Anamnesis Networking.

A while ago I posted a magazine cover from the mid-80′s for Weirdo which was drawn by the amazing R. Crumb.  The guy is steadily becoming a legend and something tells me that when he dies, perhaps finally the mainstream will actually realize how great he was.  Anyone with half a brain, or one drenched in LSD (as Crumb’s frequently cited), can find his work memorizing to say the least.  The amount of detail reminds me of No Hero, which reminds me of Juan Jose Ryp, which reminds me of R. Crumb.  Don’t ask.  Do tell.  Via a discussion involving some whacked out theory on the WhiteChapel Board, something about an International Lottery Organization subtly telling cinema goers to buy lottery tickets through mainstream flicks (don’t ask #2), I discovered an online version of the R. Crumb mini-comic chronicling one of many other-worldly experiences from Phillip K. Dick.  It is strange.  And I’m sure the majority of the Christan community does NOT approve of an admitted user of numerous hallucinogenic compounds claiming he had visions of himself as a “secret Christian” in the days of their persecution; before the community rose to their own horrific levels of persecution.  In a European History class we TASTE the brutality; vomit inducing, it is.  Enough to gag the life out of anyone who wields a heart, through the throat and splashing onto the pavement leaving said person more hopeless, joyless, and pessimistic than before.  Dick fancied himself a Christian of some sort, I think.  Could a part of Flow My Tears, the Police Man Said actually depict an episode from the “Book of Acts”?  Even if supposedly Phillip K. Dick NEVER read any of it before writing Flow My Tears??  Can’t be, just can’t.  The same thing happened to Dick himself somewhere in the bowels of Los Angeles.  This story, drawn by R. Crumb, appears in the same issue of Weiro Magazine I posted and linked above.  What’s happening here?  “I was a dark dumb student, no hokey rookie day-tripping on visions of chickens that looked like R. Crumb drew ‘em.”  Things intersect and overlap more so than any of us will ever know.  Perhaps PKD, Aesop Rock, Juan Jose Ryp, R. Crumb, are all intertwined on the metaphysical web of existence?  To quote a recurring line in Warren Ellis’ Planetary (which of course relates to No Hero, which relates to R. Crumb and P.K. Dick): “the world is a strange place, let’s keep it that way”.

-Sonny

No Hero #3.

NO HERO #3

Last time I talked about Warren Ellis’ No Hero (No Hero #2), I talked about how amazing the artwork was and is.  Truth is, Juan Jose Ryp’s artwork alone is enough to make me love comic books.  It’s mind blowing the amount of little tiny details he puts into his pages.  I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again (Who am I… Ferris Beuler?): Juan Jose Ryp deserves either an Eisner, a Hugo, a Nebula, or whatever the Science Fiction community gives out to illustrators, this year.  His work on Black Summer and No Hero alone put him in the running for best artist of the year.  Wait- no, Black Summer was LAST year.  Still though, this dude is amazing.  In the third issue of this, I believe, Seven issue series, due to plot developments in the script, Ryp is really able to show off his skills with three splash pages in a row right out front.  The sites are enough to make anyone NEVER want to hallucinate ever in their life.  Holy crap.  These six pages are some of the trippiest, scariest art I’ve ever seen in my life.  Including Dali, and Bacon, and any other of the greats.

What happened last issue is we saw Josh say “yes” to joining the Front Line (the country’s only team of “super-powered” people), which in turn put him through the beginning of the process.  He sat down in the blank room with Masterson, the creator of the group, he took the pill known as “FX7″, and he only began tripping.  From No Hero #2:  “FX7: A drug based on the structure of the psychedelic Tryptamine 5-MEO-DIPT: Exact modifications (by Carrick Masterson) are unknown.  High doses of 5-MEO-DIPT produce nausea, jaw clenching, muscle tension, and overt hallucinations with both Auditory and Visual distortions…  Federal Register Document 04-21755, 29 September 2004″. In the world of No Hero, this is the only way to have super-powers: take this drug known as FX7 regularly.  It has destroyed lives.  As seen in the Charles Kraft interview featured at the very beginning of this issue and extensively in the previous chapters.  With this extreme circumstances being a part of the No Hero world, it seems Warren Ellis is saying a couple things most people wouldn’t think him to say: 1) You actually don’t want to have “super-powers”, it isn’t worth it, and 2) You actually don’t want to do any sort of drug, it’s not worth it.

