**This post is more of a bulletin for my friends than an actual blog-entry. Strange readers might want to skip on to the next entry - 'His thoughts were red thoughts...',
Here's a clip of me being a fat, melodramatic sissy. I don't make all that much sense. Nor is what I do all that interesting.
Which is true to the essence of me, so I won't delete it now.
The sound is a bit out of synch. I'm not sure why.
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Parting is such sweet sorrow.
I say 'Shunned' in that clip, but it's not what I mean. I haven't 'shunned' at all. I've embraced.
Um. I've always wanted one. At school, when I was neither manly enough to attempt one properly, nor really allowed to wear one in class anyhow, I longed for the day when I might sport one.
Then when I could, I think I wore it well.
But what's done is done. Here's what I used to just look like.
Here's the jawline I was hoping to recover.
And this is what I've become. I'm no longer a bear, or a Viking, or even a 'boobah' as I'm told they are furry.
I look like I'm about to cry.
Curse my stupid vanity. And for being so easily lead.
Another mixed post today. There's fuck all focus in what I'm doing these days. Looking at job-listings and getting more and more despondant as I calculate whether or not I can trick my way into anyone giving me any money to do something I'd like to do, or simply not-go-mental doing.
But I've hit a wall with the comic. So I'm writing today just to keep my brain going. It's not that I don't know where to go next with it. The pages are mapped out for another 4 or so. It's just got no magic right now. I'm not excited to draw Shogun talking. So I've done a couple of other things, bits for friends. This and that.
Which means I'm going to write here about whatever. It's not one of my epics, though it'll be long nonetheless. I've got to keep the blog breathing, see? The filler tracks before my next 'This Aint a Scene...' killer single.
A short while back I sang the praises of pop and to some extent 'urban', in contrast to the crawling creativity of mainstream Indie.
But today, by Jupiter, I have got to grumble about some of the shit that gets played on my TV.
Gwen Stefani. Seemingly unhappy with having to come up with decent songs, perhaps really only interested in making videos than making music, has taken what was initially refreshing and turned it into something really jarring in the space of two albums. She may look fantastic, and possess that type of dark-brown eyes known to make me as exploitable as a Thai orphan, but she's wasting her re-invention on tuneless crud with what I've heard of this second album. And her whole 'Aren't Japanese girls so cute and fantastic?' schtick is now well and truly worn-the-fuck out.
But she doesn't get me angry. A bit disappointed, but feh - it's no big deal, it's worth a paragraph, but not a rant. Most pop is this way for me. If it excels then it's a single I download off iTunes, and a video I might leave the stove and watch. I'll be happy for it. And in some ways happy that something crosses over into my spectrum of musical taste. Often I've found myself dismissing a genre outright, and so when something comes out of that world that's up to my standard I'm genuinely interested. It might be why I've got that Mason vs Princess Superstar on my iPod. Or it might have something to do with the shamelessly pornographic video and just a happy association I make.
If a song sucks, I hit mute, I switch off. It's not like when I had to work in a record shop with the noise all the time and all music was effectively ruined for me. That Grace Kelly song is annoying as fuck, but nobody forces me to listen to it. If I was back in the shop and started a shift knowing I'd be subjected to Mika every half hour the whole fucking day then by the time it went to press The Evening Standard would have yet another Gun Crime in the capital headline.
But there's a rant here. There's this motherfucker who doesn't just go away when I switch off the TV, his place in the limelight offends me so. It's not enough to put a dog-poo in a tupperwhere box and in the cupboard under the sink where I won't see or smell of it. I know the fucker's there and I want rid of it.
The fucker is Akon.
His music is plainly shit. In an industry of other poser-players he makes no distinction, other than being less talented than the bulk of them. He has a terrible voice. He sounds like air being slowly let out of a wet balloon. He also looks like an upset bat.
So when he comes on my TV to flash his wares and creep over the girls I feel the red lightning gather in my head.
Here, I'll treat you to some sample lyrics (I've researched my hatred).
SMACK THAT
I see the one, because she be that lady! Hey! I feel you creeping, I can see it from my shadow Wanna jump up in my Lamborghini Gallardo Maybe go to my place and just kick it like TaeBo And possibly bend you over look back and watch me
Smack that all on the floor Smack that give me some more Smack that 'till you get sore Smack that oh-oooh!
