Daniel Moler: 2012

Interview on Reality Sandwich Podcast

5:14 PM

Interview on American Freedom Radio

2:40 PM

Blinded By Hatred: A "Holy Terror" Review

10:47 AM

I very rarely take the time to write an absolutely negative review. I usually give every artist/writer the benefit of the doubt that their work may not be appealing to me, but possibly to others. I had to force myself to finish this book, not because I was offended, but because of that most frightening of sentiments, the bane of the creator: bored.

For those that need background, Holy Terror was initially supposed to be Frank Miller's latest Batman project. This excited many geeks (like myself) in the comic world, as Miller was responsible for some of the greatest Batman comic stories that defined the genre of the grim and gritty Batman: Batman: Year One and Dark Knight Returns. Miller is also responsible for some of the latest Hollywood hits such as Sin City and 300. He is somewhat of a legend in the comics biz, so most people were highly intrigued to see what Miller would do. When everyone found out Miller would be doing a Batman versus Al-Qaeda story, most had doubts, but we all chimed the bells of nostalgia to keep us interested: "Well, Captain America fought Hitler so, this is just Miller harkening back to history, right?" When DC dropped the project with Miller, perspectives changed. It was probably the only good move DC made in over 10 years. Miller had to rework bits of the art, etc. to make the characters non-DC characters in order for him to release it on his own. However, it's very clear what this is . . . it's Frank Miller doing his version of Batman taking revenge on Al-Qaeda.

Like most, I've always enjoyed Frank Miller's work, even its most kitsch elements . . . he has always been able to provide an edge to the campy that made it work in a very delicate balance between the hyper-serious and the not-so-serious. But, this . . . this book was just dreadful. For a multitude of reasons, but primarily:

A. THE ART: I had no idea what was happening in almost every single panel. The opening sequence was so messy with ink I could barely make out who was who and what was really happening. All I could do was try in vain to make out a semblance of story through the "HEFF"s and "HUMPH"s in the narration boxes. The opening sequence was overloaded with brushwork, but for nothing . . . nothing happened in the first few pages. After that, Miller went totally lazy, like he got tired himself and just wanted to finish it . . . so the fancy brushwork stopped and everything was drawn in simple lines that took so little effort I wonder if he even made any kind of layouts or even forethought as to what he was putting down. Dreadful, because Miller's grim and gritty style defined a genre, and now he thinks he doesn't have to deliver anymore. I almost felt like his tone was: "Look...it's me, so you must like it anyway, even though I'm just scribbling scenes that make no sense." Miller needs to reread Will Eisner's Comics & Sequential Art because there was nothing sequential about any of this jarringly fragmented Jackson Pollock display of ink blots.

B. THE WRITING: Basically, trite. There was not a single interesting thing about what was happening. Here, let me give you the story: superhero guy called The Fixer (who is really just Batman) teams up with cat burglar girl (who is really just Catwoman) after they are chasing each other, have sex, then terrorist bombs go off and they chase down Al-Qaeda and kill them all. That's it. You have the whole story right there. No intriguing subplots, no mystery, no characterization, nothing. And, it's hard-pressed to make believe this isn't really just Batman we're talking about here, since most of the time you can see pointy ears on Batman's cowl covered up lazily with a black blot of ink. So, in that vein (or even not) there is nothing that makes sense. The Fixer is chasing this woman in the beginning because she stole a diamond necklace. There is some brief talk about his moral stance, how he does what he does to protect the innocent without any reward. We're supposed to believe he is somehow moral. Then, when Al-Qaeda attacks, it all goes out the door. He lowers himself to Al-Qaeda's level: he steals, he tortures, he kills. And he does all of this gladly, often chiding whichever person's skull he happens to smashing in: "So Mohammed, pardon me for guessing your name, but you've got to admit the odds are pretty good it's Mohammed." Miller spends the whole time trying to tell you how barbaric and unmerciful "they" are, when the "heroes" in the book are just as barbaric and unmerciful. No one person is likeable in any way, and nobody has any depth so there's no reason to give a shit anyway.

