KAMANDI!!!!

What is it about KAMANDI?

If there was ever an example of a comic that works in spite of itself, this is it. On first glance, it's a ridiculous concept, with a half-naked blonde guy of indeterminate age as the central character. Of course, the artwork is dynamite, and every page jumps at you with signature Kirby explosiveness, but past the immediate appeal of the illsutration, it looks a little childish and exceedingly violent. Not to mention the fact that he covers had the most bizarre taglines ever to grace a comic after 1960.


Usually, a Great Comic has a clear hook, or a great plot, or rich characters; concepts that you can wrap your head around and say, "This is what makes this comic exceptional". KAMANDI, I am bewildered to say, has none of that, beyond simply being gorgeous to behold, art-wise. Aside from coming from the Pen of Kirby, it doesn't seem to have much going for it.
Yet it's still something of a masterpiece, and quite possibly the best comic of the Seventies. Against all odds, KAMANDI worked in a way that few comics do. It holds up, conceptually, even today. Despite major flaws, it remains infectious and joyous and a total kick in the ass.

What are these "major flaws"? Well, they're pretty fundamental, and all in one basket together, they would sink any other book, by any other creator...

1. "KAMANDI" IS A RIP-OFF

KAMANDI was borne out of the popularity of PLANET OF THE APES. This is a given; the first issue even features the image of a decrepit Lady Liberty, an image made famous by Charlton Heston on his knees in the sand, screaming at the sky. The plot of KAMANDI (such as it is) revolves around the last remaining bare-chested human, making his way in a savage world where evolved animals rule, and humans are mute beasts, used as slaves. His best friend is a benevolent animal scientist, and he frequently travels with a beautiful, topless human female, hoping she will speak some day. This is all very familiar.
Of course, this is filtered through the awesome brain of JACK KIRBY, so the additions to the familiar tropes are many many and grand. While PLANET OF THE APES (for all its goodness) was kind of bland, design-wise, KAMANDI is a technicolor world filled insane machines, crumbling cities, giant monsters, and brightly garbed animals of all types. Rather than Gorillas with single-shot rifles, we are given giant bats, snakes with robot arms, leopard pirates, and tigers that wear some of the coolest clothes ever drawn in comics.


KAMANDI is PLANET OF THE APES with intensity replacing the brooding, insane landscapes replacing a bland desert, and dynamic mutant rebels with cyclotronic hearts replacing the psychic guys who worship that missile underground.


So while it is true that KAMANDI started as a rip-off, it immediately evolved into something far more vast and tremendously more exciting than Roddy McDowell in a funky rubber mask.

2. KAMANDI IS A BORING CHARACTER

Kamandi himself is little more than a cipher with feathered hair and a pistol. His personality consists of getting angry a lot, traveling endlessly and pointlessly, and enjoying kicking animal ass. He's a pretty blank slate. Even visually, there's not much going on there; he wears cutoffs and boots, and his only accessories are a gun and a holster. Even with "simplicity of design" in mind, he's still pretty weak. While the primary yellows and blues of his hair and clothes are striking, the boldness is purely graphic. Kamandi would make a pretty lame costume or action figure. He's no Indiana Jones.
But what Kamandi lacks in personality and visual interest, he more than makes up for in bare-knuckle, two-fisted, balls to the wall Excitement. This is a kid who jumps feet-first into every fight, has an incredibly short fuse, and lives in a world where THAT'S ALL THAT MATTERS! Anger, fearlessness, and a high protein diet are what it takes to survive! He doesn't need subtleties or depth, he needs a gun.... so that he can kill some frikkin' gorillas!


What do we learn about about Kamandi over the course of the series? We learn that he hates it when animals disrespect him. And we learn that he will kick their asses for disrespecting him. As far as I'm concerned, that's about as much character development as you need, when the next scene you might read involves Kamandi taming a giant cricket so that he can ride it like a horse.


