Friday Night Fights: She's Everything You Dream About

The late Godfather of Soul may have proclaimed that "this is a man's world," but Black Beauty (no other name given) has her own ideas about her place in the social hierarchy...


...and woe betide anyone who stands in the way of this belle dame sans merci...

(from Captain Marvel Adventures #142, March 1953; by Otto Binder & C.C. Beck)
The Tubes - She's a Beauty (from Outside Inside, 1983) - Given a choice, I'd rather have "White Punks on Dope" or "Talk to Ya Later," but I have to go where the theme leads me.

Ladytron - Beauty (from Witching Hour, 2005) - It certainly is. Hell, the whole damn album is as close to sublime perfection as one gets in this blighted age of ours.

(Rockin' those pugilistic beats, week after blessed week.)

and in the middle of the celebration

Today marks the nineteenth anniversary of my mother's death. She was 37 -- two years older than I am now -- when she took a fatal tumble down the attic stairs.

Ordinarily this would be my official day for gloomy introspection, but I've got the infuriating drone of workplace chatter and office Christmas party planning to keep me distracted (and extremely irritable). There's a reason why I usually stay home on November 30th...

(It's just as well, I suppose. I don't think I could articulate my feelings about my mom and her passing better than I did last Mother's Day.)

The Beatles - Golden Slumbers\Carry That Weight (from Abbey Road, 1969) - I still have my mom's copy of Abbey Road in my record collection, making it one of the rare few artifacts that survived the chaos which followed her passing. It's not my favorite Fab Four LP -- I'm more of a Rubber Soul man -- but its sentimental value is such that I find myself giving it a bleary-eyed spin or two as this time of year approaches.

My mother was also a big fan of Prince. Thankfully, those records did not survive the Great Upheaval.

is it really so strange

On the heels of Mitt Romney's and Rudy Giuliani's ugly "more nativist than thou" showdown comes this news article (pointed out to me by pal Dorian) where the Prince of Morose Pop channels the spirit of Enoch Powell. I'd point out the quasi-hypocrisy of a child of immigrants bitching about immigration, but it's a fairly common phenomenon.

"They come over here and don't bother to learn the language or culture!"

"Oh, you mean like your great-gran, who has picked up maybe a dozen words of English since she stepped off the boat from Palermo seventy years ago?"

"Well that's different."

The unspoken difference being that the current wave of immigrants has a different skin tone than their predecessors who left their native lands in search of a better life. Just like draconian welfare reform and urban policing policies, just like the notion of the "sanctity of traditional marriage," the immigration debate is just another means of dollying up old school bigotry with euphemistic policy-speak. (I don't recommend this, but try reading the comments on any immigration-related news article or commentary for a first-hand glimpse at the twisted pathologies at work in the anti-immigration crowd.)

The same people who argue about the diversion of tax revenue and educational funds toward services for undocumenteds and their families tend to have acute myopia over the trillions of dollars being pissed away in the quixotic efforts to bring "democracy" to the Middle East. Meanwhile, the punitive approach toward dealing with immigration involves all sorts of cash-intensive and ludicrous schemes with the net effect of exacerbating the problem by creating a permanentally marginalized shadow population. Hey, but it plays well to the lumpen-ignoramuses, and that's what really matters. Plus, becoming a permanent problem means that it can also be a reliable means to rally support for decades to come!

The whining about cultural integrity is obnoxious in the extreme. The bottom line is that things change, with or without an influx of the foreign-born. The North Woburn I grew up in is gone, as is the Woburn High I attended, and so are most of the places I hung out in during my college and immediate-post college years. That the local convenience store I'm a regular at is now run by South Asians doesn't bother me one bit. (Davis and Central Squares going unrecognizably yuppified and upscale? That's another matter.)

If one's sense of identity -- cultural, social, or national -- is so fragile that it can't bear the presence of new accents, new sounds, new cuisines, then it wasn't worth having in the first place. If the new is that threatening and unbearable, the problem isn't with them, however you define the other, the problem is with you.

(It's not like the situation Moz is whining about is anything new. Colin MacInnes documented it in his "London" novels fifty years ago. Elements of it weave through the early UK punk scene Morrissey sprung out of. Christopher Priest wrote of an England overrun by non-natives in the disturbing 1973 sci-fi novel Fugue for a Darkening Island.)

Oh well, Moz. Maybe your fan David Cameron and his cronies will take power in a couple years, and restore the Thatcherite paradise you seem to miss so much.

Dread Zeppelin - Immigrant Song (from Un-Led-Ed, 1990) - Oooh-ahhh-ah-AH! I really don't hear the "reggae" part of the "reggae Led Zeppelin cover band fronted by an Elvis impersonator" conceit here. I recall them being pretty hot stuff for a while back in the early 1990's, though the buzz turned out to be very short-lived.

Manic Hispanic - Get Them Immigrated (from The Recline of Mexican Civilization, 2001) - A topical revision (and vast improvement) of Offspring's "Come Out and Play," courtesy of Orange County's tongue-in-cheek Latino punk supergroup. Blast it at the next neighborhood meeting of the Minutemen. Or not. Racist yokels with guns and poor senses of humor can be unpredictable.

