The Inner Child's Outer Limits -- Another Comic Con Retrospective, part 2

On the heels of my initial thoughts about the subject, retailer-oriented blogs at sites like Mile High Comics and Comics 212 have been lamenting about comics' diminishing presence and influence at Comic Con, even while the industry maintains its reverence as the event's inspiration. Some commentators have already rung the Con's death knell, and while I share their frustrations I'm certainly not eager to agree whole-heartedly yet. Remember, I hope to remain neither optimistic or pessimistic but realistic on the subject; so, while the comic book as a singular entity may be inadvertently ostracized from its own convention, I contend that the spirit of science fiction and fantasy that birthed it will remain in those hallowed halls for decades to come. Just consider the following experiences I enjoyed as a fanboy at Comic Con.

The Clothes Make the Man-Child

First of all, you can take all of the comics out of Comic Con that you want, but you'll never take away the costumes inspired by them! Superman, Captain America, and multitudes of Storm Troopers and Klingons will forever remind the Twilight 'tweens of the future where Comic Con comes from. Now, one of the most frequent questions I'm asked when I tell people I go to Con is, "Oh, do you dress up?" I confess I've thought about it but recently decided that I enjoy wearing fresh clothes each of the four days I attend, and not one Guy Gardner costume four different times. I mean, wearing a costume at Comic Con must be like wearing a uniform to work, right? While you have it on, you must fulfill certain responsibilities -- namely, taking pictures with other geeks like me. It's akin to customer service; even if a patron grabs you on your way to the break room, you're obligated to help. Staying in plain clothes means that when I leave the Con, I can leave the Con behind, that I'm not wearing it on my sleeve -- that I can blend in with the crowd if I just want a coffee at It's A Grind. Still, these makeshift heroes may yet save Comic Con from itself, always reminding it of its roots by blurring the line between fantasy and the reality of San Diego's Gaslamp District for those four memorable days.

Sketch a Falling Star

Wolverine by Jeff Johnson

Another consistent Comic Con phenomenon is what I have dubbed the Sketchbook Spirit. Now, this spirit moves in mysterious ways and usually adapts to the host it inhabits. In some cases, the spirit demands compensation for even the smallest of signs, in this case a pencil or ink sketch. In other cases, grand miracles are performed sans payment, like this crayon-colored sketch from Tiny Titans artist Franco, on the heels of his Eisner win, no less!



Hyperbole aside, this was the first year I decided to visit professionals with a sketchbook in tow, and like some others I've witnessed I selected a theme -- karaoke, of course. I only solicited artists of personal importance to me, and none are more important than Erik Larsen, so despite his response to my weird Dragon-singing-karaoke request ("What the hell?"), he delivered beyond expectation. Generally, I was very pleased with the experience, as it gave my roaming on the floor some purpose, though as I eluded I was intrigued with the inconsistency between some lesser known artists charging for a sketch, while others poured their heart onto a page for free. The inquiry is in the artists' perspective. What's more valuable, the $15 for a sketch now, or an experience that might move me investment in your ongoing product?

It's Not the Size of the Press, It's How You Use It

As a former Small Press exhibitor, I spent a significant amount of time in that minimal section of the convention floor, and I was pleased to purchase a bundled set of mini-comics from Robot Publishing that I've admired for years. Artist Robert Goodin was kind enough to contribute to my sketchbook, too, and he epitomised the essence of that area; he let his Small Press merchandise speak for itself. His peers ranged from brooding isolationists, pushed as far back from the table (and any potential customers) as possible, to practical used car pitchmen, thrusting flyers or samples with the fervor of a Las Vegas porn peddler. Either way, when K.O. Comix had its own table in this venue, I quickly developed the understanding that my comic book will stay with the customer longer than my conversation ever will -- so it has to be good. The comic should make a reader come back to my table every year whether I talk to him or not.

Further, for some, Comic Con is often the only forum for their wares, yet it also pits them against powerhouses like DC and Image. Like artists feeling the Sketchbook Spirit, the question is, do Small Press publishers charge the true cost (plus moderate profit) of their low-run, professionally bound book at the risk of facing low to no sales at all, or do they eat some cost at an event like this for sheer exposure? Frankly, I finally bought those excellent Robot Publishing books because Goodin reduced their price. That's change I can believe in.

