Hermenautic Circle blog

Hey it’s time for another post of things comics writers do in their scripts that annoy artists! I’m slightly cheating this time by including a couple of writers, but they’ve both also been artists, so it’s okay.

And in case you missed them, here are the other recent comics-writing-related posts:

Getting a robot to make you a sandwich

What artists wish you wouldn’t do, part one — Ron Randall

What artists wish you wouldn’t do, part two — Dylan Meconis

Terri Nelson could do without: “Characters who just talk in expository text for pages, with no instructions to cut away to voice-over to show what they’re talking about, just different shots of the heads, talking.”

Jeff Parker anti-recommends: “I can’t stand when a writer has characters talking about “being bored!” right before the exciting thing happens. You’d think it would be too clichéd to even go near, yet I still see it being done all the time.”

David Hahn and Paul Tobin initially disagree, but come to a resolution:

DH: Writers should avoid self indulgent or personal fetish material in scripts, such as characters’ fashion sense or personal traits, if it doesn’t do anything to move the story forward or add relevant material to the story.

PT: I would argue that a character’s fashion sense is relevant 100% of the time.

(Sara agrees. Also, Sara covets various of Paul’s vintage shirts, including the one pictured above.)

DH: And I would agree.  Fashion is important to the character, but shouldn’t be more important to the writer at the time and expense of the artist.  Don’t make an artist have to research and spend time to draw a Holden Monaro when any other choice would’ve suited the story and character just fine, just because the writer happens to fancy Holden Monaros.

PT: I can totally agree with that. It’s fine to say things like, “She dresses well, and prefers the go-go fashions of the sixties,”…. but if a writer is going to get specific (she dresses exactly like Twiggy in the 3rd sketch of her fourth appearance on Laugh-In) then have a specific reason related to the plot. And, really, if you’re calling for specifics, don’t have the artist do all the research… either direct to a proper link, or drop in a photo.

Thanks, Terri, Jeff, David, and Paul!

A friendship forged in fire … and still burning strong.

St. Patrick’s Day and a horse walk into a bar. The bartender says, “What can I do for you?” The horse says, “I’d like a pint of hay.” The bartender gives the horse a pint of hay. Then the bartender turns to St. Patrick’s Day and says, “What would you like?” and then St. Patrick’s Day says, “I’d like everyone to get drunk!!!”

What did the leprechaun say to the ghost? “Shiver me timbers!” (Say in Irish accent)

What kind of car does St. Patrick drive? A Prius … because it’s “green.”

How can you tell if a leprechaun is sad? He turns from green to blue.

Why do Irish people come to our country and steal our jobs? Because they love our GREEN money.

O’Connor and O’Guinness are walking down a country lane when they see O’Donnell sitting on a stone with a tear in his eye. “Why are ye weeping then, O’Donnell?” asks O’Connor. “Alas, my heart is broken, O’Connor,” replies O’Donnell. “And why is ye heart broken, O’Donnell?” asks O’Guinness. O’Donnell sobs and says, “Because a leprechaun gave me a social disease.”

Why is St. Patrick’s Day like the band Green Day? BECAUSE THEY BOTH SUCK. (Just kidding … they’re both great.)

What’s the difference between a leprechaun and a goat? One has a pot of gold and the other eats old tin cans.

What’s the best thing to drink on St. Patrick’s Day? Bud Light, because it has the best St. Patrick’s Day banners and because it tastes great.

What did famous Irish comedian Yakov O’Smirnoff say when he fell into a huge vat of Guinness? “In Ireland, Guinness drinks YOU.“

From Harvard University Press's new "Anthology of Modern Irish Poetry," edited by Wes Davis, the opening lines of "Irish Poets Open Up Your Eyes," by Patrick Kavanaugh (1904-1967): Irish poets open your eyes, Even Cabra* can surprise; Try the dog-tracks now and then-- Shelbourne Park and crooked men....

