The Soulless Hermeneutics Machine

The importance of Watsons: an investigation of genius aids

2009-11-26T15:39:00.002-06:00

While watching House: Teamwork Season 6 : Ep. 7 on Hulu last night, I got to thinking about Watson, Holmes' loveable but less than brilliant sidekick. In "Teamwork," Dr. House desperately goes about reconstructing his team of doctors. These doctors support Dr. House in solving complex medical cases that have stumped other medical professionals; however, they are not Dr. House's equal: they are Watsons, at worst simply witnesses to a great mind at work and at best collaborators who provide false leads that ignite Dr. House's genius.

The question the doctors, the Watsons raised in my mind is thus: is the genius-mind dependent upon the common-mind for more than simply the relational dichotomy of Good & Evil or Truth & fallacy? Could it be that in English and American literature (and popular culture) that the common-mind provides the spark that drives the genius-mind? Alternatively, is it that the common-mind seeks out the genius-mind in order to improve or seek approval, while the genius-mind must constantly find ways to prove its genius to itself by "one-upping" the common-mind?

Dr. Wilson, Dr. House's best friend, questions Dr. House's motives for reconstructing his old team (when those old team members were obviously not interested) when there are thousands of medical practitioners who would jump at the opportunity to work alongside Dr. House and gain experience in the field of Diagnostic Medicine. Dr. Wilson's question and straightforward assessment made me pause, as did Dr. House's response. Dr. House wished to keep the doctors, the Watsons with whom he is familiar, better to work with the minds he knows than those he doesn’t.

What flummoxed me was how a genius-mind like Dr. House needed his team of Watsons. If genius-minds are just common-minds, in that in order to self-actualize, it must first travel Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs, Dr. House was seeking to reconstruct his team so that he could manufacture the conditions that provide his genius the strongest spark. When his team was reassembled, at the end of the episode, Dr. House gloats to Dr. Wilson that he has done it: Dr. House's team is complete. This means to me that Dr. House has found his proverbial happy-place and achieved something that even Dr. Wilson can never hope to accomplish: self-actualization.

What Dr. House doesn't know is that he is confessing to Dr. Wilson that he is incapable of achieving his full potential, genius-mind, his self-actualization without the aid of his common-mind Watsons. Dr. House is dependent; the genius-mind is dependent upon the common-mind. This gives me great hope, but is also very sad: the genius-mind feeds on common-minds, and it seems that as our literary tradition ages and evolves the genius-mind requires an increasing number of common-minds to function.

Holmes needed but one Watson, while Dr. House needs four common-minds to keep the deductive spark alive.

What I’m not sure of is how to feel about the role of the common-mind, of the Watsons who support the genius-mind by providing false leads or incorrect diagnoses that challenge the genius-mind to propose alternatives to the collective common-mind’s wisdom. When I say “feel,” I mean that in a system or team, Dr. House and his doctors or Holmes and Watson, the genius-mind is to admired and aspired to as the common-mind is devalued and demeaned. However, if the genius-mind needs common-minds in order to function, then both the genius and common-minds have relational value. So, then why is it that both Dr. House and Holmes dismiss and belittle the common-mind that supports their genius?

I believe that the answer to that question lies within constrains of communication and language. The ability to communicate relies on language use. If a common-mind and the genius-mind do not share a foundation or shared technical language, the barrier to precise communication will foster resentment. For example, the genius-mind will seek to use the most precise descriptive word or phrase (Class:…), which is shorthand for an entire system of smaller ideas; while the common-mind will need to have the term unpacked which takes time. Alternately, the common-mind will, instead of using one word to represent an entire system will need to explain that system out (…a system of “haves” and “have-nots” that fosters desire, fear, and resentment between those that “have and those who “want”).

When language disrupts communication in the relationship of genius and common-minds, the common-mind will have feelings of inadequacy that will turn into resentment or awe of the genius-mind. Either way, the common-mind’s feelings of inadequacy will generate conflict. Meanwhile, the genius-mind becomes increasingly frustrated that not only does the genius-mind need the common-mind, but that it must constantly pander or dumb down its language use to ease tension and to accomplish its ultimate goal – the maintenance of the exact conditions in which its genius can flourish.

The Soulless Machine Review is now The Soulless Hermeneutics Machine

2009-11-22T16:16:00.005-06:00

I’ve been thinking about my blog, what I post, and what I'm interested in posting going forward. In my mind, a blog shouldn’t be limited: a blog is in sense is a journal or record of an individuals thoughts, feelings, and search for meaning in an ever expanding digital universe. When I conceived The Soulless Machine Review, I set out to join the passionate few dedicated to highlighting new and emerging Science Fiction and Fantasy short stories, novellas, journals, and novels; but what I’ve found in that last two years is that reviewing is not my passion. Whereas writing and critical approaches to writing and literature consume my very being as if I were a bloody corpse in a shark tank.

It seems that I put up roadblocks at every turn because I inadequacy issues with language. Every six weeks, each new school term, I confess to my students that even I struggle with the English Language: I have difficulty spelling. I am a child of spell check, but when I was in elementary school, my teachers ridiculed my ability to spell. One teacher told me that I would never amount to anything unless I could spell. My elementary English class experiences still haunt me, but I took that prophetic statement about my worth as a challenge: Two Bachelors degrees in English (Creative Writing, & Rhetoric and Discourse) and a Master Degree in Fine Arts in Writing later, I still struggle with spelling, but I now teach English Composition, 20th Century Literature, and Environmental Science. The irony does not escape my students as I write on the whiteboard.

My feelings of inadequacy send me in every direction but the one I want most. Instead of pursuing my own writing (fiction and critical), I endeavored to promote other writer’s published works, believing that their appreciation would fill the void, and it did for a while. I enjoyed reading and reviewing, but the act of “reviewing” is too akin to “marketing” for me. Instead, going forward, when I post, I would like to think that I’m engaging in the critical application of theory in order to extract (to interpret) meaning from a text.

Whereas “reviewing” implies a judging, a suggestion to buy or not to buy a text, hermeneutics is the study of critical approaches and how they are used to extract meanings from texts and position those meanings within cultural biases. I wish to be clear here: I do not intend to suggest that there is more value in “criticism” than in “reviewing.” I’m merely suggesting that my reviewing days are over because my heart is not in that particular, yet important endeavor.

With my heart in mind, The Soulless Machine Review will slowly evolve into The Soulless Hermeneutics Machine. The focus will shift from reviewing short stories and novels to criticism intent on writing produces meaning, how meaning is constructed using language, and how literary texts dually produce and absorb meaning for a given culture.

