In the dozen or so entries below this one you’ll find most of the substantial posts I wrote for my new blog The Outbreak before, alas, its name became eerily prescient. There’s a month’s worth of material to go through, so may I be so bold as to recommend several items?

* A look at the videos played on three music-video programs that are actually pretty good

* The Best Albums of 2004

* Ways I could have fixed The Matrix Revolutions if anyone had asked for my help

And have I mentioned that The Outbreak is an ongoing chronicle of my life during a zombie plague? Yes, this was something I’d planned out when I started the blog as a relatively normal personal/pop-cultural affair, so it was certainly fun fielding concerned emails from confused readers when the shit started hitting the fan–I felt a little bit like I was doing my own personal War of the Worlds broadcast for a second there. But really, my goals in writing The Outbreak are to a) do something with the medium of blogging that I don’t think has been done before; b) work around some of the pitfalls of horror fiction by personalizing it with non-fictional autobiographical elements; c) get in the groove of writing fiction every day; d) tell some scary zombie stories. Anyway, I first dropped hints that something unsual was going on with this post, so start there and work your way to the present day.

I would also like to direct you to my extremely not safe for work autobiographical comic “1995,” written by me and drawn by Shawn Cheng. Originally created for and subsequently rejected by the True Porn 2 anthology, it probably reveals more information about me than you need or want to know, but nevertheless, I hope you enjoy it. Shawn and I both tought it accomplished what we set out to accomplish, and we’re very proud of it. There are no zombies involved at any rate.

One of the nice things about being once again ensconced between the warm and nurturing breasts of the All Too Flat websprawl is that my readers can click the links at the top of the page and find some funny stuff. But maybe the funniest thing my fellow Flatmates have ever done can be found here: Ladies and gentlemen, the Open House prank. If you ever read any other page on ATF, make it that one.

Back to The Outbreak, I started a meme over there that never really went anywhere, so I’m bringing it back here and forcing it down people’s throats until they swallow it.

Behold, the Caesar’s Bath meme! List five things that people in your circle of friends or peer group are wild about, but you can’t really understand the fuss over. To use the words of Caesar (from History of the World Part I), “Nice. Nice. Not thrilling…but nice.”

1. The Simpsons

2. Coffee

3. The Arcade Fire

4. Darwyn Cooke’s DC: The New Frontier as representative of Everything Superhero Comics Should Be

5. The Incredibles

Since Ian already did it, bless ‘im, I’m assigning this one out to Jim, Jim, and Alan, because I have no idea how or if they’ll respond. I’ll also kick it over to The Missus, if she’ll have it. But don’t forget: Anyone can pick this up and run with it. Try it, you’ll like it!

A fond farewell to one of my favorite bloggers, Franklin Harris. He was one of those bloggers who may have been a linkblogger but felt like a thinkblogger. Best of luck, Franklin!

Finally, remember: Never trust anyone who doesn’t like the Beatles or Abraham Lincoln.

I’m glad to be back here!

My friend Jim Dougan wrote a comic, and his friend Mike Fiffe drew it. It’s a half-Western, half-Frank Miller parody called “The Big Fat Noon.” You should read it.

Originally posted at The Outbreak on Feb. 25th, 2005:

I just can’t get into the Killers. It’s weird, because everything I listen to these days is totally faggot-ass retro: the Faint, Franz Ferdinand, Scissor Sisters, the Bravery, the Dandy Warhols, Interpol, LCD Soundsystem, Elefant, Fischerspooner, W.I.T., and on and on and on and on and on. I downloaded the Killers’ whole album after going back and forth on “Somebody Told Me” (My question was, Can something that rips off Blur so flagrantly still be good? the answer is Yeah, it’s still pretty good), but I don’t know, something just didn’t click. It’s not like I hate ’em, I think they’re alright, but I feel like I should be flipping out about them and I just ain’t. I will say this for them, though: They dress well. And points for eyeliner, of course.

