LIFE: Return of the Boy

LIFE: Return of the Boy

Hurray, I have a boy again! After an arduous epic journey from New Zealand that encompassed 12 hours on a plane, 3 hours in a car, another 8 hours in a car, the family is finally all reunited here in Oregon. Baby Peter is terrific, his walking has accelerated to light speed over the past several weeks and he has learned how to open the bathroom door. In our absence our landlord also waxed the kitchen floor which has resulted in many amusing pratfalls for mother, father and baby. Peter did not forget who I was (which was my constant worry) and all is back to the usual chaotic kind of existence. Regular blogging to resume as baby time, work and so forth allows.

Edit: And if you haven't had enough rambling about Baby Peter, check out this column I wrote for the paper recently.

ETC.: Bloggus Interruptus

ETC.: Bloggus Interruptus

Wow, I rock! Thanks a ton to Dave over at Yet Another Comics Blog, who for some crazy reason chose me as the winner of his "Spider-Girl casting contest." Free comics! See what five minutes of typing instead of working will get you, kids? Anyway, check out my entry and the other fine ones here.

I actually am planning my own nifty comics-related giveaway contest starring an old small-press buddy of mine for sometime before the end of the month -- still ironing out a few details, but watch this space for updates, it'll be groovy fun!

That's probably my token blogging for the rest of the week, unless I find a little more time. Wife Avril and Baby Peter are returning from their nearly monthlong New Zealand trip Friday, hurray, and I'll be driving down to California to pick them up in San Francisco. My bachelor interlude is nearly over, but truth be told, it got a bit old after the first week. Anyway, I'm scrambling at work to get ahead for a few days off, and dealing with a complicated home situation involving a melting water heater, vacationing landlord and possible death by electrocution. (Long story) Anyway, blogging hiatus to be expected for most of the week. Go read Hulk's blog instead for your hit of Net wisdom.

COMICS: Doonesbury and the Duke

COMICS: Doonesbury and the Duke

Pop will eat itself. So this week's "Doonesbury" strips by Garry Trudeau feature the odd spectacle of a fictional creation paying homage to the suicide of the real character who inspired him. Of course, I'm talking about Duke, taking on the bullet-propelled farewell of Hunter S. Thompson. The whole week's worth of strips to date can be found here at the official site and I encourage you taking a look.


Strip absolutely and 100% copyright all those people it's supposed to be copyrighted to.

The sequence this week has the uneasy feel of a satirist trying to be sincere, and it doesn't really work. A shame, because "Doonesbury," going for about 79 years now, has been on a high lately, with the great sequence about longtime character B.D.'s wounding and leg amputation in Iraq.

But this week, Trudeau stumbles, clumsily mixing Ralph Steadman-type art with the wacky character of Duke, who has long since grown far, far away from the inspiration of Thompson back in the '70s. The last few decades, Duke has mostly been a kind of penny-ante dictator in various American-occupied territories, from Kuwait to Samoa to China, a kind of highly exaggerated and malicious parody of the American id, all greed, decadence and lust for power. Originally, Duke was actually a Rolling Stone writer with crazy drug habits, much like Thompson (who reportedly absolutely loathed Trudeau's take on him). But just like "Cerebus" started as a Conan homage and ended up worlds away, so has Duke in the "Doonesbury" realm.

Suddenly having him addressing the death of his "maker" is a stretch, even for a strip that often breaks the fourth wall. It doesn't really work at all for me; the sensible thing to do would have been either to ignore it, or "retire" Duke (who for me has always been one of the less interesting, more one-noted "Doonesbury" characters anyway). Retiring Duke isn't really an option, so I guess Trudeau felt he had to tackle it. Pretty much a no-win situation for him, and a speed bump in the strip's usually successful journey. Both Thompson and Duke probably deserved better.

COMICS: Quick Comic reviews

COMICS: Quick Comic reviews

Blood of the Demon #1
The Demon is one of those DC Universe mainstays who works well as a supporting character (particularly back in Alan Moore's "Swamp Thing") but is a hard sell on his own. This latest series try is driven by plotter and artist John Byrne, and features my old small press buddy Will Pfeifer on dialogue. It's a decent start for this potentially fascinating character, an immortal man, Jason Blood, who has been bonded with a demon since the age of Merlin. The demon Etrigan and Blood share a "Jekyll and Hyde" type relationship, although Blood is hardly an angel himself. Anyway, this first issue is pretty solid as these go, with some of Byrne's strongest art in a long time (he's well inked by a fellow who only goes by the name "Nekros" - a demon himself?!?), and Pfeifer's sharp dialogue helping dim the hokey edge Byrne's solo work has had lately. Unusually graphic and bloody for a mainstream DC comic, with head-choppings, torture and so forth, but that intensity works well for the story. The plot is basic - Blood is captured by mysterious foes, escapes, and returns to get revenge — and I'm not quite sure where it's all going. Like most first issues lately, it's not self-contained -- but it's got me interested enough to return for #2, which I never thought I'd say about a "Demon" solo comic. Grade: B

