I was up late, working, getting my ducks all in a row. It’s good to periodically put your notes in order and sync everything up. When you begin working, you start with a foundation, but then creation takes hold, the character comes alive, tells you what to do, and you end up changing things. You need to sync up the creative process with the editorial work.

It never fails, when I do research, where I start will lead me to something better, or something good I never knew existed. With GORYO DOG, I’ve learned so many new and exciting things about mythology, spirituality, Japanese folklore and culture, martial arts, manga, and anime.

Case in point, I’m updating my listing for GENYOSHA, a major antagonist for Willie and his crew, who I first classified as a “dark onmyoji.” An ONMYOJI is an occultist, specializing in magic, divination, and using shikigami (spirit familiars). But, with writing and development, that no longer fit the character, he’s more of a dark sorcerer, but what’s that in Japanese?

Bust out the translator…

SELECT: English to Japanese

TYPE-IN: Dark Sorcery

RESULT: Kurai Majutsu

Now, because we all know how translator programs can get things wrong, I hit-up Google to see if there’s any legitimacy to what I’ve learned. I confirm majutsu means magic or magical, and kurai can mean dark or gloomy, but I also find listings for something else, a manga named TOARU MAJUTSU NO INDEX, an ongoing manga since 2007 in Monthly Shōnen Gangan, adapted from a novel series, and turned into a three television series, an OVA (original video animation), game, and (as far as I can tell) at least one sequel, and two spin-offs. The story is perfect for a shōnen junky like me…

(From Wikipedia)

“Toaru Majutsu no Index is set in Academy City, a technologically advanced Academic city located at western Tokyo which studies scientifically advanced superhuman students with powers, but is also set in a world where magic is real. Tōma Kamijō is a student in Academy City whose right hand, the Imagine Breaker, has the ability to negate any supernatural powers, but also his own luck. One day he finds a young girl hanging on his balcony railing named Index. She is a nun from Necessarius, a secret magic branch of the Church of England, and her mind has been implanted with the Index Librorum Prohibitorum—103,000 forbidden magical books the Church has removed from circulation. His encounter with her leads him to meet others from the secret world of science and magic and an adventure with his friends where science and magic collide. Tōma’s unusual power places him at the center of conflicts relating magicians and science-based espers in Academy City. As Tōma tries to help and protect his friends, he learns the people he knows are not as they appear and begins to attract the attention of magicians and espers alike as they try to unravel the secrets of Academy City and Index.”

Magic, psychics, and a techno advance school for the supernaturally gifted – what more can you ask for? With BLEACH coming to a close, and the rumored ending to NARUTO not far off, I’ve been looking for something to fill the void they’ll leave behind.

The anime looks nice too…

Just shows you, research can be fun!

I just saw TWILIGHT: BREAKING DAWN (PART 1) and I didn’t like it, but instead of ranting on about how bad it was, I’m going to change the pattern. I’m going to admit the reason I didn’t like it, is because I couldn’t like it, because, it wasn’t made for me. I promise, this won’t be entirely negative.

I’m a 40 year old husband and father of two. I’ve been married almost half my life (at this point). I’m a pop culture, genre geek; I’ve seen movies, television shows, read more books, comic books, short stories, and listened to audiobooks more than the average person. On top of that, I’m a genre writer, meaning, I’ve read more about where fictional characters come from than the average fan.

I’m pretty much everything that wasn’t considered when TWILIGHT was written and adapted.

As a husband who was faced with the question of marriage, pregnancy, and the decision of choosing my wife over the life of a fetus, I would always choose my wife. I can always have another baby, biological or not.

As a father, the idea of my daughter having such little esteem and strength to give up her identity for an ordinary boy, let alone a monster of myth and legend, terrifies me. I devote my life to teaching her every day to avoid those emotional trappings that predators and abusers of women rely on. In the case of my wife, as a husband, it is also my duty to make certain her responsibilities as a mother do not consume her. She was her own person before she chose to become a wife and mother, she still is that person, and I respect that, not letting it be forgotten.

As a genre fan, I can’t forgo generations of creative history, and what doesn’t make sense, even in the world of fandom. You can tell me vampires are heroic, but you can’t make me believe they glitter in the sun, are dead, but produce semen to impregnate a human.

Finally, as a writer, I try very hard to make my work(s) believable. I know that a good story is a believable story, one a reader can connect with. One way of doing that is closing plot holes, things that break the flow of story; the reader disconnects, separates themselves, and goes “Huh?” A fictional writer deals with extraordinary circumstances, but the reactions to those circumstances are still rational, for the hero, if no one else. That’s what separates the hero from the others, while they panic and submit, the hero or heroine thinks their way through, makes (obvious) choices, the same you or I would likely make, and we want to see what happens.

A comedy writer does the opposite. The obvious, rationale way out of a problem eludes them, things multiply, and the farce begins until things get so out of hand, there’s no way to stop, but to do the rational thing that could have stopped troubles before they started.

