Review of Scalped Vol. 1 by Jason Aaron

scalped_vertigoAwards

#934 in 1001 Comics To Read Before You Die

#192 in CBH Best Comics of all Time

I am absolutely shocked that this is it as far as I can find rewards wise.

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Summary

From the publisher, “It is gravel Jason Aaron, the up-and-coming writer of the critically acclaimed series THE OTHER SIDE teams with gritty artist R.M. Guera for an intense crime drama that mixes organized crime with current Native American culture.

Fifteen years ago, Dashiell “Dash” Bad Horse ran away from a life of abject poverty and utter hopelessness on the Prairie Rose Indian Reservation in hopes of finding something better. Now he’s come back home armed with nothing but a set of nunchucks, a hell-bent-for-leather attitude and one dark secret, to find nothing much has changed on “The Rez” — short of a glimmering new casino, and a once-proud people overcome by drugs and organized crime. Is he here to set things right or just get a piece of the action?”

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My Thoughts

Holy shit.

Imagine if The Wire and the third season of Breaking Bad had a love child then throw in Native American culture and you have the first volume of the Scalped series. Geez, I feel like the inside of my skull needs a handful of rock candy, and maybe some Teletubbies after reading this. Jason Aaron explores desire, power, intrigue, and mystery all within the guise of a modern-day crime story.

What sets this series apart, is how well it is written and the totality that each character is messed up. So much so, that is it easily believable. Which is a sad commentary… Dashiel is not a “bad guy with a heart of gold” trope. He is just not a nice guy, who has a hard past that he has overcome. And is now thrown back into a blender of crap that is his hometown by the higher-ups in the federal agency. He hates it and pretty much hates everyone he encounters, including his mom, his boss, and ex-girlfriend. Expertly written, it conveys the ennui of the main character Dashel Bad Horse as he is forced to reconcile with parts of his past that he never planned to deal with again. I hope in future books that we may see some glimmer of hope somewhere. I am not sure I can take ten volumes of angst, and hatred.

I’ll give it to you straight, this series is not for the easily offended. There is graphic sex, murder, drugs, alcoholism, and mayhem.

All of the imaging is gritty and shown baking in the sun by the superb artwork of R.M Guera. This series is unforgiving like black asphalt when it is 110 outside. It hurts, it smells, and it is necessary for the story. There is a rawness, and ruthlessness to these characters that reminds me very much of the Preacher series and I look forward to seeing what it brings.

I Try Donut World in Gresham, Oregon

What is with all the hype?

Donut World

720 NE Burnside Road

Gresham, or 97030

 

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List item on my personal Portland Bucket List. 

 

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yelp.com

 

34063346_1701238289930331_5628833913066487808_n.jpgI have driven by this friendly red barn umpteen times over the years that I have lived in Portland, but I never had a cause to stop by. I decided to pop on over and check it out this morning and see what all the hype is about. I ended up sending 8 bucks for 6 donuts and a small coffee. Pricey, but doable if the donuts were any good. We run into hype problems occasionally in Portland. Where something is lauded and hyped all to hell, and is really kinda mediocre. I am looking at you voodoo donuts.

But, this was mediocre at best. Maybe, I had a bad batch of donuts or the wrong ones. I am entirely willing to give them another go. They are a mom and pop franchise, and I always try to help small businesses succeed. But really, it wasn’t great at all. I had half a cream filled one and a half an old-fashioned. The cream filled one was terrible. The cream tasted like the worst thick buttercream icing you would find on a grocery store bought cake. Plus, it was gritty? How did that happen? Maybe this is just preferential. I like cream filled donuts to have lighter almost whip cream like texture. So take my opinion with a grain of salt.

The old-fashioned was pretty decent. Not anything crazy, just ok. It had the right amount of crunch and glaze on it.

On a positive note, the dough/bread here is excellent. It was light and fluffy and had a fresh baked taste. Donut World definitely excelled there. Even though the cream in donut was inedible, the doughnut itself was well made. I’ll try it again. Who knows, maybe the second time it will be amazing. It has almost 5-star reviews across social media.

You Can’t Go Home Again

Or can you?

