Four Color Reality

Graphic NYC

2009-08-14T20:46:00.000-07:00

My life has changed radically since the last posting in April; ironically, I've been too busy with my other blog, Graphic NYC, to even have time for this one. When Seth and I set out to put the profiles online, the plan and expectation was that the essays would go beta online, only to be edited up for the final book project. And then, something both daunting and wonderful happened -

People noticed us.

Graphic NYC has had its usual shares of praise, support, criticisms, and problems. It's bound to happen anytime you put something out there for the masses to see. For the most part, though, I feel like the site has been a success, getting linked up from major news outlets like LA Times, USA Today, and New York Times City Room. I've also gotten some really nice compliments from folks in the industry whose contributions I've enjoyed and who I've had immense amounts of respect for for some time. But, most importantly, I'm really proud of the work both Seth and I have done on it.

One definite thing I can attest for is the workload: Graphic NYC has been a labor-intensive labor of love for me, each piece taking an estimated five to ten hours of my time. Not only do I have to travel out to each subject for a one-on-one interview, but I also have to read as much of their work as possible, transcribe the 30 to 60 minute interview, send the Q & A off to the subject for clarification, and then write the darn thing, developing the thesis of the piece while trying to work the quotes together into a natural flow. My ideal word count per piece is 2,000 words, but several have expanded up to 3,000.

So, in roughly 2,000-3,000 words, I have to give an impression/description of the artist and their surroundings, order the quotes into sections that flow well and make sense, add my two cents in the interpretive department on their work, and touch on their background. While doing so, I also have to make sure the essays don't start to repeat themselves, and that the editorial package adheres to my self-imposed guidelines.

But, in the end, I have a finished essay that I'm proud of that's lavishly illustrated by Seth Kushner's lush photography. And, when you have a site that local cartoonists regularly pimp themselves out for coverage on...well, who could ask for a greater compliment?

I couldn't ask for anything better than that...except what's coming down the pike for Graphic NYC.

The Evolution of Geoff Johns

2009-04-13T15:21:00.001-07:00

As I sat in the audience of small folding chairs lined up in the downstairs of Jim Hanley’s Universe, waiting for Geoff Johns to come out for a panel, my mind wandered back to when I first interviewed Geoff:

It was the late ‘90s and I was interviewing folks for www.richmondcomix.com (my first “gig” as a journalist/interviewer, it paid nothing but a few free comics, high long distance bills and cutting my teeth and getting my feet wet in the comics industry), I got a hold of Geoff to talk about his new book, Stars and S.T.R.I.P.E.. Back then, he was an assistant for director Richard Donner, and would come home after a long day at work to write Stars. I got in touch with him a few times after, for pieces for Comics Buyer’s Guide on Hawkman, JSA, and at some point, I remember chatting with him about his new run on The Flash.

Now, here’s where I come clean: while I really liked Geoff personally (as personally as you can get in interviewing someone), his earlier work was kind of lukewarm to me. Stars and S.T.R.I.P.E. was great in the character department, but I felt that his pacing lacked a bit. Then, when he teamed up on JSA with David Goyer, it’s apparent that he learned some tricks from his co-writer because, pretty soon, Geoff became a much better writer, with a great sense of pacing tied in with strong character moments.

And then, Green Lantern happened.

And Geoff went up there (in my eyes) with Mark Waid and James Robinson. A couple of months ago, I sat down and read through the entire run of Geoff’s Green Lantern. At the risk of fanboying out, he’s not only made GL an important character (with the type of terrifying threats that justify the need for a Green Lantern Corps), but he’s also made me actually give a damn about Hal Jordan. You have to realize that, back in the dark days of the ‘90s, Hal was always a character we were told was important and that we should like, but were never given a reason to like. His glory days were behind him by about a decade. Geoff has brought Hal down a few notches (thanks to his time as the villainous Parallax, cleverly written off as the virus-like yellow impurity of the GL rings), so that he’s forced to build himself back up. Hal is an important character because he’s earned his importance once more.

Then, Geoff hopped on Action Comics, and has restored Superman to an accessible and iconic level, distilling him down to the best facets of the character from the past seventy years. I have one more Action hardcover to get, and then my collection of his run will (for the moment) be complete.

His Flash: Rebirth, bringing Barry Allen back into the fold, hasn’t impressed me as much, however. While it’s a really well done comic, Barry seems a bit too self-absorbed and out of character for me. But, I’m sure that Geoff and artist Ethan van Sciver are going somewhere with it, and that it’ll all make sense in the end.

But, back to sitting there, and getting Geoff to sign a copy of Flash for my pal, Patrick, and walking out of Hanley’s on a rainy evening, I felt like I’d gotten my ass kicked through no one’s fault but my own. Johns has gotten an amount of really lucky breaks, sure, but he’s worked his ass off in the past decade at DC. I look at how far he’s come in that decade, and realize that there’s no excuse for my not having gotten my shit together and really pushed to write comics again. Sure, I’ve done loads of history and journalism projects (from The Blue Beetle: His Many Lives from 1939 to Today to www.nycgraphicnovelists.com) to show for, but I haven’t really put myself out as a writer in a few years.

So, thanks to my own guilt and self-criticism, I’m finally going to make the leap this year.

The Arrival to NYC and the unfairness of Clearwire

2009-03-21T13:58:00.000-07:00

The past few months, to say the least, have been a wild ride.

Firstly, Circuit City went bankrupt and then into liquidation, leaving me amongst the throngs of jobless in the country, a victim of everything from a recession to a company that had made quite a few corporate missteps in its past, missteps that couldn't be recovered by a well-meaning CEO and his board.

So, with the remaining paychecks coming in, I've finally made it up to NYC. Well, not fully, but I'm close enough for now.

The past few weeks have also put me in touch with a few comics legends for Graphic NYC: Joe Simon, Jules Fieffer, and the ever pleasant Walt Simonson.

Sticking it out in a studio spot in Gowanus, Brooklyn, around a bevy of established creators that shame me into popping back onto the laptop to write comic scripts again, I know things are going to be nothing short of swell.

And then, there's Clearwire, the wireless internet service that, if you're around, I completely advise against subscribing to.

This is the gimmick with Clearwire: they have a wireless modem that you merely plug in and pick up a signal with. All it takes is a two-year contract, where they automatically draft your $33 a month from your bank account. The signal, from my old apartment in Richmond, was pretty good and the connection was admittedly strong.

But here's the kicker: In moving to New York/New Jersey, where I can not receive any Clearwire service, they stick strong to not letting me out of my contract. Unless, of course, I pay $200 to be let go.

Allow me to elaborate:

I currently don't have a job that will allow me to fork out $200 for something I can't get.

Clearwire doesn't serve the area I'm moving to.

They can still deduct $33 a month from my bank account.

I don't receive any service from Clearwire here.

They won't let me out of their iron-clad contract that, apparently, comes this side shy of including my first-born.

I can understand contracts in business, but something I'm also really steadfast on is good customer service. Part of that entails having a bit of compassion for your customers, particularly when you are no longer able to provide a service. Sure, they may be able to legally do this (I checked with the FCC, and have still issued a complaint), but they should also consider that good customer service can only result in great publicity.

2009-01-17T08:33:00.000-08:00

It's been a cold week, the type of cold that my toes can't shake, no matter how many pairs of socks I put on.

It has also been a mixed week, a series of ups and downs, pros and cons, each heaped one day to another.

On the downside of things, Circuit City, where I work as a copywriter, failed to find a buyer and is now undergoing liquidation. Basically, it means that I'll have a job for just a little bit longer, but it's pretty much all over for what is a great company run by great people who were truly doing their damnedest to fix it up from the formerly great company run by real jack asses. It's all pretty ironic for me: this is the first job I've ever had that I really enjoyed the people I worked with, and saw myself staying at for as long as I needed to. Fate has made the decision for me to go on a different path.

I'm going to move to New York, as soon as I find a job.

Grad school didn't pan out at VCU, thanks in no small part to issues with financial aid. I've been excited about returning to VCU's campus full time, but it doesn't seem it's in the cards for me.

www.nycgraphicnovelists.com has already garnered an insane amount of both praise and plugs, already getting me some mainstream media notice. The iron's hot right now, so it would be foolish for me to not strike.

Another downer: Final Crisis #6 came out, with the final fate of Batman. It was, sadly, the high point of the whole comic, seeing Batman go out like a total badass. Low points include Mr. Tawky Tawny eviscerating Kalibak, and Superman just having to carry Batman's corpse in a "yes, see, he's really dead, folks" gratuitious splash.

