Little fat man who sold his soul, little fat man who sold his dream

Armistice Day always feels so weird.

Thu, 12 Nov 2009 05:01:31 GMT

I can feel the ghosts of the twentieth century--and good God there are so many, literal armies, cities, nations of them--hovering in the air above and around us all. It's a shivery sensation.

Like woman, I am mystery.

Tue, 03 Nov 2009 13:48:56 GMT

So the Great Relationship Experiment failed, and although I thought I had gotten out cleanly I did NOT, as evidenced by a minor fight with the recent-ex (lax...bahahaha I'm ten) in the middle of the night last night in which some issues I had been having with her, long term, finally came to a head and I snapped at her and told her to leave me the hell alone. It felt really good, in a way, although I'm suffering from those pangs that say 'you're gonna be alone forever! gonna be aloooooooooone,' you know, those pangs. Anyway, on the upside, this'll leave a lot more time for the things that really matter, like livejournal ^_^

Ugh...

Sun, 04 Oct 2009 04:11:21 GMT

Okay, seriously, no more. My mouth tastes like strong, ground black pepper. Ugh.

So, so happy today

Tue, 18 Aug 2009 20:30:46 GMT

I'm overjoyed today. BCM, the girl with whom I have gone out with exclusively for over a year--and with whom I've been sharing kisses and hugs for almost that long--is now, actually, officially my girlfriend. We changed our facebook relationship status and everything :) I know this isn't some 'huge' thing in the great scheme, maybe, but it's made me happy and just made my day. So sigh. So love.

Cambridge police are asking Professor Gates to apologize...

Fri, 24 Jul 2009 18:04:30 GMT

Huh. I mean, what's the appropriate apology for this situation? "I'm sorry that you performed and illegal search and seizure on me which resulted in an illegal arrest and fraudulent charges which were later dropped. Oh, yeah. I'm as sorry hell all that happened. You wouldn't BELIEVE how sorry I am."

But not as sorry as the whole bloody situation.

Who is your favorite lady detective from movies, books, or TV?

Fri, 24 Jul 2009 01:10:28 GMT

Livejournal asks, and I have to answer:

Stephanie Plum, created by Janet Evanovich. She's a brown haired, blue eyed Jersey Girl (a thing that I adore), she has an insane, pistol packing grandmother, a wry sense of humor and her soul mate is a hamster named Rex. Stephanie is also an excellent deconstruction of the macho private eye of Noir and neo-Noir. Think Slam Bradley, the kind of man who solves his case and gets his man through square jawed determination and liberal gunplay, and who has beautiful women falling all over him. Stephanie solves her cases and gets her man (or woman or Santa Claus) through the same determination, but it's aided by sheer dumb luck and her propensity for asking nicely (something which would never occur to Slam). Stephanie also has no less than three beautiful men falling all over her, so it's kind of nice to see that reversal, too.

5 Words Meme

Thu, 09 Jul 2009 21:07:52 GMT

Five words, as given to me by teenwitch77, which she associates with me. Write "words!" in a note and I'll give you five words which you associate with you, which you'll then explain on your own journal and thus continue the delightful circle.

Politics--Politics, unfortunately, are a huge part of my life. I sometimes bet on elections (I always win). I cried when Obama was elected, or, rather, when I counted up and knew he'd hit 270. My first degree will be in political science. Unfortunately, however, I absolutely ABHOR politics. It drives me mad and makes me depressed, which is why I'm not going into the study thereof professionally. Still, though, the word 'politics,' meaning distribution of power, finds itself creeping into my writing on aesthetics, religion and art history. It's a sickness, I tell you, a sickness.

Firefly--Beautiful Western in space, and Joss Whedon's best show. Wash is like listening to my own self think and Mal appeals to the rebel in me, the part of me that doesn't ever want to wear a neck-tie. His relationship with Inara (actually Inara in general) has always inspired the writer in me, too. I can't see it ending happily, necessarily, but... well, you know. They always call to mind the Neil Gaiman quote which begins "I would rather remember a life misspent on fragile things (...)."

History--Where we've been, and it tells us where we're going. Once you've figured out how to decode history, especially the history of art, my favorite type, you can determine almost anything about what a person or group of people finds important, frightening, exciting. History, as a humanity, is the art of reading the lines AND between the lines. Social science might give you the facts, but history puts them in context and makes them meaningful.

House--House is a love letter to the Enlightenment. He searches for rational meaning in a universe that he finds absurd, without resorting to the crutch of existentialism. Somewhat punishing to watch, at times, but always fascinating.

The Office--The Office, simply put, is real life. I mean, we've all been there. Boring job, made bearable by one person that you care for. Semi-requited love for an already taken best friend. The little lunacies of life. It's great, isn't it? I've also met at least two really awesome friends, through the Office, and you can't beat that. Sigh. One always wants to imagine that he is Jim, but knows in the darkness of his heart that he is, in truth, Dwight.

Billy Mays died!

Sun, 28 Jun 2009 17:50:37 GMT

I can't believe it! He was a great American! I loved that dude!

No, no sarcasm. I don't go in for that shit. Seriously. Billy Mays!? My late nights won't ever be the same... :(

So weird that Michael Jackson has expired,

Fri, 26 Jun 2009 19:47:57 GMT

as my grandmother would have put it. She always said, 'Well, I guess when it's your time you just gotta expire,' or 'Look at that stupid thing, he done gone and got his-self dead.' Stuff like that. I think they were odd old mountain sayings that you don't hardly ever hear anymore.

