In Which Some Cool Comics, the Black Swan & Matt Groening Serve As a Mirror Inward

I like to sometimes to write about my weekend activities, in case you think I don't get out enough. Rest assured, I do try to make the most out of my days off. At least the first day - then, as is the case with this Sunday, twelve hours are set aside for delicious sleep.

So whether you want to hear it or not (forget the fact that it's easy enough to click off this page), I will happily recall my weekend experiences, in a neat listed form:

Black Swan
I was anxious to see this, and that anxiety followed me throughout it's viewing and into my dreams. As with Aranovsky's film "Requiem for a Dream," I would impart the following advice to any 1st time viewer: prepare to be unnerved.

And I was. I won't go into too much detail because a.) I trust you aren't reading this blog for a movie review (and if you are, I apologize, though it's a very good idea, come to think of it....), and b.) giving it away would be awfully rude.


I will say this: Winona Ryder is exquisitely scary, the music of "Swan Lake" is as haunting as the jaunty hand-held choreography, and the entire experience of watching this movie will make make your insides feel as dark and hollow as the cheekbones of a ballerina.
Hence, good stuff.

Brooklyn Comics & Graphics Festival
Conveniently located down the street from our apartment, the festival proved to be the perfect way to spend our Saturday (and our money). Crowded, yes; but filled to the brim with some awesome comic artists, which I feel compelled to share with you all, as I spent the entirety of last night adding their blogs to my Google reader and subsequently goggling at their art. And, as a bonus, may I remind you that they are all lovely ladies, which gives this sort of lovely lady hope.

• Junko Mizuno - bought a signed copy (!) of her first manga (now out of print), "Cinderella." Cute and deadly are the words that best describe her style.

• Jennifer Tong - alas, I could not bring myself to shell out the $50 for her beautiful neon lemonade silkscreens, but luckily I was able to see all her fruitallucinations on her site. (Yeah, that's right, I shoved that pun right in your face.)

 

• Marian Churchland - though she wasn't at the festival, I felt I had to bring her up in the company of my new fave female comickers. The main squeeze of Brandon Graham (also a great artist, and the brain behind "King City"), Marian lives in Canada and brings the cuteness as she she blogs about pie and jackets. I snagged a copy of "ELEPHANTMEN: Damaged Goods" last time I was at Bergen Street Comics. Good investment!

Fittingly, Marian's cover for Brandon's "King City."

• Aidan Koch - I passed by her table quickly, trying to keep myself from nabbing a copy of "The Whale," in all its water-colored poetic glory. Later on I find out it was actually the artist herself sitting quietly there, trying to sell her first comic ever. Now I really wished I'd bought it.

 

• Jungyeon Roh - again with the expensive silkscreens! So wonderful and yet so out of reach....I really wish she had been selling her book. I understand the reasoning for the price however; >sigh< if I only I were rich enough to buy art instead of getting angry at myself for not creating it.

 

• Lisa Hanawalt - I can't take complete credit for this find; for Ryan, it was love at first sight with the "Hats" sketch. I soon followed after he brought home #1 and 2 of her "I Want You" series. Not many women can get away with psycho sexual animals and subtle fart jokes...but Lisa can.  

Click to enlarge (believe me, it's worth it to see the Irritable Bowel Syndrome hat

Matt Groening
This is what really made the weekend - after 3 hours of festival goodness, Ryan and I make our way to the entrance. And who is standing at the Ad House Books booth, bag full of goodies, but the creator of "The Simpsons" himself, the first artist I ever learned the name of at the tender age of 7 - in short my hero - Matt Groening. Ryan urges me on, and I sheepishly creep up behind the unsuspecting victim guy and introduce myself. (Finally, knowing the real pronunciation of his name pays off!)