The plot of this story is starting to shine through now, if even just a little.  We knew before that someone with either super-powers or almost unlimited resources is killing off members of the current Front Line.  The obvious answer here is that an ex-Front Line member is trying desperately to get back at Carrick Masterson for promising them the world and fucking up their life.  Which increasingly it looks like will happen with Josh.  The fact that whoever murdered Mandy, the only other member of the Front Line Josh has met at this point, used a substance known only by Carrick Masterson says “someone from the inside”.  Or, at least someone who ONCE was on the inside.  That substance: “Digsel”.  Essentially it is a form of Napalm which was engineered exclusively to burn human flesh.  Fucked up, I know.  Masterson has his own intentions, that much is obvious.  But his apparent alarm (and near run into a flaming mess) at the fact that Mandy has been killed proved that he may care about his members, even if it is for the wrong reasons.  Which means he cares about Josh, now that Josh is a part of his team.  Josh is of course the wild card here; within 48 hours he’ll have fresh super-powers, and he’s already proficient at hand to hand.

But if there’s a reason to buy this comic, it’s the ART.  For sure.

-Sonny

The HenePinnn Saga.

5TH AND PINNN’S

The lights of the city look much brighter than normal. They spin, almost unattached above the streets. It must’ve rained earlier, I don’t remember that. Oh yes- the clickity clack clack. Yes of course. My left hand won’t stop shaking. Stop. Some loose piece of metal rattles around the inside; no one notices but me. Last stop. My first step out releases that simple fraught immediately. It’s a good thing. To the left (still, the place will probably be standing there erect as ever in 200 years): the Persian smoke shop. They sell a goddamn SINGLE pack for over $5; how do they get away with that? Two grown men roam about inside, no doubt one or both of them are stoned. The figures are hard to make out through the reflective glass, what with the next door titty bar neon and all. This place thinks of itself as “high class”. We both know that’s some shit though. I smell coke and eucalyptus lotion. A hat wearing chap is pounding a smoke directly in front of the doors. Is he running with the nats of this terribly glitzy place? Security normally looks more menacing than this: a skinny white pole emerging from this by-all-means scraggly beard. Nothing wrong with that. Thin thin air tastes so good. Crossing the street brings back some nerves. Folks get hit by cars a lot more than you’d think. Not just dogs and cats and deer and frogs. Hop up, almost step in someone’s very orange puke. Find a fucking trashcan. Plant. Something. Someone’s signed a deal to turn this Prohibition-Era brick complex into a theatre. Completely fine with me. Who the hell has beef with theatres? Pork. Blue upon blue upon blue approaches quickly. A darkened shoulder knocks mine and I somehow snicker and laugh all together. I wonder if they’ve got blue in that place? I could eat a blue with blue. Maybe throw on that song from the 60’s San Fransisco scene “Blue”. What a time that was… mercy. Blue history won’t go away. Every event tarnished, every person drenched in it. The scar in my arm keeps dripping transparent fluids. The revolution, the blue revolution, is long gone. And not in the chronological sense, but it feels even more distant than the blue Reganomics. It shouldn’t… ever, but it does. I’m in it NOW though! The establishment of today spawns the same frustrations of the boomers; however, the ballgame has been severely overhauled. Even pseudo-revolutions aren’t possible anymore. Blue revolutions ignore the base camp. Speaking of blue- I’m here. Someone better find me a glass of water, keep that whiskey away from me…

PINNN’S SPIEL-LABOR

This place is already giving me that nightmarish feeling. I’m tripping over myself looking for these folks. It smells like sad pathetic falsehoods in here. Snuggling up to the counter-top, “GLASS of… WATER.. Please”. I’m yelling over the shit these people call either “house” or “techno”; whichever they claim it is, it isn’t. The ceiling looks at least 500 feet above my waist. No surprise there; “it’s all part of the process”, I’m muttering to myself silently. A group of brunette twenty somethings gather to my left. Professionals. The drunk one isn’t speaking any language I’ve ever heard, and her face is… well… droopy. Sagging down into her chest. That’s it. Make your presence known; snatch up that attention, it’s what you want. What you NEED. Fucks. And to my right: a sad sad sight. The type of person who would attach onto anything that spoke to it. Head low. Eyes a wandering despondence. Ahh- here we are. Haahaha… the keeper makes me giggle like a fool. At least he’s having fun. I turn around and the site of raw uncut bar/club nightlife absolutely worries me. Not in a “I’m not safe here” way; more of a “is this what we’ve become?” way. These Goddamn people. I’d say they need to get fucked, but most of them probably are on a regular basis. No- they all need a good three hour sitdown with 2001. That’ll (hopefully) straighten them out. Why am I here? Oh yes. To the stairs I stroll. My body glides lower to the ground than normal, like I’m somehow traveling under the “gone-out” radar. The strobes around the dance floor, and over the DJ’s booth are enough to make me vomit. I’m beginning to feel it. Get out! Those big towers pulsating down on me with their beady lights going do… do… do-do-do. I close my eyes only for a moment; immediately bump into someone. Holy shit: I know you, man. This thick red beard starts talking about how he’s been making music for this troupe, but it’s frustrating because people wanna adapt his songs to their own style, he doesn’t like it, but he tolerates it cause it’s music and music’s the SAVIOR, but he’s about to quit and do his own thing, and blah blah; it was interesting at first. But… you know, he pisses himself over John Ford; so that explains that. Finally, the stairs that look to have no end. “In these situations you should always watch your drink (not shrink)”… I know I should… “Yeah, well you haven’t been. Who knows what’s in that water”… Shut-up, if I someone wants to give me a helping free of charge I’m not stopping them… Kk? And the march to an upper floor begins. Something really fucking cool better be waiting for me up there…

