300 Pages Too Long: A review of The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay

This book is a crazy, hot chick. Not “crazy hot,” as in “very hot,” but “crazy, hot,” as in crazy and also hot, independently. For those who have never had the pleasure/misfortune of dating a beautiful/insane woman, let me explain the dynamic. This is a girl who is physically attractive enough to make you set aside any misgivings and warning signs and date her, until one morning you wake up next to Glenn Close from Fatal Attraction, and you realize this was a mistake. That’s how I felt when I put the book down after having finished it. This was a mistake.

The novel concerns itself with chronicling the rise and fall of two fictionalized comic book creators during the Golden Age of the late 1930’s-early 1940’s. The two writers in question are the eponymous Kavalier and Clay, the former being a Jewish refugee from Prague, and the latter being a Brooklyn bred closet homosexual, also Jewish. I myself love comics, and am currently working on one with my podcast partner Deprava, so, conceptually, Michael Chabon’s The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay seemed like it would be my cup of caffe latte (I don’t like tea, so I’ve changed the expression to suit my tastes. I also don’t like right up my alley, since I don’t have an alley. Quite frankly, I don’t know what kind of person would own an alley, and then store activities that would potentially suit him there.) Plus, it had a cool cover, and lots of literature awards and fawning reviews graced the entire outer surface, front and back. At first glance, this girl was hot.

The problems began when I opened the book and started reading it. The novel is wordy as hell. There’s no reason for it to be over 600 pages of super-tiny font long. I’m not kidding, Dickens would roll his eyes at the unnecessary length. Nothing is stated directly in the book. Every sentence is in passive voice, and employs 2-3 adjectives per noun. For example, if the goal was to say “The cat was hungry, so it ate a fish,” Chabon would write “Lucille was a single mother, as most Atlantic Bluefin tuna women tend to be. Having your eggs fertilized on the bottom of the sea floor by dozens of ejaculating males doesn’t lend itself to building strong, monogamous relationships. But she made do working several jobs; she even put all her children through private school. With so little free time to herself, Lucille’s days tended to fall under a strict, immovable routine. So imagine her surprise when her daily grind was irrevocably altered by a large fishing net trawling through her neighborhood. Fortunately for poor Lucille, she passed into the beyond long before her lifeless body was dragged up onto the fishing boat, packed away to a distribution plant, and dissected into savory steaks destined for American dinner tables. Parts of little Lucille fed 7 different American families, including the Smiths of Hattiesburg, VA, who often fed leftover scraps to their magnificently spoiled cat, Thomas. Thomas, also a single parent…” See what I mean? Ridiculous. In addition, every chapter starts with a self-important and over-generalized life observation, in the vein of  the immortalized happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way. The difference being Tolstoy, though he had no qualms against writing a book that would take longer than the average human lifespan to read, also knew to keep iconic life observations to 1 per book. Conversely, Chabon hurls them at the reader chapter after chapter, like an aging hooker desperately throwing herself at less and less appealing customers in an effort to turn tricks and earn that dollar her sagging tits can’t bring in on their own anymore. There is such a thing as trying too hard.

Despite the wordiness, the novel starts out promisingly. The first 15 pages introduce us to Kavalier & Clay as 2 young artists with big dreams. It’s all good so far, but then Chabon flashes us back to Joe Kavalier’s escape from Prague, complete with magicians and Golems. I appreciate Chabon’s endowing his protagonists with superhero-worthy origin stories; I’ve read enough comic books to understand the sentiment. However, in practice, the exposition turns out uninteresting and overly long, not to mention forced. If you can somehow survive through the expository doldrums, the novel really picks up after page 100, when it beings to really focus on the budding comic industry. Reading about the process of creating a comic, and seeing Kavalier & Clay’s marquee creation, the Escapist, grow from a half-assed idea invented in the middle of the night, to a full-fledged pop-culture icon is great fun. So even though the first 100 pages were filled with red flags, including family issues and scarred childhoods, the middle of the book is attractive enough to where we ignore the warnings, and commit to this beautiful yet bat-shit insane woman.

Furthermore, the 100-400 page zone really showcases some interesting themes, which help drive the great plot. Probably the most important theme is escapism, which isn’t a surprise coming from a novel about comics. The book is filled with literal and figurative feats of escape. The entire first section of the book is an account of Joe’s escape from Nazi-occupied Prague. Kavalier and Clay’s superhero creation himself, The Nazi-fighting Escapist, serves as an outlet for Joe to defeat the Germans who persecuted his family, and for Sam to escape his polio-stricken body and self-perceived deviant desires.  Chabon also stresses the role and importance of Jewish writers in American comic books and pop-culture as a whole. Pulp fiction served as an outlet for immigrants and outcasts to create a new, American mythology based on heroes and supermen capable of delivering the weak from harm. The novel highlights the origins of the Golem early in the story to emphasize how Jewish culture lends itself to the creation and belief in these kinds of characters. All pretty interesting stuff, but, unfortunately, it’s bookended by an uninteresting origin story and pointless melodrama. However, the middle of the book is quite good. Like I said, she’s hot.

And then we hit page 400, and the full crazy comes out, revealing we’re dating Basic Instinct Sharon Stone. The novel ceases to be about comics at all, and plummets to Mexican Soap Opera levels of melodrama. I don’t want to give plot points away, but it gets crazy. One of the guys runs away with the navy ( the straight one, believe it or not), and there’s illegitimate children and loveless marriages of convenience involved, etc. I kept expecting the rich ranchero’s wife to seduce one of them, or an evil twin to show up. The ending is completely unsatisfactory and resolves nothing, but by that point I was so grateful the book ended at all, I didn’t give a damn. If only everything could have ended at page 400, when she seemed normal and beautiful. But the main question is: was it worth it? Was the great sex and pleasure of being seen with a hot girl worth the fearing for your safety and emotional baggage? Was reading about Kavalier & Clay’s creative exploits during Comics’ Golden Age worth also struggling through hundreds of pages about a Polio-stricken closet gay guy in a loveless marriage and another guy stationed in Antarctica for 2 years?

After much deliberation, I’d say I recommend this book. She’s crazy, man. But she’s damn hot, too.

Podcast Episode 19, Part 2: “Sharks are Sons of B%#%$”

The second half of episode 19 is now online. Many apologies for this one coming out one day late. In my defense, BlazBlue: Continuum Shift is an awesome game.


