Big City: The Complete Oblivion City Saga, now with tangents!

Over the past couple months, I've been playing catch up with all the graphic novels one might consider classics, and it has been immensely groovy. However, I didn't want to neglect all the unheard of, independent, weird comics you only pick up by chance in used book stores and at the library. Andy Garcia's Oblivion City strip, collected into the trade Big City: the Complete Oblivion City Saga is one of those wacky reads. By the way, not Andy Garcia the actor (which made finding a link for this book nigh impossible. ).

What I liked off the bat was the total weirdness of Garcia's stories and the unpolished, uneven, black and white way he renders them. Stylistically, they're nowhere near the anxious, insomniac doom that Jhonen Vazquez so lovingly inks into his work (same publisher by the way. Hmmm), but I think because of the silliness in both, a comparison between the two drawing styles isn't out of the question. Or maybe the silliness should be only point of comparison and we'll leave visual analysis to the art critics.

Moving on. Reading Oblivion City was kind of like being back in the early 90s, watching MTV's Oddities as a kid, which, for me, had an enormous impact on what I would later think about popular culture, art, and cool. I didn't completely comprehend everything that was going on in these cartoons, and I was even a little creeped out by them, but I felt an overwhelming attraction to them and I knew then, beyond a shade of doubt, that they embodied awesome. In fact, Oddities still retains an aura of such untouchable neat that even wikipedia is speechless. But I'm not talking about Oddities (maybe I should go on rant later on... another one). I'm talking about Oblivion City. Like I said, the strip exemplifies weird for weird's sake, and it came out in the early 90s, so right around when weird for itself was cool, but not trendy yet. Like those fucking obnoxious Quizno's commercials. The ones with the stupid singing hamster things... remember those? They were short lived, thankfully.

Anyway even though at times, Oblivion City is over the top silly or disgusting or makes no sense at all, that overall spirit of good clean (well, sort of) weird fun is undeniable.

Near the end of the trade, Garcia starts getting a little more experimental with his layouts and that fourth wall, if I can borrow a term from the theatre (when it's spelled like that, you know you can read it in a British accent). This is one of the reasons I'm hooked on trades rather than individual issues (I'm helping to kill the comic book. I know, I know.): you can really get a feel for the development of the artist when you can look at a few years of his work in one place. I suppose you could do this with individual issues if you actually had them all, but how likely is that with this book? Anyway, I have little hope that I'll ever stumble across more of Garcia's Oblivion City- related series (Seth Throb Underground Artist, Sizzle Theater, Megazzar Dude), but I do want to see what the guy ended up doing after laying the groundwork in this initial book.

Rocking in Dallas with Electric 6

At the moment, I'm living about two blocks away from one of my favorite live music venues in my home town- the Granada Theater. Last night, I went to see a show there, and since I haven't tried my hand at a music review here, that's what I'm doing today. Here we go. Take it away.

The Lions from Austin Texas were the first band of the night, with mane-ish locks that represented their name well. They played a rather hard rocking set, and while I don't often listen to such music, I have to admit that they sounded amazing: they were tight and on top of their songs from start to finish, sounding very professional. And while only a few people in the crowd mustered more enthusiasm than headed bobbing, the band's energy was way up there; either they were using this opportunity to practice for when they're filling stadiums, or they love rocking that much. As a closet optimist, I'm tending toward the latter. So while my personal taste won't propel me toward buying their albums any time soon, props to the Lions for exemplifying love for the rock.

After a bathroom break and a beer run, it was time for the next group, Local H. Once more, their sound is quite a bit harder than most music I find myself listening to, but the quality of their set was undeniable. First of all, Local H is two guys, a drummer and a really angry guitarist/ vocalist. And I know they had the aid of a probably killer sound system, but damn, they made a lot of noise! In the sense that they sounded like more than two guys, not that they were frivolously loud. Like their shaggy pals, Local H's energy was through the roof, and this time, more of the audience was up there with them. I was especially impressed that they skipped "Bound for the Floor", their single that probably got the most radio exposure: way to deflect expectations, dudes. I was a little disappointed that they didn't play more tracks from that album, As Good As Dead; I actually dig "Lovey Dovey" and "Eddie Vedder" quite a bit. However, it became pretty clear that these mellower tracks, while awesomely moody and disgruntled, may not have fit in with the rest of the high energy rants of the set list. Over all, had there been more flannel and less talk of the last election, I'd have sworn I was back in the mid nineties, and I mean that in the best possible way.