The look of this blog with alter in the coming days, as will the title, but rest assured that all previous content will remain intact (with the same URLs) as I am only changing the title and not the core URL http://www.soullessmachine.com/. However, sidebar links will eventually change, eliminating many if not all review sites and advertisements for journals and websites that are not inline with my new focus. For this reason, I apologize to my many good reviewing friends. (You may, and should most likely remove me from your link lists.)

As I write this announcement, I realize that my musing here sounds self-important and self-indulgent, and I must admit that I am being very self-indulgent and possibly (most likely) a pompous self-important elitist; however, this is a blog, a journal chronicling my literary adventures (be they reviewing or hermeneutics), and…

I am the Soulless Machine.

Sincerely,

Aaron M. Wilson

Daily Drabble: "Hudson Butte"

2009-11-11T20:23:00.005-06:00

“Stop me!” Bill pulled the hood of this jacket up over his head and zipped up the front so that only his eyes were visible through glow-green skeletal sockets. He took a step back off the porch and landed two feet bellow the ledge.

“I can’t stop you. I just ask that you stop to think about how your actions will affect your sister.” Hudson watched as his bother-in law ran off into the rain.

“Motherfucker!”

Shit. Hudson pulled his white bathrobe closer. Things could have played out better than they did. That little…well, I guess this isn’t his fault, but he assumes that it is mine and hers. We couldn’t have known. How could we have known? We couldn’t. It wasn’t in the cards. There was no prophesy, no oracle; I didn’t run from home or my adopted parents in some prideful attempt to avoid some cursed fate. I accepted that my adopted parents loved me as much as they did my sister, their blood-born child.

The wind blew the rain up onto the porch. The darkness kept eyes and whatever else lurked beyond the porch in shadow. The damp leaves and grass muffled sounds so that not even the anguished sobs of enlightenment could be heard beyond the steps.

Hudson looked at the birth certificate in his hands. It read: Hudson Butte. I’m a Butte. I’m a Butte. At least I know who I am, but I can’t for the life of me remember why I wanted to know. The Bell and Kurt Thurston were parents enough, but when they died…Well, I wanted my children to know who are, from what stock they come from. Then James got that genealogy assignment as a language arts project.

Twenty-five dollars and two rolls of tape later, I’m a Butte. I’d always admired older women for their ridged acceptance that they destined to fulfill the duel role of sex-object and surrogate-mother figure for perpetual-pubescent man-boys. How could I know!

Hudson shut the door behind. June was sitting with James and Sandra Lee. Well, it looks like June has found a way to avoid talking to me. We just celebrated her forty-eighth last week, which means that she would have been fifteen. I can understand, but can June and I forget and move-on…is that what is right…can love?

June looks up at Hudson. “Honey, come sit with us. Sandra Lee wants to read to us.” She smiles and winks.

Hudson folds the documents and tosses them into the fire. “Okay Sandra Lee, what do you have there?” He slips his hand around the kids to touch June on the shoulder. I just don’t care. I love her. I love my kids.

On Twitter: #dailydrabble #microfiction

The Soulless Machine Review Closed to Reviews

2009-11-06T19:30:00.000-06:00

Dear fans, followers, and authors,

I’m sorry to report that The Soulless Machine Review is closed to reviews. I am humbled. The number authors that have contacted me about their newly published or soon to be released books have been overwhelming. Thank you for considering this review blog, but I must focus on teaching and my own writing (Yes, I must be more selfish with my time).

Out of respect for the authors that I have reviewed on The Soulless Machine Review, I am going to leave the site up with the same name and URLs; however, if I post on this site, it will likely not be reviews of fiction.

If you are an author seeking a review, I suggest that you take a look at one of the following sites (or any of the ones listed on my side bar): Adventures in Reading, Debuts & Reviews, Red Headed Book Child.

If you must know what SoullessMachine is up to, you can follow along at Twitter.com. Right now, I’m #Homer, #Iliad, #epigram, #couplet, #Hitchcock, #workout, and #dailydrabble.

Again, thank you following.

Sincerely,

Aaron M. Wilson

Daily Drabble: Jesus Interrupted

2009-10-16T09:26:00.001-05:00

"Jesus Interrupted"

Like a hick out of the movie “Deliverance,” a man in full scruff too short to for a beard and too long for a single day’s growth stood next to silver and grey Bronco. He was fumbling with his keys as we approached our car parked grill to grill with his Bronco. He tipped his trucker-styled camouflage and orange hat in a friendly way.

As my wife and I rounded our car, I returned his hat-tipping how-do-you-do with an equally friendly chin-up what’s-up. I unlocked my door. My wife unlocked hers.

“You accepted Jesus into your heats as savior, brother.”

I looked up. My mouth hung open. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see my wife quickly hop into the car and shut the door.

Another gentile man, similar in appearance to first, minus the hat, his hair was unkempt and beginning to grey, stepped out of the driver’s side of the Bronco. He mimicked my chin-up what’s-up.

I said, “What the fuck,” and got into the car. Without looking up through the windshield, I backed out and exited the Mall of America’s parking ramp.

On Twitter: #dailydrabble #microfiction

THE SOULLESS MACHINE REVIEW September 2009

2009-10-01T06:54:00.004-05:00

Extra:
LITTLE WHITE MOUSE OMNIBUS by Paul Sizer
THE MALL OF CTHULHU by Seamus Cooper
Aaron M. Wilson, The Soulless Machine Review, interviews himself:

Question: What’s up with the lack of reviews?

Answer: I have enjoyed focusing on other people’s writing for the last two-plus years, but it is time that I focus on my writing. I’m a writer. I write short stories and pretend to work on novels. Several of the interviews that I’ve read or listened to over the past month with authors of published works have all pointed me in the same direction:

STOP READING

AND

START WRITING

I only have so much time in the day, and I’ve been using my free time to feed my addiction. I love to read, and because I’m an addict, I will likely continue to read. When I come across something important, something that inspires my writing, I will report here on The Soulless Machine Review.

Question: So, what will become of The Soulless Machine Review?

Answer: If you are looking for review, I suggest that you check out other review sites. What I, in all likelihood will post, will be short attempts at fiction (See DAILY DRABBLE). So, again if you are looking for a review of short sorties, here are two sites that I recommend: Adventures in Reading and 51 Stories.

Question: Are you reading something now?

Answer: Of course! I’m an addict remember. Right now, I’m chewing on several things: “Ecology and the End of Postmodernity,” “The Monkey Wrench Gang,” “Evolution,” and a stack of unread “Analog.”

Question: Are you still accepting submissions for review?

Answer: Yes, but! – I will only accept individual short stories from authors that solicit me directly, and I make no promises that a review will be posted.

