Tuesday, May 24, 2005
8:53PM
MEDIA
BLITZ
Couple more hits in the media today. First off, Silver Bullet Comics ran a nice
SUNDOWN: ARIZONA interview with me; check out "Firing Rounds With Jay
Busbee" by clicking here. Next, the Atlanta
Journal-Constitution highlighted my Atlanta magazine article on the late, great
Ramblin' Raft Race; see that by clicking here and scrolling down a bit.
This issue of Atlanta--which, incidentally, has named me a contributing editor,
which is cool--also features "Fuzzy Yellow Bloodlust," my tale of my
tennis temper tantrums. (The actual articles themselves will be posted at right
once the magazine itself is off the stands.)
5:25PM
NEW
GONE YARD: WHAT THE NBA HAS IN COMMON WITH YOUR EX-GIRLFRIEND
And no, it isn't the triple-digit scoring. Well, not JUST that. Check out the
new GONE YARD by clicking here.
Sunday, May
22, 2005
8:39PM
ROCKIN'
THE 'RAMA
SUNDOWN: ARIZONA has hit the big time, media-wise, with this article in Newsarama, the preeminent
comics news site on the Web. Check it out--five points if you recognize my
"huckleberry" reference.
Thursday,
May 19, 2005
8:10PM
NEW
YORK STATE OF MIND, PART 2
Continuing my look back at our 1997 New York City marathon; scroll down for
Part 1.
So it's race morning, November 2, and Annie and I leave the hotel and walk the
half-dozen blocks to the NYC Public Library (you know, the one with the lions,
where everybody hid out in The Day After Tomorrow). There, we're loaded onto an
armada of luxury touring buses and hauled out to Staten Island. It's an
incongruous picture. A November morning in Manhattan gets pretty damn cold, but
you're going to be spending most of the day running, so you can't exactly pack
a parka. Most everyone opts for disposable clothes; some buy five-dollar
sweatshirts at the Wal-Mart, while the cheap bastards wear garbage bags. And we
all STINK already...that peculiar combination of Ben-Gay and nerves that
characterizes every race everywhere.
Once we reach Staten Island and are basically dumped at the foot of the
Verrazano Bridge, you can add a new aroma to the olfactory stew--the stench of
human waste. You pack 25,000 people into one small holding pen, you'd damn well
better have some serious toilet facilities. And they do--a marvel of
Archimedean engineering I imaginatively dubbed the "piss trough."
Like the name says--it's a trough that must run half a mile long down toward
the river. (East? Hudson? Hell, I dunno.) Anyway, as you might imagine, you
REALLY want to get as uphill as possible on the trough; I shudder to think of
the tidal waves that are gaining speed the closer you get to the bottom of the
hill. (Where does it empty out? Hey, who knows?)
Oh, and this is only for the dudes. The chicks get the Hobson's choice of
waiting in a mile-long port-a-potty line or squatting by the fence, covering
their nethers with a garbage bag or poncho. (Covering from the view of other
runners, that is. For anyone passing by on the bridge, it's Full Moon Fever.)
Jeez, I just wasted a hundred words on peeing. Anyway, we got out to the race
start site a couple hours before the race even began. We were smart enough to
bring magazines to read, and I still remember reading a Vanity Fair article by
Seymour Hersh on the Kennedy assassination that did a fine job of distracting
me from the fact that my knee felt like my patella was about to pop off and
skate across the pavement like an air-hockey puck. We got to within 45 minutes
of race time, and decided to pay the facilities one final visit--yep, back on
the pee topic--and it was there that Annie had a fateful meeting.
Seems a television producer from ABC's World News Tonight was looking for a
runner who averaged an 8-minute mile. Annie volunteered me. (What a champ.)
There was this old dude who was running his sixty-fifth marathon or something,
and ABC wanted a runner to run alongside of him and get some in-race shots.
