The Inexplicables--Old Man Sundays #2

Sorry I've been gone, folks. It's been so for a whole host of reasons, and since I'm not in the habit of treating this blog like a therapy session, let's just move on, shall we?

I watched Gymkata this week, for the first time in many years. Along with many other bad action movies, I watched this incessantly as a kid. At the time, it could not have been cooler. Unlike many other actioners of my childhood that don't hold up and are now mere bores, Gymkata is so stupefyingly inept, yet seemingly steadfast in earnestness, that it manages to be a bewilderingly charming 90 minutes. Having lately watched another movie of similar simultaneous earnestness and ineptitude (Thank God It's Friday), it gets me thinking that I'd like to see other movies like this. I'm dubbing them: The Inexplicables. I've already mentioned the criteria above: these movies must have earnest intentions, fail miserably in executing them, and precisely because of that ineptitude, impart upon the viewer an absurd glee in the viewing.

I want more examples, people. I've got the musical and martial arts examples par excellence. I don't think I've seen the heist example yet, but I'm guessing that Disorganized Crime is a solid candidate.

Eating at Hugo's Frog Bar and Fish House in Naperville, IL hit home a notion that I've been considering for some time. Namely, it is my experience that restaurants never really cater to the individual diner the way that they should. Whenever I eat out alone, I usually find that the servers are not as courteous as when I'm in a group, my wait is longer, and there are few to no check-ins from my servers after the meal is brought to me. A friend pointed out that the longer wait may simply feel longer, since I'm not conversing with anyone. This may be occasionally true, but certainly is not always so. I'm confused by the seeming lack of respect for the individual diner. Note to servers, mine is the only tip you'll be getting from my table. If you want a good one, show me a little courtesy, and bust your ass for me the way you would for the couple and their gaggle of youngsters next to me. Maybe it's just that I'm not the nicest-looking guy?

If you're wondering why I was in Naperville, it was to meet Charlie Higson, author of the Young Bond series. I was surprised--and a little sad--that there weren't more people there, but it afforded me the opportunity to chat one-on-one for quite some time with one of the few people around who've written Bond. In disarmingly funny fashion, Higson elaborated on the challenges of working certain elements into the Young Bond series--specifically the smoking, the drinking, the sex, and the violence. I took notes, because if I ever write a YA novel, I expect I'll be facing similar challenges.

For those of you in Madison, only one more day of Brat Fest. Your Double Johnnies await! As does your race with the devil on your way home.

I've found myself, on more than one occasion of late, dreaming of a Texas sunset. I think I'll take in a few soon, though I have not endured a Texas summer since 2001. We'll see if I survive.

Now that I have followers, I will start posting stuff on Twitter forthwith. Witticisms abound, people!

Take note, good readers: combing through e-mails at 1 in the morning always leads to no good. Actually, combing through almost anything at 1 in the morning leads to no good.

Best quote I've ever heard about the movie Tombstone: "Man, you were just an asshole if you weren't in this movie."

Watching Justified has, among other things, made me: a) want to buy a new pair of boots, now that my old ones don't fit, and b) wonder about my ability to pull off a cowboy hat again.

Speaking of quotes, I wonder how many times a year George Will describes politics as a "transactional business." Clearly, a reminder we all need.

Watched the Lost finale, like a few of you out there. Enjoyed it, like fewer of you out there. The show is, in the end, my 2nd favorite of all time (between Homicide: Life on the Street in 3rd and The Sandbaggers in 1st). Don't care to discuss further at this time.

Right this second, all I want out of life is to get out of cocked hat and into hog's fat.

Finally, I began with the inexplicable. I shall end with the inexplicable. Watch these now. Thank me at your leisure.

Again, profuse apologies for the absence. More to come. Entries, that is. Not absences.

The Little Things--Old Man Sundays #1

You'd think "Old Man Sundays" would mostly be a jumble of grumbles; at least, that's what the title would imply.

However, the title refers to a propensity, however infrequent, to enjoy a few small pleasures on a Sunday morning that make me feel like an old man. Going out to breakfast by myself, reading a copy of Illustration Magazine while I eat, followed by a bit of pool. This is the program.

So while there are numerous things I could (and want to) gripe about, I'm not going to do that here...at least not today. Instead, in no particular order, here's a brief list of the small pleasures in which I've recently indulged, or to which I always look forward.

