Commentary Track: The Buy Pile for November 25, 2009

First of all, let's be completely clear: this joint was done Thursday morning. Some little known holiday made CBR's leadership wanna hold off posting that day. Didn't stop Bleeding Cool, but they're from England, where Warren Ellis said, "Here in Britain, of course, it's 'Thank F**k We Got Those Weird Jesus Bastards On The Boat Day.'" I have no beef at all with that.

Anyway, on to the reviews.

I will say that for all the talk about Ultimate War Machine's capacity, I'd like to see some of that happen -- if his chest beam can level a major city, I need to see a major city leveled. It's like the old saying about drama -- if you see a gun in the first act, it has to be fired before the final curtain calls. Let's give Ultimate War Machine a chance to shine one day soon, shall we?

People think I hate Brian Michael Bendis. To be honest, people think I hate a lot of stuff that I just barely pay attention to. In any case, I've been critical of a lot of Bendis comics for the same reason I'm critical of some of Jeph Loeb comics or Warren Ellis comics or Jonathan Hickman comics or Peter David comics. I know they can do better. I can go pick up Batman: The Long Halloween or Transmetropolitan Vol. 01: Back on the Street or The Nightly News or Incredible Hulk Visionaries - Peter David, Vol. 6 (do you have six plus volumes of anything in print calling you a "visionary?" Me neither ... I should get to work on that) and point out, panel by panel, how they can do better. Every page won't be our best, but I need for the disparity to be less striking.

So when I pick up an issue like this, or some of his Dark Avengers stuff, where the script really hauls ass and the art keeps pace, I give praise where it's due. I have nothing personal against anybody in comics. Not the major company editor who acted like I was gonna rob them when I asked a question at SDCC one year, not the major company writer who's reputed to toss racial slurs around in casual conversation, nobody. I have artistic beefs with some people, and in some cases (one leaps to mind, as I see his Twitter updates) was settled quite impressively and said creative person has upped the game a hundredfold. I like that. Moving forward, doing better. It's tough love, but love nonetheless. Never forget I freaking love comics.

Moving on: I would tune in every single week if Chew were on TV. I've made many death threats against its writer John Layman (most of which were jokes), I've participated in his foolish blog challenge, and so on. But beneath the cloud of questionable smoke and the dazed look in his eye, he's actually pretty talented, and Chew is a great showcase for the twisted, multi-layered humor-slash-action-slash-drama style he has honed into something great. However, saying all that, the comic's good, but it's not "oh my god" good. There were a few issues that elicited such a reaction, ones where I re-read it and was like, "I can't believe this!" But most are just below that point, and I need that in a title like this which can allow Layman to be quirky without really needing to go very far with it.

A similar concern happens with Star Wars: Legacy. In my brain, I want so badly for this series to be good. I honestly want every Star Wars book to be a guaranteed purchase -- ditto for G.I. Joe and Transformers. These are, for better or worse, part of mu cultural inheritance, etched into the permacrete of my upbringing like tagger's legacies in the sidewalk. The threshhold between "good" and "great," to me, is the difference in what I'd watch on TV because it's tolerable and it's on and the stuff I watch with fervor, working hard to sit down with it and pay attention. If I'm happy to multi-task while it's on, it's not good enough to pay for, and the same goes for comics (although I can't multi-task while reading comics, or I'd get a lot more done).

While I'm at it, the same goes for Immortal Weapons this week, Criminal, Son of Hulk, Wildcats, Wonder Womanand probably a few more.

Now, for the SPOILERS. I dunno if Dove's white light shtick showed her as the first of the "White Lanterns" or not (now appearing all over Idaho), but the idea that all life comes from white light and all death from black light sounds like the same old 3rd Bass complaints. "Black cats is bad luck, bad guys wear black/ Must have been a white guy who started all that." (Fun fact, MC Serch is white, which is why I love using that line -- that sort of thing and singing rock music at karaoke are as close as I'm likely to get to reparations). Better yet, as Ras Kass said, "Black is the combination of all colors/White is the lack thereof/Darkness is beneath the ground, and in the skies up above." That's just science. So that stuck in my craw pretty badly.