But yeah. People my age, I guess we just sort of grew up with not only Michael Jackson's music (Smooth Criminal and Billie Jean are two of my favorite songs ever), but with his wonderful (sometimes scary, though I've never believed he was a pederast) weirdness. Neverland Ranch, Bubbles, little baby Blanket, the whole nine yards. And now all we have is memory and music, dying like a dying fall.

A pressing question:

Mon, 15 Jun 2009 04:04:38 GMT

Will we, in the new Trek continuity, get to see Spock and Lt. Uhura rocking out on duets like they did on the original series? The Spock man can jam his funky little Vulcan guitar, and those were some of the coolest moments in the original series, to me.

Somewhere between dumb and offensive...

Tue, 19 May 2009 22:23:10 GMT

lies marketing.

http://www.feministing.com/archives/015551.html#comments

So this poster. I suppose we ought all be glad that it didn't read, "Hey, lads, wanna donate your ORGAN? You know, your PENIS. SEXUALLY. HaHA lame innuendo," all Phil Ken Sebbin style. This little ad comes so, so close to becoming a hyperrealistic satire on the nature of sexual commodity in contemporary America that I don't know if one ought laugh or cry.

On sexting, more or less.

Tue, 19 May 2009 01:57:33 GMT

So, I just read an article on 'sexting.' Apparently the most effective way to protect 'the children' is to throw them in jail. This would seem, to quote Brother Spock, highly illogical. But the combination of the media and any one of diverse district attorneys offices often are, after all. Honestly, who among us didn't do our particular age cohort's equivalent of 'sexting' when we were teenagers? As an ex-hippie gentleman I know put it, 'Man, back in the sixties who didn't get nude and rude out some field, man? No one threw us in jail; they probably should have.'

Legal opinion on In Re Demjanjuk

Fri, 15 May 2009 17:24:57 GMT

Dissenting against the US Supreme Court's refusal to hear Demjanjuk's plea for certiori. Regardless whether or not John Demjanjuk is a nice person or not, there are a few problems with his rendition to Germany for punishment. Although I don't have the credentials to really offer anything, yet, I felt like I had to craft this out of a sense of... I don't know. Expect one on torture later.

1. Demjanjuk was a United States citizen with a clean criminal record who, in 2002, was expunged of his citizenship without due process of law. This is a clear violation of the 5th Amendment. Both other arguments extend, logically, from the assumption that his citizenship was expunged without the due process of law and that, legally, Demjanjuk should still be a US citizen. Notwithstanding this assumption, the US Bill of Rights would no longer apply to Mister Demjanjuk and he would be rightfully rendered to the jurisdiction which held where he held is citizenship prior to his emigration to the US in 1948, namely Ukraine.

2. Demjanjuk has already been tried for the war crimes associated with his alleged activities during World War II. He was convicted of them in Israel, but his conviction and the attendant death sentence was overturned by an Israeli appeals court when witnesses fingered another man as Sobibor guard Ivan Marchenko, "Ivan the Terrible." Shuffling him back and forth between countries (the US, Germany, Israel) until you find one willing to punish him for --SOMETHING-- seems to be a violation of the spirit, if not the letter, of the "double indemnity" clause of the 5th Amendment.

3. Given Demjanjuk's severely deteriorated physical and mental state, it is possible that his deportation might amount to a violation of the eighth Amendment. Given his age and ill health he may also have difficulty confronting his accusers as is his right under the sixth Amendment.

Rage against the misogynistic, fat-hate machine.

Tue, 05 May 2009 16:13:47 GMT

http://www.feministe.us/blog/archives/2009/05/05/fat-is-a-feminist-issue/#comments

I present for your ire... some idiocy cataloged by the wonderful folks over at the feministe blog. Looking at it makes me wonder... who the hell would consider Elena Kagan or Sonia Sotomayer fat. I mean, let alone that weight has NOTHING to do with one's ability to be a fair, impartial, empathic jurist... neither of these women is fat! The article even cites Sotomayer's diabetes as a result of her "eeeeeeevil fatz, yo." This is evidence of an abominable level of ignorance as Sotomayer's diabetes is of Type I, developed in childhood and totally unrelated to weight in any way, shape for form. And if we're talking WEIGHT, here, people, let us not forget Antonin Scalia. He looks like freaking Megatron. The one that turns into a T-80. This put's Scalia's weight at roughly 43 tons. So, if we're talking about weight... I mean... well, you know. Ugh, I'd better stop before I start ranting.

So, the beginning of tonight's Smallville.

Fri, 01 May 2009 00:08:53 GMT

Well, that was all sorts of kinds of hot. Maybe even hott, quite likely approaching the vaunted Halls of Hawt (that's where the gods of Midkemia live don't you know... not really, that's the Pavilion of the Gods, but whatever, bear with me). I had never pegged Doomsday as, ya know, the romantic, tender sort (with a growly, James Spader as Alan Shore voice, no less. But it works on him. Or maybe Allison Mack is JUST that gorgeous.

