Dude! It's "Vicki Victim and the Incredible Un-Raping Machine!"
(A tale of the Gilgongo!verse. For Mature Readers. I really wanted to give "Vicki Victim" a happy ending for the holidays -- within the parameters of her circumstances. I also realize I might have "Lebowski on the Brain.")
The scene? Hourville City, home to the planet's greatest defenders:
The man of might known to civilians as "The Thickness"
And the quickest Dude on at least three continents, "The Shnell"
The aftermath of the highly-popular "Rape Agenda" miniseries left Hourville's sweetheart Vicki Victim raped and killed by the grim reaper of laughter, "Pagliacci Jr."
But sheer sorrow over their fallen friend's demise -- as well as, frankly, a media shitstorm started by some uppity bloggers -- drove The Thickness and The Shnell to do what any heroes would do in their position, specifically pay Chango Mama roughly 40 Gs to bring Vicki back to life.
In their charming naivete, which even 4 issues of "The Rape Agenda" and the subsequent "Giant-Size Impalement Summer Special" could not burn out of their system, The Thickness and The Shnell thought that by returning Vicki to life things would all be back to normal.
"But guys...I was still raped."
Vicki's subsequent moodiness, depression, and absence at their local bowling tournaments perplexed these Titans of Triumph. Finally, one day while sitting at the diner...
Thickness: "We gotta do something about Vicki, Shnell."
Shnell: "I totally hear you, man."
Thickness: "I mean, Ubergirl's been taking her place at the bowling tournaments, but...frankly, she's sort of creeping me out."
Cut to Ubergirl and her faithful dog Reichy in a throwback "Hitler Youth" poster pose.
Reichy: "Voofen! Voofen!"
Shnell: "So like...what do we do, man? I mean...rape is pretty serious and stuff. And I'll be honest with you...I don't think I really, like, comprehend exactly what Vicki's going through."
Thickness: "Well, I do. I saw that 'All in the Family' episode with Edith getting sexually assaulted. And Edith...she reminds me of my Mom, Dude!" The Thickness slams his meaty fist into the counter, taking a chunk out of the formica. "My f**king Mom, Dude! God-dammit! If my Mom ever got raped, I don't know what I'd f**king do!" The Thickness calms down a bit and nods. "Actually, I know what'd I do. I'd kill a lot of f**king people."
Shnell: "But remember the Heroes Club motto, man..."
Thickness: "I know -- no killing, just maiming."
The two heroes wink knowingly at each other and continue.
Shnell: "Speaking of which, did Vicki ever get back in touch with you about the videotape you sent her of us beating up Pagliacci Jr. and sodomizing him with Solarman's Staff de Soleil?"
Thickness: "You know, I was waiting and waiting for an e-mail, something...but, nada."
Shnell: "Man, she must really be down and stuff, the poor kid. If only there was some way to fix things..."
Thickness: "I've got it! It's the perfect plan! We...find an Un-Raping machine!"
Shnell: "A what, man?"
Thickness: "An Un-Raping Machine, Shnell. Vicki goes into the machine and comes out un-raped. As if nothing happened."
Shnell: "But man, where are we gonna bag an un-raping machine?"
Thickness: "Oh, there are ways, my speedy friend...I can't tell you how, but there are ways."
The next day, Thickness and Shnell show up at Vicki Victim's doorstep with a large Kirby-esque device on rolling casters. Vicki answers the door.
Vicki: "Hi guys."
Thickness: "Vicki, I know you're feeling pretty upset over getting raped by Pagliacci Jr....but we've got just the thing to make it right."
Shnell: "It's an un-raping machine, man!"
Thickness: "One step into this baby and you will magically be un-raped -- as if nothing really happened at all!"
Shnell: "And then things will be back to the way they were and stuff!"
Vicki: "Guys...I don't know how to thank you...but....there is no way to un-rape me."
Thickness: "No, no, listen -- this was built by aliens!"
Shnell: "Yeah, aliens, man."
Vicki: "I understand, but I'm telling you: there is no way to wave a magic wand and make things all better. It takes time."
Thickness: "But...but...did you at least watch the videotape?"
Vicki: "Of you guys torturing Pagliacci Jr.? Is he...dead?"
Shnell: "No, man, we've got, like, a code."
Thickness: "Didn't the tape make you feel all better again?"
Vicki: "Nothing is going to magically make me feel all better again, guys...it's a process. I'm seeing a therapist...doing a lot of journaling...and I might even write a book about my experiences one day. But it's all going to take time. I'm sorry."
The Thickness pulls The Shnell aside.
Thickness: "Plan B, bro."
Shnell: "Yeah, man, Plan B."
The Thickness pulls out a superheroine costume.
Thickness: "Okay, how about this: We give you super-powers, and you become the Vixen of Vengeance, using your negative experiences to fuel your need for justice!"
Shnell: "It's, like, a great origin story, man."
Vicki: "I don't think so, fellas...right now, I just want to have some time for me. I know it doesn't make for exciting comics, but...this is reality. Though I am in the process of legally changing my last name."
And so Vicki took time to deal with her tragedy. Ubergirl was kicked out of the bowling tournament after a drunk-driving incident where she blamed the Jews for everything. The un-raping machine is still sitting in The Thickness's tool-shed. And as for The Shnell, he came home one day to find Reichy the Dog pissing on his rug.
Reichy: "Voofen! Voofen!"
Showing posts with label Gilgongo Comics. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Gilgongo Comics. Show all posts
Sunday, December 24, 2006
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Introducing...Vicki Victim
Introducing...Vicki Victim
Me and a good pal Sid Lonesome are working on some art depicting the denizens of the Gilgongo! Universe, and figured Vicki was a good place to start.
As you can see, Vicki is a valuable and innovative contribution to the pantheon of female comic characters. Virginal and accomodating, Vicki is the civilian liaison to the Heroes Club and has even been known to decorate their banquet hall with paper cutouts for Thanksgiving. While it is tough work being the official victim of the Gilgongo! universe, the dental plan is good.
Soon we'll have the whole gang:
"The Shnell" -- the fastest hippie in the universe
"The Thickness" -- nigh invulnerable but has rickets
"Cryin' Jack" -- manic-depressive World War II ace
"Uber Girl" -- it's tough being a teenager, genetically superior, and sort of a fascist
Not sure what we're going to do with these babies yet, but...it's comics, dude! Yeah!
Monday, November 20, 2006
Goodbye To Comics: Epilogue
Goodbye To Comics:
Epilogue
Donovan Paul is sorry, but he cannot help me out with the $15,000 medical bill in the wake of the torn cervix I received when having sex with him.
He has no money, except for the money he uses to buy the high-ticket fanboy items that he brags about recently purchasing only minutes after telling me he has no money.
Implicit in all this is the insinuation that though two people tangoed, since I was the "catcher" it's solely my responsibility.
It's kind of like having an unexpected pregnancy, only there is no baby, just a scar I will never be able to see.
When I first left the hospital, I looked like a Kabuki performer. My face was bloated from all the solution they pumped into my system, and I was literally white as a ghost.
I went home with Donovan. I stayed over his apartment for two weeks. He had washed every last bit of blood from my jeans and I was very impressed. He said my blood was unusually "watery" and that even though it was dried and soaked-in, it came right out.
We had a lovely two weeks. We pretended like the accident wasn't a really big deal, and that it had hardly happened at all.
After the prescribed amount of healing time we tried to have sex. I found that I was completely traumatized regarding sex. But I knew that if I didn't try, I might never do it again. Still, the sensation of being penetrated made me want to be shot in the head. It was that bad. I was just so afraid of going through all that again. And I didn't even have insurance. What if it happened again?
Donovan was very patient. But truthfully, I could never picture a day where I would be able to have wild, unfettered sex with him. He said he didn't care about that, that he just wanted to be with me. But come on.
The second-to-last time I was intimate with Donovan, I tried his suggestion that I use a lambskin condom instead of latex. Both him & my gyno theorized that perhaps I was allergic to the latex, producing pain and discomfort.
For the first time in my life, I experienced what it was like to have sex and not have a sensation like burning acid.
Think about it -- all the other times I had sex in my life, it felt like burning acid, ripping flesh.
