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Thursday, June 29, 2006


So after nineteen years off screen Superman comes back spectacularly in SUPERMAN RETURNS, a film that wisely erases the cinematic abortions SUPERMAN III and SUPERMAN IV: THE QUEST FOR PEACE from the series continuity and picks up five years after the events depicted in SUPERMAN II. After those celluloid equivalents to a steel-toed boot in the yarbles, I was more than happy to accept even a halfway decent Superman flick, and if truth were told, I enjoyed the new one although it could have used a few tweaks to make it perfect. But the bottom line is simply that I enjoyed it a lot for what it was.


In SUPERMAN RETURNS we find out that astronomers have discovered the remains of Krypton — Superman’s home planet — and Supes got into a spaceship and fucked off into outer space for five years in a quest to determine whether he truly is the last surviving Kryptonian. During Big Blue’s absence, Lex Luthor has gotten out of prison thanks to various legal technicalities and gotten up to his old chicanery, only with the bitterness engendered by having had five years of his life taken away, and Lois Lane has moved on with her life since Superman took off into space with no explanation because he was too much of a pussy to have the common decency to bid her farewell, and has now hooked up with the stiff who plays Cyclops in the X-MEN flicks (and, to be fair, he’s quite good here). During the time he was gone she also achieved two major accomplishments: winning the Pulitzer for an article on why the world doesn’t need Superman (fueled by hardcore anger), and having a son, seemingly from out of nowhere. Needless to say, when Superman comes back there is an emotional shitstorm that makes any fight against supervillains look like a cakewalk. Once those plot points are established we’re off to the races.

The film is a lot of fun, especially if you are a sucker for romance like I am, but here are some geek/nitpicker notes and one major criticism to ponder:

1.My one major gripe is that the film is simply too damned long for its own good at 157 minutes running time; judicious editing could have tightened up the pace, wonder and excitement of the piece, and alleviated the ass-numbing effect brought on by uncomfortable theater seats, but I guess that's what you get when the studio strives for an “epic” feel…

2. Finally a film has the special effects mojo to believably render Superman and what he can do without a trace of blue screen “halos” or painfully obvious wirework. Bravo to the effects team!

3. Okay, so in SUPERMAN II our hero gave up his powers to get some Lois pussy — NOTE: I absolutely loathed Margot Kidder’s Lois, so I thought Superman was a moron for giving up godhood for a chick who was annoying and looked like a coke whore — and apparently he didn’t use a condom. The previously mentioned kid is definitely his, but what sickens me about this scenario is that he used his powers to make Lois forget that she knew his secret and that had been lovers, so when he (and Clark for that matter) disappeared she found herself inexplicably pregnant. Immaculate conception may work in mythology, but that situation had to seriously fuck her up. And despite the kid’s physical frailty, he has at least one of his dad’s gifts, and upon realizing the boy’s parentage Lois would have probably developed a hatred for Superman that would make kryptonite look like a sack of Jolly Ranchers candies. It’s the superhero analog to slipping some chick a ruphie, fucking her, and then knocking her up, none of which she would remember. Man, that’s fucking reprehensible, and I were Lois I would find the biggest hunk of kryptonite I could and shove it right up Kal-El’s Kryptonian fuckstick.

4. Kevin Spacey’s Luthor completely erases the sour taste left by Gene Hackman’s turn in the role (not Hackman’s fault; he was fucked by Lorenzo Semple, Jr’s attempts at needless buffoonery), and he brings a credible threat to Superman despite the fact that his basic scheme in this installment is pretty much a rehash of the land-grab-by-force from the first film, complete with Parker Posey’s Kitty serving as a stand-in for Valerie Perrine’s Eve Tesmacher. And his theft of the crystals from the Fortress of Solitude to facilitate his plan is absolutely brilliant.

5. Sadly, the brilliance of the plan — blending the benevolent crystals with kryptonite, thereby creating a huge island that is toxic to Superman — is marred by the script’s waffling on just how much the shit affects Supes. He flies over miles of kryptonite-laced crystal spires without being affected in the least, lands on an island-sized section of the stuff and strolls about like he’s simply walking down the street, gets stabbed in the back with a stiletto-length chunk of straight Green K, which Luthor breaks off in his flesh, and even lifts the island-sized hunk of crystal/Green K in order to hurl it into deep space, while glowing chunks of the deadly mineral are exposed not two feet from his head. I know you can’t kill off Superman since he’s the star and a perpetual cash cow, but either one of these incidents would have killed him dead, I’m talking tits up and utterly bereft of life.

6. The potentially disastrous addition of the son of Superman is pulled of beautifully; he’s a frail, asthmatic sad-eyed little boy who very quickly figures out the link between Superman and Clark Kent, a bit of info that he keeps to himself. And when Luthor’s tattooed henchman is about to shatter Lois’ skull with a hefty paperweight, the kid kills the guy by crushing him with a grand piano, proving once and for all that you don’t fuck with mommy. I tell ya, I like the little guy.

7. The casting of James Marsden as Lois’ new man was distracting to me since he’s the guy who plays Cyclops in the X-MEN movies, and I kept expecting him to put on the goggles and blast Superman right in the nuts for breaking Lois’ heart.

8. And speaking of Lois’ heart, this film is a romance, first and foremost, and I know that will not sit well with many fans. Well I say, “Fuck ‘em!” I dug the romance and tragedy thereof, so eat me.

9. Brandon Routh has obviously modeled his performance on Christopher Reeve’s previous turns as Superman/Clark Kent, and by the end of the film he has ably stepped into the part, perfectly conveying the hero’s kindness and nobility. I can’t wait to see more of this guy.

So that’s my two cents on the first installment of a rejuvenated franchise. Write in and let me know what you think.

Wednesday, June 28, 2006


Yeah, I know I’ve been a bit Superman crazy lately, but the release of the new flick about Big Blue has set me to thinking about whether or not he’s really relevant to today’s audience, a generation under the thrall of hip-hop, “American Idol,” and Playstation. Much like James Bond, debonair agent 007, he’s a relic of another time that has long since passed, and the real trick is figuring out how to make him work in this modern world and render him appealing to not only children, but adults as well, adults who have had a shitload of their childlike sense of wonder kicked out of them thanks to the ravages of environmental decay, 9/11, and the unmitigated horror that is the Bush administration.

