Your anger (and by extension your energy) is a limited resource. Outrage is an easy way to collect people’s attention. Today’s example: The blowback about a black Ariel on Twitter? Probably a bot. The anger about a black Ariel on Twitter? Real. But what could those people on Twitter do with their energy that wasn’t diverted by one bot? The easy answer is “their jobs”, the actual answer is have more time for the people they care about, or for the issues they care about.
Social media (Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter too) removed chronological timelines a while back. What you see now is what algorithms designed by humans think you’ll respond to, which is stuff that’s already been engaged with a lot. Sometimes, that’s good. Person A is pregnant, Person B got a new job, that’s neat. Often, it isn’t. It’s “can you believe this shit”?
In fairness, there’s plenty of shit to go around. The Trump administration keeps a steady stream of it coming. I think the headliner there is putting asylum-seekers and refugees to this country in cages in deplorable conditions. It was a bad idea when we put Japanese people in cages during WWII, and it’s a bad idea now.
The question becomes can the person do anything with the anger they feel, not “are you angry”? Being angry constantly eats away at you, and I submit the history of my social life at Allegheny to prove it. There’s something more I’ll call insidious: Outrage feels good.
Like drugs, it’s a pleasurable feeling as it burns you out. Outrage was my drug of choice, and in retrospect, I used heavily. Now I see it happening to other people, and I want to tell them they can stop.
I hate that I need to double underline this point: You should care. Evil exists, and driving you towards apathy isn’t my goal. But set some boundaries for yourself. Make a list of things to do, whatever that means. If it’s calling up your congressperson, do it. If it’s go protest, do it. If it’s listen to survivors, do it. But please, I beg you, set some boundaries. Social media will erode your boundaries, and make your life more difficult if you let it.
Algorithms mean I might disappear, which I'm trying to learn to be okay with. Being engaged with is a great feeling, and I'm guilty of trying to game it myself.
A friend about how disappointed he was that one of his high school friends unfriended him on Facebook because of his political content:
"If you tire of me posting images of dead refugees - including children -
I dare you to ask yourself why. If you would rather just focus on nice
things, please consider how lucky you are to be able to do so. I loved
seeing good friends and eating food today, but am still troubled that I
went to an America party when today’s America is so difficult to
celebrate."
I know exactly how both parties felt. Years ago, I stood in Ronen's shoes. It is difficult to celebrate America knowing the terrible things that go on in our name, and that's what's on my mind at the moment I hit post. Today? I understand that unfriending man more than I care to admit. Sometimes, I need a break.
Sunday, July 7, 2019
Monday, October 22, 2018
Mojave to Virgina
Hello again. I’m popping my head out from underground. This doesn’t feel like a Matador piece, though it would certainly get more traction there. This feels like a James has some shit to say about people who should know better piece, so it goes here.
Life’s a mystery. I’m trying to be someone else, and that’s a difficult process. My inability to write about politics without becoming superheated wears on me.
I especially enjoyed Ms. Dahvana Headley’s Beowulf retelling called The Mere Wife. It’s probably my favorite read this year, but I’d have to check to be certain. The Criminal team released a standalone book in the series called My Heroes Have Always Been Junkies, and the end result is exactly as heartbreaking and ruthless as I expect from Criminal.
That Lawrence Arms greatest hits compilation bangs and wallops me with memories. My friends in Drug Church will release their new record Cheer next month, and I think it's great. I'm biased in vocalist Kindlon's favor, but you knew that already.
I returned to my Fallout: New Vegas hole this year, and it means that I pay more attention to what critics say about the series. In this case, two of them (one from Kotaku, one from Waypoint) got on a high horse about Fallout's use of nukes. I went, wait, I played at least one game and I know how to read media, and had a different opinion.
Mx. Alexandra’s argument that Fallout 76’s use of nukes as griefing mechanic represents a shift away from Fallout’s values with regards to nuclear weapons does not convince me.
1. New Vegas allowed the player to buy nuclear weapons from a former soldier.
2. New Vegas also includes a challenge to nuke 20 animals.
3. If anything, by requiring multiple players to get different pieces of a nuclear launch code, 76 is more responsible with their use of nuclear weapons than New Vegas.
4. Hell, committing atrocities for minor gain is in line with Fallout’s aesthetic, gallows humor, and universe.
Professor Kunzelman’s belief that Fallout 76 is irresponsible in their portrayal of nuclear weapons appears to be disingenuous.
