Wear the Mask!

There IS a Heppy Lend Fur, Fur Awa-a-ay!

Harper’s still in the commanding chair.

McGuinty’s a bum.

e-Health.

Obama’s proving useless.

The Senate.

Wall Street.

The bailout.

I live in a world with no rooms.

…

Am I Krazy?  And the world?  Ignatz?  And who are you?

Qābīl

I wake up early in the morning, on one particular Monday, and the thoughts in my head race the moment my eyes open.

I am not my brother’s keeper.

Nemesis, in her own form, approached me yesterday and offered me life everlasting through a sexual communion with a dove.  ”God dwells here,” she said, and smirked.  ”God dwells here.”  And her fingers slid into her panties.

I was afraid.

She licked my ear lobe and hissed, “Don’t you want life everlasting?  Don’t you want to spend eternity with me?”

And I shivered.  With delight.  Heavenly delight.

“Take it,” she said as she offered the object in her hand to me.  ”We both know you want it.  And then, life everlasting.  In my presence.”

She was beautiful.  She is beautiful.  I so want to live forever.

But I am not my brother’s keeper.

On the palm of her hand stands my brother.  He is meek, merciful, and pure of heart.  He is beautiful.  He is smiling at me.  The Nemesis is smiling at me.  They are both angels.  I, however, am a creature of muck.  Of dirt and dung.

“He needs your protection.  I need your protection,” she says.

And at that moment I am suspicious.  She never needs protection.  Is she fucking with me?

“Be good to your brother,” she says.  ”Be good to me.”

I consider my options.

And then, in a predictable fashion, I reach out for my brother, and I take him in my hand.  I grasp his head between my thumb and index finger and I squeeze, lightly at first, and then slowly increasing the pressure until – pop – his head ruptures like a grape and whatever was inside it forms a sticky substance on my fingers and my face.  I smile.

“How fucking predictable,” she smiles restraining her anger.

And then she punches me, breaking my nose, and leaving me on the floor, bleeding.  She walks away silently, without a word.

She is beautiful.  She was beautiful.

I wake up early in the morning, on one particular Monday, and the thoughts in my head race the moment my eyes open.  I am not my brother’s keeper.  My nose aches.  ”Fuck,” I think, “That’s gonna leave a mark.”

Beauty and Beasts

She moves past me with aged grace, but her body shows only the latter.  I shudder and think of my rotund shape.  She winks at me and smiles, reading my thoughts.

“Come ‘ere, fat boy,” she coos, and for some reason I think of my zombie-obsessed friend; but it’s only a momentary lapse of attention.  Her body draws my focus and I forget to blink; my eyes get dry quickly and start to tear up.  ”Don’t cry.  I was just kidding.  You ain’t fat.  Come ‘ere.”

I move slowly towards her and she hugs me close to her, breathing into my face, her coffee-breath reminding me of the smell of dog feces.  Her chest is pushed up against me and I quickly push her away, wiping the tears from my eyes.

“You ain’t fat.  You’re just big —”

“Fuck off,” I interject.  ”I know I am not fat.  And it doesn’t matter, anyways, Margaret,” I say emulating Dennis the Menace, “because I am happy.”  She recognizes the reference – of course she does; she always does – and assumes the role quickly, without blinking an eyelash.

Grabbing me by the nose, “Tough kitty-paws,” she ejaculates and drags me to the ground.  I sit down docilely and smile.  And she sits next to me.  Slowly, she lays me down on the floor, and takes her place next to me.

“Would you have ever imagined, when we just met, that this would be us, so many years later?  Thirsty for one another?”  She slips her hand into my pants and starts stroking me slowly.  My eyes are closed and she breathes into my ear.  I smell a faint odour of dog feces again.  ”Hungry for each others’ bodies?”

My mind tries to wander, but her body grabs it firmly and will not let go.  ”Would you have ever imagined?” she coos, and once again, my mind starts to slip away, but her tongue finds its way into my ear and, penetrating my skull and my brain, refocuses my attention.  She kisses me and I shed a tear.  My eyes are not dry this time.

