I'm a Naughty Little Fibber

I said I was going to post another blog the very next night. I did not. I also hinted at a topic. I'm changing that as well. I'm going to review a comic.

I need to state for the record that I am in no way a qualified reviewer. I am not educated in artistic history or technique. As such, at this point my opinions on art are easily influenced by what I hear from others. I can barely call myself a writer, because aside from occasionally getting bloggy with it, I never show anyone anything I've written. But I like what I like, you know? So anytime I "review" a comic or movie or game or whatever, I'm only sharing my opinion. I'm not trying to change yours, but I would love to talk about it. I say this to firstly let you know exactly how "important" I think this blog is but also as a soapbox on which to stand and holler "suck my front butt, spammers and trollers." There are few things I tolerate less than an anonymous douche with a thesaurus and a hyper-verbal temper.

Anyhoo. "Crossed: Family Values," by David Lapham and Javier Barreno. Thus begins my spoiler free review.

Holy shit. Well, I guess I should start with a question. Do you know how much I love Garth Ennis? A lot. An awful lot. He might be my very very favorite. Wait - no, yeah, probably my favorite. So maybe to comprehend the depth of my feelings for this volume, I should give you a quick capsule review of the first volume: Loved it, shocked by it, horrified by it, favorite author, mildly dissatisfied with the ending. In my top ten titles.

I repeat: Holy shit. I feel a little sick saying it. It feels weird in my skin. This book I love, created by two amazing talents has a sequel . . . and I think I like the sequel more. Yikes! But it's amazing! More shocking and appaling, but in a far less graphic, smack you in the face with a you know what (spoiler free, kids) kind of way. The art is more stylish, the characters slightly more round without every crossing (HA!) over into cartoony. Oh, and as an added bonus, the Juan Jose Ryo cover very well might give you nightmares.

This volume so far follows the same path as the first - the story focuses this time on a farm family, their relationships, and how the Crossed situation changes their entire beings. The actual Crossed are almost a subplot, as the main focus of both volumes is not "how" or "why," but "what happens." As the plot moves, it will not just shock you, but surprise you as well. This is officially the book I am looking forward to every month.

Well, that's it for tonight, friends and neighbors. This "Fringe" business has snagged my attention, and I'm in need of a "LOST" replacement, so I'm giving it a whirl.

Doesn't "Indie" Mean Out of Tune Guitars and Shitty Production?

I've just finished weeping at an MOW and a couple Hallmark commercials, and I should probably be putting myself to bed with all my new comics. But inspiration has struck, and I'm blurting before it's gone. I actually have a lot floating around in the noggin, but rather than type for an hour and create an entry no one will want to finish, I think I'm going to break it up in to two entries. Stay tuned for part two - "Mommy, Why is Steve Jobs Murdering Comics?"

Issue the first. Blogs. Blogs and bloggers get a bad name. If you tell someone you have a blog, odds are they think you are a twat or they absolutely don't give a shit. A small percentage might be interested, but you probably are sleeping or have slept with them. Maybe paranoia about actually turning into one of the bloggers that gives us a bad name is what keeps me from posting very often. Most likely it's laziness, but we'll go with paranoia. Bad blogs are egocentric (I had a turkey sandwhich for lunch today) and redundant (I had another turkey sandwhich for lunch today, but this time I switched it up and went with mustard - not mayo), and I never want to be those things, bloggy or otherwise. But you know who has an amazing blog? David fucking Byrne. It's educational, poetic, and - more often than not - visually stunning. You should read his blog regularly. Plus he doesn't call it a blog, he calls it a "journal."

Issue the second: Small press comics. And/or comic conventions. I went to my second ever convention this weekend, and it could not have been different from the "commercial" con I attended a couple weekends ago. I'd like to not be a douche and say they were both really cool in an apples and oranges sort of way, but . . . not so much. The small press/indie show was so much cooler. It had very minor drawbacks, but those drawbacks are such positive occurrences. Allow me to 'splain.

The first issue would only be exclusive to me and my People - all the neurotic idiots of the world: Everyone you meet asks you what you've brought to the show. This year? I had to avoid eye contact and mutter "oh, um . . . nothing, uh . . . not so much . . . boyfriend . . . his table's over there . . . " It only bothered me because I wished I had contributed, and hopefully that will be a different story next year. But you know why so many people asked? BECAUSE THEY CARE. They want to read your shit. They are genuinely interested. It's amazing. I've never encountered such a wonderful thing.

