Tag Archives: gluey tart

xxxHOLiC Roundtable: In Which Kinukitty Natters on AT GREAT LENGTH

Posted on by

This post is part of a week-long roundtable on xxxHOLic. See Vom Marlowe’s opening salvo here.

I bought the first volume of xxxHOLiC (if you object that that version, mentally fill in the random capitalization convention of your choosing) years ago. I don’t remember how many years ago, but probably in 2004, when it came out. The pages have gotten yellowish and skanky looking, but that doesn’t take long with that newspapery pulp stuff Del Ray uses. It doesn’t matter anyway. The point, if I could manage to shift around to it (ah, there – much more comfortable), is that I read it and I wasn’t moved to buy any more volumes in the series (it’s ongoing, and volume 15 is due out in March). Upon rereading it, and then reading volumes two and three for the first time, I don’t really see the error of my ways.

I am a fan of CLAMP, and I don’t dislike xxxHOLiC. Parts of the story amuse and interest me. I loved Cardcaptor Sakura (but not Tsubasa, the sort of second version of it) and Clover and Chobits and Wish. I hated RG Veda and couldn’t really get into Magic Knight Rayearth. I was frustrated by Legal Drug, but I’m not bitter. So, I have some history with CLAMP. I even remember why I got the first issue of xxxHOLiC; I’d seen some of the original color art at an exhibit and, damn, it was amazing. I still think about it occasionally, and my memory is like sieve, but with holes so big it can’t be used as a sieve because everything bigger than a car falls through. So what I’m saying is that aesthetically, this is some fine work.

CLAMP is known for that, of course. The design is beautiful, and they also use design to help tell the story, something I, for one, like to see in a comic. For instance, look at this (from volume 1).

There’s smoke swirling around Yuko – the witch at the center of the series – all the time (well, not literally, but enough to establish the connection). The smoke that drifts up this page is shown on the cover and throughout Yuko’s introductory scene. And it’s echoed here.

This is one of Yuko’s clients. She comes in because she can’t move her little finger. What the hell does that mean? In palmistry, the little finger symbolizes communication, and hands are often used to symbolize divinity in religious iconography. In Buddhism, the Karana mudra (a mudra is a ritual hand gesture), which is made by raising the index and little finger while folding the other fingers down, expels demons and removes obstacles like sickness or negative thoughts. Is that what we’re supposed to be thinking about? Maybe, but damned if I know. It doesn’t seem unreasonable. The woman’s problem is that she’s a compulsive liar, and every time she lies, a beautifully drawn greasy black cloud pours off her. We watch as she tells casual lies everywhere she goes and she starts losing use of other parts of her body – her arm, her neck – and finally her entire body freezes up in front of a big old truck, which ends her sad tale of woe.

I have two major thoughts about this, the first story woven into the series. When I saw the black clouds engulfing this woman, I thought, karma. (Yes, this depiction is also all about the way spirits are depicted in Japanese prints. But I believe it’s fair to think beyond this.) In the west, karma is often understood to be kind of a cosmic vigilant ubercop who will jump out at you if you do something bad and yell “gotcha!” This is a misunderstanding. Let me propose another. I’ve often thought of karma as the maple syrup that accumulates on the outside of the bottle. (Feel free to substitute Kaluah, if you prefer.) You buy a fresh bottle of syrup, and it’s nice and clean and perfect. The first time you use the syrup, a bit of it is likely to drip down the side. Or a lot. Even if you wipe it off, the outside of the bottle remains a bit sticky. The next time you use it, you spill a little more syrup down the side of the bottle. As time passes, maybe some dust or lint gets stuck in there, too, and the layers of spilled syrup build up, and your lovely, pristine bottle of syrup has become a bit of a mess. Or a disgusting thing nobody wants to touch or think about, depending on how sloppy you are and how long you’ve had the syrup. This is how karma works. As you go about the business of living your life, you spill some syrup. It isn’t a punishment or judgment; it just makes things sticky, and you live with it. So it is with the lies this character tells. Nobody affixes a big, red “L” for liar on her chest; nobody even confronts her, even though we see that others realize she’s lying. But the weight of the lies builds and builds until her life is too gummed up to function.

I also thought, wow, that’s kind of extreme, isn’t it? Does she really deserve to get run down by a truck because she tells lies? She isn’t hurting anyone but herself – although there’s a Buddhist argument to be made (while I’m talking about karma) that you can’t really just hurt yourself. Because you are part of the universe, your actions affect the universe. Yadda yadda. Anyway, it seemed surprisingly moralistic, at first glance. But, no; I think it’s just heavy-handed symbolism. The witch keeps saying there’s always a price. What she means is that there are consequences. You don’t get away with anything. You might not understand the harm you’re causing, and the cosmic judge might not jump out and finger you for your transgression (that was a little joke – we were talking about her little finger, so – oh, never mind) – but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a price. You live with the syrup residue, and it leads to the situations it leads to, whether you realize what’s happening or not.

The witch tries to explain this more explicitly in the next scenario of volume 1 – a situation that resonated with me, I must say. This client is a woman who is addicted to the Internet. She neglects her children and her housework in favor of her online connections. But the woman in the story wants to change. Unlike some, she is concerned about being a good wife and mother. She tells Yuko so, but the witch is suspicious and tries to make her understand that, basically, it is what it is. Maybe she really doesn’t want to be a good wife and mother; maybe she really wants to tell her family to sod off so she can spend all her time online. There’s a choice to be made, and pretending that isn’t the case doesn’t change it.

