Not in the bad sense, but in the sense that I believe this is some sort of apocalyptic vampire tome. In other words, exactly the kind of book to which I couldn’t be less attracted. However, as I said above, I got sucked in. Maybe suckered, who knows. So far, not a bad listen.

When I hear the word vampire, I think of teen-aged angst, thanks to Stephanie Meyer and others of her ilk. Back in my day, Anne Rice was the queen of darkness, and it felt more substantial, more threatening, less love story and more historical. But I’m not going to quit simply because of preconceived notions.

That would sort of be like quitting a friend based on gossip. And I would never, ever do anything as hurtful as that.

When I was younger, I carried a spiral bound notebook and a blue pen with me everywhere, like a younger child carried his blankie. I jotted down thoughts, ideas for stories, impressions, feelings, hate-speech directed at my parents (well, mostly my father). But the point is that I wrote because I was in touch with that part of me who needed and wanted to write. It was fun. Freeing. Exciting. Full of potential because I’d convinced myself that one day my words would be my ticket to fame. Fame.

I was a lonely kid. So maybe chasing that fame monster was just my way of being noticed by someone. I had friends, but they were all the throw-away kids. They were ignored by their parents, shunned by the cool kids in school, and were easy targets for anyone who thought to take aim. I picked them up, I comforted them, I talked to them, I listened to them — and they did the same for me. Until they didn’t. Because sooner or later, like all things in life, things change. Inevitably, every new school year claimed one of those friendships. I suppose that misfits are a bit like pinballs, or maybe magnets, bouncing in one direction and pulled in another, and that instinct to move onward in upward in social strata is simply too strong to ignore.

We misfits are masters at cutting bonds. Opportunists, perhaps. Or simply survivalists. But whatever you call it this is for sure: when you see a chance, you take it. You run from what you know and hope that the new is better than the old. You run and you don’t look back. What you leave behind can only drag you down, even is what you’re running to might destroy you, it doesn’t matter. When someone you’ve always admired from the periphery of life finally takes a liking to you, all that you have is suddenly just so much ballast.

Onward and upward.

A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole has caused me to do something that I’ve only done on a few rare occasions in my reading past:  toss the book out a frozen bathroom window and plunge my head into frigid toilet water.

Over the Christmas break, I signed up for an Audible account and downloaded this book. I’d had it on my “read” list for quite some time, and because it was offered as a free download for new accounts, I decided the time was perfect to join and get a good book. The download did not proceed as smoothly as I would have expected, though this was probably my fault since I was using a new computer (a shiny new Apple iMac), a new operating system (Mac OS X), and attempting to get it to play nicely with iTunes — an exercise in frustration, at best. Still, after a bit of forum perusing and a couple of support emails,  I managed to get everything in working order and fired up on my iPhone.

And here’s where the train jumps the tracks.

The narrator of this audiobook, Barrett Whitener, does a fantastic job of “reading” this book. He creates a vivid sense of New Orleans and the colorful, comical characters that inhabit Toole’s fictional French Quarter. Each character has a unique sense of voice, as does the narrators voice, so that you always have a sense of who’s talking to whom as well as when the narrator is simply moving the story along.

And it’s in that sense of voice characterization that lies the unforgivable fault in this audio version of what is essentially a truly remarkable book: the author has got the main character, Ignatius J. Reilly, all wrong.

According to criticism I’ve read, Ignatius is a bit of a doddering curmudgeon; an overweight, low self-monitor sort of man, impossible to suffer and who is still living under his poor mother’s roof — all at the whopping old age of 30. But Whitener’s oral interpretation of Ignatius makes him sound like an irascible old man merely days away from completing his fifth or sixth decade upon this earth. And because so much of what happens in this book is funny only because it happens to a man in early middle-age (as opposed to a man settling into his silver years), an incorrect portrayal simply ruins what has to be an otherwise good read. After all, you don’t win a Pulitzer Prize (as Toole did for this book) without a fine piece of art on which to hang the award.

