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While Your Humble Narrator purports to be a borderline-rabid fan of all things science fiction, a cursory once-over of my reading list might give one pause as to the veracity of that claim. Aside from the inordinate number of single-issue comic books, graphic novel collections, historical biographies, vegan cookbooks, and paperbacks acquired purely for their cover art, you're unlikely to find any real "classics" of the genre, either on display or credited on a verbal checklist. The problem is, first of all, that the criteria for a science fiction classic are, or at least should be, divergently different from what qualifies a garden-variery piece of literature as a candidate for a position on a list of must-read-books-before-you-shed-your-crude-corporeal-shell. This problem is compounded by the fact that there is no real system for vetting a work as having literary merit, (other than overall quality, grammar, themes, depth of storytelling, etc.) and if there is one, it remains constantly vulnerable to challenges and interpretations from countless populations of readers, both "professional" and otherwise.
 
Left: the U.K. cover of Blish's philosophical conundrum; the U.S. version has a priest standing next to a dinosaur holding a chalice in its claws. Right: John Berkey's sublime cover art for the otherwise so-so Derelict is fraught with slightly silly peril.
Not to mention the final indignity: despite a full century of uninterrupted publishing of the genre, a burgeoning range of themes in motion pictures and television, and the recent rise in respect for geeks and nerds, (most likely to read and/or write within the genre) science fiction still carries the stigma of being written for a second-class audience; children, aimless dreamers, and future sci-fi authors. Science fiction is to literature what pop music is to classical.
Why and how did the genre take on this particular scarlet letter? Confusion can be credited to a certain extent; the confusion over what parts of a piece of literature are judged, in addition to the work as a whole. Certainly any capable writer can fashion earnest, believable characters and wring pathos, ambiguity, and drama out of them; the question is that are the abilities of the writer and the effect of the writing somehow diminished by the locale, by the plot conceits, by any of the other little trappings of existence that bring a story to life? There is no shortage of anguish, introspection, and secrets in Stephen R. Donaldson's The Gap Into Conflict series, but does setting it in deep space exclude it from being considered a great work of writing? Both film versions of Stanislaw Lem's Solaris deal with issues that can only realistically be addressed under the mantle of science fiction, lest it become just a ghost story; but does the stressor of an alien intelligence make the story any less evocative? Frank Herbert's original Dune (despite being somewhat diluted by Kevin J. Anderson's remarkable ability to homogenize any genre or franchise he touches) has endured as a retelling of the classic Messiah story; but is the idea of earthborn divinity made silly by transplanting it onto an alien planet?
 
Left: the disconnect between sleek starfighter and spindly utilitarian space probes is stark. Right: Silver, unmarked, and sporting razor-sharp edges, the rocket transports of the 1950's were a paradigm that took decades to shake off.
It can be said that on the one hand, science fiction is just "normal" writing dressed up with starships and time machines and bug-eyed aliens. But on the other hand, five fingers; what is literature but science fiction with all the geegaws and whosiwhatsits and thingamajiggers taken out? And on the third hand, six pseudopods: does the genre really need formal legitimization? Isn't thousands of writers and millions of readers justification enough for another century of envelope-pushing, pigeonhole-denying, classification-buggering storytelling? If there was a singular definition of literary merit, and a work of science fiction met it, would it still be a part of the milieu it was spawned from?
Of course it would be. It's the sentimentality that just gets everything bogged down. The story's the thing, not the place.
