Bwah ha ha!

I believe I was whining on Google+ just a few weeks ago about how Marvel has loads and loads of Canadian superheroes, and DC has barely any. Then, I read the new "Justice League International", and I'm somewhat mollified by the fact that it could be worse. I'm continually wincing at how brutally forced it feels every time someone's nationality is referenced. Here's a direct quote from the first issue:

"As long as Russian sinew and glory are represented, I vote yes. Da!"

You'll notice that he says "yes" twice, but perhaps the writer thinks that "Da" is just something Russians add to the end of all their sentences, like Canadians and "Eh".

Which brings us back to my initial point...

Apparently, they've taken Booster Gold, a character who's been in the DC Universe 25 years (and who's always been a part of my favourite comics), and announced that he's a Canadian.

Whaaaaaat?!?

He doesn't have cold-based powers, he doesn't have a red-and-white costume, he doesn't wield a cosmic hockey stick... he's not half-French, he's not a Mountie, nor is he excessively apologetic.

And, he's got a distinct personality.

It's almost like they took a football-playing, overconfident, attention-starved, likable and laughable guy (who happened to be Canadian) and made him a superhero.

It's all too perfect! I'm not even sure how to describe this feeling... It's like a cool kid in high school just walked up to me and said that he likes playing Dungeons and Dragons, too. I can't believe how wonderful this news is, yet I'm still suspicious that something's going to go horribly wrong with this. I'm already regretting the mean things I thought about him when he was popular, and I'm newly terrified that this might backfire, and he too might become unpopular and blame it on me.

This development may embarrass me yet like "drunken Russian bear as they say in Russia, da." But until that happens, I'm going to be buying a new copy of Justice League International every month, poring over his dialogue looking for little acknowledgements, and hoping against hope the writing (for all characters) improves.

I'm sorry to admit that my fandom can be bought so easily, but this is one of the best moments of my comic-reading life.

(What makes it even better, though, is the fact that Booster Gold is a time traveler from the 35th century. That means that in the DC Universe, Canada will survive the next 1400 years. Honestly, that's better odds than some Canadians are willing to give!)

Out of the Garden of Madness III.

"As above, so below." And thus, in order to clean the land, first you must clean the air above it.

Perhaps that's why the first rain of the year smells like dust.

In that spirit, then, maybe this is the right time to air some dirt. At the Calgary Expo, there were dozens of artists. There were industry professionals, like Mark Waid. Sketch artists treated it like a Farmer's Market, and laid out tables of their dragons and fairies and guitar-playing zombie spacemen. And then there were the independents, the ones who have spent years trying to hone their skills and carve out their niche, and will spend years more in that pursuit, never happy with what they've got.

And I hardly talked to a single one of them.

It wasn't a case of fanboy nerves, either (although I did get a bit flustered telling Darick Robertson how great he was): it was something else. It was like there was a magnetic field emanating from their booths, and my vision was of the same polarity -- I just couldn't lock on. Jim Zubkavich, for example, was an artist whose work I've always liked, but no matter how much I focused, my eyes would always bounce off him to a poster or a pile of business cards. I wanted to tell this guy, "Hey, thanks," but I couldn't, and it drove me nuts. At least I managed to mumble a bit of gratitude towards Tony Esteves, but he's drawn a strip I've read and loved for over five years. You'd think I'd be a bit more conversational, especially when we're at a bloody comic convention.

I have my suspicions why. Perhaps it's the incessant offers to apply for a credit card when you're in the Calgary airport. The tenacity of furniture salespersons that can't bear to leave you alone, even though there's no way you can afford so much as a footstool at this place. The skepticism that comes from having "won" a free cell phone or vacation, provided that you sign up for this plan guaranteed to save you money.

Living in the 21st century, I have become a master of being able to ignore people that want to sell me something. And as I learned to my horror this weekend: I can't turn it off.

I'm not blameless in this, of course. I worked the grocery demo table for a number of months while I staved off the unemployments. I've pushed seasoned canned tomatoes into people's hands, and it's stained my own hands with a basil sauce that never quite washes out.

Whatever the reason, it has to stop. I've got to learn to talk to strangers all over again. Not by trying to turn on the charm, but by actually trying to listen to them. Isn't that a crazy idea?

