Yeah, Japan is getting Final Fantasy XIII tomorrow. Or today, over there. Or whatever. Fucking futurists. Anyways, according to Andriasang, they’re also getting a fucking Final Fantasy XIII ad in THREE-DIMENSIONS prior to the movie Avatar. What the fuck! This is some shit. I’m over here, having to pretend to play Final Fantasy XIII by holding my PS3 controller while playing Final Fantasy VII after taking my sleeping medicine, and my Japanese gaming brethren are getting not only the game, but also sweet-ass trailers? But come to mention it, if you own it, why the fuck are you even going to the movies!

My jealously is an endless river of blood in which my hate will soak!

I feel like fucking Joey on Dawson’s Creek. I have these two beautiful lovers pining for my existence. They cry to me, for my gamer ovaries! They want me oh so badly. And I love them, I love them both.

Modern Warfare 2 and World of Warcraft.

I thought I had moved on from Dawson…fuck, I mean WoW. I thought I was done. We had spent some good time together, don’t get me wrong. Years and years had passed while we grew closer together. But eventually, yeah, eventually I had gotten pretty fucking bored. Everything was the same, everything was boring.

My interest with Dawsoncraft plummeted right around the beginning of the Fall. The newest dungeon Trial of the Crusading Warrior Champion or whatever came out and it was fucking boring. BORING. It was a room. Just a room. Filled with dumb bosses. Seriously, I mean, that’s it? I’m a lady, god dammit! I expect to be treated with dignity! Warcraft had taken me for granted, and I swore I was over him.

It wasn’t the first time I thought I was done with Warcraft. There had been ebbs and flows in our relationship. I mean, that’s how every relationship is, right? Boredom gives way to violent sex, gives way to fun nights watching Spielberg movies, gives way to an enjoyable comfortableness. But this time, I swore to myself, the boredom was different. It seemed more final. I was done.

And then there was Modern Warfare 2. So edgy. So totally sexy. Sort of like how Pacey in Dawson’s Creek. Pacey fucked his English teacher! How fucking awesome was that? Totally awesome. Especially since when I watched the show back as a freshmen in high school, I had the hottest English teacher ever. Little did I know, at the age of fourteen, I wouldn’t lose my virginity for another ten years. Holy shit! Anyways.

Modern Warfare 2 came along, and I was like, this is it, I’m sold. It was so much more accessible. Unlike Dawsoncraft, who insisted on having me on a tight schedule, I could fool around with Modern Warfare 2 like I wanted. What if I wanted a quick fling during the day? Done. Totally cool. What if I wanted to romp around in the middle of the night? Also awesome. No more of Warcraft’s neediness. No more having to show up at a certain time, to perform a certain task. So needy! So needy!

And I mean, things began getting serious pretty quickly. Modern Warfare and I were together like totally all the time. Time just flew by when I had him in my hands. We’d stay up late together, screaming obscenities and shooting people! True fucking love! I mean, is there anything more romantic than sticking someone with a semtex grenade and then giggling as their organs are liquified? I don’t think so. Do you?

And so I thought I was done man, I had found my new love. Weeks passed, and Warcraft creeped further into the back of my mind. Forgotten. Stuck next to old books I could barely remember, horrific memories of girlfriends with enormous pubic bushes, and the list of times I had shit myself. I kept playing Modern Warfare 2, certain it was the newest gaming addiction in my life.

And then I saw her. WoW came out with version 3.3, and I couldn’t help but bask in the eyes of the Icecrown Citadel. Well then! This sort of changed everything. Despite still playing Modern Warfare 2, I still had this new longing for the old days, for the lost love who had improved themselves and wanted me back.

I TRIED TO SHUT IT OUT AS HARD AS I COULD. But then last night? I came. I came back. And I came again. I just couldn’t handle it anymore. As much as I hated to say it, I needed Warcraft. I wanted Warcraft. I couldn’t leave Warcraft.

But now I’m stuck! I’m fucking stuck. I know they’d totally be pissed if they knew I had feelings for the other, but I can’t deny the way I feel! And it’s going to be too tiring. Logging off of Modern Warfare 2 to steal some hours of WoW, only to sneak back onto Xbox Live later that night and having Modern Warfare ask me where I’ve been. I can’t lie to either of them. Their faces are so innocent, so beautiful. And yet, I can’t choose either.

What’s the answer?! What do I do?!

Three-way.

Double-gaming penetration.

Why didn’t Joey every think of this?!

The above picture is Nicholas Cage looking like a douchebag in a superhero costume. But that’s okay. Because unlike if he starred as Clark Kent in Superman, the dude is supposed to look absurd in his current role. Dudebro is starring as Big Daddy in the film version of Mark Millar’s Kick-Ass.