I don't know why

Having grown up in a blue collar suburban neighborhood in the early-to-mid 1980's, my pre-adolescence was strongly touched by the cheesetacular power of pop metal in its pre-glam (or, as I've come to call it, "ugly metal") incarnation. I perfected my air guitar skills. I scribbled poor reproductions of band logos in ballpoint on my book covers. I flipped through second-hand copies of Circus and Hit Parader, marveling at the full-page photos, lame efforts at mythmaking, and especially all the cool rocker gear being hawked in the backpage ads.

That was my life, that was my song. I paid no heed to the warnings that metal health will drive one mad, because -- day in, day out, all week long -- things just went better with rock.

Looking back on those times, I feel neither the rosy glow of nostalgia nor the rosy cheeks of embarrassment. It was what it was, a childhood phase shared with many other lads (and lasses) in my socio-economic demographic which I later dumped in favor of 60's soul music. Maybe it would have been cooler if I had discovered punk rock five years earlier instead, but you can't fault an eleven year old for grasping the low-hanging subcultural fruit, especially when it perfectly captured the stuff quasi-pubescent boys' dreams are made of.

All the above is just my long-winded way of explaining why I felt a touch of sadness upon discovering that Quiet Riot frontman Kevin DuBrow passed away at his Las Vegas home last Sunday.

Quiet Riot - Cum on Feel the Noize (from Metal Health, 1983) - I just wish they kept the opening "Baby, baby, BAY-BEH!" from Slade's original version...

and came in with the morning tide

I'm feeling under the weather today (an awful sinus headache), so this is all I've got the energy to offer, presented completely free of any context or specific relevance:


Carter USM - Everytime A Churchbell Rings (from 101 Damnations, 1989) - Due to the writers' strike, NBC has been running repeats of the Tonight Show. Last night's episode was originally taped back in the last spring or early summer of 1992, the tail end of one of the most memorable patches of my personal history. As my brain tried to make sense of Jay Leno's oddly oversized suit jacket and the dated topical humor (Ross Perot jokes!), I felt a strange sensation wash over me. It wasn't nostalgia's bittersweet call, but rather like a lucid flashback, as if the fabric of time bent back on itself and let the geists of the zeit run wild just as I had begun to nod off to sleep.

As a consequence, I woke up this morning wishing for a slice of Cafe Aventura pizza and an buring desire to listen to 101 Damnations again. Cafe Aventura, like most of the Harvard Square I used to know and love, is long gone, but I do still have my copy of the album that (more than any of the other scores of records bought and listened to back then) I consider to be the official soundtrack of that chapter of my life.

the alternative is only one

Returning to work after a long holiday break was enough of an ordeal. Booting up my workstation and having the power go out in my cubicular neighborhood was Providence's little way of gilding the lily of aggravation.

I first though my surge protector was to blame. It's a cranky old beast which has been in use for over a decade, and is covered in a thick rime of carpet dust and other unpleasant accretions. I dug a replacement from the office's store of surplus tech-junk while waiting for the facilities guy to reset the breakers.

He eventually did, and everything was hunky-dory for a whole half hour before the power cut out again. After I composed myself and made sure that the throbbing in my skull was not the sign of an impending cerebral hemorrhage, I did some low-level detective work (i.e. "asked around") and discovered the true source of the problem: motherfucking space heaters. Apparently everyone in this circuit node, apart from myself, has one of those ingenious devices which convert the flow of electrons into a nosebleedingly high utility bill and a very small, very localized amount of heat energy.

(Seriously, it is a long-held belief of mine that space heaters -- along with their culinary cousin, the toaster oven -- are the unholy offspring of an alliance between the electrical utility overlords and a shadowy organization dedicated towards causing house fires. Nothing anyone can do or say will convince me otherwise.)

So, as I banged my head off the back of my ergonomic computer chair and watched the better part of what ought to have been a productive work day slip though my grasp, the space heater enthusiasts tried to determine a work-around to distribute the power drain more evenly while the facilities guy tried to explain that the building simply wasn't wired for that level of electrical use.

Like all institutional buildings, the climate control here does tend to be poorly distributed, but rarely to actionable extremes, and never to an extent that can't be solved with a sweater (or in my case, an insulated flannel shirt -- because once a punk rocker...) Then again, maybe I've never noticed any problems because I've apparently been surrounded by space heaters on all sides. Maybe I should invest in some flame retardant undergarments.

I hope today's experience doesn't serve as an augur for the rest of the work week. In any case, I managed to wring another self-conscious post out of the idiocy and finally got on opportunity to unleash this most guilty of pop-rock pleasures:

Peter Wolf - Lights Out (from Lights Out, 1984) - 1984 was a big year for dancing in the dark, apparently. Here the former J. Geils Band frontman eschews awkwardly tripping the light fandango with Courteney Cox and instead chooses to groove to the radio, oh.

...and if you're the cautious sort who doesn't want to sprain an ankle or stub one's toes while booglalooing in a darkened room...

Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark - Electricity (from Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark, 1980) - And thus the "alternative energy rock" subgenre was born. Dead or Alive's "You Spin Me Round"? It's about the need to build wind farms, honest.

Röyksopp - Circuit Breaker (from The Understanding, 2005) - Preventing negative mood overloads though the power of well-constructed Scando-tronica.

let me show you once and we'll be free

Hey, groovy readers, can you figure out...


