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Grave Concerns

Zombie comic book series wants Eugene’s braaaains

This originally appeared in last week's Eugene Weekly, the February 16 issue. I angle for EW's cover story now and then, which is not to say I always land it, and I was honestly sort of surprised when my editor Rick Levin lobbied to put this particular story on the cover. I certainly didn't write it with that in mind. It does seem to have struck a bit of a chord, though, as more folks than usual have sought me out to tell me they liked it. Evidently the Association of Alternative Newsmedia was diggin' it, too, as they posted it to their top stories for the week.

Many thanks to Chris Roberson and Michael Allred for the interviews!

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Eugene can be a contradictory place. Some find numerous opportunities here, seeing Eugene as a community full of music, culture, good food and outdoor adventure. Others characterize the city more prosaically, as a nice place to live, but maybe a little … lacking in diversions.

Count cartoonist Michael Allred in the former category. “Growing up in Roseburg, Eugene was always the exciting place to go,” he says. Allred, creator of the independent critical-darling comic book Madman, moved on to college in Utah (where he met his wife, comic-book colorist Laura Allred) and eventually lived for a time in Eugene. He later relocated to various points all around the country, and even to Europe. But Eugene always held a special place in his heart.

Now Allred is the artist of a comic book series that is not only set in Eugene, but also embraces the line our city walks between the everyday and the extraordinary.

Published by DC Comics’ imprint for adults, Vertigo, iZombie follows the adventures of Gwen Dylan, a UO dropout who hangs out in a diner, makes her living digging graves in an eco-friendly cemetery and who just happens to be an undead zombie.

Gwen, helped along by her friends Ellie the ghost and Scott the were-terrier (yes, you read that right), solves supernatural mysteries, eats the occasional brain and dodges an ancient order of monster hunters … all punctuated by routine trips to the diner for chocolate and coffee.

Comparing his work to a cross between Archie comics and Scooby-Doo, iZombie series writer and New York Times best-selling author Chris Roberson, who lives in Austin, Texas, says that balancing the mundane and the fantastic sides of Eugene is one of his goals. Roberson’s stories cleverly subvert the standard monster-movie formula by showing how the undead spend their down time.

“It’s almost required that the moment that someone becomes one of these supernatural beings, they become angsty,” Roberson says. “If I became a werewolf, I’d still be the person I am now, I’d just have some personal hygiene issues once a month, or have some self-control issues.”

Roberson, who has never visited Oregon, relies in large part on online street views to inform the sense of place inherent in his writing. But his collaborator Allred just moved back to Eugene after a stint on the Oregon Coast. Having one half of the creative duo based in the city where the story is set has its advantages.

Besides advising Roberson on details of Eugene geography and daily life, Michael Allred incorporates real Eugene landmarks into the comic’s illustrations, which are in turn brought to colorful life by Laura Allred.

In the Eugene of iZombie, vampires troll for dates at the Downtown Lounge. A UO science lab is used as a staging ground for communing with extra-dimensional beings. The Shelton-McMurphey-Johnson mansion at the base of Skinner Butte doubles as the home of a centuries-old Egyptian mummy. And the diner where Gwen and her spooky friends hang out is modeled on Fins Drive-In in Springfield.

Continue reading "Grave Concerns" at Eugene Weekly.

The Burning Bush

Big Love, Smallville, and Messianic Fiction

The spring of 2011 marks the finale of two television series that have been keeping me company for several years, each of which I feel a little misty at the thought of letting go of. Beware, traveler: herein lie spoilers for Big Love and Smallville.

The protagonists of the two programs hardly seem similar, at a passing glance. Big Love's Bill Henrickson is a fundamentalist Mormon polygamist, a family man, and an entrepreneur. Smallville's favorite son, Clark Kent, is a monogamist of undetermined Protestant stock, single, and searching for the right career.

  

But scratch the surface a little (with Kryptonite, if you must), and it's easy to see how the two characters have more than a passing resemblance to one another. Even beyond generalities one could draw regarding each program's implicit statements about the American Dream, for example, each continuity's set of thematic elements mirrors the other so well, in fact, you'd think the writing teams were each cribbing from the Aarne-Thompson Tale Type Index. (And heck, if one subscribes to the Campbellian monomyth theory, as does your humble host, the popular wisdom is that we're all cribbing from it, all the time, simply by being part of our own culture.)

The Secret Identity

Both Bill Henrickson and Clark Kent protect double lives, secret identities. The lies and deception that these two men, each of whom purports to rely on values such as honesty and forthrightness, are born of their iconoclastic and idiosyncratic natures. Bill is forced to hide his family life away from the American and mainstream Mormon publics that will castigate him for his lifestyle choices, while Clark must obfuscate not only his abilities, but his very species, in order to lead a normal life and to facilitate helping others.

