The Games That Shaped My Childhood

Okay, so maybe they didn’t shape my childhood, but they certainly enriched it. My parents never wanted me to own a video game console (ironically, I own four now—a Sega Genesis, a Playstation 2, a Nintendo Wii and a Playstation 3, and I’ve owned a PS1 and, briefly, an X-Box in the past), only letting me rent them every once in a while until 2003, when I convinced my mom to buy a Genesis at a yard sale (I was clever about it. There were two Genesises . . . Geneses . . . ummm . . . two Genesis consoles in a box with a bunch of games. One had all the hook-ups and the other was missing some stuff, so I convinced my mom to buy the box for my brother, so he’d have something to do when he got off work. As it turned out, the other one worked fine, so all I had to do was pick up an RF cable and voila!). The next year, I bought my best friend’s PS1 when he bought a PS2, and then I got a PS2 for Christmas (I sold my parents on it by stressing the fact that it played DVDs. Unfortunately, DVDs ended up killing it . . . don’t play DVDs on your PS2, kids). Anyway, here are some of the games I really enjoyed growing up, and what made them special.

Sonic the Hedgehog 3 (Sega Genesis)

When I was a kid, I looooooooved the Sonic the Hedgehog Saturday morning cartoon on ABC. It was my absolute favorite, and, for bonus points, my first ever comic book was an issue of Sonic. When I found out Sonic was a video game character, I was absolutely stoked, and got my brother to rent Sonic 3 for me (more on that later). Goodness gracious, was it awesome! My favorite character on the TV show was Tails, so I was very pleased to learn that not only could I play as him exclusively, I could also play in a co-op mode of sorts that allowed Tails to carry Sonic to hard-to-reach areas. Although Sonic and Knuckles is probably the most-lauded of the series, Sonic 3 was and remains my very favorite. Years later, I bought the Sonic Mega Collection for the PS2, and was finally able to beat the darned thing. Good times, good memories. It was the game that started it all for me. Well, that and Arcade’s Revenge, but I don’t really want to talk about that awful thing. 

The opening screen and music are fantastic. The rest is garbage.

X-Men (Sega Genesis)

No other game has really captured the feel of the old X-Men comics the way this one does, except maybe the arcade game. Not even X-Men Legends, with its super-detailed X-mansion and ginormous roster, quite hit the mark (seriously, who wanted to play as freaking Magma?). 1993’s X-Men hit the mark, though. Six levels, increasingly difficult, along with a catchy soundtrack and just about perfect portrayals of classic heroes and villains. Although there are only four playable characters—Cyclops, Nightcrawler, Wolverine and Gambit—their abilities are distinct and make each one well-suited for different missions. There are also assist characters—Iceman, Rogue, Archangel and Storm, as well as Jean Grey, who shows up to save you if you fall off the map. The levels, too, are lifted straight out of the comics: the Savage Land, the Shi’ar empire, Excalibur’s lighthouse, Ahab’s future world, Mojo’s crunch and a final showdown at Asteroid M (which, I’ll admit, I still haven’t been able to beat). Cyclops has the most potent power and the best double-jump; Nightcrawler can bypass whole areas with his teleportation ability (and is the cheapest character to use against Apocalypse); Wolverine kinda sucks, but he has some good special attacks and can heal over time; and Gambit’s bo staff gives him extra reach. It was one of my favorite games to rent as a kid, and now it’s one of my favorite games in my collection. 

WCW Mayhem (Playstation)

My best friend was really into professional wrestling. I was not. How in the world might this bridge be gapped? Or is it the other way around? In any event, within a year, I was into wrestling, too. Why? WCW Mayhem. This game is pure ’90s nostalgia. You’ve got all the WCW stars we grew up with—“Hollywood” Hogan (but he’ll always be the Hulkster to me), Sting, Lex Luger, Ric Flair, “Macho Man” Randy Savage, and even announcer “Mean” Gene Okerlund and managers Jimmy Hart and Sonny Onoo as playable characters. You’ve got decidedly goofy characters like Disco Inferno and a create-a-wrestler system that allows you to create invisible characters (or, in the case of one I created, an invisible character save for his striped, purple tie). And, although the combat system is . . . well, kinda terrible . . . it’s well worth it to be able to run backstage and beat up your opponent there. Even better, you’ve got Tony Schiavone and Bobby “the Brain” Heenan on commentary, telling us the broadcast is sponsored by “Chork” (one part chicken, the other part pork) and suggesting that the contestant attempt an attack “south of the border, if you know what I mean, amigo.” Even now, although it hasn’t aged well in a lot of ways, where it counts it’s still got it. 

Mortal Kombat (Sega Genesis)

"I SAID SPRING WATER, NOT MINERAL!"

This is the one that almost got my video game privileges revoked indefinitely, and it wasn’t even mine. My buddies loaned it to me for a week, and, even though the violence is fairly tame by today’s standards—and even by 2004’s standards, which is when I borrowed it—my dad just about flipped his sh!t when he saw Kano rip Sonya’s heart out. Never mind that it wasn’t even my game, he very nearly made me get rid of my Genesis altogether. I appeased him by saying I’d only buy sissy games from there on out, and proved my point by picking up Bass Masters Classic (it’s as bad as it sounds, but also somehow awesome). This whole fiasco is especially funny considering all the violent movies my parents let me watch as a kid. Bad language and sexual content, apparently, would traumatize me, but watching a lion rip a skinny Irishman’s throat out (in The Ghost and the Darkness, a very good movie, actually)? Sure, let the kid watch it. 

Oh yeah, nothing traumatizing here.

