I am not the only writer in my household. My cat, Orson, has put up an advice column on MySpace so as to serve the humans floundering around with philosophical questions. Ask him something, or just enjoy the reading at:
http://www.myspace.com/OrsonAdvice
The graphic my editor on UMR whipped up is so cute on this one, you just must be redirected to:
http://www.undressmerobot.com/umr1184132186.html?PHPSESSID=c3fd1e1790cea6c14ee08cf319fafd33
from: http://www.undressmerobot.com
Jamie Tanner’s The Aviary, released by AdHouse Books this June, is a cyclone of surrealism and effortless elegance. The clean black and white look of the book doesn’t betray its thorny forays into dream worlds, repression, and lots of dismemberment, but it does complement those subjects. The mental landscape of this collection of 14 stories is staggering at first: I suggest that you don’t attempt to read it all in one sitting, because you’ll end up missing something. It’s like a meal with many courses which requires breaks for digestion.
The Quiet Bird-man, the premier product of the Casualty J. Organ Company, is our guide through Tanner’s fastidiously cultivated realm. Dressed to the nines, the Bird-man does not talk, but blinks with supreme authority. Although he’s marketed as a toy to amuse children, it’s apparent that he has unsettling human qualities. From the outset, part of his charm is his unfaltering poise and nebulous blinks, which can usually mean whatever the reader interprets. They sometimes seem benevolent, sometimes sadistic. He is a staple throughout the stories, as is his boss Mr. Organ, who seems to own everything in the unnamed town.
In the first story, we promptly see that, although there is much adventure, no one will classify this as a lighthearted romp. Tanner introduces a lonely old codger seemingly imprisoned in his isolation, telling the Bird-man of his obsession with mermaids. He admires them because they are free of licentious activity by sheer virtue of their physical makeup; something he wishes was his own destiny. This unwitting gentleman is only the opening victim of Organ’s behind-the-scene manipulations.
Miss Diamond, Organ’s assistant, first spews the fresh and delightful curses that pepper these pages. The use of blue language in a unique way befits the verboseness of the whole book; it’s strangely lyrical, academic, and crass at the same time. A talking dog (who is also a professor) apologizes, “I must say, it is merely my lack of thumbs that makes me brusque,” pages away from a robot making pronouncements such as “HOLY PILE OF FUCK.” Often, a single repeated sentence gives you the significance of a particular episode.
From the beginning, Tanner’s cinematic eye is apparent—the panels almost look like storyboards. Opting out of anything flashy (including color), the book stands on its sheer eccentricity and characters. Frequently, you’re only seeing one person/thing in a panel, which does more to highlight the individuals. There’s a lot of use of negative space and the composition of the frames never lags or bores. The weighty examination of love and death comprised in this book is illuminated with shockingly adorable characters. The Bird-man himself, Walt the young penguin, and Buttons the robot are just some examples. The innovation of The Aviary has to do with tiny novelties, such as when Tanner plays with time structure using placards labeled “Later,” “Eventually,” “Previously,” “See ‘Eventually’ as depicted earlier,” etc.
A revolving door of characters continues to intertwine and build through the stories, interacting or reacting to each other. It’s not unusual to meet pornographers with monkey heads or robot-headed boxers here and no one ever mentions this as being out of the ordinary. A man with the head of a cat walks around in his “un-death,” falling in love and falling apart physically, piece by piece. (Granted, this is a less than subtle metaphor, but one that most people can relate to.) Much that happens in this strange world is dealt with in a totally blasé manner, but it’s up to you to decide if the characters are horribly detached or simply desensitized to the bizarre and grotesque.
“Diamonds” neatly ties together the loose ends of the stories that precede it and gives the readers a better understanding of what exactly is going on. At this point, you really need it, and I know I was starting to doubt that explanation would be forthcoming, as is the case with some avant-garde and many independent comics. The last story, “Mine,” exposes even more, though in an agreeably vague way. “Diamonds” contains a glut of the recurring images: most importantly birds, water, and amputation. The title refers to the previously mentioned Miss Diamond and her sister, who is in a loveless marriage with a limbless comedian.
“Mine” is the final story and I won’t ruin that ambiguous gem, but my favorite of all the vignettes is the one right before, titled “Outside the Aviary.” I personally think it’s a better culmination of the journey than “Mine” but it may just be the style that I favor. It would have made a lovely ending in itself: the “patron of the pornographic arts,” Heinrich Bruno, presents his final exhibit. Dubbed A Series of Escapes, it presents photographic/art renderings of the major events in the book. The characters have just barely escaped incarceration, matrimony, and the boundaries of the body, as the advertisements for Bruno’s show boast. Their escapes don’t exactly place them in better positions than their imprisonments had. It’s a montage in panel form and a clever pay-off for the careful reader.
