17-September-2009

 

Ace began for me with my Uncle Don’s comic book shop. I must’ve been about 10 or 11 when he opened it in downtown Connellsville and my dad took my brother and me to the grand opening to show our support. My cousin D.J. – later D.J. Coffman of "Hero by Night" and Flobots – must’ve been in his late teens because I remember him flipping through a stack of books behind the cash register with a chip on his shoulder. My cousin Dean was marching around the floor-to-ceiling racks like an adolescent king. And Uncle Don himself I remember standing with his arms crossed in a black Harley t-shit and jeans. He was joking and laughing with my dad, who still had his Kirby dealership on the West Side. It was the mid-‘90s, and for a family of local business owners life was good.

Maybe it’s because they remind me of these good times that I’ve stuck with comics as an adult. But the books I got into from that trip to Uncle Don’s store also shaped my outlook on the medium for the rest of my life. Before that I’d read comics, but they’d been mainstream books, typical superhero brain candy. Probably the best of them was the "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles" series, though I can’t say at that age I understood the humor. Otherwise, most comic books turned me off. I remember one particularly dumb issue of "The Spectacular Spider Man" that killed the property for me forever: Its whole storyline revolved around Spidey and the Juggernaut beating the crap out of each other. Even as a kid I wasn’t what you’d call a pacifist, but nothing but fighting just seemed boring.

My point in explaining all this is that I’d been off comics a couple years when I stepped into my uncle’s shop, and that one experience totally turned it around for me. I remember seeing books that had nothing to do with over-serious meat heads beating each other up – books like "Ren and Stimpy," "Bevis and Butthead" and "The Maxx." These books definitely weren’t for kids, even if they did have cartoon adaptations on MTV and Nickelodeon. But I’m lucky my dad thought all comics were child’s play and bought me a stack. Within hours I was back into reading them, and my obsession hasn’t slowed to this day.

My love of dark humor and complex characters continued through high school with Garth Enis’s work on "The Darkness" and post-college when I landed an internship with Wizard Entertainment’s InQuest Gamer. There I got a crash course in comic lit from my managing editor, Brent Fishbaugh, as well as Wizard's Jim Gibbons and Ricky Purdin. These guys are still some of the funniest people I’ve ever known, and though I was only at InQuest for nine months, working with them was the comics equivalent of studying under top literary critics like Frank Kermode and Clive James.

They picked up on my tastes quickly and made suggestions between riotous jokes like Ricky’s “Do you think it’s OK to describe a book as ‘like chewing on a mouthful of dirty needles’?” Better still, I had access to Wizard’s library. I soaked up "The Watchmen," "Sin City," "The Dark Knight Returns," "A.K.A. Goldfish," "Alias," "Cross Bronx"… everything they threw my way. By the time Wizard World LA 2007 arrived, I had a master's in comics noir. And whom should I run into in Cali but D.J.

It had been 15 years since that day in his dad’s shop, so I don’t blame D.J. for not recognizing me. The comics industry – store owners, creators and publishers – is pretty close-knit. And I guess it’s not too ridiculous to imagine multiple family members being involved in it. But at the time it seemed like the most out-of-this-world coincidence to run into him in the mass of West Coast fandom. He had just won the 2006 Comic Book Challenge for "Hero by Night" and was furiously scribbling autographs at Platinum Studios’ booth. Being staff, I had my own copy of the convention schema and had recognized his name in the Artist Alley section. But I decided to play a little joke and wait my turn in line. When I stepped up to the table, I handed him $10 for a copy of all four "Hero by Night" variant covers. Then, I gave him my name and waited. His black felt pen had just hit the cover of the first book when he stopped.

“Phill?”

I smiled, and D.J. shot up ecstatically.

”Shoot, man, what are you doing here?” he asked, hugging me over the table.

”I’m working,” I said pointing to the Wizard press pass dangling from my neck.

Both of us started laughing because, I guess, neither could believe the other was actually there. D.J. quickly handed the strong box to his colorist, Jason Embury, and we walked out to the LA Convention Center’s runway-sized atrium to grab a soda.