Fear and Loathing and Espresso

Last week was a busy week; professionally, I mean. My personal life doesn’t tend to get as busy as my work life, unfortunately. Right, so I was busy last week. Thursday was an especially busy day. Details would be superfluous in this context, but suffice it to say several appointments and a trade show visit figured prominently into me getting back to the office at 6:45pm, and wanting to get the hell home as soon as possible. Imagine my elation when my boss said I would need to go to an espresso tasting in his stead since he didn’t feel like attending, and the company had already paid the fee to participate. Somebody had to go.

What the hell is an espresso tasting? Great question. I’m still not sure myself. It does seem to involve old Italian men with too much time on their hands, old and single Japanese women, and levels of pretentiousness that shouldn’t be possible. Apparently, an espresso can be judged by over 15 different olfactory, visual, and taste dimensions, which I think can all be mathematically supported by string theory. I don’t know, but it was all damn complicated. What made things even harder was the fact all espressos, whether from Lombardy or Sicily, taste like burned paper. There’s a reason people invented sugar, milk, cappuccino, regular coffee, tea, etc.  Anyway, long story short, I drank about 10 different espressos, from 8pm to 10pm, and that set up the following.

Warning: mature/explicit content

Sagremor was jogging. It was almost 11 pm, but sometimes he liked running after dark. The city always looked better at night in his opinion, all lit up. He wanted to write poetry. The Tokyo skyline looked like glowing pillars holding up a tenebrous cloak. Well, that was crap; maybe later he could think of something better. Granted, he usually jogged in shorts and a t-shirt, not wearing a 3-piece suit and carrying a briefcase. But tonight was special. Tonight he had 10 espressos coursing through his veins, pumping him full of unholy, roasted energy. His inner body temperature was about 200 degrees; he could feel his blood turning into vapor and flowing behind him in a stream as he ran home from the train station. He noticed he was coming up on a lady walking a little Chihuahua-like dog, and he ran straight at them, leaping over the dog. It let out a little yelp of surprrise as he flew over it, and he waved behi-

He was standing in front of his door, on the 3rd floor of his crappy, little building. He turned around just in time to see the spacetime wormhole close in on itself behind him. He had just leapt 7 minutes into the future. He unlocked his door and stumbled inside, bathed in sweat. As his body temperature continued to rise, Sagremor stripped off his suit down to only his underwear, and stood directly beneath his air conditioning unit. He was still crazy hot, and the AC didn’t seem to be working. He ran over to his bathroom and splashed cool water onto his face. Then he ran back under the AC….no change. Dammit! What the hell was go—oh, it wasn’t turned on.

He heard the little dog-mounted knight from Labyrinth scurry across the ground behind him, but he didn’t want to turn around, since he was afraid. Sagremor kept standing under the AC hoping to cool down. After a few minutes he moved over to his bed and sat down. He grabbed his pc (not a Mac) and turned it on. He also turned his television on. He heard a crashing noise in his kitchen/dining room/living room hybrid small-ass Japanese room thing. He slammed the door shut, and checked email. His computer felt hot, but somehow, the pc heat against his thighs counteracted his espresso-fueled inner body temperature. This hot balance seemed to work, so Sagremor just sat on his bed, sweating.

He opened up the word file for a short story he had been working on, but he couldn’t concentrate. He looked at his clock; it was 11:38pm. He was hella tired, but also wide-awake. He wanted to watch illegally obtained Naruto episodes on his TV, but he didn’t want to reach for the HDMI cable because of the Indian man at the foot of his bed jiving his head from side to side like some kind of hypnotic cobra thing. He had met him earlier that day at the trade show, kept bobbing his damn head left to right like a brown metronome with creepy eyes. Disconcerting as shit. How had he gotten into his apartment? He turned his computer off and put it away. He stared at the clock; it was 11:27pm. He got up, and walked over to his AC unit again. After a few more minutes he decided to try and go to sleep, so he turned the light off and lay down on top of his sheets.

Sagremor dreamt of peeing. Recalling the specifics later proved impossible, but he knew he dreamed of peeing a lot. Gallons.

He woke up, suddenly, with an aching pelvis. He had to pee urgently. He got up and ran to his bathroom. He lifted the toilet lid and looked down, only to see quite possibly the largest and hardest erection he had ever experienced. He managed an awkward, angled crouch, which would in theory aim most of the pee into the toilet bowl, but none would come out. It then became clear he physically didn’t need to pee. However, dreaming of peeing had somehow convinced his mind of the urgent need to relieve himself. So his brain was projecting the pain of a full bladder onto his actual, not-so-full bladder. Sagremor was freaking out. How the hell could he pee? Meanwhile, his angled crouched over the toilet was getting harder to maintain has his legs tired. He started stamping his left foot impatiently, and concentrated as hard as he could into peeing. After a few minutes pee somehow shot out into about 4 different streams, most of the discharge falling into the toilet bowl. He flushed and stumbled back into his bedroom. He lay down again, completely awake, and tried to sleep one more.

Sagremor dreamt of sex with elderly women and masturbation. He wasn’t sure why he would dream of masturbating; I mean, it’s a pretty run-of-the-mill….wait, the masturbation part was real.

He opened his eyes. His sheets were drenched in sweat, and that dam Indian man just kept bobbing around and staring at him. He heard strange noises from outside his window. It was cats having sex in some alleyway, near his house. Great, those damn things go on for hours…He rolled off the bed, and started doing pushups to work off some energy. After about 7 he got bored and got–

He landed just past the dog and kept on running towards home. Deja’ vu washed over him like a sledgehammer as he jogged onwards. Can something even “wash over” like a sledgehammer? Anyway, The streets were completely empty; not a car in sight. He looked into windows, and convenience stores, but saw no one. The lady and dog he had recently run past were gone. He came upon a red light and stopped. The world was completely still. The various lights and functioning electronics added to the eerie feeling of desolation. He strained his ears trying to catch something, but he heard nothing but the inner sounds of his own body. Suddenly, the faint sound of a pan flute wafted into his consciousness, seemingly bypassing his actual aural sense.

The flute grew louder, and then a drum joined in. Sagremor canvassed the horizon, but could not pinpoint the origin of the sound. Cymbals and wood blocks jumped into the musical panoply, creating an Asian festival atmosphere. The traffic light was still red. His peripheral vision caught movement far off to this right. Soon, a group of about 5 people came into view. The procession wore red coats and straw hats, and little else. They came forward in an awkward dance as they played various instruments. As they moved in closer, Sagremor noticed none of them had faces. Their hairline descended upon a blank, skin canvas. The band walked on through the street, right past him, without pause. A sense of dread seemed to accompany the group, and Sagremor would have hidden were he not frozen with fear and incomprehension. As the group moved further and further away the music dwindled, and he let out a nervous cough of relief. The band froze in tracks; the music stopped.