I can't say how excited I am about the new Dingo comic that's coming from Boom! Studios. I read the original novel when it was chapters in a dude's blog and remember anxiously waiting for the next installment to drop. I'm so pumped, because I already read the preview PDF and I'm seriously walking right in and buying that bastard. Such a great story.

I've talked a lot about The Untamed #1 from Stranger Comics (and yes, I'm sorry about the Flash, it's so not my idea and/or fault) which is coming up, but it hits stores next week and I'm very jazzed about it -- and not just because I'm working with the publisher. It's a mean spirited dark fantasy set in a world that's equal parts Kurosawa, Tolkien and Sergio Leone. I love the tone of it and the pacing's measured, not slow. Due to the conflict of interest, I won't review it next week (I read the first two or three issues months ago) but I didn't wanna let it go unheralded.

That'll do for now. Have a good weekend.

Playing (Music): "The Professional" by Black Thought

The Jedi Temple: Rumond Taylor

Once upon a time, I had a wacky idea that I'd teach a lot of the things I learned as a professsional writer. I picked people with a mix of talents and ambitions and figured I'd have a go. This was a terrible idea, because real life had no desire to feed this particular ambition of mine.

However, a lot of good work was done while it lasted, so I'd like to present some of it. The work here is from Tennessee-based writer Rumond Taylor, often known online as Encyclopedia Black. He's smarter than he lets on, he's funnier than he knows what to do with, and he's a diamond in the rough shining through the muck of the mundane. Enjoy ...

HISTORICAL FICTION: My Dearest Sally

Whilst I was vacationing in Paris, a Frenchman sought me out the other day to ask me what he considered a fair query.

I dismissed him quickly as I had chapters of John Locke's manifesto to complete, and returned to my residence on the Champs-Élysées. (By the way, I must bring you with me some day. Your eyes have not dined until they have feasted upon Paris at daybreak).

His words were not quickly forgotten, however, and I have come to an important decision that will affect you and your children.

As I stare out of the window of this residence, I am reminded of the sweet taste of your fair skinned bosom. I think of the horrors I have imposed upon you, seeking you out in the dark, feeling my way through the warmth of your knickers.

And I am ashamed.

I'm sure you think me some monster, but I am not. I am merely a man with little time for the courting involved with carrying on affairs. Were I a more virile man, like that cursed Aaron Burr, strutting about with my chest poked out, always challenging people to duels, perhaps I would acquit myself better with the fairer sex.

But I have devoted my life to seeking and acquiring knowledge, and as such must seek pleasure where it finds me. I am not at all implying that this relationship (such as it is) is one of convenience, but a man of my means has had greater things to consider other than the feelings of a half-breed slave.

But no more. Effective immediately I am freeing you and your siblings. By law you have one year to leave the commonwealth of Virginia, and I will support freedom for your children as soon as they learn a skill trade.

Should you decide to remain at Monticello, I will see to it that you are relieved of your duties, and you and your heirs share lay claim, upon my passing, to your rightful throne as a member of the Jefferson Family.

I am sorry for any pain I may have caused you, and I hope in some small way, this gesture can begin to rectify the situation.

Yours truly,
Thomas

P.S. I was just stricken by the fact that I haven't yet taught you to read. Please disregard this letter.

RECORD REVIEW: Damn Near Perfect: Lupe Fiasco's The Cool

Lupe Fiasco has engendered the most online animosity of any new-school MC other than Lil' Wayne. His failure to remember the words to ATCQ's song during VH1's Hip-Hop Honors (dubbed "Fiascogate") and his stubborn refusal to apologize made him a frequent target of ridicule. So how did he respond?

He made a damn near perfect album.

The Cool is based on a song from Lupe's first album, Food and Liquor, about two characters, the Streets and The Game (not to be confused with the British and West Coast rappers, respectively). On the song "Put You On Game," Lupe brilliantly personifies The Game as the darkness that lies in the heart of man over a threatening murmur of a track. Lupe raps:

"I am the American dream/The rape of Africa/The undying machine/The overpriced medicine/The murderous regime/The tough guy's front/And the one behind the scenes."

Unfortunately, this theme is not followed throughout the course of the album, but is only hinted at on a few tracks. Had Lupe decided to make the entire album in this vein, it may have produced a dark classic like Ready To Die. As it stands though, the album is filled with enough solid songs that dropping the theme isn't entirely regrettable. Lupe's flow is so varied; meticulous and dense that deciphering the lyrical content is like pursing a novel.

