In the same spirit as the previous post, the weather is something that always inspires me.

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Untitled

By Garik Charneco

I once told my father, "Weekends always look so nice. Why are the weekends always so nice looking, dad?"

I was a kid. Maybe seven or eight. I don't remember his exact reaction, his mannerisms. I must have been on the terrace above our garage, both of us hugging the concrete railing and looking out on the street along with the suburbs of San Juan.

I do remember his exact words. He said, "Everyday is beautiful."

I didn't understand. What a silly thing to say. Everyday isn't beautiful because I saw that weekends were always sunny and blue while weekdays always began dew-soaked and gray. I later, many years later and only after my father had passed away, that he was right. My observations were scant and biased. Weekdays meant rising early for school, around the same time that the morning was still recovering from the dawn. Weekdays were the days that soaked your pant legs with dew as you ran through the grass and splattered the streets with the watery effluent from the trash truck because that was any early morning. On weekends, we all awoke just a little bit later or, like myself, watched TV, never noticing the major shifts between early morning and late. Saturday morning cartoons always ended around 12noon, when I would go out to the terrace and see the tropical sun all over unbroken strips of green. A noon sun is the most gorgeous of illumination, the ultimate manifestation of what makes our planet. I only knew the noon sun of weekends, hence my observation.

A sunny day also meant a warm day. I recently experienced one of those deceiving late March days, up here, far away from home. It was gorgeous out; the noon sun is beautiful everywhere. Liquid shimmers of melting ice peppered the sidewalk and the fuzz of budding trees invited people to touch. It was the same kind of sun that I always imagined baked the deep grooves of of the "roble*" tree outside our house. However, it was still chilly out with the wind defiling the radiance. It was a sun-dog spring with everything illuminated and the melting piles of dirty snow exhaling their last chills. From inside, it was still beautiful and a Wednesday too.

When my father said everyday is beautiful he wasn't being saccharine or reflective. He was being practical. Every day is beautiful because everyday has a noon and a high sun. I looked for a metaphysical answer to my father's observation when all I had to do was remember our planet's own rotations and orbits.

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Peace!


*Roble is the Spanish word for oak. When someone in PR says roble they are literally saying "Puerto Rican Oak," which makes no botanical sense. I have no idea what it really is, but certainly not an oak. However, that is what we called it.

Misnomer

I have realized in the past few weeks that more people (i.e. three) read my blog than I thought. This is bitter sweet as I do want people to read the blog, but I know my posts are sporadic and lackluster. I live in a small town and while most people can't say my name, they still make the connection. I use a pseudonym for writing, but in this piece I out myself. Of course, the connections shouldn't be too hard to make, but here you go. I got in trouble for blogging once before. That was stupid of me and I have made every effort to not be as dumb in this blog. I hope it pays off.

A local artist extraordinaire often comes into the coffee shop that I work at. Actually, in Trumansburg, NY, a lot of artists extraordinaire come into the coffee shop. Some are struggling and others are established. Some are hobbyists and others are go-getters. Lots of creativity going around, which is a wonderful thing. But I overheard this local artist extraordinaire once say the smartest thing I ever heard about creativity.

"Style happens."

He was referring to drawing, but it applies to any creative work. I do not know if I will ever become a successful writer, but I can be myself as a writer and work with what inspires me. I sit down at the computer or at a desk, notebook readied, and try to force something. I always found the old writing axiom, "Write about what you know," to be a bit too naive. If we wrote about what we knew then entire genres could disappear! You can't say that Kurt Vonnegut would still be the same writer if he had never even gone to Dresden. However, real life inspires in many ways. We can fictionalize a real-life event by simpling swapping ourselves with a make-believe character. Or we can play on those real world events, building upon them. Chuck Palahniuk never spent the wee hours of the morning beating other men senseless, but the inspiration for Fight Club did come from the aftermath of bar brawl. Great research can help any book, and tell-alls don't always make the best literature.

I prattle about all this to say that some things always inspire me. Or they force me to put pen to paper. One is my name, and names in general actually. So here is something about my name.

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Defense Phonics

By Garik Charneco

It's a reflex. Spelling my name.

"Can I have your name, sir?" I get that, as probably you do, from tellers, shop keeps, clerks, cops, and officials. I also get the funny stare and the rustle of fingers struggling to find a pen and paper. I always have to spell my name.

"Andres. A-n-d-r-e-s." More blank stares.

I don't like the fact that I have to spell my name. It feel like I have to explain myself all the time, like I am on trial for having an obtuse name. My spelling reflex isn't practical, it's necessary. The Katie in your office is just a quickened Katherine. The Bill at school is a hasty little William. JC, JT, BJ, and all other initials are fast little things. The shortened names are practical. It takes a whole extra second to say Christopher instead of Chris! Screw that! Your office or school is a practical place, in the real world where time matters. Even negating the shortened names is practical. It's never nice to assume so don't assume I like my James to become your Jim.

However, my name, and all the other names that force their bearers to beat-box out the alphabet, are demanding names. They demand explanation and constant demonstration, like a toy dog that a super-model carries around under her arm.

Some people try, and I applaud the for being so brave. People reading my name off a list often do this. But they hardly ever get it right. They will try to salvage something of their initial syllables. I mean, look at my name....

An "a" followed by a "n" then a "d," "r," "e," and "s?" It's those ugly consonants in the middle. They don't seem to connect the other letters, but instead force the apart. People are then left to try and scrape up some sounds from this hodge-podge. They will cop off the "s," thinking that that just makes no sense there. It had to be an error in the data entry department. They will drop the "s" and then call me "andre" and make a mental note to check with the temps in the data entry department. In college, our dorm coordinator made signs for all the doors. There is Shamus and Nick's room. And over there is Ryan and Jamie's room! And this room, room 313? Well it is Chris and Andr's room!

Or they will insert extra letters, grammatical crutches designed to make it more palatable. Another "a," but this one behind the "e" instead. "Andreas?" Or an extra "r" or even a "w," turning my name into the anglicized version of it. A much more palatable version of it, mind you me. The "w" seems to bring a sense of closure to the "andre" combination.

Andrew? Why that is a perfectly understandable name!

Andres? What? Are there two of you or something?

My name just sounds unnatural, even in the mother romance tongue. Even with a guttural rolling "r" noise and the emphasis on the "e," my name still sounds phony when a Spanish speaker utters it. It's that combination of letters again.

My name is supposed to mean brave and masculine. I don't consider myself particularly brave or masculine. I consider myself annoyed and embarrassed. That is the big reason why I don't like my name. It makes me cranky and whiny. Did you read all this? See!?

Some people like my name, especially when I compare it to my fake name. I never went to many parties in college, but at the few I did, I played the name game. At that point most people knew me by my fake name.

A girl that is actually talking to me!: Garik? That is a strange name. No offense.

Me: Oh, don't worry, none taken. It is actually a nickname. My real name is Andres. A-n-d-r-e-s.

A girl that is still actually talking to me!: Wow, sexy name. I'd hit that, but not a Garik. *turns away*

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Peace!

Eat it Joe Quesada!

SPIDER-RABBIT! SPIDER-RABBIT!

Does anything that a spider-rabbit can! And since such a thing really doesn't exist, that means that I can give it any powers I wish! OH YEAH! SPIDER-RABBIT FRIGGIN' YEAH!


Hops really high, shoots some webs, has carrot shaped shurikens, and his x-ray vision can even see through lead! Super-strength he has is spades and you better believe that he is litter trained! Breathes some fire and reactive evolution! OH YEAH! SPIDER-RABBIT FRIGGIN YEAH!

