Local Theater to Captain Underpants Fans: DROP DEAD

The summer action blockbuster spectacular 75 years and multiple generations in the making has arrived at last, narrowly seeing the light of day before the end of the universe despite numerous prognosticators to the contrary! Wonder Woman is here and she’s brought the hopes and dreams of zillions of fans with her, from comics to Lynda Carter to animation to brightening Dawn of Justice to decades of products bearing her heroic image even in sadder times when she had no screen projects to promote. If you can name her five best stories, or if you drew inspiration merely from the bold visage of an unstoppable warrior woman unlike any of the super-dudes outnumbering her, either way director Patty Jenkins bids you welcome, because Wonder Woman is here for you.

Short version for the unfamiliar: Once upon a time there was a distant island named Themyscira populated entirely by the Amazons, a legendary all-women’s society existent since the era of Greek gods, living in peace apart from the rest of the planet but staying honed and prepared daily in case of intruders. Connie Nielsen from Gladiator ruled them as the royal Queen Martha Hippolyta. Wary of the evils that lay beyond their boundaries, she governed Themyscira as a virtual Paradise Island in hopes that her daughter Princess Diana (Gal Gadot, 14/10 awesomely heroic) would never need to learn to fight, to risk wounds or dirt. Diana obeyed her overprotective mom and never touched a weapon and grew up spoiled rotten and played a lot of video games until she died of high cholesterol. Wait, no, she learned fighting skills behind Mom’s back anyway.

The queen’s isolationist ideal is shattered when the nastiness of World War I rushes past their defenses, threatens their complacency, ruins their day, and opens Diana’s eyes to a world contaminated by man’s inhumanity to man. Representing for the benevolent side of the very real struggle is Steve Trevor (Chris Pine, more than just reprising Captain Kirk), a soldier and spy aiming to do the right thing and shut down the War to End All Wars in its final days. One problem: lingering madmen with sinister plans to prolong the war and tilt the scales back in their favor with a chilling new weapon of mass destruction, bent on proving wide-scale slaughter could be achieved well before the advent of the nuclear option.

Thus does Princess Diana find her calling, rise to the occasion, steal every unique weapon not nailed down, and insist her new friend Steve guide her toward Evil so she can stab it dead. Will this man, a coterie of misfit mercenaries, and this young woman of considerable wonder be up to the task?

Hey, look, it’s that one actor!: Frequent film foe Danny Huston oversees Operation Not Agent Orange in the guise of General Erich Ludendorff, an actual figure from true WWI history, though his rendition here in many ways is as accurate as Quentin Tarantino’s treatment of Hitler. Elena Anaya (one of Dracula’s wives from Van Helsing) is his chief scientist Dr. Poison, which sums up her and her work altogether.

On the side of good, Lucy Davis (Dawn from the original The Office) is longtime comics cast member Etta Candy, promoted from scrappy sidekick to home-base liaison, who deserved triple screen time. David Thewlis (Professor Lupin!) is the British official who facilitates Our Heroes’ top-secret day-saving mission. Trevor’s eccentric recruits include Ewen Bremner (Trainspotting) and Saïd Taghmaoui (Breaker from the first GI Joe movie).

Meanwhile among the Amazons, Robin Wright (Princess Buttercup! Claire Underwood! Jenny!) is Antiope, the gruff senior trainer who teaches Diana everything she knows about combat and who thinks the Queen is wrong, wrong, wrong.

Meaning or EXPLOSIONS? Lessons learned from Wonder Woman include but aren’t limited to:

* Love: generally good. A driving force for Diana.

* War is bad but often necessary in a world tainted by sinners who don’t get that.

* Peace is good. Anyone who says different has weapons for sale.

* Isolationism is selfish, the moral equivalent of standing still and watching Uncle Ben die times millions.

* Themyscira is not an American territory and it follows that Wonder Woman at her root is not American. Their veneration of the Greek pantheon is also a bit of a clue. WW has worn red-white-‘n’-blue on past costumes, but they were almost always leavened with generous amounts of non-American yellow/gold. Regardless: she’s not Ms. America. You’re thinking of the really earnest guy with the shield over at the other company.

* It’s unwise trying to shelter your kids from all pain and evil. Hiding them in your community’s plastic bubble is not a permanent solution. Sooner or later they’ll be exposed to the contagion that is Others and eventually negative emotions will occur. If you leave them unable to muster up even a minimal self-defense, they’ll be wrecked and you’ll be partly to blame. Conquering fear beats the safety of cowardice in any serious mature playbook.

* Demonstrating gender equality through actions, positions, teamwork, and mutual accomplishment rings more true and makes a more convincing case than paying it lip service or forcing characters to deliver ten-minute speeches about it to teach unschooled viewers the lessons they missed. The dynamic duo of Diana and Trevor excels at showing-not-telling.

* Men circa the 1910s: not yet grasping that last one.

Nitpicking? The first 30-40 minutes of the film felt very familiar to me. A uniquely talented, naive, optimistic outsider deeply rooted in seemingly mythical belief departs their faraway magical homeland on a mission borne of love. A boat carries them thousands of miles to reach our “normal” harsh realm, where they prefer their own weird clothes to ours. Their eyes grow wide with whimsy and awe at each new sight, after each silly mistake, and whenever they sample a sugary treat that overwhelms their senses. Everyone scoffs at their actions and words until they realize the central myth is real. Once everyone around them is convinced, then they can all work together in harmony for the sake of the world in general and the people they love in particular. Broadly speaking, they’ve partly remade Elf.

Each act has its own series of dynamic set pieces. Act Two is the most stunning, an extended skirmish that leads from the trenches of Paths of Glory to a war-ravaged small town that needs someone to stand up and say “Enough.” Act Three has your mandatory final boss battle, which contains several unforgettable images (and Gadot at her finest) but tosses in a fake new superpower or two like it’s Superman II and ultimately concludes in the same sort of vague, razed wasteland that ended Dawn of Justice. Act One is all about Amazons being Amazons, whose combat bylaws state that no single action can be performed unless it’s either amplified through Zack Snyder speed-ramping or prefaced with a 270-degree midair spin. I’m reminded of the typical Robert Rodriguez shoot-’em-up in which no one merely picks up guns and fires; they have to grab them, toss them in the air, catch them, and then they can open fire. Cool visual effects are cooler when you don’t notice how much time they’re wasting on superfluous dance moves.

If your primary objective as a viewer is the hope of catching salacious shots of Gal Gadot or any other Amazons frolicking in the buff, this film is not intended for you. At all. But one scene will be sheer bliss for anyone who has the phrase “Chris Pine nude” bookmarked in their search browser. In this area the film presents a spot of imbalance to add to the small stack that’s leaning against 100+ years of Hollywood nekkid-chicks imbalance.

So what’s to like? Moving the setting back to WWI seemed an odd choice at first for a character who didn’t exist back then, but ultimately it works out. The Diana of this period is innocent and still learning the ropes of heroism, but the wartime backdrop provides an opportunity for her to demonstrate the warrior spirit that differentiates her from Batman and Superman, by which I mean Wonder Woman kills. But it’s wartime and therefore part-‘n’-parcel of the unfortunate experience, if not ingrained in her heritage. If we get to Justice League and she’s stabbing bank robbers through the heart, some rethinking will need to be done.

But through the chaos and the sunny times alike, Gal Gadot is the absolute best reason to watch. She often smiles. That word again: SMILES! Honest! Remember when Christopher Reeve used to do that and all the best generations stood up and cheered for it? Gal Gadot is the new Christopher Reeve. In the early scenes even li’l kiddo Diana is a role model to behold as she keenly watches the adults carry on with their training. She stands firm and tries duplicating their exercises — striking the air with her tiny arms, punching and elbowing with such emphatic determination that I admired her steel nerves in the making and died from cuteness overload.

Despite my minor quibbles, Wonder Woman is a valiant return to the bygone age of the hopeful super-hero film, soaring into our hearts on the wings of composer Rupert Gregson-Williams’s volume-11 string section and martial-metal battle hymns, all while Jenkins and screenwriter Allen Heinberg guide Gadot and Pine through fighting the good fight, doing a little dance, and reminding a jaded 21st-century audience that truly Good Guys done well aren’t remotely boring. And they’re what the self-absorbed, spiteful, misguided little kids inside us need now more than ever.

How about those end credits? No, there’s no scene after the Wonder Woman end credits, though comics fans will appreciate the Special Thanks section that leads off with the names of several writers and artists who’ve steered Diana’s fortunes throughout her past fifty years of DC Comics: Robert Kanigher (’60s and ’70s) Len Wein and Ross Andru (those swingin’ ’70s); George Perez with Greg Potter (post-Crisis ’80s, a.k.a. “my” version of WW); Phil Jimenez (Perez’ successor); William Messner-Loebs and Mike Deodato Jr. (’90s); Brian Azzarello and Cliff Chiang (New 52); and Greg Rucka (early 2000s and the recent “Rebirth”).

I remember quite a few other regular WW contributors from my lifetime (Byrne, Simone, Busiek, Robbins, Newell, Houser, any number of additional artists…), but they’re omitted in favor of Special Thanks for three additional gents: DC VP Jim Lee, who drew Diana a few times in Justice League and who is a DC VP; and James Bonny and Tony Daniel, creators of the sword she uses in the film. If you’re a longtime comics reader whose favorite WW arc was the work of someone not listed above, I’m afraid they’re just not as important as the big shiny stabby thing. Dreadful sorry.

But on the brighter side, Lynda Carter absolutely gets acknowledged. Anyone who knows anything about Wonder Woman knows better than to snub her.

That time two Dynamic Duos met at Awesome Con Indy 2014.

Saturday morning, Anne and I were at a major event waiting to meet TV’s Dean Cain when news broke that the Adam West had passed away at 88 from leukemia. At first we didn’t believe it. Whether we’re in a small town or a big city, whether we’re among fellow geeks or ordinary folks, that’s the kind of allegation we don’t accept at face value.

“To the phones!” I half-jokingly shouted as we both clicked to our most trusted sources for confirmation. Alas, it was true. The moment was depressing yet sublimely absurd — here we are in line for Superman only to have someone tell us Batman is dead.

