A Nerdy Saturday Morning at the Grand Rapids Toy and Comic Expo

Usually March 30 is a day which passes without any more recognition or notice than any other day, at least for me. This particular 3/30, though, was one for which I had been waiting and hoping and fostering a rising excitement. It was the day of the Grand Rapids Toy and Comic Expo, an event which has been operating for many, many years, and an event at which I premiered my first self-published comic book. So, the thirtieth day of the March of the year 2013 became something kind of special for this wordy nerdy fellow.

I started the day early, far earlier than usual. Running about in the morning, I prepared to attend the expo and to spend this Saturday reveling in the joy and majesty of comic book fandom and childhood remembrance. My "Issues Needed" list was prepped, my drawing bag was ready just in case, and my mind was furiously guessing throughout the AM rituals at what I might encounter this time around.

The Grand Rapids Toy and Comic Expo, formerly just the Grand Rapids Toy Expo, is a show which has been in existence since long before I moved to Grand Rapids (and I've been here easily over fifteen years!). Back in the late 90s my uncle took my cousins and me to the event where we geeked out over all the Star Wars toys, comic character figures, and items of the childhoods of others long past. It was great, and it even ended in me getting a free toy collector magazine. What a time!

For some reason we never made it a regular trip, even though it continued annually. I forgot about the expo and went on with growing up and doing whatever it was I was doing. Then, in my adulthood I was reminded of the show when I spotted a flyer for it at one of my local comic peddling haunts. I went, naturally, and had a great time finding deals and acquiring new and fascinating collector's items of special importance to me and my specific interests. I made a point of going back afterward, returning to the event whenever it was scheduled until it officially became the Grand Rapids Toy and Comic Expo.

The addition of comics to the event stood out for me in a loud, wild way, as I'm sure it did for many other local fans of the medium. It meant that we were perhaps one step closer to having a comic con for our town. I'd been toying with the notion of organizing one myself before, something I'm sure many have also turned over in their hyper-hopeful fan-person (how P.C.!) minds. I had been attending smaller pseudo-comic conventions throughout town in the years prior, each diminishing in awesomeness and increasing in disappointment, and so my hopes were high for this event which possessed an apparent longevity and an established following.

In my excitement for the addition of comics to the event I set my sights on self-publishing specifically for release at the expo. I figured, why not commemorate an important personal effort by introducing it to the public at a show which had historically meant something, especially when that show was finally honoring my favorite medium? So, I set in on my comic work, paid for my space at the show, published my book on my home printer, and rushed to take up my place, late and literally last minute, amongst the other vendors and artists of Grand Rapids and its surrounding areas.

It was a hectic experience, mostly because of my inability to adequately prepare, but there were some aspects of the show, its operation, and how I was treated (more accurately, ignored) which left a bad taste in my mouth. I left that December day in 2011 feeling like I never wanted to go back. I did, though, in March of 2012, and I found that the folks and issues which had disappointed me were still present and weighing down the once light and bright spirit of the expo. I didn't bother with the December show in 2012, even though I would have previously been ecstatic over the idea of two such shows in a year's time.

Today, though, this March 30, I chose to forget about the negatives and make my way there as a nerdly consumer, hoping to find neat finds and have a great day. I chose to think back on the positive memories and to hope to make new ones in spite of any possible dimness. I arrived at the 9am opening, paid to enter the event, and began marching the aisles, surveying the wares. The poorer elements behind the show's operation were apparently gone, something for which I was greatly relieved, and it immediately began to feel like the expo I encountered years before. There was a healthy flow of fan-types wandering about, and the merchants seemed to have more and better offerings this time around. I was excited, even though there was to be a moment of conflict during an interaction with a certain peddler of geekery.

One fellow, let's refer to him as the "U-Haul Comic Box Guy," seemed like he didn't want to be present, event though he'd apparently lugged quite a store of comic books to the show. I approached his booth after spotting a flimsy poster, with familiar inkjet imagery and word processor-generated signage, which boasted, "Comics!" He was accompanied by his wife - a kind, though not too personable woman who was the only positive in his nebula of negative - who greeted me as I approached. She asked if she could be of any assistance, and I responded with a request for anything which might feature the work of the artist Moebius. Her husband, whose common name hung limply in large lettering from the cheap signage littering the tables upon which his poorly kept collection rested, turned to me with a squinting glare, hand clutching a can of some beverage in a foam rubber cozy. "Moebius WHAT?!" he grunted.

