Adornment

I’ve been having a hard time trying to figure out what stickers to put on my laptop. I know, life is a trial, right? But here’s the thing; There are only three places where a person should seriously consider their choice of ornamental adornment before casually slapping something on: (1) Their Body. (2) Their Vehicle. (3) Their Laptop Computer.

Unlike say, a notebook or a backpack, those three canvases are (or should be) considered declarations of who you ARE and not just an advocation of a passing fancy. There’s nothing more risible than someone walking into a tattoo parlor with no idea of what design they want. Tattoos for their own sake really are stupid. You’re permanently marking your body, if you just want something “cool” as simple adornment, then go get a henna job or just stick to T-shirts of whatever lame contemporary punk band you like.

A tattoo should be a statement about yourself, a visual personality résumé (at least the bullet points). And if you’re getting one, it should show. Business tattoos (ones that can remain hidden at the bearer’s corporate day job) can make you look like nothing more than a weekend warrior. Neck tattoos, however, remain a bad idea. And ladies, keep the needles away from the toes… it just looks white trash.

While certainly not as indelible as a tattoo, the statement made by a car bumper sticker is something the driver cannot deny, much like exiting a public restroom that the person before you stunk up (as any Democrat who’s ever borrowed a car from a Born Again Christian Republican NRA member knows [unlikely as that scenario may be]). If you take a stand on an issue via the permanent bumper sticker, you probably stand firm (removable, faddish magnetic ribbons are another, completely stupid matter). Proclaiming one’s beliefs on a vehicle is a ballsy move, though. You run the risk of vandalism from the opposing side. No doubt many Pro-Choice Hondas have been keyed by those pillars of hypocrisy known as the Right to Lifers. My car is currently (aside from a few glow in the dark stars) sticker-free, but if I come across one of those “mean people suck” stickers, I might just buy one and put it on there… after cutting off the word “mean,” of course.

So, my laptop. I’ve had it for almost two months now, and until last week, the only decoration it held were those ubiquitous GID stars and similarly glowing letters spelling out the name of one of the pages on this website. I went through my envelope of stickers (every adult should have one) at least a dozen times, repeatedly considering a handful, but never fully committing to them.

Like the political bumper sticker on a car, the sticker of a band on your laptop is a sign that you REALLY love this band. I have a lovely sparkly Southern Culture on the Skids sticker from their album Plastic Seat Sweat, but am I THAT much of a SCOTS fan in 2006? There’s that cool Ed Fotheringham sticker from The Muffs’ best album, Blonder and Blonder, and that one may still make the cut. The Matt Pond PA sticker would be on there if it weren’t so damn ugly. The Liz Phair sticker from Whitechocolatespaceegg? Sure, that record was great, but she is so unredeemably awful in her current sellout incarnation that I don’t wanna be guilty by association.

As for my own self-designed TOUGH GUY stickers (of which there are two), at first I just felt… too narcissistic putting them on. Besides, they’re like three years old now, I’m just sick of looking at ‘em. But, perhaps out of resignation, last week I gave up and applied the TG Blinky sticker on the left side of the front of my MacBook. And then I added a small, Bruce Timm-drawn Superman next to the glowing Apple icon. Then I tossed on a few more glow-stars. Then, exhausted, I took a break.

Glow in the dark stars. My own artwork. And Superman. That’s about right. For now, anyway. I've got more space.

In other, less Earth-shaking news, the Fall Tee Vee season is under way and my DVR queue is chockablock… AMERICA’S NEXT TOP MODEL (Caridee is my prediction), NIP/TUCK (which qualifies as a guilty pleasure), GILMORE GIRLS (Amy is already missed… Chachi? Seriously? That’s the best you can do?). REAL TIME WITH BILL MAHER (Go, Atheist, Go!). SMALLVILLE (Green Arrow? Without the facial hair?). HEROES (for now, anyway). THE VENTURE BROS. (Sheer brilliance). MY NAME IS EARL (my favorite new show in years). THE OFFICE (Get over it, Anglophiles). And, of course, the ever more essential THE DAILY SHOW and THE COLBERT REPORT (which I consider one show divided into two parts, really). Ah, glorious television… warm, comforting, brain-cell-fucking Tee-Vee… my love for YOU will never die.

Pisser

Last Wednesday, Gary and I made one of our semi-regular trips to visit Kri-Bro at the Spotted Pig, and as usual, a splendid time was had. Carlos and Rob joined us late in the game and took over our stools for the second “Keep Kristin Sane” shift. Gary and I left about an hour later and began the trek back from Manhattan to the dirty Jerz. We were both quite intoxicated.