She is wearing only a skirt, no panties, so it’s relatively easy for her to get on top of me, pull me out of my pants, and slip me inside her.  I moan quietly, and she smiles a devilish grin.  ”You’re all body now, aren’t you?  And you hate it!  Let loose, for fuck’s sake,” she orders me.  And I obey, for my own benefit.  And a Jethro Tull song plays in my head, but only for a second.  Sliding off of me, she slips me into her mouth, quietly whispering, “Tastes good,” and I am all body.  And all I can do is laugh.  Rejuvenated.  I am all body.

After it’s over, she moves away from me with aged grace.  But her body shows only the latter.  Nailed to the floor, I lie with my pants around my ankles, a ridiculous image for curious eyes.  I hear the water running in the bathroom and my body sings a song,

Hello you straight-laced lady,
dressed in white but your shoes aren’t clean.
Painted them up with polish
in the hope we can’t see where you’ve been.
The smiling face that you’ve worn
to greet me rising at morning —
sent me out to work for my score.
Please me and say what it’s for.
Give me the straight-laced promise
and not the pathetic lie.

Tie me down with your ribbons
and sulk when I ask you why.
Your Sunday paper voice cries
demanding truths I deny.
The bitter-sweet kiss you pretended
is offered, our affair mended.
Sossity: You’re a woman.
Society: You’re a woman.

All of the tears you’re wasting
are for yourself and not for me.
It’s sad to know you’re aging
Sadder still to admit I’m free.
Your immature physical toy has grown,
too young to enjoy at last your straight-laced agreement:
woman, you were too old for me.
Sossity: You’re a woman.
Society: You’re a woman.

SocialVibe

This seemed like a good idea.  I am not normally big on social networking sites, but… there’s always a first, I suppose.  And it makes me feel like I’m doing something; when all I’m actually doing is sitting at my desk.  Which – let’s face it – I am doing anyway.

So visit my SocialVibe page.  Now!

Ms. Dickinson, the Pale

The pale face stares at me from the picture, delicate, sallow, wan, beautiful.  Death domesticated.  Death beautified.

I get aroused by the thought of death so lovely, and her eyes speak to me.  Title divine is mine / The Wife without / The Sign.  Speak again, o deathly pale face: One need not be a Chamber—to be Haunted / One need not be a House— / The Brain—has Corridors surpassing / Material Place.

The pale face stares at me from the photograph, more than a century old, beckoning.  And I acquiesce, embracing her fragile form; stroking her black hair, tightly tied behind the head; my hand moves up – across the ribs; ribs whose shape is delineated through the skin, through the meagre flesh – moves up to her small breasts, to the tips of her breasts, cold and hard with time.

She exhales slowly: this time, it is she who acquiesces.

The pale face stares at me from the picture, delicate, sallow, wan, beautiful.  Death domesticated.  Death beautified.

Because I could not stop for Death—
He kindly stopped for me—
The Carriage held but just Ourselves—
And Immortality.

We slowly drove—He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility—

We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess—in the Ring—
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain—
We passed the Setting Sun—

Or rather—He passed Us—
The Dews drew quivering and chill—
For only Gossamer, my Gown—
My Tippet—only Tulle—

We passed before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground—
The Roof was scarcely visible—
The Cornice—in the Ground—

Since then—’tis Centuries—and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses Heads
Were toward Eternity—

Hawks and Doves

After visiting my local bank branch today and having a pleasant conversation with an employee of the said local bank branch, I realized what the greatest shortcoming of the current configuration of North American capitalism is. First of all, I want you to notice that this dawned on me not after the collapse of the banking system in the US, but after I tried to open a foreign currency account in my local bank branch.

The greatest shortcoming of the current configuration of the North American capitalist system is that many of the big corporations which provide the services that could (and should) be considered essential for normal functioning of individuals within the system we live in – credit card companies, insurance companies (health and car), gas pumps, the banks – are able to create virtual monopolies, even with the existence of ‘competitors’ in an open market.

The reason they can do this is that they have a neverending supply of customers who absolutely MUST avail themselves of their services. A good way to imagine how this functions is through game theory, which Richard Dawkins employs in his The Selfish Gene in order to explain what Maynard Smith called the evolutionary stable strategy and which is defined as

a strategy which, if most members of the population adopt it, cannot be bettered by an alternative strategy. It is a subtle and important idea. Another way of putting it is to say that the best strategy for an individual depends on what the majority of the population are doing. Since the rest of the population consists of individuals, each one trying to maximize his own success, the only strategy that persists will be one which, once evolved, cannot be bettered by any deviant individual.