But I never complained. I thought it was normal. I thought I had to just "buck up" and take it.
Right before the accident, while having the sex w/Donovan, I was in intense burning pain. But I didn't complain. I didn't say a word. I could have spoke up and prevented an event that almost took my life but I didn't.
Why didn't I speak up?
My lawyer asking me regarding Gilgongo! Comics:
"Why didn't you speak up earlier?"
The therapist I had in my early twenties, regarding my father's abuse:
"Did you tell anyone?"
When asked about what I thought of the "Vicki Victim" rape pages:
"They look great! Great use of drapery!"
It's all because I don't want to "ruin" things, I don't want to assert myself and possibly make one man or another angry. Because look what happened with Dad. And so it continues. And I become "Vicki Victim" herself long after there are any true super-villains to be scared of.
And the problem with being silent and with being compliant and being like "Vicki Victim" is that there is a long, long, long line of predators out there who will target you and will shamelessly exploit you, thinking they can get away with it.
And no, it's not your fault that you're caught up in this cycle of abuse. There is no "fault" here. But there is a need to take responsibility, to take control of your life.
Ok, let's try this again.
No, it's not my fault that I'm caught up in this cycle of abuse. But there is a need to take responsibility for my life -- to take control of my life.
And I wish I could come up with some sort of sentimental, inspirational comic book metaphor to end with.
Suffice it to say that I'm alive, I'm healthy, I'm working and I'm writing.
I've been writing for three days straight, I'm tired and my hair stinks.
I'm going to go now and wash my hair.
Epilogue
Donovan Paul is sorry, but he cannot help me out with the $15,000 medical bill in the wake of the torn cervix I received when having sex with him.
He has no money, except for the money he uses to buy the high-ticket fanboy items that he brags about recently purchasing only minutes after telling me he has no money.
Implicit in all this is the insinuation that though two people tangoed, since I was the "catcher" it's solely my responsibility.
It's kind of like having an unexpected pregnancy, only there is no baby, just a scar I will never be able to see.
When I first left the hospital, I looked like a Kabuki performer. My face was bloated from all the solution they pumped into my system, and I was literally white as a ghost.
I went home with Donovan. I stayed over his apartment for two weeks. He had washed every last bit of blood from my jeans and I was very impressed. He said my blood was unusually "watery" and that even though it was dried and soaked-in, it came right out.
We had a lovely two weeks. We pretended like the accident wasn't a really big deal, and that it had hardly happened at all.
After the prescribed amount of healing time we tried to have sex. I found that I was completely traumatized regarding sex. But I knew that if I didn't try, I might never do it again. Still, the sensation of being penetrated made me want to be shot in the head. It was that bad. I was just so afraid of going through all that again. And I didn't even have insurance. What if it happened again?
Donovan was very patient. But truthfully, I could never picture a day where I would be able to have wild, unfettered sex with him. He said he didn't care about that, that he just wanted to be with me. But come on.
The second-to-last time I was intimate with Donovan, I tried his suggestion that I use a lambskin condom instead of latex. Both him & my gyno theorized that perhaps I was allergic to the latex, producing pain and discomfort.
For the first time in my life, I experienced what it was like to have sex and not have a sensation like burning acid.
Think about it -- all the other times I had sex in my life, it felt like burning acid, ripping flesh.
But I never complained. I thought it was normal. I thought I had to just "buck up" and take it.
Right before the accident, while having the sex w/Donovan, I was in intense burning pain. But I didn't complain. I didn't say a word. I could have spoke up and prevented an event that almost took my life but I didn't.
Why didn't I speak up?
My lawyer asking me regarding Gilgongo! Comics:
"Why didn't you speak up earlier?"
The therapist I had in my early twenties, regarding my father's abuse:
"Did you tell anyone?"
When asked about what I thought of the "Vicki Victim" rape pages:
"They look great! Great use of drapery!"
It's all because I don't want to "ruin" things, I don't want to assert myself and possibly make one man or another angry. Because look what happened with Dad. And so it continues. And I become "Vicki Victim" herself long after there are any true super-villains to be scared of.
And the problem with being silent and with being compliant and being like "Vicki Victim" is that there is a long, long, long line of predators out there who will target you and will shamelessly exploit you, thinking they can get away with it.
And no, it's not your fault that you're caught up in this cycle of abuse. There is no "fault" here. But there is a need to take responsibility, to take control of your life.
Ok, let's try this again.
No, it's not my fault that I'm caught up in this cycle of abuse. But there is a need to take responsibility for my life -- to take control of my life.
And I wish I could come up with some sort of sentimental, inspirational comic book metaphor to end with.
Suffice it to say that I'm alive, I'm healthy, I'm working and I'm writing.
I've been writing for three days straight, I'm tired and my hair stinks.
I'm going to go now and wash my hair.
Saturday, November 18, 2006
Goodbye To Comics #12: How Comics Almost Busted A Cap In My Ass
Goodbye To Comics #12:
How Comics Almost Busted A Cap In My Ass
Okay, so here is the story how the comics industry almost drove me to jump out my 6th-floor window. It is theoretically fucking hilarious. It's like Frank Capra by way of Dante. I mean, I hear they're going to do a "30 Seconds With Bunnies" version of this one.
We start with a conversation between me and my doctor:
"I have heart palpitations, stomach cramps, and migraines. And insomnia."
"Gee gosh why?"
"I'm in a very stressful situation right now at my job."
"You should find another job."
"But then how will I pay you?"
"Good point."
"Besides, I just need to stick it out just a little bit longer, and then I'm sure things will be okay. I have to keep this job. I've wanted this job ever since I was a little kid."
"No problem. You should do what most people in our society do -- ignore the problem and take these blue pills instead. These blue pills make you all numb so you can go through all sorts of indignities and not care. It's what everybody does -- even some people in elected office!"
"Cool beans. Only thing is, I have a history of being sensitive to drugs and medication. Might these blue pills negatively impact my life, potentially?"
"Oh not at all. They are totally safe. Here, take these samples."
"Wow, thanks. I can't wait to feel numb to my pain."
ONE DAY LATER AT WORK:
"Oh, God," I say, clutching my chest, "I'm having a...a...heart-attack!"
THE NEXT DAY:
"Hello, Doc?"
"Yes? How's those blue pills coming along?"
"Well, I fell down at work and thought I was having a heart-attack."
"Jeepers."
"Yeah, but the paramedics came and said it was just a panic-attack."
"Gosharoonie."
"Yeah, and then the guy I was having problems with at my job told people that it just went to show that my job was too stressful for me and I couldn't handle it. And I felt very angry and humiliated."
"Gee willikers."
"Yeah, and I think it was the blue pill because I never had a panic attack before in my life."
"NOW WAIT JUST A GODDAMMN MINUTE!!! Don't diss my pills, yo!"
"No, I'm serious, I really think I shouldn't take this blue pill any more."
"You're just over-reacting. Try it for another week or so. Just until you get a nice, healthy concentration of the stuff into your system. And then everything will be fine."
"Uh, ok."
ONE WEEK LATER:
"Uh, Doc? Sorry to call you at such an odd hour."
"Not a problem. What's up?"
"I can't feel the left side of my body. Am I having a stroke?"
"No, it's probably just nerves. (It's certainly not my blue pill). Let's try to get you another type of drug to cover up the effects of the first drug."
Within a month I am suffering from extreme nerve pain, migraines, and fatigue. While it becomes more and more clear to me that I am allergic to these drugs and I need to stop them, they are already concentrated into my system and trying to quit cold turkey gives me a series of seizures. Besides, I don't have time to take off work from Gilgongo! Comics, because it's the holiday rush and half the staff are on vacation or maternity leave. Besides, apparently I "don't have paid medical leave."
Here is a theoretical conversation between me and a high-ranking supervisor:
"Well, we know you're going through a lot right now, and, while we can't give you paid medical leave, we talked it over and have decided to grant you ONE WEEK OF UNPAID LEAVE! Isn't that generous of us?"
"Wow, that's great. But I'm a person of low self-esteem who only feels worthwhile if I'm working like a dog and producing income. So I'll choose to work in sheer agony because I'm fucking martyr."
"That's why we love you here."