"Watchmen: So Let Us Not Talk Falsely Now, the Hour's Getting Late"

Mon, 13 Apr 2009 06:27:40 GMT

Well, I'm nowhere near good enough to match up to Alan Moore's writing on Watchmen (which he sorta owns and DC sorta owns), especially the metaphysical and mystical stuff (which I think adds a lot to the story) but I tried, with this little piece of Minutemen AU, to capture the grimy, rough nature of the world he created, but also to capture the essential goodness and altruism of some of the people living within it. I'd rate this one mature audiences only for adult themes (the ever popular adult themes...), and some may even find it triggering due to mentions and implications of non-consensual or semi-consensual sexual activity. Some might find the Comedian out of character (well, his fans might) but I do have reasons for portraying him in this light, but don't want to produce a Master's thesis about it while I have school work to do :) Enjoy (and if you want the best effect, read in a heavy Manhattan accent).

Hollis Mason loved to dress up like an owl and fight crime. A lot of people said it made him kinky, hell, some of them even said that it made him fruity but he didn’t care to listen to it so he didn’t even hear them with their talking. All he knew was that he had a good time sliding down the fire escapes and drain pipes, throwing punches at muggers and being… well, just being with good friends on the side of right. Everything was so messed up in the big city, the Big Apple, but he and the others were doing what they could about it, tending their own gardens if you would, and it felt great.

“Heh, sweet Jesus,” he said, laying his hood down on the table in the front room of his small apartment. He pushed his thick, taped fingers through sandy hair which never seemed to lay flat. “We were beautiful tonight. Must have took down thirty of those mooks, all together. I know I got eight of them myself.” He capered around, swinging at the air. “Bang, zoom, kapow! Sweet Jesus.”

Sally tugged her gloves off and laid them by the hood. A nimbus of low burning fire swirled around her head, setting off her smoky eyes. Hollis wondered how she kept it so perfect with all they did; some female secret, he guessed. “I got nine, baby, so maybe you shouldn’t brag so loud.” He deflated. She laid her pale, smoothly muscled arm across his broad shoulders, leaned down close to him. He smelled floral perfume and softly pungent sweat. She pressed her lips against his cheek. “Aw, Holly, don’t feel bad. You know six of them just surrendered to me when I showed them leg.”

Hollis slipped his own arm around her waist and pulled her close. Sally’s waist was narrow and sleekly muscled, perched above hips that flared dramatically, intoxicatingly. “I don’t know the man who wouldn’t roll over just to clap his eyes on those thighs, darling.”

“That’s the only reason I fell down. Wanted to see if that red hair was what you were born with.”

Hollis narrowed his eyes. He and Sally looked over at the man that they’d forgotten for a moment, leaning on the stained plaster wall. The Comedian. A cloud of cigar smoke hung around his unlined face and lank, greasy hair like a blasphemous halo. The eye piercing yellow boiler suit and big, granite hands were caked with rusty blood. He was, in Hollis’ opinion, the only downside to working with Sally since the big mook made a point of being wherever she was. “Hey, now, that wasn’t real nice to say to a lady, was it?”

“C’mon, Holly,” Sally squeezed his bicep gently, “don’t start nothing. He didn’t mean it. He was just joking.”

“Yeah,” the Comedian dropped his cigar and crushed it out, put another scar on Hollis’ worn out floor, “I was just fucking around. I’m the goddamn Comedian, aint I? Besides,” he stretched his arms behind his head, “that aint no lady, is it? Don’t matter what I say.”

Hollis thought about saying something, about how nothing the Comedian said did matter, wouldn’t ever, but Sally squeezed his arm again, harder, like she was nervous. Her nails dug into his bare flesh. “Nah,” he said, “you’re a kid. I guess you were just joking around.” It was probably for the best to let it go. The Comedian had, if his and Sally’s count was accurate, beaten half to death just over a dozen armed men, tonight. “You two wanna stick around and have a beer? Celebrate, you know.”

They celebrated with several, the Comedian consuming the lion’s share of a week’s supply of Schlitz. Sally drank like a man and laughed like one, too, just like she fought, and these were yet more facts which recommended her in Hollis’ opinion. They had what could be considered a pretty good time, getting right well lit and laughing at the Comedian as he got more raucous and outrageous. The kid really was funny, had tapped into something accurate for his name, but some of the stuff he came up with… downright sick,just about enough to make you vomit yourself sober. He told war stories, things he’d done in the Pacific, like they were jokes. He laughed so hard that he would start sobbing, from time to time, and have to stop for a big quaff of beer, to light up a cigar. They spilled almost as much as they drank but that was okay. Life was good, Hollis often thought, looking back under the hoods of obsolete automobiles, it was so good to the young.

Things fell apart at a little after three am. It was probably inevitable, Hollis and Sally decided later, when they also decided that no one would ever talk about the incident again (and he didn’t, not even to Daniel Dreiberg, maybe cause he felt responsible for this in a way that he didn’t for the other time), cause decent folk were in bed by then. It didn’t occur to either of them that decent folk didn’t wear Halloween costumes and beat up criminals, either, but just as life is good to the young the young are often incapable of understanding irony.
The Comedian stood, grabbed Sally by her upper arm, and dragged her to her feet. His long, stained fingers dug deep into the white skin. Hollis could see bruises blossom under them. She squirmed and tried to pull away, “C’mon, you’re hurting me. Quit messing around.”

