• Skip to primary navigation
  • Skip to main content
  • Skip to primary sidebar

Crushing Krisis

Comic Books, Drag Race, & Life in New Zealand

  • DC Guides
    • DC Events
    • DC New 52
    • DC Rebirth
    • Batman Guide
    • The Sandman Universe
  • Marvel Guides
    • Marvel Events
    • Captain America Guide
    • Iron Man Guide
    • Spider-Man Guide (1963-2018)
    • Spider-Man Guide (2018-Present)
    • Thor Guide
    • X-Men Reading Order
  • Indie & Licensed Comics
    • Spawn
    • Star Wars Guide
      • Expanded Universe Comics (2015 – present)
      • Legends Comics (1977 – 2014)
    • Valiant Guides
  • Drag
    • Canada’s Drag Race
    • Drag Race Belgique
    • Drag Race Down Under
    • Drag Race Sverige (Sweden)
    • Drag Race France
    • Drag Race Philippines
    • Dragula
    • RuPaul’s Drag Race
    • RuPaul’s Drag Race All Stars
  • Contact!

red hair

Why I #blamedrewscancer, pt. 4

September 8, 2009 by krisis

(This is the last part of my story. You should read Parts 1, 2, and 3.)

It is a Saturday afternoon, and I am staring out into pure blue, 14,000 feet above the ground, through the open hatch in the side of our tiny plane.

On the ground my partner ran through it with me. Twice. Duckwalk to door. Head leaned back on shouder. One two three go. Or is it one two go-on-three? Tip back and forward, arch your body. Arms out. Keep your mouth closed if you feel like you can’t breathe.

Fly.

Staring out the open side of the plane, his instructions dissolve. Did it matter how I arched my back? Niceties, to placate a nervous jumper.

No matter what, we would fall – flying downward, into the embrace of gravity.

“One.”

“Two.”

…

.

Here is #blamedrewscancer, as it’s root: we are talking about cancer.

Yes, it is inane. Yes, it is about Drew – for now. The point is, Drew gave us that – he gave us his struggle to make as silly or as serious as we need it to be.

Drew doesn’t really care if we say his name or what we blame. He just cares that we are talking about cancer. He wants to harness that conversation to raise awareness, hope, and donations. He wants to bring cancer into our daily dialog so we can work together to erase it rather than willfully ignore it until it touches our lives.

His plan is working. People are talking to Drew about his chemo treatments. I am talking to my friends about my grandmother. My co-workers are talking to each other about someone we lost, and how we can honor the fight that she won.

Blaming Drew’s cancer is inspiring us to live stronger, to be frank and hopeful about fighting cancer, and to show the love and support we may be feeling but afraid to say.

Inspiring us to win our battles.

Inspiring us to leap out of planes.

.

I have dreamt for years that I can fly, so much that I halfway believe it. It’s not an occasional foray – I can fly in every one. The rush of air past my ears and my body, weightless and free. The feeling is familiar, tucked safely under my skin.

I’ve tried to capture it outside of my dreams on playground swings and amusement park rides. I’ve looked down from trade centers, massive arches, and wrought-iron towers. I’ve ridden on airplanes and have been towed behind a boat, limbs caught up in the wind.

The closest I’ve ever come was riding my bike. It was October 12, 1998, and I was three blocks north of here in Jefferson Square park. Biking home from Anastasia’s house, I sped up until the pedals offered no more resistance. Closed my eyes and held out my arms. It only lasted for a second, but that was my first waking flight – a feeling I already knew intimately.

On my list of five things to do before I die, “fly” was first. Fly for more than those fleeting seconds of eleven years ago. Fly like my dreams.

When Drew and Chris asked if I wanted to skydive with the team, it seemed insane. I met these people online. On Twitter. Was I really going to live my dream with a bunch of strangers from the internet?

It was not insane. It was kismet. It was Drew’s whole point. Live Strong. You want to fly? What’s stopping you? Jump out of a damned plane. You want to be a singer? Don’t make an excuse. Use your voice with confidence.