In the meantime, I had privately discussed with "Willy Wonka," one my bosses, that a situation with a certain employee was reaching the breaking point and had to stop -- but that I didn't want to make a big stink about it. Willy offers to step in and talk to this person privately. And while the initial harassment stops, this individual now hates my guts and is hostile towards me, creating vitrol and tension in the environment.
My physical condition continues to deteriorate because of my body's sensitivity to the prescribed drugs. But to stop causes seizures. The only solution is to slowly taper off of them.
"You might feel a little sick with the tapering," my doctor cautions.
"A little sick" does not begin to cover it.
My nerve endings become so damaged that touching my cat's fur registers on my fingertips as touching a smooth glass surface. Limbs go "dead" and completely numb without warning. I have tiny red spots all over my body, a sign of a poisoned system. My skin suffers constant nerve pain that makes me want to scream; unfortunately, since my body is so sensitive to medications, my doctor doesn't want to give me a pain-reliever.
And the migraines...so intense that at some point I sincerely wished I was dead to make the pain stop.
I mentioned this to a moderately high-ranking Gilgongoite and confidant:
"Sometimes these migraines are so painful that I just....I just want to put a bullet in my head."
"Oh, don't do that...it will make the Company look bad."(<----not a "joke" quote) Eventually, I call an administrative person in another building to go on what I think is an unpaid medical leave of absence. To my shock, I find out that I was qualified to have paid leave -- multiple weeks of it in fact -- all along. "But I was told that they couldn't give me paid leave." "Well I don't know what they said, but this is what I'm telling you." And so began months of excruciating tapering and recovery. All the time I wondered about my job, my reputation, and what would become of me now. When the paid leave ran out, I came back. I was still sick and in pain. But I was back. Of course, in the meantime between the leave & my return I made an official complaint regarding the problematic Gilgongo! employee. Which meant that when I returned, everything ran the gamut from surreal to fucked-up. I didn't feel welcome anymore. And I was ill. Who needed this shit? When you're healthy you can put up with a lot of shit. When you're sick, your threshold for bullshit, intimidation, and general fucked-upness goes out the window. After a few weeks, I went to my supervisor's office, closed the door, and announced my resignation. To my surprise, he insisted I stay. I insisted that I knew my own body and that I was going to need many weeks if not months of recovery to get the rest of the medication out of my system and to heal. He insisted that he knew if I stayed I could forge ahead and everything would be fine. I insisted that I wanted to resign now, with dignity. He said it would break his heart if I left. So I stayed. I only lasted another two weeks. By then, most of the medication was out of my system but my body was so damaged that everyday living was a nightmare of nerve pain and migraines. One day I stoically went into Willy Wonka's office and had a long talk with him. The last thing I asked him was, "What do you think the chances of my ever getting promoted in this place are, after I recover?" "Pretty bad. Even with the recovery they'll just use your illness as an excuse." "So I'm fucked, basically." And so I went to my office, cleaned it out, typed a resignation letter, and split. I knew that was the End. That whatever dreams I had of Big Comics, at least at Gilgongo!, were over. In the period of time between first offering to resign and my eventual departure, I was given a whole slate of new assignments that I had to now suddenly abandon. I felt so humilated. Why in the hell did my supervisior insist on me staying when I made it so very clear that my health couldn't hack it? Why couldn't he just take my resignation? Why did he insist? Now I am sitting across the room from my therapist, a year later, and I offer her a "crackpot" theory: "Because if I stayed...I wouldn't tell." And now I'm back at my apartment after just quitting the job I wanted my entire life. My nerve pain is still there in full force, one more fucking day of dealing with it. I put down the bags of belongings from my office in the kitchen and head for my bedroom. I get out my laptop and write in great detail everything that happened to me. I save in on my desktop in a folder marked "read this first." Then I get out some pieces of looseleaf paper and write out my will. I mean, according to my research, the bodily effects of this sort of catastrophic drug reaction can last YEARS. Who needs it? I was fucked up. My career was over. I really didn't feel like I had any allies or defenders. Soon the medical insurance was going to run out. I was going to have to live on my savings. And if I was too sick to get a job after that? What, welfare? Disability insurance? No. I had it. I was through. But how would I do it? I pictured sailing over the edge of the one window in my room without a child-guard. But then the following line ran through my head: "Oh, don't do that...it will make the Company look bad."
Oh gosh, no. Don't make the Company look bad.
I looked at the four pages of of my will that I just wrote out in pencil. Typical fucking fan-geek will.
"I hereby bequeath my set of Buffy DVDs to..."
I was going to end my life for what?
For Comics?
For motherfucking comics, I was going to be street-pizza?
For what?
For Phantom Girl, Herbie the The Fat Fury, Angle Man, Cottonmouth, and the Woodgod? For Paste-Pot-Pete, the Inferior Five, the 3-D Man, and Squirrel Girl? I was going to lay down my life for the industry that introduced glow-in-the-dark multiple cover gimmicks? That elevated Rob Liefeld to the level of DaVinci? That still, on average, produced the same adolescent male power fantasies as they did 50 years ago -- men in pajamas, women in bondage? For being cast out of the realm where power is signified by how many action figures you have on your desk, this was why I was going to end my life?
Well, there was also the matter of the continual pain.
But I threw the will away and slogged through it. I wrote a book. I went on a strict diet free of MSG, preservatives, and sugar to bring my pain down to managable levels and eventually lost 60 pounds. I managed to recover enough to get a part-time job, and when that was successful I upgraded to a full-time one where I made more money than I ever did at Gilgongo! Comics. And I thought I had processed everything, that I learned my lessons.
Yeah, I said to myself that I would write this all down one day in some sort of memoir, or I would become active in Friends Of Lulu and protect women everywhere, or I would do a half-billion other noble things so I could see the "silver lining" in my struggle.
But deep down I could still see my dad ripping that Wonder Woman poster off my wall:
"You ungrateful bitch! You fucked it all up! You touched the fizzy-lifting drink! Now you win nothing--NOTHING!"
And I just wanted to make him happy.
How Comics Almost Busted A Cap In My Ass
Okay, so here is the story how the comics industry almost drove me to jump out my 6th-floor window. It is theoretically fucking hilarious. It's like Frank Capra by way of Dante. I mean, I hear they're going to do a "30 Seconds With Bunnies" version of this one.
We start with a conversation between me and my doctor:
"I have heart palpitations, stomach cramps, and migraines. And insomnia."
"Gee gosh why?"
"I'm in a very stressful situation right now at my job."
"You should find another job."
"But then how will I pay you?"
"Good point."
"Besides, I just need to stick it out just a little bit longer, and then I'm sure things will be okay. I have to keep this job. I've wanted this job ever since I was a little kid."
"No problem. You should do what most people in our society do -- ignore the problem and take these blue pills instead. These blue pills make you all numb so you can go through all sorts of indignities and not care. It's what everybody does -- even some people in elected office!"
"Cool beans. Only thing is, I have a history of being sensitive to drugs and medication. Might these blue pills negatively impact my life, potentially?"
"Oh not at all. They are totally safe. Here, take these samples."
"Wow, thanks. I can't wait to feel numb to my pain."
ONE DAY LATER AT WORK:
"Oh, God," I say, clutching my chest, "I'm having a...a...heart-attack!"
THE NEXT DAY:
"Hello, Doc?"
"Yes? How's those blue pills coming along?"
"Well, I fell down at work and thought I was having a heart-attack."
"Jeepers."
"Yeah, but the paramedics came and said it was just a panic-attack."
"Gosharoonie."
"Yeah, and then the guy I was having problems with at my job told people that it just went to show that my job was too stressful for me and I couldn't handle it. And I felt very angry and humiliated."
"Gee willikers."
"Yeah, and I think it was the blue pill because I never had a panic attack before in my life."
"NOW WAIT JUST A GODDAMMN MINUTE!!! Don't diss my pills, yo!"
"No, I'm serious, I really think I shouldn't take this blue pill any more."
"You're just over-reacting. Try it for another week or so. Just until you get a nice, healthy concentration of the stuff into your system. And then everything will be fine."
"Uh, ok."
ONE WEEK LATER:
"Uh, Doc? Sorry to call you at such an odd hour."
"Not a problem. What's up?"