1. If 76 is singularly irresponsible in its portrayal of nuclear weapons, the result, an irradiated crater where powerful mutated enemies emerge and land or topography is destroyed according to the whims of chance and physics, it follows New Vegas’ post-game states: The Courier’s Mile, Dry Wells, and The Long 15, where players see first hand the apocalyptic wreckage of a nuclear blast zone.
2. Yes, the best loot is dropped there. That’s what gets the player in the door. The more a player looks around the levels in Courier’s Mile, Dry Wells and The Long 15, they see the skeletons of people destroyed by nukes and the devastation being so bad it even destroyed their victims’ shadows. Fallout shows the player what nukes do and how they effect the people they don’t manage to kill. Fallout 76 appears to continue this tradition.
3. In previous game-ified instances of nukes, in Starcraft there’s maybe a crater that sticks around on the land, but that’s it. As for Modern Warfare 2, it's a literal perk you can choose to increase your kill streak. It wipes people off the map and ends the round. In Fallout, you must walk into it. You must witness the devastation written onto the land and onto the mutated beings that somehow survived the blast. The after effects of the blast literally poison the player’s character. I'm not sure anyone can look at the bottom two pictures and get the impression that the designer is glorifying the top one.
Life’s a mystery. I’m trying to be someone else, and that’s a difficult process. My inability to write about politics without becoming superheated wears on me.
I especially enjoyed Ms. Dahvana Headley’s Beowulf retelling called The Mere Wife. It’s probably my favorite read this year, but I’d have to check to be certain. The Criminal team released a standalone book in the series called My Heroes Have Always Been Junkies, and the end result is exactly as heartbreaking and ruthless as I expect from Criminal.
That Lawrence Arms greatest hits compilation bangs and wallops me with memories. My friends in Drug Church will release their new record Cheer next month, and I think it's great. I'm biased in vocalist Kindlon's favor, but you knew that already.
I returned to my Fallout: New Vegas hole this year, and it means that I pay more attention to what critics say about the series. In this case, two of them (one from Kotaku, one from Waypoint) got on a high horse about Fallout's use of nukes. I went, wait, I played at least one game and I know how to read media, and had a different opinion.
Mx. Alexandra’s argument that Fallout 76’s use of nukes as griefing mechanic represents a shift away from Fallout’s values with regards to nuclear weapons does not convince me.
1. New Vegas allowed the player to buy nuclear weapons from a former soldier.
2. New Vegas also includes a challenge to nuke 20 animals.
3. If anything, by requiring multiple players to get different pieces of a nuclear launch code, 76 is more responsible with their use of nuclear weapons than New Vegas.
4. Hell, committing atrocities for minor gain is in line with Fallout’s aesthetic, gallows humor, and universe.
Professor Kunzelman’s belief that Fallout 76 is irresponsible in their portrayal of nuclear weapons appears to be disingenuous.
1. If 76 is singularly irresponsible in its portrayal of nuclear weapons, the result, an irradiated crater where powerful mutated enemies emerge and land or topography is destroyed according to the whims of chance and physics, it follows New Vegas’ post-game states: The Courier’s Mile, Dry Wells, and The Long 15, where players see first hand the apocalyptic wreckage of a nuclear blast zone.
2. Yes, the best loot is dropped there. That’s what gets the player in the door. The more a player looks around the levels in Courier’s Mile, Dry Wells and The Long 15, they see the skeletons of people destroyed by nukes and the devastation being so bad it even destroyed their victims’ shadows. Fallout shows the player what nukes do and how they effect the people they don’t manage to kill. Fallout 76 appears to continue this tradition.
3. In previous game-ified instances of nukes, in Starcraft there’s maybe a crater that sticks around on the land, but that’s it. As for Modern Warfare 2, it's a literal perk you can choose to increase your kill streak. It wipes people off the map and ends the round. In Fallout, you must walk into it. You must witness the devastation written onto the land and onto the mutated beings that somehow survived the blast. The after effects of the blast literally poison the player’s character. I'm not sure anyone can look at the bottom two pictures and get the impression that the designer is glorifying the top one.
Wednesday, September 6, 2017
Whatever Meager Amount of Hope and Mercy
The idea goes like this:
Life beat you. Whether it’s alcoholism, binge eating, not eating, whatever it is, you’re stuck with it. Depression won. And to protect yourself from depression, you bought THINGS.
Flash forward a few years, and many steps towards improving your mental health, and you’re better now. You look at those things, the detritus from the mean years and you throw them away, because those things are what keep you down.
See, it wasn’t alcoholism, or disordered eating that was the problem. It was those things you bought yourself to make something of the day or week. Those things, whether they’re periodical superhero comics (The Comics Reporter) or a video game collection (Ben Kuchera), they’re evidence of those bad months, years and maybe decades.