As a fledgling self-publisher myself, I sought to distribute samples of my first solo effort, Karaoke Comics #1, at the Con's token freebie table. When I handed the samples to a volunteer on Friday, he scrutinized them, asking, "Are they appropriate for all ages?" Now, the story takes place in a bar, boasts homosexual themes, and ends with me in my underwear, but it's all very subtle, so I was confident when I replied, "Oh, yeah, sure!" I didn't have a lot of copies to offer, so I figured the title would attract enough interested readers to deplete the pile before a child's wayward hand was even a concern. After examining the sample further, the volunteer said, "We'll work with it." I don't know what that means, but the exchange put me off, as I wondered why a younger twenty-something suddenly had control over whether my work would reach a broad audience. As a volunteer, he doesn't have a paying job to lose if some kid sees a crude drawing of me in my underwear, so . . .

In this way, Comic Con is a lot like karaoke. Some come to sing country, others rap, others rock 'n roll, just as some come for Twilight, some for sketches, others for comics and merchandise. Everything isn't for everybody, but anybody should be able to find something there they like. Who would sing a song they don't like? Who would find themselves in an area of the exhibit hall they can't appreciate? The experience is truly what you make it, as far as your inner child will allow. At this point in its career, Comic Con doesn't need to know you. You need to know Comic Con . . . and yourself.

* Other karaoke sketches can be found here, and other Comic Con pics have been posted here!

My Man-Crushes 2009: Gordon Ramsey

This month’s new season premiere of Hell’s Kitchen assures that Gordon Ramsey will have a place on my man-crush roll call for a long time. Perhaps the singular celebrity that actually inspired me to start such a list, Gordon has both embraced and demolished the American reality show’s obligatory British judge chair and reflects the compassion and conviction of a consummate professional. Indeed, he represents the epitome of the American working spirit in a way that should inspire any man, like so . . .

Contemporary Influence: Like I said, a new season of Hell’s Kitchen has begun just this month, putting Ramsey’s sour puss in American homes around the country once a week. Further, the contestants’ grand prize in every Hell’s Kitchen contest is a head chef position at some new prestigious restaurant -- which can only help the economy, making Ramsey himself relevant during these trying times. Of course, that his show adapts a reality game show format plays to everything successful on television nowadays, though Gordon’s gruff demeanor pits the contestants more at odds with him than at each other . . . but I’ll talk about that later.

A Practical Understanding of the Opposite Sex: Any prime time television show about cooking is bound to attract the attention of the average American housewife. That isn’t a sexist statement; it’s what a network like Fox is counting on. Further, Ramsey’s confidence in the kitchen elevates the foul-mouthed Brit implies a smoldering sexuality, as it’s indicative of life lead by passion. That he calls the female contestants in Hell’s Kitchen “dumb cows” isn’t the point; that the women have a chance to beat a team of men is. If the women decide to devolve into helpless drama queens, well . . . that’s utterly disappointing. What better pet name would they deserve?

Global Significance: I started watching Hell’s Kitchen in the first place because it represented a necessary aspect of life, food preparation and presentation. Singing, dancing, dating, and the other practices that consume reality television are not necessities for living. Eating is. So, that Gordon has come from across the pond to teach us hapless Americans how to cook properly is essential, and that a component of his instruction includes successful business management is practically historical. Huh? Oh, yes, think about it; other British reality show judges usually critique without any contextual standard for their own expertise. Yet Ramsey drives contestants to be better than him, sometimes to the point of rebellion, just as our American forefathers decided to do.

So, I dare say, when you watch Hell’s Kitchen every Tuesday night on Fox (or, like me, on Wednesday nights once Fox.com has posted the episode on-line), Gordon Ramsey is holding up a mirror to America, reminding us of our entrepreneurial roots. He isn’t just feeding our bellies, but our egos, too, if we let him. You don’t have to boast a passion for cooking to strive for excellence in the field of your choice, and Ramsey’s message is based on simply taking that chance -- even if it’s a chance in Hell.

The Inner Child's Outer Limits -- Another Comic Con Retrospective, part 1

"I'm getting too old for this $#!+." -- Danny Glover, Lethal Weapon

The irony that this year's San Diego Comic Con Preview Night was on Danny Glover's birthday isn't lost on me, as my first impression of "nerd prom" reflected his famous lament from Lethal Weapon. I've attended Comic Con for ten years now, a solid fourth of its celebratory 40 years, and my experiences as both an exhibitor and an attendee have varied as much as the event's now infamously costumed crowd. In the past decade, I've felt a virtual euphoria at the chance to contribute to the industry via my own self-published comics, and I've been honored to meet or behold some my favorite talents in comics. At the same time, I've felt overwhelmed by the crowds and financial drain of it all, and I've especially been burned by an exclusive product's limited availability. My overall perspective isn't either optimistic or pessimistic but simply realistic in the face of diverse experiences.

