You Should Be Reading This: Bokurano

Apologies for the late blog, it’s been a hectic week.

These kids are so screwed.

Mecha manga and anime have never been my cup of tea. I’ve had some brief flashes of interest in Gundam Wing and Genesis of Aquarion, but I tired of them rather quickly. Deconstructions of the mecha genre, however, have always been of great interest to me. Neon Genesis Evangelion, in spite of its flaws, is one of my favourite anime series ever, and RahXephon is up there, too. It was with these in mind that I started reading Bokurano. Hoo boy. While its purpose is similar to Eva and RahXephon, Bokurano’s method of deconstruction is quite different.

Explaining the series, unfortunately, gives a lot of the major plot revelations away, but I’ll try to be as spoiler-free as possible. Not explaining it enough forces one to insist that it’s better than it sounds, so here goes: During a special summer science camp, fifteen children who are playing on the beach discover a cave and go in to investigate. They happen upon a hidden room full of computers and other odd contraptions. While they explore, a strange man appears behind them and asks them a simple question: “Do you want to play a game?”

Most of them agree, not knowing the exact nature of the game, and press their hands against a device to sign a contract. No contract, no game.

The children have unwittingly become pilots of a giant robot, and the each have to take a turn at the wheel to do battle and save the world. But piloting the robot comes at a terrible price…

The manga does an amazing job at analyzing and integrating each child into the mix as they take their turns to pilot the robot. Some of the children have pretty typical anime wangst backstories, and some of them have…more complicated issues. Either way, the manga is effective and hard to stop reading one you start. Highly recommended. Go read it!

Oh, yeah, it’s been adapted into anime format, but I hear that it’s heavily censored and Bowdlerized, so I’m not touching it. It does, however, have one of the greatest opening themes I have ever heard:

Mmmm. J-poppy.

 

This whole blogging thing, cont.

Warning: This is a nigh-incoherent, self-absorbed rant (what else is new?). Proceed at your own risk.

I’m not particularly sure where writing fits into my life.

I came to a conclusion walking home tonight from a pleasant evening that ran the gamut of the seven deadly sins, with heavy emphasis on sloth and gluttony: writing to me, is much like a bowel movement, causing discomfort when obstructed and relief when it has passed.

Pardon the graphic imagery, but it serves its purpose. Relief is not pleasure. I’m not sure that the pleasure comes from the act of writing itself, only the release, the feeling of pressure released, of a noose cut from the gallows.

The rest is pride. That’s where the real pleasure comes from. The accolade, or the disgust, or the confusion or anger. The incitement is where the pleasure lies. The acknowledgement of others. The audience. You.

That’s why I think blogging gets to be too much for me. It’s all relief and no release. A tonic to cure the symptoms. That’s not to say I won’t continue. The reason I set up the “blog schedule” is to continue to provide myself relief in hopes that one day I’ll write something that will cause a continent or two to shift. To finally satisfy my pride.

I restarted this particularly blog entry four times. Four. Each time I felt as if I was writing absolutely nothing. I complained about my lack of acceptance, my attempt to find a place in this world. All bullshit. I know what niche I fill and how decorative and inconsequential it is. I don’t need to write about it. My frustration about it has run its course, and thus a new topic needed to be addressed. I defaulted, of course, to the one thing all writers write about: writing. I’ve never had writer’s block like that before, not with the blog. My problem with the blog was never my lack of things to say, only my lack of urge to utter. This seems initially contradictory to my vain and preening nature, but consider that I often think that I’m far too good for the blogosphere, or just too good for anything in general, and my sloth becomes a bit easier to understand.

I’m something of a fraud, you see.

I honestly believe that I’m meant to write. The more I do write, the more I know that it’s true. But the problem comes from my sense of entitlement. That I should be immediately good, immediately accepted and praised and fretted about and railed against oh yes please do tell me I’m so fucking good and so fucking bad.

I don’t deserve to skip a step, but I often think I ought to be allowed to and therein lies yet another one of my fundamental problems.

And thus, from the chaos of this clusterfuck of self-examination, a goal is set. To find the worth in the work. To appreciate the craft of writing and derive pleasure from its making. Not to mentally elevate so that it’s “good enough” for me, but for me to understand what the act is and become defined by it. I think I may have tasted it from time to time, but the time has come:

I’m going to find out what it’s like to be a writer. For real this time.

 

You Should Be Listening to This:

Creaturesque by Throw Me the Statue.