You want to beat cancer? Blame it and battle it and beat the hell out of it every day with all of the power and positive energy you can muster from yourself and from everyone you’ve ever met until you defeat it.

You have cancer, but cancer does not have you.

.

…

“Three.”

FreefallingWe lean back and pitch forward, falling from plane. I arch. For a second it feels like nothing – the velocity of our bodies moving at the speed of the plane and the pull of gravity countermanding each other

Then, acceleration. Real flight, but towards the ground instead of up, up, and away like Superman or Neo.

In my mind I shrug off the man strapped to my back and the photographer waving in my face – unconsciously throwing him rock signs as he gestures towards his camera.

It is what I know beneath my skin, and more. There is no plane above or ground below. There is the rush of air past my ears and my body, weightless and free. There is limitless blue in every direction – I can’t see the ground. Gravity is for the weak-willed and falling is flying, hurtling, easy like love.

Wind blasts my limbs, buffeting my torso like a cascade of water. I feel strangely supported by the air, as if I could stand delicately on it, like snow.

That lasts for about a minute, or for the eternity of every dream I’ve ever had, depending on how I measure.

A whisper in my ear isn’t the wind, it’s my partner, long-since forgotten. I cross my arms, clenching my harness in my fists, and he pulls the cord. The parachute rides up above us, catching the wind. The harness bucks hard, and gravity is countermanded again. My stomach suspends itself.

This is a different kind of flying. Floating, perfectly controlled. Now I see the ground, and it is minuscule below us. Philadelphia rises in the distance, and i feel like we could just tip forward and head that way.

BDC Skydiving I break the silence.

“I should tell you something.”

“Hmm?”

We are having a conversation, circa 7,000 feet.

“I dream that I can fly. Not just some of the time. Like, every dream. It’s just something I can do.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. And it’s just like this.”

We hang in the restored silence, falling slowly. As the ground becomes nearer I scream my trademark soprano wail and listen as it fades away with nothing to reflect against.

Eventually there is a field and a landing strip, and we have a shadow, and it grows larger and larger until our bodies meet it, wrapped once again in gravity’s close embrace and a puddle of mud.

.

Tonight at midnight Drew’s Blame-a-Thon begins – the reason I wound up sitting across the table from him at an Applebee’s two months ago.

In two months I have seen people and businesses do amazing things to encourage Drew and to support LiveStrong, all culminating in tomorrow’s event.

It’s about awareness and fundraising, but to me it feels halfway like faith-healing. Like, maybe if we all focus we can blame the cancer away.

Probably not. Not in one day, at least. But blaming cancer can change lives. It’s a chance to reassign the pain and bullshit in your life to something that really deserves it so you can stop making excuses and just live strong.

Blame cancer and change your life. Blame cancer and change someone else’s.

I blame Drew’s cancer for any second that I’m not living my ideal life as a stronger, faster, fiercer me.

And I am thankful for every moment that I am.

Filed Under: betterment, dreamt, flying, high school, memories, stories, Twitter, weblinks, Year 10 Tagged With: blamedrewscancer, gina, red hair

Bad Teenage Poetry Blogging Day

August 12, 2008 by krisis

Yesterday Rabi pointed out that Superlagirl had declared today to be bad teenage poetry blogging day, and issued a challenge for other bloggers to join her in participating.

Alright then, Rabi. I’ll see your four pieces of (debatably) bad teenage poetry and – against my better judgment – raise you my (less-debateably) bad teenage poetry website preserved in all of its framed glory, directly imported from Geocities.

Behold: Synonyms for Damage. Even the name is bad teenage poetry!

Honestly, I only reinstated it for the novelty of having it there – I wouldn’t encourage you to surf through it, as I will share the chief passages of note below.

