She drives a rundown maroon celebrity. It sputters before reluctantly
coming to life. I'm already anxious at the possibility of getting some, I
contemplate jerking off in the bathroom to steady myself for foreplay
and sex while she fixes a jack and coke or a 7 of 7 while her headlights
stick close behind my car as we drive down the main boulevard. The
anticipation is really mucking with my initial calm demeanor. It's like
I'm 8 years old at Christmas at the sight of my yard covered in fresh
snow.
We get to the turn onto a secondary street. I hang left and
she follows suit. Then, suddenly, she breaks on the first right onto
this side street. I'm dumbfounded at this move. I pull over to my
apartment building that's just further up the street. I sit in the
idling car, overwhelmed with panic, wondering if she's playing and will
double back around to the secondary street. Maybe I should look for her?
Maybe she had to buy cigarettes or breath mints or even her preferred
condom at Wal-Mart. Slowly, these questions are answered as if she had
become a Scooby-Doo ghost by vanishing into thin air. 30 minutes pass in
vain searching before I angrily go home.
Ring.
"Hello," I ask.
"Hey
man!" It's the club DJ from earlier in the evening. He lives in the
apartment building behind mine. "You were looking pretty lucky there
tonight."
"Yeah."
"She looked good. Color me impressed. How drunk was she?"
"Not so much."
"She has a good looking ass."
"Yeah," I sigh.
"It wouldn't be next to you in bed passed out would it?"
"Actually...no. She was following me to my place, and then BAM! ditches me at the last possible second."
"Oh my God! Dude! You have the worst possible luck ever."
"Tell me about it," I grumbled.
"Like
you were born with one testicle, or with a kick me sign on the back. Or
maybe, you've had nothing but full moons and madness..."
"Listen dude, now's not the time for comedy."
"Hey, it's alright. Don't stress. what was she thinking about? Was she worried out in the parking lot?"
"No. Your guess is as good as mine."
to be continued...
Saturday, May 25, 2013
...But, Do You Dig Me When You're Sober? (part 1)
The posting below was originally written in October 03, 2005.
Monday, October 03, 2005
..But, Do You dig Me When You're Sober? (Part 1)
She isn't a dime piece.
She's not incredibly ugly, because she does have a pleasant face, lithe supple limbs and a rear end that's more round than flat. Her blue eyes always have a glint, a sparkle to them. A smile that could power a small neighborhood block.
And, there's that voice.
Loud. Grating. Like nails across a blackboard. Deep and husky southern drawl often slurring from ingesting too many whiskey shots. A laugh that's all smoky and full of congestion which makes you wish momentarily that she starts speaking again. Her short tongue, the insides of her mouth always have some cigarette taste weighed in sugar residue.
And she's the best you can do for a date. It feels cheap and desperate, which kind of gets tucked away after a few beers. Lots of beer helps bury the guilt.
When I first met her, it was by some arcane connection. Sometimes you can simply exchange pleasentries with someone and can mentally picture you and her in some afterglow admist tangled sheets and sweat. She sent this "cut the shit, I'm interested," vibe. Who knows why exactly. I wasn't wearing my desperation fragrance that night.
Numbers are exchanged, phone conversations commence, a meeting at a nightclub is arranged.
We get a corner booth, making small talk under the oppressive music selection the DJ is spinning. I would wish that I could have subtitles to make out what she's saying about her pet dog, her drunk mom, her boring job, but it doesn't really matter much, because she grabs my hand under the table, rough and course, extinguishes a menthol cancer stick with the other hand. Her drink sweats as heavy as I do because it suddenly feels as if someone turned up the heat. I lean in for the kiss and she meets me halfway. Sloppy and out of practice make out session begins. She pulls back, laughs, and then excuses herself to the ladies room. As she exits, I exhale, look up for a second at the DJ booth, and the DJ gives me the thumbs up with a quick wink.
When she returns, she's applied fresh lip gloss, complaining of the heat. I pay her a rather lame compliment that would have any self respecting drunk woman to exit stage left, but, she just smiles a flattered look and then quickly asks me if I have a roommate.
Picturing her clothes crumpled on the floor I reply "No".
She then asks if my place was any cooler than this annoying nightclub.
Now envisioning her lying on her back naked, I tell her the thermostat is dead locked on 70 degrees. I'm quick to follow up this revelation with I have alcohol if she needs any, all the while picturing her riding cowgirl. Wondering if her small perky breasts taste like a cigarette filter and if I should have some Altoids on hand for the foreplay. I don't have a spare tooth brush.
She tells me how much she digs me and how hot I'm making her. "It's so stressful to be this frustrated," she says, lighting another cigarette. "Can you relieve the tension?" she bluntly asks.
"Get your keys and follow me," I reply, hoping she gives oral.
to be continued....
She's not incredibly ugly, because she does have a pleasant face, lithe supple limbs and a rear end that's more round than flat. Her blue eyes always have a glint, a sparkle to them. A smile that could power a small neighborhood block.
And, there's that voice.
