Let the enormity of our new choice of font enthrall you this Halloween!
If that doesn't work, perhaps my thoughts about C'thulhu's place in the world will.
There's little question that Cthulhu's a bit overdone, at least in the subcultures I dwell in. He's the default punchline of eldritch horror coming right at you, he's appeared in every webcomic, and you can now choose from a hundred different visages of C'thulhuy goodness to adorn the bookshelf where your toys now live. (Mine is in the terrifying form of a Beanie Baby.) Every four years, he begins his doomed run for the presidency with complementary t-shirts and bumper stickers. He's not quite recognized by the mainstream, but he also doesn't feel out of place there.
Meanwhile, the character of Nyarlathotep can crack jokes, wear the nice outfits, and passive-aggressively fuck with the other characters to no end. He's the too-cool sidekick that steals all the scenes, and he can still provide non-euclidian horror in one of a thousand forms. In any other series, this would end up as the character the audience identifies with, while the masters he slaves for are only vaguely recalled. Instead, oh, he's about the same, but to a much smaller extent than Cthulhu is. He's got only the one stuffed animal, almost no t-shirts, and I've never turned on a random cartoon to find him in a guest-starring role.
I don't know quite why this is. Perhaps it's because Call Of C'thulhu has been dubbed the quintessential Lovecraft story. Or perhaps it's because of the character design, which is one part squid, one part demon, and one part flabby guy. Then again, it's probably just that Nyarlathotep almost exclusively appeared in the stories in those The Rest Of Lovecraft volumes that are bought, read once, and quietly regretted.
Or it could all come down to the name. I had to copy Nyarlathotep's spelling from Wikipedia, and just hit the paste key whenever it came up in this post. When spelling C'thulhu, my only worry is whether to throw in a random apostrophe for flavor. There's a very low limit on how much gibberish a monster's name can contain and still be cool.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Average Size For, You Know, White Text
My Pal Skipp (recently promoted from "That Guy Skipp," thanks to this suggestion) said he would like to read more of our blog, but it hurts his eyes. I hope he only meant that the text was a bit too small for his jaded peepers.
Cover one eye and tell me if you can read the following:
4 8 15 16 23 42
Personally, I like the look of Small Trebuchet, but I can deal with Arial Normal as it's the only constructive criticism we've received so far. I think the Halloween colors might be screwing with my eyes as well, and I'm open to suggestions on readable color combinations other than black text on an empty white plain of contentlessness.
(Edit: I have gone back and changed as many previous posts as I could to fit the current font scheme. Due to complications with the template, this did not always work, but the majority of articles posted previous to this installment are now readable.)
Cover one eye and tell me if you can read the following:
4 8 15 16 23 42
Personally, I like the look of Small Trebuchet, but I can deal with Arial Normal as it's the only constructive criticism we've received so far. I think the Halloween colors might be screwing with my eyes as well, and I'm open to suggestions on readable color combinations other than black text on an empty white plain of contentlessness.
(Edit: I have gone back and changed as many previous posts as I could to fit the current font scheme. Due to complications with the template, this did not always work, but the majority of articles posted previous to this installment are now readable.)
Monday, October 30, 2006
It Was All A Blog
Wow, what an ending. One might argue that the "It was all a dream!" ending is cliche, but upon analysis the narrative follows a certain dream logic. Contributing to the theme of dreams and their meaning as prophecy is the scene in which...
Hey, it was third grade. My teacher liked it enough to give it an A and a "Scary!" comment. Years later, The Christmas Tree From Hell garnered an "Interesting!", which was my writing teacher's way of saying, "I need to go home and cleanse my soul with Wild Turkey and a wholesome Richard Laymon novel. An evil voodoo rain that turns people black and makes them go crazy and kill people? No way that could be construed as offensive. And I'm sure his depictions of survivors of sexual abuse will be as insightful as always."
Googling The Christmas Tree From Hell, it appears I'm not the only person who thought ripping off Army of Darkness, The Children's Pit, and mixing them with adolescent sexual frustrations was a good idea. So rather than bore anyone with that cliche as well, I'll do something else to make up for your disappointment with the resolution to an otherwise brilliant climax that featured everything but Godzilla, the blob, the Creature From the Black Lagoon, and Megatron.
Be sure to complete the assigned reading. There will be in-jokes only smart people will get.
(Edit: One day I will make good on this vague promise.)
Hey, it was third grade. My teacher liked it enough to give it an A and a "Scary!" comment. Years later, The Christmas Tree From Hell garnered an "Interesting!", which was my writing teacher's way of saying, "I need to go home and cleanse my soul with Wild Turkey and a wholesome Richard Laymon novel. An evil voodoo rain that turns people black and makes them go crazy and kill people? No way that could be construed as offensive. And I'm sure his depictions of survivors of sexual abuse will be as insightful as always."
Googling The Christmas Tree From Hell, it appears I'm not the only person who thought ripping off Army of Darkness, The Children's Pit, and mixing them with adolescent sexual frustrations was a good idea. So rather than bore anyone with that cliche as well, I'll do something else to make up for your disappointment with the resolution to an otherwise brilliant climax that featured everything but Godzilla, the blob, the Creature From the Black Lagoon, and Megatron.
Be sure to complete the assigned reading. There will be in-jokes only smart people will get.
(Edit: One day I will make good on this vague promise.)
So Close, I Can Taste It
To those of you keeping score, Narraptor has scored a convincing victory over me by posting his entire tale. Instead of facing up to this fact, I'm choosing to go off into a tangent.
I never understood why anyone would oppose Halloween, and I especially didn't understand people who fought it on religious grounds. Halloween's a pagan holiday that was palette-swapped into a Christian one. So were Christmas and Easter. Kids might be dressed up as monsters, but they were just as likely to go trick or treating as princesses, Boba Fett, or their favorite collectible card game. And for once, Christ wasn't being upstaged by present-bringing mascots.
If anything, I thought it could be a chance to celebrate a job well done. A kind of "We Won!" celebration over the Norse Pantheon.
Now, I don't really care about that, except for a hopeless wish for others to stop attacking my holiday. I don't go assaulting Christmas with tales of sexual predators attacking kids at the crack of midnight, and I expect others to do the same for Halloween.
Yes, Halloween is my favorite holiday of the year. Once you get past thirteen, it's one of the few freeform holidays you get. You can seek out the most overcrowded club in all of Philadelphia, or just enjoy the one romantic holiday where romance isn't mandatory. It doesn't matter what you do, as long as you keep the spirit of Halloween in your heart. It even retains a healthy measure of childhood magic, untarnished by the revelation that the Santa Bunny's not who he seems.
So of course I get depressed on Halloween. There's aways a costume I meant to create, and somewhere in the back of my mind, whatever I'm doing isn't good enough. But that's okay. That just means I'm already looking forwards to next year. Because next year, I'll do better.
I never understood why anyone would oppose Halloween, and I especially didn't understand people who fought it on religious grounds. Halloween's a pagan holiday that was palette-swapped into a Christian one. So were Christmas and Easter. Kids might be dressed up as monsters, but they were just as likely to go trick or treating as princesses, Boba Fett, or their favorite collectible card game. And for once, Christ wasn't being upstaged by present-bringing mascots.
If anything, I thought it could be a chance to celebrate a job well done. A kind of "We Won!" celebration over the Norse Pantheon.
Now, I don't really care about that, except for a hopeless wish for others to stop attacking my holiday. I don't go assaulting Christmas with tales of sexual predators attacking kids at the crack of midnight, and I expect others to do the same for Halloween.
Yes, Halloween is my favorite holiday of the year. Once you get past thirteen, it's one of the few freeform holidays you get. You can seek out the most overcrowded club in all of Philadelphia, or just enjoy the one romantic holiday where romance isn't mandatory. It doesn't matter what you do, as long as you keep the spirit of Halloween in your heart. It even retains a healthy measure of childhood magic, untarnished by the revelation that the Santa Bunny's not who he seems.