[Read more…] about Bad Teenage Poetry Blogging Day

Filed Under: high school, linkylove, poetry, self-critique Tagged With: rabi, red hair, Tori Amos

Pheromones (or, Maybe I Should Just Change My Brand of Shampoo)

June 30, 2006 by krisis

When i worked as an intern at Record Kingdom the big man named Train once gave a little speech about pheromones. Because, you know, before he was a DJ he was a biology major.

“Pheromones,” he opined, “are in the air between us humans. You’re naive if you think they don’t exist, and if you don’t think certain things might trigger them. They change as you change, and as things change you.”

His statement was in response to my stating that it felt as though more girls were hitting on me now that my dating Elise had become a permanent fixture of my life. His prevailing thought was that my having someone to make out with was triggering my pheromones to be released into the air, attracting all the women i could never have before.

After that i think he headed off to the record room to smoke a joint.

.

It was early in the day today that i decided that i must be putting off pheromones. I’m not sure exactly when it occurred to me. It was after the first girl, in the subway. She was plain, not anyone i’d be caught flirting with. But, she had Anastasia’s jeans.

Not her exact pair, maybe. But, the same sort of jeans. Jeans you’d expect to be riding low on the punk hips of a dirty rocker boy, but instead were showing tantalizing not-too-flat ovals of flesh of a girl without being hip-hugging in the least.

I don’t know. I guess it find those jeans sexy in the same way i always think girls who wear Happy are attractive. Anastasia is the first person i hung out with for that amount of time prior to college – she was bound to have an impact on me. This isn’t a story about her, though.

Mostly not, anyhow.

I remember thinking as i started relentlessly at the belly- and crotch-area of this poor unsuspecting girl that she couldn’t be too happy about a stranger gawking at her girly areas, boyishly hot jeans or not. She didn’t seem to mind, though, even though I was sure she had spotted me at least twice.

When the Orange finally arrived we wound up in the same car, but i made sure to sit facing backwards while she walked a lazy switch to the front of the car. No more staring for me.

Not at that girl, anyhow. You see, at the next stop entered a young woman – who i’ve seen before – in possession of exactly the crushingly fragile quality of one Ms. Kirsten Dunst.

(Now, it has been said that best friend Lindsay also resembles Ms. Dunst, so much so that when said starlet pranced in her underwear in a particular film we all averted our eyes from the screen in embarrassment because Lindsay was sitting there in the same theatre. Creepy. Yet, Lindsay’s way of resembling Kirsten is different; she possesses more of that daffy smile, and those charming eyes. I’d hardly describe her as fragile.)

I immediately averted my gaze from the Dunst-a-like, cursing under my breath that i probably should have left the house early like Elise asked me to so i wouldn’t feel like i was running the gauntlet of girly temptation for the entirety of my commute. What would be the point, anyhow? It’s not as if i would walk up to the girl, saying in my coolest jive, “Has anyone told you that you have the eminently breakable look of Ms. Kirsten Dunst?”

It was moot, that point, as the young lady chose (quite improbably, based on other available seats, which supports pheromones theory) to sit directly next to me, pinning me between a sideways-facing seat and the window with her porcelain Dunstness. She was fiddling with her Nano, unable to drag it out of the silken purse that was acting as its case.

Don’t look at her song. Don’t look at her song. Don’t look. Just don’t. It was either bound to be some favorite of mine (older Rilo Kiley, i decided), or something off of the Elizabethtown soundtrack. I would have to start a conversation. And, honestly, even when i’m trying to start a purely geek-to-geek conversation with a pretty young woman i feel weird – as if i’ve finally perfecting the whole notion of picking someone up when i really only want to talk about record collections.

I was sure she had to be getting off at Market because, really, who doesn’t, but when i made that half-hearted “I’m standing up now” motion she just looked over at me and gave me a haphazard sort of smile that could contextually either mean “oh, sorry, just squeeze past me,” or maybe, “yes, it is sort of creepy how Kirsten dates Jake Gyllenhaal when she could body-double for his sister,” but probably the first, because i had to squeeze past her to get off at Market Street.

