Ah, labor pains. The tremendous abdominal liquidations that come from strenuous exertion. It’s the middle of the semester for Seminal Idiot turned Teaching  Assistant  right here, and I’m ready for a break. I read a couple of comic books last weekend, and but for a moment, the skies opened up. Yes, I thought to myself. Perhaps it will get better. Here I am, though. It’s Tuesday, and I’m blasting through this column with little regard for grammatical form or editing. Per usual. I know.

This is Variant Covers.  Here are the comics I’m excited for this week.

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[images & words is the comic book pick-of-the-week at OL. equal parts review and diatribe, the post highlights the most memorable/infuriating/entertaining book released that wednesday]

Congratulations, Joe the Barbarian! Not only did you beat Jonah Hex and Sweet Tooth in this week’s triple-threat comics cage match, but with your final issue you’ve become one of my all-time favorite limited series. You’ve earned a spot in my Best Of list and, if there’s any damn justice in the world, comics history as well.

So how did you do it, Joe? How did you never tire while running for eight issues over the course of a year? Brandishing a tale of a hallucinating youth in the midst of insulin-shock, you easily could’ve devolved into incoherent drivel. Your parallel narratives (wandering through a house looking for sugar and traversing the most hidden recesses of childhood imagination) could have slugged each other out: DOUBLE KO!!!  And yet, with each appearance you became more effective.

More affective.

So how did you do it? It was, beyond a coffee-stained shadow of a doubt, that intangible, unquantifiable quality for which all art should aspire. It’s that warm little nagging at the forefront of excitement, the pinch on your ass that makes you giddy, that informs the reader/viewer/listener that the artists at work care. Necessarily, this quality defies definition and rears itself only in terms of gut-instinct. But it’s undeniable. Unshakable. Motherfucking unstoppable.

For lack of a better word, let’s call this quality heart.

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The phantom hides in the pantry, waiting for the child to awake. Always in the pantry. Always behind the cookies. The child, bleary-eyed and delirious with dream-dust, makes his way into the snack cabinet. His belly, constantly satiated by parents who know not of discipline, grumbles. Obeying, the child opens the cupboard door and reaches in to retrieve the chocolate-chip delights.

SNATCH!

Snack time.
For the phantom.

–-

Welcome, my babies, to the Monday Morning Commute. This is the place where we detail our agendas for the upcoming week. Avoid the drudgery of existence. Beat boredom into a pulp. Repel the Snack-Phantom. Let’s fuggin’ do this.

–-

Listening / A Jolly Christmas from Frank Sinatra

In case you haven’t noticed the fleet of minivans parked at the mall indefinitely or the neighbors who think their front lawns are reasonable facsimiles of Times Square, let me clue you in: it’s Christmas time. Or holiday time. Or whatever. From my completely secular standpoint, I kind of wish we could all give up the bogus religious connotations of the Winter Solstice Festivals and agree on something new. One holiday to rule the all.

Anyways, I use a few different activities to get into the holiday spirit. Spending time with friends. Pounding eggnog by the liter. And most importantly, listening to seasonal music. Over the years I’ve run the gauntlet when it comes to Christmas tunes, from Jimmy Buffet to Savatage. Hell, if you don’t give yourself a chance to try the kookier coldcuts from the Christmas music antipasto, you’re really doing yourself a disservice.

This year, however, I’m going the route of the traditionalist. I took it upon myself to download a vinyl rip of A Jolly Christmas from Frank Sinatra.

Holy Jesus-Birth, Santa, a digital transmission of a piece of plastic that was listened to by someone fifty-three years ago?!?! Somebody with hopes and dreams and a consciousness that has probably since faded back into the Universal Collective?!?

Yes, I even try to make my holiday activities about temporality-defiance.

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[images & words is the comic book pick-of-the-week at OL. equal parts review and diatribe, the post highlights the most memorable/infuriating/entertaining book released that wednesday]

Why is Batman successful? Is it because of a physique that pushes the limits of the human anatomy, an absolute mastery of sensory perception, an above-genius IQ, and billions of dollars? Yes.

