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BUT I DIGRESS, Originally published May 1, 1992

So here we are.

The first issue of the much-awaited new, new new format of “The Comics Buyer’s Guide.” (more…)

You know the drill.

PAD

PAD here. I just want to take this moment to say that I am, quite frankly, blown away by the quality of submissions we’re getting. Great job to all concerned, and keep it coming!

Jakob stopped, perplexed. Most women had shot him down by this point, and a few were normally calling the police. What DID he have to offer? He looked down at the spurned spud in his hands, realizing that his macaroni art was even less accomplished than his attempts at effigy.

Taking his silence as a silent confirmation of her fears, Bela said, “That’s what I thought.”

Jakob bridled and replied sharply. Bela looked at him, confused. Jakob removed the bridle and repeated himself, “I have plenty to offer you, not the least of which would be an intriguing mystery to discover what I have to offer you.”

Bela studied him, noticed the uncontrolled quivering of his lip, the glazed, sweet look of his eyes that reminded her of donuts, the sheen of sweat on his forehead that made him sparkle like an adolescent with a gland problem… (more…)

NOTE: This is the second entry within the past day. So be sure to read part 6 by Michael Davidson before you start on this one!

The room grew cold and colder in the night shade, and a wild wind whipped the flickering flambeaus on the façade into a flashing frenzy.

“Castle Thunder” grumbled throatily outside as Jakob stared into the face of Bela, the selfsame Bela who had just mocked his ardent devotion. Her eyes, usually as soft as triple-pureed adirondack blues, were now cold and devoid of affection.

“Woe is me,” sighed Jakob.

As if on cue, an apparition drifted into the room like steam over a bowl of boiled lilis. It was Woeisme, her raven hair standing out against her yellow-scalloped nightgown stamped with maris pipers, which only poorly disguised the growing shapeliness of her form. (more…)

Originally published April 24, 1992

And so, as more love letters are doubtlessly winging their way to CBG demanding my head, merely because I have the temerity to give Image the same consideration that I do Marvel and DC (notice that no one ever gets mad when I criticize the Big Guys), I blissfully return to the bonnie, bonnie banks (those are the twin sisters of Marvel sales honcho Lou Banks) of Scotland and my trip to the Glasgow Comic Art Convention:
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As the swine flu outbreak continues spreading, an Israeli health official is making waves by saying the name should be changed to “Mexican” flu, because the reference to pigs is offensive to Jews and Muslims, who consider pigs unclean and forbid the eating of pork products. (more…)

His hands moved rhythmically, spurred on by ancient, guttural tones. The lights flickered, spasming like a fish too far from water, or a careless electrician.

Jakob’s face stressed and contorted. Sweat began to bead on his over-long forehead. His eyes rolled back, his body slacked. He was done. (more…)

So “Chuck” and “Heroes” both had their season finales on Monday. Thoughts, including frankly unavoidable spoilers, follow.
HEROES: I’ve been patient this season. Honest to God, I have. In a season that seemed preoccupied with depowering Hiro, knocking off blonde heroines, Sylar flipflopping between hero and villain (he’s a freaking serial killer of innocent people; HOW can he be a hero?), and a plotline that moved at a glacial pace (at the beginning they were busy rounding up heroes, and as of the last episode, they were…still rounding up heroes), and the snore-inducing opening and closing narration, I have stuck with it.

And what’s our payoff?

Nathan is brutally killed by Sylar, and Sylar is brainwashed into pretending to be Nathan. And it’s all his mother’s idea.

Am I the only one who thinks that’s sick? A cop out? Revolting? Borderline necrophilia? Mother Petrelli doesn’t want Nathan out of her life, and so she transforms Nathan’s killer into Nathanmania, an incredible simulation? How about she wants him dead because he just slaughtered her son and will, without question, kill again? Oh, but what will the president say if he discovers that a senator was killed by someone with powers? How about if he’s told, “This guy killed Nathan Petrelli, but we put him down like the rabid dog he is so he’ll never hurt anyone again.”

The notion that she’s keeping her son’s killer around, looking at him every day and pretending he’s her son…it’s hideous. And Peter is supposed to treat him like his brother? Claire like her father? It’s an exercise in cruelty for all concerned. It’s madness.

