While not the worst book I've every had the displeasure of reading*, Nick Cave's work here may be the worst that I've both read and finished. Eragon? Gave up with extreme prejudice. Da Vinci Code? Accidentally left it in an airport bathroom in Denver with eleven pages left and did not care enough to visit the library to see how it ended. The Lovely Bones? Granted, I did finish it and it was bad, but it was a shiny, gold-plated sliver of heaven compared to And the Ass Saw the Angel, which I was unfortunately compelled to finish.
Ah, the joy of being in a book club.
The first thing one will notice in Cave's book is that the prinicpal narrator is dense with a lugubrious sort of prose made up in striking part by words that won't be found in any dictionary (as they are made up). So dense, in fact, is the narration that it stifles to the point of petrification. The author himself describes the language as, "kind of a hyper-poetic thought-speak, not meant to be spoken - a mongrel language that was part-Biblical, part-Deep South dialect, part-gutter slang, at times obscenely reverent and at others reverently obscene." Cave forces the reader to invest a lot of work into deciphering a story that is far too slight to merit the effort. And I hate him for that.
Well, not really. But maybe.
In any case, with the exception of the first and last chapters, the entire tale is told in flashback by a single narrator, named Eucrid, using two different voices (one fantastical and the other only slightly more grounded in reality). Eucrid Eucrow, dying from the start, tells the tales of the divine vengeance he wreaked upon the odd religious community in his isolated Southern town and how he now dies with his glorious work complete. What is not at all clear until the last third is whether we should believe any of it. Euchrid, a mute from birth, is the product of mentally disabled man and a woman whose only nourishment is the moonshine she stills in their yard. He is, to be plain, quite insane.
If Cave would have either held personal restraint or kept an editor worth more than the cost of a community college education, And the Ass Saw the Angel would have clocked in at novella-length of slightly more than a hundred pages - and would, by that measure, have made a terse, quirky, intriguing look at madness. Instead, Cave shows no wisdom of this kind and remorselessly fills over three hundred pages with a sprawling, cacophonous garble of madness. We cannot even say that he explores Euchrid's madness for there is neither consideration nor reflection. Only revelry.
There were moments when I thought I might have a good (if offbeat) book in my hands. Moments of interpretive joy when it could be realized that things might not be as they seem. Pieces of prose that made me think that Cave really did know what he was doing, such as his description of a particular woman as a "xylocephalic ogress." But such rays of warm and happy light were always and inevitably to be short-lived, as Cave would draw the reader, nails scrabbling for some hold on light and sanity and good reading, inexorably back into his drearilous swampfief of monotonating garballations.
Not, by any means, recommended. I read somewhere that Cave himself doesn't even think the book is any good. This would have been good to know three months ago when I started reading this tripe.
*NOTE: I really have no justification to say that it isn't beside the fact that I'm being generous.
Rating:
Video Game.
PlayStation2.
As a sizable fan of the Guitar Hero series (I simply adore both I and II), I greatly welcomed the idea of a new addition to the franchise while I waited for Guitar Hero III to be released in October. And well, as far as Guitar Hero Encore: Rock the '80s goes, there is good news and bad news. And to be sure, the good news really does outweigh the bad news.
A brief word about mechanics for those who live in a cave (though thankfully not in a nick cave). The Guitar Hero franchise is built around what amounts to a rhythm game, similar to Dance Dance Revolution (you know? that one where you stomp around on the squares on a mat in time to the music ostensibly simulating the footwork side of dancing?). Essentially, this is the game: as a more-or-less famous song plays, the player holds down particular buttons on his guitar-shaped controller's neck (which buttons he should hold are indicated onscreen), and strums a strummer switch right about where one would strum on a regular guitar. And so on as one progresses through the song. And no, this activity has no use other than just being more fun that you can shake a gopher-covered stick at. So you won't lean to play guitar, but you may learn to have fun.
For a video presentation of what it may be like for you to play any of the Guitar Hero games, please refer to this helpful performance. This is pretty much exactly what it's like when The Monk and I play:
So then, let's imagine that I had given Guitar Hero II a whole four stars (which I would have). What then shall we shall about it's expansion?
First and foremost to the franchise are the songs and Rock the '80s is largely successful in pulling out both recognizable songs and songs that are actually fun to play. Some of the more recognizable songs include:
"We Got the Beat" by The Go-Go's
"18 and Life" by Skid Row
"No One Like You" by Scorpions
"Heat of the Moment" by Asia
"Turning Japanese" by The Vapors
"Hold on Loosely" by .38 Special
"The Warrior" by Scandal
"I Wanna Rock" by Twisted Sister
"What I Like About You" by The Romantics
"Only a Lad" by Oingo Boingo
"Round and Round" by Ratt
"Ain't Nothin' But a Good Time" by Poison
"Seventeen" by Winger
"Play With Me" by Extreme
Personally, I was especially excited to see some Oingo Boigo and Winger included in the mix. But some of the other choices (both what was included and what was excluded) are mysterious. Some of the songs aren't just not all that emblematic of the '80s but also aren't fun to play. X's "Los Angeles" neither sounds all that great nor is it in any way fun to play. Other choices are equally strange. They choose a song from The Police but go with "Synchronicity II"? Shrug. And where are some of the bands that really signified the '80s? Where's Van Halen with "Panama" or "Hot for Teacher"? Joe Satriani? "Ice Nine" seems tailor-made for Guitar Hero. No Pixies?? Def Leppard? Motley Crue (maybe "Dr. Feelgood")?
