윤

It only took twenty-plus years, but I finally got one of my favorite comic miniseries animated (the Dark Knight Returns on the horizon; Doom Patrol beyond that, in a parallel universe through the black hole), and apart from a few omissions, like the memorable line above, it was as faithful to the source material as I might have insisted upon. Each and every storyboard, so it was almost like watching those Marvel cartoons from the Sixties “come to life”, and as glad as I was that they kept the now-retro 90’s references of Princess Caroline and the Porsche 928, I miss Mazzucchelli’s art most of all.

Must be all the comics I’ve been reading lately, or the feeling of empowerment from last night’s speed feat, but this morning I was quite the badass, at first offering to protect a young feline stowaway from behind a long curtain hiding bloody bathtubs. “Not even the Thundercats could stop me,” I assured her. Then I was outside, watching said cartoon, wherein John Travolta led a squad of mafia thugs, the lot of them having been pulled through time & space to do the bidding of their evil master (Mumm-Ra?). In addition to the novel amalgamation, I remarked how surprisingly good the animation was, pointing to the detailed light work on their jackets, but my companion was less impressed, replying that she’d seen this one and the villain was someone not so unfamiliar.

A group of us stormed their headquarters, taking a stairway up from a market on the street. The first room upstairs was for a conference, and I marched through, not taking notice of its participants like a determined 이병헌. (Come to think of it, my stride was more 高倉 健 in The Yakuza, wasn’t it?) I finally met with resistance from an Asian bodyguard who shot me once, and as that had no effect, threw shuriken, which I simply removed from where they had lodged in my arm and returned; unfortunately for him, he didn’t possess my inexplicable regenerative superpowers à la Warren Ellis. The next few along the way I tossed out the windows, describing my technique of immediately surmising the situation, noting all possible tools available to me, then acting faster than apparently they could react. When I felt the realism challenged, I decided that maybe I ought to be breaking the glass with a chair or something before throwing their relatively soft bodies through them. The boss was an invalid old man, helplessly sprawled across a bed, and his young wife pleaded for mercy. Their child was a newborn with an affliction that required it be fully wrapped in bandages. I picked up the bundle and held it to my shoulder as if it were my own, and felt compassion.

It may have been brand blindness, but Warren Ellis’ WildStorm series completely escaped my attention at the turn of the century. Then again, I collected The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen and 1963, too, didn’t I? Could be I lumped them all in with the whole beautiful mutant nonsense. Case in point: in the DC crossover, the Planetary guys go through the trouble of dissecting Superman’s powers, but they never did adequately explain how Jakita Wagner is nigh invulnerable. Still, my recent forays on the high seas of the Internet yielded some plunder—must I say “aye, matey”—and I found myself staying up past 3am with Planetary. The Authority, not so much: I liked it better when Grant Morrison’s Green Arrow and Atom beat Darkseid the same way as they killed their God.

By then I’ll be old as dirt (or buried beneath it), but the idea of a super man still makes me giddy. There’s just so little evidence in the world that one could possibly ever exist, and more than enough that we really, really need him.

vs.

Back at the public access station where I made my small contribution to pre-Internet subculture by bringing back Shaw Brothers to the airwaves, I remember sharing the ¾” tape decks with a reticent older gentleman who I would later see hosting a program spewing some trash about the superiority of the White man. (Which, of course, doesn’t explain him having to learn how to edit it from me.) And as one observer puts it opinions are only taking over the information superhighway in the years since, even the geek world is under siege from these cretins: they take issue with Idris Elba playing Asgard doorman Heimdall—but seem to care less that Hogun of Thor’s backup trio will be Asian, just as I suspected as a kid—then with a French Muslim being Batman™ de Paris. Like alien gods and superheroes would ever come from their superstitious, cowardly lot. That’s some wild shit Morrison’s done there, by the way.

Could be my age showing—make that resistance thereto—but I think I’ve grown somewhat open to (read: less than 100% against) remakes or re-imaginings, though the final product will invariably determine my verdict. “H50”, for instance, is a mediocre cops-on-location show that doesn’t even have the once-exotic setting going for it anymore; the BBC have done a far better job of incorporating the change in times for homeboy Shirley. I like his use of the hard drive metaphor for the human brain, if only because I’ve always complained how much the limited capacity of my huge head is like the 200MB 386/33 tower in my storage versus my wife’s newer, more compact desktop.

Found this gem in there, too, the actual howdunnit closer to They Might Be Giants than The Return of Sherlock Holmes, which if anything, reveals more of how far along the Joker’s come than the Victorian-era property.Oh, and the Doctor Who writers show their hand with their wonderful reinvention of Moriarty as well, who goes from inspiring the Master to taking after the opposing yet complementary nature of the villain, the kind of existential interplay that Conan Doyle probably couldn’t foresee for his one-shot menace (nor the benefit to sales, like Batman’s): “consulting criminal,” indeed.

You’d expect it to happen more often, but it doesn’t: I followed up last night’s live-from-New York episode of 30 Rock—and not the awful second installment of the BBC’s new Sherlock that ended my evening… 2009, and cultural awareness hasn’t improved since The Talons of Weng-Chiang—with a dream featuring the cast of characters, myself of course among them. The details are so many tears in the rain, but I seem to recall being a lowly staff writer seeking Liz Lemon for recognition or otherwise and mistaking Alec Baldwin’s character’s last name as Geiss (his deceased mentor) at first before eventually addressing him as Mr. Donaghy. It was one of those typical frustrating affairs where I’d try and find someone who just refuses to be found, or get somewhere and even backtracking won’t return me to the same place. Either way, nothing nearly as good as Internet favorite-for-Superman role Jon Hamm’s “Please, I’m so tired!” line:

Found a box in storage with a shitload of Betty & Veronica Double Digests filling the space around Grant Morrison’s seminal Animal Man run, Flex Mentallo mini-series and most of the Invisibles and Moore’s first League of Extraordinary Gentlemen. Now who wouldn’t judge that assignment fitting, but Archie has its own special purpose, if only because even ドクター・スランプ dried up after 21 books. I do enjoy the occasional ripples however they inevitably settle to the comfortable reading spot beside the bookshelf in Terri Chen’s room.

Drawing them two lovey-dovey is made all the more sickening if you imagine that a Michelle malt. At least they were decent enough to keep their hands where we can see them. Though, acknowledging Palin’s place at the same table as the leader of the free world is kinda funny. I’m tempted to look into this further.