Michael Swanwick's Blog, page 175
January 7, 2013
Sound & Spirit & Tolkien Too
.
I found out too late to post it here but last Thursday, January 3rd, was J. R. R. Tolkien's birthday. According to a young tradition invented by the Tolkien Society, on that day you should, at 9 p.m. local time, stand, raise a glass, and toast the man in the British fashion by saying, "The Professor."
It's a good tradition. I took part in it for the first time last week and I expect to honor it every year henceforth.
And closely related . . .
The thing I remember most about Ellen Kushner's wonderful and now-extinct radio show Sound & Spirit (which she once characterized to me as "Joseph Campbell meets Ellen's record collection") is how the local PRI station kept changing when they aired it so that I was always frustratedly trying to find where they'd hidden it now.
The thing I remember second-most about it was the hot summer day when my then-teenage son Sean and I were cleaning out the garage. He excused himself to go to the bathroom and a good ten or fifteen minutes later I chanced to glance at a handful of kibble I'd picked up and found myself staring at the grinning skull of an opossum. After gently depositing the thing on the garage floor, I went in to see why it hadn't been Sean who'd picked it up and found him talking intently on the phone. "Who are you talking to?" I asked him (politely, thank God!) and, covering the mouthpiece with his hand, he replied, "I'm being interviewed for public radio."
[That was for a show Ellen did on nostalgia, and Sean was being interviewed because he'd just named his generation. Maybe I'll tell you that story someday.]
The third most memorable thing is that I ... What's the word? Not "appeared." I was heard on the show's Tolkien episode, talking about reading The Lord of the Rings to my son Sean when he was nine years old and discovering that we were experiencing two entirely different books.
That's the show up above. There's a lot of good stuff in it. Enjoy.
*
I found out too late to post it here but last Thursday, January 3rd, was J. R. R. Tolkien's birthday. According to a young tradition invented by the Tolkien Society, on that day you should, at 9 p.m. local time, stand, raise a glass, and toast the man in the British fashion by saying, "The Professor."
It's a good tradition. I took part in it for the first time last week and I expect to honor it every year henceforth.
And closely related . . .
The thing I remember most about Ellen Kushner's wonderful and now-extinct radio show Sound & Spirit (which she once characterized to me as "Joseph Campbell meets Ellen's record collection") is how the local PRI station kept changing when they aired it so that I was always frustratedly trying to find where they'd hidden it now.
The thing I remember second-most about it was the hot summer day when my then-teenage son Sean and I were cleaning out the garage. He excused himself to go to the bathroom and a good ten or fifteen minutes later I chanced to glance at a handful of kibble I'd picked up and found myself staring at the grinning skull of an opossum. After gently depositing the thing on the garage floor, I went in to see why it hadn't been Sean who'd picked it up and found him talking intently on the phone. "Who are you talking to?" I asked him (politely, thank God!) and, covering the mouthpiece with his hand, he replied, "I'm being interviewed for public radio."
[That was for a show Ellen did on nostalgia, and Sean was being interviewed because he'd just named his generation. Maybe I'll tell you that story someday.]
The third most memorable thing is that I ... What's the word? Not "appeared." I was heard on the show's Tolkien episode, talking about reading The Lord of the Rings to my son Sean when he was nine years old and discovering that we were experiencing two entirely different books.
That's the show up above. There's a lot of good stuff in it. Enjoy.
*
January 4, 2013
Looking Back on the Year 2012
.
I'm still on the road, so . . . Some eye candy and some mind candy today.
First, from Slate , a selection of the best astronomical photos of the year. Click here.
And, from Smithsonian Magazine, a summary of the coolest dinosaur discoveries of the year. Click here.
Finally, Myscienceacademy has a list of 27 science fictions that became science fact last year. Not all are as significant as the list's compiler thinks they are. But a couple are game-changers. And the Slow Singularity continues to pick up speed. The world is going to be a very different place in ten years. To read, click here.
I'm still on the road, so . . . Some eye candy and some mind candy today.