I’ll admit it right now, I’m easily swayed by indie pop. I loves me a catchy hook, a jangly guitar, good-but-not-great vocals delivering lyrics that are far too depressing for the major key synth melody. It’s a tried-and-true formula that keeps me coming back, although rarely if ever to the same artists. Exceptions exist, naturally (The New Pornographers and of Montreal come to mind immediately), but generally I’ll be enamoured with these bands for all of two full album listens and then drop them outright. The problem, I think, is that so many of these bands try to get by on gimmick or charm alone and forget that whole song writing thing (I’m looking at you, Black Kids. “I’m Not Gonna Teach Your Boyfriend How to Dance” was quite the tease). Even fun music can have gravitas, but so few bands manage to hit those highs, whether it be musically, lyrically or both.

Not so with Creaturesque. The second album by Scott Reitherman’s band Throw Me the Statue is a wholly affecting album. All of the tricks are there (the synths, the retro guitar) but the songs never devolve into pastiche and always manage to sound complete. They have a heft to them, and yet the whole album breezes by rather gracefully. “Tag” and “Snowshoes” especially embody this. Both songs clock in under 3 minutes, but managed to stun me as I bopped along to the beat.

Try it out if you like Belle & Sebastian or the New Pornos (check out “Dizzy From the Fall” for the Murdoch- and Newman-isms).

And for those keeping track, my play count on this album is already at 12 after only a few days having it on my comp. Take that as you will.

You Should Be Watching This:

Airmaster

Yes, an anime. I’m really late to the game on this one, but I had to point it out for obvious reasons. The series follows Maki, a muscular, 6-foot-tall high school gymnast who becomes too large to compete in her age group. Addicted to the thrill of competition, she turns to street fighting to try to get her emotional high back. Adapted from a seinen manga (roughly equivalent to a long-running graphic novel rather than a no-end-in-sight serialized comic), the series excels because of its audacity. It knocks off pretty much every fighting anime that came before it, and manages to balance its ridiculous fan-service with moments of epic badassedness. The art style is beyond retro, and the mascot-esque Renge is possibly the most horrifying character in existence (even though she was supposed to be the cute one), but the animation is solid, the fights are well-choreographed, and the characters are fun to watch. 27 episodes long. Check it.

 

Also, on Sotomayor v. Republican racism

I honestly think their strategy is to bait her into the “meltdown” that Graham claimed would be the only thing keeping her from SCOTUS. This strategy: 1. is going to alienate latino and latina voters, 2. isn’t going to work and 3. is generally insane. I think they told Jeffery Sessions to play the racism card to greatly increase the amount of frustrating hypocrisy getting thrown around so Sotomayor would simply get up and walk out due to pure frustration. Sotomayor, wisely, is gritting her teeth and shutting them down one by one, making the Republican senators look like bigots in the process.

It’s still shocking, though, to see how unabashedly condescending and outright racist the proceedings have been thus far. Kinda sucks for Sotomayor that her record is sitting there, hardly remarked upon. Oh well, once she’s in, Americans can hope for a fer realzies leftist activist judge for the next nomination.

 

Granny poop

I just had to share in my disgust, really. I can read almost anything without getting grossed out. I’ve read a LOT of horror. I’ve also read a lot of survival and travel narratives that describe various bodily functions, and though I don’t revel in such descriptions, I read through them quickly and move the hell on.

It seems, however, that stories about elderly women seem keen on describing in AMAZING FUCKING DETAIL the protagonist’s defecation and urination. I call thee out, The Stone Angel and Remnant Population.

Okay, I get it. In our winter years having a decent bowel movement is a pretty big deal. But if you’re writing, spare me the paragraph about burying old lady shit in the woods or the soiling of the granny panties. I shouldn’t have to suppress a gag reflex for a whole goddamn page per chapter. Stop.

The counter argument, I imagine, is that women considered to be “old” (and this age varies quite a lot) are invisible and thus the talk about their shit and piss is a mere backlash against the bullshit silence and mystery around women’s bodies. Word. I can respect that to a point. But fuck you if you think that anyone actually wants to read that garbage for an extended period of time. Pointing it out is one thing, making us languish in the intestinal tract of your narrator is another thing altogether. The woman poops. Noted. Let’s move the fuck on.

Or, shit or get off the pot, if you will.

 

Oh, this is rich.

Via Feministing.

Well, I’m impressed that they actually MENTIONED the mother in this ad, but this is seriously fucked up. Does the Catholic Church seriously think women get abortions with utter disregard for what could potentially be? That mindset is completely ridiculous to me, and is presumptuous to say the least. Women get abortions for a reason: medical, mental, financial, emotional or any and all of the above, and there are obviously more I’ve left off the list. “What could I be giving up?” is a logical and valid question for a woman getting an abortion, but it works both ways. What kind of life could the woman be giving up vs. what kind of life could this fetus eventually become. Feministing called this particular ad “tacky” and I couldn’t agree more. Single mothers CAN raise children on their own. Of course they can. But sometimes it’s not a viable option, and having a mother and a father there is not the only criterium for having an abortion.