In fairy tales, didn’t you wish to be the virtuous prince, slaying dragons and discovering treasure?  Or the beautiful princess, living happily ever after?  But in the real fairy tale, the one you write every day called life, you’re not a prince, or a princess. Or even the comic relief. 

You are … the author.

But he needs help!

Of course, the funny thing is that my sister Skyler is really the wordsmith in the family. She's always sending off short stories to magazines you've never heard of, with titles like "The Poughkeepsie Quarterly" or "The Review of Boring Stories Where Nothing Ever Happens." OK, I made that last one up, but I've flipped through a copy or two over at Skyler's house, and wow, at least you can swat flies with it. Everybody sitting around drinking coffee, getting depressed and you can't even tell who's talking half the time. Would it kill them to run a little Nicholas Sparks now and then? —Marie's Blog

(via Mike)

Text your answer to AT&T: 230962 / “Paddy’s Day Fight”
VS.

In a recent lecture to the Royal Philharmonic Society, at London's Wigmore hall, the New Yorker's classical-music critic, Alex Ross, discussed an issue that vexes people who want to broaden the appeal of classical music: the "to-clap-or-not-to-clap" controversy. Modern audiences are expected to wait until the performers have completed all the movements, or sections, of a piece before expressing their approval. This can feel highly unnatural: some movements end with such brio that they "demand applause, even beg for it." And Mozart and his contemporaries expected raucous reactions not only after each movement but while the musicians played. Ross went beyond this somewhat stalemated argument, however, to say that the debate underscores how restricted we are in our thinking about different genres of music and different composers.

Who's the more powerful arbiter of style: Anna Wintour or the University of Chicago Press? The artist Caitlin Phillips, founder of Rebound Designs, in Washington, DC, riffs on the double meaning of style with her Chicago Manual of Style book purse, fashioned out of an actual copy of the 14th edition of the academic bible, familiar to anyone who's had to write a thesis. It goes for $155, and of this writing there was one left at the craftsy online store Etsy

One of the great traditions in Mexico City -- "great" like Tax Day, "great" like Black Friday -- is running out of town for puente, a three-day weekend. Ingloriously, desperately, chilangos choke the highway exits from the basin on Friday or Saturday to crowd against one another -- just like in the city -- at the most predictable of getaway destinations: Cuernavaca, Valle de Bravo, Acapulco.

Consequently, going anywhere for puente (and no one seems to ever care what the specific holiday is) can be a hectic ordeal. But we went anyway, to Tepoztlán, to test our three-day weekend survival skills.

Now, regular readers of Intersections know that I always submit to harrowing religious rituals in Mexico when the opportunity presents itself, no matter how absurd or depressing. It had been eight years since I climbed up to the Tepozteco pyramid overlooking Tepoztlán, and this time, with company, the "mystical" mountaintop beckoned once more. For no apparent reason.

After elbowing our way onto a bus at Tasqueña then fighting off the competition to get a place to stay, U. and I trudged through foot traffic to the edge of the mountain, passing shops selling items of contrived New Age-y-ness: soaps, lotions, teas, Indian fabrics, and so forth. Lots of stalls selling over-chiled micheladas.

The climb was ... rough. Disorganized, unplanned, very crowded. Rocks were loose and slippery. At times the path was nearly vertical. Poor senior citizens ... their children and grandchildren dragging them up the unforgiving cliff-sides. Near the top, the pathway narrows, forcing delirious, panting climbers to organize passage amongst themselves. Traffic backs up. One slip of the foot or wrong step, and you could be tumbling down the sharp rocks, for a while.

At the summit, pesky tejones badger you for your food. We watched as one man let his guard down, allowing a pack of the ravenous creatures to jump up and snatch away his bag of nuts. Angry and embarrassed, the man's instinct was to immediately take his cup of mineral water and hurl it at the little mammals, who in response squealed and hooted and made a big scene.

None of it felt very spiritual. It was crowded up there and there was a long waiting line to head back down. Jeez, get me out of here.

