My familiarity with the Pixies’ music is shallow at best, and nonexistent when it comes to Black Francis’ solo work, so I can’t speak to The Good Inn as a work reflective of any lyrical tendencies. In fact, when the characters break into song (as they do occasionally), the tunes I found myself reaching for to make words into music in my head were nursery rhymes. Nonetheless, this is an interesting work, taking on shades of Stoppard and Gilliam in following Solider Boy as he traverses newly-minted fiction, lost fiction, speculative reality, and known reality. Based on what the introduction claims is the first known narrative adult film, now known only from stills and remakes, this tale in screenplay form fleshes out the skin flick by giving the male character a life before he comes on screen, and continues as he tries to move beyond it. It’s convoluted and even confusing at times to be sure; I’ll admit to backtracking more than once to suss out what was happening; even then, I’m sure it would make more sense on screen, or at least be forced into some sort of visual sense on its way there. I came upon The Good Inn while looking for new graphic novels to read, but while the art is sequential, it’s rather too sparse to be a comic book; illustrations appear only every few pages. The art has a casual and expressive line to it, and in places can be absorbing as one tries to map text to image. It would be interesting to see this screenplay produced, even on a very small scale.
It’s not news that comic books, or at least stories and characters that were born in that medium, have become more and more visible over the past several years. Even if you’ve never darkened the door of your local comic book shop (which you should, even if — especially if — you don’t think you’d be interested), you’re doubtlessly at least somewhat familiar with the exploits of Scott Pilgrim, Groot, or Enid & Rebecca. But even with their renewed cultural currency, comics are not without their detractors. In recognition of this, the American Library Association’s Banned Books Week 2014 is focusing on comic books and graphic novels which have have been challenged in our school and public libraries.
The Guardian published an interview on Friday with acclaimed comic book writer and artist Jeff Smith in which he discusses his views on challenges to library collections and his feelings about his best-known work, Bone, showing up on this year’s list of the most challenged titles:
“Comics are now part of the literary scene, part of the discussion, and it shines a spotlight on these kinds of attacks,” he said. “That doesn’t mean the people who want to ban these books are malicious; in fact just the opposite. They have a concern which to them is legitimate. But that isn’t the point. The point is that they are trying to take away someone else’s ability to choose what they want to read, and you can’t do that.”
In concert with the ALA, the Comic Book Legal Defense Fund (CBLDF) has published a free Banned Books Week Handbook focusing on the unique vulnerability of their favorite kind of book to well-meaning but misinformed censors, in which they explain why comics and graphic novels are popular targets:
Why are comics banned?
Comics face challenges for the same reasons as any other books. Reasons books are frequently challenged include “adult content, “language,” “sex / nudity,” or “inappropriate for age group.” Comics are uniquely vulnerable to challenges because of the medium’s visual nature and because comics still carry the stigma of low-value speech. Some challenges are brought against comics because a single page or panel can be taken out of context, while others come under attack because of the mistaken notion that all comics are for children.
Your RRHS Library carries copies of many banned books, including Bone, Fun House, Blankets, The Killing Joke and other challenged graphic novels, including more from this list from Entertainment Weekly of all-time comic book greats which have been subject to challenges. Come on in and read something dangerous.
The integration of the internet into day-to-day and now moment-to-moment life continually narrows the distinction between still relatively abstract actions mediated by the network and those taken apart from it. Stories told since the popularization of the internet, especially those about young people, often include an element of moral panic, a concern that the new facet of modern life will somehow damage or corrupt the innocent and impressionable. In In Real Life, Cory Doctorow spins a compelling tale of ethical reasoning and moral awakening out of several popular bogeymen of the past generation: Stranger Danger! Video Games! The Internet! (No drugs, though).
His protagonist, Anda, is an authentically drawn girl gamer (MMO & tabletop) and budding coder, invited to audition for an all-female guild in a popular MMORPG. Recognizing her skill in the game, an elder guild member invites her to turn that ability into cash by disrupting the activities of other players who sell their in-game loot for hard currency. In doing so, Anda’s eyes are opened to the realities of the much different role the game she plays holds for people her age in other places as she at first clumsily, and then more humbly, tries to help them in a material way.