First, from Slate , a selection of the best astronomical photos of the year. Click here.
And, from Smithsonian Magazine, a summary of the coolest dinosaur discoveries of the year. Click here.
Finally, Myscienceacademy has a list of 27 science fictions that became science fact last year. Not all are as significant as the list's compiler thinks they are. But a couple are game-changers. And the Slow Singularity continues to pick up speed. The world is going to be a very different place in ten years. To read, click here.
January 2, 2013
The Madness of Gordon Van Gelder
.
I opened my post office box today and discovered a royalty check, which seemed an auspicious way to start the year.
Not half so auspicious as the first mail day of the year 2000, however. A few weeks earlier, I'd sent Gordon Van Gelder, the brilliant and occasionally snarky (deny it if you can, Gordon!) editor of F&SF , a short-short story titled "The Madness of Gordon Van Gelder." It was not a submission to his magazine. A series of incidents involving him, which I spelled out in the story, had occurred and on a whim I jotted down an admittedly witty tale about him discovering that he got a sexual kick out of buying bad fiction.
So I sent it to Gordon with a note saying, in essence, "Here's something pleasant for you -- a story which you neither have to buy nor reject. Read and enjoy!" Then I forgot about it entirely.
(Gordon disputes parts of this story, by the way, because he thinks it implies that I gamed him into buying the story and he's very watchful about being gamed. But he's wrong in his suspicions. I sent him the story knowing there was not a chance in Hell of him buying it. No games involved.)
On January 2 or 3, 2000, whichever was the first mail day of the new Millennium, I went to the post office, opened my box, and discovered a familiar-looking envelope, that which contains a check from F&SF .
I didn't sent Gordon a story, I thought in puzzlement, and opened the check. Then I saw that he'd bought a story I'd never tried to sell him and had honestly forgotten existed. Half because it was (to be honest) a good story and half because he has a Puckish sense of humor, Gordon had bought my short-short.
A surge of megalomania filled me. I OWN this century! I thought.
Which is my New Year's story. May your new year be equally filled with madness and joy.
And because we all make resolutions this time of year . . .
I have resolved to limit my blogging to three days a week, in order to free up more time for serious writing. I can't guarantee to keep to this resolve. Things keep happening which I want to share. But I'll be doing my best to keep to it.
And as always . . .
I'm on the road again. But I ought to be able to post on Friday anyway, fingers crossed. Wish me luck.
*
I opened my post office box today and discovered a royalty check, which seemed an auspicious way to start the year.
Not half so auspicious as the first mail day of the year 2000, however. A few weeks earlier, I'd sent Gordon Van Gelder, the brilliant and occasionally snarky (deny it if you can, Gordon!) editor of F&SF , a short-short story titled "The Madness of Gordon Van Gelder." It was not a submission to his magazine. A series of incidents involving him, which I spelled out in the story, had occurred and on a whim I jotted down an admittedly witty tale about him discovering that he got a sexual kick out of buying bad fiction.
So I sent it to Gordon with a note saying, in essence, "Here's something pleasant for you -- a story which you neither have to buy nor reject. Read and enjoy!" Then I forgot about it entirely.
(Gordon disputes parts of this story, by the way, because he thinks it implies that I gamed him into buying the story and he's very watchful about being gamed. But he's wrong in his suspicions. I sent him the story knowing there was not a chance in Hell of him buying it. No games involved.)
On January 2 or 3, 2000, whichever was the first mail day of the new Millennium, I went to the post office, opened my box, and discovered a familiar-looking envelope, that which contains a check from F&SF .
I didn't sent Gordon a story, I thought in puzzlement, and opened the check. Then I saw that he'd bought a story I'd never tried to sell him and had honestly forgotten existed. Half because it was (to be honest) a good story and half because he has a Puckish sense of humor, Gordon had bought my short-short.
A surge of megalomania filled me. I OWN this century! I thought.
Which is my New Year's story. May your new year be equally filled with madness and joy.
And because we all make resolutions this time of year . . .