That night’s afterparty belonged to Ed Brubaker. He had just killed Captain America, not only selling out a whole print run of issues and variant covers, but also making one of the most intense political statements of the Bush era. It was as if everyone at the shindig around the Roosevelt Hotel’s swimming pool thought that by talking to him some of his genius would rub off. I played the part of the lowly intern and stayed away on purpose. I found D.J. and Jason with Platinum Studios owner Scott Rosenberg a few minutes after arriving and immediately joined them at their Tiki Torch-lit table. Ed was everywhere, a man riding on the crest of success and flowing coolly between the plastic deck furniture. But I was having such a great time with D.J. I barely noticed when Ed kifed my lighter. Heck, I was so far gone at that point I could barely see. I was friends with one company executive’s daughter, who had come out as part of the crew, and she’d handed me half a roll of bar tickets at the door. Seriously, I was always kind of dorky in high school – never even had a girlfriend till I was in college. So the ’07 Wizard World LA after party was basically my prom.

Eventually, I found myself on one of the massive leather sofas in the Roosevelt’s low-lit lobby. D.J. and Jason were there, and somehow, although I’d run out of tickets hours before, I still had a steady stream of Cuba Libres coming from the bar. D.J., who doesn’t drink, was sober, but Jason and I were so smashed it was infectious. I felt so free and happy, in fact, I wasn’t ashamed to mention that I wanted to write my own comics someday. The thing was, I’d never really thought about what I would write about. Immediately after I mentioned it, D.J. asked who my main character would be, and having soaked up so much of the lobby’s 1930s ambiance, all I could think of was old Dashiell Hammett novels:

“He’d be like Nick Charles from 'The Thin Man,' but more updated. Kind of like if Nick dressed like something out of a Killers video,” I said.

“That’d look great,” Jason said.

“Sure,” D.J. agreed. “But I’m not talking about how your character would look. What I mean is, who is he, what’s he like?”

D.J.’s brotherly push was all I needed. About three bottles of Bacardi were working on me, and suddenly I couldn’t stop gushing. I said my character would be a classic Odysseus figure: He’d be slick and able to do just about anything, but fate would always throw him into some mess that he’d have to work his way out of. He wouldn’t be physically strong; maybe he’d even be a bit pudgy and incapable of winning a fistfight. He would have a James Bond feel but in a comical way: He wouldn’t be in control of what was going on, but would always try to come across like he was. His girlfriend would be the real hero. She’d always be getting him out of trouble and wouldn’t just wave her chest and butt around like the usual comic book heroine. It would be funny. The whole thing would be a big joke. Heck, this guy’s arch-rival would be kind of like President Bush….

I went on until I ran out of things to say. My imagination had lost its brakes, but D.J. and Jason let me follow the whole thing out. Finally, when I was silent for a minute or so, D.J. leaned back in his seat and said, “I think you’ve got a pitch.”

“Seriously?”

”Well, it’s a good start anyhow. Why don’t you see if you can find someone to publish it?”

My cousin is one of my biggest heroes, so the affirmation he gave me that night was one of the best gifts I’ve ever gotten. But it would still be another year and a half till I found a taker for my idea. In the meantime, Wizard Entertainment canceled InQuest, and my hopes of moving up to full-time staff - then working my way into scripting for a big print publisher - ended just about the time the recession hit. Over the next 13 months I clerked at a public library – probably the dullest, most demeaning job ever – but since I had a lot of spare time there, I also began freelance copy writing. My steadiest gigs came from online gambling sites, particularly those owned by a guy named Michael Bosch.

It made perfect sense economically: During recessions every industry goes flat except for vices like gambling, porn, booze and guns. Booze and guns you can’t really sell online, and it’s a tough moral call between the other two. Frankly, I’ve always seen myself as a pretty upstanding guy. So I felt it was a little selfish to get involved, even as a writer, in a vice industry. Still, I meant to survive the recession, and thinking that gambling was less destructive than porn – nobody, after all, gets AIDS from shuffling cards – I decided it wouldn’t be bad to work for Mike full-time.