Answer: Not only was the bus on time, but it's the middle of August and the air conditioner is working properly.

Answer: These lively lads are playing outside, getting plenty of fresh air and exercise instead of sitting on the rumpus room couch playing Halo 3 and stuffing their faces with junk food.

Answer: The driver of the car was able to effectively respond to an unexpected situation because she doesn't use her cell phone while driving.

Answer: The community still maintains public trash receptacles, instead of earkmarking those funds toward extortionate tax breaks for condo developers and multinational corporations.

Answer: None of the students in the above picture are carrying a concealed weapon or murder list, nor has anyone uttered a homophobic insult during the entire course of the event depicted.

The Jesus and Mary Chain - Something's Wrong (from Psychocandy, 1985) - I'll say. It sounds like someone stuck a meat skewer though my subwoofer. Wait, that buzzdrone I'm hearing is intentional and considered to be the band's signature sound? The devil you say!

The Byrds - It Won't Be Wrong (from Turn! Turn! Turn! 1965) - How could it be, when twelve-string jangles and dead perfect folk rock harmonies are involved?

they're all dancing to a drum machine

Every so often I'll hit upon a potential topic, only to find that it rapidly spirals into utter unwieldiness. Yesterday morning, I was lying awake in bed, looking at the ceiling and contemplating the sentential logic behind Rick Springfield's assertions that universally "we all need the human touch" and specifically Rick himself "needs the human touch," and how it all leads somehow to an art-directed and choreographed pop version of Beckett's Endgame, when I got the idea of doing a post focusing upon touch-related songs.

With a couple witty comments already forming in my head (including a requisite dig at Phil Collins and "Invisible Touch" that didn't turn out to be as witty as originally envisioned), I booted up the PC and ran some archive searches to appropriate songs that I might have missed while compiling my mental list. What I got back was enough material to create a double disc themed compilation. Being so spoiled for choice made the process of selection that much more difficult: Do I go for cheap and cheesy novelty? Or do I pick songs I actually like? For the briefest of moments, I considered making a theme week out of concept, but being a WASP by birth and New Englander by nature (I was born in North Carolina, but on occupied territory), such a focus on physical contact runs counter to my core ethos. (It's all about the personal space, kids!)

I was on the verge of shelving the whole idea when I finally stumbled upon a workable angle to address the tactile sensation that's sweeping the nation. Can you figure out what it is? (If you can't, I pity you, though you may have a bright future ahead of you as a Newsarama board commenter or Amazon.com user reviewer.)

Hugo Montenegro - Touch Me (from Moog Power, 1969) - Why go with The Doors' original version when there's a perfectly bizarre moogified cover version just waiting to be inflicted on the listening public? It's that kind of thinking (along with all the comics-themed posts and copious amounts of self-loathing) that sets me apart from other music bloggers. Granted the whole "Switched On" concept loses something when the song being reimagined is organ-heavy to start, but the stereophonic gimmickry and the Tom Jones-meets-Up With People vocals more than make up for it.

Samantha Fox - Touch Me (I Want Your Body) (from Touch Me, 1986) - I can't hear this song without thinking of my high school best friend, who had a largish framed poster of Ms. Fox on the wall of his bed room. He may have even been a fan of her music (though it was tangential to her appeal as a pop star). He also had a white leather jacket, snakeskin boots, and a feathered mullet. (No Pontiac Firebird, though.) Alas, our friendship did not stand the test of time, as other forces -- punk rock for me, live action role playing for him -- conspired to come between us.

Cathy Dennis - All Night Long (Touch Me) (from Move to This, 1990) - Before she embarked on a successful career of penning appealing (Kylie's "Can't Get You Out of My Head") and appalling (Britney's "Toxic") dance pop numbers for other performers, Cathy Dennis recorded a string of dance pop hits back in the early 1990's, which I've become rather fond of with the passing of years. Ah, the wonders of nostalgic dementia.

(I was surprised -- in a good way -- when my wife confessed that she was briefly into the dance pop scene back in the day, and bought a number of singles by Dennis, Neneh Cherry, and Technotronic during that brief interval between her first and current punk rock phases.)

Friday Night Fights: Finish Him!

In this week's contribution to the Master of the Funk Cosmic's four-color free-for all, the assassin-for-hire Slaymaster learns that trash-talking can occasionally backfire...

(from Captain Britain v2 #13, January 1986; reprinted in the 1988 Captain Britain TPB; by Alan Davis and Noel Davis)
...especially when one does it to Brian (Captain Britain) Braddock after gouging out his sister's eyes.

Yeah, it's a bit clichéd (with sexist "Avenging Male" undertones, to boot), but compared to the greasy gigglefest that closes out the thematically similar Batman: The Killing Joke, it posesses far more emotional authenticity. Braddock's expression in the second panel is damn near perfect, capturing the character's conflict as he teeters on a moral precipice where the slightest pressure can make it all come crashing down.

