Friday Night Fights: Don't Fear the Leaper

Because this installment of Bahlactus's weekly four-color free-for-all happens to fall on February 29, I though it proper to celebrate the intercalary squaring of the temporal books known as a "leap year" with some bona fide leaping.

Monsieur Batroc, would care to do the honors?

(from Captain America #303, March 1985; by Mike Carlin, Paul Neary, and Dennis Janke)
Le temps est un grand maître, dit-on, le malheur est qu'il tue ses élèves. - Hector Berlioz

The Lambrettas - Leap Before You Look (from Beat Boys in the Jet Age, 1980) - Questionable advice (especially when Star-Spangled Avengers are involved) from these mod revivalists, but a quite nifty song nonetheless.

(Edit: Great minds think alike, as do comics-addled ones.)

it felt like we'd been here

Being the only licensed driver in house, I'm the one who provides transportation to and from Boston Derby Dames bouts on those occasions when Maura decides to go stag. The matches are held at the Shriners' Auditorum in Wilmington (a.k.a. "The Land of Nod"), not far at all from my old North Woburn stomping grounds.

In the summer, making the long ride down Fordham Road to the venue with Super Lumina's windows rolled down, it hard not to notice a certain aroma -- a melange of evergreen, scrub foliage, and diesel scents -- wafting in the late afternoon breeze. It's the smell of my childhood.

I lived in North Woburn until the fall of 1984, when my family left our first floor apartment on the corner of Merrimac and Dartmouth Street and moved into the other side of my maternal grandparents' duplex in Woburn Center. I think about the old neighborhood surprisingly often, though my visits (or rather "pass-throughs," as there's no reason to stop and get out of the car these days) have gotten more and more infrequent. The landscape has changed too much since the early 1980's, and the dissonance between "what was" and "what is" is the stuff of fever dreams -- ghosts of eradicated landmarks superimpose themselves over the upstart subdivisions and McMansions that now occupy their previous spaces.

But then Woburn, especially the part of the city north of I-95 and west of I-93, has been a developmental palimpsest as far back as I can remember. That was what made it such a fascinating place in which to spend one's childhood. Despite the push towards modern office parks as upscale replacements for the tanneries and chemical plants, the the scars and mouldering remains of the old industries remained -- crumbling foundations and discarded machinery half concealed under nature's attempts to reclaim the open spaces.

"Down Back," the tract of land stretching from NELCO (New England Leadburning Company, founded by my great-great-grandfather) to the edge of the city dump was a playground beyond compare, criss-crossed with the BMX-friendly remains of pulled up train tracks and chock-full of piles of illegally discarded junk. A ten-year old with more curiosity than sense (and, hopefully, an up-to-date tetanus vaccination) could unearth all kinds of treasures from the refuse, from animal skulls to a collection of turn-of-the-century postcards to creased and weatherbeaten porn mags to all sorts of things construct a hastily made go-kart with before sending it careening down Chester Avenue. One of the more disturbing finds my crew made was several sacks of arsenic, dumped by the side of the path so as to return that ultra-toxic goodness back to the soil, I suppose. Or because some lazy cheap fuck couldn't be bothered to dispose of it properly.

Coexisting with this graveyard of industry past were many rustic elements. A couple of the residents (including my paternal grandparents, and later, my aunt) at the far end of the neighborhood had horse stables, chicken coops, and even the occasional goat on their land. Though only a short ten miles from downtown Boston, North Woburn was on the far edge of the suburban fringe (which has since spilled northward over the I-95 boundary, brushing up against and even crossing the New Hampshire border. Check the tags on southbound vehicles on any given morning commute, and you'll see what I mean). While not as honky-tonk as, say, Billerica or Tewksbury was at the time, there was a certain blue-collar ethnic hillbilly character to the neighborhood, though fading fast even back then under the influence of newer arrivals but still manifested though the occasional buckshot-perforated stop sign or raccoon pelt nailed to a tree for drying.

As a kid, I wasn't really aware of the neighborhood's unique atmosphere. In fact, I was thrilled when my family moved as it put me within closer range of the places that sold comics, music, and other items of adolescent importance. Now that I'm older, and last traces of its identity have given way to a sedate aura of suburbanity, I find myself reflecting about how lucky I was to have had such a place to spend my formative years in, full of wide open spaces with maximum potential for childhood hijinx and where nine-year old kids could frolic free of adult supervision through industrial ruins.