Doctorow manages to work in a realistic way with the obstacles and resources available to an attentively-parented teen exploring the world of online gaming for the first time, including justifying it to her mother by way of persuading her to advance the first month’s subscription, as well as allaying her fears regarding perceived risks. While told in an economical pace, he still manages to slip in an interesting inversion of stereotype, in which the traditional outsiders that are Dungeons & Dragons enthusiasts themselves constitute an in-group dismissive of interest from more mainstream outsiders.
Jen Wang’s linework is expressive and effective in-game and out, providing a diverse cast with a broad array of telling detail, but not to the point of realism. Instead, a humanistic freehand style leaves even architectural detail with a warm unevenness. Where many other tales split between two “worlds” adopt the Wizard of Oz-esque convention of using a brighter color palette for the less quotidian one, Wang’s colors, suggestive of watercolors, do not change radically from one setting to the other. Instead, her panel layouts play the part of graphic differentiator, becoming more dynamic and less constrained by panel boundaries when Anda is in the game.
While the up-front novelty of In Real Life is its take on the global economies built upon MMORPGs, its message is more deeply rooted in the idea that actions should be based upon a firm understanding of the situation and informed by compassion. Even when such actions take place across a global computer network, they are fully a part of real life.
A favorite since I was introduced to it, strangely enough, in bowdlerized form in the Rankin-Bass classic The Easter Bunny is Comin’ To Town, Big Rock Candy Mountain (in its non-bowdlerized form) has popped up twice in recent days on my various music-shuffling devices. The all-knowing oracle tells me that it’s a modern Cockaigne song, a tale of a mythical land of improbable liberty and plenty. A fun tune, despite it’s somewhat troubling views of paradise, including jails made of tin, from which you can walk right out of as soon as you’re in. The crime rate in Big Rock Candy Mountain is likely astronomical. Nonetheless, I can see how it’d be appealing to early 20th-century transient rail enthusiasts, i.e, hobos. Apart from shotguns, what else do hobos want?
A land that’s fair and bright. Everyone wants this. See, hobos are people too!
Handouts that grow on bushes.
To sleep out every night.
For the sun to shine every day.
For all the cops to have wooden legs. Nevermind, hobos are cruel, cruel beasts.
For the bulldogs all to have rubber teeth.
For hens to lay soft-boiled eggs.
For the farmers’ trees to be full of fruit. See, they support the family farmer; maybe a hobo could get elected president one day!
Barns full of hay.
To never change their socks. We’ll come back to this one.
Little streams of alcohol trickling down the rocks.
For the brakemen to have to tip their hats.
For the railway bulls to be blind.
A lake of stew, and one of whiskey too, in which one can paddle all around in a big canoe. Right with ya up until that last bit.
Jails made of tin, from which you can walk right out again as soon as you are in. Note that they’re fine with being
arrested and processed and incarcerated, so long as they can Kool-Aid man out of the jailhouse wall once they’re in a cell.
No short-handled shovels, axes, saws or picks
To sleep all day.
To hang the jerk that invented work.
All in all, not the craziest list of demands I’ve ever heard. Given the challenges of the lifestyle and the meager comforts available, I can sympathize with almost all of these hobo dreams. Except the sock thing. It nearly ruins the song for me, really, because I can’t for the life of me figure out how not changing one’s socks would be of either material of emotional benefit to anyone. I’m not some sock-changing fanatic, either; in a pinch, I’ll slip on a previously worn pair. But consider: long days, or even weeks holed up in a boxcar, or worse, on foot, trekking from hostile town to hostile town with aggressive vagrancy laws, scrounging for sustenance, contending with your own funk and that of fellow-travelers all the while. Why, for the love of all that’s fluffy and cottony, wouldn’t you want to change your socks? And how, given the manifold dangers and deprivations faced by hobos, does this bizarre desire rate high enough to make it into the song?
I must say that I’m stumped. I welcome any theories or speculation you may have to cast light upon this lyrical hosiery mystery.
