The Bomb Was an Idea (DC The New Frontier + JSA The Golden Age)

Commissioned by Clarence Drilling

“Before the bomb was a bomb, the bomb was an idea. Superman, however, was a faster, stronger, better idea.”

-Grant Morrison

Things The Golden Age isn't
interested in: People of Color.
Also silence.

Even if the commission wasn’t for me to contrast these two works, reading The Golden Age brings up so many parallels with The New Frontier. Mainly, that one wishes they were reading Darwin Cooke’s seminal comic book instead. For those who haven’t read either book, a brief explanation: James Robinson and Paul Smith’s The Golden Age tells of an alternate past of the DC universe where Batman, Superman, and Wonder Woman never existed and instead focused on the superhero team the JSA in a political thriller whose main politics are “McCarthyism is kin to Hitler.” Indeed, there’s not much interest in exploring the implications of “So HUAC was actually part of a secret ploy by the Ultra-Humanite and the brain of Adolf Hitler to take over the world” in the story. The politics are largely background noise that isn’t as developed as it could have been.

Conversely, The New Frontier has Superman, Batman, and Wonder Woman in the mud of the 50’s. It’s about the softening of the Superhero in the face of the silver age, yes. But there’s also an edge to the story. There’s the famous Wonder Woman leading a group of Vietnamese women to slaughter the men who had enslaved them, but less talked about is Superman’s ultimate character arc of rejecting being an agent of the American government on the grounds that the philosophy of “My country no matter what” is complete bunk. And that’s not even getting into the John Henry subplot.

All of which to say is that The New Frontier is ultimately a better text that The Golden Age because it has a modicum of ambition. Of course, you’d probably expect something more out of a comparison between the two than less than 300 words, and as such let’s look at the most interesting idea The Golden Age has: The connection between the atom bomb and the superhero. Many a writer has discussed the connection between the two, most recently Al Ewing in The Immortal Hulk. But where Ewing ties the bomb specifically to the Hulk due to the nature of his origin, Robinson takes it one step further by claiming the bomb is the natural extension of the superhero.

There is an argument to be made for this. The bomb, much like the superhero, changed the world forever by its mere presence. As David Lynch and Mark Frost argue in the eighth episode of Twin Peaks The Return, dropping the bomb solely as a test to see its capabilities is enough to change the world for the worse. Because the reality of the bomb is such an existential horror of mass genocide sped up to mere seconds that only a monster would think lightly on dropping it once, let alone twice. The bomb is a coercive presence in the American psyche, one that has its tendrils in practically every aspect of the American imagination.

Though the bomb isn’t as prominent in The New Frontier as it is in The Golden Age, its impact certainly is. The obvious one to look at would be McCarthyism. While Superman and Batman aren’t taken to speak at HUAC, the vibe of that era’s paranoia (which The Golden Age apes over all else) is felt throughout the series. It’s in the racist shitheels lynching John Henry and the President advocating Wonder Woman not preach her revolutionary beliefs and the government bringing nukes into space in case the Martians want to start a war.

On that note, the very presence of aliens is another impact of the bomb. While there were cases of alien abductions prior to the bomb, the “threat” of some alien kidnapping you for nefarious purposes increased tenfold after the bomb exploded. In the past, such experiences would be considered contact with a higher power, but the genre shifted after the bomb. Science fiction had a boom in the wake of the bomb, focusing on stories that talk of real science that doesn’t believe in the unknown. Where rationality devoid of “feelings” can defeat any obstacle. Truly, it was a golden age of science fiction, when men were allowed to be men and women were seen, but not heard.

But at the same time as exploring these lurking ideas birthed by the bomb, The New Frontier doesn’t provide a solution to these problems. As with The Golden Age, whose musings on the bomb’s relationship with the superhero are ultimately underdeveloped as the rest of its ideas, The New Frontier lobs solutions to the next age of superheroes, the Silver Age as it were. Superman may not be an agent of the US government, but that doesn’t mean he’s actually going to fight against it in this softer age of camp villains and starfish aliens.

That’s not to say the comic is blind to such problems. Indeed, the ending montage works against the teleological read of “everything is better now” by contrasting the JFK speech that gives the book its title, specifically “Today some would say that those struggles are over—that all the horizons have been explored—that all the battles have been won—that there is no longer an American frontier,” with an image of a black child walking away from a guarded water fountain that says “White Only.” But that still leaves us with the void of a solution. The void of the path forward.

Superhero utopianism is a nice idea. It’s one that more writers should explore. Both The Golden Age and The New Frontier ultimately gesture towards this direction, but their failures ultimately come from assuming the superhero is inherently a good idea. Sure, Superman is a better idea than the bomb, but at the same time all ideas have their limits. Many have made the case for the superhero being a terrible idea that does more harm than good. Some of them have even been good cases that don’t fit into the typical strawman argument that the comics fandom has fashioned out of Seduction of the Innocent.

Ultimately, despite what Grant Morrison might say, Superman isn’t enough to beat the bomb. Because, tragically, we made the bomb up, and it came true anyway. That's the funny part.

Print the Legend (Green Arrow Year One)

Commissioned by Michael. Happy Birthday!

Oliver Queen is a shit in the way that many argue Batman is. On the one hand, he recognizes the injustices of his privilege and how giving a little to charity isn’t the same as actually giving a shit about the less fortunate. On the other hand, he believes in the systems of power that he claims to want to rebel against. He sees the authority of the police as valid enough to send off to do the paper work while he gallivants around the city as a mysterious hero. He’s an addict to various things from death defying feats to opium. Also, Oliver’s kind of a racist in that there’s a running gag about him calling the main baddie, Chein Na-Wei, “China White.”

