L o b a B l a n c a {dot} c o m

I promise, this will be the last book review for a while. It will also be much shorter than my last two reviews. I don’t want to overload you.

I’m now finished with the stack of CSI graphic novels that I purchased last year, with the fifth in the series, Secret Identity. I thought this was the last one illustrated by Gabriel Rodriguez, but it looks like there might be one more, although it doesn’t seem to be part of the longer serial novels. I think it might be a one-shot novella done back when Ashley Wood was still doing the abstract artwork. More investigating is required.

For Secret Identity, Rodriguez again paired with Steven Perkins on the abstract art. Steven Grant took over from Kris Oprisko as the writer of this story. It’s a shame that this was the last novel Rodriguez and Perkins worked on together, because I believe this is the best of the bunch. Not only did these two artists’ divergent styles merge beautifully for this novel, Rodriguez really came into his own for the main artwork. He invests a great deal of care and creativity into exploring the space of each page, each panel, bringing a sense of grace and artistry to what is also the darkest, and in my opinion, best written story from this batch of five novels.

Steven Grant did a tremendous job writing this story, giving readers something that not only can compete with a television script, but might in some ways surpass what we’ve seen from the show (especially in recent years). It’s refreshing to see such a cumulatively extraordinary effort put toward a medium that, when done in such a mass market style as comic book tie-ins to television series, typically tends to suffer from mediocrity and apathy from all involved. Case in point? Go flip through a stack of hastily written/drawn/published Trek comics and tell me what you think…you know, after you finish peroxide-washing your brain and eyes.

The coloring is again superb, drawing from a palette of soothing to passion-infused, and enhancing the almost cinematic-quality angles of Rodriguez’s cleverly drawn panels. Also, IDW Publishing returned to the standard size for this graphic novel (although it looks like they also offered it in the smaller “New Format” size; avoid this one at all cost), which means larger space for artwork that truly deserves every inch and more.

Final Verdict: Definitely a keeper. I’d vote this the best of the first five CSI graphic novels, hands down. If you’re at all interested in seeing what the comics can offer you, this would be my top recommendation.

And so it begins, denizens—another year of documenting what’s being read here at the lair. I know that many of you take on the annual 50 Book Challenge or some variation on this theme. I applaud any sort of challenge that encourages more reading. As a victorious participant in such a challenge a few years ago, I’m satisfied in knowing that I was able to meet this number once. Now, my personal challenge continues to be about sifting through my continuously growing library, reading the books that have been patiently awaiting their moment in the spotlight, and deciding if they deserve to remain a part of Loba’s Book Worship Society.

(Truth is, I really don’t like parting with books at all [except for those written by people with names like Stieg Larsson or Bret Easton Ellis]. However, I’ve yet to inherit any long-forgotten ancestral castles, so I must remain vigilant that my addiction to books does not outpace the space available to me.)

This year I’m going to focus even more on my own library rather than books I discover at the local library. I know, I said this last year…although, in my defense, I did read more of my own books than library books last year. Of the 45.5 books I read in 2011, 28 of them were previously unread books from my collection; only 18 were library books (including that abysmal one that I refused to finish). Of the 28 reads from my collection, I ended up donating 6 of them to the local charity shop. Of course, I then ended up buying my own copy (or rather, receiving it as a present) of one of the books I borrowed from the library and adding three more to my wish list for future purchase.

Still, progress was made!

On to 2012 then. You’ll notice the breakdown of my “BookBin2012″ progress list is a little different this year. Really, I’m just breaking down the process to keep better track of my tally. You will notice, however, a new set of options: “Save” or “Delete.” These would be in deference to the gorgeous Amazon Kindle I received for my birthday last year.

Yes, I have entered the digital age in regard to my reading.

That, in fact, is really what this particular book review is all about. Yes, I did recently finish reading Washington Irving’s The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. This is not the first time I have read it, and it won’t be the last. I’m quite fond of Irving and have already discussed my particular soft spot for Ichabod Crane. I think Irving’s quaint, creepy tale is a magnificent novella worthy of the few hours that it will take you to enjoy it.

