For lack of a better word, this issue is dippy. It’s not particularly bad–nowhere near Wasteland‘s worst–but it’s definitely dippy.
As usual, the fault tends to lie with the writers. The first story is a Close autobiographical, again scripted by Ostrander. In it, Close goes to L. Ron Hubbard for therapy. The beautiful David Lloyd art–until a way too long fencing match–makes it palatable. It’s lame.
The second story (Ostrander writing solo) is about a guy in the ghetto challenging God to a street fight; it seems a tad racist. I’m sure it’s not, but it’s not in that guilty white liberal “not racist” way. The Simpson art, however, is an absolute joy.
The final story, another one starring Close (co-scripting with Ostrander), is another flop. Messner-Loebs, usually great on art, fumbles here. Without good art, it’s inane filler.
Just like the issue itself.