But on Facebook today I linked to an article on The Beat (which also touched on the firing of Chris Roberson after he was publicly critical of DC, where he was working on Fairest), and in writing a follow-up comment it turned out I did have something to say, after all. I’m reprinting it here to share with you, and to get it off my chest. It’s far from a complete statement on the situation, but I’m putting it here as originally written ( you’ll have to forgive the “quote” format); we can continue the discussion in the comments if it comes to that.

One of the things that bothers me most is the way DC, Marvel and the fanboys go out of their way to say, “Well, shitty contracts are part of the business – they’ll know better next time.” This is not the way publishers should be treating their creators. Or, if you want to put it into business terms, this is not the way companies should be treating their cash cows. Alienating your creators, and some of your customer base, is bad business.

But just on the simple face of it, the situation these creators have found themselves in is wrong. Sure, DC and Marvel are in the legal right, but they are morally wrong and, dammit, that is important. The publishers are under no legal obligation to do more than they are now — but simply because they managed to hand the dirty end of the stick to their former employees doesn’t mean it’s a situation they have to take advantage of in perpetuity. Contracts are renegotiated all the time; the fact neither DC or Marvel care to is evidence that turning a buck on the backs of others is more important to them than doing right by the people who brought them success in the first place.

I think what the people at Marvel and DC are missing is that much of the anger directed at them isn’t really because of the way the creators were treated originally. I don’t think most of the people in charge now were even around back then. The anger is due to the way the creators continue to be willfully mistreated today. In the Bad Old Days, shitty contracts and screwing over the talent was commonplace. But that doesn’t mean it’s the way the publishers should be conducting their business — and their simple interactions with creators — today. Not by a long shot.

Which isn’t to say I necessarily have any disdain for religion. When viewed as philosophy I think many religions have a lot of positive thought to offer (I won’t get into where I think the problems start, but let’s just say human nature tends to be far from divine). And as a kid there was a period in my life when I was thinking about Christianity a lot, and I had plenty of questions. To help me find some of the answers — and probably to get them out of their hair once in a while — my parents got me The Picture Bible, which is basically a comic book version of the usually impenetrable classic Christian bible. As rendered by scripter Iva Hoth and artist Andre LeBlanc, the Picture Bible simplifies the language and convoluted storyline, puts faces to the names, and turns the Greatest Story Ever Told into something you might actually want to read.

When I was a kid, I pored over it. It seems pretty distant nowadays, but I can’t deny my sorta-spiritual upbringing or my fondness for this edition of the Bible, which introduced me to a particular brand of morality and God’s Own Superheroes. (Seriously, that whole Samson thing? Awesome.) Whatever your own religious leanings may be, I hope you’ll enjoy this kinda famous tale-to-astonish presented the way God intended — as a comic book.

This isn’t to disparage Chris Garver, the tattoo artist who drew the images for this cover as part of the Penguin Ink Series celebrating the publisher’s 75th anniversary. I don’t think I would necessarily want this punched into my skin for the rest of my life, but it’s also a pretty striking design that gives ol’ James Bond a sharper, more modern edge. Until Daniel Craig took over in the film role, the character was getting a little stuffy and dated; I can’t help thinking Penguin was taking a shot at what the movies were doing, bringing James Bond into the grittier and less genteel world we live in (on the surface, at least).

This edition went to press just a couple of years ago, and I’m happy to see it as a possible trend of “alternative” artists being tapped for more mainstream design. (I hope it’s a trend — Penguin also printed The Portable Dorothy Parker with a great cover by Seth, and I know I’ve seen others, though I can’t remember what the hell they were.) And while most of the people who provided work for the series are tattoo artists, I was glad to see someone snuck in poster and comic artist Tara McPherson in there, too.

But like I said, I could look at good tattoo work all day long. And now that I think about it, that back cover would make a nice one … hmmm …

Kalimán, taking some time out from dispensing justice in the Egyptian desert, has visited his friend and archaeologist Professor Farrel. Farrel is on the verge of making a major discovery concerning the Tombs of Ramés, and has been getting unwelcome attention because of it. Joined by his daughter Jane and his protege Zarur (who is originally from the area), the professor asks Kalimán for help, which is a good thing since Jane is promptly kidnapped.

Jane isn’t even the first victim; Nila, who is the daughter of Alí Faruf — King of the Sons of the Desert — has already been kidnapped by the sinister Eric Von Kraufen, who is hiding out in a pyramid chock full of ghouls, zombies and assorted Things-That-Are-Not-Good-For-You. There may have been a pit full of crocodiles. Nila is also the (so far secret) promised bride of Zarur going back to an arrangement made when the two were still children. The hot-headed Zarur loves Nila, and is determined to save her from Von Kraufen.

When he’s not busy polishing his +3 Monocle of Evil, Von Kraufen is the one harassing Professor Farrel, believing the archaeologist can get him into the Tomb of Ramés. The tomb will give Von Kraufen access to treasure and power and even more treasure and power, and then he can really start messing things up! Mwa-hahaha!!!

