Tim Etchells - The Broken World (2008)
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The Internet has been, as Chico Escuela would say, very very good to me — but still, as a general rule, I’ve never had much patience for any kind of computer-themed or virtual reality-based entertainment. I maintain that this is because most of it falls somewhere between the 1994 Sandra Bullock train wreck The Net and Billy Idol’s Cyberpunk in terms of quality, but I’m also man enough to admit that there’s a certain amount of geek-fic prejudice in there — so imagine my surprise when I found myself thoroughly engrossed in Tim Etchells’ The Broken World.

On its face, it doesn’t seem to have the makings of a successful book — it has an anonymous, not terribly likable narrator, and consists of blog entries posted as a walkthrough for the vast (fictional) game from which The Broken World takes its title — but Etchells ends up pulling it (mostly) out of the bag anyway. Even though his narrator isn’t terribly bright or motivated about anything other than the game, Etchells has a knack for pacing — the chapters are short and fast-moving, pulling the reader easily into the story, which quickly moves from the game into “real life” and back again. It’ll come as no surprise to anyone that the lines between the two start to blur after a bit — but not in the way you’d probably expect. (more…)

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Over the years, my best friend and I have come up with a lot of random, idiotic games — games that we use to pass the time while waiting for more exciting things to happen, until the games themselves become the most fun event of the evening. Our games include Metal-Off, where we go back and forth naming as many hair metal bands as possible until someone pauses for more than 5 seconds, Obscure Diseases, which has the same premise as Metal-Off except with naming diseases that have really odd names, and my personal favorite, Everyone Has Their Price. My best friend used to play this game all the time, smugly challenging people to come up with awful, disgusting scenarios, and seeing how much they would have to be paid to carry them out. I “broke” the game a few years ago on a hiking trip when I came up with a scenario so repulsive to him that he had to concede defeat … but unfortunately, I can’t repeat it here.

Somehow, the two of us glossed over the Imaginary Fight game. I’m not sure how, though; we’re both into playing these ridiculous games that only seem to appeal to guys. In the case of the Everyone Has Their Price game, we enjoy getting as detailed as possible, making enough specific points to prove, indeed, that everyone has their price (until I ruined the whole thing). Thinking it over now, we were only a couple of steps away from wondering whether Rocky could beat the crap out of Rambo. We’ll never need to think about it again, though, after reading Jake Kalish’s Santa Vs. Satan: The Official Compendium of Imaginary Fights (Three Rivers Press, 2008).

If you have to ask whether a book with such a title is right for you, then it’s probably not. However, if you’re a guy, there’s a very good chance this one is right up your alley. As Kalish explains in the introduction, “The imaginary fight taps into the most primal part of the male psyche and imagination: the need to know who’s the best, the strongest, the caveman with the biggest club.” However, whereas many men would simply come up with a quick reason or two why Rambo would totally demolish Rocky, Kalish goes much, much further.

Take, for example, the contestants of the fights themselves. Surely you’ve thought of Batman v. Superman, right? I guarantee you that 90% of the fights in this book have never crossed your mind. Here are some of my favorites:

• Barney vs. Grimace
• Samurai vs. Gladiator
• Donald Duck vs. Daffy Duck

Okay, so some of these still seem relatively typical, right? Try these on for size: (more…)

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Former Eagles guitarist Don Felder titled his memoir Heaven and Hell: My Life in the Eagles (1974-2001) in an attempt to sell more copies of the book. Co-written with journalist Wendy Holden, the book is more than the tell-all Felder’s former band feared when they took him to court and held up its release in litigation. In the book, he doesn’t even begin recording with the legendary group until 100 pages into it. Before that, Felder unfolds the tale of a young man growing up dirt poor in Gainesville, Florida, during the late ’60s. Literally raised in a tin roof shack, Felder’s parents were survivors of the Great Depression. Although his father could be a brute with his belt, he also encouraged Felder to pursue his gift for music. This encouragement led Felder to the guitar with which he hoped to emulate his hero B.B. King. While his older brother went to college and law school, Felder struggled to get through high school and fell in with the hippie culture of that era. Felder’s long hair and beard led to a physical altercation with his father and resulted in Felder leaving home in his late teens.

