Sunday, December 29, 2013

Ten Batgirl Cosplay Looks


I'm a big fan of Batgirl. I've written a couple pieces on that admiration, both for the character and it's current writer Gail Simone. Found an article online showing some pretty sweet Batgirl cosplay. Thought I would share it with you. Merry Christmas.

Batman: The Deal

 

Found this amazing piece of Batman fanfic called "The Deal" during one of my StumbleUpon binges. I won't give anything away, but it focuses on one of Batman's longest relationships but in a very deep and very dark way. If you're a fan of The Bat, you really need to check this out.

Friday, December 13, 2013

In Too Deep

Another Chuck Wendig Flash Fiction Challenge from his Terrible Minds blog. This time, it's a 1,000-word story, written 200 words at a time, using someone else's beginnings. Three different people have written the prior 600 words, I have written the last 200 and, hopefully, someone will choose to finish up with the final 200 words. The first 200 were written by Jim Franklin, the second by Lynna Landstreet, and the third by CE Konicki.

Enjoy.
------------

The plunge into the ice-cold water hit Derry like an avalanche. A fading knowledge of the film Predator had informed him to lower his body temperature so that the alien wouldn’t see him. Though he hadn’t realised how cold the water would be, how the flow of the water would drag him away from the bank, or how his thick woolen coat and boots would become the rocks that pulled him down.

It’s worth noting at this point that in Predator, the hero was a hardened military veteran with experience in guerrilla warfare, while Derry worked in the Accounts department for a large national fish exporter, and the most alien thing he had encountered in his life so far was the perpetual lack of sticky notes in his office. Being woefully terrible at making quick decisions, preferring an hour or two to mull over every eventuality, also goes some way to explain his poor choice of hiding place.

His limbs stiff, his breathing now wheezy gulps, and his head now spent more time underwater as his legs struggled to move. Derry panicked, with a thought that he didn’t have hours to mull this over…. he was going to die.

As he floundered, the creature loomed over the water's edge, staring down at him -- so much for the hope that it wouldn't see him! It raised some sort of complicated device to its -- those were its eyes, weren't they? Undoubtedly a weapon of some sort, and he found himself wondering which would be worse: drowning, freezing to death, being vaporized, or being eaten. But no laser bolt came, just a light that illuminated his sodden head as the creature peered through some sort of lens. The hell --? Was that some kind of camera?

The thing opened its terrifying maw, and let out a sound somewhat like a cow being fed through a woodchipper. Or at least what Derry imagined that might sound like, not that he'd ever needed to before now. Then it made some adjustments to a device affixed to its throat, and a strange mechanical voice accompanied the bellowing: "Good evening. I observe that you have placed yourself in a context|challenge|predicament causing respiratory and circulatory distress. May I inquire as to the significance of this act among your tribe|culture|species? Are you attempting to terminate your existence, or this is an artistic performance|athletic event|mating display?"

This was not any of the scenarios Derry had imagined.

“Ath… wha? Uhh, wait, no?” he said.

“Please excuse me. I do not understand your meaning|phraseology|intention. Do you use slang|jargon|patois? This lexicon has not been upgraded to include modern slang.”

What did he say to that?

“I don’t… I….” was all he managed before the water pulled him under again. A struggle for the surface brought limited response from his limbs and panic almost caused him to breathe in. He did inhale when something snaked around his waist and the following flight through the air was punctuated with hacking. He landed hard and it forced the last of the water out of his lungs.

Five copper eyes blinked at him.

“Not a mating display,” it said.

“No. I thought…. I thought you were… ah… Predator. From, the movie, because… I did.”

The creature twisted its head upside down like an owl.

“Incorrect. I am not a predator. I am Richard. I am intolerant|on a restricted diet|vegan."

Derry’s brain surrendered.

“Richard,” he said.

“Richard is not my actual name. I have chosen this name for convenience|to make friends|humour.”

“Richard isn’t your real name. Because you’re a vegan.” 

“Correct. What is your name|handle|nomenclature? 

Derry continued taking in the looming pile of weird before him. The irony that he was gaping like a fish after his very wet misadventure was not lost on him. He tried to speak, but the chattering of his teeth prevented any meaningful conversation. He may have been saved from a watery grave, but that was only a brief respite before the hypothermia set in. 

“My n-n-n-n…” 

Suddenly, he was enveloped by feeling of warmth and security. It was liked being hugged by a favorite grandmother while wrapped in an electric blanket. Derry looked up at the stranger to see him/her/it(?) looking down on him intently, all eyes glowing an subtle orange. 