So of course I get depressed on Halloween. There's aways a costume I meant to create, and somewhere in the back of my mind, whatever I'm doing isn't good enough. But that's okay. That just means I'm already looking forwards to next year. Because next year, I'll do better.
Sunday, October 29, 2006
The Night You'd Never Forget, Part 3
The Night You'd Never Forget
by Narraptor, October 1985
...The guide said, "Go through this tunnel to the exit," and he disappeared.
"Come on, let's beat it," said Kevin. Then the music of "Beat It" came on.
"I knew it. I just knew it," said Geeko as they made a right turn.
They saw a werewolf and turned and saw a ghost and turned and saw a vampire and turned and saw a mummy. The kids stood there waiting to be killed, but the whole vision went black.
Kevin noticed that he had been dreaming.
He looked out the window and said, "Hey, Geeko, let's take a hike. It's nice and windy out."
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Experience The Reading Rainbow
It's an understatement to say that I hate showing my own work around, if I'm not happy with the result.
That said, click on the picture to be whisked away from the warm glow of Narraptor's childhood, and towards the jagged glass of my young adult writing style. This is the middle of an epic poem, featuring a mysterious bus, a even more mysterious desert, and a narrator who isn't so much mysterious, as he is undescribed.
Right now, he's fighting a monster called Macbeth.
That said, click on the picture to be whisked away from the warm glow of Narraptor's childhood, and towards the jagged glass of my young adult writing style. This is the middle of an epic poem, featuring a mysterious bus, a even more mysterious desert, and a narrator who isn't so much mysterious, as he is undescribed.
Right now, he's fighting a monster called Macbeth.
...I wonder if this would have been better if it had been written on bat-shaped paper.
(Excerpt is from Off-White Sands, Circa 1994. Written during Math Class, as I recall.)
The Night You'd Never Forget, Part 2
The Night You'd Never Forget
by Narraptor, October 1985
...At that moment, the music stopped.
"My what?" said the ghost, as it turned into a hideous monster.
Suddenly, Kevin and Geeko saw the tour guide motioning the way out.
They got out. They went into a bathroom with a cabinet and shower. Suddenly the music of "Thriller" came on and a werewolf jumped out of the cabinet.
The guide pulled out a gun and shot the werewolf. The music stopped and the guide said, "You know, you really shouldn't have come in here."
The kids looked at him and saw that he had fangs.
He said, "Ha! False teeth," and took them out.
The shower opened. It was Norman.
"Yes, it's me," he said.
They went into the next room. There was a person there who showed them a coffin and said it was her old assistant's coffin. They sat down at a table and she began to talk.
"You will be trapped somewhere forever."
"We know," said Geeko. "Tell us some stuff we don't know."
"Someone is going to strike us."
With that, the coffin opened. A skeleton with an axe jumped out and split the person's head in two.
The kids ran out. The guide said, "Go through this tunnel to the exit," and he disappeared...
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
The Fear Of Poetry
Narraptor's challenge has gone from looming over me to making active threats. This is because I have located an authentic lost story from my distant past. It was written from sheer boredom, in a variety of colored inks, and it has a monster or two.
It is also the first time I had ever written poetry.
I have to try even harder to dredge up something that is at the very least, "forgivably awful."
Narraptor brought up the problem with Nightmare Before Christmas covers, in that very few of them work. A case in point is that a new edition of the soundtrack has been put out, featuring a second CD with random people covering half of the songs, and some demo versions by Danny Elfman.
You don't need to bother. It feels like a tribute album that gave up halfway in the making, once they heard the initial offerings. The only song I'm partial to is the blandgoth rendition of Kidnap The Sandy Claws, and that's from the part of my brain that enjoys undefendable music. Meanwhile, Maryiln Manson sings This is Haloween, and Finona Apple sings Sally's Song. It would've been better all around if they'd switched songs.
The demos, meanwhile, aren't anything special. Lower production values, and it's not like hearing Danny Elfman singing most of the lines is anything unusual.
Oh, and the movie's out, in 3-D. The effect is much more subtle than you might expect. For one thing, there is very little kinetic action going on that crosses viewing planes.
It is also the first time I had ever written poetry.
I have to try even harder to dredge up something that is at the very least, "forgivably awful."
Narraptor brought up the problem with Nightmare Before Christmas covers, in that very few of them work. A case in point is that a new edition of the soundtrack has been put out, featuring a second CD with random people covering half of the songs, and some demo versions by Danny Elfman.
You don't need to bother. It feels like a tribute album that gave up halfway in the making, once they heard the initial offerings. The only song I'm partial to is the blandgoth rendition of Kidnap The Sandy Claws, and that's from the part of my brain that enjoys undefendable music. Meanwhile, Maryiln Manson sings This is Haloween, and Finona Apple sings Sally's Song. It would've been better all around if they'd switched songs.
The demos, meanwhile, aren't anything special. Lower production values, and it's not like hearing Danny Elfman singing most of the lines is anything unusual.
Oh, and the movie's out, in 3-D. The effect is much more subtle than you might expect. For one thing, there is very little kinetic action going on that crosses viewing planes.
The Night You'd Never Forget, Part 1
The Night You'd Never Forget
by Narraptor, October 1986
Once, on a very windy night, two children got lost on a hike and needed to find a place to stay. The moon was full and bright. They looked for a house on a very big hill, but there was nothing there.
As soon as they turned their backs to leave, they heard a clash of thunder behind them. They looked back and saw a spooky old house and a witch.
"Are you leaving so soon?" the witch said.
"No, we, uh, wouldn't," said the oldest.
The witch told them to go in and they did. The door locked behind them.
"Help!" they cried.
They decided to walk around instead of screaming. They came to a room with a closet and cobwebs.
A man suddenly jumped out of the closet and said, "Hello! I'm your tour guide. I'll lead you through here."
They followed him into a room with spooky music.
"This is the ghost ballroom."
"I can see that," said the youngest.
"By the way, who are you two kids?"
"I'm Kevin and this is my brother Geeko."
"Hey, Kevin," said Geeko, "Look at this food."
"Don't eat it," said Kevin.
"Why not? It's my best cooking," said a ghost.
"It looks like your worst. Look at all these fingers."
At that moment, the music stopped...
Sunday, October 22, 2006
Halloween Tribute to Bear McCreary
Last Friday I took my wife to Johnny Vatos' Tribute to Halloween: Featuring Members of Oingo Boingo. X and Dramarama were also in attendance--apparently the tribute group's solo gig was the next night in Anaheim. (This is not the first time Ticketmaster has hidden something from me. When my wife wanted to see Al Pacino in Salome, we ended up at a staged reading days before the actual premiere. All the actors except for Mr. Pacino were reading aloud from their scripts, which lead my wife to assume that a) Pacino's a really dedicated actor and b) American plays are different than they are in Japan, where people are required to know their lines.) But our primary reason for showing up was Bear McCreary.
McCreary took over as the composer on Battlestar Galactica during its first season. The scope of the second season soundtrack would have an uninformed listener believing he or she were listening to a movie soundtrack instead of one for a TV show. The variety of instruments, the participation of live musicians, and the overall "What if Philip Glass was good?" vibe make it stand out from anything else on the small screen. And unlike many other respectable sci-fi/fantasy series from the past, there seems to be little direct repetition of the music from season to season. I'm looking at you, The X-Files.
Many of the Former Members of Oingo Boingo in the tribute band, including Vatos himself, have performed on the soundtracks. Raya Yarbrough, who sings the vocals on the "Lord of Kobol" track, was there Friday night and performed "Sally's Song" from The Nightmare Before Christmas. Unlike the live reenactment of Oogie Boogie's song, her version was a moving improvement over the weakest song in the film. McCreary served as musical director, keyboardist, and Jack Skellington for the concert.
