Why you should be reading Gunnerkrigg Court.

I'm not really a webcomic kind of kid these days. There was a time that I followed quite a few of them, but most of the strips I followed just lost me after a while. There are a few that still merit weekly perusal - Dr. McNinja is the most bizarre ever (anything that involves Irish ninja doctors who now apparently ride unicorn-possessed rainbow bullet bikes, a sidekick who is a mustache-toting sharpshooter who rides a genetically-reconstructed velociraptor named Yoshi, and a gorilla for a receptionist - and that's not to mention a hair-eating resurrected Benjamin Franklin clone who becomes the Headless Horseman, robot Draculas to surf down from the moon, and CHAINSAW NUNCHUCKS - is good in my book), xkcd is as snarky as can be, and Dinosaur Comics is one of the most impressive uses of minimalistic, repeated art to tell a hilarious tale every day.

However, my favorite webcomic, without question, is Gunnerkrigg Court. It's an immersive tale with wonderfully crafted art, a compelling story with epileptic trees aplenty and mystery in buckets (this is the kind of comic that, every time it provides an answer to a question you have, simply results in seven more . . . so yeah). Antimony Carver is a distant, troubled girl who lives in and attends school at Gunnerkrigg Court, a wonder of technological advancement that is more than a little cryptic. Her best friend, Katarina, is vibrant, lively and wry. Her spirit-possessed toy wolf, Reynardine, is an erstwhile protector, but seems more menacing than he should be sometimes. Add to that a large cast of memorable characters, and it's simply got a lot going for it.

I recently purchased the first collected volume of Gunnerkrigg Court - basically, Annie's first year at school and all of her misadventures (which are legion). It was well worth my money, even though you can read the entire tale online - there's something gratifying about thumbing through a colorful, beautifully bound hardcover edition of the tale, rather than clicking 'next page' 300+ times. In the first volume, it's fascinating to watch writer/artist Tom Siddell's evolution as a storyteller - and, perhaps more impressively, his progress as an artist as both his characters and his tale develop deeper personalities.

For readers and non-readers of the comic alike, I recommend picking up the hardcover collection - it was splendid to peruse the first half of the story so far again - and I look with anticipation towards the upcoming second volume, to be able to reread the archives in one fell swoop. But if you don't want to drop twenty bucks on a worthy hardcover, you need to be reading this comic. It updates only thrice a week, and therefore doesn't require lots of attention; but I have a feeling that, if you start to read it, you will enjoy it.

It's simply the best webcomic out there these days.

Admission is the first step to recovery.

I have a problem.

It's a serious problem, too - one of those ones you don't recover from easily. And one that, to be perfectly honest, I don't feel any compunction to recover from; even though it's a ridiculous drain on my monetary resources.

You see, I have an addiction - to purchasing books.

One need only look at the purchasing history on my Amazon or eBay accounts to see exactly what I'm talking about. Either that, or take a look at the pictures of my beautiful bookshelves:

O hai.

That doesn't take in to account all the money that I spent on books in the last week - all antique tomes, at least 100 years old, consisting of;

• The 6-volume version of Adam Clarke's Commentary on the Whole Bible. While the condensed one-volume version is still in print, it's been eighty years or so since all six volumes have been available new. So I ponied up and bought an early 1900's copy.
• Notes on the Parables of Our Lord by Archbishop Richard Trench. Both Edersheim and Talmage say that if you want to find wonderfully elucidating explications of the more obscure parables, Trench is where you go. How has it taken me so long to find this guy? He's great.
• Notes on the Miracles of Our Lord by Trench as well. It's his other important volume, and it looks equally exciting. These are both 1898 editions from Britain.
• Another essential book about the savior - The Teaching of the Twelve by A. B. Bruce. It's about how the Lord taught and prepared the twelve to be his emmisaries after he left.

(Luckily, the last three are all available on Google Books - I've read bits of them and they're splendid.)

So yes, I do have an addiction (besides all these noble, antiquated books, I've been buying some wonderfully pulpy postmodern stuff that you don't need to know about). But is it really prejudicial, when I'm expanding my mind and my understanding? I don't think so.

But maybe I'm just trying to justify my addiction so that it sounds better...

Sant Jordi - and all that jazz.

For those of you who don't know - a little history on the day of Sant Jordi.