“Do you feel better|warmer|safer now?” 

“Um, yes. Yes, I do. Thank you.” 

“Now,” the being said, “what are you called?” 

“Derry. My name is Derry.” 

“Hello|Greetings|Salutations, Derry. I am (what followed next was a series of eye twitches followed by what smelled like a cross of rotting citrus fruit, wet dog, and toffee.)” 

Derry looked at the creature in front of him, mouth still wide open. 

“That is why I choose the name Richard for this mission|job|trip.” 

“I totally get that,” Derry said.

Saturday, November 2, 2013

BOOK REVIEW: Thieves' Quarry by DB Jackson

 

I've always said I would never provide a negative review for a book. There's enough negative and bad vibes in the world without me being cynical and overly critical regarding someone's book. The latest book I review for LitStack took that conundrum completely out of my hands by being awesome. Thieves' Quarry by DB Jackson is easily one of the best books I've read in quite awhile. Check out my review HERE and then go buy the book.

Sunday, October 6, 2013

LitStack.com: Banned Book Week

 

For the three people who read this blog, you know George Orwell's Nineteen Eighty-Four is one of my all-time favorite novels. Since it it was published, it's also been banned for various reasons by various people. Since last week was Banned Book Week, I thought it would be a great time to show off a college paper I did on the book. I thought it held up pretty well. Take a look and let me know what you think.

Tuesday, August 20, 2013

LitStack.com Staff Pick: The Literary Series I Didn't Want to End


It's Harry Potter. Roll it.

Dream World: A Terrible Minds Flash Fiction Challenge

Chuck Wendig laid out his weekly flash fiction challenge from Terrible Minds: Subgenre Frankenstein. The writer is to randomly pick two of the 20 literary genres he provided and drop 1,500 words on it. My two were Low Fantasy/"Grimdark" and Fairy Tale. This may be the most disturbing piece I've ever written.
-------------------------------


Thomas woke up laughing and was slapped across the face.

The boy was startled into full consciousness, rubbing the rising welt on his left cheek. The joy and magic he felt in his fading dream were gone, replaced by the awareness of where he was.

“Always something funny with you,” Zach said. “Always laughing, always smiling.”

He slapped Thomas again, this time rocking the boy's head back with such force, he struck the wall behind him, making a dull thud that could be heard throughout the barracks-style room.

Zach was slender, but had a wiry strength to him, the kind of muscle that comes with growing up hard. He also loved to inflict pain on the boys. He wasn't above a well-placed kick to some of the girls, either, but he had another method of showing displeasure to young women placed within The System. Thomas knew the worst for him was a beating; for the girls, the punishment was much longer and sadistic.

The System was a federally-operated institution where the children of illegals were sent. The Illegal Minor Education Act of 2019 stated that undocumented foreign nationals who came to the United States and had a child there, were to be immediately deported while their child was to be taken by the government and placed within the Arpaio School for International Youth or The System, as it came to be called.

The institution was built to house and educate these children to become hard-working Americans. Unfortunately, employees within The System weren't paid well and were barely educated. Many never had positions of leadership, much less among children, so the excess of power more than compensated for the lack of pay. Several were former prison guards who treated the children the same as they did the convicts at their previous jobs.

Thomas, ten years old and small for his age, now began rubbing the back of his head, struggling not to let the tears fall. Zach hated seeing kids cry because he felt impelled to beat the remaining tears out of them.

“I'm sorry, Zach,” he said. “I didn't mean to.”

“I don't like you, Tommy. I don't like you at all,” Zach said, leering with a disturbing glint in his eye. Thomas felt fear awaken in his gut; it was whispered that, sometimes, Zach punished some of the smaller boys the same way he punished the girls. Thomas knew he couldn't fight Zach and also knew he may not survive the older boy's sweet tooth.

To Thomas' relief, Zach turned, leaving his bedside. Other boys casted knowing looks at Thomas, all of them having felt Zach's heavy hand before. Although he knew they felt for him, Thomas also knew they were glad it was him and not them. He understood that. He felt the same way two days ago, watching Zach belt whip a boy younger than Thomas across his bare back. Zach hadn't stopped until his arm was sore, which was five minutes after blood was drawn. The little boy was taken away and hadn't been seen since.

A speaker in the ceiling emitted three short electronic notes, alerting the children it was time for morning announcements.

“Good morning all!” a baritone voice said jovially.