This year, I was excited to once again attend Comic Con with my old friend Booth (and, no, I am not his "Bones"), who is equally enthusiastic for pop culture and flexible to this event's hustle and bustle, so managing transportation and the crowd in general was amiable enough. My objectives were twofold: (1.) As a fan, I hoped to fill in some gaps in my collection, since I just recently archived my comics into a simple text format readable in my easily portable mp3 player. Further, as a lifelong He-Man fan, I really wanted Mattel's Masters of the Universe art book, limited to 1000 units. (2.) As a hopeful professional, I sought to promote KaraokeFanboy Press via a Karaoke Comics sampler and further observe other small press and secondary publishers in action as I gear up for October's Alternative Press Expo in San Francisco. With Booth's cooperation, I thought these goals easy to meet -- but as any Con attendee that has accidentally bumped into a Klingon in the men's room knows, Comic Con is full of surprises!

Twilight of the Fangirls



I purchased my four day pass mere hours before Comic Con sold out on-line, but since Booth wasn't fast enough and had to purchase each day individually, he was denied the "privilege" of Preview Night. As we approached the convention center for the first time to determine how to pick up our badges, we were shocked by a long line of tents already formed outside, and I feared this was the registration line we sought. When we noticed all of the campers were girls, I predicted what they were actually waiting for and found myself correct when I asked.

"Twilight!" a fangirl tirelessly replied.

Indeed, the legendary Hall H, now reserved for previews and premieres from movie production companies like Warner Brothers and Paramount Pictures, was the victim of 'tweens longing for vampire love, and correspondingly I feared this trend would suck the life from the Con itself. I wonder, since passes were sold out months for months, yet the program was only posted a few weeks ago, how did these teenyboppers know to lay in wait for Twilight? Was it simply assumed that such a mainstream supernatural property would be a part of Comic Con? It isn't a comics-based property . . . So while the Twilight panel's high appeal actually eased congestion in the exhibit hall for browsing fanboys like me, what it represents surely reflects the long-standing debate about Comic Con's identity -- namely, that it isn't so much a comic convention anymore, but a pop culture con. The comics industry may be the life's blood that birthed it, but movies, television, and video games have become the muscles that make it move. How long can such an entity exist before it becomes too gluttonous, bloated, and eventually too congested to have a heart?

Matty 20:16

Okay, I really wanted the Masters of the Universe art book. I've been a He-Man since early childhood, and as recently as last year's Comic Con I wondered what had become of the original paintings produced to adorn those memorable toys' packaging, so this compilation of character designs and production art was a dream come true. Fifty bucks? Only one thousand units available? I usually don't indulge in these extravagantly priced exclusives, but this is He-Man -- obviously the most powerful man in Mattel's marketable universe. My K.O. Comix partner in crime Brent and I found our way into the rear entrance of the exhibit hall as soon as the doors were opened for Preview Night, and anticipating the crowd I rushed to Mattel's new retail-only booth -- only to find the line cut off a mere eight minutes into the evening. Daunted, I knew they had divided the inventory 50/50 between Preview Night and Thursday, so I vowed to be ahead of the crowd the next morning.

By ahead of the crowd, I mean Booth and I arrived at the convention center at 5:30 a.m. He waited in the registration line to pick up his daily badge, and I waited in the pass holders' line, which by 7:30 a.m. was gradually herded inside and divided into smaller groups. I found myself upstairs near the registration and freebie tables -- where, around 8:45 a.m., Booth was stationed just a few rows behind me. Somehow, despite my presumed prevalence and undeniable patience as a four-day pass holder, my line had merged with the folks just fluidly arriving, and I assume a similar phenomenon was happening all over the Con. When the doors opened, I knew where to go . . . but again, less than eight minutes after my feet touched the exhibit hall floor, I was too late. The line was cut off, and I already saw folks dragging totes full of product, in some cases the maximum they could purchase of each item, to their cars and inevitably to their eBay stores.