I spent my walk to the Green smiling about my encounter, and how ridiculous i am. Of course i could have spoken to her; it’s not as though i lack for the power of speech. And it wouldn’t have had to be creepy. I could just say, “I see you a lot when i’m RIDING WITH MY GIRLFRIEND OF FOUR-AND-A-HALF YEARS hi how are you?”

That thought carried me as far as a seat on the Green, which i ride just for one stop, and i looked up from it to find…

No, please, guess.

If i found the Dunst-a-like somewhat attractive, if just in her impersonation and not for any individually-possessed reason, i was now encountering the REAL DEAL(TM) – someone an order-of-magnitude or three beyond in her actual attractiveness. This woman… her name, for sure, is Elizabeth G-something or O-something, and she works in our Marketing department, and she is possessed of a surreal otherworldly beauty of Alison Headley playing a Rivendell Elf in anamorphic widescreen.

Of course, i don’t have any sort of unrequited desire for Alison Headley (that i’m aware of), so this woman is much more intimidating – as she is in possession of her own allure. For all other intents and purposes she’s just some Marketing chick from South Philly, but i have such a ridiculously huge elevator crush on her and the thing is i have every reason to talk to her because i make friends on the elevator all the time.

We exit, and i slip past her on the stairs up to our building. Enough with the women. I was late for work, anyhow. Into the lobby, into the elevator, up up and away. I fairly flung the revolving door behind me, perhaps hoping to trip up the next commuter so as to delay elf-Alison from catching up to me.

Into the elevator, turn, and there she was again, smiling in recognition at me after our Green ride (and countless prior silent elevator rides, because god forbid i open my mouth and learn something about her to make her less incredibly frightening). And, as i was pinned into my seat in the Orange, here i was pinned into the back corner of the elevator as she chatted merrily about some unintelligible work topic with someone else who had entered the elevator.

.

I had never been so happy to get into my cubicle.

It might sound silly, but after those twin encounters i felt somehow set-upon – as if i was being dared to find someone more attractive than Elise, or have some sort of unfaithful thought. And, of course, i would do neither, but a pretty girl is still a pretty girl, made somehow more threatening by the fact that i am now socially empowered to say hello without any fear of actually being a repulsive moron.

No, just the fear that i might be mistaken for trying to get a number, and mistakenly get a number thinking i had made a new friend, and then going out for a drink sometime only to have her lean in unexpectedly for a kiss and why did she do that?

Better off in my cube. No women in there. And, honestly, it made the day go by. I kept chuckling at myself, at how i unintentionally wound up sitting next two of the more attractive elements of my commute. What a day, i thought.

Somewhere towards the middle of said day i was charged with bringing a letter up to Legal, and not returning until it was approved. Typical fare, and a nice Friday duty because at least i was comfortable in a pair of jeans and not jousting with lawyers in power-suits. In any event, i was going up to see my second-favorite lawyer. A fun task. I phone-tagged with her assistant to make sure i was an expected guest.

I left the letter with the lawyer and waited politely outside her office by her assistant’s vacant desk while she read.

“Oh, excuse me.”

Around my hip slipped the most attractive Legal assistant of the Legal Department, to sit at second-favorite-lawyer’s-assistant’s desk. Except, she wasn’t s-f-l’s assistant. Of this, i was as sure as i was that her reading glasses only enhanced her librarian hotness. My Director teases me every time she drops something off to our department, probably because i blush the shade of cranberry each time she taps me on the shoulder.

“You’re not s-f-l’s assistant,” i said, blush now fully engaged.

She giggled, “Yes i am.”

“No, you’re some-other-lawyer’s assistant. You never sit at this desk.”

“I must have been filling in. I’ve been s-f-l’s assistant all year.”

“Oh.”

At least this time the attractive woman was where she was supposed to be, and not just sidling up to me unexpectedly on public transit. Having stepping firmly in a pile of awkward with my opening volley, i let her take charge of the conversation.

“Busy down there even before a holiday, huh?”

“Even busier, i think. There’re always communications to be reviewed, but there’s less of us here to move them around.”