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The Mechanic says you have to write more, that you have to put it all down into a book; and you agree with her. You use the Green Lantern reference, you say that writing, like Hal Jordan's willpower, is like a muscle; the more you use it, the stronger it grows, and disuse leads to atrophy. You thought you had something; a spark, a crystalline soap bubble, a dandelion spaceship. You had it for a second; a stainless steel feather, an Aerogel medicine ball, a weightless electrical footnote. It was there for a moment, it was there for a split beat, it was there long enough for you to take in a decaying breath; an ellipsis of vapor, an interrobang of vitreous humour, a full stop of dark matter. And then, gone. Too slippery to grip. Too small to grab. Too alien to remain. Sometimes we engage ourselves in certain mindless, circuitous, schizoid activities in order to avoid doing the things we have to do. Again, the influence of want is more likely to override the urgency of need; nine times out of ten, ninety-nine times out of a hundred, nine hundred and ninety-nine times out of a thousand. It's just the way it is sometimes, it's just the way some of us are wired, it's just the way the post-postmodern world works. You're never so close to realizing your own mental illness as you are when you recognize the quirks and the oddities and the tics for what they are; air bubbles drifting to the surface from a submerged soul. Which is not to say that everyone with a mild fixation on threes or coffee spoons or anal-retentive cleanliness is a candidate for schizophrenia; but at the same time, you still lock your doors, you still switch to the other side of the street, you still keep your head down and your voice low. You don't want to wake up the monster just underneath, you don't want to tap on the glass, you don't want to be the trigger, the stressor, the ground zero of another meltdown, another cataclysm, another attack upon another's home soil. It's mental garbage, it's cerebral detritus, it's the lime hulls your brain never threw away after sleeping off the last dream you can't remember. It's synaptic basura, it's a bioelectric snail trail, it's positronic leavings. Once it leaves the Union Station of the cranial metro and makes its way along the red line from eyes to ears and nose and throat, after it makes contact with the extremities and completes the circuit with the fingers, once it drops the breadcrumbs into the discernible patterns of Times New Roman and Arial Narrow and Comic Sans Helvetica Neue, it ceases to exist. The idea is dead. Long live the story. ⎋
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How do you? How do you do it? How do you go on? And on and on. And on and on. And on and on and on and on. Some days there is only the on to go to. Some days the on is just behind you, barking and keening. Some days there is no on, just blissful, oblivious, indifferent off. Sometimes there is a story, sometimes there is an essay, sometimes there is a verbal link between you and me, me and you, them and us. Sometimes there is a novel, a chapter, an excerpt. Sometimes there are enough words to keep the conversation from faltering into an uncomfortable silence, an awkward abyss, a quiet death. Some days are days of plenty. Some days are a glut of content. Some days you fear to choke on your own logorrhea. And some days you only have so many words in you. And you risk relieving yourself of everything you have by speaking them out loud, by writing them down, to committing them to any kind of permanence. Because then the words belong to the world. ⎋
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You must recover. You must recoup. You must regenerate. Despite the encroaching freeze. Despite the oncoming ice age. Despite the paralyzing despair, the ugly future, the invisible menace. The demon decrees it. The angel authorizes it. The organism orders it. You have no choice but control. You have no control over your choice. Either or. There is only so much daylight to waste, so much of the visible spectrum to burn, so much of the waking cycle to spurn. There is no shortage of darkness; the universe was borne out of darkness and cold and nothingness. You are a child of the split second that exists between the light and the darkness. You must return. You must rise above. You must reap. Go not gently. ⎋
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Inside CD Alley, a new and used record store in downtown Wilmington, North Carolina:
It's literally a hole in the wall; if you walk too quickly along Market Street by the Cape Fear waterfront, you can breeze right past it.
Inside, it becomes gradually but obviously apparent that the building space was not originally a record store. Open doorways are shuttered by mildewy curtains, an annexed room in the rear of the shop opens into starkly contrasting flooring, and everywhere are fixtures left over from whatever proprietor evacuated previously. A jerry-rigged speaker system plays a piece of lo-fi no-wave from the right-hand side of the store, while a creaky spoken-word monologue drones out of the other. The walls are papered with promotional posters, postcards, and hand-lettered signs; which is all garnished with graffiti from patrons, smart-ass commentary from floor staff, and missing corners. The single available bench is repaired with a tactfully-placed portion of duct tape. The t-shirts only come in black. Everything is covered with a thin molecular layer of invisible but tactile dirt.
   
It's everything a proper record shop should be.
Thanks to peer-to-peer file sharing networks, a retroactive interest in niche musical subgenres, and a general glut of Other Shit to do; Your Humble Narrator hasn't bought an honest-to-Dog piece of physical media since the final fire sale at Alma Mater. Which is not to say that I've been deprived of a world of music, just that the little part I occupy is a mite isolated. I know who T-Pain and Fall Out Boy and Lady Gaga are, I just choose to listen to Dolly Mixture and U-Roy and People Like Us instead.
