Bioshock

Everybody knows I'm a sucker for that special genre of video game known as the First Person Shooter. The most imaginative and satisfying experience to be found in all the myriad of gamerealms is the FPS. HalfLife 2 is the standard by which all other FPS are to be judged, and Painkiller comes pretty darn close to achieving that standard. Now there is a new FPS that looks very promising: Bioshock.
My housemate owns an Xbox360 and was thoughtful enough the other day to show me the Bioshock demo. I was immediately blown away by the Art Deco aesthetic that pervades the game. The story involves an Ayn Randian utopia built at the bottom of the sea where something has gone terribly wrong. It looks like your standard inmates-take-over-the-asylum scenario, one into which you have to navigate your way with a nice array of weapons and talents.
But the scenery-! The city is absolutely dazzling for anyone with even a passing interest in the Art Deco style. It harkens to a mythical fifties, in which all the B-movie SciFi tropes are true: scientists have succeeded in improving humanity through genetic experiments, and the resulting "better world" is awash in tuxedoes and martinis and Gotham-style architecture. Think Dark City-meets-Atlantis.
This could be the next greatest FPS of all time, and hopefully will inspire a sequel, in which events go back to an even earlier era, the Belle Epoque.

Phil & Bill

The twentieth century produced a lot of great literature from around the world. Being a reader in English, I'm inclined to favor authors from the States, two of whom in my opinion define what made for the best and most definitive writing of the century past. Philip K Dick and William Faulkner are not commonly thought of as belonging in the same sentence. Nevertheless, I believe that not only do they deserve mention in the same breath but in the same weight class of powerhouse literature.

Philip Dick's midperiod novel Ubik was published in 1969 and for me represents his peak as an author of speculative fiction. It also typifies what makes his works so great. The themes are fantastic but grounded in rich characters, and he uses the story to sound out serious questions about spirituality and what's real. Dick has a preoccupation with spiritual existence and the basic human need to experience faith. In his thorough and arguably profound exploration of this need, he comes to define what makes literature in the second half of the century important.

What stands in the way of spiritual enlightenment is nothing less than the world itself, or to put it more simply, consensual reality. A passage from Ubik elucidates this problem in a concise and humorous fashion, as is characteristic of Dick's writing:

The door refused to open. It said, "Five cents, please."
He searched his pockets. No more coins; nothing. "I'll pay you tomorrow," he told the door. Again he tried the knob. Again it remained locked tight. "What I pay you," he informed it, "is in the nature of gratuity; I don't have to pay you."
"I think otherwise," the door said. "Look in the purchase contract you signed when you bought this conapt."
In his desk drawer he found the contract; since signing it he had found it necessary to refer to the document many times. Sure enough; payment to his door for opening and shutting constituted a mandatory fee. Not a tip.
"You discover I'm right," the door said. It sounded smug.

William Faulkner, on the other hand, represents a keen understanding of human society, as represented in his fictional Yoknapatawpha County. He is preoccupied not so much with the spirit as with the moral girding of people in the cruel and feckless world. Nowhere in his vast and epic catalog is this better illustrated than in what I feel is his finest hour, the novel Light in August. Unlike Dick, who uses fantastic situations to point the reader to home truths, Faulkner brings us down to earth and lets us taste of its grand and fickle bounty. He represents what was most important to the first half of the twentieth century, a time of world wars and vast economic hardships.

His lens fixes less on the human relationship to a cruel and unrelenting reality (as Dick does) and more on the interstices of emotional causality between people and the consequences of tangles and misapprehensions therein. A passage from the novel:

He changed completely. They planned to be married. He knew now that he had seen all the while that desperate calculation in her eyes. 'Perhaps they were right in putting love into books,' he thought quietly. 'Perhaps it could not live anywhere else.' The desperation was still in them, but now there were definite plans, a day set, it was quieter, mostly calculation. They talked now of his ordination, of how he could get Jefferson as his call. "We'd better go to work right away," she said. He told her that he had been working for that since he was four years old; perhaps he was being humorous, whimsical. She brushed it aside with that passionate and leashed humorlessness, almost inattention, talking as though to herself of men, names, to see, to grovel or threaten, outlining to him a campaign of abasement and plotting. He listened. Even the faint smile, whimsical, quizzical, perhaps of despair, did not leave his face. He said, "Yes. Yes. I see. I understand," as she talked. It was if he were saying Yes. I see. I see now. That's how they do such, gain such. That's the rule. I see now