But this can only get you so far. I so wanted to like the Zutons because they looked damn sharp in the original video for that “Pressure Point” song (the version they show on Fuse as opposed to MTV), but if I hear that “ah-ooh, hoo, hoo” one more time, I’m going to drive my car through a Starbucks storefront.

I also just can’t get into the Arcade Fire. I find this band really interesting because I think 90% of the people who’ve listened to them (myself included) had never heard of them before they started showing up on every, and I do mean EVERY, Best of 2004 list at the end of last year, in many cases in magazines that hadn’t actually reviewed the record when it first came out. I know other *music critics* who hadn’t heard of them until they showed up in the Best Of list their own publication published. I think a week before I first read a Best Of with them on it, one of my co-workers asked me if I listened to them and expressed surprise when I said no because I was his quote-unquote “hipster music connection,” but that’s it.

(Please note that I don’t think anyone is less of an Arcade Fire fan due to when they started listening to the band, eg. after all the press they got. You can’t listen to a band you haven’t heard of! Life’s too short to get worried about stuff like that.)

Anyway in the car on the way to lunch this friend from work played me “Neighborhood #3 (Power Out)” and I loved it–I thought this was another Rapture-style dance-rock band, and MAN, that sense of urgency. So I ran back to work and downloaded the album, and eh. Again, I don’t hate them–the first 30 seconds or so of the first song are GREAT, and “Power Out” is still awesome–but the rest doesn’t quite wang my dang, and I can’t understand the absolutely RAPTUROUS reception they’ve gotten.

I think part of my problem with them is that the guy can’t really sing–he’s got one of those warbly Frank Black/Wayne Coyne/guy from Modest Mouse voices that don’t really do it for me in the context of Big Anthemic Rock Music. (The only exception, for some reason, is the guy from the Polyphonic Spree, but they’re so goofy and over-the-top that it doesn’t matter; on the other hand you didn’t see me running out to buy their second album, I guess.) If Arcade Fire Guy could sing like Thom Yorke they’d probably kick all kinds of ass, but as it stands it’s like going to a Radiohead concert and finding out that Thom is sick and the guy who sets up the speakers is going to be singing tonight.

I dunno, like I said, I don’t hate ’em, I just could take ’em or leave ’em.

Originally posted at The Outbreak on Mar. 1st, 2005:

I truly did not intend to start a music blog. And this isn

Originally posted at The Outbreak on Feb. 27th 2005:

Thank you to everyone who’s linked to the blog so far. However, I do feel obligated to let Johnny Bacardi readers know that, alas, this is not strictly a music blog. But I expect you’ll see a decent amount of that sort of activity going on here, at least until an oft-promised freelance opportunity along those lines finally materializes.

I could start by saying that I’ve heard the lead single of the next nine inch nails album (single: “the hand that feeds”; album: with teeth), and it’s not very good. Musically it’s nowhere near as interesting as the bizarre analog crunchscapes of the fragile (which was at one point my favorite album of the decade, though I feel I’ve grown away from it since), and lyrically–well, I suppose a part of me had assumed Trent Reznor’s lyrical preoccupations would by this point have advanced at least slightly past where they were on Pretty Hate Machine way back when, but this does not seem to be the case. In fairness, the lead single (that is, the song the radio chose to play first; it was a b-side from the actual lead single, technically) from the fragile, “starfuckers, inc.,” was by far the least interesting song on that album–aside from the cheeky carly simon swipe, it could have been done by Gravity Kills–so maybe we’ll see a repeat of that pattern here.

It’s interesting when an album by a band you were extremely heavily into a few years prior comes along while you’re immeresed in music that’s nothing like it. Last time this happened to me was when Underworld released A Hundred Days Off, at which point in my life After the Gold Rush, Hunky Dory, Beggars Banquet and Pink Moon were in heavy iPod rotation. But good will out, and that Underworld record was quite good indeed, and worked its way right into the ’68-’74-fest in my brain without much hassle. nine inch nails have never been simply about metal aggression, but the bands I’ve been listenting to aren’t about that at all–I read an interview with Interpol frontman Paul Banks in which he specifically stated he eschews his aggressive side when writing and recording. I’ll be curious to see how the new NIN record meshes with the skinny-tie set.