Another beer and a shuffle up to the front of the crowd later and I was ready for the headliners, Electric 6, the band I was most excited about seeing. Having heard only a smattering of their songs, I had assured myself that they would put on a dynamite show, and ya know, I was right. Frontman (or is he more than a man...?) Dick Valentine charged onto the stage in a flashy red cape (no, really, "flashy" was spelled out in sequins) and quickly tore it off to reveal... ANOTHER CAPE! You had me at flashy, Dick. They rocked boisterously through their set, spouting Polyphonic Spree jokes and other merry tomfoolery, pausing only to let a gentleman to propose to his girlfriend (aww!... some!) and to allow for an encore. They played their most famous songs Danger! High Voltage and Gay Bar, along with older fan favorites and new material, keeping the audience jamming and bouncing around all the way to their parting shot, Dance Commander. Except for the one-in-every-crowd kid who did NOT jump at shows (...emo?). She of course happened to stand right in front of me, so I had about six inches of space between her and the wall in which to boogie. But I managed. Ya know, for the rock.

While Electric 6's silly, dance inspiring tunes diverged a bit from the harsher, mosh-ier selections of the Lions and Local H, there could've been no doubt by the end of the show that a passion for rocking spurs each each of them (and their fans) ever onward.

A brief and wondrous review of Oscar Wao

This past summer, one of good friends was getting after me constantly- well, maybe not CONSTANTLY, but on a regular basis- to read Junot Diaz's The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. After selling some books in September, I had a bit of store credit at the glorious Montclair Book Center, so I picked up a copy of Oscar Wao (for like 12 bucks. Glorious, I tell you). Once I started actually reading it, a few weeks later, I found that it was, in fact, nigh impossible to put down.

Now, with my buddy's enthusiasm for the book, the 'Pulitzer Prize winner' sticker on its cover, and popular and critical acclaim from everywhere the populous and critics gather to do their acclaiming, I knew at the onset that I was supposed to like this piece. And I did, don't get me wrong. It's not the book's fault that its reputation precedes it (well, I guess that's arguable), and that it's staggeringly easy to become saturated with information about stuff like books, movies, etc. before giving them a glance yourself (she said before proceeding with her own review...). It's just an aspect of increasingly democratic access to information I spose. Anyway.

I'll start at the end (a very good place to start): I didn't emerge transformed from reading Oscar Wao, as I was half expecting. No doubt, Diaz crafted a fantastic story that informed, entertained, and made the pages fly at an alarming rate; but it wasn't one of those books that forces you to sit down and take a breath to re-align yourself with reality when you're done (if you're one of those people who reads standing up...).

But like I said, I enjoyed reading it: the geek references that have made the tale of the 'ghetto nerd' so famous are indeed pretty sweet. First, because it's great fun for the reader who recognizes them, and second, almost conversely, because it reminds us what a nerd is. Over the past couple years, pop-sci-fi shows, super hero comics and movies, and the fantasy genre have gotten fairly popular, even, dare I say it, trendy (there's a possibility I'm biased here). Knowing the Fantastic Four's encyclopedia of back story or intense familiarity with the geography of Middle Earth have become things to show off. To girls even. Hot ones. The rise of geek chic (the fact that that term even exists...) signals that the established lines between cool and dork are blurring. And yay for that. But on the other hand, we can't ignore the reality that these badges of nerdly honor are just that- badges- and that nerd PEOPLE still exist, catch flack, don't have friends, basically, are trapped in a state of junior high. Oscar Wao reminds us that to be a nerd, a nerd in the purest sense of the word, is not cool. It sucks. And no amount of fandom or knowledge or talent can take away or add to one's core nature, be that smokin' awesome, hopelessly clueless, or a moderation between the two.

