Tribune RSS!

I discovered this morning that Hornell Evening Tribune, local paper in the town where I grew up and the rag my dad used to collect by the metric ton as the "historian" for the fire department (every couple of years he'd read through them and cut out articles mentioning the FD), now has RSS feeds. That's got to make it much easier on the current historian. He can just print out the articles. Scissors and glue, that's so 1970s.

Funny Book Ha-Ha

On Saturday, I spent a very long day in the city. It was worth it in the long run, but early on I almost bailed.

It turned out that the New York Comic Con 2007 just happened to take place the same day the wife and I and friends Lauren and Elaine had tickets to see a Broadway show, all on Saturday, February 24. Never one to gaze much at the teeth of any equine presented as a freebie, I decided we MUST go to the show so I could recharge my flagging geek batteries. It has been, after all, almost 14 years since the last time I attended a fandom con of any kind.

The reason for that? I don't care much for my kind. Fandom, as we who are fanatics of all things fantastical in comics, TV, and movies like to call ourselves, are not stereotyped as socially-stunted, virginal, cretins for nothing. The last time I was at a con, devoted mainly to Star Trek, was in 1993 just after Deep Space Nine premiered and while The Next Generation was in its glory-days. My friend Joe was with me, and I'll never forget the glances we exchanged, of pure disgust and horror, as some fucktard in the audience of a panel with actor Rene Auberjonois asked how he --not his character Odo -- could possibly shape-shift into a liquid held in a bucket every night, as that clearly defied the law of conservation of mass. I wanted to personally take a bat'leth to the guy's chin. A +3 bat'leth of pestilence, even.

Still, it's hard to argue with the timing, so I got tickets for me, the wife (whom I call Wonder-Squanto!), and Lauren, who was clueless of just about everything related to the world of graphic literature, with the exception of reading TIME's book o' the year, Fun Home: A Family Tragicomic (which does, indeed rock, tho it made me feel illiterate with all the name dropping and quoting of just about every 20th century classic I've never read and probably never will. But I digress...)

We arrived at the Jacob Javits Center a half-hour early, feeling mighty proud of ourselves... until we saw the line outside. We went in, grabbed some lanyards to hold our badges, people-watched the Imperial Stormtrooper doing security, and felt very superior: we'd just wait for the end of the line to go by, and then we'd jump on.

Then we realized the line was long. Real long. As in, six city blocks, stretching from 34th street up to 40th, and around each corner.

(CELEB SITING: As Wonder-Squanto and I exited out a revolving door, we spotted Hayden Panettiere going in. Lauren came out, we told her, and she went right back in to confirm. Knowing Lauren, who would be happy to approach Hannibal Lecter with a kind word about his liver and fava beans, she's just that god-damn outgoing -- I expected she' be tapping the cheerleader on the shoulder to say hi and get tackled by security (aka, short Stormtroopers.) But, she came back out unscathed. (Jokes then ensued of how we should have jammed the revolving door, see if she bashed her head on the glass, and how she healed. Ha-ha! We're funny.)

The line to get in? Not so funny. I was seriously ready to bail on the whole day, just bag it and go to the Museum of Television and Radio but I was frequently (read: incessantly) reminded that it was all my idea to be there in the first place.

We got our first taste of the idiocy I most fear right there. The kid in line ahead of us started engaging us in conversation. While to Lauren (who, as I may have mentioned, has never seen a kid, dog, or cat out and about she didn't deem worth of saying howdy-do to) this probably seemed a perfectly cromulent thing to do, I sensed the wrongness of him immediately. He was glomming on to the first humans who treated him as human back (not a given for many there as they emerge from their parent's basements to forage for Cheetos and Batgirl statues) and this is never, ever a good sign. The discussion, such as it was, drifts toward how we haven't yet seen anyone in costume. Which is a must at cons. People love to dress up.

"I just saw the Two-Gun Kid," I said. Oops. Everyone asked me who that is. So I told them how a couple years before, Marvel Comics had tried to Retcon this western character into being a gay man, in a misguided attempt at diversity played for laughs. Then they tried to deny it ever happened "in continuity," a phrase only a fan can fathom, let alone appreciate.

The kid in line with us said something like, "They should have know that wouldn't work unless it was written by a raging bull-dyke."