STEP OUT TO PINNN, BRIGHT MOON

This had better be quick. Climbing only exacerbates these… pulses. Weighing me down, but somehow still levitating nanometers off the stairs. They’re longer than I expected. The more I look down, the more pieces to the puzzle I see. Each and every person down there composes a larger picture: this place. This room to the building, the building to the block, the block to city, and so forth and so on. On and on. Never ending; the universe burns white hot. It burns and here I trudge, very much so IN IT. The top at last. Up here, the panicking starts. I need fresh air. “Just take care of this. Quickly.” I find who I’m looking for in a sea of darkened figures and still darker faces. I always disliked how windowless lots of these places are. I wonder what the moon looks like right now? A far too drunk woman with a skirt ruins my day… no… night-dreaming fast, as she headbutts my shoulder and spills all over the floor. She keeps pace with me, screaming something in my ear about how she’s “sorry”; which inevitably turns into I’m an “asshole” because of my not caring about the incident, or HER. There’s a 38% chance she’ll be taken advantage of tonight. The round table looks to be spinning non stop. It couldn’t be?!!? My lungs clog with second hand everything BUT smoke. I can’t take it. I only visit for a little bit, get my business done and head out. I’m utterly accustomed to the blue now. Back down the stairs. Swing right. Avoid the frustrated red-bearded lumberjack producer, the brunettes catch me staring, the drunk girl sneers, the critters scurry. As I come to the doors, excitement blasts. They unveil the outside world, not so much to my eyes, but to my brain, heart, and lungs. Nothing feels better right now. Fishing in my left breast pocket, I pull out smokes; 6 or 7 sticks and two pliable minis. Both’ll do. I’m walking desperately to find the moon, and sure fucking enough, it’s full and glowing gloriously. It leaves me touched and perfectly content. All that drinking and partying back there, the BLUE, none of that matters. This is it. All the way across the street, a homeless man stares into the night sky; he’s doing the exact same thing I’m doing. I wonder what he’s thinking. I sure would love to get onto a rooftop right now. But I’m no Peter Parker. I’ve emptied out this cockroach, time slows. I’m going to finish my 1Ups on my walk back to Father Hennepin and 5th. One more stop to go… What a beautiful night.

PINNN>ALLEYWAY>1ST

Everything’s swirling now. The beautiful night sky, its stars, circling in the great great distance. Buildings peak up, pierce the colorless space; they’re swaying with the breeze. The trees of Urbania. Two very pretty women hold hands, stopping every once and a while to snuggle up to one another and/or kiss under a sign, in a doorway. Come to think of it, I’m not seeing any singular individuals, like myself, walking these streets besides the “crazies”. A tall white man with glasses stumbles his way in my general direction; he isn’t homeless. He mutters something to me as he walks past me. Could’ve sworn he said something about “fly” and “the easy path”. I turned backwards and got a good look at his face, he is sheepish and resists looking me in the eye. He retreats back to HIS path, wherever he goes; I wonder if it’s the “easy path”?? I turn left to sharply cut through an alleyway. The road ahead is surprisingly light, the building’s open up for me, the full moonlight seeps in. I can almost see everything; obviously there are some shadows. I’m calm, strangely enough. Comfortable. Some scurrying behind a trashcan startles me, but “as long at it isn’t HIM” I tell myself. Reaching the end, I turn back to glance at the long hallway of brick. It is long, much longer than I remembered. I see the little being which was making all the noise; it wasn’t the rats, it was a cat. A little black and brown cat. It’s glowing eyes jump out in the darkness, it looks like it’s getting larger. It continues stalking, but won’t stop looking at me. I could’ve sworn for a second it walked up the wall a little bit, like Spiderman, before jumping down. With a tiny whimper I hear it, Mmmrrrrww. I hope it survives for a good while. Emerging out to 1st. Scattered humans everywhere. Scurrying. The giant Center looks down at me. Fuck You! You’re no God around here! Ur a has-been… at best!! Bastard. Something trendy is going down at the Black Stared Building tonight. The outside sidewalk is full of hipsters, girls with scarfs, and Reptiles. A biker almost clips me as she zippps by, with goggle on, the whole deal. I’m looking for a group… they said they’d be here…. spotted. Not much time for chit-chat. “Are you goin’ to FF.Ave tonight?” No, I’m not. I’d rather watch a circus in the Center, as much as I hate him. “unfortunate”. Not really. Saying my goodbyes I walk north-easterly. There’s a German place on my right. One more German beer sounds like a good way to retire. It’s practically breathing good food, music, and people. It is dark in there, need to jeep my cool like I have been tonight. Can’t even pronounce the name on the sign; walk in to the sound of early Stones. No Hell’s Angels here tonight. Did they really do that? If Works was blue, this place is downright yellow. The German flag, actually. Yellow, LOTS of yellow, black for the darkness, with speckles of orange. Warm colors. The bar stretches for almost a mile. I grab a seat that’s still warm, and catch a glance of myself in the mirror. My eyes look fucked, blackened and rusty and droopy. Head shaven fresh. One more beer…