Strange as it might sound, each of the following are true — simultaneously:

1. A Confederacy of Dunces is a very good book and rightfully deserves the moniker “Modern-Day Classic”
2. A Confederacy of Dunces is an exceptionally poor audiobook and deserves immediate removal from the store with a full refund owed to its listeners
3. The narrator of this audiobook is extremely talented and does a wonderful job of bringing this book to life through the spoken word
4. The narrator of this audiobook commits a nearly unforgivable injustice via his portrayal of the main character, Ignatius J. Reilly, so much so that to continue listening feels like an act of betrayal to the memory of the author himself, God rest his soul

It saddens me to think that I may never experience this work as the author had intended. After committing so much time and energy just to cross the halfway point, I bristle at the notion of ever entering this fictional universe again. Though I know it’s unfair, my emotional response to this piece of literature is cast. Much time will need to pass before I could ever entertain the thought of actually “reading” this book.

Sadly, my foray into A Confederacy of Dunces ended in literary tragedy. Perhaps the worst criticism leveled at an author is when a reader stops reading. Illogical as it may be — forgive me Mr. Toole, this debacle was never your fault — sometimes the heart trumps the head.

Who knows. In the end, perhaps this elevates me to the standing of Commander-In-Chief of this particular confederacy.

On writing, an aggravating truth about myself is that if I don’t connect within the first one or two sentences with the piece in hand, I give up. No questions asked, no looking back, the delete button on my keyboard is both blessing and bane. So goes the recent history of my attempts at writing for this blog. Writer’s block, laziness, doubt, call it what you must. I’ve been unable and unwilling to commit myself to the process or writing.

Anathema.

I hate to write this as much as I hate to admit to it, but another vexing truth is that I tend to overdo things. Nowhere is that more obvious to readers of this blog than in my previous spate of entries regarding comics and graphic novels. I don’t remember exactly how it all started (though I think the Watchmen was the foundation), but looking back through the clarity of time I see that it didn’t take too long before I was neck-deep in the throes of something that I had gotten far too involved with.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.

Once again, as with so many other mis-perceived, ill-conceived relationships, I had fallen fast and hard. My past is littered with the corpses — yada, yada, yada. Whose isn’t. The problem is that I know this about myself. I know the pattern and I know the signs. And yet, perhaps like any addict, I didn’t care because the excitement overpowered the guard on duty. Whether superheroes or constellations, prose or poetry, girls or boys — the pattern didn’t change. Sadly, neither did my reaction.

As a Catholic having never once visited a confessional, hear this…

I do not like superheroes. I do not like The Dark Knight or The Amazon Princess or The Man of Steel. I do not like poorly written prattle, on the nose dialog, pictures of women’s breasts so engorged and inflated they make me wince in fear of the heart-stopping explosion of popping balloons. In short, my newly-kindled love affair with objects only representative of the youth I feel I’ve lost, is one fraught with the peril of being that guy incapable of growing older. I’m not that guy.

I wish.

Understand that I’m not disparaging readers of graphic texts. Nor am I ruling out reading those graphic novels that reach beyond the typical demographic. Indeed, I cannot wait to delve into works such as Maus, Blankets, Asterious Polyp, as well as many others. Rather, I’m saying that I do not want to be that sad-sack who believes that happiness can be found in the remnants of his particular youth.

I hear the crescendo of the violins of melodrama.

Again, though I’m not walking away from the medium entirely, I am saying that for now I have to return to more traditional texts and genres. I have to put away notions of capes and cowls and costumes — they simply do not speak to me as I had hoped they might. Either that, or I’m discovering that I am no longer capable of hearing what might have said.

That, perhaps, is the saddest thought of all.

I was right.

I’m guilty of bringing to the comic book table certain prejudices, and my hope was that this book might help to dispel any or all of those in-grained and perhaps unfair conceits. Beliefs such as that comics are for kids due to their overly simplistic presentation; that comics are only about superheros who have little relevance to life today; that if comics are as superficial as I believe, how deeply can they be mined for theme and insight into the human condition? After all, isn’t the point of reading about gaining insight into a previously unexplored aspect of life, delving more deeply into an opposing point of view, or broadening your personal definition of the human condition?

It is for me. But is it unfair to pin these sorts of expectations on a single book, this or any other?

