Tagged: Michael Davis

MINDY NEWELL: The Enemy Within

I stink at writing battles between the superhero and the bad guy.

Oh, I’ve always managed to struggle through – and through the years I’ve learned how to choreograph them pretty well, thanks to watching great action movies, anything from Bullitt to the Die Hard series to the Matrix Trilogy and Kill Bill, Vols. I and II. But I was always happier to write a fight scene “Marvel style,” especially if I was working with an artist I trusted. Full script, though? Talk about pulling teeth!

So why the hell do I love writing comics?

That’s a good question. And here’s the answer.

What has always interested me about the superhero is the what makes them tick?, the what’s going on in their lives?, the how does having special abilities affect a person? Questions. Of course I wasn’t the first comic writer to address these issues. There’s one or two columnists here at ComicMix who have done so and continue to do so – yeah, I’m talking ‘bout you two, John Ostrander and Denny O’Neil. But John and Denny are also able to write great battle scenes. I can’t.

Way-back-when I sat down to try my luck at writing an entry for DC’s New Talent Showcase program, I thought about what was lacking in the super-hero biz. Hmm, I thought. There are superheroes who are men, and superheroes who are women. There are superheroes who date or are married to ordinary women, and there are superhero married couples. But I couldn’t think of any super-hero women who were married to “ordinary” guys. “That could be really interesting,” I thought to myself.

Then something clicked in my brain. “What if,” I said to myself, “these two people are just regular young marrieds, very much in love with each other, expecting their first child, and believing they’ve got the world on a string? And then everything goes wrong. She gains super-powers, but the trade-off is: she loses the baby. And he just can’t deal.  What happens to them? What happens to the marriage?”

And that’s the way I’ve always tried to approach the superhero. Treating them like real people, with real personalities and all the positive and negative traits that real people have. Facing real problems with paying the bills and trying to lose weight.

Let’s take Wonder Woman. I don’t remember the issue number, but it was one of the last few issues before the book went on hiatus until George Pérez reintroduced the character. One of my favorite scenes was the one in which Diana tried to make breakfast, only she burned the toast and undercooked the eggs. It was only about two or three panels, but it made sense to me that as an individual who grew up on a magical island on which time had stopped in the Hellenic Age, a toaster and a frying pan would be as strange to her as, well, the appearance of an Amazon princess in the middle of New York City would be to us here on Earth-Prime.

And, although I’m a staunch pro-choicer, I’ve always believed Diana should be a staunch pro-lifer. Why? Well, think about it. An island of immortal women called Themyiscyra, where men are forbidden. For 3,000 years, cut off from the outside world by powerful magiks, babies are unknown…yes, pregnancy, the unborn child, would be ultimate, holy, sacrosanct, untouchable, inviolable object of worship of a woman raised in this environment.

(Of course, when I mentioned this to Karen Berger once, I believe she was intrigued, but what with Jenette Khan, then publisher of DC, being a friend of Gloria Steinem, and Steinem being one of the “ultimate, holy, sacrosanct, untouchable, and inviolable” feminists of the day, along with being editor of Ms. Magazine, she basically told me to “forget it.”)

I’d like to explore the loneliness of the last survivor of an alien civilization. (Superman, J’onn J’onzz.)

What does it do to a person to be able to run “faster than a speeding bullet” and get stuck in traffic? (Flash, Quicksilver).

How do you not go insane when you’re trapped in a body of rock? (Thing, Concrete.)

If you can fly, would you resent having to walk?

If you have x-ray vision, can you resist taking a look the boss’s e-mails? Or your co-worker’s paycheck?

If you can read minds, do you really want to know what people are thinking?

If you have telekinesis, would you ever get up off the couch?

One of my favorite science fiction movies, definitely on my top five list, is Forbidden Planet, in which the monster is a creature risen from the jealousies and fears that lurk within the human mind.

“Creatures from the id.”

Yes.

The enemy within.

TUESDAY: Michael Davis

MINDY NEWELL: Blocked!

I’m having a good case of writer’s block today.

You know how a few weeks ago I talked about what it’s like to be a writer? One thing I didn’t mention was the awfulness of staring at a blank screen – or a blank piece of paper for those who still use a typewriter, and yes, they are out there – without a clue in the universe of what you’re going to write about.

