Halloween Countdown: October 30 - this magic moment

I remember that day as if it was yesterday...

(From The Witching Hour #36, November 1973)
Almost seventeen years together and four years this day as husband and wife, and we owe it all to the Dark Arts!

(I kid. Maura is actually an animist non-traditional Catholic, which parses as "witch" to my Puritan-descended cognitive processes.)

Happy Anniversary, my Funky Foo! Even on those very rare occasions when things have been less than harmonious, they've always been interesting.

Combustible Edison - Bewitched (from the Four Rooms OST, 1995) - I don't particularly care for Tarantino's body of work, as I also possess worn copies of the Psychotronic movie guides and familiarity with the films he liberally cherry-picks his gimmicks from. I do appreciate fine vintage and contemporary lounge music (while despising the obnoxious lounge revival subculture), and this soundtrack album delivers the retrolicious goods.

Siouxsie & The Banshees - Spellbound (from Juju, 1981) - The creative wheels fell off the band with 1986's Tinderbox LP, but not before Ms. Sioux and Company recorded an impressive body of goth-pop-adelic gems which still stand the test of time.

Halloween Countdown: October 19 - twelve more days 'til Halloween

The original Halloween film from 1978 is hailed as a horror classic, and rightly so. Along with Psycho, it is credited with providing the template for the slasher film genre, yet like Hitchcock's 1960 film, the horror is a matter of atmosphere, pacing, and soundtrack rather than the gory, high body count excess associated with substandard imitations.

The silliness and implausibility of Halloween's premise are masked by writer/director John Carpenter's skillful presentation, which manages to sustain a real sensation of dread throughout the proceedings -- hunter versus hunted, everyteen babysitter versus a monster, Jamie Lee Curtis versus a dude in coveralls and a Shatner mask -- made even more terrifying by the utter absence of scenery-chewing antics on the monster's part. It's no mean feat to pull off effectively, which is probably why the film continues to be held in high regard by folks (like Maura, for example) who consider slasher films to be low-grade exploitative garbage.

The problem with success, especially within the realm of genre material, is that there's an overwhelming temptation to return to the same well again and again until the box office revenue runs dry. "Sameness with a spin" is the operating principle, and Halloween's success meant that whatever charms the original possessed had to be recycled, laminated and built upon with copious amounts of ludicrous backstory over the course of a half-dozen slasher-by-numbers sequels, an unnecessary remake, and the head-scratcher that is 1982's Halloween III: Season of the Witch.

The third entry in the series is a sequel in name only, featuring none of the characters or plot points established in the original film. Instead it explores the timely issue of druidic fundamentalist terrorism, as it pertains to neolithic monuments, seasonal merchandise, and the use of advertising. Or, to put it simply, magical Halloween masks that make creepy crawlies burst out of people's heads when triggered by a subliminally-loaded TV commercial. There are killer robots involved in the mess somewhere, too.

The idea, according to the producers, was to expand the franchise into a anthology format, which translates into non-bullshit language as "a shameless bait-and-switch ploy that banks on name recognition." (Carpenter and co-writer Debra Hill wanted to move past the franchise, but the moneymen had other ideas. From such behind-the-scenes wrangling such cinematic atrocities are born.)

Despite the film's messy genesis and numerous other warning signs, Fangoria was still willing to beat the drum of unwarranted optimism...

...though I suspect that the full page ads the magazine was running for masks based on the ones in the film may have had something to do with it. The film did make money, though not nearly as much as hoped for and racked up enough terrible reviews that the producers retreated to the comfort of familiar territory for the fourth film. The Wikipedia entry for Halloween III: Season of the Witch claims that it "has gained somewhat of a cult following among audiences," which signifies little except that the one fan of the movie knows how to edit a wiki page.

For me, the film is significant for being one of the first instances where the popcult coprophagia of childhood gave way to a more sophisticated assessment of "Wow, this film is total crap! Why am I wasting my time watching it?" (I consider myself lucky. Many geeks never reach that level of awareness in their lifetimes.)

While I'm not above dropping a reference to the Silver Shamrock jingle from the film, for today's musical selections I'm going with two gems featured in the original 1978 movie.

John Carpenter - Halloween Theme (from the Halloween 20th Anniversary Edition OST, 1998) - Yes, there is a boogeyman, and he really digs the piano.

Blue Öyster Cult - (Don't Fear) The Reaper (from Agents of Fortune, 1976) - First person to make a "more cowbell" joke gets a size 10 jungle boot to the ass.

Halloween Countdown: October 3 - post-feminist nightmares

The agents of the patriarchy laughed at Dr. Victoria Francistein. They belitted her research, called her "honey buns," and stared at her boobs while discussing new breakthroughs in stem cell research with her. Little did they realize that Francisteins's understanding of galvanic reanimation was far beyond anything their petty male minds could hope to understand.