Basement Jaxx - Where's Your Head At (from Rooty, 2001) - A musical annotation that works on multiple levels in this case, and features a synth riff copped from Gary Numan's "M.E."as well.

seasonal holiday digression

Today is Thanksgiving. For our readers not blessed with the good fortune of residing in the World's Only Superpower^TM, the holiday commemorates how my Calvinist ancestors managed to survive an entire year in this forsaken part of the globe (through the aid of the native inhabitants of the Massachusetts Bay area), thus cementing their toehold in the New World (so that they could begin the important work of exterminating those who had helped them in their time of need).

Thanksgiving also serves an important role as a dress rehearsal for the tragicomic improv revue that is Christmas, allowing all the principle players to hone their characterizations and determine which grudges, resentments, or other issues they wish to bring to the main event. The venom of familial discord, like fine liquor (which also plays an important role in the process), grows more potent with the passing of time, and a month of ruminations over "what exactly did he mean by that?" can make all the difference between an awkward moment and a full-on, no holds barred scene occurring over the communal dining table.

Being an unapologetic social terrapin myself, I plan to do what I usually do every holiday that involves family gatherings -- drop the wife off so that she can celebrate with her boisterous Hibernian clan, then return home and spend the day in blessed solitude. I most likely will go over the Woburn Highlands and through the city center to my grandmother's house, though, for a short visit. Doing the Right Thing must needs trump my asocial tendencies, after all. I just have to remember to time the trip correctly so as to avoid the traffic nightmare generated by the annual class war by pigskin proxy otherwise known as the Woburn-Winchester game. (As a side note, the Woburn High athletic teams are called the Tanners, a historical nod to the leather industry whose environmental effects are still, despite head-in-the-sand boosterism, still being dealt with to this day.)

After those obligations are taken care of, it's a simple matter of squandering the empty minutes until Maura returns home with a plate of leftovers for me to pick over. (Maybe I'll finally commit to my plan of watching Armored Trooper VOTOMS in its entirety, or perhaps I'll queue up some choice episodes of MST3K in honor of Turkey Days past -- I tend to be more excited about the concept of unobligated time than the use I put it towards.) Then, as our customary coda for the holiday, the wife and I will pop Blast from the Past into the DVD player (a tradition started by Maura; I've long given up trying to make sense of these things), and let the soothing power of swing revival-themed romantic comedy lull us to sleep.

Not a bad way to spend the holiday, actually, and infinitely preferable to this...

Oh my. This isn't going to end well at all. (As if one needed yet another reason to fear legumes...)

The Neighborhoods - No Place Like Home (from a 1980 single; collected on D.I.Y. - Mass Ave - The Boston Scene: 1975-83, 1993) - Fulfilling all your provinicial power pop needs on this New Anglocentric holiday.

Camera Obscura - I Don't Do Crowds (from Biggest Bluest Hi-Fi, 2001) - Not if I can avoid it, and I'm as skilled in avoidance as these Glaswegian indie poppers are at crafting lovely twee-ish pop songs.

bring the noise

As you may have already heard, today is supposed to be "No Music Day." While I have nothing but admiration and respect for Bill Drummond and the KLF, as far as this participatory bit of performance art is concerned, I'm taking my cue from these Welsh masters of minimalist post-punk:

Young Marble Giants - Include Me Out (from Colossal Youth, 1980)

Because, really, a day without Esquerita is like a day without sunshine...

Esquerita - Rockin' the Joint (from The Capitol Collectors Series, 1994) - A bit like Little Richard -- who was strongly influenced by the man otherwise known as Eskew Reeder Jr. -- only a little less sedate and refined.

when the truth is found to be lies

I haven't done a political post in a while, choosing instead to slip, stumble, and fall into the role of comics blogger, a direction I honestly wanted to avoid. The truth is that it is far easier and less trying on the psyche to crack wise about Namor's swimtrunks or Steve Lombard than to sit down and try to articulate my current thoughts about the present state of events.

Not that there has been anything really worth writing about in the first place. The present cycle of history is caught in an accelerated loop where we've already gone though the fifth or sixth go round of the same shit -- first as a tragedy, then as a farce, then as a tragic farce, then as slapstick, then as snuff porn. When the road out is beyond most people's willingness to comprehend or stomach, it becomes preferable to keep spinning the wheels and get used to the smell of burning rubber...or books...or bodies.

Meanwhile the Democratic-controlled congress has continued to roll over and vacillate, the fourth estate has been preoccupied with Britney's adventures in moving violations, and Bush and Company's surge plan for Iraq is being labeled a success -- meaning the sawdust in the transmission will mask the grinding noises until the next administration drives it off the used pre-owned war lot.

It doesn't look like things are going to get any better in the near future. The frontloading of the 2008 presidential election season, as welcome an event as "Christmas in July" retail promotions, has only succeded in making me nauseous and convincing me that none of the candidates are qualified to lead the nation out of the wilderness.

The Republican contenders have chosen to define themselves through their ever-escalating attempts to out-fascist one another, with the exception of Ron Paul's mix of anti-interventionism (good) and extreme right-wing libertarianism (not good). I wish that those folks pinning all their hopes on Paul as an outsider white knight antiwar candidate would pay a little more attention to the rest of his political positions. (Even if I could ever bring myself to vote for a Republican, his anti-choice stance and support for this misleading bit of legislation puts him beyond the political pale.)