Yeah, I know. Everyone feels nostalgic about their childhood haunts and thinks that they were something special and rare.

Mine really was, though.

Skeletal Family - Promised Land (from a 1985 single; collected on The Best of the Skeletal Family, 2001) - Not really a chant, and I'm clear on their ever-circling credentials, but it's a lovely bit of gothic rock from a time before the the genre devolved into mall-rats with black hoodies and Trent Reznor fixations.

sooner or later it will pass

Issue #133 of The Uncanny X-Men (May 1980): After the merry band of mutants has their asses handed to them by the Hellfire club, team leader Cyclops tries an astral Hail Mary play in hopes of freeing his lover Jean Grey from Mastermind's psychic control. It doesn't go well, and the issue ends on this shocking note...

OH NO! CYCLOPS IS DEAD! HOW COULD THEY?
The answer, as revealed in the opening splash page of issue #134, is that they didn't:

It was just a bait-and-switch cliffhanger; clumsily done, but well within the standard conventions of the superheroic genre.

There's been some confusion in certain quarters (which I won't link to, because I don't believe in encouraging the delusional) about the nature and tropes of serialized superhero adventure stories -- specifically the inability to separate suspension of disbelief from actually believing.

It's not (so much) a case of folks thinking that Superman is real, but rather that escapist light entertainments generated for profit by publicly traded corporations have a greater meaning than simply being disposable diversions. (Certain works can rise above the baseline, and that's something to be encouraged, but that's neither the norm or even what this particular strain of enthusiast is calling for.) To those who hold such beliefs, the idea that a writer of superhero comics (regardless of his level of talent) could go on record and acknowledge that things like character deaths or incapacitating injuries could be easily be written away if so desired is not taken as a simple affirmation of how mainstream superheroic storytelling has always worked, but as a statement of betrayal most foul.

A betrayal of what, exactly? Not suspension of disbelief, as that concept is something that applies only within the boundaries of the text (or movie, or play, or so forth -- I'm just using "text" as a catch-all term for simplicity's sake). There is a difference between letting an obvious boom shadow slip into an important shot, and the director explaining in an interview the nuts and bolts of the special effects used in her movie. What is bothering these superhero fans is actually the betrayal of a myth, the myth that their cherished characters are more than trademarked fictional properties. To acknowledge the formulaic nature of the genre is to unleash an existential crisis.

I can understand this viewpoint. I think most folks who've indulged in the hobby, especially the ones who picked it up as children, are familiar with the feeling to some extent. I remember reading the conclusion of Iron Man #230 (May 1988)...

...and actually wondering if that could have really been the death of Tony Stark. (Keep in mind that this was only a couple years after Stark reclaimed the heroic identity he'd given up for thirty-odd issues.) It wasn't. He was back the very next issue, per genre standards, with a brand new suit of armor.

Eventually, however, there comes a point where you've seen enough turns of the plot wheel to be able to reliably chart its progress. The overall goofiness of the ever-recycled plot material matters less than the manner in which it is handled -- the tweaks, spins, and innovations capable of turning coal into diamonds (even if they are industrial-grade ones).

It is a different sort of affection, one predicated on awareness and perspective instead of unquestioned enthusiasm and fan entitlement. It is not "apathy" -- the present buzzword of choice among apologists for the latter camp to describe that attitude -- but a sense of perspective about how the business and the genre work. (I'll concede that feelings of jadedness are frequent handmaidens to that attitude, but are not mutually exclusive with being able to enjoy reading superhero material.)

Knowing that a magic trick is a carefully orchestrated deception doesn't preclude appreciating the skillful execution of the illusion. Knowing how Jay Gatsby will end up at the end of Fitzgerald's novel or the solution to one of Raymond Chandler's mysteries doesn't undercut the entertainment value of either. It's about appreciating a work for what it is, and not as a fragment of an ever-churning faux-mythic canon with a disproportionate level of personal importance.

