Capsule Reviews

I wished that Siglo: Freedom was better. Maybe it was and I just didn't get it.

Siglo: Freedom is a Filipino anthology. A collection of graphically told stories spanning the twentieth century and thematically harnessed to the experience or desire for liberty. The ten stories each find setting in a different region and different era of the Philippines - and the tales themselves, in both style and story, are equally disparate.

As is usually the case with anthologies, some stories carry the book and will probably be revisited by a reading in years to come, while others function as little more than filler. But again, the problem could be cultural. I know little of the historical struggles of the Philippine people. I don't even know if the various difficulties expressed are common across the the Filipino experience nor if the nation makes a home to the kind of diversity of ideologies we find in Western Civilization.

Most of the stories did however reflect the common human frame and the general hopelessness inherent to that condition. I appreciated that and even though many of the episodes were downbeat, they also felt generally honest. I noticed that there's a Siglo: Passion coming out. I'd give it a shot.

Rating:

p.s. siglo means "century."

---

Years ago, a friend had crowed the joys of Neil Gaiman's The Sandman with a ferocious pride. Simply put, it was to be an excellent book. She had loaned me the first two volumes. I'm not quite certain that I even finished the first. To put it simply again, I was not a fan. Mostly, it was the art that turned me off. But I can usually overlook art that leaves me cold if the story grabs me.

As I said, that was years ago. And in those intervening years I had heard accolades and praise heaped upon the book. I had also read something by Gaiman that I really and truly enjoyed. And then, I was told, that DC was releasing a premium hardcover edition. It was to be glorious.

I finally decided that it was time to give it another try. The book itself was beautiful and even if I didn't really enjoy it, at least it was a work important to comics history and that's the kind of thing that pays to have at one's disposal if one is any sort of connoisseur of the medium. And so, using a fat coupon for Borders and some errant Christmas money, I made purchase of the beast.

And... it was worth it.

It still began as slow as it did the first time I read it and I still wasn't bowled over by the art, but after Gaiman emerges from the first few chapters, The Sandman becomes a joy in experimental storytelling. I was never quite sure where he was going or what rules he had established for the character, but it was quite amusing nonetheless. Enough so that I imagine I'll eventually purchase the other three volumes as they're released.

Oh yeah, quick summary. It's largely about Morpheus, the Lord of Dreams, and the events that conspire after his capture (by an occultist in the early twentieth century) and escape (seventy years later). Hm, thinking about it, this could have made a lively entry in Siglo: Freedom. After he escapes, the natural order has really kind of run amok and he's got to reestablish himself in his position as one of the eternal forces of the universe. It's actually more interesting than it sounds.

Rating:

---

I love Chynna Clugston's stuff. Blue Monday is an awesome-fest. That said, Scooter Girl is another of those books that had to fight to win me over. I had purchased the first two chapters (of six) in periodical format and wasn't impressed enough to continue. It didn't help that I was at this point beginning a slash-and-burn policy with regard to my comics purchasing habits. I thought to myself that if I had heard good things about the series, I would pick it up when it came out in book form. I never heard anything about it. Nothing good. Nothing bad.

So, cut to a couple years later, I suddenly want to find the book. I miss the kids from Blue Monday. I miss her mix of mod culture and youthful, impossible shenanigans. So I hunt all over for it and finally find it at - sigh - the publisher's website.

In any case, I read it and it's good. It's fun. It's mean-spirited, brutal, and fun. And it adores Vespas. That almost makes the book fool-proof in my section of the world. If I have to find criticism with the book, I will: 1) the first two chapters kind of drag out the torture of Ashton, the main character, to an extent that I can see why I dropped the book in the first place; 2) chapter four was just kind of ridiculous as Ashton believes he must murder his love-interest; and 3) the inevitible unification under the banner of love happens a little quickly. Still, with all the good-will Clugston drums up from me, I can hardly let those minor grievances carry more than a thimble-full of weight.

Oh yeah. A summary. Ashton has the perfect life (grades, friends, unlimited sex, and one of the raddest Vespas in town). 'Til Margaret enters the scene. From that point onward he is cursed. While he schemes to bed her in classic notch-in-the-belt fashion, her merest presences curses every aspect of his life and he loses everything and flees town to reestablish himself elsewhere. Re-enter Margaret. And so on. It's actually more interesting than it sounds.

Rating:

9-page Preview Courtesy of Publisher

---

Joel is an English teacher in Korea. He's from Canada and is missing home very, very badly. 'Til he meets Hana and falls madly in love. By "meets" I mean, he sees her. Also, he's still desperately homesick. Anyway, Love Is a Foreign Language is a cute romance that can get a little annoying at times. It's a quick read so it can't get that bad, but I thought I'd let you know.

