December Wolves: Not Howling At The New Moon

Not much to say about this one. I don't hate Twilight and that's not damning with faint praise. I just haven't been around it, so the information about it seems fresh and peculiar. Plus, we've all been young and liked bad things in retrospect.




I saw a magazine cover that said Twilight must die. I disagree.

This may sound counter-intuitive, but I mean it. Hearing about vampires right out of an Abercrombie ad does not annoy or phase me. I do not go into a frothing rage over the Twilight series and given that I've LARPed using a Vampire: the Masquerade setting, I'd like to think I have some cachet when I say these things.

It's for a couple reasons.

One. I've organized my life in such a manner that I avoid a lot of infotainment being paraded as news, so I'm not remotely fed up with the apparent ubiquity of the off-brand vampire series.

But, because I specifically avoid being innundated with news I don't care about, I'm not annoyed at "emo vampires." Speaking of which, I am convinced motherfuckers using the word emo have no fucking idea what it means and the ought to shut their goddamn mouths. The movies, at best are checkered and are full of Young Attractive People, who are apparently making the Hollywood rounds like every other batch of starlets before them. But if your world is under siege by news of shit you don't care about, the most recent of which being emo vampires, perhaps you ought to move away from that world.

(My life is also not structured so much that a dubiously authentic take on vampires insults me, either.)

For heaven's sake, guys. It's not like pop culture was terribly interesting before Twilight showed up and sucked the fun out of it. "Lady" Gaga can only be in the news so often.

My interaction with Twilight and its fanbase is minimal, by design. Therefore, when I hear it being discussed, it's something that still has a bit of freshness. The good vampires shine in the daylight, like glitter? Okay. It sounds like Magical Love Gentleman took a tragic turn, but whatever.


Two. It's an introduction for young people to reading. I'm a pretty voracious reader, but my infatuation started with Asterix and those sappy teen Jedi books. The good of kids still getting excited about books, in this case is far more powerful to me than the ubiquity of Twilight related merchandise.


Three. It's an introduction for young people to vampires. Who knows how many people will pick up a Buffy DVD or watch an episode on Hulu (Shit guys, do you think it's a coincidence that Hulu is broadcasting the whole series, one season at a time right the fuck now?) OR pick up a more "core" vampire book? These things can't be discounted. Truth is, we all have to start somewhere and for most of us, our introductions were just as gloriously terrible, if not more so.

In this case, this is their time to get intrigued and learn more, if they so choose. For the people who are "supposed" to know better, I don't know what to tell you. There are worse things to enjoy, secretly.


Four. I've heard the books are terrible from people I trust so it's not like I'm going into this expecting a great book and getting disappointed. I'm not horrified that the series itself plays fast and loose with the core concepts of vampires while retaining the parts it likes.

Vampire lore (like fiction generally) is pretty incestuous. White Wolf may complain, but they stole from Anne Rice, who was cribbing off of Bram Stoker, who may have just been rewriting the rougher stories he heard about Vlad the Impaler, mixed with his own imagination while a lot of people in Dublin had leprosy.

Also, Countess Bathory. Holy shit, Countess Bathory. Just click the link and you'll see why I'm at a loss for words there.

Twilight's a bad book series (but not the worst thing to happen ever) that for reasons that baffle me is huge. It's annoying for now, but if in five or six years we see a sustained interest in Buffy, Dracula and non-mainstream modes of communication then I think all the glittery teens are worth it.

December Wolves: Thoughts on Detective Comics #859

I said yesterday I was doing 15 posts in December, and here's the first of those 15. I've settled on the name December Wolves for the feature, because wolves roam in packs (there's a number of these updates coming down the pike) and also because one of the composers for d-beat overlords Trap Them, Brian Izzi, was previously in a band called December Wolves.

(Obviously, the Trap Them reference came to my mind first and I realized it was perfect, but probably needed further justification.) Since this is a detail oriented post, there's obvious spoilers, so if you're planning on being surprised by this Detective Comics run, you may want to move along now.




It's the details in Detective Comics #859 that make the issue sing.

