The end of a semester is tough. It's because I like some sense of closure. The part of me that watches romantic comedies and action movies wants there to be a climax and a denouement, for everything to feel like it's ended. It never feels that way. It's like we're all chugging along, chatting it up in class, talking about graphic novels, and then it's over. I never see anyone again, or if I do, we pretend we don't recognize each other. Half-acquaintances formed, and then left behind.

Looking at the blogs, I can see that abrupt ending. Some people haven't posted since Fun Home, or V for Vendetta. Some say "placeholder post!" and have said that for months. It's like none of it mattered. It's like there wasn't even this class.

I always find it strange to think that after four months, I'm suddenly supposed to be at least generally proficient in four to six additional topics. I never feel any smarter. It's good times, and it keeps me busy, but how much of this growth is from the classes, how much from the assignments, and how much just from talking to people and growing older? If I wasn't getting a degree, would time spent studying really be time better spent than time kayaking? Not that I would kayak. I'd probably just watch Top Chef. So, yeah, it probably is better.

Spencer, you're the only one reading this. Maybe. Hi, Spencer. I'm almost done with my project. It actually kind of sucks, but I guess I can take a B.

My paper is actually going smoothly. This was unexpected. Once I got the conceit hammered out, everything just sort of fell into place. Now I just have to focus on production, which is bad times, because my car is out of commission for a few days, so I can't go off-campus to get supplies. I might have to cut it a little close to the wire, but I should still finish a few days ahead of time. I don't want to leave any room for error.

The reason I didn't turn in a rough draft isn't because I'm a pretentious jerk whose art shouldn't be viewed until it's finished because it would ruin the creative process. It's because I want it to be a surprise and for Spencer to be like, "What the fuck is going on" as he looks at my project. But I think it will work well. And it's the kind of thing that requires a sort of constant editing, beyond what a single "rough draft" would put me at.

I bought beer for the first time last Friday. It was pretty anti-climactic. Now, there are no birthdays to look forward to. I guess 35. At 35, I can be president. Or is that 40?

It's almost all over. Two more weeks, then finals. I don't really count finals. I always make a big show of how I'm going to study for finals and get straight A's and learn German and train for the Olympics, but then I just watch television. So, two more weeks.

I was up until 4:30 last night, writing a paper about Dracula. Bad times. I'm mildly pissed because A) I'm still tired and B) I wasn't able to start on this project, like I planned. I'm also having difficulties figuring out how the rough draft is going to work, specifically how I'm going to do it without spoiling the effect of the final version.

I stress out a little, then I just watch this 20-second clip from Flight of the Conchords.

Spencer said I need to talk more about the class, specifically the final project and how that's going.

I've got an idea I really want to do. The problem is, it has absolutely no focus yet. I really just want to replace all the text in a single chapter of Watchmen, and turn it into an essay. I don't know what I'm going to write about, though. It has to be about comic books. I don't have anything to say about comic books, without really feeling like I'm over-Englishing it. Using words like paradigm and heteronormativity and stuff. I don't know. My copy of Watchmen is with a friend, and hopefully he'll bring it to Victorian culture tomorrow. If he doesn't? Mexico is less than a day away, if I break the speed limit.

The thing is, I know I could make something that would be entertaining, and maybe even smart, if I didn't feel like I was stretching to talk about "paneling" or something. So my focus when I sit down to really hammer this out is going to be finding a compromise between what's fun and instructive for me and what's academic enough for the department. Which I guess is what's been happening since Kindergarten.

arrrgh

I found out today that in order to take an instructional music course with the university, you have to audition. Isn't that the point? I've been playing guitar for seven years, but I'm pretty bad and sound like I've only been playing for ten months. That's why I want instruction, so I can stop playing the same Alkaline Trio and White Stripes songs over and over and over again.

It's kind of sad how U of I lacks viable electives. I took Horticulture 106, "Home Horticulture", this semester, because the course description said that it was a survey class for non-majors who want to learn about decorating with plants and growing their own vegetables. It sounded informative and interesting. What do I get? I get some guy who doesn't care about the course literally reading every word off of every slide for an hour and twenty minutes, with little worthwhile explication that can't be reasonably inferred. He said, "You want to make sure you mow your grass. Grass grows," today. There are between 8-10 pages of single-spaced notes every day (we can print them off, thank God) and any banal piece of minutiae is up for grabs on any one of the fifty-question exams. One of the questions was "what makes sausage spicy," which the instructor tossed in as an afterthought during one lecture, and I only remembered because I knew the answer previously. It's fennel, in case you were wondering.

