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Say, you attended a conference, right?

2009-11-07T15:55:26-08:00

Why yes, Johnny. Yes, I did. A few more words on the University of Oregon's recent "Understanding Superheroes" academic conference. I'll try to keep this post Teen Titans-sized, and not one of the Justice League-length diatribes of my last couple of superposts.

Perhaps my favorite of all the conference events I've attended to this point (yes, there are more upcoming; this conference and its schedule of attendant events are massive), was the panel "Being and Super-Beings: Existentialism, Temporality, and Eschatology." I knew I was among my own when I met a dapper Ph.D. student from UC Davis name Kane (or Caine?) who was dressed to the nines in a natty shirt, blazer, and Blue Lantern ring. I also met a wheelchair-bound comics expert from Tacoma who works for Twomorrows Publishing, who not only amused me with the tale of one Halloween when he won a costume contest dressed as a motorized Sherman tank, but recognized in me a kindred spirit when he realized he didn't have to explain the meaning of the phrase "Cei-U".

Both panel presenters were excellent. Professor Beth Davies-Stofka of Excelsior College spoke on the connection of superheroes and religion, arguing that comic book heroes are not the "modern day mythology" (yawn) fanboys make them out to be, but rather are representative of humanity, the religious themselves. Reading Comics and New York Times-published author Douglas Wolk also spoke about a connection of gods and men, helping this dubious nerd locate a logical through line in Grant Morrison's sprawling, metatextual Final Crisis storyline featuring DC Comics' so-called "Fourth World." (How could I never have noticed that the Omega Effect symbols on Darkseid's gauntlets on the cover of issue #4 form a "DC"? Jeez Louise.)

Both of the presenters were gracious and engaged in taking questions after their respective presentations, even when I pushed Wolk a bit to defend what I believe to be substandard work from Morrison. Davies-Stofka and her husband were also great fun to hang out with for the rest of the weekend.

The week prior, at one of the earliest conference talks, UO law professor Dominick Vetri, spoke about the complicated legal struggle of Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster, the creators of Superman, to regain control of their golden goose after a rash adolescent decision to sell the character to DC Comics for $130(!) in 1938. Vetri spoke at length about the legal ins and outs of the case, a superhero-style "neverending battle" that has risen, phoenix-like, from its own ashes countless times over seven decades...and which, believe it or not, is still taking place as I type this, long after the principle actors have all passed along to that great comics bullpen in the sky.

Vetri demonstrated a rare and self-effacing wit during his talk. He noted DC's lawyers' argument that their naïve contractors' compensation for their Superman work was partially the simple joy of seeing it in print... which essentially means they'd been working for free. That, Vetri quipped, was a situation worthy only of "college professors and poets."

It's easy to pillory these Siegel and Shuster, these two starry-eyed Jewish teenagers from Cleveland. They signed the papers for that 130 bucks, right? Their loss. Live and learn, yes? Welcome to the big city, boys, and yadda yadda. And the case is certainly a lot (and I mean a LOT, ask Vetri) more complicated, and perhaps even less one-sided, than I've summarized it here. But the Law (that's with a capital L), however flawed, has always been humankind's imperfect attempt to match those ineffable morals and ethics and standards we have rattling around in our heads and hearts.

So stiffing this pair of kids so badly that Siegel, in 1978, released a press release blaring "SUPERMAN'S
ORIGINATOR PUTS 'CURSE' ON SUPERMAN MOVIE" was immoral, no matter how legal it may have been. And of course, as I'm sure many of you readers may have considered by this point in this super-screed, it's the height of irony and arrogance that underhanded legal maneuvers would be engaged to retain control of a character whose own moral code is not only considered part and parcel of his fiber, but even goes so far as to publicly and repeatedly trumpet its espousal of "truth, justice, and the American way."

Given my own penchant for long-winded soapbox speechifyin' on the topic of superheroes, I guess I'm the target audience for this sort of discourse. And as pleased as I am that local media has seen fit to cover the exhibition and conference, it's been disheartening how little attention they've received in the geek press. Or to codify a more modest goal, why didn't I see any of the comic store regulars I know from here in Eugene at the conference?

Sadly, I fear the answer is that such discussion is over the head of the garden variety hardcore comics fan, even on the continuity-parsing Internet, and even in a college town. Or, perhaps even more disappointing, it's simply uninteresting to him. He'd rather bury his head in the Batcave, perhaps? Hoping the comic book faithful will prove me wrong, or offer up alternate hypotheses, in the comments section.

Professor Bummer's Tenure Track

2009-11-02T08:56:03-08:00

I have a new nickname. Or deejay name. Or maybe it’s a superhero name: “Professor Bummer.” The moniker was bestowed on me by Matt Fraction, writer of the comic books Iron Man and Casanova, at the comic creators panel, a part of the University of Oregon’s “Understanding Superheroes” academic conference that ran a week ago on campus in conjunction with the Jordan Schnitzer Museum of Art’s exhibition Faster Than a Speeding Bullet: The Art of the Superhero. The conference sported panels with names like "Being and Super-Beings: Existentialism, Temporality, and Eschatology." (Yes, really.)

In fact, I have written previously about the exhibition and conference for local media.