So, it’s hard for me to read or watch TWILIGHT, handling conflict as a comedy, but insisting it’s an action/adventure/drama. And, as I sit, watching, wondering if I’m mistaken, my wife and daughter erupt into laughter during the most dramatic part of the movie, as Bella is allowed to make another insane choice.

TWILIGHT was not made for me, but who was it made for? I mean, do writers really have to try that hard to write smart stories anymore? Has the gimmick become the story? James Cameron’s AVATAR was a technological wonder, but a mediocre story seen a hundred times. Still, people walked away from theaters with tears in their eyes because “it was so real, and did you see those colors?”

I can understand the fandom of HARRY POTTER, because most have read the books, and excuse the dumbed-down movies. I had a bone to pick with the franchise for a while, mostly because I’m a BOOKS OF MAGIC loyalist, and speculated Harry to be a Tim Hunter clone. After listening to the audiobooks, that went away, and I became a fan because the stories and characters are that damn good. The characters are believable, the situations are intelligently orchestrated, and the plot holes are covered.

But, what if the love for HARRY POTTER just comes down to having magic in it? What if TWILIGHT fans just care that it has vampires, werewolves, hybrid babies? What if STAR WARS wouldn’t be around all this time, if not for laser swords? The older I get, the more I see, the fewer genre stories have any weight to them; about nothing but a beautiful woman squeezed to a vinyl bodysuit, given trench coat, two guns, and line like, “I am a death dealer.”

TWILIGHT fans, in answer to dislike of the series, will respond that it’s not for those people, it wasn’t written with them in mind, and that’s why they don’t get it. I will begrudge them that. As one of “them,” I am not a romantic teen girl or a woman who dreams of a prince who sees her beauty despite social convention. But, I’m also not a hobbit. I’m not a young wizard who goes to an exclusive school of magic, I wasn’t bitten by a radioactive spider, and I’m not Kryptonian. Yet, I can relate to those characters, believe their stories, and be moved to tears of concern for them, regardless of my age, gender, how real it looks, how beautiful the colors are, how gorgeous the cast is, in 3D, or not.

But, I do like the wolves.

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Battle Scars (2011) #6

Word on the net is Marvel has found a way to bring black Nick Fury in to their main universe via their Battle Scars mini, and its protagonist Marcus Johnson. Bleeding Cool was the first to speculate this was so and recent events lead to Marc being the illegitimate, interracial son of Nicholas Fury of the Howling Commandos, Agent, and former head of S.H.I.E.L.D. Marcus even has his eye taken out! What are the odds?

Okay, here’s where I start asking the question, “WHY?”

What stories can you tell with a black Fury that you can’t tell with the original, trademarked character Marvel’s had since 1963? (Oops! I originally thought the date was 1959 – my bad.)

 And, here’s where a lot of people ask me, “WHY NOT?”

Why not? Because it’s cheap; isn’t that enough?

It’s the publishing equivalent of saying, “I’m not a racist. I have black friends.  I work with black people.”

It’s treating a minority like a commodity. That means, as soon as the profits drop, things go back to the way they were.

But, most important, I quote the words of Malcolm X…

“Nobody can give you freedom. Nobody can give you equality or justice or anything. If you’re a man, you take it.” – Malcolm X, Malcolm X Speaks (p.111) 1965

Comic books fans are not going to find racial equality, equal representation, in comics until enough creators establish its value using art, not capitalism. Until then, taking handouts from publishers like Marvel and DC isn’t solving the problem because, just as easily as characters die and come back in comics, they can change color too.

“You can’t have capitalism without racism.” – Malcolm X, Malcolm X Speaks 1965

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“The greatest mistake you can make is to say that your work is better than a lot of the shit that’s out there. No doubt. But being better than shit is not exactly a shining credential.” Dave Sim, “Cerebus Guide To Self-Publishing “(1997) (p. 30)

“Kids, the fiction is the truth inside the lie, and the truth of this fiction is simple enough: the magic exists.” Stephen King “IT” (1985)

Two

The second part of “Fear & Loathing and Comic Books” is overdue, but the distance was necessary. Writing part one, I really looked into my views on comic books because I was starting to question if I like them at all. The result of my sabbatical was my learning how much I do love them, perhaps too much, and wonder if that’s what gets me into trouble.

I wrote how comics were never taken seriously by anyone, but the fans, and how things have changed. Now, comics are not taken seriously by anyone, and those that do are looked at like recluses, or disgruntled freaks.

The veterans of a long forgotten war to legitimize comic books are scoffed at now. We’re made fun of by youngsters who know nothing that came before Marvel’s Ultimate Comics. We’re the “look at him” person they snicker our exit rings the “there’s a customer” bell. We’re the one who dumbfounds people with information about character continuity that stretches ten years, or more, when asked “What’s happening with Spider-Man?”

We’re weird because we care too much, and we care because half of our lives and thousands of dollars were spent connecting with something, an ideal, of how the world and people could be if they tried to be humane; that men and women could turn tragedy to triumph, and evil need not go unopposed.

