I did it! I finally found a fucking coffee-based beer! After grumbling for weeks, my friendly neighborhood poison-merchant totally fulfilled my wishes! Since I have wanted a coffee-brew for some time but have never taken the initiative to actually search for one, I’m going to take this latest acquisition that God exists and he wants me to be happy. Or, I suppose, that there’s no God at all and I’ve just managed to benefit from the indifferent bastard that is random chance. Either way, I’m drinkin’.

I walked into the store, took a lap, looked at the cooler with disdain, and then began to march out. For a matter of seconds, I was positively sure that I would have to go to *gasp* another store *gasp* for my brew of the week! But as I began my emigration, I could swear that I heard something…

“…over here. right here. yeah, away from the coolers full of labels that change color when cold and the supposed royalty of lagers…come to the shelf with specialty alcohol.”

I paused, second-guessing myself and beginning to finally understand what my friends mean when they say, “You’re fucking losing it.” But then I heard it again, only with a clarity and volume that had only been intimated before.

“RIGHT HERE! LOOK UP, YOU NUMBSKULL!”

As I shifted my line of sight, I finally saw the hyperactive bottle of depressant that had  been beckoning. To my absolute delight, I was gazing at a fat-ass bottle of Cappuccino Stout. “Come here, you little bugger,” I cried joyously. I resisted the urge to shoplift, trading the merchant some baseball cards with slave-owners on `em for the bottle and rushing home.

While my first instinct was to crack the bottle open and begin guzzling the week away, my sensibilities prevailed. I decided to approach the Lagunitas Brewing Company’s limited release as a nightcap, waiting until later in the evening to enjoy. Therefore, I passed the time by going out to eat with Mrs. Krueger. While I enjoyed myself, I knew that there was a mission at hand; the beer I drank with my steak and the coffee I drank with dessert were merely teases of the greater objective. And so I headed home again, this time fully prepared to experience a combination of my two favorite beverages.

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Don’t know anything about photography — but I know this is a great photo. The image is equal parts sexy, haunting, and just damn cool. In a way, it reminds me of something out of a PT Anderson flick or some shit.

Oh yeah, +5 points for the Clark Kent glasses.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  [ source ]

[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]

Starting this week, the entire Marvel Universe is going to be under Siege (2)!!!

Not to be outdone by the super-mega-wowie event of their distinguished competition, Marvel Comics has launched Siege. In a nutshell, this four-part miniseries follows Norman Osborn’s attempt to  conquer Asgard and maintain his position of power. But since Asgard is Thor’s home (and everyone loves a hunky blonde), ass-kickings are guaranteed to fly off of the panels.

And from nearly every promotion I’ve seen for Siege, the end result promises to be the reuniting of Tony Stark/Steve Rogers/Thor, a trio that (apparently) haven’t been BFFs for seven some-odd years. Although my inner cynic is telling me that such a move is counter-productive to character development and innovative storytelling, I can’t help but fall for it. I’ve seen a lot of different Avengers teams since I starting re-reading comic books back in 2004, but I’ve yet to see the lineup. I’m ready.

Potential outcomes aside, Siege #1 is a  solid start to the limited series. In the current day and age of comic book events that have prerequisite crossovers & tie-ins, the scripting of Brian Marvel Bendis is quite appreciated.  Through the course of seven pages, Bendis introduces the reader to an Asgardian named Volstagg, makes the reader care about him, and then pisses on these sympathies by having Loki and Osborn victimize the poor bastard. Ostensibly, a fan can pick up Siege without having read all of the Dark Reign titles and fully understand what the fuck is going on.

So while this first issue mostly consists of set-up and exposition that I already knew, I have to applaud the execution. Bendis walks the line, both providing context for those just jumping in while also tantalizing the diehards with appetizers of the battles for which we’ve been waiting.  Siege #1 blows up a football stadium, allows Ares to hesitatingly call Osborn’s troops to arms, launches fighter jets at a floating Asgard, beats down Thor, and shows us a certain all-American more pissed than he’s looked in years.

In the art department, Oliver Coipel’s stellar pencils are deftly rounded out by Mark Morales’ inks. Maybe I’m paying too much attention, but I love the way Morales approaches the visages of the more nefarious characters; the eyes of Obsborn, Loki and the Sentry are all shrouded in darkness as they stare right at the reader. Completing the book’s art is colorist Laura Martin, who continues to impress just as she did for all ten years of the glorious Planetary.