Well, whatever. Most of the songs are still great fun.
Now then, extras. Rock the '80s has no bonus tracks. In previous episodes, players could make money in game to purchase songs by starving artists to add a little extra flavour of the unknown. In Guitar Hero II, you could even unlock Strong Bad's "Trogdor" (Rock the '80s also has a Homestar Runner song, but its thrown in to the mix of full songs, so that's one less real song we get to play). Then there's the rest of the extras. honestly, it's a pretty light affair. There's fewer characters to play and the only unlockable is the lame reaper character. Granted, they have dressed and styled the available characters in regalia of the day, but you can no longer purchase alternate costumes for the characters. The venues are still the same, only with more day-glo colouring to simulate the '80s' affection for neon. So yeah, the extras are pretty light.
Which wouldn't be a big deal except that Activision is charging full price for what amounts to an expansion. We're talking a question of value here. Both Guitar Hero and Guitar Hero II (which retailed at the same price point: $50 for the game alone) have songs coming out the wazoo and a fistful of in-game extras. In comparison, Rock the '80s, despite a pretty good set list comes off as an after thought. I think $29.99 would have been a good value for the game. I'm happy to have new songs to play, but I do feel either a twinge of buyer's remorse about the price I paid or a bitter anger toward Activision for cheating me. But I'm leaning toward the latter.
I still recommend the game, but would advise waiting 'til the price drops.
I don't know why those who write against the lunacy of the KJV-only proponents never got around to asking me for an infallible argument demonstrating that the KJV is far from perfect and, indeed, a deeply flawed translation of holy writ. All they had to do was ask. But no. They struggled along for years—with solid arguments, sure, but without that One Argument that Would Rule Them All and in the Darkness Bind Them.
Your mouths water. I can tell. So here it is.
The phrase, "from whence," is used 27 times in the KJV.
An obvious imperfection. The arguers work is done. With something so glaring as this faux pas, one need not even refer to the fact that the KJV translates Passover as "Easter."
Apropos of previous conversations, I herewith present the findings of a certain and recent archaeological dig: some great and mystikal adventures. For any of you kids at the ederalfay ureaubay, I have no idea who the author of such offenses to human dignity could be. You could be absolutely certain, though, that I would tidigurn hidigim idigin immediately. I mean bare midriff? Foul, indeed.
Probably most notable from an educator's point of view is the comprehensive naming of names and degree of interaction between authority and authoritee. Anyway, the product of a high-schooler:
I can't imagine what they'd do if they really had a troubled kid in one of there classes. I dodged a bullet by being born in 1973 instead of 1993. It's crazy what a difference 20 years can make.
Y'see, after a couple-year hiatus (I stopped right around the time my brain cloud began), I thought it was about time I started showing movies again. For a good two or three years I had hosted movie nights on weekends at my house. Over those years we really tore through a good and large gamut of films. With little care for genre or nation or era, we devoured some great movies and had a good time doing it. I missed that and, much like my impetuous need to shave the other morning, I likewise decided that movie nights should resume.
We shall hope the latter decision is better founded than the former.
So anyway, it struck me that it would be grand and illuminating fun to run down the list of outstanding and important directors and take in one or two of their films to get a feel for why they are considered great. What I need help with is a) making sure I haven't missed any notable directors and b) making sure I'm picking good films from them. The list below are the directors I'm considering as well as the films I'm considering for each one. If you have anything to add or think a different movie should be chosen to represent, please let me know.
Akira Kurosawa
Heaven and Hell
Throne of Blood
Alfred Hitchcock
Rear Window
39 Steps
Bernardo Bertolucci
Last Tango in Paris
Last Emperor
Billy Wilder
Sunset Blvd.