Ultimate Fantastic Four #16
The Negative Zone storyline, part four, things finally pick up after a rather excessively drawn-out first three chapters. The Ultimate FF meet the new version of old FF foe Annihilus, and he's a suitably creepy alien overlord. I rather like Warren Ellis' new take on Annihilus, who has always been a villain that looked cool but didn't have much more in the way of a personality than "die puny humans." This Annihilus is genuinely freaky and more crafty, with artist Andy Kubert giving him a slight redesign that plays up his alien nature. Still, overall this storyline feels unnecessarily padded, although this is the strongest chapter so far, and it promises to pick up for the final two. I'm still considering dropping this book after Ellis' writing ends with #18, though - so far, the "Ultimate" Fantastic Four don't come close to the depth of the original articles. (Minus a point for that goofy expression by the Thing on the last page - meant to be horrified, it just looks plain silly.) Grade: B-

MOVIES: Hating Huckabee's

MOVIES: Hating Huckabee's

OK, here's an existential video review for you --

‘I (Heart) Huckabee’s’
Billed as an “existential comedy,” “I (Heart) Huckabee’s” has a lot on its mind. Unfortunately, it’s like listening to a drunken college freshman corner you at the bar to tell you all about his first philosophy course and how “wicked cool” it all is.
And it’s a shame, because director David O. Russell has a quirky and promising style, with the great Gulf War movie “Three Kings” and the Ben Stiller comedy “Flirting With Disaster” to his credit.
But he overdoes the quirk in this muddled, wanna-be philosophical mess, which features dialogue like, “Say this blanket represents all the matter and energy in the universe, OK? This is me, this is you, and over here, this is the Eiffel Tower, right, it’s Paris!”
Jason Schwartzman stars as Albert, a young environmentalist who seems to be losing control of his life and searching for meaning. He retains a bizarre firm of “existential detectives” (Dustin Hoffman and Lily Tomlin) to investigate his life.
Toss in a money-hungry department store chain publicist (Jude Law), a confused firefighter (Mark Wahlberg), a supermodel who seeks enlightenment (Naomi Watts), and you’ve got a swirling, self-indulgent comedy about whatever the meaning of “is” is.
Its defenders might tell “Huckabee’s” haters that they “don’t get it.” But the truth is, there’s not much here to get. It’s like one of those Jack Handey “Deep Thoughts” skits on “Saturday Night Live” come to life.
Russell simply tosses everything he can think of in the pot. “Huckabee’s” wants to be a movie about ideas, which is laudable, but the ideas lack coherence and the story gets lost in the mix. It boasts the same striking visual sense and directing flair as “Three Kings,” but none of that film’s emotional impact.
Around the time two characters start having ridiculously silly sex in a mud puddle, I began reading a book and occasionally glancing up at the screen.
Intermittently, there’s amusing scenes, and the gem of the idea about a young man desperately searching for truth is solid.
There are a few bright spots among the strained performances, particularly Law as the shallow, cynical store publicist, and Wahlberg as a dazed firefighter who’s so committed to environmentalism he rides his bicycle to fires. But Schwartzman, as the lead, is just irritating and lacks presence.
I enjoy many of the quirky, intellectual movies “Huckabee’s” strives to emulate, such as “Being John Malkovich” and “The Royal Tenenbaums.” But those movies have a healthy sense of humor and absurdity tucked in with the moralizing, which “Huckabee’s” lacks.
For a movie so dependent on the brain, “Huckabee’s feels awfully empty-headed.
* out of four

Well, we're past the halfway point of Avril and Baby Peter's monthlong trip to New Zealand to visit her family. Still missing the heck out of the boy pretty much every minute (and the wife too, ahem), but now that the end is in sight and their March 18 return draws near, I'm trying to wallow in my bachelor lifestyle a little longer since it'll be history before too long. Why, I haven't made a beer can pyramid since college! And that movie "Super Size Me," where the guy eats nothing but fast food for a month, really makes it sound a lot worse than it actually is.

One of the things that makes this trip easier for us all is the miracles of modern technology. Avril's able to send me e-mails and photos pretty much every day (like the one of Baby Peter frolicking in the sand on a typically gorgeous NZ beach, above), and even a few short movie excerpts. Even 10 years ago, we couldn't have done that, and leaving New Zealand would've felt a lot further apart than it does now. I can't interact with the boy, of course, but at least I get to see him regularly and feel like he's still around. (Of course, when gets back and promptly starts playing with the knife drawer and pouring milk on my comics collection, I may start wishing he was permanently outposted to some remote South Pacific island...)