An upside: Geoff Johns' first Smallville episode, featuring the Legion of Superheroes, premiered. I had several geekgasms for the entire hour, with everything from the uber-cool Persuader (he's a dead ringer for the comics version), the Legion flight rings, and the incredible job the Smallville team has done bringing Doomsday to life...I've only been able to catch the season premiere and this one episode, but it's enough to tell me that fans finally have the Superman show they've deserved for decades. If they're smart, we'll either see a ninth season with Welling in the suit, or they'll spin it off into a new Superman movie. After the train wreck that was Superman Returns, I honestly feel like a Smallville movie will be the only way an audience could accept a new Superman so soon after the Routh version.

On another note, I think I have the honor of being one of the first people to interview Geoff, back when he was doing a short-lived comic called Stars and S.T.R.I.P.E. I've always been happy to follow his successes in the comics field, and this episode of Smallville is up there with his work on Green Lantern and Action Comics.

That new Superman movie? Let this man write it, Warners.

A mixed upside: Bush's televised farewell speech, giving new meaning to the term Idiot Box.

Another upside: Mr. Barack Obama is going to be our President in a matter of days. Despite being jobless, I can't refrain from the feelings of hope the man has given me for this country.

The crazy New Year...

2009-01-07T12:46:00.000-08:00

Man, what a crazy ride.

Tuesday marked the launch of the super-cool kinda top secret project I’ve been working on with photographer and pal Seth Kushner. www.nycgraphicnovelists.com showcases the work we’ve been doing on the Graphic NYC book, the same book we’ve been trying to find the right publisher for. So far, we have a healthy handful of my essays completed for the book, and I’m going up to interview two more subjects this weekend (one contemporary, one legendary) in NYC. After that, there’ll only be about 42 to go.

We’ve already gotten a lot of love for the project. Heidi McDonald gave us a shout out on her blog The Beat, while Whitney Matheson of USA Today was kind enough to give Seth’s photography props. Also, Comic Book Resources (one of my daily news visits) mentioned us in this blog.

This all proves one thing to me: The $10 I spent on the domain name two weeks ago has already paid for itself.

For the first time in a long time, I’m on a project that I’ve put heart and soul into, with a partner who’s as into seeing this happen just as much as I am. Seth does more than just take the pictures: he’s been pounding the pavement, getting us an agent, doing the graphics work on the newly launched site, and also being the nexus for me to catch up with the interview subjects on my too-few and too-hectic trips up to the Big Apple.

While I’m hunched over the keyboard on long evenings after getting off of work, he’s busting his ass while I’m sitting in my cubicle with earplugs lodged in my ear canals, writing about home audio.

So, hats off to Seth Kushner!

After I pick the car up from the shop (new brake pads, struts, shocks, and rotors – yikes!), it’s off to Nostalgia Plus to get my weekly comics fix. I definitely need to pop in today, as the final part of Marvel Zombies 3 comes out.

I’ll admit, I’m burnt out on zombies, really. Couldn’t care less about them. I’m more of a vampire guy, really. But, Marvel Zombies 3 caused me to do something I rarely do with a monthly comic book, and that’s geek out like a middle schooler. Fred Van Lente’s script is eerie, spooky, and damned creepy. There are more than just a few moments that have caused my lunch to threaten a return visit.

That’s hard to do.

When the hardcover comes out in a few months, remember who wrote the sexy cover copy, all right?

The NY Con is early next month, and I’m scrambling to get a few odds and ends together for it, and also get caught up on work before starting my Grad School classes next week. If you haven’t been yet, it’s the best con out there. Period. Check it out.

Of CHiPs and the future

2008-12-28T17:58:00.000-08:00

There's something about '70s TV that they don't get anymore. At least, I was reminded of this when I opened up the most unexpected Christmas present this year: season one of CHiPs, the show that made a heartthrob out of Erik Estrada and made cops cool.

But first, a little personal background. I was born in '77, so I caught the tail end of the great '70s shows like The Incredible Hulk (more on that later), Welcome Back, Kotter, and CHiPs. I still, to this day, have very little in common with my older brothers except for a love of two things, CHiPs and Dukes of Hazzard, both shows we watched religiously as kids.

Know how, often times, we go back and watch our favorite shows, hoping to relive the same fascination we had as kids, and it falls flat? That's not the case with CHiPs; it gets better with time, a lot of the humor that was lost on my four year-old mind now hitting me like a ten car pile-up in the San Fernando Valley. Ponch's antics a helluva lot funnier to me now that I no longer think of girls as icky things.

Sure, there's goofiness and the obligatory car blow-ups, but that was lessened in the first season. Even though you knew that Baker would survive having his front wheel loosened by a pack of hoodlums, it still keeps you on the edge of your seat. Good, fun, stuff that doesn't take itself too seriously unless it needs to.

Oh, and The Incredible Hulk? I've slowly been working through season four, and the final scene where the aimless David Banner defeatedly walks away to his next adventure, sad piano theme playing, still brings tears to my eyes.

In the narcissist department, I think 2009 is going to be a big year for me. Why? A few reasons:

God willing, Watchmen is coming out to theatres and will hopefully prove to the unitiated that superheroes are smart (even moreso than the excellent The Dark Knight did).

Digital comics are finally going to have their day. With Marvel's amping up original digital content. And, with the cover prices of monthlies going up, I see it being very soon that many monthly customers will switch to online counterparts, waiting until a published hardcover comes out. This is something I've been anxious to see finally happen.

Neil Gaiman is writing the "final" Batman tale. This is something I'm very, very excited about. Toting it as a booken to Alan Moore's final Superman tale in the '80s is hyperbolic, but I'm sure Gaiman can live up to it.

Coraline comes out in theaters. The scariest, and best, of Neil's novels is coming to life ala stop-motion. I enjoyed the preview for this more than all of The Spirit.

Something big is happening with Graphic NYC. Watch this space, and Seth's blog. We have something big popping soon.

My next book, From Four Color to Silver Screen, is out by this summer. Relieved to finally have the final draft turned in, I'm finding myself geared up to do the panel at San Diego and hold my first full-color book in my hands.

I met an amazing girl who happens to read comics. Nuff' said.

I'm back

2008-12-23T12:40:00.000-08:00

Having two jobs can kick your ass, I should know.

Just last week, I finally finished the polished draft of From Four Color to Silver Screen: The First Movie Superheroes, weighing in at a massive fifteen chapters. And it nearly killed me.

The biggest hazard with juggling a full-time job with a writing career is that you often times find your arms getting really tired after a while. Add the normal happenings of life in general, as well as an unexpected business trip, and working to get another book project off of the ground, and taking in a kitten found underneath your sister’s friend’s car hood on a cold winter day, and playing Sheriff while aforementioned kitten tries to move in on older cat’s turf, and having to deal with the holidays, on top of the stress of seeing several of your friends laid off because of the recession…

And you can understand how it can wear one out.

But, at the end of the day, I have that warm fuzzy feeling inside, balanced with a euphoric anticipation at this new book coming out from a new (to me) publisher, and I’m reminded of why I started writing in the first place. Right now, we’re looking at a May to June release date on this full color book, with a stiff cover stock, coming out from Hermes Press. I am beyond looking forward to holding a copy in my mitts.

I learned many things, good and bad, while working for TwoMorrows and writing and editing my first two books there. Getting that type of hands-on experience with everything from pitch to writing to editing to working with a designer to polishing up the final edits (not to mention getting the cover art put together) was invaluable to me. I ran into some limitations while there, sure, but the experience taught me to think in a broader scale while writing; rather than just focusing on getting the research and writing down, I now find myself visualizing the entire package as I go.

Dan Herman, my publisher, is uber-excited about this one and promises to pull out all of the stops for it. Expect for us to have a few things going by San Diego, and expect me to throw a few more projects their way in the near future.

The force is strong in Taylor.

My niece is an irresistible chick magnet, guys. Every time I stand outside in public while holding her, she grabs the attention of any female within a 100-foot radius. So, when you find out your brother or sister’s about to reproduce, single guys, take advantage of your single status and the kid’s cuteness. Sure, babies just lay around, poop, sleep, and act like a comatose narcoleptic for the first month. But when they hit the second month and start smiling uncontrollably and making cute baby noises, it’s time to crack out the stroller and go for a walk.

I love being an uncle, obviously. Having her around has taught me a lot about the immense responsibility being a father entails. I was reminded of this while holding her with my left arm a few weeks ago (she had a stomachache) and proofing my manuscript with my right hand. It has been a firm reminder that I have way more to do with my life and career before I can even think about kid-folks.

Let’s talk about my new book project, the kind-of Top Secret one I’ve been working on four about eight months.