That’s when procrastination sets in.

After a half-hour, or maybe even an hour, of sitting at the computer and absolutely nothing is coming, I suddenly realize that the bathroom really needs to be cleaned. I gather up the Comet Bathroom Cleaner and the SOS and go to it, attacking the bathtub and the toilet, the sink and the floor. I Windex the mirror. Then I decide to rearrange the shelves. Then I realize that I need to put some clean towels out.

Okay, done. Bathroom looks and smells great.

Now I’m ready.

And still nothing comes.

I pick up the pile of comics that’s lying on my rocking chair. DC’s Legion: Secret Origin #2. Superman #3. Star Trek #3 from IDW. A bunch of others. Nothing sparks my interest really. I throw them back down and go into the living room. I slept on the couch last night, falling asleep while trying to stay awake and watch The Best Of The Dr. Who Christmas Specials on BBCAmerica. The blanket and pillow are still lying on the sofa.

I fold up the blanket and put it away, throw the pillow back on my bed. I sit down at the computer again.

Fifteen minutes later I’m back in the living room. I’ve been watching Battlestar Galactica repeats on BBCAmerica and all the commercials have been driving me mad – plus it annoys me that they cut out the “Previously on Battlestar Galactica” and I’m sure they’re cutting other scenes out too. I resolve to pull out my DVDs of BSG, watch an episode or two, and then sit down and do the column. It’s only 2 P.M.; lots of time left. I put Disc One of Season Four into the DVD and sit down to watch.

Three hours later it’s 5:30.

Okay, this is bullshit. Mike is going to kill me, and I’m being really, really unprofessional here.

Back at the computer. Maybe I should write about Christmas Eve.

Drove down to my brother and sister-in-law’s with the parents, Alixandra and Jeff. The plan was to be at my brother’s in time for the start of the Giants-Jets game, which started at 1. Alix and Jeff were supposed to pick me up at 10; they got to my house closer to 11. The radio was turned to NPR and Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me (which is one of my favorite shows on NPR) was on, and surprise! surprise! – Neil Gaiman was the guest. Haven’t seen Neil in too many years to count, so it was fun to listen to him play “Not My Job” and answer questions about Will and Kate – he nailed them, and so won Karl Cassel’s voice for some guy from Chicago’s voicemail; no, it wasn’t you, Mike.

Settle down at my brother’s to watch the game. First half – well, let’s not talk about that – except for Victor Cruz!!! What a runback! What a catch! Then the second half – Gaints come alive. And then it’s deep in the fourth quarter, it’s a long game, it’s 4:18 – New York is leading by 6 – the score is 20-14 – and FOX switches to the Eagles-Dallas game because of “NFL rules.” Chaos reigns! I throw a hissy fit, I yell at my brother, “I told you should have gotten the NFL Network!” while he cursed and ran for a radio. Jeff, always a calm in the center of my storms, suggests streaming it on the computer. I think, “what a great idea!,” so I run to my sister-in-law’s computer and hook into ESPN.com. No visual, just real-time audio, so I might as well go back and listen to the radio with the rest of the family. But I stay long enough to hear the Gaints make a safety. And between the time I left the computer and got back to the rest of the family, there was an interception, a touchdown – and I still don’t know who made it – and Tynes hit a field goal. 29 – 14. And Corey Webster intercepted to end the game.

Go Giants!!!!

Still don’t know what the hell to write about.

Oh, I know.

Gave my eleven year-old niece Isabel the original Amethyst, Princess of Gemworld maxi-series by Dan Mishkin, Gary Cohn and Ernie Colon along with the Amethyst mini-series by Keith Giffen and the late Esteban Maroto… oh, yeah, and me! She was delighted and wanted to sit down and start reading right away – but her mom (rightly so) said no, not now. This could get me writing about the continual ignorance of the comic book business when it comes to attracting young female readers; I mean, Amethyst was back in the 80’s, and the honchos are still trying to figure it out? Some things, as the saying goes, never change.

I could tell you about how we all stuffed ourselves on an introductory course of smoked salmon, white fish, and smoked trout on various breads and crackers served with bloody mary’s, followed by a dinner of tender romaine hearts with baby cherry tomatoes in a vinaigrette dressing, braised beef tenderloin in a garlic and horseradish sauce, roasted cauliflower with parmesan, latkes (potato pancakes, as I mentioned last week) and fresh grilled squash with red onions sprinkled with honey; followed by an upside down orange polenta cake served alongside a Carvel “Frosty the Snowman” ice cream cake.