The second? Walking away from a table without making a purchase. Some of the creators do indeed have a look of quiet, pleading desperation. But I truly don't think it's because they want your money (a lot of them might need your money, but that's a horse of an entirely different color). These folks don't really care about money, they just care about their stuff being out there and hopefully a few people really dig it. That's cool with them. Making a living out of it would be a dream come true, of course, but most of them are just plain ol' cool. Also awesome.

The commercial con was cool. There was lots of amazing art and an asston of pop-paraphernalia, and local artists got to showcase their books and talents. I love all of those things. But spectators didn't really commune with anyone outside their friend group. There was little to no chit chat that wasn't centered around a sale. 95% of the artists' tables were filled with expensive prints of characters they didn't create (shout out to my friend Justin and his collaborators at WAC Comics for keepin' it real).

So ye tho' it's pretty obvious I respect one arena more than the other, I appreciate them both for exactly what they are. Well rounded opportunity and nothing-wrong-with-just-plain-fun, respectively.

Yeah, that was douchey and egocentric enough for one night, I think. I'm off to read black and white autobiographical mini-comics now. But there's also an issue of Joe the Barbarian and the latest issue of an X-men title in my stack (not to mention the fact that I asked all these indie artists to sketch the frakkin' Dazzler, for criminey's sake) - so please don't take this as my hippyesque, pretentious relinquishing of mainstream books. Oh no, old friends. You've never let me down, I just think it's time we had an open relationship.

What Else Has He Been In?

Or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love That Guy.

I would be willing to wager a fair amount of money that you have either thought or maybe even uttered the following phrase: "Oh look, it's That Guy." He was in the random re-run of "Quincy ME" you caught the other night, but he's also going to be on Thursday's "CSI." He was in a blaxploitation flick from the 70's, but he's also on every twelfth "Law & Order" rerun on A&E. She's a thin lipped waitress, but she also knobbed Jeff Bridges while he was busy getting an Oscar. The Coen Brothers love That Guy. Martin Scorsese makes Those Guys into something that makes James Lipton swoon. This is my salute to you, That Guy.

What makes a That Guy? What keeps him from crossing over into Household Name? For a woman one can easily blame it on not being beautiful. I could possibly name five actresses that aren't "pretty," but I'd have to try pretty damn hard. Dudes, on the other hand . . . Well, that argument just won't cut it. Whatever you try to argue, I will rebut, and win, with two words: Jack Nicholson. I win. But I digress. Maybe these folks got pigeonholed too soon, maybe they just have shitty agents. But we all know them and we probably love them, and I bet we have even incorporated some of their roles into our own personal pop culture.

Richard Jenkins.
This guy went from being a big gay Fed in "Flirting With Disaster" to a freakin' Oscar nominee. Not bad, eh? Richard Jenkins is kind of a weird That Guy in that he usually has a lot of screen time in his projects, and yet a That Guy he remains. Even after the Oscar publicity. Now he's just "hey, it's That Guy that was nominated for the Academy Award!" I really rooted for him. A lot. Mr. Jenkins has a solid 90 IMDB credits, which ain't too shabby.


Needle Nose Ned!!
Stephen Tobolowsky was most recently seen by me as a bad guy in "Heroes." And boy did I love seeing him as a bad guy. Mr. Tobolowsky usually plays an annoying bumbler, but look into those eyes, man. Those are crazy eyes right there. Stephen Tobolowsky should take on "Dexter." He might even have put the fear of God into Tony Soprano. I seriously think he should be checking into this little niche, if only for a while. And, Mr. Tobolowsky has a whopping 199 IMDB credits.


Brion James, who I believe is sadly no longer with us. Mr. James usually played a bumbling, inept, tough guy, and he played him well. Wide eyes and tough features made him perfect for these parts and he did funny just as well as he did pathetic. Mr. James was in 160 movies according to IMDB.