Fraction appeared with fellow Oregonian comic writers Kurt Busiek (Trinity, The Avengers, Astro City) and Gail Simone (Wonder Woman, The All-New Atom, Birds of Prey). In the panel’s wrap-up Q-and-A, I asked the creators what it’s like writing for these sprawling, decades-old mega-storylines, considering that the DC and Marvel Universes have been rolling along since the 1930s and 40s, respectively. I may have asked it a bit bluntly, I’ll allow, as I phrased it along the lines of “…considering that you could stop writing for comics at any time, take a break of 20 or 30 years, and come back to find the same story had been told in your absence?”

Fraction’s response: “I’ve ever thought of my work in such Sisyphian terms. Thanks, Professor Bummer.”

That kind of wit was on display through the whole thing. Prof. Ben Saunders of the UO English department, conference organizer and guest curator of the exhibition, opened the panel with, “I apologize for the less than ideal angle some of you may have of our esteemed guests.”

Busiek: “Head on?”

As often happens when comics geeks and academics gather in real or virtual spaces, much of the chit-chat revolved around the agony and ecstasy of comic book continuity, the sprawling web of interconnected stories that compose a shared fictional universe, the violations of which give fanboys ample opportunity to praise or lambaste creators.

“I think continuity is the devil,” Fraction asserted, his usual timid, reticent self. He went on to explain that, so long as characters and story scenarios operate in a basically consistent manner, he’s happy with his writing.

Busiek, who along with Mark Waid represents perhaps the largest walking repository of superhero continuity lore in the industry, countered with a quote his mis-attributed to John Donne, but which actually belongs to Ralph Waldo Emerson: “A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds.”

(Coincidentally, Saunders specializes in Donne and Shakespeare. Reckon he was gritting his teeth.)

“I personally get continuity fatigue,” added Simone.

Fans (including your truly) attempted to raise their hands at multiple points in the discussion each time the conversation would lapse for a moment, only to find the creators would get a second or third or fourth wind on the continuity topic. “We’re not taking another question!” quipped Busiek.

Fraction had the last word on the subject: “Let’s just let the Internet sort it out!”

The assembled audience was a curious cross section of the academic and comic book nerd cultures. Bookish, verbally expansive academics rubbed elbows with those guys who stereotypically looked like they just crawled out of Mom’s basement. One ardent fan who seemed to straddle the two worlds asked whether the creators, as the caretakers of their respective characters, considered themselves experts or scholars on the Campbellian hero monomyth. “This stuff is steeped in our unconscious,” responded Busiek, “so I don’t have to study it. It’s already there.”

For all his acerbic snark, Fraction still seems to see his life and his work as charmed, blessed. One telling comment: “We live a ridiculous lifestyle. Make no mistake, this is a ridiculous, wonderful way to live.”

As Fraction made the comment, I couldn’t help but nodding. My own writing, whether for this blog, or for the magazines, newspapers, websites, and marketing publications for which I write, isn’t nearly so culturally impactful as is that of Fraction or his fellow panelists. In fact, my work for the university, the material I write that even comes close to approaching the number of eyeballs Fraction’s does each month is, in fact, written anonymously.

Even still, there’s something seductive about writing, about knowing someone else will seek out what one has written. Yeah. A ridiculous, wonderful way to live.

Affection and Nostalgia

2009-09-26T09:42:20-07:00

The UO’s Jordan Schnitzer Museum gives comic books a hero’s welcome

This article, which first appeared in the September 24 issue of Eugene Weekly, afforded me the opportunity to sort of wallow in my own special brand of hedonism, thinking and reading and talking at length about comic books. I can guarantee you I'll be returning to the museum multiple times before the exhibition has concluded, to commune with the spirits of my gurus. I was also pleased to discover a kindred spirit in the University of Oregon's Ben Saunders, a man who walks the walk in terms of comic book nerdery. This guy isn't taking advantage of a pop cultural trend; he's advancing an art form about which he has been passionate for decades.

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“Can I touch this?” I ask, gesturing to the 70-year-old magazine sitting on the glass top counter of Nostalgia Collectibles, a Eugene comic book store. Darrell Grimes, the owner of both the shop and the comic book in question, gives his assent, and I lift the object carefully, reverently, as if I’m handling an illuminated manuscript from the Dark Ages.

Even encased as it is in clear, hard, protective plastic, the illustration on the comic book’s cover exudes a kinetic sense of exuberance: a boyishly grinning Superman leaps high above the rooftops, his cape billowing behind him.

This is a copy of Superman #1, published in 1939. Fewer than 200 copies are thought to exist. It’s worth $50,000. The very fact this comic book resides in Eugene makes this city noteworthy, in some circles.

And I’m holding it. For me, comic book nerd that I am, that’s like touching the Holy Grail.

This comic, and the nearly 200 pieces of original comic book art it will soon be joining on the campus of the UO, matter to the dozens, perhaps hundreds, of hardcore comic book aficionados in the area.

But they’re also a point of pride to the citizens of Eugene as a whole, or at least they should be. Because the artwork that has been collected for “Faster Than a Speeding Bullet: The Art of the Superhero,” an exhibition opening Friday, Sept. 25, at the UO’s Jordan Schnitzer Museum of Art, is one of the most expansive gatherings of superhero comic book art ever assembled. And it’s not hanging on a wall in N.Y. or L.A. or London, or even Portland. It’s here.

“I do think this is the best museum exhibition of superhero comic art to date,” says Ben Saunders, an associate professor of English at the UO, and curator of the exhibition. “‘Best’ in the sense of broadest, most historically comprehensive,” he continues, “and with a large number of key pieces by key artists from the 70 years of the genre.”