Naturally I am only scratching the surface with these brief glimpses, but having been in a reading frenzy of late and experiencing these authors anew (was it Samuel Delany who said you never read the same book twice?), it has been brought home that their combined contribution to literature of the last century is without price and brings timeless gain.

lyrical darkness

The most beautiful book I have read in the last decade is Cormac McCarthy's The Road. It is a somber meditation on love during a time of apocalypse, as a father and son trek the ashen byways of a dead world. Even as he illumines the tragedy of human instinct, there is a diamond hardness that glitters in the debris. It breathes life to deep feeling within the reader and causes your breath to stop, as dark implications stir and aching love is roused:

In the morning they came up out of the ravine and took to the road again. He'd carved the boy a flute from a piece of roadside cane and he took it from his coat and gave it to him. The boy took it wordlessly. After a while he fell back and after a while the man could hear him playing. A formless music for the age to come. Or perhaps the last music on earth called up from out of the ashes of its ruin. The man turned and looked back at him. He was lost in concentration. The man thought he seemed some sad and solitary changeling child announcing the arrival of a traveling spectacle in shire and village who does not know that behind him the players have all been carried off by wolves.

Guilty Pleasure

I've always found the idea of having a guilty pleasure to be highly suspect. It strikes me as a way to keep other people from noticing your poor taste, be it in books, fashion styles, or what-have-you. Usually when somebody else points out a guilty pleasure, it is something truly awful. Then again, it wouldn't involve guilt if it was sublime, would it?

My own poor taste is clearly evident. One has to look no further than my dvd collection (which admittedly is quite small) to see an irrefutable example. I recently added to it one of the worst movies ever committed to celluloid: Black Belt Jones.

Long days back we used to rent this movie almost weekly, and I thought we had found the blue sapphire diamond of blaxploitation flicks. You could hear laughter in the house late into the night, orchestrated by corny dialogue and lo-fi karate explosions. That was years ago, and recently I got to thinking how long it had been. What would it be like to revisit BB and friends? I decided to find out, located a cheap copy on ebay and purchased it.

Sitting down to watch this gem from 1972, I found myself laughing, yes, just like old times. Yet it was laughter borne more of pain than joy: Black Belt Jones had not aged well. It may very well be the worst movie I have ever seen. It is like a home movie that should have stayed in the vault. It is bad -and I don't mean baaaadaaaassss, I mean BAD bad. Look up the word "bad" in Webster's and it cites BB.

Here's an example of the grade school dialogue. BB has been called in by his government superior -he's some kind of agent for an unnamed group that appears to part of the FBI. His superior (inevitably white) tells BB that he has to go into the ghetto and help break up a criminal scheme. BB refuses, saying, "You ought to write comedies for television."

His superior replies, "But can it be done?"

To which BB says, "Don't believe the myth that all (black people) are invisible."

When BB leaves the room, his superior starts chomping on a cigar and tells his partner, "He'll do it." Apparently BB has worked out some kind of code with his minders that the audience isn't privy to, because to me it sounded like they just spewed a bunch of gibberish. But I guess I don't know how to write good movie dialogue, do I?


BB has to help a friend called Pop save his karate school from a bad guy named "Pinky". Pop is ostensibly a teacher of kung fu, but apparently nobody told that little bit of information to the actor who portrays him, the seventies icon with the seventies icon name, Scatman Crothers. The scenes in which Scatman uses his "skills" to defeat thugs are so laughable that they go beyond the laugh horizon into a dark, lonely void of despair. Not since Margot Kidder's drug-addled turn as Lois Lane in Superman II (where she is visibly intoxicated most of the time) has a noted actor been so humiliated onscreen.

Fortunately Pop doesn't last long in the movie. Enter the daughter: Sydney.

When Sydney enters the scene, she delivers the most memorable dialogue and action in the movie. She is clearly a product of her times. The early seventies were not only the age of Gloria Steinem but Angela Davis too: feminism combined with black revolution. Sydney all but personifies the Black Panther movement, and she takes guff from no man, woman or pimp, a kind of third-rate Foxy Brown. BB quickly finds his hands full when Sydney shows up to preserve her father's school.