I've been a big fan of some of J. Torres's work in the past and this isn't his best, but it's not his worst. Eric Kim's art tic-tocs between cool and okay. Sometimes it's great, sometimes it's merely good. All-in-all, I enjoyed it and would continue to read Joel and Hana's story if Torres decides to continue it sometime in the future (even though I can't be quite sure what she ever saw in him).

Rating:

6-page Preview Courtesy of Publisher

The Lovely Rape: Rape in The Lovely Bones

[obviously, spoilerfication]

One book, two rapes. How's that for a bargain. I almost said three rapes, but then I remembered that I was a consenting adult and did indeed willingly part with my ten bucks or whatever, and so my wallet wasn't really raped. Though after finishing the book, it kinda feels like it was.

The book in question is Alice Sebold's The Lovely Bones. I'm not giving anything away by saying it's a book about a girl (the narrator) who was murdered. That's revealed in the book's second sentence. It's also not a big deal to let you know she was raped and murdered by a neighbour, George Harvey. That all is related pretty early on. What isn't revealed until maybe the last fifty pages is that the girl herself, Susie Salmon, becomes a rapist.

Ideologically, I'm not certain which one is worse. I could be persuaded.

But the way the book presents the two incidents is markedly different. One is revealed in low lights and has a horror edge to it. It's seen unilaterally as an evil, wicked deed. The other is the book's highlight, the moment at which the author breathes a sigh of relief and says that everything else made right. I suppose it makes sense; the narrator probably wouldn't see her actions for what they were. But in the end, both George and Susie deal with their childhood victimizations in that manner typical to the criminal genre these days.

Both George and Susie had horrible things happen in their formative years that leave long-lasting scars. The only difference is that George Harvey lived and Susie Salmon died. Not that it makes much difference. Susie is as alive a character as George for the purposes of the story. They both want what they want and care little for the well-being of the women who get in their way. The difference is that George Harvey is portrayed as the villain he is, while little Susie Salmon is treated as a hero.

Those who have read the book may not have even noticed Susie's completely abandonment of moral sense or care for the woman she violates. After all, she doesn't exactly couch things in those terms. So here it is, laid out for you.

When Susie was alive, there was a boy who liked her, Ray. In the years after her death, Ray grows up to be, in the narrator's view, an attractive young man. She watches him and loves him. Somehow, events conspire to allow Susie to possess the body of Ruth, a friend of Ray's. Susie uses the opportunity to seduce Ray and they make love several times in the course of a few hours. And then Susie has to go back to heaven. Leaving Ruth, a victim of Susie's power over her body.

Imagine that you're Ruth. You wake up. Naked. Probably a little tender. Used. In the back of some bike shop. With a man in the shower. That's what I call horror. Not only was she not conscious or aware for any of the immediately preceding events, but the guy who's been really her only friend in the world is now naked and telling her that he screwed her brains out while she was unconscious. And even if he doesn't tell her that, there's a very short rail of evidence and it all points to that conclusion. And now. She could be pregnant. She could be diseased.

Yep. The crowning act of love on the part of the tale's heroine is little more than a petty, rapacious act of power over the helpless woman who got in her way. Good job Susie Salmon. You and George Harvey should get along nicely.

p.s. even though I called it a spoiler, I think that Alice Sebold spoiled the book. Not me.

other p.s. the title of this post refers, obviously, to Susie's rape of Ruth, not George's rape of Susie.

In Which We Discuss a Great Several Things

Item! Local boy makes good on test of trivia!
Intrigued when I saw Paulo's link to the smartorstupid trivia quiz, I sallied forth to test my mettle. I got 28 out of 30 correct and shewed myself smarter than 56.something% of the at-that-time current population who had taken the test. On a lark, I took the test again, and corrected the two I got wrong: a question about who performed a rap song and the year a particular celebrity died. I really think that tests like this and that Place the State game from awhile back are really just a way for geeks to pat themselves on the back. *pat pat pat*

---

Item! Local addict struggles with ready market!
Last August, I cut myself off from World of Warcraft again. I really enjoyed the game but I stopped in order to play Oblivion. I finished Oblivion in December - just in time to enjoy the burning leads of Guitar Hero I & II. Currently, I'm not playing anything (I'm taking a break from guitaring so that my left hand can get some rest - two of my knuckles are hurty from my furious fretwork).

