Boston, the Bruins and Me

Falling Hard

The beauty of sports is that they encourage polygamy. A marriage to one club in no way precludes a fan from a full and total commitment to anther club that bears the same city on its uniform. Seasons bleed into one another so that when one organization breaks your heart, another one is there to begin the mending process.

Over the past decade, the frenzied successes by New England sports teams have not just been an exercise in speed dating, but speed marriages, speed child births, speed anniversaries, and yes, hyper-accelerated heartbreaks. In the past 10 years, Boston teams have played in 13 conference finals, the play-in games that come before championship bouts, winning 9 of them, and have brought home 6 titles overall thus far. It's remarkable, unprecedented, and, frankly, still not enough.

Because nowadays, to be a Boston fan is to want them all. People can classify this as a positive, as the fan base is informed and passionate, or negative, in that some sense of entitlement might have fostered through the embarrassment of riches, but that sort of judgment sort of misses the point.

Boston fans have honed an eye for what it takes to win titles in sports, so when a team comes up short, we have a good idea why it happened, and when they pull through with trophies and rings, we make sure to appreciate it in its fullest.

The Patriots broke the modern championship seal, and went on to set the standard in excellence.

The Red Sox romantically broke curses amidst high drama that spanned generations.

The Celtics restored a revered brand to its grand pedigree almost overnight, reminding fans that, truly, anything was possible.

The Revolution, well, they existed.

But what to make of the Boston Bruins? What is the modern legacy for the team that faces a do-or-die Game 7 at home with a trip to the Stanley Cup playoffs on the line?

They're the only heartbreak left in town, with their last Cup win coming in 1972, and their last appearance in the series over twenty years ago. They were once the class of the town. Number Four Bobby Orr is as beloved as any sports hero. Their status as part of the NHL's Original Six gives them cache and authenticity in a league where franchises are sometimes perceived as disconnected from the sport and the foreigners that are paid to play it. After years of mismanagement and disappointment, their fans are as embittered and fatalistic as they come. They have all the makings of the highest drama sports have to offer.

The Journey

But sports don't take place in a vacuum. Every fan finds their own unique relationships with teams, sports, and seasons. Sports forge communal bonds, help us demarcate time in our lives, and do it dealing out equal parts ecstasy and agony. So when the Bruins play tonight, whether it makes sense or not, lives will be changed. And not just those of the players and coaches.

When the Patriots won their first Super Bowl, I was (nominally) a high school football player. I was actually, as mascot coincidence would have it, a Patriot. I watched the professional team alongside the same young men whom I watched play Friday nights from the sidelines. I would say I had about the same impact on the outcomes of both.

When the Red Sox made their run, which began when a 2003 team that seemed destined to break curses lost in as devastating a fashion as the city had ever seen, only to carry over its successes and baggage to the next year, ending with 2004's greatest-comeback-ever-seen to the same opponents, I was a student among a massive state university fraternity that first mourned, then celebrated as one. I literally fell in love during that first run to the World Series, and perhaps fittingly that love ran its course almost to the day that the Red Sox won their second championship of the 21st century.

When the Celtics decimated the Lakers for their title, I was a returned citizen to the city's urbane streets. I had been living in another city since graduation, but came home just like the NBA's Larry O'Brien trophy. Boston was no longer somewhere to be visited on weekends or for occasions, its city streets and squares were home.

Retrospectively, those titles have given my life structure. They feed into my own personal narrative, as I am sure they feed into others', (mine maybe more-so; I am somewhat obsessed). But I am still in no way sure what to make of these Bruins.

We've casually dated before, these Bruins and me. We went on low-pressure coffee dates in 2004, as I watched Joe Thornton and Sergei Samsanov's squad underachieve. They were given the same opportunity for a stake in my heart as every other team, but when the rubber hit the road, I, like all other Bruins fans, die-hard or budding potential ones, was left feeling like a burnt skidmark.

Iron cast doubt

Everybody loses in sports. But no matter what any cliché says, how you lose really does matter. When the Red Sox lost, it felt fated, as if it were part of the franchise's core identity. When the Patriots lost, after building a huge reservoir of successes to draw from, there was nearly always a clear explanation to their losses, because it was evident that all things being equal they were always the better team to take the field. With the Celtics, their storied history was so far back in the rear view that it was almost accepted that they would never reach that level again, so instead fans could kick back and watch the athletes' potential grow without expectation.