This is difficult for me to admit, but after seeing the guy who composed "Prelude For War" rocking out in skull makeup, pumping his fist in the air to "Only a Lad," and singing "Jack's Lament" with live string accompaniment, Bear McCreary is now my favorite musician.
It was one of those concerts that make you wish you had stuck with the violin. I don't lament giving up drawing. My talent for placing commas is much more important to me than being able to sketch ghoul lords and abishai (from the astral planes, not The Bible) in colored pencil. But if someone had told me in sixth grade that if I kept at it I could be playing with Oingo Boingo, I would have had a reason to stay in orchestra class other than the obvious.
I'm sorry, Voltaire. Release Ookie Spookie and we'll talk.
McCreary took over as the composer on Battlestar Galactica during its first season. The scope of the second season soundtrack would have an uninformed listener believing he or she were listening to a movie soundtrack instead of one for a TV show. The variety of instruments, the participation of live musicians, and the overall "What if Philip Glass was good?" vibe make it stand out from anything else on the small screen. And unlike many other respectable sci-fi/fantasy series from the past, there seems to be little direct repetition of the music from season to season. I'm looking at you, The X-Files.
Many of the Former Members of Oingo Boingo in the tribute band, including Vatos himself, have performed on the soundtracks. Raya Yarbrough, who sings the vocals on the "Lord of Kobol" track, was there Friday night and performed "Sally's Song" from The Nightmare Before Christmas. Unlike the live reenactment of Oogie Boogie's song, her version was a moving improvement over the weakest song in the film. McCreary served as musical director, keyboardist, and Jack Skellington for the concert.
This is difficult for me to admit, but after seeing the guy who composed "Prelude For War" rocking out in skull makeup, pumping his fist in the air to "Only a Lad," and singing "Jack's Lament" with live string accompaniment, Bear McCreary is now my favorite musician.
It was one of those concerts that make you wish you had stuck with the violin. I don't lament giving up drawing. My talent for placing commas is much more important to me than being able to sketch ghoul lords and abishai (from the astral planes, not The Bible) in colored pencil. But if someone had told me in sixth grade that if I kept at it I could be playing with Oingo Boingo, I would have had a reason to stay in orchestra class other than the obvious.
I'm sorry, Voltaire. Release Ookie Spookie and we'll talk.
Running Late, Again
I’ve been reading Out of the Silent Planet at work. So far, I can barely remember a damn thing about it, and most of those are the notes the book’s previous owner left for me.
“Ransome examines space."
“This seems like a flimsy excuse for Ransome to stay.”
“Background Information.”
Still not as amusing as the copy of The Runes Of The Earth I read, which begins with book-report style margin notes, and eventually degrades into swearing whenever Linden Avery does something stupid. Which, being a Thomas Covenant novel, is fairly often. (If the protagonist endangers the arc of time, take a drink.)
Meanwhile, I’ve started playing video games again, after a one year hiatus. Which means that I’m now buying video games again. While the sales clerks are more desperate than ever to super-size my purchase, they don’t seem to understand that I need to be bribed. Purchasing the right to purchase an item when it comes into the store doesn’t do much for me. However, I was the bewildered owner of a “Viewtiful Joe” bobblehead for a time.
As I recall, the bobblehead was in my possession for longer than the game was.
“Ransome examines space."
“This seems like a flimsy excuse for Ransome to stay.”
“Background Information.”
Still not as amusing as the copy of The Runes Of The Earth I read, which begins with book-report style margin notes, and eventually degrades into swearing whenever Linden Avery does something stupid. Which, being a Thomas Covenant novel, is fairly often. (If the protagonist endangers the arc of time, take a drink.)
Meanwhile, I’ve started playing video games again, after a one year hiatus. Which means that I’m now buying video games again. While the sales clerks are more desperate than ever to super-size my purchase, they don’t seem to understand that I need to be bribed. Purchasing the right to purchase an item when it comes into the store doesn’t do much for me. However, I was the bewildered owner of a “Viewtiful Joe” bobblehead for a time.
As I recall, the bobblehead was in my possession for longer than the game was.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Things Which I Do Not Know How to Speak Aloud
In all fairness, my favorite monsters should be gremlins, as they not only provided inspiration for the title of this blog, but lead me to seek out my current occupation as a bulldozer driver. If not gremlins, then vampires, as without them I would have a lot less to make fun of. And as much as I'd enjoy meeting a beholder in a fedora or being abducted by mind flayers, they aren't, you know, real. (Take that, eighth-grade English teacher.)
It's slightly embarrassing to admit that my favorite monster is one I know very little about. Several Google searches proved that I didn't even know how to spell its name properly, much less pronounce it. My initial investigation kept bringing me back to boots.
I first learned of the penanggalan (or penanggal) from a Ravenloft Monstrous Compendium, so my initial understanding of the creature was likely a bit sanitized. Commonly classified in America as a Malaysian vampire, a penanggalan is actually a normal woman placed under a curse. At night she separates her head from her body, flies through the treetops, and looks for newborns and placenta to eat. The penanggalan's entrails hang from its neck, and some accounts say that these may be used to grab victims or perform common tasks like programming VCRs. But the dangling viscera are also the monster's weakness. An expectant mother will leave sharp branches and thorns around her home to prevent penanggalan from sneaking in and sucking the fetus directly out of her womb.
Go ahead. Click on that and see what happens.
After doing a little non-role-playing research, it's no surprise penanggalan have always fascinated me. For one thing, they scream whenever children are born. Some of them have Hong Kong action hair. They're difficult to spell. And for a monster this horrible, they're ridiculously underexposed.
I'm sure That Guy Skipp could recommend several short stories about penanggalan, but that's not my point. For me, the coolest monsters are the most unfamiliar. It's hard to take C'thulhu and the horrible realizations of man's universal insignificance you can see in his eye seriously when that eye keeps falling off your 13" C'thulhu Santa. The penanggalan is a weird, rare, disturbing monster that even if it could be classified a vampire, is not one you'd want to have sex with.
It's slightly embarrassing to admit that my favorite monster is one I know very little about. Several Google searches proved that I didn't even know how to spell its name properly, much less pronounce it. My initial investigation kept bringing me back to boots.
I first learned of the penanggalan (or penanggal) from a Ravenloft Monstrous Compendium, so my initial understanding of the creature was likely a bit sanitized. Commonly classified in America as a Malaysian vampire, a penanggalan is actually a normal woman placed under a curse. At night she separates her head from her body, flies through the treetops, and looks for newborns and placenta to eat. The penanggalan's entrails hang from its neck, and some accounts say that these may be used to grab victims or perform common tasks like programming VCRs. But the dangling viscera are also the monster's weakness. An expectant mother will leave sharp branches and thorns around her home to prevent penanggalan from sneaking in and sucking the fetus directly out of her womb.
Go ahead. Click on that and see what happens.
After doing a little non-role-playing research, it's no surprise penanggalan have always fascinated me. For one thing, they scream whenever children are born. Some of them have Hong Kong action hair. They're difficult to spell. And for a monster this horrible, they're ridiculously underexposed.
I'm sure That Guy Skipp could recommend several short stories about penanggalan, but that's not my point. For me, the coolest monsters are the most unfamiliar. It's hard to take C'thulhu and the horrible realizations of man's universal insignificance you can see in his eye seriously when that eye keeps falling off your 13" C'thulhu Santa. The penanggalan is a weird, rare, disturbing monster that even if it could be classified a vampire, is not one you'd want to have sex with.
A Few Of My Favorite Things
Feverishly written in the night, and hastily edited in the morning, I reveal my champions of monsterdom! None of them come from my own head, nor did they come from folklore. This makes me sad, especially since I entirely forgot about kappa until it was too late. Speaking of promises I may never keep: A future edit of this might contain helpful links. (Edit: there are no good, helpful links. I'm just going to have to hope you know what the hell I'm talking about.)
