"True glory consists in doing what deserves to be written, in writing what deserves to be read, and in so living as to make the world happier and better for our living in it."

                                                                                                                            - Pliny

19. GLORY DAYS 

I’ve made a point of bitching about Mark Millar and the horror he’s made of modern comics, but even I must admit to feeling excited about his latest entry, 1985, and not for the normal reasons. Not because I’m curious what new ways he’s found to demoralize yet another set of modern mythic heroes. Not because I wonder if this time he’ll offer something other than his "Heroes Go To War" theme which we’ve seen in various incarnations since his stardom.

I’m eager because I feel his love of comics past in every interview I read regarding 1985. The covers take me back in time when comics were fun. When a school year felt like a full year. Summer lasted forever. And the thirty days between issues of Uncanny X-Men drove me crazy. Comics were better than television and you couldn’t wait for the next issue. My friends and I would gather tossing theories and speculations back and forth trying to predict the outcomes to the latest conflicts. Questions that have my eyes rolling in the back of my head now, had me on edge when I was thirteen years old.

Millar’s 1985 may accomplish one very important thing by serving to remind us how fun comics used to be in the "glory days."

I’m a husband. I’m a father. I work a "nine-to-five" living paycheck to paycheck. If I lose my job, there is more than a fifty percent chance my family will lose the roof over their heads. I’m a writer working my way up a steep hill with only a chance of making it. Odds favor my becoming one of many who "writes on the side."

I am one of several people living this life. Someone always asks how I do it and still stay sane. How do I maintain and not cheat on my wife and turn to crime, beat my kids, or become an alcoholic? How do I get through a day knowing the next will be more of the same and repeat it for the remaining fifty years I may live? Why is it I’m still too afraid to pull the trigger when I deep-throat the barrel of a gun (R.I.P H.S.T.)?

I tell them it’s because of my vices. As long as I have them, I can make it through.

No bullshit here... Yes, the love of my wife and children help. Yes, the support of friends and family mean a lot. They also remind me how fucked my life is. When I think of my wife and children, how they love me, it helps, for about five minutes. Then I’m reminded how much I owe it to them to provide a better life. I’m reminded how it would suck if they backed the wrong horse. How much better my wife’s life would be if she had married the paralegal, now a lawyer, instead of the struggling artist. I see the loving faces of my children and know it’s up to me to show them dreams do come true. Hoping, when push comes to shove, they will have the strength and faith to pursue their destinies and not follow the job market or what their high school economics teacher tells them is the most lucrative. I think about my parents, I can feel and see their support. All the more reasons for me to make something of myself, or what will their lives have meant? What will it mean to my father who spent over ten thousand dollars to fund L: IC if I fail?

My vices get me through; comic books, movies, and video games, they are my salvation. Like 1985’s lead, Toby, as a boy I used comics to escape the bullshit life will rain down on even a young child, especially one who was fat, awkward, and had a bit of an odor surrounding him. My fondest memories about comics take me back to the summer of ’85 when I was buying from a three liquor stores that surrounded my home in Cypress. Neither carried the same books. I had to go to one store for The Incredible Hulk, another for X-Factor, and another for the Uncanny X-Men. New Universe titles were at a small supermarket five blocks from my house. Elf Quest was already in graphic reprints, and I had to go to a bookstore in the Lakewood mall for those. Too far for my Huffy wannabe BMX bike. I had to beg my mother to take me.

As far as I knew, these were the only ways to get my hands on comic books. Stores that sold only comics were a fantasy. I didn’t know about Golden Apple or Melrose for that matter. Closest I'd been to Hollywood was Inglewood and my mother was determine to move further south with the migrating white folk. My world was so small that I just never considered there might be stores and conventions devoted to comic books. I would anticipate riding my Huffy bike to each store to pick up the latest in the stories of Bruce Banner, Logan, and the original X-Men. That was the year I walked into a 7-11 and discovered Art Adams and Longshot. I had to steal extra change from my mother to have enough money to collect that mini-series, and I didn’t finish it until almost ten years later. It took me two-weeks to buy the first issue. I would ride to the 7-11 every day to flip through the pages. I had never seen anything like Art Adam’s work, and the character was amazing. He was Nightcrawler, my favorite character, but without the blue fur and tail.

