What I Can And Cannot Do

I've been recently asked why I don't just publish "Goodbye To Comics" uncensored and with all the names. The person who asked me has been in this industry a long time, and can really answer his own question. Would doing such a thing result in perhaps a little more justice for women? Maybe.

Or maybe the wagons would just pull in just a little more tighter. And maybe the bulk of the comic book media would just "happen" not to run the story. And maybe I'll get a bunch of emails asking how I could do something like that to "such nice people" -- and ask me to retract everything. You know, just like when I committed the cardinal sin of even mentioning the "DC Insider" on my blog.

And maybe someone would just "happen" to beat me into a coma. People get stabbed to death over bus transfer tickets. How about a high-profile three-part expose illustrating how someone is a sexist creep who used his power to ruin people's careers? When I first reported the harassment, a colleague told me that the person in question wanted to punch me in the face. Maybe it will be even more awesome now.

And who will stand by me, outside of close friends? When it gets that personal? In an industry this small? Who in this industry would want to publish it as a memoir? What website, other than personal blogs, would want to host it, or even cover the story? Newsarama?

What organization would protect me? Friends of Lulu? I have enough on my plate getting this newsletter and the Christmas cards out. Now I gotta go protect myself too?

What happened to me was very, very terrible, and I don't want to see it happen to anyone else.

But I have one family member who was just born, and another who is very ill with cancer. I have a dinner on Friday in front of a bunch of women that I have to prepare a speech for. I have one script to edit, and one to write. And coordinate and come up with content for a newsletter. All by the next two weeks. That's not counting my day job, or the two whole screens of email from the last day-and-a-half that I have to deal with.

Let me educate, protect, and empower. Let me accept what I cannot change. Let me keep the door open to any woman who needs help.

I may never change Warner Bros or DC Comics. But the topic of my speaking engagement on Friday is, "Women Working In A Traditionally Male Field."

Let me focus on what I can do.

Goodbye To Comics: Two Years Later

The two-year anniversary of "Goodbye to Comics" has come and gone, and I almost missed it.

Still glad I wrote it, happy with its content, format, and method of delivery. I think there are so many things in this world that are vetted and pre-planned within an inch of its life -- even Reality TV -- that it's kind of cool to have something spontaneous, raw, and heart-felt.

Also, I feel very grateful for the friends I've made as a result or indirect result of "GTC." I've had and continue to have many awesome life experiences, both on my own and as the president of Friends of Lulu. I am really, truly blessed and fortunate -- far more fortunate than I feel I have a right to be. I feel unworthy for the blessings not because I think I am a bad person, but because I'm just a person -- one in a thousand fanboys and fangirls with as much passion as I have.

And in terms of the future of my career...I am, as they say, just happy to be nominated. Anything above that is gravy, is awesome, is more than I expected.

Those are all my thoughts on it. Done & done.

more photos of me with those dynamic thumbs:

Thanks -- and a word about health care in this country...

Hi all,

I wanted to just thank from the bottom of my heart all who expressed their sympathy over my recent hospital bill situation. And thanks so much to those who donated as well.

I'm really touched by the support. Donations reached almost $300, which makes paying the lump sum of $500 by my deadline today much easier.

After that, I will have to pay about $100 for the next 14 months. But being smart with my finances and cutting some corners should help with that.

But thank you so much again. You are very fine people.

***

Originally, this bill was over $14,000. At that time, things looked very bleak. I was in a lot of self-denial. I was in self-denial about how close I came to dying, too. I was in self-denial about that until like eight months ago. At Beth Israel Medical Center, they marveled at how calm and good natured I was through the whole situation, how polite I was to the nurses. But I was calm largely because I was in complete self-denial. It's a survival mechanism.

But there was one moment I almost lost it, when they brought me my dinner. Dinner was like a stale danish and orange juice. I had almost bled to death, the nurses told me I had a dangerously low amount of blood in my system that could lead to a bunch of things including cardiac arrest. And they brought me a stale danish.

I screamed: "GET ME A CHICKEN SALAD!!!!!!!!"

And they said, that's only in the visitor's cafeteria. And I made them go to there and get me a fucking chicken salad with eggs. And I'm sure, if I look over my itemized bill again, I'll see the chicken salad.

Though my blood pressure was so low at one point that the nurses freaked out and started running all over the receiving room where my bed was (I didn't have a proper room until the last four hours of my stay), the doctors held back from giving me a blood transfusion. At one point a nurse fought with a doctor and said I was in danger of dying unless I got the transfusion. But they wouldn't give it to me. When I limped into a medical office a few days later -- still white as a sheet, out of breath, and only able to move very slowly because of the lack of blood in my system -- my doctor was horrified that nobody gave me a blood transfusion.

And really, I think at least part of the reason they didn't give it to me because I had no insurance, and they figured it'd be just another cost I was likely to not pay. Why waste blood on the uninsured? It might be the same reason I had to recuperate after surgery in a crowded receiving room with questionable hygiene. And that might be part of the reason why I acquired a massive infection that cost me hundreds of dollars and three months of hell to fight.

But those bills -- and their collection agents -- certainly arrived soon enough. They wouldn't knock any money off the charges for the infection I got through surgery -- but they charged me literally for every bandage I used to stop the bleeding. I remember asking for another bandage, and being warned that I would be charged for it. But the nurse felt sorry for me and said she would look the other way and give me a bandage for free. I wish this was an exaggeration. And so what, I decide to save myself the 8 or 15 dollars for the bandage (essentially, a glorified maxipad) and just bleed all over the bed? Is it like being fed a stale danish after massive blood loss? Why are these considered *options?*

I think our health care situation in the US is largely corrupt and dysfunctional. I think it puts undue pressure on people who are experiencing or recovering from serious illness. I think it makes the uninsured far more likely to not recover. I think it makes the hospitals, whether they are or are not conscious of it, far less likely to give good care to the uninsured. I think it makes people in corporate jobs far more likely to put up with bad practices and not speak up, because they are afraid of losing their jobs and hence their medical insurance. And from my own experience I've watched medical insurers fight tooth-and-nail against paying out the insurance anyway.

Learning preventative health care and voting out those who are against universal health care are great first steps. But also, I think there needs to be a constant outcry over these medical nightmares. What happened to me sounds bad, but the crucial thing is that I lived and I need no further medical treatment in order to deal with the injury (though there is some debate as to how much damage the long-term infection from the surgery caused, and if I ever find out it has hurt my reproductive system I'm going to sue them for every penny they have -- and they aren't the only parties who are going to get sued). So even if the hospital cleans me out financially, I can't die from lack of treatment; the only way I can be hurt is in my pocket.

But there are plenty of people out there who need life-saving treatment and cannot get it because they are uninsured. Whose quality-of-life is severely impacted. Who, at the same time they are suffering or even dying, are getting harassed by bill collectors and turning time they need to heal into a time of anxiety and pain.

We can't pat our backs in this country and say "God Bless America" and have this go on. It's not the hallmark of a civilized society. We have tall buildings, 3000 cable channels, and a system that does not adequately take care of the health of all its citizens. Massive FAIL.

