Newsarama reports that Garry Leach has created a Miracleman print to be sold to benefit the CBLDF. It’s quite nice, and a very good cause – sadly they’re only available at a store in New York – but there’s one very interesting aspect to the press release:
Artwork and likeness copyright Garry Leach.
Testing the waters, perhaps?
You better put all your eggs in one basket
You better count your chickens before they hatch
You better sell some wine before it’s time
You better find yourself an itch to scratchDare to be stupid
Come on and dare to be stupid
It’s so easy to do
Dare to be stupid
We’re all waiting for you
Let’s go
I thought there was a line in there about quitting your current job before finding a new one, but perhaps not.
Bold decision, or suicidal career folly? Results in two months.
Stay Tuned.
Also, the sad, sad truth about John Cassaday.
I came across this story I wrote sometime in 2002. It’s about a girl; a very specific girl, in fact. I wrote this in part to get her out of my system. It didn’t work completely – nothing short of a full frontal lobotomy would, I suspect – but it did its part.
It doesn’t have an ending. Many things don’t, so I’m not terribly worried right now. Consider it a snapshot of an odd, impressionable and thoroughly angst-ridden time. (I don’t like the name I gave her; in hindsight, it’s an unfortunate attachment I’m surprised I didn’t think of at the time.)
Also, go and watch The Philadelphia Story, if you haven’t already.
It’s the sort of thing you realize very quickly when watching The Philadelphia Story. Katharine Hepburn is too beautiful, intelligent and strong-willed to ever condemn herself to a life with a man possessing all the charisma and charm of a household plant. Maybe there’s a question of whether she belongs with Jimmy Stewart or Carey Grant, but you know it’s not going to be Kittridge.
I don’t even know the name of the actor who played George Kittridge. How significant could he possibly be?
The general principle in movies featuring a love triangle is that you need at least three characters: The beautiful heroin, beautiful and as perfect as a human being can possibly be, but still capable of making a tremendous mistake; the hero, a charming, intelligent, probably good-looking fellow who’s probably from a lower class, a classic underdog; and a character of Kittridge-osity, a stuffed shirt from upper society, frequently with a bad moustache.
There are exceptions, of course. Casablanca pits cunning and subtle Humphrey Bogart against virtuous and patriotic Victor Lazlo. Of course Ilsa has to go with Victor; she’s a part of his work, the thing that keeps him going. If she stayed in Casablanca with Rick…
Well, you know. The fact that I know Humphrey Bogart played Rick while I draw a blank as to the true identity of Victor Lazlo may tell you who I’m siding with, but that’s not important right now. We respect and admire Victor Lazlo, but we’re still meant to identify with Rick. Illsa doesn’t go with Victor because she loves him more; she goes with him because Rick knows it’s the right thing to do.
It reassures the audience. George Kittridge provides the possibility of something other than a happy ending, but as possibilities go it’s right up there with Ringo Starr being referred to as “the brains behind the Beatles.”
I may not have a Katharine Hepburn or Ingrid Bergman, but I had my Lisa Rowe. Lisa was not from the upper crust of society, nor was she a cold intellectual or embittered spinster.
Lisa may not have been Katharine Hepburn, but I couldn’t have asked for more. When I met her, I thought she was one of the most beautiful woman I’d ever met. A week later “thought” changed to “knew” and “one of” became obsolete. She had smouldering red hair that didn’t quite touch her shoulders. It occasionally drifted in front of her eyes, hypnotic green orbs that had a gleam typically reserved for stones embedded in bands of gold and silver.
One of the true tests of beauty, I think, is whether you notice things that you normally wouldn’t. I don’t know much about lips in general, and can quite honestly say that they are rarely of any significance to me. But Lisa’s lips, whether on their own or by extension of her, were perhaps the most phenomenal lips I had ever seen.
They were pronounced enough to be noticeable, but not nearly so much as to make you wonder if she had some sort of problem with her gums. They curled when she smiled, connecting ethereally to the minute dimples in her cheeks.
To see Lisa smile was like watching the sun rise. To see her smile at you was like watching the sun rise, but knowing that there wasn’t a single other person on the face of the Earth watching it with you.
Lisa was the kind of person around whom entire social circles orbited. To watch her in the middle of a social function was to behold a true artist in top form. Shortly after a get-together metamorphoses into a party, groups of people begin to splinter off from the main as they realize they have little in common with each other beyond a casual connection with the host.