Instead, I’d like to focus on the experience of reading my first eBook. First, I have to say, I adore my Kindle. It’s not one of the new Kindle Fire tablets, so there are no flashing colors and Wi-Fi temptations of online surfing or Netflix streaming. This is as it should be, in my nerdy, hipster, literature-worshipping opinion. It’s bad enough that you can play games on the original Kindles.

Okay, honestly, that’s pretty much what I’ve been doing with my Kindle since I received it. I downloaded Scrabble and a Word Search game (I am a Word Search BOSS), and they have served as suitable distractions from actual reading. This is a problem.

The primary problem, however, is I have some sort of strange aversion to reading books in an electronic format. I don’t really know how to explain it any other way, and I’m not sure how I can completely overcome it. It’s been a part of my collection of proclivities for a while, though. Way back when I first entered the PC world, my uncle gave me a CD-ROM that contained a huge selection of classic literature. It was with this disc that I made my first attempt at reading Bram Stoker’s Dracula. Something about reading it on a computer screen, however, became a huge hurdle that I simply could not surmount, and a few weeks later I ended up purchasing a copy of the book so that I could read it that way.

Guess what’s loaded onto my Kindle as my next eBook experience? Oh, Count, you will be conquered electronically. I swear it.

Admittedly, the most off-putting aspect of this first attempt at reading a book electronically was the distracting and somewhat painfully bright white screen. The Kindle’s screen, however, is remarkably deferential to a “real” book page. The background color is soft and muted, the text is crisp, and the screen is dulled to prevent accidental glare-induced blindness. It still took me a little while to get into the groove of reading on the Kindle (something about the text being a little too crisp became my latest distraction), but I was able to finally let go and read.

Was it enjoyable? Yes. The Kindle 3G (the version I have) is a perfectly acceptable size, especially when placed inside a cover like mine is. Not only does the cover protect my Kindle when I slip it into a backpack, it also serves as another means of fooling my brain into believing that I’m reading an actual book.

That being said, I simply don’t foresee the Kindle ever replacing real books, either in general or for me in particular. I know, I know. Vinyl records gave way to CDs. Video tapes surrendered to DVDs. Film cameras are on the endangered species list thanks to digital cameras. There’s a difference, though. All these other replacements improved upon their predecessors (for the most part; my video tapes never stopped me from skipping all the advertising flotsam at the beginning of the movie). Books, however, are different. Books can go anywhere. I can take a book on a plane and never be told that I have to put it away so the captain can land. I can accidentally step on a book and it’ll survive relatively unscathed. I can read a book in the bathtub and if I drop it, I dry it out. If I drop my Kindle in the bathtub…very bad things happen, denizens.

Plus, let’s not forget the beauty of the discounted and/or used book. I say it all the time, I love things like Amazon Marketplace or the bookstore bargain bins. There’s a certain satisfaction in finding a used book in perfect condition and for an even more perfect price.

Also, there is something about the tangibility of a book that simply cannot be replaced. There’s the supple give of the cover, the crackling of the spine, the soft scratch of the pages between your fingertips…reading a book is a ceremony of singular joy.

I’m probably deluding myself into believing that books won’t one day be replaced by eReaders. Although, it wasn’t a Kindle loaded up with the complete works of The Bard that Captain Picard kept in his ready room, now was it?

Of course, there is the sanitary aspect of the eReader that I find appealing. For all my support and love of our local library, there’s always that part of my brain that I struggle to silence when reading a library book. It’s that part of my brain that wants to constantly remind me that many others have handled this book…molested it with sticky, germy hands…taken it places that I really don’t want to think about…done things with it that I struggle to resist imagining…

Okay, I need to stop now before I ruin the library for everyone.

Even putting aside my strange bibliogermophobia, however, I still salivate whenever I see a large collection of books. This past weekend, for example, we walked past the Parkway Central Library of the Free Library of Philadelphia. I bet you can still see my nose prints on the glass as I peered longingly in at All. Those. Books.

