10/14/14 - The Best American Comics 2014 (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt)

Alright, son. Let's have a !@#$ing moment of silence, here, as one of the high points of the year has finally !@#$ing arrived. 

What, my shipment of Martian cocaine finally !@#$ing arrived? Son, that's every !@#$ week. This is a much more important event, heralding two things. 

The first being that, once again, we're !@#$ing acknowledging that American comics are reaching the point where they're being considered worthy of critical notice, as opposed to !@#$ you read on the !@#$er, or that your mom tosses in the trash the moment you !@#$ing go to college, provided you don't spend those years living in her !@#$ basement eating pizza, playing Warcrack, and not !@#$ing getting any. 

(And when she finally kicks your fat !@#$ out, they get tossed, anyway, so get a !@#$ing storage space, son. You'll thank me, later.)

I'm just the !@#$ing messenger, son. Don't hate me.

And the second? Seeing what's really !@#$ing good about a particular year's worth of American comics, broken down by actual experts in the !@#$ field. And that would be actual !@#$ing writers and artists {or writer/artists} rather than high-handed academic types who are probably all !@#$ing commies, trying to get you to read Marxist !@#$ that'll make your brains leak out your !@#$ ears. 

So what's this big !@#$ event that's got me so !@#$ing excited, son? The Best American Comics, that's what! All those great and worthy strips, stories, web comics, and installments, proudly standing alongside such things as mystery stories, American essays, travel writing, and (my guilty-as-!@#$ pleasure) Nonrequired Reading. 

(There's short stories and sports writing too, but who gives a !@#$. Wake me up when William S Burroughs and Hunter S. Thompson come back from the dead, steal a car, eat mescaline-soaked cockroaches off a clown's raging !@#$, and tag-team a second person narrative about !@#$ing covering the !@#$ Superbowl for USA Today, or something. I'm not too !@#$ picky.)

Together, they fight crime. And sobriety. 

Now, for 2014, we got ourselves a real !@#$ing humdinger, son. For one thing, they have a new series editor: Bill Karatopoulos, who's got the !@#$ing chops and the attitude to prove that he's the one for this job -- go check out his website if you don't !@#$ing believe me. No offense to anyone who's had the pleasure of heading this !@#$ing insane juggling act before, but this is the sort of person we need on this title.

And this year he's joined by the one and only Scott McCloud, who some of us actually !@#$ing remember from Zot! but most of you probably know from such important things as Understanding Comics, Reinventing Comics, and Making Comics -- three works that should be on the !@#$ing shelves of every serious comics fan, and are god!@#$ essential to understanding sequential art as a proper, bonefide art form, as opposed to something you read on the !@#$ !@#$er and... well, we !@#$ing talked about that already.

How do I love these works? Well, let's do things a little !@#$ing backwards, today, son -- SPYGOD Style. 

1) It Shows Me Things I am !@#$ing Glad to See

It's always good to !@#$ing pick one of these up, look through the !@#$ table of contents, and see that this year's guest editor agreed with me on some very !@#$ing important things. McCloud makes a joke about how if Chris Ware, Charles Burns, or Daniel Clowes puts something out in any given year, you can bet your !@#$ it'll turn up in the appropriate Best American Comics, and this time they got !@#$ing two out of three.

"Next time, Inspector Gadget... next time... Muhhahahah"

But aside from (two of) those three gentle, totally !@#$ed-up giants of American comics, there's lots of other things that got printed in that same timeframe (Sept 1st, 2012 to August 31st, 2013) that, having !@#$ing read them, I deeply dug, and hoped to see honored. And this is my reward to myself for having had such excellent !@#$ing taste -- seeing that the likes of Scott McCloud agreed with me. 

(Yes, it's somewhat masturbatory, son, but !@#$ you. I take this !@#$ seriously.)

2) It Shows Me Things I !@#$ing Missed

SPYGOD reads a lot of !@#$ing comics. And SPYGOD knows all. But even SPYGOD does not have the !@#$ing time to read, or be exposed, to every single !@#$ing piece of comic art that tumbles out of America in any given year. The massive explosion of web comics alone makes that !@#$ing impossible, even for someone like me.

(And then there's the issue of whether I !@#$ing understand that what I'm seeing is a !@#$ing comic, and not just some weird thing I ran across online. We'll get into that when we talk about the Kuiper Belt.)

So reading something like Best American Comics is an eye-opener in more ways than one. It constantly exposes me to amazing new !@#$ that I wouldn't have !@#$ing known about unless I saw it there. In that sense, it operates like a lot of modern art magazines: you don't know for sure if that giant !@#$ing toilet you saw walking down the street the other week was a hallucination, a new supervillain, some performance piece gone awry unless you know the right people, or just an out-of-season Halloween costume. But if you don't know the right !@#$ people, and don't happen to go to certain !@#$ galleries, the only !@#$ way you're going to learn about that artist's lonely cry against the widespread enslavement and degradation of our porcelain brothers and sisters is if you !@#$ing read something about it.

"Today, 5th Avenue. Tomorrow, MOMA. Suck it, !@#$es!"

And that's what Best American Comics does for me, every !@#$ing year.

3) It !@#$ing Exists, Period

Just that, son. But let me quote Kartalopoulos at length:

"Comics are fortunate to have been included in the Best American series for a number of reasons. For one thing, Comics' ongoing inclusion in a larger project that also recognizes outstanding short fiction, essays, and more reaffirms comics' important and coequal status among culturally significant literary forms. Additionally, while networked technology has wonderfully democratized expressions of opinions, taste, and critical analysis ... the Best American Comics, by virtue of its careful process, lush presentation, and visibility, articulates a particularly forceful notion of critical distinction that, at its best, can elevate the field."