Crap.

Hello dears,

Remember the accident I described in "Goodbye To Comics?" The one I was uninsured for?

Well, I paid off a relatively good portion of it over the years, but that involved draining out my personal savings to zero.

I still owe $2900, and I have to pay $500 by next week.

Which is fine. I mean, I really can't afford any of this, but it's going to be fine.

I've reduced my hours at my current job to give me more room to breathe with my writing, and taken on an extra marketing freelance gig. In a couple of months, when everything kicks in, I should be fine. But the next month is going to be brutal. And I will be paying medical insurance out-of-pocket, so that's a bit more stress.

I don't like being in debt. I never planned to be in debt. I never planned to have this insane accident.

I don't like borrowing money. I don't like credit. I want to start a family. I want a fresh start.

This is all to say, that I'm selling off everything of value -- that is not directly related to my job or my writing or is really special to me -- on eBay. Starting next week.

Don't feel sorry for me. Some people, many people, are in far far far worse shape than I am. But as I said, I don't like being in debt. I do think it is bullshit that people have their lives and finances gutted because of accidents outside their control -- that while they are still in the hospital bed they are being asked for how many bandages they used so they can itemize those bandages on your bill. Yes, they actually fucking do that.

Really, this is just a hanging dread that's carried over from a couple of years ago. I'm going to face it head-on and make the sacrifices and put it to bed in as positive a way as I can think of. And I'm going to clear out my medical debts and come out of this better than before.

So when the auction starts, if you want to check it out and buy anything...

That's all I'm saying. Have a good weekend!

Fangirl Fridays: The "Goodbye To Comics" One-Year Anniversary

It has been pointed out to me that it's been exactly one year since I wrote "Goodbye To Comics."

What a difference a year makes, huh?

The fact that I am more active, integrated, and successful in the comics world now than I ever was when I was officially "in" the comics world kind of baffles me a little bit.

It's like, some people can play within the confines of a very set group of said and unsaid rules and really be successful at it. In my twenties, I tried to do that and succeed in the comic book industry. I failed. The more I tried to follow the "rules," the more I tried not to make any waves, the more I tried to follow DECORUM -- the worse my life became.

And when I finally busted out and expressed myself and did the very thing I was not "supposed" to do -- my life got radically better.

You know who my idols are? Richard Pryor, George Carlin, Andy Kaufman, Bill Maher, Jon Stewart, Margaret Cho, Dave Chappelle, Chris Rock. My biggest fault in life was that I didn't embrace the true part of myself who looked up to these people. Instead, I was that chick with the little voice in "Police Academy." I lost a lot of time.

Thankfully, with this blog and Friends of Lulu, I really feel as if I have been granted another chance. A lot has changed. I am very happy.

And thanks to the majority of you for reacting as kind and understanding and empathetic as you did to "Goodbye To Comics." After the blog hit, I spent a few days avoiding the Internet entirely because, quite frankly, I was afraid I was just going to get laughed at or hated or whatnot. Writing those posts was a very out-of-character thing for me to do.

I'm glad I did it.

PS: The irony of The Comic Reporter's interview with ex-Wizard staffer Rick Marshall running today is not lost on me.

Comics Journalism Redux

Sequential Tart's Katherine Keller has wrote an interesting editorial regarding the "comics journalism" debate. She feels that too much emphasis in that discussion is placed on investigative journalism as opposed to journalism in general. Basically, that investigative journalism does not automatically = Journalism; it's just one facet of it. Moreover:

Right now, based on "partying with the stars" (sheah, right) I've heard some very interesting things about the day-to-day workings of things at DC, Dark Horse, and Marvel. I've also sat in while one up-and-coming creator vented about about his dealings with one of Comics' most famous creators regarding how things were swiftly going down the toilet regarding a jointly owned and created character, as well as what really happened to spur his departure from a top 30 book. Juicy stuff indeed. And I could write all that up and send Sequential Tart's hits sky high and fly the "Investigative Journalism" flag, but in the end, who benefits?

I've just burnt bridges before me.

I've just cost several people their jobs.

And the fanbois and fangurls will find something else to read tomorrow.

True. But.

I think there is a place for investigative journalism -- or, as Keller jokes (I think), "Investigative Muckraking."

One can argue, for example, that the pundits who rather loudly and frankly complain about Dan DeCarlo not getting his due credit for the Archie Comics properties he created are "muckraking." Such complaints stir up bad feelings. Archie Comics are made for smiles and cheers. Why cause trouble?

But the story of Dan DeCarlo is an important one. I like reading Archie Comics AND I care about the story of Dan DeCarlo. What do I do? Do I "make nice" or do I ask hard questions or do I try to balance it?

And would it be better or worse to have serious investigative journalists hired to gather information & interviews about that and other topics than to have to rely solely on a multitude of bloggers who might or might not have the facts?

I have a business card with my cute picture on it (coincidently drawn by an "Archie" artist) and it lists me as a Writer, Editor, and Journalist.

But am I really a journalist?

I took one Journalism course in college. Wrote obituaries for 1/4 of the course. My teacher was the guy who wrote the book the movie "Blow" is based on.

I got an A. I struggled. Real journalism is a lot of work.

Has anything I've written been "real journalism?" Was "Goodbye To Comics" "investigative journalism?"

Maybe. "Goodbye To Comics" was memoir and drama. It was something heartfelt and spontaneous. Can that be considered journalism?

Before I wrote those posts, I had approached a few comic book media types for their advice about my personal story. And while they were all very nice to me, and I appreciated their time and their candor, it was not something they wanted to report on.

And, seeing the vacuum -- sitting on the story, ready to explode -- I stepped in and did it myself.

I did it myself because it was either me doing it or nothing.

Maybe blogs are the alternative journalism.

Maybe they are journalism.

What is journalism?

And is that sort of "investigative journalism" -- or memoir or whatever the hell you call it -- referred to in the Sequential Tart article worth the price you pay for it?

Was it worth it for me?

It was totally worth it.

You have one life to live. Be real. Be yourself. Talk about things that matter. Make life better for the people around you. Speak up. Share.

What Writing A Book About My Life Taught Me

What Writing A Book About My Life Taught Me

I've just finished writing a book about my life.

I never thought I would have to write a book about my life. I wrote a 600-page vampire novel. I thought that was the book I had to write, and that it was enough. But looking back at that novel, I can see it was just a book about my life dressed in Buffy The Vampire Slayer drag.

I probably avoided writing an actual book about my life because it's a really f**king painful endeavor. How painful was it? Well, my therapist said it was ok for me to have some shots of alcohol as I wrote it. Which I did.

I had a creative writing teacher once in high school who really hated me. He didn't like my writing. He said that cutting off your arm at the elbow and bleeding all over a stack of paper doesn't qualify as writing. Maybe not and maybe so -- but that would be one damn interesting book. A good title for that book would be, "Clot."

