SpaceSquid vs. The X-Men #12: Tempus Mortis

Right, this isn't going to take long. Not only did Suzanne Chan, or Sway, spend her entire tenure as an X-Man stood right beside Petra, right up to the moment that her spine was divided into two non-intersecting subsets by a furious archipelago, but her back-story is a pretty close facsimile of Ms. Kristensen's as well. Remember what happens to Petra? Subconsciously uses her mutant power to save herself from a rock-slide but couldn't stop her family dying? Replaced "rock-slide" with "Chinatown hoodlums", and we're already done.

Sure, there needed to be a reason why Sway ends up under the care of Moira MacTaggart, and mutant without parents fits the bill, but even so it feels pretty lazy to have two team members have almost exactly the same defining historical moment (maybe that's why their origin stories ended up so buried that I'm still reliant on marvel.com to fill me in).

Given the unrepentant nothingness of the character, then, perhaps this is a good time to explain just what happened to the "Secret Team" all those years ago. After all, if you think of these articles as building up to a complete history of the X-Men, well, then you'll be disappointed, but at least if they can be cobbled into some bizarre Frankenstein's Monster of a timeline, then they'll be faintly less utterly useless than they obviously would be otherwise. Plus, I promised last week I would, and I tend to keep my promises, so long as they don't feature abstaining from alcohol or mockery.

Cerebro detects a massive mutant power signature in the Pacific, and Xavier sends the X-Men (at this point consisting of the original members, minus Beast, with Havoc and Polaris bolted on) to investigate. No sooner has the team landed on the island from which the energy spike was detected than something gets the drop on them, and Cyclops is forced to flee the island, his memory of what happened erased, and his powers gone. In the original story, way back in Second Genesis (confusingly entitled Deadly Genesis on the front cover) at the end of the Sixties, Xavier then founds a new team of X-Men, made up of what were to become household names: Wolverine, Colossus, Nightcrawler, and Storm. Banshee is in there too, who while less well-known is still integral to the history of the group. Also present: Sunfire and Thunderbird, though the latter lasts three issues before getting himself killed [1], and the latter is far more interesting after he has his legs cut off (I'm getting ahead of myself again, though). This new group, led by Cyclops (whose powers have returned) go back to the island, only to find that it itself is the mutant (gasp!), a hive-mind named Krakoa created by nuclear tests that now exists only to eat mutants, for some reason. Despite realising that Cyclops was only released so as to bring more food back, the neophyte X-Men still kick its arse, thanks mainly to Xavier's mental prowess and a newly-rescued Polaris flinging Krakoa into space.

What we learn in Deadly Genesis, though, is that in between losing the first team and assembling a crack team of whining foreigners, Xavier trained up [2] the four mutants who were under MacTaggert's care to do the job first. They succeed in rescuing Cyclops, but piss Krakoa off in the process. Refusing to join Summers in the plane, they return to the jungle to try and rescue the others, whereupon Sway and Petra are killed by the enraged landscape, and Darwin and Vulcan buried deep beneath the ground, to be accidentally cast into space by Polaris.

Traumatised by the loss of the team, and knowing Vulcan was his younger brother, Cyclops is distraught, so much so that Xavier decides to wipe his brain of what happened. Then he sets out to collect more mutants to throw at the problem, hoping this time he will achieve success (remember when I said that Xavier responds to failure by immediately choosing something else to try and succeed with? Well, there he goes again). Of course, this time his proteges pull the fat from the fire, and everything's dandy. Until Vulcan comes back to Earth...

So that's the whole ugly deal. To get back to my borderline-pointless profile, Sway's power is the ability to slow or freeze time around her, to an unknown but modest radius, and also to replay past events that occurred at her current location, so that they appear as ghosts to those watching. Cooler than manipulating rocks, probably, though out of the only two times she's actually needed it to save herself, the first time her parents died and the second she got torn in half. I guess as a skill it's better in theory than practice. She did at least her abilities to first find her parents' killers and then stop them shooting down the cops trying to arrest them, so she can have points for that. Certainly her levels of guilt and impotence are significantly lower than that of Petra.

