The Purple Tux
With just enough education to perform.Saturday, January 31, 2004
I struggle with forward motion.
Thursday, January 29, 2004
Who am I to need you now
To ask you why, to tell you no
To deserve your love and sympathy
You were never meant to belong to me
-Crestfallen, The Smashing Pumpkins
Y'know, if I weren't ugly, and if I didn't have such a lousy personality, I bet I could have had, like, at least 10 girlfriends by now.
Wednesday, January 28, 2004
This is why I want to change the world.
The thing that sucks about having to read 15 novels this quarter is that I have very little time do read for pleasure. I have a good stack of about a dozen books just waiting for me to read them, and it pains me every time I look in my closet and see them just sitting there. Lately, I find I'm also having difficulty keeping up with comic reading. Between the stuff Ma and I both got over the past couple of weeks, I have about 15 trade paperbacks (I'm guessing approximately over 2000 pages of reading material) that I need to read, too.
What makes this life so much harder is that the bull I must read for school is ridiculously atrocious! I had to start off this quarter with some James Joyce. He's a pretty well-respected author, and A Portrait Of The Artist As A Young Man was my first taste of his work. Too bad he didn't live up to the hype. He had some interesting ideas sprinkled throughout, but he used too many words and it wasn't a pleasure to follow along. I appreciate putting some of my own effort into what I read, but just because I have to do some work doesn't mean it's good. Plus, it's very annoying to me as a reader when an author writes a 300 page novel but only has 5 chapters, most of which have far too many extraneous words that just pollute the overall message of the book. Bottom line with Joyce is that he's pretty mediocre, even for forced reading.
While I had to read Joyce, I also had to read Charlotte Temple, by an early 19th century American novelist named Susanna Rowson. I bet you're all like, Who the hell is that? Well, that was my first reaction, too. Actually, my professor for 19th Century American Novels said that the first 3 books we'd read for his class were going to be "bad novels." And no, he didn't mean "bad" as in "freakin' sweet" (this guy is so uptight I don't even know if he's ever used slang in his life), but "bad" as in "poorly written." Actually, Charlotte Temple was an enjoyable romp, and had a number of memorable lines. It also helped a lot that the writer was a woman who knew her place, and didn't try to write anything too epic and out of her league. At 120 pages, it was straight and to the point. I think I like this book enough that I won't bother trying to resell it at the end of the quarter (though it's such an obscure work that I doubt any class will be using the text after this).
However, this past week I had to read some of the worst pieces of tripe ever. I've read a lot of crappy books in my day. Even last quarter, when I had some cool classes, I had to read some junk. The only difference between the crap I had to read this weekend and the crap I read last quarter is... Oh, about 350 pages. Seriously, the weak stuff I read last quarter was at least brief and short enough that it was basically Wham, Bam, Thank You Ma'am and I don't even remember the faces of those books.
But last week, I had to read To The Lighthouse, by Virginia Woolf. I think most people have heard of her. She's a stinkin' feminist type who thought she could write better than men, and so she tried to incorporate odd aesthetics to her novel structure, and include some heady ideas. To The Lighthouse was just plain awful. There are going to be people that'll tell you that you need to be patient when going through such an intricate text. If anyone says that to you, tell 'em to piss off. There's nothing in this novel that hasn't been done better in the years since. It's a boring narrative, with themes and ideas that don't say anything to me about my life. Far too many words that convey very little substance- a trait that's all too common with "seminal authors." Here's the truth, straight up: To The Lighthouse was such a crappy and boring book that to this day, I have not even been able to read the entire back cover. And I tried. Many, many times. You know a book is a piece of $#!t when the editors/publishers can't even write a decent sum-up of it on the back cover. In the end, after I slogged through the stinking thing, I came to the conclusion that To The Lighthouse is the second worst book I have ever read, which is saying a lot. The only book worse than this is Toni Morrison's Beloved, which actually won a Pulitzer Prize. Go figure. Academic scholarly types think that anything that's overtly "difficult" just makes a bold, artistic statement, and deserves accolades for conveying powerful messages in confounding but impressive styles. That's bull.