The Darling Buds - It Makes No Difference (from Crawdaddy, 1990) - Better than Transvision Vamp and The Primitives combined...which isn't that hard a feat, but still. I discovered the band (along with Prefab Sprout) through a promo mini-CD bundled inside a case of Coca-Cola and was impressed enough by what I heard to buy (and love) the album despite my punker-than-thou attitude at the time.

we'll help you party it down

Tight-crotched bootcut blue jeans, thick leather belt with huge Schlitz logo buckle, and custom Ford Econoline van conversion not included. Accessorizes well with homemade bongs, bottles of Annie Green Springs, and a handful of Quaaludes swiped from your parents' medicine chest. Impress your friends at the high school parking lot, the pump 'n' munch on the main drag, or the woods behind the rendering plant.

The F.U.'s - We're an American Band (from My America, 1983) - More of a sincere tribute to the Grand Funksters than a punk rock piss take, which makes sense considering the Boston hardcore outfit's (tongue-in-cheek yet controversial) rightward political slant at the time.

obligatory Oscar post

In keeping with current trends, Armagideon Time presents our own Oscar wrap-up..

...or is that "a wrapped up Oscar?"

A tense moment on the red carpet between Adeline McGillicuddy, Oscar Xavier Giuseppe Guevara, and the Plastic Dog.

Oscar celebrates his (half-)Mexican heritage.

An awkward encounter between Oscar and his estranged long lost twin brother.

Score! Oscar lifts a baby carrot from Maura's sack of swag...

...and efforts by the security staff to retrieve the purloined vegetable fail miserably.

"Hey, pal, are you planning on finishing that hamburger?"

Oscar responds to Ryan Seacrest's inane questions.

The Specials - Do the Dog (from The Specials, 1979) - Let's see if I remember the steps to the dance. Left-right-left-sniff your partner's ass, left-right-left-knock over the trash barrel in the kitchen, left-right-left-bark madly at anyone who passes by the house.

Boards of Canada - Oscar See Through Red Eye (from The Campfire Headphase, 2005) - Oscar see through googly eyes, actually. As a dog who takes his downtime very seriously, Oscar has a strong appreciation for well crafted chillout music and this track in particular.

Oscar & The Majestics - I Can't Explain (from Pebbles, Vol. 7: Chicago, Pt. 2, 1994) - Let me try to, then. As 60's British beat and mod groups took their cues from American soul and R&B music, American garage groups took their cues from the British beat and mod groups. It's a process akin to making a sloppy mimeograph of a grainy photostat, which sums up this wonderfully awful cover version of The Who's 1965 classic.

take the z(-list) train

Those of you who have been following the disjointed ramble known as Armagideon Time for a while now might have sussed onto the the sad fact that I tend to be a sucker for z-list comic book characters. It goes back to my childhood, when the concept of shared fictional universes was something of joyous wonder, inviting rather than off-putting. The progression between the two states is as much a result of my own personal development as it one of the genre's evolution. Kids are better equipped psychologically to celebrate minutae over the meat-and-bones of a story than grown-ups are. (Well-adjusted grown-ups, that is.)

A result of my preference for novelty over quality is that I bought and read a lot of really terrible comics during my formative years based solely on the presence of such immortal characters as the Torpedo, Jack of Hearts, Devil-Slayer, and the (sort of) subject of today's post, Air Wave.

The son of the original Air Wave, a minor Golden Age character in the DC/National stable, young Harold "Hal" Jordan decided to follow in his father's superheroic footsteps. Where the original Air Wave relied on his fists and a special set of rollerskates which enabled him to grind along power lines, his successor was able to dematerialize and travel via electromagnetic transmissions, courtesy of a prototype costume created by his father.

He debuted in 1978's Green Lantern #100, appearing opposite his namesake and cousin, Hal (Green Lantern) Jordan, who, along with his pals Green Arrow and Black Canary, schooled the fledgling hero in the tricks of the costumed vigilante trade. From there he went on to a semi-regular back-up feature (by himself and then paired with the Atom) in Action Comics for a short time before fading into the standard minor-league character limbo of occasional guest appearances. (He supposedly "died" during Infinite Crisis, but we are discussing a genre where the afterlife has an ever-revolving door.)

