Archive for September, 2011
“Um. Who wants to know?”
John Bolton, Epic Illustrated Number Eighteen.
I’m making my way, like alot of other comics loving folk, through the so-called “New 52”, the much-hyped DC Comics reboot of it’s entire line of comics and, while they’re at it, Universe. I had envisioned a series of reviews talking about various books but let me tell you right now it’s not going to happen.
I’m just too damned bored with it.
Seriously, folks. So far there is almost nothing new happening inside these books and, in many cases, a lot of just very ordinary superhero storytelling. Stale, tired plots and action so predictably like what we’ve seen a thousand times before in the most everyday, mediocre comics of the last few decades. I can’t see very much originality happening. Certainly no risk-taking. A lot of yawning while reading, however.
On top of that, the whole thing seems a bit inconsistent and confusing when you go from book to book. Which Superman is Grant Morrison portraying in Action Comics? Because it doesn’t look to be anything like the one appearing in the Justice League. The world of superheros is once again fresh and new to planet Earth (as shown in JL) but, wait, Green Lantern’s Sinestro is still playing out a leftover story line from Brightest Day. And Batman and Robin seem to have not missed a beat in continuity from issue #22 of the most recent run to this new #1. Same storyline, same creative team. Different universe?
It’s not all bad, though. Above you’ll see a panel from Swamp Thing #1. And while the story is nothing astonishing, Yannick Paquette’s artwork is just beautiful to look at and it’s worth reading the book just for that. The new Animal Man book looks intriguing and I like the liberal minded viewpoint expressed in that and Action. I don’t know. I still have a few more from this week to slog through (including J.H. Williams III’ Batwoman which also looks beautiful) and maybe one of them will surprise me.
I’m betting it won’t be Deathstroke #1, though, will it?
A little something called, “and the world tonight is full of these things”.
Please listen. Everything in there from spoken word, tribal rhythms, post-sci-fi noise and vinyl hiss, which I do so adore.
Born in 1895, you know. Died in ’55.
Sometimes, out of boredom or vanity, of even purely by accident, I revisit some of my earlier writings. I often think the same thought whilst perusing.
“I can’t believe I wrote this shit.”
The marriage was consummated in an aggressively confrontational manner over a period of several days in Hildy’s cabin. During the night she would ride Ken like a mechanichal bull while, during daytime hours, his head was chained to a wood stove with a bicycle lock while she left on training exercises. She proclaimed her undying devotion to him in an elaborate ventriliquist’s performance after which she enacted a bizarre menage-a-trois involving herself, Ken and the dummy, heedless of her husband’s incessant weeping. This was more than enough to break the spirit an already weakened man and Ken found himself slipping into a profound dementia, drooling and constantly mumbling that he’d “gone to Fantasy Island…” and he wasn’t coming back. For a time he would only answer to the name Vee-Garr and would eat nothing but oyster crackers. To Hildy, it was the honeymoon she had always imagined and she spent her days in a state of unbalanced bliss.
I still sometimes accidentally sign a check “Vee-Garr” once in a while.
Host Ned Beatty wonders why the fairer sex would even want to be involved in a game the sole point of which is to inflict mind numbing agony to an individual’s scrotal sack and it’s precious contents. “Do they have any idea what being in the game entails? The price that is paid? Do they want to walk around all day with swollen, throbbing testicles? Listen, I’m sure childbirth is an uncomfortable, even unpleasant sensation. Whatever. Trust me, though, it’s the minor leagues compared to the feeling of the white hot supernova exploding from your crotch to your brain when one of these animals lands a shot on your boys.”
Ned Beatty. Always an enthusiastic quote.
The mourning has begun here at the Ken Socrates World News Organization as we remember seventeen fallen comrades who lost their lives when the school bus transporting them to the annual Socrates Booze ‘n’ Badminton Bonanza veered off the highway and flipped down an embankment in Limerick, Maine. Investigators on the scene report that speed was most definately a factor in the crash and that, although seventeen fatalities were reported, one individual was assuredly dead hours before the incident, most likely due to alcohol poisoning. The vehicle’s driver, one Bill “Leadfoot” Castillo, 84, possessed a spotless driving record, although many would point to the fact that this was because he was never actually allowed a valid driver’s license due to various mental, visual and auditory impairments. To us, however, he was a man who surmounted massive disabilities to become a valuable member of our team and remained so right up to his final, screamingly horrific moments on earth.
R.I.P. forever, Bill, you crazy old fucker.
I have a soft spot in my heart for Epic Illustrated. It was an adventurous mag, a no apologies imitation of Heavy Metal published by Marvel’s Epic Comics starting in 1980. Ran thirty-four issues, the last of which hit the stands and comics shops at the dawn of 1986.
Actually had an impressive line-up of artists contributing. Fine stylings from John Bolton, Joe Jusko, Steve Bissette. P. Craig Russell and Charles Vess. They let Rick Veitch do some insanely hallucinatory stuff. Just go completely wild. And who knew Jim Starlin could paint like that? Brilliant looking shit.
So here’s some few I’ve culled from my recent readings. It’s stuff too good to not see the light of day for so long.
As, such. Click on pics for full size.
Rick Fuckin’ Veitch.