My comics budget remains pretty tight. It is good that I am keeping one of my new year's resolutions, at least. I try to stick to only six comics a month which at the usual $2.99 retail price means that I can get by on $20 dollars a month for comics. Most of the comics I buy are a core group I read every month no matter what: Daredevil, Green Lantern, Green Lantern Corps, The New Avengers and The Immortal Iron Fist. With both Civil War and Ion all done with, I can find a new comic for the rotation slot! Hence, the Spider Rabbit post as I picked up Ultimate Spiderman #106.

There is no Ultimate Daredevil series. This fills me with a mixture of sadness and relief. Sadness because I would like to see young Matt Murdock going to NYU and beating on bad guys while still dressed in sweats. Relief because I would buy the damn thing like a sucker. They could kill Foggy Nelson ten times over and I would still come back for more!

Anyway, DD is limited to cameos in the Marvel Ultimate universe and in this Spidey issue he comes off as a premiere, and quite cocky, superhero. Spiderman's youth has always played a predominant role in any of his series. It makes sense for the adult attorney Matt Murdock/DD, to treat the kid as a hot shot rookie. However, I can now understand why people got so mad about Iron Man in Civil War.

In this issue, DD plans to get together a group of NYC heroes to kill the Kingpin of crime. Yes, kill. DD doesn't kill! He beats the crap out of people like no other, yes. He has frequent breakdowns that make him go into a sort of mini-berserker mode. But he doesn't kill! Well I guess Ultimate DD does. I think in the Ultimate universe you are either a silly little newbie or an edgy veteran. Don't get me wrong, Ultimate Spidey #106 is nice and so is the whole Ultimate Universe, but my limited exposure to it has convinced me of the aforementioned duality.

The arc is building up to something big and I will end it after this whole DD crossover is complete. Not much actual action here, but plenty of the "wiz bang" sheer delight factor I hear so much about this series. It is nice to have a handle on Spiderman without having to refer to 500 plus back issues.

I couldn't help but post about the final splash page. It's right out a sitcom. Peter Parker doesn't know how to break up with his ex-girlfriend Kitty Pryde (Shadowcat in the X-Men) and then she gets transferred to his school! HILARITY ENSUES! Or at least, that is what we hope for in the next issue.

Kitty Pryde is notable for a lot of reasons. Joss Whedon cites her as an influence for the character of Buffy in Buffy the Vampire Slayer. And my understanding was that she was uber-popular when she was first introduced in the X-Men. She's in Weezer's "In the Garage" song! She is also notable for being a Jewish superhero. It's nice to have some diversity and nice that Kitty is proud of her heritage, but look at that last page! Do you see the size of that Star of David pendant!?

Click on the picture to Goliath-size it!
It is Fuccillo sized HUGE!

Is her Jewish heritage really critical to the Ultimate Shadowcat character? I haven't played in the Ultimate sandbox too much, but some of the Ultimate X-Men I have fails to play off that quality.

Until then I remain amazed at the HUGENESS!

PEACE!

Spring Time

Today marks the official first day of spring, and I do hope that we end all this weird winter weather in CNY. I don't care too much for spring. Seeing all the snow melt is always a treat, but I feel my overall "meh" for spring comes from growing up where it is "summer" and "not so summery." The buds of colt's foot flowers popping from chocolate colored loam and the buds on forsythia bushes are all pretty, but I just want the entire place to get to summer already. I enjoy a good July, with sticky heat that shucks your clothes onto your skin.

Below, is a little snippet that combines some images of spring and summer. It has a rabbit in it. I have a things for rabbits. I actually have a very big thing for rabbits.

I FRIGGIN' ADORE THEM!

I think this is another "where I grew up thing," but I can't get enough rabbits. Real rabbits I mean. None of this kitschy bunny slippers stuff. I mean Eastern Cottontails nibbling on ground ivy, jackrabbits outrunning tumbleweeds, and Swamp Rabbits that attack Jimmy Carter! I have my pet rabbit Carson and while he is infinitely incorrigible, I do search for those wild traits still left in him.

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After the Storm

by Garik Charneco

It sounds like a final breath. The gulping noise the water makes when it fills a pocket in the beach house's interior. The tide brings in the water to the cubby holes along the rear of wall of the living room and the space below the refrigerator. Then the tides sucks the back water back out, leaving the soft shucking noise and a rime of silt as the only evidence.

Hurricane Danny just skirted the coast of the bay, but still knocked the beach house off the stilts that kept it ten feet into and two feet above the water. After the storm, the call went out and Sadie was the first on the scene.

Sadie pulls on the straps of her windbreaker, bringing in the nylon hood around her hair, which frizzes up in the humidity. The rental car she drove here is at the far end of the crushed gravel path from the main road. She notices the iridescent crushed oyster shells and buffed sea glass in the driveway. She wants to ask if those were always there, if they were a part of the gravel driveway or something washed up from the sea. She steps over the exposed pipes of the outdoor sink where her dad scaled the fish he caught from the porch. She remembers how tiny the fish where and how scaling them just seemed like something to impress all the kids; all the cousins, sisters, brothers, and friends that spent summers here. The spigot to the sink lies in the fronds of a cabbage palm, a little glint amongst all the fallen green.

The driveway leads to a wooden gate that never closed during the summers. Feral cats walked through it and batted at the little minnows just below the porch. Sadie's mom always called them Hemingway Cats, visitors from the Keys. Sadie pulls on the gate, but the entire piece comes off the hinges, which were held on by only one rusty screw. The storm water permeates each knot in the wood and it feels heavy in her hands. The corner of the gate butts into the gravel and leaves an exposed gash. Sadie props the entire thing against the broken urn her father always claimed he dredged from the Mediterranean. She now sees the grey breadth of a concrete lawn ornament.

The porch held up during the storm and only the emerald fronds of sea grass litter the wooden floors. Sadie turns the corner and expects the familiar folding table littered with dominoes and the skiff tied up to the railings. She sees more sea grass and hears the noise again, the sound of the sea coming in and out. The door to the actual house is open, forced open by a sea swell.

Avocado colored bowls pepper the living room and the ear-wax yellow refrigerator lies on its side. It is filled with brown seawater, that Sadie churns with broom handle. She pulls out more sea grass and the quivering body of jellyfish. She flings that back out into the bay. She keeps away from the area the jellyfish touched while sweeping everything up into a little pile. Silverware, plates, headless dolls, and a mound of Q-tips. She brings all this to the center of the room where she knows her mother would prefer the mess. "Easier to get into the bags, dear," Sadie mutters to herself. The sound of the sea beneath her becomes more rhythmic, a soundtrack to the salvage.

The living room attaches to the rest of the house by a aluminum door. The bottom of it is mottled with rust and screeches against the wood. The large bedroom is divided by a curtain that is still tied to it's hook on the wall. Every bed is a bunk bed and Sadie sits on the edge of the soaked mattress looking for the messages she left in magic marker. She traces the line of a heart, but strains to remember the letters in it. "S and I?" Enunciating every letter and scrawl fails to take her back, instead it feels like she should just get back to cleaning.

Another noise breaks the sound of tidal push and pull. It sounds like a soft oinking, a strong nasal noise followed by a pitter-patter. Sadie feels a swish against her feet, a sees a ball of cotton dive under the bed. She shoots up from the edge of the mattress and slams her head against the top bunk. She winces a curse and then sees the rabbit running around her feet.