Graphic NYC is a photo and essay book that New York photographer Seth Kushner invited me on to. Basically, Seth is taking (or has taken) portraits of approximately fifty New York cartoonists, and I am interviewing each of them and writing a critical essay about each of them.

It has worked out beautifully, as this gives me a chance to take concepts and approaches from my aborted Comics Introspective series, but with better photography and in a better, non-censored format. If I have an artist that draws boobies, then dammit, we’ll be able to show boobies; if they say “shit” we can publish “shit” instead of the not-fooling-anyone “sh*t”.

I can’t say much more about it, other than Seth and I hope to go a very long ways with our team-up. We’re both of the minds that we owe it to society to get comics in the hands of everyone, and to portray the cartoonists as personalities and real people rather than mysterious figures chained to drawing boards. It’s going to take a progressive and liberal publisher for us to do it through, and I’m jazzed at the possibilities already in front of us.

More to come but, in the meantime, check Seth’s blog out at sethkushner.blogspot.com.

Which reminds me...

I love New York. And now I have another reason to love it even more...

So it seems...

2008-10-12T06:40:00.000-07:00

I have become one of those horribly undisciplined fairweather bloggers: Its been about a month since my last entry, but hopefully I have a fair enough reason or two.

Two weeks ago, my niece was born; it was an experience that started with a call at 4:30 in the morning that my sister Meagan was going in for a c-section later that morning, a quick shower and shave, a 90 minute car ride back to Farmville, Virginia...and seven hours later, we had a beautiful and healthy baby girl laying in a nursery: Taylor Marie.

Standing on the other side of the frosted glass, minutes after hearing her first cries coming out of my cell phone (she was born where my mother works, and Mom was outside the O.R. with her phone), looking at this tiny, tiny person that was just half an hour ago inside my sister (and had been for about nine months)...

It was one of those moments that made me instantly review my priorities in my life, with this new kid being top on the list of "work, creative growth, relationship with cat, meeting the love of my life, buying all the Cure's CDs, writing the next great American novel..."

The baby's home now, Meagan's dog Amy standing loyal guard on Taylor, ever-presently curled up at the foot of her crib and always sniffing whomever holds Taylor next. Her black hair has now lightened to the same dark brown that I have, and her large blue eyes open every once in a while, her hands and feet move about as she's still trying to figure out the environment around her (and probably wrap her brain around her general existence...something I'm still struggling with 31 years later).

Taylor's going to be one of those kids who looks at the world in her own unique way, with no one understanding her and, because of that, she's going to be brilliant. Maybe that's just a hope of mine, but I have a slight feeling that my life has become about something so much more because I'm now her uncle.

And, yes, I'm already spoiling her: she now has her first sock monkey, and I'm most of the way through reading and recording each chapter of Alice in Wonderland for her to hear. You can never start them too early...

*I just finished applying for Grad School at VCU, a move that will put off moving to New York by at least another few years (and keep me closer to the baby, incidentally). My thesis pitch? Adapting Ray Bradbury through different mediums, including comic books and radio. The hope is that I'll be admitted, and can focus on becoming more of a "popular culture historian" than just "comic book". We'll see...

My on and off romance

2008-09-14T11:58:00.000-07:00

Okay, it's confession time: There's a girl that I have an on and off romance with. Anytime I need to lick my wounds, I go up to see her. Anytime I have something to celebrate, I go to see her.

Her name is New York, and I find an odd comfort in the constant running of her people, the cacophony of street sounds, voices, smells, and different faces on her sidewalks.

The past two weeks have taken an enormous chunk out of me. The problem with balancing a full-time job with a (practically) full-time writing career is that, when life gets in the way, I only have energy for one of the two. Nine times out of ten, and out of sheer necessity, that energy goes to my 9 to 5, and the writing falls by the wayside. My quest to find answers to a question or two have only produced even more questions than I initially had.

So, as I sit in my living room watching Elise the black cat curling up on my extra pillow (left on the sofa from a yesterday viewing of Spider-Man 2), and listen to Dashboard Confessional on my record player...I'm craving the distractions of the greatest city in the United States, just to escape the self I've built here in Richmond, and to hang out with the me that awaits in subway stations and coffee shops, lurking like a ghost or vampire.

It will be my last trip up there before becoming an uncle early next month, and I'm so badly craving the romance of the city, and the comfort of her unpredictability, the only unpredictability I welcome into my life.

It's night

2008-09-07T19:57:00.000-07:00

And I'm sitting here, off of only five hours of sleep from this morning, after a long, tragic, funny, bizarre Saturday that culminated in visiting police officers and talking to strange girls in apartment building stoops at 3 AM on the Sunday morning Main Street.

Two model kits are sitting on my table, partially finished, the smells of black spray paint and brown acrylic smellable from this old wooden news desk that sits in the corner of my studio, underneath the large bulletin board with outdates pages long ago tacked up.

The only light comes from a desk lamp, drawing shadows over the white walls badly in need of a paint job.

I'm exhausted, but not sleepy.

It's looking to be a long night.

Out there in the stars...

2008-09-04T12:44:00.000-07:00

“It’s all a swirl,” I said, staring up at the cluster of stars on that late June night, the crickets my background chorus. “Like that time I nearly drowned, years ago.”

Lying back on the uncut grass, the blades brushed against me, creating an itch on my arms that I ignored through an intense bout of remembrance, the stars cue cards for my memories. I used to lay here and talk with myself for years when I was a kid, preferring the chill October nights where I’d go out without a hat and just a flannel shirt, eschewing the jacket to let the chillness creep in my bones and warm me from the outside-in, reminding me I was alive and was there…the stars my only company.

I was eight; the water swirled around me as the undertow caught my small feet. I was a scrawny kid, looking like I’d already shrunk in the wash. Probably not much of a pull, but the gentle cycle would have been more than enough to do me in.

And the fear, the humiliation, the salt of the ocean water invading my nose, burning my nostrils, the embarrassing burping and coughing up sea water.

For the first time in my life, I realized that I could die and that there was nothing dignified about it.

I went in the water since, but always hesitantly, always scared of an unknowing undercurrent yanking me under.

Once, a friend ducked me under in the bay. Several times. Thank God it was so shallow, or I would have freaked out to the point where people would realize how scared I really was.

The stars pull me back to the present, and I’m lost in the swirl again, pulling my vision back to focus on the darkness in between the points of light.

The saddest thing about the sunrise is that it eliminates the presence of the one reliable constant in my life; the one set of friends that I know will always be there, amidst crickets or the blowing of trees, or the light blue aura reflecting off of the snow. Even when veiled by clouds or obstructed by the city.

There were nights in college where, angst-ridden and confused, I’d start walking at night like a vampire, talking to the stars, camping out on a corner to get the best look at them that I could. They’d stick with me until I had to continue my previous day as the start of a new one.

Or the one long night in high school where my brother and I kicked the grass on our front lawn, just talking about life and girls and the fact that I didn’t know how to fit in.

Or the night I had to give up my family home to try and find a new life born out of my old and failed one.

Or how, looking at the skies from that very same lawn years before then, my brother would chase me like Frankenstein and looping through the trees after a visit to Grandma and Granddad.

They were there. Every time. Watching and listening, giving me the Zen that only night can.
And somewhere, somewhen, I know there’s that one star in a constellation of people; in a city or town, and that one star is waiting for me, also looking up at the sky like I am, and thinking the exact same things.

But, until then, all I can do is keep looking up and hoping.

Take 'em or leave 'em

2008-08-06T12:16:00.000-07:00

Comic Book Artist Magazine is back.

Or, at least, it will be, once Jon Cooke gets the long-delayed Peter Bagge issue put to bed. The plan is to have it done by mid-September. I am, needless to say, flabbergasted at how quickly I get sucked into the CBA trap: Jon put together the best magazine on comics (to date), and I cut my teeth as an associate editor/historian/journalist by his side. As much as I want to put CBA behind me (through the several false starts and re-starts the magazine has had), I just can’t.

CBA is like that one girl that I just can’t let go of, because I truly love the magazine that much.

I first met Jon in January of 1999; I was hungry to break out as a historian, and Jon was in need of writers. I bugged the hell out of the poor guy, and he went ahead and gave me an article on the Charlton Action Heroes line to work on. That kept me out of his hair, for a bit, until I started uncovering some pretty exciting Charlton tidbits. So, Jon told me to do a history of Charlton article.

Before we knew it, we had one half-issue on Charlton, then an entire issue. After a few months of digging even more info up, and finding even more Charlton alumni, Jon decided to make it two entire issues. Yeah, we got a lot of flack for giving two issues’ worth to a fourth-rate comics publisher, but it got us noticed, even in a slightly favorable light by The Comics Journal.