Another prominent feature of Wao, the incorporation of Spanish slang, seemed to be an issue of non-contention in the reviews I encountered; that is, I've seen plenty of posts asking 'Did the Spanglish ever become a problem for non-Spanish speakers?' to which NO one replied in the affirmative. I don't know if Diaz made this choice to inspire research into the language or make it difficult for non Spanglophones or what, but I LOVED the way he fused the Spanish and English together. I've spent some pretty significant chunks of my life in Italy, and I found myself doing the same thing, borrowing words from one language to use in the other or beginning a sentence in one language e finirla con l'altra. On language- I get the impression that, especially in the US where bilingualism is rarer than it should be (this is changing though I think), we forget that language doesn't exist for itself. It's a tool we use to communicate with each other. So, stuff like perfect grammar (which I admit, I'm a fan of. Not totally though, you watch where I put that preposition), an impressive vocabulary, a knowledge of the parts of speech- all of this is secondary to getting an idea from your head to some one else's. And if you have to break rules, use only 'to be' verbs, or cross into other languages to that, congratulations, you're reaching a fellow human. And that is the point! So, another high five for Diaz- he does a masterful job of using the languages at his disposal to communicate. Hm, maybe that's part of why he got such mega props...

If I haven't already made this abundantly clear: the narrative of Wao rocks, it's such a fun read. Well, except for all the atrocity and violence... engaging, it's an ENGAGING read. The shifting point of view and nebulous voice of the narrator was, I thought, really fresh, and now that I'm writing this, I'm thinking I might add 'Oscar Who?: Narration in Oscar Wao' to my list of papers to write. And, I learned more about the Dominican Republic here than I have in any classroom or conversation. And knowledge is power, folks (but it can't make you cool).

Sex Drugs and Cocoa Puff: review for the breakasts of champion

I've been chipping away at Chuck Klosterman's Sex Drugs and Cocoa Puffs: a Low Culture Manifesto and I finished it a couple days ago, sort of unfortunately, because it was really fucking hilarious. Thanks to the ever provident youtube, I was watching some of his interviews and Q&As, and I figured out what the deal is: he writes like he speaks or he speaks like he writes, and either way, one translates so flawlessly to the other that you get this feeling you're having a conversation. He's a funny guy, and the conversation is his medium: what makes his observations, frustration, and experiences so damn entertaining is that he could be telling you, the reader, all this like you were old pals or acquaintances or just strangers shooting the shit in line waiting for coffee. His personality- or one he projects, which would be pretty close to the real thing, I think it's safe to assume- makes up his writings as much as, if not more than, his prose and his musings.

Klosterman's collection of essays does come with its hitches, for example, the layout of the chapters supposedly resembles a CD track listing, adding nothing to the work as a whole. Since most fans and readers, I assume, know him as a popular culture and music critic, there's continuity between this chapter set up and the author's public persona (as opposed to his private persona...?), which I guess could be relevant. Sort of. In any case, it's not a bad idea, but I think it's wasted here.

Namely because the essays and the interstitial commentaries (that was my freebie, no more stupid crossover terms from unrelated fields) hold themselves up fine. I don't always agree with Klosterman's conclusions and sometimes he does come off as kind of dick, but he's obviously not writing this stuff with hopes of winning Mr. Happy Fluffy Bunny of the Year. And overall, he does make some fantastically relevant and entertaining observations revolving around TV, rock bands, Sims, relationships, the sub culture of journalism, and the preoccupations that seem to run underneath current-ish popular culture. And it's funny. I laughed out loud reading this book more than any other since Christopher Moore's A Dirty Job, which slayed me until about three quarters of the way through. It disappoints one so when that happens; when a book rocks until ALMOST the end. Freedom from the constraints of keeping a good plot going is, it turns out, something collections of non-fiction essays have going for them, which brings me back to Klosterman (aha, that sounded like a tangent for a second, didn't it?).

