I had this crazy dream last night

That a nuclear missle was headed straight for DC. It was Sunday morning and President Bush had taken a break from a golf game to do a quick interview with a network. I was working at the network doing something. The president was wearing full golf outfit, glove and all. Since he never reads the newspaper or listens to the news, he hadn't heard about the missle. When the interviewer told him, he started crying and saying, "Please, please, somebody help me!" And then he pulled out some beers he had stashed from the golf course and chugged one. Meanwhile, Peter Jennings was preparing for the end of the world on air. For some reason he started singing Christmas Carols. The lights went out, but nothing happened. The missle alert was a mistake, and there was no nuclear attack. We played the tape of the president crying over and over, and laughed and laughed.

Look out! It's Mr. Chair's comic book pick of the week!

File this one under, "comic books I never imagined I'd collect." I mentioned last week that Warren Ellis (Planetary, Transmetropolitan, Authority) is on fire, and on that note I'm giving the week's gold star to Ultimate Fantastic Four #13. Like all of Ellis' mainstream comic book series, he uses the established Marvel Universe as a dumping ground for all of his mad ideas.

It's important to note that the British writer is something of an anti-Luddite. He worships progress, technology, invention and anything he may use to further explore what he considers a very strange and beautiful world. His heroes have been a journalist from the future, a team of super-archaeologists, an astronaut, and an interplanetary weapons inspector, to name a few. That said, another running theme in his books is routine disappointment and disillusionment with that same technology. In his flagship title, Planetary, the villains happen to be a thinly veiled Fantastic Four that regularly rape and abuse science for the greater domination of the world. Reed Richards is sort of a Nazi scientist and the rest of the Four his minions/specimens.

So when Ellis took the helm of UFF (after Brian Michael Bendis did a few issues, overextendended his hackery and needed help fast) everyone was a little puzzled. After all, this was a writer who just a month or two earlier announced he was nearly finished with comics altogether, notorious for hating superhero books.

The result: a wild-eyed, fiery Reed Richards, optimistic in his young genius. Ellis uses the Ultimate version of Richards as a mouthpiece for his own sinister curiosity, creating stuff just because he wants to see what the stuff will do. Sue is his in-charge, lovesick partner. And Ellis out-Bendises Bendis with dialogue between Ben and Johnny Storm. The characters are good, but again, the fun here lies in the sci-fi playground the Four explore. What happens to Reed's organs when he stretches? If light passes through Sue, why isn't she blind? Why doesn't Johnny's skin burn? What the hell is Ben? And so on and so on. It's fun. There are explosions, and bazookas, and fire and spaceships.

Warren Ellis has a dark perspective, but it masks a bright-eyed, aw shucks amazement with the world that is so genuine, you have to enjoy it with him. And UFF is a perfect outlet.

Runner-up: The Drowners #4, by Nabiel Kanan. Black and white murder mystery. Amazing stylistic art and a twisted plot with media CEOs and junkies alike. This week's is the last in the series, but it's worth checking out if a TPB comes out.

Mr. Chair's comic book pick of the week!

New feature in the lounge!
This week is easy. Whenever a new Stray Bullets comes out, you have to read it last. That or just don't buy any other comic books and read David Lapham's latest multiple times. The new Stray Bullets doesn't disappoint, even after the long wait. That's the difference between someone like Lapham, and say Brian Michael Bendis. When the former writer comes out with a new release, it's an event. You want to put his comics on a shelf. Bendis, Marvel's all-star writer of a thousand titles, has one or two new comic books every week. I always read them first, because I know that they're entertaining, quick reads, and largely forgettable. Sort of like an appetizer for each Wednesday's new shipment.

Not so with Stray Bullets this week or any other. Lapham's black and white art demands extensive examination. His storytelling pulls you along steadily, carefully. You know something big is going to happen. It could be a nasty violent panel, or it could happen in the gutter, between frames. This week the story continues to follow our heroine in highschool, as she provides Lapham a pair of eyes to witness the horrible things that we all know happen in the teenage years. Well-intentioned Tony doesn't stand a chance.

Footnote: Last week's belated pick shall be Iron Man, by Warren Ellis. A decaying superhero book, which I adore from childhood, gets an update by the greatest scifi comic book writer out there. Ellis is at the top of his game, and everything he touches lately turns to gold.

You can feel the excitement in the air!

The National Book Awards will be announced tonight, and I think I can speak for most of the country when I say, "Who?"