C. THE SENTIMENT: Muslims bad. That's what Miller's trying to say. He may just mean Al-Qaeda, but Miller doesn't make the distinction between the two. His consistent jabs toward anything Islam is insulting . . . not because I'm Muslim or I care (which I do, but that's beside the point), but because it's insulting to my intelligence. If Miller did indeed write this book, he got in touch with his inner American 13 year-old small-town redneck. It is so ignorant and boorish, it's boring. So, Frank Miller's mad because of 9/11. Guess what? We are too. And not just white, non-Muslim Americans, Mr. Miller. There are plenty of Muslims (and unfortunately Indians and Sikhs) that have suffered needlessly because of the uneducated, hyper-emotional intention of revenge that pumps through the blood of the brainless. This book may have had some sort of credence in the wake of 9/11, when most Americans were blinded by rage and sorrow. But, it's obsolete now. People understand the difference between a Muslim and a terrorist. And for those who don't, their days are numbered. That's what doesn't make this work. This book is about taking revenge. It's not about justice in any way.

There is a whole global culture of people who will no longer tolerate bigotry. We are in the prime of equality protests and mass shootings, a war going on between hate and tolerance, between ignorance and understanding. If there is anything we can learn about modern history, it's that the good will win: slavery ends, women can vote, the framework of equality continues to grow. Comic books used to be a place where one could go to watch good guys fight bad guys without themselves being bigots or lowering themselves to the level of the bad guys. That's what makes characters like Batman, Superman, Wonder Woman, Spider-Man, Captain America, etc. into icons instead of just freaks in spandex. As Spidey's Uncle Ben used to say: "With great power comes great responsibility." That means good guys aren't just good guys because they fight bad guys. Good guys are good guys because they are, in fact, GOOD! They believe in a better way of being, they believe in NOT killing, NOT torturing, they believe in living toward a higher set principles and values that are, frankly, tough to live by in tough circumstances. That's what makes a good guy a good guy.

Frank Miller, you gave us a bad guy fighting bad guys. I can watch cable news and get the same thing. You forgot about one of the greatest things comics provide to the world: escapism. I want to go a fantasy world where people have a higher set of ideals. I can't do that in your world. So, Mr. Miller, I'm done with you.

consciousness

MACHINE ELVES 101 RELEASED!

3:31 PM

Machine Elves 101: The e-Book!

4:25 PM

healing

Published in New Ross Heaven Book!

9:12 AM

comics

Feelings on Peanuts

3:18 PM

comics

Presidential Conundrum

10:50 AM

comics

Stick Army

3:59 PM

comics

Work Day

2:22 PM

art

Communication Issues

9:19 AM

consciousness

From Brazil, With Love: Part 1 (A Simon Myth Chronicle)

11:21 AM

Our hero Simon Myth doesn’t necessarily believe in fate . . . even though he is an Architect.

So when The Corpus calls, he tries not to linger too long on the infinite possibilities of which the Law of Attraction can manifest itself. He pulls the canister out of the messaging tube with a sigh. Pops the lid, reads the etheric parchment.

“Architect 73-x3: Tetrahedron tessellation fracture in Quadrant S-2. Call for assistance by local population member 222, 439, 029, 948.125 (otherwise known as Cromwell Maynard Bryson, aka “Rhino”). Dispatch and execute at Moderate Level capacity, with a total of 53.5% involvement. Report upon completion.”

Simon Myth stretches inside the oblong comfort chair. It has been awhile since he has been out of his sphere. It gets cramped in here, and quite claustrophobic . . . even with the porthole window. He glances out of it, into the sparkling vastness of empty space. Out here, all alone. Waiting for that dispatch to reconnect with a reality again, any reality. Part of him dreads exiting the solace. The other part smirks with harlequin satisfaction of meddling with the material fabric again.

He places the parchment into a packet. Clicks off the music machine that was “Tale of Talesin” by Soft Machine. He glances at the white blank walls of his circular room.

“Maybe I’ll pick up some artwork,” he mentions casually to Arturo. “A Magritte would be nice. ‘La trahison des images.’ Or maybe a de Chirico, like ‘Le Chant d’amour.’ What do you think?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. He blinks his eyes in that particular fashion and taps the cane three times, moving the wavelength particles around him to the precise coordinates of the Spectrum to reach Quadrant S-2. And he is gone.

~ ~ ~ ~

Simon Myth steps off the bus, slender and astute. He unfastens the top button of his shirt, loosening the tie.