NASCAR Thunder 2004 (Playstation)

One of EA Sports’ best offerings (they can’t make a decent basketball game to save ‘em, but they do understand racing), my dad and I played the crap outta this game for more than a month. Featuring a limited create-a-car feature, a roster of up-and-comers as well as legends (such as my favorites, Bill Elliott and Richard Petty), hilarious crew chief voice-over and a great soundtrack (including Fuel, Avenged Sevenfold, Iggy Pop and 411), it’s the best NASCAR game I’ve ever played. Dad and I almost always played on the Indianapolis and Talladega tracks, and we got really good at them. Alas, we knew the tracks so well that we knew when we were beaten; if we didn’t start perfectly, we’d restart the race. We restarted a lot, which was a little unnerving. Sometimes, though, if I knew I was losing, I’d pull a U-turn and wipe out the competition. Sometimes I just ended up totaling my car; sometimes I actually eliminated my rivals and ended up winning. Unfair? Maybe. But very, very fun. I ended up trading it in for the Playstation 2 version, which I regret in retrospect; what it gained in terms of graphics and features it lost in terms of fun; if your car got rammed from behind too many times, it would run out of gas on the spot. Race over. Yuck! For the best racing game ever, however, pick up Need for Speed: Most Wanted (PS2).

NBA Jam (Sega Genesis)

BOOM-shaka-laka! Best. Basketball game. Ever. The dunks are wild. The commentary is spot-on. The roster has all the greats of the ’90s (except, alas, for Michael Jordan and Shaq). Plus, no fouls, but plenty of harm! It’s extremely satisfying to drop an opposing player with a hard shove or an elbow thrust. Plus, imagine charging down the court as Barkley, spinning high into the air with a Tarzan yell and shattering the backboard with a dunk. Surprisingly, the Genesis version is actually better than the SNES one, with simpler controls and clearer voice over. And, honestly, the only other basketball game I’ve played that comes close to being as much fun is NBA Street Vol. 3. I’ve never been crazy about hyper-realistic basketball games, and the NBA Live series has never impressed me. 

WWE Smackdown: Shut Your Mouth (Playstation 2)

When I got my PS2, this was one of the first games I picked up, and I still love it today. True, the subsequent Here Comes the Pain featured a lot of improvements (such as create-a-wrestlers with teeth and probably the best season mode out of any wrestling game), but the arcade-style action and zany easter eggs in Shut Your Mouth give it a special place in my heart. Want to have a snowball fight in Times Square? Heck yes. Want to climb up to the top of the Smackdown fist and hit your opponent with a flying clothesline? Go for it. Want to pick a fight with the Undertaker and get dragged behind his motorcycle? Probably not, but it can happen. The create-a-wrestler system, while flawed (again, no teeth . . . it’s weird), is loads of fun, and allows players to create near-perfect replicas of Spider-Man, the Hulk and even Gollum. Plus, I was even able to create dead-on replicas of myself and my dad, circa 2006, and we used to play pretty regularly.
 

The only problem was that after a while, my friends got really sick of me showing them all the cool stuff I had created. Indeed, they got really sick of wrestling games altogether. Me? I’ve played all of ‘em except WWE ’12, because apparently it’s not so great. The worst of them all, however, is Smackdown vs. Raw 2007. Avoid at all costs. Or, more accurately, avoid at no cost; don’t buy it. 

Red Faction II (Playstation 2)

The first FPS I ever loved, Red Faction II is nine shades of epic. The single-player campaign is plenty of fun, featuring voice actors including Lance (Aliens) Henriksen and Jason (The Expendables) Statham, but it’s the multiplayer that really shines. I remember many an afternoon spent at my best friends’ house, huddled around the TV and chasing each other’s characters with grenade launchers. The zero-gravity level is a fun-yet-frustrating experience, but for maximum fun, we’d play the “Warlords” level, taking potshots at one another with rocket launchers from parallel bases. My friends’ little sister even got in on the action a few times: “Die! Die! Die, ya Filthy McNasty!”

Spider-Man and Venom in Maximum Carnage (Sega Genesis)

My favorite Spider-Man game, more even than the Playstation one or even the PS2 adaptation of Spider-Man 2. For starters, Venom was one of my favorite characters as a kid, as he was for a lot of ’90s kids. Getting to play as Venom for the first time was a dream come true. The game is based on “Maximum Carnage,” a 14-part storyline across the various Spider-Man titles in 1993, in which Spider-Man, Venom and a bunch of other superheroes have to team up to take down Venom’s sinister spawn, Carnage, and his band of homicidal misfits, Shriek, Carrion, Demogoblin and the twisted Doppelganger Spider-Man. With a rockin’ soundtrack by Green Jelly (which sounds even better on the Super Nintendo version), tons of guest stars and assist characters (like Morbius, Cloak and Dagger, Captain America and Deathlok, as well as a cameo by the Avengers at the end), a great fighting system and tons of secret areas and Easter eggs, it’s loads of fun even now, although, like the original story, it’s ridiculously long and difficult. What I like most about it is the difference between playing as Spider-Man and Venom. Spider-Man is lightning-quick and agile, while Venom is a bruiser through-and-through. When Spidey picks up an object, he lifts it with both arms. When Venom picks it up, he lifts it with one hand, and walks with a distinct swagger. His power moves are better, too; he smashes the pavement to create a shockwave to deal with groups, and when he’s in close range, he tosses his opponent sky-high, leering in self-satisfaction. Like a boss. 

 Eternal Champions (Sega Genesis)

When I was but a wee lad, I convinced my brother to rent a Sega Genesis. My mom approved, so long as he didn’t rent any violent video games, or, to my frustration, any Marvel superhero games (which I specifically wanted to play). I ended up talking him into getting Spider-Man and X-Men: Arcade’s Revenge anyway (it turned out to be bland, inoffensive, and terrible) and Sonic the Hedgehog 3. He also picked up Eternal Champions for himself and my other brother, but my mom wouldn’t let me play it. I got to watch from a distance, but I didn’t get to play, so of course I reeeeally wanted to play. Several years later, I got my wish. And. It. Was. Awesome. So awesome, in fact, that renting it became a tradition every time my brothers were in town. There are only nine characters, but each has a very specific, detailed moveset. No two characters have the same moves (unlike Mortal Kombat, where all the characters are basically repainted versions of each other with separate special attacks), and they all have specific looks and characteristics. The premise of the game is that nine warriors were plucked from various points in time to compete in a tournament, blah-blah-blah. My favorite was Larcen, a slick cat burglar from the early 20^th century. My brothers liked RAX, an arrogant, sneering cyborg gladiator, and Xavier, a cloaked medieval alchemist. My dad, who got in on the action after a while, favored Shadow, a Japanese assassin from the ’90s. He liked her because A) she was very, very hot, even in 16-bit graphics, and B) she had a cheap move, “Shadow Mode,” that rendered her invulnerable for six seconds. She could kick a lot of butt in six seconds, and if we turned the power meters off in “options,” Dad could keep her in Shadow Mode pretty much indefinitely. Playing against Dad became a real challenge, one that I eventually got around by timing my attacks perfectly every six seconds. Thus, out of all the games I’ve played over the years, Eternal Champions was one of the only ones that really got the whole family involved . . . except Mom, of course. She still hates video games. 

