Rich Koslowski: Writer, Artist, Genius
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It has arrived! Fruition at last. After 30(ish) years of dreaming, my first issue as a Marvel Comics creator saw the light of day yesterday; Wednesday, September 19, 2007. I shall mark it on the calendar and, henceforth, celebrate it as a national holiday (my understanding is that Wisconsin Senator Herb Kohl is submitting a bill to get this acknowledged as a national holiday next week! My fingers are crossed).

I've read the issue 5 times already and my high-beams are still on. It's a pretty cool thing. I had to take my shirt off, though, after awhile because they were starting to chafe. Ouch.

I know I may be slightly biased, but is this the best anthology you've ever seen?! I think we're off to a great start, folks. That first story alone!...WOW! I am hooked! And I have no insider info here, kiddies, I read 'em just like you do...I have no clue what's going to happen with any of the stories ('cept mine, of course...I think) or what the writers all have in store. But I have a very good feeling (remember? High-beams!)!

Please write Marvel and let the fine folks there know what you're thinking. Feedback is very much appreciated and a crucial part of the process. I certainly will appreciate any comments on my particular storyline.

One quick note on my first installment...Make sure you don't miss the first page of my segment. Due to ad placement requirements one ad was sandwiched between my 1st and 2nd pages and you might just miss that first one. It's the page with the girl banging on the door...and you DO NOT want to miss what's all going on with her!!! Trust me, she's got somethin' to do with poor Michael Pointer's current sad predicament.

Many thanks to the fine folks who helped this dream come true...My wife, Sandy, of course for her unwavering support. Andy Schmidt, formerly an editor over at Marvel for shoving me off to his replacement editor, John Barber...and John for inheriting me and working through that initially tumultuous transition and making it work! Andrea DiVito and his wife Laura Villari for the phenomenal artwork. And Dave Sharpe for the "sharp" job lettering...I know that was a horrible pun. I know.

I'd also thank the many, many friends within the industry I've met over the years and hung around with. Too many to list here but you know who you are. And I've probably bought you all a few beers already as pre-thanks.

So, go now...GO! Run, run like the wind to your local purveyor of comic books and buy, buy, BUY multiple copies of MCP #1! (Also available right here on this very website!) And then go back next month for #2, and the following months for issues 3 thru 12. And then buy everything else I do and have ever shall not regret it for I shall be so very, very rich and famous one day and my back issues and original art shall fetch millions of dollars on ebay!

Run, dammit! RUN!

Hey, I've realized one dream this past week, right? I might as well start the next one.




Hello True Believers! It is my distinct pleasure to finally announce (and it's been very difficult holding back!) that my first stint as a bona fide Marvel Comics writer will finally be seeing fruition this week! MARVEL COMICS PRESENTS #1 will be hitting the stands this Wednesday, September 19th. Yes! I know I'LL be at my local comics shop as soon as its doors open and it's my fervent hope that you all will be as well. Buy early and buy often, folks! This comic's sure to be worth bazillions one day.

As some of you may know, I've been reading comics since I was 5 or 6 years old and--except for a brief period in college when I needed as much beer money as possible--I've never stopped. And my earliest favorites were Marvel comics. So having this dream come true is a very special moment for me as, not only a professional, but as a fan. Not many people get to work in a field that's also been a passionate hobby and I consider myself truly blessed.

Many comic fans ask at conventions "how" I got into the business and "how" I've gotten my work published. Obviously anyone creating comics has to have some level of talent--okay, a few have gotten in that make you scratch your head, but 99.9% of the people creating comics have real talent. So, you've got to have talent to get into the business. But, more importantly, you've got to work your ass off and have endless amounts of Perseverance. You can't give up. And believe me, I've wanted to many, many times...but only for the very briefest of moments.

My family and many of my friends have no idea what I do. I hear the wisecracks all the time about "not having a job" or sometimes they clarify that assinine statement by adding "real" before "job" for the adrenaline inducing "not having a real job" statement that they apparently have no idea just how insulting that statement is. I've pretty much given up trying to defend my vocation to them or how hard I actually work a long, long time ago.

Whatever. Let them think what they want to. Their insensitivity only serves to fuel my drive.

I read something Frank Miller once wrote about the "curse" we have being artists/creators. He hit it on the head when he said, "You can't turn it off!" "You can't make it stop!" referring to the creative juices constantly flowing through your head. And it's true. I find myself so overwhelmed sometimes by ideas flooding my mind that I can't focus on other things. I can't sleep. I never sleep. The ideas won't let me. The "job" never stops.

