OCTOBER began as Ireland ended their 350-year tradition of judges wearing wigs traditional in British courts, at a savings of nearly $3000 per wig.  Garters and corsets were left alone.  A Michigan woman sued producers of DRIVE for a misleading trailer, complaining that the movie was not as exciting as trailers suggested.  An Alabama company began converting the ashes of the deceased into ammunition.  No word on if they described the ammunition in advertisements as “live.”  Herman Cain failed miserably at “Where In The World Is Carmen San Diego?”  The kicker for Michigan’s Pinckney Community High varsity football team kicked the game-winning field goal after being voted homecoming queen at halftime.  The kicker was the first girl to play on a Michigan varsity boys’ squad.  Senator John McCain called Mixed Martial Arts fighting “human cockfighting,” and based his knowledge on his behind-the-scenes arguments with Palin’s people.  In the “can’t make this stuff up” category, it was revealed that the Catholic Church of Germany is the nation’s leading publisher of pornography.

NOVEMBER started with A South African man was killed when his pet hippo started chewing on him, and didn’t stop.  Neighbors described it as “hungry-hungry.”  Italian PM Silvio Berlusconi stepped down despite a suitable cad not being available to replace him.  Chik-Fil-A sued a man for producing tee-shirts that read “Eat More Kale,” even though the man was heterosexual.  An unmanned rocket was sent to explore Mars after Flash Gordon and Bugs Bunny turned down an offer to pilot the rocket.

The year wrapped up in DECEMBER when it was revealed that Medicare paid $240 Million over 10 years for ED treatments for men over 65, a bill the government was stiffed with.  A crash in Japan involving Lamborghini and Mercedes collectors resulted in $4 million in damage, and 5 million jokes at the owner’s expense.  Herman Cain suspended his campaign and joined Fox News, celebrating by releasing a single, “I Had 9-9-9 Problems and the B*%$#@ were One.  And Two.  And Three…”  And, ending the year much like it began, 4-year-old Italian Tommaso Assunta inherited a $13 Million fortune when Maria Assunta died. Tommaso is a feline.

Thanks for playing along, and I’ll try and do better about getting this thing posted earlier!

With JUNE, Mitt Romney formally announces his candidacy for the Republican Presidential Nomination at a farm actually named “Bittersweet.”  John Edwards was indicted by a grand jury for using campaign funds to cover up his extramarital affair.  His defense, “but I’m prettier than Newt,” is a colossal failure.  Anthony Weiner finally admitted that yes, his hotdog has a first name.  The state of New York legalized gay marriage, sending most of Broadway to the courts for marriage licenses.  David Gest and Marcus Bachmann could not be found for comment.

In JULY, the Minnesota government shuts down due to a lack of funds, and not even Wisconsin notices.  South Carolina kept itself active in the news when a SC couple announced that they saw Jesus in their Wal-Mart receipt.  Rupert Murdoch testifies that he knew nothing of a phone-hacking scandal involving his newspapers.  He then tells the judge that the judge’s wife left a message to get milk on the way home.  The News of the World closes amid new revelations about the scandal, which FOX News neglects to cover, on the basis that everything NOTW did is “SOP” at Fox.  Space Shuttle ATLANTIS lands for the last time, and former President Dubya defends his policies that shut down the program by claiming that the Shuttle going to space was a waste of funds because everybody knows Atlantis is in the ocean.

AUGUST started out with Michelle Bachmann throws her hat into the Presidential nomination ring and apparently hires Sarah Palin as her fact-checker.  Rick Perry and Ron Paul also enter the fray, giving the Republicans Pawlenty of losers to choose from.  Standard and Poors lowers the U.S. credit rating from AAA (“could be better”) to AA+ (“consider learning Chinese”).  In what could be seen as the ultimate statement on the postal service worldwide, an elderly British man that had complained for years that the postal service was not mailing his letters was finally told that he had been putting his mail into a doggy-doo recepticle.  Australia was forced to spend an additional 100,000 on a 700 Million torpedo system when the system’s instructions came in French and Italian without translation.  Old Navy shows their school spirit by selling a line of tee-shirts that read “LETS GO [school name].”  More than 70 universities were represented by the shirts, all of which were missing an apostrophe.  Perhaps considering the Old Navy “situation,” Abercrombie & Fitch paid the cast of Jersey Shore not to wear their clothing, because it might give the chain a creepy image.  A Quebec man had a 20-ton boulder placed in the driveway of his ex-wife following years of her complaining that he never gave her “a big rock.”  Less than 5% of computer users panic when Steve Jobs resigned from Apple.