“I aint,” he said, and giggled. His knees buckled and it was obvious that the kid was so drunk that he could barely stand, but even so the Comedian was stronger than any man had the right to be. Sally couldn’t hope to break his iron grip. Her hand and forearm began to turn white while her pretty, high cheeks flushed bright pink. Hollis knew the arm must have been throbbing with each fluttery heartbeat. The Comedian tittered again, that weird, high-pitched laugh that meant he was going to do something anti-social. “I aint messing around, not this time. I am dead goddamn serious. I think we oughta celebrate. Me and Holly. You too, if ya keep your mouth shut and don’t fight too hard.”

Hollis stood up and put his hands out to call for peace. He could feel the pleasant buzz evaporate. “Hey, big fellow, cool it. What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he clamped Sally tight against his huge, bloodstained chest, “that we oughta rip that yellow dress off and fuck the shit out of this girl, and she can either shut her goddamned mouth and enjoy it or I can beat her brains out.”

“Hey, now,” Hollis said, “there aint no call for that… language?” It was the only thing that seemed appropriate. What the hell else was he supposed to say to someone who was, well, if not a friend then at least a colleague, another mask, for God’s sake. “Let her go and get the hell out of here. Go sober up somewhere and think about what you’re saying. I don’t think you realize what you’re saying, man.”

“Oh, I do,” he said. “I wanna bend this dumb bitch down and—“ Sally’s open palm exploded against the Comedian’s face. He didn’t even turn his head back before driving his left fist into her stomach. She folded up, puked a little beer, and went down with the next punch to her nose. Hollis heard far off thunder, realized that it was the sickening crunch of facial bones, and saw the Comedian raise his boot in slow motion, ready to put it down in Sally’s stomach.
Slow motion. Yeah, that’s it. Maybe that’s why, Hollis reasoned later on when the adrenaline had subsided enough for him to think, he was able to get between them and shove the Comedian. The big man stumbled back, wove on his feet, bounced himself off the dingy wall and swung on Hollis. It was one of those berserk haymakers he liked, almost enough to break your neck, but excessive alcohol and sheer horniness made it sloppy. Hollis ducked, felt the air rush over him, and uncoiled 5’7” and 174 pounds of Nite Owl onto the point of the Comedian’s chin by way of his leather weightlifting glove.

The Comedian stumbled, smacked into the wall again, slumped and didn’t get up. Hollis stood over him, ready to sprawl against the obvious leg tackle, pretty sure he couldn’t make it and ready to take whatever beating he had coming, but the Comedian just lay there laughing his lunatic head off. Blood poured out of his open mouth and fell in a wide slash across his strong chin and yellow shirtfront. Hollis felt his skin crawling in on itself, trying like hell to escape that grating, incongruously high-pitched giggle. There weren’t many times in the Nite Owl’s career that he felt truly afraid—enough to count on just one hand and most of those during the war. Police work, as a rule, was not a career for which fraidy cats were particularly well suited. The life of a mask was even worse. When Hollis made an arrest as one of New York’s finest he, at least, had a pistol lying heavy on his hip; as Nite Owl it was just quick wits and a hard fist. Oh, he thought during those long moments that the Comedian lay there, to be big and strong like Hooded Justice—who dwarfed even the Comedian—or austerely, perennially confident and collected like Captain Metropolis. Hollis wasn’t either of those men—sometimes didn’t even really feel like he was Nite Owl, just some dumb kid pretending—so he stood ready for the bull rush at his legs, or the rising, ridge-handed cut at his balls, and braced for more pain than he’d ever experienced.

Two eternal moments fell away. Hollis wondered if he’d get another shot off, or if Sally would help out. She looked woozy from the alcohol and battery, grey-green eyes a misty thousand miles away. The Comedian, still chuckling under his breath, rolled to his hands and knees. Utilizing the wall, he found his feet with a mountain climber’s precision and his voice with a drunk’s, or a madman’s, magnanimity. “You aint got bad punch on you, Mason, not a bad goddamn punch at all. Bout took off my fucking jaw. I’m gonna let it slide this time… yup, let it slide.” His butcher shop grin gaped open, “You’re gonna owe me though. We’ll take it up with Sally when she comes to, eh?”

Before Hollis could frame a rational, or even an irrational response, the Comedian half swaggered, half staggered through the door, snorting soft laughter just beneath his beer-heavy breath. Hollis sighed, “Goddamn lunatic,” and knelt beside Sally. “You okay, kid?”
“Yeah, yeah.” She blinked through the fog, working her way back to reality, and leaned on his proffered arm, “I’m gonna be okay. Freaking nose hurts, though.”

“I imagine it does. Hey, listen, you wanna go the hospital? We’ll tell em you fell down the stairs, or got run over by a taxicab or a battleship or something.”

“Nah, really, Holly,” she sighed back into his embrace and murmured, “I’m gonna be all right, I promise. Nothing that another couple of beers and crashing on your couch won’t fix, right?”

“Sure, sure thing. But you take the bed. Couch is better for my back anyway. I sleep on it all the time, even when it’s just me here. Being a Nite Owl is hard on the old joints.”

“You are such an awful liar, Holly; it’s the cop in you. Let’s sleep on the bed together. I insist. We’ll just get comfy and keep each other company. No funny business or nothing, I just need a warm body beside me tonight. I mean, we’re friends. We oughta be able to handle that.”

