Don’t feel too bad, Bill–I didn’t make the list either…

Over at the USS Clueless, Steven Den Beste has recently posted an overwhelmingly comprehensive series of essays and letters on the sorry state of France, which is currently paralyzed (as is its wont) by organized socialist labor unrest and is headed toward a seemingly inexorable fiscal and political crisis. For hardcore political wonks, for worst-case scenarists (is free speech dead in France? is democracy? will France become a socialist dictatorship? a Muslim theocracy? will it swing to fascism? will there be war in Western Europe yet again?), and for people who simply enjoy schadenfreude at France’s expense, it’s all must reading. But it’s a lot more serious than the usual smelly-waiter frogbashing. Check ’em out.

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four

Proving that the “direct market” of selling comics in comics-oriented specialty shops isn’t a totally lost cause, retailer Stephen Holland describes, in a fascinating essay for Ninth Art, how his shop, Page 45, has become successful at luring regular people into the comic-shop no-man’s-land. His secret? Act like a normal bookstore, for crying out loud. Keep your store clean, bright, and well-organized. Hire helpful, knowledgeable, personable, clean staff. Adamantly refuse to play into preconceptions and prejudice: do not sell toys and ephemera, keep superhero books in their own sections rather than letting them take over the store, don’t name your store after a Batman villain or a Dr. Who episode. Organize and design your store window and put things in it that aren’t Vampirella models.

You mean, if we want more and first-time shoppers, we should model our store after places where people already like to shop? And we won’t even need posters showing that Ben Affleck reads Exiles? Why, that’s so crazy it just might work!

(Also, it’s funny that Mr. Holland, as well as, presumably, many other people, actually live in Nottingham.)

There you go, referring to your “journey” again. Must I repeat myself?

While we’re on the subject, a note for the gentlemen of reality television: As a general rule, when wooing women on national television, DON’T GET SHITFACED

Over at Journalista, Dirk’s in the middle of a very thoughtful and interesting ongoing examination of Marvel’s publishing practices, and how they are trying, succeeding and/or failing at entering the “true mainstream” by breaking into the bookstore market and (or perhaps by) varying their output from exclusively superhero-oriented books. Today’s installment features an interesting examination of Brian Michael Bendis’s excellent Daredevil. Dirk’s theory is that though Bendis is a clever writer with a knack for the police procedural/crime drama elements inherent in the Daredevil character, he’s too smart for his own good: readers who might get involved for those aspects, Dirk argues, are inevitably thrown for a loop when ol’ Hornhead shows up in his red tights and beats up a flying guy named the Owl.

I definitely see his point–when you’re going, as Bendis is, for a more realistic style of story, the suspension-of-disbelief-heavy superhero elements might seem incongruous–but as usual, I think his supposition of an audience distrustful or disdainful of superhero conventions just doesn’t hold water. How much money do the X-Men, Batman, Superman films, Spider-Man, The Matrix, Buffy, Smallville, and (yes) Daredevil make, anyway? There’s something to be said for the “I didn’t expect the Spanish Inquisition” angle–people picking up what looks like a straight noir book might be unpleasantly surprised when the superheroics start. But based on the sheer numbers of people who seem to dig superheroes just fine, surely the crossover audience exceeds that of people who’d forego a great story simply because someone in it wears a costume and fights crime.

I’ve often said that the anti-superhero camp in the comics world is just as cultish, irrational and unrepresentative of the world at large as the only-superhero camp. Dirk’s not nearly as far gone as many, but I think it’s a mistake to assume that superheroes are an obstacle. The fact that for the most part superheroes are the only game in town? That’s another story.

This old guy says Jesus wants us know it’s very, very important to keep gay people in love from getting married.

These people say that on the contrary, Jesus was pulling for a gay man to become bishop.

I don’t know, but it seems like the Jesus that old dude’s been hanging out with is a real asshole.