And yet, I feel Azeroth calling to me. I was always a casual player of World of Warcraft. At most, I'd play five hours in a given week. I was never able to get any of my characters up to level 60 (the top tier at the time), settling for a 55 druid, a 47 rogue, and a 38 mage (it was the mage I was working on and having such fun with when I finally killed my subscription). It was a fun diversion. I don't think I'll return to it. But I want to. Can someone be addicted to doing something occasionally?

And now that WoW: The Burning Crusade has been released, there's all kinds of news filling my inbox and field of vision. It's ever so tempting. It looks ridiculously cool. I don't think I'll return to it - but if I do, it'll be after I finish my script at the least. At the least. I guess that's the testament to a really well-done game: many months after quitting (last time was over a year ago), I get the desperate itch.

---

Item! Local funny bone is devoured by ninja whales and turned to stone... twice!
If any of you are missing out on the raw and unadulterated humour readily available in the following, then I am sad for you. Simultaneously, I am happy for the new joy that will sashay forth into your waking hours. I am confident you will soon believe the postmillennial millennium is upon us (until you remember padded toilet seats).

#1. White Ninja Comics are the best reason I can think of for getting up in the morning. The ninja is a philosophical joy to behold as he cuts to the heart of the matter and leaves you astonished that something so simple could have gone so long without being made known. As such.

#2. Dinosaur Comics will surely open a whole new dimension somewhere. Until then, we must content ourselves with throwing hands into the airs and wavings like there is anybody but cares.

#3. Marmaduke. Essplained. Good night all. Puffin prevails.

Vespark

So a couple mornings back, I left Ye Olde Domicile in preparation for my five-day-a-week trip to the office. Down, down the stairs I trudged. Up, up the sidewalk I padded. Past, past the mailboxes I sauntered. Over, over to the space into which I had parked Bartleby the evening past.

And yet the little fellow was not to be found in the spot into which I had so lovingly deposited him.

Gasp, shock, and horror. Until I saw him a good fifteen feet away, parked up upon the sidewalk. At that point, Gasp, Shock, and Horror took off their masks and revealed themselves to be none other than Perturbation, Peevishness, and Ire. Who would perpetrate such a foul deed? Who would usurp dear Bartleby's rightful asphault throne?

My theory rules as thus: The complex in which my abode resides is, how do you say, strapped for parking. As I work close to home, I rarely experience this crush firsthand - arriving home, as I do, between 15 to 30 minutes after 5:oopm. What likely occurred is that as the lot filled up, some dastardly fiend, infuriated by the fact that such a small and fuel efficient vehicle should have taken up a whole parking space when really its mass only fills about 15% of said space. He and a cohort must have left their car, hefted poor Bartleby into the air, and carried him over to the sidewalk. When I arrived in the morning full of righteous anger and the wrath of a thousand suns, I thought of writing a dissembling note and placing it through the windshiled of the car in my space, but then I thought better of it.

I mean what if the villains had moved the Vespa, parked, done whatever black magic they had come to do, and left? The car currently parked there would not have known that its lucky find of a parking space was, in actuality, a Space Claimed. And so, it would hardly have been fair of me to deposit my wrath in such a way, against a potential innocent. And this. This is why I am a better man than George W. Bush. The end.

Bamboozled

Using some Photoshop brushes that were recently made popular via del.ico.us, I put together a fun wallpaper for my system at work. It's pretty cool the things you can do with custom brushes. The above gives you a taste, but if you wanna see the whole thing, you can. But I warn you, it's 3840x1200. I'm jealous of my work computer.

I get spoiled by having two 24" widescreens at work and then come home to a little 17" at home. It makes it hard to want to get into digital painting at home. I'm hoping to somewhat alleviate this problem this week by purchasing a 22" widescreen - which I'll have work in tandem with my 17". I had no idea how fun Photoshop could be 'til I was able to shove all my palettes off to my secondary screen and leave my primary as canvas alone - which probably means nothing to anybody reading this.

Maybe I'll explain it. This first screen shot is of Photoshop open, along with the tools and palettes that I typically have open.

You'll notice that the image of the pool I'm working on is barely visible. And this is on a 24" widescreen monitor. If I were really working on just one monitor, I would hide my tools most of the time - but ideally, that wouldn't be the case.

This second shot it of my current set-up, using two monitors: one for the image and one for the tools and palettes. It gives me plenty of room and is a real time saver since I don't have to open and close palettes all day long.

