Jake Hates Everything

Let's Call Walking Dead "Zombies-a-poppin'"

noreply@blogger.com (Jake) — Mon, 12 Mar 2012 02:27:00 +0000

I think I would like "The Walking Dead" TV show a lot more if it wasn't called "The Walking Dead" and if the characters all had different names. Robert Kirkman let it be known early on that the TV series would take a different path than the comic, but it's hard to understand why.

The Walking Dead is an established story that has won awards and become the flagship title at Image Comics despite plenty of doubts. A friend who works at Dark Horse found a rejected, decade-plus-old pitch for the series amidst a stack of boxes in one editor's office a few years ago. I met Tony Moore at a comic convention in Las Vegas trying to push the first issue on me. I recall reading it and dismissing it as a 28 Days Later ripoff as soon as Rick awoke from his coma in the abandoned hospital on page 3.

Obviously, Kirkman has a good thing going to have overcome many doubters, so why change it? I know the comic book community is infamous for treating minor continuity changes in other media as apocalyptic, but this is different from giving Spider-Man organic webshooters or making the Punisher a Gulf War vet from Miami instead of a Vietnam vet from New York.

Most comic book movies or shows are based on the characters, and as comic readers, we've see a lot of different takes on those characters. Superman's powers have fluctuated depending on writers and editors, going from being extra tough, strong enough to bend a steel bar, and able to leap over tall buildings with a single bound to being able to push a planet out of orbit and fly faster than time itself. Batman, who refuses to ever touch a gun or kill a criminal, used to carry a gun and, in his first appearance, punched a dude into a vat of acid and remorselessly declared it "a fitting end for his kind."

So we come to accept that, as long as certain key elements about the characters remain the same, we can overlook some changes. As long as Spider-Man lets a crook get away only to have that crook murder Uncle Ben, it doesn't matter if the crook is burglarizing the Parkers' home or carjacking Uncle Ben. As long as Bruce Banner turns into a green mass of muscles when he gets mad, it doesn't matter if he was exposed to gamma radiation through medical experimentation or the explosion of a gamma bomb.

However, turn Daredevil, the ultimate "justice lies in the hands of the court" advocate, into a vigilante who tracks down guilty criminals who get off on technicalities and murders them in cold blood or replace the British John Constantine with Keanu Reeves and move him from London to Los Angeles and you lose your audience.

The difference is that "The Walking Dead" is not a character. It is a story. And unlike Bruce Wayne being a rich guy who dresses up like a bat and fights crime to avenge his parents' deaths at the hand of a mugger, "The Walking Dead" is not just a few key elements. It is all key elements. It is a chronicle of the activities of a group of characters as an event unfolds. And once you decide to change those, you are no longer telling the story.

Perhaps the best way to illustrate this would be to consider if Marvel announced it was making a Daredevil: Born Again movie. Not a Daredevil movie, but a film specifically adapting Frank Miller's Daredevil #227-233 story arc.

But when you go to the theater, eager to see one of the greatest comic stories every written projected on a forty-foot high screen, you find it opens not with Karen Page selling Daredevil's secret identity for heroin, but instead Typhoid Mary revealing it on a radio talk show. And Kingpin doesn't ever get the secret identity because he's murdered by the Owl around 20 minutes into the movie. So instead, Matt Murdock's life is driven to ruin by a completely new character made up by the screenwriter (and who is later written into the current Daredevil comic). And Nuke attacks Hell's Kitchen around the 40 minute mark instead of the movie's climax and the entire second act is about Daredevil and him palling around and fighting crime and Nuke struggling with how to tell Daredevil that he's asked Karen Page to marry him until the third act turn where Bullseye shows up to kill Daredevil, but Nuke leaps in the path of the bullet, saving DD.

While all that might work in a generic Daredevil movie (albeit a terrible one), it is not Born Again. Likewise, while it makes sense that Rick and his group might try to get to the CDC to learn more about the zombie plague and see if there's a cure/immunization, it's not The Walking Dead.

Instead, we have a TV version of a Walking Dead What if...? comic. Now, I am on the record as loving What if...?, but there's a reason the stories in them are one issue long. While we may be curious how the world would be different if the Avengers lost the Evolutionary War or if the Fantastic Four never got their powers, we don't want to read about it open-endedly month after month. That's why so many What if...? stories end with everyone dying.

Sure, it's interesting to find out what would happen if Carl didn't kill Shane within the first few days of Rick arriving at their camp.

But that moment in issue #6 is a key element of The Walking Dead. Similarly, Dale is one of the most important characters in the book, briefly serving as the leader of the group and saving the lives of most of the current group by leaving the prison before the massacre there, and his relationship with Andrea is a cornerstone of the story, but instead he's been killed by a zombie before the group even reaches the prison... if they get there at all, and he and Andrea argued from the start of season two through to his death.

Adding to the What if...? air--and making things more frustrating--as pointed out by David Anaxagoras, is that the show keeps visiting certain key moments from the comic, making it just similar enough to remind you that you could be watching an adaptation of the comic you love.

Overall, what I find most frustrating about "The Walking Dead" is my inability to objectively tell what I think about it. Is it a bad show, or does it just fail to satisfy my desire for an adaptation of The Walking Dead? Would I enjoy it more if I didn't know who these characters were and how they were supposed to interact or would I realize they are flat and undeveloped without that knowledge I am bringing to the table?

Ultimately, as is the case so often for comic readers, I will continue to watch no matter how far short of my hopes and expectations the show falls because I want to keep hoping it will get better and don't want to miss out when it does, then cursing myself for continuing down this disappointing path.

Tebow's Mission Accomplished

noreply@blogger.com (Jake) — Sun, 15 Jan 2012 00:17:00 +0000

Tim Tebow's goal in college wasn't to win the Heisman Trophy or National Championships. With the Broncos, being MVP or winning a Super Bowl are secondary motivations. Tebow's primary purpose in everything he does is to witness to the world and bring the Word of Jesus to us all. And he has done that in a way few in this world ever have.

Regardless of my differences of opinion with him about religion and my never-ceasing stream of Twitter hatred for the guy whenever the Broncos play, I have to admit, Tim Tebow has made me understand Jesus in a way I don't know if I ever could without him.

From what I understand, Tebow is the Jackie Robinson of Christians in the NFL. After years of passing over strong, talented Christians in the draft, Tebow finally posed figure too large to ignore, so Denver reluctantly chose him and vowed to keep him on the bench his entire (short) career. But Tebow's talent and the overwhelming cries of the usually silent minority of Christians in this nation could not be ignored, leading him to disprove the critics by stepping in and lifting a terrible team to a win in the Super Bowl despite the protestations of the NFL, the networks, ESPN, Sports Illustrated, and the Muslims, Jews, and atheists who run this country.

Unfortunately, that was not true. In fact, Tim Tebow is not a very good quarterback and Christians are rarely quiet about anything. Neither of those things, however, is a reason for me to hate him as personally as I have.

Say what you will about his goody-goody personality and overt religious zealotry, Tim Tebow truly believes what he says. In America, Republican contenders for President, who cheat on their cancer-ridden wives and suggest repealing child labor laws, make a daily point of reminding us how much they love Jesus and his teachings. Soon, Mitt Romney will secure the Republican nomination and will be able to shift the attention to how much more he loves Jesus than President Obama does. And, in turn, President Obama will have to make the case he loves Jesus more because a huge voting block in this country justifies its decisions at the polls with statements like, "Sure, President Bush ruined the economy by sending us to war with a country that posed no legitimate threat to us resulting in the deaths of millions, but he prays every day and I don't think Gore does that."

For so many in the public eye, religion is an accessory to be worn when one wants to appear good, noble, kind-hearted. But just as it's possible to wear a Broncos shirt or baseball cap without being a true Denver fan, only a minority of any religion's followers will show any devotion beyond the surface appearance.

Tim Tebow is the rare exception whose religious beliefs come from a pure belief in the Bible. While I may not agree with what he believes, it's refreshing to be able to accept it at face value. A sect of Tebow fans likes to put forward the idea that the quarterback might actually be the son of God, and I can understand why.

Tim Tebow's wins on the football field defy all reason. While the word "miracle" gets overused, there's a statistical improbability of a guy playing as awfully as Tebow winning even one game that can't be ignored. Tim Tebow is humble. Tim Tebow shares his beliefs and feelings with the world because he wants us to be--and believes we can be--better people. Tim Tebow loves his enemies. Tim Tebow seems like a genuinely good, noble, kind-hearted person.

His followers, however...

Before he'd started rookie training camp in 2010, Tebow's jersey was the highest selling jersey in the league. Despite his own insistence he had a lot to learn before he could be an effective NFL quarterback, Jesus freaks lambasted Denver's coaches and management for not starting Tebow. Every Tebow win fueled the blind devotion of his followers and made them less bearable.

And, worst, his winning ways drew the attention of non-football fans to the NFL, which drove network and league executives to make "All-Tebow, All-the Time" the strategy for the entire season. Watch a Buccaneers-Texans game and discussion among the announcers will turn to Tebow. NFL.com recently posted a gallery of Photoshopped images illustrating what it would look like if Tebow impregnated various celebrities. Every week this year, whether he was playing or not, one of the headlines on ESPN.com, CNNSI.com, or Yahoo's NFL page featured the word "Tebow."

And, thus, Tim Tebow accomplished his ultimate goal. He made me, a devout atheist, understand Jesus and his sacrifice on the cross in a way I never had seen it before. Because while I know Tim Tebow is a good man and I have nothing against him personally, his followers are ruining football for me.
And for that, I want to see him fucking crucified!

For the Man Who Has Everything

noreply@blogger.com (Jake) — Fri, 06 Jan 2012 05:50:00 +0000

It's hard to explain my friendship with Ryno. There's nothing particularly bizarre about it, but trying to explain it is difficult because most people never had and never will have a friend like him. I assume it's the way Harrison Schmitt must feel when talking about being an astronaut with anyone other than Buzz Aldrin or Charles Duke or the only other nine guys who have ever set foot on the moon.

To oversimplify, Ryno is generous beyond reason. I couldn't begin to guess the number of times he's bought me lunch or dinner, but it's a strong three-figured one. He's had to have dropped well over $1000 on sushi alone. And if you offer to pay your share, he usually waves your money back into your wallet dismissively. When he doesn't, you can't help but feel he's only letting you give him cash to boost your self esteem. After all, odds are he's going to use that $20 you slip him to buy your kid something she mentioned she was passingly interested in the last time she was at his house.

He bankrolled my first year of curling, something I'd been wanting to try since I was in high school, including buying our team shirts and getting me my own broom for my birthday.

And lest you think his generosity to merely a product of the well-to-do financial status that comes when a bank executive marries a doctor, he has spent literally days of his life listening to me swing manically from one extreme to another while deciding--or not deciding--how to handle breaking up/separating/working on things with my ex, and calmly listened to me whine about a sex life that's--not to brag--better than any of my other friends' by light years. The last time I got a flat tire on the freeway, he drove across town, let me use his spare tire (because mine is [still] flat), followed me to Sam's Club, and bought me a new tire since I'm not a member. He also thought to bring a bottle of water. Back in October, he set up for my kids to join his trick or treating in Ryne Sandberg and Todd McFarlane's neighborhood.

And I hate to think of where we would be if his wife, our pediatrician, hadn't provided free medical care for my family during all my unemployed and uninsured years, but I'm pretty sure at least one of my kids would be dead, the other would have polio, and I'd be hobbling around on one foot.

He takes us to Vegas at least twice a year--always for the opening two rounds of the NCAA basketball tournament in March and for our fantasy football draft in August and usually once or twice more when he gets free room offers--and when I say "we," our fantasy football league has ten owners. In each of my last five trips to Vegas with Ryno, I have eaten a steak that cost more than I'd spend on a weekly grocery trip. Last year, we're stayed in the Beatles Suite at the Sahara. The year before that, we were in a suite at the Bellagio.

Already I fear this has become a bragging list, so I'll avoid further bullet points of Ryno's generosity (for three or four paragraphs). It was not my intention to brag, but rather to stress the biggest problem with having a friend like Ryno.

Buying him a present for Christmas.

As you might guess, if Ryno wants something, he buys it for himself on a whim. Afterall, if you want something, there's a good chance he's bought it for you on a whim. If there's something he wants but hasn't bought for himself, it's not something I can afford. Our friend, Hollywood, and I were discussing this two weeks before Christmas, and as the conversation went on, we got downright surly.