I love the shit out of Kick-Ass, even if it’s just Millar riffing once again on the mundanity of suburban life, and how all of us geeks yearn for being able to fly around and shoot shit out of our asses, and eyes and cocks and stuff. And in the forthcoming clip, we get to see how Big Daddy trains his daughter to be a superhero.

How?

He teaches her how to take a bullet, by shooting her in the chest. It’s as amazing and hilarious as it sounds. Check it out after the jump. Keep Reading »

Final Fantasy XIII comes out the 17th in Japan. In preparation for that shit, Square Enix has shipped a million copies. I’m fucking miserable. I used to be excited about all the FFXIII news. I was like, hey, that means this shit is real! But now I’m about to go into my typical ball of hateful resentment that knows no bounds of jealousy and impropriety. Fuck you, Japanese gamers! I need this shit. At a cellular level, I will not be complete until this ship comes out over here. And I guarantee that not one of you will enjoy it as much as me!

How do I know?

Fuck you!

And fuck you Square Enix! Would it really chap your ass to get on the fucking simultaneous release boat? Simultaneous releases are fucking awesome! In every sense of the word! And I refuse to acknowledge that they are mythical in both the video game realm as well as the bedroom! One can dream! My small penis, my PS3, and my idealism yearn for a day. A day of simultaneous release.

Daredevil #503

I’ve been digging on Daredevil for a while. Somehow this title has been given the gift of quality creative teams time and time again. How it’s gone from Bendis (prior to being stretched thin writing the entire Marvel Universe) to Brubaker to now Diggle is beyond me. Most titles have me dropping them like woah once their quality team leaves. Or maybe I’m just an asshole; I’ve stuck around with both the Daredevil and Fantastic Four creative shifts and found myself pretty fucking stoked with the follow-ups.

Daredevil is currently the head of the fucking Hand. Seriously. Diggle’s taken a dude already consumed with an impressive amount of self-hate and thrown him into the belly of the Devil. Meanwhile Kingpin, when not stuffing his face with quality New York City vendor hotdogs is, of course, trying to bring down the Murdock. There’s something awesome about seeing Daredevil rolling out with a fucking clan of ninjas, who now all sport bad ass devil horns in their typical ninja masks.

I’ve enjoyed watching Daredevil’s spiral into oblivion for years now. Instead of throwing the reader some predictable “Golly gee, I’ve found my way” bullshit, Diggle has gone the atypical route and well, Murdock just keeps fucking up. He’s sitting on a throne of misery in the heart of some cave somewhere, contemplating the various ways in which he has fucked up. This issue follows Murdock as he continues to wield a league of assassins for something resembling good, which sounds a lot like trying to corral extremist terorrists into running a daycare program. Good luck with that shit, Matty.

Also coming out this week in the Marvel neck of the woods is a fucking fuckload of comic books. Captain America Reborn #5 is coming out, which promises to like, totally have you on the edge of your seats wondering if Steve Rogers is coming back. That’s sarcasm, we all know he’s coming back. Even worse? Dude already appeared, alive, in last week’s issue of Invincible Iron Man. What the fuck is that shit, Marvel? Were there delays and shit in shipping titles? That was confusing as Batman dying twice last year. Astonishing X-Men #33 continues doing its own thing in the X-Verse, while the rest of the titles seem to be converging on some epic confrontation. As usual. This time hinging on the return of Hope or some shit to modern times. Hint: She’s totally Jean Grey.

Incorruptible #1
A lot of people have spent the good part of 2k09 jizzing in their pants over Mark Waid’s Irredeemable. Basic premise? Superman becomes a psychopathic killer, and the world dares to find a way to try and stop him. I haven’t made my way through all the issues, but there’s a haunting scene where the Superman Analog wipes out an entire family before whispering in the ear of the fallen family’s daughter “Do you know who I am Sarah? I’m a superhero.” Creepy shit.

Anyways, Waid senses a good thing when he has it, and he’s busting out the foil for Irredeemable, Incorruptible. It’s the inversion of the prior title, seemingly chronicling a dude who was a baddie deluxe who now wants to walk the path of the righteous. He goes from MAX DAMAGE to MAX DARING. I don’t know. Maybe it’ll be cool. Waid’s got me sucked in just based on the title following the wake of Irredeemable’s hype. Maybe it’s sweet as fuck, maybe it’s a forced attempt at contrasting themes. I’m snagging the first issue at the least and hoping for the best.