Frustrated, I resorted to drastic action and befriended a young couple in line to buy the book for me. I feared judgment, that I'd be perceived like one of those products pirates that I hate, but when they determined that I was a true He-Man fan, they readily agreed. Thankfully, they were quite pleasant people with similar interests in comics and toys, so I was pleased to find some men- and women-in-arms against the race against monopolizing merchants. I don't know about the mythology on He-Man's planet Eternia, but on Earth the Bible claims, "So the last will be first, and the first will be last" (Matthew 20:16, New International Version). In this case, I didn't have the power and had to put it in others' hands -- but the quest proved to be a good journey in the end.



Cover Me, He-Man



As I previously posted, I was delighted to see the back of my head immortalized on one of my favorite websites, Action Figure Insider, because I sat in front of "Unemployed Skeletor" (pictured above by Booth in his full glory, or lack thereof) at a Mattel panel. Further, the Masters of the Universe secured another oddly personal (or personally odd?) Con moment, when I found an original, mint-in-package He-Man tablecloth -- the same from a beloved picture of my fifth birthday! I purchased the memorabilia for a mere dollar, yet it contributes to a priceless memory, so how could I possibly pass it up?



Thankfully, finding this gem in a comparatively quiet Con moment assures me that Comic Con as an event can still be special to its core, comics-oriented fan base. These moments may be harder to come by, but they're there, like the single back issue buried amidst long boxes that just might complete your collection. You really just need to know where to look -- and usually it isn't much further than where you left your inner child in the first place. Perhaps it isn't that I'm getting too old, but that everything that little kid in me ever loved is finally in one place, once a year at one time, and the guidance he needs forces me to grow up a little bit. Indeed, at Comic Con, my inner child doesn't know where to start . . . or if he should wish it to ever end . . .

Next: The pros of the Con!



Uh . . . not that kind of pro . . .!

Staying Ahead in the Eternian Economy

The back of my head was immortalized on one of my favorite websites, Action Figure Insider, while sitting in front of "Umemployed Skeletor" in Mattel's action figure panel at Comic Con.

Taking an About Face -- book

Something strange recently happened to me.

I was beckoned into a stark white room. I don't remember who beckoned me, and in fact I may have heard several voices in legion calling out to me, but I admit walking into the room of my own volition. I remember that much. I wasn't alone in the room very long; I was soon surrounded by a variety of friends, some still in my life today, others I haven't seen in several years. I could hear them, too, but they weren't talking to me. They weren't talking to anybody, but everybody. Some of them even talked about me, like I wasn't in the room, and I responded . . . to no avail. Soon, people I didn't know entered and sought me, not in flesh but in spirit, again talking about me as if I weren't there. I wondered, how did I come to once feel so welcomed, now to feel like a virtual stranger in my own skin?

Then, it struck me. There are two kinds of gatherings like this, like where friends of all walks of life and even some strangers gather in your honor and talk to the ether. One is your funeral.

The other is Facebook.

Yes, I tried Facebook for about three hours. Nearly all of the friends I care about now contacted me within that short period of time, but shortly thereafter some people I didn't know or remember began to "friend" me, too, and my inbox was overwhelmed with unsolicited requests and updates that convinced me one more on-line forum simply wasn't worth it. Friends, if I don't already know where you are or what you're doing, I'll find out via e-mail, text, or telephone. Everyone else, if I'm not talking to you now, I'm probably not interested -- but it doesn't hurt to ask with a content-based e-mail. If we were friends in some capacity before, you need not request the status again now. Let's just pick up where we left off, okay?

Otherwise, I feel you're talking about me like I'm not in the same room with you, as if, "Aw, I really wish I was his friend." Further, if you're not making an effort to read my blogs now, why would you want to read my writing on your wall anyway? It's a reactive, almost retrospective relationship. Like a eulogy. Like a funeral.

In the meantime, summertime has always been blogging time for me, and I've created a new forum for my solo, self-publishing efforts: KaraokeFanboy Press. Just in time for Comic Con (and eventually, APE), I have begun to extract conversation about my printed efforts from here and will now discuss and promote them there -- so check it out for the latest on Karaoke Comics, my 2009 Poetry Zine Series, the Far and Wee fanzine, and more. This blog shall remain my ongoing commentary on comics, coffee, and celebrity -- you know, the three c's of significant living -- while I've finally recently updated my LiveJournal with some more personal allegory, too.

This is where you can turn and face me on the Internet -- if you dare.

