Up in the Air is a movie comin’ out soon by Jason Reitman starring George Clooney. I hadn’t heard about it until it blew-up at the Toronto Film Festival. And since then I’ve been watching the trailer ad nauseam. People have been jerking it off calling it Clooney’s most charismatic role yet, that it’s some sort of zeitgeist for our times. Whatever. I’m stoked.

On a personal level, I’m obsessed with the idea of movement in our lives. The notion that we must continue moving, striving, accelerating. When Clooney hits the line in the trailer, “The slower we move, the faster we die” I was beyond sold. I’m perpetually fearful of the idea of stagnation. The idea that at some point we stop living and turn our eyes to the sky, resign from really dreaming, and die.

I’m a sucker for modern existential crisis movies. Fight Club, American Beauty. This movie seems to have the potential to riff on the same ideas. Who knows. Maybe it’ll suck. But thematically, it’s hitting all the right notes to keep me looking forward to its eventual release.

I haven’t played much ODST yet, but I figured I’d vomit up some impressions for those curious. Let me first begin by saying what you’ve already read everywhere else: as a single-player campaign, this isn’t worth sixty bucks. Maybe with all the online nonsense that I’m really not even going to touch, but if you’re looking for some single-player lovin’, seek elsewhere.

What’s awesome? The narrative. It’s only taken Bungie four Halo games, but they’ve finally made something compelling. The storytelling is much better than the previous games, and I already care more about these ODST scrubs than I do about the Ender’s Game rip-off known as Master Douche.

Blah? The graphics. C’mon Bungie. You look like you’re running last-gen stuff here. I’m not a graphics whore by any means, but you’re getting shredded by countless 360 games.

It’s a good game. Addictive even. I’m only taking a break to do some nightly reading and writing, or else I’d still be in there. It’s probably for the best though, since I’ve been told it’s only about five-hours or deliciousness. It’s a good, engrossing narrative so far, wrapped around the same tried-and-true gameplay. You may love it, but it’s refried beans to me at this point.

I’ll write something else up when I complete the game, which again, is about as long as one of my farts. (Which are probably longer than should be humanly possible, but extremely short in the grand scheme of even a mortal’s life.)

The people at some website called Mania.com have just put out the second installment of an interview with Alan Moore, acclaimed writer of every fucking comic book taken seriously. So far, it is a really interesting read – checking out the perspectives of a man who has done more to alter the course of the comic book medium while simultaneously lambasting its industry.

While I’m not going to regurgitate the entire article, I am going to present one of my favorite excerpts. In this bit, Moore discusses the perversion that is comic book fandom’s loyalty to static, well-worn properties over the creators striving to do something unique and  challenge the limits of imagination.

I remember somebody in one of the fanzines over here saying, “Well, why don’t we just not buy any Marvel comics until they give Jack Kirby what he deserves.” I thought, “Yeah, that sounds good. I’ll do that.” And, that was when I stopped buying Marvel comics. I think in the next issue of the fanzine, someone said, “Uh, yeah, but fans are never going to do that, are they?” And, as it turns out, he was right. But, they could’ve done it, if they’d really cared–not if they’d cared for the Hulk, but for the person who created the Hulk; not if they cared for Spider-Man, but if they’d cared for Steve Ditko. They could’ve protested, just once–even if that was only by not buying comics that were substandard or had got ugly practices with how their creators were handled. The whole of the industry, from top to bottom, does have a certain amount of responsibility for its decline.

This is the voice of a man who knows what is truly good for comics. People read Warren Ellis’ Do Anything  and discard it as half-baked philosophy. These same folks  write off The Dark Knight Strikes Again  as Frank Miller’s failed attempt to recapture greatness (anyone who’s read Eisner/Miller understands that FM was deliberately refuting his past work). And I’m sure that Alan Moore’s most recent comments will be shrugged off, explained away as the “semi-coherent musing of a fucked up snake-deity worshipping old man.”

Actually, that explanation isn’t wrong. But neither is Alan Moore.

Sitting at the gym today almost paralyzed with fear that I wouldn’t be able to voice my nagging, unintelligent opinion. Sitting bored on the elliptical watching the deluge of sloppy bullshit that passes for news and entertainment. And then I saw Oprah was on, and she saw fit to wipe out both my fears and boredom. You see, Oprah was doing a fucking 1960’s episode in honor of Mad Men or some shit. She had both Mr. And Mrs. Draper on the show. She had some bullshit 1960’s barbershop boyband on all singing and being wonderful. The entire set was retro.