I felt every muscle in my body tense up. This could go one of two ways: Lauren could rip off the kid's arm and bludgeon him to death or... well, that was really all I could picture.

Instead, she stopped him flat by stating point blank, "Hey! Very offensive term." And she handled it with aplomb, probably as someone having been in the situation in the past. The line started moving, but the kid kept sputtering, defending himself. He should have just owned up and said sorry, but that never occurred to him. He tried to make his point, that he'd meant only to imply they needed someone with a "strident opinion." Lauren said that was better, but by then the damage was done. He'd sullied himself in front of us. So we bid him adieu.

Or we would have, but we had to walk next to him for six blocks. Luckily, he glommed on to his next set of victims, the people ahead of him, including a young black woman, who he apparently did not manage to call a "darkie." He was learning.

[I've since checked, and it was the Rawhide Kid who got retconned to Friend of Dorothy status, not Two-Gun. My apologies.]

(CELEB SIGHTING: At the corner of 34th Street, I saw "The guy from 30 Rock." Lauren (who you may now have gathered, would say a friendly hello to someone stealing her purse (if she carried one)) looks right at him, waves, and says "Excellent show!" He -- who turns out to be actor Scott Adsit -- looked both pleased and shocked. He probably doesn't get much attention when he's standing around with Tina Fey. )

We got inside by 11am, though had a few more minutes of cattle herding through rope lines. It was worth it to see the woman dressed in a skin-tight Phoenix costume. Few pull off such outfits well at these shows, as evidenced by the extremely paunchy TIE Fighter Pilot we'd seen outside. She was a pleasant change.

Other home-made outfits in evidence that day: The Flash. Blue Beetle (Ted Kord version). Two Transformers (one made of wood... it much have weighed 50 pounds). Skeletor (again, a fat dude). Several Stormtroopers in both standard and Scout troopers versions. Lots of Jedi. One White Queen (who didn't pull it off).

First stop after entry? The bathroom. We went upstairs and scooted through the Artist's Alley area where I saw creators I admire like Peter David and Colleen Doran. I didn't talk to them, as I really don't feel I have much to say past drooling fan-boy status, and if it's not obvious by now, I would rather be gnawed by squirrels than come off like some of the cretins I've seen. So I prefer to keep it to myself. Sigh. (CELEB SIGHTING: Gary Coleman, just outside the bathroom up near the gaming area. Why is he there? Why not?)

The rest of our time at the show was pretty simple. Brave the crowds, look at stuff, try not to break anything, try not to swat the kids who lacked the basic trade show etiquette that says do not stop suddenly in the middle of the aisle. Idiots.

The show floor was a mix of big boths from the big name companies, who showed off more statues and toys that comics, and in the back lots of dealers of toys and comics. Lauren, on a quest for Wonder Woman paraphernalia for Elaine, found a plastic bank that fit the bill. I was looking for two comic books for my collection that I'd somehow managed not to purchase when new, and found only one. My quest for Promethea #32 will probably have to cease and I'll buy the trade. Oh well. I said hi to the boss at the Comic Book Legal Defense Fund, who informed me the site will be getting a redesign this year, if he can find some to do it.

We found out Alison Bechdel, author of Fun Home, would be at her publisher's booth at 3pm, but by 2pm we were done in. We'd seen it all (including Stan Lee signing autographs, my first live Lee sightng), and that was that. It was time to go to the Museum of TV!

The MoTVR isn't like other museums with "exhibits." You go there to watch TV. In other words, it's heaven. They have rotating features in a number of screening rooms that scale from a tiny room with folding chairs and an old VCR with ceiling mounted projector (in which we watched Wallace & Gromit in The Wrong Trousers, which still features not only one of films greatest chase scenes but also one of the greatest villains) to full-fledged movie halls. Plus, you can go into their library and select from 150,000 TV shows they have on file which can be called up on displays by number. The wife decided to watch what is probably the best episode ever of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, "Hush" from Dec. 1999. Only "The Body" may be better. I watched it with her, to my utter delight. Fan-fraking-tastic television. All I could think of to pick from the library to watch was the Beatles debut on Ed Sullivan. Which was historically interesting, perhaps all the more for finding that Davey Jones, later of The Monkees, a Beatles rip-off/fake band, was on the same episode as part of the Broadway cast of Oliver. But otherwise pretty boring.