It may sound as if Saunders is bragging about the show he’s assembled. But to be frank, the man has a right to brag: Works are on loan from the Library of Congress as well as from 18 private collectors from around the country.

But this show is about more than just volume. Saunders is an expert on this stuff, and he has taken care to present the original artwork. Originals are created on card stock pieces larger than the comic book pages to which they will eventually be reduced, in a manner that tells a story: not just the thrilling tales of spandexed champions or the story of good winning out over evil, but the story of the creation of a wholly new and inherently American way to tell stories in the first place.

“I went in pursuit of key works by key artists,” says Saunders, who revels in name-dropping from the collection’s impressive catalog: “Not just ‘something by Jack Kirby,’ but Jack Kirby’s cover to [Fantastic Four] #74. Not just Bill Sienkiewicz, but one of his large collage poster/covers from the mid ’80s. Not just Neal Adams, but Neal Adams on Batman.” Care has also been taken, Saunders says, to include “once-influential masters of the form” of the 1940s Golden Age of comic books, “who deserve to be better known.”

Continue reading "Affection and Nostalgia" at Eugene Weekly.

Photo by Todd Cooper.

Summer Vacation: The Vertigo Project

2009-09-23T23:01:18-07:00

Continuing an occasional series in which I share how I wasted spent my summer vacation. The First Lady of Inkville and I decided to spend a week in San Francisco. Here we are hanging out in the stables of an old Spanish mission just a little over an hour south of the city:

Oh, whoops. That's actually a shot of James Stewart and Kim Novak in Hitchcock's 1958 noir masterpiece Vertigo, one of our favorite films here in Inkville. How'd that get in there? Here's a photo of us in San Francisco:

Hm. You know, come to think of it, Vertigo coincidentally takes places almost entirely in San Francisco...

Hey, I have an idea! Wouldn't it be really nifty if Aaron and his wife totally took a pilgrimage to all the shooting locations, and photographically recreated the high points of a fifty-year-old film storyline panned by contemporary critics? By golly, I think it would!

But wait, what point would such a jaunt serve? Well, perhaps it would make a statement about the continuity of fan culture, or comment on the subversion of traditional American gender roles and filmic tropes, or serve as a sort of urban archaeological expedition. Or heck, maybe it would just be an excuse for Aaron to to annoy his wife all week with Jimmy Stewart impressions.

Or maybe it would be all of the above. I think we should find out. Let's skidoo, shall we?

Like all mid-century detective thrillers, this one begins in a flower market. Okay, maybe I'm reaching, but that is in fact where our journey began. Vertigo is about a retired police detective hired to tail one looker of a suspicious character. Kim Novak plays the distant, ethereal Madeleine Elster, the object of our hapless ectomorphic detective's passions. It seems Madeleine has been zoning out of the here-and-now of 1958, falling into a trance in which she believes herself to be 18th-century Spanish gentry. It's up to Stewart to bust this case wide open, Scooby-Doo style.

So why a flower market? Over the course of the film, Novak, in fact, dies three times. (Uh, right. Sorry. Spoiler Alert. The movie is half a century old, people.) Novak and her freaky, romantic longevity are represented in the film by means of a visual device: flowering perennials, which bloom everlastingly. Or, um, is that annuals? I can never remember.

At any rate, like Jimmy Stewart says of the redwood trees, "Their true name is Sequoia sempervirens, 'ever living.'" Kim Novak's connection to the natural world and plant life is typified by her penchant for gadding about the Presidio sporting a small, trim bouquet like the one she has seen in a painting of her Spanish noblewoman...

...which is my roundabout way of explaining why we started at a flower market. My wife's bouquet, however, was neither small nor trim:

In the film, Kim Novak's noblewoman painting is housed in the museum at the Palace of the Legion of Honor, a location Jimmy Stewart is obliged to stake out:

So we followed suit:

Stewart next tails Novak to the absolutely beautiful Mission Dolores, in San Francisco's aptly-named Mission District...

...where we discovered some quite interesting funerary statuary and markers:

In the film, Novak, still in a trance, proceeds to pay her respects at the grave site of her maybe-time-traveling-or-haunting-or-something Spanish predecessor...

...so I did the same. Novak's grave marker was a film prop, so I improvised, and found something similar. R.I.P. Carlotta Valdes, and all that. Special thanks to the interred, who, to my knowledge, did not object to my play-acting. Hope I look appropriately contemplative and reverent, all the same:

Wow. Kim Novak never had her view spoiled by barb wire and bare grass-less patches. Or maybe Hitch just engaged in some creative editing.

Stewart and Novak have one more stop on their I'm-obviously-tailing-you-but-you-pretend-I'm-not spree, Fort Point, where Novak tosses flower petals into San Francisco Bay a bit, and then tosses herself into San Francisco Bay a bit:

Here I am recreating the scene while three local people and one local dog try to figure out why the annoying tourist guy is acting weird while they try to fish:

I have to admit that Novak's foggy, people-less Fort Point is a darn sight more atmospheric than is mine.

Anyway, Stewart fishes Novak out of the Bay, and takes her to dry out by a toasty fire in his Lombard Street apartment, just down the road from the European tourist-pleasin' "crookedest street in the world." Here's Stewart scoping his own front door:

And here I am, creepily trespassing to do the same thing:

This photo, by the way, is a pictorial representation of Novak's line, "I remembered Coit Tower. It led me right to you." You can't tell in the above hastily-taken-so-we're-not-confronted-by-the-homeowner photograph, but a breathtaking view of Coit Tower is indeed right around the corner, ripe for the pointing by nerds:

In this below shot I'm all like, "Madeleine is late! She said she'd meet me here for another session of haunting, flirtation, and story-advancing misdirection!"