Do I see my Kindle replacing my book collection? No. Do I see it augmenting my reading experience? I think so. We’re going to give it a proper go this year, for certain. I’m going to try to read at least one eBook every month throughout 2012. I’ve already collected plenty of reading options, thanks to Amazon’s Free Collection. Plus, with options like Open Library, Project Gutenberg, or ManyBooks, as well as more and more libraries providing eBooks as a borrowing option, I could theoretically spend the entire year reading nothing but what’s on my Kindle.

But then what would I do with all these books?

Final Verdict: I’m saving The Legend of Sleepy Hollow and keeping my fingers crossed that my Kindle experience continues to be an enjoyable one.

No, that isn’t a mistake, denizens. This will be the final book entry for my 2011 reading endeavors. Even though I was in the process of reading several other books (my attention span seemed to shrink significantly toward the end of last year), I decided I wanted to end the year on a fluffy note. Therefore, the stack of CSI graphic novels that I picked up from Amazon Marketplace a while ago seemed like a great place to go. Besides, as I mentioned in my last post, there was road-tripping to be done this past weekend, and since I wasn’t driving, I chose to entertain myself with reading.

Okay, so here’s the deal: After reading the first CSI graphic novel, Serial, I decided that—true to my obsessive nature—I wanted to read more CSI graphic novels to see if they improved upon what I considered to be a relatively sturdy foundation. I purchased the next four novels. There are more graphic novels beyond five; however, these are the only ones illustrated by Gabriel Rodriguez. I mentioned in my review of Serial that at some point the artwork for these CSI novels turns quite mucky. However, Rodriguez’s artwork in the first novel was impressive enough to assuage my fears that he might be the tainted artist.

In all honesty, it’s Rodriguez’s art and coloring that compelled me to continue reading these comics. His grasp of illustrating our favorite band of Vegas criminalists continued to improve throughout each of these three novels. The disproportionate appearances that I noted in my review of Serial continued through Bad Rap and Demon House, but definitely began to diminish.

[Loba Tangent: If the cover art for Demon House looks a little familiar to regulars here at the lair, it's because I used it as the inspiration for my CSI: Bajor spoof cover, Blood Prophecy. You're welcome.]

By the time I started Dominos (yes, I know the title is misspelled; yes, it did irritate the hell out of me), I was noticing a definite balance in proportions. Also, the likenesses became even more refined with each effort (with the continuing exception of Greg Sanders…I don’t know what it is about our favorite Lab Rat, but Rodriguez simply cannot get him right!). In fact, the only nitpick I can come up with is a minor one and really only something that would bother me: In all three novels, Rodriguez gave Sara Sidle long, sharp fingernails with a dark red polish.

Er, no.

Seriously, find me three instances on the show of Sara Sidle wearing any kind of nail polish and I will send you cookies.

The real beauty of each of these novels, however, is in the coloring. I think Rodriguez did the coloring, but I might be wrong. Fran Gamboa is listed as being responsible for colors in Bad Rap, but that’s the only time someone else is listed. Regardless, whoever did the coloring for these graphic novels did an amazing job. The attention to shadows and lighting gave the panels a gorgeous dimensionality that often is missing from mass-produced comics. The lighting closely mimics the lighting as seen in the television show, which adds a nice connection between the printed and televised worlds.

The flashback and speculation scenes for all three novels were still done in a different, more abstract style than the primary artwork. Ashley Wood continued to do these watercolor renderings for Bad Rap and Demon House. Steven Perkins took over for Dominos. I appreciated Perkins’s abstract style to Woods’s work. Woods’s take on these scenes seemed to degenerate throughout each story, becoming more abstract and less interesting with each offering. Toward the end of Demon House, it seemed as though the abstract artwork became nothing more than scratched-out stick people over a sickly mottling of drab olives and browns. Perkins brought back a more refined level of artistry with his take on the flashbacks, keeping them stylistically different from the rest of the story while imbuing them with an appealing sense of sophistication.

