Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Today I showed up at the comic shop early enough to see the owners stacking the shelves with the new releases. With me were about a half dozen other nerds, all foaming at the mouth, waiting for the go ahead to storm the shelves. While I was in the holding pen, I noticed that Showcase Presents: Wonder Woman was among the new trades. I was under the impression that this book had been released months ago but I was still intrigued. I’ve never been the biggest WW fan and I certainly have issues with the storytelling techniques of pre-70s comics, but there was just something that mesmerized me about the book.
Needless to say, soon after the feeding frenzy began I was out of the fray with a copy Batman #668 and a big ol’ Showcase Presents: Wonder Woman in my mitts. Still, at the register I had some doubts. Will I be enraged by 1960s-brand sexism? Or will I simply be bored?
It was not until I was flipping through the book at a traffic light did I see this image:
Fuck. Yeah.
A few pages later yielded the image of an animated Sphinx roaring at the heavens. I have a theory that the letterer forgot to put in the wailing guitar sound effect because this is rock and roll.
Plus, the next story in the collection boasts this cover:
Consider this purchase officially justified.
Because it’s never boring when someone insists on telling you about their dreams, I submit to you this Spider-Man-related dream.
So I’m Spider-Man. Specifically, I’m the young version, the one that still goes to high school. In fact, the dream begins with me in costume, hanging out on the wall of a class room, listening to a math lecture. No one seems to care that Spider-Man is take Algebra notes with them but I did get the impression that Spider-Man was very cool to these kids. I was popular at last.
After the class I web swing outside to a area filled with stone picnic tables. It is here that a teenage Gwen Stacy lectures me not going out with Mary Jane, who sits silently next to her. While this is happening, there is a lot of weird psychosexual stuff going on in the background. You know, just to remind me that this is a dream in my head.
The last part of the dream consisted of me being frustrated at how inefficient web swinging is as a mode of transportation. I remember thinking about how the movie made it look so easy.
For a dream that consisted of me sitting in a math class, being chewed out by a very annoyed teenage girl and kinda dangling around on webs, it was a good dream.
Not good was my epic encounter with what possibly could have been a Brown Recluse this morning. And by “epic” I mean “me flipping out, smashing the spider’s legs but ultimately letting it get away while I flew into a spider-killing rage.”
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
After Kalinara started the Guilty Pleasure Meme, I had a hard time coming up with something I love that I’m also ashamed of. Within the context of a comic blog, my above-average infatuation with Tim Drake and Man-Thing seems normal. But then, earlier this week, a guilty pleasure from the past was reawakened and beat me into humble, nerdy submission.
I like Pokemon.
Let me clarify. I have no affinity for the characters and I couldn’t identify more than a dozen Pokemon by name. The show bored me to tears when it’s not forcing to grind my teeth down as it piles one anime cliché on top of another.
What I like is the video games.
There is something about the video games, specifically the catch-‘em-all RPGs, that feeds my need for a ridiculously complicated strategy game. Think of each Pokemon as a separate “character class.” If Square were to release a Final Fantasy game with 150 character classes, RPG fans would go insane. I don’t blame most adult gamers for holding a prejudice against Pokemon games, I mean those cutesy animals can be pretty annoying, but the fact remains that the games have solid gameplay and an incredibly amount of content.
But justify it all I like, I still can’t help but boot up my GameBoy with a tinge of shame. For I am an adult Pokemon trainer.
Yesterday the new hit that beloved artist Mike Wieringo had passed away from a sudden heart attack. He was only 44 years old.
While I had not been following Wieringo’s career in the last several years, it must me said that his tenure on Robin has a lot to do with my affinity for the character. Likewise, his Spider-Man is iconic.
The comic book world has lost a great man. He will be missed.