And that, my friends, is the story of how the Calgary Comic Expo taught me how to be a better person.

Out of the Garden of Madness II.

Okay, this didn't disappoint me (that post is coming later), but this was definitely the most awkward moment at the Calgary Expo:

One of the visitors that day was a mentally handicapped young woman, who was posing with everybody in a costume while her friend/caregiver took pictures. She didn't know who Batman was, but she was having a great time, nonetheless.

At one point, another woman was walking by, wearing an "Aliens" T-shirt. It was pretty nifty, actually: there was actually a vinyl model of a "chestburster" sewn on to the front, with the graphic of a busted rib cage all around it. The first woman saw this and cried out. At first, I thought, "uh oh. Imminent trauma." But instead, it was a cry of joy.

"Baby! Baby!", she said, while petting the alien head gently.

The look on the T-shirt owner's face was one which I will quite possibly never see again. My friends, you can invite me to all the high society dinners you please, and I shall nevermore fear for saying the wrong thing; for I have now seen the true face of awkward.

Out of the Garden of Madness.

Well, I did take pictures, but there's not much about a collection of long-distance, low-light shots that make them worth sharing. Sorry. However, once you've seen Team Rocket try to capture Red XIII (of Final Fantasy VII) by throwing a katamari at it, it's hard to imagine the picture that would have done that costume contest justice.

Second highlight of the costumes: The fellow dressed as Indiana Jones who didn't just bring a whip, but could actually crack it. Rather terrifying, until we realised that unlike the real Dr. Jones, he wasn't making it up as he went along.

Most obscure costume: The final season of "Reboot"? Seriously?

"The Spirit of Cosplay" award: The man was about fifty years old. He was forty kilograms overweight. At least 10% of that weight was in his jowls. He wasn't an ideal Batman, and he knew it. That's why he was a perfect Adam West. Easily one of the crowd favourites (not counting the five-year-old Iron Man).

I wanted to see fandom at its finest, and I was not disappointed.

What did disappoint me? I'll get to that tomorrow.

Into the Garden of Madness.

So. Calgary Comic and Sci-Fi Convention.

Hmm.

I'll post pictures tomorrow.

Soundtrack For The Night.

"Ashtray Rock" by the Joel Plaskett Emergency has been in my car's CD player non-stop for the last week. It's the return of the concept album, and it's a beautiful thing. The songs are fine on their own, but where it really shines is in the transitions. As he segues from Chinatown/For The Record (Track 10) into The Instrumental (Track 11), the music starts to shift. It's like watching Bruce Lee in action: every step has its own purpose, and still manages to support what's coming next. The melody goes from place to place, always driving forward, always getting to a higher state of energy. After the ascent, we go on the ride down: a "wish you were here" postcard, narrated by the girl at the center of the album's theme. It illustrates the concept perfectly, and opens up the final two tracks for a wistful conclusion.

It's an excellent album, so I started digging around for some more information about it. The first thing I noticed was that the girl who narrated the postcard was the same one that illustrated the cover, the liner notes, and did the woodburning for his previous album, "La De Da": Rebecca Kraatz.

Talented lady. Also, somewhat familiar... where have I seen her work before?

Ah, yes! She did a guest comic for the not-always-readable-yet-always-rewarding Dinosaur Comics by Ryan North. The fact that her strip dealt with archaeology in Saskatchewan was just icing on the cake. After making that connection, I dug a little deeper in her portfolio, and I found that she's a friend and collaborator of Hope Larson... who is married to Bryan Lee O'Malley. And that ended my little journey of links right there, because I don't need to go any further than that. You see, Bryan Lee O'Malley is the creator of...



...SCOTT PILGRIM!!!

This is important. You see, Scott Pilgrim is perhaps the most awesome comic series I have ever read. I can't describe it; I've tried before, and failed. Describing it as "The Hyper-Real Life Of A Slacker In Toronto" is accurate, but it doesn't explain why it's so good.

Don't believe me? Drop me a line. Give me your home address. I will mail you a copy of Volume 1, free. And then, you can send me an e-mail saying, "This is awesome!". Then, I will send you a reply, saying, "I know! It's so awesome!". And then you'll say, "I'm buying you a drink the next time you come to visit!", and so forth. See? Everybody wins.