I don't "punch a clock" and I think because of that some people just can't process what I do as an actual job. Whatever. I guarantee you that I put in more hours per week working --both the actual physical act of putting pencil (or brush) to paper and the constant thinking part--than 90% of the people out there working the so-called "real jobs." And I work erratic hours. This also, apparently, for some, also means I don't have a "real job" because certainly one must work the same exact structured "9 to 5" to actually be working a "real job." I think it says so in the bible.

Yeah, I sleep till 9 o'clock most mornings and start work around 10 am. Sometimes I'll even take a 2 hour lunch. Or take an hour or two midday to play with my daughter. Or go see a matinee. Yep, kind of nice to make my own when I want to...But I also find myself up and working well past midnight many nights. And almost every weekend. And when I'm trying to sleep. So who gives a crud if the standard "8 hours a day, 40 hours a week" of work is spread out in an erratic manner. Or, as is more often the case--is definitely MY CASE!--the standard "40 hours a week" is more like 60. I'm working 60 hours a week so please pardon me if I don't conform to the standard sleep cycles mandated by you, the "real workers" out there (BTW, that was laced with bitter sarcasm in case you didn't notice).

Perseverance. Not only to get into the "doors" at the publishers, but to put up with the sheep out there who have no clue as to what you're trying to accomplish.

I have persevered my friends. I have stuck it out. I've got the "curse" Frank Miller wrote so eloquently about but, more importantly, I am one stubborn s.o.b. who just will not give in and let the dream die. And why would I? Why SHOULD I? If you're afraid to chase your dreams you might as well stop living all together. Maybe the doubters, the sheep don't dream? Or maybe they don't like seeing others chase their dreams because they gave up on their own so long ago? If the dreamers succeed that means the dreamers were right and the doubter sheep were wrong. Much easier for the doubter sheep to give up and simply ridicule the dreamers.

Perseverance. I'm a dreamer and I'm never giving up my dreams. And I'll be damned if I'll ever let the doubter sheep be right!

So this Wednesday will be very special indeed. Not only because it's going to make the little boy I was dream's come true, but also because it's personal validation for me for never giving up and never giving in. I was right the doubter sheep were wrong.

And you know what?...since I don't have a "real job," and I don't have to "punch a clock," I think I'm gonna take this Wednesday off and just read my comics.





Yep, we've all been there haven't we? Got the "feelings" but nowhere to go. Well, here's a little story you all might enjoy...I know that I certainly did NOT...

I'm kind of particular when it comes to my bathroom habits. Specifically number two, not number one. Number one's not a problem. I can go anywhere. It's man's one true advantage over the ladies. But number two? Nuh-uh. Nope. I got my specific requirements when it comes to the good ole number two.

Here's some quick history for you on my BM activity...

1) In my entire 39 years on this planet I have probably only pooped somewhere other than my "Home Base" 42 times. And let me clarify "Home Base" for you. "Home Base" consists of a) my house that I live b) my parents house or c) any hotel room that I have rented and paid for and therefore I own it for the length of time I am there.

That's it. Those three places.

So, when I'm away from "Home Base" and I get those special inklings that something's going on down below I've got myself a situation. Example: I worked in Racine, WI for about 6 years and it was a 45 minute drive from my home. In the entire 6 years I had worked there, 5 days a week, 8 hours a day, I only pooed there twice. This made for several very perilous drives home and one near incident of my having to pull over during a traffic jam to go between those concrete barriers dividing the freeway. I made it home but the brown was hitting the water before my skin hit the seat. I nearly fainted several times while driving.

Another example: I've never gone doogie at my in-laws house. Ever. Not once. My wife and I celebrated our 17th anniversary this past weekend.

Shopping malls are the most powerful laxative I've ever experienced. Whenever we go to one I've "gotta go!" Seriously. And then we've gotta go! Cuz I will never go at a shopping mall.

And that takes us to Baltimore this past weekend for the Baltimore Comic-Con.

We arrived Friday night and stayed the weekend with good pal, Rich Henn. Didn't go all day Friday before leaving and I knew I was in for it then. Saturday morning I struggled to "make" before going to the con. I managed to convince myself that Henn's house was my house while I was there. Henn even said those exact same words so I tried very hard to convince my finicky bowels that this was the case. I managed to squeeze about 3 rabbit-sized nuggets out of them before heading to the show.

At the con the cramps began. Those steady waves of ache that focus right in the sphinctoral region. A quick crescendo that escalates in about 2 seconds with a pointed and powerful cramp that freezes the entire body. I was in serious trouble. And that night I was asked to present two awards at the Harvey Awards ceremony. I wouldn't be getting a second attempt at Henn's house until well after 11 PM.

So, in an act of desperation I made the decision to seek out a bathroom at the con after the show ended at 6 PM. It was my hope that the crowd would clear out (I'd never do it during a con. NO WAY! Have you ever seen a "con john" before? Nasty.) and I'd find one of the remote bathrooms located on the upper show floor somewhere down some seldom used corridor.

