Notes on a Freezing Tuesday

We’ve arrived on a meta-fictional Tuesday, the day Alabamaniacs choose whether they are pro- or con- child brides. It won’t matter, of course, because the American Empire is collapsing, being flushed down the bog and taking us all with it.

Had a nightmare of a day Monday which snaked its way to a sleepless night into morning. When I did sleep, the dreams were minimal. Mostly, just a TV tuned to a dead station. Back in the old days, before the digital conversion, a dead TV screen was a visual jumble of static, echoes from the Big Bang, aliens, whatever you want to call it. Nowadays, it’s just a blue screen. Where the fuck is the fun in that? Kids these days no longer have the option of straining their ears to listen to “The Voices”.

It’s a cold and blustery 28F today. This isn’t ideal weather to go traipsing out to retrieve your medications from the pharmacy but traipse I did. My body is still defrosting and my brain is somewhere in the mushy netherworld of survival and consciousness. As a result, my head feels like cold turkey fat tastes, which I blame primarily on the lack of sleep. Even hot cocoa is having a hard time removing The Chill.

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On the recommendation of a friend, I watched L’homme du Train the other night. As you might ascertain by the title, it’s a French film. It stars Jean Rochefort and Johnny Hallyday (both of whom recently passed away) as two men who meet by chance. Hallyday, the titular man on the train, has arrived in a small town for a bank heist. Unable to find accommodations, he is taken in by Rochefort, a retired poetry teacher who lives alone in the large house that his mother left to him. Each face a significant event at the end of the week (one, the bank heist, the other, a triple bypass surgery) and each discover that they wish to live each other’s lives. Rocherfort, having always been a teacher and taken the safe way through life, is intrigued by Hallyday’s life. Hallyday, meanwhile, learns to appreciate the subtle charm to Rochefort’s life, one steeped in poetry, nice slippers, and such.

Don’t be fooled by its description as a crime/drama as it belies the fascinating character study that makes this a really enjoyable film.

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The recent news about an oddly-shaped asteroid triggers memories Grant Morrison’s profoundly disturbing series, Nameless. This comic book isn’t for everyone and if ancient horrors, mindless slaughter, non-linear storytelling, and Occult-heavy narrative aren’t your cup of tea, well… fuck it, you need to be unsettled every once in a while. Read it. Is it Oumuamua or is it Xibalba? Only her hairstylist knows for sure.

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Over the weekend, I went to see my mates’ band play at the Southgate House Revival. They were fucking great, as always, but aside from documenting some of the bathroom graffiti and such, I managed to snap this picture. Here’s looking at you, Newport, KY.

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From the Archives: Preacher, Spider Jerusalem, and Extraordinary Gentlemen

I’ve been busy with the new job, so in lieu of new content, enjoy this short entry from Sunday, 02 Mar 2008.

More newer stuff soon…


gonzFTA

Old habits fit nicely sometimes. Recently, I fell back into the world of comic books.

Back in the day, I was a DC junkie — enjoying the likes of Batman, Plastic Man, Captain Marvel, Green Arrow, The Flash, Green Lantern. Fun days. Of course, I was seven or eight at the time. Eventually, I matured and so did my tastes as I began to devour Marvel comics, feasting on new issues and snacking on the backlog of old issues from my brother’s collection.

Eventually, I fell out of the two-party system as independent issues began to become more prominent. Superman and Batman gave way to the Tick and Cerebus.

For years, I’d fall in and out of infatuation, sporadically picking up Warren Ellis’ Transmetropolitan and reading the more grown up DC and Marvel comics. In the last few months, I’ve been doing it again. Recently, I’ve been emptying my wallet for issues of Black Summer and Doktor Sleepless or trade paperbacks of Preacher (a new infatuation… you’re right, Kyle) and League of Extraordinary Gentlemen.

Before, comic books were little more than jingoistic melodrama. As the medium has grown, they’ve taken on adult and mature themes. Warren Ellis, Ben Edlund, Garth Ennis, Dave Sim, Frank Miller and Alan Moore are all true writers in the most literal sense. TV/movie scribes like Kevin Smith and J. Michael Straczynski have cranked out some pretty smashing titles. Even John Cleese got in on the act with a British adaptation of Superman.

Comics, as they say, are serious business.


Wow, did I really end this post on that cliché?