You know, yesterday, I was writing an entry, thinking I would do an extra one on Wednesday to compensate for not doing one, at all, on Finals week. Then, I realised it was Thursday, and I figured . . . Eh, why not wait until tomorrow? I was a bit disappointed, though, because I was going to call it a "Wacky Waffle Wednesday" entry, just to spite someone (you know who you are, bitch. That's right, Mister I'm Going To Do Exactly the Opposite of What I Instruct On This Blog. Hah! You have a funny accent. That's right, a funny accent! But, we still love you. Except when you giggle, then we all hate you).

I Feel Like Being Officious: Hey, Buddy, Screw Off!

Today, I don't feel like writing with a purpose or intent. Well, at least, not a specific purpose . . . I think I'll put some things here I've been intending to do, for awhile.
Oh, but first . . . Like every other good fantasy geek, I went and saw Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers in theatres on opening day. Failure Rating 0%. Need I even go into detail about that decision? In my opinion, it was like watching three more hours of the first movie, which is exactly what any good sequel should feel like. And I immensely enjoyed the first movie, (The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring: Failure Rating 0%) so it just goes to disprove the old adage that there can't be too much of a good thing. I'm sorry if you were looking forward to me devoting an entry to a review of The Two Towers, but I only really do reviews of any length for things I have problems with. Deconstructivism is more fun than constructivism.
Anyway . . . Firstly, I've been wanting to explain something. Despite the fact that nobody has asked about it, I want to explain where the titles for these entries come from, anyway. Except for the rare exception, I go to Dictionary.com and look at the Word of the Day. Then, I spend maybe twenty to forty seconds thinking of some clever usage of that word in a sentence that may or may not be relevant to what I'm posting about, and, presto, that's the title. What an amazing process, huh? Yeah, that explains why the titles tend to come off like the name of a show on PBS or some such. It's all for my own gain, it expands my vocabulary a little bit, and sometimes you get incredibly useful words from it. Like the one I used today, which was actually Thursday's Word of the Day:
officious \uh-FISH-uhs\, adjective:
Marked by excessive eagerness in offering services or advice where they are neither requested nor needed; meddlesome.
See? I think that word just fits this entire Blogspot too well to pass up. The entries that are titled without a Word of Day means I probably just didn't like the current word and used something else.
I'm still up in the air and open to suggestion for how to handle most of the "features" of this Blog, really. Features being, namely, the title, the formatting, and the presence or lack of presence of a header and footer. I like to put a little paragraph above the title, for completely random and pointless things, but, on occasion, I don't have that. I used to have a Quote of the Moment and a Currently Playing Song, but I stopped doing that, mostly because I didn't feel like they were worth doing. I may put them back, maybe just one or the other, depends on factors like demand or my motivation, or if I have a really good quote or not, you catch my drift.
At one point, I was actually tossing around the notion in my mind of inviting other people to post in this, have more than one writer than myself. I would, of course, act as Editor and moderate everything, but it would be an easy way for me to increase the content and interest factor for this thing without having to actually do more work. I don't know, though, I don't think there'd be anyone interested, honestly. This imaginary conversation comes to mind:
Hey, want to write content for my Blogspot without pay or compensation of any sort?
Hey, want to eat my feces?
Right, so I never took any steps to bring onboard other writers. Maybe in the future, in a galaxy far, far away. Or, uh . . . In this one. Whatever works.
Ergh, you know, my problem is that I start writing for this with zeal and grand plans to lay down the best God damn entry ever, and then, I lose that zest. Like . . . Now.

Adios.

EOF

A friend tells me that Metabots is actually a serious endeavour, that saddens and sickens me. Failure Rating 110% (This impossible statistic is just for you, Mrs. Anal Retentive Elementary Statistics Professor!). Anyway, here's the promised second half of another one of my boring ass essays.