• an unbroken Butterfinger from a vending machine
• fine book design (cover art, trade dress, the works)
• discovering a bourbon that reminds me of scotch (Black Maple Hill)
• discovering a rye that reminds me of all that's good in this world (Templeton)
• merely knowing there's a film out there that's titled Man on the Spying Trapeze
• Tina Fey making a reference to Tron
• almost everything Christina Hendricks says here (particularly her 6th point, which seems like a rare quality)
• sliding my fingers over well kept felt on a pool table, and likewise the feel of the Irish linen on my cues
• my E.T. ad about drinking and driving, shown here.
• the tactility of reading the Griffin & Sabine books
• a sketch that an artist draws inside your hardcover comic, precisely because you bought the hardcover
• tennis at sundown
• using a wooden bat at a batting cage when everyone else is using aluminum bats
• mail-order ribs (from Memphis, specifically)
• that moment during a run when you tell your burgeoning shin splits to go fuck themselves
• lip balm that tastes like Dr Pepper
• this article
• reading any Golden Age comic before I go to sleep
• a superhero who, clearly without any logic or motivation, uses a gatling gun instead of his magical powers
• having a theater to myself (and taking a call during the movie if I want to; it's plain sinful)
• ekranoplans
• watching the entire run of Homicide: Life on the Street in two months
• listening to every Miles Davis Columbia album chronologically
• great screenwriting
• feedback on this blog

It's the little things in life, after all.

And thus I have completed 7 straight days of posting, which for someone who hasn't posted in as many months, feels like a something of a minor feat. I doubt I'll be posting daily this week, but definitely expect new posts for "Monday Movies," "Wednesday Comics," "Friday Night Heists," and "Saturday Swigs."

I hope you've liked what you've read here this week. If there's something I can improve or change--however large or small--tell me. And if you expected a grumpier "Old Man Sundays," well...all I can say is to check back tomorrow for my first installment of "Monday Movies."

And with that, I bid you all a good evening.

Refilling the Empty Hand

Right. It occurs to me that I have neglected my meager chronicle for much too long, and I return to it now for two reasons.

1) A friend of mine gave me 4 instructions yesterday, and writing each and every day this week was on the list (others include taking a look at the Shoedini, watching as much of The Mighty Boosh as I can, and having a John Parr dance party).

2) My Jim Thompson quote rant has been my last post for long enough. Those of you who read me but don't know me have likely thought that I went bug-fuck mad. Those of you who do know me...well, keep schtum, would you?

Now, apropos of daily scrawls, I know that the friend in question meant that I should be working on my variety of undeveloped and long percolating ideas for comics, prose, musical theatre, etc. And I will indeed start working on those again. But I need something both regimented and something that the rest of you can read.

Thus, I'm kinda rebooting the ol' blog. Hollywood studios are rebooting all the time now; why can't I?. From now on, each day's post will have a theme. Below are the themes and what I have on tap for this week:

MONDAY MOVIES, which I'll begin in earnest next week, due to my very procedural intro tonight.

Tomorrow will bring you TUESDAY TOMES, in which I'll look at the last Queen & Country novel, Private Wars, by Greg Rucka.

And because I just can't get enough Queen & Country, I'll use my WEDNESDAY COMICS installment to look at a single page from Rucka's first arc. I'll then argue why I think that page is one of the best examples of comic storytelling I've seen in the past several years.

THURSDAY TELEVISION will be a 2-for-1 deal, in that I'll throw in some Monday Movies action along with the TV, by talking about a strange confluence of events that led my friends and me to watch a charmingly inept and bizarre disco movie and follow that up with what turned out to be an amazing (and even more bizarre) episode of Night Court. Those of you who lived it are, of course, excused from reading this post.

FRIDAY NIGHT HEISTS will explore some of the movies that I watched in my 101-day heist marathon, along with some other flicks that I've found post-'thon. I'll start off with the 1968 Gordon Flemyng rarity, The Split.

SATURDAY SWIGS is born of a suggestion my fellow whiskey club co-founder made to me. I'm going to start reviewing whiskeys. However, while I'll post here this week, I'll very shortly pop the cork on a blog specifically for whiskey reviews. Get ready to move "From the Sweet to the Peat" in the not-too-distant, in which I shall style myself the poor man's Jim Murray.