Both the production and guests (save a lazy cameo from Snoop Dogg on "Hi-Definition") on the album are entirely from Lupe's 1st & 15th in-house production crew, which are both a gift and a curse. While the mixture of beats keeps the album from treading familiar ground carved by more famous producers, some of the beats, notably on "Gotta Eat" and "Intruder Alert" don't match up with the verbal dexterity Lupe brings. (though to be fair, the metaphor laden "Gotta Eat" is the weakest song on the album.)

Overall The Cool is a remarkable album that while notable for what it could have been is highly respectable for what it is.

OPINION-EDITORIAL: The Vanishing

Tragedy is defined in the dictionary as "an event causing great suffering, destruction, and distress, such as a serious accident, crime, or natural catastrophe" or "a play dealing with tragic events and having an unhappy ending, esp. one concerning the downfall of the main character." But in simpler terms, I think of tragedy as "just some plain ol' messed up stuff."

Case in point: some years ago I worked at a medical facility with a developmentally disabled man that I will call "Chris." Chris was a friendly guy with a sunny disposition who loved singing songs from commercials and watching cartoons. He could read, write, and had graduated high school. He was also diagnosed as having schizophrenia.

On my first day working at the facility, Chris greeted me by singing the theme from the "Tootsie Roll" candy commercial. You know, the one that goes, "Whatever it is I think I see, becomes a Tootsie Roll to me." I laughed, and we became friends.

I learned from his family that Chris' schizophrenia hadn't revealed itself until his junior year in high school. Chris was completely "normal" and was even a member of the track team. Then, out of nowhere, he began hearing voices and having visions. The family, not knowing how to deal with his outbursts and hallucinations, sent him away to receive medical care.

During the seven years that I worked with him, I never saw any signs of his schizophrenia. He had his bad days like everyone else, but his medication helped control the more difficult parts of his schizophrenia. I brought him to college parties with me, he visited my family during the holidays, and I took him home to see his family several times. I looked forward to going to work, and he became more like a brother to me than a client.

Then things started to change.

Over a gradual period of time, I began to notice a change in Chris' demeanor. He began sweating profusely. He began shaking uncontrollably when performing basic tasks. He stopped reading and talking. Our nursing staff was drew blood, ran tests, but couldn't figure out what was wrong. Doctors were puzzled as to what could be causing his downward spiral. Chris couldn't tell us, but obviously something was going horribly wrong.

I spoke with his family to update them on Chris' condition and I learned that Chris' father was displaying similar symptoms. As it turns out, both Chris and his father had Parkinson's disease. Chris' Parkinsons was compounded, however, by a lifetime of taking schizophrenic medications. Things went from bad to worse.

Chris deteriorated quickly as the muscles in his body betrayed him. The simple act of lifting a fork caused food to be flung across the room. His hands were clinched so tightly his fingers dug through the skin on his palms. He was unable to walk without assistance due to his leg muscles stiffening. Imagine flexing your muscle and holding it tightly. All day and night.

In less than two months, Chris' appearance changed drastically. He lost 40 lbs. He couldn't walk. He couldn't stand. His jaw was set so tightly his teeth grinded against each other. His body was so contracted his shoulders were swollen. Pressure sores covered his entire body. Drinking Ensure through a straw was the only way he could eat. But even that became a problem.

Chris began to choke on the Ensure we were serving him, putting him at risk for pneumonia. Our facility wasn't equipped to feed Chris intravenously, so the State Board told us that we had to find alternate placement for Chris, or stop feeding him meaning that he'd starve.

Until he died.

His family and I searched frantically for an open bed that could accommodate him, but many facilities refused to accept his insurance, thinking he'd die before they made enough to cover their expenses. I flatly told my superiors that I refused to watch him die due to lack of food and that I would feed him regardless of the consequences. I was told that if I fed him the facility would be forced to take action against me. I would not budge. We were at an impasse.

Thankfully, Chris' brother-in-law found a nursing home about 70 miles from Chris' hometown that would take him. The nursing home was small and understaffed, but at least it was an alternative to watching him die of starvation before my eyes.