“Well, you seem to be holding up very well.”

“Erm. Yes.”

S-f-l’s door opened, mercifully.

(I should mention, here, that S-F-L is a rather strikingly attractive woman who has about decade on me. Thankfully, slightly older women just don’t take the sense out of me like every other woman does.)

“Peter, your shoes match your shirt perfectly.”

“So you’re done signing off on the i’m sorry what did you say?”

“Your shoes,” my secound-favorite-lawyer said, and, of course her assistant had now come out of her cube to stare at my shoes along with s-f-l. “They are the exact shades of brown and blue as your shirt.”

I was wearing shoes that i had picked while Bonnaroo-shopping with Mary. She picked a pair of shoes that i liked, so i bought them too. Yes, girl’s shoes. Size 11 girl’s shoes.

Assistant: “Did you do that intentionally?”

Me: “What?” Buy girl’s shoes?

Assistant: “When you were getting dressed?”

Me: Um… Don’t you dare think of me naked.

S-F-L: Or, did you buy them just for that shirt?

Assistant: Or, the shirt just for those shoes?

S-F-L: Oo, or that?

Me: They’re girl’s shoes! I’m wearing girls shoes. Thanksforsigningoffontheletter, everybodydrivesafelyfortheholiday, thankyou, goodbye.

.

To spare you several thousand more words of elaboration, suffice it to say that the intense female-attention weirdness continued, unabated, through the end of the work day and into my private life. After work my shampoo woman of several years hugged me goodbye. Oddness.

New haircut on head, i decided to walk off the end of my obvious pheromone-attack with a tangerine water-ice and an extra two blocks before catching the dreaded orange-line that began it all. Now i was suspicious – and how could i not be – of every woman passing me on the street. I projected thoughts towards them as loudly as i could.

Sorry, i’m taken. My girlfriend is way hotter, actually. No, i’ve never even been inside an Abercrombie.

My internal monologue carried me down to the Orange at Lombard, platform newly emptied by a Northbound train. I finished the last spoon of oranged-ice and tossed my paper cup into the garbage. Not too much longer for a train.

Through the backs of the stairs to the platform i saw a pair of feet carrying a definitely female body down the flight. One more challenge before i get home, i thought with a chuckle. As if she would sit next to me on a completely empty subway platform. Yes, that would prove that i was truly strong with the pheromonage for the day.

The female shape rounded the side of the stairs and headed towards my half of the platform. Just half. 50/50 chance. Not a threat.

I looked intently at my girl-shoes. They were cute.

I heard the rustle of her dress as she approached, spying peripherally that she was wearing blue/green leotards under her dress. Must be heading to a bench farther than mine.

Then i felt the rustle of her dress.

“Peter?”

I looked up from my slimly lined shoes.

It was Anastasia.

.

Stop for a moment to marvel at the symmetry. Had the day i had been fated to me, starting with the Anastasia-jeaned girl and ending with me inexplicably waiting for the reverse of the same train with Anastasia herself? Or, could i have averted it all by leaving the house with Elise, or even by not buying the water ice? Why does life turn out the way that it does?

.

I won’t record Anastasia’s chapter of my pheromone-soaked day, because it really had nothing to do with it. Just two formerly close friends catching up for the first time as adults. I was stymied after a day of being beset by women who look great and mean nothing to be met by one who means an awful lot. An awful lot of memories and songs and hung-low jeans and perfumes that invoke her to this day.

Off the subway we kept talking until we came to Reed, up the street eleven blocks from the house where i lived that year we were friends. We exchanged no numbers, but some digital information, and briefly hugged goodbye. And, i could feel my pheromone day come to a close as it collided with her perfume.

She was no longer drenched in Happy – something sweeter and folksier – i thought, and it hung at the edge of my collar long after our hug had ended and i had crossed Broad. Whatever my animal allure of the day had been, the spell had been broken there in that friendly hug. No attraction to silly jeans, or imitation Dunstness, or elven allure, or a sharp pair of reading glasses. Just a hug.

