Marvel Fanfare portfolios: The stunning Mark Badger

-Originally published in Marvel Fanfare #50

Marvel Fanfare portfolios: The mighty Charles Vess

- Originally published in Marvel Fanfare #20

Marvel Fanfare portfolios: The remarkable June Brigman

- Originally published in Marvel Fanfare #53 and 54

Marvel Fanfare portfolios: The spectacular Craig Hamilton

- Originally published in Marvel Fanfare #35

Marvel Fanfare portfolios: The astounding Kevin Nowlan

 - Originally published in Marvel Fanfare #18 

 (It's another round of school holidays, so the Tearoom of Despair is going into low content mode for a couple of weeks while I take the kids to the zoo and the movies to see the new Shaun the Sheep. As always, I am filling the void in daily posting with artwork that makes me happy, and in this case it's my favourite pin-ups sections from the Marvel Fanfare series of the 80s. That comic was full of strange little one-off stories with some remarkable artwork, and sometimes editor supreme Al Milgrom would devote a few pages to the artwork of various artists. The fashions may have changed, the characters they depict might look nothing alike anymore, but they still all look gorgeous to me. Holy shit, I can't stop looking at the Mark Badger chalk drawings.)

Airtight Garage: At last!

- The Airtight Garage (Epic ) #1
Story and art by Moebius 

Translated by RJM Lofficier 

Colours by Isabelle Leconte, Rick Wayne, Arlette Auvergne, Allison Kendis and Chris Palomino 

Letters by John Workman, Gaspar Saladino, Kevin Nowlan and Phil Felix

The Joker doesn't need any daddy issues

Considering how much American genre fiction loves giving its characters daddy issues to explain all their complex problems, I am genuinely pleased that nobody has ever picked up what Marty Pasko and Irv Novick put down on the last panel of the 70s Joker series, and the promise of the story of his father. 

It's a very weird final issue, with Elton John showing up as the devil and the Joker murdering/not murdering the Justice League, and ends on this cliffhanger which remains unresolved to this day (as far as i know). And long may it remain so - the Joker doesn't need something as basic as a traumatic childhood to explain his homicidal laughs, that's far too easy for him.

You wouldn't deadname the Wu-Tang Clan

I once got into an argument an elderly relative about how hard it was to remember the new names of people who had chosen fresh ones to better express who they are. Their argument was that people should just stick with what they were called because that was easier for everyone else, and my argument was that it wasn't that fucking hard to call someone by their preferred name.

And while I didn't make this reference because they were very old, I also wouldn't ever deadname somebody, because that would be like meeting Ghostface Killah and calling him Dennis, and that feels both rude and dangerous.

The concepts of stage names and pseudonyms have been around as long as they have been actors and writers, and nobody ever had a problem with it. So when my friends and colleagues go through any kind of transition process, I will always gladly use their new chosen name, because it makes them happy, and that makes us all happy.

The act of choosing a new name for yourself has inherent power, but it also can have deeper resonance and meaning than your birthname, which always was out of your hands. 

The members of the Wu-Tang Clan are made up of people who were named Russell and Clifford when they were born, but that's not who they are, and the names they are now known by throughout the world also happen to be completely fucking awesome.

The Wu-Tang are, of course, all about honour and respect, while also being badass gangsters, and if I ever did have the fortune to meet one, I would call them by their true name. Because they are not some dudes from Staten Island, they are kung fu master monk warriors from the ninth dimension. I could only show my real life friends, the ones who have happily buried their dead names, the same respect.

I think my Dad is haunting my sunroom

I don't know the psychology behind how smelling something can trigger memories that might be long buried. I don't understand how the way I can sometimes smell 1996 is almost metaphysical.

What I do know is that sometimes I can smell fried dripping and cigarette smoke in the sunroom of our new home, and I can only assume it is the ghost of my dearly departed dad, keeping an eye on the grandkids he never got to meet, and stinking up the whole joint.