I’ve been a fan of Kurt Busiek’s Superman run since its start, and now it’s over, so I’ve been ditching my floppies, going cold turkey on Superman comics, and instead buying the trades of the stuff I like.

The 3-2-1 Action trade captures a mixed bag of Busiek super-stuff; there’s a single-issue that explores Jimmy Olsen’s “secret origin,” a Mark Evanier/Steve Rude tale from the late nineties created off an unused Kirby plot for the Jimmy Olsen comics, and a three-parter from Action Comics in which Busiek tries to make sense of the mess that was Countdown.

I don’t mind mixed bag trades, normally; it only bothers me if the bag has crap in it, and the main story in here is sorta crappy. I say that as a HUGE fan of Busiek and a growing admirer of penciler Brad Walker.

It’s just hard to get over the whole “Jimmy Olsen has superpowers now” idea, because that idea is dumb. One minute, he’s got all these freakish abilities; the next, he’s asking for membership in the JLA? Huh? This is NOT Jimmy Olsen, and as hard as Busiek tries, even he can’t polish this turd.

The other stories are good; Steve Rude’s Kirbyesque work on the final tale is especially fantastic. It’s just the majority of this trade that’s kinda lukewarm superhero nonsense.

Yet a crappy Busiek comic is still better than most books on the stands, so there’s that.

In reading the first Showcase volume of Phantom Stranger stories, I quickly fell in love with the character of Dr. 13. The guy’s a skeptic, which is fine and good, except that he’s a skeptic who on a daily basis finds his face rubbed in extreme incidents of the supernatural. If EVERY SINGLE DAY you found yourself hanging out with this creepy dude in a fedora and a cape, encountering witches and ghosts and goblins at every turn, wouldn’t you reconsider your skeptical view of such things?

All this is the long way of saying that I was superexcited to finally read Doctor Thirteen: Architecture & Morality yesterday, Brian Azzarello and Cliff Chiang’s own Dr. 13 story, and a well-publicized satire of the state of the DC universe and of comics storytelling in the modern age.

My impressions? It was good, but not great; that may change someday when I re-read it. It’s so short and dense that I’m tempted to re-read it this weekend, in fact. Overall, it seemed as though Azzarello was trying harder to give meaning to this goofy story than the story itself deserved; there’s some really striking moments of layered depth & commentary, but then there’s whole passages where you can tell he’s saying SOMETHING beyond the plot, but you have no real idea what it is, and not many clues to point you in the right direction. Also, as for that plot, it’s basically a series of disjointed fight scenes that find 13, his daughter Traci, and a random cast of nth-stringer DC characters fighting amongst themselves before chasing down the Architects, Azzarello’s smart-ass imagining of Geoff Johns, Mark Waid, Greg Rucka, and Grant Morrison.

Which ends up being a copout, really; he doesn’t come out and name these four, nor does Chiang really caricature them vividly in the artwork. It’s sorta too sly for anyone but the fan who’s done the research prior to reading, and that shuts out a whole level of meaning to the story to anyone but the most die-hard fanboy readers.

And that’s probably the point, at the end of the day. This is a book by comic fans, for comic fans, offering direct and pointed commentary on the state of mainstream superhero comics. In that sense, it holds up a little better as a piece of commentary than it does as a story with dimensional characters, although like I said, it has moments.

Art-wise, Cliff Chiang is just an absolute drop-dead genius and I love him in a way that is unhealthy.

Yay or nay?

Mostly “yay” for me.

I’m so gaddamned swamped right now—with work, which I don’t really wanna do; with HeavyInk goodness, which I want to do but have to fight to make time to do; and with life in general (jeez, my toddler is crabby lately).

I have discovered this, however:

RASL and Criminal Vol. 2 are so damn good.

Miranda Mercury is pretty good.

Batman Confidential is kinda weak, but it’s Batman, so I’ll buy it, because I STINK, I tell you! I STINK.

Fables is still kicking my ass, too—I’m waiting for the last three trades from HI, then vol. 10 in May/June, and then I’ll have a stack of floppies I’m gonna keep in my cubicle here at work, to take home and savor once I’m caught up on the trades.

This provides me an inordinate amount of pleasure.

