THE JOHN BRUNI MUSEUM OF MEDIOCRE (AT BEST) SHIT #14: REVIEW OF TRANSMETROPOLITAN #27

[I was fairly certain no one read my comic book reviews, and this one convinced me of it. All this talk about backup vaginal orifices to joints in a penis flew right by everyone. This review is actually kind of good. I stand by it today. I also find it funny that I considered Warren Ellis as “Hellblazer’s Warrn Ellis.” From the Elmhurst College Leader, October  2, 1999.]

Transmetropolitan, the world’s dirtiest, most viciously crass comic, has once more stepped over the boundaries of good taste. That’s not a bad thing—in fact, while the humor is pretty low, it’s also very intelligently written by Hellblazer’s Warren Ellis.

Journalist Spider Jerusalem is the most unique hero in the history of comics. There are no superpowers here, just an unwavering dedication to the Truth. He doesn’t care about journalistic ethics. As he says, “The truth . . . that’s all I need.”

The latest installment of Transmet introduces an undoubtedly illegal form of journalism called monstering, or “the art of ambushing people . . . with questions . . . driving them to their graves.” Spider and his filthy assistants decide to try this out on a senator who has been accused of funding porno movies under the table, hounding him with typical Spider questions like, “Do you have a joint in your penis, Mr. Sweeney?” At one point, he even demands Senator Sweeney to “show us your penis!”

Spider despises traditional forms of journalism, just as Dr. Hunter S. Thompson did when he invented Gonzo Journalism. The news shouldn’t be written with a cold, almost robotic voice. Spider says that journalism is truly “caring about the world you report on.” There should be emotion in journalism, and even bias. Journalists should be pissed off and should make that clear to his/her audience. Of course, Spider brings this even further, and he starts babbling about “possessed journalists with fiery eyes and steaming genitalia.”

The world of Trasmet is the future, and thus Spider has a legion of toys to get to the Truth with. At one point, a hologram of Spider’s head appears in Sweeney’s toilet and starts asking questions when Sweeney is trying to take care of business. At another point, Spider is able to get information from a small floating globe that is apparently a bug that overhears Sweeney talking to his transient (people who alter their genes to look like aliens) daughter about how she “grew a backup vaginal orifice.”

This futuristic world is brought to reality with the superb artwork of Darick Robertson. Someone once described it as “brain candy,” and it’s true. Each time you look at the artwork, there’s something new to find, whether it be crazy soda products like Ebola Cola, or references to Preacher, a comic written by Ellis’s friend, Garth Ennis. No one can draw as demented as Robertson.

Yes. Transmet is extremely offensive, but it’s also extremely entertaining. One way or the other, it’s definitely something that can’t be forgotten—Spider Jerusalem constantly makes sure of that.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #229: RIP STEVE DILLON

Once upon a time my favorite living comic book artist was Steven Hughes. Some of you kids might not remember him, but he was primarily known as the co-creator of Evil Ernie and Lady Death along with writer Brian Pulido. Hughes was a fucking rock star. He was a wonderful horror/fantasy artist. He could do anything. One of my favorite images in comics history is when Evil Ernie ripped off both of Dr. Price's arms and shoved a mop handle through the stumps to prop him up. It's a wonderfully horrific scene, and Hughes pulled it off like a champ. I only wish he could have been there for Ernie's final battle with Price.


I got to meet Hughes once. I was surprised at how frail he seemed. He had a weak handshake. I was shocked that such powerful art could come from a guy like that. He couldn't have been nicer. He was one of the most quiet, polite guys I've ever met. I didn't know at the time. I guess no one did except his close circle of loved ones.


I walked into my comic book shop one day, and my dealer gave me the bad news. Steven Hughes had passed away. Cancer. Fucking cancer. He had it when I'd met him. Goddam, that was his strength. He was dying before my very eyes, and he still did the show. Do you realize how much strength that takes?