All in all, I thoroughly enjoyed The Aviary, partly due to my obsession with language and the general textbook tone of the book. The language, charming and somewhat anachronistic, definitely gives it a distinctive feel. The same goes for the art, which is the perfect counterpoint, working with the writing instead of trying to overpower it. Jamie Tanner achieves something innovative in this AdHouse release and hopefully we can expect more in the future.
A new poem of mine is featured in the newest issue of Zygote in my Coffee (http://www.zygoteinmycoffee.com/). Just click the chick for the hot literary action.
My comic got quite a nice write-up from Ryan McLelland at http://www.newsarama.com, an all things comic related website by the folks of View Askew (Kevin Smith). Also featured is our company’s other offering by founder Michael Wood.
hate your friends #6
Love in a Time of Super-Villains #1
Space Monkey Comics - $2.50 each
www.spacemonkeyonline.com
It seems like the brains behind Space Monkey Comics can do no wrong with their two latest books. Many moons ago I had reviewed hate your friends and now the title is back with its sixth issue, a double sized issue that has the events of the five past issues come to a head.
It would be easy to compare hate your friends to the classic John Cusack film High Fidelity or the quasi-classic Rory Cochrane/ Renee Zellweger film Empire Records because both films deal with a record store and the personalities that work inside them. However as hate your friends has gone on, the characters go from being caricatures of those you might see working retail to feeling like real people that you care about issue after issue. This was very obvious as I reach through this latest issue where we see main character Phineas imploding he catches his roommate, who recently went to work at a big retail record store, hooking up with his best friend and bandmate. This all comes out just as Phineas’ band is about to release their latest CD, an album that looks to take the indy music scene by storm. However after the storm he’s just gone through, which includes his boss getting beat up in the music storm, Phineas has just about had enough of everything and everyone. The character of Phineas is written beautifully by creator/writer Kristin Blank who captures beautifully what it feels like to be a man scorned. The fact that his character development is only one of many throughout the issue marks this issue the best of a series that only continues to get better as each issue is released.
Michael Wood’s artwork helps bring the indy music scene to life in hate your friends but it his unique writing style that brings inanity to a whole new level in Love in a Time of Super-Villains #1. It’s a book that shows how superheroes would live if they really lived in our world. They are snobby. They are rude. They have agents. They all care about themselves. Yeah, pretty much how Angelina and Brad would act if they have superpowers. In the world where a superhero cares more about their popularity rating than defeating the villain, heroes Cosmic Man and The Amaze-On Princess wake up in their Las Vegas hotel room. Amaze-On is nursing a mean hangover and is unable to remember the night before. Something about Elvis or something…
Turns out both her and Cosmic Man got super-trashed and ended up getting the Hunka Hunka Burnin’ Love package at the Chapel O’ Love. Amaze-On can’t believe it…she’s going to the Oscars with the Hawk next Sunday! Her approval rating will plummet like a stock market crash! Her only thought is to call her agent to try and sweep this mess under a rug, but as paparazzi do, someone snapped some shots of the couple wandering out of the chapel. The marriage made front page news but what is worse is that the public LOVE that the two are married. Suddenly two heroes who don’t really like each other have to continue like this just to placate their egos in the public’s eye. Wood shines on both series with a art style that is all his own and a writing wit that brings emotion and heart to even the stupidest of situations.
from: http://www.thebeak.org
(The Beak is a commentary site for much commentary. Spend some time there.)