"How dare he shower us with vacations to Tampa and Penn & Teller shows and tickets to the Diamondbacks game in Friday's Front Row on Garden Gnome night and opportunities to be on Fox NFL broadcasts and zamboni rides at Coyotes games where we happen to meet childhood idols and tickets to every Buccaneers game in Phoenix in the past 15 years?" I grumbled.

"If he's going to make it this difficult to get him a good gift," Hollywood said, "we shouldn't even try. We should get him a terrible gift. That would teach him a lesson!"

It was a stroke of genius. "What do you get the man who has everything he wants?" I cackled. "Something he doesn't want!"

Hollywood then suggested we book a sitting at a Sears portrait studio and get an awful portrait of ourselves in one of their classic cheesy poses. You know, like one of us sitting down while the other on stands with his hands on the first one's shoulder...

But instead of going to Sears, I called my old friend Tate Hemlock. He's shot my author bio photos and thousands of shots of women in various stages of undress. He loved the idea and admitted to a strange obsession with bad family portraits from the 1970's and 80's. We set up a session for Thursday.

Hollywood drove two hours up from Tucson. We had dinner with Ryno and Teacher Dave, and then drove another hour north to Tate's home. We were introduced to Kennedy, who was hanging out and staying with him for a few days. As we discussed what we wanted to do, Tate showed us some stuff from his most recent shoots, which made Hollywood's eyes go buggy as he realized he was looking at the same girl who'd just shook our hands in the living room.

We set up a backdrop in what would normally be a dining room. The shoot was temporarily delayed, however, because the backdrop had an ice cream stain on it from a previous shoot. Tate sliced off the ice creamy portion and we went to work, starting with the aforementioned pose.

As you may have noticed from some the above accounts of Ryno's generosity, the three of us are longtime Tampa Bay Buccaneers fans. So Hollywood and I decided (since we couldn't get the wardrobe or wigs to pull off a 1978 look) to give our photoshoot a Bucs theme. And from there, the cheesy, Olan Mills-esque poses poured forth.

And it was about this time we realized that if you have an accomplished artiste in the realm of slinky, sexy photos like Tate Hemlock shooting you, it would really be a waste not to show a little skin.

My original plan of hiring Tate to save us some money went out the window as we doubled his asking price when we paid him because we hadn't laughed so hard in months.

Obviously, we couldn't pick just one image to be our portrait, so I got on Photoshop and created two collages, which we then printed at Costco in 16x20 and 14x18 sizes.

In case you are wondering, no, when I walked up to the counter of the Costco Photo Center, I did not have to tell the guy what I was there to pick up. Somehow, he figured it out for himself.

We framed them, but, unfortunately, our plan of buying the same size frame that holds all of Ryno and his wife's wedding photos, taking that down, hiding it in the garage, replacing it with mildly erotic images of ourselves, and seeing how long it took before someone noticed was ruined by the fact said frame is massive and would have cost about $150-200.

In the end, I spent more time, money, and effort to get a terrible gift for someone who has been nothing but good to me and my family for the better part of two decades than I did on any of the "good" presents I got for anyone else this year. So let that be a warning to anyone planning to be my friend!

Critical Praise for Nextwave is Absurd

noreply@blogger.com (Jake) — Sat, 22 Oct 2011 05:13:00 +0000

In light of Chris Sims's love letter to Nextwave not-so-cleverly disguised as an answer to a question about monster hunters in comics--in which he disqualifies one character from being comicdom's greatest monster hunter for not having been around long enough then hands the title to a character who's been in one 4-issue miniseries and a 12-issue team book that wasn't about monster hunting--I dug up my 2006 review of Nextwave #1.
----------------
I'd heard varied reports around Comicblogtopia. Some people said Warren Ellis's Nextwave was great; others took the stance it was terrific. A few bloggers have indicated Warren Ellis's semen has a rich buttery flavor and is delicious on a baked potato.

I've made no attempt to hide my utter contempt for Fell and Ellis's lame, forced pseudo-weirdness within. When I picked up Nextwave, it was with the promise from Chris that "even though [he knew I] didn't like Fell, [I] would really like Nextwave because it's completely different."

All I needed was one frame to tell me Chris is a dirty, dirty liar.This is what passes for humor when you are Warren Ellis or when you are eleven years old. Absurdist humor is much more difficult than it looks, and sadly, as it looks extremely easy, it's quite inviting to people who think they are funnier than they actually are the world over.

All you need is to list a bunch of really bizarre images and you're a comedian! Right? A weasel is only mildly funny on its own, and a giant weasel is even funnier. Dress it as a cheerleader and you're getting somewhere. Have the giant weasel dressed like a cheerleader use a human as a bucket and pants everywhere are being wet with laughter.

The fact there is no art accompanying that caption tells me one of two things, possibly both. Either Ellis felt that caption was so funny on its own, no imagery Stuart Immonen could provide could possibly live up to the idea people would form on their own, or he hadn't quite decided exactly what he was going say there by the time Immonen started drawing it.

The follow up to that frame, which actually came earlier making it the "I'm pretty sure this book is going to suck but Chris promised me it was good so I'll give it the benefit of the doubt and keep reading" frame:Oh, no, you di-in't! New Jersey is so burned right now! Making fun of New Jersey is so not cliche! I also am proud of myself for recognizing that Dirk Anger is a parody of Nick Fury. Hang on... Fury... Anger... Those are synonyms! Damn, that's sweet!

Making jokes about New Jersey is on par with jokes about airline food being bad or how "black folks and white folks be different, y'all."

The greatest example of successful absurdism is Monty Python. Unfortunately, Monty Python tends to convince more people than any other source of the seeming simplicity of absurdism.Just put together a singing trio of vikings in a diner that serves Spam with every dish and you have a classic sketch that will be quoted by teenaged boys for decades to come.

Nextwave has a very basic plot: a superhero team crosses paths with Fin Fang Foom. The absurdist moments should be garnish to that, but instead become blaring sirens and flashing neon signs announcing "Warren Ellis is SOOOOO fucking clever."

Why is Fin Fang Foom wearing purple underwear? So Ellis can refer to it repeatedly because it's SOOOOO fucking clever. Why was "The Captain" originally known as "Captain "? Because it's SOOOOO ing clever. Why are the Human Resources henchmen made of "slabs of genetically modified kelp"? Because as I learned when I was at the beach in 1986, "kelp" is a funny word.

I could go on and on, and in fact, I have. Instead, maybe I'd be better off discussing all the parts of Nextwave that didn't suck and/or were actually funny.

Dirk Anger's hightech, top secret communications device:Admittedly, that's pretty fucking clever.

I Dream of a Genie... and Sasha Grey

noreply@blogger.com (Jake) — Sat, 17 Sep 2011 15:06:00 +0000

There are few things more boring than listening to someone describe their dreams. Except maybe reading about someone's dreams. So last night I had this vivid dream...

I was watching a college football game though the stadium that was more like a high school field, most specifically either Blountstown or Bristol High's stadium in Florida. (I've always had a hard time differentiating those two places because they are very close together, and whenever I drove out to cover a story at one school, I'd wind up hitting the other one, too, so they are kind of the same place in my head.) The visiting team was Texas A&M and the Aggies were winning 54-0. The home team was repeatedly throwing passes into the end zone from about its own 30 yard line and having them batted down.

A woman sitting beside me was trying to tell me how good the team was and that they still had a chance at winning, at which point a receiver managed to pull down a touchdown pass and reassure her she was correct.

She went on to brag about how great the school and the other schools in its conference were. She sited as an example that one of the other schools in the conference was where they shot the classroom scenes during season 4 of "House" where he was selecting his new team.That made it the envy of all the other schools.

This particular school's pride and joy was it's Vegas-style show starring the Temptations (including two original surviving members) called "Signed, Sealed, Delivered." I know "Signed, Sealed, Delivered" is a Stevie Wonder song.

The plot of the show was about the Temptations building a huge bomb and turning to a genie for assistance. The actor who played the genie sat in a large glass enclosure near the ticket office making faces and growling at people who walked by to help promote the show. When he needed a break, a sign sat in the enclosure explaining that the genie was off finding parts for the bomb.

Beside the genie's enclosure was a display of photos of the show and a video that played on a loop, featuring a musical number by six topless USO chorus girls with their faces and torsos painted like American flags, a la Nuke's face from Daredevil. Two of the women were Sasha Grey and Carmella Bing.Their song was about being recruited for the USO, being told their pretty faces could help the nation. The chorus featured the line, "On a pretty daaaaaaaay, I heard him saaaaaaay."

TSA to Employ Mindreaders

noreply@blogger.com (Jake) — Wed, 17 Aug 2011 02:21:00 +0000

For a while now, I've suspected that the story NPR's Morning Edition runs at 4:45 every morning is specifically designed to sour my mood right before I go to work each day. In the past it has covered such topics as "Dedicating 5 minutes of national air time to letting white baby boomers complain that they aren't pandered enough to in this country because grocery stores aren't all carpeted and sometimes play hip-hop music" and "Dedicating 5 minutes of national air time talking on the phone to some housewives in Ohio who are spending all day watching the royal wedding." The reason I get my news from NPR is because it is dedicated to actual journalism, but at quarter to five that always seems to go out the window, and today's story was one of the worst examples of that yet.

This morning, Tovia Smith reported on a new airport screening technique the TSA is implementing in Boston and plans to have in place nationwide eventually. TSA agents will ask a series of questions for which they don't really care about answers. What they are looking for is subtle clues that someone might be a terrorist revealed by sweating, body language, or any other number of things someone who watched half an episode of "Lie to Me" claimed would matter.

Tovia Smith interviews George Nacarra, the federal security director for the TSA at Logan airport, giving him all the intense scrutiny the mass media of River City gave Professor Harold Hill in The Music Man. Listen to the story and you will hear a government official pull a turn-of-the-century flim-flam on a reporter from our nation's last bastion of true journalism.

He offers to demonstrate, even over the phone. "Pick a two-digit number, between 50 and 100, both digits even," he says. He explains that he can't guarantee 100 percent success, since he won't be able to read all of the clues he usually gets from face and body language. On the phone, his only clues are things like voice quality, hesitation, pacing and breathing.

"Say nothing aloud," he says. "I'm just going to work off of breath. Hold your mouth next to the phone," and he begins to count as fast as he can from 50 — until he stops dead at 68.

"[It's] 68!" he announces. He says he heard a faint tongue click right when he said the number.

As soon as he qualified "both digits even," I shouted at my radio, "Fuck! He's going to 68 her?" This is a standard warm-up trick for mind-readers and psychics going back to the pre-Houdini days. In the present, it's a trick Mystery of VH1's "The Pick-Up Arist" suggests for meeting girls in bars--and given Smith's reaction as a well-educated woman, it's hard to insult Mystery as tempting as that may be.

There are certain "forces" in mentalism that are based simply on our brain's tendency to select from a small field while thinking it's selecting from a large one. The key is making you decide quickly. "Think of a vegetable," will get the response "carrot" 90 or more percent of the time as long as you don't let the subject really think about it. "Go with the first thing that pops into your head. Think of a wild animal in the jungle," will get you "lion."

"Think of an odd number between 1-50 with both digits odd and different" will almost always yield "37." Why? Because while you think you're selecting from 50 numbers, you're not. You're limited to odds, so already you're eliminating half the field. A two-digit number eliminates five more (1, 3, 5, 7, 9). Both digits odd eliminates another 10 (21, 23, 25... 49). Two different digits gets rid of 11 and 33. That leaves only eight choices (13, 15, 17, 19, 31, 35, 37, 39), so already the mentalist has a 12.5% chance of guessing correctly as opposed to the perceived 2% chance. But for some reason, the human mind jumps on 37 more often than the other seven combined and anyone who knows this appears to have impossibly guessed your number. In the case of 68, the field is limited to 60, 62, 64, 68, 80, 82, 84, and 86, and again, 68 is chosen disproportionately more than all the rest.

Another favorite is "Think of two simple geometric shapes, one inside the other. Make them different though, don't do a square inside a square or a rectangle. Now draw it." The mentalist then reads your mind and draws:Why? Because while he'll then say, "You could have picked any of hundreds of designs," you really couldn't. Simple shapes pretty much limits you to triangle, circle, and square/rectangle--a dodecahedron inside a parallelogram isn't "simple." When he suggests that a square inside a rectangle would be a bad idea, it limits you to a triangle and a circle. At that point, we fall back on the fact that we circle things (ads in the classifieds, answers to Is He Into You? tests in Cosmo, word searches) and don't triangle them. However, if the subject does draw a circle inside a triangle, the mentalist still can salvage it by saying, "Wow, pretty close, huh? I got the vibe of the two shapes, but I couldn't pick up which was on the outside," and look pretty impressive.

