I thought it was Superman Week…

Not The Invisible Man Week.

Yeah, about that. I know I’ve been a bad, bad blogger. Surely, Superman would shake his head at me in disgust, with arms folded, before leaving me to my fate.

Then I would hand the Man of Steel a copy of Motor City Sports Magazine, showing him why I’ve been in virtual blog silence this week. It’s a classic case of “the writing gig giveth and taketh away.” (And just as The Film Geek generously plugged me, in anticipation of Superman Week. Sorry, TFG.) So now, I can really say I’ve been away “on assignment.” (How cool is that?!)

Thanks to the aforementioned writing gig, I was a credentialed member of the media at Comerica Park on Monday for a Tigers-Astros baseball game. I’d love to write all about it – and if I get a chance, I hope to – because it was honestly one of the coolest, and most informative, experiences of my life. And yes, here comes the plug: my article can be seen in the August issue of MCSM, set to hit shelves in, well, August.

I hope to have some Superman-related material posted tomorrow. I don’t know if that will include a review of Superman Returns, however. I have seen it, of course. (Is the Pope Catholic?) But I really want to see it again, because there were some things I just wasn’t expecting. Please feel free to consider two viewings in four days when wondering how I felt about the film.

As always, thank you for stopping by.

It’s a blog! It’s a post! It’s… Superman Week!

As mentioned on Friday, the decree has been passed down from the K-Dog, thus naming this week “Superman Week,” for the epic contribution to cinema and comic book culture set to hit theaters on Wednesday. (So close… ooooh… so close.) Check out the fresh coat of paint and tchotckes Mr. and Mrs. Antcliff have broken out for the occasion. I’m quite envious of that banner. Just look at the size of that bobblehead.

The best I can do is my little Superman action figure. After shearing my hair off, I can’t manage a decent spit-curl, so that’s out. I tried my best to deck myself out in some old Superman Underoos, but Kal-El can’t get into the Fortress of Solitude, if you know what I mean. (And I think you do.)

If I have the time this week, maybe I’ll go through some old photo albums for pictures of the Superman pajamas and Halloween costumes I rocked out as a kid. Or the pillowcases and sheets that stayed on my bed just a little too close to adulthood.

Meanwhile, Batman and Spider-Man are looking on with some jealousy, because they were my favorite comic book superheroes growing up. Really, guys – you were.

However, neither of them had a movie to show Young Ian as an impressionable five-year-old geek-in-training. No matter how many times I watch Superman: The Movie, I still get that same feeling in my chest when Christopher Reeve cycles through that revolving door to change from Clark Kent into Superman. And the hairs on my neck have very Pavlovian reactions to John Williams’ original score. Just the first few notes of his Superman theme raise my ears and get me sitting on my hind legs.

But I doubt it’ll be all-Superman all week here. As much as I’d love to devote an entry to my favorite Superman comic book stories (which actually aren’t many), or post the term papers I wrote about Superman as Christ figure and Jewish mythological hero, there’s other stuff going on. Like the new Blade TV series, also starting on Wednesday, and starring The Future Mrs. Casselberry. Mrs. C (known in civilian life as Jill Wagner) won’t be happy if I don’t tune in. And considering all the hits this blog still gets every day, thanks to her and the other guys drooling after her, I probably owe her that.

Or maybe I’ll just save that for next week. After all, this is Superman Week.

Do not underestimate the passion of a geek

Hey, I know I’m a geek. You’re going to see that all too well next week, as the days lead up to the release of Superman Returns.

Kevin Antcliff (who’s declared next week “Superman Week,” by the way) and I will probably be insufferable over the next five days, as we see whose geek flag flies higher. (His flag’s always going to look far superior to mine, however, thanks to the brilliant designer he’s married to. I’ll probably just draw a “S” on something with a red Sharpie. Or just walk around all next week with a red towel safety-pinned to my shirt.)