It was once that radio was truly the voice of a young America, or at least the guiding star for young Americans, an aural road map to show the way to the Cool, the Hip, the Current; all the states of belonging that we crave as impressionable clay figures. Radio tells us what's Number One, radio tells us what's going to be Number One next, radio is our GPS through the jungle of Pop/Rock/Soul.
But what now? Now where do we go? What Ranger do we follow?
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Fresh guacamole:
This is another dish that hardly needs a recipe, if ever there was a "master" one to begin with. Mash avocados. Chop aromatics. Combine and add optional adulterants. (Your Humble Narrator has mixed in Roquefort cheese in the past, my Mom swears by a little mayonnaise, ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) hips_lips_tits says bacon is good) Serve to greedy guests or snarf it all yourself.
Lime juice is also recommended to stave off premature oxidation.
Cilantro garnish for display purposes only. Lundberg's rice chips instead of corn. Pretty blue bowl by Wal-Mart.
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The darkness isn't enough to keep the circles from closing. The freezing isn't enough to keep the borders between worlds from perforating. The will to exist isn't enough to shore up the desire to live.
Hunger isn't a good enough reason to continue masticating and recycling and eliminating. Desire isn't a good enough reason to continue coveting and wanting and collecting.
God isn't enough to keep looking up. Selene isn't enough to forgo sleep. Buddha isn't enough to seek consciousness via an empty stomach.
Whatever you do, however much you do, no matter how well you do it; it's never enough, it doesn't matter, it's all for naught.
It's never enough.
I was never here.
Because there was nothing to begin with.
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Vanilla-rosewater cupcakes 2.0: (beta)
While visiting Orange County after returning from India, ratherunlikely took me to a vegan café, one of several in Southern California, called Native Foods. In addition to unreasonably large portions and some fairly kick-ass chili fries, the Costa Mesa location (situated in a nouveau-hippie open-air mini-mall called The Camp, which is where this picture was taken) also features a spectrum of vegan desserts, including the ubiquitous cupcake selection. Resisting popular opinion and adhering to good taste, we skipped over the chocolate and chose the vanilla option, which was piled up with a bouffant of girly buttercream and garnished with dried rose petals.
This was most likely the cupcake that inspired Your Humble Narrator, albeit in a subtle, roundabout, time-delayed way; to try baking with rose water. Version 1.0 were a bit of a letdown, if only because the safety net of an established recipe didn't leave much wiggle-room for expansion, plus there was the one time in a thousand that the cake would have benefitted from a complementary frosting, and there was none to be had.
This version is still in beta because I'm testing it for a future social engagement, plus I still need to scope out the craft and gourmet shops in Thrillsville for dried rose petals.
The right cupcake will get you drunk kisses from Rock Band-playing girls.
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Totally Somewhat disingenuous Cincinnati-style chili:
Contrary to what has been documented on any given travelogue program on Food Network, Cincinnati chili's hallmark is not that it's served on top of spaghetti like some common jarred pasta sauce. Rather, Cincinnati chili gets its particular regional designation owing to its skewed list of spices; in addition to the de rigeur foundation of cumin, chili powder, and tomato, Cincinnati chili also includes cinnamon, allspice, cloves, and cocoa powder. Now, anyone who's been to even a halfway-authentic Mexican restaurant will recognize the latter adulterants are also key ingredients in making mole poblano; and indeed, a pot of chili made this way does turn out darker in color and richer and more complex in flavors.
And like most regional gastronomic favorites, this one comes with its own flowchart; Cincinnati chili doesn't have beans, it's served with oyster crackers only, the spaghetti goes down first, (unless you order beans, then they go underneath the spaghetti, or sometimes not, it depends on which dive diner in the Queen City you order it from) etc., etc. With this level of anal retention paid just to construction, it's no wonder people think of the spaghetti-presentation when they think of Cincinnati chili (if they think of it at all) and not the chili itself.
Other than veganizing the chili with TVP, we stuck more or less to the mole-style flavorings for this batch, although we did add a can of drained and rinsed black beans to the pot because...because...erm...uhm...
