Author: Mindy Newell

Mindy Newell: Nerds Unite!

“Dude wore his nerdiness like a Jedi wore his light saber or a Lensman her lens. Couldn’t have passed for Normal if he’d wanted to.”

The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, by Junot Diaz

Sometimes the universe borrows from [[[Moonstruck]]], giving you just the slap you need so that you “Snap out of it!”

Case in point…

In last week’s column I talked about how crazy I get when I meet people who aren’t readers, or people who only like to read “happy stories; of how I feel out of step with the people I work with, and, while I didn’t come out and say it directly, how much better I am than them.

Yeah, that last sentence was in there. Read it again. It’s in there, all right, “underneath” the written words. After it was posted, I realized that I had been in a really bad mood when I wrote it; my old friend, Mr. Clinical Depression, had dropped in for a short (very short) visit. My co-workers are not ignoramuses and the surgeons aren’t incredibly narrow-minded and impatient—strike that. A lot of them are. But not all of them.

Last Thursday I was the scrub on an OMFS case. (OMFS stands for Oral and Maxillofacial Surgery. It’s serious stuff, heavy-duty reconstructive dental and facial work, mostly trauma, and we do a lot of it at my hospital, which is northern New Jersey’s #1 trauma medical center.) Anyway, I don’t remember how the conversation got around to comics—oh, wait, I do remember. One of the residents mentioned to the surgeon that I was from Bayonne.

“Why is that important?” I asked.

“That’s where George R.R. Martin* is from. You know who he is, right?”

I nodded.

The chief resident said, “Dr. C—- is big into Game Of Thrones.”

“Yeah, I’m addicted to it,” said Dr. C—-. “Do you watch it? Did you read the book?”

“No,” I said. “Neither.”

“You really should,” said the surgeon.

I felt dreadfully embarrassed and wanted the earth to swallow me immediately.

“Mindy wrote comics back in the day,” said the chief resident.

“How’d you know that?” I asked him.

“I read your stuff.”

God, I felt old.

Then Dr. C— talked about Captain America: The Winter Soldier and how much he had loved it. Everyone who had seen it agreed, and those who hadn’t all said they were looking forward to it. I said, “I love the way Marvel is creating a film universe, just like they have in the comics. Even on TV, the way Agents Of S.H.I.E.L.D. is tying into Winter Soldier.

“Yeah, said my friend the geek surgeon, “It’s cool, isn’t it?”

“I love that show,” somebody said.

“I love Deathlok,” someone else said.

“Phil Coulson is so cool.”

“I love when Samuel Jackson shows up as Nick Fury,” said the medical student.

Then the third year resident said, “I love Deadpool.”

Dr. C—- said, “The X-Men rock! Did you know that they’re making Claremont and Byrne’s Days Of Future Past into a movie?”

The circulator said, “Hugh Jackman rocks!”

“They should make a movie about Gambit,” said the first year resident. “He’s always been my favorite.”

“And Rogue,” I said.

“I like Mystique,” said the rep from the company supplying the implants.

“Yeah,” said Dr. C—-. “Steve likes naked blue-skinned ladies.”

And for the next 90 minutes, as the case progressed, the surgical team talked about the X-Men and Iron Man and Thor and [[[Man Of Steel]]] and all things comics.

Yep, last Thursday the universe snapped me out of it…

And the surgery was successful, too.

  • For those of you who don’t, George R.R. Martin is the award-winning author of the series of books that started with Game Of Thrones.

Mindy Newell: Reading Is Fundamental

Dorothy: What kind of a horse is that? I’ve never seen a horse like that before!

Guardian of the Emerald City Gates:  And never will again, I fancy. There’s only one of him and he’s it. He’s the Horse of a Different Color you’ve heard tell about.

—The Wizard of Oz, 1939

I love to read.  I read every chance I get, including always bringing a book with me to read on my lunch hour.

I don’t get people who don’t read.

They make me crazed.

(more…)

Mindy Newell: How Unforgetable Sentences Can Help You Make Magic

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…

Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities, 1859

The other day two grandmothers, Mindy and Lynette, were visiting their beloved grandchild Meyer Manual.  After playing and cooing and aahing and watching Alixandra attempt to feed him mashed bananas, 99% of which ended up on his bib and his chin and my elbow and just about everywhere but in his mouth, Lynette said she had to split.  As she was leaving, she said to me, “I love your columns.  You’re such a good writer.”  (Be that as it may.)  I said, “I don’t know where it comes from, I never had any formal training.”  Lynette laughed, and said, “Well, I had formal training, and I can’t write like that.”

