Some of the best memories (and some of the only good memories) I have of my father are laying on the floor of this office with him listening to old radio serials of The Shadow and The Green Hornet. They were amazing. I'm six years old, maybe, somewhere in there. The room we were in was always dim because my dad would never change the overhead lightbulb, if it even had one, but would instead use a single desk lamp with a green shade for light. The radio was always slightly off tune, which made the shows sound scratchy and distant, which is how I pictured The Past to be when I was a kid. I laid on the floor night after night with my head inches from the radio as jewels were stolen and banks were robbed. There were goons and getaways and excitement and each night I would think, just for a second, that this would be the night that Evil emerged victorious. But every night a Hero would step from the shadows in the nick of time and save the day. It never failed. They never failed. I was in awe over that fact that these people would right wrongs and dispense justice not because it was their job, but because it was Right. It didn't quite matter to me that they did it by throwing bad guys off rooftops.
By night it was the radio, where I used my imagination to form the pictures of masks, trench coats and fists, and by day it was cartoons and reruns of the 1960s Batman TV show, which told my impressionable imagination that fighting crime was brightly colored and had no consequences for the good guys. It was around this same time that I found comic books. The first ones I remember reading were Elfquest comics, which, while I don't actually know where they came from, I'm sure I have my brothers to thank for them. For me, comics were perfect. They were bright and fast paced, with a harshly defined sense of right and wrong. Their morality was easy to spot and understand; monsters are evil, masks are good. Once the comic book flood gates were open it took moving to Yakima to close them. And they didn't close because I wanted them to, they closed by Yakima does not lend itself well to imagination.
I continued to have television and movies to solidify my world view, but I couldn't find comics in Yakima. It was like the town hadn't heard of them. I killed time and continued my personal Nerd Parade by learning to play chess and backgammon and marbles (which, I might add, I was uncannily good at) until I found Ron's Coin and Book. Ron's was the only place in the city that sold comic books. It was run by a cranky and terrifying man with an uneven mustache and an obvious hatred of children. The shop's main function was buying and trading rare coins and baseball cards. Comics were an afterthought to the man, who I always assumed was Ron himself, but never bothered to find out for sure. Comics where the only reason I went there though, and when I went, I wanted all of them. But I didn't know enough about them to know what I was looking for. Ron was no help... any comic book questions directed towards him were met with sharp glares and a suggestion that "the real money is in Fleer!" which wasn't actually a sentence that I understood, but I knew the packs of cards had bubble gum, so that was something at least. (Ironic Interlude: shortly after that statement was said to me Fleer was bought out by Marvel Comics. In your face, Ron.) I would walk past the boxes of comics and eventually just reach in and grab one at random, lay my change on the counter and leave the store with a sense of accomplishment. The shop was scary, and leaving there alive was a feat, and comic books were the spoils. I collected for a time, but accessibility and terror limited my options and it would be nearly ten years before I would start Collecting.
I spent today with my comic books. There was some reorganizing, some were put into bags, some were read, and, as always, I shook my head when looking at some of them, wondering why I ever bought that particular issue. Thats the biggest problem I have with comic books. Most of them are crap. Its not that a particular issue is bad, its just that all the story lines have been done. Its rare that I read something that hasn't be done time and again by various authors under various publishers. Don't get me wrong, they are usually pretty well written, its just that after eighty years its probably hard to come up with something new. Characters are duplicated, sometimes blatantly so, made worse by the fact that writers often move back and forth between publishing companies, muddying the creative waters with each pay raise. Whenever a particular problem arises in any given comic Something Man or Captain Whatever will show up and punch it/go into space/mind control something/time travel their way to victory in a convenient 32 page bundle. This will then happen in every single comic that comes out every single wednesday. All of these things pile up into an entertainment medium that is stunningly average. Sure, there is the occasional gem that makes me want to clap my hands and the occasional pile of garbage that makes we want to slap a stranger, but all in all most comics are the same.
