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I Got Rid Of My Old Television

12 Apr

We moved into a nice, affordable two-bedroom apartment at the beginning of 2003, coinciding with the departure of a downstairs neighbor about a month later. He was not vacating his studio apartment voluntarily, mind you, but at the firm, legal request of our mutual landlady. He hadn’t paid rent. In a while. Presumably cash-strapped, he offered to sell his lightly-used, practically brand new Samsung high-definition television–at less than half of its original price, to boot. This was too good of an opportunity to pass up. Though we, ourselves, were light on loot at the time, having just moved and all, we scraped together the five-hundred bucks our neighbor wanted for the television and a shitty TV stand that looked half put-together. We were satisfied in the feeling of having come out ahead in this particular transaction.

Until we tried to move the thing upstairs.


This television weighed four-hundred pounds, if it weighed an ounce. Why such a television would be made for the home consumer, considering it required a pair of professional weightlifters to move it, beggars explanation. Compounding the problem of relocating this appliance to our apartment was the fact that it had been designed by some Lovecraftian aficionado well-versed in non-Euclidean geometry, for though it seemed to have a number of corners and crevices, the television could not be accurately gripped or held by any being with an outstretched span less than that of an orangutan. We moved the television upstairs, step by step, taking frequent breaks to pant and curse. Several times, I considered giving up, leaving the television on the stairs, and navigating around it when entering or exiting the apartment. But we got the thing up to the second floor and somehow–I do not remember how–perched it atop its accompanying television stand.


A couple of years later, our pairing parted ways and we divvied up our belongings. I gave her my older television, a second-hand tube set with roughly a thirty-five inch screen. I took what I believed to be the better, newer television. And so began seven years of lugging this terrible behemoth from apartment to apartment, anxiously worrying whenever tasked to budge it, expelling deep relief once I’d secured it in a location from where it would not need to be shifted again, at least for a while. I actually moved only three times since 2004, which is relatively stable for dwelling in New York City. Twice, I hired movers, once I moved myself with the help of a very strong friend. Each time, the Samsung television needed to be moved, and each time it presented the biggest problems. The television became a proverbial elephant in the room, and weighed about as much by my estimation.


Over time, the television’s other limitations surfaced. For one, I had lost or had never received a remote control. More importantly, though this television claimed to have high-definition resolution, it simply did not. I don’t know if the meaning of high-definition changed from the early part of the century, or if it was a bold-faced lie, but the very year we got our massive television, I got a high-definition cable box and invited a bunch of people over to watch the Super Bowl. The total lack of a crystal clear picture was obvious and immediate, and we ultimately switched back to regular digital television before the second half started. More recently, since most newer programs are broadcast in widescreen, I was missing the extreme left and right of my picture. It was screwing up my Netflix and Hulu menus and generally soured my television addiction. Watching that Samsung television in recent years was probably akin to a junkie on methadone: it does the job, but it’s not quite the same as the uncut dope. So, I endeavored to get a new television.


Of course, the new TV is almost twice as large, screen-wise, but weighs one-fifth of the Samsung. I shoved the Samsung into a corner while setting up the new appliance, and it stayed there a week. “How are you going to get rid of it?” my knowledgeable friends and family asked. “When do you want to move the old TV?” my girlfriend gently prodded. I despaired. I didn’t know how to get rid of this television. People suggested I advertise it on craigslist, but since the thing could only be moved by two or more stalwart lumberjacks, I envisioned a stream of people trampling through my house to look at this pig in a poke, rightly decide that they couldn’t budge it, and exiting only to leave me with the monstrosity and the dirty feeling of having a stranger judge me for my Batman comics collection. I considered taking the television apart and disposing of it in pieces, but a friend advised against this as a substantial charge can remain within the recesses of older television sets. I worried, I fretted. I tried to ignore this gigantic television lying dormant right next to my seat on the couch. “Maybe I can pass it off as sculpture,” I pondered. I wondered how much trouble I’d get into for shoving the television off of my balcony, and even how I would shlep the thing four measly feet to do that much.