EFF YOU CINCINNATI I DO WHAT I WANT
Vegan cheezy sauce on top, and that's not spaghetti underneath; not exactly, anyway:
At hips_lips_tits's suggestion, we employed the peculiar characteristics of garden oddity cucurbita pepo, the spaghetti squash. Whether baked, boiled, or irradiated, when cooked the flesh of this ordinary-looking winter vegetable blooms into ribbony strands which look like something from the special effects department on the set of John Carpenter's The Thing. They also taste nothing like semolina.
Tip: spaghetti squash is relatively cheap, but you'll get more yield if you cut up your squash first and scoop out the pulp and seeds before you cook it. It's a little more work to hack it apart when it's still raw, but it's worth it, if only to avoid grindhouse-grade scenes like the one above.
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"They’ll kill us if they can. Every year they grow smaller. Every year they hate us more. We must not remind them that giants walk the earth."
"People look to you to save them...probably most of the time...from their own mistakes. They do things...knowingly...wrong. And they look to you afterward to make them right. Why do you bother?"
"Because I can."
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In the years since Your Humble Narrator stopped collecting comic books graphic novels in earnest and now, a lot of changes have taken place, some good, some bad, some ridiculous, but mostly in the way of infrastructure; the general mechanics of how these individual imaginary universes work has more or less stayed the same. Characters come and go and come back, but not a whole lot of intrinsic change takes place; paper gets glossier, colors and inks graduate from analog to digital, and costumes more closely resemble mufti than disguises, but if not for cosmetic changes, it's more or less the same as it was left.
That is, completely and insufferably silly.
Which doesn't preclude foregoing the recent twenty-five-cent sale our local used bookstore had on their overstock:
 
It was sheer luck to capture the first twelve issues of Alpha Flight's initial run. Unlike the majority of titles that were available at the time, Alpha Flight distinguished itself with stories that focused on a single character at a time; everyone appears as a team only twice, in the premiere issue and issue #12. This might have weakened any other title, if not for John Byrne's superb pencilling and evocative storytelling that takes pains to relate the characters to their Canadian homeland.
Issue six, "Snowblind," is a highlight in the first series with a unique presentation. When Snowbird faces off against the resurrected nature spirit Kolomaq, her foe conjures up a blizzard to place her at a disadvantage. The entire middle half of the issue is all but bereft of art; just panel after panel of white backdrop broken with speech and thought balloons and action phoneticals. Byrne even manages to insert the old joke about a polar bear in a snowstorm.
Another more recent series that only ran for a dozen issues was Grant Morrison's All-Star Superman. By treating Kal-El as a human with a very heavy crown on his head, and less like an alien god, Morrison is able to accomplish what a lot of reboots and retcons have failed at in the past; tell fresh, engaging stories with venerable, established characters and situations. Frank Quitely's exquisite pencils (reminiscent of work from Enki Bilal and Moebius) emphasize the everyday imperfections possessed by everyone, but especially with the elements normally associated with the Man Of Steel: his drooping forelock, his red underpants, the sheer beefy bulk of his physique.
 
In order to reconcile a convoluted continuity and consolidate their bloated character roster, DC concocted the Crisis on Infinite Earths (almost always preceded in canon with "so-called") for their 50th anniversary. While the merging of the multiverse would ultimately be undone in the following years, the Crisis itself spawned a bunch of reboots for almost every major player, effectively ending the Silver Age and ushering in the Modern Age. George Pérez, one of the co-writers for Crisis, dominated the scene for the better part of the 1980s, producing memorable covers for Wonder Woman's second run, among several hundred others.
Not quite as ornate or lifelike, but equally skilled in distinct and consistent characterizations, is Walt Simonson, who wrote and drew a huge chunk of The Mighty Thor's initial run. His blocky yet detailed style follows the basic ideals of forced perspective; the larger the picture needed, the more intricate it becomes, and vice versa; the smaller or more far away, the less distinct the features are.
(Fun fact: Walt Simonson is married to Louise Simonson, writer of countless New Mutants and X-Factor strories [Apocalypse was one of her better ideas] and creator of cult favorite Power Pack.)