This arc focuses on the path of Kate Kane to Batwoman. The first scene is set in West Point, where Kate is acquitting herself well and digging into the surroundings. She's the brigade XO and at the head of her class. She also happens to be kissing girls.

The West Point part showcases Kate's backbone, so you know how this going to end. And you'd be right. She gets kicked out of West Point. But how Rucka takes the reader there is not what you'd expect. I should have noticed it the first ten times I read the issue, but I wasn't focusing on the masthead. It lists another name, aside from the people in DC working on the comic. There's a special consultant on the issue. Daniel Choi.

That name should be vaguely familiar.

It's familiar because he's a discharged Arab linguist and Iraq War combat veteran for, yes, being gay. The masthead reads "Special Thanks to 1LT Daniel Choi (USMA 2003) For His Generous Assistance In Research For This Issue". And when viewed through this lens, the West Point portion comes into focus.

Every person granted a speaking role in West Point is viewed sympathetically. The commanding officer is trying to do Kate a solid. He's offering her an out, by taking her under his protection (by virtue of her exemplary service and his fondness for her parents) and using his fiat to kill the investigation. The other woman is never heard from again. There's no "this is why the poilcy is wrong" scene. There isn't preaching. The closest it comes is the look of disappointment on Kate's face when she does what she has to do.

(Also, I think Lt. Choi just joined the DCU, since the cadet that tells Kate the commanding officer wants to see her has a last name of Choi and Kate refers to him as Dan. I will see if I can get Rucka to confirm this.)

In her reply, she shows the backbone and purpose that will serve her as Batwoman, but also how much she truly believes in the community she's about to be kicked out of unceremoniously. Her reply is that if she said it was a joke or a misunderstanding, she'd be lying and cadets are trained not to do that or allow is to happen around them, so she refuses to say it.

She then goes the step further, saying directly to her superior officer that she's gay. She refuses the offer to hide under her CO's auspices, however well meaning and self-sacrificing it was and quits the service, just before graduation.

She wasn't just measuring up to the Army here, Rucka was showing us her measurements to wear a bat-symbol on her chest. Okay, she has the conviction.

But that only gets her so far, and as her proud father notes, that's not real far.

She is restless and has sex with the woman who would be the Question. (Note to Overkill readers: Mantle-passing is all part of the superhero genre. The previous Question died of lung cancer.)

Most stunning is her transformative experience with Batman. Or, perhaps not so transformative. He simply picks her up after she successfully fends off a mugger, yelling "Don't you know? I'm not a victim. I'm a soldier, god damn it!" What's worth mentioning is that Batman doesn't save her from shit. Bruce simply offers his hand after he surprises her so much that she loses her balance.

He just offers his hand. It's that act of kindness, but not much more. Batman doesn't even set the wheels in motion, he just kicks the machine to get it working. It's not so much an empowerment story via Batman, but just that Batman is a catalyst. That's what makes the story special. Batman didn't train her. There's no taking her under his wing. She's been trained. She knows what to do. She knows how to organize herself and she's doing it herself.

Next, I'll talk about the art, briefly, because it's pretty silly I think, to spend a lot of space describing what's going on when you can just look at it. I'll point a few things out and have that be the end of it.

J.H. Williams' III art leaps off the page, but again, it's the details. The panels on top of the page (below) are of the overarching story, but they're also done as Batman symbols, which is cool. But what takes it from cool to "I never thought of it, that's awesome" is the breaks between panels, starting off in red and ending up in purple, starting straight and veering off course, reacting to to the story it (literally!) delineates.























The rest of the issue is done in a muted, but warm tone which fits the backward looking nature of the run well, but isn't as interesting, since it's set in straight forward panel stuff. It's not as visually compelling. In these pages reproduced here, there's a lot visually going on, but it can immediately be made sense of.

The final touch is this: Batman, when he's shown in the flashback, is done in the modern style. I would say it's a hint at what's to come, but the character's name is Batwoman, so you know what's going to happen.