Banachek's Psychological Subtleties gives an intensive list of such "forces" and explains routines he uses in his shows based on them. He and Larry Becker get away with such blatant forces as "think of a flower... a beautiful, long-stemmed flower... is it a rose?" on a regular basis because while it seems obvious while reading it on a blog sitting at your desk, the illusion is much different when you're on the spot in a nightclub or--apparently--interviewing a TSA official over the phone.

Tovia Smith should be embarrassed. I only hope she will scrutinize her subject a little harder in the future before declaring Secretary Tim Geithner is going to solve the debt crisis by pulling coins out of her ears.

Watch Out, Lois!

noreply@blogger.com (Jake) — Sat, 30 Jul 2011 17:01:00 +0000

I recently watched the entirety of BBC's "Ramsey's Kitchen Nightmares" on Netflix. In every episode scales back, limiting the chefs to smaller menus and simpler ingredients.

I bring this up because I've been putting off writing a review of Superman's Girl Friend Lois Lane #16 because I haven't had a lot of free time to write of late. Then, as Gordon Ramsey explained that a good broccoli soup can be made from broccoli, salt, and water, I concluded this story need no embellishment.

One day, Lois gets jealous of Jimmy Olsen's Superman signal watch...But when he gives her one of her own, Superman forgets to consider that women are stupid and worthless (per 1960's comics written for adolescent boys). She calls Superman when she has a nightmare.

On the note of Superman's temper, compare how he speaks to Darkseid when the latter comes to destroy the Earth...... to the way he speaks to Lois about calling him to spring her from a stuck revolving door.As always seems to be the case when Lois, Jimmy, or Superman says anything in public, a petty criminal happens to be standing nearby, overhears, and devises a plan to use this new development to his advantage.The plan is to have Lois draw Superman away from a bank robbery. But Lois flips the script and refuses to signal Superman because not doing so allows her to lay a guilt trip on Superman.

I Know It's the Jam, But...

noreply@blogger.com (Jake) — Thu, 23 Jun 2011 00:53:00 +0000

If there is a better example of a song mailing it in than DJ Kool's "Let Me Clear My Throat," I can't think of it.
1. The song is 95% "The 900 Number" by 45 King (also known as "The Ed Lover Dance Song" to viewers of "Yo! MTV Raps" in the early 90's), which is in itself just a looped sample from Marva Whitney's "Unwind Yourself." The rest is the opening horns from "Hollywood Swingin'" by Kool and the Gang. I grant you that hip hop is rooted in sampling, but these are two well-known samples and had been well-known for years before this song came out.

2. Many of the lyrics are "samples," too. While not lifted as an actual recording, lines like "Can I kick it? (Yes, you can!)" and "I'm in love... I'm all shook up," are familiar lyrics from other songs. Hell, even "Let me clear my throat" was one of Ad Rock's most memorable lines on the Beastie Boys' "License to Ill" album.

3. This song was recorded live in a club, so I supposed it's possible Biz Markie was pulled on stage without any warning and asked to freestyle some rhymes on the spot. I hope this is the case, because that's the only excuse I can think to justify the lack of effort on his part to spin a lyrical masterpiece... or even to make any sense. By his third line, he's resorting to making noises ("Ahhhh-uuuhhh-huh-huh. Remember that?") and a moment later, he admits he's not going to worry about saying anything meaningful because the words don't really matter ("Tick tocka. Tick tocka doodle die, no matter what I say, it always comes out fly"). I also really wonder what the comparison that prompted the simile "The ladies in here are like fruit in a cup" was (other than a meaningless line to rhyme with "shook up").4. Why the hell is this considered a DJ Kool song? Clearly Doug E. Fresh was the only one who really contributed anything. What does Kool need to clear his throat for? It's not like he's saying much other than repeating the same four or five lines ("Here we go now. Here we go now. Here we go now. Here we go now. Here we go now." "Everybody jump. Jump. Jump. Jump. Jump." "Have mercy, babe. I hope ya don't mind.") and shouting out a role call of rappers who apparently had more on their agendas than Doug E. Fresh and Biz Markie that evening. Hell, the crowd has as many lines in this song as DJ Kool does.

The World's Going to Be Destroyed? Yawn...

noreply@blogger.com (Jake) — Tue, 07 Jun 2011 03:47:00 +0000

I am trying to write three books and am constantly complaining about how little time I have to accomplish anything due to my 50-60 hour a week day job, so a lot of blogging about comics has fallen to the wayside. However, since I read the first three issues of Fear Itself this weekend despite rarely reading any of the big crossover events, I thought I would weigh in, albeit briefly.

I don't get it.

Less briefly, I don't know why I'm supposed to care about this story. Granted, I've been out of the mainstream of Marvel for years, only checking in briefly when X-Factor has an obligatory tie-in to the major event or getting summaries from Twitter that lead me to Wikipedia to learn why and how Norman Osborne is in charge of the world or whatever the hell that was about. Still, I don't think my ignorance of current storylines is what's holding me back.

It just seems like a by-the-numbers "major threat is posed to the world and the superheroes band together to fight it off" story, but without anything to get me actually interested. It feels like it's been put together by a committee that drew up specific guidelines based on past event comics. Destroy major cities, turn heroes against one another, kill off a notable character who also happens to be totally expendable,, etc. In this case, the committee also realized the series would kick off during the hype of the Thor movie, and that the general public would expect Steve Rogers to be back as Captain America in time for that movie, so in addition to the other points, the threat should be Norse-related and Bucky would have to die or otherwise be removed from his role as Captain America.

In reading the third issue, one moment really stood out for me as even more out of place and awkward than everything else.I assumed this was Matt Fraction's nod to the old tradition of the Yancey Street Gang razzing the Thing whenever he came back to the old neighborhood, but this seemed a little extreme. Why would you heckle the superheroes who have saved the world multiple times when another threat is being posed to the planet as we know it? This feels like a Jew during the liberation of Auschwitz yelling, "Hey, Americans, I sure hope you unlock those gates faster than you fought the Battle of the Bulge, ya jerks!"

Then I realized if I lived in the Marvel Universe, I might feel this way, too.

For nearly a decade, Marvel citizens have lived under an almost-constant threat of annihilation. The disassembling of the Avengers and subsequent demutanting of the populace were minor blips compared to the Civil War that saw a nuclear explosion wipe out Stamford, Connecticut and a battle between superheroes that destroyed several blocks of Manhattan.

Significant chunks of New York City have also been destroyed in the Skrulls' Secret Invasion and World War Hulk, as well as Hell's Kitchen being transformed into a demonic feudal kingdom under the leadership of Daredevil. At this point, if Galactus comes down and says, "I'm going to eat your planet," the average guy must think, "Ho-hum, speaking of eating, what should I make for dinner?"For shocking twists to be shocking, for tense moments to be tense, for dire consequences to be dire, there needs to be some downtime. Otherwise, the rebirth of an ancient Norse god of fear taking control of the most powerful heroes and villains and bending them to his will with the intent of razing the planet is just another day in the Marvel Universe.

Eternal Yellow Sunshine of the Kryptonian Mind, Part Two

noreply@blogger.com (Jake) — Mon, 23 May 2011 00:44:00 +0000

Previously, Superman challenged Batman and Robin to figure out his secret identity, which necessitated his erasing his secret identity from their Batbrains with a Superbraineraser. Despite Superman's cheating and completely missing the point of his own challenge, Batman figured out he was Clark Kent in two days. This made Supes declare he could figure out Batman and Robin's alter egos in the same 48 hour time frame without using his superpowers.

So, what's his plan? To fly after Batman and Robin and learn the location of the Batcave... since apparently the ability to fly is not a "superpower" today.

But Batman is prepared for Superman's liberal interpretation of the rules.
Oh, shit! Batman don't play! This may all be in good fun, but Batman will fucking kill you, Supes!

Completely tapped for ideas, having exhausted all of one, Superman turns to Batman's playbook. The plan to find Superman's true identity kicked off with a public appearance, but the Dynamic Duo is to busy fighting murderous clowns and acid-scarred former district attorneys to waste time opening grocery stores.

But since Superman has no other fresh ideas, he stays up all night building a Batman Museum.Remember, crafting an entire building and creating and collecting enough Batman memorabilia to fill an entire museum overnight through the combined use of superspeed, superstrength, and flight are not superpowers.

While the mayor and various other Gotham officials arrange a hasty dedication ceremony and rezone the area where Superman dropped the building, the Last Son of Krypton shrinks himself down and goes to visit a bunch of other Kryptonians in Kandor. There, he borrows a Kandorian telepathic hound from a pet store.

Like bloodhounds follow scents, Kandorian telepathic hounds track their game by picking up on brainwaves. So to recap, Superman's plan is to do exactly what Batman did, only find an encephalograph that will run itself so he doesn't have to learn any technological mumbo jumbo.It's not very clear why Batman and Robin feel the need to escape their own ceremony, but considering they were able to tunnel their way out of a building that's only existed for a few hours and build a handy trapdoor to cover the exit, maybe Superman's speedy construction of the Batman Museum could be accomplished without superpowers after all.

The better strategy seems to be remaining in their superhero identities all day. If Batman and Robin remain at the ceremony, then go on patrol, and spend the evening in the Batcave defragmenting the Batcomputer's hard drive, Superman will never learn their true identities without snatching the masks off their faces. Of course, Batman has a reason for running away... to totally rub Superman's nose in his own ineptitude.Anticipating Superman's plan to boost his own plan, Batman anticipated that he should figure out a way to convert the encephalograph from a receiver to a transmitter. That's like turning your TV into a television station.

However, this scene raises so many questions. How close are Gotham City and Metropolis? I'd always assumed they were at least in different states. Looking it up, it appears that they are either on opposite sides of New York City or across Delaware Bay from one another. Either way, it's safe to assume they are at least a few miles apart. Since Kryptonian dogs gain similar superpowers to Kryptonian people when they arrive on Earth, how is it Batman and Robin are able to outrun Superman and the telepathic hound all the way back to Clark Kent's apartment? And how does Superman not recognize that the dog is leading him up his own stairs and into his own apartment until he actually opens the door? And once Superman gets shown up, why not turn it off and continue pursuit since Batman and Robin must be right around the corner?

Apparently, it's because he's plunged into a terrible super-depression.Superman gets so distracted by his inability to accept that anyone might be better at something than he is that he forgets what he's doing in the middle of a task that should take him about seven seconds and has to be reminded to stop a falling satellite from crushing a neighborhood.

Recognizing this as a genuine threat to humanity, Batman tells Robin he is concerned about Superman's mental state and tries to call the whole thing off.Superman starts to reveal that he's been visiting the Bureau of Vital Statistics because it holds a vital key to finding the Caped Crusader's secret identity, but is interrupted by a cartoonishly Hispanic man who asks "Super Hombre" to chase off the killer whales that are ruining his unnamed nation's fishing waters.

The next day, Batman and Robin find a mysterious golden dome in Metropolis. When they approach it, alarms go off. Superman steps out and explains that the alarm system is set to go off anytime anyone wearing a grey body suit with a blue cape and cowl or a red shirt with green panties and a yellow cape approaches. He escorts them inside and shows them a computer from the Bureau of Vital Statistics and explains that it's going through the 1960 Census data and will be able to determine Batman's true identity from that.

Batman and Robin have a brief sideways glance to one another and agree there's no way Superman can figure out their secret identities from census information, but Superman just laughs and warns them not to try to sabotage the computer while he's away on a top secret supermission since he will know if they come anywhere near the building... in their costumes...Unable to think of any possible way to foil a security system designed specifically to recognize the colors of their costumes, Batman and Robin have no choice but to bumrush the computer building in their civvies. The only thing missing are the "Hello, My Name is BRUCE" and "Hello, My Name is DICK" nametags. As they approach, however, they find that Superman wasn't on a secret mission at all but has been hiding inside with the computer waiting for Batman and Robin to take the bait. Presumably, in the hours that passed several banks were robbed and countless people perished and Lois Lane fell off three buildings and Jimmy Olsen drank a radioactive potion that turned him into a bunny rabbit and a handful of people grew concerned that Clark Kent had just vanished around lunchtime and never came back to the office.