I locked eyes with the man - a mistake of the short-tempered novice who should always, instead, remain detached during interactions with the simple minded, or so I hear - and clearly restated that I hoped to find some books which featured the artwork of Moebius. I even added a brief explanation of who Moebius was since I was getting the impression that neither he nor his wife knew of whom I was referring. He responded by treating me like I was an idiot who believed him to organize his poorly arranged books by artist. I told him that I understood that that wouldn't be the case, but I assumed that he had a familiarity with his stock. This worsened his attitude. His response essentially told me that he didn't care about the specifics of his stock since he had an impressive collection of a whole 4,500 books. Knowing comic shop owners who had many times more in their stock and a close to intimate knowledge of their books, I just said never mind and thank you. He wouldn't let me escape without a final rudeness, though. As I walked away he shouted at me, "Well, we have other artists here which are just as good, you know!" I continued walking.

After that crude encounter I'm happy to report that the rest of the event went well. I met up with some familiar local dealers who were happy to see me. The gentleman in charge of one booth (one I was anxiously hoping to encounter at the event) even offered me a chance to bring my comic work to his store for the upcoming 2013 Free Comic Book Day. As a way of displaying my gratitude toward his unexpected kindness, and because I had an "Issues Needed" list which required some attention, I bought up a bunch of Captain America and The Falcon books from his stock along with a few issues from my standby title, The Amazing Spider-Man.

I also had the opportunity to have a great discussion with the show's guest artist, Uko Smith. We talked about the portfolio review process for comic artists, the current trends in the visual style of comics, and what it takes to make it into the industry. Top that off with a couple of surprise comic book finds from various merchants soon after and I'd call the entire venture a success.

The show I knew and enjoyed was back! So what if a few people were less than decent? Overall, looking back on the day now, I'm glad that I chose to attend.

To smooth over any minor lumps left by the less than decent attitudes of a few disgruntled comic book hustlers, my wife and I finished the afternoon with a drive out toward the lake, a visit to a beloved comic book store (one owned by the great fellow who offered me the FCBD opportunity, in fact), and lunch at the region's best Chinese restaurant (no exaggerating).

Saturdays, even the golden ones which stand out clearly whenever I gaze back with my mind's eye on my youth, don't get much better than today. Comics, good people, comics, time with my wife, delicious Chinese food, and more comics make for an incredible time. It's not the filling of the ever-present consumer void, a grim aspect of being a nerd/geek of any kind, which makes it for me. It's the connections made unintentionally with the younger me as I do things and interact with items from times long past which seem now like the best times of my life. Being a nerd and celebrating it with the events of a day like today are the closest I have to a religious-like rite to appropriately honor and appease the specter of my eternal inner-child. I hope he's as happy about today as I am.

Kevin Smith - A Star to Sail By

Sometimes random words trickle in through one's ears, seemingly common and unassuming like all others until a moment of contact occurs and the brain is lit with a potent combination of emotion and inspiration. Those words, the words you didn't seek out, the words which strike you the hardest, those are the words to which you find yourself committing. They are the eye opening trinkets of speech, jewels of wisdom you sport proudly in your life ever after.

I encountered words like those once. Writer, director, and artist Kevin Smith uttered them. He once said, "Stop being entertained and be entertaining." It was like some magnificent herald's cry or a grand commandment delivered from on high. His words shook me out of a stupor which had me dog paddling in place amidst the turbulent sea of life. They gave me the clarity to asses my situation, the motivation to choose a direction, and the drive to keep going until I discovered something. They have set me on a journey to test my creative abilities and my will to make something of myself by being creatively active.

Kevin Smith, whether he's aware of it or not, has been directing others toward the path to creative fulfillment for years by imparting the lessons he's learned from his successes and failures. He's been preaching the positive word of "Go ye therefore and do" to creative types since he first found success. Through his actions, his work, and his reflections (available through his discussions and explanations on the various podcasts of his SModCo network) he has given those who will listen and hear the guidance and proper mentality with which to approach the great task of becoming entertaining. It is this great service which he generously performs which often goes neglected by his outspoken, myopic critics. It is this great service for which I am eternally grateful.

Maybe one day I'll be able to tell Mr. Smith what he's done for me, face-to-face, or maybe he'll find this post and read of the effect he's had and of my appreciation for the guidance he's given. Even if this is never read by Mr. Smith I still want to post this as an expression of my thanks to him for everything. May I one day find success through my creative efforts because of the spark Kevin Smith ignited within me. May I have the wisdom to share my experiences with others and do my part to direct folks toward the path to their own personal greatness. Here's hoping.