It is a sandy brown with a few bands of white intermingling with the rest of the fur. Its ears drag against the floor, their bell shaped bottoms soaked like paint brushes. Sadie squats down and scoops in half circle. The rabbit trashes, kicking its back feet like someone kicking off a pair of flip flops. The rabbit quivers and the wet fur leaves a trail against Sadie's coat. In the corner of the room she notices a cage. Black wires and a green plastic cover. She doesn't remember a rabbit at the house or rabbits by the sea. The cage bottom is lined with wood shavings that clump together around wet spots left from the condensation against the top bars.

The rabbit stops trashing and tucks its legs into the fold of Sadie's elbow. "Did you float over here?" She asks this into one of it's ears. The rabbit continues to coo.

The rear window of the room is gone and the storm left a bare rectangle in the wooden side. The cage is below the exposed window and in the mangrove trees behind the house, Sadie sees more of the wood shavings coalescing around the roots. Sadie puts the rabbit down on the mattress where it stands on its back feet and nuzzles her forearm. The rabbit looks drowned, it's hair wet and slick to its body like an otter. It shivers while standing up, but whether from the strain or the cold, Sadie can't tell. She strips her jacket off and places it on the bottom of the cage. The rabbit allows itself to be picked up and digs its way into the folds of her coat. Sadie brings her arms to her shoulders and tried to warm itself. A sort of fog fills the room and through the window she sees another gutted beach house and imagines the line of properties further down the bay.

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Well, not every wacky combination can be chocolate and peanut butter. Peace!

Getting Ready for the FLEFF

The Finger Lakes Environmental Film Festival (FLEFF) is almost here and I am pretty damn excited! I have enjoyed seeing the FLEFF evolve throughout my six something years in CNY. I remember back in freshmen year of college, it was called the Cornell Environmental Film Festival and had showings all over the place. Funny to note that as the name of the festival has gotten broader, that the actual showing locations have gotten smaller. What is now the Finger Lakes Environmental Film Festival only has showings at Ithaca College and Ithaca's local art house theaters Cinemapolis* and Fall Creek. I really don't mind too much. Every year I grab the nice glossy flier with all the movies and begin to meticulously plan out which ones I can see. I always plan to see about twenty of them, but usually make due with just three or four.

I appreciate the FLEFF because it uses a very broad use of the word environment. I understand this meaning is often lost on some. Last year, while I was still at IC, Amanda and I had an unfortunate encounter with one of Ithaca's renowned local activists. She was irate that the film festival "wasn't" environmental enough with films about globalization and the war on Iraq lining the schedule. She apparently took us as the festival planners and freaked out before storming away. **

I understand the word "environmental" conjures up images of trees and nature. However, the environment is the entire living system and even something as abstract (abstract in that you can't touch it) as globalization is environmental. Everything we do relates back to the land. And while some might feel overwhelmed that something like the fresh flowers on their desk could mean human exploitation and environmental degradation (most 1-800 flowers are grown in Venezuela, Ecuador, etc by poor workers with no protection from the pesticides applied), I find it empowering. No, I am not a freak. Well, not that kind of freak. I don't feel exhilarated at people having their fingers ripped by rose thorns. What I mean is that it is empowering to know the effects everyday decisions have on the world at large and what one can do about it! It is cheesy to say, but knowledge is power. Just being cognizant of these issues is the first step towards small contributions.

I appreciate how the festival organizers bring up discussions about natural ecology and human sustainability without covering the celluloid in streak of green. Don't get me wrong; I think next year they should spool all episodes of Captain Planet together and show them for 24 hours non-stop as a piece on early environmental thought in young Generation Y'ers. Nothing wrong with an outwardly environmental film, but those don't necessarily have to be nature documentaries.

I am particularly excited for films like Black Gold, Blowing Up Paradise, The Disappearing of Tuvalus: Trouble in Paradise, The Fittest Survive, The Language of Wine, Liberia: A Fragile Piece, and Jonestown: The Life and Death of the People's Temple. I'll be lucky to even see maybe two of those, but maybe you can check out some too!? Here is the schedule.

Peace!






* Can anyone pronounce this for me? Cinemapolis? I understand it should be fairly simple, but it throws me for a loop every time.
"Hey, Garik, where did you see that movie you can't stop talking about?"
"Oh, you know, that place downtown. Cine..aa..ma..lis...*head explodes*"

** If you live in Ithaca then you should now who I am talking about. Yeah, don't think too hard because it is the first person that comes to mind. In her defense, I do have one grievance with the FLEFF. I understand you can't show all the films in the Park Auditorium or Ford Hall (you know, the place where people actually see performances), but do you really need to schedule a film in Williams 224 during the 9:25 TR session of "Academic Writing 1?" Seriously, some of the classrooms at IC are glamorized broom closets. I saw one movie last year in a tiny and slanted room deep in the bowels of the absolute labyrinth that is Smiddy Hall! I think HR Giger and MC Escher designed that building. And CNS 115? Man, everyone's been in there!

Water Works

It's officially spring here in Central New York since we just has the first really nice day followed by the first really crappy day! Just two days ago, it was almost 70 degrees and sunny. And today the weather turned to a mix of puffy rain-snow. Below is a picture of Trumansburg creek which runs by the coffee shop I work at. The melting snows have turned the creek into a swollen mess and the picture does little justice to how much water was in there. Local and actually read blogger Jonathan Cook makes it a habit to blog about the status of Trumansburg Creek from time to time. Those are nice, but nice isn't what you come to this blog for anyway, eh!? Yes, that's right. You come for lengthy exposition and the ocassional Daredevil and/or Green Lantern love post. Even farther below is a little snippet I wrote while at work and staring at the creek below. Enclosed water (lakes, streams, rivers, ponds, etc.) always hypnotizes me. Back home all we had was the ocean and this immensity of that seemed understandable. The ocean just was, but freshwater seemed to have to define itself within the limits of the land around it.

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Untitled

By Garik Charneco

Enclosed water. Trapped potential. Jarred wonder. I think we can appreciate all this trapped water because something inherently malleable becomes stable. The lake's geography is just a way of containing those last bits of water too stubborn to follow their kind to the ocean. These streams, creeks, and ponds are the moisture that remains at the bottom of your cup. They remain, no matter how hard one tries to shake them free.

Growing up on an island, I never had much to see in terms of enclosed water. Any lake on the island, I just learned, is artificial, created when engineers dammed rivers. Oceans are too big. They leave giant blank spaces on the map, which my anal nature finds untidy. I realize that I am questioning random geographic formation, but I appreciate when something is defined by what influences it and not the other way around. That seems natural, like evolution applied to understanding.

Trapped water always has some land telling it where to go. An oxbow to the south. An inlet towards the fields. A marshland to blanket. It doesn't have to be freshwater per se. I spent a few summers with cousins in the Puerto Rican Riviera--La Parguera. There are no beaches there, however, instead a necklace of mangrove atolls just off the coast. My older cousins would boat us out there, to swim in the shallows created by these islands.

The gnarled roots of the mangrove trees clamber over each other. They poke into the sand below and mingle with each other. As they grow, they trap bits of sand and flotsam, creating an island. The waves sometimes lap at the weaker ends and create tiny jetties in the arching trunks. People eventually come and bore through these jetties, creating canals in the middle of the ocean.

I explored these canals during those summer breaks. I snorkeled them always aware of the three dimensions around me. I was terrified of the sea urchins that peppered the root balls. My older cousins would pick them up by their thin black needles and hold them above the water's surface. The urchins twitch and the bottom needles undulate trying to find a new grip on the roots.

