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twofistedpulp:

As Earle Bergey is to Barbarella, Allan Anderson is to Xena Warrior-Princess.

While Bergey’s cover girls were all cutesy miniskirts & ray guns, Anderson’s were chain-mail & badass battle-axes. And none more so than his Black Amazon of Mars.

Planet Stories, March 1951.

And Leigh Brackett, Leigh. Eff-ing. Brackett. Known as the “Queen of Space Opera”, one of the best and most prolific of all the women pulp writers, she wrote dozens of short stories & novelettes for Planet Stories, Startling Stories and Thrilling Wonder Stories throughout the forties & fifties before starting a jaw dropping screenwriting career.

Her first hollywood gig? Co-writing the adaptation of The Big Sleep…with William Faulkner. She then wrote a series of westerns for John Wayne before returning to the works of Raymond Chandler with Robert Altman’s The Long Goodbye.

Her Final hollywood work? A little flick called Episode V: The Empire Strikes Back.

The Queen of Space Opera? All hail the Queen.

#mypulpfinds

I read Brackett’s Long Tomorrow this summer and loved it.

A Collection of Bad Jokes I Have Made In The Last Few Days

funeralafterparty:

"I’m going to stop you from eating every fucking chicken in this place!" - George R.R. Morrissey

The boy with the chair made of swords, behind the hatred there lies a murderous desire for murder - George R.R. Morrissey

Dragons are nice and dragons can help you, to take all of the lives…
Jul 4
qualityjollity:

HAPPY INDEPENDENCE DAY!

qualityjollity:

HAPPY INDEPENDENCE DAY!

seanhowe:

Wally Wood, 1979. 

Wallace Wood, photo taken on his 22nd birthday.

seanhowe:

Wally Wood, 1979.

Wallace Wood, photo taken on his 22nd birthday.

http://prettyfakes.tumblr.com/post/86126532637/at-the-beginning-of-spring-i-met-the-writer-mary

prettyfakes:

At the beginning of Spring I met the writer Mary Miller for coffee, and asked her about her novel Last Days of California. Having grown up in an evangelical home in Alabama, it was achingly familiar. My family never packed up everything and drove to the edge of America to wait on the…

Stop Reading Corporate Comics

funeralafterparty:

I just keep reading things from people I know about how excited they are about whatever Marvel or DC or whatever is doing but also why don’t they don’t care about minorities and the cognitive dissonance there is killing me but the simple answer is that Corporate Comics are made by representatives…

A few thoughts on Jaime Hernandez, The Love Bunglers, and post-Vol 1. Love and Rockets

image

For my post-semester decompression read, I’ve been working my way through all the post-volume-1 Jaime Hernandez Love and Rockets stories. (Although I have the new, squat, streamlined collections, I read all this material in the older hardbacks — maybe just to convince myself that this wasn’t as big a commitment as I thought it was?) A few thoughts here, for possible future elaboration. Spoilers:

1. I first read these stories piecemeal and out-of-order, which contributed to my sense that, until the material recently collected as The Love Bunglers, there wasn’t much direction or coherence in these tales. In particular, I remembered the Penny Century series as being a bunch of good, if lightweight, hangout stories plus the great Maggie’s-secret-marriage issue at the end. Reading them together and in order is a different experience — though not entirely. One of Jaime’s strengths is to make it feel like you’re just puttering along in his world, killing time with familiar characters, checking in on the old haunts, drinking in the linework — and then a sudden, vertiginous shift in perspective lets you look back at your trail and see the intricate pattern you didn’t even know you were tracing.

2. Penny Century (the series) was my first encounter with Jaime’s work, so it didn’t really register with me then that this (plus the Color Fun Special) was the first time readers were getting a close look at Maggie and Hopey together after their apparent happily-ever-after at the end of volume 1. Knowing that now helps throw a little dread and anxiety over scenes where they act awkward or hostile to each other without clear motivation.

3. I just taught several selections from The Girl from HOPPERS, including “Flies on the Ceiling,” to my undergrads, so the rematch between Izzy and the Devil in Ghost of Hoppers landed hard. And the whole sequence with Maggie as the ghost that haunts her own life is beautifully done, a version of the same trick he pulls at the end of Penny Century that reaches back to some of the earliest stories and makes it seem inevitable that she’d arrive at this point. (More on this later.)

4. Jaime’s long game also paid off in my re-read of The Love Bunglers. The only bum note that those stories struck the first time I read them was Reno’s infatuation with Maggie. It felt like a case of creeping Poochyism, as though Jaime felt like we needed another character to tell us how Maggie is just the greatest. I still think that’s a little overplayed, but it helps to see Reno and Maggie moving in each other’s orbit and talking about their chaste childhood liaison from very early in the post-vol 1 material.  