TRAIN, PINNN, GONE

The bartender serves me up a dark, bleak beer.  The kind that speaks out of the glass.  No where near shoulder to shoulder in here, yet it feels crowded.  The drunken hordes lean on my shoulders, on my head.  Noisy.  1973? Maybe.  Grand Funk is waiting around the corner; waiting for The Stones to retire for the evening.  Stumbling a little now; the bathroom’s a shithole.  This guy looks like a Jake; the Jake who drives a big oversized pickup and doesn’t use turn signals or courtesy; a guy anyone with a brain could make fun of right to his face without him even realizing what’s going down.  Ribs… about ready to jut out of… AHH!! My veins feel like Interstate Freeways.  There’s no reason for me to pound another beer.  Walking back: flickering faces, wide-open landscapes out of reach, the bouncing floor.  I put probably too much cash on the bar, say thanks that sounds more like “Dshaanksh”, and leave with some people I don’t know saying (and waving) goodbye to me.  Back out to the streets.  They’re really taking on a personality of their own, now.  Each and every one of them.  Whispering, or yelling, into my ears.  Telling me just exactly what they think about the people roaming on their faces and legs.  Most of it isn’t malicious at all.  They enjoy being here, breathing here, living here, as much as Red-Beard and I do.  Cranking my neck back, the buildings speak volumes of history and culture.  They’re beautiful; like a Northern Pine forest or a breezy Ocean scene all the way to the horizon.  They breathe too, like the streets.  They shift, mingle, speak to one another.  Spots of orange and yellow, warm colors, hold steady in their faces.  Lift HER, pull HER. Like dozens and dozens of eyeballs burning.  It makes me scratch my own two eyes.  Removing my worn and used hands from them, I see a train.  Precision bound into metal.  Tipping my hat to a man with a Greyish-White mustache, the platform moves underneath my feet.  From here, the skyline hits me like a ton of bricks.  Urban Affection, Whitman used to call it.  Leaves Of Grass.  Satirist, essayist, thinker, observer. What an influence.  Do I have it?  Affection??  Right now: YES.  Very few things in the world would make me dislike this place.  It is beautiful, mysterious, and familiar at all once.  My heart goes to its people; people common but special.  Step onto the wobbling floor, speeding away into the night.  Off for now, but no doubt I’ll be back.

-Sonnny

Pinnn> Alleyway> 1st.