3. "KAMANDI" MAKES NO SENSE

The world of KAMANDI is EARTH AD... AFTER DISASTER! What was the "Great Disaster"? No one knows. It apparently involved radiation. How did the new society evolve? How did humanity devolve? Why are some animals (horses, buffalo, insects) still the same, while some animals (tigers, dogs, killer whales) have evolved into intelligent human hybrids? And what's the deal with the wide variety of mutants and monsters?


The answer is, "Don't worry about it. Just accept that weird things will happen,"


One of the fundamental rules of writing fiction, and particularly speculative fiction, is that the world you place your characters in must have some sort of logic unto itself, and internal consistency. As loopy and ridiculous as STAR WARS is, if Chewbacca could turn into The Thing by putting on a magic ring, that would likely be a step too far outside the established rules of that fictional world. (Although it would be awesome.) KAMANDI is an exception to this rule, and wears this exception like a badge of honor. Think you've got things remotely figured out? Just wait for the next issue, because something so bizarre will come out of left field it will make your head spin.


The only established rule in the KAMANDI universe is that there are no rules. It makes no sense. As much as people accuse Grant Morrison of being "weird for weird's sake", Kirby was turning Arbitrary Weirdness into a cottage industry long before Grant ever communed with extra-dimensional aliens. Every issue of KAMANDI was chock full of bizarre concepts that added to the enormous Earth AD tapestry of Things-That-Shouldn't-Work-Together-But-Somehow-Do.

4. "KAMANDI" HAS NO POINT

Superman is on Earth to fight injustice. Batman wants to avenge his parents by bringing justice to criminals. Spider-man is eaten up with guilt, Sam Beckett is trying to find his way home, and Frodo has to destroy the Ring.
There is General Thrust to most fiction; you know where the characters are going, and mostly you know why. Sometimes it's as vague as "Philip Marlowe solves mysteries because he can. And he gets paid to do so." You, the reader, understand the point of the story, even in the most general terms.

With KAMANDI, there is such a cannonball momentum to the pace, you never have a chance to stop and think "Why is this happening?" Kamandi spends so much time reacting to the insanity around him, there is never a moment where you feel like he has a priority in life. He spends so much time either simply surviving, angrily fighting back against tormentors, or just exploring for excitement's sake, the narrative thrust never expands beyond "Holy Crap Look What's Happening RIGHT NOW!!!"


This is where we really see Kirby's genius as a writer at work. The man never lets up, not for an instant. The point of the story never forms around a "Character A has to accomplish X, despite Y" storyline, nor does it need to. It is a rollercoaster of a plot where every page is a new twist, and the fact that many of them come out of the blue is part of the thrill. The plot of KAMANDI has no point, because that would take time to establish, and between lions on motorcycles, submerged cities, and rats in hot air balloons, there was no time to spare!


And so it was that KAMANDI was the best seller of all of Kirby's DC books. It lasted the longest, and despite the recent surge of interest in the FOURTH WORLD saga, KAMANDI was the first to get the Archive treatment. Thirty years later, it's impossible to read any random issue and not get excited, or enjoy yourself. It was an unstoppable thrill-ride that worked despite not working at all. It broke every rule of what makes good fiction, and yet these comics are still something you can hardly put down. In the end, what makes KAMANDI so awesome is very primal. It seems ridiculous to try and define it. I just chalk it up to the genius of Jack Kirby, and the eternal appeal of watching tough guys beat up animals.

NOT BEING SICK.

There's something awfully liberating about a blog that no one reads. It's like a diary in an abandoned house in the woods.... oh, sure, the ghosts might TRY to read it, but they have incorporeal fingers and can't turn the pages. Take that, suckers! (On the other hand a poltergeist could turn the pages, but would more likely just throw it across the room. Also, raccoons or other vermin could open it and look in it, but they can't read, and if they could, it wouldn't be english. They would read the Language of the Forest or some such Redwall nonsense. Conclusion: Abandoned houses in the woods are safe places for diaries!)

So this blog kind of feels like talking into an empty room, only you don't wonder if you're suffering from a slow crawl of dementia when you're done.

