I suppose it would be a bit naive of me to think that I can have an objective opinion of Craig Thompson’s illustrated novel (his rather concise term) Blankets. Even though I knew nothing about the novel when I hefted it from the library shelf and added it to my pile, it ended up being one of the most surprisingly accessible books I’ve picked up in a very long time.
Thompson, born one year before me, is a contemporary not only in age and pop culture references (his affinity for the grunge music scene is particularly well defined through mostly wordless background references that might slip past you if you’re not paying attention), but also in religious experiences. His autobiographical protagonist goes through many of the same ordeals that I went through as a student at a Christian high school. His questions, fears, conundrums, and ultimately, his deliverance from these spiritual quandaries are more often than not identical to my own experiences.
And there I’ve gone and given away the ending. But only if you know me well…
Thompson’s journey through his religious and familial morasses is much darker, much more complex than mine ever was, which adds a newness to a slightly recognizable story and provides greater opportunity to develop a sense of empathy for our hero. His experiences with the ostracizing impact of adolescence and fumbling attempts at first love ultimately make him more fallible and more endearing with each page. Also, Thompson’s artistic skills are enviable. Blankets is a perfect example of why the graphic medium is such a powerful contributor to the literary world. In fluid lines and simple shadowing, Thompson is able to convey the complexities of emotion and beauty that often defy description. His artwork is elegant, observational, reverent, and beguiling.
Final Verdict: Alas, I must return this copy to our library where, hopefully, many others will discover its subtle beauty and depth. I would love to have a copy of this book in my library. Dear Amazon.com Marketplace, make me an offer I can’t refuse…
You may have noticed a lot of love at the lair recently for Rankin/Bass. Well, kind of love. As much love as you can possibly find in something like my Donner Party movie poster. Then, of course, there was my recent door decoration post for a proposed new Rankin/Bass special, Walken in a Winter Wonderland.
It’s true, denizens, while I might have a strange way of showing it, I adore Rankin/Bass holiday specials. In fact, Christmas simply didn’t exist in my mind when I was little without four things: A Charlie Brown Christmas, How the Grinch Stole Christmas, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, and Frosty the Snowman. Two of those four were brought to my childhood by Rankin/Bass.
Frosty, unlike Rudolph, wasn’t a stop-motion animation. Instead, it’s a traditional animated cartoon. However, as was par for the course for a lot of Rankin/Bass specials, it did have a “very special” narrator. Rudolph had Burl Ives. Frosty had Jimmy Durante. I had actually forgotten this fact until tonight; it’s been years since I saw this cartoon. Too many years. Guess that’s why I just felt the need to order it on DVD, along with Rudolph and the Grinch. I need a little Christmas, denizens. And so do you. So enjoy Jimmy Durante and his animated nose, singing the eponymous song to Frosty the Snowman. Thumpety-thump-thump, thumpety-thump-thump, look at that Frosty go…
I love the Muppets. A lot. I’ve already talked about how Jim Henson is one of the greatest influences from my childhood. Seriously, the two things that continue to make me proud to be an alumna of the University of Maryland at College Park are: my three aunts graduated from there; and Jim Henson graduated from there.
I still haven’t made it to see the new Muppets movie. I’m actually quite irritated with myself over this fact. I haven’t wanted to go see a movie in a very long time, but frog dammit, I want to see this one. Time to finally finish off that Fandango card!
In the interim, however, I’ve been watching some of the YouTube videos put out by Muppet Studios. Two have quickly become my favorites. Two of my favorite recurring characters are Beaker and the Swedish Chef. Poor Beaker, always getting the fuzzy end of the lollipop stick, no matter what. All the horrible things that Bunsen Honeydew did to him, yet he continued to rise like some kind of orange-tufted, felty Messiah (ooh, have I offended the fundamentalists? Good). Even when he’s on his own, as in this video, he still somehow attracts an incomparable level of disaster that is equal parts traumatic and hilarious. Okay, that’s a lie. They’re just hilarious…
And then there’s the Swedish Chef. I can only imagine that he must be offensive on some level to true Swedes. Right? I mean, come on, such a blatant mockery of their native language must ruffle their feathers at least a little. Yet there’s something so delightfully underdoggish about the Swedish Chef. He’s utterly incompetent and frighteningly inept at his profession. But he means well in his attempts. And he botches his dishes in such hysterically horrifying ways…such as this attempt to make Pöpcørn Shrimp. I can’t stop watching this video. Also, please, please, please make sure that you have the closed captions activated while you watch this. Trust me. You will appreciate it that much more…
I like how my favorite characters are two of the Muppets that have regular Muppety heads but have “real” hands (the Swedish Chef always had human hands; in fact, they originally were Jim Henson’s hands and Henson’s voice…Beaker has human hands as well, but they’re covered with felt). Also, neither one speaks a true language. The Swedish Chef is somewhat understandable at times; Beaker though…I have no freakin’ clue there, denizens. Just makes him that much more entertaining. Although, really, maybe Beaker isn’t even a “he.” How the hell can you tell? Maybe it’s a girl. I don’t know. Do you?
