Who Watches the Watchmen?

Well, I finally did. And I ignored all the fluff, the hyperbole, the critics, the fans, and all the b.s. that came with its theatrical release about nine months ago.

And I think Watchmen is arguably the best comic book adaptation ever made.

There are better comic book movies. Batman Begins is probably a better, more satisfying film. Christopher Reeves' 1978 Superman is better. But Batman Begins was an original story that adapted many aspects of the Batman mythos, just as Mario Puzo compiled a variety of disparate story ideas from the Superman mythos to write his original screenplay.

To be honest, most comic book-based movies, such as X-Men, Wolverine, Spider-Man, Daredevil, Electra, Barb Wire (ultimately forgettable except for Pamela Anderson in black leather and stilletto heels), Smallville, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Lois and Clark, and most of the rest, are not adapted from a single story out of the comics, but are written by Hollywood writers who are free to take as much info and ideas from the comics and change them around to -- with luck -- work on the big screen instead of the page.

And usually, those stories don't really transfer. Hence the disappointing Daredevil, Electra, and Barb Wire (except, of course, for Pamela Anderson in black leather and stilletto heels). The others might work, but they're pretty much just . . . okay. All right. Could be better.

Watchmen is faithfully adapted (for the most part) straight from the Alan Moore/Dave Gibbons graphic novel, and the writers and director have successfully transferred the word to film. The budget is right up there on the screen, from the dramatic opening, to the comics-panel-inspired opening titles (the first tableau is a nod to Batman's origin), to the effects-laden denouement.

The climax is altered from the original book in an effort, I think, to make the events more credible and less fantastic to mainstream audiences. I had no problem with the changes, although I understand diehard fanboys were disappointed. Personally, I think the filmmakers' creative decisions were more than acceptable compromises.

If there are flaws here, one might be that audiences may have found the film a little slow compared to other superhero movies. It is most definitely a thinking-person's superhero movie, and for that I loved it.

The other flaw is that, 22 years after its initial publication, the resolution of the mystery at the plot's core is, at best, anti-climactic. I saw it on Heroes two years ago. And the identity of the villain is pretty much choreographed to the audience very early in the film, despite some dramatic curveballs in the storyline.

But what the hell? I loved both the book and the movie. See the movie first, then go read the graphic novel, which is more deeply developed and imaginative.


Watchmen, I mean. Not Pamela Anderson.

Ultra-Religious Right Sex Cult in D.C.

Have I ever lied to you?

I think not.

So go here and read for yourself. It's the best-kept secret in D.C.

And God Bless America!

Tales within Tales within Tales...

I love books that don't exist.

You know what they are: characters in novels read them. They're imaginary books that exist only in the universe that's created in the novel you're currently reading. A character, looking across a river, might have in her hand, The Gulf: When to Get Divorced. Another character might find a book in a mysterious, dimly-lit curio shop. He opens the book . . . and that's the last anyone sees of him. The book's title: Don't Open This Book.

They push the plot along, or indicate theme, or are just there because the author felt like adding a little something.

My novel-in-rewrite-purgatory, The Enigma Club, is a 3/4 adventure, 1/4 comedy story about the era of pulp adventure, and I've filled it with mentions of imaginary books that reflect both the golden age of adventure, but also the antiquated post-Victorian era that spawned the pulps. They'd publish any kind of crap back then.

Safari to Hoboken
Where the Dung Beetles Dwell
Haunted Biergartens (Holzer & Grolsch)
Don't You Believe It! (rare copy of Mr. Ripley's first book -- quite the unsuccessful)
Roadside Gondwanaland
Who Discovered the Mogo?
Without a Nightlight in the Jungle (by our own Dr. Dickie Denton)
Enchanted Poems and Assorted Vowels
Palace of a Thousand Toothless Harem Girls
The Banana -- America's Friend!

One of the first notes I made in 1996 when I started the novel was about the ape-man who was the Enigma Club's benefactor, as well as a focal point to reel in readers' disbelief. He was a Tarzan clone who was not as dumb as George of the Jungle . . . but was close. Tarzan had adventures. My jungle lord has misadventures. He began life as Ka-Gor, but that name was not only unfunny, but also very close -- too close -- to Ki-Gor, a real pulp jungle lord of the '40s. So, after much serious deliberation, I switched Ka-Gor to . . .

Scrotar.

Scrotar the Pendulous.

And, to make this world of the Enigma Club as real as possible, I've come up with about 700 titles -- and synopses -- of Scrotar's adventures, as published in every other issue of the Enigma Club All-Adventure Magazine from 1914 to 1953. My lovely wife and muse, Maria, helped me come up with some of them, but I think she still prefers Ka-Gor over Scrotar. She's nuts.