The stable strategy that the capitalist market employs is, of course, the strategy of competition within which the best service with the best price dominates: the reason Wal-Mart, for example, is so dominant is because it can provide the best price for the consumer, because of the quantity of the merchandise it sells.

Normally, however, if a company emerges with a better service, or a better price, it will take some of the customers away from the bigger companies, so that the market is – to a certain extent – self-correcting. Guided, as they say, by ‘the invisible hand.’

Richard Dawkins, following Maynard Smith, uses a (relatively simple) example of hawks and doves in order to explain this idea:

To apply this idea to aggression … Suppose that there are only two sorts of fighting strategy in a population of a particular species, named hawk and dove. … Hawks always fight as hard and as unrestrainedly as they can, retreating only when seriously injured. Doves merely threaten in a dignified conventional way, never hurting anybody. If a hawk fights a dove the dove quickly runs away, and so does not get hurt. If a hawk fights a hawk they go on until one of them is seriously injured or dead. If a dove meets a dove nobody gets hurt; they go on posturing at each other for a long time until one of them tires or decides not to bother any more, and therefore backs down. For the time being, we assume that there is no way in which an individual can tell, in advance, whether a particular rival is a hawk or a dove. He only discovers this by fighting him, and he has no memory of past fights with particular individuals to guide him.

Now as a purely arbitrary convention we allot contestants ‘points.’ Say 50 points for a win, 0 for losing, -100 points for being seriously injured, and -10 points for wasting time over a long contest. … An individual who scores high points, who has a high average ‘pay-off’, is an individual who leaves many genes behind him in the gene pool…

We want to know whether either hawk or dove is an evolutionarily stable strategy…

Suppose we have a population consisting entirely of doves. Whenever they fight, nobody gets hurt. The contests consist of prolonged ritual tournaments, staring matches perhaps, which end only when one rival backs down. The winner then scores 50 points for gaining the resource in dispute, but he pays a penalty of -10 for wasting time over a long staring match, so scores 40 in all. The loser also is penalized -10 points for wasting time. On average, any one individual dove can expect to win half his contests and lose half. Therefore his average payoff per contest is the average of +40 and -10, which is +15. Therefore, every individual dove in a population of doves seems to be doing quite nicely.

But now suppose a mutant hawk arises in the population. … Hawks always beat doves, so he scores +50 every fight, and this is his average pay-off. He enjoys an enormous advantage over the dove, whose net payoff is only +15. Hawk genes will rapidly spread through the population as a result. … To take an extreme example, if the hawk gene spread so successfully that the entire population came to consist of hawks, all fights would now be hawk fights. When hawk meets hawk, one of them is seriously injured, scoring -100, while the winner scores +50. … His average expected payoff per fight is therefore halfway between +50 and -100, which is -25. Now consider a single dove in a population of hawks. To be sure, he loses all his fights, but on the other hand he never gets hurt. His average payoff is 0 in a population of hawks, whereas the average pay-off for a hawk in a population of hawks is -25. Dove genes will therefore tend to spread through the population.

The way I have told the story it looks as if there will be a continuous oscillation in the population. Hawk genes will sweep to ascendancy; then, as a consequence of the hawk majority, dove genes will gain an advantage and increase in numbers until once again hawk genes start to prosper, and so on. However, it need not be an oscillation like this. There is a stable ratio of hawks to doves. For the particular arbitrary points system we are using, the stable ratio, if you work it out, turns out to be 5/12 doves to 7/12 hawks. When this stable ratio is reached, the average pay-off for hawks is exactly equal to the average pay-off for doves. Therefore selection does not favour either one of them over the other. If the number of hawks in the population started to drift upwards so that the ratio was no longer 7/12 doves would start to gain an extra advantage, and the ratio would swing back to the stable state. Just as we shall find the stable sex ratio to be 50:50, so the stable hawk to dove ratio in this hypothetical example is 7:5. In either case, if there are oscillations about the stable point, they need not be very large ones.