Well, I don’t know how good a writer I am; I always think I could be a gazillion-million times better.  But that’s not the point of this column.  This is…

I left soon afterwards, and as I was driving home in my car, listening to All Things Considered on WNYC-FM (my local NPR station), coincidentally the segment was about writing.  Well, not writing exactly, but about great sentences.

The editors of the magazine American Scholar have compiled a list of their ten best sentences in fiction and non-fiction; as associate editor Margaret Foster explained, “It came about as a result of ‘water cooler’ talk around the office. We’re sometimes struck by a beautiful sentence or maybe a lousy sentence, and we’ll just say, ‘Hey, listen to this,’” Her choice, she went on to say, is the last line of Toni Morrison’s [[[Sula]]]:

It was a fine cry — loud and long — but it had no bottom and it had no top, just circles and circles of sorrow.

I haven’t read Sula, but even without knowing the context of the sentence, I agree that it is beautiful. It could be describing the wail of a mother who has lost her child, the ghostly unending cry of six million Jews exterminated by the Nazis in World War II, or the devastating misery of a population in a world gone to apocalyptic madness.  It captures an emotional resonance that echoes of unforgettable pain, unforgivable brutality, and undying loss.

It’s hard to say what makes an unforgettable sentence.  I agree with Ms. Foster, who said, “…in the end, very subjective,” she says. “I mean, who are we to say what the best sentence in The Great Gatsby is?”

By the way, Fitzgerald’s masterpiece, which many consider the Great American Novel, made the list with this sentence:

“Its vanished trees, the trees that had made way for Gatsby’s house, had once pandered in whispers to the last and greatest of all human dreams; for a transitory enchanted moment man must have held his breath in the presence of this continent, compelled into an aesthetic contemplation he neither understood nor desired, face to face for the last time in history with something commensurate to his capacity for wonder.”

It’s not “See Spot run”, is it?

But even Fitzgerald started someplace.

I don’t know if diagramming a sentence is still taught in elementary school English classes anymore, but I remember it as a continuing homework assignment back when I was a student at P.S. 29 on Staten Island, New York.  It began with simple sentences and progressively became more difficult with our increasing comprehension of grammatical structure.  It looked like this, using the simple sentence from above:

Sentence Structure

Actually, that’s not such a simple sentence, “run” is a shortened present participle (don’t ask!), and the grammatically correct sentence should read, “Did you Spot running?”

So let’s pick another, simpler sentence.  How about…

I | love | comics

         …in which the diagram above indicates the “form” of a sentence.  The “I” is the object, “love” is the verb, and “comics” is the subject.

But how do you get from a simple, three-word sentence to something like Fitzgerald’s last sentence [[[The Great Gatsby]]], or to William Faulkner’s [[[Absalom! Absalom!]]] or James Joyce’s [[[Ulysses]]] without your editor throwing you out on your ass with a copy of E.B. White’s The Element of Style following your bruised butt?

It’s the same answer as that old joke: “How do you get to Carnegie Hall?” “Practice.”

Or is it?  Maybe it’s something else—a mastery of the language, or talent, or maybe it’s something intangible.

Call it a mystery, call it a gift from God or the Goddess or the Universe or even call it The Force…

Whatever it is that allows some to grace us with words that form sentences that speak truth to us and stay in our heads forever and ever—It’s magic.

Photo by gualtiero

Mindy Newell: The Patient Nurse Conversation

I had a good conversation with Mr. Gold on the phone yesterday, as in Mike, editor and columnist here at ComicMix and a columnist over at Michael Davis World, as in Michael Davis who is also a columnist on this site.  Did I ever mention that the comics industry can be a bit professionally incestuous?

Back to Mike, the gourmet of invisible doughnuts (here)—oh, and btw, although once in a while I’ve seen patients respond to anesthesia the way Mike did, I’ve never seen or heard of, and no one I spoke to at work has ever seen or heard of, anyone munching down on invisible donuts while in the ICU—I apologized for not warning him about just how miserable shoulder replacement surgery, and its immediate aftermath, can be.  “I didn’t want to scare you,” I said.  “Especially after seeing the X-ray you sent me.  To be perfectly honest, Michael, my professional reaction was, “HOLY SHIT!” (In other words, guys, Mike had no shoulder left.)

