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After submerging myself in last week’s death overload, I decided to cleanse my pallet this week by reading “Daytripper,” a graphic novel written and drawn by Brazilian duo, Fabio Moon and Gabriel Ba. And, it also turned out to be about death. I hope the universe isn’t trying to tell me something.
Okay, that’s a heinous lie. To say “Daytripper” was just about death would be missing the whole point of the comic. It would be like saying Star Wars was merely about space, and Lord of the Rings was just a little tale about stolen jewelry. “Daytripper” is an existential piece of art. It was beautiful, both in its vibrant, skillful illustrations, as well as its meaningful themes. After a lifetime of more typical comics, with their over the top violence and hyper-reality, it’s nice to come upon something truly poignant and thoughtful. That’s not to say superhero comics are incapable of possessing weighty topics or heart wrenching, emotional storylines. Really, I was simply pleased that “Daytripper” was something unique, something I’d probably never have discovered had it not been recommended to me. I always like when I push myself out of my typical reading repertoire and am pleasantly surprised.
The story of “Daytripper” focuses on Bras de Oliva Domingos, a Brazilian man who is simply trying to live his life to the best of his ability, the same as any man or woman. He struggles in his writing career, he searches for love, lives, learns, all that jazz. The graphic novel jumps back and forth through time, each chapter showing Bras at a pivotal moment in his life. At age twenty-eight, when he sees his future wife for the first time. At eleven, stealing his first kiss. At forty-one, experiencing the birth of his son. Each chapter ends with Bras dying shortly after these momentous occasions, posing a whole fleet of questions. When does life really begin? Does it take a dramatic moment to stir us into true existence? What does it mean for us to die? How are we shaped by each tiny event we experience, each seemingly trivial moment? And how are life and death linked? Like I said, existential up the wazoo.
In the end, we make the biggest leap from reality. Instead of another chapter and another important moment in Bras‘ life, things take a turn for the dreamlike. For the first time, it seems to show Bras after his various accidents, contemplating his own mortality and asking the very questions the work hints at to its readers. Characters from different time periods appear side by side, Bras running as a child through the fields, only to come upon his own son, the same age. Throughout it all, Bras’ father, who happens to be a writer himself, explains to Bras that every story must have an end, just as every life must eventually conclude in death.
Dare I suggest that the point is not to focus on each chapter as an individual, because the worth of one life cannot be judged by any particular event, only the greater whole? I suppose I can suggest all I want, but books like “Daytripper” are not meant to be deciphered in clear terms. They are meant to be poured over and experienced. I feel like I need to invent more lovely and artistic words to even describe it.
Two chapters in, I worried that “Daytripper” would leave me in the same funk I’d felt after “Machine of Death.” The reality was quite the contrary. “Daytripper” made the process of death almost poetic. The stunning visuals and the real, human interactions between characters left me feeling, if not utterly blissful, than at least calm and contemplative. As far as existentialism goes, that’s all you really need.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Watch, Now I'm Going to Get a Piano Dropped On My Head
I really don’t know what I was expecting from a collection of short stories entitled, “Machine of Death,” but the name kind of says it all. I certainly shouldn’t have been surprised by how depressed it made me reading story after story about a machine that samples people’s blood and tells them exactly how they’re going to die. Never a specific time or circumstance, just a vague description, like “CRASH” or “HEART ATTACK,” or sometimes even weird things like “VEGETABLES.” Macabre as it may be that is the premise, or at least basis of every story in the book.
But who the devil would make a short story contest about death machines? The answer, is three gentleman of the monikers, Ryan North, Matthew Bennardo, and David Malki ! The exclamation point is not a typo. That is actually how he writes his name. I know this because David Malki ! also happens to be the creator of a whimsical old-timey online comic strip called Wondermark.com. If you enjoy steampunk, the Victorian era, Monty Python, talking dinosaurs, or any combination of these items, you might enjoy Wondermark.
I first heard about “Machine of Death” on a friend’s facebook wall. See? Facebook isn’t all just Farmville and drunken pictures from college! The link advertised that it was a collection of short stories, all on this specific theme, and this would be the collection’s second year. I thought to myself, considering my new found and somewhat ironic life goal of writing myself to death, it would be a cool writing contest to submit to. First though, I wanted to read the original “Machine of Death” to see what had already been done. The collection holds about thirty-four stories and most of them were seriously depressing.
As I said before, I knew given the concept there would be a degree of darkness in such a collection, but I guess I thought there’d be a little more humor mixed in there as well. Several stories dealt with a young person finally reaching an age where they could be tested, with mixed results of success. Some were horrified by their test results, while some were delighted with their unusual readings. Some were more concerned about how their death would affect their social status. Then there were the depressing ones. One man can no longer look at his wife, knowing “LOVE” will be his undoing. Another deals with finding the news that it’s his son who will kill him somehow. This brought about a very interesting existential topic. Were these authors all being melodramatic or is there something wrong with me for thinking they shouldn’t take death stories so seriously? In Monty Python’s “The Meaning of Life” there is a short scene where a woman accidentally kills a whole dinner party by serving them bad fish. As death arrives, all she can say is “Oh, how embarrassing!” If John Cleese and Michael Palin can poke fun at dying, why can’t everybody else?