My own first exposure to the last son of Krypton came via syndicated reruns of the 1950’s television series “The Adventures of Superman,” with goombah-looking George Reeves essaying the part; admittedly, his was an iconic portrayal for its era, despite his epic underarm perspiration stains, but thanks to the limitations of both budget and 1950’s special effects technology the folks who made the series were never able to pit Superman against anything even verging on a worthy adversary. No aliens, no giant monsters, no other super-powered badasses, just a bunch of boring gangsters and bank robbers who, although they knew he was fucking invulnerable, would empty their firearms into his chest at point blank range without even making him flinch, and when the douchebags ran out of bullets they would chuck the guns at him. And he would duck!

Not long after seeing that stuff, I eagerly dove into the flood of reprint comics that swamped the market at the time, rendering each trip to the newsstand or supermarket into a passport to wild flights of fancy. Both DC and Marvel Comics churned out tons of the classic stories, a boon to the kids of the time since the sometimes 100-page tomes were relatively dirt cheap, and each new issue of Superman’s mags contained a new story supplemented by a fistful of four-color history, both great and not-so-great; DC was notorious for coming up with some of the most ludicrous stories every conceived (the horrendous Superbaby and Wonder Tot series comes to mind), but they were entertaining as hell, and though I was a kid who would say, “This is really fucking stupid,” I couldn’t put them down. And even when those tales resounded with mind-wrenching stupidity, I held Superman in high regard for what he stood for, not merely as the prototype of the superhero as we know it, but most importantly as a symbol of all that was truly right and good. Not so much a personification of the American fighting spirit, since that’s Captain America’s job, but as a good guy whose appeal was utterly universal, bridging the barriers of nationality, ethnicity, religion and even culture. I mean, for fuck’s sake, during WWII he was Emperor Hirohito’s favorite comics character, and the Emperor was frequently depicted on Superman’s covers getting a big red boot lodged right up his ass, along with Mussolini and motherfucking Hitler!

During the 1950’s Superman was literally “the man of tomorrow,” kind of a symbol of the hoped-for utopia-to-come heralded by the dawn of the atomic age and post-war economic and technological prosperity, but then the undreamed of turbulence of the 1960’s rolled around and Supes’ adventures became a parade of truly crazy concepts and “imaginary” stories that took the reader as far out of anything even resembling a realistic context.

It wasn’t until the decade came to an end that Superman became more grounded, and comic book legend Neal Adams lent him an impressive and realistic visual style (an approach that had worked wonders a couple of years previously for Batman, whose general public perception was that of a masked buffoon thanks to the hit TV series starring Adam West). From that point on Superman became a more conventional superhero, the prototype rendered near obsolete by the artistic/storytelling innovations wrought by Marvel Comics since 1961 with the concept of superheroes who were every bit as neurotic as ourselves. Such an approach could never work for the Man of Steel; the paragon of wholesomeness and steadfast stability fretting over paying his rent, or getting into petulant shouting mates with Wonder Woman and Batman? No dice, chum. Well, at least not until the 1980’s.

Superman was redefined during the 1980’s, both in terms of scaling down his godlike abilities (when you’re as powerful as he was at that point, there was absolutely no suspense or any way to challenge him) and rendering his character more “human;” the creative forces at DC played up the angle of Superman having been raised in the American heartland by wise and kindly foster parents who instilled in him a reverence for all life — Superman does NOT kill — and an earnest desire to do good and help his adoptive homeworld as best he can, and I must say that I truly love that interpretation. He’s immensely powerful, but he doesn’t choose to rule over mankind as a cruel despot and is utterly selfless in his approach to his mission, but he is still just one man and cannot solve all of the world’s problems by himself. He is essentially the world’s guardian against threats both major and minor, yet when it comes to mankind’s own personal ills he opts to let the human race attempt to solve its own problems, and that’s what makes his appeal so strong: it’s not just that the people of the world believe in HIM, it’s that he believes in US. The misanthrope in me says that may not make him the sharpest knife in the drawer, but it’s just so damned decent of him.

So as I grow older and the world around us gets crazier and meaner, yes, I emphatically believe in our need for Superman, perhaps now more than ever. For the most part this sorry generation of parents isn’t doing a goddamned thing to influence their kids with any sort of positive example, willingly turning over their offspring to the babysitter of video games and other diversions that require no parental input, and the media is not providing much in terms of heroes for the kids to admire. The cartoon heroes that infest the airwaves these days are mostly foreign imports whose shows amount to no more than half hour commercials for toys and games (except for the generally excellent and clever KIM POSSIBLE), but thankfully Cartoon Network has come to the rescue with JUSTICE LEAGUE and JUSTICE LEAGUE UNLIMITED, perhaps the two best superhero shows ever aired in the States; Superman features prominently in both series, along with a plethora of other heroes including Batman, Wonder Woman, Green lantern and the Flash, and the requisite action and colorful adventure is laced with many moving character bits.

To sum up, I honestly think that as long as there are human beings we will need heroes, and not just heroes in general, but Superman in particular. The Fantastic Four are there to explore the frontiers of super-science, Batman has his fascist agenda, and Spider-Man is the underdog that we love to root for, but it’s Superman who offers us hope for humanity. Goodness and kindness are both in short supply these days, and he has a lot more to offer than just his fantastic powers. In fact, that’s really what saving the world is all about, isn’t it?

Tuesday, June 27, 2006


Well, today is my forty-first birthday. No big deal really, but I have the day off and I intend to go to a favorite Lower East Side hot dog joint for lunch, maybe pick up a DVD or three at Kim's Video, and attend the 10PM show of SUPERMAN RETURNS. Check in either tomorrow or Thursday and I'll give you skinny on Supes' new flick. And with that, I am off!!!

Monday, June 26, 2006


I never cease to be amazed by some of the t-shirts I see people sporting on the street, especially some worn by young barely-teenagers; I once saw a mother and daughter happily sharing a lovely afternoon, all while the maybe thirteen-year-old nymphette rocked a tight shirt that read, “I HAVE THE PUSSY, SO I MAKE THE RULES.” And her mom thought nothing of it!

This afternoon after suffering through six hours of waiting to be selected for jury duty and finally being released, I saw a young Hispanic lad walk past me in what at first glance appeared to be one of the eight million cereal box t-shirts that people wear all over the place, unintentionally rendering themselves free, walking advertising. The familiar Trix rabbit was emblazoned across the kid’s chest, familiar loony grin staring me in the face, and underneath the cartoon was proudly displayed the legend, “SILLY FAGGOT, DICKS ARE FOR CHICKS!”

This dumbass kid had not only the poor taste to wear such an item in public, but he rocked it exactly one day after the big gay pride celebration in Manhattan. I have serious doubts as to whether his parents ever saw the garment, since no parent that I know would have let their child out of the house thusly attired.