Which is a fancy way of saying "You made it. This is proof. Now go make more art."

* * *

Now, as for the overall presentation? This year was especially !@#$ing excellent. I loved having Jaime Hernandez on the cover, and I was thrilled as whipped otter !@#$ to have Raina Telgemeier do the endpapers as, essentially, a perfect two-panel story that's both emblematic of her work and the series as a whole. (When you read it, you'll see what I !@#$ing mean.)

I also really liked how McCloud divided the !@#$ book up. Rather than have one, primary introduction, followed by the selections, which is how just about everyone does it*, he broke the selections down into logical subsections, and then put a separate introduction for each section. So we get a short introduction, followed by smaller pieces for such things as Great Comics are Not a Genre, Memory Boxes, Family Tree, Strange Adventures, and (my favorite name for my least-favorite kind of work) The Kuiper Belt.

And then we have the entries, themselves. Keep in mind that, as you may have !@#$ing noticed by now, I have my own strong opinions on this !@#$. So what they liked, I might not like, and if I don't mention one of your favorite !@#$ing things, well, don't cry. It's in there, after all. 

(And what the !@#$ do I know, anyway?)

Don't shoot, Rob. Someday I'll like your new stuff. Really.

What I am Glad to See:

The Hive, Charles Burns: 

Jesus !@#$ing Christ, son. What else is there to !@#$ing say about this, especially now that Burns has completed this trilogy with the publication of Sugar Skull? The selection they chose for this book really highlights the jumbled-up nature of the narrative -- showcasing the pervasive, thick-as-!@#$ sense of dread that this whole series had leaking from its pores like surreal !@#$ing pus. You probably !@#$ing knew it was going to make it in here, but this portion helps show why. 

Saga, Brian K. Vaughan and Fiona Staples:

At last, an honor worthy of this superior title! If you've been digging Saga all along, I'm sure you'll agree that this portion -- a darkly humorous take on the age-old ritual of meeting the parents -- is as good a piece as any to showcase the writing and art on this work. And if you haven't been reading it, this excerpt from issue 7 will hopefully sell you on the concept. Go grab the first trade paperback and tell 'em SPYGOD !@#$ing sent you. 

Crime Raiders International Mobsters and Executioners, Jaime Hernandez:

You didn't know Love and Rockets was back? Well !@#$, son, where the !@#$ have you been hiding? This story from #5 has all the hallmarks of this brother Hernandez: winsome but !@#$ed-up ladies and gentlemen in search of a better !@#$ situation, who often make bad choices for good reasons (and vice !@#$ing versa), starring in storylines that intersect at weird !@#$ angles and lead to states of emotional, social, and legal confusion. Jaime says he does his best to avoid letting things turn into genre pieces? Read this and you'll see a master of !@#$ing unclassifiable masterpieces at work.

This is me getting you to read Love and Rockets. Don't make me get the gun.

Drama, Raina Telgemeier:

How do you follow up on something as astoundingly good as Smile? You tell a story about a high school drama club, with all its interpersonal ups and downs, romantic entanglements, moments of sexual confusion and discovery, and tiny victories over life, circumstance, and the fact that The Show Is All. There's sweet and saccharine in this graphic novel, which, while it's aimed at young adults, is one of those works that cuts across age lines and reminds us all of what a !@#$ing sweet nightmare our teenage years could be. Just !@#$ing read it, and grab Sisters while you're at it. 

March, Book One, Rep. John Lewis, Andrew Aydin, and Nate Powell:

It's one thing to know that Rep. John Lewis is the last of the American Civil Rights Movement's "Big Six" left alive. It's another to know that, out of everyone who spoke in the 1963 March on Washington -- where Rev. Martin Luther King gave his "I Have a Dream" speech -- he's the only one still walking the Earth. But when I read this piece of his ongoing biographic work (Part 2 comes out January 2015), and saw his first meeting with MLK, as a young man wanting to help desegregate a college? Goosebumps, son -- all the way up and down my @#$ back. That and sadness as I read further, and saw that, when he got home, his parents just didn't dare help him with that part of the journey, for fear of what might happen to their home, their work, and their lives if word got around that their son was causing so much trouble.

It was reading a comic book that got him here, believe it or not.

Some people like to !@#$ing forget that, within a human lifetime, this kind of !@#$ was a concern. Some people want us to forget, because they really don't want to talk about its lasting consequences. And some people think that racism doesn't still impact lives all over the nation. !@#$ them. Read March.

Depression Part 2,  Hyperbole and a Half:

What? You haven't been reading this webcomic? Shame on you, son. In addition to being funny as !@#$, it's also filled with the kind of naked honesty you usually only get to hear after someone's had one !@#$ drink too many, and is about to !@#$ all over the bar, shoot the ceiling lamps out, and confess to having shot Abraham Lincoln with time-bullets. And no one needs to deal with that kind of !@#$ just to hear a raw, human confession of being broken, and trying to figure it the !@#$ out.

I've known a whole lot of people with depression in my time. This is, bar none, the best !@#$ explanation I've ever heard. I wish I'd read it ages ago. You'll be !@#$ing glad you've read it now, and gladder still that this amazing writer is getting her due in this series.,

Cul de Sac, Richard Thompson:

Yes, it's a re-run of his previous stuff that just happened to fall within those dates. But you know what? As McCloud readily admits, this teensy little movement of the goalposts is worthy, given that Thompson's excellent work has been so cruelly smacked down by !@#$ing Parkinsons. And his work is truly amazing, heart-affirming stuff. For this collection, they chose the final week's worth of strips, along with a final Sunday that brilliantly encapsulates both comics and the strip, itself. Go buy his !@#$ book and see why we are poorer people for not having this strip in the paper every !@#$ day.