Like a woman possessed, Francistein dedicated herself to her life's work. Morgues were broken into, graves were robbed, and long hours were spent slaving away in the dark catacombs beneath dread Castle Dworkin. Each purloined body part that passed through her well-manicured hands was chosen for maximum suitability for Francistein's project --

-- the creation of a race of super-women, untainted by the inherent unequality of traditional gender roles. With such allies at her disposal, Francistein hoped to wreak savage revenge on those who had wronged her and labeled her "hysterical."

So all-consuming was the Doctor's promethean hubris, however, that she failed to heed the warnings of her former mentor, Dr. Faludi, about the phenomenon known as the "Paglia Effect." Instead of embracing her creator's feminist ideology, Francistein's Monster turned out to be more interested in...

FASHION!
FOOD!
FLIRTING!
Angered by the Doctor's rejection, the creature vowed to become the enemy of reproductive rights, feminist principles, and everything else her creator held dear. She then fled north to plot her revenge and become a hockey mom.

It was in those cold and barren lands that Senator John McCain, on the lookout for a vice-presidential candidate, discovered her....and that's where the story gets really scary.

(from Madhouse #99, September 1975)

Halloween Countdown: October 2 - Mockingbird Lane Blacktop

And so we turn to the age-old question, The Munsters or The Addams Family?

Don't worry, there isn't a wrong answer, just a matter of personal preference.

Both shows were blessed with outstanding casts, but Gomez, Morticia, and company will always hold the place of higher affection in my heart, as the unselfconscious eccentricity of the Addams clan makes for better entertainment in my book. The Munsters, on the other hand, came off as a by-the-numbers family sitcom given a Universal monster makeover. The Munsters hewed close to suburban norms. The Addams Family never managed to realize that they were living outside the mainstream, and wore their freakiness on their sleeves.

(It reminds me a lot of my own blue collar bohemian childhood, which is the likely explanation of my pro-Addams Family bias. There were fewer model train explosions and more shouting in my version, though, and my uncle was less into putting lightbulbs in his mouth as he was into using hand puppets to obscenely proposition stewardresses.)

The one area where The Munsters possessed unquestionable superiority was the theme song arena. As iconic as the snap-accented Addams Family jingle is, it doesn't hold a red wax candle to the crypt-surf instrumental that kicked off the start of each new episode....as well as providing inspiration to generations of deathrockers and horrorpunks to come.

even though we ain't got protoculture

Setting the mood, the Mekton II way...

...and if they don't, then they really need to.

Or if that's too unorthodox a concept to countenance, perhaps you could stretch the boundaries laterally, and gird your loins for dice-and-tables mecha combat with the stirring sounds of "Danny's Song" or the theme to Footloose. Michael McDonald's discography also makes excellent music to swing double photon sabers to.

Me First & The Gimme Gimmes - Danny's Song (from Have a Ball, 1997) - Cutting the soft rock toxicity to non-fatal, yet still uncomfortable levels.

As for me, however, there is only one track worthy enough to accompany my desperate fight against the sinister forces of the Comet Empire...

Mongo Santamaria - Watermelon Man (from Watermelon Man, 1962) - Jazz standard cartridge -- LOADED! Conga capacitors -- CHARGED TO MAX! On my mark, prepare to unleash the power of the LATIN BOOGALOO CANNON!

study in scarlet

Happy birthday, Mr. Sims! I tried to get the Baroness, but she was already booked to appear at a John McCain fundraiser.

808 State - In Yer Face (from Ex:El, 1991) - Techno grooves that hit like unto a thing of iron...or a thrown car battery.

Lalo Schifrin - Main Titles (from the Enter the Dragon OST, 1973) - Facekicking it up old school.

hungry so angry

Yesterday a friend asked me "Why'd you pick 'Armagideon Time' for your blog's name?" When I decided to create whatever-the-heck-this-site-is back in the spring of 2006, there was a short list of potential names I considered using. All but one, "The Land of Clear Blue Radio" (after The Soviettes' song), were Clash-related, in honor of the high regard in which I hold for the "only band that mattered."

"Capitol Radio One," "Gates of the West," "The Right Profile" were all worthy contenders, but none felt or sounded as perfect as "Armagideon Time." Apart from being the title of an outstanding track (whether one is referring to the Willie Williams or Clash version), it also dovetailed nicely with my own personal infatuation with things apocalyptic and foreboding. It's not a religious thing with me, but a legacy of childhood anxieties that I have carried with me into adulthood.

From the depressing extrapolations of 1970's sci-fi to the nuclear dread of the Reagan Era, my formative years were spend bathing in a popcultural spring of visions of the End Times, presented as an inevitable occurrence though the actual vector of Armageddon (nuclear war, ecological collapse, revolt by intelligent apes) varied from source to source. There is something I find fascinating in apocalyptic flights of fancy -- they way they speak to the collective anxieties of an given era/culture as well as the vicarious thrill of watching the human species choke on its own excessive folly or come up short against uncaring entropy.

If there's a sincere cautionary message, it's usually so overdressed in sensationalism or hyperbole that it devolves into unintentional parody, a trite moral to justify the big draw of the spectacle itself. Or else it merely emphasizes a small-but-dramatic part of the big picture over the little details, the ones with real-life significance.