I stopped dead in my tracks and was amazed to see that no one else even batted an eye in response. It struck me that the company that produces Trix cereal probably did not license the rabbit for such use — at least I hope not —, I mean, it would be like witnessing a t-shirt depicting Charlie Brown looking exactly as he always does, except smiling while he exclaimed, “I’M GONNA KILL ME SOME NIGGERS!!!”

I sincerely hope that the kid who wore the shirt gets savagely verbally upbraided by his school’s acid-tongued, openly gay gadabout and is reduced to a blubbering mess with no hope of offering even a halfway decent comeback. When your shirt expresses the best wit that you can muster and it’s on this sort of level, that’s pretty fucking sad, dude.

Sunday, June 25, 2006


Ladies, a word, please.

As has been stated endlessly in previous posts, I love me some pussy. Really and truly, I do. However, I have absolutely zero interest in whatever may ail your most holy of intimate places, and I think that most men would agree with me on this.

You see, all of my life I have always had more female friends than male, and many women tend to speak to me with the candor that they usually reserve only for other females (Jeff the bartender calls this my “gay ear”); that’s great, and I am flattered that you feel comfortable enough to let me into the mysterious and arcane world of chickness, but this blessing has often turned into a curse, specifically when you feel the need to fill me in on every detail of your gynecological issues.

Let me assure you that I, and most likely most other men (and many other women, for that matter) DO NOT want to hear about how you just got “the drip” or the relative viscosity of said flow, how your girl stuff may reek like a cheese factory or a trout farm, visceral descriptions of your scorched earth vulvic mound after shaving yourselves smooth and the rashes and ingrown hairs that accompany such grooming habits, the details of your getting genital warts removed, and most of all, the horrific details of your yeast infections and the methods with which you deal with them.

That said, I hereby call a moratorium on any and all such discussions with me unless it is an absolute emergency. I would be more willing to put up with all of this if I were your husband or boyfriend, in other words actually getting some of the pussy whose issues and upkeep I am forced to endure the tales about, but since you have not earned the privilege to pass such info on to me, please keep it to yourself.

I thank you for your time.


Sometimes, when a day starts out perfectly, I should take it as a harbinger of irritation soon to come. And I mean irritation worthy of a serious wrist slashing.

Before going to work yesterday I stopped off at the local Barnes & Noble bookstore where I purchased the screamingly hilarious “The Alphabet of Manliness” and a terrific book on the making of 2001: A SPACE ODDYSSEY, after which I found two HERCULOIDS toys that I had been searching for for the past three years in a seventh avenue comic book shop for about fifty dollars less than they would have cost on eBay. Plus, they had a sale on horror DVDs — I picked up the much beloved MOTHER’S DAY — and I also snagged a black t-shirt with a pentagram on it that read “Blessed Be.” A good start to the day, no?

So I get to the restaurant around 1:30 PM, changed into my new shirt, and found my boss and Jeff the bartender entertaining two of our regulars; one of these guys is a sixty-year-old, nearly homeless neighborhood rummy, while the other is a guy of a little more than half his age who has an almost superhuman capacity for dumping alcohol into his system for hours on end. The younger guy had been in during the previous night and was quite visibly soused by the time that I left, and here he was again, already pretty bombed because, by his own admission, he had begun drinking again at 9AM. No big deal really, since he’s a very nice guy, but he was a bit more fubar — “fucked up beyond all recognition” — than usual and he kept traveling back and forth between our bar and that of the chic, newer eatery next door.

After about an hour or so of this he staggered back in from the torrential rain outside, only minus his shoes. Clutching a Budweiser in hand, he attempted to engage me in conversation, but I stopped him dead and told him that he had to go get his shoes. “But, they’re next doooooor, “ he whined drunkenly, like a petulant four-year-old. Nonetheless, I told him to go and get his footwear, after which he wobbled out and headed next door.

About ten minutes later he returned, still without shoes, and as he was about to retake his seat at the bar I stuck my head out of the kitchen and demanded in no uncertain terms that he get off his ass and get his goddamned shoes or else I would personally eject him from the premises. He pulled a face that reminded me of a scolded puppy, picked up his beer and attempted to enter the kitchen in an attempt to get me to let him stay at the bar, his unshod, stinking feet proudly nekkid. Needless to say, I wasn’t having it, him barefoot in a restaurant, to say nothing of him having the nerve, drunk or not, to attempt to enter the kitchen with bare wet feet.

“Aw, c’mon, Bunche, my shoes are next door” he said again, but I cut him off and told him that I didn’t care if his shoes were on the fucking moon; this was a restaurant, and while he may have been perfectly comfortable, the department of health would definitely take issue with his lack of footwear and hit us with a stiff fine, so unless he was willing to fork over his hard-earned shekels to cover it, he’d better get moving. My point finally penetrated his booze-addled brain, and he soon returned, sandals and all, after which all was well.


Before I arrived yesterday, Jeff the bartender fielded a call from an annoying woman who wanted to know if we had any drink specials going, and she subsequently had Jeff go through our entire drink menu and explain in detail exactly what was what. This particular annoying bit of customer behavior usually happens regarding the kitchen menu, so to those of you who seek to grill us in detail, please check out the website or I will fucking kill you.

Anyway, a couple soon showed up and took up residence at the bar; the pair consisted of a blonde guy with a ponytail, and a somewhat Rubenesque redhead in a black t-shirt depicting an apple core that read “Hard Core.” I thought nothing of them since they were innocuous at first glance, but then the woman began playing with the precocious son of a pair of our regulars.

At this point I would like to clearly state my position on children in restaurants once and for all: kids are for the most part not responsible for their behavior, their parents or guardians are, and they had fucking well better be on the ball enough to keep their little darlings from hurting themselves, causing damage to the restaurant, and/or annoying the other patrons (and assorted bartenders, wait staff or mocha kitchen despots). We constantly get kids at the place and for the most part they are quite well behaved and even genuinely charming — a big shout out to my man, Pascha!!! — but those kids are a reflection of the parenting provided to them. When kids get out of hand, they drive me mad and I want to kick the living shit out of their uncaring progenitors — a big “I hope you die!!!” to Dickhead Dad and his horrid spawn.

Anyway, I soon noticed the Rubenesque woman attempting to keep the child of the regulars entertained; bear in mind that she had previously never met this family before, and her overeager interest in the boy would have set off some alarms in my head if I were his folks. The lady proceeded to teach the kid the art of taking the wrappers off of the bar straws and firing them as missiles, essentially training the lad in the skill of peashooters and spitballs.

