Zygote in my Coffee: Issue 88

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.

Newsarama Reviews Hate Your Friends

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.

In Case of Rapture, Break Glass

from: http://www.thebeak.org

 (The Beak is a commentary site for much commentary. Spend some time there.)

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

A Brief Word on “The Hoax”

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.

Naked Chocolate Jesus

from:  http://www.thebeak.org

 It’s naked, but is it Art?

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.

Archives of Poetry

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.

Lost Girls: Book One

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.

Lost Girls: Book Two

from:  http://www.undressmerobot.com

When we last left our protagonists, they were getting to know each other more intimately in the dreamlike and reality-shrouded Hotel Himmelgarten. Lady Fairchild, Dorothy, and Mrs. Potter are united by shared experience: as their friendship unfolds, they tell each other stories of their unique and sometimes troubling sexual initiations. Each woman is drawn to the confessional triad for her own reasons, but it has begun to open up a world of exploration that none of them were prepared to undergo.

In the reading of Lost Girls, by the time you reach Book Two (“Neverlands”), the sex has become a bit commonplace. It is a stretch to find a page without some degree of nudity, love making, or at the very least, innuendo. All well and good, because the creators’ stated purpose was that they were attempting to raise the bar and approach pornography with more seriousness. Yes, it is smut, but it is “Edwardian smut,” as Neil Gaiman pointed out, and feels more academic. That aside, there is still so much sex in these pages that you honestly get tired of it.

Chapter 11 finds Wendy’s husband writing an uptight letter to his boss that is illustrated with contradictory scenes of life at the Himmelgarten. The White Book, one of the many plot devices employed by Moore, is getting a hold on even this prudish man. Both The White Book and the girl’s childhood stories provide anchors to keep this beast of a plotline shored. The readers will notice now that the second book is the height of the characters’ time spent at the hotel; the debauchery is at its height.

Meanwhile, Mr. Potter’s wife is having tea with Lady Fairchild—tea, of course, meaning light conversation and heavy petting. This chapter is set up as one long panel on the right, with Gebbie’s art mimic of Alfons Mucha and Moore’s verse mimic of Apollinaire, each relief representing one the Seven Deadly Sins. The panels on the left show us the actual dialogue/intercourse between the ladies. Moore’s writing finally starts to really shine on these verses, my favorite being the ditty on Sloth.

Chapter 13 is a smart little mirror of this one, but with the boys of the story. (I was beginning to wonder if they were going to get some action. Though Bauer has taken up with Dorothy I was kind of expecting this revelation.) Bauer and Potter have their own round of beverage and sex, the panel set-up being nearly the same as the chapter before. The long panel on the right, this time, is Gebbie’s deft interpretation of Egon Schiele and Moore’s witty version of Oscar Wilde. Back in bed that night, the adulterous Potters lie back to back, not touching.

Just a side note: I never thought reviewing a comic would require me to do so much research and I never thought erotica would make me feel amateurish. The only artists I could identify right off the bat were Beardsley and Wilde. I’m not sure what art was truly Gebbie’s and what was a riff on some reference that I didn’t catch. Different kind of insecurity this porn inspires, it seems.

In “The Straw Man,” the back story of the girls’ childhood begins again, with the long panels of Dorothy’s dusty Kansas past. The accent’s less annoying now, as readers have surely gotten used to it. After the tornado, Dorothy is cognizant of her sexuality and starts to seek out gratification in the world around her. The farm has, of course, farm boys. She tells the other women of her experience with the first (quite obviously a parallel to Oz’s Scarecrow): “He smelled blonde.”

Each of this series of the girls’ youth contains a full page panel showing the surreal nature of their stories; a blend of their fantasy and reality. In Dorothy’s, we see her clinging to a Scarecrow in heavy winds, her skirt blowing up fancifully while he hangs, limp. It’s a summation of how she describes the occurrence.

The girls move to the steam room, finding it more appropriate for discussion. Wendy is more forthcoming now, as she gives her chronicle, employing the now familiar and oppressively lovely tall panels. Though the art is nice, I’m finding Wendy’s past the least appealing, with the most content choices that I can’t quite understand. Here we meet the Lost Boys and Annabel (guess who). She’s the girl they first saw Peter with and she’s introduced as his sister. When she jealously flounces away, Wendy is told that she must replace Annabel in the game they were to play, where “she would be their mother, in a special kind of way.” You can surely tell what Moore’s leading to here. This chapter’s full panel shows Wendy being suckled by cubs with the Lost Boys’ faces. She lies in the grass as they cling all over her; mother cub in the den.