Apart from the novelty aspect, there really wasn't much that set Air Wave apart from other characters of the same mold; he was the Bob Rozakis variant (as opposed to the Gerry Conway variant or the Marv Wolfman variant, adulterated knock-offs all) of the Lee-Ditko everyman teen hero template.

There really wasn't much that differentiated Air Wave from Firestorm, another then-recent addition to DC's roster of superheroes; both were high school jocks who were slightly overwhelmed by their situations, yet determined to make their marks. While Ronnie Raymond shared mental real estate with a nuclear physicist mentor in Firestorm's gestalt form, Hal Jordan had to make do with the giant floating head of his cousin constantly offering sage advice...

"...and zip up your fly, kid. Everyone's laughing at you."
Now, I've heard it argued that a worthy hero needs to have worthy opponents. Bond had Blofeld, Holmes had Moriarty, Superman had Lex Luthor, Ted Knight had Jim J. Bullock -- all worthy adversaries that tested the heroes to the limits of their abilities, revealing their core strengths through contrast and conflict.

So who was deemed worthy to assume the weighty mantle of Air Wave's arch-nemesis?

I've been trying to come up with a Boston-specific equivalent to "Great Texas Longhorns!" but all I've come up with so far is "sunuvva-fahkin-bitch" (delivered with weary irritation, natch).
CASEY JONES, THE MAN WITH THE FLYING CHOO-CHOO!

He likes to steal locomotive memorabilia from museum exhibits. First in Action Comics #488, and again (with the same 24k HO-scale prize as the objective) in DC Comics Presents #55...

Flying refugees from Canobie Lake Amusement Park make excellent cockblockers.
I can understand where Casey's coming from on this; he's chosen such a narrow supervillainous niche for himself that he's pretty much stuck hitting the same targets ad infinitum. I mean he could branch out and hijack a subway train, but the whole electric-powered angle would make it feel like cheating despite the presence of rails and switch junctions. He picked this path for himself and, by damn, he's going to see it through to the bitter end.

What does baffle me, however is that Hal Jordan and his girlfriend are such enthusiasts they make a point of attending every exhibition of vintage train culture that passes through the Dallas metropolitan area. Moreover, it was his girlfriend's idea for a date. I spent years looking for a pro-train significant other before finally facing facts settling on a train-neutral one. Some dudes have all the luck.

Strangely enough, Casey has some high level contacts in the supervillian community. In his DC Comics Presents appearance, he was able to call in a favor from the Parasite, who has held his own against Superman on several occasions. The nature of their relationship does suggest a certain Scott Baio/Johnny V quality to it...

"Yo, P-Man, you wouldn't have a couple of bucks I could borrow till Friday, would ya? I blew my paycheck from Denny's on a lid and the flying choo-choo is low on coal..."
...but even lopsided co-dependent friendships have their limits...

Don't worry. Casey Jones will be back for the second season of Parasite Is 45 and Still Hasn't Beaten Superman.
Jesus Couldn't Drum - I'm a Train (from a 1986 12" EP) - Cute band name and a pretty neat sound from this UK synthpop duo -- a little bit Morrissey, a little bit Depeche Mode.

(To anyone who thought I was going to post that Grateful Dead track: Shame on you.)

grin and bear it

Meet Mikhail Uriokovitch Ursus, a Major in the Red Army...


...known to his proletarian comrades as "Ursa Major, The Man-Bear"...


Though he doesn't look very bearish at first glance...


...within his well-toned chest beats the heart of wild grizzly...


Happy Birthday, Dorian! I hope it's a good one. In honor of the occasion, I've decided to post this:

Rubber Rodeo - Jolene (from the 1982 Rubber Rodeo EP) - If the idea of a Boston-based cowpunk (more like "cow-wave," to be honest) band wasn't already hard enough to wrap one's head around, this very 80's cover version of Miss Dolly's pop-country classic ups the bewilderment factor by a good half dozen orders of magnitude.

The band really hit their stride a couple years later with 1984's Scenic Views LP, which included crossover gems like "Anywhere With You" and "The Hardest Thing."

