Best of 2007: Comic

This is a tough one. I read a lot of comics. My gut is going with Peter Bagge's Apocalypse Nerd, and I think I need to stick with that. With this title, Pete took the angst, social-phobia and darkness that permeated Hate, and shoved it into a post-apocalyptic setting. The results were fantastic.
I can't remember exactly which issues came out in 2007, but I know for certain the final two did, at least. What a fucked issue that number five was... some really twisted shit went down. I don't want to ruin it for you, but basically Apocalypse Nerd was a pretty straightforward look at what life would really be like after a nuclear war. I don't mean in a scientifically-accurate type of way; this is pretty much about the mental breakdown of all of the characters when martial law kicks in after North Korea bombs the Pacific Northwest.
This six issue series is probably already out in trade paperback, but if not, try and track down the issues. It might be tough to do; I never see them around (but then again I don't hit up too many shops that would carry them in the first place).
Runnerup: Runoff. The final collection came out this year. Man, this was a great series. Towards the end it got a little too 'Hollywoody,' but I guess the recent news that it's going to be made into a movie by the guy that did Hellboy will do that to you. Still, it had some fantastic moments.

Best of 2007: Television

This was another no-brainer. The previous summer, I purchased a video ipod and watched seasons one and two of Lost. I really hadn't watched any television shows of any sort for about ten years at least, other than the Simpsons and Futurama. It was probably way longer than that, actually. Anyway, I wanted to try out the new iPod, so I acquired digital copies of season one. It floored me, and I watched both seasons. As such, I was psyched for the debut of season three.
And man, they didn't let down. Well, they did a little bit, since that whole deal at the beginning with the Mexican standoff was dragged out a little thin. Other than that, though, this show kicked ass. There were a few duds in the mix (like the one where those two characters got buried alive), but even those were pretty great episodes. The overall storyline is so great, though, that anything that doesn't propel it along can be seen as tiresome.
And talk about cliffhangers! Shit on a shingle, if the last two minutes of that final episode didn't have me crapping in my pants. The best thing about it all was that I was entirely 'spoiler-free' throughout the whole series. I recommend avoiding commercials and gossip sites. What a great fucking show.

Best of 2007: Food

This one was a no-brainer. I like to cook, and usually we make some pretty good meals at home, but there's one dish I just can't get enough of. It's kimchee, and since my beloved Hanabi closed its doors a few years ago, I have been woefully low in the kimtake department. There's a Korean place in Pleasantville that serves up kimchee jigae, but it's not really all that great.
Thankfully, there is a place to get a great dish of kimchee in the area. It's Noodles of the World (or, as it's more commonly know as, "NOW") and it's located inside the Borgata casino right in Atlantic City. The Borgata recently added an entire new 'wing' of restaurants, most of which are a little too fancy for you and me. Not so with NOW. It's basically a little row of tables and two counters, and the food is great. It's also not too expensive, which is nice for a casino restaurant in AC.
The only bad thing about the kimchee is that it's only an appetizer. The dish is relatively large for a pre-meal treat, but I wish they would have a larger, meal-sized variety.
Someone who works with my wife gave us a package of kimchee seasoning, which makes about 10 pounds of the stuff. I haven't mustered up the energy to make it yet, but I think I may have to. That shit is just outta site.

RUNNER UP: The Asahi Roll at Ginza II

Best of 2007: Album

For the foreseeable future, I'm going to devote a few posts to my own personal "Best Of" list for the year 2007. I'll be spotlighting different categories, and writing about the best entry of the previous year for each. This is a novel, exciting concept which I think might catch on with some others. To my knowledge, no one has as yet undergone such a task.
The obligatory "Best Album" goes to They Might Be Giants' "The Else," which came out last spring. I have been a huge TMBG fan for many, many years, but was very disappointed with their previous release, "The Spine." Quite frankly, it sucked. As such, I was a little hesitant when this latest disc came out, but after the initial spin all worries went out the window. This is prime TMBG, and it's their best album since 1994's "John Henry."
Only now do I realize how retarded it is to write about this disc. I'm reminded of Theolonious Monk's famous quote, "Writing about music is like dancing about architecture." Well, I won't be dancing to the Louvre any time soon, but I may as well churn out a few more sentences about this collection of songs.
One thing that struck me regarding the Else was how Linnell-heavy it is. On most Giants albums, the two Johns pretty much trade songs back and forth. Off the top of my head I don't remember how many songs feature John Linnell on lead vocals this go-round, but I know I counted a few months ago, and it seemed like he did way more than half. I've always enjoyed his stuff more than Flansburgh's, but Flansy is no slouch in the writing department, either. I will definitely be sad when these guys finally break up the band.
Another interesting aspect of this disc is that it was released on iTunes a few months before the physical copy hit stores. I didn't buy it from Apple, and I'm certainly glad I chose to wait. (Technically I didn't really wait, since I downloaded it elsewhere prior to its official release). The initial pressing of the album came with a bonus disc of songs culled from the TMBG podcast, a total of 21 more tracks that are, while not as tight as the album itself, a worthy companion and well worth the price of admission. This was a much better way to treat the fans than the aforementioned Spine, which clocked in at just over a half hour, and was accompanied by a download-only EP that cost an extra ten bucks or so. Fuck the Spine, but long live the Else!

