This Is What a Girl, a Super Girl, Should Be Like

Summer term has started, Gentle Reader, and already, I’m drowning in work, work, work. I’ve been up for less than an hour, with only one cup of coffee (so far!) to make me Somewhat Coherent. I wasn’t going to blog about this yet, rather wait until this afternoon, after dissertation work and office hours and class (oh my!), but Kalinara's early post this morning inspired me. I just will endeavor to bring you something Arrogant Self-Reliance rarely does: brevity.

A few minutes ago, Mr. Reads called me over to his computer to show me something that, as he claimed, was going to “make me giddy.” As so often happens, Mr. Reads was not wrong. He showed me this interview with Mr. Bedard and these concept sketches by Mr. Guedes, and I became, to put it Mildly, Giddy Indeed.

Kalinara has reviewed Mr. Bedard’s plans for his upcoming stint on Supergirl, and I agree with her completely. Here is an idea for a Supergirl that truly is, as Kalinara terms it, a “teen of steel.” Indeed! In a complementary fashion, I’d like to draw Your Attention, Friends, to the concept art accompanying the interview.

*This* is what a Super Girl should look like, because this is what a Strong Girl looks like. As Mr. Reads said this morning, she has a *girl’s* body, not a woman’s body, and that makes all the difference. A little awkward, a little over-confident, and completely comfortable in her own skin. Look at her stance, how she hams it up for the viewer, her strength, her proportions. This is a Young Woman in Comics that I believe will attract younger, female readers. This is a Supergirl that I would have loved to have as a Young Girl Myself.

In particular, Gentle Reader, look at this image of Supergirl sitting down, with her cape tucked over her leg. I have taught, on Many Occasions, young women in this age range. Once, I was even Such A Girl Myself. And for those of you with any doubt, let me tell you that *girls sit this way, all the time*. In all honesty, I, as a 30-year-old woman, *still* sit this way, on occasion.

This is a realistic portrayal of a woman for a comic book. This is just plain Super.

Bravo, Mr. Bedard and Mr. Guedes. You have brought the Super Girl back to Supergirl.

On the Docket: Recent Pop Culture in the Reads Household

Happy Memorial Day, Gentle Reader, and I hope your picnics and barbeques are sunny and bright! Mr. Reads and I have been preparing ourselves for that most auspicious, albeit hectic, of summer activities, The Start Of Summer Term. Entire semesters crammed into one month of Every Day Class and Sunlight and Heat (oh my!) certainly keep us On Our Toes, and to ready ourselves, Mentally, we have, I must confess, indulged in various forms of our Popular Cultures the past few days.

This, of course, means watching A Lot Of Television, and let me express to you, Friends, my utter delight and admiration for the following recent season finales: Heroes, Lost, and The Office. But with Season Finales and the Impending Summer Term come that most dreaded of times, Summer Television Slump. No Lost, no Heroes, no Office or Family Guy or Battlestar and no Gilmore Girls, forever.

Of course, Mr. Reads and I must Combat This Boredom Somehow, and Summer becomes our time to Explore New Shows. Over the past several summers, we have used our extra Must See Time to try out, finish, or return to shows such as Carnivale, X-Files, Band of Brothers, the Sopranos, and West Wing. This summer is No Different, and we find ourselves exploring the following:

Life on Mars is now available on BBCAmerica, but not every episode, I’m sorry to say. But what we’ve seen, we’ve loved, and we are ready for more.

Hex, another show from the BBC (Mr. Reads and I are Anglophiles of The Highest Order!) which is a bit of Buffy, a bit of Charmed, and where we are now in the order, could go either way, quality-wise. We’re keeping an eye on this one, and are a bit mixed in our feelings.

Freaks and Geeks is a show I haven’t seen since it aired, and we’ve made Excellent Use of our Netflix Account for this one. Although I must admit, Gentle Reader, that Mr. Reads and I both are Rather Uncomfortable, at times, with the Sheer Uncomfortable Reminders of teenaged life. Adulthood, for This Humble Author, at least, is much preferable.

Harsh Realm we just finished, and I was Rather Impressed with this short-lived show. Of course, I have had a soft spot for Mr. Sweeney since his Cutting Edge “toe pick” days, but that’s really neither here nor there.

Also up on the docket are: Veronica Mars (thanks, in large part, to the insistence of Matthew of Legion Abstract fame and other such Smart People who keep recommending it to the Reads Family), Waking the Dead (another BBC show Mr. Reads and I fell in love with while across the Pond), Big Love, Deadwood, and some other assorted sundries Here and There.

Novel-wise, I am exploring the fascinating worlds of Madeleine E. Robins’ Sarah Tolerance series, and Rhys Bowen’s Molly Murphy series. The former details a Fallen Woman turned Thief Catcher in Regency England, and the latter follows the adventures of the Irish Immigrant and first woman P.I. in turn-of-the-century New York. Mr. Reads, meanwhile, recently has enjoyed the world of John Scalzi. Both of us wait in Eager Anticipation for the new Connie Willis, Greg Rucka, Neil Gaiman, and J.K. Rowling to fill up space in the meantime.

