Dear WWE,

Fuck Vowels.














Except for "Y"... sometimes.

God, I Love Stan Lee

After recently learning about Stan "The Man" Lee's plea to get a a cameo in the upcoming Thor feature, I did what any normal American would do... I opened a new window, jumped to the URL and rocked that shit all the way to Stan's Wikipedia page.

There's always been something that's bugged me about Mr. Lee's work as a writer. Sure, he's created some of the greatest comic characters of all time (Spider-Man, The X-Men, The Hulk, Thor, Daredevil, The Fantastic Four, Iron Man, Dr. Strange, he brought together The Avengers... you get the idea), but it seems like his characters only began to truly shine after they've had time to grow, evolve, and get the hell away from Stan Lee's writing. I would never discredit Stan, as his contribution to arguably my favorite medium is larger than, dare I say, anyone else. But I can't help but feel a little conflicted when I read his work.

Sure, there are lots of things that you need to take into consideration when you read Lee in his heyday... it was the '60's, people didn't know these characters, they didn't know their powers and comics were written for, well, kids. (I can't help but hear my beloved Cantoni's voice shouting "I wanted to call them 'The Mutants', but Jack Kirby said to me 'Stan, what's a mutant?' so I called them 'The X-Men'"). Anyway, today (most) comics are treated with a level of depth and consideration saved only for feature films and novels. People care about this shit. They care about these characters and they care (unless you're Gearino waxing poetically on Bendis) about telling quality stories that keep the reader tied in and guessing. For Stan Lee, exhibition was his biggest downfall.

The best way to sum up my feelings is the photo at the top; the cover of the very first Fantastic Four. Notice how each of the "Four" are giving some indication of their powers, telling the world what they can do when we, for the most part, can plainly see. Now notice how each of the characters, save the "damsel in distress" (because it was the 60's and women... you get it) are boasting about their importance, making it a point to show whose it bigger. These are staple of Lee's work: telling when showing would be enough, talking in a a boastful way that has no basis in any reality I've ever been to, and discrediting his heroines by giving them passive powers and making them weak compared to their teammates (Don't worry though, down the line other writers turn her from the Invisible Girl to the Invisible Woman and she starts kicking serious ass... if only Jessica Alba hadn't cut her down a few notches). But there is a worse part to all of this, something that gets my goat, as a comic fan and as a writer. Notice how Mr. Fantastic is tied up with a rope. They're fighting a giant reptile/mole/monster and the giant reptile/mole/monster takes the time to tie up Reed Richards with a bit of rope? I can accept Cosmic Rays, but rope? Come on!

Don't cross the streams.

Learning to focus once again. Salinger died and it's making me want to pick up an iPad and remember. My brother once told me about reading Caufield as a drunk. I want to read a drunk as Caufield.

Sorry if my notes are jumbled, they're more for me than anybody.

I'm finding that writing is working out and taking shape. No, nothing MONUMENTAL has happened, yet, but it could and the could is enough for me. It takes a spark to set the world on fire. Need to keep going, pick up my bundle and hop another train... can't fit too much into a bandanna.

My head is coming back together, not all there, but good. The pain that was blinding has turned into a gentle hum, like there's a fridge or something in my mind, just going for it. I need to get my wisdom teeth out, looking forward to being laid up. Need to find a way to get paid to play.

My eye sight isn't great. How much of this is all in my head? God damn, I'm deep. Yup.

When I walk, I need to talk. Walk the walk, talk the talk, talk the walk, and walk the talk. My brain feels like it's breaking because it doesn't stop. I should really think about a journal or something... not online, that accepts inks and lead shavings as currency. Notebooks are like starving children, both require work, attention and it's easy to turn the channel and do something else... remote in hand again.

Collection is on the grow, I should read more Shakespeare and I can't stop thinking about one more day.

Read a great article the other day about a woman meeting God and God asking her if she's ever loved this much? She said no. God said "you can do better". I can do better.

This is what I say before I go to bed:

"Saint Michael the Archangel,
defend us in battle.
Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil.
May God rebuke him, we humbly pray;
and do Thou, O Prince of the Heavenly Host -
by the Divine Power of God -
cast into hell, satan and all the evil spirits,
who roam throughout the world seeking the ruin of souls. Amen."

This is what I think when I say it:

"Thank you for letting me make it back to bed"

This is what I think in the morning:

"TELL THAT MICK HE JUST MADE MY LIST OF THINGS TO DO TODAY".