 

 

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Image courtesy of visitlasvegas.com

When I stepped off of the plane last week and into my hometown of Las Vegas, Nevada, I was assaulted by a familiar cacophony of noise, blaring light, and a hair dryer worth of heat. I felt at both times exhilarated and full of dread although that dread had a helpful tinge of fondness and nostalgia. I left home eight years ago after living in Vegas for 30 years. I had to. I was out of a job, and my husband and I needed to live, so we ripped Las Vegas out of that place in our minds and hearts that held what home is and made for parts unknown. It was one of the most painful and scariest things I have ever done.

 

Now looking back, it is so odd. I am in a sorta limbo. Portland, my new home,  does not have the hometown feel that I used to get from Vegas, but Vegas doesn’t have it either. Vegas is so changed now that I get lost here. The vegas I new is now gone.

It is ok though. The new things to discover are like icing on a nostalgia cake. There are new restaurants, new parks, new things to try and do. So maybe you can’t come home again, because home is not a static place. It lives inside you, in your memories, with your family,  and your past. It has been quite the adventure. I will be here for another week due to a family emergency. Hopefully, I will have a chance between panic attacks to try some new exciting things. Here’s to hoping. Cheers.

 

 

 

Start of my Tree Bucket List. Yes, Seriously.

Someone is sitting in the shade today because someone planted a tree a long time ago.
Warren Buffet

 

It’s a weird thought to want to make a tree bucket list. Weird enough that I am a little embarrassed about this. I mean, trees are trees, right? There are literally billions of them on Earth. What makes one more special than another? You could probably find some majesty in any tree. I suppose for me though it is a combination of aesthetic, history, and a sheer will to live.  Plus, I love gardens and pretty much anything that grows in the ground. I am an avid gardener, master gardener, and I went to school and graduated with a degree in landscape architecture; plants are my thing. When doing some research for my tree bucket list, I came across this article on stumbleupon.com.  The Most Beautiful and Famous Trees on Earth.  It became my starting point for research. What beautiful trees are out there and how do I get to them?

  • The Lone Cyprus Tree in Monterey California. -According to Wikipedia, it is one of the most photographed trees in America. When I spoke about the sheer will to live or tenacity, This is the sort of thing I was referring to. I may be attributing too much to a lone tree, but it is poetic how it faces down the ocean and still, it grows. Besides Pebble Beach is gorgeous; I would like an excuse to visit as often as possible.
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Image courtesy of wikipedia.com
  • Ashdown Forest, West Sussex, EnglandThis totally makes me think of the Shire. I am a geek, and this makes me giddy.
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Image courtesy of Colin Michaelis

I know that this is not technically a single tree, but a bunch of trees. i.e., a forest. But…

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  • Rainbow Eucalyptus In Kauai, Hawaii – Please someone send me to Hawaii so I can see this tree and, um.. other reasons.
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Image courtesy of wikipedia.com

“The unique multi-hued bark is the most distinctive feature of the tree. Patches of outer bark are shed annually at different times, showing a bright green inner bark. This then darkens and matures to give blue, purple, orange and then maroon tones. The previous season’s bark peels off in strips to reveal a brightly colored new bark below. The peeling process results in vertical streaks of red, orange, green, blue, and gray. The colours of the bark are not as intense outside the tree’s native range” wikipedia.com

How cool is this? It is the Rainbow Bright of tree species.

  • Baobab Tree in Madagascar – This tree is so interesting; it stores water in its giant trunk and basically looks like something from Dr. Seuss. Some trees can store up to 32,000 gallons which they save for drought conditions.
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Image courtesy of wikipedia.com
  • The Dark Hedges in Ireland – “The Dark Hedges are an avenue of beech trees along Bregagh Road between Armoy and Stranocum in County Antrim, Northern Ireland. The trees form an atmospheric tunnel that has been used as a location in HBO‘s popular television series Game of Thrones, which has resulted in the avenue becoming a tourist attraction.” I have never seen Game of Thrones, blasphemy I know, but this looks like it could transport you to any number of fantasy novel locales. Let your imagination run wild.