Right. I know. I just said I'm a nerd, okay?

After Novak's second death in the film, Stewart is in his own sort of trance, and is even institutionalized. He emerges like a sort of zombie, shambling around the streets and professing his love for girls bearing a resemblance to the one he's lost. Wow, and I thought I was being creepy.

Stewart tails Judy Barton, one particularly Madeleine-esque beauty, to this character-filled Sutter Street hotel, which bore a smart-looking neon "Empire Hotel" sign in the film:

For the true (or truly geeky) Hitchcock fan, the modern site bears a bit of a surprise. The building has been renovated into the intriguingly mod, maddeningly hip Hotel Vertigo:

Their website PR prominently states that the hotel serves Madeleine cookies. No, I am not kidding. We can't afford to stay in the Hotel Vertigo (or at least, not until you all begin paying me for the pleasure of reading this blog), so we secured perfectly serviceable but more modest digs. But I did engage in what has evidently become my new favorite hobby of trespassing, to bring you a shot of the oh-so-trendy lobby:

In their few blissful days together before things all go south, Stewart and his maybe-reincarnated-or-whatever girlfriend enjoy a stroll past the beaux arts Palace of Fine Arts, the most striking survival of the 1915 Panama-Pacific International Exposition, a location that furthers the themes of the connection of past and present, and the timelessness of undying love, and blah blah blah...

...so we decided to give it a go by connecting 1958 and 2009.

Well, that's about it. We didn't recreate the final scenes of the film, because a) we didn't have time to drive all the way down to Mission San Juan Bautista, and b) it seemed maudlin to pretend to throw one another out of a bell tower.

Hope you've learned something. As for me, I've learned that one of the best ways to see the sights of an unfamiliar city is to manically give yourself over to a quixotic campaign of fanboyish boosterism.

"I should have liked to have lived here then," says Kim Novak's movie husband, indicating a print of 19th-century San Francisco hanging on his office wall. "Color, excitement, power, freedom." The character is suggesting that those qualities have drained out of San Francisco.

But he forgot one quality, the one that brings them all back. He forgot about Vertigo.

Sweet Talk: Stretching your dough on desserts

2009-09-11T18:16:55-07:00

This article first appeared in the fall Chow! guide, in the September 10 issue of Eugene Weekly.

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In the 2000 film Chocolat, Juliette Binoche soothes the pain of the residents of a provincial French town with a single magic potion: chocolate, the movie’s namesake. And while the current worldwide economic recession presents a different set of problems than the 1950s conformity and heavy-handed demagoguery of the film, eating one’s way to happiness still sounds like a tempting quick-fix cure for depression...both the emotional and economic varieties.

With a disheartening 12.5 percent unemployment rate in Lane County, more than three full percentage points higher than the national average, belts are tightening across the Southern Willamette Valley, and extras like sweets seem like a natural place to start trimming the fat. But if the thought of foregoing dessert due to a limited budget makes you want to toss your cookies, some local sugar-slingers are taking steps to ensure their customers can have their cake and eat it, too.

Adam Bernstein, proprietor of eateries Café Maroc and Adam’s Sustainable Table, recently changed the name and menu of the latter from Adam’s Place, a measure to reflect not only sustainability of the environmental sort but a nod toward finances as well. “I think people tend to share more desserts” these days, says Bernstein.

“We have a chocolate volcano, a shared dessert,” Bernstein says. Ordering a dessert, even a shared one, makes “people feel like they’re getting a bonus,” he explains.

If even half a chocolate volcano is beyond the budget, Amy Brown, manager of the Candy Baron at Fifth Street Public Market, may have the solution. Brown equates the shop’s à la carte shopping experience with a way to save a few coins, asserting that her customers “are appreciative of the fact we carry individual candies, and can buy just a couple of pieces” as a pick-me-up. All the same, Brown says, “We’ve definitely had a [sales] drop at the beginning of the year.”

Continue reading "Sweet Talk at Eugene Weekly.

Pay As You Go

2009-08-15T14:01:22-07:00

The train station of Raton, New Mexico, seemed little more than a cement slab, simmering in the June heat. In cooler weather, in less dramatic circumstances, I'd probably have enjoyed the history of the mission-style building. The station defied all my expectations of rail travel. The terminal building was locked. No smartly-dressed porter in a tie greeted me. No one carried a pocket watch.

It was 1997. I was earnest and crying and twenty years old. I said, I can’t believe this is how we end. It’s not, she responded, we’ll see each other again. The capstone project of her senior year in college was to take place among the red rock of the southwest. My crappy summer job was to transpire back home in the humid flora of the southeast. I’d wanted to see her off, so we’d wended our way from school in Chicago to this train platform in Raton, from weeds to wheat to cacti to the simmering slab. I boarded the train with a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, and a whole supermarket rotisserie chicken. I had a change of clothes and a jacket and a couple of books. And I was broke.

I was always broke, of course, but now I was broker than usual, so broke I hadn’t contributed to gas or food on the trip. And now she was not only bidding goodbye to me, but to twenty-five of her dollars that she could not spare, pocket money for the train that more than doubled my pathetic savings.

