Tuesday, April 26, 2005
9:22PM
LAWYERS, COMICS, & MONEY
Just finalized a deal to publish my second full-length comic book,
"Gambling In Havana," with an as-yet-unnamed publisher. Art will be
by the damn-fine Jared Bivens, who illustrated my
Western Tales of Terror story last year. This one won't be out before late this
year at the earliest; Jared and I both have to clear some previously contracted
work off our plates (and wait'll you see what he's working on), and we also
have to decide what format we want to publish this fella in. It was written up
as a 48-page graphic novel, but that could change depending on the whims of the
market and the demands of the publisher.
So what's it about? Glad you asked. "Gambling in Havana" is a
crime-comedy in the style of Elmore Leonard and Carl Hiaasen, the story of two
layabout rednecks who sneak into Cuba on a mission to liberate an old man.
(They ain't noble; they've got the hots for his granddaughter.) Deke and Rando
end up doing what nine presidents couldn't--setting off the revolution that
topples the world's longest-running Communist dictatorship. High concept is
"Dukes of Hazzard" meets "Bad Boys," or maybe "The
Bourne Identity" starring Larry the Cable Guy. Here's a look at Jared's
initial cover:
Let me emphasize that to the best of my knowledge, there have been no other
comics called "Gambling In Havana" ever published. And I am
documenting the plotline of my work--work that I created all by myself--right
here, right now, on April 26, 2005. "Gosh, Jay," you may be saying,
"that's an unusual thing to write about a still-in-the-womb project."
Indeed it is. Why on earth would I need to go to these extremes to
verify that I write my own work? Let's just say that the header of this blog
doesn't just refer to the Zevon song from whence sprang the title of my comic,
and leave it at that.
Anyway, "Gambling In Havana." Coming soon to screw up a hemisphere
near you.
2:36PM
PLAYOFFS, BABY!
I love the NBA playoffs. Most of the NBA season is the grind of a bloated,
celebrity-and-Sportscenter-driven league, but when you get to the Second
Season, every game matters and, consequently, the players act like the game is
something more than an endorsement showcase. So I and the other 17 NBA fans in
the country will enjoy the next two months immensely. Herewith, my picks:
First Round
East
-Detroit over Philly. A walk. Iverson can't do it all by himself, Webber is a
shadow of his true self, and Detroit has muscle to burn.
-Boston over Indiana. A six- or seven-gamer; Reggie can't carry the Pacers by
himself every night.
-Washington over Chicago. This is a dubious one; Chicago would cruise if it had
a healthy squad. But if the Wizards' big three can find their stroke, it won't
matter what the Baby Bulls do.
-Miami over New Jersey. Easy. Only thing that would make this series better is
if Shaq stepped on Vince Carter's head. I still think the Raptors'
season-ticket holders should file a class-action suit against him for admitting
he dogged it in Toronto.
West
-Houston over Dallas. I'm cheating here because Houston is already up 2-0, but
between Yao inside and McGrady outside, the Rockets might just overmatch the
Dallas Cubanos.
-Phoenix over Memphis. Ain't no stopping Phoenix this early, though I love that
Memphis is quickly becoming an elite team. There's hope for the Hawks yet.
-San Antonio over Denver. The Nugs are a nice story, but the Spurs'll thump
'em, probably in five.
-Seattle over Sacto. The Kings ain't got nothin' left. If Denver had reached
this spot, I'd've picked them over the slumping Soniques, tho.
Second Round
-Detroit over Boston. A classic '80s matchup, but the Celts have no Bird
anymore, and nobody that can out-thump the Stones.
-Miami over Washington. Wade. Shaq. D.C. Gone.
-Phoenix over Houston. The Suns can run anybody, even the Rockets, out of the
gym. This'll be a great series, but it'll be owned by the Suns.
-San Antonio over Seattle. The easiest of the second-round wins. I'm still not
convinced Seattle's got what it takes to hang here.
Conference Finals
-Detroit over Miami. The Pistons locked down Shaq in LA last year, and they'll
do it in SoBe this year.
-Phoenix over San Antonio. I bet on San Antonio in this year's Busbee
Championship Series (I'll explain that another time), so I badly want the Spurs
to win. But Phoenix is having a magical season.
Finals
-Phoenix over Detroit. Pray the Spurs don't win; San Antonio-Detroit could be
the most boring Finals imaginable. The Pistons can throw anybody around the
court--as long as they catch 'em. Phoenix is just too damn fast. Suns in six.