The plan nearly worked. I found a remote locale and had a seat. Three more rabbit nuggets.

Went to the Harvey Awards and had a few more beers (6 actually) to help loosen things up...myself because I was a wee bit nervous about being a presenter and my now slightly impacted bowels.

Got back to Henn's after 11:30 PM and tried again at 1 AM. Nada.

Sunday morning before the show I tried again in vain and then proceeded to suffer through the entire day at the show as the profuse discomfort continued to escalate.

Keep in mind that I drank my fair share of beer every night, too. Usually a great laxative. Not, apparently in Baltimore. Must be the sea air.

SO! Monday rolls around and I once again make the morning attempt. Zippo.

Now the comedy of errors really begins, folks...

We leave Casa Henn and head out for breakfast. "I'll get some eggs!" I say. "They always shoot right through me!" Good plan. So, breakfast ends and we head over to the post office to ship a box of books back home before heading downtown to explore the city. (It was in the 90s all weekend by the way and the humidity was so high it felt like a steam room.) Once downtown I begin to search for any clean bathroom. "Home Base" be damned I gotta go poo before my intestines split inside my belly.

Attempt #1) The GEPPI ENTERTAINMENT MUSUEM located right next to Camden Yards. BTW, this is the best museum I've ever been to in my entire life! And not just because it's filled with comic books and art, and other pop-culture wonders. It was also the best in terms of the meticulous care that the people working there have put into the wonderful displays. Absolutely magnificent!

Anyways, I found the one bathroom and went pee hoping that would trigger some other nether-activity. Didn't happen. An hour later we were done looking around and I told Sandy I was going back to try again since the bathroom was not only spotless but there were also but a few patrons wandering around and I felt my chances of privacy were good.


Go in there and see shoes under the stall wall. "S#!t!" I think. But not the kind I was hoping for.

So we leave. And it's now about 11 o'clock so we decide to go for a drive and explore. We drive around checking out the older parts of the city until it's lunch time and then we head back downtown. I insist on finding a restaurant that's authentic and old and cool. Not some chain. We find a very cool old pub that's over 200 years old and go inside. The atmosphere is wonderful, the food and service equally great.

Attempt #2) The restaurant. I tell Sandy I'm going for it. The lunch crowd is sparse and I got the feelings once again. I meander on over the the men's room and open the door and go around the short wall where the toilets are around the other side. I turn, look, and see one urinal and one toilet there. No divider seperating the two. I look back at the door from whence I just entered. No lock. I leave. We leave.

The cramps begin to intensify both in pain and frequency. I've been crowning for almost two full days now, am at 8 centimeters and am in a great deal of discomfort. And it's freaking hot!

So we go down to the water front where we know there are many stores, restaurants, etc to continue the search for a clean bathroom. I don't even care if it's secluded anymore at all. But I'm still shooting for clean.

Attempt #3) There's a mall right down by the harbor. Nice, new, clean, in a touristy area. We go in because we promised Stella some ice cream. We find a Ben & Jerry's right away and I go off in search of a bathroom while the girls order.

Folks, this is where it gets a little crazy. I find a john on the second floor, go in, walk the short little tunnel and as I get to the end of the 12 foot long tunnel I can see the mirrors above the sinks there on the wall I'm walking towards and in the mirror's reflection I now see the two men standing at the urinals and they must have not intially heard my footsteps so therefore the man with his hands in the other man's genital area did not remove them quickly enough and I saw this in the reflection and they saw me and they bolted and my poo which had now begun to gloriously release itself from my lower intestines now freaked out just as I did and went retreating back up deep inside of me. The two degenerates left and I washed my hands and left as well.

Outside the bathroom a janitor recognized the man-whore as he walked away and we had a brief exchange where the janitor informed me that these "Utah senator" type shenanigans are a problem here but usually they work there perversions across the street at the other mall. Lucky me! I ask if it's okay if I go back in there and try again? If it's safe? He says yeah, and I go back inside figuring lightning can't possibly strike twice, right?

Well, no perverts this time but the toilet had no toilet paper!

Attempt #4) We decide to tour some of the historic boats at the harbor. There's a WWII submarine, an old freighter and a lighthouse. We do the tour and I figure the walking will help jostle the stuff that's now probably exceeding 3 pounds within my lower body cavity. It seems to be working and I spot an outdoor bathroom behind the Sea Aquarium. I open the steel door and peek inside. Big, clean, and a lock! But my friggin' window has now passed folks! My poop is so far up inside me and frightened of what might be next that it has no desire to ever exit my body again. Defeated we leave.