And what’s the outcome of the major storyline? That the president suddenly decides that heroes might be of benefit to the government and therefore the government should work with them? “Hey, guys, sorry we were rounding you up. How about we employ you instead?” They couldn’t have thought of that earlier?

Nothing worked for me. Nothing made sense to me. Nothing rang true for me. I may check it out next season, but I’ll have this series on a VERY short leash.

CHUCK: On the other hand has gone from strength to strength. Over a period of time the characters have grown, become deeper, more layered, more lovable, with some of the best cast chemistry on the air. The addition of Scott Bakula to the cast (however temporary) and the jaw-dropping revelations that entailed were nothing short of brilliant. The loopy wedding performance by “Jeffter” contrasted with the firefight in the wedding reception room was deftly edited, the introduction of a new (or expanded) villainous outfit was well executed, and if one of the key dramatic beats was predictable (you just knew Chuck had to get the intersect back in his head) they nevertheless built upon that and gave us an ass-kicking climax that was genuinely exhilarating (not to mention worth it just for Sarah’s and Casey’s reactions. I want a t-shirt of Casey saying, “Chuck me!”

“Chuck” has had miserable ratings luck, ranging from a strike-truncated first season to a heavily promoted episode being derailed by an Obama speech. Plus the competition from “Dancing With the Stars” has been brutal. Consequently it’s iffy as to whether the show will be renewed. I sure hope so.

PAD

Originally published April 17, 1992

Well, I’m taking a one-week break from my travelogue of my Scotland trip in order to deal (in as expedient a manner as I can) with a question I’m getting repeatedly: When in hell did I say that I “will categorically never do a book for Image”?

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“Jaaaakob,” came the soft dulcet tones that sent a lick of fire scampering through his veins before plummeting downwards. As the figure stepped into a shaft of moonlight, Bela’s sweetly curved face and glistening russet hair tilted up towards him.

They stood together for what seemed an endless moment, trapped in the glow and gazing at each other. Jakob’s hand gripped the voluptuous potato, digging his fingers into the flesh as its juices escaped, dripping down his fingers. How could he have forgotten this? The way the smell of her made him itch inside his very soul? He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Woeisme was a forced infatuation he had deluded himself with, if only to forget .. to forget the way she looked right into him.

He lifted the potato up helplessly to her. The wetness where he had gripped it caught the glow of moonlight. Lips curved in soft humor, her eyes traveled down to gaze at the juicy russet nestled securely in his large hand. An eyebrow arched and a flash of hunger glimmered deep within the warm dark pools of her eyes.

“What are you offering me Jakob?” (more…)

So back in February I wrote an entry that I feel established a new identity for me as Captain Irony. The column, in response to comments from the new attorney general regarding what he saw as a reluctance by whites to discuss matters of race, opined that any honest endeavors to do so were invariably met by shouts of racism and calls for economic sanctions and boycotts.

The blog entry was met by shouts of racism and calls for economic sanctions and boycotts.

Thus was Captain Irony born!

It gets better. (more…)

Originally published April 10, 1992

MARCH 12: My plane is an hour and a half late getting into London’s Heathrow Airport, where I’m to make my connection to my flight to Glasgow. The reason given by American Airlines for the delay is a rather unique one: We’re told that because of prevailing tailwinds, our plane–had it left on time–would have arrived at Heathrow almost an hour early. Therefore (we were told) the order to wait came from London air traffic control.

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Jakob cautiously crept forward and came to the steps of Sullen Manor. As Jakob reached to open its towering doors, his mind overcame with second thoughts. Perhaps it was a mistake to come. After all who was to say Bela was even home. Or maybe she was on the couch making time with Edwood, could Jakob bear the sight of his beloved embraced in passion with his rival. Yet still, what if she was home shaving her legs, clipping her toenails, or some other ghastly sight one shouldn’t see if one hoped to keep the image of that impossible perfect ideal one has of their true love. (more…)

Rooted in humiliation as the moisture trickled down his bark, Jakob could only plot his eventual revenge. He knew now who the wolves were and he’d enlist the aid of Woeisme and her brother Something, maybe even Edwood could be compelled to plot a comeuppance. (more…)

Originally published April 3, 1992

I seem to have picked up, what is to me, a rather odd additional vocation: Dispenser of wisdom (or whatever semblance there is of that rattling around in my head) to today’s youth.