But what were we to think of the Black and Gold Spokes? What is their modern legacy?

That 2004 team was upset in 7 games by their most bitter rivals, the Montreal Canadiens. When they next qualified for the playoffs, in 2008, they were once again matched up against the hated Habs, and while this time the B's played the role of the underdog, they still fell in that seventh game. The next year they opened once again against Montreal, only this time they swept their way to victory in 4 games. This was thoroughly cathartic until they again lost in a game 7, the very next round, and this time on the Garden's home ice to a hockey team from Carolina. Because everyone knows all the best hockey is played south of the Mason Dixon.

This was a young team, it was said, whose stock was on the rise and whose best days were ahead. But while sports narratives are often predictable, they are not always linear.

But with the 2009-2010 team, the Bruins committed one of the greatest atrocities imaginable for a sports team.

For Boston fans, there was only one 3-0 series comeback that mattered. In 2004, the battered Red Sox lost Game 3 of the ALCS by an eery score of 19-8, putting them in an 0-3 hole against the indomitable Yankees. But then, in Game 4, Millar drew a walk, Roberts stole a base, Mueller singled off the most dominant pitcher of modern times, and before anyone knew what happened the Red Sox had won 4 straight games. It was pure, unadulterated sports euphoria. The Comeback for Boston, the Choke for New York.

Well, in 2010, the Bruins sullied 3-0. In the second round, against the Philadelphia Flyers, the Bruins won the first three games of the series. Not only did they have a 3-0 lead, but by the time the Flyers had won three straight of their own and the series was forced to a climactic Game 7, once again to be held at the Garden, the Bruins thrice struck first and took a 3-0 lead in that game.

And they lost.

Now 3-0 was a set of numbers that cut Boston fans both ways. Sure, it wasn't as iconic a loss as the win was for the Red Sox, but it was still there, haunting a team that had fought so hard to earn respect in a town where attention where attention was easily diffused.

There were no shortage of valid reasons the Bruins lost that series the way they did. A young team, a younger netminder, injuries to both bodies and brains, but ultimately, sports are a results-oriented business where final scores dictate final narratives. Yearly sports almanacs don't lie. The Bruins choked. By every definition

Redemption and attention

There are real monetary benefits to be had in Boston's sports market. Perform well, and people will notice. Sports television is a monster industry in this town, across media platforms new and old. Networks use teams and sports to compete with one another. Sports personalities stake out their territory and defend it like wild animals. Sports are about the games, presumably, but even when those are done there is huge money to be made in talking about the ways and wherefores of each result, because in this town when people say “everyone has an opinion,” it really means everyone.

Beyond that, attending games is a huge premium. Ticket scalping has gone from city streets to web markets, transforming the secondary market to a legitimate enterprise somewhere along the way.

So again, it pays to be good.

Fans are passionate enough to watch, listen, and pay for entry, but that passion can also breed hostility. You have our attention, the logic seems to go, so don't fucking blow it.

Well, the Bruins finally have everyone's attention.

After last year's ugliness, it was going to take some work to get back in this town's favor. Bruins fans felt like a spouse betrayed, they were open to reconciliation, but trust would need to be earned before it was given freely.

After an up-and-down regular season, the Bruins were once again pitted against the Canadiens to open these Stanley Cup playoffs. They hosted the series, and once again, before anyone could catch their breath, they were down 0-2 headed up to Canada. It looked like it would be a short run this year.

But the Bruins battled. They won the two games in Montreal, then took Game 5 in Boston, and after dropping their first chance to close out on away ice, and after surrendering a tying goal in the final moments of the latest Game 7 at the Garden, they took the game and the series on an electric overtime goal. Finally, after the last three seasons had ended in Game 7 losses, with the last two coming at the Garden, the B's had broken through.

With one albatross off the team's back, they packed up and headed to Philadelphia. Even when the Bruins won their first three games against the Flyers, ambient anxiety remained. They'd choked away control of a series to these guys before. Throughout the regular season management had cited that the team had made the second round of the playoffs for the past three years as evidence of its successes, but fans could only lament the inability to advance deeper, and if this year didn't end with demonstrable progress, heads would roll.

But the Bruins did sweep, which, again, in the tidy world of sports' narratives, perfectly forgave the sins of the previous year. Mission Accomplished. Sort of.