We bought into the notion that a nerd boy could become the savior of New York City, and despite the deaths of love ones, find love himself (with a super model). These stories of the absurd forged the beginnings of real life heroes; men and women who would grow to become police officers, firemen (and women), doctors, lawyers, or just good, honest mothers and fathers who don’t bail on their children.

Those old geeks, what that word was derogatory, fought a war to legitimize comic books because they were no different than the great works of literature that taught the same lessons – Le Morte d’Arthur, The Count of Monte Cristo, Robin Hood, even the Bible. We spent years crying, yelling, getting into debates with teachers, professors, bullies, even friends. We fought our parents and dug in dumpsters when they threw our comic books out, declaring them “nothing, but trash.” I guarantee you, somewhere there is a man or woman that has not spoken to his parents for years because they threw away his or her comic book collection.

Fast forward a decade or two later, and what did we fight for? Avengers Disassembled? X-men: Schism? It looks like comics have become the equivalent of reality television; what crazy thing can the publishers do next, and how many people will still buy it (+ sales tax). Suddenly, and without a memo, we’re not to look for deeper meaning in comic book anymore. Comic books are entertainment – no more or less.

But I still love comics. Despite watching them fall into hedonism, I still love comics. I love them like a father who watches his child succumb to teen pressure, drugs, premarital sex and pregnancy. I love them like parents whose daughter one day tells them she’s gay, and they act like they’ve always known because the loss of a “normal life” is better than losing a child’s love. I love comics like the wife who stays with her husband, no matter how many times he cheats, drinks, or hits her, because she knows “deep down, he’s a good man.” I love comics like a priest who knows he has no business around children, but God’s will be done. I love comics because I’ve loved them too long not to.

How can I not love comics when so many things I wished for as a child are happening – movies, television, video games, toys, and attractive, physically fit, big busted females in comic book super hero cosplay. It’s too hard being angry at comics now, and it only makes me look like a hypocrite when I watch The Avengers or Amazing Spider-Man movie trailer for the 19^th time. It doesn’t matter that they’re not “my Avengers” anymore, all that matters is I lived long enough to see it happen, comic book superheroes on the big screen, followed by LED in 1080p Blu-ray to enjoy over and over again.

I remember when super heroes were hard to come by, now they’re everywhere. So many to choose from, it no longer matters what DC or Marvel does anymore. Can’t find a comic that’s you like right now? Then play Cole MacGrath in inFamous, watch Person of Interest for a Batman meets The Shadow fix, watch Star Wars: Clone Wars, Young Justice, Ben 10, or Generator Rex. And, if that’s not enough, create your own heroes (and villains) in the DC Universe Online. Or, if you actually want to read something, you can go backwards, find a comic book you overlooked. I recently bought a copy of Green Arrow: Year One by Andy Diggle and Jock from 2007 and it’s the best comic I’ve read in a long time, just took me five years to get so bored I’d try a Green Arrow book.

I always refer to comic book fans as “junkies,” but I’m no different. I just hide my addiction a bit better; the bartender who doesn’t drink at work, or the cocaine dealer who prefers heroine. I’m an addict too, searching for that virgin high. I’m sure that has something to do with my chosen profession. Masturbation done comic book style; if you can’t get what you want from others, get it yourself.

That’s the “deep down” about comics, and that’s why I still love them, because anyone can make them. NO matter how hard it is to do it now compared to ten years ago, it’s still true – ANYONE CAN CREATE AND PUBLISH THEIR OWN COMIC BOOK.

Maybe the war wasn’t about legitimacy, but being free to choose. To choose what we liked; what we want to read and believe in. It could be an invisible man who magically had a son who sacrificed himself for us, or an alien who landed in the middle of Kansas with the powers of a god, but choose to wear blue pajamas, save kittens, and live as an accident prone journalist.

That freedom means you gotta love it all, good and bad. You can’t have one without the other. You wouldn’t have the New DC 52 without the new Marvel, and you’re not getting the new Superman and Action Comics without having suffered through WB/CW’s Smallville.

The war is over, and we vets have to deal with coming home, and things have changed. The world is different. The girl we loved married the guy we hate, and they have children we wish were ours. We can be angry, or find a life for ourselves; get married, have kids of our own, have family get-togethers with our ex and her new hubby, become best friends, laugh over old times, rediscover how much we love each other and have an affair that destroys both lives.

I think that’s a New Avengers storyline.

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I miss you H.S.T. – I never would have known you if not for comic books.

ONE

I was driving north on the 15 freeway when reflection took hold…

I was on my way to work – you know, my real job, the one that actually pays – when my iPhone blew up. My webmaster was texting me, frantic about a response I received from Paul Allen to my last blog.

Paul was gracious to respond to a previous post regarding my take on Ultimate Spider-Man #1 (vol. 2). That time, as with this one, my webmaster had hit me up insisting I respond to Paul’s comment. I didn’t want to. And, as always, if I don’t want to do something a) my brain shuts down so I can’t think of how to go about doing whatever I’m trying to do, resulting in my b) being blatantly honest in order to get the job done fast, end my discomfort, and possibly diffuse (almost always negative) ramifications from said honesty. As expected, action begs reaction that begs more reaction, and…

“You got owned on your own website!”  My bluetooth shouted.