I have resolved to limit my blogging to three days a week, in order to free up more time for serious writing. I can't guarantee to keep to this resolve. Things keep happening which I want to share. But I'll be doing my best to keep to it.
And as always . . .
I'm on the road again. But I ought to be able to post on Friday anyway, fingers crossed. Wish me luck.
*
December 31, 2012
The Joy of Lists (Part 2)
.
The video above was a commercial for Banco Sabadell and, given that it's been seen over eight and a half million times on Youtube, it's entirely possible that you're already familiar with it. But what the heck. Beethoven never grows old.
And . . .
Marianne pointed out that "The Dog Said Hello" made it onto Locus Online's shortlist of the best stories of the Twenty-First Century. Which, given that the century is only thirteen years old, was easier to make it onto than the Twentieth Century shortlist. Just check out its first ten stories:
Arthur C. Clarke, “The Nine Billion Names of God” (1953) Ursula K. Le Guin, “The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas” (1973) Harlan Ellison, “‘Repent, Harlequin!’ said the Ticktockman” (1965) Harlan Ellison, “I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream” (1967) Arthur C. Clarke, “The Star” (1955) Ray Bradbury, “A Sound of Thunder” (1952) Robert A. Heinlein, “All You Zombies— ”(1959) William Gibson, “Johnny Mnemonic” (1981) James, Jr. Tiptree, “The Screwfly Solution” (1977) Shirley Jackson, “The Lottery” (1948)That's a terrific lineup. Personally, I'd substitute "Burning Chrome" for "Johnny Mnemonic," but that might just be because the movie version was so brain-searingly bad that it's left me traumatized.
Here's the Twenty-First Century shortlist, courtesy of Tor.com . The original posting had me tied with Ursula K. Le Guin. Me! Le Guin! Dead even! I bet you can imagine how elated that makes me feel.
Ted Chiang, “Exhalation” (2008) Margo Lanagan, “Singing My Sister Down” (2004) Neil Gaiman, “How to Talk to Girls at Parties” (2006) Peter Watts, “The Things” (2010) Michael Swanwick, “The Dog Said Bow-Wow” (2001) Ursula K. Le Guin, “The Bones of the Earth” (2001) Kij Johnson, “26 Monkeys, Also the Abyss” Daniel Abraham, “The Cambist and Lord Iron” (2007) Kij Johnson, “Spar” (2009) Alastair Reynolds, “Zima Blue” (2005)
The list can be found here.
The very, very, very long list, for those who really want to wonk out, can be found here.
*
The video above was a commercial for Banco Sabadell and, given that it's been seen over eight and a half million times on Youtube, it's entirely possible that you're already familiar with it. But what the heck. Beethoven never grows old.
And . . .
Marianne pointed out that "The Dog Said Hello" made it onto Locus Online's shortlist of the best stories of the Twenty-First Century. Which, given that the century is only thirteen years old, was easier to make it onto than the Twentieth Century shortlist. Just check out its first ten stories:
Arthur C. Clarke, “The Nine Billion Names of God” (1953) Ursula K. Le Guin, “The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas” (1973) Harlan Ellison, “‘Repent, Harlequin!’ said the Ticktockman” (1965) Harlan Ellison, “I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream” (1967) Arthur C. Clarke, “The Star” (1955) Ray Bradbury, “A Sound of Thunder” (1952) Robert A. Heinlein, “All You Zombies— ”(1959) William Gibson, “Johnny Mnemonic” (1981) James, Jr. Tiptree, “The Screwfly Solution” (1977) Shirley Jackson, “The Lottery” (1948)That's a terrific lineup. Personally, I'd substitute "Burning Chrome" for "Johnny Mnemonic," but that might just be because the movie version was so brain-searingly bad that it's left me traumatized.
Here's the Twenty-First Century shortlist, courtesy of Tor.com . The original posting had me tied with Ursula K. Le Guin. Me! Le Guin! Dead even! I bet you can imagine how elated that makes me feel.