Dinner was at Joe Allen on 46^th in Hell's Kitchen, which they don't call Hell's Kitchen anymore, they call it Clinton. But Hell's Kitchen sounds so much cooler. I had a burger. Yep, Broadway makes me get all fancy.

We arrived in the nick for the 8pm curtain of Disney's Mary Poppins. The show just opened last year after much success on London's Westend. It's an amalgamation of bits from the movie and more from the book, a necessity since the rights to the show were split between Disney and others. And it works well, with Poppins coming off just a touch darker and more pompous than Julie Andrews could have done. They dropped some songs and added new ones and totally rewrote others. "Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious", I believe, didn't have a single verse intact from the movie. I wasn't that into the performance of the actor playing the magical nanny, she seemed a little stiff, but everyone else was amazing to the extreme. It was spectacle like only Disney Corp. and its almost unlimited money could generate.

A drive back to New Jersey later and it was beddie-bye-time.

Feed the Dogs!

(Sung to the tune of "Feed the Birds" from Mary Poppins)

Feed the dogs
kibble a scoop
kibble, kibble
kibble a scoop

Feed the dogs!
that's what they cry.
while in the yard
their turds multiply.

Heavy Work Load

26 Alphabetical Things About Moi

A-Available/Single?
There are days my wife probably wishes it were so.

B-Best Friend?
Joey-Joe-Joe Shabadu and my bro. (Oh, wait, I mean, my wife! Shit! Honey? Are you still talking to me?...)

C-Cake or Pie?
Always CAKE. Actually, I'd skip the cake and just eat the frosting.

D-Drink Of Choice?
Sierra Mist Free (aka "diet"). Or, Rumblemintz on the rocks if I want to get hammered.

E-Essential Item You Use Everyday?
The Interweb.

F-Favorite Color?
Green. No, Blue. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAh! (If you get that, you are my friend.)

G-Gummy Bears Or Worms?
Uh... cake?

H-Hometown?
Ithaca, New York.

I-Indulgence?
Still watching Studio 60. Wait, that's more of a self-flagellation. I guess I'll go with uploading porn to my video iPod.

J-January Or February?
They both suck like one of them purple Dyson upright vacs.

K-Kids & Their Names?
Siren, Caper, and Kylie. (AKA, Poop-dog, Monkey-Boy, and Cooter, respectively.)

L-Life Is Incomplete Without?
Chocolate.

M-Marriage Date?
October 22, 1994. This year is lucky #13!

N-Number Of Siblings?
One. And he still owes me for doing his taxes this year, the punk-ass-bitch.

O-Oranges Or Apples?
Apples! Eating oranges feels, to my mouth, like eating citrus-flavored squid.

P-Phobias/Fears?
Rats. And some brave mice. Tho I'm less afraid of them after having cleaned many dead ones out of the engine of my lawn tractor the last few years. They're too stupid to be feared.

Q-Favorite Quote?
"The true delight is in the finding out, rather than in the knowing." -- Isaac Asimov.

R-Reason to Smile?
Watching my wife grin as she writes email messages. She doesn't realize she does it, but she does. It's god-damned adorable.

S-Season?
Chili Powder. Runner up: Oregano.

T-Tag Three or Four People?
People with blogs? Or should I run into the mall and smack people while screaming, "Tag, you're it?"

U-Unknown Fact About Me?
After years of blogging, what's left? Uh... I almost failed high-school chemistry? I write reminder messages on the bathroom mirror with dry-erase markers? I have a box full of un-opened Star Trek: Deep Space Nine action figures?

(Funny aside: last week when my brother and his sons were out, they were looking at my collection of toys and crap and showed off a vintage Mego Capt. James T. Kirk to three-year-old Josh and asked, who's that? He said, "It's a Wiggle.")

Other Unknowns I just made up: I'm growing out my chin hair for a beard comb-over. My first pet was a chimp named Chimpy. I can burp my favorite quote. I had a vestigial tail at birth that was removed right after I was circumcised (If it has been prehensile, I'd be pissed).

V-Vegetable you don't like?
George Bush. (Zing!)

W-Worst Habit?
Sweating. Worse habit I can control but don't bother? Eating for more than survival.

X-X-rays You've Had?
 Uh...teeth, arm (probably, broken at age 5), and abdomen following the kidney-stone incident of '98. I remember being draped in lead for some other x-ray in my youth, but can't remember what body part.