Writing the story of your life affords you the opportunity of viewing all the events in your life in a linear, organized fashion -- and, in so doing, giving you the opportunity to see how many times you did the same f**ked-up thing, over and over and over again. You can pick up all the frightening parallels, all these moments which are like those horror movie scenes. You scream at the character on the screen entering the house with the killer in it:

"Don't go in the house! I said, don't go in the house -- you f**king moron!"

But of course, the character -- who is you -- goes into the house. And here you are.

Then there comes the point where you have to end the story, and, perhaps, come up with some sort of conclusion. A lesson. An epiphany.

Or, you could simply have yourself wake up and find Bobby Ewing in the shower.

I am all for waking up and finding Bobby Ewing in my shower:

Click Here For "Goodbye To Comics"

Click Here For "Goodbye To Comics"
(start with the first post and work up)

please note: "Goodbye For Comics" contains mature subject matter!

For New Posts, Check Below

"Goodbye To Comics" Linkarama

"Goodbye To Comics" Linkarama

the original Goodbye To Comics blog (start with the bottom link and work up)

please note that this list is in-progress

Publishers Weekly "The Beat"
Newsarama Blog
Wikipedia
Lying In the Gutters
More Lying In The Gutters
The Sideshow
The Second Verse
The Comics Reporter
Barbelith Underground
When Fangirls Attack
Comics Worth Reading
Pen-Elayne On The Web
Lord Shazam's Blog
She's Such A Geek
Tales From The Longbox
Creative Destruction
Sequential Study
FeministBlogs.org
Digital Femme
Girls Read Comics (and they're pissed)
Angry Zen Master
Insert Babbling Here
Ink Destroyed My Brush
Nashville Art & Artists
Uncle Bear: Roleplay Like You Give A Damn
Urban Misanthrope
Demosthenes
Neil Alien
Tired Fairy
Long Story Short Pier
Postmodern Angst
Paperback Reader
BloGalaxia
Badgerbag
Newslined
Mountain of Judgement
The Short Stack
Puckrobin
The Nerdly Arts
Andrew6
Ed Mathews
The Comic Glutton
I Am A Tree
Comics212.net
Laughing At The Pieces
A Distant Soil
Shrillmatic
Legion Of Doom
e-regular
Whereof One Can Speak
Fluorescent Dreams Wax Cylinders
The Ziggurat Of Doom
100 Little Dolls
Comics Fairplay
Ariella Drake
May Contain Nuts
Howling Curmudgeons
The Rook's Not To Blame
Chris Piers
Evil Storyteller
Alan Pursell
James Nicoll
The Captain's Blog
Edward Champion's Return Of The Reluctant
Robert's Blog On MySpace
Return To Comics
A Blog Of Mirrors
Zebrafish
Lainie: Artword Addict
Ingvild
Joamette
Dedagda
Gumpop
Mortlake on the Schuylkill
Brainfreeze
Headpiece of the Staff of Ra
Loud Poet
This Book Is For You
House Of Zorn
Megite.com
The Appearance of the Repeated Meme
JLA News Link Blog
Memoirs de Mamoulian
Chaosmonkey's Blog on MySpace
Access and Egress
The Four-Color Media Monitor

Threads (in progress)
Gail Simone on Comic Book Resources
DC Message Boards
The Comics Journal

The Most Powerful Email I Have Ever Received

The Most Powerful Email I Have Ever Received

Since writing "Goodbye To Comics," I have received hundreds of emails. The most powerful one was short and sort along the lines of this:

"I have gotten sexual enjoyment out of viewing rape and other such scenes in comics and entertainment. Your blog made me stop and think why this is so. And I realized that it is because I hate myself."

I don't hate this person or think less of him. I think it was very brave of him to write. It made me emotional reading it. Sometimes life bends you in different ways and this is how you cope. And I deeply wish this man finds peace and a place in his life where he doesn't hate himself anymore.

But as my blog made him think, his email made me think.

This world -- so many people coping and such a tapestry of lives and stories.

Should this man be my "enemy" -- or do we build bridges? How do we build these bridges? How can we understand the Other's viewpoint and move on?

When does forgiveness happen?

My father's grave -- I've never visited it. When do I forgive him for the past?

You know, it's funny. There is a recent blockbuster movie that I have never watched. Everybody and their mother has seen it but me. I refuse to see it. In essence, there is nothing wrong with the movie and I would probably like it. But its very subject matter brings up too much drama for me.

At what age do I move on and see this film? At what age do I visit my father's grave?

And is it a decision that I make on my own, or does time work its own magic, dulling my memory, mellowing my soul?

Two Weeks Later...

Two Weeks Later...

How does a normally shy, self-effacing person who has just had her most guarded emotions and painful life experiences read by several thousands of people feel, exactly?

Part of me feels really liberated. When people ask me what most motivated me to write all this, I say that I was sick and tired of carrying "shame" around with me. For example, my broken vagina (it always comes back to broken vagina). After I had the accident I was caught between an intense need to talk to people about it -- or at least admit to what had happened -- and the "shame" over the intimate nature of the incident and the need to cover it up. So I would use coy phrases like "sudden unexplained internal hemmorage" or "tonsilitis" to explain away the last week where I was down several liters of blood and wasn't seeing any visitors.

But you can't call "broken vagina" tonsilitis. If the reader carries nothing else away with them from this blog, it is this.

*** *** ***

On the first date I have with this new guy, I tell him about broken vagina. I think that's reasonable. It's like a litmus test. You have the grace period where you are first chatting on the phone, getting to know someone, and then you meet up and at some point you say "broken vagina" and if they stay, you have a keeper.

One of the first questions I ask him over dinner is if he is familiar with comics at all. People who aren't familiar with comics will usually answer something like "Well, I've seen Spiderman 2." Which is what he said. Then he asked me if anything interesting happened in the intervening two weeks since we last saw each other.

By the time we are downing the tiramisu he asks,

"Will this be in your blog?"

"Well I don't know. Do you want this to be in the blog?"

"I don't know...I mean, what part will I play?"

Having dinner with him, I feel like a princess. It's a classy joint. My date is very animated and dramatic and holds court with the maitre'd and waitresses. Plus, he's ok with broken vagina. And I am just so tickled and flattered and I do this Drew Barrymore move where I sort of look demure and giggle and bend my mouth in a way that is both sweet and looks like a stroke victim.

The check turns out to be like $150. Which, I suppose is what you get for dining in a place that provides you not only with mouthwash in the restrooms but a selection of tampons in a crystal decanter. I feel awkward, like I should really chip in. By this point, we have somehow downed two bottles of shiraz and when I get up to put on my coat I realize I am bombed.

I try dialing my mom so maybe I can crash at her place in Manhattan. But she doesn't answer the phone. In about 15 minutes I'm on a train with my date to someplace.

Shit.