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Rapture Ready offers a handy little memorandum to print out and post on your refrigerator should the promised time come and you find yourself about to be yanked out of reality along with the rest of the righteous. As the Beak has always had an interest in public service, we offer our version of the Memo to use at will, should you find yourself stuck on Earth during the Rapture. This note can be thrown into the sky, in case of Rapture, and will surely be caught by someone ascending. Perhaps one of the chosen will actually give it to God, and maybe he’ll have mercy on the heathens, because at least we’re funny. It’s worth a shot. Memorandum Date: (Unknown)To: Those about to vanish/those who have already vanished From: Those languishing on Earth Re: Re: The truth about what happened Well, color us embarrassed! Despite all of our studies to the contrary, you crazy motherfuckers were right! I guess we’re pretty screwed. The note you left on the ‘fridge tells us: “We who belong to Christ were called into the air above the planet in the rapture,” and we’re a little confused, despite the explanations that follow. I think it’s the Tim LaHaye mention right at the beginning that threw us. You may not realize, but he’s not much esteemed in the academic and rational world. Either way, we’re still here, and from what you’ve told us…we have some preparations ahead. The Bible references are pretty handy, but since the Antichrist had us turn them all in, we can’t actually read what they say. So, yeah. It seems things are going to get rough. We who remain can’t even update our MySpaces anymore. Apparently, the people who run NetFlix have ascended, because we’re not receiving our movies, either. Some of us have even had to leave the house to retrieve our licentious entertainment. It’s pure terror. Really, your note was very thoughtful, especially the breakdown of the next seven years. I’m sure you know that we’re not much for planning that far ahead, usually. In fact, we were napping when the Rapture occurred. Trying to suss it out has been exhausting, so we’ll lie down again after penning our missive. Perhaps you’d consider this slothful, but you have to admit that if you were in our position, you’d be fairly tired as well. We have formed a Coalition of the Sheepish to try to combat the forces of evil that we denied. Mostly we meet every morning in shacks to eat doughnuts. Some of us cry; some of us watch America’s Next Top Whore of Babylon. Those of us with presence of mind have opened the backs of our necks to tear out the RFID chips that were inserted while we snoozed. At first, I thought my neck had been altered so that I could enter the Matrix and I was like, SWEEET! But, alas, the serial number was 666. Honestly, we’re pretty terrified. We just wanted to let you know that you’re perfectly justified in saying, “I told you so.” We’re going back to sleep now, as that’s the only plan that the CoS could approve by committee. We’re hoping that we can just doze for seven years. We know you wish us luck. Sincerely, The Heathens |
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Today marks the release of Richard Gere’s new movie The Hoax, which examines the infamous con artist Clifford Irving. Irving’s claim to fame was an “authorized” biography of the reclusive Howard Hughes, which though the book was sold and money exchanged hands, was an utter fabrication. I haven’t seen it, and most likely won’t until I can put it in my NetFlix queue, but I feel obliged to use any soapbox I can to shout that there is already a film about Clifford Irving (and the world he became a seasoned fraud in, Ibiza) that I’m certain is much better and has been pushed into unfair obscurity. It’s not a reenactment. It’s not a documentary. It’s not an essay. It may be a documentary-essay. Orson Welles’ F for Fake began as an account of famed art forger Elmyr de Hory and ended up part biographical, history as it happened (in the case of Irving), an editing tour de force, a fake-out itself, and a totally engaging, infinitely fresh picture. It was one of Robert Anton Wilson’s favorite movies. It’s one of mine. I implore you to get a bottle of wine and sit down with it before you go to watch Gere make with the Hollywood version. |
from: http://www.thebeak.org
It’s naked, but is it Art?
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I never thought I would have occasion to type the phrase “Naked Chocolate Jesus” into a search engine, but this implausible day has arrived. I can’t tell you how satisfying it was. Artist Cosimo Cavallaro planned to debut his latest sculpture “My Sweet Lord” in the Lab Gallery (located within the Roger Smith Hotel) during Holy Week, culminating with a midnight showing on Easter. This rendering of Mr. Jesus Christ is 6-feet tall, 200 pounds, stark naked, suspended above a chalk cross, and entirely made of delicious dark chocolate. I’m just guessing about the tastiness. The world may never know, because Cavallaro was shut down. Shocking shocker. Naked Chocolate Jesus was packed into some ice and sent away; no room at the inn, apparently. Once word got out about what would be on display at the Lab from April 2-7, the “watchdog” Catholic League got their loincloths all in a bunch and began to bombard the hotel with protests. Bill Donohue, the head of the CL, was very vocal about dissent to the exhibit. He called on his fellow faithful to boycott the hotel, imploring that it was already “morally bankrupt.” He actually called it “an all-out war on Christianity.” Please chew on that for a moment, folks. So, why the fuss? Is it the chocolate? Well, I’ve seen a chocolate Jesus before, and I’d be willing to bet that you have as well. I know you’ll think me a heathen, but I’ve even eaten a few. (Including a particularly palatable square that contained the Lord and all twelve of the apostles.) It certainly can’t be the nudity; there’s a naked Jesus statue in St. Peter’s. The problem can’t be the full Monty, right? That’s simply anatomy. Jesus was a man; he has been depicted as such before. Donohue has