Volume 2 is different in structure, concentrating on the main characters instead of the little vignettes about the clients. This isn’t ideal, in my opinion. Because I’d sort of thought I didn’t especially like the main characters, in volume 1, but I kept getting distracted. Taking away the distractions (except for a brief appearance by four characters from Tsubasa, which was supposed to be delightful but just made me feel a little hunted) made this clear to me. (They also stop by Legal Drug, which caused me to stop and say, “Hey! They stopped at Legal Drug!” But that was a very fleeting pleasure, really.) This volume sets up the romance or whatever between Watanuki (the kind of annoying kid who is mystically drawn to Yuko’s place who I didn’t mention in my ramblings about the first volume because I really didn’t give a damn about him as a character) and the maddeningly over-cute Himawari (a girl with big, aggressive curls and, apparently, a secret – dum dum dum!!!!). (Wikipedia will tell you what the secret is, if you care. Kind of lame, I thought. Whatever you’re thinking it is, that’s probably better.)

Yuko tries to make the really maddeningly stupidly jealous and competitive Watanuki understand that he needs his schoolmate, Whatshisname, to get rid of the spirits that chase Watanuki around. Watanuki’s problem with the spirits is what led him to the witch’s house anyway, and it’s a big deal, not a minor problem like continually forgetting to pay the mortgage on time or something. So I kept thinking that Watanuki would grasp at any solution, no matter how immature he is, but apparently not. CLAMP did warn me that “This isn’t the kind of story where understanding makes you smart, or not understanding makes you dumb.” Anyway, Yuko saves the day (for the reader) by arranging for these four characters – her, Watanuki, the annoying cute girl, and the strong, silent, tall, and handsome guy Watanuki is jealous of – to get together and tell ghost stories. I liked the ghost stories. Japanese ghost stories tend to be understated and quietly creepy in a way that appeals to me.

That smoke is still there, by the way. I’ll stop pointing it out, but I do like it. Check out this page – just beautiful.

Right, then. On to volume 3. We get a couple of adventures in this book, one with Watanuki and that guy whose name I can’t remember, and one with a client, of sorts. In the first story, Yuko sends the boys into a school where the students have stirred up spiritual nastiness by playing a game that’s the Japanese equivalent of the Ouija board. Things get dire, but then a huge snake spirit comes along and eats the Ouija-based miasma. Yuko explains that the snake showed up to clean up something that had gotten out of balance in its area, and that none of the spirits are good or evil, even though they were trying to kill our protagonists; good and evil are just concepts assigned by people. Very Buddhist, that. I’m all for it, but I felt like the following story, about a monkey’s paw, spirals a bit out of control itself (but the snake spirit is nowhere to be seen).

In the monkey’s paw story, a blithe young woman is drawn to the witch’s house (by fate, or, more accurately, karma, I think) and asks for a sealed cylinder. Yuko gives it to her on the condition that she Never Open It. Yeah, right. Well, something happens, the cylinder opens, and there it is. Everyone knows a monkey’s paw is bad news, but this woman (I don’t think we find out her name, and I’m running out of steam with these books, so I’m disinclined to go back and check) explains that she’s extremely lucky and always gets what she wants, so she isn’t worried about wishing on the nasty-looking thing. Her first wish is for rain, just to prove it works. There is a sudden downpour, and the next day we find out the consequence – all the water is gone from the school pool! Gasp! Now, I don’t want to go out of my way to be snarky about CLAMP, but this is lame with an almost unbearable lameness. Next, the woman wishes for an antique mirror she’d been trying to talk some shop-owner into selling to her. Poof! The Yata no Kagami, coming up! (I think that’s a Naruto reference. This whole crossover thing is not lighting my fire.) This is a sacred object that represents wisdom and/or honesty. That’s a bit ham-fisted too, but OK. I can live with it, especially after the pool fiasco. Next, the woman wishes for a topic for her upcoming seminar, and she gets a brilliant lesson plan. Now, the way this works, in case you haven’t read a monkey’s paw story, is that a finger breaks after each wish. Five fingers, five wishes. So after this seminar success, she has two wishes left and is really feeling on top of the world. But then she’s late for an important class and thinks, wow, if only there were a HORRIBLE ACCIDENT! Then I could show everyone the police report and I wouldn’t get in trouble! You’re ready for it, right? Yep, the man next to her falls onto the track and is killed by a train. Oh, dear! Maybe this repulsive dead animal part is bad news! A random stranger dies, and then our heroine gets in trouble because the monkey paw actually stole her brilliant lesson plan from somebody else, and she’s been caught. Now she worries she’ll be blamed for the death of the stranger, too, since he was standing next to her. Finally concerned, she unfurls her fifth wish – for the monkey’s paw to make this right. So it strangles her. Move along – nothing to see here.

Well, I thought about this tale a lot more than I should have. I was immensely cheered when the monkey’s paw first made its appearance. I mean, a monkey’s paw! That was going to have to be fun, wasn’t it? But I think CLAMP lost control of the metaphor. Good and evil are relative concepts, we must expect consequences for our actions, and so on. But when the happy-go-ultimately-not-so-lucky lady’s saga is over, Yuko says, “She thought that the disaster that is brought on by breaking a promise would never come down on her head.” That sounds more “gotcha” than I’m comfortable with.

Now, there is a delightful little story at the end of volume 3 that succeeds on all levels. It is my favorite thing in xxxHOLiC, charming in the way I wish the rest of the series were. Watanuki runs across an udon stand run by a fox spirit. (It’s a sweet little joke, as fox spirits are said to like the fried tofu in kitsune udon.) The idea is cute, the foxes are cute, the whole thing is cute. The young fox of the house is drawn to the feathered end of a broken arrow in Watanuki’s bag, and all the foxes are pleased when Watanuki gives it to the kit. If anyone knows what the arrow symbolism is, I’d love to know.