But I keep buying them. And I'll always buy them. I'll buy them because they connect me to my childhood and to the kid inside that I try so very hard to make sure is fed and encouraged. They are entertaining and, as cliched as it sounds, I've learned a great deal from them. I know that I wouldn't be who I am without them. Comic books have shaped my perceptions and my moral code. There often isn't much gray area when it comes to my thinking... things are either right or wrong, and since I'm the Hero in my own head I should know the difference. If something isn't working out just right launch it into space. Problem solved. Crisis averted. At least for the next 32 pages.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
In which The Narrator pays tribute to a creature that, thankfully for the world, has no thumbs.
When I first met Mac he tried to escape. He was very tiny. We opened the door to the room filled with kittens and he ran out. He was headed straight for the door to the main room when Heather grabbed him and picked him up, leaving his little legs swinging. You could tell that if he could get out that main door, he would blow that pop stand and never be seen again. We brought him back to the room at Cat City where the new kittens all hang out and be adorable all day where he promptly perched himself on my shoulder, and eventually on my head. Mac had a way of sitting on a person and radiating an arrogance that was both infuriating and endearing. You could tell that Mac thought he was better than anyone in the room, and yet you wanted to pet him for it in hopes that he would give you a little more attention than anyone else.
Mac (who, I would like to point out, was named "licorice" at the shelter... worst name ever) was my first real pet. I grew up with animals... plenty of dogs and cats and the occasional chicken or horse, but they were all outdoor pets. They were Family Pets. They weren't mine. I didn't really care about them to be honest. I enjoyed that they were around, sure, but I hated taking care of them. Resented them for giving me more chores. Even the guinea pigs that I had for a short time. They lived in my room but I never considered them my pets. They were just these furry things that lived in my house and made it smell bad. Mac was different. He instantly fit it in in our home. We brought him home with the advice from the specialists in the back of our heads... give him time to adjust... he'll get used to things... he might be scared at first. The first thing Mac did when we brought him home was leave his cardboard crate, race around the house, and jump from the back of the couch to the bookshelf. He loved being up high, and would do everything he could to get there, including running up the back of my pants, up my shirt (or sometimes bare back) to my shoulder, where he would leap to the tallest shelf/cupboard he could find. It was amazing. It defied all I knew about cats. It was Parkour. It should have been our first sign that we were in over our heads. We brought him over to my sister's house for a bit of a cat play date. We let met out of the box and he did four things... all in a row. He ate my sister's cat's food. Scratched on their post. Used their litter box, and, when the resident cats came to investigate, Mac punched them in the face and took a nap. He was quick to prove himself to any other animal.
Mac was smart. Freakishly so. He only needed to see something once to know everything about it. Like that one time... He was sitting on the counter next to the lightswitch. I turned the lights on. Mac looked to me, looked back to the switch, and then reached head over and flipped the lights off with his mouth. Heather and I looked at each other a bit stunned, then laughed, and I turned the lights back on. Mac however, wasn't having it, and turned the lights off again. Rather than incur his wrath, we wisely decided to leave the lights off and go about our business in the dark. Mac quickly took over the house. We did what we could to hold him at bay, but there was no stopping him. We tried compressed air to dole out punishment. Didn't work. We tried a spray bottle of water. Didn't work either. We added lemon juice to the spray bottle. It only made him stronger. Then we tried vinegar water. First time I pulled the trigger with that in the spray bottle I accidently got him in the eye. He started to run away, but stopped, turned back around, and just stared me down with his one red rimmed and irritated eye. From then on the spray bottle would just have no effect. I was spray him and spray him and spray him and he was so incredibly stubborn that he would sit there and become soaked rather than do what I wanted him too.