It's tempting to just prattle on about my favorite bits of Sex Drugs and Cocoa Puffs (why Pam Anderson and Michael Jordan can never be together; 23 hypothetical questions; the oddly frightening social implications of youth soccer; the uncoolness of academic conferences on pop culture- I've noticed this myself; Internet porn; you see why I have to resist this temptation? I might as well put an annotated table of contents here). But I won't (any more), and instead, recommend this one for a good laugh, a conversation piece, and a strategy guide for social navigation.

Travels with "Travels with Charley"

One to chip away at a mountain of books to read is to take one book at a time, or if you're me, about 5 books at a time with a slim possibility of finishing all 5. Then there are those people that can blow through roughly a book every couple days and thus HAVE no mountain, but there's no room for THAT kind of efficiency here. No sir and/or madam. Anyway, one of the books on top of my stacks happened to be Steinbeck's Travels with Charley: In search of America, and as I was about to embark on a trip myself a few days ago, I picked it up. Along with four others, three of which have only added weight to my luggage.

My background on this book is as follows: of Steinbeck's work, I've only read Grapes of Wrath, which was forced on me by well-meaning, but ultimately deleterious public high school English curriculum. Even as I read Charley, which I know is used to similar ends in other schools, I recognized that I wouldn't have enjoyed it nearly as much had I analyzed it to death, looking for examples of imagery, simile, tone, and voice. But that's not how I read it, so yay.

Anyway, I finished Charley today and liked it much more than I didn't like it. Sometimes, Steinbeck's prose gets a touch too... hm, sentimental? Flowery? Prose-y? Sometimes, I just got the impression he thought a bit highly of his own writing. But who can blame him, I mean he was one of not many artists to make a better than decent living off his work during his own lifetime. It also kept making me smirk that Steinbeck talks about going off in search of America while he's totally pimping out this truck, not to mention he has the cash to crash in motels every few nights. I don't know, maybe these are different times than when he wrote this in the early 60s, but even being able to afford that kind of gallivant today automatically seems to distance a person from most of America. And certainly this applies to me, I'm not criticizing. Just sayin. There's something so upper-middle class about the way he writes.

To his credit, Steinbeck's observation and treatment of racial tension in America is stellar. With this theme, I think he has hit on something that is so un-ignorably a part of being American, and the way he weaves it into his observations as a whole- equally representative. Through the first three sections, he hints at racist attitudes and customs, making his own stance more or less apparent; as he travels through the Northern and Western sections of the country, this theme is quiet and unobtrusive in his anecdotes and memories. At the end of his fourth section, when he describes his travels through the South, his encounters with nauseating racism become unavoidable and indeed, take up noticeably more of the content. His composition of the racial theme into the book is so dead on: in some areas of the country (because it's not as distinct as race-blind North and racist-South), and in some aspects of daily life, it doesn't come up much, but it is there. And because of how American history unfolded and continues to unfold, there remains a big ugly monster of racial tension and oppression that we can't get around and have to deal with, and this is exactly what Steinbeck leaves the reader with, both in the events he reports and his thoughts and conversations on the topic. Cool.

Another favorite bit of mine: about a quarter of the way through the book/ the journey, our dear author wants to cross into Canada and has some troubles because of his company, Charley. His exchange with the border officials made me laugh out loud, which I didn't expect from this book or this author. So, good one, John.

Finally, I want to quote something he says that, again, is strikingly relevant to today: "With all the polls and opinion posts, with newspapers more opinion than news so that we no longer know one from the other..." he wants to be sure that we know he doesn't presume to give a comprehensive or definitive picture of the country; this book is a record of his experiences (206). I know media bias is older than the western world itself, but to hear (...read) it enunciated in such specific terms is reassuring and jarring at the same time.

I don't want this to turn into a full-fledged essay (12 point font, double spaced), so I'll round it off here. The informal, but still heavily composed style and arrangement make this a pleasant read which could work equally well as a quiet, solitary read or a starting point for conversation.

Zoos: a problem at the top of the food chain

Well, yesterday the fam and I blew through Epcot Center; today we drove to Tampa to continue our partaking of commercial culture disguised as good clean family fun at Busch Gardens.