Fine by me. They introduced me to this old fella, hooked up a contraption that
involved Buddy Holly-style glasses (the lens was in the bridgepiece) attached
to a tiny VCR that I carried on my hip.
While we were waiting for the race to start, the ultrahip producer and I
chatted. "Memphis?" she said when I told her where I was from.
"I always wondered...what do people DO down there?" A number of
sexist, racist, and mean-spirited replies came to mind; I think I settled on an
innocuous "Same things you do, but for half the cost." (Hey, I was
friggin' nervous about the race. My A-game wasn't on.)
So the race begins, and the producer and her cameraman are good enough to get
us in the background of a shot focusing on the old guy as he starts the race.
The producer called my folks, they ran a tape, and I've still got it buried
somewhere in the basement along with that drifter...again, another story.
But then, our problems begin. See, you wouldn't think it, but the Verrazano
bridge is freaking two miles long, and it's a LONG slow uphill to the crest.
We're cruising along, I'm trying to keep the old dude in front of me for his
close-up--and HE STARTS WALKING. I turn around, and the balloons of the
starting line are what seems like forty feet back. And he's walking ALREADY?
Within moments, we are literally among the VERY LAST RUNNERS in the race, with
the sweepers--ambulances with sirens flashing--following behind, ready to pick
us up if we drop behind further.
Annie and I exchange some extremely nervous and angry looks; I'm sure the producer
looking through the tape was happy to see Annie snarling "What the fuck is
this guy DOING?" We "encourage" our charge to pick up the pace a
bit, and we descend into Brooklyn. Now, I have no idea what ANYTHING is in
Brooklyn, but it was a damn cool sight, running down the middle of--some big
street or other, with crowds six deep cheering us. And then--we're a whole
THREE miles into a twenty-six-mile trek--our old dude decides he's going to
take a leak. (Yes, AGAIN with the pee stories.) We duck into a service station,
then WAIT IN A FREAKING LINE to use the bathroom. (Inside the bathroom, I take
care of business--Number One only, but with full rearrangement--forgetting that
I'm wearing a camera. I guarantee that footage is still being sold somewhere on
a Pakistani streetcorner.)
So we reach the five-mile mark, which is where the ABC crew was to meet us to
take back the camera equipment. They've got a cameraman there to catch another
angle on our old guy's progress. And they call out to me to see if I want to
follow him another five miles, and viewers of World News Tonight that night got
a clear view of me in the background saying "HELL NO," mercifully
with the sound muted.
So our old cat is gone, and Annie and I set about busting our asses to make up
some time. We cruise past some sort of big old tower in Brooklyn around the
eight-mile mark--my Brooklyn contingent knows what it is, I'm sure--then cruise
into Queens, where we spend an inordinate amount of time running around
warehouses and other French Connection-era-looking locations.
Annie and I have very different styles of running. She's quick out of the gate
but tends to slow down after ten or so miles. I'm almost the exact opposite;
the first four or five miles are hell for me, then I settle into a groove and
can go forever. Today, we reach the Fifty-Ninth Street Bridge (where, an hour
behind us, our old guy will give up the race) just as a rainstorm starts to
kick in. Climbing that bridge is a wet hell; even though we're on the lower
level, rain is still pelting us sideways. Annie is bone-weary, but in one of
the signature triumphs of her life, keeps running up that bridge even as people
all around her are stopping to walk. We crest the summit of the bridge and
descend onto First Avenue in Manhattan, and feel as good as we've felt all day.
Now, it's only ten miles to go.
We cruise down First Avenue toward the Bronx. Just before crossing over into
the fifth borough of the day, we stop to get some water and bananas. We decide
to shed the last of our sweatshirts and sweatpants, and Annie looks to give one
to a little kid who's wandered over. Unfortunately, his buddies seem to take
this as a cue that Annie's having a yard sale, and descend on her, pointing at
her CD player--"You givin' this away?" Race officials run off the
kids, and we run off ourselves.