My relationship to the incomparable Adam West mirrored much of my Gen-X comics-collecting peers. As a kid, Batman ’66 reruns were among my first exposure to super-heroes, and quite probably a chief contributor to my first lessons about the differences between right and wrong, between good and evil, and between gentlemanly manners and hotheaded teenagers. Sometimes I laughed, but more often than not, West’s version of the Caped Crusader told me this is what super-heroing was all about — truth, justice, keeping calm, creative problem-solving, and civility toward others, even those you’re arresting.

I’d been reading comics since at least age 6, and the series’ hokey patter wasn’t that much of a stretch from average Marvel and DC fare of the day. My favorite Batman, as rendered by the dynamic Jim Aparo (likewise RIP), was grimmer and smiled less than Adam West, but I had no problem reconciling the two as valid interpretations, except I didn’t put it in those terms. I liked this Batman and that Batman.

As a teen, Batman ’66 was the WORST. Age 14 was the all-new, all-daring, “comics aren’t just for kids anymore!” era of Watchmen, Art Spiegelman’s Maus, and Frank Miller’s Dark Knight Returns, in which an elderly, unsmiling Bruce Wayne had aged into a bitter, rueful, uncompromising piledriver of a vigilante thanks to horrible events and choices in his life. As a junior high outcast who yearned to be taken seriously, I gravitated toward these dark new worlds where no one and nothing were laughing matters. Adam West’s shining role model and his silly sound effects were the exact opposite of what I now valued and were therefore reclassified Uncool. Batman reruns and the fans who loved them were ruining comics! Yeah, I had some sound effects for them: BOO! HISS! BLECH! EXPLETIVE!

As an adult, I wish I could slap my teen self around a bit. I wish this rather often, not just when reflecting on Batman. The misbegotten offspring that followed Maus, Watchmen, and Dark Knight and reveled in pessimism or nihilism (thereby missing the point of any of those three) are no longer my thing. Those heroic old-school values are cool to me again. I’m in a better position to appreciate Adam West’s deceptively straight-faced performance and the multiple levels on which it works. And I no longer care about the opinions of anyone who thinks Batman reruns and the fans who love them today are bad for comics or for grim-‘n’-gritty films.

In a roundabout way, my life as an Adam West fan hasn’t been too far removed from the standard father/son life cycle: revered him as a kid; rejected him as a too-cool teen; eventually realized why he was right all along after I grew up.

I’m sorrowful tonight but glad I had the chance to meet Adam West and Burt Ward once back in 2014 at a convention here in Indianapolis. Anne had already had the pleasure of getting his autograph and exchanging kind words with him at a previous Wizard World Chicago (I’d been in other lines and missed that opportunity because sometimes I’m dense), but she didn’t get a photo with him. So we figured this hometown show would be a great chance for both of us to say hi, get a photo op, and, better yet, see if they’d do jazz hands with us. Longtime MCC readers are well aware this is our thing, and 2014 was the year we launched this ongoing permutation in our fandom expression.

The line was late in the day, rather long, and ushered along rapidly once it began. As we reached the booth, we could tell Batman and Robin were mostly hanging out motionlessly while fans posed around them. Not a problem for us — we realize older actors aren’t as mobile or excitable as they used to be and can’t exactly do acrobatics on cue in their advanced years. We figured we’d let them have their dignity while we filled in the margins around them with jazz hands and goofiness.

We proceeded to exactly that, standing to either side and doing our thing. Adam West side-eyed us, realized what we were doing, and chuckled. The photographer snapped our photo, we were ushered out, and history was made in a way that no bitter young fan-dudes could ever take away from us.

We had made Adam West laugh.

More than the cost of the photo op, that split-second moment of off-kilter entertainment was the closest I ever got to repaying him in kind for what he’d done and meant for me and countless others, even during those phases when we were all too stubborn and “cool” to acknowledge it. May he rest in peace, secure in the knowledge that his legacy lives on, and treated in Heaven to sound effects so amazingly transcendentally empowering that we just can’t even imagine.

Spider-Gal, Spider-Gal / Does whatever a spider shall / Spins a web, catches creeps / Strikes a pose, plays for keeps!

Previously on Midlife Crisis Crossover: on June 9th and 10th my wife Anne and I attended the 39th annual Superman Celebration in Metropolis, IL, a grand bash in honor of the Man of Steel in particular and all the super-heroes who owe their existence and livelihoods to him in general.

And of course there were costumes! Lots of cosplayers spiffing up the town with their favorite characters from the worlds of comics, film, TV, animation, and toy stores. I’ll shut up now and let the photo gallery roll!

(Special thanks to my son for light naming assistance.)

Of course Superman was there. On Friday he led a kids’ costume parade from the north end of Market Street to the Superman statue, noisemakers at full volume all the way.

The parade’s big finale: a group statue rendezvous.

Of course Supergirl was in town to mark the occasion and say hi to her cousin and whatnot.

Another Supergirl hanging out with Vigilante (Golden Age version), the Wizard (old-time DC villain), and Marlon Brando’s Jor-El.

Wonder Woman representation was increased manifold this year. Her movie’s now in theaters. You might’ve heard of it. It’s a big deal.

Another Wonder Woman tries to see the good inside Bizarro. But him give Wonder Woman film 0/10, call it “not awesome and extra rotten!”

When we’re talking Superman villains, it wouldn’t be a complete lineup without Lex Luthor.

Aquaman bides his time, waiting for his big chance to become America’s Next Top DC Hero. SOON.

Guaranteed not to hassle Aquaman in his film: his evil twin Nuclear Man from Superman IV: The Quest for Peace.

It wouldn’t be a gathering of comics fans without at least one Deadpool variant. Filling that critical quota is not-so-mild-mannered Clark Kentpool.

Daily Planet staff meeting! Perry, Jimmy, Lois and Clark hang out by an old-timey car in front of the Super Museum.

Also from the automotive department: Harley Quinn crosses the media to smash Tim Burton’s Batmobile to bits.

Also speaking loudly and carrying a big stick: Casey Jones on patrol, Turtles or no Turtles.

The JLA’s heroic android Red Tornado flanked by new versions of Zatanna and Cheshire from the Young Justice animated series.

A very special Teen Titans/Marvel Family team-up! Mary Marvel, Captain Marvel, Wonder Girl and Superboy.

Saturn Girl, founding member of the Legion of Super-Heroes, brings greetings from the 30th and/or 31st centuries.

Originally the Shade was a straightforward Golden Age DC villain, but fans of the wondrous James Robinson/Tony Harris 1990s Starman series recall his complicated life rather differently.

The most elaborate costume we saw this weekend: John Henry Irons IS Steel.

Fun science fact to keep in mind: whereas your average convention cosplayer spends most of their time indoors and surrounded by air conditioning that helps counter all the body heat milling around them and inside their costumes, all of these fine folks were cosplaying outdoors in summertime in temperatures pushing 90 degrees, some for hours at a time. Their dedication and stamina are impressive and enviable and I hope other fans brought them lots and lots of water.

To be continued! Other chapters in this special MCC miniseries:

Part 1: All-Stars! (photos with our special guests!)
Part 3: food! (coming soon!)
Part 4: who else we met, what else we did! (also coming soon! probably really long!)

Superman posing with local military at the conclusion of a special ceremony inducting “honorary citizens” of Metropolis.

Previously on Midlife Crisis Crossover: on June 9th and 10th my wife Anne and I attended the 39th annual Superman Celebration in Metropolis, IL, a grand bash in honor of the Man of Steel in particular and all the super-heroes who owe their existence and livelihoods to him in general.

Our sixth visit to the town that adopted Superman once again felt like a sort of homecoming. Illinois even extended us the courtesy of raising their interstate speed limits and clearing out nearly all their road construction projects for the occasion so we somehow managed a record-setting four-hour drive time from Indianapolis. Numerous entrepreneurs brought fine wares and skills for the occasion, including a bevy of new businesses that took over previously abandoned storefronts and boosted occupancy rates along the main straightaway. Best of all, we enjoyed several mini-reunions with fellow fans we recognized (and vice versa) from past years’ autograph lines. The Celebration is like no other convention, and Metropolis is no mere sterile convention center.

The Superman sights begin well before you reach the center of town. The first gas station off I-24 knows its clientele and decorates accordingly, including a pair of cardboard standees outside that once stood near the Super Museum. All four staffers in the adjacent Quiznos were likewise garbed in their favorite Superman shirts and/or souvenir shirts from previous Superman Celebrations.

John Byrne’s Superman presents the gas station men’s room! Anne tells me the ladies’ was of course presented by Wonder Woman.

Superman: The Animated Toilet Paper.

Each day we parked just south of the festivities, where dozens of city blocks provide copious free parallel parking. A few dozen angled spaces allow limited convenience next to the town hall and the Chamber of Commerce, but we found our own sweet spot not far away that avoided that tight competition. Our short walk had a few points of interest along the way, particularly for Superman fans who know the old TV show’s catchphrase regarding “a never-ending battle for Truth, Justice, and the American Way!”

I wouldn’t be surprised if this secret squirrel knew the Adventures of Superman opening by heart too.

Many a merchant supports the party in their own way. You say you like characters? Well, insurance agents have characters too!

Show of hands, who wants a Flo selfie? She’s arguably cuter than a gecko!

Before diving in and throwing all our money at the food stands, first we had to stop by the Metropolis Chamber of Commerce to pick up our swag bags. This was a new thing for us and them.

Superman merchandise and artifacts to scope out while we waited. Tons of super-hero clothing for sale all over the place, as you’d imagine.

Once upon a time, the time-honored Superman Celebration procedure was that pretty much all events were free and all attendees were entitled to free celebrity autographs. Getting autograph session tickets meant camping out overnight in front of the Chamber of Commerce, or at least arriving in town for hours before sunrise to wait in line to score those memorable ultimate freebies, but it’s what we and everyone else got used to doing. Everyone was happy and everything was awesome.