The flute-player looked in Sagremor’s direction inquiringly, and the entire group quite suddenly rushed back towards him. He turned to run, too late, and felt hands grab his legs and force him to the ground. He struggled as they turned him around and grabbed his head, probing around his face. Fingers gripped his left eye socket, as others grabbed hold of his eyeball and pulled. He would have screamed, but his tongue was similarly being forcibly removed. He waved around frantically, trying to fight off his aggressors when a—

He was sitting down on his kitchen floor, with his back against the refrigerator, drinking a hot cocoa cappuccino. A truly delicious drink. It blends the best of hot cocoa and cappuccino into possibly the best hot drink that has ever existed on the mortal plane. The cats were still going at it outside, and he looked up to the clock on his rice cooker. It was 1:12 am. He still had a boner for the ages. And he was still crazy hot. But at least the cocoa cappuccino tasted good. He dropped down to the ground, and rolled out of the way, then opened the refrigerator door. He took out an apple, a banana, some kimchi, and Parmesan cheese. That’s all he had in there. He got up, and took a jar of chestnut honey. He had brought it back from Italy with him, but hadn’t tried it yet. He opened the jar, savoring the popping noise of the lid’s first removal. It smelled delicious. He looked down at the banana, the apple, and the kimchi. None of those options seemed to lend themselves to chestnut honey. Sagremor had always been a big believer in the fact that fortune favors the bold, so he decided to be bold. He sliced the apple into thin strips, and dipped them into the honey. It was delicious. His boner got a little bigger. He then sliced the banana, and dipped that in the honey, but it wasn’t as good. He put the kimchi back into the refrigerator.

Satiated by the honey and cocoa cappuccino, Sagremor lugged his swollen belly back to his bedroom. The cats seemed to have finished their business, but now there was a vampire floating outside his window wanting to be let in. He closed the curtains and dropped back down into his bed.

Sagremor dreamt of being a Power Ranger. He was a strange checkered, flannel looking color Ranger. He kept trying to take the lead, but the Red Ranger wouldn’t let him, so they fought, but the Red Ranger won. Sagremor told the others they should fight again, and do a best 2 out of 3, but they wouldn’t listen. It was frustrating because he knew if they battled again he would win this time.

A cat’s yowl woke him up. Dammit! Those cats had started up again. He leaned over to his window and peaked out, but couldn’t see any cats. A naked man wearing a little red coat and a straw hat looked up at Sagremor from the street. He only had one eye. He leaned back into his pillow, and shut his eyes. This night wouldn’t end, and neither would his boner. He needed to wash the espresso out of his system somehow….how do drug people get over being high? He walked back into his kitchen, and got out a bottle of Woodford Reserve Kentucky Bourbon, Jack Daniel’s, and Amarone grappa from a low cupboard. He filled a coffee mug with a few pours of each liquor drink, and downed it in one go. Ha! The combined power of 3 different whiskey drinks should be enough to counteract the espresso though he seemed to have burnt off his esophagus in the process. Everything has a price, they say. He sat down on his armchair, directly across from the refrigerator in his kitchen/dining room/living room/really small room thing. His stomach felt like crap, and everything between his mouth and liver hurt. He leaned back out to the refrigerator, and drank some Kagome fruit/veggie juice straight from the carton while his mother’s ghost lambasted his manners. He felt refreshed. He sat back down in the chair, and closed his eyes.

beep. beep. Beep. BEEP BEEEP BEEEEPPP!!!

Sagremor’s alarm tore him from sleep sweet embrace with the subtlety or a car horn. He dragged himself from the chair, and tripped over a juice carton as he stumbled his way into his room. He looked back at the spilt juice, but decided the annoying noise took precedence. He picked up the alarm and fumbled with it until he found the “off” button. It was 6:25am. He ran back to the kitchen, and picked the carton up then stuck it in the fridge. He lifted the carpet and threw it on top of the spilt juice, then walked back into his room. No way he was running this morning. He re-set the alarm to 7:30 and dropped back into his bed. Without even covering himself—

beep. beep. Beep. BEEP BEEEP BEEEEPPP!!!

Sagremor’s alarm snatched him from slumber’s saccharine hug with the subtlety of a rifle shot. He rolled off his bed, and slammed his knee on his dresser’s drawer knob as he reached for the alarm clock. He picked up the howling device and fumbled with it until he found the “off” button. His heels hurt with every step; they weren’t oiled yet. He limped, and dragged himself to the kitchen and opened the fridge. All his bananas and apples were gone….He drank some milk straight from the carton while his mother’s voice cursed his poor manners. The kitchen smelled like fruit juice and wet carpet. Sagremor went into his shower room to brush his teeth, but knocked his toiletry stand over by accident. He sighed, and just turned the tap on and showered. 15 minutes later he was out the door and on the way to work. As he walked to the station he devised a new modus operandi for the future.

F&’#k espresso. Drink normal f$%&ing coffee instead.

Podcast Episode 19, Part 1: “Percy Harvin and the Lightning Thief”

Episode 19 of the podcast is now up! We have another guest on the show this week, an actual person of some significance (TM): John Patrick Lowrie, noted actor, video game voice actor, composer, and soon to be published writer. This podcast was so full of awesome we had to divide it in two.

And be sure to check out John’s blog here, where you can learn all about his upcoming book, Dancing With Eternity.

Something I like!: A review of Kingdom Hearts Birth by Sleep

Every gamer, from the casual to the hardcore, holds a few select titles close to his heart. With no bearing on the game’s actual quality, some titles just sneak right past our discerning critic’s barriers and snuggle into our breast, further entrenching themselves as the weight of time and nostalgia drive the title deeper into the halls of cherished memory. Many games are good, several are great, but only a few reach this cherished distinction. For example, lots of people love Chrono Trigger ( I am not one of them, since I never owned and SNES, and yes, I’m still bitter about missing out on the fun), professing it to be the greatest RPG of all time even though it’s actually a dull, derivative product. As for me, personally, several titles hold a special place in my heart organ: The entire Final Fantasy series from VII-X (including Tactics, which is the best game ever), the criminally under appreciated Xenogears, the bubbly and colorful  Megaman Legends, and, of course, the original Kingdom Hearts. For those not in the know, Kingdom Hearts is an action role-playing game that combines Final Fantasy and Disney worlds. Yes, as in Walt Disney. Don’t ask me how someone came up with this concept; I don’t know. I’m just glad they did. Well, the 12 year-old Japanese girl inside my brain is glad, anyway.