Jeff Kober is under a shitton of make up a lot. You might not recognize him. But he's a rugged, non-traditionally handsome man and I can't find any logical reason that he is not a star of, at the very least, Val Kilmer proportions. I almost want to call him the poor man's Gary Oldman, but I can't help but think that he's absolutely cool with his current level of celebrity. I have a soft spot for Jeff Kober. I saw him on an episode of "Highway to Heaven" when I was wee, and have recognized him ever since. Plus, he had two different roles on Buffy. Nice. Mr. Kober has 91 listed appearances.


When compiling my list, I thought of Dylan Baker and immediately thought "That Guy aways plays a sick fuck." But when perusing his 90 listings, only two stuck out at me. "Happiness" and "Trick R Treat." Why do I associate him with being a pervert? I'll tell you why. Liver lips. That, and I've aways said never trust a man with two first names. EVER.


I had planned on only mentioning one of Mr. David's roles, because it's the only one that matters to me: He will forever be the man that made Jennifer Connelly go ass to ass for smack. *jibblies* But, upon checking out his 179 IMDB listings, I learned that his first credited role was in a film called "Disco Godfather," which I will promptly be adding to my Netflix queue once I am finished with this blog.


That Knife Guy! Danny Trejo was a juvenile delinquent, a very young addict, and earned a boxing title in San Fucking Quentin. The prison. He has also been in 183 movies. Holy shit, how awesome is that? True, he plays a lot of hooligans, but this isn't a blog about typecasting. A lot of the actors in this list have been in some amazing, ground breaking films. Danny Trejo? Not so much. But he has been in an asston of fun flicks, and that ain't bad for someone who could kill you with his bare hands.


Beth Grant's career encompasses a weird pie chart with the labels "bitch," "fundie," and "white trash." But look at her! She's very pretty! Beautiful hair, lovely figure, and 140 movie listings. Does Angelina Jolie have that many credits? I submit she does not!* But Angelina has one thing that Beth Grant does not. Lips. Ms. Grant is cursed with the American Thin Lip, which I can't help but associate with Doral 100's and a throwaway Mountain Dew. It sucks, Ms. Grant. But I will NEVER doubt your commitment to Sparklemotion.


And last but in no way least, That Man.
Charles. Fucking. Napier.

I saw Charles Napier cry on Dr. Phil's show once. He cried because he had never become a superstar while his own wife and that shrew of a shrink chided him. It broke my cold little heart. Charles Napier has been in 193 projects, and he was being chided. Shame. Mr. Napier is usually an authority figure - Army Guy, Cop Guy. And I can totally pinpoint why he has never hit superstardom. Hear me out on this one.

I was reading "Sweet Tooth" the other night and found myself thinking that if a live action movie were ever made, Napier should totally play Mr. Jeppard. But then I thought, well, maybe not. I don't know if Mr. Jeppard has a heart of gold yet (I've only finished issue 5, so don't spoil it for me if you know), and that's what Charles Napier was born to do: Be the asshole with the heart of gold. There are very few movies that revolve around the asshole with the heart of gold, but one is usually there to further the plot. He's got the voice and demeanor of a total bitch, but the eyes and Southern smile of your friend's awesome grandfather. The one that snuck you beer when you were 14, and not because he was a pervert, just because he was cool like that. Charles Napier. I'm going to write a screenplay someday, one so awesome it will make studio heads weep tears of platinum. And I won't sell it to them unless Charles Effing Napier is the star. Word.




*I'm far too lazy to look that up right now.

A Very Hasty Oscar Blog

I feel shameful. Tonight is my Christmas. I seriously look forward to this night so very much . . . and I normally write, about a week before, a very well thought blog (previously on livejournal, FYI), about my who and why picks of the evening. Not tonight, sadly. Tonight you get a super quick double listing of "gonna" and "wanna." Enjoy!

I have tried for many years to see every film nominated for a major award. Last year I was only one short, this year I am short by three (A Single Man, The Imaginarium of Dr Parnassus, and The Young Victoria). Next year is my year, friends!

Oh, for what it's worth, my favorite movies of the year were Up, The Watchmen, The Road, and . . . hmmm . . . probably District 9. Oh, and Precious! That movie blew my mind.

I'll be cracking open my bottle of Shiraz shortly, and a hangover blog will follow tomorrow. Happy Oscar Night, friends and neighbors!