Superman has a good gloat about how smart he is and how he's proven himself the equal of the world's greatest detective while Bruce and Dick "Aw, shucks" for all they're worth and curse themselves for falling into the oh-so-clever trap. But when Superman flies away to spin the Earth backwards and undo all the tragedy that's befallen mankind while he hid out waiting to surprise Batman, the Dynamic Duo breaths a sigh of relief that the contest is finally over.And thus the lesson: The only way to win with Superman is to let him beat you quickly so he stops wasting your fucking time.

Lots of love to Gregg Schigiel for the Bunny Olsen

Eternal Yellow Sunshine of the Kryptonian Mind

noreply@blogger.com (Jake) — Wed, 18 May 2011 03:49:00 +0000

My son is a terrible sport. He cheats at every game you play with him and when he can't cheat, he will announce abrupt changes to the rules. While in the midst of a pinfall while wrestling, you will be informed that you get zero points and he gets 5000 because you weren't allowed to use your arms. Footraces hinge not on the first person to arrive at a predetermined destination but on the youngest participant.

It's terribly annoying and everyone in the family has at one point or another told him, "I don't want to play with you. You are not any fun."

Of course, we can say this because my son is a six-year-old boy with the average size and strength of a six-year-old boy. Were he an alien with the strength to push the Earth out of orbit and the ability to shoot heat rays and radiation from his eyes, we'd probably change our attitudes.

A recurring theme in World's Finest stories is Superman deciding it would be fun to challenge Batman to some kind of contest or to pit himself against some other renowned figure and prove himself an equal. Unfortunately, any time Superman gets even a hint that he might lose--just like my son--he either changes the rules or pouts until he gets his way. And worse, he doesn't recognize the hollowness of the resultant victory.

Take for example World's Finest Comics #149's "The Game of Secret Identities."Clark Kent gets a scare that his secret identity might be in jeopardy, not because the investigative journalist he chooses to spend every day sitting ten feet away from has finally nailed down another irrefutable piece of evidence proving he has god-like powers, but because someone left a flier under his door. Never one to take advertising lightly, Superman puts a chicken in his Ronco Rotisserie, sets it and forgets it, and flies to Gotham City where he breaks into the Batcave.

While the flier proved to be a false alarm, Superman explains to Batman and Robin that he's worried maybe someone could see through his true identity if they tried hard enough. He wants Batman, as the world's greatest detective, to see if he can figure out his alter ego.

The only problem is that Batman and Robin already know Superman is Clark Kent... but they don't have to! Superman--passively making it clear he's already decided Bruce Wayne is going to take him up on the offer--has brought along his Selective Amnesia-Inducer.Forget for a moment that Superman has just suggested zapping the world's greatest crime-fighting mind with a alien brain-erasing laser to satisfy a curiosity raised by a snake oil advertisement found on the floor. For a moment I want to focus on the example used to illustrate a typical Selective Amnesia-Inducer's success story.

What do you expect our sad Kryptonian friend up there to do as soon as he leaves the Selective Amnesia-Induction Center? I'm guessing it won't be too long before he calls his buddy Khal-Kar to suggest they grab a few Kryptonian ales or go see the new Lyla Lerrol flick, gets into an argument with the Widow Kar, and learns that his best friend suffered a tragic death that he knew nothing about. Yes. That's a much better outcome.

Batman and Robin agree to the Kryptonian mindwipe and set about trying to learn Superman's secret identity the very next day. At a media event, they hide an encephalograph in a news van and scan Superman's brain, figuring his brainwaves will be different from those of a human. But they get no reading whatsoever.Bear in mind that Superman's excuse for the potential riskof lobotomizing one of his best friends and one of history's greatest crimefighters was that he wanted to know if he might be tipping his hand and risking his secret identity. To learn what he claimed he wanted to know, he needed to continue on with his normal life and allow Batman and Robin free reign to discover his identity.

Instead, he's decided to make it a game of Show Up Batman! All he's proving is that if Lex Luthor loudly declares, "I am going to figure out Superman's secret identity through intense scrutiny and advanced technology," Superman has a few tricks up his sleeve. But unless he intends to allow his Superman Robots to take over all his superheroic duties moving forward, the entire exercise is pointless.

Batman, however, is nothing if not resourceful. He trails the Superman Robot back to the Fortress of Solitude and manages to break in only to find that Superman, who'd been hiding out there until the robot warned him Batman was coming, had removed all evidence that revealed his secret identity.What should be a lesson of "Don't keep wax figures of yourself in your civilian identity on a display that reads 'Clark Kent is Superman' in your publicly known hideout" instead becomes a "Fuck you, Batman" and a pat on the back for being sooooo clever.

That's when Batman pulls a little "Fuck you" of his own. He deactivates all the Superman Robots before leaving the Fortress of Solitude, forcing Superman to make an actual appearance at another media event the next day. There, Batman finally gets the unique brainwave scan he wanted and is able to track Superman back to an apartment building in Metropolis.Superman--again, knowing someone is trying to expose his secret identity through encephalographic means--alters his brainwaves, preventing Batman and Robin from getting absolute proof of his secret identity. So, Batman presses forward with the pointless exercise and invites the four men to a place where he can hook the up to the encephalograph and monitor their brainwaves while they watch a slide show of Batman and Superman's varied adventures.Is the encephalograph really necessary at this point? Superman must be one of these four men, but which one? The jug-eared horseface, the one with the mustache, the bald one, or the one who looks exactly like Superman wearing glasses and a business suit?

Despite the answer being pretty obvious, Batman goes ahead with the experiment and while Superman masks his brainwave patterns for a while, his interest in hearing Batman say nice things about him during the slideshow overwhelms his cautiousness and exposes him.

Having been found out within 48 hours despite not really playing fairly, Superman listens to his wounded ego and declares he can learn Batman and Robin's true identities without using his superpowers. His plan? To use superpowers, of course... but that'll have to wait for Part Two...

Guilty of Being a Dumbshit Redneck

noreply@blogger.com (Jake) — Thu, 30 Dec 2010 02:08:00 +0000

His words carried so much desperation in them. I don't know that I've ever heard anyone so pushed beyond the limits his mind could endure. Everyone turned to hear his scream across the mixed first-through-third grade classroom, and every heart dropped into the listener's stomach.

"Jason!" Adam shrieked insanely. "I'm gonna take you to The People's Court!"

It's really impossible for someone watching TV today to understand the impact "The People's Court" had when it debuted back in 1981. Before there were 200 channels all filling airtime with cheap-to-produce reality shows where the participants know the best way to get facetime is by being obnoxious, Judge Wapner's daily trials were a chance to see something unique. Real people would come on the TV and talk about their problems and disputes, and it was fascinating.

Unfortunately, Judge Wapner's court wasn't an actual court and while he tried to follow legal precedent as best he could, the more important thing--as is always the case in reality TV--was to make sure it felt like the story got told and had a nice resolution. And the success of "The People's Court" led to a bevy of imitators, each more loose with the definition of "justice" than the next. Turn on the TV between 8AM and 5PM anywhere in America and you can find at least one asshole in a judge's robe talking down to someone.

Courtroom shows are about as much about court proceedings as reality TV shows are about reality, but that doesn't mean they don't color the perceptions of a large number of Americans... especially of the dumbshit redneck variety.

Laws are written to make clear what is and is not legal. Laws are not subject to opinion. In fact, there are many, many legal things that might offend some people. Breastfeeding mothers, swear words, gay pride parades and more are all perfectly legal despite the capacity to offend.

But the dumbshit redneck is likely to confuse "offense" and legality. He wants Judge Judy to step in and scream at the gun control protester who stands outside an NRA rally reminding everyone how much more likely you are to shoot a family member than a burglar if you own a gun. "Sit down, you idiot!" the legal maven would howl. "Second Amendment and Jesus and the bible!"

Fortunately, the real law works differently, but it doesn't stop dumbshit rednecks from assuming a trip to court will be like a visit to Judge Joe Brown (though hopefully without any black guys if they have their druthers).

Visit Wewahitchka and try to discuss legal issues and you'll be amazed at the justifications you'll hear for crimes. Wives are asking for a smack. Black guys should know better than to date white girls. You can't kidnap a child if your his mother--the court knows no mom is going to leave her child.

I've spoken here before about Byron, a dumbshit redneck who accused me of slander for posing the question on Twitter of how many times I would have to tweet that he was a pedophile before it would be the top Google item if you searched his name. I calmly explained that he was technically accusing me of libel and not slander--and that the statement wasn't libelous for a number of reasons--but he insisted, "I work in the law, son! I know what slander is!" Sadly, being a correctional officer who hits meth heads with a stick for a living and doesn't even know the dictionary definition of "slander" doesn't carry much weight in a courtroom.

Byron's problem was that he knew what he thought was right. He felt I should not be able to make a joke implying that he was a pedophile, and anyone can understand how that could upset him. But that offense alone doesn't make it illegal to make the joke. There are many factors to consider including the fact that I was posing a question about Google's ranking of search items, that I was speaking to a small audience, and that I didn't actually say he was a pedophile.

Had I flat out said he was--which I didn't--he might have had a case, because I wouldn't have had any source to indicate it was true. On the other hand, if I had a source and sited it, I could safely make a statement such as:

When my ex went back to visit Wewahitchka earlier this month, Byron was very upset that she wouldn't have sex with him. He'd been under the impression they were going to have sex, but she told him she wouldn't as long as he was still married. So, Byron has turned his attention to another woman to cheat on his wife with, though my ex wouldn't tell me her name.

In this case, because I am relating the information given to me by a reliable source, I am in no danger of committing libel. Of course, Byron might find this statement upsetting, but there is nothing illegal about making it.

Date Rape PSAs Ruined My Sex Life

noreply@blogger.com (Jake) — Mon, 22 Nov 2010 08:51:00 +0000

The world is not a perfect place and according to all the research I've done in thirty-some years, it appears it will not become one any time in the foreseeable future. At last count, there were approximately 647 million things to worry about and the number was rising. Yet with so many variables, large numbers of Americans amazingly manage to all start worrying about the same thing at the same time, feeding off one another's worry.

In the early 90's, the media and certain feminist organizations became aware of date rape as if it had just been invented and needed to be stopped before it could spread, rather than addressing it rationally. The movement was big enough that it got its own We Are the World/Farm Aid/Self-Destruction-esque song featuring all the biggest female rappers in the industry, including Queen Latifah, Salt 'n Pepa... um... MC Lyte? J.J. Fad? Blondie? I don't know. Their song, "No Means No," made clear that no means no by repeating several hundred times, "No means no, my brutha. Are you deaf in your ears, sucka?"

The initial focus of the date rape awareness campaign was on guys who literally overpowered girls in the backseats of cars or who found a passed out coed at a frat party and took advantage of her unconscious state. Assholes, certainly, but also a very small percentage of the population.

In an effort to inflate the danger of date rape, the definition expanded. Guys who got a girl drunk just to lower her inhibitions were also date rapists. A guy who made a girl feel guilty about how much money he spent on dinner and that he should get something in return was a date rapist. And once that door was opened, nearly any sex could fall into the category of date rape.

When I was in ninth grade, I remember a PSA about date rape that showed a guy feeling guilty while voices from the previous night played in his head. What we got was that some girl had gotten drunk and they started making out, but when he made a move to have sex, she changed her mind. Then the ad went on to indicate that if a girl is drunk, it's up to the guy to be aware of the fact and get express written consent before proceeding with sex. Date rape became redefined as any sex with a girl under the influence of drugs or alcohol. Then, in further discussions on talk shows and in the news, it expanded again to include "even if she said yes," and a window of three days was tacked on.

At the time, this struck me as completely illogical and absolutely terrifying. If a girl is drunk and says, "Hey, Jake, let's do it," it's up to me, even if I'm drunk too, to judge whether she would consent to sex with me in a sober state or not and act accordingly. Then if I decide to have sex with her, she has three days to debate whether or not she really wanted to have sex with me, and if she decides she probably didn't, she is within her rights to report me to the police. Why, I wondered, didn't the same rules apply to driving a car? If I'm drunk and I decide to drive home and get into an accident, I should have three days to decide whether or not I meant to drive home, and if I conclude that I didn't mean to, any DUI charges should be dropped. After all, just like the drunk girl is in no position to decide whether she wants to have sex, a drunk driver is in no position to decide whether he should be behind the wheel of a car.

