Goodbye To Comics:
Judith Regan And Why I Don't Apologize For "Sleeping With The Enemy"
Judith Regan is the publisher of "How To Marry A Porn Star," "OJ: If I Did It," and a good friend of Howard Stern. It might be assumed that Ms. Regan is not exactly a sterling feminist, considering the types of people she publishes & promotes.
Which is why I found her long, candid personal statement released today regarding the OJ book so on-point with my own situation.
The statement answers charges that she is a heartless slime for publishing OJ's book--that she of all people, a woman, could profit off a wife-batterer and probable murder.
And so Regan recounts her own harrowing story of abuse by her ex-husband, and that she is the last person in the world to be insensitive to women's issues.
To have a "power person" like Regan get vulnerable and tell such a story of brutality & humiliation...
I was moved, honestly.
But then the question would be asked,
Why does Regan support projects & entertainers that are perceived as so anti-woman???
It is assumed by some that abuse and harrassment is the fire by which the future mega-feminists are created.
But really, wouldn't victims of abuse by the "patriarchy" know, more intimately than anyone, the sheer power of that patriarchy?
The power of that patriarchy to savage, to wreck careers, to intimidate?
And is our first reaction to fight that patriarchy?
Or to ingratiate ourselves to it as to not get hurt again??
Wouldn't the woman who was brutalized by her husband feel a degree of control, a degree of safety by having an "icon of misogyny" like Howard Stern on her side?
I'm not saying it's right.
It's just when I hear "you should know better than..."
Yeah, maybe I should know better. Maybe I should get a brain transplant or have my memories removed or dope myself up until I've got that "Laura Bush Smile" as well.
I listened to Howard Stern since I was 12 years old. The content of his show blended well with how I saw women treated around me, far more than any feminist treatise that I read.
Again, I'm not saying it's right.
I remember a woman I used to know who had been raped as a teenager and said she proceeded to fuck as many men as she could after that so the initial rape wouldn't bother her.
So when I find that my blog gets the most hits from keyword phrases like "superheroine rape" and "superheroine kill" and "superheroine torture" and "superheroine defeated," I have to laugh it off.
But deep down it makes me want to vomit and never stop. Because the idea of a "Superheroine" apparently motivates so many people to contemplate nasty things.
Then again, perhaps most of those hits are from feminist bloggers looking for material to discuss.
But actually, I know they're from angry sexually frustrated males. I know because I've run with that crowd in several different permutations.
And yes, it's well-known that the rape and torture scenes of women in comics have a big fan following. And that a few editors and writers know this and "play it up."
I get many, many hits based on those keywords, by the way. I was getting good Google AdSense revenue from it, too.
Friday, November 17, 2006
Goodbye To Comics #6: Lesbian = Woman Who Reads Comics? Part Two
Goodbye To Comics #6:
Lesbian = Woman Who Reads Comics? Part Two
The meta-narrative of this theoretical memoir is that I had a sexual accident with a "comic guy" and am in the hospital bleeding to death and unconscious. This is, as is everything in this memoir, theoretical, the same way that theoretically the US invaded Iraq for oil and theoretically Flight 93 was shot out of the sky in order to save thousands of lives. It’s all, as Steve Buscemi says in “Fargo,” “easy-peasy,” no reason for anyone to throw me headfirst into a wood-chipper.
When we last visited Lidsville I had just “outed” myself as a bisexual to my gay female co-worker at a comic company.
It was a crazy thing to do. It was the only thing to do. It was like being at the edge of a plank. It was like choking and needing oxygen.
But then what about my complaint last blog posting about the girls who called me a dyke at school just because I liked comics? Perhaps they were right?
It turned out that my co-worker also collected army dolls as a child, as well as the Six Million Dollar Man (a little before my time, but I had a lot of Return Of the Jedi figures). Was there a connection, then, gender-specific toys and sexual preference?
And was I truly bisexual? Or was it merely that I was a afraid of men?
After my sexual injury, Donovan Paul, the man who accidently broke my vagina, suggested that I might be gay because I was afraid of penetration -- and that perhaps the "silver lining" to the whole accident was the discovery of my true sexual persuasion. And that maybe he could watch.
But truth be told, whatever burgeoning bisexuality that had lived inside my psyche over the last 20 years was now giving me a great solution to my anxieties --
“No more penises.”
I was tired of dicks -- Donovan’s dick, Superman’s big honking theoretical dick, all dicks.
I was tired of dicks as well years earlier when I discussed “coming out” and other issues with my co-worker at a nearby bar.
“Is he still bothering you,” she asked me.
“Well...it’s just him being stupid. It’s not a big deal. I have a handle on it.”
“Maybe you should tell somebody.”
“And yeah, then I’ll get crucified.”
I had a handle on it, I reassured her. I had a handle on everything. I was going places. I was going to get my reward for dealing with dicks.
Weeks later, after going to a gay bar with my co-worker, after attending the Pride parade, I came out discretely to my bosses and co-workers. No longer did I find being called a “dyke” an epithet. I wanted to own who I was.
Besides, being gay didn’t hurt my co-worker -- everybody accepted her.
But she wasn’t hired for the same reasons I was.
I was hired as a defacto secretary. A freelancer once joked that I was given money “to sit there and look cute.”
And here I was pulling an Anne Heche.
Some guys thought it kind of cool me being bisexual, because now I could make out with other women in front of them. But I insisted that I had no interest in “bisexuality as a parlor trick for men.” Okay, so now I’m not even Anne Heche. I’m like Gertrude Stein or something. By denying men the pleasure of the sapphic fantasy, I’m a bitch. Useless.
Needless to say, when the topic of diversity in the Justice League was brought up, my suggestion of bringing back the gay Ice Maiden was disregarded.
“She’s dead,” said one editor. “The gay one is dead and retconned out of existence. The straight one is alive.”
Lesbian = Woman Who Reads Comics? Part Two
The meta-narrative of this theoretical memoir is that I had a sexual accident with a "comic guy" and am in the hospital bleeding to death and unconscious. This is, as is everything in this memoir, theoretical, the same way that theoretically the US invaded Iraq for oil and theoretically Flight 93 was shot out of the sky in order to save thousands of lives. It’s all, as Steve Buscemi says in “Fargo,” “easy-peasy,” no reason for anyone to throw me headfirst into a wood-chipper.
When we last visited Lidsville I had just “outed” myself as a bisexual to my gay female co-worker at a comic company.
It was a crazy thing to do. It was the only thing to do. It was like being at the edge of a plank. It was like choking and needing oxygen.
But then what about my complaint last blog posting about the girls who called me a dyke at school just because I liked comics? Perhaps they were right?
It turned out that my co-worker also collected army dolls as a child, as well as the Six Million Dollar Man (a little before my time, but I had a lot of Return Of the Jedi figures). Was there a connection, then, gender-specific toys and sexual preference?
And was I truly bisexual? Or was it merely that I was a afraid of men?
After my sexual injury, Donovan Paul, the man who accidently broke my vagina, suggested that I might be gay because I was afraid of penetration -- and that perhaps the "silver lining" to the whole accident was the discovery of my true sexual persuasion. And that maybe he could watch.
But truth be told, whatever burgeoning bisexuality that had lived inside my psyche over the last 20 years was now giving me a great solution to my anxieties --
“No more penises.”
I was tired of dicks -- Donovan’s dick, Superman’s big honking theoretical dick, all dicks.
I was tired of dicks as well years earlier when I discussed “coming out” and other issues with my co-worker at a nearby bar.
“Is he still bothering you,” she asked me.
“Well...it’s just him being stupid. It’s not a big deal. I have a handle on it.”
“Maybe you should tell somebody.”
“And yeah, then I’ll get crucified.”
I had a handle on it, I reassured her. I had a handle on everything. I was going places. I was going to get my reward for dealing with dicks.
Weeks later, after going to a gay bar with my co-worker, after attending the Pride parade, I came out discretely to my bosses and co-workers. No longer did I find being called a “dyke” an epithet. I wanted to own who I was.
Besides, being gay didn’t hurt my co-worker -- everybody accepted her.
But she wasn’t hired for the same reasons I was.
I was hired as a defacto secretary. A freelancer once joked that I was given money “to sit there and look cute.”
And here I was pulling an Anne Heche.
Some guys thought it kind of cool me being bisexual, because now I could make out with other women in front of them. But I insisted that I had no interest in “bisexuality as a parlor trick for men.” Okay, so now I’m not even Anne Heche. I’m like Gertrude Stein or something. By denying men the pleasure of the sapphic fantasy, I’m a bitch. Useless.
Needless to say, when the topic of diversity in the Justice League was brought up, my suggestion of bringing back the gay Ice Maiden was disregarded.
“She’s dead,” said one editor. “The gay one is dead and retconned out of existence. The straight one is alive.”
Goodbye To Comics: Interlude
Goodbye To Comics: Interlude
I listen to a lot of Christian programming -- I know it wouldn't seem it based on my writings, but I do. I listen to the Christian programming because the religion provides the only real solace I can get sometimes when I face or think back to certain life situations. I mean, according to logic I should be as mad as hell a great deal of my time. But Christianity is illogical. It says that we have to love the people who have done us wrong and believe that whatever crimes they have committed will be addressed by God. It's very comforting, and it actually works.
But sometimes, I do wonder if the suggestion to "do nothing and let God take care of it" works in the service of the actual people pulling the strings. I mean, what a great way to keep oppressed people passive.
Then there is this question. What if you are sure that God (the Universal Deity, The Great One, The Big Cheese Upstairs) wants you to actually be active and confront the wrongs that have been done to you? What if you feel that God actually wants you to write this all out?
Yesterday, I felt very strongly that God wanted me to write this all out -- perhaps just to get it out of my system.