Maybe it was my imagination all along.

Filed Under: corporate, day in the life, rk.com, stories, Year 06 Tagged With: red hair

Dear To Me

December 8, 2004 by krisis

I don’t write a lot of open letters.

I remember when I lived on 64th street in that grand, old, dilapidated house. It seemed so vivid at the time, but in retrospect my life there seems so one-dimensional – as if I didn’t begin to be the person I am now until I left.

We used to talk all night on instant messenger. My computer was in the dining room, far away from any comfort at all. It didn’t matter, though. I could sit forever and talk to you. Idle chatter. Guess that Tori lyric. Whatever.

I used to send you songs, especially that one summer when I really started writing them. I’d dash one off and email it right to you. I trusted you so much with them – I don’t think I’ve ever let anyone that close to them before or since. I let you in on these little secrets of mine, and wove some of yours in too, and you always accepted them so graciously, sometimes even replying with another snippet your oblique novella (never finished).

It all got so different when I moved just around the corner from you. I don’t know why. On one hand, it let us be close friends instead of just remote acquaintances. On the other, I was near you so much, being constantly reminded that I was just idle entertainment; I was no main act. I’m always cautious to say that I fell in love with anyone, because it’s hard to love in only one direction, but in my way I know that at the time I was in love with you.

You knew. I know you knew, and knew it then, and would remind you occasionally in case you had changed your mind. You were always quite kind about it, really, because you let me into so much of your life (I’ve never been sure why).

I still hold some of those memories – stupid memories – so close to my heart. The stupid movies we would go to see, the time we put an old shoe into Andrea’s Christmas gift so she wouldn’t know what it was, the time you took that perfect self-portrait of your hair and your bangs and I decided that it had to be the cover of my album. And the music; you made me listen to Rufus Wainwright, and told me how the song was about how his lover had died of AIDS, or the first time you made me listen to Elliott Smith and Built To Spill, or the first time I made you listen to Dilate. So much good music in your room.

I’m really sorry for whatever I did to you. I think I talked about your life too much, as if somehow a tiny piece of it was owed to me. Or, maybe was a little too mean to you in my songs; both are crimes I’ve gone on to repeat. I don’t know; sometime that Winter I did something to erode the closeness, and you just went on living.

I’ve gotten over lots of girls – you’ve seen me do it once or twice. But, you know, I’ve never really gotten over you. I don’t think it’s because I never got to kiss you because, let’s face it, how many of these girls have I gotten to kiss, really? I just think it’s because you always let me feel so safe, and so cool, and I just don’t have that anymore. I guess I’ve never really had to lose anyone else that I’ve loved.

I’m sorry, you probably didn’t need to read any of this. I was just singing one of those songs and I realized that I really do miss you.

I’m sorry.

Filed Under: my music, Year 05 Tagged With: red hair

December 23, 2003 by krisis

When was it that i learned how to tuck the corners in so deftly? This is the first year that i’ve been good enough to warrant the question; the first time that i haven’t hollered frantically for Erika to hold down the folds for me while i taped them. I remember how i used to do it not so long ago, wrapping paper around and around a box and then practically fashioning a bow out of scotch tape to hold it all down. I hated wrapping, and i hated wrapped presented. I told my mother not to bother; “Why use all that time and paper,” i said, “just so i can rip it open?”

When did i start to thrill in surprise? High school’s last Christmas Anastasia and i sat on her floor with empty shoe-boxes and packages of tissue paper trying to decide how to best obscure our killer compact discs. I taped mine down in a goloshes box and covered it with layers of tissue while she created a protective exoskelton to protect the tell-tale shape of her jewel case. Still that mass of paper, still that scotch tape bow, but i understood something about the thrill of surprise; it wasn’t enough just to buy, but to keep guessing until the last possible second.