But what of Comic Books, you may ask, Gentle Reader? Alas, my Comic Book reading is rather behind at the moment, due to many factors, mostly Dissertation and Work Related, but thanks to the Wonderful Ms. Karen Healey, I have recently—just, Gentle Reader!—had the Honour and Pleasure of Guest-Blogging on Girls Read Comics (And They’re Pissed). Much Gratitude is extended to Ms. Healey for this opportunity.

Any pop culture to recommend to me, Friends? If so, please, I implore you, help us fill Our Empty Summer Entertainment!

Amy Reads the Week (of May 25th, 2007)

I’m not much of a gamer, Gentle Reader, but when I do sit down to game, I do so with every intention of playing a Powerhouse of a Character.

That is, I’m not very *good* at gaming. I’m a masher of The Highest Order. As my hand/eye coordination is rather limited, I can’t remember to press buttons in the correct order to get the best possible moves. I understand it as a failing, of course, but it doesn’t bother me all that much. Rather, I have skills in other arenas, and I’m quite happy with The Ones I Have. So when I choose a video game character, I often look towards those who can Smash ‘Em Up, Bash ‘Em Up with the best of them. They are, ultimately, the characters that serve mashers such as Myself, the best.

Mr. Reads is The Proud Owner of a Nintendo Wii, and the older Nintendo system, the GameCube, both of which, I suppose, by law, I am The Proud Owner of, as well. But I think of them as His Systems because he is, ultimately, the Gamer in the Reads Family. When we were waiting, and waiting, for the Wii to become available, I asked him if he wouldn’t rather have a Playstation or Xbox, or any of the other numerous systems out there. He responded in the negative because, as he suggested, Nintendo is in the business of Making Games and Gaming Systems. The quality, therefore, is much higher.

I admit, Gentle Reader, that my questioning was somewhat selfish because I knew that The One Game I wanted to play Above All Others was not available for the Wii. Rather, Justice League Heroes is Playstation ready, and Xbox ready, but not so much for the Wii. That is not to say that I regret the purchase of Our Darling Wii. Quite the contrary. For a novice gamer such as myself, I find the Wii to be quite User-Friendly, and Rather Fun.

But still, the lack of Wonder Woman goodness plagued me.

That is until Our Dear Friends went out of town and loaned us use of their Playstation while away.

Mr. Reads and I immediately ran out and rented Justice League Heroes, and while I admit that I was Quite Terrible At It from the Beginning (Batman’s skills were a bit beyond a mere masher such as This Humble Author), Mr. Reads was, on the contrary, Quite Skilled, and he played, and played, until he unlocked all costumes, all characters, all suits. And in the end, because Mr. Reads saved her just for Me, I got to play as Armored Wonder Woman.

Gentle Reader, dare I even express my Joy and Amazement over playing as The Amazon Princess, and in her Royal Armor, no less? Her powers, her flight, her agility, her healing, all of it allowed me, yes, even This Humble Author, to stay alive a lot longer than I was ever able to stay alive in a game before.

And in the end, when Mr. Reads and I lined up our teams, I had Quite The Powerhouses on my side: Wonder Woman, armored, Hawkgirl, Zatanna, and Huntress. Mr. Reads lined up Flash, Batman, Green Arrow, and Superman. And we went into the final level, to defeat Darkside.

What’s so interesting about this final level is that you line up four team members for each player, because defeating Darkside is Very Difficult Indeed. And you line them up, in the order you wish to play them. When one character runs out of power, your next character comes out to play. This is The Justice League, after all. This is a Team of Superheroes, always ready to Get One’s Back, if needed.

When we defeated the game, Mr. Reads was playing as Green Arrow, and I was still playing as Wonder Woman.

Friends, let me remind you that *I am not very good* and Mr. Reads is *very good indeed*. Mr. Reads not only has Excellent Hand/Eye Coordination, but also, he has what some might call “mad skills” with Strategy. For This Humble Author, not so much. So let that speak to the ability of the Wonder Woman character in Justice League Heroes. Let that serve as proof that this character, this Amazon, is A Powerhouse Indeed.

Sadly, we had to return both the game and the borrowed gaming system, but we both wait, with Anticipation, for the availability of said game for the Wii. Because I for one—yes, even This Humble Author, Gentle Reader!—would like to give this game another run.

Art Saves (Because It Must): A Brief Review of The Plain Janes

You may remember, Gentle Reader, that Mr. Reads and I Hopped Across The Pond this past January for my Research Trip Of Grand Proportions. When I (finally!) stole a spare moment or two from research to look at Art, Mr. Reads dragged me, kicking and screaming the whole way, to the Tate Modern. Not that I pooh-poohed the idea of Art, in General. I adore Art, particularly as I Cannot Produce It. I don’t have that talent for visualizing something out of nothing. If I stare at A Blank Page, I can only see, as Mr. Hamlet would say, Words, Words, Words. I am a Writer, by nature, by profession, by trade, by choice, and most importantly for this discussion, by Training. My plans for a comic book—yes, even I, Gentle Reader, have plans for A Comic Book Of My Own—have been aborted, time and again, by my sincere lack of artistic talent. One cannot break through in a medium that proclaims the marriage between Art and Text if one cannot produce half of the equation, no?