Without going on, the point I am trying to get at is that we can also imagine two groups existing within the capitalist system: service providers (common sense dictates that they must be the hawks in this metaphor) and the consumers. Traditionally, when service providers get too hawk-y, consumers move to a different service provider. This creates an evolutionary stable state in which the consumer, as well as the provider plays a part in the overall configuration of the system. But what happens when there is an endless supply of doves? After all, we all need a credit card to get a loan, a mortgage, even to rent a DVD. We all need health insurance; we all need a local bank branch.

With an endless supply of doves, the hawks can be as hawk-y as they want.  I know I am mixing metaphors here and confusing the examples, but you get my drift: Fucking banks; the game is rigged!

Dylan Dog

I suppose it would have been easier to just provide a link.  But the article’s just too good.

—————————————

My name is Dog … Dylan Dog!

For the past 21 years, the “Horror Investigator” from Italy has been disemboweling monsters, breaking hearts, and raking in the Lires/Euros … for the past six years also in German language. Thomas Froehlich attempts to get to the bottom of the fascination emanating from the lanky detective – and enters the twilight zone.

Homer, the Bible and Dylan Dog are so great, I can read them every day!
(Umberto Eco)

Death and the Devil!
(Dylan Dog’s trademark curse)

Prologue: A chilling visit to the Sinema of Horror

Date: 1994. Location: Vienna. More precisely, the Italian Cultural Institute on Ungargasse, 3rd district. Every now and then they have movie screenings here; mostly artistically valuable, socio-critical classics, or at the very least family-friendly flicks in their original Italian to cater to both the Vienna expat comunitá as well as that certain breed of local cine- and italophile poseurs that praise the fact that this is the one place in town where you can get straight-up Italian cinema without those annoying subtitles.

Now showing: not another Taviani/Scola/Fellini/de Sica retrospective with subsequent degustation of Tuscan wines, but the first (and the only one in this country) screening of a just completed film with the cryptic titleDellamorte Dellamore, starring Rupert Everett. Directed by the enthusiastic Argento pupil Michele Soavi, it was adapted from a story by Italian novelist and comic-book writer Tiziano Sclavi.

“Aha!” thinks yours truly, silenty rejoicing in remembrance of previous entertaining movies by the same director, such as “La Chiesa” (“The Church”, 1989), or “La Setta” (“The Sect” a. k. a. “Devil’s Daughter”, 1991), both of them good examples of the last blaze of glory for what cognoscenti revered during the 70s and 80s as Italo Horror. Off to the Italian Cultural Institute, then!

Once there, one can observe an illustrious crowd of unsuspecting Italian mothers, fathers, aunts, uncles, grandmothers and grandfathers, along with their bambini, utterly clueless about what is to follow. No professional cineastes are to be seen anywhere.

Then it goes dark, and the film commences.

When, during the first two minutes, the ever ready cemetary caretaker Dellamorte (Rupert Everett) blows the first zombie skull across the entire screen, only to get it on moments later with a black-clad, necrophiliac beauty (Anna Falchi) on top of the not very clean looking bones of the nearby charnel house, the entire theatre noticeably empties. The almost completely assembled “Little Italy” of Vienna walks out the door, medium-strength curses on their lips and parental hands covering innocent children’s eyes.

What remains is only a handful of individuals such as yours truly, their eyes captivated by the rather pleasant sight of Anna Falchi’s breasts and/or anticipating what is to come with dirty grins on their faces.

But even these moviegoers are in for a ride: “Dellamorte Dellamore” is anything but a one-dimensional, straight-in-your-face-sexploitation-splatter flick (although that would still be pretty cool): Writer Sclavi, director Soavi and leading man Everett all work together to tell no more and no less than a wonderfully spooky-erotic-poetic tale of love, death, sex, coming of age, friendship, and – last but not least – the end of the world (or at least something one could mistake for it). Simultaneously, the film is also the last real big entry into the big book of Italo Horror.