Bullshit.
Those things you bought? Those things kept you alive. Depression’s a real motherfucker, and while no superhero can save us, maybe Superman can put you in a place where you can save yourself (shout out to The Hold Steady.) You bought those things to give yourself whatever meager amount of hope and mercy that you think you deserve.
There’s no piece of media that’s gonna beat depression or get you a better job or a more serene life. But what it can do is inspire you to take those first steps. And those things you buy when you’re depressed that stack up your house? They’re reminders of the person you want to be. They’re aspirational.
When you don’t need those stacks, you can begin the process of shedding them, like a winter skin. But when you do need them? They remind that at one point you thought you could do it. And your brain may/will tell you they're a sad reminder of the person you can't be anymore, but don't listen. That's the depression talking.
You can get better. It won't be comfortable, easy, or quick, but you can. So long as you can face one small fear, give yourself some time to breathe, and face a marginally larger one. Repeat that process. Seek professional help. You can get better. You're not dead yet.
You knew I'd choose Frank for this one, right? Right. Come on now, let's fix this mess. We can get better because we're not dead yet.
Life beat you. Whether it’s alcoholism, binge eating, not eating, whatever it is, you’re stuck with it. Depression won. And to protect yourself from depression, you bought THINGS.
Flash forward a few years, and many steps towards improving your mental health, and you’re better now. You look at those things, the detritus from the mean years and you throw them away, because those things are what keep you down.
See, it wasn’t alcoholism, or disordered eating that was the problem. It was those things you bought yourself to make something of the day or week. Those things, whether they’re periodical superhero comics (The Comics Reporter) or a video game collection (Ben Kuchera), they’re evidence of those bad months, years and maybe decades.
Bullshit.
Those things you bought? Those things kept you alive. Depression’s a real motherfucker, and while no superhero can save us, maybe Superman can put you in a place where you can save yourself (shout out to The Hold Steady.) You bought those things to give yourself whatever meager amount of hope and mercy that you think you deserve.
There’s no piece of media that’s gonna beat depression or get you a better job or a more serene life. But what it can do is inspire you to take those first steps. And those things you buy when you’re depressed that stack up your house? They’re reminders of the person you want to be. They’re aspirational.
When you don’t need those stacks, you can begin the process of shedding them, like a winter skin. But when you do need them? They remind that at one point you thought you could do it. And your brain may/will tell you they're a sad reminder of the person you can't be anymore, but don't listen. That's the depression talking.
You can get better. It won't be comfortable, easy, or quick, but you can. So long as you can face one small fear, give yourself some time to breathe, and face a marginally larger one. Repeat that process. Seek professional help. You can get better. You're not dead yet.
You knew I'd choose Frank for this one, right? Right. Come on now, let's fix this mess. We can get better because we're not dead yet.
Saturday, April 22, 2017
The Complete Phonogram
Fuck what it means, that much is obvious. The Complete Phonogram as an expensive hardcover shows the team’s enjoyed tremendous success due in some measure to Phonogram. The Singles Club lead to collaborations with Warren Ellis and Journey Into Mystery, which lead to Young Avengers, which lead to The Wicked & The Divine, which became Wic/Div and the rest is a cottage industry of cosplay, fan art and merchandise (which figuratively, and literally, keeps fans in line).
How does The Complete Phonogram make me feel?
Wistful. Happy. Tired. I carried that giant hardcover around all day April 21st and it nearly wrecked my back on its own.
I carried that hardcover around figuratively much, much longer.
I read Phonogram obsessively in my raw, unemployed years and didn’t know I was burning when I was at rest. A hardcover that collects all of the comic and b-sides looks better on the shelf and is easier to reference. I won’t miss Kieron’s essays or annotations, and if I do, I’ve got the singles and trades.
A book this heavy feels like Phonogram’s finally finished now. It’d been overtaken by Wic/Div, and for good reason, the team’s busy growing into this generation’s Sandman. Now Phonogram can rest, and maybe I can too. I’m in counseling and untangling the rat’s nest of cables that’s my brain and behavior.
Phonogram’s a document of years spent listening to bands and letting it change or mutate or infect you. Or something else, in my case. Music held me together when I couldn’t manage that myself.
Do I ever wonder how music changed me? Years at a time, brother.
Phonogram’s done, and everyone’s in a better place. In 2011, I hopped a flight to London to see the boys at Kapow, and Kieron was signing alongside legendary penciller John Romita Jr, whose line (and forty years in the industry) subsumed Kieron’s. Six years later, that’s not the case, and there's a dense hardcover to prove it.
