SANTA
Okay, Timmy, what do you want?

JIMMY
Jimmy, and I want a Pathfinder raygun and an XBox and Landwich and I want a TableSack Man and I want…

SANTA
Oh, Jimmy. I’m sorry. All you get is Down Syndrome.

JIMMY
But Santa, I don’t want Down Synndddoooaaaawwwwwoooo…..

SANTA
Ha, ha, ha, okay, Jimmy, no more school for you! A good boy gets his heart’s wish.

JIMMY
AWooowwwwww?

SANTA (to HELPER)
Take ‘em to the mineshaft like the rest.

HELPER
We got a fuckin’ truckload, boss. That whore with the whip says she’s getting scared of ‘em.

SANTA
Whore with the whip? Yeah, I don’t remember hiring your mother.

HELPER
Hey, fuck you!

SANTA
Fuck you, cocksucker!
(beat)
Hell, she’s got a taser, too, don’t she. Use that. Crank it up all the way, y’know? Their hides get thicker the dumber they get. I’m talkin’ extreme prejudice. One cracked egg doesn’t ruin the entire bunch. Tell ‘er to keep the storeroom tighter than she keeps her coozle, or I’m gonna fuck ‘er like a ten year-old girl — the bad kind of way. (scratching noise) Ahhhh, I gots mandatory retirement soon. Ahhhh who am I givin the kiddin’-stick to? Ahhh it’s me.

HELPER
The hell is that smell? Is this a burn ward?

SANTA
(to himself)
Not yet.

HELPER
What?

SANTA
I was just saying, I got too many debts with the Wink Police to pay off to quit and keep both of my bawlls.

HELPER
Rats! Sweet Gobad! You didn’t tell me about the RAAAAAATS … (voice trails off then disappears)

SANTA
Only the strong survive in this world, Jimmy. Lose an eye, go on. An’ for the ones that don’t make it out, I hain’t got much pity. Old Keymaster and his Voodoo’s gotta eat.

(RANDOM GUY comes from behind a potted plant)

RANDOM GUY
THIS? A SANTA THAT FUCKS LITTLE BOYS AND GIRLS INTO RETARDS? WHAT THE SUGAR-HELL IS THIS?

SANTA
It’s a doozy, alright. Let the Elf explain it to you.

GUY
THERE’S NO ELF IN HERE! THERE’S NEVER BEEN AN ALELPH IN HERE! NO ONE BUT YOU, MISTER! JUSTICE! JUST US!

SANTA
I see you’ve taken the red pill. Well done, the elf-wives say. How about a do-over?

GUY
A do-over? There’s no do-over here. You’ve fed little children to the Dungeon Wampum!

SANTA
The Wampus, the Wampus — and he/she/it is in the basement penthouse. LEARN THE GATEKEEPER’S STORY BEFORE YOU MOCK HIS DOOR.

GUY
Okay.

SANTA
Fine. But the next step is the easiest.

GUY
IT BETTER BE — wait, Why are you flipping me off?

SANTA
No — I’m showing you the way. (deep voice) Extract this finger from its master. Gnaw it and swallow it down to that beast-pouch you call stomach. Sto-mak.

GUY
One and I’m explaining this to you once, this one’s name is Sir Tummers, sir. Two, cutting human flesh is never easy, even in Texas, even when you pay the bishop of the butter bustop. Even when they’ve told you in dreams.

SANTA
SOMEone forgot that they make a sauce for that. That sauce is called Vodka. It takes care of a lot of other problems, too.

GUY
Like Bobby said to Whitney, You really need to stop this.

SANTA
And like Hoover said to the Horse through the Window, Shan’t. (pause) Hey. Finger still attached. So why don’t you stop a’rebuttin’, and let them pinking shears get to a’cuttin’?
(sighs)
You want me to tell you a story?

GUY
I know the story you’re trying to tell. I tell it first: At breakfast time I was sitting by the house when the sky split in two. The split in the sky grew larger, and the entire Northern side was covered with fire. At that moment I became so hot that I couldn’t bear it, as if my shirt was on fire; from the northern side, where the fire was, came strong heat. I wanted to tear off my shirt and throw it down, but then the sky shut closed, and a strong thump sounded, and I was thrown a few yards. I lost my senses for a moment, but then my wife ran out and led me to the house. After that such noise came, as if rocks were falling or cannons were firing, the earth shook, and when I was on the ground, I pressed my head down, fearing rocks would smash it. When the sky opened up, hot wind raced between the houses, like from cannons, which left traces in the ground like pathways, and it damaged some crops. Later we saw that many windows were shattered, and in the barn a part of the iron lock snapped. I opened the barn. That’s where we found you.

SANTA
STOP READING.

GUY
Wait, wait, wait. I get it … this was an episode of Frasier. I’ve totally seen this before. God, I was so blind.

SANTA
Couldn’t it be a brain tumor?

GUY
Not with these hips.

SANTA
Let me tell you–

GUY
No. Don’t tell me. Not with THOSE hips.

SANTA
Bitch.

GUY
Okay, point. GO AHEAD. Since — apparently — we’re already watching “No-Prah.”

SANTA
(singing)
In this life, you must be
Giving fealty trustily
For every dog and pony show,
Pay to the Maestro.
PAY TO THE MAESTRO!
Beefalo, Buffalo!
Baffalo, Beefalo!
Three hundred million dead!
PAY TO THE MAESTRO!

GUY
WELCOME TO THE FUTURE I GUESS.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I’ve traveled over half our multiverse to get here this evening.
I couldn’t get away sooner because Solomon Grundy came out of Slaughter Swamp and I had to see about it. That Mongoloid’s rich magic black blood is now flowing at two thousand barrels, now I turn it into the addictive steorid Venom, and well let’s just say that it’s paying me an income of five thousand dollars a week from South American prison rapists alone.
I have two giant musclebound gentlemen drilling Doctor Magnus down in Belle Reve, and as we speak and I have sixteen producing the same sexual saddle-breaking at Arkham. It’s a hard man that refuses his fellow man comforts of the flesh, my friends. If you’d stop to think about that sentence, my golly, you’d be offended. Which is why I’m here to rule the night.
So – Ladies and Gentlemen – if I say I’m a Bat-man you will agree.