Friday (K)night Fights: The Hero You're Dreaming Of

(from Batman #111, October 1957; by Edmond Hamilton, Sheldon Moldoff, and Stan Kaye)
Why is Batman wearing medieval plate armor (complete with bat-insignia) and punching lions in the face? To conceal the radiation-proof suit he's wearing underneath from the crooks he's pursuing.

It makes perfect sense to me. In fact, the sense of causality is positively lucid compared to other comic stories from that era.

Link Wray - Batman Theme (from Rumble! The Best of Link Wray, 1993) - It's those few, brief spoken word parts that really make this version outshine all others. (Well, that and Link Wray's exceptional guitar work.)

(Viva Bahlactus!)

oh, the places you will go

Remember when I said that I wouldn't ever do a linkpost?

I lied.

Geez, Thor, it's not that big a deal....

A planet well worth exploring.

Dave reviews Osamu Tezuka’s Buddha in its entirety; as a consequence, Andrew now wants to read Osamu Tezuka’s Buddha in its entirety.

Say it ain't so, Kylie!

You have until Sunday to enter Ken's Oscar Oscar Revolution contest. So hop to it, kids!

I'll work all week to buy you things, even if I'm too tired at the end of the day to remember what you look like.

An old salt recounts his epic journey through the Shoals of Twenty-something. (I burned my boat on Underachiever Island's tropical shore long ago.)

The link between Defender and Deutscher new wave revealed.

Better than the Sears Wish Book. (Alternately, I can dream about you, if I can't hold you tonight.)

I would just like to point out that my birthday is coming up in a matter of weeks.

The B-52's - Roam (from Cosmic Thing, 1989) - Senior year was a long, long time ago, but this song doesn't seem to have aged one bit. It's all in the cheekbones, I'm told.

visual synergy: come and get your cheer on

Such is the cheertopian power of Bring It On Week that I've decided to make a second contribution to Chris Sims's celebration of all things cheertastic with a post spotlighting some music videos with a pronounced pro-pom-pom slant.

Toni Basil - Mickey - Though I featured this video in a previous visual synergy post, there was no way I could omit posting it given its historical importance in the development of cheer-crossover entertainment.


J. Geils Band - Centerfold - No, that's not former MTV VJ Martha Quinn. For a more in-depth discussion of the song's impact on a pre-pubescent Andrew, read this.


Nirvana - Smells Like Teen Spirit - I liked this song better when it was titled "More Than a Feeling" and performed by Boston.


Nada Surf - Popular - THIS JUST IN: High school is a clique-dominated sharktank. Shocking, isn't it? Also, isn't there supposed to be something about how Sasha plays with Britt in there somewhere? And that we need to always wear sunscreen?


Narcotic Thrust - I Like It - Those stories about what goes on at Montessori schools? All true, I'm afraid.

The Moog Cookbook - Smells Like Teen Spirit (from The Moog Cookbook, 1995) - Come as you are to the Korova Milk Bar, my be-flanneled and bowler-hatted droogies. The first round of drencrom is on me.

Racey - Kitty (from The Best of Racey, 2004) - True fact: Toni Basil's "Mickey" is actually a cover song. It was originally penned, with the title "Kitty," by the Chinn and Chapman songwriting team for the bubbleglam act Racey. When adapting the song to fit a female vocalist, Basil opted to go with "Mickey" -- a reference to Monkee Mickey Dolenz, who the dancer/choreographer had worked with in the 1968 movie Head.

don't believe the honeyglaze

Do you know what has a very short shelf life?

Donuts. I bought a cream-filled donut at the bakery Sunday afternoon, and by the time I got a hankering for some greasy goodness on Tuesday morning the surface of the confection was covered in little green spots of mold. The sugar sprinkles were the responsible party; their capacity for absorbing moisture created an ideal environment for rapid spore growth. I was very disappointed by--

--wait, there was someplace I wanted to go with this before I got distracted.

