"Cowboys and Aliens" by Scott Mitchell Rosenberg

BOOK TITLE: Cowboys and Aliens

AUTHOR: Scott Mitchell Rosenberg

YEAR: 2006

GENRE: Graphic Novel

SUBGENRE: Western Science Fiction

GRADE: Pass

In the year 1874, Westward Expansion is in full effect in the state of Arizona. White settlers are purging the land of Indian tribes and claiming the territories as their own. In the middle of this conquest, a race of extra-terrestrial aliens crash lands in the desert and begins wiping out every human in their path, white or Indian. The only way for this new threat to be confronted is if the warring humans can put aside their differences and work together for the common good. They’ve already gotten a hold of some alien technology during the crash, so they might as well put it to good use and save the world from invasion.

My favorite part about this graphic novel has to be the blatant use of irony. White settlers were invading Indian territories only to have their world invaded by aliens. Maybe that’s what we need to solve the “immigration crisis” in this country: an alien invasion carried out by slimy green creatures with superior weaponry and technology. Maybe we just need to shown what kind of hypocrites we really are. This graphic novel is a good first step into exposing our beastly nature. Then again, some people like to shrug off hypocrisy claims with nationalistic or religious justifications. There’s just no reaching some people.

And here I thought the irony would be easier to swallow for those people considering how action-packed and violent this graphic novel is. If you’re going to be taught a lesson in getting along with your neighbors for a greater good, then it should at least be entertaining, which “Cowboys and Aliens” is. We’re Americans; we love violent entertainment. We like gunfights, martial arts, and science-fiction energy slinging. This graphic novel not only has all of that in their choreography, but the fight scenes are so frequent that it’s like riding a rollercoaster. The breaks are few and far between, so buckle up and get ready for the adrenaline rush your American blood so desperately craves.

As long as you’re going to read a graphic novel with violence and irony, you might as well read one with as many genres blended into it as possible. In addition to being bloodthirsty, we also have a nerdy side to us, though some people don’t like to admit it. Our nerdy sides get tickled whenever we read a book about genre mixing. In this case, it’s a combination of spaghetti westerns, hardcore action, and soft science fiction. UFC commentators say all the time that styles make fights. Gun-slinging cowboys and brawling Indians vs. hulking aliens with even better guns? That’s the kind of fight you’d want to see on pay-per-view. Maybe that’s why “Cowboys and Aliens” was adopted into a movie.

A quick read, deadly violence, and a bold political statement are all things you can expect from this graphic novel. Yes, it’s short. Yes, it ends too quickly (even though it is technically a complete story). So if you’re going to enjoy the ride, you’d better savor the adrenaline boost. In the words of heavy metal band In This Moment, “Welcome to the gun show!” A passing grade for a wonderful piece of graphic fiction. I don’t care what other readers say, because I loved the hell out of this book!

The Franciscan Death Scream

There’s been speculation among every psychic my mother has visited that in a past lives I was always a warrior of some kind. It could have been a barbarian in the dark ages or a marine in Vietnam. I’d say those assessments are true to the fullest extent, especially as they relate to battle cries. Well, these days, the only battle cries I let out are ones where I’m in an extreme amount of pain. You want to know how I define an extreme amount of pain? Stepping on a thumb tack. Banging my elbow against the wall. Banging my head on the roof of a short car. With the way I scream loudly and whiningly in pain, you would have sworn I’d broken a bone or had a limb amputated. But that’s the price of being autistic: high sensitivity to everything, including the most insignificant kind of pain.

My blood draw in 2006 at the Franciscan Hospital in Gig Harbor, Washington was no different. I had to have one because it was part of my physical checkup. Just because I had to have one, didn’t mean I had to particularly enjoy it. Needles are sharp. Sharpness creates pain. Pain creates death screams that make me sound like I’m being fed through a wood chipper or being cut in half crotch first with a chainsaw. I don’t know why people say that needles aren’t a big deal. They’re always going to be sharp and they’re always going to hurt whether they’re drawing blood or threading yarn through a piece of cloth.

My blood draw went exactly how I expected it would. I sat in a chair that looked like it belonged in a dentist’s office. The anxiety in my stomach builds. The nurse tied a rubber tourniquet around my upper arm. The anxiety in my stomach builds even further and now I start making little whining noises. The nurse tells me to look away as if that’s going to help ease the pain. It didn’t matter where I was looking, because the end result was having a bastard sword-like needle plunged into my arm.