Rather, I kicked and screamed my way to the Tate Modern because not only was I leaving the Tate Britain, and thus Waterhouses and Rossettis and Siddals (oh my!), but also because Modern Art baffles me. It is true, Friends. I have no appreciation for the Modern or Postmodern Artistic, and sometimes even Literary, Sentiment. I am a Victorianist, by nature, by profession, by trade, by choice, and most importantly for this discussion, by Training. I *understand* Victorian art. I *adore* Victorian art. And while I dally in the 20^th Century for the occasional Magritte or Picasso or Dali, my heart and my understanding are rooted firmly in the 19^th.

I offer you this rather lengthy and personal introduction so that you understand the oddity of my absolute joy over discovering a room, yes, an *entire room*, devoted to those most militant of artistic activists, the Guerrilla Girls. I do not like Modern Art, Gentle Reader, nor do I like Postmodern Art. That of course includes the Dadaists, the Performance Artists, and should therefore include the Guerrilla Girls. But even Mr. Reads, who has known me for almost ten years, was surprised to hear me squeal with delight inside That Most Auspicious Of Monuments To The Modern And Postmodern Art Movements, the Tate Modern.

And Squeal I Did, Friends, loudly, publicly, to looks of surprise and consternation from My Fellow Museum-Goers. The Guerrilla Girls are activists who draw attention to the lack of women and minorities in the arts. Their militant tactics included such things as plastering posters such as This One (gratitude, Tate Modern) to raise awareness of women and minorities working within the arts. This is a cause I appreciate and believe in. This is an artistic movement that I have admired for as long as I have been aware of it.

So when This Humble Author realized that Cecil Castellucci and Jim Rugg’s The Plain Janes offers a microcosmic look at the effects of guerrilla art in one small town and one small high school, you can only imagine the squeal of delight over said discovery. Even further, when This Humble Author realized that The Plain Janes details the use of such guerrilla art by a Young Woman as a means of recovering from the Shock and Horror of a terrorist attack, you can only imagine how much I fell in love with this book.

“Art Saves” are the words written on a notebook Main Jane recovers from the bombing site. “Art Saves” are the words she takes to heart when she rescues a John Doe from the bomb site. “Art Saves” are the words Main Jane repeats, like the Prayer They Are, to make sense of a senseless tragedy. She is a Survivor, she is a Hero, she saves One Man from the rubble, and still, her whole world falls apart.

Gentle Reader, you may be aware of the fact that This Humble Author is from New Orleans, and that I was home, visiting family, when we had to evacuate for Hurricane Katrina. The Reads Clan and the Reads-in-Laws were the lucky ones. We all had somewhere to go: most came here, to Mr. Reads’ and my house, and others scattered across the South, to various friends and family. But with Math there is always Aftermath. So many of our Friends and Family Lost Everything. And while we are Grateful for the Lives Saved, we still Struggle Through Recovery.

That is to say, The Plain Janes is a title that I would give to any young man or woman trying to make sense of a senseless tragedy. What Castellucci and Rugg do, and do Very Well, is avoid the idea of The Perfect Happy Ending. This book understands that Not All Endings Are Perfectly Happy, and that is Perfectly Okay.

Even further, what Castellucci and Rugg do Even Better is offer an alternative definition of Hero. A Hero is not only someone who saves, but someone who survives, as well. Because it’s just as hard to pick up the pieces and carry on as it is to pick up the person lying next to you and drag him or her to safety. Because Being A Hero means being strong, even in the face of danger, and being strong, even in the face of ceaseless fear.

That’s what affects Main Jane the most, Gentle Reader: ceaseless fear. Her parents move her to the suburbs for her safety, and she hates it: the lack of culture, the high school cliques, leaving her friends behind, and most importantly, leaving behind John Doe, the man she saved, the man whose notebook she holds on to, like the talismanic item it is, the man to whom she writes, detailing her pains, her fears, her frustrations. Because Main Jane’s parents aren’t the only ones suffering under ceaseless fear. Her mother’s incessant phone calls affect Main Jane’s tranquility, certainly, but so, too, does her desire to reinvent herself. To throw off the cloak of normalcy and popularity, and to become The Person She Wants To Become.

And so she begins that quest. She refuses the popular girls’ offer to sit in their lunch group and finds the right table for her. “And then,” Main Jane says, “When you least expect it: Paradise!” She means Jane (the actress), Jayne (the brain), and Polly Jane (the athlete). Even when the Janes, her “tribe,” are “completely unimpressed” with her, she says, “I just know that these girls, these Janes, are my friends.”

Taking cues from the words “Art Saves,” Jane comes to the Startling Realization that so few ever come to: in order to save others, you first Must Save Yourself. So she uses art to cement a relationship with these Janes. They form P.L.A.I.N., “People Loving Art In Neighborhoods,” a secret group that performs (Guerrilla) Acts of Random Art. They form friendships. They bring a community of teenagers together.