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    Image courtesy of wikipedia.com
  • Dragonblood Tree – Dubbed the worlds strangest tree. I mean, seriously look at it. It also “bleeds” red sap.
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    Image courtesy of Wikipedia

    This is just touching on some of the interesting trees of the world. There is so much out there to see and to do. I’ll come up with a formal list at some point  I am sure. Plus, I have already seen a few awesome ones like the maple tree at the Japanese Garden in Portland or the Chamerops in Padua, Italy. I even have some cool pictures. What kind of trees do you like?

Camping is Crap – Sorta

ee0a857b7172a61aab4ebe47d7bfcf59Well no, it really isn’t crap. Maybe you could liken camping to cold french fries that you warm up in the microwave. It is supposed to be satisfying, but they are never really as good as you expect it to be and it will probably leave you with a stomach ache and/or the runs. Also, isn’t camping supposed to bring you all sorts of enlightenment? Get out into nature and experience a oneness. Let me set the scene. Last minute, “why the hell not” decision to camp on a Friday night. insert an inadequately prepared family of 4 with neurotic dogs. Grandmother, husband, me and a 14-month-old baby. Here is what I learned on my last camping trip.

  1. Setting up a tent on a hillside where you sleep at a 45-degree angle could be classified as a weird sort of psychological torture. Constantly sliding down a hill while sleeping makes you dream you are going to slip-n-slide to hell or the world is covered in lube.
  2. Never camp with a 30-year-old tent. I am still coughing out the shredded plastic fibers. The only upside is the calming pea green color. Why did folks in the early eighties think pea green was the color du jour?
  3. Only camp with your toddler if absolutely necessary. If there is a cliff, river, or patch of poison something your toddler will run at it full speed. Which means as a parent you will have to hold your screaming toddler.  The whole time. (see the previous comment about being inadequately prepared) My kid weighed thirty pounds. I hated everyone after hour 3.
  4. Never camp with my dog. My dog hates other dogs. He tries to simultaneously shred them to pieces and run away scared. The dog had to remain on a leash for the entirety of camping outing. Thus, the dog made a circular track around the tree while he tried to maim every foreign thing he saw. This included wildlife, trees, stumps, the stars, me after awhile. It was all a crazy fever dream for him. This got annoying at 2 am. For the extent of the trip; I hated my dog.
  5. Mosquitos were invented by the devil to taunt me.  If only they sucked fat instead of blood. (see number 6) Ever read the book, “Thinner?” That would be me.  They will hassle no one else. I swatted mosquitos away and prayed for a firestorm. The other members of my camping party told me it was all in my head. I wanted to push them in the aforementioned poison-something bush.
  6. I ended up eating only chips because it was both too dark to see and I was too tired to give a damn. Actually, this wasn’t all that bad.
  7. Fire is beautiful and the thought of roasting smores by the campsite is great until your toddler wants to play with the shiny bright thing.
  8. Raccoons are jerk faces.

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I want to like camping. I used to love it when I was a kid, but now it seems like it lacks all the things I want in my daily life; toilets, showers, hot food, no bugs. I end up feeling like, “what fresh hell is nature bringing me now?” I’ll camp if it is not torture so my kid can eat a s’more. But future self will need a fabulous RV or tasteful beekeeper suit. I can look out at nature and flip off all the bugs.

Poke around the Shanghai Tunnels they said..

I want to tell you a little story about an experience I had when I first moved to portland. I went on a haunted ghost tour of downtown portland found here.

I did this for a variety of reasons:

  1. It was cheap entertainment for the evening.
  2. Gave me an opportunity to walk around like a tourist.
  3. Also, gave me a chance to hang out with my very cool friend Jessica.
  4. I like dark stories when they involve architecture and secret compartments.
  5. Even better if they feature some sort of dastardly secret society hell bent on kidnapping you and using you for nefarious purposes.
  6. I can use these stories later to not-impress family and friends when they come to town to visit me.
  7. I do believe in ghosts.
  8. I do believe that alcohol can make the above mentioned points even better.

The evening started off mild and wet. I met up with my friend Jessica and ghost hunting partner at a local bar downtown called Oldtown Brewing. This bar is renown for its excellent beer, excellent pizza and haunted and terrifying past.

