Barry Lyga's Blog: The BLog

Last night, I went to the angriest rock concert I’ve ever attended and it was goddamn glorious. Bruce Springsteen doesn’t like Donald Trump, he doesn’t like what’s happening to America, and he’s fine to talk about it. And blow out your eardrums in the process.

After a quick, intense introductory rant/verbal essay, he launched immediately into Edwin Starr’s classic “War,” the cover to which on the legendary 1975-85 box set is what turned yours truly into a certified Boss-fanatic back in the day. From then on, it was two hours of Bruce’s angriest songs, an unrelenting and unstinting critique of our current American moment. Like I said: goddamn glorious. You can’t hear “Youngstown,” followed by “Murder Incorporated,” followed by “American Skin (41 Shots)” without feeling that peculiar blend of rage and patriotism.

“Whose crimes go still unpunished now”

After a quick, intense introductory rant/verbal essay, he launched immediately into Edwin Starr’s classic “War,” the cover to which on the legendary 1975-85 box set is what turned yours truly into a certified Boss-fanatic back in the day. From then on, it was two hours of Bruce’s angriest songs, an unrelenting and unstinting critique of our current American moment. Goddamn glorious. You can’t hear “Youngstown,” followed by “Murder Incorporated,” followed by “American Skin (41 Shots)” without feeling that peculiar blend of rage and patriotism.

“I pray the devil comes and takes me to stand in the fiery furnaces of hell”

“You can get killed just for living in your American skin”

And then when he sings “Long Walk Home” (slowing down to make sure everyone hears the lyric “Your flag flying over the courthouse/Means certain things are set in stone/Who we are, what we’ll do and what we won’t”), you just want to set things on fire. In the most constructive possible way, of course.

“It’s gonna be a long walk home”

Before his hour-long encore, Bruce wrapped up the theme of the evening with “Land of Hope and Dreams,” reminding us all that there is something worth fighting for even in our present benighted landscape. Then he rocked the hell out of the joint with crowd-pleasers “Born to Run,” “Dancing in the Dark,” and “Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out” before finishing out the evening with Dylan’s “Chimes of Freedom.”

“The criminal clown has stolen the throne”

Bruce told the audience that this tour hadn’t been planned. It became a necessity because he needed to feel the hope and faith of his audience in these trying times. It’s a two-way street, Boss. We needed you, too.

And special thanks to my wife for surprising me with the tickets!

It seems odd to me that a foreign publisher would suddenly be interested in a book from (gulp) 2012. But interested they are! And I had an unexpectedly emotional reaction to the news. You see, my grandfather was a first-generation American, and his parents had fled to the U.S. from — yep — Ukraine. I had never seen my name written in Ukrainian before, and now I have, and, well, it’s just really cool. I think my grandfather would have been proud.

Y’all! I messed up so bad! Back in January, I offered up the first part of a never-written novel set in the Smallville universe, promising to give you the second part in February. But then February was the big cover reveal for Every Hunter is Hunted and when I did March’s newsletter, I completely forgot my promise and shoveled my dumb Swamp Thing/Legion of Super-Heroes fanfic at you!

Anyway, with apologies, here’s the rest of The Monday Man…

Whatever had landed in the north field, it must have been amazing. Jonathan couldn’t remember the last time he’d been able to sneak up on Clark, no less driving the pick-up truck.

He had first run into the house to tell Martha what was happening, urging her to stall any police or fire personnel who might show up at the farm. Then he’d hopped into the truck and set out for the north field, bouncing and shaking over the plowed-up rows and hillocks as he went.

Clark was climbing out of the crater when he pulled up. Jonathan jumped out of the truck — the engine still running — and ran to his son’s side, but Clark didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge him at all. He was staring down into the pit.

“Son?” Jonathan put a hand on Clark’s shoulder. His first concern had to be Clark. “Clark? You all right?”

Clark jerked as if shocked by a live wire. His eyes, normally so expressive and vulnerable, now looked hollow and almost frightened. Confused. “I can’t believe it,” he said after a moment. “It’s just…” He trailed off, shaking his head.

Jonathan hunkered down to look into the pit. The spaceship lay on one side, its top ripped off and set on the ground nearby. Inside…

Jonathan squinted. It couldn’t be.

Inside the ship, lying in what looked like a large, form-fitting cushion of some sort, was a young man, a few years older than Clark. College age. His eyes were closed and he appeared to be sleeping or unconscious, but unharmed and peaceful. Jonathan could see why Clark was so shaken. Never mind the uncanny coincidence of another ship bearing a passenger — the man in the ship bore a strong resemblance to Clark himself. Jonathan had the feeling that — if it weren’t absolutely impossible — he could be looking at his son’s distant cousin. He was wearing —

“Dad, this is… It’s…”

For the first time, Jonathan realized that Clark was well and truly rattled. And who could blame him? He stood and put an arm around Clark’s shoulders to steady him, then glanced back into the crater.

