Monday, March 19


Tobey, our yappy bodyguard who only kisses the men in the family died last Friday noon. 6 years old. Way too soon. He's my bespren.

And I am still heartbroken.

It never gets easier, huh.

Wednesday, March 14

Curious Beast

Melodic. Soaring refrains. Even as the words fade, the humming draws circle eights around your heart. Folksy, disjointed prog-rock and lush crazy arrangements, as expected, but also disco guitars, rock riffs, and a duet with Laura Veirs.

There are stories, too. The Decemberists, particularly Colin Meloy, can't help but to weave words into tales cautionary, or Canterbury rusty lyric. But there is grace in the primitive telling---not nostalgia, but a studied stubbornness on eloquence.

The Crane Wife is a curious beast. There is both overwhelming emptiness and infectious childlike glee. A melancholy that is more an impression than a feeling. A smile that can't be contained when Meloy asks us to fill our moths with cinnamon now.

And it's the memory of the smile that makes you want to give this record a spin over and over again.

Monday, March 12

Star-Crossed Lovers

Literally. Crossing universes and lifetimes. Hawkman is from JUSTICE series 3 and Hawkgirl, JSA series 1.

Posing care of me. Purty, huh?

Friday, March 9

My Space

There it is. My own private. Mornings are the best. Most of the people come in late so that means music, coffee and cigs at my desk, my thoughts to myself. Not full-blown thought balloons of to-do's but shuffled ideas.

Tail-ends or very much middle of the road ideas as I go through the day's job orders. Two today. And highlighted at the bottom: Must not be copy heavy.

It's going to be a good day.

Friday, March 2

Live Forever

Gods. We pray to them, read about them, and worship them. We bridge the gap of improbability willingly. Blindly, to a fault. But that is for another entry (one that I would never write because it hurts my head). This is about the gods that if possible we could will into being. Gods that save not our souls but people in trouble.

Gods that we also call superheroes.

Neil Gaiman and John Romita Jr. take on the daunting task of resurrecting one of Jack Kirby’s shiny gods, The Eternals. Issue #7 came out yesterday and just like any proper geek porn collector, I took all the issues out from the box and started reading from the first issue all over again.

As a serial, Eternals was underwhelming mostly due to the months in between issues. And if you pick-up quite a number of titles, the slow awakening of each Eternal was too leisurely paced to be memorable compared to, let’s say, the appearance of Thor on the last panel of Civil War #3.

The entire seven issues in one sitting make all the difference. A fourth world of difference. Cinematic, thanks mostly to Romita Jr’s strong, square-jawed, supersized art. And epic. Which is the tricky part. The story is quite familiar; American Gods meets Paul Jenkins’ The Sentinel. Gaiman takes his time to introduce the men and women who would be gods. Quirky has always been his game; Sersi as a flighty party planner is just precious and Makkari the struggling stubbled intern is, ahem, sexy. As the events turn from dangerous to fucked up, all their inner gods awaken and they do save the world just in the nick of time.

Is it as good as The Sandman thingy?

Hell yeah.

Maybe even better. Seasons of Mist is the only book that I’ve read more than once. And that serial killer convention arc. Blame it on age but I just can’t get back into the ominous saccharine of the Endless anymore. But I still dig the toys.

Eternals is Gaiman at his most relaxed. Technicolor compelling. This is Gaiman writing superheroes. Mythical, yeah, but still superheroes. And he delivers. The funnies. (Digging Yellow Jacket here.) The action. The larger than life. Gaiman is back to being “my man, Gaiman.”

Stripped of gothic men in drag, his storytelling is blade sharp, slicing and dicing the reader’s defenses with characters that pulsate with pain, anger, deliverance.

Eternals ends with quiet tragedy and a new quest, and quite ready to be picked up by a new writer. Just in time for J. Straczynski’s relaunch of Thor. And the return of the New Gods over at DC.

Gods do live forever.

Thursday, March 1


Got this from Chockwit. So yeah, a little accurate. A little too accurate.

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