“What?” – I was doing 80 while merging from right to left between big rigs in rush traffic when my webmaster decided to answer his phone. I keep my bluetooth volume amped in case of bad connections and it picks just the best moments to come in loud and clear.

“What was that?” I repeated.

“Paul Allen wrote back, man.”

“Okay,” I said “And…?”

“He basically called you a cranky old man.”

“Not bad. I expected worse,” and I was really surprised. I wasn’t waiting for a response, but after implying a general “someone” getting a figurative mouth full and swallowing, you expect something more than “cranky old man” as a retort. “Read me what he wrote.”

“Okay, verbatim: ‘To me it’s not about changing anyone’s mind, but presenting an alternate / unconsidered viewpoint and trying to clarify yours for myself. But since you’re obviously cranky about this (and a lot of things!), I won’t bother going any further.’ Dude, don’t get owned on your own website,” my webmaster said.

Real or imagined, I could feel being edged on to do something about this even though I couldn’t give a damn. Responding when I didn’t feel a need got me into this mess to start with, now I could feel the nudging against my back and taunts by schoolyard instigators pushing me into action. But as I thought about Paul’s remark, I settled into the fact that he’s right. I am cranky. I am a cranky old man. Really, I’m more than cranky, I’m just plain mad at comics.

Why shouldn’t I be, when comics have turned into the street whore of reading, all bright and flashy, peddling empty promises, making sure they get the money first and finish quickly; a whore bath and perfume spritz later, it’s back on the streets.

Why shouldn’t I be pissed when what used to cost 75 cents is now $3.99 hard or soft, taxed, but less enjoyable?

Paul speculated my comments from last week imply I want fewer “characters of color” in comics, and maybe I do. Why would I want them associated with comic books – an industry that perpetuates its readers believing they can’t relate to heroic people of color, responsible married men, or females who don’t look like porn stars, models, and playmates? Better minorities further their social acceptance in the real world, where it matters.

I’m mad about comics and why is that bad. Being angry brings change, and after a quarter century of reading comics, I’m used to being outcast. I’m an outsider amongst social outsiders on the low rung of pop culture. I don’t like Marvel over DC; I think Bendis was better as an independent; and “The Big Bang Theory” is Chuck Lorre putting a carnival geek show on television.  But, dammit, I’m starting to like that fucking show – Sheldon is funny as shit!

I’m calm in my anger, righteous, because I know when I come from as a comic book fan, where comic books were headed, somewhere so much more, real, and fulfilling than where they are now. Comics were seduced by money and manipulated into the “oldest profession.”

Twenty-four years ago I read Watchmen, Batman: The Dark Knight Returns and saw the light at the end of the tunnel when comics and comic book fans were victims of constant ridicule.

I discovered comics through book and grocery store spin racks. I bought Marvel from two different convenient stores, read Golden Age DC handed down by my older half-brother’s mother, and stole from libraries and the waiting room when visiting the doctor. I traded comics with friends for the experience of reading, not hording for profit. I held on to issues because I loved the story, not monetary value. I loved comics for the same reason I loved The Hobbit or those Choose Your Own Adventure books you bought from the book sales at school. No bags or boards because they were rolled up in my back pocket, the cover fallen off from multiple readings. No matter how much enjoyment was had from every issue, it was marred by judgment that grew worse as I aged.

Comic book readers were more openly punished for our reading choices in those days. Comics were confiscated by school teachers and principals as “inappropriate” and “immature.” Comics were not literature, and graphic novels took everyone not in the scene by surprise – “Egad, man, funny strips that look like books?!”

“Comics aren’t books,” were the constant remarks from the literate, while the non-reading “cool people” just thought we were weird, not just for reading, but reading about superheroes. It was synonymous with buying toys and watching cartoons beyond the age of 16.  Things were bad back then, but in the secret places comic book readers gathered, there was a movement brewing. It was based on the dream comic books will be recognized as parable and literature, on the same level as Shakespeare and Dickens. No longer would we be scrutinized and shunned by our English teachers. That was the dream.

And I was lucky enough to see the beginning of that dream becoming a reality with Neil Gaimen’s Sandman, James O’Barr’s The Crow, and Quinn/Vigil’s Faust: Love of the Damned. These books transcended the direct market, more commonly found on the shelves at underground music stores. The books themselves were infectious. When I read them in public, instead of scorn, there was interest and excitement. Who knew comics could be that adult, sexy, violent, poetic, and rhythmic? We, the fans, knew, and when you removed the capes, cowls, and tights, other people saw it too.

Sure it was cheap how the books won people over. How could Goths not like Gaimen’s dream god and his sister, Death, when they looked like The Cure? O’Barr quoted Iggy Pop and The Doors while David Quinn and Tim Vigil’s Faust applied the limitless possibility of comics to graphic sex and violence providing sublime masturbating material. My favorite issue of Faust has the villain’s psychopathic girlfriend,  Jade – a hot, psychotic black haired hardbody Courtney Love lookalike – fucking a pommel horse topped with a dildo, tastefully drawn by Tim Vigil.