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Yeah, I don't know what I meant either. Peace!

Stupid, stupid, stupid!

Below is a picture of Amanda and I's new pet! Yes, we got another animal. Another animal that eats a lot, poops a lot, and friggin' hates us! Meet Dante the Guinea Pig!

Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!

Oh, but he is quite cute. I do love him, even though he bites me! Peace!

Musings and day dreams

This is the kind of silly things I write when stuck at work. The problem with these pieces is that they make so much more sense in my head. What do you think?

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Untitled

By Garik Charneco

Laney turns his head right. He turns his head left. He sees nothing, realizing that the bus schedule is out of date. He slides down the bench, feeling each of the wooden segments nudge his back. He teeters on the sloped edge and his feet almost reach the granite curb of the sidewalk. He closes his eyes and imagines music. He imagines this scene as the opening image of a movie. The music gets louder, but it doesn't overpower. It is soft folk music with a woman singing the lyrics in a liquid twang. Someone begins to thump wash bin for percussion. Laney imagines the camera slowly begin moving towards him. The right of the screen engulfs the mortar-and-pestle logo for Pubb's Pharmacy. Laney's head gets blocked out, just for a second, by the flash of the CSA credit. A few more names flash on the screen. A producer. A music composer. A cinematographer. However, Laney keeps these away from his face. The music begins to get softer and the camera has Laney right at it's center. His head dominates the shot and he goes for that longing he imagines the director wants. At the top of the hill that divides Main Street in two, the hydraulic hiss of the bus announces its approach. The movie ends before it begins, but only Laney is disappointed.

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Peace!

Ack!

I just realized that I haven't blogged in about three weeks. I suck.

However, what a time to blog with the big news that CAPTAIN AMERICA IS DEAD!!!

Wow. I guess this is my big, first comics "death." I wonder how I will feel when they bring him back. Or will Steve Rogers just stay dead and have someone else take up the Captain America mantle.? I don't know, but I was pretty shocked.

I have kept this post a bit restrained to spare those non-geeks out there, but, I could not help resist putting up this video.



Yes, I know I suck even more for posting YouTube videos as real content, but a real post will come soon! I might even get published in a real live paper soon! I'll keep ya posted!

Peace!

Time For Some Books

I realize that I keep adding features, but this one looks like it will become a regular one.

I love to read and I read lots. LOTS! If I can't be a published writer then I will read and read and read! Remember, "Great writers read as much was they write." In my case, at least I will have half of the formula down.

Most of the books that I read either get returned to the library or Bookcrossed. Bookcrossing is a website where folks can enter a book's ISBN and then get a unique code for that book (Unique for Bookcrossing's system as ISBN' are unique codes in the first place. Mr. Smartypants.). You then log that book in the system and leave it in a public place with the hope that someone will find it! The finder uses the code to log onto the site and then say where they found it and, later, what they thought of it. Then they release it and the circle continues. It all sounds a lot funner when you read what the actual Bookcrossing site has to say about it.

I bookcross books that I like and dislike. I can like a book, but not enough to let it sit on my self. My bookshelf is actually pretty lean and focused on specific authors more than random books. But I do find these single books that I really enjoy and that I can't bookcross because I want to keep them. I know I will re-read these books even though I might not become the author's groupie. So, when one of these books comes up, I will blog away! Bookcrossing lets you put books in your permanent collection, but I feel the purpose of the site is to release, so permanent collection be damned!


Releases in 1998, Giles Foden's Last King of Scotland has come back into the forefront due to the much-celebrated recent movie of the same name. I have yet to see the movie, but I got this book from my lovely gf, Amanda, because I do want to see it. I hear it is quite good and so is the book.

The book is a historical novel. There never was a Scottish doctor named Nicholas Garrigan who became Idi Amin's personal physician, but there was an Idi Amin and his associates. The novel comes from Foden's 20 years in Africa and incredible research/first-hand interviews into the Amin rule. The historical aspect reads quite well. Foden chooses to present the work as Nicolas' journal from his quasi-exile in the Scottish boonies. This justifies any expository paragraphs that Nicholas inserts for the help of "his" own readers. With historical stories, I tend to prefer those that take a long time to get to the actual history. A writer can focus on the events and forget to create a decent context. Foden paints Uganda here with lengthy descriptions of flora, fauna, food, landscapes, and people. I am a sucker for exposition.

If this book weren't based on so much reality then it would be hilarious! If you replaced Uganda with some made up country (Logo-Pogo or something) and renamed Idi Mufasa Jones then the entire story would make up a great dark comedy. A sort of gallows humor. I could see this version in film too, except it would be a Mel Brooks picture set to songs like "African Kilts" and "Kampala Highlanders." History does some of the writing itself. Idi's self appointed title was, "His Excellency President for Life, Field Marshal Al Hadji Doctor Idi Amin, VC, DSO, MC, Lord of All the Beasts of the Earth and Fishes of the Sea, and Conqueror of the British Empire in Africa in General and Uganda in Particular." I thought "esq." was nice suffix, but that is pure comedy gold. I like how Idi gave himself Aquaman powers with the "fishes of the sea" part. His title re-affirms his charisma. How could you not want to meet a guy that calls himself that!?

Of course, it's all very true. Foden does well at creating Idi's "Instant Stockholm Syndrome Effect." The modern readers knows that Amin murdered about 300,000 people, but we can't help, but smirk at the guy who bursts out of hotel pool on an underwater elevator or wears an orange jump suit (For when Uganda goes to the moon!) to an interview. Or who pushes back his plate saying "Done!" at a state dinner. The man who created a navy in a landlocked country.* During the scenes where its just Idi and Nicolas, the reader doesn't observe, but acually feels the conversation. Even when he takes Nicholas to the torture chambers, Foden keeps up Idi's smooth talking. He is never left speechless, even when challenged by his own horrors. My favorite line in the entire book is when Tanzania has invaded Kampala and forced Idi to run. History shows that he ran to Libya and then lived out the rest of his life in exile. The book portrays this, but first shows how Idi gets out of Uganda. I would like to research the actual historical accuracy of this, but as the Tanzanians come into Kampala, Idi hides in secret underground passage beneath one of his mansions. Nicholas confronts him and Idi says that he is not afraid. He will find some way of the country...

Nicholas: "But how will you get out of the city? It's swarming with Tanzanians. How will you get out of the Lodge?"

Idi: "Doctor Nicholas, you know I am the best commando in the world, and also a master of disguise."

I didn't know that anyone actually used the phrase "master of diguise." I thought it was just that, a phrase, a lot like "rocket scientist" or "bar keep." And you have to keep in mind that Idi was a BIG guy. Best commando? Maybe if you were battling the fourth King of Tonga.

The book was a bit sobering as it revealed that I , like most Americans, know absolutely nothing about Africa. I like to think of myself as a pretty well-educated person. While in college, the African Students club did a study where they asked people to name five countries in Africa. Just five countries. All of this is second hand, but some of the anecdotes were just ludicrous. Most people could barely name one or decided to act like jackasses and provide horrible answers like "Nigger Land." I could name five countries in Africa, and I guess that made me better than the rest, but certainly not enlightened. It's also sad that being able to reiterate a map puts you above others. I don't have any studies to back this up, but I know that no matter how educated I try to sound/be, I am a complete idiot when it comes to African history. I hope I can make up for this and slowly learn more and more.