What else could I write about? Don’t feel like saying anything about politics this week. Well, I could talk about the House Republicans trying to block the extension of the payroll tax cut and how they had to cave and how the “orange man” sounded like a fool when he tried to make it a Republican victory, but, nah, just not in the mood.

I give up.

Sometimes the block wins.

TUESDAY: Michael Davis

 

MINDY NEWELL: Happy Christmas! Merry Chanukah! And Festivus For The Rest Of Us!

As a nice Jewish girl, I’ve always loved Christmas and Chanukah and Festivus for the rest of us.

We lived on a “not quite” cul-de-sac that had an island in the middle of the street. On that island was a huge old fir tree, and every holiday season all the “cul-de-sac’ers” would decorate it for Christmas. Yep, it was “National Brotherhood Week” on Hodges Place – I always wondered if the street was named for Gil Hodges of the Brooklyn Dodgers. I doubt it – this was on Staten Island, not Brooklyn – but it would make a nice story, wouldn’t it?

Anyway, my brother and I didn’t feel cheated in mid-December – like every snotty, young, selfish Jewish kid, Chanukah meant eight days of presents. And latkes ; potato pancakes for the uninitiated. But truth to tell, we also thought the story of the oil in the Temple miraculously burning for eight days was pretty cool, and the candlelight was so pretty. My brother and I didn’t lose on Christmas either.

Christmas Eve was when my mom took me, my brother, an done friend each into Manhattan for our annual visit to Rockefeller Center and the Christmas Tree, then to skate on the Rockefeller Center ice rink, then to Radio City Music Hall to see the movie and the Christmas show, then to walk down Fifth Avenue to see the fantabulously animated window, and finally to then meet up with our Dad at Macy’s, where we would all bundle into the car for a trip through the tunnel and home.  And once at home, bathed and tucked into bed – with visions of sugarplums dancing in our heads – dad and mom would hang Lord & Taylor’s, or Saks Fifth Avenue, or Bloomindales or B. Altman ‘s (yeah, I’m that old) shopping bags for Santa to fill – I guess jolly ol’ St. Nick was kosher, but real stockings were trafe.

So here’re some suggestions for your shopping bags and/or stockings, trafe or not. Some political – hey, it wouldn’t be my column with at least one political comment, would it? – and some not.

  • The full collection of Neil Gaiman’s Sandman, beautifully drawn by various artists such as P. Craig Russell, Mike Dringenberg, Glenn Fabry, Frank Quitely, and Bill Sienkiewicz.
  • 1000 Comic Books You Must Read, by Tony Isabella. A wondrous collection that takes you through 70 years of comics, and if you don’t find something in this chock-full-of-‘mazing stuff that wets your whistle, you ain’t a comic fan!
  • Loading up your stocking with everything you need to enable you to enact your basic right as a citizen of the United States – to vote for the candidate of your choice. Republican governors are attempting to disenfranchise the vote to those they consider “undesirable,” i.e., those they fear will vote for President Obama and/or the Democrats. 34 states have already loaded the registration process with so much debris it makes it nearly impossible for many to do what nearly 40,000 American deaths and casualties gave to the Iraqis and Afghans – please, don’t let those deaths be in total vain. Whether you’re a Democrat, a Republican, an Independent, a Libertarian, a Communist, or something altogether different: VOTE, goddamn it!
  • If you’re a fan of the original Law & Order, and you have roughly $700 dollars to spend, consider the boxed Complete Law & Order DVD Collection. (Hmm, I just checked on Amazon, and it’s selling there for the bargain price of $450.99, a 36% savings.) Check out Michael Moriarty, George Dzunda, Chris Noth before he was Mr. Big and Mr. Julianne Margulies, Dan Florek as Captain Donald Cragen before he moved to the Special Victims precinct and S. Epatha Merkeson as the luminously jaded Lt. Abigail Van Buren. See the fascinatingly different styles of D.A. Steven Hill, Fred Thompson, and Dianne West. Watch Sam Waterson’s hair turn grey. And mourn the premature passing of the one and only Lenny Brisko – Jerry Orbach.
  • And speaking of L & O, for you video-gamers out there, I just read, it was either in Entertainment Weekly, or, believe it or not, TV Guide, keep your eyes out for Law & Order: Legacies, in which you’ll have the choice of being either part of the Law or part of the Order as you hunt down the criminal and aim for justice.
  • Fly to the second star to the right and then straight on to morning. Get tickets to see Cathy Rigby as Peter Pan. You’ll be in Neverland.
  • A donation to your favorite charity, be it a couple of dollars in the Salvation Army red bucket or $1000 to Oxfam.