I’m sure the previous paragraph may seem long-winded and probably unnecessary, but I just wanted to describe the near-religious reverence I feel towards the first Kingdom Hearts. This review will not be objective; you have been warned. I’m going to delay my actual review to indulge one more tangent, and that is to stress that my unconditional love extends only to the first Kingdom Hearts, and not to any of the other 3 sequels. Chain of Memories was a great game. It had a solid battle system and really stretched the capacity of the then-cutting-edge GameBoy Advance to heights I didn’t think possible. It’s very contained plot was good too, and really allowed for some deeper character portrayal. However, that very strength was also its weakness, i.e- it’s very limited scope. The whole story was ultimately pointless enough to be condensed as a 3 minute opening CGI sequence to Kingdom hearts 2. Kingdom Hearts 2 itself was horrible, and lost almost everything that made the first so endearing. 358/2 Days was almost as bad as its title, and was even more superfluous than Chain of Memories. It had had a clunky, unresponsive battle system, and shallow non-descript worlds in which the player solely interacted with faceless enemies. Sadly, none of those sequels came close to matching the original.

Enter Birth by Sleep, the only other title in the series that reaches the same solar system of sweetness that is Kingdom Hearts 1. Finally, 5 years into its run, the PSP’s existence is  justified. Unfortunately, the game is UMD disc-only, so the PSPGO still has no reason to be. Anyway, the game is good, and the story mode is split into 3 points of view of the different main characters, so the experience doesn’t ever get dull, and the story unfolds layer by layer as you revisit worlds with the different protagonists. This is a neat little twist, which really sets this title apart from the other games in the series (Chain of Memories dabbled with the concept by letting the player go through the game a second time as Riku).

Birth By Sleep is a prequel to the original game, and centers around the 3 main characters, Ventus, Terra, and Aqua (who is super hot, maybe the hottest video game character ever, not that that’s important; what’s inside is what counts). The three are apprentice keyblade masters who become trapped in the machinations of the “fallen” master Xehanort, who mysteriously shares a name with Kingdom Hearts 2 main nemesis, and has been experimenting with the power of darkness. He tries to recruit Terra to his side, and the 2 other friends must follow him through various Disney Worlds and make sure he doesn’t give in to temptation. I’ll admit, it may seem like Terra, Ventus, and Aqua are just stand ins for Riku, Sora, and Kairi from the main series, but they really are independent and well-developed characters. You can’t help but get pulled into their quest to find and help each other. And the way it all ties up in the end and sets up the beginning of Kingdom Hearts is very satisfying. As with the other sequels, the main weakness lies in the individual stories within the Disney Worlds, as they often feel rushed, and just don’t carry the same weight as the main plot.

If you’ll allow me to be concise for a minute; this is a beautiful game. Now, let me be long-winded again. Graphically, it looks every bit as good as the PlayStation 2 installments, maybe even better. It is a visual feast. The game really pushes the PSP’s capabilities. Square Enix did not spare many expenses for this title’s production. The character models especially are something to behold, let me tell you. Unfortunately, some of the environments are rather bare, and a few of the Disney Worlds feel rather shallow. As per usual with the series, camera angles can get frustrating at times. But some flaws can be forgiven, given the hand held medium.

The gameplay is great. Specifically, the battle system is amazing. It may be the best in the series. There’s the standard attack, jump, and guard buttons, of course, but there’s also a list of extra attacks called “commands” assigned to the triangle button. Not only is the order and command list customizable, but the commands themselves can leveled up for higher damage and be merged to create new, more powerful attacks. In addition, your character has finishing attacks, which can also level up and be switched out, and shot-lock attacks, used for enemy groups, which can be upgraded swapped out as well. Characters also have special forms they morph into once certain requirements are met, usually specific attack combination. Again, you are given several different forms from which to choose. The fun doesn’t end there, though, as you also have the option to D-link, which involves taking on the attack and command patterns of other characters for a limited amount of time. You can D-link with the other 2 protagonists, but also the different Disney characters you meet throughout the adventure. So what we get is an incredibly deep, fully customizable battle system. Let me suggest you play the game in Proud mode though. Normal is a bit too easy, but Proud really forces you to learn enemy attack patterns and hone your attack style.

A huge complaint most had with the previous titles, especially Kingdom Hearts 2, were the crap-rific mini games. Those sins have been atoned for. The Command Board is a mini-game you can access anytime, and is basically a violent monopoly. You move along a board game and buy spaces to which you can graft attack commands to weaken the other players as they pass by. Also, using your attacks in the mini-game actually level up the commands, too. So it’s not just a time waster. It’s addictive, too. Add multiplayer and a few more boards, and I’d pay retail value just for that game.

The music is great, too, as in all the other games in the series. This time around they used Simple and Clean from the first game as its theme song, and I have to admit when the techno remix started up in the intro video, I got pumped up.

Anyway, Birth by Sleep is an amazing title, and if you own PSP, then you have no excuse not to also own this game. Go out and get it, son. Highly recommended.

The Subway Hero

Today I was a subway hero, and I don’t mean the delicious sandwich fast food chain. We’re talking underground trains. I will write the rest of this post in 3rd person to make it sound more heroic and aggrandize my exploits.

A heavy rain pelted the dark, soaked streets of the city. His city. Tokyo. Man has never known a harsher mistress than this Eastern Babylon, rife with crime, death, drugs, and perverted dudes who rent used women’s panties from vending machines. His shoes struck the cold, hard, unforgiving, unyielding, spartan, rough, unfeeling, uncompromising, Procrustean pavement rhythmically, as he read his thesaurus. Laughing children gallivanted past him on the way to school, oblivious to the bleak  future ahead of them. Blind to the harsh bitch of a city that would rape their dreams and aspirations from their cold, dead hands. Unless he could stop it. Seeing the children steeled his resolve to save the damned city. This Sodom or Gomorrah would not burst into flames, but instead be delivered unto salvation by an impetuous hero.  An adorable little boy in high, checkered socks and shorts, sporting one of those cute little fisherman hats, bumped into the hero, and looked up with a regretful expression, ready to apologize, but our hero gazed down upon him not in anger, but with a priest-like expression of love and benevolence. The little boy shuddered, instinctively fearing anything related to priests, even figuratively, and ran away in fear. No matter, our hero doesn’t require gratitude. He will bear the cross  over 40 years of wandering the desert and being kicked out of pretty gardens….and all sort of other religious metaphors.