Outland

Long before Berke Breathed produce the shit-streaked comic, "Outland," Sean Connery produced a shit-fueled motion picture called "Outland." I am not a huge Connery fan, though I have enjoyed a few of his flicks. On a whim, I decided to get this vintage sci-fi flick from Netflix. I thought it might be on a par with Bladerunner, one of the greatest movies ever, but it was more like Shitrunner, a fictional movie that was never produced but does conjure up imagery of a horrible disaster.
To be honest, I didn't make it through the entire film. Most everyone I know knows that I have a tough time staying awake through movies, unless I'm actually watching them at the theater. If it's at home, I usually fall asleep. Starting this one late at night probably didn't help. Writing some boring-ass script most likely didn't help much, either. I would say this movie's fans can be filed under two categories: 1. People who loved it when it came out twenty five years ago and have since gone retarded. 2. Retards.
Don't rent Outland.

BBCTV

In the past few years, it seems like there's been a resurgence of great programming from the BBC. I have always been a fan of shows like Monty Python, Red Dwarf, Black Adder and the like, but a new crop of 'edgy' shows seem to have sprung up, almost overnight. Well, 'overnight' might be stretching it a little bit, unless it's one of those three-month long "nights," like in that creepy town where the vampires live. Even that would be used only with extremely liberal licensing.
The point is, there's a lot of great television shows coming from the UK these days. My favorite is probably Peep Show, which stars two extremely socially inept roommates and their cadre of equally disturbed 'friends.' The entire show (with very, very few exceptions) is filmed in first person perspective, which means you only see what one of the characters is seeing. Once in a blue moon there's an establishing shot from outside a building, but that's the exception rather than the rule. The other neat trick is that the show is comprised of an endless stream of inner dialogue, presented as a series of voice-overs. The characters innermost thoughts are constantly on display, and they are always extremely fucked up. I can't recommend this show highly enough; I think at least one season is out on DVD in the USA. All four seasons are currently available on bittorrent sites.
Another brand new show I've been enjoying is Angelo's. It just finished up its first six-episode season a few weeks ago, though I have yet to see the finale. It's a more 'traditional' britcom, in that it centers around a common meeting place filled with zany characters. In this case, it's Angelo's cafe, or (as he calls it) the "Caf." Though it bares strong resemblance to the older shows, it maintains that dark, fucked up quality that permeates many modern programs. There's a guy in it who dresses like C3-PO and stands in the town square all day, for starters. It really is a great show, and I hope it comes back for more. The guy who plays Angelo had a bit part in the recent Extras Christmas Special, as the landlord who tried to rent out a real shithole to Ricky Gervais' ugly friend.

Basil Wolverton, Naked!

For Christmas, my wife hooked me up with a classy Basil Wolverton art-book. It basically traces his career from the earliest stuff he published, back in the 30s or 40s, up through his 'peak' years of the 50s and 60s. I haven't really had a chance to read much of it yet, other than the few pages I flipped across on Christmas Day. I was really excited to get it, and seeing his stuff collected like that was a real treat. I had never even heard of this book, and really only know Wolverton's work from the different reprints, and one collection from the 80s.
Having said that, I am not a huge Woverton fan. I mean, I really enjoy his work and appreciate it much more than the average comic fan probably does, but he never really reached that "upper tier" with me. I think the fact that, at least in my mind, he's primarily known for spot-illustrations (as opposed to sequential stories) somehow lessons his value to me. His pictures of grotesque humans really are great, though.
Glancing through the book a second time (it's called "The Original Art of Basil Wolverton), I notice there is quite a bit of sequential stuff, but most are six panel gag strips or the like. Some of the full-page illustrations are completely surreal, and are far more reminiscent of Dali or Picasso than Kirby and Lee. Wolverton seems to have much more in common with the underground movement of the sixties than Kurtzman, but Harvey always seems to get all the credit. I recommend getting this book. I even more strongly having your wife get it for you. It's available right from the publisher, Last Gasp.