So, Jon and I stuck together, not working on every single issue together: I would work behind the scenes on some big project a few issues in advance, to have a main article ready for him when it was work time for that particular one. My days were basically my coming home from teaching, and then grueling over the keyboard, cranking away on my assignment.

And the Eisners followed. Six of them, total, for Best Comics Related Periodical. Jon was putting out the best comics magazine, and the industry noticed.

But then, Jon things hit a snag, and CBA wasn’t coming out regularly enough. The last issue of CBA was the Eisner issue, which came out in January of ’06.

Since I last worked with Jon, I’ve gotten a little further into getting the comics industry, interacting with editors and writers, going to shows much more regularly. I also took a disastrous job that ended up teaching me the logistics and the general details of writing, editing, designing, and then seeing an entire product off to the races of the press. Then, the shipping out to customers and reviewers, the bulk mailing, handling orders…

But, more importantly, it made me realize that my vision of a comics-based publication is way higher than what passes for the norm. So, without delay, here are ---

Chris Irving’s pointers on a great comics pub (take ‘em or leave ‘em):

1. Don’t assume the readers loves, or even knows as much about, the comics you’re covering. Heck, don’t even assume the reader is a comics fan! The trick is to make an accessible book or magazine that anyone, even your Mom, can pick up and “get”. A good approach to take is to assume that you’re teaching a class on whatever subject you’re writing. Whether they enjoy it or not is up to your skill as a writer and editor.

2. Make it look pretty. That’s right, I said “pretty”. You want this to be an aesthetically-pleasing, easy-to-read publication, right? First and foremost, this is something people are going to read, and want to keep flipping through. Don’t have the text blocks be so dense that they’re hard to follow yet don’t let big splashy images and wraps get in the way of a darn good design, either.

3. No one gives a shit about how many comics you own, or that comics professional you had lunch with last week, or how many people like you, or the story of how you convinced Stan Lee to get mozzarella on his grilled cheese and tomato instead of American. Nowadays, you can save that for your blog. Really, let’s stick to just celebrating comics, whatever facet you’re covering…

4. Don’t just write about things you know. Okay, that sounds silly, doesn’t it? Look at it this way: if you’re learning through research, and as you write the piece, then the readers are learning with you, right? That also ups the accessibility level, gives you something more interesting to write about (rather than reciting the same droll history of Batman that you’ve written six times in as many years), and lets you learn something in the end.

5. Get ready for criticism. When my Blue Beetle research book came out in 2006, I caught anywhere from 6 to 12 reviews, most of them fair. But the ones that weren’t? Screw ‘em. If someone can’t give a fair critique of your work, and can only spout out fanboy drivel, it’s not worth worrying about. For every objective-minded critic, there’s probably a dozen wanna-be critics and you shouldn’t take their pathos personally.

6. Take constructive criticism when you hear it. That means criticism that, while you may not agree with it, is fair and worth mulling over. Learn to separate yourself from your work, and you’ll be fine.

7. On Q & A’s: Make ‘em conversational, but be sure to also tightly edit out anything unnecessary. If you rambled for three minutes in the interview, your readers don’t need to see it, unless it’s vital to the direction of the Q & A. I, personally, don’t like Q & A’s, unless it’s a great subject (Robert Kanigher and Howard Chaykin come to mind) and they aren’t too long. But that’s just my personal preference: I don’t want 100 pages of Q & A, I just think that’s lazy editing.

8. Be excited about comics! If you don’t feel that weight fall off your shoulders when you’re telling people about the subject matter you’re writing, then you might want to rethink your subject matter.

Stop me if you've heard this one...

2008-07-11T11:16:00.000-07:00

My pal, Michael, and I, have taken to writing something every week and sharing it on our Friday lunch break. This short vignette is the latest in short shorts I've been hacking away at.

A man walks into a bar, and sits next to an immortal.

The man, Al, had just gotten off of work, another mindless day of number crunching, cubicle-wall staring, e-mail checking, deadlines, people in shirts and ties blowing their tops, and broken printers.

Al didn’t come in for a daily drink, until he started this job. After all, the pub was right down the block from the office. Sometimes he wondered which one begat the other.

But then he’d get distracted and stop wracking his already atrophied brain.

There was nothing particularly noticeable about Al; truth be told, he was rather boring and plain. Light khaki pants with a coffee stain on the knee from a morning mishap, thin white dress shirt with a white tank top showing from beneath, frayed blue tie hanging lifelessly from the loosened collar…the typical uniform of a corporate slave. His sleeves were rolled up to the middle of his pudgy arms, fine red hairs curling back against his forearms. His face was puffy, curly red hair framing the burnt-out expression on his mug, once-bright blue eyes staring out listlessly from tired sockets.

The bar was always full of the lost puppies of the corporate world, the cubicle raiders chasing pointless windmills, the gearless cogs meting out a meager existence over a cheap beer afforded with their minimal disposable income.

The immortal was dressed in black slacks and a collared shirt, unbuttoned at the collarbone, revealing dark curly chest hairs with an Adam’s apple suspended a few inches over the top buttoned button. He was bone thin and pale, with a hawkish Sherlock Holmes look to him, and was slowly tapping the well-trimmed fingernails of his right hand against the pocked-up bar while slowly and absently twirling a scotch on the rocks with his left. He belonged in a martini bar, or some high-class upscale joint with cloth napkins and waiters who called you “sir” with oil pushing their hair back in an antiquated way.

Not this pub, this old pub with walls littered with cheap picture frames bearing tattered and faded photographs and news clippings, barely a spot of old wall showing between. This pub with the barrel-chested owner, Jake, tending the bar, the word “Dotty” tattooed across his left forearm, and a bald head hints of hair emerging on the sides.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said to Al, but more towards the glass of scotch as he lifted it to his thin lips. “But I doubt you realize this establishment has been here far longer than you realize, or that it has changed so much in that time frame.”

“Uh,” Al stammered. “I didn’t say—“

“Oh, that’s quite fine,” the immortal had the air of someone not-fully upper crust, slightly rough edges were probably hiding underneath all that refinement. “Last time I was here, so long ago, there were mill workers and rather uncouth regulars crowding the bar, not soft corporate desk jockeys.

“Present company accepted,” he turned to Al for a minute and smirked, a glean emerging from his dark eyes.

“Thanks, I guess,” Al stared at the bottles behind the bar, blankly. Jake stood opposite him across the bar, and looked at him quizzically, a bushy eyebrow arched.

“Get my new friend whatever it is he desires,” the immortal nodded to Jake, and then returned to his scotch. “He already deserves something for my odd reminisces.”

Al looked at Jake, sheepishly. It had been a long day, and some strange immortal man (how he knew, he couldn’t peg…he just did) buy him a drink at the pub that he’s never been comfortable coming into. Al ordered a cheap domestic beer in a chipped glass stein, staring at the foam after Jake set it down in front of him.

“Thanks for the beer,” he stammered out to the immortal, but the immortal was too busy staring at the melting ice cubes in the small puddle of scotch at the bottom of his glass, his eyes narrowed intently on them. “Are you okay, man?”

“Why wouldn’t I be okay?” the immortal glanced sidewise at Al. “I’m hanging out at an old pub with a new friend.”

The immortal straightened up on his barstool.

“Thank you for asking. But I’m fine…just, well – Do you understand the curse of a photographic memory?”

“I think so,” Al felt a shiver when he noticed how dark the other man’s eyes were, and he turned his gaze to the man’s chin. “Like when I saw a really bad car accident when I was eight; the person stuck in it, they didn’t make it out in one piece, if you know what I mean.”

“Yes, I think I do. What happened to him?”

“He, um, his head was crushed. Geez, I was only eight, but I remember seeing it still. Even the smells, the burnt rubber and the smoke from the cars, that kind of gunpowder smell that comes out of an airbag? And the blood.”

“That’s really unfortunate,” the immortal added. “Are you sure that’s the only thing you’d like to forget?”

“Well, no,” Al admitted. “There was that one time my grandfather was in the hospital, right before he died, with all the tubes hanging out of him.”

“I’ve seen quite a bit in my life,” he set his empty glass on the counter, and motioned to Jake. “May I have another, please?”

The immortal was archaically polite. It was odd that manners had started to become something to be so easily noticed when in action, perhaps because they’d become so rare.

“Thank you, very much,” the immortal said to Jake before he shifted the glass to his lips, took a sip, and continued. “I can tell you see me for what I am.”

Al was taken aback, but the immortal seemed harmless. He’d never seen one before, so wasn’t sure what to think.

“I think so,” Al admitted. “Though I don’t know how I know, I just do.”