The plot is easily retold: Dellamorte (Rupert Everett) is cemetary guard of the village of Buffalora, picturesquely nestled in the rolling green hills of Italy. His primary job is to keep the dead (who simply reanimate as zombies six days after death) from doing any damage – which is, after all, their nature – by (as we all know too well) laying them to eternal rest with a well placed shot to the brain. Years of practice and monotonous routine have made the job fairly boring for him, and he leads a pretty unspectacular life along with his apparently mentally retarded assistand Gnaghi, until … yes, until he falls insanely in love …

Rupert Everett is the caretaker – and looks, from his expressions to his character to even his wardrobe (dark jeans, white shirt, black suit jacket), like a carbon-copy of Italian comic-book legend Dylan Dog. This is far from being a coincidence, as the plot of the movie is based on a Tiziano Sclavi novel – which is itself adapted from a “Dylan Dog” story called Orrore Nero, in which not only Dylan Dog but also the cemetary guard Dellamorte make an appearance.

Also, said Dylan Dog was modeled after Rupert Everett by pulp-novelist and comic-writer Tiziano Sclavi eight years previously (1986) in sunny Italy, back when Italian genre cinema was beginning its slow decline, and comics (or their counterpart for adults, the so-called fumetti) were the only refuge where said genres could continue to survive – and even reinvent themselves.

Dylan Dog – Horror Investigator

A former Scotland Yard associate who’s afraid of flying, a reformed alcoholic that only wears dark jeans, red shirts and a black suit-jacket (of which he has several identical outfits in his closet), occasionally appearing clumsy while simultaneously strolling through events with Fred Astaire-esque flair, a self-declared “Horror Investigator” (“indagatore dell’ incubo) who is also an incorrigible romantic and a melancholic womanizer, driver of an old Volkswagen Beetle with the plates “DYD 666″ and employer of an assistant that not only looks like Groucho Marx, but actually answers to that name and is his cineastic predecessor’s equal in terms of wisecracking wisdom …

Dylan’s origins are murky and contradictory; there are rumours of a father with a split soul, even of the devil himself; on his mother’s side there seems to be a certain affinity towards witches and zombies. However: no concrete facts are known.

And a guy like this is really Italy’s no. 1 comic-book hero?

Yes, we’re talking about Dylan Dog, who has spent the last 21 years entertaining over a million Italians per issue – 40 percent of them female, which is in itself a minor sensation in the comics-business. As graffiti on the walls, as subject of street murals, as popular T-Shirt logo and of course in the form of countless editions and reprints lying about the nation’s bookstores and newspaper stands, the dishevelled, charismatic, red-shirted ghost hunter and pleasurer of female clients has become an indispensable part of Italian (pop-) culture!

Who the heck comes up with this sort of thing anyway?

Tiziano Sclavi – Horror Writer

“Dylan Dog” creator Tiziano Sclavi was born 1953 in Broni (Pavia), Italy, but lives and works in Milan. He began writing at an early age and was working as a journalist as early as 1976. At 21, he won the prestigeous Scanno Award for his novel “Film” and spent the next few years writing about ten more books, some under the pseudonym Francesco Argento (!). In the 70s, Sclavi discovered his interest in comics, first as an editor, then as a writer for Rizolli. Following that, he was involved in “Corriere dei Ragazzi” and “Corriere dei Piccoli”.

In 1981, he found permanent employment with comic-book publisher Bonelli. He contributed to the series “Ken Parker”, “Mister No”, “Zagor” and “Martin Mystére”, but his name is still most often connected with his signature series “Dylan Dog”. From its first year on (1986) the series enjoys unprecedented success; in part due to the extraordinary (standing out from other, more genericfumetti) darkness of the black and white panels and the general cinematic feeling that pervades the entire series.

The latter can occasionally devolve into a veritable orgy of movie references and film quotations, but it never threatens to overshadow or even endanger story integrity – let alone to over-ironize it.

Generally, “Dylan Dog” owes a huge debt to the movies. Sclavi has made no attempt to hide the pictures that influenced him: George A. Romero’s “Dawn of the Dead” is there, as well as David Lynch’s “Elephant Man”, Tod Browning’s “Freaks”, Alfred Hitchcock’s “Psycho” (Anthony Perkins actually appears in one of his stories as a sinister subway driver) or actress Kim Novak in some of her horror/suspense roles. Dylan’s first name is on loan from welsh poet Dylan Thomas (whose name had already been appropriated by a certain Robert Zimmerman during the 60s); his address, Craven Road 7, is a tribute to director Wes Craven. And his last name, Dog, allegedly stems from an old Mickey Spillane story which had the Italian title “Dog figlio di”.

