In Germany for Nexus Con, Part 2

digresssmlOriginally published December 14, 2001, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1465

The name of the restaurant in Berlin was, of all things, the American Western saloon. Never in a million years would have I gone anywhere near the place, even in America, but I had been doing my Q&A with the German audience at the Nexus Resurrection convention while my daughter Gwen had gone on ahead to get something to eat. This was the restaurant at the convention center. So that’s where they took her.

I walked in and was stunned.

The décor was beyond belief. The “saloon” was jam packed with all sorts of icons of the American west… such as the 1997 Queens phone book, or a statue of Abraham Lincoln. Clearly they’d simply decorated it with anything that vaguely smacked of America. What was even more bizarre, though, was the spectacle on the dance floor. Germans, about a dozen, clad in cowboy hats, boots, gaudy western shirts that looked like something you’d see on Grand Ole Opry, were out on the dance floor, and they were line dancing in perfect synchronization to “Achy Breaky Heart.”

In Germany for Nexus Con, Part 1

digresssmlOriginally published December 7, 2001, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1464

Back in the 1930s, there was a small shoe store in the heart of Berlin, run by a soft-spoken, unprepossessing Jew named Martin David. He had a wife, Hela, and a small boy named Gunter. The political situation had been deteriorating in Germany, and there were concerned noises from members of the Jewish populace, but there was a general belief that everything would calm down. How bad, it was figured, could it get?

And then one night a brick was hurled through Martin David’s store window, and the shouts of “Dirty Jews!” were heard from outside. Martin looked at the broken glass, at the brick with the word “Juden” etched upon it, lying upon the floor like a still-steaming animal dropping, and then he turned to his wife and said, “Start packing, get everything together. Sell what you don’t need. We’re leaving.”

All the neighbors told them they were crazy. That they were overreacting. That things would go back to the way they were. The Davids, despite the nay-sayers, left anyway.

All the neighbors died in concentration camps.

The Hollywoodization of Marvel Comics

digresssmlOriginally published November 30, 2001, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1463

Remember when the Hulk was inarticulate, and his alter ego had the first name of David, and a fall from a helicopter could kill him instead of simply resulting in a Hulk-shaped dent on whatever piece of ground he landed upon?

Remember when Doctor Strange’s mentor, instead of a venerable Asian named the Ancient One, was an affable British guy named John Lindmer?

Remember when Captain America had a clear plastic shield that doubled as a windshield for his motorcycle? Or that other time when he fought the Red Skull, who was Italian instead of a Nazi?

Remember that glorious period when Don Blake was able to summon the spirit of Thor, who was not a god, but instead a Viking warrior with attitude who bore a resemblance to nothing so much as a biker? And Blake would stand there and argue with Thor about how obnoxious he was being and how little he understood the Twentieth Century?

Remember when the Kingpin had a full head of hair, and Daredevil wore a black costume with a blindfold and no horns? Remember when the Punisher had no costume?

Weren’t those fun times?

It was all during the Hollywoodization of Marvel Comics, and it was a time that drove true believers absolutely stark-staring nuts.

We Regret the Error

digresssmlOriginally published November 23, 2001, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1462

Assorted things…

* * *

When one does a column of this nature, week in, week out, it is inevitable that little inaccuracies are going to slip in. Since we like to keep things above board here at But I Digress, it behooves us to correct some mistakes that have slipped through. Granted, I do have a crack research staff, but since—as per their field of interest—they spend most of their time on crack, naturally they’re of very limited help. So it falls to me to make things right.

No More Mr. Nice Guy

digresssmlOriginally published November 16, 2001, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1461

I’m not a nice guy.

You have to understand that up front. There’s this perception among many that I’m a nice guy, but I’m really, really not.

I like to think I’m a good guy. Decent, moral. A loyal guy. I try my best to treat people well. I think I can be fairly entertaining, usually polite. Convivial, except at parties, where I usually tend to retreat to a corner and wonder how long I should stay before it would be acceptable for me to bolt. I try to be a good husband, good father, good friend, and I think I succeed more often than I fail, although I do have my failures, to be certain.

But I’m not a nice guy.

The Three High-Verbals, Part 2

digresssmlOriginally published November 9, 2001, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1460

So after I had completed my fifteen minutes of fame at MIT and Harlan had done his forty-five—which seemed proportionate, somehow—Neil came out and did this own chat with the group, far closer to my time than Harlan’s. Speaking in that calming and urbane fake British accent he puts on, the highlight of Neil’s time (as far as I was concerned) was a charming poem he’d written for his youngest daughter called “Crazy Hair” (i.e., the poem, not the child, is called “Crazy Hair.”) After that, Neil took his seat, at which point the dogs of war were unleashed.