“No matter,” the immortal said. “That’s not important. Just know that I’ve voluntarily seen three wars and more than my own share of crushed skulls and dialysis machines. Those aren’t what bother me every day of my long-winded existence.”

“You volunteered to fight? Why’d you want to do that?”

“Do you know,” he arched an eyebrow as he looked squarely at Al. “How boring a long life can become? When you know that you can’t die, you still have the desire to test your mortality. Even in a war.

“But that’s not what bothers me. Actually, that’s the least of it.

“Normal people rue the horrible things that happen to them, accepting that the great things aren’t going to change but so much…when they do, they still focus on the horrors and vileness they’ve seen in their short lives.”

The bar started to fill up as more people were grabbing barstools and booths. A leggy redhead sat next to the immortal, but he didn’t even notice her, much to her chagrin.

He kept talking, his eyes narrowing again, eyebrows furrowing to the bridge of his nose, as he continued thinking, pulling his mind back in time.

“But, when you can live forever, those horrible things are mere pings on a very large radar. Those wonderful things that happen? The loved ones, the great jobs, the beautiful homes? Well, you could argue that I can have those over and over again so many different times, but that’s really the tragedy of it all.”

“I don’t get it,” Al confessed as Jake slid another beer in front of him. “Wouldn’t it be worth living more if you knew you could always get those things, and you had all the time in the world?”

“Or wouldn’t it be worse knowing that it will always end and you’ll have nothing more than a damned accurate photographic memory of the best ones? How many times do you think you can fall in love before it becomes something routine?”

The immortal paused, setting the glass down with finality and half the scotch still intact, pushing it away from him.

“How long do you think it is before you just can’t fall in love anymore? And then before even the physical holds no more appeal, before even pleasure is a musty old memory?”

“I…don’t know.”

“A long time for you, not long for someone like me.”

“So,” Al looked at the bottom of his beer glass. “You’ve been in love, then? How long ago?”

“Oh, not long enough,” the immortal straightened himself out. “Probably never long enough for my own sake. Romantics should never live forever: they’ll spend it all in a state of discontent.”

“I think I’ve been in love,” Al offered up. “Once, maybe.”

“Maybe? You’re not sure?”

“Who ever is? I’m not. How do I know I won’t find something better? I mean, I guess it makes me naïve, or something?”

“I like you,” the immortal stood up. “You’re aware of your limitations, yet still hopeful…in an almost hopeless way.”

He set $40 (in two crisp $20 bills on the bar) nodded towards Al with a wink.

And then he was gone. Perhaps he disappeared in the slowly growing crowd of patrons, the shift change from off-shift worker drones to single women hoping for love and skirt-chasing men.

Perhaps he just wished himself away.

“Get a load of that guy, Al?” Jake asked Al as he snagged up the cash. “Did I hear him say he’d lived forever?”

“Well, at least close enough,” Al said as he navigated his way off his barstool, nearly bumping into a wiry guy in a blue button-down shirt. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

As Al was heading near the door, something caught his eye, and he found himself gravitating towards a black and white picture on the far wall, resting in a dusty old wooden frame.

A familiar man with hawkish features stood with a pretty blond woman at a New Year’s Eve party in a world of graytones.

1932.

Al grinned weakly and headed for the door.

Somehow he wasn’t surprised.

Associative memories

2008-06-25T12:20:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, I started a semi-biographical account of associative memories (basically, trying to create a "chain" with one memory linking and hopping to another), When Jack Woke Up. Not sure how much this succeeds yet, but it was a fun exercise.

When Jack woke up, he felt half dead.

His neck creaked, his bones snapped, and his head throbbed.

And it kept with him…through the shower dripping sparingly out of an old metal showerhead, or the smell of morning eggs.

By the time he dropped his bleary carcass in his old desk chair with a squeaky leg, he slowly started to feel only a quarter dead.

The computer sluggishly lit up with a shake of the mouse: no e-mails, save for a comic strip about a dog and cat (the eternal struggle), an invitation to watch a woman disrobe on camera, and a credit card bill.

Jack looked up at the calendar, squinting through the steam of his bland to fair cup of morning coffee. Today was the 15^th of June, the day to pack it up and hit the road for home.

Boy, how he dreaded going.

Home was an hour and a half drive through Virginia’s favorite oppressive summer flavor. The sun blared through the windshield, turning his car into a four-wheeled baked potato that not even air conditioning could fix.

In spite of this, Jack continued to take sips from a scalding cup of over-caffeinated corporate coffee with a mermaid on the cup, in between trying to sing along with an album he’d listened to hundreds of times, but could still never get the lyrics to. Except for the really sad ones, he somehow nailed those every time.

Rickety fences surrounded farmland outside his rushing windows, cows grazed in the balmy sun, and the road curved around Jack’s car, a generic four-door fuel efficient car.

The song about a girl who left the lead singer standing alone at night came on, and Jack remembered that sticky July night when she left him…

The humidity stuck to his skin like a bad suit, and the moths circled around the lone light bulb that hung from his front porch…all as he stood there with his mouth agape as she pulled out of his old gravelly driveway and life at the same time.

Late that night, Jack laid in the grass, despite the ticks and bugs that crawled over him, or the bead of sweat on his forehead…or the tears that collected around his eyes, slowly as he defied their coming. And he looked up at the stars, like he did when he was a kid…

Jack and his brother, Dean, stood out on their front yard, and talked about girls and school, and the new Pixies album. Jack was gangly, goofy, unliked, and awkward, while Dean was cocky and popular. Jack’s oversized nose would be buried in a book, while Dean’s salesman-like grin would be yucking it up with girls in a corner of the same classroom.

When they were at school, they were strangers overly critical of one another.

Dad was inside vegging in front of the television in his underwear, Mom was working at the hospital, and Mary was buried in her doll babies in a messy bedroom. Ed was away at college, probably moping in his air-conditioned dorm room, or lugging an enormous bag of dirty clothes to the laundry room.

Jack didn’t fit in with his own family, especially his brother. But, when they were outside, it felt like they were equals. They liked the same music, and some of the same movies and, okay, while Dean wasn’t a reader like Jack was (“I just don’t have time,” Dean would ruminate as he got ready to go out and hang with the cool kids.), it felt like they suddenly had more in common.

But the next morning, back at school…

Jack cut the wheel hard, easing down on the brakes as he pulled into the gravel parking lot at the abandoned elementary school. C_berland Elementary sat in said, derelict letters on the top of the old brick building’s façade. Jack eased out of the car, grimacing at the greeting blast of hot air, and squinted through dark glasses as the old main building’s porch, that cement porch with an elevated planter area running along the sidewalk.

Jack sidled up and ran his hand across the granite before hoisting himself up. When he was seven, he was waiting for his ride to arrive, and a teacher told a bad knock knock joke to someone down the sidewalk.

“Who’s there?”

“Missile.”

“Missile who?”

“Missile kill you!”

Jack hopped down, the shock of landing telegraphing up his heels and to his neck. He wasn’t seven anymore.

But when he was six, he walked the same sidewalk with the girl neighbor. He carried her books in the morning, just as far as the main brick building, and she went off to Kindergarten in the other brick building (the one with the smaller, more run-down playground), and he was off to the hot, stuffy campus-style classroom without any air conditioning.

Or to the art room, with the old hippy teacher, Mrs. Jones, big glasses propped up on her forehead, amidst strands of crazy feathery hair, her long flowery dresses always covered in bits of pastel and paint.

She once passed an art book around, and Jack found the nude paintings, paper clipped together in the back, finding them very, very funny. He was seven. She pointed out casually, in a raspy voice caused by too many cigarettes: “The human body’s a beautiful thing! It’s not really that funny, you know.”

The last time Jack saw her, as herself, he was seventeen and she was standing amidst gravel; smokers had been “banished” to smoking in the side parking lot, like the tough kids in high school in the back of the building. An army of cigarette butts circled her flip-flopped feet, and she squatted down and grabbed a handful after giving him a hug.

“I figure if I get a bit at a time,” she smiled. “I’ll have it all clean by the end of the year.”

The last time he ever saw her, she was hooked up to cords and tubes, machines that went ping and buzz. He read her Horton Hears a Who, and a jaundiced tear, yellowed from liver failure, dribbled out of the corner of her eye.

He was nineteen and, even more than ever before, he realized he was truly alone.

And that’s how Jack still felt, standing amidst the overgrown horror movie wreckage of his childhood playground, weeds jutting out of sand, and once-gargantuan monkey bars sets jutting out of the ground at awkward angles like escaping corpses in a graveyard.

It’s a feeling that always permeated his self, even when he was married, even when he was with family and friends. But, he thought as he looked back at the husk of memories the school embodied, it wasn’t always that way.

