Hey! Hey you! Hey, Transmet! I love you.
I LOVE YOU, COMIC BOOOOOKS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
At the Emerald City Comic Con a few years ago a buddy introduced me to Transmet's illustrator Darick Robertson (who is awesome) who totally knew what I meant when I said that Spider Jerusalem is arguably the best "Hunter Figure" in modern art/literature/whatever, and he saw where I was coming from, and we shot the breeze about Hunter S. Thompson for a while and it was cool.
So to me, Transmetropolitan is the best Hunter S. Thompson fan tribute of all time.
Let's fetch the old man off of the Owl Ranch, give him wiry good health, make his series of world-weary foxy assistants into proper superheroes, and make Gonzo journalism less about being too inebriated and fucked up on drugs to write about much more than a savvy person's political feelings and social anxiety, and more about punching injustice in the face repeatedly until real, concrete facts get journalistically recorded accurately, and broadcast to a public who all respond to the words-on-fire with passionate, political action. And then at the end? Nah. Not like what really happened in real life. Let's rewrite that, too.
So, Hunter Thompson terrorized cats more viciously than he terrorized his assistants? Fuck that! Let's give him a cat sidekick. An indestructible cat with two heads that don't give a fuck. Right? Right.
We'll keep the "trademark sunglasses" angle, but instead of mirrored aviators, let's go with something more sci-fi, a little more early-punk-rock. Good deal. While we're at it, why not tattoos? Seems like a good idea.
Alright, we set? Good!
Let's fight corruption with the humor-tempered anti-riot politics of the Dead Kennedys, promote cross-cultural inclusiveness, and really just do our best to live up to those inspirational speeches about civic decency that Henry Rollins has been doing lately.
What do we want?!? Punk rock!!! When do we want it?!? Constantly!!! When do we really want it? When we want our gonzo-feminist-cat-lover-fan-of-Hunter-S-Thompson-guilt softened enough to go as Raoul Duke for Halloween! Or "Halloween!" Also known as "Wednesday!" Or right now! Or whenever. What's a calendar even mean, outside of work hours?
("Why not every day? Are you so afraid? What would people say?")
So thank you, Transmetropolitan. Thank you for telling me exactly what I want to hear.
Well, except for the eating of cute puppy dogs. That's an aesthetically understandable creative choice on Warren Ellis's part. Gotta make it edgy and brutal, but still keep the violence surreal enough to emotionally compartmentalize it enough. But it's still not PERFECTLY my own personal taste, as I am the reluctant babysitter of a revolving series of border collies, and therefore an obligatory--though resentful--Protector Of Dogs.
But it's still a good start.
I'll take what I can get.
Saturday, March 30, 2013
Friday, March 29, 2013
Love Letter to Borderlands 1
Dear Borderlands 1 for the Xbox 360,
I love you.
I do.
You were a Valentine's Day gift from my sweetheart this year, because my novelty budget has been impressively small in years past, so I'm a little behind on my gaming.
Now, everybody knows that I only feel whole when I have something to be engrossed in. This was easy as a student, because everything that I had to pay attention to was intellectually challenging, and fascinating.
As a recession-era breadwinner trying to support a family using nothing but a near-useless BA in psychology and my own monumental pluck... Well... The fun's almost over.
Except for You, Stuff I Like. Except for you.
I've recently given myself permission to get involved with fiction. In school, I mostly had a "NON-FICTION OR DIE!!!!!" approach to the world. But it worked, because every day was fun. Every day was jam-packed with learning and friendship, and on Wednesdays I'd pop over to my friend Jeff's house for aerobic living room mosh pit dance parties, typically set to Devo. If the crest of the wave of the song "Gut Feeling" doesn't make you want to jump around and shout at the top of your lungs, then I just don't know, man.
But, back to Borderlands 1 for the 360.
I want to change my hair color a few times a day, and I want to run over dudes with my tank, and just generally fuck shit up. I have wanted this for decades. Boy, have I ever!