Mike, surprisingly, at least to me, said, and with no malice at all, “Why not?”  I guess better the devil you know, y’know?

(more…)

Mindy Newell: Yiddishkeit

I miss bookstores.  Being able to walk up and down the aisles, pulling out a title that sounds intriguing, perusing the dust jacket flap, sometimes sitting down on the floor and reading the first couple of pages…just killing a couple of hours lost in a bibliophile’s heaven.

Okay, bookstores aren’t entirely gone, but they are, as everyone knows, on the endangered list.  My own first hint of this came about 15 years ago when the Borders in the Short Hills Mall closed up.  It was astonishing—this was a bookstore that was always mobbed, no matter the time of day.  Many, many people objected to the closing, and many, many people let the mall’s management know it; the customer service desk clerk told me, as I filled out the complaint form, that there were over 3,000 signatures in the first week alone protesting the shutdown, and demanding, if not the return of Borders, the opening of another book proprietor.  I thought, and I’m sure many others thought, that the store closed because the management had raised its rent beyond what Borders was willing to pay.  But now I think that I witnessed the beginning of the end.  I knew for sure that bookstores were about to go the way of the dodo bird when I drove over to Hoboken one Sunday morning a few years ago to spend a few hours in the Barnes & Noble there to find that it was gone; I remember being shocked (“Holy shit!” I said out loud) because not only is that particular store is in a city with a university (Stevens Institute of Technology), but it is also home to the sort of population that publishers love and book stores crave—well-educated and upscale and readers.

I bring this up because I recently bought a book on Amazon that whetted my appetite, especially because it is the last work of the late, great Harvey Pekar, who was one of its editors.  That book is [[[Yiddishkeit: Jewish Vernacular & The New Land]]].  According to the blurb on Amazon, which is lifted from the front flap of the book’s dust jacket:

Yiddish is everywhere.  We hear words like nosh, schlep, and schmutz all the time, but how did they come to pepper American English, and how do we intuitively know their meaning?

(more…)

Mindy Newell: Zomb-O-Rama!

“I love zombies. If any monster could Riverdance, it would be zombies.”

—Craig Ferguson

We’re not the only ones obsessed with—ahem—[[[The Walking Dead]]]. Everybody seems to be in on it.

Here’s a very, very, short list of zombie movies:

There are lots more.

Probably hundreds.

Yeah, everybody loves zombies.

Everybody but me, that is. (Okay, I did love Shaun of the Dead.)

The first time I saw a zombie movie was way back when, and it was George Romero’s classic Night Of The Living Dead. Only I really didn’t see it because I was terrified and spent most of the time either cringing, with eyes closed, in my movie seat. Though it wasn’t the zombies themselves so much that scared me—it was the claustrophobic terror of being trapped with no way out that did me in.

It’s probably that experience that turned me off zombies forever. (Except for Shaun of the Dead).

Vampires? Love ‘em to death. My therapist would say that’s because Dracula and Angel and Spike represent the sexual fantasies that resonate with the underlying forbidden desires that lurk within my psyche. It doesn’t have anything to do with Frank Langella, David Boreanaz, or James Marsters.

Ghosts? The most popular theory professed by parapsychologists as to why people hang around after death is that he or she can’t let go of some relationship or need to right some great wrong. That’s gothically romantic. Especially since Patrick Swayze. Werewolves? Not so sexy or romantic. Okay, a million-zillion teenage girls on Team Jacob would argue with me. But they are sad souls—Seth Green’s Daniel “Oz” Osbourne in [[[Buffy the Vampire Slayer]]], David Naughton’s David Kessler in An American Werewolf in London, and the saddest of them all, Lon Chaney, Jr’s. Larry Talbot in The Wolf Man—for whom I can cry and with whom I can vicariously suffer the vicious vagaries of life as a monster.

But zombies?

No, thanks. I’ll pass.

(Okay, except for Shaun of the Dead).

Tonight (last night as you read this) is the premiere of Resurrection on ABC, which is based on the novel The Returned by Jason Mott and is produced by Brad Pitt’s Plan B Entertainment. The Sundance Channel had immense success last fall with the French television series The Returned, which was an adaptation of Les Revenants, which in English means They Came Back and which is on the list that opened that column.

Will it be more zombies?

It’s Zomb-A-Rama!!!!!

Mindy Newell: Who Are You?