And this is where Boston's string of successes returns to the fore. The Bruins are playing deeper into the playoffs than they have in almost 20 years. They are playing later into the calendar year than they ever have before. The Celtics' season ended earlier and more abruptly than anyone would have expected, the Red Sox have underachieved, and the Patriots are mired in the NFL's obtuse lockout. That the Bruins have even booked another night of drama at the Garden should be enough. We should be grateful to even be given the opportunity to root for someone, anyone, with stakes this high at this point in the summer.

But being happy to be there is for losers. The Hub won't have it.

There is a team in Vancouver that is waiting to find out who will be its dance partner in this year's Stanley Cup Finals.

There is a 37-year-old goalie who has spent a lifetime trying to earn his respect. He has made the save of a lifetime, but unless he makes a few more, it will fall to the annals of history as another great moment that was not quite iconic.

There's a Norris Award winner who has been deemed an underachiever for most of his professional life almost exclusively because of the impossible expectations set by his 6' 9” frame.

There is an alternate captain that has been forced to fight concussions throughout his career.

There's a coach looking for a trump card to play against those who doubt his acumen and ability.

There's a forty-something looking for the icing on the cake of his Hall of Fame career.

There's a 19 year old top pick desperate to prove he is more than a flash in the pan.

There's a power play that is dangerously close to writing the wrong side of history.

There are these and a million more stories, all at stake, all on the line tonight. There are old men who care only for hockey who want that last return to the Finals. There are kids who will learn how to be a fan. There are blowhards that are eager to say “I told you so,” no matter the outcome. There are the selfish masses that want the final gem to be added to Boston's crown of champions. There are people that will fall in love, people that will find faith, people that break dishes, people that gamble, people who riot, and people who will do nothing more than read tomorrow's newspaper with a little more interest.

All of this hinges on a win or a loss. A break of the puck. A lapse, an opportunity capitalized or squandered, a hit made or missed.

I'm not sure what a win or a loss will mean to me. It will depend, I suppose, on how it goes. But I know it will mean something to me.

I look back on the teams I have committed myself to for the last decade, and I regret nothing. I got as much as I gave. Even the teams that failed, even the ones that choked, even the ones that left me in tears, I think, in the moment, and as I look back, I loved them all equally.

Maybe you think sports matter too much to Boston. Maybe you look at us and wonder why we put so much energy into things we can't control. But we know better. We know that by watching, we are in control. We know our attentive eyes can, in fact, change the outcome of games.

We've seen it.

Go get 'em, boys.

-Brendan McGuirk, Professional Boston Fan

5-27-2011

Re:writing

Don't worry, it's only been 2 years. It's not like an entire congressional term has come and gone or anything. I'm sure the world is more or less the exact same as where we left it.

There have been so many things that mattered. I wanted to weigh in when Michael Jackson died, or Ted Kennedy, or when the Tea Party's hostile takeover of American discourse went into full effect.



I was riddled with bullet-like thoughts and emotions when the Celtics twice broke my heart- first in the NBA Finals and then eight months later when they traded my all-time favorite athlete. Eminem released a new album, then another one that was actually good. I won two-out-of-three Ultimate Challenges (explain later). Hell, Marvel Comics even became a Disney subsidiary, and relaunched the one character I spent 20 years telling myself would be mine someday.

All this news came and went, and I sat silent. Sword sheathed. Gagged by my own inaction.

These things all happened. I'll tell you that my unshared commentary and insight were as informed as anyone. I've done nothing but listen. But I'm a loud-ass dude. Except when I let myself idle in a cloud of doubt, procrastination and self loathing. Then the remorse cycle starts and you hungry masses go unfed. No excuses.

Well watch out, motherfuckers. I am back, I am pissed, pent-up, and thoroughly finished with the passivity.

I'm in. Game's on.

Things are going to change. I'm overhauling the shit out of this site. Nevermind the fact that I've opened my browser to the exact same page and post for these last 20 months, the whole design is tired and not really conducive to what I'd like the site to be going forward.

Believe it or not, this is not the first time I've attempted to remount this horse. I've started and stopped a time or two, because, frankly, that's what I do sometimes. So I'll be posting those half-thoughts and rambles for the next few days, with minimal extra sussing. They aren't all gold, but there's no reason to let them be lost to the void.

I am sure this could read as lot of bluster. But, y'know, I need a little bluster in my game. For me, humility has only bred inaction. There's a reason I'm so drawn to egomaniacs like Kanye West- I recognize the power of foolhardy cocksureness. It's an inborn weapon. So consider me licensed to spill.