At the time, anyone foolish enough to suggest that sometimes "no" really does mean "yes," was labeled the worst kind of misogynist and a possible rapist, even though it's often true.
The fact that this movement peaked in power during my puberty had a major impact on my sexual attitudes. In short, whenever I get intimate with a woman, I act entirely out of fear of possibly being arrested for rape within three days. I rarely make a move without getting a clear signal--something along the lines of an air traffic controller's confirmation of approval to land. A simple "Hey, why don't you come inside? You know what, I'm kind of tired. I think I'm going to put on my nightie," isn't enough. What if she's really tired? I should probably leave so she can get some sleep. During sex, I regularly ask, "What do you want me to do? What do you like?" not only because sex is best if partners communicate, but because I want a verbal commitment that, yes, your honor, she wanted me to put my finger in there.

In fact, in my senior year of high school, I was nearly accused of date rape. Toward the end of the school year, I'd been flirting with a junior girl. She was taking some AP tests and preparing a student counsel campaign speech and a few other things and the stress was getting to her. "If you need to relieve some stress," I said in the most seductive way I could at 18 years old, "give me a call."

Sure enough, the next night my phone rang. Her frazzled voice on the other end said, "I think I need to relieve some stress." Without any questions, I drove over to her house, picked her up, and we went for a drive.

We stopped at a park near her house and talked for a little over an hour. Well, she talked about all the pressure she was under, particularly from her mother, and I listened patiently. Once she got everything off her chest, we got back in my minivan to find a place to park and have sex.

We started making out and I got off her bra, but she laid there, stiff as a board. I tried to relax her, but nothing was working. "Are you sure you want to do this?" I asked.

"No," she answered, "I'm not sure."

"Look, I'm not going to do anything unless you're sure," I told her.

She thought for a moment, then asked me to take her home, which I did.

Later, I walked in the door and had a phone call within minutes. It was a mutual friend between the girl and myself. "What the hell happened?" she asked.

"What do you mean?"

"[The girl] says you tried to rape her."

"What the fuck?"

"She said you had her in the back of your van and you took off her bra and she didn't want to do anything but you kept pushing her and she was afraid she was going to get raped."

Fortunately, our mutual friend had the sense to point out to her that rape is a lot different from when you tell a guy you specifically want to have sex with him and as soon as you say you changed your mind he stops without any argument, but the point is that the climate at the time taught her that any sexual situation that makes you the least bit uncomfortable is not your fault and, in fact, that you are a victim of a crime because of it.

Sadly, I am not an isolated case. Looking at many of my friends, I get the impression they are subconsciously in the same boat. A generation of thoughtful, self-aware men was raised to believe that sex is a crime more often than not and that we should fear the consequences of it. For some this means a complete avoidance of sex. For others it meant marrying the first person who would have sex with them and being miserable. For still others it means a series of partners, none of which can develop into anything truly meaningful because it seems impossible that sex can be consensual.

Worst of all this is that five years later, there was a backlash against this mentality. High school girls embraced their sexuality and, where I'd had to feel guilty about under-the-shirt-over-the-bra action at their age, other 17-year-olds were having so many threesomes, they would actually express boredom with them.

So, to Blossom and Dwayne Wayne and Kelly on "90210" and even Sam from "Quantum Leap," I say, "Screw you."

I mean, if you want to. If not, I can just go home and masturbate.

Powers Lost, Powers Gained

noreply@blogger.com (Jake) — Sat, 30 Oct 2010 08:42:00 +0000

In my last post, I noted that Superman considered the story of World's Finest #87 to be the "strangest adventure" he'd ever had with Batman and Robin. After all, it's not every day that Superman loses his powers or some other hero close to him gains superpowers.

No, maybe not every day, but it is close...

It should also be noted that these examples are only taken from issues of World's Finest Comics collected in the first two Showcase trades, a span of 75 issues from #71-145. There are many more stories of this type that take place before and after and in Superman or Action Comics.

Also, to qualify, an example had to be taken from a story where Superman losing his powers was a central part of the plot. Scenes where a thug tosses a chunk of kryptonite and knocks out Superman for two panels were unacceptable.

Powerless... Except for Super-Pouting

noreply@blogger.com (Jake) — Tue, 26 Oct 2010 07:04:00 +0000

Two of the most common plots for Superman stories of the Silver Age were "Superman loses his powers" and "Someone else gets Superman-like powers." So when Superman introduces the story of "The Reversed Heroes" in World's Finest Comics #87 as "the strangest adventure Batman, Robin, and I ever had," you can't help but expect a little more than a story where Superman loses his powers and Batman gets them...

... especially since that was the exact plot of "The Super Bat-Man" from World's Finest Comics #77 published less than a year before.

That's not to say "The Reversed Superheroes" didn't offer a unique take on the trope. What sets it apart from all the other times that Superman loses his superpowers is that instead of focusing on how he could save the day despite his disadvantage, Supes decided to get all emo and cry about how much he missed his powers.

When the report of a superpowered bad guy robbing a Metropolis bank comes into the Daily Planet, Clark Kent suspects someone is faking. But when the thief rips the vault out of the ground and flies away with it, Superman has to accept that it's real. He followed the criminal back to his hideout, where he learns the man's story.

Forget how he got his powers. Perhaps my favorite part of this story is the bad guy's awesome supervillain name: Elton Craig! How much to you want to bet Bill Finger had a neighbor named Craig Elton who kept throwing away his garbage in Finger's trash cans or left his Christmas lights up into April and this was the writer's tiny slice of revenge?

Years earlier, Elton Craig devised a series of crimes he wanted to pull off, but realized he'd need kryptonite to remove Superman from the picture. So he got a job as an astronomer so he could find every meteorite that fell to the Earth and go see if it was kryptonite. One day, however, he found not only the kryptonite he needed, but something even better.
The box is full of pills that Jor-El invented on Krypton, knowing that when he and his family arrived on Earth, they would have superpowers, which they could lose and would, therefore, need to replace--obviously--via magical pills. Unfortunately, in all the chaos of Krypton blowing up, he forgot to toss the box into baby Kal-El's rocket ship.

With the kryptonite on the box keeping Superman immobilized and powerless, Elton Craig flies away, leaving the pills that give him superpowers on the table. I guess since he didn't have any pockets in his Elton Craig supersuit, he didn't have much choice.

Powerless due to the kryptonite, Superman, who is powerless due to the kryptonite, uses his heat vision to melt through a water pipe in the ceiling and create a gushing leak that washes all the kryptonite off the box... and presumably into a puddle on the floor where he is lying. Our hero leaps to his feet and pops one of his dad's super restorative super pills, but that only makes things worse.Thanks to some accidentally ingested kryptonite, we get some insight into Superman's absolute cluelessness as to how to live life without superpowers. Seconds after nearly breaking his arm and face trying to fly out the window, Superman realizes he needs the help of Batman and Robin. How will he summon them? By flying out the window, of cour--oh, wait...
While he waits for Batman and Robin to make the drive up from Gotham City to the hovel outside town where he's squatting, Superman passes the time by struggling to pick up heavy stuff and hurting himself.
Yes, Superman, that's why we normals don't go jamming pins into our fingers. Is this supposed to indicate that Superman normally passes time by poking himself with sharp objects and never realized that was out of the ordinary? Or is he trying to cope with the pain of losing his precious superpowers by cutting himself, but Elton Craig hasn't bothered to have any knives or razors around?

When Batman and Robin arrive, they pop Jor-El's pills and taunt Superman with a rousing game of "flying catch the vault Elton Craig stole earlier." Superman reminds them that a supervillain is terrorizing Metropolis, so they take off after Elton Craig, dragging Superman between them.
Superman is essentially Marvin the Paranoid Android at this point. "Woe is me. I can't fly... and I won't be able to fly for hours. However shall I cope?"

And why did Batman and Robin bother to bring him along? Is it to help identify Elton Craig? Because I'm thinking if you see a supervillain tearing apart Metropolis, it's a safe bet he's Elton Craig. And even if he's not, you should probably stop him anyway.

In fact, when they find Elton Craig robbing a jewelry store, Batman and Robin have to drop Superman safely outside the danger zone lest he be hurt. Of course, when they're distracted by a falling monument and have to let Elton Craig get away, Superman leaps into action with about as much success as you'd expect.
Then Superman becomes Lois Lane to Batman and Robin's Superman, stupidly stumbling into trouble and helping supervillains to get away by serving as a distraction.
After the Dynamic Duo save Superman at the expense of losing Elton Craig, they all agree the best course of action is to find the bad guy's new hideout. However, just as they are about to undertake this mission, a thunderstorm rolls in and lightning strikes the zoo, simultaneously releasing all the animals in a massive stampede. Since only superpowered Batman and Robin can handle that problem, Superman has to find the secret lair of Elton Craig on his own.
What the...? Seriously? Superman, have you ever noticed how Batman drives around in a Batmobile? He doesn't just run all over Gotham City. Furthermore, you have no idea where Elton Craig's hideout is. You just accepted the responsibility for finding it and took off in whatever direction you were facing like Forrest Gump, hoping maybe you'd trip over it.

Meanwhile, Batman and Robin get addicted to the thrill of superpowers.
While they feed themselves to wild animals and court lightning strikes to their chests, Superman finds Elton Craig's hideout and decides to explore it on his own.

And that works about as well as you'd expect.Yeah, I'm not sure "I'll give him a juke move" is the best strategy against someone with superspeed.

Then Elton Craig shoots him.

But, of course, while Superman may be powerless, his costume is still invulnerable and stops the bullet, just in time for Elton Craig's powers to wear off and Superman's to return.

EDIT: I just realized that this story is actually a precursor to another issue of World's Finest that I reviewed two years ago. At the time, however, I didn't find the name "Elton Craig" as amusing, probably because he was just a crook named Elton Craig and wasn't using it as a superhero name.

Tripping Backwards in High Heels

noreply@blogger.com (Jake) — Mon, 25 Oct 2010 20:04:00 +0000

At intermission of Backwards in High Heels, I struggled to recall how long it had been since I'd seen anything quite as terrible on stage. The show's script should be taught in writing classes as an prime example of what not to do. I worked backstage on the show for three weeks and even during the closing performance, I was still discovering new problems that had slipped past my radar the first 24 times.

Credit where it's due, the talent of the cast deserves some recognition for keeping the audience from walking out at intermission. That it took me days to recognize so many of the flaws in the script is a testament to the actors' ability to bury some of the show's worst aspects beneath a layer of quality singing and dancing.

The play's script manages to miss the mark so thoroughly and so often that it's difficult to decide where to begin the dissection. It says a lot that the biggest laugh of the night is for the recorded announcement asking people to turn off their cellphones and "if you're going to eat any hard candy, please unwrap it now." From poor use of music to lazy research to expository writing to scenes that defy description, there is not a single redeemable aspect of this script. The only enjoyment audience members will have is if they manage to completely ignore the dialogue and plot and treat it like a revue of old Astaire and Rogers numbers--and that's what the play's producers should have set out to create in the first place.

The essence of drama is conflict, and Backwards in High Heels has none. We know who Ginger Rogers is, so there is no question whether she'll make it to the top. Instead, we anticipate the hurdles she'll have to clear along the way, but there aren't any. Whatever problems arise are all dealt with in a matter of minutes without any real tension. When Ginger marries a drunk against her mother's wishes and watches her career suffer for it, she leaves him two minutes later and returns home, where her mother has a script for the Broadway play "Girl Crazy" waiting for her. When her contract is up at RKO Pictures, it takes all of twenty seconds and the threat that she'll go talk to Fox or Paramount before she gets everything that she requested without any further negotiation.

Interpersonal conflict is all handled in "tell-don't-show" style. When Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers are first paired, it's clear she doesn't like him, but we don't know why. Finally, she says something about "that night in the backseat of your Studebaker." Wait, Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers worked together on the vaudeville circuit? And they dated? Why didn't we see that? Given that the play is also telling (and not showing) us that Ginger's mom was overbearing and made it difficult for any man to date her, how did she wind up in the backseat of Fred Astaire's car?

The tension between Ginger and her mother is supposed to be the heart of the show, but it never really works since the writer refuses to ever put either character in the wrong. They butt heads over issues--Mom is too overbearing because she doesn't want her 17 year old daughter dating an old drunk chorus dancer, yet Ginger dates and marries him, as well as four other guys, without Mom getting in the way; Ginger doesn't listen when her mother tells her to keep making movies with Fred Astaire and not to do Kitty Foyle, but Ginger does and wins a Best Actress Oscar for it--but there is never a sense that a rift has formed between the two.