And that brings us to OLD MAN SUNDAYS, in which I'll talk about whatever the hell I want to, goddammit.

As always, I hope to have enough smart, entertaining type that I can hand you.

Oh, and um, Maureen? You didn't mention the Gilbert Gottfried voiceover for Shoedini, which puts it over the top. I have to admit, though, I'm wondering if a Bootdini is in the works, if for no other reason than that I can hopefully do the voiceover. And, while I'm at it, thanks for the list.

Read: The Nightly News, by Jonathan Hickman

Watch: The Small Back Room (dir. Michael Powell & Emeric Pressburger, 1949)

Listen to: I Liked It Better When You Had No Heart, by Butch Walker and the Black Widows

A Not So Brief Intermission

This is a very personal, scattershot entry. If you're not prepared for this sort of thing from me, then leave. I will not be offended in the slightest (it's not like I'll know).

We all have those places where we find relaxation, solace and strength. They may be ours alone, although more often than not, we share them with others. Here's mine:

I know. Doesn't look like much, does it?

Nevertheless, I used to get so much rest, so much peace on this nondescript bench, which you'll still find on the 2nd floor of the Blocker Building at Texas A&M University. What peace I found owed partially to it usually being a stop on my way to one of this gentleman's classes.

This is Dr. Douglas Brooks. He was my mentor. He died last January. Somehow, I only found out 2 weeks ago.

I do not wish to pour my memories out for you all to read here; indeed, my stories of him are better heard than read. But I can't let his death go without some acknowledgment.

In the classroom, I loved the fact that he was always intellectually rebellious without being egotistical, a singularly uncommon trait in a professor. He gave me radical, yet intuitive ways to think not only about Shakespeare but indeed all of literature. For me to express those ideas here would be a disservice to the energetic elegance with which he imprinted them not only on me, but onto all of his students. He also angered more than a few people with his ideas, which drew--from me at least--nothing but admiration.

Out of the classroom, he completely changed my taste in a lot of areas, particularly film and music. We'd talk a lot about film, and as many ideas as he sparked in me, he presented so much more encouragement. Once upon a time, I gave some lectures to intro film classes at A&M, and he was always in the back row of the lecture hall. He didn't have to sit in; he just came to watch me, like a parent supporting his kid in the big game.

High expectations, bankrupt of pressure. I don't know if I've known that feeling from anyone since.

He also gave me Stanley Kubrick, David Cronenberg, and Hal Hartley. He gave me a copy of Trust many years ago, a gift which had many repercussions quite impossible for me to articulate here. That movie was one of many films, books, and albums he just gave me out of nowhere, merely because he thought I'd like them. I'm proud he bestowed that sense of random generosity upon me.

Douglas also entrusted me with his own work. While I was in College Station and even after I left, he allowed me to help him with his research and planning his courses. I loved every minute of it. He managed to make everything seem simultaneously important but lighthearted. Emphasizing the lighthearted was his specialty, and truth be told, I wouldn't be half the man I am today without him. Even with everything else he did for me, the most important thing was teaching me not to take myself so damned seriously.

I loved Douglas dearly. I'll miss him forever. I'll never forget him.

And as the man says, I'm tired of the people we need leaving us before their time.

We now resume regular programming. Thanks for listening, and good night.

Read: The Winter's Tale, by William Shakespeare

Watch: Trust (dir. Hal Hartley, 1991)

Listen to: Exposed, by Mike Oldfield

...and anything by The Residents.

P.S. If you are one of Douglas's former students and have somehow come across this blog, please feel free to add whatever comments about him you like.

A Card I Can Get Behind

Being the holder of Plot 383840 has its little advantages...

As I'm wont to say, it's the little things, kids. You too can have your own little piece of Islay.

Hmmm, now let's see how a little scotch and a little Dr Pepper taste when mixed together.

Probably like a turpentine fire.

(Takes a sip)

Oh my.

Read: Starman, by James Robinson, Tony Harris, et al

Watch: Le doulos (dir. Jean-Pierre Melville, 1962)

Listen to: On the Ropes, by Mint Royale

5 Quick Things and a Bonus

1) After having watched them again recently, I maintain that Mission: Impossible II is the best of that series. I'd also argue it's John Woo's best American film.

2) All of this "Texas should be its own country again" crap has got me lamenting that Kinky Friedman didn't win his gubernatorial bid. My old home state would be a better place, I think.