We descend back into the ovals of Alice’s mirror as the women take to the pool for the continuation of Lady Fairchild’s story. Fairchild relates that her earlier experience with her father’s friend left her distrustful of men, and attending a girl’s boarding school cemented her infatuation with the fairer sex. Like the flowers in Wonderland, the girls opened up a new world to her, including a teacher named Miss Regent. Unlike the molestation of her other story, when she is finally approached by this red queen, it is entirely welcome. Again, the writing in this book was much more vivid to me than Book One: when Regent offers Alice a job as her assistant after kissing her, she promises that she will show the girl “kisses in comparison to which the kiss we’d just concluded was a slapped face.” Alice’s full panel shows her in the classic blue dress and apron, hands in her pockets, slightly detached from the exploding colors of her flowers wrapping around the page.

In Chapter 17, Alice takes the girls on a picnic a few days later to continue her story. On the car ride there, Alice narrates more. Miss Regent has married and is now Mrs. Redman, leading a Bacchanalian lifestyle under her husband’s nose. Alice tells of mad tea parties and all manner of draped girls, culminating in a slightly disturbing full panel of the Mad Hatter, Cheshire Cat, and friends…with breasts.

It’s Dorothy’s turn again, as Wendy reminds us, showing at the same time that she’s fully lost any inhibitions about the psychological journey that the women are taking together. She reminisces as they board a train to take them to an island for a picnic. Dorothy’s second sexual conquest is a sketch of the Cowardly Lion, here a rough-talking farm boy, stout and loud. When she calls his bluff and approaches him, he practically turns into a scared kitten, unsure of himself and surprised by her forwardness. There’s another full panel, Dorothy copulating with a half-human/half-lion. She says she made him brave, but it just wasn’t enough for her. There was something missing from her sexual education.

Wendy’s next. She tells of her and Peter alone, letting themselves go in “Peter Breaks Through.” Their intimate time is interrupted by a man Peter calls Huxley; a man with a hooked finger. This version of Captain Hook is a lecherous pedophile, spying on the young couple in the foliage. This full panel features a distressed Wendy, watching as Peter and Hook “duel” for her affections.

The last chapter of Book Two is the zenith of all of their time together: a long afternoon, relayed by Lady Fairchild’s journal, of making up stories and smoking opium, slowly sliding into a fantasy of their own creation. Their unreality is juxtaposed with the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand, further driving home the point that they are existing apart from the visible world. Yet, parallels still run between the orgy Fairchild writes about and the words which wind their way into the political event.

Thus Book Two ends, with the blood of the Archduke and a quiet trip back to the boat for the girls. Fairchild feels as if “a season turned”, and the whole tone of the novel switches, which seems to foretell a much darker conclusion.

Lost Girls: Book Three

from:  http://www.undressmerobot.com

I entered Book Three with consternation; I’ve been conflicted about finishing Lost Girls for some time now. It’s not that I haven’t liked the art or the writing, but that even after two full books (clocking in at 112 pages each) I still wasn’t emotionally attached or involved with any of the characters. This is generally what keeps me around with any other work. I was also feeling desensitized to the sexual theme of the book, being that it’s so saturated with everything conceivable.

It’s just so fleshy. In a graphic novel that addresses not just sex, but complex issues like war, imagination, and censorship, there seems to be very little room for sentiment. The three women who should have been complicated and relatable had become, in my mind, simply vessels for Alan Moore’s pro-pornography argument. Although I don’t disagree with his points, the execution still leaves me feeling inconsistent after following him all the way through to the finish. In all honesty, I’m not sure I would have read all of this without having committed to reviewing the book.

The third installment (“The Great and Terrible”) is spent tying together, thankfully, the many loose ends that were bothering me. The conclusions of the girls’ childhood stories explain their confused adult lives and the deep-seated repressions that gave them the bond they share at the Hotel Himmelgarten. As each woman finishes her story, she begins to show a little more personality. Especially with Wendy, once you know the full extent of their accounts, they become less remote and more sympathetic. The ends of their tales are unflinchingly sad; they refuse to look away from the ugliness, yet don’t apologize for it. The women simply deal with what hurt them, realizing together that it has made them stronger.