When BB receives a hot tip, Sydney offers to come along. BB replies by telling her, "Why don't you go do the dishes or something?" He points to the sink, where we can see a pile of dirty plates and mugs.

Sydney pulls out a revolver and shoots up the entire sink, reducing the dishes to powder. "They're done," she says.

You just don't mess with Sydney.

Later, on the beach, BB propositions her and she rejects him. "My cookie would kill you," she tells him.

There are many other citable instances of why Black Belt Jones is the worst movie ever made. Pinky's "rap" for instance, burned in my memory forever but to which I will not expose my tender readers' hearts and minds.

Men Without Hats

One of the sweetest memories from my adolescent years is dancing around the bedroom and singing in front of the mirror while playing Men Without Hats' seminal album, Rhythm of Youth. That was in the early eighties and much water has passed under the proverbial bridge since those halcyon days. Recently, though, I found the cassette buried amidst some old things and popped it in the player (yes, I still have a tape cartridge in my stereo) and found myself dancing "like an imbecile."

That lyric comes from the band's smash hit and signature song of the eighties decade, The Safety Dance. Another memorable line from the still-catchy tune gives the listener permission to "dance like you're from out of this world". Surely these are words to live by.

In my teenaged years I was a big fan of Men Without Hats. I even saw them perform live and found the experience to be very strange (and therefore, in teenage terms, "totally rad"). The lead singer and mastermind behind the band, Ivan Doroschuk, was given to talking at great length between songs and providing weird and esoteric explanations for what his lyrics "really" meant. I remember the rest of the band sort of milling around, hands laid idly on their instruments, waiting until they were needed to play again, usually after a five-to-ten minute interlude. Needless to say, it was a memorable and long night.

It's important to note that no one was wearing hats at the show, not on stage or in the audience. This is of interest beyond just the obvious homage to the band's sobriquet. Originally formed by Ivan and two of his brothers in the late seventies in the cold climes of Montreal, the band in its nascent form was known as Men WITH Hats. This was soon changed, however, since the band always threw off their hats at the end of each show. Thus Men Without Hats was born into legend.

Now, it's fine and good to have a hit pop tune instruct the listener to "act like an imbecile". Who doesn't hold that freedom as dear? I wonder, though, if Ivan didn't take this axiom to mean that he could also write lyrics like an imbecile. As evidenced in other tracks on Rhythm of Youth, there is a cause to wonder.

One of the joys of listening to pop songs -from the eighties in particular- is their regular penchant for celebrating self-evident truths. Pop songs let us in on the heretofore secret knowledge that girls just want to have fun (Cyndi Lauper) , and that one thing can lead to another (The Fixx). In keeping with the times, Men Without Hats also provide precious insight into the hidden corners of existence.

In the song Things in My Life, while thinking that he's walking in a rainy Scottish forest, Ivan sings the words, "There are things you can buy in the drugstore/There are things you can hang on your wall/There are things you can read in the paper/There are things that do nothing at all". The reek of Ultimate Truth is all over this quartet. Lending even greater weight is the song's chorus: "We can never remember the things we always forget". If this stuff was alcohol, I'd be on a bender dawn to dusk.

My love for Men Without Hats is undeterred, even so, because in hearing again the continuous keyboard chartings that provide the skeleton of every track, I am transported to the end of the rainbow, where not only is Truth plain to see, it's danceable. Safety dance, indeed.

And that is what I think Ivan and his band want to do: give the world a reason to dance. In one of two tracks exclusive to the cassette version of Rhythm of Youth ("not included on the LP"), Ivan asks the nation of China if it wants to dance. The response is a lusty wave of applause. We can safely interpret that to mean, "Yes, Ivan, we wants to dance."

In another song, Ivan sings, "I have done a good thing/You're really dancing/Everybody's happy."

Since I saw them perform only the once, I cannot say if Ivan perfected his ability get crowds dancing. I remember people were dancing at my show, but only in spurts. Maybe if he had talked less-! But that was early in their career and for a number of years after the band did go on to have a couple more hit songs. Who can forget Pop Goes The World? Therefore it is entirely possible that he finally did remember what he had always forgot.