On his own, Felder kicked around Florida, befriending the late Duane Allman and hanging with his childhood buddy, Bernie Leadon. Both men would become influential figures in Felder’s life. It was Allman who inspired Felder to learn slide guitar and told him to “(c)lose your eyes and listen to the music…when your spine tingles, you’ll know it’s right.” Felder has carried these words with him ever since. Multi-instrumentalist Leadon, on the other hand, moved west to Los Angeles and gained fame with The Flying Burrito Brothers and as a founding member of the Eagles. For years, Leadon pleaded with his friend to join him and the growing musical movement on the west coast. Felder chose to toil away in New York and Boston in a band that went nowhere, and doing session work. More important to him, Felder reconnected with his high school sweetheart, Susan, fell in love and they got married. During a tour stop in Boston, Leadon finally convinced Felder and his bride to travel west. Once in California, Felder fell in with the gang at David Geffen’s Asylum Records. After a year being a sideman, he was invited to play some tracks on the Eagles’ third album, On the Border. An immediate chemistry was felt between Felder and the other band members, which included Leadon, bassist Randy Meisner, drummer/vocalist Don Henley, and guitarist/vocalist Glenn Frey. Soon thereafter, Felder was asked to join the band. Despite Leadon’s warning, Felder jumped at the chance to join an established group with two records under its belt. (more…)

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History-altering events produce consequences that are sometimes unintended. In our post-9/11 age, the political landscape has quickly altered, from the relative peace and prosperity of the Clinton years to perpetual war in the Bush years. Laws have changed to promote greater “security,” and liberties that were once taken for granted have been eroded all in the name of protecting “us” from terrorists. The swiftness with which the PATRIOT act was passed, the illegal wiretapping that has gone on, the way in which electronic voting can be manipulated to change the outcome of an election, lying about the threats the county of Iraq posed to the United States, and on and on is quite prevalent in the newspapers. So it’s of little surprise to see that in the popular culture, the post-9/11 culture of war, paranoia, threats from “The Other,” and the like have been a source for fiction. Fans of 24 know the world of appearance, and the “real” world underneath the gloss, are polar opposites. Fans of Battlestar Galactica can see our own cultural and political issues being played out in a drama where the protagonists and antagonists struggle with not only their identity, but also life in a state of war where the battles are frequent, lives are lost, and enemy and friend have a shared history.

Out of this cauldron comes a new novel by Betsy Hartmann. Deady Election is a political thriller about consequences (intended and unintended) that takes place in a United States very much like our own. The president is a recovering alcoholic/”Born Again” Christian who’s not too bright when it comes to affairs of state. His closest adviser, Lyndon Tottman, is a Machiavellian of the highest order who uses whatever unsavory means he has at his disposal to keep the president in power. And very close to Tottman is the First Lady, whose Southern-gal charms mask a hunger for power that matches Lyndon’s ability to secure it. (more…)

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All right, you’ve listened to us share the sordid details of some of our lowest “romantic” moments — now it’s your turn. But unlike us, you actually stand to win something for your pain.

Thanks to our friends at Total Assault, we’re proud to announce we’re giving away a copy of Things I’ve Learned from Women Who’ve Dumped Me, the new book edited by former Onion editor and Daily Show/Colbert Report producer Ben Karlin.

(Never heard of it? Take a look at my review of the book here.)

So here’s the deal: All day long, we’re opening up the comments here for your tales of woe, heartbreak, and heartwoe; at the close of business on Valentine’s Day, we’ll be convening in a grand Popdose jury and awarding a free book to the person with the best one. (All of our stories involved music — that isn’t a requirement for you, but it will earn you a few extra points.)

Ready? Let us have it!

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Don’t know if there’s anyone besides me still reading comic books, specifically The Amazing Spider-Man, but the powers that be just pulled a major Dallas-style boner — y’see, a lot of people don’t like that Peter Parker and Mary Jane are married. They want it to be like it was in the oldie times, when Petey was a swingin’ single, shagging fab gear babes like Gwen Stacy (until she, y’know, died).So how did they resolve this? They had Peter Parker make a deal with the devil to save his eternally-on-the-verge-of-croaking Aunt May. In return, the devil (known in Comic Book Land as “Mephisto”) wanted something in return. Peter’s soul? Mary Jane’s soul? Eternal servitude? A ham sandwich?