Ted Chiang, “Exhalation” (2008) Margo Lanagan, “Singing My Sister Down” (2004) Neil Gaiman, “How to Talk to Girls at Parties” (2006) Peter Watts, “The Things” (2010) Michael Swanwick, “The Dog Said Bow-Wow” (2001) Ursula K. Le Guin, “The Bones of the Earth” (2001) Kij Johnson, “26 Monkeys, Also the Abyss” Daniel Abraham, “The Cambist and Lord Iron” (2007) Kij Johnson, “Spar” (2009) Alastair Reynolds, “Zima Blue” (2005)
The list can be found here.
The very, very, very long list, for those who really want to wonk out, can be found here.
*
December 28, 2012
Ranking the Unrankable
.
Over at Locus Online, they had a poll to decide the fifty best science fiction novels and fifty best fantasy novels of the Twentieth Century, and I managed to squeak on -- just barely. The Iron Dragon's Daughter placed 46th on the fantasy list.
Which is very pleasant for me because it gives me the opportunity to explore the inherent flaw in such (admittedly fun to read, argue with, and/or have a book on) lists.
Let's start with my own work. Is it really better than Antoine de Saint-Exupery's The Little Prince, which ranked 49th? It's go more words, certainly, and more ideas. But it's a safe bet that my book has had a lesser effect on world culture. Gabriel Garcia Marquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude , is probably longer than my novel, and has become a part of the Canon, insofar as we have one anymore, and it was only 48th.
Up at the top of the list, nobody could argue against The Lord of Rings , which essentially created the fantasy genre, placing first. And I certainly have no problem with George R. R. Martin's A Game of Thrones in number two place. But The Hobbit at number three? Even Tolkien himself had a few harsh words for its and-what-do-you-think-Bilbo-did-then? style. (He said his children hated it.)
As for newly-minted Grand Master Gene Wolfe's masterpiece The Book of the New Sun placing eighteenth on the fantasy list . . . The work is science fiction, as witness its also placing twenty-fourth (still criminally low) on the SF list.
But when you except those few books which belong somewhere near the absolute top of any such list, what you're left with is a terrific demonstration of the impossibility of ranking books as if they were Olympic runners or apple pies in the county fair. Is Anne McCaffrey's Dragonflight (41 and, once again, science fiction) just a smidge better than George Orwell's Animal Farm, ranked 42? Or are we comparing lemurs and monkey wrenches? Jack Vance's The Dying Earth (19 and yet another science fiction novel) is of vast importance to both science fiction and fantasy. But is it really better than the book in twentieth place, Mikhail Bulgakov's The Master and Margarita? Having walked in Woland's footprints in Moscow, I'm perhaps too much of a partisan to say.
It's all neon donuts and Western waterways, hawks and heartbreaks, movies and meatballs -- how can you measure such disparate works against each other?
You can't. But it's a lot of fun to try.
So I applaud Locus Online for this enterprise. And if you want to have even more fun, try this: Make up a list of ten excluded books that should have made each list. You'll find it's harder than it sounds to narrow your list down to such a small number.
You can see the lists (and methodology) here.
Above: Detail from the brilliant wraparound cover Geoff Taylor did for the Millenium edition of my book. Not only a great cover but an independent work of fantasy. If only I could have peered into the future and seen it, I would have incorporated a couple of details into the text.
*
Over at Locus Online, they had a poll to decide the fifty best science fiction novels and fifty best fantasy novels of the Twentieth Century, and I managed to squeak on -- just barely. The Iron Dragon's Daughter placed 46th on the fantasy list.
Which is very pleasant for me because it gives me the opportunity to explore the inherent flaw in such (admittedly fun to read, argue with, and/or have a book on) lists.
Let's start with my own work. Is it really better than Antoine de Saint-Exupery's The Little Prince, which ranked 49th? It's go more words, certainly, and more ideas. But it's a safe bet that my book has had a lesser effect on world culture. Gabriel Garcia Marquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude , is probably longer than my novel, and has become a part of the Canon, insofar as we have one anymore, and it was only 48th.