When did i make it my own? Last Christmas i got a few excellent gifts, but i was more intent on giving. Elise helped me hunt down a wonderful list of bottle stops, DVD players, chess sets, Dr. Seuss Books, and Guiness playing cards in a whirlwind weekend while i slowly amassed her own pile of presents solo. I shopped fearlessly into late December not because i was fearless, but because i was no longer celebrating the same holiday as the people in the line in front of me. When all was said and done i had re-charged half of my credit card, but i was too happy doing it to stop. Christmas had finally stopped being a season, or an obligation — it was an excuse to give something to some of the people that i loved the most.

I almost forgot that this year, creating invisible, impractical, self-imposed timelines and deadlines for myself. Yet, as i lined up the pattern on the wrapping paper so perfectly a few minutes ago, as i cut out my own inventive little gift tags and wrote in the cards, i realized that i have come all the way around: from understanding the joy of surprise, to understanding the joy of the season, to understanding the joy of creating the surprise.

I will never submit myself to the Christmas celebrated by the people i stand in line with at the cash register. It isn’t about their idea, or my idea, or the cash register. It’s about liking the giving so much that you hardly care about what you get in return. It’s about liking it so much that you let it creep into March and September, buying things just because, so that when you look down your list sometimes you can say “i already gave them the perfect gift.”

But, it isn’t about my idea, and you’re giving me an excellent gift right now. Here’s to hoping your ideas are working out just as perfectly.

https://www.crushingkrisis.com/2003/12/107216091026681200/

Filed Under: elise, essays, Year 04 Tagged With: red hair, x-mas

  • Page 1
  • Page 2
  • Page 3
  • Go to Next Page »

Primary Sidebar


Support Crushing Krisis on Patreon
Support CK
on Patreon


Follow me on BlueSky Follow me on Twitter Contact me Watch me on Youtube Subscribe to the CK RSS Feed

About CK

About Crushing Krisis
About My Music
About Your Author
Blog Archive
Comics Blogs Only
Contact Krisis
Terms & Conditions