Without further adooooo (*sic, I know):

Gonna Wins:
Supporting Actress: Monique.
Supporting Actor: Christoph Waltz.
Actress: Bullock. I don't even like typing that.
Actor: Bridges.
Director: James Cameron.
Original Screenplay: This is a tough one. I'm calling Up.
Adapted: Up in the Air.
Animated: Up. Duh.
Picture: I really think Avatar is going to win. And if it does, I might be breaking up with Oscar.
Art Direction: Avatar. Again, duh.
Cinematography: Avatar.
Visual Effects: Avatar. Do I need to say "duh" again?
Make Up: Star Trek?
Editing: Avatar
I'm skipping the sound categories, because I truly don't know or understand their qualifications.
Score: Avatar


I want to win:
Supporting Actress: Monique.
Supporting Actor: Woody Harrelson.
Actress: Gabourey Sidibe, baby! I feel good about it, I really do. I'll cry so hard if she wins.
Actor: Bridges.
Director: Katherine Bigelow. I want this. I love her. Near Dark is one of my favorite movies. As recently tweeted, I am way too emotionally invested in her winning of this award. Way.
Original Screenplay: Up. Or The Messenger, I'm torn.
Adapted Screenplay: Precious. Sorry, District 9, I love you too, but Precious touched me more. HA! SEE HOW I'M PUNNY THERE?!!? (Yeah, that was wildly inappropriate but I'm a little giddy at this point)
Animated: Up. But Secret of Kells was cool as hell.
Picture: The Hurt Locker. For real.
Art Direction: Avatar (keeping in mind I didn't see two of the flicks nominated)
Cinematography: The Hurt Locker (but the camera work in The White Ribbon was AMAZING, and I just might pick that topic as my hangover blog tomorrow).
Visual Effects: Avatar. Duh.
Editing: The Hurt Locker
Score: Up.

She's Singing What?

Or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Mary J. Blige.

I am a plain, chubby, white girl. As plentiful as we are, there are very few things out there in that great wide world that are ours, that feel like they were made specifically for us/by us. We are the girl in high school with lots of male friends, and she is not sleeping with any of them (incidentally, gentlemen - if you had that friend in high school I would bet that you once broke her heart a little). We are the girl in college with very few friends that probably joined a weird fringe campus group and pierced something. We are the woman in the grocery store that makes eye contact and smiles politely, but you will probably never think of her again. Betty Crocker single serving microwave desserts are ours. Anne Rice is ours. And Janis Joplin . . . is OURS. Nobody . . . NOBODY will ever be able to duplicate the emotion she poured out and thusly they should not try.

I could prattle about why she is so special, but this interview really sums it up. She was weird and plain and invisible; which, if you've never experienced, is a truly heartbreaking combination. It can hurt even worse than actual malice.


If you've never felt that way, you can't do those songs justice no matter how pure your intentions ("Me and Bobby McGee" being the rare exception. Talented people can make that song pretty, but only when they don't try to sing it like she did).

So one eventless evening many years ago, I decided to watch this one-night only variety show called "Fashion Rocks." It was profoundly awful. Performers doing cover numbers in front of clothes from the era respective of the song the played. I don't remember any performers other than the aforementioned Ms Blige. In fact, after 20 minutes or so I had decided to change the channel when an announcer mentioned that Mary J. Blige would be performing soon, doing a Janis song.

PFFF. That was my thought. PFFFF. I knew very little about her at the time, probably really only her genre and appearance. But I knew she would do a terrible cover, so I decided to watch. Naturally. And oh lawdy, she blew the fucking roof off that song! My jaw dropped, I barely blinked, goosebumps, watery eyes . . . the whole shebang. Mary J. Blige . . . knew.



I'll be a son of a bitch, but this talented beautiful woman knows what it feels like to be so full of emotion that is has to absolutely erupt. She's said at some point "fuck it, this is coming out whether y'all like it or not." Maybe she doesn't know what it's like to feel invisible but screw it, the ideal end result is the same: a volcano of feeling and every last drop is spent in the art you are making, that touches every single person that hears it and understands it. It can be exhausting to watch, but it's always cathartic and empowering. Falling in love with Mary J. Blige changed my perspective on a lot of things. It's hard to feel isolated when a goddess of a woman has probably felt the same way as you at one point in time. One could argue that it makes Janis obsolete, but yeah . . . no. Not even close.

Incidentally, this is the performance that prompted me to write this. The bit at about three minutes in buh-lows my mind.