My Amtrak route would backtrack me from Raton to Chicago, then send me on home to Greensboro, North Carolina, where my father would meet me. Cacti to wheat to weeds to kudzu. Amtrak would demand payment in Greensboro when I claimed the boxes containing the contents of my dorm room that I had shipped ahead, but that was a problem for Greensboro.

I read James Joyce on the train. When I was done with the book, I bought a newspaper. I ate my chicken and my peanut butter, but when I tired of it, I bought train food. During my layover in Chicago, I splurged, took a bus from the station and went to a Bruce Willis movie. I wasn’t a complete idiot. I watched the dollars dwindling from my wallet, but hey, I still had that twenty-five in reserve.

When I returned to the terminal after the movie, that twenty-five was all I had left. It was late, but over an hour until my train was to leave, and the grand hall of Union Station was nearly deserted. After perhaps thirty minutes, I realized that a man who had been hugging the wall was now looking occasionally in my direction. He was dressed shabbily, and acting peculiarly. After five minutes of milling around the lobby, looking at me but not looking at me, he approached directly. He sat down on the bench facing mine, and informed me that for only twenty dollars, he could go to a shelter where he could have a meal and a private room for the night.

I nodded, and set my jaw gravely, and reflected for a moment. My parents supported my tuition, room, and board at a pricy private university, a place where my friends watched out for me, advised me when I was doing something stupid. My girlfriend, a year older and ten years more responsible, picked up the tab for me at the movies and the grocery store and the bar. This man standing in front of me looked more desperate than I had ever been. Desperate enough to rob me if I refused? It seemed unlikely his girlfriend or his dad would buy him a rotisserie chicken tonight. And Bruce Willis was completely out of the question. And hey, what could happen to me between Chicago and Greensboro? Would I really even need money? Heck, I wouldn’t even be off the train.

So I gave him twenty dollars.

Even as the cash left my hand, I regretted it. What had seemed compassionate only an instant earlier now seemed incredibly stupid. Somewhere in the wilds of Arizona was a struggling young woman who had only a thousand dollars to live on for the entire summer, and had entrusted me with twenty-five of them. I had given away her gift. I was five states away from home, with only five hundred pennies between me and calamity. For the first time, I was truly at the world’s mercy, with no one to bail me out. What will I do, I thought, if I’m somehow stranded in the next thirty minutes, and need a hotel? God, what if someone steals my backpack? Forget that, what if I simply get hungry? What if something bad happens?

Nothing bad happened. I didn’t need a hotel. No one stole my backpack. And I had enough peanut butter. Nothing went south for me, as the train entered the Southland. But I fretted, and cursed myself, the entire way. My face kept going red. I imagined the other passengers could tell how foolishly I’d acted, just by looking at me.

In Greensboro, I asked my father to ransom my boxes from Amtrak. I had asked the man for money countless times in my two decades, but for the first time ever, I was ashamed. It wasn’t an expensive fee, maybe fifteen dollars. He paid it readily, and I was truly thankful. Truly.

Privilege is a strange thing, because it’s invisible to the privileged. Those who have never been underprivileged sometimes think they have been. Which is not to suggest, of course, that my single day of dangerous living qualified me as “underprivileged.” I did not have that unhappy distinction then, nor have I since that day. But my time on the train, with a fiver my major resource, did teach me the importance of self-sufficiency. Of pride in doing for myself. It’s easy to fall into the habit of relying on others to carry us, when we’ve always been carried. And it’s easy to give something away, when we don’t really know its value.

Now I'm sliding towards my mid-thirties. I’m married to the girl on the Raton train platform. She’s forgiven me for the twenty-five dollars, mostly. I still give money away sometimes. But when I write a check to a charity, or hold out a handful of change to a man on the street, I appreciate my conscious decision, at that moment, to part with that resource. And it makes me all the more thankful that I am not canvassing a train station myself, begging the funds for a meal and a bed. We all pay as we go.

Kneel Before Zod

2009-08-09T22:35:25-07:00

What’s fluffier and more appealing for a summer weekend than a Top Ten list? About comic books, no less? While Batman arguably has the dubious honor of being hounded by the best rogue’s gallery in comics, Superman’s own collection of world beaters, miscreants, ne'er-do-wells, and extraterrestrial bullies ain’t nothin’ to sneeze at. Listed here are a top ten of Superbaddies, ranked not by their level of villainy or ability to cause the Man of Steel a kryptonite headache, but simply in the order of my preference. Ten’s a nice, round number, so apologies in advance to also-rans like Toyman, Mongul, and the Cyborg Superman. But sorry, no love whatsoever for goobers like Terra-Man and the Composite Superman.

That's right: Inkville is runnin' the geekery straight up, no chaser, this time, so, y'know, forewarned is forearmed, for all you civilians out there.

#10 Darkseid

Just thinking of the intergalactic, semi-divine tyrant takes me back to mid-1980s Saturday mornings and Challenge of the Superfriends. More of a general all-around DC Universe bad guy, Darkseid is a relative latecomer to the decades-old mega-storyline that is DC’s shared universe, but so fully imagined in 1970 by his creator Jack Kirby as the final word in alien evil, that Darkseid has suffered through virtually no rebooting or re-imagining, unlike most major comic book characters. Some geeks have even posited the guy was an inspiration for Darth Vader, and I can certainly see a resemblance in the supervillain family tree. Darkseid and his anti-pantheon of evil New Gods were used to great effect last year as street-level gangsters in Grant Morrison’s Final Crisis.

