. On Thursday and Friday some acted as though it was their job to put the oink in “rent-a-pig,” but on Saturday the rules were changed and you could actually exit through some of the doors marked “exit.”

The New York Comic Con was totally and completely sold out well before the show started. While there was some confusion about the changes in registration procedures (particularly for pros, but we’re an easily confused lot), most of us who followed the rules received our badges in the mail several weeks before the show and therefore were saved from the agony of lines long enough to cause a riot at LaGuardia Airport. I don’t know how you legitimately limit the audience size and 100,000 people can barely fix into the venue; there’s some construction going on at the Javits right now so I hope they procure more floor space next year.

Personally, I had a great time. Sure, most of it was work (ComicMix had nine people there, a third focused on cosplay coverage for our Facebook and Twitter feeds) and because of the nature of my work I spent most of my time in and about Artists’ Alley, the only room that routinely had sufficient oxygen. But I saw a lot of friends – a lot – and, when all is said and done, we could take whatever energy we had left and wade into the bowels of Manhattan, which is always an entertaining and unusual experience.

A rough estimate reveals the New York Comic Con contributed over a quarter billion dollars to the local economy. We’re not just legitimate. We’re big business.

 (Our columnist would like to thank Ed Sullivan for the loan of the head.)

THURSDAY: Dennis O’Neil

 

oneil-art-120816-2237572

Dennis O’Neil: Modern Times

oneil-art-120816-4855880Don’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: Aftermath

davis-column-art-1207171-6118187I’m back from another San Diego Comic Con.

For almost 20 years (since I was five, Jean) I’ve given a party, a dinner, or both. For nearly that long I’ve hosted the Black Panel.

I’ve had some fantastic events to be sure, but I must say 2012 was my best event year ever. My best party, my best dinner and my best Black Panel.

That, if I say so myself, is saying something.

The party and my panel were reviewed by many news outlets including The Wall Street Journal, The New York Times, Entertainment Weekly, Comic Book Resources and the powerhouse Machinima.

Every year after the Black Panel, the haters come out in force. There are black people that hate the panel; there are white people that hate the panel.

Guess what? I win.

Until you haters get your own panel at Comic Con, throw your own party and get reviewed by some of the biggest news outlets in the world you are more than welcome to hate me.

I will endeavor to do what I can to continue to give meaning to your small life. I will continue to do great things so that you can go on the net and bitch that way you will feel important and in your mind you are.

You are a legend in your own mind.

I’ll be happy to comment on your success if in fact you were successful at anything except being a legend in your own mind.

So, haters continue to hate, because I win. Why do I win?

Because you are talking about me.

Who is talking about you?

Tuesday Afternoon: Emily S. Whitten and the Civil War

Wednesday Morning: Mike Gold, Creators’ Rights, and One Big Wrong

 

 

Mindy Newell: Success and Failure, Conclusion

 “All you can do is open up the throttle all the way and keep your nose up in the air.”

First Lieutenant Meyer C. Newell

P-51 Mustang Fighter Jock

Separated from his squadron, shot up and leaking hydraulic fluid somewhere in the skies over Burma

What is the measure of success? What is the measure of failure?

newell-column-art-120617-3202896In the previous three columns, I’ve told you a little bit – well, quite a bit, actually, about early failures in my life. And for a very long time I let my, uh, lack of success, hold me back, drag me down. That old albatross had a permanent nest on my shoulder. The Fantastic Four may have visited the Negative Zone, but, guys, I lived there.

In my mid-thirties I was divorced and living with my parents. Alix was two or three. She was sleeping in a portable crib, I was sleeping on a cot in the den. And then one day – sometime in my late thirties, I think – I was driving with my father in the car. I don’t remember where we were going; I think he was driving me to an appointment with one of the numerous psychiatrists and therapists I had seen in an attempt to “figure out what was wrong with me.” Oh, that was fun, let me tell you. One doctor put me through a round of physical tests and blood work to see if there was a physiological reason for my “blues.” (Tests came back. I was perfect.) Another doctor gave me his trench coat, telling me to cover up my legs because he was getting sexually excited. I went to a therapy group for newly divorced women; all I remember of that is the woman whose husband regularly beat the crap out of her. “Jesus, honey,” we would all say, “get the hell out of there.” She would just start to cry and go on and on about how much she loved him until the hour was up. We never got to talk about anything else. There was one doctor who talked to me for five minutes and gave me a prescription for Valium, the drug of choice in those days for women on the edge of a nervous breakdown. I took one Valium, fell asleep for 18 hours and dumped out the bottle. A week later I got a bill for $500.00 for “services rendered.” I called him and told him I was sending him $50.00, and just try to take me to court. Never heard from him again.