Up at the top of the list, nobody could argue against The Lord of Rings , which essentially created the fantasy genre, placing first. And I certainly have no problem with George R. R. Martin's A Game of Thrones in number two place. But The Hobbit at number three? Even Tolkien himself had a few harsh words for its and-what-do-you-think-Bilbo-did-then? style. (He said his children hated it.)
As for newly-minted Grand Master Gene Wolfe's masterpiece The Book of the New Sun placing eighteenth on the fantasy list . . . The work is science fiction, as witness its also placing twenty-fourth (still criminally low) on the SF list.
But when you except those few books which belong somewhere near the absolute top of any such list, what you're left with is a terrific demonstration of the impossibility of ranking books as if they were Olympic runners or apple pies in the county fair. Is Anne McCaffrey's Dragonflight (41 and, once again, science fiction) just a smidge better than George Orwell's Animal Farm, ranked 42? Or are we comparing lemurs and monkey wrenches? Jack Vance's The Dying Earth (19 and yet another science fiction novel) is of vast importance to both science fiction and fantasy. But is it really better than the book in twentieth place, Mikhail Bulgakov's The Master and Margarita? Having walked in Woland's footprints in Moscow, I'm perhaps too much of a partisan to say.
It's all neon donuts and Western waterways, hawks and heartbreaks, movies and meatballs -- how can you measure such disparate works against each other?
You can't. But it's a lot of fun to try.
So I applaud Locus Online for this enterprise. And if you want to have even more fun, try this: Make up a list of ten excluded books that should have made each list. You'll find it's harder than it sounds to narrow your list down to such a small number.
You can see the lists (and methodology) here.
Above: Detail from the brilliant wraparound cover Geoff Taylor did for the Millenium edition of my book. Not only a great cover but an independent work of fantasy. If only I could have peered into the future and seen it, I would have incorporated a couple of details into the text.
*
December 24, 2012
A West Philadelphia Christmas Carol
.
Last night I went to a friend's house in West Philadelphia to see Josh Hitchens put on his one-man performance of Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol in a Victorian-era living room, before a gas fire in the hearth.
That's luxury.
Hitchens did a bang-up job with a lively and convincing performance. And of course the source material is bulletproof. I've seen it performed by any number of actors, animate and inanimate, including the Muppets and Mr. Magoo, and it always (to a greater or lesser degree) works. That's an amazing accomplishment.
My own traditional Christmas story is far less known. But it has the advantage of being true. I call it...
The Parable of the Creche
When first I came to Roxborough, a third of a century ago, the creche was already a tradition of long standing. Every year it appeared in Gorgas Park during the Christmas season. It wasn't all that big -- maybe seven feet at its tip -- and it wasn't very fancy. The figures of Joseph and Mary, the Christ Child, and the animals were a couple of feet high at best, and there were sheets of Plexiglas over the front of the wooden construction to keep people from walking off with them. But it was loved.
It was a common sight to see people standing in front of the creche, admiring it. Sometimes they'd brought their small children to see it for the first time. It provided a welcome touch of seasonality and community to the park.
Alas, Gorgas Park was publicly owned, and it was only a matter of time before somebody complained that the creche violated the principle of the separation of church and state. When the complaint finally came, the creche was taken out of the park and put into storage.
People were upset of course. Nobody liked seeing a beloved tradition disappear. There was a certain amount of grumbling and disgruntlement.
So the kind people of Leverington Presbyterian Church, located just across the street from the park, stepped in. They adopted the creche and put it up on the yard in front of their church, where it could be seen by all.
But did this make us happy? It did not. The creche was just not the same, located in front of a church. It seemed lessened, in a strange way, made into a prop for the Presbyterians.
I was in a local tappie, shortly after the adoption, and heard one of the barflies holding forth on this very subject:
"The god-damned Christians," he said, "have hijacked Christmas!"
And while I'm on the subject . . .
Merry Christmas to all and on Earth peace to those of good will! For those who celebrate other holidays (or none at all), my very best wishes. Happiness for everybody, as the Strugatskys put it, free, and no exceptions!
