[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]

The theme for this week’s Images & Words is blood and thunder. This is the phrase that I couldn’t stop thinking of as I read the second issue of Siege, the limited series that sees Norman Osborn and his cronies trying to trash Thor’s crib. Built upon the premise of gods and superheroes duking it out, the expectation is that Siege would be an action-packed fanboy wet dream.

So far, the expectations are being met. And then some.

Picking up where the first issue left off, Siege #2 takes the reader right into the middle of the battle for Asgard. As was to be expected, Ares (yes, the god of bloodlust exists in the Marvel Universe) realizes that Norman Osborn’s been playing him for a damn fool! Jumping ship, Ares has himself a slugfest with the Sentry.  And it’s this slugfest  that ends up stealing the show.

I don’t want to spoil anything, but I will say this – the fight ends with a fatality. Actually, it’s a two-page dismemberment, with entrails and blood and bodily fluids flying all over the damn place.

Yeah, it really is the artistic team of Coipel/Morales/Martin (pencils/inks/colors) that makes this comic especially worthwhile. Bendis’ scripting isn’t bad (in fact, it’s quite good) but the stunning visuals are what elevate the book. In addition to the aforementioned gorefest, even the more mundane sequences are sexy. Coipel’s pencils give Captain America a youthful sensibility which really shines through during his conversation with Steve Rogers.

Hell, the team even manages to make a snoozer of a meeting (between…well, some of Earth’s mightiest heroes) worthy being framed and hung poster-style.

I’m not going to waste time with one of my exhausting complaints about comics-events – but only because Siege is genuinely enjoyable. I think the series is pushing the Marvel universe in an interesting direction, and is doing so with guns and gods and explosions and all that other good shit. I’m sold.

If Ben Kenobi didn’t make his noble sacrifice, he’d be sensing an unprecedented disturbance in the Force right now – as though millions of geeks were crying out, only to be silenced.

Word started spreading today that Dan DiDio, Executive Douchebag of DC Comics, is going ahead with plans to publish multiple series and projects based on Watchmen. Apparently Paul Levitz, former Decent Publisher and Respectful Fellow of DC Comics, had repeatedly turned down proposals to create spin-offs based on Watchmen out of a respect for Alan Moore (the kook/genius responsible for writing the series).  Now that Levitz is  out of the picture, DiDio is willing to cash-in on the DC-owned property, with nary a regard for the wishes of its original creators.

I believe that Watchmen is the greatest fictional narrative I have ever experienced, a perfect work of unparalleled excellence. As such, I understand that any attempts to capitalize on its reputation  could never affect the power of the original series itself. But I can’t help get but pissed off when I think of schmohawks using my favorite piece of literature as means to sell bullshit crossover series, coffee mugs, and action figures. (Especially when the series lampoons such flagrant cash-grabs).

I dropped a post over at Warren Ellis’ Whitechapel forum, hoping to elicit response from the rare breed of nerd I call those whose opinions I value. To my delight, Warren offered his two cents:

Finding someone to work on it will be interesting. It’s not as cut and dried a thing as, say, working on an old Stan-and-Jack property.

And this got me thinking — What type of fucking asshole actually signs on to write/pencil/ink/color/letter/edit Watchmen 2? I’ve arrived at  two answers; 1) A greedy fuck who doesn’t care about besmirching the legacy of the seminal work of the comics medium as long he’s paid well. 2) An arrogant prick who (laughably) thinks he’ll be able to live up to the standards of Watchmen.

This is fucked. I understand that the comic book industry is fucking shameless, more of a research & development department for the Movie/Cartoon/Toy Industry than an artistically-minded field. But I guess my inner optimist is deflated to realize that nothing is sacred anymore.

Who’s going to watch the Watchmen? Anyone that wakes up before 9AM on a Saturday.

[source]

[source2]

I understand that OL suffers from a lack of patronage on the Sabbath. But I just want to offer an early reminder to those who are stumbling their way around the site: Rafael Grampá’s Mesmo Delivery is being (re)released this Wednesday.

As a proud owner of an AdHouse Books’ edition, I can attest that Mesmo Delivery is the real fucking deal. In just under fifty pages, Grampá demonstrates a mastery of the comics medium that others spend thousands of pages striving for. As an artist, he tempers the putrid and violent with an appealing cartoon sensibility. Or perhaps he understands that the reader will feel at ease with the spiritually-Nickelodeon images, thus amplifying the effect of decapitations and pants-pissings.