MW by OT

MW is a long-form work by Osamu Tezuka, the Godfather of Manga. In simple terms, he was the creator of Astro Boy, Kimba the Lion ("Jungle Emperor," I think it was called) and several thousand pages of manga throughout his lifetime. I've always thought of him as a Japanese combination of Jack Kirby and Will Eisner. Anyway, the guy was very influential and did a million different styles, themes, and approaches throughout his life. This book, titled simply "MW," was (according to the blurb) "Tezuka's darkest work."
I can see that being the case, because it is pretty fucked up. It's tough to really summarize the plot, but let's just say it deals with a really fucked-up relationship, a super-psychotic guy, and lots of insane plot angles. I'm not saying it's the greatest work of the comics medium, but it was exactly what I wanted from a Tezuka book. I hope there's more like this coming.
A few of Tezuka's other more adult-themed (that doesn't only mean it shows people bonin') titles have come out recently. One was Ode to Kirihito, which was about a doctor facing a bizarre disease that turns humans into animal-human hybrids. It wasn't an action book at all; it was just bizarre 70s manga. Apollo's Song, yet another recent translation, was also a little too stream of conscious for my tastes. MW stuck very tightly to the plot, and seemed much more planned out (and better paced) than the other two books.
The website is http://www.vertical-inc.com/. You can order all of these books there, as well as Buddha. See the Comic Book Haters episode for our review on that one. I picked up ME at the local Borders, so it shouldn't be too tough to find. They're all worth reading.

We's for Me

It just now struck my mind, but the novel I'm currently reading shares its name (at least, a homonym of) with the country's hottest-selling holiday item. The book is called We, by Soviet author Yevgeny Zamyatin. Written in the early 1920s, it was the main inspiration (at least from a literary point of view) for Orwell's 1984.
Anyone who knows me knows I'm pretty obsessed with 1984, so naturally I was interested in checking out this precursor. In fact, I am a big 'fan' of Dystopian futures in general, (especially those visions from the past) and Alan Moore's recent League of Extraordinary Gentlemen's release, "The Black Dossier," has rekindled my interest.
There certainly are a lot of similarities between We and 1984. An overtly-regimented society; a lone male trying to deal with his socially unacceptable rebellions; a female 'operative' who leads him towards temptation; ultimate punishment for what basically amounts to 'thought crime.'
In many ways, We is a much more 'desirable' dystopia, though they all pretty much suck when you get down and think about it. The people live in glass houses (literally), and a massive clock controls what every citizen does at every minute of the day. They're given a 'personal hour' at the end of the day, but even that is a little shady. On the plus side, they get these little pink tickets , which can be 'cashed in' to nail a chick whenever they want.
The main difference is that Orwell's vision is so very, very bleak. There doesn't seem to be much pollution, destruction, or other ecological disasters in OneState, the Zamyatin city-state. In fact, OneState exists in a sort of dome, with a continuous jungle existing everywhere else on the planet (except for several other city-states, which seem to have little interaction with OneState, at least so far in the novel).
The overall tone of the original is much lighter, and actually reminds me more of Huxley's Brave New World. I guess living through World War II in Europe certainly had a much bigger impact on Orwell's darker voice.

The Straight Take on Kerry Drake

Well, one of the advantages of being an early-to-mid 20th century comic strip enthusiast is that one is constantly discovering new series to peruse. Pardon me, as I take a sip of British tea and extend my pinky-finger into the air.
One such recent discovery for me is Kerry Drake, by Alfred Andriola. I recently purchased the first two volumes of this reprint series, which picks up mid-storyline from the late 1940s. At first, it seemed like a pedestrian Dick Tracy with less-polished artwork. The first few pages were a drag, but eventually I started to really get into it.
The key is focusing on the dialogue, which manages to out-Spillane Spillane. The lead character, Kerry Drake, is a hard-boiled detective who knows how to get dirty, and everyone speaks like a grizzled hipster. One plot centered around a cocaine smuggling operation down in the Keys, which is followed by an intricate crime web orchestrated by a popular radio DJ.
Apart from this edition from SPEC Productions, I have never seen Kerry Drake reprinted anywhere. Unlike Joe Palooka, this is a series well worth investigating. Fuck Ham Fisher.

Slide Over, Zombies: Skeletons are Coming!