It's a great single issue not just because all the pieces themselves are good, but when they're put together, the attention to detail, both on the art and story side stand out. True, Rucka could just turn in the narrative equivalent of narrating Mr. Williams' pretty pictures, but Batwoman here is having her character defined as something textured, layered, distinct and very different from Bruce Wayne.

Batman with tits, she is not.

The art's fresh and the writing's fantastic. Last time I checked, this is why people buy comic books.

Farewell

I haven't updated Eleven Names is a minute, so this is as good a reason as any. This was going into Overkill number seven, but apparently, they care, very much, about deadlines. The upshot is now that you get read the Overkill-quality piece without having to wait for the printshop and I can put in hyperlinks or make the piece as long, rambling and confessional as I want without worrying that I'm sharing too much.

Truth be told, I was uncomfortable admitting this much in Overkill, so it's probably for the better that I didn't get comfortable enough with the piece until after the deadline...



I miss GFC coffee. That's the topic Katrina picked for me, so here I am. Since graduation, I've had a lot of other coffee. The best, so far, is Starbucks. Potentially blasphemous, but it's true. For me, anyway. I don't know what makes GFC coffee so memorable. I'm tempted to say that it's the high quality beans, the blender or whatever the thing that turns the beans and hot water into coffee is called.

Maybe it's the cute baristas. But if that was true, then that would put tons of points into local coffee houses across Chicago, where any 20 something woman with thick glasses and a tired smile slings cups.

Maybe it's the hot chocolate mix that goes into 97% of the cups I pour myself. Almost certainly, the hot chocolate mix is the ingredient that makes coffee tolerable for me. And because of it, I can stomach the bitterness of coffee. I can ingest another drug. Maybe it's the whole straight-edge thing, that like Catholicism, never really goes away. It informs everything I see. It's a lens.

So. GFC coffee. What is it about the coffee that makes me think about it and miss it more than the Creative Crust or cookies from the Artist's Cup? This sounds like a copout, but I think it's all of these things and the clientele. I don't think of GFC coffee as the thing I pay $1.50 for, I think of GFC coffee as the atmosphere, the moments where I sip my coffee and curl up around it, move my nose towards the rim and drinks in the smell, the fumes clearing out my sinuses. GFC coffee is the pillows within arm's reach and talking to my friends.

GFC coffee is the smile on my face or the indignation on reading something in the New York Times that is Very Wrong And Ought To Be Recorded Somewhere.

And yet, I don't feel the same way about alcohol, yet I associate it with many of the same things. I associate it with the camraderie in the Penny Bar, the things it is unwise to tell my parents and the ancient, powerful urge to sing whenever I hear Sweet Caroline, even through the ringtone of the bitchy secretary in the office. The cute girls that seem to get cuter when Yuengling is consumed and everyone's hair is let down. Speaking of which, if anyone knows Bets...

In other news: These good feelings are all things I think about when I think of beer. And I know it's a lie.

I know that the only thing alcohol does is it makes me happier and then makes me feel everything 10 times more. I associate the alcohol with walking home alone, depressed and hopeless. I want to kiss girls, but (as Jawbreaker might say) I end up kissing the bottle.

So anyway. I'm drinking a beer at 8 p.m. in my parents apartment.

And if you want to know what being a graduate is like in these times: For me, it's not having a job, going through internships bleakly, kicking myself for not biting the bullet and going to the office and asking them for help with the next stage in the game of my life.

I need help is one of the hardest sentences in any language.

So here I am, putting my hands on a bottle of wine my parents own and when they're gone I'm wondering what I do with it. My fingers curl around the bottleneck, feeling the imitation wax around the bottle. It's red wine. Sophisticated, according to at least one ex-girlfriend. The more or less official drink of the World/Inferno Friendship Society and France. It's for lovers, lushes and "creative types." It is the closest thing that I have access to that can act as a muse.

The reflection of a writer/artist in alcohol is one of the most common romantic depictions of the type, for good reason. It exists because it's one of the ways to get out of your own head and be creative. It's traditional. It's easy. It works.