This year nearly all the events stayed as free as ever, but thanks to the Midwest convention explosion of the past few years, the words “free” and “autograph” don’t like appearing in the same sentence anymore. We’d heard talk last year that they’d eventually have no choice but to change things up for the Celebration to remain a fiscally feasible fete. As a couple who’s been doing the convention scene for some time now, to us this scuttlebutt was neither surprising nor heartbreaking, except in the sense that it represents Change and a departure from The Way Things Used to Be.

For big fans who want to keep coming but absolutely cannot afford market prices, one limited free-autograph session was still offered for old times’ sake, at the end of Saturday during an extremely narrow window on a select few kinds of items. I hope that session went well and without stampede or bloodshed. Unfortunately now that events of this nature are a gigantic commodity, Metropolis has no choice but to keep up with the times or else run the risk of being left behind. Very, very few citizens want to see what a Superman Celebration without a single actor guest would look like.

So this year the Celebration launched its own VIP program. As an incentive for superfans and out-of-towners to give money to the city and thereby support the Celebration in particular and one feisty small town in general, the showrunners invented a tiered system — basically like crowdfunding without Kickstarter — whereby fans could buy memberships up front in exchange for guaranteed autograph session placement and other perks, depending on the tier selected. We couldn’t afford uppermost tiers, but guaranteed autograph access was a strong temptation. We loved the idea of sleeping in till a reasonable hour Saturday morning instead of getting up before the rooster, waiting on a cold sidewalk with only Hardee’s biscuits for nourishment, and watching the sun and temperatures rise on us. This new sponsorship program would net us the equivalent of a theme park Fast Pass, and for much, much cheaper than a Wizard World Chicago VIP badge. Brilliant, frankly. We were in.

Our bag contained badges (non-laminated cardstock, alas) that doubled as our autograph session passes, Superman Celebration lanyards, sponsor-exclusive souvenir T-shirts, and a few extra cost-effective frivolities. Now we were on our way and ready to stroll Market Street, see the sights old and new, feast on festival foods, praise the cosplayers, and celebrate good ol’ whatshisname from Krypton.

Though it was the last place we visited on Saturday, mention must be made of the best, most underrated attraction: Artists Alley and Writers Way, housed at the far north and requiring some dedication to track down in its out-of-the-way, not-so-air-conditioned HQ. Over half the room was filled with comics fans clamoring to meet special guests Amanda Conner and Jimmy Palmiotti, collaborators on DC’s bestselling Harley Quinn series. We left them to their enjoyment and moved on to go say hi to familiar faces and special guests alike.

Chief among the former was writer Brian K. Morris, an awesome friend of this blog and lively supporting character at more than a few previous cons, including this one and this one. He writes novels and publishes comics and you may read things from him right exactly here, please and thank you. Also on hand was fellow writer and radio personality Sean Dulaney, his C2E2 2015 tablemate, who likewise brought comics and has a site and whatnot. And to the left of their tables was artist Trevor Hawkins, who drew one of Dulaney’s covers as well as cover and illustrations for Morris’ latest old-school superhero novel, The Original Skyman Battles the Master of Steam.

Also greeted that weekend: Gwenda Bond, author of an ongoing Lois Lane YA novel series in which a brave 16-year-old future journalist is already getting on-the-job training while negotiating school, pursuing Truth, chatting online with an MMORPG cohort she knows only by his username “SmallvilleGuy”, and dwelling on that one bizarre time an anonymous flying man saved her life. As of tonight I’m eighty pages into the second book Double Down and rather enjoying myself. The third, Triple Threat, was just released in May.

Bond also had the privilege of judging their “Superdog Show” contest and tweeting pics of so many good doggos, including a dead ringer for Krypto.

I was especially thrilled to meet longtime comics writer John Ostrander. You might know him best as the co-creator of both Suicide Squad as we know it and the Jedi Quinlan Vos from the Star Wars Expanded Universe. (His original hard-boiled comics take was immeasurably superior to the Clone Wars surfer-dude version.) His creator-owned Grimjack series was among my first discoveries when I finally transitioned from buying my comics at drugstores to indulging in the joy of comic shops. He’s written numerous series over the years, including Martian Manhunter, Firestorm, The Spectre, Manhunter, The Kents (a Superman-related Western!), many a Star Wars project, several things for Marvel and other publishers, and more more more. If I had to highlight my favorite aspect among Ostrander’s works, it was that he wasn’t afraid to mess with the status quo, put his characters through radical change, and watch the drama unfurl and the scenery explode and the sparks burn everything to the ground. But in, y’know, entertaining ways.

For fun he’s currently a regular columnist at ComicMix.

In between the autograph lines and the actor Q&As and the A-plus snacks, Anne and I enjoyed the visions and vexations that awaited us all around town, all in the name of the Man of Tomorrow and every superhero who ever came after him.

Mandatory shot of the world-famous Super Museum, a must-see at least once for any super-hero fan’s bucket list.

Newspaper box decorated by local kids, presumably with the blessing of grown-ups.

Fans flock to Metropolis from all over America and often from other countries. This year we had the pleasure to mingle with folks from Nashville, Georgia, California, LSU, and probably more. Squint and you can find our names!

Another staple each year is “SuperCon”, which here is a phrase meaning “geek flea market”. A bunch of collectors and dealers share a space for the weekend and fill it with back issues, memorabilia, and clever craftwork for sale.

Downtown Metropolis has murals here and there, including this one that I don’t believe we’ve showcased before. We firmly believe art makes any town better.

You’re never bored looking at the front lawn of Americana Hollywood, a south-side museum packed with toys and other licensed merchandising shaped like countless stars and characters. It’s open so rarely that Google lists it as Permanently Closed. We visited once on our second or third time in town, but I’m not sure I still have that write-up handy…

We passed by Americana Hollywood on our way to our Saturday morning autograph/photo-op session and stopped for a quick pose with a ton of kryptonite. That’s Anne sporting the exclusive sponsors’ T-shirt.

This year’s Celebration was bittersweet for those who remember Noel Neill, a.k.a. Lois Lane from The Adventures of Superman. Ms. Neill was a gracious presence in Metropolis for several years but passed away last July at age 95. This Lois statue, which we’ve photographed twice before, was erected in her honor in 2010 on the north end of Market Street as if to balance Superman’s presence on the other end.

The surrounding temporary bouncy-house setups were either jarring or appropriately zesty, depending on how you look at it.

Between this set of photos and our first three chapters, you get the idea: tremendous fun was had, Superman was cheered, sunburns were inflicted. I could write more about what we did with our Saturday afternoon away from the Celebration, but that’s best left as a separate entry unto itself. Part of me also wants to spend several hundred words lamenting those pervasive empty storefronts around town, particularly south of 5th Avenue and dotting the landscape all the way from the Superman statue to the riverside casino, but that thinkpiece is likewise best kept in reserve for some other moment.

As for this moment, we’re glad we had the opportunity to drop in once more, and we look forward to future visits, which we imagine there’ll be for as long as they keep luring us back. The new additions to my reading pile, along with our new jazz-hands photos and other newly treasured fandom moments, will have to tide us over till then.

Three cheers for new reading material!

And soon the negative side effects will have faded, such as the nasty sunburn along my receding hairline, which is peeling and bugging me as we speak. Or the part where, after I tucked my lanyard and cardstock badge inside my shirt during our photo ops, I forgot all about it till hours later when I discovered that my nonstop sweating had glued the badge to my chest.

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The End. Thanks for reading! Other chapters in this special MCC miniseries:

Part 1: All-Stars! (photos with our special guests!)
Part 2: Cosplay!
Part 3: Festival Food!

One last Superman statue shot for good luck before we’re up, up and away…

That magical moment when Our Heroes meet but aren’t sure they can take orders from the Stupendous Scarfman.

Let the record show The Defenders is an exceedingly rare event, by which I mean it’s a Netflix series I finished watching within a week of release. Normally it takes me six to eight weeks to catch up with the cool kids. Don’t ask which of my work days suffered most from accomplishing that.

It helps that season 1 is only eight episodes, much more tightly edited, averaging 45-50 minutes each — a more concise spectacle than the padding and plodding that frequently dragged the other series to the 60- to 65-minute mark for indulgent purposes. I hadn’t planned to bulldoze my way through like this, but we have a convention this weekend where we know fans will be chatting about this brand new show to pass the time in the long lines. I’d rather not have to keep cutting them off with yelps of “AHHH! SPOILERS!” while stuffing my head into my carryall so I can’t hear them.

Additional motivation struck me when episode 3 — the one where all four main characters have their first rendezvous — turned out to be such an addictive, headlong rush of comic-book excitement in the mighty Marvel manner, despite the mandatory but middling Hallway Fight. Differently impressive was part 4, directed by ace TV veteran Phil Abraham (The Sopranos, Mad Men), basically a bottle episode in which Daredevil, Jessica Jones, Luke Cage and Iron Fist finally share moments, snipe, posture, threaten to walk, connect, and subtly weave all the threads and tones from their respective, disparate corners of the Marvel Netflix Universe into a coherent tapestry over a sumptuous if mostly ignored Chinese dinner. The characters’ flaws were laid bare with self-aware candor, the overlaps between their shows were extricated, dumplings were shared, and both humor and personal drama each found their entry points.

Results after those episodes were, uh, a bit more varied. The short version: generally a wild ride, but not without its sudden bumps and occasional missing pieces of track.

Fair warning: major spoilers lie beyond not only for The Defenders but for the preceding shows as well. If you haven’t watched those other five seasons first, parts of this show will be incomprehensible. That’s a disappointment to anyone who prefers self-contained stories to these interlocking continuities that marketing departments love to pieces nowadays, but that’s how the super-hero game is played on screens nowadays, for better or worse.

…

…so, random spoiler-tastic thoughts while watching:

* First half of the season was better than the second half. I didn’t mind that Our Heroes needed time to emerge from their various parts of Manhattan and stumble across sufficient coincidences, but I grew numb later on when tricky conversations gave way to lots of gussied-up tracking shots filled with grunting tumblers all doing the same four or five kinds of somersaults over and over. This season also would’ve been at least a full episode shorter if certain characters hadn’t fallen back into their old ways of making stupid choices for the sake of killing time. I’m looking in particular at YOU, White Angsty Martial Arts Guys.