My whole life I have had the desire to reveal the hidden, to shake out dirty laundry, to bring glossed-over wrongs to the light. This, as you can imagine, is a thoroughly unpopular and quite frankly dangerous position to have.
I have noted throughout my life a deep aversion in society to saying the truth and a great reward for telling lies.
As I child I was admonished to "never tell anyone what happens in this house," even if, in retrospect, some of it needed to be told in order to get some outside party to fix things.
As an adolescent I encountered the usual suspects of disgusting adult individuals who would make lewd sexual innuendo or overtures and caution: "now don't tell anybody about this!"
As an adult things become a bit more covert. You observe that there are unsaid policies of silence regarding bad behavior in exchange for rewards. Your reward for continual silence might be tangible, like a promotion or bonus, or it might be intangible, like being allowed in certain social circles. Or there just might be the implicit understanding that during the next series of job cuts your ass might be gone.
But whatever happened to Truth, Justice, and the American Way?
Sometimes I fear that the system I just described IS the American Way.
I just read this article in Vanity Fair condemning the "smarties" who knew early that the Iraqi war was doomed. They were chastised by the author because though they were in positions of influence and had the vital information, they chose to remain silent because their silence was beneficial to their careers. Yes, Colin Powell is a great guy -- but he didn't make it a point to blast the war that he later said he knew was faulty. He kept quiet because he knew his political career would be damaged by not towing the party line. So thousands of troops die in the service of his silence. So how great really is Colin Powell? Or any of the other people who kept mum as to keep their reputations intact?
The American Way.
When I told my lawyer that the most important thing for me was to "tell my story," she wondered why I couldn't just dig a hole, scream into it, bury it, and go on with my life.
I don't know. I was made this way. Ask God. Maybe it's a defect, like a club foot.
And though the Old Testament is very "do what I say and don't ask questions," the New Testament is very much about running around and exposing hypocrisy and pissing people off.
There's nothing passive about storming into a temple and overturning tables.
My key mistake was that I was too passive about the bad behavior of others. And my even graver mistake, the one I believe sometimes is the main reason behind my Own Personal Hiroshimas, was buying into the devil's bargain of silence for reward.
It's a devil's bargain, make no doubt about it. It is what has kept generations of abuse, oppression, and crime intact -- not so much the Big Bad Guys, but the Unassuming Quiet People.
But the real test, of course, is to maintain such a noble standard of living NOT when one has nothing, but when one is immediately faced with losing everything. Would I be able to pass that test? I honestly don't know. I've failed that test before.
In the meantime, I don't think even a hole as big as the Grand Canyon could hold my voice in.
I listen to a lot of Christian programming -- I know it wouldn't seem it based on my writings, but I do. I listen to the Christian programming because the religion provides the only real solace I can get sometimes when I face or think back to certain life situations. I mean, according to logic I should be as mad as hell a great deal of my time. But Christianity is illogical. It says that we have to love the people who have done us wrong and believe that whatever crimes they have committed will be addressed by God. It's very comforting, and it actually works.
But sometimes, I do wonder if the suggestion to "do nothing and let God take care of it" works in the service of the actual people pulling the strings. I mean, what a great way to keep oppressed people passive.
Then there is this question. What if you are sure that God (the Universal Deity, The Great One, The Big Cheese Upstairs) wants you to actually be active and confront the wrongs that have been done to you? What if you feel that God actually wants you to write this all out?
Yesterday, I felt very strongly that God wanted me to write this all out -- perhaps just to get it out of my system.
My whole life I have had the desire to reveal the hidden, to shake out dirty laundry, to bring glossed-over wrongs to the light. This, as you can imagine, is a thoroughly unpopular and quite frankly dangerous position to have.
I have noted throughout my life a deep aversion in society to saying the truth and a great reward for telling lies.
As I child I was admonished to "never tell anyone what happens in this house," even if, in retrospect, some of it needed to be told in order to get some outside party to fix things.
As an adolescent I encountered the usual suspects of disgusting adult individuals who would make lewd sexual innuendo or overtures and caution: "now don't tell anybody about this!"
As an adult things become a bit more covert. You observe that there are unsaid policies of silence regarding bad behavior in exchange for rewards. Your reward for continual silence might be tangible, like a promotion or bonus, or it might be intangible, like being allowed in certain social circles. Or there just might be the implicit understanding that during the next series of job cuts your ass might be gone.
But whatever happened to Truth, Justice, and the American Way?
Sometimes I fear that the system I just described IS the American Way.
I just read this article in Vanity Fair condemning the "smarties" who knew early that the Iraqi war was doomed. They were chastised by the author because though they were in positions of influence and had the vital information, they chose to remain silent because their silence was beneficial to their careers. Yes, Colin Powell is a great guy -- but he didn't make it a point to blast the war that he later said he knew was faulty. He kept quiet because he knew his political career would be damaged by not towing the party line. So thousands of troops die in the service of his silence. So how great really is Colin Powell? Or any of the other people who kept mum as to keep their reputations intact?
The American Way.
When I told my lawyer that the most important thing for me was to "tell my story," she wondered why I couldn't just dig a hole, scream into it, bury it, and go on with my life.
I don't know. I was made this way. Ask God. Maybe it's a defect, like a club foot.
And though the Old Testament is very "do what I say and don't ask questions," the New Testament is very much about running around and exposing hypocrisy and pissing people off.
There's nothing passive about storming into a temple and overturning tables.
My key mistake was that I was too passive about the bad behavior of others. And my even graver mistake, the one I believe sometimes is the main reason behind my Own Personal Hiroshimas, was buying into the devil's bargain of silence for reward.
It's a devil's bargain, make no doubt about it. It is what has kept generations of abuse, oppression, and crime intact -- not so much the Big Bad Guys, but the Unassuming Quiet People.
But the real test, of course, is to maintain such a noble standard of living NOT when one has nothing, but when one is immediately faced with losing everything. Would I be able to pass that test? I honestly don't know. I've failed that test before.
In the meantime, I don't think even a hole as big as the Grand Canyon could hold my voice in.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Goodbye To Comics #8: "We Need A Rape" Part Two
Goodbye To Comics #8:
"We Need A Rape" Part Two
If you have been following this memoir at all then you realize that I theoretically have a mended broken vagina, a ton of hangups, and am “too nice.” You were also introduced to the deceased comic character Vicki Victim, who was raped, burned, and was also “too nice.” About three years a before I sustained a broken vagina I was involved in a special moment in time called a “syzygy.” That’s a time where the planets are aligned “just so” as to produce something along the lines of “shit happens.”
Vicki Victim was unwittingly the catalyst of this syzygy -- certainly not by her own fault.
“The rape pages are in!”
The Rape Pages. There is something almost festive about the way the phrase rolls off your tongue.
In the Rape Pages Vicki Victim, who was chosen as the theoretical sacrificial lamb for the theoretical Gilgongo! Comics’s sea change from “too nice” to “badass," was being raped by a supervillain. The artist would later tell me that drawing those pages made him feel ill.
Honestly, I felt ill looking at them that day. I felt like my head was swaying, light. Hmph, I was too weak, not badass, just like a “girl.” Why couldn’t I be more like my female co-worker -- stoic and no-nonense? She read saw the pages, she read the scripts, and she had no problem with them.
Actually, she did have a problem with them. But she never told anybody who could make a difference. And she didn’t tell anybody because she was smart. And so was I. Right up to the point where the syzygy happened.
So I make an excuse to leave my boss’s office and I get on the computer to read the latest on the comics gossip-mill. An item immediately grabbed my attention. It concerned more theoretical people I’m probably not supposed to talk about.
So this female in the industry accused this really big-time male in the industry of a Really Bad Thing. And now the big-time male, who, using my handy-dandy random name generator, I will call “Ned Hasley,” died and this woman was being savaged in the blogosphere for “sullying his good name.”
By an incredible coincidence, my latest assignment, freshly written-out on my yellow legal pad, was a huge tribute to...Ned Hasely!
Now, I knew Ned. Everybody did. He was company royalty. But I never heard of anything like what this accuser said. But for some strange reason, I kind of believed the accuser anyway. Maybe recently viewing Vicki Victim getting raped from behind by a man in a circus outfit sort of pushed my mind in that direction.
I felt the old familiar surge of my blood-pressure. I looked down at my hand and it was shaking. Why was I so affected by this gossip item?!
Before I knew it, I marched into the office of my other boss, the “sensitive” one, and closed the door.
“Is it true?!” I blurted out, the angry tone of my voice surprising me.
“Is what true?”
“Ned.”
There were pictures of Ned covering my boss’s desk -- a grandfatherly fellow with wise old eyes and an unassuming grin.
“What about Ned?”
“The thing about him groping Melia Bratton.”
My boss flinched for a second, then took a breath and said,
“Melia...she’s a nice woman, but very confused. Sexually confused.”
“But is there any truth to her story?”
“Yes and no.”
“I mean...did he touch her or not?”
“I’m sure Melia misinterpreted things. And Ned...it’s like OJ.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows what really happened?”
“Well...I have to say that working on this tribute for Ned has kind made me uncomfortable now. Because I kind of believe Melia. Because of what’s happening with (BLEEEEEP!!!!).”
“Is he still bothering you?”
“Yeah...” I raked my fingers through my bangs and looked up at the celing. “I’ll be honest with you, I don’t know how much more I can take of it. It’s really stressing me out. And now we just got these pages of...rape art. And...I don’t know, this whole place is really making me uncomfortable right now. I don’t know why this is all happening now like this. At the same time.”
Now let’s fast forward to my unlucky first fuck with comic guy Donovan Paul. I kick him off of me. There’s blood everywhere.
“W-what’s wrong?!”
“T-the bluh....the bluh....”
“Are you sure you’re not still a virgin?”