Loud. Grating. Like nails across a blackboard. Deep and husky southern drawl often slurring from ingesting too many whiskey shots. A laugh that's all smoky and full of congestion which makes you wish momentarily that she starts speaking again. Her short tongue, the insides of her mouth always have some cigarette taste weighed in sugar residue.
And she's the best you can do for a date. It feels cheap and desperate, which kind of gets tucked away after a few beers. Lots of beer helps bury the guilt.
When I first met her, it was by some arcane connection. Sometimes you can simply exchange pleasentries with someone and can mentally picture you and her in some afterglow admist tangled sheets and sweat. She sent this "cut the shit, I'm interested," vibe. Who knows why exactly. I wasn't wearing my desperation fragrance that night.
Numbers are exchanged, phone conversations commence, a meeting at a nightclub is arranged.
We get a corner booth, making small talk under the oppressive music selection the DJ is spinning. I would wish that I could have subtitles to make out what she's saying about her pet dog, her drunk mom, her boring job, but it doesn't really matter much, because she grabs my hand under the table, rough and course, extinguishes a menthol cancer stick with the other hand. Her drink sweats as heavy as I do because it suddenly feels as if someone turned up the heat. I lean in for the kiss and she meets me halfway. Sloppy and out of practice make out session begins. She pulls back, laughs, and then excuses herself to the ladies room. As she exits, I exhale, look up for a second at the DJ booth, and the DJ gives me the thumbs up with a quick wink.
When she returns, she's applied fresh lip gloss, complaining of the heat. I pay her a rather lame compliment that would have any self respecting drunk woman to exit stage left, but, she just smiles a flattered look and then quickly asks me if I have a roommate.
Picturing her clothes crumpled on the floor I reply "No".
She then asks if my place was any cooler than this annoying nightclub.
Now envisioning her lying on her back naked, I tell her the thermostat is dead locked on 70 degrees. I'm quick to follow up this revelation with I have alcohol if she needs any, all the while picturing her riding cowgirl. Wondering if her small perky breasts taste like a cigarette filter and if I should have some Altoids on hand for the foreplay. I don't have a spare tooth brush.
She tells me how much she digs me and how hot I'm making her. "It's so stressful to be this frustrated," she says, lighting another cigarette. "Can you relieve the tension?" she bluntly asks.
"Get your keys and follow me," I reply, hoping she gives oral.
to be continued....
Monday, May 20, 2013
The Guy Who Wasn't There
The question was pretty simple in my mind. What does having talent mean when you don't apply it? I keep this query in the notepad as I'm set to meet with Jeremy Dawe at a local restaurant. I was tasked by my editor in finding this man and trying to discover what it was that prevented him from taking the next step forward in the creative process. Research done has unearthed flashes here and there. A copy writing gig here. A well received blog post there. Colleagues would say the man had a really sharp mind and was very verbose at times. Despite the praise, no matter if it was gushing or reserved, there was an underlying question that had to be asked.
What does having talent mean when you don't apply it?
The restaurant my subject selected has seen better days. Worn and faded columns support the dining room. A sad looking buffet sits next to the booth I'm in as I await for Jeremy's arrival. The fake plastic foliage hasn't been cleaned in several weeks if I had to estimate. When I receive my water from the waitress, Jeremy appears from the front door. Ambling slowly with some extra weight around his middle, his hair slightly thinning. He doesn't look like much of anything except a guy rapidly approaching middle age and nothing to show of it. What was the deal with this assignment?
"He was really imaginative in my class," One of Jeremy's creative writing teachers told me earlier in the day. I'm sitting in a sterile feeling office as she kind of nods to herself in approval over her previous statement. "He was always working on something. Generally it was macabre, dark stuff. It was like he was trying to exorcise anything in his self onto the page. Thematically it wouldn't always add up, but, the passion and raw talent were there on display. I told him to write what he knew. That would get him on a road to somewhere by writing more of his day to day life, and less the puerile flights of fancy he was prone to turning in. I'll never forget what he said in reply. He said, 'No one would want to read that. Not even me.' "
I relay Jeremy this as his water he ordered is brought to him. He nods and says it's still pretty much true. "Who wants to read about a guy who's somewhat kind of failed at life? It only makes interesting reading to someone if they're trying to feel superior over the subject."
"What makes you think you failed at life so far? I'm writing a piece on you. Failures don't get that luxury."
"Look around you man. Look where I live. If the surroundings around you don't scream quit than you aren't looking too hard."
Jeremy is telling me of some of the misfortune that has come his way since high school. He tells me that as a senior, he was pretty much incognito amongst his peers as transferring from another school, the majority of classes needed for credits were taken his freshman and sophomore years, therefore, he was able to take nothing but electives. "I was anonymous in the best sense of the word. I would usually keep to myself for the most part. The people I did talk to were generally underclassmen. I just didn't understand the need for a car or any dominant issue that young people at 18 had. I was perfectly content just staying invisible and dreaming big of being the next big thing."
That dream didn't necessarily go according to plan. Dawe found himself in junior college not particularly driven to finish. It's a sore subject for him still. "I was more concentrated on trying to get with girls, and had none of the skills to really get a girl to date me. I would go out on a date occasionally if I worked up enough courage to do so, but, it was more patronizing than attraction."