  • News
  • March 3, 2014

“Whooooooooo are you? Who? Who? Who, Who?”

WHO ARE YOU
Composed by Pete Townsend
The Who, 1978

Picking up from last week—

All our super-powered mythic creations, whether hero or villain, man or woman, are avatars—whether we realize it or not.

Superman, of course, is the Big Kahuna avatar of comics. Every corrupt politician that Superman put in jail, each mobster who pulled a gun and watched the bullets bounce off Superman’s chest, every misogynistic wise-ass jerk who insulted a woman and was punished by Superman was really being punished by these two bookish, nebbishy, and schlemiel-y kids from Cleveland, Jerry Siegel and Joe Schuster, who weren’t able to fight the anti-Semites or win the gorgeous goyishe blonde.  I doubt very much either of them were consciously aware of the psycho-sociological underpinnings of their alien hero who would capture the world’s imagination, but it’s all there, as many critics and writers, including Danny Fingeroth, Jules Feiffer, Grant Morrison, Scott Bakutman of Stanford University, and A. C. Grayling of The Spectator have noted.  Grayling’s article, “The Philosophy of Superman: A Short Course”, discusses the need for a Superman over the decades since his creation in the 1930’s, including the early 21st century and events post-9/11, stating that:

…caught between the terrifying George W. Bush and the terrorist Osama bin Laden, America is in earnest need of a Saviour for everything from the minor inconveniences to the major horrors of world catastrophe. And here he is, the down-home clean-cut boy in the blue tights and red cape.

Others more erudite than I am may have used more polysyllabic pronouncements when analyzing the characterization of the Man of Steel, but I will say that he is a fugue, an escape, an exodus into a world in which, simply put, the good guys win.

Depending on your definition of “the good guys,” of course.

(more…)

Mindy Newell: Who’s The Real You When You’re Writing?

“Whenever there is a decline of righteousness and rise of unrighteousness then I send forth Myself.”
—Lord Krishna to Prince Arjuna,[[[The Bhagavadgita]]] (Song of God)

Sanskrit in origin, and a central principle of the Hindu religion, an avatar is defined in the Merriam-Webster dictionary as “the incarnation of a deity in human or animal form to counteract an evil in the world.  A central principle of Hinduism, it usually refers to 10 appearances of Vishnu, including an incarnation as the Buddha Gautama and the Buddha yet to come, called Kalkin.”

In the 21st century, it has also come to mean that little picture that represents the user, blogger, columnist, commentator, gamer, or fan on the Internet, and (usually) will tell you something about that person, whether it is whom that user, blogger, columnist, commentator, gamer, or fan admires or identifies with, or even their sense of humor about themselves.  (See my avatar on my Facebook page, for instance, which is from the artwork of Anne Taintor and reads “I plead insanity.”)

James Cameron’s [[[Avatar]]] blended the two definitions in his hero, Jake Sully—Jake is both the “user” behind his genetically engineered Na’vi body (Jake’s avatar) and the “incarnation” of the savior of the Na’vi civilization.

Writers can also use avatars. (more…)

Mindy Newell: Where is your next idea coming from?

This is a column for all you “I want to be a writer” writers out there.

The XXII Olympics officially opened on Friday, February 8th, 2014 in Sochi, Russia.

Thirty years ago the XIV Olympics took place in Sarajevo in what was Yugoslavia and is now Bosnia-Herzegovina, although the region is usually just called Bosnia.  Thirty years later the Olympic village, the ice rink, the bobsled and luge tracks, the ski jump, the other sports facilities and hotels are gone, destroyed during the Bosnian war and the 44-months-long Siege of Sarajevo which killed nearly twelve thousand of the city’s residents.

(more…)

Mindy Newell: For The Love Of The Game

Newell Art 140103As I write this, the Super Bowl XLVIII kick-off is still 36 minutes away.

I’ve been thinking a lot about football the last couple of weeks. It’s a showdown between the best offensive team, the AFC Denver Broncos, led by Peyton Manning, who has had what may be the greatest quarterback season ever while breaking numerous statistical records, and the NFC Seattle Seahawks, whose cornerback Russell Wilson is the *ahem* cornerstone of the best defensive team of the 2013 season.

It’s also the first Super Bowl in which the physical dangers and complications of the sport on its players have been as discussed and picked over as much as any debate about the game and who is going to win.