As I packed his belongings in the van, Chris laid in a on his bed, his eyes watching my every move. I tried to explain to him that this was the best thing for him, but I didn't believe my own words.

The five and a half hour drive to the nursing home was the longest drive in my life. I knew that the next time I saw Chris, he would either be emaciated beyond recognition or worse, dead. As I drove, I sang all of the songs he enjoyed, and I could see him struggling to use his remaining energy to hum the theme to the "Tootsie Roll" song one more time.

We arrived at the home, and the orderlies helped me unload his things and check him in. I wheeled Chris down the hallway as we both took in this new environment. The walls were pea green and the floor tile had the faded look of a place built long ago. An old black and white television hung on the wall showing "Wheel Of Fortune."

I tried telling the orderlies about the way Chris laughed when someone told a joke, or how he liked to say that girls would get him in trouble. I told them how smart he was. They looked at Chris, and I could see them wondering how this desiccated shell of a man could be capable of the things I was describing. I realized that I was still remembering the person that he was, and not the person that he had become.

I stayed by his bedside longer than necessary, watchinghis eyes sizing up all these new faces. He seemed confused and scared, and I couldn't blame him. These people weren't his family. These people weren't the friends that he had known for the past 25 years. These people were strangers, and he was going to die here.

Alone.

I hugged him and lied through my teeth, telling him everything was going to be okay. He smiled at me.

That was the last time I saw him alive.

I cried as I got in my car, not wanting to look in the rearview mirror for fear that my guilt would make me go back into the nursing home and take him with me. Rain began to assault my windows as I drove home, and I thought briefly about pulling over but I couldn't take my foot from the pedal. I wanted to get as far away as quickly as I could. I kept driving.

When people tell me that their life is hard, or claim that something tragic happened to them, I think of Chris. I think of someone who never caused another living soul a second of grief, and all of the misery and suffering that was heaped upon his shoulders. And through it all, he still managed to smile.

Tragic, ain't it?

These are the final drafts of assignments he was given, and I believe they're top-notch and publication worthy. I hope to see more of his writing, and not just on the weekends when he watches sports.

Playing (Music): "The Professional" by Black Thought

The Buy Pile Commentary Track (two weeks strong)

I missed doing this last week because I got super busy with other projects, but here goes.

NOVEMBER 18, 2009

The biggest surprise is that I paid real US money (for what it's worth) for a comic book starring Brother Power the Geek. To be honest, on Steve's recommendation, I also bought a 1989 Swamp Thing annual written by Neil Gaiman. Steve (for some reason) thinks Superman co-creator Joel Siegel created BPTG, but Wikipedia says it's Captain America co-creator Joe Simon. I can't tell, but somebody went from the heights of heroism to the depths of weirdness. That's interesting in itself, and I'd love to hear the story of how that happened. I also was pleasantly surprised at the tender, almost hopeful tone of the Bat, reminiscent of his words in the "DC One Million" event.

Also: Hank Pym != "scientist supreme." That's dumb. Let's never talk about that again. However, Hank borrowing on years of experience and good old fashioned genius was awesome to behold, very Doc Savage "scientist-adventurer." I like that role for him. Less whiny. I do not need whiny comics. Also, Amadeus Cho taking down three Inhumans killer robots with a penny? How sweet was that? Cho and Hercules are an amazing pair of characters to put together, and I'm grateful to Marvel for getting that in as often as they can.

After reading the Powers Encyclopedia, I'm glad to know the stories but I'm glad I didn't read them. It's so strangely inbred and weird.

Phonogram however ... wow. I love the delicacy, intimacy and subtlety of Gillen's script, like the scene in the cab, or the bit in the bathroom. However, I would literally take a baseball bat into an elementary schoolyard for a chance to work with Jamie McKelvie. His artwork just speaks to me -- so crisp, so clean, so smart. There used to be an artist who drew very clean images of women in very minimalist lines, he worked in Playboy (my parents got me a subscription in the 1980s, that's how awesome I am) but I can't remember his name. Anyway, McKelvie is a much smarter, much more versatile version of that guy. One day I will have enough money (or extortion material) to get him to work with me. I will! Shut up!