Around the TV with muted volume sat three guys discussing James Cameron’s transition from Action God to Titanic Twit; in the corner, on the couch, five girls wearing enough makeup for ten told tales from Cosmo. Yet another group, this one of mixed gender, talked generally of music and waxed nostalgically about Degrassi High.
Other groups faded in and out, changing form as people arrived, left and changed crowds. The constant, though, was Lisa, flitting to and fro amongst all the collectives, never spending too much time with one before moving on to grace the next with her presence. It was a masterfully choreographed act, like watching a grandmaster play five games of chess at once, never losing so much as a pawn unless she wanted to.
I don’t suppose I was alone in my admiration of her. The vivacity of any given group was almost guaranteed to increase as Lisa passed through, as though the throngs of conversation were only a facade masking the only true desire anyone could possibly hold: To speak with, to play with, to be with Lisa Rowe.
Even amongst groups of people who had nothing in common with each other, I realized I had nothing in common with any of them. There were a few classmates who fell just short of friend status, and a few new and interesting people whom I was unlikely to ever see or consider again, but I held no real social obligations in this gathering.
Coincidence and conversational drift lead me to the stairway, where myself and four others — three male, one female — were discussing and reciting our favorite episodes of The Simpsons.
Kate Higginsole, who I had met several times but never spoken to at any great length, espoused Lisa Simpson as the greatest feminist character in late-twentieth-century fiction.
Todd Allenson, who I knew from being generally around though would be hard pressed to reveal any specifics about his life, was quite fond of my impression of Mr. Burns and Smithers watching Homer’s BBQ pig fly by the office window. We both agreed that the series had peaked with the pig.
The other two guys I had never seen before in my life, and likely never would again. I think one of them was named Steve; I hoped I would never see him again, as it would just entail awkwardness when he called out my name and I couldn’t reply with anything more substantive than “hey, it’s… you.”
The remaining member of our party had not been introduced at any time, and seemed quite happy that way. He didn’t contribute much to our conversation, offering little more than the occasional laugh or innocuous comment to the effect of “yeah, I know.”
They were, in short, nice, friendly and occasionally witty people. I was having a good time.
And if I was having a perfectly nice time discussing pop culture trivia with a bunch of strangers, I don’t think I have quite the words to describe how I felt discussing pop culture trivia with a bunch of strangers when Lisa sat down between Todd and myself and joined in.
Hours passed, the crowd dwindled, and the music turned down. Only a handful of people remained, though still factionalized out of habit. Todd and myself were the last members of The Simpsons party, our original subject long since exhausted.
“Okay guys, I’m kicking you out now,” Lisa told us. “Beauty sleep and all.”
I looked at the clock, now saying 2am, and agreed with her sentiment.
You know exactly what’s coming next, don’t you.
She kissed him.
This perfectly nice guy with whom I was comfortably
bonding on harmless but important subjects, with whom I had shared numerous beers and several memories which ranked in importance somewhere in between “meaningful” and “anecdotal,” was kissing Lisa Rowe.
For the most part, it feels just like the last day of Liberal Canada. Except I’m very tired due to staying up until 1am listening to election results.
Things shall be interesting for a couple months: The Liberals have no leader, so aren’t likely to force an election before they get their house in order. On the other hand, there’s no way they and the NDP will let the Tories pass any crazy right-wing bill banning abortion or same-sex marriage. So the Tories have to play like nice moderates and hope they look good enough to win a majority, or at least a stronger minority, next time.
Still. They’re all fuckwits, you know.
Today, being January the 13th, it is 9 degrees celsius in Toronto.
For those of you unfamiliar with our climate, that is pretty bizarre. January in Toronto should be full of snow and somewhere between -10 and -30. It is a time of year in which only the bravest venture outside, and even then clad head-to-toe in polar bear fur coats. (except those of us who are vegetarians, or otherwise too squeamish to kill and skin a large bear)
Instead, today is the third day on which I have ridden my bike to work. Such rides have involved taking off my gloves and unzipping my coat before reaching the destination.
As much as I like riding my bike, and as much as I hate snow and cold, this is slightly vexing.
On a vaguely related note, I’ve decided to waste my vote on the Green Party in the upcoming federal election. I say “waste” facetiously – the only true waste of a vote is to not vote at all. I can accept that the Greens probably won’t win anything. Maybe, if they’re really lucky, they can snag a seat in BC.
But my options are limited. I like the NDP, and I’m a fan of Jack Layton, but I can’t stand a campaign based around all the things the Liberals have done wrong. I know the Liberals suck – we’ve witnessed their incompetence, indecision and corruption for more than a decade. I don’t want “Not The Liberals” in power. I want a party that will define itself by its actions, not by what the other guy did.