The two of them ran around the whole restaurant, hiding behind furniture and firing round after round at one another, and fortunately there were very few other customers in the place at the time, because the woman was encouraging the kid to treat the place like a playground, and his parents did nothing to curtail this behavior. If it had been me doing this as a child, my parents would have taken me away from the chick and given me a stern warning at the very least, but then that’s old school black parenting for you…

As this went on, I silently grew more and more irritated by these shenanigans, a fact noted by the kid’s dad who announced that it was time to stop shooting the paper missiles. Undeterred by the father’s ruling, the woman stopped the kid and told him that they would now play “soap bubbles,” and then instructed him to go into the bathroom and take our bottles of soap outside so they could play with them.

That’s when I said, “No.”

The woman looked at me like I’d just kicked her in the box and stammered, “No? Whaddaya mean, ‘No?’” I politely — I have witnesses! — explained to her that her peashooter stunt was already a bit much, but it was not cool for her to take our bathroom supplies outside for the kid to use as a toy. And then I stated that this was a restaurant, not Chuck E. Cheese. NOTE: for my foreign readers, Chuck E. Cheese is a chain of pizza joints aimed at kids, wherein kids are allowed to pretty much run rampant, and every parent I know who has ever been to one describes it as not too far off from being the ninth circle of Hell. Let it suffice to say that it is offensive to treat an actual sit-down eatery in such a fashion, and, once again, I ain’t having it.

The woman attempted to sway me, but when the kid looked at her and said, “I don’t think I want to do this,” she sat back down with a look on her face like she could not comprehend why I had put a stop to her fun.

I soon ended up in the kitchen filling orders with my kitchen mate, Scott, when the woman suddenly stuck her head in the doorway and asked if she could speak to me. I said sure, and she bluntly told me, “You said some very hurtful things, and I figured since you were wearing that shirt, you’d be okay. I was just trying to keep a child entertained.” I responded with the fact that this was a restaurant and not a playground, but she didn’t get it and countered with, “It’s not fair to bring kids to a restaurant! I was just trying to keep him entertained! I lost two children!!! Is that just a cool shirt to you, or do you believe in it?”

Great, just what I needed to deal with: a delusional Wiccan chick, unbalanced by the loss of her kids.

I took a deep breath, found my inner “Happy Place,” and told her that I am a non-Christian pantheist and I wouldn’t wear it if I didn’t believe in it — hey, even when rocking a Superman shirt I believe in what it stands for, goddammit!! —, but that had nothing to do with my coming down on her. She kept trying to interrupt me, but I firmly and flatly stated that I was sorry if she couldn’t understand my objection to her behavior, but the bottom line was that the restaurant was a place of business and not a Gymboree. She turned away in huff and blurted, “Well then, you shouldn’t be wearing the shirt.” It took every ounce of restraint that I could muster to not add, “And you should try living in the real world for a while, you fucking wacko!” She then rejoined her long-ignored pony tailed companion and began a litany about what an insensitive asshole I was, which prompted her date to say, “No, he was right.” She obviously didn’t like that, and the two of them commenced to loudly fight for the next two hours, in between her going in and out of the joint to yack on her omnipresent cell phone.

When I finished taking orders, I sat down at the bar and attempted to read one of my new books, but I found myself paying attention to the loony woman’s arguments and phone conversations, all of which revealed a squirrelly, barely-contained insanity; apparently she had called a few friends to tell them about the ogre in the kitchen, and every one of them basically called her out for her idiotic actions. Then she started a conversation with a friend that I would have loved to hear in its entirety because of the moment when she told the person on the other end of the line, “Well, it’s not like I NEED to embezzle money anymore!” What the fuck???

During all of this, her date got more and more exasperated, taking many ciggie breaks on his own, during one of which the loony woman approached Jeff while furtively looking around and asked him, “Do you have a back door?” Jeff looked at her like she had grown a second head and told her, “No,” to which she asked, “Are you sure?” Jeff assured her that we had no back door, but not one to be daunted, the woman inquired about — I swear to God — a basement exit or a window she could crawl out of so she could ditch her date. When told that she was shit out of luck for her brilliant escape plan, she hid to one side of the front door, and when her date walked back in and didn’t see her, she did a runner. The surprised date scratched his head when he realized that she had split, but was relieved to find out that she had paid the check in full.

After that, the rest of the day settled into the relative normalcy of a typical night at the barbecue joint, and I put away the razor sharp hawk’s beak knife, having thought better of slashing my wrists out of sheer aggravation.

Thursday, June 22, 2006


It's the first day of the summer and in honor of the season I turn over this post to my colleague in letters, the esteemed poet Lightnin' James. Take it away, Lightnin'!

It Be De Summa, Muthafukkas!!!
by Lightnin' James

It be de Summa, an' dat ain't no bumma!
Even if it's so damn humid yo' nuts stick ta yo'leg
Ain't no time ta be mad 'bout yo' life
Fergits alla dat trubba an' strife!

Crazy hot dawg-eatin' contests out on Coney
Ev'ry year won by de Japanese only
A damn shame too, since de Popeye's-eatin' Bruthas
Ain't representin', jus' pukin...

Pick-a-nicks unda de hot, blazin' sun
Outdaws smokin' dat cheeba, blunts one by one
Rockin' de shorts an' de muthafukkin' sandals
Gettin' stupid at pool parties an' causin' all kindza scandals

Cokey-Colas on ice, dey taste so damn nice
Dem brown-assed sodie's is a goddam vice!
Baseball, babbikews, suckin' down beers
Half-nekkid wimmerns wif thongs goin' up dey rears

An' don't start me on dem wimmerns...
LAWDY, MISS CLAWDY!!! I's so hawny de crack o' dawn ain't safe!
Alla dem braless chicks wit' dey titties all a-shakin'
Alla dem pretty white gurls in de sun, dey whiteness just a-bakin'
An' thank De Lawd for dem lingerie carwashes! (NOTE FROM BUNCHE: SEE BELOW-special thanks to the goddess in the pink teddy for this photo)

Crankin' "Surf City" in my pimped-out car

Hot black wimmerns lookin' like a foxy chocklit bar
Sweaty as hell an' too fine fo' words
Gurl, you so fine I'd gladly eat yo' turds

(NOTE: Sorry, Alysha, but when I found nude Pam Grier, all other models were off!)