He would also scratch on the only things we didn't want him too. It started with the bed, so we got that anti-cat-super-mattress-covering-tape when he promptly peeled off the bed and scratched behind it. Then he moved onto the bedroom door. He would scratch at it all night long. So we decided that the best thing to do would be to get one of those over the door knob scratching posts, foolishly thinking that if he had that, he wouldn't scratch the door.... All that scratching post did was give him a ladder so he could reach the door handle and open the bedroom door and again peel off the damn tape and scratch the bed. Like I said, unstoppable. In a desperate and hair brained attempt to stop the door scratching and thus bestow upon us a night of uninterrupted sleep we actually padded the door handle with duct tape and plastic bags, and wrapped the entire bedroom door in a blanket, sealing all edges with more duct tape. The only thing this achieved was to give Mac a chance to terrify us and break our spirits. Rather than do a Normal Cat thing Mac climbed to the top of the door, removed the duct tape from the top, climbed between the blanket and door and back to the floor... where he scratched on the door anyway.
He opened closets to get to his treats. He pulled those same treats out of their new hiding spots once we took them out of the closet. He would steal meat from your sandwich. He played fetch. He loved to sit in the fridge. Occasionally, he tried to kill us. I came out of the shower one day and Mac was sitting on the stove. He had turned the oven on, and was making it hotter and hotter, five degrees at a time, by hitting the buttons with his paw while he stared at me.
Despite the reign of terror Mac quickly worked his way into our family and our hearts. I've never really wanted a cat. I hate the cat hair. Almost as much as I hate glitter. Yet as time went on I cared less and less about the constant blanket of hair, and more about the thing that supplied it. I didn't want this to happen, and I didn't think it would. We got Mac for Heather. He was her birthday present, but every day I found myself loving him more and more. He joined me when I was happy and he was there for me when I was upset. I have never known a cat to have so much force of personality and life.
Mac is now eighteen months old and dying of cancer. His coat, which was always softer than I thought possible, is raggedy and coarse, it sticks out in all directions and he's stopped grooming himself. He doesn't eat anymore. Not even kibble, which was always his favorite food. He no longer drinks any water, regardless of how close to it we put him. He body is skinny and you can see the tumors on his sides. A few days ago his right eye became completely dilated and won't go back to normal, and he rubs that side of his face on the walls that he walks past. He moves slowly, and has an unsteady gait. His breathing is rough and his purr is broken and choppy. But he still purrs. He still cuddles with us and he still rubs his face on ours. But he is dying. Tomorrow we take him to our vet to have him put to sleep. I love him, and I will miss him.
And right now I would give anything to have just one more night with him scratching at the bedroom door.
Mac (who, I would like to point out, was named "licorice" at the shelter... worst name ever) was my first real pet. I grew up with animals... plenty of dogs and cats and the occasional chicken or horse, but they were all outdoor pets. They were Family Pets. They weren't mine. I didn't really care about them to be honest. I enjoyed that they were around, sure, but I hated taking care of them. Resented them for giving me more chores. Even the guinea pigs that I had for a short time. They lived in my room but I never considered them my pets. They were just these furry things that lived in my house and made it smell bad. Mac was different. He instantly fit it in in our home. We brought him home with the advice from the specialists in the back of our heads... give him time to adjust... he'll get used to things... he might be scared at first. The first thing Mac did when we brought him home was leave his cardboard crate, race around the house, and jump from the back of the couch to the bookshelf. He loved being up high, and would do everything he could to get there, including running up the back of my pants, up my shirt (or sometimes bare back) to my shoulder, where he would leap to the tallest shelf/cupboard he could find. It was amazing. It defied all I knew about cats. It was Parkour. It should have been our first sign that we were in over our heads. We brought him over to my sister's house for a bit of a cat play date. We let met out of the box and he did four things... all in a row. He ate my sister's cat's food. Scratched on their post. Used their litter box, and, when the resident cats came to investigate, Mac punched them in the face and took a nap. He was quick to prove himself to any other animal.