That isn’t to say that Green Arrow Year One is a bad comic or even unaware of these aspects. It’s good and it does. But it’s perhaps best to open with an acknowledgement that Oliver Queen is not a good person. Nor is his arc in this story that of becoming a good person thanks to the help of some dead foreigners ala Iron Man. As Oliver himself notes, he didn’t do much to stop the slavers running the opium fields. It was the slaves that revolted and did the hard work of overthrowing their masters. But his presence on the island gave them hope that they can succeed in defeating their masters.

The stories that inspire us to be better aren’t always that great. If one were to actually do a close analysis of any number of Star Trek series, one could easily find racism, sexism, homophobia, and imperialist leanings. And yet, many left leaning people have found inspiration in those series, be it to go to the moon or shape their own utopia. The story of a man who is able to rebel against the oppressors, even if his story isn’t enough, is always a useful one to tell.

But equally, it is important to remember that these are stories being told, ones with flaws and problems. If one were to buy into the legend of a mythical white man coming to a foreign land and inspiring the people to rise up, one could miss the flaws in the story. Though Diggle does a lot of work to avoid the obvious white savior pitfalls, there is still a twinge of it lurking under the surface. The Asian baddies are shown to be plotting to use the opium they enslave the villagers to grow to create new generations of addicts in America. And there are times when it’s hard to actually root for Oliver Queen because he’s such a shit.

One could read those statements and see this as destroying other people’s fun and inspiration. And while there is at times a bit of that when it comes to criticism (usually when said fun involves being evil) that is not the purpose of critiquing inspirational texts. Rather, it is to help shape better texts to come in the future, ones not defined by rich white guys who are implausibly good at taking down people who benefit from a system of cruelty without actually dealing with said system. One doesn’t want to be trapped in the utopia of the 1960’s. There weren’t that many gay people in those.

The Legend of the Auu Lanu Lau’ava will be important to the culture of those who survived the wrath of the slavers and who succeeded in overthrowing them. It will, as all legends do, change over time to reflect the time it is being told. Some elements of it may be lost while others will find new relevance. The story of revolution is always necessary in times of cruelty and distress. But the critique of the story is likewise necessary.

Green Arrow Year One is a close look at the defining moment where Oliver Queen decided to change his addiction from Alcohol to Superheroics. The art by Jock is well drawn, in particular the angular way he draws his characters to evoke the crooked nature of the world being presented. Andy Diggle does wonders with the six issues he’s provided and makes the most out of a genuinely unlikable protagonist. The colors are at once muted and poppy. And it’s a quick, well-written read.

But it’s also playing a bit too closely to the white savior tropes and themes that it almost becomes awful. It’s not really about those themes and implications in the way that Gene Luen Yang’s The Shadow Hero is about Fu Manchu. It’s not interested in examining the base assumptions of the genre beyond avoiding the obvious holes. It’s a well-written book that you’ll have a good time reading. It’s just not one with a lot of stimulating implications.

Take These Broken Wings and Learn to Fly (Tuca & Bertie)

Commisioned by Aleph Null

Trigger warning: sexual assault.

HOT FUZZ (2007)
Cinematography by Jess Hall
Directed by Edgar Wright

Tuca & Berite is a delightful throwback to the nineties animated sitcom. Specifically, the kind of animated sitcom that relied on treating the animated world as a canvas rather than a representation of the real world and also didn’t have the lesson everyone got from South Park that being a giant asshole who hates everyone (but is conveniently softer on conservatives than they are on liberals) is a good substitute for a sense of humor. Which is to say that it’s more in the mold of the rubbier episodes of The Simpsons (Sheri Bobbins, Hank Scorpio, Tomaco) than Brickleberry.

The show focuses on a pair of anthropomorphic birds named Tuca and Bertie who fit into the archetypes of “free spirited party girl” and “repressed career girl.” Together, we see them explore the various highs and lows of friendship, love, and workplace drama. But unlike many a throwback series that’s banking on people knowing what the 90’s felt like, Tuca & Bertie takes the lessons learned since the 90’s and applies them to their new series. Specifically, in regards to serialization and the politics of the show.

Throughout the series, Bertie takes on an apprenticeship with a very famous chef whose training style is very… hands on, a phrase which here means “#MeToo.” While not going as far as depicting an actual rape, the imagery of and framing fits within many a narrative of a sexual assault survivor, specifically one in denial of what has happened to them. It’s sympathetic to Bertie’s situation, exploring the ways in which denial and self loathing made her think such things as sexual assault were ok to happen to her.

Equally, Tuca is dealing with having to live on her own as a disaster who can’t keep a job and is estranged from her family for various sad reasons that involve a history of alcoholism, a feeling that everyone who loves you will just abandon you, and dependency on a rich aunt signing checks. Ultimately, Tucan & Bertie help each other through their various issues and grow as people, a rarity for a sitcom.

Indeed, the show is very much a rarity in the sitcom genre as it’s written from a perspective of women. The head writer and creator of the series, Bojack Horseman alumni Lisa Hanawait, brings a sweetness and humanity to the series’ general rubberiness and cartoony charm that one typically doesn’t see in even modern sitcoms. You wouldn’t think 2 Broke Girls would have a cutaway to the two having a heart to heart about an old flame in the midst of a heated argument.

Overall, Tuca & Bertie is a delightful show that’s worth the five hours it takes to watch. Also it has Steven Yeun, easily the best part of most things he’s in, as the put upon boyfriend who has a picture of his own face and had to eat his own grandmother because she was baked into a cake. That’s just delightfully weird in a way you don’t see in modern sitcoms.

Calvinball: A Guide for Sane People

Originally posted 4/26/15

Portrait of a normal game of Calvinball

Calvinball is a game in which there is a ball. From there things get interesting. For starters, in the infamous game of 2001, the Gophers beat Team Grasshopper by using the penalty stick of doom on the thirtieth ball hole, thereby wining the game and receiving the hockey puck of shame. Conversely, in the game of 1987, the luddites used the same maneuver on the the church of scientology, only to be disqualified for the exact same reason. And then there was that infamous game where there was no ball, so the team had to play with a kettle and some string.