Then there's the Democratic crop of candidates, whose apparent plan for 2008 is to take a tremendously advantageous historical position and attempt to turn it into a loss. They're long on lofty platitudes, short on honest convictions (except Dennis Kucinich, who had to spoil things with his UFO talk), and have exhibited an overall willingness to piss all over the party's traditional base in order to pander to folks who aren't going to vote Democratic anyhow. The politics of principle have given way to the politics of point-scoring by any means necessary, even if it means crazy talk about nuclear weapons use or cozying up to anti-gay religious demagogues, and being "progressive" means "your vote is a given, so suck it up, baby."

In such circumstances, looking for silly or creepy subtext in old comics stories is a welcome relief.

Agent Orange - Somebody to Love (from the When You Least Expect It... EP, 1984) - I originally considered posting The Great Society's original version of this song (which Grace Slick brought with her to Jefferson Airplane when she jumped bands), but it was a little too mellow given my present mood. So an OC punk cover it is, then.

you won't believe what's goin' on

Our sordid tale begins within the pages of Avengers #71 (December 1969), where Earth's Mightiest Heroes found themselves being used as pawns in a high-stakes wager between the Kang the Conqueror, a time-travelling despot, and the Grandmaster, a cosmic-powered version of Jimmy the Greek. As part of the contest, a group of present-day Avengers were transported back to Nazi-occupied Paris where they got the opportunity to tussle with the Golden Age versions of Captain America, Sub-Mariner, and the Human Torch:

It's pretty entertaining stuff for what it is -- bombastic Silver Age superhero melodrama told in the Mighty Marvel Manner -- and the arc is reprinted in its entirety in the very affordable Essential Avengers, Volume 4.

So what if the versions of the Golden Age characters don't match up exactly with the stories printed back in the 1940's? It's not as if little details like the shape of Captain America's shield or the cut of Namor's trunks really matter in the grand scheme of things, given the nature of disposable serialized adventure stories. Even if some clever fan were to point out the discrepancy, it's nothing that can't be taken care of with a glib comment in the letters page and a hastily mailed No-Prize.

Unless you happen to be Roy Thomas, the Grand Guru of Foolish Consistency (and honorary muse of Armagideon Time), that is. Thomas's minor gaffe as writer of Avengers #71 haunted him for years. So much so, that eight years later he would dedicate the forty-odd pages of the first Invaders annual towards setting things right.

Have you ever spilled a couple drops of red wine or India ink on a white carpet, and in the process of trying to scrub it out, turned some barely noticeable specks into a massively conspicuous stain? Sometimes the best course of action really is to just let things be. It's one thing to backfill details such as why Captain America is using his old shield in 1942 or Black Panther mixing up which year the Avengers actually travelled back in time to, but...

...when we reach a point involving Nazis stealing the underpants off an unconscious Namor, the solution outstrips (pun semi-intended) the problem. Have no fear, concerned parents of America, it's all for the sake of science:

Contact the Führer and tell him that Operation: Unterwäscheüberfall was a complete success!
Fortunately for the Allies, chafing issues prevented the Third Reich from mobilizing its division of Banane-Wärmerkommandos in time to alter the course of the war. Many of the scientists involved in the project would later serve vital roles in America's post-war swimwear research program, thus giving the Free World a vital edge over the Soviets' top-secret speedo development plans.

Oh, and just in case there may have been any lingering confusion regarding Sub-Mariner's contradictory costuming, the point gets hammered home one final (extremely awkward and disturbing) time...

Is that "know" in the biblical sense?
Is it any wonder that concept of continuity as applied to superhero comics has gotten such a bad reputation over the years?

The Rip Chords - One Piece Topless Bathing Suit (from Three Window Coupe, 1964) - Going from "mildly saucy" to "extremely fucking creepy" in the space of an uncomfortable minute. The Rip Chords were essentially a front group for the musical duo Bruce & Terry (the "Terry" in question being future super-producer Terry Melcher, the son of Doris Day, the man who introduced Charles Manson to the Beach Boys, and the owner of the house where Sharon Tate and company were murdered).

Royal Teens - Short Shorts (from Golden Classics, 1994) - Oh, you poor little bit of irritatingly catchy fluff... Will you ever escape the shadow of chemical depilatory porducts?

when you're unwanted

One of the things I picked up on yesterday's trip to the comic shop was a copy of the July 1985 issue of Starburst, a UK sci-fi fan mag. The initial draws were the photo-heavy feature articles on Max Headroom and Robin of Sherwood (a pagan-slash-crusty 80's retelling of the legend). In typical fashion for these kind of purchases, however, it was the odds and ends material, written up in a breathy excited twenty-years-gone now, that ended up fascinating me the most.

Things like advance speculation on the "forthcoming" Pluto Nash film or the announcement that Tobe Hooper's next project will be the Spider-Man film (wrong horror film director, wrong decade), seem rather poignant and quaint when taken in from a present-day vantage point, not to mention the fact that the tone and tenor of these speculations and teasers haven't changed at all over the years, only the names of the individual franchises. ("Did you hear? Tobey Maguire has been linked to the 'forthcoming' Robotech movie!")