Justice League: Doom - A Review

Imagine that we inhabit a world where two types of people exist. There are the mighty, the "Supers," which some might say are "Godlike." Then there exists the average person, you and me. In such a reality there is much which demands concern, for the weak are subject to the strong unless a balance can be maintained. In that world, maintaining that balance, defending us from those of the powerful who might take advantage of their superiority over the common individual, we know our protectors, our heroes to be an organization named "Justice League." That elite group of the best of the finest of the most powerful, in mind, body, and in drive, safeguard us from the destructive, shadowy elements who seethe in their egoistic delusions of personal greatness and complete superiority.

A natural question arises, though, as to who might check these potent checkers of the rest of the world's Übermenschen. Quis custodiet ipsos custodes, or who watches the watchmen? In this world, standing amongst the glorious titans is one who takes upon himself such a task, unbeknownst to his heroic associates. The Batman of Gotham City has cataloged the abilities of his peers so that he might be prepared for anything, even a potential corruption of the sacred, altruistic League. It is this clandestine preparation which proves to be the Justice League's undoing in the 2011 Warner Brothers' animated feature "Justice League: Doom."

A sinister plot sends the Man of Steel plummeting.

Adapted for the screen by the late, great Dwayne McDuffie (creator of Static Shock), "Justice League: Doom" is one of the best DC animated films I've seen. The high quality of animation stood out immediately, along with the excellent character design and attention-grabbing action. Above all, though, I found the story to be the most attractive attribute. It's an exceptional dissection of a group of incredible individuals who, when grouped together, often appear too mighty for conventional, entertaining storytelling. Though this might seem to be a considerable hurdle, the story behind "Doom" managed to incredibly utilize the characters and their rogues galleries to tremendous effect.

Vandal Savage, the mastermind and would-be ruler of a
blighted world.

In this piece, the viewer is able to witness the League members as they are assaulted at their respective cores by the clever and lethal exploitation of the intimate knowledge of their strengths and weaknesses. While Vandal Savage, the film's main villain, and his "League of Doom" (consisting of Bane, Cheetah, Metallo, Star Sapphire, Mirror Master, and Ma'alefa'ak) are the force behind the daggers plunged into the vitals of the heroes, it is actually a series of notes on the strengths and weaknesses of individual League members, collected as a failsafe by Bruce Wayne/Batman and stolen from him by the Mirror Master, which truly damn the League members. This turn serves to enrich the tale as an ally's secret knowledge becomes, to emphasize the aptness of the film's title, the Justice League's doom.

I recommend a viewing for any and all fans of comics and exceptional hero-based animation. Out of five I give "Justice League: Doom" a five.

The Justice League, minus Cyborg - (right to left) The Flash,
Wonder Woman, Martian Manhunter, Batman, and Superman.

Dealing

It's never easy when you're faced with the emotions of others. At least, it's never been easy for me to deal with other people's emotions. They feel obscene, as if they shouldn't be exposed as easily as they sometimes are. They feel alien and overwhelming.

Whenever I'm the target for someone's emotional outpouring I feel sickened and cornered. Fight or flight kicks in as whatever the other intended to express seeps out from them. I become angry, and I react poorly. My fragile tolerance buckles in response as I desperately think of a reaction, not at all considering the consequences. I just want to make it stop.

Needless to say, this extreme handling of such situations rarely leads to passive future interaction. It's only after another individual chooses me as their emotional target that they truly discover just how greatly I lack empathy and how cruel I can actually be. I'm aware of this, obviously, and it makes me hate myself, even though I find comfort in being so overly guarded.

I'm working to identify the reason behind this aspect of my personality. I realize that I have the potential to be a great source of comfort and guidance to a great many people. I understand that guarding myself in such a way inhibits my growth as an individual. I know that risks are required to make an honest and respectable go at life.

Now, I have to choose between opening myself and dealing with the consequences or remaining closed and detached, stunted. Decisions, decisions.

Cat and Counterfeit Mouse Games

I bought our cats a package of toy mice yesterday. Their little fabric eyes stared up at me through the plastic as I took them down from the store rack. I felt no guilt as I carried them through the checkout and homeward, towards a sort of doom. Everything has a purpose, I repeated to myself.