Spent Saturday morning deep in the short boxes, trying to get a handle on what I have and what I need in the way of comical books.

I feel more…organized, and yet…there are many books without bags and boards, and others with OLD bags that I know are rotting the pulpy pages even as I type. There’s stuff I’m keeping, and I’m not sure why; there’s stuff I’m getting rid of, and I’m not sure it’s a good idea.

I have mild OCD when it comes to my comics.

The other big area where this manifests itself is in how I read. I’ve got a pile of probably ten different trades/singles I’m reading at any given time—I like the variety, but then I get frustrated because I’m not “accomplishing” enough so I shove a bunch of them back in the boxes and I maybe take out one or two more and I start again.

I feel this inordinate sense of accomplishment when I finish a book, especially an Essential, which are marathon tomes. If I’m lucky, I get to read one or two issues’ worth of comics every day, so you can understand how long it might take.

Reading becomes less about enjoying the experience and more about finishing stuff and reaching stupid goals.

Please tell me I’m not alone, and that some of you are as sad as I am.

Years ago, during college I think, I was first introduced to Mike Allred’s Madman. It quickly became a favorite, and I became a slavish fan of Allred’s distinct writing and drawing style.

Then those years went by, and I became an “adult,” and I began to wonder if the unique blend of whimsy and existential dread that had so delighted a precocious young college student would have any appeal for a grown-up with a mortgage, a baby, and a lawn.

It’s still a fucking great comic.

You’re going to be seeing many many posts on comics websites over the next few days about Steve Gerber, and you should read them all. Just from my vague awareness of comics history, as both an industry and an art form, Gerber is a towering figure, without whom so much of what we take for granted today would not exist.

I must confess absolute ignorance when it comes to Gerber’s work, however. I own some of it, but have read precious little of it. As luck would have it, I actually just started reading his nineties miniseries Nevada the other day.

However, the fact that I don’t know Gerber’s work doesn’t mean that I can’t know Gerber’s work, and here on HeavyInk, you’ll find two of his most highly-regarded creations available in convenient collected form. I ordered them myself a few minutes ago.

Howard the Duck

Omega the Unknown

(Hey, if you put in just “Gerber,” looks like Nevada also shows up.)

Both have recently returned to the stands in Marvel miniseries.

Gerber was also the writer on DC’s latest relaunch of Doctor Fate, in the pages of Countdown to Mystery; I’m waiting on the trade, but I’ve heard nothing but good things.

Countdown to Mystery

Rest in peace, Steve.

I love Alan Moore, as I’m sure many do; it’s not like saying you love pit bulls, or raw steak dipped in cranberry juice cocktail.

But man, I wish the dude would get over his whole sex obsession.

The League of Extraordinary Gentleman: Black Dossier is pretty astonishing stuff; I liked it, though I wouldn’t say I loved it, because I found parts of it to be so challenging to read (and in at least one case, skippable…yes, Kerouac parody, I’m talking about you).

I have to wonder, though…does Mina Murray need to strip down to her birthday suit every other scene? Do we need so many scratchy renderings of naked boobies?

It just seems a bit much, is all.

(Metanote: I wasn’t sure if there was a post in all this, but once I came up with the title, I knew I needed to write it.)

I’ve tried reading Ultimate Spider-Man, and it didn’t stick. Then I tried reading the Ultimates, and it stuck. Oh yes, it did.

Now I’m starting Ultimate Fantastic Four, and I find the first trade is reducing me to extreme boredom. So I skip to the second trade, and that’s better. Warren Ellis, Stuart Immomen (did I spell that right?), light fast superheroics with a good sense of humor.

I thought all the Ultimate titles were supposed to be, “Oh, hey, lookit me, I’m all popular and great, and I started everything fresh so you cool kids wouldn’t have to know all the continuity like those nerds over there, and I’m going to take you to prom after we give that X-Men fanatic over there a swirlie.”

Well, they’re not all that. Not all that. At all. That.

A quick note to say that in hacking my way through The Kingdom, Mark Waid’s event “sequel” to Kingdom Come, I’ve discovered the Offspring one-shot he did with Frank Quitely, and man, it’s maybe about the most endearing thing I’ve read in comics in a long long while.