And let’s zip back, back, back in our theoretical wayback machine, back to my dad ripping my Wonder Woman and Batman posters off my wall in a rage.
“You ungreatful bitch!”
Now to when my old boss at the comic shop propositioned me sexually when I was 16.
“You arouse me...you make me hard...”
Now to the Gilgongo! Comics “New Direction” meeting.
“We need to get the ‘happy’ out of comics...”
Now to my lawyer.
“They said they are lining up to testify against you.”
Think the last five minutes of “Requiem For A Dream.”
I say: “goodbye, Comics.”
And Comics says: "shit, girl! aren't you gone yet?"
When I've written the last chapter of this memoir, I will go. I will go, relatively safe in my obscure niche, and I will not look back. And Comics can have Comics.
"We Need A Rape" Part Two
If you have been following this memoir at all then you realize that I theoretically have a mended broken vagina, a ton of hangups, and am “too nice.” You were also introduced to the deceased comic character Vicki Victim, who was raped, burned, and was also “too nice.” About three years a before I sustained a broken vagina I was involved in a special moment in time called a “syzygy.” That’s a time where the planets are aligned “just so” as to produce something along the lines of “shit happens.”
Vicki Victim was unwittingly the catalyst of this syzygy -- certainly not by her own fault.
“The rape pages are in!”
The Rape Pages. There is something almost festive about the way the phrase rolls off your tongue.
In the Rape Pages Vicki Victim, who was chosen as the theoretical sacrificial lamb for the theoretical Gilgongo! Comics’s sea change from “too nice” to “badass," was being raped by a supervillain. The artist would later tell me that drawing those pages made him feel ill.
Honestly, I felt ill looking at them that day. I felt like my head was swaying, light. Hmph, I was too weak, not badass, just like a “girl.” Why couldn’t I be more like my female co-worker -- stoic and no-nonense? She read saw the pages, she read the scripts, and she had no problem with them.
Actually, she did have a problem with them. But she never told anybody who could make a difference. And she didn’t tell anybody because she was smart. And so was I. Right up to the point where the syzygy happened.
So I make an excuse to leave my boss’s office and I get on the computer to read the latest on the comics gossip-mill. An item immediately grabbed my attention. It concerned more theoretical people I’m probably not supposed to talk about.
So this female in the industry accused this really big-time male in the industry of a Really Bad Thing. And now the big-time male, who, using my handy-dandy random name generator, I will call “Ned Hasley,” died and this woman was being savaged in the blogosphere for “sullying his good name.”
By an incredible coincidence, my latest assignment, freshly written-out on my yellow legal pad, was a huge tribute to...Ned Hasely!
Now, I knew Ned. Everybody did. He was company royalty. But I never heard of anything like what this accuser said. But for some strange reason, I kind of believed the accuser anyway. Maybe recently viewing Vicki Victim getting raped from behind by a man in a circus outfit sort of pushed my mind in that direction.
I felt the old familiar surge of my blood-pressure. I looked down at my hand and it was shaking. Why was I so affected by this gossip item?!
Before I knew it, I marched into the office of my other boss, the “sensitive” one, and closed the door.
“Is it true?!” I blurted out, the angry tone of my voice surprising me.
“Is what true?”
“Ned.”
There were pictures of Ned covering my boss’s desk -- a grandfatherly fellow with wise old eyes and an unassuming grin.
“What about Ned?”
“The thing about him groping Melia Bratton.”
My boss flinched for a second, then took a breath and said,
“Melia...she’s a nice woman, but very confused. Sexually confused.”
“But is there any truth to her story?”
“Yes and no.”
“I mean...did he touch her or not?”
“I’m sure Melia misinterpreted things. And Ned...it’s like OJ.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows what really happened?”
“Well...I have to say that working on this tribute for Ned has kind made me uncomfortable now. Because I kind of believe Melia. Because of what’s happening with (BLEEEEEP!!!!).”
“Is he still bothering you?”
“Yeah...” I raked my fingers through my bangs and looked up at the celing. “I’ll be honest with you, I don’t know how much more I can take of it. It’s really stressing me out. And now we just got these pages of...rape art. And...I don’t know, this whole place is really making me uncomfortable right now. I don’t know why this is all happening now like this. At the same time.”
Now let’s fast forward to my unlucky first fuck with comic guy Donovan Paul. I kick him off of me. There’s blood everywhere.
“W-what’s wrong?!”
“T-the bluh....the bluh....”
“Are you sure you’re not still a virgin?”
And let’s zip back, back, back in our theoretical wayback machine, back to my dad ripping my Wonder Woman and Batman posters off my wall in a rage.
“You ungreatful bitch!”
Now to when my old boss at the comic shop propositioned me sexually when I was 16.
“You arouse me...you make me hard...”
Now to the Gilgongo! Comics “New Direction” meeting.
“We need to get the ‘happy’ out of comics...”
Now to my lawyer.
“They said they are lining up to testify against you.”
Think the last five minutes of “Requiem For A Dream.”
I say: “goodbye, Comics.”
And Comics says: "shit, girl! aren't you gone yet?"
When I've written the last chapter of this memoir, I will go. I will go, relatively safe in my obscure niche, and I will not look back. And Comics can have Comics.
Goodbye To Comics #7: “We Need A Rape”
Goodbye To Comics #7:
“We Need A Rape”
My theoretical comic company, which, for the theoretical purposes of my theoretical memoir, I’ll call Gilgongo! Comix, was tired of being “pushed around” in the sales wars and in the court of fanboy opinion (such as it was). So with all the red-nosed gumption and determination of Ralphie from “A Christmas Story” Gilgongo! Comix decided to go badass.
They needed a rape. Because there’s nothing quite so badass as rape, lets face it. And the victim couldn’t been from the usual suspects: “The Black Raven” (done that already plus ovaries ripped out), “Bondage Queen” (wasn’t she raped like every issue--at least mentally?), “Demon-Girl” (she was already paralyzed from the last pseudo-raping and that provided all sorts of logistical nightmares for the artist).
No, they had to find the most innocent, virginal, good-natured “nice” character they could find and ravage her not once but twice.
Theoretically, this character’s name was Vicki Victim.
A whole groundbreaking limited series would be built around Vicki Victim’s rape and murder.
This made me nervous. In the office, I was known as being innocent, virginal, good-natured, and “nice”. I was kidded on it on a regular basis, as well as being told it was exactly those qualities that were “holding me back.”
Of course, it was silly to identify with a dumb old comic character.
Vicki Victim’s fate was sealed in a Gilgongo! Comics confab in which we explored how we could change our comics to be more “badass.” It was decided that the reason we were trailing in sales was because we were “too good-natured and nice.” This would have to stop. Our books needed a grittier edge. We needed a grittier edge.
So our books changed. There was rape, and murder, torture, death, and mutiliation. Superheroes did amoral or outright evil things and the line between good and bad was blurred.
And you know what?
Our sales improved. And this is a fact.
But it all started with Vicki Victim, and she has to be given credit.
To be fair to the ultimate writer that was assigned to the Vicki Victim Story, he was specifically told to include sensationalistic “adult” themes in the story. But when we got the scripts in I was still kind of shocked. Perhaps I was so affected not simply because of my fannish defense of Vicki Victim’s “purity” as a beloved character. Perhaps I was dealing with my own issues.
Let’s back up.
Do you know what a syzygy is?
That’s when all the planets align in such a manner that crazy shit happens.
In my time at Gilgongo! Comics I experienced several of what can only be described as “syzygies.”
One was an incident where one of my bosses set out to rid me of my “niceness” once and for all. It involved a freelancer who had a habit of delaying handing in his work because he was such a damned perfectionist. I was told to go into my office, close the door, and scream at this freelancer until he cried. I wasn’t told to simply “be firm.” I was told to scream at him until he cried and scare the living shit out of him. And believe me, he would have cried. And he did. I screeched like a maniac at the poor devil, threatening and berating. Right beyond my nearly closed door, I could see my boss listening with glee.
Tears rolled down my cheeks -- not out of pity for my prey, but because the sheer shock to my system turned me bright red and sent my blood pressure through the roof. I thought I was going to have a heart-attack. On the other end of the line, the freelancer was stuttering, crying, freaking out.
I couldn’t stop shaking, even minutes after I hung up. What had just happened was so unnatural to me, so vile. And it served no purpose anyway. Because soon after the lights flickered and my computer began to whine like a little baby, and soon all the power was out. Everywhere.
Syzygy.
But this wasn’t the crucial syzygy that began the chain of events that ended my career. That particular incident had to do with your dead friend and mine, Vicki Victim.
It started with my associate editor running gleefully into our boss’s office, several boards of art in his hand.
“The rape pages are in!”
“We Need A Rape”
My theoretical comic company, which, for the theoretical purposes of my theoretical memoir, I’ll call Gilgongo! Comix, was tired of being “pushed around” in the sales wars and in the court of fanboy opinion (such as it was). So with all the red-nosed gumption and determination of Ralphie from “A Christmas Story” Gilgongo! Comix decided to go badass.
They needed a rape. Because there’s nothing quite so badass as rape, lets face it. And the victim couldn’t been from the usual suspects: “The Black Raven” (done that already plus ovaries ripped out), “Bondage Queen” (wasn’t she raped like every issue--at least mentally?), “Demon-Girl” (she was already paralyzed from the last pseudo-raping and that provided all sorts of logistical nightmares for the artist).
No, they had to find the most innocent, virginal, good-natured “nice” character they could find and ravage her not once but twice.
Theoretically, this character’s name was Vicki Victim.
A whole groundbreaking limited series would be built around Vicki Victim’s rape and murder.
This made me nervous. In the office, I was known as being innocent, virginal, good-natured, and “nice”. I was kidded on it on a regular basis, as well as being told it was exactly those qualities that were “holding me back.”