1:42PM
IDIOTS ON PARADE
Couple of interesting tidbits here from the news:
-Slate.com has an interesting piece right here about the too-cute wave of
commercials now filtering across the airwaves. I'm a tv junkie, but I don't
watch a lot of commercials--either because I'm addicted to HBO or because I
blow right past them at warp speed--God bless you, Comcast TiVo-knockoff. But I
gotta agree with the premise of this piece--that the wack-ass commercials for
Quizno's, Skittles, and Burger King, among others, are just too damn willfully
strange for their own good. Absurdity for the sake of being strange isn't
artistic, it's manipulative at best; just plain stupid at worst. My sister
Stacey loves this kind of stuff, but I hate ironic cutesiness, whether it's in
Wes Anderson films or burger joint commercials.
-And from the "Call us when you have kids, jackass" file, we have the
diaperless babies movement. I'm not
entirely certain this isn't a big hoax, but even if it is, it illustrates how
far the Green movement has fallen that something like this could be seriously
attributed to their cause. Briefly stated: the proponents of diaperless babies
say that we need to get rid of the vast mountains of diapers clogging our
nation's landfills, and we can do that by watching our babies' faces and
actions to be able to tell when they're ready to take a leak or unload some
freight, and get them over a toilet, bucket, shrub, whatever. Diapers are a
symbol of the tyranny of creature comforts, or some nonsense like that. (Bubonic
plague being, I guess, more legit because it's not made by evil capitalist
hands.) This is so far beyond absurd it's good for nothing but a laugh. (How
can something be both "retro" and "cutting-edge," anyway?)
I particularly like the idea that parents can carry a "tightly-sealed
bucket" to take care of business in public. And you thought catching
someone breast-feeding was bad...The more I think about it, the more I really
hope this is all bull, because I'd hate to think I share a planet with people
so far out of touch with practical reality. And we wonder why our kids are so
soft and weak, physically and intellectually--they've got parents willing to
literally cater to their every whim.
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
3:43PM
SUNDOWN IS COMING
This July sees the release of SUNDOWN, my western/horror comic series. It's
published by Arcana Studio, who's put up a mini-site right
here. There, you can see the first two covers. Also, please
visit the SUNDOWN Forum by clicking here --stop by and say howdy.
I've clipped the following FAQ from the forum and enhanced it a bit with
questions for you non-comics types. Enjoy, and get ready...
-So what's SUNDOWN all about?
SUNDOWN is a three-issue comic series; the first issue hits this July. It's the
story of two brothers in 1880s Arizona who find themselves on the front lines
of a war for the soul of a small town...and with it, America itself.
Will Dalton, a reporter for the New York Times, heads west to investigate a
string of preacher killings. He's assuming that this will be the story that
makes his career. He's also assuming he can descend into the depths of the
West...and return unscathed.
Clay Dalton, Will's older brother, is sheriff of the small Arizona mining town
of Sobrante. Sobrante is a husk of a town; its once-promising silver mine has
played out, and it stands dead center of the territory where preachers have
died in horrific ways. When Clay and Will begin investigating the murders, they
find themselves fighting enemies beyond belief.
But, then...just because don't believe in something doesn't mean it's not
coming for you.
-Wait, so it's a comic book? So it's, like, kiddie material?
No, no, and no...for those of you who don't currently read comics, assuming
they're all brightly-colored superhero books for kids is like assuming all
movies are badly overinflated Saturday Night Live skits. (It only seems that
way.) There is, quite literally, a comic that could appeal to every single
person who's ever read a book or seen a movie in their life; most of the best
comics don't have a guy in a cape anywhere near 'em. The problem is that for so
many years, a combination of factors--not the least of which is hardline comic
book fans who are exact duplicates of the Simpsons' Comic Book Guy--has tainted
comics' image. But now, with movies like Sin City hitting big, comics are
(hopefully) turning something of a corner in public perception. Do your part to
bring comics back to the mainstream--buy my freakin' book!
-Easy there, hondo. I ain't on board yet. So who are bad guys here?
That'd be telling, but you can get an idea just by looking at the title. And
even if you do figure that out, well--let's just say that sometimes the bad
guys don't always play by the rules they should.
-Who's behind SUNDOWN?
The artist and co-creator of SUNDOWN is Ryan Bodenheim, winner of the 2001
Wizard "Draw Wolverine" contest. Ryan has also drawn a couple issues
of Black Panther, and has an astonishingly emotive, detailed style that's going
to nab him some more big-time gigs very, very soon. His portfolio's online at http://www.geocities.com/rbode777.