However – despite the raging storm of references Sclavi and his illustrators never cease to take their character Dylan Dog seriously, even if artistic breaks and crossover/mutational elements meander throughout the stories. “Dylan Dog” represents the antithesis to all the imitation artworks of the Tarantinos of this world, for which it’s only ever about the clever, tongue-in-cheek inventory taking of one’s own hollow pop-cultural world, be it in film, literature or music. Similarly to the originally mentioned “Dellamorte Dellamore”, splatter driven horror alternates with dreamy, melancholy poetry – and occcasionally, in certain scenes and panels, enter a dark symbiosis.

The series – Tales of Horror

The basic concept can be best described as “one man – one adventure”: Dylan is a (usually stone broke) detective that has specialized himself on cases of the supernatural type, occasionally works alone, but usually with his sidekick Groucho, and has macabre adventures, interspersed with beautiful women, terrible monsters, an even more terrible “normality”, white-knuckle action and a lot of suspense, drenched in mystery.

What really sets the series apart from the rest are the loving details: Dylan Dog, like many other comic-book heroes, always wears the same clothes (think Donald Duck!); in his case, however, this is because he bought himself twelve identical outfits after the death of his wife. Just as Sherlock Holmes likes to abuse his violin when he’s trying to relax, Dylan plays the flute or tinkers on a scale-model miniature sailboat – an endeavor that is naturally never concluded. He has given up drinking, but remains partial to the occasional cigarette. Dylan Dog’s sleeping-hours are a pandemonium of horrible nightmares – and in addition to that, he suffers from fear of flying (because of which he rarely leaves London), fear of heights (“Vertigo”!), and fear of the dark (because of which he tends to leave his lights on).

He’s definitely not the hero type with a winning smile, more the kind of guy that simply survives (which in itself is often incredible). Generally, a lot of dying takes place within his vicinity – death, either in his traditional form as Grim Reaper or as a beautiful woman (of course) by the name of Hope, is an omnipresent entity in the “Dylan Dog” universe. And, similar to Max von Sydow in Ingmar Bergman’s “The Seventh Seal”, Dylan occasionally plays chess with his one true, eternal antagonist. All his other opponents (with a few notable exceptions) are more like “Flavour of the Month” type monsters, be they zombies, serial killers, vampires, werewolves, witches, dehumanized slashers, Frankensteinesque monsters, or by-the-book postal workers.

The true monsters tend to be the “normal” people anyways.

Also, Dylan Dog is a pretty urban figure. Unlike the heroes, avengers and law enforcers from the American homeland that tend to dream of suburban happiness with a house, garden, dog, kids and a gorgeous wife (and only bust heads and kick in doors because they can’t have that, or – in case of the Punisher – it was taken away from them by some kind of axis of evil), that particular way of life would put Dylan Dog on the fast track to raving madness and complete mental lunacy. (That’s probably one of the reasons his stay in God’s own country was limited to six issues).

Dylan Dog is an urbanite by personal conviction; besides, at least once per episode, an incredibly fetching woman wants to drag him into bed (or vice versa) – and it just seems more elegant and glamourous to take care of business in a stylish house on the stylish high street than in some faceless suburb. Downtown is sexy – to this Dylan Dog, who since his discharge from the force has probably had more sex than any other Londoner, would wholeheartedly agree.

Supporting characters – the Sideshow of Horror

Recurring characters (be they alive, dead, or the living dead) have over the years become part of the series’ inventory. We’ve already mentioned Groucho, the eldest Marx Brother’s doppelgänger. But there’s also a Lord H. G. Wells (!), a great inventor with encyclopedic knowledge and memory; an 100+ year old fortune-teller by the name of Madame Maria Trelkowski; the sinister, melon-headed owner of an equally sinister shop called “Safara”; and last but not least Inspector Bloch (inspired by british actor Robert Morley), Dylan’s fatherly friend and mentor, who lives in constant fear (mostly due to the hairy cases his friend the horror-investigator drags him into) that he may endanger his pension, life expectancy or the contents of his stomach.