...and then there's the letter page, which offers the armchair pathologist ample material for their study of the fan subspecies. Here are a some choice excepts, featuring annotations compiled by yours truly:

Here we have an excellent example of the bottom-feeding connoisseur at work. While it is possible (and frequently rewarding) to clinically dissect trash culture artifacts in search of hidden meanings and evidence of historical trends, what sets the bottom-feeding connoisseur apart is an intrinsic inability to separate the forest from the trees, and are quick to expend hundreds or thousands of words expounding with a total lack of self-awareness on such matters as how many Daleks coud fit on the head of a sonic screwdriver in terms similar to those used in a doctoral dissertation, and yet utterly miss the point through their obsession with minutae.

In almost every case, their elaborate theses end with an unintentional punchline that serves to verify their status as bottom feeders. For example: "...and this is why I find Crisis on Infinite Earths to be a creative endeavor in all aspects inferior to Dragon Ball Z."

Above is a classic case of dysmorphic proportionality. My father once stated that "the most important thing that ever happened to you is the most important thing that ever happened to you," meaning that significance is subject to a personal frame of reference. Being the first human to set foot on the moon or enrolling at UMass Boston -- the actual scope of such actions for the individuals involved lies within each person, and in that aspect does not lend itself to quick objective comparisons.

That said, most people do have a sense (to varying degrees) of proportionality about such things, understanding that what they strongly value might not be what the next person does, be it pomegranates, cats, or Firefly. Those suffering from dysmorphic proportionality are unwilling or unable to acknowledge conflicting views regarding their own hobby-horses, and when confronted with dissenting opinions turn very nasty, very quickly. This is often because those suffering from the syndrome have chosen to structure their personal reality around the contested subject. Calling its validity into question is therefore seen as a personal attack on their core being, thus calling for a all-out response, ad hominem attacks and all.

When practiced in a casual environment, the act of fan-casting, matching actors to roles to an imaginary film based on some property or other, can be a highly entertaining and frequently amusing activity. (I'm rereading The Count of Monte Cristo currently, and I keep thinking "Armand Assante" in mental picture of Edmond Dantès for some reason.) The inveterate fan-caster, however, has overindulged in the process to a point where their palette of potential choices has narrowed so as as to only include current "hot" actors or operates on overly facile typecasting.

Having entered the terminal phase of the syndrome, the inveterate fan-caster finds his- or herself unable, even in the most ironic or comedic contexts, to proffer selections such as "Gary Coleman as B.A. Baracus in The A-Team movie," but will instead fill every role with either "Samuel L. Jackson" (tough guy), "Scarlet Johannson" (female lead), "Johnny Depp" (male lead),or "that guy who was in that one episode of Farscape who played an android because the character in the imaginary movie is an android."

Also, regarding the above letter: I've read it a dozen times, I have it in front of me printed out in black and white, but I am still having extreme difficulty accepting the fact that anyone, at anytime could have possibly written "I'll be looking forward to the film Santa Claus coming up."

Echo & The Bunnymen - People Are Strange (from The Lost Boys OST, 1987) - The only thing I actually liked about Joel Shumacher's extended vampiric remix of INXS's "Devil Inside" music video. (The wife thinks the film is pretty swell, but there are plenty of iffy patches in her usually unquestionable tastes.)

(Pigmaei gigantum humeris impositi plusquam ipsi gigantes vident.)

but that's the way that it goes

Another minimal content post today, as my brother drove down from the Granite State and our day was spent checking out the local comic shop's half-off sale for interesting finds (and there were plenty, some of which will make their way into upcoming posts), getting batter-fried mushrooms and sandwiches from the roast beef place around the corner, playing Marvel: Ultimate Alliance in co-op mode, and, as always with these sibling get-togethers, talking crap about comics.

For the final act of the day's events, I busted out my copy of Karaoke Revolution, strapped on the PS2 headset microphone, and barnstormed my way through this synthpop classic...

New Order - Bizarre Love Triangle (from Brotherhood, 1986)

...while brother and my wife bore witness to my glorious (if heavily accented and nasally) alto vocal stylings and spasmodic dance moves.

Friday Night Fights: It's a beauty, eh?

Just so we're all clear on this: Snowbird, the half-human daughter of the goddess Nelvanna...

(from Alpha Flight v1 #24, July 1985; by Byrne and Wiacek)
...has zero patience for smartassess who indulge in semantic games. Thank goodness (or maybe not) that the comics internet hadn't yet come into being.

While there are many (too many, actually) comics I loved in my formative years that my present-day self can't bear to reread -- even at gunpoint -- my affection for John Byrne's 28-issue run Alpha Flight, a team book featuring Canadian superheroes, has remained steady over the past couple decades. There's a fascinating oddness to the stories, stemming from the freedom Byrne had in working with his own creations in a setting that was certainly tied to the rest of the Marvel Universe, yet also came across as its own little world, with a greater sense of authenticity than the then-standard practice of adding some exaggerated local color onto a stock locale as window dressing.

The question of how authentic it was is another matter, best left to our Canadian friends, but it did shape my impressions of our neighbors to the north...

...and what I didn't learn from Alpha Flight, I picked up from these guys...

Bob and Doug McKenzie - Take Off (from The Great White North, 1982) - Featuring the talents of Mr. Geddy Lee.