Oppressive heat paradox: so dry yet soaked in salty sweat, weighing down his clothes in sticky wet mush. Dust blows to the West. It catches in his nostrils and he coughs a spit wad onto the ground. He can feel the concrete boiling beneath his shoes, praising himself for having the foresight to tie off his maize hair. Pushes his glasses up as they slide down the sweat of his nose.

“Well?” he asks, gripping the cane in his hand.

No answer. Arturo is most likely cranky again. As long as hell isn’t frozen . . .

However, he would appreciate a consultation, if possible. He notices something about the place. The same particular somethings he notices about anywhere he goes. Though the something—this time—is nothing.

“Fine, if that’s the way we’re gonna play today,” he grumbles, taps the end of the cane on the ground, and walks forward.

A couple of cars, handful of trucks, and an RV litter the lot, half-cocked across the desert covered parking space. On the eastern side, three gas pumps jut out of the ground like mechanical zombies lumbering into the land of the living. A diesel is filling up. The driver—pot-bellied grisly beard with vulture eyes—sneers at him from under an oil-splotched ball cap. The diner ahead emanates the sun’s reverberating pressure, a silver capsule dented and bruised from decades of mucho use and little maintenance. Windows covered by a film of dirt. The bus lurches away with a moan and he hugs the duffle bag over his shoulders.

Perfect, he joyfully ponders.

A mangy sign flickers in dull green neon above the glass doors: The Cabana. He catches his hazy, ghostly reflection as he approaches the glass doors.

A bell tinkers when he walks through and nobody pays him any mind. Bacon grease fills the air thick. Pat Benatar curdles like a scrambled egg out of distorted jukebox speakers: “Walkin’ the sundown . . . . I search in vain . . . waitin’ for the wind that whispers out your name.” As expected—as he had hoped really—there is a typical dining room and counter bar. Admiring the 1950s style Formica top, yellowed and worn by years of syrup and gravy spills with wash rag wipe-downs, he plops onto an open stool. The duffle bag drops to the floor. He lays Arturo delicately against the counter, the silver handle cane landing with a slight tink.

“A little warm.”

It was a statement without judgment; pure solid fact. A wiry waitress shuffles up and grabs a ballpoint pen out of her frizzled hair, a notepad from her apron. Her wet towel skin clings to teetering bones.

“I’m Sheryl,” she smiles with huge gums and little pebble teeth, blaring convertible red lipstick. “Can I start you off with some coffee?”

“Absolutely,” he nods. “No cream, no sugar. Black as night. And, can I go ahead and order?”

“Sure thing, honey,” she bats her droopy mascara eyes.

“You got biscuits and gravy?”

“Honey, does a cowgirl make love with spurs on?”

“Then give me a double order please!”

She jots down the order and chuckles her way back to the kitchen.

He pulls out a pen and a 1956 tattered cloth hardcover copy of Mansions of the Soul: The Cosmic Conception by H. Spencer Lewis, Ph.D., F.R.C., Imperator of the Rosicrucian Order of North and South America, 1915-1939. He reads:

“The perception or reception of knowledge or impression by the Soul through its one complex channel constitutes what modern mystics term the ‘psychic sense.’ When this sense receives an impression which is prophetic, it is called intuition. By others the psychic sense is called the channel for inspiration. Many other terms are used to describe this perceptive and comprehending faculty of the Soul and among the Oriental religions and philosophies, we find many strange words indicating the rather indefinite idea I have attempted to express in the foregoing sentences.

“Thus, the Soul has the attribute of comprehension, as a faculty of its consciousness. It has likewise the faculty of communicating, through a similar channel of psychic impressions, the thoughts within its consciousness. These thoughts impress themselves on the consciousness of the Soul in other physical bodies by a simple process . . .”

And so and so forth.

He is just about to underline “The Soul in man being a part of the God consciousness or Over-soul of the universe is never separated from the Soul that is resident in every physical body, and a thought in the consciousness of the Soul in one physical body can be immediately in contact with the consciousness in the Soul of any other, or every other, physical body on the earth plane or in the spiritual plane.” when Sheryl places a saucer in front of him, pouring steamy blackness into the cup. He sighs with exasperated relief! “Ah, thank you!”

“No problem honey.”

“By the way,” he puts his pen down. “I’m here to correspond with member 222, 439, 029, 948.125.”