WAYNEVIEW pauses and smiles for the briefest of moments.

BRUCE DANIEL WAYNEVIEW
Do I look like a cop?
I would very much like to be your city’s vigilante and be lord over a sunless empire of blind, diseased, shrieking terror-mammals. Also, I will rule over the bats.
Which is why I’m here, my friends. You have a great chance here – but bear in mind: you can lose it all if you’re not careful. Out of all men that beg to rule the night and jump out of the shadows in a deluded attempt to gain some measure of closure for a childhood trauma that will never, never-ever heal, maybe one in twenty will be billionaire bachelors; the rest will be speculators –- men who gained their powers surely through their own incompetence with chemicals or radio-ation and not a debilitating psychic wound — speculators trying to get between you and your potentiality for a culling of the hobos – to get some of the urban legendarity that by rights comes to you, the fine people of this fine city of Little Gotham.
Even if you find one twisted, obsessed avenger that has money, and means to spend the next thirty years trying to suture a bleeding ulcer on his fell soul, he’ll maybe know nothing about being a god-damn Bat-hyphen-man and he’ll have to hire out the job on contract — I think you know that means the Brothers of Green Lantern and rumors aside, ladies and gentlemen, I’m hesitant to speak ill of my fellow man. But then you’re depending on a Blue, omniscient contractor that’s trying to rush the job of securing justice and with it your posterity so he can get another talking space-mule on his Green-Ring roster just as jack-quick as he can. This is the way that this works.

An OFF-CAMERA VOICE INTERUPTS, LOUDLY; WAYNEVIEW holds his composure.

OFF-CAMERA MALE VOICE
What the hell you want with bats?

OFF-CAMERA FEMALE VOICE
Uh, sir, l-like I told you, sir, this — this is just a sandwich shop. I think you, uh, want to speak to someone at City Hall …

OFF-CAMERA BOY VOICE
Just buy a fucking sandwich already, mister!

BRUCE DANIEL WAYNEVIEW
That’s besides the point, friend. I do my own kevlar and bat-o-rangs and I have my own butler and a possibly endless line of expendable boy-soldiers ready to be sacrificed to my endless war on crime; and I have my own men that work for me, work for me and they are men I know, men who can disappear if need be. Believe me I have clowns who have bid on that very business for me. I make it my business to be there and see to their work, although I can’t promise I’d be there for their death. I don’t lose my utility belt in the hole and spend months fishing for it; I don’t botch the crippling of our civic felons and let corpse-beef in the hole and ruin the whole lease.

REVEAL, AT THAT MOMENT, young D.G. (Dick Grayson, Age 12. Dick Grayson. Age 12. Dick Grayson. Age 12.) He is standing behind WAYNEVIEW and looking at the group that is OFF-CAMERA.

BRUCE DANIEL WAYNEVIEW
I’m fixed like no other company in this field and that’s because my Aero-Bat-machine has just come in – I have a string of tools, some of which are compensation for the death of my parents, I’ll admit, all ready to put to work. I can load a Batmobile onto the roof of your commercial district and have it here in an Irishman’s hour.
I have business connections so I can outfit my bodily armor for the many stabbings I’m sure to encounter, not just from the parasite which lives upon the skin of your civic flower but from the ill-thought out asides on my Christian person that are sure to come when I drop down from your ceiling into your lives, perhaps to enjoy one of Mister Graham’s crackers or a Coa-coa — such things go by friendship in a rush like this and I shan’t take it amiss if my inky cowl is molested mistakenly, it was made with the help of a freedman, Lucius Fox.
I am pleased to have been known to employ a slow-fella, a simple gentlemen, Harold, at his trade, which is all to your benefit, believe me, ladies and gentlemen. The sciencetricians say we must call them retarded now, but there is nothing slow about his work. Why you think he’d had a soul. I tell you these marvelous ro-bots will be the end of our white race. But I won’t my optimist side track us from the cherry. With Harold, don’t think of the example he’ll give your children and your animals, ask yourself if any other competitor can bring to this fallen lady of Gotham what I can. And this is why I can guarantee to start scaring a superstitiuous and cowardly lot and put up the cash to back my word, and more importantly continue my war against evil in a world that I believe with some justification to be created by a wicked tormentor god.
I assure you, ladies and gentlemen, whatever the others promise to do, when it comes to the showdown they won’t be there.
Especially that god-damn Johnny Kryptonian, who I have on good word is a Red socialist space-mongoloid who brought the Chinee-pox to our fair shores. I hope you haven’t minded my good old-fashioned plain talking about it, whatever it really is.
Also, did I mention my parents are dead?

Written laws are like spiders’ webs, and will like them only entangle and hold the poor and weak, while the rich and powerful will easily break through them.
– Anacharsis, to Solon, when the latter was writing laws for Athens

Always act like you’re wearing an invisible crown, I do.
– Paris Hilton

Anacharsis probably wouldn’t like Mark Millar, who loves a lord. Not since Tom Wolfe has there been a writer so enamored of the priveleged and potent. In Millarworld, the Gatsbys and Buchanans wear capes or skintight leather, but the message is still the same: bow before Mithras.

For guys who follow this line of thought, which passes through the suburbs of Rand on its way to Mt. Invictus Sol, even the idea of, say, bringing back lettres cachet wouldn’t be enough. If I was the kind of man to biographize, I would wager Millar is like Cameron Crowe, in that he never got to sit with the cool kids in High School (neither did the rest of us, gentlemen), and, as a result, his entire creative life, raveled out, has been spent imagining what it’s like on the other side of the glass.