* Speaking of Iron Fist: by and large, Finn Jones seemed more at ease here as billionaire brawler Danny Rand, better contained by the other pros around him and obviously given more time for fight rehearsals. My relief gave way to eye-rolling when episode 6 opened with him suddenly deciding the time for reasonable planning was over in favor of charging at the bad guys like a rhino with a dunce cap covering its eyes. This lapse back into his previous Idiot Plot proclivities of course had to happen so all the heroes would have an excuse to start fighting each other, because Hollywood has decided that’s a thing that real heroes always do now. The level-headed planning sessions were nice while they lasted. Contrasting episodes 3 and 6 show exactly what’s wrong with his character: the showrunners decided that to fill their changing needs he’s both a naive optimist and an inconsolable hothead, two character types that don’t fit well together. The former would better fill the missing emotional gap in their team lineup; the latter, a redundancy Daredevil’s already got covered.

* Speaking of ol’ Horn-Head: as with his two previous seasons, I love Charlie Cox’s take on Matt Murdock whenever he’s lawyering up, using his sensory powers to astonish others, or trying to get down to Serious Hero Business. But mention the name “Elektra” in a sentence and his brain turns into a living Goofy movie. Once the elevator began its descent into the Midland Capital pit, I knew where he and Elektra would end up, up to and including “dying”. Admittedly I was shocked to see the final scene pulled straight from “Born Again”, one of the definitive Daredevil stories. Now if only Elektra will stay dead or at least on permanent overseas vacation, maybe the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen can get back to being the hero his city needs and his viewers want instead of the lovesick simp with a weakness for obviously lost causes. (“Sure, she keeps murdering people in increasingly hideous ways and maybe ought to be arrested, but no seriously you guys I can change her!” Oh, Matt.)

* Luke Cage continues to be my favorite. It did my heart well seeing him taking up Pop’s role-model mantle and trying to live up to his reputation as Harlem’s eminent guardian. I loved seeing him lecture his teammates for their missteps, and I loved that he at least tried to save one misguided youth through nonviolent means. The scene in which Cage bears the tragic burden of consoling an anguished mother in a moment of unimaginable grief wounded my heart and brought more dramatic gravitas to bear than any twenty scenes about evil superninjas.

* Speaking of the Hand: I want Madame Gao to reign in every Marvel Netflix series ever, but I resent and reject the notion of her acting as anyone else’s toady. Sigourney Weaver has made many awesome things possible over the decades, but I didn’t buy her as Gao’s superior for one minute. I guess Alexandra was a fine role tailor-made for any stately actress who didn’t feel like moving around much and just likes glaring a lot. She brought some tender nuance to her later moments whenever her illness won rounds against her, but she was given precisely zero means of showing why she was the Big bad beyond her penchant for random ancient history trivia. Of the other three leaders of the Hand: I was all grumpy sighs at Bakuto’s return and waited patiently for Colleen Wing’s eventual final battle against her longtime gaslighter so he could go away again, because resurrected villains cheapen death in drama. Sowande I could take or leave, based on the few glimmers we were allowed of the African warrior’s combat techniques that were probably outlined in a very fascinating yet mostly unused show bible. And I really, really wanted to see more of Yutaka Takeuchi, the Japanese huntsman with lethally reserved composure and a creepy working knowledge of bear innards. Initially promising, but ultimately treated as just another disposable henchman.

* Jessica Jones is…well, still Jessica Jones. Hers was the only Marvel Netflix show I didn’t cover in its own post because I didn’t feel qualified. It’s not that I’m a guy, and it’s not just because I found myself frequently squeamish throughout the Purple Man’s horrifying exploitations of everyone within his reach. It’s because, as a kid raised in a family where women were the only role models and the men were all either absent or terrible, I have an absurdly tough time connecting with stories in which the main characters are constantly angry women who revel in their sins and loathe everyone around them. Call it alien to me, I guess. No doubt I have psychological barriers on the subject, so I recused myself from writing feature-length thoughts on her show. Here, she was outnumbered by dudes who wouldn’t stop trying to convince her to play better with others. In general they got their desired results, and lucky for them they didn’t tell her to smile while doing it. She ended up anchoring the team whenever the bros turned dumb and engaged in too much chest-thumping, echoed the audience’s disbelief at some of the more outlandish developments, and did actual detective work in her capacity as a super-detective who detects. She’s already doing better than several Batman films in that regard, so there’s that. But now I feel guilty about cheering her on for calming down, drinking slightly less, and…y’know, for behaving better. I feel like this line of thought is leading to me setting myself on fire just so I don’t have to see how this paragraph ends. Now I know what it’s like to write a Monty Python sketch.

* Stick is still a big jerk and I correctly predicted he wouldn’t live through this season. At the same time, I can’t believe he read my mind. During the heated debate over whether Iron Fist should either fight all the Hand himself or surrender to them, it had occurred to me that no one had submitted the dark suggestion of thwarting the Hand’s scheme by murdering their supposed Keymaster. Problem solved, the door to the Mines of Moria stays locked, no more magic dragon bone meal for anybody. Sure enough, about half an hour later, I watched Stick try stealing my Plan C.

* Remember that time Trish Walker was training to become a skilled fighter so she wouldn’t have to run from danger? And maybe she could eventually become the super-heroine Hellcat like she is in the comics? Well, Trish apparently doesn’t remember and someone should remind her. Ironically, out of all the characters we’ve met in all five series, Hellcat is the only one who was ever a full-time actual Defender from the original 152-issue comics run. It was a shame to see Trish taking two steps back.

* I also regret that Misty Knight was kept on the outside for so many episodes, trapped in the thankless role of Police Hindrance. In the comics she and Colleen are a detective duo who call themselves the Daughters of the Dragon, close friends with Power Man and Iron Fist, but that possible future seems far, far away in this alternate Earth. Also, knowing about her trademark cybernetic arm, I knew exactly what was coming the minute Misty walked into a room full of sword-fighting. Can’t wait to see what kind of cutting-edge Stark-tech Danny ends up buying for her cool new limb.

* Has anyone out there attempted an in-depth study on the physics of magic shockwaves? I feel like Madame Gao’s use of super-telekinesis offense was consistent with other applications in pop culture, but I don’t buy Iron Fist’s super-air-punching upgrade with a thirty-foot range. I mean, that trick where he punched Elektra’s sword and that sent her entire body flying without touching her? Are we sure about this?

* Is destroying an entire skyscraper really just that easy? Seriously? You can just get a map from a qualified demolition authority, drop C4 blocks on the X’s, accidentally set the timer and run away? And this is all possible without a single shred of collateral damage or incidental massacre across all surrounding blocks? Are there YouTube videos how-to guides for this? Because I feel like there shouldn’t be and the entire endeavor was ludicrous. As if that weren’t laughable enough, the pat finale denouement in which the police simply decided not to file a report on this billion-dollar catastrophe is mind-boggling. I’m surprised they didn’t just throw a happy beach-blanket dance party at the end while they were at it.

* Not that I’m opposed to all aspects of the contrived ultimate fatality of their entire organization. I hope we’re now officially done with the Hand forever and they don’t live on to become repetitive Ninja Hydra. Well, okay, one exception: Madame Gao can return whenever she wants, but no Hand revivals allowed. With everything around her ruined and nowhere else to go, maybe she can reform and join the Daughters of the Dragon. There’s no rule in the DotD guidebook that says “There can be only two.” While I’m thinking about it, y’know who else should join? The amazing colossal Claire. I can’t believe she survived the season, so obviously she also deserves to ride along with this potentially mind-blowing new super-team, superpowers or not. Jessica can come too if she wants, though she might not, which is cool. Either way, here’s the best idea yet: these formidable ladies should get together, ditch the “Daughters of the Dragon” label, rename themselves the Defenders, and go on to take over season 2 without letting the guys in at all. I’d make time to watch that within a single week.

(P.S.: Yes, there’s a bonus after The Defenders end credits — a teaser trailer for Jon Bernthal in The Punisher, your next entry in the Marvel Netflix Universe. Sure, you could watch it online, but that’s cheating.)

I’m so old, I remember when the Tick wasn’t an Amazon Prime superstar, and creator Ben Edlund was still writing and drawing his adventures.

Previously on Midlife Crisis Crossover:

It’s that time once more! This weekend my wife and I made another journey up to Wizard World Chicago in scenic Rosemont, IL, where we found much enjoyment and new purchases alongside peers and aficionados of comics and genre entertainment. Friday night left us near death by the end of our day, after a few miles’ worth of walking up and down the aisles and hallways, with breaks to go stand in lines of varying lengths and value. We’re the Goldens. It’s who we are and what we do.

…and what we nearly always do is lead off a new convention miniseries with the mandatory cosplay galleries. We captured whoever we could while wandering the show floor Friday and Saturday in between the long lines and longer waits. (For a few reasons we skipped Sunday this year.) I have no idea how many chapters this particular experience will run, but the first three will represent a fraction of a fraction of a fraction of the costumes that were in the house. Because I always feel the need to divide cosplayers into arbitrary categories, our first set spotlights the stars of screen and page from the world of Marvel, DC Comics, and other publishers out there, as well as from their movie and TV adaptations. Gentle reminder: there are more than two comics publishers out there. Enjoy!

This Joker with a pitch-perfect Mark Hamill voice kept us company when security wouldn’t let anyone pass through the Skybridge before 10:30 a.m. on Friday.

Groot police lineup.

If you thought Thawne, Zoom, or Savitar were creepy speedsters, wait’ll you get a load of this Flash.

Differently creepy but also accurate: Joker from Batman: The Killing Joke.

Jessica Jones and her spunky sidekick Daredevil.

Spawn , for the remaining Todd McFarlane fans out there.

Raven from the Teen Titans.

Doctor Octopus and Bane lead a support group for popular comics villains who’ve only appeared in one movie sequel each.

Lady Deadpool! Somehow, incredibly, the only Deadpool variant we got all weekend.

Batman Beyond, preparing to soar through the Stephens Center lobby. Good luck with that.

According to our limited anecdotal statistics, this year female Negans outnumbered male Negans 2-to-1.

The all-new all-different Vulture from Spider-Man: Homecoming.

Revolutionary War Captain America, guaranteed 100% Nazi-free.

