Decant Circles

Stopped by the Comic Book Shoppe. Flipped through a couple of horror comics (migod, there are so many more than there used to be, back when I started reading...); one the first issue of something called Bump from Fangoria--clearly I have been not paying much attention to comics lately, since Fangoria putting out comics came as a complete surprise--and one the fourth issue of Secret from Dark Horse.

( Spoilers. )

( Impressions. )

Interesting.

It's putting me oddly in mind of Fred Clark's post here, on how One Does Not Do Such Things even if They Do--not because they are a good person or a fragile flower or any such reason, but because One Is Not Bad. Dammit.
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[1] Ah, bless you, decade of the oughts. How *would* we properly express concern about strange savage degenerate outsider cultures without your movies?
[2] Yayyyy! Freddy!
[3] Oh, hell. That's a decent idea, actually--I can see it in Deadlands. Yank that setup, have dead victims as well as the killer's body hidden away, and have the victims rising from where they were left angry because just retribution was never exacted. Sure, the Sheriff's daughter was protected, and justice was done for *her*--but what about the unnamed, unburied, unavenged others? How are *they* going to rest easy?
Reminds me of the suggestion that a proper fair and legal trial, followed by a sanctioned hanging, might be enough to put down a Harrowed. Social ritual, justice acknowledged, secrets brought to light, memoriam. All that good stuff.
[4] This is notable only because they are human to start with. Freddy Kruegar or Pinhead may be expected to not participate in normal human society. Slasher movies often have a villain who is superficially human--it's the buddy or the cop or the rejected girl or the boyfriend who can function in society, and breaks out the butcher knives on the sly. What I'm talking about is different: the idea of someone who *obviously* doesn't meet society's norms, who clashes with the existing culture--a barbaric archetype.

I picked up Gary A. Braunbeck's In Silent Graves at the library's used book store, and started reading it the other day.

First, I was actually disturbed. (That doesn't happen often. Pleasantly creeped out, grossed out, annoyed, disappointed (all too often), mildly sad or happy, those I get a lot. Disturbed, not so much.) It was a brief scene and a relatively mild effect--nothing as intense as reading "The Screwfly Solution" or watching the end of Hannibal--but damn. I am not used to novels that can do that. I am impressed.

Second, it comes across as *intelligent*, which is different from simply smart in some way I cannot put my finger on. Very information-rich, and I am not seeing any of the talking-down-to-the-audience or playing up of shared assumptions that I usually spot in horror.

Worth picking up.

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If cropped shots of underwear models are NSFW, then so's the link. But as Leigh Walton says:

Jeez, Chris, if we wanted REALISM in our comics we’d go to Alex Ross or something.

What? Oh.

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So apparently the Governor of Oregon is trying to live on $21 of groceries for a week. This has stuck in my brain as a rather neat factoid (yes I know that he's got help not typically available; I still like the idea), and I am moved to go home for lunch. The weather's nice outside[1], and the walk would be not bad, and all such small practicalities.

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Is it just me, or are there a lot more facial piercings out there this year?
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[1] Cloudy, cool, chance of rain, filthy daystar not immediately visible.

So I woke up this morning (yes, this early), and in the predawn stew of my brain, the name "Edgar Vargas" is kicking around. It sounds like it should be something more than a character name, somehow. Faintly referential.

Edgar Vargas, for those either looking blankly at the screen or going through one of the "Agh! Where do I know that name from? Curse you, brain! Spit it out!" moments of life, is a character in Johnny the Homicidal Maniac. It's a comic about a guy named Johnny (Nny for short), who's a homicidal maniac. Written and drawn by Jhonen Vasquez (yes, that Jhonen Vasquez), pre-1997. Wonderfully scratchy B&W art, like a switchblade trying to draw something cute. Edgar shows up for all of four pages. It ends as expected, and it ends badly, and Edgar comports himself with quiet dignity throughout, and Johnny gets nothing out of it.

Edgar Vargas. Sounds like it should be the name of a nineteenth-century somewhat obscure painter, perhaps one who dealt a lot with city sunlight or brickwork.

So I Googled. And I didn't get any references (although Alberto Vargas is technically a nineteenth-century pin-up artist), but dear god--there's fanfic. And fanart. And yes, while I know that somewhere out there someone has probably devoted pages and pages to the fanfic of any short-lived character you can name and the internet lets people hook up with each other, I'm still somewhat surprised.

I'm trying to figure out why it feels like a pleasant surprise.

Going out biking now.

Brain needs clarity. The lovely lovely brown-black clarity that comes dripping in with coffee. Except brain already had coffee, and it's not kicking in yet.

Fell asleep with the light on again last night. Yet another long, coherent, slightly-to-the-left-of-true dream (I am vaguely curious about why those always turn up when the light is on--they never happen if I nap during the day. G'figure). Rested adequately, nonetheless.

The light above my cubicle is out. I actually like it better this way.

siv_volk, I really really do appreciate the loan, but in future, I must ask that you limit your generosity to two graphic novels at a time. I had all five read by Saturday evening, and I'm sure there was something else I was supposed to be doing.

What else...? Dealt with the Jack of Diamonds, or had him deal with (at?) Velvet. Gave up life savings to the cause of law and order. Spoke with the voice of reason. Shot zombies. Avoided getting shot by zombies. Blew a hole in a really *nasty* zombie, and had him return the favour. Bled. Cursed. Survived. Compromised in the name of (hopefully) the least possible evil. Ended the game with more than one white chip: a new record.

(Peacemakers are better than derringers. Shotgun slugs are terrifying. Soul Blast can go either way.)

Went out for pho at the place that'd just opened up on Bank by Somerset; incredibly convenient, that. Went home. tibialmusician brought several people by, so chatted a bit.

Am formally ceasing to hold a grudge against IDW Publishing for putting that misbegotten piece of ersatz vampire/werewolf tru lurve crap into a medium that already has enough embarrassments to overcome.

Because they have published the GrimJack collection. And I am happy, as only some bizarre crossbreed of four-colour pulp and early 2000AD blithe grit about a professional mercenary can make me happy. It's a pulp thing. Glee and swashbuckle and snarls and grim understatement and melodrama.

"I'll be okay tomorrow. Just got to get there from here, that's all."

Warren Ellis is ten years older than me? Only ten years? He started Transmet at 29? He was writing--murdering Christ, he was writing those damn Excalibur stories that I remember reading when he was a year younger than I am now?

Someone dies. It's not him, because I must keep reading. But if natural selection or inordinate amounts of drugs catch up with the man, I want his brainmeats.

First, very nifty blog; it's a place where the contributors post reality checks on comics and cartoons (while managing not to pick at the fact that they're comics and cartoons). Stuff like the fact that charges aren't dropped at a bail hearing, which characters and story arcs aren't making mistakes on the level of "Damn! I'm so glad I made that saving throw, my D&D character only had three points of Armour Class left!" when portraying a particular religion... I like it.

Second, Cursed is playing at South Keys at 3:05. (Yeah, yeah, I know, no zombies or aliens.) Will be there regardless of whether or not anyone else is.

Finally, pokketmowse's art is pretty neat. Go. Look. Enjoy.