“Sure, if you say so, okay.” He lifted her like a bridegroom. She nestled her head against his shoulder, smeared red against him that wasn’t all lipstick. The perfume, so delicately sweet earlier, was now cloying in the tincture of beer, blood and vomit. “But if you get fresh with me…”

“If I get fresh with you what?”

“Nothing.” He grinned. “I’ll get fresh right back.”

A broken little laugh fluttered up out of her smashed lips. “You’re a real goon, Hollis Mason. A real goon. And a real doll baby, too. I don’t want you to forget that.”

“With you to remind me? Never.”

“That Eh—er, that Comedian,” Sally said. “Some hell of a boyfriend, huh?”

Hollis shrugged and carried her to bed. It wasn’t exactly how Hollis had fantasized that his first time sleeping in the same bed with Sally Jupiter would go—she had never just been beaten into pulp by a crackpot that she identified as her boyfriend in his daydreams—but their bodies melded tenderly and exhaustion made them sleep like kittens until then next afternoon. When he awoke at 2pm to get ready for his evening patrol as Sergeant Hollis Mason, Sally was gone. He didn’t see her for a month; they didn’t patrol together again for six. The Comedian dropped out of sight for almost a year. Rumor had it that he’d been flown to some sticky hell-hole as an “asymmetrical warfare adviser,” but Hollis later learned, from that piss-pot Larry Shexsnayder of all people, that for at least part of the time he’d been recovering from a serious knife wound that he received trying, while dead drunk, to apprehend a mugger. Hollis toyed with the idea of running down that mugger and buying him a drink or two.

Hollis Mason remained friends with Sally Jupiter for the remainder of his life—they were even that rare breed of lover who also made good buddies—but he never told anyone about the first night they slept together, sure didn’t publish it in Under the Hood. Maybe he would do so in a special edition to be released after they were both dead and gone. It was, after all, one of about a half dozen times in Hollis’ life that he’d ever been afraid. A good Comedian, Hollis knew, had a way of always getting the last laugh, and this Comedian was one of the best.

Under the Hood + Carla Gugino is beautiful liek whoa.

Wed, 08 Apr 2009 08:24:22 GMT

My commentary on the special, extra Watchmen DVD (well worth the twenty dollars) and the Absolutely Amazing Silk Spectre I.

1. I was overjoyed to see such luminaries from the novel as Bernard the newspaperman and more of the Minutemen, especially Nite Owl I. The Nite Owl costumes appeal to me, the second one (as worn by Dan Dreiberg) to my sense of the practical (it's a freakin suit of a armor!), the first to my sense of whimsy (he's... gotta be comfortable with his body to wear that one).

2. I loved that the whole notion of Hollis Mason/Nite Owl I and Sally Jupiter/Silk Spectre I as total BFF was played up to the nines, giving us nice foreshadowing.

3. Jeffrey Dean Morgan's slightly vacant, utterly insane smile was a fantastic fit on the Comedian. There's this utterly great shot of him, about halfway into the film, standing over some utterly obliterated gangster, chomping a cigar and grinning. It's like he's got a big neon sign that says, "Yeah, I'm nutty as a squirrel and kind of a total asshat. Aint it cool?"

4. Wally Weaver! Even if he was taking the place of Milton Glass. I love d watching him explain the Watchmen Universe's version of John Lennon's 'bigger than Jesus' was way better than reading about it, cause instead of a semi-detached observer (Glass) he really knows Jon Osterman/Dr. Manhattan quite intimately and gives us a good flavor of the metaxy that is central to Jon's character.

5. Terrifying femme dominatrix super-heroine, Silhouette, beating a couple of child pornographer's half to death with her riding crop was just a little bit awesome.

6. Carla Gugino as Silk Spectre I. Oh Carla Gugino. With a little silver skunk stripe dyed in her hair. I will dream, tonight, of delicate lace garters and silk stockings, smooth, creamy pale skin, slithering against my brown leathers and chain mail (I always get to be Nite Owl in these things, haha). I will dream of low burning auburn hair with the smell of tropical flowers woven through it and hard, shiny latex boots and... and... I'll just be going, now :/

7. Did I mention Silk Spectre? Cause... oh wow.

Five things association Meme

Wed, 01 Apr 2009 19:55:46 GMT

Comment to this post and I will give you 5 subjects/things I associate you with. Then post this in your LJ and elaborate on the subjects given.

These subjects were given to me by the unknowably wonerful [info]razycrandomgirl, my partner in subconscious mischief.

Dreams--Almost all of my writing comes from dreams. Nightmares, more specifically, which I have been plagued with since I was very small. Since I figured out that this was where 'good' stories came from, I have actually, sometimes, encouraged the dreams by watching/reading/dwelling on scary things. It doesn't work mechanically, though, and sometimes watching scary things will just produce a dream where I'm macking on Carla Gugino and Malin Ackerman at the same time (both in their respective Silk Spectre garbs, no less!). Not that this is a bad thing. Most of my nightmares involved loosely defined 'aliens' and large, sprawling houses like the dungeons in the Zelda games. In last night's I was being pursued by Tim LaHaye and Richard Simmons. There's a story in it, I just don't know where.