Orotund Brio of Art

Embodiment of a Vociferous Zeitgeist: Online Comics

I remember when I first stumbled across a webcomic. Back about three or four years ago, when there weren't all that many of them. A dozen or so, probably. I think it was Sluggy Freelance that I first read and enjoyed. It had a unique style, the humour was funny. Aside from being a bit raunchier, it wasn't all that different from a syndicated newspaper comic strip at all. Daily black and white, with colour on Sunday. There were a few others, as well: Kevin & Kell, Superosity, Penny Arcade, and PvP Online. The scene was new, fresh, unexplored, unexploited, and ripe. It took talent to become known, to wrestle a spot among the notorious and popular.
I picked up a pretty long list of webcomics that I frequently read pretty quickly. I loved it, it was all for free, and it was all so easily accessible. My father had this habit of taking the newspaper to work and we on the homefront, namely my mother and I, never saw ink nor newsprint of it. Which was annoying, because I've always been an adamant fan of comic strips. I still read them when I get the chance, but, quite frankly, webcomics are just too damn easy to read, so I'm not overly motivated to fetch a paper when I can get my fix with a double-click.
As the years went on, the scene became saturated. Supersatured, even. With the rise and fall of Big Panda, and the founding of Keenspot, now Top Web Comics, and so many other sites simply dedicated to listing a directory of comics, to say that the presence of webcomics on the internet has ballooned is to say that Walmart is a store. In other words, obvious.
I've noticed a few patterns. In general, you have the comics that, really, boil down to spin-offs. To count off the number of strips that wish they were Penny Arcade would take awhile, alone. You have the comics that are done by friends for friends, which, on occasion, become something hugely greater than just a photocopied page passed between a dozen friends. I think the most notable examples of that would be 8-Bit Theatre and Mac Hall. Which brings me to the sprite comic. Watch me segue into a new paragraph centred about them, too.
It was the accidental use of Megaman sprites by Bob And George that gave life to this new medium. Instead of fading into obscurity as another horrible hand-drawn comic strip that possesses art so hideous that it grossly overshadows the decent writing, Bob and George became a strip with decent writing accompanied by easily recognizable and, more importantly, replicable images. Blah, blah, skipping the whole controversy of copyright infringement and what have you, let's just say the genre of sprite comics is now hotter than... Uh, fire?
What's my take on the idea of sprite comics? Well, it gives someone with no artistic ability, except for possibly a knack for collage, to make a strip and exemplify his writing ability. That's great, that's fine. The problem arises when you account for a bunch of lazy bastards who can't draw and can't write, and think that throwing gay jokes, shit, and profanity into a blender is a comic strip worth posting on the internet. I have read way too fucking many sprite comics that never should've been made. So, what do I say? If you happen to be an aspiring comic strip writer who can't find a matching artist, go for it. If you think that "U R SO GAY!!!!!" is a good punchline, then you should do two things: first, don't make a sprite comic strip, and, second, ram the nearest spoon so far into your eye that you die.
Sprite comics demonstrate the age of art we are in. The age where massive reproduction is a higher priority than refined talent and practice. I don't believe it is exactly a bad thing, for it gives people a greater chance at becoming an artist and honing their ability. It marks the end of the aristocracy being the only class of citizens who have the luxury of creating art in some form or fashion. I meant for this essay to be more serious, but I think I kind of failed and lost the will to think it through. Maybe I'll redo it someday, but, for now, this is what you get. Enjoy.

Adios.

EOF

My apologies for the week without entries, I suppose I should've mentioned I was taking a break from writing for this over finals week. Don't worry, though, I made sure to waste away the time I set aside studying by playing Dungeons & Dragons and just, in general, jacking off. Right now, I'm in no mood to write, either, but I feel obligated to put something up. So, here's a poem of mine I wrote that I feel pretty good about. Granted, I understand this isn't, typically, my forum for poetry, but, eh, it's better than nothing?

A Title for Titling's Sake: Alas, Insomnia Makes It Home Within Me Tonight

"I sleep not satisfied with the kiss of a lover or the kind words of a mother,
so pray that I find rest in the restless isolation that I find myself possessed by."

Where what that has been meets it all and all it met in the time that it takes to travel is too much like only a little,
my disquieted disgruntlement is only a deluge of distaste from the deranged dastardly deeds performed so oft and so frequently by denizens of lower life and drowning seas of blood and drained souls,
what may be where you last saw me laugh and smile is too little and too late to help avoid the fate of fading into vain glory and the haze of memory behind so much frowning and an avalanche of human sewage,
my time is spent biding hours on hours after recovery from the shock of the realisation of what I am and where I am going and where I come from and where I want to be in the next few weeks before the years preceeding my uneventful but inevitable end,
when what is where it all must be and all goes back to where it was at first and where it all belongs and ends up at anyway.