The passenger wore shiny blue boots that came to his shins, red leggings, and a matching red tunic that zipped up the front.

But oddest of all, he also wore a cape.

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I am not a professional designer by any stretch of the imagination, but I do love noodling around with design. For years, I used the Affinity suite of apps, and recently — after an acquisition by Canva — Affinity made its apps free…and combined them all into big ol’ honkin’ mega-app that does photos, illustration, and layout. I like it and it’s fun to play with. And hey, it’s free, so maybe try it out.

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Ryan North just started a run (sorry) on Flash. There’s only one issue out so far, but I like what I see. I’m sort of over the whole “domesticity of superheroes” thing — Grant Morrison wrote the template in the 80s with Animal Man, for God’s sake — but North has fun with it. I’m curious to see where he goes with this.

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Is Jane Toppan the first example of an Angel of Mercy serial killer? I don’t know, but I do know that “Jolly Jane” (as she was called, due to her cheerful demeanor) was a nurse who really, really liked killing people.

Now, I didn’t know about Jolly Jane when I was writing the Killers books — I stumbled upon her more recently. But holy crap does she justify some of the choices I made in those books! Like Billy, she’s a happy killer, seemingly fulfilled by her fatal choices. Like Ugly J, she apparently got a sort of sexual thrill from her murders.

(I don’t know if I should be impressed or horrified by my ability to craft true-to-life psychopaths. 🧐)

Anyway, Jane moved through the society of late nineteenth-century New England, happily nursing away at hospitals, blithely picking out patients and “experimenting” on them with varying doses of medications. And, of course, killing a good number of them.

Finally, she went a bit too far when she *checks notes* killed four members of the same family within a matter of weeks! The police caught on, caught her, and in the early days of the twentieth century, Jolly Jane landed in Taunton Insane Hospital (how’s that for a name?), where she spent the rest of her life, dying right around the same time Superman was born.

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Decades ago, in the halcyon days of the 1980s, I was obsessed with the Legion of Super-Heroes…and Swamp Thing. I had been invited to join a fanzine dedicated to the Legion and decided to blend my interests. The result was the short story below, which I recently unearthed from an old scan on my hard drive. Other than cleaning up some typos, I’ve not changed a word from the original. Please be kind: I was something like 14 when I wrote it…

Click on ol’ Moss-Face to get to the story!

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On March 1, I journeyed into Manhattan to attend a double-feature at the United Palace. It was a showing of Superman: The Movie (1978) and Batman (1989), two films I’d not seen in a theater since, well, 1978 and 1989. And let me tell you, it was a blast! If you ever get the chance to see either of these movies on the big screen again, do so. They really are best watched in a dark theater with a crowd. And the United Palace is a beautiful venue — you can learn about it here.

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I have a slew of action figures in a Cabinet O’ Geekery in my office and the damn things fall down every time I breathe funny. So I decided to solve this problem for myself and in doing so, I’ve made myself ridiculously happy. I ordered some action figure base stands from Tosche Station Emporium, along with two “flying” stands. Now my Legion of Super-Toys stays standing, and Superboy and Mon-El are posed in flight, as Rao intended.

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Pigs, broom handles, dead bodies…and self-publishing???

Look, with a summary like that, you’d assume that we would have to be talking about a good old fashioned American serial killer. But no. This describes the life and “career” of Robert Pickton, a notorious serial killer from the Great White North. Further proof that while the U.S. takes the gold in serial murder, our neighbors to the north do their best to get on the medal stand.

Despite his crimes, it’s actually difficult not to feel a modicum of sympathy for Pickton. Raised on a pig farm in Vancouver, he had a mom who prioritized the pigs over her own children, to the point that she used to send her sons to school unwashed and in the filthy farm clothes they’d used to perform their swinish chores before school. Fortunately, kids are kind and I’m sure he was never bullied over this, right? He raised a calf of his own and came home from school one day to find it slaughtered in the barn. That sort of life.

From a young age, Robert struggled in school. Being taunted with the nickname “Stinky Piggy” probably didn’t help…and may explain why he dropped out to keep working on the pig farm…which he eventually inherited…and then lured sex workers to…and killed them…and (yes) fed their remains to the pigs.

Any sympathy we had for Pickton is surely drained away by now. Fortunately for humanity, he was arrested and put in jail…where he self-published an autobiography and sold it for cold, hard cash! Which, of course, pissed off a lot of people and caused such an outcry that Amazon eventually removed it.

He was eligible for parole in 2024, but another inmate broke a broomstick in half and shoved it through Pickton’s face, killing him, and obviating the possibility of Pickton ever walking free again.

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