This Probably Isn't The Time To Embrace Humanity

I found myself out in the world today, and saw for myself what the Apocalypse will look like. It will wear shiny jackets, chew gum, and have frost-tipped hair. It will clack along ahead of me in black stilettos, cramming a fifty year old wide load ass into designer Jordache jeans so tight you can hear the threads thrumming on the verge of self destruction. It will stagger in front of me wearing shorts in November, a football jersey draped across a beer gut, a bovine look of emptiness in its eyes. It will attempt to drive a Cadillac into the side of my car, then glare at me for having the audacity to hit my brakes, for being on the road it wished to drive upon. It will feel the need to look upon Vulcan Ninja and myself, sneer to its friend that we are 'goth misfits', and walk away, bottle blond hair bouncing above a cancer casket tan.

It will also break your heart. It will be a small puppy hopping up and down beside a woman who looks like her interest in her pet could be set by an egg timer. It will be a old man still rocking the Brylcreem, shuffling in East London with faded blue jeans, clutching a scratch and win ticket in his hands, with that look of Maybe in his eyes. It will be a man drinking beer before one p.m., shouting about some injustice to the cold November air from his pulpit of a chipped picnic table. It's a squirrel curled in a fetal position in the middle of King Street, it's tail whipped back and forth by the cars kind enough not to hit it again.

The Apocalypse will be the sound of a helpless heartbreak slowly drowned out by the roar of selfish indifference, culminating in a flurry of Tweets about a sale on hair products at Wal-Mart.

Is That Johhny?

Among my many life destroying obsessions, music has its own special room in my fractured psyche. I tend to get very obsessive about it, and have to make a very definite attempt to simply shut the fuck up when I notice I'm going on about a band, about chord changes, about how musicians get their guitars to sound that way. Vulcan Ninja used to sit in awe at my knowledge, but now she just gets this pained look on her face, knowing that if she walks away I'll probably sulk, so she endures yet another lesson and/or testimonial on a band I've discovered, or just why Simple Minds took a nose dive after their big hit on The Breakfast Club.

This morning was no different. I heard a song playing on Galaxie, and thought: Wow, that guitar really sounds like Johnny Marr. After seeing who the band was, I immediately went to YouTube to check out the video. And there, playing with a bunch of young pups who call themselves the Cribs was Mr. Marr himself, his singular guitar style in full, glorious effect.

I loved the Smiths, and have gone on to follow Morrissey on his storied solo career (his current rebirth courtesy of a newfound fandom among Latin teenagers is glorious), but Marr has been a little more problematic. He's had a tendency post-Smiths to join bands for an album or two, then disappear again. I've followed him to the Talking Heads, for example, and it was him that got me into Modest Mouse when he joined that band for a cup of tea and a chord change. So now he's with the Cribs--for now.

So this was my Sunday geek quest. Of course, I had to call in Vulcan Ninja to let her know what I'd found. And again, there was that look. The forbearance. The I Really Don't Give A Flying Fuck Look, But I Love You And I'll Listen Anyway. And I knew I should have just shut up, but I gave my lecture anyway. She smiled, then went back to doing something productive.

I'm sure none of you can relate.

What Chu Been Playin?

I've been trying to clear my Pile of Shame again. I hear of the progress Jim Dandy is making clearing his games, I see the clear and laser like intensity of dedication shown by Crazylegs with Oblivion, I despair at Adam's ability to apparently play everything, and I think: Fuck, Twist. Time to get a move on.

So I'm trying now to finish Magic: The Gathering on XBLA. Which is made difficult because the bloody AI makes sure it gets all the right cards, while I get new and amazing piles of FAIL. I tried the online game, but got my ass handed to me by an undoubtedly gloating nerd who had bought the inevitable download of Let's Kick Twist's Ass cardset.

Arkham Asylum, while a nigh perfect game, does have one fault in design--and I found it. Without getting spoilery, let's just say you should upgrade your Crytpo device as soon as possible. If you, say, put your build points simply towards better armour, (who would do that?), you will be SOL by the time you're ready to face Poison Ivy. Just saying.

So at this point, I thought I'd just go grind until I had enough new build points. But...BUT...I had already kicked everyone's ass. There was no-one else to fight. So I've spent the last three nights trying to find puzzles to solve, things to break--anything that will give me a micron of XP. Three nights of this, and I finally managed to wring enough XP to buy a new Crypto doo-hickey fuckamabob. You know what fun is? This wasn't it.