Everything’s swirling now.  The beautiful night sky, its stars, circling in the great great distance.  Buildings peak up, pierce the colorless space; they’re swaying with the breeze.  The trees of Urbania.  Two very pretty women hold hands, stopping every once and a while to snuggle up to one another and/or kiss under a sign, in a doorway.  Come to think of it, I’m not seeing any singular individuals, like myself, walking these streets besides the “crazies”.  A tall white man with glasses stumbles his way in my general direction; he isn’t homeless.  He mutters something to me as he walks past me.  Could’ve sworn he said something about “fly” and “the easy path”. I turned backwards and got a good look at his face, he is sheepish and resists looking me in the eye.  He retreats back to HIS path, wherever he goes; I wonder if it’s the “easy path”??  I turn left to sharply cut through an alleyway.  The road ahead is surprisingly light, the building’s open up for me, the full moonlight seeps in.  I can almost see everything; obviously there are some shadows.  I’m calm, strangely enough.  Comfortable.  Some scurrying behind a trashcan startles me, but “as long at it isn’t HIM” I tell myself.  Reaching the end, I turn back to glance at the long hallway of brick.  It is long, much longer than I remembered.  I see the little being which was making all the noise; it wasn’t the rats, it was a cat.  A little black and brown cat.  It’s glowing eyes jump out in the darkness, it looks like it’s getting larger.  It continues stalking, but won’t stop looking at me.  I could’ve sworn for a second it walked up the wall a little bit, like Spiderman, before jumping down.  With a tiny whimper I hear it, Mmmrrrrww.  I hope it survives for a good while.  Emerging out to 1st.  Scattered humans everywhere.  Scurrying.  The giant Center looks down at me.  Fuck You!  You’re no God around here! Ur a has-been… at best!! Bastard.  Something trendy is going down at the Black Stared Building tonight.  The outside sidewalk is full of hipsters, girls with scarfs, and Reptiles.  A biker almost clips me as she zippps by, with goggle on, the whole deal.  I’m looking for a group… they said they’d be here…. spotted.  Not much time for chit-chat.  “Are you goin’ to FF.Ave tonight?”  No, I’m not.  I’d rather watch a circus in the Center, as much as I hate him. “unfortunate”.  Not really. Saying my goodbyes I walk north-easterly.  There’s a German place on my right.  One more German beer sounds like a good way to retire.  It’s practically breathing good food, music, and people.  It is dark in there, need to jeep my cool like I have been tonight.  Can’t even pronounce the name on the sign; walk in to the sound of early Stones.  No Hell’s Angels here tonight.  Did they really do that?  If Works was blue, this place is downright yellow.  The German flag, actually.  Yellow, LOTS of yellow, black for the darkness, with speckles of orange.  Warm colors.  The bar stretches for almost a mile.  I grab a seat that’s still warm, and catch a glance of myself in the mirror.  My eyes look fucked, blackened and rusty and droopy.  Head shaven fresh.  One more beer…

-Sonny

New Eras, Purple Icons.

The amount of iPhone posts on WordPress right now isn’t a surprise. What does astound me is just how many of these fails to mention the incredible amounts of issues which have accompanied that new doorstop (talk to Wu about that) to the market. But the fucking “bloggers” don’t want to talk about that… oh no, because they’ll live and die by the Apple flag as long as it’s “cool” to. I’m not saying Apple isn’t innovative, but there’s steps beyond innovation. Does anyone understand that? See, what the vandals should be doing is tagging all over the Apple stores; hit the fucking “Genius Bar” for extra points. I hate how they call their technical help station that; I really just fucking despise that. As a company, how self-centered is that? Talk about liking the smell of your own asshole…

I got my BIG THREE comics yesterday, each of which actually are quite important in the overall grand scheme of things (to its own book).

WALKING DEAD #50.

I can’t believe Robert Kirkman’s zombie comic steeped in as much realism as horror has lasted this long; that is so damn great, and a sign that American pop culture isn’t headed down the tubes after all. Sales of this book have quadrupled in the last 2-ish years. It’s a growing, growing movement: The Walking Dead. It seems like every new issue that comes out attracts new readers (the newer books keep breaking TWD sales record). It’s a real treat to read this book in the long run; this is the longest I’ve ever read a comic consecutively, and I get fairly invested in these characters as I’m sure many of the readers do. Kudos though to anyone who’s deciding to purchase the book monthly, and NOT wait for the trade paperbacks, because that’s really the best way to read any comic long-term; and Walking Dead is very much so “long-term”.

Which brings me to this newest issue: a milestone of a mark known as issue #50. This issue especially drives home the “long-term” point. What we’re seeing here, and hopefully will see for many many years to come, is a small boy turning into an adult in the pages of this book. Everything is accelerated though, because of the extreme circumstances. Carl, the young boy of the book (he’s around 10), has seen more people he knows die than the commoner of our world. He’s seen more horrific scenes and been in more dangerous situations than again, any commoner. The problem is that how does growing up so utterly fast effect someone’s personality? How does growing up in an environment so full of death and violence mold the adult little Carl will become (and is becoming)? Will he be completely ruthless and only looking out for himself by the time he’s 18? How much of his Dad, Rick, is in him? Would he be willing to kill ANYONE in order to protect himself and/or his family?

Issue 50 chronicles Carl’s growth more so than anything else we’ve ever seen. And after the slaughter of almost EVERY character this book was built on in the last couple of issues, it’s becoming clear that Carl’s evolving into the main character, taking the place of his father in more ways than one. In this issue, Carl comes face to face with his adolescence in the form of three biters bearing down on him. Rick taught Carl how to use a gun when he was pretty damn young, they’re two sides to that: he helped Carl become stronger in the face of horror and Carl’s a better survivor because of it, on the other hand, putting a deadly weapon in the hands of such a young boy can have dire consequences as well. The status of Rick is finally revealed here also. My how the tables have turned between this father and son, though. I suppose, like any father/son relationship changes over time; it’s just that, like I said earlier, under such extreme circumstances everything’s amplified. Charlie’s art continues to be breathtaking, this is such a great read.