Scrotar Aboard the Ghost Yacht
Scrotar and the Scrotarettes
Scrotar and the Trojans
Wanted: Scrotar . . . Dead or Alive
Scrotar and the Odd-Tasting Brownies
Judge, Jury and Scrotar
Sing a Song of Scrotar
Moo Goo Gai Scrotar
"Die, Scrotar, Die!"
Smell the Spoor of Scrotar

The Challenge of Scrotar
The Algebra Master covets Scrotar’s Golden Slide Rule. Best line: "‘Pi,’ the mathematician shouted. ‘Not pie!’"

Scrotar the Challenged
Scrotar follows a faint trail to Korocca, where a poisonous snake cult throws him into their diabolical Maze of Monochromatic Sand.

Scrotar the Magnanimous
Scrotar throws a banquet for homeless jungle animals and gets a prize . . . from the Volcano Death-King!

The reason I explain all this to you is that books that don't exist are really fun, and the New York Times has a cool article online that talks all about them. Go there . . . and keep reading . . .

. . . in the name of Scrotar!

Beware of the man of one book.

I can’t understand why people are frightened of new ideas. I’m frightened of the old ones.

John Cage

I've written before about the disease that has afflicted me since at least 7th grade: biblioholism. It's a despicable condition: I cannot walk by a bookstore without going inside and smelling the paper and leather, the book dust, and the airy aroma of sheer wonder. It started with my mother, who taught me how to read when I was three by using comic books. I quickly became addicted to stories, and it eventually blossomed into a complete and absolute addiction to the written word.

Since the idea of The Enigma Club, my novel that has ballooned into a trilogy, came to me in 1996, I've been going to library sales and a lot of used bookstores, gathering up as many period books about the golden age of adventure and exploration that I could find -- the weirder the better. (One of my favorite titles: I Married Adventure. The binding simulates the stripes of a zebra's coat. Love it!) Of course, I didn't limit myself to that topic -- I'd pick up whatever struck my fancy at the moment.

One of those titles was I Love Books: A Guide Through Bookland.

Somehow, when I moved to Richmond, the book got separated from my Enigma Club collection, so I found it by accident today in our library as I was looking for books I no longer wanted, that I could sell to the best used bookstore in Richmond, Black Swan Books.

I've changed my mind. I'm keeping it. It's a beautiful period book: written in 1946 by John D. Snider, a fellow Virginian. This edition was the 17th, published in 1958. The marbling is exquisite, the book is in almost perfect condition -- it looks as tough it's never been read -- and the endpapers and illustrations are classic examples of the period's bland style of drawing. It's the Campbell's Soup style of illustration: tasteless and inoffensive. (Thanks to Stephen King for the paraphrase.)

Even more importantly, I Love Books: A Guide Through Bookland, which I picked up thinking that I would find something in it of commiserative value, has pissed me off royally. I'm still keeping it; it's beautiful. But the writer was a pompous ass.

Some time in the mid-'80s, I was at a mall bookstore looking through the paperback fiction section. Two other guys were nearby, and one turned to the other in exasperation and said, "Why do you want to read this stuff?" The second guy shrugged and said, "What? What should I read?" And the first guy said, "Like, have you ever read the Bible?"

Like, it's that kind of limited and unimaginative attitude that pisses me off -- so much so that 25 years later I haven't forgotten that conversation. And, like, it's that attitude that, unfortunately, permeates every page of I Love Books.

The author comes from the era and the tradition that the author is not just an expert, but THE expert on the topic, and that the writing style must be old-fashioned and authoritarian:

The story of Benjamin Franklin's life is familiar to every schoolboy.

We have seen that a book is a creation of a living man, and should be regarded and judged somewhat as a man himself is estimated.

It is not the number of books that counts, but the kind. We are made or marred by the company we keep.

The term "fiction" has, in the thinking of many, come to connote the perverted, harmful form of imaginative writing often designed to exalt sin and sordidness, instead of portraying and glorifying truth and wholesomeness. First, we should exclude all books that tend to weaken our faith in God...

Sorry, but the custodian of the church library has no freakin' idea what he's talking about.

I've learned wonderful things from books this dead dude would have scorned: that men and women can be heroes and accomplish amazing things; that there are pink dolphins in the Amazon; that vampires are symbolic, not representative; that high school drama/trauma is universal; that bullies must be taught a lesson; that people prefer good stories over bad, no matter how well the book is written; and that, no matter what literature teachers say, there is no such thing as the perfect novel -- not Catcher in the Rye, not The Great Gatsby, not A Moveable Feast, and not Attack from the Glorpnorg Nebula: Star Trek #197.