For Thor #337, 338, and 339, they introduced one of the queerest characters in the Marvel rogues gallery, Beta Ray Bill. Bill (later Beta Ray Thor) was an alien cyborg who apparently had sufficient valor, intestinal fortitude, and upper body strength to hold aloft Thor's hammer Mjolnir, which transmogrified him into a doppelgänger of the thunder god, with all the rights and powers therewith.
 
No matter how fervently any demographic slavers after their popular culture of choice, there always comes a statute of limitations when the cool factor runs out, which usually coincides at around the ten-year mark for the convenience of history. For some reason, the events of the 1970s form a middle ground from which more marginally acceptable materials spin away from, both into the past and the future. Therefore, the 1960s and 1980s were both hipper than the 1970s, but the 1950s and 1990s were superior to both, etc.
Why Marvel decided the 1970s was a ripe time for a World War II revival in comicdom remains a mystery, just like the resurgence of classic rock in the 1980s or the dominance of franchise reboots in the 2000s. Invaders #17 not only features Warrior Woman (an obvious homage to grindhouse favorite Ilsa, She Wolf of the SS) but a cameo by Der Fuehrer himself, which highlights one of the basic failings of comic book storytelling: the general unwillingness of writers to fully integrate the actions of their characters into the larger events of history. Superman fought in WWII as well, but closer examination of his actions reveals that his "service" was limited to more symbolic activities designed to boost morale and bolster the American fighting spirit; he never took part in any documented campaigns against Fortress Europe.
When you've been writing and drawing stories of radioactive freaks and alien vigilantes for fifty, sixty, seventy years, the make-believe alternate history you create can get a little out of control. Marvel realized that with their Official Handbook of the Marvel Universe, but DC did the idea one better with their Who's Who series. Marvel has always been the more left-brain-oriented of the major comic houses, and DC has always played more fast and loose with logic. Both encyclopedias featured wraparound cover art and CIA-esque dossiers on major and minor denizens, but Who's Who mixed it up with original masthead title art instead of a standardized font and action shots instead of Michaelangelo-esque full-body poses of each character.
Maybe comic books graphic novels don't fall into any of the major food groups of literature; novels, short stories, or poetry. Maybe they exist outside the expected territories, like comets or daywalking vampires or late-model sedans with government plates. Maybe also then they provide a different kind of cultural nutrition than their text-only forefathers or their celluloid and video contemporaries.
Or maybe they really are just funnybooks to distract us from the real world, if only for a few minutes at a time.
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Chocolate balsamic raspberry cupcakes:
A good idea, just not a particularly satisfactory return on the investment of time and resources.
Balsamic vinegar is a queer and unique philter. Like garden-variety vinegars, its base is grape juice that's been allowed to spoil ferment, except juice destined with balsamic intentions is reduced into a syrup and then aged from anywhere between twelve and twenty-five years in a series of progressively smaller wooden casks. (to concentrate the flavor) After decanting, the final product is dark and glossy and boasts multiple layers of varying complexity and depth; sweet and sour, smoky and floral, unctuous and earthy.
(Caveat emptor: Bottles boasting the impressive-sounding knighthood of "balsamic vinegar of Modena" are at best, inexpensive facsimiles and at worst, bullshit. Check the label; if the ingredient list includes "caramel color," then what's inside is most likely just white vinegar that's been adulterated to imitate the look and surface taste of real balsamic. But considering that bottles of truly traditional balsamic can go for upwards of $500 USD, only a hipster foodie asshole would judge you for keepin' it on the cheap.)
Unfortunately, all these delicate flavors are wasted here; they're either obliterated from the batter by the heat of baking, or buried underneath the bombast of chocolate and sugar in the frosting. The frosting was an especially frustrating part of this experiment. Since it involves incorporating a mash of fresh raspberries macerated in balsamic vinegar into the requisite buttercream formula, the resultant mess ate over three cups of confectioner's sugar before it even started to take on any kind of volume, and even after an hour in the fridge it was still too goopy to generate stiff peaks.
Disappointing.
Oh well. At least they were probably better than the chocolate garlic cupcakes Your Humble Narrator was also considering.
Probably. Possibly. Maybe.