As for the writing, Max Allan Collins stuck around after his first crack at graphic novel storytelling to write the stories for Bad Rap and Demon House. They were acceptable stories, but nothing that would push the boundaries already established by the show. One thing that I’ve always liked about the Trek universe’s forays into comics and novels is the fact that the stories there tend to stray from the canonical path. With few exceptions, nothing shown in either written world is ever viewed as “truth” to the filmed Trek universe. I guess that’s not the case with the CSI universe, because not a whole lot new is revealed in these graphic novels.

Kris Oprisko took over the writing from Collins for Dominos. Again, nothing too different, although Oprisko enjoyed invoking a darkness in his tale that Collins very seldom embraced. Dominos had a much more brutal feel, which inspired equally brutal imagery from Rodriguez and Perkins. It was in these aspects that I felt the graphic novel finally started to reach beyond the boundaries of the show…although that’s not really the case anymore. Ever since CSI switched to a later time slot, they’ve definitely been exploring the reduced level of restriction in what sort of gore they can show their audience.

All that being said, if you’re a fan of the show, you’ll enjoy these dalliances. Are they worth purchasing? Again, if you love CSI, then they’re worth owning if only for the enjoyable artwork. That reminds me: Here’s a more objective nitpick, not necessarily about the artwork but more about the skimping the publishers did to the artwork. Whereas Serial was printed in what has become a “standard” size for many graphic novels, these three were printed in what IDW Publishing called the “New Format.” Reduced size, which means: A) The artwork was skimped the way comic strips get skimped in newspapers; and B) these books now look ridiculous on my graphic novel shelf. All the other books there are a relatively standard size. Even the fifth CSI novel, Secret Identity, went back to the standard size. Guess they realized their mistake and corrected it.

Oh, and if you’re interested, I’m nearly finished with Secret Identity. I promise my comments on that one won’t be nearly as long as these comments.

Final Verdict: I’m keeping these three for now. I like my obsession-related collections. Prophets know I have plenty of Trek-related books. While my CSI collection will never grow to that level of insanity, I’m having a fun time collecting for a new obsession…at least until the Buffy collecting bug kicks in…

Happy New Year, denizens!

There. I was remiss before. Now, I’m…unremiss.

I wandered away from the lair for some end-of-season celebrating. Penn’s sylvan city of brotherly love played surprise host to the festivities. I haven’t been to Philadelphia since a high school field trip my Senior year, so it was interesting to see it from an adult perspective…and for more than a quick day trip.

Plus, they do seem to enjoy the New Year party mentality. There were fireworks twice: once at 6 p.m. Saturday evening and again at the midnight hour. There was also a dazzling number of people roaming the streets, adorned with all variety of flashing and flickering gaudiness, enjoying the various vice-fueled buzzes that would carry them into the new year. I was disappointed, however, that, yet again, no one tried to ring that big famous bell, giant crack be damned. Honestly, why no one’s tried to patch that thing up yet eludes me.

Let me in there…I’ll have her good as new in no time.

Actually, we didn’t engage in any Americana worship at all this trip (although we did walk past the Liberty Bell twice). This was more of a food extravaganza journey. The prime destination on New Year’s Eve was a tapas restaurant, Amada. They offered a special New Year’s Eve menu, which consisted of what seemed like a never-ending arrival of little plates containing all manner of decadence. It was an experience that shames any previous concept of the phrase “food coma.” The rest of the evening is honestly a bit of a glorious blur. All I know is that fireworks occurred again. Indeed.

Did you know that Philly holds a pretty much all-day parade on New Year’s Day? It’s called the Mummers Parade and it’s this insane blending of all sorts of traditions from all sorts of ethnic influences. Basically, it’s a day-long party parade that represents the blended ethnic motif of the city itself.

Not really being parade people, we avoided most of the Mummers festivities…although at some point we did get to witness drunken douchebaggery dressed in flamboyant Mardi Gras jester attire. Apparently, drinking starts early at the Mummers Parade and doesn’t stop until well after dark. Neither, unfortunately, does the douchebaggery. Needless to say, I was not expecting to encounter the aforementioned merry band of miscreants who, for several uncomfortable blocks, serenaded any woman within their visual range with the visceral chant for them to “reveal their endowments.” Oh, the shear poetry of it all.