Y-Your Favorite Food?
When I'm on death row, my final meal will be: A chicken sub on a baguette from College Town Bagels (I'd have said Charlie's on Park Ave. in NYC, but they went out of business), McDonald's French fries, 24-ounce Sierra Mist Free. Dessert: Chocolate Frosting in the can. (Hey, F-you. I'm on death row here!)

Z-Zodiac Sign?
Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. Or Sagittarius. One of those. .

Chad Vader, Telemarketer

Manuscript Mania

If anyone is wondering what 105,000+ words look like printed out and double spaced with one inch margins in 12-point Times New Roman... here you go. That pile is approximate 2.5 inches deep. 416 pages. I didn't weigh it, but I'm guessing about 43 lbs.

Ah, Super Bowl.

It's that one night of the year when the world turns topsy-turvy, for instead of fast-forwarding through commercials, I fast-forward through the game to get to the commercials. It's cats and dogs living together. Total anarchy.
Worst trend: To many CGI-talking animals. And lame-ass car ads that don't do anything new at all (At least GM had the sad robot.)
Lamest ads: Coka-cola couldn't even be bothered to make any new ads? Losers.
Best commercials so far: Snicker's mechanics and Robert Goulet messing with your stuff (no Will Ferrell needed.)
Biggest missed opportunity: No wardrobe malfunction for Prince? Luckily, he was in silhouette a couple of times and his silly guitar in the shape of his old symbol-name managed to make him look like a porn star post-fluffing.

Cross-Eyed

I know it was a b-day party for my nephew, but the best picture I got was of his dog, Duncan. No Photoshopping required to get those eye colors, nor their positions. Excellent.

(By the way, if spending a few hours telling a soon-to-be five-year-old that General Grievous and Battle Droids are capital-L Lame is wrong, I don't want to be right.)

Wrap Master G

There's a some-what derogatory term bandied about in my family called "Griffith Wrap." This stems from the fact that within my immediate family, we only wrap gifts for people at Xmas (and weddings, maybe).

At birthdays and other occasions (Easter, Valentines, MLK day, our annual Arbor Day blow-outs), it's tough shit to the recipient: your gift comes in the Wal-Mart bag or the Amazon box.

The sheer incalculable waste of time that is wrapping a gift never ceases to amaze me. Who cares if it looks purty? It comes down to one thing: men v. women. In my wife's family, which had a majority of girls, of course wrapping was important -- so is having knitted doilies to decorate the tank on the toilet. Find a home with majority women that doesn't have some kind of decorative Kleenex box cover, and I'll plotz. But in a house with mostly males, like the one I grew up in, any tendencies our single female member (hi, mom!) had toward such girlishness was crushed out of her long ago (and growing up on a farm where corralling cows could be a typical night-time activity probably didn't hurt).

Today is my nephew's B-day party and I told the wife I'd go grab a couple things for him this morning while she was out playing dog agility. She appreciated the gesture, as she said she would need the time before we leave to wrap them.

I told her, "wrapping these is stupid."

She then seriously attempted to make an argument that a five year old boy would actually either 1) not understand they were presents for him on the day of his birthday party unless they were wrapped or 2) he would feel like the presents were less special if they only came in bag labeled with the French word "Target."

That's the biggest truck-load of horse hockey-pucks since the argument for WMDs.

Little boys -- and I'd argue little girls! -- don't give a single nugget of a shit for what the wrap is. They want what's inside. There's a reason you ask how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop. Not because you like the candy coating, even if you do. You want the soft brown goodness in the middle.

(Perhaps I should not mix the 'shit' and 'chocolate' metaphors in same paragraph. Noted.)

That whole carrying about the wrapping comes with the maturity of having it beaten over you head by those who had it beaten over their head as children. I would say that carrying about wrapping gifts is akin to believing in white supremacy! To Holocaust denial! To believing the Star Wars prequels are superior!!

Well, perhaps I'll be proven wrong and this particular five-year-old boy -- well known for having the attention span of a horny tsetse fly -- will gush over the wrap and take his time peeling back the Scotch tape in hopes of saving the paper to enjoy as much as the Lego TIE Interceptor underneath. He'll certainly have the opportunity, since the wife is upstairs wrapping them even as I type.

JoePig

Joe got a new camera with fancy abilities. Here's one of them.