Not that once…

The first thought he had of her, outside that coffee shop window, looking in, was how beautiful she was. The type of beauty that turns heads yet still, somehow, doesn’t intimidate but disarms you with this odd sense of comfort.

With her, he never felt alone; not in the mornings they woke up and took walks together; not at family get-togethers; not by his sick grandmother’s bedside; not when he was away from her.

At least, not until she left him for good.

Jack usually loved the open road, the thrill of going out of your own personal world and into another one, waiting for you at the end of the highway. But, when the roads are painfully familiar from the course of a lifetime, they lose the romantic feel of running away and feel more like conveyor belts pulling you back to where you started. It’s not that he hated going home…he just didn’t like it much; every time he did, he found himself facing both the ghosts of past failures and the looming specter of everyone’s emerging old age.

Just beat...

2008-06-23T13:21:00.000-07:00

I’ve learned an important lesson this past summer –

I’m completely and utterly burnt out on comic book conventions.

After a solid year of working them for my last job, and not having anything to show for currently…other than catching up with some old friends oh so briefly, Heroes Con just felt like a waste of a weekend and money. Don’t get me wrong: Shelton puts on one of the best conventions with Heroes, and I think it’s a show that everyone should check out (it was, by far, better than the dismal Philly con last month). I’m in no way putting the convention itself down, but have realized that it’s just personally not worth the hours-long drive and expense right now.

Six years ago, I had loads of hope for working in comics; you know, the whole pie-in-the-sky mentality. And others were attracted to that.

But then, life got in the way, and I got back on my feet.

And life got in the way again.

And again.

So, now, I’m at a point where I don’t feel like the creative juices are really going, and I’m really beginning to question the need for me to pursue writing comics full-time…when I feel like I need to get back to what made me want to write in the beginning, and that I need to get that creative kick in the ass.

My saving grace could be the next book project I’ve signed on to, an essay and photo book about New York cartoonists, with a strong focus on what makes NYC the birthplace and mother of the medium. I’m working on it with an extraordinarily talented photographer named Seth Kushner, and I think we’re going to take everything by storm with what’ll be a beautifully produced book.

But, as far as conventions go: I’m already signed up for San Diego. I’ll go do the show for a few days, but am mostly planning on seeing the sites and, maybe, just working on this book while there.

Yes, Superman IS a Dick

2008-05-27T06:34:00.000-07:00

Like all of us, comics fans or no, I have a huge guilty pleasure.

Superman’s Pal, Jimmy Olsen.

Yup, that’s right…I’ve got a thing for reading the misadventures of the most misaligned and under-rated sidekick ever…the one ballsy enough to run around fighting crime without a mask, but with a bowtie instead. Everyone’s favorite cub reporter/photographer for the Daily Planet, that dim-witted kid with a flashbulb and a scrapper’s streak.

My love of the old Jimmy Olsen comics first hit a few years ago, when I was going through some tough times. DC Comics had put out an $18 reprint of the Man of Steel’s best buddy, a thick black and white volume that was part of their Showcase Presents series, titled Superman Family (it also includes some Lois Lane stories from the same period, some of which were reprinted for the first time). The sheer innocence of the stories, coupled with Superman’s tendency to fuck with Jimmy’s head every other story, makes for damned good reading.

I’m not kidding about Superman’s manipulative streak. In one story, he had Jimmy start thinking he was delusional (literally), so that he could keep his secret identity as Clark Kent a secret; while, in another, he got Lois Lane and Perry White in on the gag that they would pretend Jimmy Olsen never existed!

Man, what good times. It’s like the time my older brother and I had convinced our little sister that we thought she was our Mom, but shrunken in the wash.

“Mommy, you shrunk!”

Or the time we all (idea of my brother’s) had evil alter egos so that we could get away with picking on our sis.

I mean, hey, after a few years of therapy, she turned out okay.

[For more examples of 1950s Superman being a total dick (such as the above cover), go to the wonderful www.supermandickery.com website. You won’t regret it.]

While I’m making the transition from contract employee to full-time employee here at my legit job, pursuing the writing career has been exhausting, but well worth it. The past two months have had me running up to New York City twice, with a happy result of having a pitch at either of the two major comic companies; next weekend sees Eric and I hot-footin’ it up to Philly for the WizardWorld con, frequenting the bars to network, while the next month has me making it to Heroes Con in Charlotte, North Carolina (which not only is my favorite show, but also has one of the best convention bars, at the Weston across from the convention center).

Then, it’s off to San Diego in July, where I may be starting work on a top secret project.

I was talking about regrets to someone yesterday, and possibly my greatest was not pursuing my writing this aggressively until eleven years into the industry. I do realize, however, that the decade + of time has netted me an awesome string of contacts and friends that, in the end, are going to make all of this possible.

What form?

2008-04-09T12:57:00.001-07:00

This blog is neither man nor beast...I started it as an excuse to keep away from Myspace and write a more "professional" blog. But that's pretentious and no fun, so a few quick updates for those who care:

I've picked up a gig writing jacket copy for both Marvel and DC collections. It's not rock star, but at least I'm officially on the totem pole, and making some extra scratch while I'm at it...

The New York Comicon is in a week, and I'm gearing up to load my Saturn Ion up and make the long trek to Chris .R. Notarile's in Jersey City (where we're going to work on a new short film project together...and there will be much celebrating).

I joined the Y yesterday, and will start with a trainer tomorrow. Hopefully the screwed up back can become a bit less screwed up, and I can get back to my old shape.

Oh, and something called "The Brave and the Bold" is coming on Kids WB! soon. It's the newest Batman cartoon, with the Dark Knight modeled off of old school Dick Sprang Batman, with guest stars abounding each episode. The kicker? The Blue Beetle is making it as a guest star!
Okay, so it's the new kid and, no, it ISN'T Ted Kord, but y'know what? After 70 years, he's finally gotten enough cred to make that transition!
For those not in the know, I spent ten years of my life (an entire third!) researching an old obscure/cult comics character called The Blue Beetle. I even wrote a book about it (the best thing to come out of my year stint as the sole employee of some publisher in a past life). It's sweet to finally see him being put in front of kids, even if it is a guest appearance, and even if it is the new guy (who, on the record, I think is an awesome character...likable, fun, and believable).

On top of all this, I've been too busy to do anything but work, work, and do more work. Translation: No dating for this single guy for a little while. No energy for drama right now.
We'll see how long that lasts...

I don't sleep...

2008-04-04T21:26:00.000-07:00

Ever since I was a child, I've had trouble sleeping. Back in my father's house, the only home I knew up until I was 18, I'm reliving my childhood...laying in the same bed, feeling some of the same pangs that zipped into me like needles in a voodoo doll at age 15, but amplified from sheer frustration of the typical luck that has plagued me since the womb.
The asshole neighbors kept the bass-pounding "look at me, I didn't get enough attention as a child" music well past midnight. A call to Farmville's finest and ten minutes later it's gone down, but I'm currently full of nervous energy, letting my fingers tip and tap across Dad's computer keyboard, transmitting everything on his slow dial-up connection.
Scary, isn't it, that today's high school senior has pretty much known the Internet his or her entire life? When I was in that same gawky stage of life fourteen years ago, I'd still yet to log on...although we did have the DOS-based ability to shoot each other lines at school, an early form of chat.
Okay, sleep now. Pontificate on your own.

The Spoken Word Poet

2008-03-31T08:17:00.001-07:00

He goes to the stage,

Palms sweaty,

Noting the eyes of the crowd.

And he realizes,

He is a narcissist,

Only wanting to say the sound of his voice.