With our troops “officially” coming home from Iraq – my girlfriend is in the Army and she knows soldiers who have gotten marching orders to Baghdad to help protect the nearly 20,000 “diplomats” who will remain in the Emerald City Otherwise Known As The United States Embassy, it’s time for you to really understand how the fuck we got involved there in the first place.

  • Want to know what made Osama Bin Laden and Al-Qaeda tick? Buy The Looming Tower: Al-Qaeda and the Road to 9/11 by Lawrence Wright. The best book I’ve read on the rise of the terrorist organization and its megalomaniacal leader.
  • Next read about the fucked-up U.S. politics that led to 9/11 in Ghost Wars: The Secret History of the CIA, Afghanistan, and Bin Laden, from the Soviet Invasion to September 10, 2001.
  • Or check out Bob Woodward’s trilogy, Plan of Attack: The Definitive Account of the Decision to Invade Iraq; State of Denial: Bush at War, Part III; and The War Within: A Secret White House History 2006 – 2008. It’s amazing how freely people spoke to Woodward, including President Bush. And you’ll wonder how these people slept at night.

As for me? What do I want for Christmas, Chanukah, and Festivus for the rest of us? Oh, say, it’d be nice to part of the 1%, wouldn’t it? C’mon, you know you’d like it, too. I’m joking. (Or am I?) A guarantee that President Obama will have a second term, this time with a Congress that’ll work with him instead of demonizing everything about one of the smartest men to ever hold the office. Barring that, a Presidency for Hillary – and yes, I know she said she’s done with politics after winding up her term as Secretary of State. To write Wonder Woman again.

Peace on Earth, Goodwill to Men.

Yeah. I like that one.

Ho, Ho, Ho!

TUESDAY: Michael Davis

MINDY NEWELL: O, Tannenbaum, O Tannenbaum!

The Christmas tree. Big, small, authentic or fake, the object of worship at Rockefeller Center for New Yorkers and tourists, the spindly little tree that Charlie Brown adopts, and always, always, beautiful, I do hope you know that the evergreen tree (fir, spruce, or pine) didn’t grow in the hot, dry, climate of Bethlehem and Nazareth. (But the Egyptians did have a midwinter rite – see below.)

Courtesy of The History Channel and my fascination with pre-Judeo-Christian religions – I’ve delved a little bit into Wicca – here’s a brief history of our favorite symbol of the season, the Christmas tree.

For centuries in Europe and England, before the introduction of Christianity, plants and trees that remained green all year had a special meaning for people. To ward off the ghosts, witches, and evil spirits, they made wreaths of, and hung branches from, the fir trees that were “ever green.” During the winter months, as the days shortened and the world became dark and cold, it was believed that the sun god had turned their face from them. On the winter solstice, the shortest and darkest day of the year, the people would celebrate the return of the sun god, dancing in a sacred circle around a chosen evergreen tree (fir, spruce, pine) and light fires to bring back the light.

By the way, fellow comic geeks, in the Germanic and Scandinavian regions, the tree was called Thor’s Oak. Hey, Marvel, how about a Christmas Special featuring the tree and the Asgaardian?

Another origin has been proposed for our favorite Christmas image, that of the “Tree of Paradise,” which was used in the medieval plays performed on Christmas Eve to tell the story of Adam and Eve. It was decorated with apples – some say pomegranates – to represent the forbidden fruit, and Eucharist wafers to represent God’s deliverance; later on, in the 16th century, the Germans began placing the trees inside their homes, and the apples were replaced by shiny red balls.