On the other hand, my favorite song for the past two weeks or so has been Doves’ new one, the astounding “Black and White Town.” Naturally this group of moody Mancunians has the same main touchstone as Interpol (and nine inch nails, for that matter)–Joy Division–but the technicolor direction they take this in is a lot different from the angular dance-rock I’ve been into these days. (Does the “Heat Wave”-style piano take it back in that direction, or move it further away? You make the call!) Then again, Interpol themselves went in a more brightly-hued direction on their last record, so perhaps it’s all more seamless than I’m making it sound. (Still, someone’s gonna have to explain why I’ve been digging on Billy Joel’s “Big Shot”…)

Originally posted at The Outbreak on Feb. 27th, 2005:

Last night my friend Ken threw himself a birthday party. And when I say he threw himself a birthday party, what I mean is that he did not fuck around. There was an open bar, a knife-throwing act, a ska band, an artsy marching band, burlesque dancers, and a happy-birthday-to-Ken strip show involving two of his friends that ended in an act that reminded me of nothing so much as George Costanza’s declaration to a Senegalese home-care aide of his acquaintance, “I want to dip my bald head in oil and rub it all over your body,” only in this case “oil” was replaced by chocolate sauce, whipped cream, and maybe some other stuff I couldn’t see from that distance. When Amy and I left the party, there was a man with a face tattoo on stage doing some sort of revival-tent speech (that, or the opening for the MC5’s Kick Out the Jams). As I said, Kenneth did not fuck around. What’s funny about all this is that this was not for his 20th or 21st or 25th or 30th birthday (hell, given his and my predelictions, I’d have understood if it was his 23rd), but his 27th. I now sort of feel I can’t ever have a birthday party again, because this would be pretty much impossible to top.

One thing I feel I discovered last night is that I truly can put away Guinness. I don’t think this makes me special or anything, but I know that for a lot of people (my grandfather, for instance), it’s just too heavy. It actually feels lighter than Pabst Blue Ribbon to me. I feel I am fortunate in this regard.

Another thing I discovered (or re-discovered) last night is that despite the fact that I work in the comics industry, I actually have one of the least ridiculous jobs of my high-school circle of friends. We count among our number a glass blower, a knife-thrower’s assistant, and an anti-capitalist zine archivist. Granted, Ken’s gig at a Fortune 500 company completely ruins the curve, but still.

Meanwhile the highlight of Amy’s night was when a gay man complimented her ass. I do this all the time–seriously, all the time–but I guess she reasoned that this fellow knows from asses. Fine, fine, anything that gets her to actually accept a compliment. Right now she is asleep with her head in my lap, so perhaps I’ll try subliminal messages to that effect.

We also saw the Gates last night, finally. Eh. It’s impressive, in the sense that most massive things are impressive, but they just look like dirty shower curtains to me, or something from the opening ceremony of the Olympics.

Amy and I fought quite a bit yesterday. Wish I knew why, but I was just in a rotten mood and I let her know it. Yuck. On the other hand the nice thing about being married is that it lessens the drama–what’re we gonna do, get divorced? Although, as Amy put it, there may be less drama but there’s also more irritation, as we’re stuck with each other. 99 times out of 100, though, that’s just fine with me.

Originally posted at The Outbreak on Mar. 2nd, 2005:

During the (surprisingly, and yet unsurprisingly, brief) period I wasn’t actively blogging, I ended up writing the occasional lengthy music-review missive to the members of the file-sharing listserv to which I belong. This meant that these people got personally subjected to my year-end music wrap-up. The bonus, though, was that they could actually download my favorite albums of ’04, because I uploaded them to our file-sharing server. Can’t do that for you all, but in my continuing quest to make a liar out of myself when I said this wasn’t going to be a music blog, here’s my favorites from the year that was. (I even made specific song recommendations

Originally posted at The Outbreak on Mar. 1st, 2005:

Courtesy of Eve and Dave, here’s a list of ten things I’ve done that you probably haven’t.

