GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #315: THE ART OF CURSING

 I don't know why I was thinking about this today, but for some reason it popped up in my head.

I was in junior high, what everyone calls middle school now. Maybe 6th or 7th grade, I don't remember. I just know it wasn't 8th grade. Anyway, I was in PE, and we were playing softball. In case you don't know my likes and dislikes, I dislike sports a great deal. If you're into it, good for you. It's just not for me.

As we played sportsball, I fucked up. Because, well, I didn't care. So fuck it. I don't remember what I said specifically, but I have a fairly good suspicion that I said, "Ah shoot."

I was in left field for a fairly good reason. No one really expected me to do anything because they understood, at least that much, that I didn't care. But there was a fellow student in center field who gave me shit. I remember very much what his name was, but I'm not going to mention it here. I'm fairly certain that he wouldn't want me to mention it here. Unless he's dead. I don't think he is, but at my age, it's possible. But he might have an important job, and his crime against me was nothing more than a mere inconvenience. So fuck it.

He said, "Bruni! What the fuck, man? Why would you say that? Say shit for fuck's sake!" And then he proceeded to give me an extended tutorial, in person, on how to effectively curse.

I didn't need it. I only said the safe version because I didn't need yet another detention. But what the hell? This guy didn't know me. He just knew what other people said about me. I'm very fuckin' good at cursing. He didn't know that. But he assumed.

So I had no choice but to fuck with him back. "Shhhhhhh-uh-iiiiiiiit?" I said.

"Say it with feeling, Bruni!"

"Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiitttttttttttt?"

"You're hopeless."

That was it. I just find it funny that this guy assumed that stupid shit about me. I was a quiet kid, but I knew my way around curse words. It is kind of an art, actually. If you curse, you need to mean it or someone is going to think you're an idiot. I curse with great gusto in person. For a great example on how cursing can be an art, I suggest looking up Dr. Dirty songs.

I wonder where that guy is now, now that I have books like POOR BASTARDS AND RICH FUCKS and DONG OF FRANKENSTEIN under my belt. I kind of don't want to know. I fear that he might think that he taught me how to curse, which is simply not true. I have very few skills. Writing is one. Cursing is another. I've been successfully cursing since I was seven. I'm proud of my abilities because I find myself in an odd situation. I can say just about anything I want to, and people won't hate me. They won't even confront me. They'll say, "That's just Bruni being Bruni."

Good thing I don't want to hurt anyone with my cursing. If I did, I would probably be president of the US right now.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #314: JAMES MARSTERS (AKA SPIKE FROM BUFFY AND ANGEL) AND WHY I NO LONGER GO TO COMICS CONVENTIONS

 All right, I kinda-sorta promised to talk about this during last night's GF column. I want to state first and foremost that what I'm about to say is in no way a bad reflection upon James Marsters. I like the guy, and I love seeing him in stuff, even when he was briefly in the remake of House on Haunted Hill as the cameraman who freaked out in the elevator that one time. Also, I'm not sober, but like I theorized last night, I'm sober enough. So there's that.

OK, so when I first started going to comic book conventions, they were still about comic books. I went to them specifically to meet the writers and illustrators of my favorite comics. And I did that. And I have so many comics signed by them. I wanted to get Steve Dillon for my copy of Preacher #1 (signed by Garth Ennis), but the only year he came to town, I got horribly sick and couldn't go. Fast forward a couple of years, and he died.

But even that first year, I saw pop culture icons. You know the staples. Lou Ferrigno. Peter Mayhew. Jeremy Bulloch. Etc. and so on. You could meet them for ten or fifteen bucks and get their autographs on glossy photos. Very affordable, no?

But there was a shift. I can't put my finger on when, why or how, but it happened. Soon you could meet even bigger stars for forty to fifty bucks, and the staples raised their prices to twenty. The next thing you know, Bruce Campbell and William Shatner and the likes started charging a hundred bucks for a "VIP experience."

Again, I have to say that I'm not picking on these guys. I love them and their great projects (even Splatt Attack, Mr. Shatner, sorry). But the VIP experience is bullshit. You shake hands, get a picture, and that's it. Done. Get out of the way for the next sucker who payed a shit-ton to meet a celebrity.