However, inebriated revelry was nowhere to be found at the Philadelphia Museum of Art. There was, however, an abundance of lovely art…and a lot of furniture. There was also an entire section devoted to armor and weaponry, which I found surprisingly fascinating. I think it was the horse armor. How do you not love horse armor?

Afterward, we roamed the city, allowing its culinary redolence to lead us through its grid of diverse neighborhoods. Unfortunately, it being New Year’s Day and all, a lot of places were closed, including the place we wanted to go for what many have rated one of Philly’s best cheese steaks. The more touristy places, Pat’s and Geno’s, were both open, with lines that curled in on themselves like ravenous Möbius strips. I’m sorry, denizens, I’m not going to believe that either place makes a sandwich that good.

The place on South Street that we finally found, Steve’s Steaks, provided a more than satisfactory fill-in for these far more kitschy destinations. The clientele all seemed to be locals, which I always prefer to the boisterous banality of tourist traps like the aforementioned stands. The cheese steaks were huge, slathered in onions and Cheese Whiz (as God and Benjamin Franklin meant them to be), and perfectly hot and juicy.

And now that I have probably stirred up some strange cheese steak rivalry and possibly offended half of Philadelphia, I shall bid you adieu. Oh, but not before mentioning that there’s a lovely place inside the Reading Terminal Market, Hershel’s East Side Deli, that serves absolutely amazing Reuben sandwiches. Plus, they sell Dr. Brown’s cream soda (“Run, Marty!”), which I have on good authority is a must for a real deli.

See? I told you it wasn’t about the Americana. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some working out to do. Oh, and yes, I did walk up the Rocky Steps at the museum. No, I didn’t do it intentionally. No, I didn’t lift my arms over my head when I reached the top. Yes, I did roll my eyes at the people who did. I also took this photo, which is a lovely view of the city. Enjoy…and once again, Happy 2012, denizens. Let’s hope it’s a good one.

I know what you’re thinking right now. “But, Loba, you’ve already done an entire Flashback Friday dedicated to Debbie Gibson! Why another one just for one of her songs?”

I have my reasons, denizens. Lemme ‘splain.

So one of my Internet Personalities^TM is currently subjecting me to a viewing marathon of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I’m almost halfway through the third season. It’s a bit of a manic experience, I can assure you. However, the highs are exponentially higher than the lows are low (thus far), so I’m sticking with it.

One of the secondary characters who arrived in the first season and immediately caught my attention was Jenny Calendar, the computer science teacher and, as we soon learn, a “techno pagan” whose mad Internet searching skills quickly come in handy to “the Scooby Gang.”

Robia LaMorte Totally Looks Like Nana Visitor

One of the things that makes me laugh the most about Calendar’s arrival at Sunnydale High is how in awe the Gang is of her computer skills (and how distrusting Watcher Giles is of anything that doesn’t slide back onto a bookshelf once he’s finished reading it). I had almost forgotten how new and unknown things like personal computers and teh Interwebz were back in the mid 90s. So quaint. It’s also a nice juxtaposition that Whedon makes with her character being both a dabbler in the dark arts and a dabbler in the techie arts, which when they were first catching on were viewed by many with an equal level of distrust as being nothing more than electronic hocus pocus. Good one, Whedon.

So what does all this have to do with Debbie Gibson? Jenny Calendar was portrayed by an actress named Robia LaMorte. Okay, right now I also know what you’re thinking: That has to be a stage name. LaMorte? “The Death”? I know, I know. Strangely, enough, this is her real name. And before she was an actress, she was a dancer.

Starting to click for you yet?

That’s right. If you watch the video for Gibson’s song “Shake Your Love,” you will see a 16-year-old LaMorte bopping along in the background with her Jennifer Beals-esque hair. Look for the dark-haired girl in the white T-shirt and the backward suspenders…

Sometimes I really miss the 80s. Then I remember Reagan and the fact that I was a pudgy little nerd at a Baptist school and I get over it.