And I’m just sitting there wondering, what the fuck? I mean, it sounds counter-intuitive to me for a powerful black woman to be plugging the 1960’s, when both African Americans and women had it pretty rough back then. Sure, when she interviewed January Jones (Betty Draper), Jones spent four seconds like, poorly articulating the lack of rights for women. But besides that, the entire thing was a nostalgic orgasm. It wasn’t some critique, it was just like CHECK OUT HOW IDYLLIC SHIT WAS, ARE YOU PUMPED HOUSE WIVES!?

I find it doubly ironic, since Mad Men spends (from what I’ve seen, which is a season and some change) a significant amount of time exploding the myth that the 1960’s was some happy, Camelot-esque period. The whole thing screamed “Missing the Point!”, dedicating an entire episode to the sappy, syrupy illusion of the 1960’s in honor of Mad Men, a show which spends its entire time deconstructing that myth, spending time to highlight the inequalities of both women and African Americans.

Oh Oprah! You’re the bee’s knees.

It’s Monday. Late Monday, to be precise. Just got done with a long day of tutoring and staring at college chicks. Shit, don’t tell my girlfriend. Anyways, everything is utterly boring on the internet today. Nothing I feel like really churning over, and over, and over again. There’s fifteen sites that can all tell you the same thing. So instead, I’m going to try and interact with you guys on an idea I got for a weekly column:

Monday Morning Commute.

Every Monday I’m going to detail the various things I’m either currently or will be watching, reading, playing, and listening to in the next seven days. It’s Monday. You’ve got a long week of school, work, or compulsive masturbation to get through. Tell me the arts that you’re indulging in, to stave off suicide. Check out my list after the jump:

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Looking at October’s comic releases, I realized that with Justice League of America #38 comes a new creative team. While writer James Robinson and artist Mark Bagley are hardly strangers to the DC Universe (or the members of its most prominent team), it will still be interesting to see whether or not they can make their run on the title meaningful – for one reason or another, I feel like most creators lose sight of the importance of telling well-balanced, team-oriented stories when given the JLA-reins.

In fact, I haven’t consistently read Justice League of America since the conclusion of Brad Meltzer’s brilliant thirteen-issue relaunch of the series. Meltzer knew how to guide his artists through stories of epic confrontation while still maintaining a down-to-earth, personal tone. To me, this is what the “big team” books should be all about: putting iconic figures in over-the-top, the end is nigh scenarios in order to depict struggles to which the normal guy can relate.

So as I conjured up this mission statement for super-team titles, I tried to think of another example of team-done-right. Rifling through Caffeine Powered’s library, I eventually stumbled across JLA #61. Only vaguely remembering this issue, I had to reread it a couple of times before deciding that it is another exemplar.

This 2002 book is a perfect beginning to the collaboration between writer Joe Kelly and penciller Doug Mahnke. [While Kelly led JLA through its ninetieth issue and then disappeared from my radar, Mahnke has been blowing my mind as of late. Check out his work on Green Lantern if you get the chance]. Plot-wise, the self-contained JLA #61 takes the reader through a giant battle that involves monsters, Gods, Abra Kadabra and even sees Kyle Rayner dissecting five miles of seaboard with his fruity-ring. In short — the book succeeds in creating a problem that requires seven of the all-time greatest superheroes.

But where the issue really shines is in its highlighting of each teammate as a relatable human being (or Martian/Kryptonian/Goddess — but you get my point). From the primary battle the narrative flashes back to the two-minute warning, that time in which the JLA alert signal rings out its warning.

Instead of Superman, the reader sees Clark Kent eating dinner with his wife; Green Lantern is unadorned artist Kyle Rayner, struggling to pay for a cup of coffee; in place of the Flash is Wally West, hyperactive multi-tasker desperately looking for another minute in the day; Martian Manhunter’s constantly linked mind is observed in one of its rare states of unconscious meditation; fanatical Bruce Wayne makes business calls as he helps Diana prepare for perfection, and the typically zany Plastic Man soberly fields a phone call at his office.