Sant Jordi is the patron saint of Catalunya. You know who Sant Jordi is - you probably just know him as St. George. (Yeah, the 'patron saint' of 'Utah's Dixie'. Can I just mention how much I hate the phrase 'Utah's Dixie' and everytime the weatherguys on channel 5 say it I cringe?)

Of course, everyone knows the story of Sant Jordi and the dragon - there was a mad dragon, eating princesses of (enter name here - it depends on the story) and terrorizing the place. Along came Sant Jordi, with an awesome sword made of gold or something like that. He killed the dragon, saved the princess, and the dragon's blood fell on the grassy knoll and caused red roses to sprout up everywhere. (That's the way the legend goes - click on the pic to the left there and, if you can read Catalá, you'll know exactly how it went down.)

So, April 23 is the day of Sant Jordi in Catalunya, and it's a beautiful day. (Albeit sorta sexist, in a way.) Traditionally gifts are given for the day, and it's prescribed what gifts should be given. The way it works is that women are given a red rose (to symbolize the princess) and men are given a book (because Jordi was a bookworm, apparently).

So there you go - I'm going to have a few roses (and books, I suppose) ready to give out, if ya bring me the gift of a book. ;) And I'll be celebrating el día de Sant Jordi the best way there is - reading like mad.

Dollhouse: not sold yet.

So today I finished the third episode of genius Joss Whedon's new show, Dollhouse.  (Now, I don't throw the word genius around without really meaning it - and Joss IS one.  Who else could have successfully turned a show with such a ridiculous premise such as Buffy the Vampire Slayer into one of the great cult classic television shows of all time?  And Firefly?  'Nuff said.)

Now, from the get-go I was excited for this show, and not only for the presence of Joss, but also for the star of the show, Eliza Dushku.  I was always a fan of her slayer, Faith - who was by far the coolest of all of the secondary slayers in Buffy.  Plus, when I found out Tamoh Penikett was in the cast (he plays Helo - yeah, probably my favorite character - in Galactica), I was really pumped.

However, after the first three episodes, I'm just not sold.  

Sure, the premise is kind of cool - people who've had their memories completely wiped, available in made-to-order configurations for the wealthy elite, either as lovers, protectors, etc.  However, it's that very premise that's making it hard for me to really dig into the show.

First, it's quite the daunting acting task for Dushku, who has had to be five very different characters during the transcourse of the first three shows - from the biker chick to the protective backup singer to the hostage negotiator, down to her personality-free tabula rasa form - and while she performs well, it's not awesome.  This would be a huge leap for even the most skilled actors, and while she does a good job, it's not a great job.

Second, it's hard to relate to Echo (Dushku's character) because of the nature of the show - she's a different person every week; consequently, we never get to see who she really is, only who she's programmed to be.

Now, the parts of the cast who don't get their memories wiped at least twice an episode are top-notch - Penikett is as cool as ever, even if he's not flying spaceships this time, but is the outcast FBI agent trying to uncover the Dollhouse.  And Harry Lennix (who plays Echo's handler, the person in charge of monitoring her performance and such in whatever situation she may be in, working as a backup for her) does a great job.

But I don't know - I'm just not loving the show yet.

Perhaps it's that Whedon had set my hopes too high due to his previous experience.  Perhaps it is due to the nature of the show, and I'll get into it as I come to understand Echo and the other actives more.

In fact, I hope I come to love it, and I hope the show succeeds - Joss deserves a success story instead of getting jerked around my TV networks.  And I'll keep watching for now, hoping that something will click and I'll love it.

But for now, I just don't.

A story about shoes.

It was a Sunday morning, and the time had come to engage in an age-old Sabbath day ritual - watching something on the telly while shining my shoes. It's something I've done for years, and I was excited to catch up on some Battlestar Galactica and shine up all my old standards - from the mountains of Doc Martens to the incomparable Johnston & Murphys.

As I was collecting all of my disparate shoes for the happy-fun-shine-times, I ran across my Deer Stags that I had been wearing most of the time for the last four years. I remembered the last couple of times that I had worn them...

I was walking across the campus, from the far-away parking lot (there aren't really any public access lots even remotely close to any of the important (read: ones my classes are in) buildings, so I'm always left with a bit of a walk). It had been snowing and the ground was slushy, wet, and gross. As I walked, I sensed a bit of cold, a touch of water, on the sole of my right foot. I thought to myself, 'Huh. I wonder if there's something wrong with my shoe. I hope not - I wear these things all the time,' and resolved to look at the sole later - then promptly forgot.