Stalag 17
Buster Keaton
Clint Eastwood
High Plains Drifter
Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil
Don Siegel
Invasion of the Body Snatchers
Federico Fellini
La Dolce Vita
La Strada
Francois Truffaut
400 Blows
Jules and Jim
Frank Capra
It Happened One Night
You Can't Take It with You
Fritz Lang
M
Metropolis
George Cukor
Adam's Rib
One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest
Howard Hawks
The Big Sleep
His Girl Friday
Ingmar Bergman
Seventh Seal
Wild Strawberries
Jean-Luc Godard
Alphaville
Pierrot le Fou
Jim Jarmusch
Dead Man
Night on Earth
John Cassavetes
Faces
Woman under the Influence
John Huston
African Queen
Treasure of the Sierra Madre
Ki-duk Kim
Spring Summer Fall Winter... Spring
3-Iron
Kryzsztof Kieslowski
Three Colors
Martin Scorsese
Mean Streets
Raging Bull
Michelangelo Antonioni
L'Avventura
La Notte
Orson Welles
Citizen Kane
Touch of Evil
Pedro Almodovar
All about My Mother
Talk to Her
Peter Bogdanovich
The Last Picture Show
The Cat's Meow
Peter Weir
Picnic at Hanging Rock
Galipoli
Preston Sturges
Sullivan's Travels
Lady Eve
Robert Altman
Nashville
The Long Goodbye
Roman Polanski
Chinatown
The Pianist
Samuel Fuller
Pick-Up on South Street
The Big Red One
Sergei Eisenstein
Battleship Potemkin
Sydney Lumet
Murder on the Orient Express
Network
Sydney Pollack
They Shoot Horses Don't They
The Yakuza
Terrence Malick
Badlands
Days of Heaven
Tom Twyker
Winter Sleepers
Princess and the Warrior
Vittorio De Sica
Bicycle Thief
William Wyler
Desperate Hours
Roman Holiday
Wong Kar-wai
In the Mood for Love
Chungking Express
Below are directors I've already considered and dismissed for a variety of factors. Either too recent or too pedestrian or, more likely, I've already shown off a good chunk of their ouevre. If their works were one you would advise including, feel free to let me know!
So two days ago I shaved for the first time in three years. And I assure you, this is a short-lived phenomenon.
My typical routine involves using beard trimmers once or twice a week to groom my actual beard and to trim away anything that just isn't beard at all. Essentially, I always look like a guy with a goatee and an 8:3o o'clock shadow. And sometimes there are sideburns involved. We had a good arrangement, my facial hair and I.
But then, three days ago, while taking a shower, I glimpsed my razor hanging sullenly from the shower caddy, blade growing a fine coat of rust. And so I thought: Huh. Haven't done that in a while. And so I did. Not with the rusty blade. I went out and got some fresh-picked Gillette Sensor Excels razor heads. Or something like that. And the next morning?
Bam. Shaved it all away.
As it turns out, not only do I think I look better with a small beard, but the strap on my helmet rubs the crook of my neck, exacerbating a firey demonstration of razorburn. Absolutely and unequivocably not fun. And so, I am quickly returning to the realm of the bearded peoples to claim my rightful place as prince regent of their depraved company.
Oh yes, and I also have grit in my eye from something that shot up at me off the road while riding.
Bar none. Without exception. Approaching no parallel. Hands down. The very best spy movies are those that spring from the novelisations of John LeCarré. This is not to say that they are all good, but only to speak to the fact that if a certain example of espionage cinema is particularly excellent, odds are better than good that the film in question is a LeCarré film.
The very best spy movie ever crafted stars Richard Burton and is called The Spy Who Came in from the Cold. Our present concern, Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy is the second best spy movie ever made, and features prominently a character who merely cameoed in the premiere film.
Alec Guinness plays the role of George Smiley who, at time of the film's opening, has recently been ousted from the Circus (the nickname given the echelon of the British secret service directorate). It was a wholly political evacuation of his office, brought about by the new guard in the wake of Control's recent death (from natural causes).
Yet Smiley is drawn out of his forced retirement in order to unearth a mole in the highest levels of British intelligence and policy—tidying the loose ends of Control's final project. The plot is twisting and complicated and repeated viewing is recommended if one is not a note-taker. Tinker, Tailor is far more complicated than The Spy Who Came in from the Cold, which is fitting as it is three times as long. Yes, it's true. In the tradition of the most faithful of literary adaptations, Tinker, Tailor was developed as a television miniseries and is broken into six hour-long chapters.
It carries my highest recommendation.
Rating:
Television Miniseries.
324 minutes.
In the wake of what I imagine must have been the success of the Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy adaptation, the BBC adapted a later sequel in the LeCarré series. Smiley's People brings George Smiley back several years after the events of Tinker, Tailor—this time drummed out of retirement by the reemergence of his greatest nemesis from the Cold War and a chance to find closure in the most agonizing open case in his book: Karla.
Karla only appeared in flashback in the previous tale and only had tangential importance to Tinker, Tailor. This time, Karla is unearthed and on the move. People die and the tension is set. The question: is can George Smiley, a tired old man, succeed solely on the basis of his aging wit and dogged determination? Or will his obsession ruin him and leave him as dead as everyone else who has opposed Karla's movements?
Smiley's People (despite the title) presents a compelling conclusion to the Karla Trilogy (in the novelisation, there was an intermediate book between Tinker, Tailor and Smiley's People. Again, the story is twisting and suitably complicated, unfolding over an exciting six hours. Additionally, any character who survives to return in this final episode is played by the same actor as in Tinker, Tailor (personnel continuity is a boon to any series). My only quibble is that, while Tinker, Tailor featured a cast of understated characters, canny and well-played, several of the characters in Smiley's People felt to me overblown and too flamboyant. But that might just be me.