But no matter how much of a geek I am, I will still stand tall, with chin up and hands on hips. Why? Because I know that I’m not out in the woods with my digital video camera, making “Star Trek” fan films. No way I’m as geeky as these guys, profiled in last Sunday’s New York Times. I’m not running outside in a homemade Starfleet uniform, or pointing a phaser at someone.

The last time I pretended to shoot a laser gun was when I was 10 years old. And you know what? I got in trouble for it. Someone in our townhouse complex complained to management about kids running around the buildings, hiding behind fences, and screaming laser noises at each other. So the manager told us to break it up, scolded us, and dragged us back to our parents. And really, that just pissed my mother off because I had to make all my laser gun noises in the house from then on.

Though I point and laugh, there’s an ethos among these fans that I kind of admire. The writer and director of one of the fan films is quoted in the NY Times article as saying he and his peers do this because networks and studios aren’t giving them the “Star Trek” they want. So if they can’t get it, they’ll just make it themselves. Now that, I can get behind. Such a sentiment reminded me of the blogger’s “manifesto” I posted last week at my sports stepblog, Sweaty Men Endeavors.

So I can’t make too much fun of these guys. Besides, if people run around re-enacting Civil War battles, why can’t “Star Trek” fans dress up as Klingons on a Saturday afternoon? Maybe we Superman fans should do the same thing.

But I’m warning you right now, Antcliff: I ain’t playin’ Lois Lane.

O Coffee Cup! My Coffee Cup!

It’s been a rough day at the Casselbloggy workspace. I knew this moment would arrive. It was inevitable. There were simply too many cracks and fissures for this relationship – this love affair – to continue successfully. I’m just glad the end didn’t result in scalding burns or short-outs.

My beloved Spider-Man coffee mug finally shattered this morning.

Well, “shatter” is too strong a word. It just… broke. As I was pouring my morning dose of wake-up juice, I heard the ceramic splinter, and coffee began to bleed out onto the countertop.

As you can see, the mug hasn’t fallen apart yet. But there’s a considerable crack running down the inside of the cup. Like the rift that now runs across my heart. Oh, if only it was just the cup that was broken.

My Spidey mug and I have been through so much together. So many late-night cram sessions, writing papers and reading novels. Countless early morning flights of inspiration and determination. Bad writing, good writing, and sometimes just typing. Giving me the fuel I need to begin the day and get through it. Spurring me on to make something of myself, creatively and financially. And of course, staving off the forehead-crushing aches of caffeine withdrawal.

Another coffee cup is already waiting, of course, and it’s a good one. Mis Hooz gave me a “Get Fuzzy” mug for my birthday last year, decorated with one of my all-time favorite strips. I’ve wanted to drink from it, but I just couldn’t quit Spider-Man. So my Fuzzy cup just sat, waiting. No tea. No cocoa. No liquor. I didn’t want to taint it. Only coffee would be poured into it. But not before its time. That time has finally arrived.

With apologies to Walt Whitman, I’ve composed an ode to my Spider-Man mug. Farewell, dear friend. Maybe I can still use you for pens and markers. But you will be missed.

O Coffee Cup! my Coffee Cup! our blissful sip is done;
The mug has weather’d every crack, the java we drank is gone;
The trash is near, the end I fear, my forehead all pounding,
While hot brown water the steady drip, the chalice chipped and breaking:
But O brew! brew! brew!
O the sustaining drops of caffeine,
Where on the desk my Coffee Cup lies,
Fallen split and fractured.

The return of Four-Sentence Movie Reviews!

Long, long overdue for some (non X-Men or Superman) movie thoughts up in these here Fried Rice Thoughts. Here’s I’ve eaten eating popcorn to lately…

The Lake House: This is what happens when I spend a Saturday afternoon with my mother, or more specifically, what happens when I say, “What movie would you like to see, Mom?” I almost fooled Mama Cass into seeing Nacho Libre – describing the plot as “a monk who wrestles to raise money for a monastery and win the love of a nun” – until she saw a poster of Jack Black’s physique squeezed into lucha libre tights. Back to Keanu and Sandra part deux, the words “magical realism” came to mind as I watched this, but literary pretentions don’t really apply – especially when I kept wondering how bad a case of blue balls Keanu must’ve had. But it’s touching, it’s intriguing, it’s funny in places, it’s stupid in others, and it’s… probably a rental.