Pyramid Head:
Luckily, now that Silent Hill the movie is out, I’m much less likely to have to explain where the hell the character comes from. The downside to this is that I now get to spend that time defending the film.
Many of the touches Pyramid Head has (and Silent Hill in general) are reminiscent of Clive Barker’s work. You get the feeling that there’s a complex mythos that explains why the hell everything is going wrong, and there are just enough explanations to keep you satisfied. But there is never much in the way of definitive proof, and you’re left wanting more. The fact that Pyramid Head never returns is almost certainly a good thing, since the later games start reminding me about the bad things about reading Clive Barker. Also, the character design goes a long way to cementing my love for it, with a nice blend of creepiness and improbability.
Dracula:
While I just assume Pyramid Head justifies itself, I feel almost embarrassed to list Dracula here. The story keeps getting recycled in books and film, but rarely in a satisfactory way. Even worse is when the character is dropped into other stories. I honestly don’t give a fuck about the mid-series introduction of “The Historical Dracula, Who Is Possibly The First Vampire.” Give me the historical Renfield any day.
But in the original book, there was a lot about him that just worked. Dracula's slow boat ride to London is one of the best examples I can think of for a scene that draws its power from happening offscreen. In London, his behavior is inhuman to the point that characters are left baffled how he can be so brilliant one moment and such a fool the next. Finally, the book’s climax drew all of its drama from the vampire hunters racing to butcher Dracula in his sleep, because you just can’t fight a vampire at night. That's what seperates them from mummies. All of these are lessons that were quickly forgotten by following vampire authors. Also, I love The Monster Squad.
Mister Quimper:
This might be cheating, because I suspect real monsters don’t wear elevator shoes. But not being human probably makes up for most of this. Mister Quimper wears a good suit, a stylish mask, and gets some of the best lines in The Invisibles. Also, he represents perhaps my favorite kind of villain: the secondary character who upstages its compatriots with pure moxie.
The strange thing about my favorites is that I wouldn’t feel comfortable sending you to any of the “source works” that they spring from. I love Silent Hill 2, but I can’t blame someone who flees from its gameplay mechanics. Meanwhile, if I’m not willing to re-read Dracula, how can I insist you should? As for The Invisibles…well, I only suggest it to people once I think they can work past its flaws.
Pyramid Head:
Luckily, now that Silent Hill the movie is out, I’m much less likely to have to explain where the hell the character comes from. The downside to this is that I now get to spend that time defending the film.
Many of the touches Pyramid Head has (and Silent Hill in general) are reminiscent of Clive Barker’s work. You get the feeling that there’s a complex mythos that explains why the hell everything is going wrong, and there are just enough explanations to keep you satisfied. But there is never much in the way of definitive proof, and you’re left wanting more. The fact that Pyramid Head never returns is almost certainly a good thing, since the later games start reminding me about the bad things about reading Clive Barker. Also, the character design goes a long way to cementing my love for it, with a nice blend of creepiness and improbability.
Dracula:
While I just assume Pyramid Head justifies itself, I feel almost embarrassed to list Dracula here. The story keeps getting recycled in books and film, but rarely in a satisfactory way. Even worse is when the character is dropped into other stories. I honestly don’t give a fuck about the mid-series introduction of “The Historical Dracula, Who Is Possibly The First Vampire.” Give me the historical Renfield any day.
But in the original book, there was a lot about him that just worked. Dracula's slow boat ride to London is one of the best examples I can think of for a scene that draws its power from happening offscreen. In London, his behavior is inhuman to the point that characters are left baffled how he can be so brilliant one moment and such a fool the next. Finally, the book’s climax drew all of its drama from the vampire hunters racing to butcher Dracula in his sleep, because you just can’t fight a vampire at night. That's what seperates them from mummies. All of these are lessons that were quickly forgotten by following vampire authors. Also, I love The Monster Squad.
Mister Quimper:
This might be cheating, because I suspect real monsters don’t wear elevator shoes. But not being human probably makes up for most of this. Mister Quimper wears a good suit, a stylish mask, and gets some of the best lines in The Invisibles. Also, he represents perhaps my favorite kind of villain: the secondary character who upstages its compatriots with pure moxie.
The strange thing about my favorites is that I wouldn’t feel comfortable sending you to any of the “source works” that they spring from. I love Silent Hill 2, but I can’t blame someone who flees from its gameplay mechanics. Meanwhile, if I’m not willing to re-read Dracula, how can I insist you should? As for The Invisibles…well, I only suggest it to people once I think they can work past its flaws.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
The Fear Literacy Brings
The Glass Books Of The Dream Eaters is this year's entry into a yet-unnamed genre of literature. Like Jonathan Strange and Mister Norrel and Evil Librarian, this book has been written by a first time author in a faux-antique style. It has enough fun ideas to lure me into reading it, but not so many that I can feel that they justified enduring the bland main plot. (For examples of a book that does, see Perdido Street Station.) There's an element of fantasy, but it's couched in ways to reassure readers that they're not really reading a real fantasy book. And of course, The Glass Books Of The Dream Eaters is large enough to convince critics that a book of such size has never existed.
The first-time author part feels important to classifying this kind of book, which is a shame. Otherwise, we could include Neil Stephenson's Monsters Of Finance trilogy, and call it (blank)punk. As it is, I'm afraid if this genre gets named at all, it will get tagged with something even lamer, like "Literary Pulp." (This is assuming that my ten minutes of research is definitive proof that no one has coined a term for this yet.)
I haven't found out yet if The Glass Books Of The Dream Eaters is actually written in "the Victorian style," but this seems a good bet. At one point, I thought that the return of the Victorian Style books was a great idea. This is because despite taking years of English classes that sampled every writing movement to sweep Europe, I always assumed I loved or hated books solely on the quality of the author, not the format they used. Now, I realize that the Victorian style usually just gets in my way.
Narraptor took the hit for me in reading The Historian, so I suppose it's my turn to venture forth, this time into the always disappointing world of steampunk.
On that note, I should add that steampunk is a setting, and not a genre, no matter how badly people want it to be one. This is in the same way that "fantasy" can mean a whole host of things, but only when you add a protagonist about to have their life shattered, a character with an mysterious power, and a poem of prophecy does it become "contemporary fantasy."
In Which I Establish Another Rule
Until the following post gets knocked into the archive, our site is no longer entirely composed of text. Also, we now have comments, which proves my gmail account is working if nothing else.
I'd like to amend the blog rules to suggest that we never promise to write more on something later, because it's embarrassing when we get distracted by Project Runway repeats and don't post again that day. And if we do promise more later accidentally, we should go back and delete that part and hope whoever read it was durnk at the time.
For anyone waiting with bated breath for my WOW rant, it is posted below. As for Errors and Omissions, I barely remember it at this point and would be surprised if anyone gave it a second thought. You should not. The AV Club review clearly outlined the book's flaws, but I was distracted by the shinier potential. "A legal thriller about an alcoholic intellectual property lawyer? How could that not be awesome?"
Well, if the character stopped being an alcoholic as soon as the expository scenes and unbelievable murders began, for one.
Looks like Thursday is Monster Day for me. It will not be vampires, though it might be Mr. Vampire. It would have been sword-tongued zombies, but zombies are too trendy now. Totoros? That's probably a step towards the right continent...
Next week is embarrassing scary story week, and my wife (who has yet to be given her own Interweb handle--she keeps suggesting grandmother names) had a different idea of what story to post than I did. So to encourage more comments, I suggest a vote:
Would the eight people who know this site exists prefer:
I'd like to amend the blog rules to suggest that we never promise to write more on something later, because it's embarrassing when we get distracted by Project Runway repeats and don't post again that day. And if we do promise more later accidentally, we should go back and delete that part and hope whoever read it was durnk at the time.