This game, which I love, didn't help.

Off to See the Wizard (World)

My friend Ed and I had been planning the trip for months. Wizard World St. Louis was going to be the biggest event of the year for both of us, thanks in no small part to the presence of Stan “The Man” Lee, who is essentially the granddaddy of all comic books. I’ve wanted to meet him since I read my first Marvel comic at the age of 6, when I first saw that ominous header that stated, “Stan Lee presents.” I didn’t know who Stan Lee was then, of course, but it was obvious that he was somebody very important, although I couldn’t have imagined how important then.

Tickets were purchased and arrangements made; we (Ed, his friend and coworker Brett and I) would meet in West Plains and carpool to St. Louis, and we would stay with Ed’s friend Tom. The timing was perfect for me, as it was the first weekend of spring break, but the only downside was that I would have to drive five hours home from Columbia on Friday to pack up some comic books to get signed and then meet Ed and Brett later that day for the trip to St. Louis. That’s about nine hours on the road—yikes.

I had been sick all week, so the drive home was especially miserable. My mind was clouded and my eyes were burning, and I was scared to death that mine would be the cold that killed 90-year-old Stan Lee. Thankfully, I made it home without incident, and I immediately set to work packing my old orange duffel bag with clothes and packing my mom’s leather messenger bag (my “swag bag”) with comics. I had about twenty that I hoped to get signed. Lee’s autograph cost $55, so I thought it best to pick just one comic to have him sign (I decided on The Amazing Spider-Man #700, which he handled the letters page for).  Legendary artist Neal Adams was going to be there, also, so I packed a few things to have him sign, too. Others included artists Mike S. Miller, Chris Samnee, Arthur Suydam, Tyler Kirkham and Michael Golden, as well as writers Renee Witterstaeter and Cullen Bunn, and I had stuff for all of them to sign, too.

It took a couple of hours, but I somehow managed to get everything organized and packed in time. I picked up my swag bag and the tin of cookies Mom had prepared, stuffed my camera into my pocket and headed out to the car. I still felt like garbage, but I was excited. Stan Lee awaited.

When I arrived at Ed’s house, he was standing on his porch, smoking a cigarette and grinning from ear to ear. He, too, could scarcely contain his excitement. We compared the contents of our respective swag bags and prepared to begin our journey. That’s when I realized I had forgotten my duffel bag.

First I gaped, horrified, at my empty front seat. Then I cringed at the sight
of my empty back seat. And THEN I started screaming bad words at my
empty trunk . . . at which point I checked the front seat again. Nope, still
not there . . . dangit.

We had a solid half-hour until Brett got off work, so we went to Dollar General so I could purchase new provisions. All in all, it was probably a good thing I forgot my stuff, because I needed a new toothbrush and deodorant anyway, and one can never have too many pairs of underwear, but I was still pretty upset about it at the time. The only thing they didn’t have at DG was a decent comic book-related T-shirt, so we cruised up to Wal-Mart and I picked up a fairly generic Avengers tee. THEN we went to pick up Brett.

The ride up to St. Louis was fairly uneventful. We mostly talked about comic book storylines and whatnot, and I proved to be pretty useful as an encyclopedia of sorts because I remember so many of the little details about comic books (I can’t remember anything I’ve studied in college, but by golly, I can recall every twist and turn of the Hobgoblin saga, culminating in the disappointing revelation that Hobby was, in fact, the effeminate milquetoast Roderick Kingsley, but I digress). I was also regaled with tales of the White Castle of legend, which I had only heard about but had never experienced for myself. However, I was dismayed to learn that onions were the secret ingredient that made White Castle’s burgers so addictively scrumptious, so they conceded that I probably wouldn’t enjoy them; we went to Jack in the Box instead, where I had the Ultimate Cheeseburger and curly fries, a grease-soaked artery-clogger that nonetheless tasted delightful. The lady at the counter even upped the size of my fries to medium for free because it was my first time there. Delightful!

I went to bed early that night, due to my miserable state. However, despite my sleeping like a log, I woke up feeling even worse, with a pulsating headache that spelled further misery to come. Tom made some coffee, though, and between that and an Advil, I soon felt better. We showered, put on our respective nerd gear and headed out to the convention center by 8 a.m. (the show started at 10).

Surprisingly, we were among the first to arrive that Saturday morning. There were only a handful of cosplayers around (a female Robin, a bespectacled Zelda, a “Master Chef,” a Doctor Doom and an overweight Magneto), but that soon changed. The line soon snaked back and forth across the entire area, and the excitement was through the roof.

BAH! Doom waits in line for no convention!

No need to stand on ceremony here, Mr. Wayne . . .

Ed and Brett were able to get free media passes to the event (they work for a radio station in West Plains), so they were able to get in early. Alas, I currently have no official affiliation with any publication or media outlet, so I was in the general admission line with Tom. Ed’s friend Meghann met us in line and we chatted there for a while. While we were there, we saw some better cosplayers, such as Spider-Man and the Black Cat. We also saw professional cosplayer Ivy Doomkitty in a Starfleet uniform ... to yank a quote from another sci-fi franchise, THAT'S NO MOON(S)!!

We also got to see the winner of Friday’s cosplay contest, who won a VIP weekend pass. This dude made an Iron Man costume replete with light-up eyes, chest piece and palms, and even hydraulic sound effects. My camera’s flash wasn’t working, so I got Ed to take a picture of me with Iron Man (Ed ended up taking quite a few pictures for me, bless him).

