"What is great in man is that he is a bridge and not an end"

There comes a time in a man’s life where he must choose between living life as a whimpering fool or being bold, balling up his fist, and fighting for the right to live as a man. Many of us will never be put in a situation like that, but others, like Jack Harrow, they must make that fateful decision and live with the consequences…

It was snowing on Christmas Eve in Olan, Michigan and there was a rumor on the radio that there was one mythical can of cranberry sauce left in the whole state. Jack Harrow wasn’t a particular fan of cranberry sauce, but his wife was, and it was Christmas and there had to be cranberry sauce on Christmas. So, he set out a couple hours before lunch to try and find the can for the family dinner that night. The roads were slick as glass and a blind man had better visibility, but Jack trudged on, not for the love of his wife, more so he wouldn’t have to hear that nagging about having ruined Christmas by forgetting cranberry sauce when he was out buying the ham the other day.

It took 25 minutes just to make it 5 miles down the road, but Jack finally pulled into the tiny parking lot of Eddie & Mae’s discount convenient store. Even though the exterior of the building suggested a quaint old fashioned convenient store it was really just a nationwide chain. Eddie & Mae’s was a mom and pop chain actually owned by Amir and Mahjub Rahman, entrepreneur brother refugees from Iran that had both fled the country to live the American dream of rock and roll and blond haired, blue eyed, big tittied chicks. In order to eventually become the music moguls they wanted to be, they set up the discount chains. The deal was they jacked up prices from other chain grocery stores, but provided that down home country feel modern America seemed to be missing. Jack Harrow found the last cobweb and dust covered can of cranberry sauce with a $7 price tag attached.

The store was empty except for a bored cashier girl, and silent except for the pinging of her cell phone. Another gentleman had entered the store wearing a long trench coat and a toboggan. Jack, figuring the man was after the same cranberry sauce, crooked his hand, and put the can close to his body to shield it from view. However, the man stepped to the counter and pulled out a small pistol, aimed it at the cashier and asked for the all the money. The young girl behind the counter had been loudly smacking her gum and sending text messages; her two thumbs zipping across the key pad of her Blackberry. Annoyed, she hopped off her stool, rolled her eyes, and with heavy, pounding movements, opened the cash drawer.

The man turned and faced Jack, pointing the gun at him, and warning him not to try any funny business. Jack stuck both hands straight up in the air with the cranberry sauce resting on his palm like a golden display trophy. The gunman, upon seeing the sauce, licked his lips, and poked Jack in the tummy for the tart treat. The cashier, as if the money weighed hundreds of pounds, slammed the cash on the counter.

Even though yellow piss was running down Jack’s leg, he did not give up the can, instead, used his body as a shield to hide it from the grubby paws of the filthy gunman. The gunman, displeased, cocked his gun. In a split second, Jack made the decision to go from ordinary man to that of super hero. He took the can in his fist and hurled it at the gunman, pegging him square between the eyes, then with all his middle-aged might, tackled the man into the ice cream display. The cashier, wisely, took out her camera phone and snapped pics to e-mail to her blog. In the fracas, the gun went off. The gunman, seeing what had happened, fled the scene, leaving behind both money and cranberry sauce. The cashier was in nursing school, and quickly made Jack comfortable, and applied pressure to the gun wound in his arm to stop the blood flow. The bullet had grazed Jack’s arm and burned more than bled, but poor Jack thought it was a mortal wound. By the time the authorities arrived, the girl had just about everything taken care of for Jack except the actual stitching, he was taken to the hospital where the wound was stitched and his wife picked him up to take him to dinner with the family.

The whole way home she nagged him about trying to be a big man and how he’d ruined Christmas by getting shot. Jack slumped against the window of the car with his chin in his hand and watched the snow falling down. The cops had taken the cranberry sauce, for evidence they said. They confiscated it for the good of the case, they said with a smile, but deep down Jack knew those pigs were eating his cranberry cause and having themselves a merry Christmas at his expense.

Haters!

Instead of actually writing something new, I'm just posting up my recent homework assignment. For my life development class I had to visit various places, one of which was a funeral home, and here's my one page response to the visit. I'm posting it because of certain red headed, excellent gift giving haters out there called me out on some comments my teacher made about the piece. The comments in question were "talented," "gifted," and "you should be a writer." My teacher might be out of her mind, but I dunno it'd made me feel pretty good.


Old Man’s Treasure

I spent about fifteen minutes inside the Hayworth Miller Funeral home. I had called the night before and set up a meeting with a gentleman, and when I arrived at the pre-determined time, they were seeing a customer. It was one of those out of the blue things, which is kind of how death works. They thought that if I waited a bit then they would get a chance to talk to me, and after I flipped through a Winston Salem Monthly magazine Wes came out and told me straight up that they weren’t going to be finished anytime soon, and that his best friend’s mom had just passed away, and it was going to take some time. Even though I didn’t get to see any dead bodies or watch them suck the guts out of anyone, which I probably would have enjoyed, I still had enough info on my impression of this place.

The first thing I noticed is the box of tissues they had laying around everywhere. On every surface was a box of tissues, which was the clue that this wasn’t your everyday office building, that and the church pews. Unfortunately, I’ve been to some viewings at Hayworth Miller before, and I say unfortunately not because it isn’t a nice place, because it is, but because it’s always a bit of a bummer when you go to the funeral home, hence the tissues. The waiting room is also the place where, during a viewing, the people can mingle or hob knob or whatever it’s called that people do at funeral home when they aren’t offering condolences and viewing the body.

The tissues in the waiting room, the interrupted appointment, and the burying of your best friend’s mom, all seem to sum up the life of a funeral director for me. Tissues equal sadness, what should have been a slow day becomes a busy day, meaning death strikes when it pleases, and finally, there comes a time when you have to bury someone that is close to you.