(Have you ever tried talking into an empty room? You can give campaign speeches for public office on imaginary planets, to huge convention centers full of imaginary alien delegates. "My fellow citizens! If I am elected, there will be no more oppression of the Grxrztzy Peoples! We will remove the laws that target those of us with many jointed ass-arms! And I will commit ten thousand more robotic Death-troops to the war with the evil reptilio-insects of Qjqggt VII!"

Applause applause cheers. I win the election.)

With that in mind, I intend to do a bit more posting here, not so much to communicate the Awesome things of the world to a vast horde of nonexistent readers, but to work out for my own brain what is Awesome in this life, and why. For example, NOT BEING SICK.

I have been sick, off and on, since Thanksgiving. A deep, hacking cough that leaves and returns with no rhyme or reason, sneezing, itchy eyes, aching, fatigue.... is it allergies? Is it the wacky NY weather that changes on a dime? Is it the flu? Who knows? I feel better and think it's all over one day, and then I look like Felix Unger the next.

What have I learned? That feeling 100% is AWESOME. And I appreciate it far more after spending a week wiping my nose and slugging Airborne and Tylenol Cold non-stop.

Obligatory Meaningless Update!

Some awesome things for 2008....

* Sherman tanks

* Jambalaya

* Lewis Trondheim

* Hanes socks

* Fighting dragons (in a Gary Gygax memorial)

TUESDAY TOP FIVE: SPACESHIPS

(I know it's thursday. I'm flaunting convention.)

5. THE PLANET EXPRESS SHIP
Fry: This is awesome! Are we gonna fly through space fighting monsters and teaching alien women to love?
Professor Farnsworth: If by that you mean transporting cargo, then yes!

Captain: Turanga Leela
This flourescent green beauty comes equipped with an unbreakable diamond tether, upgradeable personalities for the on-board computer, and a laundry room.
Caveat: Never put metal in the microwave while observing a supernova. This can lead to becoming your own grandfather.


4. THE TARDIS
The First Doctor: That is the dematerializing control. And that, over yonder, is the horizontal hold. Up there is the scanner, those are the doors, that is a chair with a panda on it. Sheer poetry, dear boy! Now please stop bothering me.

Captain: The Doctor
A Gallifreyan design, complete with guest bedrooms and a tachyon engine for easy time-travel. With a properly functioning camouflage program, this tesseract vessel can be disguised as anything from a bush to a Roman column.
Caveat: Makes an awful lot of noise when teleporting.

3. COLONIAL VIPER
Dwight Schrute: Do you ever watch Battlestar Galactica?
Guest: No.
Dwight Schrute: 'No.' Then you are an idiot.

Captain: Any trained Colonial Officer who has completed flight school.
The Viper is the last line of defense against total annihilation by the Cylons. Maneuverable, fast, and able to deliver a nuclear payload, these ships are capable in a planet's atmosphere, or in the cold vacuum of deep space.
Caveat: Prone to getting hung in launch tubes.

2. THE MILLENIUM FALCON
Han: Fast ship? You've never heard of the Millenium Falcon?
Ben: Should I have?
Han: It's the ship that made the kessel run in less than twelve parsecs. I've outrun Imperial starships, not the local bulk-cruisers, mind you. I'm talking about the big Corellian ships now. She's fast enough for you, old man.

Captain: Han Solo
A "piece of junk" that has been modified by the variety of smugglers and scoundrels that have owned it through the years, this freighter is not only very likely the fastest ship in the galaxy, but also creates the perfect romantic atmosphere for seducing rebellious princesses.
Caveat: Finnicky hyperdrive.


1. THE ENTERPRISE

Captain Kirk: I've already got a female to worry about. Her name is the Enterprise.

Captain: James T. Kirk
One of Starfleet's most famous and decorated ships. Comes complete with transporters, shuttles, a full sickbay, and an enormous brass satellite dish. Easily the coolest starship to ever orbit a gangster planet.
Caveat: God-like energy beings will want to play with it.


And now, dear reader, tell us about your favorite spaceships...