#9 Doomsday

One of only two characters from the modern era of comics to make it onto my list, Doomsday is the guy who first got me hooked on this stuff, as the titular murderer behind 1992’s “The Death of Superman” storyline. The character appeared from nowhere, a being of mystery, and dispatched his Super-foe with such apparent finality, that the teenaged Aaron was quite shocked. Ill-used by various appearances in the 1990s (seriously, a “Joker-ized” Doomsday?), ol’ Doomie has lost some of his luster. The character has been given a second lease on his rampaging life, and an actor in a poorly-lit rubber suit to boot, in the most recent season of teen action soap Smallville.

#8 Silver Banshee

The only other Post-Crisis character to creep onto my list. She's also the only woman... Who knew the Legion of Doom had a glass ceiling? Banshee adds a bit of occult noir to a roster of evildoers who usually like to attack the Big Blue Boy Scout head on in the skies over Metropolis in big purple-and-green rockets. Seriously, how can I not like Silver Banshee? She's a supernatural, Irish femme fatale, for God's sake! Banshee can only kill people with her ear-splitting, vitality-draining wail if she knows their names. That's so weird. I’m such a sucker for weirdly Byzantine superpowers. And, evidently, for chicks with skull-shaped earrings.

#7 Mr. Mxyzptlk

Speaking of weirdly Byzantine superpowers, how weird is it that omnipotent Mr. Mxyzptlk can only be defeated by tricking him into saying his nearly unpronounceable name backwards? And how weirder still is it that Tom Arnold once gave an interview in which he said he’d like to shove the 5^th-dimensional imp into a hot dog cart? (Yes, really.) The evil little sprite just inspires weirdness. In one episode of Superfriends (a series in which the character was curiously referred to as Mxyztplk instead of Mxyzptlk (Yes I notice these things)), the villain traps Wonder Woman, who has been turned into a sort of Cowardly Lion furry cosplayer thanks to her unwilling participation in a supernatural reenactment of The Wizard of Oz (See? Weirdness.), in quicksand, assuring to this day my fascination with, and irrational phobia of, the stuff. (Okay, I’ll admit that the death of Artax the horse in The Neverending Story didn’t help matters, either.) The voice for Mxyzptlk that haunted my head while reading a comic book was always the diabolical, helium-high drone of Superfriends’ Frank Welker, until the damnable Gilbert Gottfried ruined it all with his performance in the mid-90s Superman: The Animated Series. Aflac!

#6 Metallo

In the Superman universe, what could be more cruel, more symbolic of the triumph of evil over good, than a villain with a kryptonite heart? The android Metallo, a mortally wounded criminal given another chance by means of a robotic body and radioactive K-metal ticker, is always a sort of warm-up act for the Man of Steel, an aperitif to limber up on a bit before heading off to crack the skull of Luthor or Brainiac. But the killer robot’s ability to hide in and control machinery makes him doubly insidious in a municipality dubbed “The City of Tomorrow,” and that green, glowing pacemaker in the villain’s steel ribcage is just too evil a weapon to leave Metallo on the bench. Plus, having the guy’s prosthetic human half-a-face hanging off his metal skull is all kinds of creepy.

#5 Parasite

God, what a loser. You know, if you have a job as a janitor in a scientific facility devoted to storing and disposing of super-weapons and extraterrestrial waste, it’s probably a good idea to keep your curiosity in check. But noooo, schmucky Rudy Jones has to go rummaging around in sealed drums of glowing super-sludge, and ends of purple, eight feet tall, and hungry for superpowers that ain't his. Dorky ol' Rudy makes my list for three reasons:

Sapping Supes of his powers makes challenging the nigh-omnipotent protagonist more interesting;
Watching an angry violet blob utilize the powers of the Flash or Red Tornado is a knee-slapper; and
The idea of a villainous janitor is just too charming to pass up.

#4 The Bizarro Superman

Goodbye! Double-dose of pathos is never good thing in villains. Reverse-speaking Bizarro not believe himself to be Superman, which make him least tragic of Super-foes. Him not reminiscent of Frankenstein monster, and not play on zombie tropes of 21^st-century American zeitgeist. Even in midst of not laughing at pathetic creature, Bizarro’s use of Superman’s powers to terrorize and destroy not simultaneously unsettling. And to boot, him not have entire cube-shaped planet of lookalikes at him's disposal, with buildings that am not crooked! How un-rad am that? Hello!

#3 General Zod

Always nice to have enemies you never knew existed. Escaping from the immaterial Phantom Zone that spared him at the death of planet Krypton, political prisoner Zod, along with villainous sidekicks Ursa and Non, had a mad-on for the scion of the House of El before the Super-tike was even out of indestructible diapers. Zod and his cronies made a big impression on the geek consciousness in 1980’s Superman II… so big, in fact, as to whitewash subsequent crappy appearances in ensuing comic books. Superman II also proved once and for all that people with British accents are usually evil, especially when encountered in rural Idaho. Zod and his cruelty crew are finally getting a fair shake at villainy in four-color print thanks to Geoff Johns and James Robinson in the recent “Last Son” and World of New Krypton storylines. Superman II's Terence Stamp was the definitive Zod, of course, but I'll be interested to see what Callum Blue, late of the fantastic Dead Like Me and the pretty good Secret Diary of a Call Girl, will do with the role next season on Smallville. In my book, every Super-baddy, save two, must kneel before Zod.

