The Obligatory "Five Best" Post, Article A

So I'm sitting here watching "Superman" and I thought to myself "this wouldn't be in my top five. My top ten, definitely. But not five." And then I thought "wow, you never update your blog. That's lame. You should totally blog about your top five. E'rybody else is doing it." So here goes.

But first, two truths must be known:
Truth the first - "The Godfather" is the definition of "perfect movie." But it is not on my list.
Truth the second - The Star Wars trilogy transcends such trivialities as "lists." Therefore it is not included on this one.

Seriously this time - here goes.

1. True Romance. I love this movie so much that I have a tribute permanently marked on my left foot. Here is a movie that delivers exactly what it promises. It's the most romantic movie ever made, and on the rare occasion it falls into romance-cliche territory, it's done so flamboyantly that you just don't care. Faceless Elvis, stoner Brad Pitt, Remy, Balki, Cuuuuuuh-reepy Christopher Walken, Gary Fucking Oldman - and those are just the bit players? Seriously. Come on. Seriously. And PS - I like Tony Scott's ending best of all.

2. Harold and Maude. The second most romantic movie ever made. Currently a memorial for the right foot is underway. What else can I say about Harold and Maude? It's hilarious, it's touching, it's eye opening, and it's beautiful. The end.

3. Goodfellas. I'm pretty sure this is the movie that caused the eye opening "oooooooooohhh. This is what it's supposed to be like." I think this is the first movie I recognized in my own estimations as "brilliant." And probably the first time I ever identified a tracking shot, even though I definitely didn't know that's what it's called. And I am STILL a giant sucker for a tracking shot (WHAT UP, "Children of Men"?)

4. The Wizard of Oz. This is on my list more out of nostalgia than of respect for the amazing technical achievements of this movie. I acknowledge them of course, but I don't know enough about them to care as much as I care about how I used to wait ALL YEAR* to watch this with my mom, after she made Pillsbury breadsticks and Cheez Whiz. Even at that young of an age, I would imagine what it must have been like to see that on a screen, and see Dorothy open that world into pure colorama magic. And it still give me goosebumps.

5. Pi. I love this movie more for its subject more than it's killer cinematography, its 8 billion shots, more than all its awesome innovativeness. It's a subject that has fascinated me for a long time - mysticism and math (and I really wish I were smart enough to research and theorize on the subject) - and when I learned there was a movie about it I was super excited. So it's pretty kick ass that the movie turned out to be awesome, right?

So yeah, there's my five. Honorable mentions, you ask? Hmm. Fellowship. M. The Birds (because it scarred me FOR LIFE). Superman. Watchmen (Yes, Watchmen, shut up). But be sure and stay tuned for:
Kathleens favorite records! Only one from each band, greatest hits don't count!
Kathleens favorite shots! The question is not "will there be a tracking shot?" but "how many tracking shots will there be?!!?"
Kathleens favorite . . . oh hell, I don't know. I just know I need to update this thing more often.

*see kids, back in the day our Beloved American Icons were not whored out for the all mighty dollar and you could only watch movies like "The Wizard of Oz" once a year. But I suppose that's another blog post entirely . . .

Trent Reznor Won a Golden Globe

Or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love My Age.*


Last Sunday, Trent Reznor won a Golden Globe. I imagine he'll probably win the Oscar, too, and I hope he does. He was humble and genuine, dressed in a classic tux with a high and tight haircut. He was so . . . grown up and appropriate. This is by no means a complaint - I would not have wanted him to get up there in vinyl sleeves and bondage pants to flip off the HFP - but it was very, very offputting.

My introduction to Nine Inch Nails came in 1992 0r 1993. I was with my friend Jenny Queen in her VW Rabbit. We were probably on our way to The Tavern to smoke cigarettes and drink coffee. She pulled a casette out of the console and said "have you heard this yet?" I was fascinated. A black cassette?!? What is this? I had seen the transparent cassettes, many of my butt metal bands released in that particular variety, but never a black cassette - with blue writing, even! I was intrigued. "Um, I've heard of them. I've been wanting to check them out!" I honestly cannot remember if this was truth. No matter. She said "every song on this album is about sex," put the cassette in and quite literally, my life changed.