"I can't feel the left side of my body. Am I having a stroke?"
"No, it's probably just nerves. (It's certainly not my blue pill). Let's try to get you another type of drug to cover up the effects of the first drug."
Within a month I am suffering from extreme nerve pain, migraines, and fatigue. While it becomes more and more clear to me that I am allergic to these drugs and I need to stop them, they are already concentrated into my system and trying to quit cold turkey gives me a series of seizures. Besides, I don't have time to take off work from Gilgongo! Comics, because it's the holiday rush and half the staff are on vacation or maternity leave. Besides, apparently I "don't have paid medical leave."
Here is a theoretical conversation between me and a high-ranking supervisor:
"Well, we know you're going through a lot right now, and, while we can't give you paid medical leave, we talked it over and have decided to grant you ONE WEEK OF UNPAID LEAVE! Isn't that generous of us?"
"Wow, that's great. But I'm a person of low self-esteem who only feels worthwhile if I'm working like a dog and producing income. So I'll choose to work in sheer agony because I'm fucking martyr."
"That's why we love you here."
In the meantime, I had privately discussed with "Willy Wonka," one my bosses, that a situation with a certain employee was reaching the breaking point and had to stop -- but that I didn't want to make a big stink about it. Willy offers to step in and talk to this person privately. And while the initial harassment stops, this individual now hates my guts and is hostile towards me, creating vitrol and tension in the environment.
My physical condition continues to deteriorate because of my body's sensitivity to the prescribed drugs. But to stop causes seizures. The only solution is to slowly taper off of them.
"You might feel a little sick with the tapering," my doctor cautions.
"A little sick" does not begin to cover it.
My nerve endings become so damaged that touching my cat's fur registers on my fingertips as touching a smooth glass surface. Limbs go "dead" and completely numb without warning. I have tiny red spots all over my body, a sign of a poisoned system. My skin suffers constant nerve pain that makes me want to scream; unfortunately, since my body is so sensitive to medications, my doctor doesn't want to give me a pain-reliever.
And the migraines...so intense that at some point I sincerely wished I was dead to make the pain stop.
I mentioned this to a moderately high-ranking Gilgongoite and confidant:
"Sometimes these migraines are so painful that I just....I just want to put a bullet in my head."
"Oh, don't do that...it will make the Company look bad."(<----not a "joke" quote) Eventually, I call an administrative person in another building to go on what I think is an unpaid medical leave of absence. To my shock, I find out that I was qualified to have paid leave -- multiple weeks of it in fact -- all along. "But I was told that they couldn't give me paid leave." "Well I don't know what they said, but this is what I'm telling you." And so began months of excruciating tapering and recovery. All the time I wondered about my job, my reputation, and what would become of me now. When the paid leave ran out, I came back. I was still sick and in pain. But I was back. Of course, in the meantime between the leave & my return I made an official complaint regarding the problematic Gilgongo! employee. Which meant that when I returned, everything ran the gamut from surreal to fucked-up. I didn't feel welcome anymore. And I was ill. Who needed this shit? When you're healthy you can put up with a lot of shit. When you're sick, your threshold for bullshit, intimidation, and general fucked-upness goes out the window. After a few weeks, I went to my supervisor's office, closed the door, and announced my resignation. To my surprise, he insisted I stay. I insisted that I knew my own body and that I was going to need many weeks if not months of recovery to get the rest of the medication out of my system and to heal. He insisted that he knew if I stayed I could forge ahead and everything would be fine. I insisted that I wanted to resign now, with dignity. He said it would break his heart if I left. So I stayed. I only lasted another two weeks. By then, most of the medication was out of my system but my body was so damaged that everyday living was a nightmare of nerve pain and migraines. One day I stoically went into Willy Wonka's office and had a long talk with him. The last thing I asked him was, "What do you think the chances of my ever getting promoted in this place are, after I recover?" "Pretty bad. Even with the recovery they'll just use your illness as an excuse." "So I'm fucked, basically." And so I went to my office, cleaned it out, typed a resignation letter, and split. I knew that was the End. That whatever dreams I had of Big Comics, at least at Gilgongo!, were over. In the period of time between first offering to resign and my eventual departure, I was given a whole slate of new assignments that I had to now suddenly abandon. I felt so humilated. Why in the hell did my supervisior insist on me staying when I made it so very clear that my health couldn't hack it? Why couldn't he just take my resignation? Why did he insist? Now I am sitting across the room from my therapist, a year later, and I offer her a "crackpot" theory: "Because if I stayed...I wouldn't tell." And now I'm back at my apartment after just quitting the job I wanted my entire life. My nerve pain is still there in full force, one more fucking day of dealing with it. I put down the bags of belongings from my office in the kitchen and head for my bedroom. I get out my laptop and write in great detail everything that happened to me. I save in on my desktop in a folder marked "read this first." Then I get out some pieces of looseleaf paper and write out my will. I mean, according to my research, the bodily effects of this sort of catastrophic drug reaction can last YEARS. Who needs it? I was fucked up. My career was over. I really didn't feel like I had any allies or defenders. Soon the medical insurance was going to run out. I was going to have to live on my savings. And if I was too sick to get a job after that? What, welfare? Disability insurance? No. I had it. I was through. But how would I do it? I pictured sailing over the edge of the one window in my room without a child-guard. But then the following line ran through my head: "Oh, don't do that...it will make the Company look bad."
Oh gosh, no. Don't make the Company look bad.
I looked at the four pages of of my will that I just wrote out in pencil. Typical fucking fan-geek will.
"I hereby bequeath my set of Buffy DVDs to..."
I was going to end my life for what?
For Comics?
For motherfucking comics, I was going to be street-pizza?
For what?
For Phantom Girl, Herbie the The Fat Fury, Angle Man, Cottonmouth, and the Woodgod? For Paste-Pot-Pete, the Inferior Five, the 3-D Man, and Squirrel Girl? I was going to lay down my life for the industry that introduced glow-in-the-dark multiple cover gimmicks? That elevated Rob Liefeld to the level of DaVinci? That still, on average, produced the same adolescent male power fantasies as they did 50 years ago -- men in pajamas, women in bondage? For being cast out of the realm where power is signified by how many action figures you have on your desk, this was why I was going to end my life?
Well, there was also the matter of the continual pain.
But I threw the will away and slogged through it. I wrote a book. I went on a strict diet free of MSG, preservatives, and sugar to bring my pain down to managable levels and eventually lost 60 pounds. I managed to recover enough to get a part-time job, and when that was successful I upgraded to a full-time one where I made more money than I ever did at Gilgongo! Comics. And I thought I had processed everything, that I learned my lessons.
Yeah, I said to myself that I would write this all down one day in some sort of memoir, or I would become active in Friends Of Lulu and protect women everywhere, or I would do a half-billion other noble things so I could see the "silver lining" in my struggle.
But deep down I could still see my dad ripping that Wonder Woman poster off my wall:
"You ungrateful bitch! You fucked it all up! You touched the fizzy-lifting drink! Now you win nothing--NOTHING!"
And I just wanted to make him happy.
Goodbye To Comics #11: Willy Wonka And The Comics Factory
Goodbye To Comics #11:
Willy Wonka And The Comics Factory
There was always this parody/homage of "Willy Wonka And The Chocolate Factory" that I wanted to write. Instead of candy the factory produced video games, and the story focused on this impoverished Asian chick with unrecognized bisexual tendencies who beats all the other kids at the video game contest and gets to visit the factory.
Now, what this girl and the other contest winners don't realize is that in addition to games the factory also conducts bio-terror experiments with various plagues, zombie dogs and reanimated dead soldiers.
What follows is more John Carpenter than Roald Dahl. But eventually the Asian girl, the last survivor, claws her way, barely alive herself, to the control room where Wonka is. Wonka informs her coldly that because she fucked with the fizzy-lifting drinks, she is disqualified from the contest and gets nothing.
But eventually she inherits the factory, fires the Oompa-Loompas, and hires Sailor-Moon lookalikes instead.
Whether she maintains the covert black-op research and development contracts with the Shadow Government is another story entirely.
One of my favorite sci-fi authors is Kilgore Trout, and I can only hope that, while unpublished, such stories as the aforementioned might live up to his standard.