I really have been very disappointed in Marvel for making a character like Owen Reece and never really doing much with him. A public showdown with Norman Obsorn's fun, but we all know the Molecule Man has a glass jaw and confidence problems that make the Sentry look like the poster child for sanity. I'd like to see the Molecule Man be less of a punching bag and more of a random force of chance, not cosmically aligned with the In-Betweener or anything, but more like the rain of frogs in Magnolia. Sometimes, things just happen, and he'd be those things. I'd set up an editorial conference with a globe, and set a path for him to be on. If that path intersects stories, so be it. If not, it's background. But he'd have to be less of a shlub, and if it can happen to Catman, it can happen for this guy. I'm just saying ...

Another thing I'd love? If Irredeemable just came out in big chunks. The periodical format saps a lot of the momentum from the stories. "Wait for the trade," yadda yadda, the market doesn't support that sometimes. I like the idea, I just don't like it in an episodic format.

Which reminds me: the "Norman Osborn's a good strategist and crappy tactician" argument got another notch in its favor with his Dark Reign: The List - Spider Man story. He knew the data was on a flash drive. He knew he had magnetic beams built in. He did not need to get close. His emotion with the Spider is his undoing, and will likely be what topples him. Also, how many people have raided his digital security? That's super embarrassing, dude.

I love Dawnstar and Wildfire. I like Blok and Mysa. That was almost enough, because that was one hell of a story in the back of Adventure Comics #4. But whoo boy, that zombie Alexander Luthor stuff was a waste of time.

I really wanted to check out "Drone" #1 based on solicits. Oh well.

I like a lot of books from Boom! Studios the way I like Flash Forward and White Collar and Lie To Me. Good stuff, entertaining, worth checking and worth sitting through commercials for. However, I'd pay actual money to see Glee or ... crap, I can't think of anything else right now. Anyway, Boom! has a lot of interesting stories that aren't very interesting (among the exceptions: 2 Guns, Irredeemable) and would work well adapted (probably intentional) but need a lot more ... lemme finish this with Deadpool below.

NOVEMBER 11, 2009

The new characters in the Minor Seven are slow to develop in "Gravel" #15, but I like where they're going. Speaking of Warren Ellis, I think "Supergod" #1 should have been a web-exclusive freebie preview and gotten right to the meat of the matter.

I also tweeted a little about this, but I'm torn about the developments in Black Panther #10. HUGE SPOILER ALERT ... YOU'VE BEEN WARNED ...

...

...

...

LAST CHANCE TO OPT OUT ...

...okay. Latveria going to war with Wakanda, allegedly shielded by an Asgardian populace there and with a little help from Namor, is a very interesting story idea. Doom's wanted to knock T'Challa's block off for years, but has been way too focused on Reed to do anything about it. That's all fine, I'm interested, I'm even okay with Shuri as a Proxy Panther. What I'm sad about is that there's not (unless I'm reading wrong) a single person of African descent involved with the project. Not one. Not Chris Cross, not Jamal Igle, not Afua Richardson, not MD Bright, not one. The biggest spotlight the Panther's gotten without a Hollywood name behind him

Don't get me wrong, I don't wanna take the shine off of Jonathan Maberry (whose talk show angle is a brilliant means to introduce exposition and still move the story along -- I want those two Wakandan analysts on the Marvel site, commenting about 616 at large), but still ...

While I'm under spoiler warning: Vril Dox, Sinestro Corpsman? Yes, please. More of that. But Nate Gray? Less of that. Seriously. Where's Marvel Boy and Fantomex? Those two are almost Cho/Hercules caliber!

SPOILERS AND WHAT NOT DONE, BACK TO REGULAR PROGRAMMING

I love Daniel Way's treatment of Deadpool, but the plots do need a little more "oomph" to them. What does that mean? Well, for three bucks, I need to be entertained more than I would be by an average TV show. I watch that stuff on Hulu, for free, often while working on other things. When I read a comic, I can maybe eat. That's about it. So for the cost and expenditure of time, I need it to step up. Deadpool started very strong with that and has been coasting a little. The aforementioned Boom! Studios stories hover but never soar. For three or four bucks, I need some soaring. That's almost a call to arms, and a statement about the way I buy, honestly.

Let me say this clearly: Red Robin has a good direction, it just hasn't been willing to go far enough. I hope that changes. Sack up and go macadamias.

Yes, I'm sad about the Purple Rain homage cover of Batman and Robin #6. Let's never speak of The Flamingo again. Seriously.

