Who was who in the DC Universe: Comics aren't for kids anymore?

The Chief by Richard Case and Mark McKenna

Death by Mike Drinenberg

Cliff Steele by Richard case

Dorothy Spinner by Richard Case

I... Vampire by Tom Sutton

 

A world without Keith

 

I always thought that it will somehow be a different world when the last Beatle passes away (which probably won't be for a while, because Macca is looking fit as fuck these days), and again when we lose the last Beastie Boy (and fucking-a, Kate Schellenbach counts too). 

But I really didn't expect the world to feel so different after Keith from the Prodigy died in 2019.

Everything went to shit after we lost Keith, man.

This my life now: I have strong opinions about Bluey

I have been watching a lot of Bluey, the story of an Aussie family of very cute dogs. And while it's not by choice, I have still managed to grow some very strong opinions about this kids cartoon.

• Muffin is the best character in the series, whether she is so tired that she's acting like the drunk from hell, or playing up the part of the grumpy granny - I now have to demand 18 lollies as part of any transaction.

• My second favourite character is the terriers, because when they ask if you need protecting, it's the most adorable thing in a very adorable show. 

• Words like Hammerbarn, tickle-crabs and monkeyjocks have now entered everyday usage in our household.

• I am also grateful for the 'biscuits' and 'cheese and crackers' expletives, because boy, do we have a couple of parrots in the house right now.

• I do feel a bit useless at my inability to create the kind of in-depth game around the house that you see in the taxi and train episodes. That looks like a tonne of work.

• The best moments as an adult is when you're watching an episode for the second or third time, and suddenly realise why one of the grown-ups is acting a bit weird, and it's quietly heartbreaking.

• Sometimes it's great to watch as an adult because it's just awfully clever, like the double narrative at Bingo's birthday party crashing together with an eternal explanation of what Nanas are for; or the episode spent waiting for takeaways (although you will want spring rolls); or the one where when a tiny existential crisis results in Bluey dreaming about her true reality as a cartoon character; or the one where Bingo's fears of growing old metamorphose into dreams about flying through the solar system 

• (The lovely wife always refers to this one as the Terrance Malick episode, but I always get distracted by how much the music for it sounds like the theme from the Rugby World Cup.)
  

• It does give hints, in six minute chunks, on how to be a better parent (you've still always gotta figure out most of it for yourself), but sometimes all you need is to be told you're doing all right, and that this is good enough.

• And you might have to give up playing rugby for a while, but you can still dream of scoring a good try.

• Also, the bemused and amused look on Bandit's face when the kids get into a swirling ice-cream dance and waltz around the park is one of the best representations of the joy of parenting I've ever seen anywhere.

• Unicorse is an absolute legend and a very, very bad influence.

• They dropped new nine episodes the other week, and it's as good as ever. Rusty giving his kid sister the easy catch in the cricket episode, because that's what truly matters, is really something, mate.

I know where the cinema of death is - right at the top of the escalators

The buzz wasn't great from the start, but I knew it wasn't a good sign for The Flash when I saw it was playing in cinema seven at the Event Cinemas complex in central Auckland, because that's the cinema of death.

Anything that is playing on that screen is always underperforming. It's right at the top of the weirdly abandoned complex, right in the corner, and sits just a few dozen punters.

And while it's the type of theatre that is fine for some arthouse or mid-brow thriller, they always seem to put some would-be blockbusters, who are searching for a big crowd and failing miserably. And the cinema managers seem to know what they are doing, because that theatre hasn't been half-filled any time I've been there

I've thought of it as this kind of measure ever since I walked in to see Scott Pilgrim Vs The World on opening weekend, and I swear there were fucking tumbleweeds in that theatre. It was a film with an excellent cast and crew that is genuinely enjoyable on multiple levels, but it was clear in that moment that it would struggle to find an audience. (It did find it on the home viewing circuit, but it's always too fuckin' late by then.)

And ever since then, I've seen a bunch of flailing films in that cinema. And while I love a lot of those movies - box office doesn't ever equate to quality - the message is clear. Cinema seven doesn't lie, because that's where the losers go.

Thanos wasn't right about anything

I'll always think the current population of people who are alive is greater than have ever lived before. I  don't care what science says - and they reckon there have been about 70 billion people who have lived, so it's not even close - but that's what I read in the first issue of the Infinity Gauntlet when I was 16, and that's what has stuck in my mind.

No wonder science has so much trouble getting through to some folk. I'm very open to all that, and I'm still convinced that a Jim Starlin comic is more accurate than all the science that has ever lived.

The speed of Anderson

 

A new Wes Anderson film is coming out, which means it's time for all the usual bullshit about his films - the painfully predictable dismissal of his style; the claims he is just making the same film over and over again; the complaints about all that crippling tweeness.