Rating:
Animated Television.
324 minutes.
Madness.
Rating:
Animated Television.
325 minutes.
After watching and enjoying and puzzling over (several times) Yoshitoshi ABe's Serial Experiments: Lain, I was delighted to hear another of his four-disc series would be coming to America. This was several years ago and at the time, I picked up each disc as it was released (anime distributors still haven't figured out how not to alienate potential customers and continue to release four episodes of a television series at a time, spreading the release of a single season of a series over months or years). And, as expected, I loved it.
I felt it was a bit slow, but still, Yoshitoshi wove some wonderful themes and ideas through the story.
Recently, I thought it was about time to revisit the series, so I sat down with The Monk and watched the entire series (thirteen half-hour episodes) over the course of a week. It was a revelation. The story struck me so much more cleanly this time through and those pauses for breath and reflection no longer made the tale seem to slow or drag. It was a wonderful experience and may be one of my favourite television shows yet.
Haibane Renmei is the story of Reki, an elder Haibane of the Charcoal Feather Federation, and her journey to overcome her fears of the unknown and her very personal and tightly held guilt-complex. The viewer experiences the story through the eyes of a subprotagonist, Rakka, a newborn Haibane, as she comes to experience the life and mystery of the Haibane for herself.
Everything is new to Rakka and Reki is the one she most relies on to help her understand her new place in life. Rakka is born full-grown from a giant watery cocoon, emerging with the body and mind of a what I'd guess is a twelve year old girl. Within days, she's sprouted small wings (which will never be useful for flight) and is given a halo (which has a humourous static affect on her hair). She is born into a whole new culture and has no memory of her previous life. It is through Rakka that we learn who Reki is and exactly how perilous is her state in the world.
Habanei Renmei is about love and charity and fear and guilt and knowing when to hold on and when to let go. And... it is, without question, wonderful.
Rating:
Graphic Novel.
128 pages.
I had read the four chapters that comprise this initial volume of the adventures of Courtney Crumrin as they had originally appeared in single issues. I had found the series amusing but nothing spectacular. It's grim and fun, but shows little staying power.
Which is why it took me so long to review the collection.
I had purchased the first two volumes of the series in a fit of patriotism (participating in wild consumer endeavors is the best way to show ones support of the establishment). They've sat unread on my bookshelf for about two years. Slightly weary of the non-fiction work I've been devouring, I needed something inconsequential upon which to rest my mind, so I picked up The Night Things.
Largely, the series showed itself to be as I remembered it. An amusement and little more. Ted Ted Naifeh's art was fun to look at and the story-telling fun, but the episodic nature of the chapters did little to help me empathize with characters. The stories, to be plain, were not very engaging. Really, they concluded just as they were beginning.
I could wish for more from a series.
Rating:
Graphic Novel.
128 pages.
Everything that the first book lacked, its sequel, Courtney Crumrin and the Coven of Mystics provides in spades. Honestly, I had pretty small expectations after reading the first book, so one might attribute my enthusiasm here to the fact that even a mediocre book could possibly excite me. Still, I don't think that is the case here.
The Coven of Mystics was a joy to read. I smiled and laughed and, well... felt all the way through. This solves the greatest difficulty of the first book by weaving interdependent stories into a greater whole. I wouldn't quite say "tapestry" but only because I would be embarrassing myself to say such things.
In this volume, Courtney grows a personality and we begin to get a feel for the world in which she inhabits. As well there were a lot of moments that "just felt right." I especially enjoyed the exploration into the lives and culture of cats; that chapter is a favourite. I don't really know what else to say but I will say this: I looked on Amazon and saw that a third volume was available and I cannot wait to get it and rejoin Courtney and gobliny acquaintances and adversaries.
As perhaps a necessary negative note, while Naifeh's expressive faces are a highlight of the series, he seems to have active difficulty with bodies. It's not a big deal, but I thought it should be mentioned. Here's to hoping practice will make perfect.
At work I've been putting together a number of tutorials detailing different ways to achieve a variety of visual goals using Photoshop CS2. I thought they were pretty snappy and would have found them useful when I was trying to figure out things like layer masks and adjustment layers, so I thought I'd try to port them over to some of the free video sites that are out there.
With little luck.
YouTube will not post video that is over ten minutes in length and most decent tutorials are going to hover around the ten-to-twenty minute mark. Further compounding the difficulty is screenRes. YouTube requires video at a miniscule 320x240. I had already shrunk my photoshop canvas from a sprawling 3000x1200 down to something like 1400x850 for initial recording and then resized the video for compatibility with 1024x768 screens. That works just fine. 320x240 does not. Nearly all detail is lost and it becomes very difficult to see what's going on.