The best, though, was the shrink who was an Orthodox Jew. He told me that the only thing wrong with me was that I wasn’t married, so “I should stop dating the goyim, marry a nice Yiddisher man, and have lots of babies.”

Anyway, back to that day in the car with my dad. We weren’t talking much, just bits here and there. Suddenly my dad started talking about a mission he had been on during WW II. It had been a bombing and strafing mission somewhere in Burma, the objective being to destroy the latest installment of the railroad the Japanese were building – see The Bridge On The River Kwai for reference. They had met a lot of resistance, and on one strafing run my father’s P-51 got hit up badly. One of the hydraulic lines was hit, and he couldn’t keep up with the rest of the squadron on their flight back to the base. They had to leave him.

“Wow, Daddy, what did you do?” I asked. (The answer is above.) And then he said, “Know what I’m saying?”

And the light bulb suddenly clicked on over my head, just like in the old Looney Tunes cartoons. “Thufferin’ Thuccosthasth!” I said. “I do!” (No, not really. I mean, yeah, the light bulb went on, but I didn’t suddenly start sputtering and slovering like Sylvester the Cat.)

I’m not saying that all of a sudden my life was a bed of roses and that everything was hunky-dory. No. Quite the opposite. It took finding the right therapist. It took swallowing my pride and starting on an anti-depressant. But mostly it took a lot of hard work, a lot of tears, a lot of self-recrimination. Most of all, self-forgiveness.

These days I wonder. All my failures – but were they really failures? Weren’t they just part of the pattern that’s made me who I am today? And any failures, any successes that I continue to experience will just add to that person who I will be tomorrow, next week, next month, next year or in a decade.

These days most people would say that my life is a success. Well, I don’t know about that, but if it is, it didn’t happen without failures, some my own, some caused by outside factors. For instance, two years ago I got laid off. (Yes, Virginia, registered nurses do get laid off these days.) It sucked. I cried. I ranted. I worked at a couple of hospitals I wouldn’t send my worst enemy to. (Well, maybe I would.) But I also went back to school and finished my BSN, opening up new doors for me.

As for my other career, the one in comics? A lot of people in the comics industry have commented and complimented me on my “ear for dialogue,” my ability to get into the heads of the characters I have written. Maybe that wouldn’t be true if I hadn’t lived the life I have lived. I probably would never have submitted a story to DC’s New Talent program. I wouldn’t have written When It Rains, God Is Crying, or Chalk Drawings with a certain mensch who goes by the name of George Pérez. I wouldn’t know Mike Gold or Martha Thomases or Len Wein or Karen Berger or Neil Gaiman. And I wouldn’t be here writing this column.

Black and White.

Stop and Go.

Yin and Yang.

Success and Failure.

The ups and downs of life.

TUESDAY MORNING: Can Michael Davis Possibly Still Be Black?

TUESDAY AFTERNOON: Can Emily S. Whitten Possibly Be Talking About Deadpool? 

MICHAEL DAVIS: The Greatest Story Never Told, Part 3

Please read the last twoweek’s installments before reading this. Thanks!

What has gone before, quick and dirty recap… I’d sold (in my opinion) the second greatest idea in the history of comics to one of the greatest publishers in the business. It was to be written by one of the greatest writers (Dwayne McDuffie) with art by a guy (me) who was going to make sure this time he got it right.

All was right in the world. Except for one teensy little problem. The editor assigned to the project wanted to change one thing…

Me.

A few days after Jenette Kahn assigned the editor, Dwayne went to meet with him to map out the production schedule.  I was living in Los Angeles and the meeting was in the New York offices of DC. There really was no reason for me to be there. After the meeting Dwayne would call and fill me in.

I couldn’t wait for that call. In hindsight, yes, yes I could have.

(more…)

MICHAEL DAVIS: Con Man

I came home from the San Diego Comic-Com last Sunday night around 9:30. I went to bed around 9:32. I slept all day Monday and most of the day Tuesday.

Why do I need so much sleep after Comic-Con? Because I had maybe 20 hours sleep total the two weeks before Comic-Con and five hours sleep during Comic-Con.