After awhile, I found reading the book to be a chore, but not because the writing was bad. Obviously some were better than others, but there were only a few who I felt relied on kitschy concepts rather than quality writing. The topic was just so damn depressing. Again, what should I expect from a book about death, but isn’t the point of entertainment to offer up a release from real life pain and sorrow? The more I read, the more somber I began to get. The more I started seriously thinking about my own death, and what I might pull if such a machine really existed. Now it’s my turn to be overly dramatic. Reading this book bummed me out in a major way.
But there were a few stories who shone out amongst the dark matter. My favorite tale was called “Prison Knife Fight,” by Shaenon K. Garrity. This one is about a young boy who’s wealthy, snooty parents are desperately trying to get him into a good prep school, despite his future death in a prison knife fight. Instead of making him a social pariah in his school though, his three best friends look upon him in awe. And as the boy grows up, instead of feeling trapped by his possibly violent future, it frees him from the structured, boring life his parents intended to force on him. It was comical and inspiring, making the best out of a bad situation to speak.
Now, let’s hope when I write and submit my own “Machine of Death” stories, I can breathe a little life into the genre. See? See me trying to use a bad pun to make light of serious topics? Anyway, you get my point.
But who the devil would make a short story contest about death machines? The answer, is three gentleman of the monikers, Ryan North, Matthew Bennardo, and David Malki ! The exclamation point is not a typo. That is actually how he writes his name. I know this because David Malki ! also happens to be the creator of a whimsical old-timey online comic strip called Wondermark.com. If you enjoy steampunk, the Victorian era, Monty Python, talking dinosaurs, or any combination of these items, you might enjoy Wondermark.
I first heard about “Machine of Death” on a friend’s facebook wall. See? Facebook isn’t all just Farmville and drunken pictures from college! The link advertised that it was a collection of short stories, all on this specific theme, and this would be the collection’s second year. I thought to myself, considering my new found and somewhat ironic life goal of writing myself to death, it would be a cool writing contest to submit to. First though, I wanted to read the original “Machine of Death” to see what had already been done. The collection holds about thirty-four stories and most of them were seriously depressing.
As I said before, I knew given the concept there would be a degree of darkness in such a collection, but I guess I thought there’d be a little more humor mixed in there as well. Several stories dealt with a young person finally reaching an age where they could be tested, with mixed results of success. Some were horrified by their test results, while some were delighted with their unusual readings. Some were more concerned about how their death would affect their social status. Then there were the depressing ones. One man can no longer look at his wife, knowing “LOVE” will be his undoing. Another deals with finding the news that it’s his son who will kill him somehow. This brought about a very interesting existential topic. Were these authors all being melodramatic or is there something wrong with me for thinking they shouldn’t take death stories so seriously? In Monty Python’s “The Meaning of Life” there is a short scene where a woman accidentally kills a whole dinner party by serving them bad fish. As death arrives, all she can say is “Oh, how embarrassing!” If John Cleese and Michael Palin can poke fun at dying, why can’t everybody else?
After awhile, I found reading the book to be a chore, but not because the writing was bad. Obviously some were better than others, but there were only a few who I felt relied on kitschy concepts rather than quality writing. The topic was just so damn depressing. Again, what should I expect from a book about death, but isn’t the point of entertainment to offer up a release from real life pain and sorrow? The more I read, the more somber I began to get. The more I started seriously thinking about my own death, and what I might pull if such a machine really existed. Now it’s my turn to be overly dramatic. Reading this book bummed me out in a major way.
But there were a few stories who shone out amongst the dark matter. My favorite tale was called “Prison Knife Fight,” by Shaenon K. Garrity. This one is about a young boy who’s wealthy, snooty parents are desperately trying to get him into a good prep school, despite his future death in a prison knife fight. Instead of making him a social pariah in his school though, his three best friends look upon him in awe. And as the boy grows up, instead of feeling trapped by his possibly violent future, it frees him from the structured, boring life his parents intended to force on him. It was comical and inspiring, making the best out of a bad situation to speak.
Now, let’s hope when I write and submit my own “Machine of Death” stories, I can breathe a little life into the genre. See? See me trying to use a bad pun to make light of serious topics? Anyway, you get my point.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
In My Heck, the Books Are All Just Copies of Twilight
I own three bookshelves, which doesn’t sound like a lot, three being such a small number and all. But compared to the vast armies of people who own zero or less bookshelves in their house, yes, three is in fact a lot of bookshelves.