I WANNA FUCK YOU
Shorty I can see you ain't lonely handful of niggas and they all got cheese, so you looking at me now what's it gonna be just another tease far as I can see, trying get you up out this club if it means spendin' a couple dubs, throwing bout 30 stacks in the back make it rain like that cause I'm far from a scrub, you know my pedigree, ex-deala use to move phetamines, girl I spend money like it don't mean nothing and besides I got a thing for you.
I see you winding and grinding up on that pole, I know you see me lookin' at you and you already know I wanna fuck you, you already know I wanna fuck you, you already know
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Uh. If it doesn't speak for itself, then it's hopeless me talking to you.
I am quite a petty, jealous guy. It comes in different ways. Sometimes it says more about me. You're making money at the BBC and stepping into a creative world, sitting down for drinks with lovely people (that non-London nice, which I can't really describe properly.) and hanging your hat in a tidy bachelor's pad by the water - then I'm jealous, but in a way that manifests more in me being inwardly angry for not making more opportunities for myself. Likewise you're getting recognition for your stand-up comedy and you've friends and adventures and people come to you to congratulate you on what you've done, and again I'm jealous, but it's more about how bitter I am for not making the effort to do the same. It's not an encompassing jealousy, the same way I'm not jealous for Jason Statham for having gone out with Kelly Brook. It's not like I can say they don't deserve their success, I like these people. It's just they also have what I want.
The other envy I have is, of course, when some useless twit has what I want, and I can't see for the life of me why they do. I don't want to throw 'dubs' and invest in showy cars. No sir. I don't strictly want his life. I'd love a bit of that money so I can get my house by the water, my boat 'The Aguilera (out of Brighton)' and take my running buddies deep sea fishing with me (although if I were to try and organise my deep sea fishing trip, I'm sure one of them would tell me he doesn't like boats, or the sun, or traveling, or fishing, or indeed the idea of barbequed marlin and we would end up seeing Live Free or Die Hard at Canary Wharf instead.). A touch of flash cash might go a bit towards making me less of a C-list friend amongst some folks I know. It might open a few doors for me. I'd be able to fund Tony Kvetch's comeback for one.
But maybe I'm more keen on the idea of Akon having none of what he currently enjoys, just because I don't like him. His lyrics suggest he's utterly obnoxious and without any grace. "I like you, by that I mean I'd like to ram it inside you until you complain that it hurts." seems to be what he has to offer. And he lacks talent to even make this an entertaining suggestion. "Kick it like TaeBo?" if the kind of charm you are aiming for there is 'I'm fucking retarded, look after me' then mission accomplished. If not, what does it matter? If you're after the type of shallow hottie who just wants to know what model car you drive, it doesn't matter what you say or who you are, just that you're famous. Which I guess is how it works. Some people just won't mind that he's a polygamist, was arrested and jailed for armed robbery, used to sell drugs and owns A FUCKING DIAMOND MINE IN AFRICA, as long as it comes in that fame parcel. If he was someone you'd heard about from the news you might think he was scum, but as he's someone you've heard about from magazines then why don't you go ask him to appear on your next record?
Feh.
That was the Black Dog. Here's the 'Off-ramp' before I start talking about something more obscure and geeky than the comics post I just did.
By the way, I'm disappointed people felt like they couldn't contribute to the discussion because it had gotten too specialised. Just say what you want. Interrupt. It's the same five guys reading these blogs on all my brothers' pages, I don't like to think that any of us are excluded from saying what they want to here.
So, if you want to turn off before the hardcore boredom begins, this is your junction
III
II
I
Back in my 2nd year of Secondary School (I couldn't ever calculate that year 7, year 9 system, sorry) I was introduced to an author by our class tutor - Mr. Hopkins (him being the tutor, not the author.) Mr. Hopkins was one of the good guys, having let the Pomegrannite Heads perform in class, and also telling me where Gosh was, by the British Museum. He told me about Cerebus the Aardvark, I seem to remember, and he also talked with me about X-Men. He wasn't liked by all, but I found to be one of those rare instances in school where someone was more person than teacher.
Anyway, he used to put our weekly class assembly to good use by reading us short stories by Hector Hugh Monro, better known as Saki (1870-1916).