As is the case with most celebrity/hero sightings, I babble on about loving his work and seem to forget my confidence. Out pours my undying devotion for "The Simpsons" over the course of my lifetime (which coincided with the shows existence as well.) He chuckled at the image of me with a Bart doll in the crib, and I thanked him for bringing years of humorous dinner time TV to my family.

You'll be happy to know that Mr. Groening is a perfect gentleman and all-around nice guy, who seems genuinely pleased with meeting fans; and thank goodness, as dealing with a motor mouth like me can prove to be difficult. He even asked me what I did, after I professed that my love of film mainly stemmed from his Simpsons parodies. What proceeded was my usual explanation of "Well, I'm a producer...for test commercials, but that's not what I want to do.....I actually went to school for film directing and writing, and I also did animation, but I had to ultimately choose one, and I'm still paying it all off..." yada yada. The poor man.

And then the most insightful thing came out of his mouth: "Well, what do you want to do?"

Apart from being completely flabbergasted at his wanting to know in the first place, I also had to stop and think. Why would he ask me that question? And why was this happening today, of all days, at the comics festival of all places? Was there perhaps something serendipitous about this particular moment?

All I can say is that ever since he asked me, I've been wondering about the same question myself.

‽

It's Time for "WTF Is Your Problem Now?"

Oy, I'm kvetching.

....with the queen of complaints: me.
I have to remember, my workplace is a pit of disease, much like a kindergarten play room.

I compromised my attitude for coming into work by promising it'd leave me some time to write in my blog: all the things I've been saving up to finish in my drafts, everything that's been waiting on handwritten notebook pages to be copied into a long column of writing that people will probably groan about having to read through....things of that nature. Including yesterday's journey through Park Slope with the Rybotz, buying comics at Bergen, visiting KingCon, chatting with a bored Jonathan Ames, scoffing at overpriced vintage wares, and switching locations of stifling to frigid temperatures faster than that stupid Katy Perry song. (Like how I just summarized my day in a sentence? I need to try this more often - less bored readers.)

That said, somewhere in between sweating in my coat, freezing because of the sweat caused from excess coat when sprinting outside with my long impatient NY legs, then reverting back to sweating once my coat was recovered with all the winter items I had since peeled away.....I got sick.

This also might have been a result of my skimpy Frosted Flakes + Fiber Bar diet, which was finally topped off with a hasty dinner that I eagerly devoured within 5 minutes, out of fear it might disappear before I could finish. These are the illogical realities of a New Yorker; or just a starving idiot - not sure if there's a difference.

Anywho, walking up and down the subway stairs made me realize that I was dizzy, almost weak, and that my irritation at being slow was not as important as my fear of possibly becoming that loathsome sick passenger responsible for delayed F train service. I'm usually guilty of despising that person, but now all of a sudden I'm guilty of being that person who forgot to eat their Cheerios in the morning and passed out in the middle of the closing doors. (However, rest-assured I'll still be complaining about the asshole who throws himself in front of the train in the near future - some of us have lives you know.)

My answer to this faint feeling was protein in the form of a McDonald's double cheeseburger. I have never glared at a cashier with such pale, sickening intensity. How long does it take to get a pre-made patty slapped on a bun and thrown into a bag? Apparently, longer than it takes me to get angry about it.

Later on at friend's, head still woozy while watching 1977's Tentacle by Italian director, Assonitis (don't think the pun was lost on me, and don't judge my off the cuff selection of entertaining Saturday night fare), I began to retrace my steps in hopes of discovering what the hell was wrong with me.....

OhmygodIhadaTamponinfor8hours. I'm probably going to die.

This provided me with at least 3 hours of pure hypochondriacal panic, as I fretted over my symptoms in relation to TSS, along with the possibility of seeing a giant octopus eye suddenly emerge from the depths of the ocean in HD.

Luckily, as I sit here the next day at work, there are no rashes to be seen; but my stomach is still unhappy with anything I feed it, and my eyes refuse to stay alert enough to focus on my typing. What could it be? What plague hath befallen me this time?