Crushing Comics

Marvel Comics

Marvel Events Guide

Spider-Man Guide

DC Comics

  • Tigereyes Most Wanted DC Omnibus 2nd Annual Poll
    The Tigereyes Most Wanted DC Omnibus 2nd Annual Poll […]
  • Tigereyes Most Wanted Marvel Omnibus 2025 Avengers Omnibus MappingTIME TO VOTE – 13th Annual Tigereyes Most-Wanted Marvel Omnibus Poll
    It's time to vote in the 13th Annual Tigereyes Most-Wanted Marvel Omnibus Poll! […]
  • Tigereyes Most Wanted Marvel Omnibus 2025 Marvels Anthology Omnibus MappingEvery Missing Marvel Anthology Omnibus, Mapped | 13th Annual Tigereyes Most-Wanted Marvel Omnibus Poll
    Marvel Magazine & Anthology omnibus mapping for books that don't yet exist - all options on the Tigereyes Most Wanted Marvel Omnibus 13th Annual Secret Ballot […]
  • Tigereyes Most Wanted Marvel Omnibus 2025 My Love Silver Age Omnibus MappingEvery Missing Non-Superhero Silver Age Omnibus, Mapped | 13th Annual Tigereyes Most-Wanted Marvel Omnibus Poll
    Marvel Non-Superhero Silver Age omnibus mapping for books that don't yet exist - all options on the Tigereyes Most Wanted Marvel Omnibus 13th Annual Secret Ballot […]
  • Tigereyes Most Wanted Marvel Omnibus 2025 Alf Marvel License Omnibus MappingEvery Missing Marvel License Omnibus (+ Indiana Jones), Mapped | 13th Annual Tigereyes Most-Wanted Marvel Omnibus Poll
    Marvel's License Omnibus mapping for non-Marvel IP books that don't exist - all options on the Tigereyes Most Wanted Marvel Omnibus 13th Annual Secret Ballot […]
  • Tigereyes Most Wanted Marvel Omnibus 2025 X-Files FOX Omnibus MappingEvery Missing Marvel 20th Century FOX Omnibus (+ Indiana Jones), Mapped | 13th Annual Tigereyes Most-Wanted Marvel Omnibus Poll
    20th Century FOX omnibus mapping for books that don't yet exist - all options on the Tigereyes Most Wanted Marvel Omnibus 13th Annual Secret Ballot […]
  • Tigereyes Most Wanted Marvel Omnibus 2025 Darth Vader Star Wars Omnibus MappingEvery Missing Marvel Star Wars Omnibus, Mapped | 13th Annual Tigereyes Most-Wanted Marvel Omnibus Poll
    Star Wars omnibus mapping for books that don't yet exist - all options on the Tigereyes Most Wanted Marvel Omnibus 13th Annual Secret Ballot […]
  • Image Comics April 30 2025 New ReleasesNew Comics & Collected Editions Releases: Image Comics – April 30 2025
    This week in Image Comics: Copra dies, Wes Craig draws a silent Duke, DWJ's Transformers gets deluxed, Feral wraps its first year, a new fantasy from Curt Pires, conflict finds the Rocketfellers, life after a death in We're Taking Everyone Down with Us, and more! […]
  • Tigereyes Most Wanted Marvel Omnibus 2025 Marvel Imprints Alternate Realities Demon Days Omnibus MappingEvery Missing Marvel Imprint & Alternate Reality Omnibus, Mapped | 13th Annual Tigereyes Most-Wanted Marvel Omnibus Poll
    Marvel Imprint & Alternate Reality omnibus mapping for books that don't yet exist - all options on the Tigereyes Most Wanted Marvel Omnibus 13th Annual Secret Ballot […]
  • Tigereyes Most Wanted Marvel Omnibus 2025 Marvel UK Omnibus MappingEvery Missing Marvel UK Omnibus, Mapped | 13th Annual Tigereyes Most-Wanted Marvel Omnibus Poll
    Marvel UK omnibus mapping for books that don't yet exist - all options on the Tigereyes Most Wanted Marvel Omnibus 13th Annual Secret Ballot […]
  • Tigereyes Most Wanted Marvel Omnibus 2025 Ultimate Marvel Omnibus MappingEvery Missing Ultimate Marvel Omnibus, Mapped | 13th Annual Tigereyes Most-Wanted Marvel Omnibus Poll
    Ultimate Marvel omnibus mapping for books that don't yet exist from its debut to the present day - all options on the Tigereyes Most Wanted Marvel Omnibus 13th Annual Secret Ballot […]
  • Tigereyes Most Wanted Marvel Omnibus 2025 Fear Itself Omnibus MappingEvery Missing Marvel Event Omnibus, Mapped | 13th Annual Tigereyes Most-Wanted Marvel Omnibus Poll
    Marvel Event omnibus mapping for books that don't yet exist - all options on the Tigereyes Most Wanted Marvel Omnibus 13th Annual Secret Ballot […]
  • DC Comics April 30 2025 New ReleasesNew Comics & Collected Editions Releases: DC Comics – April 30 2025
    This week in DC Comics: Ewing does Detective, Grodd's reign continues in Waid's League, All-In Special hits paperback, Power Company recharges, a Silver Lantern omnibus, and more! […]
  • Tigereyes Most Wanted Marvel Omnibus 2025 Namor Omnibus MappingEvery Missing Marvel Solo Hero Omnibus from N to Z, Mapped – Namor, Scarlet Witch, Thanos & more! | 13th Annual Tigereyes Most-Wanted Marvel Omnibus Poll
    Marvel Solo Heroes omnibus mapping from N to Z for books that don't yet exist - all options on the Tigereyes Most Wanted Marvel Omnibus 13th Annual Secret Ballot […]

Content Copyright ©2000-2023 Krisis Productions

Crushing Krisis participates in affiliate programs including (but not limited to): Amazon Services LLC Associates Program (in the US, UK, Canada, France, Germany, Italy, and Spain), eBay Partner Network, and iTunes Affiliate Program. If you make a qualifying purchase through an affiliate link I may receive a commission.