*** *** ***

The critics of my memoir fall into several different camps. There is the "there is no correlation between sexually violent and exploitative female images in entertainment and the ill treatment of women" contingent. Though I do not propose any sort of "comics code" or censorship and have a degree of respect & admiration for artists such as Wally Wood, Adam Hughes, and Frank Cho, I think such a blanket viewpoint is a bit naive. Certainly there is at least the faintest, tiniest relationship between the Image and the Attitude; the image influencing the attitude, or the attitude reflected in the produced image.

Then there is the "this is a flawed feminist treatise" crowd, who points out, among other things, my ambivalence over cheesecake art and my occasionally crude speech pattern as undermining my Cause. I suppose that my answer would be, I had no specific Cause in writing the memoir, no set list of talking points I wished to win the debate club with. This was, in the end, the story of a Life. Here are the elements, here are my emotions, and here is a No. 2 pencil -- draw what conclusions or connections you would like.

Of course, there is the small but wizened crew who feel that the narrative, as one Metafilter "tag" described it, is "batshitinsane." Well, surely it is a fucked up tale of vaginal bleeding, rape pages, lesbian Ice Maidens, and bipolar body-building patriarchs. Also, I realize that something like this blog, in terms of the comic industry, is somewhat of a mutant shitstorm. And, to many of those who knew me personally, the act of writing the material and having the stones to post it is pretty damn near jawdropping. Well. Batshitinsane, huh? I guess it makes life at least more interesting, if nothing else. Beats being a mild-mannered ad-copy writer for a major metropolitan blah-blah-blah my whole life. Life is short -- let's say what we have to say, live the way we have to live, and grab existence by the cojones, batshit or not.

As for those who consider the memoir nothing more than just another "disgruntled employee rant"...gosh, I don't know what to say to that. Other than that we must remember that Peter Parker was the original disgruntled employee. Wasn't that issue where J. Jonah told him "I really like brunettes with spit-curls" the one where they had to take the Code off the cover?

But the critique of "Goodbye to Comics" that I do have to sit up and take notice of is the one about participating in the prolonging of the cycle of exploitation. Because as much as reading that critique makes me cringe, it is ultimately true. Having seen it from the inside, however, I have to say it is not so easy as a positive-thinking guru or several sessions with a Scientologist would have you believe. But in the end, our Will and self-respect is all we have.

*** *** ***

So now I'm drunk, drowsy, and in another man's bedroom on the first date. The crucial mistake was obviously somewhere back at the restaurant, doing the Drew Barrymore thing, having a good time, and losing track of how many glasses of shiraz I was consuming. Classic, classic fuck-up -- I mean, high-school level shit. Great.

Not that the guy is hard on the eyes or anything. But after my adventures with broken vagina and just contemplating issues of self-respect and whatnot -- I just don't want to jump in with having sex on the first date. But somewhere between him lending me his contact lens case and us falling to sleep an hour or so later, there is a lot of foreplay. And a degree of fiveplay. The dude is fit and lean and really into yoga; at one point I am standing on my head.

But I really don't want to have full-on sex right now. But here I already put myself in an extremely compromising situation. Now I'm feeling pressure to have sex with him on many fronts, most of them solely residing in my mind. A) He just spent $150 on the meal. B) I'm tired and drowsy and maybe this would just be easier. C) I feel if I don't have sex with him now he'll resent and hate me. D) By all intents and purposes I've kind of really placed myself in this position, and have only myself to blame anyway so why not?

Eventually, I say "no." No, we are not having sex now; yes, I know I put myself in this compromising position but no I am not having sex with you now because I don't feel ready.

I've never really took a stand like that before. I mean, ever.

And he understood and it was ok.

And one thing he said right before we went to sleep really stuck with me.

He said,

"You have a beautiful vagina."

*** *** ***

So what have we learned today, boys and girls?

1) I can stand on my head

2) Peter Parker was the original disgruntled employee

3) The classiest joints have mouthwash and tampons in a crystal decanter

But keep track of the shiraz.

A Call At 3:00 In The Morning

A Call At 3:00 In The Morning

I wake up to the sound of my cellphone. The big flat numbers on my alarm clock display "3:05" as that Valkyries song from "Apocalypse Now" chirps digitally from the phone. I look at the number.

Donovan.

***

Donovan: Oh good Lord...
Me: B-but you were the one who told me to write about the accident...
Donovan: I meant a short fictional story about the quirkiness of modern love for the New Yorker or something!
Me: B-but...

***

But we talk. We talk about a lot of things. And when it is over, he says he's going to sell off some of his comics and collectibles and help me pay my medical bill.

***

Have a Happy Thanksgiving, everybody.

I live by this saying

I live by this saying: what else good is abuse, harassment, bankruptcy, and a broken vagina if not to write about it in front of thousands of people? I learned that in my "Women's Lit" course in college.

But seriously.

I want to thank the men and women who contacted me to show their support. I am currently helping a sick friend and working from home at the same time so I can't answer everything right now, but I have been reading and I deeply appreciate it.

And I think that silence in the face of any sort of abuse, past or present, is unacceptable. It is only through sharing our experiences that we can heal and stop the cycle. We can hold it in, garnish it up, explain it away, pretend it never existed -- but it will always be there, begging to be released.

I wrote what I wrote because I had a story inside of me that was begging to be released. Through meditating on and tying together these various comic-related strands of my life I came to a personal breakthrough at the end of that blog. Though in a way I had already found a sense of peace and a new life, writing "Goodbye To Comics" brought me to a new level of self-understanding. I'm proud of what I wrote and I'm not ashamed of my experiences.

I also wanted to say that though the character of "Donovan Paul" may sound at points in the blog like a little bit of a cad, he also remained very calm and responsible during a freak accident that, quite frankly, was freaky for him as well. He calmed me down, did the appropriate things to get help quickly, and never left my side. The nurses told me that when he finally left the room after my initial intake, he was shaking and almost fainted. Had he abandoned me during or after that crisis I would have felt devastated. He did more than a lot of men I've known would have done. He's basically a good person and a great comic talent -- with a few fanboy blindspots.

As for the comic industry, there are a lot of good people, men and women, in it. I've grown up with comics people my entire life, and I'm taking care of one who recently fell ill now. I just want the industry to move in the right direction, get rid of the lingering sexism & racism, stop the sexual violence towards female characters, get more diversity (gender, racial, sexual orientation) into the characters, and make some of what I wrote in my blog things that no longer have relevance.

There is a big crop of talented young women and people of color out there who want to break into comics. Open the doors, give them an even and respectful playing field, and say a warm "hello" to the next gen of this industry.

Goodbye To Comics: Postscript

Goodbye To Comics:
Postscript

Less than 12 hours after I finish my blog-memoir, my best friend -- a lifelong hardcore comic fan -- collapses in his hallway. I try to prop him up. His eyes are rolling to the back of his head and his face is spasming. He floats in and out of consciousness as I dial 911.

An older man, has had health problems for a while now. I knew this was coming. He is one of the old-school comics fans, starting in the early 1960s. His dream was always to be a professional penciller. He held out for that dream for a long time, finally altering his plans during the last two years and producing his own comic projects. He is a very talented artist.