I'd also like to mention, in passing, that McCloud did give some love for one of the big two comic companies by recommending Hawkeye, which is done by Matt Fraction and normally drawn by David Aja. Marvel apparently wouldn't allow Best American to feature a snippet in this year's edition, due to legal !@#$ not worthy of mention here**. But I'm sure you can !@#$ing find a copy and read it.

Speaking of finding copies and reading it, we're on to...

What I Want to See More Of:

 ... where I admit I got !@#$ing blindsided by some awesome !@#$ that, having had a little taste, I now must read in its entirety.

Multiple Warheads, Brandon Graham:

Holy sweet Jesus riding a snowflake into Hell with a machine gun! This is, bar none, some of the trippiest, most creative, head-over-heels weird narratives I've seen in some time -- easily an equal to works like Finder, only maybe more screwy. What could just be a long and deadly trip across a surreal and dangerous future landscape becomes an exercise in massive creativity, wordplay, and worldbuilding. There isn't anything in here that wasn't clearly thought out, and crafted to make me !@#$ing want to know more. Excellent !@#$, son. Truly.

I think I got "gold," son.

Translated, from the Japanese, Adrian Tomine:

I've loved Tomine's work since I read Shortcomings on a lark, and went back to find out where this adept chronicler of racial, sexual, and social hangups in an urban setting had !@#$ing come from. This short little piece of storytelling from the diary of a young mother, taking her mixed-race son to America to meet the father, is something new from him, but his eye for people's strange fixations and reasonable concerns that turn toxic over time is here to see. I think I need to get this issue of Optic Nerve. 

"Mom" from Viewotron, Sam Sharpe:

Goofy anthropomorphisms aside, this one really got to me. The story of a man trying to reconnect with his clearly-unwell mother, and how she starts sliding down the crazy stairs in front of him, is sad and haunting. It's one of those pieces where you read it and then really want to know what the !@#$ happened next, but at the same time are kind of !@#$ing afraid to open up that door. You know it's not going to shut well. Not at all.

August 1977, Nina Bunjevac:

This is yet another one where the piece was so !@#$ing amazing that it's still haunting me. Somehow a story about a would-be bomber's last letter to his family (prior to being blown the !@#$ up) is transformed into a crazy-as-!@#$ hallucinogenic critique on a certain, Eastern European country's socio-religious issues, complete with some very strange visuals. And on top of all that, the art is !@#$ing fantastic.

You don't normally get giant doom-hooters at hate rallies.

Hip Hop Family Tree, Ed Piskor

This one's a queer kettle of fish, son. Speaking as someone who was around when the art form came together, this take on it doesn't quite pass the !@#$ sniff test. But then, it isn't really !@#$ing supposed to, either. It's like Rock & Roll Comics meets Love and Rockets, tossing enough true stories and odd anecdotes into the mix while casting the creators and soldiers of Hip Hop as urban heroes trying to keep it real, pay their bills, and not get shanked by their fans. It's a trip, son, and if you're a music fan you need to be on it.

"Canadian Royalty" from Lose, Michael Deforge

McCloud put this in his Even Stranger Adventures section, and that's putting it !@#$ing mildly, son. A brilliantly brutal and surreal exploration of a Canada you didn't know existed, complete with a fully-realized (and totally OTT) royal family, this selection from Lose is like being given a travelogue of an alien world that exists just north of !@#$ing Montana, and apparently has better TV than we do. Deforge clearly needs to pass me what he's using, because this !@#$ is brilliant.

And you think Prince Charles had it bad?

Hyperspeed to Nowhere, Lale Westvind

At last, we find something in McCloud's !@#$ing Kuiper Belt (as in, really far out there in space) that I actually kind of dug. Usually, I can't get excited by really "out there" !@#$ that melts the standards of the art form, rather than allowing the weird to exist within it (or at least play around with it). But this colorful, hyperkinetic work tickled my inner Jack Kirby enough that I was willing to roll with it, and demand more. I'm sure you will, too.

And by now, I think I've !@#$ing talked this thing up enough. I've got some comics to !@#$ing track down, son. And you have a new book you should check out as soon as possible.

Like now.

SPYGOD's Verdict: Three thumbs up for yet another intriguing showcasing of work from old stalwarts, new talent, and faces we don't see nearly enough of. The new series editor is promising, and McCloud's editorial choices are excellent and well-considered. Like any collection, there will be some things that will astound you, others that bore you, and some that simply defy description, but all of them have something to show why they were judged to be The Best.

The Best American Comics 2014 -- Get it at your local comic store!

* That said, they still have yet to beat Lynda Barry's illustrated introduction for the 2008 edition, which was, as with most things she does, sheer !@#$ing genius. And I'm still !@#$ing mad that DC Comics wouldn't let her put Paul Pope's Batman Year 100 in there, because of stupid legal !@#$. !@#$ you, DC -- in the !@#$ nose.

** And !@#$ you too, Marvel. In the other !@#$ nose. 

10/7/14 - Leaving Megalopolis (Dark Horse)

People often !@#$ing ask me what the worst part of my job is. And I have to tell you, son, there's a lot of !@!# I have to do that's pretty !@#$ing sad and disgusting.

Most days I can just grin and !@#$ing bear it until I get home, have them send up Thai food and ladyboys, and then spend the whole !@#$ evening using every mind-altering substance known to man and Mars to !@#$ing nuke my brain good and hard, until I pass the !@#$ out around 4:47 in the god!@#$ AM... and then get up in less than an hour an a half to do it all the !@#$ over again.

!@#$ you !@#$ you !@#$ !@#$ !@#$!!!!

That's most days, son. But then there are days that I have to !@#$ing answer the Black Telephone.

