In my younger years, I was all about brutal metal. Seven string guitars, double bass drums, growling like Satan – what’s not to love? Well, I suppose the appeal of mosh pits has always escaped me. Nevertheless, I digress.

Lately I’ve succumbed to the charm of shitty pop music. It’ll never replace my metal heritage, but it’s nice to mindlessly bob my head from time to time. A dude can only listen to Hammer Smashed Face so many times.

The video above features YouTube user EddieKim attempting to meld these two diametrically opposed universes. Apparently, every week he is going to post a new entry into a series he has coined Billboard Death Metal. The premise? He’s going to take a chart-topper and turn it into something that’ll scare the church-goers. Essentially, he’s attempting to do for pop what Anchorhead has done for the music of the Star Wars Trilogy.

This week, Eddie Kim presents Rihanna’s Rude Boy.

If my hands weren’t tied by the unalterable fetters of the law, then I would invoke the tradition of our illustrious forebears, reach back to a purer, sterner justice, and have you BURNED AT THE STAKE!

If you’ve ever stumbled onto OL on a Friday night, you probably know that I am in love with beer. It’s a wonderful substance, with its bubbles and slight bitterness and ability to make even Gallagher seem funny. If the human race was even half as well-rounded as beer, the world wouldn’t be full of so many assholes.

In other words, beer is my Friday drink of choice, the chief resident of Partyville Krueger.

But alas, it’s also important to remember that variety is the spice of life. And the fact of the matter is that I want to spice up my life. So tonight, I’m not drinking beer!

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

Spoilers Ahead. Forreal.

For some unintelligible reason, I usually try to write Images & Words from some sort of objective standpoint. You know, playing make believe that I’m a real journalist or some shit. As though Rich Johnston is going to stumble onto OL and hook us up with jobs or cash or booze or cigarettes. Or something.

But this week I’m stripping away the poorly constructed façade. In its place, I am presenting a full-on, irrational, half-baked fanboy diatribe. So while I generally try to curb the off-putting nerd excitement with cold, logical premises and a forward-moving train of thought, this Images & Words is all about cuttin’ loose.

So without further adieu…Siege #3 is goddamn wonderful.

The third issue of this mini series is a direct continuation of the first two; Norman Osborn’s piece-of-shit government agency is attempting to take down Asgard. It’s a bunch of bullshit, trying to evict Thor, so of course the benevolent warriors of the 616 form a resistance.

This edition of Siege comes out swinging — the second and third pages form a huge splash of about twenty characters. Oh, and I shouldn’t neglect to mention that most of these superheroes are tagging along with Steve Rogers as he screams Avengers Assemble! for the first time in years. The cynic in me wants to scoff at this, give it the middle finger and complain about the fact that every Marvel character seems lined up to be an Avenger (or one of the X-Men).

But I can’t stop myself from smiling. It is fucking sweet to see Steve Rogers teaming up with old friends (especially Bucky), getting together to stomp a mudhole in some villainous ass.

The second highlight exposes itself as Iron Man returns to duty. Having recently been drawn out of a coma during Stark: Disassembled, Tony Stark has to lay the smackdown on Norman Osborn. Using some sort of techno-gadget-wizardry, he overrides the Iron Patriot armor, revealing an Osborn who is in the midst of Goblin-dementia.

But Siege #3 succeeds most in what it doesn’t resolve. Whereas some bust their nuts with the penultimate issue, reserving the final comic for clean-up, this miniseries leaves the reader wanting more. At this point, Thor has gone toe-to-toe with the Sentry but did not fell him. Of course, this just pisses off the Sentry even more, inducing a sort of super-psychotic super-powered state (suck that alliteration, Stan Lee). This is a terrible disposition for a guy who, in the middle of this comic, earnestly asks “How many Gods will I have to kill today?”

Asgard’s in ruins. Norman Osborn has been defeated. The Sentry is on the loose, manic as ever. But hope is not lost, as Earth’s Mightiest Heroes are finally BFFs again, and willing to rise to the challenge.

Siege #3 is fanboy fodder, delivering in bulk the type of superheroics that have become the staple of an entire medium. And although this isn’t always a good thing, in this case it is. This is the type of funnybook that I’d love to hand to any member of a future Krueger generation and say, “Hey, kid, read this — it’s about superheroes and shit. You’ll love it.”