McCute

On Saturday, 711 gave away free 7 oz. Slurpees. Every Monday for the next few weeks, McDonalds will give away free 7 oz. mochas. Quenching my thirst has never been so cute.

My Man-Crushes 2009, Prelude Addendum: Michael Jackson, the King of Pop

I should be clear that the qualities I look for in a man-crush -- contemporary influence, a practical understanding of the opposite sex, and global significance -- must be modeled in a positive way, lest the man not crush me but himself under the weight of his own self-inflation. Just as I took advantage of the recent passing of Billy Mays to illustrate these traits productively, I've decided to process the worldwide media frenzy over Michael Jackson's death as an example in contrast. Otherwise, the news' nonstop coverage of the King of Pop's passing might just pop a vein in forehead.

Michael Jackson is the consummate example of contemporary influence, from his role as lead singer for the first real boy band to the controversy surrounding his supposed love of little boys -- in other words, if he isn't topping the charts, he's topping the headlines. However, I won't indulge in easy jabs about his social awkwardness; frankly, it's too easy, and despite all else, when someone, anyone, dies, a family hurts, and that isn't funny. Therein lies the tragedy of his falling short of man-crush status: while some celebrities can separate their personal and professional lives, or while some are able to distinguish their personal failings from their professional accomplishments, Michael insisted that his two lives had no line between them. The same benevolence he demonstrated in songs like We Are the World and Man in the Mirror is the very justification he expressed for his inappropriate behavior with children, his unhealthy appreciation for youth. Yes, he didn't have a regular childhood; yet, a man can enjoy childlike delights without dragging children into it! Again, this is why I won't make the usual Wacko Jacko jokes -- like a child, he's too vulnerable a target.

This detachment from adulthood jades Michael's practical understanding of the opposite sex, too. Oh, and Michael did have an understanding of women, especially in his early career, with songs like Billy Jean and Can't Stop 'Til You Get Enough implying the reckless playboy lifestyle one might expect from a budding pop star. Come on, any man with that kind of stage presence and body control is bound to attract some bedroom eyes -- but the most controversy that ever surrounded Jackson's bedroom involved milk and cookies, for those that remember his infamous interview with Martin Bashir. So, like the stunted child the King of Pop might've been, his romantic platitudes were as empty as a real child's would be, with little real experience to back up his claims or views of women.

Interlude: A Jacko defender may be quick to point out the star's two marriages, and I, too, will point them out here as a contrary footnote to my point, but not to discuss his potential as a man-crush. Rather, Jackson's marriages to Debbie Rowe and Lisa Marie Presley were obviously less about love and more about Michael's self-interests, the former in having children, the latter in attaining an elite status of celebrity. Think about it -- not only did Michael Jackson quickly become the King of Pop, but in that term he married the King's daughter and owned a part of the Beatles' catalog. Financial woes aside, will any star ever have that kind of influence in their industry again?

Global significance? Need I even explain? First of all, Jackson told us, we are the world. Further, his funeral was beheld but a speculated billion people worldwide. I had no idea Michael Jackson was that worthy, so I can't even grasp who else will be so globally mourned. The Pope? By Catholics, maybe, but that's a very specific sect of people. President Obama? His politics and decidedly racial significance in history simply cannot make his passing, either suddenly tragic or naturally inevitable, as universally grief-worthy as we'd like to think. No, only the arts could have this kind of humanity-wide influence, and obviously music in particular. Further, while much ado has been made of Jackson's extravagant funeral, I'll go on record in saying it was necessary if only in proceedings (not specifically in its monetary indulgence), as reps from every realm of social influence were present: politics, athletics, religion, the arts, and within the media of the arts, music, film, dance, and technology. Truly Michael Jackson was a part of no more globally significant event than his own memorial.

Yet, the controversy about its funding taints that ceremony and makes me wonder, if Jacko was such a saint, would he have wanted such a circus wrought in his memory? Wouldn't the money spent on security, facility, and logistics have been better served in the war hospitals and orphanages Michael supposedly frequently toured? That Michael's global image included even the inclination that he would've approved of these festivities instead makes him significant, but in every way that's wrong. Let's start with the man in the mirror, indeed.

The onslaught of controversy has now coughed its way into yet another week, as sister LaToya speculates that Michael's death was the result of foul play, maybe even murder. This is the final dividing line between a man like Billy Mays' potential as a man-crush, versus Michael Jackson. The Pitchman died with a bit of humility and, much like his products, was free of mess. The King of Pop's untimely death is as mysterious as his life -- a phenomenon his family are content to perpetuate for their own ends. Forget about a crush; they're going to beat it . . . to death all over again.