It gets better, though. LaMorte went on to be “Pearl” for Prince’s Diamonds and Pearls album. She appeared with Lori Elle (“Diamond”) in several of the videos for songs from this album and even accompanied Prince on his “Diamonds and Pearls” tour back in the early 90s. I’d post a link for one of the videos but Prince doesn’t allow his music on YouTube. Even if I found a video online now, it’d be a dead link in a few weeks. Instead, here’s a screen capture of LaMorte and Elle sandwiching the tiny Purple One in some dance moves from, I believe, “Cream.”

Not long after she finished touring with Prince, LaMorte hung up her dance shoes and decided to chase the acting dream for a little while…which is how she eventually found her way to Sunnydale High. My first encounter with her, however, (other than “Shake Your Love,” of course) was as Joan Marks, from the CSI episode “You’ve Got Male.”

It’s a small one, this geeky world I inhabit.

And now for the…well, not the bad news. But the weird news. Apparently, LaMorte found Jesus. Three months after hitching her wagon to the Buffy Train, she became a Christian. Playing a techno pagan.

Yes, I am making a face right now. It’s my “difficult to process” face. But you know what? It’s obviously something that gives her fulfillment. So much so, in fact, that she runs her own ministry. You’re making a face now, too. I can tell. But it’s all good. She can have her faith. And I can have Jenny Calendar and “Shake Your Love.”

See? And here you all thought this was going to be another Flashback Friday on Debbie Gibson. You all should know me better than that, denizens…

Yes, denizens, it’s time once again for me to drop a little holiday geekery on you. I’m returning to my Trek roots this year, with a traditional geeky greeting from the Mistress of All Things Naughty, The Intendant.

Because, really, nothing says holiday cheer quite like an unhinged Bajoran wrapped in a pleather onesie.

Whatever your pleasure might be…whether it’s pleather or tweed or somewhere in between, I wish you the merriest of days, filled with peace, love, and joy.

It was a decrepit building, not really fit for anything more than storage. My father always said that walking inside reminded him of walking into the aquarium store that his father would take him to when he was a little kid. Strange how dropping me off and picking me up from kindergarten made my dad think of Siamese fighting fish and freshwater tanks.

To me, however, this drab, befittingly cruciform building was my baptism into the world of religious schooling. Within the boundaries of those butter cream-tinted cinder block walls, I wrote my first words, made my first fumbling attempts at friendships, first learned that I was loved by a supreme being…even though I was already apparently falling short of his glory and love.

It was also here that I attended my very first Christmas party. We didn’t yet have the albatross of political correctness slung about our necks, so we still could refer to it as a Christmas party. Besides, we were Baptists. It was all right to keep Christ in Christmas. The week prior, we helped our teacher decorate our room with snowflakes and stars and paper chains made of thick green and red construction paper. She taught us the words to Christmas songs like “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” and “Jingle Bells” and “Frosty the Snowman.”

Even though they let us sing these secular holiday songs, there were no effigies of Santa Claus inside the school. They never told us he wasn’t real (although my mom never humored the rumor that a jolly fat man was going to bring the presents that she and my dad actually bought me), but they also didn’t support the idea.

No, the holiday was about celebrating the birth of our savior, and that’s what they focused on. We colored dittoed drawings of baby Jesus in a manger, surrounded by farm animals and strangely cloaked men. I can still feel the weird wet warmth of the paper that had just been run through the ditto machine, still smell that distinct scent rising off those bright bluish-purple lines.

Our teacher would then read to us the story of Jesus’s birth, as told by Luke. I remember her calm cadence and her deliberate enunciation, pausing after almost every verse to make sure we were still following along. It was a lovely reading, although to this day, I still think Linus did it best.

Then, the last Friday before our Christmas break, we had our party. Parents arrived with treats for the class: pitchers full of bubbly ginger ale-infused punch, popcorn and pretzels and potato chips galore, cookies coated with crunchy sugar sprinkles and cupcakes top-heavy with thick dollops of frosting that were bound to color our teeth and tongues diffused hues of red and green.