Mac was smart. Freakishly so. He only needed to see something once to know everything about it. Like that one time... He was sitting on the counter next to the lightswitch. I turned the lights on. Mac looked to me, looked back to the switch, and then reached head over and flipped the lights off with his mouth. Heather and I looked at each other a bit stunned, then laughed, and I turned the lights back on. Mac however, wasn't having it, and turned the lights off again. Rather than incur his wrath, we wisely decided to leave the lights off and go about our business in the dark. Mac quickly took over the house. We did what we could to hold him at bay, but there was no stopping him. We tried compressed air to dole out punishment. Didn't work. We tried a spray bottle of water. Didn't work either. We added lemon juice to the spray bottle. It only made him stronger. Then we tried vinegar water. First time I pulled the trigger with that in the spray bottle I accidently got him in the eye. He started to run away, but stopped, turned back around, and just stared me down with his one red rimmed and irritated eye. From then on the spray bottle would just have no effect. I was spray him and spray him and spray him and he was so incredibly stubborn that he would sit there and become soaked rather than do what I wanted him too.
He would also scratch on the only things we didn't want him too. It started with the bed, so we got that anti-cat-super-mattress-covering-tape when he promptly peeled off the bed and scratched behind it. Then he moved onto the bedroom door. He would scratch at it all night long. So we decided that the best thing to do would be to get one of those over the door knob scratching posts, foolishly thinking that if he had that, he wouldn't scratch the door.... All that scratching post did was give him a ladder so he could reach the door handle and open the bedroom door and again peel off the damn tape and scratch the bed. Like I said, unstoppable. In a desperate and hair brained attempt to stop the door scratching and thus bestow upon us a night of uninterrupted sleep we actually padded the door handle with duct tape and plastic bags, and wrapped the entire bedroom door in a blanket, sealing all edges with more duct tape. The only thing this achieved was to give Mac a chance to terrify us and break our spirits. Rather than do a Normal Cat thing Mac climbed to the top of the door, removed the duct tape from the top, climbed between the blanket and door and back to the floor... where he scratched on the door anyway.
He opened closets to get to his treats. He pulled those same treats out of their new hiding spots once we took them out of the closet. He would steal meat from your sandwich. He played fetch. He loved to sit in the fridge. Occasionally, he tried to kill us. I came out of the shower one day and Mac was sitting on the stove. He had turned the oven on, and was making it hotter and hotter, five degrees at a time, by hitting the buttons with his paw while he stared at me.
Despite the reign of terror Mac quickly worked his way into our family and our hearts. I've never really wanted a cat. I hate the cat hair. Almost as much as I hate glitter. Yet as time went on I cared less and less about the constant blanket of hair, and more about the thing that supplied it. I didn't want this to happen, and I didn't think it would. We got Mac for Heather. He was her birthday present, but every day I found myself loving him more and more. He joined me when I was happy and he was there for me when I was upset. I have never known a cat to have so much force of personality and life.
Mac is now eighteen months old and dying of cancer. His coat, which was always softer than I thought possible, is raggedy and coarse, it sticks out in all directions and he's stopped grooming himself. He doesn't eat anymore. Not even kibble, which was always his favorite food. He no longer drinks any water, regardless of how close to it we put him. He body is skinny and you can see the tumors on his sides. A few days ago his right eye became completely dilated and won't go back to normal, and he rubs that side of his face on the walls that he walks past. He moves slowly, and has an unsteady gait. His breathing is rough and his purr is broken and choppy. But he still purrs. He still cuddles with us and he still rubs his face on ours. But he is dying. Tomorrow we take him to our vet to have him put to sleep. I love him, and I will miss him.
And right now I would give anything to have just one more night with him scratching at the bedroom door.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
In which a silver lining is found and we learn that real cops don't have dinosaurs.
As a good number of things in my life spiral towards their most assuredly grim and emotional ending, I've been trying what I can to keep up my spirits. I've always had a bit of a cheery disposition, and generally speaking I'm rather worry free. This has not been the case of late. But rather than dwell on that, I'm going to dwell on some things that have recently happened that I use to remind myself that all is not crap, and there are still piles of greatness laying around for whenever someone decides to pick them up.