This season also saw the NFL going over the top in its security efforts, this year dictating what size pocketbook a woman may carry into an arena – and also offering “official NFL team logo clear plastic tote bags at all club merchandise outlets for only $9.95.” In other words… a baggie! Also in 2013: the wide-spread discovery (I didn’t know, did you?) that the NFL is considered a non-profit organization by the IRS (!!) and efforts to end this status, including numerous on-line petitions and the Properly Reducing Overexemptions for Sports Act – or PRO Sports Act – bill by Senator Tom Coburn (OK, R) and Senator Angus King (MA, I)

I love football.

I love football because of its personal memories for me. My dad taking me to Yankee Stadium for the first time to see the Giants play the Colts because my mom had to stay home to take care of my sick brother and him explaining the intricacies of the game and coming home to discover that I was even sicker than Glenn, with a 103° temperature. My father pointing out Richard Nixon (pre-Presidency) sitting only a few rows behind us. The family driving down to Princeton to watch the annual Jaycee pre-season game between the Giants and the Eagles. Being jealous of Glenn because he shook Hubert Humphrey’s hand as the Vice-President walked into Yankees stadium to watch the Giants take on the Redskins. Driving up to Yale for the games while Giants Stadium was being built. Tailgating with my brother on a frozen day to rival this year’s winter, when we were almost alone in the stadium’s parking lot, which was an icy, snow-swept tundra with gale-force winds, and determinedly grilling steaks and hot dogs anyway. Taking Alixandra to her first Giants game and having to stand in the tunnel because she was afraid of the rain. Being at the 1986 Giants-Niners NFC championship game with Glenn, watching Mark Bavaro continuing to step forward with five or six Niners on his back. Harry Carson running for his first defensive touchdown and Lawrence Taylor covering him, and after the game, listening to the post-game report, Taylor replying, when asked by Giants sportscaster Bob Papa what Taylor said to Carson as the two ran downfield, “Harry, you sure do run slow for a black man.” (Please, no letters.) The Giants winning their first Super Bowl against the Broncos under Bill Parcells.

So many memories. I could go on and on and have enough for another month of columns.

I love football for the game itself. The beauty of the running backs sprinting downfield, evading the secondary. The splendor of catches made in three or even four man coverage. The excitement of 4th and goals. And yes, for the sheer physicality of it.

And, yes, I love football for the sheer physicality of it.

When I heard that Junior Seau had committed suicide, I was shocked, as was every sports fan. Listening to the news, I flashed back to the first issue of NFL Pro Action, which I had edited for Marvel. That issue included an article, entitled “Pumped!” featured the San Diego linebacker demonstrating some of his upper body workouts. The last paragraph read:

“Lifting weights helps your confidence – knowing that you went to the weight room, sacrificed your time, and concentrated on your strength. When you’ve done this, you have an edge. When I hit the field, I feel confident that if there is a big guy coming after me, I’ll be equipped to take him on. It’s a mental edge, but it helps me gain leverage. If you don’t have that confidence on the field you should be there.”

He started the Junior Seau Foundation in 1992. Its mission is “to educate and empower young people through the support of child abuse prevention, drug and alcohol awareness, recreational opportunities, anti-juvenile delinquency efforts and complimentary educational programs.”

Seau played 13 seasons for the Chargers, later playing for the Miami Dolphins and the New England Patriots. He retired in 2009. He was All-Pro ten times, played 12 times in the Pro Bowl, and made the NFL 1990’s All-Decade Team, and the Chargers inducted Seau into their own Hall of Fame.

And on September 16th, 2012, three months after his death, the Chargers retired Number 55, Junior Seau’s number, in an opening game ceremony.

The words I quoted above were spoken by a man who loved his profession, loved the game, loved being able to play, and loved being able to give back. And later, when it was announced that the cause of Seau’s death was really the chronic traumatic encephalitis (CTE) brought on by his years of playing football, I wondered if, given the choice, if Seau had known the danger and what lay before him, if he would have chosen to play the game for the love of it anyway.

Not the money.

Not the fame.

For the love of the game.

I wonder if it’s worth it.

The two-minute warning for the first half has just gone off. Seattle leads by 22 to Denver’s big, fat donut hole.

And I wonder if all players down on that field and watching in the stadium or at home or at a local sports bar, are wondering, will wonder, if it’s been worth it.

Worth it for the love of the game.

TUESDAY MORNING: Jen Krueger

TUESDAY AFTERNOON: Michael Davis

WEDNESDAY MORNING: Mike Gold

 

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