Frank Cho and Me (or "All Hail the Boob Prince!")

For a teeny tiny local con, the (first) DC Comic Con boasted a pretty surprising roster of guests! Local regulars like Steve Conley (STAR TREK: YEAR FOUR) and John K. Snyder III (who hasn't done much of anything since that Alan Scott Solomon Grundy comic ten years ago, which is a shame) are always expected.

But JG Jones? Nice! Jo Chen? Neato! The Luna Brothers? Oh, how I resisted the urge to tackle them and feverishly demand to know how the fuck the final issue of THE SWORD ends! And of course, it was great to see that they were able to snag local-boy-done-good Frank Cho.

Back when he lived here and did LIBERTY MEADOWS for the papers, our comic shop had him over to do signings every year or so. That's how we met, when I was a teenage clerk there at my first (and part-time current) job. I think I've mentioned here in the past that Cho remembers me, because to a cheesecake master like him, me being a real genuine Hefner is like being part of estranged royalty.

At one of those signings, I nervously asked if he'd be willing to do a drawing for me, without having decided if I wanted a Hal Jordan GL or Two-Face, because yeah, Hef, get Frank Cho to draw me someone WITHOUT boobs, great call! Maybe next I'll reanimate the corpse of Alberto Vargas to paint me a still life!

He agreed to do it, but we ran out of time that day, so he told me to catch him again next time, and he'd do it. Which I did, at SPX, when he was selling limited edition prints of a Playboy Playmate, who was actually there signing the prints alongside him. He warmly introduced me to her as a Hefner, and she responded with mildly interested politeness. Which, really, is all one could expect. He remembered that he owed me a drawing, and said that, again, he didn't have time. Maybe next year?

And so it's been for about nine years. I find Frank at a convention, he remembers me instantly and says, "I owe you a drawing, don't I?" And we part ways. The last time I spoke him was three years ago at Baltimore Comic Con, where he was accompanied by some middle-aged man who was clearly a producer or publisher of some sort, who laughed, "You've been waiting for Frank to do you a drawing for six year? Hell, I've been waiting for eight!"

I next saw him at last year's Baltimore Comic Con, where I'd hoped to introduce him to Henchgirl, to see if he'd say the words right on cue as my little way of trying to impress her with my connections from Comic Shop days. I realize that I'm still doing this, as I already have plans to introduce her to our old customer Brad Meltzer, whom she wanted to hug after reading GREEN ARROW: THE ARCHER'S QUEST. How many chances do you hear something like that and think, "Hey, I can make that happen!"

But at Baltimore, the line was too long, so we never did get to see Cho. Yesterday, however, his line was much shorter, pretty much just one or two people at a time. But maybe it was the fact that he was sitting elevated up on the stage of an auditorium, but the prospect of actually talking to him was more intimidating than ever. I had nothing for him to sign. I haven't been following his work lately to make a genuine comment, even in a sycophantic nature. All I wanted to do was to renew the game.

So I was just about to give up and lug my haul of back issues and cheap graphic novels to the car, when I notice that Frank Cho was coming right toward me. As I'm writing this, I feel like this all would be a much better story if it ended with him meeting me with a big grin, holding a magnificent, fully-inked drawing of Hal Jordan with a sexy green alien girl by his side, "There you are, Hef! Finally got it for you! Now when you gonna get me in the mansion? Ha ha, I'm incorrigible!"

But no. He actually wasn't coming to see me. The pathway was so narrow, and I was an obstacle on his way to the men's room. I jumped at the chance to say hi, nervous as all hell for breaking that convention commandment of talking up a guest when they're not at their booth.

After a moment's memory jogging, he remembered me from working at the comic shop, and actually stopped to ask how I was. I wasn't expecting that. With increasingly anxious awkwardness, I tried to quickly fill him in on on THE HEFNER MONOLOGUES, thinking he'd react to that. He didn't. He was very polite, waited for his chance to break away with a diplomatic "Welp, I gotta go to the men's room," and left.

I felt like an ass, and what's more, realized that he didn't mention the drawing. He'd forgotten it entirely. Perhaps it was inevitable. Not like I was going to ever get it anyway, but that was the point. It was just the dance, having that kind of small, recurring connection with someone else who has ballooned into fame and infamy alike.

When I related this (in much less long-winded format) via Twitter, I shrugged it off with, "So much for royalty!" To which heykidzcomix then replied, "How dare he slight the Boob Prince!"

"The Boob Prince." I like that! So much better than the other nickname I figured I'd earned myself:

Nosferatu. Vampire! First I will save your soul, then I will destroy you. I will show you your room.

Mom just asked, "John, why are you sitting at the computer shouting 'NO NO NO FUCK YOU NO'?"

Because the fuckers are remaking George Romero's MARTIN.



George Romero is rightly remembered for his zombie movies, but MARTIN might well be his greatest film. It was hyped up to me for years before I finally saw it, so I was prepared to be disappointed.





I wasn't even sure how I felt until the last two minutes. Then, my jaw dropped, and I had to rewind and see it again. That ending was so powerful, it made the entire film, pulling the whole strange and uneven thing together, into a film that still haunts me to this day.

I just showed it to the Henchgirls and surrealname, who I don't think loved it quite as much as I do, and now all I want to do is show it to someone else. I was barely even aware that it existed until recently, so I can't really hold it against the vast majority of humanity for not having seen it.

And yet, to think that this fucking remake is coming out as a cash-in for the TWILIGHT crowd, when the original is exactly the kind of vampire antidote that those Twihards and TRUE BLOOD fans need to see... I'm literally ANGRY WITH RAGE.

One of my prouder moments on the road was getting Henchgirl to help rearrange a Wal-Mart stand of recommended vampire films for TWILIGHT fans--including stuff like BRAM STOKER'S DRACULA and THE LOST BOYS--by covering the films with copies of MARTIN, LET THE RIGHT ONE IN, and NEAR DARK. Hopefully somebody checked 'em out before the Wal-Mart folks wised up.




With all that written, the anger is now out of my system. All I have left is sadness and disappointment. Because for the most part, I react to news of remakes with a cynical shrug of, "Of course they're remaking that. Why wouldn't they?" But this... this is far worse. Because it's a masterful little film whose name and legacy might be overshadowed by a remake that's specifically exploiting the current fad. Fuck, they'll probably try to make it a thriller, or an actual horror film.

On the plus side, at least writing this gave me the chance to discover the original trailer, which is awesome in its grindhousey-ness, particularly with the original narration by Martin himself: