Category: Columns

MARC ALAN FISHMAN: In Memoriam

Ladies and gentlemen… We gather here today to mourn the loss of a cherished friend. DeeCee was many things to many people. Entertainer. Educator. Detective. Optimist. Friend. Let us take this time to recount those times that touched us, before DeeCee passed on into the ethereal void of blackness.

DeeCee, above all else, seemed impervious to the mortality we all must face. Since his birth in 1934 (back when we call just called him Nate Alypub) DeeCee has been one to cite the changing times as his own catalyst for reinvention. The world went to war, and with it, so did DeeCee. When our world became fixated on the cosmos above, did he not put on his space suit and power ring? Against his better judgment, DeeCee proudly sported a mighty and magnificent mullet in the late 80s. He was never afraid to put on a pair of cowboy boots. Let us never forget when we all thought he was dead, back in 1992. Even from those bleak times, he rose once again, stronger than ever. When the world grew grim and gritty, DeeCee broke his back in that tragic accident. But did he not pick himself up and reclaim his mantle without pause?

I want to take some time now too, to acknowledge DeeCee’s extended family. We were all crushed by the tragic end of his cousins Tan Gent and Elle Swirlds. DeeCee was always so proud of their accomplishments! I’m touched to see in attendance today DeeCee’s brothers, Vern Tigo and Wiley Storm. Vern, DeeCee was always quick to note how you were the sobering realist and macabre dreamer to his starry-eyed optimist. And Wiley… How could we ever forget when DeeCee adopted you, and kept you afloat during your more troublesome past?

DeeCee was rich in family, but even richer in friends. I see gathered here today a veritable pantheon of personalities, in support of the loss of our friend. Marv-El… we all know how you and DeeCee butted heads throughout your friendship. Before you moved out to Hollywood, you and DeeCee could always be seen sitting in the park, debating this and that. And who among us didn’t beam ear to ear when you two ended a years-long feud and amalgamated your friendship! Also among us are some of DeeCee’s friends from later in life… Val, Imogene, “Boom-Boom” Burt, Ava Tarr… so nice to see you all.

It may very well be the elephant in the room today, friends. DeeCee’s untimely demise was something so many of us saw coming. Who here didn’t scoff just a little this past spring, when he told us all about his trip to Flushing? “Everything will be different after this!” he told us. And we just let him go. He’s had these flights of fancy time and time again. Crisis after Crisis, did we not keep supporting him? He’s always bounced back stronger, we told ourselves. And sure, this trip didn’t sound like anything we hadn’t heard him rant about before. Time travel? Alternate futures? It’s all old-hat for DeeCee. Who would guess though that in a single splash, he would be forever lost to us all. Who among us today thought his last words were anything more than the usual hyperbole DeeCee was known for using?

But I digress. Today’s service isn’t meant to wallow in the demise of our cherished friend. DeeCee would want us to look to the future, as he always had. Most importantly, he would want us to acknowledge his biggest legacy, his son, DeeCee Jr.

Junior is just a week old, and it will be a challenge for him to live, thrive, and survive in these tough times. DeeCee’s legacy will live on in Junior. Though his first steps seem to have stumbled, let us all here in attendance support him here in his infancy. He has the world at his fingertips, and his potential is limitless. May he be inspired by the past, but now wallow in it. May he grow into his own man over time. Let the world adopt him with new eyes and old hearts. For within his gleaming eyes are infinite worlds of infinite possibilities.

Let us now rise, as DeeCee’s charred, limp, decimated body is lowered into the ground. Amen.

SUNDAY: John Ostrander

MARTHA THOMASES: Bill & Ted’s Excellent Flashpoint — Not!

This is the week when everything is supposed to change. The first of the New 52 comics is on the stands. Since better  folks than me are weighing in on the new stuff, I want to talk about what went right before.

Specifically, Flashpoint.

While I like team-up stories, I’m not a big fan of “After today, nothing will ever be the same again” hype. Not because I’m against change, but rather because change is constant. After every day, nothing is ever the same. In reality, this hype usually means a bunch of characters will be killed. Death is the substitute for drama in modern comics.