I can't remember if he began by reading Sredni Vashtar, but it was undoubtedly this story that made me a fan. It's my favourite of his, and I might go as far to say it's my favourite short story ever (the problem these days with being asked what my favourite anything is not so much chosing what is best, but just remembering what I like - there's so much of it.) In the 15 years or so since he read these works to us I've come back time and time again to Saki and his fantastic work.
I haven't been that much of a reader my whole life. It's only in the last quarter or so that I've really dived into books. After all I studied novels for the years before. Reading something on top of the set texts never fit in. I just picked up what was on the curriculum.
Then film was meant to be my thing. I was into film. And it wasn't until my degree rinsed out a lot of the magic I used to see in movies that I started to appreciate the intimacy and potential of a good book.
Nowadays I love books. I'm by no means well-read. I've not touched an Hemmingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Tolstoy or Faulkner. I've not read 1984, or Catch-22, or Heart of Darkness or One Hundred Years of Solitude. Joyce and Dickens came up in school, so I'm only just covered there. But I'm not really bothered. I don't feel the same panic I do for not having seen 'On The Waterfront', 'Rio Bravo' or 'Double Indemnity' (though I have read that last one). I'm way too happy with what I already get out of books to concern myself with anyone else's idea of what I should be reading.
And the more I read, the more I appreciate books not just for content, but for style.
Initially what I liked about reading was the plot, it's going to be where everyone starts with enjoying any kind of storytelling. Kids are rarely critically aware to consider how something could have been done better, or how the pacing let something down, how the language was flat, the direction pedestrian, or the artwork simplistic. They just want to find out how Ron Weasley or whoever gets past the big chessboard. You put something in there that a ten year old might not have anticipated, and suddenly All Dogs Go To Heaven becomes brilliant and they want to see it again.
But now I also like books for structure, characterisation and language. Perhaps in the next few years I'll start to identify other things to love about novels.
Sometimes the language is purely functional. Phillip K. Dick writes an amazing tale, but his language is routine. Crime novelists - such as Elmore Leonard and George Pelecanos are stark and economic with their choice of words. They want to keep you moving. It's not neccesarily the mark of a hack; you can feel the deliberate minimalism serve its purpose.
Other times the language is stylish and excessive and flowery and indulgent and often I really love it. I love the antiquated prose of Edgar Allan Poe or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I like most styles I feel I can emulate after reading a page or two. Often it's a problem, I will just write like the last author I've read. Sometimes I mean to; in University I wrote a number of short stories concerning a Dr. Edwin Mandrill and his exploits amongst supernatural abominations in my personal homage to HP Lovecraft. I didn't just borrow wholesale the subject (tentacled things) but did my best to write with his voice. I put together a 5000 word Lovecraftian version of my years in study for someone else's project that sadly never saw the light of day. Edwin Mandrill and Major Mark Bentley's uncovering of a dread conspiracy is probably now just a fragment on someone's melting hard drive. Just as surely as I mimicked Lovecraft, I feel I could do a Lord Dunsany, or take a shot at the jazzy alliteration of Ellroy. If I had time to waste writing stories in a style other than my own, I feel I could do solid work with some Fleming fan-fiction.
Saki I love for his style, as much as I love his wit, and the macabre content of his short stories. He has a venomous dislike of snobs, aunts, and humourless bureaucrats, and often his stories demolish these guilty parties in a darkly comic way. But his work is far more than just a cruel punchline, as much as that aspect is satisfying. He clearly loves nature over civilisation, and more often than not he spins a set up wherein the folly of stuffy society is exposed by the simplicity of animal behaviour.
He also seems to enjoy killing off babies. Here's an extract I love, which features the dry, non-plussed Clovis - Saki's alter ego and recurring protagonist. He is narrating story where he encounters an hyena whilst out hunting. Clovis sees fit to call the beast 'Esme', as it applies to both boy or girl.
'I wonder what the child was doing there,' said Constance presently.
'Picking blackberries. Obviously.'
'I don't like the way it cried,' pursued Constance; 'somehow its wail keeps ringing in my ears.'
I did not chide Constance for her morbid fancies; as a matter of fact the same sensation, of being pursued by a persistent fretful wail, had been forcing itself on my rather over-tired nerves. For company's sake I hulloed to Esmé, who had lagged somewhat behind. With a few springy bounds he drew up level, and then shot past us.