Thanks, Ed!

As soon as we got inside, I made a beeline for the back, knowing that’s where the line for Stan Lee would be. He wasn’t scheduled to sign autographs until 11, but I figured the line would be insane if I waited. On my way toward the back, I noted where some of the other creators were situated for future reference.

Whilst in line for Stan Lee (who started signing early, pretty much as soon as I got there), I happened to notice a little kid—no more than six years old—dressed as an unbelievably cute likeness of Ash from Evil Dead 2, bloody shirt, cardboard chainsaw hand and all. He was with his dad, and I desperately wanted to ask permission to take his picture, but I was afraid to pull out my camera while I was in line. For all of the major celebrities at the convention, and particularly for Stan, there was a very strict “no cameras” rule (because official photo ops cost extra, naturally), and I sure as peach pie didn’t want to risk getting kicked out of line after spending $55 to get Stan’s autograph in the first place. “No soup for you!” I did, however, get a picture with an adult Ash as I left the convention center that afternoon.

Gimme some sugar, baby.

It was fun watching people get their autographs, although I was too giddy to take it all in. It was handled in a very assembly line-like manner, with somebody to check the ticket, somebody to look over the item being signed, somebody to hand the item to Stan and somebody to take it from him and hand it back to the owner. For the most part, it was pretty straightforward and efficient. However, there was a funny moment when Stan accidentally signed a plastic bag instead of the comic inside it (this error was quickly rectified, although I guess, technically, the owner ended up with TWO autographs instead of one, so it worked out better that way).

Finally the moment was nigh. The kid directly in front of me politely asked Stan if he could ask him a question. “Ask away,” Stan said warmly. The kid asked who Stan’s favorite superhero was, and Stan responded with “Spider-Man.” Of course, I thought. Spider-Man was my favorite as a kid, too. The X-Men may have eased me through adolescence, and Green Lantern is the hero I can most identify with in adulthood, but it was Spider-Man who taught me about power and responsibility. It was Spider-Man who taught me about love and loss, and how it’s important to do the right thing even if the world is against you. And Spider-Man’s rogues gallery is the absolute best in comics not just because of the wacky powers and gaudy costumes, but because of the emotional stakes involved in their feuds with Spider-Man. The Green Goblin blames Spider-Man for the death of his son, so how does he repay him? He kills Spider-Man’s child in utero. Kraven the Hunter believes Spider-Man embodies a malevolent spirit that drove his mother to suicide. As Venom, Eddie Brock blames Spider-Man for ruining his career as a journalist and the alien symbiote blames Peter Parker for abandoning it. And Doctor Octopus, the magnificent bastard that he is, actually saves Spider-Man from a fatal illness because he wants to preserve their cat-and-mouse relationship, which is what he lives for (ironically, Octopus dies in that issue, although it doesn’t last).

Moving in to get my copy of The Amazing Spider-Man #700 signed, I nervously thanked Stan for Spider-Man. I don’t remember exactly what I said to him, but I think I said something about how I was very glad to have Spider-Man in my childhood, and I was especially grateful for Doctor Octopus (a villain after my own heart). Stan’s eyes lit up at this, and he gleefully thrust his fists up into the air. “Doc Ock!” he exclaimed with a grin. “He’s one of my favorites, too!”

At this point, I had received my signed comic and was being shuffled away from the table, but I hastily added, “Thank you for inspiring me to become a writer.” I don’t know if he heard me or not (he was already signing another autograph), but ultimately it didn’t matter. I had already gotten Stan Lee—the greatest living legend in comics—to smile. It was more than I had expected and it was enough to send me on my way with a smile of my own. Besides, I know I wasn’t the first kid to get hooked on Marvel and be inspired to take up writing as well.

Stan Lee is now 90 years old. I don’t know how many conventions he has left in him (hopefully many years’ worth to come), but I’m impressed he’s gone to as many as he has. One thing is for certain, though: he enjoys being Stan Lee—the legend, the Generalissimo, “The Man.” He’s 90 years old and he’s still going to these conventions, even though he surely must be set for cash. Why? Because he’s the flamboyant elder statesman of comics. Because he’s a huge draw for these events. And, most importantly, because the fans love him and he loves the fans. God bless Stan Lee; may he be able to grace conventions with his charm and sincerity for years to come.

Plus, my collection has a new crown jewel!

Next up were Tommy Castillo and Rick Burchett. I had a couple of issues of Detective Comics for Castillo to sign (the run with The Charlatan, one of my favorites) and the Batman: Mask of the Phantasm adaptation and an issue of Justice League America for Burchett. I then moved on to Chris Samnee, who had a pretty good line in front of his table already. I got in line and started digging through my swag bag to get my Samnee books, only to have Renee Witterstaeter scold me and the others in line for standing in front of her name plate. We moved around to the other side of the table, at which point I noticed something crucial. Y’see, many artists charge upwards of $20 for a simple sketch, so I didn’t plan on getting any at this convention. However, I saw the guy in front of me buy one of Samnee’s Daredevil hardcovers. It was $20, and Samnee cracked it open and drew a sweet head sketch for no extra charge. I raised my eyebrows in a very Jack Black-like fashion and dug out a twenty. By the way, Chris Samnee is super nice. We chatted for a few minutes, and sure enough, I got a head sketch in the hardcover I bought. I’ve enjoyed Samnee’s work on Captain America and Bucky, and he posts some pretty neat stuff online, too. After meeting him in person, I can definitely say I’m a fan for life now.

Neal Adams was charging $10 a pop for autographs, so I only got one (my Giant-Size X-Men #3, written by Joss Whedon). He also had some sweeeeet Uncanny Avengers variants for sale, but I didn’t want to pay $20 for them. Brett had him sign—I kid you not—the first appearance of Havok in X-Men, which Adams told him was his second Marvel assignment. How awesome is that?