No one was quite sure whose voice addressed them every morning and evening, but inmates of The System (or “residents” as the school called them) didn't think it was anyone in charge. None of the kids within the school had met anyone who sounded so nice. The only time people sounded friendly here was when something bad was about to happen. But even then, boys like Zach, standing at the front of the room, monitoring them in his role as Dorm Boy, never sounded nice. He was angry all the time. Thomas nearly snickered at the idea of Zach trying to smile, but his throbbing head silenced him.

“And now,” the pleasant voice said after going over the day's menus, class changes, and activity schedules, “it is time for our morning prayer. Everyone please bow your heads!

“Our God, who art in Heaven, Hallowed be Thy name, please watch over us all, the supervisors, the teachers, the school staff, and our beloved little residents who will someday be great Americans like our President! And, oh Lord, be especially with our President, who battles evil in Your name his every waking moment and provides a place for the children of the lawless and lost to be raised like the good Christian he himself is.

“In Jesus' blessed name, amen!”

All the children murmured “Amen”, though truth be told, the majority had long ago lost faith in a God that would leave them here, while the few who did still believe wondered what they had done so wrong in their young lives to be banished to Hell.

Thomas got out of bed, removed his pajamas and began putting on his regular clothes. During the week, the boys' uniform consisted of red polo shirts (each dorm was assigned a different color; Thomas lived in the Red Dorm), khaki pants, and brown shoes. He went to the community bathroom, brushed his teeth, singing “Happy Birthday” in his head twice, once for the bottom teeth, once for the top, washed his face, and returned to make his bed and put his nighttime clothes away. He stood at the foot of the bed, ready for Zach's morning inspection.

A boy older than Thomas, five or six beds down, gasped audibly as Zach kicked him in the shin for leaving a sock on the floor. The boy, Miguel, didn't say anything, but was still breathing heavily. He was new to The System, arriving last week. He had injured his leg before he came here and Zach knew it. Miguel had just learned a valuable lesson.

Zach grunted his approval at the remainder of the beds until he got to Thomas. He stared at Thomas until Thomas looked away, the younger boy too smart to force a battle of wills. Zach's hand shot out, grabbed Thomas by the hair, and forced Thomas' face near the pillow.

“What the hell is that, Tommy?!” Zach yelled. “What is it?!”

Stunned, his face buried in the bedsheet, Thomas stammered, “Wh-what, I don't...”

“Are you fucking kidding me? You're lazy and stupid? Come with me!”

Zach, still clutching Thomas' hair, jerked the boy's head up and marched him towards the front of the room. Thomas could again see the combined look of terror and relief on each boy's faced as he passed. The fear Thomas felt earlier exploded into ice-cold panic. Warm urine flowed down Thomas' legs as he saw where he was going.

He was being taken to the Dorm Boy's office.

Any time a resident was taken to the Dorm Boy's office by Zach, that resident was either never seen again or beaten so badly, they weren't recognizable. The last time it had happened, a 12-year-old girl was drug in there by Zach and another Dorm Boy and held for more than an hour. She cried and begged for help that never came the entire time.

Thomas was thrown into the dark room, consisting of an old metal desk with a computer monitor and three paperwork bins atop it, a filing cabinet, and a dry-erase board with writing he couldn't make out. Thomas tried to turn around to face Zach, but was grabbed by the back of the neck and forced face first into a corner.

“I don't fucking like you, Tommy,” Zach growled in his ear, his grip tightening on Thomas' neck. He no longer cared about controlling his tears; they streamed down his cheek as he began crying. “Always smiling, always laughing. Well guess what? I'm about to take your smile.”

Thomas heard Zach unzip his pants with his free hand and began screaming. He screamed until he felt as though his throat would shatter. Zach leaned closer, his breath loud in Thomas' ear. Thomas heard Zach's pants drop to the floor. He screamed louder as Zach leaned into Thomas' back and--

He woke up, covered in sweat, a shriek for help dying on his lips as he sat upright in his bed.

“Thomas, my prince, what is the matter?”

The boy looked up to see Gorma, the winged gnome who had been Thomas' nanny/constant companion since he was born. He looked around, no longer in a small, dark office, but in his open, light-filled bedroom, one of nearly a hundred rooms in the Land of Kizdom's Royal Palace. Seeing Gorma's face, lined with worry as it was, began the calming process for Thomas.

“I'm OK, Gorma. It was just a bad dream.”

“The same one? Where you are imprisoned in that bad place?”

Thomas nodded.