The history of the hotel is elucidated in this installment, as well. Monsieur Rougeur’s back-story illustrates how the place became a temporary autonomous zone for debauchery. This final book is one of justification and consequence; it’s the dream colliding rudely with reality.

“Everyone’s leavin’ the hotel,” Dorothy tells us in her somewhat grating exaggeration of an accent. Book Two left us with the assassination of the Archduke, the event that is considered to be the start of World War I, and it has already begun to have an effect on the sheltered little world they have created. Everything begins to crumble, as Wendy’s husband is sent back to work and Rolf goes off to his regiment. Monsieur Rougeur, the proprietor of the establishment, informs the ladies the any sexually inhibited staff and guests have vacated. Guess what? Orgy! Rougeur reads the two dirtiest stories from his White Book before he confesses his sins to the three protagonists, under extreme duress.

It’s here that Rougeur becomes Moore’s proxy, proclaiming that his lurid tales of incestuous families are acceptable because the characters within them are fictional, and therefore ageless and innocent of crime. “Fiction and fact,” Rougeur stresses, “only madmen and magistrates cannot discriminate between them.” (As a side note, this section becomes something of a postmodern wink-wink, as Rougeur tells us that the characters in the White Book are blameless, but he is real and thus quite guilty of lechery.)

This is an integral part of Moore’s smut thesis: pornography is necessary to release the darker sexual thoughts of humans so they do not run rampant in the real world. In an interview with the AV Club, Moore takes this thought further, mentioning that the occurrence of sex crimes in Holland, Denmark, and Spain (where porn proliferates freely) is nowhere near that of Britain and America. He points out that “…pornography might be providing an essential pressure valve in those countries, which we do not have access to here.” Yes, all well and good, but not every pornographer has the high literary standards of Moore and Gebbie, much less the commitment. Lost Girls raises the bar, but it’s not going to get rid of the porn that we currently have, which most times does more damage than good.

The sexual atmosphere in the whole of the book is one of free expression and understanding; the pornography outside of this carefully crafted world is often the reason that people get the wrong idea about what their partner might want. It’s a noble idea to take pornography back to its literary tradition, but it won’t go much further than within these expensive pages. The book itself is a fetish object, pricey and handsome. The normal consumers of porn aren’t going to be reading this or thinking about its implications. I can’t imagine that anyone picking up this book didn’t know exactly what he or she was getting, especially with its mythical history in the comic book industry. This is what’s commonly known as “preaching to the choir.”

As the women prepare to leave the hotel and take their new knowledge back to husbands and lovers, the talk turns to the conflict. After a brief conversation about whether or not war destroys imagination, we segue to the invasion of the Himmelgarten by German soldiers. The final dialogue in Lost Girls is entirely in German, which is kind of like a slap in the face after getting all the way there. Without giving much away, the castle in the sky the women created cannot survive without them. Even after translating the dialogue and reading it over, the climax is…well…limp. Vaginal imagery in the last few panels is no surprise, and the sudden intrusion of the war on the women’s newfound freedom doesn’t really add up. Really, I’m not reluctant to say I don’t quite get inferred meaning here, or exactly what I was supposed to take away from this final tableau. I could draw parallels all day (Alice’s talk of war not having the ability to destroy beauty; beauty in the gore of battle) but none of it is quite satisfying enough for the investment it took.

I appreciate the new things I learned by reading Lost Girls, such as the artists I hadn’t known (what a gift Egon Schiele is, and Gebbie’s mimic has a splendor all its own), but ultimately, it was really hard for me to finish the saga. I simply didn’t want to read on. I had quickly gotten the gist, and there were no attachments to keep me tethered. I have a feeling that the creators were expecting this kind of reaction, and that they don’t feel slighted or misunderstood. It’s a successful effort, they accomplished what they set out to do, and at the end of the day the book is obviously theirs and extremely personal. The readers feel a little left out, that’s all. I don’t feel closeness with the triad of women, but I’m quite sure Moore and Gebbie do. I never knew Dorothy, Alice, and Wendy outside of their carnal escapades, and that made them less genuine for me.