As with almost all stories involving teenagers, lines are divided quickly between The Teens and The Adults. And The Teens seem to understand that Art *can* Save, because It Must. That is to say, what some see as vandalism is a way to bring beauty back into a world so devoid of it. The acts of the P.L.A.I.N. Janes are acts of creation, not of destruction. They become ways of making sense in a world that lacks sense, lacks understanding. Through these Random Acts Of Artness, Main Jane not only gains friends she wanted (the P.L.A.I.N. Janes) and friends she didn’t (Cindy, the Queen Bee), but she also gains a sense of self.

Art Saves Main Jane, as she predicted it would.

The link between Art and Tragedy is solid, Gentle Reader. Tug on it, and you find no give. Art reflects larger senseless tragedies, as the poetry of WWI soldiers such as Mr. Sassoon or Mr. Owen reflects, and art reflects personal tragedies, as well, smaller in scale, perhaps, but just as tragic, just as senseless. Ask Ms. Bishop, and she will tell you that “The art of losing’s not too hard to master/though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster” (“One Art”). Ms. Plath will tell you, too, that “Dying,/is an art, like everything else” (“Lady Lazarus”). And while These Great Poems use the word “art” to denote skill, they intend for us to understand skill as talent, as grace. Something one has an affinity for, to do very well (to do it so it feels like hell, so sayeth Ms. Plath). Art becomes a way of understanding tragedy, certainly, with the act of the poem, the painting, the photograph, the book. But art, by its very nature, is a skill set, a way of *dealing* with tragedy, not only with the act of the poem, the painting, the photograph, the book, but also with the community of the poem, the painting, the photograph, the book.

Art is public. By its very nature, it is meant to be shared. By its very nature, it is meant to speak, and speak loudly, to those who wish to hear. And by its very nature, Art is meant to be interpreted. While some see Salvation, others see Despair. What The Plain Janes makes perfectly clear is that while some see Destruction, others see Creation.

A common consequence of Destruction is Creation, Gentle Reader, and while said Creation is open for interpretation, The Plain Janes interprets it as self-creation. As self-understanding. For one teenaged girl, one Main Jane, yes, but through her, for dozens, perhaps hundreds of others.

Art Saves, because it must.

Amy Reads the Week (of May 18th, 2007)

You may have guessed this by now, Gentle Reader, but I don’t believe in essentialism. That is to say, I don’t believe that because I was born with a Uterus and 2 X Chromosomes that I am predisposed to liking Pink, and Dolls, and Romantic Comedies. Further, while I believe in it more than I do essentialism, I don’t particularly like the idea that social constructivism has determined my self. I don’t like the fact that despite my triumph over essentialism, that hive mind we call Society came along and determined that because I am a Girl—wrapped in a pink blanket upon birth and granted dominion over all things cute, ruffled, and/or fluffy—I have been socially geared towards things such as Pink, and Dolls, and Romantic Comedies. Also Motherhood, heterosexuality, passivity, intuition, and that annoying partridge in that bloody pear tree.

Even further, I don’t believe that because Mr. Reads was born with male anatomy and XY Chromosomes that he is predisposed to like football, beer, and, say, superhero comics. In fact, I would Greatly Argue that Mr. Reads likes, say, Superhero Comics because he was, as a child, inclined *not* to like football or trucks but rather liked books, and science, and fantasy. And I would say that This Humble Author likes, say, Superhero Comics not because I was inclined towards All Thing Male, All The Time, but rather because I saw a woman in satin tights fight for *my* rights and the good ole red, white, and blue.

Over the past few weeks, I have been thinking about What Attracts Us, yes, We Few, We Happy Few, We Fans of Comics, to the Comic Book Medium, at large, and the Superhero Comic Universe, specifically. Because while the argument can be made that Many People read Comics—Graphic Novels, Manga, William Blake, virtually anything defined as a Marriage between Image and Text, those Stories Told Visually, even Ekphrasis might work here, by definition—not all of those Readers are Superhero Fans. The Superhero Comic is a unique genre in and of itself, and it relies, by definition, on the existence of The Superhero, The Villain, and the Battle Between Good and Evil.

Of course, Gentle Reader, you may argue that All Literature is represented as The Battle Between Good and Evil, and you may just be right. But Said Battle isn’t always defined in clear-cut terms, complete with Flights, and Tights. And those who are attracted to Said Battles, again, We Happy Few, are attracted to them, specifically, for a reason.

I don’t know if I can express My Reason in so many words, because That Reason is Rather Personal. But then, all literary choices are personal; we are attracted to the things we are attracted to because we are Who We Are. While I no longer read Romance Novels (although I did for many, many years) because I find them somewhat unrealistic, I now read more Superhero Titles than I did ever before. And what is more unrealistic than the idea of an alien come to save America and the World? Or an Amazon leaving an Island of Women to save Man’s World? Or a son, marked by the tragic deaths of his parents, becoming the Savior of His City? Or that Said Amazon can fight for my rights in those assuredly confining and rather counterproductive satin tights, anyhow?

There is something to be said, then, for the Power of Fantasy. For the Suspension of Realism, even if just for the 30+ pages of a Comic Book, or the 300+ pages of a Romance Novel, or for the 2 hours of a movie. We read because we desire some suspension of realism, no? We escape to fictional realms every time we open a novel, or step into a movie theater, or play a video game. We, as a Fanbase, desire some sort of escape from The Real World.