And for that dense hardcover, and what it finishes, a celebration and a task: I must happily wave goodbye to a comic that changed me.
It’s now the morning of April 22nd. There’s a secret Wic/Div party tonight, which Hannah and I’ll show up for. Maybe I’ll let her put makeup on me. Maybe I’ll go a little glam. I’ll say goodbye to Phonogram on the Wic/Div dance floor, which feels like it’s exactly the way PG would want to go. I’m closer to living a peaceful life now than I was when I first read Rue Britannia. That peace is due, in some measure, to Phonogram.
Thanks, gents.
How does The Complete Phonogram make me feel?
Wistful. Happy. Tired. I carried that giant hardcover around all day April 21st and it nearly wrecked my back on its own.
I carried that hardcover around figuratively much, much longer.
I read Phonogram obsessively in my raw, unemployed years and didn’t know I was burning when I was at rest. A hardcover that collects all of the comic and b-sides looks better on the shelf and is easier to reference. I won’t miss Kieron’s essays or annotations, and if I do, I’ve got the singles and trades.
A book this heavy feels like Phonogram’s finally finished now. It’d been overtaken by Wic/Div, and for good reason, the team’s busy growing into this generation’s Sandman. Now Phonogram can rest, and maybe I can too. I’m in counseling and untangling the rat’s nest of cables that’s my brain and behavior.
Phonogram’s a document of years spent listening to bands and letting it change or mutate or infect you. Or something else, in my case. Music held me together when I couldn’t manage that myself.
Do I ever wonder how music changed me? Years at a time, brother.
Phonogram’s done, and everyone’s in a better place. In 2011, I hopped a flight to London to see the boys at Kapow, and Kieron was signing alongside legendary penciller John Romita Jr, whose line (and forty years in the industry) subsumed Kieron’s. Six years later, that’s not the case, and there's a dense hardcover to prove it.
And for that dense hardcover, and what it finishes, a celebration and a task: I must happily wave goodbye to a comic that changed me.
It’s now the morning of April 22nd. There’s a secret Wic/Div party tonight, which Hannah and I’ll show up for. Maybe I’ll let her put makeup on me. Maybe I’ll go a little glam. I’ll say goodbye to Phonogram on the Wic/Div dance floor, which feels like it’s exactly the way PG would want to go. I’m closer to living a peaceful life now than I was when I first read Rue Britannia. That peace is due, in some measure, to Phonogram.
Thanks, gents.
Friday, March 3, 2017
Trap Them And Queer Them
Donald Trump won the election. Serious political commentators ignored the possibility or gave it no better than a 35% chance. Then President Trump won. It wasn’t quite Dewey Defeats Truman, but it did happen and it’s where the country is now.
Since then, news about grotesque abuses of power and appointments of actual Looney Tunes to federal office dominates the papers and television.
Election night, I expected to feel rueful and happy for my friends inspired by Secretary Of State Clinton’s campaign. I’d never seen so many of those friends excited on the morning of November 8th, and I figured Secretary Clinton’s victory was inevitable. So the next evening, I marched and chanted and went home. I held up a sign saying I was queer, bloody but unbowed. It did feel like that, I did feel like whatever we’re calling culture now landed one really good punch, but shit, I was still here, and it would require more than one really good punch to knock me down.
(Image above from Monkey Defies Gravity.) Trap Them played Subterranean six days later. I’ve got a long history with Trap Them, and I count on the band for spectacular live shows, due in large measure to vocalist Ryan McKenney. Whenever I see Trap Them, McKenney goes off, whether it’s jumping into the crowd or perching on top of the barrier like a vulture, eyes set to kill, forehead oozing blood.
McKenney broke both heels in Europe (and one ankle) and according to the show I saw on YouTube, did the following European tour in a wheelchair. It was wrong to see McKenney confined to a chair, gripping that microphone like a neck of a man who never saw McKenney coming. Trap Them performed admirably, but when the band’s most dynamic member broke both his heels, it’s unlikely to result in an engaging set.
(Image above is from Metal Injection.) I almost didn’t go to the Chicago date. My brain was wobbly and my head swam if I moved it too quick. It’d’ve been prudent to lie down and stay home. I almost did, and then saw the earplugs I’d been hunting for. Fuck it, I said to myself.
My brain evened out and my head stopped swimming by the time my commute to the venue, Subterranean, was over. Subterranean is a three story walkup. There’s yet another floor of Subterranean to get backstage. How did Ryan McKenney get up those stairs?