Hell, even the King of Atlantis’ vacated throne is seen as the JLA discuss the recently-departed Aquaman. This issue bleeds personality and heart, thereby making these otherwise inhuman characters worthwhile emotional investments.

No, I don’t expect every team-based comic book to contain the sentiment of Touched by an Angel. Nor would I want it to. But, it is nice to think that throwing together the most marketable properties into one franchise isn’t always done in the name of producing inane pieces of visual masturbation.

Unless, of course, you could convince Frank Miller and Jim Lee to work together. Oh wait.

But I guess we’ll have to wait until October to see what Robinson and Bagley bring us.

After the first two weeks of Brew Reviews, I’ve learned my lesson. As much as I want to celebrate my favorite season with alcohol, it appears as though the pumpkin-beers may not be my bag. Filling my brain with fermented pumpkin seemed like such a great idea on paper, but then again, so did making a fourth Die Hard. And we all know how that turned out.

So when I made the weekly visit to my local beer-retailer, I decided to turn my back on the seasonal beverages. Yes, it hurt my soul to walk past Sam Adams Octoberfest but I was on a mission. To the cooler I went, determined to get an alcoholic beverage that would actually taste good.

With some searching, I discovered a four-pack of Gonzo Imperial Porter from the peeps at Flying Dog. I picked it up for inspection and was blown away by the fact that it touted a Hunter S. Thompson quote — “Good people drink good beer.” Holy shit. As a fan of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and the Thompson-inspired Spider Jerusalem, I was sold.

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Final Fantasy Tactics is up for download on the PSN. Final Fantasy Tactics is one of my favorite Final Fantasy games. When I first bought it, it broke me over its knee and left me for dead. Be gone, nub player it told me. And I nodded at it and left glumly. Years later I returned, a wizened young adult, ready to have his ass served to him repeatedly in the name of strategy. And by the end, with my legion of Monk/Ninjas, I was double-fist punching the shit out of every goon in my way. I still own my original copy, but if I didn’t, I would be on this like fanboys on Felecia Day.

Ah, Trish Stratus. I had forgotten about you. I had forgotten about all the hot summer nights I sat in front of the TV with a raging boner as you fought other WWF “divas” and strutted about all scandalous. It seems absurd now, but my hormonal teenage body couldn’t handle your generic bleach-blond hair and fake boobs. But then I grew up, and you slid, slid so far away from my mind. And now you’re back, with your own Wii game?

Via Destructoid:

Fitness model and former WWE actor Trish Stratus has teamed up with Frima Studio to develop a new yoga game for the Wii called Stratusphere. The game will make use of the Wii balance board and other Wii accessories in order to make it so you can do awesome things to yourself.

What is going on with this world?! And then Trish, I saw what you’ve done to yourself! Brown hair? Glasses? You know how to play us, Stratus! You’ve gone from cajoling the yokels and the teenage kids of the world with your fake boobs and your blond hair to manipulating us nerds with your sexy glasses and business suit! You’re vile! You’re evil! I love you. Again.

Recounting a great room mate story to a friend of mine. Yes it’s a true story:

He lived with a friend and me in an apartment. Hardly ever came out of his room for 6 months. Finally, he left and horrid stink was coming from his room. He had been gone for maybe 2 or 3 days now. We ventured in his room to find a debris field of tissues and dirty clothes. The smell got worse. We went into his bathroom to find that he dropped a deuce, the toilet overflowed, he attempted to plunge it, it got worse and more came out…after which he left and ran back to his parents house. Leaving us with the shit, literally.

Two bottles of bleach and many rubber gloves later, we cleaned this man-child’s mess up. The next day a phone call ensued:

Hey man.

Hey.

What’s with the shit you left?

The shit?

The shit, feces, dung that you left in your bathroom.

Oh, yeah…

I said yeah…your stuff needs to be out by the end of the week.

How the hell do you end up in your 20s and you leave poop, literal poop all over your bathroom and bail back to Mommy and Daddy? I would have helped the fool if he had asked. Instead, he left his bathroom the most disgusting mess I had ever seen and ran away.

He ran away. Let me reiterate this. He ran away from his own overflowing feces. Three men living in an apartment. He couldn’t ask either of us for help. He ran away. He ran away to his parents. It was so beyond the beyond.

It makes for a great story though!