Question: What are you working on now?

Answer: I just finished a seven-page outline for a novel. I’m going to plug away at that for awhile. Anyway, I have to get ready for work. Thank you for taking time with me this morning, but I have to go.

But before I go, a big thank you to all of the readers and subscribers out there!

Sincerely,

Aaron M. Wilson – The Soulless Machine Review

Daily Drabble: “Fountain of Clay”

2009-09-21T18:07:00.002-05:00

“Fountain of Clay”

If there is a way, the way will be found by the person who seeks it least but knows it best. The key to the door exists in all life at once but not in anyone species or individual at any one moment. The door to the way is composed of the absence of diversity but can only materialize in the presence of infinite variation. The way leads forward that is all.

“Where did you find this again?”

“A shard, a clay pot fragment, we pulled it out of the third hut.”

“And you’re sure it was in written in English?”

“Yes.”

“Will you read it again?”

“Simon! I’ve read it to you three times now, and I’ve…only got one bar left.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll be there in the morning.”

Dr. Underfoot put his one on the ground next to the dig and sat. The walls were fifteen feet deep. The tests had dated the rock, sediment, and shards, at the floor back some 15,000 years. The sharp curved pot fragment still in his had included a hand drawn picture of man holding a sign upon which were written the words he’d quoted to Simon.

“Nothing good will come of this,” he muttered, “Nothing good at all.”

He climbed back down the latter and placed the shard with the other odd fragments all with the same man and the same sign, but each in a different language. The more he studied the pile the looser his mind felt, as if he’d taken a sleeping aid. In his addled condition, Dr. Underfoot began, as if by instinct, arranging the shards about the inside of dig. There were too many pieces to count, every time he took one from the pile, two more appeared in its place.

When the entire floor was filled with clay fragments, Dr. Underfoot stopped. He took a long breath in through his nose, exhaling through his mouth. He spun around and around until he fell to his knees.

Madness came over Dr. Underfoot. He pounced the mound of shards breaking them with his fists. His hand soon bloodied, but he felt he was making progress and that the mound was decreasing in size. Then a light shown down on him, and he looked up into its brilliance.

“Dr., are you okay?”

“Who are you? Where are you?”

“It’s Reaves. I’m up here.”

Dr. Underfoot look at his clean hands and then around the earth floor. Only one potshard lay in ruins in the dirt.

“Reaves, help me out of this hole please. I need a drink.”

On Twitter: #dailydrabble #microfiction

Daily Drabble: “Vacation Pickup”

2009-09-19T10:53:00.004-05:00

Looking down the escalator at the mobs of people moving like ants over a discarded apple, I panic. There is no escape. The stairs move in only one direction, and I’m trapped amidst a Michelin Man-sized family unit consisting of four-point-five: Mom, in blue feeding number point-five from a bottle; Dad, in his hunter orange cameo hat ogling Minnesota teenage mall-fashion; Richard, in all black sitting down probably pondering how to set the Mall of America on fire while spinning his lip ring; and I’m in my favorite pair of jean desperately trying to look cute.

Then Dad, God, I love him, says, “George, just because were in the Twin Cities doesn’t mean they’re all gay like you. City boys have this thing called,” he pauses, “Honey what was that you told me about the Twin Cities boys liking to…you know…dress all fantasy like.”

“Metro…”

Dad finishes, “sexual. Yeah, metro sexual.” He looks at me as we disembark from the escalator, “So, don’t hit on every hot guy you see okay.”

I’m devastated that my Dad thinks that he’s doing me a favor by taking a vacation to the Mall of America, so that I can try to pick up boys while they shop. God! I love him for trying.

“Boys, text us when you’re ready for lunch,” Mom calls as she heads into a Bath and Body Works.

On Twitter: #dailydrabble #microfiction

My story "Last Act" published by "the wry writer"

2009-09-19T08:04:00.004-05:00

Check it out! - "Last Act." the wry writer, Sept. 18, 2009

Daily Drabble: "Apophis"

2009-09-17T20:22:00.002-05:00

"Apophis"

April 13, 2029 – Astrophysicist, Nico Marquardt predicted that Apophis would probably, a 1 in 450 chance to collide with one of our 40,000 orbiting satellites. In the cosmic game of pool, any collision would cause a deviation in Apophis’ solar orbit. In this game of nine-ball, were number three, blue, pristine, and bursting with life, and our satellites are imperfections in the felt. We’ve all played on a ratty table, line up the called shot to have it ruined by a rip or a crease in the felt, altering the directionality of the queue ball by millimeters, fouling the shot.

Who, if you believe in a who, or whatever force put Apophis, an asteroid mass of solid iron and indium 320 meters in diameter and weighing in at 200 billion tons, into motion must be pretty pissed off right about now. At 3:20 AM Central Time this morning, Apophis impacted with not one but two communication satellites, one American and one Japanese. Due to the odds, 1 in 450, too close for comfort as galactic measurements go, but a bad bet, like tossing your money to the wind. There are rumors that some joker took those odds in Vegas and is now very well to do.

When Apophis hit the first satellite, its course deviated ever so slightly, not unlike an unmanned eighteen-wheeler hitting a skunk. Those few degrees put Apophis on a direct course with the second satellite, and again Apophis’ course shifted. Astrophysicists have been hard a work ever since recalculating Apophis’ orbit. Would those two collisions take Apophis galactic orbit further away from earth or closer, when it next approached in 2036?

December 15, 2037 – I will be the first to admit that we missed it. We were so concerned with humanity’s exponential environmental footstep that we forgot to look up. Environmental Scientists were completely focused on our conservation efforts to maintain our rapidly diminishing natural capital that we overlooked the approaching global apocalypse. It is our mission to observe, record, and test collected data, making recommendations based on probabilities to our governments concerning a myriad of natural phenomenon in which humans adversely influencing.

We wrongly left space and all of its mysteries to the astrophysicists believing that they had enough sense to extrapolate and apply their findings, using disciplines beyond physics. However, and this is a problem with science, we forget the interconnectedness of life and tend to put blinders on, so that we can focus, become respected experts in our chosen fields. It was the environmental scientist’s job to make connections between disciplines, experts in no one field, generalists pulling from every scientific field to better understand and manage our natural resources and services.

However, the extent of our relationship with astrophysicists and astronomers started and ended with the sun and the moon. The sun and sunlight, solar capital, fuels all life. Without solar capital, all of earth’s natural systems would cease to function, a massive shutdown on an ecological scale. We even came up with a category for solar capital, perpetual. Solar capital is perpetual, meaning that it would continue to provide energy on a scale the human mind can’t comprehend, having some six billion years left as our sun completes its life cycle.