#2 Brainiac

Okay, yes, his name kind of sucks. It’s hard to take a world-conquering alien despot seriously when he shares a nickname with the horn-rimmed poindexter sitting at the back of your homeroom, that nerd who likes Logan’s Run and Dungeons & Dragons and… uh… comic books. But Brainiac is one mean mo-fo, scouring the universe for interesting-looking alien cities, which he shrinks and bottles like intergalactic ant farms. DC Comics and its related media seem to have trouble deciding whether the villainous snowglobe-collector is a renegade robot from the planet Colu, an evil Kryptonian supercomputer, or, um, a villainous circus sideshow mentalist. (I'd go with one of the first two, guys.) Again, it’s up to DC’s MVP writer Geoff Johns, with an able assist from amazing penciller Gary Frank (see above) to make Brainiac as creepy as he always should’ve been... in marked contrast to James Marsters’ effete and ineffectual Brainiac on Smallville.

#1 Lex Luthor

Oh, c’mon, you knew he’d be at the top, didn’t you? Whether he’s the crazed super-scientist of the 1940s or the wealthy fat cat industrialist of the 1980s, Luthor represents every evil thing Superman doesn't, and won't, and can't. The very fact that he'll stand toe-to-toe with Superman, without the benefit of the superpowers possessed by the other yahoos on this list, proves that Luthor is every bit an appropriate archenemy for the Man of Steel.

Occasionally Luthor demonstrates a conscience, as in early issues of Grant Morrison's JLA run, in which he encourages other villains in his employ to keep civilian death to an absolute minimum. Luthor just digs mankind, and this is the tragedy of the character. He truly loves humanity, and strives daily to help us reach our full potential. But due to his methods and unlikeability, mankind rejects Lex Luthor, brands him a criminal. Luthor's genius, resourcefulness, and cunning literally make him a Neitzschean superman, but his pride, arrogance, and lack of empathy sadly keep him from ever evolving into anyhting resembling the Superman.

A running character trait, Luthor’s belief that Superman’s alien influence stifles human progress, is just comic-book-reasonable enough to make his actions understandable, in a way. And the fact that all of that “human progress” business is really a beard for Luthor’s simple jealousy of Kal-El's Kryptoinian gifts, and that the bald-pated bad guy’s narcissism keeps him from seeing it, just make him all the more believable as a real human being. Luthor is intellect untempered by emotion, the drive for "I can" without bothering to wait for "Should I?" to catch up, human progress at the expense of humanity itself.

There have been some brilliant Luthor performances on film and in animation, from Gene Hackman's ascot-sporting science jerk in the Donner-founded film franchise, to Clancy Brown's dulcet tones in Superman: The Animated Series. But for my money, none can touch Kevin Spacey's coolely relaxed, ice-cold Luthor, who added enough bravado, swagger, and style to Superman Returns to smooth out some of the film's rough edges. And how can you not like that bit where find Lois on the yacht while he's brushing his teeth. Lex would be the one villain to espouse impeccable dental hygiene.

A bonus fun fact courtesy of that poindexter at the back of homeroom: Clark Kent and Alexander Luthor share the same middle name: Joseph. So they're, like, two sides of the same coin, dude, brothers across the divide of morality. Whoa, mind blown. Now you'll have something to think about tomorrow morning on the bus.

Up, up, and away!

Grease is the Word: Will Dickie Jo's sizzle or be fried?

2009-08-05T20:42:57-07:00

This article, which originally appeared in the July 1 issue of Eugene Weekly, may have come out a tad more negative than I intended. I really do appreciate what the Wests are doing, aesthetically. How can I not love the checkered floor and pre-Elvis blues rock? In researching this piece, I was surprised to learn that there seem to be no middle-of-the-road opinions on Dickie Jo's; Eugeneans feel passionate about their hamburgers, I guess. Everyone seems to either adore the place, or detest it. I don't think I fall into either category, but I will state for the record that I've been back twice since my initial reporting foray. I do love me some Mucho Gusto carnitas, so, you know, bueno on ya for that one, Wests.

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The new Dickie Jo’s Burgers has a prominent spot on 13th between Pearl and High, and likely the first sign of the diner’s presence detected by many Eugeneans was the new paint job applied to the south wall of the abutting office building. And what a paint job. Snappy and sharp to some, a garish eyesore to others, the commanding, mid-20th-century-styled tile design of alternating red, pink and white visually drowns the compact building like a busy computer wallpaper overpowers a desktop icon. The owners, restaurateur siblings Jim and Phil West, are counting on the business as a sort of hardware upgrade for their family name, as well.

The “Westraunt Concepts” partnership founded by the brothers may have a cutesy name, but don’t be fooled: These guys are playing for keeps. The company also created local Mexican eateries Mucho Gusto and Fina Taqueria, and Jim, the elder West, is already casting an eye northward, envisioning a day Portland will be home to combo outlets, with a Mucho and a Dickie’s under a single roof. The Wests planned to return to their roots by converting Fina Taqueria’s south Willamette location into a variation on their early 1990s barbecue joint, but those plans have been scrapped to concentrate on burritos and burgers.