It's not a far stretch to assume I contracted something while working. All week, there have been bodies walking around with the cold, allergies, stomach flu, who knows what else. Come to think of it, ever since I started working here 2 years ago, I've been to the doctor more frequently than ever. Perhaps this is a direct result of the gift of health insurance....perhaps not.

In any case, the condition of my health and those of this morose, dust-filled prison seem inextricably connected. That, and my editor is playing crappy early 2000 Emo music with shrill guitars and thoroughly annoying twentysomething tirades about burying graves, wasted time or some shit.

And I shall continue to whine about it.

‽

FLASH_____ FRIDAY: Moving On, Perhaps?

It has been a week without a post, and in my punitive mind this is not acceptable.

But I'm going to tell the punitive part of my mind to shut the fuck up so I can focus on the things that are making me feel good instead. Take THAT punitivity! You've been punitively powned.

I was planning on writing a long post about how this apartment search was making me go bonkers, but today I finally found a place that I will hopefully be able to call home.

I'm superstitious, so I'm not going to say anything more than that until I fork over the money and finalize the deed. Until my feet are planted firmly in Greenpoint and not in the hell-hole I call home right now.

Maybe I'm exaggerating. There was a time I was hopeful about my new apartment. Kensington was everything I thought I needed: space. nature. beautiful homes. closet space. the Q train.

But you know what Kensington is to me right now?

REGGAE.

The Boom Boomboomboom Boom vibrating through the chair, straight through my seated bum, making my heart pump spasmodically to the same beat. Blood pressure rising. Urge to thrust fist through floor and grab the nearest pothead I can find and scream so loud that my spit shoots down their throat. The woman with lopsided breasts, teeth missing, her face so shockingly busted that my eyes almost bulged out of my head the first time I saw her.

Don't lecture me. I'm allowed to be mean when I spend $1200 on a place that broods such aggression. Where you reach to grab your toothbrush and a cockroach says hello. Where hot water isn't hot. Even unexplained specters, fueled by the negative energy of our heated anger, have plagued us.

I will miss the antique Victorian homes....lazy afternoon brunches at Connie's....The walks in Prospect Park. Rocky's Pizza....The reliable Chinese place that gave us an extra soda for delivery....That store called "Tis Da Season Too."...The sign over the paternity test clinic that asks "Does he really have his father's eyes?"...The way the light comes through our windows during the day....the predominantly Jewish car wash....

Dear Kensington, you are not all to blame. In the beginning...it was good. But it's time for a change. Ive found a place with friendly neighbors and a landlord that might as well be my third grandmother. Where the neighborhood has hardly changed since 1920. The streets are vibrant and cozy, sharing the bustle of the city life and the charm of a main street suburb. Polish groceries on every corner. Friends that live only a subway ride away.

There's even a dishwasher.

So, I apologize for any disappointment in this Friday's post; it's not so much of a flashback, as much as it's a flashforward. Hopefully, into a better future.

And no more fucking reggae.

Jamaican Me Crazy!

I am in the middle of a tumultuous love/hate relationship with my apartment right now. In all relationships, I suppose there are ups and downs. But I fear there is no compromise to be made on this one. The whole situation has become a prolonged agony; a torment between having to make a huge change that involves time, money and stress, or dealing with daily, nerve-wracking irritations that threaten a healthy, happy lifestyle.

Kensington ain't all its cracked up to be.....despite the obvious dinosaur.

I hate apartment hunting.

In the past six years or so, I have moved about....ehh.....I would say 10 times. This is a lot of schlepping, a lot of picking and choosing, a lot of money. And it seems that every time I move I end up spending more than I did last time.

I'm sick of it.

I thought that when I moved to Kensington, I'd be done. A place of my own....and in Brooklyn! (Elmhurst, Queens was not a happening place.) But no; yet again, there are problems...even worse than before, when it was just about space and location. Now it's a matter of sanity.

