The other night while eating some noodles in a Chinese street food restaurant, I noticed a man crossing the street with his son who looked no older than four or five. His hand was in the air, holding the bigger one of the bigger person next to him. They both had goofy smiles on, though very different genres of goofy.

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There has been a great disturbance in the twit-o-sphere as of late. According to the recorded time, Rob Liefield spent a good deal of his day on Saturday writing snide comments about his colleagues, people who he should be happy to address as such, and the titles they create and continually perfect.
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Drugs. They started out fun in the 60s. Everyone was just trying to find themselves and get out of their parents house, discover a community that they felt good in, and take some drugs to help that sensation continue.

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I have this regular habit of leaving comics, Wednesday after Wednesday, to collect into a nice little tidy pile on the side of the bed. It’s the kind of appearance you expect from a Home Decor magazine…perfectly lined books and magazines, which are never. Ever. Touched. I don’t let these tower to shameful points because I’m excited about how cute it looks. No. I do intend to read them. And eventually I do, when that pile topples over and falls right into my bowl of serial.

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Slipping on my stockings, I notice that there is a little tear in the left ankle. “No worries,” I think to myself. “Those bad guys won’t notice in the dark. Plus my thigh-high boots will cover the damage.” With a smile on my ruby reds, I hear the leather squeak as I zip up my black boots, and check the sharpness of the pop-out blades on the bottom of my 6 inch heels. Long and shiny, just how I like ’em. Next, I repack the tranquilizer cartridge in my bustier. These twins will knock their lights right out!
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While in Japan about a year ago, I saw the entertainment portion of a newspaper sitting on the edge of an unclaimed seat. It featured beautiful camera-ready faces; women in costly designer gowns and men in fashionable suits, all making their way into a theater for the premiere of some Japanese film.

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There is something tremendously charming about any celebrity that manages to remain humble to their ultra-charmed pageant-esque existence. Somehow, under mysterious circumstances, these individuals were dealt a shiny card that not a large percentage of people are given, and then generally spend the rest of their lives using that same card, flashing it at every exclusive doorway.

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What does it mean to become “mainsteam” when you belong to a medium such as comics? To me, the spitting image of pop-culture comes in the form of storyboarded action heroes, with loud sounds and colors escaping from their mouths and surroundings. The image looks, feels, acts like a billboard topper. However, as there are pop bands who are born independently from the grind of the Mtv music-mill and yet eventually team up with it, there are also creators of comic books who choose to avoid that cluttered world yet mimic it within their work. Only so much distance can be maintained. It makes me ask the question, “why fight it?”

I wonder as I read different issues of different comics, what a writer might be experiencing in his or her personal life, striking them strongly enough to produce such dramatic stories.
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Being a comic book reader can sometimes take a great deal of self-realization.
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