Drax + Mantis! Fun story: we didn’t realized till we got closer that they were familiar folks. Anne first met them in Burt Reynolds’ photo-op line at WWC 2015, where they hung out together and had a blast. And they get jazz hands. Awesome folks, awesome costumes.

To be continued! Other chapters in this special miniseries:

Prologue: Two Notes from Wizard World Chicago 2017

Part 2: Animation Cosplay!

Part 3: Last Call for Cosplay

Part 4: Objects of Affection

Part 5: Who We Met and What We Did

[Edited 9/1/17 to fix one caption error resulting from apparent brain cell loss.]

The Green Goblin and the Enchantress compare notes on the misery of comic-book movies gone horribly wrong.

One of the biggest flops at the American box office this summer may have itself a happy ending after all. Despite US receipts of $40 million against a reported budget of $177 million, the nearly forgotten sci-fi hodgepodge Valerian and the City of a Thousand Planets is now finding more receptive audiences overseas, where their audiences apparently have different popcorn-flick standards from ours. Or maybe their trailers were cooler. Or maybe their voices were dubbed into other languages by superior actors. Maybe you haven’t really seen director Luc Besson’s eye-popping fiasco unless you’ve watched it in Cantonese bombastically recited by Hong Kong’s greatest Shakespearean thespians.

Short version for the unfamiliar: The movie is based on a French comic series called Valerian and Laureline, which maybe has ten or fifteen fans in America. This adaptation doesn’t recount whatever sins Laureline committed to find herself demoted off the marquee.

Anyway: our bickering heroes Valerian and Laureline, as played by Dane DeHaan (Chronicle) and Cara Delevigne (Paper Towns) as a wooden junior-high take on The Thin Man, are space cops called into action when evildoers destroy an entire planet and a peaceful all-CG civilization to obtain the grandest MacGuffin of them all: a space hamster that poops magic space marbles.

I’ll pause here so you can give me weird looks. I understand. You read that sentence correctly and are not having a stroke. I promise there were no typos in the phrase “a space hamster that poops magic space marbles.” The marbles may have been money, an infinite energy source, an awesome drug, or a million-dollar Chopped basket ingredient. But the fact remains that the point of this two-hour style exercise was a space hamster that poops magic space marbles.

And to fetch the space hamster that poops magic space marbles, apparently an animal of intense interest to Asian audiences who won’t stop forking over money to watch a space hamster that poops magic space marbles, Our Heroes must brave a convoluted journey to a super-sized space construct (not unlike the 400-mile spaceship from the Doctor Who season 10 finale) whose interior environments vary from one segment to the next, like a megalithic Snowpiercer but making even less sense and containing 100% less Chris Evans. Because no agent in the world could possibly have convinced Captain America to sign on for a film in which he chases after a space hamster that poops magic space marbles, even if someone could prove it was from Brooklyn.

Hey, look, it’s that one actor!: The ultimate adversary behind the plot to kidnap a space hamster that poops magic space marbles is former Academy Award Nominee Clive Owen, glowering and barking as a military caricature. Rutger Hauer has less than five seconds of screen time as the Space President of Humankind. Buried under layers of CG is Grammy-winning jazz artist Herbie Hancock, sadly known to my generation as the “Rockit” guy from ‘80s one-hit wonder lists, as the official who passes marching orders on to Our Heroes. John Goodman is extremely easy to pick out as an alien who looks like the cousin of Simon Pegg’s The Force Awakens alien, and has virtually the same job and screen time.

And in case you weren’t already dazzled enough by the space hamster that poops magic space marbles, things truly get out of hand when Ethan Hawke (!) shows up as a glam space cowboy who pulls Valerian‘s emergency brake and introduces the movie’s halftime show starring Rihanna. Yes, the Rihanna. And once she begins her extended pole dance, for the next fifteen minutes Dane DeHaan’s only job in the universe is to tell Rihanna and the audience how super awesome she is. It’s possible she might just be more mind-blowing than the space hamster that poops magic space marbles, but perhaps we should leave that to their agents to decide for us and then tell us our opinions.

Meaning or EXPLOSIONS? Besson’s best sci-fi spectacle to date, 1997’s The Fifth Element, at least had the saccharine yet inarguable moral of the story that True Love Is Really Cool. Valerian by contrast is Besson’s idea of pure high adventure, zipping from set piece to set piece like a steel roller-coaster moving so quickly that everything around you turns into flashy colors and inscrutable speed lines. You’re not meant to plumb it for depth; you’re only expected to sit back and let the sensation of velocity overtake you and shut down your cognitive abilities for a while. Exquisitely crafted imagery can liven up the monotony of such prolonged analytical deprivation, but that doesn’t make it deep.

One (1) set piece nearly succeeds in its attempt to do something never before seen on screens. After they first report for duty, step one in Vallie and Laurie’s mission involves retrieval from a planet where two dimensions coexist in the same space, much like DC Comics’ Earth-1 and Earth-2. Val has a device that lets him shift instantly from one dimension to the other and back again, depending on which one gets him closer from Point A to B and around each obstacle in both versions of the path. Naturally things go sideways and the resulting gunfight, parts of it visible to its combatants only if they’re in the right dimension at the right time, is conceptually fun and visually dizzying in a good way. But it’s early in the film and raises the bar too high for the later, duller shootouts.

Nitpicking? It’s barely a spoiler to mention that Our Heroes are shocked when they realize the true culprit was within their own government. Frankly, I’m bored with “the government did it!” as a resolution, a new cliché to replace “the butler did it!” from previous generations. I realize Hollywood finds this the perfect year for making politicians and military leaders their go-to bad guys. If I want to soak in that trope, I can just go spend ten minutes scrolling Twitter for free.

At the heart of my discontent is sheer disdain for our leading couple, alternating between stoic dedication to the mission and their nominal pretense of romantic tension. Their stiff banter produces nil in the chemistry department, any faint glimmers of Nick and Nora Charles nullified by Delevingne’s glowering disdain for DeHaan’s attempts to feign ’80s-action-hero machismo. Every exchange between them is perfunctory, made all the more noticeable when Rihanna shows up and DeHaan demonstrates he really can go ga-ga when he’s motivated enough by true love or at least by strict orders from Rihanna’s management. The cinematic contraption surrounding their black hole of a relationship is just a disconnected series of chase scenes through assorted exotic terrains painted in all the colors of the rainbow.

So what’s to like? The art of Valerian‘s visual effects might make a spiffy coffee-table book, but after so many disaffected jumps in a row through places that had no sense of scale and totally didn’t matter, I was reminded less of Snowpiercer and more of that sequence in Pee-Wee’s Big Adventure when Pee-Wee recovers his precious bicycle and goes on a madcap romp through multiple Hollywood sets while the police drag hapless water-skiers and Godzilla behind them. That was good movie chasing.

And all of this was accomplished in the name of saving the life of a space hamster that poops magic space marbles. Plus, I guess, avenging the incidental murder of billions of indigenous CG space Hawaiians who were harboring the space hamster that poops magic space marbles. But it’s probably not much of a deal-breaking spoiler to confirm that Our Heroes do indeed save the day in a fashion and they get engaged, so all that senseless slaughter wasn’t completely without its side benefits.

How about those end credits? No, there’s no scene after the Valerian and the City of a Thousand Planets end credits. If they contained anything of note, I couldn’t tell you because I sat through them in a stupor, questioning my life choices and wondering to myself why the studio’s marketing department didn’t fill toy aisles with fluffy, stuffed space hamsters that make realistic magic-space-marble-pooping noises. See, you can’t actually sell a stuffed space hamster filled with real marbles or even replica marbles because those would be choking hazards for kids under 3. I don’t know how things are in Besson’s native France or over in Asia, but American civilization has devolved to the point where children today don’t realize at an early age that magic space marble poop is not food and is in fact absolutely impossible to swallow.

Lesson learned: sometimes we all have to be reminded that we are in fact not Batman.

Previously on Midlife Crisis Crossover:

Saturday morning my wife Anne and I drove two hours southeast of Indianapolis to attend the eighth annual Cincinnati Comic Expo in the heart of their downtown that’s not so different from ours. The guest list seemed a little thinner, particularly in the comics department, but we had such a great time last year that we agreed an encore was in order.

“Boy, you guys sure do a lot of cons!” is a thing we keep hearing lately from family and friends who’ve noticed how our 2017 has been going. The tone and implication vary by speaker.

We keep expecting the Midwest convention boom that ignited for us in 2015 will eventually fizzle out, but it hasn’t happened yet. Anne and I agree and keep telling each other we need to cut back on conventions, if for no other reason than to have more time for all the other aspects and responsibilities in our lives. But the temptation is hard to resist when so many cons keep popping up within a manageable driving distance for us, based on the road-trip skill set we’ve developed over the past nineteen years. It’s harder to resist when showrunners actually invite guests we’re excited to meet. And it’s hardest when we’re talking about shows we’ve done and loved before.

That’s how Cincinnati Comic Expo, having passed all three qualifiers with flying colors, beckoned to us for a second year.

Once more, the gateway to adventure.

The two-hour drive from Indianapolis to Cincinnati is no big deal to us. (Remember, we’re that couple who once drove two hours for one of the worst cons of the year.) This trip was no exception, even allowing for road construction along the way. We arrived in downtown Cinci shortly before 9 a.m. and headed straight for the same parking garage as last time, curiously deserted in the morning. A change in CCE’s layout for security purposes meant we had to walk two extra blocks to the southwest corner of Duke Energy Convention Center instead of to the southeast corner. We used to consider bag searches and metal detectors off-putting, but they’re becoming such a common convention feature in our broken world that we’re now accustomed to them and didn’t let them slow us down. CCE’s team seemed more organized than Wizard World Chicago’s was, I’ll give them that. The multiple Will Call booths had no lines. The general-admission entrance line had only 40-50 fans waiting an hour before showtime. For a moment I was suspicious that things were running too, too well.

A cardboard standee lineup by the exhibit hall entrance was our first opportunity for photo ops. I recognized some of them from last year’s decor. Sometimes traditions are cool.