There is some truth in all that bile - his films really are twee as fuck - but it's even worse this time, with some absolute smooth brains creating AI nonsense that mash up the pastels and symmetric stillness of his films with other blockbusters.

All of these are ugly as fuck, and just so painfully obvious that you feel a little embarrassed for them. And they miss one of the things I really, really like about Wes Anderson's films, and that's how fucking fast they are.

His movies are full of long, drawn-out fourth-wall breaking gazes into the abyss of the human condition, but they still move, man. They are saturated with so much plot that it requires innovate narrators to keep things going, and if you don't pay attention, you'll soon be left behind.

They pump event after event into the mix, all  elivered at a rapid pace. When Sam sees Suzy in Moonrise Kingdom, he doesn't mess about, he gets right to the crux of the matter -'what kind of bird is she?

And when there is action, it is sudden and brutal and exhilarating as fuck. The Grand Budapest Hotel is full of it, with mad leaps across rooftops and a breathtakingly fast ski-chase. The big emotional zenith of the Royal Tenanbaums comes with the advent of Owen Wilson fuckin' gunning it down the road in his muscle car.  Everyone in Fantastic Mr Fox and Isle of Dogs are fucking fanging it across the screen in staccato movements;  the Whitman brothers are always be racing to catch their train in the Darjeeling Limited; and Bill Murray evens jogs for a step or two in The Life Aquatic, and he barely moves for anybody.

Fuck that AI stillness, and all that fake longing down the fake lens. I'm off to Asteroid city as soon as I'm able, because even if they're all just sitting around a hole in the ground, life is still speeding by them.

When I was a furniture delivery man

One of the best jobs I ever had in my whole life was delivering furniture for the big department store in town. Working on the loading dock was a deeply satisfying way to earn something just above minimum wage - we'd sort out all the inwards goods in the morning, and then spend the afternoon bombing around the neighbourhood, dropping off fridges and sofas.

Me and my mate Gary could have your new washing machine set up, and the old one out of sight, four minutes after we knocked on your door. Sometimes it was a strangely complex and mentally taxing job - you get really, really good at figuring out angles and what can fit around where, and it usually worked. We once got an ancient fridge down a spiral staircase in a house owned by the son of the mighty Arthur Lowe, and we only ever failed to deliver one sofa when we just couldn't make the angles work.

I also got so very good at backing that small delivery truck up some horrendous driveways, and using the wing mirrors to squeeze into impossible spaces - as long as there was a millimetre of space in there, you were sweet.

I fucking loved it, it was just what I needed in life at that time. It was my mid 20s, and I was still not just not sure where I was going in life, and keen to just kick back a bit and let life happen for a while.

Intellectually, I justified it by reading a lot of Bukowski novels, and getting into all those layabouts in the beat generation, all extolling the merits of decent honest labour, and declaring that a working class hero was someone to be.

It's all a con, designed to keep the scum in their place, but I was all right being a little scummy in my scuffed denims and torn workboots. I could still feel some truth in these claims of working class heroics. It was as simple as getting out there and working your arse off and helping people get their shit, and there was something noble in that.

All that hard work, and then going home and getting wasted as fuck on booze and pot every night, because you really did need something to wash away the weird aches of the day.

I never went to university - I was in my first factory at 17 - but I was constantly reading books from the library, draining it dry of all the good stuff, getting stuck into the philosophy sections, giving all the great classic novels a whirl.

It was a lifestyle I could have got trapped in forever, hooning around town in that truck. But of course the bosses fucked me, and I had to go, and went back to a shitty factory job which was fine because the manager there wasn't a dick, and that was genuinely worth giving up those trips in the countryside.

I've been a journalist since 2004, at the ripe old age of 29. and haven't really done much real physical labour since then. I really do feel my age some days, but I still feel I could still do it that job if I had to, even if the department store has long since outsourced that kind of labour. At the very least, I bet I could still set up your washing machine in four minutes.

Who Was Who in the DC Universe: I'm that bad type (part 2 of 2)

Two-Face by Chris Sprouse and Dick Giordano

Scarface and the Ventriloquist by Norm Breyfogle

Vandal Savage by Mike Parobeck and Jose Marzan jr

DeSaad by Keith Giffen and Will Blyberg

Silver Swan by Jill Thompson and George Perez

Mirage could arrest me anytime

I never really had any crush on a cartoon character - there were plenty of comic book characters that made me feel all funny inside from a very young age, including Black Cat, Huntress, Judge Anderson, Kitty Pryde and Maggie Chascarillo. But I never felt the same way about any cartoon characters on animated TV shows. I didn't even  find Bugs Bunny attractive when he put on a dress and played a girl bunny.

Except for Mirage, the undercover cop in the C.O.P.S.cartoon from the late eighties. While I usually had disquieting admirations for the bad girls, I also thought Mirage was the bee's knees.

I think it was the uniform. And how tough she was. Nobody fucked with Mirage.