Yes, son. It's a black telephone. It's big, it's heavy, and it's got a rotary dial. And when that !@#$er rings you can hear it all over the god!@#$ B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G. like it was right next to your ear.

If that mother!@#$ing thing is ringing, it means I have to go do the other, much less pleasant part of my !@#$ing job. It means that someone, somewhere, has had the mother of all bad !@#$ing days and finally snapped. Or maybe it means that someone we thought we knew, and could trust, just turned out to have one !@#$ of a dark secret, or had really been bad all along.

And it means that I need to get the largest gun I can !@#$ing find, put on a black rubber dress, and go kill a superhero.

Eh, don't worry. He's an X-Man. He'll be back.

Yes, it's !@#$ing harsh. Yes, it's !@#$ing sad. But you know why I have to !@#$ing do this, son.

See, when ordinary people !@#$ing break, well, maybe they just sit in a ball and cry, and maybe they off themselves. And maybe, if we're really !@#$ing unlucky, they off a few other people before they go.

But when you're dealing with someone who can !@#$ing fly, throw cars like beach balls, and shoot god!@#$ mind-bullets at people three miles away? Well, son, when they break, they tend to break hard, and take a lot of innocent bystanders with them.

And sometimes I get !@#$ing lucky, and we get advanced warning, and we can talk them the !@#$ down before anyone else gets hurt. But the rest of the time? It's me, a clocktower, and the mother of all god!@#$ sniper rifles, waiting for the wind to break just right. 

Because the alternative really !@#$ing sucks for ordinary folks.

I've had to do it exactly thirty-two !@#$ing times, over the years. I can tell you the names, dates, and exact times I've pulled the trigger. The first one was Johnny Appleseed, on December 18th, 1949, at around 3:39 in the PM, California time. And the last one was Rockethand, on May 12th, 2011, at 4:25 in the PM, also California time.

And whenever I have to do it, I take the !@#$ day off, and go to a special room in the B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G that no one !@#$ing knows about but me. I take a nice photo of the person I just turned into a !@#$ing red cloud from the neck up, and put it on the wall with all the others I've done. And I !@#$ing sit there, the rest of the night, and tell them I'm sorry.

And I do it sober, son, because I want it to !@#$ing mean something. Because it does. Because it should. 

So, as you might guess, I'm pretty !@#$ critical when it comes to tales of heroes gone !@#$ing bad. If you're going to go that route, then you !@#$ well better do it right. Don't start off grim and gritty and turn into a !@#$ing self-parody that goes on way too !@#$ long for its own good. But then don't start off slapstick and go all serious with me at the end, either.

And you'd better !@#$ing show these crazed, broken capes some !@#$ing respect for their pain, too.

Who will weep for these insane, homicidal Supers...?

Luckily for all involved (though not surprisingly, given who's involved) Dark Horse's Leaving Megalopolis handles the matter rather !@#$ing well. It asks what would happen if all the capes in a particular city all went ape!@#$ in the same way, and at the same time, leaving ordinary people trapped in their huge !@#$ing playpen of doom.

The answer is not !@#$ing pretty -- not at all. But it's testament to the writer/artist combination that it doesn't turn into a mega-depressing, soulless survival horror bloodbath or a sappy Hallmark afterschool special with dark moments. I'd expect no less from the creative team that brought me Secret Six for all those wonderful years (until the New 52 went and !@#$ed it all up) but, I will admit that, when I heard about this Kickstarter project, I was a little concerned.

But no worries, son. This is how the !@#$ would go down, if it did go down. And hopefully it never will.

The story's pretty !@#$ing straightforward. The city of Megalopolis, once renowned for all its heroes, is now a !@#$ing horror story. Something black and terrible happened, there, one day, and as a result all the superheroes in town have gone bad. And not the camp and cackling, 1970's Superfriends reverse-Earth superman bad, either, either, but !@#$ing sick, Kid Miracleman, homicidal butchery bad.

Welcome to Hell, Son. Buy a !@#$ing postcard.

There are still people, here in Megalopolis. Some have hunkered down and tried to make the best of a really !@#$ing bad situation, and others have done other, less humane things to get by. But while it's pretty !@#$ing obvious that no one can get out, there are those who still !@#$ing try. 

So this is the story of one group: a small band of people who just sort of come together by !@#$ing accident, and decide they've got to make it out of here alive. It won't be easy, especially since they keep gaining and losing people as they go along. But if they can step carefully, stick to the plan, and avoid making too much !@#$ing noise, then maybe they can escape.

But as hard as they think it's going to be? It's going to be even harder. There's nasty surprises around every !@#$ corner, and some things you just won't believe lurking in the shadows. That and there's really no way they can just tiptoe around some of these superpowered freaks.

Worst of all, the biggest threat to the plan may come from within...

So how do I love Leaving Megalopolis? 2.5 Thumbs worth, Son. And let me tell you the ways, SPYGOD Style:

1) The Writing

I'm just going to !@#$ing gush like an 80's gay boy at his first Frankie Goes to Hollywood concert, son. I love, love, love me some Gail Simone. Girlfriend can do no wrong in my eyes, and when she gets a chance to just let the ball drop, you better get the !@#$ out of the way, because she is taking no prisoners.

All that gush aside? What makes Leaving Megalopolis so good for me is the god!@#$ characters. Any schmuck with a general sense of antipathy for humanity and its social structures, and an understanding of how people !@#$ing break under pressure can write survival horror. But it takes someone who !@#$ing understands how people work to make us actually !@#$ing care.

Better still? It takes someone like Gail Simone, who spent several amazing years making us !@#$ing care about god!@#$ Supervillains to ultimately make us feel something for the heroes gone bad, here. And it isn't just what happened to them, either. There's one very telling moment, close to the end, where you'll feel something pull really !@#$ hard on your heart.