specifically cited the timing, but I’m not so sure this would fly with his organization at any point. Cavallaro can’t help it, Bill, this just happens to be the time when you will give him a large amount of free publicity. Cavallaro has a history of pretty disgusting food art. He’s covered the model Twiggy and a room in a Manhattan hotel in cheese and even sprayed pepper jack all over a house in Wyoming. His last exhibit at the Lab, in 2004, was a four-poster bed laden with 312 pounds of processed ham. The move to the chocolate medium just seems classier, non? Maybe we should be supporting him, instead of sending the NCJ off to an indefinite fate, if only to keep the chocolate coming and the rancid cheese out of the scene. Donohue reinforced his “bad timing” argument by stating that the gallery would not show Martin Luther King, Jr. with “his genitals exposed” on MLK day nor would it show Muhammed naked during Ramadan. (Martin Luther King, Jr. did not technically start a religion, but who am I to quibble with Mr. Donohue on any of his instructive opinions? Perhaps he has him mixed up with Martin Luther.) This would be the way to go, actually, for squat little Cosimo to maximize the firestorm and get the most exposure out of this incident. (That pun was not intended, but it is a joyful happenstance.) I see a series: all of our spiritual leaders, on their highest holy days, peeled lovingly from a naked, gleaming, cocoa mold. The Buddha would provide a treat for all of Manhattan. Maybe it’s me, but I think that’s a transcendental experience. The chocolate won’t last as long as marble, metal, or wood… but if the Easter bunny can be the star of Holy Week and Santa can steal Christmas, why can’t artists get in on the fun? Cavallaro describes his art on his website as “the struggle between need and desire; the known and unknown; the warm security of the womb and the chill uncertainty of the world.” Quite the tall order and I’m not certain that I could identify any of those themes in the Naked Chocolate Jesus. Somehow, it doesn’t matter. What matters to me now is where that thing went and how I can get an invite to the party where, inevitably, Jesus will be coming to dinner. |
One of my many web-lit duties is functioning as the Public Relations and Fundraising Director of the Cerebral Catalyst (http://www.cerebralcatalyst.com). Archives of a sampling of my web published poetry can be found at the site, alphabetical or chronological.
from: http://www.undressmerobot.com
Lost Girls labors under 15 years of anticipation, work, and the legendary cantankerous, brilliant reputation of its writer: Alan Moore. Moore’s artist (and now, wife) Melinda Gebbie is no stranger to dispute herself, having been confronted with burnings of her books and plenty of heated discussion. The combination of these two minds is enough to cause a buzz—notwithstanding that, when asked, Moore will classify this graphic novel as pornography without the benefit of quotation marks trapping the word or excuses and apologies. One might suppose that expectation alone would overshadow this release and that no matter how good or shocking or thought-provoking it turned out, the controversy would fizzle or the narrative would disappoint. Neither of these outcomes comes to fruition after reading Book One: “Older Children.”
Initially, I was going to take on reviewing all three books at the same time. After finishing Book One, I realized that this wouldn’t be possible. My two pages of notes on this first installment couldn’t be shoved into one terse statement. Also, the text raises so many questions and ripe situations for debate that it deserves more than just a surface treatment. There hasn’t been anything like this before in comics and so therefore I feel a bit as if each step I take crunches eggshells. That said, I’m not going to shy away from spoilers, so if you don’t want to know specific plot points, you need to stop reading this.
As simply put as possible, the story concerns three main characters that most people will recognize from their childhood: Dorothy Gale, Alice Fairchild, and Wendy Darling. These names are familiar from the stories read to children as The Wizard of Oz, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, and Peter Pan. All grown up now, each woman is a slave to her past, as they will come to find out. “Older Children” takes us through the process of these women encountering each other in the Hotel Himmelgarten, a Swiss hotel with unique white volumes in the place normally occupied by Bibles in guestrooms. With the backdrop of the hotel and the book in each room, the women begin an exploration that will inevitably draw in everyone around them and forever change their view of the world.
It is fitting that Moore has separated this epic into three books, and the three books into respective chapters. The rigid structure makes it easier to keep track of the action and it suits the story better, which is really more of a novel than a lot of the books on the bestseller lists. If you take a peek at the price for this lushly manufactured set, you may be a bit shocked. You’d be even more stunned searching for the individual books on any Internet auction site.
In Chapter 1 (“The Mirror”), we meet Lady Fairchild, an older woman with a penchant for erotica and mind-altering substances. She comes from a privileged family, and therefore can get away with being a bit batty; this makes her a perfect tour-guide for our introduction into the bizarre world of Lost Girls. (Lady Fairchild, better known as Alice, has much experience traversing unknown territory.) Rendered in soft lines and extremely realistic features, the readers only view Fairchild through her precious mirror for the first part of the story. Gebbie’s art immediately casts a spell, taking you out of the ordinary world. Each panel could be a painting, with the amount of detail and obvious love she has given them. If you’re looking for exaggerated and improbable comic babes, you won’t find them here. The mirror’s gilt frame serves as a border for the panels and exemplifies well the captive feelings Fairchild hides.