JSA vs. Kobra: Engines of Faith #6 let me down. Not in a big way, but it needs to be said.

The brother in S.W.O.R.D. #1 was a huge mistake. Stay on target!

Tabu out.

Playing (Music): "Everything is Everything" by Lauryn Hill

Love Comics Reporting

I can't disagree with Andy Khouri's blog about live comics journalism more.

I've done a lot of conventions, sat near the front and types as fast as I could with the three to five fingers I normally use to type⁽¹⁾ to record Kevin Smith using the "n" word or Brian Michael Bendis yelling from the crowd at Joe Quesada or whatever the hell I was covering. I've done this work exclusively for Comic Book Resources, where I've worked in one capacity or another since 2003.

The live panels I've covered haven't been my best writing. I readily admit that. They've been challenging, to follow the thick accents and scattershot staccato statements of Dan Didio or some possibly anonymous Wizard staffer,⁽²⁾ be it in Long Beach, Rosemont or San Diego.

However, the one thing I know is that this "on the spot" reporting has been famously successful for CBR⁽³⁾ and supports one thing that Andy's blog fails to recognize: people refreshing over and over are people who are passionate about this content. They're the die hards in Kansas and Anchorage and Biloxi who are far removed from our coastal politics and don't see this jaded, bleeding industry the same was as Andy's Hollywood stylings would, or even my south central Los Angeles views can.⁽⁴⁾ Doing this kind of reporting is the closest hundreds and thousands of people can get to attending these conventions, their window into the comics world is a glowing rectangle shining on their face and hooked up to the wall.

The sheer scope of ingratitude for his piece -- getting free room and travel and admission to something people travel across the world for, and getting to give the messages that these people want to hear even when they can't make the trip -- boggles my mind. Sure, this isn't Pulitzer freaking journalism, but it's what the market supports and it's clearly what the market wants. It's not just "live comics reporting," it's love comics reporting, because there is a connection between the people who love these properties and these stories and the person bringing them what they want.

I for one am enormously grateful -- not just to the management of CBR for putting up with my prima donna demands and my surly attitude, but to the people who read the work. I've literally had hundreds and thousands of people who never got to read my work in Vibe or Black Enterprise or Rap Pages, nor on AOL or MTV Online, see my name and hear my virtual voice through the tapping of these keys, through the shared avenue of loving it. I'm also not afraid to say so -- when people send me hate mail, I thank them, because I could not have become the tarnished angel⁽⁵⁾ that moves among you all today any other way. Color me very much obliged, and quick to shout down anybody who'd speak against that simple passion, that unrelenting love, that's kept this dead tree industry alive.

As with all things, your mileage may vary. Standard disclaimers freaking apply.

Playing (Music): "Hate On Me" by the cast of Glee.

FOOTNOTES

(1) = I never learned to type like a normal person. I've hunt and pecked since I started at my high school newspaper, and it led to a weird style of typing where I use two or three fingers on my right hand and my index finger (with some chance assistance from the thumb) on my left. However, when I started playing MUDs in the 1990s, I got pretty fast, and now do between 55-65 words per minute ... with those same few fingers. Looks weird too.

(2) = Is it wrong that I'm surprised to not have seen streams of Wizard staffers grow up and blow up in the comics industry? I'm just saying ...

(3) = I won't reveal specifics I've heard because it's not my company and not my place to disclose. However, knowing that I can get paid three times more per story than I did when I started, and that amount of money being worth considering, and knowing CBR now keeps a freaking yacht for a week in San Diego while comping a staff of reporters, I'd call that a sign of success.

(4) = My little brother, who loves comics and lives in Milwaukee, can't walk by CCH Pounder in Trader Joes like I did last week after I got my comics. We take this stuff for granted, but it's considered quite amazing by a large populace of the world.

(5) = Apologies to Kurt Busiek, Brent Anderson and Rock Hudson.

What If God Was One Of Us?

I was driving home listening to music and singing along when the lyrics to this song caught me, and got me going, and stuck a story in my head. It's a very early draft, and needs work, but here it is. What? I said I was doing microfiction here, it's barely 1,000 words! Shut up!