Yet, no matter how many bookshelves I add to my supply, I am in a perpetual state of always having more books than space to put them. This means small stacks of reading material inevitably sprout up in every available crevice of space. Beside my bed. Next to my comfy pod chair. Underneath that little plastic tray thing my roommate’s mom bought me to work on my writing in bed but is more often used to set ramen noodles on while watching “The Simpsons” on Hulu. There are books everywhere. If there is an earthquake, and you can’t find me, check underneath the books. At least I’ll die surrounded by something I love.
Anyway, so I don’t have enough books. Why don’t you recommend some to me already? Seriously, forty unread books in my apartment is not enough. That’ll only get me to September, MAYBE, so get on it, people of the Internet. Send your suggestions to makesteinhoread@gmail.com
My pile dwindled by another book last night when I finished “Fibble,“ the next installment in one of my favorite young adult series, written by the always amusing Dale E. Basye. I’ve blogged about it before but honestly, it’s worth mentioning again. I speak of “Heck: Where the Bad Kids Go,” a tale that is not afraid to send children into the nastier parts of the afterlife.
In “Fibble,” our dead brother and sister duo, Milton and Marlo Fauster, face another round of dead historical figures who want to make their afterlife miserable. This time, Marlo gets trapped in Fibble, the level of Heck for kids who lie. The head of Fibble? P.T. Barnum, who teaches his inmates the finer points of product placement and market manipulation. Meanwhile, Milton goes to Hell-ywood, where he and Orson Welles plan the next season’s lineup on Heck’s own TV network. This includes a show called “Teenage Jesus.” Maybe it was just the comparisons between Hollywood/Los Angeles and that infamous fiery underworld, but I got a real kick out of young Milton’s attempts to serve as Production Assistant to a fleet of demon filmmakers. As if that particular occupation weren’t trying enough.
There were times in reading “Fibble” when I thought to myself, “If this weren’t a kid’s book, this would be pretty darn controversial.” Mostly though, Basye manages to skate around any serious issues by taking the South Park route, and giving all religions the same unbiased comedic treatment. He also includes a lot of jokes about cat poo and teenage hormones to distract readers from taking any of the heavier themes too seriously. I always have respect for authors who aren’t afraid to sneak a little thought-provoking material into their children’s reading material. It’s a lot easier than thrusting a copy of “Crime and Punishment” in their face and asking them to figure out those moral judgments.
I’m going to guess that considering the references in all Basye’s novels, he’s got to be a fairly smart fellow. Or else he’s good at researching. Or at making people do research for him. Therefore, I have to believe that the decision to include both Orson Welles and William Randolph Hearst in this book was both deliberate and hysterical. I was really hoping that their paths would cross at some point in the book, but alas. Perhaps in the next one? Regardless, I appreciate any book that references both how fat Orson Welles was before he died, and how he had to make a Muppet movie to support his disturbing gravy habit. Okay, I made that last part up, but the guy was fat.
I will close by saying this. If there was an award for coming up with puns in the literary world, it would most likely go to Dale E. Basye. If colleges could give Masters degrees in punnery, Basye would be the Dean of the school.
Yet, no matter how many bookshelves I add to my supply, I am in a perpetual state of always having more books than space to put them. This means small stacks of reading material inevitably sprout up in every available crevice of space. Beside my bed. Next to my comfy pod chair. Underneath that little plastic tray thing my roommate’s mom bought me to work on my writing in bed but is more often used to set ramen noodles on while watching “The Simpsons” on Hulu. There are books everywhere. If there is an earthquake, and you can’t find me, check underneath the books. At least I’ll die surrounded by something I love.
Anyway, so I don’t have enough books. Why don’t you recommend some to me already? Seriously, forty unread books in my apartment is not enough. That’ll only get me to September, MAYBE, so get on it, people of the Internet. Send your suggestions to makesteinhoread@gmail.com
My pile dwindled by another book last night when I finished “Fibble,“ the next installment in one of my favorite young adult series, written by the always amusing Dale E. Basye. I’ve blogged about it before but honestly, it’s worth mentioning again. I speak of “Heck: Where the Bad Kids Go,” a tale that is not afraid to send children into the nastier parts of the afterlife.
In “Fibble,” our dead brother and sister duo, Milton and Marlo Fauster, face another round of dead historical figures who want to make their afterlife miserable. This time, Marlo gets trapped in Fibble, the level of Heck for kids who lie. The head of Fibble? P.T. Barnum, who teaches his inmates the finer points of product placement and market manipulation. Meanwhile, Milton goes to Hell-ywood, where he and Orson Welles plan the next season’s lineup on Heck’s own TV network. This includes a show called “Teenage Jesus.” Maybe it was just the comparisons between Hollywood/Los Angeles and that infamous fiery underworld, but I got a real kick out of young Milton’s attempts to serve as Production Assistant to a fleet of demon filmmakers. As if that particular occupation weren’t trying enough.