Micah Wright works on a comic book called Stormwatch: Team Achilles. In his spare time he designs anti-Bush propaganda posters and concocts paranoia- and profanity-laden screeds about how the vast right-wing conspiracy of comics-related bloggers are out to get him (renowned Aschroft acolytes Parrott and Deppey being the primary offenders).

Taking a break from his busy schedule of screaming about fascism and plagiarizing Laurie Anderson, Micah (as noted by comics gossipmonger Rich Johnston) has paused to complain that the minions at Marvel do not properly know how to treat a star of his magnitude (scroll down). Apparently the editors he spoke with at a recent meeting with the company were insufficiently familiar with his output.

C’mon, Micah–clearly they knew damn well who you were, but were under orders from their puppetmasters at Halliburton and the Justice Department to thwart your chances at publication! I mean, duh!

YOUR LIVES ARE IN NEED OF RADICAL REEVALUATION

For some reason I’m in a terrible mood this morning. I think that’s what happens when work actually needs to be done at my job. This happens so rarely that I’m unaccustomed to the feeling. But yeah, arrgh, I feel lousy. How will this affect my blog output today? Only time will tell. My guess is the word “bastards” will be used with some frequency.

“Isn’t it cool that Francois Mitterand’s last meal included an endangered species?”

No, it isn’t. Thank you, The Corner, for reminding me once again why I dislike the Republican Party!

Jesus: Good

Gays: Good

Pope: Old

The 92nd St. Y in New York City is hosting a roundtable discussion on the future of the Democratic Party. It’s moderated by Danny Goldberg, which I understand–Imus humps his new book all morning long. It’s got Janeane Garafalo on the panel, which I can also understand–in a fine example of the kind of selflessness to which John F. Kennedy called all Americans, she’s valiantly sacrificed being funny to the cause of making sure everyone knows that George W. Bush just sucks.

But then they throw a curveball. Josh Harnett.

Yes, that Josh Hartnett.

I guess “diversity of facial expressions” won’t be in the platform.

I just watched the Maysles Brothers’ Gimme Shelter. Several stunning things about the film:

1) It’s amazing how much the aspects of the Altamont concert considered a “bum trip” at the time are par for the course now: proto-crowd surfing, proto-moshing, proto-slamdancing, sexual assault, musicians alternating between their usual “stirring up the kids” poses and “everybody be cool” I’m-here-to-save-the-day would-be soporifics.

2) The Rolling Stones are pretty unbelievable in a live setting, even when people are brandishing guns and getting stabbed to death. The Missus and I have had several debates about whether Jagger was ever “sexy”–her theory is that since he’s a man and a huge rich rock star, society accomodates him in its view of what’s attractive, a luxury not afforded to the Janis Joplins of the world; mine is that if someone can move like that and sing like that, he (or she–think of Patti Smith) has earned the right to be thought of as sexy regardless of how cadaverous they happen to look. But I think he’s pretty sexy in this film.

3) Obviously the entire situation is eerily reminiscent of Woodstock ’99, the difference being that the thugs who came ready for violence at W99 weren’t a small group of Hell’s Angels, but the thousands upon thousands of meatheads who comprised the audience–as well as the five or six meatheads who comprised Limp Bizkit.

4) The Criterion DVD edition of the film includes excerpts from San Fran’s free-form FM radio stalwart KSAN’s four hour post-show wrap-up, in which they took calls from everyone from the band’s road manager to guys from the Angels. Imagine an FM station being given license to take phone calls for four hours in this day and age.