When I was in kindergarten my grandma died from Alzheimer’s disease, and ever since then I think I’ve been obsessed with my own death. In second grade I kept looking at an old science book that talked about the sun going super nova, burning everything, and then slowly winking out; leaving Earth a cold barren place. It’s easy to recall the red skies and boiling seas giving way to the eternal night and frozen land where nothing lives. Then in the 8th grade I was absolutely sure the Earth was going to end, even though the science book reassured me the sun wouldn’t burn out for billions of years. Still, the folks at church kept saying Jesus could come back at any time, cue my reading of the Book of Revelations to see what was going to go down. After that, I kind of mellowed out some, but I still have a fascination with dystopian futures and post apocalyptic literature and movies.
Even though the end of all things always freaked me out, death in my family wasn’t quite so bad. Not to say they weren’t sad occasions, but the events leading up to and after the funeral, usually involve a lot familial bonding along with good food and story telling. When my Grandpa died my cousin’s then wife became very upset at all the laughter going on in the house, because she was more used a dour mourning experience. However, we Cornatzer’s are great socializers and liars, so the events take on a more lighthearted atmosphere.

I was in the third grade when my grandpa died and my mom gave me the option of staying home or going to school, I wasn’t upset at the time about him being dead, but I didn’t know what to do, when my mom said my sister was staying home, I stayed as well, and I played a lot of video games over the course of a couple days. My grandpa meant a lot to me, when I rattled off crap about Spider-Man or ninjas he always listened and put up with me running through his house attacking imaginary super villains.

The weird thing about my grandpa is that he had his leg amputated, which isn’t so weird, until you learn he kept his leg in a freezer in the basement. Apparently there’s a passage in the Bible, or something he believed anyways, about having all your body parts when you get to heaven. Thus, in order to walk around in Heaven, he made sure he was buried with his amputated leg. There were countless afternoons I spent with my sister and my cousin daring them to go look at the leg.
After his funeral there was the rumor that money had been hidden in his house, so for the better part of a week most of my family looked over that house all over before the house was sold, and I remember sitting around day dreaming with my cousins and helping out on this grand treasure hunt. All that mingled up to death not being so bad, except for when I would lay in my bed at night and try to imagine would it would be like to cease to exist, or what it would be like to live forever, both of which scared me equally.

The funeral home just reminds me of people getting together to talk about sports or what’s going on in town, with the unpleasantness of having to hug people you haven’t seen in awhile, and then look at a body, that I keep thinking is going to wake up and grab me. Everyone says those bodies laying there look empty, but to me, they look like they’re about to spring into action, so I avoid the funeral home and funerals, but I love the family gatherings, maybe that’s why I like Christmas more than death. I’ll take a toy over a casket any day.

Ladies get wet...

That my friends is sex in a pair of sunglasses.

That Close Encounter Was More Than A Feeling

Close Encounters of the 3rd kind is the behind the scenes documentry about the band Boston's arrival on Earth and why Richard Dreyfuss is their number one super fan. Before the band lands in Wyoming and plays its first gig before an audience, they do a couple of rehearsals for some lucky folks, and one of them is played by Richard Dreyfuss. Hearing an early version of the song "More than a Feeling" actually sunburns one side of Dreyfuss' face, now that is ROCK&ROLL POWER! Just hearing the live demo is enough for Dreyfuss to become obsessed with the band, and begins plotting how he can do something to meet the band. Before his close encounter with Boston, Dreyfuss is in a semi-unhappy marriage to the hot ass Teri Garr, who for some reasons does not interest him as much as his toy trains. The reason, of course, will profoundly change Richard Dreyfuss' life forever.

The music of Boston is so inspirational to Dreyfuss, it forces him to reconsider his very indentity. He starts realizing the reason that his marriage and family are in the clinker is because he's gay. At first it really stresses him out, he cries in front of his children and showers in his clothes, but he finally manages to reach some peace of mind once he drives his family away. It truly is more than just a feeling when Dreyfuss' latent homosexuality manifests itself in his various dick sculptures made out of dirt, shaving cream, and mashed potatoes.

Boston's first major concert is such a huge deal only the military and and scientists are invited to attend. Dreyfuss along with a Melinda Dillon, a mother who is upset with the band because Boston, like really really wanted her 5 year old son Barry to be a roadie for them, so like the rock goblins they are, Boston stole him in the middle of the night. Anyway, Dreyfuss and Dillon totally break into the first ever Boston gig, and while the band is playing "Amanda," it's enough to make Dreyfuss think maybe he isn't gay, and he'd really like to cheat on his wife and make out with distraught mother Meldina Dillon. After a pop kiss though, Dreyfuss is pretty sure he's gay, and not even the power of a band named after a city is enough to change that. It works out for him though as Boston invites him on their next tour of outerspace. Dreyfuss is pretty thrilled about touring space because it means he gets to leave his wife and sons behind on planet Earth for 30 years without ever telling them where he went or offering to pay child support. Being an intergalactic dead beat dad is even better than just being your average dead beat dad.

I think we all know by now how the movie ends. Since the Army recorded the Boston show, which is such a rad show, it goes on to change the world and inspire other tremendously cool rock bands like the Led Zeppelin, Elvis Presley, and Toto.

New Comics day via 1986

I read about "In Pictopia" a couple years ago when I discovered Tom Spurgeon's 1000 reasons to love comics meme. Everyone else discovered it years ago. It was also the place where I discovered Grant Morrison and Dave McKean's "For a glass of water." I found the Morrison story in a comic shop shortly after I leanred about it, but I've never found "In Pictopia" before, mainly due to the fact that I remembered it being called "Pictopia," which, as it turns out, is a completely different underground comic series. Anyway, some nice soul has scanned in "In Pictopia" to sate my curiosity.

It is stated to be one of Moore's best, but I found it to be a little disappointing. Hype could be playing a part, but I also didn't get some of the social subtext until I read the comments at the bottom. It's a cool story, but it's a schtick that Alan Moore has used time and time again, where all these kinds of comic characters exist in the same place. You can see it in Supreme, Tom Strong, and Top Ten. I like the idea and i think it's really cool, but it felt like I'd seen it before. Perhaps if I had read it when it was first published it would have really rocked my balls. Don't think I'm kncoking Moore though, Morrison will reuse the same ideas all the time and sometimes I cheer him for it, and others I'm like "come on dude, enough with the comics about comics deal, guys."

So yeah, cool story, if a little played out, great Don Simpson art, and free. Here you go, the link to Alan Moore and Don Simpson's classic "In Pictopia."

http://community.livejournal.com/scans_daily/6400229.html

The good stuff

Everyone making comics just got owned by this web comic. Enjoy...

http://www.sugarboukas.com/X/DCFM/wDCFM13

Ponderations.