The fiction nominees have a few things in common: I hadn't heard of any of them. Their authors are all women (not being sexist, just saying). Their authors are all in New York. About 50 people have read each book (not really, but "Florida," for example sold 1,099 copies). Oh and one other thing, I can't read their synopses without nodding off. Here are some examples:

"Part fairy tale, part coming-of-age story, this novel follows the real and surreal adventures of a girl from a small French village who falls into an unexpected triangle of desire and love."

"An orphan finds consolation in books, storytelling, and in the life-giving power of language and memory." (No wonder she's an orphan. Blech.)

"A historical epic that tells an unusual love story, this novel offers a kaleidoscopic portrait of nineteenth-century Paraguay."

It's as if the entry requirements this year included, "Nothing may happen throughout the text." Granted, my tastes tend toward the lurid, but I'm no schlub. I don't take any advice from Oprah, and a book on the bestseller list will likely never touch my hands. But why can't an important award like this make it past this kind of literary oat bran? I'm not saying these aren't outstanding books, but how many coming of age tales, or stories about women coming to terms with love and family, can we celebrate? Just like I'm not gonna read the new Grisham, I'm just not gonna read these books.

Are there no comic or genre novels, or god forbid, graphic novels, that deserve a nod? Are we to believe that Poe, Aldous Huxley, George Orwell, Henry James, or Kurt Vonnegut would be ineligible for recognition because their stories feature ghosts, aliens or (gasp!) a story? Does David Sedaris stand a chance?

I'm not expecting my hero Joe Lansdale to win any big awards soon (although he did win an Edgar one year). But it seems like the problem with the NBAs, this year at least, is the opposite of the problem with the Grammys. Anything remotely fit for mass enjoyment is shunned.

Anybody want to volunteer their picks for Lounge Book Award 2004?

The cover of the Rolling Stone

Who wants to play?
Head on over to Catfish Vegas presents... to file your prediction for the next Rolling Stone cover.

Confessions From a Suburban Nightmare

As I am currently staying with my Father and Stepmother – not to be confused with “moving back home”, a subtle difference but a difference – I once again find cable TV at my disposal. For the past 7 years (4 in college and 3 in Chicago) I was basically without, with the exception of a view months in the Windy. I could never justify paying for it with the tax bracket I most frequently find myself in. But I have it now and with it has come a few guilty pleasures I feel the need to confess to you here and now. Feel free to offer suggestions for penance as ye see fit.
And keep in mind, for the most part, if the TV is on and I’m in front of it, I’m taking advantage of one of the 100 or so movie channels they get, but there are a few exceptions. The Daily Show is one. No shame there. Here comes the shame.
This is hard, but here goes:
1.) reruns of the Gilmore Girls
2.) Live! w/ Regis and Kelly
I can’t believe I’m releasing this information to the ether, but it’s done. Let me explain.
I start each day somewhere between 8 and 9 with a walk, run or bike ride. When I return home I make breakfast and when I eat, I like to watch TV and I don’t want to commit to a movie. Live! usually has good guests, it’s better than The View, I find Regis oddly charming at that hour and, well… fine-ass Kelly Ripa. Yes please. And I can turn it off whenever I want. Really. I don’t have a problem.
And when lunchtime rolls around... there they are, every man’s mother-daughter fantasy come true, plus snappy, clever dialogue. Or something. I haven’t put my finger on it quite yet. Regardless, this confession was really hard for me so please be kind. And if anyone out there feels like revealing guilty pleasures of their own, I will show kindness in return. Anyone? Don’t be scared. You might even feel better afterward. Anyone? Anyone?

The time I punched a woman in the face in Radio Shack

I was waiting in the checkout line at the Fiesta Mall Radio Shack when, trying to gesture to a distant friend, I punched a woman right in the jaw. At maybe 15, I had grown an unreasonable amount in just the recent years, transforming into a gangly creature of mostly bone and pale skin. Six feet tall and maybe 120 pounds, I had all the grace and coordination of calf fresh from the womb. I swung my arm upward and came right up under a chubby woman's mouth, right at about my nipple level. All that bone, it must have been like a crack to the head with a thin, wooden walking stick, the kind with a small round bulb at the top. That's about the sound it made, combined with what could have been the breaking of a rack of eight-ball. Yeah, her teeth.

The look of shock was the most disturbing part, but to be expected since it was likely the first time she'd been punched. It was the first time I'd punched anyone, much less a lady just older than my mother. She clutched her overly made-up mouth in pain - I got her really good alright - and tears welled up in her eyes. She was in great discomfort. Her husband was standing over us both and he grabbed her and held her close. His fists balled up and he had this look on his face like, well, like someone had punched his wife in the face. He wanted to beat me, very badly, and I thought it was coming. This time, I was at nipple level. I begged for their forgiveness, assuring them it was an accident. And really, what reason did they have to question me? I mean, why would I punch her? I was in front of them in line.