Cullen Bunn was pretty awesome, too. We talked about his run on Venom and the disturbing nature of Deadpool Killustrated (a comic I greatly enjoy, even though, oddly enough, I want Deadpool to lose).

I met up with Ed, Brett, Tom and Meghann after an hour or two and we decided to go get lunch. We ended up at Flannery’s Irish Pub, and let me tell ya, it was fantastic. I got a barbecue bacon onion burger (hold the onion) and Ed got what he said was the best fish and chips of his life. Ed also bought us an appetizer platter that came with toasted ravioli, mozzarella sticks, chicken tenders and fried pickles (OH, how glorious the fried pickles were!). It was an excellent lunch, and on the way back to the convention center, I ran into my friend Joe, who I haven’t seen in almost a year.

At center is the aforementioned appetizer platter . . . delectable! 

When we got back to the convention, Ed, Brett and Meghann went to get their photo op with The Walking Dead’s Laurie Holden. As I walked around the convention center, flitting from booth to booth, I could see actors James Marsters, Henry Winkler and Morena Baccarin, but I knew I couldn’t afford their autographs so I kept going. Shoot, Juliet Landau, James Hong, Billy Dee Williams and Lou Ferrigno were around there somewhere, but they, too, were charging more than I could afford to spend. Stan Lee’s autograph was my big expenditure for the event, and I have no regrets.

I wasted some time in line trying to win some free stuff (and all I got was a lousy wristband, haha), and then I ran around looking for bargains (no, “Thrift Shop” was not playing in my head, although I suppose it probably should have been). In retrospect, I wish I had spent more time doing that, but how was I supposed to know (spoiler alert) I wouldn’t be back Sunday? There were quite a few things I had my eye on, but I figured I’d have time to go back and shop around later. How deluded I was . . .

In any event, I did end up buying some pretty cool stuff. I bought a Marvel Zombies vs. The Army of Darkness print from Arthur Suydam (it got pretty beat up on the ride home, unfortunately, but it’s still gorgeous), as well as a convention-exclusive, limited edition Walking Dead #1 reprint that I had him sign (people are already selling it online for $50-$70; make me an offer). I also bought a Jim Lee-signed underground comic from the Comic Book Legal Defense Fund’s booth (I’ve wanted Lee’s autograph for years, and I missed my shot at getting it at C2E2 three years ago). I found a booth with “4 for 99 cents” comics and stocked up there, and then I went to a booth with some dollar items and a 25 cent box. I picked up most of the Avengers vs. X-Men series, crappy though it was, just for the sake of having it (besides, if nothing else, the artwork is gorgeous, particularly Adam Kubert’s toward the end). I also got the one issue of Winter Soldier I was missing (I had a second printing, but I wanted the full set of first editions). All in all, I did pretty darned well, and I didn’t spend anywhere near as much as I was afraid I would.

I did, however, get attacked by a walker . . .

frozen by Sub-Zero . . .

and skewered by a Predator.

When I met up with the others again, I was surprised to find Ed talking to Scott Rogers, owner of Game Stash in West Plains, which is a Mecca of sorts for video game enthusiasts in southern Missouri and northern Arkansas. I didn’t know Scott was going to be at the convention, but I was glad to see him. He even snapped a picture of me with a Rogue cosplayer, which was cool.

As two wise men once said, "Schwing!"

At this point, the convention was starting to wind down for the day. We had initially planned to go to the after party, but we were so tired at that point, we just headed back to Tom’s place and played Settlers of Catan until late into the night (Settlers of Catan gave way to lively political debate, which gave way to Mortal Kombat, and we never did finish that second game of Settlers). After a while, I went to bed, but I ended up sleepwalking when I heard them come in from a late-night Jack in the Box run. I frantically emerged from the bedroom, convinced they were getting ready to head back to the convention, and I didn’t want to keep them waiting. It took me a moment to realize it was still night time and I was sleepwalking, at which point I sheepishly turned and shuffled back to bed.

From fun and games . . .

To the start of a serious discussion . . .

To full-on political discourse! Egad!

The next morning, though, as we had feared, the weather took a turn for the worse. I had really hoped to go back to the convention (I had a weekend pass, after all), especially since I had spent the previous day running around and getting autographs. I had planned to meet up with my friend Amber on Sunday and spend the day taking it slow, enjoying the sights and filling my swag bag with sweet deals. But the snow was coming down fast, and it was a four-hour drive back to West Plains in fair weather. So, alas, we decided to head over to Star Clipper, a local comic shop, and then head back to West Plains before the weather got any worse.

Too late . . .

Unfortunately, the weather did get worse while we were there, so we didn’t even get a chance to grab lunch. We did, however, pass by Blueberry Hill, so I snapped some pictures of some of the stars on the sidewalk. And, whilst at Star Clipper, I picked up the “State Birds” variant of Uncanny X-Men #1, so I’d call it a win overall.

The drive home was nuts. The wind was so strong, the snow was coming down in sideways sheets, and halfway home, Brett heard from his parents that there was a foot of snow in Columbia. Holy snap. Also, I ate at White Castle for the first time, but I ordered the chicken sliders instead of the burgers. Ed convinced me to try a piece of one of his burgers, and frankly, I didn't care for it (the onions were its undoing). The chicken, however, was great, as were the cheese-slathered crinkle fries. Yummmmm . . .

The farther south we got, the less precipitation there was. The stretch between St. Louis and Rolla took the worst of it, but there were just scattered flurries in Willow Springs. Anyway, the entire front grill of our vehicle was encased in ice by the time we got back to West Plains, as was the antenna. Pretty funny. And there was no snow whatsoever in Couch.

The worst of it

Now entering Silent Hill . . .

The home stretch, and there is nary a flake nor a flurry. 

When I got back to the house, I was exhausted but very, very happy. And, to my shame, my duffel bag was still on my bed.

Right where I left it . . .

Overall, it was the best weekend I’ve had in a loooooong time. Ed, Brett and Tom are three awesome guys, and it was great hanging out with them and enjoying the convention together. Everybody seems receptive to the idea of doing it again next year, and I hope it pans out. Hopefully the weather will be a bit more cooperative, too.