My only gripe about the book was the journal style. Sometimes it was a bit difficult to figure out whether Nicholas was writing about the past or present. However, this makes for a very minor personal nitpick in an amazing book. I can't wait to see the movie and I hope you can read/see it too!

Peace!

*I only inserted this because the author/book chose to mock Idi on it. Uganda might be landlocked, but it is ridiculously wet. Lakes everywhere, and BIG ones like Lake Victoria to boot. The "source" of the Nile! If I were president I would make some sort of freshwater navy, but I guess it is still a bit silly.

An experiment

If you can access Facebook, well, then, do it. Do it, now! If you can not, then sign up for an account. It's like MySpace except less creepy. Anyway...

Do a group search for the phrase "Green Lantern."

The first group is actually something completely non-comics related, but the third, and biggest GL fan group is quite comics focused. However, the guy spelled the group name..."Green Lanter Corps."

ACK!

The guy who started the group eventually apologizes for the typo and says that the only way to fix it would be to delete the entire group (about 250 folks) and start again. He chooses to stay the courses with the typo.

I am not one to nitpick about typos. This blog is pretty much the typo breeding grounds. And I don't like to offend fellow fans. However, it does diminish the "oomph" of the group when the hero's name is spelled wrongs. Imagine if Batman swung into battle with a pigeon on his chest or if the Flash had a AAA battery on this suit? Exactly.


That is why I joined the second largest GL FB group. :P

Movies I Felt Obliged to See #1

YES! I promised many, many, many weeks ago that I would give Lords of Dogtown the Fear of the Blank Page treatment. I have finally watched the movie and present it to you now in....

Movies I Felt Obliged to See #1

LORDS OF DOGTOWN

First, I got this movie as part of the PSP entertainment pack my lovely gf Amanda gave me. This is why I felt obliged to see it, because it came with the PSP. I must say that while the audio on the PSP for games is great, the audio for movies seems lackluster and tiny. I had the thing at full blast and still could barely make out the dialogue. Still, the PSP kicks ass.

I must also say that I am not a skater. I can't even skate, but my feelings for this movie aren't influenced by my inability to land some serious Tony Hawk shiz-nit. (Also, most of my skater knowledge comes from episodes of the NickToon, Rocket Power, so don't expect anything too incisive hear. My skate knowledge is stuck in 1987.)

You don't need to be a true sports fan to appreciate a sports movie. There is human drama in sports and great sports movies do that. Think of Rocky. There is little human drama in this movie where any story gets ripped apart by the insertion of a skate scene. These scenes, by the way, are great looking, but don't really make up for the difference that I just don't care. That is a shame too since the story talks about how these punk kids revolutionized a sport. I don't need a skateboarding background to understand how skating looks like today is much different from the skating of 30 years ago.

In reading up on the film, I found out this is a fictionalized version of a documentary produced by one of the legendary skaters himself called Dogtown and Z-Boys. I hear that movie is much better and explains the actual story of the skaters. By being a movie first, Lords of Dogtown suffered. Makes sense. If you want to learn about surfing then why watch Blue Crush when you could watch Step Into Liquid.

Overall, Lords of Dogtown always seems overshadowed by its non-fiction counterpart and being that I haven't even seen the latter, it was pretty unexciting. And so is this post. But I got that monkey off my back! Peace!

In Defense of Civil War

Off-topic time, which means comics!

The wonderful thing about the comics blog-o-sphere is that you find one great blog and then you stumble across even better ones. There a lots of little guys trying to break into the serious comics blogging community (myself included), but we can't compare to the great ones. Check out my links page for some of my favorites, even though, the links have been kind of difficult lately. They appear to be broken, but after checking the code everything seems fine. Bah!

The entire comic blog-o-sphere seems to hate the latest Marvel crossover, Civil War. Really quick, the government decides that superheroes need to register and make their identities public if the heroes wish to continue stopping evil. If you decided to side with tradition, "the masks," or personal freedom then you are a criminal. This divides the superhero community in two and shenanigans break loose.

I like Civil War. There I said it. I think I might be one of the few blogs out there that is supportive of Civil War. Again with the Comics is another. Can you think of any other ones? It feels weird to defend Civil War as the comic book fans I know up here in CNY like it. Of course, that is only five guys versus the entire blog-verse!

I will admit that Civil War isn't the best. The political allegory is quite stilted (Trust me, I know a thing or two about stilted stories!) and while the writer, Mark Millar, promised that "no side was right," we all know that the anti-registration side is "right." It has friggin' Captain America on it! He always does the right thing! Meanwhile the pro-registration people have all been portrayed as cruel lapdogs, particularly Iron Man and Reed Richards.

Some say all politics is local. Maybe all Civil War reactions is local too. By local I mean close to your heart. I don't like Iron Man or Reed Richards very much. None of the pro-registration people really gets me going. However, my delightful Daredevil (along with Luke Cage and Iron Fist) are anti-registration. If Daredevil were out there chasing down fellow heroes with S.H.I.E.L.D. goombas then I too would be raving.

I also must admit that the entire event does fly in the face of 40, 50, even 60 years of Marvel continuity. Who knew Tony Stark would be such a jerk? How could they clone a god? Why would superheroes team up with super villians without some truly earth-shattering event happening? You know like Galactus showing up. I am still betting that one of the Watchers will swing down from space and intervene. He will do some crazy Watcher voodoo and set everything back.

Finally, I defend Civil War because I think it is a great idea in theory. Here is something that really could happen. We might not have mutant superheroes, but what if we did have a bunch of caped vigilantes? You know, mortals trained to the utmost perfection? We could have guys like Batman and Captain America, in theory. And the government could regulate them. I do believe that if superpowers were real then the government would have something to say about those with them. Hence, its a lovely idea that could have worked in a separate universe (by this I mean publisher) or even as an Elseworlds/What If? kind of title.

I am not afraid to say that I liked Civil War and eagerly await its conclusion out of pure excitement. It is not perfect, far from it, but I think it is neat.

Peace

Heavy

I just realized that today is February 15th and that is my father's birthday. This isn't very big or exciting news because my father passed away in 1994. I have written a lot about my father. It feels weird to say that because his death, and absence, has never really seemed that emptying. He died when I was 9 and the earliest memories I can remember are from when I was 5 or so. Hence, I really don't remember my father very much. He is an enigma that lives bigger and better in the stories my sister and mother tell.

I like literature that explores the masculine. I find this kind of story hard to find. Sure, there are plenty of stupid masculine stories and magazines. However, stories of bravado and machismo really don't do it much for me. I refuse to think that being masculine means that you are simple and inherently violent. I refuse to think that the highest expression of masculinity out there is Maxim (Oh, do I loathe Maxim!) This is why I like Chuck Palahniuk so much. His first book, Fight Club, talked about boyhood and masculinity. He used the violent stereotypes to question what it meant to be a real modern "man." A man raised by women, which I was. I don't regret being raised by my mother and I really don't, or ever, missed my father. I am sorry if that sounds callous and cruel. I know he was a nice guy, but I never really, really got to see that.

However, I still find myself writing a lot about my father. Here is a series of pieces I wrote about this. They are fictional and written in the style of a grown man writing to his dead father. I am only 22, so these letters are a bit pretentious, but I felt it was appropiate to give them so blog action.

This entry also marks a new blogging perspective for me. I usually try to post original original material here. Hence, I wanted to just hammer out stuff on the computer and not pull something from a journal of mine. I actually write a lot more with pen and paper then this blog would let you know. I realized it would be good of me to actually try and type these pieces out. They will grow as they translate from the page to the blog, and hopefully improve.