What I'm trying to get at is that Calvinball is a unique game wherein there is no structured set of rules to play it with. Much like Mao, you just make them up as you go along. The experience is... interesting to say the least. For example, unlike in Mao wherein the lack of explanation of the rules can be used for bullying purposes (i.e. to exclude those who don't know what's going on in the simplest of terms), Calvinball seems to be more within a postmodernist view rejecting a singular truth (and newtons sleep, if Blake's your fancy) in favor of multiple contradictory truths that are all fun to play with (which is really why #gamergate is so evil: they have a singular vision of what their culture and the products and influences of it are and (much like any culture dominated by straight white men) will fight any attempt at disproving any contradictory notions like "Women, LGBTQIA, and people of other skin tones have always been playing video games" (even when facts back these contradictory notions) through cruel and violent means. And, much like Thatcher and Whitehouse before them, they're no fun).

Frankly, the only sensible response.

As such, there really isn't any way to cheat the game, so much as alter the shape of the game. But how does one do that? Simple: you just tell the other player that there's a new rule which allows you to win easier and pray they don't come up with a rule that makes your attempts harder (really, the only constant rule in the game is that you can't just say "Behold! I have the Stick of Truth! Therefore, I! AM! VICTORIOUS! MUHAHAHAHAHAHA!" Because, that's just a dull way of playing the game and goes against everything Calvinball and Postmodernism stand for and you should be ashamed of yourself Steve. What? You thought we forgot about you Steve Carlsberg? We'll never forget. NEVER!). In short, after playing the game for a long period of time, I have come to realize that, inna final analysis, the most important part of any game is that you get something out of it. Whether it's the melancholy of The Walking Dead, the philosophical nirvana brought about by The Stanley Parable, the catharsis of Depression Quest, or even the joy of Super Mario World, we all get need something out of the stories we experience.

Also do not make the tiger angry, he will eat you.

(Thank you for joining us for this semester long look at video games and the culture that surrounds them. One of my regrets is that I never talked about any of the blatantly video game inspired shows released over the years. Ah well, c'est la vie. Regardless, I hope you've had as much fun as I've had and wish you all Many Happy Returns.)

(This post was brought to you by The Super Nintendo Project, an analytical look at a selection of video games released on the Super Nintendo. The creator of the series claims it to be a magical ritual to banish #GamerGate out of existence, so you know, business as usual in our mad little world. The first post, on Super Mario World, can be found here.)

My Favorite Game: A Personal Story

Originally posted 3/22/15

Nope, none of these 5,070 words are about #gamergate.
Nope, just talking about my favorite game.

Prologue: From Day One, I knew what I was going to write about for this week’s post. Ever since I saw that this week’s first class was going to be on the subject of #Gamergate, I knew I was going to do a evisceration on that group of people. I knew that I was going to go neck deep into that cesspool of cruelty and cowardice. I even posted several articles on the subject of that group prior to writing this post, as a reminder to what this has all been about. But I also knew that this would require an anger towards that group. An anger that would be able to combat the horror that is the culture that spawned it. But then I looked at the culture of that hashtag; that culture spawned from 4chan and an angry man slut shaming his ex girlfriend and I looked at this week’s course load, and I decided to do something else with my time, something that did not involve combating something terrible (or at least, not at this point in my life). Wisdom is the acceptance of what your limitations are. As such, I decided to instead focus on talking about something more personal to me: My favorite game.

“Through early morning fog I see

Visions of the things to be

The pains that are withheld for me

I realize and I can see...”

Chapter 1: It began, as most things do nowadays, on the Internet. More specifically, it began sometime in April of 2014, but for the sake of memory, lets say it began on April 21^st, 2014. For that was the day I first heard of my favorite video game. It was on an internet analysis show called “Errant Signal”, a series I had found at a time when I believed Spec Ops: The Line to be my favorite game. The video itself was a comparison between that and another game, Actual Sunlight, which dealt with similar themes. After playing the game online, I found the game to be an interesting experience (but still not as good as my favorite game, The Walking Dead) and thought nothing more of it.

A few months later (lets say September 4^th, 2014), I had returned from school after having to go home due to a minor nervous breakdown most likely caused by a mix of my roommate (who is rarely in the room) expressing a desire to not be in the room (for reasons that would be far too ramblely and require usage of my faulty memory), anxiety over the class schedule and other school related things, and the crushing realization that no one will give any work to a person who majored in English and has a focus in Creative Writing. As such, I broke down into tears and had to be taken home over Labor Day. At the time, I had since met with a therapist and was doing much better. I had talked to my roommate about the situation and everything seemed to work out in the end (I even able to get my overall GPA up to about a 3.4 in the end so yay). Anyways, on that day, another show I watch online, Folding Ideas, did a video on my favorite game, and I was reminded of the game’s existence. As such, I played Depression Quest again and fell in love with it.