Let's review the pro's and con's of my Kensington abode....

PRO's (I'm not leaving the best for last, 'cause I'm eager to end loudly on the angry points)

• Proximity to @ Prospect Park - it's only a couple of blocks away to trees, greenery and ducks
• Proximity to Q Train - we all know this is the only reliable, true Express train
• Over 700 sq. ft of room.....for all of our crap; ie, clothes, books, paperwork, somebody's eclectic record/DVD/CD collection, more clothes, more books......
• Sunny - almost too much so, but I need my Vitamin D since I never get to see the light of day during 10+ working hours
  
• Cheapo - $1200 a month is a good price these days for a place that doesn't resemble a dilapidated cardboard box

CON's
Neighborhood - though very mutli-cultural, there is not much to do for a twenty-something (who hardly gets free time in the first place). No one likes to visit "us all the way out here" (by the way: fuck you "no one"), and there are no restaurants that stay open passed 7pm....except for KFC. And we've relented on the fried chicken many times, much to the dismay of our bowels.

Landords - are useless. They smoke pot all day - which, whatever, I don't have a problem with - but if this keeps you from say, doing your job, then I would say it's a problem. Also, still waiting for him to fix the radiator which is emitting massive amounts of heat. We need to keep the window open and the fan on in the middle of winter just to breathe.

Cockroaches - they are in my sink. Their babies are under the coffee maker. They are dead in my toaster and their carcasses are hiding in my cabinets. Disembodied bug legs and antennae are causing us allergies. Cooking? What, so I can have some roach eggs in my soup? I don't think so.

We also had to chase a silverfish before it got to our bed. Do you know how fast those things are? It moves like a fucking cheetah on speed.....only with SIXTEEN LEGS. Yeah, not happy.

Mice - doesn't worry me too much. I think they are coming from the apartment below us, which leads me to my next crucial point....

Noise - this encompasses many things:

• ...the Jamaicans below us playing shitty reggae at all hours of the day AND night, which shakes our walls and floors, and beats repetitively under our pillows
• ...those same Jamaicans throwing things around their apartment as they SCREAM at each other at 7am. (I believe I've heard "No man can stand you!" and "Don't you touch him, he's only 8!", at which point I almost called child services.)
• ...one of their kids actually threatened to kill me while Ryan was home, then proceeded to taunt him through the floor by yelling, banging and BARKING as if in a drug-induced craze.
• ...and finally, the people next door to us playing shitty Gospel music, blaring through our kitchen, thus entrapping us within a bubble of bass-blasting misery.

*DISCLAIMER: the only reason I am calling them Jamaicans is a.) I don't know their surnames, and nothing else with which to identify them, and b.) they are, in fact, Jamaican. So, no I am not racist; I don't care who the hell they are, I just want them to shut the fuck up.

I just want a place that I can come home to after a long day of feeling completely exhausted, angered by commuters and frustrated with society, to just REST. Without having to whip out the Raid.....reel in agony over the digestive effects of take-out.....or stomp angrily on the floor whilst my entire body succumbs to the vibrations of the same goddamn notes of bongo drums EVERY SINGLE DAY!!!

I just want a place to call home.

As you might have already realized, I'm a little worked up about this issue. Finding a place has become both my dream and my secret hell, as all my sanity seems to both depend and hang on its balance.

So I ask, have you any advice?
Any leads? Any neighborhoods that I should grace with my unkosher presence?
(There's also a poll to the right if you want something short and sweet.)

Weekend Enlightenments (or "It's About Damn Time Ya Blogged!")