There are moments where Ginger's mother is nitpicky about Ginger--for example--missing a turn during a dance number, but where the scene is supposed to make Lela Rogers come off as cold and calculating, instead we know that she tried to talk Ginger out of pursuing a career in show business, warned her about how difficult it would be to succeed, and ultimately relented to her pestering daughter's wishes. So her "There is no second place in show business. You either win or you're out of the game," comes off less as an impersonal disappointment than it does as a legitimate reminder to an impetuous teenager who expects to take Broadway and Hollywood by storm.

At intermission, the elderly woman beside me--who was from Dallas and grew up her whole life loving Ginger Rogers because she was from Fort Worth--asked what I thought so far and I reluctantly told her it was "the worst thing I've seen in years." She dismissed my review because I didn't "know the music." "I know all these songs. I can sing them all," she told me. I had to explain that I knew all the songs because they were all clichés. Who has grown up in America and never heard "Let's Call the Whole Thing Off," or "Baby Face," or "I've Got Rhythm"? When a lazy director wants to establish "It's the 1930's" in a movie, TV show, or play, he plugs in a scratchy, monotone version of "We're in the Money" and moves forward.

However, while I might be familiar with the songs, they do not transport me back to my childhood and remind me of a time that I didn't have to hobble around on a walker while wearing an adult diaper and find ways to fill my afternoons by being bussed to terrible matinées while I awaited the inevitable release of death. And that is the the essence of the greatest failure of Backwards in High Heels. Producers are relying on audiences to have such inherent interest in Ginger Rogers and old-timey songs that they'll overlook the convoluted story.

In fact, I felt the music was another stumbling block. Musicals that rely on non-original music are handcuffed by having to shoehorn the narrative of the song into the narrative of the story. This is why the writers of Across the Universe, the musical based on Beatles songs, had to name their characters Jude, Lucy, Maxwell, Prudence, and Jo-Jo and were desperately looking from the start for a place to fit in a lovely metermaid.

(On a side note, I was shocked to find that there is no one in Mamma Mia! named Fernando.)

Backwards in High Heels makes no attempt to have the songs connect with the plot. It's like a musical for dogs. Don't listen to what the actors are singing, just how they sing it.

The opening number, "Fascinating Rhythm," has Ginger Rogers declaring "Oh, how I long to be the girl I used to be!" despite the fact that the entire show is about how much she doesn't want to be that girl and wants to always be growing as a dancer, singer, and actress, expanding her stardom. During the scene where she needs to negotiate a new contract with RKO Pictures, the writers opted to have a janitor outside her dressing room sing "Face the Music." Why? Because they thought if would set a mood of tension with the opening line of "There may be trouble ahead..." Please overlook the fact that the rest of the song is about enjoying moonlight and romance and dancing.

But the worst use of any song is in what is also the most baffling scene of all. A flashback explaining why Ginger Rogers didn't know her father is done in the style of a silent film--although the characters talk and sing--with her father portrayed as a mustache-twirling villain who kidnaps infant Ginger out of her cradle while singing "Babyface." It's clear that the writers gave no more thought to the scene than saying, "There's a baby. This song has 'baby' in the title. Go with it."

The so-called biography also plays loose with facts and timelines. I understand that "based on a true story" stories always are heavier on the "based" than the "true," but in this case, it seems like the writer just took as many "underdog defies the odds" tropes as he could and molded Ginger's life around them instead of using the biography as his starting point. After all, Ginger was offered a movie contract when she was six years old, so it's hard to think of her as an underdog defying the odds.

For example, when Ginger Rogers made her Broadway debut in "Girl Crazy," she wasn't a chorus girl, but had a starring role. She also had already made movies at that point, including one with Ethel Merman, who was also an up-and-coming star at the time, so why write the scene to make Ginger a virtual unknown who would be intimidated and starstruck by meeting Merman for the first time?

In real life, when Ginger married Jack Pepper, he was 26 years old; in the play, he is repeatedly referred to as "an old drunk." In real life, the couple were married for just over two years and had an act on vaudeville; in the play, they are married for a few weeks before she leaves him because of his excessive drinking and womanizing and the negative impact having to care for a house is having on her career. In real life, the couple remained cordial, never said a bad thing about one another, and Pepper continued to work regularly for the next 40 years, often with Bob Hope; in the play, Ginger leaves him and we are left to assume he drank himself out of show business within a week.

Bear in mind that everything I've described above is based on five minutes of free time and the combined resources of Wikipedia and IMDB. That implies that the writer of Ginger Rogers's biographical musical spent less time and effort than that. Moreso, it implies that the writer was more interested in having a "Ginger holds her own against a major star and proves she's as talented as anyone" scene and a "Ginger nearly throws away her entire career on a stupid mistake" scene than in telling the true story of her life.

I understand that I am being hypercritical, but as a writer I found it particularly grueling, realizing that the books I write for ten year olds about superheroes are more closely scrutinized than this play. My editor wouldn't hesitate to point out that a character who enters then two minutes later calls out another character for being "a half hour late" was, himself, twenty-eight minutes late. The scene on the set of Kitty Foyle has Ginger Rogers exasperatedly telling lighting technicians that they've done their job wrong, rewriting the script, and explaining to a costumer that she can't wear a fur coat to play a poor shopgirl. My editor would probably point out that the scene implies that everyone in Hollywood other than Ginger Rogers is an idiot who doesn't know how to do his job. And her Oscar acceptance speech would never get past a first draft.

I assumed that her Oscar acceptance speech, which ends the show and brings the entire story full circle by repeating several lines from the play's introduction, was a transcript of her actual 1941 speech. It rambles and stutters and stops, and I got the impression that possibly Rogers, knowing that she was at best the fourth horse in a three-horse race between Katharine Hepburn, Bette Davis, and Joan Fontaine, didn't bother to prepare a speech and was caught flat-footed when she actually won. While I haven't been able to find a transcript online, someone on the show who'd seen the archival footage informed me that no, the speech is entirely the work of the playwright.

Overall, the script to Backwards in High Heels feels like it was rushed into production to beat another Ginger Rogers musical to the box office, which apparently it was. Around the same time, Ginger and Me was also being worked on. Considering the only traces of it on the internet any more are two articles from a Cape Cod news website, it's safe to say Backwards in High Heels won the race.

But it's hard to consider this a victory.

Bumper Stickers in Defense of Juan Williams

noreply@blogger.com (Jake) — Fri, 22 Oct 2010 08:19:00 +0000

I don't get bumper stickers.

When you put a bumper sticker on your car, more than 99% of the people who see it will have no idea who you are and never will learn anything about who you are. The only impression you will make on their lives--unless you've cut them off in traffic--is the pithy message you've slapped to your vehicle with a permanent adhesive.

With that in mind, is it preferable to be an anonymous teal sedan or the guy who thinks "Pobody's Nerfect" is poignant enough that it should be broadcast to everyone who comes within 100 feet?

A bumper sticker answers the question, "If you only had seven seconds to let someone know everything they need to know about you, what would you say?" And for the majority of the population that is either "I root for a particular football team," "My child got some form of recognition at school," or "I voted for someone for president in 2008 or 2004." To each and everyone of these messages--and any others--I say, "Who cares?" And that's coming from someone who has an old school Tampa Bay Buccaneers logo tattoo on his shoulder blade.

Given the vast number of bumper stickers I see while driving around every day, I have to assume most people don't think of them the way I do. I can't imagine that if you were introduced to someone at a party, you would shout "Florida Gators National Champions 2006!" or "You can't hug children with nuclear arms!" then walk away, yet that's essentially what a bumper sticker does to everyone behind you on the road.

The fact is that most of us don't consider the image that we project to the rest of society. We wear what we want, we act how we want, and if others have a problem with it, we get indignant.

Yesterday, NPR fired news analyst Juan Williams over comments he made while on "The O'Reilly Factor." Williams admitted to host Bill O'Reilly that when he sees Muslims getting on a flight, he gets nervous.
The notable part of Williams's statement, which is being largely ignored in discussion of the incident, was that his nervousness was because the people in question "are identifying themselves first and foremost as Muslims."

He went on to add that he knew it wasn't fair, just as it would be unfair to be nervous every time you see a Christian near a Federal building because of Timothy McVeigh. However, this is not a fair comparison. McVeigh did not wear his Christianity on his sleeve, nor did he blow up the building in question because of his Christian beliefs (or a twisted version of Christian dogma).

Rather, McVeigh was identified with the militia movement, and it's likely that were Juan Williams to get on a plane with a bunch of backwoods rednecks from Montana all sporting homemade military uniforms, he would be even more nervous than he'd be about a family in "Muslim garb."

Like the bumper sticker, wearing a hajib or a burqa or having a long beard sends an immediate message to others, including the 99% who will never get to know anything more about you than "I am a Muslim!" It doesn't matter who you really are. You have chosen to reduce yourself to a stereotype in the eyes of most people.

This image problem is certainly not limited to Muslims. When I was 16, I was thrown across the hood of a police car and had a gun held to the back of my head while the officers explained how easily accidental shootings can happen. My crime? Wearing a Public Enemy T-shirt. It didn't matter that I was an honor student or that I'd never seen a real gun, much less fired one.

If I see someone wearing one of those Christian T-shirts made to look like a familiar corporate logo, I go out of my way to avoid any conversation with him. When the person on the plane next to me is reading People, Us, or any other celebrity gossip magazine, I assume she is stupid and has no grasp on weighty issues. If 90% of someone's Facebook status updates involve the phrase "Roll Tide!" I feel secure knowing that if he gets hit by a truck, the world isn't any worse off.

But dorky Christian campers, "Entertainment Tonight" junkies, and Alabama football fans don't have a history of blowing up airplanes in the name of Sixpence None the Richer, "Dancing with the Stars" behind the scenes footage, or Bear Bryant, even at their most extreme. With the exception of D.B. Cooper, how many plane hijackings can you think of that weren't executed by Muslim extremists?

Every time we go to an airport, we have to deal with some new inconvenience that make the long wait at security that much longer, and while we stand there, laptop out, shoes off, belt in a dog bowl, only to be told we need additional screening because we didn't realize our new glasses have metal frames instead of polycarbonite, we all know we're enduring all of this for one reason only.

And it's not Alabama football fans.

Islam is a religion of peace with over a billion followers who'll never hurt anyone in their lifetimes with anything stronger than harsh words. However, there are also thousands who are determined to bring death and destruction to any who oppose their radical misinterpretation of the Koran. And nearly all the security measures that are in our faces from the time we get within a half mile of the airport until we open our luggage at our destination to find a slip from the TSA informing us our bag was hand inspected at random are in place because those thousands exist.

With that in mind, it's nearly impossible to believe someone seeing a group in "Muslim garb" wouldn't have a nervous reaction. If for the half hour leading up to a circus trip everywhere you looked were reminders of John Wayne Gacy, what reaction would you expect when the clowns made their appearance?

Sarah Palin rushed to Juan Williams's defense using a misinterpretation of the First Amendment that is calculated and obvious at this point, claiming that Williams's right to free speech is being violated by his firing. As Palin well knows by now--but ignores purposely to rile up ignorant supporters--the First Amendment protects free speech from government crackdown, but not from private, individual repercussions. The First Amendment protects your right to go into your boss's office and call him a fat jerk, but it doesn't protect your job.

And in that way, Juan Williams and the Muslims he sees at an airport are victims of their own making.

From the girl who wears skimpy outfits and gets upset that people think she's a slut to the guy who dyes his hair purple, shaves it into a mohawk, and can't figure out why everyone stares, we all choose what image we want to project to the world. We can try to blend in and remain inconspicuous, or we can hang a neon sign flashing "LOOK AT ME!" over our heads. But while we have the right to project whatever image we want, be it "so-called liberal news analyst who exploits his association with National Public Radio to earn credibility with Fox News audiences" or "devout Muslim who wears authentic hajib clothing in accordance with the teaching of Allah," we don't have the right to dictate how those images will be interpreted by others.

All For One

noreply@blogger.com (Jake) — Sat, 16 Oct 2010 11:23:00 +0000

If the limits of your knowledge of the story of the Man in the Iron Mask end with Leonardo DiCaprio and Gérard Depardieu, you might be surprised to learn that Alexandre Dumas's fictional story is based on the true legend of a mysterious French prisoner whose identity remained unknown even after his death. Historians have several theories as to who the man may have been, ranging from a traitorous general to an Italian diplomat to the illegitimate half-brother to King Louis XIV.