I still have those issues. I come across them now and again when I’m digging through my boxes or stacks. And, like Longshot, touching them takes me back. I followed Longshot from the mini-series to the pages of the X-Men. I remember my excitement when I read the annual where Longshot first appeared, also drawn by Adams. You’d think I was anticipating the second Matrix movie, before the third killed the fandom. That was also the introduction of the "Little X-Men." For those who don’t remember, Mojo had sent Longshot to our world and he exploded into the Manchester Mansion during a Danger Room session. The transdimensional "goo" that came with him altered the personalities of the X-Men and de-aged them. They became dark adolescent versions of themselves. Or, now that I think of it as an adult, they didn’t become "dark," just adolescent. It was up to the New Mutants to save the X-Men from Mojo’s grip.

It was a great two-parter, and introduced the New Mutants’ "graduation uniforms." What they would wear when and if they ever became X-Men. It ended with the New Mutants victorious, the X-Men saved, and Longshot joining the team. It also stressed a very important difference in the groups. The X-Men were adults and their viewpoints were skewed by a lot of the negative crap they had seen and lived through. The New Mutants still had hope. That’s what made their book so cool to read. Where the Uncanny X-Men was this heavy book at times, and the world was getting progressively worse, especially after the disappearance of Xavier and reign of Magneto, the New Mutants was a beacon. Those characters faced dangers just as real as the adult group, but they never gave in to negativity.  They were the Titans to the X-Men’s JLA.

In 1985 there was nothing like comic books. Television was dull by comparison and video games were one step above pong. The comic universes of Marvel and DC were vast. Every time I opened a comic book I would see something new, even if it were the subscription page. I remember not knowing who that big hairy orange guy was at the back of the Marvel books enticing me to subscribe, or the two chicks sitting in each of his hands, but they all looked cool. I didn’t learn about Sasquatch, Aurora, Marina, and Alpha Flight until I was in high school. I bought all of Byrnes run and read them one after the other. Sasquatch still remains my favorite, and no one draws him better than Byrne.

In between Marvel books, while I waited for the next issues to arrive, I would still ride to the stores and read DC books. I had to be careful though. I was afraid if anyone knew I was reading the books of the enemy Stan Lee would scold me through the television during the next episode of Spider-Man and His Amazing Friends and Wolverine would show up at my door. I remember the first Crisis even though I wouldn’t read the entire story until the trade release years later. The covers were amazing. One issue I had to have no matter the risk was a Justice League of America tie-in with Commander Steel on the cover. This guy, his outlandish costume by Marvel standards, mystified me and he only had a steel skeleton. The simplicity drew me in and I was blown away by what I read. The destruction was monumental. To a boy whose mother had dragged him from one prayer group to another, this was Revelations on paper. Marvel hadn't done anything like it before or since.

That issue of Crisis led to my buying issues of Batman, The New Titans, DC’s Who’s Who, and Secret Origins, all on the down low. My favorite issue of Secret Origins is the Doom Patrol double-sized book. I love the team, the original look of Robot Man, and John Bryne drew the whole thing. John Byrne was the shit back then.

When I wasn’t ping-ponging between superheroes I read Elf Quest and dreamed of finding the love of my life and we would create comics together like creators Richard and Wendy Pini. I’d draw and she’d write, or vice versa. I didn’t understand Lord of the Rings. I had seen and tried to read The Hobbit, but never finished. Lord of the Rings and all the different books just looked boring to me. Back then, all the fantasy books and their covers were so similar. It was all so overwhelming, the books were thick, the stories long, and there were no pictures. Comics had spoiled me, and Elf Quest snuck through thanks to Marvel reprints. I traded with a friend and read an issue from the Raid at Sorrow’s End. I investigated and found trade reprints. Huge books with glossy paper that made the colors pop. Till then, all I’d known was newsprint. These books were like Lord of the Rings, blu-ray edition (coming soon), on an HD LCD television. I still have those same books. Battered and beaten with constant reading, but still with me.

I miss those glory days. I miss when comics were fun. They say ignorance is bliss. Well, the older I get the more I’m disappointed to learn what goes on behind the scenes of my favorite things, like porn and comics.

Walking into comic book stores is like stepping into the porn aisle of a video store or newsstand. The clerks stand by the cash registers, eyeing each person that comes in as if they are beneath them. The customers are the junkies and losers, perverts, and slaves to fantasy. They hate what they sell because it’s a job now and they are surrounded by nothing else. They ignore the customers who talk on the subject, and those who don’t quickly become their favorites who break the monotony of their day.