I didn’t like Supergirl’s death in Crisis on Infinite Earths. Kara has always been one of my favorite characters, even though she was rarely written well.  Her love interest was named Dick Malvern, for crying out loud, which I always understood to mean Bad Green Penis. I thought her death was a symbolic admission that the men who wrote comics at the time didn’t understand girls.

Ever since, there have been company-wide, month long crossovers where nothing will ever be the same. This year, the promise was backed up by 52 Number One issues that will be published the month after the crossover ends.

So what happened in Flashpoint? Damned if I know. As near as I can tell, it was a five-issue Bill & Ted adventure, except that instead of Bill and Ted remembering to travel back in time to leave themselves a note telling themselves what to do in the past, there was Flash, a Cosmic Treadmill, and no George Carlin. And a lot more carnage.

Why is this necessary? I mean, I actually enjoyed the Flashpoint mini-series, but they would have been just as satisfying as Elseworlds, and that would have allowed the creators to let loose even more. Is it really this complicated to jump through these hoops to wipe a slate clean?

Why can’t we just agree that the old continuity is gone, and get on with telling stories? And if, for whatever reason, some of these stories aren’t successful, why can’t we let a new creative team come in and start from scratch again?

When I first started writing comics, an editor (sorry, I forget who) told me that no one wanted to read comics written by someone’s mom. In this case, though, I think comics could certainly use someone who simply said, “Because I said so.”

Dominoed Dare-Doll Martha Thomases thinks there should be more George Carlin in comics, and everywhere else. Read her political stuff at michaeldavisworld.com every Saturday.

DENNIS O’NEIL: The Need For Superheroes

(Editor’s note: Obviously, this column was written before Hurricane Irene hit the Atlantic Northeast. This was very smart on the author’s part, as nobody knew if he’d have power to write and send it until it could have been too late. Thanks for the foresight, Denny!)

If superheroes existed, they’d be near Cape Hatteras, where Hurricane Irene is expected tomorrow, or maybe here, where big wind is expected Saturday or Sunday. Or they’d be monsters.

I lived through a hurricane in 1963, aboard the USS Lake Champlain – petite as aircraft carriers go, about the size of a small village, but huge among ordinary watercraft. We were in the Caribbean, reasonably safe because something as massive as a carrier probably won’t capsize, but making our way along decks that were constantly swaying. Once, I stuck my head outside a port and looked at the huge waves breaking over the flat bow of the ship and thought, well if I wasn’t a believer before…

Our pilots spent the next few days flying rescue missions to and from Haiti and I got a story or two to tell.

And last May, in Missouri, we were close to a tornado that passed within a mile of our hotel. The next morning we drove through the area, where Marifran grew up, past the spot on the curb where we sat in my father’s station wagon after a movie and pizza, good Catholic kids doing nothing more than lingering. Mari’s childhood home was intact, but the garage in the back yard was flattened. That’s how it was in Ferguson, Missouri that May morning: normal plots of suburbia punctuated with devastation.

And what will happen to Nyack, New York tomorrow or the day after?

Superheroes, I think, come from the same place as deities and good luck charms, They represent something greater than our frail and frightened selves, something bigger and stronger and vastly benevolent that will shield us from the cruelties we thrust upon us by ill fate, cruelties that may be edging toward Nyack from the south and may soon ravage us. They don’t exist, these superheroes, but evolution has gifted and cursed us with imagination, and maybe we can be comforted by pretending that they do.

We’ve done some preparing, and may do more. But I remember those waves crashing onto the carrier deck and I doubt that our paltry efforts will be able to affect the results of the storm.

What I want is a superman to protect me, or at least a father’s hand to hold. But supermen aren’t real and my father has been dead for years.

FRIDAY: Martha Thomases

MIKE GOLD: The Superman Rebus

If my calculations are correct – and that might be a first – the comic book advertised in the house ad above was released 53 years ago this week. DC fussed with the cover dates since this book was published, but I think I’m on this one. The house ad itself was designed so that the production department could easily swap out the covers, and here’s three of the others to appear in that slot:

(Don’t be concerned about Superman having a different cover date; DC had different schemes for monthlies, 8x yearlies, and bimonthlies.)