Instead of her team-mate's feelings of isolation and inadequacy, Suzanne has, well, nothing really. She seems somewhat less confident in the use of her powers than her team-mate, (likely because she has had less experience in their application), but otherwise, aside from specific references to their abilities Sway doesn't say a single thing in Deadly Genesis to distinguish herself from anyone else (neither does Darwin, to be fair, but more on that another time). Even her ultimate death mirrors Petra's, not only because they die at almost the same instant, but because her final moments are used to give Petra enough time to save herself, Darwin and Vulcan (although that in itself doesn't entirely work out, of course), thus providing some measure of redemption for her failure to protect her parents.

And, er, that's it. A near carbon-copy of a character introduced at the same time, and never standing more than six feet from her side. Next time, we consider Vulcan, who was good enough to survive the incident on Krakoa, go crazy, kill Banshee, and then turn out to have been cut from his mother's womb by a psychotic alien tyrant who then had him grown in a vat and turned into a slave. Now there's a back-story I can get my teeth into...

[1] It is a well-known fact that no-one cared about Thunderbird ever. Really. Scientists have proved it in a lab, with lasers.

[2] Using his mental powers to make them think 48 hours was a months-long crash course on fighting evil. Odd that he never used the process again, though I guess it can be argued that once the people you've tried it on have been stomped by barely conscious mud, you probably want to rethink your methodology.

Easy Targets

I try not to offer too much commentary on the Israel/Palestine situation because I know so little about it (though far more than a lot of others who are continuously willing to spew their one-sided bullshit across the blogohedron, invariably IN CAPITAL LETTERS). Calling the situation "complex" is a lot like calling crack "moreish" (damn, but you have to love Super Hans).

On the other hand, some comments by prominent journalists or politicians are so unbelievably idiotic and/or hypocritical that even I feel comfortable slapping them down. I thus bring you the calm, measured words of New York City Mayor Michael Bloomberg:

"The concept of proportional response is one of the stupider things I've ever heard in my life. If it was your family, would you want a proportional response? No, you'd want every single resource to be brought to bear to stop those who are killing innocent people."

I've seen a number of people object to this quote on the grounds that discarding proportionality isn't something anyone should be particularly keen on doing. That is, of course, a reasonable point, but it gives this particular argument entirely too much credit. The sheer level of idiocy on display here is more properly countered by pointing out that claiming proportionality is really stupid when one's family is endangered justifies Palestinian rocket attacks as well. Every single person who has lost a family member in this current crackdown, by Bloomberg's argument, can then send a rocket into Israel. And of course, since this isn't the first such action by Israel, the rocket attacks that started the crisis now unfolding can be excused in exactly the same way [1]. The basic argument that the Gaza Strip is really sucky but that doesn't mean you can launch rockets into Israel, which I doubt many people would object to (certainly no-one who would consider themselves pro-Israeli) no longer holds.

I am well aware that there are differences in the specifics, though not so much as some may think. A Palestinian who believes firing a rocket will lessen Israel's stranglehold is no more deluded than an Israeli who believes the best way to starve an anti-Israeli political party of support is to kill a whole bunch of Palestinians. Both actions are self-defeating. There's also the matter of targetting, though as always the difference in morality between trying to kill X civilians and trying to kill Hamas leaders when knowing 10X civilians will be killed alongside is a thornier issue than many on either side is prepared to admit.

None of this is to come down on either side of whether I view the current actions of Israel to be disproportional or not; that's far too complicated a question for me to tackle, at least right now. All I'm saying is that arguing that a proportionate response is in itself stupid is to justify excess on both sides.

h/t to Hullabaloo (LOTS).

Update: Just to keep things fair and balanced, according to this link, the comparison above should actually be X casualties versus 129X so far, though it's not clear how many of the latter were civilians.