Understanding Comics: The Invisible Art is a surprisingly in-depth analysis into the art of comic storytelling. Although the author, Scott McCloud, does spend a good amount of time defending the art form against the myriad criticisms leveled at it (as any practitioner of his or her maligned work of choice would be expected to do), I get what he’s saying and I agree with him. There are changes afoot in the world of comics and graphic novels today, changes that are slowly seeping into and through the collective consciousness of book readers and sellers alike. Take a look inside any book store (brick-and-mortar or online) and you’ll see that shelves devoted to this particular story-telling medium continue to swell with newer works that put the early days of comics to absolute and utter shame.

One of the raps suffered by comic books is that the use of copious illustrations tends to leave very little room for an engagement of the imagination. To refute this, McCloud explains a term that exists within the medium called “closure.” The term describes the rather extensive use of the reader’s imagination that occurs between the panels of the pages. Imagination fills in the missing details and fleshes out the action that occurs unseen. Admittedly, giving a name to something that occurs naturally and without thought isn’t exactly earth-shattering, but it’s this sort of analysis of the comic reading experience that Understanding Comics provides.

Though comics of the olden ages provided little more than words and pictures that moved in tandem, describing themselves with little added value per panel, this is changing today. Titles such as Watchmen, Maus, Persepolis and many, many others are demonstrating that this storytelling medium has matured beyond the limits imposed upon it by a public who’s collective understanding of comics has not advanced beyond that of the funny pages. Which is sad, because this medium has a great deal to offer in terms of complex characterization, outstanding plotting, and thematic concepts that are helping comics transcend their reputation.

Key players in Cornelia Funke’s Inkdeath, they facilitate the mortality transition; more importantly, however, they chaperon Dustfinger and Bluejay along an artificial plotline that is more concerned with happenstance than with character development. In other words, while a good read, Ms. Funke has managed to screw things up yet again.

But no one comes to this blogger for reviews, so let’s think instead.

Who are these women?

There is the story of a tomb standing on the outskirts of a long-forgotten village just south of the city of Jerusalem. If you believe the account, then you know the story of the women who found the stone cast aside revealing an empty cave and a burial shroud. Were these women (sisters Mary and Martha among them) the Biblical version of the White Women who attend the corporeal wake?

His name was Jesus and they say he was dead three days prior to the discovery of his disappearance from the tomb by his home girls, Mary and Martha. Of course, debate still rages around the issue of what exactly was meant by “three days,” but that is outside the scope of my thoughts, for now.

So is this the Messiah? Could there be others?

As it turns out, there was another third day.

Though lesser men have tried and failed, Mortimer has managed to summon the White Women to him, in spite of the fact he has not yet been marked for death. And with no interest in the living, save for those among them for whom life remains to be measured by moments, this is a feat unprecedented. But he is no ordinary man, the Bluejay, and for him they will answer the call.

For three days and three nights, this man wanders among the charges they call Dead. And then returns to the living with the man called Dustfinger.

Can the pain of passage be so exquisite as to border on the erotic? And is it the purview and privilege of messiahs and their Women to wander these temporal states?

These women who tend death, who escort from this world to the next the souls of men, are nameless, faceless spirits for whom subjugation is Love in the service of a higher power. Whether flesh or phantom, spirit or shade, these beings of empathy behold death in its uncompromising guise without flinching, and lift their voices in praise.

So that, no matter how lonely we might live, we never die alone.

I picked up this coffee-table sized book while on vacation, spotting it languishing in the bargain-priced section — a place I do not believe this beautiful book belongs. I found it hard to pass up, not only for the cheap price, but because it prominently featured Wonder Woman past and present on the front cover. Yes, I’ll admit to having a crush on this Amazon princess back in the day — though I don’t recall her looking nearly as hot then as she does today.

Irresistible.

This tome, bound with exceptionally heavy card stock, was a fun romp through the history of not-insignificant harem of DC Comics superheroines. It begins with a richly detailed history of their girls, where they’ve come from to where they’re headed, but goes well-beyond the scope of “just” hero-centric comic fare, delving as well into the several imprints under the DC banner such as Vertigo, Wildstorm, et al,  that feature stories outside the traditional superhero universe. I quickly discovered that not all pretty women are heroic.

Though under Wonder Woman’s spell back in the mid ’70s, I must admit there were others. Super Girl was a favorite despite her sticky-sweetness, and Batgirl never failed me with her tiny little mask, skin-tight bat costume — and those (oddly ubiquitous) crime-fighting stilettos! — made for some very breathy comic-book reading.