Fast forward to earlier today. Steve Dillon is my favorite living comic book artist. And then I turned on fucking Twitter. Jesus Christ. We don't have a cause of death yet, but he was a young guy. A lot of people are suggesting it was booze related. I don't know the truth. Whatever killed him is horrible. He was a talent taken from us waaaaaaaay too soon.


He co-created my favorite comic book of all time, PREACHER. If you doubt his talents, pick up an issue. Or go for HELLBLAZER. Or PUNISHER. Fuck.


I never got to meet him. I had a chance at this year's C2E2. I was super excited for it. And then . . . then I got sick, and I had to skip it. I regret that from the very bottom of my soul.


A while back I had a conversation with a fellow horror/bizarro author. I won't mention who in case that person doesn't want it to be public knowledge, but we were talking about the death of Nick Cave's son. It sounds horrible, and I realize it, but I pledged to be completely honest with all of these GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS. We were in agreement: Nick Cave's next album would be really fucking good. I haven't gotten SKELETON TREE yet, but I feel that his son's death would have a profound effect on his work.


Yeah. I know. That's a shitty thing to say or think. And I'm about to say something else that's also shitty, but I'd be less than honest if I didn't say it.


We are never going to get Ennis and Dillon's dream project now. Some of you might remember that they were planning an epic for Vertigo called CITY LIGHTS. I've been salivating for that thing for years, and we're never going to get it. Maybe Ennis could get someone else, but it wouldn't be right. It wouldn't be the vision.


So I went into my comic book shop today. I asked my dealer, "Did you hear about Steve Dillon?" He said he didn't, and I told him about it. He was shocked. I hadn't realized how much this had mirrored our earlier conversation about Steven Hughes until this very moment as I'm writing about it. He reacted the very same way I'd reacted to him years before.


I can't believe Steve Dillon is gone. I can't believe we're never going to get another Ennis/Dillon series. He really, truly was one of the best. Now he has entered the pantheon of greatest comic book artists. I'd put him in the top 5. I'm not sure yet where, but he's up there.


It's so unfair. The life of a comic book artist is not very financially rewarding, especially now. I'm sure he did all right, being an artist for both DC and Marvel, but still. He had AMC money rolling in now. It's not right.


Rest in peace, Steve Dillon.






















































If you want to know who my favorite living comic book artist is now, I haven't decided. It's either Gabriel Rodriguez or Darick Robertson. If you haven't, hunt down LOCKE & KEY, TALES FROM THE DARKSIDE, THE GREAT AND SECRET SHOW, TRANSMETROPOLITAN and THE BOYS to see why. Just fuckin' do it, all right?

COOL SHIT 10-7-10

UNKNOWN SOLDIER #24: I have always been a fan of the Unknown Soldier, from his WEIRD WAR TALES origins all the way up to Garth Ennis’ Vertigo mini-series. And I love what I originally thought was a re-imagining, but now I know better: it’s a continuation. Writer Joshua Dysart’s vision was a brand new man behind the Invisible Man bandages, but now he’s brought the original back into the mix. For those who aren’t familiar with the character, we get a recap of all that has come before, and Dysart even drops a bombshell into our laps. It would be criminal to give it away, but anyone who read Ennis’ take on the old soldier can probably figure it out. There have been rumors that DC might torpedo Vertigo. Since the character has such a rich DC past, I don’t think they would get rid of this book, but the subject matter will never be quite as mature as it is now.

LIBERTY ANNUAL 2010: This is the annual anthology from the Comic Book Legal Defense Fund, a cause I hold dear (hell, I’d better; at $4.99, the book is a bit pricey). Sorry to say that most of its contents suck, and some suck really bad, but the gems are worth it. We have a Conan the Barbarian story from Darick Robertson. It’s paint-by-numbers storytelling, but such a grand map never fails to entertain. Conan’s just such a conqueror and destroyer that it’s fun to watch him in action. Sorry guys, but Conan could kick seven shades of shit out of Chuck Norris and the Dos Equiis guy. At the same time. With both hands tied behind his back. One problem: Robertson’s illustration doesn’t make Conan look tough enough. His stoic humor doesn’t come through. To see what I mean, check out Joe R. Lansdale and Timothy Truman’s Conan series, SONGS OF THE DEAD.