Nothing came of it, and I never got any dental bill or anything. But just the other day I thought of her. I've been working with a friend, renovating one of his rental houses in Tualatin. I was pulling up some linoleum in the hall bathroom, no easy task. While working around the toilet with a putty knife - my body curled up tightly on its side, squeezing into the corner of the small room - I came too close to the porcelain with the knife. A hairline crack started where the toilet met the floor and worked its way up to the base of the bowl. Then another on the opposite side did the same thing. It seemed I had broken the toilet. Joe was very easygoing about it. He told me it was probably already going to crack and he was getting rid of it anyway, maybe just to make me feel better. But looking at the cracked white porcelain conjured up the memory of that old woman holding her mouth, comforting her hurt teeth after my own clumsiness bashed them.

While thinking of both of these accidents the other night, I inadvertently merged onto a freeway that I wasn't supposed to and got stuck, detouring a good 20 minutes and three miles out of my way. All the way to the goddamned arboretum.

Rest in Peace Old Baby McGirt

Since nobody else wants to do it.
We'll miss you Old Dirty Bastard/Big Baby Jesus/Dirt McGirt. I hope that in the next life you find the peace, drugs and hos that you could never find enough of in this one. RIP.

Who forgot to bring the cake?

Congratulations are in order for our colleague, Kip Rudolph Chair, who today entered his second year of blogging.
Head on over to Mr. Chair for the gripping Life in a Dormant Volcano series and with the lad luck with future blogging efforts.

Juggalos and the Tweedy Nation

If there’s anything stranger than thousands of indie-country-rock fans mingling with the minions of Violent J and Shaggy 2 Dope, it must have been the previous night when the mix was even more shocking; the face-painted teen-age freak Juggalos crossing paths with the hardened old-school punk Social Distortion fans.
Colfax Avenue (NOT longest road in America, by the way) is home to the Filmore Auditorium and the Ogden Theatre, which sit just two blocks apart, setting the stage for incredible co-minglings.
I rocked out (failing to pair it with the requisite cock out) as Wilco ran through one hell of a show. Two encores, close to two and a half hours, covering nearly every stage of the catalog of a band that has become unquestionably one of the top American bands today, and indeed one of rock ‘n’ roll’s greatest.
The opening “Misunderstood” was a treat and they hit my favorites from Summerteeth (“Via Chicago, “Shot in the Arm”) and Yankee Hotel Foxtrot (“Jesus, Etc.” and “Poor Places”) as well as much of the new album. “California Stars” and “At My Window Sad and Lonely” in the second encore were a particular treat.
The pleasantness of the late-fall cool outdoors was broken by the shock of running into thousands of Insane Clown Posse fans just up the road. There wasn't anything upsetting about it, just the opposite. Freakshows are always a sort of eye candy. They're like sour gummy worms.
Face paint is a strange thing. I can’t fathom how a piss-poor rap duo of white guys in clown makeup can inspire untold legion of fans. Perhaps anyone who says “fuck” enough and adheres to a club-like marketable rebelliousness can inspire teen-agers. And these kids are weird. For those who can’t get quite enough of a release from reality out of a pro-wrestling, there is the ICP.
But Wilco fans are a mild-enough batch in general. I’m sure the night before some 40-year-old punk with tattoos older than the average ICP fan was itchin’ to pound a Juggalo or two.
Just how divergent can two post-show crowds get? Celine Dion and Megadeth? The Dead and the Wu Tang? Toby Keith and Cat Stevens?

Election Day political interlude in the Lounge: Shitstorm '04

"The question this year is not whether President Bush is acting more and more like the head of a fascist government but if the American people want it that way."
"Four more years of George Bush will be like four more years of syphillis."
-Dr. Hunter S. Thompson, Rolling Stone, November 2004.

"President Bush has clearly won Ohio, and the Kerry campaign is refusing to concede." -Fox News correspondent@ 12:39 a.m. Nov. 3, when her network and NBC were the only news organizations in the world to call the state for Bush.

"Oh, we're going to start drinking in earnest in about five minutes, and after the bar closes we will empty the contents of our mini-bar into a pillowcase and suck on it until we fall into a dreamless sleep. This is pretty much the opposite of partying." -Wonkette, famed blogger, when asked if she will be going to sleep or partying until dawn.