The race doesn't spend a whole lot of time in the Bronx. As we're crossing back
over into Manhattan, I shoot a double bird over at Yankee Stadium, the memory
of the Braves' '96 World Series collapse against the Bronx Bombers still
painfully fresh. We're now on into Harlem, pumped along by gospel choirs on the
front steps of churches, and cross 110th Street feelin' fine. And then comes
Central Park.
The park is one of the city's landmarks, and it's certainly welcome to see the
green after all the skyscrapers, but DAMN, does this park go on forever. We
shoot down Central Park East, make the turn at the corner of Fifth Avenue and
59th (I think)--the old FAO Schwarz intersection--and it's here, with about three-quarters
of a mile left, that I start to fall apart. My legs feel like leaden lumps, my
back is screaming, and my mind's in a fugue state. We make the turn at Columbus
Circle and dip back into the park for the last time, running past Tavern on the
Green--it feels like weeks since we were here. And tears are streaming down my
face. I don't really know why; I've run marathons before, but maybe this time I
realize just how freakin' hard these stupid things are. I still haven't done
one since.
We get our medals and our foil body wraps, and then begin the long hike back to
our hotel. And we learn one of the race's nasty secrets--taxi drivers HATE
runners. The race plays havoc with the hacks' routes, and they get their
revenge by not picking us up afterward. I see more than one switch off his
"on-duty" light when he sees our foil and running shoes. So we have
to walk something like twenty blocks back to the hotel. And all's going fine
until we reach Avenue of the Americas, less than two blocks from our hotel, where
the cops have blocked all traffic and halted all pedestrians on the sidewalk.
We ask what's going on, and a cop says President Clinton's about to come speak
at the Waldorf-Astoria. We ask him if we can cross--no dice. We ask him how
long it's going to be, and he says probably 30 to 45 minutes. We're damn near
homicidal until a kindly New Yorker--yes, we found the one--points us to the
subway entrance, where we can duck under the street and pop up right by our
hotel.
I grab us a couple sandwiches from the deli nearby, and we scarf them down as
we watch ourselves on TV. It's probably the best food we've ever eaten. Not
much else happened beyond that; we ate at some restaurant (it was still only
about five in the afternoon when we got back to the hotel), still wearing our
medals. The next morning, when I went out to get bagels and danishes, I was
pleased to see that Annie wasn't curled in the fetal position in pain on the
bathroom floor when I returned, like she'd been the night after we got engaged.
But that's a story for another day; this one's gone on long enough already.
Wednesday,
May 18, 2005
11:41PM
NEW
YORK STATE OF MIND
I was talking today on my buddy Jason's blog about Staten Island and the New York
City marathon, and I figured, what the hell--why not tell the story here on MY
home turf?
So it's 1997. We're in Memphis. Annie had just finished law school and was
working at a pretty low-stress job clerking for a Tennessee judge. Me, I was
just getting the whole writing gig going after grad school. Kids were two years
in the future. So we decided to spend the summer training for the New York City
marathon. I'd run it before, when I was young (15) and stupid, and it was one
of the singular experiences of my life--even if I was spending most of that
trip with my parents. (That's a tale for another time.)
Annie and I train our asses off, and by the time late October rolls around,
we're ready to run--well, 26 freaking miles. We fly up to NYC on
Halloween--which is really not that big a deal when you're not a parent, aren't
where kids come visit, and aren't in need of a party where you're trying to
hook up with the hot chick in the Princess Leia outfit. We fly into JFK and
take a cab into midtown. In one of those strange little coincidences, my dad's
in town as well, and he takes us out to an unbelievably good steak dinner at
Maloney & Porcelli's. The meal costs roughly as much as a month's rent for
us, so we don't put up much of a fight when Dad picks up the check. We bid him
farewell then head back to the hotel for the night.