As is often the case in any progressive society, what was once innocence and purity eventually becomes worldly and hyper-sexualized. And these super-heroines — as you can see from the covers — are no exception. Breasts have inflated to nearly triple in size, hairdos have grown to mane-like proportions, and costumes have shrunken down to little more than highly-stylized bits of duct tape and dental floss trusses.

In other words, our girls are now the women dominating our cultural collective wet dream. Covers became coverlets, and of course, the less we clothe our women, the more we’ll pay to play. You’d be hard pressed to find many (if any) among the target demographic who’d raise a modest hand in protest.

As a relative newcomer to today’s comic culture, you go with the flow of convention or you move on to more accommodating fare. The book is fun, and aside from the anatomy lessons, there are no real surprises; so, if you’ve come expecting anything more than titillation and prurient self-accommodating wish-fulfillment, you’ve probably opened the wrong book.

On the other hand, spending a few hours reminiscing about some of the more salacious moments of adolescence is not exactly the worst way to spend time, is it?

Part 1: Patriarchal power passed from “father” to “son.”
Part 2: Green Lantern’s literal and figurative weakness.
Part 3: How the plot relates to 1950s society.
Part 4: The symbolism of story and changing America of the 1960s.

To much fanfare, and certain relief, enters the Green Lantern. Benevolent caretaker, watcher of society, defender of values, this man among men is the iconic great white hope, or green in this case.

The concept of duality (the idea of alternative forms or states of being) in literary works is quite common, and it’s interesting to see it at work in this graphic novel, as well. Given the medium — though even moreso, the year of copyright (1960) — sniffing out perceptions of duality is a more on-the-nose sort of exercise than subtle. Still, you take your literary fun where you can find it.

An obvious example of duality is the twin existences of the man himself. There is Hal Jordan: staid workingman, mid-century values, and a rigidly defined moral framework that exists within the boundaries of absolute good versus absolute evil. Then there is the Green Lantern: virile, adventuresome, risk-taker, same sense of morality, yet his donning of the Green Lantern ring and costume is symbolically ushering in, not only a change of guard among the Green Lantern Corp, but also a change in the fabric of societal values. While he is not responsible for the changes undergoing the country, his rise to fame is not merely coincidental. (Nothing ever is to an English major.)

Then there is the woman at the center of a love triangle that exists between her (Carol Ferris), Hal Jordan, and the Green Lantern. Hal loves Carol, Carol loves the Green Lantern, and, well, you get the idea. Hal’s morals are such that he will not reveal his true identity to Carol, as doing so could potentially put her in grave danger for knowing too much. Moreover, Hal wants Carol to fall in love with him — the plain old man — as opposed to Green Lantern — the myth and legend, as it were.

As they say in word bubbles back in the Silver Age, “Great Scott!” What will he do? What can he do?

Meanwhile, back on Venus…

In the (typical) nick of time, the Green Lantern arrives on scene. Though the blond birds threaten to overrun him along with the cavemen, through his powers of quick thinking he conjures up a green hawk — strong, predatory, confident — to take out the yellow threat hovering overhead. Looking like an irresistible amuse-bouche to the pterodactyls, they immediate turn their attention away from the men and lock on to the hawk.

Who knew pterodactyls had a taste for emerald-colored hawks?

The bird of prey, as quick thinking as the man who created him, lures the pterodactyls into a deep, dark cave that he spots high up on the side of a mountain. Unable to resist the power he has over the prehistoric birds, they follow him into and down the rabbit hole. Once inside, the Green Lantern calls upon the power of his ring to cause the rocks around the opening of the cave to fall in landslide, effectively sealing them inside Venus’s womb forever, where they belong.

Or, for the literary minded, those uppity broads are beaten back to within the confines of the home where they belong and to where they can no longer pose a threat to the men who rule the world. Safely banished, the blue men — along with the Green Man — return to the open plains where they perform prehistoric team-bonding rituals of chest-bumping and butt-slapping.

Booyah!

Societal values evolve to accommodate the inevitability of change. One group pushes boundaries that surround and confine, while another pushes back in defense of the status quo. The siblings of change — contempt, distrust, fear, anxiety, hope, progress and redemption — are necessarily loosed upon a world that measures time through the attrition of souls.