Sorry, if this is a bit heavy for anyone that might have stumbled upon my blog or returns to it every so often. I could write another Co-op of Justice piece, if you would like! EH!? Let me know. Peace!

_________________________________

"A Fistful of Letters"
by Garik Charneco

My father, who art in heaven, what is it like to die? You are the best source I know. I sometimes think of the actual act of dying while lying in bed. My wife's breath falls up and down and I reminded of mother's own breath, breaking over my forehead, that night. I imagine an infinite darkness where you lay on a soft cushion. The cushion is made of velvet and usually purple, but sometimes I imagine it red. You lay down on the cushion and you feel warm, like a thick blanket just pulled from the linen closet. Then the blanket sweeps off, but you still feel warm because dozens of hands start to caress you. They feel like silk. They run from head to toe and pull you deeper into the black. There is no deity or light, only away. I would like to know what it is like to die. I am sorry if that makes me selfish.

-Boy

* * *

My father, who art in heaven, what college would you have liked me to attend? Only now I realize my own strength and know I would not be lead so easily like my sister. What did you think of the fights me and mom had? Did you laugh when we actually came to blows, her lunging at me with a mop and myself grabbing an umbrella in defense? I grabbed the mop handle after deflecting it with the umbrella. I was fat back then and put all my weight into throwing her back. My elbow came up and knocked her in the chin. Just a tap. Were you horrified? Would you have approved of my direction? Of my major? Of my first job?

-Boy

* * *

My father, who art in heaven, did you see my bike accident junior year of college? I learned to ride a bike from Eddie, mom's first boyfriend. I bought one my first summer away from home to get around. I sprung a flat tire after skirting a rock by the reservoir. I was two miles from my apartment. A thunderhead began to develop on the horizon. I began to cry because I had no idea what to do. I made sure no one was around.


-Boy

* * *

My father, who art in heaven, please explain to me these lingering memories. They flash in my mind every so often and you seem to be the only connection. Please explain...

• An abandoned miniature golf course.
• A natural blowhole by the sea.
• A leaking canoe filled with snails.
• A latrine in the desert.
• A lemon tree split in two, yet still alive.
• The smell of leather seats.
• A crop of pigeon peas.
  

* * *

My father, who art in heaven, please explain these favors. The last time someone called me "Rafa's Boy" I had returned back home for mom's surgery. Please explain all your old friends to me. The aforementioned was an insurance salesman who said he could help me get a car. While I was back home, taking care of mom, you know. There are men everywhere that owe you favors. Other bankers, business owners, and a farmer too. I have never asked my sister about these, but do they ask her too. I have never pulled these strings. Mom reminds me to call these men every Christmas even though I don't know them and my wife, she can barely pronounce their names.

-Boy

* * *

My father, who art in heaven, what did you think when mom sold the house? I didn't really care. It was just a house. I drove by the old neighborhood while visiting the island and saw the Flamboyant* tree you planted right before you died. Mom wanted to cut because she feared its roots would rip up the sidewalks. She had a handyman trim its wild branches back into a gumdrop shape. I went out that night and poured the rest of the blue fertilizer powder you kept in the shed over its hidden roots. It was there when I left home and still there when I visited. It was flowering for, I believe, the first time ever. It's flowers burst against the concrete horizons of the house. They were yellow, a canary color with small flecks of salmon rimming the edges of the bottom petals. I imagine it pregnant with the oar shaped fruits, the ones we turned into swords at school. Grandma always called that tree "male" and that is why it never flowered. It still reminds me of you.

-Boy

* * *

My father, who art in heaven, if you can see my house then I am sorry for the lack of any pictures of you. Mom made me keep a tiny picture of you by my besides. It was next to the tiny crucifix she also made me keep.

-Boy

* * *

My father, who art in heaven, when mom screamed, "I am glad your father isn't here to see this!" were you glad?

-Boy

* * *

My father, who art in heaven, what did you think of my reverse birth idea? I imagine you heard me when the lowered grandma's ashes into the same plot as you. Your daughter gave birth to twin boys. I carried one up to your plot that day and shielded it's head with my hand. It was sunny, a gorgeous day and in the horizon you could see that sea. My sister, your daughter, held her other son and said, "There lies your grandpa too. Watching you from heaven with God and the Holy Ghost." She said this in soft coos. She repeated the refrain to the grandson I held in my hands.

-Boy

* * *

My father, who art in heaven, do you laugh when I daydream. Are you disappointed by the lack of sex and the prevalence of power rings? I apologize, but you must have seen those furtive minutes of me masturbating and everything with my girlfriend, fiancee, and wife.

-Boy

* * *

My father, who art in heaven, is there a God? Again, you are the best source I know. I always assumed that if there was a God then you would get to ask him or her three questions upon your entrance to the afterlife. I still plan to ask him the same questions. The kind of questions I would have asked you, but on a grander scale, like who really shot JFK?

-Boy

* * *

My father, who art in heaven, please verify these stories. They are all I have of you, passed on from grandma, mom, sister, and the rest.

• Did you really steal Grandma's car when you were nine to go see mom?
• Did you really lose 35 pounds in basic training?
• Did you really run across town naked and covered in paint as part of a fraternity initiation?
• Did you have an M.B.A?

-Boy

* * *

My father, who art in heaven, did you really die? I ask because I imagine that your death must have brought something like a rain of yellow flowers to the land. I half-expect to see you someday on the subway or on the street. A lonely man, who still carries himself with great weight and pride. You will speak in an accent, but only because I have one to you. I will come up to you, but then be afraid because you know so much about me and I am writing these letters.

-Boy

__________________________

All we need is for Thursday or the Fray to slap some music onto this and I got the next emo hit!

*To those unfamiliar with PR..."flamboyant tree"

More apologies

Gee...with all the apology posts I do you would think that they would get easier, but they do not. Sorry for not posting at all these past few weeks.

As a blogger, I am a bit conflicted. I got in trouble when I blogged about local issues (my fault) and there are way too many good comics blogs out there to merit another one. Every day I find a new great comic blog and become instantly addicted. If you stumbled across my blog and are also a frequent shadower in the comics blog-o-sphere, then I really suggest trying all those links that folks put up.

Consequently, I just developed a fan-boy crush on SallyP's Green Lantern Butt's FOREVER! I mean, not only is it a comics blog that dicusses the comics I am currently reading, but it is all about GL! Seriously, holy crap! This is why I also like Brian Hughes' Again with the Comics, because every so often he'll defend Civil War (I think there are five people that actually like it) and discuss issues I could actually buy. Dave Campbell and Chris Sims do a great job, but I am never going to get my hands on those Silver-Age Jimmy Olsen mindfucks they skewer.

So I will stick with filling up this little plot of the blog-o-sphere with my creative musings. But I will try to keep the posts coming.

Oh, btw, I still want to review Lords of Dogtown, but it is a pretty low priority. Sorry for all the empty hype. As they say in the movies, "this is development hell."

Peace!

An aside

While at work today I overheard some DJ banter on WICB about how Jet Blue airlines is offering free beer and TV to all passengers flying during the actual Super Bowl. If I actually cared about the Super Bowl and was also flying during it then that would be friggin amazing! However, since my greatest football grandeur is that time I sucker tackled some kid during fifth grade touch football (hence, the sucker tackle term) game I am a bit amiss. However, this does remind me of one bit of airline humor.