"... Your own life while it's happening to you never has any atmosphere until it's a memory. So the fantasy corners of America seem atmospheric because you've pieced them together from scenes in movies and music and lines from books. And you live in your dream America that you've custom-made from art and schmaltz and emotions just as much as you live in your real one."
—Andy Warhol

So still wife-less and baby-less until the 18th, I had a day off yesterday and took a trek up to Eugene to check out this Andy Warhol exhibit at the University of Oregon's museum. I've always enjoyed Warhol's bright pop art, and having a show of nearly 100 screenprints less than a hour from home was worth checking out. I'm no art critic, so I can't tell you exactly what is about Warhol that grabs me in any sort of eloquent fashion. On the one hand, you're looking at copies of copies of pictures of soup cans, Mick Jagger, shoes, Marilyn Monroe, Chairman Mao and the like – there's no reason that these images should have any more depth to you than a picture of a squirrel in the newspaper. Yet Warhol works, somehow - it's a soup can, but the very act of staring at it makes it both a soup can and an open-ended object to you, getting you thinking about whatever art makes you think about.

Again, I'm no art critic and don't have the vocabulary to explain my appreciation for Warhol that I wish I did. I guess part of me has always liked the sunshine colors of Warhol and Roy Lichtenstein because they remind me a bit of comic books (Lichtenstein even more so, obviously), and their knack for appropriation as communication. They were samplers before sampling took over music, mix-tape artists. Does it mean anything? Well, like all art, I guess it means whatever you want it to, and there's room in there for everything from Da Vinci to Keith Haring. I just like soup cans and Hollywood stars, really.

"If you want to know all about Andy Warhol, just look at the surface of my paintings and films and me, there I am. There's nothing behind it."
-Andy Warhol

I am all out of words after a week of writing and editing and so forth, so let me linkblog a little for your Friday edutainment:

• The Oscars have a billion viewers! This is the figure we always hear, and I admit like most I accept it without really thinking about the likelihood of 1/6th of the planet really caring whether Alan Alda wins Best Supporting Actor. This nifty little piece in The New Yorker recently does a good job of putting that myth to rest. (Of course, we'll still hear people talking about the Oscars' billion-person audience for eons to come, but you and I will know better.)

• I've been merrily immersed in the DVDs of the HBO series "Deadwood" lately, and have worked my way up to the final disc. This is the best HBO series since the first few seasons of "Six Feet Under," a stark, profane, morally complex and lyrical Western that just builds in power over the course of the season. The second season starts soon on HBO, which of course we can't afford right now, so I have to wait another year or so to see how it all shakes out. I love the idea of Westerns, but few in practice really grab me. Many of them lack a kind of primal rawness to show how life was really like back then, feeling more like glossy historical reenactments than anything else. "Deadwood" doesn't spare on the mud, the feces and blood of life before air conditioning and cable TV. "Deadwood" also features more swearing than any TV series I've seen in my life, yet it works. The vile, hugely charismatic saloon owner Swearingen manages to raise the word "cocksucker" to a kind of art over the course of the series. Check it out.

• Ever heard of "Diary Of A Mad Black Woman"? It was the #1 movie in the country last weekend, shocking a lot of pundits. It didn't get a very good review from Roger Ebert, and naturally this was taken as evidence of racism by many. Ebert writes a cool essay responding to these complaints. Eloquent as always, somewhat sympathetic to the detractors yet holding firm on his own well-reasoned views. I wish people could separate their politics from a review of a work of art, but it ain't always so. (Kudos to Ebert for not sinking to a "my best friends are black" type response by pointing out that he is, in fact, married to a black woman.)

For our Thursday video review, let's all go to 'The Village':

‘The Village’
“The Village” opened big last August, earning $50 million in one weekend. It fell just as hard, losing more than 67 percent of its audience by its second weekend.
Bad word of mouth, perhaps?
“The Village” is M. Night Shyamalan’s latest twisty thriller, with some grand ideas wrapped in a bunch of malarkey.
It’s set in an undetermined time, in a small village near some ominous woods. People talk in whispers and live in mortal fear of “Those We Do Not Speak Of,” mysterious monsters they actually spend quite a lot of time speaking of. Nobody in the village enters the woods, lest those they don’t speak of attack them.
But one intrepid villager (Joaquin Phoenix) is determined to defy the conventions, and go into the woods. The secret of these woods won’t come easily, though.
Moody and ominous, “The Village” features some great filmmaking, but flourishes of excellence don’t make up for a movie that never quite comes together. It’s so serious that it becomes hard to take seriously.
M. Night is dangerously close to being seen as a kind of one-tricky pony, whose movies are more gimmicky puzzles than solid storytelling. I quite liked “The Sixth Sense” and the underrated “Unbreakable,” but “Signs” and its limp ending fell flat. “The Village” is even less inspired, and its plot riddled with holes.
It’s a series of moody moments strung together without any sense of the big picture.
I did quite like Bryce Dallas Howard’s performance, as a spunky blind girl with surprising inner strength — although as written her character isn’t all that deep. Adrien Brody is merely embarrassing as a kind of “village idiot,” while Phoenix exudes a nice quiet strength as the movie’s ostensible hero.
It’s not entirely M. Night’s fault, but the fact is, people now watch his movies trying to figure out the “twist,” rather than absorbing the story. That’s no way to watch a movie.
“The Village’s” climax may be fairly predictable, but at its heart it’s saying something interesting about our society.
Shyamalan has big goals for his movies; possibly too big for his own good. Rumor has it his next film is an adaptation, of Yann Martel’s quirky novel “The Life Of Pi,” which could be just the twist his stalling career desperately needs.
** of four