Hostel: Speaking of rentals, I was so ready for this to be “horror porn” awful that it actually didn’t seem so bad. Sure, there were scenes that made my testicles ascend into my stomach (what would the female equivalent be?), but most of the grislier violence takes place off camera and left to your imagination – which is the way it should be. But Teenage Ian (who I’m still quite in touch with) would’ve loved all the naked women and bloody carnage. And I don’t think I’ve ever rooted more for the “good guys” to be sliced, sawed, snipped, torched, tortured, eviscerated, and killed by the “bad guys.”

The Break-Up: The biggest surprise to me is that Jennifer Aniston wasn’t funny at all. Yet this is Vince Vaughn’s show; she just plays the uptight, high-maintenance straight girl. If you like seeing couples who shouldn’t be together argue, but would rather not hang out in front of the fitting rooms at The Limited, this could be your movie. But even if you like Vaughn (which I do), his chatterbox charm is much more enjoyable (and tolerable) when he’s paired with someone (Owen Wilson? Jon Favreau?) who can match him joke-for-joke.

Underworld: Evolution: A much-appreciated birthday gift from Mis Hooz, full of vampires, werewolves, slashes, fangs, decapitations, and Kate Beckinsale in tight, tight, pleather pants. Much less cheesy than the original, but mostly because the terrible, execrable actors in that movie have been wiped out. And the special effects are really cool, especially the wings and talons that the big baddie gets to stab, throw, and pull everyone with. Did I mention that Kate Beckinsale’s in tight pleather pants (and finds herself out of them, at one point)?

Poseidon: Of all the movies I’ve seen so far this summer, this is the one I enjoyed the most. I know – it looks like a floating (sinking? capsizing?) turd in a swimming pool, but it was actually mindless fun with impressive special effects and set design, and I enjoyed how ruthlessly the script treated the characters. I must’ve been in a bloodthirsty mood that afternoon, because I wanted to see more people drown and die. But I’d like to say one thing to Hollywood: Josh Lucas won’t become a movie star just because you keep shoving him in my face and telling me he’ll be one.

Water: Not the alternate title for Poseidon, as I originally believed. If you’re not familiar with this, the movie takes place in 1930s India where widows are expected to join their husbands on their funeral pyres, marry the brothers of their lost spouses, or spend the rest of their lives exiled in ashrams. The main character is relegated to a “widow house” at eight years old, without ever having met the much older man she was betrothed to. I’m not sure if the backstory of the director’s struggles to make this project is more interesting (and troubling) than the film itself, but it’s heartbreaking to see how women were (and still are) treated in other parts of the world – largely under the pretense of religion.

Mission: Impossible III: I really wish I could’ve watched this film untainted by my perceptions of Batshit Crazy Scientology Boy. Because I think this may have been a good movie, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was watching Tom Cruise’s public image reclamation project. I don’t give one single $#!+ about Ethan Hunt’s personal life; I want to see him use cool gadgets and shoot people. But Philip Seymour Hoffman is such a good villain, and probably had a lot of fun spouting J.J. Abrams dialogue, until he has to play Cruise’s punching bag.

That’s all I can stands, I can’t stands no more!

After the recent anniversary of my father’s death, I told myself I probably wouldn’t write about it much anymore. At least not here. Because I’ve said most everything I have to say on the subject. And for the most part, I’d prefer to keep things fun here.

Of course, it is my blog and I can write about whatever I want. But it’s so much more fun when it’s an interactive experience with you guys. I’m sure I’ll be compelled to write more about my father in the future. But for now, I just wanted to get this one out of my head. And I suppose there’s a darkly funny side to it that you might appreciate.

Look, I know people mean well. At least most of them do. And I believe that there’s not really a wrong thing to say when trying to console someone in grief. Yes, there are obvious exceptions. But it’s a tough situation, one some people just aren’t accustomed to dealing with. And if someone feels compelled to say something, just to express a kindness, you have to respect that. You have to be grateful. And I am.