Gorma shook her head. “I don't know why you have such terrible dreams, my prince. You always go to sleep so happy and full of laughter.”

Saturday, July 27, 2013

LitStack.com Staff Pick: New Genres by Your Favorite Author

 

I'm a big fan of the author Chuck Wendig. If you've read this blog, you know I participate in some of his Flash Fiction Challenges and I reviewed his book Blackbirds. My latest offering to LitStack involved the scenario What Genre Would You Like to See Your Favorite Author Tackle. Not sure if erotic torture porn is do-able, so I decided on Westerns. Read it HERE.

Sunday, July 21, 2013

Shards

Yet another of Chuck Wendig's Terrible Minds Flash Fiction Challenges. This week's challenge was to go HERE to find a random plot scenario and use it to write 1,000 words. My plot was to start my story off with the protagonist breaking a mirror and to also have a sports editor play a joke that went wrong. Here we go.
------------------


“Jesus jumped-up Christ, Tommy! What the fuck?”

David wiped water from his face, looking down at the shattered remains of a hand mirror on the floor. The Gazette's lead political writer had come into the break room to use the sink in order to clean said mirror. It was filthy and seemed to have something scratched into the glass.

However, Tommy, the newspaper's longtime sports editor, decided tying a rubber band around the activator of the sink's dish rinser would be a bit of fun. So when David turned on the faucet, he was immediately sprayed in the face, dropping the mirror in his surprise.

“Good stuff, huh?” asked Tommy, laughing.

“No, jackass, not good stuff. I found that mirror in a desk on the fifth floor. Something's scratched into the face and I wanted to see what it is.”

“Jinkys, Velma, do you think you've found a clue?” Tommy asked.

“Go fuck youself.”

“Aw, don't get all frowny. I'll help you clean it up and we'll solve the riddle together. Then we'll go out for ice cream. Would you like that, David? Would you like ice cream? And a hug?”

Tommy rose from his chair, arms spread as if to embrace his co-worker. David put is arm out to stop the advancing sports writer.

“If you touch me, I'm going to HR,” David said. “Again.”

Crest-fallen, Tommy stopped and dropped his arms. “Alright, you big baby. Let's see what we've got here.”

The two knelt down, picking up the pieces of the mirror. They retrieved the largest fragments, sweeping up the rest and began cleaning the remaining bits in the sink (after Tommy, who had forgotten about the rubber band, was hosed in the face, creating no small amount of pleasure for David, feeling vindicated by karma). Once the shards were reasonably clean, they were gathered up, taken to the round table in the middle of the room, and re-arranged by the pair.

Given it was a small mirror, it didn't take them long to put it back together. While not perfect, the reflective face of the looking glass was back to its mostly-original form.

“'I SEE YOU,'” Tommy read. “What does 'I SEE YOU' mean?”

“Uh, read it the same time you did,” David said. “I know has much as you do.”

“You found this on the fifth floor? Didn't that used to be where the ad reps were?”

“Yeah, so?”

“Well,” Tommy said, “There were a lot of chicks that worked up there. Most of the advertising staff were broads.”

“Your misogyny aside,” David said, “I had pretty much assumed it belonged to a woman. Not a lot of guys walking around with hand mirrors.”

“My point is, one of them may have been fucking with someone,” Tommy said, his tone becoming low and conspiratorial. “Maybe she thought someone was stealing from her desk and she wanted the thief to see this. Eh? I'm all Micky Spillane and shit.”

David thought about it. Tommy had a good point. It's wasn't as though it was an expensive mirror—it had a sickly green plastic base that had also cracked with the glass when he dropped it. He had seen similar items going for a couple bucks at the local dollar store, so defacing this one probably didn't represent a financial loss to its owner.

“Waitaminute,” Tommy said, almost whispering now. “Remember hearing about that girl who killed herself about five or so years ago? She was one of the department team leaders. Killed herself around the time they decided to move advertising downstairs and to use the fifth floor as storage.”

“I do remember,” David said, his voice dropping as well. “Rumor was, she and another ad rep had a thing and he allegedly raped her. I had just gotten here when it all happened. I heard she thought she was pregnant and the guy wouldn't accept it. He was transferred to a different department and she was found in her garage dead a week later, hanging from a beam."

The two looked at each other silently for half a minute or so.

“But why 'I SEE YOU'?” David asked, breaking the silence. “Did she think he was going through her desk?"

“That's what it looks like,” Tommy said, “Dame like her, got taken advantage of, wanted to send a message to the fella who done her wrong.”