In 1958 those were four extremely compelling covers. Superman having a new power was a big deal, and rainbow covers always sold better than the norm. “Jimmy from Jupiter” was a very strong concept back at that time, and it was one of the first of the famous Jimmy Olsen transubstantiation stories.

The same thing is true for the Superboy story. It introduced Bizarro, the first super-villain to become an adjective. Editor Mort Weisinger knew he had a good story after its Superman-oriented dry run in the newspaper strip: he hyped it in the previous issue of the title, which was a rare event.

But that Adventure Comics cover was the killer: crossovers were few and very far between, and time travel crossovers were all the more rare. This issue must have sold well, as Mort endlessly repeated the stunt with other characters. Today we’d think that a no-brainer, but back in 1958 it was a very big deal.

So it was a good week or two for the Superman Family. And it was a very good week for me, as I had just turned eight years old and was at the optimum age for these stories.

Even then, my father was concerned about my obsession with comics. He didn’t have a problem with comics per se, just the fact that it became my religion. It was sort of a Jazz Singer thing. But we were visiting a relative and my father wanted to keep me occupied, so we stopped at a drug store next to the relative’s apartment building and he told me I could pick out three. I already had the Superman, so I had to pick from Action, Jimmy Olsen, Adventure, and Superboy. Of course I begged for all four – I would have anyway, but this time I was as insistent as I was ineffective.

Problem, problem. I had been waiting for the Bizarro story for at least a month, and the Superboy – Robin crossover was more important than life itself. So the choice came down to “The Jimmy From Jupiter” and “The Shrinking Superman.”

I chose Jimmy.

The problem is, even though that issue of Action Comics was redistributed two weeks later I never found it on the newsstands. In fact, I didn’t find it until nearly 15 years later, and it cost me over ten bucks.

I told that to my father, thinking I could guilt-trip him by exploiting his deep appreciation for the buffalo. But, as usual, he outwitted me. Dad said that I was eight and I would have not kept the book in good condition and, therefore, would have bought it on the collector’s market anyway.

He nailed me.

One thing more. This house ad? It spawned a deep love for rebuses. A teevee game show called Concentration where the gimmick was getting the contestants to solve a rebus took to the air the very same week as these various Superman titles were released. To add insult to injury, the original run of the show ended 14 years later, roughly the same time as I bought “The Shrinking Superman” at a comic book convention.

THURSDAY: Dennis O’Neil 

THE REMIX: The Strange Case Of Michael Davis

I get it.

Mike Gold is the boss.

I entitled my return to ComicMix; “The Remix” thinking it was a devilishly clever way to return. Since I’ve been back I have not once seen that title grace this column.

So I get it, Mike Gold is the boss.

Wait a sec. Mike has a weekly blog on my website, michaeldavisworld.com (MDW). I wonder how he would feel if his next piece for MDW was under the title “Gold’s Balls” or “The Golden Balls’ or “The Golden Balls Forum?”

Don’t ask me why I feel the need to add “balls” to every title I come up with. It could be because I’m stir crazy! As of this writing, Saturday, evening August 27, I’m stuck in my electricity dead hotel room in Connecticut (CT) and I have no idea when I’ll be able to get back to L.A. because of hurricane Irene.

I once dated a girl named Irene. She was a bitch also.

So since it’s dark and there is no power in the hotel my choices are to read a book by flashlight, go to sleep or play or read with my iPad.

Or, I can just be alone with my thoughts.

Er…nope.

I do not like being along with my thoughts. Never have. I tend to go to real dark places when I’m alone with my thoughts. I am absolutely positive one of the reasons I’m a workaholic is because it gives me something to do so I am never alone with my thoughts.

I’m in CT for my cousin’s Nila’s wedding.  I love Nila from the bottom of my heart. She is the only reason I would have gotten on a plane (I H A T E T O F L Y ) and came to CT with the knowledge that Irene was on the way.  At the wedding, I gave a speech in which I spoke directly to Nila recounting our journey together as family and reminded her of some of our adventures together. She’s more like a little sister than a cousin and my trip down memory lane made us both cry.

When I said I cried what I meant is I…I…shit. You got me.

When I got back to my room after the reception I became a bit misty eyed again as I continued to recall the days when Nila was a little girl and I was still her cool cousin Michael. I decided that I would be alone with my thoughts this evening because my thoughts were filled with such happiness. Then I remembered I had a ComicMix piece do.