Afterward, we bundled up in our coats and accompanying winter gear—bright pink Strawberry Shortcake scarf and hat with a giant pink pom-pom on top for me, thank you—and scurried outside to run and chase and scream, to hang from our knees on the monkey bars or to rock our swings as high as we could, chains bucking beneath our tiny, cold-chafed hands, before letting go to float for that briefest of heartbeats in the infinitesimal infinity that separated us from the ground.

When our teacher felt we’d had enough time to burn through the surplus of sugar we’d been fed, she lined us up single-file, hand clasped obediently behind our backs, and led us back into our classroom. The final treats for us that morning, before we were released for our very first Christmas break, were a gift swap and a sing-along. Several parents had volunteered to help out that morning, including mine. They had even brought in a little artificial tree for the room so that we would have something under which we could place the gifts that we’d all brought in that morning. As we came back inside, we were allowed to select one present from under the tree to open once we got back to our tables.

I remember the cacophonous crinkle of wrapping paper as we all tore into our presents like little sugar-buzzed jackals. I wish I could remember what I received that year. Unfortunately, time and far too many Captain and Cokes have extinguished that particular memory. All that remains now is the memory of the juvenescent glee felt at opening a present before Christmas Day.

As the other parents quietly moved in to gather up our hyperactive detritus, my mom and our teacher had us all settle down on the floor in a haphazard semicircle. My mom had volunteered to lead us in singing some of the Christmas songs that we had learned that week. She patiently tried to join in with us through the still sugar-fueled shouting that we felt passed as singing. I’m sure by the time we were finished, we’d shattered poor Rudolph’s nose and Frosty wished his ears would melt off.

And then my mom started to sing “Silent Night” to us.

I know nothing of musical terminology. I don’t know notes or scales. I don’t know the difference between a soprano and a mezzo-soprano. But I do know this: My mother could sing. Hers was a voice of operatic largesse, bright bold streaks meant for the canvas of a concert hall rather than a classroom of cinder block and construction paper decorations. There was perfect pitch and power behind every note that could send her voice to the farthest reaches of whatever building she was in, if that was her choosing. It was beauty unrefined—the rawest form of the material before the maestro formed it into art.

My mother’s voice was the marble before Michelangelo’s touch.

In another time, in another place…well, who knows what might have been. But in that moment, she was brilliance in my eyes. I wish you could have heard her sing that day, denizens. Time has melted the edges of so many memories from my childhood, but this one I cling to. This one I protect.

Merry Christmas, denizens, if that’s your thing. Happy Hanukkah if you swing that way. Blessed Solstice or Special Saturnalia, even. Whatever your pleasure might be, know that I am thinking of you and wishing you peace and joy.

I suppose it would be a bit naive of me to think that I can have an objective opinion of Craig Thompson’s illustrated novel (his rather concise term) Blankets. Even though I knew nothing about the novel when I hefted it from the library shelf and added it to my pile, it ended up being one of the most surprisingly accessible books I’ve picked up in a very long time.

Thompson, born one year before me, is a contemporary not only in age and pop culture references (his affinity for the grunge music scene is particularly well defined through mostly wordless background references that might slip past you if you’re not paying attention), but also in religious experiences. His autobiographical protagonist goes through many of the same ordeals that I went through as a student at a Christian high school. His questions, fears, conundrums, and ultimately, his deliverance from these spiritual quandaries are more often than not identical to my own experiences.

And there I’ve gone and given away the ending. But only if you know me well…

Thompson’s journey through his religious and familial morasses is much darker, much more complex than mine ever was, which adds a newness to a slightly recognizable story and provides greater opportunity to develop a sense of empathy for our hero. His experiences with the ostracizing impact of adolescence and fumbling attempts at first love ultimately make him more fallible and more endearing with each page. Also, Thompson’s artistic skills are enviable. Blankets is a perfect example of why the graphic medium is such a powerful contributor to the literary world. In fluid lines and simple shadowing, Thompson is able to convey the complexities of emotion and beauty that often defy description. His artwork is elegant, observational, reverent, and beguiling.