But, as many have argued before me, nothing mirrors The Real World’s problems better than Fiction, and Science Fiction specifically. 1984 discussed the growing anxiety over governmental spying, surveillance, and control. Brave New World warned us of the dangers of “playing god.” Lord of the Rings showed the disastrous results of environmental disregard.

But I say that the reverse is true, as well. Nothing mirrors The Real World’s capacity for Greatness better than Fiction, and Science Fiction, Fantasy, and Comic Books, specifically. Just as Mysteries are about making the disorderly orderly, so too are Comic Books about making the Alien Familiar, the Other a person not to fear but to aspire to. Superman shows us that even the one who should be The Ultimate Outsider can be the one to Save Us All. Wonder Woman demonstrates that what seems to be radical inclusive feminism is in fact an attempt to save all of us, men and women alike. Batman shows us that with Great Anguish comes Great Resolve, and that Good can be born out of Evil. As does Spider-Man. As does Catwoman. As does Big Barda.

The more we depend on essentialist arguments, Gentle Reader—those arguments that claim this or that is for boys or girls, but never the twain shall meet—the more we isolate ourselves. The more we separate, and separate, ad nauseam. But let us not be so eager to embrace social constructivism, either. Let us instead think not in terms of Either/Or, but rather in shades of gray. Further, let us determine why some insist, yes, insist on claiming separatism For Us All.

When This Humble Author was growing up, Barbie said, quite loudly and publicly, “Math is Hard!” And so began the debate over whether this item of Pop Culture, this Doll, this Inanimate, Programmed Thing could have any bearing on Young Girls’ Lives. So began the discovery that elementary schools actually reinforced this idea that “Math is Hard!” if you were a girl. Unbeknownst to educators, almost an entire educational system was geared towards Feminine=Humanities, Masculine=Math and Science. And now, some twenty years later, we are still struggling to make sure our girls are encouraged in both literature *and* math, and our boys are encouraged in both math *and* literature. Colleges and Universities, even, work hard to encourage more women to go into engineering, hard sciences, and advanced math and computer fields. Because there just aren’t that many women there, even now, twenty years later.

All because of an essentialist argument that no one was even aware was being made.

All because a doll once said, “Math is Hard!"

Amy Reads the Week (of May 11th, 2007)

What a week it’s been, Gentle Reader! Or should I say, two weeks, since I was unable to read the week fully Friday Last? A trip home, a visit with Parents Reads and the Reads-in-Laws, and now, Mr. Reads and I have A Houseful of the Canine Persuasion, as we are Dog-Sitting for Some Dear Friends while they are out of town. Four dogs, finals, and summer school prep (oh my!) and is there any wonder that I’ve been rather neglectful of you, Friends? For that, I Do Apologize, and humbly Ask Your Forgiveness.

During this madness, however, was the Marvelous Thing known as Free Comic Book Day. I adore Free Comic Book Day, Gentle Reader, and not only because This Humble Author receives Free Comic Books. Also, it is the Idea that Literature Should Be Free, given away to people who may not otherwise give Certain Literature Its Due. A Justice League book here, an Umbrella Academy book there, and, for This Humble Author, an Interesting Introduction to the Wide World of Manga.

Yes, Friends, you heard right. Manga.

I am Not A Manga Fan by trade, by profession, or by blogging, but that is not to say that I pooh-pooh the Idea of Manga. Rather, much of the Manga I had seen was of the open-mouthed wide-eyed screaming variety, and while I enjoy big eyes and screaming as much as the next person—having some rather large eyes and a rather big mouth myself—all of the Manga I had encountered was a bit manic for my tastes. A little too flashy, a little too loud, and frankly, I’m rather anti-black-and-white pen medium. I like my books colorful. I like my comics a bit brooding.

Also, I like superhero books, and I’m Rather Fond of the Flights and Tights crowd. Batman, Superman, Wonder Woman, Black Canary (known to scream herself On Occasion!), these are my heroes, and while Sandmans and Deaths and Homicidal Maniac Johnnies and Vampire Slayers and Hellboys grace my shelves, all are rather lacking in the Flights and Tights department. Manga just wasn’t superheroic enough for This Humble Author, it seemed.

That is to say, until Free Comic Book Day, 2006.

Tokyopop released a book full of previews, and among these gems was a chapter from Kat & Mouse by Alex de Campi and Federica Manfredi, and an advertisement for Dramacon by Svetlana Chmakova. And thus began my introduction to the Wide World of Manga, which was, I am rather happy to say, Much Wider than I had given it credit for, originally.

Suddenly, I saw something in Manga that I hadn’t seen before: its graphic novel potential. Here were entire stories in one solid medium, in novel form, not serialized, not colored, just *told*. And moreover, the stories were *fun*. Reading Kat & Mouse made me pick up Queenie Chan’s The Dreaming which made me recently pick up Chmakova’s Dramacon which made me pick up Kaoru Mori’s Emma. And the loudness that I always had associated with Manga was suddenly quieted, and I could read, and read, and just enjoy.