In other words, it’s going to hurt but it’s good for us. Still, in a world where superheroes are summoned to push back this inexorable march of time — and can do so — what is gained?

The denouement is this: the Green Lantern returns to Earth, transforms back into his alter-self Hal Jordan just in time to ask Carol Ferris out on a date. Alas, she turns him down as visions of the Green Lantern dance in her head. She goes home alone and schemes of ways to hook her talons into the one man she really wants, the one man to rock her world, the one man who can truly complete her empty existence.

On Venus, the planet of the feminine, there lives a clan of cavemen. According to the panels of this particular story, there is not a single cavewoman (as it were) among the bunch, at least not out in the open air where this particular group of beings are ducking and running for their lives. In the skies directly overhead hovers an angry flock of yellow pterodactyls, intent on plucking the cavemen from the open fields like emergent worms to carry them back to their nests as food.

Setting aside speculation as to which sex (assuming there are two) is of greater intelligence at this particular moment — for if you assume there are two, you might also assume that the females have had the good sense to hide from their attackers rather than allowing themselves to be plucked from the fields as dimwitted tasty treats — these yellow birds quite obviously represent a danger to the men of their world.

Symbolically, the threat confronting these men could be seen as the oncoming, inexorable changes about to be permanently visited upon their established way of life.  These blond-haired (furred) predators are interlopers, interfering in the ways of men by doing what blonds do best — distract and acquire target, pluck the heartstrings, emasculate and chain him to the nest.

In other words, bye-bye boys club.

It is impossible to ignore the parallels that exist between this imperiled, male-dominated Venusian society and that of the exploding 1960s here in the United States. That brief taste of freedom that women tasted as part of a collective effort against a common enemy during the second world war, along with a burgeoning social conscience, puts the lie to the increasingly outdated belief that women should be content with their assigned role as angel of the house, a home-maker safely tucked ensconced in comfortable corners of kitchens and sitting rooms.

While an adherence to tradition and gender roles once maintained the integrity of our society-at-large, sweeping societal changes ushered in on wings of pterodactyls raining down from the sky, signal an end to the establishment in ways that will continue to reverberate throughout the coming decades.

Perhaps Dylan said it best when he sang, the times they are a-changin’.

Like all uprisings, this one is no different; as well, it must be quelled. But who will beat back the rebellion? Can the hatchling be put back into the egg? With the balance of power shifting, the question becomes whether a peaceful co-existence is possible among the parties involved. For the blue men of Venus, defeat (in the form of change ushered in sporting a pair of stilettoed talons) appears inevitable.

Unless…

A quick plot synopsis of the actual comic would go something like this:

Hal receives a plea for help via his lantern from a group of early-humanoid creatures on the planet Venus. They are under attack by a wing of marauding pterodactyls intent on ripping the cavemen to shreds. Under normal circumstances, the Green Lantern would easily dispatch this threat with great aplomb. But these are extraordinary circumstances (of course). These particular pterodactyls are yellow, and as such, the Green Lantern’s superpowers are rendered useless against them. As usual, Hal must out-think and outwit his opponent to prove, once again, that good always triumphs over evil.

This is a trope used again and again throughout the Golden and Silver ages of superhero comics, so there’s no point in commenting on plot. However, should you choose to see it, there is a great deal of symbolism in play in this particular story, symbolism that shines a spotlight on societal changes erupting here on sister-planet Earth during this period.

In the previous decade, as our men and boys were heeding the call of Uncle Sam, women began venturing out of the home and into the world. In addition to the war effort, there was an economy at stake, one whose prosperity would determine our success in the overseas arena of battle. Indeed, our success in the second world war was, in a very large part, shouldered by those millions of Rosies (of Riveter fame) answering their own gender-specific entreaty by Uncle Sam.

And then the war was won. But as quickly as those wives, mothers, sisters, and daughters emerged from their homes, they retreated. Warriors returned home from the battle, forcing their women to trade in their freedom and independence for aprons and anonymity bestowed upon the domestic goddess. We couldn’t have done it without you, Rosie, we quip, with a wink and a love-tap on the rear end.

Now, back where you belong….

In the next post, I’ll discuss the symbolic link between the attacking pterodactyls and a burgeoning post-war feminist movement.