Curious thoughts of the day:

1. Is it possible that students with reading disabilities can actually read incredibly well so long as it is in txt speak, a web page, or an advertisement? Have these three items over taken the traditional language of white people books and periodicals?

2. Is saying something is hilarious because it's not politically correct, the same as saying that shit is funny because it's racist?

Discuss...

Nerd Connection

In an amazing effort to avoid doing homework, we're going to play a game. Rather, I will play the game and you will either read and be astounded or click away to something far more fun and enjoyable on the internet. If you can't find anything to look at on the internet, I heard youtube.com had some funny things.

Today, Sunday Sepetember 28 or 2008, Tom Spurgeon of the comics reporter, which is the comic book/strip/editorial cartoon website posted a list of 50 things he thinks every comic collection should contain. Spoiler warning: I don't hit al 50, but I come close, and we'll go through the list item by item.

1. Something From The ACME Novelty Library

I own Quimby the Mouse and I have read Jimmy Corrigan Smartest Kid on Earth.

2. A Complete Run Of Arcade

Don't own this and I've never heard of it until now.

3. Any Number Of Mini-Comics

I have Kevin Huezinga's Or Else, and a couple issues of James Kolchaka's Conversations series.

4. At Least One Pogo Book From The 1950s

I have 2 Pogo books the Best of pogo and we have met the enemy and he is us

5. A Barnaby Collection

I don't own any of these, but I read some Barnaby strips in the Smithsonian collection of comics.

6. Binky Brown and the Holy Virgin Mary

Don't have this either.

7. As Many Issues of RAW as You Can Place Your Hands On

Nope, none of these.

8. A Little Stack of Archie Comics

Don't own a stack, but I have a few Archies.

9. A Suite of Modern Literary Graphic Novels

Of the ones he has listed I own Black Hole, Blankets, and Epileptic. I read Gemma Bovary when I worked at Barnes and Noble, and i checked out Ghost World from the library.

10. Several Tintin Albums

The Tintin I own: Secret of the Unicorn, Blue Lotus, Red Rackham's Treausre, Seven Crystal Balls, Prisoners of the Sun, and Castafiore Emerald

11. A Smattering Of Treasury Editions Or Similarly Oversized Books

Batman C-25, With One Magic Word...Shazam, Christmas with the Super Heroes, Secret Origins Super Villains, Marvel Treasury Edition Amazing Spider-Man

12. Several Significant Runs of Alternative Comic Book Series

Of those listed I have collections from Hate, Eightball, and Optic Nerve

13. A Few Early Comic Strip Collections To Your Taste

I gots Popeye, Krazy Kat, Little Nemo in Slumberland

14. Several "Indy Comics" From Their Heyday

American Flagg!, Zot!, Nexus, and Mister X all reside in my collection.

15. At Least One Comic Book From When You First Started Reading Comic Books

An issue of Spider-Man and his Amazing friends, an issue with Ironman where he teams up with Spider-Man, issues of Avengers with Spider-Man, and some Batman issues.

16. At Least One Comic That Failed to Finish The Way It Planned To

I have one issue of Big Numbers.

17. Some Osamu Tezuka

Ode To Kirikito, and I plan on buying Blackjack this Christmas

18. The Entire Run Of At Least One Manga Series

Uzumaki and Akira, but I've read all of Lone Wolf and Cub and I'm working on collecting Dragon Ball.

19. One Or Two 1970s Doonesbury Collections

This sounds good, but alas, none to speak of in the collection.

20. At Least One Saul Steinberg Hardcover

Never heard of the dude.

21. One Run of A Comic Strip That You Yourself Have Clipped

I used to keep some get Fuzzy strips in my wallet.

22. A Selection of Comics That Interest You That You Can't Explain To Anyone Else

Hello Legion of Super Heroes.

23. At Least One Woodcut Novel

None to speak of.

24. As Much Peanuts As You Can Stand

I have the complete Peanuts 1950-1952, and the collection Dr Beagle and Mr Hyde

25. Maus

Yup, finally bought book 2 the other day, first read it in Geometry class in the 10th grade checked out from the Davie High Library.

26. A Significant Sample of R. Crumb's Sketchbooks

Complete Crumb Comics vol. 3, not a sketchbook per se, but a collection of strips and greeting cards.

27. The original edition of Sick, Sick, Sick.

Nope, this looks very cool though.

28. The Smithsonian Collection Of Newspaper Comics

Don't own it, but I read it from the library.

29. Several copies of MAD

I have some Mad paperbacks, and a reprint of the first issue.

30. A stack of Jack Kirby 1970s Comic Books

You bet your sweet ass I have these. Collections of Mister Miracle, New Gods, Forever People, Jimmy Olsen, issues of the Demon, Omac, Kamandi, and Captain America.

31. More than a few Stan Lee/Jack Kirby 1960s Marvel Comic Books

Avengers vol. 1, Essential Fantastic Four vol 3, reprints of X-men#1, Hulk#1, and Fantastic Four#1

32. A You're-Too-High-To-Tell Amount of Underground Comix

Fabulous Furry Freak brothers collection

33. Some Calvin and Hobbes

Read some collections the Ex had...

34. Some Love and Rockets

Locas, an issue of Maggie and Hopey, all of vol 2, and I think I still own the first collection of Music for Mechanics

35. The Marvel Benefit Issue Of Coober Skeber

This just went on the want list.

36. A Few Comics Not In Your Native Tongue

A spanish edition of Fantastic Four#1 bought for me by my sister when she went to Spain with the Foreign language club.

37. A Nice Stack of Jack Chick Comics

None by Jack Chic, but I pulled a religious comic out of the trash at work one day. That's when you're crazy for comics, when you pull them out of the trash.

38. A Stack of Comics You Can Hand To Anybody's Kid

I used to have more, but I gave a lot to my neice. I still have a lot of Uncle Scrooge and Donald Duck Comics and a Little Lulu collection

39. At Least A Few Alan Moore Comics

A lot...a whole lot...

40. A Comic You Made Yourself

Some comic scripts I've written...

41. A Few Comics About Comics

Understanding Comics, Animal Man, and Hicksville,

42. A Run Of Yummy Fur

Sigh...another thing I don't have...