ASTONISHING X-MEN #25 – Ghost Box.

As a new era begins over in the Walking Dead-verse, so it goes with what once was Marvel’s premiere X-Men title Astonishing X-Men. As I understand it, they (Marvel) are trying to shift the attention of X-Readers over the the flagship title Uncanny X-Men. And I don’t blame them. Soon enough one of the best new writers on the scene will be joining one of the best mainstream writers on the title: Matt Fraction and Ed Brubaker respectively. I’m totally fine with this. The new writer for Astonishing is a little less family-friendly than Joss Whedon is; I speak of course of Warren Ellis, who slowly but surely is becoming a legend of the industry before our eyes. He runs an insane amount of both independent and popular comics. But his style will work perfectly with Astonishing’s shift to sub-spotlight.

This grittyness, and at the same time otherworldliness, can be seen about half-way through this issue. While the team is investigating a corpse, which may or may not be mutant, Hank asks Logan to dig out a piece of the body for closer inspection in the lab. With his “pointer” claw out, Wolverine of course obliges him. What he rips out of the torso looks like something from Ellis’ Doktor Sleepless or even a 70s horror comic. Not so much for the mainstream X-Reader. Again- I’m totally fine with this new status. Let Mr. Ellis do his thing without too many angry letters and complaints. Simone Bianchi’s art as always is hit and miss. He’s a wonderful penciler, with a style all his own, but he does have consistency issues. With that being said, I did like the art on this first issue, and I liked what he showed on smaller characters (like Nightcrawler) in the preview issue of his art for Astonishing.

A big big accolade should go out to the colorist and inker of this book. In a way, their touches make Bianchi’s art fit Warren Ellis’ writing more perfectly. The look of the book is dark, VERY dark. Actually without proper bright light I was having trouble reading it yesterday. But the colors need to be dark, strange, obtuse. With what Ellis is cooking up, I see no need for the uber-bright colorizations of Whedon’s run. That stands on its own, and I hope Ellis’ will also. Only time will tell. Oh and it’s nice to see an even stronger woman, like the now Queen of an African nation, stand up to Emma. There’ll be lots of friction there, can’t wait.

BATMAN #678 – Zur En Arrh.

If Grant Morrison wasn’t so crazy he might be dead by now; this could also be said about his version of Batman he’s been writing for some two years now. Could anyone have predicted the direction he’d take the industry’s most popular character? Seriously… THIS. SHIT. Is. CRAZY. In a good way. It’s really a testament to mind-expanding drugs, the writing of Morrison; like Sgt. Peppers or Salvator Dali. The comics of this run will never be mentioned in the same breath as the Beatles or Dali, so I might as well here. This is bold, bold story-telling as only Morrison can deliver. This issue marks the 3rd installment of the arc entitled “R.I.P.”. In it, the Batman we’ve come to know and love over these 60 years meets its demise, in a way.

I love love love the way it starts off. We’ve been given glimpses into what actually is inside Batman’s “Black Casebook” for many issues now, but we’ve never actually seen it. In the opening pages of this issue, Tim Drake’s reading out of the book. Along with pictures of aliens, monsters, and distant environments, Tim reads Bruce’s writing:

“It would be fair to consider this a dream, but how can I?? After this last year, the boundaries between what’s real and what’s illusion have come to seem as threadbare as moldering shroud. How do I learn to think like these monsters I’ve chosen to fight?? And not let my own mind be mangled out of all recognition in the process? I don’t want to know what goes on in the Joker’s head. I HAVE to know. But when I imagine how it must feel to be him, I think of a snake with a broken back, flipping and tracing intricate, agonized arabesques in the dust. Does he KNOW what he’s doing? Is he goading me to follow him deeper into his rabbit hole of derangement, hoping I’ll break? Some of the experiences I’ve committed to these black casebooks are so utterly bizarre as to defy logic and sanity. Five years into the mission and it feels like a ghost train ride. I didn’t expect costumed psychopaths, regular contact with hallucinogenic compounds or seemingly alien interventions. If it wasn’t Robin’s humor and forthrightness, I’d be… DEAD”

Keep up the great work Grant. Same goes for you Tony Daniel. You’re one of the best new artists I’ve had the pleasure to read in a long time. Keep it up. Up next: The Club of Villains rips through Gotham! Criminals Beware of Zur-En-Arrh! Boy Wonder vs. Son of Batman! Enter the Joker! Batmite’s Wisdom!

-Sonny

Step Out To Pinnn, Bright Moon.