So, I’ve pushed past volume one and through two and three. Am I going to finish the series now, as I am prone to do? No. It’s OK; enjoyable, even, but nothing moves me to read any more of it. This is interesting (to me) because I did read the entire Pet Shop of Horrors series (by Matsuri Akino), which was released starting in June 2003 in the United States and 1996 in Japan. (xxxHOLiC was released starting in 2004 in the United States and 2003 in Japan.) It’s hard not to compare them, although that comparison might actually be fairly random. xxxHOLiC stars a beautiful, playful, flirty, and mysterious figure whose occult significance is obvious but never quite explained and who likes to lounge about wearing sexy Chinese clothes. (Sometimes, anyway. That thing on the cover of volume 2 certainly looks cheongsam-like.) Clients come to her store (albeit not of their free will) to get a wish granted, often much to the wisher’s detriment. Pet Shop of Horrors stars a beautiful, playful, flirty, and mysterious figure whose occult significance is obvious but never quite explained and who also likes to lounge about wearing sexy Chinese clothes. Clients come to his store to buy exotic pets that will, more or less, grant the owner’s wish, often much to the wisher’s detriment. (There are contracts, and the clients break them; that seems very much like the monkey’s paw thing, for instance.) This sexy witch-like figure is a man, but that isn’t a major deviation, believe me. Yuko drinks and flirts and partially falls out of her various improbable outfits, while Count D eats cake and flirts and never seems in danger of falling out of his various improbably outfits, but they do make you wonder. xxxHOLiC wins by a mile in the categories of art and design (and color – I seldom wish with all my heart that an entire manga could be done in color, but I do with this one), but Pet Shop of Horrors wins for storytelling. So sayeth Kinukitty, anyway.

Oh, and one last thought. Perhaps you were wondering how the hell you’re supposed to pronounce “xxxHOLiC.” I found it somewhat vexing, actually. When I thought about it. So, twice. Anyway, Wikipedia comes to the rescue again, explaining that it’s just “holic.” The Xs aren’t letters but multiplication symbols, standing in for crosses, which indicate relationships or crossovers in Japan. The “holic” part seems to be standard usage. As for the weird capitalization, I don’t know. Let’s just ignore it.

_____________
Update by Noah: You can read all posts in the xxxholic roundtable here.

Gluey Tart: Age Called Blue

Posted on by

Age Called Blue, est em, 2009, NetComics

I love est em’s drawing style. I’m also fond of her gently melancholy tone. I usually like my yaoi crazy and sweet, because I can be unhappy and angsty all on my own, thanks. But you can’t eat chocolate all the time – even Kinukitty can’t, although I do dream – and sometimes you want something bitter.

Age Called Blue is about rock stars. I’ve only seen one yaoi manga about rock bands, that I remember, and it was not ideal. (Hard Rock by Akane Abe, which was not hot. Or especially interesting.) This seems like a bizarre omission, since rock stars are a fun, sexy topic, and it’s not like there isn’t a huge music scene in Japan. Ironically, the rock stars in Age Called Blue are British. One of those things, I guess.

No point in worrying about what is lacking just at the moment, though, when there’s such a feast on the table. This is a beautiful, sexy book. It isn’t sexy because it’s a non-stop romp of bawdy ass piratery – not that there’s anything wrong with that – but because it’s about intimacy. There’s sex and nudity, but it isn’t on an epic scale. It does mean something, though. The relationships feel very real, even if the settings are not strictly plausible. (Realistic, yes. Real, no.) There are young men and old men, dreams and betrayals, situations that are messy and wistful. Things fall apart, like things do, and people try, fail, wait, and hope.

The main story arc, about the band, sort of plots the trajectory of a car wreck (metaphorically, although sort of literally, too), although it isn’t told in order. I’m not usually a fan of that sort of thing because it’s kind of hard to get it right, and it can add a level of confusion that isn’t usually necessary, much less helpful. It’s usually better to just tell the damned story and leave evocative to the couple of people who can handle it. Well, est em gives good evocative, it turns out, and the snippets we get, weaving in and out of the timeline and ending with the beginning, really work. It feels like remembering, the way one memory triggers another in an almost random way that isn’t random at all. There’s also a little bonus two-pager at the very end of the book. It’s the sweetest take on a funeral for a friend that I’ve ever seen. The style is stark and looks almost like a wood-block print, and the feeling is stark, too. Not really sad, though. Sometimes that happens with love.

That’s what this story is about. The main characters are a pair of up and coming rockers, the singer and guitar player (of course; that’s sexier than the bass player and drummer, it just is). The singer (Nick) is a charismatic asshole of the sort we’ve all pined after (if we’re lucky) or chased (if we’re less lucky). He drifts through life being all hot and fascinating and hurting everybody. Especially the guitar player (Billy), who actually loves him. I can’t think of a way to really discuss what happens in the story without ruining its revelations, so I’m not going to give any details. I’ll just note that the complications are painful, but the outcome is sweet and even beautiful. The story also focuses on two older men, rock stars who were big years ago but are now past their prime. The interactions and intersections between these four characters is played quietly, but the patterns are pretty.

In the first side story, “I Saw the Blue,” the first encounter between the two lovers (French, this time) takes place when Lucian delivers something to Professor Pascal and throws up in the envelope (after it’s empty, at least). Meeting cute, n’est ce pas? There is a four-star scene where the professor – Michel – pours paint over Lucian’s naked body and tells him to roll around on a piece of paper. Lucian tempts Michel to join him (it doesn’t take much, but the way he does it makes me smile stupidly), and they wind up rolling in the paint together. It turns out that Michel is keeping something very important from Lucian, and the scene in which this is revealed is painful. The last scene, though, is subtly hopeful, not for anything more to come of this relationship, but perhaps for another love to grow.