There were times in reading “Fibble” when I thought to myself, “If this weren’t a kid’s book, this would be pretty darn controversial.” Mostly though, Basye manages to skate around any serious issues by taking the South Park route, and giving all religions the same unbiased comedic treatment. He also includes a lot of jokes about cat poo and teenage hormones to distract readers from taking any of the heavier themes too seriously. I always have respect for authors who aren’t afraid to sneak a little thought-provoking material into their children’s reading material. It’s a lot easier than thrusting a copy of “Crime and Punishment” in their face and asking them to figure out those moral judgments.
I’m going to guess that considering the references in all Basye’s novels, he’s got to be a fairly smart fellow. Or else he’s good at researching. Or at making people do research for him. Therefore, I have to believe that the decision to include both Orson Welles and William Randolph Hearst in this book was both deliberate and hysterical. I was really hoping that their paths would cross at some point in the book, but alas. Perhaps in the next one? Regardless, I appreciate any book that references both how fat Orson Welles was before he died, and how he had to make a Muppet movie to support his disturbing gravy habit. Okay, I made that last part up, but the guy was fat.
I will close by saying this. If there was an award for coming up with puns in the literary world, it would most likely go to Dale E. Basye. If colleges could give Masters degrees in punnery, Basye would be the Dean of the school.
Friday, May 27, 2011
If Ferris Bueller Could Kill You With His Mind
I feel a little shameful that it took me this long to read Patrick Rothfuss’ second book in the Kingkiller series, “The Wise Man’s Fear.” Especially since the book came out back at the beginning of March and I‘d been eagerly awaiting it since its original expected release date of fall 2008. To be fair, “The Wise Man’s Fear” is nearly a thousand pages long, and I am one tiny woman who works forty hours a week building toys for Christmas day.
There is a direct correlation between how much I enjoy a book and how little sleep I get during the time period in which I am reading it. Back in the days of “Harry Potter,” I did my best to finish the book the same day I purchased it, staying up once until dawn. I knew that if I didn’t finish right away, then I was doomed to days of un-productivity until it had been consumed. I admit, I was a little relieved to finally finish all 994 pages of “The Wise Man’s Fear,” because frankly, I was starting to get a little punchy from exhaustion.
If I were to go out on a crazy limb, I would guess that Patrick Rothfuss is as obsessed with reading fantasy literature as I man. He seems to know exactly what the nerd audiences are screaming for, as well as what’s been rehashed and reinvented to the point of decomposition. There’s nothing worth than storylines so boring and old that they smell like retirement home.
Rothfuss has drawn from the full spectrum in building his worlds and characters. The story follows a young red-headed lad named Kvothe. Don’t ask me how to pronounce that, because when I read funky names in books, I usually just change them to something boring like Kevin or something. So Kevin grows up with a band of traveling performers, his parents get killed by an evil spirit posse called The Chandrian. After living on the streets for awhile, Kvothe (Kevin) convinces the local wizard school to not only take him in, but also pay for his tuition, and teach him how to murder bandits using lighting powers, all before the age of sixteen. When I was that age, I was still trying to figure out how not to feel awkward in a tank top.
The twists and turns never end with Rothfuss. In typical fantasy epic fashion, poor Kvothe’s adventurous lifestyle never ends. In all 994 pages, I’m not sure you can ever go two chapters without someone wanting to stab, or drown, or mutilate the lad. Unlike, other fantasy series like “Harry Potter” or George R. R. Martin’s “Game of Thrones,” in two books, I can’t remember anyone important ever dying, save for a few key people at the beginning who start of Kvothe’s life quest. If I had to say something negative about the book, is that Kvothe is almost too good at everything. Even when he sucks at things, there really never is any consequences. Everyone always forgives him. No one ever quite succeeds in killing him, or cutting off his thumbs or sucking the life force out of his body. He’s like the Ferris Bueller of fantasy novels.
Something else that tells me this book (forgive me Patrick Rothfuss) was most definitely written by a nerd, is that all the women are incredibly beautiful, and Kvothe is constantly getting it on with all of them. His female school chums are hot. The warrior maidens who teach him ninja skills are hot. The villainous money lender who threatens to kill him is hot. Not to mention the super hot sex fairy that pulls young, virginal Kvothe into the fae world. Sheesh! At least Harry Potter had a little competition for Cho and Ginny!
Yet, like all these fine ladies, I suppose I have been charmed by young Kvothe, too. I only hope it won’t be another three years before Rothfuss puts our favorite red head’s life in danger once again.
There is a direct correlation between how much I enjoy a book and how little sleep I get during the time period in which I am reading it. Back in the days of “Harry Potter,” I did my best to finish the book the same day I purchased it, staying up once until dawn. I knew that if I didn’t finish right away, then I was doomed to days of un-productivity until it had been consumed. I admit, I was a little relieved to finally finish all 994 pages of “The Wise Man’s Fear,” because frankly, I was starting to get a little punchy from exhaustion.
If I were to go out on a crazy limb, I would guess that Patrick Rothfuss is as obsessed with reading fantasy literature as I man. He seems to know exactly what the nerd audiences are screaming for, as well as what’s been rehashed and reinvented to the point of decomposition. There’s nothing worth than storylines so boring and old that they smell like retirement home.
