12.16.2006

I'm loving Bone. The comic you idiot. It's one of those books that I just never got around to reading. I bought the collected edition and it reads so wonderfully and well-paced that I can't imagine reading this thing in single issues over the span of years. It starts cutesy and cartoonish, but about a quarter into it, events hinge and there's a whole section in darkness, in a thunder storm, and Fone bleeds from his head and Thorn cuts an arm off one of the rat creatures. Granma Ben goes nuts. The change in tone is seamless and logical, but also abrupt and stern.

I can't get over how easily story conventions are flexed and then made flexible. My favourite writers are those that play within existing genres and traditional story structure. Joss Whedon, Brian K. Vaughn, Michael Chabon, Orson Scott Card's good stuff, Charlie Kaufmann. (The Kaufmann one is debatable, but I'd argue that -- Adaptation aside -- he's more oldschool conventional than appears on the surface. Which is why I think he works so well.) It's so disciplined. Cats like Dave Eggers write beautiful sentences and break conventions but it's suspect whether or not they can tell a solid story. If they can only write post-modern and convoluted and in their own first-person voice.

This is my problem. I really used to get off on the experimental, post-modern shit. Actually I still do. And I got used to writing in that style, and while I can freestyle a poem for you with fancy metaphors and wordplay in tact, I can't tell you a solid story with a beginning, middle, and end. An end that is both logical and satisfying.

In any case (back to Bone), writer/artist Jeff Smith makes great use of stark black and white images and knows how to use the space between his panels. Check this out:



And speaking of favourite writers -- I'm downloading the new Nas album as I type.

peace.

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12.14.2006

My brother and I are very similar. Aside from the obvious age difference, depending on how you look at it, my brother is either me without the depression, or I am my brother without the having-sex-with-guys. That said, we're kinda the same person. Last time he came home for the Holidays we discovered we owned the exact same pair of shoes. And that same brown golf-shirt from Old Navy, though that one doesn't count because there's nothing rare about golf shirts from Old Navy.

While we both like to talk back to the TV and have a love for disaposable pop culture, I'm noticing this time around that my brother watches a lot of fucking TV. And not just any TV. ALL TV. Whatever is on. Today he was watching some celebrity show on STAR...about celebrities who drink wine. And by celebrities, I mean Jason Priestly. And the Barenaked Ladies.

Yesterday he watched Ellen and Oprah and Dr. Phil. Don't get me wrong. My brother doesn't like these shows. He downright loathes them. I think it's loathing things that my brother loves. I like comic books. My sister likes vegetables. My brother? Loathing.

Anyways, so my brother was wrapping gifts that his boyfriend Andrew is giving to his (Andrew's) little brother. They were a bunch of comics books that Andrew copped at a garage sale. I couldn't believe the finds. The lowest end of the spectrum were a bunch of first issues from the 90s heyday of Image. WildCATS, etc. But the great find was the entire original run of Crisis on Infinite Earths, in great condition too. The death of Supergirl and Flash. Comics worth a lot, and in more ways than just monetary.

"I thought they were all as worthless as a bunch of Richie Rich books," he said, refusing to blink in case I stole them while his lids were shut.

I always go to garage sales looking for cool shit, but all I ever pick up are dead people's diaries and weird children's books.

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