The 204 bus line ran north on Los Angeles' Vermont Avenue once every thirty minutes this time of night. Keyonte knew this, having taken this route back to his Koreatown apartment literally dozens of times a month for the last year, and checked the time on his prepaid Nokia 6010 cell phone: 11:15 PM.

He walked a few steps into the street, glaring angrily south. His hands were stuffed deep into the pockets of his black bubble goosedown jacket, dark blue jeans hanging low beneath his waistline, a Glock .40 caliber pistol resting against his left thigh in one pocket, the badge from his job at the California Association of REALTORS in the right.

The lights of the bus -- three orange dots over orange letters scrolling across the top, illuminated white circles near the ground -- swam into his vision, crossing Imperial. Keyonte patted his left rear pocket to triple check the bus pass wallet secured there. He breathed deep, his breath a frustrated cloud in front of his face on the uncharacteristically chilly night, and waited for the double doors to approach and open.

Moments later, he stalked down the claustrophobic aisle, his long arms reaching to steady him on metal bars placed periodically along his path, a snarling glance passing over the faces of the four other passengers heading north on Vermont that Thursday night. Waking up for work is gonna f***in' suck, he thought tiredly as he sat down facing the back exit, right foot perched on one seat and his head resting on the marred plexiglass window.

The bus pulled off and he started imagining the next day. I gotta get up stupid early to get there on time, he pondered, scowling, Since Latanya trippin' ass ain't gonna drive me ... ugh!

As the street lights methodically strobed through Keyonte's line of site, his brain inserted Latanya's chocolate smile and tiny braids on the borders of the cones of light, and he snarled and looked away. How she gon' just up and leave me after three damn years? After all we been through ... damn ...

Keyonte clenched a fist and snarled. Bus brakes squealed as the vehicle stopped at Manchester. Cold air whooshed through the squalid space as someone got on. Clinkle of coins fell into the fare receptacle preceding doors snapping shut and the engine's roar.

The new rider walked past Keyonte to sit right behind the rear exit. It was an old Black woman, a sequined black cap poised on the left of her crown of black infused gray hair. A gray wool shawl that seemed to perfectly match her hair's color wrapped her all the way down to her hips, where a battered pair of blue jeans rested. She fell into her seat and sighed loudly.

Keyonte's interest in her faded almost the second his eyes found her aging frame. She was so low on his personal threat matrix that he'd already started to consider her part of the background. The bus' inhabitants sat silently, whining machinery and whooshing air past a single open window, three rows up, the only accompaniment for the give and take of automobiles and lives making their way up and down the wide metropolitan thoroughfare.

Around the time the 204 stopped at the signal at Exposition, a sound rang out, like a chorus of angels singing some orchestral hymn from back in Keyonte's Pentacostal youth. It was less like the wailing of his grandmother and the biddies in the choir and more like the stern and regimented tones of a phalanx of Catholics. The old woman frowned and reached into her shawl, pulling out a simple Motorola RAZR flip phone.

"Yes," she said with a tiredness that could weigh down continents. She listened for a moment and added, rubbing the bridge of her nose with two fingers, "Look, I don't care how many ways this Ben-whatever-his-name-is tries to get through, I'm not speaking directly to anybody ..."

Almost no one looked her way, indifferent to the details of her conversation. Keyonte closed his eyes, remembered the tears on Latanya's dimpled cheeks as she pushed him out of her door, and opened them again, deciding that the old lady was a welcome distraction.

"Besides, what time is it in Rome anyway?" the woman continued, exasperated. "Look, we can talk about this -- again -- later. I'll be home soon, I'm just riding the bus up to Adams for some Tacos El Unico before ... yes, I know you don't like it, but this is what's happening and I don't wanna hear anything else about it! I'll talk to you later! Good bye!"

Angrily, the old lady snapped the phone shut and glanced out the windows, seeing signs for Jefferson Boulevard rushing by. Gathering herself, she stood and grabbed the rail, swaying as the bus approached the Ralphs supermarket on the corner she wanted. She pulled the string, and the red rectangle over the driver's head lit up, an anonymous voice intoning, "Stop requested, Adams Boulevard."

She carefully moved closer to the door and stood there before taking a deep breath. She turned around, leaned in and reached a comforting hand towards Keyonte, resting it on his knee.

