I’ve done something I’ve never had to do before.

I’ve banned someone from commenting in my blog.

Michael Teta, you’re fired. Randomly posting personally insulting things on the blog of the guy I think of as my brother more than my actual brother was pretty much the final straw. Make congent arguments that don’t repeat rhetoric when you get to law school – you’ll find that it works a lot better than insulting people while sitting at home, alone, in your underwear and high.

(I do, however, love everyone else that visits and comments. You’re all peaches.)

So. The Iconoclast (Best Newspaper Name Ever, by the way) has published an editorial endorsing John Kerry. This is nothing unusual, really – papers endorse who they endorse and that’s hunky dory. What is different about this particular piece is that The Iconoclast is the hometown paper in Crawford, Texas. You know Crawford, right? Home of George W. Bush’s “White House West”. The town he calls “home.”

Ha.

I helped the jade giant do an interview with a well-done nerd-friendly website a while back and they put it up. Some bits in here that I am very proud of…helping Hulk out with.

Let me tell you about Jenn Cauthen. She’s now Jenn Pahl, but I still use her maiden name mentally. She was my first love. Every woman I’ve dated since her has been held to impossible standards because she was the first, most perfectest girl on the planet to this high-school sophomore. She’s smarter and better looking than you. She’s funnier than you. She also can run at the speed of sound and knows kung-fu, which you probably are incapable of saying is among your abilities.

She’s now a mother. Earlier than expected, of course, because she waits for no one. She will kick ass at motherhood, just like she’s kicked ass at everything else. Congratulations, honey.

(I will now be crying in the corner as the last remaining shred of my youth fades away utterly. Marcia, the other Great High School Love, already has a couple of children so I thought I was over the aging thing. And no, I probably will not be spawning anytime soon.)

Listening to Underworld doing the Essential Mix thing back in 1996 while drinking coffee and trying to plot some submissions to a couple of companies that make funnybooks. I’ve got the latest Fantastic Four Masterworks, the new graphic novel from J. Torres and Scott Chantler, and Kane: Histories (which Flaming Nora would be well advised to take a look at next time she’s dragged into a den of iniquity and nerditude) all in this week’s haul from the shop. I’m using wireless internet at my favorite hangout.

I am in geek heaven. Nerdvana.

I have The Rage. I have just watched a commercial for Wal-Mart. Now, Wal-Mart pisses me off for any number of reasons – their predatory business practices, their unionbusting, their destruction of thousands of small local retailers across the country which leads to sprawl and communities becoming less tightly knit, blah blah blah. But this new ad, it just takes the fucking cake, along with the candles, the plate, the tablecloth, and the silverware.

So, in this ad, this family talks about how they were heading somewhere on vacation when they whacked a deer with their SUV (Of course they were driving an SUV; what else do Americans drive?) and their vehicle ended up in a ditch. This unfortunate turn of events is compounded to “outright disaster” status by their engine catching aflame, destroying everything. Now, this Wal-Mart associate is driving home from his $7-an-hour job when he sees these people and he helps them out – offering them his own home to use as a base of operations to help recover from this and buying them dinner. Of course he helps them, because that is what sensible people do when they see their fellow man in trouble.

This is not worthy of The Rage. This ad’s spin on the events and our hero’s motivation is.

After this semi-heartwarming tale, the Wal-Mart associate tells the viewer that he did what he did because Wal-Mart taught him to do the right thing. Where the holy fuck was this guy raised that he had to have Wal-Mart teach him basic morals? A tribe of cannibals in Paraguay? The seventh circle of hell? Uncle Adolf’s Home For Orphaned Boys?

Just when I thought I’d heard corporations take responsibility for just about every benevolent act out there, Wal-Mart informs us that they made this amoral scumbag who would leave people stranded by the side of the road into a responsible citizen.

Thank you so much, Wal-Mart. I appreciate it to no end.

In a fit of melancholy while talking to Liz, recalling the heyday of our raverdom. It started by this quote from Hunter S Thompson:

Strange memories on this nervous night in Las Vegas. Five years later? Six? It seems like a lifetime, or at least a main era—the kind of peak that never comes again. San Francisco in the middle sixties was a very special time and place to be a part of. Maybe it meant something. Maybe not, in the long run, but no explanation, no mix of words or music or memories can touch that sense of knowing that you were there and alive in that corner of time and the world – whatever it meant.

The days we’ll never have again – ten million moments, the mental snapshots from parties, long road trips, talking about music with strangers.

I’d not trade what I have now for anything, but rainy fall afternoons lend themselves to navel-gazing, don’t they?

Some of you know this already – I did get the job. Starting next Monday, I will be writing for a living. It’s not exactly hard journalism or super-creative work, but I will at least finally be paid for making things up.

This is why Frank Castle failed the New Jersey certification for child care provider, I’m sure…

Clicking makes with the big. You knew that.