The walk from the PATH station to my apartment takes about twenty minutes. When your bladder is loaded to the gills with both booze and water (in a wise attempt to remain hydrated), that can be an eternity. By the time I was a few blocks from my place, I really had to go to the bathroom. With a mere hundred yards or so to go, my bladder was screaming at me to hurry up, so I started running. I got into the building, which unlocked the safety in my brain, and it quickly turned to Go-Time. Halfway up the steps to my second floor apartment, I thrust a hand into my pants for the squeeze-off. Reaching my door, I fumbled for my keys, RACING AGAINST TIME, COME ON, HURRY! HURRY!....

Ah, fuck.

Yes. I peed my pants. Just a wee bit (little pun there), but enough.

The last time I experienced this little incident, I was in the first grade. It was close to Thanksgiving and Mrs. Murphy (my first real life hottie crush) had us making Pilgrim hats and Indian headdresses out of construction paper and Elmer’s glue. Everyone was having trouble, and Mrs.  Murphy was getting impatient, so she told us we couldn’t raise our hands until Art was over. Only problem was, I had to go to the bathroom, but took her admonition seriously. So I squeezed and suffered and soon there was a puddle under my little wooden chair. And to this day, I can remember the whispered exchange I had with Abby Dochat.

“Abby! I had an accident!”
“But Mrs. Murphy said we can’t ask for help!” (thinking I was talking about my project)
“No…” (I pointed down) “… I had AN ACCIDENT”

Soon, Mrs. Murphy became aware of the predicament, and before long, my Mom was there to pick me up and take me home early. And the kicker was, because I got to cut school, nobody made fun of me. In fact, I was the ENVY of everyone else in my class. They waved goodbye jealously as I put on my jacket and headed out. I have to imagine that at least a few other youngsters were squeezing their bladders trying to emulate my actions.

Anyway. Back to last Wednesday.

Post-pee, the first thing I did (after washing my hands, but before taking a shower) was text message everyone I had just been hanging with to tell them of my pants-staining tale. And then, the next day at work, I must’ve related the story a dozen times. And now, here I am, writing about it for all the world (okay, a hundred or so people) to see.

More than one of my friends wondered aloud why I would ever want to share such an embarrassing anecdote. There are a number of reasons. Part of it is that I think it’s a funny story. Part of it is self-deprecation. And yes, part of it is self-absorption (Hey! Listen to a story about ME!). But I think the main reason is, I’m not embarrassed by it. I just don’t care. I’m just a stupid, gross animal like the rest of us, sometimes my body doesn’t do what I want it to (boy, doesn’t it). I do smart things, I do dumb things, sometimes I’m a good person, sometimes I’m not. In the grand scheme of things… oh, wait. There is no grand scheme. I forgot. So why not laugh about it?

Whoops, sorry. My nihilism is showing.

Plus Five

Sometimes I feel guilty about the fact that this website is rarely political. True, it started out as my online portfolio and catalogue back when Tough Guy was created as something else (if you missed that rather self-flagellating post, it’s long deleted, sorry). As writing has replaced art as my main focus, TG has changed to reflect that. And yet, you’re far more likely to read an impassioned rant about the animated adventures of the DC Universe than a dissertation on Darfur. I’m a pop culture pundit, not a political one. It’s not that I’m not involved or don’t care about more serious matters. I just don’t feel overly qualified to talk about them, unlike my pal Dave. But I get so frustrated and angry at how damn stupid this administration both IS and thinks WE are to buy into its myriad lies and reprehensible scare tactics. But then again, that is how W got re-elected two years ago, so maybe they’re not so stupid after all.

Last night a group of us convened at In Vino, a spectacular wine bar in the east village to celebrate Gretchen’s birthday. Four hours and $500 later, we left, buzzed on both incredible food and wine and the even headier intoxicants of camaraderie and friendship.

It was just before midnight when we separated and I put in my iPod earbuds, continuing the Matt Pond PA marathon that I’d started when I left my apartment that afternoon. It was a beautiful evening in Manhattan, crisp and cool with a purple, cloudy sky lit up by the moon. And suddenly, it was September 11th, five years later.

I continued walking to the PATH train at 9th and Sixth Avenue, drunkenly taking in the feel of night in Manhattan. When I got back to Hoboken, I walked along the river, gazing at the breathtaking view of this city that I love so much. Gentrified, corporatized, yes, but still New York, still a city of people from all over the world who realize the importance of culture and community. A city of extremes, beautiful / ugly, rich / poor, pious / godless, sophisticated / trashy, nearly every kind of person there is, all rubbing shoulders with each other, interacting with and affecting each other in a microcosm unlike any other place.