So what were they doing at this time of year in the Fertile Crescent of the Mediterranean? Well, the Egyptians prayed to the Sun god, Ra, who would annually come near to death as the winter progressed. On the day of the solstice, when the sun – Ra – began to strengthen, the Egyptians would bring the green leaves of the palm trees into their homes, which symbolized Ra’s victory over death. (Hmm…palm leaves. Eternally green. Symbols of another resurrection one that is central to the Christian faith.)

The Romans celebrated the Saturnalia on the winter solstice, in honor of Saturn, the god of farming and agriculture, because they knew the shortest day also marked the return of spring and summer, when the land would be fertile once again.  The Saturnalia, by the way, was converted to Christmas, to mark the birth of Jesus by the Emperor Constantine, after he experienced a vision and ordered the conversion of all Roman citizens to Christianity. (And did you know that Biblical forensic astronomers believe that Jesus was actually born in the spring, according to the position of the stars at that time?) Anyway, the Romans also marked the Saturnalia by adorning Saturn’s temples and their own homes with branches of the evergreen trees that grew in that region.

The Celts of England, Ireland, and areas of northern Europe also celebrated the winter solstice with evergreen trees, to them also a symbol of eternal life. They would select a tree about which they danced, and lit bonfires to encourage the dark gods to leave.

When did the Christmas tree as we know first appear in America? Well, the Puritans – of Thanksgiving fame – felt that Christian worship had become frivolous and full of pagan rites. They believed that Christmas was a sacred, awesome – not as in “Awesome, bro!” but in its original meaning of “God-fearing and awe-inspiring” – outlawed the celebration of Christmas with trees, and even carols; those who dared were put in the stocks or worse!

The Germans, especially those who settled mostly in Pennsylvania, are credited with bringing the Christmas tree to America in the mid-19th century, but most Americans of the time were still heavily influenced by their Puritan roots, and believed the tree was a pagan symbol and refused to raise one either in their communities or their homes

Then, in 1846, Queen Victoria of Great Britain and her German-born consort, Prince Albert, appeared in the Illustrated London News celebrating Christmas with a tree. Like Anglophiles today who faithfully follow the affairs of the Windsors – and comic fans who believe that only the Brits know how to write comics – anything that came from across the pond was immediately declared fashionable and de rigueur.

O, Tannenbaum, O, Tannebaum!

And now for my weekly political comment:

If you watch either Jon Stewart on The Daily Show or Bill O’Reilly on The Factor, you know those two are at their annual “The War on Christmas” shenanigans, with Stewart poking fun – and getting pissed off – at one of O’Reilly’s favorite topics, as he rages against the ridiculous, “pinheaded” political correctness of the season.

And you know what? I totally agree with O’Reilly on this one. Oh, not on his overblown rhetoric – although that’s O’Reilly’s raison de guerre – but essentially, I believe he’s absolutely dead on regarding this one. The celebration of Christmas is an American rite of passage, which should be holy and sacred to those of the Christian faiths, but more often, these days, a commemoration of that other American religion – buying on credit and going into debt.

War on Christmas? Who’re you kidding, Mr. O’Reilly?

Next week: My Christmas, Chanukah, and Kwanza shopping suggestions.

TUESDAY: Michael Davis

MINDY NEWELL: Am I Really A Writer?

One of the doctors I’ve worked with once asked me “What’s it like to be a writer?”

I guarantee that every single one of the columnists here at ComicMix has been asked that question, or a form of it, quadrillions of times.

The mother of one of my daughter’s friends: “Where do you get your ideas?”

A co-worker at my day job: “So what do you do? They give you the comic and you put the words in those balloons?”

An old boyfriend: “You get paid for that?”

My mother on the phone, back when I was a full-time freelancer: “What do you do all day? How can you sit in your pajamas until 3:00 in the afternoon?

Mom on the phone again: “I’m sorry to bother you. Are you typing?”

The answers:

“What’s it like to be a doctor?” (Cracking wise.)

“I don’t know.” (Case in point: last week’s Bizzaro column. Where the fuck did that come from?)