1. Visited Loch Ness

2. Won an award for Best Senior Essay in the Yale Film Studies department

3. Married my high-school sweetheart

4. Played Brad and emcee’d in the floor show of The Rocky Horror Picture Show

5. Had my writing called “so fucking smart” by Clive Barker

6. Attended, and helped to host, several Naked Parties

7. Burned my junior year religion textbooks

8. Gotten both a Star Wars and a Lord of the Rings tattoo (Rebel Alliance insignia on right bicep; emblem of the Kings of Gondor on left bicep)

9. Had “Happy Birthday” sung to me by the Dandy Warhols

10. Worn a “FRANKIE SAY RELAX” t-shirt on my honeymoon

Originally posted at The Outbreak on Mar. 7th, 2005:

All Killer, No Filler

I think we can all rest assured that there’s a particularly uncomfortable section of Hell reserved for Sum 41 because of how they ruined that phrase for the rest of us. And because of a wide array of other reasons.

“All killer, no filler” is a good way to describe Daft Punk’s new record Human After All, as it turns out. I found this somewhat surprising based on the nature of their last album, Discovery. Now, as anyone who has listened to that album can tell you, the first four songs (“One More Time,” “Aerodynamic,” “Digital Love,” “Harder Better Faster Stronger”) comprise pretty much the best first-four-song sequence on any album whose first four songs are not called “Black Dog,” “Rock and Roll,” “The Battle of Evermore” and “Stairway to Heaven”–I defy you to find me a better suite of hands-in-the-air-there’s-a-party-over-there music on God’s Gray Earth. Unfortunately, the rest of Discovery can’t help but feel like a let-down by way of comparison. Out of the entire 14-song platter, I think around nine are worth listening to. (The others being “Something About Us,” “Voyager,” “Veridis Quo,” (especially) “Face to Face,” and, depending on what mood you’re in, either “Nightvision,” “High Life,” or “Short Circuit.”) And the five (or so) clunkers are real killers, man. That closing song, “Too Long”? Talk about truth in advertising!

So the first thing you notice is that Human After All is pretty much wall-to-wall rockin

Originally posted at The Outbreak on Mar. 24th, 2005:

I finally saw the third film in the Matrix trilogy, and I actually liked it. But I liked Reloaded too, so maybe that

Originally posted at The Outbreak on Mar. 21st, 2005:

As the type of person who, after the catastrophic failure of director Rob Bowman’s Elektra, thought to himself, “Dammit! Now Reign of Fire will never get the respect it deserves!”, I couldn’t have been happier with Dragons: A Fantasy Made Real, which aired earlier tonight on Animal Planet. It’s the latest “what if?” documentary Animal Planet has produced, this time breaking down how dragons “really” would have looked and acted had they actually existed. The special was remarkably well thought out, using the unusually uniform appearance of dragons in the mythologies of disparate cultures to create an unnervingly and delightfully plausible natural history for the creatures. It was all done in a mockumentary-style tone that, aside from one straightforward disclaimer at the beginning of the show and several implicit ones later on (after each commercial break), dropped the “what if?” tone and treated it like straight science. Apparently this was too much for some critics to process–read this, oh, I guess let’s call it a review, why not? from Linda Stasi at the NY Post; you can practically smell the wood burning as Stasi tries to plow through her own confusion, and hopefully the odor will distract you from how embarrassing it is that she expects you to be just as uncomprehending–but for the rest of us it was a fascinating way to while away 90 minutes on a Sunday evening. (Less than 90 minutes with the magic of TiVo at your command, of course.) The damn thing was even narrated by Patrick Stewart. About the only false note came in the appearance of some of the later dragon species, who had forelegs, hind legs, and wings, rather than the far more feasible hind legs/wings combo; it just kind of jumped out at me all of a sudden that this evolutionary quirk, which has no analogue that I can think of in all of non-insect biology (indeed, the show’s website resorts to fruit flies for justification), had gone completely unexplained and unremarked upon by the special, in a clear sacrifice of plausibility for artistic license. But other than that, all the questions you’d want answered (how does it fly? how does it breathe fire? how long did they last?) are answered in spectacular fashion, as are some you didn’t think to ask (they manage to account for variations in the descriptions of dragons between different cultures, and even link the creatures to sea serpent myths). If you are a nerd, and I’m assuming you are, this is great TV.