I constantly hear hipsters lamenting the decline of New York, that it isn’t what it used to be, that the real artists have left and the real scenes are long dead. Boo Hoo, poor aging hipsters. So CBGB is moving to Vegas, what a beautiful metaphor for the state of Punk. I got news for you, Spike, things change. Maybe there are fewer venues for good live music in New York, but there are also fewer young people who give a shit, so there you go. I dare you to name a more vibrant place on Earth.

9/11 hurt and hurts more than almost anything I’ve experienced (and I was lucky enough to not lose anyone I knew directly). For those of us who saw it first hand, without the numbing filter of TV and the calming drone of pontificating talking heads, it was surreal and unifying in a way we can’t even describe. If this comes across as hubris on the part of New Yorkers (and those of us in northeastern New Jersey who border the Hudson River), then so be it. I’m not trying to say that the events of that day didn’t affect everyone in the country and the world… they did. I’m not trying to imply that our suffering makes us somehow better. It’s just… different.

But what hurts more now is how the very real tragedy seems to have taught us nothing, that we were unified for a mere heartbeat, that so many people either forgave or forgot that our fearless leader failed in his promise to get “the folks” who perpetrated the attack, that he used it as an excuse to go to a wholly unconnected war in Iraq and that he and his party have abused 9/11 as fear-mongering political fodder. "Patriot Day," my ass. I despise this truly evil administration as much as I adore this city. That’s a lot.


Next up: My thoughts on Heath Ledger as the Joker!! Sigh.

Bronze Beauties #13: the Avengers

No, no, Hanlon, there’s no Emma Peel and John Steed in this comic. Legend has it that the Marvel Age of Comics was ushered in when publisher Martin Goodman asked editor Stan Lee to come up with a superhero group to compete with DC’s successful Justice League of America. The result was the Fantastic Four, but Marvel’s true response to the JLA wouldn’t come until 2 years later with The Avengers #1, a 1963 comic book teaming a number of by then established heroes from other books.

While I was more of a DC fanboy, I dipped up to the hip in the Marvel pool, and one of the things that I liked about the Avengers was that they had a butler (provided by Iron Man alter-ego, millionaire industrialist Tony Stark). The Justice League may have had an orbiting satellite HQ, but they had to get their own drinks (at least after they got rid of their silver age sidekick, Snapper Carr). Then again, maybe that’s why they let Red Tornado hang around.

Here are two swell 1970s Avengers covers, #92 (Sept. 1971) by my first favorite comic book artist, Neal Adams (who really didn’t do a huge amount of Marvel work) and #152 (Oct. 1976), a supremely hilarious piece by Jack Kirby. The voodoo villain’s name is NOT Chicken Man, but rather the Black Talon. And the guy in the swamp with the fluorescent disco duds is Wonder Man. I couldn’t tell ya about him.

BRONZE BEAUTIES ADDENDUM:
More covers to celebrate the release of THE AVENGERS movie!
Here's #83 (Dec. 1970) by John Buscema & Tom Palmer
#87 (April 1971) featuring a character who should've been in the new movie, the Black Panther, by John Buscema & John Verpoorten
#97 (March 1972) by Gil Kane & Bill Everett
#100 (June 1972) by Barry Smith
#116 (October 1973) by John Romita & Mike Esposito
#123 (May 1974) by Ron Wilson & John Romita
#141 (November 1975) by Gil Kane & John Romita
#172 (June 1978) featuring Hawkeye in the costume he really should've worn in the movie, by George Pérez & Terry Austin

© Marvel Comics

Drunken Consumption

Yesterday, I may have had the most successful day of shopping ever. Yeah, I said Shopping.

A former girlfriend and I once tried listing all of my, let’s say, non-stereotypically-masculine traits. I’m neat and organized. I like to clean. I like Gilmore Girls. I have numerous face washing products. I don’t like sports. And I like to shop. Or at least, I used to.

Thanks in part to that now-ex-girlfriend, my affinity for walking around and spending money for its own sake went away (along with some other things, but that's another story). These days, I try to just spend money when I need to, “need” of course being as subjective as anything else.

But there was a short list of big items that have been squarely in the “need” category for a while now. And they weren’t easy purchases. Not for me, anyway.