Maybe I’m just thinking wishfully, but something tells me that Siege is going to reinstate some sort of status quo in the 616. Therefore, I’d recommend the series not only to regular comics-readers but also to onetime fans hoping to get back in the game.

So in spite of the occasional shit-talking I do about comic events, I stand behind Siege #1.

[PS — Apologies for using the same picture for Images & Words as Caffeine Powered rocked for Variant Covers for the second week in a row. My bad.]

It’s Friday! Wait…shit, Friday? Already? Damn. With time off from the teaching gig and a couple of holidays in the mix, I’ve been hanging out with my friends beer and relaxation whenever I damn well please. It’s been a good stretch, but on Monday I’ll have to return to The Man’s regularly scheduled programming.

So let’s try to enjoy ourselves for one final weekend. And what better way to start this off than a brew review? (Well, probably winning the lottery, hanging out with friends, watching a sick sporting event, et cetera).

Anyways, I went to the liquor store only to find they were closing in ten minutes — a solid four hours early in honor of New Year’s Day. I felt a bit rushed, not wanting to prevent the noble shopkeeper who helps me get lifted every week from getting home to her loving husband. So I threw caution to the wind and grabbed the first set of anti-inhibition potions that appeared even vaguely trustworthy.

The loot of the week — Allagash White.

Now to be honest, the reason I snatched up a four pack of this ale is because the label bragged about being born in Portland, Maine. “Hey, I take a ferry from Portland to Nova Scotia every summer…if they brew beer as well as they  transport folks to a foreign land, this should be great!”

But as I was driving home, I really started to think about it. “Hold on. Maine…Why is it that I only go there to catch a ferry somewhere else? Oh yeah…I forgot…They’re kind of like the hicks of the North!” But with the store closed, there was no going back to exchange the product of Maine’s finest for something more reliable.

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Last week, an early Christmas miracle found its way into the comic book stores and I went home with stack of solid reads. This week — not so much. I came to find out that Diamond Distributors was implementing a “skip week,” and therefore wouldn’t be shipping any products.

What the fuck? Seriously, Diamond, do you need really need to flex your muscles? We all know you are a distribution monopoly, do you have to flaunt it? Oh, what’s that? Oh, I’m sorry — I didn’t realize you needed some time to set up the office party for New Year’s Eve. My bad. Yeah, there’s nothing worse than a New Years Eve celebration that devolves into an ill-prepared mess.

Fortunately, the good folks at DC were kind enough to direct-ship Blackest Night #6. Yes, that’s right — there was literally only one release this week. God damn it. Oh well, I suppose I should just revel in the fact that my wallet momentarily spared a beatdown (at least until the doubling-up of releases next week).

Ok, I’m done bitching and moaning. Blackest Night #6 is pretty rad. Long story short; not only are dead superheroes being transformed into Black Lanterns, but now even those who have been dead at one time or another are susceptible. So basically, every fucking comic book character worth is a damn is in jeopardy of being transformed into a super-undead-mega-villain.

Superman. Barry Allen. Hal Jordan. Superboy. Bart Allen. Wonder Woman. Green Arrow. Et cetera, et cetera, all are now susceptible to the power of the Black Lanterns.

At the same time, we’ve got the spectrum-alliance or whatever the fuck it’s called no longer fighting amongst itself, but trying to figure out how to take down Nekron. Ah yes, I forgot to mention, Nekron is some giant embodiment of Death, and is apparently responsible for the resurrection of deceased DC characters throughout the years. Yeah, I suppose such a villain is necessary.

For an “event-book,” Blackest Night #6 is quite substantial. Writer Geoff Johns, as always, knows how to use catastrophes as a canvas on which to paint the picture of authentic, human relationships. While I definitely enjoy seeing heroes trying to fend off the undead incarnations of former friends, I am more drawn to interactions such as those between Barry Allen and Hal Jordan. Johns has managed to convince me that while the trinity may be DC’s Rock of Gibraltar, its real people of interest are Flashes, Green Lanterns, the JSA, and other such relatable figures.

The book is also quite enjoyable just to look at. I feel like I might even be spoiled, as I’ve almost come to  use Ivan Reis’ pencil-work as a sort of standard for big events. With that being said, a more objective eye would probably describe the art as “truly stunning.” Although arguably cheesy, the final image of this issue is a captivating two-page spread that features six central characters running headfirst into battle. `Tis good shit.

Although still miffed at Diamond’s decision to institute a “skip-week,” Blackest Night #6 helps stave off the overpowering nerd-hunger for paneled pages.