Part three coming soon!

As normal, 2011 began with JANUARY.  In order to quell suspicions of pandering to a Chicago good old boy network, President Obama announced that outgoing Chief of Staff Rahm Emanuel, leaving to run for mayor of Chicago, would be replaced by William Daley, son of the former mayor of Chicago.  After experimenting with their own black politician, the Republican National Committee elected Reince Priebus its new chair.  A Florida judge accused Sal Espozito of being in contempt when Espozito did not report as ordered for jury duty.  Sal Espozito is a cat.  Taco Bell suffered a P.R. setback when it was revealed that their taco meat is only 35% beef.  Inquiries into the disappearance of the chihuahua were left unanswered.  Dennis Kucinich elevated his reputation even further by suing the House cafe when he broke a tooth on an olive pit.

January eventually led to FEBRUARY, where a Chinese news agency celebrated leaked footage of a Chinese fighter downing a jet from a hated Western adversary.  The footage was from TOP GUN.  Rahm Emanuel was elected the new mayor of Chicago with just 326% of the vote.  An Annandale homeowner’s association elected Bethea Lee as its newest president.  Bethea Lee is a wheaten terrier.  A new tell-all revealed that then-governor Sarah Palin often complained about her job in emails and also set up an anonymous Facebook page to leave positive feedback for her “real” posts.

MARCH started off with oil drilling in the Gulf of Mexico resuming in an effort to poison the waters slowly, as opposed to BP’s “shock and oil” approach.  A new book rocketed to the top of the bestseller lists despite being 200 blank pages.  Its title?  “What Every Man Thinks About Apart From Sex.”  A German company reported brisk sales of an unique product, a can of cow-flatulence-odor spray, marketed to city dwellers pining for memories of their childhood or U.S. Congresspersons looking to freshen up their offices.  The NFL suspended operations and locked out its players, sending the nation’s economy into a downward spiral.  The other iconic helmeted head, Donald Trump, took to the private airways to campaign to be president, on the strength that he was not convinced that Obama had in fact been born.

APRIL brought the government to the edge of shutting down, much to the concern of no one.  A Southwest Airlines jet lost its roof in-flight over Arizona.  No one was hurt, but passengers were heavily annoyed that the obnoxious overweight loud guy in row 17 was not sucked out of the plane.  President Obama revealed his “long-form” birth certificate to the press, which confirmed the biggest fears of the Republican party: that Obama is white.  In a quaint, private and understated ceremony, the grandson of England’s biggest ass married the sister of England’s most coveted one.

Next week, MAY through AUGUST (barring Mayan setbacks)!

Making things worse for many kids my age, is being born in the age of divorce.  Divorce was a rarity until the late 1960s, and when my folks split, divorce was a 50/50 chance with every marriage.  Kids of divorced parents had to live two lives, and be two people: one for their mom, another for their dad.  Hopefully you didn’t have to be a third person for your friends.  If you were “lucky,” your folks divorced early and amicably.

What if you were thrown another curveball?

You’re already ostracized because your folks split, and you’re just about to hit that most awkward stage of young life, puberty.  Imagine it is 1983 and that you are hit with the most radical parental revelation since Darth Vader: one of your parents is gay.

That’s exactly what happened to San Diego writer and former Food Network host Troy Johnson, and just a few years ago, he wrote a book about the experience.

FAMILY OUTING is not a touchy-feely book of self-psychoanalysis resulting in an uncomfortable-turned-huggy/weepy reunion with his mom.  Nor is it a “Mommy Dearest” rant of all of his mother’s crimes.  Johnson instead unapologetically turns the mirror on himself and lays everything out like a grocery list, letting us in to everything he’s proud and ashamed of, and letting the reader be the jury.