Of all of these, Dramacon is my favorite, and here’s why: it works so very well as a metafictional tale. In short, Chmakova’s books function as manuals for the act of writing itself, as guidebooks for the budding author, for the fan existing *and* producing in fandom, and most importantly, for the young woman trying to navigate the Tricky Waters of Life. For, as I am certain we all know, there is Nothing Trickier than Life, no? And for This Humble Author, at least, Life was never As Tricky as it was when I was a teenager.

Yes, it’s true, Gentle Reader, this post is Much Ado About Manga. But as a Fan existing within Comic Fandom, as a Writer with the Burning Desire to Write A Comic Book Of My (Very) Own, and as a Reader of All Things, Comic Book, Victorian, Mystery, or Otherwise, I want to express my Gratitude, and Appreciation, for the Wonderful Day known simply as Free Comic Book Day. Well done, DC, Marvel, Dark Horse, Tokyopop, and the Other Publishers who gave away books this past May 5^th. I’m a reader, certainly, but now, you’ve made me more of a buyer.

Better yet, you’ve made me more of a Fan.

Amy Will Not Read the Week (of May 4th, 2007)

Greetings, Gentle Reader, from the Home of the Parents Reads!

I am currently in my hometown, visiting with family, and as a consequence, will not get to the same Bat Channel at the same Bat Time this week. Tune in next week, Friends, as I have Much To Say about Manga!

Yes, you've read it right. I have much to say, about Manga.

In the meantime, Happy Free Comic Book Day and Cinco de Mayo, and I will resume regularly scheduled broadcasting next week!

Amy Reads the Week (of April 27th, 2007)

Today, Gentle Reader, found me Quite Aware of several of my popular cultures. I went to The Coffee Conglomerate Giant to get some work done, and I carried said work in my Buffy the Vampire Slayer tote bag. Then I wandered over to The Corporate Toy Store to search for the new series 2 of the Marvel Legends figures for Mr. Reads. While searching through various Wasps and Emma Frosts and Planet Hulks (oh my!), a Nice Young Gentleman asked me if I needed some help.

“No, thanks,” I said. “Just looking.” I wasn’t intentionally terse, but I was on my cell phone with Mr. Reads at the time, trying to determine which figures, specifically, he was searching for.

“By the way, your shirt rocks,” Nice Young Gentleman said, and gestured at my “Justice League of America” t-shirt. “They won’t let me wear my fun shirts to work.”

“I can’t wear mine to work, either,” I said. “So I wear them when I can.”

Mr. Reads, still on the line, was laughing, as we have often commented on How Incredibly Cool and Friendly the Nice Young Gentlemen and Ladies who work at Said Toy Store are. “Cool” for Mr. Reads and This Humble Author means, of course, that Said Cool Person is Pop-Culturally Aware of the things that We, Ourselves, are aware of. That is to say, Mr. Reads and I often define “Coolness” by one’s competence and knowledge in Those Areas of Fandom That We Love.

This Fandom Moment was rather welcome today, as I spent the majority of my morning seething over something I read on The Internet. In fact, I seethed so much, Gentle Reader, that I delayed, yes, *delayed* writing this column because I knew, ultimately, that it would disintegrate into a rant. And while I appreciate The Occasional Rant on The Internet (and have Indulged Myself a time or two), I remember, above all else, the lesson I learned upon first experiencing The Internet At Large, some ten, twelve years back:

Do Not Feed The Trolls.

So instead of responding, or writing this column, I seethed quietly. I mentally composed tomes of replies, and I persisted in these useless responses until I remembered to marvel at my Buffy bag, I had the opportunity to share in the delight of the JLA with a Fellow Fan, I popped in a CD and continued to (talent) crush on Nathan Willett of Cold War Kids Fame. Until I remembered that Pop Culture is about Us, All of Us, We Few, We Happy Few, We Band of Fandoms.

These things, these fandom objects, seemingly, then, carry a mystical, portentous weight. My Buffy tote bag, my JLA t-shirt, my Wonder Woman day planner, the Reads Family Spider-Man travel mug, even, define me (and in the latter’s case, Mr. Reads) because they were objects chosen, specifically, by me, for me. They were objects purchased with the intent for public display. Unlike some other items in our fandom—my signed copy of Connie Willis’s Bellwether, say, or my Boba Fett pez dispenser—that stay within the home, these other objects are almost talismanic. They are proclamations of the things we adore. The things that make us happy.

But further, they are, above all else, invitations for communication.

I invite you, Gentle Reader, to communicate with me. What are some of your talismanic fandom objects? Tell us about your Batman messenger bags, your Superman ties, your X-Men t-shirts. What’s your favorite item?

Amy Reads the Week (of April 20th, 2007)

This week has been Quite Musical, Gentle Reader, and for Some Strange Reason, I feel the need to discuss the musical side of my popular culture today.

Wait, let me explain.

There was a time in my life, perhaps as long as ten (!!!) years ago, that I truly had my finger on the pulse of the American and British musical scenes. Indie, of course, although I think we called it Alternative in those days. It Could Even Be Said that I was, yes, it’s true, Friends, a Musical Snob. I sneered down my nose at those In The Popular Know, and I took Great Pleasure in knowing the most obscure bands producing the most obscure tapes in the world.