Frantic salary men, more worried about arriving less than 45 minutes early to work than disporting good manners, bumped into, and brushed past him, as they rocketed towards the train station. Filled with the fear of being chastised for no reason by an old bald guy, who can’t get promoted any higher than section chief, and appropriately takes out his frustration on younger employees, and probably his children, those hollowed shells of men slave 14-16 hours a day in the office-fields of the Tokyo mega-scape. Rows upon countless rows of open desk space with no privacy, and the Sauron-like eyes of their superiors always on them, making sure they stamp the pointless forms correctly. But he would save them. He would save them becau–who is that cute girl walking by? Don’t remember seeing her before. Wow, those are nice legs. Good sense of style, too. Oh, man, but her umbrella is covering her face, how can I tell if—No! No! You are a hero! Get your head back in the game. This is a bad, harsh city! She’s probably had her dreams crushed repeatedly, and she needs to be saved, too. Never forget–Oh! There it is; the umbrella moved. She’s pretty hot, man. Really? Yea. Oh, well, try pulling her over and getting her number as she passes. Nah, she’s got earphones on, probably listening to music. Well, damn. That sucks, dude. I know…anyway, you were saying?

The stark gates of Minami-Sunamachi station smoldered into view. Rough-looking high-school kids were drinking fruit juice and joking with each other outside the Mini Stop convenience store, checkered-pant wearing, hyper-tanned Cerberi guarding the entryway to the under-earth. The hero squared his shoulders and proudly walked past them, showing no fear until one of them staggered back in laughter and almost bumped into the hero, so he had to stop, and bow his head shyly saying “sorry”, and then shuffle past them quickly. He would save them, too, in time. Ser Sagremor shook the oppressive rainwater from his umbrella, and entered the subway.

The damp, rainy-morning air flooded his nostrils, assaulting his olfactory sensibilities. Streams of soggy sheeple fled past him towards the turnstiles, flooding onto the train platform. He swiped his super cool metro card over the turnstile scanner (it’s like the future!) and moved along the train platform, pushing past motionless shades, waiting to be ferried to their workplace.  Not a shred of hope could be found in this under-realm. From the darkness of the tunnel arose the screeches of metal and gears, plummeting towards the station. Eventually, the metal hell-tube slowly came into view, and unevenly ground to a halt. The doors slid open, revealing a train car packed to the brim with the squeezed flesh of soul-deprived humans. Black, gray, and pin-striped cloth filled our hero’s vision as he pushed himself into the busy train compartment, forcefully moving aside the yielding mass of briefcases mp3 player ear phone wire. A cheerful jingle resonated across the platform, signaling the impeding closure of train car doors. Disconsolate latecomers frantically tried to push themselves onto the full train. Oh no, they might have to wait all of 3 minutes for the next car! Impossible! Let them in! A chubby guy wearing a sweat-stained short-sleeve shirt tried to squeeze into our hero’s car, but as the doors closed Sagremor pushed him back out onto the platform.  He may be a hero, but he sure as hell isn’t riding a crowded train with a sweaty fat guy. Who sweats when it’s raining and like 15 degrees, anyway?

The doors hovered in a near-closed position, and everyone inside the train car collectively took a deep breath and sucked in their stomach until the satisfying click of the shutting hatch resonated in the car. The mass of bodies then re-expanded fluidly, taking up all the available space in the crowded car. The train picked up speed, and was soon on its way along the Tozai Metro Line, plummeting towards the evil city’s black heart. Suddenly, an elbow jabbed into our hero’s shoulder. He looked to his right, and some douche nozzle was sleeping while holding onto one of the hand holds. As the train swayed along its tracks, the asshole’s elbow would swing around and hit people. Like 6-8 different people were getting jabbed. What the hell! How can someone sleep standing up? That’s like what horses do. This is some farm animal shit here. The train continued upon its frantic course, and the asshat’s elbow continued to pound innocents as he slept away, safe in his nerdy dreams. As the train began decelerating upon its approach to the next station, his elbow slammed square into a marginally cute girl’s back, and stayed there as the train’s slowing motion pushed the sleeping man upon the poor little secretary’s back. Our hero watched the unfolding, horrifying events, and then, suddenly, a spark lit in his breast. This was his time. Sagremor would save everyone.

(Note: Regular font=embellished version/Italic font=what actually happened)

Sagremor tapped the dumb ass on his shoulder, in an attempt to wake him and reason with the idiot. However, when the slumbering jackass awoke, they weren’t human eyes he opened. It was an Oni demon! From the 9th layer of Buddhist hell, the demon had used the man’s dreams as a gateway to manifest itself into our world!

I tapped the guy on the shoulder, and said “please wake up.” He sort of opened his eyes lazily, and answered with a confused “huh?”

The woman he had been leaning on screamed in terror, and the demon swiped at her shirt with its wicked claws, tearing off a significant portion of her blouse, revealing a toned mid-riff. He closed in looking for the kill, but our hero jumped in front of the damsel, and warned the demon not to get any closer.

That ticked me off, so I shook him even harder and said “Wake up!”he sort of came to and said “Oh, sorry. I’m a little tired.”

The demon laughed haughtily in Sagremor’s face, and warned the mortal not to interfere until he had also ripped off the girl’s blue jacket, revealing her cleavage. Sagremor agreed that would be for the best and let the demon take another well-aimed swipe at the girl. The demon now professed he also wanted to strip her of her pants, but Sagremor thought that would be going too far, and that a stand had to be made somewhere. He charged up his eye-beams, and blasted the demon through the train car off of a cliff back into the 9th layer of Buddhist hell.

That made me even madder, so I said “You’re tired? Really? You know who else is tired? Me, and everyone on this train. This isn’t a bed; it’s a crowded train. Stay awake, and pay attention to your manners.” He then apologized again, and stood up straight.