JK Rowling Eat Your Heart Out!

Four out of five readers agree: "Auralia's Colors" by Jeff Overstreet is the best fantasy novel of 2007... and the fifth is starting to change her mind!

Auralia's Colors

This is a huge day for Jeff Overstreet. This is a postively ginormous day for him ("ginormous" is an actual word, incidentally; you can find it in Webster's). Today he has in his hands the physical fact that is his first published novel, Auralia's Colors. It arrived in boxes yesterday and Jeff had a small gathering of friends to celebrate and undoubtedly felt the warmth of congratulation. Most important, though, is what he holds in his hands, because what is now in his shall soon (September 15th!) be in many others. This is a book that will go far!

I had the unique pleasure of reading the book in manuscript form. Though I know the book has been passed through the hands of editors and back into Jeff's for revision, the impression left on me even in nascent form is sufficient to know that this is a great book. I look forward to reading it and spending more time in the beautiful and harrowing vision Jeff has created.

The Devil is a Dinosaur

Jack Kirby is widely recognised as the "King of Comics" and rightfully so. For pure imaginative power and bold design, he is unequalled, and his fingerprints can be seen on nearly every major character created by Marvel Comics in the sixties and seventies. He created the X-Men, the Fantastic Four and the Hulk in 1963 (Stan Lee wrote the books and Kirby illustrated them),
characters that have become household words around the world. Looking at Kirby's long career spanning several decades, you can see the many phases that he went through as an artist. The seventies decade saw what is arguably his biggest and most creative phase, certainly his boldest. Even so, some of his creations have not aged quite as well as Mister Fantastic and the Human Torch.

In 1978 Jack Kirby introduced a slew of titles at Marvel Comics, notable among them... DEVIL DINOSAUR! At first flush a book that looks silly and seems to be the particularly harsh consequences of experimenting with horse tranquilisers, further study reveals a sublime pleasure. "In an age when GIANTS walked the world -HE was the mightiest of them all!" This tagline contains within it one the most immediate pleasures, to imagine that the age of dinosaurs was not only brutal and bloody but that it also had its own version of what amounts to a superheroic lizard. Things only get better from there.

Inside the third issue of the series, Devil Dinosaur is being scolded by his humanoid companion, the loquacious Moon Boy. "How can one find sleep when the valley resounds with fearful screams?!" Moon Boy sends Devil Dinosaur to find the source of the racket. Take a moment to think about that: Devil Dinosaur, the mightiest dinosaur of them all (and you know that is mighty indeed), takes orders from a little hairy creature called Moon Boy, when he can tear up pterodactyls like they were made of paper? Not only takes orders but lets the runt ride on his back like he was a horse? My friend, this is the stuff of legend! Let the song in our hearts be heard!

The series, woefully cancelled after only nine issues, is basically one battle after another, as Devil Dinosaur takes on progressively stronger and more fearsome monsters. In essence, he is revealed to be Godzilla's red-hided stepchild -but with the crucial distinction of having his very own Moon Boy telling him what to do.

Nevertheless, Jack Kirby shows us why he is the king, even with this title which admittedly pales by comparison with most of his other creations. Only a royally descended artist could have brought us Devil Dinosaur.

Free Hugs

You could do worse than read these

The best comics to hit the rack in recent years have their biscuits and eat them too, simultaneously sending up familiar spandex tropes while telling fine and hilarious yarns. An indirect pathos is also experienced, especially in the case of Grant Morrison and Frank Quitely's All Star Superman. But mostly they are hilarious.

Marvel Zombies cashes in on the recent zombie frenzy and renders some of our favorite heroes into flesheating monsters. While I was initially reluctant to read this mini-series, it hooked me almost as soon as I opened the first issue. Peter Parker's lament about eating Aunt May and Mary Jane alone is worth the cover price -and the series only gets funnier from there. It appeals mainly to comic geeks who know these characters and Marvel Comics history, but I think there are probably pleasures for the uninitiated too.
Pathos rating: 9 (out of 10)
There is great satirical value to be had from characters that have been around so long and are so burdened by decades of continuity that the most interesting thing they can do now is eat each other. It's tragic because it's true and stirs tears from those of us who adored these guys when we were tots -mostly tears of laughter, though.