Flash forward ten years, and I’ve settled, somewhat uncomfortably, in the first inklings of middle age. And now, the hipster students on campus sport band t-shirts with names with which I’m completely unfamiliar. How did this *happen*? I ask myself. When did I become so very divorced from the musical genre?

And it’s not completely true, I realize. But there was a time in my life when I actively would seek out new bands, and now, I’m lucky if a few fall in my lap. But this week, for many, various reasons, found me listening, Quite Intently, to new finds and old favorites. My playlist has been, I must admit, strange and varied this week, and I’ve even had the odd compulsion to burn a CD or make a mixed tape or two.

Yes, it’s true, Friends. It really has been That Kind of Week. Here’s a tiny sampling of my playlists over the past several days.

The Cold War Kids have topped my charts this week, and as I confessed to Mr. Reads yesterday, I find myself with Quite The Talent Crush on Nathan Willett. This kind of Talent Crush, I assured My Dear Husband, hasn’t happened for me since David Bowie reinvented himself in the mid-nineties. But the Cold War Kids, with their Billie Holiday and Tom Waits influence, with their Hedwig-and-Jeff-Buckley croons, have really sparked my admiration in a big way.

Midlake is another new favorite, and Roscoe is truly one of my favorite songs of the year (do understand, Gentle Reader, that I am An Academic; my years begin and end in August). Bonus, they’re from Denton, and I’ve always had a Soft Spot for bands from small university towns.

Amy Winehouse is a powerhouse of a singer, and she’s everything I love about Billie Holiday, Nina Simone, and Beth Gibbons in one voice. Her song “Rehab” has helped me bounce a bit in a week that has been, I’m sorry to say, decidedly lacking in bounce.

Death Cab for Cutie is a band that I just adore, and have for several years now. Plans may be their best album yet, and I can’t stop listening to “Soul Meets Body.” No, really, I can’t.

Zero 7 is another recent find, and it’s really as if Beth Gibbons found her protégé and gave her a microphone. But they’re not completely Portishead-like, and that small difference makes me enjoy them all that much more.

Jeremy Enigk (and the Fire Theft) is just about my favorite singer producing today. I was (and still am) a huge Sunny Day Real Estate fan, but for me, SDRE was less about the music and more about Enigk’s voice. I absolutely adore his voice, and I find that the music in his solo work and his work with The Fire Theft is far more interesting than his work with Sunny Day.

A few other honorable mentions this week: Martina Topley-Bird, Portishead, Jose Gonzales, Sun Kil Moon, Lily Allen (I can’t help it, really; I adore her), Tom McRae, Catherine Wheel (a true blast from the past for This Humble Author), and Beirut.

As always, Gentle Reader, please share your recommendations with me!

Make Mine Amazonian: A Brief Review of Wonder Woman #7

The Suffragettes understood the difficulty of discussing pressing concerns during larger, national and international crises, Gentle Reader. When The Great War broke out, they were expected to forgo their fight for The Larger Fight. Put down your placard and hammer, Sister Suffragette; the riveters need a Rosie, the boys need your support. When they continued to demand the Vote, on both sides of the Pond, they were chastised, condemned, and even physically hurt because of it.

But they kept on keeping on, fought the good fight, brought the government to reconciliation with its female population. The Suffragettes won the vote, a legal voice, decades, a century after the fight began In Earnest. They were called harridans, unsexed females (a term This Humble Author truly despises, the use of “females” rather than “women”), The Shrieking Sisterhood, the Damned Mob. They protested, hunger striked, broke windows and set fires, wrote letters upon letters upon letters, demanded justice and a voice and they got it, finally, after so much suffering, violence, pain, and even, in Emily Davison’s case, martyred death.

Women fought, bled, and died for This Humble Author to have The Right To Vote. They fought, bled, starved, and bruised for me to minor in Women’s Studies, for me to be a Feminist Scholar, for me to write a dissertation that in no small part is about them. Centuries upon centuries of suffering, Gentle Reader. Centuries. And it still hasn’t helped completely.

It. By It, I of course mean The Struggle for Women’s Rights. I mean Feminism. I mean that sometimes we tear ourselves down from the inside out.

So many of my Brother and Sister Bloggers have reviewed Wonder Woman #7, and all of them reviewed it well. As it was with #6, so it is with #7. There isn’t much I can add to the conversation. Wonder Woman is behaving in a strange, horrifying manner. She’s expressing concern over the broken body of a colleague, then dropping him because he, in a delusional pained state, makes an off-color joke. And she smiles, yes, *smiles*, Friends, while she does it.

Why does so much of popular culture insist that Feminism is about misandry? Why does so much of popular culture insist that Feminists hate men? Hate women? And, in all truth, hate themselves?

This Is Not My Wonder Woman.

I have been a Wonder Woman fan for over 25 years. I have read countless incarnations of her. I supported Diana Prince, lover of Steve Trevor. I supported Princess Diana, ambassador of peace. I even supported Wonder Woman, killer of Maxwell Lord, savior of humanity. And throughout this, I have always known that *Wonder Woman Is Not Human*.

Why, why, Friends, do so many try to insist she become so?