But the beauty of a beverage that you see above made it all worth it. Back down in town, we stopped at a pulquería, eager for refreshment. The proprietor had standard curados such as tomato and mango, but another option caught the eye: cerveza de raíz.

Root beer.

Maguey root beer, that is. And, oh man, it was fantastic. Crisp, light, the perfect level of fermentation. We started with a 12-peso cup, then went for another, at 15 pesos. Ten minutes later -- what the hell -- we got a 35-peso jug to share, sat back, and watched the crowds.

The following morning, before boarding another bus for the stop-and-go return to the city, we went for another round of cerveza de raiz, for a proper traveler's buzz.

Tepoztlán, bless you.

Killing Joke recorded a Peel session broadcast March 17, 1980. Here’s that version of “Complications,” set to much later footage.

Young Marble Giants’ sole (and wonderful) album Colossal Youth came out March 17, 1980. Miraculously, there exists footage of them playing “N.I.T.A.” on TV a few months later.

The Slits’ Retrospective LP, a.k.a. Once Upon a Time in a Living Room, came out March 17, 1980. Here’s the spectacular 1977 demo “A Boring Life” from it.

[Bid on this Significant Object, with story by Dan Chaon, here. Proceeds from this auction go to Girls Write Now.]

When you are a widower, you’re supposed to move your wedding band from the left ring finger to the right. This is etiquette, or something. An old tradition.

When I removed the ring, about a year after she died, there was a crease in the flesh below my knuckle, a little belt that didn’t go away, though I massaged it and rubbed it with lotion; it appeared that it would be more or less permanent. Weird! That was what made me remember the fork.

It was a two-pronged carving fork with a bright red plastic handle. When I was twelve, I stole it from the silverware drawer. I was very interested in the weapons of fantasy at that time: halberds and katanas, daggers and scimitars. The sorts of things your character would wield if you were playing Dungeons & Dragons.

For a while, I pretended the fork was a magical treasure I’d found in a barrow, and I hid it in my room under the mattress. During the autumn of seventh grade, I used to like to poke myself with the fork. Late at night, when my door was locked. This was before I’d discovered masturbation.

A carving fork sinks easily into a brisket or a roast turkey breast, but the tines are not that sharp. When you press the points against the underside of your forearm, you can exert considerable force without breaking the skin, just a couple of blanched indentations in your flesh. Then the dermis rises back, leaving only small red dots — like gnat bites — which fade as well.

Here: your wrist, where a bundle of blue veins shift thickly when you prod them. Here: your ruddy, meaty palm, webbed with fortune-teller lines. At this point, you are not really able to push the fork through. You’re just experimenting. Here: okay, admit it — your most sensitive spots, the nipples, the soft hollow in your throat, the glans of your cock —

What does this feel like? How much does it hurt?

The memory appears abruptly. A glint of metal, a prodding of synapse that hasn’t been awake for years. Suddenly adolescent again: that illness unfolds in me and it’s funny because I realize that it’s not something I would ever have told my wife. She would have wrinkled her nose. Boy stuff, she would have thought — like talking about shit or boogers, gross and uninteresting.

And yet, who else am I going to tell this little anecdote to?

I sit here looking at the impression the wedding ring has left in my flesh. I suppose that it will eventually go away.

My wife was the first and only girl I had sex with. We met when I was eighteen, and she died when I was forty-five.

I don’t know what became of the fork. I used it for a while, and then, I guess, more than likely, I put it back where it came from.

Somehow, I’ve made it to the very last chapter or two in the book. It’s terrifying and kind of wonderful. I’m hoping to complete a draft by the end of the weekend.

With kids' art supplies, as with tools of all sorts, I've often heard the mantra, "Get the best you can afford." I always assumed that meant you should, say, buy the name-brand crayons instead of the dollar-store ones, the latter being so crappy that they're not even worth the buck you spend on them.