While you marinate on that question, here’s one final video, of both Beaker and the Swedish Chef together, bringing their…unique dialects together for this musical interlude. Watch for a guest appearance from one of my other favorite Muppets along the way…
This was a last-minute impulse grab from the graphic novel section as I was trying to leave the library during my last visit. I’d already pulled a stack of books from this section (most of which I’ve already finished and written up here), but there was something so very…forsaken about this novel. It sat, separate from the other novels, missing its dust jacket, its hardback cover showing its title and author only on the spine. I don’t know why, but I have a bit of a soft spot for hardback books that have lost their jackets.
And thus I ended up adding Jessica Abel’s La Perdida to my stack of selections. Translated as “The Lost,” La Perdida leads us through a year-long look at life in Mexico City, as experienced by the novel’s protagonist, Carla Olivares. Born to an American mother and Mexican father, Carla spends most of her early life trying to distance herself from the Mexican half of her heritage. However, as she grows more disillusioned with her urbanal existence as a 20-something Chicagoan, she decides to leave everything behind to drop in on her ex-boyfriend Harry, a rather stereotypical “wealthy WASP” who has chosen to live in Mexico City because his literary hero, William S. Burroughs, lived there for a brief time (he fled to Mexico City to escape possible jail time in Louisiana only to end up in a Mexican jail after killing his wife during a drunken game of William Tell.)
Harry soon tires of Carla’s presence and kicks her out. However, rather than return home, Carla chooses to remain in the country illegally, an expatriate desperate to not only experience “true Mexico” but to be accepted by a collection of locals with whom she has become friends since her arrival. These include Oscar, a winsome if somewhat witless drug dealer who dreams of one day touring the United States as a renowned DJ and with whom she falls into a rather indeterminate relationship; and Memo, a false prophet of ¡La Revolución! who hides his more unscrupulous activities behind a constant barrage of criticism and condemnation he lays upon Carla for her comfortable capitalistic American upbringing.
I won’t go into the events that transpire once Carla finds herself totally immersed in local life. I wish I could say it’s because it’s a fascinating story. It is somewhat intriguing, if not utterly predictable. Also, I can’t help but feel as though this tale is ultimately a negative stereotype, both of Americans and of Mexicans. If this story is to be believed as embedded in truth, we’re all reprehensibly spoiled and consequently naive in regard to the harshness of life outside of our insular capitalist existence (okay, one or both of those statements are admittedly true in more instances than they should be). And all Mexicans are manipulative, shiftless, and criminally inspired.
There are positive aspects to the novel. Abel, who lived in Mexico City for 2 years, captures the straightforward, simple beauty of the city and her characters through art that is equal parts restrained and elegant. Her black and white linework vacillates between comic caricatures and renderings of surprising realism. Also, the insider view of life in Mexico that does not directly relate to the main story is fascinating. Even though I understand that the ultimate point of La Perdida was to tell the story of Carla’s unfortunate adventure during her year abroad, I wished that the book had been more of an illustrated travel log of a less-titillating variety. More focus on the experience of adjusting to total immersion in a foreign culture and less focus on “Hey, how can we make everyone look awful by the end of this story?”
Final Verdict: This was an uneven yet somewhat intriguing graphic novel (as well as one of the wordiest illustrated stories I think I’ve ever read), and many of Abel’s illustrations are quite captivating. I don’t foresee adding it to my graphic novel collection, but I’m glad that I grabbed it from the shelf as I was leaving. It gave me a mildly informative glimpse of life as a temporary expat. It also taught me the phrase “Chinga tu madre.” That’s bound to come in use at some point…
Change of plans today, denizens. As we move ever closer into the holiday season, I thought I would take a moment to praise some of the old and new organizations to which I have either religiously made donations or to which I plan to donate.