We should have been more interested in what the astrophysicists and astronomers were saying about Apophis, but we ignored them. They put out peer-reviewed articles, gave lectures, and went on national television to prepare us for the near miss. They focused on harmful exposure to radiation as Apophis’ orbital gravity influenced atmosphere as it passed by.

No one thought to ask if Apophis had enough mass and inertia to do more than weaken the atmosphere temporality as it passed by, closer than the moon’s orbit. No one ever dreamed that it would cause an axial shift in earth’s rotation. Even a year later, it seems impossible that a marble’s velocity could move a basketball, gravity or no gravity, but shift the earth it did, so that what we knew as the equatorial latitude, 0 degrees, shifted so that is now runs latitude 60 degrees north to 60 degrees south. The axial prime meridian now sits 60 degrees east to 60 degrees west longitude.

It is December 15 in Minneapolis, MN, and the thermometer reads 35 C (95 F).

Inspirational Source: http://www.theinquirer.net/inquirer/news/1012941/asteroid-risk-hitting-earth

On Twitter: #dailydrabble #microfiction

Daily Drabble: “Longhorn’s Hacienda”

2009-09-16T22:15:00.000-05:00

DANGER, the alarm’s vocabulator prattled in its cowboy drawl, TWO MINUTES BEFORE Y’ALL’S AIR'S DONE GONE. It paused for three seconds before repeating an updated message.

The escape pod, lovingly nicknamed Longhorn’s Hacienda so that its occupants didn’t linger on the fact that they were suck in a Life-support Hatch, floating somewhere in the Milky Way beyond Pluto. Someone had even taken the time to decorate this L.H. in a southwestern theme featuring a mural of a rodeo clown popping his head out of a barrel and red chili pepper shaped cushions.

YOU BEST BE GETTIN’ A MOVE ON, AIR’S DONE USED UP.

Through the one window, Earth was nothing more than a pinprick of blue that came in and out of view as the L.H rotated. Darkness interrupted by specks of light made the inside sparkle like an inverted disco ball from a bygone era. The idea of a southwestern DiscoTech in space was lost upon the system’s alarm

I JUST DON’T UNDERSTAND. I KNOW Y’ALL STILL IN HERE, BUT I CAN’T FOR THE LIFE OF ME FIGURE OUT HOW Y’ALL ARE STILL BREATHING.

There was a long period of silence while the system scanned for life. It knew life existed within its gullet. It confirmed life those life signs over and over again. If its readings were accurate, and it had no reason to doubt itself, it was chalked full of life. There was so much life that its seams were about to hemorrhage.

GOSH! I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOUR DOING, BUT STOP! PLEASE STOP!

The L.H. burst, and like a piñata expelling sweet life in all directions.

On Twitter: #dailydrabble #microfiction

Daily Drabble: "Last Act"

2009-09-15T21:23:00.004-05:00

I was inspired to write a Daily Drabble by Tonya Moore’s post Join the Daily Drabble Challenge on Twitter: #dailydrabble #microfiction

Here is my bit of Fiction for today:

“Last Act”

Like bad song lyrics, the audience’s hecklings replayed in his mind, a white-noise background to dying screams as he swiftly moved through the front row. The stage a distant memory, an oasis forgotten, he had brought his ‘A’ game. He wasn’t one of those hacks seeking five minutes of fame on the blooper reel for millions of home viewers to yuck at. He was a serious artist, a hacky sack’n, juggling wizard worthy of a Who song immortalizing his skills.

A woman dressed in an elegant robin’s egg dress, white pearls around her slender stressed neck, tried to jump over her seat in the next row. Her black heel caught between the purple cushions causing her to wrench her knee and fall face first into the floor. Her screams were cut short as George the Juggler put his wingtip into her eye and stomped down on her head as if he were comedy legend Gallagher and she was an over ripe watermelon.

George wasn’t smiling, he believed himself a sane man. He was a talented man, a man that would not be the laughing stock of millions and millions of crumb bum dreamless couch potatoes. No. He was going to be remembered for something else completely. He would remembered as the man who killed David Hasselhoff, Sharron Osborne, the other two “America’s Got Talent” judges, and a few members of the audience.

“Stop!” A security guard leveled his gun at George the Juggler. The guard shook his head as George bent over to pick something up from the floor. “Don’t do it.”

George didn’t listen. He knew that this would be the last performance of his life. He wanted this performance to be remembered forever. He held up his bloodied hands, holding three heads, Hasselhoff, Osborne, and some guy with a yellow mustache of the likes not seen since Wild Bill Hickok’s. He moved out from the aisle and began juggling.

“Laugh at me now,” he said.

On Twitter: #dailydrabble #microfiction

THE MALL OF CTHULHU by Seamus Cooper

2009-09-11T20:50:00.002-05:00

I would like to suggest that Cooper’s “The Mall of Cthulhu” is Lovecraft light, but that is not to say that the novel wasn’t a romping good time. Ha! I think that my brain has melted, just a little – that double negative was horrifically stupefying. What I wanted to say was that Cooper’s “The Mall of Cthulhu” is a romping good time, but just a trashy like a good harlequin romance.

Ted, a coffee slinging barista, has had a rough life. When he was in college, he slaughtered an entire sorority and burned to the ground. For the record, the sorority girls were vampires, but Ted had to chop the head off a good friend. Ted was never quite the same after that night, or perhaps he mental and emotional growth was stunted, doomed to forever be an inappropriate sex-crazed first year.

Ted’s wise cracking lewd and sexist comments removed me from the dream-story experience several times throughout the novel, but his puppy-like loyalty and his superhero ability to run towards trouble eventually won me over. I guess I just want more from characters than perpetual pulsating libidos. Ted whines so often about not getting laid that when he finally does have sex, in R’lyeh no less, I almost wanted to cheer, hoping that he would drop it, but no; there seems to be nothing to do in R’lyeh but have sex.

While in R’lyeh, wandering alone and desperately seeking Cthulhu out of boredom, Ted admires the scenery, which Seamus reduces to horrific comments about the mind numbingly impossible geometry. I wanted more. Lovecraft was sparse in his details about the Dreamlands, but he was still able to paint a picture that sent tingles up my spine. The descriptions seemed too comical, almost Looney Toons. However, there was one moment in R’lyeh that had me rolling in laughter. Ted had successfully climbed on top of Cthulhu’s head and danced in an attempt to wake him, ending his oppressive boredom.