...aaand that, my friends, is the story of how Joel Plaskett taught me the value of Facebook.

Ow.

Apparently, I went with the "weep softly" option.

The funny thing about the human body is that the more it heals, the worse it looks. Right now the injury looks and feels awful, but I choose to focus on the promise of progression. Actually, it's not that bad -- and besides, if I complain too much (i.e., at all), it's inevitable that someone will pop up and profess that since I've never lost 10% of my skin in a gas fire, I don't know what pain really is.

Sorry. Bedrest is making me bitter.

On the bright side, I've had an excuse to stay on the couch all weekend and play Hotel Dusk Room 215. The picture doesn't lie: it honestly is a hard-boiled noir mystery story dressed up like A-Ha's video for "Take On Me". Sadly enough, that video is still one of the top ten applications of comics in film... where was I? Ah, yes. The perfect past-time for a recuperative weekend.

I did make one foray out into the world yesterday, though: I picked up some brand-new boots and bindings for my snowboard. They even lace automatically! Just pull a single string, then clip it to the side of your boot. What a great toy innovation! Now, I just need to be able to look at them without shrieking in horror.

It's all part of the healing process.

Disco 2007.

Right. So, picking up from yesterday, I was talking about music. Specifically, it's not just secret agents that can inspire you to greatness. When I hear that opening riff to "Little Bones", I feel like I could punch through a brick wall. If it's "Dead Man Walking", I can break the sound barrier, and if it's "Without Mythologies", the entire world stands still, and waits for me to finish my thoughts.

It's a great feeling, but even when that feeling's at its strongest, you can tell you're still merely on the edge of something sublime... something vast beyond human experience. That's part of the appeal, but you can't help but wonder what would happen if you could fall in entirely.

This is the world of Phonogram, and it's one of the neatest comics I've read all year.

In the book, phonomancers are the people that walk right up to that edge, and jump off. They have power, and they get it from Tom Waits, or The Clash, or the soul of Britpop itself. It's a fantastic concept, and as soon as I saw the "Retromancer", I believed. It also doesn't hurt that Kieron Gillen's writing is dry, witty, and oh so cynical.

The best thing about the book, though, is that it doubles as a soapbox for Gillen's opinions on music, but he's not snooty enough to think that we should already know what he's talking about. Thus, the last three pages of each issue serve as the annotated guide, where he explains as many music references as he can. It's what "Edutainment" was always meant to be, and I love it.

And now that I've blathered on about music, it's your turn! I'm not asking for your favourite song, or the one that describes you best. What I want to know is: Which song puts you on that edge? Which song makes you feel like you can do anything? Personally, I wish I could come up with a more intellectual answer, but... well, you all know me better than that.

Maybe I can commute from Calgary.

A proposed bylaw is seeking to declare a local comic book store an "over 18 only" pornography outlet.

This is just ridiculous. Three years ago, businesses in Medicine Hat were sent a "goodwill" letter asking that they conceal porn and adult materials from children in their store. Now, the concerned citizens responsible are claiming that only 4% of those businesses complied with the requests of the letter. Therefore, they demand that legal actions must be taken.

In all those three years, they never once contacted Comic Readers to explain what it was that they found so objectionable. According to the protestors, it's simple. They define pornograpy "in plain English: a magazine that sells sex."

Isn't it nice to be able to talk in plain English? In plain English: Buildings are square. In plain English: Alcohol causes fatalities. In plain English: The Winnipeg Blue Bombers cheat.

Plain English is great for talking about emotions. Descriptions, however, tend to require a bit more describing. Would they be so kind as to point out the line between "A: Female (or male) form represented pictorally" and "B: Explicit encouragement to engage in illegal sexual activity"? There is no line. There's only an opinion, and the fear that your opinion won't be heard above all the others.

So, maybe to some people, Comic Readers is filled with "B: (Explicit)" material. When I walk inside, though, I see the standard assortment of teenage power fantasies in spandex, along with a few romance titles, and some adult comics with a crude sense of humour. That's it. I've been in comic shops that my skin crawl, and this isn't one of them. It's a good place, and it might have to change so that it can accommodate a standard that it never crossed, which is enforced by people who've never been inside it.

I was looking forward to a productive day of writing. Instead, here I am, sketching out a rough draft for my letter to city council.

What a rotten day.