This had better be quick. Climbing only exacerbates these… pulses. Weighing me down, but somehow still levitating nanometers off the stairs. They’re longer than I expected. The more I look down, the more pieces to the puzzle I see. Each and every person down there composes a larger picture: this place. This room to the building, the building to the block, the block to city, and so forth and so on. On and on. Never ending; the universe burns white hot. It burns and here I trudge, very much so IN IT. The top at last. Up here, the panicking starts. I need fresh air. “Just take care of this. Quickly.” I find who I’m looking for in a sea of darkened figures and still darker faces. I always disliked how windowless lots of these places are. I wonder what the moon looks like right now? A far too drunk woman with a skirt ruins my day… no… night-dreaming fast, as she headbutts my shoulder and spills all over the floor. She keeps pace with me, screaming something in my ear about how she’s “sorry”; which inevitably turns into I’m an “asshole” because of my not caring about the incident, or HER. There’s a 38% chance she’ll be taken advantage of tonight. The round table looks to be spinning non stop. It couldn’t be?!!? My lungs clog with second hand everything BUT smoke. I can’t take it. I only visit for a little bit, get my business done and head out. I’m utterly accustomed to the blue now. Back down the stairs. Swing right. Avoid the frustrated red-bearded lumberjack producer, the brunettes catch me staring, the drunk girl sneers, the critters scurry. As I come to the doors, excitement blasts. They unveil the outside world, not so much to my eyes, but to my brain, heart, and lungs. Nothing feels better right now. Fishing in my left breast pocket, I pull out smokes; 6 or 7 sticks and two pliable minis. Both’ll do. I’m walking desperately to find the moon, and sure fucking enough, it’s full and glowing gloriously. It leaves me touched and perfectly content. All that drinking and partying back there, the BLUE, none of that matters. This is it. All the way across the street, a homeless man stares into the night sky; he’s doing the exact same thing I’m doing. I wonder what he’s thinking. I sure would love to get onto a rooftop right now. But I’m no Peter Parker. I’ve emptied out this cockroach, time slows. I’m going to finish my 1Ups on my walk back to Father Hennepin and 5th. One more stop to go… What a beautiful night.

-Sonny

Black Mountain.

The “Black Mountain Army” is a collective of artists, who are also friends, based out of Vancouver. Black Mountain, the band, is the most straight forward (and therefor the most popular) of Stephen McBean’s “Black Mountain Army” bands; the most experimental of which apparently is Pink Mountaintops. Yes, it’s all very confusing. Members of this collective work for an organization which helps and houses the poor, homeless, drug-addicted, and mentally unstable. Black Mountain (the band)’s most common adjective is probably “psychedelic”. It’s true: that word is the easiest way to describe the band’s sound without purposefully selling them short. But Black Mountain is a lot more than that. These Canadians rock pretty damn hard a lot of the time. The soundscapes range from straight forward, single note, heavily distorted Rock riffs (think the first two songs off Kasabian’s “Empire”, or those old repetitive Fugazi riffs), all the way to acid-trip fests reminiscent of Pink Floyd’s “Echoes” (or the OBSCURE songs off of “Dark Side”). The mixture of female and male singing fits in absolutely perfectly with the overall sound. I couldn’t even imagine this band with one singer after hearing them more than 5 or 6 times. I bought their latest disc, only their second full length LP, a while ago; it’s called “In The Future” and it is an amazing album. Once again, it will take you to the very edges of the musical spectrum and back again (in a Black Mountain sort of way). When Amber Webber sings about “my only company” at an EQUAL mastered level as the organ/key progression, it isn’t supported her, she isn’t supporting it, they’re supporting each other. Here, the lyrics/vocals aren’t first priority. Neither is the guitar, rhythm, or atmospheric sounds. Everything works together in a harmony in Black Mountain. The way any good band should be. I only wish I’d gone to the show at the Entry a couple of months ago, because I heard it was amazing. Links:

Wikipedia Entry
Black Mountain Army
MySpace Page
Black Mountain on Last.fm
Rolling Stone’s Review of “In The Future”

-Sonny

Aldous Huxley’s Consciousness.

My lady friend picked up a book for me about a week ago.  In Aldous Huxley’s The Doors Of Perception & Heaven And Hell, Huxley examines the state[s] of altered consciousness.  His direct observations come from taking mescaline (in pill form) and meandering around his own house while the observer he hired asks him questions/interviews him.  These questions came directly from Huxley, which seems so very strange.  Knowing that in an hours time you’ll be of a different mind; writing down questions to ask yourself during this altered state.