I'm a weird guy when it comes to writers and such. I don't get stage fright (which makes me part of the 1% of writers who don't because most of us are dedicated introverts). I don't get nervous when I meet celebrities. They're just people who have been in movies and TV, which is a job but more high profile. The only time I got kind of nervous was when I met Joe R. Lansdale when he was on his book tour for The Thicket. My hands got cold. It's an odd thing, I know. When I get nervous, my hands get cold no matter how hot and sweaty the rest of me might be. But he quickly set me at ease, and we had a nice conversation as he signed my books. (It helped that as he signed my copy of A Hacked-Up Holiday Massacre, I pointed out that my story follows his in that anthology edited by Shane McKenzie, and he said that he remembered me and enjoyed my contribution.)

Side note: The worst time my hands got cold was when I was on trial for DUI, and after more than a year of court dates they finally decided that this was the day I'd be found guilty or not guilty. They delayed the case until after lunch, and my hands were so cold I was out of my mind. When I went to the bathroom, the heat of my urine actually warmed my hands and made me feel much better. I was found not guilty.

I'm waaaaaaaaaaaaaaay off track. In case you can't tell, I don't do comics conventions anymore because they're not about comic books. They're about pop culture. You want to meet Mark Millar? Good luck, chum. But here's some guy who played an Ewok once, and he's charging $90 for the pleasure of breathing the same air for five seconds.

That's an over simplification, but it is more or less true.

The moment came home to me when I was standing in line to meet James Marsters. I'm unabashedly a fan of Buffy and Angel. I love that shit. Marsters played the best character on both shows, Spike, the punk vampire who started out as deliciously evil but slowly became an amazing hero. (And I really loved the fact that in the early years, he wore a red shirt under his black trenchcoat, very much like Dracula's cape, which was black on the outside but red on the inside.)

This wasn't a moment of decision for me. This was just the moment when I recognized that there was a shift happening that I didn't like.

In front of me were these two young girls, twenty years of age, tops. They were talking with each other excitedly because they were about to meet Spike, whom they both loved a great deal. They both obviously had a crush on him and couldn't wait to merely say hi to him. They didn't even have something for him to sign. They stood there holding only their purses.

They were next. Someone else was up there talking with Marsters. The two girls were then approached by someone who probably represented the convention instead of Marsters. He broke the news to them that they would have to pay $40 for the privilege to meet James Marsters. They panicked and started asking this guy under what circumstances they could meet him. There were no others. They were absolutely heartbroken, and they walked away with tears in their eyes.

If this happened now, it would be a different story. I was a lot younger back then, so it never occurred to me to sacrifice my own want to meet Marsters. That's my failing, and I'm sick thinking about it. But if it happened now, now that I actually have money (taking into consideration, in this imaginary quandary that the 'rona doesn't exist), I would have absolutely given them the forty bucks to meet their hero.

But even in my ignorance, seeing them walk away broke my heart a bit, too.

I want to be absolutely clear at this point. James Marsters had no idea this was happening. He was talking with a fan at that moment and signing an autograph for her. He couldn't possibly know about this. He is not the bad guy. So I don't want to hear any comments to the contrary. You will be summarily ignored if you come at me with that shit.

I met Marsters, and he was very amiable, very personable. My favorite season of Buffy is the second, which is why I brought the DVD cover of that one for him to sign, and he started telling me some behind the scene stuff that maybe I shouldn't talk about here. It was a fun meeting, and he was genuinely exciting to meet. Some of these guys look like they were dragged to the con by their shirttails, but he was very happy to be there and meet fans. I almost guarantee that he would have forgotten the forty bucks for these two poor kids.

But that's when I started getting the idea that comics conventions were fucked. The next year was when they started doing the VIP bullshit. I almost checked out entirely, but I have a lot of wonderful (and perverted, possibly criminal) friends in Artists Alley. The last two or three years, I went to cons only so I could hang out with them.

But I stopped. Going to these things made me feel uncomfortable and out of place. So fuck it. I checked out. My AA (NOT ALCOHOLICS ANONYMOUS YOU ASS!) friends are still my friends outside of the show, so fuck it.

You know what I really miss? Dan Con. That was still about the comics, and many of my AA friends attended. I got to interview John Everson once there, which was pretty cool  He lives in Naperville, which is a hop-skip-jump from me in Elmhurst. But Dan Con is a thing of the past.