I recently came away from a trip to the local comics and used book store with a plastic grocery bag full of old paperback sci-fi and horror novels. My haul, which set me back all of twelve dollars, was evenly split between works of relative quality by the likes of Huxley and Spinrad and number of volumes of "catastrophe porn." I use the term "porn" rather loosely (though not inaccurately, as we shall see) to differentiate these dubiously prophetic potboilers from the blanket term of "disaster fiction" coined and thoughfully analyzed by Mike Davis in The Ecology of Fear.

Unlike Paul Auster's In the Country of Last Things or Cormac McCarthy's The Road, the apocalyptic elements in catastrophe porn are not integrated backdrops for an actual narrative, but in fact supercede whatever thin narrative might exist. Characterization and plot serve as skeletal frameworks from which to hang the series of sensational vignettes which are the real selling point of such works. It's not about whether or not Chuck Heston will reconcile with Eva Gardner -- it's about watching L.A. collapse into rubble and anarchy.

Here's a excerpt from the back cover of the 1981 Ace Charter edition of Graham Masterton's Famine, an excellent example of the subgenre which also happeded to be the first of the stack I pulled out to read:


Hilarious, offensive, and informative!

There is something of a plot in Famine. A big city actuary turned Kansas farmer and his Manhattan-loving wife find their existence turned upside down by a multi-pronged assault on America's food supply. While corrupt and/or politicians attempt to exploit or acknowledge the situation, the country falls into a state of complete anarchy. The mystery of who caused the crisis doesn't so much unfold as pop out like a built-in turkey thermometer. (Is it the Soviets? Who could it be but the Soviets? Maybe it isn't the Soviets? But who, if not the Soviets? Yep, it's the Soviets. Oh, well.)

Really, though, it's a lot of wheel-spinning in anticipation of the juicy parts, little lurid nuggets describing all manner of horrors unleashed by the disaster.

In Muskogee, Oklahoma, twenty men and one woman tried to break into a supermarket and steal boxes of canned meat, vegetables, and fruit. They were almost through loading when they were surprised by a National Guard patrol who machine-gunned all of them with warning. Their bodies were littered across the parking lot, and a reporter for the Herald-Bulletin of Tulsa said, "There was so much blood it was gurgling down the storm drains like crimson bathwater."

It's a veritable pagent of graphically-described murders, looting, riots, and a disturbing amount of rape, including one scene that surpasses anything from American Psycho for sheer "what the fuck is wrong with this author?" vileness). Ample lashings of sex and ultra-violence are the order of the day, resulting in something akin to a non-racist* version of Camp of the Saints or The Turner Diaries, apolitical save for the pithy observation that the American people overconsume, are overentitled, and are prone to violence.

Gee, I never noticed.

Masterton writes in a style reminiscent of James Herbert's, which is essentially a stripped down version of Stephen King's style with the sensationalism cranked to the highest setting. It certainly fits the level of the material, though lines such as this one...

"You've been growing wheat for nearly forty years, and all I've been doing is sitting on my butt in a stuffy New York office, telling little old ladies how to salt away their surplus dollars for a rainy day."

...and not recall the painful days of one's freshman creative writing class.

Famine is utter crap, but utter crap that greasily fulfills its purpose as a disposable, sleazy read which capitalizes on the fears of privation felt by a society that had recently experienced several shortages of essential goods. Yeah, I know, it seems so quaint and silly from a present-day perspective.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to take out a second mortgage so I can gas up the car and buy a loaf of bread.

Willie Williams - Armagideon Time (from Armagideon Time, 1979) - Back to the roots.

Eddie Albert & Eva Gabor - Theme from Green Acres (from Television's Greatest Hits, Vol. 1, 1990) - Ever want to see an episode of Green Acres where Oliver was seduced by a busty double agent working to cultivate a corrupt senator as the puppet leader of a future Soviet-occupied and famine-ravaged America? If so, then I have book suggestion for you.

*The book does mention that black looters were more violent than white ones in the initial wave of food riots, but by the end everyone has sunk to the same level of lawless behavior, though white L.A. residents are singled out as being especially monstrous. It's not hard to deduce the book's target audience.

Friday Night Fights: Gamma Beach Party

SHARK BITES TEEN HULK
TEEN HULK PUNCHES SHARK
TEEN HULK AND SHARK TEAM UP TO WIN THE TITLE OF 'BIG KAHUNA'
That's the Hulk movie they should have made -- Dwayne Hickman as Ned Talbot, Annette Funicello as Betsy Ross, Jody McCrea as Rick Jones, Vincent Price as The Leader, and, of course, Paul Lynde as General "Thunderbolt" Ross.

I swear, sometimes it's like those studio people are allergic to making money...

Jack Nitzsche - The Lonely Surfer (from The Lonely Surfer, 1963) - MOONDOGGY SMASH!

Joe Harnell - Main Title (from The Incredible Hulk TV OST, 1978) - Strings, horns, and polyester pathos as only a 1970's theme song can deliver. Accept no substitutes.