I grabbed the right shoe, turned it over, and discovered to my horror that there was a huge crack running lengthwise through the middle of the sole. No wonder my foot was wet and cold, I mused. I guess it's time to retire these babies.

I picked up the other of the pair, ready to throw them in the garbage can, when a moment of reflection came upon me, and I realized where these shoes had taken me.

I hadn't bought them, myself - El Presidente had purchased them for me shortly after my return from the mission. I had been wearing a hideous (yet comfortable) pair of slip-on Sketchers, with ugly duck-billed ends that had been ruined by people stepping on them (I do have abnormally large feet, after all). We were at Big 5 together, and El Presidente told me he'd buy me the Stags if I promised to throw the Sketchers away the minute we walked in the door. While I had a lot of great memories with the slip-ons, I'll admit that they were ugly as sin and needed replacing. So I took him up on that offer, four Februaries ago.

I sat down in my dilapidated orange chair with the shoes on the ground in front of me, and began a conversation with them. (You know me, I can't help but anthropomorphize.) I looked down at them, scuffed and in need of a shine, and said, 'Sorry, guys. But I guess you're going to have to go. I can't walk around with a hole in my sole, no matter how poetic that might sound.'

'That's okay, we understand,' came the reply. 'We didn't expect you to keep us around very long once you found the crack, either. However, before you throw us out, just think of all the fun we had together.'

So we reminisced, the shoes and I.

I remember walking the halls of the Smithsonian in them, from the Aerospace museum to the Military History one. All over DC they trudged, as we stopped by for the day while helping Pedro Sanchez and his family move from North Carolina to New Hampshire. They led me up and down the mall, from the Washington monument on down the gamut.

They were the shoes that had taken me to multiple temples across the world.

Together, we had scurried through the streets of Tarragona, like fugitives, fleeting memories of the beautiful buildings, sunlight streaming through the tall edifices, the cobblestone streets, the limestone walls (cool even in the heat of the summer), the strange, unknown flora.

Together we pondered the great works of art in Madrid, in both El Prado and the Reina Sofia, slowly shuffling from one piece to the next, staying at some, passing others by, overwhelmed and overcome by everything we saw.

Together we walked the streets of Euskadi, taking in the wonders of the Guggenheim-Bilbao, fleeing through alleyways and small roads, seeing beautiful life and earth-shattering violence.

Together, we hiked to the precipice of Montblanc, envisioning Sant Jordi killing dragons and saving princesses. We clambered to the top of the aqueduct, venturing forth across its soaring heights, disoriented and dizzy, full of fear and excitement.

Together, we made somber pilgrimages through sacred sites, surrounded by reliquaries, statues, imposing architecture, hidden shadows playing in corners of large, empty cathedrals.

'What times we've had together, no?' came a timid voice from the dilapidated shoes. 'It's sad to see this come to an end, but as far as my part in this thing goes, I couldn't have asked for more.'

I smiled, if a bit melancholic. 'You know, I don't think I could have, either. You were a wonderful mode of transportation for a lot of years, and I'm sad to see you go. We'll have to have a fitting sendoff. How do you want to go?'

'In a world of flame and heat,' answered my beloved footwear. 'Burn, baby, burn.'

They wait, sitting in a place of reverence in a corner of my room, for the right moment - when we can dig a small crater, douse them in lighter fluid and gasoline, and engage in some ameteur pyrotechnics.

When it all goes down, I think they'll be pleased with their noble immolation.

Pragmatism vs. Intellectualism.

There are many things I enjoy about attending Weber State University.  I think it's a nice, big campus, with relatively easy access to all the essential classes.  I like some of the new buildings they've built in the last few years to compensate for the old nasties that had been there since the fifties.  I especially like the fact that every single one of my classes in my major has been taught by a professor with an accredited PhD, giving me opportunities to associate with people who have studied in graduate school the very things I want to study.

Notwithstanding, I've always felt like something was a little off between myself and the Weeb.

I've never really been able to put my finger on it, but there was always something about the ambience of the school that has been a little off-putting to me.  There was an attitude of . . . something . . . that I had difficulties with.  However, today as I was speaking with a professor who in many ways I hope to emulate and whom I hold in high regard, he mentioned exactly what has always seemed to be the difference between myself and the majority of the other students I fraternize with on a daily basis in the Uni.