And I especially detest the holier than thou attitude that has existed since the novel first took shape in the 17th and 18th centuries: that fiction is worthless unless it glorifies God (that is, the Christian religion); and even if it does, it's still fiction, isn't it? It's not real, it's make believe, and therefore it is totally irredeemable.

This kind of attitude still exists even today. You see it in a burning hatred from the indignant, Bible-thumping masses, who despise restaurants that serve alcohol, public schools, guys with long hair (still!), tattoos, Hooters, comic books, Stephen King novels, the songs of Jimmy Buffett, and that ol' devil rock and roll.

Coincidentally, as I was formulating my ideas for this blogpost, I visited the blog of a friend, who writes on the topic of books, both good and bad. I certainly agree with his sentiment that we should read good books, not bad. The real problems are: Who is to decide for us what is a good book but each individual reader? and Can we learn nothing from a book that critics perceive as bad?

As a reader and a writer, I've learned what makes a book good by reading bad books, as well as good.

And I'm a wine snob. I prefer the better wines rather the the thin, weak wines. Likewise, I prefer good writing rather than bad.

But the choosing of wines should teach us a lesson about books. No matter whether you think should have red wines with meat and white with fish, the important thing with wine is: Drink what you like. If you don't enjoy it, why drink it?

It's as simple as that. It should be the same with books. Read what you like, no matter who tells you what's good and what's bad. In time and with practice, your tastes will become discriminating, and you will learn what is good and what is bad . . . and how both can be valuable. Like Jimmy Buffett once said, "I've read dozens of books about heroes and crooks, and learned much from both of their styles."

Beware of the man of one book.

Thomas Aquinas

I Love Good Quotes

This was on a gravestone at the end of last night's Miss Marple episode of "Masterpiece Mystery." It's something I believe in my soul, which means it's either true, or I'm over-sentimental:

TO LIVE IN HEARTS
WE LEAVE BEHIND
IS NOT TO DIE.

Whatever the case, if you're a friend of mine . . . then don't worry. You ain't ever dyin'.

Gone Fishin'

I made a sales call this morning to the Bass Pro Shop in Ashland. I've been familiar with the concept, as I've been to the one in Hampton many times. Friends and acquaintances have always been wowed by the sheer size of the Bass Pro Shops across the country, yet I was always underwhelmed. The Hampton store simply didn't wow me.

Today I realized why. It's a "B" store. "B" stores in any national chain are smaller stores than their bigger, fancier counterparts.

The Ashland store is an "A" store. Definitely. It has a waterfall tank full of fish, glass elevators, a fireplace ready to roar in the lobby, a NASCAR shop, a winding cave/stairwell leading to the second floor, family photo ops, a burbling brook out front, and -- most importantly to me -- a quite impressive seafood restaurant. The Disneyesque theming everywhere is impeccable -- period photos, log cabin architecture, a shooting gallery for kids...

It is a Disneyland for families who like to kill things.

I'm going again soon -- not to shop, because camping, hunting and fishing involve roughing it; and my idea of roughing it is running out of toilet paper in my suite at the Hilton. I'm going again to try the Islamorada Fish Company for a nice seafood dinner. Let them kill it -- I'll just enjoy it going down, sautéed, with butter and lime, please.

Got a pinot grigio to go with that?

E-Mails From an Asshole

If you like awkwardfamilyphotos.com, then I think you'll enjoy http://dontevenreply.com/

Here's just a sample from the first entry (and thanks to Jeff Kelley):

Original ad:

I bought this GE refrigerator a few years ago, but just got a new one for my kitchen and no longer need it. It still works perfectly and is very large, perfect as your main fridge for a kitchen. I'm asking $300 for it. I am located in Brooklyn, but will be willing to deliver it up to 25 miles for a small fee.

From Mike Partlow to ************@**********.org

Hello,

I am very interested in your fridge. Is it still available? If so, how much would you charge to deliver it to my place in the city?

Mike



From marty ******* to Me

Yes mike it is still available. I will deliver it for an extra $50. where is your place located?



From Mike Partlow to marty *******

I want it delivered to my office on the 67th floor . . .

Junque in my Trunque

Today's post was originally to be titled "Guilty Pleasures of a Nerd." But I realized just moments ago that there has been a theme of sorts running through my life this past weekend, and the maze that is my mind suddenly pushed my thoughts for a post on paperback Star Trek novels and how uniformly badly they're written into a dark, dusty garage where life, loss and letting go are intertwined.