The shelves are aligned with the same smut we’ve seen over and over again. Nothing new, and gonzo is the name of the game, the more in your face the better. In porn, a close-up on a nice snatch isn’t enough anymore. Now, it has to be spread wide open, the wider the better, with the lips pulled over the woman’s head. It’s all one-step away from a medical journal on female anatomy. I imagine someday we’ll be jacking off to female cadavers with their asses and cunts split down the middle and pulled apart for the ultimate close-up.  Comics aren’t different. They're both suiciding from excess.

It’s all about the money now. Porn has lost its taste and so have comics. The porn queens and heroes are gone. Beauty is as inconsequential in porn as substance, art, and moralities are in comics. It's all about who can degrade themselves more. Who can fit the most dicks in their mouths and pull their anus into the biggest blackest holes imaginable. Every legend that passes, a cheap knock-off is there to replace them, from Savannah to Savannah Samson, and Jenna Fine to Jenna Jameson, and then Jenna Doll. From Steve Roger's Captain America, to Bucky Barnes, to whoever the fuck is in the suit, it just doesn't matter anymore.

Comics are bending over and spreading wide in Buttman fashion. It was exciting at first. Not anymore. Now it’s just redundant and not even a genius like Grant Morrison can make me give a damn about Final Crisis. Television has more to offer, and comics are just trailing behind ripping ideas. I would enjoy Secret Invasion if Battlestar Galactica weren’t doing a better job. Winnicks’ Green Arrow and Black Canary just makes me miss Prison Break.

I’m bored, and going to the comics shop is a chore. A fun night with my local retailer consists of five guys talking shit about movies, television, and video games while surrounded by comic books, and we don’t give a damn about them. Comics are fun when I talk about them in the past tense. They’re fun when I reminisce with my wife about old storylines she never had the chance to read herself. That’s how I got her into comics, old books. She went from hip goth rocker poet to comic geek after I injected her with doses of Claremont’s Dark Phoenix Saga, Moore’s Watchmen, Gaimen’s Sandman, and Ennis’ Preacher and Hellblazer. Touches of Ellis’ Authority and Barr’s Camelot 3000 sealed the deal. Before I knew what happened she was reading Morrison’s JLA like a pro and asking questions about character history that had my personal DCU historian, Alex Lugo, teaching "DC History 101" for hours.

I miss those times. They remind me of how things were in 1985. When comics were real, and characters had history they weren’t running away from, or publishers trying to forget.

Maybe I need a break? Twice now I’ve taken a break from comics, and a lot of people I know whose view of comics are what I consider healthy, do the same. It all becomes too much, and like some Anne Rice spawned vampire character, we have to go underground for a year or two. We stay away until we get that feeling again. We hear the gentle whispers calling us back and re-emerge when things are different.

The first break I took from comics, when I came back, the Hulk was grey, wearing a suit, and talking. A man named Cable had taken over the New Mutants, and a penciler named Jim Lee drew the X-Men like no one I had ever seen since Byrne. Independent comics were everywhere. Tim Vigil and David Quinn’s Faust was revolutionary and Rebel Studios mixed with the emergence of Image planted the seeds to have my own studio and publish my own books. Not long down the road Superman would die, Batman would break his back. The speculation era would hit and I was right in the middle, working at Collector’s Paradise in Santa Monica from noon to one in the morning surrounded by comics and I loved it so much I worked for free until the owner, Kenny, forced a salary on me. A hundred a week, fifty in cash, and fifty in comic books, I was in heaven.

I need a break.  I think we all do. Maybe, if we all took a break, when we came back this business would be different. Better. Comics would return from a business to an art. Stories would get less gluttonous for destruction, and a little less grotesque towards women. Maybe. The women part is a lot to hope for.

And, maybe our heroes would return.

I have a three-year-old son who loves Spider-Man to death. He wakes and sleeps with his Spider-Man action figure and wears his Venom costume year round. He loves Spider-Man and has no idea why. It connects with him on some basic level I've grown out of. From the moment he saw Spidey swinging, he has been a loyal fan. That’s the magic of superheroes.

When my son wants to see Spider-Man, he watches the television shows and movies. Every week I offer him a copy of Amazing Spider-Man. Every week he flips through it, puts it down, and walks away. When I offer it again, saying, "Don’t you want to see Spider-Man, Laz?"

He replies, "That’s not Spider-Man." Goes back to the television, and watches Tobey in the red and blues, or asks me to play last Saturday’s Spectacular Spider-Man episode. He even likes the re-runs of the old Fox show.

He’s three. He loves Spider-Man, but won’t read the comic.

"That’s not Spider-Man."

Yeah, I think we all need to take a break.

Myoho-Renge-Kyo.

JPG.

Joseph Patrick Gauthier