Attempt #5) Barnes and Noble bookstores. We go to the bookstore where it has a nice bathroom area Sandy spotted the day before. And the air-conditioning is nice. I figure the extra walking might have helped so I try again. Nothing! No weird reasons either. Just ain't happening. I think the two pervs have really scared my poopy.

Attempt #6) It's about 3 PM now and I'm really uncomfortable and concerned. We go back outside walk around some more, sightsee, and Stella's thirsty. So we go back to the Sea Aquarium and go inside to look for a "bubbler" (for you folks outside of Wisconsin that's a water fountain). We find one inside and my "feelings" are back. I've got the "Bowel Greenlight!" And the men's room is right next to the bubblers! YES!


Just as I make my first step towards the bathroom a man walks out and the cleaning lady that I heretofore did not notice standing next to the aforementioned bathroom slides her cart in front of the opening, blocking it, and I see her sign reading "Temporarily closed for cleaning."

I'm not making any of this up.

I look at Sandy with horror and say, "God must really not want me to poo."

Attempt #7) The rental car return. We return the rental car on the way to the airport and I find a bathroom there. Nothing! I try and I squeeze and I sit and I'm patient and after 15 minutes I get one eensy-weensy baby rabbit turd...not even an adult rabbit size.

Attempt #s 8, 9 10 and 11) The airport. When we get there. After we find a place to sit and eat. Right after we eat. And then by our gate before getting on the plane.

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. And nothing.

The flight's an hour and a half and there's no way I'm going on the plane so I figure I'm going to find glory once we're back to the real "Home Base!" No substitutes, man! I will be gloriously deficating on my own toilet in about 2 sweet hours! YES!!

Attempt #12: The final attempt) The whole plane ride was a series of mind-numbing anal aches the likes of which I'd never experienced before. We've all been there, right? The closer you get to home, the more you have to go? The little brain in you hinder knows! He knows!

So we finally get home and I have already given orders to the girls that the head is mine until D-Day has ended. They know the score and wholeheartedly agree. And this never happens. Sandy has a raisin bladder and always heads straight to the head before anyone else. But on this day of days she concedes out of pity.

I grab a comic book (always if possible) and go "home."

As I sit there going into the 20th minute I wonder why God hates me so much.

I resign myself to the fact that I may never go poo again.

I'm too tired to go to the store for the enema kit and too tired to look for the latex painting gloves to throw a few fingers up there and loosen it up so I go to bed and sleep through the continuing anal aches. Surprisingly (and frighteningly) they have subsided some.

FRUITION! I am happy to report that at 7:30 AM central time Tuesday, on this 11th day of September, 2007, I gave birth to about 4 pounds of mud.

So how was your weekend?




Yes, as you may have surmised by my header, I am in the "Vick is an idiot" camp. He is. End of argument. It really makes me chuckle to hear people calling into the sports talk radio shows defending this knucklehead. My favorite argument these geniuses always trot out (thinking themselves oh-so-wise) is the, "There are murderers and rapists walking the streets!...That's much worse than killing a few dogs! So he should be let free too!"

Okay, so apparently Michael Vick isn't the only idiot out there.

Morons...can't you see how absolutely idiotic that argument is? First of all, yes, murder and rape of another human being is worse. Yes. But I'd venture to guess that in almost all the cases of these "alleged murderers and rapists" walking free they didn't CONFESS to their respective crimes. So there's that. Have these defenders forgotten the confession Michael Vick made, I wonder?

Second, in most cases of "murderers and rapists" walking free there were major problems in the cases against these people. The cases weren't airtight and so some bad person got off. Apparently not so with Mr. Vick. Apparently the prosecutors had quite a bit of evidence against him. So much so that HE CONFESSED TO EVERYTHING!!!!

Third, there's an old saying that two wrongs don't make a right. It applies here. If the defenders had it their way--rightfully placing "murder" at the top of the "bad things criminals do" list--no one would serve any jail time. Because if you say Michael Vick should go free because what he did wasn't as bad as what the "free murderers" did, then anyone committing ANY crime should also be let go according to that argument.


You idiots out there do realize that Mr. Vick confessed to this, right? Confessed to organizing dogfighting and viciously butchering animals.

It really disturbs me, though, when Vick's defenders try and make it an issue of race. What the hell's up with that? His being black has nothing to do with his abuse of animals. His idiocy does.

Spoiled athlete? Poor upbringing? Lack of guidance?...

Sure. Perhaps. A strong possibility.


Yes. Most definitely. I think the case against him on that is even more airtight than the dogfighting charges.

On a different note!...

I'll be shilling my goods this weekend at the upcoming Baltimore Comic-Con.

It's a grand event and in addition to selling my goodies I've also been invited to present two awards at the annual Harvey Awards dinner and banquet being held Saturday night. So spread the word! And make your travel arrangements right now!

Right now I said. GO!



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