|
|
From a longtime Vertigo reader, I wasn't expecting much. I mean, in the past we got a good set of previews (in one case we got Hexy which wasn't reprinted until later), a few interviews from time to time, and all for a buck.
But this one... What a big disappointment. We get a glossy magazine-type cover with cutsey death (who Jill Thomson rams her finger up one more time as a career puppet... my spite really amuses me sometimes and it's hardly ever warranted... therapy should ensue after this post), and a load of single to two page previews squeezed between half interviews... all of which are 'continued at vertigo.com. The constant urges to go to vertigo.com were piss-poor. The entire thing is just a 'go to our website' advert.
The whole reason I picked it up was for the Shade story which was just pitiful, and I love the whole Milligan/Allred thing goin on nowadays. It made me very embarassed to like Shade at all.
And the two page spread of characters 'four more beers' hee hee drinking is fun/silly, hee hee. Seeing Vertigo characters not propoerly written in almost five-ten years is just patheric, with cutesy Death pooring drinks. So now I'm embarassed to read comics AND drink???
I dunno, I want my buck back.
And it hurt my ass when I wiped it as well. What a useless comic.
Oh and what genius of an editor chose random ages for the pics on the last page??? What is the connecting thread of these pictures? Grant when he was twenty (?), Jill Thompson when she was eight, Karen Berger at 35... Um... why not pictures of all the creative staff (minus Berger whose only creativity is in faking a job) at a common age??
And then we're supposed to match them up and go to the site for the answers???
WHAT ARE , SHUT-INS!!??
Give us a break, DC. You're not that cool. It's like trying to get laid with a gal who becomes less cute with every statement about her trip to Japan, love of Cabaret Voltaire and ghost paintings. You start to realize that she is not as cool as she wants you to think she is and also... you're going to be bitterly boxing the clown later on, screwing your forehead afterward thinking, 'why did I pay for her dinner at all?'
Phew... that's out. |
|
|