EMS has a hard time finding him in his room, because of the sheer volume of comics & collectables. I point to the crumpled person on the couch under the blanket. I'm trying to hold it together but start to lose it as the techs approach him with their equipment:

Him: I'm okay, I don't need any tests.
Me: YOU'RE NOT OKAY!

It might be complications from his diabetes. It might be related to the high blood-pressure. His cholesterol is also very high. The EMS techs don't know, but they would like him to go to the hospital. He won't go.

So now he's sleeping, and I'm sneaking into his room every half-an-hour or so to see if he's okay. The techs said to check on him periodically and if his lips look bluish to call 911 again.

I've been told to abandon my friend's case for a long time now. He's just another "comic book guy." He would rather spend his last dime on the latest Marvel Essentials or art supplies than his diabetes medication. Do you know how many people I've known like that in my life?

It's not my responsibility. I have to move on with my life.

But I write to my boss asking if I can work from home tomorrow so I can take care of my friend. First thing in the morning I will make an appointment with my friend's doctor to drag him there for a diagnostic. I also want to know what medications he needs to be on and when he is supposed to take them. I leave messages with his with family members.

I start "digging" through the comic piles in my friend's room so there is enough surface area to place his medicine bottles where they will always be found. Looking at the titles, I recognize a lot of them as comps from my different comic jobs, a 14-year time spread.

Lives built around comics.

I call another long-term friend, who I met at a comics company ten years ago. He has also been of the "Goodbye To Comics" mindset as of late. I let out a good cry as I tell him the events of the last several hours. I also mention that I broke up with Donovan Paul. My friend says "good for you" but expresses some skepticism as to how long that will last.

Our conversation turns to comics, about the usual things -- what's wrong with the industry, how it can be fixed, and how we're both too old for this shit. Of course we're both in our mid-thirties and are full of shit for saying we're too old for this shit. But it's fun to say that phrase:

"I'm too old for this shit."

It's like we're two old hitmen from "Reservoir Dogs," about to go on another ill-advised mission. "I'm too old for this shit." It's like we're starring in "Lethal Weapon V" and we've got grey hair and about to jump from a flaming helicopter to the 61st floor of a burning hi-rise and somewhere in the background Chris Rock is saying something typically hilarious. "They're too olddddddddd for this shit!,"Rock screetches into the camera, pointing at our hapless selves.

By the time we're done talking the sun goes down. We've been on the phone for more than four hours. The mostly uneaten meal me and my best friend had began before the collapse is still sitting where we left it. I bite into a clammy egg-and-cheese sandwich and take a swig of cold coffee.

I pick up his keys and wallet off the floor. I check on him again. A fly lands on his cheek and he waves it away in his sleep.

I'm saying goodbye to comics. Be skeptical all you want, but I am.

But first I'm going to take care of my friend.

The Bloggy Memoir "Goodbye To Comics" is now completed.

The Bloggy Memoir "Goodbye To Comics" is now completed.

If you have just reached this blog and have some hours you don't mind never getting back, please start with the first post and work your way up.

If you have finished the whole blog and are reading this, you get a kitten.

And if you came here accidently after doing the keyword search "Sexy Superheroine Rape," please go fuck yourself.

Assorted Thoughts & Reactions

Assorted Thoughts & Reactions


I haven't really sat down and read the comments & the emails & the reactions until the last couple of days. When I first wrote the memoir, I was scared to death of the reaction I would receive. Now, after reading nearly a hundred emails and general reactions to the piece, I have come to this conclusion --

--that I sorely underestimated the support male comic book fans have for women in comics.

Every single message I received from men was positive and reaffirming not only of my blog but on the need to have respect for women both in the industry and in the comics themselves.

I wrote a couple of blog postings a while back basically saying "it's a lost cause why fight it" regarding comics feminism. "Give the market what it wants," I wrote, lying passive on the ground and prepared to let whatever rebellious spark I had left in me twinkle away into nothingness. It's very easy to do this, to retreat into the cave of what has always been familiar to you, to parrot the same talking points and fantasize that one day you'll be let back into the "club" because all you know is that goddamned club.

Oh, yes, give the market what it wants. The Market. The answer to everything.

But what exactly does this market -- male comic fans -- want?

I read a hell of a lot more voices in favor of women's rights in comics and against the depiction of sexualized violence against female characters than I ever dreamed of. Voices from across the comic-collecting spectrum -- bloggers, Comicon/Newsarama/CBR crowd, alternative comix fans, mainstream comic fans. Surely they are all part of this Market.

I also received emails from many professionals in the industry, including one that just about made me sail out of my chair at work. Imagine looking at a flashing button on your phone and having the receptionist say: "Hi, you have God on line 4, would you like to take it?" This particular person's email just about made my millennium; the mere fact of receiving it and the kind words within gave me a tremendously renewed hope about comics, and about the people within in the industry.

But actually, getting the words of support from every person that dropped a line my way made my millennium; touched me deeper than I know how to express. It has made all that happened before...if not "worth" it, at least something I can process.

***

While I still feel that a degree of "cheesecake" in comics is ok, I am also no longer naive enough to believe that it has no effect on the way men see women, or that it doesn't objectify them. It is a very complicated subject and I don't feel I am the best objective judge to make these "calls" or to suggest concrete solutions. I have inhabited a mostly male social circle for my entire life. So as a "feminist" blogger all I can really do at the moment for the cause is tell my personal story. Since my name has entered Google Eternity twinned with "vaginal mishap" and other such topics I feel I've paid my dues in this respect.

***

My friend's health is doing much better, thanks to all who've asked.

***

I was going to post this when Robert Altman died a couple of days ago, but after just reading a comment by Elayne referencing it now I've just got to do it. It's from one of my all-time favorite movies, Popeye. Enjoy.

Goodbye To Comics #12: How Comics Almost Busted A Cap In My Ass

Goodbye To Comics #12:
How Comics Almost Busted A Cap In My Ass

Okay, so here is the story how the comics industry almost drove me to jump out my 6th-floor window. It is theoretically fucking hilarious. It's like Frank Capra by way of Dante. I mean, I hear they're going to do a "30 Seconds With Bunnies" version of this one.

We start with a conversation between me and my doctor:
"I have heart palpitations, stomach cramps, and migraines. And insomnia."
"Gee gosh why?"
"I'm in a very stressful situation right now at my job."
"You should find another job."
"But then how will I pay you?"
"Good point."
"Besides, I just need to stick it out just a little bit longer, and then I'm sure things will be okay. I have to keep this job. I've wanted this job ever since I was a little kid."
"No problem. You should do what most people in our society do -- ignore the problem and take these blue pills instead. These blue pills make you all numb so you can go through all sorts of indignities and not care. It's what everybody does -- even some people in elected office!"
"Cool beans. Only thing is, I have a history of being sensitive to drugs and medication. Might these blue pills negatively impact my life, potentially?"
"Oh not at all. They are totally safe. Here, take these samples."
"Wow, thanks. I can't wait to feel numb to my pain."