“Yeah.” (I used to go into a full-scale elucidation of the full-script method, which is similar to writing a movie script, except that in a movie script very little art direction is given as the writer pretty much leaves that up to the cinematographer, whereas in a comic script the story is broken down panel-by-panel with instructions to the artist of what is happening, which can range from “Superman hits Doomsday,” to detailed descriptions of what the man standing behind the woman in the crowd watching Superman hit Doomsday is wearing – and you should read one of Alan Moore’s scripts for anything he’s ever written if you really want see and understand what I’m talking about – and dialogue or captions or thought balloons vs. the “Marvel-style” of writing comics, in which the writer breaks down the action into page-by-page descriptions of what’s happening in the story, after which the editor sends it to the artist to – oh, never mind. I know you’re getting that bored look, just like the questioner, who would blank out on me within ten seconds of my explanation, just like I know you’re doing now.)

“Yes.”

“It’s 3:00?”

“Yes, Mom, I’m typing.”

I think all writers go through this type of third-degree in one form or another. Yes, even Pulitzer Prize winning novelists like Michael Chabon (The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay), Oscar Hijuelos (The Mambo Kings Play Songs Of Love), Toni Morrison (Beloved), Michael Cunningham (The Hours), and Bernard Malamud (The Fixer).

And the funny thing is, those questions from co-workers, friends, boyfriends and girlfriends, and parents: What’s it like to be a writer? Where do you get your ideas? You put the words in the funny balloons? You make any money at that? What do you do all day? How can you sit around in your pajamas ‘til 3:00 in the afternoon? Are you typing? – are the same questions I think all writers ask themselves.

Fer shur I’ve asked myself those questions. Many a time, and over and over.

And I have a confession to make.

I still have trouble saying “I’m a writer.”

Is it an ego thing? I don’t generally go around saying, “Look out, world, here I come! Get out of my way!” But I do have it on good authority – Alixandra and Jeff – that I’m a “firecracker.” Which is very gratifying to my ego, but then why am I in therapy? (Funny story. I was talking with my therapist before Alix and Jeff’s wedding, telling him how I was having all this angst and shpilkes (Yiddish for “nerves”) and bad dreams, and he said “That’s because you’re neurotic,” and I yelled at him, “I’m not neurotic!” Um…well, I guess you had to be there, or in therapy, to get it.)

A writer can plot. I still can’t plot worth a damn. Fellow columnists like Denny O’Neil and John Ostrander have tried to teach me, and though I do get it intellectually, I fail more often than I succeed. Julie Schwartz told me that there’s only one essential plot. Boy meet girl. Boy loses girl. Boy gets girl. Every story is a variation of that. (I think he was repeating, or paraphrasing, something that someone famous once said, but I can’t remember.) I get it. I really do. And sometimes it works for me. More often than not I hit a wall, and then I’m dead in the water. I didn’t even know what I was going to write about when I sat down to write this column.

A writer doesn’t put off writing. I’m a natural-born procrastinator. Yep, I’m essentially a lazy couch potato. Or computer solitaire player. Without a deadline (and I’m writing this on Saturday night, right now it’s 10:59 p.m., and though it’s still Saturday, I should have finished this column way, way earlier, like last Monday), I’m hopeless. I’ll never finish that novel in my drawer because there’s no agent/editor/publisher breathing down my neck to finish it.

A writer carries around a little notebook to jot down ideas. Or writes them down on any piece of paper he or she can find. Woody Allen does that. Last week I watched the PBS documentary about Mr. Allen, and I watched him pull out a drawer, it was in his bedroom, and in that drawer were pieces of paper, napkins, post-it notes, paper plates, handkerchiefs, anything he could write one, all with ideas, a sentence here, a word there, an observation, a thought – and he laid them out on the bed and it was a heap o’ words, a collection of yeeaarrsssss. Well, I did have a little pad to carry around with me at work – oh, hell, I’ve bought dozens of ‘em – but I always get so busy and I don’t know where the hell they go. Or I’ll write something down on a scrap of paper and lose it.

A real writer writes because he or she has to. Whether it sucks or whether it’s a bestseller that’s optioned and becomes the next Oscar and Golden Globe winner. I don’t have to write. I don’t have that burning need.

Or do I?

Oh.

Wait.

I guess I am a writer.

Or a typist.

TUESDAY: Michael Davis

BIZARRO MINDY NEWELL #1: Me Praise

Me read Frank Miller’s blog and me think Miller is right. Me think all those people who am mad at Frank are dunderheads.

Me think protesters at Occupy Wall Street just don’t want to clean their own homes. It am easier to go live in a park in New York City and make a new mess there. After the protesters make the park is dirty Mayor Bloomberg is very nice. He send policemen to help protestors move to a new place.