But there’s something that’s come up over the past couple of weeks that makes me want to scream. And it upsets the hell out of my mother, which is what ultimately pisses me off.

To those whom it may concern: Stop asking her if she’s ready to start looking for someone else. Stop acting like the one-year mark means she should be ready to turn some kind of switch and find another partner. Maybe it did for you. If you’ve lost a spouse yourself, and are fortunate enough to have gotten to a place where you feel comfortable with someone new, that’s great. I really am happy for you. And my mother is, too. But please – keep it to yourself.

I understand; you don’t know unless you ask. But once it’s become obvious that the subject upsets her – which is usually immediately – move on. Just like you apparently think my mother should. For Christ’s sake, don’t push the matter. Don’t justify your thinking or feelings on it. Leave it be. Because it’s honestly fucking irrelevant how you feel. Respect how she feels.

How many times has this come up? Let’s just say enough times that I felt the need to vent about it here. Which is too many.

Listening under the covers

Over the weekend, it occurred to me that I’ve been listening to a lot of cover songs lately. One CD I’ve been playing a lot is “Under the Covers, Vol. 1” by Matthew Sweet and Susanna Hoffs. (Or is it Sid ‘n Susie? I can’t keep up with these things.) I’m still not sure if it’s good, but I’m warming up to it. (Ah, remember the days when you’d let an album grow on you, like a wine that needs to air out before you drink it?)

And judging by how often I replay it, my favorite track on “Rabbit Fur Coat” by Jenny Lewis with the Watson Twins is apparently “Handle With Care,” a redux of a beloved Traveling Wilburys tune.

I also like Gnarls Barkley’s cover of the Violent Femmes’ “Gone Daddy Gone.”

But the moment of clarity that I experienced regarding my recent listening habits hit me in the bathroom at Mongolian Barbeque. The Power Station’s version of “Bang a Gong (Get It On)” was playing over the loudspeakers. That song is an invitation to air guitar. And that’s not necessarily a good thing while standing at a urinal, where (at least one of) your hands should be concerned with pressing matters. But to me, it’s so much better than the original T-Rex song, which sounds feeble in comparison. And it just might be my favorite cover tune.

I forget whether Donutbuzz or Pop Candy had a post on this already, but if you’re up for it, I’m hoping you’ll chime in on which cover tunes you love. Are there any you consider far better than the originals?

Or for that matter, which ones do you hate? I’ll start off with Soul Asylum’s rear-end violation of Marvin Gaye’s “Sexual Healing.” They totally destroyed that song. Dave Pirner’s wailing brings tears to my eyes – and very much not in a good way.

Smooth of face, empty of heart

So I did it. It’s gone. My birthday seemed like a good time for a new look and a fresh start, and after spending one last night rubbing my fingers through it and saying my proper goodbyes in the morning, I shaved off my beard.

It’s something I told myself I’d do as soon as the weather got warm. Unfortunately for those I talk with on the phone regularly, I told them about it, too. Frequently.

“I don’t know; I’m getting attached to it. I look at pictures of myself without a beard now, and think they look funny. Maybe I won’t do it. But I should. I won’t be able to stand that thing when it’s 90 and humid. Plus, it’s looking sort of scuzzy. And it’s starting to grow long under my chin, which itches like hell. Maybe I could go with a goatee. That seems like a nice compromise. Or just a mustache. I could pull off the porn star look. At least from the neck up. No, I shouldn’t have said that. You’re right. What about a Fu Manchu? No? Hey, you know what I should do? I should grow mutton chops! I could rock the chops like Wolverine! You think I’d look good with those?”

My sister was so bored from me talking about it that she hung up on me. My own flesh and blood – for whom I’ve always been available in moments of emotional and existential crisis – yawned long and loud, and got off the phone during a conversation about a month ago. She had all she could stands, and could stands no more.

