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Gosh had sold out of the issue of Captain America where he dies by lunchtime, apparently. And that limiting people to two copies each, maximum. Part of me wishes the would-be speculators could have been given their head; I love the rare occasions when bad form really is its own punishment. I was in there for 12 comics, but Cap wasn't one of them; it's sad that so few of the people lured there by the chance to be in some indefinable way Part Of The News would have thought to pick up The Authority or Phonogram or newuniversal as well or instead.
Avril Lavigne's 'Girlfriend' achieves the hitherto unthinkable in being more fundamentally repugnant than 'Sk8r Boi', a song which has much the same effect on me as watching two spiders fighting. At least the earlier song, in its clueless way, was trying to manufacture an outsider, placing Lavingne as the rebel done good. But this...lyrically, it's Pussycat Dolls' 'Dontcha' but naffer (whether the description of the rival as "so whatever" is intended ironically or not, it's painful). And the video, with no apparent attempt at ambiguity, shows Lavigne and her cronies bullying the geeky girl whose boyfriend she wants to steal. And this is being held up as cool, by an act I'd thought aimed at the victims rather than the bullies? Quite appalling. I caught this monstrosity on E4 while setting the video; before and after I was listening to the Indelicates' 'We Hate The Kids'. Chance juxtaposition though this was, you couldn't hope for a better illustration of the Indelicates' argument that pop has gone irretrievably rotten, become just another arm of the voracious amoeba that is the Spectacle.
But what's worst of all is that the conclave of mad scientists who must be behind the whole 'Avril Lavigne' project have succeeded in making this one rather catchy.
The Court of the Caliphs is a bittersweet reminder of a time before the Mongols ruined everything, when the muslim world was arguably winning the civilisation game (if I had the misfortune to find myself in the late eighth century, the Middle East would be one of the more tempting neighbourhoods - certainly a long way ahead of Western Europe or Britain). Even the jihad against the infidel as practised then seems more like an annual promenade, engaged in with passion but no real animosity; at worst it was the era's footballism. There is the strangely familiar period where a civil war leaves Iraq prey to lawlessness, kidnapping and general devastation (though all without a Westerner or Zionist in sight), but that aside it's mostly wine, (harem) women and song.
Perhaps the most interesting section is that on Harun al-Rashid, the caliph made famous by the Arabian Nights. Turns out those tales don't really gel with history as we now know it, not even as exaggerations thereof. His adventures and ceaseless wonder among the exotic secrets of Baghdad? He didn't care for the city, and made several half-hearted efforts to build an alternative capital. His sidekick Jafar? Well, Jafar was the treasured vizier for much of his reign, it's true - but Haroun ends up having him brutally executed and posthumously dishonoured for no very clear reason. Despite his renown, Haroun's whole reign comes across as a series of false starts, mis-steps and thwarted efforts.
Which sets me thinking of Neil Gaiman's take on Haroun in the Sandman story 'Ramadan', where Haroun sells the magnificent Baghdad of the tales to the King of Dreams, in order that it might live forever. Assuming that Gaiman knew the historical version as well as the 1001 Nights (which I think fair, for he does seem to know almost everything) then this gives the story another layer. For when the deal is concluded, and Haroun wakes in the shabbiness of the real Baghdad...well, if you found yourself in the mundane shadow of the glorious, fabled city you once had, you'd want to get away from it, wouldn't you? And if your loyal companion, the sort heroes have, was suddenly replaced with a flawed human who nonetheless had his name and a certain coarse resemblance - you might well come to find yourself angered by him in a way that didn't make sense to the outside observer. So as well as a tribute to the Arabian Nights in particular and the power of legend in general, Gaiman's written an explanation for the rather dispirited reign of the factual Haroun.
So, in the absence of B-Movie, what's going on this Friday night? Or shall I just have a QNI and be up bright and early for the Tubewalks (start: Cally Road, 2pm)?
Avril Lavigne's 'Girlfriend' achieves the hitherto unthinkable in being more fundamentally repugnant than 'Sk8r Boi', a song which has much the same effect on me as watching two spiders fighting. At least the earlier song, in its clueless way, was trying to manufacture an outsider, placing Lavingne as the rebel done good. But this...lyrically, it's Pussycat Dolls' 'Dontcha' but naffer (whether the description of the rival as "so whatever" is intended ironically or not, it's painful). And the video, with no apparent attempt at ambiguity, shows Lavigne and her cronies bullying the geeky girl whose boyfriend she wants to steal. And this is being held up as cool, by an act I'd thought aimed at the victims rather than the bullies? Quite appalling. I caught this monstrosity on E4 while setting the video; before and after I was listening to the Indelicates' 'We Hate The Kids'. Chance juxtaposition though this was, you couldn't hope for a better illustration of the Indelicates' argument that pop has gone irretrievably rotten, become just another arm of the voracious amoeba that is the Spectacle.
But what's worst of all is that the conclave of mad scientists who must be behind the whole 'Avril Lavigne' project have succeeded in making this one rather catchy.
The Court of the Caliphs is a bittersweet reminder of a time before the Mongols ruined everything, when the muslim world was arguably winning the civilisation game (if I had the misfortune to find myself in the late eighth century, the Middle East would be one of the more tempting neighbourhoods - certainly a long way ahead of Western Europe or Britain). Even the jihad against the infidel as practised then seems more like an annual promenade, engaged in with passion but no real animosity; at worst it was the era's footballism. There is the strangely familiar period where a civil war leaves Iraq prey to lawlessness, kidnapping and general devastation (though all without a Westerner or Zionist in sight), but that aside it's mostly wine, (harem) women and song.
Perhaps the most interesting section is that on Harun al-Rashid, the caliph made famous by the Arabian Nights. Turns out those tales don't really gel with history as we now know it, not even as exaggerations thereof. His adventures and ceaseless wonder among the exotic secrets of Baghdad? He didn't care for the city, and made several half-hearted efforts to build an alternative capital. His sidekick Jafar? Well, Jafar was the treasured vizier for much of his reign, it's true - but Haroun ends up having him brutally executed and posthumously dishonoured for no very clear reason. Despite his renown, Haroun's whole reign comes across as a series of false starts, mis-steps and thwarted efforts.
Which sets me thinking of Neil Gaiman's take on Haroun in the Sandman story 'Ramadan', where Haroun sells the magnificent Baghdad of the tales to the King of Dreams, in order that it might live forever. Assuming that Gaiman knew the historical version as well as the 1001 Nights (which I think fair, for he does seem to know almost everything) then this gives the story another layer. For when the deal is concluded, and Haroun wakes in the shabbiness of the real Baghdad...well, if you found yourself in the mundane shadow of the glorious, fabled city you once had, you'd want to get away from it, wouldn't you? And if your loyal companion, the sort heroes have, was suddenly replaced with a flawed human who nonetheless had his name and a certain coarse resemblance - you might well come to find yourself angered by him in a way that didn't make sense to the outside observer. So as well as a tribute to the Arabian Nights in particular and the power of legend in general, Gaiman's written an explanation for the rather dispirited reign of the factual Haroun.
So, in the absence of B-Movie, what's going on this Friday night? Or shall I just have a QNI and be up bright and early for the Tubewalks (start: Cally Road, 2pm)?
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