Molly, a gorgeous calico in the mid-years of her life, has been our cat since my wife and I first began a serious attempt at a relationship. She was a musical kitten then, her spots of black and ginger arranged so perfectly across her petite face. To this day she's remains overly vocal, but it seems the kittenhood has gradually faded from her over the years, for the most part unnoticeably.

She's a loving creature with a jolly disposition, and she's so very energetic. Though, of all the cats I've ever met Molly is the best at maintaining the duplicitous personality of a sweet pal and expert killer. She's taken bats out of mid-air with a single eight foot leap. She's mouse hunted with such skill that her ancestors would surely swell with pride.

So, it's no surprise that she enjoys the "Hunt" which occurs as soon as one of the store-bought pseudo-mice hits the floor. Her approach is comical, a few sidelong steps and then she plunges a claw past the mouse, spinning it. Then the dance begins as she, to best describe it, goes into a series of seemingly ritualistic movements in which there is much spinning and flopping and rolling and leg waving. Her body rises up on its hind legs, her green eyes fiery as they lock on the ersatz rodent, and then falls heavily upon her prey, renewing the sequence of the dance soon after.

No matter how many years pass, Molly is still as vibrant and lively as she ever was. I've not always been a cat person, but when it comes to Molly I find that I can't help but be invested. She's become such a big part of my life that I sometimes find myself worrying about the day when I'll notice her missed steps and her apparent loss of youthful passion. The knowledge that some day she'll be unable to play as wildly as she has digs at me. One day Molly will no longer be. Fact. But instead I should focus on the present. I should delight in watching her enjoy her toy. I'll take advantage of her presence in the now and cherish it. For now I'll watch Molly be.

To the mice I can express little sympathy, renewing the chant of my mantra. They're one with the universe now. Their fake fur, fabric bits, and copious stuffing may litter our floor, but they're in a place where Molly's instinctual four-step can no longer molest them. My thanks to them for their service.

Molly, proud and triumphant

The X-Files - I Believe - Part 2

It's been a while since I last wrote on The X-Files. My fault, I'm afraid. I was distracted from the show by life and all the projects I've attempted in the intervening months. Anyway, I'm back with some more words on the series. Going forward I think I'll continue to write about it, but my X-Phile writings won't be frequent, in keeping with my apparent tradition evident here. So, expect random fan blurbs going forward.

When thinking back on the series I instantly begin to dwell on the episodes which stood out for me and, in my opinion, defined the best qualities of Chris Carter's incredible television show. There were many, and I don't think I can recall all of them at this time, but here's my attempt to address a few from my list of episodes which I consider to be personal favorites.

No episode better sets the tone for this series than its pilot, titled "Pilot." I can't recall seeing another series' pilot and feeling as interested in the characters and universe so quickly. Fox Mulder and Dana Scully were fascinating from the beginning, and their investigation into the mysterious happenings in Bellefleur, Oregon was, in my opinion, gripping. From the mystery of the opening message which read "The following story is inspired by actual documented accounts" to strange lights in the woods to the details which follow the main character's encounter with an UFO, this episode is full of the flavor viewers would return to enjoy in the following episodes of the series for many fantastic years after. It's not hard to understand why the series continued long after the pilot's premier on September 10, 1993.

Mulder and Scully discuss events over a possible extraterrestrial
corpse.

Another episode which springs to mind is "Unusual Suspects" from Season Five. I, like most fans of The X-Files, love the characters of Frohike, Byers, and Langley. They're the great conspiracy theorist stooges who accent Mulder's occasional humorous side and share in his obsession with all things dark, mysterious, controversial, and otherworldly. In fact, they're more invested in certain aspects of the paranoid subculture than Mulder could ever be. The episode is a flashback to the meeting of the trio at a technology convention (the perfect place for the origin story of the Lone Gunmen). It spins the typical goofiness of The Lone Gunmen with a shadowy plot involving some doofy G-Man named Fox Mulder (again, flashback). The ending is a treat for those new to the series and invested with the myth arc up to that point, and overall the episode feels like a clever thank you to the fans.