Comic books--I've always been in love with comic books, I was just, until recently, afraid to show it. I love the arty, respectable stuff like Maus etc, and am blown away by Watchmen (which is arty and respectable, but people forget that cause it's about superheroes), but I also love optimistic, crime-fighting stories, the same ones I have since I was a little kid, especially if they are deconstructed and reconstructed in a way that tells me something about myself. I read the 'biggies,' you know, Batman, Superman, X-Men, Avengers, Spiderman (who I never think of as a biggie, but I guess he is), but my favorites are the B and C listers. Green Arrow (my absolute favorite), Question, Etrigan, Animal Man, Zatanna (and the other Seven Soldiers of Victory), Blue Beetle, Starman, Elongated Man (you have GOT to read Identity Crisis, the ultimate Ralph Dibny story), the Atom, various underrepresented Green Lanterns (including the original, Alan Scott), Wildcat, 90s long hared, grouchy Aquaman, Huntress, Black Canary, even the Gotham City Police Department stories... guys like that. I'd love to write a post-Modern decon of the Demon, Etrigan and/or J'onn J'onzz the Martian Manhunter, one day :)

Kali--The beautiful goddess, dark mother, black skinned source of perfection, desire and feminine ferocity in the world. She makes me think of power, beauty and the desire to attain the impossible. She also makes me think, sadly, of the genocide which may be underway against Sri Lankan Tamils, and I wonder if their dark mother, Kali Ma, will aid them. She makes me think also of misogynist singers like Chris Brown and OrelSan (French rapper), and I wonder how they would react to the Kali consciousness exploding in their faces. I sometimes think that Sarah Jones (a six foot two inch feminist poet) is an incarnation of Kali.

TV--I love TV. Unashamedly, unabashedly. I look down on my friends who are 'too smart' for television, or who only watch Lost and say that's the only good show on TV. The list of my loves is too long, but I currently watch Barney Miller, Boston Legal, Supernatural, sometimes House, The Brave and the Bold, too much news to be healthy, to be perfectly honest, sometimes Medium, often Smallville, NCIS and Bones (although I don't know why), CSI when I get a minute, my Frasier DVDs over and over again, the Office, 30 Rock... gotta try Dollhouse, soon, too.

Writing--I view writing like Alan Moore. Genres don't make since. Life isn't cut into genres. To semi-quote him, it's a horrifying, hilarious detective story in a fantasy world with a bit of pornography thrown in, you know, if you're lucky. I write almost as easily as I breathe, informally, academically, fictionally, creative nonfiction, whatever. My current projects are a case study on the Troubles in Northern Ireland using Neo-Marxist theory, a qualitative analysis of the economic recession in my hometown (joint project with five other people), a graphic novel exploring the dramatic possibilities of the clown archetypes (Whiteface, Auguste, Tramp) and maybe, just maybe, a horror/police procedural dramedy (Barney Milleresque, even) about Rorschach blot monsters (and no, I don't quite know what that means, yet).

Logocide

Thu, 26 Mar 2009 00:35:29 GMT

Logocide. The murder of words. It's a central concept to Chris Hedge's thesis in "American Fascists," a treatise on how Christian Dominionists plan to subvert the American democratic experiment into a theocratic police state. When one commits logocide one perverts the meaning of a word so far from its original, accepted usage it becomes a different--often unsavory--concept wearing old, familiar clothes, like a serial killer in your grandmother's purple dress and Sunday go to meeting hat. Liberty, for example, has been commonly perverted by Dominionists to mean, instead of self determination and freedom of choice, the freedom FROM choice which comes from submitting to an all powerful authority. This is an interpretation to which, I am reasonably certain, no serious historian of America's Founding Fathers believes that they ascribed and to which, I am also reasonably certain, that no modern, serious Constitutional scholar subscribes. Wisdom has been re-purposed away from critical discernment between theoretically equal options to mean the ability to discern only what does and does not serve a certain, ideological purpose.

But words, just words, I hear you say. We are certainly in good shape if THAT is the most precious thing that a nest full of vipers tries to pervert, maim beyond recognition, kill. But it probably IS. Without words, which mean what we want them to mean, rational debate is lost and the only possible response is emotional, irrational, things that fanatics are really good at.

So words. Logocide. The murder of words. Words mean things. If we don't protect them, they can't protect us.