Memoirs often leave part of the story out – the part the author is never going to reveal.  For example, Dick Chaney’s book leaves out the fact that at one point he was, in fact, human.  When you read Johnson’s life, you very quickly realize that very early on in the process, he knew he had to leave everything on the table.  There are moments when you cringe at what he does, almost calling out to him as if he were a character in a bad horror film.

What Johnson realizes, almost too late it might seem, is that every “bad” thing he’d done was in some way a rebellion not against his parents, but against the idea of what his parents represented to him.  Johnson was terrified that people would find out his mom was gay, even though he often admits that her demeanor and attire would make it fairly easy to guess.  Much of his childhood antics are a direct reaction to the fear that someone might assume he was also gay, by virtue of genetics.  (It didn’t seem to help that his sister’s desire was to be a textbook “girly-girl,” which at times made Johnson wonder even more if he was a recipient of a gay gene.

What makes this book remarkable is that you quickly realize that this isn’t just the memoir of the child of a gay parent in the 1980s, but the memoir of nearly every child of of divorce in the 1980s.  We all went through those trials of fire about our own identity.  Some of us rebelled through promiscuity, some through church, some through isolation.

Because of the added difficulty of his mother’s sexual orientation, Johnson went through all of those stages.  Such a life can lead one very easily to donning a trenchcoat, grabbing a rifle, and looking for the nearest book depository.  Instead, Johnson turned that anger towards himself.  While there was no intention of suicide, his attempt to get what he wanted bakfired, when he grabbed a steak knife and pressed it against his stomach.

“I wasn’t going to kill myself, but I had heard that sticking sharp things against one of your major organs got stuff done.”

The next morning, a police officer came, and after talking with Johnson for a bit, escorted him to a treatment center, where he stayed for a month before enough progress was shown for him to go home.  For many, such an event would be the “Ah-hah” moment in their life.  Not for Johnson.

Johnson’s story is at times tragic, at times ridiculous.  However, it is the way in which he presents his life that makes this book compelling, and I would argue essential, for all parents and not just those with LGBTQ family members.

Johnson’s journey takes him from every possible emotion and experience, and includes stints as frat brother, “super-Christian,” and intervention target.  What makes the journey remarkable is the humor Johnson conveys, both at the time of each event, but also his language in remembering the event.  Johnson is a very funny writer.  He could very well be our generation’s Dave Barry.

Johnson is pouring his life and soul out to the reader, and just as one might do in one-on-one conversation, his humor is a buffer to the harsh realities presented.  One of my favorite passages from early in the book echoed a sentiment (albeit a silly one) that not only made me laugh, but reminded me that Johnson is my age, and has the cultural base of all children of baby boomers:

“My family nicknamed me the Hulk, and frequently paraphrased the TV show’s famous line: He’s cute, but you wouldn’t like him when he’s angry.

“The family psychologist believed my anger stemmed from my parents’ divorcing when I was three.  The crack in the family structure had created two versions of me: the dutiful son and the hellion who locked himself in the bathroom with scissors and banged on the toilet for hours so that it ricocheted through the plumbing and drove people insane.

“I still cite the source as Scrappy, who completely assassinated the original zeitgeist of Scooby Doo.”

The life Johnson has is easier to accept and identify with because of his use of humor.  That humor is genuine, and not used for effect.  It is simply Johnson’s personality.  There are moments in this book that are vulgar, moments that are heartbreaking, moments that are angering.  Throughout it all, his humor both carries the book and carried him through his life.  (Personally, I wonder how many hours he’s spent in front of a television watching M*A*S*H.)

All of this humor and emotional openness add up to a book that is far more important than one might think.

It has been 38 years since homosexuality was declassified as a disease.  It has been a few months since “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” ended.  In that time, we’ve seen advances that have made the Star Trek communicator a cute idea for luddites and an African American president no longer a notion for far-thinking fiction writers.  As a species we have come a long way in forty years.

Except when it comes to acceptance.

Children are documenting their lives online just before committing suicide.

Men who fought for their country and came face to face with death and lived are being booed by people who normally deify our soldiers, all because of sexual preference.