5. Jaime’s boldest move is to emphasize that Ray Dominguez, arguably an aspirational viewpoint/identification character for a lot of the book’s sensitive straight-guy fans in volume 1, has become something of a passive, self-pitying slouch. Actually, I don’t know if he’s showing us that Ray has become this way as much as he is revealing that Ray was kind of always this way. He’s handsome, decent, affable, reasonably charming — and a total passenger in his own life, wallowing out a comfortable rut with whatever shockingly attractive girlfriend comes his way until she decides to leave, drifting through life with no particular direction or desire. Ray’s artistic ambitions have always been the thing that separated him (geographically and metaphorically) from his Hoppers cronies — and so it’s a big deal for Jaime to reveal Ray as a pedestrian, uninspired artist. Okay, let’s be more charitable: maybe he’s someone who is, at this point in his life, making pedestrian, uninspired art. But either way — surely we’re not meant to be impressed by the spinning nude badminton women thing, right? Maggie isn’t. That’s a tough moment between them at the gallery. I legitimately felt embarrassed for ol’ Ray in that scene. 

6. Along those lines, I love how Ray’s first-person narration casts him as a noir protagonist, down on his luck and all but invisible, buffeted by forces that he can’t understand, caught up in an existential mystery whose answers elude him. Of course that’s how Ray sees himself! That attitude is enormously seductive. There’s something romantic about flitting mothlike from one neon light to the next on the mean streets of the hidden city — especially if you can get Jaime Hernandez to draw you doing it. But Jaime simultaneously makes clear how that attitude barely covers up a whole lot of anger and self-loathing, which comes to the surface every now and then — Ray actually complains about Vivian putting him in the friendzone at one point!  And yet: despite highlighting this less attractive side of his personality, Jaime still manages to keep Ray’s essentially decent nature in focus.  

7. Granted, there’s an arc here. Ray gradually comes to some awareness of the fact that he’s let his life get away from him. And he does decide to exert some meaningful agency in the world when he gets out of his car to help Calvin — and he gets a traumatic brain injury for his trouble. (So hey, maybe there’s something to be said about just letting yourself float along on life’s rushing currents.) But man, a lot depends on how you read that ending. What’s Ray been doing all day? If the answer is “sitting in the dark” or “watching television,” then in some ways that conclusion is like a reward for Ray’s worst self: Maggie is as much his caretaker as his lover, and his injury release him from all responsibility, even the responsibility to do the dishes. But — if he forgot to do the dishes because he’s consumed by some new art project … that’s a different conclusion. And Jaime’s brilliance is to leave us suspended between those possibilities, at least for a few years.  

(8. Side note, on that justly celebrated two-page spread of Maggie and Ray through the ages. I’ve been struggling to figure out what it reminds me of, and I finally remembered. Did you ever go to a wedding where they have set out pictures of the bride and groom from childhood through adulthood? From when they were kids who didn’t know each other (or maybe did but were indifferent to each other) to their early dating days to their engagement photo? It creates a sense of inevitability and destiny. But of course that’s nonsense. Left out are all the people that either member of the happy couple dated along the way — it would be weird to have them in there, right? But if either person getting married had ended up with someone else, the same kind of narrative could have been constructed, with the same sense of inevitability and destiny. I don’t really think Jaime is using that spread to try to convince us that Maggie and Ray are “soulmates,” blech — but there is a temptation to read it that way. It’s important not to succumb to it, though. Jaime drew this spread; he didn’t discover it. I think he knows that, and we should, too.)  

9. So I’ve been thinking  a lot about Ng Suat Tong’s wonderful piece on The Love Bunglers in this regard, especially its cautionary catalog of the false resolutions that litter Jaime’s stories. And it makes me hopeful. I’m excited to see Jaime take Maggie and Ray anywhere next.  

May 3

http://funeralafterparty.tumblr.com/post/84652318802/i-have-a-minor-bone-to-pick-with-the-common

funeralafterparty:

I have a minor bone to pick with the common academic expression that usually goes something like “I do so much work for something that no one will ever read” and the heap of statistics about papers that go uncited for years or whatever.