Originally posted at The Outbreak on Mar. 20th, 2005:

For some reason I didn’t know that Pitchfork existed until last Friday or something like that. Actually, that’s not entirely true: I think I’d heard of it, but assumed that with a name like that it was some sort of Papa Roach/Damageplan fan site. Nu-metal, like Communism, can still do a lot of damage in its lingering death throes. Call it Snow Patrol Syndrome. (It’s amazing how much damage a poorly selected moniker can do. I mean, I’ve got to assume I’m not the only person who drew that conclusion about the site, since let’s face it, any thought that occurs to anyone has occurred to somebody else, and probably lots of sombodies else.)

Anyway, I just got done browsing through a review or twenty on Pitchfork, and it was time well spent. In many cases they were the type of reviews that are erudite, well-informed, devoid of point-scoring and trainspotting, intelligently argued, impeccably sourced, and still wrong (kinda like a superhero comic review by Tim O’Neil), but (as is the case with Tim, who of course is one of the four or five best writers in the ol’ comics blogosphere) all that other stuff is nothing to be sneezed at, so I enjoyed them a lot. (Case in point: they kinda pan LCD Soundsytem’s record, but have the good sense to a) note that the Eno homage “Great Release” is the best thing on the album; b) point out that “Never as Tired as When I’m Waking Up” owes as much to Floyd as it does to the Beatles, which everyone else seems to have missed. (I would have pegged it to Meddle rather than Dark Side, but the point still stands.))

All this is my roundabout way of introducing this thought: Once you’ve named your band Vietnam, you might as well call it a day, no? I mean, you’re never gonna come up with anything that brilliant ever again.

God, I wish I think of something half as awesome as naming a band Vietnam. (Maybe my “if you’ve thought of it, thousands of other people have too” rule is bogus. I’m reasonably sure this is the only band called Vietnam, and that’s a goddamn astounding idea.)

Postscript: Finding out that Chromeo was spawned by Vice Magazine explains an awful lot.

Originally posted at The Outbreak on Mar. 17th, 2005:

Album that is better than I thought it was: Tyrannosaurus Hives by the Hives

Album that is better than other people think it is: Frances the Mute by the Mars Volta

Album that is better than I thought it was but still not as good as everyone else thinks it is: Elephant by the White Stripes

Album that is just as good as I think it is but better than everyone else thinks it is in the sense that I don’t think anybody else has heard of it, much less heard it, much less formed an opinion about it: Pursuit of Happiness by Weekend Players

Ditto: Attention by Gus Gus

Album that almost makes inviting Ron Wood to join your band seem like a good idea (almost): Some Girls by the Rolling Stones

Album that for some reason has I think the lowest Amazon.com sales rank of all the Brian Jonestown Massacre albums but is actually enthralling and comparatively accessible: Bringing It All Back Home…Again by the Brian Jonestown Massacre

Album that it was probably a good idea for Capitol Records to put the kibosh on in favor of the songs that eventually became The Dandy Warhols Come Down: The Black Album by the Dandy Warhols

Album that it is probably not a good idea for Sony Records to put the kibosh on in favor of, well, apparently nothing: Extraordinary Machine by Fiona Apple

Album that, while entertaining, I think illustrates the artistic limitations of slavishly faithful recreations of the sounds of the early-to-mid-’80s: She’s In Control by Chromeo

Album that would be the band’s third five-starrer in the music magazine in my head if it weren’t for the fact that its emotional high point, “Walk in Fire,” is distractingly similar to said album’s predecessor’s emotional lead single, “There Goes the Fear,” so now it’s “just” a four-starrer: Some Cities by Doves

Album that everybody should listen to at least once today: Jailbreak by Thin Lizzy

Another album that everybody should listen to at least once today: Zooropa by U2

Welcome (back) to Attentiondeficitdisorderly Too Flat, your source for free-form Collins as the fella says. Yes, I’m back.