(The biggest Kahuna of them all.)

don't know what you're missing

Imagine Homeward Bound: The Incredible Journey as directed by Sam Peckinpah and co-scripted by William Gibson and the Animal Liberation Front and you'd have a decent, if incomplete, idea of the premise behind Grant Morrison and Frank Quitely's 2004 mini-series We3. I say "incomplete" because underneath the high concept sci-fi ultraviolence, We3's tale of three cybernetically-augmented animals on the run from a black-ops weapons lab possesses a level of genuine pathos rarely encountered in a work of fiction, and especially within the medium of comics.

While I'm well acquainted with the technical concept of catharsis (as is anyone who has ever taken a college literature or drama class), it isn't often that I come across a work that inspires the actual emotional purgative-tranformative process. This is partly because I'm a jaded old fart, but also because I'm hyper-sensitive to attempts to stack the creative deck in order to force such emotional responses. Art is manipulative by nature, but too many artists get too eager and overplay their hands to dismal effect. Reading We3 is a cathartic experience for me, an emotional roller coaster ride that leaves me feeling undefinably but noticeably changed (and a bit teary-eyed) afterward. (Granted, stories with animal protagonists have a paw up in the "pull the heartstrings" stakes, but Morrison's characterizations and Quitely's illustrations of "1" the dog, "2" the cat, and "3" the rabbit ring so authentic it hurts me to read the more tragic parts of the story.)

Today marks the release of Grant Morrison's most current effort, Final Crisis #1, a big "event" title guaranteed to change the DC superhero universe forever (again, but for real this time, honest). I've read it, and it's decent enough for what it is, but there's already a vocal minority in the dark corners of the comics internet reiterating the usual charge lobbed at Morrison's work, namely that his stuff is "too hard to follow."

Morrison's stuff tends to be hit or miss with me, and I do think his infatuation with BIG CRAZY CONCEPTS tends to work at cross-purposes with his plot logic at times, but I never really considered his work to be incomprehensible (apart from the instances Morrison was deliberately attempting to be obtuse). Final Crisis, in comparison with some of Morrison's other work (The Invisibles or even parts of Seven Soldiers), is a model of narrative lucidity.

The real problem, I suspect, lies with the audience, who've been conditioned to see comics, especially superheroic stuff, as product to be consumed rather than material to be engaged. There's a thin line between a "challenging" work and self-indulgent wankery, but requiring more effort than a five-minute linear burn-through to grasp the material does not automatically place a work in the latter category. Junk food should not set the baseline for one's palate, and a genre shouldn't be held hostage by some lazy, retrograde bottom feeders.

Upon considering the fannish whinings, as well as Morrison's own remarks that fans who don't like the content ought to pencil in their own captions in the word balloons, I went up to the attic and dug out my old Creator-to-Creator translation machine. It's a heavily-modified version of Joel Robinson's Cartuner (here at the 4:00 mark) incorporating Babelfish source code which allows one to see how certain comics would have turned out if done by a different creator (like EC horror stories as done by Carl Barks, for example).

And so, in the name of SCIENCE, I took the following panel featuring 1 the dog and 2 the cat from the second issue of We3....


...and ran it through the machine to see how it theoretically could have been "improved" by other fan-favorite comic book writers.

The panel in question, as it would have been written by:

Brian Michael Bendis (Powers, Daredevil, Secret Invasion)*

Chuck Dixon (Nightwing, Robin, Snakes on a Plane: The Comic)

Mark Millar (Ultimates, Wanted, Civil War)

Roy Thomas (Avengers, Invaders, All-Star Squadron, and too many others to list)
...and just so the indie kids don't feel left out:

Brian Wood (Demo, DMZ, Northlanders)
I really wanted to try and generate a Chris Claremont one, but the machine's feed kept getting jammed on "focused totality," "starhair," and "violated my soul." The technology has its limits, apparently.

David Walker - Ring the Changes (from Le Beat Bespoke, 2004) - A harmonious marriage of powerhouse pop (a la Sir Tom Jones) and heavy, horny funk.

Quincy - Turn the Other Way Around (from Quincy, 1980) - Man, that Jack Klugman really rocks! (I kid. They were a New York-based power pop band that got some brief national exposure following the success of The Knack.)

Isabel Bond - Let's Find Out (from Beat at Cinecitta, Vol. 3, 1994) - This weird slice of freakbeat soul comes from the soundtrack of 1969 Italian sex comedy Vedo Nudo. My Italian is rusty, but I believe the title of the film translates into English as "broad pantomime and boob shots."

*In an actual Bendis comic, the text in that scene would have been frugally doled out across a nine-panel grid covering an entire page. The translation machine still needs some fine-tuning.

too fowl for words

You know what contemporary superhero comics are sorely lacking in?

Duck-themed vengeance.

If the Spectre had been feeling especially vicious that day, he could have opted to inflict today's b-side offering upon his victims instead...

Rick Dees and His Cast of Idiots - Disco Duck (Part II) (the b-side of 1976's "Disco Duck" 7") - Because an instrumental version of a novelty song predicated on a sub-par Donald Duck impersonation makes perfect sense. Then again, we are talking about the 1970's; I doubt anyone looked up from their gold-plated coke spoons or custom-made bongs long enough to notice the absurdity of it all.