About two weeks ago I received my grades for the final classes I would ever take as an undergraduate student. College, at least until I get sucked into grad school, is officially over. While I believed in my ability to finish, I guess I never really thought I’d see the day when I would. After all, maulings are on the rise.

In addition to double-majoring in Literature & Secondary Education, the last four (and a half) years saw me doing all sorts of wacky shit:

I wrote a novella.

I traveled around the country with my best friends.

I went to Orlando with Mrs. Krueger. Twice.

I worked at a coffee shop, afterschool program, emergency room, restaurant, day camp, resource center and a video store.

I scripted a comic book, found an artist to illustrate it, and then lost touch with the artist…twice.

I tried my hand at teaching and have realized that I enjoy it as a “for now” job, but hope to parlay my skills into the collegiate setting.

I finally started a blog with my brother.

Without reservation, I can state that I have changed more during my college years than any other period in my life. And knowing this, I planned my personal graduation celebration accordingly. For nearly two years, I’ve purposely refrained from watching my favorite movie of all time. As an avid-believer in the value of delayed gratification, I knew that waiting until I finished college to watch this flick would help recapture some of the magic that made me fall in love with it in the first place.

So tonight, I’m watching the theatrical cut of Star Wars and sipping on Sam Adams Utopias.

God damn, this feels good.

Merry fucking Christmas!

As it is the best day of the entire year, I’m going to keep this brew review short and sweet. Don’t begrudge me — fact of the matter is, most people probably won’t even read this until the 26^th. In fact, if it’s still Christmas and you’re reading OL, just stop. Go find a friend or family member and do something worthwhile.

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For the past month or so, Caffeine Powered has been presenting Variant Covers, a weekly feature that previews some of the more notable comic releases of the upcoming Wednesday. Starting this week, I am going to begin offering Images & Words, a complementary post that essentially tells you about my favorite comic of the week.

So to clarify:

Variant Covers — Caffeine Powered tells you which comics to look for.

Images & Words — Pepsibones rants about his favorite release of the week.

Get ready for some magic! (“Illusions, Michael, illusions…”)

Just as Caffeine Powered told you on Tuesday, some big titles have dropped this week. Jonathan Hickman continues his excellent run on Fantastic Four by starting a new arc that centers on Franklin Richards; Geoff Johns and Ed Benes remind us that Hal Jordan and Kyle Rayner aren’t the only worthy ring-bearers of the DCU in   Green Lantern #49; and one-shot Captain America — Who Will Wield the Shield is less of a cash-grab and more of a genuine exploration of the new relationship between Steve Rogers and James Buchanan.

While I don’t feel as though I’ve wasted any cash this week (which is a rare thing in the life of a comic nerd), one collection of images and words stands a step all of the aforementioned titles: Detective Comics #860.

For those of you who haven’t been keeping up, Detective Comics has been helmed by Batwoman since Bruce Wayne bit the dust. Long story short — Batwoman is Kate Kane, a Jewish lesbian with special ops training, a father with connections in the military, and an insanely rich stepmother who ostensibly funds the vigilantism without even knowing it. Yeah, I know that the description makes the character simultaneously seem like a bit of a stretch as well as a disingenuous attempt to insert diversity into comic books. To be honest I don’t have any investment in the idea or concept of Batwoman, but the collaboration between Greg Rucka and J.H. Williams III  has kept  me coming back for more.

Story wise, Greg Rucka has been using Detective Comics to present the compelling mysteries and tales of crime for which he has come to be known. This latest issue, the third part of an arc titled Go, features flashbacks in which the reader sees Kate Kane trying to cut her teeth in the crime-fighting biz. In the process, Kate has to deal with ex-girlfriend/DCU fan-favorite Renee Montoya and eventually come to accept the assistance of her father. The narrative then takes us to present day, in which Kate is trying to deal with the fact that her long-lost twin may actually be a villain named Alice.

Again, as I type this shit out, I realize how terrible and played-out it seems. Maybe it is. But even if you find nothing worthwhile about the story itself, you’d have to be a fool to not recognize the beauty that is J.H. Williams III’s paneled page.

At the very least, any comics reader should respect the way in which Williams structures his panels. On some pages, such as during flashbacks, Williams sticks to the familiar, rectangular panel layouts we’ve all come to know and love. However, the artist really shines when he takes a path less traveled; for example, the panels often compose smaller segments of a Bat-symbol that spreads across the entire page. Something so simple as putting the story within subdivisions of a larger visual whole really pays off.

Also, it’s worth mentioning that Dave Stewart is the colorist for Detective Comics. He’s  the man — if you ever get the chance, check out his phenomenal work on Darwyn Cooke’s The New Frontier.

