Don't come to me with unnamed sources...

After a rash of anonymous comments from random strangers who happen to be my boyfriend and a few select others (and you know who you are), I want to plead with all who enter The Matt-Cave to remember to sign your posts. Personally I think everyone should register with blogspot.com so as not only to show their names, but also to start your own blogs. I need something to read at work besides my own blog. But if that is too much commitment, than just end your post with your first name. It's extremely hard to have a conversation when you don't know who's talking. And talking is encouraged. I love when people comment. Say anything you want, no censorship here. If you want to call me a big fat idiot, and I know you do, say so. But have the good etiquette to let me know that the person who called me a big fat idiot on Sunday and Monday are the same person. I like to keep track of my enemies. For the list. Thanks.

Wicked must be too close a "Friend of Dorothy" for their tastes...

Despite what is sure to be massive protests and very liberal environment, the Republican National Convention hits New York City at the end of August. Mostly they are coming here so they can actually point to Ground Zero when they mention in every paragraph of every speech they intend to give. In between their grandstanding, their lying, and their disruption of everything happening in the city, they will naturally be seeing some theater. The RNC has officially selected 8 shows for convention-goers to see. And if anyone needed further proof that Republicans were old, straight white bores they need look no further than this list: 42nd Street, Aida, Bombay Dreams, The Lion King, Fiddler on the Roof, The Phantom of the Opera, Beauty and the Beast, and Wonderful Town.

Can you spot what's missing from this list? Could it be any mention of homosexuality or race or political dissent? Or maybe a little someone called TONY who stopped by Broadway last Sunday to bestow his grace on Broadway's best?

I guess conservatives can't stomach Best Musical winner Avenue Q because of the puppet sex and the gay republican puppet. Perhaps Hugh Jackman's award-winning turn as Peter Allen in The Boy From Oz was too offensive because of the character's sexual orientation, though Sarah-Jessica Parker seemed to enjoy herself the other night. I can understand Assasins not being on the list, what with it's themes of political unrest and that whole "let's kill the president" sub-plot. But how do you get over the exclusion of my personal pick for the best, most affecting thing on stage right now, Caroline, or Change, Tony Kushner's musical about a black maid dealing with the racial turmoil of the sixties both within herself and without? You can't. It's racist. Or Raisin in the Sun for that matter? Well that could just be Puffy's fault. It all adds up to yet another subtle reminder that the Republican party is out of step with the many different experiences of New Yorkers and the nation at large.

Bam! Pow! Zap! And murder...

If anyone knows me, and I'm sure if you're wasting your time reading this you do, you know that I have an insatiable thirst for sequential art. That's the self-important academic way of referring to comic books. But not as pretentious as calling it "juxtaposed pictorial and other images in deliberate
sequence." However you want to label it, I love it all. And I've gone 25 posts and almost 8,000 words without mentioning comic books yet. That ends today.

And what better reason for breaking my silence than to discuss the year's most anticipated (and hyped) new comics crossover, Identity Crisis #1 by Brad Meltzer, a thriller-novelist-turned-comics-writer. Because of the name recognition of Mr. Meltzer and the promised shake-up to the characters of the DC Comics Universe, there's been some mainstream coverage of the event. Here's what the mainstream is saying about this book:

"In the world of comics this is the event of 2004." - New York Post

"The Identity Crisis mystery involves the biggest DC heroes and will use all of Mr. Meltzer's skills as a thriller novelist." - The New York Times

"In his comic book IDENTITY CRISIS, mystery novelist Brad Meltzer shows that even super-heroes have reasons to be afraid." - Spin

The book promised a death of a character close to the superhero community and the reveal of a dark secret from that communities past. Now people across the dreaded Internet message boards have hyped this death into "Death of Superman" status and have been disappointed with the results, as it is in reality a minor character. I suspected the character for months and I was right. What I didn't guess right was the level of emotional investment at the heart of the script that draws the reader into the story, making for an accessible and engaging read. One I am about to spoil by revealing the victims identity. I know most don't care, but it is standard practice to warn people of such things.

One-time Justice Leaguer Ralph Dibny, AKA the Elongated Man, is joined by Firehawk on a stakeout in Opal City. They received a tip that a high-tech piece of weaponry is up for sale, and they're keeping an eye out for the costumed underworld figure who's prepared to buy it. A short time later, the world's super-hero community is rocked by disturbing news. Ralph's wife, Sue Dibny, non-powered honorary member of the JL with close ties to the superhero community, has fallen victim to a metahuman attack. They rally to find the unknown perpetrator responsible, and they gather to say good-bye to their dear friend.

Elongated Man and his wife were an unusual thing in superhero comics: a happy couple. They represented that superheroes could get away from the drama of possessed love ones, murderous supervillains, the stress of the secret identity, all that crap and maybe find happiness. Not any longer. By the funeral scene I was teary-eyed and hooked. This comic shows their relationship and presents it as a symbol of fun, escapist element to superhero fiction, especially evident in the same superhero universe that contains Batman, Superman and other icons.

This tone is completely shattered with this murder mystery thriller. And that's exactly what it is. A mystery. And a well-paced, captivating one to boot. DC Universe has lost some of its innocence with this murder, and this series is just starting. I can't wait to find out all the dark secrets this series has to offer. In a world where death is often only a minor set-back it's the emotional impact that matters. This is how it should be done and I'm excited to see it play out.