Or I will be soon–I’ve got a whole bunch of pop-cultural posts to copy over from The Outbreak to here first, methinks, since as those of you who’ve been reading it are now probably aware, there isn’t going to be much blogging of that sort going on chez Outbreak anymore. Well, not for a really long while. Getting overrun by zombies will do that.

So yes, please continue to check out The Outbreak, the world’s first autobigraphical horror blog, chronicling the life of me and my friends and family during a major zombie infestation.

And stick around here for movies, music, books, television, personal stuff, plugging projects that me and my friends are working on–pretty much everything but comics news & criticism and political bloviation. So it’s sort of like the inverse (converse? I was not a math person) of the way ADDTF used to be, but I’m guessing you don’t need another fellow telling you what he thought of Countdown to Infinite Crisis right now, do ya?

So please bear with me and pardon our appearance as I tinker with the blogroll and various and sundry other features–we’re working harder to serve you better!

I’m the one-man army, Ason

I’ve never been tooken out

I keep MCs lookin’ out

I drop science like girls be droppin’ babies

Enough to make a nigga go crazy

Energy buildin’, takin’ all types of medicines

Your ass thought you were better than

Ason, I keep planets in orbit

While I be comin’ with deeper and more shit

Enough to make ya break ya shake ya ass

‘Cause I create rhymes good as a tasty cake

Mix

This style, I’m mastered in

Niggas catchin’ headaches, what? what? You need aspirin?

This type of pain you couldn’t even kill with Midol

Fuck around get sprayed with Lysol

In your face like a can of mace, baby

Is it burnin’? Well, fuck it, now you`re learnin’

How

I don’t even like your motherfuckin’ profile

Give me my fuckin’ shit–chk-chk-blaow

Not seen and heard, no one knows

You forget, niggas be quiet as kept

Now you know nothin’

Before you knew a whole fuckin’ lot

Your ass don’t wanna get shot

A lot of MCs came to my showdown

And watch me put your fuckin’ ass low down

As you can go

Below zero

Without a doubt I’ve never been tooken out

By a nigga who couldn’t figure

Yo by a nigga who couldn’t figure

Yo by a nigga who couldn’t figure (Brooklyn Zoo)

How to pull a fuckin’ gun trigger

I said get the fuck outta here

Nigga wanna get too close, to the utmost

But I got stacks that’ll attack any wack host

Introducin’–yo fuck that nigga’s name

My hip hop drops on your head like rain

And when it rain it pours

‘Cause my rhyme’s hardcore

That’s why I give you more of the raw

Talent that I got will rizock the spot

MCs I’ll be burnin’, burnin’ hot

Whoa-ho-ho

Get me like slow-mo with the flow

If I move too quick, oh, you just won’t know

I’m homicidal when you enter the target

Nigga get up, act like a pig tryin’ to hog shit

So I take yo ass out quick

The mics, I’ve had it my nigga, you can suck my dick

If you wanna step to my motherfuckin’ rep

Chk-chk-blaow blaow blaow blown to death

You got shot ’cause you knock knock knock

“Who’s there?” Another motherfuckin’ hard rock

Slackin’ on your mackin’ ’cause raw’s what you lack

You wanna react? Bring it on back

Shame on you when you step through to

The Ol’ Dirty Bastard

Brooklyn Zoo

Shame on you when you step through to

The Ol’ Dirty Bastard

Brooklyn Zoo

Brooklyn Zoo

Shame on you when you step through to

The Ol’ Dirty Bastard

Brooklyn Zoo

Shame on you when you step through to

The Ol’ Dirty Bastard

Brooklyn Zoo

Shame on you when you step through to

The Ol’ Dirty Bastard

Brooklyn Zoo

What

My nigga

Muni was on the air, playing a Chuck Berry song, when the new general manager summoned Chernoff to his office after hearing the opening riffs.