43. Some Frank Miller Comics

Yup...Daredevil, Sin City, Hardboiled, Big Guy and Rusty the Boy Robot, etc...

44. Several Lee/Ditko/Romita Amazing Spider-Man Comic Books

Lots of reprints and a few essential Spideys

45. A Few Great Comics Short Stories

None of the ones listed, but I have For a glass of water by Grant Morrison and Dave Mckean, and plenty of anthology titles.

46. A Tijuana Bible

No, but as much as I beat off I probably should.

47. Some Weirdo

Nah, not coll enough to own any...

48. An Array Of Comics In Various Non-Superhero Genres

Of those listed EC Comics, Criminal, Sandman, an issue of Gold Key's Star Trek

49. An Editorial Cartoonist's Collection or Two

A big fat zero.

50. A Few Collections From New Yorker Cartoonists

Nah, not high brow enough to have these.

That's a grand total of 32 out of 50. that's just counting the things I own, and not counting my comic scripts. I'll let the world be the judge if I've wasted my time or not. Me? I've got some reading to do.

A Night At The Movies

Richard Harris proves to be the greatest method actor of all time. In Man in the Wilderness he plays a man mauled by a bear. Outdoing Daniel Day Lewis, Harris actually let the bear maul him. This movie is not fiction, it is a documentary of Richard Harris lying in the dirt for six months and healing himself. Once filming had been completed and he was back in tip top shape, Harris killed Peggy the Bear with his power move, poison booze breath. I dare Hollywood to churn out a man like this again.

New Trends To Die For

Hot New fashion statement for 2009:

Musketeer.

Another reason to celebrate 2009: Negro League Baseball video game coming for Nintendo Wii. Play on such famous teams as the Kansas City Monarchs and the Homestead Grays. Be Negro league super stars Satchel Paige, Josh Gibson and Buck O'Neil. A forgotten part of American sports history returns this year to my favorite console. Yay!

End Times

It started in November of 2005, and it ends on Wednesday. I love this comic series. It's been there for me through some rough times. I honestly can't imagine what it will be like to read this last issue and know that in 3 months there won't be another coming along to lift my spirits on a bad day. I knew this day was coming, so I'm ready for the end, but I'm going to miss it like hell.

All I'm Going To Say About The Election

I wish you would all shut the fuck up with the trash talking. Talking trash is for rappers, video game players, and sports fans. You all supposed to be grown up leaders that talk about policy with ideas on how to fix things. All I've heard fall out of your childish mouths is "I'm great" or "He stinks." I'll stop bitching about your trash talking when you get as good at it as rappers. Until then be politicians. Thanks.

Cravings.

Fruit in a jar
you're my lucky star

Rumble in my belly
I'm craving that jelly

i need that wholesome fruit
to make the brain compute

Give me all the flavors
for my tongue to savors

Grape and peach
the taste I'll leech.

Is that lime?
Then I've got them time.

I like it on toast
but I'd eat it on roast.

Just let me spread
till I'm well fed.

If a friend you want to make
put jelly in a cake

But if you hide your jam
I'll likely scram.

Luckily I've got preserves
held in my reserves.

So don't frown
if in jelly I drown.

I'll die made in the shade
smothered in marmalade.

http://www.comicbookresources.com/?page=article&id=17878

How I Wish I'd Spent My Summer Vacation

Hanging with Robin, Batman, and Superman is either the greatest time ever or the gayest. Maybe both...

http://goodcomics.comicbookresources.com/2008/08/25/snark-blocker-a-day-in-the-life/#more-18446

Reflective Comics#27

As a young boy I saw my parents brutally murdered before my eyes. We were leaving the local cineplex, when, out of no where, a speeding car ran over my parents. I was a little boy, and the image was forever burned inside my haunted mind. On the rain slick pavement at the movie theater I shook my fist to the sky, and I swore vengeance that day. I would wage a war on those that took my parents from me-those that robbed me of the normal, happy childhood the son of two gold mine owning astronauts should have had. I swore my revenge on the automobile.

That night in the parking lot, after watching Taxi Driver 2: Oh, You Were Looking at Me, I became a man. Not just because of the parents dying by being run over, but also because I drowned my sorrow in a wave of cheap, loose women. It did not fill the gaping hole in my 8 year old heart. No, the quick, moist love of a tart could never replace the love of a mother that new the effects of zero gravity. My mother. I can still see the streets mashed with her brains, and her ribs that poked out of the side of her body, like a delicious looking meal. I would never feel her hugs again. Nor would I feel a spanking for my father, whom I was slightly less depressed that he was dead. However, in for a penny in for a pinch, I swore on both their graves to have revenge, and revenge I would have. On cars. Dreaded four wheeled death mobiles. I was also against motorcycles and 18 wheelers, anything between 2-18 wheels was an enemy, and anything with one wheel if it had an engine. That I would also destroy. Perhaps it wasn't the wheels, but the engines themselves. No, it was the wheels and engines combination. Also, fighter jets where an enemy, not if they were flying, but if they were rolling, then, yes revenge would have to be had on them as well. Hovercrafts were open to debate and mood of that day.

That horrible night, I was carried to the hospital inside an ambulance. My last ride inside one of the vehicles I had sworn vengeance upon. It was my prison. The dark womb of death. I could feel the walls cave in around me, I was inside the belly of the beast, my fits and rantings were hampered by the EMTs, who gave me a shot of Thorazine to calm me down. I don't remember much from the rest of the night. I remeber my parents dying, it's what drives me, I remember lsoing my virginity in the movie theater parking lot right after my parents died, and I think I remember eating a chicken sandwich sometime in the middle of the night. That could have been a dream thought. It was a really good chicken sandwich. The last good meal I ever tasted. Ever since then, after my parents died, food tastes like ashes. Happiness crumbles between my fingers. Anti-depressants only make me more depressed.