3) Ran across a slim little volume this evening, quite by happenstance, entitled, The Penguin Book of Gaslight Crime. I really must get to reading it...once I finish The God Delusion, The Road,Godel, Escher, Bach, Starman Omnibus, Vol. 2, and My Silent War.

4) This is the number of days I've been coughing my lungs out. You'd think I could, you know, stop already.

5) So, when I first heard about the new Star Trek film, I was skeptical, which gave way to cautious optimism, which in turn gave way to bona fide excitement, which has now given way to purchasing the cereal. I must be mad.

Finally, an image I've been meaning to post for a while...one I haven't seen elsewhere. Enjoy.

And look at that...it's hell time. 'Night everybody.

'Smatter?

The matter? Nothing really, save that I'm currently sporting a headache roughly the size of Montana. I'm afraid this is not the time for focused thought.

Yet, I'm here. Thus, a smattering.

First off, here's something I require from you all, you steadfast readers of my meager, meandering chronicle. I have recently discovered the glory of swearing by saying, "Trousers!" Do this. Do it with a British accent. Be fruitful with this expression and let it spread throughout the land. Do me proud.

You know what, kids? Dr. Pepper made with pure cane sugar is better than almost any scotch. (Note, I said almost. I've still got my eye on that Bunnahabhain 25-year.)

I lament what a bad moviegoer I've become. Used to be, back in my non-comic reading, non-suit wearing, non-scotch drinking days, I'd see damn near anything that came to my local multiplex. And I live across the street from one now, but I'm lucky if I see one movie at the screen every couple of weeks. It's not so much that I am diverting my so-called disposable income to other pursuits, so much as it is the fact that I just flat out don't care about seeing everything anymore. I remember believing that any film was worth watching (even Salo). I suppose I still do believe that, but I expend no effort in putting that principle into practice. My real hope is that my sense of curiosity isn't in a state of atrophy.

Along those lines, I'm pretty well burned out on superhero comics. At least current superhero comics. And while I love books like Queen & Country & Fell, they don't come out with any regularity (or, you know, at all for quite some time). However, here are the 7 books that you should be reading. This is not some edgy underground list or a small catalog proving how much more sophisticated my taste is for reading only books published by Drawn & Quarterly. They're just good books. Go read them. Drop whatever comic you're buying out of habit (Trinity) and pick up one of these:

Criminal
Zorro
The Lone Ranger
Incognito
FreakAngels (Start at the bottom of the page. It's free. You are, officially, without excuse.)
Madame Xanadu
Rasl

Some webular curiosities:

Curiosity #1, in which the author indicts Fox Studios for its dicketry with his own brand of dickery. http://www.cracked.com/blog/fox-can-eat-several-dicks/

I suppose I could judge this guy, but if this kind of crap had happened to Bond, we all know I'd react with similar charm and grace.

Curiosity #2, in which we find the author expounding on the virtues of the Cinema of Jason Statham: http://blog.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=blog.view&friendID=67077201&blogID=461660900

There are certainly exceptions to Mr. Oswalt's argument, but how do you not love something that includes the phrase "fuck an explosion?"

Curiosity #3, in which we find the author, with the utmost clever-clever tone, defending Frank Miller's celluloid psychological upheaval. http://blog.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=blog.view&friendID=82986370&blogID=461565928

While I still haven't seen the film, I can't imagine liking it. However, there's some truth to be found in Mr. Baker's review. I also particularly respect the fact that he's defending a friend (see some of the usual boards for more info, if you can stand the boards that long).

Curiosity #4, in which I find, thanks to spotting it on the Occasional Superheroine blog, an unhealthy fascination. http://video.yahoo.com/watch/4242098/11392286

In other news, I live in a place where--on the morrow--the high will be lower than the low. Why do I that again? Trousers!

Seriously, do any of you have ANY deliriously happy music you can recommend? Not heroic. Not inspiring. Happy. I need the musical equivalent of Eric Joyner's Robots & Donuts. See example below, in which robots are fending off a donut invasion. (By the way, go buy this book. Now.)

A conversation I overheard the other day, the topic being Tim Sale's artistic rendering of Batman. (Groan.) Here we go:

Fanboy 1: "So do you prefer Batman with the long ears or the short ears?"
Fanboy 2: "Short ears."
Fanboy 1: "And do you prefer them in the middle or in the back?"
Fanboy 2: "I don't understand the question."