How difficult was it to relate to the fairer sex? I asked him. He sits for a second contemplating this question and then he leans back a little in his chair.
"It's still difficult. I was told when I was younger, and it has been repeated off and on as an adult, that there is someone out there just for you. That's complete hokum in nicest of terms. As you get older, relationships really thrive from the sheer exhaustion of seeking the one person who not only fills the criteria you seek, but, you just acquiesce and settle".
"Have you gotten close to marriage?"
"Yeah. Once. And then, out of nowhere all this unsolicited advice comes in from all sides, family, workers, you know. 'It's a mistake' dressed a little nicer than what was intended. I bailed on the girl like a coward, already knowing in my mind this was a monumental mistake."
"Were you able to reconcile?"
"No. She found someone else and happiness that went with it. I've dated other women who just can't handle 'nice' or 'respectful'. They would like that in theory, but, when you're used to having emotional battery on a daily basis, and then someone comes along and tells you that you're pretty great, I can see how that could rattle a person. It's pretty foreign."
to be continued...
What does having talent mean when you don't apply it?
The restaurant my subject selected has seen better days. Worn and faded columns support the dining room. A sad looking buffet sits next to the booth I'm in as I await for Jeremy's arrival. The fake plastic foliage hasn't been cleaned in several weeks if I had to estimate. When I receive my water from the waitress, Jeremy appears from the front door. Ambling slowly with some extra weight around his middle, his hair slightly thinning. He doesn't look like much of anything except a guy rapidly approaching middle age and nothing to show of it. What was the deal with this assignment?
"He was really imaginative in my class," One of Jeremy's creative writing teachers told me earlier in the day. I'm sitting in a sterile feeling office as she kind of nods to herself in approval over her previous statement. "He was always working on something. Generally it was macabre, dark stuff. It was like he was trying to exorcise anything in his self onto the page. Thematically it wouldn't always add up, but, the passion and raw talent were there on display. I told him to write what he knew. That would get him on a road to somewhere by writing more of his day to day life, and less the puerile flights of fancy he was prone to turning in. I'll never forget what he said in reply. He said, 'No one would want to read that. Not even me.' "
I relay Jeremy this as his water he ordered is brought to him. He nods and says it's still pretty much true. "Who wants to read about a guy who's somewhat kind of failed at life? It only makes interesting reading to someone if they're trying to feel superior over the subject."
"What makes you think you failed at life so far? I'm writing a piece on you. Failures don't get that luxury."
"Look around you man. Look where I live. If the surroundings around you don't scream quit than you aren't looking too hard."
Jeremy is telling me of some of the misfortune that has come his way since high school. He tells me that as a senior, he was pretty much incognito amongst his peers as transferring from another school, the majority of classes needed for credits were taken his freshman and sophomore years, therefore, he was able to take nothing but electives. "I was anonymous in the best sense of the word. I would usually keep to myself for the most part. The people I did talk to were generally underclassmen. I just didn't understand the need for a car or any dominant issue that young people at 18 had. I was perfectly content just staying invisible and dreaming big of being the next big thing."
That dream didn't necessarily go according to plan. Dawe found himself in junior college not particularly driven to finish. It's a sore subject for him still. "I was more concentrated on trying to get with girls, and had none of the skills to really get a girl to date me. I would go out on a date occasionally if I worked up enough courage to do so, but, it was more patronizing than attraction."
How difficult was it to relate to the fairer sex? I asked him. He sits for a second contemplating this question and then he leans back a little in his chair.
"It's still difficult. I was told when I was younger, and it has been repeated off and on as an adult, that there is someone out there just for you. That's complete hokum in nicest of terms. As you get older, relationships really thrive from the sheer exhaustion of seeking the one person who not only fills the criteria you seek, but, you just acquiesce and settle".
"Have you gotten close to marriage?"
"Yeah. Once. And then, out of nowhere all this unsolicited advice comes in from all sides, family, workers, you know. 'It's a mistake' dressed a little nicer than what was intended. I bailed on the girl like a coward, already knowing in my mind this was a monumental mistake."
"Were you able to reconcile?"
"No. She found someone else and happiness that went with it. I've dated other women who just can't handle 'nice' or 'respectful'. They would like that in theory, but, when you're used to having emotional battery on a daily basis, and then someone comes along and tells you that you're pretty great, I can see how that could rattle a person. It's pretty foreign."
to be continued...
Tales From My Childhood 1985 Part 2
Subscriptions to comic titles last for only a year. I think my run of Incredible Hulk concluded at issue #308 or 09. I was determined to try and finish the story via news stand because for whatever adult reason my parents had escapes me now, the subscription service concluded and there was no way to pick up another. I would continue to keep tags on the book ESPECIALLY when John Byrne* got to write and illustrate the Jade Giant's adventures once the character returned to Earth from exile.
*(John Byrne is still my brother Jon's favorite artist. Byrne's illustrations and storytelling are still pretty great to go through, if you can turn a blind eye to the things Byrne says in public forums)
At some point, during the reprieve of receiving a monthly comic, I found secluded on the bottom of some spinner rack at Key Drugs a new title that I would fall for completely. The title was Power Pack. Issue number was 14. Title was School Daze.