I know that this is not a kind economy right now, and that things like charity donations typically fall off everyone’s radars during these lean times. However, if you can spare a few dollars and would like to put them to maximum use, here are four suggestions that receive the Loba Pawprint of Approval:
Defenders of Wildlife: In an utterly unsurprising announcement, I am a staunch animal lover and armchair environmentalist. I’ve been donating to Defenders of Wildlife since I was in college, and I continue to believe in and respect their efforts. They are consistently ranked by Worth magazine as one of the best charities in the United States, with the largest portion of received donations being put toward their protective efforts, rather than in covering administrative costs or purchasing poorly made give-aways to clog up your mailbox (like certain other charities to which I will never donate again). Defenders not only has never overwhelmed me with give-aways, they also ask me if I would rather opt out of the give-away when I do donate. I really like that. They also know me well enough that they always send me wolf-specific information when it’s time to remind me to renew my membership. They’ve been fighting to protect wildlife since 1947, which makes me think they must know a little bit about what they’re doing.
Pat Summitt Foundation: It is wrong to anthropomorphize a disease, but if you did, then Alzheimer’s would be a brutal, harsh betrayer…a Judas with a kiss that is lingering, debilitating, unstoppable, and cruel. There is nothing poetic in its deconstruction of mind and spirit, and it leaves bystanders with nothing to do but sit by helplessly and watch as the person they love is stolen from them piece at a time until there is nothing left. It needs to be stopped, and if there is anyone with the fortitude to help bring the beginning of the end to this disease, it’s Pat Summitt. I’ve already spoken my part on how I feel about Coach Summitt. If anything, I respect her even more than before, and I am so in awe of how she has yet again stepped up to the challenge placed before her with 100-percent focus and dedication. I wish I could say that I believe she can outpace this disease and add it as another win for her record books. I do believe that she will dedicate herself wholly to her offensive stance against it, and through giving her name and support to research against the disease, I believe that she will have a huge impact in bringing the support and funding needed to move that much closer to the cure.
Penny Lane: This is another new addition to my list, brought to my attention by someone else I respect and admire…and ironically, another Pat. This time, it’s that zombie-bashing, phaser-firing, mind-reading stunt actress extraordinaire, Patricia Tallman. I learned about this foundation by reading Tallman’s recent memoir, Pleasure Thresholds and decided that it needed further investigation. The foundation’s California-based centers provide therapeutic residential services, foster family placements, transitional housing, and outpatient mental health services to more than 1,400 abused and neglected children and youth. Tallman has been a long-time advocate of Penny Lane’s efforts, even starting her own “Be A Santa” program in 1998. Hint, hint…it’s the perfect time of year to help with the Be A Santa program.
RAINN: This is the other organization to which I have donated since college. I first learned about them through their founder, Tori Amos. She started RAINN as a way to respond to the many fans who reached out to her with their own stories when she stepped forward as the survivor of sexual assault. This is another close to the top of the list of Worth magazine’s highest-ranking U.S. charities, with 92 percent of every dollar donated going to helping victims of sexual violence, educating the public, and improving public policy. It’s also another charity that doesn’t overwhelm you with give-aways or pester you with repeated mailings. I receive regular e-mails, but the only time I ever receive postal mail from them is when I haven’t made a donation in a while. Additionally, as far as I can tell, they have never sold my contact information to any other organizations or affiliates. I really respect them for that.
There you go. If you can give something, please do. If not, that’s okay, too. And if you want additional recommendations, just look to the right of the screen, under the heading “Give It Up, For Good.”
Not a lot of time for my typical prolixity, but I wanted to celebrate the auspicious occasion of yet another Über Geek Holiday Door.
You may recall that last year’s door was decidedly dorky (in a delicious way). This year’s theme was “Winter Wonderland.” The decree was issued not long before I was introduced to the wonderful meme “Walken in a Winter Wonderland,” one of the most wonderful memes I’ve seen in a very long time.
Obviously, I knew what I needed to do…
It’s not quite what I originally envisioned, but I not only ran out of time but also inspiration. I wanted to create a giant poster to advertise this as a new Rankin/Bass cartoon. That’s kind of what it is now…in a somewhat in-the-rough way.
I did, however, see fit to give myself my own award (since I failed to meet the deadline for door judging):
Here are better views of the primary characters. Jack Frost was going to be the focus of the cartoon (since he is the one with the fever, after all) so I made his the largest picture:
I think it’s funny how Christopher Walken as Hermey the Dentist Elf from Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer looks a little bit like Steve Buscemi:
And Christopher Walken as the Heat Miser from The Year Without Santa Claus looks kind of like U.S. Senator John Kerry:
Maybe that’s just my interpretation though.
