The Santa Contract

Because nothing says Christmas like Garth Ennis' Hitman.

Overheard in Harvard Square, part 3

Those who know me well know that I’m a tinkerer. (Actually, those who know me slightly know that I’m a tinkerer, and those who don’t know me at all can probably guess that I’m a tinkerer from the big sign that says TINKERER over my head. It's right next to the sign that says WILL REPEATEDLY MAKE BAD PUNS UNTIL RENDERED UNCONSCIOUS.)

So for the past two days I’ve been playing with the second stanza of the villanelle, because it seems to me to be the weakest one in the poem.

How do I know it’s the weakest? I can’t say I actually know it; it’s a feeling. The other stanzas have something this one lacks, whether it’s a good pun like “meet” or a thematic link that leads naturally to one of the two repeating lines or something indefinable like snap or zing. This one doesn’t have that feeling.

After several tries over egg nog, lasagna, B&B, beef chile and a couple of pints of Guinness, here’s the latest version of that stanza:

“Amours that start like trips to Paris, France,
Will wind up earning you the croix de guerre.
I think I've finally figured out romance.

I’m still going to tinker with this; I want to find a way of saying “Will always get you the croix de guerre” within the metre, like “Always (dum dum dum) you the croix de guerre.” Which means a trip to the Thesaurus in the next 24 hours.

Overheard in Harvard Square, part 2

Okay, so I couldn't wait until the Patriots game. I wrote it during Sports Center.

Here's the complete villanelle in its current form, with a big thank you to that Harvard Square girl who walked in front of Au Bon Pain at 7:53 last night. For the record, this is the first villanelle I've ever written:


OVERHEARD IN HARVARD SQUARE

"I think I've finally figured out romance,"
The young brunette declared in Harvard Square.
"The dancer doesn't matter -- it's the dance.

“You think you’re in the capital of France
And all it gets you is the croix de guerre.
I think I've finally figured out romance.

“You can make love to thousands of gallants
And not a single one of them will care.
The dancer doesn't matter -- it's the dance.

“The point is never passing up the chance
To lose at Risk instead of Solitaire.
I think I’ve finally figured out romance.

“Today’s sure thing is payment in advance
To help you meet tomorrow’s love affair.
The dancer doesn’t matter –- it’s the dance.

“Stop chasing after anything with pants
As if you're only Ginger with Astaire.
I think I've finally figured out romance:

The dancer doesn't matter -- it's the dance."

Matthew Wells, 12/22-23/07

Overheard in Harvard Square, part 1

I was walking through Harvard Square last night, taking pictures of things that were still there, when two college-age girls walked past me, one of them (the brunette) saying as she passed by, "I think I've finally figured out romance."

I immediately wrote the line down, and after texting a few people the message: There's nothing like walking through Harvard Square and hearing a 20-year-old brunette say "I think I've finally figured out romance," I sat down in Au Bon Pain with a coffee and a brownie and, realizing that the brunette's words were a perfect iambic line, started writing a villanelle.

A villanelle is a nineteen line poem with only two rhymes, in which the first and third lines of the first stanza alternate as the last lines of the next four three-line stanzas, and then are repeated as the last couplet of a final four-line stanza. The most famous villanelle is Dylan Thomas' Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night; like most people, I knew the poem before I knew what it was.

Here's what I wrote, false starts and all:

"I think I've finally figured out romance,"
The young brunette declared in Harvard Square.
"The dancer doesn't matter, it's the dance.

You meet the ones you love by happenstance
Like winning Banco at chemin de fer.
I think I've finally figured out romance.

You can make love to thousands of gallants
And not a single one of them will care.
The dancer doesn't matter, it's the dance.

Stop chasing after anything with pants
As if you're only Ginger with Astaire.
I think I've finally figured out romance.
The dancer doesn't matter, it's the dance."

Initial verdict: perfect final stanza, perfect opening stanza, gallants/dance stanza fits perfectly, and where the foo did chemin de fer come from? (Answer: I spent last week watching The Ultimate James Bond, Volume 3.)

So that stanza goes, leaving me with a beginning, part of a middle, and an end. Since I'll be working on that today during the Pats game, look for some sports metaphors in the next draft.

Things that haven't changed in Harvard Square

Still serves the best burgers ever.

Still serves the greasiest pu-pu platter in the world.

Still full of future alcoholics.

Still full of people who can't get into Charlie's.

Still playing Eraserhead.

Still the best place to pick up chicks.

Captain America prediction

The Red Skull is currently inhabiting the body of Aleksandr Lukin.

Arnin Zola is working with the Red Skull.

Zola's specialty is cloning.

There's a blacked out text area in the published script for Captain America #25 when he's shot by Sharon Carter.

Here's what I think happened in that blacked-out portion: Sharon extracted Cap's DNA. Which is why the dead body of Steve Rogers ended up looking like his 98-pound-weakling pre-Super-Soldier self.

The DNA is being used by Zola to make a new Cap body.

That Cap body is going to house the mind of the Red Skull AND Steve Rogers, with the Skull in total control (for now).

Because the whole point of the Red Skull is to make Cap watch helplessly as all hell breaks loose. Whatever the Skull's plans have been, they ALWAYS involved Cap being a helpless witness to tragedy.

Which also means that at some point, this Cap clone is going to eventually face off against Bucky as the new Captain America. At the pace Brubaker is writing this? We're looking at a climactic battle in issue #50.

There. I've said it.

O Holy Night

Feed Your Holiday Head

Because nothing says Christmas like Santa Claus eating magic mushrooms.
(From Pappy's Golden Age Comics Blogzine)

the moon looks down and has to sigh

The moon looks down and has to sigh
At how we mortals motor by
Beneath a dark indifferent sky
Like frantic ants --

With smiles set on each frozen face
We dash from place to frantic place
Like sinners after holy grace
Or lost gallants.

Stampeding through a combat zone
Of cars and buses, steel and stone,
Surrounded and yet still alone
Away we fly

In search of money or renown,
A lead-pipe cinch, a golden crown,
And up above the moon looks down
And has to sigh.

Matthew Wells, 12/17/07

Just another night on the L Train