However, Sagremor’s sweet optic blast was so powerful, it opened the hell portal even further, and whole armies of demons began streaming into the mortal realm. The now scantily clad maiden begged Sagremor to save everyone, and he looked back at her and said “you didn’t have to ask, babe” and gave her a thumbs up as he jumped down into the hell pit, while charging his blast. As he fell, he charged up with so much energy he exploded in the middle of the portal killing millions of countless demons and closing the hell gateway at the same time. The people on the train wept tears of both joy and sadness as they witnessed THE ULTIMATE SACRIFICE. When Sagremor next opened his eyes he was in heaven, standing before God on his throne of angels. God said “Sagremor, my son, why have you sacrificed yourself for such wicked, unworthy people? Never mind, now you will take your rightful place by my side forever.” But Sagremor shot God a sad smile, and answered “Father, I cannot. My protectorate lies below, as does my duty. Send me back to the mortals, whether they be worthy or not.” And God responded with “But why? Why do you fight for them?” And Sagremor badassedly said “Do I need a reason?” Then God smiled, and waved his magical hand to teleport our hero back to the mortal realm. These were his parting words: “My son, I truly wish that I, God, could be as awesome as you are. Now go; go and save the world from Buddhist demons.” And so Sagremor fell back to Earth, back to that crowded subway train.

The guy got off 2 stations later, and when he left, the 8 people around me said “thanks” and smiled.

The nearly wrecked train continued along its trajectory, and Sagremor dismounted at Kayabacho station, deep in the heart of the financial district, where rich people put their money into stocks to lose half their fortune. He left cheering and gratitude behind as he scanned his card on the cool turnstile reader (The future is now!), and ascended the steps towards the light of day. He stepped outside of the train station, out onto a Tokyo bathed in sunlight, rewarding its hero’s deeds. A chorus of angels sang his praises, and curly-haired cherubs gave him high-fives as he proceeded through the crowded streets to his office. The people he passed congratulated him. They clapped for him. They cheered for Sagremor, the subway hero.

Open to Interpretation, Part 1

As you are aware, a week ago we had The Girl on the podcast, and one of the topics we discussed was the question of perception of a work of art and authorial intent versus audience absorption. (If you didn’t know that, I suggest you go listen to that episode right now, especially since I am not doing justice to the segment). That idea and line of thought has stuck with me since then, and considering in our next episode we will have a guest who is a soon to be published author, I want to explore it further. Given the complexity of the topic, I have divided it in two, the author and the audience. This is part one, regarding the creator, and part two will be posted next Wednesday.

Oh, and just to clarify, when I say “creator” I refer to any person who produces a piece of art, be it literature, visual art, music, or otherwise. Creator seemed the most neutral and all-encompassing term, and the linguistic nerd in me likes its connection to Greek poiesis, from which we get poetry but literally means “maker.”

Yes, That Was Intentional

I wanted to begin with a sweeping, axiomatic statement about the personal nature of the creative process, but that is not true, even in the general sense. Poe, in his essay on the writing of The Raven, makes a fine argument for the distinction between personal emotions and emotions intentionally infused into poetry (but considering how his own emotions so closely matched his poetic expression, one cannot but question his motives and conclusions), and I personally have written pieces with the intent to invoke emotions I was not feeling at the time, so we can abandon that line of reasoning. However, from this we can reach one conclusion, which I judge accurate despite its breadth, and that is that creators act with intent.

I’m sure some of you are saying, “Well, yeah, obviously.” But allow me to unpack that assertion, so I can show you that there is more to that seemingly simple statement than meets the eye. Too often in my English classes or among friends I have heard, “But did the author really mean that?” The answer, in the vast majority of cases, is “Yes, absolutely.” (I concede that an audience can infer meanings that the author did not intend, and I will address that in Part 2. For the sake of this essay, I believe that almost all of a work’s meanings are intentional.) People who have not tried to create a piece of art themselves, or who do so only casually, are often not aware of how minutely the creator has crafted the finished product. An apt metaphor for the general understanding of artistic creation is amateur photography. The photographer will pick an angle that will create a pleasing composition, choose a lense size and color template, wait until the lighting is right, and captures the image.

That most people believe this is self-evident in their somewhat low appraisal of the craft. Pat Rothfuss, author of The Name of the Wind, related the following story in his blog, which I think is a good indicator of the common opinion about artistic creation (even though Pat is specifically referring to writing a novel).

“Of course, writing a novel isn’t simple. Anyone that’s ever tried writing one knows this. The problem is, a lot of people haven’t tried. They assume writing is easy because, technically, anyone can do it.

To illustrate my point: Just as I was getting published, I met one of the big, A-list fantasy authors. (Who will remain nameless here.)

He told me the story of the time he’d met a doctor at a party. When the author mentioned that he wrote for a living, the doctor said: “Yeah, I was going to write a novel. But I just don’t seem to have the time.” Link.

Pat goes on to show a letter from a fan who asks him why it’s taking so long for him to finish the sequel to The Name of the Wind:

“But, boy do you have a problem. Finishing tasks?? Why isn’t your editor doing a better job of guiding you? Here’s my quick recommendation: stop going to conventions. Your first book is a great hit, you don’t need any more marketing there. Sit down and decide where to END the second part. You don’t need to write any more. If book two is anything like book one, it is basically chronological. You’re done with book two!! Stop in a logical place, smooth out the transitions, and begin obsessing about book three. Good luck.” Ibid.

Pat is obviously put off by this would-be advisor, and with good reason. Unfortunately, her opinion is prevalent among those who do not create art. To return to my photography metaphor, people believe that the artist, or the writer, or the musician, sit down at their table, gather together the elements of their art (characters, shapes, colors, plot points, vocals, instrument tracks, chapters, dialogue, etc.) and simply compose them into something that, by virtue of arrangement of its parts, is Art. Of course anyone can put those elements together; the only thing that separates the artist from the everyman is the artist’s better understanding of how to assemble the elements.

To a degree, that is true. The Greats are the Greats because they are masters at using the elements of their craft, but it is absolutely false that all they do is arrange a “collage” of their field’s chosen materials. The truth, the sobering reality that kills so many would-be creative dreams, is that the creator has to fabricate all of those elements from nothing. In order to make our photographer metaphor reflect the real creative process, we must make him manufacture himself every single thing that is in his shot. He did not merely stumble upon a good location with all of the elements in place, needing only proper lighting and camera positioning. No, he had to hand make every single blade of grass, every single speck of dirt, every single leaf on the trees.

Now I put this question to you: if our photographer must craft himself everything that will be in his picture, does it not stand to reason that he will design all the elements in such a way as to enhance the shot, or draw the eye a certain way, or give the viewer a certain impression? Would he not manipulate all of his leaves and blades and specks to suit what he wants the picture to say?

I will pause a moment to let you think about that.