Here’s my Comic-Con recap.

Friday morning my annual Black Panel did a tribute to my fallen partner Dwayne McDuffie and I do think we did him justice. It was supposed to be a joyous celebration and for the most part it was, but there were a few times when the tears did flow. All and all it was great being around fans, friends and pros that all loved Dwayne. The highlight for me was the video taped message from Wayne Brady. In it Wayne told the audience what a big fan of Dwayne he was. that was cool!

Also at the Black Panel, I announced the “Search For The Next Great Graphic Novelist”contest! FAN, Final Draft and my imprint Level Next are sponsoring the contest. More details to come right here at ComicMix!

Friday afternoon saw me as a panelist on the cool ass upstart panel, “The Nappy Hour.”  I make it a point not to do any panels except The Black Panel while at Comic-Con. The Black Panel is so much work that doing another panel is simply out of the question and I’m asked to be on at least four panels every year. Keith Knight, the founder of the Nappy Panel, had a bit of a run in last year on the net. Years ago the run in would have turned into a war but now the kinder, gentler Michael Davis look for other options than to smite those who dare to speak ill of me. FYI: Keith did not speak ill of me and in fact it was me that took something he wrote the wrong way. If you know anything about me you know that when I’m wrong I own up to it.

Keith and I decided to do what black men don’t do. We decided to talk! Then we decided to do each other…each other’s panel. Get your mind out of the gutter! The Nappy Panel was so much fun that I’m thinking he and I should create a panel that would showcase the best of The Nappy and the Black panels. What do you think, Keith?

A few hours after the Nappy Panel I met with co-publisher of DC Comics Dan Didio to talk about a possible project. It was the first official meeting I’ve had with DC in over a decade. What happened?  Well…

(more…)

DENNIS O’NEIL: Universal Upheaval!

So the universe upheaved and a gap appeared in time and here we are, at the far end of that gap. (Or the near end, if we’re looking backwards. But never mind.) We’ve again grubbed residence in Comicmixland and vowed to deliver weekly blather.

But, with a deep bow to Bill Maher, we have new rules—or to be exact, just rules, since when I last did this nobody mentioned rules, though I did promise Mike Gold and myself to do at least 500 words per installment, lest I be mistaken for a carbuncle. The 500 word deal still holds, but Mike has added a new proviso; subject matter should be somehow related to comics.

Pretty draconian, huh?

Actually, Mike’s edict doesn’t much close any doors. First, a lot is happening in comics and related media per se and, second, virtually everything in our media-drenched, perpetual-news-cycling global civilization is connected. Always has been. Really. Remember the butterfly effect: The sumbitch flapping around a garden in Tokyo today will cause your hat to blow off next Tuesday and the breath I just took may have contained an atom that was once part of Cleopatra. (And, more painfully, the monetary crisis in Greece may bump your mortgage.) And we all come from the same place, out there among the stars in the baby cosmos.

So yeah, the world is a vast network of interconnections, and it’s a lot easier to see that now that it was a century ago. It shouldn’t be much of a rhetorical trick to write about comics and still acknowledge that other things exist, and are worthy our notice.

(I wonder: could you have a comprehensive knowledge of comics, beginning with [[[The Yellow Kid]]] and ending with…oh, I dunno – Chris Claremont’s run on [[[X-Men]]]? – could you know that and be ignorant of the history of the United States in the Twentieth Century? Maybe not.)

But where to begin?

Well, this week, nowhere. I’ve already burned away 329 of those 500 words and unless I want to content myself with knocking off a few haiku, there isn’t much room left for pontificating. But next week? Hey, this has been called the summer of the superhero movie, hasn’t it? And although I haven’t seen all of the films in question, and probably won’t in the next seven days (Thor has already hammered back to Asgard, which I think is somewhere just off Sunset Boulevard, and is not available for viewing) but doesn’t utter ignorance of my subject qualify me as a pundit? Darn right! And what’s happening behind the cameras—the changes in management—is worth a bit of uninformed opinionating, too.

A final note: In the previous incarnation of this feature, and in a comic book that the aforementioned Mike Gold and I worked on a couple of decades past, we recommended books we thought might amuse our readers. I’d like to continue recommending reading, but not every week, just when I come across something I think will be of particular interest to y’all.

Happy trails…

FRIDAY… Martha Thomases

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