Also, I had to read another obscure 19th century American novel, Wieland, by Charles Brockden Brown. Yeah, nobody's ever heard of this guy either. There's a reason we don't remember these scrubs. Then again, we remember Woolf... Oh yeah, we only remember her 'cause she was a chick. If a man wrote To The Lighthouse, there's no way in hell that he'd be remembered, or that To The Lighthouse would be considered even a decent read. Wieland was almost as boring as the Woolf book. A boring narrative with dry dialogue and an uninteresting plot. Again, this book said nothing to me about my life, not even in terms of fundamental concepts about what it means to be human. If people in the early 1800s actually enjoyed this book, well then, there should be no surprise why Americans are so stupid today. I mean, Americans created and watch things like Real World. Yes... Wieland, by Charles Brockden Brown is a truly bad book and a complete waste of time. Unless you're reading the Peanuts comic strip, stay away from Charlie Brown.
This week, I must read At Swim-Two-Birds (yeah, weird title) by Flann O'Brien. It has a pretty good cover and the description on the back cover does a good job of making the novel appear worthwhile, but I've yet to start it. For that lameass 19th Century American Novels class, I've got to read a novel entitled Hope Leslie, written by Catherine Maria Sedgwick. I've read the first chapter of this book, but it's a bit early. I'll reserve judgment until I have a better feel of the work.
But I don't have my hopes up.
Saturday, January 24, 2004
She said she wants to marry me
She said she wants to bury me
It's not easy when you're scared
-Whir, The Smashing Pumpkins
One day.
Wednesday, January 21, 2004
"Listen and listen good!! These are the new rules of Hell's Kitchen.
"This is the Kingpin! Your Kingpin!! This is Wilson Fisk!! And I beat him with my bare hands!! And this man is going to rot in jail for the rest of his life for the hell he has made of this city! And if I could do this to him, imagine what I will do to you, any of you!!
"If, from this second forward, you sell your drugs-- Rob! Or whore! Anywhere near my city-- If you can't control yourselves, if you can't figure a way to be productive in this life... Find somewhere else!! Far from here!! Far, far from here!! I am here to say: if you people so badly need some sort of Kingpin, someone to lord over you-- Well, from now on, it's me.
"I am not protecting this city anymore. I am running it!! And I say: the people of Hell’s Kitchen are my people. This is my territory now-- And I say: GET OUT OR CHANGE. Tonight!! You think you know me? You think you know who I am? These are the new rules. This is how it will be from now on. Spread the word. And if you think I’m kidding… Look at the carcass in front of you.
“Look at him!!”
-Daredevil, Hardcore
Friday, January 16, 2004
A man may smile, and smile, and be a villain.
Villains. And heroes. And superheroes. I've been reading a ton of comic books lately. My childhood passion for comics has been restored, and comics have become a big hobby for me again, just as they were ten years ago. It's not because I'm a huge nerd and have no life, but because I simply love good stories. Comics provide some great, entertaining stories, and occasionally they even force me to examine life itself in the cosmic scheme of reality. This is something most of you will never understand, but then again, I don't expect anyone to comprehend my genius.
Two of the most famous comic book superheroes ever are Captain America and Superman. To the average, non comic book reader, these two men don't have much in common other than the fact that they wear silly colorful costumes. After all, Captain America is just a man, and Superman, well, he's Superman. But look a little bit deeper and you'll find that these two characters are symbols. They are ideas. They are ideals. They both represent the American dream at its finest.
Captain America is the blue eyed blond, ready and more than willing to serve his country. He loves his country more than anything. He is a symbol of truth and justice. Captain America is the embodiment of nationalism, which is no surprise as he was created in the 1940's (his first comic appearance boldly depicted him socking Adolf Hitler in the grill), but in a good way. Strip everything away, and you have a character who symbolizes hope, plain and simple.
Superman, on the other hand, is an alien. He's a foreigner, like many Americans. Like Captain America, though, Superman also loves his country and believes in a better tomorrow. He is a symbol of truth and justice. Superman embodies the concept of foreigners being accepted, successful, and respected in America. Strip everything away, and again you are left with a character who symbolizes hope.
It's no secret that one of my all-time favorite heroes is Batman. Although he does, at times, signal a beacon of hope, he is more often than not portrayed as an avenging vigilante. Captain America and Superman rely on trust, but Batman uses fear. He's called the Dark Knight for a reason, and let the moniker of Caped Crusader be damned. Batman sulks in the shadows, striking out with vengeful force only to return to the darkness from which he came. He's a superhero, to be sure, but he's rather unique in that he is sometimes depicted as a vicious, almost thuggish, creature of the night. However, strip everything extraneous away from the character, and you are simply left with a character who doesn't want to see anyone get hurt.
If you've managed to read this far, maybe you're wondering to yourself, Ah, there goes Dru again, ranting about his childish comic books. What's the point?