He’s a Scot, so their neuroses are different. Maybe he wore the wrong tartan or kilt to school one day. Those clan rumbles can be nasty. In Crowe’s case , however — which I only know courtesy of ye olde Lester Bangs, polemicist — it was being the kid dork on a bus full of rockers (”Play us a song on your wee guitar, Cameron”). But the effect was the same: both spend their time wondering, “what would it be like to be someone whom others make exceptions for?”

Every fucking Millar plot = “What’s it like to be one of the Beautiful People?”

Or: “What goes on in Wonka’s chocolate factory? Oh, if only I was an Oompa-Loompa and knew!”

A common question asked about Batman is whether or not he is responsible for the rise of dangerous, costumed supervillians in Gotham City. In the same manner, does the “player” create their opposite number? As long as there are players, must there always be player-haters?

Perhaps. But today’s question is stranger; to my way of thinking, deeper: whither the player? Whence? Chicken and the egg. Is it conceivable that the potential of the universe to generate player-haters itself triggers the creation of players from playerless matter? Is playerness incipient within all creation? Is playing a vocation, summoned from within random human beings? But again, this is not the real question. I have mentioned players and player-haters. But there is a third class, to which Millar and most glibertarians belong, the player-follower.

Because playing and player-hating are a Red Queen scenario. A Red Queen scenario arises without interference in the natural state of things. But player-following is external to the universal Red Queen Scenario, which raises the question of why player-following exists.

About the Red Queen Scenario: it’s a fancy way of saying “Evolutionary arms race.” For an evolutionary system, continuing development is needed just in order to maintain its fitness relative to the systems it is co-evolving with. This principle is based on the observation to Alice by the Red Queen in Lewis Carroll’s “Through the Looking Glass” that “in this place it takes all the running you can do, to keep in the same place.”

Wikipedia sez:
In evolutionary biology, an evolutionary arms race is an evolutionary struggle between competing sets of co-evolving genes that develop adaptations and counter-adaptations against each other, resembling an arms race. The co-evolving gene sets may be in different species, as in an evolutionary arms race between a predator species and its prey, or a parasite and its host.

Since every improvement in one species will lead to a selective advantage for that species, variation will normally continuously lead to increases in fitness in one species or another.

However, since in general different species are coevolving, improvement in one species implies that it will get a competitive advantage on the other species, and thus be able to capture a larger share of the resources available to all. This means that fitness increase in one evolutionary system will tend to lead to fitness decrease in another system. The only way that a species involved in a competition can maintain its fitness relative to the others is by in turn improving its design.

The most obvious example of this effect are the “arms races” between predators and prey, where the only way predators can compensate for a better defense by the prey (rabbits running faster) is by developing a better offense (foxes running faster, or foxes develop jet packs).

In this case we might consider the relative improvements (running faster) to be also absolute improvements in fitness.

In sum, in a competitive world, relative progress (”running”) is necessary just for maintenance (”staying put”).

‘Cuz coevolution is hott.

The tree example shows that in some cases the net effect of an arms race may also be an decrease in fitness.

Trees in a forest are normally competing for access to sunlight. Shocking, right?

Here’s the bitter Amish of the thing: if one tree grows a little bit taller than its neighbours it can capture part of their sunlight.

This forces the other trees in turn to grow taller, in order not to be overshadowed. The net effect is that all trees tend to become taller and taller, yet still gather on average just the same amount of sunlight, while spending much more resources in order to sustain their increased height. Same deal with people, maybe.

Thus, I speculate that the player-follower or the player-worshipper — organisms, in short, like Millar — exist to give the player a ego buff.

The tall tree doesn’t get a lot for growing so tall, but it does get a nice benefit in that the Millar-organism seeks to emulate it and say nice things about it. And write endless stories about players. You know the drill.

In return, the player-follower gets to bask in the reflected glory of the player, maybe gets to pretend it’s a player itself. Indeed, the player-follower gains a great deal of borrowed light from the player, like a moon does the sun.

Another example: there is penicillin, a player in the world of preventing disease. There are superbugs, which are player-haters.

Whether or not the bugs were players first and the penicillin is actually the playerhater is a mind-breaking notion worthy of exploration but beyond the scope of this present exploration.

This is playerhating, and its consequence.
———————————————————–

YOU: All very good, Jason. But Why Should The Red Queen Exist?
ME: HA-HA, I don’t know.

But really. There’s a good argument. That argument’s name is Diversity.

Assume that in a few seconds,  some horrible supernatural creature hidden from the sight of God — a golem, zombie, revanant, werewolf, vampire, young Republican — will come crashing through the door. You have no idea what it might be, but you ‘ve got weapons on the table. Would you be more likely to survive with many different types of defense, or none? With more, of course. If it’s a werewolf, your vampire stake won’t work but those silver bullets’ll sure come in handy. Diversity is good for survival.

The Red Queen, when used by nature, makes lots and lots of diversity. Graham Williams described the “Tangled Bank” hypothesis: in a saturated economy, it pays to diversify. For example: longer-lived mammals exhibit more chromosomal crossovers: 30 in man, 10 in rabbits, 3 in mice.

This is why sex exists.

So let us examine the Red Queen hypothesis: species do not get any better at surviving, their chances of extinction are random. “It takes all the running you can do to keep in the same place. If you want to get to somewhere else, you must run at least twice as fast as that. [Carroll]” Sex is all about combating the enemy that fights back (parasites [including microbes], predators and competitors). Parasites are especially deadly.

And you never win, you only gain a temporary respite. Consider Virulent parasites versus ones that do not kill their hosts … pr artificial viruses (computer programs). Parasites employ binding proteins, which the host evolves and varies. The advantage of sex can appear in a single generation when it comes to parasites. Enough people fucking eventually will throw up enough random mutations, like sickle-cell anemia. SCA, incidentally, is a response to the ubiquity of malaria on the African continent. It’s very old and very useful for mosquitoes.

So we come to the player, and to what is perhaps the player’s closest analogue in the animal kingdom, the peacock. As we see in the case of Millar, in the case of the player-follower, peacock tails attract both females and other males. The other male peacocks want association with the flashiest peacock. And what peacocks are flashier than superpeacocks? (”There’s some FUN in being a superhorse!”)