Excelsior!

Special thanks to Ed Button for the photos that are actually clear. 

Playing Doctor

Chris Roll

8-12-12

Playing Doctor

                A new problem was loosed upon the world the day three-year-old Eunice Maywether first pulled the arm off the porcelain doll she had received for her birthday. She stared at the arm for hours, amazed that it could be looked at from the usually unseen angle of the empty socket and the disconnected shoulder. Then she ran giddily to find the rest of her doll collection.

                The idea that physical forms could be dismantled prompted an immediate, insatiable interest in medicine and the way bodies worked, although with her father’s low-paying job at the sawmill there was no chance she’d ever get to go to medical school. Instead, her fascination moved to vivisection. Many an unfortunate animal, wild or relatively tame, was disassembled behind the barn before her parents put a stop to it . . . temporarily. Little Eunice was nothing if not resourceful when it came to hiding her pursuits.

                Eunice Maywether grew old. Living by herself in the Ozarks, her once-productive garden became choked with weeds and thistles. The barn that once housed horses and goats was on the verge of collapsing. And her yard was strewn with old, cast-off doll parts as far as the eye could see.

                This unsettling sight was what the occasional visitor would see as he or she warily pulled into Maywether’s driveway. Not that she ever received deliberate visitors, of course; it was only the handful of people each year who got lost in search of a gravel road not hers. They would drive up to her front gate, sometimes getting out of their cars, only to recoil and drive away as though the devil were on their tailpipes once they saw the doll carcasses. Eunice would peer through the window at them as they drove away, her dead green eyes joining the unblinking eyes of the countless doll heads in watching the cars depart.

                Sometimes, though, a more brazen traveler would ask for directions, having stepped past the minefield of broken faces to reach Eunice’s porch. Eunice would come to the door at the fifth or sixth insistent rap, putting on her most pleasant brown-toothed smile. She would invite the unintended visitor inside, offering the use of her phone (which was ridiculous because she didn’t have one) or a cup of tea (which was ridiculous because she didn’t drink tea). There might be an awkward moment when she asked the person to have a seat in one of the recliners, broken down and sunken in from years of use, and she would sit across, still smiling but looking intently at her visitor, mentally processing every joint, every muscle, every detail. Then she would invite her visitor to the kitchen, letting the visitor go ahead of her. Then she would bean her visitor with the wooden mallet she had stashed behind her favorite chair. Comical, really.

                You see, dolls were fun to take apart, but they were too passive. Animals reacted to being cut or pulled apart, but they, too, grew tiresome after a while. But people were different—what better thrill could there be for an aspiring doctor than to pop the limbs off something so similar to yourself? Or to cut them open and to pull out all the things you could never examine inside yourself without dying?

                “Tell me where it hurts,” Eunice Maywether would say, her rotten grin stretching from ear to ear as she applied the tools of her trade. Knives rusted from years of being soaked in fresh blood, handsaws dulled from cutting through ever so many bones, hammers and chisels that had pried loose many a kneecap—these were her instruments of discovery. This was what was in her doctor’s bag.

                When you find yourself on a gravel road in the middle of nowhere, take care. When it takes you too far from the main road and you think you’re a bit too isolated from civilization, you very well may be. Don’t stop. Don’t ask for directions. And make sure you don’t get a flat. Because sometimes asking for help is far worse than being lost. 

The Christmas There Was a Santa

Chris Roll

14 January 2013

The Christmas There Was a Santa

            Until that Christmas, six-year-old Caylee and three-year-old Jacob didn’t believe in Santa Claus. It wasn’t for lack of trying, though; they wanted to believe. They wanted to feel the same excitement they saw in other children. They wanted to experience the magic that comes from generations of jolly Christmas lore. But there had always been a Grinch in their midst—a nay-saying Scrooge who emphasized reason and rationality in his children: their father, Lonnie.

            Lonnie was a very successful used-car salesman, so he wasn’t hurting for money. Indeed, he was a very generous father who made sure his children had plenty of presents waiting for them every Christmas. However, he refused to entertain with them even the possibility of there being a Santa Claus.

            As Christmastime drew nigh, Caylee and Jacob would see other children standing in line at the mall to sit on Santa’s lap. They would peer at the kindly looking old man in the red suit and see the looks of delight on the faces of the children. They wanted to join these children, to see what was so wonderful, but Lonnie would urge them to keep walking.

            “You don’t want to sit in that old guy’s lap,” Lonnie would insist, chuckling at himself. “He’s got old man cooties, and he’s carrying flu germs from every single kid who’s sat in his lap today.”      

His wife, Gwen, would roll her eyes at this but say nothing. Lonnie meant well, but he had zero concept of imagination. He claimed not to understand the appeal of Santa Claus, and he reasoned that his children would appreciate honesty over illusion.

“I’m their security blanket,” Lonnie would proclaim proudly. “I’m their binky! My kids don’t need fairytales and Easter bunnies to comfort them.”

But in that moment, on that Christmas day, when shiny black boots descended the staircase and little bells on a sack of toys began to jingle, Caylee and Jacob finally knew what magic was.

But there is no Santa Claus, the children thought, trying to fight back their wide-eyed wonder. Daddy said. But that’s him. He’s real.

“Ho-ho-ho!” Santa Claus bellowed, more deeply and more warmly than Caylee and Jacob could have ever imagined. Everything they had heard—every Christmas story they had seen and heard and been forbidden to take to heart—all of it was true. The twinkling blue eyes, the fat belly, the white beard and the red suit, all of which flew directly in the face of what their father had told them. It was no illusion—Santa Claus was real and he was in their living room.

“Ho-ho-ho!” Santa chortled again, setting down his sack with a mighty thud. “Merry Christmas!”

Santa knelt down before the children, who were still standing awestruck by their mother.

“And have you been good this year?” he asked, smiling broadly.

“Y-yes, Mr. Claus,” Caylee stammered, her heart fluttering with joy. Jacob merely nodded, too giddy to form words.

“Then I have presents for you!” Santa declared happily, pulling brightly-wrapped packages from his sack. “Presents for both of you!”