And because I have no willpower after midnight and a glass of wine, I bought TRIALS HD. A sadistic combination of Excitebike and The Three Stooges, this has made me forget the deep pain I carry in my soul and simply laugh with glee as the hapless trail bike driver is blown up, lands on his face, or falls three hundred feet to have his bike land on him--then explode--leaving him to twitch in eternal twitchiness at an uncaring world.

And you?

It's Been A Long Week. Time For Awesome.

Super Speed Comic Reviews: STUMPTOWN #1

WHAT'S IT ALL ABOUT? A down on her luck P.I. is forced to investigate the disappearance of a casino owner's granddaughter to clear her gambling debt. Things don't go well.

THAT SOUNDS A LITTLE CLICHE, TO BE HONEST: Like all good mystery writers, Greg Rucka only uses that to get the story moving. And it does move quickly. I actually like stories about down on their luck P.I.s who have less money in their savings account than I do. I find it comforting.

SO WHAT'S COOL: The lead character, who has the best name I've read in comics this year: Dexedrine Parios. But everyone just calls her Dex.

At first I thought this was going to be Kinsey Millhone territory, but Rucka changes it up: Dex has a terrible gambling problem, is caring for her brother who has Down's Syndrome, and really doesn't know when to shut up. She also has some interesting tattoos. Oh, and she is a pretty good private investigator, too.

I HEARD THAT RUCKA WANTS THIS TO BE LIKE THE ROCKFORD FILES. IS IT? If that's his aim, then he comes close. Stumptown is a bit more violent than any episode of Rockford I ever saw, but there is that feeling that Dex gets in her own way. She does have the wit, though. Which we see, when she isn't being shot or punched out.

BEST LINE: When told that she's a bad gambler because she doesn't know when to quit, Dex replies: "Sure I do, Hollis. Consistently about a minute too late."


BEST OMG MOMENT: The two page spread on Pages 4 and 5 is extremely well done. It may not be worth buying the book on this alone, but it's a big part of why I don't regret buying this book.

WORST PART OF THIS BOOK: The fear that it might be a long stretch between issues. I don't want to wait more than a month for the next issue. I get enough waiting with Warren Ellis.

PART OF THIS BOOK YOU DIDN'T GET: Apparently, internet nerds are a-gog over the detail spent on Dex's Mustang, especially how artist Matthew Southworth got the gas tank cover right.I mean, it's a 64 Mustang--



--and I tend to like anyone who drives that sort of car, especially tattooed brunettes who like to throw back the liquor. Must we look for imperfections, however unfound?

SO SHOULD I BUY THIS, OR THE LATEST DARK REIGN TIE IN? Support the cool. Support the indies, especially when books like Stumptown make it so easy.

Super Speed Comic Reviews: DOCTOR VOODOO, AVENGER OF THE SUPERNATURAL #2

WHAT'S IT ALL ABOUT? Brother...no, wait, Doctor Voodoo has to get home from a real shithole Doctor Doom left him in. When he does return to New Orleans, he probably wishes he hadn't bothered, because of all the fans covered in feces.

WHY IS HE CALLED DOCTOR VOODOO AGAIN? Because Jericho Drumm is now the Sorcerer Supreme. He got the job after Doctor Strange went to the dark side to save the Avengers. And I'm not sure they even thanked him. Those Avengers. It's always about them.

WHAT WAS COOL? The fact that Doctor Voodoo's face gets all skull like when he's doing the magic. That, and those weirdy magical landscapes that any Marvel magic book should have, like giant mollusks who have televisions for eyes. I mean, what is the ecology that creates that? Weeeeeeird.

WHAT WAS COOLER THAN THAT? There's a back up from the Seventies explaining Brother Voodoo's origin. Written by Roy Thomas. Ah, the memories, when Roy Thomas wrote everything at Marvel. Good times. Good fucking times.


BEST LINE? When Voodoo asks Damien Hellstrom what his father might want on Earth, he replies, "Drink the souls of humanity, turn the holy to wicked, rot the earth, prove to God that man is inherently immoral....the usual."

WORST PART OF THIS BOOK? The villain. The last time I saw him, he was fighting the Micronauts. Respeck to the 'nauts, but this guy? Ugh.

WHAT DID I LEARN FROM DOCTOR VOODOO, AVENGER OF THE SUPERNATURAL?
That you should never throw an old man's suitcase from a train.

BEST ZOMG MOMENT: Every time Voodoo tries to throw the Eye of Agamotto away, it keeps flying back and attaching itself to him. Pity that didn't work with the old man's suitcase.