So here I sit typing my Remix…no, my Michael Davis ComicMix article at 2 in the morning wondering just what comic related memory could I write about that would continue my happy trip down memory lane.

Like a shot to the head it came to me.

DC Comics.

It’s no secret that I’m had a love and hate relationship with DC Comics. It’s also no secret that no matter the relationship I’ve been an unweaving fan of the DC comic book universe.

Given how things have been between DC and me you would think that I would have sworn off DC like Antony Weiner swore off tweeting.

It’s even more baffling when you consider that my very first comic book was Avengers # 43.  My second comic was Fantastic Four #73. I loved those books! They were great and I was a die-hard Marvel fan until my mother brought me home a Flash comic book. I don’t remember what issue it was but I was hooked like an addict on all things Flash. THEN I saw Superman #199 in which he raced The Flash!

Since then I’d been a solid. no joke. DC Comics fan. Don’t get me wrong, I love Marvel Comics. I still get goose bumps when I think of Silver Surfer #4 when he pimp slapped Thor or when the Hulk beat down of Sub-Mariner as drawn by Herb Trimpe.

I stopped reading comics for a long time. It was Frank Miller’s Daredevil that pulled me back in.

This is really strange. Marvel brought me in and Marvel brought me back when I left but DC remains my number one comic book universe.

I have no idea why it’s DC but I know that memory has something to do with it.

I could go on but my iPad is down to 50% and I don’t know when I’ll be able to charge it again and I simply cannot fall asleep without reading so I’m going to use some of that 50% to read some old silver age comics. I’ll read a few DC and a few Marvels.

Why?

Because that way I can be alone with my thoughts and memories and the hotel room will be the only dark place I visit tonight.

WEDNESDAY: Mike Gold 

MINDY NEWELL: Where’s Superman When You Really Need Him?

Apparently, I can run for mayor of New York City because – to paraphrase Sarah Palin – I can see New York from my house.

I live in Bayonne, NJ, across the Hudson from the city, about two miles from Lower Manhattan as the crow flies, and on a good day, and if I judge the timing right, I can zip through the Holland Tunnel and be in the city proper in about fifteen minutes. (Then there’s rush hour L.)  Seriously, right now I’m looking out the window at New York Harbor, Staten Island and the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge (its proper name) are to my right. Directly across the water is Brooklyn – on a sunny clear day I can see the cars moving along the Belt Parkway without binoculars – and to my left is the Statue of Liberty and the skyline. I can even see the Brooklyn, Manhattan, and a hint of the Williamsburg Bridges. I can watch the Macy’s July 4th fireworks from my roof.

I love my view. Like a cat, I like to sit and look out on the water and the harbor traffic and the constantly changing colors of the sky. Most of the time it’s glorious.

But sometimes, things happen. Like on September 11, 2001. For a week I kept the blinds down, because I couldn’t bear to see the smoking emptiness where the towers had stood. It only helped a little, especially at night, when the mega-million kilowatts of giant spotlights and the still-smoldering embers of death and destruction would break through the slats.

Like today, as the metropolitan New York area prepares for the arrival of Irene.

Yesterday I was one of the scoffers, as Mayor Bloomberg, Governor Christie, and other officials in New York and New Jersey announced mandatory evacuations and closings of the transit systems and roadways. (Governor Christie closed the Garden State Parkway heading south from exit 98 – which is the “entrance” to the Jersey Shore – as of 6 P.M. because he wanted to keep all lanes available for evacuation and emergency vehicles.) “Oh,” I said to anyone who would listen, “It’s the media. It’s a slow news cycle. Obama’s on vacation, Congress is in recess. And we’re coming up on an election year. Nobody, Democrat or Republican, wants to get caught with his or her pants down, like Brownie and Dubbya during Katrina. And anyway, the levees broke in New Orleans. Besides, hurricanes draw their strength from warm water. It may be summer, but the Atlantic up here is nowhere near as warm as it is down South or in the Caribbean.” And on and on I went.