You want to know what's fucked? Near the end of my time at these cons, DC gave up. One of the (arguably) two biggest comics companies just stopped going there. They didn't even attend as Warner Bros. They were gone. And then Marvel stopped showing up as a company that makes comics. They were just there for the MCU.

Not that I cared in the long run. But that's a bad sign, don't you think?

So yeah. I'm done with that shit. Call me when the comics take center stage again.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #313: ROBERT KIRKMAN AND INVINCIBLE

 

It has become fashionable to talk shit about Robert Kirkman. I think I know why. 90% is that he is a lowly comics writer who has suddenly made it big. Which is bullshit, and I dismiss it. The other 10%? I think they're pissed off about how he ended The Walking Dead. It upset me a bit, too, but when I actually read it? It made perfect, wonderful sense. Say what you will about the man, he writes the perfect endings, no matter how much they can tear your heart out. Brian K. Vaughan is better at that. After Ex Machina and Y: The Last Man, I am deathly afraid for every character in Saga. But Kirkman is fucking great at it.

Before I continue, I should say that I currently read no Kirkman books. I try them all, and none of them recently has connected with me, so I don't read on. That's just in the interest of full disclosure. If you enjoy them, cool. I'm glad. I hate it when perfectly good art is wasted, because I'm not always the best judge of that.

So Invincible. I've been talking about it a lot on my social media because I get the Ultimate editions. I only get them at comics conventions. And, well, I don't attend these anymore. It's not because of the 'rona. I stopped doing these shows years ago, and that's a story for another day. Maybe tomorrow, if I'm sober enough and anyone is interested. The reason I'm talking about these books is I just finally ordered the last three online, and I'm reading them now. Anyway, I'm quickly approaching the ending. That's why this has been on my mind.

Getting back to how I started off, it's fashionable to talk shit about Kirkman. I'll get into that shortly, but the important thing to take away from this is, I'm going to say some awesome things about him right here, right now.

I knew Kirkman before TWD took off. I should amend that. We're not friends. We are barely acquaintances. Didn't want to give the wrong impression there. I remember ages ago when I picked up this book called Battle Pope off the shelves of a comic book store. I fell in love immediately. Fast forward a few years, and I found myself actually becoming friends with Brian Pulido, the guy who created Evil Ernie and wrote (and still writes) Lady Death. Over a phone call, he invited me to my first comics convention, which was Wizard World Chicago many years ago. I went specifically to meet him and talk about cool shit with him. And then I found a few other great comics writers there, including Garth Ennis, when Preacher was just barely into its 21st issue.

And then I ran into Kirkman and Tony Moore at their Funk-O-Tron booth. It was just them. No one else. No crazy shit. Very few fans. Knowing Battle Pope, I got excited and talked with them for a while. I got them to sign some Battle Pope issues, and I got one of my favorite shirts ever. I got too fat and can't wear it now, but it showed Battle Pope's face, smoking a cigar, and it said BRING ON THE WHORES!

Remember that. I'll get back to it soon.

So the next con I went to, I brought my own issues of Battle Pope and got them signed by both. And the next one (I think; if memory serves). It was the next one where I saw Kirkman wouldn't be there, but Moore would be. I gathered together my TWD books that were illustrated by Moore (first editions, all), and I went to this con, super excited. To be fair, I didn't think TWD would last long. Who bought zombie books in black and white except for Evil Ernie fans? I dug it, though, so I was happy. I stood in line for Moore, and guess what happened. Yeah, surprise! Kirkman was there, after all. I just glanced over and saw him working the table behind Moore. No one seemed to know who he was. I said, "Kirkman! I had no idea you would be here!" We talked a bit, and being a super nerd, I got him to sign the issues of TWD I brought (again, those are the first issues, first editions, that I eventually got Moore to sign, too). We talked a bit, and I told him how much I liked the new series. And then he said, "Have you tried Invincible?"

I don't like superheroes. I'd vaguely heard about it, but I didn't know he'd written it. I didn't mention that, but I said I hadn't. What did he do? He pulled out the first Invincible Ultimate Collection (there was only one at the time), and he gave it to me. For free. He signed it, and then he turned to this guy I didn't recognize. It turned out to be Ryan Ottley, who started illustrating the book starting with issue 8. He signed it, too.