Colorist on SUNDOWN is the estimable Ray Dillon of Golden Goat Studios. Ray's
worked with many of the best in the business, and his work graces books such as
Noble Causes, Phantom Jack, Dodge's Bullets, and Nightmare World. See more of
the multitalented Ray's work at http://rayd.goldengoatstudios.com.
And then there's me. You know everything you need to know about me from reading
this site, buddy. Anything else, I start charging.
-How'd the series come about?
Way back in the dark days of 2004, I pitched an idea for a short story to a new
anthology series called Western Tales of Terror. WToT editor Josh Fialkov dug
it, and it saw print as "The Deserter" in the series' first issue.
Josh asked if I had anything else in mind; I set to thinking about it, and came
up with the idea that eventually blossomed into SUNDOWN. So, sorry, Josh--I
kept this one for myself.
But I needed an artist. After trolling the usual artists' hangouts online, I
came across Ryan Bodenheim's name. I dropped him a line, pitched him the basic
idea of the book, and in a fit of insanity he came on board. A few months
later, we hooked up with Sean at Arcana, and later Ray at Golden Goat, and the
rest...well, the rest you'll see for yourself in Issue #1.
-Okay, so it's a comic book. When do they meet Spider-Man?
In Issue #4.
-Why the West?
Why not? Is there any era of American history cooler than the Old West? You
don't see little kids playing hippies and pigs, do ya?
Seriously, it's a happy confluence that SUNDOWN is hitting just as interest in
the West is hitting one of its periodic high-water marks. I think you can tell
a lot about a time by whether they revere the westerns of John Wayne or Clint
Eastwood. The '80s were the time of the Duke; we are now most definitely in the
world of The Man With No Name.
But there's a deeper reason why SUNDOWN takes place in Old Arizona, and
specifically 1880. The 1880s were the tail end of the era we think of as
"The West." The day of the cowboy was ending. The U.S. government had
just about run all the Indians west of the Mississippi onto reservations or
into the ground. An era was ending, and whatever came next would belong to the
men with the foresight-and the guts-to grab it by the throat.
(It was also right around the time that a certain well-known book about a
certain Eastern European monarch was first published...but that couldn't have
anything to do with this, could it?)
-I'm sold! How do I get me a copy?
Well, that's where the comics/movie analogy breaks down. Whereas with a movie,
you could just show up and see it at your local googolplex, with a
comic--particularly a small-press comic like this one--you've got to order it
in advance. Watch this space; in the next couple weeks I'll post exact
instructions on how to wrangle yourself a copy.
Thanks, as always, for your support. More info to come very soon!
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
4:29PM
TREAT IT LIKE POPE ON A ROPE
'CAUSE THE BEATS IN THE LINES ARE SO DOPE
So we got us a new Pope. Salud, Pope "Don't Call Me Eggs" Benedict
XVI! I shall now boldly peer seven hours into the future and predict that Leno,
Letterman et. al. will joke that:
-Al Gore is calling for a recount.
-Pete Rose garnered five percent of the vote as a write-in.
-South Florida delegation voted for Pat Buchanan by mistake.
-Michael Jackson was disappointed when he learned "little white
puffs" didn't mean what he thought it did.
-Cardinals wrapped up business in time for homestand vs. Mets.
We'll see how I do.
(And on a serious note, here's hoping--but not expecting--that the new guy will
do what religious leaders are SUPPOSED to do--build bridges, not fences.)
Monday, April 18, 2005
7:10PM
PIMP ALLEY: EVERYDAY COSMIC
Way back in 2003, Marvel Comics launched this little publishing initiative
called "Epic Comics." The idea behind it was that Marvel would open
its doors to writing and art submissions from the comics community at large--an
astonishing opportunity on the level with the Yankees offering a possible
roster spot to anybody who could fit in a uniform. It seemed too good to be
true, and indeed it was; after much hype, Marvel pulled the plug on the program
with only one issue ever published. The pervasive editorial, creative, and
bureaucratic fumbling of Epic left a bad taste in a lot of people's mouths, and
with good reason. But that's a topic for another day. I pitched a couple of
ideas to Epic, and made it as far as the second round of consideration--the
editors liked the ideas but wanted the execution sharpened--before the whole
thing was taken out back and shot.