“What, are you a 1930s New York gumshoe now?” David said. “'The fella who done her wrong'? You're a rube.”

The two bent over the look at the mirror again when a voice broke their trance.

“Hey, you two are supposed to be at the meeting.”

Both writers jumped with Tommy yelping like a puppy getting swatted on the butt for piddling on the carpet. They turned to see Larry, the copy editor, in the doorway.

“The hell's wrong with you two?” he said. “The budget meeting started ten minutes ago and Anthony's already in a shitty mood. Get in there so it doesn't get worse.”

Tommy and David got up with David about to swipe the shards off the table into his other hand to throw them away when Tommy stopped him.

“Forget about that,” he said. “Let's get in there. We'll get it after.”

David nodded his agreement and both left the room. As they exited, the glass pieces moved ever so slightly as the writing began to fade. The face of a young, pale brunette could be seen within the broken shards, angry tears falling down her disheveled face. New words now began appearing on the mirror, which had returned to a single, solid piece of glass, back in its sickly green plastic frame.

I FOUND YOU

Monday, July 15, 2013

LitStack.com: My Top 5(ish) Comic Books


So now that I'm back into the swing of things when it comes to writing, I broke out with five (or so) of my all-time favorite comics for LitStack. They include my very first comic (because everyone remembers their first) as well a couple obvious ones and a few that have special meaning to me. Basically, what I'm saying is, this is my list. Not yours. So I don't want to hear your bitching. Make up your own list. Anycrap, you can read the full list by clicking HERE.

Tuesday, July 2, 2013

BOOK REVIEW: The Best of Punk Magazine

 

I do some stuff for a neat website called LitStack. I haven't done a ton lately because I've been in a funk and haven't written much. I was assigned this review a LONG time ago and I felt really bad because they actually gave me a review copy of this beautiful hardcover coffee table book. I justify missing the deadline by four months because it's the punk ethos. In reality, a hard-fought battle with depression and laziness is the actual cause. Either way, I finally got it done and I'm going to tell you now--it's fucking awesome. If you're a fan of the punk scene in NYC in the 70s, just buy it. But read my review anyway.

Friday, June 28, 2013

New Terrible Minds Flash Fiction: Tropes

As the four of you who follow my Twitter account know, I have something of a man crush on Chuck Wendig. Dude can write his ass off and can advise said ass off on the ins and outs of the writing game as well. He has a weekly flash fiction challenge at his website Terrible Minds and I haven't done one in a while. HERE is his latest challenge and HERE is my trope.

Here goes.

-----------------

Bob was getting twitchy.

The dumbass was late. Bob hated late. Late meant sloppy. Late meant the possibility of no longer being above ground.

Bob was also two weeks into a new diet. After his doctor told him he was diabetic, his wife went on a rampage. Angela was a good woman, but she was a ballbuster, especially when she had a mission. Bob now ate so much fiber, his guts were liquified and shooting out of his ass. He was cranky and convinced he'd shoot his own mother for a half-eaten chocolate bar left in a truck stop bathroom.

So yes, Bob had other things on his mind, but that didn't change the fact the dipshit was late.

Bob sat on a bench in front of a hotel in a sketchy part of town, awaiting an informant bringing him evidence proving the guy who caught the game-winning touchdown in American football's championship game was part of a drug-running operation that included using girls as young as ten as mules. Bob's stomach gurgled, but this time, it wasn't his diet; it was thinking about kids forced to put bags of heroin in their--

Bob stopped thinking. Everything about this disgusted him. He made detective three weeks ago and this was his first case. He could've been given an easy murder case. But no, he gets a case that will be on every channel. Bob hated the limelight. He preferred being in the background. No more of that.

Bob also had to deal with the informant, a pissant who had been in and out of jail since he was 14. David wasn't a troubled man looking for redemption. David was a felonious shit trying to keep his ass out of jail again and for good reason. David was pretty and, Bob had heard, looked even prettier wearing red lipstick and a wife beater cut just so.

David also liked to start fires. One was a no-kill animal shelter resulting in the deaths of dozens of dogs and cats looking for good homes. Bob couldn't stand people, but loved animals. He had seen the worst humanity had to offer and never blinked, but was on the verge of tears seeing that goddamned Sarah McLachlan commercial.

An old Buick of indeterminable color pulled up in the parking spot closest to Bob. He saw David behind the wheel as he waved at Bob. Bob nodded curtly. The future Miss Protective Custody got out of the car, cellphone in his hand.

"Hey, man."

Bob looked up at him.

"You're late.”