A Night Under the Star$$

As has been made abundantly clear, I've been spending a lot of evenings of later tic-takking away on a laptop, scripting what will ostensibly be my first published work. Well, apart from all the other things I've published. In any case, this tic-takking takes place largely in the outer court of one of the several local corporate-owned coffee-serving establishments. What happens in the holy of holies in that den of thieves is up to anyone's speculation - but mine involves week-old pastries, various animal sacrifices, and a record-breaking streak of four-player Mario Kart.

So last night was amazing. I can only imagine that some heavenly syzygy is to blame, but it was a wonderful sight to behold: the perfect, flawless example of the stereotypical coffee-house couple.

She. Dressed in short-sleeved peasant blouse. Dark hair under a black beret. Dark, horn-rimmed glasses. Lion tattoo* peeking from beneath left sleeve. Reading a book while waiting for...

He. Thin to the point of anorexia suspicions. Matted black hair. Black t-shirt with some band that Scott probably knows. Deathmole or something. Beige dress coat, no doubt found at great personal sacrifice at a nearby Salvation Army. Skinny-skinny jeans that only hung at a non-constricting snugness due to the fact that even his bones were skinny.

They were the ideal couple for the place and I could only imagine they read Camus together in the dark and discussed Nausea while smoking thin black cigarettes and rejecting the triune God. It was glorious to see as I felt that for the first time in years I was actually experiencing corporate coffee as it was always meant to be experienced.

And then again.

I suppose that I am hardly one to be crowing. Three days ago, I sat in a rice bowl joint, chopsticks in hand, wearing a sweater. My Vespa's helmet lay on the chair next to me and my leather jacket on the back of my chair. And in my other hand, the one that remained free of chopstick utility, I held before me Understanding Power: The Indispensible Chomsky.

I know, I know, huh. Like I have any right to be mocking the pretentiousness of a young couple in a Starbucks. But for my own defense, at least I can claim that this book was required reading by a friend of mine. I know, it hardly ameliorates the image, does it? *sigh*

Twenty-six pages into Chomsky, here is my evaluation. It's very frustrating. He's a smart guy and he says a lot of interesting things - makes a lot of fascinating connections - that sometimes really do make a lot of sense. Unfortunately, he mires his ideas in a volatile sort of language that makes you think it's all a put on. He uses the kind of language that polemicists will use in order to distract you from their case. They're cheap shots and you want to think he's got a good case in there, but the language points to a man unsure of himself - someone who hopes desperately that his patter will distract his opponents and that they won't be able to see the weakness in his arguments because they're too busy being flabbergasted by the smack he talks.

I want to think he's got something in there, but my intuition tells me there's a reason he can't talk straight. England prevails.

*note: in truth, it may have been Gimli or Colin Powell. I couldn't get a very good look at it. It was definitely green ink though.

Vespop!

So I had a blow-out today while riding Bartleby, my 2006 Vespa LX 150. The back tire popped just before I leaned into a left turn at a light. I wasn't sure it had actually blown at first, but halfway through my turn, I lost rear traction a bit and was using my left foot to keep myself upright through the turn. Things were pretty wobbly after that. Fortunately, it's got one of those tires that loses air rather slowly, so I was able to safely make it to my destination without damaging the rim.

Last time I had taken it in, I had asked for a harder tire, because the Pirelli's it comes with are nice and soft and so get a lot of traction, but I wear through them like crazy. I've only had the Vespa for nineteen months and this'll be my second rear tire (and I obviously should have replaced this one over the holidays like I had planned to - I knew it was getting down to it, but I didn't know I was showing thread in two places like I am).

In other news: Doodle!

Land of Confusion

One of the problems that often crops up in those who are political active (whether in government or merely from the decrepit old office chair upon which their perch before their computer) is an acute lack of perspective. I've spoken before about the reasons for this deficit in the realm of a Well-Ordered Sense of Reality, but today I was driving behind a simple example of this myopia in practice. It was a bumper sticker.

While its true that the sloganeering in bumper stickers is by its nature imperfect and we shouldn't expect a brief juxtaposition of words and symbols to carry the finely honed nuance of a full-bodied ideology - still, the choice of a bumper sticker says something about the individual who sees the sticker and thinks: "Oh, man! I so completely want to put that on the back window of my SUV. Yes!"

Now it's one thing if your window is less window than sticker and you have almost an indiscriminate selection of slogans, perpetrating a rainbowed galaxy of ideologies inconsistent with any hegemony or movement. If this is the case, you can be forgiven the content of your selections - if not for the absence of taste that birthed your rear-window monstrosity in the first place.

But this guy was different. Only a single sticker. That means that out of all the stickers he could have gotten, he chose this one in particular because he like it better than everything else he could have put there. This sticker is the One that best defined his ideology:

Huh. Where to begin?