All Star Superman is the closest thing to mythmaking you will see in comics today. Grant Morrison and his brilliantly gifted illustrator Frank Quitely (both live in Glasgow, Scotland) have condensed everything that is grand and epic about the Superman icon. The result is an inspired amalgamation of highlights from Big Blue's long and historic career (he is the first four-color superhero after all). For anybody interested in pure powerhouse storytelling in sequential art: seek no further than this book.
Pathos rating: 3
Since this series depends so much on reconstituting what has gone before, it is not too pathetic. It is so glorious and unfettered that one can truly appreciate the lasting vitality of the Superman mythos here by seeing it remixed and remastered. One notable encounter we've never seen before is when Supes has to vie for the hand of Lois Lane after gifting her with superpowers for a day. As soon as a woman of her stature (however temporary) is available, heroes from other epochs show up to woo her away. Seeing Samson and Atlas enter into contests of strength with Superman is uniquely entertaining and very clever to boot!

Finally we come to Nextwave, the greatest comic book of all time. The prolific and witty Warren Ellis writes and Stuart Immonen renders in a panacea of illustrative styles this comic book to end all comic books. Truly, this is the apocalypse of sequential art -and I could not more wholeheartedly embrace it. This ragtag bunch of "Agents of H.A.T.E." are taken from one insane battle to another, all the while parodying and transforming the entire concept of superheroes. Nothing will ever be the same after Nextwave, and rightly so. If all comics made me laugh this hard, I would have perished before puberty.
Pathos rating: 10
Everything that is absurd in comic books is thrust rudely into the spotlight here, making it the most pathetic display of spandex and hyperbole imaginable by man and dog. What makes the motor hum in this book is also what underscores its tragedy: superheroes only really work anymore if you make fun of them. And when fun is poked with such vim and whimsy as this, it makes you almost glad that the age of capes and cowls has come to an end.

Where have all the heroes gone?

The seventies era was the beginning of the end for popular sequential art, ushering in a revitalised sense of page layout and story design that had its roots in the sixties and would see its final decline in the mid-eighties with such classics as Watchmen and The Dark Knight Returns. Comic book illustrators and writers like Jim Starlin, Steve Englehart and Steve Gerber brought ingenuity and vitality to seventies comic books that would spark a later revolution in independent publishers and cultivate some of the finest examples of the form. Yet rather than creating a sustainable model, the work done by imaginative and greatly talented artists would give way from mythic storytelling to commercial interest and bankrupt editorial meddling.

Marvel Comics Group produced groundbreaking titles in the seventies, like Jim Starlin's Warlock featuring a man struggling to find a nonviolent path to save his soul, and Steve Gerber's Howard the Duck with its eponymous hero navigating the joys and pratfalls of modern living. Steve Englehart's run on Captain America is probably the heaviest hitting of the three, translating the Nixon years into comic book form; the "star-spangled" hero confronts dark truths about his nation's political heart and has to decide what the American Dream truly is. These pioneers laid the groundwork for later serious books created by other artists in the eighties: Baron and Rude's Nexus, for example, in which the question of justice is thoroughly explored, or Dave Sim's Cerebus, an evolving experiment of the boundaries of comic book storytelling. Then along came Frank Miller and Alan Moore.

This pair of deeply gifted artists transformed the comic book landscape in ways that have been duly noted by aficionados and scholars. Moore's Watchmen is an epitaph for superheroes, at the same time utilising literary techniques to explore human nature. Miller displays similar literary virtuosity in The Dark Knight Returns but wraps it in pulp mannerisms and vigilante justice. Taken on their own these seem natural and even necessary progressions of sequential art, developed out of the hard pioneering work of their predecessors. Yet one has only to look at where comic books have gone from there to see that the form has degenerated and now is a pale reflection of what was.

What you see in the seventies and early eighties is evolution; what follows is regression of the form and a softening of what defines it, to the extent that comic books now resemble tv shows and movies and video games. (The style of comic book storytelling is also true in the inverse, as we can see in the huge popularity of Spider Man at the box office and shows like Heroes on tv.)
What's changed? In short, comics are no longer about mythic storytelling.