Out came this tinkering, this angry, metal tinkering. I was instantly smitten. And oh Lord was she right - every song was not only about sex, but it was also about "bitch, you FUCKED me up," and that was insanely cool. It was new, it was identifiable in a way that most of the music I had listened to never was. True, I had never actually had sex, but I sure did know what it was like to get hurt, and since I was 15, I think it's very safe to say that a large part of me WANTED to have sex. I think it was probably somewhere during "The Only Time" (yeah, you know what part I'm talking about) that I realized I was listening to the coolest thing I had ever heard.

And I still think it's one of the coolest things I've ever heard. While "The Downward Spiral" is probably a better record, I don't know that it will ever be my favorite. PHM has since been remastered, but I don't even know if I want to hear it. I like that home production, and I would probably even listen to it on cassette, if I could.

My point, since I should probably have one, is that seeing Mr Reznor up there, looking and acting like a responsible adult, made me assess my own mortality. That's a poignant way of saying "made me feel old." I'm so happy for his well earned success, but the man that helped me discover sexuality . . .

Is all growed up now.

EXTRA SPECIAL "WHERE ARE THEY NOW" EDITION!
Jenny Queen is now a popular country singer in Australia, and has worked with some amazing alt country musicians.

Kathleen Coyle blogs twice a year and is still a weekend goth.

Trent Reznor is still wicked talented. And sexified.

Bob Pollard is an Ass

Or . . . How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Little People.

I requested help from my friends on blog topics the other night. As you can tell, I've been having a bit of a block and haven't posted in a while. Their suggestions were all really great - they ranged from tacos to the vampire in modern pop culture to why libraries are awesome. I'm not going to write about any of those things. Instead, I'm going to tell you about the events that lead up to a midget grabbing my ass at Bernie's Distillery on High Street in Columbus, Ohio.

Bernie's was (is?) a great little bar. My freshman year at OSU Beck played there, and his show was mere weeks after "Loser" absolutely exploded on college and pop radio stations. The line for that show was wrapped down and up two city blocks. I did not attend. To put that line in perspective, Bernie's has two sections; a very small dining section, maybe about the size of a one car garage, and a small venue section, MAYBE about the size of a two car garage. And Beck played there at what was arguably the height of his popularity (yes, I do realize I just dated myself in a very unfavorable way. *sigh*). Bernie's had two dollar Tuesday Vodka and Cranberry, and an absolutely phenomenal sandwich that involved tuna salad on rye with muenster and spinach*. I can't remember the name of that sandwich for the life of me. Probably has to do with the two dollar vodka cranberries, no? High Street has been sanitized twice over since my day, but I'm 99% sure that Bernie's is still there**. Stop in and have one of those sammiches, and then tell me what the hell they're called, please.

*note - I truly do not remember if the ass-grab happened on the same night of the GBV show, but for the sake of my story, it did. Makes it slightly more interesting.

So on this particular evening, not Beck but a little known band from Dayton Ohio was playing. You might have heard of them. Guided By Voices? Maybe? My friends' band Platypus was opening for them. God, what an amazing band Platypus (later Kazowie) was. Simply fantastic. Sadly, I do not believe an internet record of Platypus exists, 'cause I would link you so hard you would wish I hadn't linked you so hard. Now, I realize I'm about to lose copious amounts of indie cred here, but that's OK because I don't care. I don't like Guided By Voices. I might have, had I not attended this show. But I did, and I don't. Bob Pollard was chugging dollar PBRs like they were his lifeblood (did I mention that Bernie's had 1$ PBRs and Black Labels? I was hipster . . . . when hiiipster wasn't coooool . . . ) and treating everyone in his orbit like complete dog doo. Just a wretched man. He even made fun of my friends' band, to their faces and on stage. Awful.

Besides cheap booze, punks and pre-indie kids, and crotchety indie-gods, Bernie's had Little John. Little John was a High Street bum who was always accompanied by a bottle of whiskey and a funk that would bring a tear to the eye. Little John was also a midget. Legend has it he was one of the little people in "Time Bandits" and allegedly the Other Paper even did a story on him. I've looked into both, and can find no evidence of either. "Neat," you might be thinking. "What a fun neighborhood staple!" Yeah . . . Little John was mean. He looked like a biker that had been left in the dryer too long and smelled like, well, a biker that's been left in the dryer too long. Burnt pee comes to mind. But that might have been tolerable if we had a jovial neighborhood midget who regaled us with tales of Terry Gilliam and Willy Wonka. Instead we had a neighborhood terror who spat insults and could apparently vomit on command. I have no idea how Little John funded his whiskey habit, because I'll be damned if I ever saw anyone give him money. A little advice for aspiring panhandlers from Auntie Kat: If you're going to beg for money, it's not a good idea to make loud, presumptuous observations about someone's sexual morals and/or preferences. It's just not.