[1] And that's without getting into the murky water of how many Palestinian deaths over the years can be laid at Israel's door even if they weren't killed by the military.

The Inescapable Maths Of Durham

Ridiculously fucking hilly
+ Ridiculously fucking icy
+ Ridiculously crappy car
+ Drivers unable to realise that if the car in front can't move forward because of ice, following him into the same road so he can't even reverse is really fucking stupid
= Taking 45 fucking minutes over a 20 fucking minute trip.

I may add this to my thesis. Or possibly just kill everyone in the world.

Ghetto Cuisine

Thanks to last night's 100 Greatest Hip Hop Songs, I have discovered, somewhat late in the game, that Coolio has himself a cooking show: Cookin' With Coolio (not Cooking With Coolio, which, as Wikipedia will tell you, does not exist), which broadcasts (naturally) on the My Damn Channel, er, channel.

Let's start with the Salon's review which, in itself, is nothing short of jaw-dropping:

[I]n recent years... chefs have acquired a hard-edged kind of cultural chic. And who better to carry this tradition forward than an actual gangsta rapper? The Web series reveals that the Compton-born singer of "Gangsta's Paradise" has, for his second act, earnestly become "a ghetto-witch-doctor-superstar chef." Where Emeril would say, "Bam!" Coolio booms, "Shaka Zulu," tutoring his audience in the preparation of dishes that include caprese salad, sautéed spinach, and "game-day turkey." Nothing is fancy. Everything is sound. Coolio does go rather heavy on the balsamic, but that's bachelor cooking.

Some of you will find the program offensive, pointing to the air of inner-city minstrelsy that attends to the proceedings and the objectified women lingering around them. The production gives you a feel for what it might be like were Flavor Flav to host This Old House. For instance, Coolio taps out his spices from small plastic baggies as if he had bought them not at Whole Foods but in his dealer's Escalade. Next, a pair of women from Coolio's stable of "sauce girls" are always at his side, and the sauce girls—possibly taken in from a home for the mute are not to be confused with actual sauciers. What the sauce girls do, mostly, is stand around in heels, sometimes wearing aprons, sometimes wearing a bit less than aprons. They were permitted to fondle some baguettes in an episode featuring "ghettalian garlic bread." That's the one where the star and his sous-chef pretended to abduct a college boy off the street. "We're gonna find a hungry, broke-ass, malnutritioned, Top Ramen-eatin' muthafucka, and we're gonna teach him how to cook a healthy, inexpensive meal," promised Coolio, intent, as always, on putting the M.F. back into MFK Fisher.

Sufficiently intrigued? How about you take a look at Episode Seven, chosen entirely at random, which starts off with an ineffectual fracas between a goldfish and some kind of Power Rangers reject octopus/lobster hybrid, only for both to be labelled "bitches" by Coolio, disguised as a pirate (though rather than an eye-patch he's wearing a pair of shades, somewhat ruining the look). From this point on they dance apparently at random behind our host as he discusses how best to marinate shellfish, and orders his sauce girls around unnecessarily. I sort of hope the whole thing is a joke, since at least it kept me laughing for two whole minutes, which isn't bad for an internet video but too brief a period for me to discover at what temperature Captain Coolio had planned on cooking his shrimp.

Of course, all of this is still better than C U When U Get There.

In Which I Steal Things And Do Not Care

I'm currently gathering together my Xmas harvest (along with less interesting things, like clothes) in preparation for my return to Durham, so I'm a little pushed for time.

With that in mind, I hereby swipe a bunch of links from other blogs, thus meaning today I am the unrepentant purveyor of third-hand material.