Lots of things happened this weekend. And since I'm too far behind on my blog in general, (and I very much enjoy lists) I will quickly run through the highlights, in no particular order, and possibly provide an explanation when I deem it necessary:

∆ Amazing Mexican food at Taco Chulo in Williamsburg
Let it be known that I am not a taco fan: at least not a taco that has anything more than the stapled meat, cheese and tortilla ala powdered flavoring sauce. But my steak quesadilla combo, with Chihuahua cheese & onions ($14) came with an amazingly spicy tortilla soup (better than chicken noodle!) and a sweet, tomato salsa (I don't even like tomatoes!)
Of course, the Mexican hot chocolate aperitif won me over from the very start.

∆ The realization of two new great memoir title ideas:
- "Sorry for My Greasy Napkin"
- "I Opened My Mouth and My Teeth Got Cold"

∆ Pretty sure the movie "The Happening" is tongue-in-cheek.
I know Mark Walberg is a bad actor....but here is no way that he could be THAT bad without some purpose. (Either I over- or under-estimate his potential.) Those fishbowl perspective shots, the ridiculousness of the story, and the hilarity of the dialogue are very telling of an albeit forced parody, not just a "horrible movie."
Did that make it more more enjoyable, and hence good? Well I did laugh my ass off. (C'mon, that crazy woman at the end had so many good one liners, ie; "Why are you eyeing my lemon drink?").
I just wonder if Shyamalan really meant to pull our leg.

∆ NES Games had awesome music.
The game "NARC" let's you blow up drug dealers, limbs flying everywhere, whilst you listen to this awesome music. Other than that, I still maintain that after 15 minutes, I lose all interesting in playing any video game.

∆ John Goodman was in "C.H.U.D." ('84)!
(Presumed eaten by cannibalistic humanoid underground dwellers on Kenmare & Lafayette, which still has the same small diner marquee, now a Mexican food hotspot.) Daniel Stern and John Heard also acted alongside eachother, then were reunited in Home Alone. Great film to see the grimy evidence of SOHO before its fashion gentrification - I feel like this should be a double feature alongside Street Trash.
Another little nipplet of knowledge: (you'll understand my shitty pun in a second...) On the DVD Extras menu, click on the flashing cursors over the creature's eyes and you'll get to see the shower scene in all its topless glory. Don't judge; everyone enjoys boobs.

∆ Ft. Greene has KICK ASS apartments!
Slanted roofs! Turrets! Towers! Bay windows!
Williamsburg has lots of condos.......with no one in them.

∆ Something in the world of Chat 'n' Chew has cha-changed....
Their fries are no longer seasoned. They serve brunch (or did they always? I never do get outdoors by 12pm), and they have a new dessert fridge...not that I'm complaining that they have more room for cake. And the mac 'n' cheese is still delectable and gut-busting.
What will I miss most? The cute 50's-ish, retro diner paraphernalia decor. No more decrepit tin Coca-Cola signs or vintage toasters...where have they gone?! And more importantly, where can I buy them?

∆ John Carpenter's student film "Dark Star" is sort of boring.
Funny? Sometimes. The giant beach ball alien was the best part, but alas, deflated early on.
However, I bet as a student film it was pretty awesome, considering the special effects used to recreate the 2001-esque setting.

∆ They may have changed Domino's pizza sauce, but their cheesy bread still rocks.
And in case you're wondering this is the same day of the mac 'n' cheese. Hence, my weekend cheesy-carb diet.

∆ Isabella Rossellini is in "Death Becomes Her." And she is HOT.
Something I probably didn't quite get at age 10 while watching it on Channel 11's Sunday Night Movie.

∆ After cleaning my closet out for the first time in 5 years, I was able to stuff 6 large shopping bags full of unwanted/never worn/worn out/shrunken clothing away from my wardrobe forever.
Beacon's Closet credit price: $12.50.

>sigh<

In Memory of Uncle Artie

This is a copy of the note I wrote in memorial of Uncle Artie on the day of his wake. It was tucked into his suit pocket before his burial. I read this aloud to the attendees, as the flag was folded to "Taps," and he was saluted by Unites States Naval officers.
Click to enlarge.

