The Swipe Volume 2 Chapter 27
The crushing inevitability of next year’s Oasis reunion finally dropped with a clang this week. Once Blur did Wembley Stadium it was only a matter of time, a poker game of bluff, hold and raise until all interested parties came up with a number they could live with. This is a nostalgia-fuelled cash grab, whatever you think of the band and their music. I’m not going to snark, though. Oasis are beloved by millions, and I’d be every colour of cunt if I judged anyone by the tunes that bring them joy. If you’ve been going through the hoops of trying to get tickets this morning, I hope you got the venue and seats you wanted. Me? I’m waiting for the World Of Twist reunion.
Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.
Rob is reading…
I snagged a Humble Bundle of comics from the dynamic duo of Matt Fraction and Chip Zdarsky, who together crafted a remarkable, filthy and hilarious series, Sex Criminals. They are both fantastic writers, hugely influential in the modern funny book scene, blasting out award-winning runs on all the big-name capes you can think of. But their indie work is where the good stuff can be found. I especially like Zdarsky’s Newburn, with Jacob Phillips on art, a down-and-dirty noir featuring a PI who works as a fixer/investigator for every crime family in New York. If you’re quick (as in, do it today) you can snag the bundle here. If not, hunt down Newburn and Sex Criminals. They’re bound to be on a deal somewhere.
Rob is watching…
The Paralympics, natch. The 2012 London Games were a massive deal for TLC and I, sparking a love for the whole bonkers carnival. But our heart lies with the Paras, a true celebration of will to power, the indomitability of the human spirit and the sheer, transcendent joy of sport as a force for good. Of course the weather was gorgeous for Wednesday’s amazing opening ceremony. God smiles on the righteous. I think we’re in for an incredible week of endeavour, skill, and triumph. Raise the torch high!
Rob is listening…
to Aerosmith. The news they were retiring from live performance saddened me more than it should, bearing in mind the band are in their 70s, multi-millionaires and absolutely don’t have to drag their scrawny asses around the globe anymore. Brutal honesty: I never really thought they were that good* until the holy trifecta of late 80s/early 90s albums (Permanent Vacation, Pump and Get A Grip) revealed a band who discovered a new widescreen pop sensibility alongside the rock chops and started having fun with it. OK, we’ll probably never see Steven Tyler holler and howl in the flesh again but hey, the old guy’s earned a breather.
And we’ll always have Alicia Silverstone in the video for Cryin’.
*apart from Sweet Emotion because, well, Sweet Emotion.
Rob is eating…
Hotdish. Yes, this has come out of the new fascination with mid-Western cuisine sparked by a certain vice-presidential candidate. I’ve always been fascinated by the kind of American cuisine whose methodology is ‘dump the contents of several cans into a casserole, top with cheese and cook until bubbling.’ Don’t call it a casserole, though. Hotdish is, apparently, a whole different thing. I feel the need to make some and report back.
Rob’s Low-Key Obsession Of The Week…
Being Done For The Day. This spoke very strongly to the reason why I rarely finish an episode of The Swipe before Saturday morning. That feeling of hitting the Publish button gives me such a deep sense of satisfaction, a warm glow which really sets me up for the weekend.
The 2024 Bulyer-Lytton Awrds for worst opening sentance were released last week. As ever, there are some gems on display. Maaaaybe some folks are trying to hard, forcing a pun into what should simply be an exercise in absurdity. But then I’m probably overthinking it. Let’s just enjoy the ride.
I may have posted about Benedictine before. If so, it was back in the mists of time when this newsletter was called The Cut. Hopefully, even if you’ve read it before, it’s worth a refresher. Richard Godwin tells the story of how the biggest consumer in the world of a herbal French liquor is a working men’s club in Burnley.
The latter years of Douglas Adams were marked with abortive and abandoned projects, and failed attempts to get a movie of Hitch-Hikers off the ground. His notorious dislike of sitting down and writing anything didn’t exactly help, but it’s interesting to see just how much he tried to do before another distraction arrived. It seems like such a waste, somehow and honestly quite sad.
In politics, language is the greatest weapon of all. How you deliver your policies, debate your stance or even present yourself is a battle won or lost by the right turn of phrase. It’s not just politicians, of course. Bad actors also have a part to play in muddying the field of discourse. Erika Alpert digs into the problem, as America grinds into election season.
I’m probably skewing a little nerdy in this week’s ep, in order to offset the Aerosmith. I was instantly immersed in this long read as to how Gothic cathedrals were built in the Middle Ages, without access to modern techniques and tools. Turns out, as long as you accept it’s going to take an awfully long time, methods used by the Romans and Egyptians to build their long-lasting monuments will work just fine.
Modern writers don’t get to squirrel themselves away in splendid isolation, sending out their perfect creations into the world with a wave of their hand before vanishing again. No, these days you have to engage with your audience, have a social media presence, be open and transparent about what you’re doing and when. A popular author with a big audience desperate for the next book is likely to find themselves on the ugly end of an internet pile-on if they don’t deliver as expected.
It’s worrying enough that the internet runs through undersea cables which regularly break or fail. The entire computational structure on which it’s built is fragile, based on legacy software run by aging sysadmins—or worse, from notes left behind by retired sysadmins. Imagine the moment in a game of Jenga when you’re really not sure about breathing too close to the teetering tower. That’s modern internet infrastructure.
You know how much I love comics. However, I much prefer reading digitally, on a tablet. This is, of course, a failure on my part. Comics are essentially a construction of paper and ink, ephemeral, disposable. That’s part of the joy of the medium. The comics market has changed radically since I started reading in the 70s, and the newsagents which were my regular haunt no longer have a spinner rack from which I could browse and buy. The direct market of the 80s saw a huge boom in specialist comic shops. Here’s a great chat with Joe Field of Flying Colours Comics in Concord, Connecticut. He’s the creator of Free Comic Book Day and talks with warmth and honesty about the growth, collapse and re-invention of the not-so humble comic shop. Fair warning, it’s very Ninth-Art nerdy.
I should make the point to the Reading Readership that if you want to support comics retail, your first stop should be Crunch Comics in Harris Arcade. They’re good people and will see you right.
Oh lord, further geekery. I love the books published by Penguin in all their guises. The size, formatting and art all bring me comfort and joy. The cover design aesthetic is a modern classic. Come join me as we take a very deep dive into the grid…
Lastly, here’s an eye-opening look into Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. Specifically how the film as shot and initially presented is not the film we know and love. All power to the editor.
I tried to find something else for the Outro, I did, really, honest. But it’s been Aerosmith Week here at Swipe Tower and this ridiculous, irredeemable chunk of cheeseburger simply would not let me go. I know what you’re going to say. I absolutely agree. Love In An Elevator is Are You Being Served in spandex. It’s all the rock cliches banged into a blender with half a bottle of Jack, whizzed up into a bright pink slurry, served in a pint glass with a cocktail umbrella and a pork pie on a stick. It snogs the face off the rules of songwriting, choosing instead to floor it over six minutes of chorus solo chorus build solo chorus chorus, trumpet, exquisite five part harmony and collapse in a spent dripping heap.
It goes big, it goes hard, it’s living it up as it’s going down.
I promise to be a bit more civilised next week. For now, crank this and strut like Tyler.
See you in seven, fellow travellers.