My Man-Crushes 2009, Prelude: Billy Mays, the Pitchman

A few summers ago, I dared list “my man-crushes” (click to read parts one and two), a term I shudder to use, as it perpetuates the slow but steady erosion of masculinity in America. However, in this case, some men are such consummate examples of this brand of gravitas that I don’t mind bending my own self-image in homage to them. This summer, I sought to revise the list through thorough installments -- these guys are my Argentine soul mate or anything, but for me a breath of fresh air against this summer’s pop culture pessimism.

So, while I brainstormed who would remain on the list, who would be removed, and with whom they’d be replaced, Billy Mays came to mind. Now that he has so unexpectedly passed away, I’m aghast at the thought of my new man-crush list becoming an ill omen for its subjects. Of course, that’s not going to stop me from making it -- but know that the concern exists.

Now, while I dare not include Mays posthumously, I will use him as the comprehensive example of what qualifies as a “man-crush” to me, establishing the categories by which future candidates will be judged and honoring his enduring memory at the same time. Also, I should quickly mention that I will only allow myself seven man-crushes at any given time (the perfect number), and that all man-crushes must maintain the characteristics I describe, lest they loose their place on my list. These characteristics are:

1. Contemporary Influence: Anybody that stays up past midnight will understand that Billy Mays is as much a fixture on late night television as is the end table you fixed with Mighty Putty in your living room. However, the urgent necessity of his products transcended afterhours and made him a household name via daytime commercials and his reality show, The Pitchmen. Mays perfectly epitomizes the consummate man-crush’s requirement to remain currently relevant; his products systematically solve life’s greatest problems! First, Oxyclean promised to keep the house clean, then Hercules Hooks assured that anything can be hung in said clean house, and so on. Who knows, if Mays were still us, he may have wrought world peace with an intangible adhesive that binds one to his fellow man . . . and if we acted fast enough, we’d have received that halogen reading lamp at no extra cost.

2. A Practical Understanding of the Opposite Sex: The key word in this requirement is “practical.” My man-crushes model how to fulfill a woman’s basic needs -- and without hyperbole. He doesn’t need a list of rules or the ambiguity of contemporary pop psycho-babble, like claiming men are from Mars, to make a woman happy. Again, consider Billy Mays. His products wipe up spills. Fix broken coffee mugs. In other words, the banes of every housewife’s existence. Billy found a way to defeat these persistent demons effortlessly -- giving women competence in the problem-solving role many relationship experts mindlessly assign to men. In their compartmentalization of the genders, these “experts” actually depowered women. Now, thanks to Billy Mays, a woman can open her own pickle jar. You’re welcome.

3. Global Significance: Everyone has heard the old saying, “Think globally, act locally.” Billy Mays personified this mantra perfectly. First of all, he acted as locally as his very own kitchen (or, at least, a set that simulated it) -- but I’m not even talking about the necessity of his problem-solving products. No, Billy represented a self confidence more piercing and powerful than any Hercules Hook. He embodied an ability to believe in something and share it with conviction , with clear and concise language. His recent interview on The Tonight Show with Conan O’Brien reveals the intent behind his volume, as he insisted that he wasn’t yelling, but merely projecting -- a lesson many of us should learn. Also, in many of his commercials, Billy wasn’t obscured by a workbench or kitchen island, unless in the instance of a demonstration. Instead, Mays’ blue-collared-shirt-tucked-into-his-belted-khaki-pants-covered torso was unencumbered and in fact coming toward you, hands beckoning outward in an invitation of domestic satisfaction. “Billy Mays here,” he always introduced, as if selling himself first was critical to the selling of his product. He was right.

These three simple categories are the standards by which I’ll hold my man-crushes from now on, and as I eluded, I will replace candidates if they fail to deliver in comparison to another up-‘n-comer. While I shun the term “man-crush” by name, I embrace the concept, as nothing defines real masculinity as the desire to learn from one’s fellow man -- the hope that those held in esteem offer something to the greater good of this global village we live in. Remember, thanks to the Internet and reality television, anybody can be manufactured into a plain old celebrity nowadays . . . and, thankfully, it takes a man’s man to crush these delicate sensibilities.