I waited. Like Rats was unremarkable, and Yatuja was technically proficient enough that I’ll remember their name, but anything else about them is gone. Sorry, gents. An admittedly generously poured vodka cranberry later, and Trap Them was finally sound checking.
No sign of Mr. McKenney. I figured he’d be on the first floor in a wheelchair, and then someone from the venue would carry him up the five or six steps from the audience floor onto the stage. There’s another way to get onstage and that’s down one flight of an industrial metal spiral staircase from backstage. But imagining him going down those stairs was ridiculous. How would they carry a person in a wheelchair down that spiral staircase?
They didn’t carry him. He descended alone.
I saw McKenney push himself cast-first down each step of the spiral staircase. He wore casts on his feet and kneepads. He crawled from the bottom of the staircase at far end of stage right to the microphone stand. The venue would’ve carried him. His bandmates would’ve carried him. He crawled.
He performed the 45 minute set on his knees, thrashing around, using whatever he could for support and maintained the baleful, wrathful presence he was known for. He flung his body like he hated it, and yeah, broke open his forehead mid set. I’m focusing on Mr. McKenney and not the rest of the band. They played well, if unspectacularly. I think guitarist (and songwriter) Brian Izzi added a few flourishes on the pre-Blissfucker material.
You’ve read enough of these know how this one comes together. Life landed one real good punch on Mr. McKenney, and he was stubborn enough to cancel zero shows. I began to despair and Trap Them reminded me I didn’t have to. And I needed to see Trap Them and Trap Them specifically. I needed the music (a combination of Entombed and Hot Snakes) played much too loud. I needed to see Ryan McKenney’s wild eyes and him performing through what I presume is meaningful pain.
(Above image from Flickr user Morten F.) I somehow got the idea my queerness is incompatible with my love for guitar music. I believed (at the cost of impugning one of my home cultures) that I really ought to listen to more, well, queer or allegedly queer friendly artists. During that seven day period, what I saw from queer friendly artists was variations on the phrase “my idols are dead and my enemies are in power”. I understand the fear. I understand the despair. But I came to fight, not resist. McKenney came to fight too, even when no one would blame him for a less evocative performance.
It was at most 45 minutes. I don’t recall an encore. Before I left the venue, I talked to Mr. Izzi, who said that we all needed this show. He was more right than he knew.
Youtube won't load properly, so instead, have Chris Maggio recording drums for Darker Handcraft. He's incredible.
Since then, news about grotesque abuses of power and appointments of actual Looney Tunes to federal office dominates the papers and television.
Election night, I expected to feel rueful and happy for my friends inspired by Secretary Of State Clinton’s campaign. I’d never seen so many of those friends excited on the morning of November 8th, and I figured Secretary Clinton’s victory was inevitable. So the next evening, I marched and chanted and went home. I held up a sign saying I was queer, bloody but unbowed. It did feel like that, I did feel like whatever we’re calling culture now landed one really good punch, but shit, I was still here, and it would require more than one really good punch to knock me down.
(Image above from Monkey Defies Gravity.) Trap Them played Subterranean six days later. I’ve got a long history with Trap Them, and I count on the band for spectacular live shows, due in large measure to vocalist Ryan McKenney. Whenever I see Trap Them, McKenney goes off, whether it’s jumping into the crowd or perching on top of the barrier like a vulture, eyes set to kill, forehead oozing blood.
McKenney broke both heels in Europe (and one ankle) and according to the show I saw on YouTube, did the following European tour in a wheelchair. It was wrong to see McKenney confined to a chair, gripping that microphone like a neck of a man who never saw McKenney coming. Trap Them performed admirably, but when the band’s most dynamic member broke both his heels, it’s unlikely to result in an engaging set.
(Image above is from Metal Injection.) I almost didn’t go to the Chicago date. My brain was wobbly and my head swam if I moved it too quick. It’d’ve been prudent to lie down and stay home. I almost did, and then saw the earplugs I’d been hunting for. Fuck it, I said to myself.
My brain evened out and my head stopped swimming by the time my commute to the venue, Subterranean, was over. Subterranean is a three story walkup. There’s yet another floor of Subterranean to get backstage. How did Ryan McKenney get up those stairs?
I waited. Like Rats was unremarkable, and Yatuja was technically proficient enough that I’ll remember their name, but anything else about them is gone. Sorry, gents. An admittedly generously poured vodka cranberry later, and Trap Them was finally sound checking.
No sign of Mr. McKenney. I figured he’d be on the first floor in a wheelchair, and then someone from the venue would carry him up the five or six steps from the audience floor onto the stage. There’s another way to get onstage and that’s down one flight of an industrial metal spiral staircase from backstage. But imagining him going down those stairs was ridiculous. How would they carry a person in a wheelchair down that spiral staircase?