“You're too old to lose it, too young to choose it

And the clocks waits so patiently on your song

You walk past a cafe but you don't eat when you've lived too long

Oh, no, no, no, you're a rock 'n' roll suicide”

Chapter 2: When I was in eighth grade, I wanted to kill myself. I never got to the point where I was slitting my wrists or any other self damage of that type (although I did hit my head on the padded walls of the gym), but every now and then, I would look at a tie and think to myself that it would be a good idea to just tie it around my neck and attach it to the banister at my house. I don’t like that period of my life. I don’t remember many details about that time (And thank god for small miracles) but I do remember a few things. I remember my bullies trying to get me to break after a week off of school for vacation where I just stopped caring (or at least showing that I cared). I remember numerous people pronouncing my name as “Seen” which got on my nerves. I remember telling a teacher about my situation, only for her (or was it “him”?) telling me off because I wasn’t in their class. I remember during my freshmen year of High School where another student from behind asked if he could play the “finger game” in a deep voice and feeling uncomfortable. I remember, in what I now realize was group therapy, having other students be horrified by the sexual implications of that statement. I remember learning that it wasn’t a sexual reference, but another term for the game “Chopsticks”. But perhaps more pertinent to this article (which I suppose is on some level about #Gamergate) was back during middle school. Before eighth grade, way back in sixth, I was at the local library on the computer. I decided to go on the Cartoon Network website and played some of the games. In this incident, I was playing a fixed shooter with the aesthetics of the Powerpuff Girls, when some people I (somewhat) knew saw me play it. Naturally, this being middle school, they mocked me for playing the girly game despite the fact that it was clearly a fixed shooter. And they kept mocking me for years (right up until I never saw them again in eighth grade). All because I played a game with female characters and an aesthetic of a show generally seen as being for girls. Because boys can’t like things girls like, otherwise they could be friends. And no one should be friends with their prize (Sarcasm mode ended). I don’t suppose the wounds ever healed. I don’t suppose that they became better people (one of my more merciless bullies became a relatively decent person). But I do suppose that I still have issues getting to know people. I do suppose that the Powerpuff Girls game I played was fun. And I do suppose that #Gamergate would not be on my side. Because their actions speak louder than my words.

“Then come the lessons. There is no reasoning to be done with the people who want you to suffer. That in the end, they want you to suffer because they can make you suffer, and because they can get away with it, so that means it's OK. Whether because the laws that govern it are soft enough to make it de facto legal - as bullying under restitution basically was - or because they have the ability to lie effectively. When raw wealth owns the entire media then it is far too easy to say that you didn't know who's Doctor Who book it was, or that people might think a cliffhanger lasts an entire week diegetically, or that the proposed health care bill contains death panels.”

Chapter 3:The game is a text adventure in which you play as a person with depression. The goal of the game is to simply live your life. Depending on how one plays, be it in the way they think they would react or in a how the character would react (which may or may not be the same thing depending on who you ask), the depression either gets better or worse. And yet, there’s a sense of hope within the game. A sense that you can get through the depression, all you have to do is ask for help (although sometimes that’s not an option, as shown in gam via some of the options being shown, but being impossible to take). But it’s not easy and you need help. But sometimes you go to people and they’re not able to help you. Sometimes they misunderstand what you’re going through and tell you just to get over it. Other times you don’t tell them because you’re afraid that they wont be able to be there for you. And sometimes someone else notices what’s going on and tries to help you out. We all have ways of coping with the world. Not all of them are good or work out in the long run. Depression Quest is about trying to find one that works for the player. And, depending on who you are, it just might.

“Part time dreamer

Would be player

You thought fame could outrun fear

Something clearly terrified you

Did you choose to disappear?”

Chapter 4: So how did I do it? How did I get out of the cesspool that is middle school? How did I get better? In the end, I don’t think I have. I have the scars from that long and terrible period in my life, even if they never appeared on my body. I have a hard time talking to people I don’t know and don’t go out into the world unless I have to (although I believe I am getting better at it, what with Gamer’s Guild and the radio (hi Marlon [AN: Marlon was a fellow student in the course. He was a good guy])). I don’t always go out of my room at night when people hang out in front of it. And I’m nervous about who I talk to about the things I love… just in case. But how did I prevent myself from getting so bad as to self-harm in more permanent ways? Well… I’d like to believe that it was because I found an internet series called the Angry Video Game Nerd and, much like Duck Soup did for a terrible person [AN: in the original post, there was a link to a clip from Hannah and Her Sisters where Woody Allen talks about watching said movie. I have not seen either movie, but fuck Woody Allen], I found something that made me laugh on a regular basis. And I watched the series, and many others, and over time I got less and less miserable. I got out of that toxic environment and got into the surprisingly less toxic environment of High School (I have long since come to the conclusion that High School movies are talking more about middle school than high school (at least in terms of this generation)). I introduced and reintroduced myself to the stories I love even today. I regained my love of comics and video games. I found joy. And I realized something near the end of high school and the beginning of college: it’s ok to be silly. It’s ok to like girly things like games with female protagonists or stories about ponies [AN: since then, I've grown less... forgiving of liking stories about ponies]. We live in a mad, absurd, cruel, uncaring, and amazing world. Why not have fun? You only live once (from my knowledge).

“We do not remember days, we remember moments.”

Portrait of a man in front of a forgedPortrait of the Mona Lisa

Chapter 5: When I started writing this entry, I wanted to wait to do this bit while I was in Paris for Spring Break. However, sensible people pointed out that it would be very likely for someone to steal my computer from my hotel room while I was gone. As such here is a personal walkthrough of “Depression Quest” written the day after I returned from Paris.

The game opens with a quote by David Forest Wallace and a trigger warning. I, as always, ignore it.

(There’s a cold piano in my head. It feels like a fog or static. It’s just the same notes every time. It feels like there should be a point to it. Like a tome poem or a game. But there isn’t. There’s no point to any of it. no point)

It’s Monday morning. I just spent the previous night contemplating my lot in life. It’s not that I have a bad life or anything, Alex, my girlfriend is there, my parents are there as well (though they, like me, would like it if I did more with my life <how>) and I have a job that pays the bills. It’s a good life. But… I feel like I don’t need any more than that. But I should, shouldn’t I? I should probably stop thinking about it, all it’s done is given me a lack of sleep, but…

It’s Wednesday evening. I went through the motions as I usually do. (God I hate my job) It rained recently. (God I hate the rain) Alex is at class for a few hours, so I could use those hours to get some of that project done. But what if it’s not all that great. I can’t just hunker down and do it. I feel tired. Maybe I should go to bed.