The final side story, “Ni Pukha Ni Pera,” is extremely improbable, and I was shocked when it ended up being not only an embarrassment to everyone associated with it but actually touching. It’s about a friendship that is obviously so deep as to be a little more (I’ve been listening to the fabulous Flight of the Conchords album, I Told You I Was Freaky, so this reminds me of a bit from their song, “Friends”: “My Uncle John had a special friend/They dressed alike, his name was Ben/I’ve never seen two friends like them/They were very, very friendly men”). Friendship porn is standard stuff, obviously. Except that this friendship starts in 1950s Russia, and what stands between them is one man’s yearning to go into space. As in become a cosmonaut (rather than the “Ground control to Major Tom” way), which he does. This one doesn’t end the way you’d expect it to, either. And I’m also a little bit in love with est em’s wistful old men.

And that’s the book. My understanding is that est em prefers that the Romanized version of her name be all lower case, so I will go with that, even if it makes me start thinking about how not even the rain has such small hands. (That was an e.e. cummings reference, for those of you who hate modern poetry or, perhaps, just e.e. cummings, which is fair enough. Although we are actually supposed to capitalize his name, it turns out, despite what the teachers said in high school. Confusing, isn’t it? Annoying bastard.) est em is Maki Satoh, and her pen name is eso to emu, or S&M.

I found that out while trying to find out something about the translation. Age Called Blue was apparently translated by Netcomic’s Soyoung Jung, who translated Dining Bar Akira, which read a little funny to me. I was curious because est em’s previous book, Red Blinds the Foolish, was translated by Matt Thorne, making it something of a gold standard. And he was “supervising translator” for her first book in English, Seduce Me After the Show. I thought this Publishers Weekly interview snippet with Thorne, “Matt Thorne Returns to Translation”, was interesting:

est em, whose real name is Maki Satoh, is a former student and dear friend of mine. Most artists, including est em, have little input in the exporting of their work. So one day her editor told her, “We’re putting out an English language edition of your first book,” and then months later, she mentions it to me. So I freaked out and said, “Are you serious!? When!? Your work’s too sophisticated to be translated by some hack!” So we asked her editor, and learned that the translation was already done, but the editor asked me if I would check it. I ended up pretty much redoing it. For the second volume, I was in from the beginning.

So obviously I had to go reread Red Blinds the Foolish and Seduce Me After the Show, and then reread Age Called Blue to see how the tone compared. (No wonder I never have time to cook or clean or send out Christmas cards.) Anyway, I didn’t have any problems with Age Called Blue, although I did wonder about the lyrics to the song that resonates throughout the main story. Although, you know – rock song lyrics. Who knows.

I looked through the Amazon.com reviews to see if anyone addressed the translation question. No one did, but I noticed a lot of comments to the effect that est em’s drawing is rough, the stories are raw, and the works are an acquired taste. That makes me shake my head sadly. There is a theory that yaoi fans want nothing but empty-headed stories about 18-year-old pretty boys having explicit sex with other 18-year-old pretty boys. Not that there’s nothing wrong with that – I’m a fan. But I think most people can appreciate a beautiful piece of work like this, regardless of their usual tastes and fetishes.

Gluey Tart: Dining Bar Akira

Posted on by

Dining Bar Akira

Dining Bar Akira, Tomoko Yamashita, 2009, NetComics

I was sold on this title when I saw the cover. That backfires on me sometimes, yes, but sometimes you just know. Look at those grim, sour faces. The threat of violence in the angle of the frying pan and the smears of tomato. The hint of interest and promise of…

The drawing in this volume just blows me away. I love the style, just a little more realistic than the tall, tall, tall, skinny, skinny, skinny, inhumanly pretty boys. These characters are immediately identifiable as men, and the expressions – every shade of volatility, incredulity, and annoyance. The first page tells the whole story.

Dining Bar Akira

Torihara, a part-time worker at Akira’s restaurant, tells Akira he has feelings for him. Both of them are guarded and twitchy and petulant anyway, but Torihara’s news freaks Akira the hell out. This isn’t one of those stories where one party confesses his love and then waits, broken-hearted, until the other party realizes he’s really been in love along, and then everyone embraces as flower petals trail across a splash page. Torihara doesn’t expect Akira to take his declaration well, and he’s not so thrilled about the situation himself. But he’s really irritated about Akira’s reaction and takes every opportunity to show it.

There’s not much story or character development here, but the situation interests and pleases me. Also, I’m just a big fan in general of cranky. These characters are extremely ambivalent about their feelings for each other, and, you know, that happens, sometimes. Even though Torihara started the ball rolling, when he notices that Akira is starting to fall for him, it makes him uneasy. He thinks Akira is a mess and a drunk and kind of an idiot. We can all sympathize, I think. As for Akira – who is a mess and a drunk and definitely an idiot – he wants to be straight, and even if he didn’t, he wouldn’t want to get together with Torihara, who is much younger and also an employee. It is yaoi, though, so they’re doomed. They circle each other, they fight, they give into the sex, they can’t deal with any of the relationship stuff that isn’t sex, they fight, they finally work something out.

Did I mention that they fight? For fully 75% of the book. It’s pretty entertaining – the art, anyway. I’m not crazy about the translation – normally I don’t pay a lot of attention, but I kept getting the feeling that there were colloquialisms that weren’t quite coming across. You know, when the characters are arguing and there’s lots of banter and should-be witty repartee, and you find yourself saying “Huh?” a lot. Also, typos. Come on, people.

There are a couple of short side stories that are equally well-drawn, and also bitchy and adversarial, although nobody’s actually coming to blows. Ah, well. In the first one, “Foggy Scene,” the opening page once again tells you everything you need to know.

Dining Bar Akira

“I think my contacts are gonna fall out” really did it for me. The premise of this story is slightly twisted in a way I find endearing. Yatsue is a high school student who has is in love with his best friend, who isn’t interested, so he drowns his sorrows in a fling with an older man he meets at a club (and lie about his age to). Because every detail is incredibly realistic, said fling shows up at school the next day as the new teacher, Isai. Yatusue pursues the teacher, not because he’s in love with him, but because he can’t have his friend, and he wants someone to want him. I won’t ruin the ending for you – it’s interesting and ambiguous.