(And if you think I'm going to !@#$ing tell you what it is, you're nuts, son. Just !@#$ing read it.)

2) The Art

Doing supers gone bad is a tough !@#$ing thing. You can't be too "super" or it all gets lost in a post-Kirby scrum, but if it winds up looking like the !@#$ing Walking Dead in spandex, something's lost in translation. Things like Marshall Law and the first Marvel Zombies worked because there''s something more than a little "off" about the art, while the art on The Boys works because Darick Robertson goes for a more realistic direction, which supports the grittiness of the story.

So when I say that Jim Calafiore's work reminds me a lot of Robertson's early work on The Boys, before he started easing up on his detail work? I mean that as a high !@#$ing complement. It makes it all work -- allowing for super-powered !@#$ to co-exist along with more gruesome things, and not seem out of place.

"Stick out your tush / wiggle a bit / give it a push / don't be surprised, you're doing the French Mistake!"

Which is really good, because that helps establish...


3) The Situation

No, not that gel-creamed douchebag from that !@#$ing reality show I refuse to say the !@#$ name of, son. I'm talking about the setting. What's happened in Megalopolis since the !@#$ went down. And what's happened outside the city, too, which becomes really !@#$ing important, later.

Like I said, earlier, people break in funny !@#$ ways. Look at what happens in a city under siege in wartime. Look at what happens when people run out of !@#$ing food, for that matter. People turn into !@#$ing animals, just to survive. And that is never !@#$ing pretty.

Leaving Megalopolis has it all. People who !@#$ing prey upon one another. People who decide to worship their oppressors rather than !@#$ing resist them. People who look the other !@#$ way while horrible things happen, because the only alternative is to be made an example of. And people who, in spite of the consequences, decide they've !@#$ing had enough, and try to get out.

Even if it means they're probably going to !@#$ing die, anything would be better than living there.

I've seen this !@#$ happen before, son, and Simone !@#$ing nailed it. And while she doesn't talk enough about what's going on outside of it (the only reason I had to not give this work Three Thumbs up) we get enough to establish that someone out there made some tough, seemingly-inhumane decisions in order to keep the situation from spreading.

Which is what always !@#$ing happens, if anyone has any !@#$ sense.

SPYGOD's Verdict: Two and a half thumbs up for a harrowing but all-too-human tale of what happens when supermen go off the rails and turn a city into a butcher's playpen. Ace storytelling, dead-on character studies, and excellent art choices keep this from turning into another dreary survival horror piece. I want to see more, but I'm kind of afraid to, also.

Leaving Megalopolis - get the hardcover at your local comic store!

9/29/14 - Sugar Skull (Pantheon)

Now son, as you may well know by now, SPYGOD deals with a lot of strange and crazy !@#$.

I've had to handle weird !@#$ing science, more parallel worlds and alternate timelines than you want to !@#$ing know about, spontaneous apotheosis, sideways reincarnation, rogue pantheons, nasty concepts made flesh, angry angels, bad evil Jesii, two-headed space zebras, and super-tenacious mother!@#$ers who want to force me to answer the !@#$ census.

(I even !@#$ing suckerpunched "Bob," once, if you can !@#$ing believe that. !@#$er had it coming.)

And I bet you can guess where I crammed that !@#$ pipe, too.

But none of that !@#$ can even hold a candle to John. 

Who's John? Well, that's a !@#$ good question, son. I never really knew. No one did. He was el hombre invisible, as he liked to !@#$ing say. There but not, here but gone.

A shadow walking, not even worthy of a real name.

See, John was an Operator. A Grey Man. The sort of person who could take time and space and mix them the !@#$ up like the contents of a drink. Past and future, life and death, he could see them for what they were, hold them in his !@#ing hands, cut them up like paper dolls, and put them back together any which way but !@#$ing lose.

And he said he didn't !@#$ing fear death because he'd already seen it from day one. And it was just the punchline to the joke we tell while we live our life.

He also said he could kill us with his !@#$ typewriter, and I believed him.

Now, is that deep or just !@#$ing clever? I got no !@#$ing idea. He was always saying cryptic, circular !@#$ like that. Talking with John was like doing crosswords while being !@#$ed up on mescaline, drunk on white lightning, and running for your @#$ life.

I met him under strange and dangerous as !@#$ circumstances, worked with him a couple dozen times over the years, and maybe earned the right to call him friend. But then he just sort of !@#$ing vanished one time, leaving a grey hole in our lives.

And as far as we could tell, he'd never !@#$ing been there at all...

Spooky? Son, you got no !@#$ing idea. But every so often I remember just what it was like to get all caught up in crazy, bent reality hi-jinx, and I really !@#$ing miss that warbling, grey-suited, hard-drinking !@#$hole with his echoing telephone line of a voice.

Which is probably why I've been loving the !@#$ing !@#$ out of Charles Burns' latest work, which just concluded with Sugar Skull. This series has been one dark headtrip from start to !@#$ing finish (X'ed Out, The Hive, Sugar Skull) and manages to be a tragically broken love story, a time-looped chronicle of a mental breakdown, a travelogue of a truly alien landscape, and a weird homage to William S Burroughs, bad romance comics, and Herge's Tintin at the same time.

Trust me on this, son -- no one is !@#$ing ready for this kind of !@#$.

I mean, !@#$, son -- I read Black Hole and El Borbah, so I thought I knew what I was !@#$ing in for. But this series threw me for a big !@#$ loop, all the same. It reminds me of Grant Morrison's early "Word and Picture Salad" work on such things as Doom Patrol and The Invisibles, except that Charles Burns is twice as !@#$ing hardcore. And it also reminds of me of Daniel Clowes' earlier, pre-Ghost World work, only twice as hard-hitting.