I recently attended the funeral and wake of my great Uncle Artie, the brother of my grandma, Rose Esposito, and the godfather of my mother. Not many people are lucky enough to know their great aunts and uncles, but I was.

Uncle Artie lived with my great Aunt Theresa (Sis, or Toot, as she is often called) and Aunt Carly in an apartment on Avenue L in Brooklyn. Whenever we visited with grandma, there was always tea and cookies waiting for us, and toys and videos that my Uncle had once shared with my mother when she was a child. He was the "fun" uncle with sweets and surprises, but it wasn't until later on in my adolescence that I realized what a serious and dedicated gentleman he was.

When I was in high school, I wrote an article on Uncle Artie, and soon discovered that he had been just 17 when he convinced his mother to let him enter the service with his brothers during World War II. Dominick (Chubby) and Alfred went to the army, Arthur to the navy. There, he grew into a man as he braved air raids, mines, U-boats and the Japanese aboard an L.S.T. stationed in the Philippines. He was the recipient of two bronze stars. He saw atrocities that even in his old age, he refused to discuss. When the boys went on leave for days at a time, entertaining themselves with booze and women, Arthur stayed behind. He was respectful of the opposite sex, as he had many older sisters at home that often wrote him long letters from Prospect Park, Brooklyn.

One of those letters was found off the coast of Asia where the L.S.T. had been abandoned before the dropping of the Hiroshima bomb. The young Swedish policeman who found it wrote back years later, wondering what had ever happened to Arthur J. Varone, and if he and his family were well.

Uncle Artie never married. I don't ever remember him having been the dating type either. He was content to watch over his sisters, especially when Aunt Sis lost her husband in the 80's. From then on, the three of them lived together, while my grandma and two other uncles continued to raise their own families.

I never took the time to understand the history of my uncle until the day I wrote the article. He was working in his basement in a new apartment in Staten Island, which he shared with all his sisters. The basement was always immaculate, everything in its rightful place. Uncle Artie was very neat and disciplined, and wouldn't allow any of the women to undertake household fixes.

But that day he showed a softer side; he suddenly reached into a drawer and revealed a pile of old, yellowed B&W photographs from WWII. In one of them, a bare-chested, seventeen year old Italian boy with wildly curly, dark hair and quite a physique, posed atop a ship with comrades. (picture to come soon)

I was immediately hooked on his story, and dove into the photos as he reminisced through each one. He didn't think it was such a big deal, and I don't really know what made him share his past with me, but I will remain grateful for all that I discovered that day.

Uncle Artie died after a long bout with cancer of the esophagus. He was surrounded by his two sisters, but by then he was in too much pain to be lucid. But I'm sure, deep down, he could sense they were there. Though his last few months left him weak and unlike the Uncle Artie we all knew, at least we can always remember the way things were. I only wish that I had taken more advantage of that time we had together.

R.I.P Uncle Artie. You'll always be a hero to us.

ARTHUR VARONE, 82

World War II veteran was a retired carpenter

Tuesday, February 17, 2009

STATEN ISLAND, N.Y. -- Arthur J. Varone, 82, of Richmond, a World War II veteran and retired carpenter, died Sunday at home.

Born in Brooklyn, he settled in Richmond in 1996.

Mr. Varone worked as a carpenter at Bush Terminal in Brooklyn for 18 years. He retired in 1989.

He served as a seaman first class in the U.S. Navy during World War II, stationed in the Philippines, Asia, and the Pacific aboard transport ships.

Mr. Varone loved opera. A huge sports fan, he also enjoyed baseball and football.

Surviving are a brother, Dominick, and two sisters, Rose Esposito and Theresa J. Shotwell.

The funeral will be Thursday at 12:30 p.m. in the Colonial Funeral Home, New Dorp. Burial will follow in Moravian Cemetery, also New Dorp.

http://www.colonialfuneralhomesi.com/visitations/Photos.php?id=1205&action=post