We were discussing how budget cuts from the Utah State Thieve's Den (a.k.a. the Cesspit of Immorality and Dishonesty we call the Legislature) were going to affect the Spanish department.  He explained that the first things to be cut were going to be literature courses - because they're always the poorest attended.  A culture class will usually fill up with around 20 people, and a class like 'Business Spanish' will fill to capacity within a few days of opening to registration.  Nevertheless, a good literature class will have 12 to 13 people, tops.  Most of the lit classes I've taken have had single-digit amounts of students.

As a Spanish major with a literature emphasis, I decried this development, lamenting the loss of the literature classes as a huge detriment to the department.  However, Dr. Bergeson explained exactly why it is this way at Weber State - 

It's a school of pragmatists, not intellectuals.

It's a university that the majority of the students are attending not for studying's sake, but simply as a means to an end.  (Thus the absolutely bloated joke that is the College of Business - what exactly do you do with a degree in 'business', anyway?)  They come and take whatever bare minimum classes they need to take, go off to their jobs, and graduate as soon as possible to go on to their careers as middle management in X company for the rest of their lives.

Now, there's nothing wrong with that.  If that's their goal, more power to them for looking for ways to complete it.  When it comes to my studies in the Uni, however, I have different goals.

I don't only go to school as a means to an end.  The Weeb is that means, to a certain extent, but why do I attend school?  To learn, to expand my horizons, stretch my intellect, grow in ways I can't in nearly any other setting.  To voraciously devour new knowledge, incorporating it into my worldview and the way I live my life.

That's not most students at Weber, nor most people in the community that surrounds me.  (You should see people's faces when I tell them I'm graduating with a degree in Spanish Literature.)  We here in Utah are a pragmatic people, and we come from pragmatic stock - myself included.

Both my parents graduated with Bachelor's degrees.  My father earned his in accounting, and has spent his professional life working in banks (until becoming the El Presidente we all know and love).  My mother earned hers as a registered nurse, and worked as a pediatric nurse for years when I was younger.  These are both important and pragmatic degrees and careers.

My father's father was a carpenter.  He worked with his hands his whole life - even losing a finger to carpentry.  My mother's father delivered foodstuffs for Lynn Wilson, and her mother was a secretary at a high school.  I know some of my grandparents may have attended some University, but I don't believe any of them received their Bachelor's degree.

This is the legacy I've been given - a legacy of hard work, pragmatism, and real, tangible careers.  Why, then, am I so drawn to the intangible - the theoretical, the philisophical, the intellectual?  I'll probably never actually do anything that seems substantive to the pragmatic with my life, as a professor of Spanish literature.  My genius brother, while too smart for his own good, has used it for something tangible - he's a Urologist, working to help with actual, physical things, rather than analyzing and dissecting words that were written decades or centuries ago, searching for hidden meanings.

I'm not questioning what I want to do with my life.  I know I'm on the path I should be on, doing what I need to do so someday I can do what I want to do.  But I'm in a different place than so many of those around me - not a better place, in no way superior, just very, very different.

And sometimes I get tired of feeling so different.

Utah's liquor laws are extra stupid.

Yes, they are. It's time to complain about the asinine, archaic and draconian nanny "laws" we seem to favor here in SL,UT.

Now, keep in mind that I'm not a drinker - never have been, and never will be. However, I find these laws to be nothing but embarrassing to the state and to the people who try to defend them.

In case you don't know, any establishment in Utah that serves mostly drinks and isn't considered a restaurant must be called a 'private club', charge a cover fee simply for entry, and (logically - the only logical part) check IDs on everyone going in to the club.

Now this is ridiculous. Why is there a need to give it an extra name and charge unnecessary fees simply to enter a building, where there are already sensible restrictions in place (you know, the YOU HAVE TO BE 21 PART). Yet rather than talking with the sensible governor Huntsman (who wants to remove this ludicrous stipulation), we've got retards like Sen. President Mike Waddoups, who wants to put the stupid martinis at Chili's behind the Zion Curtain.

Give me a break, people. This is simply pointless, and a hassle that should just go away. (It even annoys me, when I go to a show at a club and have to pay an additional fee on top of the ticket price, so I can go in and drink a blasted Coke.) Moreover, why is the opinion of the dominant church so important in this setting? Yes, most of the state (myself included) pertains to that religion, however - do we really need the Church's opinion to drop these laws?

I just don't get it. If you can explain to me why in the world we should keep these draconian, foolish laws, by all means, explain.

When you can't, let's get rid of this nonsense.