Final Verdict: Alas, I must return this copy to our library where, hopefully, many others will discover its subtle beauty and depth. I would love to have a copy of this book in my library. Dear Amazon.com Marketplace, make me an offer I can’t refuse…

You may have noticed a lot of love at the lair recently for Rankin/Bass. Well, kind of love. As much love as you can possibly find in something like my Donner Party movie poster. Then, of course, there was my recent door decoration post for a proposed new Rankin/Bass special, Walken in a Winter Wonderland.

It’s true, denizens, while I might have a strange way of showing it, I adore Rankin/Bass holiday specials. In fact, Christmas simply didn’t exist in my mind when I was little without four things: A Charlie Brown Christmas, How the Grinch Stole Christmas, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, and Frosty the Snowman. Two of those four were brought to my childhood by Rankin/Bass.

Frosty, unlike Rudolph, wasn’t a stop-motion animation. Instead, it’s a traditional animated cartoon. However, as was par for the course for a lot of Rankin/Bass specials, it did have a “very special” narrator. Rudolph had Burl Ives. Frosty had Jimmy Durante. I had actually forgotten this fact until tonight; it’s been years since I saw this cartoon. Too many years. Guess that’s why I just felt the need to order it on DVD, along with Rudolph and the Grinch. I need a little Christmas, denizens. And so do you. So enjoy Jimmy Durante and his animated nose, singing the eponymous song to Frosty the Snowman. Thumpety-thump-thump, thumpety-thump-thump, look at that Frosty go…

I love the Muppets. A lot. I’ve already talked about how Jim Henson is one of the greatest influences from my childhood. Seriously, the two things that continue to make me proud to be an alumna of the University of Maryland at College Park are: my three aunts graduated from there; and Jim Henson graduated from there.

I still haven’t made it to see the new Muppets movie. I’m actually quite irritated with myself over this fact. I haven’t wanted to go see a movie in a very long time, but frog dammit, I want to see this one. Time to finally finish off that Fandango card!

In the interim, however, I’ve been watching some of the YouTube videos put out by Muppet Studios. Two have quickly become my favorites. Two of my favorite recurring characters are Beaker and the Swedish Chef. Poor Beaker, always getting the fuzzy end of the lollipop stick, no matter what. All the horrible things that Bunsen Honeydew did to him, yet he continued to rise like some kind of orange-tufted, felty Messiah (ooh, have I offended the fundamentalists? Good). Even when he’s on his own, as in this video, he still somehow attracts an incomparable level of disaster that is equal parts traumatic and hilarious. Okay, that’s a lie. They’re just hilarious…

And then there’s the Swedish Chef. I can only imagine that he must be offensive on some level to true Swedes. Right? I mean, come on, such a blatant mockery of their native language must ruffle their feathers at least a little. Yet there’s something so delightfully underdoggish about the Swedish Chef. He’s utterly incompetent and frighteningly inept at his profession. But he means well in his attempts. And he botches his dishes in such hysterically horrifying ways…such as this attempt to make Pöpcørn Shrimp. I can’t stop watching this video. Also, please, please, please make sure that you have the closed captions activated while you watch this. Trust me. You will appreciate it that much more…

I like how my favorite characters are two of the Muppets that have regular Muppety heads but have “real” hands (the Swedish Chef always had human hands; in fact, they originally were Jim Henson’s hands and Henson’s voice…Beaker has human hands as well, but they’re covered with felt). Also, neither one speaks a true language. The Swedish Chef is somewhat understandable at times; Beaker though…I have no freakin’ clue there, denizens. Just makes him that much more entertaining. Although, really, maybe Beaker isn’t even a “he.” How the hell can you tell? Maybe it’s a girl. I don’t know. Do you?

While you marinate on that question, here’s one final video, of both Beaker and the Swedish Chef together, bringing their…unique dialects together for this musical interlude. Watch for a guest appearance from one of my other favorite Muppets along the way…