Eventually, Kalimán and his group rescue Jane, then make their way into the pyramid lair where they start running into one horrific creature after another. None, however, make an entrance quite like … Makón!

Caption: Suddenly …
Prof. Farrel: It’s Jane, my daughter …!
Kalimán: Let’s go that way!

Jane! What’s the matter?

Jane: Oh, Kalimán …! Ah! A spectre!

When I was a kid, I had four favorite superheroes — Superman, the Hulk, Flash and, naturally, Spider-Man. I can’t remember when exactly I was introduced to Peter Parker and his stringy, springy alter-ego, but I know he was everywhere, and I absorbed it all. From the iconic cartoon (and its mind-blowing theme song) and his silent appearances on The Electric Company, to the infamous live-action show and his animated adventures with some Amazing Friends, Spider-Man was a web-slinging constant in my life.

A lot of people make a point of pegging Spider-Man as one of the first comic book characters with a “real life,” and rightfully so. Part of the reason Peter was relatable to so many readers was his being a picked-upon nerd, having a touch-and-go love life, and very often wondering how he was going to make rent that month. Minus the proportionate strength of a spider, we’ve all been there.

But that’s never been the most appealing aspect of Spider-Man to me. As a shy kid who had trouble talking to people, I most admired how funny Spider-Man could be once he put on the mask, how much fun he was having beating up the bad guys and cracking wise. Sure, tragedy was a big part of what made the title legendary, but for my money Peter’s ability to overcome that tragedy with optimism and humor is what made him human. That humanity made Spidey the best kind of hero.

And if was still I kid, I would have gone Rhino on someone to get that Spider-Man balloon.

Well, it’s not the flu, but I did catch a cold that knocked me right on my ass and this blog right off schedule. The Ick That Walks Like a Man seems to be on its way out, though, so posts should be back starting Monday.

That’s assuming I don’t end up with ebola or spattergroit or — God help us all — disco fever.

A GANG OF THINGS!

“My blows do not hurt them … all I did was break my hand!”

DOCTOR DOOM(ISH)!

Doom: “You are in agony, Kalimán.”

Kalimán: “I’m losing. My strength is abandoning me completely.”

A GIANT COSMIC BEING WHO IS DEFINITELY NOT GALACTUS!

“Tremble, Kalimán. You are before The Red Madman.“

I especially like that last one — the way Kalimán kneeling on the edge of the cliff echoes the classic Silver Surfer-on-his-board pose is pretty clever. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go read an issue of Kalimán where he fights a robot that only almost looks exactly like the one from Lost in Space.

Spending time in my aunt’s bookstore meant hours of going through old copies of Analog and Asimov’s Science Fiction. After watching Psycho for the first time, I became hooked on Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, and that eventually led to Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine (more imagination went into the stories than the name on the covers, I guess). My aunt, gruff but generous, always sent me home with at least a couple of digests to pore through, and they introduced me to more writers and concepts than I can begin to pin down.

Years later, I found myself in junior high and hating almost everything about it. The school was different (not its fault), the teachers sucked (totally their fault), and isolation was at an all-time high (totally my fault). But the library was like this little, ignored jewel in the middle of a crappy crap-pile, and I’d find the most amazing stuff there. I remember one book about a kid who gets lost in some snowy woods and sees a vision of Socrates, and decides he’ll never lie again; the rest of the novel is about the fallout of his choice. There was another book that told the story of a young girl going through her sexual awakening, and discovering that she is a lesbian in love with her friend (surprisingly for the time, the falling in love was the dramatic part, not the fact she was gay). Unfortunately, the titles of both of these books are long gone now.

Those books I found by accident — but I gravitated toward the anthologies like the USS Cygnus into a black hole. For some reason the school library had all my favorites in big, hardcover collections and I tore through them. If it would have been possible to OD on Hitchcock and sci-fi, I’d have been found twitching on the floor of that library.

So fast-forward to a few months ago, and my wife and I are in my hometown visiting my family for the holidays. At one point during the trip we were browsing through a little bookstore/gallery in near-by Mesilla when I noticed a small bookshelf full of digests; Analog, Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Fantastic Stories, and some I’d never even heard of like Worlds of If. I asked how much they were per copy and while the seller was coming up with a number my mom, in her usual generous and spontaneous way, made an offer for the whole batch, telling me, “It’s your Christmas present.” Mom has always encouraged my habit.

Which is how I came to have a large box of sci-fi paperback novels, best-of anthologies and digests in my closet, including this issue of Analog. One of the things I always enjoy about these digests is trying to figure out what the hell is going on in these images, but this issue has the added pleasure of sporting one of the most bizarre combinations of image and story title I’ve ever seen. ‘Cause, man, that guy is pissed at those kites, and he really wants to know what happened to his purse.

(And just for the record, I … er … might’ve joined one or two sci-fi book clubs, too.)