First off, swiped from Lawyers, Guns and Money (link on the sidebar) is Michael Tomasky's Worst 19 Americans of 2008. I'd quibble a little on the specifics (Cheney is and always will be too low, and I'd leave out the Campbells; calling your child Alolf Hitler Campbell is mainly just guaranteeing your son will get repeated kickings), but it's nice to see how many people on that list got their just desserts, or seem to be heading for them. Plus, more lists should contain a prime number of elements. Primes are important. Just ask Optimus.

Next up, and stolen from the same source (layer upon layer of flagrant laziness, though since LGM was linking to one of it's own staff, I don't feel bad) is a brief but interesting dissection of the resolutely pro-Israeli stance of American politicians across the board. The best part is this comment on the word "terrorism":

"Terrorism," in the context of Middle East politics and warfare, has come to mean something very close to "violence targeted at people with whom I sympathize."

Finally, a clip from Gilmore Girls I lifted from Mighty God King (link again in sidebar). I include this mainly as part of my ongoing fascination regarding the dynamic between writers and actors. Every clip I've seen of Gilmore Girls suggests the writing is of the kind that I adore, the swirling fast-paced sparkling type Aaron Sorkin seems to have more or less mastered. In this video, though, it seems like the actresses (both of whom, to be fair, have given much better performances elsewhere) are pretty much eating it. Is this a reminder that a script is only as good as its actors? Or that no matter how good an actor you are, there's only so much density a script can hold before it just sinks your performance? Come to think of it, we may as well call this the Babylon 5 dilemma, and leave it at that.

I now desperately want to call my first child Squeegy Beckenheim Crossman. Does that make me worse than the Campbells?

Update: Also stole this from Obsidian Wings (guess where the link is), who stole it from Balloon Juice, who stole it from Youtube. It is, in fact, awesome beyond belief. Some songs were destined to be played on the ukelele. I'm not sure Theme From Shaft is the first one to spring to mind, but there you have it.

The Not-So Burning Question

So, here we are, thirty minutes away from learning the identity of the Eleventh Doctor. I must admit, I'm not nearly as curious about it all as I might have expected to have been. I guess there's two reasons to this. Firstly, I've already spent much of the time I allotted for wondering about Who's future considering whether Moffat is likely to drag the show kicking and screaming from its status as the number one logic-defying-breathtakingly-manipulative-roller-coaster-for-idiots show on television [1]. Certainly, I consider it a far more important portent of the shows development (or otherwise) that Moffat will now hold the reins than Tennant is being replaced by, well, whomever. Doubtless the actor chosen will flavour the character to some extent, but since that flavour is probably at least partially a pre-known quantity, and is being selected by the show runners themselves, even today's choice is only particularly important insofar as it might give us an idea of where the show is being steered.

The second reason is connected to the first. Lawrence Miles has written at length about the absurd apotheosis of the Doctor the recent iteration of the show has forced down our throat, as well as attendant problems such as making the last of the Time Lords an attractive and athletic character. Perhaps "problems" is too harsh a word, at least without further discussion, but at the very least Miles is right that the producers have painted themselves into a corner. The idea of choosing Jon Pertwee to play the Doctor these days is laughable, irrespective of how much Venusian Karate kicks he tries to launch at his enemies. Even Tom Baker wouldn't likely have much of a chance, and that's a pretty terrifying realisation. I am fairly confident that you will be able to take whomever is revealed this afternoon, mentally paste them over David Tennant in every episode from New Earth onwards, and find that 95% of the time at least Doctor XI doesn't particularly seem out of place.

Still, there's speculation that they might be choosing a black actor this time around, which would be interesting. While I've always been less than keen on the idea of a female Doctor (though a spin-off show featuring a female equivalent would be something fascinating to see, which may or may not have been an idea discussed during or after Georgia Moffet's appearance in The Doctor's Daughter), I don't see any reason why a regeneration wouldn't increase the amount of whatever Time Lords use as their variant on melanin. Precedent has already been set, after all, with Cho Je in Planet of the Spiders. Hopefully that idea won't be followed too closely, though. Patterson Joseph as the Doctor sounds like it could work, but a black-and-white minstrel could do more damage to the show than even Adric managed.