I’m too lazy to write a blog entry today, but our man Keef fills in admirably.

Grocery Shopping and Ramen Eating are better with your female friends.

Why I Might Be Looking For A New Best Friend by Kevin J Church, Age 30.

Phone conversation tonight went something like this…

Me: Yeah, I might be going to this comic show tomorrow with Mike and Dave for a bit, just to scope the cheap books.

She: Are you going to wear a costume?

A mid-afternoon smorgasbord rundown of this busy day.

The job interview went really well – I’m about 80% sure I’ll have a new job that pays me to write soon. It’ll be nice to work on craft when writing non-fiction.

I went to get my lottery winnings from the large government building in downtown where you do such things. It was profoundly depressing in some ways, despite the being-handed-a-sizeable-check-itude. Seeing people who really shouldn’t be spending their money on lottery tickets collecting cash was rather gloomifying (thanks, C) – they’re talking about how they have methods for scratching tickets and how they buy thirty or forty a week. They hear me and the guy talking about the thousand I’d won and asked how much I spent a week on “the games.”

My response of, as I wrote last night, four to ten dollars if I remember to buy tickets at all made this one couple angry with me. I was taken aback by the hostility and tried to remind them that it’s a game of chance, but they seemed to think that it was more of a career decision. The tax-whacking I got on the check was also pretty saddening, too. I hope Governor Mitt has a nice time with those rocketboots I just bought for him.

Onto less egocentric things…

Dorian mentioned this earlier in the week, but the new Mr. Monster comic is a massive amount of fun. I think it should be nominated for an Eisner just on the strength of the following chunk of dialogue:

Ugly brutes! Strange…did you notice the markings on the Martian warsuits, Annie? They bear a disturbing resemblance to World War II Nazi stormtrooper uniforms. There must be some connection…but what?

While I’m not the biggest fan of Mr. Monster, I do appreciate what Michael Gilbert’s doing and the passion he puts into his work comes across with every page. This is also one of the better values on the shelf this week – $6.99 buys you a decent-sized graphic novel with all the Full Color Alien Nazi Smashing Action you could want.

As if a comic chock full of Nazi Martians wasn’t enough, Art Baltazar has another of his unique, endearing comics on the shelves this week. Aaron turned me on to his work a couple of years ago and I’ve been an enthusastic fan ever since. His Patrick The Wolf Boy is one of my favorite all-ages books being released – it’s cute without ever being cloying. Jimmy Dydo is a strange, touching story of someone wordlessly seeking out their identity in a barren landscape. Baltazar’s art (ha!) reminds me of a less-nuanced James Kolchaka and has a sheer exuberance that no amount of craft could replace. This release is also a great value – $4.99 for a thick black and white comic? You could do a lot worse.

Every week, or nearly every week, I pay my idiot tax. No, not comics, you vile little weasels – scratch lottery tickets. I get one, maybe two if I’m feeling punchy – $4 to $10 to get to pick at a layer of that oddball scratch-off material and hope that the small eldritch symbols allow me to receive a pecuniary reward for my efforts and investment.

Well, I got $1000 out of this habit on a warm autumn evening whose date is hovering above this entry. As I’m currently unemployed and nobody’s spending that much on my eBay auctions, *cough* HINT *cough* it’s a nice little pick-me-up. Playing the gifted horse’s mouth game, I must say that I could have used it while in Canada, where that $1000 would buy me a house, a nice car, and a hovercraft with lovely female companion while still having enough left over to fill the cellar with fine wines from France. Sure, I have rent to pay and expenses to cover, but at least a couple of hundred will be put towards another trip in the fall.

Job interview tomorrow AM. Think positive thoughts towards me at 10:00 EST, as this is work that involves writing, which is what I think I want to do.

This week’s comics were fairly anemic for me – Sleeper had a few interesting twists, but the new sketchbook from Jim Mahfood was not worth $10, even if I like him an awful lot. Avengers #502? It’s HAWKEYE, GUYS. HAWKEYE DIES! HAWKEYE! The big purple “A” that’s all shattered on the cover? HUGE CLUE.

Whew.

(Oh, I forgot to tell you – Evan Dorkin and Sarah Dyer have a new book from Slave Labor solicited in Previews this month. It’s called Biff! Bam! Pow! and I am ordering you to tell your comics dealer that you want this book. Make a note, damn it, because they’re going to need your shekels – Sarah announced last week that she’s six months along with a baby girl!)

So, I’m at Diesel having a latte, thinking profoundly anti-Bush thoughts along the lines of “How much hurbis does that man have to defy the UN, invade Iraq, then wander onto the floor of the General Assembly and say things like … we respect the men and women of the UN, who stand for peace and human rights in every part of the world… and then tell them, basically to toe the line that we set?” when I hear a snippet of the conversation next to me.