"Couldn't be helped. My girl--"

"I don't give a fuck about your girl," Bob said, cutting him off abruptly. "I don't give a fuck if the last five Blowjob of the Year winners were lined up in front of you. The only reason you're not on the wrong end of a cock right now is because you said you could provide pics and audio. Now. Do you have pics and audio?"

"Fuck, man," David said, looking like someone had just teabagged his birthday cake. "I'm sorry. Yeah. I got the stuff."

David handed Bob the cellphone that had been given to him two days earlier. It was to be used specifically for the purpose of taking pictures of the Heismann Trophy runner-up paying off a known drug dealer named Big Dean while recording the tight end talking about the drug operation.

There they were. The pictures showed not only the financial transaction, but bags of what looked like smack on the table next to him. Another featured the baller smoking a joint with Dean.

He played the audio. Clear as day, the soon-to-be former football player talked about the little girls. Jesus wept, one of them was his own fucking daughter.

Bob heard a click. He looked up and saw David had a snubbed-nose .38 to his head.

"The fuck you doing?" Bob asked, his voice calm. He cursed himself for not being more careful. Ten years on the force and this dickhole got the drop on him.

"He's doin' what he was told to do," said a voice behind him.

Bob turned around and saw Big Dean. He looked pleased with himself. Bob looked back at David, who still held the gun steady but looked terrified. Bob looked back at the dealer.

"Pretty ballsy doing this in broad daylight," Bob said. "If I arrest you, you'll get ten to fifteen years. You kill me? A cop? You're getting the chair."

"First, they ain't got no chair no more. It's all lethal injection. Think they still do hangins in Utah or somethin'. Second, my cousin works the desk here and he's on break. Look around you, man."

Bob took a look. The parking lot was deserted.

"My boy would like that phone," said Dean.

"Fuck your boy," Bob said. "He's gonna go down for this."

"Suit yourself," said Dean, chuckling.

"Hey boy," he said to David. "Shoot him."

Bob looked at David, saw his finger tighten on the trigger and closed his eyes. He heard the shot, felt his eardrum explode as the smell of gunpowder washed over him.

He realized after a second he wasn't dead. He quickly looked at David who still had the gun pointed at where Bob had been. Bob spun around to see blood pouring out of a hole that was Dean’s eye. The other was wide open, a look of shock within it as he fell backward.

Bob looked back at David and David looked at Bob. "I'm not a bad guy," David said. "I've done bad things but I'm not a bad guy. And I didn't set that dog pound on fire. I love dogs. Got a puppy..."

David burst into tears. Bob could barely hear the boy, a high-pitched whine screaming in his head. But he was alive. And this kid saved him.

I don't give a fuck what Angela says, Bob thought. I'm getting a goddamned candy bar.

This


I'm a terrible hypocrite

 
(I win the internets.)

I am a terrible person. No, don't argue with me; it's true. I will take to Twitter on a regular basis and mock people who beg for RTs because it's their birthday or because some relative survived skin tag-removal surgery. The worst are the people who asked to be RTed due to a tragedy e.g. "Hey @BigTimeCeleb, please RT in memory of the heroes who were killed in the blah, blah, blah..."

If you've done that, you're a dick. Stop it.

Now, while I've never done that, I will say nice things about people I respect and I will use their Twitter names while doing it. They get their respective balls busted on the reg, they should see compliments, too.

I've been a fan of Kevin Smith since I saw Clerks on VHS in Guantanamo Bay in 1995. I own all his stuff (even Jersey Girl) and am particularly a fan of his comic book work, specifically Batman: Cacophony and Batman: Widening Gyre. His podcast Fatman on Batman is an absolute must-listen for anyone who loves comics, even if you're favorite character isn't Batman.

On a road trip to Chicago, I was listening to a recent edition featuring my all-time favorite artist, Jim Lee. For me, Neal Adams and John Byrne and George Perez are the masters and Jim Lee makes them all look like slow children scribbling with broken crayons (NOTE: Not an insult to the three; just my opinion on the greatness of Lee). The back and forth between the two was brilliant. They were talking about the books I grew up on and I found my self numerous times nodding my head and smiling and even talking along with them.

I felt the need gush about the experience on Twitter. Now, I'd be lying if I didn't hope a little bit that maybe one of the two would throw me a RT for my effort, but that wasn't the genesis of the tweet. I simply wanted them to know how great I thought the episode was. Kevin Smith did me one better, as you can see by the pic.

Yeah. I'm a pretty big deal.