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Saturday, April 06, 2002 ( 4/06/2002 08:13:00 PM ) Bill S. “IT’S A DIRTY JOB, BUT IT’S BRIEF!” – From the Ridiculous Conceits Desk comes this most recent Daredevil plotline courtesy of comic writer/artist Rob Haynes (Marvel Knights Double Shot #1, “Dirty Job”). In “Job,” our hero interrupts delivery of a load of tailored underwear that’s been stitched together for the super-sized underworld crime lord, the Kingpin. Why? No special reason that I can tell, though it sure is risible seein’ DD hold up a pair of mega-sized briefs for display. (Kinda brings back memories of the day Peewee Herman played with a big pair of undershorts in the old Playhouse!) I guess we should be grateful that the hero involved wasn’t Ultimate Spiderman – who probably would’ve taken advantage of the situation to pull out a note card full of fat jokes and read ‘em aloud. . . # | Friday, April 05, 2002 ( 4/05/2002 12:30:00 PM ) Bill S. GREENE WATCH - Some gleeful political bloggers have been conducting an Arafat death countdown over the last week; here at Gadabout, we’re holding a Mark Greene deathwatch. The balding E.R. doc is preparing to shuttle off this mortal coil as actor Anthony Edwards’ contract on the long-running medical show winds down. NBC has been steadily trumpeting his final eps – perhaps the biggest deal in teevee drama since Jimmy Smits’ Bobby Simone bit the dust on N.Y.P.D. Blue – and Thursday night’s show was no exception. In it, Greene (dying from a stubborn brain tumor) worked his final day in E.R., giving Edwards plenty of ops to bare his patented soulful/wounded expression and behave in the endearingly pissed-off manner that we’ve grown to expect from the character. The episode ended with Greene handing off moral center responsibility to Noah Wyle’s John Carter, and if anything symbolizes the troubles that the show’ll be facing in the months ahead, it’s that moment. For all his flaws as a character, Edwards’ Greene has remained the heart-and-soul of the series. No one in the current cast possesses quite the same level of authority, and my personal suspicion is that his departure will signal the start of the show’s prolonged demise. (Look to NBC to try and hold onto it at least two seasons past its natural lifespan – much like it did to L.A. Law.) As to whether E.R.’s writers will be able to handle the character’s demise with as much craft as Steven Bochco and co. did with Bobby Simone: that’s still for the rest of this season to reveal. But I’m betting that the sentimentality factor will be significantly higher. # | ( 4/05/2002 08:28:00 AM ) Bill S. GOIN’ TO METROPOLIS - It’s one of those places that I’d driven past more than once and had always promised myself I would visit. So when my day job took me to Metropolis, Illinois, I was probably more excited than I should’ve been. Metropolis! Though I knew intellectually I was just visiting a small southern Illinois river town (pop: 6700), the name still rang through years of comic book history. If nothing else, I was definitely gonna get my picture taken by the giant Superman statue. The town itself is so far south in Illinois that you might as well be in Kentucky. (One of the first things I see getting off I-24 is a billboard advertising “Cheap Kentucky Cigarettes” just four miles away.) As I drive into town, a large sign welcomes me to the “Home of Superman;” when I hit downtown, the first thought that comes to me is, “This is Smallville – not Metropolis!” The town water tower has a faded painting of the Man of Steel emblazoned on it; several stores have life-sized headless Superman cut-outs that you can pose behind if you’re skinny enough. A block away from the statue, a calico cat casually crosses the street right in front of me, unperturbed by traffic. Downtown Metropolis looks like your typically struggling Midwestern small-town: empty storefronts, the remains of what used to be a viable movie theatre. There are several factories along the Ohio River, one of ‘em a plant where duck decoys are painted, and a Harrah’s riverboat casino can be found at the end of the Ferry Street. Can’t help wondering what Kal-El would say about the presence of a gambling den in his fair burg – seems like something more appropriate to Gotham City. The fifteen-foot statue is located in the center of town, just across the street from the Massac County Law Enforcement and Detention Center (which seems convenient). Unlike the tower, this paint job’s retained its luster (though the statue’s blue boots are clearly worn from winter wear). Since its unveiling in 1993, plenty of tourists on their way to Memphis have taken a side trip to get their photos snapped here. I can see why. There’s something striking about seeing a comic book colored statue in the middle of a real-life town (as opposed to, say, Disneyland or Vegas). Not too far from the detention center is the Superman Museum, a combination gift show and collection display run by a collector named Jim Hambrick. Hambrick used to travel with his collection, sometimes in the presence of Kirk Allyn (Superman from the 1940’s), but now he’s settled in Metropolis. From what I can tell, he’s doing a bang-up business selling souvenirs by mail – while I’m visiting, I see him hauling a large cart full of priority mailers across the street to the p.o. In the back for $3.00, I get to see the man’s Superman collection, which is pretty extensive indeed: a restored costume from the George Reeves series, props and