Right, I remembered. The other thing that has a very short shelf life and has generated countless disappointments is shameless hype, the frequently unfounded hard sell presently euphemized as "buzz." I'm not talking about instances of retrological hindsight, like "sporting a whopping 4kb or RAM" or "at thirty-five pounds, this is the PORTABLE adding machine," that offer quaint glimpses into the march of human progress (or painful reminders of reactionary backsliding). I'm talking about "they'll know you've arrived when you show up in a Edsel" or "the long anticipated smash hit follow-up to Fleetwood Mac's Rumours" -- commercial foreplay of the most relentless variety that promises the sun, moon, and stars but results in the most anti-climactic, well, consumer climax upon the unveiling of the final product.


Even the most cynical and jaded among us have been there at some point in our lives. The promises are made, complete with breathy overreaching speculations made by the relevant pundits or authorities backed up with a smattering of cautiously vetted teasers released though official PR channels. Exciting jargon is coined and spread like manure (also known as "bullshit") to better cultivate excitement -- "Featuring unprecedented pixel-deform wraparound compression algorithms" or similar media-specific seduction talk -- which eventually grows and builds to a fever pitch of "NEED NOW! WANT NOW! NO DOUBTS!"


Then the end result lands like a wet turd in one's lap, resulting in a sense of bewilderment born of atrophied critical faculties ("Is it really that bad? Or is it just me?") which eventually leads to anger and disgust when it becomes obvious that, yes, the emperor is completely starkers...and sporting an astonishing number of dingleberries. (Think the Star Wars Prequel Trilogy.)


To be fair, that's what marketing is there for -- to make our longings and anticipations override our better judgement. I'm less charitable to representatives of ostensibly independent (looking past questions of access or advertising revenue) media outlets like Entertainment Weekly, EGM, Spin and the like who relish in stoking hype's hellish fires, only to convienently forget their active collusion when the truth inevitably comes out.


The transition between "Jade Empire looks like it will be a groundbreaking videogame experience" and "Jade Empire is on track to be the unquestioned Game of the Year" to a three-out-of-five star review and a "Wow, Jade Empire was overrated bit of mediocrity" retrospective a couple years later takes place in a parallel universe where contrition simply doesn't exist. I cited that example because it was the first that came to mind. It's not exclusive to that particular medium by any stretch. (A certain comics columnist and a certain online movie "reviewer" both come to mind.)

Hey, if I have to live with constant reminders that I once thought Shampoo's "Trouble" was fit for an in-car mix CD, these individuals ought to have the decency to come clean about their roles in pimping House of M or Nickleback to an overly impressionable public.

Less offensive in hindsight but more amusing in shameless shilling and unadulterated hyperbole are the corporate-sanctioned organs of propaganda, publications like Nintendo Power or the late "newsmagazine" Marvel Age which radiate Glengarry-esque levels of desperation and false sincerity. Because, honestly, this...


...evokes more pity (and laughter) than anything else. We're talking about a "redshirt picked by Kirk for an away mission" level of pathos. As a nice bonus, the piece, which ran in Marvel Age #43 (October 1986), did contain what was probably the only Lene Lovich reference to appear in a Marvel publication:


Thomas Dolby did the soundtrack for Howard the Duck, and also wrote the song used as the theme for Misfits of Science? How could that film have been anything but a masterpiece? (Apart from being a completely and utterly misguided disaster right down to the sub-molecular level, that is.)

I guess the point of all the above is to remind people that, given the large array of forces out there whose life work is applying lipstick on pigs, it's in one's best interest to take a closer look at your partner before puckering up. (Also, if you don't plan on eating the donut you purchased right away, store it in a cool, dry place.)

T. Rex - Rip Off (from Electric Warrior, 1971) - Listen to Marc Bolan, for he speaks the truth.

Buzzcocks - Promises (from a 1978 single; collected on Singles Going Steady, 1979) - Even if it's personal, that doesn't mean it has to be taken personally.

Special Bonus Content:

Since I had my old issues of Marvel Age handy, I thought I'd share this little slice of sophomoric joy with you. It's from an article spotlighting the finale of the Vision and Scarlet Witch mini-series. Depending on one's world view, it features either the best or worst choice of words since Giant-Sized Man-Thing...

wanna go my way

Comics blogging wunderkind and master of facekick-fu Chris Sims has, in a fit of apparent delirium, decreed that this week shall be known as Bring It On week, a seven day celebration of 2000's cheer-tastic cinematic epic and its diminished returns, direct-to-video sequels.