But now I want to say a few words about somebody I always associated with Willy Wonka, somebody who brought me into Big Comics -- the theoretical Gilgongo! Comics to be exact. Certainly he had the the personality of a comics Willy Wonka -- smart, talented, whimsical, if but a little phlegmatic on certain days.
He was an artist who wouldn't draw, and I was a writer who wouldn't write. So we had a lot to talk about, both of us bemoaning our blocked creative drives.
And why wouldn't -- why couldn't -- we express ourselves?
Because of the act of Creation actually depressed us, made us feel lonely and like we were standing on the precipice of something Greater than we knew what to do with.
Because we were told repeatedly growing up that we'd make no money with our art.
Because we were afraid of rejection, failure.
Because it was so much easier to to just eat donuts, do our job, laugh with our friends, and feel some degree of security.
Because we had Responsibilities.
But the truth is that, even with all of the above taken into consideration, there is no way to suppress the creative urge for too long without having it assert itself in our lives like some angry, living thing bursting forth from the world of abstract concepts into our material realm.
Willy Wonka's big enemy was his big metal art flat files. They were always "biting" him on the leg.
"Goddammit! Why am I always getting banged in the shins by this @#^%#$ flat file?!"
We would have long philosophical talks about art, the mechanics of office politics, and just what the hell was the meaning of it all. My ostensible job for the first two years of my tenure, before I began to inisist on editing, was to occasionally place a package in the mail rack, make a few Xeroxes, pencil in a visitor here and there, and, mostly, to just continually convince him not to quit.
I mean -- that was it. That's all I did.
After an earlier editing tenure at another, smaller, comics house & stints in advertising, the snail's pace of my new position was quite a shock. But I was convinced I was Going Places, that I , like so many of the other (male) editors at Gilgongo! Comics would work myself up from obscurity to higher and higher up the ranks, provided I kept pushing for more and more responsibility and kept proving myself.
And I remember the first day I showed up for the interview --
It was like Charlie visiting the Chocolate Factory.
It was awesome!
As a lifelong comic fan, it was truly what dreams were made of.
And I remember on that first day, as I showed up over-dressed in a suit and heels, how, in the midst of all the orientations and "hellos" and tours of the office, how I was told, by two different people, on the fly, quiet-like:
"Watch your back."
Now, I never had a problem with Willy Wonka. We had a good run. The day I resigned, he told me that he was jealous because now I would at least have a good block of time to write.
"Take me with you," he said in half-jest.
But I don't think he truly meant it. I mean, where I was going was half-way between hell and the unknown -- destroyed reputation, broke, physically ill, and standing on that old familiar precipice (on the verge of something Greater?).
Though I did write that book.
Willy Wonka never did check in with me after that last day in his office, never asked how I was doing, never inquired how the medical & financial & legal nightmare I was in the middle of was coming along. The situation I had with another employee at Gilgongo! was no doubt some small part of this. Because, you see, I had "fucked with the fizzy-lifting drinks," and now I was disqualified and would get nothing.
About two years later, Willy answered an email regarding a letter of recommendation for a job with a very formal recitation of company policy, footnoted with a "well, maybe I'll try to write you a little something, if you can keep it quiet." I made a note to myself to contact an editor I hadn't seen in eight years and get a letter of rec from him instead. Which I did.
Willy Wonka And The Comics Factory
There was always this parody/homage of "Willy Wonka And The Chocolate Factory" that I wanted to write. Instead of candy the factory produced video games, and the story focused on this impoverished Asian chick with unrecognized bisexual tendencies who beats all the other kids at the video game contest and gets to visit the factory.
Now, what this girl and the other contest winners don't realize is that in addition to games the factory also conducts bio-terror experiments with various plagues, zombie dogs and reanimated dead soldiers.
What follows is more John Carpenter than Roald Dahl. But eventually the Asian girl, the last survivor, claws her way, barely alive herself, to the control room where Wonka is. Wonka informs her coldly that because she fucked with the fizzy-lifting drinks, she is disqualified from the contest and gets nothing.
But eventually she inherits the factory, fires the Oompa-Loompas, and hires Sailor-Moon lookalikes instead.
Whether she maintains the covert black-op research and development contracts with the Shadow Government is another story entirely.
One of my favorite sci-fi authors is Kilgore Trout, and I can only hope that, while unpublished, such stories as the aforementioned might live up to his standard.
But now I want to say a few words about somebody I always associated with Willy Wonka, somebody who brought me into Big Comics -- the theoretical Gilgongo! Comics to be exact. Certainly he had the the personality of a comics Willy Wonka -- smart, talented, whimsical, if but a little phlegmatic on certain days.
He was an artist who wouldn't draw, and I was a writer who wouldn't write. So we had a lot to talk about, both of us bemoaning our blocked creative drives.
And why wouldn't -- why couldn't -- we express ourselves?
Because of the act of Creation actually depressed us, made us feel lonely and like we were standing on the precipice of something Greater than we knew what to do with.
Because we were told repeatedly growing up that we'd make no money with our art.
Because we were afraid of rejection, failure.
Because it was so much easier to to just eat donuts, do our job, laugh with our friends, and feel some degree of security.
Because we had Responsibilities.
But the truth is that, even with all of the above taken into consideration, there is no way to suppress the creative urge for too long without having it assert itself in our lives like some angry, living thing bursting forth from the world of abstract concepts into our material realm.
Willy Wonka's big enemy was his big metal art flat files. They were always "biting" him on the leg.
"Goddammit! Why am I always getting banged in the shins by this @#^%#$ flat file?!"
We would have long philosophical talks about art, the mechanics of office politics, and just what the hell was the meaning of it all. My ostensible job for the first two years of my tenure, before I began to inisist on editing, was to occasionally place a package in the mail rack, make a few Xeroxes, pencil in a visitor here and there, and, mostly, to just continually convince him not to quit.
I mean -- that was it. That's all I did.
After an earlier editing tenure at another, smaller, comics house & stints in advertising, the snail's pace of my new position was quite a shock. But I was convinced I was Going Places, that I , like so many of the other (male) editors at Gilgongo! Comics would work myself up from obscurity to higher and higher up the ranks, provided I kept pushing for more and more responsibility and kept proving myself.
And I remember the first day I showed up for the interview --
It was like Charlie visiting the Chocolate Factory.
It was awesome!
As a lifelong comic fan, it was truly what dreams were made of.
And I remember on that first day, as I showed up over-dressed in a suit and heels, how, in the midst of all the orientations and "hellos" and tours of the office, how I was told, by two different people, on the fly, quiet-like:
"Watch your back."
Now, I never had a problem with Willy Wonka. We had a good run. The day I resigned, he told me that he was jealous because now I would at least have a good block of time to write.
"Take me with you," he said in half-jest.
But I don't think he truly meant it. I mean, where I was going was half-way between hell and the unknown -- destroyed reputation, broke, physically ill, and standing on that old familiar precipice (on the verge of something Greater?).
Though I did write that book.
Willy Wonka never did check in with me after that last day in his office, never asked how I was doing, never inquired how the medical & financial & legal nightmare I was in the middle of was coming along. The situation I had with another employee at Gilgongo! was no doubt some small part of this. Because, you see, I had "fucked with the fizzy-lifting drinks," and now I was disqualified and would get nothing.
About two years later, Willy answered an email regarding a letter of recommendation for a job with a very formal recitation of company policy, footnoted with a "well, maybe I'll try to write you a little something, if you can keep it quiet." I made a note to myself to contact an editor I hadn't seen in eight years and get a letter of rec from him instead. Which I did.
Friday, November 17, 2006
Goodbye To Comics #9: The "Jonah"
Goodbye To Comics #9:
The "Jonah"
So my boyfriend of a handful of weeks, Donovan Paul, expresses concern that he will get blacklisted from comic work if certain people know he is connected to me.
Looking back on it now, I would have just dumped him then and there. At that very moment.
Oh, you don't want to be seen with me because it will "hurt your career?!" Well fuck you!
But at the time I was in love with Donovan, and so I took what he said very very hard.
I couldn't believe that after three years since I stood up for my rights in the comic industry, I was still "the Jonah" -- persona non grata.