Sorry for the rant, but I needed it. Lasers set to stun.

Cheers,

Malice

You gotta fight for your rite... of passage.

I've been told that the secret of being a great writer is outlasting the competition. Holding on just a little bit longer, due to drive, or talent, or insanity, is the key if you want to be the one who finally "makes it". As of right now, my definition of "makes it" would be having something that I can point to as a benchmark. Yes, I've written a lot over the past few years. Yes, I'm currently working on ANOTHER studio piece, but I've jumped through a number of projects (well, or hoops... whatever), and I can't help but feel a little down in the dumps. Doing a little boo-hooing, or something like that.

All that said, it's the nature of the business. It's what I signed up for, and, ultimately, the only thing that I really want to do in life. Sometimes I forget how young I am. Sometimes I forget how inexperienced I am. Sometimes I forget to sit back, take a look around, breathe and laugh. Art imitates life as I look around see that I'm in the same place Desi is... all in a year. If things go well, you'll know what that means.

Okay, head back down, time to work. Thank you for listening. See you in the movies.

Joined th Dark Side, but I'm not a Black Lantern.

Because I'm not dead. Yet. But I did join twitter. Who knows what's going on in my head? You do, if you follow my twitter page! While interning, I did a write-up about twitter and its usage, arguing that the site is a great idea for breaking news notifications. In that context, "news" meant the updating of a corporate blog, the arrival of new technology or internal affairs, like promotions. I also feel that it would come in handy for "real" news, like traffic accidents, hurricanes, nuclear war and such. I've often fought against its users, saying that I don't care if Lauren Conrad ate a turkey club. That said, I care when I eat a turkey club. Will my tweets be of that nature? Well, if you replace "eat" with "bought" and "turkey club" with "new action figure", then... yes.

Seriously procrastinating, spending too much time thinking and not enough time doing. Now is the time to do. When I'm dead, I can think about it.

Side note, DCUC has taken me back to Justice League Unlimited. Dun Dun DUNNNNN dun dun Dun dun dun.

Proud to be an American...

Because "blog" is synonymous with "soap box", I've decided to stand up and talk about something: birthers.

If you're not familiar with the term, "Birthers" refers to a small and growing sect of Americans who firmly believe beyond a shadow of a doubt that the 44th President, Barack Obama, is not actually a US citizen, making his "stealing" of the the office the grandest in American history.

I'm not saying that I find this surprising to say the least. There are people who adimatly deny The Holocaust, so why wouldn't there be people who argue the citizenship of the first African American President? What I find troubling about this, however, is the stance prominate Republicans are taking. As you may have seen from the link above, Liz Cheney, daughter of the one man conservative stronghold known as former V.P. Dick Cheney says NOTHING to refute the comment. Her only talking point is confirming the worry of the Right by saying that Barack is weak on tough issues.

I've got a tough issue for you, how about telling these people to get over it and go home. If Obama is a citizen of Kenya, how is it at all possible that he was elected to Senate? How did he run for the House? How did he become a candidate for the Democratic nomination? How did he become one of two predominate party candidates in a general election? How did he win the presidency if it's so easy to prove that he's not a US citizen?

If this were, in fact, easy to discredit him and confirm, in fact, that he is not legally eligible, where were all those freaking people years ago when Obama was running for the House? Where were they last November?

In doing my own research on the subject, I found that it's fairly easy to pull up an Obama birth certificate online. Just a quick google image search and you've found your poison. The same certificate is also the focal point of argument, mockery and all the hate speech you can imagine. People claim because there is no raised seal, and because the time of birth/island of Hawaii listed are the same as another certificate, that it is a forgery. I hate to say it, but I can buy those arguments, it looks remarkably like another certificate. Knowing that the Obama administration has NOT released his certificate, I decided to compare what I found with the birth certificates of other recent US Presidents (2 Bushes, a Reagan, a Clinton and a Carter). I couldn't though. Why not? Because BIRTH CERTIFICATES ARE PROTECTED DOCUMENTS.

You lost the election. Go home, hug your kids and shop at Wal Mart. Smile. While watching Oprah today, in which she covered the polygamist ranch which was raided last year, my wife made an interesting comment: if that's what they want, let them have it. You live your life and I'll live mine.

Get back to where you once belonged.

I'm plagued with doubt. There. Said it. It's out there, now I can move on and get stuff done. Let's reflect on things once they happen and not before, shall we?

There is a rip in my pants.