And I’ve always had a soft spot for the Greens, voting for them in several past elections. Al Hart seems a qualified candidate – better than the Liberals, certainly, and perhaps more appealing than Layton, who seems to have lost the charisma he had while on City Council and who doesn’t seem particularly interested in campaigning in his own riding.
So while there’s a week or so left to go, I think my vote will be for the Greens. They deserve it.
So it’s January.
And it’s Tuesday, which means I’m back at work.
Which means that my brain is not functioning. My head may actually fall off soon.
But more and better posts will be forthcoming.
We thank you for your cooperation.
This is Wesley. 
I adopted him from the Toronto Humane Society about two weeks ago. He’s about three years old, and was apparently in pretty rough shape when he was brought to the shelter. The staff said he had bad eyesight and weak hind legs. You can’t tell from the pictures, but he’s missing part of his left ear, presumably from a fight of some sort. But after some care and a month at a foster home, he was fit for adoption. His cage was right at the front, and when I walked in he stood up to say hello. 
While I thought he might run and hide as soon as I took him home, he very casually got out of the box and wandered around my apartment a few times. His eyesight seems quite fine – he has no problems tracking down the toy mouse on a string I got him – and his right hind leg only seems a bit wonky occasionally. 
He’s incredibly friendly, and tends to follow me around the apartment. He’ll lay on the floor behind me when I’m at the computer, so I have to be careful not to roll around too much. He likes to be fed promptly in the morning, but thus far has not tried too hard to wake me up.
He’s a very good cat.
Courtesy of Warren Ellis: Every year a small town in Sweden erects 13-metre high wooden goat, and almost every year someone burns it down.
Goat Highlights:
1966: The first goat is burned down – beginning the tradition
1970: It is set on fire six hours after being erected
1971: Tired of arson, the project is abandoned. Schoolchildren build a miniature. It is smashed to pieces.
1976: A car crashes into the goat
1979: The goat is burned down before it is finished
1987: The goat is treated with fire-proofing – but still goes up in smoke
You have to love the Swedes: Grand design, quirky humour, indomitable persistence.
Hey, look: A year-by-year synopsis of the goat! They’re even crazier than I’d previously thought:
In 1989 the goat burned down before it was even built. A public collection was taken up and a new goat was built, which burned down in January.
While I work on a few reviews of stuff (Local! Seven Soldiers! Y!), some thoughts on the Publishers Weekly list of best comics of 2005:
Epileptic: I’d like to read this. I probably will some day. I’m just not in much of a rush.
Ex-Machina: The First Hundred Days: I read this in monthly format, so don’t need the collection. The first issue was absolutely fantastic, but the next four were cliched and predictable.
The Rabbi’s Cat: Again, something I’d like to read but isn’t at the top of my list. Higher priority than Epileptic, though.
Scott Pilgrim vs. The World: One of my favourites. Not as good as the first volume, but still a great mix of pop culture references and genuine character moments.
Ghost in the Shell 2: Man-Machine Interface: Saw the first movie. Never read either manga. Probably will, some day.
WE3: Yep, it’s just that good. Surprisingly straightforward story from Morrison, beautifully emotional writing, and mind-blowing art from Frank Quitely.
Black Hole: I’ve ordered this from Amazon. I’ll have thoughts in a few weeks.
King: Doesn’t really grab me. I’m not sure why.
MBQ vol. 1 and The Genshiken vol. 1: Okay, I’m still working on reading more manga. I’ll probably check these two out at some point.
Gemma Bovery: This looks good. I’ll have to read it.
Why Are You Doing This: Again, something I want to pick up.
Yotsuba&!: I’ve heard many recommendations for this from people with good taste, so this is a reasonably imminent purchase.
Walt and Skeezix : Book One: No interest at all.
Salamander Dream: I read most of this when Hope Larson was serializing it online. Beautiful art, simple story.
Tricked: Big book. Will read some day.
Night Fisher: Interesting.
Dramacon: Meh.
Astonishing X-Men Volume 1: Gifted: As much as I love Whedon, this reads like another riff on classic Claremont stories. I gave up after three issues. Cassaday’s fantastic, but I’d rather see him on Planetary or I am Legion.
Street Angel: Another favourite. It’s goofy and absurd, but perfectly executed. I seem to be the only person who preferred the fourth issue, but that’s okay.
It seems I have a lot of books to read. Bah. Anyone who wants to send me books or money is welcome to do so.