ONE DAY LATER AT WORK:
"Oh, God," I say, clutching my chest, "I'm having a...a...heart-attack!"

THE NEXT DAY:
"Hello, Doc?"
"Yes? How's those blue pills coming along?"
"Well, I fell down at work and thought I was having a heart-attack."
"Jeepers."
"Yeah, but the paramedics came and said it was just a panic-attack."
"Gosharoonie."
"Yeah, and then the guy I was having problems with at my job told people that it just went to show that my job was too stressful for me and I couldn't handle it. And I felt very angry and humiliated."
"Gee willikers."
"Yeah, and I think it was the blue pill because I never had a panic attack before in my life."
"NOW WAIT JUST A GODDAMMN MINUTE!!! Don't diss my pills, yo!"
"No, I'm serious, I really think I shouldn't take this blue pill any more."
"You're just over-reacting. Try it for another week or so. Just until you get a nice, healthy concentration of the stuff into your system. And then everything will be fine."
"Uh, ok."

ONE WEEK LATER:
"Uh, Doc? Sorry to call you at such an odd hour."
"Not a problem. What's up?"
"I can't feel the left side of my body. Am I having a stroke?"
"No, it's probably just nerves. (It's certainly not my blue pill). Let's try to get you another type of drug to cover up the effects of the first drug."

Within a month I am suffering from extreme nerve pain, migraines, and fatigue. While it becomes more and more clear to me that I am allergic to these drugs and I need to stop them, they are already concentrated into my system and trying to quit cold turkey gives me a series of seizures. Besides, I don't have time to take off work from Gilgongo! Comics, because it's the holiday rush and half the staff are on vacation or maternity leave. Besides, apparently I "don't have paid medical leave."

Here is a theoretical conversation between me and a high-ranking supervisor:
"Well, we know you're going through a lot right now, and, while we can't give you paid medical leave, we talked it over and have decided to grant you ONE WEEK OF UNPAID LEAVE! Isn't that generous of us?"
"Wow, that's great. But I'm a person of low self-esteem who only feels worthwhile if I'm working like a dog and producing income. So I'll choose to work in sheer agony because I'm fucking martyr."
"That's why we love you here."

In the meantime, I had privately discussed with "Willy Wonka," one my bosses, that a situation with a certain employee was reaching the breaking point and had to stop -- but that I didn't want to make a big stink about it. Willy offers to step in and talk to this person privately. And while the initial harassment stops, this individual now hates my guts and is hostile towards me, creating vitrol and tension in the environment.

My physical condition continues to deteriorate because of my body's sensitivity to the prescribed drugs. But to stop causes seizures. The only solution is to slowly taper off of them.

"You might feel a little sick with the tapering," my doctor cautions.

"A little sick" does not begin to cover it.

My nerve endings become so damaged that touching my cat's fur registers on my fingertips as touching a smooth glass surface. Limbs go "dead" and completely numb without warning. I have tiny red spots all over my body, a sign of a poisoned system. My skin suffers constant nerve pain that makes me want to scream; unfortunately, since my body is so sensitive to medications, my doctor doesn't want to give me a pain-reliever.

And the migraines...so intense that at some point I sincerely wished I was dead to make the pain stop.

I mentioned this to a moderately high-ranking Gilgongoite and confidant:
"Sometimes these migraines are so painful that I just....I just want to put a bullet in my head."
"Oh, don't do that...it will make the Company look bad."(<----not a "joke" quote) Eventually, I call an administrative person in another building to go on what I think is an unpaid medical leave of absence. To my shock, I find out that I was qualified to have paid leave -- multiple weeks of it in fact -- all along. "But I was told that they couldn't give me paid leave." "Well I don't know what they said, but this is what I'm telling you." And so began months of excruciating tapering and recovery. All the time I wondered about my job, my reputation, and what would become of me now. When the paid leave ran out, I came back. I was still sick and in pain. But I was back. Of course, in the meantime between the leave & my return I made an official complaint regarding the problematic Gilgongo! employee. Which meant that when I returned, everything ran the gamut from surreal to fucked-up. I didn't feel welcome anymore. And I was ill. Who needed this shit? When you're healthy you can put up with a lot of shit. When you're sick, your threshold for bullshit, intimidation, and general fucked-upness goes out the window. After a few weeks, I went to my supervisor's office, closed the door, and announced my resignation. To my surprise, he insisted I stay. I insisted that I knew my own body and that I was going to need many weeks if not months of recovery to get the rest of the medication out of my system and to heal. He insisted that he knew if I stayed I could forge ahead and everything would be fine. I insisted that I wanted to resign now, with dignity. He said it would break his heart if I left. So I stayed. I only lasted another two weeks. By then, most of the medication was out of my system but my body was so damaged that everyday living was a nightmare of nerve pain and migraines. One day I stoically went into Willy Wonka's office and had a long talk with him. The last thing I asked him was, "What do you think the chances of my ever getting promoted in this place are, after I recover?" "Pretty bad. Even with the recovery they'll just use your illness as an excuse." "So I'm fucked, basically." And so I went to my office, cleaned it out, typed a resignation letter, and split. I knew that was the End. That whatever dreams I had of Big Comics, at least at Gilgongo!, were over. In the period of time between first offering to resign and my eventual departure, I was given a whole slate of new assignments that I had to now suddenly abandon. I felt so humilated. Why in the hell did my supervisior insist on me staying when I made it so very clear that my health couldn't hack it? Why couldn't he just take my resignation? Why did he insist? Now I am sitting across the room from my therapist, a year later, and I offer her a "crackpot" theory: "Because if I stayed...I wouldn't tell." And now I'm back at my apartment after just quitting the job I wanted my entire life. My nerve pain is still there in full force, one more fucking day of dealing with it. I put down the bags of belongings from my office in the kitchen and head for my bedroom. I get out my laptop and write in great detail everything that happened to me. I save in on my desktop in a folder marked "read this first." Then I get out some pieces of looseleaf paper and write out my will. I mean, according to my research, the bodily effects of this sort of catastrophic drug reaction can last YEARS. Who needs it? I was fucked up. My career was over. I really didn't feel like I had any allies or defenders. Soon the medical insurance was going to run out. I was going to have to live on my savings. And if I was too sick to get a job after that? What, welfare? Disability insurance? No. I had it. I was through. But how would I do it? I pictured sailing over the edge of the one window in my room without a child-guard. But then the following line ran through my head: "Oh, don't do that...it will make the Company look bad."

Oh gosh, no. Don't make the Company look bad.

I looked at the four pages of of my will that I just wrote out in pencil. Typical fucking fan-geek will.

"I hereby bequeath my set of Buffy DVDs to..."

I was going to end my life for what?

For Comics?

For motherfucking comics, I was going to be street-pizza?

For what?