Ok, now it's out of my system. That wasn't so painful now was it.

Got a blue moon in my eye...

Sunday night I chose to indulge my inner-gayboy, rather than my inner-mafia boss, by watching the Tony Awards on CBS instead of the season finale of The Sopranos. I knew it would be a challenge to dodge any and all spoilers for this last episode of the beloved HBO series. When The Sex and The City series finale aired I also missed it and watched the next day, but I was spoiled by the ending by noon the next day. I didn't want to repeat that anti-climatic feeling. No, if Tony Soprano ended up with Mr. Big I was going to find out by watching the show, not by reading it on some cheap website (much you are all doing right now). Or something like that. Who knew it would be so hard! Modern life is all about connection, about staying in the know with everything of interest. I would have my work cut out for me.

Working in non-profit theater, I was pretty certain that I would not have any discussions at work that would spoil anything regarding horribly violent mobsters. But oh, the Sopranos fever is everywhere else. While getting ready for the day early Monday morning, I had CNN on in the background. I was brushing my teeth in the nude (it's just the way my routine works for me, enjoy that pleasant image) when Soledad O'Brien decided to take a moment from canonnizing former-son-of-a-bitch Ronald Reagan to discuss the Sopranos finale. I dove head-first for the remote before anything too juicy was revealed. Sprawled naked across the floor of the living room, limbs akimbo, I fumbled with the remotes till the TV went silent. Close call. I almost forgot that today would require constant vigilance.

On my way to the subway (with clothes on finally), I listen every morning to Unfiltered on AirAmerica. Lizz Winstead and Rachel Maddow are just delightful and I think it's always good to get the blood flowing in the morning with a little liberal outrage. I turned on the radio to hear Ms. Winstead discuss her Sopranos party. I turned it off right after hearing something about Chicken Parm and walked the rest of the way in silence. I feared I spoiled something about Tony choking to death on Carm's homecooking. My fears were later proved unfounded.

On the other side of the East River, I walk down First Avenue to The Pearl every morning and stop at the new Dunkin Donuts for their delicious concoction of coffee- a special vanilla blend found only found in France on the banks of the Seine. I walked into the store that morning and heard the Sopranos theme song on the radio they play over the loudspeakers. Fearing the song about eyes full of blue moons would be followed with some sort of commentary, I turned on a dime and walked right out, much to the confusion of all customers and staff in the shop.

I hadn't been awake for 2 hours and I narrowly averted spoilers 3 times. I shielded my eyes from all the tabloid newspapers as I walked past all the corner Bodagas. I put a personal embargo on many of the websites I check daily I thought may have headlines or postings dedicated to ruining the show for me. I immediately deleted the entertainment news that gets sent to my email's inbox everyday, courtesy of TVGuide or Zentertainment. I forced myself to live under a rock for the day. And although the major spoilers I fought so hard to avoid would have just confirmed my suspicions about who dies and what happens in many ways, the show brought together one of the best seasons of television I've ever seen. I won't go into everything I thought of the show, suffice it to say it was satisfying while being surprising. Now I just need to wait another year and a half to see the final season. In the meantime, Six Feet Under is upon us soon. Life is good.

Now she's eating Cheez-its with Baby Jesus...

I received some very troubling family news a few days ago. What is most troubling is the manner my mother told me. About the family dog, Devon. Over Instant messenger.

BoyWndr49 (Me): Hi mommy! How are you?
MoCole56 (Mommy): Ok
MoCole56 : I have to tell you something.
MoCole56 : I'm taking Devon to the vet tomorrow.
BoyWndr49 : For what?
MoCole56 : Forever!

Is that anyway to tell you that your poor old dog is going to be put to sleep? It's heartless and mean-spirited. But I suppose it's befitting this particular dog.

Devon is a small silky-haired terrier, maybe 16 inches long from head to toe at most. A cute little puppy-girl. Till you get too close. Then she growls and bites and nips and barks. She's a menace to everyone except for my parents and my brother, Seanie. My poor boyfriend can't even be in the same room with her most times without her freaking out. She never truly got along with me unless I was the only person around or I was feeding her Cheez-Its. Despite her nasty disposition she was cuddly and sweet at times and I'll miss her.

I especially feel bad for my parents and little brother who still lived with Devon. After my older brother and I left the house for college, I'm sure it was an adjustment having the house so much emptier. At least at that time Devon was always following my Dad around hoping they would make her a scrambled egg or waiting to play with her toys at the slightest provocation, such as "where's your thing?" or "get your koosh." My mother would constantly sing to her about anything that came to mind. Mostly they were songs about how much of a dog Devon was. I think Devon was the only one who could make any sense of the lyrics. And Seanie was the only person under the age of 30 ever allowed to freely touch her. They had that indescribable connection between a boy and his dog, likes of which can be seen on Lassie or He-Man and the Masters of the Universe. Except Battle-Cat was a cat and could talk, while Devon was a dog and never did, at least not in my presence.

My mother called me yesterday having just gotten home from dinner out on the town. She was home all alone at the time and she told me how empty the house felt without the sound of her pitter-patter on the hard-wood floors. The thought of my lonely mommy sitting in the dark missing her pup breaks my heart. I hope they get a new puppy, one who likes people and knows not to pee in the house. When is it kosher to start talking about such things? I think Battle-Cat recently had a liter.