Have you heard of punk rock before? This is a style of…

May 3
prettyfakes:

In 1917 an artist named Jacob Kurtzberg was born in this building on the Lower East Side of New York City. Twenty three years later he drew a picture of a man clothed in the flag of the United States punching a person named Adolf Hitler in the face, a full year before the U.S. would go to war against Germany, but after folks had heard murmurs of what was happening.
The artist got death threats for the picture, which was published on the cover of a newsprint magazine filled with lots of other color drawings he did as well. It sold almost a million copies. The Mayor of the City, Fiorella La Guardia, called the artist to tell him that he supported him and his drawing.
In 1943 the artist was drafted into the Army, where he served as a reconnaissance scout, because he could draw maps and other useful things. He also saw things other people didn’t see, or would never see; maybe couldn’t see, or shouldn’t see. Private First Class Kurtzberg came back to the U.S. with a bronze medal shaped like a star, just like the one on the chest of the man who punched Hitler in the face.
The artist kept drawing; drew until his body stopped being able to draw. He drew the world, he drew a universe! He drew the man in the flag, named Captain America; he gave him friends named Thor and Iron Man, made them a team, called the Avengers. He drew another team of New Yorkers named the Fantastic Four, another team of New Yorkers named the X-Men, who were hunted and feared because they were born different, even though they looked just like you and me. The Black Panther, genius king of Wakanda. So many new gods, so many New Gods!
When I say the artist “drew” these characters, I mean “dreamed.” Until he drew them, they weren’t real yet; the artist dreamed them into being, pulled these myths into our world from deep inside.
The man born in this building in 1917 as Jacob Kurtzberg had other names. Children by the billion called him “Jack Kirby.” I call him “KING.” There’s no plaque on the brick of 147 Essex Street with any of these names. There doesn’t need to be. Don’t you know why? Didn’t you see the clerk at the Strand wearing the shield of Captain America on her shirt, see a graffitied and fading billboard for the Avengers in the Union Square station, see the baby in the stroller yesterday in an Iron Man onesie? New York City itself in the 21st century is a plaque to Jack Kirby.
Plus like acorns falling from an oak there are millions more plaques to Jack Kirby printed every month, billions printed since 1943. We call the dreams he drew “comic books,” call the people he drew “heroes,” all these dreams are brighter than the star on the chest of that soldier punching Hitler in the face.

prettyfakes:

In 1917 an artist named Jacob Kurtzberg was born in this building on the Lower East Side of New York City. Twenty three years later he drew a picture of a man clothed in the flag of the United States punching a person named Adolf Hitler in the face, a full year before the U.S. would go to war against Germany, but after folks had heard murmurs of what was happening.

The artist got death threats for the picture, which was published on the cover of a newsprint magazine filled with lots of other color drawings he did as well. It sold almost a million copies. The Mayor of the City, Fiorella La Guardia, called the artist to tell him that he supported him and his drawing.

In 1943 the artist was drafted into the Army, where he served as a reconnaissance scout, because he could draw maps and other useful things. He also saw things other people didn’t see, or would never see; maybe couldn’t see, or shouldn’t see. Private First Class Kurtzberg came back to the U.S. with a bronze medal shaped like a star, just like the one on the chest of the man who punched Hitler in the face.

The artist kept drawing; drew until his body stopped being able to draw. He drew the world, he drew a universe! He drew the man in the flag, named Captain America; he gave him friends named Thor and Iron Man, made them a team, called the Avengers. He drew another team of New Yorkers named the Fantastic Four, another team of New Yorkers named the X-Men, who were hunted and feared because they were born different, even though they looked just like you and me. The Black Panther, genius king of Wakanda. So many new gods, so many New Gods!

When I say the artist “drew” these characters, I mean “dreamed.” Until he drew them, they weren’t real yet; the artist dreamed them into being, pulled these myths into our world from deep inside.

The man born in this building in 1917 as Jacob Kurtzberg had other names. Children by the billion called him “Jack Kirby.” I call him “KING.” There’s no plaque on the brick of 147 Essex Street with any of these names. There doesn’t need to be. Don’t you know why? Didn’t you see the clerk at the Strand wearing the shield of Captain America on her shirt, see a graffitied and fading billboard for the Avengers in the Union Square station, see the baby in the stroller yesterday in an Iron Man onesie? New York City itself in the 21st century is a plaque to Jack Kirby.

Plus like acorns falling from an oak there are millions more
plaques to Jack Kirby printed every month, billions printed since 1943. We call the dreams he drew “comic books,” call the people he drew “heroes,” all these dreams are brighter than the star on the chest of that soldier punching Hitler in the face.

popcultureoverloadpodcast:

Our host Jessica Owens caught up with Howard Chaykin at this year’s SciFi Expo and had a great conversation about fashion and his art.