posters from all the movies, more Metropolitan merchandise than you can count. After a while, the plethora of red and blue images gets visually overwhelming. In the end, the display is less about Superman and more about one guy bragging about all the cool stuff he owns. But, you know, if I had a collection as mighty as this, I’d probably rent an old storefront and start showing it off, too. One thing I wouldn’t do: I’d keep away from the theme music. The whole time I’m in the museum/store, soundtrack music and cartoon theme songs (not just Superman but the Spidey and Space Ghost themes) are piped through the building. Bet that gets old fast, I think. Back in the shop, I do a quick perusal through the comic book selection: it’s spottier than your average comic book store. The selection is DC-heavy, of course, but the toy and merchandise selection is considerably more varied. I buy a fifty-cent postcard; later, at a Metropolis Drugstore, I’ll buy a run of Harley Quinn comics. It’s appropriate: the character is currently stomping around Metropolis with her gal-pal Poison Ivy. Don’t get my picture taken by the statue that first trip into town. (Next day, one of my co-workers snaps some pics with a disposable camera.) After another long look at the superhero monument, I drive back to the Holiday Inn Express. Halfway there, I come upon a selection of display flowers that appear to’ve spilled out of a truck. Bouquets and broken vases are festooned across the lane, swatches of color almost as impressive as the bright primaries on the Superman statue. I have been to the statue. And though I can’t say that my life has significantly changed by the experience, it was pretty neat. . . (Note: blogger Mike Flynn recently posted an entry also reflecting on Superstatuary; in it, he discusses getting his picture taken in Tokyo alongside an 8-foot bronze rendition of the Man of Steel.) # | Tuesday, April 02, 2002 ( 4/02/2002 05:02:00 AM ) Bill S. ON THE ROAD - Your humble blogger will be traveling over the next few days, watching, reading and listening to pop culture from the bed of a Holiday Inn Express. Should have lots to log about when I get back, but in the meantime it’ll be quiet around these parts. . . POKER NIGHT - First Monday of every month I’m part of a Unitarian men’s poker group (probably the most guy-like thing I do): no great stakes (we have a quarter/three raise limit), but the group’s been going strong for over four years now, so I guess we’re getting something out of the experience. My best night I won about $16.00; my worst, I lost $12.50. This month’s result: a whopping win of $6.90 – good enough to buy a bagle w/. lox plus a small soda on the side. That’s me: just another citizen in the Poker Nation. # | Monday, April 01, 2002 ( 4/01/2002 03:13:00 PM ) Bill S. “2, 4, 6, 8 – TIME TO TRANSUBSTANTIATE!” – Heathen that I am, I couldn’t help but be amused by last night’s X-Files , which concerned a devout Catholic named Bob, who is incapable of feeling contrition. Because his sins cannot be expiated through a sincere act of confession, Bob unwittingly creates an evil murderous double (who rather resembles “Bob” from Twin Peaks) that goes on a rampage in the community. Catholic Bob (he’s repeatedly trying to fend off Evil Bob by praying with his rosary) is blamed for the murders – even though he is an "innocent man," (but, if thought and deed are of equal weight, is he?) and at one point Agent Reyes, newest of the X-Filers, compares the creation of EB to the act of transubstantiation. As she did so, I could visualize the letter-writing campaigns that were being initiated – not bad for a series supposedly on its last legs . . . # | ( 4/01/2002 02:53:00 PM ) Bill S. HOPPIN’ DOWN THE BUNNY TRAIL – After missing its premiere, I caught an ep of Fox’s Greg The Bunny last night. Though I laughed at a few jokes, the show was not as hilarious or even as tasteless as I’d hoped it would be. (Peter Jackson’s Meet the Feebles is still unchallenged in the extremely limited genre of “living” puppet shows.) The episode’s best moment (when one of the puppets bends over and inadvertently tears himself a “new one”) had been spoiled by endless teaser ads. A more typical moment – when a group of kid viewers experiences seizures in the midst of a test screening – is a joke The Simpsons beat ‘em to several years ago. Though Greg is blessed with a strong cast (Eugene Levy, Seth Green) and an agreeably flaky premise, at this writing Andy Richter remains the strongest of the mid-year openers. # | ( 4/01/2002 10:36:00 AM ) Bill S. ON THE BORDERLINE - Recently - spurred by a recent Superman plotline that had the Man of Steel visiting a psychiatrist - I was reflecting on supertypes and their psychiatric problems. What kind of diagnosis, I wondered, would a psychiatrist or counselor place on a superhero for the purposes of billing, anyway? This weekend while reading Revenge of the Green Goblin, a trade collection of Spiderman stories, I was given one possible answer to that question for Peter Parker. In the book’s final tale, written by Paul Jenkins for Peter Parker, Spiderman (Vol. 2, # 25, “Trick of the Light”), long-term nemesis Norman Osborne offers this mutual diagnosis: “We’re both just a couple of borderline personalities dressed in ridiculous costumes, acting out our power fantasies.” Now, Jenkins is the man who diagnosed Bruce Banner as Multiple Personality Disorder, so it’s obvious that he knows his way around the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. Is