Ever been on a flight and had the pilot call over the PA with the score of some big game all us suckers are missing? It's usually a college football game, but this might be a bit biased as I usually fly on Saturdays. If I flew on Monday nights, I might be different. Anyway, the pilot comes over the PA with his voice breaking the audio to Roll Bounce, Rudy, or whatever claptrap they are playing that day.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is the captain coming to you from the flight deck. We are just an hour outside of Fort Lauderdale so just sit tight and we'll get you there right on time. And for those of you interested, the score at half time was Ohio 34 and Michigan 27."

Now, you might think that the pilot is just being a nice dude, but in reality he is making fun of you. Not only does the guy have complete control of the plane and your life, but he also has a fucking radio! Dance puppets, dance!

Peace!

Fur coats and cowboy hats!

Great to see that this story ran as the top Americas headline on the BBC for the entire weekend. A bit disheartening to notice that today's edition of the New York Times didn't give the protests any coverage on the front page except for a blurb telling readers to dig through the news section. I only mention this because if you believe the radical neo-con logic that the NY Times is an America-hating leftist rag then why would they deny Jane Fonda top billing over an article about how an imam found greatness in the suburbs? It was still a good article that challenged stereotypes and cultural clashes, but, where is the America-hating rancor!?

And while I admire the peace protesters and support them in trying to end the current Iraq war, I am not an outright pacifist. Mostly because when I hear the words "heat ray gun" and "developed" in the same article I tend to freak out, just a little.

LOOK AT THAT THING! AMAZING! About fucking time too! H.G. Wells is standing up in heaven with HP Lovecraft and Jules Verne laughing at us for taking so long. Now, military-industrial complex, get working on those jet packs and flying cars! All in the name of freedom, of course.

I would post some pictures but all the pics come from either military/defense sites or pacifist/anti-war sites. One group has the actual heat ray and the other has many lawyers. Hence, just hit the link.

I just realized that celebrating both a protest and a weapon designed to counter protests is inherently "redoncolous." Yes, so crazy and oxymoronic that new words are needed for it.

I will have more for you guys later. Peace!

A Dream

There is a link to this site on my blog, but I think scanning through some of the pictures there will help you get a better sense of what I am trying to say. The site is called Ocean Dots and you can just gawk at the satellite photos.

For some reason, I am enthralled by these tiny islands. I think they are all gorgeous and the few remaining wildernesses that aren't all icy (i.e. Antarctica). Nothing against Antarctica, however! There was a Blogger Blog of Note a few months back that chronicled one man's sojourn in Antarctica. The pics were great and I wished I had saved that link to share with you. Oh well, here is what I got. Peace.

_____________________________________________

I invented a mnemonic device in college to help me through introductory physics. It was more of a way to understand the concept of quantum mechanics then an actual memory jogger. So, if the entire universe is unpredictable then, in theory, I can just sit here concentrating on that cup on the counter and at some point, maybe in a second or maybe in a millennium, the cup will come to me. The only limitation is my own life.

I found the entire thought a bit spooky. Anything can really happen if stretched along a long enough time line. It was hauntingly clever and it lingered on my mind, a neural aftertaste.

I also took a geography class in college. The professor talked about a pet project of his on the last day of class. a day where most of the students showed up drunk, if even at all. He blasted the standard, ho-hum globe that did nothing to show the true makeup of our planet. The Pacific Ocean isn't just a swath of blue with a bunch of speckles to the eastern end. The big blue space between the green of New Zealand and the barely purple dot of Easter Island is full of islands too! The professor wanted to create a true globe that would render the planet looking like a spherical colanders colored in the neons and pastels of average cartography. He also told us there are decidedly less oceanic islands in the Atlantic. He was fine with the current presentation of that ocean. For now.

I think too much when I try to go to sleep. I hit the lights at 1am, but do not fall asleep till 3 am, 2:30 am if I am lucky. I am tired, but my body won't fall asleep. I thought this was due to some chemical imbalance and that a pill would help solve it all. However, for all of junior fall, I remained in bed. Thinking.

If quantum mechanics is right, I thought, then the universe could burp up some little wrinkle in space time and suck me into it. I dremt about this once and imagined I woke up naked on an island. More of an islet, as in a quick 30 paces I can cross the length of it. Scrubby grass pokes from the center of the sand bar. A trio of coconuts throws up their young fronds into the air like snails pulling wheelies on the back of their foot. I don't know why I am naked. I never have slept naked in my life. Apparently the dynamics of my teleport also favored the possibility of all my clothes coming off.

All the islands have names.

Tromelin Island.
Bassas de India.
Bouvet Island.
Howland Island.
Niue.
Henderson Island.
Desecheo.

They all look the same; that's the catch.

I did not wake up immediate. After realizing there was nothing to this blister than just the circle of sand and ankle-high jungle in the middle, I tried to panic. I tried to scream and run around the circumference of the earthly pimple, ripping up vines and sending the coconuts back into the sea. However, in retrospect, it was a dream and I only shivered. The wind came over the ocean and only clinked against the low sides of the islet. I studied the tides in the moonlight. I hadn't noticed there was a moon till that moment. I find out how far up the water reached and then lay down on my stomach. I clawed my fingers into the edge where the damp sand of the constant side meets the dry, loose sand unaffected by water. I stretched out y legs as far as they could go, wanting to hear something pop. The soles of my feet can't reach the scrub in the middle, but then wind kicked up again and throws a bit of spray over the island. I felt like the island was all mine. From tip to tip, I was engulfing the land like an oil slick. I knew I did not reach that far, but I stayed anchored.

Then I woke up.

_____________________________________

I always feel dirty after writing first-person monologues and trying to hawk it as a story or even an exercise. This style is completely "do-able," but I always feel iffy. However, I realize that this is all in my head. Entire novels could be considered first-person monologues/narratives (American Psycho, much?), so I am happy I got this out in one piece. Stutter-steps and half-starts. That is FOP writing. Peace, again!

In the Red States

I feel like Jim Anchower, but I am sorry that I have not blogged in a while. Not being in the office anymore it is hard to find downtime to blo...err...I mean...I never, EVER, blogged while at work! Got to keep myself straight for references to other jobs. Yes, but I have been busy as I am working extra shifts at my other job and pounding the pavement for other jobs.

Anyway today's post is an off topic one, which means....

DAREDEVIL TIME!

The local comic shop just had a winter sale and all back issues where 50% off! You could buy comics for the ye olde prices of $1.25! I have stuck to my New Year's resolution of sticking to just a few monthly titles, but this was a deal! I took 5/6th of a Daredevil miniseries called...

Daredevil Redemption

Consider yourself warned of spoliers, baby!

Written by David Hine and drawn by Michael "The kids never let me down for my last name" Gaydos, DD:R finds Matt Murdock/DD in the God-fearing regions of Redemption Valley, Alabama. A young boy has been brutally murdered and the local color immediately blames a trio of supposed Satanists lead by Joseph Flood. Joe's Flood, Emily, crosses the Mason-Dixon line in search of a real-live Atticus Finch. She finds Matt, who after a bit of setup, takes the case of the wrongfully accused boy to heart.

DD tries to save a boy in NYC from an abusive dad, only to have the boy tell him that DD just doesn't understand and the drunk dad is a good guy! Hence, the trip to Alabama. I guess that makes sense. Like the picutre, eh? Of course you don't! It is horrible! I added the glare box to describe exactly what is there...a big white spoltch of glare. I must admire the handsome wood paneling, however.