I’d just come off writing several successful articles, so when I asked, Mike was happy to offer me a spot. Within a week I had tendered my resignation at the library and was back to writing all day. Mike, however, wasn’t happy with my initial efforts. At a one-on-one meeting in a trendy Upper East Side restaurant he said he wanted something “new” and “different” – something none of his competitors had – and I wasn’t giving him that.

After listening to Mike’s complaints over a plate of extremely dry couscous, I wandered Downtown to meet my friend Dave. Dave had used his time since college a little more wisely, and while I’d struggled to find work as a writer, he’d finished a real master's degree and done well as a hedge-fund manager. I met Dave and his girlfriend, Megan, in a West Village cocktail lounge themed on English tea houses. They had just come from one of the Yoga classes Dave teaches in his free time and were wearing sweat clothes. They had also brought along Megan’s friend Lauren. The girls were sitting on a pew-style bench with flower-print upholstery, and both Dave and Megan were trying to coax me into a conversation with Lauren.

I was so distracted by what Mike had said that I was worthless as a double date, and eventually Dave and Meg gave up. Instead, when our plate of cheeses and capers came, Dave began explaining his tattoos. He said the cryptic ones on his right forearm were inspired by "The Sandman" and he’d gotten them in school because he’d always identified with Morpheus’s alienation. In college, Dave and I were creative types, and his explanation brought me back to when his band did live shows at Oxford’s Jericho Tavern. I felt the years between pull on me and thought about how Dave had done the smart thing and I had done nothing. Then, I remembered my conversation with D.J. the year before. Dave later said my whole mood changed after he started talking about his tattoos. He was right. It did. I left Dave, Lauren and Megan that night knowing exactly what I would do: I was going to pitch my updated "Thin Man" to Mike.

Up to that point, the idea of incorporating comics into my articles had already crept in, and I’d even convinced Mike to spring for some artwork. The problem was I hadn’t fully incorporated our advertising structure into a unified concept. It hadn’t occurred to me that a Western-style comic series could revolve around a game, like Japanese “sport” manga. What it would take to pull it all together was a sudden amount of professional pressure, which Mike unknowingly provided the following Monday:

I had just faxed over a contract for an artist I’d selected to work on an article about sleight-of-hand tricks when Mike called. He said he wanted to forget the guy I’d sent the contract for and go with his friend Tomas.

”That would be bad business,” I said. “The artist I picked has already signed the contract.”

“Either you come up with something for Tomas to do, or I can’t sign for this other guy.”

“OK. Give me five seconds.”

I leaned back in my desk chair and folded my hands over my eyes. I was scared, but I couldn’t think about that. I had to concentrate on how I was going to do this. I was going to give Mike his next big idea, and as my mind gathered the working parts in my mental junkyard, I could feel myself getting excited. After four seconds I sprung forward and picked up the phone.

“Mike, we’re gonna do a comic series about a professional-gambler-slash-secret-agent.”

“What?”

”Sure. You wanted something nobody else has, this is it: Doyle-Brunson-meets-James-Bond. You’re gonna love it.”

“What’s it called? We need something that works well with Google.”

“That’s easy. Call it ‘Ace Hoyle.’”

”Hoyle like the card company. Ace like a….”

”Like the card.”

“I love it.”

”I know.”

After Mike and I got off the phone, I wondered who that confident guy speaking through me had been. It was me, of course, but somehow it wasn’t. It felt good to believe in my own ideas so much I could explain them clearly and convincingly. I lit a cigarette and paced around my desk. Mike had agreed to bankroll the entire thing, meaning I’d just successfully made my first pitch. "The Adventures of Ace Hoyle" was a go....

By: Phill Provance & Tomas Batha
phill.provance@acehoyle.com

To avoid legal redress under international copyright law reprinters must cite the name of the above article's author and that author's e-mail address, and they must link to its publishing site: www.acehoyle.com.

 

 

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