Detective Comics #860 isn’t a classic single issue and a year from now I’ll probably be completely incapable of telling you what it’s about. But as far this week is concerned, it is an exemplary combination of images and words, visual narrative and solid storytelling. If you cash in your Slurpee cup filled with spare change and it totals four bucks, go splurge on Detective Comics.

It’s a celebration, bitches!

The fact of the matter is that we are officially one week away from Christmas, which means it’s okay to celebrate. Unlike other holidays, Christmas cannot be a month-long extravaganza. Fuck Black Friday. Fuck making popcorn balls the second week of December. Fuck “Twelve Days of Christmas,” seven are perfect. The best way to rock Christmas is to save up all of the joy/cheer/goodwill/tolerance for our mediocre culture you have and then spend it throughout the course of seven glorious days; any fewer and you run out of time to do it all, any more and you run the risk of fatigue.

Knowing that today marks the first opportunity to celebrate Jesus’ birth friendship and good vibes, I wanted to sample a likeminded brew. The trip to the liquor store was brief and determined, walking from the cooler to the counter in one swift loop — after all, it isn’t that difficult to find a product marketed as liquid-festivity. Actually, it’s not difficult at all.

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Paul Pope is not only an amazing comics-creator, but a true inspiration and one of my personal heroes. I admire Pope because of his ability to swoop into the world of comic books to deliver amazing stories  & fresh perspectives, and then stage an exit before falling victim to the pitfalls of the medium. I don’t know much about the technical aspects of illustration, but I know that every single panel of Pope’s work I’ve ever seen feels authentic/genuine/as though the man is incapable of phoning it in.

Although he’s  spun some of great  yarns about franchise-characters  , he understands that they fulfill a certain role. In an interview to address his exhibition at the Art Directors Club in New York City, Pope offered the following:

“They periodically kill off Superman or Captain America or Batman, then according to [formula], they resurrect them again. I don’t follow continuity comics unless a really amazing cartoonist is drawing the story, an Eduardo Risso or a Frank Quietly or a John Cassaday or a Steve Rude. I think superheroes represent themes rather than function as true characters in any literary sense. Because in real life and in literature, people and characters make choices and have a destiny, and must necessarily change–maybe for the better or the worse– but they are substantively different from the person they were at the beginning of the story. The superheroes don’t change, the guardians of the franchise don’t want to change them, and the audience probably doesn’t want it either.”

So although I enjoy the hell out of Batman Year 100 (which, roughly speaking, reads to me as a cross between the Batman mythos and a Bladerunner-styled technofuture), Pope’s original works are the creations to which I am most drawn. For an amazing testament to the power of sequential art, I strongly recommend 100%. Despite being a bit of a cynic, this book makes me believe in the value of love and art and trying to make the most out of a life that often seems utterly insignificant. And while this all sounds great in theory, Pope’s execution is nothing short of perfection.

As a student of narrative, there’s been many a night in which I’ve asked myself, “What’s the fucking point of this stuff? Why should I even bother concerning myself with the past? What can fiction do for the world?” The best answer I’ve ever received comes on the eighteenth page of Pulphope, Pope’s collection of art and essays:

“When I need my own mirror of men and angels, I too turn to hear the voices of the dead. Without even having faith in mystics, I too turn to take my cue from dead mystics. When I need voices, I turn to Emerson and Thoreau. Their Transcendentalism rings a bit hollow to me (I am no Platonist), but their words still ring clear and true. I turn to the dour civics of Confucius and the clear-eyed cynicism of Machiavelli. The life-embrace of Epicurus. I turn to the dreamtime of Jung and the pastorality of Tolkein. And to others. These poets and philosophers are the whispering dead I hear, pointing the way to the road which leads out of this inferno. These are the dead on the roof with me, these are my Virgils. They point their parchment fingers toward the arc of the heavens, helping make sense of a meaningless rising moon and a mute and dumb setting sun.”

Today, the mailman dropped off a limited edition Paul Pope print from the folks at Nakatomi Inc. The one-sheet is a tribute to Guido Crepax, an Italian comics artist of yesteryear whose work is (apparently) marked by sexually-charged female figures. The 13×19 variant features babes, motorcycles, and a shootout; in other words, it’s dope.

I couldn’t be happier with this print. Beautiful in its own right, I’m going to hang it with the added satisfaction of knowing that I possess a limited edition poster created by comic books’ most inspirational, if not underappreciated, artists.

I don’t have much hope — but I have Pulphope.