Nope, he wanted the Parkers’ marriage. Yeah, it’s just as stupid as it reads.

So here we are — Peter is single again, de-aged about 10 years or go, unemployed and living with Aunt May, which must make watching porn a real pain. Now, while I agree this is the way Spider-Man should be written, it was done in a such a sloppy, ham-fisted way that I had to laugh.

Laugh and create this:

How do you feel about Spidey? Married or single?

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It took us awhile, but Sophie and I finally completed “Charlotte’s Web” tonight. Ironically, I leafed through “The Elements of Style” (3rd Edition) by William Strunk, Jr. and E.B. White (illustrious author of “Charlotte’s Web”). In it, I came across a passage in the chapter “An Approach to style” in which it is written:

“The volume of writing is enormous, these days, and much of it has a sort of windiness about it, almost as though the author were in a state of euphoria. ‘Spontaneous me,’ sang Whitman, and, in his innocence, let loose the hordes of uninspired scribblers who would one day confuse spontaneity for genius.

“The breezy style is often the work of an egocentric, the person who imagines that everything that pops into his head is of general interest and that uninhibited prose creates high spirits and carries the day.”

Boy, I wonder what Mr. White would have though of the blogosphere. Still, it did give me pause to think about what I write on thunderbolt and exactly why I do it. Is it to be a part of a larger community of writers and readers? Is it the thrill of knowing that someone is actually looking at something I’ve written? Lately, I feel like I’m doing this for your approval. I’m 37 and still trying to get an ‘A’.

I shouldn’t let Mr. White’s text get to me so much. I’d rather think about this passage that he wrote in “Charlotte’s Web”:

Charlotte is dying and Wilbur is having his last true conversation with her.

“Why did you do all this for me?” he asked. “I don’t deserve it. I’ve never done anything for you.”

“You have been my friend,” replied Charlotte. “That in itself is a tremendous thing. I wove my webs for you because I liked you. After all, what’s a life, anyway? We’re born, we live a little while, we die. A spider’s life can’t help being something of a mess, with all this trapping and eating flies. By helping you, perhaps I was trying to lift up my life a trifle. Heaven knows anyone’s life can stand a little of that.”

Aloha

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I completed reading Michael Chabon’s brilliant “The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay” this afternoon. I found myself so attached to the characters of Josef Kavalier, Sam (Sammy) Clay and Rosa Saks that I was saddened to let them go when the last words of the last paragraph slipped past my lips and into my gray matter. Chabon, author of another one of my favorites, “Wonder Boys”, wrote a beautiful/literate tale about love, friendship, family, escapism, art, comic books, sexual identity, and most of all, hope. The last book to draw me in this way and sweep me into another world was Steinbeck’s “East of Eden”, which I worked through a couple of summers ago.

It’s not just the story, though; it is Chabon’s writing that is so rich with description and language. This man loves to write. But his tone is never condescending. He’s not trying to throw words at you to show off. Each sentence was carefully crafted.

The novel weaves the story of Josef and Sam, cousins thrown together in pre WWII New York. Together, they go on to create a series of Golden Age comic book superheroes, most prominent, The Escapist. In addition to an epic tale that spans almost two decades and three continents, Chabon has written an argument on the legitimacy of comic books as an art. I know from my own childhood of sneaking into the basement to read X-Men and Superman that a certain shame and embarrassment can be associated with comic book reading. Even today, some people I know scoff at comics as “kiddie books”. But Chabon, a longtime comic book aficionado, using comparisons to fine art and motion pictures to state his case and does so convincingly.

What I love best about this book is the sheer joy it was to have these words flow over me. Some I would have to go past, not knowing the definition. Others I had to scramble and look up. This excitement of discovering a new language, so to speak, was inspiring. From page 1 of this book, I wanted to jump back into my own writings and try to make them better.