Anyway, this is what’s going to be on my door for the rest of December. I hope someone out there enjoys it. Or at least gets it. And if you’d like to see some of the clips that inspired my Walken insanity, including his role as “The Continental,” one of my favorite of his SNL characters and the screen cap I used for Jack Frost’s face, here you go. Merry whatever, denizens.
It takes years to shape a Bösendorfer piano. The wood, carefully selected among the forest of possibilities owned and maintained by the Bösendorfer company, is weather-aged for four years or more. Each shell is then hand-carved, hand-curved, workers molding the forms with the stroke and care of a devoted lover. They believe that they transfer some essence of themselves into these instruments through their touch, that their emotional bearing as they work can affect the timbre and character of the final product. This is not a pedestrian piano. This is the culmination of nearly 200 years of devotion to craft and care—the exquisite, dark richness of sound released from within incomparable to any other.
All of this and more will one day be written upon a placard and placed within the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame …perhaps even installed right next to one of these magnificent creatures whose music once held audiences under the enchantments of its melodic mistress.
Many things can (and have been) said about Tori Amos, but above all else, one truth is clear: She is uniquely focused—in her effort, in her skill, in her creativity. The world as filtered through her mind and released through lyrics that often defy comprehension is equally magical and malevolent. She is a pragmatist and a dreamer, her hands possessed by a musical sorcery when they come in contact with the keys of her mighty Bösendorfer beauties. There are few pianists who can rival Amos’s preternatural aptitude. Hyperbole be damned—to watch her play is to watch divinity set free.
Not everything that Amos has done throughout her career has resonated with me on a positive level. However, I will never deny my admiration of the desire that presses her onward in her exploration of sound and meaning, even when it falls short of my own personal boundaries of enjoyment. She stands unafraid of pulling forward whatever lives within her, examining it and presenting with an unparalleled candor. She is also unafraid of expanding beyond the rote safety of one specific genre, as so many musicians of her longevity are. Those musicians often stagnate within the confines of sound and style that no longer suit them, too afraid at this point in their careers to embrace the duality of salvation or failure that change could bring.
Fortunately, Amos has practically made a career of embracing change. And so it goes with her latest release, Night of Hunters. Her first offering on new label Deutsche Grammophon, this release marks Amos’s entry into yet another previously unexplored genre, the reinterpretation of classical music concepts through her distinctively contemporary lens. I was admittedly wary when I first heard about this release and have yet to purchase it. I’m not entirely certain what I find so off-putting about this concept. I’m still wrestling with that.
I can say, with all certainty, that last night has convinced me that Amos needs to continue with this particular collaborative exploration. She returned home to us last night, playing Constitution Hall in downtown D.C. This was my ninth time seeing her in concert—and it might qualify as one of my favorite performances. Amos is bliss by herself, but when joined by the skilled efforts of a string quartet, she transcended expectation in extraordinary ways.
It wasn’t her new music that reached me. In fact, the new songs that appeared at the beginning of last night’s playlist left me feeling a bit apprehensive regarding how enjoyable the rest of the concert would be. Also, the sound technicians overcompensated in their attempts to raise her voice above its accompanying instruments, which left the quality distorted and painfully sibilant. Once the technical glitches were sorted and she began to move more deeply into the bramble of her musical oeuvre, that was when the hunter captured me.
Amos has always had an uncanny ability to reinterpret her own music when playing to a live audience. It’s one of the reasons I love going to see her whenever she comes to town. Last night, with the added layering of violins and cello, she took familiar standards to levels of surprising complexity and reinvention. The standouts of the evening were a musical mash-up of her song “God” with Mike Oldfield’s “Tubular Bells” and Kate Bush’s “Running Up That Hill”; “Winter,” which has always been one of my favorite Amos songs and took pride of place as my favorite song from last night’s performance; and “Cruel,” in which her accompanying string quartet embraced Amos’s approach to the untethered exploration of their musical instruments.
For the moment, there are clips on YouTube of each of these songs. The version of “Winter” that I found wasn’t quite as expansive as the version last night; I do believe the artists are growing more comfortable with their freestyle expressionism with each playing. The version of “Cruel” that I found, however, is quite close to what we heard last night. I only wish you could see more of the quartet. I encourage you to enjoy them while they remain online, denizens:
I would love to see what we witnessed at last night’s concert turned into to a revisiting of her earlier music in this fashion, for studio release. I doubt that will happen, but one never can tell when it comes to Amos.