SO WHAT IS THIS? IS MARVEL BRINGING BACK THE HORROR BOOKS AGAIN? For me, the Seventies Marvel comics were either about the cosmos or horror books. TOMB OF DRACULA. WEREWOLF BY NIGHT. MAN-THING. KILLRAVEN. NOVA. GUARDIANS OF THE GALAXY. WIth the resurgence of Marvel Cosmic, we do need real Marvel Horror. But with no zombies. I am so sick of zombies.



But not Clea.

Super Speed Comic Reviews: BATMAN CONFIDENTIAL #36

WHAT'S IT ABOUT? Batman fights Nazis. You need nothing else.


WHAT WAS COOL? Giant squid Nazi robots, fighting in a cemetery.

WHAT WAS EVEN COOLER THAN THAT? The absolutely cheesecake shot of Lady Blackhawk. I didn't know WWII pilots wore mini-skirts. The fault of a public school education, so many holes in my knowledge.

BEST LINE? "Fried calamari...and they say bachelors can't cook."

WORST PART OF THIS BOOK? The fact all I know of the Blackhawks is from cartoons. And they say Hawkaaaa! Or maybe they don't. Now that I think about it, I hope they don't.

BEST ZOMG MOMENT: An old classic. Bruce Wayne shows up at Blackhawk Island, and as it often the case when Wayne goes anywhere, shit goes down. Seconds later, Batman appears. Did I mention they were on an island? And no-one makes the connection. They never do.

YOU ONLY BOUGHT THIS FOR LADY BLACKHAWK, DIDN'T YOU?
I would never buy a book just for a panel. Never!



That would be shallow of me.

Bad Night In Arkham

I have a few talents. Among them is the ability to completely screw up any video game I'm playing in ways no designer could ever foresee. This power came into effect back when I was testing Dark Sector, where even with a designer fuming over my shoulder, I couldn't actually move the game forward. Other noteworthy moments of this talent manifesting was the cold Sunday night when I found myself alone in a desert in Final Fantasy VII , with no money, no items and no real idea where I was supposed to go next. Or Final Fantasy VIII, where I ended up in space and couldn't figure out how to get back to Earth. Or Star Wars Galaxies, where I ended up in a space ship but couldn't actually fly it anywhere.

Sure, some of this blame must be laid at the golden clad feet of the game designers themselves. But even in nigh-perfect vidya, I can fuck it up like nobody's business.

Case in point: last night's game session in Arkham Asylum.

With no spoilerage, I can only say I had to find a certain villain. I was equipped with the tech to do this small feat, and for a while, the numbers rising in the Villain Detect-O-Meter were rising in a way that made me feel confident that I was an alpha male, that women desired me, and that I would soon add this game to the small list of those I had not only finished, but slapped around.

But then the numbers on the Detect-O-Meter didn't just drop--they disappeared. And suddenly, years of Batman lore absorption left me high and dry. "But the villain should be there!" I howled. "That's where the villain would be in the fucking comics!"

And so I started to wander, and found myself in parts of the game where I really shouldn't have been. The NPCs actually looked embarrassed to see me, muttering vague references to plot lines I hadn't experienced yet. Standing beside one Arkham employee, several awkward moments passed as I waited for him to say something plot triggery, and he just stared at me. Oh, and shuffled his feet.

After forty minutes, I just went to turn the game off. And then the screen froze.

I felt cold. I looked down at the Green Light of Fun, waiting for the Eye of Sauron to appear. My survival reflexes kicked in, and I leapt forward, turning the box before I found myself on the Microsoft Support line. Again.

I hate video games. I really do.

Let The Right One In

A few months ago, a friend recommended this film to me in a very, very long email. This from someone who generally only sent me messages composed of one or two lines. This sent me on a quest to find the film without resorting to downloads. It finally appeared at the Hyland Cinema, but was just as quickly disappeared.

Well, I finally found it.

Let The Right One In is a wonderful film, not only because it is well made but because it vainly confirms my belief in what constitutes good horror. For me, horror is about atmosphere, about chills, and about the deep, growing unease simple, everyday environments can attain through the glacial prism of fear. The current trend in horror fiction and film is to equate gore with horror, or simple shock. To take the time to create atmosphere, to introduce the horrific to the everyday, to make it a part of it, is almost unheard of. Joe Hill did it with Heart Shaped Box, and John Ajvide Lindqvist and director Tomas Alfredson do it here.

A great way to spend Hallowe'en night.