While Epic was revving up, a bunch of writers congregated at the X-Fan Forums
and dissected the many mixed messages that Marvel and its editors were putting
out. (In retrospect, I think most of us knew in our hearts that the program was
doomed from the start, and the constant zigs and zags by the editors only
confirmed that.) But while I was on the forums, I met a couple cats who I could
tell were bringing a little something extra to the table--by which I mean their
stories weren't of the "Wolverine fights, like, this kick-ass undead robot
super ninja monkey" variety. One of 'em was Jason
Rodriguez, who's since become one of the hottest young editors
in comics. His hysterically funny Wonder Years-meets-Ron-Jeremy blog, which
I've pimped here before, is must-reading.
The other guy who's shaken off the ashes of Epic is my man Jorge Vega, who's as
talented a writer of funny, resonant adolescent angst as I've ever seen. Check
out his webcomics "Everyday Cosmic" and "Big Toe" at Everyday
Cosmic, a damn slick virtual studio. The situations are
high-concept--superheroes and Bigfoot--but the young characters are
fully-rounded and blissfully free of that mindless smart-assery that lesser
writers cling to. Jorge's also got a couple "real-world" comics
coming out next year--"Zoo" from Arcana Studio, and "The
Coat" from--well, nobody yet, but it's gonna get snapped up in a
heartbeat. If there's any justice in the world, your kids are going to be
reading Jorge's comics, playing video games based on his stories, and standing
in line for the "Zoo" movie sometime in 2008.
Put "Everyday Cosmic" on your weekly favorites list--it'll remind you
of your middle-school days in all the best ways. And if you happened to have a
superhero for an older brother or frequent encounters with shaggy monsters of
the forest, hell, it'll seem like a family album.
Sunday, April 17, 2005
2:35PM
BEN THERE, DONE THAT
Interviewed Chicago Bulls guard/assassin Ben Gordon last night for a piece I'm
writing for the Chicago Sports Review. It's a shame that an athlete who answers
questions thoughtfully and looks you in the eye when he speaks is cause for
mild celebration, but, absurdly enough, that's what I was feeling after talking
with Gordon before the game. He's soft-spoken--his college coach once called
him "Gentle Ben," and it wasn't a compliment--but I don't think he
laid a single cliche on me, which in itself is a minor miracle. Gordon's an
interesting story because he's a backbreaker--he comes up huge in crunch time,
with more double-digit fourth quarters than anybody in the game this season,
which is flat-out amazing for a rookie.
Oh, and the Hawks suck. Man, I feel so bad for those guys, but they just don't
have the talent to hang with other teams in the NBA. They went up by 19 points
early in the third, but then surrendered to a 61-to-21--no, there's no typo in
there--run by the Bulls. I can sympathize with the failure to hold the big
lead--my biggest weakness in both poker and tennis is my inability to swiftly
dispatch the other dude when I'm way out in front--but man, there's no excuse
for being on the low end of a 40-point differential in a single half.
And to top it off, Hammer was the postgame entertainment. Didn't the fans
suffer enough?
Thursday, April 14, 2005
7:19PM
RANDY ST. CLAIRE IS THE
MOTHERF'N MAN
Been a little while since I updated this baby...secret missions and all that. I
did knock out a couple articles for Atlanta Magazine, including one on the old
Ramblin' Raft Race--this was a festival of drunken hedonism that pretty much
consumed Atlanta throughout the Seventies, with somewhere close to half a
million people gathering at the Chattahoochee River to violate most of the Ten
Commandments several times over.
Anyway, part of being a fulltime writer means that you sometimes have to suffer
through events that others with 9-to-5 jobs get to avoid--things like taking
the boy to a 1:00 ballgame, for instance. Logan and I hit the Braves/Nats game
yesterday, and got there early enough to watch batting practice. As we hung out
at fieldside (see pic below), Randy St. Claire, pitching coach for the
Nationals, came by and handed Logan a BP-used baseball. All the autograph geeks
around us were pissed; Logan, for his part, never even stopped sipping on his
juice box, just extended his hand like he deserved nothing less. The only men
on the field kinder than St. Claire were the Braves pitchers, who were
courteous enough to give the Nats some extra batting practice during the
game--the Braves lost 11 to 4.