Time fo' chasin' bikinis, so try out yo' luck-a
Git out ta da beach, ya dumb muthafukka!
Ridin' de waves drunk afta dark
Just don't gitcho ass eaten by no Great White Shark

So here's ta de Summa of Two-Thousan' an' Six
May de gods stroke yo' pussies and slobber on yo' weens!


Tuesday, June 20, 2006


If you've ever seen the BBC televison series RED DWARF then you know Craig Charles, the Liverpudlian actor with a Scouse accent that could stop a truck. He plays Dave Lister, space/time traveler and last survivor of the human race — who also happens to be black, a very obvious fact that was never once brought up during the show's eight-year run, unlike it would have undoubtedly been had the series been made in the States. Anyway, incredibly talented cartoonist Chris Weston called me today from Eastbourne in the UK to alert me to the following bit of celebrity scandal, and so I pass it on to you.

Charles suspended from ITV soap after Mirror exposé

John Plunkett
Tuesday June 20, 2006

Coronation Street actor Craig Charles was today suspended from the ITV1 soap after he was pictured in the Daily Mirror apparently taking drugs.

The former Red Dwarf star was told of his suspension in a meeting today with the show's producer, Steve Frost.

The length of his suspension has been left open-ended while ITV bosses make further inquiries into the Mirror story, which claimed the actor smoked crack cocaine in the back of a car during a journey from London to Manchester.

"Following allegations in the press today actor Craig Charles has been suspended from his role in Coronation Street with immediate effect, pending further investigations by the company," ITV said today in a statement.

"Producer Steve Frost met with Craig this morning to discuss the press reports and to advise him of the suspension.

"No immediate decision has been taken on the length of the suspension as further inquiries need to be made.

"Craig has no comment to make to the press at this stage."

Charles also works as a DJ on the BBC's digital music station, 6Music. The Mirror claimed he was being driven back from his Friday night show to his Manchester flat when the pictures were taken.

A BBC spokeswoman said: "These are very serious allegations and we shall be talking to Craig Charles about them."

The Liverpool-born Charles made his name playing Dave Lister in Red Dwarf, and went on to present BBC2's Robot Wars and take part in Channel 4's The Games.

After several years out of the limelight, he returned to TV last year in his biggest role yet, playing cabbie Lloyd Mullaney on the ITV soap.

Another Coronation Street actor, Jimmi Harkishin, who plays Dev, was at the centre of tabloid drugs allegations two years ago. He remained in the show after agreeing to undertake rehab.

Charles was arrested in 1994 over accusations he raped a former girlfriend, but after spending several months in custody he was cleared following a trial at Southwark crown court in London.

The latest cocaine allegations against a celebrity come after the Metropolitan police was forced to drop its investigation into model Kate Moss's drug-taking because they were unable to identify which substance she was consuming in pictures published in the Daily Mirror.

The newspaper said today it would make available to police its "dossier of evidence" on Charles.


From my friend at CNN; I'll update further if I hear more, but use this for now:

We edit tomorrow morning. The piece is scheduled to run on Wednesday. Unfortunately, I can't give you a set time aside from saying that the show's on from 6am to 10am. I'm betting it'll run in the 7am hour, then run again in the 9am hour. Can't be sure though. If I find out anymore, I'll let you know so you can pass it along to your adoring fans.


Well, I recently sat through the first twelve episodes of the supposedly final season of HBO's THE SOPRANOS, and I have to say that I think the show has officially "jumped the shark." There have been previous seasons that caused others to make the same statement, but I still stayed loyal despite the varying highs and lows of each season that followed the entirely superb first year. Sadly, this year was a catalog of bad creative decisions with only the occasional return to form, adding up to a big fucking yawner that pretty much went nowhere. So what, exactly, am I bitching about? Let me break it down for you, both the good and the bad, and keep in mind that all of this stuff is contained in twelve hours worth of episodes.



- In the only plotline that I really gave a shit about, secretly gay mob captain Vito being accidentally discovered in a Manhattan leather bar — in perhaps the most stereotypical leatherman gear depicted on screen since CRUISING — lead to all manner of truly heart-wrenching, suspenseful stuff. Once Tony's crew get wind of his extracurricular activities, there is much back and forth on how to deal with Vito's lavender lasagna, with most of popular opinion definitely leaning toward having him whacked to protect both the honor of the Family and erase the "shame" brought on by Vito marrying Phil Leotardo's sister,even though Tony publicly states that he's willing to let the whole thing slide. In previous seasons we had seen Vito as a minor background figure whose homosexuality was rather graphically dicovered by Meadow's cipher/dental school student boyfriend, a revalation that spurred Vito to hit on the guy in an act of blatant lust and intimidation. The boring boyfriend avoided becoming a human pincushion by proposing to Meadow, thereby rendering himself immune from all harm by becoming Tony Soprano's soon-to-be son-in-law. Anyway, once he's outed Vito leaves his wife and kids and hightails it to Vermont in hopes of finding a cousin up there that he can hole up with. Unexpectedly, Vito finds a love that he can openly express for the first time in his life and he comes to terms with himself, but his newfound happiness doesn't have the same "oomph" that his mob existence provided, to say nothing of him feeling heartfelt agony over abandoning his wife and kids. Poor Vito loves his family very much, and his wife is less concerned about his homosexuality than she is with having him come home; yes, the gay thing is an issue, but she really loves the guy and is willing to work things out. Unfortunately, Phil just can't stand the idea of his sister and her kids being "disgraced" by Vito's double life, so when Vito finally gets up the courage to return home and face the music, hateful tragedy ensues...

- The wedding of Johnny Sack's daughter is the total polar opposite of Connie Corleone's nuptials in THE GODFATHER, thanks to the theoretical happiest day of her life having a slowly mounting sense of ominous tension that pays off in spades, breaks the audience's heart, and loses Johnny the respect of the majority of the crew. Yeah, the mob dudes are highly emotionally volatile, but Sack's all-too-understandable meltdown is a classic that will actually make you nauseous; sure, the guy's a crook, but that sequence is a real punch to the kidneys.

- Hal Holbrook's turn as a terminally-ill rocket scientist who befriends Tony during his post-shot-to-the-gut hospital stay was a series highlight, especially his unexpected effect on Tony's outlook. See it and judge for yourself.

- Once out of the hospital, Tony realizes that he may be perceived as weak due to his physical condition and his kinder/gentler attitude, so he reasserts his dominance by kicking the motherfucking shit out of his young steroid-casualty-to-be driver. A savage return to form that reminds of the fact that these guys are a bunch of fucking sociopaths.