Promptly at 10 a.m. the fan stampede began and we headed directly for the line of the first of two actors we wanted to meet. My primary objective today: Wallace Shawn! You may remember him as the voice of the cowardly T-Rex from the Toy Story series; as Grand Nagus Zek, head of the Ferengi Alliance, from Star Trek: Deep Space Nine; as a voice for other cartoons and/or flicks with animals in them; and in memorable roles from Clueless, The Haunted Mansion, or his cinematic debut in Woody Allen’s Manhattan. Some among you are thinking at me, “Dude, are you seriously skipping over his greatest credit of all time? The one everyone on the internet totally knows and loves to quote? Really? Do you really not know? That, my friend, is inco-”

NOPE. Let me stop you right there. As soon as we joined the line behind a dozen other folks, the volunteer on duty had to inform us of the One Rule before we approached:

To the potentially thousands of fans who might want to drop in and pay respects to Vizzini from The Princess Bride, I can imagine it might have been a disappointment. Another guy in line asked if he was allowed to ask Mr. Shawn to say a synonym for The Adjective That Must Not Be Named. Anne suggested that perhaps trying to find loopholes in the One Rule might not be in his best interest.

Honestly? To an extent I was relieved. Days before, I had half-joked with Anne that I hoped we wouldn’t arrive to see Shawn slumped at his table, head down, signing furiously and refusing to look up as his fans dutifully marched by in lockstep while he repeated the same two-word greeting/farewell to each and all: “Inconceivable! NEXT. Inconceivable! NEXT. Inconceivable! NEXT. Inconceivable! NEXT. Inconceivable! NEXT. Incon–” and so on. I had no problem with that moratorium because I’d already decided on a different direction.

Fun trivia: acting wasn’t his Plan A. He’s always chiefly considered himself a playwright but found himself flummoxed at how the life of a character actor worked slightly better for paying the bills. Film lovers from a previous generation may recall one of his most acclaimed works, director Louis Malle’s 1981 mininmalist classic My Dinner with Andre. It’s a most peculiar piece in which he and actor/theater director Andre Gregory play fictionalized versions of themselves spending 90+ minutes chatting over dinner. That’s literally the whole movie. The first hour alone is mostly Gregory performing an epic-length monologue while Shawn listens. Like, really listens. Some folks might recall it was paid homage in one episode of Community. If you’ve ever seen an indie film that was all talk talk talk talkity-talk talk, blame the influence of Andre.

Shawn and Gregory collaborated on two more dramatic films, neither of which you’ve seen. 1994’s Vanya on 42nd Street (director Malle’s final film) is staged as a faux-documentary about a cast rehearsal of an Anton Chekhov play, notable in that it was adapted by David Mamet and that 90% of its movie poster is taken up by Julianne Moore’s head. Twenty years later the dialectic duo reunited for their take on Henrik Ibsen’s A Master Builder, for which Shawn wrote the screenplay himself. It was one of director Jonathan Demme’s final films and it made $46,000 at the American box office.

Today he’s beloved for funny business by anyone who instantly recognizes the sound of his voice. Count me among them. But once upon a time, Shawn had dreams of becoming a Serious Playwright. So he was shocked when I brought a copy of the Criterion Collection boxed set containing all three of his films with his good friend Mr. Gregory. We chatted for a few minutes and he didn’t seem to mind my prattling on, even when I drew thematic parallels between Andre‘s engaging debates and the overwrought coffee-shop philosophizing of The Matrix.

I’m kind of glad there weren’t thousands of people waiting behind me to see him while we did this.

From there we headed to the other side of the autograph area for the big name on Anne’s list: Caroline Blakiston! You might vaguely remember her as Mon Mothma, the other woman of authority from the original Star Wars trilogy. Most folks remember her distinctive line about how many Bothans died to bring them this information and so forth, even though we’re never given any reason to care about the Bothans. For all we know the Bothans could’ve been Lawful Evil jerks who only aided the Rebel Alliance because it suited their long-term interests. Maybe they secretly had death camps back on their home planet of Botho and it’s good that some of them were massacred so they could never return home to continue torturing their hidden captives. For all we know, maybe Mon Mothma knew all of this but chose to remain silent because Our Heroes needed victory by any means necessary, and if a little piece of her soul died in the process, it was a small price to pay for the liberation of A Galaxy.

Also, she looks like my aunt Marilyn. That’s not a bad thing.

She also confirmed it’s pronounced “BLAY-ki-ston”. Anyone who pronounces it “BLACK-is-ton” is the enemy and should be put down like a stray Bothan.

Other autograph lines around us varied in length. At one end, the longest line of all waited patiently for Star Trek: Discovery costar Jason Isaacs. (Thankfully we’d gotten ahead of the curve and met him at C2E2.) Meanwhile on the other end, British actress Miriam Margolyes (Professor Sprout from the Harry Potter series), who was ready at her table right at 10 a.m., occasionally yawped like a gung-ho bazaar vendor whenever she had no line. Still another actress, who helped ruin a TV show I used to like, likewise had intermittent periods of boredom between customers. Other actors’ vicissitudes varied here and there, most of them pretty well occupied as morning gave way to afternoon and the population of Cincinnati finally began to flood in and crowd up the joint. By 2 p.m. the narrower aisles were overflowing with bodies and nearly impassable. Everyone just had to be patient and wait a while for the good turnout.

Most of the rest of our day was spent wandering the exhibit hall. Special thanks to the three vendors who successfully took money from me:

* Gem City Books, a dealer that’s have appeared at nearly every show we’ve done this year. I love them not only for their expansive rack of $5 graphic novels, but for the fact that, instead of musty longboxes that take forever to flip through while you’re elbowing everyone around you, Gem City displays their wares on bookshelves that let buyers scan across all the spines and see everything they have at once. I’ve grown to hate longboxes and admire the convenience of shelf-shopping.

* Ryan Ruffatti, creator of Teleport, a comic about a scientist who finds herself driven by personal reasons to perfect the science of teleportation. Very promising, some interesting ideas, can tell there was actual proofreading (after nearly forty years of enjoying my comics hobby, I’ve come to appreciate the forgotten basics), and liked the clean linework from artist Moomie Swan.

* Sassy Pants Sweets & Treats, fellow survivors of this year’s Fandom Fest fiasco. Things didn’t go so well for them in Louisville (so say we all), but they’re bouncing back and recently added cookies and cupcakes to their culinary repertoire, which we approve.

For your snacking consideration.

Speaking of food: CCE remains very nearly the only convention we’ve ever attended for which I’m genuinely eager to eat on the premises. In addition to local chains LaRosa’s Pizzeria and Skyline Chili, they also welcome the wondrous works Tom & Chee, a specialty grilled-cheese joint that also has a location twenty minutes from our house. This year their booth was a lot less prominent, stationed in a faraway section behind the northernmost aisle. We had no idea they were there till Anne went on a scouting mission and stumbled across them. As with last year’s upstanding lunch, we found ourselves duly satisfied and wish they catered every con ever.

Pictured above: Anne’s BBQ& Bacon Melt. Not pictured: my Tom & Chee Melt, which was topped with cheddar, mozzarella, garlic, Roma toamtoes, and balsamic reduction.

And for decadent dessert, the “Dark Vader”: sliced ‘n’ fried glazed donut with mozzarella, dark chocolate, marshmallow, strawberries and mascarpone. Sumptuous and addictive but not cloyingly sweet.

We otherwise wandered here ‘n’ there and didn’t spend much. We’re saving up for other potentially exciting events coming soon (besides bills for adulting, I mean). Seeing some of the same artists at every Midwest con again and again and again has gone beyond a mere novelty wearing thin. I’m sick of back issue boxes. My reading pile isn’t dwindling. I’m still extremely reluctant to buy from would-be novelists at cons. I still don’t buy prints. And I’m reluctant to finish writing my long-delayed MCC entry “How Not To Sell Me a Comic in Artists Alley” because I might have to sound harsh about 99 out of every 100 offerings I’ve walked past.

But hey! There’s fun to be had at every con nonetheless. Just not the kind of fun that the participating retailers wish we were having.

The super-size Star Wars diorama section was mostly displays we saw last year, but they’re cool anyway. Life-sized Dewbacks are fun!

Bonus points to any con that doesn’t gouge you for $20 just to sit in a replica movie car.

…I have no idea why there were Cars arrows.

Naturally a smattering of off-topic, non-geek vendors bought booth space. If you were a vendor or artist turned down by CCE due to lack of space, thank the folks at LASIK for wasting your spot.

Our last major activity for the day was Wallace Shawn’s 1:00 Q&A, hosted by a local Fox anchorman. No audience questions were allowed, so no one had the chance to pelt him with riveting journalist takedowns such as “What was it like working with [name of actor more successful than you]?” or “I have a two-part question, but I’m lying because they’re actually two different unrelated questions…” or “Can you say ‘inconceivable’?” He was surprised that so many hundreds of us had shown up for the occasion.

(It wasn’t simple, but we managed. We arrived two minutes before the end of Daphne Zuniga’s Q&A, only to learn they were clearing out the general audience section between every panel. That meant we left without getting comfortable, went and joined the long line that we hadn’t seen outside the other end of the room, marched back in, and immediately headed back to the exact same seats without a fight. By this time we really weren’t looking for extra exercise, but we did what was asked.)

Brief excerpts from the mind of Wallace Shawn:

* Among his favorite movies are David Lynch’s Mulholland Drive and Lars von Trier’s Melancholia
* He’s not a Method actor
* His preferred acting technique involves clearing his head and interacting with the other actors so their responses feed off each other
* He describes himself as “a bitter guy”, and I got the impression that Disney/Pixar has not actually covered all his living expenses from 1995 to eternity

…and he expressed disdain for the “hierarchical” divisions in a standard Hollywood production. He vividly recounted the one time he worked on a big movie in which the main stars were helicoptered to the set every day and got to stay in a big house; the director was limo’d to set and got his own trailer; the “short, funny-looking actors” (i.e., his tier) rode a bus together to set and had to split trailers between them; the extras mostly milled around in one big tent; and the disabled extras were sequestered in the back of said tent. Not exactly the glamorous life for all.