In the last story, “Riverside Moonlight” – it’s just a few pages, so more of a vignette, really – Minamida is freaking out because he’s just had a wet dream about an ugly guy he works with. Again, we’ve all been there. Actually, the guy doesn’t look bad – more of a bear than a troll. But Minamida obviously isn’t usually into bears. Just takes one, though.

I think it’s worth looking through this book just for the art. It made me stop, over and over, to analyze the nuances of expression after expression. And if you like your yaoi touchy, ill-tempered, and cross, with a twist of twisty, I think you’ll be into it. I was so enamored I ran straight to Amazon and ordered Black-Winged Love, Yamashita’s other manga that’s available in English. (Dining Bar Akira came out in August, and Black-Winged Love, October. Huh. Nothing useful to say about that – just, huh.) You might be hearing more about that later.

Dining Bar Akira

Gluey Tart: eManporn on Kindle

Posted on by

I don’t have an iPod. My cell phone is powered by Babbage’s difference engine, and I only got a laptop last year. I don’t even have a digital watch. I am not technologically advanced. I am somewhat technologically reclined. And napping. But trainable, if it’s something I really want.

Which leads to the Kindle. I received one as a holiday gift, and it is one of my favorite toys ever, up there with my MacBook and my Hitatchi Magic Wand. The Kindle is an expensive toy – $259, plus another $30 for the leather folder thing that keeps it from getting all mucked up in your purse – and it does not multitask to any great degree. But it is admirably suited to my yaoi reading.

The thing that might make me the happiest about the Kindle is kind of shallow (quelle surprise), but here goes. Believe it or not, Kinukitty is not a completely shameless creature. Largely shameless, yes. But not without shame entirely. And I must tell you that sitting on the train with a sleek white tablet in a plain black leather sleeve (oooh, that does sound kind of exciting, doesn’t it?) feels more dignified than sitting on the train with a book that has two shirtless, muscular, waxed and well-oiled men twined against each other like the Lacoön Group , but, you know, suggestively. Ditto sitting at my desk at work (during lunch or some other officially sanctioned break period, of course). I could be reading anything. Something important and edifying. No one has to know it’s “Butt Boys from Outer Space: Blasting into Uranus.”

I also read a lot of fan fiction. A lot, a lot. And most of my reading is done on the train, going to and from work, or at work. I don’t want to carry my laptop, and I’m certainly not going to access this stuff on my work computer. In the prehistoric past – PK, or pre-Kindle – I dealt with this problem by copying the stories into Word files and printing them out. Many of these things are hundreds of pages long. That’s a lot of paper and toner, and one grows weary of dealing with all those damned stacks of paper – I have them all over the place. They are messy and unsightly and topple over occasionally, probably presenting some sort of safety hazard (unlike anything else chez Kinukitty). Now, I can put these stories on my Kindle. (As long as they aren’t PDFs – Kindle doesn’t exactly support PDF files. I just added one, and oy vey, yeesh, and Jesus Christ. The type is wee, tiny, and exasperating. I don’t know if I could have read it ten years ago, but I can’t read it now.) I can have as many stories as I want, without carrying around a file cabinet and using up untold tons of toner cartridges and reams of paper. The $259 Kindle device is saving me money! Since I didn’t pay for it. If I had, however, this feature alone would pay for itself in, um, about 13,500 pages, give or take a printer drum. Economical!

Right, then. On to the books. Not everything is available for Kindle, and it requires a serious commitment to Amazon.com. If you’re not a fan, or baby, baby, you’ve got to ramble, this is a deal-breaker. (Assuming the $259 wasn’t.) I have already checked out a good percentage of the yaoi and gay novels available for Kindle. It looks like the supply will more than keep up with me, but you could hit the wall as far as supply (possibly even if you read novels that don’t feature or at least allude to manporn).

On the plus side, you can download the first two or so chapters of any Kindle book for free, allowing you to make an informed buying decision. I love, love, love this feature. The book might sound good, and eight people might have given it five stars for reasons that seemed perfectly valid to them, but I want to know if it’s the kind of thing that pushes my buttons (in a good way) and if the writing isn’t so bad it makes me shake like a wet dog. (Just to be clear, this is in no way a problem that afflicts yaoi and gay novels any more than any other category.) I’m willing to go there, by the way, to a certain extent, if the story is good and the writing isn’t too bad, but I do feel better about paying $5 for an e-copy of a not-great book than $15 or more for a hard copy. (Ditto for anything that’s riddled with typos and editing stupidity, a problem that plagues a surprising number of titles now, from romance to literary fiction, even from the biggest publishers.)

There are also manporn novels that are only available for Kindle. When I first started noticing these, I became jealous and acquisitive. There are many yaoi and gay novels I haven’t read yet, but no matter – I could if I wanted to. You know? I wasn’t being actively thwarted. Now that I have access, though, I can think about considerations other than being book-blocked. Some of these things cost $10, and that’s wrong. Most of the volumes that are also available as printed books average about $5, and that’s about what I feel comfortable paying for something I don’t really get to own. Because you don’t own it. If Amazon pulls the title – which has happened – “your” book will disappear from your Kindle the next time you access the Amazon Web site.