The wailing accompaniment was explained. The gipsy child was firmly, and I expect painfully, held in his jaws.
'Merciful Heaven!' screamed Constance, 'what on earth shall we do? What are we to do?'
I am perfectly certain that at the Last Judgment Constance will ask more questions than any of the examining Seraphs.
'Can't we do something?' she persisted tearfully, as Esmé cantered easily along in front of our tired horses.
Personally I was doing everything that occurred to me at the moment. I stormed and scolded and coaxed in English and French and gamekeeper language; I made absurd, ineffectual cuts in the air with my thongless hunting-crop; I hurled my sandwich case at the brute; in fact, I really don't know what more I could have done. And still we lumbered on through the deepening dusk, with that dark uncouth shape lumbering ahead of us, and a drone of lugubrious music floating in our ears. Suddenly Esmé bounded aside into some thick bushes, where we could not follow; the wail rose to a shriek and then stopped altogether. This part of the story I always hurry over, because it is really rather horrible. When the beast joined us again, after an absence of a few minutes, there was an air of patient understanding about him, as though he knew that he had done something of which we disapproved, but which he felt to be thoroughly justifiable.
'How can you let that ravening beast trot by your side?' asked Constance. She was looking more than ever like an albino beetroot.
'In the first place, I can't prevent it,' I said; 'and in the second place, whatever else he may be, I doubt if he's ravening at the present moment.'
Constance shuddered. 'Do you think the poor little thing suffered much?' came another of her futile questions.
'The indications were all that way,' I said; 'on the other hand, of course, it may have been crying from sheer temper. Children sometimes do.'
Saki's work is now public domain, I think. It's certainly possibly for you to find any of his work on the internet. I dislike reading stories off the web, but if you are curious for more, then you can easily Google such classics as Tobermory or Sredni Vastar and read them for free. The beauty of that story above is this isn't even the punchline, Saki springs one last grim joke at the conclusion. Text doesn't often make me chuckle. An amusing magazine article might conjure up a smile, or maybe even a 'Heh', but Saki will have me laugh much the same way I laugh when I insult my friends. Clovis supplies no end of caustic, sarcastic and utterly tactless remarks that are riches to my misanthropic imagination.
He seems a strange fellow, HH Munro. He was a sickly man most his life. He was raised by maiden relatives, as his mother dies shortly after he was born. His upbringing is clearly where most of his acidic remarks over aunts and childless women stems from. Evidence suggests he was also a closet homosexual. He enlisted as a private in the British army in 1914 and refused a commision to be a higher, and perhaps safer rank. In 1916 in France, in the trenches he was last heard saying 'Put that bloody cigarette out' - before a sniper's bullet made a grim punchline to an author that specialised in them.
Most of these stories are but a few pages long. Quite easy to consume and addictive. Hmm. Like Ice-Cream.
Ok. I've been slack with the comic books. Here, have some other things I've played about with. Using my editing software I've put together three pretend title sequences.
I like the font 'Impact'. I think it's a good strong font. I also like the Bourne soundtracks.
There's no point watching these with the sound off. Sorry.
First one was made using my new camcorder.
This next one, I shot using my regular digital still camera. It allows for limited video recording. This is stuff I shot on holiday in Copenhagen.
This last one is made using photos my flatmate took on a disposable camera in an American city you can probably recognise, and then further along the coast. I like the 70s hue instamatic throwaway cameras give when you're in open sunlight. It's a great colour and depth of field. I made up something I felt fit in with that vibe. Wish I'd been there myself, although I wouldn't have been able to take photos I like as much as these. Hope you like.
If anyone knows anything about dream interpretations/Freudian theory, can they give me a shout? I've got a recurring sleepytime problem and I'd like to know what the fuck it means.
Well I've had a lovely Valentine's. I took Michelle Trachtenberg to Paris for the evening. It was the first time I'd ever been. We had booked a table at Arpege, but at the last minute we felt reckless and stopped in a little bistro we had seen when we were walking along the river. It was lovely. We had the restaurant more or less to ourselves. There was one other couple, who had been coming here each Valentine's night for thirty years, as it was when and where the husband had proposed. Michelle told stories about when she used to be on the Adventures of Pete and Pete, and what it was like training to be a dancer. I goofed about mostly, trying not to dwell too much on being unemployed again. She made me wear my spectacles, as she thought I'd only switched to contacts to try and be more attractive, and she said it was a superficial gesture, that the glasses were the 'real' me. We both ate really well, and we were presented with a vintage (1980) from the Bistro Owner's family vineyard which Michelle said she'd give to her mother. I have to say it was just about the nicest time I've ever had.