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Rose water and pistachio cupcakes, from Vegan Cupcakes Take Over The World:
Rose water, despite the romantic nomenclature, is actually a lowly by-product of the procedure for extracting rose oil, which itself can be as simple as steeping rose petals in water, like making tea. During the distillation process, rose oil floats to the surface and is skimmed off for use in perfume and cosmetics. The scented liquid that's left over is called rose water; and while nowhere near as potent as rose oil, it's still a very fragrant culinary ingredient whose flavor and aroma are hardy enough to weather cupcake-inflating temperatures.
The other part of this story is that Your Humble Narrator had every intention on making a rose water buttercream to go along with these delicate beauties, and would have if Cat Spit Kitchen had not manifested a dearth of confectioner's sugar, a vital ingredient in pumping air into margarine and bloating it into a sweetened monstrosity exponentially more voluminous than its original dimensions.
So, a garnish of chopped pistachios instead. Easy-peasy, and no artistic skill required. Still a crowd-pleaser.
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This is your iPod on Crystal Method:
Any questions?
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What about the rest of them? What about the ones forgotten by years of dust and strata of mildewed cardboard? What about the #1s, the #100s, the final issues?
You forget about the world outside the soap bubble, your eyes fade to gray from watching the sun change from rainbow to invisible silence, you think the traffic can guide itself into Möbius stripes, (sic) so you float along suspended by Ernie Balls and rosin-rubbed twine.
Airtight Garage seems so long ago. The Way Things Work, Final Fantasy, The Night Kitchen, etc. The great expanse of concrete and grass, light and water, glass and neon below and above and below.
Where do our kid fears go for finishing school? What do they wear to commencement? What is their last unselfish act before casting aside their chrysalis and blooming into a new business model for avant-garde throwback records?
And another thing. Five more minutes. One more time. Keep going around the block. Move around to the far side of the tree, out of the sun. Keep down. Lower.
The world was made in the image of a calcified and myopic thing with two-dimensional thinking. The world was created by cut-and-paste. Repeated repetition only hastens the ennui of the immediate atmosphere and aggravates the cysts that threaten to burst below.
Wither you? A desktop icon? A misspelled footnote? A flat picture at the bottom of the bowl?
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Your Humble Narrator decided a while back that the common and disparate elements that make up the science fiction genre are, appropriately enough, of an alien enough composition and arrangement to defy conventional wisdom and the natural human tendency to pigeonhole, label, and define. Like other elemental intangibles like love or enlightenment or happiness, science fiction may very well suffer through centuries of criticism, analysis, deconstruction, translation, and reinvention in an attempt to coalesce its core meanings and values; but will also most probably only prove itself as resilient and slippery a subject to crack open as any others examined and reviled by poets, scientists, and vicars alike.
  
Science fiction is the sprout of an overactive imagination, of a sight beyond sight, of minds that see a thousand different things where you and I only see a handful. Bemoaning the death of science fiction is like bemoaning the death of jazz; these are both things whose downfall and demise seem perpetually imminent, but never reach a conclusive resolution. The day that there is a clear, unambiguous, black-and-white definition of science fiction is the day sci-fi is put into the ground for good.
It's so difficult to crystallize science fiction because it is not a pure genre; it's a portmanteau, a conglomeration, a mutt. Science fiction is an ill-supplied generation ship, making its way along a hastily-plotted course, losing bits and pieces here and picking up supplements and add-ons there. Science fiction is schizophrenic and obsessive-compulsive and codependent, it makes its own rules and then flaunts them, it's irrational and materialistic and very, very, silly.
Science fiction is fantasy in everything but name, but also, true to form, in name as well. After all, what is, for example, a ride to the moon but a purely fantastic notion? The only thing that seems to separate the flavor of such a journey, science fiction or fantasy, are the machinations employed to arrive at the destination ultimately. If it's a giant hollow bullet shot from a space gun, or an orbital elevator, or a dematerialization machine, it's a fair case for science fiction. But what if we're carried away on the neck of a giant steam-filled duck, or we dare to penetrate the ether of space on silk wings hot-glued to our shoulder blades, or maybe simply bilocate using the psychocreative powers of an evolutionarily accelerated mind; what's that, then?
Either way, we get to go to the Moon.
Related: The War On Science Fiction.
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