But I do appreciate the overall comfort factor. I have always been the sort of person who worries about running out of things to read. On business trips, I choose to wear the same suit for three days so I can get another book into my suitcase, just in case I need it. I get antsy when I’m nearing the end of a book, too. What if I finish it on my morning train ride? What will I read on my evening train ride? (Welcome to the mind of Kinukitty. Please sign the guest book on your way out.) This will never happen to me again (assuming I can remember to keep the thing charged, which is hardly a given – in fact, I have already failed, in less than two weeks of Kindle ownership, but hope, like disgust, springs eternal) because I can store 1,500 books on the Kindle, and if I read all those, I can use Kindle to check in with the Amazon mother ship (anywhere there’s cell phone coverage) and buy more. You make your selection and they send it within a minute. I cannot tell you how comforting I find all this. Really. Although I do have a caveat. Many people appreciate suspense, but I am not one of them. At the first hint of suspense, I flip ahead to see what’s going to happen, and then I go back and actually read the book. The Kindle does not really encourage this sort of behavior. In fact, the Kindle makes it pretty much impossible. It takes about three screens to read a page, I think (I haven’t done the math, but that’s my sense of things), and there’s no way to flip through to the end easily. At times, this feels like not having a left hand or something. I’ll probably manage, though.

I could tell you more about the Kindle, believe it or not – there’s an on-board dictionary! – but I am not without pity, either. And, in an attempt to actually be useful, I will mention a couple of novels I think the Kindle-having yaoi lover should check out: Zero at the Bone, by Jane Seville, and the annoyingly named St. Nacho’s by Z.A. Maxfield. (Although both are available in print, I think.) I also got sucked into a vampire novel (ha! good one, right?) by Z.A. Maxfield, called Notturno, and it looks pretty good, but I’ve only read the two sample chapters. I bought it, though. Same with HaveMercy by Danielle Bennett and Jaia Jones. I can see both of those going horribly wrong in the next chapter or two, but, you know, you can’t win if you don’t play. (Forget about manga, though – it’s available on Kindle, but it shouldn’t be. Holy bifocals, Batman, that’s a small screen for a full page of art. To say nothing of the type – I don’t know who the hell could read that. Just – no.) (Did I download a manga, just to check? Of course I did. It’s like you don’t even know me.)

My general feeling about this whole thing is that the Kindle is cool and well designed but, really, $259? Are you freaking kidding? Nobody needs a portable reading device. (I think just about anybody would agree with me here, but I have to mention that I felt the same way about CD players for the first, oh, ten years.) But if someone asks if you’d like one for Christmas? Say yes.

Ghost World, A Slight Return

Posted on by

I have more to say about Ghost World? I’m surprised, too. It’s all the discussion about whether Enid seems like a real teenage girl or not, and what that means.

You know, people have compared me to Enid since this damned book came out. (McBangle mentioned a similar dilemma in a comment on my original Ghost World post.) I don’t know how many people have started talking to me about it, assuming I must love it, or asked me if they should read it, assuming I must love it, or shared their love of it, assuming I must love it. Everyone is surprised to find out that I don’t love it. I will admit that, as a result, I have a bit of a thing about Ghost World. It makes me touchy. Not touchy as in feely, but touchy as in “Fuck you, you people who think I’m Enid.”

My reaction is a kind of horror, wondering what the hell it is about me that makes people come to this conclusion. Without delving too deeply into the psychology of Kinukitty (because nobody wants that, least of all Kinukitty), I will say that people tend to prefer not being translated into shorthand. I prefer that others at least keep up the social convention of pretending that I am an individual and not the edgy, sarcastic girl dork, perfectly symbolized by Enid and therefore requiring no additional analysis. Yes, yes, this is a bit of an overreaction AND a bit of an oversimplification, yadda yadda. The thing about stereotyping isn’t that it doesn’t tell any truth, though, but that the truth it leaves out is likely to be the really important bit. To the stereotype-ee, at the very least.

I think this speaks to the integrity of the character and thus the storytelling. Others may disagree (and do, in fact), but for me, the point of fiction is to do the opposite of fixing a stereotype. I think the point of fiction is to unveil subtleties and nuances and allow the reader to understand something about a character or situation. It really bothers me when the peaks and crannies go unexplored, as it were. (And, given the sexual aspect of the recent discussion, eewwwww – sorry.) I was about to tie that into how unpleasant it is in real life, too, but the peaks and crannies thing has killed my will to go there.

Gluey Tart: Ghost World Roundtable

Posted on by

We Hooded Utilitarians agreed to do a roundtable on Ghost World weeks ago. Months, maybe. As if I’d keep track of something like that. The point is that I now have to write something, and I don’t want to.

I don’t like Ghost World, but that isn’t the reason I don’t want to write about it – as everyone knows, few things are more enjoyable than climbing up on the old soap box and bursting forth with a bell-like chorus of disgust or, ideally, righteous indignation. Or, to put a finer point on it, I like to vent. I like to read the venting of others, so long as a certain level of intellectual rigor is maintained. I am comfortable with the negative.

The problem is not that I dislike Ghost World, but that Ghost World makes my stomach hurt. It gives me an icky, slimy feeling. I find it annoying, repulsive, and kind of boring, in more or less that order. It is also ugly, really grindingly ugly.

But not accidentally ugly. This is an important note, albeit a side note, for me. Ghost World intends to be ugly and repulsive. It aims high, and it succeeds. So we will pause to acknowledge this. It is also supposed to be hip and funny and, you know, real, man, and in those areas, I think it fails miserably. Well, I guess it is hip, actually. If hipsters say it’s hip, that makes it hip, by definition. Who am I to argue? I’m willing to give the world at large that point.

What Ghost World is not, however, is funny or real, in the sense of creating characters that seem like fully fleshed human beings. You know, as in real. The supposed humor of this book escapes me completely. I am not a dour and humorless person, by the way. (Just the other day I watched the first six episodes of “Big Bang Theory” and I laughed and laughed. Johnny Galecki! So geekalicious!) Nor am I a Puritan or someone who is too old and uptight to get it. I write porn, for Christ’s sake (well, not for Christ’s sake, obviously) (or not, I guess, but no, it really isn’t), and I was more or less the target audience for Ghost World when it was created. I felt the same way about it then. I pulled it off the shelf in 1997-ish – I have always been willing to consume that which is marketed to me – and I read the first couple of stories, flipped through the rest, skimming dispiritedly, and put the book the hell down, wanting nothing else to do with it.

