Batwoman #1: Hydrology Part 1: Leaching (from The Batmom January 2012)

COVERGIRL: Fiery. Red hair and swirling red and a superimposed skull and fish skeletons. Aside from the skull eyes reminding me a little of the Grinch, I like it. I know right away the story will contain death, water, and some fiery action in the form of Batwoman. Powerful and also, I presume, very plot-driven, which this story-seeker likes in a cover.

INSIDE STORY: A sensuous spectre known as Llorona, or the Weeping Woman, renders parents breathless and absconds with their children, leaving behind the scent of the sea.

Batwoman promises a pair of heartbroken parents she will find their children. On-the-case Detective Sawyer, who reminds me of a blonde Mary Beth Lacey, promises she will not give up. Sawyer and Batwoman (conducting separate investigations) must work quickly: Six children have drowned and another 13 are missing.

Nice co-inky-dink, the whole Sawyer-on-the-case thing, because Batgirl’s alter-ego Kate Kane has herself a crush on the attractive detective. They make a date.

When Batwoman isn’t fighting crime or macking on detectives, she’s training her cousin Bette, aka Teen Titan’s Flamebird. And yelling at her dad, Jake Kane.

Jake swears evildoers killed Kate’s mother and twin sister Beth. Kate believes Beth transformed into super villain Alice, now drowned dead in Gotham Harbor.

Also Batman shows up. In the snow. In the woods. I don’t know why.

Also, we meet a skull-head in a suit, who reminds me of Cigarette Smoking Man from X-Files. (AKA the mayor of SMALLVILLE. All connected, people.)

Cigarette Smoking Skullhead delivers orders to one Agent Chase, who reminds me of Madonna in Express Yourself. CSS assigns Agent Chase to Gotham to investigate a mysterious organization called Medusa and a caped crusader known only as THE BATWOMAN.

Where are the files on the case? Classified by one (dum dum dum) AGENT JAKE KANE.

RAMBLE: Confession: I almost forgot Batwoman #1 when I started writing. Didn’t stay with me. I remembered Batwoman was either lesbian or bisexual because I thought that might be progressive in what I assumed to be a primarily hetero genre. Googling reveals I’m happily wrong; more research to follow.

My forgetting Batwoman doesn’t bode well, but I liked it, in a low-key sorta way. For the first round, it’s to my comic book list as Parks & Rec is to my TV list. Hanging around in the middle.

Holding off on Batgirl/Batwoman comparisons, but as for their villains, the Mirror’s got nothing on Weeping Woman Llorona. She reeks of mythy backstory and has me intrigued.

My biggest complaint with Batwoman is information overload. This might simply be a reality of the genre. Comic book writers have so little space in which to tell complex stories, they cram facts into every tiny comic book crevice. When I get to a point at which I can say “in retrospect,” I might well say, “In retrospect, Batwoman #1 was neither more or less full of facts than any other well-stocked comic book.”

To end, I’d like to introduce a section I’ll be calling The Super Sexy (for more discussion, read “I Break for Boobs.”) Batwoman #1 features several panels of Bette & Kate changing clothes. Kate in her bra. Bette removing her shirt. Bette in her skivvies. Is this really necessary? I’m coming quickly to realize superheroine exposition is a part of the genre. But again I ask – necessary? I’m guessing the sales department thinks so.

Me Me Me (from The Batmom January 2012)

(I spent a year writing and reading Wonder Woman, Batgirl, Batwoman, Catwoman and Supergirl - all from DC's New 52 group. The years ended, the blog ended, I'm moving select posts from TheBatmom over here for safekeeping.)

When I was 8, my mother told the hairdresser to give me a Dorothy Hamill cut. You’ll look perky, she promised. Dorothy Hamill’s hair is as thick and bouncy as her thigh muscles during the Hamill camel. Mine is as thin and limp as corn silk after a thunderstorm.

When I was 8 plus 30 minutes for a haircut, I did look like a Hamill.

Mark Hamill.

Other things Comic Book Mom has suggested: I dress as a hunter for Halloween (16 yo); I join the Young Republicans to “meet people” (22 yo); I stop fretting in the kitchen and go have a drink (Thanksgiving 2011; sometimes she hits it out of the park).

I ignored (and love!) my wonderful mother, you ignored (and love!) your wonderful mother, and my daughter will ignore (and love!) wonderful me. If I like Wonder Woman, my daughter will swear fidelity to Catwoman. If I suggest comics, she’ll head straight for The Clique.

So this search is mine. If she likes my to-be-anointed-super superheroine? Bonus.

Holding Out for a Heroine (from The Batmom January 2012)

(I am slowly moving a few select posts from TheBatmom.com over here for safekeeping. This post ran in December, 2011.)

My daughter needs a superhero. An ass-kicker in primary colors. A bold fighter with a simple insignia and a compass set for good-vs-evil adventure.

She’s gotta be strong and she’s gotta be fast and she’s gotta be fresh from the fight.

I don’t know where to start so I’ll start with a ramble. 

I bought my first comic book at The Friendly Store.

Everybody called The Friendly Store Lavin’s because the Lavins owned it. The Only Restaurant In Town was a better name, or maybe The Place Where Catholics Get Fish and Chips on Fridays. 

Everything felt sticky – the vinyl benches, the BLTs, and the dusty tops of the canned goods sold in the space between the coolers filled with ice cream and the lunch counter filled with guys. 

I loved Lavin’s.

I loved that my grandmother warranted a boothside visit from whichever Lavin was staffing the restaurant. 

I loved walking in by my small self, sent by my aunt working next door to get lunch and sweet tea, which is totally something I must be making up because we’re talking 1975 New England and who the hell ever heard of sweet tea?

I loved when the Lavin behind the counter was nice to me. It must have been the she-Lavin and maybe she called me honey.

I loved it and hated it when the lunch-breaking guys noticed me and would maybe say “oh, she’s Mary’s girl.” Or Peggy’s niece. Or Mrs. Herman’s granddaughter. 

I loved sliding into a booth half-frozen from sledding and ordering a hot chocolate which came from a paper envelope just like the cocoa at home but which still tasted better; and I loved the tiny slivers of ice in the water I asked for and got, even though old man Lavin laughed when I asked and told me to go outside and get myself some snow but be sure not the yellow kind guffaws up and down the counter.

And I loved the comics. 

I’ve consumed verbiage by the sheaf since I was 3. If I’m at a table just me and my bowl and my cereal box, I will read the cereal box 45 times rather than sit there with my loud, pin-balling thoughts. 

So after scarfing down my grilled cheese and chocolate milk and perusing the dusty canned goods, I’d turn to the words, which at Lavin’s meant the newspapers and the comics.

Sometimes I bought myself a Betty & Veronica.

I don’t remember if Lavin’s meager stock included superheroes. If it did, I wouldn’t have been interested. They weren’t on my radar. 

In retrospect, Archie’s girls were petty and dull, especially when compared to my other literary girls. Anne Shirley gumptioned her way into crusty Marilla’s heart. Laura Ingalls wagon-trained her plucky little ass all the way to Kansas. Betty and Veronica squabbled over Archie, whom I liked because he bore a vague resemblance to Richie Cunningham. 

But I read them. For a few years in elementary school, I liked comic books. And then I didn’t buy myself another comic book until I was 40.