Despite my disappointments, “The Mall of Cthulhu” is a fun quick read. I’m notoriously slow reader of novels, but I devoured this one in less then two days, about four hours. I’m a complete sucker for Lovecraft inspired fiction. I’ve even written a short story or two that were directly inspired by the Mythos. So, I guess what I’m saying is that I really did enjoy the coffee novel despite Ted.

Question: is “The Mall of Cthulhu” worth buying?

Answer: from one cultist to the next – YES.

Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn

Cooper, Seamus. “The Mall of Cthulhu.” San Francisco: Night Shade Books, 2009

LITTLE WHITE MOUSE OMNIBUS by Paul Sizer

2009-09-02T19:16:00.003-05:00

I feel like I’ve been living in the dark. How could the work of Paul Sizer have escaped me for so long? B.P.M. and Moped Army were lucky library accidents that introduced me to, first and foremost, a talented story teller. Sizer’s stories are full of heart, and he pays close attention to his characters’ emotional cores, which just isn’t found in other graphic novels.

Take, for example, “Filthy Jake” Armani, a tattooed air-biker who is as big as an ox and as mean as any back-alley thug. Armani, through a bizarre in counter with Loo (the main character) becomes a loyal friend, who shows tender side as he struggles to return a panda bear key chain.

Loo is Little White Mouse (a father’s nickname for her), a sixteen year-old girl on her way to the Galactic Science Academy along with her sister. However, the ship that she is on does not make it to Academy. Loo ends up stranded, alone, on a deep space asteroid mine. Heart broken at the loss of her sister, Loo endeavors to resurrect her by downloading her sister’s brainwaves into a homemade android.

Sizer’s graphic novel explores what it means to be alone, truly alone. How would you cope if you were stranded alone? Being stranded alone is typically a story line championed as a motif in male coming of age stories, Call of the Wild or Hatchet, but Loo’s cold deep space adventure proves that surviving on your own, alone leaves no one unchanged.

For me, the brilliant part of Loo’s adventure begins when she leaves the asteroid and must confront the emotional changes she’s undergone. To foil her changes, she meets a young man trapped by his need for perfection and a talented young woman trapped in a degrading profession. Through these interactions Loo comes to terms with how blessed her life has been, and she tries to reach out to these people though a new found sense of morality and personal justice.

If ever there was a graphic novel that approached literature status, Sizer’s Little White Mouse is one of them. You should not miss your opportunity to indulge in his work.

Sizer, Paul. “Little White Mouse: Omnibus: The Complete Little White Mouse.” Café Digital Comics, 2006

THE SOULLESS MACHINE REVIEW August 2009

2009-09-01T06:51:00.003-05:00

HAPPY ENDINGS by Margaret Atwood

Extras:
HOPE ON A TIGHTROPE by Cornel West
THE WEATHER MAKERS by Tim Flannery
BURNOUT by Rebecca Donner
B.P.M.: BEATS PER MINUTE by Paul Sizer

HOPE ON A TIGHTROPE by Cornel West

2009-08-30T20:14:00.002-05:00

Very few living intellectuals have the ability to inspire away the misanthrope in me that believes humanity is doomed: destined to hate each other; destined to desire and want until we kill for that thing we don’t have but that our neighbors’ do; destined to fall into a funk that’s so deep and so wide, dark and immoral that no light can penetrate it. Cornel West is one such intellectual that knows the meaning of the word “hope,” and his word resonate with me.

Listening to the West’s interview with Travis Smiley, included on a CD that comes with the book, his words moved me to tears while waiting for the buss downtown today. The combination of West’s ideas about race, what it means to be a poet and artist, and his moments of spoken word, all combined with sexy Jazz and Blues was phenomenal.

West is a living national treasure. His book, “Hope on a Tightrope,” is a small collection of his thoughts. The book is formatted self-help style, a small fat square that one might had off to a high school or college graduate, but don’t let that stop you. The book is filled with koan-like truths about the human struggle to find and hold on to the precious idea of hope.

Hope is a word that has been tossed around a lot in the last few years. Hope is an idea that cam mobilize people to accomplish great things in the short term, but can also have an opposite effect over time, great highs can produce awful lows, and that is the hope-balancing act that we must walk. We must let hope take us high, but we must also resist the lows that come failure, in action, or stagnation, or worse – indifference.

West’s interview made me hunger for a community of thinkers; thinkers that one day will become doers, making a leap to become public intellectuals – poet-warriors, writer-rebels, and artist-insurgents. In the next few weeks, I will be looking for people who are interested in writing that would like to partake in thinking, reading, writing, and action. I have a few people in mind, so beware, I might just be in contact with you soon.

West, Cornel. “Hope on a Tightrope.” New York: Smiley Books, 2008

Minnesota Renaissance Festival 2009

2009-08-23T17:40:00.008-05:00

Jess, Casey, and I, all went to the 2009 Minnesota Renaissance Festival on Saturday, opening weekend! I love renaissance festivals, but Minnesota’s has to be the best that I’ve seen. I wish that I was a little more Festie, into dressing up in and all that, but I can’t seem to get a costume in order, perhaps by next year (although, that’s what I say every year).

One of the reasons that I enjoy the Minnesota Renaissance Festival more than I enjoy others is that I know a couple of the performers. Knowing performers and having a purpose – I must see their shows at least once – makes the festival that much more exciting for me.

One of those performers is Alisa. Alisa is one of the Sisters of the Sahara, lusty gypsy belly dancers, and when I write ‘lusty,’ I mean that they are, as part of the show, all in search of love. They are also all very beautiful and talented dancers. If you have a chance to make it to the Renaissance Festival this year, you must make sure to check out their performance.

The other performer is Melissa. Melissa is a singer and drummer in the Black Velvet Band, a folk band that performs traditional Irish and Scottish

ballads. Last year, I was duped into playing a role in their final song, a song about a knight, a dragon, and a princess. The Dragon Song has to be my favorite song because of the ending, “…and some times the dragon wins…”

Truly, the Black Velvet Band is an underrated act that you must make time to see.

Overall, a very good time can be had at the Minnesota Renaissance Festival. I don’t think that I will get back to the festival again this year, but I sure hope too.

Below, if I've done it correctly, you can see a couple of short vidoes that I took of both the Black Velvet Band and the Sisters of the Sahara. If you ave the time, you really must get thee out the festival.

Seven the Elder "Turning Sixty"

2009-08-22T09:32:00.005-05:00

Here is a short story that I wrote this weekend for my character background in a D&D game that I’m in. I’m playing a 10th-Level Dragon Wrought Kobold Sorcerer who is 90 years old with the aspect of a Chaos Dragon.

Yeah, I know, I’m a big dork, but I love it.

Our GM’s assignment was to write a story based in our character’s childhood. Here is what I wrote, enjoy!