Rothfuss has drawn from the full spectrum in building his worlds and characters. The story follows a young red-headed lad named Kvothe. Don’t ask me how to pronounce that, because when I read funky names in books, I usually just change them to something boring like Kevin or something. So Kevin grows up with a band of traveling performers, his parents get killed by an evil spirit posse called The Chandrian. After living on the streets for awhile, Kvothe (Kevin) convinces the local wizard school to not only take him in, but also pay for his tuition, and teach him how to murder bandits using lighting powers, all before the age of sixteen. When I was that age, I was still trying to figure out how not to feel awkward in a tank top.
The twists and turns never end with Rothfuss. In typical fantasy epic fashion, poor Kvothe’s adventurous lifestyle never ends. In all 994 pages, I’m not sure you can ever go two chapters without someone wanting to stab, or drown, or mutilate the lad. Unlike, other fantasy series like “Harry Potter” or George R. R. Martin’s “Game of Thrones,” in two books, I can’t remember anyone important ever dying, save for a few key people at the beginning who start of Kvothe’s life quest. If I had to say something negative about the book, is that Kvothe is almost too good at everything. Even when he sucks at things, there really never is any consequences. Everyone always forgives him. No one ever quite succeeds in killing him, or cutting off his thumbs or sucking the life force out of his body. He’s like the Ferris Bueller of fantasy novels.
Something else that tells me this book (forgive me Patrick Rothfuss) was most definitely written by a nerd, is that all the women are incredibly beautiful, and Kvothe is constantly getting it on with all of them. His female school chums are hot. The warrior maidens who teach him ninja skills are hot. The villainous money lender who threatens to kill him is hot. Not to mention the super hot sex fairy that pulls young, virginal Kvothe into the fae world. Sheesh! At least Harry Potter had a little competition for Cho and Ginny!
Yet, like all these fine ladies, I suppose I have been charmed by young Kvothe, too. I only hope it won’t be another three years before Rothfuss puts our favorite red head’s life in danger once again.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
We Can Have the Wedding on an Asteroid!
Thor is a perfect example of what I was trying to explain to my mom the other night concerning why I will never find the right guy. All the good men are taken, gay, or living on another planet and only accessible by rainbow bridge.
My non-existent social life aside, let’s flashback to May 2010. A little film called “Iron Man 2” comes out in theatres. I really don’t remember that much about that film, other than it seemed to have five different story lines and Mickey Rourke had a pet bird or something? Anyway, what DID catch my attention was that two second bit at the end of the credits. There’s a desert, and a crater, and something in the crater that looks a hell of a lot like THOR’S HAMMER, because guess what? It is Thor’s hammer! To be continued…
I’m going to be totally honest. When that little snippet came out, I had never read a single Thor comic book. (I had read other Marvel comics that mentioned Thor, but never a Thor-centric comic.) Being a nerd, however, I was well acquainted with Norse mythology and Viking culture. So when I started to learn more about Thor, it was another one of those “This is exactly what I like, why haven’t I already consumed myself in this franchise” moments. Add in the fact that Henry V/Gilderoy Lockhart was directing the Thor movie, and I was pretty much sold before even seeing the first trailer.
Well, now that I’ve seen “Thor” I may have a new favorite sci-fi/fantasy sub-genre: space viking. If you don’t know anything about Thor, that’s pretty much what this series is all about. Thor and his peeps are all nearly-immortal beings that live in a place called Asgard. They have this magical rainbow bridge they can use to transport themselves to other planets like Jotunheim (home of the ice giants) and Earth (home of the fleshy not-quite-so-giants.) Thor has a punk brother named Loki, and a pack of multi-racial friends to help him when Loki starts to messing stuff up. Oh Loki! Will you ever learn that Thor loves you just the way you are? You don’t have to impress him by trying to set his friends on fire!
Likely this movie will have its share of haters. It certainly had a smattering of cheese ball moments. Early in the film, the king of the ice giants unleashes what looks like a whale with legs, a stegosaurus tail and some nasty, rock-grinding teeth. No problem for Thor! It’s really not even a fight. He simply flies through the back of the creature’s head, causing it to explode. That is how strong Thor is. He can punch a hole in the back of a ice monster’s throat. By the way, Thor can fly. It comes with the whole “God of Thunder” package.
Comic book Thor is tall and beefy with blond hair and a big ass hammer named Mjolnir. Movie Thor is pretty much the same, only he looks a little bit like Captain Kirk’s dad. (wink wink) Fortunately for movie Thor, he didn’t have to worry about that whole original comic book storyline of getting trapped in a crippled human’s body to teach him humility, which would have been a real drag when he was trying to make out with Academy Award Winning actress Natalie Portman. Heck, the film Thor was so entertaining, I was almost able to forgive Ms. Portman for participating in the atrocity known as “Garden State.”