And no.

In the internal logic of the comics-world, Batman truly succeeds not as a man but as an idea. More important than a single super-stud willing to risk his life in the name of crime-fighting is the very notion that such individuals exist. Criminals and evil-doers simply cannot run amok; doing so generates the very real possibility of being put in traction by a masked vigilante with emotional issues.

For the past seventy-one years, Batman has protected Gotham City. Now, the persona is being franchised globally as this week sees the premiere of Batman Incorporated.

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[images & words is the comic book pick-of-the-week at OL. equal parts review and diatribe, the post highlights the most memorable/infuriating/entertaining book released that wednesday]

Nuclear threats. Satanic rituals. Daddy issues. Drug binges. Time travel. Ass-kickings.

No, I’m not calculating the formula for a Megadeth record, I’m listing some of the shenanigans that appear in Batman and Robin #16. Grant Morrison concludes his duties on the title by bringing Bruce Wayne back from the dead (or temporal instability, but same difference) and making unprecedented changes to the Bat-mythos. It’s fuggin’ wonderful.

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Alright, so I’ve sinned. I began coming across a lot of the inter-chatter on Twitter and comic book websites regarding a megaton bomb that drops today in B&R #16. So, despite having not read it – Pepsibones is snagging the OL log today – I cheated and looked it up. My impressions? Eh! Not really blown away, but that doesn’t mean I object. Hit the jump for the spoiler!, and my take.

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Variant Covers. Your one-stop shop for the comic books I’m excited about dropping this Wednesday. Your chance to comment, and recommend titles you’re reading not only this week, but in general. A brothel of pathetic attempts at intellectual dialogues, and more glaringly, juvenile jokes. Welcome, I’m excited you’re here.

—-

Scarlet #3
In recent weeks, I’ve tried to ease up on my bashing of writers. Well, ignoring the fact that I took Mark Millar behind the woodshed. Particularly writers that I like, and respect. So whereas I used to bemoan Brian Michael Bendis’ decline, I’ve tried to rationalize it under the idea that he carries an enormous work load for Marvel. Far too many pages for me to fathom churning out every month. I know he’s a talented writer. I know it.

Scarlet is case-in-point.

My brother and I are big fans of Scarlet, Bendis and Maleev’s creator-owned title being published through Marvel’s Icon label. As I’ve detailed before, the time that has been put into this book bleeds through in oodles of quality. Oodles, guys and gals, oodles. The title’s distinguishing feature is the smashing and tearing of the fourth-wall, with Scarlet talking directly to the audience throughout the book. Juxtapose that son of a bitch with Maleev’s creative use of paneling, and you have something that snags you by the nipples right away.

Scarlet’s recruiting a revolution, and she wants you to join in. Trust me, when a sexy femme fatale is talking to you, the loins surge.

It’s a solid title, with tropes that aren’t particularly new, but as I said, they’re executed well. Bendis’ wit shines through, and Maleev is fucking gorgeous as ever. The dude could pencil two pigeons fucking and I’d be on-board. The sort of artwork that could carry a title, but with the writing, simply compliments it.

Grab this son of a bitch.

—-

Baltimore: The Plague Ships #4
It seems like every time I turn around, a new issue of The Plague Ships is flying its way onto shelves. Get it, cause it stars vampires? Flying? I’m a fucking dunce? I concur. And that’s absolutely fine with me. While it isn’t righteous enough to command my full attention with every issue, the title entertains me in a mindless sort of way that I sometimes need. You should seem me when I’m reading an issue of S.H.I.E.L.D by Hickman. I got a pad of paper, and a pen. I’m scribbling notes and asking rhetorical questions like the grad school lit major loser that I am.

The Plague Ships is a way to decompress. I want to emphasize that this is no fucking knock on Mignola. The title is tight, entertaining, and extremely sexy in the artwork department. It operates on a level that I can definitely feel. Sometimes it’s perfectly fine to be nothing more than fun. For the burgeoning intellectual who is going to give some brilliant reading of Plague Ships in the comments box, let me stop you: you’re probably right, but I’m turning my fucking brain off for this title, and riding the wind. Get it? Like a vampire? Yeah, fuck me.