Lots of people fear zombies, and they've really developed quite the 'chic' persona in certain hipster circles. The slow-walking, steadfast gait of a mindless drone has garnered up all sorts of symbolic meaning in our modern culture. As far as a frightening beast, however, the zombie must finally pass off its crown of terror to a stalwart young contender: the skeleton.
Much of the zombies' allure comes from its mystique. Bits of flesh, chunked up across the face, reveal faint glimpses of the life which once inhabited this hollow shell. The burnt embers of a life somehow make the zombie out to be somewhat of a tragic figure; a being who never asked to parlay this grotesque lot in life. Not so with the skeleton.
This is not to imply that the skeleton sought out its position. Nothing could be further than the truth (except in one remarkable instance), but the fact remains that absolutely no glimmer of life exists within those brittle, dry bones. The skeleton is, quite literally, a cold, heartless being who perennially sports the creepiest grimace of mankind's history. Also, skeletons quite often employ the use of swords (more specifically, scimitars), giving them an added bonus during melee rounds.
The purpose of these words is not to condemn the zombie, nor to strip it of its hallowed status amongst true nerds and socially bereft individuals. Rather, it is to promote awareness of the creepiness which lay inherently deep within each skeleton. At the very least, I hope to stimulate debate in the academic world upon this very subject.

Dick Tracy Could Kick His Fucking Ass

I am reading a collection of "Jim Hardy" strips, which originally ran in the 1930s. They were created by Dick Moores, which is really a hell of a moniker to get stuck with. Just try typing that one into Google images.
Moores was an assistant of Chester Gould during the 1930s, before launching his solo career. He also did the lettering, which is as great here as it is on the Dick Tracy dailies. Before reading this collection, I assumed it would be a lamer version of Dick Tracy, but that didn't turn out to be the case.
I'm not trying to imply that it was actually good, because it's really just serviceable. The artwork is very similar to Gould's, but much more cartoony. The first major storyline was really slow-paced, and basically involved the entire citizenry of a small town getting duped by some slick out-of-towner. Don't worry; Hardy scopes him out. There's really not much crime, which (for some reason) I was led to believe was the case. The genre switch didn't really phase me, but it was a little too melodramatic for my tastes. And I love Gasoline Alley.
Still and all, it's a decent comic. Compared to Gould, Caniff, Crane, or Moseley (yeah, I said it), it simply pales. Good read for the shitbox, though. After all that, I liked it much better than Joe Palooka. Way better, in fact. I believe you can get it from this publisher.

Don't Buy Watchmen!!

I remember reading, a long time ago, that one of the reasons Alan Moore hates DC Comics is because of their treatment towards him during the initial publication of Watchmen. At the time, Moore had worked for DC on Saga of the Swamp Thing, some mainstream super-hero stuff, and a few odd fill-ins here and there. He knew how the game was played, I would assume. For Watchmen, he must have had a different game plan in mind.
Basically, DC put a clause into the contract that said, "When Watchmen goes out of print, the copyright reverts back to Alan Moore" (and maybe Dave Gibbons, too). Some might say that no one could have predicted how long Watchmen would remain "in print," but it's also unclear what exactly would constitute "out of print," as well. Anyway, to Moore's (presumably) sedated mind, it sounded like a fair enough shake.
Flash forward to 20 years, and Watchmen is probably the most massively-distributed Western comic of all time. Unless you count that first issue of McFarlane's "Spider-Man." It seems like everyone bought that thing. Anyway, the point is, if no one buys Watchmen, the rights will be reverted back to the creators. Simple enough, right? So don't buy Watchmen. And tell everyone you know not to buy Watchmen, either. Maybe the chain reaction will undo a creative injustice. Plus, you can always get Watchmen from the library, a friend's house, or even through an online torrent site. If you're really desperate, email me and I'll help you find a copy. Just don't buy it.