And, y'know, Kanye's only done one record since we last spoke. So it's not like THAT much has changed.

Don't touch that dial...

- Brendan Premium Grade Patrick McGuirk

What I Buy Wednesdays PRE-SDCC TURBO EDITION

Pretty pumped for my virginal voyage to San Diego for Comic-Con International. It kind of feels like my comics equivalent of a sweet sixteen party. I’ve ironed my t-shirt tuxedo and everything. Okay, I might not have. I mean, who irons? Really.

Anyway, the comics’ pulse has risen to a cardiologist- alerting level in the time leading up to the Bi-Mon-Sci-Fi-Con. It’s even evident from the books. The publishers are rolling out the summer moneymakers. Everybody’s booked and stressed about whatever they stress about. It’s worse on Twitter! There have been dust ups that are honestly something straight out of the heat wave in Do the Right Thing.

That all goes a long way to say that this is a highly anticipated stack of comics for me, so dig up on what I bought Wednesday.

Blackest Night #1 (DC): I think only Geoff Johns fans get how good Geoff Johns is. I say this because I know people who don’t love his work, but do enjoy the spandexed genre fare, and it leaves me at a total loss. Because for my money, he does superhero stories as well as they’re done. His stories have scale and ethics and inventiveness and, frankly, spark. He just tells stories that matter, and the precision with which he manages the long-form stories of his universe’s corner amazes more and more with each installment. Blackest Night looks like a pretty solid bet to be the most fun story of this Green Lantern run, and it’s great to see the remarkable Ivan Reis getting a break on an “event,” book. It feels like, and is, his story to tell. This book is a totally innovative horror blockbuster that really makes for good comicery. Johns shows absolutely no remorse in killing his darlings, or, in this case, bringing them back. It’s always authentic, and it always matters. While this team has made a lot of this Green Lantern issues, they decidedly step up in the bright light of the moment. Both the imagery and the story are at a feverish pitch. Honestly, I’m just glad a comic this rad is coming out at all.

Creepy #1 (Dark Horse): I was pretty excited when Dark Horse announced this book at New York Comic-Con. It’s a shame they couldn’t convince Gene Colan to get involved, (more on him in a minute), but no matter, this comic’s friggin’ ill. Uncle Creepy brings the terror, tension, and, ah, terror in this horror anthology. Nothing I’ve read has ever made me feel more like a kid reading my uncle’s weird, seemingly dangerous comics. And Angelo Torres is fucking AMAZING. You’ll recognize his style immediately from pretty much every MAD spoof ever done. His story stands out as the high water mark for this inaugural issue, and the rest of the issue is pretty solid in and of itself. Basically, I’m just glad this comic exists. It’s throwback comics in the best ways.

Captain America # 601 (Marvel): It’s a shame Colan didn’t draw Creepy, but at least we got a horror story out of him this week. This was a beautiful out of time WWII horror story, and it’s my pleasure to report that the old dude’s still slick with a pencil in his hand. It was a big break from the recent hulabaloo surrounding this title lately, as it had little to do with the Captain America: Reborn issue that dropped as near to the 4^th of July as you can in comics, or the unconventional release of Captain America #600, both of which I covered for Best Shots. Ed Brubaker has got some real mojo going right now, and as much as I’ve loved Captain Buckmerica, this issue did well to whet the appetite for the real Star Spangled Avenger. It really was a special issue, as the cover promised, as Gene Colan showcased his historic talents for a totally different generation of comics’ fans. If the Captain America title has to go away for a few months to make room for Reborn, this was a worthy send-off.

RASL #5 (Cartoon Books): It’s as if Jeff Smith is flipping off everybody who wouldn’t try Bone because of its “childish,” trappings. This book is smart, sexy, and only growing. Smith’s proclamation that it will be moving from vaguely quarterly to vaguely bimonthly is just about the best news I’ve heard yet, because I just want more of this book.

Wednesday Comics #2 (DC): I didn’t really get a chance to celebrate this awesome new series’ debut last week, but what a success this book is in the early going. Stripping the “books” away, leaving us with the high-grade purity of comics as the world was first introduced to them looks like the most inspired move by DC in recent memory. It’s a funny bit of reverse-engineering, as the first comicbooks were folded up newspapers bound on their spine, and now the process has come full circle. The format is a story unto itself, but the real meat of this project is the talent. The comics market is, generally speaking, character driven. Even when it isn’t, it is “name” driven by highly marketed talent. The point is, it is almost always “brand” driven. There’s always recognized commodity at the center. Now, there are names on this book as big as any in comics, but due to the format, Wednesday Comics is uniquely art-driven. The canvas is the artform, in a way. The ambition alone is worthy of tremendous praise, and the story’s aren’t too shabby either. This is basically like mainlining awesome comics.