Instead of spaceships and aliens, you get ruminations on the truly final frontier.

Go figure.

South of the Border, situated, not coincidentally, just on the southern side of I-95 at the dotted line between the Carolinas, hosts a plethora (that's right, I said plethora) of billboards, garishly yellow, green, red and black, for hundreds of miles along 1-95. Two of those, one facing south, one facing north, read FILL YOUR TRUNQUE WITH PEDRO'S JUNQUE.

And that's what it really is if you stop at South of the Border and peruse the aisles of wooden bins in the Mexico Shop, close to the giant, neon sombrero lighting up the southern night: a junk store, filled with cheap trinkets, straw hats, plastic toys and thin t-shirts, imported from our southern, salsa-fied and refried neighbor.

I have filled my trunque with junque. My trunque is called my garage, and in a wall of cardboard boxes, bent, torn, dusty and cobwebbed from the multitude of garages and U-Storems where I have kept them since I moved out of my mother's house in 1985, is all the collected junque from not only all my trips to and from Florida with my family, Maria and her family, but the detritus that was left after my parents died: photos and scrapbooks of dead relatives, family bibles of people I've never heard of, postcards from the thirties, birthday cards from the fifties, war ration stamps from 1944, worthless stocks, deeds from old houses, and yellow-brown clippings of childhood poems, exploding warehouses, football games, births, deaths, graduations and marriages.

I even have some bumper stickers from South of the Border.

The garage has been a mess since last fall, when a used bookseller came by, rummaged through every box of old books I had out there, bought some, and left the boxes in a jumble.

We'd had enough. And going through the boxes to organize them somehow (thankfully, we did that in a day), I kept finding boxes filled with two things: old mugs and glasses Maria and I had bought as souvenirs from all the places we had traveled; and clippings, photos and correspondence, mostly about and between people long dead.

My mother was obsessive compulsive. I hadn't realized that by the time she died in 1989, but I look back and see it now. She hoarded everything, would throw away nothing. She lived on a sofa surrounded by stacks of bills and old newspapers; and when the piles got too big, she moved to another sofa, or a chair, and the cycle began anew.

And that is my garage. I've kept things, thinking, this is my past, these are my relatives. How can I get rid of this?

The how is easy. It's the why that's stopped me in the past.

Why shouldn't I trash this junque? Because it's all a part of me. I had to keep it, didn't I?

But...

Why should I trash this junque?

I'll tell you: because it's baggage. It's the leftover crap from a life I lived two-plus decades ago. It's dessicated memories of people who have been dust since the '80s. That is, the 1880s. It's 8 millimeter movies I'll never watch. It's souvenirs I'll never display. It's jewelry I'll never cherish. It's a collection of books that have no relevance any longer.

It's trash.

It's history that smells of dust and death.

It's chickenshit.

I love Star Trek. I was at the second Trek convention ever held in 1974. I used to love reading the original novels. I was first in line for the reunion movie in 1979. I've even pitched story ideas to Star Trek: The Next Generation. Four of them, written down by one of the producers, were rough bases for separate episodes. (And no, I wasn't paid or credited: story ideas are NOT copyrighted.)

I stopped buying Star Trek novels a few years ago because -- there's no other way to put it -- they are bad. Stinky. Flies are repulsed by their stench.

Bad. Books.

I made the mistake last month of buying three Star Trek novels. I thought they had the chance of being, if not good, then, maybe -- possibly -- decent stories.

I was so wrong.

Like the junque in my garage, the Star Trek novels have to stop. No more. No more collecting crap.

The novels are being returned. The crap in the garage is going.

The baggage must end. When I move away from Richmond, I'm not taking those cartons of crap. I'm not hauling away those boxes of books I'll never read. I'm leaving behind the warped furniture, the tattered dreams, the faded memories, the friends who aren't really friends, the people who say they're behind you all the way, but won't even be friends on Facebook.

Baggage.

When I leave, it will be time to start all over again.

It's time to go.

And it begins now. I'm sending a box of clippings and photos to my sister, who will pore over them and cherish them like jewels.

One man's junk...

There are bags of ancient papers in the dumpster, and more waiting to be tossed. They will not be missed. There are boxes of Star Trek novels, from the '70s to the present, that I may eventually put up for sale.

Whatever.

All I know is: they ain't going with me.

I know what and who are important to me. And the shit that's in those boxes, that I haven't even looked at since I was in college?

Ancient history.

And...

gone...