But then, I’ll just feel shitty about myself for not working on my writing. So might as well just do it. But my ideas left me. (Why did I even tell people I hate my job <fuck>) I spent the rest of the night arguing on twitter about the ethics in games journalism before going to bed. (God I hate my bed)

It’s Friday afternoon. Alex called me from class to tell me that there’s going to be a birthday party for her roommate. (God I hate her roommate) I haven’t seen Alex in a while… but… I should go but… I don’t like peopleknow any of Alex’s friends. I tell her I’m sick (God I hate myself) but even on the phone I have never been a good liar. Alex really wants me to go… (Fuck)

As I expected, it’s just a bunch of assholes drinking. (God I hate Alex)I see her nearby, talking to her roommate. (God I hateAlex) When she sees me, she brightens up and comes over to me. (God I hate Alex) We begin to talk in a way we haven’t in a while. (God I hate Alex) But then one of the assholes comes along. (God I hate Alexthis asshole) Alex has to leave with the asshole to do stuff for the party. So I’m stuck here. Drowning. I can’t just go into Alex’s room; she’ll know I left. And she wanted me here. So I’m stuck in this party. Alone. (God I hate Alex)

It’s a shitty Saturday. Mom came over today. I don’t want to talk with her about work. But she wants to know. She always wants to know, like it’s her life I’m living. Like I know what I’m doing. I don’t want to make her feel worse than I am, so I change the subject. (God I hate Mom)

It’s Sunday. Sam from work called. She said that her cat just had kittens and thought that I would like one. (We’re friends <huh>) I think about it for a moment. On the one hand I’ve always have had a fondness for cats. (God I hate dogs they always bark at me for no reason) The best writers have cats (Neil Gaiman for one). I should have a cat. But…

Nope, I’m ok. (I’m ok <i’m ok [i’m ok {i’m ok}]>) Getting a cat. Her name is Fluffykins: Destroyer of Worlds!

It’s Friday quitting time. Alex called, some of herour friends are going out for drinks and she want me to come with. I tell her I’ve had a long day at work, but she should go anyways. She doesn’t. We watched some shitty movie on Netflix about sharks and tornados or something. I really wasn’t paying attention. I was more focused on Alex. Beautiful Alex. Gorgeous Alex. Out of my league Alex. Wasting her life with me Alex. Miserable Alex. Why should she even be here with me instead of drinking with her friends Alex. And then she looks at me. I see pity in her eyes.

I ask her if she’s happy with our relationship. She asks what I mean and I… I… I… I… I… I… I say forget about it. And she does.

It’s the afternoon. Amanda, from way back from school, is over and we talk. Amanda iswas the only girl I could talk to before I met Alex. We talk for a bit about life and whatnot. And then she asks what’s wrong. I notice my hands are shaking. We leave where we were, and I’m crying.

Oh god I’m crying.

(God hates a sissy boy)

Why can’t I stop crying?

I don’t even know

what I’m saying

to her.

I’m crying.

Amanda suggests that I go see a

therapist about

it.

(I don’t want to go <alone>)

It’s Monday. I have an appointment with the dentist today. My brother, Malcolm, is going to pick me up. (God I hate Malcolm <how>) The dentist tells me that I have been grinding my teeth in my sleep. He says it’s probably stress related, so he gives me a night guard. My brother, whose been waiting for me for over a half hour, asks why it took so long. He’s too smart to buy that it was a normal check up, so I tell him about the night grinding (not the stress). When I got home, I threw out the night guard. (I am not a sissy boy)

It’s Someday. Fluffykins was sleeping in my computer chair and was so adorable. But daddy has to check his emails, so I shoo her off. She simply waits for me to sit down and moves onto my lap. I looked at my emails, and saw one from Amanda. She has the number for the therapist, and she sent it to me. She even covered the excuse I could give by saying that I can’t afford it because it’s a pay what you want service. I don’t want to go. (I am not a sissy boy) Amanda got the info from her mother, so she’ll know if I don’t… (God I hate Amanda <fuck>)

I slept on it.

-God hates a sissy boy

˙uᴉɥʇᴉʍ ɯoɹɟ pǝʌᴉǝɔǝɹ puɐ pǝᴉlddɐ ɥʇoq sᴉ ʇuǝɹɹnɔ ǝɥʇ :ʇᴉnɔɹᴉɔ pǝsolɔ ɐ s,ʇᴉ :ssǝuᴉlǝuol ǝɥʇ snɥʇ

I don’t want to go

Malcolm

Mom

>how<

.noitulos on si ereht dna ,melborp eht fo trap si gnihtyreve

Alex

>why<

sᴉʇʇᴉuƃ oɹ sʇɐupᴉuƃ' poᴉuƃ oɹ ɹǝsʇᴉuƃ' sdǝɐʞᴉuƃ oɹ ʞǝǝdᴉuƃ sᴉlǝuʇ' lᴉʌᴉuƃ oɹ pʎᴉuƃ

Help!

I need somebody

That dead-eyed anhedonia is but a remora on the ventral flank of the true predator, the Great White Shark of pain.

Help!

Not just anybody-
HELP! I shout in the middle of the night. I don’t go back to sleep.

The email is still in my inbox. The number is still in the email. The kitten is on my lap. The phone is in my hand. (i am a sissy boy God hates me) I am in my car. I am in my car. (I don’t want to go) I was in my car. I am in my car. I am talking to the therapist in a place that is no longer my car. We talk and I pray I’m not whining. (How could this happen to me I made my mistakes) Her name is Dr. Susan Melville. She’s nice. I made another appointment to see her. I feel like I’m going to like her. As I drove back to my home, I realized that I would have to tell the people close to me about this. I cry myself to the calmest sleep I’ve had in months.

