The conservative journal *Human Events* ran this list of the Ten Most Harmful Books of the 19th and 20th Centuries. A certain worldview begins to emerge, oh, around number four.

The new *Giant-Size Marvel* trade paperback reprints “Too Cold a Night for Dying”, originally published in *Giant-Size Defenders* #4. It’s one of my favorite Defenders yarns, featuring some beautiful artwork by Don Heck. (Yes, I just used the words “beautiful” and “Heck” in the same sentence. Don’s work has been vastly underrated. His style and storytelling are powerful enough in this tale to overcome Vince Colletta’s inks and a ghastly lettering job.)

Sundry additional attractions include: Egghead turning really mean…Dr. Strange actually consulting on a surgery…the return of Yellowjacket (Henry Pym’s third or fourth secret identity)…and, of course, an obligatory comic book fight scene, this one between the Defenders and the Squadron Sinister. The very nice Gil Kane cover is there, too.

My only complaint is that the color wasn’t adjusted for printing on whiter paper. The story was intended to take place entirely in the gloom of night, but there’s no gloom here. The mood of Petra Goldberg’s original color work has been completely lost.

Still, I’m fond enough of the story that there are Amazon links to the book above, below, and in the right-hand column of this page.

*Giant-Size Marvel* also includes vintage material by Len Wein, Chris Claremont, Dave Cockrum, John Buscema, Roy Thomas, Rich Buckler, Gerry Conway, Frank Robbins, Tony Isabella, and others.

The interactive bibliography on my website is up and running again.

My thanks to the programmer.

It’s been somewhat of a trying day, so forgive me if I keep this short.

*Back Issue* #12, published by TwoMorrows, includes a brief interview with yours truly about Destroyer Duck.

Because the universe is, at its heart, deeply perverse, this issue of the magazine is built around an “extreme makeovers” theme and covers revamps and reboots of various characters during the 1970s and ’80s.

So why Destroyer Duck?

The magazine’s editors felt that *Destroyer Duck* #1 — the “Special Lawsuit Benefit Issue!” — helped to effect an extreme makeover on the comics industry itself by bringing the question of creators’ rights to the fore.

Not extreme enough, clearly.

I’m waiting for one more piece of information before writing the long-promised second post on *Hard Time – Season 2*. I should have that info on Thursday.

He’s nailed it, as usual.

Here we go again.

I’ve been under the weather all day. Ergo, a few words about…the weather.

I lived in Los Angeles for 22 years. Each of those 22 years had a rainy season, beginning in about November and ending in the spring. The first rain of the season always loosens a thin layer of dust and oil that has been baked on the pavement of city streets and freeways during the hot, dry summer months. Vehicles moving over a certain speed on pavement in that condition tend to hydroplane. Their tires ride not on the pavement itself but on the surface tension of the newly-freed grime. Braking becomes problematic, because the grime doesn’t offer much traction.

Every Angeleno knows this. Every single one. Local newscasts chatter about it for days before the first expected precipitation. Yet every year, without fail, the first drizzle of the season produces a ridiculous slew traffic accidents, ranging from simple fender benders to freeway pile-ups. For some unfathomable reason, Angelenos *cannot* remember from one year to the next how to drive when the rain comes.

In Las Vegas, we have a similar but slightly weirder problem with memory retention.

Somehow, people in Vegas simply can’t remember from year to year that the desert gets *hot* in the summer. For a couple of weeks every annum, Las Vegans walk out of their homes, get moist and itchy under the collar, climb irritably into their cars, and take out their perspiration on the guy in the next lane.

Birds remember migration patterns from generation to generation. A female cat can deliver a litter of kittens without attending a single Lamaze class. Humans — at least those living west of the Rockies — seemingly can’t remember how to drive in the rain or that the desert is hot.

Offhand, I don’t recall what that suggests about the future of our species.

You know, I try to be tolerant about religion. Really. I do.

I honestly don’t care what religion anybody follows as long as they (a) don’t expect me to believe the same thing and (b) keep it out of politics. That seems to me a quintessentially American attitude.

Well, not to some people, one of whom is D. James Kennedy, who believes that the United States was founded as a “Christian nation” and considers it his mission “to reclaim America for Christ”.

Excuse me? I could maybe feature “reclaiming” America for the Great Spirit or Wakan Tanka or some other largely exiled native deity. As far as I know, though, nobody from Judea ever held prior title to this continent.

Anyway, on May 18th, Kennedy was interviewed by Terri Gross for NPR’s program *Fresh Air*.
Here’s the link. The show runs an hour, but Gross is so good an interviewer it seems much shorter — or would, anyway, if one could keep from boiling over with rage. (I couldn’t.) If you have a broadband connection, slap on the headphones and listen to this. This moron actually has the ear of senators, congresspersons, and probably the Prosthident.

Next time, maybe we’ll talk about Qur’ans, toilets, and “believers” who are so insecure in their faith they think their god can’t withstand a little water damage. (So, in righteous rage stoked by an affront that now appears to be only a rumor, they riot and kill, at last count, seventeen people. Religion brings *so* much comfort to *so* many!)

On second thought, next time maybe we’ll finally talk about *Hard Time – Season 2*.

If this doesn’t scare the shit out of you, you probably voted for Bush and believe the sun orbits the Earth.

Depression is a funny beast.

It’s a chemical imbalance. It’s a psychological state. It’s a chameleon, able to mimic and masquerade as countless other disorders. It’s both crippler and crutch. It’s seductive. It’s repulsive. It loves company. It’s bad company. It’s a habit. It’s a worldview. It’s a noose around the neck and a comfortable old shoe. It’s an emotional squatter that stubbornly refuses to quit the premises.

Given my pick of funny beasts, I’d probably choose a pit bull instead. They’re very sweet animals, notwithstanding propaganda to the contrary, and easier to housebreak than depression.

But I’m convinced that the brain beast can be tamed, too, in time.