I just jammed two bowls of Raisin Bran Crunch down my throat and into my gut. And not because I’m hungry. The sad fact is that despite my best efforts, I’m still a bit of a lightweight. If I try to drink on an empty stomach, I’m destined to say something I’ll later regret.

So I’ve just scarfed down seven hundred calories of breakfast food and am now working on a suds-soda. Perhaps this isn’t the best diet to follow on a regular basis, but I think my nutritionist will loan me one mulligan. After all, it’s important to remember the old proverb — America was built on breakfast and beer.

Anyways, I’m sipping on Doggie Style Classic Pale Ale from the peeps at Flying Dog Ales. Truthfully, I was initially attracted to the beer because of label adorned with Ralph Steadman art. But these motherfuckers can craft a good brew, so I was willing to shell out ten bucks for a six pack.

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

Bruce Wayne has been dead for about a year now. During this time, Grant Morrison has unfurled one of the most interesting imaginings of the Batman mythology in years, letting Dick Grayson rock the cowl and having Damian fulfill role of Robin. It’s been refreshing to see typically static characters further developed, pushed into areas that drives some fanboys into genuine nerd rage. Yeah, it’s been great to see fans breaking down, screaming, “But…but, Bruce is Batman, not Richard…Because…that’s how it’s been…and…well, see…you CAN’T CHANGE THE STORY! BECAUSE I’VE NEVER SQUEEZED A TITTY! AND A RESPECT FOR SIXTY YEARS OF CONTINUITY IS THE ONLY THING KEEPING A BULLET FROM MY BRAIN!!!”

One might be inclined think that a comic whose cover advertises “The Return of Bruce Wayne Begins Here!” would really cheese me off. But Batman and Robin #10, the comic touting just that, is actually quite enjoyable. The book is a well put together balancing act, laying an early foundation for the return of the original Caped Crusader while still playing with the currently assembled cast. Since superheroes never manage to stay dead for long, the best one can hope for is a reanimation that still progresses the mythos.

With Batman and Robin #10, Morrison runs the characters through the unavoidable emotional gamut that comes with bringing loved ones back from the dead. On one hand, Dick is eager to snatch Bruce Wayne out of the abyss, snacking on every morsel of a lead he finds in his investigations. After all, Wayne is the guy that saved his life, offering him a home and a purpose after his parents got capped.

On the other hand, Damian is a bit more hesitant to welcome his father back to the land of the living. But when you look at it from his perspective, the reservations make sense. First of all, Damian never really had a great relationship with his father. Moreover, if Bruce Wayne were to reassume the Batman responsibilities, Damian would be SOL; Dick Grayson can go back to being Nightwing, but the younger Wayne has nothing to fall back on. He can’t go even go back to his crimelord mama, as he had to defy her to even keep his job as Robin.

When it’s not ruminating about feelings, Batman and Robin #10 has got some sick, kooky-ass comic book shit to keep you flipping pages. There are newly discovered secret passages in Wayne Manor. There are goofy bad guys, showing up just a second too late to get Batman’s mysterious ally. Oh, there are some strong hints (I smell red herring) that aforementioned ally is actually the already-returned Bruce Wayne. Also, time travel is involved in one way or another. I think.

The issue is peniclled by Andy Clarke and inked by Scott Hanna, whose combined efforts come across as an imitation of Frank Quitely. Which is fine, really, since Quitely started this series and is one of my favorite current artists. Clarke and Hanna are pretty much par for the Batman and Robin course, never particularly wowing me but certainly not disappointing me either. Again, I’d love to see Frank Quitely do every issue of the series, but I prefer this pair to former pencillers like Philip Tan and Cameron Stewart.

With its vibrant colors and bubbly approach to a morbid topic, Batman and Robin #10 is damn fun. Yes, I used the three-letter word that is to be avoided at all costs, but that’s what pops up when I think of this comic book. Grant Morrison is proving, once again, that comic books don’t have to be gritty, macabre spectacles in order to be entertaining.

Sometimes the light hearted approach is best.