Of course, it was silly to identify with a dumb old comic character.
Vicki Victim’s fate was sealed in a Gilgongo! Comics confab in which we explored how we could change our comics to be more “badass.” It was decided that the reason we were trailing in sales was because we were “too good-natured and nice.” This would have to stop. Our books needed a grittier edge. We needed a grittier edge.
So our books changed. There was rape, and murder, torture, death, and mutiliation. Superheroes did amoral or outright evil things and the line between good and bad was blurred.
And you know what?
Our sales improved. And this is a fact.
But it all started with Vicki Victim, and she has to be given credit.
To be fair to the ultimate writer that was assigned to the Vicki Victim Story, he was specifically told to include sensationalistic “adult” themes in the story. But when we got the scripts in I was still kind of shocked. Perhaps I was so affected not simply because of my fannish defense of Vicki Victim’s “purity” as a beloved character. Perhaps I was dealing with my own issues.
Let’s back up.
Do you know what a syzygy is?
That’s when all the planets align in such a manner that crazy shit happens.
In my time at Gilgongo! Comics I experienced several of what can only be described as “syzygies.”
One was an incident where one of my bosses set out to rid me of my “niceness” once and for all. It involved a freelancer who had a habit of delaying handing in his work because he was such a damned perfectionist. I was told to go into my office, close the door, and scream at this freelancer until he cried. I wasn’t told to simply “be firm.” I was told to scream at him until he cried and scare the living shit out of him. And believe me, he would have cried. And he did. I screeched like a maniac at the poor devil, threatening and berating. Right beyond my nearly closed door, I could see my boss listening with glee.
Tears rolled down my cheeks -- not out of pity for my prey, but because the sheer shock to my system turned me bright red and sent my blood pressure through the roof. I thought I was going to have a heart-attack. On the other end of the line, the freelancer was stuttering, crying, freaking out.
I couldn’t stop shaking, even minutes after I hung up. What had just happened was so unnatural to me, so vile. And it served no purpose anyway. Because soon after the lights flickered and my computer began to whine like a little baby, and soon all the power was out. Everywhere.
Syzygy.
But this wasn’t the crucial syzygy that began the chain of events that ended my career. That particular incident had to do with your dead friend and mine, Vicki Victim.
It started with my associate editor running gleefully into our boss’s office, several boards of art in his hand.
“The rape pages are in!”
Goodbye To Comics #5: Lesbian = Woman Who Reads Comics?
Goodbye To Comics #5:
Lesbian = Woman Who Reads Comics?
I am often asked a lot of things related to comics because I am a woman who reads comics and thus I am a freak.
1. Is it weird to be a woman who reads comics?
2. How did you get into comics?
3. What type of comics do you buy?
4. Sit on my lap?
I’ll tackle the first question first. How has it been like being a female that reads comics? In terms of the first 16 years of my life, it has been sheer fucking hell except for the introverted part where I’m in a world of my own and am having sex with Wolverine.
Why has it been sheer fucking hell? Because I knew NO other girl who read superhero comics, and because I was made fun of, kicked, beaten up, spit at, and called a fucking dyke. Of course, I was partially resposible for this as that at some point, around age 11 or so, I knew that if I only stopped the comics, started wearing feminine clothes, and made some token effort to be like the other girls things would have at least been bearable. But I consciously made the choice then, buoyed of course by the sensational return of Jean Grey that there was no way I was going to miss thank you very much, that I would continue on my peculiar path.
But it was always curious to me how the lesbianism thing was connected, at least by my various tormentors, to the comics.
I mean really, what is so gay about Batman?
Ok, let’s start over again.
What’s so gender-specific about a superhero narrative? About the graphic story-telling medium?
And yet, I was called “a fucking dyke.” Obviously the sensible shoes and my GI Joe collection didn’t help the situation. But I was stung, and the connection between “lesbian” and “comics” stayed in my mind.
Worse, all the boys who I hung out with as a child who talked comics with me were by the age of 12, only interested in fucking. So I couldn’t hang out with the boys or the girls. But it was ok. Because I had the comics.
I would stay loyal to the comics.
Besides, my bipolar dad seemed to get more and more agitated as I physically developed and neared puberty. I don’t think he liked women very much. I don’t think he wanted me to be a woman. Had he not passed away two months before my first period, I don’t even know if I would have made it to being a woman.
That summer he had become more violent than I had ever known him to be. A frequent target of his rage was my comic collection, neatly filed with bags and boards, that he would grab by the handful and throw at me as he called me a fucking ungreatful bitch. He beat me within an inch of my life.
And yet, that was such a great summer. We went to all the cool comic shops in Manhattan. We had lots of ice-cream. I filled out the back-issues of my Claremont/Romita Jr. X-Men.
It was such a bad summer.
It was such a great summer.
It was such a bad summer.
It was such a great summer.
Ok, so I’m in the hospital room, right, and they’ve just given me the knockout gas so they can sew up my wounded vagina. I’m in Oz, so to speak, I’m talking technicolor and Peter Allen in a amazing glow-in-the-dark patchwork coat. It’s wild.
In the dreamscape I am walking past a long corridor filled with the writhing bodies of what I can only assume are the Dead. To build up my confidence I start singing,
“My name is Cuban Pete...I’m the king of the Latin beat...and when I dance I go boom-chicky-boom boom-chicky-boom boom-chicky-boom...”
I’m suddenly reading the first scripts for the Rose and Thorn adaptation by Gail Simone. The irony of this story as it applied to my life was not only striking, it was choking.
I was an assistant editor, theoretically. Theoretically in a theoretical company.
Several weeks later I approach an openly lesbian co-worker at a company function and confess that I am bi-sexual and that I desperately need somebody to give me advice.
Lesbian = Woman Who Reads Comics?
I am often asked a lot of things related to comics because I am a woman who reads comics and thus I am a freak.
1. Is it weird to be a woman who reads comics?
2. How did you get into comics?
3. What type of comics do you buy?
4. Sit on my lap?
I’ll tackle the first question first. How has it been like being a female that reads comics? In terms of the first 16 years of my life, it has been sheer fucking hell except for the introverted part where I’m in a world of my own and am having sex with Wolverine.
Why has it been sheer fucking hell? Because I knew NO other girl who read superhero comics, and because I was made fun of, kicked, beaten up, spit at, and called a fucking dyke. Of course, I was partially resposible for this as that at some point, around age 11 or so, I knew that if I only stopped the comics, started wearing feminine clothes, and made some token effort to be like the other girls things would have at least been bearable. But I consciously made the choice then, buoyed of course by the sensational return of Jean Grey that there was no way I was going to miss thank you very much, that I would continue on my peculiar path.
But it was always curious to me how the lesbianism thing was connected, at least by my various tormentors, to the comics.
I mean really, what is so gay about Batman?
Ok, let’s start over again.
What’s so gender-specific about a superhero narrative? About the graphic story-telling medium?
And yet, I was called “a fucking dyke.” Obviously the sensible shoes and my GI Joe collection didn’t help the situation. But I was stung, and the connection between “lesbian” and “comics” stayed in my mind.
Worse, all the boys who I hung out with as a child who talked comics with me were by the age of 12, only interested in fucking. So I couldn’t hang out with the boys or the girls. But it was ok. Because I had the comics.
I would stay loyal to the comics.
Besides, my bipolar dad seemed to get more and more agitated as I physically developed and neared puberty. I don’t think he liked women very much. I don’t think he wanted me to be a woman. Had he not passed away two months before my first period, I don’t even know if I would have made it to being a woman.
That summer he had become more violent than I had ever known him to be. A frequent target of his rage was my comic collection, neatly filed with bags and boards, that he would grab by the handful and throw at me as he called me a fucking ungreatful bitch. He beat me within an inch of my life.
And yet, that was such a great summer. We went to all the cool comic shops in Manhattan. We had lots of ice-cream. I filled out the back-issues of my Claremont/Romita Jr. X-Men.
It was such a bad summer.
It was such a great summer.
It was such a bad summer.
It was such a great summer.
Ok, so I’m in the hospital room, right, and they’ve just given me the knockout gas so they can sew up my wounded vagina. I’m in Oz, so to speak, I’m talking technicolor and Peter Allen in a amazing glow-in-the-dark patchwork coat. It’s wild.
In the dreamscape I am walking past a long corridor filled with the writhing bodies of what I can only assume are the Dead. To build up my confidence I start singing,
“My name is Cuban Pete...I’m the king of the Latin beat...and when I dance I go boom-chicky-boom boom-chicky-boom boom-chicky-boom...”
I’m suddenly reading the first scripts for the Rose and Thorn adaptation by Gail Simone. The irony of this story as it applied to my life was not only striking, it was choking.
I was an assistant editor, theoretically. Theoretically in a theoretical company.
Several weeks later I approach an openly lesbian co-worker at a company function and confess that I am bi-sexual and that I desperately need somebody to give me advice.
Goodbye To Comics #4: Batman and Wonder Woman
Goodbye To Comics #4:
Batman and Wonder Woman
I began reading comics when I was three years old. My mom worked during the day and my dad at night, and consequently my dad was tasked with keeping me busy -- and enculturating me. This would explain why I didn’t have any conception of the fact I was a girl until I was eight and the other girls told me, “you dress funny.” (Of course, cords and big leathery shoes are a hell of a lot more practical than a buncha lacey satiny things. And I totally don’t regret missing the prom...even though Sue Snell bribed Tommy Ross to take me and all.)
At any rate, my father and comics were inextricably joined in my mind, Perez Teen Titans and Buscema Avengers forever linked with the interior of my dad’s broken-down old Dodge Dart, Claremont X-Men and cartoony images of Jim Shooter in Marvel Age blending with hot summer days in the early 80s and Dad taking me to Baskin Robbins for a blue daquiri “icey.”