Who is where what it is that seeks to be to all that is found when it is where it ought to stand,
the laughter of the children rises crystal above the cement glass high rises scraping the smoggy cieling built as the greatest most proud and arrogant prizes of a race so full of bleak and dim surprises,
how we get to where what that is who and when is troubling therefore I find it hard to see the end to all that is where it has been meant,
maniacal and malicious are the zealots of our religious towers that tear open the black clouds floating ominious like an omen of misfortune warning us of our wrongful plagues on nature and brothers and the heavens,
from where we came and when we get to what that is where we are meant to be is only a tricky question so much so that when we see where it lies below our eyes and above our heads like eagles soaring swooping catching in her talons the meat of prey I think that we will no longer be where we are today.

What that is to say who or that something so escaping fleeting from our vision we are trying to seek out in the jungle of black death and disease is only that which what we are made from from the start,
I bet you do not know what it is that I may think or feel or see or hear in my head that tells me of my heart and soul that we have titled God in our own time and in other times another name is given,
who that is is a man or woman a baby or crucified brother does not matter in the event of actual acquaintance with the majesty of he who can not be named or identified in our lifetimes forever when we still are who we are today,
the preacher preaches as the buddhist teaches like the speeches of the hindu or the prayer of the monk dwellers of solitary monostaries they are all the same I say to thee to thou to you or he or she,
to where you are going is only a query I present with worry not anger or contempt but if you do not answer me I am not offended for many of us do not know who or what we seek wherever we may choose to go and how we get there sometimes we do not even know ourselves after we are arrived.

How it is that what we find where we go is always satisfactory and accepted is a conundrum I can not solve myself and others have tried before me they have failed just the same as I and Socrates and Descartes or Faulkner and many others I can not name or were never given one,
like sand on the beach or oxygen in the air there will always be something to be felt all around us and there is more I say I say there is something unseen and untasted like a bland odor without body or texture,
what it may be is too much too little too late and complicated for anyone to devulge the name for when we are where we have to be in order to know we are far from where we started and can not give back to those left behind in the journey,
a man is holding the hand of his lover in the arms of his mother he is cradled by another kind face that he can only call a friend and crowded around these entities like a snack food in the belly folds of an obese coach potato it is hard to wonder how it is he can breathe let alone be aware of anything more,
only when we can spread out where there is space and time and continuous relief from civiled pressures that is the time destined dictated by the past and present we can feel in our souls in our heads and our palms the sweaty palpation of the indescribable and undiscernable and overwhelmingly powerful presence.

What I write of right now is that which is where in my head I am unfamiliar with so that is the reason behind this poem in the first place in case you may be wondering,
a pencil scratches paper leaving tracks of graphite black and grey and shaping words that we must put our mouths around and ungulate like gorrillas trying to mimic and imitate the silly human acts we are so sedated to realise are ridiculous to ape,
how it is that where we are going is only similar to where we have been before is very confusing like the puzzle of the Sphinx however it may have been solved and Thebes freed still we are locked in the clutches of some other enigma so much more that what we can figure how now and where it is the key is hidden is definitely not mentioned,
say to me to him or her that also waits for the dydactic drivel of the pompous presumptuous foolish all that you wish until you turn blue like salmon or trout or cod swimming under the waves of the sea and I will laugh laugh at you and all your assumptions and mistakes you are too bold too cold and stubborn to change your mind about or simply too stupid to see is wrong,
maybe that which is where you are speaking of is so great and so magnificant that it blinds you to the truth that surrounds you everyday like the cloak wrapped around the dead Jesus or the robes of a squatting Buddha under the Body tree so much so that you think you have gotten to where you can finally say you have what they have called nirvana in the past where only the unenlightened live and copulate under trees and inside bushes.