Superpeacocks. Yeah, I just wrote that. I’m kind of in shock myself. Moving on …

The showy tail is the peacock’s way of attracting the peahen. Sexual selection has selectively bred this trait. Males invest less in childrearing than females in most but not all species (e.g., jacana). In elephant seals, only a few males father all the offspring. Beauty arose to satisfy the Red Queen contest. Previously bright colors were seen as a warning to predators. In peacocks and other birds, size (and symmetry) of plumage matters.

Exaggerated gaudy ornaments burden the males (in terms of longevity and protection from predators) but are the key to successful mating. Females prefer them because other females prefer them–fashion is arbitrary . Polygamy… Most of the peahens choose the same male. Bird leks (places where males gather, parade their wares to the visiting females. Only a few males do most of the mating–up to 30 times in one morning).

Ornaments are handicaps to survival from predators but increase ability to seduce females. They are also living proof of the male’s vigor that he has been able to survive with it. The more flamboyant or symmetrical a male’s appearance, the less troubled with parasites he is. Successful males are not necessarily truthful, sometimes just more persuasive. In humans, attractiveness is not just about appearance but also wittiness, cleverness, etc., the complete package this author represents, basically. But aside from my own fitness, Nature might as well be cribbing a line from the book of Gladwell. Malcolm Gladwell, to be precise.

The Matthew Effect. That’s the name. Jennifer Shahade of USChess.org writes:

I was born on New Year’s Eve, the biggest party night of the year aka “amateur’s night.” December 31 is also the worst birthday for a young chessplayer, and to a larger extent, an aspiring Canadian ice hockey professional. When I was 14, I started playing in World Youth events and was miffed that my eligibility was determined by my age as of January 1, making me a year older in chess age than I would have been if I was born one day later. So I was immediately drawn in by personal experience to the “Matthew Effect”, the first chapter of best-selling author Malcolm Gladwell’s third book, Outliers: The Story of Success.

The “Matthew Effect”, refers to how an age cut-off in sports creates a glut of athletes who are born just after the cut-off. It’s named after the gospel of Matthew in the New Testament: “For unto everyone that hath shall be given, and he shall have abundance. But from him that hath not shall be taken away.”

Back to Chess “aka ‘amateur’s night’” lady:

In Canadian ice hockey, which Gladwell focuses on, the effect is particularly extreme, because all young Canadian boys are funneled into a training system in kindergarten or even earlier, ages at which 9-11 months will likely make a big difference in weight and height. The most skilled undergo a series of grueling training sessions. In this sport, January, February and March birthdays dominate even professional league rosters, with November and December kids under-represented. Gladwell explains that the bigger January boys will be more likely to be chosen for an intensive training program, the benefits of which will extend even when boys born later in the year will have caught up in size. Gladwell doesn’t examine gymnastics, which prizes smallness and flexibility, but I’d imagine that sport would show the opposite effect.

Everyone understands that the Matthew Rules is one of the essential unfairnesses which make up and undergird the unbalanced world: them has gets more, them that don’t, don’t. In other words, the rich get richer and the poor get poorer.

These kinds of distributional patterns occur all over nature. They’re called Power Laws. You may be familiar with the Long Tail. (see sauropod, right)

Although  I generally try to shy away from the kind of stuff that’d give a McKinsey Human Resources droid an everliving synergistic Web 2.0 beta Boner in the crag where, in most people, the soul resides, it’s regrettably necessary in this speil to explain Millar and the many horrible reasons Millar exists.

Back to the Long Tail, which is a Power Law, and as the Great Wiki tells us, “a power law is a special kind of mathematical relationship between two quantities. If one quantity is the frequency of an event, the relationship is a power-law distribution, and the frequencies decrease very slowly as the size of the event increases. For instance, an earthquake twice as large is four times as rare.

If this pattern holds for earthquakes of all sizes, then the distribution is said to “scale”.

Power laws also describe other kinds of relationships, such as the metabolic rate of a species and its body mass (called Kleiber’s law), and the size of a city and the number of patents it produces. What this relationship means is that there is no typical size in the conventional sense. Power laws are found throughout the natural and manmade worlds, and are an active study of scientific research.”

All that opaque ramble means is that Power Laws are different kinds of Matthew Principles. Shit tends to cluster at one end of a scale.

It’s also known as the Pareto principle, also known as the 80-20 rule, the law of the vital few and the principle of factor sparsity, the last of which must be the most boring title for a mathematical concept ever.

The 80-20 rule, hereafter called the Pareto principle, because I like how the Eye-Talians role, states that, for many events, roughly 80% of the effects come from 20% of the causes. Again, not much of a shock for those of us in the real world.

Hell, look at how many times I’ve posted on this blog. 80% of blog madness comes from 20% of the contributors …

“HAI, Win tends towards the high end of the scale,” says Jason, still running a Facebook group. (Hint, hint)

And it’s probably not just good stuff either: I’m sure 80% of the douchiness of the world comes from like twenty percent of all actual douchenozzles.

Where did this principle come from? Business management thinker Joseph M. Juran suggested the principle and named it after Italian economist Vilfredo Pareto, who observed that 80% of the land in Italy was owned by 20% of the population. It is a common rule of thumb in business; e.g., “80% of your sales come from 20% of your clients.”

The Pareto principle also applies to a variety of more mundane matters: one might guess approximately that we wear our 20% most favoured clothes about 80% of the time, perhaps we spend 80% of the time with 20% of our acquaintances, etc.

It even happens in the market share of comic companies (Note: RELEVANT!)

(Disclaimer: Paul Krugman in the New York Times dismissed this “80-20 fallacy” as being cited “not because it’s true, but because it’s comforting”, as the benefits of economic growth over the last 30 years have largely been concentrated in the top 1%, rather than the top 20%.” From Wikipedia.)

Like a champagne glass. DERP.