As to be expected, I let out a blood-curdling death scream. It was loud. It was throaty. It was slightly girlish. It was like being a female lion in an extreme amount of pain. Apparently, there were frightened little kids in the waiting room who ran upstairs after hearing my shriek of agony and their parents ran after them. Any stragglers would have hurried up after hearing me cry, “Take the needle out! Take the needle out!” The nurse did and I let out another bellow of berserker pain.

Ever since that day, anytime I go to that hospital in Gig Harbor, the nurses and doctors always expect me to scream. They make no attempt to silence me, unlike my mother whose favorite line is always, “There’s no yelling.” Oh, but there is. There is and there always will be, dear mother. There was screaming when I had to have my big toes operated on for ingrown nails, there was screaming when I had to have my foot examined after a cat bite, and there’s even screaming at my eye doctor appointments in Port Orchard when he puts stinging drops in my eyes for a glaucoma test.

Unless my mother is considering a career as a dominatrix, there will be no silence anywhere we go. If we go on another horseback ride in Arizona, my groin and legs are going to hurt so badly that I’ll yell as if they’re being blasted with an AK-47. If my computer malfunctions at home or if a WWE pay-per-view on my Roku freezes up, I’m going to scream and swear at either one until my blood pressure is in the 300’s and my pulse is in the 1000’s.

Three things are certain in my mother’s life as well as the life of anybody who lives with me: death, taxes, and barbaric war cries. The only thing I’m missing is a horned helmet and a double-sided battleaxe. Of course, carrying such a heavy weapon would cause strain and strain causes even more shrills of extreme pain. I’ve got the barbaric ethos down to a science and I haven’t even swung my weapon yet (and I’m not sure I will be able to).

　

***COMMERCIAL DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

GUY: I’m eating right and staying in shape. I’ve been doing the Duck Dodger.
GIRL: What’s the Duck Dodger?
GUY: It’s like a triathlon, but with dodge balls.
GIRL: Do they leave a mark?
GUY: Not on the outside.

-Subway-

"The Collection" by Bentley Little

If Stephen King considers you to be a great horror writer, take that honor with pride. Bentley Little was skillful enough as an author to receive such an honor. And why wouldn’t he? His anthology of short stories known as “The Collection” is just one example of how dark and screwed up of a place his mind is. No matter which one of the stories you’re reading, you’re always guaranteed extra time trying to clean yourself off in the shower. Absolutely nothing is off limits to Mr. Little when it comes to plot devices, be it child molestation, chainsaw slashings, degenerate crazies, religious sacrifices, or, one of my all time favorites, a bunch of zombies dressing up in Revolutionary War outfits and scaring the crap out of a guy named Mike Franks. That last item comes from a story called “The Washingtonians”, where George Washington is revealed to be a cannibalistic psychopath whose cherry tree story turns out to be him raping small children and hence, taking their cherries. If it sounds over-the-top and somewhat giggly, it’s because it is. If you really want to know what the hell goes on in Bentley Little’s mind, by all means, go to his home in Arizona and ask him…that is, if you can find him. Mr. Little made himself a tad bit difficult to locate. You know who else was hard to locate? Ted Kaczynski also known as the Unibomer. The Unibomber loved to live in the woods and build his destructive devices. And Bentley Little? Well, he loves to live in seclusion and build destructive stories that’ll have you swallowing Xanax like candy. And Bentley has the shaggy beard to prove it. If you’re not already creeped out by this somewhat hyperbolic comparison, then don’t let me stop you from buying a copy of “The Collection”. But I must advise you: if the thought of Mr. Little being compared to Ted Kaczynski in terms of physical image gives you a nervous and cold stomach, you probably won’t make it passed the first page of the book, where religious whackos nailing people and animals to crosses will be the first thing that haunts your mind like a schizophrenic voice. Who knows? Maybe once you get passed the first chapter, you’ll need someone to turn the pages for you since your arms will be trapped in a straightjacket! Just saying!

　

***DOMESTIC QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“Garrison, quit laughing like a crazy person!”

-My niece Reina-