...and because one waterfowl-related musical travesty deserves another, I might as well lob this rotten egg into the ring, too:

Thomas Dolby, George Clinton & Other Folks Who Really Should Have Known Better - Howard the Duck (from the Howard the Duck OST, 1986) - There are certain cinematic stinkers from the past -- Xanadu, for instance -- that have improved with the passage of time. Howard the Duck is not one of them.

ne travaillez jamais

While I am a strong proponent of the antinomian viewpoint that work is an anachronistic impediment to a life of unstructured leisure, the mortgage and utilities people aren't hep to the Situationist vibe. (If you know of some that are, send me an email.) So I find myself obligated to render unto Caesar from my little cubicle overlooking Dorchester Bay, mourning each lost minute that could have been spent sprawled out on the couch and watching F-Troop re-runs on TV Land.

It is in this spirit that I am proud to announce Armagideon Time's first annual job fair. Given the present state of the economy and the accompanying blizzard of pink slips, being able to think outside the box has become a vital skill when it comes to job hunting, and our musical representatives are standing by to illustrate the wide variety of available career options.

Blotto - I Wanna Be a Lifeguard (from a 1981 single; also on Collected Works, 1994) - The romantic myths regarding the career tend to vanish quickly once one discovers their first suspicious-looking mole...or after performing mouth-to-mouth on a bearded grandma with garlic-and-whiskey breath.

Spacegirl - I Wanna Be a Spacegirl (Single Edit) (from a 1998 single) - First you'd have to purge 90% of your body mass, then cleanse yourself of any vestiges of actual talent, marry a soccer player, and wear the most unflattering 1970's sunglasses imaginable. Oh, it's "spacegirl," not "Spice Girl."

Ultravox - I Want to Be a Machine (from Ultravox!, 1977) - It depends on the type of machine in question. While I can see the appeal of becoming a sex, dancing, or love machine, I would not like to spend life as the flush mechanism of a public toilet. Considering that this track comes from the band's post-punky pre-Ure era, I'd assume that John Foxx yearns to become a meticulously-engineered piece of German industrial automata.

Gary Oldman - I Wanna Be Your Dog (from the Sid and Nancy OST, 1986) - In preparation for his role as Sid Vicious, Gary Oldman went on a boiled fish and melon diet that ended up leading to his hospitalization. In preparation for recording this song, Oldman went on a Gravy Train and toilet water diet that ended up leading to his being hit on the nose with a rolled up newspaper.

Hulk Hogan & The Wrestling Boot Band - I Want to Be a Hulkamaniac (from Hulk Rules, 1995) - There is a point where egomania becomes so densely concentrated that it collapes into a singularity from which nothing but lousy pop-rap-rock can escape. We have crossed the event horizon, ladies and gentlemen.

Catch the nipple-free fever!

now they're hunting around

Looking for love in all the wrong places? Perhaps this will help:

(Click to find what you are truly looking for.)
If you can't trust Debbi's Dates #2 (June-July 1969) for help with your love life, who can you trust?

The Bay City Rollers - That's Where the Boys Are (from Ricochet, 1981) - In which the the unbridled euphoria of "Saturday Night" gives way to a whopping Sunday morning hangover.

Karen Kamon - Manhunt (from the Flashdance OST, 1983) - A bit of Benatardian (or Blondiesque?) pop rock fluff with a vaguely empowering gender role reversal message. I would not, under any circumstances, suggest that one take dating advice from the Manhunt videogame, as most people do not respond well to woo pitched via a rusty knife stealthily inserted between their ribs.

The Revillos - Where's the Boy for Me? (from a 1979 single; collected on the reissue of Rev Up, 1980) - What difference does swapping a single consonant make? Not much, in the case of The Rezillos/Revillos, apart from some minor line-up changes and a slightly poppier tenor to the band's retro sound.

Friday Night Fights: Sole Blade

During the strife of Sengoku period Japan, Lord Daigo strikes a bargain with the forces of darkness. In exchange for gaining temporal power beyond imagining, Daigo offers up his unborn child, whose body parts will be divided up between forty-eight demons.

The horribly disfigured infant is then, in proper Campbellian (Joseph, not Dave) fashion, placed in a basket and set adrift on upon a river. A kindly wise man discovers the child's basket on the river and raises the tenacious tot as his own. The child's adoptive father crafts prosthetic body parts, including a pair of arms which conceal a pair of sword blades, to replace the ones stolen by the demons, and aided by his natural tenacity and peternatural sensory powers, Hyakkimaru, as the boy is named, is able to function and fight as well as any able-bodied soul.

After receiving a tantalizing message from a mysterious voice from beyond, Hyakkimaru sets off on a quest to hunt down and slay each of the forty-eight demons, and by doing so, restore what was taken from him.

He also fights a pair of sandals possessed by the vengeful spirits of the unquiet dead...