Growing up, my dad used to call me his "little Lori Petty" after the Tank Girl movie, and I keep a small library of the comic books.
In real life, I'm so delightfully pacifist that I've actually crossed over into "nurturing" territory. When digging holes in the yard (another great pastime), I not only make a point to transfer worms into a special dirt bucket for their safety, but I will apologize to them verbally as I do so. All evidence suggests that earthworms cannot understand the English language, but I have integrity, and I apologize when I pose an inconvenience, goddammit!!!
But my sweet, dear little "make love, not war" heart is nevertheless full of affection for the bloody violence in this video game.
Yeah, sure, killing Mothrakk kind of broke my heart in a Shadow of the Colossus way. (I cannot stress this enough: FUCK THAT GAME.)
And worse, Borderlands 1 keeps using the word "midget," in a way that--and I plan to recycle this simile in a higher-end piece of writing later on--gives me certain nauseating "racist language in Breakfast of Champions" flashbacks.
I want to love this video game without guilt. But, fuck it, I want to love Kurt Vonnegut without guilt. I want to love the Ramones without guilt. Everything I love induces pangs of political guilt. That's simply part of being human in a society where inequality is typically either shushed up, real hush-hush like, or handled artlessly.
So, the violence just gives me a triumphant case of "I melted your face, motherfucker, and that's what you get for trying to defend your stuff from me!" giggles, but the "midget" jokes make me want to squeeze my eyes shut and say "Help me, Peter Dinklage, you 'Hugh Laurie with a full head of lush hair,' you. Help, help, help!"
Now, I'm not normally one for the damsel in distress trope, because they never rescue the damsel from real-world issues that I care about. But in this case? Fuck yes, this damsel feels passive, and wants a rescue. And by "rescue," I mean cultural permission from somebody good-looking, who seems to have good taste in projects, to assuage my guilt, so that I don't have to stop playing a video game that I otherwise really, really, really like. I mean, I have A SNIPER RIFLE THAT DEALS CORROSIVE DAMAGE. Fuck, that's cool.
...
And while I may have run out of points to make, and run out of the Ritalin needed to stay focused, I do want to end this mess of a stream-of-consciousness essay on a very, very good and very, very politically relevant subject.
When I said that nobody bothers to rescue damsels from the real-world issues I care about, well, here's a list:
1. Rescue me from not having a pizza.
2. Rescue me from having to leave the couch when I don't want to.
3. Rescue me from boredom.
4. Rescue me from my cat Greg, because he's way too cute to ask to move, but my leg's getting numb from holding still.
5. Rescue me from not having any fresh bread left. Bake some bread, why don't you?!?
6. Rescue me from not knowing where my eyelash curler went.
7. Rescue me from not owning the 4th season of the revamped Battlestar Galactica on DVD. I have the 3rd season, and the bonus podcasts were definitely worth the price, but now I want to know what everybody says about making the 4th season.
... Does anybody else think that the weird "cynical pop star that everybody pretends is Jesus even though he's incredibly rude and has vapid--though friendly--sex with anything" is soooooo 1970s THAT YOU COULD JUST DIE?!?!?! Can I get a "John Lennon was actually a sassy, rude bastard" from the cheap seats? Hell yeah.
Plus, a dog is not an appropriate surprise gift. Neither is the presidency. Neither is [awesome spoiler deleted, motherfucker!].
But I LOVE THAT PLOT LINE THE BEST!!!!!!!
Who inherits the hung over aftermath of the 1970s? Disenfranchised weirdos with a certain Henry Rollinsesque, Jello Biafraity counterculture pragmatism, forced to adopt a leadership role by nasty default, as punishment for lacking the delusional optimism of the royal family, and lacking enough sociopathy to just let us die.
What do we want?!? Punk rock! When do we want it?!? Constantly!!! When do we actually want it?!? After the wave of 1960s optimism breaks and starts to roll back, leaving us with a huge mess to clean up!!!