“Santa!” Jacob cried out, gleefully looking up at his mother. “Santa’s here!”

“Yes,” Gwen replied, a strange, sideways smile on her face. She looked quizzically at Santa, raising an eyebrow. “Santa’s here.”

“Santa,” Caylee whispered, and Santa turned to her. Caylee looked into his eyes and saw all the warmth of a crackling fire on a winter night. She saw red cheeks like the blush on Grandma’s fresh summer apples. She saw a smile that radiated goodness and sincerity. She looked at Santa Claus and she saw the Christmas miracle she had been forbidden to believe in for so long.

As Santa handed out presents, ho-ho-hoing as he went, Gwen pulled out her camera and snapped a few pictures of Santa with the kids. She wasn’t sure, but Caylee thought she saw Santa wink at Gwen as he knelt beside the children.

Entranced, amazed and delighted by the feeling of Santa’s gloved hand gently clasped upon her shoulder, Caylee only barely heard Jacob ask the question she, too, had in the back of her mind, the question she wanted to ask but could not bear to voice.

“Where is Daddy?” Jacob asked, for he knew Daddy would be more amazed than anyone to see Santa Claus in their living room—to see him alive and real, bigger and warmer than they had ever imagined.

“He must be outside shoveling the driveway,” Gwen suggested. “I bet Santa will see him on his way out.”

Santa stood up and shook a few more presents from his sack. Jacob eagerly fell upon them as Caylee watched, still awestruck.

“Oh, boy!” Jacob exclaimed. “A fire truck! A crane!”

“Open yours,” Gwen said with a smile, but Caylee merely held hers close to her chest.

“This is the best Christmas ever,” Caylee whispered, a single tear starting to well up.

Santa Claus smiled again, but it was different this time. Was it sadness? Was it pride? Was it cruelty? He reached for his hat and pulled it off, revealing thinning blond hair. He pulled off his thick white eyebrows, revealing darker brows that nearly connected in the middle. Finally, he reached for his beard, and suddenly Caylee and Jacob knew the magic was gone.

The beard came off.

“Merry Christmas, kids!” Lonnie declared, standing proudly before them in his red suit, hands on his hips in a heroic pose. With his lean face and padded belly, he looked ridiculous to the point of perversity.

Caylee and Jacob stood there silently, presents in hand. They didn’t run forward to hug their father. They didn’t scream or cry. They didn’t run to their rooms. They just stood there as Lonnie grinned absurdly, crunching down on a candy cane while Gwen picked up the wrapping paper and bows that were strewn around the room.

“Why did you do that?” Gwen whispered under her breath.

“What do you mean?” Lonnie asked, twirling the candy cane with his fingers.

“You rented the suit. You spent money to make them believe only to bring it all crashing down. Why?”

Lonnie just shrugged.

“Didn’t your parents do the whole Santa thing with you and your brother?” Gwen asked. “Didn’t you tell me that one Christmas, when you were already strapped into the car to go visit your grandparents, your mom ran back into the house for a minute? And what did she go back to do?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, honey,” Lonnie muttered, rolling his eyes.

“She said she had to turn off the stove, but she was really setting out presents so you’d be surprised when you got home. You said that Christmas, you actually believed in Santa. Lonnie . . . I agreed with you when you said we should be honest with our kids, but what was the point of this? It was cruel.”

 “Oh, come on,” he chuckled. “It’s Christmas. I was just having fun.”

“So it’s all about you, isn’t it?” Gwen said softly. “That’s all it’s ever been about.”

Nobody talked about Santa after that. From then on, Christmas was a quiet affair. Although family, food and presents remained a staple of the celebration, there was no talk of chimneys or sleigh bells, nor was there any mention of elves or reindeer. But if Caylee and Jacob could not believe in Santa Claus—if their moment of faith had been rewarded with pain instead of pleasure—how could they put any stock in what the holiday was really supposed to be about? Was the baby in the manger just a Cabbage Patch Kid in an apple crate like in the town’s nativity scene? Was God just another story parents told to keep their kids in line? Was heaven no more real than the Bunny Trail? What good was honesty when the man who demanded it went about in disguise to deceive them?

Santa Claus was a lie. Christmas was dead and pointless. Flights of fancy gave way to calculating logic. Magic gave way to hopelessness.

“Merry Christmas, kids,” Lonnie said again, grinning as he chomped down on his candy cane.  

This story is property of Chris Roll, 2013. Long story short, if you want to share the story with somebody, go for it, but don't present it as your own or attempt to profit from it, because, frankly, that's not very nice, and I wouldn't do it to you if I were in your position. Otherwise, enjoy!

My Favorite Spider-Man Artists (and why)

Tom Lyle

 -Best remembered for his work during the “Maximum Carnage” storyline, Tom Lyle even managed to make Eddie Brock’s mullet look good. Lyle had a distinct, clean style that fit very well with the ’90s-era Spider-Man stories, and his symbiotes and goblins were top-notch.

If you didn't grow up playing the "Maximum Carnage"
video game . . . I pity you more than you can imagine.

John Romita, Sr.

-John Romita, Sr. had to pick up where Steve Ditko left off. Nobody had seen Ditko’s departure coming, and Romita thought he’d just be the fill-in guy for a while. Instead, he actually ended up penciling more issues than Ditko, and introduced classic characters like the Shocker and the Rhino.

He also got to draw this,
 which counts for a lot.

Mike Zeck

-Three words: “Kraven’s Last Hunt.” Although Zeck’s work is often a bit cartoony for my tastes, his illustrations of Kraven’s spider-covered acid trips and Vermin's feeding times were disturbing and visceral. Watching Kraven don the black Spider-Man costume and dispense his own brand of “justice” was equally unsettling, and Zeck nailed it.

The original title was "Kraven's Last
Pants," but it was deemed too icky.