For anyone waiting with bated breath for my WOW rant, it is posted below. As for Errors and Omissions, I barely remember it at this point and would be surprised if anyone gave it a second thought. You should not. The AV Club review clearly outlined the book's flaws, but I was distracted by the shinier potential. "A legal thriller about an alcoholic intellectual property lawyer? How could that not be awesome?"
Well, if the character stopped being an alcoholic as soon as the expository scenes and unbelievable murders began, for one.
Looks like Thursday is Monster Day for me. It will not be vampires, though it might be Mr. Vampire. It would have been sword-tongued zombies, but zombies are too trendy now. Totoros? That's probably a step towards the right continent...
Next week is embarrassing scary story week, and my wife (who has yet to be given her own Interweb handle--she keeps suggesting grandmother names) had a different idea of what story to post than I did. So to encourage more comments, I suggest a vote:
Would the eight people who know this site exists prefer:
- A story about two kids and a haunted house written in third grade on bat-shaped paper (with photos!)
- Excerpts from The Christmas Tree From Hell
- "The box! The box!"
Sunday, October 15, 2006
/played
This picture says 11 depressing words. Also, I'm not wearing any pants.
That's over a week's vacation in the land of Azeroth, where Dave Chappelle fought David Hasselhoff, for only $250. Not a bad deal, assuming the trip didn't ruin my craving for experience points forever.
I have invested a lot more time (though for a lot less money) in other games, but don't regret the hours I logged in high school on Civilization, the "one more turn nights" with Civ II and Heroes of Might and Magic 3 in college, playing through Diablo, Diablo, Diablo, Diablo II, Diablo II, Dia...and countless Neverwinter Nights modules of varying degrees of tedium and design flaws. I am only mildly perturbed at Disgaea, not myself, for going out of my way to max out my favorite characters over the course of 92 hours only to learn that the game had two more stages left. My brain likes gaining XP and doing inventory management.
At least, it used to. I am not normally one to wax existential while running up character levels, but the realization that things only got worse after hitting level 60 (for those of you not in the know, people will arrange their schedules to get together groups of 40 people and run through the same 4-hour dungeons every weekend, all in the hopes that the final boss might drop the right color hat you need to complete your outfit...except you won't get it until you've logged enough "Dragon Kill Points"--no joke--with your guild, and even then it might be stolen by one of your paladins because the Internet is full of fuckwads) really made me think about whether maxing out any more fighters, priests, or magic-users had a point. I've reached the level cap in dozens of other games, why bother with this one? For that matter, considering my lifetime RPG kill count, do I really need to put up with Troggs?
A tangential observation: I've noticed that while rats in Oblivion are too stupid to realize how many of their kind I have felled in other games, there are no spiders. Either some other hero cleansed the world of them in previous Elder Scrolls or my reputation precedes me. There are giant webs in all the caves, but no giant spiders to make them. Yeah, that's right. You better hide, fuckers.
I think if WOW was a typical RPG and had an ending, burnout and wondering what the hell I was doing for the last year and a half wouldn't have plagued me. I would have made it to the end and kept playing until it was time to move on to something else, just like any other game. What the game needs is an ending cinematic at level 40. Gain ten levels in Treadmill Vale and open a gate to the Horse Dimension of Horseia. Defeat Horsephestra solo and gain the ability to steal and ride one of her young back to Azeroth. The game is now fully open to you and your travel time is increased. High-end content and regular add-ons are there for as long as you want to pay.
Ideally, you wouldn't have to get off your horse to pick up plants or kill guys either. Blizzard--king of game balance via limited function! As was pointed out in a recent CGW podcast, there was mounted combat in Ultima Online. Please note that I've been lazy in italicizing game titles, so that's sarcastic emphasis added.
As it stands, I see WOW as one long GTA ambulance mission with a special hat at the end and an even worse save system.
But that's all over now. I made the peon cry and cancelled my subscription. Interestingly, they don't delete your characters when you leave. Lodz springs eternal. There's also a hard sell in the form of pull-down menus that beg you not to quit. "Don't want to pay by credit card? Call us at..." "Lost your girlfriend? We've partnered with eHarmony.com to..." Among the options under "Reasons For Living" are addiction (to WOW, not, presumably, meth or EQ), military service, and Will of the Forsaken Nerf.
I am am proud to write that I was not so into the game to correctly parse that phrase immediately. I thought it was some sort of l33t philosophy.
That's over a week's vacation in the land of Azeroth, where Dave Chappelle fought David Hasselhoff, for only $250. Not a bad deal, assuming the trip didn't ruin my craving for experience points forever.
I have invested a lot more time (though for a lot less money) in other games, but don't regret the hours I logged in high school on Civilization, the "one more turn nights" with Civ II and Heroes of Might and Magic 3 in college, playing through Diablo, Diablo, Diablo, Diablo II, Diablo II, Dia...and countless Neverwinter Nights modules of varying degrees of tedium and design flaws. I am only mildly perturbed at Disgaea, not myself, for going out of my way to max out my favorite characters over the course of 92 hours only to learn that the game had two more stages left. My brain likes gaining XP and doing inventory management.
At least, it used to. I am not normally one to wax existential while running up character levels, but the realization that things only got worse after hitting level 60 (for those of you not in the know, people will arrange their schedules to get together groups of 40 people and run through the same 4-hour dungeons every weekend, all in the hopes that the final boss might drop the right color hat you need to complete your outfit...except you won't get it until you've logged enough "Dragon Kill Points"--no joke--with your guild, and even then it might be stolen by one of your paladins because the Internet is full of fuckwads) really made me think about whether maxing out any more fighters, priests, or magic-users had a point. I've reached the level cap in dozens of other games, why bother with this one? For that matter, considering my lifetime RPG kill count, do I really need to put up with Troggs?
A tangential observation: I've noticed that while rats in Oblivion are too stupid to realize how many of their kind I have felled in other games, there are no spiders. Either some other hero cleansed the world of them in previous Elder Scrolls or my reputation precedes me. There are giant webs in all the caves, but no giant spiders to make them. Yeah, that's right. You better hide, fuckers.
I think if WOW was a typical RPG and had an ending, burnout and wondering what the hell I was doing for the last year and a half wouldn't have plagued me. I would have made it to the end and kept playing until it was time to move on to something else, just like any other game. What the game needs is an ending cinematic at level 40. Gain ten levels in Treadmill Vale and open a gate to the Horse Dimension of Horseia. Defeat Horsephestra solo and gain the ability to steal and ride one of her young back to Azeroth. The game is now fully open to you and your travel time is increased. High-end content and regular add-ons are there for as long as you want to pay.
Ideally, you wouldn't have to get off your horse to pick up plants or kill guys either. Blizzard--king of game balance via limited function! As was pointed out in a recent CGW podcast, there was mounted combat in Ultima Online. Please note that I've been lazy in italicizing game titles, so that's sarcastic emphasis added.
As it stands, I see WOW as one long GTA ambulance mission with a special hat at the end and an even worse save system.
But that's all over now. I made the peon cry and cancelled my subscription. Interestingly, they don't delete your characters when you leave. Lodz springs eternal. There's also a hard sell in the form of pull-down menus that beg you not to quit. "Don't want to pay by credit card? Call us at..." "Lost your girlfriend? We've partnered with eHarmony.com to..." Among the options under "Reasons For Living" are addiction (to WOW, not, presumably, meth or EQ), military service, and Will of the Forsaken Nerf.
I am am proud to write that I was not so into the game to correctly parse that phrase immediately. I thought it was some sort of l33t philosophy.
Punchline, After The Ellipses
Consider Narraptor's challenges taken. And I can already announce that no matter what you've been told, man is not the greatest monster of them all.