Then Image, Youngblood, and the Rob Liefeld 501 commercial, DC Vertigo, Rebel Studios, Chaos! Comics, Evil Ernie, the death of Brandon Lee (RIP), and “The Crow” movie – people started talking about comics, or being intrigued anyway. Comics became artistic. They were underground punk, gothic cool, misunderstood hip.

And then the speculation market ended…

TO BE CONTINUED

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The new issue of Ultimate Spider-Man featuring Miles Morales, the new black – sorry, Puerto Rican – Spider-Man, hit the stores yesterday and the reviews have been good. David Pepose, a Newsarama contributor, wrote: “Where do I begin? Well, the biggest victory that Bendis scores with Miles Morales is that he makes us care about him, and care about him quickly.”

Uh, no he doesn’t.

Joseph’s Snap Review: It’s more of the same post Cosby Show bullshit in comics.

Miles Morales is a good (or so it’s implied) inner city kid who wins a lottery to attend a charter school. We don’t know anything about his parents, who look okay, but just them being together is something different when 54% percent of African Americans between the ages of 24 and 34 haven’t married (Karen Peterson, USA TODAY, 2000). The uncle is a crook, of course, but not a common one, as he was able to loot the ruins of Norman Osborn’s lab, where one of the same mutated spiders that bit Peter Parker climbs into his bag to and bites Miles later on.

I ran into the problem I always have with stories trying too hard to be non-stereotypical, they’re stereotypical. If the NAACP announced to combat the stereotype “all black people eat watermelon” African Americans are now eating mango, overtime, the stereotype would then become “all black people eat mango.”

 It was the same thing I saw going to private Catholic high school; the more parents sent their bad kids there, thinking it would change them, the worse the school became. While the public school, by comparison, became less unruly and produced better students. Fast forward twenty years, the “prestigious high school” is in the shitter while the public schools are winning awards.

I keep seeing this scenario play out and I see it again here. The more you try to diversify, the more you end becoming “One of Us.”

I saw the same with Milestone Comics. I even had an internet back & forth with creator Dwayne McDuffie in a forum when wrote how I thought, not all, but some titles, specifically “Icon” were derivative. It sucks that my only real communication with him was negative. More weird is I had the honor or meeting him in person for five seconds in 2009 at the San Diego convention. Not knowing who he was, and he not knowing who I was, he walked by my table; I saw him as a customer and I pitched him Lazarus. He said, “That’s a good television pitch.” And I walked away happy because I suck at pitches.

Despite feeling a loss from his passing (RIP), I still hold to my thought s on Milestone, and books that follow that model, trying so hard not to be stereotypes and landing in the same hole. This is not 1974; the Evans Family from “Good Times” is no longer the only black ethnic stereotype. Thanks to Bill Cosby and the success of the” Cosby Show” (circa 1984, because there were two) the “intelligent middle class black family” is also a stereotype.

But how do you fight it? I have the weird idea the only way to combat this is the same that got us into it, do the opposite of what’s expected. If there was once a time when black people in comics were always crooks with a heart of gold, then it changes so they’re all law abiding college grads who become scientists, then go back to the crooks with the heart of gold scenario.

Why does Miles Morales have to be a decent kid with decent folks who goes to a decent school? Wasn’t that Peter Parker, minus the parents? So, your answer to killing Peter Parker is the switch him with a brown skinned version? Oh, and don’t get me started on the first five (5) pages where Osborn talks to a new up & coming scientist who just happens to be black. At first I thought it was Miles’ dad, so it was relevant; dad works from Osborn, brings home mutated spider, spider bites son, new Spider-Man is born. Thanks to the incredibly detailed art of Sara Pichelli, you can see it’s not Miles’ dad, so then you’re just asking yourself why the blatant placement.

Here’s when I show how weird I am by stating I think it more interesting if the new Spider-Man was a crap student and juvenile delinquent whose divorced parents, partly to blame for his behavior, put him in the same school as Parker, while his father and uncle, a breaking and entering duo, jack Oscorp. The spider crawls into the bag, the father visits the son on a non-visitation day, and the son gets bit by the spider.

Do you care about the boy? Fuck no and that’s what’s different. If anything, the boy pisses you off for the first few issues because it’s the reverse power fantasy, the school tool, instead of the loser, gets the power. If anything he’s more like us because if we had powers we’d take advantage and be too selfish to see the connection when our “Uncle Ben” got hurt because of it.

Now, think how much more interesting it’ll be to watch this kid, the delinquent, become a hero, see the connections, and learn “with great power comes great responsibility.” Instead of Peter’s inaction causing someone’s death, make our new Spider-Man’s actions do the deed. Add to it Peter’s friends going to school with the new Spider, trying to find out his identity, not even suspecting the school asshole. Then have MJ or Gwen learn the truth and a relationship starts – hate downgrades to dislike, then comes to grips with understanding, turns to admiration and friendship that becomes attraction and love. The difference between Peter and Miles – the delinquent, street smart kid can handle his shit a whole lot better.