My job at the bookstore is a wonderful one. For one, its a job, which I am forever grateful that I have, when so many people sadly do not. The bookstore is full of amazing people and good memories. And children. So many children. They mostly blend into the sea of people that its my job to watch, but recently there has been a trend happening that makes me happy. More and more children are dressing themselves. This means that the bookstore is filling up with toddlers in various states of chaotic dress and they are still too young and hopeful to worry about being judged by others. Like the little boy wearing elf ears who spent his time looking at barbie coloring books. Then the little girl who was in the store with her father, she was dressed as a knight and spent her time chasing other customers trying to slay them. And my personal favorite, Little Batman. I see this boy in the store all the time. He comes in with his mother and goes about normal shopping business with her, he just happens to be wearing a homemade Batman costume. The cowl is too big for him and constantly falls over his eyes, which usually means he runs into a table, or trips and falls. But, like any good superhero, I've never seen him without his mask. No matter how many times the cloth blinds him or he steps on his cape he doesn't take it off, and I like to think he leaves it on at home also. The image of a toddler in a Batman costume sitting at home eating cereal or coloring, without any concern for anything other than playtime always makes me smile.
And speaking of carefree children and playtime you should all go buy a copy of the comic book Axe Cop: Bad Guy Earth. Axe Cop is perhaps the second best thing on the planet right now. It is illustrated by Ethan Nicholle, who knows what he's doing well enough to get paid for it, and written by his six year old brother, Malachai. The comic is about Axe Cop, who is a cop with an axe. He is, of course, different from Normal Cops, who don't have axes. Normal Cops also don't have dinosaurs. Axe Cop's dinosaur is named Wexler, in case you were wondering. And with other characters like Uni-Avocado Soldier (which is an avocado. Thats also a soldier. With a unicorn horn... Obviously.) and Leafman, and The Best Fairy Ever, reading the comic is just like being six again, surrounded with action figures, with cartoons on the TV and no concerns other than who is going to have Their Head Chopped Off in the next fight. Which is how the comic is written. The two brothers sit around the house with their plastic axes and sunglasses (because all Good Guys wear sunglasses) and they play with toys while Ethan asks questions and takes notes as Malachai narrates what's happening. The end result is one of the best comics I've read in a very long time, full of wisdom like "nighttime is the best time to kill Bad Guys because they are asleep."
And speaking of reading and the second best thing on the planet, lets move onto the best thing on the planet. My brother is Talented. He's also just published his first book for kindle and various other e-reader things that involve technology that I am unfamiliar with because I find it to be scary. The book is called Engines of the Broken World and it is what I like to call A Really Good Book. To quote from the Amazon listing...
"When Merciful's mother dies during a brutal, early snowstorm, she and her older brother Gospel are left almost alone in a dying hamlet. With only the questionable aid of a strange, shapeshifting Minister, they will discover that death is not neccessarily final any longer. As the blizzard worsens and horrible secrets become clear to them, Merciful will be forced to make decisions that will either save or doom her world."
Sounds good, huh? Well, what that little snippet doesn't tell you about is the Horrible And Dangerous Fog Of Doom... Occasionally I will read something that makes me terrified of something that I shouldn't be. The HADFOD in this book does that to me for fog. I used to think that fog was kinda neat. I liked the muffling effect it seemed to have on life, and the fact that I never really feel cold in fog. A bit chilled perhaps, but never cold. Now fog scares me. The other day I woke up and it was foggy outside and I was convinced that that was The End. Thankfully, not everything in books is real and the world wasn't devoured by HADFOD and we can all continue to read others books by Jason Vanhee, some of which I've read already, and all of which fill me with more pride that should be allowed. The book is incredibly well written, with characters who are memorable and unique. This endorsement doesn't come from a sense of familial duty... anyone who knows me knows that I'll be honest to your face, feelings be damned. This endorsement is because I truly mean that it is A Really Good Book. Which you should go buy right now. Or I'll chop your head off.