In the style of those Chevy truck commercials with the poem voice-overs:

In a truck like a rock, as you roam through the land,

Please go fuck yourself with expired protection

Thanks to Kevin’s shoutout, I’m reminded of something else that sucks about commercials. I can’t even begin to describe how much I hate the car commercial that uses Led Zeppelin’s “Rock and Roll.” Oh, did I say “commercial”? I meant “commercial after commercial after motherfucking commercial.” Seriously, I think it spread like SARS and now every single car commercial that isn’t that girl poplocking in the passenger seat uses that song in the background. Why am I so angry about this? Because I LOVE Led Zeppelin, and “Rock and Roll” is an amazingly rocking song, and now every time I listen to it I think of freaking midsize luxury cars and it might as well be “Takin’ Care of Business” or that “bbbbaby you just ain’t seen nnnothin yet” song or Bob Seger’s “Like a Rock.” It’s like it’s been infected. When this happened to songs like “Revolution” or “Lust for Life” or “London Calling” you could laugh it off, because the original songs were so diametrically opposed to what the commercials are about that your mind maintains the disconnect despite the efforts of the commercials. But with “Rock and Roll,” the commercial isn’t saying “use these sneakers and you’ll be able to fight the nihilistic impulses of student radicals” or “go on this cruise and you’ll kick heroin” or “buy this Jaguar and you’ll watch as the inevitable final conflict between capitalism and communism destroys Europe”–it’s saying “drive this car and you’ll have a good time.” It’s just believable enough to lodge in your head and make you think of the song whenever you’re having a mildly good time driving five miles over the speed limit down a sidestreet, which is basically completely poisonous if you want to ever legitimately enjoy this song ever again. No-good bastards. I seriously, seriously hope you all die.

Thanks to the the indefatigable Dirk Deppey (third item down), I discovered this summary by the Pulse’s Heidi MacDonald of the latest Book Expo America, at which many comics publishers made, it would seem, quite substantial inroads into the bookstore market with hard- and softcover collected editions of their periodical offerings. The one exception, mind-bogglingly, was apparently Marvel, who despite putting out some of their best-ever comics in their best-ever collections managed to send only one inexperienced rep to this big event. Marvel had a similarly low-key presence at last year’s San Diego Comic-Con, but I didn’t mind: by eschewing big light-up displays and models dressed as Elektra on the convention floor, they were able to fly in practically everyone who worked for them, all of whom were extremely available to fans and press (as I can testify from hanging out in their hospitality suite). But at San Diego, a comics-only convention, they’re superstars; at Book Expo they’re nobodies. If they’re really taking the bookstore market and trade-paperback format as seriously as they claim, they’d better get their act together there. There’s no reason why their really impressive collections (with uniformly better paper and reprint quality than their competitors’) should clean up at a place like that, and they dropped the ball.

(In the interest of full disclosure, I know a bunch of Marvel guys a bit, and I’m kinda sorta working on something for the company. Of course, the above is probably a “statement against interest” in that regard. Oh dear.)

How has it escaped notice that Mariah Carey can no longer sing? Maybe I’m only noticing this because I’m maried to a woman who loves vocal pedagogy, but ever since her little “episode,” Mariah lost her upper register. Listen to that new ballad that’s out: normal voice, breathy whisper, normal voice, breathy whisper. She’s got a bigger break than Peter Brady. I feel bad for her, because I think after she divorced Mottola she felt like she had to whore herself out and do coke with Jermaine Dupri all day long to remain relevant. Sadly, that is probably true, but it’s awful what the business forced her to do to herself, as she’s ruined her instrument. It’s also awful how debased the art of female singing has become that all she needs to do is move the hand that’s not holding the mic around spastically and do a lot of runs in what’s left of her range and people still think she’s the female Enrico Caruso.

You know what this country needs? It needs yet another unrealistic, male-dictated model for teenage female sexuality!

In case you’re unaware of it, this blog is but a fraction of the fun you can have here at All Too Flat. There’s something for everyone, if “everyone” enjoys haiku, Photoshop, and public-domain pictures of bassett hounds. Look around!

And lo, what do we have here? All Too Flat mastermind Ben has some problems with mice! Such fun!

Can someone tell me where a guy who’s written a story in which Sabretooth uses his healing factor to shoot a bullet back out of his head gets off making smart comments about the goings-on in a Hawkman comic? Just axing.