Put Your Head Inside the Puppet Hand

Marvel Comics recently announced that they will sell "subscriptions" to their back-catalog online. The basic gist is that you pay ten bucks per month, or a discounted $60 per year, and you can read a bunch of their old comic books (from the Silver age up to six months ago) online from their server.
The nerdroar seems to be split on this issue. I have read some people complaining that you cannot download the comics; only read them from the site. In fact, I've read a bunch of people bitching about a bunch of stuff. What I have not read is how royalties will be dispersed for the artists and writers.
I am not sure if the creators are being compensated at all. If they are completely bypassing the creators, they sure as fuck picked a horrible time to launch this. All of Hollywood is in an uproar over pretty much the same issue. The current Writers Guild of America strike is about royalties towards online distribution of their materials (along with DVD and other product royalties). Is Marvel pretty much doing the same thing with their comics now?
A few months ago on the Comic Book Haters podcast, we discussed the relevance of torrented distribution of comic books. I was pretty vocal in support of them, and my main argument was that old comics should be up for grabs to anyone that wants to read them. Mind you, I said 'read.' Not 'own.' I look at online distribution like a library. I know a lot of people would disagree with this statement, but that's just how I feel.
I feel differently about Marvel. They're charging people, and making money off of it. Are the creators? If you can point me towards some proof that they are, I would rest easier. Lots of people will be using this service instead of buying trade paperbacks and collections.
Joe Quesada made a statement to the effect of this being the "Legal" way to obtain these comics, taking a not-too-subtle jab at torrented comics. I noticed he didn't say 'ethical.' Just 'legal.'

Gasoline Alley

Well, I can't help it. I am really enjoying the most recent collection of "Gasoline Alley," titled "Walt and Skeezix" for copyright issues. 'Most Recent' is a pretty subjective term, since the strips contained within were first printed in 1925. The storyline revolves around Walt's impending marriage to Ms. Blossom, and the cold-hearted Mme. Octave's never-ending attempts to snatch Skeezix away for good.
These are some slow paced strips. I mean really, really slow paced. One strip was just a close-up of Skeezix's head repeated (more or less) over the four panels. It was like some Warhol painting, but it had some kind of narration going across the top of it. I don't remember exactly what it said, but I seem to believe it was a third-person voiceover that was commenting on something Skeezix may have been thinking, though we'll never know.
Other strips basically revolve around that fat fucking manchild, Walt, walking down the road, or pretty much just lousing about and talking to himself. Though this might sound derogatory, I really do enjoy this strip, and the pacing is actually it's main appeal. Although not much happens, these characters' entire lives continue to march on. Skeezix (who was found on Walt's doorstep as an infant) continues to grow day by day. When a year passes, he is a year older. It's interesting to read nowadays, but I'm sure the effect was much different if it was seen to unfold day by day, rather than digesting two years' worth over a few weeks.

Fuckin' Will Eisner...

Harlots, Sluts and Tramps

Can you believe what's passing for passion these days? Not nary a damn thing, that's what! These trumped-up sluts and dime-store harlots can barely keep up with the hussies these days. Back in my day, a woman knew how to turn the dial up to seven, and if you married her, eight!

Nowatimes, it seems like these whoeweres can't wait to start parading their nipples around like so much lambkbop at an all-night shmuewzka. Why, just the other night we were looking at the tv and what came on but another one of these teenage pregwhores. She was jumping up and down, causing poor Harold quite a fright (though he must have recovered by bedtime, because he seemed a bit frisky).

The girls in my women's group all agree that we should start another letter-writing campaign. It's a 100% perfectly successful tactic; we were this close to getting Deuteronomy V removed from the bibles down at the Stop and Sleep over on Berchin Boulevard.

At the heart of all this is that, in the hands of a true femme fatale, a knowing glance or a sly smirk was more powerful than a thousand privates on parade. Look no further than a young Angela Lansbury, or the spry strut of a youthful Bea Arthur. Now, those were women!

Fucking Hell

I spend a lot of my "spare money" on funnybooks and related items, but even I get royally pissed at the prospect of wasting money on something irrelevant. Now, many people would consider dropping ten bucks on a stretched-out interview with Alan Moore one of the aforementioned 'irrelevant somethings,' but not me. What I do consider bullshit is paying ten bucks for the same fucking Alan Moore interview twice.

I love Alan Moore. It would be ridiculous to point out at this stage that I mean this in a platonic, admiring way, rather than a sexually charged one. Make of it what you will; we all have artists whom we admire. I really dig Moore's work; I mean really, really dig it. I've read his works dozens and dozens of times over, and scrape up any interviews, text-pieces, or the like concerning him. Needless to say, I didn't bat too much of an eye when I ordered "Alan Moore Spells it Out" last year from Airwave Publishing.

The book is just under 80 pages, and contains an interview that might just as easily have fit nicely between the covers of an old Comics Journal or the like. It certainly wasn't bad, but as I said, it's pretty much a straight-up interview with Moore, formatted as a 'question and answer,' rather than prose. The dude who did the interview, Bill Baker, basically just typed out the questions he asked and Alan's responses, verbatim. It didn't exactly take too much effort, I'm sure. Which isn't to say I didn't enjoy the book; my point is, it's not a classic by any stretch.