Deadpool #12 (Marvel): Daniel Way has successfully transmogrified Bullseye and Deadpool into the Daffy Duck and Bugs Bunny of the Marvel U. And it is very much duck season. All told, I think this series has leaned a little heavily on Dark Reign as it’ guiding light through these 12 issues, but I’m still enjoying it. Penciler Paco Medina has had his ups and downs as far as I’m concerned, but with his comedic range on full display here, he shows why he makes such a complementary cohort for the slapstick wit of Way. And trust me, the last page of this issue will bring out your inner Luke Wilson-in-Anchorman with an exclamatory “I did NOT see that coming!”

Incognito #5 (Icon): Well Ed Brubaker and Sean Phillips, I hope you’re happy. Thanks to your tremendous work on Criminal, and the masterfully repackaged Sleeper series, you’ve fully addicted me to your wares. The only problem is, (and I mean this in the best possible way), all the other stuff you’ve done has left me feeling coolest on Incognito. It’s not that there’s anything wrong with this book, it’s got all the grit and tone of the other masterpieces. My issue is that, frankly, superheroes are the least interesting aspects of the collaborations. It’s the true-crime, the human element, that I find so fully engrossing. I suspect that, among other reasons, part of the intentions with this book is that it is somehow more commercially viable than, say, Criminal- it’s always going to be easier to get comicbook readers to buy stories with superheroes, or, in this case, supervillains. I’m all for anything that will get more eyes on Criminal, though, so I begrudge them nothing. Don’t get me wrong, this is still one of the best comics you’ll find on the stands today. But it’s not my fault Bru and Phillips have set the bar so neck-strainingly high. Also, I absolutely loved Jess Nevins’ essay on the history and influences of Fu Manchu. Like a true nerd, I love comics where I learn.

Amazing Spider-Man #599 (Marvel): American Son was the first story in the thrice-monthly era of Spidey that I felt completely tied to reading as it came out. The Joe Kelly/ Phil Jimenez teaming looked like it had the all makings of a modern classic. It was timely and current, sporting a mean Dark Reign masthead, and promising to fully utilize the premier Spidey villain’s standing as king of the world. It promised payoff for long-form post Brand New Day plots, marking a huge step for Parker BFF Harry Osborn. And it had even longer-form consequences, as Harry and Norman Osborn are the biggest Spider-Man characters that don’t wear webs, and it’s fair to say that their relationship will never be the same after this storyline. It was a big story, and it didn’t need to work too hard via marketing or tie-ins to convince you. Story-wise, I really loved it. Joe Kelly wove a great summer blockbuster for the Amazing title here. I couldn’t help but notice that his take on the cast is a tad more adult than his Web-mates, but that’s something I have no issue with. The only drawback to American Son was that after the promise of Jimenez’ outstanding lead issue, he was pulled from the project, I guess to step in for Simone Bianchi on Astonishing X-Menwith Warren Ellis. You can never blame anyone for taking up an X-project, never mind an Ellis collabo, but it did end up making this story a little less than it could have been. It pretty clearly showed the drawbacks of a near-weekly comic, as a horde of artists were required to keep the training running on time. In this issue alone the chores were split between Stephen Segovia, Marco Checchetto and Paulo Siqueira. Everyone held the line, and there were no poorly executed pages, but it’s always better to have a single artist tell a story than a team of them, unless there’s some in-story framing that makes it work. Anyway, such is the nature of the beast. Nobody bats 1.000.

And that’s where we’re at! Stay tuned, the next WIBW will be broadcasting live from San Diego, likely trapped under a pile of comics or something.

What I Buy: Deluxe bank-breaking collected edition

Or: The Finely Organized Bookshelf

I’ve wanted to do this for a bit, because I accumulate a lot of trade paperback and hardcover ‘graphic novels,’ (or, y’know, to be less pretentious about it, collected comics). It’s funny, but reading a collected tpb is actually quite different from reading a periodical comic, and not just because of the length. It is a different commitment to read a full on book of one story than it is to taste a book’s flavor amidst the sprawling bevy of books I buy each Wednesday.