As recurring enemies – or at least opponents – we have: Xabaras, demon and sorceror (and possibly related to Dylan Dog in a weird and unfortunate way), Jamais Nonplus, a feared and respected Voodoo Priest and man with two faces (and evidently a senoir civil-servant and administrative director of an Inferno that would make Dante proud); Kim, the Witch of the West, and her ill-mannered cat Cagliostro etc. etc. etc …

Dylan Dog in German – The Horror Continues

From 2001 on, comic-book publisher Carlsen released the series for the German market. However, due to lack of interest, they discontinued the series after issue 20 in November 2002. Another publisher, Edition Schwarzer Klecks, has thankfully taken it upon themselves to continue where they left off, with lower circulation and in monthly installments. Since they are sticking to a sort of “Best Of” – most likely out of necessity – there is no clear timeline. (Currently out are issues 55 and 56 of their edition.) Those who are interested can get a whole load of background information from their website. Highly recommendable is also issue 50 of the series (not just for beginners), which is pretty much indispensable as the anniversary-issue to anyone that wants to know all the details!

Epilogue: The Trainride of Horror

Once again, the date is 1994. Yours truly, after having watched “Dellamorte Dellamore”, has taken the train down south to the damp, cold, foggy but attractively enigmatic Venice for a couple of days – with the intention (also inspired by the movie) to amass a sizable collection of Italian language “Dylan Dog” comics. Afterwards, he has proceeded to decipher them with the help of the pictures, half forgotten Latin lessons, his current girlfriend, and a healthy supply of Campari Sodas …

Upon the return trip, he (along with said girlfriend) has to cross the border to icy, foggy, treacherous Carinthia (sadly unavoidable, if you want to go back to Vienna). On the Italian side the Italian official – tall, haggard, slightly pale – enters to check our passports. But as soon as he enters our compartment and sees the open “Dylan Dog” albums, he pulls his mouth into a conspiratory grin and says (quote) “Ahhhhh … Dylan Dog!”, pats yours truly on the shoulder, smacks his tongue in an understanding fashion and leaves the compartment without even bothering to have a look at our passports, which were lying right next to the comic-books.

An almost textbook Italian cliché. But … yours truly and said girlfriend look at each other and smile, almost grimacing. They both know what their counterpart is thinking.

There’s this Dylan Dog story, with the border-patrol guard on the train, tall, haggard and slightly pale, that likes to smack his tongue impetuously, and then that knife, and don’t forget the ballpen in the eye, and his disemboweled guts spread out all across the … and …

One thing they do sense though: The true horror hasn’t even begun. There´s still Carinthia.

I never forget a face … but in your case, I’ll make an exception …
(Dylan Dog’s second most favourite insult)

The End … of this episode

Thomas Froehlich (Translated by Binu Starnegg)

——————————————-

For the original article click here and I’ll try to post some Dylan Dog pictures in the next few weeks.

Jethro Tull

The bearded old man sits on the ground, barefoot, picking the sores on his feet.

“Aqualung,” I mutter underneath my breath and – sensing I was talking about him – he looks at me and smiles his toothless, crooked smile.  I look away.

“I was a lad once, too, ya know,” he says.  In his hands he clutches a copy of the St. Cleve Chronicle dated January 1972 – I can’t really read the day, it’s too small, too blurry – his nose is running.

I hand him a handkerchief and he eyes me and smiles.  ”Thank ye,” he says.  I nod and start to walk away.

“Meanwhile, back in the year – one,” he shouts after me.  ”When you belonged to no – one!  You did not stand a chance – son!  If your pants were undone.”

“A rhyming bum,” I think, and laugh.  And he sees me laughing and he laughs.

I walk away, humming the long forgotten song my father taught me.  ”Really don’t mind if you sit this one out…”

Jethro Tull – Thick as a Brick – Madison Square Garden [1978]

This Blog Entry DOES NOT Include Pictures of Beautiful Breasts

The Nemesis and I stopped by the Yonge and Dundas Square on Friday to catch the performance of Goran Bregovic.

I noticed that the best way to get hits on your blog/website is by providing information rather than thoughts; including pictures is also preferred.

Picture: Check!

Albert Einstein was offered the presidency of Israel in 1952, but he refused.

Information: Check!

I want to be popular!!!