Again, I won’t harp right now. Between my previous feature, the upcoming Variant Covers and my probable feature for this week’s Images & Words, Rafael Grampá is bound to have some solid real estate at OL. Just make sure you buy this book — in addition to the novella, Dark Horse is tossing in some bonus shit as well. Summarily, there’s no reason to not support this rising star.

Tonight, despite my blood oath, I went back to Beacon Hill Wine & Gourmet to pick up my weekly syrup. No, not sizzurp! You know, beer! The sweet ambrosia with which the gods wined socialized and made merry! The GOOD STUFF!!!

Anyways, I hung my head and marched into the very store that I had sworn off a mere two months ago. I wasn’t happy about this decision, but I was in a time crunch and thus forfeited my foolish pride. Which, quite frankly, was really hard for me. Some days, foolish pride is the only ace I have up my sleeve.

To my delight, this second trip to Beacon Hill Wine & Gourmet was actually enjoyable. Whereas the cashier during the first excursion was a pretentious dongle hell bent on insulting me and then taking my cash, this second adventure saw a helpful young lady rocking the register. Truthfully, she talked and smiled as though she had been pounding Jolt Cola all damn day. But maybe that made her all the more eager to help me. I don’t know. All I do know is that thanks to a caffeine-riddled bloodstream of one female clerk, Beacon Hill Wine & Gourmet have officially been taken off of my shit list. Kudos.

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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]

It seems as though a number of my favorite creators enjoy starting projects, getting me super-pumped about them, and then relegating them to the status of indefinite hiatus/who fucking knows?/cancelled. Do I ever expect to see the conclusion to Frank Miller and Jim Lee’s All-Star Batman and Robin? Short answer — no. Does it chap my ass that Warren Ellis’ Doktor Sleepless hasn’t been on a regular schedule for over a year? Let’s just say I’ve been wearing a lot of loose-fitting undies.

Fortunately, one of the guys on whom I can rely to finish his projects also happens to be one of my favorites. While the haters love to hold him in contempt (complaining that all his books are essentially the comics equivalent of popcorn-flicks), I cannot sing enough praises for the mighty Mark Millar. In the last few years, this guy has successfully completed some of the most entertaining miniseries and arcs. An incomplete and poorly arranged list:

Wolverine: Old Man Logan

Marvel 1985

Ultimates

Ultimates 2

Ultimate Avengers

Civil War

Wanted

When it comes to cartoon-magazines about superheroes, Millar’s consistency and excellence is absolutely unrivaled. The guy is a fucking titan of the industry, a writer whose own fandom is translated into passion and energy on the page. He might not be the mind-juggernaut that is Grant Morrison or a creator-of-continuity like Geoff Johns, but Mark Millar is a fucking boss.

So it is with the utmost pleasure that I present this edition of OL’s comic pick-of-week:

Kick-Ass #8

For any of you jerkies who’ve been out of the funny-book game since 2008, Kick-Ass is an exploration of what would happen if a comic book fanboy tried to become a superhero in the real world. Of course, shit goes wacky and all sorts of wannabes & imposters start showing up. Without giving too much away, I’ll tell you this — the first issue ends with protagonist Dave Lizewski getting the shit beat out of him during his first foray into the business of superheroism. Essentially, the combined effort of Millar and legendary artist John Romita Jr., the series is actually marked by its vulgarity, humor, and ultra-violent action scenes. In the best way possible.

Seven issues later and we’ve finally arrived at the end of the first arc. Now complete, I have no reservation in saying that this initial chapter of the Kick-Ass saga unrelentingly fires on all cylinders. Just as the book has done during its entire run, issue eight keeps the reader alternating between a state of jaw-dropping shock and belly-clutchin’ guffawing. We see the climatic showdown between the newly aligned Hit-Girl/Kick-Ass and the mobsters who’ve been hunting them. And what a climax it is.

Again, I really don’t want to spoil this issue but I will offer a look at some of its key ingredients:

Flamethrower. Castration. Cocaine. JRJR splash page. Child endangerment. Ben Grimm reference. Meat cleaver.

Trust me, it’s sick.

If the Kick-Ass movie is even half-faithful to this first arc (and word around the `net is that it’s full-faithful), we’re all in for a treat. Just make sure to read the comic first.

Because Comics is King.

It’s not even 3PM and I’m drinking beer. Perhaps this is the work of some divine force, swiftly setting right the grave injustice that was the last week’s tardy review. I’m not here to speculate, so I’ll just chalk it up to the fact that sometimes Life tosses breaks. A bit of respite from the mundane, the high school at which I teach is using this week exclusively for Midyear Exams; with only one exam to proctor today, I made sure to finish my work early so I could slide into the weekend.