It was like I was OJ...only instead of killing two people with a really big knife I had the temerity to be harassed and react to it like a human being who possessed at least an ounce of self-respect.
And I thought: "here is the man of my dreams" -- you know, the one who broke my vagina -- "and I ruined it by not playing along with the system!"
All the self-hatred flooded back.
I remembered a conversation I had with an old boss of mine about my situation. A long-time veteran of the comics field, he said that unfortunately I was "ruined" in the industry.
"Do you know what a 'Jonah' is," he asked. "Ever read 'Billy Budd?'"
He went on to say that a Jonah was the person who was blamed for everything, the untouchable, who everybody shunned and sacrificed so they would not get "bad luck by association."
He also said I strongly reminded him of "Rose Kelly" from the movie "From Hell," and suggested that it might make me feel better if I viewed the movie. Which I never did, afraid that I would see a scene of Kelly lying in her own blood with her ovaries ripped out.
But it was only until Donovan expressed concern that I might kill his career merely by association that it really hit home to me what being a Jonah meant.
In the Bible, Jonah is sent on a mission by God. But Jonah doesn't want to carry it out. So he flees on a ship in the opposite direction from where God wants him to go. So God plagues the ship with storms until the passengers get so upset that they throw him overboard. Then Jonah gets swallowed by a fish and spit up on the shore of where God really wanted him to go.
I'm on that shore, and I'm covered in ambergris.
Ambergris smells like shit, by the way, but ironically is one of the most important ingredients in making perfume.
Out of the 60 or 70 people I worked with at the theoretically-named Gilgongo! Comics, I have contact with none of them that are still working there -- only former employees. During the worst years of my life, when I was basically struggling for my life and livlihood, only the freelancers that I worked with ever checked in to see how I was doing. Inkers that I worked with maybe once or twice emailed me out of the blue to say "hey" and to express their appreciation for my work with them.
I was also put in the uncomfortable position of having big-name artists and writers contact me, and express confusion over why I had suddenly "disappeared" from Gilgongo! Comics. Especially with the female creators, it would have been soooo tempting to spill everything to them, to tell them my real story. But then they would be in an uncomfortable position. And it was hard enough as it was to be a successful woman in the industry.
And then there were half-truths and all-out lies spread about why I left. I wondered how they started. I wonder who told them to save their own ass.
"Oh, the stress of working at Gilgongo! was just too much for her. She was very fragile."
And WHY exactly was it so stressful? When I have had positive reviews for every other job I had since I was eighteen years old, never unable to complete any assignment? When I had so very recently received an award from Gilgongo! Comics itself for a job well-done?
My whole point is, if you're going to say "she was stressed out, she couldn't handle it," why not say EVERYTHING, including the "why"? Why destroy my reputation? It may have just been "politics" for some people, or even misguided loyalty for a friend, but it was my LIFE!
But as noted in an earlier posting about my conversation with a boss about the theoretical "Melia Bratton," most female accusers, if you believe the gossip, are either "sexually confused" or have some sort of other mental difficulty.
Here is a related theoretical scene (theoretical as in "OJ Simpson is theoretically a multiple murderer"):
I'm having lunch with an comics industry legend. Five minutes into the conversation, he finds it important to say the following, out of nowhere:
"You know, (BLEEEP!!) had accused me of sexually harassing her. She made a really big stink about it. But she's a very, very troubled woman. Vindictive and bitter. It's very sad. So if she tells you anything...well, just take it with a grain of salt, that's all."
Weeks later, I run into (BLEEEP!!!) in the washroom. I look at her carefully, like a specimen, as if I might be able to detect simply by sight what an alleged whackadoodle she is. But she's just a woman, calm and collected in a simple but elegant brown shirt, skirt, and patterned stockings. She nods and smiles at me and leaves the room, a folder full of writing tucked under her arm.
But there was something about that particular woman, Ms. BLEEEP!!!, that struck me, that very silently creeped me out. Seeing her face again in my mind, I now know what that was.
She looked like a middle-aged version of me. I can only hope that at her age I can look so tranquil, a sheaf of paper with one story or another that I wrote myself in my hands.
The "Jonah"
So my boyfriend of a handful of weeks, Donovan Paul, expresses concern that he will get blacklisted from comic work if certain people know he is connected to me.
Looking back on it now, I would have just dumped him then and there. At that very moment.
Oh, you don't want to be seen with me because it will "hurt your career?!" Well fuck you!
But at the time I was in love with Donovan, and so I took what he said very very hard.
I couldn't believe that after three years since I stood up for my rights in the comic industry, I was still "the Jonah" -- persona non grata.
It was like I was OJ...only instead of killing two people with a really big knife I had the temerity to be harassed and react to it like a human being who possessed at least an ounce of self-respect.
And I thought: "here is the man of my dreams" -- you know, the one who broke my vagina -- "and I ruined it by not playing along with the system!"
All the self-hatred flooded back.
I remembered a conversation I had with an old boss of mine about my situation. A long-time veteran of the comics field, he said that unfortunately I was "ruined" in the industry.
"Do you know what a 'Jonah' is," he asked. "Ever read 'Billy Budd?'"
He went on to say that a Jonah was the person who was blamed for everything, the untouchable, who everybody shunned and sacrificed so they would not get "bad luck by association."
He also said I strongly reminded him of "Rose Kelly" from the movie "From Hell," and suggested that it might make me feel better if I viewed the movie. Which I never did, afraid that I would see a scene of Kelly lying in her own blood with her ovaries ripped out.
But it was only until Donovan expressed concern that I might kill his career merely by association that it really hit home to me what being a Jonah meant.
In the Bible, Jonah is sent on a mission by God. But Jonah doesn't want to carry it out. So he flees on a ship in the opposite direction from where God wants him to go. So God plagues the ship with storms until the passengers get so upset that they throw him overboard. Then Jonah gets swallowed by a fish and spit up on the shore of where God really wanted him to go.
I'm on that shore, and I'm covered in ambergris.
Ambergris smells like shit, by the way, but ironically is one of the most important ingredients in making perfume.
Out of the 60 or 70 people I worked with at the theoretically-named Gilgongo! Comics, I have contact with none of them that are still working there -- only former employees. During the worst years of my life, when I was basically struggling for my life and livlihood, only the freelancers that I worked with ever checked in to see how I was doing. Inkers that I worked with maybe once or twice emailed me out of the blue to say "hey" and to express their appreciation for my work with them.
I was also put in the uncomfortable position of having big-name artists and writers contact me, and express confusion over why I had suddenly "disappeared" from Gilgongo! Comics. Especially with the female creators, it would have been soooo tempting to spill everything to them, to tell them my real story. But then they would be in an uncomfortable position. And it was hard enough as it was to be a successful woman in the industry.
And then there were half-truths and all-out lies spread about why I left. I wondered how they started. I wonder who told them to save their own ass.
"Oh, the stress of working at Gilgongo! was just too much for her. She was very fragile."
And WHY exactly was it so stressful? When I have had positive reviews for every other job I had since I was eighteen years old, never unable to complete any assignment? When I had so very recently received an award from Gilgongo! Comics itself for a job well-done?
My whole point is, if you're going to say "she was stressed out, she couldn't handle it," why not say EVERYTHING, including the "why"? Why destroy my reputation? It may have just been "politics" for some people, or even misguided loyalty for a friend, but it was my LIFE!
But as noted in an earlier posting about my conversation with a boss about the theoretical "Melia Bratton," most female accusers, if you believe the gossip, are either "sexually confused" or have some sort of other mental difficulty.
Here is a related theoretical scene (theoretical as in "OJ Simpson is theoretically a multiple murderer"):
I'm having lunch with an comics industry legend. Five minutes into the conversation, he finds it important to say the following, out of nowhere:
"You know, (BLEEEP!!) had accused me of sexually harassing her. She made a really big stink about it. But she's a very, very troubled woman. Vindictive and bitter. It's very sad. So if she tells you anything...well, just take it with a grain of salt, that's all."
Weeks later, I run into (BLEEEP!!!) in the washroom. I look at her carefully, like a specimen, as if I might be able to detect simply by sight what an alleged whackadoodle she is. But she's just a woman, calm and collected in a simple but elegant brown shirt, skirt, and patterned stockings. She nods and smiles at me and leaves the room, a folder full of writing tucked under her arm.