Me heard that in Oakland the policemen did not think the place where the protestors were living wuz dirty enuf, so the policemen helped with tear gas. All the protestors am happy, they laugh and giggle and cry with joy.

Me saw students sitting on ground, me think they could not get up, like that nice lady in the TV ad. The nice policeman tried to help them by putting pepper spray in there faces so they wood sneeze, but me do not know how sneezing wood help the students get up. But at least the nice policeman try and help them.

Me heard a lady had a baby inside her and the policman hit her in the stomak to help the baby come out. Then the lady went to the doktor and the doktor said the baby am dead. The lady am very happy to not have a baby inside her any more.

Me think Amerika is a very noisy country. People yell and shout and march instead of going to their jobs. Me work hard. Me make lots of money and then I give it to the nice taxman. This am fair because if me not give money to taxman he will lose his job. Me not want nobody to lose there job.

Me heard there are some people who make so much money they are called the 1 per cent. Me heard me am part of the 99 per cent. Me not know what this means but the nice man with orange skin in the big house in Washingten must know because he said the 1 per cent does not need to give money to the taxman because they make jobs. Me not understand, because Mr. Robert Wood Johnson University Hospital makes my job. Me not know any body at my job named Mister 1 per cent. Me will rite the nice man with the orange skin in Washingten and ask him who Mister 1 per cent is. He am very smart. Me sure he will know.

Me went to school and learnt about Amerika. A long time ago some bad men did not want to pay taxes to the king. They said “no taxation without representation.” Me not know what that means, but the bad men throw tea bags into the cold water. They are very stupid. If me am there me wood tell them u need hot water to make tea. Me make tea at home every morning.

The bad men said “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof, or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.” Me not know what that mean.

The bad men said “We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of Amerika.”

Me not know what that mean, either. But silly bad men spelled Amerika wrong. Me fix it for them.

TUESDAY: Michael Davis

MINDY NEWELL: Pissed Off Again

Lots of ruminating this week. Mostly political. Mostly causing me to make sure my passport is up-to-date and to wonder what the hell country I can move to if the Repugnanticans – my term for what passes as the Republican Party these days – actually win the Presidency.

This past Thursday, November 17th, marked the two-month anniversary of the start of Occupy Wall Street. Some smart mouth caller to the Tom Hartman show pointed out that the prefix “anni” comes from the Latin anno, which means “year,” so November 17th couldn’t be the “two month anniversary.” Why did I think while listening to this jackass that he was a front for the Koch-funded Americans for Prosperity or Karl Rove’s American Crossroads? So just call it an observance, a tribute, a celebration, or a commemoration, asshole.

The Los Angeles Times reported on November 20th that police officers who just walked up to students peacefully demonstrating in solidarity with the Occupy movement at the University of California-Davis and pepper-sprayed them dead-on in their faces have been put on administrative leave while their actions are investigated. (You can go to my Facebook page to see the video, or check out this link.) Hmmm. Administrative leave. That means they’re getting paid. Just like…

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JOHN OSTRANDER: Eating Broccoli

In my circle, my disdain for broccoli is pretty well known. I call them “tiny trees” and I don’t like their smell, their taste, or their texture – but I have eaten them. That’s how I know I don’t like them.

Recently, Dark Horse Comics finally announced the new Star Wars project that Jan Duursema and I are working on. Jan and I have worked on two other series together – Star Wars Republic and Star Wars Legacy – to the praise of a lot of Star Wars fans. This is in addition to my already announced Star Wars spy series, Agent Of The Empire. (plug plug plug plug)

The new series is Dawn Of The Jedi and it goes back and tells the origins of the Jedi Order which, we hope, will have some interest even to the fans who have only watched the movies. We’re doing our best to make it accessible even to those who are not conversant with the large Star Wars story known as the EU (Extended Universe). However, even with all that effort, I know some readers won’t even try it because it’s Star Wars.

And that sometimes makes me scratch my head.