Life courses over us in a constant current, flowing through our fingers with frustrating swiftness and leaving behind only the watermarks of memories.
Some marks are transient, remnants left behind by the surges of a swiftly moving stream that dissipate like mist into the ephemera. Still other are ingrained into us—deep grooves carved out from years of exposure to the same slow and steady source, forming us into whatever shapes we are destined to take on throughout our lives. These are the marks that define us. These are the marks that time’s continuing flow might fade but will never completely erase.
There are 60 years of reasons behind why today has left a permanent mark upon me.
Oh, yes, denizens, we need a little Christmas. Right this very minute.
But, please, none of that overly sentimental holiday schmaltz cheer. I’d much prefer something a little less…traditional. After all, it’s a well established fact that we do enjoy indulging our more Twisted holiday side here at the lair.
It’s no wonder, then, that I would love Weird Al Yankovic’s holiday serenade to that jolly old elf himself, Santa Claus. Released as the final track of Yankovic’s 1996 album Bad Hair Day, “The Night Santa Went Crazy” will never be accused of being a sentimental standard. Instead, one might view it as a cautionary tale: You can’t expect one man to serve the world’s greedy little desires in one night, year after year, without the pressure finally taking its toll.
Either that or Weird Al Yankovic is a horribly demented man.
However you wish to view it, this song remains a favorite of mine, even more than a decade after its release. I’ve never purchased any of Yankovic’s albums (I think many of his songs are funny and very witty, but his voice often has a strident quality that I find a bit disagreeable to my ears), but this is one of a handful of his songs for which I have made an exception.
There are at least three different versions of “The Night Santa Went Crazy.” There’s the original from 1996, in which Santa is arrested and placed in a federal prison for his rampage. Later, Yankovic would pen a second version in which Santa is killed by a SWAT team and the elves file for unemployment rather than get jobs with the postal service as they do in the original. The third version is a combination of the first two in which Santa still dies but the elves do go postal.
Heh.
I’ve linked to a fan-made animated video that uses the original version of the song. As much as I enjoy the more warped side of life, the “Santa death” version is a little more warped than I prefer at this time of the year. Besides, the animated video has a guest cameo toward the end that made me laugh when I saw them. Watch closely, denizens. The truth is out there…
I feel as though I am already turning against a newly acquired friend before our relationship has even had a chance to take root.
Oh well.
I very much wanted to like Miss Lasko-Gross’s graphic novel Escape from “Special.” I was instantly convinced to check it out from the library after reading the following line from the description:
Subjected to the whims of her bemused parents and, as the years pass, rejected by her peers, the opinionated Melissa copes by watching horror movies, psychosomatically vomiting to get out of temple, and making comics.
This is a girl to whom I can relate (minus the psychosomatic vomitting part…that’s kind of…no). Lasko-Gross offers readers a semi-autobiographical telling of protagonist Melissa’s development from off-center child to ostracized-and-unconcerned-about-it adolescent. She presents Melissa’s story through surrealistically drawn vignettes that lack any form of “prettification.” The artwork is rough and the writing is coarse. Then again, so is the subject matter. I’ve said it before, but it bears repeating: There isn’t enough money in the world to convince me to relive my adolescence. It was awkward and uncomfortable and strange and, while I wouldn’t change any of it since it turned me into the Wonder Geek I am today, I definitely wouldn’t want to go through it again.
That’s kind of what it felt like at times when reading this graphic novel, which left me feeling decidedly displeased. At other times, it felt like I was witnessing something completely removed from anything my brain could properly process. Melissa’s attempt to create a protective second skin out of her own snot is one of the more outlandish moments. It was also one of the moments that left me rolling my eyes in such a cartoonish way that I’m sure they made clickety noises that others could hear.
The bottom line is that I think I’m well beyond the target age for this particular graphic novel. I think it’s something that someone closer to the age of the protagonist could better relate to; I’m old and clickety in places other than my rolling eyes. Would I recommend this as reading for a high schooler? I think it definitely has redeeming qualities for someone in that age bracket who was feeling marginalized by their peers and looking for someone to whom they could relate. So, yes. Yes, I would.
Would I recommend it for someone beyond the high school wasteland? Probably not. As I mentioned in my last review, there is definitely not a dearth of graphic novel memoirs out there to be enjoyed, so spending time on one like this when there are several other better ones to experience? No, I’d not choose this one over those others. Right off the top of my head, I’d name Alison Bechdel’s Fun House as a holistically superior coming-of-age tale.
Final Verdict: Add another graphic novel to the return pile.