Normally, I'd be the one trying to talk the victim of such a mania down from the ledge of unhealthy obsession, or at the very least keep well clear of the vortex of madness, but the prospect of becoming a bona fide "cheerfiliate" was too tempting an opportunity to pass up.

Besides, I actually kind of like the film.

Okay, maybe "like" is too strong a word. "Genially tolerate" would be more accurate. If the wife, who does sincerely like the film, is watching it on the big TV downstairs, there's a better than even chance I won't leave the room. I do think Chris was a bit off-base when he labeled it the "greatest film franchise in the history of cheersploitation." Semantic arguments about the definition of "franchise" aside, it should be apparent to anyone versed in that micro-genre that the greatest cheersploitation flim ever is, hands down, 1984's Gimme an 'F', with The Pom Pom Girls pulling a close second, followed by Bring It On in third place.

(I am willing to cut Chris some slack in regards to his hyperbolic claims, as he is but a youngster still, and lacks the scars this writer earned in the USA Up All Night and 80's cable TV trenches. It's true what they say, you never see the Rhonda Shearer segment with your name on it.)

What Bring It On lacks in T&A-itude and crass sub-Animal House humor, however, it makes up for in, for lack of a better word, "heart." Chris provides a detailed recap of the film here, but suffice to say that very rarely has a film managed to so successfully address the issues of racial and social inequality in modern America through the vector of perky teens with mini-skirts and bare midriffs shouting school spirit chants and throwing each other in the air...and it manages to do so in a ABC Family-friendly way, too. (There's also a remarkably insightful -- for a teen flick -- examination of the patronizing economics of white liberal guilt in there, too. Go figure.)

Then there's the film's soundtrack. Though consisting by and large of cheer-friendly techno cuts interspersed with then-contemporary R&B and sugary teen-pop tracks (with a requisite cover of Toni Basil's new wave cheer anthem, "Mickey"), there were a couple of pleasant surprises which didn't make it onto the culled-for-the-intended-teen-girl-demographic official soundtrack release.

No worries, though. Andrew's got you covered:

The Leaving Trains - Kids Wanna Know (from Loser Illusion, Pt. 0, 1991; collected on Amplified Pillows, 2005) - An unexpected choice of music to establish a Punky McDreamy romantic interest's socially acceptable non-conformity, but considering the 90's pop-psuedopunk drek the filmmakers could have gone with instead, I'm delighted by the presence of something with some honestly abrasive power.

Of course, if had been me, I'd have gone with either "Violent Sex" or "Temporal Slut" from the band's 1987 Fuck LP.

Bis - Detour (from Social Dancing, 1999) - This collaborative effort between the Glaswegian popsters and Lois Maffeo was used in the flashback sequence where Torrance (Kirsten Dunst) causes the holy "spirit stick" totem to touch the ground on a dare, thus causing her to believe that her reign as spirit squad leader is cursed.

I think I've made it clear in previous posts that I consider Social Dancing to be one of the finest pop albums I've had the pleasure of listening to. I'm not the type to lightly apply the "favorite" tag onto things, but this album certainly qualifies for the honor. It's gotten a bum rap from places such as AMG (which likened it, absurdly, to Haysi Fantayzee's work) because of the deliberate shift in style from the band's brattier early sound. Be that as it may, I found Bis's first album to be charming but grating in large doses, but I found Social Dancing's mix of new wave, indie pop, and trip hop styles -- with some postpunk tossed into the mix by producer Andy (Gang of Four) Gill -- to be nothing short of exceptional from beginning to end.

are visions but only illusions

Because I've seen this issue come up in more than a few places recently, I feel that it's my duty as a retrologist to set things straight.

The Good Old Days, as seen through a nostalgia filter:


The Good Old Days, as seen through the lens of reality:


I think the point is rather self-evident, but let's use another example that carries a bit more personal resonance for the post-boomer demographic.

How we'd like to remember "those days":

How we truthfully remember "those days":



Yeah, I realize I just violated the music bloggers' equivalent to the Geneva Convention there, but drastic problems call for drastic solutions. Nothing can be ruled out. We must be prepared to use any and all options at our disposal, even if it means injecting a disconcerting double shot of classic postpunk into your recalcitrant cortices.