So then I tried Google Video. It asks that you upload video at 640x480. And I saw hourlong videos available on-site. So that was encouraging. But then, after upload of my 25 minute test video, I checked to see how it looked and despite requiring 640x480, Google resized it to 320x240 anyway.
And double sigh.
Anyway, if you care to learn how to colour in line art in Photoshop, here's a twenty-five minute video in which I demonstrate how to colour the art I used in the masthead above.
[[ WARNING: Hey there. Watch out. This post contains the kind of graphic (literally) violence, gore, and bloodshed that only a well-adjusted, action-loving, horror-movie-watching fifteen year old can produce. Consider yourself warned. ]]
Okay, so here's the thing. If my daily behaviour as a youth in America's high schools appears in any child these days, that child will likely be expelled. And the thing? That thing I mentioned when I said, "Here's the thing"? The thing is: I was a good kid.
What was the problem then? I liked to draw. What? Surely that is not enough to merit expulsion. True enough. There is a caveat. I liked to draw what kids my age and of a typical disposition might like to draw if they had the ability. Okay, well, no. I didn't draw boobs. Because, well, I figured that would a) get me in trouble, and b) give me the title and distinction of Class Perv (something that, astonishingly enough, was not a distinction I cared to cultivate). What I did draw (as alluded to in the last post) were gunfights and scenes of mayhem.
The plain fact of the matter is that everyday and in every class (save for P.E., alas), I, in my authority as the artist, killed by the fistful. I was lord over a domain of death. Not only did I engage my doodles in simple firefights, but I subjected my creations to beheadings, impalements, internal combustion, acids, and, well, squirshings. Among other fates. This was partly because I found that drawing things I would hopefully never see was adventurous and partly because my classmates egged me on, cheering the imaginative ways in which I brought to a close the lives of two dimensional persons.
There was nothing wrong with me. I was a quiet, well-adjusted kid who was both good-natured and friendly (if a bit shy). I mean, sure I occasionally wore a bathrobe to school and sometimes wore all flannel because I knew how atrocious a decision that would be. Still, I grasped full-well that the drawings I created bore no import in the world of flesh and of blood. They were not worlds in which I immersed myself in order to escape from the tortures of a world that was too cruel to me (i.e., the real world*). I did not harbour secret desires to slaughter the jocks, make the cheerleaders pray to me before I drown them in a hail of gunfire, hog-tie the rich kids in overtly homo-erotic poses in order to shame them forever. There wasn't really anyone at school I didn't like.
Well, maybe the fat kid. I was, after all, still a kid.
For some reason, though, nowadays teachers and principles and authorities have been taught that violent games or stories or drawings are a critical first sign that a kid is gonna go wrong. That he is gonna take the Harris/Klebold route to fame and a messy exit. I'm not sure I know what happens to us. When do we cross the line from kids to reactionary adults who just really don't at all remember what it was like. Does this happen when we become parents? Is that when we stop remembering that kids aren't completely stupid (even if they act like it), that they can handle the things in the dark as well or sometimes better than we can?
I don't know why that is, but here is my evidence to you. I am a variously hard-worker in a respectable profession. I treat people who are different from me with respect (except for when I'm poking fun at them). I love my family. I love my friends. I work for a non-profit organization. I volunteer to work with children. I read books. I even sometimes understand them. I sing songs in the shower. I want a dog (maybe a Welsh Corgi). I drive an environmentally friendly vehicle. I don't like poetry. I think I'd make a good father. I've only been in one fight (juniour high and it was a wrestling fight not a fist fight). I'm patient and easy-going. I'm not violent (though I play at it when frisky). I would never join the military by choice. And these are a small sampling of the stuff I would draw daily in Math, English, and History (and of course, you may click on the below images to see the whole thing):
IBM presents: You Make the Call! What's the verdict? Should I be locked up as a potential killer? Was I only a step away from massacring untold tens of students and a teacher or three? Personally, I am far beyond dubious that such would be the case.
*NOTE: though not the MTV version - which hadn't come out yet - I full-well support those who create imaginary worlds in order to escape "reality" television.
Now, for what this is worth, I'm no expert in ballistics. Still, I've drawn enough gunfights in during Math, History and English while I was in high school, to have some idea about how bullets work. I also have a working knowledge of how to use Wikipedia. That's how I found this:
You see? That shiny gold cylindrical part of the bullet that the lady is morosely holding up? That means those two bullets have yet to be fired. Because after firing, the pointy tip-part (the projectile) leaves the shiny gold cylinder (the casing, which holds the propellant) behind, near whoever shot the bullet (unless they move).
So yeah, maybe that lady's house did get shot twice (bad house!), but shame on Agence France-Presse for trying to dupe people with lame captions.