They didn’t carry him. He descended alone.
I saw McKenney push himself cast-first down each step of the spiral staircase. He wore casts on his feet and kneepads. He crawled from the bottom of the staircase at far end of stage right to the microphone stand. The venue would’ve carried him. His bandmates would’ve carried him. He crawled.
He performed the 45 minute set on his knees, thrashing around, using whatever he could for support and maintained the baleful, wrathful presence he was known for. He flung his body like he hated it, and yeah, broke open his forehead mid set. I’m focusing on Mr. McKenney and not the rest of the band. They played well, if unspectacularly. I think guitarist (and songwriter) Brian Izzi added a few flourishes on the pre-Blissfucker material.
You’ve read enough of these know how this one comes together. Life landed one real good punch on Mr. McKenney, and he was stubborn enough to cancel zero shows. I began to despair and Trap Them reminded me I didn’t have to. And I needed to see Trap Them and Trap Them specifically. I needed the music (a combination of Entombed and Hot Snakes) played much too loud. I needed to see Ryan McKenney’s wild eyes and him performing through what I presume is meaningful pain.
(Above image from Flickr user Morten F.) I somehow got the idea my queerness is incompatible with my love for guitar music. I believed (at the cost of impugning one of my home cultures) that I really ought to listen to more, well, queer or allegedly queer friendly artists. During that seven day period, what I saw from queer friendly artists was variations on the phrase “my idols are dead and my enemies are in power”. I understand the fear. I understand the despair. But I came to fight, not resist. McKenney came to fight too, even when no one would blame him for a less evocative performance.
It was at most 45 minutes. I don’t recall an encore. Before I left the venue, I talked to Mr. Izzi, who said that we all needed this show. He was more right than he knew.
Youtube won't load properly, so instead, have Chris Maggio recording drums for Darker Handcraft. He's incredible.
Sunday, October 23, 2016
Tour In The Vampire Bund
If I wanted something good, I never would’ve bought Dive Into The Vampire Bund volumes one and two. I’d completed reads of works by serious female authors and my brain needed a break. On my way back from buying comics, I entered Books A Million and saw their remaindered section carried a lot of manga.
Upon closer look, it was all stuff from Seven Seas, an American publisher known for a couple licenses and the thankless task of releasing manga from non-Japanese authors (manga-ka) to a market that dismisses non-Japanese manga out of hand. The most appealing of the remaindered lot was Dive In The Vampire Bund.
A spinoff of Nozomu Tamaki’s Dance In The Vampire Bund, a manga best known for vampire matriarchs unfortunately frozen in the bodies of pubescent girls, Dive didn’t inspire a lot of confidence, but I had eight bucks to gamble with and figured it’d be a read I don’t have to think much about. “It’ll be a Japanese brand of White Wolf, it’s a complete story arc, and I’ll suffer through the genre requirement of uncomfortably sexualized middle school looking four hundred year old vampires,” I thought. It’d be trash, but I’ve blown eight bucks on worse.
I wasn’t ready for my eight bucks to pan out.
Dive’s story begins with a half-Brazilian half-Japanese man (Garcia Fujisaki) caught in his friend’s bug chasing vampire tourism.* Somehow, that goes bad, and Mr. Fujisaki is stuck in the Vampire Bund (a mostly vampire island of a coast of Japan) with 72 hours before he too is turned into a vampire.
The monsters of the week are intelligently applied, and while you won’t be mistaking Tamaki-san for Eiji Otsuka, I admit I wasn’t expecting to see Tamaki-san bring up the 442nd and the Bosnian/Serbian conflict as methods of fleshing out the world. I also wasn’t expecting to see a confession of by a male character to a female character be rejected and have that be the end of the matter. Dive has some progressive story beats that I would not have believed had I not read them myself. I don’t recall a manga with a mixed race lead character. They must exist, but I don’t know about them. Throw in zombies and vampires actively shouting nativist jeers at the main character and I found a manga willing to make the subtext obvious, or at least acknowledge a country’s xenophobia.
(America and Japan are not unique. Every country is xenophobic, if you look.)
I told my friends Dive is better than it has any right to be and I stick to that. Sadly, Mr. Fujisaki is drawn almost exclusively in tight t-shirts, but when he’s fleshed out, he talks about the immigrant experience and being “stuck” in Japan.
I bought more volumes of Dance on the strength of Dive and the ROI there wasn’t as high. There’s a great moment in Dance In The Vampire Bund II, volume one where we learn about a vampire’s choice to stay in the human community not because she wants a couple centuries worth of coercive power, but it’s the only place she’s ever wanted to live. Getting to that point (shown below) was more of a chore than I cared for.