This woman chirps something that ends with “…and then my cat stretched out and laid in the sun afterward!” and laughs. Her companion, dripping of Eau d’homme souffrant un milliard de tortures miniscules sees me rolling my eyes behind her and crooks his lips a small bit in something that might have been a smile.

The female of the duo then launches into another story about A Cat That Doesn’t Like It When She Does Dishes. It may well have been the same feline; I’m fairly sure I don’t care and I’m very sure that his lack of caring was unobvious only to her. His eyes glazed over and he waited until she indicated that the story was over by laughing to break his gaze at the (rather lovely shade of) green wall next to my head and give this slightly overenthusiastic guffaw that reminded me rather strongly of local productions of The Music Man.

The third story about BooBoo Kitty or whatever the hell the foul beast is named starts up and he looks at me. He locks eyes with me and I see it – he wants me to pull the pistol he’s sure I keep in my courier bag and blow his brains all over the assembled crowd.

For once in my life, I am in complete agreement with the NRA. A semi-automatic would ensure he died that much faster and could probably facilitate my escape quite handily. It’s too bad it’d mean that some other schmoe would be stuck with this woman, who’ll add how her cat peed on her blood-splattered clothes or somesuch to this litany.

What if Batman had a really small brain? This may well be the best Batman story I’ve read all year. Make sure you scroll down for Part Two, in which The Joker terrorizes Gotham.

(That’s from some comics blog or another. I dunno. I can’t track these things.)

3 Facts About Toronto, A Large City In Canada:

1. When you meet people, they’re generally very nice and engage you in interesting conversation.

2. Kensington Market rocks. I was happy just people watching and browsing there. Didn’t need to buy a thing.

3. If you win a fight against a Canadian, you can claim their citizenship and make them move to Detroit.

OK, the third one is a lie. Had a wonderful time. Met some great people and spent some quality downtime.

Yes, I’m vague. It’s my vacation, damn it. I brought back snacks, but they’ve been claimed already.

The Authority: Human On The Inside is the brand-new hardcover graphic novel from Wildstorm that features, as the title says, the much-abused-by-editorial-since-September-11-superteam. After managing to piss off the not-George-Bush president, they find themselves victims of an orchestrated attack to tear them apart at the basest level – their emotions. This both works and doesn’t for fans of the Warren Ellis and Mark Millar runs – John Ridley’s script plays with the team deftly and shows all the various facets of their personalities, which really works if you take this as a single graphic novel but treats the team in a way that’s not been done previously. I found this to be a bit disorienting – I’m used to The Authority dropping buildings on the bad guys and partying with abandon with no introspection. Taken on its own, though, it’s handled beautifully and shows that Ridley can write like a mother – there’s not a single dangling plot to be shown, the emotional arcs and beats work perfectly, and every bit of dialogue is believable. Ben Oliver’s art works nicely and manages to tell the story well enough. I personally found it to be a little stiff and not as dynamic as I prefer for my funnybooks but can see how he got the assignment. All in all, worth a look at the hardcover price and worth a buy when it hits softcover in a few months.

Batman In The Eighties is pretty disappointing. While it’s nice to see Trevor Von Eeden get some reprint love, a two-part Batgirl story wherein she battles the Velvet Tiger? Uh. “The Messiah of the Crimson Son” from Batman Annual #8, while not my favorite story, at least has Batman battling larger than life odds and not some chick in a fuzzy kitten costume. Including two stories reprinted in The Greatest Batman Stories Ever Told and its Joker companion seems silly, but printing only the first part of a Don Newton pencilled two-parter with the Penguin is just asinine. At least they had the good sense to include that Wrath story from Batman Special #1 with gorgeous Michael Golden art and any chance to get a Mike Barr / Alan Davis Detective issue on good paper is appreciated. I found the well-written text pages to be terribly frustrating as they kept referring to excellent stories that weren’t available in that volume or any other trade currently available. This is not the primer that I’d recommend to people wanting to see why some many nerds consider the eighties to be the best decade that Batsy had.

Yes, I just called him Batsy.

And, oh yeah, Mark Millar? Toilets covered in excrement are not what I want to see upon opening a comic while biting into a brownie at Diesel. Thanks.

I’ll be in Toronto for the weekend. Be good. I’ll bring back some of those Canadian snacks for you all.

Thanks to living in the Media Future, I know which one, too. Ah, preview books – undermining big comics surprises since…uh…whenever preview books started happening.

Will review the new Authority hardcover graphic novel and Batman In The Eighties tomorrow, when I sort out my thoughts a bit more.

While everyone else is blah blah blahing about the DC Solicits, Ian says what needs to be said:

Nah, I do want that Darwyn Cooke Catwoman book, but it can wait. And I guess if they keep putting out Gotham Central trades I�ll buy them. I suck. But everything else sucks. I�d rather get my eyes poked out by Judd Winick�s cock than read a Batman comic by him.