Then, in a fit of hopeless exuberance, my girlfriend and I got rid of it. How we did it is not important, and I don’t know that I could even describe it. The important thing is the extreme feeling of relief upon expelling the beast from my apartment, from my life. It was more than the weight and size of the physical thing, that Samsung television amounted to a quarter-ton badge of shame signifying my familiarity with shitty prime-time sitcoms and interminably boring sporting events. As with many such feelings, I wished I had gotten rid of the damned thing sooner. We all carry our impossible televisions through life, metaphorically and sometimes literally, feeling like these are our crosses to bear, the things we’re given with which we’ve got to make do. It isn’t true. I’ve got a new television, but it doesn’t carry with it the worry and discomfort of my old immovable, anxiety-laden set. Getting rid of that headache sooner would have been worth missing all of the episodes of Family Matters re-runs that I watched in the interim.

Photogenic Memory

11 Jul

I assume most everyone has a vast collection of photographs, both printed and digital, that are purely narcissistic pleasures for their owners. Blurry shots of people half-remembered, images of white hot smiling ghosts caught in the instantaneous glare of the camera’s flash, we’ve all got them. Despite their flaws, we pore over these photographs lovingly from time to time, perhaps whenever they need to be packed up for moving or during family holidays when the only other people in the world who might be remotely interested in your personal photographs are assembled under one roof. These mementos become visual cues which spark our reminiscence, sometimes supplanting our memories entirely with the confined, rectangular image. As you age, pictures from years gone by take on an ethereal sense; despite the hard evidence, it’s difficult to accept that the retard in wrap-around Oakleys and a Hypercolor t-shirt is actually you. But it is you, assuredly and incontrovertibly. And if you don’t want anyone else to see this picture, you’ll cough up some hush money.


I’ve long felt that some ostentatious marriage ceremonies could have been served better if a wedding photo shoot was staged for the benefit of an album or albums, and then everyone changed into comfortable clothes for a casual outdoor picnic. I’ve attended many weddings with so many collective events, costumes, vendors and guests to wrangle, all within a set schedule, the bride was almost always having a full-blown panic attack while the groom sat and stared, a future victim of post-traumatic stress disorder. Why go through all of that shit? The point of the thing is that everyone gets together, celebrates a great love and (more importantly) showers the happy couple with money and gifts. In twenty, thirty years, all you’re going to remember is the photographs anyway, so save some money and a lot of stress: stage the wedding, invite your most wealthy relatives out for a nice celebratory dinner. If you’re lucky, they’ll pick up the dinner check and you can spring for a wedding videographer complete with green screen.


Since many of our memories are comprised of what we see in photographs, it’s no wonder that some photos get augmented or thrown out along the way. Memories that are too painful, too embarrassing to lug around for the rest of your life. There are many defaced high school yearbooks, photos torn in half so that an offending party is excised, carefully cropped jpegs in everyone’s personal collections. When we fuck around with our own pictures, it’s really not a big deal: they’re our property, these images and the memories they inspire. That we wish not to remember, we simply choose to forget. But when I think that some images are manipulated by nefarious forces, perhaps to show public figures in a particular light or to omit events from history entirely, I get a little creeped out. To be frank, in the digital age I assume this happens more often than not. I don’t even upload photos to my computer without adjusting for red eye and tastefully editing for content, I can only imagine the high-level image manipulation happening behind the scenes of Prevention magazine.


The mind-boggingly talented media watchdog András Brém tipped me off to this bit of historical retcon, in the form of movie advertisements being slipped into reruns of popular sitcoms, in this case How I Met Your Mother. It’s the kind of thing that makes me chuckle nervously while tugging at my shirt collar, for while no one with a modicum of personal standard would ever defend the artistic integrity of How I Met Your Mother, those familiar with the program will know that the entire story hinges on continuity, the protagonist telling his own story in retrospect, reflecting on years that specific episodes actually aired. So when a scene from an episode that aired–and therefore took place–in 2007 shows a subtly-placed movie poster for The Zoo Keeper, well it kind of throws the timeline all out of whack. It’s like if we changed FDR’s first inaugural address so that he said, “…the only thing we have to fear is fear itself, and not taking advantage of half-price Wednesdays all summer at Taco Bell,” or dredging up footage of Fred Astaire to sell modern vacuum cleaners. Which, incidentally, somebody already fucking did.