So Little John was mean and broke, but somehow always wasted and somehow always in bars that had cover charges. I chalk it up to tourists curious about his stature and temperment; the former, possibly something they've never seen before, and the latter something they presumed to be an act. I assure you, it was not. "Oh, hey there grumpy fella! Sure, I'll pay your way in to this venue, and I'll even buy you a shot! Do you care if my pooka shell necklace wearing frat brother takes our picture?" Well, bub, three minutes later you're in tears because you got verbally served then punched in the nuts by a midget.

So on this particular evening I was chatting with my friend Sean. His band had yet to play and we were standing in the asshole and elbow crowd, I listening, Sean venting. Sean was venting about Bob Pollard, incidentally. So we're standing there in the middle of a conversation, when all of a sudden I furrow my brow and cock my head. I wore a skirt that night, as I often did. Probably a short one, definitely a black one. I used to have a bit of a goth problem, you see. I slowly turned around and who did I see? Why, it's Little John, visibly grinning in my presence for the first time, elbow deep in my skirt. And HOO BOY did he have a handful. I bet I even had a tiny little handprint on my cheek for days afterward. Truthfully, I was mentally torn. I didn't know if I should take a swing or just crack up. Just as I opened my mouth to politely ask him to remove his wee little piggies from my bum, he removed his hand, saluted, took two steps and punched Sean in the crotch. Then he moved on to the next skirt.

That's a true story, friends and neighbors. Little John had disappeared by the time I moved from Columbus, about five years later. And despite his horrifying behavior, it makes me a little sad to think that he's passed. I get a little melancholy every time I watch "Time Bandits," especially when I feel that tiny phantom hand, squeezing my right buttcheek.

*THE FILLMORE!!! I'm pretty sure it was called The Fillmore.

**Yup, it's still there.

I'm a Child of the Atom, Turkeys.

I've been reading an awful lot of Carrie Bradshaw/Liz Lemon bloggery lately. Although I have really enjoyed (and mostly agreed with) the analyses, I have to wonder about the relevance of either woman to someone like me. But you know who is very relevant to someone like me? Dazzler.

Dazzler blog. Here it is.

Legend has it that the Dazzler was commissioned as a "property" from Casablanca Records, and that she was probably intended to be black. And weird. But as fate would have it (and as odd as it sounds) 1977 was apparently not ready for black and weird. At least not in its comics. And certainly not a chick, eh? So the Dazzler evolved, and as the decades rolled on she kept evolving. I kind of appreciate the fact that Marvel almost gives a nod to the character's dubious origin, almost as if to say "yeah, we know. We're just going to keep making her gimmicky." I'm perfectly down with that.

My love with Dazzler began quite young, but I really don't completely know how I happened upon first edition Dazzler comics. She debuted when I was one, I learned to read when I was three, but no way would my ma have bought me something like that when I was a toddler. So, I dunno. You do that math. Those first few issues can be almost painful to read. I didn't experience much of the 70s so I don't really know if people actually talked like they were in a Rudy Ray Moore movie. The writing is . . . kitschy in those early appearances. But she was a female character that WASN'T Wonder Woman, she was flip and cool but sometimes still scared and life weary. To someone as young as I was, she was a little bit dangerous, and totally glamorous. She wore roller skates. If she had rode a unicorn, six year old me probably would have imploded. I've kept up with her through the years out of curiosity as much as nostalgia and love, but nothing has made me squee like the Dazzler one shot that finally came out yesterday.

Start at the beginning. The cover, by Kalman Andrasofszky. Brilliant! I love it. Alison Blaire in a badass Bronson pose in her original costume? Well hell yeah! Even with such a dark theme you can tell she was lovingly drawn, and I respect that an awful lot.