1) I needed new sneakers for work.
This is an incredibly difficult task because I despise sneakers. I only wear them in the summer and only with shorts. A few months back, I threw out my disgusting old bar sneakers and bought a pair of low-top Converse All-Stars as replacements. In my 20s, I wore Chuck Taylors 365 days a year, but as I got older, their utter lack of arch support made them a bit uncomfortable (even with insoles). But I couldn’t imagine the searing, constant neck and back pain that wearing them for 12 hours on my feet behind the bar would bring. They were out. I have another old pair of Adidas (a style they don’t make anymore) that are my “street” sneaks and I didn’t want to ruin them by wearing them behind the bar (every bartender has a wardrobe strictly for work, due to become imbued with booze, dirt, cherry stains, and miscellaneous other alcohol-related extrusions). The search began anew.

2) I needed to pick up a new black light for the bar.
I’ve been threatening for months to buy a 16” black light fixture for the door guys where I work because the old 5” fixture hasn’t worked well enough to light up the fluorescent door stamps we use in a long time. Plus, I love black lights.

3) I’ve been looking for a new pepper grinder for a long time.
I just couldn’t find one I liked. This one wasn’t pressing, though.

4) I’ve been wanting to buy a laptop for over a year.
I need to be able to write away from the distractions of my home and also do work when I go back to PA (or on the incredibly rare instances when I travel elsewhere). But as anyone who was with me during the times I was buying my car and my LCD TV knows, when it comes to large purchases, I am more than hesitant. I’ve known exactly what model laptop I wanted, I just kept putting off buying the damn thing.

Yesterday was a beautiful summer day in Manhattan, and with the assistance of the wise and kick-ass Lysa with a Y, I headed out with resolve to accomplish at least one of those goals. And, unbelievably, I accomplished them ALL, in four hours, all in a short, direct walk from 18th Street down Broadway, with a right turn at Prince, ending up at the Apple Store in SoHo.

A trek which included one key stop: Gonzalez y Gonzalez, for two and a half margaritas. (Please note: This cavernous downtown Cal-Mex joint is mediocre at best and I would never dine there, but for a quick afternoon Happy Hour Margarita fix, it's fine.)

I discovered that my reticence to buy large items goes away if I’m a bit looped. Now, this would not have been a good thing when I was gettin’ the Jeep, but with every purchase yesterday, having some tequila in me removed my hesitation and I bought a new pair of AdidasSuperstar Vulcans (at the Adidas store at Broadway and Houston) and a MacBook. As well as a new pepper grinder, a black light for the bar, and, just for good measure and to show how subjective “need” is, new Brainiac and Lex Luthor action figures and the new issue of DRAW! featuring an interview with my pal Chris.


Y and I returned to Hoboken and headed to Louise and Jerry’s for celebratory shots of Maker’s Mark and a shared Bud and then back to my place where the icing on the cake was sitting in the door: A box from Amazon containing my impulse order of last week: Craig Yoe’s ARF MUSEUM, Booker T. & the MGs' HIP HUG HER, John Doe’s FOR THE BEST OF US reissue, Hal Lifson’s SEX AND THE ‘60s comp and Arch Hall Jr. and the Archers’ WILD GUITAR! anthology.

As a rule, I’m not a fan of conspicuous consumption. I don’t shop for the sake of shopping anymore. But I gotta say, as the pizza arrived and we cracked open a bottle of Pagor Cab, the heat emanating from my AmEx card didn't burn so much as feel comfortably warm. So, the next time I DO some economy-fueling dispensation of disposable income.... I’m gettin’ hammered first.

-Urp-

Fanboy Rising

I may have entered an entirely new realm of geekdom yesterday. I appeared on the G4 network’s ATTACK OF THE SHOW in a Crossfire-esque segment called “the Loop” (sposored by Yaris). The debate was what was referred to as an age old comic book battle, “Batman vs. Superman.” Which I, to be honest, don’t think is much of a battle, for numerous reasons, which I won’t get into here (I think I've crammed enough Superman down your collective throats for a while... so to speak).

My pal, cartoonist Bob Fingerman (who couldn’t care less about superheroes) recommended me for the gig and was the “creamy nougat center of neutrality” in the debate, at least until his feed went dead and I was left alone with the Batvocate. (As a side note, Bob was happy that he got to plug his upcoming book, Recess Pieces, and that he was not referred to as a “comic book expert.”)

Whether the debate was won or lost is a matter of opinion. Some have told me that I mopped the floor with the guy.

Okay, so I mopped the floor with the guy. But it’s not his fault. Maxim Magazine associate editor Jon Wilde, as we discovered while chatting in the green room before the show, isn’t even a comic book fan. He was a late replacement for author Scott Beatty, who has written numerous books about Batman (as well as Superman, to be honest). That probably would’ve been a more fair fight.

But I still woulda’ won.