Joy Division - I Remember Nothing (from Unknown Pleasures, 1979)

Public Image Limited - Memories (from Metal Box, 1979)

what a surprise

From a 1985 issue of Soldier of Fortune magazine:


The text on the shirt reads "Whatever happened to the America that used to KICK ASS! instead of kiss ass" which is a typical enough bit of PBR-and-pickup-truck jingoism in an era rife with similar sentiments.

It's interesting that the ad ran at a time when Reagan's confrontational foreign policy was at its high water mark, but not particularly surprising. A longstanding cornerstone of reactionary populist ideology has been the notion of persecution manifested as a "majority outsider" status -- even when like-minded folks happen to have their hands on the levers of power. It's easier to keep order in the ranks when one flies the banner of the persecuted underdog, after all. Nothing breeds inertia and dissent like a sense of victory.

Musings on group psychology aside, the real reason I chose to spotlight this particular ad was because of what was written in the italicized copy -- that 75 cents per shirt purchased would be donated to one of the two groups of "freedom fighters" du jour in the Reagan Era: the Nicaraguan Contras and the Afghan rebels.

I'm not going to get into the whole sad, sordid mess of Nicaragua's ongoing political struggles, which proves only that corruption and cynical opportunistic behavior is not limited to either the left or right wing, with the masses getting the shit end of the stick regardless.

The donation of funds to the Afghan rebels (if it was ever carried out), though, had me wondering about something. Given who some of those rebels fighting the Soviets were, there's a very real possibility that the funds donated were used to purchase Kalishnakovs and RPG launchers which would eventually be used against American military personnel decades later.

So the folks who ponied up the $9.25 bought more than a t-shirt, they also picked up a copy of Blowback: The Home Game.

The Flys - Love and a Molotov Cocktail (from a 1978 single; collected on 1-2-3-4 Punk & New Wave: 1976-1979, 1999) - Slightly art-damaged punk occupying a space somewhere between The Jam and Pink Flag-era Wire on the sound spectrum.

Meet Mr. Nutt

Mr. Nutt is an architect of the Morris Lapidus school.

Mr. Nutt is not happy when The Man^TM orders the demolition of Mr. Nutt's "masterpiece."

Mr. Nutt is apparently either a devout Freemason or a big fan of Robert Anton Wilson.

Mr. Nutt is the type of fellow who saves jars of his own urine.

Mr. Nutt is not "down" with the "teen scene."

Mr. Nutt will show them all...oh, yes, he will...

Mr. Nutt cannot prevent his glorious dream from crumbling when faced with some teenage android superheroes.

Mr. Nutt would have gotten away with it, too, if it wasn't for those meddling kids.

From Dell's Superheroes #2 (April 1967), the title of which only hints at the unrelentingly generic nature of the stories within each issue. Even in a medium and genre where deadline-driven, work-for-hire drek was the historical norm, it's a depressingly extreme example of creative endeavor as stock commercial product.

As for the musical annotations for today's post, here are two much-loved tracks from the archives that are decidedly not standard template products:

The Call - The Walls Came Down (from Modern Romans, 1983; collected on The Best of the Mercury Years, 1991)

Madness - Tarzan's Nuts (from One Step Beyond, 1979)

Friday Night Fights: The Road to (Barbara) Eden

This week's contribution to the weekly free-for-all decreed by the the Master of the Funk Cosmic is jam-packed with crudely drawn, slightly off-model, sitcom-licensed action. Can you dig it, cats and kittens?

It comes courtesy of Dell's I Dream of Jeannie #1 (April 1966). The comic version diverges from the television show in that Major Nelson is portrayed as the sort of guy who frequently goes mano-a-mano with man-eating tigers, killer crocodiles, and harem guards, as opposed to the kind of fellow who has difficulty bluffing Hayden Rorke about why there's an ostrich on his patio.

I was relieved, however, to see that the writers chose to carry the show's strong feminist message over into the comic version...


Hugo Montenegro & His Orchestra - Jeannie (from AM Gold: TV Themes of the 60's, 1996) - Featuring lyrics by Buddy Kaye.

That's right, lyrics.