In the grand scheme of things, no one does or should give a shit if some stupid movie is being advertised in reruns of an even stupider television show. I suppose it devalues the already struggling cultural currency that is prime-time television, though if that common denominator gets any lower we’re going to have to come up with a number lesser than negative infinity. I suppose that they show the book edition of The Zoo Keeper instead of a DVD or something else innocuous in one scene could be considered an attempt to promote literacy (Really, you should read the book. Kevin James gets raped by a llama in it.) But if we blithely accept this kind of manipulation, when does it end? Should we expect to see Fred Flintstone fiddling with his iPhone or Hawkeye from M*A*S*H spouting anti-North Korean propaganda in syndication? When we look at old photographs, can we be positive that events played out as shown? Considering the high number of humiliating shots I have of myself, I’m kind of banking on the hope that they’ve all been doctored.

You don’t click on hotlinks, and I don’t blame you. But you shouldn’t miss out on the spectacular portfolio of András Brém, which can be found at http://www.flickr.com/photos/andras_brem/sets/72157594377053631/. You would know that, if you clicked the hotlink on his name above.

When I Grow Up, I Want to Work In a Cubicle

7 Jun

Just finished watching the entire run of canceled TV sitcom Better Off Ted on Netflix, and I have to say it was a pretty funny show. The plot centers around Ted, single dad and middle manager at the evil and manipulative Veridian Dynamics corporation where bumbling scientists in the Research and Development department make merry through their ludicrous antics. There’s also a flaccid love triangle and a father-daughter relationship that never quite took off for me, but mainly it’s all about wacky hijinks that result from applying untested technology to everyday situations, with hilarious results. This show features Portia de Rossi, who I knew from Arrested Development, and her role as Ted’s boss (and sometimes lover) is one of the best on the show. Really, everyone seems to play their respective roles reasonably well, and while I can’t imagine a massive groundswell of cultish support demanding this program back on the air, it is certainly an enjoyable two seasons and probably should have run longer given atrocities like Two and a Half Men and King of Queens that run for two presidential terms or longer. But that’s really just splitting hairs. Shit like King of Queens should never have made it to air in the first place.


A lot of the show’s humor generates around the fictional Veridian Corporation’s evil business and employment practices, and in fact most of the show’s conflict is created as characters wrestle with their consciences in deciding to implement some cruel Veridian policy that will cause everyone to lose their hair or something. It’s a pretty funny premise, put to good effect when the show runs phony public relations commercials during the program that highlight Veridian Dynamic’s brazen callousness. It was interesting to me that unchecked corporate greed and disregard for human life was being poked fun at in this way: on the personal level, a kind of shrug and a What are ya gonna do about Coca-Cola grinding the bones of corpses to be used in making their new biodegradable bottles? is accepted, even expected when you consider how powerless one person is against a multi-national corporation. But to make light of employees shirking work and committing minor acts of industrial sabotage because their employer is heartless and evil as a given, well it comes across as a little too self-satisfied for its own good.


It’s not like people have always accepted the corporate structure. There’s loads of essays from the turn of the last century decrying one business trust or another, or trying to hold accountable the faceless members of a board who claim they are inculpable for some resultant tragedy. In fact, workers’ unions were essentially fomented to stand up against these burgeoning companies, so that the individual would have some representation when speaking to a monolith. Today, many unions have corrupted themselves into powerlessness, and the benefits of belonging don’t seem as apparent. But the need to demand community from global corporations is bigger than ever. To accept that these businesses will do whatever they can get away with for their bottom line is dangerous. Many of these companies are bigger than a lot of countries, so what they consider an acceptable loss really freaks me out.


Better Off Ted didn’t tackle this issue, and it didn’t pretend to. It was just a sitcom, but I believe it did reflect some current attitudes about the state of the world. It’s tough to see what’s wrong with Wal-Mart, where we get our deep discounts, or Viacom, which is merely a company which owns a lot of media. But by amortizing our needs with the needs of everybody else, these behemoths fail to recognize the individual. That scares me, because I have some pretty special needs. I pray some corporation will start catering to those of us who write ALF fanfiction in our underwear while sipping Hi-C Ecto Coolers. Until then, these massive companies have failed to meet their customers halfway.

Here’s How We Know that Television Writers Have Zero Fucking Integrity

7 Mar

It can certainly be said that I watch too much television. I’m an old hat at watching too much television, having put in four- and five-hour days of watching TV before I was in junior high school. You’ll never find me extolling television’s many virtues: truth be told, it has very few. However, when you want to be passively entertained, and you don’t mind being subtly mocked by the very thing that’s entertaining you, television is your best bet. Advanced television viewers can suffuse themselves in the hyper-irony of MTV reality programming, but most of us will have to do with the idiot box’s written offerings.