At this point, I had to walk away. I'm not sure whether it was because I was going to start laughing or join in. Six of one...

You know that feeling that wells in the pit of your stomach when your friendly neighborhood video store doesn't have the Blu-Ray version of the movie/show you're searching for? That's called Blu-Rage, kids. Gotta learn to control that. Copyright pending.

Speaking of movies, it's 2009. This means that the following films will be 10 years old this year: Magnolia, Eyes Wide Shut, The Limey, Fight Club, The Matrix, The Mission (To), The Insider, Three Kings, All About My Mother, The Thomas Crown Affair, and Episode I. Does this fact just seem OUTRIGHT WRONG to anyone else? I may not feel aged, but I do feel old.

Wow. Headache's all but gone. How 'bout that?

Hey, Sleep? I'm on my way.

I'll end tonight by saying thanks to all of you who follow this blog. That you care at all about what I have to say is heartening, to say the least. And I look forward to my eventual trip to Norway, where I can apparently anticipate a reception resembling unconditional worship.


Read: The Road by Cormac McCarthy
Watch: Sparrow (dir. Johnnie To, 2008) [Two words: pickpocket showdown.]
Listen to: Born to Hustle: A Collection of Rhythm and Blues by Various Artists

A Fourth Brief Intermission

I'm back from vacationing in good ol' Tejas. Unfortunately, the only thing I didn't get accomplished was my review. Rest assured you'll see it in two days time (which will leave only my Requiem Mass unfinished, Mr. Schauer).

However, I just wanted to share this quick story before I post the aforementioned. It seems like a good one on which to end the year.

I went for a walk late on the evening of December 25. Having had a decent Christmas with my parents (which, at my father's behest, included a viewing of that holiday classic, The Dark Knight), I took a constitutional, as I am wont to do when I'm back in Corsicana.

On the way to the park where I take those frequent walks, I passed 4 kids playing with some sort of dart guns. While I didn't pay much attention to them--enough only to keep from getting shot at--I'd say their ages ranged from about 5 to 9.

Here is the conversation that I overheard. Keep in mind that I didn't respond to them; I just strode onward, collar on my peacoat turned up, a small smile upon my face.

Kid 1 (referring to me): "Is he a bad guy?"

Kid 2: "Nah, he's not a bad guy."

Other kids: "No. No. He's not bad."

Kid 2: "He's Batman."

Other kids: "Aw, wow! Batman!"

Kid 1: "Nah, he's not Batman."

Kid 2: "Well, who is he?"

(Pause)

Kid 1: "He's just...a man."

I'm just a man. Truer words...




Alright. I hope you've all had an enjoyable holiday season. This QOS review and I have some unfinished business. See you back here in two days time.

Bits. Tid Bits.

I endure myriad stupid comments throughout my work week. Today's quote takes the cake. On one of my many, MANY conference calls, I heard, "All of those myths are definitely false." The brain wobbles. And not that scotch-tastic wobble, either.

I feel for people trying to find teddy bears for their kids. We almost all of us had them when we were kids. They were simple, cute, and happy little stuffed animals. Nowadays, those damn things look like they'll all murder you in the night.

Finding the right shawl collar cardigan is much harder than I figured.

I can't help it and I can't say why, kids, but I'm feeling a great deal of Texas pride lately.

I do hope Daniel Craig doesn't wear a new pair of sunglasses in the next film. I just can't afford it.

Watching last week's episode of 30 Rock was glorious. To see my favorite comedy of the present cross paths with my favorite comedy of my childhood (Night Court)...well...that's like having a James Bond film and a Batman film in the same year. Hey, wait a minute...

Speaking of which, my Quantum of Solace review is forthcoming.

Ready yourselves.

"It's not your word...it's who ya give it to!"

Those words were yelled with customary righteous indignation by Ernest Borgnine in one of my favorite movies of all time, The Wild Bunch. I think of those words, however, in relation to one of my favorite films of this year--Appaloosa--which I just watched again this evening.

There's a lot that I love about Ed Harris's western. The friendship between Virgil Cole (Harris) and Everett Hitch (Viggo Mortensen), yet another example of how westerns get the idea of friendship just right (in my eyes, anyway). The film's fine balance of the realistic and the romantic. The fact that it pretty much blindsided me with how enjoyable it was--something that happens to me too little anymore, my film taste becoming more weathered and eccentric with each passing year. And, as my friend Stew put it, the fact that it's nice to watch a film upon which the fate of an entire genre doesn't rest.