Now I just have to find a way to get back to my giant piles of papers saved through the years, under the mistaken impression that I'd one day want to read them again. I'm sure at least one of my short stories must have survived. Barring that, perhaps I can entertain with a campfire tale about how my third-grade teacher read my Halloween story aloud, deliberately pronouncing every spelling and grammar error to make them clear to the whole classroom. I don't remember the experience dampening my enthusiasm for writing, or for making terrible spelling errors.
I have just discovered something: Giving myself only a short time to post before work was not a smart idea. On the other hand, I now have three fragmented paragraphs I can try to rehabilitate in time for my next entry. Instead of inflicting them on you, I'll end with my own brief tale of MMORPG burnout. World of Warcraft has devolved into a expensive instant messaging system to communicate with my friends who still tolerate it. At the same time, I haven't logged on in months, because I don't have time to play the game I'm no longer interested in.
Now I just have to find a way to get back to my giant piles of papers saved through the years, under the mistaken impression that I'd one day want to read them again. I'm sure at least one of my short stories must have survived. Barring that, perhaps I can entertain with a campfire tale about how my third-grade teacher read my Halloween story aloud, deliberately pronouncing every spelling and grammar error to make them clear to the whole classroom. I don't remember the experience dampening my enthusiasm for writing, or for making terrible spelling errors.
I have just discovered something: Giving myself only a short time to post before work was not a smart idea. On the other hand, I now have three fragmented paragraphs I can try to rehabilitate in time for my next entry. Instead of inflicting them on you, I'll end with my own brief tale of MMORPG burnout. World of Warcraft has devolved into a expensive instant messaging system to communicate with my friends who still tolerate it. At the same time, I haven't logged on in months, because I don't have time to play the game I'm no longer interested in.
You Can't Mount Here
Chillin' with my west coast guild members today before D&D, it looks like everyone I know is ready to bail on WoW. I feel guilty for never running a real raid on Feathermoon, but after learning that, I'm currently auctioning off all my virtual stuff. Does anyone need sungrass? I have Stormwind minimized as I write this. I am the hot chick by the mailbox.
I have more to say on how trying out a Massively Multiplayer Treadmill destroyed my enjoyment of levelling up characters. I'll be back to discuss it in full. My purpose at the moment is to switch the focus of this blog to something other than television. I have two challenges to encourage this change in direction.
Halloween is approaching, and I think this would be a good time to discuss our favorite monsters and why. Shall we say by Thursday? And That Guy Skipp (downgraded from "My Pal," a title which has yet to be reinstated) mentioned an experiment on Storytellers Unplugged that I think we should steal. They are posting their old scary stories over there. I have one from third grade I can share. Are you in?
One final note, I'm not sure if I'm supposed to respond to blog posts on my own site in the comments sections or not. Let's say I wanted to call Mr. Bile out for writing "Never do this" and bolding it. If I want to ask him why (it's working for them so far) or to challenge his formatting ("Dude, what's with the bold? I don't use bold.") where am I supposed to put that?
I'm all for the Penny Arcade passive-aggressive fictional posts myself. Also, I think we both need to cut down on the number of words in our titles...or change the font size.
I have more to say on how trying out a Massively Multiplayer Treadmill destroyed my enjoyment of levelling up characters. I'll be back to discuss it in full. My purpose at the moment is to switch the focus of this blog to something other than television. I have two challenges to encourage this change in direction.
Halloween is approaching, and I think this would be a good time to discuss our favorite monsters and why. Shall we say by Thursday? And That Guy Skipp (downgraded from "My Pal," a title which has yet to be reinstated) mentioned an experiment on Storytellers Unplugged that I think we should steal. They are posting their old scary stories over there. I have one from third grade I can share. Are you in?
One final note, I'm not sure if I'm supposed to respond to blog posts on my own site in the comments sections or not. Let's say I wanted to call Mr. Bile out for writing "Never do this" and bolding it. If I want to ask him why (it's working for them so far) or to challenge his formatting ("Dude, what's with the bold? I don't use bold.") where am I supposed to put that?
I'm all for the Penny Arcade passive-aggressive fictional posts myself. Also, I think we both need to cut down on the number of words in our titles...or change the font size.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Cylon Occupied Caprica, Part 2: The Gray Filter
After watching Battlestar Galactica, my fears about the show have faded away. Even the “One Year Later” gimmick turned out to be a brilliant idea. It’s as if the viewers got to skip a whole season’s worth of character-specific episodes. (Including the mandatory three focused on the Chief.)
If I it wasn't for one thing, I’d think that all of the random useless characters that had been introduced throughout season two had been part of some overall master plan.
Why do I know better? Because the creators of the show freely admit they’re making things up as they go along. Never do this.
If I it wasn't for one thing, I’d think that all of the random useless characters that had been introduced throughout season two had been part of some overall master plan.
Why do I know better? Because the creators of the show freely admit they’re making things up as they go along. Never do this.
The Sopranos Is The Closest Thing To Your Creative Writing Textbook on Television
Mr. Bile brought up Carnivale, and I wanted to add a few thoughts on the subject. Unlike Joe Rogan, I love critics, and yes, I even wanted to be one when I grew up. The proliferation of opinions on the Internet and my growing frustration with newspaper columnists eventually made the whole proposition seem irrelevant, but I digress. I love reading criticism, and as a whole I think television critics have a better perspective on their medium than their film counterparts. I have my pet peeves though, and one of my least favorite critical memes is "The Wire is the closest thing to a novel you'll see on television."
Setting aside the question of whether or not this is a good thing (um...sure?), it's a comparison that unfairly disparages the rest of what's out there as not being good enough to watch. It's akin to what writers who finally got on the Battlestar do when they lament trying to convince their elitist friends to join them. It says, "Television is beneath me, but I'm watching this, so it must actually be good!"
It also rankles me because I'm jealous. Where was the love for Carnivale? Oh, right. The same critics probably don't read those types of novels, either. Unless, you know, it's something like Lisey's Story.
Carnivale was The Stand without the excess, set during the Depression. The original season kept a slow-burning pace, but there was a lot going on for viewers who paid close attention. (Nothing in common with The Wire here. Move along, folks!) The characters were slowly revealed through their actions--we didn't even learn many of their names until late in the first run--and displayed a consistency in personality that Ronald Moore took with him when he went on to remake Battlestar Galactica. (Nope! Not like a novel!) And unlike a more traditionally structured TV show that builds hooks around commercial breaks and cliffhangers, Carnivale revelled in its mystery by presenting baffling images that slowly took on more meaning as the season progressed.
Instant gratification was not the point. Telling the story straight-forward, smacking viewers on the head with the Hammer of Mythos Exposition, and forcing the characters to do what they had to to get to skip to the end would have drained the series of everything that made it haunting.
Which, thanks the untimely departure of Mr. Moore, pressure from HBO for better ratings, and no assistance from television critics, lead to the abysmal second season. I believe Matt Roush summed it up the same way as he did the subpar Farscape mini-series: "Hey, at least you got a conclusion."
Setting aside the question of whether or not this is a good thing (um...sure?), it's a comparison that unfairly disparages the rest of what's out there as not being good enough to watch. It's akin to what writers who finally got on the Battlestar do when they lament trying to convince their elitist friends to join them. It says, "Television is beneath me, but I'm watching this, so it must actually be good!"
It also rankles me because I'm jealous. Where was the love for Carnivale? Oh, right. The same critics probably don't read those types of novels, either. Unless, you know, it's something like Lisey's Story.
Carnivale was The Stand without the excess, set during the Depression. The original season kept a slow-burning pace, but there was a lot going on for viewers who paid close attention. (Nothing in common with The Wire here. Move along, folks!) The characters were slowly revealed through their actions--we didn't even learn many of their names until late in the first run--and displayed a consistency in personality that Ronald Moore took with him when he went on to remake Battlestar Galactica. (Nope! Not like a novel!) And unlike a more traditionally structured TV show that builds hooks around commercial breaks and cliffhangers, Carnivale revelled in its mystery by presenting baffling images that slowly took on more meaning as the season progressed.