How I Met Your Mother on CBS is about one and a half notches better than your average moronic sitcom. The only thing that sets it apart from other programs, except for more recently-debuted shows which are ripping it off, is that we already know how the series ends: the main character meets the woman of his dreams and marries her. How I Met Your Mother is actually told in retrospect, a narrator relating the events which led up to meeting the mother of his children to his children. It’s a reasonably clever premise, one which demands continuity and therefore regular viewing. Often an episode will employ storytelling devices you don’t see too much of in prime time. Plus, Neil Patrick Harris is a very capable, funny actor: I dare say the show would be unwatchable without him.


So we’ve been going on for however many millions of seasons already, each episode getting closer and closer to the Mystery Woman that is the lead character’s future (or present?) wife. There have been hints throughout the series, points where the future married couple have brushed past each other at a party or whatever, but from the vantage point of the viewer, we haven’t met this woman yet. I assumed that, for the sake of keeping continuity and an overall story arc that wouldn’t just peter out and diminish the entire series, it was all coming to a preordained conclusion, hopefully sometime before I start collecting Medicaid. I mean, these television writers, they’re artists too, right? They got into the business because they had a bunch of great ideas to share with the public, they wouldn’t want to belittle their own talents by beating this thin premise into a dead horse? Right?


Wrong. I’ve just found out that How I Met Your Mother has been extended to the 2012-2013 season. What this means up front is that we’ve got at least another year and a half before we meet this invisible, fertile dream woman. But the implication is that the writers of this show have not devised a cohesive, finite storyline, but just a stupid premise, a lazy storytelling device which can be extended or shortened at will. This shouldn’t be a big surprise, but it’s sort of disheartening. The show isn’t How I Met Your Mother, it’s How I Milked Your Studio. It’s not the story of these characters, but the story of how the writers and producers can buy their fourth summer homes.


Most people reading this probably wonder why I am assailing a show like How I Met Your Mother in the first place. It doesn’t profess to be high art, it’s a diversion, a fictional story that impacts nothing real unless we allow it to. But I know that it isn’t like this everywhere. The best example I can think of is to compare the BBC and US versions of The Office. The BBC version is two seasons long and only becomes redundant by the end of the second season. The US version on NBC has been running for-fucking-ever and is painful to watch these days. We could demand more, and not even a lot more, just a little more. How about instead of pitching unending premises, people start pitching tight story lines? Three’s Company put the sitcom premise shit to bed thirty years ago.

Well Parks & Rec is a Pretty Awesome Show

21 Feb

I was raised on the situation comedy, and by God that’s where I think television should shine. When crafted well, these half hour slices of life are so satisfying in their composition that it’s hard to tell which came first, the television or the television sitcom (NOTE: it was the television). It’s kind of disheartening to see how reality programming has obliterated much of the pre-scripted work that once dominated prime time. When you really look at it, most of these reality type game shows are merely opportunities for us to laugh and jeer at our fellow Americans. There’s nothing wrong with that, but we could do with fewer hours a week of it.


Television’s least-watched network is running three hours of situation comedy on Thursday nights, traditionally “their” night from when The Cosby Show was on, and perhaps even before that. It strikes me as a pretty ballsy “all in” kind of move, an attempt to plant their flag against other networks’ ratings powerhouses like Big Bang Theory and American Idol. I’ve been watching many of these NBC shows lately, and I declare that an hour and a half of this three-hour block of programming is worth your scrutiny!


It starts at 8 PM with Community, starring Joel McHale and Chevy Chase and other people you’ve probably never heard of. If you’re like me, you’ve noticed this show for the past year or so when it was plugged on Talk Soup, McHale’s show on the E! Network. Like everything plugged on that program, I ignored the publicity completely, until this year when I decided to watch an episode of Community, and learned that the reason it’s called Community is because it’s about a bunch of disparate people in a study group together at a community college. It’s a pretty good gimmick, at that: having taken classes at a community college, I can say that it might be the only place where people just starting out, or starting over, or just spending their retirement time all combine together to argue about dead philosophers. Upon starting to watch this show, I was afraid that I might have trouble taking Joel McHale’s smirking mick face seriously. And it is a problem. However, his character is pretty self-aware and in more recent episodes he’s mercifully been given less camera time. In fact, the most recent episodes have been where this show shines, as Community breaks the typical sitcom format and satirizes other popular movies and television programs. I could probably write a whole essay about this show, and perhaps I will eventually, but for now it should suffice to say that this show is worth watching.