- All that tedious bullshit about Carmella's spec house and Tony's endless "forgetting" to talk to the proper people who can force the construction forward. This material seemed endless, and I just did not give a fuck.

- Meadow the mob princess working in a law frim that represents downtrodden immigrants is just too obvious of a plot device that allows her to do good despite her background, and if I had to hear her go off one more time on the violation of people's civil rights, I swear to the gods that I would have put my boot through the TV screen.

- I know that Tony's sister, Janice, is supposed to be a walking irritant, but they really amped up her annoyance factor this season, almost to the point of being torturous.

- The double whammy of Paulie Walnuts discovering the truth about his mother and coming down with prostate cancer seemed like a case of tragedy overkill, and as a result I felt that neither plot amounted to very much.

- Last season's uber-long dream sequence got on my nerves, and this year they stretched out Tony's perceptions while in a coma for a few episodes, thereby trying my patience. One of my closest friends spent time in a coma, so I know that waiting for someone to come out of it is an excercise in anticipation, but this plot line ended up simply being excrutiating.

- The attempt at a comedy subplot involving Bobby and the rap guy goes absolutely nowhere.

- Carmella finally starting to figure out that Adrianna most likely did not run away struck me as false; Carmella is no dummy, and since she's aware of what goes on in the life that her husband leads, I refuse to believe that the thought that Adrianna was whacked never even entered her mind.

- While I understand that a near-death experience can change a guy, I really didn't buy the kinder/gentler Tony Soprano, especially when contrasted with his philosophizing while still engaging in animalistic brutality. Maybe that was meant to point out his hypocrisy, but it didn't work for me.

- Tony and Christopher hijacking several cases of wine from two hapless bikers goes nowhere.

- Christopher returns to heroin...AGAIN. *YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAWN*

- Every story revolving around A.J. failed to catch my interest, and he's such a stupid, useless, spoiled little fuck that I just want to knock his teeth down his fucking throat.

And now the series goes on hiatus again, with eight final episodes promised in early '07, and while I will watch to see how it all turns out I have pretty much lost interest in THE SOPRANOS. In many ways I feel that it has taken a nosedive just like HBO's OZ, although not as quickly, but that saddens me greatly since THE SOPRANOS once ruled the airwaves as probably the best serial drama to come along in a very long time. Now, it just sleeps with the fishes.

Friday, June 16, 2006


Stealing a page from a few other bloggers I know, from now on I’ll report each week on the comics that I have read, and any other interesting reading recommendations. So here we go, and thank the gods that I get a lot of this stuff for free, or else I would go broke!


Having nothing whatsoever to do with the TV series of the same name, this volume collects the complete twenty-eight-issue run of the inaugural title in Marvel’s adult-oriented MAX line. The series follows the daily goings-on in the life of private investigator Jessica Jones, a former super-hero who got out of the heroics-in-tights biz because she realized she didn’t have the right stuff to make in the Marvel Universe. Occasional displays of her rather meager super-powers (flight, super strength) aside, this detective series is really about getting into the head of the protagonist, and Jessica is the most realistically written neurotic female character that I have had the pleasure to read in quite some time. As the series unfolds, the reader sees the world through Jessica’s eyes, and she is one sad critter indeed; the chick is a borderline alcoholic, saltily profane, indiscriminately promiscuous — the series practically opens with a shocking scene of a very drunk Jessica getting boned up the ass by none other than Luke Cage, Hero For Hire — and harbors a deep-seated guilt that forms the core of her self-destructiveness. Yet what could be an utterly unappealing character becomes an individual that the reader gets quite involved with, and I enjoyed this book so much that I went out and picked up the first two collected volumes of the non-adult followup series, THE PULSE, in which Jessica joins the staff of the Daily Bugle. The one drawback to the whole thing is that a lot of what makes this book fun depends on a pretty thorough working knowledge of the Marvel Universe from roughly 1961 through the present; there’s a great scene involving Daredevil in his civilian identity using his hyper-senses, and if the reader doesn’t know who he is the gag is totally lost. That one caveat aside — and the fact that the book is a pricey seventy bucks — , I strongly urge you to check it out.

CRYING FREEMAN Vols. 1 & 2- Thundering back into print and aggressively showing up much of contemporary manga for the pedestrian horseshit that it is, this ultra-violent and semi-pornographic classic from the nineteen-eighties has lost none if its edge twenty years on. This over-the-top crime thriller from co-creator of the landmark LONE WOLF AND CUB, Kazuo Koike, and illustrator Ryuichi Ikegami details the adventures of Yo Hinomura, a potter mind-controlled by the 108 Dragons, the all-powerful Chinese mafia, into becoming the world’s deadliest assassin. When his conditioning is activated by a code phrase, Yo executes his targets in a spectacle of martial arts and gunplay mayhem, finally shedding tears for the victims he is forced to kill. But Yo’s world turns upside down when beautiful painter/heiress Emu Hino witnesses one of his assassinations, leaving him no choice but to silence her for good. Upon meeting her again with murder intended, unforeseen romance blossoms as vengeance-bent Yakuza killers close in. The series then follows their love story, with corrupt cops, Yakuza thugs, and a surfeit of very graphic sex and violence, actually upping the ante with each subsequent volume. The whole thing is screamingly ridiculous, with villains whose images are occasionally dead-on likenesses of well-known film stars and a four-hundred pound, totally nude comic-relief woman who frequently masturbates after she kills people… This comic is pretty much a textbook of every sordid manga cliché imaginable — minus phallic tentacle/rapist monsters and giant robots — and as such is a total hoot.


I have been a huge Green Lantern fan since childhood, but I never gave a shit about Hal Jordan, the Green Lantern of Earth. I mean, how could I care about such a bland, white-bread hero when the Green Lanterns of myriad worlds were his colleagues, a conglomeration of BEM’s of all descriptions and then some? Well, DC Comics has finally twigged to the fact that there are a lot of readers who feel the way I do on this subject, and they wisely tapped Dave “WATCHMEN” Gibbons to scribe an ongoing series about the Green Lantern Corps, largely relegating Hal Jordan to the sidelines. The whole thing is kick-started in the five-issue RECHARGE mini-series, which shows the reformation of the intergalactic police force and focuses on several new recruits. The ongoing GREEN LANTERN CORPS just started, and it is every bit as fun as its predecessor, so check ‘em out. Oh, and RECHARGE will be available in a collected edition at the end of the month.