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MINDY NEWELL: To Love, Honor, And Cherish Until Death – Or Editorial Decision – Do Us Part

If you’re a regular reader of this column, you know that my daughter, Alixandra Gould – yes, she’s keeping her name – married the love of her life, Jeffrey Christopher Gonzalez, last week. (A big thank you! to Mike Gold for posting a beautiful column last week that I posted on Facebook, then e-mailed to every single person I’ve ever met just to make sure they read it, and which Alix and Jeff thought was terrifically cool.) So of course I decided to write about superhero marriages this week. Not a big leap, is it?

I just finished googling “superhero marriages.” There were “about” 7,750,000 hits in 0.23 seconds, the most recent being a slide show in the Huffington Post posted only four days ago – well, five days ago since this appears on Monday – on November 9, 2011 titled “Comic Book Weddings: 8 Of Our Favorite Superhero Weddings.” In order, they are (1) Spider-Man, a.k.a. Peter Parker, and Mary Jane Watson in 1987’s The Amazing Spider-Man Giant Annual; (2) 1962’s The Incredible Hulk #319 in which Bruce Banner and Betty Ross’ nuptials are interrupted by a “special guest”; (3) The X-Men’s Scott Summers (Cyclops) and Jean Grey (Phoenix) in 1994; (4) Wonder Woman in her eponymous title married Mr. Monster in 1965 – ‘nuff said!; (5) Aquaman and Mera in Aquaman #18, 1964; (6) “Death Waits to Kiss the Bride” screamed the cover of Lois Lane #128 in 1972 – featuring the now iconic picture of Superman holding somebody’s dead body; (7) The Flash races down the altar to stop Iris West from marrying the wrong Barry Allen in The Flash #165, 1966; and (8) Wonder Girl, a.k.a. Donna Troy, marries Terry Long in Tales Of The Teen Titans #50, 1985.)

How did they miss Reed Richards and Sue Storm Richards, a.k.a. Mr. Fantastic and The Invisible Woman? Im-not-so-ho, Reed and Sue are the most realistically portrayed marriage “pros” in the comics universe.

The couple married in 1965, making this year the 46th anniversary of their being a Mr. and Mrs. (They look pretty damn remarkable, don’t they? Must be all those visits to the Negative Zone.) Down through the years, Reed and Sue “have and held, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health,” and have loved and cherished each other through everything the Marvel Universe could and continues to throw at them, including “real life” curves like a miscarriage, potential affairs, political differences, and a brother’s death.

Peter Parker and Mary Jane Watson came pretty close in matching the Richards’ record – not in years married, but in a realistic view of marriage – but then Marvel decided to “disappear” their relationship. Clark Kent and Lois Lane had a wonderful thing going, too, but DC recently terminated without prejudice that couple, too.

And what the hell happened to Scott and Jean?

Jean Loring, the wife of Ray Palmer (The Atom) has a “mental breakdown” and goes on a rampage, killing Sue Dibny, the wife of the Elongated Man (Ralph Dibny), in one of the most gruesome scenes I’ve ever seen in any comic.

Betty Banner, wife of Bruce Banner (The Hulk) was abused, suffered miscarriages, was turned into a harpy, and died. She got better and turned red.

Shayera Hall, Hawkwoman, dead.

I’m sure glad Jeff isn’t a superhero.

TUESDAY: Michael Davis

NOT QUITE MINDY NEWELL: Happy Times In New Jersey

Nope, this is not Mindy writing. Mindy’s a bit tied up right now. This weekend, her daughter Alixandra Gould married Jeffrey Gonzalez at the Newark New Jersey Art Museum.

Yes, Newark New Jersey has an art museum. Grow up.

People with Y-chromosomes who have never studied the process aren’t as appreciative as we should be about this process and its impact upon the mother of the bride. It’s far easier for us guys to simply do as we’re told (weddings aren’t really about us anyway) and stay away from the battlefield until it’s time to do the transformative I Do voodoo. For the mother of the bride, however, and in another fashion for the bride herself the experience consists of long periods of intense work separated by somewhat briefer periods of frantic behavior and occasional military acts, followed by an undefined period of complete collapse. It even takes its toll on those who do not have a day job; lucky for Mindy, I strongly suspect her years of service to humanity as an operating room nurse prepared her for this endeavor.

We-all at ComicMix congratulate Alixandra and Jeffrey and wish them a long, healthy and fun life together.

– Venerable Boy Editor

(photo by Adam Haley)

TUESDAY: Michael Davis, unless he’s getting married or something

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