After Community is a new show, having started mid-season, called Perfect Couples. I wanted to like this show a lot because it features Olivia Munn, who has not only induced many boners from yours truly, but is someone I think is reasonably funny and talented, and who I’d like to see succeed. This show is about three couples that are totally different from one another: you’ve got this totally combative couple, then this totally new age couple where the dude is all sensitive, and then a hapless “control” couple that routinely deals with shit from the other four assholes. It’s about as boring and stupid as it sounds. I don’t believe it’s really a problem with the acting, but that the premise is thin and a little ham-fisted, even for fans of romantic comedies. This show also features the waitress from It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, incidentally, though she sucks here for sure.


At nine o’clock, you’ve got The Office. The Office is NBC’s longest-running current sitcom accomplishment, but I think only the most die-hard fans wouldn’t say that the show hasn’t run its course. I don’t even watch it on Thursdays anymore, I catch it a day or two later On Demand or on hulu.com because my girlfriend isn’t interested in watching. I’m curious to see what happens with Michael Scott and Holly, but less and less as the weeks drag on and there is little in the way of interesting progress. And has there been a more annoyingly sweet television couple than Jim and Pam? The only satisfying solution to this show would be if Jim steps in front of a speeding bus one morning and turns Pam into an instant widow. If you’re caught up in the stupid melodrama like I am, then you can join me in my shame, but if you haven’t been watching The Office up to now, then there’s no point in starting. I can’t imagine this program will last another season past the next, which would still be about four seasons too many.


At nine-thirty is my favorite show of these Thursday night offerings, Parks and Recreation. This is created by the same guys who did the US version of The Office and features the same phony shaky camera that is well overdone in movies and television by now. Yet this show seems to use it to good effect, or is good despite its effect, because I think its funny as shit. It’s about local government employees working for the Parks and Recreation department in Pawnee, Indiana, but the real payoff from this show comes when you immerse yourself into the stupid world of Pawnee. There are a couple of other nice things about the show which set it apart from sitcoms playing the same evening, like the genuine friendship between Leslie and Ann, which is unlike other catty relationships between women seen on much of TV. I highly recommend this show, I’ll probably write more about it later and repeatedly, as I intend to be the first internet geek to declare that this show is finished once it fails to make me guffaw appropriately in the near future.


After Parks & Rec is NBC’s other long-running successful sitcom, 30 Rock. I didn’t watch this show for years because 1) I kept forgetting when it was on, and 2) a show by members of Saturday Night Live about the behind-the-scenes stress of putting on a show just like Saturday Night Live, as I understood it, seemed too “meta” to me. 30 Rock is technically about the background of putting on a weekly sketch comedy show before a live audience, but the comedy is in the surreal situations and outrageous things Tracy “Tracy Jordan” Morgan does and says. It looks like this show is also past its prime, but it’s still pretty funny and worth checking out. Of all the shows mentioned in this essay, it requires the least investment; you’ll probably find an individual episode funny whether you follow 30 Rock faithfully or not.

The final show in this Thursday night laff-fest is Outsourced, which I’ve never seen. Chances are, you haven’t either. I mean, if you’ve faithfully watched the previous five comedies as per NBC’s recommended allotment, your eyeballs are pretty fried by now. It’s likely that you haven’t watched two and a half hours of straight television, but you get my point. In any case, I have enough stupid shows to follow and I don’t care about this one. It could be hysterical and I’ll never know. Unless it gets syndicated on cable or something.

Whoa! Batman: The Return of Bruce Wayne is Pretty Ill!

12 Feb

Buying individual comic books is out for me. I’m a shut-in comics nerd in his mid-thirties, the last thing I need is another periodical or six to clutter up my cramped apartment. So like many of my peers, I wait for trade collections of comic books, usually (and very gratifyingly) grouped by story arc and available within a few months of the last comic in the storyline’s publication. Such is the case with Batman: The Return of Bruce Wayne, collecting the six-issue mini-series of the same name that came out last year.


I’ve been following Grant Morrison’s work on Batman as well as Final Crisis through their trade editions, and for the most part I’ve enjoyed it. I’ve liked Grant Morrison ever since Batman: Gothic, which is where I first heard of him. I feel Morrison is a great talent, and should certainly be mentioned among other great comic book authors, particularly those who can weave epic, complex stories over many issues (and sometimes, through many titles) like Neil Gaiman. However, there’s always something a little off in his stories.