I can not think of how to end this babble because where it is going is an unending tunnel devoid of luminance so much so that I can only guess that it is no deeper than the deepest bowels of Hell or earth but it may be more than I can conceive of as a human being,
my apologies for those who read this and think about it so long to the point where their heads swim and mouths gape open like a confounded Greek statue but it is not my job to make things clear nor is it in my capacity to dilute my brain with ammonia and baking soda so that I may be able to think as clear as those who created the idea of clear thought wish me to think,
to where I intended to extend this was five stanzas but this one makes the sixth still it seems more like author notes than part of the text itself so maybe that is understandable to some who find it hard to finish what they start,
my grade for this is nonexistent because I do this voluntarily despite being a student of the written word in a prestigious university so full of academic types and professors graduated from much more prestigious institutions of learning but this this is different this is flowing like water from my hand onto the screen so I must indulge that nagging sensation that tells me to nurture my creation,
And where this ends is like how it begins abrupt and unexpected like a misfired shot that takes innocent life on the streets of Miami and as a parting word to give direction to where I hope to find my peace and profound solitude when I may be lucky enough to stop thinking:

"Good night, from me to you to all who read this and make it this far, I hope you sleep well tonight in your beds or on the streets or the lap of a lover basking in the heated glow of sex or wherever you cull your nest and rest your weary brain, good night, good night."

Adios.

EOF

Orotund Brio of Art

Part I - Somber Exposition

Prior to the 20th century or so, artists were much more difficult to find. The talent for art was something culled through years and years of practice and lessons; if you were lucky, you had the privilege to study under a master, like Michelangelo or Cezanne, and sop up some of his skill. Self-taught artists who gained success were few and far between, and it was hardly a pursuit of the lower classes. As technology progressed and the general wealth of the world ballooned, the mass reproduction of art began to become more feasible, and, thus, art became more accessible with the rise of the Bauhaus and other similar endeavours to integrate art into everyday living. Art became not just reserved for the gallery-goers or private collectors. With higher exposure to art in all of its different forms, the talent for and practice of art became more common, less of an Ivory Tower exclusive hobby.
Today, I sometimes look around me and think that art is taken a bit for granted, that it is so prolific and widespread that the art of art, as a whole, has been cheapened slightly. The definition of what is and what is not art has become highly debatable, especially with the abstract and, in some cases, downright absurd nature of some modern art movements. Anyone can own a print of one of M.C. Escher's lithographs, I have one on my closet door. Who hasn't ever done a puzzle of one of Thomas Kinkade's paintings? And who can't pick up a pencil and doodle in their free time and claim to be an artist?
Not only has the exposure of art been incremented over the years, so has the hobby of art. In the notebooks of teenagers all through America, there are sure to be a few sketches in the margins – if not some original image, but an image from a favourite cartoon, comic, movie, et cetera. On the Internet, one can stumble across thousands of thousands upon thousands of websites devoted to one's own serious art work or comedic comic strip or morbid graphic novel. All in all, it almost seems like anyone with a hand and instrument to create marks (not excluding exceptions to that, even) can make their own art.
Is this necessarily a bad outcome of the progress of society? I don't particularly think that it is. Simple law of addition will tell you that the more people doing art, the more good art there will be, despite the watershed effect of an increase of bad art. Not that anyone can, any longer, say what merits good and bad quality – technical ability, creativity, originality, ingenuity, rarity? In the past centuries, correct proportion, colouration, and other elements of photorealism were the goal of artists, but the importance of such qualities has become very askew in the recent years. A provocative meaning or expression of emotion has become equally as vital to "good" art as any precision or accuracy, if not more so in some circles. And, after all, who can argue that there is nothing redeeming about a Van Gogh or Munch, despite being more emotional and abstract than a Goya or Van Eyke?
With the advent of the Internet, the distribution of one's art became tenfold simpler than the past; it is no longer required to find a gallery, publisher, or any outside assistance. You can get your art out into the world on your own, with nothing more than a computer, scanner, and connection to the ‘Net. The average citizen can make art in their spare time and hang it in a virtual gallery, all while holding a day job as a source of reliable income. Out of all of the avenues of art, I believe the biggest one to be impacted has been the business of comic stripping.

Next Post

Part II - Embodiment of a Vociferous Zeitgeist: Online Comics

And, now, time for something completely different... From cucumber.