South Carolina nears implosion because Senator Demint and barbecue restaurant owner Maurice Bessinger simply open their mouths.

We as a species make rapid and miraculous advances constantly, cutting the half-life of societal innovation and advancement on a nearly annual rate.

Except when it comes to letting people be who they are supposed to be.

I don’t expect everyone out there to suddenly be okay with those in the LGBTQ community, but for God’s sake, at least let them be!

It is time to stop thinking that homosexuality, or any of the alternative sexualities, is a choice.  Homosexual, heterosexual, Black, White, whatever, we are born the way we are supposed to be.  If you are particularly religious, then perhaps it is time to believe that some people are what they are because it is what your deity intended.  (I’m looking at you, Phelps!)  Sexuality isn’t a choice, intolerance is.

I have several friends that fit every aspect of the LGBTQ community, and they all enrich my life in different ways.  And, yes, I remain heterosexual despite sharing a meal with these people.  It is possible.

For some, however, it takes longer to embrace that acceptance, as it was for Johnson.  You may be shocked at how long it took him to finally accept – without condition – his mother’s identity.  In fact, that long journey prompted Johnson to originally title the book “Son of a Butch: The Undoing of an American Bigot.”  The title referenced his mother’s resemblance to the “butch” lesbian stereotype, and the subtitle expressed the length and struggles on that journey to acceptance.

There are people out there that may never accept homosexuality.

This book is for all of those people.  This book is a guide for all of them.  How to raise an LGBTQ child, how to be the child of an LGBTQ parent, how to accept when someone isn’t exactly like you.  This book is for those people that realize and understand hate is easy, and acceptance takes work.

My brother is black, and I took a lot of grief for that, and still do.  (Not nearly as much as my brother, since we lived in the South.)  For some, having a “different” family member means defending that person’s right to exist all of your life.  For others, finding that ability to accept and defend takes time.

Johnson took some time to accept his mother.  It will take time for our society to accept lesbians, gays, bisexuals, transgendered, or queer.  Hopefully, books like this will continue to be written to make that transition faster, cleaner, safer, and more sympathetically, than the past few decades have been.

Troy Johnson’s journey is a long, arduous one.  Hopefully, we can all learn from his journey before we have to learn about yet another Matthew Shepard.

For the three or four of you that read this blog, my apologies for not writing in a while.  As many of you know, my mom died in April, and with the funeral and everything else, I didn’t have a lot to say. And, not too long after my post about meeting some great artists and writers at the Baltimore convention, I got laid off.

Things have also been a little hairy at home, trying to juggle transitioning a potential new school for my kidlet, helping out the Mother-in-Law, and getting ready to move.

Oh, and I was just diagnosed with Type 2 Diabetes.

So, things have been kind of crazy.

In the next week, I will finally post a book review I wrote in October, the first part of my 2011 Year-in-Review, and a few other nuggets.

So, thanks for your patience, and I look forward to hearing your thoughts on upcoming posts.  Unless you’re a spammer, then thank you, but I don’t need viagra, a snuggie, or a job from home selling chia pets.

Cheers!

JRD

[ First, a quick thank you to everyone that emailed or called to offer condolences when my mom died.  Things have been a bit odd as we adjust.  At some point I may even write something about it.  But for now, a more fun experience... And I'm not talking about the earthquake. ]

This past weekend was quite busy.  My daughter had just finished basketball camp, and the participants and their folks were invited to a Washington Mystics game Saturday night.  While we enjoyed the experience, picky refs ruined the game, and the Mystics lost by one.  The trip into DC for the game followed another road trip to Baltimore for the comic book convention.

Y’all already know how much I have loved comics since I was a little kid.  But since part of my job involves selling them, the convention was a dual opportunity.  Let me just say that the convention hall was packed tighter than sardines.  Throw in a few costumed fans wearing outfits leaving nothing to the imagination and you have a very uncomfortable sardine can.

To say nothing of the young woman dressed as the Avengers’ Wasp who was apparently oblivious to the fact that her…stingers… kept popping out.