DD goes down to Dixie along with his legal intern Constance. Matt does not try to sleep with her, which is a first for him. Not that Matt is some lecherous fiend that throws himself at women. He can barely keep the ladies off of him, even with all that ninjitsu! If you want the details you can go read the thing for yourself. It has already been collected as a trade paperback, in case your comic shop does not have a 50% of EVERYTHING sale. Anyway...down in Redemption Valley we find out that Joe Flood really didn't do it and that the local God-fearing folks ain't that pious to begin with. Funny to see DD and Matt Murdock, the most Catholic of the Marvel heroes and one of the few I find openly religous, having to deal with the local evangelicals.

DD:R is a great story and for a story with no (Yes, you heard right) instances of DD kicking someone in the head it keeps you pretty excited. DD and the readers know Joe Flood really didn't do it, but Matt has to keep to his morals. The final issue has the first scene in comics that I have found heart-wrenching. My comics readership is young and fledgling, but we all need that first moment where the damn book stomps all over our heart! In a good way, of course! This was it...

As DD:R is set in the current Volume 2 run of DD, the story touches upon Matt's secret identity and how some NYC tabloids outed him as the vigilante Daredevil. I am still not too clear as to DD:R's time frame. The comic begins with a caption that reads "Seven Years Ago," but it all feels contemporary. I guess DD comes back to Redemption to witness Joseph Flood's execution and issues 1-5 are just flashbacks.

What an execution it is! With his super senses Matt can hear Joe Flood die and each of the chemicals shut down its intended part of the body. If anyone could attest as to exactly how humane lethal injection was then it would be Daredevil. However, this being comic books it would be just as easy to execute someone and bring them back with some Dr. Strange power or something. In any case, it is intense. Joe has heard of Matt's troubles all the way on death row and begs for him to bust him out of jail. The panels in yellow are hard to read as we know Matt has all the power to do that and should. He is a vigilante, but right now he is a lawyer and a honest one too boot! He isn't powerless to stop it. He chooses not to.

It would have been great to see Daredevil beat on some hill billies, but I guess I will have to make due with the various goombas, ninjas, and armored freaks that he beats down. I must admit I could not get issue 5 so maybe he kicked the crap out of some redneck there, but it seems like mostly court room stuff from the look of the "previously in DD:R!" from issue 6. In any case, DD:R is a nice little read that explores the conflict of Daredevil and Matt Murdock.

Peace!

Gratuitous

Considering one of the latest (and grisliest) headlines in recent Tompkins County history this story might seem a bit...well...pornographic. Pornographic in the pure sense of the word, not the heaving bosoms and spam e-mails sort of way. And I guess the story is violent just for the sake of having it, but it's supposed to be nothing more than a snippet. I say this because I don't want you thinking I am some sicko. A lot of my pieces have violence in them, but I don't create this violence in a gratuitous sense. I feel it moves the story along or brings it to a nice conclusion. I would say "Wheeze" is a violent story even though it lacks guns, fists, knives or anything of that matter. Get what I mean? No? Well, that make sense. This is a not a good introduction and you can be the judge of any/all of these pieces.

I don't like kids. If you want to have kids then go nuts, but I don't have the patience for the little brats. I think the problem is that when I was a kid I wanted to be treated like an adult, so I expect the same of current kids. I think that sounds nicer than I am just some bitter person. Yes, much better. However, I don't wish any sort of harm on children in general.

I wrote this piece as another bit of flash fiction that came to my head after a series of real-life events.

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Pornographic

By Garik Charneco

Lake stacks the tea tins onto another, making around his mother's groceries.
"It's a castle," he screams while thrusting his arms up in the arm and then shaking his head. "YAY," he murmurs through the flapping of his lips. The cold wind outside has made the lips red, the color of freshly drunk strawberry Kool-Aid.
Jeanette gets her coffee from the counter, dropping her quarter change into the tip jar. The cashier nods in approval and then return to shinning the stainless steel of the countertop.
Lake's brother, Devon, grabs another set of tea tins, an African roobios and Sri Lankan Ceylon, and brings them to his brother.
"Here are more rocks! Too make the castle big and strong!" Devon pulls back his own lips and flashes the bottom row of his milky teeth each eschewed aganst the other as to resemble headstones in disrepair.
Jeanette puts the paper cup down on the table. "OK, boys, you need to sit on your bums while mom drinks her coffee. The we can go home. C'mon, on your bums. Like this." She then plops down onto the wooden chair, flipping her purse behind the chair's back with a nudge from her thighs. Her arms are out with the palms of her hands facing up. 'See? Nothing to it."
Lake pulls out a plastic figurine from his coat pocket. It is a limp piece of plastic with the paint buffed away by dozens of games of "Save the City" and "Fly Through Walls." The little man holds a gun in one hand and then a baton in the other, which has broken off at the top. Now it looks more like an umbrella handle. Lake puts the figure on the top of the highest tea tin. "It's Captain Amazing! Woo woo!"
Devons begins to slap at the bulky folds in his winter coat already a frown coming to his face. His own figurine is back at home, in the kitchen junk drawer where Jeanette put it after yanking it out of the vacuum cleaner hose. He slaps his coat pockets again, before orbiting his hands around his waist. His pants are snow pants and they make a soft crunching noise with each slap. Lake has already begun to narrate the exploits of Captain Amazing with the best baritone he can muster acting as the villain's voice.
Jeanette notices the quiver in Devon's bottom lip and the soft gasp of air into his lungs. She begins, "Devon, honey, your toy is back home. You left it on the floor and remember what mommy said about toys on the..."
Captain Amazing flies through the stack of tea tins. He knocks out a brick of Japanese Sencha that smacks into the coffee cup. Jeanette pulls away. They are close to the window and when a droplet hits the bay windows of the shop, a small wisp of steam appears. Lake freezes and Captain Amazing drops to the floor onto a bed of twisted English Breakfast.
Devon sits frozen in his chair with his arms stretched out and perpendicular to his body. His fingers curl back into the palms of his hands and three amber-colored rivulets speckle his face.
"Devon! Are you ok!?" Jeanette grabs the thin cocktail napkin that came with the coffee and attacks the thin burns on the boy's face.
Devon speaks through gritted teeth, his lips also frozen and tasting the bitter tint of his muddy tears. "No!" He wheezes out two short breaths between his teeth. "Burning!" His winter coat absorbed most of the coffee, but a single stream of liquid flew under the collar of his shirt and oozed down his chest where it circled his belly button. Jeanette rips off the coat and finds the damp brown nebula spreading through the bottom of his undershirt.
The clerk has run over with a damp cloth and slapped it on the table. Jeanette drops the crumpled napkin and switches to the rag. "You're ok. See! You're ok. It was close, but you're ok!" The streaks of red across his face fade as the coffee pools on the tiles beneath them.
Devon lingers on crying, fighting the instinct to cringe and pull back into his down shell. There he finds more burning, but this one slowly absorbs into his skin, even faster once his mother dabs that part of his body. Lake is also frozen watching with a tourist's eyes.
"Say you're sorry to your brother! Say you're sorry! Lake!" Jeanette screams this as she turns the rag to the table. Wiping up slivers of tea leaves she repeats herself. "Now, Lake!"
Lake looks down to the floor, focusing on Captain Amazing. "I'm sorry." He then plunks himself down and picks up the figurine. He puts his lips together and the goes, "Whoosh!"

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Hmmm...maybe "Pornographic" is not the best title for this story. In a final version I hope to trim the details and focus on the actual event: the spilled coffee and the burning sensation. Then it can be a bit more intense. Peace!