“Why are we playing this nigger music?” Coughlin demanded to know.

Chernoff couldn’t believe what he’d just heard and asked his boss to repeat the question. He did so without hesitation, and Chernoff, still reeling, asked that he convey his feelings to Scott Muni directly. Mark retrieved Scottso and marched him back into the office. Coughlin asked the question again, without rephrasing.

Muni and Chernoff looked hopelessly at each other. Scott merely said, “You keep stepping in shit, don’t you? Do you realize what would happen to us if what you just said became public? You can’t be serious.” He turned on his heel and headed back to the studio.

“I feel like some Motown, Fats,” he told his engineer upon arriving. “Pull out some Supremes, Temptations, and Four Tops.” Those groups comprised the next few sets on the air.

–Richard Neer, FM: The Rise and Fall of Rock Radio

God bless America
Land that I love
Stand beside her
And guide her
Through the night with a light from above
From the mountains
To the prairies
To the oceans
White with foam
God bless America
My home sweet home

—–
As he followed her inside Mother Abagail’s house he thought it would be better, much better, if they did break down and spread. Postpone organization as long as possible. It was organization that always seemed to cause the problems. When the cells began to clump together and grow dark. You didn’t have to give the cops guns until the cops couldn’t remember the names…the faces…

Fran lit a kerosene lamp and it made a soft yellow glow. Peter looked up at them quietly, already sleepy. He had played hard. Fran slipped him into a nightshirt.

All any of us can buy is time, Stu thought. Peter’s lifetime, his children’s lifetimes, maybe the lifetimes of my great-grandchildren. Until the year 2100, maybe, surely no longer than that. Maybe not that long. Time enough for poor old Mother Earth to recycle herself a little. A season of rest.

“What?” she asked, and he realized he had murmured it aloud.

“A season of rest,” he repeated.

“What does that mean?”

“Everything,” he said, and took her hand.

Looking down at Peter he thought: Maybe if we tell him what happened, he’ll tell his own children. Warn them. Dear children, the toys are death–they’re flashburns and radiation sickness, and black, choking plague. These toys are dangerous; the devil in men’s brains guided the hands of God when they were made. Don’t play with these toys, dear children, please, not ever. Not ever again. Please…please learn the lesson. Let this empty world be your copybook.

“Frannie,” he said, and turned her around so he could look into her eyes.

“What, Stuart?”

“Do you think…do you think people ever learn anything?”

She opened her mouth to speak, hesitated, fell silent. The kerosene lamp flickered. Her eyes seemed very blue.

“I don’t know,” she said at last. She seemed unpleased with her answer; she struggled to say something more; to illuminate her first response; and could only say it again:

I don’t know.

–Stephen King, The Stand

Well, I

Links in recent posts have been fixed; thanks to Eve Tushnet for pointing out their various malfunctions. This is what I get for writing posts in MS Word so that they won’t get wiped out if Mozilla crashes for some reason.

How’s this for a debut issue of the Comics Journal’s new format? An enormous essay by Dirk Deppey outlining the tremendous contributions NuMarvel made to mainstream comics during its halcyon days, another enormous essay tearing every aspect of the “X-Men Reloaded” initiative (save Astonishing X-Men) a new one, 36 pages of Alex Toth comics, a review of Fantagraphics’ big Will Elder book by Bill Sherman, reviews of revisionist-superhero books Demo, Smax, and Planet of the Capes by Tom Spurgeon, and a brave leap into the legal minefields with a reprinting of Harvey Kurtzman and Will Elder’s infamous “Goodman Goes Playboy”? That’s worth your ten bucks, don’t’cha think?