This year’s convention guest list included major names like Stan Lee, Neal Adams, and Walter & Louise Simonson.  Popular cover artists Adam Hughes and J. Scott Campbell were also in attendance.

However, while it might be nice to meet them someday, I was going for five people, specifically.

First was Matt Wieringo.  Matt is the brother of the late Mike Wieringo, whose art I love.  ‘Ringo, as he affectionately known, drew comics with a sense of joy and humor that allowed him to infuse his characters with a realism belying his style.  Often accused of being “cartooney” by people who forgot they were reading a comic book, ‘Ringo started his career with DC’s Flash and ended with Marvel’s Fantastic Four, two books with a sense of family with both casts, and with both written by Mark Waid, Wieringo brought that sense of family to the reader.  His brother Matt (whom, oddly enough I knew years ago as a regular when I worked for Suncoast) and his family have set up a scholarship in Mike’s name for budding art students.  Matt’s site, with more on the scholarship, can be found at http://mafus.blogspot.com/.  Drop by.  Say Hi.  And, if you can, donate a bit.

Sitting next to Matt was Todd Dezago, one of Mike’s best friends, and writer/creator of the Perhapanauts.  One of the ‘nauts is Choopie, a chupacabra.  Dezago had a great business card trick that he showed my daughter: using her finger to show Choopie’s butt.  He was great with my child, and I look forward to reading more of his work, which I would consider the perfect kind of all ages work: fun for little ones without being pandering.

I also had the opportunity to meet and chat with Brian Smith (creator of the Intrepid Escape Goat), Frank Cho (Liberty Meadows), Jason Pearson (Astonishing X-Men), and Stan Sakai.

I figured that Sakai would be swamped.  Sure, I took along the first appearance of his signature character, the samurai rabbit Usagi Yojimbo, but I didn’t think I’d have a chance at meeting the man.  You can possible then understand my shock when I turned around from Frank Cho’s table to find Sakai just sitting there, only one other person at his table.  I was both stunned and excited.

You see, Sakai is the one man responsible for my interest in East Asian culture.  Not anime, not some Japanese restaurant, no it is all at the furry feet of the samurai rabbit.  I discovered Usagi some 25 (yikes!) years ago, and have loved the character ever since.  I learned more life lessons from Usagi than I did from my folks.  While I (thankfully) did not turn into a blubbering, stammering idiot in his presence, I was a little hero-worshippy with him.  I was able to thank him for all his work had meant to me, and even mention a neat accompaniment to a recent story he had published called Taiko (it reads well to the music of KODO).  He signed my comic, personalizing it with a head sketch of the rabbit, and when I asked how much he charged for sketches, he simply took the backing board to the comic, and shortly handed it back to me with a fantastic sketch of said bunny.  He didn’t ask for any money, but I gave him some anyway, as even a legend like Sakai is still basically a freelance artist-for-hire, so I was more than happy to help in even a small way.

A sidenote: if you love comics, or even just like them a little as movie-story-fodder, please go visit the Hero Initiative, a charity helping older artists that never had health insurance.  Most of the people that create these works are freelancers, and do conventions to sell art and sketches to make ends meet, and when they can’t afford health insurance, groups like HI step in and try to help.

As much an honor and pleasure as it was to meet Sakai (and if you know me enough, when I say it was like meeting Charlie Waters, you know what that means), the four folks that drew me to Baltimore made the day worth all of the stress it placed on my busted back.

Tucked away in a corner by the entrance to the food court (or food closet since there was only one restaurant in it), was a table occupied by two of my favorite Marvel creators, Paul Tobin and his lovely wife, Colleen Coover.  Tobin, for the past few years, has almost single-handedly guided the all ages Marvel Adventures line featuring Spider-Man and the Avengers.  Tobin has also written some wonderful mini-series revisiting great milestones in Marvel history in such a way as to truly enhance those story memories and in some cases, best them.  Tobin, mostly thru his Twitter feed, has a wry and bawdy wit that I enjoy, and online he comes across as a genuine, contemplative, and downright goofy individual.  His sense of humor is so offbeat sometimes, that on more than one occasion I have asked him if he suffers from migraines, because more than once my wife has said he sounds like me.