... I've seriously digressed, haven't I?
My spaceship dreams keep getting invaded with images of a young Patti Smith, narrated by a young Hunter S. Thompson. Nothing can be done to prevent this, really.
Wow.
Wow.
Wowie-wow-wow. (Please hear Christopher Walken's voice when you read that one.)
8. Rescue me from being too afraid of pain to let my sister practice tattooing on me.
9. Rescue me from having a bad refrigerator.
10. Rescue me from my medical debt.
11. Rescue me from having to pay for my own car repair.
12. Rescue me from having ADHD when it's not fun.
13. Rescue me from having to remember to stay hydrated. (I just drank you, water!!! What do you mean I have to do that again?!? Huuuuuh.)
14. Rescue me from running out of hot water sometimes.
15. Rescue me from ever encountering weather that I dislike.
Okay, got it?
So,I'm going to go back to running dudes over with my tank, while switching my hair color every few minutes, as I endure life as an apparently-not-damsel-enough-to-inspire-a-heroic-protagonist-to-go-on-an-epic-quest-to-find-my-missing-library-book-that's-probably-not-in-my-backpack person.
Yep.
Video games.
I love you, video games.
I love you, Borderlands 1 for the Xbox 360.
Love,
Your Friend,
Sincerely,
Forever Your Darling,
Me.
I love you.
I do.
You were a Valentine's Day gift from my sweetheart this year, because my novelty budget has been impressively small in years past, so I'm a little behind on my gaming.
Now, everybody knows that I only feel whole when I have something to be engrossed in. This was easy as a student, because everything that I had to pay attention to was intellectually challenging, and fascinating.
As a recession-era breadwinner trying to support a family using nothing but a near-useless BA in psychology and my own monumental pluck... Well... The fun's almost over.
Except for You, Stuff I Like. Except for you.
I've recently given myself permission to get involved with fiction. In school, I mostly had a "NON-FICTION OR DIE!!!!!" approach to the world. But it worked, because every day was fun. Every day was jam-packed with learning and friendship, and on Wednesdays I'd pop over to my friend Jeff's house for aerobic living room mosh pit dance parties, typically set to Devo. If the crest of the wave of the song "Gut Feeling" doesn't make you want to jump around and shout at the top of your lungs, then I just don't know, man.
But, back to Borderlands 1 for the 360.
I want to change my hair color a few times a day, and I want to run over dudes with my tank, and just generally fuck shit up. I have wanted this for decades. Boy, have I ever!
Growing up, my dad used to call me his "little Lori Petty" after the Tank Girl movie, and I keep a small library of the comic books.
In real life, I'm so delightfully pacifist that I've actually crossed over into "nurturing" territory. When digging holes in the yard (another great pastime), I not only make a point to transfer worms into a special dirt bucket for their safety, but I will apologize to them verbally as I do so. All evidence suggests that earthworms cannot understand the English language, but I have integrity, and I apologize when I pose an inconvenience, goddammit!!!
But my sweet, dear little "make love, not war" heart is nevertheless full of affection for the bloody violence in this video game.
Yeah, sure, killing Mothrakk kind of broke my heart in a Shadow of the Colossus way. (I cannot stress this enough: FUCK THAT GAME.)
And worse, Borderlands 1 keeps using the word "midget," in a way that--and I plan to recycle this simile in a higher-end piece of writing later on--gives me certain nauseating "racist language in Breakfast of Champions" flashbacks.
I want to love this video game without guilt. But, fuck it, I want to love Kurt Vonnegut without guilt. I want to love the Ramones without guilt. Everything I love induces pangs of political guilt. That's simply part of being human in a society where inequality is typically either shushed up, real hush-hush like, or handled artlessly.