To those uninitiated, Power Pack was the story of four siblings (2 boys and 2 girls) with the last name of Power who received fabulous powers from Whitey, an emissary from an alien race known as Kymellian. The children, with the help of Whitey's smartship Friday, stop the planet from being destroyed and rescue their parents from the clutches of the Snarks, a reptilian alien species who want to rule the galaxy.
Primed at young readers as the team kept their powers and super hero identities from their parents, Power Pack was something completely different in the Marvel Universe. As written by Louise Simonson and drawn by June Brigman, the kids looked and certainly read like siblings. More often than not in each issue the creative team was able to handle the dynamics of the siblings and have them face off with a villainous threat that was mild of the normal Marvel Manner.
Issue 14 was unlike anything my young eyes had ever seen. It focused more on the pressures and trials of each child in their respective school. The oldest child Alex trying to come off as physically impressive to his classmates. His sister Julie isn't prepared for test, and already knows that some of her peers have the test answers. Her brother Jack has been bit by the hero bug big time, as all he wants to spend his days is out in the public adventuring than getting an education. The villain of the issue was an old business partner of their father's, who saw his nefarious plans for wealth upended in the first story arc and now was seeking revenge for this action.
Needless to say, I was pretty much hooked. Power Pack would be the first title I would actively pursue every month. Before I was able to get another subscription, I had to pursue the title in specialty stores in town. The subject of preteen superheroes wasn't exactly the most sought after title compared to the likes of the X-Men and Spiderman. The first 30 or so issues are really worth looking into if you're curious and makes a decent read for kids from 9 years old and up.
*(John Byrne is still my brother Jon's favorite artist. Byrne's illustrations and storytelling are still pretty great to go through, if you can turn a blind eye to the things Byrne says in public forums)
At some point, during the reprieve of receiving a monthly comic, I found secluded on the bottom of some spinner rack at Key Drugs a new title that I would fall for completely. The title was Power Pack. Issue number was 14. Title was School Daze.
To those uninitiated, Power Pack was the story of four siblings (2 boys and 2 girls) with the last name of Power who received fabulous powers from Whitey, an emissary from an alien race known as Kymellian. The children, with the help of Whitey's smartship Friday, stop the planet from being destroyed and rescue their parents from the clutches of the Snarks, a reptilian alien species who want to rule the galaxy.
Primed at young readers as the team kept their powers and super hero identities from their parents, Power Pack was something completely different in the Marvel Universe. As written by Louise Simonson and drawn by June Brigman, the kids looked and certainly read like siblings. More often than not in each issue the creative team was able to handle the dynamics of the siblings and have them face off with a villainous threat that was mild of the normal Marvel Manner.
Issue 14 was unlike anything my young eyes had ever seen. It focused more on the pressures and trials of each child in their respective school. The oldest child Alex trying to come off as physically impressive to his classmates. His sister Julie isn't prepared for test, and already knows that some of her peers have the test answers. Her brother Jack has been bit by the hero bug big time, as all he wants to spend his days is out in the public adventuring than getting an education. The villain of the issue was an old business partner of their father's, who saw his nefarious plans for wealth upended in the first story arc and now was seeking revenge for this action.
Needless to say, I was pretty much hooked. Power Pack would be the first title I would actively pursue every month. Before I was able to get another subscription, I had to pursue the title in specialty stores in town. The subject of preteen superheroes wasn't exactly the most sought after title compared to the likes of the X-Men and Spiderman. The first 30 or so issues are really worth looking into if you're curious and makes a decent read for kids from 9 years old and up.
Friday, May 17, 2013
Tales From My Childhood 1985 pt 1
The longest affair I've ever conducted has been with a hobby I began when I was 10 years old. It was at a Kroger's on the north end of my town, near the pharmacy in the building. A spinner rack with super hero comics sat, beckoning eager and hungry imaginations to come and read. Thus began a long torrid love affair.
It wasn't that dramatic. Comics were there as an extension of programs that I watched every Friday night and Saturday morning. Back in the now canonized halcyon days of the early 80's, CBS carried the Incredible Hulk and then Dukes Of Hazzard. On Saturday morning, you could watch more adventures of the Hulk, albeit in animation as well as Spiderman & His Amazing Friends. To a young boy, this was pretty much nirvana that hit all the sweet spots. Besides Superman the Movie, these were the first long standing relationships with super heroes and science fiction.
My brother Jon and I would proverbially jump at the chance to go with one of our parents to Kroger or IGA or Key Drugs since newsstands regularly carried plenty of comics in those days before they were marginalized into specialty shops and book stores. With either sweet cajoling or bargaining we could manage to get 50 cents or 65 cents for a Marvel or DC comic.