“Old Town Pizza sits in what used to be called the Old North End, a section of the city with a rather questionable reputation. Despite the upstanding clientele of the Merchant Hotel, even it was known for offering one of the oldest professions in the world: prostitution. As legend goes, one of the young “working women” was Nina, sold into this life by a thriving white slavery market. In an effort to clean up the neighborhood, traveling missionaries convinced Nina to share information in exchange for freeing her from a fate she did not choose. Nina cooperated but soon afterward was found dead in the hotel, now Old Town Pizza. Thrown down the elevator shaft, Nina is reported to have never left the building. Could it be Nina who carved her name in the brick of the old elevator shaft, now the backdrop of a cozy booth in the rear of the restaurant?” https://www.otbrewing.com/haunted-past

The beer was good though, plus they had karaoke. Bad karaoke can make you wish you were dead, so that was close enough for me. I did not meet Nina, there was no hovering over my pizza while karaoke played, but I did hear a neat story told by a great storyteller.

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Entrance to the tunnel proper
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Entrance to the bowels of hell. No really just stairs to the basement.
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The weird tunnel is in the back that just leads off.
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Where we had our story time. No seance this time. 
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Old AF stairs that lead down into the basement. 

 

After our food, beer, and story where concluded. We headed down single file to the back of the restaurant and filtered through a series of hallways and stairs that lead down into the dusty and dimly lit basement. The room looked old by the wood lathe used on the walls. It smelled dusty, moldy, but with the never mistaken smell of rising pizza dough.  You can tell that it had not been used as a busy space in years except by GHOSTS! haha no really, it was pretty well not used. In the corner of the basement was a dark and cordoned off hallway that lead.. well..it led away into darkness.  I am not trying to be all mystical or scary movie-ish. It literally led out into the darkness around the corner. It was a weird hallway. We were not allowed to follow the hallway into the great beyond. My inner goonie was screaming. Apparently it is dangerous to walk around pitch black tunnels in the middle of the night that may or may not be used for slave trade and/or drug running. They could get sued. All I heard was blah blah you are ruining my fun.

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The tour continued around downtown from there. It is a walking tour after all. The guide walked and pointed and the tour group nodded sagely and occasionally took pictures. I know we visited the Bensen Hotel, which is a marvel of wood and crystal and makes me feel both very fancy and underdressed at the same time. Apparently it is said to be haunted by the ghost of the previous owner, Mr. Bensen. No freaky apparitions of men from the 1930’s wearing expensive suits were seen. I did however have another drink.

A little bit of trivia, “The Jimi Hendrix Experience drummer Mitch Mitchell died in his hotel room at the Benson Hotel on November 12, 2008 (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Benson_Hotel)”

I hive-fived his ghost while washing my hands in the ladies loo.

 

 

 

It All Started With a Clown Car – The Voyage Home

After three months, gaining ten pounds, and twelve ass gropes (groping of my ass, not me assaulting Italians); I start the journey home. I am reminded of one of the great movies of modern cinema. Homeward Bound – The Incredible Journey 

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A much belied classic from my childhood. Oh Shadow you are too old!

 

I had an absolutely wonderful time at the villa. I learned a great deal about Roman architecture and got an opportunity to sketch great Italian masterworks, both new and old. I would say that traveling to Europe was the greatest event of my college career aside from graduating, but I was happy to be going home.

I realized the day that I needed to leave that I had made a terrible mistake.  As a side note, it seems that in my life I tend to miss important details. Especially if there is excitement involved. If there is excitement. I could be naked and covered in eels and I probably wouldn’t notice. The way that it worked out was I gave my presentation that I had been working on for a month to all the students and faculty. Sat down for a moment to take a breather and overheard a conversation.

“What time is your plane?”

“8 am, what time is yours?”

“3 in the afternoon, you know the trains don’t run till 9 and you have a 4 hour train ride ahead of you”

Oh holy shit. Oh bullocks. Oh fudge. oh damn… oh shite. I haven’t packed and my flight leaves a 7 am. IN MILAN! Which means dear reader, that I need to be on a train within an hour with all of my crap from my journey here plus: six bottles of wine, a bottle of olive oil, a new purse, rolls of parchment drawings, a painting,  a agate stone, a new glass necklace, and a glass statue. Seriously I bought a glass statue in Venice. I am of the “It’s awesome, I’ll figure it out later,” variety. This also meant that I had no where to sleep tonight. If all else fails, I can create a fort out of my luggage on the side of the road and huddle inside.