What's going on? Well... *cough*

See, here's the thing. I can't say too much about what happens in Sugar Skull, because then I'd have to !@#$ing kill you. Or you'd !@#$ing kill me for ruining the surprise. And trust me, son, there are some surprises, here.

But let's go over what we know so far. There's a guy named Doug, who fancies himself an artiste, and has clearly been through the mother of all !@#$ing traumatic breakups with another artiste named Sarah -- involving some kind of nasty injury. But Doug is also Johnny 23, who's a weird-!@#$ Tintin stand-in, trapped in a strange and grisly world where he's trying to get with the new Queen of the hive, but not doing too well in that !@#$ing regard, and having to rely on some creepy, malformed dwarf who's clearly scamming his greenhorn !@#$.

Who's dreaming who? That's hard to tell, sometimes. Everything's all !@#$ing jumbled up like one of those creepy plates of eggs the dwarf wants him to pay for. His dead dad shows up both places, and aspects of Sarah's art keeps coming back to !@#$ing bite him in the !@#$ every time he turns around.

Truer words were never !@#$ing spoken. I'll be over here, drinking to forget.

See, it's clear as !@#$ing glass that something happened, beyond the obvious answer of "boy got his !@#$ handed to him." But because Doug's not ready to !@#$ing face it, yet, we're not quite sure what it is. And Doug and Johnny are doing everything possible to tiptoe around that big !@#$ uncomfortable truth, like a drunk who just can't face up to the fact that he drinks to forget what drove him to !@#$ing drink in the first place...

Got all that, son?

Well, this is where we find out what the !@#$ actually happened, in all respects. And it's a credit to Charles Burns' work that, even if you figured out some of what was !@#$ing going on, either right from the get-go in X'ed Out, or after reading The Hive, the ending smacks you upside the !@#$ skull like a punch you just can't duck, and you're flat on the !@#$ floor not long thereafter.

"He saw death, and death was a psycho with a terrifying haircut."

What I can tell you, however, is why I'm giving this installment of the series three big !@#$ thumbs up, SPYGOD style.

1) The Art

Charles Burns' art has always been astonishingly good. Even when it just looked like crazy weird !@#$ for the sake of being crazy weird !@#$, it was amazing crazy weird !@#$ -- well-suited to the crazy weird-as-!@#$ stories he wanted to tell. (Look at El Borbah if you don't !@#$ing believe me.)

Well, as time's gone on, he's gotten even !@#$ing better. His work's more refined, more defined. Tighter, even. And in a story like this, where we're going back and !@#$ing forth between Normalsville and Whatthe!@#$ Town? It makes the sliding and sudden transitions all the more jarring.

"The way... is shut."

But -- and this is a big !@#$ but, here -- this trilogy has revealed just how good color can make his art. Normally, I haven't minded its absence, because he's one of those artists whose stuff looks !@#$ing great in spite of being black and white (and maybe because of it, sometimes -- I can't really imagine Black Hole being as stark and spooky if it was in color). But the use of a pallete in these three books has really opened up a new world for him. Hopefully he sticks with it (where artistically appropriate, of course!)

2) The Story

Like I said before, this is some heavy !@#$. It takes a number of really odd images, thoughts, and occurrences, and re-assembles them together into a new and darkly-amazing form -- creating a surreal blend of events that have been carefully constructed to make you feel utter, soul-crushing dread sneaking the !@#$ up behind you like a crazy-faced, midget bouncer in a doomed leather bar full of !@#$-gobbling mutants that are one bad 80's song away from using your head as a big !@#$ suppository. 

But you know what? None of that would mean a !@#$ if it wasn't for those two words: "carefully constructed." It's clear to me that there was a big !@#$ plan at work, here -- one that took time and expertise to plan, craft, and then execute. He wasn't just winging this !@#$ on a bender while dodging !@#$ty drivers on those crazy, Pennsylvania hills.

No, son. This was Poe at his desk, writing The Raven. This was Alan Moore writing Watchmen. I would love to have been a !@#$ing fly on the wall while he was scribbling notes and demanding booze. I might have !@#$ing learned something. As for the rest of us, we get the end result, and what a long, strange trip it's been.

Because...

3) The Mercilessness

Here's a thing you may not yet !@#$ing know, son. Fate is a !@#$. You can duck and cover, run and hide. But sooner or later you are going to have to !@#$ing pay for what you've done, or at least face up to it. And on that day, there will be no hiding place.

Especially from yourself.

"Every man has inside himself a parasitic being who is acting not at all to his advantage."

Well, this is proof positive, son. You know how all of Burns' works have a sense that your !@#$-ups are going to come back and !@#$ you in the !@#$ with your own !@#$ shoe? This trilogy has it in spades. And when you finally figure out what's going on... well, we already talked about being laid out on the !@#$ floor, didn't we?

But here's the big !@#$ brilliance of this work -- you can't !@#$ing look away. You know the !@#$ is going to hit the fan but you can't duck to save your life, any more than you could get your !@#$ car off the tracks before the train hits. You are trapped in the merciless machinery of a clock you wound up yourself, thanks to what you've done and left undone.

And here you are, smiling like a pipe-smoking !@#$hole as the pendulum swings to take your head off at the neck...

Brilliant stuff, son. It'll make you think. It'll make you drink. And after you've taken a shower or two to wash off the bad feeling, you'll go and read all three volumes again, just to see what you !@#$ing missed the first time around, or to make sure that one girl is who you think she is. And there's no higher complement you can give someone like Charles Burns than that.

Other than maybe buying his !@#$ books.