One of the best things about comics storytelling was you didn't need to have purchased half a year worth of stories to solicit any enjoyment with what you were reading. Each issue read as a complete story in itself, sometimes telling a larger story. The artwork was splendid in it's workmanlike presentation. Action was conveyed clearly on the page, the vocabulary had me go to a dictionary in search of a word I had recently discovered. You had to put in work to read an issue of any given book, but it was worth it. Even the letters pages were entertaining with repeat writers like Uncle Elvis.(Though it took me a while to realize that 'nuff said was merely a statement and not an actual guy named 'nuff)
I was pretty much hooked. Over the course of a year or so, Jon and I would pick up random titles who's covers sold it well. Master of Kung Fu, Spiderman, X-Men, Daredevil, JLA, Flash, ElfQuest. The first title we both agreed needed to be read from start to finish was Secret Wars which we had a few toys from the crossover promotion. The novel concept of an omniscient presence selecting Marvel Comics greatest heroes and villains and placing them on Battleworld to fight for his enjoyment was so appealing, it was imperative to get all the issues we could find. Being that these were news stands, some months the next issue wouldn't ship, or other variables you connect with not subscribing. Add to that was the fact you had parents who were watching every penny to put food on the table, so you would crap out with your request. Jon and I did get about half of Secret Wars though. At least being witness to the biggest change of the event, Spiderman's new symbiotic suit.
Our father had suggested to us to get subscriptions to one book a piece since Marvel was all about offering deals for more than one subscription on it's back page. Jon selected The Thing, which continued the story of Ben Grimm on Battleworld after Secret Wars concluded. John Byrne wrote the tale, including a soliloquy Ben had internally to his love Alicia Masters which my brother used as a love letter to a girl in his class. I selected Incredible Hulk.
Six or eight weeks after sending the money off, a brown slipcover dropped through the house's mail slot. This was your clue that the comic you subscribed to had arrived, usually bent down the middle in order to get it through the mail slot. To me, getting that mail was like Christmas once a month. The Incredible Hulk was in the mid 290's when I began receiving them. Bill Mantlo and Sal Buscema had been working on a tale that had the jade giant with Bruce Banner's mind, wearing trunks, and strangely walking with a leg brace and crutch. He was seeing Kate Waynesboro instead of Betty Ross and the immediate dilemma was Banner was losing his grip on the Hulk. The savage side of the Hulk was taking over slowly. The villain Nightmare posed problems for Bruce and the story culminated in issue 300 where the Savage Incredible Hulk was laying to waste New York City. Every Marvel hero at the time were trying to stop him to no avail. It took a spell by Doctor Strange to cast the rampaging out of control monster to another dimension all together, and begin the Cross Roads storyline in issue 301.
Good comics done well can have a lasting effect on a boy. I wanted to know more and expand my reading. A kid in my 5th Grade class had issues of the official Marvel Handbook which I read in my free time instead of socializing with my peers over the A-Team or Knight Rider. I was searching for a new book, one that felt more relatable than a one ton jade behemoth with anger issues.
to be continued...
It wasn't that dramatic. Comics were there as an extension of programs that I watched every Friday night and Saturday morning. Back in the now canonized halcyon days of the early 80's, CBS carried the Incredible Hulk and then Dukes Of Hazzard. On Saturday morning, you could watch more adventures of the Hulk, albeit in animation as well as Spiderman & His Amazing Friends. To a young boy, this was pretty much nirvana that hit all the sweet spots. Besides Superman the Movie, these were the first long standing relationships with super heroes and science fiction.
My brother Jon and I would proverbially jump at the chance to go with one of our parents to Kroger or IGA or Key Drugs since newsstands regularly carried plenty of comics in those days before they were marginalized into specialty shops and book stores. With either sweet cajoling or bargaining we could manage to get 50 cents or 65 cents for a Marvel or DC comic.
One of the best things about comics storytelling was you didn't need to have purchased half a year worth of stories to solicit any enjoyment with what you were reading. Each issue read as a complete story in itself, sometimes telling a larger story. The artwork was splendid in it's workmanlike presentation. Action was conveyed clearly on the page, the vocabulary had me go to a dictionary in search of a word I had recently discovered. You had to put in work to read an issue of any given book, but it was worth it. Even the letters pages were entertaining with repeat writers like Uncle Elvis.(Though it took me a while to realize that 'nuff said was merely a statement and not an actual guy named 'nuff)
I was pretty much hooked. Over the course of a year or so, Jon and I would pick up random titles who's covers sold it well. Master of Kung Fu, Spiderman, X-Men, Daredevil, JLA, Flash, ElfQuest. The first title we both agreed needed to be read from start to finish was Secret Wars which we had a few toys from the crossover promotion. The novel concept of an omniscient presence selecting Marvel Comics greatest heroes and villains and placing them on Battleworld to fight for his enjoyment was so appealing, it was imperative to get all the issues we could find. Being that these were news stands, some months the next issue wouldn't ship, or other variables you connect with not subscribing. Add to that was the fact you had parents who were watching every penny to put food on the table, so you would crap out with your request. Jon and I did get about half of Secret Wars though. At least being witness to the biggest change of the event, Spiderman's new symbiotic suit.
Our father had suggested to us to get subscriptions to one book a piece since Marvel was all about offering deals for more than one subscription on it's back page. Jon selected The Thing, which continued the story of Ben Grimm on Battleworld after Secret Wars concluded. John Byrne wrote the tale, including a soliloquy Ben had internally to his love Alicia Masters which my brother used as a love letter to a girl in his class. I selected Incredible Hulk.