Another spinoff, Dance In The Vampire Bund: The Memories Of Sledgehammer, features an American war hero (Hama Seiji) who protects an openly vampiric Bund candidate (Reiko Gotoh) running for Japanese office. Unsurprisingly, Ms. Goto is the woman Mr. Seiji loves, While I wouldn’t recommend it except if you’re already interested in the main series, I’m two of three volumes in and Memories of Sledgehammer has not yet buckled under the weight of its many tropes.
I'll look for the third and final volume of Memories of Sledgehammer at cons and maybe give in and buy it on a Black Friday sale, but I don't think I'll go any further into the Vampire Bund proper. Never say never, but the odds are real, real low. I can recommend Dive... and even with reservations, I wasn't expecting that.
*Yeah, bug chasing vampire tourism is a hell of a phrase, but imagine how silly some of our genre fiction must seem to the rest of the world, if described quickly.
For the music? Back to My Chemical Romance and getting some of that sweet vampire money.
Upon closer look, it was all stuff from Seven Seas, an American publisher known for a couple licenses and the thankless task of releasing manga from non-Japanese authors (manga-ka) to a market that dismisses non-Japanese manga out of hand. The most appealing of the remaindered lot was Dive In The Vampire Bund.
A spinoff of Nozomu Tamaki’s Dance In The Vampire Bund, a manga best known for vampire matriarchs unfortunately frozen in the bodies of pubescent girls, Dive didn’t inspire a lot of confidence, but I had eight bucks to gamble with and figured it’d be a read I don’t have to think much about. “It’ll be a Japanese brand of White Wolf, it’s a complete story arc, and I’ll suffer through the genre requirement of uncomfortably sexualized middle school looking four hundred year old vampires,” I thought. It’d be trash, but I’ve blown eight bucks on worse.
I wasn’t ready for my eight bucks to pan out.
Dive’s story begins with a half-Brazilian half-Japanese man (Garcia Fujisaki) caught in his friend’s bug chasing vampire tourism.* Somehow, that goes bad, and Mr. Fujisaki is stuck in the Vampire Bund (a mostly vampire island of a coast of Japan) with 72 hours before he too is turned into a vampire.
The monsters of the week are intelligently applied, and while you won’t be mistaking Tamaki-san for Eiji Otsuka, I admit I wasn’t expecting to see Tamaki-san bring up the 442nd and the Bosnian/Serbian conflict as methods of fleshing out the world. I also wasn’t expecting to see a confession of by a male character to a female character be rejected and have that be the end of the matter. Dive has some progressive story beats that I would not have believed had I not read them myself. I don’t recall a manga with a mixed race lead character. They must exist, but I don’t know about them. Throw in zombies and vampires actively shouting nativist jeers at the main character and I found a manga willing to make the subtext obvious, or at least acknowledge a country’s xenophobia.
(America and Japan are not unique. Every country is xenophobic, if you look.)
I told my friends Dive is better than it has any right to be and I stick to that. Sadly, Mr. Fujisaki is drawn almost exclusively in tight t-shirts, but when he’s fleshed out, he talks about the immigrant experience and being “stuck” in Japan.
I bought more volumes of Dance on the strength of Dive and the ROI there wasn’t as high. There’s a great moment in Dance In The Vampire Bund II, volume one where we learn about a vampire’s choice to stay in the human community not because she wants a couple centuries worth of coercive power, but it’s the only place she’s ever wanted to live. Getting to that point (shown below) was more of a chore than I cared for.
Another spinoff, Dance In The Vampire Bund: The Memories Of Sledgehammer, features an American war hero (Hama Seiji) who protects an openly vampiric Bund candidate (Reiko Gotoh) running for Japanese office. Unsurprisingly, Ms. Goto is the woman Mr. Seiji loves, While I wouldn’t recommend it except if you’re already interested in the main series, I’m two of three volumes in and Memories of Sledgehammer has not yet buckled under the weight of its many tropes.
I'll look for the third and final volume of Memories of Sledgehammer at cons and maybe give in and buy it on a Black Friday sale, but I don't think I'll go any further into the Vampire Bund proper. Never say never, but the odds are real, real low. I can recommend Dive... and even with reservations, I wasn't expecting that.
*Yeah, bug chasing vampire tourism is a hell of a phrase, but imagine how silly some of our genre fiction must seem to the rest of the world, if described quickly.
For the music? Back to My Chemical Romance and getting some of that sweet vampire money.