For Phantom Girl, Herbie the The Fat Fury, Angle Man, Cottonmouth, and the Woodgod? For Paste-Pot-Pete, the Inferior Five, the 3-D Man, and Squirrel Girl? I was going to lay down my life for the industry that introduced glow-in-the-dark multiple cover gimmicks? That elevated Rob Liefeld to the level of DaVinci? That still, on average, produced the same adolescent male power fantasies as they did 50 years ago -- men in pajamas, women in bondage? For being cast out of the realm where power is signified by how many action figures you have on your desk, this was why I was going to end my life?

Well, there was also the matter of the continual pain.

But I threw the will away and slogged through it. I wrote a book. I went on a strict diet free of MSG, preservatives, and sugar to bring my pain down to managable levels and eventually lost 60 pounds. I managed to recover enough to get a part-time job, and when that was successful I upgraded to a full-time one where I made more money than I ever did at Gilgongo! Comics. And I thought I had processed everything, that I learned my lessons.

Yeah, I said to myself that I would write this all down one day in some sort of memoir, or I would become active in Friends Of Lulu and protect women everywhere, or I would do a half-billion other noble things so I could see the "silver lining" in my struggle.

But deep down I could still see my dad ripping that Wonder Woman poster off my wall:
"You ungrateful bitch! You fucked it all up! You touched the fizzy-lifting drink! Now you win nothing--NOTHING!"

And I just wanted to make him happy.

Goodbye To Comics #11: Willy Wonka And The Comics Factory

Goodbye To Comics #11:
Willy Wonka And The Comics Factory

There was always this parody/homage of "Willy Wonka And The Chocolate Factory" that I wanted to write. Instead of candy the factory produced video games, and the story focused on this impoverished Asian chick with unrecognized bisexual tendencies who beats all the other kids at the video game contest and gets to visit the factory.

Now, what this girl and the other contest winners don't realize is that in addition to games the factory also conducts bio-terror experiments with various plagues, zombie dogs and reanimated dead soldiers.

What follows is more John Carpenter than Roald Dahl. But eventually the Asian girl, the last survivor, claws her way, barely alive herself, to the control room where Wonka is. Wonka informs her coldly that because she fucked with the fizzy-lifting drinks, she is disqualified from the contest and gets nothing.

But eventually she inherits the factory, fires the Oompa-Loompas, and hires Sailor-Moon lookalikes instead.

Whether she maintains the covert black-op research and development contracts with the Shadow Government is another story entirely.

One of my favorite sci-fi authors is Kilgore Trout, and I can only hope that, while unpublished, such stories as the aforementioned might live up to his standard.

But now I want to say a few words about somebody I always associated with Willy Wonka, somebody who brought me into Big Comics -- the theoretical Gilgongo! Comics to be exact. Certainly he had the the personality of a comics Willy Wonka -- smart, talented, whimsical, if but a little phlegmatic on certain days.

He was an artist who wouldn't draw, and I was a writer who wouldn't write. So we had a lot to talk about, both of us bemoaning our blocked creative drives.

And why wouldn't -- why couldn't -- we express ourselves?

Because of the act of Creation actually depressed us, made us feel lonely and like we were standing on the precipice of something Greater than we knew what to do with.

Because we were told repeatedly growing up that we'd make no money with our art.

Because we were afraid of rejection, failure.

Because it was so much easier to to just eat donuts, do our job, laugh with our friends, and feel some degree of security.

Because we had Responsibilities.

But the truth is that, even with all of the above taken into consideration, there is no way to suppress the creative urge for too long without having it assert itself in our lives like some angry, living thing bursting forth from the world of abstract concepts into our material realm.

Willy Wonka's big enemy was his big metal art flat files. They were always "biting" him on the leg.

"Goddammit! Why am I always getting banged in the shins by this @#^%#$ flat file?!"

We would have long philosophical talks about art, the mechanics of office politics, and just what the hell was the meaning of it all. My ostensible job for the first two years of my tenure, before I began to inisist on editing, was to occasionally place a package in the mail rack, make a few Xeroxes, pencil in a visitor here and there, and, mostly, to just continually convince him not to quit.

I mean -- that was it. That's all I did.

After an earlier editing tenure at another, smaller, comics house & stints in advertising, the snail's pace of my new position was quite a shock. But I was convinced I was Going Places, that I , like so many of the other (male) editors at Gilgongo! Comics would work myself up from obscurity to higher and higher up the ranks, provided I kept pushing for more and more responsibility and kept proving myself.

And I remember the first day I showed up for the interview --
It was like Charlie visiting the Chocolate Factory.
It was awesome!
As a lifelong comic fan, it was truly what dreams were made of.

And I remember on that first day, as I showed up over-dressed in a suit and heels, how, in the midst of all the orientations and "hellos" and tours of the office, how I was told, by two different people, on the fly, quiet-like:

"Watch your back."

Now, I never had a problem with Willy Wonka. We had a good run. The day I resigned, he told me that he was jealous because now I would at least have a good block of time to write.

"Take me with you," he said in half-jest.

But I don't think he truly meant it. I mean, where I was going was half-way between hell and the unknown -- destroyed reputation, broke, physically ill, and standing on that old familiar precipice (on the verge of something Greater?).

Though I did write that book.

Willy Wonka never did check in with me after that last day in his office, never asked how I was doing, never inquired how the medical & financial & legal nightmare I was in the middle of was coming along. The situation I had with another employee at Gilgongo! was no doubt some small part of this. Because, you see, I had "fucked with the fizzy-lifting drinks," and now I was disqualified and would get nothing.

About two years later, Willy answered an email regarding a letter of recommendation for a job with a very formal recitation of company policy, footnoted with a "well, maybe I'll try to write you a little something, if you can keep it quiet." I made a note to myself to contact an editor I hadn't seen in eight years and get a letter of rec from him instead. Which I did.

Goodbye To Comics #10: "Lost Girl's First Comics Job"

Goodbye To Comics #10:
"Lost Girl's First Comics Job"

So if you've been following the blog so far, here is the scorecard:
1. Crazy bodybuilding comic-reading possibly steroid-fueled dad.
2. Being called a lesbian throughout grade-school and teased because I read superhero comics.
3. Successful run at the theoretically-named Gilgongo! comics ends in harassment, character assassination, illness, and personal disaster.
4. Comic guy accidently rips vagina open during intercourse, effectively leaving me $15,000 in debt.

But there is so much more. There is a whole narrative about the comic collectors I used to hang out with when I was a teenager, a rogue's gallery that would make Dick Tracy weep. Most of those men are now nearing their 40s and 50s and are almost completely destroyed, living alone in dimly-lit apartments filled to the ceiling with comics & collectables. My entrance in their lives was unnatural, unnatural because I was a young teenage girl and I was not supposed to a)be reading comics and b)hanging out with sexually-frustrated comic fans.

Now you may say: you were a free woman! this is America! you have the right to read anything you want and hang out with whomever you choose!

But what is right and what is reality are two different things.

I started working at the comic store after running away from home when I was 16. I ran away from home because I was tired of getting beaten up by my mom's boyfriends. Misogyny and me, we go waaaaaay back.

