Monday, April 07, 2008
I’m here, typing at you again. Chinese people make good food. Oops, I don’t wanna absolut out and get shut down for anti-americanism. Neo fascist chop stix express types are gonna boycott my backyardigans. Trademark not mine, and neither is it implied that aliens on my roof are accepted or disregarded. Film at eleven.
Has comic book reading degraded my ability to tell a quote unquote classic story in which the main character (protagonist) experiences some type of profound (or trivial, I guess, that’s ok, right? Wrong) change? Batman at the end of the story is the same as at the beginning, after a few issues, even if Robin dies or batgirl gets paralyzed (both by the Joker), whom Bruce stubbornly refuses to kill after all these years.
Sometimes, though, it’s understanding of the enemy and the forelorn condescension thereby while never implying that garbage chic is not a valid form of expression that's the best possible way to come to terms with the new idiom. In that fashion I’ve become the expert storyteller by absorbing classical story antithesis.
Take the aforementioned joker batgirl story for instance. Total happenstance that I mentioned it, and it actually argues the opposite. Batgirl becomes Oracle, sits in her wheelchair and master plans the information age into a new millennium (literally and metaphorically, depending on your perspective.) but Killing Joke was more of graphic novel, but aren’t they all now that everything is geared toward the trade? Wasn’t then, though. I’d argue, despite prior soliloquys, and vociferously, with passion, and pomegranates in hand, that my skills with a pen and mindscrawling across a silent screen could still stand up to 1800's scrutiny and the coming age of the horsehead armada (the secret agenda will one day be told). If I later doubt myself again in a not so sudden drunken fit of pique, tomAYtoes tomAHtoes and all that balderdash, trouble T. Roy, listen to me not down the road and ponder my ponderances ahora.
So I guess throw out about two fifths of everything herein, but with that salt grain theory firmly entrenched in your medulla, because one man’s rubbish is another man’s cactus holding receptacle, one what wouldn’t have ever possibly worked better without the author rediscovering it, reworking it, and adapting it to surroundings unknown in any relevant era, thus the birth of irrelevance as suddenly vitally important.
I finally figured out something in a moment of inspiration the other day about my master thesis that really paved the way for a ton of other cogent (& coherent) thought on the matter and loosened up such a large portion of the narrative, er, plot, to expound on itself. Hombre dos has gotta take a dirt nap. Salud. That allows main mayne to transcend to that which he needs to be, accept the mantle of the OG showtime cavalcade, and get that tiger eyed transmogrification that no amount of revisionist theologizing ostrich sand idolizing could ever transgress, it’ll be that horrorcore.