--------

“Turning Sixty”

Keeping anything as logical and organized as a journal seems quite beyond my abilities. Clang suggested that as the second oldest member of the brood, and any living member of my race for that matter, a record of my thoughts and experiences would be prudent. Seeing that I will be turning sixty at the end of the week, and seeing that no one seems to know what to do with me, I guess that recounting some of my adventures could help pass the time and keep me out of trouble. Trouble! O! Trouble! I used to love trouble, she was a tender and at times brutal mistress, but my days of courting her affections are over.

I guess that I should begin this treatise with some random facts about who, and what I think that I am. Ugh! Writing down that last thought makes me sound all pompous and important. I’m not either of those things. I’m just lucky, praise the swirling chaos that gives and takes. Okay, so here goes:

I like colored greens and vegetables. When I say I like colored greens and vegetables, I mean just that. I like red beets, orange carrots, green and yellow peppers, but I like rainbow chard the best. See, all chard starts out as little black seeds, but as it sprouts it unfolds like a well cast ‘color spray,’ something that I just can’t seem to do. Here, I’ll include a quick illustration of what I’m talking about:

O! I almost forgot. I wanted to include that I also really like, O! I’m starting to make myself hungry just thinking about them. I really love a good fire-roasted green tomato! Ha! Tomato!

Clang said that I needed to include some personal information. I don’t really see that point, it is my journal after all, but I’ll trust Clang’s judgment. If anyone would know, he would. He always has everything in order. You should see his horde! Everything in neat piles and tucked away. There is nothing on the floor. When I visit, I always make sure to move at least one thing, but when I visit next, it has always found its ways back to where it belonged. O! The unnecessary worry Clang puts himself through.

59 for 2 more days. Got my wings when I turned 21. Willie Haydukeson. Love the little ones. Never left the mountains; I mean, why would I? 689 or 10 Long Fire Curve.

There, Clang, I did it, but I did it my way. So, you can just go blow smoke out your ass.

Yellow apples! Chaos! I love yellow apples! O! and blue berries, I don’t know what they are called, but the berries that are blue are the best berries. I think that I might have to glide over to the Feck’s vines and get me some of them blue ones.

You know, writing all this down is starting to feel good. Writing gets me to thinking about turning sixty this week, and thinking about turning sixty makes thinking about when I turned ten, almost fifty years back now:

When I was ten, I had just discovered trouble for the first time. O! I’d been in trouble before, but when I turned ten, I went out on a mission to cause me some big trouble. What I discovered was that I had a talent for trouble, or I guess you could say that trouble loved loving me.

There had been some rumors a group of Rock Giants had taken up residency at the base our mountain. I’d seen giants before, some were friendly with the fire dragons that have a brood near by, but I’d never seen a Rock Giant before and that seemed strange to me. So, in my wisdom, I decided to pay them a visit.

I went alone, just me, ignoring Kobold rule #1 (I’m not much for rules), which states that when traveling, travel in parties of at least six or more.

When I got to their camp, I saw that it was much more than just a camp. They had molded the living rock into fabulous granite alehouses and homes. They had also tilled up the valley and started a very industrious looking system of agriculture. I had to see more.

I walked directly into what looked like the center of town. I climbed up the largest water fountain that I’d ever seen. I stood at the top and looked out over the town, not a town really, but a city to rival that of the dwarves. It all seemed completely impossible too me. I’d only just heard of their arrival a few days ago. The thought ran though my head, ‘They must have some truly powerful magic.”

Even though I was in the middle of town, I’d yet to see any of these Rock Giants. So, I cast a few spells that I new, making lights that danced, opening and closing doors, making things float and crash.

Then the Rock Giants seemed to come from every direction. They looked just like the giants that I’d seen visiting the fire dragons, except that their skin was a little dry and a peculiar shade of grey. Some seemed angry, while others were obviously angry, but they could not find the source of the commotion.

Then a small one, a child probably, spotted me at the top of the fountain waving my hands to keep the lights dancing. Leave it to the imagination of child to look up while the adults are looking around at their feet. I stopped concentrating on the lights and leaped from the fountain top, I’d always been a good jumper, on to the roof of the closest house. Then I ran!

A few days passed before a messenger arrived in our village with a small box addressed to: “The Brightly Marked Lizard.” Being that I was the only Kobold to meet that description, the brood elders summoned me to collect and open the package in front of them.

When I opened the package, there lay a large gold piece and a note. I picked up the gold piece. It was heavy and felt good in my hand.
The elders urged me to read the note aloud. It read:

Dear Friend,

Thank you for your light show earlier this week. At first, you gave many of the women and children a harsh starling, but then when we found you at the source, we had ourselves a good chuckle.

To pay for your services, please accept this gold piece. If you ever find yourself facing a decision, flip it. The coin will always put you on the virtuous path.

May you live until you are older than the eldest of your race by 30 years.

Sincerely,

Grup The Hardener

As you can imagine, the elders had many questions for me after that.

Wow! Look at the shadow entering my cave. Now, I’m really hungry for some blue, or what ever those things are called. I wonder if going there now is a good idea!

*Flip*

O! It is. It is.

HAPPY ENDINGS by Margaret Atwood

2009-08-16T17:55:00.003-05:00

In an attempt to switch gears, see I will be teaching both Environmental Science and Literature back to back this term, I have added a few new stories to my line up, including Atwood’s experimental “Happy Endings.” I added this story to the day I have my students debate the idea of story, or try to answer the question: What is story? So, “Happy Endings” will sit on my syllabus along with three other stories, “Girl,” “House on Mango Street,” and “The Story of an Hour.”

“Happy Endings” is a story told in six parts, A through F. Each part complicates the previous; however, to read through to the end, is to experience life beyond happy endings. If you are so brave as to dare B through F, you will find the mud that turns the water of fiction into literature. It is one thing to simply layout one event after another, setting life in motion, but without pain, desire, and anguish, who will – who can – believe in happiness, or something as painfully moving as love.

The question that my students will have to answer for themselves is weather or not they believe “Happy Endings” is a story. I believe it is a story, but like “Girl,” the unconventional format will challenge their conceptions and push them to consider specific details and elements (or at least that is my hope). I won’t have long to wait to hear their reactions, only until Tuesday, and then I see if there is a happy ending to my assigning the story – even when I know that, “The only authentic ending is the one provided here: John and Mary die. John and Mary die. John and Mary die.”