Wonder Woman is a fascinating character because she *isn’t* us. She has a different set of morals, skills, and requirements. She has a different sense of Justice. She is a Zealot, you might even say, for Justice. Blinded by it, literally, in the case of Rucka’s run, because she refuses, that’s right, *refuses* to stop her quest for justice.

She killed Maxwell Lord because that was the only way to protect those she was sworn to protect. She may experience regret, she may believe that she needs to understand humanity in order to return as its savior, but in the end, She Is Not Human.

And therein lies the rub, Gentle Reader. I don’t want a human Wonder Woman. Make mine Amazonian. Make mine Other. Make mine Princess Diana.

Why do we, as a society, try so hard to make the Other One Of Us? Why do we try to normalize, insist, yes, insist that there is a “Normal” in the first place? Why do we pretend that Wonder Woman is less alien than Superman, when in fact, she’s not? Or even that just because Batman happens to be Bruce Wayne, that he is human, and therefore “Normal”?

Why do we need our heroes to be Just Like Everyone Else?

I don’t know if I’ve said this before, Friends, but I adore Martian Manhunter. I adore him, specifically, because he is so alien. When he finds something human that he likes, he expresses nothing but Pure Joy (Oreos! Yes, Oreos!). I adore Hellboy for the same reason. Because both characters insist on being What They Want to Be, rather than What Others Expect Them To Be. Martian Manhunter is never as interesting as when he rejects his human form; Hellboy is never as interesting as when he rejects his demonic expectations.

Wonder Woman is never less interesting as when she caricaturizes Feminism.

She is a Symbol for Women’s Rights, has been for a few decades now, and despite her strange origins, she stands for Feminism, now. The problem is that so many producers of popular culture don’t really, truly understand what Feminism is. The reason is almost frighteningly simple, really, because *there is no one Feminism*.

That is to say, Feminism is not misandry. It’s not a She-Woman Man-Hating Club. It’s not a self-loathing cycle of despair, either. I am not a Feminist because I hate men. I am not a Feminist because I hate myself. Nor am I a Feminist because I hate other women, and want to fight them for any scrap of power I can grab.

I am a Feminist because I believe in equal rights. I am a Feminist because I believe that we live in a society that forces women into maternity, heterosexual imperatives, low-paying jobs, domesticity, self-hatred, particularly of their own bodies, proms, believing Math is Hard! and that Sci-Fi and Comics are for Boys! I am a Feminist because women *fought* and *died* for me, yes, *me*, to have more rights, various opportunities, and a better life than they themselves had. I am a Feminist because I believe Woman’s Story is mostly untold. I am a Feminist because I am physically stronger and intellectually smarter than some men, and not so much than others, and I’m completely okay with both. I am a Feminist because I believe Women should be whatever they want to be, whether that’s a CEO or a Stay-At-Home-Mom. Feminism gives us the Choice.

I am a Feminist because I believe in Choice.

I am a Feminist because I have the power to speak for those who can’t speak for themselves, and I therefore have the imperative to do so.

Wonder Woman became a Hero because she had the power to do so. She fought for the right to come and help “Man’s World,” or maybe she just had “Mother Issues,” but in the end, she has come to help. Yes, Friends, To Help. And if she’s soul-searching, or trying to find herself, or just taking a vacation, I support her. But if Becoming Human, or Finding Herself means that she no longer cares about people in pain, just because those people happen to be men? I can’t, in all good consciousness, believe that this is the same character that blinded herself to fight Medusa. Or that this is the same character that began said soul-searching in the first place because *she hurt and killed a human*.

Let’s bring back what’s truly interesting about Wonder Woman: her Otherness. The navigation of this world through *her* eyes. Her Amazonian Ideals. Her frightening sense of Pure Justice.

Make Mine Amazonian again, please.

Amy Reads the Week (of April 13th, 2007)

Honestly, Gentle Reader, this week’s been a bit of a Nightmare, and next week’s not looking all that much better. There was some good, certainly, as Mr. Reads celebrated his 32^nd birthday on Wednesday, and received many happy gifts, most of which were Comic Book Related. Action figures and graphic novels and pre-ordering, Oh My! But the Reads Household has been In A Bit Of A Tizzy over recent busy-ness, crazy-ness, and just insanity, in general.

That is to say that I’ve done no reading outside of academia, and my viewing pleasures have been few and far between. I’ve heard some downright Scary Things about Wonder Woman #7, and therefore haven’t even picked up our weeklies yet. But, yes, there’s a but, Friends, I’ve just heard some Marvelous, *Wonderful* news from Our Dear Friend, Mr. Fanboy.

It’s true, Gentle Reader. Gail Simone is the new writer on Wonder Woman.

I think, therefore, it’s quite fair to say that my week, thus far Quite Terrible And Awful, just got a lot better.

DC, you have done a very, *very* smart thing, and you have made This Humble Author the happiest of happy campers. Further, you’ve done more than just hire a female author to pen The Premiere Superheroine Title. You’ve hired one of the best writers in comics today, and, truth be told, This Humble Author’s Personal Favorite.

When the Giants Sleep

So it goes, Gentle Reader.

We have lost an icon. We have lost Kurt Vonnegut.