Six or eight weeks after sending the money off, a brown slipcover dropped through the house's mail slot. This was your clue that the comic you subscribed to had arrived, usually bent down the middle in order to get it through the mail slot. To me, getting that mail was like Christmas once a month. The Incredible Hulk was in the mid 290's when I began receiving them. Bill Mantlo and Sal Buscema had been working on a tale that had the jade giant with Bruce Banner's mind, wearing trunks, and strangely walking with a leg brace and crutch. He was seeing Kate Waynesboro instead of Betty Ross and the immediate dilemma was Banner was losing his grip on the Hulk. The savage side of the Hulk was taking over slowly. The villain Nightmare posed problems for Bruce and the story culminated in issue 300 where the Savage Incredible Hulk was laying to waste New York City. Every Marvel hero at the time were trying to stop him to no avail. It took a spell by Doctor Strange to cast the rampaging out of control monster to another dimension all together, and begin the Cross Roads storyline in issue 301.
Good comics done well can have a lasting effect on a boy. I wanted to know more and expand my reading. A kid in my 5th Grade class had issues of the official Marvel Handbook which I read in my free time instead of socializing with my peers over the A-Team or Knight Rider. I was searching for a new book, one that felt more relatable than a one ton jade behemoth with anger issues.
to be continued...
When Comics Anti Heroes Go Mature...
When reading comics, some characters can seem pretty tricky to write. You have the likes of Superman, who you is essentially a benign God, yet, you want to make him relatable to your readers. There's characters like Mr Fantastic, in which you want him to sound smart, but, not come across as illogical. The superhero genre of sequential story telling and cartooning are littered with different characters.
The idea of Deadpool struck me as a one man Shane Black script. Take the ideas and various punchlines from shows like Lethal Weapon and lease it to a certifiable maniacal assassin. When the idea is executed well, it brings in a lot of interested readers. When done poorly, it can be a nonsensical chore. Joe Kelly was able to achieve some good with the character in the late 90's, creating a whole world for a character who up till that point was a supporting character that stole stories from the primary characters. It was a pretty fun ride for a couple of years. As a reader, I fell out of reading the nonsensical adventures of Wade Wilson when Kelly departed the book. I've sampled different issues here and there based on acquaintances reactions via social media, but, nothing seemed to really stick.
Marvel's boutique adults only line, Max, drafted David Lapham to write and Kyle Baker to illustrate a straight up adults only Deadpool story. Not adult where there's explicit sex (there's some, but, implied) nor graphically violent (Well, you got me there. It IS known as Deadpool) but situational comedy that could go for the four letter dirty words rather than imply them. The main duo cross paths from with characters like the Taskmaster, terrorists, the mob, the government, Christians, coked out pimps, hookers, sociopathic orphans, and surprise guest stars from the primary run Joe Kelly wrote many years ago.
The pairing of Lapham & Baker was really inspiring to me reading as it feels the two guys were able to hit it off creatively and they compliment each other amiably. The plot of their story reads that Deadpool and his handler Bob are working with the government to stop the forces of Hydra, a nefarious terrorist organization. Each issue the main plot is paralleled with backstories of the primary characters. Given the nature that Deadpool is indeed insane, it's up to the reader to determine what's real and what's fiction. Bob isn't much better. As his character is greedy, callow, and manipulative. What he says and does are two entirely different things.
Baker is an inspired choice as the artist for Lapham's unhinged story, as Baker's distinct cartoony style lends itself perfectly. As single issues, Deadpool Max works allright, however, as you read the whole series, the much larger story is played out and is delightfully absurd, pitch black comedy. If you're a fan of the current incarnation of Deadpool written by Duggan &Poeshn or of the earlier Joe Kelly version, or, if you haven't checked in a few years, this is well worth investment.
The idea of Deadpool struck me as a one man Shane Black script. Take the ideas and various punchlines from shows like Lethal Weapon and lease it to a certifiable maniacal assassin. When the idea is executed well, it brings in a lot of interested readers. When done poorly, it can be a nonsensical chore. Joe Kelly was able to achieve some good with the character in the late 90's, creating a whole world for a character who up till that point was a supporting character that stole stories from the primary characters. It was a pretty fun ride for a couple of years. As a reader, I fell out of reading the nonsensical adventures of Wade Wilson when Kelly departed the book. I've sampled different issues here and there based on acquaintances reactions via social media, but, nothing seemed to really stick.
Marvel's boutique adults only line, Max, drafted David Lapham to write and Kyle Baker to illustrate a straight up adults only Deadpool story. Not adult where there's explicit sex (there's some, but, implied) nor graphically violent (Well, you got me there. It IS known as Deadpool) but situational comedy that could go for the four letter dirty words rather than imply them. The main duo cross paths from with characters like the Taskmaster, terrorists, the mob, the government, Christians, coked out pimps, hookers, sociopathic orphans, and surprise guest stars from the primary run Joe Kelly wrote many years ago.