Ultimately, collectors be damned, comic magazines are disposable things. They are rarely built to last, unless you acquire the right and proper bags, boards, and long-boxes designed specially to house them. Books, though, are different. A book, and a hardcover especially, denotates a mark of quality that suggests permanence. A permanence, I might add, that saddle-stitched staples simply don’t offer.

So I don’t want to buy a collected edition, (or trade, or tpb, or graphic novel, or OGN, or whatever the hell package I’m purchasing), unless there is some sort of guarantee that it’ll be worth keeping. A mediocre comicbook, feh, I can afford to lose that, or give it away. But a bad trade? I’m pretty much stuck with that poor investment.

This all means that my trade-buying habits are a somewhat peculiar mix of books I know to be high-quality by reputation, books that I’ve already read in single-issue-format but enjoy so much I crave the prestigious packaging, and titles that I’ve read in part, but avoided for a period so as to be able to one day read the stories in their completed glory. Weekly stacks of books are my buffet meals, but good graphic novel purchases are exhaustively prepared main entres.

In the last few months, I’ve come into the possession of a quite a few such collections, and so, in the Merry McGuirk Tradition of What I Buy Wednesdays, allow 1point21jiggawhatts to present

What I Buy: Deluxe bank-breaking collected edition!!

The Starman Omnibus vol. 1 (DC): I was lucky enough to intern for DC Comics. My first day at the office, as I was kindly shown around their premises, my tour guide would point out the various framed covers that adorned the workplace walls. The covers ranged from old war books to modern painted classics, but the series most disproportionately represented on the walls were of James Robinson’s Starman series. “We here all really love Starman,” I was told. Considering the wide range of tastes from editor to editor, this spoke volumes.

I’ve heard the many praises of this series, but had relatively little exposure to it. I’d read the first collection, and a few straggling issues, but I hadn’t experienced the run in its full. Well DC Collected Editions had just the solution to that. After letting the trade paperback editions run out of print, a new Omnibus initiative of run-collecting HCs are being released, and the package is gorgeous. This is an edition worthy of the series critical acclaim, and I’m eager to make my way through this modern superhero classic that I’m lucky enough to have not yet experienced.

Popgun vol. 2 (Image): Look, we’re cool, right? We’re friends- I can speak my mind in this space? Well hey, one of my goals is to be able to write some good funnybooks someday. It’s on my to-do list, in permanent marker. It’s not all I want to do in this life, but, as I say, it’s on that list with the heavy ink. Well, in the service of my creative endeavors, I find nothing more inspiring than good anthology work. Everything I like about doing WIBW, the wide swath of comics’ culture you can cut on a week-to-week basis? A good anthology is like that, from page to page. Popgun is possibly the most respected antho out there, and after making my way through this volume, I can see why. There’s pretty much an endless supply of cool shit in this mega-book of comics. You get a chance to see the guys right on the fringes of broader success, something exceptionally intriguing with an older volume like this, where many of the talents have already moved on to higher visibility projects. You also just get to hear the voices of the people who want nothing more than to create strong, original comics just so that they exist, and who might move on to the worlds beyond comics before long. It is eclectic and superb, and I was thrilled to pick it up.

The Invisibles vol. 1 (Vertigo): Sometimes a series intimidates you. Vertigo series, with their 8-10 collections and “high concepts,” require a strong commitment to even start them. You’ve got to be willing to get into it for the long haul. Grant Morrison’s Invisibles series is a good example of that, because really all I knew about this book was that it was the most “Morrisonian,” work the comics’ shaman had ever worked on, and that a kid in my comicbook-history class during college (yes, my college offered such a course) once told me he’d masturbated on a page of one of the issues, per Morrison’s command, to somehow magically stave off cancellation for the series. So it wasn’t that I wasn’t curious about the series, but I was a bit daunted by it. After reading this first collection, I’m still not entirely sure I have a handle on what it is supposed to be. Morrison is somehow defining his own counterculture here, folding in some high-literature with his own sense of rock and roll revolution. I hear it takes a bit longer to get a good handle on just what’s so great about this series, but as with all Morrison projects, if you’re not confused, you’re not reading it right.