Above: This photo is actually of Josh Hitchens performing his one-man version of Dracula. But theater is theater and I'm rapidly becoming a fan of Hitchens.
*
Last night I went to a friend's house in West Philadelphia to see Josh Hitchens put on his one-man performance of Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol in a Victorian-era living room, before a gas fire in the hearth.
That's luxury.
Hitchens did a bang-up job with a lively and convincing performance. And of course the source material is bulletproof. I've seen it performed by any number of actors, animate and inanimate, including the Muppets and Mr. Magoo, and it always (to a greater or lesser degree) works. That's an amazing accomplishment.
My own traditional Christmas story is far less known. But it has the advantage of being true. I call it...
The Parable of the Creche
When first I came to Roxborough, a third of a century ago, the creche was already a tradition of long standing. Every year it appeared in Gorgas Park during the Christmas season. It wasn't all that big -- maybe seven feet at its tip -- and it wasn't very fancy. The figures of Joseph and Mary, the Christ Child, and the animals were a couple of feet high at best, and there were sheets of Plexiglas over the front of the wooden construction to keep people from walking off with them. But it was loved.
It was a common sight to see people standing in front of the creche, admiring it. Sometimes they'd brought their small children to see it for the first time. It provided a welcome touch of seasonality and community to the park.
Alas, Gorgas Park was publicly owned, and it was only a matter of time before somebody complained that the creche violated the principle of the separation of church and state. When the complaint finally came, the creche was taken out of the park and put into storage.
People were upset of course. Nobody liked seeing a beloved tradition disappear. There was a certain amount of grumbling and disgruntlement.
So the kind people of Leverington Presbyterian Church, located just across the street from the park, stepped in. They adopted the creche and put it up on the yard in front of their church, where it could be seen by all.
But did this make us happy? It did not. The creche was just not the same, located in front of a church. It seemed lessened, in a strange way, made into a prop for the Presbyterians.
I was in a local tappie, shortly after the adoption, and heard one of the barflies holding forth on this very subject:
"The god-damned Christians," he said, "have hijacked Christmas!"
And while I'm on the subject . . .
Merry Christmas to all and on Earth peace to those of good will! For those who celebrate other holidays (or none at all), my very best wishes. Happiness for everybody, as the Strugatskys put it, free, and no exceptions!
Above: This photo is actually of Josh Hitchens performing his one-man version of Dracula. But theater is theater and I'm rapidly becoming a fan of Hitchens.
*
December 23, 2012
Social Notes from All Over
.
It's been a busy weekend. Saturday morning, Marianne and I went to Chinatown have dim sum with friends -- father, mother, son, and grandson. Then it was off to Brooklyn for a Christmas party. Today, we spent tidying up in preparation for unanticipated Christmas gifts. Then, in an hour or so, we're off to West Philly for a one-man production of A Christmas Carol, presented in the living room of friends.
Pictured above: Marianne and superstar editor Ellen Datlow in Brooklyn.
*
It's been a busy weekend. Saturday morning, Marianne and I went to Chinatown have dim sum with friends -- father, mother, son, and grandson. Then it was off to Brooklyn for a Christmas party. Today, we spent tidying up in preparation for unanticipated Christmas gifts. Then, in an hour or so, we're off to West Philly for a one-man production of A Christmas Carol, presented in the living room of friends.
Pictured above: Marianne and superstar editor Ellen Datlow in Brooklyn.
*
December 21, 2012
Playing Hookey Again
.
I should have spent the day writing and I should have posted a blog hours ago and I should have been a good boy . . . But I wasn't. I lured Marianne to the Philadelphia Museum of Art (interior of the Great Hall above) where we once again were knocked out by Joseph Cornell's art. Then we went down to the Oyster House on Sansom Street for fresh shucked oysters accompanied by a glass of white wine (Marianne) and a martini (me). Then it was off to the Pen & Pencil club for conversation with Tom Purdom, Jamie O'Boyle and other wits and dignitaries.