The pairing of Lapham & Baker was really inspiring to me reading as it feels the two guys were able to hit it off creatively and they compliment each other amiably. The plot of their story reads that Deadpool and his handler Bob are working with the government to stop the forces of Hydra, a nefarious terrorist organization. Each issue the main plot is paralleled with backstories of the primary characters. Given the nature that Deadpool is indeed insane, it's up to the reader to determine what's real and what's fiction. Bob isn't much better. As his character is greedy, callow, and manipulative. What he says and does are two entirely different things.
Baker is an inspired choice as the artist for Lapham's unhinged story, as Baker's distinct cartoony style lends itself perfectly. As single issues, Deadpool Max works allright, however, as you read the whole series, the much larger story is played out and is delightfully absurd, pitch black comedy. If you're a fan of the current incarnation of Deadpool written by Duggan &Poeshn or of the earlier Joe Kelly version, or, if you haven't checked in a few years, this is well worth investment.
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
A Great Essay from Chcuck Klosterman About Nemesis
The
Importance of Being Hated
In this golden age of enmity, friends are for suckers. What you need are a pair of well-chosen foes.
by Chuck Klosterman | Apr 01 '04
"It's not what you know," they say. "It's who you know." We have all heard this sentiment, and we all reflexively
agree with it. This is because "they" are hard to debate, especially since "they" never seem to be in the room whenever anyone makes reference to them. Yet they have a secret shame, and it's a shame they can't deny: They are losers. They are failures. They don't realize that life is—almost without exception—an absolute meritocracy, and everyone who succeeds completely deserves it.* The only people who disagree with this are people who will never succeed at anything. You see, "they" want you to believe the passageway to power is all about cultivating allies, so they spend all their time trying to make friends and influence people. And this is why they fail. It rarely matters who is on your side; what matters is who is against you. Unlike Gloria Loring, you don't need a friend and you don't need a lover. What you need is a) one quality nemesis, and b) one archenemy. These are the two most important characters in the life of any successful human. We measure ourselves against our nemeses, and we long to destroy our archenemies. Nemeses and archenemies are the catalysts for everything.
*The exceptions being Dale Peck, MTV on-air personalities who aren't Kurt Loder, Al Franken, and myself.
**This is speculative.
HOW TO MAKE ENEMIES
In this golden age of enmity, friends are for suckers. What you need are a pair of well-chosen foes.
by Chuck Klosterman | Apr 01 '04
"It's not what you know," they say. "It's who you know." We have all heard this sentiment, and we all reflexively
agree with it. This is because "they" are hard to debate, especially since "they" never seem to be in the room whenever anyone makes reference to them. Yet they have a secret shame, and it's a shame they can't deny: They are losers. They are failures. They don't realize that life is—almost without exception—an absolute meritocracy, and everyone who succeeds completely deserves it.* The only people who disagree with this are people who will never succeed at anything. You see, "they" want you to believe the passageway to power is all about cultivating allies, so they spend all their time trying to make friends and influence people. And this is why they fail. It rarely matters who is on your side; what matters is who is against you. Unlike Gloria Loring, you don't need a friend and you don't need a lover. What you need is a) one quality nemesis, and b) one archenemy. These are the two most important characters in the life of any successful human. We measure ourselves against our nemeses, and we long to destroy our archenemies. Nemeses and archenemies are the catalysts for everything.
Now, I know that you're probably asking yourself, How do I know the
difference between my nemesis and my archenemy? Here is the short answer: You
kind of like your nemesis, despite the fact that you despise him. If your
nemesis invited you out for cocktails, you would accept the offer. If he died,
you would attend his funeral and—privately—you might shed a tear over his
passing. But you would never have drinks with your archenemy, unless you
were attempting to spike his gin with hemlock. If you were to perish, your
archenemy would dance on your grave, and then he'd burn down your house and
molest your children. You hate your archenemy so much that you try to keep your
hatred secret, because you don't want your archenemy to have the satisfaction of
being hated.
If this distinction seems confusing, just ask your girlfriend to explain it
in detail; women have always intuitively grasped the nemesis/archenemy
dichotomy. Every woman I've ever known has had at least one close friend whose
only purpose in life is to criticize her actions, compete for the attention of
men, and drive her insane; very often, this is a woman's best friend .
Every woman also has a former friend (usually someone from high school with
large breasts) whom she has loathed for years (and whom she will continue to
loath with the intensity of a thousand suns, even if she sees her only once
every ten years). This is her archenemy. Women intrinsically understand human
dynamics, and this makes them unstoppable. Unfortunately, the average man is
less adroit at fostering such rivalries, which is why most men remain average.
Males are better at hating things that can't hate them back (e.g., lawn mowers,
cats, the 1986 Denver Broncos, et cetera). Most men fail to see a world beyond
themselves; if given the choice, they would connect themselves to nothing. But
greatness cannot be achieved in a vacuum, and great people know that.