There were a few comic stores we frequented. One was conveniently located only a couple of blocks away but carried mostly old crap and Mad Magazines. The middle-aged proprietor was a friend of my dad’s and would later offer sex to me when I was 16. Then there was the scary hole-in-the-wall near my grammar school. It was a poorly-lit “used book den” with stacks of molding paperbacks and periodicals everywhere; porn in the back, a box of crumpled comics and Mads in the front. It was rumored that the store owner, this old bespectacled man who never looked at anybody in the face, was a child molester. At some point my mother forbade me to go there anymore, though I did anyway because I didn’t quite understand what “child molestation” meant and anyway he had old Howard the Ducks for 15 cents a piece.
But the really good comic joint, one of the first “specialty shops” to open up in Brooklyn, was located in Bensonhurst. This was THE place for me to visit, the highlight of my week, the reason for my existence. My father faithfully took me there every Sunday after playing in the park. Then we’d get ice-cream. It was heaven, reading the latest Detective Comics or Superman Family next to him in the car. I used to read those comics until the covers fell off.
My dad even looked like a superhero. He was an amateur bodybuilder, and had, over the last few years, grown quite large, almost like Hulk Hogan. Those “tips” he was getting from his buds at the gym were certainly paying off!
One day my dad got me a special treat -- one poster each of Batman & Wonder Woman to put on my wall. I had seen those posters in the windows of the store for a while and had really wanted them. Most likely they were drawn by Jose Luis Garcia Lopez, as he was doing a lot of licensed material for DC at that time. Classic Batman, classic Wonder Woman, both on a field of stars or motion lines. My little pinups of Scott Baio or Olivia Newton-John would pale in comparison, mere shells of personality next to such illustrious guardians of the universe.
Once back in the house, my dad got out his trusty heavy-duty staple gun and bolted those suckers onto the wall above my bed, divots of wall and plaster popping off. I was always scared to death of that stapler, to me it was quick and severe like a gun, merciless. But it kept those posters up.
Those posters stayed up for about a couple of weeks. Then my father had one of his violent, bipolar fits over me choosing to attend a birthday party down the hall of our floor rather than spend all day at his side in honor of Father’s Day. He started at the door, where colorful letters that spelled out my name, made out of clay by my mom, were torn off in a rage, leaving a spot of blood where one of his fingers got cut. Then he moved into the room and made a grab at my posters, at Wonder Woman & Batman, ripping them to shreds and then balling up the shreds and throwing them at me as he accused me of being an ingrateful piece of shit.
For a few years after that I never liked to look at posters or even think about those images, those Garcia Lopez Wonder Womans & Batmans. It reminded me of what I did, of how I made my dad tear them off the wall. At the time, I didn’t realize that wanting to go to the birthday party would offend him like that. If I would have known, if I had some clue, I would have not went and thus saved the posters, I could have had Batman & Wonder Woman looking down on me, keeping me safe from bad guys, for even years into the future.
But now I have a clue.
My mind is wandering from this to another scene. You will excuse me if I do this during the narrative, but as you remember from the last blog posting I had just had the knockout gas administered to me at the hospital after getting my vagina busted. So I’m like in this “Mulholland Drive” fugue state in the memoir, I’m seeing Miss Gulch cycling by, I’m seeing cows with televisions for eyes, I think even Mitch Hedberg is hiding out somewhere around here, looking for cookies. It’s rockin’ I tell you.
I am now seeing the painters cover up the “Metropolis Destruction” scene from the 7th floor of DC Comics reception area after 9/11. I always thought it was bad karma to have such a negative tableau be the first thing you see when you entered the “executive” floor anyway. But with the WTC gone, it was now beyond a bad artistic choice, it was fucking unbearable.
Maybe they shouldn’t have painted it over, however. Maybe they should have just torn it off.
Batman and Wonder Woman
I began reading comics when I was three years old. My mom worked during the day and my dad at night, and consequently my dad was tasked with keeping me busy -- and enculturating me. This would explain why I didn’t have any conception of the fact I was a girl until I was eight and the other girls told me, “you dress funny.” (Of course, cords and big leathery shoes are a hell of a lot more practical than a buncha lacey satiny things. And I totally don’t regret missing the prom...even though Sue Snell bribed Tommy Ross to take me and all.)
At any rate, my father and comics were inextricably joined in my mind, Perez Teen Titans and Buscema Avengers forever linked with the interior of my dad’s broken-down old Dodge Dart, Claremont X-Men and cartoony images of Jim Shooter in Marvel Age blending with hot summer days in the early 80s and Dad taking me to Baskin Robbins for a blue daquiri “icey.”
There were a few comic stores we frequented. One was conveniently located only a couple of blocks away but carried mostly old crap and Mad Magazines. The middle-aged proprietor was a friend of my dad’s and would later offer sex to me when I was 16. Then there was the scary hole-in-the-wall near my grammar school. It was a poorly-lit “used book den” with stacks of molding paperbacks and periodicals everywhere; porn in the back, a box of crumpled comics and Mads in the front. It was rumored that the store owner, this old bespectacled man who never looked at anybody in the face, was a child molester. At some point my mother forbade me to go there anymore, though I did anyway because I didn’t quite understand what “child molestation” meant and anyway he had old Howard the Ducks for 15 cents a piece.
But the really good comic joint, one of the first “specialty shops” to open up in Brooklyn, was located in Bensonhurst. This was THE place for me to visit, the highlight of my week, the reason for my existence. My father faithfully took me there every Sunday after playing in the park. Then we’d get ice-cream. It was heaven, reading the latest Detective Comics or Superman Family next to him in the car. I used to read those comics until the covers fell off.
My dad even looked like a superhero. He was an amateur bodybuilder, and had, over the last few years, grown quite large, almost like Hulk Hogan. Those “tips” he was getting from his buds at the gym were certainly paying off!
One day my dad got me a special treat -- one poster each of Batman & Wonder Woman to put on my wall. I had seen those posters in the windows of the store for a while and had really wanted them. Most likely they were drawn by Jose Luis Garcia Lopez, as he was doing a lot of licensed material for DC at that time. Classic Batman, classic Wonder Woman, both on a field of stars or motion lines. My little pinups of Scott Baio or Olivia Newton-John would pale in comparison, mere shells of personality next to such illustrious guardians of the universe.
Once back in the house, my dad got out his trusty heavy-duty staple gun and bolted those suckers onto the wall above my bed, divots of wall and plaster popping off. I was always scared to death of that stapler, to me it was quick and severe like a gun, merciless. But it kept those posters up.
Those posters stayed up for about a couple of weeks. Then my father had one of his violent, bipolar fits over me choosing to attend a birthday party down the hall of our floor rather than spend all day at his side in honor of Father’s Day. He started at the door, where colorful letters that spelled out my name, made out of clay by my mom, were torn off in a rage, leaving a spot of blood where one of his fingers got cut. Then he moved into the room and made a grab at my posters, at Wonder Woman & Batman, ripping them to shreds and then balling up the shreds and throwing them at me as he accused me of being an ingrateful piece of shit.
For a few years after that I never liked to look at posters or even think about those images, those Garcia Lopez Wonder Womans & Batmans. It reminded me of what I did, of how I made my dad tear them off the wall. At the time, I didn’t realize that wanting to go to the birthday party would offend him like that. If I would have known, if I had some clue, I would have not went and thus saved the posters, I could have had Batman & Wonder Woman looking down on me, keeping me safe from bad guys, for even years into the future.
But now I have a clue.
My mind is wandering from this to another scene. You will excuse me if I do this during the narrative, but as you remember from the last blog posting I had just had the knockout gas administered to me at the hospital after getting my vagina busted. So I’m like in this “Mulholland Drive” fugue state in the memoir, I’m seeing Miss Gulch cycling by, I’m seeing cows with televisions for eyes, I think even Mitch Hedberg is hiding out somewhere around here, looking for cookies. It’s rockin’ I tell you.
I am now seeing the painters cover up the “Metropolis Destruction” scene from the 7th floor of DC Comics reception area after 9/11. I always thought it was bad karma to have such a negative tableau be the first thing you see when you entered the “executive” floor anyway. But with the WTC gone, it was now beyond a bad artistic choice, it was fucking unbearable.
Maybe they shouldn’t have painted it over, however. Maybe they should have just torn it off.
Goodbye To Comics #3: The Broken Vagina Monologues Part Three
Goodbye To Comics #3:
The Broken Vagina Monologues Part Three
The “Rape Agenda” limited series by DC Comics -- buy them all! In each collector's-item issue a different female character gets sexually assaulted or mutiliated! The line-up is as follows:
Rape Agenda #1: Supergirl. Writer & Artist Frank Miller brings to life what it would be like if Supergirl was brutally sexually assaulted by Braniac and then had her hand fed to Krypto. A brave and affecting story about life, love, death, rape, redemption, death, taxes, racism, and the Iraqi war. Guest-starring Turner D. Century.
Rape Agenda #2: Batgirl. Writer Alan Moore returns to the Batgirl-mutilation genre with Melinda Gebbie in tow with an early story of Batgirl, long before she donned the cape and cowl (we’re talking like when she was 12 and shit). A lyrical story of sexual awakening and fisting. Guest-starring Air-Wave.
Rape Agenda #3: Sue Dibny. We dig up the corpse of Sue Dibny and have her anally fucked by Solomon Grundy, who can’t tell the difference. Both Brad Meltzer & Rags Morales actually refused to work on this story, can you believe it? So we had to hire some ex-Image dudes who draw like Liefeld on quaaludes. But you bought the first two issues of this abortion, so you’re fucked because you’re all OCD and need “a full set.” Ha! Gotcha suckers! Guest-starring Angle Man.