What this book gave me more than anything else, though, is hope. Hope has been missing in my life lately. Somewhere in the past couple of years, hope has been trying to visit, but I’ve kept the shade drawn and screened my phone calls. Why? Why have I closed off the one part of my life that I need more than anything else to survive the many trials and ordeals that our life throws at us? If I don’t have hope, how can I preach to my kids that they must have hope? A great book like “Kavalier and Clay” goes to great lengths to show us that hope is sometimes lost, but it can be found. We have to open our hearts to welcome it home.

I’m trying. Man, I’m fucking trying. Until I can really feel my heart swell up with the type of optimism I used to feel, I’ll have to carry the words of Michael Chabon. I know, I know, I might think about turning to something more spiritual. Not sure if I’m ready for that yet. Not sure if God is ready for me.

While it took me a month to finish Chabon’s book, this was one marathon that didn’t have me staggering to the end. I finished strong and proud, for a change. Thank you Mr. Chabon. And thank you Kavalier and Clay.

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Love is a Mix Tape: Life and Loss, One Song at a Time (2007)
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As my Dad and I sat around the house one Saturday afternoon, playing Beatles records, we started batting around the idea that it was theoretically possible to loop a version of “Hey Jude” long enough to fill up an entire cassette. All we had to do was press pause and lift the needle every once in awhile, and fiddle with the volume knobs. A few hours later, we had a ninety-minute tape of “na na nas,” along with many “yeah yeah yeahs” and a few “Judy Judy Judy wows.” we listened to the playback, and I could not believe what we had accomplished. This was a new Beatles song that hadn’t existed before. It was Something New, as the Beatles would say. The difference between Yesterday…and Today. My dad and I had built model airplanes together, gone to Red Sox games. But listening to this tape, I knew it was our greatest hit. Paul McCartney couldn’t have been more proud after writing the actual song.

I listen to the tape now, and I think two things: I never want to hear this song again, and in 1979, my dad was around the age I am now, and given a Saturday afternoon he could have spent any way he pleased, he chose to spend it with his twelve-year-old son, making this ridiculous tape. He probably forgot about it the next day. But I didn’t.

There are all kinds of mix tapes. There is always a reason to make one.

The Beatles - Hey Jude (download)
Paul McCartney - Hey Jude (live 1990) (download)
Wilson Pickett - Hey Jude (download)
Paul McCartney - Hey Jude (live 2002) (download)
The Beatles - Hey Jude (”Love” version) (download)

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It’s been awhile since I wrote anything in-depth on politics, for the same reason Captain Video! has taken his sweet-ass time coming back from the 1980th Dimension — those posts are really time-consuming. (There’s also the fact that I count myself lucky to have so many overwhelmingly civil discussions about music, and I’d be tempting fate if I started talking on a regular basis about something else that most people take much too personally.)

But do yourself a favor and go pay my friend Py Korry a visit today. His political posts often give my skin a dark green jealous tint, and today’s is no exception. Py is a sharp guy. We disagree a bit on where the left needs to be politically in order to be effective, but he’s at least ten million times smarter than I am, so he’s probably right.

Anyway, these leads me to another point, which is: I’ve recently begun reading the latest book from Greg Palast, one of America’s best most important only real investigative reporters. Naturally, no media outlet in this country is willing to touch Palast’s work, so he delivers regular reports for the BBC.

One of those reports got Palast in hot water with the Department of Homeland Security earlier this year, which is why I bought the book; I figured if the HoS was going to waste my tax dollars on spurious wild-goose chases like this one, I might as well drop a few more bucks into Palast’s royalties.

Greg Palast’s new book is a fantastic, entertaining, enraging read. Having already read a lot of his stuff, I should have been more fully prepared for what to expect, but he’s got a real knack for making you want to hurry up and get to the next page and barf your fucking guts out in impotent rage all at once. Going through the first few chapters after reading Matt Taibbi’s latest screed for Rolling Stone was probably not the most cheerful way to spend a couple hours of a beautiful day, but whatever.

So, buy Greg Palast’s new book. Matter of fact, I’ll even buy it for (one of) you. Who wants it?

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