Paul was very nice, and was a sweetheart with my daughter, even signing a Spider-Man issue to her.  (I should note that meeting Tobin and Dezago has reignited my child’s love of the Super Hero Squad like you wouldn’t believe.)  He also signed a comic for me, and we chatted briefly about how much I appreciated his work.  We take pride in having a well-stocked kids section, and I am constantly recommending his work.  Paul writes stories that my six-year old can enjoy, and that this 38-year-old can love just as much.  They are reminiscent of the original stories written by Stan Lee where you could be guaranteed a solid, fun story that – as Paul offered – were above all else accessible.  There is no reason why someone my age can’t enjoy a comic written with my daughter in mind and have both of us feel like we were not being pandered to simply to make a story safe for kids.

As much as I love Tobin’s studio mate Jeff Parker, or other Marvel scribes like Fred Van Lente and David Liss, Tobin will remain my favorite, both for his talents, and now for the knowledge that he is as nice a guy as you can imagine.

With Paul was his studio and life-mate Colleen Coover.  Now, I readily admit that I had commissioned art via email in advance, so I was planning on stopping by, but these two creators were so fun and sweet that I could have easily parked myself there for hours…  Or at least until the restraining orders were finalized.  Coover’s style is atypical of what you might find in your everyday comic book, but that is part of what I like about her work.

Remember what I said about Mike Wieringo, how each line brings out a love and joy of life?  Colleen Coover has that pouring from her work as well.  Again, like ‘Ringo, Coover is considered cartoony by some, and that in part is part of the charm of her work.  A simple head sketch by Coover employs, for example, eyes that are like those found in a Little Orphan Annie face, but much, much brighter.  I would doubt that Coover would be offended by being called cartoony, and while her art certainly has a feel of being cartoon-ready, this lady is an artist.  I will readily admit that it bugs me when comic buyers talk up the current artist/flavor of the month without really understanding that it isn’t just your draftsmanship, it’s how well you frame and tell your story.  Gabriel Hardman is a master at this, coming from a background in cinema.  Coover also is a fantastic storyteller, and it is most evident in her latest work, Gingerbread Girl, written by Tobin.

Gingerbread resonated with me so much that I picked up a separate copy for Coover to sign so I could keep a copy just for re-readings.  The main character suffered through a bad ninth year as her parents divorced badly leaving her emotionally scarred and confused about life.  My parents split, finally, when I was nine, and the story and how the main character’s life unfolded touched me, and while the particulars are unique to the story, the scope and emotions that play out were very familiar to me.  There were a couple of moments that were actually hard to get through, but I continued on and I am very glad I did.  A fantastic story, and one that should be read by anyone who grew up in split homes or who ever had a moment of true confusion as to who they truly were.

Coover’s art, particularly in GG, is sweet, fun, and compelling.  Much like Tobin and Coover themselves, and I very much enjoyed the chance to meet them and chat for a bit, and I hope to be able to meet them again in the future.

And to get more art, because her Nick and Nora is awesome!

(Sidenote: I wholeheartedly apologize to Chris Samnee’s wife, whom I may have inadvertently thrown under the bus.  She cautioned me that sending Girl Scout cookies to Coover’s studio might be too much of a thank you gesture, so I refrained…  And when Coover heard this, she was adamant that she and her studio mates “love cookies!  Who doesn’t love cookies?!”  So I very much apologize if Mrs. Samnee gets any grief from Coover.  It was all me.)

The absolute highlight of Baltimore, though, was the first “meet” of the day.

See, last year I had to work and could not attend the convention.  So, I had a friend take a little kit to get a comic signed by someone I had been following on Twitter for some time.

Francesco Francavilla, who had then recently brought Zorro back to life and was publicizing his latest creator-owned venture Garrison, is a fairly consistent tweeter, and he also appreciates a good (or bad) joke.  While Garrison was going on, FF and I had a lengthy back-and-forth over the nature of the term PREGO, and whether or not there was any authenticity to the U.S. based sauce of the same name.

