A thought.
Perhaps studying the manner in which sites like this one utterly fail to be convincing will help us to develop a better Turing test.
(Go. Look. See if you see what I mean. Then read this, and see if we’re right.)
PS: Don’t give her your email, whatever you do.
The power of the internet.
So. Early Wednesday morning I get this email Chris Staros, Brett Warnock’s better half over at Top Shelf Comics, had sent to various and sundry fans and industry types. Top Shelf’s book trade distributor had just announced they were filing for Chapter 11, which meant (even though they were good guys, and downright necessary in an industry pretty much controlled by one distributor) that the $80,000 Top Shelf had been hoping to see, they probably wouldn’t, which (in turn) meant that Top Shelf was in serious trouble. Staros was basically asking that everyone who could buy a Top Shelf book or three directly from them, to provide what they call an infusion of cash and keep the wheels turning and the fires lit and all that. And believe me, there are books on the Top Shelf list I want to order. So Jenn and I sit down and tick off a couple of things (mostly, we need to get the Strangehaven collections, but I wouldn’t mind a couple of the Hey, Mister books we don’t have yet), and I thought maybe I’d mention something here and maybe try to write up a squib for Plastic.com—you know, get the word out to the 20-some-odd people I can reach.
Well.
Thursday night, I get this email from Chris Staros (whose better half, you know, is Brett Warnock). Seems—thanks to mentions in such places as Neil Gaiman’s journal, and Warren Ellis’s world-shaking forum—Top Shelf comics had gone from out of business to more business they could handle in, like, 12 hours.
Twelve. Not even a single goddamn day.
Staros counsels patience, as they work diligently to fill the sudden flood of orders; but if you haven’t, go anyway and pitch in. Us, we’ll be ordering stuff probably this weekend, so Chris, Brett: be patient yourselves. And congratufuckinlations. Couldn’t happen to a nicer couple of comics publishers.
Just once.
I don’t know, maybe I’m behind the times, and you know, I don’t wanna hear about your “I don’t wanna think about it, it’s all too much, I’m overloaded” crap, just sit there and read this, for God’s sake, and then when you’re done go pick up your socks and put them back on.
Just once, just once I want to hear this done live. Where’s that schedule—
Couldn’t happen to a nicer Painter of Light.™
Run, don’t walk! It’s “Kick Thomas Kinkade Day” at Salon! Not just one, but two hatchet jobs!
Hey—it’s a dirty job...
An amusing factoid about yours truly.
Yes, it’s been a while. I could say the same about you, you know. Have you written? Have you called? No, you have not. It’s been hectic, you say. Yes, I’ve heard it before. And how, exactly, is that novel coming along? Or was it a screenplay? I forget.
I, at least, intend to make some sort of amends. I hereby offer up for your amusement, delectation and derision the following bit of autobiographical trivia: one of my all-time favorite movies is, yes, Joe Versus the Volcano. Go: find a copy (the video store will have it in stock, I guarantee), settle down, watch it. Better yet: pick up Rushmore and do a double feature; not that I’ve done it myself, but watching Joe again last night put me in mind of Wes Anderson and his loopily earnest mode of storytelling. Joe never quite manages Anderson’s lilting gravitas, but it’s still an interesting light by which to view the earlier flick, I think. That lack is probably what keeps Joe from being truly great.
—Hey. I said it was one of my favorites. I never said I thought it was one of the best.
Currently.
reading:
a] Candas Jane Dorsey.
b] Samuel R. Delaney.
c] Umberto Eco.
d] Michael Moorcock.
listening:
a] The Royal Tenenbaums.
b] Tom Waits.
c] Jenny Toomey.
d] “Once More, With Feeling.”
wearing:
a] Sweater.
b] Blue jeans.
c] Slippers.
d] Boxer briefs.
eating:
a] Left-over sushi.
b] Torta pascualina.
c] Eggs one-eye.
d] Girl Scout cookies.
pondering:
a] Us.
b] Them.
c] Why.
d] Why not.
procrastinating:
a] This website.
b] Someone else’s website.
c] Two (no, three) stories. And one essay.
d] That bloody introduction.
A hodge-podge of mind-crossing thoughts.
Why does the Mercury run Maakies so small when Dwarf Attack so self-evidently sucks?
Please, dear God, someone tell me “text” isn’t poised to become the latest victim of verbification.
So if it is a “gravastar” and not a black hole, does that mean Lee Smolin’s brilliant ideas about cosmological natural selection are more or less likely? More or less testable? Anyone? (And can you come up with a name that isn’t so utterly geeky? I mean, gravastar. Come on.)
In related news, there’s a galaxy that’s spinning the wrong way, and some of that matter that’s been missing for a while turned up last year.
And I’m right, I think, in that the audience that got a kick out of Teenagers from Outer Space and Call of Cthulhu is vanishingly small in the scheme of things entire. Nonetheless—
Also, I was going to ask why nobody pays any attention to Michael Torke, but you know, I did hear “Bright Blue Music” first on NPR, and he’s done a piece for the friggin’ Olympics, so I guess they pretty much are. Still.
People who say that the art of correspondence is dying are also likely to claim that romance is dead.
Nope. Still don’t regret voting for Nader. Since 1992, thank you very much. (That didn’t come off too smug, did it? Did it?)
Oh, and, British Telecom? You can kiss my hyperlinking ass.
Yes, the movie was disappointing. But this?
Christianity is safe for the moment in Penryn, PA, thanks to the efforts of the entire police force (all eight of ’em), who’ve decided protesting the teaching of witchcraft is more important than their sworn duty to protect and serve. So, they won’t be directing traffic around an upcoming YMCA triathlon since, you see, the YMCA reads Harry Potter books to kids. —The YMCA shrugs and says they’ll just hire cops from some other municipality; secular humanism marches on. Further news and updates on Harry Potter boycotts courtesy the ever-snarky LACK (Librarians Are Corrupting Our Kids! —And a damn good thing, says I).