FIREWORKS

Camp Stahlman Fireworks Crew, 2002

Every so often, something will happen that makes your heart beat so hard and fast that you feel it up in your throat and it makes you shiver. It's not nervousness or fear, but the sheer thrill of pure anticipation, knowing that the most awesome thing in the world is just around the corner. Off the top of my head, I can think of three; when you clearly have the drop on someone while playing paintball, and you are moments away from unloading on them in a ping-ping-ping symphony of personal victory, when a girl you're making out with for the first time asks you to get a condom, with exposed breasts and exciting new pheremones heavy in the air, and when you first see those huge, roadside tents underneath a hand-painted sign reading "FIREWORKS" in big, bold letters.

Growing up in the rural South meant that fireworks season was a long, beloved stretch of weeks, filled with multiple trips to the Tents, bottle-rocket fights, smoke-bombs, M-80s taped together in lethal clumps, and of course, the Fourth of July. (This is, as we all know, the High Holy Day when one celebrates emancipation from the yoke of British Monarchy by blowing shit up. Nothing says "freedom" more than aiming a Roman Candle like a sniper rifle, and shooting bursts of colorful flames at your friends.)

Hot summer days were filled with that distinct, acrid gunpowder odor and an ever-present white fog, sprinkled with paper ash and adrenaline. Seeing fireworks actually explode was almost secondary to the hedonistic ritual of perusing the folding tables full of cardboard tubes, and wondering what kind of horrific mushroom cloud lived at the bottom of each one.

We always heard rumors of states that had banned fireworks, and refused to believe that such places existed. Madness! Not only were fireworks readily available all over the Tennessee Valley (and parts beyond), but they could be sold to anyone, of any age! If you had a bike and a handful of cash, access to deadly and brightly-colored implements of destruction was easy. If, between watching massive, booming displays and shooting each other with scorching flame, we had stopped to think about our peers in other states (whose elected officials were keeping them from firework glory), we would have felt terrible for them.

One of the great triumphs of firework season was working on Scout Camp Staff, and being in charge of the Fourth of July display. My friend Andy and I would go to the Camp Director, who would then hand us a wad of bills, and say "No more than four-hundred bucks worth." We would then drive to the nearest roadside stand, and tell the guy "Hey, we're with the Boy Scout Camp down the road... maybe you can cut us a deal? You know, for the kids." He would then proceed to load us up with box after box of massive, military grade explosives. Close to a thousand dollars worth of sparkling death packed into the trunk of a compact car. We could barely conceal our desperate glee.

On the Big Night, as the sun was setting, we would soak handkerchiefs in water, so as not to asphyxiate on the smoke-clouds to come. We would find goggles, and fire up cigars to use as wick lighters. The fireworks were laid out in a specific progression on the back of a soaked-wet wooden trailer. The music cues were readied in the outdoor amphitheater. And then, when the Scouts arrived and were seated, fiery chaos would be brought down upon us like the coming of Yog Sothoth. Mere yards above us, screaming detonations dazzled and terrified delighted troops of awe-struck kids, while we scampered like maniacs, lighting fuses and laughing madly.

When all was said and done, and the smoke had settled and the dust had cleared, we were covered in perspiration and ash and mostly deaf, but it was worth it. Bits of colored paper would drift in the breeze, our eyes would sting, and our hands were covered with bruises and black steaks. We stank of sweat and gunpowder, but most of all, we reeked of exasperated satisfaction. Emerging from the white sheet of concentrated smoke around the charred husks of blown stacks, we could only smile.

Nights like that are few and far between. Fireworks are Awesome.

Recant Wednesday: HELMETS

The three of you that read this site might recall the entry on HELMETS, where I said:

"I am told that I should get a bike helmet, as I ride my bike a lot, but seriously, bike helmets are for pussies. I'd rather have a fatal head wound than wear one of those styrofoam-and-plastic baby-hats. You look like an eight-year-old girl learning to roller skate in one of those things. I guess if you're in the Tour De France, and going a billion miles an hour lapping Phillipe Le Frogg, it's cool, but otherwise, the only time you need a helmet for safety is when a Visigoth is waving a mace at your head, or when German Soldiers are pitching potato mashers at you."