Atwood, Margaret. “Happy Endings.” Literature: An Introduction to Fiction, Poetry, Drama, and Writing. 10th ed. Ed. X.J. Kennedy and Dana Gioia. New York: Longman, 2007. p. 476 - 479

Contrariwise: Literary Tattoos in Forbs

2009-08-14T13:28:00.006-05:00

Aphorisms, Proverbs, Thoughts And Sayings www.forbes.com
The Word Made Flesh
Mark Lewis, 08.13.09, 06:00 PM EDT

Contrariwise: Literary Tattoos is one of my favorite blogs. Contrariwise is dedicated to showing off tattoos that have a literary connection, which was part of the inspiration for my 5th tattoo: Tattoo No 5: MFA Tattoo.

Congratulations! Jen, keep up the great work.

THE WEATHER MAKERS by Tim Flannery

2009-08-07T11:15:00.004-05:00

Flannery’s “The Weather Makers” is a brilliantly accessible account of climate change, the most difficult and complex problem that humanity has yet to face. I use the world “yet’ because there has been no successfully coordinated global effort to combat the green house gasses that are destabilizing the earth’s natural climate cycle. Individual governments are taking baby steps, as political opponents become reluctant advocates on behalf of their concerned constituents.

Sorry to ramble off a bit, there are many good books on the subject of climate change. One excellent book is HOT, FLAT, AND CROWDED: WHY WE NEED A GREEN REVOLUTION—AND HOW IT CAN RENEW AMERICA by Thomas L. Friedman, but Flannery’s “The Weather Makers” puts forward three good arguments that I’ve not seen so clearly articulated anywhere else, the legal end of ‘Act of God,’ the first world’s genocide of the third world, and the potential for a new global dictatorship.

In the chapter “The Last Act of God,” Flannery puts his spin on end of the insurance industry’s ability to apply the phrase ‘Act of God,’ which refers to natural disasters that are violent and sudden physical hazards, which no man could have hoped to have foreseen (and by implication God’s doing). When climate change science is integrated into all sectors of business and industry, it will become clear that major climate shifts, for example drought, will no longer be God’s doing. Instead, it will be argued that humanity is solely responsible because we have destabilized earth’s climatic regulatory system that controls yearly average rainfall. The victims of drought, mostly regions that were already arid to begin with, will take legal action against those who brought about climate change: industrialized, CO2 emitting countries.

Industrialized countries, like the United States, that have know for sometime that CO2 and other greenhouse gasses have been altering the earth’s ability to regulate climate with no longer be seen as world leaders, but as conspirators bent on committing genocide against the third world, as Flannery puts forward in the chapter, “Civilization: Out with a Whimper.” Because Flannery spells the controversy out so well, I will quote from page 208:

“English environmental politician Aubrey Myer pointed out how this matter is being discussed at the highest levels. Economists who participated in the IPCC discussions stated that doing anything serious climate change was too expensive to be worthwhile, leading in Meyer’s view to ‘the effective murder of members of the world’s poorer populations,’ whose lives by the economists estimates were worth only a fifteenth of that of a rich person.”

Apologies to my boss, an economist, but only an economist would reduce human life to its base potential to contribute to the global economy, and ignore the damage that climate change will have on natural capital, upon which all economies depend.

This brings me to last of Flannery’s well-wrought arguments that I will address here, that if we do not act to limit the introduction of CO2 into the atmosphere, the only real solution will be a global carbon dictatorship. In Flannery’s chapter, “2084: The Carbon Dictatorship?,” he speculates that they only way that CO2 emissions could be sufficiently regulated and reduced (if we do not act right now) will be a global organization focused solely on policing greenhouse gasses. This dictatorship will be force the greatest shift in wealth ever speculated through a cap and trade like system that would require countries like the United States of America to buy carbon credits from a country with excess credits, do to their low emissions, in order to continue business as usual – driving cars, powering heating and AC unites, and the millions of gadgets that are slaved to fossil fuel.

Flannery’s “The Weather Makers” is a truly enjoyable book that is accessibility written on the most important subject humanity has ever faced. As an instructor of environmental science, I privilege of a captive audience on which I press the importance of understanding earth’s various systems and how they interact, creating the fragile requirements to sustain life, including ours. Humans are not separate from nature. We are a single species among earth’s biodiversity, which, just like the social insects and viruses, have the ability to drastically alter our environment to suit our needs, with one minor exception: we have the cognitive ability to know better.

So, to end this overly long review, those of us who know better have the obligation to educate those who don’t yet understand their impact on environmental systems, and those who have the power to make laws to spur change, must, or voters must seek alternative leaders.

Flannery, Tim. “The Weather Makers.” New York: Grove Press, 2005

BURNOUT by Rebecca Donner

2009-08-04T21:27:00.001-05:00

I must be binging because I’ve just gorged myself on another excellent non-superhero graphic novel. “Burnout” combines my love for graphic novels with my passion for environmentalism. Donner’s story, which is beautifully rendered in black and white by Inaki Mirranda, modernizes George Hayduke, Edward Abbey’s ecoterrorist and central figure in “The Monkey Wrench Gang.”

“Burnout” is told from the perspective of an angst ridden teenage girl named Danni. Danni’s father split, leaving Danni and her mother to fend for themselves. They move out of the city to a small logging town where Danni meets Haskell, the Emo son of her mother’s new lover.

Danni immediately falls for Haskell, but he is far too focused on his work and only tolerates her presence. So, Danni, like any crushing girl, inserts herself into his activity. One day, Danni follows Haskell deep into the woods where she discovers that he is an ecoterrorist. Without thinking about the repercussions, Danni joins Haskell in spiking the forest’s trees. Lumberjacks will not cut down spiked trees, fearing broken chainsaws or worse.

As Danni and Haskell’s romance begins to heat up, Haskell’s destructive acts become bolder. He moves beyond tree spiking to cementing up toxic waste drainpipes, and planning a massive power outage. Will Danni continue to support and participate in Haskell’s fight to save the fragile ecosystem in which he was born, or will the threat of the F.B.I. rip their new found love a sunder?

Donner has created an intelligent fiction that explores the issue of ecoterrorism. Haskell may be an Emo-tree-hugger heartthrob, but Danni’s rock and roll best friend Vivian provides the counterpoint. Vivian’s family comes from a long history of loggers, including her uncle who lost a finger to a broken chain caused by a spiked tree. Vivian also argues that ecoterrorism adversely affects the local economy.

“Burnout” is a story that I wish I had written. I’ve been trying to put together a series of short stories based on environmental issues that trouble me. At the center of these stories, I’ve been sketching out an ecoterrorist group based on “The Monkey Wrench Gang” to tackle big business, big oil, big energy, and big water. I just hope that I can put forward a story half as eloquent Donner’s “Burnout.”