I was going to do my taxes tonight. I was, I swear. For the last few weeks I’ve been looking the small stack of W-2 forms on my desk and just shaking my head. “Later,” I’d tell myself, smiling like a child who has no clue where the last cookie went. And Friday, March 5^th, was supposed to be the day that the taxes get did. You know, so that the government can keep on doing all sorts of great stuff.

But it’s 10PM and it doesn’t look like the Taxman’s come to town. And I’m not laying my money down. In fact, I’m doing what most Americans do when they’re avoiding paying taxes — drinking fine malt liquor.

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

Looking ahead to the Wednesday releases, I assumed that First Wave #1 was going to earn the honor of OL’s pick-of-the-week. Set outside of the standard DC continuity, this title takes place in some ambiguous past, a pre-retro time of gumshoes and vigilantes. Without being bogged down by a litany of mandated superheroes and superteams, writer Brian Azzarello gets to showcase the more human qualities of Doc Savage, the Spirit and the Batman. Three bad asses who genuinely enjoy effing ess up.

And if this weren’t enough to induce pleasure-overload in the fanboy population, the series is being drawn by Rags Morales. This is the dude who did the pencils for Identity Crisis, one of the most personal and emotionally redolent superhero series I’ve ever read. He’s a great artist, but has recently done one book after another that I couldn’t care less about. Until now, that is.

First Wave #1 is an excellent comic book and I strongly suggest you snag a copy. Unless, of course, you don’t like a solid mystery story, artwork that convinces you to spend a few minutes on each page, great characterization, or good shit in general. If you’re willing to buy two comic books this week, make sure that this is one of them.

But if you’re only going to pick up one comic book this week, there is no better choice than Ultimate Avengers #5.

In case you don’t have a clue what any of this means, let me bring you up to speed. Ultimate Avengers is Mark Millar’s latest foray into Marvel Comics’ Ultimate universe, essentially updating and reimagining the Avengers. This series sees Nick Fury and Hawkeye initiating Project Avengers in an attempt to institute order after some near-apocalyptic catastrophe. With so many heroes dead or out of commission, readers are treated to some interesting twists on fan-favorite characters such as Tony Stark’s supercilious sibling Gregory and a genetically manufactured Nerd Hulk. It’s sick.

But perhaps the best wrench being thrown in the gears of Marvel continuity is Mark Millar’s approach to the Red Skull. In the Ultimate universe, Red Skull is the illegitimate son of Steve Rogers. Raised by a pack of government goons while Steve was stuck in suspended animation, Junior went totally bananas and decided that killing was a hobby he’d enjoy. Combining the physical prowess of his papa with an insatiable thirst for blood, this Red Skull is a (more than) formidable threat.

So, naturally, Steve Rogers wants to be the man to take him down. And this manhunt is what the book is all about…but insane. Basically, take whatever you’re imagining this book to be and force-feed it a six pack of Mountain Dew.

Ultimate Avengers #5 is just out of control. While Millar has used creator-owned properties to do whatever he damn well pleases, I think this comic might prove that he has been given total free reign. Pencilled by the fantastic Carlos Pacheco, this issue has some scenes so brutal that I was honestly shocked to find them in a mainstream comic. For instance, the first panel treats the reader to infanticide. And then, two pages later, an entire splash-page is dedicated to the assassination of JFK. Oh, and who could forget those panels that show the aftermath of forced cannibalism?

Reading these descriptions back to myself, I realize that this comic might seem gratuitously violent. But, really, it isn’t. Ok, that’s a lie — it is. Hell, peppered in between all of the aforementioned images are full-blown fight scenes. With that being said, the visual vulgarity of Ultimate Avengers #5 is irresistibly entertaining. Any time that I said exclaimed Holy shit! it was always closely trailed by that’s awesome!

I cannot understate the prowess of Mark Millar. This guy is firing on all cylinders, creating comics that are not only entertaining in the same way as action movies, but also filled with fresh perspectives that reinvigorate time-worn characters. It’s not just explosions, boobs & butts, and fight scenes — the madness is always anchored by a novel idea or two. And, more important, authentic sentiment.