This film really was one of those serendipitous cinematic moments. Instead of lamenting that a film completely botched the book adaptation, the movie version of “Thor” has gotten me even more geared up to plunge into Stan Lee’s comic world.
My non-existent social life aside, let’s flashback to May 2010. A little film called “Iron Man 2” comes out in theatres. I really don’t remember that much about that film, other than it seemed to have five different story lines and Mickey Rourke had a pet bird or something? Anyway, what DID catch my attention was that two second bit at the end of the credits. There’s a desert, and a crater, and something in the crater that looks a hell of a lot like THOR’S HAMMER, because guess what? It is Thor’s hammer! To be continued…
I’m going to be totally honest. When that little snippet came out, I had never read a single Thor comic book. (I had read other Marvel comics that mentioned Thor, but never a Thor-centric comic.) Being a nerd, however, I was well acquainted with Norse mythology and Viking culture. So when I started to learn more about Thor, it was another one of those “This is exactly what I like, why haven’t I already consumed myself in this franchise” moments. Add in the fact that Henry V/Gilderoy Lockhart was directing the Thor movie, and I was pretty much sold before even seeing the first trailer.
Well, now that I’ve seen “Thor” I may have a new favorite sci-fi/fantasy sub-genre: space viking. If you don’t know anything about Thor, that’s pretty much what this series is all about. Thor and his peeps are all nearly-immortal beings that live in a place called Asgard. They have this magical rainbow bridge they can use to transport themselves to other planets like Jotunheim (home of the ice giants) and Earth (home of the fleshy not-quite-so-giants.) Thor has a punk brother named Loki, and a pack of multi-racial friends to help him when Loki starts to messing stuff up. Oh Loki! Will you ever learn that Thor loves you just the way you are? You don’t have to impress him by trying to set his friends on fire!
Likely this movie will have its share of haters. It certainly had a smattering of cheese ball moments. Early in the film, the king of the ice giants unleashes what looks like a whale with legs, a stegosaurus tail and some nasty, rock-grinding teeth. No problem for Thor! It’s really not even a fight. He simply flies through the back of the creature’s head, causing it to explode. That is how strong Thor is. He can punch a hole in the back of a ice monster’s throat. By the way, Thor can fly. It comes with the whole “God of Thunder” package.
Comic book Thor is tall and beefy with blond hair and a big ass hammer named Mjolnir. Movie Thor is pretty much the same, only he looks a little bit like Captain Kirk’s dad. (wink wink) Fortunately for movie Thor, he didn’t have to worry about that whole original comic book storyline of getting trapped in a crippled human’s body to teach him humility, which would have been a real drag when he was trying to make out with Academy Award Winning actress Natalie Portman. Heck, the film Thor was so entertaining, I was almost able to forgive Ms. Portman for participating in the atrocity known as “Garden State.”
This film really was one of those serendipitous cinematic moments. Instead of lamenting that a film completely botched the book adaptation, the movie version of “Thor” has gotten me even more geared up to plunge into Stan Lee’s comic world.
Thursday, May 12, 2011
Because You Can't Learn Biotechnology from Dissecting Owl Pellets
I’m not usually a fan of Michael Crichton. But I’m not not a fan either, by which I mean that I don’t think his books are terrible or want him to get thrown into a volcano or anything. Confused? Let me put it this way. If books were classmates in an elementary school gym class, he would be the equivalent of the rich, nerdy kid who plays tennis. Probably not terrible at dodge ball, but he’s not your first choice either.
With that being said, I’ve actually read several of his books, most of them between the ages of twelve to fourteen. You see, my middle school science teacher, Mr. Zusak, gave extra credit if you did a book report on any of Michael Crichton‘s work. This extra credit came in handy when it was time for learning about aerodynamics and the model rocket I was supposed to build exploded. Okay, I made that up. My model rocket flew perfectly. But I did the reports anyway, because it was middle school, and really what else was I going to do with my time besides watch “The X-Files?”
Frankly though, I always found his books a wee bit on the boring side. Crichton likes to include a lot of science and techno babble. You see, I never cared if I understood the long and detailed discussion concerning how InGen cloned dinosaurs from the amber frozen DNA in “Jurassic Park.” Odds are my brain shuts off when I see those words anyway, leaving me with a text that reads something like, “Bla bla bla tyrannosaurus science science Ian Malcolm’s leg bla bla blood technology genetics science bla bla disemboweled lawyer.”
And really, isn’t that all you need in an entertaining novel? You get the story. You get the nasty fun science-fiction bits. Nobody’s confused and everybody’s happy! Everybody’s happy…. except for Michael Crichton because he didn’t get to tell you that, “bioengineered DNA was, weight for weight, the most valuable material in the world. A single microscopic bacterium, too small to see with the naked eye, but containing the genes for a heart attack enzyme, streptokinase, or for 'ice-minus,' which prevented frost damage to crops, might be worth five billion dollars to the right buyer.” Streptokinase, Mr. Crichton? Wasn’t this book about DINOSAURS???