SPYGOD'S Verdict: Three thumbs up for a haunting and merciless conclusion to a well-crafted story that's been dragging us through all kinds of brutal but beautiful strangeness for the last four years. Sugar Skull both clears up the confusion, punches us in the gut several times, and deftly showcases Charles Burns' ability to present a vision of suburban life as dark and surreal wasteland, where fate and brutality conspire to make certain no sin is left unspoken for. 

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Speaking of which? You may notice that I end these reviews with a call to go get them at your local comic store? There's a reason for that, son.

You see, big box book stores and the like might sell things like Sugar Skull, or any of the other hardcovers or trade paperbacks that high-rolling publishers and mainstream comics producers might !@#$ out on a regular basis. But only your local comic store is going to carry so-called "underground" and truly independent comics magazines.

And that's mostly because they're the only ones willing to realize that just because something's chronically late, perpetually delayed, and subject to weird adventures in publication and distribution, it's not an unreliable POS, but is, in fact, something wonderful and unpredictable, and worthy of carrying when it actually !@#$ing comes in.

So if if hadn't been for things like, say, Raw, which didn't see the light of day in snooty, big box book emporiums, (Or even Little Professor) but rather decorated the shelves of the sorts of places where skeedy, one-eyed men with rats in their beards got into knife-wielding arguments over whether Miracleman was genius or !@#$, and if Robert Crumb actually had sold out or not, Charles Burns would not have gotten his start, and we wouldn't have something like Sugar Skull to !@#$ up our heads.

You're !@#$ing welcome. Now go get some !@#$ comics, son. And tell Crazy Mike at the Broken Unicorn to feed that !@#$ rat before it eats his other ear, too.

9/22/14 - Prisoner of None - Chapter One: The End of Days (Full Court Press)

So let's talk some more about the !@#$ War, son. 

What? Are you rolling your !@#$ eyes at me, son? You think you heard this !@#$ already?

Well, true, I have stuffed your !@#$ ears full from time to time. We've talked about Supernazis and Japanese Holy Warriors, about what !@#$ing happened to us at Camp Rogers and what really happened the night I !@#$ing killed Hitler. All kinds of !@#$.

But let me tell you about Hiroo Onoda -- the scariest, most dedicated !@#$ing Japanese Soldier ever. 

Imagine this, son. It's back during the War, and the Japanese are sending their people all over the !@#$ Pacific to take and hold territory. So in 1944 they take Hiroo straight out of !@#$ing intelligence school, and send his !@#$ to Lubang, in the Philippines. And they tell him to make !@#$ing sure our forces can't !@#$ing take the island.

So Hiroo gets there, and he's got all kinds of big !@#$ plans. Blow up the airfield, trash the pier... !@#$, blow the !@#$ island off the map if he has to. But the Imperial Soldiers already there look at this fresh-faced kid with his !@#$ orders, and tell him to go pound sand. And since they're !@#$ing higher in rank than he is, well, so much for his orders.

And that's life in the !@#$ Japanese Imperial Army, son. It sucks. Wear a hat.

The propaganda pictures always make it seem more fun than it is.

Well, wouldn't you know it, but in early '45 we eventually !@#$ing make it to their little part of the Pacific. And because these people didn't do what Hiroo was ordered to do, our boys just slide on in and start kicking !@#$ from one side of the island to the other. All over in a few days, really, except for Hiroo and a few other soldiers, who he orders to run for the !@#$ing bushes and not look back. 

Now, Hiroo was intelligence -- sworn to never !@#$ing surrender, and ordered not to take his own !@#$ life. So he and his boys hunker the !@#$ down, wait for the enemy to let down their guard, and then engage in guerrilla actions against the locals. Generally just burning crops and !@#$ing !@#$ up, but they also start shooting it out with cops and farmers, and slowly lose their own men over time. 

Until it was just Hiroo, hiding out in the !@#$ bushes and waiting for chances to strike...

Hardcore as nails to the crotch, son.

Now, the story does have a !@#$ing happy ending. Turns out Hiroo had become something of a walking ghost to folks back home. They knew where he was, maybe, but didn't dare go in after him for fear of getting !@#$ing shot. In fact, it took some would-be explorer to get the !@#$ balls to go into the jungle, face him down, and try and convince him the war was over. And even then they had to fly in his !@#$ing former superior officer to get him to do it.

So that's that, son. 1945 to 1974, he kept fighting the War because no one officially told him he didn't have to, anymore. And that is !@#$ing saying something. !@#$, it'd !@#$ing warm the cockles of my heart if I hadn't spent a bunch of years trying to !@#$ing kill people like him. 

But that's war, son. It's fought by people just like you and me. They sign up, put on the uniform, take an oath, and go fight like !@#$ for the places they call their home. And while you might not like their !@#$ countries, their !@#$ty politics, or what they might do with you when they land on your !@#$ing doorstep, the fact remains that they're no more evil to be fighting you than you are to be fighting them. 

(Let's just not let it get out that I actually !@#$ing said all that, okay? I got an image to maintain.)

That's !@#$ing better. I'll take 50 gross. In black and pink.

Now, you might wonder why the !@#$ I've bent your !@#$ ear about Hiroo, and duty, and the fact that, whatever uniforms we wear on the battlefield, it's all red and white underneath? Well, it's because I have just read the first installment of a comic that is, in my !@#$ing opinion, shaping up to probably be one of the best looks at Wartime Superheroes, and what happens after the war, that I've read in quite a while -- worthy of standing alongside things like All-New Invaders and The Twelve. 

Plus, it's got the mother of all soldiers left out of the loop when his own !@#$ side surrendered, which should sound pretty !@#$ing familiar, right about now...

It's called Prisoner of None, and we are told that it is going to be the saga of Fantomudoragon -- a Japanese Superhero from World War II who, after vanishing at the end of a losing battle, comes back 70 years later and has to make his way in a world he can barely recognize, anymore. 

