7/2/14 - Three-Fisted Confession, Statement of Intent, and Invitation to Eat It

I often say confession's good for the soul -- especially when you don't have to stick a big !@#$ gun up someone's nose to get it.

So, in this day and age of this hero's 70th anniversary, and that one's 75th, and so on, I have a confession to make. It's one that you might not be entirely surprised about, given who I am and what I do. But, just in case you're wondering where I stand on so-called comic books?

Well, son, once upon a time, I really did not give two flaming bags of dog!@#$ about comic books of any kind.

I mean, sure, we had them, back when I was a kid. That was back in the 20's and 30's, when some of the original masked men books were hitting the stands, and then thugs and mad scientists. Buck Rogers, The Phantom, Flash Gordon, and Tarzan were in the !@#$ing strips, and you had Batman and Superman in their own books, along with the original Sandman, Blue Beetle, and Human Torch. !@#$, even that Namor douche was around back then, if you can believe that.

 Buck Rogers: Making men feel inadequate since 1929

Yeah, we had all kinds of crazy comic books, but I didn't !@#$ing need them.

See, while other kids were grooving to masked men and dangerous detectives, I was looking through the papers to see what my real life hero, The Owl, was up to over in Chi-Town. And while my brothers were rooting through the trash to find old newspapers and tossed-out books, and being set upon by our neighbors' man-eating doberman, who wasn't happy to have his trash messed with, I was putting clips of The Owl's exploits into a scrapbook, along with my really !@#$ty drawings of him.

And I read them over and over again, like some kids do with comics. Because The Owl was !@#$ing real, and exciting, and seemed a !@#$ of a lot better than those other morons my brothers were !@#$ing gaga over.

So, yes, son, that means I totally !@#$ing missed out on those comics that everyone wishes they had a copy of. The super-rare, uber-valuable ones that could have eventually used to buy a god!@#$ manmade island off the coast of Dubai and populate it with katoeys and cockatoos, and still have some bucks left over for a Fiat.

!@#$ son, I held a copy of the first issue of Action Comics in my !@#$ hands, and tossed it over my shoulder because I thought it was a snore. 

I did kind of get the last laugh, though. When I and my brothers went off to war, my mom threw away my brothers' comic books. But she kept my Owl Journal, because she thought it was !@#$ing cute.

(I gave it to the Owl family as a gift, decades later, as a "thank you." It burned along with the Owls Nest, sadly.)

But that was back before people thought there just might be something to this "comic book" thing, other than turning kids into gay truant scofflaws and undermining their GPA. Back before anyone thought to say that a complete story, or at least a compilation of 4 to 12 issues, might be called a "graphic novel."

And back before people were willing to say that a "graphic novel" might be a perfectly !@#$ing legitimate way to tell a story, using the unique strengths of the medium to do what ordinary prose cannot accomplish.

 "Go ahead. Dis Love and Rockets one more time, you 

snooty traditionalist. I dare you. I double dare you!"

Now, I was once one of those scoffers, son. I had nothing but scorn for those paper things my brothers couldn't !@#$ing afford, but somehow got their hands on, anyway. And every !@#$ time they went trashcan-diving for comic gold, and the doberman pounced from nowhere to bite them on their !@#$es, I laughed like a man possessed.

But one day, I had the opportunity to discover just how !@#$ing important these comic books could be.

You've heard me !@#$ing go on about dimensional travel at some length, I'm sure? Well, don't do it, kids. It's not !@#$ing fun. You wind up on the other end of a really weird!@#$ looking glass, when you're wandering around someone else's Earth, and no one !@#$ing wants you there, anyway.

It's like being a germ in someone's bloodstream, son. The whole !@#$ landscape wants you gone. Everyone acts like they do in that one movie where Howard Hughes is leading Kitty Pride around his mindscape, and all his subconscious people start walking into her.

Imagine every cop thinking you're a criminal, every bully thinking you're a victim, every victim thinking you're a bully, and every 60-year-old grandma with a sixgun in her purse thinking you're looking at her... punk.