The lesson here is nothing in Hollywood ever changes. Life changes, and our stories may look like they change, but they don’t. Joseph Campbell taught there were only so many stories to tell. No matter how different one may seem, it’s only a variant. Sadly, color, gender, orientation may change, but that’s just dressing. The characters remain the same, especially when it’s an IP that needs protecting.

Open your eyes comic book readers. Wednesday is Ground Hog Day, and it’s getting more expensive. Don’t buy the bull.

Here ended the lesson.

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Of course you don’t.

Because, odds are, you don’t care. But, there are a lot of people out there, who don’t work in the industry, who do care. They’ve collected comic books for years and don’t know what they would do if that were to stop, not suddenly, just forever.

The state of comic books is this…

I have two kids; one is eleven, the other is six. They love superheroes. They watch the old eps of Justice League Unlimited. They love Avatar: The Last Airbender. They love any Spider-Man cartoon I show them. And, they become incredibly focused whenever anything related to Batman, live action of cartoon, is on. The Incredible is their favorite Pixar movie. They both have characters on DC Universe Online. My kids love superheroes.

My kids will not read comic books. And that, my friends, is the sad state of comic books today.

I have an entire room, an office of sorts, but more of a library, filled with comic books, graphic novels, manga, and art books. My kids flip through the art books, actually read the manga, but don’t touch the comics.

One day, I took ten comic books, a mix of their favorite characters, and presented them to my kids in an effort to a) get them reading while school was out for summer, and b) lead into a family trip, exploring our local for comic book stores in the area (we moved from LA to IE where there are practically no comic book stores), and hopeful turn DC’s new relaunch into a family event. My eleven-year-old gave it five minutes of attention before being pulled elsewhere. My six-year-old is too young to know the importance of humoring your parents and ignored them immediately, begging for the Nintendo DS. This continued for twenty minutes, with me resorting to bribery to get them to read comics for a week, earn points, and collect rewards at the end of a week. Nothing; they were not interested.

I see comic books and cigarettes in the same conundrum; their customers, the people who’ve bought their products for years, can’t live without them, are dying off and there’s little to no new interest.  Difference is, smoking is more versatile. Smoking can help you lose weight. Smoking can relax you, or help keep you warm on a cold night. Smoking is a social tool that draws people to you or allows you to fit in easier. And, while some of these things are also true about comic books, it’s not significant enough to matter. You can’t go to a party, know no one, pull out a copy of Superman, say, “I’m going outside for a read,” and have two or three people follow you. People still smoke on television. People smoke in movies. They smoke in video games, cartoons, manga, novels, and in comic books. Hell, I started smoking (again) thanks to the British comic book invasion of the 90’s. Comic books don’t have that kind of exposure. They’re not converting anyone.

My kids are more likely to be smokers than comic book readers!

So, the current consumer base for comic books is dying off, literally, with little to no newcomers running into stores. Not after the latest comic book movie. Not after the new cartoon series premiers.  No one wants to read comics books.

Perhaps all the exposure comic books have now has worked against it? Why read Captain America when you can play the game? Why read Spider-Man when you can watch the animated series and feature film. Hell, there are people who separate a character, its media variations, and choose which they prefer. I knew a fella who loved Superman, but only the movies, and only the Christopher Reeve movies. He didn’t read the comics, didn’t have any interest in the television shows or cartoons, just the Christopher Reeves movies.

I sometimes think the state of comics was better when superheroes were harder to find. There was a time, twenty – thirty years ago, when the only comic book related thing on television was “Spider-Man and His Amazing Friends.” I remember being a kid and riding my bike a mile to the nearest liquor store to buy my copies of the “Longshot” mini-series, my first exposure to Art Adams. And, the convenient store across the street from that, sold the Uncanny X-Men and X-Factor. When my friends saw where and how far I was riding, they wanted to know where I was going and why. They tagged along, and we all started reading comics and trading with one another. As a teen, I still had to ride my bike an hour from my house to buy from the sports card shop; I bought my first copy of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles there. Comic books were harder to get, you saw them less, and when you pulled one out people took interest. No one gives a shit now. Not even kids… Kids?! Instead, we have grown men and women reading stories meant for kids, that kids won’t read, about men and women in capes, tights, fighting villains in clown make-up, and this is what they do after work when their kids are at home.

You know, I used to like going to nude bars, until I realized nine out of ten strippers think the men that go there are losers too stupid not to hand over their hard earned money for just a look at a woman’s body. I saw how pathetic I was, and how bitchy the women were, but mostly I gained more respect for the money I made and decided not to just give it away. Funny thing is I started seeing comic books the same way.

Cigarette smokers get cancer and die, or realize their lives are in danger and stop.

Comic book readers do the same; we die, or come to our senses…

Man, do I want a cigarette.

Myoho-Renge-Kyo.

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Your friends are supportive, always asking for progress reports, seeing if there’s any way they can help and, if you’re lucky, you’re going into a business, field, or career where they can assist you.