I was sick over the weekend and I suspect that Paulo didn't aid me in my recovery at all by introducing me to Gimme Friction Baby, an addictive little game of angles, friction, and momentum. In fact, I may go so far as to say that our Brownish Pau actually introduced a new kind of sickness into my system. So, needless to say, I saw the words GAME OVER quite often over the last couple days:
I was also the happy recipient of a big box full of fun. RightStuf recently had a big bulky sale, of which I was certain to avail myself. Essentially, I got twenty-three dvds and two cds for a hundred bucks. All cartoons :) I was able to fill out a couple series to which I had the first disc but wasn't willing to pay the sixty-to-ninety bucks it would take to get the two and three more dvds I'd need in order to get the whole series. I also got three complete series, one of which I had been wanting for some time and another of which I selected based on trust in the show's creator (he had directed two prior favourites, Seriel Experiments: Lain and Haibane Renmei).
Carl Hiaasen is right at home in that collective of modern, witty crime fiction writers who are neither Dashiell Hammett nor Raymond Chandler and hope against that you won't attempt the comparison. That he's good, there's no doubt. It's just: he's not genius.
And that's fine. Not everyone can abide in stellar heights, unreachable and ever-gunned-for. Skinny Dip was a perfectly enjoyable ode to revenge. All the bad people got what was coming to them and none of the good people ever fell prey to their various bumblings and inadequacies. I devoured the last half of the tale in a single sitting, staying up late enough in bed reading that my performance at the office the next day may have been diminished.
It's just... I've read the greats. And so I think that subconsciously I'm always left thinking, Wow, that was fun... but *sigh* it was no The Long Goodbye. I know it's probably not fair to Hiasaan, but it's kind of like reading most any fantasy epic after having read The Lord of the Rings. You end up feeling kind of hollow.
No hard feelings, Carl? You're still as good as Elmore Leonard!
Rating:
Graphic Novel.
416 pages.
As the movie is coming up (much of the casting has been completed), I figured that I was ripe for a reread. In past readings, I have been less than astonished by the work that made TIME Magazine's 100 Best Novels (1923 to the Present). When I first approached Alan Moore's lauded work, I had just come off an extended (or perhaps overextended) run of immersion in film noir and the books and stories that inspired them, so Moore's existentialist take on heroism didn't strike me as all that fresh. Watchmen was simply just more of the same. Well-crafted, sure. But nothing particularly mind-blowing.
This was my third read and probably the first time I was ever able to approach the book without expectations. And this time? I enjoyed the book much more.
Moore really is smart about the way he lays things out and despite his occasionally stilted story and dialogue (by design I presume), he really does present a twisting and mysterious story speculating how a more realistic world might react to superheroes and masked adventurers. Some caveats: the books colouring job is pretty awful (I hear the Absolute Edition resolves this issue) and despite the fact that the Tales of the Black Freighter is engaging if one can pay attention to it, I still find its use as a metaphor a bit heavy-handed.
Anyway, I'd say Watchmen is worth a read, both for its historical context and for its visual/textual intricacies.
Rating:
Novel.
162 pages.
A delicious tale of horror and dark-humour for children, Neil Gaiman's Coraline explores the strange new (and quite limited) world into which adventures young Coraline finds herself. Having discovered a secret door into a hidden tunnel, Coraline discovers an exciting mirror to her own world, in which everything is a little more interesting, the animals talk, and everybody knows her name and, more importantly, says it right. It seems like everybody notices her and everybody cares.
Insert "Bwa-ha-ha."
Watching Gaiman play with his toys and make his grim jokes is more fun than you can shake a stick at. And I still get the willies when I remember certain aspects of the story detail. *shiver*
At work, they've hired someone to develop a thirty-lesson course on the basics of Christianity. This piqued my interest and so I put together an outline of how I might organize such a course. I overstepped the alotted number of courses by three, but I think there's room for condensation (maybe in the grace and history sections). So here's my course outline. Let me know what you think. What am I missing? Something you'd dump? Remember, this is a course that doubles as a new believers' class and kind of an essentials of Christianity thing. With that: olé!
Introduction: What is Christianity?
Scripture: Its Credibility
Scripture: Its Authorship
God: His Character and Attributes
God: In Three Persons
God: Miracles
History: The Creation of the World
History: The Creation of Man
History: Covenants of Adam and the Fall
History: Covenants of Noah and the Patriarchs
History: Covenants of Moses
History: The Kingdom Era and Exile
History: Post-Exile
Christ: Incarnation of Messiah
Christ: Son of God
Christ: Obedience unto Death
Christ: Resurrection and Ascension to Glory
Grace: Life in Sin and Common Grace
Grace: Repentance and Faith
Grace: Regeneration
Grace: Justification
Grace: Sanctification and Glorification
Grace: The Holy Spirit
Grace: Baptism and the Lord's Supper
History: The New Testament Church
History: A Concise History of the Church from the Patristics to Present
A couple weeks back, Team Rich and David did a podcast that had one interesting conceit: Top 5 Books that Your Children Must Read. Personally I think the list needed a little more qualification. For example, there was no discussion of what age group we are talking about. I think the list for an elementary schooler would be quite different from the list for a juniour higher or especially a high schooler. David's #1 pick was a theology book Wayne Grudem (if memory serves) and I really can't see my eight year old lapping that up.