What’s that? You’d like a wider  and wilder example? Well, I aim to please, and my pleasing is an aim. Let’s look at market share across the world:

Distribution of world GDP, 1989:
Quintile of Population Income
Richest 20% 82.7%
Second 20% 11.7%
Third 20% 2.3%
Fourth 20% 1.4%
Poorest 20% 1.2%
Status of Dirty’s Money: Hey, you got it. Why must you make him worry? Despite your claims to the contrary.

The Peacocks of the above example draw more than their share of the chicks. Or peahens. Do I need to go down the list? We keep seeing the same actors over and over again because most of the work goes to the same group of people. Rich people tend to be the people who get richer: of the ten wealthiest individuals in the world, the top three (Warren Buffett, Carlos Slim Helú, and Bill Gates) own as much as the next seven put together. You sassy hellcats!

All of these laws state what the Peacocks know, or what you’ve noticed from high school or college: all the girls date the same jerks. Or like how in the Ducktalesverse, luck is not distributed evenly across the cosmos in equal proportion to every anthropomorphized animal, but simply vested in one single Gladstone Gander-shaped bloc.

Back to Mark Millar: he’s probably better described not so much as a player-follower, but a worshipper of the Power Law. A Pareto-follower. I like my coinage better, however, so I’m sticking with it. Such is the caprice of the ADD blogging tyrant in this world of CSS and Ruby on Rails, which, the more I think about, sounds like a Dutch porno, the kind you order in the mail but never seems to get to your doorstep even though the estimated time for a package crossing the Atlantic is really, like, nothing. I’m guessing, I mean. Let’s move on from this person who certainly is not myself to other, less important but equally compelling matters, although really it’s the principle of getting what you paid for that I’d like everyone to take home with them tonight. You know?

————————————————————————————-

Pulling Crowe back into the argument for a sec: he and Millar, they’re alike, sure.

Except what (sort of) “saves” Crowe is that he eventually sees, and has his characters see, that the entire charade is ridiculous. Lester Bangs could and did make his complaint against Crowe, but Crowe is no Millar. Sure, “Vanilla Sky” starts off as paean to how awesome Tom Cruise’s life is, but by the end, we learn being the Lord of your own earth is no fun (Jason Lee is your friend). Likewise for “Almost Famous” (Mom is real and Stillwater is a bag of shallow homunculi, which, considering Jason Lee’s in there, is not a surprise).

What is good? All that heightens the feeling of power in man, the will to power, power itself. What is bad? All that is born of weakness. What is happiness? The feeling that power is growing, that resistance is overcome.
– Nietzsche, “The Antichrist”

There’s nothing more cool than being hugged by someone you like.
— Sonic, “The Adventures of Sonic the Hedgehog” Lovesick Sonic, Sonic Says Segment, 1993

There’s “Jerry Maguire,” where Crowe’s opening shot has us meet all of mankind’s top jocks, destined to beat all of us up one day, and actually has Renee Zellweger say, “First class is what’s wrong.  It used to be a better meal.  Now it’s a better life.”

(The script directions actually read “She is now craning out into the aisle to hear this story. The plane is now quieter.  She listens to the easy sound of Jerry discussing his charmed life”) That’s *before* we meet Cruise’s fiancee — if there’s a DuPont Guide of BSDM, she would be in every issue, like Oprah is in “O.”

But we learn, eventually — at length — how awesome all of that is not. Man, Nietzsche would have hated Crowe.

And Crowe wrote *all* of this after posing undercover at a high school for “Fast Times,” which I *know* must have somehow been the inspiration for Drew Barrymore’s “Never Been Kissed” where a reporter who was a dork in high school gets to go back and be cool.

It turns out to be a Very Important Lesson, as these things usually are. An Aesop, as the champs over at TVTropes call it. But what an Aesop! Even Mr. Courtney Cox gets involved in this one. God bless him for eating all of that cafeteria salad, known since the eighties to be a chief front in the fight for, and against, bowel cancer.

The best statement of this philosophy is in “Say Anything,” when Ione Skye’s glamorous life gets razed to the ground by a John Mahoney-hunting Internal Revenue Service (he ends up in jail, and then hides as the Fraiser paterfamilias, still in Seattle)

By the end of the movie — around the time her father starts making shivs in the big house — poor Diane Court is has been so disillusioned by her road trip into the existential Balkans that a kickboxer’s car, baptised by rain, is the only refuge.

Too many people remember John C. holding up the boombox outside stately Court manor; less recollected are the Lynchesque scenes where the protagonist steers his great streetwhale down the dark and rain-wet streets, dictating to himself in a tape recorder like Twin Peaks’ Agent Cooper, recording field messages to send back to Diane in the home office. But I digress, and big time, as usual.

To the point, then. Never mind that John Cusack created what Chuck Klostermann called an unattainable model for romantic manhood that men have been expected to attain (and failed) since the movie’s release (the first time I ever heard of “Say Anything” was when my eccentric, brilliant, and un-mainstream-as-you-can-be cousin E. referred to Cusack’s character as “the perfect man”) — if creating impossible standards for American masculinity was a hanging offense, then Bogart, Peck, Wayne, Mr. Fonda and Tyler Durden would have been collected from the branches of the sour apple tree a long time ago.

The point is, Crowe sees through the gold mist. Cusack’s hero is a little older, a lot deflowered, and broken of nose by the end of “Say Anything” but he’s still the same man as in the beginning.

It’s Diane Court who’s changed. Her father’s world of possessions, control, and safety has been shown for the sham it is, and good riddance. It’s not so Parsifal the kickboxer has won (although he has), as the High Life has been tried, and found wanting. Millar would have had nothing to do with Lloyd Dobler, I assure you. “Bonesmen first, God second.”

Of course, in the film’s last moment, John Cusack turns to the camera, and says “this is me while I’m fucking you in the ass!”

Oh wait, he didn’t. That was from Mark Millar’s script in “Wanted.” Right.