Instant gratification was not the point. Telling the story straight-forward, smacking viewers on the head with the Hammer of Mythos Exposition, and forcing the characters to do what they had to to get to skip to the end would have drained the series of everything that made it haunting.
Which, thanks the untimely departure of Mr. Moore, pressure from HBO for better ratings, and no assistance from television critics, lead to the abysmal second season. I believe Matt Roush summed it up the same way as he did the subpar Farscape mini-series: "Hey, at least you got a conclusion."
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
I Don't Know Why Narraptor's Boring
Something about polar bears, I presume.
It's true. At long last, I'm ready to blog. Perhaps I can just assume Blogger's response to my plea for help was just to fix the problem and never tell me about it.
It's also true that I've become laughably tardy in watching good television. I'm seven episodes behind in Lost, two whole seasons behind on The Shield, and I haven't downloaded the latest premier of Battlestar Galactica yet. And The Wire... well, one day I'll see it. Really!
So, I have to be careful what I read on this site. (Exhibit #1: I can't read the post below this.) We're in the same boat, dear reader! Presuming, of course, that you've been a slacker like me. What's wrong with you, anyway? We're finally in the era of Good T.V.... live the dream!
Anyways, part of the reason for this is that I have a bizarre aversion to watching television by myself. Once I start, it's all good... but it's getting to that point that seems to take forever. More than that, though, I blame Carnivale. I loved that show. I watched it, then usually watched it again while I tape recorded it for two separate friends. Even then, there was the thought: "What if it gets cancelled?" But, I figured, it's better to enjoy the goodness while I can... and hell, when did HBO cancel anything? The whole point of HBO is that they didn't have to bow to ratings, because they were a pay site.
Second season: One of the co-writers jumped ship to make Battlestar Galactica. This, coupled with HBO's directive to make the show more accessible did... bad things to it. But I still would've watched the third season. Because hope springs eternal... and it looked like Lodz would, too. Hooray!
One cancellation later, I stopped caring. Now, there's always that damn worry: Why bother watching a series, until I have an iron-bound guarantee that it was not:
A- Canceled
B- Ruined
C- Both
After all, I'm not a Nielsen viewer, so what I watch really doesn't matter. And no matter what they say about DVD sales, it apparently can only bring shows back to life, not prevent them from dying in the first place.
But... that's no way to live my television-watching life. Especially with a bevy of friends reminding me that it's rude to introduce people to, say, The Shield, and then not be able to talk with them about it, except in the most general of terms. "I hear Forrest Whittaker is... big."
Mind you: I now trust network television more than HBO. Funny world.
It's true. At long last, I'm ready to blog. Perhaps I can just assume Blogger's response to my plea for help was just to fix the problem and never tell me about it.
It's also true that I've become laughably tardy in watching good television. I'm seven episodes behind in Lost, two whole seasons behind on The Shield, and I haven't downloaded the latest premier of Battlestar Galactica yet. And The Wire... well, one day I'll see it. Really!
So, I have to be careful what I read on this site. (Exhibit #1: I can't read the post below this.) We're in the same boat, dear reader! Presuming, of course, that you've been a slacker like me. What's wrong with you, anyway? We're finally in the era of Good T.V.... live the dream!
Anyways, part of the reason for this is that I have a bizarre aversion to watching television by myself. Once I start, it's all good... but it's getting to that point that seems to take forever. More than that, though, I blame Carnivale. I loved that show. I watched it, then usually watched it again while I tape recorded it for two separate friends. Even then, there was the thought: "What if it gets cancelled?" But, I figured, it's better to enjoy the goodness while I can... and hell, when did HBO cancel anything? The whole point of HBO is that they didn't have to bow to ratings, because they were a pay site.
Second season: One of the co-writers jumped ship to make Battlestar Galactica. This, coupled with HBO's directive to make the show more accessible did... bad things to it. But I still would've watched the third season. Because hope springs eternal... and it looked like Lodz would, too. Hooray!
One cancellation later, I stopped caring. Now, there's always that damn worry: Why bother watching a series, until I have an iron-bound guarantee that it was not:
A- Canceled
B- Ruined
C- Both
After all, I'm not a Nielsen viewer, so what I watch really doesn't matter. And no matter what they say about DVD sales, it apparently can only bring shows back to life, not prevent them from dying in the first place.
But... that's no way to live my television-watching life. Especially with a bevy of friends reminding me that it's rude to introduce people to, say, The Shield, and then not be able to talk with them about it, except in the most general of terms. "I hear Forrest Whittaker is... big."
Mind you: I now trust network television more than HBO. Funny world.
Sometimes I'm Boring
That's what happens when I a) watch 13 hours of TV in a week and b) try to cram my thoughts on all of it into one post instead of sinking my teeth into something interesting like Lost. The temptation to log in with a few paragraphs like "Can you believe what happened last night on Best Week Ever!!!" and call it a night is easy to succumb to. I will resist slacking in the future and try to get out more.
There's been a lot of chatter on the Net about the first five minutes of the season premiere of Lost, much of it focused on the Others' book club. Juliet's choice of Carrie has obvious parallels to Walt, but I think a more interesting detail has gone unnoticed. Adam clearly derided Carrie as science-fiction. That leads to two possibilities. Either the Others don't believe in the supernatural, or more likely, they have a rational explanation for the psychic phenomena we've seen so far.
The new LOSTCast has some interesting theories on whether or not the Others knew about the plane ("If they didn't expect it, why were they looking up?") and the cause of the disturbance. Check out the latest episode if you have a long commute don't mind the Vanzetti equation being spoiled for you. I skipped The Lost Experience, so I didn't know what the numbers meant. Now I do, although I think people who believe the numbers have power are wrong. Based on Hanso's Mathematical Forecasting Initiative, I'd assume they're just the set that assured everyone would be on the plane.
I'm all for Dharma Initiative mayonnaise.
There's been a lot of chatter on the Net about the first five minutes of the season premiere of Lost, much of it focused on the Others' book club. Juliet's choice of Carrie has obvious parallels to Walt, but I think a more interesting detail has gone unnoticed. Adam clearly derided Carrie as science-fiction. That leads to two possibilities. Either the Others don't believe in the supernatural, or more likely, they have a rational explanation for the psychic phenomena we've seen so far.
The new LOSTCast has some interesting theories on whether or not the Others knew about the plane ("If they didn't expect it, why were they looking up?") and the cause of the disturbance. Check out the latest episode if you have a long commute don't mind the Vanzetti equation being spoiled for you. I skipped The Lost Experience, so I didn't know what the numbers meant. Now I do, although I think people who believe the numbers have power are wrong. Based on Hanso's Mathematical Forecasting Initiative, I'd assume they're just the set that assured everyone would be on the plane.
I'm all for Dharma Initiative mayonnaise.
Sunday, October 08, 2006
Do We Really Need Heroes?
As I mentioned yesterday, I watched an unhealthy amount of television last week. I sat through three hours of The Wire, two hours of Heroes, Dexter, Lost, The Nine, The Office, two hours of Battlestar Galactica--oh, and The Venture Bros. As you might expect, George Pelecanos' The Night Gardener is still unfinished on my nightstand.
I am on the fence about Heroes. I had hoped this would be Unbreakable: The Series, and it succeeds with the vibe. However, with so many characters spread across the planet, the pacing was frustrating. (I'm aware that the first two episodes were intended to be a two-hour pilot and that the flow probably suffered when it was recut. We'll see if this improves tomorrow.) Unlike Lost, where you know from the first flashback that, crap, it's a Boone episode, Heroes jumped back and forth between its protagonists throughout the hour. This would be fine if all the characters were interesting, but I spent most of the show waiting for the white people to go away.