Since the ambulance ride, I have only ever been on a bike. The family's once trusty butler Wadsworth picked me up from the hospital on a tandem bike. I say once trusty butler as Wadsworth died from a heart attack, due to all the biking I forced upon him. Now I have a better, trustier butler named Gene. It was Gene that helped me on the beginning stages of my training for war. Boot Camp. Using the last of my parents fortune, I biked to Europe, no easy feat. There I learned at the foot of trained automobile manufacturers. I learned how to build the enemy to better destroy it. In the process of working on the assembly line, I learned how to make better a car. Yes, I made a better enemy, tougher to kill, cheaper to make, but I had used my inheritance to bike to Europe. Biking to Europe is hard, don't judge me, you don't understand. There's nothing but water between America and Europe, and I biked. So, yes, I built safer cars to make a fortune. I hate cars, but I hate being poor even more. My war on automobiles is an expensive war, and I needed the scratch.

The factory I worked at building cars was shut down due to child labor laws, because they had hired me, a ten year old boy to work the line. Rich again, I sat out on my quest to learn more about every kind of car all over the land. Japan, Russia, South America, a factory here, a show floor there. I spent my teens as a car salesman adapting my mind into the sick frame of someone that would actually buy an automobile. I don't like to talk about my teens. The dark places my mind went. I nearly lost myself in the sick thoughts of car owners. Their dirty dreams of taking turns at 65 miles per hour, of flipping up the emergency break and going into a slide. The purr of the engine as it accelerates to 88 mph. The thudding sound my mother's body made as it crumbled the front end of that mini cooper. Horrible dreams. My teen years, nothing but bad memories.

My early 20s, back home to Detroit. Fully trained and ready to smash cars. I walked the streets punching and kicking tires, the cars didn't seem to mind. My war was useless, I was trained to fight them, disassemble them, make the world a better place, but I just didn't know how to begin my counter offensive. One night, aimlessly walking, as the enemy taunted me with it's high beams, low beams, and caution lights. It came to me. It helped that I myself was run over by a car. I felt the pain my parents felt, the bumps and bruises. I did not die, but I had a few owies. I called Gene. He was busy, but would pick me up when he was free. That night, as I road on Gene's handlebars, I had an epiphany. I knew what I had to do. Cars are cowardly, superstitious when placed on a lot. I must make them fear me. I shall became a Vandal. From that day forward, I knew I would win the war.

2001 A Brick Odyssey

Only Lego could make that movie watchable.

R.I.P.

Here's some thing's I did last week:









Here's some things I'll be doing this week:

Travelling Salesmen

Dear Oliver,

Greetings my old friend. It has been some time since we last corresponded. My travels have taken me into the some truly interesting places. I have seen lands that show that this can do country of ours is a wonder. Some areas take instantly to my invention, while others view it with a vague skepticism, as though it were a device used by jackanapes. Some of these mountain men and women seem so backwards compared to our hustle and bustle life of Boston. If it weren't for my companion, the red faced German, Iron Jaw McGraw, I fear I would be lost in these dark places. Even McGraw proves to be both a blessing and a curse. A blessing in his strength and protection that he provides me on my travels from those that do not that what I bring them is not mysticism, but the future. However, the people are frequently just as afraid of him as they are of my tool of tomorrow. My invention, what I believe you call the "ass wiper", you always were cheeky, but what I have dubbed "toilet paper" seems to be catching on these parts.

I must say, the feeling I get when I show these people a roll must be how grand Prometheus must have felt bringing fire from the gods to mankind. They stare at the paper in a most peculiar ways. Many think me a witch, so it is a boon to have Iron Jaw along as my bodyguard. He is a most faithful traveling companion, he has even given me some delightful nicknames which I think you will find most amusing. Often times he will say "Don't judge me by the faggot, he just pays my bills" and point his thumb in my direction. The cad! Other times, when McGraw and I are alone on the road, after I have unfolded a jolly tale of one of the adventures you and I have shared basking in the gardens or wrestling in the hay, he will mutter under his breath "pillow biter." Which I do find odd, as I don't believe I have used a pillow that regularly on this adventure. Regardless, I believe you two would get along swimmingly.

Some of the local townsfolk view McGraw with an air of trepidation. The man has the most uncanny ability to bite anything with gleaming his white teeth. They are so radiant I once saw my own reflection in his hearty smile. In the town of Donkey Trail, North Carolina McGraw ate four iron horse shoes for breakfast every morning. The people of that town would insist upon a nightly show of McGraw's feats before anyone would slide toilet paper across their backside.

Another myth that has sprung up around my bodyguard is that he bare knuckle boxed and killed a Sasqutach, and that McGraw knows a secret recipe for Big Foot Stew. In almost all the villages we have seen, they have asked the man for a boxing exihibition. McGraw looks forlorn at them, grits his teeth, and denies them the experience due to some oath taken in the last year or so. The man can be a mystery. For a man that has seen so much of the world and its various cultures he can be positivley pedestrian. If we happen upon a larger town he always insists we stay the night, then he disspepears for hours to filthy eateries where they must have copious amounts of food. I'm not sure of the where he goes, he simply asks if I'm sure I won't have any of his "sloppy seconds," I assure him that I abhor sloppiness of of any kind,to which he retorts "Your loss." What a marvelous fellow! A truer man I have never seen.

For all his robustness, he does have one weakness. A rash around his private bits, "picked up in some town or other from some floozy or other." he says. The man must constantly scratch that region of his body or adjust himself. It's how our deal was made, I as a scientist, will help cure the man of his disease in return for his protection against the hordes of misunderstanding. A fine friendship forged for all time!

The work I am doing is of the utmost import to mankind. No longer must we use our hands or take a chance on a leaf. Some see my invention as a failure, they say it tears to easily and dirties the fingernail, but I'll take a dirty nail to a handful of feces, wouldn't you say chum? that's one of the reasons I am writing to you. My invention, while still new, and if I must say, exciting, may be undergoing a revision. I am working on the thinness of the paper, creating a thicker ply which I am dubbing Toilet Paper Mark II. Still, I don't want to destory the minds of these locals too soon, I must ease them into this luxury, allow them to try toilet paper Mark I before I move them too far into the next stage of evolution with Mark II.

In the town of Cow Lick, West Virginia the people were so dumb founded over Mark II, that they strung me up as a witch. We set up shop next to a tonic salesman. The villagers gathered round to see what fancy acoutrements were coming in from the cities. That's when I sang the song "when you go to pop a squat/don't worry a jot/ this is toilet paper/ it's a handy dookie scraper," etc, but the people so used to using their own hands found it appalling. One man, Jed Turner, threw a bottle of his recently bought Thunder Tonic at me. Actually, the tonic salesman did well that day as bottles would be purchased from him and then flung at me. I'm not ashamed to say I was quaking in my boots, McGraw was off galavanting around no doubt, and I was put upon by the bum's rush. The town, led by Turner, had me strung up and prepared me for a tarring and feathering.

