Comics of Errors

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I am done with DC Comics. 

What did it for me was their offering for Free Comics Day, an annual event where publishers create a title to hook new readers. For example, Marvel released a Guardians of the Galaxy book to get the attention of anyone interested in the movie. 

DC released one in which Batman Beyond, a character created for a cartoon show aimed at children (and adults, but mostly children), has to fight against the cyborgs decorated with the horribly mutilated corpses of beloved superhero icons. The specific image that broke my back features Black Canary, whose head and face have been sewn to the chest of Frankenstein for use as a weapon. 

And that’s it for me. I’m done. 

I’m done because, after their big mega-crossover events like “Final Crisis” and “Countdown” and “Blackest Night” and “Injustice: Gods Among Us” and now this “Futures End” thing, I am sick of seeing shock deaths, dismemberment, and rape of well-known characters because that’s edgy or something. Also, the Joker ripped off his face and stapled it back on because he is also edgy. 

I’m done because I can’t read a title without it being interrupted by one of these mega-crossover events every few months, and I’m not willing to invest in all these books to follow the story. 

I’m done because they’ve adopted a house art style that makes all the artists kind of boring and interchangeable. 

I am done because their TV animation department canceled the smart, popular Young Justice and Green Lantern: the Animated Series to revisit the Teen Titans—except even more hyperkinetic now—as well as another Batman series, because the former didn’t appeal to the young, male demographic who buy toys. 

I’m done because I kind of hate all the new Jim-Lee-designed costumes. 

I am done because DC’s live-action movies and TV shows* are joyless, monochrome, and just soullessly destructive. Likewise, their animated movies, like Green Lantern: First Flight (i.e. Training Day with magic rings) and Wonder Woman (i.e. the goddamn Wonder Woman), were once clever and exciting, but are now adaptations of ultra-violent Batman or Batman-worshiping graphic novels with endless blood-splatter and death (there were eye-gougings in the last two, and a full-body, third-degree-burn-causing electrocution in the one before that–all taking place onscreen).** 

I am done because they won’t do a live-action film of the most recognizable super-heroine in the world, but are instead giving her a glorified cameo in what we all know will be a movie about Batman beating up Superman (because apparently that’s edgy too). 

I’m done because awesome, diverse legacy characters like the Hispanic Kyle Raynor and Jaime Reyes, the Asian Ryan Choi, and the African-American John Stewart have been replaced and upstaged by their presumed-dead white-guy predecessors. 

I’m done because Starfire, who potential fangirls met as a quirky, adorable, tough kid through the Teen Titans cartoon***, became a sex-toy who can blow up tanks. Likewise, bureaucratic badass (How many times can you use that to describe anyone?) Amanda Waller went from CCH Pounder to Halle Berry, and Harley Quinn went from wearing a cute-but-sexy body-stocking to a corset. 

I’m done because DC these days seems to stand for Dudebro Comics, and that’s just not my thing. 

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* I am a huge fan of Arrow, FYI. Dark doesn’t mean bad; it just doesn’t mean good by itself. 

** One of my favorite movies in 2012 was The Raid: Redemption, which featured the most creative use of both a door frame and a fluorescent light bulb. What I’m trying to say is that I’m not squeamish, just exhausted. 

*** Yes, I know how scantily clad and sexual she was during the Wolfman/Perez era, but I also know she had a personality back then. 

Nine

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It’s easy to feel old at the age of thirty-seven, especially in a society that values youth as much as ours does. Almost four years ago, I aged out of the 18-34-year-old demographic that advertisers pine for, and it stung a little. My hair is getting gray, and my joints ache for a day or so after a long run. But really, I’m still pretty young, and in that time, I have lived. I could list the places I’ve been, the people I’ve known, and the kinds of words I’ve written, but I won’t. That would take forever, and that’s really not the point. 

The point is this: For nearly 25 percent of this life, I have been married. This marriage, like all marriages, has been stressful and difficult. When married or cohabiting, you are suddenly accountable for everything you say or do—no living it up at a bar anymore, or dropping hundreds of dollars on comic books on a whim. You have to see movies you ordinarily wouldn’t, and eat cuisine that freaks you out, and sometimes hang out with people you don’t like. Anyone who says they love every single second of marriage is lying. 

However, a good marriage, like the one I have, makes these things unimportant. I love having someone to keep me from dropping hundreds on comics that I probably won’t read more than once; I love having someone who will miss me were I to disappear into a bar all night. I love watching her smile and laugh and talk back to the movies she enjoys but I don’t; I love sushi and Ethiopian food now, even though it’s not what I grew up with (I’m still not eating mushrooms. No way, no how.); I endure people I don’t like, because I respect her opinion.  

My wife is brilliant and brave and beautiful. She makes me want to be a better person, even when I don’t think I’m capable of it. She loves the world, and she insists on showing it to me whenever she can. Her ideals are tempered with pragmatism, and the rest of the world would be so much better if it followed her example. Her stubbornness has turned me into the healthy and happy and (mostly) confident person I never thought I could be. And she has convinced me that I deserve to feel this way. My wife is amazing, even if she does tell people sometimes that our anniversary is April 31. 