Then, and here's the kicker, there are the random quizzes. Six quizzes throughout the semester, during random lectures. You're allowed to miss one, since your lowest grade gets dropped. So I dick around for a couple weeks and attend maybe only half the lectures. I miss class the first quiz day. Big deal, I say. There's no way they'll have two quizzes back-to-back, right? So I skip the next class, AND THERE'S A FUCKING QUIZ! THEY PUT TWO OUT OF SIX QUIZZES THE ENTIRE SEMESTER IN TWO BACK-TO-BACK LECTURES! What is this chickenshit? Is that really necessary? Is that checking my understanding? What the fuck is the purpose of instruction if all we care about is grading whether or not we show up? I'm so sick of this system that defines part of your grade on attendance. Let me fucking sit in my apartment, watch a three-hour marathon of To Catch a Predator, eat a bowl of popcorn and then go to bed! Don't force me to come to fucking class! I don't need to! I can read a fucking book! If all you're going to do is read the book to me, is it really necessary that I'm there?!

Even when I get A's, it's like it doesn't matter anymore. I got an A, hooray. My life is exactly the same as when I woke up this morning. I got a D, oh no. My life is exactly the same as when I woke up this morning.

Don't take horticulture.

Reading that back over, I sound kind of angry. I probably was, but it's all dissipated now and I just want to go to bed. Here's something funny to break the tension.

it's a funeral home get it

Fun Home is pretty cool. I like it, at least. My roommates would probably like it too, they're lesbians. I don't know. Maybe that's derogatory. Fuck 'em.

Following Pat's criteria for an indie comic, there are breasts. Now I'm wondering if there will ever be an indie comic without breasts. There's probably something I don't know about.

I mean, even the story about the gay guy during the civil rights movement had breasts in it.

Jesus.

Stuck Rubber Crappy

Seriously? That was a novel? That was boring. It was dull and uneventful. It was like reading fucking Dickens. You're writing a story set in the South during the Civil Rights era, with a closeted homosexual protagonist, and you manage to make it this fucking dull?

Why am I not published? Is this what I have to do? Churn out 200 pages of non-events?

Anyway, I finished writing Sven Fjorden. He's pretty awesome. There may or may not be bear headshots and axe decapitations.

Facial Structure

Every character in Stuck Rubber
Baby looks like this guy.

I like the story, I guess. It's a little slow moving but it has its moments and nothing about the writing has really rubbed me the wrong way.

But seriously, why does everyone have a giant chin that stretches all the way to their eyeballs? It's hard for me to distinguish between characters because everyone's face is nearly identical. If it weren't for hair and the occasional shading work, I'd have no idea what was going on.

Not that it's necessarily lazy to draw the same face a lot; lazy would be copy-pasting characters into every panel and only changing the dialogue (which plenty of comic strips seem to be doing these days). It just makes it tougher to commit to the story when I'm being forced to cross-check with previous chapters to make sure someone in a room is the same person I think they are.

edit: and I swear to God, if you say "IT JUST SHOWS THAT WE'RE ALL THE SAME PERSON, WHEN YOU THINK ABOUT IT" I will punch you in your throat

This is what I've been doing while I'm sick. Fighting crime as my favorite modernist author.

What's the deal with portraits from life? Does this guy know he sucks? It doesn't take a lot to entertain me, but man. What the hell.

On the plus side, my stomach is no longer trying to eat the rest of my body, so I can come to class now. Wooo.

The Worst Nights of Your Life

For as far back as I can consciously remember, which is like, age four, I've thrown up maybe six times. That's not definite, but there's no way in hell it's more than ten, and six sounds just about right. It's not that I don't get sick, it's just that I never throw up - my body has failed me in hundreds of different ways, but that's one problem I've never had.

Which means every time I throw up, I forget how horrible and disgusting and terrible it is. I completely forget, I live four years of my life, and then things like last night happen, and I'm kneeling in front of the toilet for ten minutes.

Then, I try to sit cross-legged to regain some composure, and my right leg immediately goes into Charlie Horse mode. So I've been throwing up for ten minutes and now I'm writing in agony on the bathroom floor, punching my leg.

Jesus christ.

Manifestos

My manifesto talks about the literary canon, and how I think it's serving to turn English study into a joke by rendering a good 90% of the shit we come up with through analyzing text completely worthless to anyone outside of English academia. I've kind of felt this way for a long time but always figured I was just kind of a jerk. Now that I'm really thinking about it, I'm starting to feel like I might be right (and also a jerk). Right now, it's just a gut feeling, but I actually feel a drive to go out and do some non-class-related research on how English is taught and what it does for society because I don't think it's doing everything it can.