Or she was sleepy because she was on her period. I’m not sure. See if I help her the next time she has dating problems. Oh, and I lied, Lil’ Sis – that t-shirt you bought while you were home doesn’t look good on you.

It probably would’ve been okay if I’d stopped with the beard. But the longer hair that went so well with the beard – the lush, flowing ebony mane that I thought made me look like Pacino in Serpico – didn’t work without it. I looked like Meat Loaf. Or a butch Rosie O’Donnell. So I decided it was all coming off. Well, not all. I’m not bald. But I do look much like the picture of Sluggo up there with my profile.

And now I’m beginning to wonder if I made a huge mistake. I stared at myself in the mirror for a long time (even longer than I usually do) after my beard was gone. I almost didn’t recognize the face looking back at me. Where was the ruggedly handsome sex bomb? Were those cheeks always underneath that hair? Are those… jowls developing? It was a face I didn’t really remember. And I’d only had the beard for six months. I thought I looked sad, but maybe that was just lamentation for my lost facial hair. Or maybe the lower half of my face just needed a little sun.

Anyway, I can grow it all back. And plan to. Because I think I looked damn sexy. Here’s hoping that a blog entry about the beard wasn’t as boring to read as hearing about it over the phone apparently was.

And now, the blog equivalent of a montage, set to music, for an old friend whom I hope to see again someday soon. My beard’s greatest hits. If you browse through these, sing some James Blunt to yourself while you’re reading. It helps. Actually, no it doesn’t. I want to stick knitting needles in my ears now.

▪▪ “Getting Fuzzy?“

▪▪ “Hey man, what’s on your face?“

▪▪ “S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y! Night!“

▪▪ “B For Beard-etta!“

Me and Kanye down by the schoolyard

It often seems like everyone else except me shares a birthday with a cool celebrity, but I’m tossing that inferiority complex out the window. This year, I’m struttin’ loud and proud!

Kanye West, Boz Scaggs, Keenan Ivory Wayans, Nancy Sinatra, and I will be rockin’ it out – birthday style – today. I don’t know what those guys have in mind. Me, I’ll be cruising the town looking for the finest (free) birthday meats and cheeses to shovel into my mouth. Who’s going to have more fun? I mean, really?

And maybe I’ll hope – once again – for a Superman birthday cake.

Happy Birthday to Me!

I’m feeling thankful for the small things today.

(And good meals to come. Along with the sweet-ass package of goodies the mailman dropped off earlier this morning from Mis Hooz. You, my dear friend, are a pillar of sheer beauty and vast awesomeness. King Kong ain’t got nuthin’ on you!)

Remember, be good to each other. Danny Donkey loves you.

Childhood drifts ever further away

I just found out yesterday that cartoonist Alex Toth passed away last week at the age of 77. If I’d been paying attention, I suppose I’d have seen the news right when it happened. As it is, I didn’t find out until the big news sources ran obituaries on Toth.

If you’re not familiar with Toth, you might recognize his designs and work from the “Super Friends” and “Space Ghost” cartoons. (I wonder how he felt about “Space Ghost Coast-to-Coast“? Was Toth ever a guest on the show? How “meta” would that have been?)

And before doing animation, he was a terrific comic book illustrator – especially when it came to one of my favorites, Zorro. When Image Comics released a collection of his Zorro comic books, I had to think about buying it for approximately two seconds.

As an aspiring kid cartoonist, Toth was one of the guys whose work I tried to emulate. George Perez was my absolute favorite comic book artist, and I loved his heavily detailed artwork. Toth could put a lot of detail into his comics stuff, too, but the “cleanness” of his animated work taught me something about simplicity, and definitely influenced my later doodles.

Sometimes, I really miss the days when all I needed to fill the day and make me happy were a pencil, eraser, pen, and sketch pad. And when discovering an artist like Toth was like finding a whole new world of possibility.

▪▪ Here’s Alex Toth’s official site. (I don’t know about you, but I could spend all day looking through the gallery.)

▪▪ And an interview with him from Comic Book Artist magazine.