And that’s pretty much exactly what happened when I tried to read Ghost World again last week. (Hey, I do research. I may not have a real name, but I do have standards.) The main issue, or me, is that I do not recognize the main characters. I don’t recognize them as high school girls, but that is probably secondary to the fact that I don’t even recognize them as human. They are not so much characters as collections of anecdotes that are intended to be cool and ironic. Makes the whole thing fall kind of flat. Here’s the thing. I understand that I might not be quite the right sort of person for this book – I might not have exactly the right background to really feel the characters. Except that a) I should be, and b) it shouldn’t matter. I was a disaffected, oddly dressed and coiffed, shockingly acerbic teenage girl through much of the eighties. I was “edgy.” (God, I hate that word.) So, there’s that. But, whatever. I don’t think it matters. I have managed to appreciate stories about assassins and pirates and brooding nineteenth-century English nobles trundling bleakly across the moors, and I have very little practical experience with any of that. If the characters are well-written, I can work with it. They don’t even have to be human. Dog POV? Panther? Bring it on. Enid? Not so much.

In fact, my major reaction to Enid is WTF? I mean, some of the details ring a bell. We’ve all slept with gross losers for reasons that were, and remain, fairly obscure to everyone. And who doesn’t enjoy Satanist-spotting? A while back, I was partaking of a high-fat Indian buffet with a friend, and we noticed the people at the next table were doing an interview for a music magazine. The reporter said – quietly, gently – “It must be hard for you sometimes.” And the metal guy, who was eating samosas double-fisted, as if the reporter was perhaps buying lunch, said, “Yeah, man. It’s hard to be a Satanist at Christmas.” Golden, right? See, I have random things in common with Enid, but she never gels as an actual character for me. Dan Clowes might or might not be pleased to know that Enid and Rebecca remind me a little of the tertiary disaffected youth characters in Lost Souls (who probably have names but are only there for atmosphere so no way in hell am I looking it up). I’m referring to Poppy Z. Brite’s vampire book. I know what that means to me, but I’ll let you make of it what you will.

Here is when I should tie everything together and, ideally, make a point of some kind. Cicero’s rules for rhetoric demand it, and you, having followed me this far, deserve it. Sorry about that. I’ve shot my wad. I think Ghost World is unpleasant in a way that winds up being pointless because there’s no there there (since I’m referencing the classics). I don’t mind rolling in the gutter, but I want to get something out of it. Understanding. Comfort. Titillation. Something. I get none of that from Ghost World. All I get is irony, and straight irony, not even chased with Diet Coke, just kind of makes me feel dirty (not in a good way) and irritated. I do look forward to reading the posts about why people like Ghost World. And, even more, I look forward to not thinking about Ghost World again for another twelve years.

Update by Noah: The entire Ghost World Roundtable is here.

Gluey Tart: The Wallflower

Posted on by

The Wallflower, Tomoko Hayakawa, Del Ray

I’ve been following this series for a long time – I started with the first volume in 2004. I have all 21 volumes out so far (the run is 24), although I stalled out somewhere in there and I’ve only read 1-16. This has caused me mild anxiety. “But why, Kinukitty?” I hear you asking. “Please, tell us all about it, no matter how boring!” Well, how nice of you. I think I will.

When I fall in love, I become irrational. As I finish each volume of a manga, the specter of having to wait several months for the next one makes me twitch and yell out random obscenities and become despondent and stuff. Cue the irrational hoarding behavior. I try to wait until I’ve accumulated three or four volumes before I’ll start reading again, trying to, I don’t know, concentrate the anxiety. Or minimize the bouts of insanity. This strategy plays out in various ways. Sometimes I forget the series exists for six months at a time, which is perfect. Then I buy the last three volumes, read them in one big, happy wallow, and the cycle repeats. Sometimes I fall out of love with the series and decide I’d rather eat pocket lint than finish it. This usually happens only when I’ve actually bought several volumes in advance. But sometimes, when I really, really, really love a series, I just won’t let myself read it for, like, a year, hoping to completely forget about it for so long that eons will have passed by the time I think of it again, and all the volumes will be available, and I can sit down and read them in one long, orgasmic orgy of happiness and completion.

And that, gentle reader, is my situation with The Wallflower. I keep buying each new volume as it comes out because I’m deeply afraid they will disappear from the face of the earth in the interim and I won’t even be able to buy them used and then I’ll die. But, at the same time, I pretend I don’t know the series exists, because I’m not ready to break down and start reading it again. This is where a genuine case of multiple personality disorder would be helpful. Every time I buy a new volume and add it to the stack, I’m in danger of upsetting the delicate “balance” I’ve established.

Which is what happened with volume 21. I’d been holding out on actually reading Wallflower since volume 12 – released in, holy shit, June 2007! That’s a lot of holding out. I am amazing! (Ahem.) But it’s all over. I fell off the wagon. I just read volumes 13-16, and I will be mowing through 17, 18, etc. until I finish them all. Don’t get in my way; you might lose a finger.

After finishing volume 16, I decided I must write about The Wallflower. No, I really must. But I also felt strongly that I should wait until I’ve caught up. And it will take me a little while to read the next five, since I’m really quite busy working in soup kitchens and advocating for world peace and getting my health-care plan passed and such. Oh, wait. That’s not my life at all. What the hell am I spending all my time doing? My house is a mess, I haven’t cooked since 1997, and all my clothes are stained or rumpled. Sometimes both. (I do have some very cool shoes, though.) Well, it’s a mystery, although I suppose the damned job might factor into it. At any rate, it’ll take me a while to finish five more volumes of this manga, and Gluey Tart the column waits for no man or woman, not even Gluey Tart the person. Content! The Internet demands content!