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In order to try and accommodate the large number of folks we already have in line (with more coming in each day), we’ll be changing the 24-hour rule slightly. (more…)

So here one is.

“Oh, hello, Something,” he said.

“Hi, Jakob,” answered Something, Woeisme’s older sibling.  Something was only ten, but already he seemed to be older than his own mother. “Were you going down in the woods tonight?  I’d be careful if i were you; maybe even put on a disguise.”

“Why?” Jakob responded with his typical lightning-fast wit, “Are the teddy bears having a picnic?”

“No – werewolves are having a Howl.”

Werewolves!

Would his beloved Bela (or perhaps, that should be his beloved Woeisme and her mother, his formerly-beloved Bela) be safe?  Would Edwood protect them? Could Edwood protect them?

“I must discover if they are all right!” he exclaimed, dashing into the forest on his way to the Sullen place.

Remembering Something’s warning, he used a clever Native American technique he had learned in the Boy Scouts, disguising himself as a tree.  In the distance, he could hear the Howling werewolves at their Howl howling long frightening howls as they Howled.

Hoping that he could pass the werewolves without dicovery, he crept silently along through the forest, near the path that led past the old Same place on its way to Sullen Manor.

Sullen Manor – the name had rung in his mind when he was a little kid reading comic books.  The only other manor he’d heard of was Wayne Manor, in his comics.  He used to imagine that Sullen Manor was the home of a hero who disguised himself as a bat and fought good fights and righted wrongs under the cover of night.

How naive he had been!

Suddenly, he realised that he was about to come to the clearing where the werewolves were Howling; that there was no other way to go through the forest…  He froze in place, hoping to wait, hidden, until they finished what they were doing and went away.

Soon, indeed, they seemed to be satisfied that they had made sufficient noise that no-one for several miles around could be sleeping peacefully, and began to wander away, some transforming back to human form as they did.  It didn’t surprise him very much that the biggest and meanest-looking werewolf turned out to be the high-school principal – he’d always thought he was a mean son-of-a-bitch.

But, suddenly, he saw that three of the wolves were pacing purposefully, their eyes full of purpose, directly toward him!

They were sniffing the air!

Had their keen noses penetrated his clever disguise?

He stood, still as he could, though his foliage occasionally rustled as if a wind were blowing, as the three werewolves walked right up to his roots.

Again, all three sniffed carefully of this new tree on the edge of their meeting place.

The three seemed to come to a joint decision.  He stood in terror, wondering what they meant to do to him.

And then, as one, all three raised one hind leg…

Jakob Blaq sat on his porch, contemplating the potato in his russet hand. He could hear the sounds of the baseball game his father was watching inside, and his father’s shouts over the TV.

The moon shone down upon him, casting shadows on the potato that caused it to resemble a girl.  A very certain girl.  This certain girl happened to be Bela to whom he was not speaking at the moment.

“Bela,” he hissed.

The potato had captured her face perfectly.  “Bela, would that I could devour you as easily as this potato.”  Jakob lifted the potato up in front of the moon.  It blocked out the hovering orb.  She was vaster than the moon, was this potato Bela.  He took a bite.

“Great,” he thought aloud, “there must be something deeply symbolic with me taking a bite out of a potato that looks like Bela.”   He threw the potato behind him. A crash resounded resoundingly as the potato shattered the window. His father shouted from within.

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The first installment will go live (we hope) tomorrow morning at 9 AM. I’ve alerted the first three contributors (and will endeavor to give each new entrant 48 hours notice just to allow for temporary e-mail botches and such.

I don’t remotely expect everything to go smoothly; I’ve never embarked on anything like this. Ideally we will navigate the bumps and bruises as painlessly as possible as we go.

As of this writing we have a number of entrants. I have no intention of closing off the queue, but just be aware that it’ll be a while until we get to you.

Also, if people turn in their entries in less than 24 hours, and we can put them up faster, then that’s what we’ll do.

Fangs to all volunteers.

PAD