“Pardon?” Sheryl’s face suddenly drops from friendly to insipid. “We ain’t got no jobs.”

Puzzling, Simon thinks. Sliding back into the slip-stream materiality has made me lose my touch. He feels a nudge-thought from Arturo, like a kick in the knee.

“Ah,” he articulates. “I mean Bryson. Speak to Mr. Bryson, I’d like!”

Sheryl shrugs her shoulders. “Okay, Yoda,” shaking her head, she bustles anxiously into the kitchen hollering. Within moments, a rather scrawny man in plaid flannel and Nietzchean moustache bursts through the kitchen doors. A wobbly cowboy hat—two sizes too big—adorns his head. The counter meets level with his Adam’s apple, but that doesn’t falter his stalwart front.

“Yer name,” he demands from behind the counter in a southern drawl so thick a Texan would be ashamed.

“Simon,” he reaches a hand out for greeting. “Simon Myth. You were expecting me, Mr. Bryson.”

“They call me Rhino ‘round here.” Rhino, despite his stature, is a dead serious individual. And judging by the somewhat frigid glances from the surrounding patrons—keeping their eaves to themselves—Simon suspects the nickname took just as Rhino intended for it. Rhino didn’t bother to greet Simon’s hand. Simon compromises to the neglect by sipping his coffee: hazelnut, with a hint of tar scraped off the tire of an old pickup.

Perfect, he joyfully ponders.

Rhino leans in close, a stare so intense Simon can feel it clutch him like a foothold trapping.

“There’re others,” Rhino whispers through his muff of whiskers. “Wait here until close.” With that he spins quickly on the heel of an alligator boot and clomps back into the kitchen.

Sheryl places a plate of gooey white gravy sloshed over a pile of plump, steamy biscuits. “Second order’ll be up soon, honey,” she smirks. Whatever anxiety invaded her demeanor earlier has vanished. “Just lemmie know if you need anything. Meal’s on the house if you stay.”

Simon digs in joyfully.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Hours pass. The sun reaches its zenith, stretches its arms, and sinks languidly into the ground. Monochromatic twilight seeps through the dining room blinds, overlaying strips of amber over the dinner time crowd: a few locals (and by the conversations with Sheryl, all regulars) but mostly truckers and travelers on the way to the next attraction. As the day drudges on, sipping cup after cup of tar-burnt coffee, he notices a few patrons that are prolonging their stay, like him.

Simon reads on:

“The Soul consciousness added to the physical consciousness in the body of man during incarnation here on earth gives man his character or personality. Differing from those things which have no Soul or Divine Consciousness, man’s character or personality is not solely a result of the physical consciousness in his body, but the result of a blending or uniting, or cooperative action and reaction of the Soul consciousness with, and upon, the physical consciousness. Thus, the dual consciousness of man constitutes his personality or character.”

He is tapped on the shoulder. A girl, maybe in early twenties, nudges to the stool next to him.

“Mind if I cut in?” she requests with big, innocent eyes.

“No problem,” he answers, and closes the book.

“Whatchya reading?” she asks, brushing back a mane of dreadlocks in a multitude of dyes. She sits herself down, adjusting the over-sized pilot jacket over her tiny fishnet-covered frame. She places a backpack on the floor between them; obviously a traveler as well.

“Oh, just work stuff really.”

“Looks ancient,” she peers at the cover gruffly. “Half a century, at least. Work?”

“Editing,” Simon narrows his eyes, adjusting his spectacles. He notices she is covered in a film of dirt, as if she hasn’t bathed in weeks. “I promised Mr. Lewis I’d give it a once-over to be sure he wasn’t misstating anything. Fact-checking then, I guess, is more like it.”

The girl’s eyes widened in sarcastic surprise. “But that tome’s already been written, boy-o. The dude wrote it’s probably dead.”

“Well, dead here and now, maybe,” Simon tucks the book in his duffel bag. “And you are?”

“Hicks,” she offers a hand and they shake. Simon sniffs, but gets no scent. “You can call me Hicks.”

“Simon.”

“Well, Simon, you must be here for the same reason I am.”

“How do you mean?”

Hicks jabs her thumb behind them into the dining area. “There are about four of us altogether that have been here the better part of the day. All alone, all obviously from out of town.”