I noticed it in Batman: Gothic as well. That story, which is a trade collection from the Legends of the Dark Knight series that ran after the success of Batman: Year One, is about a four-hundred year old Satantic sorcerer who sold his soul in order to survive the Black Death, and now intends to release the plague on Gotham City and barter the city’s souls against his own. We learn that, while waiting around four centuries for this prime opportunity, the Satanist has been a total prick, killing children at his whim and generally being a lecherous creep. Turns out he actually had a stint as headmaster at Bruce Wayne’s boarding school, and it was an argument with this weirdo that caused Thomas Wayne to pull his son from the school and bring him home to Wayne Manor, an event celebrated with a night out to the movies… [SPOILER ALERT: THAT'S WHEN BRUCE'S PARENTS GET KILLED IN FRONT OF HIM, INSPIRING HIM TO BECOME BATMAN.]


Which is a swell story by itself, doesn’t need a lot more to color it in. But there’s this extension of the plot where it shows that the long-lived villain was once a devout monk living in a monastery in Austria. He was corrupted, convinced his brothers that Satan was cool, then they raped a nun…then I think the monastery was drowned…something about Batman had to bring back the Satantic monk’s heart? It was just a bit overboard, like a lovely cake that was ruined when it was served with lug nuts as a topping. The result is one of mild confusion, yet it did not keep me from enjoying the story as a whole.


I fear that Grant Morrison’s gone over the deep end now, folks. I saw it in New X-Men, we all saw it in Final Crisis, a story so dense it needs several publications and websites to annotate, deconstruct, and effectively understand it. And it’s happened here in Batman: The Return of Bruce Wayne, though it has done nothing to dampen the Batman geek in me–in fact the story, by and large, has tickled me to the core of my Batman geek penis.


So the setting of this story is that Batman was shot by this evil god Darkseid’s laser gun, which everyone thought killed him but it actually sent him back in time. This six-issue series deals with Bruce Wayne finding his way back to present-day Gotham City (turns out every solar eclipse makes him jump forward in time), each issue concentrating on a different time period. My inner Batman fanboy salivated and clapped with glee over this nod to the 1950s era Batman, a campy, tamed version who was at times a chivalrous knight, a cowboy, or a viking. Morrison has skillfully resuscitated this much-maligned period of Batman over the course of his writing, lending gravity to once silly notions like Batmen of All Nations and the Batman of Zur-En-Arrh.


However it’s not as simple as Bruce Wayne merely fast-forwarding a few times, no there’s chicanery afoot. Darkseid, in his infinite wisdom, counted on Wayne having the tenacity to, you know, travel through time, so he somehow made it so that Bruce would gather Omega Energy each time he zapped forward, until he had enough to destroy the present day. It’s unclear what Omega Energy is, but suffice to say it is bad and you should not let it build up too much. To hasten Wayne’s advance through time, Darkseid also tossed out this killing, time-traveling monster to chase him through the fourth dimension. Oh, and also Superman and a few pals are cruising through time, trying to catch up to Batman before he kablooeys the present day. Who isn’t traveling through time in this fucking comic? It seems like the time stream is getting more traffic than the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway.


In the sixth issue, the story runs off the rails a little with that overblown redundancy I was talking about earlier. Yes, it does add information and color to the story somewhat, but I found it confusing and a little disappointing as a conclusion. I’m not going to spoil the whole ending, but the main part I will spoil: turns out Batman was instrumental in his own creation. The particulars of this and the way the story is told, however, are crucial and worth your scrutiny. It’s just this whole scene at the end, there are these weird robots cataloging time…I’d worry that I was giving important plot points away if I fully understood what was happening. Much of the sixth issue of this series is Batman talking to robots, a real decline in what had been an action-packed and compelling comic book.


Still, even with that extra stuff, the general story is great and satisfying on many levels to the avid Batman fan. If you’re a fan, you’ve already been reading the shit and you’re just reading this to see if my opinion aligns with yours. If you’re not a Batman fan, I can’t say this is a good place to get into Batman, but then if you’ve gone this far along not reading Batman then you can probably just keep on rolling and skip it. Me, I love the shit, Grant Morrison rules. Even if I might not be smart enough to understand what the hell he’s writing about.

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