The park combines your typical amusement park fare- roller coasters, over priced crap in ubiquitous gift shops, the most inoffensive food they can muster- with animal habitats here and there, like a zoo. When I was a kid, I loved the zoo, but it did always gnaw at me to see tigers pacing in their tiny cages (it took a while to dawn on me (with some external prompting, of course) that the very concept of The Zoo represents a big, fat animal rights conflict). The animals we saw today- orangutans, tigers, gorillas, and chimps- lived in these expansive, complex habitats, and they didn't seem too bothered. We also went on this behind the scenes tour (I... yeah, I know, I have no room to talk. It wasn't my idea, alright?) where the animal handlers/ trainers/ keepers told us that the tigers had some say in what was done to them. For example, vets draw blood from them roughly every day to make sure things are in check. The tiger knows the command for 'lay down, have some meat substance, and prepare to have your tail pricked.' Most of the time, the tigers are cool with this, since the meat substance in exchange for anything is a pretty sweet deal, but if they are adamant about not doing it, the vet just leaves it and tries again the next day. Now this, I thought, is pretty cool.

The situation then can be summed up as follows. On one hand, you do have animals in captivity that don't get to choose what, when, or where to eat, when to go out, all that stuff- yeah, this is not optimal. But on the other hand, if what this keeper said was true, they at least have some sort of room for making their own calls in their day to day existence. Additionally (and I'll grant even this is up to debate), living in comfort and ease tops becoming some poacher's living room rug or a similar fate determined by some despicable character with opposable thumbs and no tail. And the same kind of situations exists for the big primates, other big cats, pandas, exotic birds and reptiles, it keeps going. I suppose it comes down a question of keeping the ideal of Wild Animal intact versus doing what's best for the animal in the world as it is. It seems so cut and dry with that phrasing, but I think it's really more complicated than that; both sides of the argument deserve recognition and validation.

I think of this conflict in terms of two friends of mine (cue safari music) (just kidding). One thinks that animals should be independent of human care/ ownership/ control. This means that no domestic cats or dogs should be inside only pets and owning an animal on Manhattan should be a veritable felony. The other subscribes to a school of thought that says there IS no "natural state," in so far as "natural" means "wild;" all animals are adaptive beings and adapting to live comfortably in your environment is a natural, as in innate, process, whether that environment is on the Serengeti or in a fish bowl. If you don't adapt to whatever your environment becomes, you opt out of nature, that is, you die. Like I said, both of these points of view are credible, and I have no answers here. But (cue comforting, fatherly music), the best questions don't lead to answers.

American culture: still totally insane

First and foremost: hell yeah, Mr. Obama! Thank you, America, not just for electing the guy I wanted, but for getting out there and voting at all. In record numbers. If democracy's going to work, WE, the masses have to take responsibility for it, and that means, at the very least, voting. Of course, there are serious flaws in the democratic aspect of a representative democracy, but that's a whole rant unto itself. For now, we work with what we have, and at this moment, I can say, without any sarcasm: America, fuck yeah!

So, I went to bed last night feeling more patriotic than I have in a matter of years, and this morning, to rein in all that sentimental, feel-goody-ness, I did the most American thing I could think to do. I went to Disney World.

Actually, Epcot, which is the closest I want to get to Disney World, short of conducting an anthropological survey, and even that's a stretch. Lemme splain. I happen to be on a family vacation in Orlando at the moment (yeah, I know), and we had planned on going to Epcot the Wednesday following the election, that is, today. No causality there, that was just the plan (and god, if my family can plan something, ANYTHING, I am not rocking that boat). So, there I was, riding an uncharacteristic wave of pro-America enthusiasm when we strolled up to the ticket counter. 75 bucks for a day at Epcot. 70. 5. Dollars. Plus tax. Really, Disney? Damn. I'll go ahead and say right now, for this post, Disney= America. Indoctrination of American youth, American middle class, American myth. It's all practically synonymous. And 75 smackaroos for one day in a theme park that already is overcharging for stuff on the inside and already isn't hurting, come whatever economic crisis, this doesn't cry 'America' to me. Or rather it does, a lot. Cue waning of love of country. We may be taking a step in the right direction politically, but culturally, well, there we are.