It’s Wednesday. Once again I wake up before my alarm does. The window in my room has a shitty view, so I can’t even have the decency of looking at the sunrise. (God I hate the west wing of my apartment complex) I don’t want to go to work. My alarm blares the word Whatbefore I hit the snooze button. I look at my shitty celling for another bit before I hear Ever. I hit the snooze button. I look at the celling. Gets. I hit the snooze button. I look at the celling. You. I hit the snooze button. I look at the celling. Through. I hit the snooze button. I look at the celling. The Night! It’s all right! It’s all right!Finally, I decide to just go to work so I won’t have to deal with that song anymore. (God I hate Los Lonely Boys) But I notice that by the time I got to work, I would be late. And they would hate me for it. They always find ways to hate you for things. I go to work anyways. (God I hate my job)

No one cares that I was about five minutes late. (God I hate no one caring)

It’s 2 AM on Sunday, and I can’t sleep. As such, I did what I normally do when I can’t sleep: I went onto the computer. As I looked at all the news stories (#GamerGate is a Bunch of Wankers Part 2: What is Ethical Journalism?), an Internet friend of mine contacted me. He’s noticed that I’ve been thinking when I should be sleeping, and asks what’s wrong. Somehow, even more than Alex, I’m able to talk to this stranger, whose name I don’t even know (he goes by attic). We talk for a bit about my feelings and then he plays Wikipedia Doctor^TMand tells me that I might have depression. I tell him about Susan and how well our sessions have been going. His words made it easier for me to relax and go back to sleep. Sometimes all you need is a good bedtime story.

It's Thursday night, and I’ve just gotten out of work. It was a long day. Like, dear god, nothing happened. But it just. Wouldn’t. End. (God I hate my job) I’m just so tired from all the people in the streets bumping into me. But I don’t want to go to sleep. Susan said that the feeling I have could cause me to spiral unless I tell someone about it. She’s been a good deal of help, so despite my reservations on putting my woes onto others, I call Alex. We meet at a small diner a few blocks from my apartment and we talk. Or rather, I talk.  I talk about how much I hate my job, how shitty I’ve been feeling, how shitty my writing is, just talking. And when I finished, I looked at Alex, and I thought that maybe my fears of Alex being bored of me were unfounded. Maybe she wanted to be around me. And then I began to cry. Not like with Amanda. I was happy. In that moment, I was happy.

It was a typical Wednesday when Susan brought up the topic of drugs. Some time ago, back in College, I had a girlfriend named Jane. Now Jane was a nice girl, lots of fun to be around. There was a time when we were at the Drive in and she giggled like a catholic schoolgirl while I gave her the third act surprise. Anyways, it was a few months into our relationship when she was diagnosed with depression and her doctor gave her a boatload of drugs. She was never the same after that. Her beautiful blue eyes looked dead inside, she moved as if she was one of the undead, and it looked like they were making her worse. Like it was just another way of pushing her feelings down the hole and out of public eye. Regardless, it wasn’t enough. I told Dr. Melville that I’d stick to therapy.

It’s Wednesday evening. I went to my parent’s house for a family get-together. I’m not in my hometown as often as I would like to be. Malcolm is there with his wife (lovely Karen) and mom brings up the old J-O-B question. I excuse myself to the bathroom. I really don’t need another one of her “get a job” rants. Malcolm’s more understanding. (I wish he would tell me how he did it)

I didn’t want to go out tonight. It’s raining outside, but Alex wanted me to come over for some reason. Maybe she’s pregnant. (I hope she isn’t) When I got up to her room, she was dressed in a robe. Only a robe. Turns out her roommate’s out of town and she has that smile on her face, the one she has when she wants to make the night magical. Well, I’ve always been one to believe in magic, so after we share some wine…

It’s an early winter evening and I have at long last said one of the major thoughts that had crossed my mind for a while. I HATE MY FUCKING JOB!!!!!!! To deal with my hatred for my job, I decided to look for another job, hoping to find one that would be a better fit for me. Fortunately, I found a section on Craigslist about writing positions within the area (publishing houses and whatnot). So I applied for the position. Somehow, despite my reservations about the possibility of actually getting a job from those places, I felt content.

It's a little past 8pm on a Tuesday night. I have a work project that I have to do. Naturally, I hate it. It’s as banal as it is asinine. As I was nearing completing one of the many steps of the piece, I got a message from attic. He needed someone to talk to. And, after all the times I poured my soul out to him, I answered. Turns out his boyfriend cheated on him. Said that he wasn’t a real man. That attic was just a girl pretending to be a man. Before this, I hadn’t known attic was trans. But now wasn’t the time to ask him about his experiences. Now was the time to be there for attic, the nicest guy in the world. After we talked, I went back to working on my shitty project. Being there for my friend when he needed me most seemed to make the project seem easier.

I couldn’t sleep that night. I was with Alex, and I was thinking about things. She was fast asleep unlike I was. I just couldn’t. What if I told her? Would she be there for me in my depressive state or would she flake out like… But I was turning in bed so much that I woke her up. She asked me what was wrong.

I figured that a relationship like ours wouldn’t work if half the dancers didn’t know all the things the other dancers knew, so I told her. I told her everything. I told her about the hatred I felt for her at the party. I told her about my break down with Amanda. I told her about Susan. I even told her about Jane (whose name I hadn’t said since she…). And when I finished, the first thing she asked if there was anything she could do to help. I told her I had no idea what to do.  Then she said that she’d just have to live it with me. We didn’t go back to bed for a long time that night.

On Friday night, I was stressed out. Some of my coworkers came and asked if I wanted to go out to the bar. Being someone who is really terrible in social outings, I politely declined their offer. This made me feel miserable. Fortunately Fluffykins: Destroyer of Worlds leaped to the rescue. She landed on my back n order to get my attention. She wanted to play. Perhaps cats, especially black cats like mine, have the innate ability to figure out when humans are miserable and even the desire to make it less so. This is probably hogwash and I should just accept that cats just want to have what they want. We played for a half hour (the god old laser pointer game) before she tired herself out. It felt good playing.