Regardless of its shortcomings, Lost Girls is hardly a failure. It was interesting to learn in my research that most of the book had been drawn before it was scripted, and looking back on the panels, I can see how the art guided the innuendo. This wouldn’t have been possible without both participants being on exactly the same wavelength, and the stamp of a mind-meld is all over this work. Gebbie acquits herself nicely in every area, but particularly shines in her full-page renderings of formative moments in the women’s journeys. There was never a time in the massive text that I thought the artwork slipped. When you think about it, that’s a hell of an achievement. Both Moore and Gebbie are powerhouses, but the problem may be that I felt as if I’d intruded upon a private conversation of theirs.

110 PER¢

from:  http://www.undressmerobot.com/

Before we begin any discussion of Tony Consiglio’s 110 PER¢, I want to provide you, dear reader, with full disclosure. I wanted to review this comic because it’s about older women obsessed with 110 PER¢, a boy band. Similarly, in my early twenties, I had a startling and freakish passion for *N’Sync. Knowing I’d be attaching my own experience to whatever commentary Consiglio had to offer, I went in with prejudice. Turns out, we came to about the same conclusions.

People will attach to just about anything to distract themselves from the harsh reality we live in. (Comic books, anyone?) When I loved the boys of *N’Sync, I was going through an identity crisis and dealing with the deaths of two close family members. Consiglio’s characters, Sasha, Gertrude, and Cathy, have similar holes in their lives that they are trying to fill with shiny, perfect worlds. We’re introduced to them one-by-one and their situations are obvious from the offset.

Sasha and her husband do not have the perfect relationship and at the beginning, he’s practically emotionally abusive. Cathy is a lonely and obese single woman, getting older every day, stuck in an office job where she doesn’t have any friends. Gertrude (“Gerty,” to her friends) has a loving family but she just can’t seem to keep her attention focused on them. All three women, members of the MOFO 110 PER¢ club (Mature Older Fans of 110 PER¢), find relief for their problems in fixating on their favorite band. The impetus for the comic was a meeting much like this one for fans of the Backstreet Boys. A woman Consiglio worked with was a member, so out of curiosity he accompanied her to the gathering. He was stunned, scared, and inspired, and here we have the result.

Consiglio renders the story with realistic dialogue and characters that you could find on a city bus or in your cubicle. He accomplishes this in many ways: breaking the “fourth wall,” vivid expressions, louder-than-words action, etc. He illustrates the panic of obsession by turning panels sideways or employing panels within panels so you can feel the hyper-emotive states. Even the lettering (an uncomfortable OH, palpable anger in buzzing lines, somehow not cliché) contributes to the depth of each person, down to minor characters. Clever bits of visual clues are all over this graphic novel. It’s not so aware of itself as to be pretentious, just madly charming. Consiglio has stated that he didn’t want to “over-render” his creations and that he wanted them to be “bare minimum.” I think what he considers to be bare minimum is a whole lot more than a lot of indie comic artists. His cartoony style complements the story in a whole new way, and the quirks he can achieve make his world unique. It’s visually interesting without wandering into cheeseball, telling what is, at heart, a very adult story.

My favorite of these tactics is the douchebag in Cathy’s office who gives her a double thumbs-up and a “You rock!” after conning her into making him a birthday cake. It’s a perfect illustration of a shallow, backhanded jerk—with just a gesture and two words. The entire book is peppered with these moments. Cathy’s alienation at the office is shown without words when Consiglio actually draws her as an extraterrestrial.

As the story progress toward the release of 110 PER¢’s new album and the inevitable big concert, so do the women’s personal journeys. I won’t give much away; it’s definitely better to go into this not knowing what to expect. This is a tale where the people change, for better or worse, and they’re the makers of their own fates. The three main characters have very distinct personalities, levels of obsession, and outcomes. Consiglio manages to craft a story that is serious, hilarious, and even disgusting at times. It goes by like a bike ride and is totally self contained.

At the beginning of this review, I said that Consiglio and I came to basically the same conclusion about obsession. I’m not totally sure he’d agree with me, but either way, the thing that I took away from the book was the relation between fixation and loneliness. It’s not a crime to have an escape from reality (it’s sometimes necessary, in fact) but if you allow yourself to be consumed, you miss the world around you. You can acknowledge it and move on, or you can be trapped in trying to catch the proverbial brass ring. The thing about that: even if you get the ring, it’s probably tarnished.

Consiglio says his next project is “a story about a man searching for his son. It involves pharmaceutical espionage and the cure for ‘The Herpes.’ It’s called Titanius.” I’m not sure if he’s shitting me or not, but if he’s for real, I’ll pre-order now.