Wednesday, April 6, 2005
9:07PM
THE TRAGEDIES OF DIXIE
When I was in high school, I could've been a stunt double for Anthony Michael
Hall in Sixteen Candles. (I had a buddy who, when drunk or stoned, would get me
to say "Can I borrow your underpants for ten minutes?" and would bust
a gut laughing every time.) One of my classmates was a young woman named Mary
Pat Langford, bright-eyed and kinky-haired in that cute '80s Flashdance kind of
way. We were only close in the way that people who spend five years (my high
school started in eighth grade) in the same bio classes, football games, and
folks-out-of-town parties are. But I remember with perfect clarity one chilly
November Friday night in my senior year when our Riverwood Raiders reached the
playoffs. An armada of station wagons left the north Atlanta suburbs and
descended on a stadium in the heart of the city. And that night in the stands,
I found myself sharing a blanket with Mary Pat. Nothing naughty took place,
just a little platonic celebration and some shared hot chocolate. It was one of
those little moments where absolutely all was right with the world.
Fifteen or so months later, Mary Pat was at Ole Miss, a pledge at the Chi Omega
sorority. She and her sorority sisters were participating in a charity
walk-a-thon, walking along a lonely, dusty divided highway in the piney North
Mississippi hills between Batesville and Oxford. A truck driver--I don't know
if he was drunk or just stupid, but I hope he burns--plowed into the walkers.
Five of them died, including Mary Pat. Ten years later, I stood at the monument
that's been erected on the spot of the tragedy. It was one of the most surreal
moments of my life.
I cannot imagine a group of people more revered and sheltered than Southern
sorority girls. And the fact that horror could so casually strike even them seemed
both obscene and, for the South, sadly appropriate. This entry was originally
going to be a review of the book Dixie, by Curtis Wilkie, which--among other
themes--hits on the way tragedy of near-gothic proportions lies just beneath
the surface of Southern life. But it strikes me now that using Mary Pat's story
to set up a book report would be, to put it mildly, disrespectful. So I'll
close off here with a thought and a prayer for Mary Pat, forever young and
beautiful in our memories. We should all be so lucky.
Monday, April 4, 2005
8:48PM
DO YOU KNOW THE WAY-GO TO
SAN DIEGO?
Back in town now from a brief sojourn to San Diego, speaking at an
environmental conference on behalf of Chartwell Information, my longtime
employer. Brother, you want to know anything about solid waste, I'm your man.
Anyway, some highlights from the trip:
--Wednesday afternoon, I dined on fish tacos (NOT a double-entendre, for once)
at the Coronado Brewery. Not that there's any connection whatsoever between the
fine fish tacos and intestinal jihad, but that evening, I felt like I was going
to vomit my kidneys right into the San Diego Bay. I had to excuse myself from
an awards dinner--didn't think projectile hurling would go over too well with
my fellow conference attendees--and managed to recover out at the waterside,
leaving only that telltale line of near-puke/fever sweat across my hairline.
--I stayed at the lovely Carole's Bed and Breakfast near Balboa
Park, where I ran into some honest-to-God Cali granola heads. As I was wearing
conference-appropriate business casual wear--a marked improvement from my usual
ballcap and shorts--they looked at me like I was the soul of all Bush-style
evil. After some snippy PC conversation, I was ready to throw a right (ha!)
cross (double ha!) and bust 'em in their tree-huggin' chops, but then that
would have only cemented their image of me as ultraviolent, misogynistic,
xenophobic Bushie. Ah, well. Opportunity lost.
--Thursday night, I dined on the Pacific Oceanside patio of the lovely Hotel Del
Coronado, a magnificent old hotel that allegedly served as
inspiration for Frank Baum's visions of Oz. There's also apparently a ghost
that hangs around the joint, though we didn't see her. We did see the lights of
Tijuana just down the beach, though, and finally decided that getting busted at
a donkey show just wouldn't be the best way to promote corporate brand synergy.
--Friday morning, still on Eastern body time, I went walking in Balboa Park,
a lush Eden in the center of the city. Stunning views of the skyline, the
mountain peaks jutting out of the ocean, and skies that are the platonic ideal
of blue.
--Cali chicks are weird. They're either absolutely gorgeous silicone-jacked
bims--which, don't get me wrong, ain't bad--or smug, smirking-yet-humorless,
pseudointellectual neo-hippies. They annoy me.
--And now I'm back in the South--mucho thanks to my man Jim for showing me a
great time in the--what the hell is San Diego's nickname, anyway?...Google
search shows it's "America's Finest City." That's just stupid, but
damn, when you're in a place that beautiful, you don't have to be imaginative.
Anyway, later this week, some recommendations and reviews, including an exceptional
book on the recent history of Dixie and a stack of comics that'd be good for
folks who claim they "don't read comics"--like those millions who
went to see Sin City last weekend.
--Oh, and baseball has begun again. Life is right.