Your family is supportive; your parents finance you, stay off you back about being an adult living at home, mooching their food, not contributing to their living expenses after they were so sure you’d be gone much sooner and their wallet would be much lighter. Your wife is supportive, perhaps she’s the only one working, bringing in money, but she doesn’t complain, or think about how she can’t talk to you about anything she’s going through because you can’t relate to the headaches of a nine to five job staying at home in your jeans doing “research” in-between talking to your friends, fast food runs, midday talk shows, and “research” on the internet.

Maybe you are the working stiff; the one who comes home tired, beat into submission and staring insurmountable odds in the face every day you march into that office, punch that time clock, sit at that desk, and drink that coffee. You could forget “The Dream” and it would be so much easier, wouldn’t it? You could turn the job into a career, if you started giving a damn about; if there wasn’t this “other thing” in your life. You could go home, talk to the wife, sit on the couch, eat your dinner, watch your television, and not have that “other thing” jumping on your back, telling you your work aren’t over, reminding you there’s a better life out there. The same you could have if you gave up the dream, turned your job into a career, pushed yourself for advancement, sit back and relax knowing you’re doing what you’re supposed to be doing.

Ah, but you’re not “doing what you’re supposed to be doing.” That’s the nagging that won’t go away.

So, you deny yourself. You tell yourself everything you want you’ll have when you realize your dream. It’s all a matter of time.

Then time passes, your dream remains unrealized, and your nine to five gets staler because you’re not nurturing it, because you’re putting everything into the “other thing.”

You start cashing in on the benefits of failure, because there are plenty of those, and soon you’re making more money losing than winning. You’re getting more from the pursuit than the completion, and you’re lifestyle is becoming dependent on your not making it. By this time, you’ve gotten close enough to realizing your dream, you’ve bragged a bit to the people at the nine to five, and they can count every time you’ve failed by the years that go by with you still coming in to work.  Their constant questions about your progress become sarcastic. They may not mean it, but you hear it that way no matter what.

Years of this, you finally reach a point where you realize quitting is not an option anymore, but you don’t have the fire to keep going either. The dream has become the job, and the nine to five is the vacation away from the disappointment. You start to give a damn about the work that’s fed and clothed you while your dream has done nothing in return for the thousands of hours, dollars, and sacrifices you’ve made keeping it alive.

You see the world spinning whether you’re there or not; whether you contribute to it or not. Hollywood won’t fold on itself if the next great American actor (you) isn’t discovered because there’s plenty of mediocre ones about, and people prefer them. No one cares if you have the next greatest novel, poem, comic book, graphic novel, video game, or whatever it is you offer, no one is asking for it. The world doesn’t need you. In fact, it prefers not having you involved.

Your family stops supporting you.

Your friends stop helping you.

Your coworkers stop bugging you.

It’s just you, alone, fighting to keep the dream alive because you have nothing else… You have nothing left. Your time is running out.

You don’t need you family’s support.

You don’t need your friends’ help.

And if another coworker fakes giving a damn about you, you’re going postal.

No, you don’t even need the dream, really.

What you need is to accomplish something before you die; to know you’re life amounted to something.

Myoho-Renge-Kyo.

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Read the news today, the new Ultimate Spider-Man is black…

(or it could just be the shadows, but since Bendis confirmed this was inspired by "Community's" Donald Glover, I'll stick with black)

Okay.

Sorry, I just don’t see the big deal. No, not “I don’t see the big deal because an established hero could and should be ethnically interchangeable;” I mean, I don’t see the big deal with big business choosing to play the black sheep (no pun intended) card yet again.

This happens in comics whenever a publisher has done everything to revitalize a character, someone plays the black sheep card, making the hero, or someone in their close circle, a homosexual, drug user, prostitute, physically or sexually abused, murder in self-defense, or black.

And, by the way, if you’re feeling pretty good about Marvel being so “open-minded” read the description more carefully – “…the new Spider-Man is a young half-black/half-Hispanic teenager.”

You know, I’m part French, Ethiopian, Native American, Saudi, and East Indian. In other words, I’m black, and so is this new Spider-Man. You can call him “Morales,” but he’s black, and any Hispanic person will look and judge him so, no matter how much Spanish he speaks.

I think it’s a bigger story the new Spider-Man is black and no one is saying so.

But, back to my original point – before I get militant – publishers play the black sheep thinking to draw attention to something unfair or unaddressed in comic books, when what they’re really doing is desensitizing the issue so no one cares anymore. Look what Marvel help do to black heroes, does anyone take a black hero seriously now? What about gay heroes, who are gay for all of an issue before their orientation is swept off-scene, how many of them are flying around? You mean to tell me a man in a bat suit can inspire an entire city of villains to go “carnival” and a man in a red cape and blue tights can inspire others to heroism, but one prominent gay super doesn’t beget another?

I’m always fascinated by comic books wanting to “get real” but only while it’s profitable. I always find myself asking more questions whenever these things arise. For example, if there’s nothing wrong with a black – excuse me – “half-black/half-Hispanic” Spider-Man, then why is it the Ultimate version that’s getting the makeover? Just like I asked why Northstar is gay and not Wolverine, Jean Grey, or Professor Xavier? God knows Logan and Scott Summers have suffered enough to deserve a change, and Gambit is flamboyant enough to pull it off.