The next day is quite possibly the lamest one can ever spend in New York. We
have to go over to some convention center near Columbus Circle--can't remember
the name; one of my NYC mates can help me out--where we spend literally all day
waiting to pick up our numbers and race packets, standing in a cold mist that
wraps all the way around a city block. On the small-world side, we spend plenty
of time standing across the street from the pizza joint where I whiled away the
hours during Annie's post-engagement stay in St. Luke's/Roosevelt. (And THAT's
a hell of a story.) All the standing in miserable weather really screws with my
knee, though, and by the time we've got our numbers, it's damn near locked up.
It's the runner's great horror--spending months training for a race, only to
get injured twelve hours before the starting gun.
I stop by a Duane Reed and grab a knee brace--the idea of running with a brace
for the first time ever in the big race itself makes me more than a little
nervous, but I've got no choice--and we head to Central Park for the big
pre-race pasta dinner. It's under a huge tent near Tavern on the Green, where
we had our engagement dinner a few years before. In line--as we'll find out,
this marathon is NOTHING but waiting in lines--I'm surprised to run into an old
college friend of mine whom I hadn't seen since graduation.
At dinner, Annie and I shovel pasta and Gatorade down our throats. It's not
exactly fine Manhattan dining, but it's necessary carbo-loading. We walk out to
the finish line in Central Park, imagine what it will be like to cross that
tomorrow, and head back to the hotel.
Tomorrow--then and now--the race, where Annie whips the ass of the 59th Street
Bridge, and I end up on the national news.
Tuesday, May
17, 2005
1:00PM
JUST
A TASTE...
A shot from SUNDOWN: ARIZONA #1. It's about to get very, very bad for our
boys...
Monday, May
16, 2005
9:41PM
NEW
GONE YARD: THE ZEN OF MAZZONE
This week's GONE YARD is up, and it's a look at the Braves' Rockin'
Yoda--pitching coach Leo Mazzone. Dig on it by clicking
here.
8:57AM
ANOTHER
INTERNET KILLER APP
The Internet both curses and blesses us with its worldwide community. But for
every messageboard troll and may-they-burn-in-hell spammer, there's a site like
PostSecret.
First pointed out to me on the Isotope
forum and by my man Jason, PostSecret is a site where people
write their deepest, darkest (or, much less frequently, brightest) secrets on a
postcard and mail them in. The brutally honest entries will inspire you, break
your heart, and make you think of your own secrets...and realize you're never
really alone. There are dozens of memorable ones, but here's one of my
favorites:
And speaking of community, if you're interested in comics, or even just popular
culture at large, you could do much worse than checking out the Isotope forums
linked above. It's a young but growing community based out of the Isotope comic
store in San Francisco, to which I must make a pilgrimage one of these days.
Creators and fans alike participate in the forum, which is blessedly free of
both goofballs and snarky egotists. Stop on by...we're just getting a non-comic
book club up and rolling, with our first book being Elmore Leonard's "The
Hot Kid." Like the creepy little lady in Poltergeist used to say--all are
welcome...all are welcome...
Friday, May
13, 2005
10:13PM
IN
WHICH LOGAN NEARLY GETS HIS DIAPERED BUTT HANDED TO HIM
As I write this, I'm sitting in my son's room as he snores softly in his crib.
He's got this CD of famous folk singers doing old children's tunes (best of the
lot: Willie Nelson's "I'm My Own Grandpa," a hysterical
redneck-family-album ditty--see, the singer marries this widow, then the
singer's dad marries the widow's daughter, then the daughter has a kid, so the
singer is indeed his own grandfather.) (It helps if you draw it out.)
But that's not what I'm writing about tonight. Tonight I just want to raise a
glass to my kids, Logan and Riley, and wish them a life full of happiness and
good stories. They're amazing little things, both of them, and I know I'm going
to turn around and find myself walking Riley down the aisle or shielding
Logan's face from tv cameras.
As I get more time, I'll tell more stories about the young'uns (but no
"junior did the cutest thing today!" nonsense, promise). But here's a
good one. A couple weeks ago, Logan and I were headed into the grocery store.