No wonder Spider-man is Millar’s favorite hero. (see “Wizard” where he and Jeph Loeb (champion of the Bat) square off). Spider-man is the self-flagellant of superherodom, a nerd who became a god, and one of the three most beloved characters in comic, plus he’s married to a supermodel.

I’m surprised Millar didn’t end his run with Spidey coked to the gills running a Porsche over Ben Parker’s grave like George H.W. Bush doing wheelies and tearing up dirt all over Homer Simpson’s lawn in that one episode where the ex-President and Bar moved across the street from Our Favorite Yellow Family.

It’s hard to imagine Spidey at the wheel of a bitchin’ Camaro. Maybe that was in the original draft, true believer.

Try this trick and spin it: every single script the man’s ever written gets stamped, like a coin shaped in the great machines of Newton’s Royal Mint, with Millar’s trademark fantasy: the cool kids invite you in. Usually, but not always, this takes the form of:
1) a band of shadowy self-involved technocrats come to the inheritance of the Earth,
2) a guy outside the system has the chance to join. He either does, or attempts to subvert it and place himself in power.
3) look for this type of sentence: “Looks like your [noun][predicate], huh?” The “huh” is the important part.
4) somebody having sex with somebody who is waaay out of their league, and this bit of dialogue: “Sorry, [term of endearment], I’m busy [some insanely advanced achievement unthinkable in issue one].”
5) if every Grant Morrison story can be deconstructed as Morrison using his fictional pawns as proxies in his lifelong war against despair and depression, then Millar’s characters are his constant fictional attempts to be beautiful and awesome and hang on the cool side of school. It’s so bleeding obvious I can’t believe I have to even freaking remark on it.
6) snarky dialogue that manages to tunnel under even  Claremont’s level; the sort of snaps you’d expect to find in a junior high classroom. See 3.

Aside from Trouble (that’s another essay altogether), and his work with Grant Morrison (who dilutes Millar with the alloy of genius), find me one series of his that doesn’t have both 1 and 2. The longer the series goes on, the more the certainty of 3-6 appearing approaches 100%.

Okay, yes, the blood kin of Walter Mitty are endemic habitués to Planet Fiction’s adventure continent, sure. Who hasn’t shopped around for a Fantasticar in their own way?

But in the same way that there’s a big difference between people those who read Choose Your Own Adventure Books and those who literally choose their own adventures, there’s a long way to walk between high school and the rest of life. If Millar ever saw “Porgy ‘n’ Bess,” he would cheer for Sportin’ Life.

Nonconformity – right. I can’t remember the last time saw a twenty-something kid with a tattoo of an Asian letter on his wrist. You are one wicked free thinker! You want to be a rebel? Stop being cool. Wear a pocket protector like he does, and get a hair cut like the Asian kids that don’t leave the library for twenty hour stretches. They’re the ones who don’t care what you think.

- Dr. Gregory House

————————————————————————————————————

And now, I come to “Kickass.”

…

God-damn it, Millar.

Satire, my cock. If this is satire, Regis is a god of sex and Biden is the Chirst of Chuck E. Cheez.  (The jury, interestingly enough, is still out on the former.)

Enough is enough. Why is it wrong to pray for someone’s death? In a world of more civilized beings — a world like Matter-Eater Lad’s Bismoll, let’s say — it would not be called a curse.

To shake off this weary existence and its toils? Stoics would and have wept. How much sweeter would that passage into the darkness be if you knew that tens, hundreds, thousands, or millions of your earnest fellow creatures were urging you onwards into oblivion?

Wouldn’t that be a booster rocket of sorts? Wouldn’t you relinquish your hold and succumb to necrosis much easier if you knew that hearts across this green world were united in prayer, meditation and contemplation on the happy prospect of your reaping?

Could anyone be neutral, if even every philosopher and the priest were rapt on the consummation devoutly to be wished? The consummation of Mark Millar going into the boo-box and never returning? The secret hope that, as a planet, we might bid farewell to Millar, wave to him as he departs from the cattle pens of this life, strew flowers before his path as he disembark for the jolly clime of the Land of the True-Believing No-Prize.

What mortal could refuse such a request? What loving god could deny the will of fervent billions? Surely but inexorably, the Reaper would be drawn to the focus of this penitential hope like iron filling to magnetic north. If enough people hoped for it. Surely the Universe would not deny the single-voiced shouting of this General Will.

So why can’t we all join hands and kumbaya for one of our own, Mark Millar, to disembark for the Undiscovered Flavor Country, from whose country no Bore ever returns?

Nick “Wish Kid” McClary and Little Rosey are smoking on the front porch, flicking embers as Fat Albert dips his chaw and expounds on the Manichean heresy.

He’s eloquent from all his years of backalley wrangling. How many deaths did his oil-on-the-water ways prevent back in the good old days, in inner-city Philadelphia?

Speaking of war, the Smurfs are at it again, warring with the Snorks over god knows what, probably some point of Menshevik versus Bolshevik collectivism.

Everybody forgot a long time ago. No one cares. Gargamel’s in the basement with Egon Spengler, poring over some antediluvian alchemical text (a common interest) for the secret to make gold.

The old PKE meters of Ray and Peter and Winston, god rest his soul, are humming a sad spectral tune in the corner, but that’s normal: Teen Wolf and Caspar and the paranormal megawatt himself, Beetlejuice, are, after all, in the building. It could be the Ewoks or Droids; there’s something otherworldly about them.

Truth be told, there’s always been a cultural gap at the Old Folks Home between the anthropomorphized animals and humans: Captain Caveman straddled the divide, but there’s only so much one hair-covered Cro-Magnon warlord can do. Sometime when it’s slow and sweaty outside, Josie and the Pussycats team up with Jem and the Holograms — and the Misfits, if they’re sober — and play rockabilly and New Wave hits and bad old blues into the morning, one long discordant note after another mewling off into the final night, storms of static on the horizon. There will be no divorce this year, but no sequel either.