Green Lantern Corps #43

They should title this shit “Green Lantern Corps #43 – If You Don’t Read This, You Won’t Know What the Fuck Is Going On In Blackest Night.” Yeah, that title is long as fuck, but it gets the point across. I’m cool with tie-ins, but when every single fucking title that is in a tie-in must be read to understand the central story. I picked up the latest issue of Blackest Night, and all the Lanterns were giving each other handjobs and having beers after work. It’s not that I couldn’t figure out what was going on. But rather, I think that something that goddamn important shouldn’t be relegated to a spin-off title.

I’m sure there’s some length conversation that could take place wherein we debate the proper role of tie-in titles and other bullshit, but I’m just going to side-step intellectualism (I know I did that far, far before this) and call them dumb and lame. Auxiliary titles should supplement the main event title, not contain moments that are enormous occurrences. I understand the financial reasons for it, but c’mon. Please? If I have to pick up Green Hornet someday to find out that Superman has decided he wants to be a professional ventriloquist in Throwdown for the Cape and Red Undies, I’m going to be annoyed.

Other DC titles dropping are stuff and stuff. There’s an Arkham Asylum special, which makes sense, because the game sold a zillion copies and is already getting a fucking sequel. Then there’s Superman/Batman #67 which is a Blackest Night tie-in. Which means they probably end the war, Batman returns, and Superman gets Lois pregnant. Just, you know, judging by the fact that they give serious content to spin-off titles to keep you buying them. No, I’m really not complaining about that still.

Okay, yes I am.

Paul Pope is not only an amazing comics-creator, but a true inspiration and one of my personal heroes. I admire Pope because of his ability to swoop into the world of comic books to deliver amazing stories  & fresh perspectives, and then stage an exit before falling victim to the pitfalls of the medium. I don’t know much about the technical aspects of illustration, but I know that every single panel of Pope’s work I’ve ever seen feels authentic/genuine/as though the man is incapable of phoning it in.

Although he’s  spun some of great  yarns about franchise-characters  , he understands that they fulfill a certain role. In an interview to address his exhibition at the Art Directors Club in New York City, Pope offered the following:

“They periodically kill off Superman or Captain America or Batman, then according to [formula], they resurrect them again. I don’t follow continuity comics unless a really amazing cartoonist is drawing the story, an Eduardo Risso or a Frank Quietly or a John Cassaday or a Steve Rude. I think superheroes represent themes rather than function as true characters in any literary sense. Because in real life and in literature, people and characters make choices and have a destiny, and must necessarily change–maybe for the better or the worse– but they are substantively different from the person they were at the beginning of the story. The superheroes don’t change, the guardians of the franchise don’t want to change them, and the audience probably doesn’t want it either.”

So although I enjoy the hell out of Batman Year 100 (which, roughly speaking, reads to me as a cross between the Batman mythos and a Bladerunner-styled technofuture), Pope’s original works are the creations to which I am most drawn. For an amazing testament to the power of sequential art, I strongly recommend 100%. Despite being a bit of a cynic, this book makes me believe in the value of love and art and trying to make the most out of a life that often seems utterly insignificant. And while this all sounds great in theory, Pope’s execution is nothing short of perfection.

As a student of narrative, there’s been many a night in which I’ve asked myself, “What’s the fucking point of this stuff? Why should I even bother concerning myself with the past? What can fiction do for the world?” The best answer I’ve ever received comes on the eighteenth page of Pulphope, Pope’s collection of art and essays:

“When I need my own mirror of men and angels, I too turn to hear the voices of the dead. Without even having faith in mystics, I too turn to take my cue from dead mystics. When I need voices, I turn to Emerson and Thoreau. Their Transcendentalism rings a bit hollow to me (I am no Platonist), but their words still ring clear and true. I turn to the dour civics of Confucius and the clear-eyed cynicism of Machiavelli. The life-embrace of Epicurus. I turn to the dreamtime of Jung and the pastorality of Tolkein. And to others. These poets and philosophers are the whispering dead I hear, pointing the way to the road which leads out of this inferno. These are the dead on the roof with me, these are my Virgils. They point their parchment fingers toward the arc of the heavens, helping make sense of a meaningless rising moon and a mute and dumb setting sun.”

Today, the mailman dropped off a limited edition Paul Pope print from the folks at Nakatomi Inc. The one-sheet is a tribute to Guido Crepax, an Italian comics artist of yesteryear whose work is (apparently) marked by sexually-charged female figures. The 13×19 variant features babes, motorcycles, and a shootout; in other words, it’s dope.

I couldn’t be happier with this print. Beautiful in its own right, I’m going to hang it with the added satisfaction of knowing that I possess a limited edition poster created by comic books’ most inspirational, if not underappreciated, artists.

I don’t have much hope — but I have Pulphope.