 Slowly, Clark began to realize this was not a surprise party.

But you know how this business works, son. Accidents can and do happen. And this one time I got blown over into a world that was a near copy of ours... mostly.

I mean, the Presidents were mostly the same, mostly, except that Jack Kennedy was shot, and that worthless streak of Texas cow!@#$ he had for a Veep was the President for a while. But the countries, the history, the culture, all pretty much bang on.

However, there wasn't a single real strategic talent or super villain to be found anywhere. They weren't real, except for a few morons who wanted to dress up like !@#$ing Batman, and then get busted for public intoxication and trying to off one another for Jesus.

No, son. All the heroes you see every day, here? All the villains and criminals and vigilantes and licensed heroes? They were all in comic books.

And I had my own !@#$ing title, all to myself.

Now, I'm sure you can !@#$ing imagine what was going through my head when I walked into a friendly, local comic book store and saw myself, staring back at me. Not only did that throw me for a !@#$ing loop, but it made me want to read every !@#$ issue they had on hand.

And then it made me want to !@#$ing cry, son. Big !@#$ tears. And shoot up half the !@#$ place, too, though I held off and just did that at the !@#$py hipster bar next door, instead.

(Hipsters seem to be a cosmic constant, like Jim Morrison and Jesus Christ.)

Why, you ask? Because while it was !@#$ing me, and the things it talked about did !@#$ing happen, they got the details wayyyyyy wrong.

  Thankfully, not this !@#$ing wrong. 

Things were just... off, son. Kind of like when your parents are telling a story about something that happened during your childhood, years ago, and they're getting things !@#$ing wrong?

And there you, saying "No, mom. It wasn't Bill from up the block who got caught stealing Joe's sister's underwear off the line. It was Roger from two streets over. And he wasn't my friend, he used to give me wedgies and steal my lunch money. Remember?"

And your mom's just shaking her head, and saying "No, it was Bill. I told you not to play with Bill, and that's why."

And there's no point arguing with mom, now is there? Even when she's wrong, she's right.

Well, I think my mom wrote those issues of SPYGOD: THE DRUNKEN GUNS OF LIBERTY. The details were shaky, the dialogue was !@#$ing shot to Hell.

And then art... oh son, don't even !@#$ing get me started on the art. My !@#$ing cat does better likenesses in his litter pan after a hefty, steaming, vodka-infused !@#$.

I managed to make it out of that crazy, heroless nightmare of a world without Talia Al'Ghul tying me to a !@#$ing train track, and I brought home one of those issues of my comic book. I put it up behind glass, and hung it down the hallway with all the heads. And when visitors to The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G. came by and asked, I'd just smile and say "!@#$ you, you don't want to know."

Because they really didn't.

But that made me respect the art and craft of the comic book a whole lot more, right there. Just knowing that there was some real art and craft to it. That the choice of a word, or the tilt of a panel, or making sure not to use the person you're currently !@#$ing as your artist (unless they really are that good) can make the difference between some piece of !@#$ and a modern epic.

In that vein, I've decided that, since time is short and money is tight for most of my fans, it might be a nice thing for me to review comics for you. After all, I am uniquely qualified, having been a god!@#$ cartoon character most of my adult life. I've been places that four colors can't take you, done things you won't see in flashbacks panels, and broken down the fourth wall enough times to know that there's even a !@#$ fifth wall, out there.

I've seen it and done it, son. And now I've read it, and want to pass my judgment onto you.

So here we are: you, me, and a whole bunch of comics, graphic novels, maybe even a real book or two. We'll laugh, we'll learn, we'll get drunk and read like mother!@#$ers.

And maybe we'll all be happier in the end, for having brought out the good in the medium, and avoided the bad. Especially when the bad looks like !@#$ing cat !@#$ with guns, an eyepatch, and a smile.

Don't like it? Eat it. But this train's heading out, drunken guns and all.

You're welcome