Heroes also tried my patience with some of its plot developments. Two characters were improbably arrested for crimes they did not commit in the second episode. The Japanese guy had only been at the scene for a minute when several dozen police officers flooded in and accused him of murder. Where did they all come from, and how could they suspect Hiro of freezing the victim to death and taking his brain out in 60 seconds? It's a good thing none of that has happened yet.
Dexter was an improvement over the novels, though I hope the voice-over will be toned down as the season progresses. The gay guy from Six Feet Under makes a good serial killer, and rather than being complete idiots like they were in the books, the supporting characters are camped up to tolerable levels. They help to round out the over-the-top nature of the premise. I already know the identity of the mysterious serial murderer, but assuming my source continues to tape it for me, I'll stick around for the filler killings along the way.
The Nine was enjoyable despite the presence of several actors I can barely stand. In execution and heart, it reminded me of Boomtown. It was nice knowing you, The Nine.
Rambling aside, Battlestar Galactica, kicked every other show's ass last week. Far from being the ho-hum "reboot" many fanboys fretted over, the premiere was like watching a nightmare. It's the ballsiest political commentary I've seen on TV since Joe Dante showed us zombies eating Ann Coulter. In a time when irony is used ad nauseam to reflect dissatisfaction with the political climate, I guess it takes a drama to deliver a real kick to the viewing public.
I am on the fence about Heroes. I had hoped this would be Unbreakable: The Series, and it succeeds with the vibe. However, with so many characters spread across the planet, the pacing was frustrating. (I'm aware that the first two episodes were intended to be a two-hour pilot and that the flow probably suffered when it was recut. We'll see if this improves tomorrow.) Unlike Lost, where you know from the first flashback that, crap, it's a Boone episode, Heroes jumped back and forth between its protagonists throughout the hour. This would be fine if all the characters were interesting, but I spent most of the show waiting for the white people to go away.
Heroes also tried my patience with some of its plot developments. Two characters were improbably arrested for crimes they did not commit in the second episode. The Japanese guy had only been at the scene for a minute when several dozen police officers flooded in and accused him of murder. Where did they all come from, and how could they suspect Hiro of freezing the victim to death and taking his brain out in 60 seconds? It's a good thing none of that has happened yet.
Dexter was an improvement over the novels, though I hope the voice-over will be toned down as the season progresses. The gay guy from Six Feet Under makes a good serial killer, and rather than being complete idiots like they were in the books, the supporting characters are camped up to tolerable levels. They help to round out the over-the-top nature of the premise. I already know the identity of the mysterious serial murderer, but assuming my source continues to tape it for me, I'll stick around for the filler killings along the way.
The Nine was enjoyable despite the presence of several actors I can barely stand. In execution and heart, it reminded me of Boomtown. It was nice knowing you, The Nine.
Rambling aside, Battlestar Galactica, kicked every other show's ass last week. Far from being the ho-hum "reboot" many fanboys fretted over, the premiere was like watching a nightmare. It's the ballsiest political commentary I've seen on TV since Joe Dante showed us zombies eating Ann Coulter. In a time when irony is used ad nauseam to reflect dissatisfaction with the political climate, I guess it takes a drama to deliver a real kick to the viewing public.
Saturday, October 07, 2006
Victory Is Ours
I apologize for the lack of posts on post days. This was a result of technical difficulties, disillusionment, and Internet/TV lag. (The latter is like jet lag, but when you go without your daily sites and TV shows for a week. I had a lot of catching up to do.) Luckily, I haven't e-mailed anoyone about the existence of this site yet, so it is unlikely anyone other than myself is disappointed.
Barring a lack of connectivity, it will not happen again.
Mr. Bile figured out how to trick the beta into letting him in. Apparently, if you threaten to create your own blog after attempting several times to join another, Blogger caves. Huzzah!
Barring a lack of connectivity, it will not happen again.
Mr. Bile figured out how to trick the beta into letting him in. Apparently, if you threaten to create your own blog after attempting several times to join another, Blogger caves. Huzzah!
Sunday, October 01, 2006
Freelance Sign Editors Needed
Here's a weird thing I brought back from Japan. Bidding for the merchandising rights is well underway. You should know that the three tanks are brothers and the same one is always attacked by the cat.
As a result of my father-in-law climbing onto the roof of his house through a second story window during a rainstorm, I spent a lot of my trip in a hospital in Himeji. When not watching him attempt to lower his brain age, I visited the "Language Cure Room," where I learned doublethink and Fox Newspeak.
Himeji is famous for two things: Himeji Castle and yakuza. (A 16-year-old boy stabbed his mother in the throat in a local restaurant on Tuesday, but I am told this sort of thing happens all the time.) Whenever I return from Japan, people invariably ask me, "Narraptor, did you see any yakuza?" Indeed, I believe I did!
The alleged sighting took place a few hours away in the bar of the Osaka Ritz-Carlton. It's the type of place where grapefruit juice costs as much as a cocktail, and where the lounge singers amuse barflys by singing, "Welcome to the hotel...Ritz-Carlton!" After their opening performance, they announced that someone in the room was celebrating a special birthday. Someone just turned three!
Sitting next to the woman holding the birthday boy was a Japanese man wearing a white suit, impassively watching as everyone clapped along to the birthday song. Now I'm not saying that just because he took a kid to a cocktail lounge for its third birthday means he's a gangster, but at the very least he wanted us to think he was one.
I made a point of renting Miike's The Great Yokai War while in Japan, forgetting that it came out on DVD in America a few weeks ago. My wife translated all but the last 15 minutes for me, and other than the mysterious philosophies of the bad guy ("To destroy the evils of truth and love!") I think I understood everything. For those of you who don't know, Yokai is basically a Japanese Labyrinth or Mirrormask, but the monsters come from real folklore. And it's got a giant mechanical hellforge that allows the antagonist to merge kappa and tengu with discarded motorcycles and the like to create demon bikes and helicopter Terminators with chainsaw arms.
Will someone please watch it with the subtitles on and tell me what the ending meant, other than "I'm Takeshi Miike! Ha ha!"
As a result of my father-in-law climbing onto the roof of his house through a second story window during a rainstorm, I spent a lot of my trip in a hospital in Himeji. When not watching him attempt to lower his brain age, I visited the "Language Cure Room," where I learned doublethink and Fox Newspeak.
Himeji is famous for two things: Himeji Castle and yakuza. (A 16-year-old boy stabbed his mother in the throat in a local restaurant on Tuesday, but I am told this sort of thing happens all the time.) Whenever I return from Japan, people invariably ask me, "Narraptor, did you see any yakuza?" Indeed, I believe I did!
The alleged sighting took place a few hours away in the bar of the Osaka Ritz-Carlton. It's the type of place where grapefruit juice costs as much as a cocktail, and where the lounge singers amuse barflys by singing, "Welcome to the hotel...Ritz-Carlton!" After their opening performance, they announced that someone in the room was celebrating a special birthday. Someone just turned three!
Sitting next to the woman holding the birthday boy was a Japanese man wearing a white suit, impassively watching as everyone clapped along to the birthday song. Now I'm not saying that just because he took a kid to a cocktail lounge for its third birthday means he's a gangster, but at the very least he wanted us to think he was one.
I made a point of renting Miike's The Great Yokai War while in Japan, forgetting that it came out on DVD in America a few weeks ago. My wife translated all but the last 15 minutes for me, and other than the mysterious philosophies of the bad guy ("To destroy the evils of truth and love!") I think I understood everything. For those of you who don't know, Yokai is basically a Japanese Labyrinth or Mirrormask, but the monsters come from real folklore. And it's got a giant mechanical hellforge that allows the antagonist to merge kappa and tengu with discarded motorcycles and the like to create demon bikes and helicopter Terminators with chainsaw arms.
Will someone please watch it with the subtitles on and tell me what the ending meant, other than "I'm Takeshi Miike! Ha ha!"
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