Oh god, you don’t even know how bored I got at this very moment, sifting through quotes from “Jurassic Park” just to illustrate my point on how boring techno babble can be. It’s fiction. Science-fiction! Did Luke ever stop and explain in scientific terms how the Force allowed him to have better hand eye coordination? No, he didn’t because was too busy training with Yoda and making out with his sister.
But tons of people (who are probably smarter than me. Members of Mensa most likely) love Michael Crichton’s books. He knows how to tell a compelling tale of death and destruction, hidden amongst the “subatomics“ and the “polarizing xenon gas.” Exactly why I didn’t turn my nose up at it when a friend of mine recommended his 1999 novel “Timeline.” It’s about a group of historians who use a time machine to return to 1357 and rescue their lost professor. As you can imagine, what should have been a “routine” retrieval mission turns into an epic tale of chopping off heads with broadswords and people getting spliced in two by faulty teleportation devices.
Shock of all shockers, the opening section that takes place in modern day, involving the huge corporation that owns the time traveling technology did not amuse me a quarter as much as when they dressed the crew in peasant clothes and chucked them into the past. Less than five minutes into arriving in 1300s France, two crew members die, with a third possibly on his way. Now that got my attention in a way no description of “superconducting quantum interference devices” ever could. Unfortunately, none of that happened until page one hundred and sixty-three.
With that being said, I’ve actually read several of his books, most of them between the ages of twelve to fourteen. You see, my middle school science teacher, Mr. Zusak, gave extra credit if you did a book report on any of Michael Crichton‘s work. This extra credit came in handy when it was time for learning about aerodynamics and the model rocket I was supposed to build exploded. Okay, I made that up. My model rocket flew perfectly. But I did the reports anyway, because it was middle school, and really what else was I going to do with my time besides watch “The X-Files?”
Frankly though, I always found his books a wee bit on the boring side. Crichton likes to include a lot of science and techno babble. You see, I never cared if I understood the long and detailed discussion concerning how InGen cloned dinosaurs from the amber frozen DNA in “Jurassic Park.” Odds are my brain shuts off when I see those words anyway, leaving me with a text that reads something like, “Bla bla bla tyrannosaurus science science Ian Malcolm’s leg bla bla blood technology genetics science bla bla disemboweled lawyer.”
And really, isn’t that all you need in an entertaining novel? You get the story. You get the nasty fun science-fiction bits. Nobody’s confused and everybody’s happy! Everybody’s happy…. except for Michael Crichton because he didn’t get to tell you that, “bioengineered DNA was, weight for weight, the most valuable material in the world. A single microscopic bacterium, too small to see with the naked eye, but containing the genes for a heart attack enzyme, streptokinase, or for 'ice-minus,' which prevented frost damage to crops, might be worth five billion dollars to the right buyer.” Streptokinase, Mr. Crichton? Wasn’t this book about DINOSAURS???
Oh god, you don’t even know how bored I got at this very moment, sifting through quotes from “Jurassic Park” just to illustrate my point on how boring techno babble can be. It’s fiction. Science-fiction! Did Luke ever stop and explain in scientific terms how the Force allowed him to have better hand eye coordination? No, he didn’t because was too busy training with Yoda and making out with his sister.
But tons of people (who are probably smarter than me. Members of Mensa most likely) love Michael Crichton’s books. He knows how to tell a compelling tale of death and destruction, hidden amongst the “subatomics“ and the “polarizing xenon gas.” Exactly why I didn’t turn my nose up at it when a friend of mine recommended his 1999 novel “Timeline.” It’s about a group of historians who use a time machine to return to 1357 and rescue their lost professor. As you can imagine, what should have been a “routine” retrieval mission turns into an epic tale of chopping off heads with broadswords and people getting spliced in two by faulty teleportation devices.
Shock of all shockers, the opening section that takes place in modern day, involving the huge corporation that owns the time traveling technology did not amuse me a quarter as much as when they dressed the crew in peasant clothes and chucked them into the past. Less than five minutes into arriving in 1300s France, two crew members die, with a third possibly on his way. Now that got my attention in a way no description of “superconducting quantum interference devices” ever could. Unfortunately, none of that happened until page one hundred and sixty-three.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Maybe the Lamp Fell In Some Plutonium
Today we celebrate a milestone in Steinho history. Exactly one year ago (minus roughly a week) I sat down in my living room in West Hollywood, the air conditioning blasting on me to combat the heinous desert heat of my poorly insulated apartment, and I scribbled out my very first blog post. Coincidentally, this happens to also be my fiftieth post. Feel free to send me some gold or something.
In honor of that day, April 29th, 2010, when I first threw my sack full of rubbish onto the ethereal heap that is the Internet, I shall return to the subject that started it all. The author that taught me how to use swear words in the third grade. The man responsible for, if not creating, at least contributing to my deranged imagination. Uncle Stevie himself.