Well, guess what? You win, world. Every person I know constantly harassing me about not wearing a helmet has finally beaten me down. So in an effort to shut everyone up about it, I raised the white flag and bought a helmet. I feel like an enormous safety-nerd, but if it keeps people from giving me speeches about emergency rooms and statistics about traffic-related deaths, then it's worth it.

To soften the shame of wearing this thing, I have blazened it with the heraldry of my people, as is befitting a piece of armor:



A Cock, trussed and passant, as modeled by my girlfriend.

So whatever. I take back the old comments, now that I've been forced to wear a bike helmet. All helmets are awesome, except football helmets on high schoolers. Kiss my ass, Coach!

SELF-LOATHING

The best thing that happened to me last week was when I found pudding cups on sale at the local grocery store.

This was the highlight of my week. I actually called my girlfriend to tell her.

Many people will tell you that self-loathing is a bad thing, a destructive thing, a negative state of mind that is dangerous and unhealthy. But I'm here to say that self-loathing is a natural human condition, and when applied properly to an examined life, it is an anchor that keeps your perspective in check. Otherwise you would be so happy with yourself that you might explode in a cloud of rainbows and puppy glitter. Or your ego will get so out of control you'll end up like one of these people. (That's a worst case scenario)

I met a very friendly person at my job the other day, and they were talking about how great it must be to read comics all day. I'm young, they said, and I own a great store, and it must be awesome, and they were all smiles and high-fives the whole time. Then I bummed them out by shrugging my shoulders and looking despondent. I suppose my reaction wasn't as ecstatic as it should have been, but the truth is that the stress and anxiety of running a new, small business is so overwhelming that the good bits barely balance the bad. Of course, it's all better than the alternative, which would be unemployment, working at a job I really truly hate, or myriad other options too gruesome to contemplate.

You see, my natural self-loathing kept my perspective balanced, or else I might have pooped myself with joy when someone mentioned how great my life must be. I did not explode with happiness, but rather kept my cool and remained level-headed about my state of affairs, and then I was awarded One Hundred Dollars for not flipping out with joy and soiling myself. That's a true story.

Life is a series of re-evaluated expectations. Does anyone end up doing what they hoped they'd be doing when they were twelve? With everything working out for them along the way? And if so, are they insufferable pricks about it? (Answers: Usually not, Sometimes, and most of the time.) The fact is, when you're twelve, sometimes your goals are really stupid, and there's a world of difference between "I want to be a journalist" and "I want to make seven figures a year and have ripped abs until I'm fifty five". Some jerk who wants an UES apartment, wife with fake boobs, and a VP position at a hedge fund is going to be really, really smug about it when they get their way. Having to settle for a disappointments could do wonders for these guys, who most likely shit all over everyone to get what they wanted.

As we grow and change and turn from idealistic young punks into broken, disappointed adults, self-loathing is the the only honest reaction. It's nigh impossible to have any legitimate respect for yourself when your days are filled with frustrated compromises, irritated bowels, inane e-mails, litter boxes, overwhelming debt, and all the other elements of a well-fulfilled life. Yet, without all that shit, you're Candide, or Pollyanna, walking with a charmed gait through other people's misery! Who wants to be that asshole? Self-loathing means that you have achieved something, some sort of meaning, no matter how far removed from what you might have hoped, and even if it all makes you want to cry like a girl-baby, it's still something, and you have the ulcer to show for it.

This is it people. This is as good as it gets. I encourage you to look at your life, with all the miserable priorities and the misplaced aspirations. The lost loves, and the dreams that got eroded like teeth in a glass of Coke. Come to terms with Self-Loathing, and shake hands with that grim spectre of reality dawning in the mirror. Self-Loathing will keep you centered, lest you become one of those people with the blank stare, the fake tan, and the plastic cup of beer. You learn to appreciate the stupid crap that you would have scoffed at in the height of adolescence.

And suddenly, that sale on pudding cups is actually worth getting excited about.