So you guys get short shrift today, and I apologize for that. But, damn!, do I live a great life or what?
And I wish the same for you.
Immediately above: Marianne and I toast your good health in the Oyster House, while in the background far to the left, all unnoticed, a patron waves frantically for help as he is eaten by lobsters.
*
I should have spent the day writing and I should have posted a blog hours ago and I should have been a good boy . . . But I wasn't. I lured Marianne to the Philadelphia Museum of Art (interior of the Great Hall above) where we once again were knocked out by Joseph Cornell's art. Then we went down to the Oyster House on Sansom Street for fresh shucked oysters accompanied by a glass of white wine (Marianne) and a martini (me). Then it was off to the Pen & Pencil club for conversation with Tom Purdom, Jamie O'Boyle and other wits and dignitaries.
So you guys get short shrift today, and I apologize for that. But, damn!, do I live a great life or what?
And I wish the same for you.
Immediately above: Marianne and I toast your good health in the Oyster House, while in the background far to the left, all unnoticed, a patron waves frantically for help as he is eaten by lobsters.
*
December 20, 2012
The War on Krampus
.
Here you go, proof positive that there's a war on Christmas -- and it's being fought by Christians. How else to explain the shameful sanitizing of the ancient Solstice season by removing pretty much all reference to Santa's dark Other -- Krampus? Particularly when there appears to be not one but hundreds of him?
Seriously, though, a Krampus parade would be a fine addition to the winter holidays.
*
Here you go, proof positive that there's a war on Christmas -- and it's being fought by Christians. How else to explain the shameful sanitizing of the ancient Solstice season by removing pretty much all reference to Santa's dark Other -- Krampus? Particularly when there appears to be not one but hundreds of him?
Seriously, though, a Krampus parade would be a fine addition to the winter holidays.
*
December 19, 2012
This Glittercomixatti Life . . .
.
On Sunday, I went to the first Locust Moon Comics Festival at the Rotunda in West Philly. It was everything such a small, regional indie event should be: a little seedy, a little needy, a lot aspirational. I don't have a lot of comix cred to my name but I've hung out some with graphic artists, have the mandatory box or three of undergrounds in the attic crawlspace, and will admit to being influenced by the old B&W monthlies, Eerie and Creepy . So I like to check in on the scene every now and again, just to see if I can learn something.
Now that I'm beginning to grow Old, I can't help but feel protective toward all these talented (and semi-talented and in some cases hemi-demi-semi-talented) young people. I wanted to warn them about what a difficult road they were on, and how hard the artistic life can be, even for those who succeed at it. But then I reflected on how utterly without talent I appeared to be when I was their age, and how a good, Dutch Uncle-ish lecture could have prevented me from ever becoming a a writer. So I stayed my tongue.
God bless 'em all. They were to a man and woman (a surprising and heartening percentage of the introverted young artists were female), brave and noble. I bought a few comics, which I later read with pleasure, and I look forward to dropping by the event again next year.
*
On Sunday, I went to the first Locust Moon Comics Festival at the Rotunda in West Philly. It was everything such a small, regional indie event should be: a little seedy, a little needy, a lot aspirational. I don't have a lot of comix cred to my name but I've hung out some with graphic artists, have the mandatory box or three of undergrounds in the attic crawlspace, and will admit to being influenced by the old B&W monthlies, Eerie and Creepy . So I like to check in on the scene every now and again, just to see if I can learn something.
Now that I'm beginning to grow Old, I can't help but feel protective toward all these talented (and semi-talented and in some cases hemi-demi-semi-talented) young people. I wanted to warn them about what a difficult road they were on, and how hard the artistic life can be, even for those who succeed at it. But then I reflected on how utterly without talent I appeared to be when I was their age, and how a good, Dutch Uncle-ish lecture could have prevented me from ever becoming a a writer. So I stayed my tongue.
God bless 'em all. They were to a man and woman (a surprising and heartening percentage of the introverted young artists were female), brave and noble. I bought a few comics, which I later read with pleasure, and I look forward to dropping by the event again next year.
*
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