It took me forever to get to Moore. Like, I was next, and then he announced that he had to go sign elsewhere. So he said go here, and he'll be there. I got there second in line, but the dude in front of me asked for this crazy, elaborate commission, and he paid enough to get it immediately. Long story short, I waited three hours to get Moore to sign my first issues of TWD. Not complaining. It sucked, sure, but I know cons. I get how they work. But dammit, I got my issues signed. Before anyone who might be prosecution for my bankruptcy case reads this and gets ideas, I can't prove it. I have no certificates. No pictures of me with these guys. In fact, without those things, my issues of TWD are probably worth less with their scribbles on them. But I don't care. I treasure them because they mean something to ME.

But read all that again. In what fucking world does a creator give away something that is super fucking expensive for free just 'cause? I'd get giving away a trade paperback for free just for the read and the likes, but a giant, thick, expensive hardcover book? Maybe worth fifty bucks? No. I think he trusted that I would like this. And I did. I fucking did.

I don't like superheroes. I think they're stupid (unless Ennis is writing Punisher or Fury, Azzarello is writing Batman or Wonder Woman or Brubaker is doing Captain America or Daredevil, etc.). And I'm about to blaspheme here, but Batman is the fucking worst of the bunch. Again, that's a story for another day. But Batman can eat my ass. I dig the movies (most of them), but fuck Batman. DC said they're killing him but not really. BIG FUCKING NEWS, RIGHT?! STOP THE PRESSES! DC IS KILLING BATMAN AGAIN BUT NOT REALLY!

Yes, that's a sore spot. But superheroes are stupid. The only one I ever truly liked was Punisher, and he's a vigilante, not a superhero (except for that awful time that he had superpowers from heaven, I think?). I celebrated when he killed the Marvel Universe, and I'm getting way the fuck off track again.

But I loved Invincible. He was the most plausible superhero ever. He was also pretty R rated despite his appeal to a PG-13 audience. Hell, maybe a PG audience. But this book was not for kids. There is a lot of blood. So much blood. And popped eyeballs. And other gross stuff. Hell, here's an exclusive (not that any single person in the world gives a flying fuck about it): Invincible was a huge influence on my book, And Jesus Came Back. My shit usually wears its influences on its sleeve, so if you've read my book and not Invincible, read Invincible. The influence will be very apparent.

Hell, even my brother (the Vegas one, who works in security and probably doesn't want me to name him here) loves the series, and I didn't know he liked comics until we talked about the book years ago.

Kirkman gave me that first book, just like a drug dealer. The first is always free, right? But while the idea may have flitted at the back of his head, he did not mean it like that. For all he knew (and this was before he was on the board of directors for Image), his book would be canceled the very next day. But he gave it to me, and I have always been grateful. It's a great book.

I've got one full volume left. I'm a few issues into the 11th. And goddammit, I'm dreading the ending. But I know he'll do it right. He may have fucked with the distributors for TWD, but his ending was really fucking good.

I think in about a week, he will have torn my heart out again, and I'll be very happy about it.

PS: At the last convention I went to, I'd talked with a lot of my indie comics friends. They said they were having an after party at such and such restaurant, which was down the street. I went there to discover that the line to get in was fucking huge. Out the door huge. But they were already in, and I was a guest, so I pushed through as best I could. I was wearing my Battle Pope shirt, the one that says BRING ON THE WHORES. Some guy stopped me and said, "Hey, I know Kirkman!"

"Yeah, me too." Kinda.

"I designed that shirt!"

"Cool. I like it, man!"

"He treated me like shit! Fuck that guy!"

Now, I don't know if this guy was telling the truth, but it sounded like he believed it, at the very least. To quote Raymond Reddington, "I have no interest in things that don't interest me." One of the things that doesn't interest me is getting into arguments over pop culture. If you like the same stuff I like, cool. If you hate the stuff I like, cool. You do you, and I'll do me. So I said, "He's always treated me well." The guy waved a dismissive hand at me, and I went about my life. But yeah, for various reasons, people can't help but talk shit about Kirkman. Oh well. I like him plenty.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #312: DIE HARD IS A SLASHER FLICK

This was originally published on Forced Viewing, may that site rest in peace.

DIE HARD 

Directed by John McTiernan 

1988, 131 min. 