(Bahlactus always tells it as it is.)

looked around and wondered can this be

The many sinister aspects of Morgan Edge, President of the Galaxy Broadcasting System:

He's a ruthless businessman.
(Yes, that's Don Rickles up there with him. No, I don't feel like explaining it.)
He's a tyrannical boss.
He's the secret capo of a cosmic crime cartel with ties to an extra-dimensional dictator.
...and most heinous of all...
He's a Trekkie.
Spizzenergi - Where's Captain Kirk? (from a 1979 single; collected on Spizz Not Dead, 1996) - Would a Spizz by any other name (-energi, -oil, Athletico '80) sound as sweet? (And to answer the question posed by song's title, he's currently doing commericals for Priceline, winning acclaim for his role on Boston Legal, and, I presume, developing a treatment for TekWar: The Broadway Musical.)

who do you think you are

Mikester's post on a book of pre-Crisis Superman trivia got me to thinking about the awesomeness that is Steve Lombard. A sportscaster and co-worker of Clark Kent's at WGBS-TV, Lombard was the Superman mythos' answer to "Flash" Thompson, an obnoxious jock adversary-slash-rival whose purpose in life is to make life difficult for the hero's civilian identity, thus providing a more readily reader-identifiable conflict than rampaging super-gorillas or old men dressed as carrion birds could.

I'd like to see Luthor try and get away with something like that. (Also, what's up with the perspective in that panel?)
The world was introduced to Steve "The Slinger" Lombard in the pages of Superman v1 #264 (June 1973; story by Cary Bates with art by Curt Swan and Murphy Anderson), where Lombard, then the star quarterback of the Metropolis Meteors, struts his stuff before the big game...

The Joe Namath/Austin Powers look never fails to wow the sexy ladies.
Lombard's deep thoughts are interrupted by a falling baby -- an astoundingly common occurrence in Metropolis, where the citizens have chosen to put their faith in Kryptonian intervention over child-proofed windows -- and he rushes to make the interception. He succeeds in saving the child, but alas...

I suppose they'll blame this on Bill Belichick, too...
Lombard passes out from the pain, and upon awakening discovers he has been taken to the laboratory of one of the many misguidedly overeager scientists that populated (73% of the total residents, according to the 1970 city census) Metropolis in those wild and woolly days. The scientist heals Lombard's bum knees with a highly experimental device that channels the sun's UV radiation. (No mention is made of what happened to the baby, but I'm sure the kid did just fine after being abandoned on a street corner.)

Unbeknownst to the doctor and patient, however, high levels of sunspot activity have led to an unusual side-effect -- the creation of an energy doppelganger of Lombard, which acting under the QB's subconscious commands, takes Lombard's place on the gridiron and single-handedly wins the title for the Meteors.

Lois Lane and Clark Kent are given job of conducting the post-game interview with Lombard, who is willing to take the credit for his doppelganger's victory. (Hey, there's nothing in the NFL bylaws forbidding substitutions by mentally controlled sunspot-generated duplicates.) After taking a shine to Lois, Lombard engages in some roughhousing with Clark so as to prove his status as Alpha Male and worthiness as a potential mate. Clark, on the other hand, does his best not to give into the impulse to backhand Lombard's vertebrae into trans-Saturnian orbit.

Isn't traditional masculinity grand?
Of course, nothing is ever cut and dried when dealing with physical manifestations of the Id, and while Lombard continues to work his overcompensating mojo on Lois, his other half rampages through the city. The creature's solar-based physiology plays havoc with Superman's own sun-powered abilities, leading to a standoff where the Man of Tomorrow has no choice but to turn to his own repressed feelings of rage in order to gain the edge.

If I were a psychologist, I'd be more than a little concerned about how Superman refers to his alter ego as a separate entity here.
Fortunately for all concerned, the creature is highly susceptible to commands shouted at it when clutched by the ankles, and flies off to harmlessly dissipate in the sun's chromosphere.

Get back, Johnny Unitas! Your mother's waiting for you!
His secret exposed, Lombard decides to do the right thing, and confess his duplicity (or is that "duplicasicity") on national television. Exposed, disgraced, and barred from his chosen profession, there's only one option left for Lombard...

For those generations born after the concept became extinct, this is what "taking responsibility for one's actions" looked like.

...a job in broadcast journalism.

Forget graphic violence and lewd content, fanboys. I got your "realism in comics" right here.
Thus began an illustrious decade-long career of bugging the shit out of Clark Kent, a career which was tragically cut short by the post-Crisis revamp of the Superman mythos. The back to basics approach of John Byrne's Man of Steel had no place for an obnoxious jock foil, and even as decades passed and subsequent creators reintroduced much of Superman's deleted backstory, their fixation tended to be upon nonsensical Silver Age Kryptonian trivia and the convoluted relationship between Lex Luthor and Last Son of Krypton rather than reestablishing Steve Lombard's presence in the franchise....

Steve likes to watch.
...until Grant Morrison and Frank Quitely saw fit to rectify that error in the pages of All-Star Superman with the glorious introduction of Ultimate "All-Star" Steve Lombard. Sporting some seriously broad shoulders, a Jheri-curl mullet, and a wardrobe inspired by the oiliest of 70's lounge lizards, Ultimate "All-Star" Steve Lombard, in light of the rationale behind the series, could be seen to represent the purest, most platonically ideal incarnation of what a Steve Lombard ought to be. Long may he reign.