Last week it was suggested to me:

I think once a week you should post an obscure picture from FFXIII and we try to guess what the fuck is going on.

Well, here we fucking go! I dig this picture, because I dig Snow. I dig Snow in the way that I dig people I want to make love to. That is…I want to make love to him. Now, I know he’s not real. And I know it will never happen. But I know that this also makes me much like Kierkegaard’s Knight of Infinite Resignation. And frankly, anything I can do to make myself much like anything involving my existential heroes, I’ll undertake.

So I continue on my path, knowing that I will never make love to Snow. But I will never relinquish said dreams, for I will continue to envision a day when polygon and man can come together, united in their love.

Oh wait, I’m supposed to guess what’s going on?

I’m not really sure. But if I had to guess, Snow and Lightning are about to kick some fucking ass. You can tell Lightning is serious, because her arms are crossed. Which means that she’s silent and brooding and she wants to elbow drop someone. Meanwhile, Snow is pretending he’s Zell, or Dash, and he’s ready to unleash some fucking monk fury on an unsuspecting ass.

Who is he fighting?

Clearly Santa Claus.

What the fuck is up, fools. How is life? It’s an ashen paradise over here in the suburbs of Massachusetts. The sky is alternating between a teasing blue and a gray pall that reminds me that it’ll be a long, long time before I’m able to piss outside in the middle of the night without it steaming up and hitting my feel. Good god damn! Fuck that noise! Et cetera. I ain’t started my Christmas shopping, but I’m not worried. You’re all getting pictures of my genitalia and ginger snaps. I want you to barf onto the pictures. You’re welcome.

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.

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I really can’t remember the last time a season finale’s final twist blew my brain out of my skullcap like Dexter’s last night. Like most shows, I was expecting the requisite finale to come packing a twist at the ending. You know, something to keep you talking and interesting in the show until the next season popped off. I had a million different ideas as to what it would be; most of them hinging on Deb beginning to suspect that her brother was a professional body carver.

Killing Rita though? Naw dude, I never saw that coming. Maybe I suspected that the writers would never go this far out of what I perceived was a comfort zone. Who knows. But I sat there blown away. Seeing Harrison sitting in a pool of hemoglobin eerily similar to his own father’s birth through blood gave me the chills.

Homeboy Dexter realized both his worth and the ramifications for those who got close to him. In the same episode he realizes that he doesn’t bring horror into the lives of those who love him. They benefit from him. And yet, the dude’s baggage, that which he brings along with him, lands his wife dead in their bathtub, Trinity Killer’s final opus.

It was a season obsessed with discussing the effects of nurture on two different serial killers. Both baptized in blood, what separated Dexter from Trinity? Presumably it was Harry’s Code that prevented Dexter from giving in to reckless bloodlust that consumed Arthur Mitchell. Or rather, perhaps, allows Dexter to channel in towards only those who he deems worthy of dying. So what now will become of Harrison? Who the fuck knows.

I do know that I was worried the show had backed itself up into a corner this season. It seemed they had rocked what could have been the ending of the series; Dexter realizes the importance of his family over his insatiable desire to fill the gulf stream with bodybags, he continues to put them first, blah blah blah. But him realizing it in the wake of him letting Rita die? What the fuck. Will the dude shut down and completely kill off all his sentiment, not wanting to feel all the ugly bullshit that comes with emotion. It allows for a whole different exploration of the character.

I was always sweating the day when Dexter’s extracurricular activities caught up to him literally. The police kickin’ down his door and collecting him and his impressive arsenal of weaponry. But I can dig on it collapsing on him in the form of death and strife for his family.

And a remorseful peace out to Lithgow and the Trinity Killer. You sir, will be missed. I know that big name stars that pop into a television show are always destined to be leaving at the end of the season, and in Dexter that usually means by ways of the blade. But Trinity was probably my favorite character on the show, ever. If the Ice Truck Killer was the shape of what could have come to be Dexter, Trinity was a asshole-pucking   portentous look at what he could develop into. You sir, from your creepy cottage cheese ass, to your odd fascination with trains, to being the man who may have finally broken Dexter, hats-off.

What a god damn season.

I’ve been in the business of writing about the beers I drink for almost four months now. In truth, I’ve really enjoyed doing the Friday Brew Review as it gives me an excuse to  find new elixirs (and, of course, a justification for drinking at least once a week). Thus far, I feel as though my quest to avoid the big-name, low-quality beers of the average drinker has been successful. Unfortunately, in my attempt to steer clear of the kings of drunkenness and the swill they serve at their banquets, I have neglected to feature some of the more reputable local craft brews. This is a terrible habit, conducting a sort of total war on all the names I’ve heard of just to ensure that I sample something fresh.

It ends tonight.

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