Plus, I'm no fun. There are glaciers warmer than me. I get more fun and ideas flow easier when liquor is involved. I get creative and less restrained. Besides, no is limiting, by its very nature.

I drum on the bottle with my index and middle finger. The wine glasses are just a counter top away. There's something to celebrate, right? Mom and Dad are in Hawaii, in advance of an anniversary that's a real milestone in anyone's life. Hell. This anniversary predates my life.

Relax, I tell myself. Just a little something. I'll write better. I sigh and understand, in an instant.

I already know what I do. I take my hands off the bottle, not because it's the right thing to do, but because I know where it leads and I don't have anywhere to walk to. It's no good for me. I have no one to walk home to. No cheerful roomates. My friends aren't a five minute walk away and always up here. There's not a couch to play Star Fox 64 on until I dry out.

There is no one a short walk away to air grievances with and I'm keeping company with a dark, quiet apartment. There is no point in escaping this way. I'll just come out of it realizing I'm alone in my parents' house. I haven't touched my Playstation in....months, now. My escapism currently is Hellboy and Immortal Iron Fist comics. They're fun. The secret about comic books is this: They're short stories for everyone. The suffocating pretense that usually goes with short story collections isn't there.

Also, the pictures are pretty.



The Immortal Iron Fist (left) is about family, in a roundabout way. Sure, there's kung-fu, HYDRA and mysticism, but it's about the friends who would go to the end of the earth for you and the ancient obligations that take you there. There's also a battle, in which the people the main character (Danny Rand) fought against join him to protect their home from destruction.

Comic books are also fun to read on the bus because it lets you know what people think of you immediately. Pulling out an issue on the ride home, the response is either a cautious interest, because they don't want other people to know, or never looking at you again.



I'm getting more used to the stares and the "I thought he was cute, but" sighs now.

It's a mouthful, but I'm told the kids want to see melodrama and I'm scared I'm just giving them what they want. I'm scared, like Tim Kasher, that I'm simply returning to writing about pain and bad things because it's easier than writing about other subjects and that melodrama is what brings people's (let's not mince words, your) attention.

This post is penance enough for admitting I am not a superhero, I think. The acknowledgment of my failures only goes so far before it turns into masochism and with all the pessimism here, I wonder if I'm still on the right side of the line. I know what it takes and I know that if I push myself, I've got it. The difference between hard and impossible, well, you know...

But, sometimes there's moments of clarity and joy in the post-graduate life. I got a text message out of the blue from one of my old roomates, now a sophomore, who says he's found an academic subject he's actually interested in, which is something that frightened him last year. This made my night. It made me smile.

I'm not in college any more and I don't want to be back in college. I'd like to be among my friends, who are in the area, which is an important distinction. I want to see them. I want to see what they're doing now and not have the pall of trying to get another grip on something that's gone.

As attractive as nostalgia is, I don't want to spend that time with those friends reliving the old days. I want to see what they're doing now, in this very moment. I want to be a part of that and not spend my time in a land filled with "remember when?"

And that's why I like GFC coffee so fondly. I remember it likely better than it tasted at the time, but whatever. I like GFC coffee because it represents a period of time, no longer than one hundred and forty seconds, that all I focused on was the warmth of the coffee next to my frigid body and frozen psyche.

But that's not really a note to end this on. Life is awesome. Really. I don't know exactly what's coming and that's exciting, I think. After a summer of being afraid of the future, the winter doesn't feel so bad. Looking back on it, it seems people like my writing when I'm truly engaged in what I'm writing about. That's a feeling I want to have. It's productive, but also affirming and uplifting.

Yes, I publish a lot, according to some people, but ultimately not enough for me. I ought to be updating every goddamn day. So, I'll make this announcement: Eleven Names (that is to say, me) is going on a spree in December. 15 (full length) posts by midnight New Year's Eve. There will not be fake "I've had this one done and have been waiting to publish it for months" posts. Just from now till December 31st, I'm going to write a lot. Starting today, I'm writing the column I've always wanted to have.

If I can do that, then I catapult from there to a regular posting schedule, I'm sure. And by the end of it, I'll really need some GFC coffee.