he on the money this time? According to DSM-IV, Borderline Personality Disorder is, “A pervasive pattern of instability of interpersonal relationships, self-image, and affects, and marked impulsivity beginning by early adulthood and present in a variety of contexts.” To fulfill the requirements of BPD, a person needs to meet at least five behavioral criteria such as “frantic efforts to avoid real or imagined abandonment” and “a pattern of unstable and intense interpersonal relationships characterized by alternating between extremes of idealization and devaluation.” (The classic Borderline will be your best friend one minute and a sworn enemy the next – not unlike many Marvel characters.) So, I wondered, does Spidey fit that description? Probably not, though it makes sense that a true Borderline like Green Goblin would wanna call him one. Peter does potentially meet some of the criteria: “impulsivity in at least two areas that are potentially self-damaging” (I’m assuming that web-swinging qualifies here) and “chronic feelings of emptiness” (hmm, maybe the Steve Ditko model more closely fits this ‘un). Other possible trouble areas for our man: “markedly and persistently unstable self-image or sense of self” (hey, when you’ve been cloned, who would blame ya?) and “transient, stress-related paranoid ideation” (spider sense, anyone?) But some of the other criteria are less easy to shoehorn: “inappropriate, intense anger or difficulty controlling anger,” “recurrent suicidal or self-mutilating behavior,” and “affective instability.” By my quick & dirty mental status examination, you could maybe squeeze Petey into four criteria, but that wouldn’t be sufficient to support a Borderline diagnosis. Guess we’re gonna have to discount this ‘un as a slimy attempt on the part of a clever super-villain to psych our hero out. Too bad: because naming your problems, after all, can constitute a good first step toward alleviating ‘em. # | Sunday, March 31, 2002 ( 3/31/2002 01:07:00 PM ) Bill S. THE RAMBALDI MS. - Typically tardy, I just recently discovered that Alias (a.k.a. Felicity Blaise) is being re-run Friday nights on ABC Family. I like the idea of the major nets taking from HBO/Showtime – which rebroadcast their primo series all over their twin networks. And I also enjoy seeing a whacked-out plot like the current Alias storyline involving a Renaissance psychic’s prophecies on the channel that also houses The 700 Club. Has a nice sense of cognitive dissonance to it. . . # | ( 3/31/2002 09:30:00 AM ) Bill S. “JESUS DIED FOR SOMEBODY’S SINS – BUT NOT MINE” – When the time came to release a retrospective best-of for Patti Smith, it made all the sense in the world to pick the week before Easter. The rock/poet made it one of her lyrical obsessions. She sings about redemption and resurrection the way that male hard rockers sing about their dicks: with an intensity and conviction that’d scare the pants off mainstream Christian popsters. Even if you didn’t follow or understand her obscurely private theology, listening to her early albums you have to grant its due. I’ve always appreciated the idea of Patti Smith – the boho woman rocker with a deep jones for Doors records – more than the execution. Every one of her albums is a mixed bag: great songs (“Gloria,” “Ask the Angels,” “Because the Night,” “Dancing Barefoot”) followed by rough hewn blank verse that made you wanna lift the tone arm (these were originally vinyl records, after all) and skip to something more palatable. If ever there was an artist who needed an anthology culling out her pop songs, I thought, it was Patti Smith. Well, now that disc's arrived, and – surprise! – it still manages to include the “Babelogue” blank verse. As if to drive the point home (I’m a poet, dammit!), Smith makes this second cut on the collection. Still, Land (1975 – 2002) is probably the set to get if you wanna sample this fascinating/infuriating rocker: first disc contains nearly all her great songs (no “Angels,” interestingly) from her strong statement-of-intent debut, Horses through her FM break-through Easter (yes) through her hey-I’m still-alive comeback albums (another form of resurrection, right?) They remind those of us who’ve forgotten what a strong singer-songwriter she could be and how so imbedded in rock history she’s become. Simply put, Patti Smith opened the possibilities of expression for women singers in ways that would’ve otherwise made disparate artists like Sleater-Kinney and the Dixie Chicks inconceivable. Her band was pretty good, too, particularly when they weren’t being mixed beneath her words. This comes through even more strongly on Land’s second disc, which mixes live recordings with previously unreleased tracks and demos. I’m not always enamored of these “bonus” discs, but in this case I think the format serves Smith well – even on the spoken tracks where you can more clearly hear her fierce intelligence coming through the speakers. Listening to Smith’s work today (just put Horses on the CD player), I find I’m much more tolerant of her excesses than I used to be. Perhaps it’s because she keeps so much of it rooted in guitar rock (credit former critic/garage band aficionado Lenny Kaye, who nailed his punk cred forever as the PS Group’s lead guitarist). Anyway, here it is Spring, and I’m blasting Smith’s “Gloria” through the open windows of my study. Can’t think of a better way to spend an Easter morning . . . # | |
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