Sequestered alone in a room at a Manhattan studio (Bob and Jon were in different rooms at the same place), I wasn’t sure at all how I was doing while the LIVE broadcast was occurring (gulp). It wasn’t until I got home late last night that I watched the DVR of the show and was stunned that I wasn’t mortified... at ALL... by the whole thing. Even I thought I came off okay.... within context, of course. I mean, Giant Nerd in a Bizarro Superman T-shirt, yes. But somewhat eloquent and funny, I think.

I was even called the nerdiest thing she’d ever seen by show co-host Blair Butler, the hottest comic book dork on Earth, a woman whose existence I only discovered last weekend. Oh, Blair... and we could’ve made such geekiful music together!

The funny thing is, my fanboy seems to be rising again. While there was a period some time back where I was losing interest in keeping up with the medium, that’s changed again recently. No doubt Superman Returns (box office dud that it is.... sigh) has something to do with it, but I think it has more to do with retreating into my own Fortress of Solitude. And I’m feeling more solitary than I ever have in my life (note: this is not a BAD thing).

But whenever I’m feeling overly disconnected from people, my geek level goes up. I know I’m not alone, it’s one of the main reasons why so many comic book / sci fi dorks fit into the stereotype of schlubby, tubby guy with no social skills. It’s not the chicken and the egg: The physicality begat the nerd. When you don’t fit in with so-called “normal” society, when you don’t get invited to the dance, you need to find other things to fill your time. And fantasy worlds where freaks possess incredible powers and justice prevails suddenly become very appealing places in which to retreat.

There are exceptions to the comic book guy stereotype, of course, and I don’t mean myself (see: Blair Butler again). The thing is, as easy as it is to deride the comic book nerd, in many ways, they’re actually cooler than, say, your average rockabilly dude. The rockabilly guy’s entire life revolves around being COOL, crafting a carefully calculated (but completely unoriginal) style that applies to everything from his outfit (jeans, black boots, tattoos, white T-shirt, chain, yawn) to his car to his music to his girlfriend. It’s all about how other people perceive him. And I’m sorry, but anyone who tries THAT FUCKING HARD to be cool.... isn’t.

The comic book nerd, on the other hand, is truly passionate about his world. He dresses for comfort, not style. His tattoos are usually pretty bad. His hair is sparse and unkempt and he doesn’t care. His hygiene can be in question. And his girlfriend... well, if she exists, she usually resembles, well... him. But, again.... HE DOESN’T CARE. He’s happy in his world and if you don’t like it, tough shit. So, in the larger sense, who’s more like Brando in The Wild One?

That may not fit into the typical notion of “cool,” but to me, the overweight schlub in the Hulk T-shirt is usually far hipper than the James Dean wannabe.

And Superman kicks Batman’s ass.

Bronze Beauties #12: THE HOUSE OF MYSTERY

Originally a pale, watered down imitation of the EC horror comics of the 50s, DC Comics' The House of Mystery began in 1951, but hit its heyday in the 1960s and '70s when artists such as Alex Toth, Neal Adams, Berni Wrightson and Wally Wood illustrated stories cooked up by young, drug-induced new comics writing minds!!! By the late 1970s, the book had started to lose steam, but its covers remained usually great right up through the end....here’s a bunch of 'em from the Bronze era...

House of Mystery #186, June 1970. Art by Neal Adams.

House of Mystery #187, August 1970, art by Neal Adams.

House of Mystery #201, April 1972. Art by Michael Wm. Kaluta.

House of Mystery #202, May 1972. Art by Michael Wm. Kaluta.

House of Mystery #204, July 1972. Art by Bernie Wrightson.

House of Mystery #207, October 1972. Art by Bernie Wrightson.

House of Mystery #214, May 1973. Art by Bernie Wrightson.

House of Mystery #220, December 1973. Art by Nick Cardy. 

House of Mystery #222, February 1974. Art by Luis Dominguez. 

House of Mystery #224, May 1974. Art by various artists. 

House of Mystery #235, September 1975. Art by Luis Dominguez.

House of Mystery #236, October 1975. Art by Bernie Wrightson.

House of Mystery #254, October 1977. Art by Neal Adams.

House of Mystery #267, April 1979. Art by Michael Wm. Kaluta.

House of Mystery #277, February 1980. Art by Steve Ditko.

House of Mystery #282, July 1980. Art by Joe Kubert.

House of Mystery #292, May 1981. Art by Joe Kubert.

House of Mystery #294, July 1981. Art by Michael Wm. Kaluta.

House of Mystery #314, March 1983. Art by Michael Wm. Kaluta.

House of Mystery #321, October 1983. Art by Michael Wm. Kaluta.