But there was something about that particular woman, Ms. BLEEEP!!!, that struck me, that very silently creeped me out. Seeing her face again in my mind, I now know what that was.
She looked like a middle-aged version of me. I can only hope that at her age I can look so tranquil, a sheaf of paper with one story or another that I wrote myself in my hands.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Goodbye To Comics #8: "We Need A Rape" Part Two
Goodbye To Comics #8:
"We Need A Rape" Part Two
If you have been following this memoir at all then you realize that I theoretically have a mended broken vagina, a ton of hangups, and am “too nice.” You were also introduced to the deceased comic character Vicki Victim, who was raped, burned, and was also “too nice.” About three years a before I sustained a broken vagina I was involved in a special moment in time called a “syzygy.” That’s a time where the planets are aligned “just so” as to produce something along the lines of “shit happens.”
Vicki Victim was unwittingly the catalyst of this syzygy -- certainly not by her own fault.
“The rape pages are in!”
The Rape Pages. There is something almost festive about the way the phrase rolls off your tongue.
In the Rape Pages Vicki Victim, who was chosen as the theoretical sacrificial lamb for the theoretical Gilgongo! Comics’s sea change from “too nice” to “badass," was being raped by a supervillain. The artist would later tell me that drawing those pages made him feel ill.
Honestly, I felt ill looking at them that day. I felt like my head was swaying, light. Hmph, I was too weak, not badass, just like a “girl.” Why couldn’t I be more like my female co-worker -- stoic and no-nonense? She read saw the pages, she read the scripts, and she had no problem with them.
Actually, she did have a problem with them. But she never told anybody who could make a difference. And she didn’t tell anybody because she was smart. And so was I. Right up to the point where the syzygy happened.
So I make an excuse to leave my boss’s office and I get on the computer to read the latest on the comics gossip-mill. An item immediately grabbed my attention. It concerned more theoretical people I’m probably not supposed to talk about.
So this female in the industry accused this really big-time male in the industry of a Really Bad Thing. And now the big-time male, who, using my handy-dandy random name generator, I will call “Ned Hasley,” died and this woman was being savaged in the blogosphere for “sullying his good name.”
By an incredible coincidence, my latest assignment, freshly written-out on my yellow legal pad, was a huge tribute to...Ned Hasely!
Now, I knew Ned. Everybody did. He was company royalty. But I never heard of anything like what this accuser said. But for some strange reason, I kind of believed the accuser anyway. Maybe recently viewing Vicki Victim getting raped from behind by a man in a circus outfit sort of pushed my mind in that direction.
I felt the old familiar surge of my blood-pressure. I looked down at my hand and it was shaking. Why was I so affected by this gossip item?!
Before I knew it, I marched into the office of my other boss, the “sensitive” one, and closed the door.
“Is it true?!” I blurted out, the angry tone of my voice surprising me.
“Is what true?”
“Ned.”
There were pictures of Ned covering my boss’s desk -- a grandfatherly fellow with wise old eyes and an unassuming grin.
“What about Ned?”
“The thing about him groping Melia Bratton.”
My boss flinched for a second, then took a breath and said,
“Melia...she’s a nice woman, but very confused. Sexually confused.”
“But is there any truth to her story?”
“Yes and no.”
“I mean...did he touch her or not?”
“I’m sure Melia misinterpreted things. And Ned...it’s like OJ.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows what really happened?”
“Well...I have to say that working on this tribute for Ned has kind made me uncomfortable now. Because I kind of believe Melia. Because of what’s happening with (BLEEEEEP!!!!).”
“Is he still bothering you?”
“Yeah...” I raked my fingers through my bangs and looked up at the celing. “I’ll be honest with you, I don’t know how much more I can take of it. It’s really stressing me out. And now we just got these pages of...rape art. And...I don’t know, this whole place is really making me uncomfortable right now. I don’t know why this is all happening now like this. At the same time.”
Now let’s fast forward to my unlucky first fuck with comic guy Donovan Paul. I kick him off of me. There’s blood everywhere.
“W-what’s wrong?!”
“T-the bluh....the bluh....”
“Are you sure you’re not still a virgin?”
And let’s zip back, back, back in our theoretical wayback machine, back to my dad ripping my Wonder Woman and Batman posters off my wall in a rage.
“You ungreatful bitch!”
Now to when my old boss at the comic shop propositioned me sexually when I was 16.
“You arouse me...you make me hard...”
Now to the Gilgongo! Comics “New Direction” meeting.
“We need to get the ‘happy’ out of comics...”
Now to my lawyer.
“They said they are lining up to testify against you.”
Think the last five minutes of “Requiem For A Dream.”
I say: “goodbye, Comics.”
And Comics says: "shit, girl! aren't you gone yet?"
When I've written the last chapter of this memoir, I will go. I will go, relatively safe in my obscure niche, and I will not look back. And Comics can have Comics.
"We Need A Rape" Part Two
If you have been following this memoir at all then you realize that I theoretically have a mended broken vagina, a ton of hangups, and am “too nice.” You were also introduced to the deceased comic character Vicki Victim, who was raped, burned, and was also “too nice.” About three years a before I sustained a broken vagina I was involved in a special moment in time called a “syzygy.” That’s a time where the planets are aligned “just so” as to produce something along the lines of “shit happens.”
Vicki Victim was unwittingly the catalyst of this syzygy -- certainly not by her own fault.
“The rape pages are in!”
The Rape Pages. There is something almost festive about the way the phrase rolls off your tongue.
In the Rape Pages Vicki Victim, who was chosen as the theoretical sacrificial lamb for the theoretical Gilgongo! Comics’s sea change from “too nice” to “badass," was being raped by a supervillain. The artist would later tell me that drawing those pages made him feel ill.
Honestly, I felt ill looking at them that day. I felt like my head was swaying, light. Hmph, I was too weak, not badass, just like a “girl.” Why couldn’t I be more like my female co-worker -- stoic and no-nonense? She read saw the pages, she read the scripts, and she had no problem with them.
Actually, she did have a problem with them. But she never told anybody who could make a difference. And she didn’t tell anybody because she was smart. And so was I. Right up to the point where the syzygy happened.
So I make an excuse to leave my boss’s office and I get on the computer to read the latest on the comics gossip-mill. An item immediately grabbed my attention. It concerned more theoretical people I’m probably not supposed to talk about.
So this female in the industry accused this really big-time male in the industry of a Really Bad Thing. And now the big-time male, who, using my handy-dandy random name generator, I will call “Ned Hasley,” died and this woman was being savaged in the blogosphere for “sullying his good name.”
By an incredible coincidence, my latest assignment, freshly written-out on my yellow legal pad, was a huge tribute to...Ned Hasely!
Now, I knew Ned. Everybody did. He was company royalty. But I never heard of anything like what this accuser said. But for some strange reason, I kind of believed the accuser anyway. Maybe recently viewing Vicki Victim getting raped from behind by a man in a circus outfit sort of pushed my mind in that direction.
I felt the old familiar surge of my blood-pressure. I looked down at my hand and it was shaking. Why was I so affected by this gossip item?!
Before I knew it, I marched into the office of my other boss, the “sensitive” one, and closed the door.
“Is it true?!” I blurted out, the angry tone of my voice surprising me.
“Is what true?”
“Ned.”
There were pictures of Ned covering my boss’s desk -- a grandfatherly fellow with wise old eyes and an unassuming grin.
“What about Ned?”
“The thing about him groping Melia Bratton.”
My boss flinched for a second, then took a breath and said,
“Melia...she’s a nice woman, but very confused. Sexually confused.”
“But is there any truth to her story?”
“Yes and no.”
“I mean...did he touch her or not?”
“I’m sure Melia misinterpreted things. And Ned...it’s like OJ.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows what really happened?”
“Well...I have to say that working on this tribute for Ned has kind made me uncomfortable now. Because I kind of believe Melia. Because of what’s happening with (BLEEEEEP!!!!).”
“Is he still bothering you?”