Donner, Rebecca. “Burnout.” Ill. Inaki Mirranda. New York: DC Comics, 2008

B.P.M.: BEATS PER MINUTE by Paul Sizer

2009-08-01T11:27:00.003-05:00

After reading “Moped Army,” I had to find more graphic novels by Paul Sizer. Luck for me, Sizer has written “B.P.M.” and “Little White Mouse.” I’m still working on finding a copy of later, but I scored a copy of “B.P.M.” at the Library. My hopes were high because “Moped Army” was so amazing, but Sizer delivered big with “B.P.M.”

“B.P.M” stands for Beats Per Minute. Beats Per Minute is a DJ term that I’m just not cool enough to understand. My pedestrian experience with DJ culture begins and ends with The Crystal Method. I’m not part of the club culture, and I’m not a raver, but I do enjoy creating fast-paced, all-rise Itunes playlists for my commute to work, which I’ll included an example of at the end of this review. Beast Per Minute is also a medical term used by doctors, nurses, and the athletically gifted, to measure heart rate. DJs I believe use the term to describe the number of musical beats that they can cram into any given minute during their set.

What I really like about Sizer’s graphic novels, thus far, is that he takes the time to educate his readers about edgy subcultures by introducing a character that is either new to it or on the verge of making it big. In “B.P.M,” Sizer introduces his reader to Roxy, a purple mohawk sporting punk who is about to make it into the big leagues with a little help from friends and a mysterious burnout.

We meet Roxy at a point in her life where she must make a few hard decisions. She must choose between her girlfriend and her passion for music. Roxy’s girlfriend works the typical American 60 hour 9am to 7pm dayshift, and she DJs from 10pm to 3am or later. In true rock star fashion, Roxy life is flipped upside down when her girlfriend packs up and leaves, making the decision for her. Free from the entanglement of a relationship, Roxy pursues her music with renewed focus, a focus that propels her from playing crowds of 150 to 500 plus at one of the most elite clubs in town.

“B.P.M” has more to it than just a surprisingly tender and uplifting plot of an artist who makes it. The artwork is full of vivid colors. The characters are strongly rendered and super sexy without being Anime; although, one of the DJs does put on the air of Sailor Moon as part of her stick. Wait, however, the best part of the comic is that it has, at the bottom of each the page, a track listed. It is as if the comic had a sound track, which I guess it does. You can see the discography on Sizer’s BPM Discography page, on which there are links to Itunes, and they are available to down load by following links HERE.

If you are tired of super heroes, like I am, but still love comic books, Sizer is your go to author. His art is amazing, and he tells a good story to boot. He self-publishes, so I feel more than a little guilty for check these out from my local library. Just like anything else, we vote with our dollars, and if we don’t vote for artist and authors like Sizer, we are selling our culture short by letting big name publishers determine what will sell and what won’t. To that end, I will be buying a copy of Little White Mouse from Sizer’s website this afternoon.

Sizer, Paul. “B.P.M.: Beats Per Minute.” Kalamazoo, MI: Café Digital Studios, 2008

And now, as promised, my commuter playlist:

“Divided By Night” - The Crystal Method
“Primavera Anticipada (It Is My Song) [Duet With James Blunt]” - Laura Pausini.
“Paper Planes” - M.I.A.
“Just Dance” - Lady GaGa
“Bounce” - System of a Down
“U + Ur Hand (Bimbo Jones Remix)” - P!nk
“Cannon (AMG Remix)” - Lil Wayne
“Everybody's Free (Moz Morris Pumpin' Club Mix)” - Andy Whitby & Matt Lee

THE SOULLESS MACHINE REVIEW July 2009

2009-08-01T06:00:00.001-05:00

SWAP MEET: THE JAWA’S TALE by Kevin J. Anderson

Extras:
MOPED ARMY by Paul Sizer
FOOD, Inc (2009)
HISTORIC PHOTOS OF MINNESOTA by Susan Marks
Star Wars: Legacy Era Campaign Guide
HOT, FLAT, AND CROWDED: WHY WE NEED A GREEN REVOLUTION—AND HOW IT CAN RENEW AMERICA by Thomas L. Friedman

*Sorry! I’ve been distracted. I’ll get back to short stories soon. Speaking of short stories, if you have any one story that you’d like me to review, drop me an email: Soulless Email.

MOPED ARMY by Paul Sizer

2009-07-26T09:03:00.001-05:00

I was at the Walker Library, still my favorite of the Minneapolis libraries, walking the stacks, and enjoying my Friday afternoon, when I came across an unshelved, seemingly discarded copy of “Moped Army.” It looked like just another teen-angst ridden graphic novel, but I decided to read a blurb from the back cover anyway:

“In the year 2277, gasoline is an illegal substance, aircars dominate the sky…Inspired by the real-life organization, high-speed two-stroke action and intense drama hits the streets as the legend of the present day Moped Army is resurrected 272 years in the future.”

I was sold.

The graphic novel is a quick but entertaining read. Simone is the main character, a rich well-to-do that lives high in the sky, and above the riffraff that populate the old city, the under cities. She is trapped in a relationship with an oversexed egomaniac named Chester. Chester father runs the largest aircar company in the world, for which Simone’s father designs new models.

Chester is abusive. At one point, early on in the graphic novel, I was forced to question masculinity as an idea, again. So many young punks get it wrong. Masculinity has very little to do with the size of your muscles, and nothing to do with what you can take without asking. Chester and his crew of idiots enjoy taking their cars to Rust City and using them to blow mopeds off the road. When they kill a moped rider named Jatta, Simone realizes that she has finally had enough.

Seeking some kind of reconciliation for not speaking up and stopping Chester and his crew, Simone travels into Rust City looking for Moped Riders. Instead of finding the desperate lot she believed the Rust City dwellers to be, she finds the Moped Army. The Moped is group of Moped riding enthusiasts that work on fixing up and riding mopeds of the 20th century. The Moped Army is a gang, grouped together in order to survive Rust City, their activities revolve around discovering parts and recovering gasoline.

I think that what I liked most about this graphic novel was that it was based on a real enthusiast organization with the same name: Moped Army. I’ve been trying to write a story about Critical Mass, when hundreds of bicycles flood and clog the city streets to show solidarity and demand respect from the city and motorists, in Minneapolis. Sizer’s depiction of the Moped Army has helped me see that I was going about my story all wrong. I need to stick to what works. I need an outsider to help navigate the reader through wonderland.

Anyway, “Moped Army” is a fantastic read. I can wait to get my hands on more work by Sizer.

Sizer, Paul. “Moped Army.” Kalamazoo, MI: Café Digital Studios, 2008