However, what I'm fixated on right now are two scenes in the film, both involving a man's word being given. In one scene, a stranger gives his word to Cole that he'll testify against the villain (Jeremy Irons) in a court of law. In the other, Cole asks a criminal (Lance Henriksen) for his word to put aside any differences they might have and leave their showdown for a later time, given their need to team up for a spell.

A man's word is given. And taken. With speed. And without question.

I find grand satisfaction in this commonplace honor, however minor the application. Actually, I can't tell you which I find more beguiling: the fact that someone would be willing to keep his word to a stranger, or that someone would be willing to accept the word of a stranger.

And yes, kids, I know this is a concept the movies (particularly the western and the gangster film) and fiction in general excel at promoting. I'm not so naive as that. (Okay, I'm close.)

I can't help it, though. The thought so wholly resonates with me, even though I realize it was probably never that commonplace. It is something, I suppose, that one may still find nowadays...albeit in rare corners.

And I guess that gets me back to why I love the Borgnine quote so much. Because it's not just the weight of your word that does you honor. The choice of whom you would trust with it really is more important, particularly since that person would just as quickly keep theirs to you.

I can't really tell you why all this is on my mind. I think about stuff like this now and then, and as with most things probably way more seriously than I should. If nothing else, I hope you walk away with a good movie recommendation and a couple of minutes' entertainment from me sharing all this with you.

Alright. I'm done for the evening. Now that I've finished Crooked Little Vein, I'm off to figure out what I'm going to read next.

Until next time...


Read: "Gonna Be a Long Drive," "Our Time on the Edge," "I Know, Right," and "Journeys Big and Small." They're all blogs my friends write, and they'll actually give you more entertainment and satisfaction than the books, movies, or music I usually recommend here. Enjoy them, kids.

I'm not a political man, but...

...in much the same way that candidates have both victory speeches and concession speeches prepared, I've had a couple of quotes circling around in my head.

The first one, a most dreadful thought, has been in my head for a few weeks now. Upon the outbreak of World War I, British Foreign Secretary Sir Edward Grey made the following comment, which has stuck with me ever since I first heard it in Coach Blake's 8th Grade History class:

"The lamps are going out all over Europe; we shall not see them lit again in our lifetime."

Thankfully, the turnout TURNED OUT. As a result, another quote comes to mind, from a poem about baseball--the name and author of which both escape me at present:

"The day is done/The score is in/The final cheer and jeer have passed/

And in the night/Beyond the fight/The player finds rest, at last."

And so too can we find some rest, at least tonight.

All that's left to say is...this looks like a job for the President of the United States.

Magic Hour

No, not that magic hour. It's yesterday's extra hour to which I refer.

You see, kids, the end of daylight saving time is one of my favorite days of the year (if not my absolute favorite).

I purposely don't adjust my clocks the night before, as I like awakening with the sense that I've somehow fooled time. That feeling fills me with the illusory joy of achieving the impossible. It's what I imagine it would feel like to dribble a football.

In the days that follow, I relish the sensation that comes over me when I check the time in the evening, always feeling as though I have so many more opportunities for accomplishment before day's end. For me, it's always a spot of hope.

I love that magic hour. I'd live in it forever, if I could. Admittedly, I'm romanticizing this little bit of time, but then...that's kinda what I tend to do at times, isn't it?

(Oh, and speaking of hope, here's hoping tomorrow's turnout turns out well.)

More to come. Later...

Candy Corn & Canes

Continuing in my tradition of costumes that require little effort clothing-wise, while still being wholly fitting (Dwight from Sin City, Nick Fury, Bruce Wayne), this year's Halloween will see me as this ol' fave...

I can't tell you how strange it was to purchase the cane and the stethoscope. However, both will undoubtedly come in handy someday.

To end, a quote:

"When I was 14, my father was stationed in Japan. I went rock climbing with this kid from school. He fell and got injured, and I had to bring him to the hospital. We came in through the wrong entrance and passed this guy in the hall. He was a janitor. My friend came down with an infection, and the doctors didn't know what to do. So they brought in the janitor.