This is a big deal for me, because I haven't really taken school seriously since the 6th grade. There is no good reason for me to have gotten into this university, and there certainly isn't any good reason for me to have not been expelled after every semester here. It's nice to be writing something that I feel is actually somewhat original and not be immediately failed.

Case in point: Victorian Culture. Guess what strategy I'm using to write this paper? Close reading and analysis of the words on the page, in essay format.

Fucking.

Yawn.

Also, why do I love sad songs?

Chrono Trigger: Best Ever?

The answer is yes - Chrono Trigger is the best ever. I don't play a lot of video games anymore, and when I do, I prefer actiony sort of stuff, and not role-playing games. But as a kid, I couldn't get enough of SNES RPG's, and I probably spent more allowance renting Chrono Trigger over and over again than anything else I bought until I was sixteen.

A picture that simultaneously evokes
the best and worst aspects
of Chrono Trigger.

I've been playing this all weekend instead of writing my papers for Victorian culture. Victorian culture might be the worst culture ever.

X-Men Wiki

This thing is simultaneously kind of fun and kind of suck. On the one hand, I get to talk about how great Wolverine is. On the other, I have to talk about it while making sure I don't get my pants sued off by Marvel, or expelled from school. I don't know if I can handle this kind of pressure.

In other news, I ate Taco Bell for dinner, and I might not survive through the night.

You are my butterstick

I used to think Whose Line is it Anyway was stupid, but I've been watching a ton of clips these past couple nights, and I'm really into it.

Look at the... paneling. Sure does relate to comics.

"The dame was crazy. Most dames are."

Meet Rorschach.

First of all, if you haven't finished Watchmen yet, don't fucking Google search for Rorschach! Don't do it! His identity is a cool surprise and you will ruin the moment if you try to look ahead. In fact, don't do any searching at all until you finish Watchmen. Don't leave your apartment, don't talk to your roommates, don't answer your phone when your parents call you. Just read it.

Rorschach is cool because he is basically a prototypical film noir vigilante, and most of how he talks and acts reflects this. I don't know exactly how to define film noir, or where it came from, but it has this kind of gritty feel to it. It's usually really melodramatic, but it doesn't take itself too seriously so you can still enjoy it without saying to yourself, "NO ONE TALKS LIKE THAT!"

Other famous noir-y characters in popculture are

Harry Dresden (Jim Butcher's The Dresden Files)

Marv (Frank Miller's Sin City)

Tracer Bullet (Calvin and Hobbes)

A big part of film noir is the hard-boiled detective tradition, where the protagonist is a private eye who plays by his own rules. Often, a doe-eyed, large-breasted bombshell will come in with tears in her eyes, and ask the private eye to find out if her husband is cheating on her. Then the husband gets shot and the private eye is framed for the murder and so on and so forth through several nearly identical plotlines that are familiar to anyone who grew up watching television - especially Sunday-morning political debate shows.

John McLaughlin, a film noir paragon.

People are talking about how Watchmen is a criticism of the comics industry, or something. I'm sure it is, but I'm also sure I'm not very interested in that. Mostly I like seeing a vigilante breaking people's fingers to get information. Rorschach does that for me.

I don't know how to correctly pronounce "Rorschach." Right now I'm saying "Roar shack" but that can't be right.

Heretic Pride

I'm tired of looking at Blankets. Are you guys as psyched for Watchmen as I am? I love Watchmen. It's a story about real-life superheroes, which are really just guys who make sort of cool gadgets or are OK at fighting. But after 20 years, they're just old and fat.

Also, there's a naked blue guy who metaphorically represents "the bomb" and exists outside of time and space, and for some reason he's hanging out with the American government. I guess that doesn't make a lot of sense, but he looks neat, and can generate his own clothes. I wish I could generate my own clothes.

The host at a fancy restaurant would be like, "I'm sorry sir, but we require you to wear a jacket, allow me to clothe you in one of our own house jack-" and then he'd freeze, slack-jawed, because I'd suddenly be wearing a perfectly reconstructed Hugo Boss tuxedo, and then I'd say, "Sorry, sir, but I prefer to dress myself." Then everyone in the restaurant begins laughing, except for the host, who is hanging his head in shame as he turns in his name tag.

The Mountain Goats made a new video. They're a lyric-driven band who I like a lot. This song isn't bad, but the lyrics seem a little more generic than a lot of their other stuff. Either way, the video is neat.

Good Storytelling

Fig. 1: John Milton. Fuck this guy.