In the 1980s, Larry Bird's nemesis was Magic Johnson, and it was always
beautiful when they tangled. But Bird's archenemy wasn't Magic; it was Isiah
Thomas. When the Celtics played the Pistons, it was a train wreck, and it went
deeper than basketball: In 1987, Isiah supported Dennis "Rush" Rodman when he
claimed Bird was famous only because he was white. Larry forgave Isiah in
public, but he still iced him in the end; the first thing Bird did after
becoming president of the Pacers was fire Zeke as head coach. Steve Jobs is Bill
Gates's nemesis, but if Gates had only one bullet in his revolver, he'd shoot
David Boies. J. R. Ewing was at war with nemesis/brother Bobby for twelve
seasons (thirteen if you count the year Victoria Principal dreamed he was dead),
but Cliff Barnes was the true Minotaur of Southfork. Jack White turned Von
Bondies singer Jason Stollsteimer's face into a speed bag, but Stollsteimer
barely even deserves nemesis stature; White's archenemy is Ryan Adams (although
he'd be better off if it were Julian Casablancas of the Strokes). The Joker was
Batman's nemesis, but—ironically—his archenemy was Superman, since Superman made
Batman seem entirely mortal and generally nonessential. Nobody likes to admit
this, but Batman hated Superman; Superman is the reason Batman became an
alcoholic. **
This fall, George W. Bush will seek reelection, and whoever the Democrats end
up nominating will become Bush's "nemesis by default" (although not his true
nemesis; that will always be John McCain). But none of the candidates has a
shot at becoming Bush's archenemy; that designation is inflexible. W's archenemy
is Bill Clinton (mostly because Bill beat up his dad in '92). George W. Bush
will never face the man he hates most; this is why George W. Bush will never
achieve greatness. However, when we get to 2008—when Clinton's wife faces the
little brother of her husband's archenemy—it will be a bloodbath. When the
families of archenemies collide, skulls get pounded into pulp. Jeb–Hillary will
be like Frazier–Ali III.
I was sitting in the passenger seat of my nemesis's Buick Skylark when he
punched me in 1992; I jacked his jaw at a keg party in '94. These days I mostly
just read his blog, although we did have a pressure-packed lunch at the Fargo
Olive Garden over Christmas. Meanwhile, I've had the same archenemy since eighth
grade: He's a guy named Rick Helling, and he grew up in Lakota, North Dakota.
Last year, Helling pitched a few innings for the Marlins in the World Series; in
1998, he won twenty games for the Rangers. I went to basketball camp with Rick
Helling in 1985, and he was the single worst person I'd ever met. Every summer,
I constantly scan the sports section of USA Today , always hoping that he
got shelled. This is what drives me. I cannot live in a world where Helling's
career ERA hovers below 5.00, yet all I do for a living is type . As long
as Rick Helling walks this earth, I shall never sleep soundly.
I realize there are those who don't think it's necessary (or even wise) to
consciously create adversaries; Will Rogers claimed that he never met a man he
didn't like. But what is Will Rogers famous for, really? For telling jokes that
don't have punch lines? For wearing a bandanna like an ascot? Who wants that for
a legacy? There is a reason they say, "Keep your friends close, but keep your
enemies closer." Granted, "they" usually don't know what they're talking about,
but sometimes "they" get lucky, you know?
*The exceptions being Dale Peck, MTV on-air personalities who aren't Kurt Loder, Al Franken, and myself.
**This is speculative.
As the accompanying essay makes clear, you'll need a nemesis and an archenemy
if you wish to be successful in this world. The good news is, it's entirely
possible that you already have each of these entities in your life; perhaps you
just don't realize it (or maybe you can't tell them apart). As a public service,
here are a few signs.
RECOGNIZING YOUR NEMESIS
•At some point in the past, this person was (arguably) your best friend.
•You have punched this person in the face.
•If invited, you would go to this person's wedding and give him a spice rack, but you would secretly hope that his marriage ends in a bitter, public divorce.
•People who barely know both of you assume you are close friends; people who know both of you intimately suspect that you profoundly dislike each other.
•If your archenemy tried to kill you, this person would attempt to stop him.
•At some point in the past, this person was (arguably) your best friend.
•You have punched this person in the face.
•If invited, you would go to this person's wedding and give him a spice rack, but you would secretly hope that his marriage ends in a bitter, public divorce.
•People who barely know both of you assume you are close friends; people who know both of you intimately suspect that you profoundly dislike each other.
•If your archenemy tried to kill you, this person would attempt to stop him.
RECOGNIZING YOUR ARCHENEMY
•Every time you talk to this person, you lie.
•If you meet someone who has the same first name as this person, you immediately like him less.
•The satisfaction you feel from your own success pales in comparison to the despair you feel at this person's triumphs, even if those triumphs are completely unrelated to your life.
•If this person slept with your girlfriend, she would never be attractive to you again.
•Even if this person's girlfriend was a hateful bitch, you would sleep with her out of spite.
•Every time you talk to this person, you lie.
•If you meet someone who has the same first name as this person, you immediately like him less.
•The satisfaction you feel from your own success pales in comparison to the despair you feel at this person's triumphs, even if those triumphs are completely unrelated to your life.
•If this person slept with your girlfriend, she would never be attractive to you again.
•Even if this person's girlfriend was a hateful bitch, you would sleep with her out of spite.
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