The grounding Moore and Miller used for their opuses was an old innovation: give spandex wearers real hangups and conflicts. Stan Lee introduced this style in the early sixties with his coterie of illustrators at Marvel, the "House of Ideas" as was, yet never strayed from putting characters into situations way beyond the pale of human experience. Like protosuperheroes from antiquity Gilgamesh, Beowulf, Samson and Odysseus, the House of Ideas gave us Spider Man and the Fantastic Four, humans with special gifts faced with epic challenges. These challenges developed beyond simple struggles of good versus evil, setting the stage for the more significant questions of the seventies stripe of hero. Yet even as Warlock and Howard the Duck strain against boundaries that we mere mortals can relate to, still they are part of narratives culled from a dizzy, cosmic scope, a factor unique to comics and woefully absent as of late.

The kind of obstacles seen in comic books today run the gamut of dealing with pregnancy, teenagers on the run or, as in the case of Spidey, which close relation is going to be killed next. The potential for these obstacles to be part and parcel of more epic narrative is still there and intrinsic to the form, but it gives way for issue after issue of protracted discussion and emotional handwringing, highlighted by the occasional fisticuff with a villain who also happens to be burdened by mundane concerns: spandex wearers are so much like real people now that the grandeur is lost and they no longer possess the ur-capabilities of true mythical figures. The root of this development can be traced back to Miller and Moore.

I am not assigning blame to either of these men. I'm not part of the camp that takes Steven Spielberg to task for creating the first summer blockbuster (Jaws) and therefore enabled the profusion of superficial "tentpoles" that make up the bulk of Hollywood fare, and neither am I attempting to say Moore and Miller are responsible for the loss of mythmaking in comic books. What is closer to the truth is that reader expectations have changed and the dizzy pioneering of superheroes is more liable to simply give them nausea. Meanwhile the few books that do aspire to those old heights come off derivative and uninspired.

Meddling by increasingly influential stables of editors is also a big part of what has changed. Comic books now are more driven by top-down decision making, in which the home office tells creators what to do with licensed characters rather than creating an atmosphere in which bold ideas can take off and find expression. You can see a little of this in Grant Morrison's breathtaking and prolific output at DC Comics, but even then the fingerprints of editors are all over the pages stealing his thunder. Consequently the best comics to be found today are not about a staple diet of superheroes, rather you will find formal experimentation and reconstuction of old conceits leading the way. Morrison's graphic novel The Filth is a fine example of a new direction for comics, yet it is with a little sadness because a significant appeal to the book is its deconstruction of the spandex myth. Comic books, it seems, are no longer fertile ground for mythical narrative.

RollerBlog

My friend Katy has become obsessed with all things 70's and recently started a blog to honor this new phase. As I am also a fan of the "brown era", I can only heartily recommend you check it out. There's a convenient link just to the right of your screen!

Is this you? Is it me?

Now you can make your own Simpsons avatar at: simpsonsmovie.com. It's fun!

willitblend.com

Mother of All Rubber Duckies

First Life

Eve Online is "not a computer game. It is an emerging nation, and we have to address it like a nation." This comes from the chief exec of the Icelandic company, CCP. It looks like nation, too, with a population scratching 200,000. Within these diverse groupings of characters, alliances are forged, each vying for control of the game.

The "game" in this instance has digital real estate, not unlike Second Life. What separates Eve, though, is the mode in which you gain real estate. Rather than float blithely through safe zones, such as SL offers, in Eve, while it does have neutral territories, is primarily made up of 0.0 space -which means zero security or policing. Alliances control systems and battle each other to expand them.

A far cry from Pac Man, yes?

Recently CCP, owners of Eve Online, has been accused of corruption. Some alliances are convinced that CCP rigged the game to favor Band of Brothers, one of the most influential groups in the game. A rival faction, Goonswarm, has even gone so far as to say that the Band of Brothers are engaged in espionage and theft of game secrets. Because of these accusations, it turns out that a majority of players do not trust CCP to run a fair game.

In response CCP plans to hold elections this fall: nine player-overseers will act as ombudsmen for the game's subscribers.

"I envision this council being made up of nine members," says the chief exec, "selected by the players themselves, where you announce your candidacy, and if you win the election, they come here to Iceland, and they can look at every nook and cranny and get to see that we are here to run this company on a professional basis.