I even got into a fight with my daughter, who lives in lower Jersey City, over evacuating. “Why are you gettin’ crazy?” I said when she said she wanted to come to my house last night, which was Friday. “It’s not even going to be here until Sunday morning.  Wait and see. The Giants haven’t cancelled the game against the Jets, they only moved it to start at 2 p.m. instead of 8. If they cancel the game, then it’s time to worry. It’s football. They never cancel games unless it’s a real emergency.”

The Giants-Jets game was cancelled Friday night.

Alixandra and Jeff are now in my living room. They came over last night. Well, Alix came over. Mandatory evacuation because of storm surge. Jeff, who was at Oberlin in Ohio being oriented as a new professor, had to drive all night to get here because not only was his flight cancelled, all area airports were closed. He wanted to be here before they possibly closed all roads in. Plus, they’re in love. If I lived a few blocks or a mile to the west or east, I’d be mandatory evacuated, too. I don’t have to worry about flooding, but will my windows hold up? What about the cell towers up on the roof of my building? What happens if they get blown over, will they coming crashing down through my ceiling? (I live on the top floor.) This morning I walked down the street to the supermarket because I didn’t have any teabags, and I love, no, I need, my tea in the morning. Do I have to tell you what a madhouse that was? The store was actually running out of food and water. Later I drove past my local gas station. Well, I inched past my gas station, because the gas-rationing days of 1979 were back, with twenty or more cars waiting in line at both entrances to fill their tanks. Mine was already filled.

Irene is coming. Storm clouds are gathering outside my window. It’s her. There’s a monsoon outside my window. Wait, it stopped. No, it started again. A warning. She is approaching. There was no breeze earlier. Now the leaves of the trees are rustling. Irene is near. I hear a police siren. And an ambulance.

My refrigerator is stocked. But what if the power goes out? Alix brought over shit none of us have eaten in years. Like Chef Boy-ar-dee. (Yum-Yum) I got Twinkies and Entenmanns’s and potato chips. Hey, they’re not called non-perishables for nothing.

Anyway, all this got me to thinking. If Thor was here, he could stop Irene – after all, he is the God of Thunder. All he’d have to do is swing Mjolnir around and poof! there goes Irene. Or if the Flash was around, he could run circles around Irene, break her up into little squalls. If Storm was in the area – wait, does she still live in Westchester? – she could simple command Irene to back off! Green Arrow and Hawkeye could launch some type of special chemical arrows that would cause Irene to collapse into herself. If Zatanna was here – !yawa og, enerI

Instead we sit here waiting. For the full force of Irene to strike.

Yeah, where’s Superman when you need him?

TUESDAY (Electric power willing): Michael Davis

JOHN OSTRANDER: Doctor Whose?

Doctor Who returned to TV last night and my household is thrilled. Big fans of the Doctor here; I once wrote and tried to produce a Doctor Who stage play with the idea that this was the only way I would ever get to play the Doctor. The play never got to production and, despite being the writer and the producer, I couldn’t get cast as the Doctor which tells you, right there, one of the big reasons I gave up acting.

There’s a lot to be done in this new series of episodes, including explaining how the Doctor, who was shot dead in the first episode of this season’s series of episodes, escapes (the Doctor who was killed was from 200 years down the time stream; did I mention that Doctor Who is about time travel?). If the show does not explain that by this end of this season, I will personally hunt down the show’s brilliant writer and show-runner, Stephen Moffat, and throw him into a Pandorica until he tells. (If you haven’t seen the show, don’t bother trying to understand the reference. In show in-joke.)

However, that’s not the point of this rant. When last seen, the current Doctor (Matt Smith) went to war to recover his companion, Amy Pond, and her newborn child who would grow up to become River Song who would become the Doctor’s wife at some point later in the time stream. The adult River is along for the adventure, by the way. Sound confusing, perhaps, I know; it’s a timey-wimey-wivey thing. It works. Trust me.

However, towards the end of the episode, River gives the Doctor crap about how his life is going, how he is becoming too much the warrior, and some such bilge. Excuse me? The Doctor goes up against nasty horrible bad guys that are trying to take over the Earth and/or destroy/enslave humanity and/or destroy the universe or time itself and the Doctor time and again defeats them armed with nothing but his wits and a sonic screwdriver.