One of the biggest problems with being an English major is that only about 20% of our credit hours in English (which excludes gen ed credits) is spent studying anything written after the year 1900. The way the major is set up, we have to spend most of our time reading stuff like Chaucer or Milton, which is a humongous pain in the ass because those texts don't resonate with the common man anymore. Yeah, we can study them and look at what they say and what times were like back then, and that's what being an English major is, but they don't tell you that going in. They're like "Hey, you love books? Sweet! We love books too! Read books and get a degree!" and we all run happily to our guidance deans and switch our majors, and then, every semester, we read twenty books about white people doing exceedingly boring white things. This trend of "boring white people" peaks with Victorian Realism, until Hemingway says "ok that's enough of that" and starts beating some ass. People in books were still pretty white, but they weren't so boring anymore.

Fig. 2: Ernest Fucking Hemingway. Look at how ripped he is. He probably snapped that shotgun in half right after the picture was taken. Jesus Christ.

The point is, most of my time getting my English degree has been kind of crappy. I can see how it can appeal to a certain kind of person, the kind who enjoys spending hours inside of a library looking up critical analysis that tries to read Beowulf colonially, before colonies even existed. But me? I'm just kind of here. I like books. Mostly I like writing. I'd like to think that my degree is helping me with that, but I don't think my ten-page paper on metaphysical conceit in John Donne's poetry contains anything I want to use as an author. I don't even know what metaphysical conceit is, and I used that term three times a page in that paper. It was in my fucking thesis. I got an A- on it.

So that's why Blankets is important to me. It represents a move away from dense theory and using words like "contextual analysis" and returns to the root of why I like words: STORYTELLING. A shift that takes us from rote memorization of metaphor and irony and concentrates on the feeling evoked from a work.

I'm a sucker for a good love story. When I say good, I don't mean intricate, or simple. I don't mean funny or sad or spiteful. I just mean that I like stories where love is the primary motif, because I spent all my time from the ages of roughly 11 to 19 obsessing about love; what it was, how I was going to get it, why getting it was such a pain in the ass, and every different form of failure a person can achieve while in pursuit of something so abstract.

Blankets evokes the three main things I can identify with concerning love: 1) being a geeky white male with no real social ability, 2) becoming interested in a girl who is fucking crazy, and 3) generally screwing up and doing/saying the wrong thing at any given time. These all apply to me in high school, of course. Now, I am a shining paragon of sex appeal and mysterious calm.

Fig. 3: Ladies.

I guess it's fitting that a blog post about good storytelling and evoking emotion should neither tell a story, nor evoke an emotion. Also, lack a satisfying conclusion.

Visual Hyperbole

We're kicking off with Blankets, which I read the day before class started because I had spent the entire winter vacation sitting in my room wondering what it would be like to have friends who stayed in town during break. Even with all that wondering, every day, I still don't know what it would be like. All I know is what it's like to live with two people who leave the lights on when they leave the apartment and never do the dishes. I picked up a lot of extra hours at work, just to get away from the dishes. They're still there.

Waiting.




I was going to talk about Blankets as a whole (should that be italicized? I don't even care, it's the INTERNET) but I looked at the syllabus and I'm going to have to make four more blog posts about it before we're done, so I better save that stuff for last. Instead I want to talk about Thompson's use of visual hyperbole.

On page 16, Thompson's father opens up "the cubby hole," a space full of blank-eyed demons, insects, and other creatures. Thompson's father struggles with the clamping jaws of an alligator with the same sort of detached yet focused expression that he would have while mowing the lawn or hanging new curtains. This hyperbole goes beyond the typical "cartooning" of human actions and drifts into the realm of the fantastical, which is helpful and understandable, considering that our focalizer is a young boy. In text, we can understand the semantic meaning of "the cubby hole was very scary," or even the less direct, more evocative "the cubby hole was a nightmare, full of crouched, hellish figures," but neither of these gives us as direct and visceral an understanding of how terrifying the space is as the image of Thompson's father subduing the creatures living in the space.

We see an example of hyperbole again on page 60, when Thompson burns his drawings from years past in an effort to erase the memories of his tortured past. We see them expelled from his mouth as jagged lines, reminiscent of lightning, that resolve into the shapes of his drawings and escape into the night sky. This is a different sort of hyperbole than the cubby hole; while the cubby is detailed in a goofy, kid-scared-of-the-dark way, we are meant to take Craig's artistic catharsis as more heavily symbolic - as an inherently more dramatic act. This separation helps to highlight the separation of time periods found in the chapter.