So I felt a little burned at dropping a ten spot on it, but overall I was pretty pleased with the content. It was an interview of substantial length, and they covered some pretty cool ground. Again, it wasn't earth-shattering, but it was pretty decent. When I ordered "Alan Moore on His Work and Career" about a year later, memories of the previous tome flittered through my mind. I didn't want to waste more money on a glorified Wizard piece.

Imagine my utter disgust earlier this evening, as my shipment of funnybooks arrived, and I cracked open the cover of this latest inter-biography (tm), only to find it is the exact same interview.

College textbook manufacturers make big money off of 'revised editions,' since every school pretty much has to dump the old ones and order up the new version. The thing is, they have a certain percentage of content which has to be changed in order for it to qualify as a 'revised edition,' or so I was once told by a learned man. The thing is, the cover itself counts for the majority of that 'percentage,' so all they really have to do is slap a new cover on it and change the page numbers. I expect that kind of behavior from the piss-stained halls of Upper Academia, but not from the ever-lovin' funnybook realm.

I cracked that goddamn book open right away, and shut the pages in disgust within a minute or two. Hey, it took me that long to realize. Glancing at the indicia, I noticed it said "Large portions of this book were previously published as Alan Moore Spells It Out." Large portions? Try the whole fucking thing! They tacked on some bullshit at the end, like an 'Awards List' and an expanded (but pathetically far from complete) bibliography of Moore's work.

The real kicker is that they also added a glossary. A fucking glossary! Can you believe it? Thankfully it was two pages long, giving them ample space to explain what such mind-boggling concepts as "Synopsis," "Almanac," and "Epiphany" mean. Thank heavens; I'd have been lost without it.

Even more baffling is that, after an eighty-eight page (they made the font bigger) interview in which Moore discusses his entire career, pretty much from start to finish, the powers-that-be decided to slap on an "About the interviewee" blurb. Again, this is fucking retarded. This isn't on the back cover; oh, no. It's tucked within, beefing up that oh-so precious page count. What a bunch of happy horse shit. Who the fuck would need to read a one-paragraph "About the Interviewee" after they've read almost one hundred pages worth of his own words? That's like giving "Hello, My Name Is" stickers to everyone as they exit a conference room.

Now that I sound like a crotchety old spendthrift, allow me to backpedal a bit. I am assuming the initial volume is out of print, and has been usurped into this "Talking with Graphic Novelists" series' banner. That's all well and good, and if you enjoy Moore's work I actually reccommend seeking out this book. Just don't get it if you already have "Alan Moore Spells it Out." I just wish they would have warned a brother.

Jack Kirby Would Be Shitting in his Pants

Have you been reading DC's latest weekly extravaganza, Countdown? Probably not, because not many people follow comic books at all, let alone weekly ones. Last year, DC started it all off with 52, a boiling batch of bearpus that didn't make much sense to me. Granted, some people loved it, and I didn't really pay too much attention, but it just didn't make any sense.

Well, DC's follow up, Countdown, has been sliding down a slippery shitslope for the past twenty weeks. At first I really hated it, and found it just as boring as 52. The past month or two, however, has kept me riveted to my seat. It's all centered around Kirby's Fourth World saga, which has been a personal favorite of mine for a long time.

It seems like they're finally building towards the inevitable (though perennially postponed) climax, which has long been an underlying plot point. The New Gods are being killed off, though so far the only ones that have a second shitstringers, except for Lightray. He was always basically a pussy, though.

Another one to bite the dust is Sleez, who I believe was first featured in an old John Byrne issue of Action comics. Superman and Wonder Woman had amnesia, and Sleez was filming them in a porno. I shit thee not. Has he ever even appeared in anything else? I doubt it. Then again, probably somewhere.

There's also a subplot about some crazy-ass freaks who are searching for Ray Palmer, the Atom. He's shrunk into some unknown universe, and they're heading towards him. I don't even remember why they want to find him, but I think it's bad news.

Finally, Jimmy Olsen is the secret to the Anti-Life Equation. That's fucking great! He's been exhibiting all these crazy-ass powers, and some two-timing doctor ran some 'equation' on him. The doctor was working for Darkseid, who first appeared in Kirby's Jimmy Olsen run. It all comes full circle.. Jimmy Olsen Must Die!

This is one of the shittiest comics out there, but also one of the best. Dini helped define what LOST is all about, and he brings those skills to the table for this series. It's total shit, but totally shitterific!