So here we go — it’s drinkin’ time!

Initially, the premise of the Friday Brew Review was that I would take the opportunity to consume an entirely new beverage every week — ideally, never even repeating breweries. However, part of the problem with this is that I have stumbled upon a couple of really, really good breweries. So when I go to the store and see a beer of theirs that I’ve yet to try, it breaks my heart to think that I’ll have to abstain.

There’s enough heartbreak (warfare) in the world without me adding to it. So this week, I’m going to review a beer brewed by a company for whom I’ve sang praises time and again.

Today, I present the Troegs Brewing Company’s Nugget Nectar.

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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]  

Not to call my brother out, but on Tuesday he lied to the faithful OL readers. In the last Variant Covers, Caffeine Powered wrote that this week’s Captain America would see both Steve Rogers and Bucky rocking out in the Star-Spangled undies. Trusting his words, I got all sorts of excited and screamed “TWO CAP’N AMERIKURS!? GAW-LEE!~” into the face of my elderly roommate.

But then I actually read Captain America #602 — and I realized that my a brother is fucking liar! Steve Rogers isn’t anywhere in this dang book!

To be fair, I don’t think Caffeine Powered intentionally misled anyone. Given the current state of the 616, the natural conclusion would be to expect two Captain Americas. After all, Marvel has been pretty lax since bringing back Stevie; yet to be revived in Reborn, he’s been seen chilling with Bucky in Who Will Wield the Shield?, Siege and The Invincible Iron Man. Tack on the fact that the cover of this newest issue features a Captain America rocking the classic/dungarees/belt uniform, and one would be inclined to think that a team-up rests within.

Again, not the case. In fact, Steve Rogers is nowhere to be found in this issue. Brubaker writes him out of the plot by having Bucky explain the absence to Nick Fury;

“Steve’s fine…him and Sharon are just off the grid right now…Staying at her family estate in Virginia.”

What a load of caca. I really hope that all this is doublespeak for some sick-ass secret mission, because if Steve Rogers is actually just hanging out in Virginia, we’re going to have words. Maybe even swear words.

“Don’t get me wrong, Stevie, taking a vacation with a lady-friend is a great way to relax. But since you got shot with that time/bullet/same thing as Batman?/consciousness-transplant bullet, shit’s fallen to pieces. So get your ass out of Jamestown and start cracking skulls!”

Anyways, what is this issue about? Well, even with Rogers out of the picture, the reader is treated to two Captain Americas; Bucky (of course) and William Burnside, the fucked-up, mental patient who was rendered into a Steve Rogers facsimile in the 1950’s. Burnside has put on his own pair of Star-Spangled undies and is soiling the image of the shield slinger as he corrals hillbillies into forming an anti-government militia. Naturally, this inspires Bucky and Falcon to go regulate.

Considering how much shit is going on in the Marvel universe, it might be for the best to leave Steve Rogers out of the title book for now. Truthfully, I’m more than pleased with having Bucky wield the shield and don’t want to see him give it up anytime soon. I know it’s only a matter of time, what with the trailer for the Captain America movie having been officially released, so I’m cool with enjoying James Buchanan while I can.

Bucky’s tenure as the sentinel of liberty is bound to end sooner rather than later. So if this depresses you (as it should), make sure to snag Captain America #602.

First and foremost, allow me to apologize for the tardiness of this post. Although the OL statistics-tracker tells me that most of you read the Friday Brew Review during your Saturday morning (hangover), I usually aim to get this son of a bitch posted by 9PM. I guess my thought process is that people will say, “Hey, what did Pepsibones use to kill brain cells this week?” before going out and choosing a consciousness-stunner of their own. So if a late post has left you clueless as to what to drink (or not drink), and you now find yourself sniffing Elmer’s Glue, using said glue to style your hair and fooling around with your uncle’s synthesizer, I apologize.

Ok, it’s late so let’s just get to this. Tonight I procured a six-pack of the Abita Brewing Company’s Purple Haze. The prospect of a “raspberry wheat brew” ticked my fancy; although I consider myself more of a dark beer/lager fellow, I have recently embarked on a quest to find a lighter beer to satisfy my palette. Inspecting the backside of a bottle, I was informed that the beer “is a crisp, American style wheat beer with a fresh raspberry puree added after filtration.” With such a description added to the obvious Hendrix connotations, I felt good to go.

Pouring the potion into a beer glass, I noticed that the stream of goodness (does that sound filthy?) was of a purple hue. Shit, the label wasn’t lying about the “subtle purple coloration and haze.” The hints of violet are present, but they are far from overpowering; Purple Haze’s light texture makes it translucent, looking more like water than cough syrup. But it’s all good — I don’t need my beer to look like Barney the Dinosaur’s peepee.