“Hmm . . . yes, well,” Simon had noticed a couple of lingering patrons sitting in separate booths. He hadn’t expected this, a group answering the same call as he. They definitely weren’t from The Corpus. He tapped Arturo on the head . . . this is most certainly a quizzical situation. “The more the merrier, eh?”

“Maybe,” Hicks sneers. “But if we all haveta try out for the same gig, that could prove troublesome dontchya think?”

Simon shrugs.

“And I figure, if we all are gonna be work’n the same job, I oughta increase my chances of survival by buddying up with someone quick, right? That way if confusion starts down the road, I have a better chance of making it until the end. That’s the way it works in reality shows, right?”

Survival? Simon thinks. Interesting choice of words.

“Hmm, I’m not usually very good at competition. So, why choose me?”

Hicks looks Simon up and down, offers a look of approval. She smiles a mischievous, child-like grin. “Cause you look less dangerous than the others.”

“Less dangerous?”

“More honest,” Hicks raises a hand to Sheryl—who is slowing with fatigue from a full day’s work—to get some water. “So, what’s your game, Simon? What’s your trick? Your forté?”

“I do what I can,” he answers hesitantly, sipping from his cup. “I am good at . . . being me, really. Yourself?”

“Geopathy,” she smirks. “I talk to dirt!”

“Interesting,” Simon’s eyebrows raise in amusement. “So, what’s the dirt saying these days?”

“Well, that’s the rub, Simon” she sighs grudgingly, hovering over the glass of ice water Sheryl places on the counter. “The dirt around here . . . it ain’t talk’n!”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Darkness envelopes the land after a procession of violet skies and twinkling stars, gods singing to themselves of ancient fish stories. By ten o’clock the patrons dwindle out one-by-one until only four of them are left. Sheryl unties her apron, tosses it behind the counter. She hollers to the cook through the kitchen window.

“I’m never gonna work a double again, Maurice! I can tell you that much!” She stomps once and grabs the register, marching to the back.

Simon and Hicks eye the two lingering patrons in the diner, the other out-of-towners obviously here to be of service to Rhino as well. At the far end of the dining area sitting in a booth is an older woman, short, dark skin, glasses, scrawny, smoking incessantly. She wears a skirt with sneakers, and a t-shirt that says “Cajun Kicks Ass.” The other is sitting by the door, dressed all in black, with a trench coat to match. His darting eyes and greased hair display an ambitious youth Simon feels oddly out of touch with. But, only for a moment.

Rhino explodes through the kitchen doors and clomps into the dining area. Everyone comes to attention. Simon hears Hicks mumble under her breath.

“What I’ve done here is call y’all here in my own special ways,” Rhino begins, the air of his words flapping the whiskers of his moustache. “I’m in need o’ yore services. Most likely each one o’ ya, this ain’t no try-out, if yew catch my drift.”

“I don’t know about the rest of the cats in here,” the man in black shifts in his seat, crossing his legs. “But you don’t seem like the kind of guy that would know about, let alone require, someone in my line of work.”

“You mean our line of work,” Hicks interjects.

“I don’t know anything about any of you all,” he sneers. “And I certainly don’t know why, or even how, a cowboy in the middle of the desert would even contact someone of my caliber.”

“There seems to be a lot you don’t know,” Hicks retorts. The man in black glares at her with a sharp malice.

Simon knew better than to judge the character of someone that may have the type of resources connected to the Unseen Realms. They come in all shapes, sizes, colors, and styles. Rhino may look like Rooster Cogburn’s runt of a brother, but he also may well hold esoteric qualities that do not match the appearance. The man in black should be more cautious.

“Enough o’ that,” Rhino bellows. Hicks and the man in black retract their focus from each other. “Now, this here’s my diner an’ as long as yore here, yew’ll abide by a proper etiquette! Don’t start gripin’ at each other an’ cuasin’ mischief. I got enough problems to deal with, which is why yore here.”

“Why are we here?” the old lady at the far end of the dining room puffs on a cigarette. She has a slight Hispanic accent.