Not that this was really worth !@#$ing fighting for, son.

Note I said "we are told." So far all we've got is Chapter One to go by. But what a !@#$ing amazing chapter it is. 

We start with Victory over Europe. Hitler is finally !@#$ing dead, Liberty's Seven have triumphed, and an end has been put to the conflict in that theater. That just leaves Japan in the Allies' crosshairs, which means its down to the Japanese heroes known as the Emperor's Sword to stop the oncoming invasion. 

It goes down on Okinawa, and it's pretty much an even match for most of the fighting -- heroes pounding heroes as the battle rages around them. But eventually the Allies' superior firepower brings the fight to a standstill, and all the Japanese can do is die, surrender, or retreat. 

Or double the !@#$ down, sword in hand.

But those words are not in Fantomudoragon's !@#$ing vocabulary, son. So he gathers what few Imperial soldiers he can, gets them to regroup in a cave, and joins them to wait for the inevitable counteroffensive... which, as we know, does not !@#$ing come.

Cut to 70 years in the future, when the cave is stumbled upon by boys playing with Frisbees, and an old and bedraggled Fantomudoragon staggers out into the sunlight...

What's next? Well, that's what we've got. Chapter One is done and available both online and as a print from Sellfy, and believe me when I say you should get the print and subscribe to get updates, because if The End of Days is any indication, this is going to go somewhere !@#$ing interesting. 

Why? Well, let me break it the !@#$ down for you, SPYGOD style.

1) The Art

Saying that the art is perfect for the story might seem like a throwaway review comment, but in the case of Prisoner of None I mean it as the complement it is. David Bednarski's work suits the story so well that I couldn't !@#$ing see any other style really meshing with the tale. 

It may appear to be cartoony -- and, yes, it is -- but the clean lines, lack of cross hatching, and use of color for shade make its presentation highly stylized, almost like a propaganda poster done for the Justice League generation. !@#$, you hardly even see any realistic blood and guts, which should be pretty !@#$ unusual for a post-code, independent title that wants to talk about war, right?

Meanwhile, over in Dynamite's "Tankies" ...

Why does that work? Because the other, more heinous aspects of such a conflict -- like disposable soldiers, racism, and the crazy macho !@#$ that happens when grown men and women put on costumes to fight other men and women in costumes -- doesn't have to complete with people getting turned into !@#$ing hamburger by bullets and bombs.  

And that makes that kind of sad and sorry !@#$ stand out all the more, especially when we actually deal with character interaction...

2) The Ensemble

... which, in this case, is top-notch.

One of the harder things to do in any story where there's a whole !@#$ bunch of regular characters running around is to give everyone face time, and make us be able to register them as distinct individuals who have their own story to tell. It's even harder to make them !@#$ing interesting on such a short budget, as all you can really do is dangle enough threads in front of the reader to make them know just enough to want to know more.

So far, author Vito Delsante is pulling that off pretty !@#$ well, and on both sides of the coin. What could otherwise be a supersoldier circlejerk against a bunch of fungible Japanese supervillains is instead a clever introduction to the series. You can tell right from the !@#$ing bat who's a go-getter, a reluctant warrior, a leader, a !@#$hole, a down-to-earth weirdo, a spooky dude, a braggart, and so on.

We're told that, in Chapter Two, more folks are going to be coming along. I can't wait to see what we'll !@#$ing get with them, especially when the comic has more time to develop them.  (But you can get a preview on their facebook page, along with origin stories of the WWII characters)

3) Japanese Wartime Supers

For some weird !@#$ reason, people don't seem to want to present too many World War II Japanese Superheroes. They're more than happy to make Supernazis until the !@#$ing cows come home, play poker, get drunk, and kick over the !@#$ lantern, but the Eastern edge of the Axis gets real short shrift when it comes to costumed warriors for the !@#$ Emperor. 

Why? I have no !@#$ing idea, son. If I had to guess, it's because, after spending most of the war depicting every Japanese soldier as a yellow-skinned, found-faced, buck-toothed, skinny-eyed man in round glasses with bad mustache choices, most writers and artists are !@#$ uncomfortable putting any of them into a spandex outfit and giving them some semblance of a nationalistic name for fear of bringing up old racist tropes, or the like. 

We'll call him "Go The !@#$ to Work Man"

Well, I am very happy to say that Prisoner of None is not incarcerated (*cough* sorry) by that fear, and is !@#$ing happy to show us some Japanese wartime heroes. Better than that, they've given us actual heroes, as opposed to creepy supervillains whose antics are adored only by the fearful, the brainwashed, and enemy soldiers sworn to obey any nasty !@#$ in a flashy costume who's on their side in these things.

Maybe the Japanese is a little off*, and maybe some of the concepts seem a little !@#$ing awry. But they all have a little grain of individuality to them that makes them !@#$ interesting in their own right.

And !@#$ it, son, let's not mince words: these are heroes I can believe in. Men who either stumbled into strange circumstances, or else volunteered for them, and came out the other end ready to give their all for flag, land, and people -- just like Hiroo Onoda, out in the jungles of Lubang.

I was happy to see them there. I'm sorry to see them go. And I hope I'll see more of them, or their descendents, when Chapter Two arrives. 

SPYGOD'S Verdict: Three super-enthusiastic thumbs up for what's promising to be a magnificent look at what happens when warriors leave a war only to come into a peace they can't imagine, in a world they can't recognize. Deceptively cartoonlike art and a keen ability to do an ensemble piece transform what could be just another tale of wartime gods beating on each other into a work that is both compelling and intriguing. 

Prisoner of None - Chapter One: The End of Days - read it online or buy it at Sellfy!

* "Phantom Dragon" should really be Rei Ryu, for example. Maybe they named him that to strike fear into the Emperor's enemies?