This is, pretty much, the most perfect comic ever written. Scott's a chipper, friendly, uninhibited hipster with a bunch of hipster friends. The plot revolves (with frequent digressions) around his gleeful romance with a spunky gal, and his full-throttle battles with her glowering exboyfriends and, on a deeper level, their associated emotional baggage. It's during those battles that HeavyInk's "reality-based" tag for this series becomes somewhat insufficient; Scott lives in a universe prone to sudden fits of cartoonish superpowers. All the mayhem is flavored with an appropriate 8-bit nostalgia -- characters compare themselves to Metroid balls, and name their band "Sex Bomb-omb."
Art style is silly and Japanesey and perfect: every panel is begging to be made into a t-shirt. Dialogue is pert: every character talks like they're auditioning for Joss Whedon.
I've lost count of the number of copies I've purchased to give away as gifts.

As is instantly clear from the cover, this series of short spooky vignettes concerns a headstrong young girl who lives in a sort of perpetual Halloween. All the ingredients are present, in exactly the right proportions: monsters in the woods (who may one day be tamed), spells gone wrong (and deservedly so), and misfortunes befalling the innocent.
Ted Naifeh (author of the equally fantastic "Polly and the Pirates," which also had a strong young female heroine) doesn't shy away from truly distressing scenarios; the book's dangerous, unvarnished tone is reminiscent of the more explicit of Grimm's fairy tales. Children will no doubt appreciate the trust extended to them by this adult treatment; adults will appreciate the elaborate art and engaging, mysterious characters.

Goofy and silly and not at all serious, the Nextwave comics read like a sort of Monty Python for comics nerds: twisty logic, elaborate non-sequiturs, and lots of sneaky little in-jokes. Often, jokey comics wind up being lame and self-indulgent; but thankfully, the smart writing and roffley sight gags here are ACTUALLY funny.  (Which is not to say they aren't also just a wee bit self-indulgent too.)
Nextwave is strongest when it's slyly taking the air out of the over-serious puffed-up
Marvel tone; but the book's 2-dimensional characters sacrifice depth for the sake of jokes. It's kind of hard to enjoy their jabs at stock characters when the book itself is populated solely by simple archetypes.
So in the end, it's all good wacky fun; but unlikely to leave much of an impression beyond "ha."

Wordy and self-indulgent and not at all fun, "My Inner Bimbo" is a book I got for free and then couldn't give away. I suppose it's meant to be a journey into the unconscious ambivalence of a gross old man who's discovering his own sympathy with the slutty twits whom he'd always objectified. The protagonist -- if you can call him that -- is gripped by the sort of introspection normally more at home in LiveJournals: he never successfully communicates the reasons for his weary sadness, but it certainly isn't for lack of trying.
I don't hate reading, even dense, demanding reading such as you'll find here; but like baking a cake, if you don't get some kind of reward for your effort, you're bound to feel a little gypped. Skip the writing, you won't miss a thing.
The art's fairly explicit, but only erotic in an Isn't-Sex-Miserable sort of way. The inexhaustible supply of T&A is instantly bland, and becomes downright distasteful when coupled with the withered flesh and inexplicable melancholy of the main character.
Whee.

Yes, yes, the vowel-heavy title of this series is like nails on a chalkboard; and the blue hero has a strangely retro 80's Halo-Jones sort of look. But if you can get past that, there's a fairly cute, surprisingly human story: a knowing slant on the "small-town kid comes to LA with big dreams" archetype.
The art is merely serviceable, but the dialogue is well-chosen enough to make up for it. The main character -- I can't bear to even type his name -- struggles to make a name for himself and find success, despite not being totally sure that he knows what it is he wants. It's impossible not to relate; and before long, it feels like you're reading a book written about your own life.

It’s fitting that most of Wasteland is spent wandering lost in a desert. After a promising, adventurey first issue, the characters get bogged-down with soap-opera dialogue and a plot that takes forever to unfold.

It’s a neat concept—post-apocalyptic humanity rebuilds amongst deserts and zombies, in a sort of magical wild-west. So why doesn’t anyone DO anything? It’s all talk talk talk and virtually no decisions, no choices, no momentum.

You could think of this as “Lord of the Rings” with mice instead of magic. It’s a miniature medieval adventure with cute furry beasts in adorable little houses—but the violence is quite graphic, and the conflict pretty intense. In a nutshell: the mouse civilization, perpetually besieged by countless predators, is now threatened by a secret traitorous coup brimming within their own military ranks. If this premise does not cause chills to run up your spine, then frankly we have nothing to talk about.

The book’s greatest success (aside from the wonderful, lush artwork) is its constant simmer of excitement. Conflict, secrets, and adventure keep the pages turning at a brisk pace, and the characters never have a moment to slow down and wonder what to do next—this is an adventure, by gum, and this is no time to let our adrenaline drop. In particular, a creative battle with a snake and an undercover mission elicit real gasps.

But this constant in-the-moment-ness is also a shortcoming. While it’s a great delight to scramble with heros into town as they stage battles and secretly infiltrate the rebel army, a tiny bit of backstory would be helpful, too. We get a brief, rewarding peek at one character’s legendary past; this flashback establishes his role in the fight, creates suspense, and immediately elevates our interest. So why not connect his history to that of the other heros? At times, it is clear that we SHOULD care about what’s happening, but less clear WHY.

In particular, the Big Surprise Twist is a let-down. When the identity of a conspirator is revealed, our response is more of a shrug than a gasp: “wait, who was that guy? Why is that a big deal?”

But that one stumble in the rhythm of the story is forgivable. Even with less context than we’d have liked, it’s difficult not to get swept along with these memorable characters—I was afraid at first that I wouldn’t be able to tell them apart, but the strength of their dialogue, posture, and attitudes draws the reader into each one’s struggle.

A terrific, brilliant story; weeks after reading, I still find myself daydreaming about it.

A great format: giant sheets of paper that really give the art some room to stretch out. But the actual content is, sadly, kind of meh. Maybe it’s because each of the “pieces” only gets one page, hardly enough to build up any momentum: one page of Batman, then one page of Supergirl, then one page of Hawkman. So each strip hardly has time to get going before setting up another cliffhanger.

I guess that pretty much sums it up: a weekly anthology of sprawling cliffhangers.