By the way, I didn’t make that up. That’s how Stephen King often refers to himself. Sometimes I wish he was my uncle. Then again maybe not, because if I did finally get successful as a writer, everyone would always be saying, “Sure. That Steinho’s pretty good, but her uncle, now there’s a real writer! What‘ll he come up with next?”
I’ll tell you what he’s coming up with next. On November 8th of this year, Stephen King will release a book titled, “11/22/63.” Having been born in the eighties, this date initially meant nothing to me. Fortunately, a google search brought up a little synopsis. “11/22/63 is a story about a man who finds a time machine in a friend’s garage, uses it to go back and save JFK from being assassinated, and ends up creating a whole new life for himself in a bygone era.
There was a joke on the show “Family Guy” where Stephen King sits in an office with his editor. The editor asks what his next novel will be about. Stephen King scans the office, picks up a lamp, and says “It’s about a couple who is attacked by a lamp monster!” “You’re not even trying anymore,” the editor says, then with a sigh, “How soon can I have it?”
The sketch is half right. If Stephen King isn’t trying, it’s only because he doesn’t have to.
It’s always funny when you hear authors or actors or anyone who is kind of a big deal talk about their days before anyone gave a shit. Even Stephen King got his share of rejection letters before they gave him his scepter and little orb and crowned him god of horror fiction. If I ever get the chance to meet King, I’d like to know what ideas he just couldn’t sell, that the general masses of the publishing world found too crazy or macabre or weird. Because let’s be honest. Today, he pretty much could come up with an idea about a haunted lamp and it would sell. It would make it to the bestsellers wall.
Consider one of his last bestsellers, “Under the Dome.” The book came out in November of 2009. “The Simpsons Movie” came out in July of 2007. Both had pretty much the same premise. A small town is trapped under a big dome, and everyone starts acting like feral cats. King mentions in an author’s note at the end he originally came up with the idea back in 1976, but found the epic scale of the novel too daunting. Or mayhaps the good people at Simon & Schuster just weren’t ready yet for a story containing a brood of sadistic, triangle-faced alien children. It’s just further proof that King can take the same story as a ridiculous animated movie and turn it into something dark and chilling. When I said he doesn’t have to try, I didn’t just mean because people will always buy his books. King doesn’t have to try, because no matter how silly the notion, he’ll find a way to make it shine like a sack of gold coins with a dollar sign on the side.
In honor of that day, April 29th, 2010, when I first threw my sack full of rubbish onto the ethereal heap that is the Internet, I shall return to the subject that started it all. The author that taught me how to use swear words in the third grade. The man responsible for, if not creating, at least contributing to my deranged imagination. Uncle Stevie himself.
By the way, I didn’t make that up. That’s how Stephen King often refers to himself. Sometimes I wish he was my uncle. Then again maybe not, because if I did finally get successful as a writer, everyone would always be saying, “Sure. That Steinho’s pretty good, but her uncle, now there’s a real writer! What‘ll he come up with next?”
I’ll tell you what he’s coming up with next. On November 8th of this year, Stephen King will release a book titled, “11/22/63.” Having been born in the eighties, this date initially meant nothing to me. Fortunately, a google search brought up a little synopsis. “11/22/63 is a story about a man who finds a time machine in a friend’s garage, uses it to go back and save JFK from being assassinated, and ends up creating a whole new life for himself in a bygone era.
There was a joke on the show “Family Guy” where Stephen King sits in an office with his editor. The editor asks what his next novel will be about. Stephen King scans the office, picks up a lamp, and says “It’s about a couple who is attacked by a lamp monster!” “You’re not even trying anymore,” the editor says, then with a sigh, “How soon can I have it?”
The sketch is half right. If Stephen King isn’t trying, it’s only because he doesn’t have to.
It’s always funny when you hear authors or actors or anyone who is kind of a big deal talk about their days before anyone gave a shit. Even Stephen King got his share of rejection letters before they gave him his scepter and little orb and crowned him god of horror fiction. If I ever get the chance to meet King, I’d like to know what ideas he just couldn’t sell, that the general masses of the publishing world found too crazy or macabre or weird. Because let’s be honest. Today, he pretty much could come up with an idea about a haunted lamp and it would sell. It would make it to the bestsellers wall.
Consider one of his last bestsellers, “Under the Dome.” The book came out in November of 2009. “The Simpsons Movie” came out in July of 2007. Both had pretty much the same premise. A small town is trapped under a big dome, and everyone starts acting like feral cats. King mentions in an author’s note at the end he originally came up with the idea back in 1976, but found the epic scale of the novel too daunting. Or mayhaps the good people at Simon & Schuster just weren’t ready yet for a story containing a brood of sadistic, triangle-faced alien children. It’s just further proof that King can take the same story as a ridiculous animated movie and turn it into something dark and chilling. When I said he doesn’t have to try, I didn’t just mean because people will always buy his books. King doesn’t have to try, because no matter how silly the notion, he’ll find a way to make it shine like a sack of gold coins with a dollar sign on the side.
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