You may have noticed I have been going a little light on the content for the past week and a half or so. This was due to my being hit with a double whammy of obligations — one civic, one personal — which effectively killed the motivation to work up anything substantial.

I spent the lion’s share of last week at the Middlesex Superior Courthouse in scenic North Woburn, where I acted on the Commonwealth’s behalf as the mysterious Juror 13. It was the third time I had been summoned to jury duty. Unlike the previous two go-rounds where I was sent home at noon, I was selected to serve this time.

While I didn’t want to spend an entire week observing and deliberating over a petty dope dealer’s version of Rashomon, I let myself be swayed by the presiding judge’s patriotic appeal, as well as the almost identical arguments I got from both Pal Dave and my father about being the type of juror I would want if I was the accused.

It was an infuriating experience, and my mind was ablaze with ideas for a cutting and snide post about the process once the gag order was lifted.  After it ended, however, and I had a little time to reflect on what had happened, I realized that things worked out exactly as they should have. 

It was a fairly open-and-shut case as far as I was concerned.  Some undercover vice cops (who bore an uncanny resemblance to the horn section of Reel Big Fish) witnessed a petty crack dealer in action, used an informant to lure him to a specified location for a sale, then nabbed him with a wad of cash, three cellphones, and baggie full of product.  It’s the type to thing that could have been decided upon in fifteen minutes of deliberations, but the tedious ten-hour debate over details, methodology, and motive meant that the defendant got the fairest shake possible by those who were deciding his fate.

It may not been efficient nor enjoyable, but the system worked…and proved that it is possible that a diverse group of people can reach a workable consensus if provided with proper information and motivation. 

Once my duties as a juror were completed, I had eight hours on Monday to catch up on the backlog at my day job before heading out for yesterday’s appointment with my endodontist.  I’ve had root canal therapy done on two of my teeth in the past.   In both cases, the procedure has been relatively straightforward, while the recovery stage has been the stuff of nightmares — one time involving a raging abcess and the other massive bruising that took the better part of a week to heal.

I had no idea what to expect this time around.  On one hand, I was being proactive and getting the problem resolved before the molar in question went supernova; on the other, it was situated next to a grossly impacted (read: “sideways”) wisdom tooth in an area where I’ve had near-constant infections since 1999 (when a bit of popcorn husk worked its way in between the molar and my gums). 

The procedure went smoothly,  I rushed home before the local wore off, and waited for the aftermath.  It turned out to be…not pleasant, but not an extended exercise in oral agony, either.  There’s a bit of bruising, the inside of my cheek is raw with needle tracks, and I feel like I was kicked in the face, but the area is now free of the inflamation and low-yield pain I’ve gotten accustomed to over the past decade.

So there you have it, the state of the state of things.  I still have some writing obligations to fulfill for the Bureau Chiefs’ website and the book project, but I’m otherwise back to sailing for myself for the forseeable future.

I will see you all…


(from Whiz Comics #70, January 1946)

…on the other side.

What happens when you combine the “poor little rich boy” motif of Richie Rich, the high-tech crimefighting trappings of Iron Man, and a once-pioneering comics talent in the early throes of creative bankruptcy?  The answer is “this week’s Nobody’s Favorite.”

The sole child and heir of an uber-wealthy industrialist, young super-genius Jason Kriter has everything a pre-teen boy could ask for — the finest academic and martial arts instructors money can buy, a well-stocked laboratory staffed by robotic servants, and a super-hot, vaguely foreign nanny tasked with seeing to his every need.  Yet life on Easy Street is anything but easy for poor, pitful Jason, as he would willingly trade his sheltered life of luxury for a chance to spend more time with his absentee Matt Houstony father…

As it turns out, there’s a very good reason (besides his mustache’s massive maintenance regimen) why Jason’s dad has been neglecting his paternal duties.  Hot vaguely foreign nannies and pallet-loads of Just for Men gel don’t come cheap, so the Elder Kriter has decided to supplement his fortune by selling experimental chemical weapons to the  Central American revolutionaries of the FBES  (Broad Ethnic Stereotype Front).

Young Jason experiences a deep crisis of conscience after overhearing his dad and the caricatured freedom fighters hash out their deal, and decides to put a stop to the transfer in the only way he knows how…

…with a really goofy suit of DIY power armor and the help of Quirt, a robot sidekick of the extremely annoying school of debatably comic relief.  While Jason does manage to start a raging fuel fire at the airport where the weapons were being transferred for shipment, the majority of the counter-revolutionary heavy lifting ends up getting performed by Jason’s Continuity Comics stablemate (and world’s biggest Ultra Boy fan) Megalith.  It is Megalith, in fact, who gives Jason his heroic codename, Toyboy…which should not be confused with “Boy Toy,” one of the aliases used by the Material Girl before she traded in her relevance for a phony British accent and a pint of boutique Kabbalah water).

Jason’s actions at the airport set the stage for a three-way game of mild stakes intrigue between Jason, his suspicious father, and his father’s sinister business associates.  While this mostly manfiests as an interminable series of angsty close shots, it did provide the opportunity for Toyboy to cross paths with the Dirtbags…

…a group of vigilante bikers bonded by a sense of justice and a love of stupid sick nicknames (and one of the few superteams capable of making the Death-Throws seem cool in comparison) as well as providing Neal Adams, legendary comics artist and Continuity Comics founder, and chance to show that as a writer…

…he makes a fairly adequate, if past his prime, illustrator.

While nowhere near as terrible as some of Continuity Comics’ other erratically published attempts at pooping out a shared superhero universe during the late eighties and early nineties, Toyboy’s overwhelming stink of mediocrity, ridiculous premise, and groanworthy name have earned Jason Kriter the honor of being this week’s Nobody’s Favorite.

Z is for Zombies, rightfully revered..

…and for ZZ Top, bringing the beard.

Z is also for Zounds, anarchists who persevered.

Thus concludes our video alphabet.
What shall I do next hasn’t been decided yet.

While Nintendo consoles have long been the locus for dubious gaming peripherals, these are merely continuations of a shameless process that began during the Atari Age…

Last time someone offered me a free “grabber” with the purchase of a “lapmate,” it turned out to be part of an undercover sting operation by the local vice squad.

Members of the Space Jury…


(from Action Comics #240, May 1958)

…serve on a “one trial/one concentrated dose of nightmare fuel” basis.

Batman…


(from World’s Finest Comics #186)

…shouldn’t have asked to have his case heard in Salem District Court.

Your pitiful 4B charcoal pencil…


(from Avengers #228)

…does not do the Odinson justice, mortal.

Mister Tawny…


(from Captain Marvel Adventures #82)

…is the Johnnie Cochran of talking tigers.

I think we can all agree on this one.

Recommended listening:

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