"Latanya's just going through some things," the woman said. "You won't understand this now, but when you two are back together in a month, remember she loves you and that she makes mistakes too. I love you, too, Keyonte. It's all right."

Cocking his head back suspiciously at the surprise of her words, he noted that a thin white glow shone forth from underneath the shawl as she reached for him, and was just as quickly gone as she drew it back around herself. The bus stopped, and the woman smiled, turned and made her way out the door, toddling across the crosswalk to the brighttly lit Mexican restaurant on the corner.

The bus pulled away, and Keyonte sat up, watching her as he rode by, not knowing how to react. As the bus pulled past 30th Street, he finally sat back, mouth hanging wide, moving underneath the 10 freeway overpass along its route.

Playing (Music): "You Know I Couldn't Last" by Morrissey

Director's Commentary on The Buy Pile for November 4, 2009

I've gotta say, I was pretty pleased by comics this week. I googled Titanium Rain and got a little interested, but my retailer wasn't confident enough in the sales potential to even order it. That's the way the cookie gets stomped upon and then raped by KBR and not allowed to sue for damages.

Just two notes about the purchases:

- I'm super interested in The Great Ten. Unlike the smarmy "ooh cool" attempts at a Japanese superteam in Final Crisis Aftermath: Dance, the Great Ten has some interesting pieces -- Mother of Champions had a very interesting run in Nightwing, August General in Iron has had some really nice character moments in Checkmate and both Ghost Fox Killer and Immortal Man in Darkness fascinate me. I did feel Accomplished Perfect Physician was a little too reminiscent in powers to the Authority's Doctor, but the determination his character develops made up for the similarities in power (which is the opposite of, say, Peter Petrelli running his Duplicate Boy shtick for so long).

- WTH happened to Gail Simone and Nicola Scott on Secret Six? They'd better be back ...

Now, into the meaty stuff I don't get as much time with.

After his star turn making gold out of lead with House of M: Masters of Evil, I read Absolution with great interest. This is a perfect case for something I say a lot -- this needs an expanded content based website with biographical info on characters, power levels and descriptions, historical data on the world in question and so on. Stuff I compose for kicks when I'm in line at the grocery store. The villain here, in particular, I could have spent a lot more time understanding outside of the plot, since he was fun!

I'm not sure how Dark Reign and the upcoming clash with New Olympus will play out -- especially with Zeus a prepubescent lacking none of his true power. I kind of think I'd like to see Hercules and Hebe become a regular item, especially if it gave Amadeus more time to shine as he grows into the role of Athena's champion. I don't, however, think all this expanded focus is doing much for the Agents of Atlas, who were doing so well as self-contained. I honestly think they'd do better crossing over with The Twelve (which would really give Amadeus a reason to get involved, honestly, for the whole Mastermind Excello thing).

Magog could grow up and become somebody. I like him so much now I could see writing him. He's kind of got a Jeremiah Harm thing going on, and that's nice. But to see Doctor Voodoo get all whiny after being a badass last time ... that I don't like.

Can I say how much I hate the Red Skull? As a character, as an element, as a symbol. He's lazy storytelling at its root. He's evil because he's a Nazi. He's a Nazi because he's evil. Somehow, he's survived for, what, seventy years after the war? How has no administration simply said, "carpet bomb this guy until he's dead!" It's not like he's even hard to find most of the time.

Nightmare's not an interesting enough villain to appear this many times in a few weeks. I'm sorry. He's not. Also, Jemm, Son of Saturn? Wow.

By the way, to the makers of "Mighty" #10 -- have any of you read Aldous Huxley? Has your lead character really been that oblivious and/or crazy? What a stupid idea.

I'll have more to say about new stuff from Stranger Comics shortly. For now, behave yourselves.

Playing (Music): "Don't Curse" by Heavy D feat. Kool G Rap, Big Daddy Kane, CL Smooth, Grand Puba Maxwell, Pete Rock and Q-Tip

"... and now, to our reporter on the scene ..."

I've largely figured out mobile blogging from my phone. Live reporting from my life, and looking at the wide, weird world. Like what? Like this ...

Uh ... try Guy Gardner and the Black Hand ...

Spirit help you all ...

Playing (Music): "Work It Out" mash up feat. Beyonce, Dave Matthews Band and Jurassic 5