He refused to answer a couple of the anchorman’s questions because he believes people should keep some things firmly for themselves and not up for worldwide sharing, even harmless fluff like favorite color. We had no argument with that. We were all just happy that he was here to convention with us.

We left the show mid-afternoon, elated with our results and satisfied with our CCE experience once again.

Net convention results. Not pictured: one clearance item from Gem City Books.

On our way around the second-floor meeting rooms, we paused for thought at the bird’s-eye view of the exhibit hall.

If you’ve never done a comic/entertainment convention, after the initial sensory overload you eventually learn to cope and figure out how to live inside a crowd for a while.

On our way to the exit, we had the sincere pleasure of saying hi to a young couple we’d previously met in the wintry entry line to Hall of Heroes Comic Con, our first 2017 comic-con waaaay back in March. They recognized us first, but we remembered them both a second later. They’re doing fine, their baby boy has grown tremendously since then, and they kind of wondered if we do a lot of cons.

We’re the Goldens. It’s who we are and what we do. For 2017, at least. And our year isn’t over yet.

Thanks for reading! Lord willing, maybe third time will be the charm in Cincinnati next year.

Action figure comes with two points of articulation, backpack accessory that won’t stay on, and jazz hands frozen in place for all eternity or until action figure is left out in the sun for too long, whichever comes first.

So you say you like comic books? Not just like them, but LIKE-like them? Have we got a show for you!

Last Saturday my wife Anne and I had the pleasure of attending the third annual Cartoon Crossroads Columbus, an enlightening expo in the heart of Ohio for hardcore fans of comic books, graphic novels, the Graphic Storytelling Medium, and whatever other labels my fellow fans slap on their favorite hobby. You’d think Anne and I had our fill of cons after all the shows we’ve been doing this year. We can honestly say we’ve officially reached burnout, but CXC isn’t your ordinary average “comic con”. CXC has no Hollywood actors. No celebrities. No cosplay. No photo-op booths. No gaming. No eBay toy dealers. No Funco Pops. No comic shops selling Marvel Ultimate trades by the pound as horse feed. No lengthy list of famous guest cancellations due to filming or showrunner malfeasance. And no sugar gliders.

What does that leave, you may ask before you close your browser tab in disappointment? Comics. CXC puts the “comic” back in “comic con” and then runs the “con” part through an intense filtration process to produce the purest possible form of the original sense of the phrase. CXC is the perfect show for the comics fan who’s disappointed by the increasingly mixed bag that the average Artists Alley has become at many large-scale shows. CXC is a bountiful bazaar for the collector who wants to buy something besides prints or self-published novels. CXC is a happy haven for readers who know there’s more to comics than Marvel and DC. CXC is a knowledgeable nexus for the artistic literati above my station, sneering at any comics retailer who thinks stocking some Image Comics by former Marvel writers is all the “diversity” they can handle.

As you might note from the above photo, CXC is also a wondrous shopping opportunity for anyone who loves meeting comic creators face-to-face and buying paper wonders from them in person instead of through Amazon. We attended the first CXC in 2015 when it was held inside a lovely community center that strained to contain it. We missed last year’s gathering, but pinned this year’s on the calendar as soon as I saw the guest list. (This was more my thing than Anne’s, but she enjoyed tagging along and watching me immerse myself in a comics-rich atmosphere. She’s awesome like that and knows I love her more than all the comics in the world, which is why we have Anne-centric activity coming soon on the calendar.)

This year’s CXC marketplace was held at the Columbus Metropolitan Library on the east end of downtown. The surrounding area was deathly quiet on a Saturday, but the library itself was a beautiful facility. Their garage has four floors and parking wasn’t a problem, especially as they surprised us with free parking. Their conference rooms have the most comfortable chairs we’ve ever sat in for a comics panel — padded, wheeled, reclining bliss. They have a coffee shop and those 21st-century water fountains that feature a separate faucet for refilling our water bottles.

And there’s that architecture and decor…

The Columbus Metropolitan Library reminds me of our downtown library back home in Indianapolis, but ours has never hosted this sort of festival.

Ours does not have an art fountain out front.

One of the decorative quotes in the elevator lobbies.

A preserved facade in the main lobby.

The stairs leading to the main event on the second floor.

One of the best perks: CXC is free. No admission costs. No VIP badges. No online Ticketmaster-style fees or upcharges. The only costs are for your own food and travel expenses, plus all the books, comics, mini-comics, and other related purchases you can carry. If you lose self-control, the convenient parking made it easy to leave the show floor, go back to the car, drop stuff off, and return inside for Round 2.

With nearly 100 creators in the house, temptations abounded. We arrived shortly after CXC opened at 11:00 and kept tripping over a series of helpful, smiling volunteers on our way toward the free-wheeling festival of funnybooks.

The view from the third floor. Beyond the photos stood more and more tables.

Among the comparatively larger publishers participating were the folks at Fantagraphics Books, patron saints of non-super-hero comics for over forty years. Their 26-volume The Complete Peanuts set is a highlight in my personal library.

Along with their comics, some artists brought stickers, bookmarks, mugs, buttons, and so so and so on. Crystal Gonzalez brought her comics to life as stuffed characters.

I was game for meeting new faces and hearing new voices, but two names in particular were on my Must List. More obscure of the two: Matt Feazell! Back in the ’80s he was a fine purveyor of stick-figure mini-comics starring his characters Cynicalman, Antisocialman, and a few others without “man” in their name. Readers of Scott McCloud’s sci-fi series Zot! were treated to his hilarious one-page lo-fi tales beginning with #11, including the mid-numbered #14½ in which Feazell took over an entire issue with nothing but stick figures. His eyes popped a little when he saw I’d brought my copy of his 1987 The Amazing Cynicalman reprint volume.

Matt Feazell:
the man, the myth, the snappy dresser.

Fun historical footnote: decades after the original, his 2013 Indiegogo campaign for The Amazing Cynicalman Vol. 2 saw its rewards delivered to my mailbox at lightning speed, faster than any Kickstarter I ever knew.

My very, very first stop of the day had to be at the table of Evan Dorkin and Sarah Dyer. The delightful duo has written for various animated projects including Superman: The Animated Series, Batman Beyond, Yo Gabba Gabba, and DC’s Metal Men shorts from a few years ago.

The happy creative couple.

Long before their TV years, as a teen I was a fan of Dorkin’s first creator-owned work, the late-’80s black-and-white Slave Labor Graphics series Pirate Corp$!, which was a rogues-on-a-galaxy-run deal kind of like Joss Whedon’s Firefly but a decade sooner, with fewer Wild West planets and with more aliens, cursing, and ska bands. Dorkin later struck a chord in comic shops with Milk & Cheese, in which a pair of outraged living dairy products would vent their murderous fury at annoying people, places or things. In more recent years he’s done more mature and differenly entertaining comics fare like the all-ages adventure Calla Cthulhu (again, with Sarah) and the Buffy-meets-Watership Down canine demon-fighters of Beasts of Burden, painted by Jill Thompson. My all-time favorite of his was “The Eltingville Club”, whose complete 2015 hardcover collection I previously summarized like so:

One of the most savage satires of heartless, single-minded fanboys ever put to paper, about four alpha-nerds whose intense love of fantasy, sci-fi, horror, and comics take our seemingly harmless, oft-rewarding obsessions to the most selfish, offensive, damaging extremes and beyond, nearly every story ending with immature self-absorbed bro-vs.-bro slapstick savagery. A collection 20+ years in the making, from the earliest short stories dating back to 1994, to Dorkin’s final word on the subject, a two-issue Dark Horse miniseries that wrapped up their morbid, insular universe in 2015. If and when society reaches a point where “post-geek” truly becomes a thing, Eltingville needs to be among the movement’s primary textbooks.

The first Eltingville story I ever read left me breathless and in happy tears from too much painful laughter. As the stories accumulated, I began to appreciate them more as a intense cautionary tale of how not to be a comics fan. Dorkin was never one to suffer pretension or charades back in the day, but the Eltingville stories turned inward to an extent and threatened to bite the heads off any readers who ruin hobbies for others with a complete lack of self-awareness and decency, years before such toxic misbehavior became de rigueur on message boards and Twitter. It’s not a book for children or delicate readers, but it is a book for adults who never stopped being terrible children and who desperately need an intervention.

That’s why I had to buy cool things from Dorkin and Dyer first before moving on to anyone else, and why I didn’t let con burnout or a three-hour drive stop me from missing another CXC. They were a pleasure to meet and graciously put up with us for many more minutes than they should’ve had to.

Other highlights of our walk around the aisles:

* Once again giving money to Derf Backderf and Dara Naraghi, veterans from CXC 2015
* Swapping Harvey Pekar anecdotes with Jaime Crespo
* Seeing the fascinating ideas the Columbus College of Art & Design implements for its comics-artist track
* Comparing notes on Weezer’s “White Album” with fellow fan Alec Longstreth
* Dustin Harbin recounting his A+ experience meeting CXC 2016 special guest Sergio Aragones (really kicking myself for missing out)
* Reading recommendations from the comic-shop vendors who sold me copies of Mimi Pond’s new book The Customer Is Always Wrong and the latest issue of Adrian Tomine’s consistently impossible-for-me-to-find Optic Nerve. (I’d love to give them credit, but my Square receipt literally says just “The Comic Shop”, someone’s cell number, and nothing else.)

(UPDATED 10/3/2017: I’m now 90% certain it was local heroes Laughing Ogre Comics.)

…and more more more. I wish I could’ve visited every table, one at a time, and bought something from each of them. At one point I did actually find myself stopping at three consecutive tables in a row, which was a fun sensation I don’t have too often. Alas, neither my funds nor my reading time are unlimited. One of the sad parts of adulthood is the lines we have to draw for the sake of moderation.

Shortly before 1:00 we ended our first tour of the aisles and made a relief stop at the car. We exited the library in hopes of catching lunch somewhere not too far away. Our answer and salvation was parked thirty feet from the front door: a food truck! Kinetic Food Truck was on site to save anyone and everyone from the iffy Google Maps results and from the unwanted overtures of the Subway down the street. Diners had their choice of chicken or vegetarian dollops served on either greens or grains with Baja, Caprese, or West Coast sauce-‘n’-veggies. For an extra four bucks I threw in a side of Brussels sprouts, roasted and drizzled with balsamic glaze. I normally hate Brussels sprouts and sincerely appreciate when a chef doesn’t just boil them and serve them plain and inherently disgusting.