Forget politics. Forget whether you think that Bush is a great president or that Bush is perpetuating the slaughter indicative to the world-dominating terrorist state that is the U.S. of A. That doesn't matter, really. This guy professes love for a social construct. And then he doesn't love a human being.

That, in a nutshell, is the problem I'm talking about. George Bush is a filthy, rotten human being. Just like you. just like me. And just like the author of that bumper sticker's slogan. He's also crafted in the image of God. Just like you. Just like me. And just like the author of that bumper sticker's slogan.

What is he talking about when he says he loves America? The nation: some socio-political construct that exists only as a fabrication we've socially devised as a means of organizing ourselves? The geography: a chunk of real estate that is artificially demarcated in such a way to keep others from enjoying the real estate as much as we do? The ideology: a winner-take-all, scrape-yourself-from-the bottom -at-the expense -of-all-others type of success glorification?

The sticker might as well say:

It would be equally sensible.

A Two-Fisted Salute to Martin Luther King Jr.

Because I'm like that, I now present two archival celebrations of the glory that is: King Martin Luther - Reformer.

#1 - A documentary presentation exploring and summarizing the life and accomplishments of said civil hero:

#2 - a tribute to the 20th century folk hero carved in graven pumpkin flesh:

BusyBusy

The last few weeks have been incredibly busy. Pretty much immediately after work, I've been heading down to the local Stabbuck's to work on my graphic novel's script. It's a lot of work and slower going than I had originally presumed. If it was just writing, it'd be a piece of cake, but since I have to remain conscious of page layout and per-page-turn pacing, it involves far more planning than a mere novel. But even though my progress is going slower than I'd like, I still feel - at the end of each night's work - that I've really done pretty well. When I had written the prior post last Wednesday, I had scripted up to page 45. On my lunch break today, I had put myself up to midway through page 74.

The other thing keeping my busy is Guitar Heroing. I don't know who said that Wii was the party game that gets non-gamers into games, but I was instantly drawn into the GH-mania. Monk, my roommate, got me the first Guitar Hero for Christmas and a couple days later, I picked up its sequel so we'd have a second guitar.

We had a big game-playing festival at the house on New Year's Day. It was mostly board games (Puerto Rico and Scotland Yard), card games (Dutch Blitz and Bang), and one or two party games (Trivial Pursuit: Genus Edition and Wise and Otherwise). The rad thing was that Guitar Hero was infectious. As soon as anyone got out in whichever game they were playing, they'd head back to the TV room to indulge in a little Boston, Franz Ferdinand, or Sabbath. The game is simply glorious.

We also found that those practiced in guitar or piano were better equipped to play the game. My left forearm has been burning pretty steadily since Christmas (burning guitar leads hurt so sweetly). Both Monk and Johnny T (piano and guitar, respectively), however, were largely immune - having developed both reach and muscles in their regular musical habits.

But anyway... that's why I've been so busy.

Being Blind, They See?

One of the questions I'm researching for my book revolves around how to describe the thought process of blind people. After looking into the way in which some of Nowheresville's reader-participants described their way of thinking (e.g. textual, visual, auditory, spatial, kinetic, etc.), I've been hobbling around the periphery of the "normative" experience. Of what consists the thought experience of the person hopped up on meth? I've been asking questions like how does the person, blind from infancy, think?

I have people I can actually interview regarding the thought process of the drug-addled (and some interesting photos of spider-webs to inspire me), but since I don't know any blind people (besides those who gradually have lost their vision as age and infirmity has crept in), I've had to rely on the internet for info. And to be honest, not many people are that interested in the structure of thought - at least not in blind people. So I've settled on descriptions of the dreams of the blind. This is acceptable. For now.

One of the questions I've had roaming through my mind the last month or so revolves around phosphenes and how the relate to the visual field of blind people. Phosphenes are, of course, those experiences of light, colour, and shape that you'll "see" when you close your eyes and apply light pressure to your closed eye. And everyone has slightly different experience of these things (mine are largely small, geometric reverberations made of of primary colours and radiate outward from the source of pressure; but I also, to varying extents, experience phosphenes when my eyes are open and in the absence of pressure as almost a field of low-opacity, multi-coloured sand). Phosphenes are within a category of phenomena referred to as entoptic phenomenon (entoptic means "within the eye"). Some blind people experience phosphenes and researchers have been trying for the last three decades to use phosphenes to invigorate their visual sense.

But the kooky thing is: I don't think I've found anyone who suggests that phosphenes are distinguishable by the born blind. And I can't really figure out why that would be.

*sigh* The struggles of a burgeoning author.