My job at the bookstore is a wonderful one. For one, its a job, which I am forever grateful that I have, when so many people sadly do not. The bookstore is full of amazing people and good memories. And children. So many children. They mostly blend into the sea of people that its my job to watch, but recently there has been a trend happening that makes me happy. More and more children are dressing themselves. This means that the bookstore is filling up with toddlers in various states of chaotic dress and they are still too young and hopeful to worry about being judged by others. Like the little boy wearing elf ears who spent his time looking at barbie coloring books. Then the little girl who was in the store with her father, she was dressed as a knight and spent her time chasing other customers trying to slay them. And my personal favorite, Little Batman. I see this boy in the store all the time. He comes in with his mother and goes about normal shopping business with her, he just happens to be wearing a homemade Batman costume. The cowl is too big for him and constantly falls over his eyes, which usually means he runs into a table, or trips and falls. But, like any good superhero, I've never seen him without his mask. No matter how many times the cloth blinds him or he steps on his cape he doesn't take it off, and I like to think he leaves it on at home also. The image of a toddler in a Batman costume sitting at home eating cereal or coloring, without any concern for anything other than playtime always makes me smile.
And speaking of carefree children and playtime you should all go buy a copy of the comic book Axe Cop: Bad Guy Earth. Axe Cop is perhaps the second best thing on the planet right now. It is illustrated by Ethan Nicholle, who knows what he's doing well enough to get paid for it, and written by his six year old brother, Malachai. The comic is about Axe Cop, who is a cop with an axe. He is, of course, different from Normal Cops, who don't have axes. Normal Cops also don't have dinosaurs. Axe Cop's dinosaur is named Wexler, in case you were wondering. And with other characters like Uni-Avocado Soldier (which is an avocado. Thats also a soldier. With a unicorn horn... Obviously.) and Leafman, and The Best Fairy Ever, reading the comic is just like being six again, surrounded with action figures, with cartoons on the TV and no concerns other than who is going to have Their Head Chopped Off in the next fight. Which is how the comic is written. The two brothers sit around the house with their plastic axes and sunglasses (because all Good Guys wear sunglasses) and they play with toys while Ethan asks questions and takes notes as Malachai narrates what's happening. The end result is one of the best comics I've read in a very long time, full of wisdom like "nighttime is the best time to kill Bad Guys because they are asleep."
And speaking of reading and the second best thing on the planet, lets move onto the best thing on the planet. My brother is Talented. He's also just published his first book for kindle and various other e-reader things that involve technology that I am unfamiliar with because I find it to be scary. The book is called Engines of the Broken World and it is what I like to call A Really Good Book. To quote from the Amazon listing...
"When Merciful's mother dies during a brutal, early snowstorm, she and her older brother Gospel are left almost alone in a dying hamlet. With only the questionable aid of a strange, shapeshifting Minister, they will discover that death is not neccessarily final any longer. As the blizzard worsens and horrible secrets become clear to them, Merciful will be forced to make decisions that will either save or doom her world."
Sounds good, huh? Well, what that little snippet doesn't tell you about is the Horrible And Dangerous Fog Of Doom... Occasionally I will read something that makes me terrified of something that I shouldn't be. The HADFOD in this book does that to me for fog. I used to think that fog was kinda neat. I liked the muffling effect it seemed to have on life, and the fact that I never really feel cold in fog. A bit chilled perhaps, but never cold. Now fog scares me. The other day I woke up and it was foggy outside and I was convinced that that was The End. Thankfully, not everything in books is real and the world wasn't devoured by HADFOD and we can all continue to read others books by Jason Vanhee, some of which I've read already, and all of which fill me with more pride that should be allowed. The book is incredibly well written, with characters who are memorable and unique. This endorsement doesn't come from a sense of familial duty... anyone who knows me knows that I'll be honest to your face, feelings be damned. This endorsement is because I truly mean that it is A Really Good Book. Which you should go buy right now. Or I'll chop your head off.
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