PS - Dave Navarro is a giant douche.

Review: "Escape from Special"

I am kinda keeping my word on the promised comic review. Yes, I know I kept hinting at some multi-colored muscle bound action, but I changed my mind. There are probably eight trillion Blackest Night reviews out there, and I still might write something up, but if I do it will be at the end of the series. It's been a rough week and I just don't feel like waxing fangirl, so I'd like to share something low key, and thoughtful, and something that is probably brand new to you. So I present to you a review of Miss Lasko-Gross's "Escape from Special."

I read this book under the impression that it was autobiographical, but as it turns out it is "semi" autobiographical. The novel is about a young woman named Melissa, and we are shown moments from her childhood. These moments are sometimes congratulatory but most often they are self effacing and sometimes downright self loathing. As someone who, in childhood (OK, in adulthood also), took embarassments as something very hurtful and deeply personal, I got very emotionally attached to Melissa. Sometimes she is hateful and is not always likeable but I appreciate that portrayal more when I am reading something autobiographical. It's more honest this way, and I think it creates a deeper bond between reader and author/artist. When I finished the book, I felt something was lacking . . . I wanted to see something really AWESOME happen to Melissa. But after thinking about if for a while, I came to the understanding that sometimes the "pretty" stories just aren't the ones that want to come out.

The art in this book is beautiful. It almost comes across like a black and white watercolor. Melissa's eyebrows are especially expressive and the faces of her "friends" convey so very well the haughtiness and ignorance that comes with being a young girl. By letting us see Melissa's drawings, Miss Lasko-Gross also allows us to notice that Melissa's art is a more primitive version of the art of the book itself, which is an endearing touch.

Lasko-Gross's publisher compares her to Judy Blume, and oh how I wish I had come up with that myself. It's so true. Both help us remember what it was like to feel ostracized, but they also help us remember that were weren't, and aren't, alone. I am really looking forward to more of her work.

$900 Stripper Shoes

I need to precede this entry with two admissions: I am about three to four months late on this particular item. But I, unlike a heapin' handful of other bloggers, sadly do not get invited to Fashion Week. While I was checking out photos of these shoes I noticed that most of the entries were dated about September of '09. Don't care, I'm posting anyway. That, and I know I promised a comic review, but this will be my first public comic review and I am procrastinating.

Last night I did some impromptu thrifting. Had a rotten day at work, don't have a lot of cash, needed some cheap therapy. I already had an armful of cardigans (my staple) and a nifty khaki skirt so I decided to head to the shoe racks before hitting the checkout. I passed by a pair of lucite flippy floppy shoes and snickered. These shoes always have and forever will be stripper shoes. I could see a hausfrau in a coordinated warm up suit and lucite shoes in the grocery store and think "stripper shoes." I could see a 98 year old woman walkering out of an oncologist's office rockin' a pair and still think "stripper shoes." I could see a fashionista in - oh, wait. No I couldn't, because they are STRIPPER SHOES.

Tonight I got home from work and flipped through the most recent Harper's Bazaar. I was idly flipping through, not really invested. And then I saw them. I looked to the top of the page, praying I would see a "don't" somewhere. But nay. It was a "do". And it was Prada. And it was . . . Lucite.

Prada included lucite shoes in the spring couture line. Prada. The house of motherfucking Prada clomped down the runway in stripper shoes! I'm pretty sure there's a fifth apocalyptic horseman, and his name is Brandee and he wears Prada fucking lucite shoes. Permit me the equivalent of a fangirl moment here, but Prada is quickly gaining on Dooney and Bourke and Kate Spade in the race to become generic, bit it's still Prada. It's not Channel, but it ain't no Max Azria, that's for sure (pimping with Miley Cyrus up to the WalMart? You are dead to me, Max Azria). I will soften my harsh criticism of the increasing affordability of these lines by saying it's not necessarily bad - I might be able to afford these someday. But in the world of high fashion, loosing exclusivity looses reputation, and that's just a fact. Nonetheless! Lucite heels. All the blogs are calling them wedges, but, uh, no. Chunky heel a wedge does not make. And calling it a wedge doesn't make it hip, because it's a godforsaken stripper shoe.

Incidentally, I have no idea how much these shoes cost. $900 was just a guess. And now that I've done a little research, I'm raising that because I can't find them at any retailer.