12/10 would eat there again and thank them 100 times for simplifying our day.

After a non-comics digression that we’ll cover in a future entry, we finished out the day with two panels. At other Midwest comics events, comic-book panels and Q&As tend to break down into the following standard categories:

1. How to make or break into comics
2. Yay diversity in comics
3. Boo harassment in comics
4. Publishers plugging their latest relaunches and crossovers (C2E2 only)

In addition to one-on-one interviews, the folks at CXC put a lot of thought into their programming lineup. First up at 3 p.m.: “The Other Mainstream: Indy Creators on Non-Indy Books” — anecdotes and horror stories from working with Marvel and/or DC to their own detriment.

Left to right in that fuzzy pic:

* Fantagraphics mainstay cartoonist Peter Bagge (Neat Stuff, Hate), who — during that weird Bill Jemas era — was once allowed to do one of the most subversive and poorly selling Spider-Man stories ever, followed by one of the most suppressed and censored Hulk stories ever.

* Kyle Baker (previously met at Motor City Comic Con), who started as an inker at Marvel as a high school intern, worked his way up to creator-owned wonders like The Cowboy Wally Show and Why I Hate Saturn, only to return to work-for-hire with mixed results. At Marvel, the controversial The Truth: Red, White and Black made fans hate Captain America years before the recent Hydra Steve era made hating Cap cool. The award-winning short story “Letitia Lerner, Superman’s Babysitter”, starring an invulnerable Superbaby in ostensible danger, so worried the publisher that he ordered an entire anthology’s print run pulped lest it escape into the wild and be misread by the illiterate. The incredibly stupid story of why Baker will never be allowed to work on Plastic Man for the rest of his life is beyond maddening.

* Connor Willumsen, a younger up-‘n’-comer who’s had several paying gigs at Marvel, almost none of which have seen the light of day due to editorial whims, including but not limited to the time he had a story spiked because he refused to draw it in the John Cassaday widescreen style that’s now Marvel’s house standard, and which I’ve been loathing for years because it turns comics into static storyboards and squanders the medium’s potential to the nth degree.

Not pictured: Jeff Smith, creator of the long-running Scholastic bestseller Bone as well as Festival President and Artistic Director of CXC itself. Smith once did a Shazam! miniseries for DC that began as a fun experience but ended with him not feeling much incentive for any follow-up collaborations with them.

Final panel at 4:00 before we had to hit the road: “Comics Memoirs” — a deep-dive work-process roundtable with insight into what it’s like to mine your own life’s story for graphic novel material.

Pictured left to right: moderator Tom Spurgeon, fine comics journalist and Executive Director of CXC itself; Emil Ferris, who at age 55 made her comics debut this year with the critically acclaimed My Favorite Thing is Monsters; Howard Cruse, whose 1995 Stuck Rubber Baby was probably one of the best-selling graphic novels by an “out” gay cartoonist in the 20th century (corrections are welccome on this); the aforementioned Mimi Pond, who once dallied in TV, including writing the very first episode of The Simpsons; and the equally aforementioned Derf, whose true story My Friend Dahmer was recently adapted into an indie film starring a former Disney teen as the titular serial killer who was once Derf’s high school classmate.

Both panels held their share of fascination for me. I didn’t take notes, just listened and absorbed and remained grateful for the opportunities to hear professionals speak at length and in depth. They tried recording both panels despite some technological struggles, in hopes that those could be posted online soon.

After the panel, I insisted we sneak back up to Dorkin and Dyer’s table for just one last purchase, promised that was it and no more, then put my wallet away and let us leave before I could spend again. To an extent it’s probably best for our household budget that not every “comic con” has the kind of stellar comics lineup that CXC offered.

Is this a good time to confess that the very first photo at the top of this entry was only half the stuff I bought?

Here’s the other half of my CXC stack. No, YOU have a comics problem.

And this was just our side of CXC, and just their Saturday. This doesn’t include the Saturday panels we missed, their full slate of Sunday panels, or the Thursday and Friday seminars and activities that were held at other Columbus institutions, or the three (!) consecutive nights of after-parties. CXC is more all-that than one mere comics fan’s writeup can possibly contain.

Thanks for reading! Here’s hoping for more CXC in our future, if Anne will let me after this.

Mr. King and Mr. McDonald are pleased to make your acquaintance.

Previously on Midlife Crisis Crossover:

Every year since 1999 my wife Anne and I have taken a trip to a different part of the United States and visited attractions, wonders, and events we didn’t have back home in Indianapolis. From 1999 to 2003 we did so as best friends; from 2004 to the present, as husband and wife. For 2017 our ultimate destination of choice was the city of Baltimore, Maryland. You might remember it from such TV shows as Homicide: Life on the Street and The Wire, not exactly the most enticing showcases to lure in prospective tourists. Though folks who know me best know I’m one of those guys who won’t shut up about The Wire, a Baltimore walkabout was Anne’s idea. Setting aside my fandom, as a major history buff she was first to remind skeptics who made worried faces at us for this plan that Maryland was one of the original thirteen American colonies and, urban decay notwithstanding, remains packed with notable history and architecture from ye olde Founding Father times. In the course of our research we were surprised to discover Baltimore also has an entire designated tourist-trap section covered with things to do. And if we just so happened to run across former filming locations without getting shot, happy bonus…

Oriole Park was a nice place to visit, but catercorner to it was the part of Camden Yards I wanted to see most. As a fan of comic books for nearly four decades and counting, I wish I could say we find comic-related tourist attractions everywhere we go, but that’s nearly never the case. Leave it to one of the most powerful men in the comics industry ever so kindly to place one in our Baltimore path. And not just comics — Geppi’s Entertainment Museum is a haven for collectible 20th-century pop culture in general.

Its founder and namesake is Steve Geppi, also the founder and owner of Diamond Comics Distributors, the near-monopolistic juggernaut through which the vast majority of American comic shops are required to receive their weekly comics and ancillary products. Geppi has been a leading figure in the industry since the 1970s, with Diamond rising to indispensable prominence when the tumultuous 1990s market saw the company either outliving or outright buying its competitors. In 2006 Geppi — himself a big fan of all those worlds — decided to try something different and opened his Entertainment Museum on the second floor of the former B&O Railroad Station, with its exhibits curated out of his own enormous personal collections.

The first-floor tenant was the unrelated Sports Legends Museum, which closed in October 2015.

Visitors can take the stairs up to level 2 or ride the elevator. Most of its fancy fake control panels didn’t work.

The museum divides the collections into a series of themed exhibits — most permanent, a few temporary — connected by hallways covered in an endless array of art objects. Surrounding you on all sides are hundreds upon hundreds of original paintings, movie posters, comic art, artists’ sketches, and other artifacts from across the various, wondrous media.

It’s a bit busy and cluttered in spots. If you need a moment of stillness, you can just stare down at those beautiful hardwood floors.

As expected, the comics quotient is extremely high here. Most items are for display only, but their version of a gift shop is filled with thousands of graphic novels to buy and bring home as souvenirs after you’re done perusing the covers of the classics.

Comics from my childhood and teenage years. I have (or had) most of these.

Comics from well before my time. Ask your ancestors about some of these.

Anti-Nazi comics were of course some of the best comics ever.

Superman was one of many DC and Marvel heroes who starred in the famous Hostess snack ads that taught multiple generations the power of sugar.

A coveted Marvel No-Prize and other ephemera from comics’ Silver Age.

Comics painter Alex Ross has a few pieces on hand alongside other illustrators.

The permanent Batman section naturally includes props from the 1960s TV series.

An additional, temporary Batman exhibit featured pieces that wereGeppi’s
own purchases or gifts.
Surrounding the large painting by Jae Lee are additional works by Matt Wagner, Dick Sprang, Graham Nolan, and Kelley Jones.

If you’re a modern fan who doesn’t get the ‘Adam West 60s version, try 1940s serials starring Lewis Wilson as a barely recognizable Caped Crusader.

Comic books and comic book accessories naturally comprise the bulk of the museum, but they’re not the sole inhabitants. Toys and other forms of ancient licensed merchandise occupy dedicated areas as a reminder that pop culture is more than just comics.

The Beatles were my mom’s thing back in her day.

A Baltimore section celebrates such local legends as Billie Holiday and Frank Zappa.

Little Orphan Annie’s Secret Society was a trendy code-breaking club for fans of old-time radio, comic strips, and/or Ovaltine.

Classic TV section is very classic.

Annie Oakley, Dennis the Menace, and the Peanuts gang vie for display space.

This wasn’t the first time we encountered PEZ Dispensers on this vacation. It also wasn’t the last.

What Is It Like Being a Woman in Pop Culture: The Museum Section.

Obscure poster subjects included this forgotten 1917 silent film with Constance Talmadge, who previously costarred in D.W. Griffith’s infamous Intolerance.

The Care Bears and Rainbow Brite refuse to be forgotten, no matter how hard I try.

All told, Geppi’s museum was a fun place to immerse in the grand comic-book hobby, in the amazing worlds of super-heroes, and in other eminently merchandisable fictional universes. Of course I had to buy two more books to go, on top of the sizable hardcover we were still lugging around from the American Visionary Art Museum. My souvenir needs are usually few and not too heavy, but I figured I could indulge for just this one vacation. If pop culture museums become a more commonplace fixture on the American travel landscape, then it’ll be time to exercise shopping self-control.

Joker statues line a special case filled with autographed photos of numerous guest stars from TV’s Batman. It’s hard to look at such stockpiles without wondering how much all of this cost.

A nearly life-size Superman statue inspires at the end of one hallway.

The Bat-Signal! Quickly, Robin, to the Bat-Exit before I spend again!

To be continued!

[Link enclosed here to handy checklist for other chapters and for our complete road trip history to date. Follow us on Facebook or via email signup for new-entry alerts, or over on Twitter if you want to track my TV live-tweeting and other signs of life between entries. Thanks for reading!]