I never officially signed up for a subscription to ESPN Magazine (sorry: ESPN: The Magazine). It just started showing up one day, along with Men’s Health (a magazine I have opened a grand total of one time). I flip through each issue, mainly to roll my eyes at Chris Jones, whose latest column starts off like this: “Not long ago I was having lunch with Penn Jillette, during which the atheist musician was explaining…” There are more words after that, but my eyes refuse to show them to me. Anyway, this issue is an NBA season preview, and I am a League Pass-carrying fan (where Brooklyn at?!). So naturally, I was curious about this issue’s special NBA insert, a comic book produced by Marvel titled Lebron: King of The Rings. And in the grand tradition of poorly-conceived cross-promotional gimmick inserts, this thing is bonkers.
My friend David Wolkin was nice enough to ask me for a contribution to Rosie’s Basement, a site about objects and memories. I wrote about my grandfather, Brooklyn, graduate school, and some other stuff. You can read the piece here. Thanks to everyone who has said nice things about it.
In other news, The Laughing Magician continues to chug along. This week I discussed Hellblazer #3, Margaret Thatcher, and yuppies from hell. This fall’s been pretty busy, but I’m trying to post over there at least once a week.
My poetry site, No New Yorker, has been updated a bit more regularly, and that’s going to continue as I work on my first chapbook, which is tentatively titled TOURNAMENT OF CHAMPIONS.
Finally, you can find the usual Tumblr fare over here.
More updates soon, including some honest-to-goodness new content for So Fake It’s Real. Thanks for reading.
I’ve started a reading guide / journal of sorts for Hellblazer over here. I’ll still be updating this blog semi-regularly like usual, and I’ll be updating The Laughing Magician 2-3 times a week. Tell your friends! The first post in on The Sandman #3, site of my first encounter with John Constantine.
My favorite character in The Dark Knight Rises was John Blake, the police officer played by Joseph Gordon-Levitt. At almost every stage of his young life, Blake has been let down by institutions supposedly designed to serve, protect, and provide for Gotham City’s downtrodden and impoverished. He’s almost a cartoonish embodiment of many of the institutional critiques present across all five seasons of The Wire (What if one of the boys at the center of season 4 grew up to become McNulty?), only he’s got the good fortune of inhabiting a heroic narrative with a happy ending.
An animal more like the gods than these,
more intellectually capable
and able to control the other beasts,
had not as yet appeared: now man was born,
either because the framer of all things,
the fabricator of this better world,
man out of his own divine
substance—or else because Prometheus
took up a clod (so lately broken off
from lofty aether that it still contained
some elements in common with its kin),
and mixing it with water, molded it
into the shape of gods, who govern all.
-Ovid, Metamorphosis, Book One(Trans. Charles Martin)
The first scene of Ridley Scott’s Prometheus (2012) resembles Ovid’s creation myth, particularly the description of Prometheus in these lines (and given that Martin’s translation is one of the more popular versions of Ovid, I would not be surprised if Scott had read them). There are important revisions as well. The Promethean figure we see in Scott’s sequence – member of a humanoid race called “Engineers” – is more clod than god, and it is “he” who get thrown in the mix when he falls into water, poisoned by a black liquid that rewrites his DNA at an alarming clip and dissolves him into..into what, exactly? Scott may be making a bad pun here: as the figure dissolves, so too does his film, and Prometheus is off to the space races.
Frank Ocean is one of the cool kids in the room because he can sing, but moreso because he’s got a sense of humor about himself. There is unintentional comedy all over the radio dial: the ridiculous line to beat in my house remains Akon‘s “I’m trying to find the words to describe this girl without being disrespectful!” And there’s plenty of unfunny, forced hamminess too: just give the mutants in LMFAO a few seconds to tell you how much fun they’re having. “Novacane” caught my attention when I heard it on the radio a few weeks ago: amidst a chorus of Chris Browns and Pitbulls, a kid crooning “She said she wanna be a dentist really badddd” is a voice of, if not reason, then at the very least self-awareness.
[I posted this on 7/11, but I went back and added to / revised the last seven paragraphs on 7/12 because I wasn't entirely happy with where I ended things. Like I said, I was trying to make last call at the bar!]
I’ve been racking my brain over Terence Malick’s The Tree of Life. Not because I couldn’t comprehend the basic plot and demanded a refund. Instead, I’ve been trying to find a suitable response to my friends and to critics who’ve leveled some justifiable concerns against the film. One friend was infuriated with the film’s depiction of women, describing Jessica Chastain’s maternal figure as a character who did little more than prance around the yard and care for her children. Another friend found the staging of Sean Penn’s struggles with his upbringing little more than a “vulgar” reading of Freud’s psychoanalytic work. These buddies also hated the dinosaurs, but I’d rather focus on these particular concerns and tease out why I still like (but don’t love unconditionally) The Tree of Life.