Granted

2008-02-17T11:50:00.000-08:00

One of the things that life has taught me in the past five years, especially, is that I can't allow myself to take things for granted; people die, places go away, and relationships change or end. After having all those things knock me over the head repeatedly with a strong cudgel-like dose of reality, reverberating more heavily each time, I'm fascinated that I took Cafe Gutenberg for granted.
It was the night of Valentine's Day, 2004, and I was working at the pen store with Barry, an old hippy turned college professor, who was a part time pen collector and historian (truth that there is something more odd than a comics historian, but I digress...). I was 26, a few years more foolish than I am now, newly seperated, healing my wounds with a slack retail job at a new mall...and lonely. It was Barry, his tweed blazer with patches on the elbows, and rounded wire rim glasses, who recommended this new joint called Cafe Gutenberg.
That night, by 10:00, I found myself with Moleskine and fountain pen in hand, sitting at a corner table, round and marble-topped, as I scribbled the thoughts of a confused young man. Then, I found myself going back a few times more. Eventually, when I started dating again, Gutenberg was my favorite spot.
The owners of Gutenberg had it patterned after the German cafes they would frequent when doing engineering work in Germany: there were a few permutations of the menu and set-up over the years, but the hardwood floors stayed the same, and the coffee was Illy served in big white ceramic mugs. The Cafe survived and thrived, even getting trashed by the flood of '04, destroying the bottom floor. They simply opened up the upstairs only, while fixing the down.
I remember trying to make it back the first night they reopened, but just the upstairs. I didn't get there until closing time, maybe 10:00, and it was joyfully crowded.
Flash forward to 2006, and I was going back to school, having just lost a grandmother, a job, and a girlfriend (all in one long, dreadful month); I found myself sitting on a barstool, waiting to interview with the manager, Stephanie, for a job. I got the gig, and worked there for about five months, leaving when I left for that fateful year in Raleigh. While I was there, I started to get over a few things, licked my wounds, made new friends, and learned how to make a kick-ass cappucino.
Everytime I'd come up to Richmond to visit, Gutenberg was my first stop, the ceiling fans whirring, the hardwood floors making a nice sound as my army boots clicked upon them, heading to a spot at the bar with another Moleskine and the same fountain pen.
And, likewise, everytime I'd sit there and miss being behind the bar, miss the fun of a tip jar at the end of a shift, miss the regular customers, miss seeing Richmond wake up through the French doors at 7:00 every morning.
Now, sitting there eating brunch this morning, I knew it would be for the last time. One of Gutenberg's investors dropped out and, without someone to take over, they can't afford to stay in business. They close in a week, on a day I'll be in New York.
We can't plan for life: we have to hope for things to go the way we want them to and, when they don't, we're forced to find something to take its place as we find something new. Much of my belated coming of age happened in that Cafe (or because of it); having it close is losing out on one of the best things about Richmond.

The Coolness of Tragedy

2008-02-05T11:55:00.001-08:00

I own two crates of records: one is full of my rock 'n' roll: loads of Beatles, Stones, some Elvis...even Matthew Sweet, The Smiths, and The Who. The other one? It's my jazz: Ella, Joe Williams, Basie, Ellington...and loads of Frank.
You can't know me and not know my love affair with Old Blue Eyes' music, that swaggering, crooning, empathic way he had of singing lyrics written by other people to us...that odd connection I feel in the inner recesses of my psyche with the sounds that come off of impressions in wax and sent from needle through speaker.
My discovery of Frank's music started in college, a love affair that began more with his big band Dorsey-era swing...the older I got, and the more knocks life put me through, the more I got into the music from the second big phase of his career. "Night and Day" got traded for "One More for the Road", "Everything Happens to Me" for "Autumn Leaves". Life put me through several wringers: divorce, job loss, car wreck, heartbreak, having to give up my home, another heartbreak, death of loved ones...and Frank was there, always, crooning his sympathy each time, acting like an old pal who put his hand on your shoulder and says "It's okay, because I've been there."
Somewhere in all of this, I discovered his concept albums, all bearing gorgeous covers and awesome instrumentals (often the uber-talented Gordon Jenkins).

It seems Where Are You? was my first concept album...the greens and burnt sienna tones giving an understated masterpiece of a cover...Frank looks down, morose and thoughtful, his cigarette-wielding hand strategically placed to hide the conflict (presumably) on the bottom half of his face.

I was kinda sort-of dating this girl a couple of years ago. I say "kinda sort-of" because, in all truthfulness, that's about as far as it ever went. I was actually out at a thrift store with her (she was buying a dress for an event that night...and wound up picking up a red dress that was probably once worn to someone's prom. Fit her like a glove, and she looked great [damn this photographic memory]). And there, sitting like a diamond in the rough amongst a stack of '90s rap CDs...was this gem for a mere buck.
The cover features Frank standing in an Edward Hopper world, his face solid and almost plastic, trademark fedora pushed back to reveal that thoughtful brow, ever-present cigarette leaving a light trail of smoke that blends in with the foggy night. You get the impression he's been walking the entire night, trying to evade the ghost of the girl who got away, maybe trying to find something (or someone) new.
But all he has are his memories and the one cigarette in the midst of a hazy and sad night.
Needless to say, the heartbreaking title tune ("...that's the time, you'll miss her most of all") drags you into an entire album of melancholy.
And it's damn beautiful.
(Incidentally, this album came right back out of the CD case reserved for my few Frank CDs [I almost exclusively own him on vinyl] when the girl did eventually get away a few weeks later...)

No One Cares the cover is a bit better than the album itself, but that's mostly because the image is tough to beat. The use of contrast keeps this photo cover from becoming too pathetic...Frank, still donning his trench and hat because he's wandered in restless and can't unwind enough to take them off at the bar, stares into his glass because it's the only thing he can look at that doesn't make him feel worse.
You know that feeling when you're out in public and just surrounded by couples? Or when you're the only single person in a crowd of seven? That alienation that's mated with the salt in the wound feeling of still being alone?
That's what Frank looks like he's feeling here, being alone in a crowd.
The album itself hits you with everything from the title track ("When no one cares, and the phone never rings") to the mind-numbingly sad "Cottage for Sale" (which conjures up memories of Frank's TV special in the '60s, where he sang the tune to a set of an empty cottage).

So, call me a square, or an old fogey...I love new music as much as the next guy, but even the newer guys can't seem to get a grasp on the Tragicoolness of Sinatra.

Ramblings into nothingness...

2008-01-17T10:26:00.000-08:00

It snowed this morning, first in big fat flakes at a slow rate, then picking up into a TV static imposed over the air. When I looked out over the city, right before hopping in my car, I had that little adrenal rush, that excitement that snow always brings on its rare visits to Virginia.

I got my first paperback novel pitch sent off today, and I have no indication whether it will be picked up, until next week at the earliest. It may be relegated into that odd limbo that dozens of other pitches have gone into; the fact that this is a three to four pager makes me hope that it'll be my one big breakthrough...only time will tell.
I needed a sample chapter of anything, in order to sell my editor on giving a comic book journalist a crack at writing a 300+ page book. This started as a vampire story, but turned into something much, much more odd...

John hated waiting.

The street corner of 17^th and Main was an overpriced “French” café with outdoor seating, packed with people by the time dusk had set in. Sitting at a table in the spot determined by Garvin made him uneasy: if it was an abandoned corner down some quiet side street in the city, John could openly be an impatient wreck, but sitting here around a dozen people and an apathetic waitress, he was pressured to look more “normal” and less nerve-wracked. But, not knowing if he was being watched, he was glued to the spot like a ghost to its haunt.

He almost jumped out of his skin as the cell phone Garvin gave him finally came to life, vibrating and buzzing in his left pants pocket, and he stumbled around nervously until his long fingers wrapped around it. His thigh had been twitching for hours – a phantom reaction as he anticipated the call. A skull and crossbones flashed across the tiny monitor on its front, and he knew it was the call he’d been dying to catch.

“I’m here,” John took a deep breath after saying it, as if just answering the phone was enough to knock the wind out of him. Thank God the sweat forming on his brow couldn’t be seen from the other end.

“Good,” the creaky voice on the other end commented after an unbearable patch of dead air.

I swear, Garvin, John thought as he grimaced at the receiver, his eyebrows forming a v-shaped furrow over the bridge of his nose. When your games are finally over, we’ll see how much fun it is for you then.

“I’ve been waiting here like you told me. Now where is she?” John got up from his outside table at the café, first standing and stretching, and then slowly creeping away from other people, trying to not let on that a woman’s life depended on the outcome of this one phone call. Let them worry about their awkward, idle talk and catching their 7:00 movies in an hour: he had bigger things on his mind.

“Oh, she’s just jim-dandy fine,” Garvin quipped, all-too casually. “The question is whether she’ll still be that way by the time you get to her.”

“Dammit! I don’t have time for these—“

“You know the old news building? By the river?”

“You mean the one that’s been abandoned for five years? The one that would make a perfect trap?”

“Why, John, you insult me,” Garvin’s laugh sounded like a dying cough. “Of course, that one. Get here in an hour, alone, and come in the back door. That means no kid sidekicks with guns and knives.

“Not that they’d do you much good against me now, anyway.”

The Ford lurched to a stop in a cobblestone alley two buildings removed from the old York City Times building urban confetti made of litter and broken beer bottles lodged between cracks in the stones. The only light offered was the sparse moonlight from above, barely peeking out from behind thick, dense clouds. This was once the city’s cultural hub, the York City Times was the center of everything; old man Harris’ newsprint pride and joy churned out on huge presses, delivered to doorsteps the city over.

Then, Harris died, and his paper shortly after, left in the hands of an incompetent son who conveniently let a fire consume the entire operation. Not much longer after that, the whole area around it withered and died, too, becoming the husk of a once exciting part of the city. Paperboys and reporters were soon replaced with junkies and drug dealers, and the once-thriving spot hadn’t been the same since.