There is no due process of the law in these backwards little towns. Yet, I do not judge them, for they are so unused to our city ways and speedy life. No, they are quaint creatures that are being dragged, kicking and screaming into this future world of the 19th century. They prepared one of their witch tests for me, something about a line of arse kickings to see if my bottom turned blue, but if it remained a rosy pink then I would surely be a witch. After a few kicks my rump did indeed become the color of twilight, to which the town believed I had shape changing abilities. The vat of tar was prepared.

Of course my curly red haired, mustashioed savior arrived just in the nick of time. In actuality, I could have sworn he participated in the keister kicker line, his words, not mine, but due to the doubling over of pain, as one stray kick hit my testicles, I do not remember much of that event of my life. I do remember McGraw arriving, not with a mad warriors bellow, but with a bit of a sigh and the mumbling of "Here we go again." The man raced to my rescue in the nick of time, and he became a whirling dervish of violence. It seemed as if each hit sent a townsperson flying in all directions, as if they were being knocked into the air like ten pins. Eventually, McGraw succumbed to their numbers. Something to do with the weakness in his groin area, he had to stop the fight to administer to the unbearable itching. To save my life McGraw broke his oath of boxing. A bout was arranged he would fight a bear for the delight of the townsfolk. I was kept imprisoned until a bear could be secured, after a week, McGraw and the town finally caught the biggest brown bear anyone in those parts had ever seen. It was yet another two weeks before the match could begin. Something about Iron Jaw needing time to train, but I never saw the man so much as lift more than a mug of beer. Perhaps he was distrought over breaking his oath, and that's why I would often see him in the arms of women, whom he was surely confessing his sins to.

Just when I thought I would never leave my cell or see the light of day again. A jury rigged ring was made in the town square, all the men and women of town put on their sunday best for the exhibition. The bell was rang, and the bear set loose on the barechested McGraw. Oh how the man glistened with sweat. The bear struck first, raking his claws across McGraw's back. McGraw struck back with rapid body blows to the bear's midsection. The rapid fire haymakers caused the bear to vomit in the ring, to which the most mighty smell of alcohol permeated the entire town. The bell sounded and the first round was over.

Round Two was a rough round for McGraw, as the bear had him pinned against the ropes, and worked over McGraw's face and bread basket. McGraw freed himself when he stomped on the bear's toes. After that, the bear seemed to be wearing down. Had it been McGraw'a plan to take the beating and tire out the bear? I thought I was doomed to be dipped in the boiling hot tar for sure. The round ended in McGraw's favor when he bit the bear on the snout.

Round three began with the bear gnawing on McGraw's genitals. Apparently, this was just a useful plan to deal with the itch, as McGraw deemed it tickellish. Then, spinning his fist like a tornado, McGraw popped the animal on the nose. My day of rescue was at hand. McGraw delivered an uppercut to the bear that sent him flying out of the ring and into the crowd. The town began to panic, in the mayhem, McGraw ran to free me from the jail. My delightful savior bit through the iron bars, snatched up my sack of toiletries, grabbed me by the scruff of my neck and we lit out of that town in a hurry.

McGraw had broken his oath, but not completely, the match was a hoax, we met up with the bear some distance down the road. Apparently, he and Mcgraw are old friends. Money was exchanged, and McGraw and I headed on to the town Burp Breath, Kentucky, where I write to you now.

I urge you to write me back friend Oliver. Tell me the delights of town life. I miss home so, but I also miss my Vivian of the alabaster skin. I think you will both find me changed upon my return, for I have grown more rugged since last we supped. My trip is half over, and will be returning in a matter of months. Please write to the next town on my agenda, which is Yellow Falls, Kentucky. Curious name. I miss you greatly my friend.

Sincerely,

Maxwell Toilet

What Makes A Man A Man.

64% Comic Book Guy

12.3% Johnny Five


15% Barney the Dinosaur


10% Barney Fife

33% Steve Urkel

16% Booger

And it all adds up to this rascal right here:

She pulled his dingle dangle from his pants and began to move her hands about it as if she were unreeling a water hose.

"This is moving too quickly. There's a murder investigation going on--and you're the number one suspect."

He was homicide detective Jim "Bull" Malarkey, and she was former prostitute turned stripper turned law student turned crusading district attorney Fem Fataley.

"You don't really think I killed those men do you? They died in such horrible ways. They were stabbed in two places right? Their heart and their pee pee. Stabbed with a prop Klingon knife from the old Star Trek TV shows, right? How could I an innocent girl do those things?"

She had a point, she was a good girl. this was their second meeting before they did the bullfrog act, most bad girls go for it on their first interrogation. She has the kind of fake boobies you took home to meet your mother.

Talking about the case should have been a turn off for Malarkey. All he had on his mind lately was finding the killer of these men, especially since the killer had murdered his partner Sweet Tooth Johnson, he was good police, knew how to keep brutality out of the papers. Still, he found any and all words coming from between Fem's sweet crimson lips to be sinfully delicious.

"Oh your wiener...it's so...erect."

They made hot nasty all night long, using a variety of kinky toys, and sometimes just regular things, not actually kinky, but kinky because of the context of the situation. Like an empty roll of toilet paper, and a Trivial Pursuit game board.

In the morning, Fem had left Malarkey to sleep late. She left a note saying she had an early appointment. Malarkey knew he had over stepped a boundary. He had seen a perp in the buff. He had touched the perp, yes, he had put hand cuffs on the suspect, but it was not to make them hit their head as he put them in the car, like usual. No. They had done erotic things. Possibly illegal erotic things depending on the state and time of day in that state you happened to find yourself. Spent, Malarkey went back to sleep.

On the way out from Fem's apartment, Bull noticed something. A collection of Star Trek memorabilia. Perhaps that was a clue. If Malarkey could recall the facts the murderer was some kind of science fiction fan. Dune or Highlander, Malarkey wasn't sure. He'd have to check his notes. Then he remembered he had to meet his ex-wife for lunch. She probably wanted more of that Malarkey charm in her life. well, the Bull had a new gal now...supposing she wasn't a murderer.