If cancellation is death, rerun is reincarnation. One cannot be “born again,” really, but if you’re lucky, a Renaissance or Baroque painter will daub your greatest hits: a hot plate here, a Catherine wheel there. Isn’t that comforting, to know your work will live on after you? Far, far after you.

We forget that these Platonic entities that we give our hearts to exist, and that to them, death is not the same as it is to us. “Death”? Maybe the wrong word for cancellation. Living without life, then. Far better term. Like hibernation, or whatever Anne Rice had her vampires do whenever they went below the Earth and slept for a century. Hate to bring her up. Like bringing the corpse of Moses into a papal orgy. I needed an example, and now I’ve made one of myself. We get what we wish for.

But for them, the cartoons and comics we don’t remember but, at some level, never forget, there is no death, merely the shadow of life. In the way of the Black Riders of Mordor, dancing forever on the lip between. Only the luckiest of pop culture personages get an all-admission pass to the everlasting undying happy hunting ground of human meme mass consciousness memory; the ur-hallowed hollow in human culture where Achilles, Sherlock Holmes, Hercules, Mother Mary, Superman, Prince Hamlet, Joe Pesci and Leroy Jenkins are kept inviolate like Dick Clark’s youthful codpiece, in Platonic perfection.

Maybe some of the retirees here at the Old Folks Home will make it there. Maybe not.

Occasionally, every twenty years or so, the Irony Bus pulls up to the Home and takes a couple of the gang out, to cycle them back into pop consciousness. By that time, they’re desperate, they are, so on out to T-Shirt factories, Internet Web sites and Hot Topic they go. On to 4chan. Hail, image macros!

To be a joke is better than to be a living death. A laughing stock is still in stock, as they say at the Home. To be anything is better than this ad-hoc American Grey Havens. Everyone here knows what happened to Mandrake the Magician, Jim Crow, White Game Hunter, and Doc Savage on the Sequential Art Home. You’ve seen Toy Story 2, right? That’s what it feels like to be Mandrake: nobody remembers you.

“At least people _hate_ you,” Mandrake tells Jim Crow. “They don’t remember me.”

“Every time I turns about, I jumps Jim Crow,” says Jim.

“Right,” says Doc Savage. “Don’t you get tired of life as a caricature?”

“Don’t you?” says Jim.

Then a car pulls up with Warren Ellis driving. Doc Savage smiles and climbs in, because Ellis is looking for science heroes.

A stream of curses and cigarette smoke emit from the hybrid vehicle, and they’re over the horizon, back into the real.

Mandrake feels sad, but a few seconds later, the shadow of Alan Moore’s airship falls over the lawn and a rope ladder comes down.

Turns out Alan’s looking for Science Heroes. For a while, Alan had a bad relationship for doing nasty things to the old archetypes, but everyone understood that was a period he was going through in the 80’s.

Completely unlike that Garth Ennis fellow. No superheroes will come within ten feet of that guy’s Fiat, no matter how many times the Fenian honks the horn. Why bother? The Irishman only stops on the way to Old West Gully, to meet the twins Cowboy and Injun for his weekly bout of cards.

Jim feels bad. Maybe he’ll go hang with The Hun of War, Wong the August Inscrutable Chinee, Li’l Abner, Gaylord Pedophilius, Mighty Whitey, Straw Feminazi, Juan Sleepez, St. Redski of Communistovsky, Sean O’Drinkus, Pigg the Capitalist, No-Heart Yankee or anybody written by Chris Claremont. Jim also has a bed at Token City. About Token City: the rest of the retirement homes on the Planet of Ideas are villages or at best large towns. Slurs are numerous enough to populate a city.

The Sequential Art Home is called The Dusty Longbox. Everyone knows what that means.

The Irony Bus also comes by the Dusty Longbox every once in a blue moon. But Comic Books have Continuity — Continuity is a social program invented by the government of the Sequential Art nation to keep old folks in circulation. “Circulation” is another word for life, really. If you’re lucky, a nice person from the Comics Journal or the Internet will come and take you back to the world. The Spirit, for example, has never had to go to the Longbox. People are a bit worried about him being on that Frank Miller fellow’s arm, but hey, you dance with them what brought you.

It’s everything you were hoping for.

“Neville Quain: I know. I know I was the wrong man to lead a boy scout troop into the sewage system under Minneapolis, I know that now. But I think it’s safe to say I learned some very harsh and unforgettable lessons at the hands of my fellow inmates in the years that followed. ”

The “man” who “drew” the “picture” above is named Rob Liefeld. Anyone who doesn’t know who Rob Liefeld is is both fortunate and unfortunate. Fortunate, because he didn’t have to grow up in the 90’s when Rob Liefeld was THE MOST FAMOUS ARTIST IN THE WORLD AND HAD HIS OWN GAP COMMERCIAL. Unfortunate, because if you stay in comics long enough, you eventually have to read a Liefeld comic, if for no other reason than to just know how good Jack Kirby, or your grandmother is, by comparison.

In 2004, the wealthiest 25% of US households owned 87% ($43.6 trillion) of the country’s wealth, while the bottom quartile held no net wealth at all. The middle 50% of the country held 13% or $6.5 trillion of the total household net wealth. This data shows that the top 25% of American society holds on average a net wealth of $1,556,801 which is 33 times more than those of the lower middle class, or the 25th-50th percentile. That’s unfair. But I don’t mind that so much, however, as I do Rob Liefeld having a car or air in place of a crippled set of limbs. That’s what galls me, really.

According to Progressive Boink, Everything you need to know about Liefeld can be summed up here in this panel:

“It Will Be the President’s Sword.”
“It Will Be the President’s Sword.”
“It Will Be the President’s Sword.”

Just think about that for a moment.

Really understand what this creature is, and that he has drawn a script by Alan Moore.

It.
Will.
Be.
The.
President’s.
Sword.

Once he fixes all the rules. But not even President Schwarzenegger can fix the laws of perspective, geometry, and anatomy, Rob. Even Bizarro feels ashamed for this. Bizarro wears a medal of his own making around his own neck. Shame isn’t easy for him to feel. But not even Bizarro would dare dream of owning the Presidential Weapon.