Update: Huh. Never heard of him. Still, from the comments already springing up (which range from "wait and see" through "YUM!" "too much like Tennant" to "I feel physically sick", which I would suggest is something of an verreaction to any news not including a body count) it looks like I was right, you could replace Tennant with Smith and it not be too much of a hard sell. Still, maybe time will prove me wrong, from the snipped we saw of Matt Smith maybe the Eleventh Doctor will be an excitable stick insect playing maracas in The Cure. That, frankly, I would like to see.

[1] For the record, I think he will to some extent, purely because no matter how close he promises to stick to RTD's template, some change is inevitable because Moffat isn't a talentless buffoon, and all evidence suggests the man writes scripts on a computer, rather than daubing flashcards with finger-painted giant robots and flinging them at the DoP. I'm running out of opportunities to put the boot in as regards Who's Jabba-in-chief, so let me just point out that Macbeth described life as "a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing." If he'd added "Also, it's filled with half-cooked Messianic allegories and pathetic character comedy mis-fires, and had Kylie in for no fucking reason at all", he could have been describing Voyage of the Damned.

In Which We Move Beyond Parody

While waiting for my traditional New Year's Day take-away to be prepared (which apparently they did by cooking it in super-heated mud, but we'll deal with that another time) I happened across this news in the august pages of the Sun (I don't know why I don't read said paper more often, it makes me laugh like hell, gives me a feeling of superiority even beyond that which I normally have, and contains tits into the bargain).

Obviously, I'm not the target audience for a £1 000 vibrator, or at least if I am someone in marketing needs to be fired. Even so, this release begs a number of questions. First of all, who spends a grand on a vibrator, and wouldn't you want that money to go towards some kind of extra feature (the specifics of which I'm desperately trying not to consider), rather than a band of diamonds? I mean, I get that people of a certain stripe like diamonds, and that "diamond-encrusted" is a description that can be used to shift pretty much anything, but since the jewels in question are hard enough to cut into bank vaults, you would think them inappropriate decoration for something intended for internal use (which is the most delicate phrase I can think of under the circumstances).

That's only the first half of the problem, though. So far, it's just a bizarre and overpriced sex toy (having said that, though, I'm not sure what a vibrator without an encrustation of precious stones would cost, and I don't feel comfortable attempting the relevant research on my parents' PC). What makes it worse is this line:

A bizarre attachment to the toy though is a guitar pick, with the lyrics from Stewart's latest solo song, 'Let's Do It Again', scrawled on it. Buying the toy also ensures that its owners get a code that allows them to download the tune.

Let's be kind, and assume that they don't literally mean "attached" (and by "kind", I mean "not having your nightmares haunted by the image of Sweet Dreams strummed out with a giant pink dildo") so much as "accompanied by". Even so, combining a four-figure sex toy with an attempt to push your latest musical witterings pushes the whole thing past "baffling and disturbing waste of money" into "baffling and disturbing waste of money/ insane ego trip/ desperate last gasp at relevance". It's not like it can be passed off as a special offer. There cannot be, I mean simply cannot be, on any level, on any plane of existence, someone who thinks "Well I wasn't going to blow six months food budget on this gem-encrusted abomination, but now I know I can save 80p on i-Tunes at the same time, dildo me the fuck up!". I'm pretty sure "0.08% extra free!" isn't going to work in any situation, and when the original purchase is designed to be plugged into your most personal orifice and the add-on is designed to piss you off with its MOR banality, matters are unlikely to improve.

Which leaves us with the inescapable conclusion that this is the most implausible ego-trip observed for quite some time. Stewart may desperately be hoping that the market for extravagant portable pseudo-pricks is lucrative enough to move his song up the download charts, but one imagines the most plausible conclusion to this seedy tale is the three dozen people foolish enough to both purchase and download will think "Damn, but this song is wank. Which reminds me..."