“Somethin’s happened,” Rhino begins, beginning to pace the dining area . . . boots clomping on hardwood floors. “The other night . . . an explosion o’ some sort . . . I really don’t know what ta make of it. I live in the trailer out back. It woke me in the middle o’ the night. Shook me good! I got up . . . sounded like it came from one o’ the storage sheds, so I went to check. When I got out there . . . somethin’ . . . somethin’ was there. In one o’ the sheds. Somethin’ came through . . . from a ‘nother world. I think it came from a ‘nother world!”

The old woman exhales a long stream of cigarette smoke.

“So what do you want us to do?” the man in black asks impatiently.

“I want yew ta take a look. Find out what it is, how it happened, and git rid o’ it! I got a business ta run . . . I can’t afford to have otherworlders lurkin’ about!”

Hicks cranes her head in puzzlement. “Wait a minute! It’s still here? Something came into this world, from another world . . . and it’s still here?”

“Sure thing,” Rhino nods. “Got it locked up in the shed.”

There is a pause. A deep—if only a second long—quiet.

“Oh my,” Simon smirks. “Well that is quite interesting.” Arturo gives him another psychic nudge. He grabs the cane and holds it close, ready to listen to what it has to tell. He casually fingers the silver, animalistic skull handle.

“You had better be prepared to compensate appropriately for such an action,” the man in black jabs a many-ringed finger in Rhino’s direction. “This is the kind of job that only millionaires can afford.”

“Yew little pecker!” Rhino spits. “Don’tchya think if I was able to git y’all here that I’d be able to pay ya? I do right by people, Tobias! I wouldn’t be wastin’ yore time otherwise!”

“Look,” the old lady snuffs out a cigarette butt. “Why don’t you let us take a look and each of us can make our own assessment about whether or not we want to linger any longer, okay darling?”

They all agree and Rhino leads them outside into the evening. The once-sweltering air is now chilled and slightly breezy. They follow Rhino to around the diner to the back of the lot.

“My name is Simon, by the way,” he offers as they walk.

“And I’m Hicks,” Hicks skips along, covering herself with a dirt-covered jacket. “I’m in to geopathy.”

“Frater Tobias Ravencroft,” the man in black says contemptuously, extremely annoyed by having to converse. “I am a high level Thelemic magician. I’d tread carefully if I were you all. Love is the Law.”

“Ravencroft . . . gee, that’s not a pseudonym, is it?” Hicks mutters to Simon. He smiles back at her in amusement.

“And you?” Simon asks the old lady.

“Lucille,” she is already smoking another cigarette, seemingly uninterested in the exchange. “Lucille Diego. Curandera.”

“I like your shirt,” Simon compliments.

“Gracias.”

“Quit yer yappin’ . . . we’re here,” Rhino leads them to a small, wooden shanty. Its dilapidated structure looks unable to maintain its own integrity; corroded by desert winds, the board hang on their nails with thin grips.

Simon becomes overwhelmed with wooziness and rests his weight on his cane. Arturo hints at some concern. I know, he thinks back. Something is definitely wrong here. As Rhino works with a rusty padlock, Simon peers around the group. The stern look on Lucille’s face suggests she is the only other one noticing a difference in the atmosphere . . . a thick film of pungent musk, like rotten eggs or sulfur. But, why is he suddenly dizzy? It’s as if the on-comings of a particle shift were getting ready to place, yet all surrounding particles remain intact. What then?

The door creaks open and Rhino proffers everyone inside.

It is dark. The inside around ten by ten feet, from what Simon can tell with what little moonlight pouring in through the open doorway. In the center of the room is a form, a huddled mass of flesh. There is a chain wrapped around its neck, the other end bolted to the floor. The flesh is charred, blistered, mushed from extreme circumstances that Simon is yet to ascertain. He takes a step closer.

The mangled form looks up, bloodshot eyes looking back at up at him. This . . . thing, this humanoid form . . . it somehow seems familiar.

“Holy shit,” Tobias turns his face, covering his nose. “It reeks!”

Simon looks closer, into those eyes . . . the shape of the head, the nose, the mouth . . . looking through the scarring. There is a familiarity. Wretched creature looks back him, twitching in recognition.

“Oh . . . oh my! My, my!” Simons stutters.

“What’s up Simon?” Hicks asks. “What is it?”

“That . . . that’s me!”

TO BE CONTINUED . . .

~ ~ ~ ~

Be sure to check out other Simon Myth epsiodes at: http://www.danielmoler.com/p/simon-myth-chronicles.html