Funnystrip Update

Well, in addition to coining a new term (Funnystrip, ie, a comic strip which predates 1960), this installment contains several KEY PLOT ELEMENTS in the various funnystrip collections I'm currently reading.

First, as always, is Smilin' Jack. In this collection (#3 or 4, I forget which), Zack is starting up a new airline school whilst going undercover to foil the supposed criminal exploits of "Mummy," a rough and tough World War I pilot. The thing is, Jack is totally nutso about Mummy's daughter, and grapples with the dilemma he's in: can he rat out on the father of the girl he loves? He doesn't seem to be too bothered about it once he's done it, though. Also, Fat Stuff continues to fuck up at school.

Over in Mary Perkins (volume 2), Mary has recently escaped the clutches of Samson Anthony's (again, not sure if that's the character's actual name) wrench-fisted contract. A serious of creepy events transpired, leading Ms. Perkins to believe she is nothing more than a pawn; a paper doll of sorts. Now she's shacking up with some sensitive type, I think. I forget what happened last, but that Mary sure is a filthy slut.

Terry and the Pirates (volume 1, NBM) continues to be stellar. The truth is, I haven't read much of it in the last week. So I guess, technically, it's at kind of a slow point. It's still great, though.

Many among us will ridicule the preceding declarations. You, who stand so proudly above all others, will tell yourself that your critical assessment, or complete disregard thereof, is of a superior nature. You, and you alone, are deemed worthy to decide upon all which is good on this earth.

Think again, Oh Noblest One, think again.

Terry and the Pirates

I've recently been reading the new Terry and the Pirates collection by Milton Caniff, which came out from IDW about a month ago. I have to say, I've been enjoying the Hell out of it, which is pretty hard to do. At first I was hesitant, because although I've read the first year or so of the strip and enjoyed it, I really didn't think it started getting really good until around 1940.

I'm happy to report that, pretty much right from the start, it's spectacular. I'm about a year or two into it, but I skipped over all of the Sundays that weren't running the same storyline as the dailies. Thankfully, they printed these consecutively in the beginning, so they were easy to skip right over, and will be easy to go back and read later. The storyline with the two main characters stranded on an island was one of the best 1930's storylines I've read in a long time. The art reminded me of Krigstein and Johnny Craig, both of whom I believe were big fans of Caniff.

One thing I noticed is how often the leading men of vintage strips were asked to go undercover to expose some form of criminal activity. The catch is, they're always impersonating some crazy criminal who happens to look exactly like them.

In this collection, Pat Ryan tries to break a ruthless gang of crooks, one of whom he looked exactly like. I'm just at that particular part in the book right now, so I don't know how it will end. Smilin' Jack looked just like a certain criminal too, and tried to spoil the Head's plans by going undercover. I think Dick Tracy might have done something similar, though Gould seemed a little too classy to rely on such a hackneyed concept.

Li'l Abner had his own criminal lookalike, too, as did Mammy and Pappy Yokum. Come to think of it, just about everyone in Dogpatch had a twin of some sort or the other. There must have been something in the water back then.

My Enthusiasm Has Been Curbed

I watched the season premiere of HBO's "Curb Your Enthusiasm" the other night. I didn't like it. I may be a professional Hater by choice, but I don't think I'm alone when I say this show has jumped the shark.

I love CYE; it's one of my favorite shows. At times, it has made me laugh so hard I nearly pissed myself. Note that I said 'nearly,' asshole. I don't want any weird rumors about me starting up. Anyway, I wasn't really surprised, because the last season pretty much sucked, too. I don't know why I continue to watch it if I don't really enjoy it much anymore, but I keep coming back. I guess it's like calling a friend up that you don't really have much in common with anymore. There's not much point in doing it, but force of habit rules out in the end.

At least it was better than "Fonejacker," some completely horrible BBC show I recently watched. God, that was awful. I'd rather watch video of Larry David taking a shit than sit through that again. Imagine if Ali G decided to re-make Crank Yankers in his image, and also he has to stop being funny.

Fuck Jules Verne

A buddy of mine used to have a big beef with Jules Verne. Yeah, the old French writer, Jules Verne. He read 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, which was a great book, and loved it. Then he read some others, and when he got around to reading The Mysterious Island, he was pretty well-versed in Verne. Needless to say, he was excited at the prospect of a sequel to Leagues, since the original was so good. What he got was, in his words, "A steaming pile of Verne-shit. Fuck him!"