Rape Agenda #4: Tori Amos. Fucking uppity bitch! Me takum crayons and make story about fucking bitch who deserved to get fucked! Stupid bitch! Me draw story and put Carrie Fisher in slave outfit in it. Carrie & Tori fuck like randy whores and then they get killed by Doomsday! Me draw with crayons and I put the letters in there too so it like comic book. And fuck Nancy Pelosi too. Guest starring Granny Goodness.
Of course, DC Comics never put out a comic called “The Rape Agenda.” This is just me being all wacky like Bill Maher, all irreverent, spilling naughty keywords like “rape” and “superheroine” so I can keep getting “hits” by net surfers from here to Rangoon who are looking for dead superchick porn.
I was merely making a theoretical jump.
Here’s another jump, me from my gurney to the examining table after getting my “vergina broked.” A Margaret Cho sketch about how her kidneys failed from her eating disorder played back in my mind, giving me comfort that some other woman has gone through something so fucked up as this. Though of course, thousands upon thousands of women have. I wasn’t special. I wasn’t even totally there anymore, as I continued to bleed and as Donovan Paul, my hapless date and accidental "vergina broker," sat by my side, stroked my sweaty brow, and continued to think up ways how there was a silver lining to what had just happened.
No, I wasn’t all there...there was something...almost past the line of my vision...a person...standing there, watching the whole thing...was it...could it be...THE BLESSED VIRGIN MARY?!
No. It was me. I saw myself standing next to me, viewing the whole friggin’ mess, calm as a cucumber, as calculating as a computer.
Oh, crap.
I needed to get me back inside me, but I was too weak. By this point I had several boxes of gauze shoved up my snatch in a vain attempt to stem the tide of the blood flow. Doctors, nurses, janitors, and I think New York City Mayor Bloomberg all filled the room at various times, some presumably necessary to the case at hand, some merely curious.
I winced as the gauze was pulled out and different tools were shoved in, my head turned away from the action and staring at the “sexual assault” laminated informational sign to my left. By this time Donovan Paul was apparently asked to wait outside.
“Honey, did this man force himself on you?”
“No.”
“You can tell me if he did.”
“He didn’t.”
“Look...I’ve only seen this injury on sexual assault cases.”
“I heard of a porn star once who had this happen during a shoot. And this woman who slept with Dennis Rodman. His dick was too big.”
“So you’re saying his dick was too big? That this is how it happened?”
“He’s huge.”
“Did he use any...foreign instruments?”
“No.”
“Anything brakeable? Any knives?”
“No. He’s got just a really big dick. He’s a really nice man, so totally calm and everything. He saved my life.”
“Okay...it’s just that I have to ask these questions.”
“I understand. Oh, doctor?”
“Yes?”
“Am I going to die?”
By the time I was placed on the gurney for the operating room, I had shed so much blood that I felt myself lose consciousness.
But I had been through so much over the last four years that I didn’t care as much as I should have. I wasn’t upset. I was just tired. I looked up at Donovan as he said goodbye to me, I took a mental polaroid of his face and built a whole sleepy, comforting narrative around it. I barely knew him, but I was satisfied. I was satisfied with everything.
Back at the house, I had a computer file entitled, “read this first” on the desktop, written a year ago. I had instructed a couple of good friends to access this file and email it to certain people just in case I ever died. It was all very Bob Woodwardsy. I am outwardly a very soft-spoken, passive individual but I am Joe Pesci on a PMS tear at the keys of a computer. My ability to write has, for the most part, been my only true means of defense, like nunchuks or katanas. As I type these words I have an autographed picture of David Carradine as “Bill” tacked to my wall, next to an autographed picture of Margot Kidder as Lois Lane.
What does this all have to do with comics, you may ask?
By now in the narrative, the gas mask gets pulled over my nose and mouth. The part of me that escaped, this inscrutable mute presence that has never left my side, betrays no emotion. But I know that bitch is going to write about this.
The Broken Vagina Monologues Part Three
The “Rape Agenda” limited series by DC Comics -- buy them all! In each collector's-item issue a different female character gets sexually assaulted or mutiliated! The line-up is as follows:
Rape Agenda #1: Supergirl. Writer & Artist Frank Miller brings to life what it would be like if Supergirl was brutally sexually assaulted by Braniac and then had her hand fed to Krypto. A brave and affecting story about life, love, death, rape, redemption, death, taxes, racism, and the Iraqi war. Guest-starring Turner D. Century.
Rape Agenda #2: Batgirl. Writer Alan Moore returns to the Batgirl-mutilation genre with Melinda Gebbie in tow with an early story of Batgirl, long before she donned the cape and cowl (we’re talking like when she was 12 and shit). A lyrical story of sexual awakening and fisting. Guest-starring Air-Wave.
Rape Agenda #3: Sue Dibny. We dig up the corpse of Sue Dibny and have her anally fucked by Solomon Grundy, who can’t tell the difference. Both Brad Meltzer & Rags Morales actually refused to work on this story, can you believe it? So we had to hire some ex-Image dudes who draw like Liefeld on quaaludes. But you bought the first two issues of this abortion, so you’re fucked because you’re all OCD and need “a full set.” Ha! Gotcha suckers! Guest-starring Angle Man.
Rape Agenda #4: Tori Amos. Fucking uppity bitch! Me takum crayons and make story about fucking bitch who deserved to get fucked! Stupid bitch! Me draw story and put Carrie Fisher in slave outfit in it. Carrie & Tori fuck like randy whores and then they get killed by Doomsday! Me draw with crayons and I put the letters in there too so it like comic book. And fuck Nancy Pelosi too. Guest starring Granny Goodness.
Of course, DC Comics never put out a comic called “The Rape Agenda.” This is just me being all wacky like Bill Maher, all irreverent, spilling naughty keywords like “rape” and “superheroine” so I can keep getting “hits” by net surfers from here to Rangoon who are looking for dead superchick porn.
I was merely making a theoretical jump.
Here’s another jump, me from my gurney to the examining table after getting my “vergina broked.” A Margaret Cho sketch about how her kidneys failed from her eating disorder played back in my mind, giving me comfort that some other woman has gone through something so fucked up as this. Though of course, thousands upon thousands of women have. I wasn’t special. I wasn’t even totally there anymore, as I continued to bleed and as Donovan Paul, my hapless date and accidental "vergina broker," sat by my side, stroked my sweaty brow, and continued to think up ways how there was a silver lining to what had just happened.
No, I wasn’t all there...there was something...almost past the line of my vision...a person...standing there, watching the whole thing...was it...could it be...THE BLESSED VIRGIN MARY?!
No. It was me. I saw myself standing next to me, viewing the whole friggin’ mess, calm as a cucumber, as calculating as a computer.
Oh, crap.
I needed to get me back inside me, but I was too weak. By this point I had several boxes of gauze shoved up my snatch in a vain attempt to stem the tide of the blood flow. Doctors, nurses, janitors, and I think New York City Mayor Bloomberg all filled the room at various times, some presumably necessary to the case at hand, some merely curious.
I winced as the gauze was pulled out and different tools were shoved in, my head turned away from the action and staring at the “sexual assault” laminated informational sign to my left. By this time Donovan Paul was apparently asked to wait outside.
“Honey, did this man force himself on you?”
“No.”
“You can tell me if he did.”
“He didn’t.”
“Look...I’ve only seen this injury on sexual assault cases.”
“I heard of a porn star once who had this happen during a shoot. And this woman who slept with Dennis Rodman. His dick was too big.”
“So you’re saying his dick was too big? That this is how it happened?”
“He’s huge.”
“Did he use any...foreign instruments?”
“No.”
“Anything brakeable? Any knives?”
“No. He’s got just a really big dick. He’s a really nice man, so totally calm and everything. He saved my life.”
“Okay...it’s just that I have to ask these questions.”
“I understand. Oh, doctor?”
“Yes?”
“Am I going to die?”
By the time I was placed on the gurney for the operating room, I had shed so much blood that I felt myself lose consciousness.
But I had been through so much over the last four years that I didn’t care as much as I should have. I wasn’t upset. I was just tired. I looked up at Donovan as he said goodbye to me, I took a mental polaroid of his face and built a whole sleepy, comforting narrative around it. I barely knew him, but I was satisfied. I was satisfied with everything.
Back at the house, I had a computer file entitled, “read this first” on the desktop, written a year ago. I had instructed a couple of good friends to access this file and email it to certain people just in case I ever died. It was all very Bob Woodwardsy. I am outwardly a very soft-spoken, passive individual but I am Joe Pesci on a PMS tear at the keys of a computer. My ability to write has, for the most part, been my only true means of defense, like nunchuks or katanas. As I type these words I have an autographed picture of David Carradine as “Bill” tacked to my wall, next to an autographed picture of Margot Kidder as Lois Lane.
What does this all have to do with comics, you may ask?
By now in the narrative, the gas mask gets pulled over my nose and mouth. The part of me that escaped, this inscrutable mute presence that has never left my side, betrays no emotion. But I know that bitch is going to write about this.
Goodbye To Comics #2: The Broken Vagina Monologues Part II
Goodbye To Comics #2:
The Broken Vagina Monologues Part II
Last episode, I was bleeding to death on the carpet of a member of the comic book industry. Much like Batman mused as he was strapped to a giant sno-cone by Mr. Freeze, this was truly a shitty way to die, eye-level with a stack of barely-read Marvel comps.
My theoretical sex-partner, the theoretically-named “Donovan Paul,” was, to his credit, quite calm and collected for a man who had potentially murdered a woman with his dick. When the second attack of bleeding started from my vagina, creating a gush akin to what happened to Johnny Depp in “Nightmare on Elm Street,” I began to freak out. My blood-stained hands began to frantically dial my cell-phone. I wanted to use the voice-recording feature to document that Donovan indeed did not rape and kill me just in case the ambulance got there too late. I’m sure that’s what they would all think, that Donovan raped me, and then he would be thrown in jail and nobody would believe him. Then perhaps Keith Olbermann would use his story for his “Oddball” segment:
“Next we have a story about another crazy comic book guy who raped some poor chick..on top of his comic book collection! Worst...murder...ever!”