So, last year, my friend was to give FF my copy of Garrison #1 with a note that if he were kind enough to sign the book for me, there was a jar of Prego in it for him, at which point he was to be given a small jar of the sauce.  Well, said plan didn’t come to fruition, but I did get the signed comic back.

So, I went to BCC this year with a jar of Prego in my bag, and a couple of comics at the ready.

When we found Francesco, he and his wife were engaged with a couple of fans getting a couple of comics signed.  As the fans left, I simply placed the jar of sauce in front of him, and said nothing.

He looked up at me, and simply said, “Robert.”

As we shook hands, my wife cracked up, partially impressed I think that my reputation preceded me, partially at the completion of the joke one year later.

Francesco introduced me to his wife, whom I “knew” via Twitter, I did the same, and we chatted for quite a while more about stuff married couples chat about on a dinner date than comics.  Over a couple of visits we had a very long chat between FF’s signings and his many attempts to get started on his commission list.

I have to admit that while I didn’t get a chance to have my own commission done (I’m patient – his art is worth the wait), I was very pleased to see so many names on his list, and see so many people come up to chat with Francesco and get his autograph.

I very much enjoyed his work on Zorro, and his Batman and Black Panther are fantastic, but it was the works posted on his website that made me fall in love with his work. (Quick aside, Francesco has several sites, all linked from the blog.  Spend time and browse them all…)

I’m not sure my words can do his pictures justice.  Much like Samnee and Hardman, Francavilla is not an artist like Cho or Jim Lee, popular for their buxom heroines and relatively clean work.  Francavilla is a storyteller.  He uses negative space as well as he does the positive line.  His work is expressive and sincere, and he uses black space and shadow so well that he can tell more story in a few brushstrokes of black ink than most can do with an entire 64-shade color palate.  He is so good at telling a story visually that were I making a movie, I would absolutely want him to be my cinematographer.  Some of his best work involves characters in the rain – so much so that I think of him as the Ridley Scott of comics…

As both a retailer and a fan, I feel good when more folks pick up books by artists like Francavilla, Samnee and Hardman, because it means there is hope for the art form.

(By the way – notice that despite their radically differing styles, I love both Coover and Francavilla’s work, because of that important thread of storytelling.  It is becoming a lost art in the digital age, and I am heartened that folks like them keep up the philosophy of telling a story as a whole, and not a series of pinups.)

Francavilla is a native of Italy, and that accent of his lends to a very funny Paula Deen impersonation, and yes, I made him do the impersonation for me.

Francavilla’s wife was also there, and she is a wonderful young woman from the South, and she represents well.  She has that typical Southern drawl that masks a sharp intellect and wit that is common amongst nearly every woman born and raised south of Virginia.  (My wife manages to also have these qualities, despite being born in the shadow of the Washington Monument, so they clicked quickly too.)

I am not exaggerating when I say that we chatted for about an hour in total, about everything from art to chicken, and it felt like they had been friends for ages.

I cannot express how much I am looking forward to the next convention, just to have the chance to visit with the Francavillas again.  And to honor my new baguette debt.

Yes, I gush, but in ways I hope that will become clear in the coming weeks, I admire the hell out of these folks.  I love their art and writing, and I have immersed myself in their wonderfully crafted worlds more times than I can count, especially in the last year as my mom faded and finally passed.

I also am pleasantly relieved to have met them and find them all to be just as I imagined: lovely folks that are as charming and funny and pleasant as their internet presence suggests.

Many of the people whose artistic work I love are folks who were in their prime in the 1930s and 40s, so I never had opportunities to meet or interact with them.  To be able to do so with contemporary folks I admire and have them be even remotely as cool as I had hoped made this Saturday a dream day for me.

And it doesn’t hurt at all that they were all sweet and engaging with both my wife, and more importantly, my daughter (their current and future audience).

So, to Stan Sakai, Paul Tobin, Colleen Coover and the Francavillas, thank you for making my day.  I am more than happy to repay such kindness in Girl Scout Cookies.  Tagalongs noted.

Years ago, the ICRVN took a break while my in-laws battled cancer.  Well…  Cancer is back, and it’s my mom’s turn.

It’s going to be a rough few months, but I’ll be back…

Eventually.

Thanks,

JRD