I could die right here, in this alley, and no one would find me for weeks.

John clenched his hands around the top of his steering wheel, and set his forehead against the cold, hard plastic. It was all so crazy: the alien DNA, the lab, Renee being taken away…whatever it was Garvin had let himself become…Was he even human anymore? Had the culture done something to him that took him beyond being a mere mortal? And, if so, could he even be stopped?

Whatever the case, John was damn glad to feel the reassuring weight of the revolver in his jacket pocket. Sure, he’d only fired it once before, and that was twenty minutes ago in another alley where no one would notice him. But it’s not like Garvin could read his mind and find out he was packing…

John scooped the flashlight off the passenger seat with a trembling right hand and painfully stood up out of the car. He was still smarting from the beating Garvin gave him before, but he couldn’t let him know it.

Or Renee. If she was still—

No, John thought as he crept down the alley with his left hand on the revolver in his coat pocket and the right tensely wrapped around the flashlight, his senses on edge. I can’t even go there right now.

The phone rang, and he jumped.

“I’m waiting…” Garvin said in a voice that sounded even further away than it did an hour ago. “You only have three minutes left.”

“That’s great, because I’m only half a minute away,” John forced the confidence in his voice and shut the phone.

Then, he ran the rest of the way.

The metal door on the back of the News Building had been spray-painted with a sloppy skull and crossbones, white paint still dripping down where it had been sprayed on too heavily, contrasting with the original green color of the metal and the red and brown rust. For a scientist, Garvin had too much of a flair for the dramatic.

John reached out with his left hand and tried the handle.

It opened with a creaky protest, into pitch black. John’s olfactory’s were assaulted with a damp and moldy breeze. It was the smell of abandonment.

His flashlight crept over a cement floor covered with patches of dirt, trash, and soot, illuminating the deadness of the place. Moving the beam up, John saw the shapes of skeletal, burned-out printing presses, their huge drums and conveyor belts warped into something useless. What had once been behemoths were now no more than shriveled corpses.

“Garvin!” He called out knowing surprise was irrelevant at this point. “Where is she!?”

In the pressroom, upstairs, he heard Garvin in his head, but knew that was impossible.

Easing his flashlight beam further down the floor and up the scarred brick walls, John spotted cement steps through a doorway that had a door hanging limply off a broken hinge. Rotting and yellowed newspapers littered the steps that ascended into darkness. There was a stink he didn’t even care to recognize.

John ducked as he stepped into the doorway, moving the light up the steps that ended in further darkness. Something scurried across, and John shook, the hairs on the back of his thin arms standing on end with a preternatural surge.

It was an alley cat, poking its glowing eyes down towards him, the light reflecting off the pupils demoniacally.

John walked up the steps, sidestepping scraps of newspapers and masonry, cold air blowing against him as he reached the top, in the newsroom. The newsroom was a graveyard of abandoned and burned desks, scrapped computers, and overturned melted chairs. The tall windows on the wall opposite were busted out; soot blackened what glass was left at jagged and sharp angles, as the strong, cold breeze blew in off the river.

A light was on in the Editor’s office at the end of the room, barely noticeable through the dingy glass. John clutched his pistol, keeping it in his coat pocket to maintain what little element of surprise was afforded him.

The damp carpet squished under his feet, floorboards creaking under those, as he narrowly walked around a hole in the floor.

When he was a kid, John’s dad brought him up to tour this place, back when it was alive with the hubbub of reporters and typewriters, and the hum of the downstairs presses gave a seismic feel to the floor above. But that was years before meeting the woman he loved, years before delusional scientists and cell phones and alien genetics.

For a minute, he felt like he was walking through the carcass of an old friend.

John stopped at the door that was open a fraction of an inch, and took a deep breath that just added to the machine-like pounding of his heart. His toes made contact with the bottom of the solid oak door, and he nudged it open.

The first thing John noticed were the sobs catching in Renee’s mouth, a gag kept them from escaping any further. She was tied to a desk chair, her arms behind her, flailing and fighting at John’s appearance.

John got to work on untying her, darting his head back and forth for a glimpse of Garvin. Shaky fingers wrapped around the white handkerchief gag, untying it.

“Get out, John!” Renee gasped out. “You don’t know what he’s—“

“Save it,” John said, keeping his eyes around the half-dark room while she shook loose from her ropes. “When I get you loose, run and don’t look back.”

“But, John, it’s a trap!”

Why not tell him something he doesn’t know? There was Garvin’s voice again.

Yes, John, I’m in your head.

The flashlight exploded with a loud pop as plastic and metal exploded outward, and they were shoved to the floor by the same invisible surge.

The room was bathed in a noxious green glow that pulsated and dimmed every three seconds like something alive. John picked himself up off the floor, grabbing his bleeding hand, and looked for the source.

I’ll spare you all the old clichés, Garvin said, his voice resonating in John’s skull again.

“Renee, get out of here. Now,” John was reminded of how much he loved her as he shoved the keys in her hand. “Parked two alleys down.”

“No way,” she protested as he closed her hand around the keys. “I’m staying here with you. This ends tonight.”

You’re wrong, Garvin said in their thoughts again. It’s just beginning.

Then, John and Renee noticed him. Garvin was the green glow coming from the corner of the office, standing with his hands clasped behind him, against the small of his back. He was wearing his usual black turtleneck and gray slacks, but his head had become something ungodly. The dull green glow emitted from his temples and forehead, and his cranium had expanded to accommodate a mutated brain. Veins pulsed out of his hairline, pushing his jet black hair even further back on his head. Garvin’s eyes glossed over black as if they were one enormous pupil, staring out of a face that was more skeletal and angular than when he was human. His thin, reptilian lips pushed together into an obscene sneer, set over his almost-absent chin.

“What do you want?” John asked, his hand gripping around the handle of his revolver.

“If that’s a stall tactic so you can shoot me with the pistol concealed in your coat, it won’t work,” Garvin smirked. I’m far above explaining myself to anyone.

John pulled his gun and, holding it in both hands, aimed it straight at Garvin’s overdeveloped head. Clutching it tightly, he pulled the trigger one, two, three times…and the shots went around wildly.

Garvin smiled a crooked smile, exposing teeth that had already started to rot and recede into dark green gums.

Your aim’s a little off, John. Why not try again? You still have two bullets left.

John fired once, and the shot struck the wall two feet from the unflinching thing that had once been Garvin the scientist. Defeated, John lowered the pistol.

“Saving the last bullet for yourself?” Garvin croaked out.

“I don’t get this,” John said. “Why would anyone do this to themselves?”

“Evolution,” Renee chimed in, and John noticed how soft her face was in the dimming green light. “He thinks he’s made himself the future of the human race.

“Or some shit like that.”

Garvin laughed, and it sounded like someone dying. Then he lowered his blackened eyes at Renee.

“But why bother with this trap, Garvin?” John asked. “If you’re going to kill me, just get it over with.”

Ta, ta, John. No clichés.

A force suddenly hit John square in the chest, knocking him back into the metal cabinet and making him drop the gun. Renee screamed as he crumpled to the floor and she was thrown against a wall hard enough to make a dent in the drywall. John looked up and, out of nowhere, Garvin’s lean figure was looming over, hands calmly clasped behind him.

Then, John’s back was slammed against another wall and he was sliding upward, his head hitting the rotting ceiling.

I won’t kill you. At least not until I’ve gotten some practice in first.

Gritting his teeth, John tried to stifle a scream as he felt things moving in side of him, pressure on his ribs causing cracking sounds he didn’t want to think about.

I’m still learning, John. There’s so much to learn when you’ve been given a new power like this. Do you know about power?

John screamed in agony.

Of course you don’t, John. Power lets you kidnap your enemy’s girlfriends and draw them into an obvious trap.

Power lets you become something more than human.

“What…are you…gonna do?” John gasped out.

Oh, something wonderfully awful, Garvin’s eyes narrowed as he stated it in John’s head. You won’t be around to see it, but I’ll make sure your girlfriend is.

As a crack split the air, John fell off the wall and onto the floor, crumpled at the feet of Garvin. John looked up with blurry eyes, the room rotating around him, as Garvin winced at the bullet that grazed his left temple, dark green blood oozing from the wound and down his sharp cheekbone. His brow furrowed and Renee went flying out what was left of the office window, dropping the gun.

The last thing John saw when he looked up was Garvin, staring down at him with nothing less than sheer contempt in his glossy eyes. But all he could think about was Renee broken on the sidewalk below, and how he had to survive long enough to kill Garvin.