The night he passed after a sudden decline in health, my mother asked that I handle my grandfather’s obituary. She specified that it should be something out of the ordinary for printing in a handout at the funeral, with a shorter version for publication in the local news and in his hometown paper. Alas, the journalistic establishment of Scranton PA would not see fit to run anything not in “news format.” The internet, though, notoriously lacks editorial standards. Thanks to my editors, who in other guises are my lovely wife and my dear mother; my brother, whose media production skills are frighteningly good; and of course, the man whose recipes I still follow in and out of the kitchen.
The Rev. Lt. Col. Carmen Frank Riviello, Sr. (ret., U.S.A.N.C.), last stood about 5’3″ on his size 8 ½ feet. The buffeting winds of age and care had eroded a full three inches from his height, but not an atom from his wit.
As a boy in the Lackawanna coal country of northeastern Pennsylvania, he walked the train tracks, collecting lumps of anthracite fallen from the cargo of passing trains which carried the black nuggets his father helped mine from the Paleozoic seams to the furnaces of the pre-rust Steel Belt. Each lump was added to his sack until he returned home to add it to the coal cellar to supplement the familys supply for the stove.
In the same way, he trod the path of life, collecting the memories that make up a lifetime until it came time to shrug off his burden at 15:00 25 May 2011, a week and half before the 80th celebration of his birth on 4 June 1931. And this is what is left: a deep and dense trove of memories, left for us all to mine and add to our own collections, to help keep us warm through the rest of our days. The last, freshly-hewn nugget of memory he collected was surely one of kisses and hugs, prayers and whispered worries, and of tender touches amidst the joyful noise of his family enjoying each others company even in that grim moment. The conversation and tempered laughter halted as his labored breath did.
Below it lay a thousand craggy memories of sad days watching his precious wife Nancys slow decline, punctuated by joy, amusement and pride of days spent with his Great-grandson Gavin. A reach below the surface brings up a day of his retirement vocation, meeting the spiritual needs of others at the First Baptist Church of Schertz and Brooke Army Medical Center, then visiting with his close neighbor Robert Woody Woodfork. Another has him sharing his faith from the high plains of Floydada, Texas to the sea coast of New Symerna Beach, Florida, and another still preaching the gospel as an associate pastor at Hays Hills Baptist Church in Buda, Texas. Deeper yet, there are memories of his days treating college students at Southwest Texas State University.
The birth of his youngest grandchild, now a newly-minted marketer, Shana, his Contessa, is not much deeper down, nor is that of his Pinecone ― Gavins mother ― vocational nursing student Rochelle. The skilled and inquisitive Sean, whom he nicknamed Snag, was born on his birthday in 1983. University of Houston business student Thomas, or Big Tom, arrived only a few months earlier. University of Texas Mathematician Clare, his Princess, came along in 1981. The adventurous Christine, who is truly Rotten was his first granddaughter. Russell, whose subscription to National Geographic started before he was born, answered to George, and made him a grandfather they would all call Papa.
Almost halfway down, there is a memory of his first career, before his retirement from the U.S. Army at Fort Bliss, El Paso. In one of the final moves of his globetrotting service to his fellow citizens, he moved his family from his previous post in Augsburg, Germany, to Fort Dix, New Jersey where he put to use his skill for healing, this time cooling the fever of racial strife which plagued the Army in those tense times. A little deeper and a world away, his tour of duty in Vietnam is a heavy and dark lump of time away from his family, a burden which he was nonetheless proud to carry.
That family was made complete only inches further down, when his youngest daughter Corrine was born while he was stationed in Hawaii, just weeks before it became the fiftieth state and a few months after the death of his beloved mother Ida. Another level holds the arrival of his first daughter, Pontia, while at Fort Ord, California. Down below the memory of his third entry into the Korea-era Army as a Second Lieutenant, and under his second drafting as a corpsman, is a memory made in his time as a civilian, the day he became a father with the birth of Carmen, Jr. In the same era, across the nation, were born those who his children would marry, and who he would hold in his heart as dear as they: Russell, Kathleen and Beverly.
Sitting next to each other only a quarter of the way from the bottom are memories from a momentous month in his young life. The worn and treasured recollection of his wedding day, when his love for Nancy Jeanne was solemnized into a bond which spanned the Earth and 57 happy years to be parted only by nature, sits cheek-by-jowl with the memory of the day not two weeks later when his country first called him to serve.