I pictured the comics gossip mongers and pundits perhaps focusing on my death for a few weeks. And just maybe, with me so radically and sensationally dispatched, other unrelated things might come out about me and my experience with the comics industry...maybe...
Maybe it would all come out, come out like my blood was so quickly coming out. Maybe...it would all be worth it...
Besides, I had no health insurance. The fear of death pales in comparison.
But I had to protect Donovan Paul.
I was always protecting one Donovan Paul or another, saint or sinner it didn't matter. It was an automatic reaction. My fingers stuttering on the keys, my voice shakily breathing into the receiver:
“T-to w-w-whom in may concern...I just want to let you know that just in case I die that Donovan Paul is not responsible...so d-don’t throw him in jail or anything...”
Soon EMS and several cops knocked on the door. Donovan tossed his replica Hattori Hanzo sword that had been lying around into a closet, though he forgot about the lightsabers.
In the meantime I had been partially dressed, my jeans saturated in blood as the bleeding relentlessly continued. I was in no pain...which was odd. Later, I found out that there were very little nerve endings where I had been torn. A painless way to bleed to death. However, the rapid internal clotting was pressing against my bladder, something that would reach unbearable levels until a catheter was used in the hospital.
To say that the police looked askance at the decor of Donovan’s apartment was an understatement. Boxes and shelves and virtual stacked columns of comics, graphic novels, and toys filled every nook and cranny. Crazy comic book guy.
A cop, glancing darkly at the selection of lightsabers leaning against a door, asked Donovan to step outside for a minute as the EMS was fitting me into the gurney so he could ask me some questions.
“Honey, did this guy force himself on you?”
“No.”
“You can tell me.”
“No.”
“Did he...use any foreign instruments on you?”
“No...”
“Any bottles, dildos, vegetables, broom-sticks, knives...”
“No...Donovan’s a good man. We were just having sex."
I kept repeating what a good man Donovan was, how he had helped me stay calm and what a great time we had earlier that night, as they carried me off in the stretcher. Donovan accompanied me in the ambulance, coming up with one "good reason" after another why this accident was not a tragedy but actually a blessing in disguise.
"You...can write about this," he said with an encouraging grin. "You can write all about what happened and make lots of money."
I could feel the blood pool up between my legs. I flashed back to one of my all-time favorite comics, X-Men #207. At the end of the issue, Wolverine mortally wounds Rachel Summers/Phoenix -- or so he thinks. We find out later that she used her telekinesis to hold her guts together and stay alive.
I squint my eyes in concentration and try to use my telekinesis.
The Broken Vagina Monologues Part II
Last episode, I was bleeding to death on the carpet of a member of the comic book industry. Much like Batman mused as he was strapped to a giant sno-cone by Mr. Freeze, this was truly a shitty way to die, eye-level with a stack of barely-read Marvel comps.
My theoretical sex-partner, the theoretically-named “Donovan Paul,” was, to his credit, quite calm and collected for a man who had potentially murdered a woman with his dick. When the second attack of bleeding started from my vagina, creating a gush akin to what happened to Johnny Depp in “Nightmare on Elm Street,” I began to freak out. My blood-stained hands began to frantically dial my cell-phone. I wanted to use the voice-recording feature to document that Donovan indeed did not rape and kill me just in case the ambulance got there too late. I’m sure that’s what they would all think, that Donovan raped me, and then he would be thrown in jail and nobody would believe him. Then perhaps Keith Olbermann would use his story for his “Oddball” segment:
“Next we have a story about another crazy comic book guy who raped some poor chick..on top of his comic book collection! Worst...murder...ever!”
I pictured the comics gossip mongers and pundits perhaps focusing on my death for a few weeks. And just maybe, with me so radically and sensationally dispatched, other unrelated things might come out about me and my experience with the comics industry...maybe...
Maybe it would all come out, come out like my blood was so quickly coming out. Maybe...it would all be worth it...
Besides, I had no health insurance. The fear of death pales in comparison.
But I had to protect Donovan Paul.
I was always protecting one Donovan Paul or another, saint or sinner it didn't matter. It was an automatic reaction. My fingers stuttering on the keys, my voice shakily breathing into the receiver:
“T-to w-w-whom in may concern...I just want to let you know that just in case I die that Donovan Paul is not responsible...so d-don’t throw him in jail or anything...”
Soon EMS and several cops knocked on the door. Donovan tossed his replica Hattori Hanzo sword that had been lying around into a closet, though he forgot about the lightsabers.
In the meantime I had been partially dressed, my jeans saturated in blood as the bleeding relentlessly continued. I was in no pain...which was odd. Later, I found out that there were very little nerve endings where I had been torn. A painless way to bleed to death. However, the rapid internal clotting was pressing against my bladder, something that would reach unbearable levels until a catheter was used in the hospital.
To say that the police looked askance at the decor of Donovan’s apartment was an understatement. Boxes and shelves and virtual stacked columns of comics, graphic novels, and toys filled every nook and cranny. Crazy comic book guy.
A cop, glancing darkly at the selection of lightsabers leaning against a door, asked Donovan to step outside for a minute as the EMS was fitting me into the gurney so he could ask me some questions.
“Honey, did this guy force himself on you?”
“No.”
“You can tell me.”
“No.”
“Did he...use any foreign instruments on you?”
“No...”
“Any bottles, dildos, vegetables, broom-sticks, knives...”
“No...Donovan’s a good man. We were just having sex."
I kept repeating what a good man Donovan was, how he had helped me stay calm and what a great time we had earlier that night, as they carried me off in the stretcher. Donovan accompanied me in the ambulance, coming up with one "good reason" after another why this accident was not a tragedy but actually a blessing in disguise.
"You...can write about this," he said with an encouraging grin. "You can write all about what happened and make lots of money."
I could feel the blood pool up between my legs. I flashed back to one of my all-time favorite comics, X-Men #207. At the end of the issue, Wolverine mortally wounds Rachel Summers/Phoenix -- or so he thinks. We find out later that she used her telekinesis to hold her guts together and stay alive.
I squint my eyes in concentration and try to use my telekinesis.
Goodbye To Comics #1: The Broken Vagina Monologues
Goodbye To Comics #1:
The Broken Vagina Monologues
You might have noticed in the last post that I glossed over a rather visceral phrase: “broken vagina.” I think Broken Vagina is a good way to begin this theoretical memoir. It’s provocative and begs explanation. Of course, you might be wondering what a theoretical broken vagina has to do with comic books. It has a literal and figurative meaning, both of which I hope will be apparent buy the end of this post.
Actually, let’s get the figurative one out of the way -- I WAS FUCKED BY COMICS!
Ok, super. Let’s go.
I, like many in the comics industry, had sex with someone within the comics industry. Actually, there was a bit of fine wine and good food, laughs and hugs under the stars, but, in the end, there was fucking. The last man I had fucked, six years previously (obviously such a positive experience in itself that I became abstinent, questioned my sexuality, and got my jollies writing Buffy porn), was also in the industry. The man I fucked before that was also in the comics industry. The man I fucked before that was only tangentally in the comics industry and was more of a comic book collector. The man I fucked before that collected rare Megos. Before that, I used to have sexual fantasies about Burt Ward and still slept with my teddy bear.
But back to my broken vagina.
We have dinner, laughs and hugs under the stars, and then I say the magic line -- “why don’t I go over your place and take a look at your comic book collection?”
To be honest, I didn’t feel completely gung-ho about sleeping with this particular person, but I wanted to be “normal” like Carrie on “Sex in the City” and have sex like it was no big deal. I had been afraid of getting intimate with anyone since my last boyfriend, and always carried a a degree of guilt and shame concerning my body & sex.
But I knew that this time would be different. I was newly-skinny (okay, that was because of catastrophic illness, but I looked good in a belt), I was blond (just like Mom!), and I had a bunch of crazy promises from various small-time industry types that yes my star was to rise again.
We made love on a bed that I later found out was supported by long comic boxes. We fucked on comics. It was not the first time for me.
Two-thirds into the sex, I felt a “pop.” It was the only actual pain I felt, that quick, swift pop.
I kicked my partner off of me and pulled myself into a crouched sitting position. I felt something warm pour down my legs.
“T-t-the bluh....the bluhhhhhh...”
“Are you sure you’re not a virgin?”
“The bluhhhhh...”
“Maybe you had some of your virginity left?”
“Uhhhhhhh...AHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!”
Then it stopped. My eyes darted quickly to the beige carpeted floor, which was soaked with a big circle of blood.
At this point, I think it would be helpful to give the other member of this awkward carnal tango a name. Significantly, throughout all of the therapy I received right after the injury, I never mentioned this man by name once. As my therapist pointed out, this made for a choppy, hard-to-follow narrative. So I would have to name him, just as I would have to name everyone.
But I can’t really do that, can I? This being a theoretical memoir and all.
What would OJ do?
(Theoretical conversation between OJ and Judith Regan of Harper Collins
OJ: So...let’s say theoretically I killed Nicky and Ron...I could say how I did it? Theoretically, of course? And get a lot of money?
Regan: Well...it would be theoretical money.
OJ: Oh. Could I spend theoretical money? Could I use it to buy a boat, for example?
Regan: You could buy a theoretical boat.
OJ: Could...I sail on a theoretical boat?
Regan: Theoretically.
OJ: Can it be a yacht? I like yachts.
Regan: Dear, it can be any type of boat you want.
OJ: Chinese junk?
Regan: Yes.
OJ: Submarine?
Regan: Si.