Ron Frenz

-During the height of the ’80s “Gang War” story, Ron Frenz was the regular penciler on The Amazing Spider-Man. His work was dynamite, especially the skyline battles between Jack O’Lantern and the Hobgoblin. His rendition of the Hobgoblin was so good, it was he who got to pencil the (absolutely terrible) miniseries “Hobgoblin Lives,” and he got to revisit the (mediocre) character of Roderick Kingsley again in Spider-Girl. Frenz’s Spider-Man was classic and cool, and Sal Buscema’s inks in Spider-Girl only made a good thing better.  

At least the art was good . . .

Erik Larsen

-The man who, in my opinion, draws THE definitive Venom, Erik Larsen had big shoes to fill when he took over Amazing Spider-Man from Todd McFarlane. Surprise-surprise, Larsen turned out to be even better. His work was edgier and less cartoony, and he drew a heck of a Sinister Six—in two great storylines, one of which had the Incredible Hulk getting his butt kicked by Doc Ock.

And how can you not love this cover?

Steve Ditko

-Without Steve Ditko, we would not have Spider-Man—at least not the Spider-Man we know and love. Ditko’s style was gritty and realistic, exposing the ugliness of Spider-Man’s urban environment but also spellbinding in its intricacy. Ditko’s design work, too, is timeless, and even though Spider-Man has gone through his share of costume changes over the years, he always winds up back in the Ditko original.

Ditko also drew the most iconic, triumphant
 image of Spider-Man . . . ever.

Sal Buscema

-Fast, talented and reliable, Sal Buscema was one of the best in the industry, and his unparalleled run on The Spectacular Spider-Man was absolutely gorgeous. His sharp, angular style was perfectly suited for Gerry Conway and Steven Grant’s crime stories, and when inker Bill Sienkiewicz came onboard for a few issues, Buscema’s already-stellar art was made even better than ever. These days, Buscema mostly does ink work, but his pencils were by far his greatest contribution to Spider-Man's 50 years of publication.

From "Spectacular Spider-Man" #221, my very first Marvel.

John Romita, Jr.

-Nobody draws a better Spider-Man than John Romita, Jr. Nobody. From the ’80s onward, his style has evolved and grown and has become the definitive rendition of Spider-Man. Although his work was best complemented by the inks of the late Al Williamson, Romita, Jr. nevertheless turned out incredible work during J. Michael Straczynski’s epic run on The Amazing Spider-Man. Unfortunately, he’s paired up with Klaus Janson a lot nowadays, and although Janson is a great artist in his own right, his inking style does not gel well with Romita’s. 

Romita + Williamson = WIN

A Tale of Two Villains: Bane and Silva

Two of the most critically acclaimed films of 2012 were The Dark Knight Rises and Skyfall. Both were the third films in their respective series, TDKR the final installment of Christopher Nolan’s reboot of the Batman series and Skyfall the third film of the rebooted 007 series, which stars Daniel Craig as James Bond. But that’s not all the two films have in common.

     Thematically, both films deal with aging protagonists who have to face and overcome the reality of their failing bodies. Both Bruce Wayne and James Bond have devoted years to stopping criminals both foreign and domestic, and they’ve taken their lumps in the name of justice. Now they’re paying for it with creaky joints and crappy aim.

     The films also hearken back to elements from prior films. TDKR focuses on the legacy of Ra’s Al Ghul, whose story completely fell by the wayside in The Dark Knight. Batman faces his ultimate test in the form of Ra’s Al Ghul’s heir and a plot to utterly destroy Gotham City. Skyfall, on the other hand, makes multiple references to earlier 007 films (which may or may not have actually occurred in the new continuity), such as “exploding pen” jokes, a vintage Aston Martin and the use of the classic Bond theme in the soundtrack. It’s a loving homage to the classic 007 films and a glorious experience for old fans and new, just as TDKR is a powerful, fitting ending to Nolan’s Dark Knight trilogy. However, the most fascinating parallel between the two films is the nature of the primary villains, Bane and Silva. They have a lot in common.

     Although the true criminal mastermind in TDKR is Talia Al Ghul (Marion Cotillard), Bane (Tom Hardy) acts as her figurehead, and, when necessary, her muscle. He is a hulking, ruthless monster, and every time he enters a scene, all eyes are drawn to him. Every time he grasps at the lapels of his coat, the audience leans forward in anticipation of something truly brutal. But Bane’s strength is not what makes him a great villain, although it helps immensely (indeed, part of what makes TDKR exciting is that it finally provides Batman with a villain who can physically dominate him, making for epic slugfests of WWE-level proportions). Bane is extremely charismatic and highly intelligent, which makes him more than a mere bruiser. He waxes poetic and displays subtlety in his actions, and his voice is one of the most hilariously awesome things I’ve ever heard.

     Silva (Javier Bardem), like Bane, is a classy kind of villain, although he looks more the part with his white suit and well-combed, platinum-blond hair. He delivers every line with a whimsical smile, which makes him all the more terrifying. He tells horrifying anecdotes about how to effectively deal with rats and plays gay chicken with a tied-up Bond. He conducts an air strike on Bond’s childhood home while blaring Eric Burdon and the Animals. Like Bane, he even has a facial disfigurement (Bane wears a clunky mask that administers painkillers and Silva wears a complex dental prosthesis). He is, in short, the epitome of the Bond villain.

Sorry, Jaws . . .

     Here’s what makes these villains truly great: they’re hams. They are mustache-twirling, monologue-spouting, epic-scheming madmen who appreciate the finer things in life and inspire terror and other uncomfortable feelings in those around them. Bane is a fine Kretschmar ham, fresh from the deli. He is the delicate, flavorful ham all other lunchmeats aspire to be. Silva is cut from the same ham—shaved off and refined, awaiting a fresh hoagie, a slice of provolone and a kosher dill pickle spear on the side (sorry, I’m hungry). They are fantastic villains brought to life by fantastic actors, and they serve to make both films not just enjoyable but the stuff of legend. The Dark Knight trilogy may be over, but another Batman reboot is imminent with the announcement of a Justice League film in development. Likewise, a caption during the end credits of Skyfall announced that James Bond will return. But it remains to be seen whether or not these films will ever be able to match the hammy perfection of these films’ villains. 

Mmm . . . ham.