I knew going into the park that I was in for insupportable Disney music all day, little kids running around thinking they're having these magic moments, not realizing they're being programmed (I honestly can't hold them totally accountable for this), and creepy as hell automatons. And I think I handled all this pretty well. What really bowled me over was the American Adventure in the American Theatre thingy in the World Showcase. I know, I know- what was I expecting, but a sappy, jingostic account of history with songs and those god damned robots? Well, it was still enough to make me cringe. But enough kvetching, because I should've known better.

Here's what totally rocked about Epcot:
Again, in the world Showcase section/ whatever, there's a Norway pavillion where you go on this stupid ride thing (automatons a plenty!) that represents Norway. The narrator sounded like a cross between Dracula and Swedish Chef, and damn, if that didn't make my morning.

Then I got to use my knowledge of the Norwegian language- which encompasses the word for 'thanks,'- at the over priced gift shop to get a chocolate bar called Daim. As in daim, that is some sweet candy, you might say. Yeah, language practice is nice. I will say this for Disney- at the world show case, they have Norwegians in the Norway Pavillion, Germans in the German Pavillion, etc. If nothing else, this adds another glorious level to the hyper/ surreality of a Disney theme park. Forget Waldo, find authenticity! Whee!

Later on, I was filling up my 2 dollar water bottle at a fountain (take THAT, Dis!) when I heard these two kids playin around behind me. Their repartee is as follows:
Kid 1- O yeah, well you're a freak. You're a freak-a-zoid!
Kid 2- You're a freak of nature!
Kid 1- YOU're a freak of ... Norway!
Rock on, little kids. Rock on.

Finally, on the closest thing they have to a roller coaster out there, I sat next to this tiny girl who A) wasn't wearing a princess costume, and 2. was going 'faster! whoo!' the whole time. They're not all conforming to their gender roles. Not totally, not yet. There is hope.

W.: Review and Election anxiety

So in the spirit of inundating a brain with election-related media, I went to see W this afternoon to warm up for the final showdown tonight.

On W, as a Texan liberal who loves satire and has no stomach for Hollywood blockbuster crap, I'll say this: it wasn't too bad, really. I thought the portrayals of cabinet members leaned toward caricature WAY more than those of the main characters, but as a whole, the lampoon impressions ala SNL, etc. that I had been expecting didn't take over the movie at all. I was surprised by the portrayal of Bush, Sr., in the sense that he wasn't an unsympathetic character, far from it. The title character, on the other hand, came off as almost completely pathetic, and while I don't know dir. Oliver Stone's political leanings, I'd say it wasn't his mission to tear the guy a new one. My friends who I saw the movie with said that, because of this non-satirical portrait, the character W probably more closely resembled the actual guy W. I'm not so sure, I think that may have been the point; just because a picture's more believable doesn't necessarily mean it's safer to take as truth. The opposite, really. But, I do also have to conceed that the film showed the central characters- Bush the elder and the lesser- in both good and bad lights and when it comes to giving an individual an honest look, it's hard to get closer to the truth than that.

The whole thing is worth it, though, to get to see Colin Powell tell Dick Cheney "fuck you" at a cabinet meeting near the end of the movie (don't worry, that didn't spoil anything... like you don't know what happens!). It kind of reminded me of when Yoda threw down at the end of Attack of the Clones: say what you want about the rest of the movie (it sucked), that moment rocked.

Well, I can't put it out of my mind any longer. The polls across the country are starting to close. Time to tune into the election coverage. I'll leave you with this weak Election Day pun: M'Cain-did opinion is that the Republicans Palin comparison to the Democrats, but I'm Biden my time to relax about it, in case the race takes an Obama-nable turn.