Summer Vacation: Tiki Travelogue

A couple of weeks ago, the First Lady of Inkville attended a work conference in her professional capacity. I tagged along to Los Angeles in a decidedly un-professional capacity. Still addled on the rum-soaked fumes of the Northwest TikiKon earlier this month, I decided to cram as much Polynesian pop as possible into my visit, with one goal in mind: Tiki pilgrimage.

And what Los Angeles Tiki travel would be complete without a visit to the Enchanted Tiki Room in Disneyland? The entirety of the Adventureland portion of the park is pretty Tiki-tastic, but the Tiki room (complete with its delicious and overpriced pineapple Dole whip) remains the Genesis moment for many Tikiphiles' obsession, including that of your intrepid guide.

Spoiler alert: those Tikis totally come to life.

After working up a sweat escaping the Haunted Mansion and whining about the insertion of Johnny Depp mannequins into the original Pirates of the Caribbean, we adjourned to downtown L.A. to quench our thirst at the Trader Vic's:

Better Read than Dead: Ghost Stories of Old New Orleans

Inkville's "mostly New Orleans, much of the time" coverage continues with this installment. And by the way, the images after the jump sort of stray into NSFW territory. And definitely stray into "Ewww" territory.

The book pitch I have been kicking around for a few years now centers on ghost stories of old New Orleans. So what better research item than, well, Ghost Stories of Old New Orleans, Jeanne deLavigne's 1946 treatise on supernatural hauntings throughout the French Quarter and other NOLA neighborhoods?

The book is sadly out of print and going for around $125 online, so I'm indebted to the University of Oregon's interlibrary loan program, and to the libraries of the University of Texas at Austin and Brigham Young University.

Here's a photo of deLavigne, which she has signed as a gift for another favorite New Orleans author, Robert Tallant. Seem slike a nice older lady, doesn't she? You'd never expect she was a macabre freak.

deLavigne was part of the early-to-mid-20th century New Orleans artistic and literary renaissance as fueled by the Works Progress Administration, a contemporary of Lyle Saxon and a sort of spiritual inheritor of George Washington Cable. I haven't read an awful lot about this period of NOLA history, but on the surface, some of the relationships, artistic output, and activist bent of the whole thing seem reminiscent of the Irish Literary Revival's Yeats/Synge/Lady Gregory complex across the pond, just a few decades later.  It's temptingly easy, in fact, to cast deLavigne as a sort of Southern Lady Gregory, gathering the spooky tales of the common American.

Literary Arts Profile

Hey, cool. For the moment, Oregon Literary Arts has bumped a trimmed version of my profile and interview, as well as my smiling mug (okay, tight-lipped and smirking mug) up to their fellowships page. Dig:

 

In one of my trademark acts of shameless self-promotion, I figure my most effective strategy will be to ride the coattails of my own sweater vest until they fall off... like, say, cross-posting this to my blog. The full profile, by the way, can be perused on Literary Arts' Paper Fort blog.

And on a related note, I sure have gotten a lot of mileage out of that Isaac Viel-powered photo shoot.

The Strange Tale of Bobbie the Wonder Dog

During a recent and rare sunny springtime day in the northwest, the residents of Inkville, human and canine alike, road tripped to Silverton, Oregon, an hour south of Portland, to pay their respects at the memorial devoted to Bobbie the Wonder Dog:

   

Silverton is a cool little town, with a lot going for it. Besides the requisite antique shops and the fact that the town sports the nation's first transgender mayor, Silverton also offers the amazing natural beauty of Oregon's lush Willamette Valley. Dig:

 

I can tell you from personal experience that border collies grow very nervous while crossing this covered footbridge. Pfft. Dogs. No appreciation for charm.

But wait, there's more! Speaking of collies, Bobbie the Wonder Dog and his family took a little Oregon-to-Indiana road trip in 1923 to visit relatives. Silverton's interpretive materials note that, weirdly, Bobbie traveled on the car's running board(!). Unsurprisingly considering this undignified mode of transport, Bobbie somehow disappeared in transit. The family returned to Oregon, sad and dogless.

Amazingly, stunningly, heroically, Bobbie showed up six months later on his owners' doorstep in Silverton, beat half to hell and wearing a strange collar. That's right: Bobbie the collie walked and navigated 2,800 miles out of his devotion to his humans.

The Prophet

This month was Lane County's annual Project Homeless Connect, described on the program's website as "a one-day, 'one-stop shop' event serving people who are homeless or at risk of becoming homeless." Back in 2007 I interviewed a couple of the project's clients for articles for my graduate program. That work was never published, so below I am polishing off an oldie but (I think) a goodie. Enjoy.