So basically, this ad can go fuck itself. Peace.

 

The new U2 single…

…is pretty dreadful. I think I’ll just stick to listening to Zooropa and Achtung Baby on my iPod.

It sounds “current”, I guess. The lyrics are pretty awful. I should really lower my expectations from the U2 brand.

 

A little sympathy for mah peeps

Being gay in Canada is pretty sweet. I’ve rarely come across much in the way of direct conflict due to my prediliction for the man-on-man. At worst it’s been a conversation killer, mostly causing the extinction of unwanted small talk at work, so hey, hidden bonuses all around. It’s not so fun to be a queer in the States this week, though. As many of you know, Barack Obama’s inauguration is this week, and at a time that should be celebratory for my LGBT kindred south of the border much of the wind is being taken out of their sails.

I’m talking, of course, about Obama’s complete cock-up in terms of the religious pomp that so unfortunately surrounds the Presidential inauguration. First, Obama picks Rick Warren to give the invocation. Rick Warren runs the notoriously homophobic Saddleback Church, and when he was chosen there was much in the way of outcry from the gays in the U.S. Obama’s camp decided to do some damage control and invited gay Episcopelian bishop Gene Robinson to do the pre-inauguration invocation. Then promptly shut off his mic and didn’t include him in the television broadcast. Hmph.

There’s a lot of back-and-forth blame going on right now, between HBO and Obama’s camp, but from what I’ve read around the web, it seems to be the President-elect’s fault that the gays were shut down yet again on the public stage in the States.

This is just fucking confusing to me. Obama keeps regressing further and further away from thinking of the LGBT community as equal. Rick Warren’s speech will likely be spread wide across the Tubes, and I have a feeling that he’ll make some questionable comments about (if not completely and outright condemn) gay marriage. This will be the religious message that people will associate with Obama’s years in office. He should fucking know better, and yet he, like pretty much every other politician, will bow to the will of the religious majority. The regression frightens me. Because I see it happen more and more every day, in the way people speak, on TV, in movies, in politics, and this backswing we’re in could lead to something bad for people like me. Gay is still the punchline, and I cringe when I see people on TV use the same old bullshit to choke a laugh out of middle America. Gay is still a perjorative word, and I’ve even caught my best friend using it recently. It chills me.

I’m making a vow right now that I’m going to get my fucking writing out there, and that shit will be nowhere in it. None of my gay characters are going to die just because. My gay characters, which I know will be naturally included in my works, will not be targets nor will they be cloyingly perfect Uber-queers that couldn’t possibly exist in real life. Just people. Possibly people with super-powers, depending on what I’m writing (GOD guys I’m not made of STONE).

I will listen to Rick Warren’s speech, and Obama’s. I’ll be listening very intently. The gay community of the U.S.A. will be listening, too. They have been. They’ve heard Obama promise to repeal the army’s Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell policy, and heard many other promises as well. I hope that they take Obama to task if he fails to deliver on those promises, and I’ll be cheering them on all the way. The minorities in countries have to speak loudest because the have the most to gain and the most to lose, and our governments should WANT to help these people, to protect their rights. That’s why governments exist.

Well, if all of North America gets really bad, I hear Spain is super nice.

 

I knew it.

Nothing like a little literary HoYay to make my day. Say hello to Dr. Watson’s Inner Monologue, the least self-indulgent slash fiction I’ve ever seen:

Now all I need to find is some James Joyce slash fiction and my life will be complete.

 

Well, I called it.

3 out of the 15 or so students had any background in speculative fiction at all. Myself, a pretty, tomboyish girl, and one persistently obnoxious young woman who thinks about nothing BUT sci-fi and is one of those “personal anecdotes = seminar participation” types. And yet, I remain cautiously optimistic about this group of women I’ve been thrown in with. Open-mindedness is a necessary trait in this program, and I wrack my brains trying to figure out why some of the more stubborn defenders of the literary status quo take the courses that they do. This group, I think, seems to be willing to get its feet wet with the readings. Quality of analysis will fluctuate, as it is wont to do, but the atmosphere in this class seems to be very gung-ho. That is until winter really sets in and everybody stops giving a crap. It happens.

I spent most of last night reading Absolute Sandman Volume IV, which resulted in me having some of the most vivid nightmares I’ve had in years. Could also have been the late-night slice of apple pie, but I don’t doubt Gaiman had something to do with it. The man is a ridiculously capable writer. He made his name writing these comics, that had no business being as popular as they are, on storytelling ability. And incredible style, too. The art is fantastic, though the last volume deviates to a more cartoonish style until the very end, which I found a bit jarring. If you have the means to read it, though, do so. It’s pretty lengthy at 75 issues, but it’s freakin’ Sandman. Just read it.