This has happened before. The previous incarnation of the Doctor – David Tennant (The Doctor regenerates from time to time when they need to change the lead actor and it’s a wonderful idea that keeps the series fresh) – got taken to task by one of the worst of his enemies, a fiend called Davros who invented the Daleks who go around killing anything that isn’t a Dalek. Said fiend accuses the Doctor of manipulating his companions so that they do the dirty work so the Doctor doesn’t have to. And the Doctor appears to take him seriously! Where does the creator of the Daleks have any moral ground against the hero who has saved the universe time and again from the product of Davros’ invention?

Is the Doctor supposed to feel bad about being the hero? Am I supposed to think the Doctor is not the hero me thinks him is? The Doctor is the good guy here, folks; I don’t want him all angsty and doubting his own motives. I mean, c’mon – the next thing you know, he’ll be doubting that bow ties are cool!

I know bow ties are cool. The Doctor told me so. And I trust the Doctor.

 

MONDAY (Hurricane willing): Mindy Newell

MARC ALAN FISHMAN: “This is not MY _______!”

So, there I was, doing what I suppose I do far too often… scouring Facebook for status updates. A quick refresh, and there was an update from a friend saying how “This is not my Bucky Barnes.” He was referencing a purchase he’d recently made of a golden age Bucky figure, and how he hated the new Winter Soldier-era Barnes figure. Suffice to say, after seeing his umpteenth remark how a modern interpretation of one of the classic comic book heroes he loved so dearly rubs his rhubarb the wrong way, I had enough.

Call it being cantankerous in my own “Hey, I know you think I’m too young to form a real opinion, but screw you, I can anyways” way… but I’d like to say that this kind of general malaise towards interpretation and experimentation grinds my gears to a screeching halt. In short? Quit your bitchin’ gramps. It’s 2011. Your childhood memories remain intact, in spite of your fear that they won’t.

It’s this common thread amongst the older comic book fans that I truly find offensive. Maybe that’s not the right word. I’m not implying it’s anyone here on ComicMix mind you, but the conglomerate of silver/golden-age dick-chuggers who poop their pampers anytime anything changes in the fictitious worlds of their youth, drags us all down. We’re all entitled to our opinion, mind you, and I don’t deny anyone their right to express that opinion. See folks, I’m young, under-appreciated, and don’t know shit-about-nothing; But I’m taking this time to start a large debate. Mind you no one will answer my call, but I’ve never not had fun at screaming into the black abyss of the internet before.

This notion, that the creators of today can’t reinterpret a character because it’s not their version of the character, is a waste of breath. Ed Brubaker’s retcon of Bucky Barnes as the Winter Soldier was an amazing feat. He took a character that was long gone, and brought him back in a story that got real attention from new fans. Here was this relic of another era, repurposed for modern times, done with a deft hand. His origin remained intact. He never took away from the character who he was. Yes, he turned a once chipper, bright-eyed innocent kid (who had no problem murdering Nazis with guns) into a cold and ruthless killer.

(more…)

MARTHA THOMASES: Comics, Quality and Obscenity

Inevitably, when discussing the best way to market comics to a larger, non-indoctrinated audience, someone will suggest “good writing and art” as the sure-fire remedy.

The mirror image of this is accusing publishers of employing “cheap publicity stunts.” I was on the receiving end of this charge from Gary Groth of The Comics Journal when he was questioned about the Death of Superman in USA Today. Naturally, I was miffed, because I thought my salary proved I was not cheap.

(I’m sure that’s the occasion when the most people ever thought about The Comics Journal.)

The premise, in any case, is incorrect. Or, rather, it should be. In publishing, the editorial department should decide what to acquire (or, in the case of comics and other work-for-hire situations, solicit) and the marketing departments (which include publicity) should promote this material to the people who would most enjoy it.

It never works like this. Publishers want to attract the largest possible audience, and they’ll instruct editors to jump on the latest trends, whether that’s sword and sorcery, black and white indies, steampunk, graphic novels, television and movie adaptions or whatever. You’ll notice that’s a jumble of genres and formats, not a single directive. That’s the kind of thing that makes editors lose their hair.