Jean Knight - Mr. Big Stuff (from Mr. Big Stuff, 1971) - Proving once again that it's not the size that matters, but rather the technique.

The Freeze - Go Team Go (from Land of the Lost, 1984) - Boston hardcore's finest? I'd say "yes." (The band actually hailed from Cape Cod, which somehow makes them even cooler.)

the time is precious I know

A Monday holiday + a data rollover day + an already busy time of year at work + a workplace open house this afternoon = yet another minimal content post.

In the meantime, here's The Clash covering Booker T. & The MG's in a track whose title perfectly sums up my present circumstances.

The Clash - Time Is Tight (from Super Black Market Clash, 1994)

choking on the dirt and sand

I spent my holiday engaged in a lopsided battle to root out the forces of entropy from their subterranean lair, or in less florid terms, "I cleaned the basement." It's a project I had been meaning (however reluctantly) to tackle for some time now, though a stream of convenient distractions (read: videogames and weak excuses) made it possible to postpone the inevitable longer than I ever dreamed possible.

My idle leisure's stay of execution ended last Thursday, however, when a representative from the natural gas company came knocking at my front door in order to inform me that our meter was past due for replacement and that they'd send a crew to the house on Wednesday to install a new one. While I've long since resigned myself to having a disgracefully messy cellar, I was not comfortable with sharing knowledge of its present state with outsiders. Being a member of civil society means that there are standards which must be observed, and one doesn't allow just anyone to bear witness to the large pile of soda cans that have fallen out of the recycling bin (sometime back in 2005, but the intent to redeem them was there, honest) or the haphazard jumble of boxes that once contained various household appliances...and the replacements for those appliances...and the replacements for the replacements.

I set aside this, the last day of my long weekend (because there is nothing so important that it cannot be deferred till the last minute), to impose a degree of order upon the chaos borne of complacency. It was surprisingly easy going. At least, it was until I broke out the push broom, and generated a cloud of airborne debris with my sweeping that rivaled the output of a major pyroclastic event. My glasses, my clothes, the hair, my bronchial passages quickly became coated in a layer of thick gray layer of dust that no amount of deep soaking seems to be able to dislodge completely.

And so, while I head off to the bathroom to attempt to expectorate a few more chunks of phlegm-crete, I offer you these fine particulate-themed tracks for your musical enjoyment. (Breath masks optional, though strongly recommended.)

Siouxsie & The Banshees - Cities in Dust (from Tinderbox, 1986) - Where the band and I parted ways. They did release a few minor gems after this Vesuvial masterpiece, but -- much like The Cure did around the same time -- seemed to increasingly play toward the public's flawed perceptions of the band's image, and that's a one way road to embarrassment.

Mazzy Star - Into Dust (from So Tonight I Might See, 1993) - The dark dreaminess of a Nyquil-triggered haze distilled into musical form, and I mean that as a compliment, really.

The Chemical Brothers - In Dust We Trust (from Exit Planet Dust, 1995) - Your volume do not adjust, though your hair may get mussed. Instead moves you should bust, to the beats of electro lust. (This concludes today's test of my readership alienation experiment.)

how the hell did you get here

It's been another busy Sunday, so I hope you'll forgive me if I keep this brief...


...or rather, "briefs." It's from the cornucopia of licensed crap dangled in front of impressionable tykes within the pages of Nintendo Power's 1988 holiday gift guide. As someone who spent the second half of his childhood in the mythical era known as the Eighties, the concept of merchandising extending its slimy tendrils into the realm of fine washables doesn't surprise me, though the sly conspiratorial tone of the ad copy did give me pause. "What happens beneath your acidwash jeans is between you and King Bowser, kid."

Even worse, my mind keeps trying to contextualize the ad in terms of this...



...resulting in crippling bouts of nausea and an utter lack of faith in a just universe. (I get the same feeling whenever I see an article or news clip dealing with Victoria Beckham.)

Please Agent #015, can you or your magic mullet tell me how one can escape from this existential crisis?

Up, Up, Down, Down, Left, Right, Left, Right, B, A, Start? Of course! Why didn't I think of that?

Pulp - Underwear (from Different Class, 1995)

The Go-Go's - Skidmarks on My Heart (from Beauty and the Beat, 1981)

herstory repeats itself

In 1972's Adventure Comics #418, a women's self defense organization...


...turns out to be a front for something sinister.


In 1994's Captain America #431, a project to champion gender equality by unlocking women's full potential...


...turns out to be a front for something sinister.


In 2007's Countdown to Final Crisis, a seemingly begin women's shelter...


...turns out to be a front for -- surprise, surprise -- something sinister.


In this ever-changing world of ours, it's reassuring to know that there are some constants we can rely upon.

Silicon Teens - Judy in Disguise (from Music for Parties, 1980) - The Silicon Teens were a playful synthpop cover band which acted as a front organization for Mute Records founder Daniel Miller. Miller was also responsible -- as The Normal -- for the Ballardian minimalist electro classic "Warm Leatherette" and through his label released albums by such seminal synthpop outfits such as Yazoo, Erasure, and Depeche Mode.

The conspiracy stretches wider than you could possibly imagine. Trust no one.