At 2:30 Malarkey went to the mall to meet his ex-wife, Whiskey Malone. Whiskey was one of those gals that had a rough life. She lost the use of her legs in a tragic teenage accident while working at Krispy Kreme. She told everyone that the accident was caused when the glazer leaked all over the floor and she tripped, but in reality, she was making whoopie against the oven, and the boy holding her up slipped. Ever since then she's harbored a strong hatred of men. All men except Malarkey, whom she loved to the point of stalking him.

"I hate your guts Bull."

Bull sipped from his afternoon lunch of a vodka slurpee.

"That's not true babe you go through my garbage every night."

"Yeah, and I can smell that another woman's thing has been on your thing."

Hmm, Marlarkey had even put on an extra layer of tightie whities to prevent Whiskey from smelling that rotten fish smell.

"Why did you call me to meet? I'm working a tough case and I can't be distracted right now."

Malarkey was getting a good look at his ex's melons beneath her her baby t-shirt. For a paraplegic brain surgeon/astronaut she sure did dress like a teen age prostitute.

"I had the day off, I was getting one of my Star Trek props cleaned. Blood had gotten all over my Daqtagh, you know, Klingon knife."

She took a bite of her hot dog, but instead of just chomping, she slid the cylinder into her mouth and back out again, eating the hot dog like someone trying to turn someone else on might eat a hot dog. Across the table, Malarkey was playing her game by taking his index and middle fingers and putting them on either side of his mouth, then sticking his tongue out in and out like a dyslexic ant eater. A priest and a nun walked by.

"I really hated your ex-partner. I'm glad he's dead, whoever killed him should get a metal. I wish I'd killed him. I could have. I'm very good with a knife, especially a Daqtagh, I bet he was stabbed in his wee wee hole. That's the kind of man he was.

The eroticism was too much and the former lovers became lovers lovers again. They barely made it into the unisex rest room, tearing at each's others clothes, with Whiskey riding piggy back since she couldn't use her legs. The panting and gasping like chubby children running a mile could be heard out in the food court.

"Your hoo-ha is drenched."

"Don't even get me started on how vaginally excited I am right now. Use your digits to play with my pink slip and slide."

"I think I am close to ejaculation."

"Not yet hold off on letting your seamen flow, wait until I reach my moment of excitement too."

"Too late."

As Malarkey zipped up his britches he got a call on his walkie talkie.


"Malarkey are you there over?"

"This is Malarkey, go ahead."

"We got another victim, you better get over to the skating rink."

This had to stop, these murders couldn't go on, Marlkey was sure if the killer kept killing and no one stopped them, why they might kill everyone, and Malarkey was pretty sure that was a bad thing.

"I'm on my way, have a rainbow sno-cone waiting for me when I arrive."

"Don't go Bull, lets be in an intimate relationship again."

"Babe, from this moment on I'm a one gal guy, but if you come around somtimes and I'm kinda lonely I bet we could do things to each others private parts on occasion."

Bull left a weeping Whiskey to go pick up her recently cleaned Star Trek memorabilia.

To be Continued...

Ode to the Schnozz

I could pick you all day
sitting in traffic, what the hey

I'll just tighten my buckle
and dig in to the knuckle

Hoping for a krusty,
stared at unjustly.

First with the index
feels as good as sex.

Up my nose
upon passion's throes.

Got one hooked on a nail!
It leaves a slimy trail.

Grabbed one that was gooey.
Pedestrians think me screwy.

I love the pleasure
nothing else can measure.

I hope digging for gold
never grows old.

Life's full of bad,
but picking my nose is rad.

Judge me if you must
for me, it's picking or bust.

Bok Bok

For Kalisgirl, sketches chronicling a chicken's growth:

More in the link: http://kip.miekeroth.com/kip/?p=4#more-4

Awwwww.

These are easily the greatest things I have ever seen, and I have seen bare breasts. Then I saw this...

Is that not the cutest Nazi you have ever seen? He's even cuter than the Nazi monkey from Raiders of the Lost Arc. Oh, by the way, I will take all of these as gifts.

“When I look in your eyes, is that you baby? Or just a brilliant disguise?”

Green Arrow vol 2 #29 by Mike Grell and Dan Jurgens is the lost, and greatest issue of rock and roll comics to to ever hit newsstands. This comic fans is the issue where Green Arrow has his infamous show down with one Bruce Springsteen.
In the issue, Bruce Springsteen is a drunk ship captain that crashes The Argon Warrior, his tanker, in Alaskan waters, and the oil leaks out killing wild life. Thanks to the corporate heads at Argon, Captain Springsteen hides out in a secret cabin away from persecution, press, and police. It takes a man dressed like Robin Hood named Oliver Queen to track this mother down.



Here now, for reading pleasure are my favorite quotes from Green Arrow 29 and 30 followed by commentary:

"In addition to charges that Captain Springsteen may have been drinking when the tanker ran aground..."

If you hire Bruce Springsteen to drive your oil tanker, don't you kind of expect him to be drunk?

"And just where the hell are you going to go Springsteen?"

Probably to your daughter's bed room.

"Quit whining Springsteen. You've got plenty of food and booze-- just sit tight."

Is there ever such a thing as plenty of booze when Springsteen is involved?

"The search continues for Captain Springsteen, the commander of the vessel..."

Is anyone else getting the best re-imagining of Star Trek from that sentence?

"Springsteen is believed to have fled the state in fear of violence at the hands of outraged conservationists and angry fisherman."

That's what happens when the E Street Band rolls into town.









The issue ends kind of blah, Springsteen doesn't impregnate anything, but on the upside, Ollie doesn't wreck Springsteen's git box playing by shooting an arrow through his hand. The two- parter ends with The oil men getting away scot free, American Indians getting crapped on again, and Ollie leaving Captain Springsteen to his madness. Also a bunch of animals die from the oil spill. For rock and roll comix, these issues were sorely lacking in the rock and roll department. Yeah, Bruce is boozed up the whole time, but that's to be expected, I would have preferred the more traditional super hero team up where, Ollie and Bruce square off do to a misunderstanding, before they team up and rock the place. I eagerly await the movie adaptation of these two issues of Green Arrow.