My Meticulous Dissection Is At Hand

First things first, because this is kind of sort of on my mind . . . I was up late Saturday night into Sunday morning, and it was nearing six-thirty or seven o'clock, prime time for perusing the television stations for either Christian fundamentalism, an infomercial for some new work-out machine, and, best of all, obscure or children's programming. This was after I had watched some animated movie adaption of Tom Sawyer which featured anthropomorphic characters, so I was, obviously, not being finicky about what I was killing the nighttime hours with viewing.
This is when I came across something... Strange. Something... Mysterious. Something... Not unlike anything else I had seen before, but extraordinary in its own ways. I had never heard of this show before, never seen it, never seen commercials – Mind you, this wouldn't be odd, except for the fact that it was drawn in an obvious anime style. I'm no expert on cartoons of the modern age, but I do keep up with all the latest anime on TV. But, this was... Intriguing, entrancing, somehow. The budget for this show must have been less than the change on my dresser, because the animation was almost South Park quality. I mean, you could tell this was cheap, nobody ever moved or talked at the same time, like a turn-based strategy game.
Metabots.
That was what this was called... I really don't know what to make of this. It is either one of two things: the worst Pokémon spin-off ever to be born, or the greatest achievement in parody comedy since Abenobashi Magical Shopping District. I... I don't know, I'm befuddled, absolutely confounded. I'm not sure if this show takes itself seriously or not, I mean... I laughed. I laughed a lot. At the animation, at the dialogue, at the "battles" and the... Ninja robot things, the namesakes of the show, I imagine. I don't know how to feel about a panty shot where the panties are steel welded to the ass of a ninja-robot. Yes, this show had a blatant panty shot. For a robot. A girl robot. In a steel skirt, with what I assume are some metal alloy undergarments. Sweet God, I pray they don't dress their robots in armour and then cotton undies. Silk, I could understand. Even cold, numb metal robots can enjoy the sensation of silk against their... Metallic flesh... Which can't feel...
If this is a serious attempt at a show, it's horrible. Horrendous. Shit. Utter and trite shit.
If this is a joke, some two-dollar production put out by a studio as a statement of the degradation of modern American cartoons into anime-rip-offs with either Pokémon, robots, or some combination therein, then... Genius. Pure and unadulterated genius.
I mean, after sitting through such garbage as Transformers: Armada, I really think it's time they set the drink limit to two glasses down at the production studios and said, "Hey, you know what? Giant, powerful, weapon-wielding, ass-kicking robots are frickin' awesome, and they don't need pocket robots to kick more ass. And, oh yeah, kill off those children."
I'm probably way too easily amused by this whole Metabots things, but I mean, it's like they threw Pokémon in a blender, a really gimpy blender, with Samurai Pizza Cats. I mean, I understand that every second I act like this show blew my mind the opinion of the readers of this Blog drops a little bit, and I really wish I had an excuse. I said I saw this at six in the morning, which may imply I was sleep-deprived, but, no, that is not the case, I woke up at five in the afternoon on Saturday, so I had been awake for barely over half a day. I have nothing, I wasn't drunk or stoned, nothing. This show's just raw... Ambiguity... Destroyed my reality.
I want to know, I need to know. Is Metabots serious? I mean, Nin-Ninja? No, that can't be for real. I can't even rate this, because I'm not sure if it's the funniest thing to be animated in the history of children's programming orientated towards casual fans of anime, or the worst attempt at marketing toys to the youth since the Jurassic Park dinosaur figures that had the feature of removing a chunk of its body to simulate its consumption. The logical part of my brain tells me that the dialogue was stupid and inane, the animation is surpassed by G.I. Joe, the plot is nil... Everything about it is substandard. But, the part of my brain that appreciates FLCL says, "This is hilarity in the most uncondensed form available!"
I don't know. Help me, I think I've lost my ability to discern between comedy and realism. Throw me a lifesaver, Dicaprio, and stop pretending you're the King of the World.
I was intending to review other things, like Martin & Lewis, that Tom Sawyer flick, Big Trouble, and Men in Black II, but I'll save that for a time when I don't have my mind on ninja robots. That may be awhile down the road...

Adios.

EOF