The biggest point I’ve taken out of the book thus far is the idea that the brain doesn’t ENHANCE experience, knowledge, etc, but rather LIMITS these.  The brain acts like a filter for which all knowledge and information must pass.  Without it, human beings simply wouldn’t be able to handle the vastness of information and experience in the universe.  We’d go insane.  With it, we’re able to take in that which is for the most part necessary (finding food, shelter, companionship, etc).  The use of psychedelic drugs, Huxley says, essentially removes this filter from our brains, letting in all experience and knowledge seemingly at once.  Makes sense though: those who shut off their filter ALL the time do end up going insane (as I mentioned earlier), and those who claim to have religious experience on mind-expanding drugs.

In one specific description of Huxley’s trip, he talks very candidly about his experiences.  Much like my own experiences, Huxley says that he never quite sees things that aren’t there.  Nothing of complete and pure imagination slithered across his hardwoods or anything like that.  But he does mention spatial relationships not making any dent in his view of the things around him.  Such as, seeing three objects in line with his point of view.  A chair in front of him, then a desk, then a table.  It isn’t like the space between these things disappeared, rather the significance of such spatiality did.  When The Mind at Large’s brain filter is shut-off, spatial relationships dive straight to the bottom of the totem pole.  Filling it’s place are things like composition, the most subtle of movements, and color relationships.  Once again, the without the filter he’s seeing things that aren’t essential for his survival (knowing the exact amount of space before he bangs his shin on the coffee table).

Mescaline, Huxley says, is completely unique in one special way.  “Administered in suitable doses, in changes the quality of consciousness more profoundly and yet is less toxic than any other substance in the  in the pharmacologist’s repertory”.

Probably more to come on this…

-Sonny

NES, Woodstock LP, Poser (Digital) DJs.

I’m waiting around before I go to work.  I’ve mentioned before (not that anyone would know) that I believe we’re coming to a point in popular culture where nostalgia is starting to wreck the ideas of today.  Case in point: the insane amount of TV/movie remakes.  But nostalgia isn’t always bad.  I suppose it’s how you utilize it.  I’m sitting here playing Super Mario Brothers 2, Marble Madness, and Paperboy on this old-ass NES.  But goddamn, it was plainly obvious to me around 2 years ago, when I started playing my SNES again, that Mario Brothers 2 is clearly my favorite Mario game.  Part of this may be because its the only Mario game I’ve played while tripping, but that’s another story.  Marble Madness is one of the most ORIGINAL games ever.  The only current thing that comes close to it is Super Monkey Ball, which is geared towards the tikes.  That’s the really strange thing though, we don’t update the things which would cater nicely to updates.  Mutant League Football/Hockey, Marble Madness, Zombies Ate My Neighbors…. THESE are the games that should be updated.

Not only that, but while I’m gaming these by-all-means classics, I’m listening to my girl’s [father's] vinyls.  Let me tell you, they sound really fucking good for how old, and in some cases scratched, they are.  Abbey Road’s side 2 is fuckin’ brilliant.  I realize that this word may be used WAY too much in relation to the Beatles; but Abbey Road’s second side is FULL of un-classics and beautiful obscurity.  And holy Moses, this Sly & The Family Stone section from the Woodstock LP breathes “legendary”.  Sly Stone was so awesome.  The version of “Higher” on this record blows all the other stuff away, excluding Hendrix’s Instrumental Jam/Star Spangled Banner.  Sly’s managed to get all these LSD infested heads to actually sing and clap along energetically!  Even the folks way up on the hill scream “HIGHER!” with every amount of conviction imaginable.  It must’ve been quite a site.  So I guess I can’t talk too much shit about nostalgia; while I’m sitting here listening to records from the 60s and playing videogames from the 80s.

But take these fucking double decks that Korg, DigiTech, etc have been making more and more of these days.  They’re supposed to simulate the vinyl-DJ experience.  OK?  So in one package, you get a mixer with these dumb little fucking black spinners (they’re supposed to feel like records, but they’re about 4-5 inches across), and this software for your PC/Laptop which emulates a Turntable setup.  These programs come with certain FX that are such bullshit.  One tells you exactly how many BPMs your MP3s are without any work at all.  One pitch-bends your two tracks so that their speeds match up exactly.  It’s such bullshit.  So essentially anyone out there with $300/400 and a PC/Laptop can get this program and call themselves a “DJ”.  If you aren’t pitch bending/mixing/scratching/combining in an analogue fashion, I’m sorry to say, you ARE NOT A DJ.  If you’re mixing together two iPods via a Mac DJ Portal, YOU ARE NOT A DJ.  This is yet another example of BULLSHIT nostalgia, not the good variety.  There’s lots of skill that goes into Djing the REAL way.  It’s tough, and you need either a shit-ton of practice or a musical background to do it well, in some cases both.  DJing shouldn’t be something any fucking LA bastard can pickup so that he can mix his Fiest/MIA and 50 Cent/Eminem together.

-Sonny