Right in front of us, an extra from American Choppers--bald head, goatee, black
shirt, pipes the size of tree trunks--was walking in. Logan's a fan of the
kids' show Thomas the Tank Engine, and his favorite train is named
"Percy." Well, Logan loves to yell Percy's name, but he can't really
SAY "Percy"; it comes out "Puh-sy." So he's bellowing
"Puh-sy! Puh-sy!" right to the back of this linebacker's head. The
guy starts to turns around and gives us The People's Eyebrow. Me, I just walked
away and left Logan to fend for himself. I mean, this dude was BIG. You'd'a
done the same thing.
So, cheers, kids. Your dad will always be there for you. Except when a
steroidal monster's looking to kick some ass. Then you're on your own.
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
6:19PM
THE
SUNDOWN: ARIZONA JUGGERNAUT GETS ROLLING
The press release for SUNDOWN: ARIZONA is up at The Pulse,
one of comics' preeminent news sites. Hit the home page and look on the right
side, or just click here to go straight to it. And leave
me some love there, willya?
Astute observers may note that the book is now formally known as SUNDOWN:
ARIZONA. We made the change to differentiate it from another, as yet
unpublished comic called "Sundown," and also to set up the
possibility for sequels--SUNDOWN: MIAMI, SUNDOWN: DUBUQUE, SUNDOWN: SOUTH SIDE
OF CHICAGO...the possibilities are endless.
Tuesday, May
10, 2005
8:36AM
GONE
YARD: YANKEE-SPANKING
In this week's GONE YARD: the moral imperative of kicking the Yankees when
they're down, plus the sublime joy of drunk chicks at the Kentucky Derby. Click here for the love.
Monday, May
9, 2005
9:11AM
FREE
COMIC BOOK DAY RECAP
Look at that cheery lil' fella up there! Grinning like a monkey at the thought
of faking his way into being a comics pro at Free Comic Book Day 2005. (Note to
self: pros don't take their name placards with them when they leave. Next time,
act like ya been there before!)
If you're not a comics fan, this entry's going to bore you to tears. Check back
tomorrow for a link to this week's GONE YARD, where I'll tell you why the
Yankees' failures are a moral imperative--and fun, too. But for now, a little
comics geeking out. Some highlights of the afternoon:
--High marks to Dr. No's in Marietta for putting on a great affair. They were
pitching the free comics hard to everyone who came in, but were doing a great
job of steering the little kids away from the boob-a-riffic Red Sonja and
toward the Star Wars book and Flight anthology. Smart salesmanship like that is
going to get repeat customers--and it's going to keep the so-called
"religious" yahoos from complaining that lil' Johnny ended up with
porn from that smutty comix dump. This is the way to run a comics store.
--The comics industry is such a strange thing...the people who are involved in
it love it so much, and anybody outside of it just doesn't care one way or the
other. The best analogy I can make is to the blues--there are blues aficionados
who live and die by the hundred-disc-press-run CDs of ultraobscure artists.
Similarly, the love of comics in the room was infectious--everybody was having
a great time, nobody was bemoaning the state of the industry, and the fans who
weren't too scared to come over and say hello really seemed to enjoy
themselves.
--I spent the afternoon sitting next to the very cool writers Dan Jolley and
Marie Croall of Studio Phoenix and a bunch of Marvel, DC, Devil's Due, et. al.
publications. They gave me a year's worth of messageboard education in how to
pitch books to the big guys. They both have some kick-ass projects coming up,
too--I don't know how much they want made public, but watch for some
challenging, thought-provoking work from both of 'em.
--Mark Bagley was the star of the show, making wisecracks and dishing dirt on
industry pros left and right. Told a great story about how he thought Ultimate
Spider-Man was going to tank, so he'd planned to quit after six issues, and
actually put in his notice. That day, Cliff (Dr. No's owner), told Bagley he
was insane for leaving this gig, so Bagley called back and reclaimed his job.