Reviving cult characters from the 1970’s can be a real crapshoot (see the MAX version of CAGE for a very sad case-in-point, Richard Corben's art notwithstanding), but this six-issue treat succeeds for me because the love that went into it is dripping from every panel. Misty Knight and Colleen Wing were frequent guest stars in several Marvel books back in the days — most notably IRON FIST and a spectacular two-parter in DEADLY HANDS OF KUNG FU by Chris Claremont and Marshall Rogers — , and both were direct fallout from the kung fu/blaxploitation zeitgeist of the time; Misty was an obvious nod to Pam Grier, only accessorized with a bionic arm (a gimmick that I have always hated since Misty is so badassed that a cyborg arm comes off as pointless overkill; I mean, the sistah nearly fucks Iron Fist to death, fer fuck’s sake!), but Colleen is a bit harder to pin down since at first glance she’s every contemporary sword-slinger chick of the type prevalent in many Japanese martial arts/gangster pieces, but her extremely confusing family tree kind of fudges her identity. From what I recall, she thinks of herself as Japanese, but she has a Chinese surname, red hair from what I think was an Irish ancestor, and she claims to have been raised in a family that adhered strictly to the ways of her samurai heritage… Hunh?!? Well, anyway, the girls are back in a fun story that shows off their strengths to great advantage, deftly combining gobs of old school action with a subtle and very funny sense of humor. Written by Justin Gray and Jimmy Palmiotti, the series is a brisk read, and over all too soon by the end of each installment, but the real revelation here is Khari Evans handling the art chores; as far as I know, he’s a newcomer, and if this is what he’s capable of coming out of the gate I can hardly wait to see what he does next. Colleen and Misty have never before been depicted with as much personality and unique visual interpretation as witnessed here, particular points going to Colleen’s lithe, rather gymnastic physicality and quizzical “little girl” face, and Misty’s perpetual scowl and out-of-control mushroom cloud afro. This may not be for all tastes, but I am certainly enjoying it.

CIVIL WAR- I’m guessing that this series was green-lighted in response to DC’s waste of trees, INFINITE CRISIS, and as badly as that outright clusterfuck sucked a leper’s dick, this Marvel “event” could go either way. From the beginnings of what came to be known as the Marvel Universe, there has been ambivalence in the general public as to the merits/legitimacy of super-heroes and whether or not they pose a grave threat to society, an opinion most frequently given voice by J. Jonah Jameson’s rabid screeds against Spider-Man. As far back as Avengers # 181 nearly thirty years ago, the US government has attempted to exercise some control over certain heroes, and the X-Men constantly face persecution and attacks from assorted shady government powers-that-be, so this storyline that has to do with the government finally cracking down on the heroes and demanding them be registered and regulated was a loooooooong time coming and not unexpected. After horribly botching the apprehension of a bunch of criminals — on live television, no less — the New Warriors are killed (no great loss), along with several hundred children and innocent bystanders, an incident that sours public opinion on super-heroes in general and prompts the idea of superhero registration (read: “public unmasking”) to finally be taken seriously. Various “supers” think the registration act would be a good way of engendering faith and trust from the public, but others balk at the idea, citing the ancient rationale for maintaining a secret identity, namely staying masked so that the heroes’ friends and loved ones could not be targeted by the bad guys. So Captain America goes rogue, Spider-Man agonizes over what unmasking could mean for his family, and Iron Man publicly reveals that he is Tony Stark and always has been, despite the eleventy-jillion times that he’s been unmasked and figured out a variety of idiotic ways of covering it all up again. Also, Spider-Man has ended up with one of the most godawful new costumes that I have ever seen, right up there with that retina-melting, armored redesign for Daredevil during the mid-1990’s. The whole shebang runs through many of Marvel’s titles, as well as its own series that contains the real “meat” of the tale, and I can tell you right now that I will only pick up the main book and the one or two regular Marvel titles that I read, because if there’s one standard policy for crossover books that I absolutely fucking hate it’s the tactic of forcing readers to pick up every single possible connecting comic, most of which the average consumer probably has zero interest in unless they are a total Marvel Junkie. This one bears watching, and I will keep you posted.


Yesterday, while taking a load of ribs out of the smoker, I received a phone call from a friend who works at CNN. Apparently, the famed news network was going to do a feature on the idiotic rumors that Superman is portrayed with a “gay” sensibility in the new SUPERMAN RETURNS flick, and his producer needed to interview someone with an encyclopedic knowledge of the Superman mythology who could also talk about other pop culture subjects in relation to the proposed piece. When this list of requirements was voiced during the pitch meeting, my friend simply said, “Hand me the phone.”

And so it came to pass that yours truly was booked to be interviewed for a “man on the street” segment for CNN.

Since the interview was scheduled for the next day, just before the barbecue joint opened, I had to consider what I would wear. For a brief instant I seriously considered going the ultra-geeky route by sporting a 1938 old school Superman “S” shield t-shirt, but an inner voice put the kibosh on that stupidity by telling me, “No, dude. Don’t be that guy.” Instead I opted for a black t-shirt with the barbecue joint’s logo on it, thereby guaranteeing a plug for the business that would be seen by a gazillion people.

When the interviewers arrived, I was hooked up with a concealed mic and given a briefing on how the segment would work, namely that the anchor — a hottie who resides in Fairfield, the burg right next to my much-loathed hometown of Westport, CT — would throw me a variety of questions and would answer in my own inimitable style, only within the boundaries of FCC approval.

We ended up shooting outside, even staging shots of the two of us walking down the street, and the queries posed by the anchor allowed me to riff for extended periods on such things as whether the gay rumors would hurt the Superman franchise, other pop culture characters being seen in the media as gay (such as Spongebob Squarepants and Tinky-Winky the Tellytubbie, who was interpreted by some schmuck as being a fruit because of his purple handbag. So, the guy can accessorize! Fuck you!), the subculture of fan-generated fiction that specializes in explicitly gay/erotic depictions of the sex lives of famous characters such as Captain Kirk and Mister Spock, and the possible interpretation of Spider-Man as being gay since he is devoted to an ageing female family member, was a nervous dork who was constantly bullied and was awkward with girls, how he was a loser until he put on his fabulous costume, and has the rather anti-butch ability to pretty much shoot doilies from his wrists.

The whole thing went well and was a very pleasant experience, and I will post the airdates as soon as I get them.

Tuesday, June 06, 2006


Hey, kiddies! It's the Day of the Beast, the only date in our lifetimes that matches those old devilish digits of 666, so get off your ass and rent HAXAN (WITCHCRAFT THROUGH THE AGES), break out those Venom and Mercyful Fate albums and rock out with your horns out!!! Now, everybody sing!