I worried, at first, that it would be wrong to just write about it without reading all the volumes. But then I thought about the 16 I’ve read, and I decided – as I so often do – oh, fuck it. In fact, that’s sort of my personal motto. The truth is, it just doesn’t matter where I am in the series. Volume 16, volume 21 – it doesn’t matter. This is an episodic comedy, not a linear narrative. And there are not, shall we say, huge deviations in plot along the way. There is a certain sameness. We’re good. It’s fine.

Let’s talk about the plot, then, such as it is. The main character is Sunako, who is described as Goth. It would be tremendously geeky and pedantic of me to point out the reasons why she isn’t really Goth, so I’ll try to restrain myself. She’s something like Goth. She likes to stay in her dark room, which is decorated with skulls and anatomical figures and skeletons and stuff, and her favorite thing to do – besides cooking – is shut herself in her room – in the dark – and watch horror and slasher films – with the anatomical figures and skeletons. Which all have names. Sunako’s appearance is terrifying to others, and when she isn’t drawn as a sort of hyper-deformed dumpling, she looks like the girl from Ringu. She lives with four hot young men, whom she refers to as “creatures of light.” She is, obviously, magnificent.

The foundation joke is that Sunako’s aunt, a fabulously gorgeous and wealthy jet-setter, has promised the four beautiful boys free rent in her opulent mansion, where they live with Sunako, if they can turn Sunako into a lady. Which is, as they say, not bloody likely. Hi-jinks ensue, and after ten volumes or so, Hayakawa reveals herself to be an irrepressible cock tease. We are all but promised that Sunako will get together with Kyohei, and maybe it will actually happen by the end of the series, but I’m not holding my breath. Their weird little romance plays out sweetly, though, so I’m happy enough. More on that in a bit, though. (Their romance, not my happiness, which might, possibly, not be your primary concern or interest. Strange as that sounds.)

Throughout the series, the boys cook up stupid plans to lady-ify Sunako, and through the unbeatable forces of her indomitable will, kick-ass martial arts skills, and breath-taking craziness, everything goes wrong and one or more parties often needs to be rescued. Sunako does about as much rescuing of the boys as vice versa, so I’m fine with that. This is all complicated by the epic attractiveness of the boys, who are basically being chased through life by crazed, rabid fan girls from all over the country. They are very pretty prettyboys, drawn to look like Hayakawa’s favorite musicians. (Most of her filler notes are about the bands she loves fanatically, and these are really charming.) (The rest are about her cat.) The boys spend a lot of time posing provocatively, getting their clothes torn off, and/or suddenly indulging in inexplicable bouts of cosplay. Which is kind of awesome. If I were drawing volume after volume of beautiful boys over and over, I’d throw them into weird, sexy costumes for no reason, too. I mean, why wouldn’t you?

OK, back to that romance. It is a very low-key romance, but it pleases me immeasurably. Every once in a while something goes amazingly wrong and ends up with Sunako and Kyohei holding hands and staring into each others’ eyes. And then her nose spurts blood and she runs away and he stares at her in horror. Occasionally Kyohei’s actions betray him and it is momentarily apparent that he has feelings for Sunako, but mostly not so much. He’s a tough-guy (a tough-guy prettyboy), and mostly he’s blunt and disinterested and kind of selfish. Sort of like Sunako. They get along in unexpected ways.

Here’s an example, from volume 16. Sunako’s aunt sequesters Sunako and the four boys in a secluded cabin to protect them (the boys) from crazed girls on Valentine’s Day. The plan backfires that night, though, when they find themselves all alone in a deserted cabin, and there’s something in the woods. It’s one of the horror movie set-ups Hayakawa loves to play with. Well, the something in the woods is a terrifying horde of girls intent on giving chocolate to the boys – and tearing their clothes off. Sunako uses the frenzy to gather up all the chocolate for herself, and at the beginning of the next episode, she’s gained twenty pounds.

Something must be done because Sunako’s aunt has invited her to a party to meet a prince, so the boys enlist help to remove Sunako from the dark room with the candy boxes and get her to run off the extra weight. She gets really, really into it, and the boys think they’ve finally gotten her interested in her appearance. The truth, of course, is that after a few workouts she begins to see muscle development, and that makes her yearn to further develop her muscles – so she can look like the anatomical chart of the human musculature system and finally fit in better with her anatomical dolls and skeleton.

She becomes completely obsessed with this project. At one point, she’s gazing longingly at a lobster and thinking, “This lobster’s legs are so thin and hard… Crustaceans are so lucky…” Then, thinking about how poorly defined she looks in comparison, she gets upset and cracks two lobsters open with her bare hands. Koyhei finds this very impressive and starts helping her train more intensely. She explains to him (after crawling over him and running her hands longingly over his wiry chest and shoulders) that she wants to look just like him. At the end of the episode, Sunako shows up at the party with a body so buff it’s terrifying to behold, and she arm-wrestles with the prince, throwing him to the ground. (To get her to go to the party, Koyhei told Sunako the prince was an arm-wrestling champion who wanted to challenge her. What else would he say?) It all ends well – Sunako loses interest in fitness and goes back to eating chips while watching horror movies with her plastic friends, and it turns out that the prince had liked being wrestled to the floor. A lot.

And that is a pretty typical Wallflower plot. There are those who are driven mad by the glacial pace at which Sunako and Koyhei are getting together, but a conventional courtship isn’t right for these unconventional characters. Hayakawa obviously loves them, and the rest of her cast, and she celebrates their eccentricities and their individuality. It’s a sweet story that heals some of my high school trauma every time I read it. And even though I’ve invested more than $200 in the series so far, that’s still a lot cheaper than therapy.