Commence packing. Actually no, that is not an accurate description of what happened. Commence the fastest packing in the history of all packing. Commence chucking multiple things that I did not use this summer. Hair dryer, who was I kidding. Swim suit, I will buy another. Toiletries, I will stink. I shoved, I pulled, I sang lullabies to those bags till they closed. And close they did with the help of some duck tape.

I realized a small snag in my victory. What do I do with all the wine, olive oil, and sculpture? I bought them,  I will steadfastly carry it across my chest like some deranged wine bomb. Wine is not heavy at all! (I should have just drank the damn wine, all six bottles, and they could Medivac me to Milan.) We pile into the car. My instructor looks at my wine bomb sideways.. I smile the smile of desperation and glee.  My roommate had to fit the clown car with all of their luggage as well so she sat on my lap with her face pressed against the windshield, like a mime that is saying, “help me, we need a bigger car.”

We arrived down the hill at breakneck speed. Our combined weight, plus that of the luggage allowed the car to be pulled down the hill. I doubt the instructor had to even put it into gear. We landed with a squeal and smoking tires at our stop just as the sun was setting. It was picturesque. Trash blowing in the wind  and then getting caught on my luggage. The smell of urine and bougainvillea wafting by. A lowly mosquito landing on my arm and receiving a just death. Ahhhh Italy. How I will miss thee. I want to point out that Italy is a beautiful country full of wonderful people, but this train station smells like pee and has bums everywhere.

We hop on to the night train heading for Genova.

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The main train station is freaking enormous. Squeak, squeak, drag, drag. “Excuse me lady coming through with luggage. Oh scuzi. Sorry about your toe.” Picture courtesy of http://www.depeck.info

The train ride to Genova was blissfully quiet and empty. The air conditioner was on and it was wonderful. I created a fort of luggage around me and put my feet up. I dared anyone to say anything by sporting a manic look, and twitching a bit.  I only wanted to set fire to my luggage once at this point. From there, we took another train to Milan. Again uneventful save for dragging it through the huge terminals. At this point I have bruises on my shoulders from my “wine bomb” across my chest.

We hop on the train from Genova to Milan, then take a bus and arrive around midnight. Nothing is open. Of course we are all starving. I have learned to use the Euro, and I want to use it to buy some damn food. My flight does not leave for 6 hours. I am exhausted and have not slept in 30 hours. I pulled an all nighter the night before working on my final project. So I am slap happy. I try to play cards, but I cannot focus on anything. I go hunting for a place to wall myself up in. Low and behold I spy a space behind the elevators. My roommate and I make a wall of luggage blocking off us from view, curl into a little ball on the dirty linoleum and sleep the sleep of a child on Tylenol.

I wake up four hours later and wipe the gravel and drool off of my left cheek. It was wonderful. When you are that tired, any sleep is welcome. Even if it is behind a elevator shaft that infrequently gets cleaned. I turn my luggage in to the counter, I almost want to draw faces on the individual pieces of luggage and name them. They have been my constant companion on this voyage home. Sort of like Tom Hanks with “Wilson.” Except mine would be, “Samsoniteeeeee!” Or Sami for short. We don’t stand for formality.

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Willlllssssssooooonnnnn!

I trudge onto the plane. I smell amazing, and I pity my seat companions. The plane takes off and I leave my second home. It was the grandest adventure of my life up until that point and life changing. I will always remember the good and bad of Italy and be thankful that I took the chance offered to me to travel in college. It has shaped so many aspects of who I am now as an adult in my thirties, and I think I am better for it.

Things I learned on my Voyage home:

  1. I am not carrying anything to Europe. I’ll stuff cash and my passport into my bra.
  2. Every place I pass that has food, I am going to purchase some. I am not going to starve and live off of airline food.
  3. All joking aside, I am serious about the passport and my bra. Screw luggage.