"They can see that we did not make this game to win it."

Generation Now Redux

You've probably already heard about this: dotcoms for the wee ones. Kids are getting into some online fun with sites like Club Penguin, where your avatar is a self-designed... you guessed it, a self-designed penguin. Who amongst us has not wondered what it would be like to be a penguin? Certainly I cannot count myself exempt from this group, and so many were the nights when I as a child lay awake on my pillow dreaming of life as a penguin, it's a wonder I slept at all. And hey, the frosting on this cake of nostalgia is that my sense of lost childhood is compounded by the fact that it is now more obvious than ever that I was born too soon.

Other sites let "small people" (as children are sometimes considered, in lieu of simply calling them "pint size consumeroids") they set it up so you can collect and dress media celebrities like they were dolls. Webkinz.com and Stardoll "your paperdoll heaven" are places where you can finally achieve your dream of creating Hillary Duff's wardrobe. Not only this, you can wrap her up in the smartest garb and take her out for a night on the town at HollywoodNightsnDelights.com.

Being a kid was never so much fun!

Remembering Tiananmen Square

This week is the eighteenth anniversary of the Tiananmen Square massacre, where Chinese soldiers indiscriminately slaughtered students protesting for democratic rights. Eighteen years since that horrible event. I was in college when it happened, and when news reached us here, it had a profound impact on my life. I would go so far as to say that it was the spark that set off my social consciousness. Previously, I was content doing and living by a narrow set of strictures, rules handed down by my mom and aunt, boundaries that, until that point, I had been happy to ignore or rail against. Something about Tiananmen broke open my shell and I began to take notice of a larger world beyond the borders of my ego. Eighteen years since then... I wonder how much has really changed, cynically, perhaps, but certainly with an eye that horrors like Tiananmen continue to be enacted daily, in Gaza, Darfur, Grozny, Baghdad... the list goes on. But what power there is in the image of the single student stopping with his body the advance of four tanks, cannons aimed forward and at the ready, his annihilation seemingly at hand yet doing nothing to shake him from the spot: it is as inspirational today as it was the day we first saw it.

Arrest all Smart Alecks

To follow up on yesterday's bit about cellphones being seized at New York school's, there was an incident I came across during further reading: In October of last year, a large contingent of NYPD arrived unannounced at Wadleigh High School for the Performing Arts, in Harlem, to set up a metal detector and herd students through it, ostensibly to search for weapons. One student, vp of the school government association, nervous that his cellphone would be taken away, called his mother and waited outside the school for her to arrive. When officers approached him and wondered what he was doing, the student explained that he was waiting for his mom. Their response was to call him a "smart aleck", seize his phone, handcuff him and book him into the local stationhouse, where he was detained for several hours in a jailcell.
Where's John McClane when we really need him?!?!

Electronic Contraband

That's what cellphones are called now: electronic contraband. At least according Middle School 54 on the Upper West Side of New York City. Check it out, we're accustomed to having metal detectors at schools now, sure, but probably nobody ever gave much thought that they would be used to confiscate cellphones.
Yet this is exactly what police -yes, NYPD was there in person- did at Middle School 54 this week. "People were crying," says one eighth grader.
I'm being serious.
Any child caught with a cellphone on their person after passing through the metal detector was detained and had their contraband taken away. A tearful scene, evidently.
The Education Department first banned "communication devices" in 1988. In those days such devices were beepers, the cellphone revolution still several years off. More recently, New York's mayor took action to prohibit cellphones specifically in the area's schools -forbidden items also include headphones, batteries, and can openers.
From the sounds of it, the kids were traumatised by this week's event. "I feel naked," another eighth grader reported. "I feel like I lost something very important to me."
Parents are up in arms. Oftimes, it appears, the phones are not owned by the student but by their parent. One outraged mother says that she is getting her lawyer and "filing a criminal complaint that they stole my phone."
In all, four hundred cellphones were taken, plus sixty nine ipods, two knives and one imitation gun (always a good thing to have in eighth grade). They will be returned to parents (and parents only) no earlier than next week. Which means mobs of preteens roaming the city streets without cellphones.
Could be trouble.