The loss of his father Francisco when Carmen was 13 is a stone far too deep by any measure, but as the youngest of nine siblings, he was not without others to show him the way, and to keep him on it. The pattern of this foundational gravel of childhood nearly fuses into a mosaic of life as a child of immigrants, comprising memories of his differences, memories of the high expectations that come with being born in the Land of the Free, memories which he was sure to pass on to each of his descendants. Deep in this matrix of days and routines is a small cabochon, told and retold, of a walk down the tracks, which is picked out, and dusted off, and made into something new.
In lieu of flowers, please consider a contribution to the Antioch Church Building fund or the Hays Hills Baptist Church Youth Group, for which Carmen and Nancy provided seed funding. Donations for either may be sent in care of Hays Hills Baptist Church, 1401 N. FM 1626, Buda TX 78610, or call (512) 295-3132.
When I discuss my commute, the first two questions are invariably “How far do you ride?” to which I respond “One-point-six miles each way, if Google is to be believed,” and “Do you ride during the summer, too?” Last year, my answer was “As long as I can bear it.” As it turned out, I managed to pedal my heat-averse, AC-lovin’ self home from work all through last summer. This year the answer is “Yep, and it’s not so bad as you’d think!”
Sunk into the earth about as deep as my chest, a small parking garage is where my ride home from work begins. The access ramp at its rear provides a fun end to my morning ride as well as a sprightly start to the homeward trek. When I’m reasonably certain that nobody’s about to pull out anywhere between the bike rack and the exit, I sprint from the front of the garage to the ramp, suddenly popping up onto the quiet lane like a penguin onto an ice floe. The hot August air instantly envelops me, an electric blanket left on too long, which I immediately fling off with a few standing strokes, catching the green light up and out of the depression in which my office sits, and across the four lanes of Burnet Rd. The line of cars on the far side of the intersection yields several drivers who take note of the large white and yellow clad rider who they blame for costing them a few climate-controlled and musically-enhanced seconds while the left-turning commuters at the head of the line politely awaited my crossing.
Coasting to a stop, then hanging a left, I hear something wholly unexpected. In the summer, in a car, in Texas, the windows stay up. Precious coolness must be preserved to keep the wicked sun at bay, and the steel and glass form a bulwark against such loss. They also block out the street scene, which can be a good thing when avoiding the panhandler at the stoplight , but also prevents entertaining chance encounters. The fellow on the bus stop bench is calling to me,”Hey, do you know what time it is?” I let up on my pedals, taken back a bit, unused to be being conversed with from the sidewalk while using the road. “A quarter of six,” I call back as I ride away.
A bicycle operator is more tightly integrated with the sneaker operators than an automobile operator is. Pedestrians rarely address drivers or passengers, as that is an invasion of their enclosed space, rudely interrupting the activities in those small (and not so small) homes on wheels. A conversation between sidewalk and motorcar must be brief, as the car must be on its way, lest it block traffic with its size, and requires the rider or driver (who is on the side farthest from the sidewalk, and therefore even harder to address) to make the affirmative act of opening a window to speak and hear clearly. The bicycle is, of course, slower, so it need not come to a halt to exchange words; and if it did, it’s small enough for others to navigate around, or even to be taken off the road entirely for a moment. The cyclist’s ears are not impeded by glass or great distance from a pedestrian’s voice, making casual speech much easier, and so more likely to occur.
Soon, the first great challenge of my homeward commute rose before me. I gathered speed and rushed down into the creekbottom, pausing once to absorb the shock of the cement seam on the small bridge, then pedaling furiously before pausing a second time to absorb the shock of scarred and broken pavement before the train tracks, followed swiftly by the tracks themselves, and then the rough patch beyond them. I had bled a good deal of speed at that point, but presently faced an incline up a hill that feels steep even in a car. I don’t get far in third, falling back to second gear while I glance in my rear-view mirror to see one car, then another slow for the tracks, then begin to climb up behind me. One by one, they pass me; some calmly, some with a roar of acceleration meant to make up for time lost looking at my butt and blinking red taillight. I reach the top of Mt Crumpit (not its real name) moving at a crawl. I have several dozen yards to recover before the next hill.