I definitely didn't sit in my bed eating a tub of Ben & Jerry's Fossil Fuel and watch General Chang try and destroy the USS Enterprise.
Nor did I eat this steak
Seeing as Valentine's worked out so well for me, I'm going to share a bit of love with you guys. Stop thinking about which of your unrequited and celebrity loves got some romance last night (Christina Aguilera...sigh) because in the next 15 minutes or so, there should be F O U R new pages on Skullcopica.co.uk
Beats flowers doesn't it? But perhaps not a bubble bath.
*UPDATE* New Material on Skullcopica.co.uk, check his News Page for delights. - 11/02/07
Happy Birthdays to them what have them.
This blog might get stuck on my social life for a while. It already has done for a few posts. It's something that I'm both working on all the time and trying to figure out, so it's often at the front of my brainpan when I sit down in front of the machine to tap out another mopey song for you.
Twice this week I've gone out and done alright with the whole talking to people and feeling comfortable out the house business. I really shouldn't have done myself this well. I've had a cold that's left me feeling like everything from my beard upwards is filled with frozen porridge, shipped straight from The Manhattan Project. And I've broken a bit of my forehead open, and it's turned into a angry spot/graze/flashing red light right between my eyebrows. I thoroughly expected to fuck up both engagements. After all, I'd demonstrated to myself that I couldn't make soup, nor work out how to get to Bond Street, even though I used to work there (I went to Bank by mistake).
But maybe it's no mystery. Maybe Jeff Goldblum should have come to me and set me straight. Maybe it wasn't just me that made the party where I turned into a Giant Cosmic Viking Bear so bad. Maybe it was a whole bunch of other factors. I didn't lose my mojo. Maybe the atmosphere sucked, through no fault of the host, but just a million factors and hidden reasons meant the combination of people there and mood wasn't right for me. I've written a whole bunch of maybe here, when it's more than likely to be, uh, more than likely. It doesn't take much to turn an evening around for me, but it's still usually a small and rare component. Genuinely good people, talking about stuff I'd listen to willingly.
So that's what I did on Thursday, and even more so last night when, despite me being in trendy, dimly lit and uncertain territory where the music was that babyish bouncing farting noise (that might (by others) be broken down into subcategories beginning 'handbag' 'funky' or 'old school', but for all intents and purposes is just empty chunder.) I felt like I was having a good time. People talked, I joined in.......
Uh, should I stop now, do you think? Should I have just gotten it into my head that I can get on with people and it's no longer a Herculean feat? Sum up motherfucker.
Ok. Given the right circumstances and people, I can have a good time.
Wow. Can you tell when you'll get those right circumstances?
No. I can anticipate it with some people. Can't guarantee it.
This is so profound. So what you're telling me is that maybe going out with the people you really like can be fun. But going out with people you don't like as much as your really good friends, can sometimes be less fun, or not fun at all.
Yes that's it. That's about right.
Holy shit, man. You're making real progress here. This is self-awareness like I've never heard before.
You're just being sarcastic now aren't you? Reading back, you've been sarcastic the whole time, haven't you? You think this is funny? How about I don't give you a voice anymore? How about I just don't type what you have to say anymore? Would you like that?
....
What if I just made it so that whatever you had to say was a Lisa Stanfield lyric?
This is the right time This is the right time (I can see it in your eyes) This is the right time to believe in love
Yes. Sucks to be you now doesn't it? Prick.
Well there you go.
I've been hearing about more and more people (like, two) coming across my blog, knowing who I am. You've come in too late. I wrote all my best material a while ago. I've become an internet version of a street drinker now. I'm just talking to whoever will listen. Please. Go into the archives and read stuff from when I was a bit funny. The one about the hair, as everyone seems to have enjoyed that one. Some of the ones about dating. I quite liked the one about local bands when I was a kid, but maybe I'm on my own. I'm always on my own. Of recent they've all been fairly shit. A quick sob about feeling like a pariah, and then a sudden shift into talking about something geeky and unwelcoming.