Ultimate Spider-Man’s Peter Parker couldn’t make it past his teens before he bit the dust. Why not kill off mainstay Peter Parker and switch him out, if you really want to make a point? Yes, he’s an important IP for Marvel Entertainment, but nothing is forever in comics. And, I’d wager Spider-Man is worth more than its Peter Parker element. Besides, it’s not Peter’s face on the t-shirts.

So, what’s the big deal? Will I buy this book? No, because it takes more than a change in color, or an ethnic last name for me to relate to a character, or for that character to strike a chord with me, or my kids.

A good character, a well-written character, doesn’t have to change, or find new ways to relate; they don’t have to, and they shouldn’t. I don’t want a superhero that’s like me – I’m a shitty person. I want a superhero I can aspire to be. I want a hero who’s like God, whose goodness and love is beyond me, mythic, inhuman. If I aspire to that level, and only attain a small fraction of it, I can and will be better than most the people you meet every day; that’s what heroes do; that’s what these characters, what these stories, are for.

It doesn’t matter that Frodo Baggins is Caucasian with curly brown hair, that doesn’t stop me from learning what lessons Tolkien is trying to convey in his story, about love, loyalty, friendship, perseverance, and hope.

I don’t have to be rich to know what Bruce Wayne is feeling, lying in an alley with his parents dead at his feet; I don’t have to be an American. Ask any child from Iraq, Afghanistan, Bosnia, or the Sudan how it feels to lay in your parents’ blood, they know, they’re not millionaires, and it doesn’t take a million dollars for them to fight back against injustice, just a dirty bomb strapped to their chest.

A good character transcends all lines, you don’t have to make them relate; they just do.

Next time a comic publisher hits you with one of these open-minded changes, don’t whoop and holler, and don’t get sucked in to the rants about race or orientation; ask yourself why the change should have been necessary in the first place… Then, ask yourself if that book is worth your $3.99 x 12months = $47.88 (not including taxes) multiplied by – how many titles do you buy a week?

Hey, comic book fans… THINK.

Myoho-Renge-Kyo.

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Am I just getting too old to enjoy porn? Is that another item on my “I remember when (blank) was good” list? Yes, being a fanboy means you’re into all levels of collectable genre subculture and that includes pornography. There was a time, before the mainstream media discovered comics, that almost every convention had at least one porn actress or nude model on site. The first San Diego convention I went to had so many porn people I lost my damned mind and came home with a dozen polaroids of me, sweaty and grease faced, standing next to a provocative dressed porn woman I didn’t even know until I looked her up once I was home. The second year, I met the same actresses, who recognized me this time, shot “naughtier” poses, and I met Hyapatia Lee who I lusted after since the age 14; I even bought her music on tape – remember audio tapes? Year three, my wife came with me and a trip to the San Diego comic convention took a strange turn towards sexual discovery – I watched my wife get massaged; take Polaroids with porn models who cupped her breasts; two professionals and a fanboy hit on her; and then she… [At the request of my wife, and the sanctity of my marriage, this portion has been deleted; she wants you to know she is a "good girl now" and was "out of her mind" when this unmentionable event occurred]. Year four, a friend from out of town joined my wife and I – we ended up in a strip bar with married couple who wanted to swing; crossed the border for beers, drinks with old prostitutes, and a near-mugging; I ended up in the middle of a White Wolf LARP where two vamps were preying on a drunk woman who invited me back to her room and… [Another unmentionable]. Well, is there any reason why this more family oriented San Diego convention just isn’t fun for me?

But, amidst all the things that change with time, becoming less fun for me, or just overdone, I never thought porn would get to a place where my first reaction is laughing or shaking my head instead of grabbing my crotch. Then, there are the ones that, for some unknown reason, do make a person sick…

I’m not someone much in tune with my “blackness” but there are times… Like when I saw “Sarafina!” in 1992 with my friend and his mother. I was so moved by this movie of students raging against South Africa apartheid that I cried. I left the theater feeling like shit because, at the time, I was pretty close to being a black racist. I spoke more negatively about my people than any prejudice person, and when I saw that movie, I felt the weight of what I was doing, the lowest form of betrayal, fall on me. Nowadays, I find myself walking the middle road. I’m not a militant black person, I don’t often throw up my fist in protest, and I’m joking when I do, but I don’t reject who I am. There are still moments when I backslide; when I’m way too forgiving about “jokes” at the expense of my people and culture. Then, there are times when my people go so far in insulting themselves or devaluing something that was profound that I remember exactly why I tried to exclude myself in the first place.

Maybe I’m just being uptight.

Maybe I’m just missing the familiar things I came to rely on and feel uncertain about the world when even porn is changing and becoming brighter, more normal, more less about the sex, or the girl, or the guy, or the body parts, and more about production.

Until Next Time.

Myoho-Renge-Kyo.

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