It all happens in Dororo, the late "Godfather of Manga" Ozamu Tezuka's unfinished series from the 1960's. Though Dororo is one of Tezuka's lesser works, it still ranks light-years beyond the best efforts of most other creators, masterfully blending horror, humor, and action while managing to grapple with the requisite BIG SUBJECTS^TM (the consequences of war, what it means to be "human") common to Tezuka's stories.

The first English language volume of Dororo (in a handsomely-designed trade paperback format) was recently released by Vertical, Inc, and can be obtained here for a reasonable sum. A live-action Dororo film, which takes a few liberties with the source material, debuted in Japan in 2007, with sequels planned for release sometime this year and in 2009.

For those seeking a more interactive experience and willing to overlook shitty in-came camera problems, Blood Will Tell, Sega's 2004 offering for the Playstation 2, not only provides players the opportunity to indulge their inner prosthetic-using samurai, but also posits a possible conclusion to Hyakkimaru's unfinished story.

Animetal Lady - Dororo No Uta (from Lady Marathon II, 2002) - A heavy metal rendition (featuring former Pink Lady Mitsuyo Nemoto on vocals) of the theme to the 1960's Dororo anime series.

The Supremes - Bits and Pieces (from A Bit of Liverpool, 1964) - Yeah, the Dave Clark Five hailed from North London rather than Scouser territory, but why quibble? Geography has never been a strong subject for the American people.

I have mixed feelings about this Motown foray into British Invasion territory. On one hand, it's represents a historic convergence of the two major musical currents of the era; on the other, the material is presented too damn straight and would have benefited by more of the stylistic "wall of sound" flourishes that embodied the Motown sound.

(Viva Bahlactus!)

Friday Night Fights: Make Yourself Ready

In this week's contribution to Bahlactus's cosmic throwdown, World Welfare Work Association ("3WA") troubleshooter Yuri engages in a little workplace hostility with her partner and fellow "Lovely Angel," Kei.

(from Dirty Pair: A Plague of Angels #5, August 1991; by the incomparable Adam Warren)
I think it sums up my feelings regarding this current example of fanboy stupidity rather nicely. (Besides, there's nothing I could add that Charlie B. hasn't already said.)

While my interest in anime is pretty much nil these days, there will always be a place in my heart for the Dirty Pair. I was thrilled to discover that Dark Horse has begun to release translations of the original Japanese novels featuring the adventures of the ill-omened duo, whose nickname refers to the catastrophic collateral damage that inevitably occurs in their wake. (Now if only Amazon could get its shit together and ship me those novels, considering I ordered them over a month ago....)

The tendency by certain sectors of fandom to reduce the franchise to "that thing with the semi-naked chicks carrying big guns" is somewhat irksome. I'm not claiming that I'm above paying notice to Yuri and Kei's choice in attire, but space-bikinis aside, the real draw is the entertaining blend of comedy and science fiction on display in both the animated and comic book versions of the Dirty Pair. The American Dirty Pair comic miniseries helmed by Adam Warren are packed with visionary concepts taken from contemporary hard sci-fi, and Warren manages to strike the perfect balance between techobabble and T&A. (Masamune Shirow could take some pointers on that front.)

There's also a very personal and sentimental reason for my affection towards the Dirty Pair. As I probably mentioned in a previous post, the painting on the back of my punk jacket came from the cover of the third issue of the first Dirty Pair miniseries.


I chose the image because I wanted something a little different from the band logo or album cover route, and even though the thought never crossed my mind, it also captured the my "one foot in punkery, the other in geekery" stance damn near perfectly. When another punk-geek hybrid in my extended circle of collegiate acquaintances recognized the painting on my jacket and asked to see it, it was my first inkling that this particular individual, a dark-haired woman by the name of Maura, was interested in me (though it took a while before that realization managed to penetrate my thick skull).

Nakahara Meiko - Ru-Ru-Ru-Russian Roulette (from the Dirty Pair TV series OST, 1985) - This is the full-length version of the show's opening theme, and like most j-pop from that era, it manages to sound both timeless and incredibly dated at the same time. DANCE! DANCE! CHANCE! CHANCE!

he's the man of the hour

It is only natural, I suppose, when recovering from a prolonged physical ordeal that one's thoughts would take a pronounced turn toward the introspective. During my slow convalescence, I have frequently found myself pondering roads not taken. My meditations have centered on matters as small as my habitual negligence regarding flossing, as well as grander existential questions about my ultimate purpose in life.

It occurred to me that maybe my talents were not best served in my current dual occupation of paid techmonkey/unpaid internet commentator, and that I could obtain a greater sense of personal fulfillment through a career in the European supercriminal field. There is visceral sense of satisfaction to be obtained in wrecking the economies of several Continenal powers through an overly elaborate scheme involving disintegration rays and amphibious cars. It's certainly a superior experience than explaining to my coworkers (for the umpteenth time) why downloading spyware-laden clutterware onto the department server is a bad thing.