So, the violence just gives me a triumphant case of "I melted your face, motherfucker, and that's what you get for trying to defend your stuff from me!" giggles, but the "midget" jokes make me want to squeeze my eyes shut and say "Help me, Peter Dinklage, you 'Hugh Laurie with a full head of lush hair,' you. Help, help, help!"
Now, I'm not normally one for the damsel in distress trope, because they never rescue the damsel from real-world issues that I care about. But in this case? Fuck yes, this damsel feels passive, and wants a rescue. And by "rescue," I mean cultural permission from somebody good-looking, who seems to have good taste in projects, to assuage my guilt, so that I don't have to stop playing a video game that I otherwise really, really, really like. I mean, I have A SNIPER RIFLE THAT DEALS CORROSIVE DAMAGE. Fuck, that's cool.
...
And while I may have run out of points to make, and run out of the Ritalin needed to stay focused, I do want to end this mess of a stream-of-consciousness essay on a very, very good and very, very politically relevant subject.
When I said that nobody bothers to rescue damsels from the real-world issues I care about, well, here's a list:
1. Rescue me from not having a pizza.
2. Rescue me from having to leave the couch when I don't want to.
3. Rescue me from boredom.
4. Rescue me from my cat Greg, because he's way too cute to ask to move, but my leg's getting numb from holding still.
5. Rescue me from not having any fresh bread left. Bake some bread, why don't you?!?
6. Rescue me from not knowing where my eyelash curler went.
7. Rescue me from not owning the 4th season of the revamped Battlestar Galactica on DVD. I have the 3rd season, and the bonus podcasts were definitely worth the price, but now I want to know what everybody says about making the 4th season.
... Does anybody else think that the weird "cynical pop star that everybody pretends is Jesus even though he's incredibly rude and has vapid--though friendly--sex with anything" is soooooo 1970s THAT YOU COULD JUST DIE?!?!?! Can I get a "John Lennon was actually a sassy, rude bastard" from the cheap seats? Hell yeah.
Plus, a dog is not an appropriate surprise gift. Neither is the presidency. Neither is [awesome spoiler deleted, motherfucker!].
But I LOVE THAT PLOT LINE THE BEST!!!!!!!
Who inherits the hung over aftermath of the 1970s? Disenfranchised weirdos with a certain Henry Rollinsesque, Jello Biafraity counterculture pragmatism, forced to adopt a leadership role by nasty default, as punishment for lacking the delusional optimism of the royal family, and lacking enough sociopathy to just let us die.
What do we want?!? Punk rock! When do we want it?!? Constantly!!! When do we actually want it?!? After the wave of 1960s optimism breaks and starts to roll back, leaving us with a huge mess to clean up!!!
... I've seriously digressed, haven't I?
My spaceship dreams keep getting invaded with images of a young Patti Smith, narrated by a young Hunter S. Thompson. Nothing can be done to prevent this, really.
Wow.
Wow.
Wowie-wow-wow. (Please hear Christopher Walken's voice when you read that one.)
8. Rescue me from being too afraid of pain to let my sister practice tattooing on me.
9. Rescue me from having a bad refrigerator.
10. Rescue me from my medical debt.
11. Rescue me from having to pay for my own car repair.
12. Rescue me from having ADHD when it's not fun.
13. Rescue me from having to remember to stay hydrated. (I just drank you, water!!! What do you mean I have to do that again?!? Huuuuuh.)
14. Rescue me from running out of hot water sometimes.
15. Rescue me from ever encountering weather that I dislike.
Okay, got it?
So,I'm going to go back to running dudes over with my tank, while switching my hair color every few minutes, as I endure life as an apparently-not-damsel-enough-to-inspire-a-heroic-protagonist-to-go-on-an-epic-quest-to-find-my-missing-library-book-that's-probably-not-in-my-backpack person.
Yep.
Video games.
I love you, video games.
I love you, Borderlands 1 for the Xbox 360.
Love,
Your Friend,
Sincerely,
Forever Your Darling,
Me.
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