The point isn't to make you want to go out and read a comic book (though that would be nice), but to get this off my chest. Besides, this week one of my fans, probably Fred, asked me to relate comics to my Christian walk. You need to understand something about me first. I'm not into those inspirational, almost self-help kind of books. Wild At Heart, in my opinion, is one of the most overrated books I have read. Don't get me wrong; I'm pleased that people are learning things and are pumped up by reading books like that, but they aren't for everyone. If I want tips on holy living, I'll read, like, the Bible or something. Everything else I need to know about how be a man I learned from reading comic books in my youth. All right, here's what I'm getting at:
I am Batman. Prep-time optional. But wait. Don't roll your eyes like that!
Often, I am a misunderstood piece of crud, relegated to hiding in the shadows. I can be pretty damn cold and sarcastic, and I don't have strong interpersonal skills. But scratch everything away, and you're left with the hairiest Asian on Earth who wants people to have a chance to hear what the Bible says about Jesus Christ.
I'm no Captain America, I'm no Superman. I don't represent hope, but I wish I could. I have so much respect for people who are totally opposite of me, people who can cling to the ideal of hope. I wish that I could believe in the power of hope. Everything positive and righteous. I keep dreaming that if I were the, ahem, Christian equivalent of a Captain America or Superman, the world would be better for it. That can never happen, though. Hope doesn't belong to me, but I believe in the power of hope.
As a Christian, I want to be a "hero" to the world who doesn't give a crud about Christ. D'you know what I mean? But sometimes I feel just like a clogged toilet- full of crap. I want the world to know Christ as I know Him. So I smile. And smile. And I may still be a villain. But I keep on smiling anyway, because I believe in hope- I believe in the saving power of Jesus, the ultimate symbol of hope.
Sunday, January 11, 2004
Right now, I'm reading A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, by James Joyce. So far as I can decipher, it's about this one kid named Stephen who grows up to become the titular artist. Right now, I'm at his college years. Apparently, this kid is a pretty clever kid, he's into stuff like poetry and drama. He's smarter than most of his peers, not only in terms of academics, but in having a well-thought out worldview. I'm expecting this kid to like, change the universe or something. Only thing is, being a nerdy, reserved, thinker type, he's never gotten laid and he can't stop thinking about sex. The last couple pages of chapter two (by the way, don't you hate it when a three hundred page novel only has five chapters?) are focused on his sexual frustration. This little beast totally wants some. He ends up getting it on with a hooker.
Ahh, the things academia compells us to read.
Here goes. My first entry in pretty much just about a month. I must have been real busy during finals week at the end of last quarter. Plus, I barely went online at all during winter break. But you can rest easy now, friends. I'm back, with a vengeance. Or something approximately close enough to passion. This quarter, I'm taking four classes, three of which are upper division English classes. Between two of those classes, I must read a total of fifteen novels this quater. That's quite a bit of reading! For the other English class, I have to read a book full of essays about who knows what. Overall, I think I have something like twelve papers to write. Not a pretty thought.
I've been sitting here for about ten minutes now, wracking my mind for inspiration, something to write about. But nothing comes to me. I don't like writing about how my week's been or what I did yesterday, because to me, that's pointless and says very little of who I actually am. Unless something hilarious or extraordinary happened, by Crom, I vow I'll never post an entry about what I did on a given day. Anyway, unless you're into comic books, rock and roll, and stabbing people, my days are boring as hell.
I think Prep-Time Batman (whoops, looks like I ended up back on THIS subject again...) has a couple more rivals besides MacGyver and Prep-Time Doctor Doom. After weeks of analysis and calculation and philosophizing, I have come to the conclusion that there are two more men who can give Prep-Time Batman a run for his money. The first would be Prep-Time Black Panther. He's just as ruthless and cunning as the Dark Knight, and like Bats and Doom, the Panther also has nearly unlimited resources (being the king of your own nation has its perks). The second man I think could stand up to Prep-Time Batman is Captain America, Prep-Time optional. Physically, Cap has the edge over Batman, and though he doesn't have nigh unlimited resources, he has the Avengers and Nick Fury's resources at his disposal. Plus, Cap fought against Nazis (his first ever appearance featured him socking Adolf Hitler in the grill, right on the cover of the comic) AND modern terrorists.
What does this all mean? It means that if the JLA ever fought against the Avengers for real, no holds barred and no cosmic forces coercing them to become allies, then on paper the Avengers have the definite advantage. If you want to debate this, post a comment. If I don't get any comments, I will assume that all of you feeble beings fear my righteousness.