One of the problems for the aspiring Euro supercriminal is the shocking absence of any vocational training programs or graduate-level seminars from which to learn the tricks of the trade. Granted, there are MBA programs, but those skew toward the megalomaniacal world-destroyer career path, where I'm more interested in the anarcho-hedonist side of things. Not even the renowned University of Phoenix offers something as straightforward as an MFA in Creative Villainy. No wonder this country has lost its competitive edge.

Instead, I've had to content myself with reviewing the recorded careers of some of the past luminaries of the profession, and performing a comparative inventory of relevant assets to determine my potential prospects. Here's a brief annotated summary:

Vehicle: While a tan 1998 Chevy Lumina lacks the sex appeal of a 1962 Studebaker Avanti or 1970 Plymouth Barracuda, the sturdiness, the horsepower, and, most importantly, the aggressive unremarkableness of the mid-sized family sedan make it an ideal getaway car. A quick turn into a suburban subdivision during a frenetic chase would utterly perplex the local constabulary as they would be forced to deal with dozens of vehicular red herrings.

Nefarious Weapon: At hand.

Secret Lair: The house on the hill isn't so much "secret" as "relatively isolated," which gives it the benefit of "hiding in plain sight." Its interior is well stocked with electronic gadgets (including a Zune, a gaming PC, and an Xbox 360) and exotic pets (well, a couple of dogs, some cats, some rabbits, and a chinchilla). While there are no alligator pits or other sinister deathtraps per se, we do have a garage full of feral cats who can be quite peevish at times and there are some low pipes in the cellar capable of braining the unwary intruder.

Disguises: An essential skillset for a supercriminal to possess, and one that I have clearly mastered.

Female Assistant Partner: No problems there. Even better, she has a ruthlessness and facility for physical violence which I am altogether lacking.

Wardrobe: This one poses something of a problem. I lack the physique to properly fill out a skintight body suit. (Diabolik was able to carry off the look, but his svelte frame had definition and tone, while mine does not.) Masks, hoods, or dominoes are right out, too, as they wouldn't accessorize properly with my spectacles. (A monocle would be an ideal affectation -- especially if it incorporated integral sleep ray/x-ray vision functions -- but the need to constantly squint would play havoc with the depth perception.) Formal evening wear is classy, but too constricting, and lasting trauma from 70's childhood prevents me from ever donning another turtleneck pullover. The best option would be an all-black business casual ensemble with a collarless button-down shirt. It's stylish, breathable, and has enough flexibility should I need to leap from an overpass onto the top of a passing train.

Though it would appear that I am well-prepared for the switch in careers, there are still a few questions that I still need to resolve. For instance, how are the elaborate interconnected networks of victims, accomplices, foils, and dupes that every supercriminal needs to carry out his or her plan generated? Is it something expected to be in place prior to embarking on the career path? Does it organically emerge once one has begun? Or does it involve some pump priming on the part of the supercriminal to make sure that the rival mob bosses, spoiled countesses, and brilliant-yet-unlucky detectives assume their proper places within the grand scheme? (Not to mention the serendipitous extended relationships linking all the major players, like the countess's servant being the former girlfriend of the mob boss's son who is a colleague of the dedicated gendarme...)

Because, honestly, the whole high maintenance aspect seems suspiciously like work to me, and would dim the allure considerably should it be the case. Sleeping on a pile of ill-gotten banknotes doesn't feel the same if you're too knackered to properly enjoy it.

Finally, every sophisticated supercriminal worthy of the title needs to have some appropriate theme music. To this end, I have selected a ginchy double-bill of parochial punk and cosmopolitan cool to accompany my anticipated dastardly adventures.

Jerry's Kids - Spymaster (from Kill Kill Kill, 1989) - The best track on this late-in-the-decade offering by the local 80's hardcore legends, and it's a crunched-up cover of a La Peste song.

Georges Garvarentz - Le Temps Des Loups (from Shake Sauvage - French Soundtracks: 1968-1973, 2000) - The wolf is on the prowl, and he has brought a horn section and vibraphone to assist him in his predations.

Now if you'll excuse me, I must get back to attempting to shape my usual hissing chuckle into something better befitting my new vocation.

he is legend times two

In honor of the late Charlton Heston, here's what may very be the greatest scene ever committed to film, at least from a purely retrological standpoint.

Heston. Vincent Price. John Derek. Flagellation. A fight to the death. If the actual scripture hewed closer to what Cecil B. DeMille presented in The Ten Commandments, I might not have discarded my faith.

"His...powers...of hammy acting...are greater...than...my own...aarggh!!!!"
Rest in peace, Chuck. Fuck Conor Oberst, you'll always be the one true Bright Eyes in my book.

Jerry Goldsmith - Main Title (from The Planet of the Apes OST, 1968) - The disconcerting minimalism of Goldsmith's score sounds downright avant-garde after decades spent listening to John Williams's signature bombast and Danny Elfman's whimsical gothica.

(See also this post.)

everybody has cowlicks to conceal

Sad, but true: As the bright optimistic glare of the Atomic Age dispelled the lingering shadows of noir culture, Dashiell Hammett's Sam Spade, the very archetype of the hard boiled detective, found himself reduced to a pitchman for hair care products...

