Current Events Round-up: Crash Into Me(dia)

What a difference a week makes. Just eight days ago, Tiger Woods was still a faithful husband and the White House was still the safest place on Earth. Now, two of the planet's most beloved half-black celebrities are struggling with the fallout of two headline-hogging scandals, so much so that I needn't even summarize them here. Everybody knows what I'm talking about . . . and everybody has an opinion. I've tried not to feel anything other than amusement at these stories, because neither affect my life personally, but hearing others' opinions has inadvertently inspired me to formulate my own. Funny how that happens.

So, based on the initial evidence of Tiger's crash Thanksgiving night, my girlfriend, my best friend, and I pieced together what took most media outlets days to conclude -- that Woods' wife didn't rescue him from a wayward drive in the front yard but instead unwittingly caused it by chasing him with the golf club originally rumored to have saved his life. The information that has been released since that night has cracked Tiger's reclusive resolve as much as his car was, but none of it has surprised me. I understand how cheaters need to retain complete control over their lives, which is what that leaked voice mail to Mistress #2 was all about. Just like superheroes, cheaters lead multiple lives and do their best to keep a fine line drawn between them. That voice mail message was Tiger's eleventh hour contingency plan, like Superman's phone call to his shapeshifting buddy Martian Manhunter to do a Clark Kent impression with him in the same room as Lois Lane. Obviously, ultimately neither plan worked out very well.

I can't judge Tiger Woods for cheating on his wife, nor should anyone in the media, since they're also in show business and undoubtedly understand the pressures of 24-hour worldwide scrutiny coupled with the discreet relief frequent global travel could offer. In this context, nor will I demand the Woods family deserves its privacy; we revere celebrities and athletes and if they don't know the dangers of their lifestyles by now, they're stupid and their wealth is undeserved. (Personally, the only reason I justify celebrities having vocal political opinions is our corresponding right to know where they eat or who they're dating, but that's another story.) No, the biggest issue I have with Tiger, Tiger's burning plight is the demand that his behavior violates his place as a role model.

Again, my best friend put it best: "If Tiger Woods is a role model, what's the role?" If America's perpetually susceptible children should consider Woods a role model, it shouldn't be for marital faithfulness -- but for, I don't know . . . how about golf? Still, since I've spent a third of my life trying as a role model for kids -- for a living -- I always wonder (I did earlier this year, in fact) why actors, musicians, and athletes are role models more than teachers, or plumbers, or (gasp) lawyers. Sure, the former get paid more, but the latter actually went to school for their trades, and all achieve success by striving for excellence. That's the real life lesson offered by anyone that masters their field of work, as Tiger has: be the best at what you love to do (uh, or at what your daddy made you do, if I want to include Andre Agassi in that parable). Nowhere in his training as a golfer did he agree to remain faithful to his wife, so in his role as a golfer (the only role that has made him a household name), he should be absolved of these sins. His corporate sponsors think so . . . until this controversy actually affects his game, they probably couldn't care less.

That's why I don't, either. I'm amused, but ultimately apathetic about the outcome, which is why I'm also grateful that this story has legs. It could go on forever and I'd be endlessly entertained . . . honestly more so than I've ever been by golf.

Crashing into things has been the story of the week, between Tiger and that odd couple that snuck into the White House State Dinner. I'm equally frustrated with the media's judgment of the Salahis, and I can sum up why in one light-shedding sentence: No one has tried to get on television harder than the newscasters and commentators that have criticized the Salahis for trying hard to get on television. This hasty, hypocritical scrutiny is why they've become a laughing stock, scrambling to find some story other than the obvious truth: they just wanted to be on television. Mingle and flirt with celebrity. In a culture that nominates nobodies for stardom through singing and dancing contests, we have no right to judge anyone for jumping in front of a camera when opportunity knocks. Heck, essentially breaking into the White House takes more talent than most American Idol contestants have!

Indeed, the grasp for celebrity has become as integral to the American dream as life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, from the number of followers one has on Twitter on up to the airwave-choking trend of reality television. Considering the way we adore them, who can blame us? Or do you think I'm blogging for my health? Now, the Salahis are learning the hard way that our stargazing includes an eagerness to see them fall. Interestingly, in contrast to the Woods, nobody has commented on the Salahis' teamwork in crashing the President's party. They're the model for a marriage with singular purpose! Or is the sanctity of the White House guest list more important than family values? Just what we'd expect from a Democrat, eh?

When intertwined, these tales have a clear moral, just like an Aesop fable: Be careful what you wish for. The more you strive to be on the top, the farther you can fall. If you're going to cheat on your wife or sneak into the White House State Dinner, have an alibi. Even the best laid plans have a way of crashing down around you. What a difference a week makes.

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!

Octomom and the Nickname Syndicate

I thought that Nadya Suleman had started a trend with the media's willingness to call her "Octomom," but, if you think about it, the news and pop culture commentators in general have embraced "the nickname" for a long time, making our reality that much closer to the worlds depicted in comic books. Consider the following aliases for prominent public figures; you know exactly who I'm talking about, and most legitimate news outlets have no problem using these monikers.

A-Rod
Brangelina
Dubya
The Gipper
The Governator
J-Lo
The Juice
Magic
Sir Charles
Wacko Jacko

Tell me that doesn't sound like a superhero's rogues gallery -- and I haven't even considered the self-proclaimed stage names for rappers! "Ice Cube?" "Slim Shady?" If only these people used their powers to annoy for good instead of evil . . .

That list was just off the top of my head. Who did I forget?

Vs. Current Events #1: Never Toy With An Octomom!

The media's willingness to call Nadya Suleman "Octomom" is a comforting notion for fanboys like me eager to see superheroes in real life someday. I mean, if real news people can say "Octomom" with a straight face, names like "the Shocker" or "Bronze Tiger" would roll right off the tongue. Considering this connection to comics, I thought I'd draw one about the infamous Octomom, in her inherent role as a super villain. I called the strip "Vs. Current Events" with the hopes that in the future other celebrities or fame-seekers will adopt aliases with similar appeal. Fingers crossed!