Jim West proselytizes a form of dining known as “quick-casual,” a couple of steps above fast food but with a pointed lack of spendy table service. According to West, the lack of niceties translates to more cash in diners’ pockets. That no-frills style extends to the Wests’ day-to-day, as well. “We haven’t created any corporate positions,” Jim says. “I’m the bookkeeper,” while “Phil does all of our design.”

Continue reading "Grease is the Word" at Eugene Weekly.

Summer Vacation: The Redwood Coast

2009-08-02T11:52:19-07:00

A family trip down to Trinidad, California and back up Highway 101 along the Oregon Coast provided an amazing panoply of natural sights, from majestic, rocky sea stacks rising from the pounding surf, to ancient redwoods towering to lofty, leafy canopies. So what scenery most impressed this fan of the mid-century modern aesthetic? Why, the kitschy neon signs of interstate travel, of course.

Ocean Grove Lodge, Trinidad, California. We passed this multiple times throughout the week, as it's situated between our cabin and downtown Trinidad, and I kept bugging my wife that I wanted to stop and take a photo. She was confused, thinking I meant the horrible day-glo sign of a peasant-skirted señorita advertising the Mexican joint next door. No, no. It don't mean a thing, if it ain't got that swing. This sign is a beauty, though.

The Lumberjack Bar, Orick, California. The homey, charming atmosphere of this lovely town was tempered by the large Confederate flag mural painted on the side of this watering hole, which seems to have devolved into a biker bar. At least the owner seems to appreciate the historic nature of this vintage sign. In other news, this bar also featured a tethered goat grazing in the yard, reminiscent of another stop on our trip.

The Egyptian Theatre, Coos Bay, Oregon. My wife and I vacationed near Coos Bay last fall, and one of my favorite memories of the trip is seeing Hitchcock's Vertigo on the big screen of this fabulously restored movie palace... think "Walk Like an Egyptian"-style hieroglyphs, grand balcony, and opening Wurlitzer music.

Singularly unimpressed with vintage signage is my five-year-old nephew Elijah. At least he got a kick out of Trees of Mystery, to date my favorite roadside attraction on the West Coast. Here we're pictured chillaxin' on the fiberglass boot of a gargantuan Paul Bunyan statue along 101. I love this place because it combines my interests in folklore, local kitsch, tourism studies, and natural beauty. Even briefly considered writing my grad school terminal project on the attraction's history, before I committed to the ghost-hunting route.

What has your summer vacay been like, readers? Let me know in the ol' comments corral.

The UpStairs Lounge: Dead Men Do Tell Tales

2009-07-01T23:24:13-07:00

This article originally appeared in the Winter issue of Etude: The Journal of Literary Nonfiction. A much expanded version of this story was incorporated into my final project for my graduate program.

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The psychic is already on his second glass of cheap red wine, and he’s been in the bar only ten minutes.

Phillip is in his late thirties, slight of stature, intense in disposition and nearly bald. He sits stoically, cloaked in the gloom of murky bar air at the head of the table, regarding his fellow ghost-hunter Kalila, her dark, straight hair bobbing as she dances along to the routine of four muscular young men, a Village People tribute group.

The costumed performers, on break from a show at a competing club down the street, are in the throes of an impromptu performance of the disco hit “Y.M.C.A.” here in Jimani Lounge, an Italian bar at Chartres and Iberville, in New Orleans’ French Quarter. Kalila seems especially enchanted by the cop character, a friendly African-American man in an incredibly tight tee shirt.

Phillip is hitting the red hard. He’d much rather be ogling the beefcake, but he’s already picking up strong psychic impressions from the floor above, and the wine, he explains, “smoothes out the edges.” He’s more forthcoming when pressed: wine drowns out the telepathic barrage of voices and impressions constantly battering at his consciousness. His daily intake is in the neighborhood of fifteen glasses. Phillip makes a point of never beginning a supernatural investigation without first bellying up.

Instead of watching the high kicks, Phillip has busied himself unscrewing the top of a plastic salt shaker. He neatly dumps the contents into a small plastic baggie he has produced from somewhere on his person. Phillip twists the baggie tightly closed and pockets it, as if squirreling away an ounce of cocaine.

“Do you believe in coincidence?” Phillip drawls at me, in an accent that reveals his backwoods Oklahoma origins. “I don’t,” he states flatly. We’re here tonight to investigate the site of the gay bar that occupied the space one floor above us in the 1970s, and Village People look-alikes “randomly” showing up feels like fate. Or prescience.

Just a quarter-hour ago, Phillip left his night job at Marie Laveau’s House of Voodoo, a French Quarter occult supply shop catering mostly to tourists. Phillip is one of the store’s in-house psychic readers, advising vacationing secretaries and sloshed frat boys how to get laid or get loved.

The Jimani, pronounced like “Gemini” but misspelled to incorporate the given name of its founder, Jimmy Massacci, Sr., occupies the first floor of a building whose second story once housed the UpStairs Lounge, the gay club. The UpStairs had been a gathering place for the Quarter’s nascent gay scene, even hosting homosexual-inclusive church services, until a Sunday evening in June of 1973, when someone lit an incendiary device, lobbed it into the stairwell leading up to the club and locked the street-side door from the outside.

Twenty-nine people, mostly homosexual men, died in the flames that night, while another three victims succumbed in the following days. The destruction of the UpStairs was the most deadly fire in the city’s history, and an event that quickly evolved into a rallying point for gay rights in the Crescent City. The arsonist-murderer was never caught.

Continue reading "The UpStairs Lounge" at Etude.