Trouble was, the gig had been offered to another artist in the interim, who was
none too pleased to be bounced, and threatened--only mock-jokingly--to kick
Bagley's ass. Bagley also looks uncannily like Joe Pantoliano, too, so he
probably oughtta steer clear of horse barns and bathtubs.
--Paul Jenkins was Mikey Multitask, signing comics, conducting a phone
interview, scarfing a sandwich, and darting out to a wedding. But he invited me
to play golf with him, so I got that going for me.
--Folks are incredibly high on the smaller publishers in the
industry--Speakeasy in particular--which is good to see. What was also
interesting was how professional the panelists were. They're all a
scruffy lot, but they take their work damn seriously, and mentioned several
artists and writers--many of whom you in the industry would know--who aren't
going to be getting more work any time soon because they're so bad with
deadlines. There's a lesson in there for us newbies.
--I did my first portfolio review, which was kind of strange but flattering at
the same time. And I probably sounded like a babbling idiot, but at least I
didn't go all Simon Cowell on the kid.
--There was also a guy there who recognized my name from some long-ago Wizard
articles I wrote, which was kind of weird.
--A lot of people seemed really high on SUNDOWN. Whether that translates to
more orders remains to be seen, but folks are pleased so far, as am I. I didn't
have any actual comics to show, but the full-color pinups and covers drew some
fine oohs and aahs, and the little promo packs I put together with cover, press
release, and thumbnails of pages seemed to go over well.
All in all, a damn fine experience. Many thanks to Cliff and the crew at Dr.
No's, as well as the many people who came out to visit, especially Egg Embry
from Arcana Studio and my neighborhood pal Connie and her boy Chandler. I've
already been invited back for next year; by then I oughtta have some actual
books to put in front of me.
Thursday,
May 5, 2005
12:46AM
SOME
EARLY SUNDOWN LOVE
SUNDOWN's off to a good start with a positive initial prepublication review
from The
Fourth Rail, one of the most influential comics review sites around.
Here's what they had to say:
Sundown #1 (Arcana Studio) - RANDY: It's another horror/western blend, this
time from the point-of-view of a New York reporter come to an Arizona town in
1880 on the trail of some ghastly murders. Terrific looking full-color artwork,
and though I don't know either of the creators, I'm a fan of this genre blend.
The bandwagon's wheels are starting to roll...
Wednesday,
May 4, 2005
12:03AM
FREE
COMICS! AND A CHANCE TO MEET ME!
Every summer, the nation's comic shops host "Free Comic Book Day," on
which they all give away--get this--Free Comic Books! Some companies use it to
launch new material, some use it to introduce new readers to familiar concepts.
And some stores bring in comics illuminati to sign copies of their work and
promote the industry. In a fit of insanity, the good folks at Dr. No's have
invited me to come sign some preview copies of SUNDOWN. If you happen to find
yourself in Marietta this Saturday between 12 and 3, stop by and say hello. For
more information, check out Dr. No's website. And even if you can't
make it out to see me, hit your local comic shop and grab some good new
reading. Best bets: the Image Comics "Flight" anthology sampler, a
collection of brilliant tales revolving around the metaphor of flight, and
Beckett Comics' "Robin Hood and the Seven Samurai," a reimagining of
the Robin Hood mythos in Japan. These guys did "Sleeping Beauty" as a
spaghetti western last year, and it was one of the best books of the year. You
can also find special Simpsons, Batman, Spider-Man/Fantastic Four, and Star
Wars comics, among many others. Well worth the trip to your local comic shop.
Tuesday, May
3, 2005
11:59PM
ON
SPORTS...A NEW COLUMN
I'll be venting a little sports knowledge each week at the Chicago Sports
Review--check out the first column here.
In the first installment, I take on the whole Mitch Albom journalism crisis.
Enjoy.