Sunday, September 25, 2016
Come Off It Jason Pettigrew
The web never sleeps, which means the news/content cycle never does. "Jack White Has Dinner, Uses Napkin" isn't what a seasoned reporter
would call a get. -Alternative Press Editor In Chief Jason Pettigrew
I'm not enamored of Jason Pettigrew's half of the feature with Scott Heisel about web music journalism. I think he's disingenuous in the spots where it's not overly bitter. In his defense, there are legitimate things to be bitter about. Posting a tracklist and an album art counts as news, for someone, and "link-whoring duty" is an actual phrase used by Gawker. Reblogs of wacky internet videos poison the well, but keep a certain, ever declining number of readers engaged. Pitchfork reviews of punk and hardcore records leave me foaming at the mouth. Careless reviews of pop superstars make me question my sanity.
Pettigrew longs for the days of the noble gatekeeper, when a person had to be vetted by an authority before they could write about music for a magazine. And now, he says? Everyone's got an opinion. Well, sure. They always did. Now they can express it publicly and people might actually look at it. He aches for the days when access was limited (and this part is worth repeating) and he had it. But now, it's not and Good Lord, one does not have to first be approved of by Creem Magazine before writing or hearing the music. The horror.
"the days when gatekeepers (read: music press) were given the responsibility for having well-informed, articulate opinions regarding the material they were to wax wise about...All it takes is one sticky-fingered, disgruntled intern or one unscrupulous person to receive the wrong package...and the introduction of a band's new work belongs to the masses."
Mercy, sir, a person could be introduced to the record by listening to it themselves without the precious context of whatever the writer decides to copypasta from the press release, a quick Google search and a list of cliches too long to name? I am mortified. (For best results, read this paragraph again in Foghorn Leghorn's voice.)
Admittedly, that's a disingenuous summation of his argument. Those days of gatekeepers being paid a maybe decent amount of money to have opinions is gone, and we lose that, while we gain, and this is crucial, immediate access to the work itself, rather than sitting around for the intermediary of the music critic's judgment. I'd love to be a professional music critic, admittedly. But, everyone listening to it alongside each other means more people get the experience sooner. And our judgments were always a half measure towards other people giving an album their attention.
At bottom: I think this development sounds fantastic. I don't think improving a person's filter on what they read is a bad thing. Shit, I think you should be doing it anyway in every aspect of your life. Democracy means there are more critics, yes. But those experts still exist. They haven't gone anywhere. You can still find them. And some of the critics today will be the experts of tomorrow, as they'll keep writing, going to concerts and turning over songs in their heads. Democracy also means you have to do the legwork to decide what opinions and beliefs are most valuable and useful to you. You can still get those opinions from somewhere else, if you as a consumer don't want to do the work.
At bottom: I think this development sounds fantastic. I don't think improving a person's filter on what they read is a bad thing. Shit, I think you should be doing it anyway in every aspect of your life. Democracy means there are more critics, yes. But those experts still exist. They haven't gone anywhere. You can still find them. And some of the critics today will be the experts of tomorrow, as they'll keep writing, going to concerts and turning over songs in their heads. Democracy also means you have to do the legwork to decide what opinions and beliefs are most valuable and useful to you. You can still get those opinions from somewhere else, if you as a consumer don't want to do the work.
Two other points: 1) Pettigrew's not required to read the ramblings of the imaginary, but almost certainly existent college freshman who is obsessed with Nirvana. 2) That imaginary college freshman Nirvana obsessive? That was us, once upon a time. Nirvana might not have been my or your focus, but those ramblings could easily be his, mine or ours.
There's a lot of resonant scenes in Almost Famous, but the one where Lester Bangs offers William Miller $35 for 1,000 words about Black Sabbath is instructive. Here's the catch, Pettigrew aches for the time when he could be Lester Bangs, dispensing sage advice and long assignments to reporters or freelancers. Those days of access and using that access as a megaphone to which the kids will flock are done. They're not finished, certainly. The Rihanna airplane debacle proved that. But, like a knife to the armpit, you're going to bleed out and die and Pettigrew sees that coming.
Here's to whatever comes next.
This is years and years old, but I kept coming back to it privately. I didn't post it because of cowardice, but now that time's passed, it can finally exist outside my own head. As for this choice of song, well, "fuck the glory days" feels pretty appropriate.
Here's to whatever comes next.
This is years and years old, but I kept coming back to it privately. I didn't post it because of cowardice, but now that time's passed, it can finally exist outside my own head. As for this choice of song, well, "fuck the glory days" feels pretty appropriate.
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