The owner of the comic store was a friend of my late father. He was a middle-aged man, a bit on the grotesque side but always quick with a joke and generous with his customers. I was so thrilled to get this job. As a comic fan, working behind the counter was like winning a trip to Disneyland. I had finally made it.

Here is a quick picture of what the fan culture was like in the early 90s. Speculation was in full swing, and everybody was as greedy as fuck. There were a lot of collectors that weren't fans at all but were simply buying up "hot comics." Which was great for my boss. Unfortunately, what was not so great was that comic thievery and shoplifting was at an all-time high. It was not uncommon to hear of one big store in the city or another being heisted in the middle of the night, cleaned out. My boss felt he hadn't a lot to worry about, however, because he was the first one to admit that the place was a scummy little hole in the wall.

Into this scummy little hole in the wall trotted the most bizarre cast of characters ever to grace the fandom. There was the old-time cartoon animator who spent his declining years buying high-ticket Golden Age items, taking care of his mother, and smelling of pee. There was the fast-talking heroin-addict who constantly came in looking to trade choice pop-culture memorabilia for quick cash. There was the short, mild-mannered big-time comic collector in the rumpled two-piece velvet suit who thought that putting peanut butter on his dick for his cat to lick off did not qualify as animal abuse. There was the fat, mentally-challenged older lady who would pull her top up and shake her boobies for a quarter; it should be noted that she was not a comic collector, but rather just a piece of the "local color."

In essence, I was working on the "Howard Stern Show."

One of my co-workers was a soft-spoken Latino man who I was never quite sure was mentally-challenged or just really really innocent. We're talking like Forrest Gump. My boss always made jokes about "spic this" and "Wetback that" and I marvelled at how my co-worker never got angry, never got angry for being called a "dumb spic." He would just smile shyly and act like he didn't really understand what was being said. He will become a footnote to this entire story, so just tuck him in the back of your mind.

I felt a certain degree of "protection" from my boss, that kept unwanted "admirers," mostly adults and a few who were middle-aged, at bay.

So when he told me in private that I sexually aroused him, that I made him "hard," I was completely devastated. I cried.

My boss acted like he didn't understand why I was crying. He said he assumed that as a "single girl living by herself" that I was "open to this sort of thing." Mind you, he was a friend of my dad. But really, considering the caliber of person that frequented his store, was this scumbaggery such a big surprise? As a naive teen with no parental supervision and no security, the answer is -- yes, it was a complete surprise. This guy was like my uncle.

What followed was a textbook case of how a patriarchal society deals with troublemaking females.

1. Tell the victim good-naturedly, "now you just keep this between you and me, okay?"

2. To cover your own ass, tell other people that your victim is a)crazy, b)a nympho, c)a liar, or c)a crazy nympho liar. In my case, this jerk went around telling others, including his own wife, that I sexually came on to him.

3. Punish your victim in some way so you can feel better about her rejecting you.

When I came into work the next day following the incident, my boss told me gravely, in front of the rest of the store, that a set of trading cards were missing by my work station and that he suspected I did it. Since he couldn't trust me anymore, I had to leave.

Of course, what type of trading cards were they?

The theoretically-named Gilgongo! Comics Superheroes series.

I kept waiting for somebody to defend me, but the rest of the men in the store just looked sheepish and away. Most had been recipients of my boss's generous nature for more years than I was alive. Though I considered some of these men as my friends, I simply couldn't tip the scales away from a guy that, in their scummy little hole-in-the-wall universe, was like a king.

So I left. Passively, stunned, not quite sure of what had just happened. Later that day, as I was walking home from grocery shopping, one big heavy bag in each fist, I had a delayed-reaction to the event and suddenly became filled with fury. I marched back to the store and slammed the door open.

"You...sonofabitch! You fucking told me that I sexually excited you! That I made your dick hard! I fucking trusted you! You fucking did this to punish me, you fucking scumbag motherfucker!"

He acted like he didn't know what I was talking about. Of course. Though at one point he reinterated his theory that since I was "a young single woman" I was "open" to that sort of thing.

I was 16.

I screamed at him for about 20 minutes, never once putting down my bags of groceries, my hands red and creased white by the bag handles. When it was over I stalked out of the store, turned around, and punched my fist into the plexiglas door, leaving a giant crack that extended from the "Yes we are open" sign to the faded Charlie's Angels Topps stickers near the bottom.

Soon after that I got what is known in the parlance as "a real job" and entered college. I was so burned by the experience in the store that I refused to read or buy any comics ever again.

Some time later, I ran into my quiet Forrest Gumpian ex co-worker. He said he was real sorry about what happened, but that he made sure to "take a lot this time" to punish my boss. I asked him what exactly he meant.

He invited me to the apartment he shared with his religious, working-class mom and dad. In his room were thousands upon thousands of expensive comics. My old boss's comics. Stacks of mylared Silver and Golden Age books. All the "speculator" titles, Marvels and Images and Valiants bagged and boarded and stacked to the ceiling. In the second bunk of the bed set he shared with his late brother were row after row of choice books, some in multiples of twos and threes, all lovingly sheathed in plastic.

"You see," he began to explain, "whenever he call me things like 'dumb spic,' 'retard,' things like that -- I take a book! Every time. So he say, 'you dumb retard,' and then I go, when he not looking, I take a book. Every time. Not so dumb a retard, am I?"

After years of not being able to turn a profit, the old comic store closed. It is now a 99 Cents store, though tomorrow it might be a cell-phone store, or a discount clothing outlet. All I know is that every once in a while, even if I don't need anything, I buy a dishrag or something from the place. Just to walk inside of it.

Goodbye To Comics: Well Yeah, Sometimes Abuse DOES Create The Superheroine

Goodbye To Comics:
Well Yeah, Sometimes Abuse DOES Create The Superheroine

There is a lot of debate in the comics blogosphere regarding the depiction/retconning of an abusive interlude in the lives of one superpowered female character or another. The objection is usually about how an abusive past shouldn't be used as the "reason" why a woman became a superhero.

Well then what the fuck else is that abusive past good for?

Sometimes it comes down to:
1) Go down the path of self-loathing and self-destruction
or
2) Become the Black Cat, or Catwoman, or Black Canary, or whomever

If you've been following the posts, you'll remember the scene where I'm in the ambulance, theoretically bleeding to death from the most sensitive part of my body, the hapless Donovan Paul in tow.

Donovan tries to "cheer me up" by offering suggestions as to how this accident, which will eventually bankrupt me and leave me deathly afraid of sex, has a "silver lining."

Was Donovan trying too hard?

Yes.

But without the belief and motivation that this shitty event, like a number of shitty events sprinkled throughout my life, could be used as an impetus to create positive and, dare I say, "superheroic" things, I fucking would have went batty. And I don't mean "batty" like Batman.

So these narratives regarding the female superheroine with abuse and trauma in her past actually INSPIRE me.

So you mean Catwoman became strong and a fighter and took control of her life?

Super.

Now.

Does that mean that there isn't a section of the male reading audience that gets off sexually by viewing the rape and torture of superheroines in these very comics?

Ah, there's the rub.