But wait! There’s more! Sometimes marketing people think they know more about what makes a book good than the editors. I’m thinking of one person at DC (now a vice-president) who boasted to retailers that he wouldn’t promote a book he didn’t like. I have no doubt that he thought this was the honorable thing to do, but it does a disservice to his employers and to the retailers. The marketplace is not made up of people with exactly the same taste as this vice-president. By limiting the options he offered to them, he limited their sales.

I didn’t like every book I promoted. However, I knew that there were potential readers for every book, people who would be entertained and amused and involved. I didn’t necessarily know these people, but I wanted them to be happy, so I wanted them to know about our comics.

It’s not a perfect system. At the time, DC published about 70 titles a month across all imprints. There weren’t enough mainstream media outlets to cover that much. I had to pick and choose what was most relevant to the media I was pitching. Again, trying to match the story to the potential audience was the key. I’m sure I made mistakes in my choices. I’m sure some worthy projects didn’t get their share of attention.

No one is going to argue against quality. It’s like arguing against apple pie and Mom. Maybe there’s an opposing side, but only opinionated and obnoxious people like Mike Gold and I like to argue for the sake of arguing. And because of our Talmudic tradition.

Unfortunately, when it comes to comics, quality is like obscenity – I can’t define it, but I know it when I see it. And what I see as quality you may not.

Lots of people enjoyed the Death of Superman storyline and its follow-ups, and lots of comics cognoscenti sneered at them for enjoying it. A lot of these people are preemptively sneering at the New 52. I hope they’re wrong. I hope it works.

I hope it brings happiness to millions.

Martha Thomases, Dominoed Dare-Doll, will spend next week looking for Spider-Man at Walt Disney World.

SATURDAY: Marc Alan Fishman

DENNIS O’NEIL: The Weight of Fall

It’s the time of year when the world holds its breath. Back from vacation and if you’re old enough and lucky enough to be employed, fill the tank, Monday morning will be here before you know it, and if you’re going to school, either to sit in rows among the other students or to stand and teach… well, there are supplies to get – how late is Staples open? – and maybe some last minute reading and – one, two, three, all of us cop to it now – the anticipation: will the subjects be interesting, will the room’s other occupants be pleasant and/or pretty or trolls, will something that spins existence on its axis occur and change life forever and if you’re a lady who’s just retired after schoolmarming in four states for fifty years will you feel a tad blue – not that I know anyone like that – and, finally, will the English teacher get really frosted at having to read sentences that go on and on and on and on…?

No gold star for me? I’ll live with it.

If you’re a comics geek – and yes, we do know who we are – you may be feeling a bit disoriented. Not long ago, the days that cluster around the September holiday marked the end of major fan activity. The big conventions were history, the summer annuals lie all snug in their Mylar nests, the big publishers seemed to take a breather between those annuals and the big Christmas push to fill stockings with graphic novels, preferably in hardcover. Oh sure, all the regular titles appeared, but they were just … you know… stories. Nothing special. This year, though, there are several conventions yet to come, including the monster-doozie that occurs at the Javits Center in Manhattan, Marvel and DC are going digital, which will almost certainly change the biz, maybe a lot, and – what am I forgetting…?

Oh yeah. DC Comics is relaunching its whole line. Relaunching its superhero pantheon when print publishing is struggling to survive and reinvent itself in what may be the most turbulent climate since Gutenberg set his first stick of type: an important bookstore chain that according to one estimate accounts for maybe fifteen percent of retail sales is closing its many doors and an online retailer is altering the way business is done and nobody seems to know what the hell the e-book revolution will spawn.

All that is figure resting on the ground of a legislative system that seems hopelessly broken and huge environmental uncertainties that might affect publishing and everything else.

Plus…is the Mayans who say the world will end next year? Or am I thinking of that television preacher?

Yessir, Mr. D, the times they are a’changin’.

Ask me if I care. In about six weeks, the Rockland County foliage will begin its yearly display and, for a while, the daily trip to the mailbox will be reason for rejoicing. That will be enough now, and maybe forever.

Recommended Reading: The Will Eisner Companion, by N.C. Christopher Couch and Stephen Weiner. Disclosure: I contributed an essay to this book, but I’m not in the way of any royalties. If you know Eisner’s work, you’ll want to read it, and if you don’t…hey, it’s about time.

FRIDAY: Martha Thomases

 

 

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