And y’know, it’s not so much that Liefeld is the worst comics artist in the world, ever. He is, or would be, except that implies a continuum of talent, one with Jack Kirby at one extreme with Neal Adams, Wally Wood and C.C. Beck, you and me and Todd McFarlane at the middle, and Liefeld and the Wizard of Id’s Brant Parker at the other spectrum. But that’s not right, because although Parker is sloppy and lame, he can communicate his ideas through the medium of ink. Liefeld isn’t the Pope of Bad Comics; he’s the Anti-pope of Comics as a whole.

More than the Anti-Pope; he is the Anti-Sun, The Primordial Annihilator, The Old Dragon, The Ultimate Warbringer, Tezcatlipoca, he who is kin to Itzama, spirit of early mist and showers, of Ixtaub, goddess of ropes and snares; Ixchel, the spider web, catcher of morning dew; Zooheekock, virgin fire patroness of infants; Adziz, the master of cold; Kockupocket, who works in fire; Ixtahdoom, she who spits out precious stones; Ixchunchan, the dangerous one. His name is Rob Liefeld, feared by the Mayans as Ah Puch, the destroyer.

He was the Maya god of death who ruled over Mitnal, the land of death, the lowest and most horrible of the nine hells. He was normally represented with the head of an owl on a human body. This figure of death has survived to this day, where the Indians of Central America and Mexico believe that someone will die when the owl screeches.

Ah Puch thrived on human sacrifice, and was especially revered in the city of Chichen Itza, where people were thrown into the Cenote, a sacred well, as sacrifices for Ah Puch to feast upon. With the advent of Christianity, worship of Ah Puch died out. This rendered Ah Puch so weak that he turned into a discorporeal spirit and was forced into dormancy. In other representations Ah Puch is shown as a skeleton or a bloated corpse, adorned with bells. Mitnal. He is also referred to as ‘God A’.  Liefeld likes cocaine.

He’s the Adversary of Comics, the hole that can never be filled, the unmendable breach.

When Liefeld dies (if Satan allows the pact to expire), others will step up and assume the Liefeld mantle, taking on his form, voice, and big guns like the mantle of the Flash, Green Lantern, or Bush family. Speaking of Bush … in fact, the original Liefeld model Mark I may have OD’d on coke back in the late 80s.

This may be the tenth, hundredth version of Liefeld. Liefeld may be like “Groundhog Day,” actually … time pases, but no matter what he does, Bill Murray is stuck in time, and a Liefeld character’s feet will always be stuck behind a boulder.

Didio isn’t the Supreme Evil. He’s just a dragon. Comics has a new type of rule now. Not one-man rule, like in the age of Weisinger, or a rule of aristocracy, or plutocracy, but of small groups elevated to positions of absolute power by random pressures and subject to political and economic factors that leave little room for decision.

They are representatives of abstract forces. I suggest that Liefeld, having abandoned his guise as the Mayan God O’ Death, is now the avatar of Alien Geometries, as TVTropes describes them:

Elder Gods, Old Ones, and other horrors tend to bend the laws of physics to suit them. Why make a triangle where the angles add up to 180 degrees, when you can make one where they add up to 200 degrees and get some extra space? (This can happen, in a relatively mundane scenario; on a perfect sphere, you can have triangles where the angles sum to 270 degrees since the lines are curved. Now imagine being able to unfold that sphere into a flat surface and leaving the 270-degree triangle intact, and you get some idea of what we’re talking about.) Even the very body of a particularly squamous thing may exhibit this, though more often it shows up in architecture as physically-impossible buildings— occasionally sentient themselves.

This explains why he draws the way he does. It’s not that he means to … he just has a Warren Ellis atomic snowflake inside his head, shaped like the House of Leaves.

A man built a crooked house …

If you’ve ever seen the man in person … he manages to pull what must be a painful existence off with some aplomb; being forced down to three dimensions is not fun. The very first time you see Liefeld, you’re distracted, because he will have shown you your death, without even realizing you’ve been looking at him. The second time, you will see Liefeld, it, shift shapes from its fairly mundane octagon to… other things, we see that it is somehow impossibly deep and one piece all at the same time… and then it starts changing shape when firing beams of pure killing. The effect is enhanced by the fact that what it does can be visually rendered on a computer, but if done in reality would be skull-crackingly horrifying.

Rob Liefeld casts a shadow that is rhomboid. Fact. If he does not consume enough hobo meat, the beef-sadness comes upon him, and his shadow grows wan and grey. Liefeld has multiple points of articulation!

Jesus, maybe Liefeld is Frederic Wertham continuing his revenge on comics, having hollowed out a new body and squatting in it like Desaad does to Bad Mary Marvel in Final Crisis. Or maybe Liefeld’s like Dream of the Endless or The Doctor: he completely regenerates every couple of years.

Now, there’s no official statement at the moment but I’m going to have to ask you to consider the possibility of a maniac with an undying blowtorch of soul-hate and his own sackful of genetically modified super fanthrax.

This is why the decisionmakers at Wizard World — by “decisionmakers” I mean the super-Marvel-team-up of Gareb Shamus’ reptile brain with the genetic nodes of his Y He-Man chromosome — decided to unceremoniously and unilaterally pull out of the annual Dallas Convention. This abandonment of the Arlington Convention Center to jackals and creationists is shameful and low, like the record of Stan Lee, Sex Offender. Forget the question of “How can we live unless Bob Wayne is there to teach us the true way of all flesh?” The reason Shamus removed his mark from the Metroplex is that it was a yearly haunt for Liefeld. Like Fin Fang Foom, Liefeld’s movements are closely watched, hopefully contained. Like Fin Fang Foom, Liefeld has no genitals. Cross this with a burning desire to mate, and, o, you have no idea have frustrated that makes him. And all of us.

Rob Liefeld. What are we being punished for?