"He was a doctor. And a buraku - one of Japan's untouchables. His ancestors had been slaughterers, gravediggers. And this guy knew that he wasn't accepted by the staff, didn't even try. He didn't dress well. He didn't pretend to be one of them. People around that place didn't think he had anything they wanted, except when they needed him - because he was right, which meant that nothing else mattered.

"And they had to listen to him."

Perhaps You Didn't Know, But...

Hmmmm. Yes, well...we'll see about that. And perhaps sooner than you might think.

Oh, don't worry, kids.

I'll return to less vexed verbosity soon enough, with such fascinating topics as my thoughts on Bond fans (hint: they make comic nerds look pretty sane sometimes), a meeting with Steve Rude, my disappointment in the International Mind Sports Association, bemused wonderment at the power of sentence fragments, an in-depth analysis of a few panels and gutters...

...and why--when robots do battle with donuts--we all win.

Meantime? Crooked Little Vein and sleep will do battle to hold sway over me. I bid you all a good night (or a good whatever time of day you find your eyes upon my meager text).

In Memoriam

Another great. Gone.

My dad took me to see The Color of Money when I was eight years old. While The Hustler is a vastly superior film, that 1986 film was the first time I met Fast Eddie Felson. And amidst the many characters that have come and gone and occupied important places in my life, Fast Eddie's always been there. And he'll never leave.

But Mr. Newman? The only thing I'd add to all the wonderful things that he's said and that have been said about him, is that it's a difficult thing to be that good a gent while being that cool a gent.

And he did it as effortlessly as the smoothest straight shot to the pocket.

And the world's a lesser place for his leaving it.

Like Fast Eddie said, "It's just like one of those things that you never think about...but can make your day like electricity."

Spiro Was a Good Cat

I've had an awful couple of weeks, spent either doing too much navel-gazing or cleaning up the messes of others. In fact, I'm so full of regret and exhaustion that, quite absent-mindedly, I almost combed my hair with my razor today.

And if I ever get up off my lazy ass and get to writing seriously, that'll make a great first line of a story someday.

There have been a scant few moments of joy along the way. Here's one.

I was on the phone with my father two Wednesdays ago. To quote Fitzgerald, my father and I have "always been unusually communicative in a reserved way." I was talking to him about a whole host of things, including the fact that I'm thinking about getting a pet for the first time in a long time.

I'm going to get a cat; I'm just not sure when. Certainly not now, because my apartment complex doesn't allow cats if they're not de-clawed, and I won't have a de-clawed cat. I understand why people think that's a good idea; I'm just not one of those people. I think it's cruel.

Anyway, as I'm going on about wanting to get my first pet in over 10 years, out of nowhere he tells me this story about a cat named Spiro (yes, kids, for that Agnew guy). Incredulous at the fact that he'd had a cat named Spiro, I just had to hear more.

Now, as you read the following, it's even better if you can hear my dad's voice. For those of you who haven't met him, think of my voice lowered an octave and a touch more on the brusque side.

"Yep, I had a cat named Spiro. He actually belonged to all of us--me, Gary and Jon (his best friends and roommates at the time). Now, you see, the thing about Spiro was he loved to hang out on our spiral staircase. He'd just plant himself in about the middle of the stairs, which were those open air jobs (the kind without risers). Whenever one of us would walk by, cool cat that he was, he'd quietly try to swipe our toupees. 'Course, the problem was none of us had toupees, you know?"

And I was laughing. Just couldn't help myself. It was the first time I'd laughed in, oh, 72 hours or so. And my dad did what anyone who'd received laughter from his storytelling would do: he continued.

"Ah, but there was one night, when Gary had some people over from work. And one of the poor guys walked under the staircase on his way to the bathroom. And ol' Spiro's just sittin' there, king of the whole place. And once that guy went under him, sure enough: THWIP! Off comes that guy's rug, and Spiro fuckin' bolts, man. I mean, he rockets up that staircase, and the guy's goin' apeshit chasin' after him."

I was, at this point, laughing hysterically.

"Spiro hides under the dresser upstairs, and oh no: he's not lettin' go of that toup. Gary ran up there after them, apoplectic as he could be, and he tried to get it back from Spiro. Me and Jon are just laughin' it up. Now, after a good little fight, Spiro let go of it, but not before he'd chewed a hole right through the middle of it.

"Yeah...Spiro was a good cat."