My favorite part of this book, though, is the RETURN OF EVAN DORKIN’S MILK AND CHEESE! For anyone unfamiliar with this duo, I shake my finger in shame at you! Did you even live in the ‘Nineties? You fool! For those of you in the know, my friends, you don’t need me to explain these “dairy products gone bad.” For the rest of you—you scum—a sentient carton of milk and wedge of cheese live out their violent whims, wreaking havoc everywhere they go. It is not uncommon for their comic strips to be covered in blood and pithy banter. Here, they slaughter a convention’s worth of costumed nerds, knock a guy’s eyes out, decapitate several people, and kick an unsuspecting baby. But their brand of bloodshed this time comes with a message: that comic book readers must defend their own right to read whatever they want. Because, in the words of Milk, “Poor defenseless little comic book industry! No Superman will fly down and save you! No Wonder Woman will deflect the bullets aimed at you! No Aquaman will do whatever it is that idiot does!”


And then there is a small THE BOYS story from Garth Ennis and Rob Steen. Let me be clear: the art fucking blows, and the story is kind of silly, but it serves its purpose in defending the freedom of comics creators. Finally, we know how The Legend got fired from Victory Comics: with a story about two major female superheroes being driven mad and attacking each other with their breasts. BUBBA DUBBA DUBBA DUBBA! And speaking of THE BOYS . . . .

THE BOYS #47: If any of you have the guts to tell me that Garth Ennis sucks as a writer, fuck you. Fuck you with a seven-foot barbed dildo. After I’ve violated your holiest of orifices (and rubbed salt in the anal fissures), I will point you to this issue of THE BOYS. It’s not all goofy violence and obscenity, folks; the man’s got great emotional chops. This issue is just fucking heart-rending. I’ll be honest, I almost teared up. My eyes got a bit wet, and my vision went blurry. The tear didn’t get shed, because it’s really, really hard to get me to cry, but Ennis has come the closest any writer can get. But then, if you’ve been a fan for as long as I have, this shouldn’t surprise you. PREACHER and HITMAN also brought me close to the brink, and when John Constantine hit rock bottom in Ennis’ run on HELLBLAZER, he almost got me again. My only problem with this issue was that Russ Braun, who is usually a good artist (not great, but good) has somehow made every character except for Annie look like pompous assholes. Butcher and Queen Maeve literally look down their noses in every panel they’re in. I wish Robertson would come back . . . .


WARNING! HERE THERE BE SPOILERS!


I couldn’t let this one go without talking about what twisted my heart so badly. (I don’t usually do spoilers, as I consider my job here to sell these books, so I offer my apologies. You may leave if you wish. Be back next week, though.) You see, Butcher recently tricked Huey into watching footage of his beloved Annie sucking the dicks of several superheroes in order to get into the Seven. He brought it even further by telling Huey that she’d probably been playing him the whole time, that she was a whore, and she was laughing behind his back at him. Maybe Butcher believes it, but one way or the other, it’s a total prick thing to do. It poisons the way Huey feels about Annie, and when he starts to tear up himself, Butcher does something my step-father did to me when I was a kid: he points his finger at Huey and says, “Stop it. You’ll feel a fucksight better if you don’t start cryin’ in front of another bloke.”


Then, Huey confronts Annie in the park in a knockdown, drag-out condemnation. He hurls all sorts of accusations and ugly statements at her, calling her a bitch, a cunt, and a whore, and teary-eyed, he tells her that he never wants to see her again. But you see, we know Annie. She isn’t any of those things. She was just in a bad situation. Huey doesn’t understand because Butcher poisoned his mind. Has this irreparably destroyed one of comicdom’s greatest new romances?


The thing that got to me the most: “The strange thing was, he knew she was right. Without being sure exactly why, he knew he was making the wrong choice. But he dredged up what he needed to keep going. To put one leaden foot in front of the other.”


Powerful stuff.