Dunno if anyone has noticed this, but Madonna thinks she is Black Canary.

2009 Ahoy!

Another reason to not kill myself.

At last, I made it on to the Comics Reporter. Of course, I'm not the dude in the foreground, but over to the right, with the brown t-shirt and jeans that don't quite fit, that's me! It's from when I watched Ben Towel's booth for him at Heroes Con. I looked at 700 pictures from that con to see if I made it into the background, and finally, there I am.

Lookit this!

In which I discover I like XKCD.

Yay!

Finally, some cool Batman stuff.

Batman is for the Children?

Consider yourself spoiler warned....






So the Dark Knight. Really good. Not the greatest movie ever made, maybe the greatest comic movie ever made, but not the greatest movie ever made. A couple things still resonate and stick in my craw:

Christian Bale, you sir are not Batman Stop with the gravelly voice, and that's your free acting lesson from someone that couldn't act like a turd if they tried.

Hey Dark Knight, try not to be 9 hours long, oh you're only 2 and a half? Yikes! That felt like 3 days of my life passed me by in that theatre.

Heath Ledger, you're a great actor, you will be missed, you did a smashing job, and they're going to give you the Oscar. However, you probably don't actually deserve it.

There's a scene in the movie that really bugs me, extra spoiler warnings are go from this point on. Ok, that scene where Batman has to choose between his lady love and Harvey Dent, and the Joker tells him where they are. Now, when I saw that Batman saved Harvey in the movie, I was thrilled, because it was dead on characterization of Batman. Batman loves no mortal woman, if he loves anything more than his wrinkled butlers penis and his young ward's brown eye, it's Gotham City. Batman can love no woman. Sorry Julie Madison, Jezebel Jet, Silver St Cloud, and whatever your character's name was Maggie Gylenhall. Batman doesn't dig chicks, he digs buildings. When I saw Batman rescue Harvey I was giddy, because they had him make the Batman choice. Then I realized, he didn't make the Batman choice. Joker lied to him, so he made the Hollywood choice after all. That scene was the turning point for me in liking the movie, and it turns out it was a sham, I liked the movie because I was too dumb to realize what was really happening. After I thought about it a bit though, I decided that structurally, Batman has to make the wrong choice there, because in his arc he's still learning what he has to sacrifice for Gotham, so I ended up letting them off the hook for that. I think. Ask me again tomorrow.

I still debate whether or not Batman is for the children. This movie says "no," the comic says "no," but there's a part of me that says "yes," and another part of me that says kids are tougher than you think they are, and another part of me that says, kids shouldn't be allowed to watch movies where a woman has a knife held up to her mouth and is threatened with it being sliced open. Then again, the very origin of Batman is the murder of his parents. I dunno, it's an interesting discussion. Maybe not a flaw, just a subject topic.

On to the good points...

It's a tight movie, it's long, but all the plot points weave in and out very well, and it's marvelously executed.

Bat-Cycle is very cool.

Gary Oldman you are Jim Gordon, and I thank you for that.

The action is very good, and has some really wow cool stuff. Not Speed Racer cool, like shit I'd never seen before, but very riveting stuff.

The movie is the least comic booky comic book movie, and I thank it for that. It takes itself seriously, as much as a movie about a Leather Daddy with pointy ears fighting a man with a half a face can be serious.

The characterization of the Joker is excellent. He's shrouded in mystery, no crappy linkage to the Batman origin, he's a complex genius, and of course ker-a-zay. Downside in though, I never felt like the Joker was doing the mayhem because he thought it was funny. It seems he does the things because he can, not because he's telling this great epic joke that only he understands the punch line too.

There's my review, and my thoughts, good movie, but not the best ever, maybe the best comic book movie, but not super hero (that's the Incredibles ya'll). Onward and upward, I personally can't wait to watch Wall-E and Speed Racer again.

The Fart Knight

I'm going to see the Dark Knight in a few hours, and I must admit my trepidation. Everyone is the world has declared this movie the greatest movie of all time. Somehow. I have strong doubts about this, mostly based on the fact that I really hate Batman Begins. However, I'm doing my best to go into this film ith an open mind. Every time I see the picture of Batman riding the Bat Cycle (you call it a bat pod, the rest of us know it's the bat cycle) I get pretty excited. Then I remember who is playing Batman.



Christian Bale. Blegh. His awful Batman voice still rings in my sensative ears. To his credit, I didn't know he was British until a couple months ago. My general disdain of Bale has kept me away from most of his movies. When I did find out he was British I blew a gasket. Batman is American. He is an American institution, and no limey douche should get to play him in the movie. I'm very cool with the fact that the wonderful Scotsman Grant Morrison gets to write the monthly adventures of Batman, but there's something wrong about a british actor playing one of our great tragic psychopaths of all time. I swear if Clive Owen plays Captain America...

The only way things can be set right is if they let an American play one of their iconic roles. I demand reparations. For their stealing of Batman we want James Bond. We're swapping homosexual for homosexual here. At least our fictional hero had the balls to come out of the closet and tell the world he prefers little boys in green shorts to sexy, sexy women. Poor James Bond is still hate porking women in the hopes that people won't discover that he prefers the
taste of seamen.



The rest of cast of Dark Knight is fine. I'm even ok with the Australian playing the Joker, mostly cause I don't really like the Joker that much, and it does chap my hide a bit that Gary Oldman is James Gordon, but I like Oldman so I'll let that slide too. They should have let Alfred be an American, in this BBC version of Batman I'm going to see tonight. The inspired casting award goes to Aaron Eckhart as Two-Face (actually getting Bill Dee Williams back would have been my first choice), so I'm sure he's gonna rock balls the whole movie. The movie would be a million times better if they had gotten Eckhart to play Batman though.

Ok Ok Ok, I'm trying to keep an open mind, I am worried I've already judged it a piece of ass, and no matter how good it is I won't let it succeed. Still, it's a Batman movie, so I'm pretty excited, but if it stinks or if it rocks I've still got Morrison on Batman until 2010, and a roomful of Batman comics that are gonna be better than the movie, no matter how awesome it is. In a couple of hours we'll find out if I've joined the mindless masses, or like Chuck Heston I'm the only bastard left with a brain.