4 stars 

 

 

Is Die Hard a Christmas movie? Of course. But it’s also a horror movie. [steps back and waits for the arguments to begin] 

 

 

It’s picture perfect: a Christmas party at the Nakatomi Plaza in California. Everyone’s happy and having a good time. Holly Genaro (Bonnie Bedelia) is getting ready to see her ex-husband, John McClane (Bruce Willis) for the first time in a long time, so the vibe is good. Enter Hans Gruber (Alan Rickman) and his group of business associates. They’re here for a friendly corporate takeover with a healthy interest in sitting on the beach, earning twenty-percent. That’s a pretty good deal. 

 

There is, unfortunately, one thing that Holly didn’t plan on: New York changed John McClane for the worst. Something’s not right about him. He has murderous impulses that he can’t control, and for some reason in his head he has fixated on Holly. He thinks she’s in danger from Hans and his friends, and thanks to military training he has the means and the knowledge of taking them on. 

 

Thankfully Hans and company have taken advantage of the Second Amendment. They’re the good guys with a gun that the Republicans are always talking about. As John stalks among them, almost Jason-like, picking them off one by one, they have the power to fight back against him. 

 

But their chances are not good. John is a one-man army. Not even the cops and FBI who arrive to arrest him stand a chance. Al Powell (played wonderfully by Reginald VelJohnson) is the only one who seems interested in negotiating with John. He tries his best because he’s been there before. A while back he shot a kid dead. He felt lousy about it, but he knows what it’s like to take someone’s life, so he’s the only in the cops have with John. 

 

There’s a particularly gruesome scene near the beginning of the carnage when John kills a dude, straps him to a chair, writes NOW I HAVE A MACHINE GUN, HO-HO-HO on his shirt and sends him down the elevator so his friends could see their dead companion and know how far John will go. The guy’s brother, Karl (Alexander Godunov), is horrified by this, and he bravely pledges to get revenge for this. Who among us wouldn’t do so? Karl is a very relatable character. 

 

The acting is very good in this. Willis is very believable as a violent lunatic. One has to wonder if he was so dedicated to the role that he actually walked barefoot over glass. Bedelia is wonderful as the victim of John’s violent attentions. She has the fear down pat, but her resolve to move forward in the face of certain death is great. Rickman has a boyish charm despite the German accent. He’s a great, tragic hero. Rickman has a background in Shakespeare, so I’m sure he drew inspiration from the Bard’s work. And then there’s Hart Bochner as Harry Ellis. No one ever suspected that the guy trying to get into Holly’s pants would betray them all. How could he have sided with John? Hans had to make a tough decision, but judging by how dangerous John is, he made the right choice in shooting Ellis dead. 

 

The setting is wonderful. McTiernan’s choice to have this stalker movie take place in a city skyscraper, as opposed to the woods or suburbia, is very telling. This is very much a white collar world, and it makes John a bit more sympathetic. He’s a blue collar guy, and he has to negotiate the office in order to get what he wants. 

 

And then there’s the ending. Tread with caution. What follows are spoilers. 

 

It takes a lot of balls to go with a negative ending. When Hans feels relief to see an unarmed John McClane in sight, he does the merciful thing. He doesn’t kill John. His heart is bigger than his brain. John pulls the dirtiest trick ever when he reveals that he’s taped a gun to his back within easy reach. He shoots our hero and then drops him down the entire length of the skyscraper. That’s pretty dark and over the top. He even has a catchy quip, much like Freddy and Chucky, when he does this: “Yippie kie ay, motherfucker.” At least he’s got a sense of humor, unlike other slashers (*ahem* Jason). 

 

McTiernan plays a trick on his viewers, too. Just when you think John is going to be peacefully taken into custody, Karl, who we thought was killed earlier when he was hung by his neck from a chain, makes a sudden reappearance. Maybe John wasn’t going to get away with this after all. Heroically, Karl moved forward with his gun, ready to save the day . . . and Al Powell guns him down?! What the fuck? Maybe John got too far into his head, or maybe he wanted to kill someone again after shooting that poor child. Is he going to be taken into custody, too? Just like John? 

 

This is a harrowing film, and it seems like it could happen in the real world. That’s what makes this movie so scary. If you work in an office building, this could very well happen to you. 

 

And no, the world is not done with John McClane. Just like his slasher kin, he comes back for a few sequels in which he gets to kill again. And again. And again. 

 

Merry fuckin’ Christmas.