I’ve lived in this area on and off for the better part of the last decade. When I moved into my first post-college apartment on Stonehollow Dr, there was an old sign near the intersection of Gracy Farms Ln and the MoPac frontage road for a development that never got off the ground called Hobby Horse Estates. I ride on the very brief Hobby Horse Ct twice a day; since Mangia and Tacodeli now occupy the site of the old sign, this street is now the only remnant of that ‘80s real estate plan gone bust.
About halfway between the crest of Mt Crumpit and Stonehollow Dr is another old sign, this one affixed to a stout but stunted oak. NO DUMPING reads the rusting plank of steel, which goes on to threaten a fine. The funny thing is that it sits in the fenced-in corner of a regularly mowed lawn of a corporate campus, which seems an unlikely place for someone to decide to discard a broken washing machine. It’s a trace of the past, generally invisible to motorized commuters, from when the Gracys’ farm was not so distant a memory and Gracy Farms Ln was host to far fewer sari-clad Indian ladies taking evening strolls.
Each day coming home, I make a choice, and almost every time, I choose the same. Rather than power up a second steep incline to Metric Blvd, I take a somewhat longer, but more gently sloped route along Stonehollow’s southern half, enjoying the near-total solitude that comes from slowly pedaling through a quiet business park. By far the most difficult part of my daily ride, even in 95-degree heat my gradual ascent still provides enough breeze to keep me cool and focused on the road and the slowly building burn in my calves and thighs. At the top of that long hill, I speed up a bit, but soon come to rest at my favorite stop sign while traffic roars by.
After what seems like forever, I find a gap in traffic, and after a pause in the median pass-through, I cruise up the Metric Blvd bike lane and into my neighborhood. I dismount in my driveway and unbuckle my helmet. It’s only now, without my self-generated near-constant dry breeze, that I feel a trickle of sweat in the fading heat of the scorching day. There’s just enough time for a refreshing shower before dinner.
Four out of five weekdays, I stir myself from bed and tidily fold up my work clothes in my bike bag. Instead of donning the dress-code conforming shirt and khakis, I instead slip into a loose sweat-wicking t-shirt and shorts. No spandex for me, though; that’s a privilege, not a right, and one my chunky behind has yet to earn.
The morning is misty, not too warm, but the warmest yet this year. I greet Syphy (short for Sisyphus, as their tasks are much alike), my grey two-wheeled steed, as I wheel him out of the backyard shed and check on the tires’ pressure. I close the shed and then the gate before I step onto the driveway to don my helmet and switch on my blinkenlights. Pausing a moment after I throw my leg over the seat to listen to the stillness of the neighborhood against the muted roar of traffic on nearby Metric Blvd, I can hear the urgent blast of the Red Line’s horn. I know that if I hear it now, I’ll most likely beat it to the crossing at Gracy Farms Ln.
I coast down the drive, then pedal into second gear. Approaching Metric, I can hear the sizzling of water vapor on the high voltage lines overhead, harmless but curiously unsettling. The bike lane on the boulevard is of comfortable width, but studded with the most random of obstacles: a sippy cup, a box cutter, a dead grackle, a disrespectful squirrel. In the top of my three gears, I glance in my mirror, then look back to find smooth sailing as I glide across the main lanes to the left turn.
It’s been almost a year now, and what once seemed terrifying – riding on the road, changing lanes, climbing hills – is now merely my way to work and back. The awkward perambulations I once used to avoid such tasks are gone. I no longer cruise the sidewalk, no longer turn right to go left, no longer walk or bus my way up a hill.