What this means is that every brush stroke, every word, every music note, every movie take, is deliberate. This means that the smallest, least noticeable, most prevalent building block of the chosen medium requires the creator’s complete attention. You know that book in the bookstore that is 400,000 words long? That author knowingly and intentionally chose all 400,000 of those words. That song on the radio? The artist intentionally chose for the bass track to drop in volume for two seconds during the chorus.

This is why most people are not successful creators. This is why most people who set out to write a novel don’t finish it. It is simply far more complex and work-intensive than they realize.

But I digress. The point of this business with the photographer metaphor is to show you that the creator devises all of the elements of the work, which means he or she has full opportunity to make sure every single aspect serves the greater theme, or message, or design. Hence, when I said way back at the beginning that creators act with intent, I meant that absolutely every aspect of a piece of art is there because the artist wanted it there.

The Question of Subconscious Intent

Having concluded with such a statement, I must address the question of subconscious meaning and intent. By which I mean the creator inserting some theme or meaning into the work without actually being aware of doing so. This idea is in and of itself a slippery creature, since we must be careful to draw the line between unintended authorial meaning and meaning inferred by the audience. The latter is what you see all the time in English classes, where smart-ass students try to argue that some poem is secretly about sex, or that Tolkien’s Ring is the atomic bomb. I will address inferred meaning next time, but for now I limit myself to actual authorial intent.

I find myself at a loss to define this idea outright, so I will resort to an example. If we survey the works of H. P. Lovecraft, we find in them numerous examples of xenophobia and racism. One need only read his description of the black man brought back to life in Herbert West – Reanimator to grasp his general disposition toward other races. However, Lovecraft did not write with the express intent to comment on race or racial hierarchy; it simply entered his writing as a part of his psyche. This is what I refer to when I say subconscious intent: an idea or meaning that the creator puts into the work without conscious thought. When we read the literature of the Greeks and Romans, we find that they casually mention slavery and misogyny. They do not do so because they want to make a statement about those topics, (unless of course they are directly addressing them), but rather because it is so ubiquitous to their thought process that they do not realize they are doing it.

It should come as no surprise that subconscious intent is a topic of great interest to art critics, since what an artist puts into a work subconsciously provides a great deal of insight into his or her mind and personality. Express intent is less reliable, since the creator controls it. It is glaringly obvious that Vergil’s Aeneid is about the glory of Augustus and is a finely crafted propaganda piece, but less obvious are Vergil’s own thoughts on the matter. The hints of melancholy, the ambiguous nature of some of the passages: these tell us more about Vergil than any of the beautiful lines describing the founding of the Julian line or Jupiter’s grant of “imperium sine fine” (I.279).

To use a more modern example, almost all of Christopher Nolan’s films involve a man who is too emotionally attached to a woman, and how that attachment works against the man. Now, there is a good case that this is intentional, and not subconscious, since it appears so often and is so integral to the stories. However, is it intentional that the man loses the woman either early in the movie or before it even begins? Or is that particular aspect something that creeps its way into each story without Nolan setting out to put it in there? If so, what does that say about Nolan and how he views emotional attachment to what we have already lost?

Like I said, it’s great fodder for criticism and scholarly debate.

The question that we must inevitably consider is whether to categorize something as intentional authorial meaning or subconscious, unintended expression. What makes this question tricky is that the answer can change depending on the audience and the time period relative to the work’s completion. An enormous amount of criticism, Classical criticism in particular, is devoted to explaining how previous scholars incorrectly interpreted the texts of the ancients, and how this newest critical view, unencumbered by the previous generation’s mind set, has determined the true meanings and subconscious meanings of the works.

Sometimes creators themselves help us in this regard, though we must always be wary of authorial recollections and not treat them as unfiltered truth. We can all recall when a writer or musician inserts some little bit into his work that references or echoes the work of another artist. “Subconscious influence” and all that. The creator draws a link between the two pieces by incorporating part of one into the other. Usually it’s a specific phrase or short chord progression, something the author’s brain absorbed on its own without the author consciously choosing to remember it. These references can be subconscious intent, however I must stress again that we should not trust the artist when it comes to these interpretations. He or she may have known full well that the line was from something else, and used it anyway in order to draw the parallel.

The point of all this is again to clarify my conclusion from the first section: that every single aspect of a work of art is there because the artist wants it to be there. That statement is still true, but now we can add a layer to that by pointing out that, while every element is there on purpose, not all of the meanings attached to those elements are there on purpose. Some are there because the creator simply cannot divorce himself from them: they are so ubiquitous to the creator’s thought process that he cannot see that they exist. Others are there as snippets of half-remembered influences or even just emotions that the artist cannot excise from the creative process.

Well, I think that is a serviceable overview of authorial intent, both conscious and subconscious, and should serve as a good background for the real issue: audience interpretation and absorption. Therein lies the truly interesting aspect of creative expression and Art, and we shall delve into that next week.

Podcast Episode 17: “I’m Also Eating an Apple”

The newest Impetuous Windmills podcast has arrived. Alas, there is no guest spot this week, so you’ll just have to endure the two of us until next time, when we have a very special guest planned. Get it on iTunes, on the RSS, or here.

Comments and questions are always appreciated. And if you have any topic you want us to discuss or revisit, send me an email at deprava@impetuouswindmills.com or leave a comment here. Enjoy.

A Waste of Money: A review of Linkin Park’s A Thousand Suns

In 44 horrible minutes Linkin Park just undid all the awesome times and rocking out of the previous 4.5 albums (I’m including the JAY-Z mashup cd because it’s rad, and makes me feel badass when I go jogging to Dirt off Your Shoulder/Lying from You). Just to let you know how bad A Thouand Suns is; I have deleted Linkin Park from my Facebook “Likes” list. And I do not take Facebook lightly. This is for real.

The problem here is Linkin Park realistically reached their stylistic peak with Meteora. They had Mike rap the verse, and Chester scream the chorus to thrashing guitars and cool sound effects. A good formula. Minutes to Midnight was a desperate attempt at depth and lyrical content. And now they’re just diving off the cliff. I should have known there would be problems when, prior to release, they described A Thousand Suns as not an album, but an “experience. ”

I know most of my audience may be tempted to think I am overreacting, as usual. So let me bring out the big guns right away.  The album ends with an acoustic track. A Linkin Park cd closes with Chester’s raspy-ass rock/rap scream trying to sound introspective and soft over some bland guitar strumming. That’s deep, bro. I’ve said this before, and I’ll say it again. An unplugged track is a rock band’s death knell. I don’t know what it is with aging bands, but they inevitably reach the point where they feel they need to go bare bones on you, usually around the 5th or 6th album. They need to display their true musical merit. For some reason 3 chords on an acoustic guitar is thought to provide that. The bell is tolling for thee, Linkin Park.