I make no qualms about shelling out four bucks for a Millar book and neither should you. This week, the team of Millar/Pacheco/Vines have officially reached the Omega Level

I’m drunk.

It’s not even 7PM and my brain is buzzing as I drown it in poison. Is this healthy? No. Should most people do this? No. But then again, most people don’t spend eight hours hopelessly trying to make a positive impression on the future generation of America. Goddamn, being a high school teacher is depressing. It wouldn’t be half as bad if I didn’t truly believe that the vast majority students I’m trying to reach are too beyond repair, already suckered into the myopic structure of feed/fuck/entertain/distract me now, I don’t give a shit about later. Ah well.

Tonight, I’m drinking Brooklyn Local 1. I picked up this beer for a few reasons. Firstly, I have a profound respect for the brewery’s other products. Secondly, this motherfucker came in a big bottle, providing one pint & 9.4 fluid ounces of goodness to my gullet. And lastly, I was (of course) taken in by the label’s advertising of 9% ABV. Through and through, Brooklyn Local 1 seemed like a good choice.

And as far as my Friday night is concerned, it has been. Truthfully, I’m at a loss for words. I don’t know how to really describe the beverage’s flavor. It’s a bit hoppy. It’s a bit dry. It’s drinkable and refreshing. Overall, it just tastes like a good beer. Nothing exceptional to take note of, but nothing terrible to decry either.

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

Sometimes impulse purchases work out for the best. Other times, they don’t. This week, I’d like to share a story in which tossing down four bucks for an unfamiliar product ended up being a good idea.

A damn good idea.

Just like every Wednesday, I walked into the comic book store looking forward to snagging all sorts of goofy shit. Again, I know how ludicrous these books can be, but anticipating their release helps get me through the week. Reading them, on the other hand, helps me forget about the week altogether. Clearly, it’s a marriage made in Escapist Heaven. So it goes without saying, I picked up all of my favorite books that feature body builders with super powers, mind-numbing exposition and overly-sexualized women.

In addition to this mindrot, I also snagged Choker #1. Originally slated for release two weeks ago, the first issue of this six-part series comes out swinging. What we find out in this first issue is that over-the-hill private investigator Johnny Jackson is finally being offered a chance to regain his position on the city’s police force. Of course, this means he must appease the insidious chief of police by tracking down Hunt Cassidy, the man he locked up years ago.

Does this seem like another Crime Story Paint by Numbers? Sure. But Choker pulls it off, setting the story in the quasi-dystopian Shotgun City. Perhaps taking a page out of Spider Jerusalem’s playbook, Jackson has these kind words to say about his city:

Jesus. This place stinks worse than my office.

Devo-fucking-lution, how we’ve embrace you.

We’re living in one big melting pot of futility and folly, and somehow it continues to flourish.

There’s not a thing I can do about it.

Not anymore.

Mutiny has ravaged the ship and we’re slowly sinking. Not even the sharks will want to eat us.

Maybe I’m a sucker for a pessimistic, pissed-at-the-world detective. Maybe I think it’s an archetype I’ll always fall for. Maybe I just wish I could be one myself (a detective that is).

Definitely.

And while writer Ben McCool’s script certainly places Choker within the world of interesting narrative, it’s artist Ben Templesmith that cannon-launches it onto Mount Bad Ass Comic Book. This guy has done a ton of sick shit, such as 30 Days of Night and Warren Ellis’ (unfortunately delayed) Fell. However, I really think that Templesmith is upping the ante with his new series, and the readers are going to reap all the benefits.

Thus far, the artwork of Choker is nothing short of inspiring. Templesmith’s neat & tidy approach to panel layout keeps the story moving without the necessity of pausing to ask What the fuck is going on? With that being said, the contents of these panels are quite atmospheric in nature, creating a dark world that always seems to be clouded over. Templesmith then creates a balance, as he paints Shotgun City with vibrant neon colors. As a result, he generates a sharp urban contrast between progression and regression that harkens back to Bladerunner.

Choker #1 has proven to be the best four-dollar investment I have blindly made this week (and yes, I’ve made a few). Even without any text, this book would be worth your cash money. In a way, the fact that the story McCool has begun to unveil is actually rad, well that’s just icing on the cake.