On a cold Saturday afternoon, Alex asked me to sit down. Before the thoughts of “OH SHIT, WE’RE BREAKING UP” even crossed my mind, she promised that it was nothing bad. Alex wants to move in with me… I’m still nervous about my depression, and I tell her again. She tells me that she knows all of this and will be there for me. We hold each other for a long time.

It’s Christmas and I decided to bring Alex with me to my parents. We have been living together for the past few weeks and everything is great (though she is still getting used to the idea of our cat being named Fluffykins: Destroyer of Worlds). Susan has said that I’m doing better (though some days it feels like its been getting worse). I told my family about my issues shortly after moving in with Alex, and they have mostly understood. I heard back from one of the writing jobs and I have an interview set up with them in the New Year. Fluffykins is in the halls of my old childhood home playing with my old teddy bear (Sir Bear Bearington). As we eat our turkey and drink our wine and laugh at each other’s terrible jokes, my mom asks me “So how are you doing these days?”

I looked back at my life up until that question. That shitty party, my terrible job, breaking down with Amanda, playing with Fluffykins, moving in with Alex, meeting attic, and I looked out the night sky window of our house, where the full moon glinted perfectly onto the snow covered backyard and I told her.

“I’m good, mom.”
She smiles the way only a parent could smile.

(There’s a piano in my head. I cannot grasp the full meaning in its melody, though I know that it is a melancholic one. But I also hear something else.

I hear its beauty.)

“And in the end,

The love you take

Is equal to the love

You make”

Epilogue: I've decided to change the epilogue for this one. Originally, it was a dedication to a person on tumblr I barely knew who may or may not have committed suicide. Instead, I'll simply say thank you to all of you who have supported the blog over these past few years. Even if it's just to read the blog itself, it means the world to me. I hope I can be worth your support. Also, since I didn't credit her in the original post, thank you Jane Campbell for that amazing .gif. Sorry for not crediting you before this.

Goodbyeee

“Your

Doctor

Really did

Get held up,

Regan.

It’s

Never as

Bad as it

Seems.

You’re much

Stronger

Than you think

You are.

Trust

Me.”

(This post… this post was brought to you by me. Because I am here. I’m still talking. I’m still alive. I’m still playing. And in that, I won.)

ICU (Free Churro)

Commissioned by Aleph Null

Bojack seen.

Bojack Horseman is another example of a show I’ve been told to write about that I don’t feel I can do justice with the limitations of the commission process for the Patron Tier of $5. It’s a show I haven’t watched much of and what I have watched makes me not want to watch it. Not because it’s a bad show or anything, just… look, I’m working on a book that’s largely about a guy coming to terms with his failed suicide. The major project I worked on prior to that (that has been released to the public) was in large part about me coming to terms with the death of my grandfather and was about a guy having a near death experience to come to terms with a depressive period of his life. Bojack Horseman is a show about a depressed actor who is self-destructing. There are loads of reasons for me not to write about it.

And yet, here I am writing about it. More specifically, Free Churro, the best episode of the whole series… the one where Bojack gives a eulogy for his mother, a woman who died not even knowing who he was because of a stupid disease. It’s structured like a joke. “A man goes to a funeral to give a eulogy for his mother. He had a complex and depressing relationship with her, one that didn’t end well, and yet he had to give a final statement on her. He doesn’t know what to say, so he starts rambling, as we’re wont to do. Then, an epiphany happens. He realizes the nature of his mother’s relationship to him and looks at her body. But she’s not there. He went to the wrong funeral.”

Not funny when told in that context, but still. It’s the structure that matters. We are all trapped by the structures we find ourselves in. The face we’ve given ourselves, our style. I’m going to change things up once I finish One Must Imagine Scott Free Happy. I just can’t stand doing the same kind of writing over and over again. Being stuck in that rut ultimately has me saying the same five or six points about myself. I need to shake things up and do something new. I’m not in a place where I can actually write about what I want to write about when it comes to Free Churro. It hasn’t ended yet and so it’s too soon to actually talk about it.

I have it planned out though, probably… five years from now? I have the next project and a Chris O’Leary riff to get through first. But for now, I’m writing about something else… Why do I write, I sometimes ask myself. Why do I write the way I do. These stories about the things I watch and read. The ways I talk about myself through them. There are many reasons for that, but the one relevant to this one is… I want to be seen. I want people to be able to see me for me. Not the whole of me, there are some things that I don’t bring up in the very personal old post that’s coming up on the 29^ththat make me look worse. I don’t talk about what I did to compensate for my failings. Or, rather, “failings.”

I’ve done things I regret. Things I wish I never did. Things too recent to just throw them under the rug as the actions of a dumb teenager in high school. I’ve said the wrong word, done the wrong action, made the wrong call. And I don’t want to talk about them. Not yet, not here. Even though Bojack Horseman, a show about imperfect people trying their best to be better despite doing some truly horrible things, would be a fitting place to talk about them. I keep trying to find the right place for them, but they’re too raw at the moment.

Because that’s the thing about being seen, it’s different from being shown. To be shown is to not have agency in being looked at. We all want to be seen, but part of that is a level of agency. We decide what other people see. A corpse can never be seen, for a corpse has no agency in being looked at. An author, likewise, cannot truly be seen through a text. For even in my honesty, there’s still a level of artifice to such things. I can say that my name is Sean Joseph Dillon, a 23, soon to be 24, year old man who writes and edits for a living. But that doesn’t tell you much. Even when I talk about personal things, memory cheats and makes them seem better or worse than they actually were.

There is one thing I could tell you, something that’s relevant. When I was a kid, I was bullied. Frequently, and I didn’t take it well. I’d do a lot of things that were, for lack of a better word, awful. I won’t go into specifics, but there were times when I was a genuine creep who thought my loner status put him above the rest, even as I was self aware enough to know that such archetypes were a bullshit artifice to hide my own insecurities. One of the ways my bullies would torment me was through calling me “Seen.” That would always get to me because I didn’t want to be “Seen.” Because I wasn’t “Seen.” I was Sean. I am Sean.