But those historians can have all the theories they want. Dr. Carter Nichols has something better:

Batman, Superman, Robin, and a time machine!

Really, given this possibility, why are there any mysteries left in the universe? What became of the lost colony of Roanoke? What happened to Amelia Earhart? Was the universe birthed of a big bang or did God say, "Let there be light" and will it into being? What prompted single-celled organisms to evolve into multi-celled ones? Who better to figure out such things than the world's greatest detective, his acrobatic teenage sidekick, and an invincible, superpowered alien with jouralism training?

Technically, Clark is right that Dr. Nichols has sent Batman and Robin into the past before--in fact, just three issues before this, he sent them to Baghdad in 955 A.D. where they met Ali Baba and Aladdin. However, Nichols had no idea that's what he was doing.

As far as he was concerned, Dr. Nichols sent Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson a thousand years into the past. Now, as brilliant as the plan of sending Batman and Robin hurtling backward in time might be, the idea of sending a millionaire playboy and the teenager who lives with him is equally insipid. That would be like ignoring a team of astronauts and sending Paris Hilton and Justin Beiber to explore Mars.

Dr. Nichols adds Clark Kent to the mission--because "Paris Hilton, Justin Beiber, and Anderson Cooper: Mars Explorers" makes so much more sense--and sends the trio back to 1696, where they immediately cross paths with the Three Musketeers and D'Artagnan.
What's most interesting about Batman and Superman's insistence that they be sent back in time as their alter egos, is that they shed those alter egos almost immediately upon arrival. The purpose Batman's cowl is twofold. First, it protects his identity, and, second, it strikes fear into the hearts of the cowardly and superstitious criminals of Gotham City who wonder whether he might be some kind of supernatural half-man, half-bat. But by putting it on in 17th century France, it undermines both purposes.

First, by venturing into the past as Bruce Wayne, then interacting with historical figures such as Charles de Batz-Castelmore d'Artagnan and King Louis XIV as Batman, a suspicious coincidence arises. It's difficult enough to explain why it is that Bruce Wayne always disappears whenever Batman shows up in 1955 Gotham City, but at least they both live there and have a reason to be there. How are they supposed to explain that Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, and Clark Kent all just happened to disappear around the same time that Batman, Robin, and Superman broke through a temporal barrier in the exact same time and place?
Second, as quickly as he dons his trusty tights and cowl, Batman then takes on the persona of Armand d'Athos, putting a wide-brimmed musketeer hat that covers his bat ears and kills any chance of anyone mistaking him for a human-bat hybrid.

Meanwhile, Superman poses as Porthos and the three storm the castle of Pignerol where the Man in the Iron Mask is being held.
But when the rescue operation goes sour, Superman reminds us, it wasn't a rescue operation in the first place.
The prisoner is taken to the Bastille and Superman follows to protect him while Batman and Robin run to get the king, who... is supposed to care for some reason or other...

Unfortunately, Batman chooses the event of meeting the King of France as an opportune moment to lose the musketeer outfit, and King Louis reacts as one might when seeing two masked men leap onto your tenth story balcony--one of whom might be an ungodly bat-man genetic amalgam--by charging at them, sword drawn.
So while Batman undresses, shaves, and impersonates Le Roi Soleil, who he, in turn, dresses up in his Batman costume, word gets to the Bastille that the king is coming. This prompts an execution order since if the king finds out about the Man in the Iron Mask... he'll... care for some reason or other...

Superman, not content to let Batman have all the stripping and impersonating fun, protects the prisoner the best way he can.
When the king arrives, it's revealed that the Man in the Iron Mask was innocent and was framed for crimes committed by the jailer who was trying to kill him... though no evidence is really presented and no explanation for why he was convicted in the first place is given. Instead, King Louis accepts the word of Batman, who he initially thought was an assassin until he was knocked unconscious then woke up wearing tights and a satin bat mask inside a prison.
But that's to be expected. He had Superman there to back him up, and they are the two most respected superheroes in the world... or at least will be 250 years later!

Tripping Backwards in High Heels: Prelude

noreply@blogger.com (Jake) — Thu, 07 Oct 2010 08:40:00 +0000

I am working on a truly terrible musical. While the cast does the best it can, the script is awful on so many levels that despite writing several thousand words about it, I still have examples of idiotic misuses of songs or stupid statements that come up with every rehearsal or performance. Until I decide to publish the full review, I'll plug in a few of these "bits that don't fit."

The climax of the play takes place when Ginger Rogers finally gets her chance to take on a serious dramatic role in Kitty Foyle, for which she wins a Best Actress Oscar. I assumed the speech she delivers is based on an transcript of her actual acceptance speech, but I can't find any record of that online. Either way, it features one of the stupidest things an actress accepting an award for acting could ever say, whether the scriptwriter or Rogers herself is to blame.

The play makes a point of people--and especially her mother--being shocked that Ginger Rogers would take on the role of a mother, because she doesn't have kids. Better to stick to playing a woman who dances with Fred Astaire since apparently in 1940 actresses didn't understand the concept of "pretending." Sad news for that guy who Bette Davis gunned down in the opening scene of The Letter (for which she was also nominated for the 1940 Best Actress Oscar).

When Rogers wins the Oscar, she says, "I don't have any children, so I can't imagine how a mother would feel."

Really? So you want to tell the people who just rewarded you for your acting that "As an actress, I can't imagine how anyone who is not exactly like me might feel." Isn't that the first thing you have to do as an actress? Why not add, "And despite my complete lack of imagination, I just won an Oscar! Suck it, Hepburn!"

Yeeeee-HAW!

noreply@blogger.com (Jake) — Wed, 29 Sep 2010 01:59:00 +0000

Despite my reputation for hating everything, I really am pretty open minded about new experiences. In one of my earlier rants about Wewahitchka, a commenter suggested that if I were a better writer, I would try to understand why people might choose to live in a small town and enjoy that lifestyle. In his suggestion, he missed the point of the entire rant, which was that I do understand and I find their reasons to be rooted in fear and ignorance, a point he supported by describing what he imagined life to be like in "the big city," suggesting that it must be impossible for me to ever sleep with all the police sirens outside my windows and the minorities burglarizing my home every night.

My problem with things that I hate is rarely that I don't understand them. Anyone who has followed my never ending Twitter battle with Red Skelton or "A Prairie Home Companion"--Why are they cheering for the powdered milk jingle? You baffle me, geriatric Midwesterners!--will know that I spare no effort to find hidden meanings or cultural references or whatever secret appeal there might be to something I don't get. Unfortunately, that effort regularly turns up even less than "People in the 50's didn't have a lot of entertainment options," or "Lutherans like to eat a lot."

For many, many years, I have hated country music, but not because I don't understand it. Like living in small towns and watching Fox News and going to church and so many other things that are popular in America, it is about fear and ignorance. In the old days, the likes of Johnny Cash, Merle Haggard, Willie Nelson, and others highlighted the simplicity of life on a cattle drive and lamented the sad turn of events that led to hard drinking and wife beating and jail time. The generally implicit, sometime explicit, always present theme was "I'm not smart, I'm not special, and I have to desire to be. Those are things city folk aspire to, and whatever I may be, at least I'm not an intellectual."

Today, one of the genre's biggest stars, Toby Keith, is an advocate for lynchings, celebrating the blowing up of brown people in foreign countries, and Ford trucks and the message is still the same: "Intellectualism is bad." Hence, my averse nature.

What I couldn't understand was how people I knew and respected--my mother, my sister, my ex--could listen to the anti-intellectual bile pouring from KNIX or KMLE-Country and sing along as Cowboy Troy tells them they hate America because they helped elect a black man president (For those of you who don't listen to shitty music, the joke here is that Cowboy Troy is black.) or Big & Rich advocate teaching creationism in public schools. I'll grant you that most music lacks an intellectual bent, but only country is completely devoid of it. There is no KRS-One or Chuck D of honky tonk.

While arguing with my ex several months ago, I finally issued the challenge, "Find me a song about how we should embrace learning or that we live in a multinational world and we should accept that fact in a way that doesn't involve bombs and guns or that being a dumbshit redneck isn't a good thing."

It took her a while, but a week ago she told me to listen to "Welcome to the Future" by Brad Paisley. A few nights later, I had to ask again what the title was because I thought it was something by Kenny Chesney, which, in turn, made me sad for knowing that Kenny Chesney was even someone.
First off, credit where it is due. Brad Paisley's "Welcome to the Future" is not a celebration of dumbshit rednecks. But while it certainly gave me hope that maybe some lone individual in the country music industry is willing to deliver a message that can be embraced by radical atheist commies like myself. However, there was one thing that stuck out about the song that bothered me.

The first two verses follow an A-B-C pattern of:
A) Things used to be like this and there's no way we could imagine it being different.
B) Holy shit! Things are different and that is awesome!
C) Chorus

In the first verse, Brad says that when he was kid, he wanted to watch TV on long drives and own his own Pac-Man machine. Now you can watch TV in the car and own Pac-Man on a phone that also does a million other things. Awesome! In the second verse, he talks about his grandfather fighting the Japanese in World War II, then is joined by a country music band from Japan in the video, something his grandparents never could have imagined in 1943. Awesome!

But then comes the third verse, which skips the B. He had a friend who was a victim of racism... but there's no explicit, "But now racism is frowned upon and only dumbshit rednecks would have a problem with the notion of treating minorities as equals, but they're dumbshit rednecks who don't matter in the grand scheme of the world and as they get older and die off there's less and less of them every day, and that's awesome!"

Instead, there is an implied "Things aren't quite that way any more," with only descriptions of "a woman on a bus" and "a man with a dream." The open-endedness allows the listener to draw his own conclusion as to the meaning of this change.

In fact, read these lyrics in the mindset of a racist and they could be seen as saying "Rosa Parks and Martin Luther King made it difficult to put darkies in their place! Back in the good old days, we'd burn a cross on their front lawns, but, oh, well... I guess not everything's better in the future."

I had a friend in school,
Running back on the football team.
They burned a cross in his front yard
For asking out the homecoming queen.
I thought about him today,
And everybody who'd seen what he'd seen,
From a woman on a bus
To a man with a dream.

I don't want to imply any racism on Paisley's part, but I do suspect that while there might have been more to say there, someone--whether it be Paisley, co-writer Chris DuBois, a producer, some guy in A&R at the label, or a crusty old redneck in a parking lot of a Piggly-Wiggly--decided to scale back the anti-racism angle of the song out of fear of offending the base audience.

Religious Value

noreply@blogger.com (Jake) — Thu, 09 Sep 2010 06:48:00 +0000

Three days from now will be the two year anniversary of the morning my agent called me to tell me Scholastic had made an offer on my book, which was then called I Think My Teacher is a Superhero and featured art by Jacob Chabot (including the page to the right). The offer wound up being for a four book deal, and two months ago, I finished the final draft of Book 4 in the series.

Since that July morning that I sent off the final draft to my editor, I have taken half-hearted stabs at Book 5--for which there is no contract or even discussion of a contract--and three other projects I've had bouncing around in my head. Last night I finished the first book in a new series that I can't announce anything official about yet.

However, this is a collaborative project which was created and loosely plotted by two other guys who asked me to write it for them since their writing experience is in comics and animation, but not in prose. It proved to be quite a grind for me to knock it out, largely because while they gave me complete latitude to flesh out the characters and plot, it wasn't my story or my characters. It was a paycheck--or in this case, a speculative potential for a paycheck at some point in the years to come--but so is approximately 99% of the writing being done in the world every day.

I began struggling with my writing while working on Book 4. Being the last book of the contract with no guarantee the series will continue, I found myself focusing on some of the corners I'd written myself into and questioning whether I even wanted to continue with a Book 5. After working on the same characters and scenarios for nearly five years and not much of anything else for the past two, I found myself much more interested in exploring something completely different and unable to focus on the story at hand. But when I finally finished it and was free to work on other projects, I found myself floundering. Maybe it was because I'd been working for two years on a series that had already been figured out and I merely had to get one step closer to the already-decided-upon conclusion. Maybe it was because I was overwhelmed by the number of opportunities available and couldn't decide which way to go, like Morgan Freeman unable to pee without his boss's permission after getting out of Shawshank.