I turn wide and take the right lane for myself, and the cars behind me politely pass in the left lane, as they should. The next light is green, and then I’m at the top of an unnamed hill I’ve dubbed Mt Crumpet because last summer it made me feel like Max, the Grinch’s sleigh-pulling dog, as I struggled to conquer it every afternoon. I slowly tip over into the gravity well from which I’ll have to climb on my way home and rush toward the tracks at the base of Mt Crumpet. In deference to the residents of the trackside condominiums, Capital Metro has silenced its train whistles as they approach this intersection. Therefore, there is no warning that a load of commuters is on its way to downtown or Cedar Park until the bells, lights and guard arms start going. I stand on my pedals , rumbling across the tracks at full speed even as the car next to me slows to a crawl to save suspension wear. Just as we both begin to climb the slight rise on the far side of the tracks, the familiar ding-ding-ding starts up, and I see the red flashing lights in my mirror. It’s a little exhilarating, really, although I know the train is still several seconds away. The car passes me, and I change lanes to turn left again.
The habits picked up over a year in the saddle have not all been great ones. I do look before each lane change and turn, and I honor stop lights religiously. However, the octagonal momentum thief and I have a love-hate relationship. I love it when it appears at the end of the long, slow incline that I tackle after surmounting Mt Crumpet each day, allowing me to catch my breath and rest my legs for a moment before crossing a busy intersection. I hate it when it nags me to halt when no other vehicle is anywhere in sight or earshot. I have, therefore, taken to ignoring them except in the presence of oncoming traffic, and only grudgingly slowing to a crawl at most other times. Only when confronted with multiple cars do I come to a complete stop and touch the ground with my foot.
I modulate my speed so that the few cars coming down the road have passed by the time I reach the stop sign, and I glide on through and up the rise, pulling a slower but similar trick with the next sign before pedaling up to the light at Burnet Rd. I encourage the few commuters on the two-lane street to pass me, so as to more readily trigger the sensor loops at the intersection. Soon, it’s green, and I go up and over the crown of the road, then down into the parking garage where my u-lock and cable await on the bike rack. Nine hours to rest the body and work the mind before I do it all in reverse.
If there’s a verb I enjoy most, it might be poring. Not pouring, mind you, although I do that often, too, but rather the act of detailed examination of every aspect of something. Oftentimes, this leads me down the ol’ Wikipedia Rabbit Hole. Other times, I get to pore over a map. Our home is adorned with maps, detailed reproductions of old cartography in foreign languages, which, in idle moments away from the
hive-mind computer, I can sidle up to and see what that long-ago mapmaker thought was the most accurate representation of a given patch of the Earth’s surface. It’s a snapshot of the evolution of knowledge; a comically pinched Big Bend, a gulf spanning from San Francisco to Saskatchewan, or a homeland for people with faces embedded in their torsos.
Maps are, like most made things, a way of seeing the world as someone else sees it, but with conventions and degrees of freedom in the exploration of that vision different from others. Unlike words, relationships between points, if not their intended meaning, can be understood without language skills. Unlike narratives, be they spoken, graphical or textual, maps are nonlinear, each point randomly accessible and independently informative without having seen any other point on the map, and yet inextricably tied to the points around it in order to give context to their significance. Unlike the visual arts, their relationship to what they represent or express is explicit and quantifiable. I find this combination of traits highly alluring, perhaps in part because my often brief attention span is well-suited to something that can be absorbed in bite-size chunks, and no doubt due to my abiding preference for nonfiction and expression rooted in the recognizable world over fiction and the abstract.
Kids are taught that the seasonal cycle begins with Spring, but each year is born into Winter.
I’ve never been a big fan of January. Or the bulk of February, for that matter. The brilliance of December’s holidays makes even the few bright and sunny days seem dull by comparison, and the predominant cold and nasty days all the worse. Even the few causes for celebration seem perfunctory. MLK Jr Day and Presidents’ Day net us (maybe) a day off plus the sad sight of retailers trying to make relatively solemn occasions into reasons to shop. Mostly, they afford opportunities to get errands done or see the sort of film studios release in January – Oscar bait (not generally cheery) or predestined flops (sad in a different way). Valentine’s can lift the spirit, if executed properly, but for too many has become an occasion of either obligation or chagrin. The pall lifts, for me anyhow, with my birthday at the end of February, which is followed closely on by Spring Break, now again an occasion for mirth since I re-connected to academia through Christina. Still, for however blah these weeks may be, they at least stave off the inevitable optisinularyngological assault that Spring’s vegetative orgy brings.