Questions

Fri, 20 Mar 2009 23:47:08 GMT

As taken, per request, from the truly lovely truly_bohemian

[1] Make a list of 5 things you can see without getting up.
- Chris Matthews on the telly.
- My graphic novel script I should be working on :/
- My sixteen open Firefox tabs, which my mum says is ridiculous
- My argument against a blog which causes more problems than it solves.
- A small ladder being climbed by a small dog (no, really).
[2] How do you style your hair?
I er... well, I brush it once a week, eh?
[3] What are you wearing now?
My grey shirt and grey shorts (so exciting!)
[4] If you could have any other talents, what would they be?
My goodness I'd be smart enough to be a Nobel prize winning biochemist who cured AIDS and cancer and I'd be able to play the cello and I'd invent warp drive and... other things.
[5] Do you nap a lot?
Actually, yeah. Every afternoon, usually. It keeps me sharp for my late-night rambles.
[6] Who was the last person you hugged?
My mum. Probably.
[7] What's your current fandom/obsession/addiction?
Ha, I'm with TB on this one. Lesse, Boston Legal, comic books in general, Barney Miller... can I just say everything?
[8] What was the last thing you ate today?
Atomic Fireball Cinnamon Redhots
[9] As a child, was there any particular work of fiction that had a great impact on you? Books, television, a video game, a movie, whatever.
I daresay that it was the Hobbit which taught me to imagine worlds, Star Trek which made me look to the skies, the X-Files which made me wonder about dark shadows, Transformers G1 made me consider how things were put together, Power Rangers taught me about working as a team, Spiderman taught me about power and responsibility... let's just go whole hog and say I was raised in the pop-culture washing machine, huh?
[10] What websites do you always visit when you go online?
Livejournal, tv tropes, feministing, usually facebook unless I'm annoyed, Shortpacked!
[11] What was the last thing you bought?
The Complete DC Universe Stories of Alan Moore
[12] What are you listening to right now?
Chris Matthews shouting on the television. Sweet Jesus he's loud.
[13] What, if anything, did you want to be when you were growing up?
I've always wanted to be a teacher, usually of the level that I was currently attending (didn't know anything about the levels higher, you know).
[14] What is your favourite food?
Oh my, probably anything korma or rogan josh, I think.
[15] What is your favourite weather, and why?
I like rain a lot. I love coming in from the rain, into the warm.
[16] What features do you like in the opposite sex?
Like TB before me, really obscure things. I'm a lover of quirky, bent noses and high cheekbones, full lips and slim necks, hair that wildly blows in tufts which seems to neither recognize gravity nor usual color, eyes that shine like mischief...
[17] What features do you like in someone of the same gender?
Good, stout solid chaps.
I feel horribly shallow with all this aestheticism.
[18] What is the one thing that you wish for to come true?
I want supper, soon :/

Vapid, indecent human beings and other oddities of the natural world.

Fri, 13 Mar 2009 01:55:41 GMT

The sheer viciousness of Debbie Schlussel's review of Watchmen rather took me aback, as did the viciousness ladled on in response by her detractors. I am far more used to the level of debate found at academic conferences (like the one at which I, essentially, won best in show yesterday!). Ideas and positions may be questioned, refined and attacked but persons never are. It's one thing to deride a work of art--even if in doing so you merely showcase your inability to understand it, as I believe like John Cage that all things can be appreciated if not in 6 seconds then in 10, 20 or 36--but it's rather another to deride those who DO appreciate said work of art as 'vapid' 'morons' and 'indecent human beings.' It's also inappropriate, and inarticulate, for aforementioned appreciators to respond to Ms. Schlussel's comments by calling her a variety of epithets so hideous that I do not like reproducing them and so I shall not. If you're looking for the, er, for lack of a better term 'battle' it's cataloged in its less than impressive whole on Valerie d'Orazio's blog Occasional Superheroine.

Anyway, what I am here trying to say--and what I'm sure Ms. Schlussel's ardent rivals strove ineloquently to express--is that her characterization of comic book fans at large as 'vapid' 'morons' and 'indecent human beings' was very hurtful. I am equally sure that Ms. Schlussel doesn't really care WHAT she says or WHO she hurts. Critics are, in my experience, a vicious breed of small, supercilious turkey buzzard. Fanboys, on the other hand, don't care who or what they hurt EITHER. They tend towards the, uh, passionate. By which I mean, of course, that they frequently behave in a fashion which the term 'batshit insanity' doesn't even BEGIN to cover adequately. Well, asking for a general apology would be about as productive as asking for a date with Katrina for Paranormal State (who has replaced MarryMe!Olivia Wilde in my heart, at least for the time being), but unanswered libel is libel assumed to be true, and I decided that I, in my own, small way, couldn't just let things stand.

PS--Ms. Schlussel's claim that Watchmen has been marketed to children is a good sign that she doesn't know how marketing works. No action figures (outside of collectibles shipped to specialty comic book shops) have been produced, there's no 'storybook' of the movie (unless you count the, er, book) and it is rated R. So I may be vapid, indecent, a moron and many, many other horrible things, but I know a bad piece of research when I see it.

Next week, same Bat time, same Bat channel: commentary on my screwy love life :/

Watchmen Review

Sun, 08 Mar 2009 07:35:29 GMT

If you watch the trailers, you might be forgiven for thinking that Zack Synder's Watchmen, based on Alan Moore and David Gibbons' graphic novel, is just another super-hero movie, just one with masks you're not familiar with. Nothing could be further from the truth. Well, theoretically it would be further from the truth to say that my cat is a mint-green narwhal, but about the movie, I mean. In fact, unlike The Dark Knight--probably the limit of what a super-hero movie can be and do--Watchmen would be deeply unsatisfying if viewed through the lens of traditional comic book action. What, then, is the best way to approach this complex, multi-faceted film?

(maybe some light spoilers follow...)

I have heard movies set in different historical periods referred to, from time to time, as 'costume dramas.' Watchmen, then, is a costume drama wherein the costumes in question just happen to be super-hero suits. This is even in keeping with the notion that a costume drama must have a historical aspect. Watchmen covers a span between 1938 and 1985, and notions about the crushing power of history and legacy weigh heavily on certain key characters. It certainly fits the profile of psychological drama. The fight scenes--although viscerally satisfying--are not what drive the labyrinthine plot. Conversation, even if it occurs between a giant, naked blue man and his latex clad ex-lover, or between a slightly chubby man dressed as an owl and his best friend, a possibly autistic sociopath in a trench-coat and fedora, are where the action lies in Watchmen. Come for example, to enjoy the brutal battle between Ozymandias and the Comedian (I could literally feel my bloody teeth rattle), but stay to hear the Comedian growl nihilistic screeds about life's absurdity, or listen to Ozymandias wrap his smoothly aristocratic voice around an argument for Utilitarianism so eloquent that it might just persuade a god.