I love my wife, and I love that I’ve been married to her for nine years. 

Haggle Rock

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Gather around, kids! Today, I’d like to tell you a story about how much more entertaining it is to shop in this part of the world than it is back home in the States. And so, let’s all go down to the auto parts store, where our hero enters, on a quest for a tow cable and an air compressor. 

I am greeted at once by an older man in a brown suit, clutching a cigarette I never actually see him put to his lips, speaking English with a thick regional accent. After we sync up our vocabulary to determine what I’m looking for, he shows me several cables and we pick the best one. He glances at the sticker and tells me, “Says one-thirty. Give it to you for one hundred. Special price.” I agree that this is indeed a special price. 

We now look at air compressors. He and his assistant, who speaks no English, remove an air compressor from the shelf, unpack it, and show me how to assemble it. “Is Chinese, so it maybe get too hot…” He shows me where it might overheat. “… So turn it off and on. No problem. You know Chinese things. Good quality, though.” He directs his assistant to remove a car battery from behind the counter, hook up the compressor, and turn it on. 

“Looks good,” I say. 

The old man shrugs. “Good quality, even if it is Chinese. You know Arabs. They see it’s Chinese, they don’t want.” He shrugs again and flicks an ash off of his cigarette. “Box say four-fifty, but for you, four hundred. Special price.” Once again, I have to admit this is a special price. 

While his assistant boxes up the compressor, the old man and I work out whether cash or credit is best. We go with cash. He punches a number into a calculator and he sends his assistant out to my car with my purchases before I can stop him. I pay up and hurry out. 

And it’s not until I get home that I realize I’d paid five hundred eighty for both items, which is not really that special of a price. I’m not 100 percent sure what exactly happened there. 

The Glitch

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I am astonished by the news that, due to a glitch in the space-time continuum, most of the United States experienced the same sixty minutes twice. Most of the country had slept through it. Of those who didn’t, I can only imagine the ungodly horror you had to endure as the laws of physics were torn asunder while you watched, helpless, only for everything to suddenly return to “normal.” For you, it is the present, but to the rest of the world, it is an hour into the future.  

There are some who call this event “Daylight Savings Time.” I call it what it truly is: a perversion of the natural order. 

When the Abyss DOESN’T Gaze Back

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I was asked by an agent, whose curiosity was piqued, to send in my full manuscript and give her six to eight weeks to read it. Nine weeks later, I checked in. I was told to wait a couple more weeks. And so, about five days ago, which wrapped up week twelve, I followed up again. This time: nothing. 

Getting a rejection is one thing. It hits you like a punch to the gut, but it only lasts seconds. After that, you have to decide to do next: give up or get up? Does nobody care about your baby, or does somebody somewhere—just not this particular person? How much pain are you willing to endure*? 

I’ve had a few rejections of my writing. Quite a few, actually—professional and personal. Most of us creative types don’t have a lot of confidence to begin with. A large percent of why we do this is validation**. Rejections often make me question my talent and my purpose. And when it stings really, really badly, I still continue to put myself out there, even if it’s just out of sheer momentum.  

But this… this is new to me. And I don’t know what to do with it. I’m frustrated, disappointed, and heartbroken. I just need to let this agent go. Someone somewhere wants to love my baby, I think—just not this person. 

_____ 

* This isn’t a rhetorical “man-up” pep-talk question, by the way. There does come a point that soaking up these blows to the ego is just plain unhealthy. Walking away when you can’t take anymore doesn’t make you any less of a person, no matter what Hollywood says. 

** The rest is “We just kind of have to.” 

Fast and Peaceful

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I am a few weeks into the month of Ramadan, where, according to Muslim tradition, you fast from sunrise (about 3:30 a.m. here) until sunset (about 6:30 p.m.). This is required, but it’s a privilege to believers, not a punishment. I wish I had that kind of conviction about anything. 

I also wish that holier-than-though Christians who are currently occupying important State and Federal government could live here during Ramadan and see what that kind of dedication to God really looks like. Would their dedication to faith withstand that kind of sacrifice? Given the highly public sexual infractions of the “devout,” like New Gingrich, Mark Foley, Ted Haggard, David Vitter, Larry Craig, and so on, one has to wonder.  

Many of these wasting taxpayer money pushing through their agendas (including establishing state or national religions) as opposed to what they run on, which is “jobs.” Maybe they should spend some time here. In Qatar, it is unlawful for any resident, Muslim or otherwise, to be seen in public eating or drinking during these hours (it’s okay in the home). At the moment, the government is looking to establish morality police to speak to Westerners about the way they dress; shorts and bare shoulders on either gender are considered extremely disrespectful. This process is taking a while, because they’re trying to find a way to be polite about it, which is generous, considering how rude cleavage is in this culture.  

This is what a state religion looks like. And Qatar is a very liberal theocracy. 

Cognitive dissonance would, of course, make this kind of learning experience a wasted experience (“See what Sharia does! Ban it everywhere! In America we have freedom! That’s why everyone needs to follow Jesus!”) but still, it’s something. 