The story deals with a reunion/showdown with Dazzler's sister, Lois aka Necrosha. I have not followed the story in New Mutants or Legacy, so I don't know what's going on there. But Necrosha did some super bad shit and now has it out for Dazzler. Necrosha has abandonment issues. I don't want to spoil anything so I'll just say that the resolution sure does leave a lot of room for more Dazzler plots (yes please).

My only initial eyebrow raise came from the transition in art between "track one" and "track two." It was a little too wink-wink-nudge-nudge, cause, you know, SHE'S A MUSICIAN! RIGHT? RIGHT? SEE WHAT WE DID THERE? But then it occurred to me that I really enjoyed both styles, so it was still a very enjoyable experience.

So the bottom line is thank you - to McCann, Andrasofszky, Perez, and Ciregia, for doing justice to this character that is so special to me. I even bought shoes to celebrate the day.
http://tweetphoto.com/23799298

42

Welcome to the Internet's 9,465,735th LOST blog. I'll try to keep it short. There will most likely be monumental spoilers.

LOST is in a very tight final leg of the race that is My Favorite Show Ever. Tonight's finale might determine the winner, as the other two shows (M*A*S*H and Buffy) have already had their ultimate, and fitting, endings.

For those who might be reading that have never seen LOST, I will try - TRY - to give a brief synopsis: Oceanic flight 815 crashed on an island. Survivors of said crash established a colony on this island and for three months they discovered mystery after conspiracy after murder, mostly having to do with a group called "The Others" and a company called the Dharma Initiative. The first three seasons were very character based in that most of the show's focus was on how these people survived, the lengths they would go to, and how they fell in and out of love. The mysteries and anomolies of the island served to drive the characters' stories. Then came season 4, Erwin Schrodinger apparently ghost wrote some episodes, and shit got AMAZING. The characters were as important as ever, but now science, religion, and "WHY?" came into the picture and every episode was a beautiful mind bomb that, when used beyond a study of human interaction, became the best physics textbooks I have ever read.

All three of the shows I've mentioned here have made me think. M*A*S*H made me think about war and humanity and how we survive in the ugliest of situations. Buffy made me think about my relationship with my mother and what it means to feel alone. But LOST? LOST is the first thing, TV show or other, that has shoved questions in my face that make me think about whether good and evil are tangible, whether or not any powers that be give a shit about humanity or if they are just protecting an ideal, whether or not that ideal even needs protected, what if it really is just a set of numbers that binds the universe together . . . yeah, I know I sound like a 16 year old that just got high for the first time. It goes so far beyond whether or not my favorite characters will survive (PS, they DIDN'T) or who will end up happy ever after. I do care about these things, but what's more important is that I feel like I've been turned on to a secret by this show, and instead of spoon feeding me any answers, I have to think and decide on the answers myself. I might never get any confirmation that I'm right. How often can you say that about a TV show?

So to close it out, I'm making some predictions.

Which will end up as "reality"? Island or Sideways world? Of course I hope for Sideways world, because it is happier there. Jin and Sun are together and in love, Hurley and Libby kissed on the beach . . . Locke might walk again. It's just a much nicer place. But that's why I think it will be yanked away from me. Because Damon Lindelof and Carlton Cuse like to make me cry.

Ben is up to no good with Flocke, which means he will redeem himself. Ben is a smart little fucker, and we can see from the sideways world that it was nurture, not nature, that made him a monster.

Juliette is Jack's baby mama. I'm calling it. I like Jack much better in the sideways world than I did all through the show. I don't give a shit about the Jack/Sawyer/Kate triangle, never really have. The only time I ever liked a romance on the show, other than Jin and Sun, was when Sawyer and Juliette were together. I liked that pair - it was a no frill, real romance. Oh, which reminds me, Sawyer and Juliette will have coffee at some point tonight.

Hurley will die. Again, because Damon Lindelof and Carlton Cuse like to make me cry.

I do think that ultimately good will triumph over evil. Cuse and Lindelof might like to break our hearts, but I don't think they want to break our spirit. That's really as specific as I can get about "what it's all about." I'll be thinking for years trying to make sense of everything I've seen on this show, which is exactly why I think it's brilliant.

Oh, and PS - Desmond might be the greatest character on any show ever in the history of the universe.

Edit to add a monumental spoiler: Holy shit. Desmond's the fucking cat.

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.