Mindless Ones

It had to happen. My underwear collection is famous throughout D-wing, and I am justly proud. Mr. Mackay says laundry privileges are out unless I humiliate myself before the internet. (I rely on him for protection from Fletcher and his mindless thugs.) So this is it. My pants. (EDITOR’S NOTE: in America, they use the word ‘pants’ incorrectly, mistakenly believing it to mean ‘trousers’. This post, and those subsequent, are using the word in its UK meaning of ‘underpants’. Clearly, a week or so of blog posts about superhero trousers would be ridiculous.)

To start with, here are my newest and favourite pants. Featuring both Iron Man and The Incredible Hulk, they are the living, breathing blockbuster fashion pant of Summer 2008. At least until I get me some Batman ones.

More after the jump

I can’t actually believe it’s been 15 years since we last had an actual Ambush Comic on the shelves. Barring a few minor cameos the last comic fully dedicated to Irwin Schwab was 1992’s Ambush Bug: Nothing Special. The best thing about this new mini, is that Giffen & co. have picked up exactly where things were left. Same supporting cast (Cheeks! Argh!yle! Jonni DC), same relentless punning and bad gags, same irreverence for the DCU at large (the best joke involves literal women-in-refidgerators, and gives DC editorial a rightly deserved kick to the balls).

Giffen’s art is relatively unchanged – slightly looser perhaps, which might in part be due to the fact that he’s spent the last decade doing breakdowns for other artists. But it’s a joy to see him on full art duties, and the Bug brings out the best in him. Also Robert Loren Fleming is back on dialogue. Where did he go? Do you think he left comics in pursuit of *shudder* artistic credibility? Well this should put the kibosh on that…

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Oh good, a new hobby horse to savage with my bugbear: No sooner have I finished blogging about how annoying I find a current half-trend of imposing pick-and-mix music decisions on the otherwise private stereoheads of readers, when it starts appearing all over the place. Okay, well, in one place only so far, maybe two if what I’m told about Lapham’s latest is right, but little bloggy subcategories have been built out of far less.

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Mustn’t let the twenties pass without a mention of Casanova 14. Non-specific spoilers hereafter, about a spF 8, mildly alkaline spoilers.

The past few issues have established this book as a real star of the stands. Building on a run of at least two good issues, no. 14 is itself a huge step-up in quality even from the impressive heights it had reached earlier. Be under no illusions – it’s an intelligent, ambitious book, that manages to fizz the forebrain, thrill the adrenaline glands and softly touch the heart. It has action, romance, sex, fun, pain, and all manner of high strangeness, and puts them to work in a way that is currently unique. The layers of structure, delicate and subtle, make the reader sit right upright and engage with the text – a living thing with wise and curious eyes. Reading Casanova makes you Read. No other genre book out there today does that – Casanova makes you realise how complacent you’ve become, how prepared to put up with any old spandex-wrapped crap you are, and makes you ashamed of that state of affairs. It’s a good comic, and it’s good for comics.

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This post contains some pretty strong stuff, so if you’re under 18 or easily offended, it might be better if you turn round and go back the way you came in.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you….

Anyway…. When I was twelve Games was a nightmare.

Okay, so I’m a comics geek and we’re always the last to get picked for the squad, and when the numbers finally whittle down to us, our selection is always greeted with moans and groans. But I was popular enough off the playing field, so I didn’t give a toss about that. Football’s rubbish anyway. No, what really got me was shower time. It’s bad enough hitting puberty without having to strip down to your nadgers in front of a room full of braying schoolboys. Anyone that had an inkling of hair down there, or was starting to grow or droop a little was fair game. I remember how poor old Simon Hudson’s massive, hairy willy was always a source of vicious fun.

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What

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In another post Sean Phillips was described as having a telepathic drawing style. Not telepathic in the Zener card sense or even the psychic ninja-knife sense, but telepathic in the very simple sense that the reader can read the thoughts of the figures he draws. By this is not meant that Phillips has a particularly good grasp of how to draw realistic or communicative anatomy or body-language, but literally that something strange happens to his pictures where they somehow become imbued with a quality as yet unknown to science that transmits the thoughts of imaginary beings into the minds of any non-imaginary viewer. To demonstrate – the reader knows exactly what Miss Misery is thinking here:

Don’t you?

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