At the time, I, also, had read a lot of Verne. And a bunch of H.G. Wells, too. Overall, I would say that I like Wells' best better than Verne's best, but Wells had some pretty boring shit, whereas Verne always maintained a certain degree of suspenseful action; at least enough to carry the show to the end. His books might have been kind of lame at times, but they always had at least one great concept.

Anyway, when my buddy read the Mysterious Island, he became royally pissed. He said the majority of it was based on some strange dude lurking around, or some such shit. I never actually read that particular book. The point is, it really wasn't much of a sequel, and I guess he was so angry because he'd been sold a false bill of goods.

I recently finished Verne's Around the World in 80 Days, and I, too, feel I was played the victim. For decades, what one mode of transportation springs to mind when you think of that book? I'll give you a second....

It's the fucking air balloon. Everyone associates the air balloon with that book. And guess what? There's not one fucking air balloon in that goddamn book! He only mentions it in one sentence near the end, and he's pretty much dissing it as far as a form of transportation goes.

Now, I know, once again, this isn't really Verne's fault per se, but fuck him anyway. He was probably a dick to someone, at some point of his life. And anyway, what's he going to do about it?

The Jungle

The other day I started reading "The Jungle" by Upton Sinclair. I can't get over that name; "Upton." What a sissy name it is. I bet that dude got the shit beat out of him on a regular basis. I can't even imagine why someone would name their child that. And that last name... "Sinclair." No offense to anyone living today, but even that surname just screams "Pussy." And not in the "Check me out, I get tons of Pussy" vein; more in the "Christ, I am such a pussy" category. My grandfather always said "Don't speak ill of the dead, you ingrate," but I bet even if he were a vengeful ghost, I could still beat the living (or undead) crap out of Upton Sinclair. Plus, Grandpa used to touch cousin Shana in her flowerbox. I saw him do it once.

As for the book, it's a wacky story about the hijinx and shenanigans that went on in the meat packing industry at the turn of the previous century. My friend Schooly G would probably make a real lame joke about the phrase 'Meat packing industry' at this point, but thankfully I'm way above that. Though I might add as a side note that your mother and I once started our own meat packing industry, but we had to call it quits once her rectum prolapsed. You know what I'm talking about!

King of Kong

Last night I watched "King of Kong," the documentary about the guys who hold the world record on all those classic arcade games. It centered around the game "Donkey Kong" in particular. In a nutshell, some guy in the midwest (or so) got really, really good at Donkey Kong, and wanted to be recognized as the world-record holder.

It was a pretty understandable request, since he blew the other score away. But the thing is, the guy with the original score turned out to be really tight with the referees (they were all from the old days), and he doesn't like the thought of someone beating his score. I think his name was Billy Mitchell; look him up if you're interested.

It's a totally fucked up story. In truth, the movie tends to play Mitchell as a villain, but taken at face value some of the stuff he does in it are truly reprehensible. I'd like to hear his side of the story, but I don't feel like looking it up.

Regardless, it was a great movie. Just under an hour and a half, which is pretty much my cutoff for any flick. It was fascinating, in the same way that the sex-doll documentary was, but nowhere near as creepy. That shit was just totally fucked.

Introduction: The Rugged He-Men of Years Past

Hey Folks! DJ Sloofus here. I've been asked by the braintrust over at CBH headquarters to start my very own blog. Since I really don't have too much to say, I've decided to create a ridiculous concept, and loosely thread it together over the course of the next few weeks. It's basically a contest between comic strip characters, all of whom are forced to compete against one another. Can you believe it? This is a truly unique, original idea which I got while watching American Idol. Isn't it great?

For the first series in this new, official Comic Book Haters' spin-off blog, we begin with a contest torn from the pages of yesteryear. Quite literally, as we present a series of pairings between the toughest ironjaws to grace the pages of American newspapers during the World War II era. Though they've been grouped randomly, the pairings are ultimately leading towards one inevitable 'winner' of sorts. The true winners, of course, are those who are able to click away from this nonsense right now.

Any true discussion of the rugged ‘He-Men’ of the comics page, circa 1935-1950, will undoubtedly center on five men: Captain Easy, Smilin’ Jack, Pat Ryan, Steve Roper, and Steve Canyon. On a slow day, you could throw Popeye into the mix, but his cartoony style pretty much excludes him from the others' more‘serious’ overtones (on the surface, at least). Dick Tracy’s employment by the department of law enforcement prohibits him from being part of this speculation. He would most definitely disapprove of every aspect.
Toon in next time, dear reader, as we present the first of our fictional faceoffs. In the meantime, why not check out one of our many sponsors?