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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]

As a fan of the comic book medium, it goes without saying that I have an appreciation for Alan Moore. Yes, these days Moore is recognized just as much for being a snake-worshipping lunatic as he is for being (one of) the most innovative comics writers of all time. And that’s depressing, but certainly a result of his own actions; maybe if the guy actually came out of his Northampton hideaway every now then we wouldn’t just write him off as a nutjob.

But the most important fact to remember is that when he wants to, Alan Moore  can write with the best of `em  Yeah, I’m a Watchmen zealot (file it under Best Fictional Work…Of All-Time) but I also really enjoy his work on Swamp Thing. Moore manages to take a goofy-ass plant-man and turn him into a truly horrifying creature, a green embodiment of the macabre that lives in a bog, contemplates existence, and fucks shit up from time to time.

I have no doubt in my mind that it is my admiration for Alan Moore and his  mad sensibilities that have led me to choose the Neonomicon Hornbook as this week’s pick of the litter. Some background: Neonomicon is planned as a sequel to his 2003 series The Courtyard. Apparently, both of these series are rooted in the mythos of HP Lovecraft, thereby generating instant fan-interest. To be honest, I’ve never read any Lovecraft or The Courtyard but I figured that I’d try to jump into Moore’s newest work anyways.

Luckily, the Neonomicon Hornbook seems to be a great spot to hop aboard; the comic is a preview of the upcoming series, consisting of the first nine finished pages of the series and an excerpt from Moore’s script. With a two-dollar price tag, the issue is a bargain, offering enough finished product to tantalize the reader and supplementing this with a hefty chunk of the author’s script. As per usual, even a single panel of Moore’s directions to the artist reads as an insane, yet superbly detailed, set of instructions. Mayhaps it’s the aspiring writer in me, but I’d suggest that Moore’s writing alone justifies the two-hundred cent investment.

As far as an actual plot is concerned, the Neonomicon Hornbook doesn’t give reveal much at all. What the reader can take away from this first-look is that Lamper and Brears, two federal agents (one a saucy white woman and the other a strong black male), are investigating some sort of copycat serial killer. They feel compelled to interview the original serial killer, former federal agent Aldo Sax — now incarcerated, Sax has a swastika carved into his forehead and only speaks in gibberish.

This seems like the standard crime story/mystery fare, nothing not covered years ago in The Silence of the Lambs. Except, it’s Alan Moore so you know something fucked up is going on. Oh, and I neglected to mention — the first page is a splash of some ethereal, potentially amniotic fluid with the captions;

It’s the end, and the beginning.

He’s beneath the waters now, but soon, in only a few months, he will come forth.

And until then he sleeps.

And dreams.

Kooky.

From what I can tell, artist Jacen Burrows is going to do a fine job. I’m not sure his art will be pulling in Eisners or anything, but is solid through and through. I guess I’d chalk him up as being yet another one of those “standard, reliable Avatar Press artists.” Certainly not a bad thing to be.

It’s cheap. It’s easy. It’s relatively satisfying. And it won’t leave you with a painful cold sore. Snag the Neonomicon Hornbook.

Holy fucking shit, He has returned. After restoring my faith during the summer, the messiah that is Pepsi Throwback is once again gracing mere mortals with His presence.

For those of you who have been living under a rock (or, more appropriately, not watching the NFL Playoffs and the accompanying ads), Pepsi has made the no-brainer decision to release another limited edition batch of the Throwback. The beverage harkens back to the glory years of America, when you’d ask Michael Jackson what soda pop to drink. Oh yeah,  and back then Pepsi was made with sugar instead of the high fructose corn syrup they use on us future-dwellers. Sure, high fructose corn syrup might be cheaper to make but it isn’t nearly as tasty. So Uncle Sam can take his corn-subsidies and shove `em!

What’s that? You’re going to take a better-tasting beverage and toss it inside a sick-ass retro-can? Count me in.

I guess my only complaint is I now have no clue what to do with the can of Pepsi Throwback I saved from the original batch. Do I hold onto it indefinitely, waiting until I’m on my deathbed to crack it open? Or should I just pound it now and replace it with one of the new, better-designed cans of Throwback? Time will tell.

Go to the store now. Stock up. After the apocalypse hits, Pepsi Throwback is going to replace gold (with Mountain Dew Throwback functioning as silver).

In the post-apocalyptic market, this will buy enough gasoline to get my dune buggy to the burnt remains of Las Vegas and back again.