Hey, it's March, and once again, time for that timeless tradition I started just last month, Books I Read. Here's what I read in February, and what I thought of 'em. Not the biggest month for me, but two of the books topped 600 pages, so whaddaya gonna do?

“Bluebeard” by Kurt Vonnegut, one of the few novels of his I hadn't read. An interesting book about a painter recalling his life, it's not Vonnegut's best, but as usual offers some great insights into life, the universe and everything. A bit strange in that it didn't include any fantasy elements, as most of his work usually does.

“Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell,” by Susannah Clarke. An 800-page monster of a novel about two magicians' friendship, battles and falling out in 19th-century Victorian England, I really enjoyed this one. Kind of like a cross between Charles Dickens, Neil Gaiman and "Harry Potter," set in a world where magic is real but dormant. Some really compelling scenes of magic and mystery, and a great imaginary history, it gets borderline pretentious in parts (full of footnotes, and Clarke insists on using odd archaic spellings throughout, which doesn't quite work) but overall, a good yarn. I'd read a sequel, if one materializes.

“Blink: The Power of Thinking Without Thinking,” by Malcolm Gladwell, about the power of intuitive thinking. Gladwell writes some fascinating reporting for "The New Yorker" and did the great "The Tipping Point" a few years back. "Blink" is compelling reading as well, but not quite as cohesive as "The Tipping Point." It feels more episodic and the central thesis is made and explained in the first few pages, so anything after that is just repeating the point. Yet Gladwell layers on tons of interesting factoids and trivia, touching on everything from Warren Harding to "New Coke" and art history in showing how split-second decisions and first impressions matter.

"The Final Solution: A Story of Detection" by Michael Chabon didn't really impress me too much. A short novella about the 87-year-old Sherlock Holmes (never named, but that's clearly who it's meant to be) and his final case, in World War II England, it was inconclusive and the mystery hard to follow. Beautiful writing, as with all of Chabon's books, and a nice tone poem, but really not much "there" there on this one.

"Gilgamesh: A New English Version" by Stephen Mitchell. I don't go in for ancient poetry much, but this library book intrigued me, and is a really interesting new translation of the ancient Assyrian poem with a good essay about it beforehand. My sole exposure to "Gilgamesh" was in English class and Jim Starlin's underrated comic-book sci-fi adaptation "Gilgamesh II" a while back, but this did a nice job of bringing this dusty old tale to life.

"Strange Fascination: David Bowie - The Definitive Story" by David Buckley. I'm a frickin' gigantic David Bowie fan, with more than 50 CDs and bootlegs in my collection, but had yet to find a truly well-written biography of the man. Those I've read were either too sleazy and gossipy or absymally out-of-date. Enter "Strange Fascination," a remarkably good look at the man's legendary career up to the year 2000. Buckley focuses on the music rather than sex and drugs (although there's plenty of that here), showing Bowie's development as an artist and the legions of musicians influenced by him. Extraordinarily good, critical and thorough at nearly 700 pages, and the first book about Bowie to join Nicholas Pegg's mammoth "The Complete David Bowie" as "essential" in my library for Bowiephiles.

"Hard News: The Scandals At The New York Times and Their Meaning for American Media" by Seth Mnookin. Yeah, I'm sick of hearing about serial liar Jayson Blair too, but this book, which calls the Blair affair a "journalistic suicide bomb" in the heart of The New York Times newsroom, is fascinating stuff, delving deep into the culture of the Times and showing Blair as a symptom of a more general disfunction created by editor Howell Raines. Full of meaty gossip (and boy, Raines comes off as everything I try not to emulate in my own job as an editor here), behind-the-scenes newsroom information on how the Times works and the realization that every paper, from the humble dailies like mine to the giants of the industry, have the same problems with ego, incompetence and fatigue.