Unfortunately, the rest of the tracks on the cd are god-awful, to boot. About five “songs” are 1:30 min. long segments of white noise with garbled MLK Jr. speeches or something in the background. That’s deep, too, bro. And all political and shit. If anyone can properly convey MLK’s message it’s a prog-rock band made up of 4 white dudes and 2 Asians. So minus the acoustic song, and the white noise stuff, that leaves us with about 9 actual music tracks. What an album! 9 whole songs?!

They’re awful, too, by the way. Iridescent is a bad Coldplay ripoff.  Being spared Chris Martin’s whiny British voice would normally be a plus. Unfortunately, here they just swap it out with Chester’s raspy-ass rock/rap voice trying to sound whiny and British. Or is it Mike’s? I wish I cared enough to listen to the song again. Burning in the Skies is tolerable until you listen to the lyrics, and it turns out the song is about “the blood of innocents burning in the skies.” …..if you say so. Blackout has a weird upbeat dance thing going on, but the end result sounds like an 80’s new-wave tune being raped by a howler monkey. Then there’s the Mike Shinoda “hardcore” rap tracks, like When They Come for Me, which sound like Lil’ Kim beats from the 90’s that couldn’t get past the cutting room. But he does reference Lauryn Hill and Biggie. If that doesn’t legitimize your rap credentials, I don’t what does. There’s also a track called Robot Boy; just thought I’d throw that out there. Waiting for the End features the Sigur Ros drawn out ambient guitar reverb effect, which is harder to tolerate when it’s not coming from an artsy Icelandic folk/prog-rock band.

A Thousands Suns is an awful album, and if Linkin Park had any love for their fans they would unmake the CD. Just give everyone their money back, and hit the recording studio again. I won’t even recommend top tracks or anything like that, since it’s all trash.

The Fair-Weather Bigot

I’m going to get a little political here, and I don’t know that much about law and politics, so I apologize, but I’m going to do it anyway. Also, please keep in mind I live in Japan, so my news is on a 3-5 day delay unless it involves sumo scandals or former J-pop stars caught with drugs.

So it seems a week or 2 ago a Florida pastor named Terry Jones organized and advertised a proposed Koran burning on September 11. I don’t know the details, but September 11 passed by without any Koran burning in Southern Florida. The good pastor canceled the event. There are 2 possible explanation. Either Pastor Jones got scared because the backlash and negative public pressure, or he never planned to do it from the beginning and just used it as a publicity stunt. For the rest of the article I’m going to assume the former is the case, since the latter is a fairly poorly planned marketing campaign. Any extra parishioners attracted by a promised Koran burning would probably be promptly disillusioned by the event’s cancellation. It is also conceivable the pastor had a change of heart, but I’m a pessimist so let’s not even entertain that thought.

Assuming Pastor Terry Jones genuinely planned and wanted to burn Korans, but canceled the party due to public pressure, I’d like to say something. Burning the Koran is a bad thing. No question. But deciding not to burn a Koran due to public pressure is even worse. All it does is reveal you to be a fair-weather bigot with paper-thin ideals. If you believe in something, do it. You’re allowed to demonstrate your beliefs in America. Show the world how narrow-minded and stupid you are! No need to hide.

What we have here is an opportunistic sectarian, who probably watched too much FOX news coverage concerning certain NYC mosque zoning plans, and got the mistaken idea unabashed Islam hating was en vogue.  Unfortunately, he jumped on the bandwagon a little too late, when the anti-NYC-mosque fervor had already died down. But there’s more. Pastor Jones’ big mistake was he didn’t realize there are degrees to bigotry. Devoting whole hours of negative news coverage to a proposed Muslim community 5 subway stops from the site of the World Trade Center is ok. After all, they can still worship Allah anywhere else, we’re not infringing on any existing right.  We’re just stopping them from building this specific mosque in this specific location. Exception to every rule, right? Makes perfect sense if you’re white and racist. But burning a religion’s holy book?! Totally different. Hard to argue you still respect Islam, and have nothing against Muslims in general etc. if you’re burning the Koran, is it? Plus, who hasn’t been involved in zoning disputes? Blocking a proposed mosque is really no different than stopping your neighbor from erecting that 12 foot tall fence that infringes on your property line. It would lower your home’s value by at least 12%! But book burning? No points of reference for that, unless you’re German and in your 70’s.

Which brings us to today’s theme: the low-calorie bigot, a phenomenon Pastor Jones failed to take into account when he tried to schedule a Koran burning. The no caffeine added racist likes to keep his true feelings to himself. He doesn’t act on his ignorance because he doesn’t want to be thought of as a bad person. But when easy, indirect opportunities to display hatred present themselves, he takes them. He renames French fries “Freedom Fries” when French people don’t want to support our manufactured wars. He votes to allow police forces to racially profile Latino immigrants (not on the same day he pays them $50 to landscape his 2.5-acre lawn, of course). He votes to ban gay marriage in California because being gay is totally cool and fine, yo. He probably has several gay friends, in fact. Just as long as they keep it to themselves. And when he sees a news story about  a Muslim **** build*****near*****World Trade Center*****. He gets mad, and protests. Why? Because all the above provide easy, anonymous avenues to act upon his true feelings. But lining up outside a church in Florida, no doubt with news vans nearby, and burning a Koran? The fair-weather bigot tucks his tail between his legs and stays home.

I’m not addressing the news and political figures who manufacture the above situations. They have their own set of incentives, and that’s a whole different discussion. But the target audience of news stories that feed upon uninformed patriotism is made up of people like Pastor Terry Jones. People who get on their podium, whether it be a pulpit or the family couch holding a beer, and proclaim the superiority and righteousness of their own ideals over others’, while never actually acting on those sentiments. To be clear, I do not support book burning, nor do I wish Pastor Terry Jones had gone through on his plans to burn the Koran. Honestly, I wish he had just shut up to begin with. But if Terry Jones does truly believe Jesus himself would have burned a Koran, and that Islam is such a terrible institution, then by all means burn that book. Hold your protests. Grow some balls, and act on your ideals. You are allowed to, as long as your actions do no break state and federal laws.

Well, that's actually only one windmill…