So then. I am going to do my own list. But this one will be qualified.
It was hard to pick a single work from within Roald Dahl's magnificent oeuvre, but this was a childhood favourite of mine. From this my children would learn to explore the corners of their burgeoning imaginations for what better place to explore.
Jeff Smith's epic adventure of the Bone cousins in the valley of humans, dragons, and stupid, stupid rat creatures is quickly becoming one of the more beloved adventures of recent years - so much so that Scholastic has taken the initiative to republish the work in full colour volumes. From this my children would learn of adventure and sacrifice and the embarrassment of true love.
Neil Gaiman's spooky novella is darkly humourous and warm-hearted. From this my children would learn of ingenuity and the value of taking things in stride.
Antoine de Saint Exupéry crafts a wonderful tale of whimsy and childlike magic. From this my children would learn that sometimes it is better to think like a child.
Hergé was my hero as a child. I devoured as many of his Tintin books as I could find in the public library (a prodigious number indeed) when I was in second grade (and from them I garnered a vocabulary far beyond what was expected of me at the time). From this my children would learn that the world is wide and full of life and adventure and that sea captains are crazy.
Stan Sakai is amazing and when I list Usagi Yojimbo here, I am not listing a single volume of the book but every volume (currently at twenty-one). From this my children would learn of honour, respect, and courage, and would hopefully tolerance of a culture as foreign to theirs as any. Oh, and an incredibly vast visual vocabulary that would help them decipher visual communication all the days of their lives.
Of all C.S. Lewis's works, only the third book of the series ever truly captured me as a child. From this my children would learn of greed and pettiness and charity and valour.
Richard Adams crafted what is one of the finest tales in the English language and no person (child or otherwise) should go long into this world without having reveled in its wonder. From this my children would learn the value of community, wisdom, to appreciate a warm, safe burrow.
While I primarily remember the journey aspect of the first book in John Christopher's Tripods trilogy, I do know that adored the books as a youth. From this my children would learn to appreciate speculative fiction and the rich world of moral speculation that such works offer.
Milne was astounding in his ability to endure. Disney bastardization aside, Winnie-the-Pooh and The House at Pooh Corner will always be cherished so long as there are people who read. From this my children will learn that growing does not mean putting away childish things (a lesson they will not likely pick up on until they are grown).
I started putting junk in my hair when I was about twenty-five. Prior to that, I actually brushed my hair—if you can believe it. Ah, those were the days. So it's been about a decade since I actually brushed or combed my hair. Since that time, I've pretty much gone with different expressions of what should be known as The Frozen Tussle.
The upside is that it takes me no longer than a minute to get my hair perfect (i.e. suitably tussled). The downside is the product.
Finding the right goop to put in my hair has been, well, a trial. In ten years I've gone through so many different bottles and jars that I can't even remember all the names. I can, however, tell you what I use now and what I won't use any more.
I began my journey with gels. This was a mistake but I'm glad I tried it out. Learning experience and all that. Gels could possibly be the nastiest thing to put on your head. Right next to poop. Still, everyone was doing it so why not me too?
The problems with gel are manifold.
Your hair may look perfect, but the moment something touches your head, you are doomed. A hand, a hug, a mean friend who knows your hair's weakness. And then Garunch! Your hair is still tussled, though not perfectly. Instead, it looks rather stupid now. And because the molecular bond has been broken, you will not be able to return your hair to it's prior glorious state. Also. the crispy spikiness of gelled hair actually invites insurrection by friends and lovers alike. It's like when you see one of those playing card houses. Whammo! Also, I wear a helmet to work so I'd have to installed the gel not in the bathroom before leaving the house but at the office—which would just be obnoxious.
At the end of the day, some chemical reaction has occurred that has caused some run-off from the gelled hair to seep down to your scalp and onto your forehead, creating an oily band that creeps up to an inch below your hairline. Sexy!
Gel clogs pores awesomely (probably due to the aforementioned run-off) and causes, Duhn-duhn-DUHN! Scalp zits. Joy.
Next, I thought I'd try waxes. These come in little tins or jars and have a variety of smells. Some are pleasant and some are nice. I got one from Herbal Essences that smelled like pineapple. Well, not like real pineapple but like the chemical approximation of what a pineapple should smell like. I always dug this fake pineapple smell because it smells like surf wax to me—and honestly, for me, there is little that smells quite as nice and refreshing as surf wax.
Waxes worked fine for me but the problem was that the good waxes were hard to find on any consistent basis. Just when I'd find the right one, the one that worked with my particular hair needs, the store at which I found it would stop carrying it. Also there were a lot of lame ones. Especially those put out by large companies. These, for some reason, always sucked pretty bad. My favourite of the waxes was something called Short Sexy Hair. Again, my local supermarkets discontinued stocking it.