A Contract with God: Review and musings

A few days ago, I picked up a copy of Will Eisner's A Contract with God, one of a mountain of books I promised myself I'd read now that I'm between jobs/ school/ chapters of life. I've never read any of Eisner's work, although, having snuggled pretty well into comics scholarship and fandom, I know who I'm reading and what it means. Well, I have an inkling anyway. So I blew through the book last night and man, I knew it was going to rock, but it really got me in the gut.

The book is divided into four stories which revolve around four characters/ families in a Bronx tenement building in the 1930s, and it contains stories of which "some are true. Some could be true." I love this: I've been looking at historical comics for the past year or so for my Masters thesis and I'm still enthralled by the simple fact that truth is fluid, and that representations of truth put fact and imagination into conversation in seemingly infinite ways. The truths of the past, in particular, seem so loaded because now, in the ever-obsoleting present, we've had time to invest them with personal, familial, national, and mythic meanings. And not all of that meaning comes from the truth itself. But that doesn't necessarily make the meaning any less real, especially in retrospection. O the search for meaning, that core crux of any life. At the very least, any English major's...

So, back to A Contract with God. In one of several prefaces, Eisner wrote that he used this book to experiment with the comic form, with the integration of words and image to create a seamless language for his story-telling. The first story, same name as the title of the collection, really hit this home for me. While speech bubbles remain, Eisner disposes of text boxes and defined panels, so that everything happens on one plane; the story unfolds in a one space- the page. Sure, with the exception of some avant-garde stuff, all comics technically take place on the page. But the division of text versus image space blurs a lot more here than in, say, most super hero comics you might pick up. I'm not the first to say this, of course. But it's still neat. And that's why we're here!

The themes that emerge in these stories probably won't surprise, given their setting: doing what you gotta do versus doing the right thing, sacrifice versus happiness, delusion versus facing reality, the struggle for physical, emotional, financial survival running underneath it all. For the most part, no character is completely innocent or guilty, and more to the point, innocence-guilt isn't quite the dynamic Eisner's stories are operating by. Again, these are stories of survival and self-delusion, and while good-evil conflict certainly comes up, I don't think that's the characters' or the author's central concern. As I was reading, my feminist sensibilities almost immediately began tugging at my brain 'ya know, the ladies are not represented too favorably here,' but as became clear by the end of the book, neither are the fellas. I'd have to spend more time on this to really untangle the gender dynamics here, because I still have this feeling that the girls end up with the uglier portrayals. Maybe that'll be another post; I don't want to get hung up here on the problems I may or may not have with this book. At the end of the day (or book, as it were), in the 30s as now, in Eisner's stories as in the real world (although even that term is up to debate), good guys and bad guys are more states of being that most people cycle through, rather than static identity.

A Contract with God also appears in a trilogy of the same name, containing related stories of the tenement building on Dropsie Avenue in the Bronx. The other two sections, I believe, were written after the first, and I'd be interested to see them and trace themes and patterns mentioned above. And, taking off my grad student hat, to read some stirring, masterfully constructed slice-of-life comics.

All in all, it's just another blog on the... web

So. They're out there- thousands (millions?) of people with interesting things to say, now afforded the opportunity to effortlessly analyze, criticize, create, speculate, bitch, riff, satirize, and do a thousand (million?) other things in the form of verbs via blogs. Did you know that? It's overwhelming, even for someone who is at the moment not employed and not particularly busy, and so, arguably has nothing better to do than sit and read blogs all day. So after loosing thousands (...) of hours to blog-reading by now, does it make any sense at all to start my own, adding to the noise? Nope! But I'm doing it, and here is why:

I noticed the other day that I think in blog format- ideas progress into composed, developed, but not too long chunks of text, sometimes snarky, often with links to other interesting thoughts or pictures. It could be that a lot of people think like this and the blog (or before that, the op ed piece or newspaper column, or before that, well I don't know, surely something along those lines) format just fit the bill. Which created which- don't know, probably an endless cycle of both. Point is, I think I might like it here, I can practice writing and being clever, and I don't have to answer for any of it- a switch from my usual upstanding, responsible self.

I don't know quite what I expect to write about or how often, but many an adventure has started this way, so I'm hopeful.

Look at that, an introductory post. We're cookin now!