Wolverine: Weapon X (Marvel): Suckered by hyper-marketing, but wary of the studios’ capability of living up to its promise, I got a hankering for some Wolverine fare a few months back. With that in mind, I decided the time was nigh to finally read Barry Windsor-Smith’s acclaimed run from Marvel Comics Presents. This story is famed, and as such, a devout comic reader can become aware of the story and its consequence without ever having read it. I mean, I watched the X-Men cartoon, and had the Weapon X Wolverine action figure, so I already possessed ambient knowledge of the framework to this story. During a time when Logan’s origins were still deeply shrouded in mystery, classically brilliant illustrator BWS gave the first account of how the Canuck had come into the possession of his indestructible Adamantium skeleton. This story lived up to the hype. It was beautifully drawn, for one, and really played with the conflicting nature of Wolverine as a human animal. The writing, while perhaps a tad dated, was a pitch-perfect match for the art, never overpowering or overstating that which was portrayed on the page. It was a trip to hearken back to the days when Wolverine was a relatively untouched character, limited to his own occasional miniseries, and the pages of X-Men, and wasn’t the most overexposed character this side of Barack Obama.

Transmetropolitan vols. 1 & 2 (Vertigo): When a series is good enough, it leaves me infuriated that A) I wasn’t smart enough to conceive it, and B) frustrated that I might not reach the heights of creativity it represents. Transmet was like that. Spider Jerusalem is an outlaw journalist in an overwrought but familiar dystopian future, and his greatest weapon is his written voice. He uses his tool, along with indignation righteous enough to topple kings, to spread his seed of knowledge around the world like a sailor would an STD. This book is over a decade old, but the only prognostications that feel dated are the ones that have already come to pass. Spider seems like a pretty strong analogue for writer Warren Ellis himself, as his steely pessimism reads as a cover for an underlying humanity that is desperate for the world to live up to its promise. Darrick Robinson shows off his all-star talents in rendering the dirty, criminally commercialized but still charmingly diverse urban sprawl that surrounds our fair journalist. If Transmetropolitan doesn’t make you want to change the world with your words, well, probably nothing will.

Johnny Hiro (Adhouse Books): This is an example of the kind of book I have no problem buying twice. I proudly purchased each of Fred Chao’s masterful modern fairy-tale comics, and sung their praises to any and all in earshot. My socks were remarkably rocked, so when I saw this new collection, with new stories, well, it was among the easiest purchases I’ve ever made. I’ll keep buying this book until Fred Chao is a gajillionaire, if I have to.

Point Blank & Sleeper Season 1 (Wildstorm): Well hot damn were these among the finest comics I’ve ever come upon it. Much like Transmet, this was a book I’d held off on until it was cleanly repackaged, but it was very worth the wait. I’d already been loving Sean Phillips and Ed Brubaker’s collabos on Criminal and Incognito, but it was a blast seeing their work on Sleeper, the book that put them on the spot. I’ve never really been scared for a character, especially in genres outside horror, but the story of the operative so deep undercover he’s not sure when the assignment ends and he begins is powerful enough that I was genuinely worried. Point Blank makes for a great introduction to Sleeper’s dark underbelly, as WildC.A.T.S.’ Grifter bridges the gap from the superheroic world to the super-criminal one. This is the best crime you’ll read. I won’t even call this series “great comics,” I’m just going to call them “great fiction,” and leave it at that.

Mesmo Delivery (Top Shelf): Rafael Grampa is part of the Pixu gang, which is kind of like being a comics’ Crip- it offers immediate credibility and swag. He’s got a fine style, and his line packs a ton of personality within. This is a deceptively direct story, just off-kilter enough to upset the reader’s equilibrium. The obsessive detail of Grampa’s lines are downright 1990’s Image-ian, only his storytelling is crystal clear. This book is fast paced and hard livin’ with a dash of the devil in it. Guess it earned it’s Eisner nod.

Astro City; The Dark Age vol. 1 (Wildstorm): I had been dying to read this series. You don’t understand- dying. I’d read one random issue of the sequel series, and I wanted it all. But I wanted it when I could get through it on my time. It’s no secret that the book has fallend on an irregular schedule in the last few years, but none deny that the book is worth it once it arrives. There’s something appropriate about having Busiek and Anderson’s story covering comics’ darkest, most sobering hour be told in a multi-volume, series spanning epic. Astro City has always been rife with allegories and allusions to comics’ history and tradition, and it is exciting to see these esteemed creators’ take on the era in which the comics industry grew up.

Look for more WIBW: Deluxe bank-breaking collected editions to come, but for now, go break your back and bank with that roll of books.