Uphill Both Ways

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So, I was thinking about my high school reunion fast approaching, and some things occurred to me. 

For example, back then, if I wanted to look at goofy cat pictures, I had to find my camera, take the picture myself, go to the drugstore, and come back in a few days. If I wanted to see a particular music video, I had to wait for it to come into rotation on MTV. And there was not a single reason to keep my thoughts at 140 characters or less. 

Also, that convenient, handheld device with the bright screen and instant push-button access to all knowledge was called The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. 

Minority Report

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So I’m walking down the street, and I see this guy. He’s young and tan and good-looking, with blond hair peeking out of his backwards baseball cap, wearing Abercrombie shorts and expensive aviator sunglasses that are dangling from his unbuttoned, pastel-colored polo. And I think, “This guy is a dude-bro douchebag. And I think he’s a rapist.” I’ve never met him, but I have a pretty good feeling that he’s coerced a woman—chemically or violently—against her will to have sex. If he hasn’t already, he will. I can just tell. He’s got that look. So I follow him. He goes into a bar. Who knows what he’s going to do in there. For sure, he’ll drink, which will impair his judgment and increase the chances of him raping someone. Maybe he’ll meet his victim there. Worried about the fate of his potential victim, I wait. When he leaves, I follow him. He didn’t leave with a woman, which is good news; however, there’s still a chance he’ll find someone else to assault. If not tonight, then sometime in the future—if he hasn’t already. Something needs to be done before a crime is committed. Maybe I should go accost the guy to let him know that I’m watching—that he won’t get away with it. If he takes offense to this and resists, then I’ll have to defend myself. 

So later, I’m walking down the street, and I see this guy. He’s about my age, I think—I can’t tell. It’s dark, and he’s sitting in the driver’s seat of his SUV. The vehicle isn’t running, and there are no lights on. He’s just sitting there, watching. And I think, “This guy is a vigilante. And I think he’s going to hurt somebody.” I’ve never met him, but I have a pretty good feeling that he’s assaulted someone he thought looks suspicious. If he hasn’t already, he will. I can just tell. He’s got that look. Worried about what kind of crimes might be committed tonight, I wait. I notice a teenage boy on the same street. I can’t make out the race of the boy from here, but this doesn’t matter, because vigilantism, as I’ve been told, is colorblind. Something needs to be done to protect this kid. Maybe I should go accost the man in the SUV to let him know that I’m watching—that he won’t get away with it. If he takes offense to this and resists, then I’ll have to defend myself. 

Opinions, Assholes, Etc.

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I am sick of the social-media shouting at itself. I am sick of anybody, right or left, posting images with misattributed quotes or links to articles from online magazines with agendas. I am sick of hearing that Monsanto is evil; the Second Amendment is sacred above all else; gay marriage undermines our entire way of life; Planned Parenthood callously murders children; Trayvon Martin is racist; George Zimmerman is racist; misogyny; misandry; the Supreme Court is a corrupt, activist body for what they did and their decisions should be suspect; the Supreme Court interpreted the Constitution as it should be. I am sick of hearing what the Founding Fathers wanted.  

I am sick of feeling helpless and frustrated. I am sick of slactivism. 

I don’t want to parse the words of public figures. I don’t want to hear what Rush Limbaugh had to say about anything. I don’t want to read what Alec Baldwin had to say about anything. I don’t want to be told why Obama is abusing executive power and running America into the ground; I don’t want to hear about how Gretchen Carlson is suddenly the voice of reason. 

I want to know why, if someone supported blanket surveillance ten years ago, why don’t they support it now? What changed?  

I want to know if the president can really be held responsible for rising gas prices? If so, I want to know how. I want to know if the president can be held responsible for falling gas prices as well. I want to know why the media never seemed to hold the former president responsible for rising gas prices before 2009. Moreover, I want to know if the media really didn’t hold the former president responsible for rising gas prices prior to 2009, or if this observation is biased by my political leanings.  

I want proof. Don’t show me evidence from Mother Jones, or from Americans for Prosperity. Show me their sources. Show me the sources of those sources.  

Before we take to the pulpits and legislate based on spite and focus groups, we need to debate about what the role of government should be. If it’s to create jobs, tell me how. Will tax breaks create jobs? Show me how and if that actually works. Will infrastructure projects create jobs? How will we pay for those? Is government a business? Should it turn a profit? 

Let’s talk about something that matters. Let’s talk about how to fix it. 

Simply Put

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I don’t think this is that hard to get: extending humanity, civil rights, economic opportunity, and dignity to a race, ethnicity, religion, gender, or sexuality does not subtract any of these things from your race, ethnicity, religion, gender, or sexuality*. Humanity, civil rights, economic opportunity, and dignity are not finite resources. 

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* Unless you believe that your race, ethnicity, religion, gender, or sexuality requires you to deny or ignore others’ humanity, civil rights, economic opportunity, and dignity. If that’s the case, you should neither be accommodated, nor pitied.