Over the years, I’ve contemplated a lot of the implications of that statement. What it means to be Sean and whatnot. There are times when I don’t like being me because I’m a fuck up, an ass, and a jerk. Sometimes, I wonder about aspects of myself, if and how I should change my behaviors and outlooks. I try to look at myself through the lens other people, other versions of myself. I’ve even pondered my gender, especially after two major influences came out as trans within a month of each other. (I still haven’t come to a full conclusion, but being trans myself doesn’t feel right for me. I’m comfortable in my masculinity, but not in traditional masculinity, if that makes any sense.) I’m a bit too anxious about how people see me, intentionally or otherwise. And that anxiety causes me to sometimes lash out at people. But ultimately, I try to be better. I sometimes fall back into bad habits and attitudes, but in spite of that, I feel like I’m a better person than I was when I was younger.

I’m trying to be, at least. That’s the best we can do really.

My God! My God! There’s Duck Guts Everywhere! (Ducktales (2017))

Commissioned by Aleph Null

The second most bitter Doctor Who cast reunion.

My history with watching cartoons has always had a preference towards those of Cartoon Network, Nickelodeon, and KidsWB than those of the Disney Channel. There are, to be sure, good Disney cartoons I watched as a kid: Fillmore, The Emperor’s New School, The Proud Family. But more often than not, I’d find myself watching Courage the Cowardly Dog or Fairly Odd Parents or Johnny Test than any of those. Even during the television cartoon renaissance, I’d lean more towards Steven Universe and Archer than Phineas and Ferb or Star Vs.

Ducktales is no different. I can certainly see its quality as a show and I do try to watch it every so often, but there isn’t that oomph to actually watch the series that I get from any of the other shows that I do watch. That’s not to say the show is bad per say, merely that it’s not go to television. There are a few reasons why that is: the vast amounts of orientalism for one. In particular, the episode that introduces Gladstone Gander where, as Jen Blue notes in a vlog, it could have easily been a riff on Las Vegas, but because they decided to set it in Macaw, ends up being about how Asian cultures aren’t as real as western ones and ultimately suck the life essence (i.e. money) out of those who travel in them.

I’m not sure if I’m fond of the characterization of Scrooge as being an adventurer who’s incidentally a billionaire rather than a billionaire adventurer. The distinction is notable in the series’ general focus on Scrooge’s money. It simultaneously wants being a billionaire cheapskate to be core to his character (such that Glomgold’s motivation is partially due to Scrooge stiffing him on the bill) as well as being not core enough to his character that he will spend vast portions of his money on seemingly frivolous things like saving his niece from being lost in space. The vultures effectively act as his “I’m a billionaire, why should I help” side that I feel is vital to his character at that point in the narrative of his life.

Around the time the show started, I did what every single comics scholar has done before me and started to get into Duck Comics. There, Scrooge’s character becomes a bit clearer and one the show doesn’t get despite trying to be a holistic exploration of the entirety of Duck comics such that it literally has Fethery, Fergus, and Della Duck in it. (The only way it could be more holistic is if there was an entire episode devoted to Donald Duck running around the city as a superhero calling himself the Duck Avenger while everyone else calls him Paperinik.) Scrooge’s character at the point in the narrative the show starts at is, shall we say, a bit of a bastard. For the past 30 some odd years, Scrooge has worked his way into becoming the richest duck in the world, be it through buying out businesses hurt by the financial crash, bamboozling native tribes and destroying their homes pushing them to send a zombie after him in the name of revenge, or evicting a group of children from their Boy Scout base because he wants to house his billions of dollars. Even when he’s with the kids early on, he’s still a bit of a bastard, unwilling to let go of even a miniscule portion of his vast wealth to feed a homeless shelter and let them have a good Christmas (as is the case with many a billionaire).

But as the years go on, he starts being less of a bastard. He’s not the kind of person who would give up his for the sake of a village he burnt down, but he’s also no longer the kind of person who would burn down said village. His growth is becoming someone who cares about people, even if he doesn’t want to admit it. The problem is that the show wants to start at the point where he cares about people rather than build up to it.  It’s not a bad take per say, there are many a hero who start from that point. But Scrooge feels like the kind of character who needs that arc. He shouldn’t be patting Webby on the back of the head after one minor adventure is what I’m saying.

But, again, that’s just a personal point of contention. It’s not an objective “Ducktales (2017) is Garbage and Here’s Why” claim. It’s just a factor within my preference for other versions of the characters I like. The season arc, likewise, is part of a genre of “main characters keep secrets from one another for their own protections only for it to blow up in their faces” stories that I personally don’t like. I get why they didn’t tell their family what was going on, but there comes a point when such storylines get tiresome and drab.

However, there are reasons why I watch the show. The voice acting is phenomenal, the animation is delightful, I like the ways the characters bounce off one another (when they’re not keeping secrets from each other). The bit with Donald getting a voice change is hilarious and I hope that they actually do a crossover episode with the actual Duck Comics version of the cast and there’s a gag where Donald sounds like a normal person because his words appear clearly in a word balloon. The action scenes are always a delight with my favorite being the musical Three Caballeros reunion. Most of all, it’s a fun kids show that’s not fully catering to my tastes as a fan of Scrooge McDuck comics. There are worse things it could do, like the aforementioned orientalism it does a lot in the show. I mean, how hard is it to not be “evil foreigners are evil because they’re foreign and not as real as us westerners” when it comes to your one off baddies?

Also, I would really love it if there were a three cousins episode where Donald, Fethry, and Gladstone had to go on an adventure together. Those were always fun comic stories to read.