—-

Superboy #1
Lest you think I’m packed to the gills with dookie when I say I’ll read anything you recommend to me, consider this: prior to about six months ago, I had never heard of Jeff Lemire. A reader with good taste recommended that I snag up Sweet Tooth and I did so. Since then, my ass crush for the dude has been immeasurable. Love him. I’ll admit I’ve only ingested seven issues or so of his work, as I can only grab Sweet Tooth in TPB around these parts, but I dig him.

So with that said, his name alone is enough to push the relaunch of Superboy onto me. What’s it going to be about? Damned if I know. The synopsis promises wonder and the beginning of the next great epic in the DC universe, but I mean, c’mon. That’s cream puff bullshit. All I know is that it’s a very talented writer getting a crack at an up-and-down icon within the stretched parameters of Metropolis.

Sometimes the author is enough for me to check something out. Actually an author I like is always enough for me to give something a try.

—-

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[images & words is the comic book pick-of-the-week at OL. equal parts review and diatribe, the post highlights the most memorable/infuriating/entertaining book released that wednesday]

Sometimes I feel as though I might be some sort of alien entity, a stranger without a tribe. It’s easy to fall for this illusion as our culture puts so much emphasis on the individual. You are so special. There is no one quite like you. After all, you are one of a kind. And while I understand the motives behind the self-esteem movement, I find the outcomes disastrous; instead of being taught to help one another because we’re all crew members on Spaceship Earth, individuals come to see themselves as completely separate.

And not even fragmented sections of a whole. Different from, and incapable of relating to, others. But my hippie-sense is telling me that there aren’t really any others, just anothers.

Okay, let me pause for a moment as I dance on this fine line. I’m not saying that humanity is a homogeneous being or that every person is identical. Really, I’m not. Truth be told, I think the way that the mouth-breathing masses develop is quite different than those upon whom I heap admiration. There are all different shades of humanity. But sometimes I forget that the progressing hues all reside on the same gradient scale.

So why is my newfound interest in commonality making its way onto OL? Well, because I love Joe the Barbarian. And I love the comic because it reminds me that there are shared facets of the human experience.

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[images & words is the comic book pick-of-the-week at OL. equal parts review and diatribe, the post highlights the most memorable/infuriating/entertaining book released that wednesday]

Spoilers Ahead. Forreal.

3. 2. 1. Blast off!

Once I’ve escaped Earth’s gravitational pull, I fire up the hyperdrive. I shoot past the moon, past Neptune, past the limits of our damn solar system. I disengage the primary thrusters and find myself in the middle an interstellar storm. I careen past stray panels and pixilated nuclear explosions and bits of what was once a moon. I could’ve sworn that I had set the proper coordinates. But my eyes are telling me different.

So are my onboard monitors. I watch the Galactic Positioning System power down, turning all of the maps and sequencers and frames of reference into nothing more than an abysmal black screen. A moment later, the GPS reboots. When the screen settles, it tells me that myth has become fact.

[You have reached Omega Level]

///

This week’s comic of choice is Batman #702.

I won’t lie; the decision to feature this book might be yet another testament to my dwindling sanity.

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Here’s the thing, Grant Morrison is kicking off a new title, Batman INC, in which Bruce Wayne is franchising Batman. No, seriously. And adding an entire line of Batmen makes for some interesting sorts of interpretations of the god damn Rodent Guy. One possible interpretation? Gay Batman.

LA Times:

Batman can take anything. You can do comedy Batman, you can do gay Batman…it all works. It something intrinsic to the character. It ‘s so strange and amazing.

Well then! Personally? I’d love to see a gay Batman. I know there’s the Midnighter over in The Authority who is an obvious Batman homage and homosexual superhero. But a legit gay Batman? Radical. Even more radical would have been if Morrison could fit Bruce Wayne into the gay Batman mold, but god only knows how many heads would explode at DC and Warner Bros.