"In League With Satan" by Venom -from the album "Welcome To Hell" (1981)

I'm in league with Satan/I was raised in hell
I walk the streets of Salem/Amongst the living dead
I need no one to tell me/What's wrong or right
I drink the blood of children/Stalk my prey at night

Look out! Beware!
When the full moon's high and bright
In every way, I'm there
In every shadow in the night
'Cause I'm evil/In league with Satan
Evil! In league with Satan

I'm in league with Satan/I obey his commands
With the goat of Mendes/Sitting at his left hand
I'm in league with Satan/I love the dead
No one prayed for Sodom/As the people fled


I'm in league with Satan/I am the master's own
I drink the juice of women/As they lie alone
I'm in league with Satan/I bear the devil's mark
I kill the newborn baby/Tear the infant's flesh

Hooray! Take THAT, "You Light Up My Life!"

Note: the version of this song by the Meatmen (available on "War of the Superbikes") is considerably more upbeat, but I'll take the original every time!


How's this for a real life Catch 22: one of my favorite live acts, Joan Jett & the Blackhearts, are playing tonight at a venue only six blocks from where I live, and it's one of my days off. However, the club, Southpaw, is tiny as hell and gets crowded as all get-out, and what with my neighborhood being affectionately nicknamed "Dyke Slope," it's a given that tonight's show will be wall-to-wall with the Sisterhood. The point of all this is that the older I get, the less I can tolerate crowds.

So I was just out buying groceries and strolled past Southpaw, and said to myself,"Aah, fuck the crowd phobia! Go see Joan, you pussy!" As I crossed the street to buy a ticket I noticed that the show was — SURPRISE!!! — sold out.

I am a dumbass.

Monday, June 05, 2006


When the barbecue joint first opened my boss put up a shelf of assorted homey tchochkes that would hopefully evoke the feel of an authentic barbecue eatery, only one situated right here in Brooklyn; no pretentious bullshit for us, we’s just simple folk!

The initial items on display included a few carved wooden livestock, namely a couple of roosters and a fairly hefty pig, a couple of beer signs, and a pig in a chef’s outfit holding a chalkboard sign that reads, “EAT.” All well and good, but when your restaurant employs such a diverse assortment of balls-out fucking wackos — myself and the lovely Tracey leading the very warped pack — it’s only a matter of time before all manner of hideous, ungodly and just plain downright stupid shit begins to wend its inscrutable way onto the display area with the intent of boggling the innocent onlooker’s mind like some scurvy, flea-infested boardwalk freak show of the lowest order.

Recent addition to the kitchen staff, Scott, contributed the hardcover edition of the most important tome in recorded history, country music star and breakfast sausage maven Jimmy Dean’s autobiography, “Jimmy Dean’s Own Story,” which proudly bears the banner, “Thirty years of sausage, fifty years of ham.” Hey, it’s no “Chuck Norris: My Story,” but what is? Next to my treasured copy of the poetry of Suzanne “Three’s Company” Somers (no, I am not kidding), this may be the single most useless book ever published.

The brick with the newspaper item attached to it is a souvenir from the night of the crazed brick-throwing guy.

This assortment of Lilliputian piss poor protoplasm is part of the “Trailer Park” collection, a series of fifty cent figurines that you can get at the local supermarket in a shameless move to rip off/cash in on the hugely successful Hispanic pioneer of the genre, “Homies.” My favorites from the set are the retard with banjo, the redneck serving himself a party cup from a keg, the fisherman who looks suspiciously like the aquatic specimen that he’s proudly holding up, and the fat biker-looking dude scarfing down a bucket of chicken.

The previously mentioned Tracey recently got married in Thailand, and as if that wasn’t cool enough she illegally sneaked into Laos — fucking LAOS!!! — and obtained a bottle of “medicinal” snake whisky. And just what, you may ask, is snake whisky? It’s an elixir that allegedly cures many common ailments such as rheumatism, lumbago, and “sweat of limbs” (?), but what gives this stuff that extra little “zetz” is the fact that it contains not only an actual cobra, but a cobra with another snake in its mouth. Now, THAT’S fucking hard core!

My old buddy, Amanda, knows of my love for ludicrous “negrobilia,” and her contribution is this stunningly cheap and tawdry black Minnie Mouse. Although, I must admit to being somewhat disappointed that she doesn’t have the huge white lips of minstrelsy.

The Barbecue Bash Barbie is wholly appropriate because not only is it gleefully stupid, but it is also a K-Mart special edition, and we all know just how special that is, right, kids?

Last, but definitely not least, is this stunning painting that was one of several that I found outside on the sidewalk, presumably abandoned by the tortured artist who crafted them. This one was the more displayable of my two favorites — the other being a crudely depicted woman in lingerie being simultaneously impaled on a picket fence and having her throat slashed by what looks like an especially unsavory and drunken Vampire Lestat — and I really don’t know what it is meant to represent. To me it looks like an irate Alistair Crowley/Winston Churchill brandishing a staff or cane over the burning body of one of his enemies. Merely seeing a jpeg image of this work just cannot get across the crawling disturbingness of the piece and the possible mental illness of its author. Every time I behold this wonder I instantly hear Mercyful Fate’s “Black Funeral” screeching inside my head.

So, what strange artifact will next grace the Mystical Shelf of Idiotic Shit? Only time and the odd zeitgeist of the barbecue joint will tell...

R.I.P. ALEX TOTH, 1928-2006

Over the weekend the comics world lost one of its all-time greats when the legendary Alex Toth passed away, at his drawing board no less. I never met the guy, but his impact on all of us fans and comics biz grunts, both current and former, was massive and he will not be forgotten. My love for his work stems first from his work desgning cartoons, and only later did I get into his comic book work; if you've ever seen episodes of SPACE GHOST (the 1960's original), MIGHTY MIGHTOR, SUPER FRIENDS, one particularly memorable episode of JONNY QUEST, YOUNG SAMSON AND GOLIATH, THE GALAXY TRIO, and my much-beloved THE HERCULOIDS, you know this guy's work.

There's too much about him for me to even begin to cover here, so I suggest you check out the entry at Wikipedia.

Rest well, old man.

Saturday, June 03, 2006


The adorable little fellow you see in the picture came to the barbecue joint today with his dad, and had a great time. He happily trotted out what little vocabulary he had in his beginner level attempts at conversation, and with a chicken leg in one hand and a huge grin on his face he sunnily blurted out, “SHIT!”

Ah, childhood…