Then I started looking at pomades. Honestly, I can't tell the difference between a pomade and a wax. They're both better than gel. They're both pretty waxy. And they both leave your hands entirely waterproof after application. Oh yeah, and neither wax nor pomade are consistently stocked by supermarkets.
Anyway, the pomade I'm using right now is called Murray's Superior Hair Dressing Pomade. It works pretty much exactly as I'd want a hair product to work, so that's cool. Plus, the tin it comes in is so very worth your while (and mine too apparently).
I can't say I follow the directions though:
FOR MEN: First, see that hair is clean. If hair is thick, mix MURRAY'S HAIR-GLO with portion of pomade to be used on hair. Rub into palms of hands until it softens, then rub thoroughly into hair. Dampen the hair with hot water, or place hot, damp towel on head for a few minutes. Remove, comb all traces of pomade out of the hair, then comb and brush into style wanted. Place a MURRAY'S SPECIAL HAIR PRESSING CAP on head until hair dries.
Sigh. I wish I could be that guy. But I can't. Not yet anyway. For me, I abuse the product by simply taking a finger of the junk and lightly brushing it over my hair after I dry my hair from a shower. What are you gonna do, huh.
My feeling on archetypes runs somewhat as follows. A novel, story, et cetera should not be celebrated for its use of archetypes. Perhaps we may celebrate a work for its camouflage of said types, but we should never laud it for the utilization of what amounts to nothing more than cliché.
Yes. It's true. Archetypes are cliché. Specific kinds of cliché to be sure, ones that deal with character more than expression or narrative style, but cliché nonetheless.
Please note that I am not complaining of the use of archetypes or in any denigrating their presence in fiction. Really, with the incredibly broad scope of the types that particular archetypes cover, I doubt that there is much (if any) fiction that actually succeeds in developing a story that entirely eschews these character clichés.
It helps that the brush we paint with is broad enough to capture a wide variety of characterizations. We desire so badly to categorize things that we'll create categories in where surfacely disparate characters can cozy up to each other under a single banner. Philip Marlowe, Harry Potter, Frodo Baggins, Odysseus, and Peter Parker: all heroes? Of course they are. Even if they couldn't really be more different in terms of motivation or personality, they all share a particular heroic trajectory, and so, all embody the heroic archetype.
But then, so what? What's the point of recognizing that each of these is the (or a) hero of their story? Besides the fact that knowing this will tell you who to root for (as if you didn't know!), there probably isn't a lot of use for the recognition. It may help you to discover how inventive your author truly is, as generally there will be an inverse relationship between an author's craft and your ability to easily pick out the archetypes (unless the author either isn't concerned with that aspect of the work or is making the cliché ironically obvious). But it won't likely make the story unfold to you its hidden depths.
One of my posts from a number of months back dealt with Harry Potter and the suppostion that he was a Christ figure in the Potter series. Now if taken in a very broad sense (as in, he saves the day through a selfless act), I suppose he must be. He doesn't very much resemble in either person or work the Christ of history, but in a vague sort of way he does (like Flash Gordon, who "saved every one of us!"). But then, so what?
Why is it important that we shoehorn Rowling's character into our understanding of a cliché? Does it elevate the story to pin a particular badge to our zot-scarred protagonist? If we can somehow describe Potter's trajectory within the story as "predictible," how does that helps us?
I'm not sure that it does. If anything, it will cause us to suspect that Rowling really isn't all that creative and the teeming masses have been duped, shelling out their hard-bought $18 at midnight black masses convened in their local bookseller's. But maybe I'm missing something.
How is the recognition and assignment of an archetype helpful to me as I approach literature (either in print or on screen or in the guttered recesses of the graphic novel)? Lend a brother a hand here.
Thing One
A fourth act of vandalism has occured against my environmentally friendly vehicle of choice. A couple mornings back, I descended the stairs and approached my carport in which Bartleby was corralled for the night. The seat looked wet but I payed it no mind as the early morning dew will often settle on places that escape direct sunlight. As I grew closer the seat looked wet and yellow.
Eggs.
Some miscreant had cracked an egg and smeared is all over the seat. It dripped over the side and down the paint. Joy. I climbed back up the flights of stairs and then down again with a sudsy bucket and sponge. I scrubbed him down pretty well but still could not get rid of the smell entirely. And yes, I was pretty late to work that day.
I'm thinking of enquiring about how much a garage space would cost each month.
Thing Two
It's a deep and abiding shame upon the internets that dotdot.com is not a site wholly devoted to the wondrous glory that is: The Ellipsis.
Thing Three
Does anyone else hateHATEhate the fact that when reading an article from the New York Times online, any time you double click, it automatically pops up a dictionary definition of the word you happened to have clicked. I mean, really. In what world is that an acceptable web practice?
In related news, it turns out that they is a pronoun used to refer to the ones previously mentioned or implied.