"Narc" Byers, Frohike, and D&D-playing Langley

"Musings of a Cigarette Smoking Man" is a brilliant episode which features the show's main villain, the eponymous Cigarette Smoking Man (or CSM for short). Again, this is a flashback episode. I think I enjoy these because of the flavor they add to the overall series universe. Anyway, this is a story of the mysterious conspiracy-creator and manipulator who looms over Mulder's crusade for the Truth. The CSM, or "Raul Bloodworth," as we come to call him through this episode, is shown at the beginning to be in a dingy space, close to a window, listening to Frohike ramble on about the facts he uncovered about the CSM. The audience is then taken back through time and allowed to see the events described as they are being filtered through the hazy recollections of the spying CSM. We see how he was recruited, his involvement in the Kennedy assassination, his strong principles and even stronger dedication to his duty as he goes out to end the life of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., his exposure to the existence of extraterrestrials, and, most incredibly, we see his hidden passion, as he continues throughout the flashback timeline, which is writing paperback adventure novels (his penname being "Raul Bloodworth"). After all the amazing glimpses into the darkest corners of the series' universe through the eyes of its most visible puppet master the episode wraps up nicely addressing the failed pursuits of "Mr. Bloodworth" and his ongoing quest to "Deceive, Inveigle, and Obfuscate."

The Cigarette Smoking Man (Raul Bloodworth) spends time
mulling over his disappointment with some random
bindle stiff

That about does it for this listing. I'll return, at some point in the future, to my trip down The X-Files' side street off of my beloved Memory Lane. If you're reading this and are either Chris Carter, Frank Spotnitz, or a Fox executive, please take into consideration the love which still exists from folks like me who would be so very, endlessly grateful to see a return, if only in another film, of the characters and universe which still thrives in our hearts. Who am I kidding, though? Chris Carter, Frank Spotnitz, or a Fox Executive? Nah. I'm probably actually being read by the most important people of all, my fellow fans.

Thank you for reading, folks.

My Father, My Dark Mirror

It seems that we see reflections of ourselves in everything. It's part of being human, I suppose. It's how our human brain functions and copes with the greater world. The reflections I see often drive me to shame and self-loathing. They're dark and twisted and hopeless.

Anger has been at the core of my personality for so very long. There was a time when I believed it to be necessary and even possessed a sort of perverse pride in it. It was the badge I openly wore and my defining characteristic, for those who really knew me. Not only did it feel natural (which was why I felt such an affinity for it), it was also something powerful which I shared with the one person who seemed closest to me through childhood, my father.

My dad is a man with many problems. I hear tell that he was once a kind and caring soul, but I've seen little evidence to support this. I grew up with an overly opinionated man who did what he wanted, when he wanted, and it didn't matter how horrible things had to become for everyone else so that he could, in some way, be happy. He was stubborn and chose to marry my mother, a stubborn woman, so their arguments were frequent and were often as extreme in their violence as a wild and massive storm. It was common when my mother was hurt, my sister was hurt, and I was hurt; all of us were victims in the wake of a man who, I believe, was also dealing with his own pain. My father raged often and without reason, it seemed. He resembled a dumb beast, wantonly tearing apart his environs, the cage which was his life. I saw through to this beast and, in doing so, recognized my own. It was this horrid, shared feature which bonded us.

Often I'll hear people, mostly other men, describe the ferocity of their anger and almost boast with the pride I once held for mine. I find such behavior and claims amusing, and still to this day, though I've recognized and struggled to subdue the violent fury inside of me, I believe them to be mistaken when it comes to assessing true anger. My rage was, and can still at times be, like a legion of cold, heartless primitives, each armed with spiked clubs, which would descend disastrously upon whomever or whatever triggered it. What I knew myself to be capable of doing, and what others had described me doing, seemed to outstrip the proud tales of those boastful, "angry" men.

It took a great deal of time and a person who truly cared for me to shake me out of my tempestuous mindset. My wife proposed contemplation and that contemplation drove me to reflection. I thought about the shame I felt for my father, and in doing so I realized that I had more shame for myself. Memories of the wild evil perpetrated by my dad made me think about the horrors to which I had so often giddily applied my own warped signature. If I didn't take the initiative and climb out of the murky pit I was willfully inhabiting, I knew that I would twist and corrode into the shape which represented my father.

I work at it, and I do so often. I second guess my reactions, and I keep my mouth shut. I always have worn a mask of quiet smiles so that others wouldn't see what I was truly capable of doing. Now I attempt to be real and to dispense with the anger which would always bleed out as my initial response to most things. I attempt to brighten my perspectives, embrace the shame I create for myself, and take comfort in the love of my wife. I continue to work so that I don't slip back, so that I don't allow the beast to envelop me as my father allowed his at some point in time long ago.