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Though I offer to keep it under wraps, Paul Lehman wants his full name used for this article. Paul is a poet and author, and the extra publicity can’t hurt. Paul is also a guru. Consumer-driven culture holds no appeal for Paul, so he has elected to engage in a self-imposed exile from mainstream society, to shoulder a life of contemplation, and the lifestyle of a beggar.

At the moment, Paul’s immediate concerns are more earthly in nature. His bodily vessel is hungry, so Paul has made the trek from the mobile home park, his current base of operations, to nourish it. Yes, Paul is a guru, and he dresses the part. A maroon cap bears a Tibetan-looking pattern, crowning a gaunt visage of deep, watery gray eyes and a cascading white beard. At lunchtime Paul holds court, breathlessly reciting one of his own works to a couple of volunteers, a poem about personal growth, and the beauty of truth, and a higher power, surprisingly wrapped in an almost-iambic pentameter.

Neither a free meal nor the role of supplicant are new to Paul, but then he has played many roles in his six or seven decades on this plane… choirboy, soldier, high school teacher. Once he even helped build a boardwalk over a Florida mangrove swamp. Society is a curtain across truth, says Paul, a fog obscuring our knowledge of the power of the self. “That’s why I hang out outside the system,” he grins conspiratorially.

Paul’s self-appointed job is to free the masses from “the shadows of their own poor understanding.” He is Gandalf, Merlin, Teiresias, sprung from the storybook page to sound a word of warning in these dark times.

Historically, mankind feeds and clothes its prophets out of reverence, or awe, or fear. But eventually the wise men almost always combust, set afire by the glare of the social order they serve through its subversion. But Paul does not apologize, and has adopted his own credo, codified in the words of one of his poems:

'Twas then I set aside my reason, / In favor of the moment, / And began to live / in every season / Without need of atonement.

Shutter Island: The Epiphanies of Confinement

In my recent video interview for the University of Oregon's Talk project, I was asked to name one thing I fear. I replied, "an enclosed space." I've always been somewhat claustrophobic. Recently the First Lady of Inkville and I were walking in the woods here in western Oregon, and we came upon a damp playground situated in a quiet campground. I remarked that the cement tubes painted in bright pastels, placed near the swings for children to crawl through, had always given me the creeps as a kid.

Back in the city, we watched a trio of films that, coincidentally, each address notions of confinement, claustrophobia, and the epiphanies that arise from confronting oneself in a closed system. Be forewarned, for herein lie mild spoilers for Shutter Island, Coraline, and, yes, believe it or not, Couples Retreat.

Scorsese's noir Shutter Island is a lush, beautiful film. It's not the visual confection of Coraline or Amelie, but the saturated color, beautiful stars, and unforgiving, verdant landscape are visually compelling. And while Shutter Island is, indeed, frightening, it's not the slasher thriller the trailer makes it out to be; its heart-in-the-throat thrills derive as much from the plot's implications for its protagonist's life and lifestyle, as from any shadowy boogeymen.

The film opens on a Boston harbor ferryboat in 1954, with a pair of U.S. marshals, a surprisingly likable Leo DiCaprio and the reliably wry Mark Ruffalo, assigned to investigate the disappearance of a violent escapee from an island mental institution. What they uncover, of course, is not so straightforward.

With its forbidden zones, violent secrets, abandoned facilities, and requisitely spooky graveyard, the closed system of the Shutter Island prison is as much a stand-in for the human mind as it is an actual filmic environment. This is a "locked room" mystery adventure writ large, and it's only through the DiCaprio character's' submersion into his own psyche that said mystery can be solved. Along the way, the protagonist must abandon his detective smarts, and ultimately, his very identity, to emote his way through a maze where logic fails. Eventually he must face the reality of what Shutter Island represents for him personally, and, related, what sort of man he has become. It is only through the confinement, the enclosure, of the island that DiCaprio's character is able to grow.

The Märchen Rap

Remember my post about the Three Little Pigs?  One played pipes, the others danced jigs?  Let's call that my excuse, shall we?  This was composed to amuse Camilla Mortensen. With apologies in advance to Guntis Šmidchens and Daniel Wojcik.  Okay, hold onto your copies of Aarne-Thompson.  A-one and a-two...

Tale-type indexin' like a mad, mad fiend,
Perrault's actin' Grimm and Richard Burton plays mean.
Students only know that whack Disney crap,
But this is my slant-rhymed Märchen rap.

Um.  Yeah.  It's a folklorist thing, you wouldn't understand.  Honestly, I'm not sure I do, either...

In other news, this l'il ditty has the dubious distinction of being the first Facebook comment to graduate to Inkville blog entry status, Joseph Campbell help us.