“Yeah...” I raked my fingers through my bangs and looked up at the celing. “I’ll be honest with you, I don’t know how much more I can take of it. It’s really stressing me out. And now we just got these pages of...rape art. And...I don’t know, this whole place is really making me uncomfortable right now. I don’t know why this is all happening now like this. At the same time.”
Now let’s fast forward to my unlucky first fuck with comic guy Donovan Paul. I kick him off of me. There’s blood everywhere.
“W-what’s wrong?!”
“T-the bluh....the bluh....”
“Are you sure you’re not still a virgin?”
And let’s zip back, back, back in our theoretical wayback machine, back to my dad ripping my Wonder Woman and Batman posters off my wall in a rage.
“You ungreatful bitch!”
Now to when my old boss at the comic shop propositioned me sexually when I was 16.
“You arouse me...you make me hard...”
Now to the Gilgongo! Comics “New Direction” meeting.
“We need to get the ‘happy’ out of comics...”
Now to my lawyer.
“They said they are lining up to testify against you.”
Think the last five minutes of “Requiem For A Dream.”
I say: “goodbye, Comics.”
And Comics says: "shit, girl! aren't you gone yet?"
When I've written the last chapter of this memoir, I will go. I will go, relatively safe in my obscure niche, and I will not look back. And Comics can have Comics.
Goodbye To Comics #7: “We Need A Rape”
Goodbye To Comics #7:
“We Need A Rape”
My theoretical comic company, which, for the theoretical purposes of my theoretical memoir, I’ll call Gilgongo! Comix, was tired of being “pushed around” in the sales wars and in the court of fanboy opinion (such as it was). So with all the red-nosed gumption and determination of Ralphie from “A Christmas Story” Gilgongo! Comix decided to go badass.
They needed a rape. Because there’s nothing quite so badass as rape, lets face it. And the victim couldn’t been from the usual suspects: “The Black Raven” (done that already plus ovaries ripped out), “Bondage Queen” (wasn’t she raped like every issue--at least mentally?), “Demon-Girl” (she was already paralyzed from the last pseudo-raping and that provided all sorts of logistical nightmares for the artist).
No, they had to find the most innocent, virginal, good-natured “nice” character they could find and ravage her not once but twice.
Theoretically, this character’s name was Vicki Victim.
A whole groundbreaking limited series would be built around Vicki Victim’s rape and murder.
This made me nervous. In the office, I was known as being innocent, virginal, good-natured, and “nice”. I was kidded on it on a regular basis, as well as being told it was exactly those qualities that were “holding me back.”
Of course, it was silly to identify with a dumb old comic character.
Vicki Victim’s fate was sealed in a Gilgongo! Comics confab in which we explored how we could change our comics to be more “badass.” It was decided that the reason we were trailing in sales was because we were “too good-natured and nice.” This would have to stop. Our books needed a grittier edge. We needed a grittier edge.
So our books changed. There was rape, and murder, torture, death, and mutiliation. Superheroes did amoral or outright evil things and the line between good and bad was blurred.
And you know what?
Our sales improved. And this is a fact.
But it all started with Vicki Victim, and she has to be given credit.
To be fair to the ultimate writer that was assigned to the Vicki Victim Story, he was specifically told to include sensationalistic “adult” themes in the story. But when we got the scripts in I was still kind of shocked. Perhaps I was so affected not simply because of my fannish defense of Vicki Victim’s “purity” as a beloved character. Perhaps I was dealing with my own issues.
Let’s back up.
Do you know what a syzygy is?
That’s when all the planets align in such a manner that crazy shit happens.
In my time at Gilgongo! Comics I experienced several of what can only be described as “syzygies.”
One was an incident where one of my bosses set out to rid me of my “niceness” once and for all. It involved a freelancer who had a habit of delaying handing in his work because he was such a damned perfectionist. I was told to go into my office, close the door, and scream at this freelancer until he cried. I wasn’t told to simply “be firm.” I was told to scream at him until he cried and scare the living shit out of him. And believe me, he would have cried. And he did. I screeched like a maniac at the poor devil, threatening and berating. Right beyond my nearly closed door, I could see my boss listening with glee.
Tears rolled down my cheeks -- not out of pity for my prey, but because the sheer shock to my system turned me bright red and sent my blood pressure through the roof. I thought I was going to have a heart-attack. On the other end of the line, the freelancer was stuttering, crying, freaking out.
I couldn’t stop shaking, even minutes after I hung up. What had just happened was so unnatural to me, so vile. And it served no purpose anyway. Because soon after the lights flickered and my computer began to whine like a little baby, and soon all the power was out. Everywhere.
Syzygy.
But this wasn’t the crucial syzygy that began the chain of events that ended my career. That particular incident had to do with your dead friend and mine, Vicki Victim.
It started with my associate editor running gleefully into our boss’s office, several boards of art in his hand.
“The rape pages are in!”
“We Need A Rape”
My theoretical comic company, which, for the theoretical purposes of my theoretical memoir, I’ll call Gilgongo! Comix, was tired of being “pushed around” in the sales wars and in the court of fanboy opinion (such as it was). So with all the red-nosed gumption and determination of Ralphie from “A Christmas Story” Gilgongo! Comix decided to go badass.
They needed a rape. Because there’s nothing quite so badass as rape, lets face it. And the victim couldn’t been from the usual suspects: “The Black Raven” (done that already plus ovaries ripped out), “Bondage Queen” (wasn’t she raped like every issue--at least mentally?), “Demon-Girl” (she was already paralyzed from the last pseudo-raping and that provided all sorts of logistical nightmares for the artist).
No, they had to find the most innocent, virginal, good-natured “nice” character they could find and ravage her not once but twice.
Theoretically, this character’s name was Vicki Victim.
A whole groundbreaking limited series would be built around Vicki Victim’s rape and murder.
This made me nervous. In the office, I was known as being innocent, virginal, good-natured, and “nice”. I was kidded on it on a regular basis, as well as being told it was exactly those qualities that were “holding me back.”
Of course, it was silly to identify with a dumb old comic character.
Vicki Victim’s fate was sealed in a Gilgongo! Comics confab in which we explored how we could change our comics to be more “badass.” It was decided that the reason we were trailing in sales was because we were “too good-natured and nice.” This would have to stop. Our books needed a grittier edge. We needed a grittier edge.
So our books changed. There was rape, and murder, torture, death, and mutiliation. Superheroes did amoral or outright evil things and the line between good and bad was blurred.
And you know what?
Our sales improved. And this is a fact.
But it all started with Vicki Victim, and she has to be given credit.
To be fair to the ultimate writer that was assigned to the Vicki Victim Story, he was specifically told to include sensationalistic “adult” themes in the story. But when we got the scripts in I was still kind of shocked. Perhaps I was so affected not simply because of my fannish defense of Vicki Victim’s “purity” as a beloved character. Perhaps I was dealing with my own issues.
Let’s back up.
Do you know what a syzygy is?
That’s when all the planets align in such a manner that crazy shit happens.
In my time at Gilgongo! Comics I experienced several of what can only be described as “syzygies.”
One was an incident where one of my bosses set out to rid me of my “niceness” once and for all. It involved a freelancer who had a habit of delaying handing in his work because he was such a damned perfectionist. I was told to go into my office, close the door, and scream at this freelancer until he cried. I wasn’t told to simply “be firm.” I was told to scream at him until he cried and scare the living shit out of him. And believe me, he would have cried. And he did. I screeched like a maniac at the poor devil, threatening and berating. Right beyond my nearly closed door, I could see my boss listening with glee.
Tears rolled down my cheeks -- not out of pity for my prey, but because the sheer shock to my system turned me bright red and sent my blood pressure through the roof. I thought I was going to have a heart-attack. On the other end of the line, the freelancer was stuttering, crying, freaking out.
I couldn’t stop shaking, even minutes after I hung up. What had just happened was so unnatural to me, so vile. And it served no purpose anyway. Because soon after the lights flickered and my computer began to whine like a little baby, and soon all the power was out. Everywhere.
Syzygy.
But this wasn’t the crucial syzygy that began the chain of events that ended my career. That particular incident had to do with your dead friend and mine, Vicki Victim.
It started with my associate editor running gleefully into our boss’s office, several boards of art in his hand.
“The rape pages are in!”
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