As soon as the first chapter opens, we see Fairchild masturbating with abandon and seemingly talking to the mirror while she pleasures herself. She seeks the mirror’s approval constantly, and when she encounters a fan of her fiction upon arriving at the Himmelgarten, she summarizes Plato in reply: “…the world beyond fiction’s mirror, that is the true world and we are but the faintest reflections grown pale beneath the glass.” This weighty statement, as we will later see, elucidates much about how her checkered childhood has affected her.
Chapter 2, “Silver Shoes,” introduces us to Miss Gale (or “Dottie,” until we find out exactly who she is). Once again, the art is totally striking and so different from anything comic readers are used to seeing. Miss Gale immediately starts her sexual adventures as well, meeting a dashing young man named Rolf Bauer who is at the Himmelgarten to “convalesce.” (Let me interject here that one of the many reasons I love Alan Moore is that he doesn’t shy away from so-called “50-cent” words in his comics.) She and Rolf copulate with abandon outside the hotel, and this first sex scene initiates us into the uninhibited way intercourse is dealt with in Lost Girls: there will be no demure cutting away from explicit panels.
In keeping with the theme of the fetish objects of the main characters, we see lots of shots of Dottie’s shoes: silver, striking, and a nod to her red slippers. Rolf likes them, too, a lot. “Like shoes, we try on our fantasies, yes?” he flirts coyly. Miss Gale reminds him that we also outgrow shoes or they become too “dull, familiar, and comfortable.” Dorothy’s over-the-top Southern accent is a little distracting at first, but it seems to be meant to demonstrate her free-spirited, All-American-girl personality.
We’re introduced to the final lady in Chapter 3, “Missing Shadows.” This portion starts with an outstanding page of the balcony, where we can see Lady Fairchild and Dorothy begin their friendship in a series of snaking word balloons that ultimately lead to the stodgy couple who has just occupied the room next to them. Mr. and Mrs. Potter (our Wendy Darling’s new surname) are a middle-aged pair who have become complacent and, of course, sexually unadventurous. This chapter also lets us into the pages of the White Book, the erotica in place of the Bible in their rooms. Gebbie’s mimic of English illustrator Aubrey Beardsley’s work is insanely stunning; in fact, all of the White Book is luxuriously illustrated in the styles of revered erotica, and all of the imitations are spot-on.
In one of the many clever visuals of this installment, the Potters engage in a bit of innuendo-soaked chit-chat while their shadows do all the things that they cannot allow themselves to do.
Chapters 4-6 see the women slowly drawing closer. In the case of Fairchild and Dottie…extremely close. They do not hesitate to get into each other’s knickers, and have no hang-ups or repression. The Potters spy the women in the hotel’s restaurant and their interest is piqued. Mrs. Potter, in particular, can’t seem to stop looking at them and thinking about them. In fact, she’s so intrigued that she’s caught spying on one of their sexual escapades. This incident begins the heart of the book: the three women exploring each other, their mental landscapes, experiences, and the roots of their libidos.
In the next few vignettes, we are treated to individual examinations of the women’s pasts with re-imaginings of our cherished childhood stories. “Re-imagining” is a pretty tame word to use in this context. Dorothy tells her tale first: As a young woman caught in a tornado, thinking that the end is near, she experiences her first orgasm by stimulating herself as the house spins. Gebbie renders Kansas in fittingly rich, sepia tones.
Wendy is goaded into revealing her story next, something that she has not told anyone but has been dying to let out. The art shows the familiar Darling family and Peter Pan in panels that almost look like stained glass. Up until Wendy’s story, nothing in the text had made me uncomfortable, and I was beginning to wonder what the ruckus was about. Instead of trying to describe Mrs. Potter’s experience, I’ll leave the interpretation up to the individual reader. I will say that I’m sure Moore and Gebbie weren’t surprised at the protest of Barrie’s estate.
Lady Fairchild’s memory is not a pleasant one, but it is rife with clever allusions to the Alice of lore. She is approached by Bunny, her father’s oldest friend, who plies her with wine that makes her body feel “too large or too small.” In the same mirror that she is so attached to, we see her molestation. It’s all very vague. Or, at least, it seems that way: the whole sequence is somehow less visceral than the other women’s experiences.
The last chapter in Book One, “Stravinsky,” gives us a bit of historical perspective as Lady Fairchild takes her fellow adventuresses and their men to the opera. In an excerpt from her diary, we see her exasperation with the men and the music enticing the women into a fondling session that no one seems to notice (which is really quite remarkable). Flowing writing and more alluring artwork make it an enjoyable topper. Book One ends on this note, and a promising beginning it is indeed.