Or maybe it was because I'd already climbed that mountain and climbing it again held no interest for me.

I've written before about the number of successes I've had professionally and the subsequent disappointment I've had with said successes. I set goals, I work hard to achieve them, but once I do, I find myself asking "What's next?" I worked for years learning to be a sportscaster, then within a year of my first television job, I felt empty. After three years, I walked away and have never regretted the decision for a second. Now I wonder if the same is true of my writing career. I set the goal of writing a book that would get published, and I did it. Now is my mind moving on to "What's next?"

And this, I discovered, is the true value of religion to the human race. The idea of heaven or nirvana or paradise, the goal of achieving some perfection akin to a flawless mythical being is impossible for any mortal to achieve. Therefore, no matter how long one lives, one always has a goal to strive for. No one in the entire history of the world has gone to heaven, come back, and said, "Well, I did that. What's next?"

Granted, we all could do the same thing by setting impossible goals, except we know they are impossible. Over the summer, I took up curling. I could say I will not be satisfied by anything less than winning an Olympic gold medal, but that goal would almost do more to demotivate me than motivate me because I would know it was realistically unachievable. Being grounded in truth and realism prevents me from accepting impossibly high standards.

As such, the skeptical non-believers of the world are at a disadvantage to the religious. Those who can accept the concept of a magical man in the sky who lives in a place where all your dreams can come true can face every day never having to ask, "What's next?" Everything they do, no matter how insignificant, is a piece of the puzzle that ends with an ascent to sit at the right hand of the Father.

That's because your God always thinks the way you do. Do you hate gays and Muslims? So does God (Leviticus 20:13; Exodus 23:24). Are you accepting of other religions and sexual orientations? So is God (Leviticus 19:17-18). Do you think God wants you to be rich? He does (Psalm 12:1, 3). Do you think God loves you more than rich people because you're not rich? He does (James 5:1). If your marriage is unhappy, do you think you should tough it out because you made a commitment before God and your loved ones? That's what God says (Matthew 19:6). Do you think God would rather you find someone new who can make you happy rather than stay together and be miserable? Of course he does (Deuteronomy 24:1-2)!

Whatever you do, whatever you think, that's what God wants you to do and think. And it all adds up to your express ticket to the Pearly Gates as soon as you kick the bucket. While we atheists are trying to make the most of our time here on earth, objectively looking at our accomplishments and our impact on those around us, the religious can trudge forward through every day meaningless and without worry about their fellow man, unburdened by the madness those of us who seek truth and reality suffer as we continually try to find something else of significance.

Sanity through unwavering belief in the insane. That is the objective value of religion.

I Worry

noreply@blogger.com (Jake) — Tue, 31 Aug 2010 04:25:00 +0000

Had a discussion today where the topic came up that I wouldn't know what to do if I was happy. I spent nearly a decade trying to get a woman who hated me and blamed me for ruining her life to love me just because we had kids. My misery is at the heart of my creativity, and when things start going well, I usually have less drive to sit down and tap out my complaints on a keyboard. And if I don't do that, I don't make any money... not that I'm making a whole lot right now any way. For fuck's sake, people! Have any of you actually bought my books?!?

In the past week, things have been going pretty well. I don't remember the last time I've been happy for a whole week straight, but these past eight or nine days have been some of the best I've had in recent memory. Even bad news I got somehow seemed like good news when I broke it down.

Anyway, it reminded me of this bit from Patton Oswalt.

Why I Hate Man Vs. Food in 2 Minutes

noreply@blogger.com (Jake) — Wed, 18 Aug 2010 04:37:00 +0000

Two years ago, Travel Channel watched Guy Fieri on Food Network and said, "Oh, we gotta get one of those." Somehow, they found Adam Richman and gave him instructions to duplicate the mindnumbing boredom of watching a guy travel to different cities and eat stuff like "Diners, Drive-Thrus, and Dives," but to add an element of disgustingness to it. Thus was born "Man Vs. Food."

Now, Adam may be one of the nicest guys in the world. In fact, my friend Thomas met him a few months ago and said as much. However, on the show he's trying so hard to duplicate the low rent Guy Fieri experience--and I can't imagine why anyone would want to do that--that I long for the advent of affordable 3D televisions so I more accurately pretend to punch him in the face from the comfort of my living room.

If you haven't seen it, the concept of the show is to have Adam go to a city every week and seek out three restaurants with some kind of special signature dish. The first 18 minutes of each episode is a straight up travel show. The twist that sets it apart from "Triple D," (as all the cool kids call it) and actually makes it slightly more enjoyable--in the way that a punch in the gut is more enjoyable than a punch in the balls--is that the third restaurant always has some food challenge.

The challenges always fall into one of two categories:
1. Eat way too much food.
2. Eat food that is way too spicy.

In some cases, the challenges are fairly reasonable. These tend to be longstanding challenges that restaurants have had for years. Others are suspicious, and one wonders if they were made up just to attract attention from the "Man vs. Food" producers. When no one has ever succeeded at your challenge, maybe it's time to admit that serving nine pounds of meat between the equivalent of two loaves of bread on a bed of two pounds of French fries with a half gallon of coleslaw that must all be eaten within 30 minutes isn't a "challenge" as much as an impossible task.

Likewise, I hate watching the spicy challenges where someone takes good food and goes out of their way to make it inedible by dumping two pounds of spices into it. What's the point? "Look at how tender this pulled pork is... and now I'm going to completely fuck it up so you can't taste it." Why not just invite Adam in to drink a quart of pureed habaneros and forget the whole facade of it being a food challenge?

But the part of the show I hate most is the clips they feel compelled to include of locals watching Adam take part in the challenges. They tend to fall into one of two categories:
1. I don't really want to say anything, but since you're putting a camera in my face I will give you an opinion on whether or not I think Adam will succeed.
2. Please, please, please, Mr. Producer, put me on a basic cable television show for two seconds. I will read whatever scripted lines you have for me or act stupid and/or slutty if necessary.

Furthermore, those two categories can be broken down into smaller subcategories. Watch the below montage and follow along:
1. Adam is the man.
2. I've seen The Waterboy and deserve to be on TV because of it.
3. Adam can do it.
4. Kids who've had cameras in their faces because adults told them to be cute.
5. I can read a clock.
6. Skepticism.
7. If I interrupt Adam and speak directly to him, they'll have to put me on TV.
8. I'm a cute girl who wants to be on TV so badly I'll pretend to be attracted to Adam.
9. I'm drunk.

While the repetitive categorical style of the comments on every show is annoying, a few soundbites find a way to be even more grating than usual.

0:30 -She says she knows he can eat this entire burger, then adds "If you can do this, you can do anything." If we extrapolate that statement, she believes--nay, knows Adam Richman is omnipotent.

1:15 - That guy took a lot of time to think up what he was going to say to Adam, but didn't stop to consider how he would exit the stage.

1:18 - Why? Why the fuck are they chanting "USA! USA!"? Is that just a reflex in that part of the country? Is this what Sarah Palin meant by "Real America?"

2:00 - You know what? I think maybe Adam really is the nicest guy in the world for the fact he didn't punch his producers the minute they let this drunk idiot come anywhere near him. His ability to humor Drunky while trying to eat six-pounds of burrito meat is more impressive than if he'd finished the burrito.

Why British TV is Better Than American TV

noreply@blogger.com (Jake) — Fri, 13 Aug 2010 09:06:00 +0000

In the last four days, I've watched three seasons of "Top Gear." I would have watched more, but that's all that was available on Netflix Watch Instantly.

I haven't laughed so hard in a while, and when you consider it's an informational program and not a sitcom, that's saying something.

The highlight came in episode 9 of series 10 when the guys prepared a car for a 24-hour endurance race. BBC rules prevented them from having sponsors, but since a race car wouldn't look like a race car without sponsor logos on it, they made up sponsors.

After putting logos on either side for Peniston Oil and Larsen Biscuits, Richard and Jeremy confess to one another that they are nervous about the race. In an emotional exchange, they both admit they expect to do poorly.

"I'm afraid of looking foolish," they say in this shot. Click it if the words on the doors are too small to read.Brilliant television. Let's see Rick Bayless do that on "Mexico: One Plate at a Time!"

The Valley of Artistic Agony

noreply@blogger.com (Jake) — Wed, 11 Aug 2010 08:27:00 +0000

There's an old adage about the grass always being greener on the other side, but lately it seems the grass is dead everywhere.

Monday, I wrapped up the majority of my edits on Book 4 with no discussion yet about a contract for Book 5 and beyond. Until school is back in full swing and we get a full sales report around October, my publisher cannot even broach the subject. I have another project I'm working on that I can't talk about until Monday, but it's a collaborative project which means any money from sales will be split four ways, and given the nature of publishing, I've decided if I see more than $25 before 2012 from this, I'll chalk it up as a win. Worst case--yet entirely possibly--scenario, Monday afternoon may have marked the end of my professional writing career.

While I was facing this fact, I got a phone call and subsequent interview for a job in an investment firm. It's precisely the kind of job I would hate, but it would pay well, provide me with health insurance from day one, and finally make use of that MBA I still owe $70,000 on. Clearly, if I get the job offer, I have to take it--unless Paramount makes a million dollar offer for movie rights in the next two weeks... COME ON, PARAMOUNT! I just wonder how long it will be between my first day on the job and the day I start window shopping for a pistol with a built-in mouthpiece. I'm putting the over/under at two weeks.

Strangely, I'm not the only one struggling with this same dilemma. I mean, obviously I'm not, but it's strange that in the 24 hours that followed my phone interview, that theme popped up several times from others.

Tuesday morning, Phil Hester tweeted this:
Career diagram: Thing I don't want to do that pays very well. < Me > Thing I love that doesn't pay at all.

Within an hour, Chris Sims reviewed a new Archie comic that uses Veronica and Betty to represent Mr. Hester's two situations, respectively.

In that review, Chris made a reference to his friend, Eugene, who recently walked away from a lucrative law practice to pursue a rap career.

I had two unrelated phone conversations with two friends along the same lines about writing and art. I suppose it stands to reason that given the large number of artistic-type friends I have, this would be a common theme, but it's discomforting to have everyone independently on the same subject at once.

Going back to my opening statement, the idea of the grass always being greener on the other side of the fence is born of wishful thinking. "If I was over there, things would be better," is so old that Moses made a comment about it on those tablets everyone makes such a big deal about. Something about coveting your neighbor's wife's ass or something. But the Valley of Artistic Agony doesn't have any green grass. The wishful thinking isn't about things being better. It's about things not being as bad.

On one side of the Valley live those with money who hate what they do and wish they could pursue their artistic desires. On the other are those pursuing their artistic desires who wish they had money. Each side is keenly aware of the sacrifice needed to cross the Valley, but few are willing to make the move.

And anyone who thinks he can set up camp in the middle and live the best of both worlds doesn't take long to learn why it's called the Valley of Artistic Agony.

I am fascinated by the idea of divergent timelines. I don't believe in heaven, but if there is an afterlife, I hope it offers the answers to all the "What if...?" questions. How would life be different if I'd moved to San Jose in 2000 and married Colleen instead of staying in TV and going to Florida? What would my daughter be like if her mother and I had broken up before she was born? If I'd gotten my GED at 13 and started college at 14 like I wanted to, would I be more or less fucked up in the head? Essentially, I want the afterlife to allow me the free reading of the entirety of the Choose Your Own Adventure book of my life.

That wish, however, is born of a hope that somewhere, somehow, maybe in another dimension or an alternate universe, I'm happy. We want to believe that while life might be miserable, if we'd only made one left turn where we made a right, we'd be in the Garden of Eden. Unfortunately, I know that's mostly not true.

During the rockiest years of my relationship with Colleen, three years of trying to maintain a long distance relationship, I wondered whether things would be better if I'd never bothered pursuing my TV career, took that web design job I'd been offered, and stayed with her. My mind didn't let me follow that train of thought for long before I admitted I would always dwell on wondering how things would be different if I'd pursued my TV career and would probably come to resent her for robbing me of that opportunity.

And that's my fear about reading Choose Your Own Adventure in the afterlife. What if ever divergent path is equally miserable? In a way, that almost worse than if some are particularly horrible while some are only mildly depressing. In the latter case, at least you can be certain that your life wasn't as bad as it might have been, but in the former case, the message is clearly, "Nothing you did mattered. You were destined to be equally unhappy regardless of any efforts you did or did not make."