"When a man's supply of pomade is threatened, he's supposed to do something about it. It doesn't make any difference whether it uses a vegetable or mineral oil base."
"When I bury you underneath a dozen cases of Wildroot Cream-Oil^TM, you'll take it and like it. In fact, you love how it adds body to even the limpest locks."
"It smells nice, Sam. What is it?"
"The stuff that dreams -- and damn fine hairstyles -- are made of."

(from Captain Marvel Adventures #91; December 1948)
Hopefully the licensing royalites from the ad helped Dashiell Hammett defray the legal fees stemming from the Civil Rights Congress of New York (of which Hammett was chairperson) being labeled as a communist front organization by the Truman administration in 1947. The group's efforts to raise bail money for accused "subversives" and unwillingness to turn over the names of fund contributors to the government led to Hammett being found in contempt of court. After a similar refusal on his part to cooperate with the House Un-American Activities Committee 1953, Hammett was blacklisted as well.

Quite a way to treat the man who gave the world both The Maltese Falcon and The Thin Man, yet there are plenty of folks out there who long for nothing more than a return to that lovely chapter of our history. Grand, ain't it?

You can find a handful of episodes of the old Sam Spade radio show for your downloading and listening enjoyment here. The Maltese Falcon, the 1930 novel featuring Sam Spade, is available (along with The Thin Man) as part of this handsomely-designed omnibus edition of Hammett's works. The equally indispensible 1941 film version can be found (with the racier pre-Code 1931 version and Satan Met a Lady, a 1936 comedic take starring Bette Davis) on this DVD set.

Duran Duran - Watching the Detectives (from Thank You, 1995) - Wonderfully wrong.

Adolph Deutsch - Theme to The Maltese Falcon (from Legendary Film Noir Movies, 2004) - Atmospherically right.

Ray Anthony & His Orchestra - Peter Gunn Theme (from The Ultra-Lounge Sampler, 1996) - A swinging delight.

here forever in the beauty

Because I had nothing else planned for today and because my brother recently brought the story to my attention, we're going to take a brief guided tour through the acid-eaten pages of Captain America & The Falcon #164 (August 1973). Written by Steve Englehart and illustrated by Alan Weiss (no relation), "Queen of the Werewolves" finds the heroic duo investigating suspected hijinx at a remote prison which, as typical for the genre, resembles a set from a 1930's Universal horror film. Under the management of the slinky (and somewhat underdressed) Nightshade, the facility has embarked on a "rehabilitation though lycanthropy" program for the inmates.

The Star-Spangled Avenger is less than pleased with the results (which the maternally-minded Nightshade calls her "babies") and proceeds to kick some man-beast tail. After witnessing the werewolves' inability to subdue the good Captain, the project's secret backer -- revealed to be the evil mastermind and lemon-hued racist caricature known as the Yellow Claw -- decides to cut Nightshade's funding. Unable to secure alternative financing for her work, Nightshade throws herself off the prison roof in despair.

Based on that brief synopsis, "Queen of the Werewolves" sounds replete with the full complement of drag-and-drop plot elements common to many Marvel superhero stories from that wild and crazy era. It's a reasonable assumption to make, yet an incomplete one, as it fails to consider a few things that push the story out of the pedestrian territory and into the realm of the inexplicably bizarre.

Things like...

HAPPY CAP IS HAPPY!
Cap-life regression captions!
Werewolf BDSM!
Scream, Were-Falcon, Scream!
Nightshade's sexadelic emotiveness!
I'm quite fond of Alan Weiss's art, but I don't think his particular style is a good fit with superhero genre material. It's especially true in this story, where Nightshade's provocative poses are consistently at odds with what's being expressed in the dialogue and captions -- as in the above panel, for example, or when she's sprawled across a computer console like an auto-show model while agonizing over the Claw's lack of support.

Her use of "babies," rather than the standard "pets" or "pretties," in regard to her were-minions is also disturbingly off-putting in a vaguely Freudian manner (though that might just be me). Cap's remark upon meeting her (as she suggestively waves one of Falcon's stray feathers about her person) that "She's a little girl -- posing, playing grown-up" doesn't help matters, either.

As grotty as that aspect of the story is, it still comes nowhere close to the truly inexplicable appearance of...

NICK FURRY, MOUNTAIN MAN OF S.H.I.E.L.D.!
Words fail me.

The Frantics - Werewolf (from The Complete Frantics, 2004) - No, not the folks behind the agressively unfunny "Boot to the Head" comedy sketch, but a Puget Sound rock 'n' roll outfit active during the late 50's and early 60's (and who backed Bobby Darrin on "Dream Lover"). Excellent stuff indeed.

Thom Pace - Maybe (Theme to Grizzly Adams) (from Television's Greatest Hits, Vol. 5: In Living Color, 1996) - This is the short version used in the eco-positive 70's TV series (which I learned was produced by Sunn Classics, of In Search of Noah's Ark and Hangar 18 fame). This song never fails to make the wife a little misty-eyed when she hears it.

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!)

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.