Goodbye, Terry.

It looks like we lost a great writer as Terry Pratchett met his creation today.

It feels like losing a friend. I never met the man, but the grief was real and genuine. The last time a stranger died and I felt this was was about a decade ago when we lost Vonnegut. There's no way to really classify the loss of the potential joy that you would have had. There's also the weird enjoyment of new discoveries of the posthumous works. But those are never the same, and cannot be enjoyed in the same light.

On the other hand, the authors that we spend so much time with are strangers and they are not, a weird dual both / and and neither / nor position at the same time that takes quantum phyiscs to explain, and even then we all know we're bullshitting ourselves.

So mourn the loss, yet rejoice that we are here to mourn.

On "Blacksad: Amarillo"

I like graphic novels. They’re quick to read and they’re very visual, so it is a qualitatively different reading experience compared to a plain text book. But they also can use the form and structure of the page and the order of the panels and the text to shape the story, so they’re not like any other purely visual medium. I just don’t like paying for graphic novels, since they usually cost more than a text-based book and they are so quick and easy to read the ROI is pretty low.

                That’s why I like to hit up my local library to dig what’s new in the graphic novel scene. I also am not a fan of series with an endless number of books so that there is not a good way to get acquainted with the world if you weren’t there at the beginning. Maybe I’m picky. But anyways, not liking the series and eschewing the super-hero genre sort of limits what I can read.

                So I was excited when I picked up this book. I flipped around it and I didn’t see any indication that it was part of a series. All I saw was some names that popped out at me. Printed by Darkhorse Books, “Winner of the Eisner and Harvey awards for best international material”! So I started reading it, and to my chagrin there’s back-story I’m missing. There’s the titular character, an anthropomorphic black cat who is like a private eye, and he gets a random offer to drive a car somewhere. Some bad stuff happens and he’s perused by these couple of FBI agents who seem to have some previous animus towards our hero. If you pick this book up first you have no idea why.

                Again, I’m being picky. The book largely holds up by itself. It is after all a hard-boiled detective novel with Disney-like anthropomorphic characters standing in for the people. It is well told and visually appealing, so there is a lot going for it. You just need to read them in order.

On Existentialism the Musical: a book by Derek Zanetti

I first saw Derek Zanetti performing under his nom de guerre as a singer/songwriter. He calls himself “The Homeless Gospel Choir”. I wasn’t at the show to see his band. He was the second of four bands, and I had left my wife at the rail so I could use the restroom and get a beer because I knew that after the second act, there would be no leaving that spot.

I came back with a full Fosters and confused about where the rest of the Gospel Choir was. There was this guy with a guitar.

But this guy with a guitar was all I needed. He sang these songs that I had never heard before. A couple of his songs made me cry, because he was so earnest and funny and just commanded the stage as he sang his protest songs. He spoke of the book he wrote. This book. He hawked it from the stage and said that his wife would kill him if any remained when he went back to Pittsburgh.

I didn’t want his wife to kill him, so I bought the book. He was at the merch booth and I shook his hand and thanked him for his set. He even signed a copy for me.

So this book isn’t in the guise of “The Homeless Gospel Choir,” instead it drops the façade of the clever name and lets the author just be Derek. In it there are stories that are poems and poems that are stories that cover the mundane every-day world, but Zanetti has a heart that makes the stories sing. I cannot separate my reading of them with my experience in first seeing him and buying his book, but I don’t have to. His art transcends the page and the stage, and those little protest songs won him a fan. I hope he keeps winning them.