And who, you might ask, I can hear you ask, would be the hero in the fight I comment on above? The answer, like the rest of the story, rips loose from the comic book tradition and raves in the post-Modern gutter with the rest of us. They're both heroes, both villains, both neither and either, depending on the situation and your point of view. Our protagonists possess neither Bruce Wayne's icy cool nor the Joker's brutal, giggling insanity and we're better off for it. Rorschach's grimy face and Daniel's fleshy body feel lived in. The Comedian is an old man, broken in spite of his prodigious physical strength, and we feel the ghosts of forty years crackling in his voice. We see similar ghosts wound into the faces of Sally and Laurie Juspeczyk, the mother and daughter who are the sex symbols/heroines Silk Spectre I and II. These ghosts, say of a dream that died in 1969, come to haunt the present and the future. And our heroes...?

Talk about them. You should listen.

Paranormal State

Mon, 23 Feb 2009 06:14:05 GMT

On A & E. Sort of like Ghosthunters only thirty six times more awesome. Chronicles the case-files of the Paranormal Research Society of Pennsylvania State University, headed by one Ryan Buell and frequently featuring the wit and wisdom of Georgia's own Chip Coffey and renowned paranormal researcher Lorraine Warren. I've been doing little cartoons of the investigators because, man, when life provides you such a cast of beautiful, expressive faces and you don't run with it... you deserve to have your pencils broken. I think I'll post em up here once I get my scanner up and running. Drawing, drawing, drawing. It's about all I feel like doing anymore :)

Slightly more commentary on the new X Men cartoon

Mon, 09 Feb 2009 07:14:30 GMT

Okay, I'm still loving this after seeing the third episode. It's wonderfully serious and character driven. Totally different than DC's equally wonderful (well, sometimes) call back to the Silver Age of comic books, the Brave and the Bold, but just as good a way to spend twenty minutes of your life. It might be, dare I say (as I am a DC loyalist for... some reason) even better. This episode even ended with Professor X trapped in a hellish, alternate future where we're treated to a stark pan across our heroes' headstones. Grim stuff for what is ostensibly a cartoon for children, I think, but it sets a tone of urgency, the X Men HAVE to win this one, and the art reminds me of Bruce Timm's DC Animated Universe in all the right ways. Anyway, Wolverine and the X Men is darned good and you should watch it. Even if I don't have any idea how in the HELL this particular rendering of Emma Frost, the White Queen, got past any censor that wasn't just mainlining Nyquil or something.

Also, hoping here that the fires are calming down in Australia and that all my friends over that way are A-okay.

New X-Men cartoon!

Fri, 06 Feb 2009 06:26:47 GMT

Wolverine and the X Men, by title. Kind of interesting that someone who first appeared on, like, five panels of a Hulk comic (as a villain no less!) gets the billing over the team of which he is often a member, but Wolverine has been the most popular character in Marvel's stable for a long time. It was common, after all, for Spiderman to appear, in the seventies, on the cover of books in which he DIDN'T EVEN APPEAR FOR A SINGLE PANEL. So, given Wolverine's surpassing popularity post the three X-Men movies, it is unsurprising that he appears on the 'cover' of this series. And is a main character, none the less. It is even less surprising that the far less popular Cyclops, normally the X-Men's stalwart leader, has been reduced, in this series, to broken down alcoholic. His reunion scene with Logan went roughly like this:

LOGAN: Scott, the X-Men need you. The world needs you. Big hug time, man.

SCOTT: Lemme alone so I can get drunk and feel sorry for myself! *blasts Logan through a wall*

BEAST: *long winded recitation of poetry that would make my humanities teacher proud* I dare say, Logan, that his grief is still too present. *smoke pipe. reference Melville*

Moar behind the cut.

Which brings me to Beast in this little adventure, too. Whee! Hank is a HUGE character (for a while he is the only X-Man left) in WatXM, and he basically looks and sounds like Kelsey Grammer with blue fur. Not that he hasn't since, say, his first cartoon appearance in the early nineteen nineties, but still. I love the Beast and, since he didn't act or look much like himself in X-Men Evolution, it was nice to see him presented, in a series, as being simply unable to hear you over the sound of how awesome he is.

The storyline, involving the Brotherhood of Mutants, Senator Robert Kelly's scary-arsed Sentinels and Mutant Registration Act and probably a plot by Magnus, is the same one that the X-Men have been doing since the seventies, but that's okay. It's a good storyline. It needs to be told. Young people need to see it, see characters they care about persecuted for what/who they are, treated like animals instead of humans. This teaches them to have empathy with those who are different, and the X-Men's humane "band together and we'll all be able to get along, like and unlike" message will teach them to do the same.

At any rage, I'm going to be watching this cartoon, even if I have to do it on my brand new lap-top cause my tv doesn't get the Nick Toons channel. Stupid TV.