Was there some deeper meaning to all this? Of course not. It's merely a funny story, at least to me. So why did I preface it all with that Gatsby quote? Because one of the things about my father is that he knows that, regardless of how awful things are for me, sometimes all I need is a good story.

This good story suffers from my retelling, but I post it nonetheless. I hope it's been worth your time to read it.


Read: I Never Sang for My Father, by Robert Anderson
Watch: Redbelt (dir. David Mamet, 2008)
Listen to: Still, Moving, Light, by Simon Fisher Turner

No Goatees, Injustice Leagues, or Other Assorted Apocalypses

A quick one, as slumber's calling...

On September 10, the Large Hadron Collider at CERN was activated. And no black hole opened up and swallowed us all.

It may surprise some of you to hear this from me, but there's a small part of me that's sad that there was no black hole. Truly.

I mean, what a way to go: activating an underground machine in the noblest of pursuits--to understand the universe--which in turn boomerangs humanity's collective ass and throws us all a quantum middle finger on the way out.

Instead, maybe we're just a stride closer to discovering the shape of reality.

Which I'm hoping really is a theoretical snowflake existing in 196,833 dimensional space.


Read: Planetary, by Warren Ellis & John Cassaday
Watch: Papillon (dir. Franklin J. Schaffner, 1973)
Listen to: O, by Tilly and the Wall

Shotgun Full of Buck-thought

Another smattering for you. Here we go.

Apparently the word "millennials," as a reference to Gen-Y'ers, has been around since the early 90s. I only heard it for the first time this past week. I bloody hate it. I mean, it makes our generation sound like we're on a space-faring quest for some crystal city or some such nonsense as that.

You know, there's nothing like a good French gangster film to make you (meaning me) feel utterly grand. Especially if it's got Jean Gabin or Alain Delon. Or Jean Gabin AND Alain Delon.

Singin' in the Rain will also make you feel grand. I watched it in 35mm last night. If you don't walk out of that film with a smile on your face, um, check your pulse. There were three times where the audience applauded. Now, I've never been afraid to applaud for a movie, but I confess to feeling always a bit awkward when I do applaud. No reason to feel awkward, though. An audience breaking into applause is the same thing as the stars breaking into song. Our emotions can't be contained by our thoughts, our feelings, and our widespread smiles any longer, just like--as a friend once told me--the characters' emotions are so full that they can only be expressed in song.

Most of you who know me know that I'm not easily offended by violence. Indeed, I'll say it: I like it. In my movies, comics, etc., of course. In life...not really, no. But in fiction, oh yes. So, how can a comic book cross the line?

If this were a book by Warren Ellis or Garth Ennis, I wouldn't think twice. I expect this kind of ultraviolent gore from those esteemed gents. (Well, Warren's esteemed, at least.) But in a little ol' DC comic called Teen Titans, whose title would ostensibly intend it for people of a teen demographic, it's just plain wrong. I don't care that it's a dream sequence. I don't care that it's a villainous character and she's just doing her thing. This is just plain unnecessary. Although, in a way, I'm kind of grateful. It saves me 3 bucks a month, after all. This sort of crap actually does have wider implications for mainstream comics, and I would point you here for more: http://occasionalsuperheroine.blogspot.com/2008/08/in-this-issuewendy-and-marvin-die.html. She pretty much says all that I want to, and where she mentions there being "no in-between?" That's an ongoing concern for me, which I'll probably talk more about another time.

Current needs: some tennis matches, a trip to a large city, a good freeware program for DVD screen captures on the PC. Oh, and ribs.

Rewatching The Sandbaggers. Dear God, I hope I'm not as dour as Neil Burnside ten years from now...though working for SIS wouldn't be all bad. And I have such better looking hair...

Working on another list for you good folks. This one's a list of the 20 best books to start with if you've either never read comics or haven't read them in a while. Coming soon to a monitor near you.

As much as I'm TV'ed out right now, I went on and started The Office (the US version). I finished the first season. You were all right: taking a break between the British version and this one was a very good idea.

Books I need to reread soon (can't say why, just need to):

• Light in August, by William Faulkner
• Gun, with Occasional Music, by Jonathan Lethem
• Minotaur, by Benjamin Tammuz

Finally...in a world...where Don LaFontaine is no longer with us...Damn. It's just hard to imagine that world.