So, comics. With my comic hitting the web, I've been thinking a bit about authorship, and what I want from my story.
I picked up the latest 100 Bullets collection last week, and as with all the previous volumes there's an introduction by an accomplished fan from comics or some other enterprise. This time it's Darwyn Cooke, author and artist of the excellent Silver Age tribute 'New Frontier'. It's a good blurb. Before he gets to gushing about the 100 Bullets series, he discusses the whether comics should be seen in terms of literary authorship, or as a filmic, collaborative, authorship. In his eyes, the film comparison is more apt. The writer scripts like any writer does, but it's the artist who he sees as the director, as well as being, effectively, the DOP, location scout, costume designer, casting agent, armourer. In just about everything you would look at instead of read, the artist (frequently, but not exclusively) gets the biggest say. It fits well with 100 Bullets, as the title is one of those marriages of writer/artists where the either one shoulders no more, no less than 50% of why the title works. Brian Azzarello's writing the concepts, the dialogue, the scope and situation, which I come back to as much as I want to stare at the rich layouts and shadowy art of Eduardo Risso. I should also give mention to Dave Johnson's covers. I love this guy. I fucking love his art so much. As much as I can love anyone or anything. Gah. Wheeze.
In the introduction, Darwyn refers to himself, as a writer and artist as a 'cartoonist'. I like that. I guess with Skullcopica I'm now a cartoonist.
But which authorship deal do I revere more? The creator/artist/writer (of which, with New Frontier Darwyn Cooke is only writer/artist, the story being about staples of the DC Universe) or the partnership of good writer/good artist?
With cartoonists (I'm going to use it to mean creator/artist/writer, though really, the definition of a cartoonist is much looser) there's a whole tide of people whose work I've not neccesarily dug into, but who I nevertheless admire for the dedication and completeness of their visions. Dave Sim's Cerebus is without a doubt the daddy of all of these.
Cerebus the Aardvark is the longest running self-published title in comics history. I think it's the longest run of any author on a comic. It might even be amongst the longest works of fiction in the English language. A single story split over 300 issues. Roughly 6000 pages of work.
I've only read a few volumes. But I can't help but admire it. What started out as a Conan pastiche (down to the Barry Windsor Smith-style artwork) quickly evolved into a sophisticated, complex and ultimately contraversial title. (funny how this and Ninja Turtles, another spoof - Frank Miller's Daredevil mixed with some X-Men -, became flagships of the Indie comics world, two of the most succesful comics franchises outside of Marvel/DC. Skullcopica doesn't parody anything as specifically as these two, so perhaps it is doomed to failure. Cerebus even met the Turtles, as well as other Indie favourites - Groo and The Flaming Carrot) Cerebus is an iconic, compelling character, and his tale from what I've seen is epic, to say the very least, in both event and style.
The closest rival to Dave Sim's career on Cerebus, surprisingly, looks to be Erik Larsen's Savage Dragon, which has run for hundreds of issues also. Though in this case it's more episodic, and frankly, nowhere near as well written or illustrated. I hated the title when it emerged with Image's first wave, but now at least I respect it for its endurance, and for its individuality. It's a damn sight better than Spawn or Youngblood anyway.
There's also Jeff Smith's Bone. And in a broader realm of comic art there's Bill Watterson's Calvin and Hobbes, Frank Cho's Libery Meadows, and Peanuts.
One of my favourite titles, as I'm sure you know, is Hellboy. It's one of the works, I probably emulate the most, both intentionally and not. A strange, otherworldly central character who gets into fights. That somes up both Skullcopica and Hellboy. I did concieve of mine long before I read Hellboy (he was called Skull Cop, initially. And was just an insanely violent policeman with a porcelain skull for a head. Back then he was a maniac with more in common with John Arcudi's The Mask), but I don't doubt the current incarnate owes more than a passing debt to Mike Mignola.
Hellboy is what I like so much about the cartoonist creative process. He writes stories that give him the stuff he likes to draw. Fights, gothic imagery, monsters and skulls. His style is his own and looks beautiful, and his storytelling playful yet dark and full of imagery. But part of me wants to see him draw for another writer once in a while. The sad thing is that he's letting other artists come into the Hellboy stable - the next Hellboy serial will be his words, but someone else's pencils which I have strong reservations about. I don't want anyone else writing or drawing this title. If Mignola wants to just write, I'd prefer it on another comic (which he's done a few times recently - Conan for one). I'd also like him to maybe draw for someone else too. He does a mean Batman.
