Desty Nova

(Hi all. This bit will need a bit of set-up. This is a parody of a old National Lampoon bit called "Deteriorata," which was itself a parody of a poem called "Desdirata." I recently rediscovered it and decided it was as good a way as any of articulating my feelings on an industry that routinely congratulates itself for putting its worst foot forward and eating its own. As to why it's named after the mad scientist from "Battle Angel Alita," well, that's the density of reference you've come to expect from me, innit?)

DESTY NOVA

(You are an antiquated genre.

You have nothing meaningful left to say.

Desty Nova, Desty Nova)

Go placidly into the noise and waste of the Internet and remember what comfort there may be in slagging off whoever doesn’t agree with you and telling him to go fuck themselves. Avoid quiet and passive persons, unless they are your editors, in which case they will ignore themselves for you. Declare your undeserved superiority. Speak glowingly of your reverence for past stories, even if the best you can do is a straight reprise or a horrible cover version, though the original deserved only to be forgotten. Consider that two retcons don’t make a right—but three or more will make a Crisis. Whenever possible, avoid deadlines—they don’t really matter, do they? Be comforted, in the face of all impermanence and disillusionment, you’re only slumming in comics in-between TV and movie gigs anyway.

(You are an antiquated genre.

You have nothing meaningful left to say.

Whether you know it or not,

They left you behind decades ago.)

Remember Stamford. Strive at all times to bend spines, crease covers, and un-slab your comics. Know your awesomeness. If you need sycophants, start your own message board. Exercise caution in your daily affairs, except for those jagoffs on the Internet, because they don’t matter anyway. That guy on Livejournal, for instance. Be assured that a walk through the ocean of innovative ideas and stories in comics today would scarcely get your feet wet. Never follow a book—instead, wait for the trade. Gracefully surrender the things of youth: Captain Marvel, Speedball, logical storytelling, Wolverine—and let not the sands of time get in your shoes while you run away. Hire people who worked on Heroes. For a good time, go to www.newsarama.com, ask for Matt. Take heart that in the deepening gloom that your Twitter feed has 10,000 followers and you haven’t said anything meaningful in months. Reflect that whatever misfortune may be your lot, you can always sell this piece of shit comic to a studio and start making some real money.

(You are an antiquated genre.

You have nothing meaningful left to say.

Whether you know it or not,

They left you behind decades ago.)

Therefore, make peace with your inspirations, be they bald Scotsman or ridiculously-bearded curmudgeonly snake worshiper. With all the failed hopes, illusion of change, false promises, bungled resolutions, Fear Itself, falling sales, and downward mobility, this job isn’t going to get any better. STOP TRYING!

(You are an antiquated genre.

You have nothing meaningful left to say.

Whether you know it or not,

They left you behind decades ago.)