OJ: I...I’m going to get fucked somehow from all this, aren’t I? You’re entrapping me, aren’t you?
Regan: I’m on your side, OJ.)
It ocurrs to me that I will have to give theoretical names to this theoretical cast of characters. For this task I go to my handy-dandy online random name generator, a great tool if you ever want to surf the net looking for other lonely, disaffected souls at 2:00 in the morning to engage in a bit of conversation.
The first name I get is “Donovan Paul.”
Okay, so Donovan Paul has just leaped off my bleeding body, his body splattered with blood as well, both of us naked as the day we were born. Somewhere, Dario Argento is dreaming. Donovan regards nervously the red fluid that has dripped through and past his thin futon mattress, threatening to stain his collection of Giffen “Defenders.”
“Uh, I think the first thing to do is...stay calm...and get off the bed. Hey look, it’s stopped bleeding.”
“Y-yeah...yeah it has. M-maybe it was just a little t-tear...I could get it c-checked out with the gynocologist tomorrow if it s-still bothers me...”
“Do you have a gyno?”
“N-no...” I look up hopefully at him, think Willow Rosenberg circa season two of Buffy. “B-but I will -- I’ll do it first thing tomorrow morning!”
Then the bleeding started again.
The Broken Vagina Monologues
You might have noticed in the last post that I glossed over a rather visceral phrase: “broken vagina.” I think Broken Vagina is a good way to begin this theoretical memoir. It’s provocative and begs explanation. Of course, you might be wondering what a theoretical broken vagina has to do with comic books. It has a literal and figurative meaning, both of which I hope will be apparent buy the end of this post.
Actually, let’s get the figurative one out of the way -- I WAS FUCKED BY COMICS!
Ok, super. Let’s go.
I, like many in the comics industry, had sex with someone within the comics industry. Actually, there was a bit of fine wine and good food, laughs and hugs under the stars, but, in the end, there was fucking. The last man I had fucked, six years previously (obviously such a positive experience in itself that I became abstinent, questioned my sexuality, and got my jollies writing Buffy porn), was also in the industry. The man I fucked before that was also in the comics industry. The man I fucked before that was only tangentally in the comics industry and was more of a comic book collector. The man I fucked before that collected rare Megos. Before that, I used to have sexual fantasies about Burt Ward and still slept with my teddy bear.
But back to my broken vagina.
We have dinner, laughs and hugs under the stars, and then I say the magic line -- “why don’t I go over your place and take a look at your comic book collection?”
To be honest, I didn’t feel completely gung-ho about sleeping with this particular person, but I wanted to be “normal” like Carrie on “Sex in the City” and have sex like it was no big deal. I had been afraid of getting intimate with anyone since my last boyfriend, and always carried a a degree of guilt and shame concerning my body & sex.
But I knew that this time would be different. I was newly-skinny (okay, that was because of catastrophic illness, but I looked good in a belt), I was blond (just like Mom!), and I had a bunch of crazy promises from various small-time industry types that yes my star was to rise again.
We made love on a bed that I later found out was supported by long comic boxes. We fucked on comics. It was not the first time for me.
Two-thirds into the sex, I felt a “pop.” It was the only actual pain I felt, that quick, swift pop.
I kicked my partner off of me and pulled myself into a crouched sitting position. I felt something warm pour down my legs.
“T-t-the bluh....the bluhhhhhh...”
“Are you sure you’re not a virgin?”
“The bluhhhhh...”
“Maybe you had some of your virginity left?”
“Uhhhhhhh...AHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!”
Then it stopped. My eyes darted quickly to the beige carpeted floor, which was soaked with a big circle of blood.
At this point, I think it would be helpful to give the other member of this awkward carnal tango a name. Significantly, throughout all of the therapy I received right after the injury, I never mentioned this man by name once. As my therapist pointed out, this made for a choppy, hard-to-follow narrative. So I would have to name him, just as I would have to name everyone.
But I can’t really do that, can I? This being a theoretical memoir and all.
What would OJ do?
(Theoretical conversation between OJ and Judith Regan of Harper Collins
OJ: So...let’s say theoretically I killed Nicky and Ron...I could say how I did it? Theoretically, of course? And get a lot of money?
Regan: Well...it would be theoretical money.
OJ: Oh. Could I spend theoretical money? Could I use it to buy a boat, for example?
Regan: You could buy a theoretical boat.
OJ: Could...I sail on a theoretical boat?
Regan: Theoretically.
OJ: Can it be a yacht? I like yachts.
Regan: Dear, it can be any type of boat you want.
OJ: Chinese junk?
Regan: Yes.
OJ: Submarine?
Regan: Si.
OJ: I...I’m going to get fucked somehow from all this, aren’t I? You’re entrapping me, aren’t you?
Regan: I’m on your side, OJ.)
It ocurrs to me that I will have to give theoretical names to this theoretical cast of characters. For this task I go to my handy-dandy online random name generator, a great tool if you ever want to surf the net looking for other lonely, disaffected souls at 2:00 in the morning to engage in a bit of conversation.
The first name I get is “Donovan Paul.”
Okay, so Donovan Paul has just leaped off my bleeding body, his body splattered with blood as well, both of us naked as the day we were born. Somewhere, Dario Argento is dreaming. Donovan regards nervously the red fluid that has dripped through and past his thin futon mattress, threatening to stain his collection of Giffen “Defenders.”
“Uh, I think the first thing to do is...stay calm...and get off the bed. Hey look, it’s stopped bleeding.”
“Y-yeah...yeah it has. M-maybe it was just a little t-tear...I could get it c-checked out with the gynocologist tomorrow if it s-still bothers me...”
“Do you have a gyno?”
“N-no...” I look up hopefully at him, think Willow Rosenberg circa season two of Buffy. “B-but I will -- I’ll do it first thing tomorrow morning!”
Then the bleeding started again.
"Goodbye To Comics": An Introduction
Goodbye To Comics #0:
"What The Hell Happened To Your Blog?"
"What The Hell Happened To Your Blog?"
Welcome to "Goodbye To Comics," a “theoretical” memoir of what *might* have happened in the life of a woman in the field and fandom of comics. You know, just like how OJ’s “How I Might Have Done It” is theoretical. Actually, I found OJ’s latest venture (not his previous venture, the one with all the blood in it) very inspiring. I think if you can get away with a theoretical memoir about multiple murder, then certainly you can get away with one on being female in the comics industry. In fact, the only person I think who really can’t get away with theoretical memoirs is that “A Million Little Pieces” dude, and, well, he has too much money anyway.
A question I get asked from time to time by young female comic fans is, “how do I break into the industry?” They ask me this because, theoretically speaking, I worked for two comic companies and I guess I should know. By the time I was working at my second comics gig, I knew exactly what to tell those girls: “try Marketing.” But now, as I am a bit of an old hag, all of 32, I am restless and the old answers no longer suffice.
The last email I got from a young woman -- asking how she could break into the comics editing and what my experiences were like in the field -- literally broke me. I was recovering from a broken vagina, which I sustained right around the time I almost finished recovering from a broken career. “A Million Little Pieces” indeed.
I never answered that email. Instead, I forwarded it to a woman I used to work with in the industry and asked her just how the hell I was supposed to answer such a question. I inquired if there was an official “talking point” I should use that would make everybody happy. Of course, my email was also never answered, continuing the chain of silence, ignored questions, and theoretical “never happeneds” that seemed to dot the landscape of my 30 years in comics like fly specks on the wall of a comic collector with OCD and bad hygiene.
I was sure at this point that I just had to have some sort of cute festering tumor right under the soft layer of fat and dermis that covered some squishy part of my body, being a firm believer that unaddressed anger and bitterness is a cancer-generator. And if not already so inflicted (and if I was, without health insurance I’d just as soon let that fucker grow and explode rather than pay the bill--obviously I see no movie adaptation of my inspiring graphic novel starring Cate Blanchett any time soon) I soon would be.
Enter OJ.
Actually, enter a lot of things. Britney booting K-Fed and Bushie booting Rums-Fed within a day of each other actually gave me a bit of a vicarious boost. With the Dems taking Congress and six years of insanity, lies, cover-ups, and crimes finally getting interrupted I felt there was actually hope in the world again. I believe the phrase that entered my mind was “the worm has finally turned.” I think Uma Thurman in Kill Bill had a different saying for it.
Actually, at my darkest moments I found “Kill Bill” to be a very inspiring movie, perhaps even more inspiring than OJ’s theoretical murder-memoir. Certainly, I hardly have the strength to pick up a genuine Hattori Hanzo much less use it to take out half of the Yakuza. But I do have a new Mac Book that I spent every last penny on.
:-)
Some odds n' ends for anybody who has followed this blog previously or are just plain fucking confused regarding everything I just said.
1. I've written about 20 posts in advance for this blog. So I have at least a month of solid narrative & updates. I'll update sometimes once a day, sometimes every few days.
2. Eventually, these posts will become a book and my intention, with a bit of editing magic, is to publish it.
3. Yeah, I'm deleting everything else. I'm just tired of that "I'm a spunky female writing about comix!" crap. That is soooo far away of the reality of what I am right now. Which is just a woman that wants to "write it all out" on this blog and find some nice obscure safe niche for myself.
4. Yes, I really have suffered the injury to my nether regions as described on this blog. However, names and certain bits of chronology have been altered either to make the narrative flow better or to not get sued.
5. Anybody who was inconsiderate, evil, or just plain fucked-up to me who reads this blog and thinks it's about them and gets angry can go on "Dancing With The Stars" and jitterbug their way to Hades for all I give a damn.
6. There is a line of thought, quite popular, um, well just about everywhere, that it is distasteful to bring up any bad things that happen and one should only focus on the nice things. Tried it, it's a psychotic way of looking at the world and it doesn't work.
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