There's Frank Miller on Sin City too, but Frank Miller is a whole other blog. Not today.
But on the other side of the coin/page. There's the partnership. Of which there have been some awesome, awesome pairings. Combinations so cool and suited it has to be cosmic that these people got together. Kirby and Lee is the obvious duo. Their run on Fantastic Four was until Ultimate Spiderman the benchmark of Writer/Artist on a single title (and was better drawn). Adams and O'Neil on both Batman and their bold tenure on Green Lantern/Green Arrow had a brilliant chemistry, one's work is synonymous with the other. Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons put together the Watchmen.
There are good writers today, guys like Brian Bendis, Warren Ellis, or J. Michael Straczynski whose work I like on the whole, and have done some great comics with some great artists. But they haven't quite hit the flavour I'm talking about (though Bendis and Alex Maleev's work on Daredevil comes so very close). Of the current breed of comic writers and artist pairings I have two favourites: Mark Millar and Bryan Hitch, currently piloting The Ultimates and only an issue away from ending what has been such a satisfying run on a book.
And, inevitably, I come to Grant Morrison and Frank Quitley. I've been a fan of Frank Quitely since Shimura and Missionary Man ran in Judge Dredd The Megazine. My favourite issue of anything thus far is his work on The Authority 14 (interestingly it's written by Mark Millar, and they had just taken over the title from Warren Ellis and Bryan Hitch.) Grant Morrison is another who is worth a blog all to himself. His time on Animal Man astounds. He is without peer, save for Alan Moore, and were it not for him, he would be heralded as the greatest comic book writer there is. He may well be. He's worked with Frank on Flex Mentallo, New X-Men, JLA, We-3 and lately All-Star Superman. And he has found his match. In Quitley we have someone with the ability to visualise anything from Morrison's frightening mental arsenal. He will draw it, and he will draw it beautifuly. I disagree with people who think Quitley draws squishy, ugly art. He's unsurpassed at suggesting weight and movement and physical presence. When he draws a punch it looks heavy, it resonates with superpower. That he has an eye for gruesome violence doesn't hurt his reputation either. Some of the most anatomically correct bloody deaths in comics can be attributed to him.
It's revolutionary. If, years from now, a more out-there, more synchronised team works on comics, it will burst people's minds. Forbidden Planet will become an abattoir or corpses with leaking heads. The human race cannot cope with anything better than Grant Morrison and Frank Quitley.
And I've come to no conclusion. Again.
Fuck. This has been a long post. I'm not sure I can be bothered to check it for mistakes. The only guy who has read it to the end is David anyway. And he knows about all of what I've just said and disagrees with big chunks of it. What spelling did I fuck up David?
I really, really, really need a new job right the fuck now.
*Update 13.02.07 A lot of stuff has made it into the comments section of this post that probably should have gone on the page proper. If you were into the comics bit of this entry, there's some worthy additional material to be read amongst the comments. Though Capuchin removed his bit about sexual envy and his sassy girlfriend.
This thread is getting kinda similar to Arena Magazine's 'Is it just us..?' feature.
The funny thing might be that I give so much of my free time to 'appreciating' celebrity beauty, but it's barely got a look in on this, the web representation of me. Perhaps because there are so many other avenues where you can find out about Chyler Leigh, Morena Baccarin, Ainette Stephens, Esther Baxter to name but a few. Also with them there's little question over whether I find them attractive or not, or how. And I like use this space to muse. I hope you don't mind.
So. Here's another I've found attractive, but am a bit stuck as for why.
Naomi Harris is an attractive actress, sure. But Tia Dalma, the character shown here from Pirates...2, did way more for me than Harris' character in Miami Vice, 28 Days Later and anything else I might have seen her in. Even though Tia Dalma had a horrible manner, a creepy way of speaking, and looks like she smells a bit soupy too.
But what can I say?
Also, Sandra Oh. I'm stuck on this one. I don't even know if she is attractive or not. Sometimes she is and I feel like it's a given. Then I see another photo of her and, well, it's no longer certain.
