47 Words concludes its ode to Mega Man. The party line is that his creator, Dr. Light, was a paladin whose works were stolen and corrupted by the nefarious Dr. Wily, but the facts hint at a deeper madness.

In August of 2001, I went on vacation with my parents to Hawaii. For some reason, my parents’ itinerary focused mostly on towns and shops, rather than taking in God’s green-blue earth, and since most Hawaiian towns seem to consist of the same six stores repeated ad nauseam, I was a bit bored. So, I ended up spending the trip reclining on hotel balconies, eating Goldfish crackers and reading.

I finished four books over the course of the vacation, and their character gives some indication of what a moody bitch I was that week: American Psycho, The Monk by Matthew Lewis (one of the original Gothic novels), Notes from the Underground, and Chuck Palahniuk’s Choke. Basically, I was being a little dick, and I was proud of it.

I was in high school when the movie adaptation of Fight Club came out, and I’m ashamed to say that I got really into Palahniuk in the aftermath, just like everybody else. I listened to all four special edition audio commentaries, picked up Palahniuk’s Survivor and Invisible Monsters, and basically thought the man was the cat’s pajamas all around. I ran into my chemistry teacher at the local Borders, a man who prominently displayed his hemp cereal on his desk and with whom I shared a bizarre camaraderie, and tried to sell Palahniuk to him as “Vonnegut with a twist.” The whole situation was a catastrophe.

I only really remember one thing from Choke: the narrator’s claim that ears bear a strong resemblance to vaginas, and that all men secretly think this but don’t talk about it. The passage comes across like something Palahniuk is pretty proud of, like he’s loosing the gag on open sexual discussion for the first time, the only author to ever be edgy. Most of his work reeks of this insecurity, his obnoxious need to be extra hardcore.

Ear or vagina? You decide.

In Palahniuk’s short story collection, Haunted, a young man discusses his ever-advancing masturbation techniques: starting with shoving shards of candle wax up his urethra, and ending with accidentally having his intestines inverted by a pool filter and nearly asphyxiating while stuck in the deep end. Palahniuk chose the story for pre-release promotional readings, and it caused some audience members to faint. Hell, I even got light-headed.

The trailers for Choke are a bit off kilter in comparison to the novel’s tone. It looks oddly flippant, like a light-hearted sex comedy romp, akin to Along Came Polly or a Farrelly brothers movie. As much as Palahniuk annoys me to no end these days, it’s a bit disappointing to see all of his signature bathroom-stall nastiness completely removed. If the movie did seem like it was going to be a faithful adaptation, at least then I could safely ignore it, kinda like a Tool video. Now, it has to nag at the back of my head, yet another bland comedy that looks little better than My Best Friend’s Girl, the kind of movie you try to ignore but simply can’t.

47 Words continues a weeklong celebration of all things Blue Bomber with an examination of some of the greatest music penned by human minds.

What is a B-Side? Originally, on vinyl, the b-side was just the second side of an album. Quite simply, a record producer would sift through an artist’s songs and decide which ones were worthy to be pressed on the A-Side – placing them on the fast-track to radio and living rooms across America – and which would endure the fate of becoming a B-Side. For the latter, an eternity condemned to obscurity and stale stoner rooms was pretty much guaranteed. That is until the freaks and stoners crawled out from under their parents’ basements and dominated the dialogue on what’s “cool.” Now, B-Sides have become the icing, or maybe even the cream filling.

It seems that an artist can only put out B-Sides if they have already contributed a magnum opus. Not only that, but the B-Sides somehow welcome a greater intimacy between the fan and the artist(s), as if by owning the B-Sides you know the band or singer better than those chumps who never scoured the record isles. Basically, you’re not a real fan until you have the B-Sides. Well then, today I am a real fan because I have no way of describing Acme Novelty Library, Issue No. 7: The Big Book of Jokes other than Chris Ware’s B-Sides.

An example of Ware’s fake ads, in this case ripped straight from the pages of Boy’s Life. Most of his ads, which densely litter his comics, are of the Sears & Roebucks variety.

In this true collection of non sequiturs Chris Ware introduces and reintroduces characters and stories, all while navigating between beauty and sorrow with the grace of a swan (whose abusive father and absentee mother left it orphaned with a litter of amputated puppies). One thing is for certain though: Ware dispels the myth that comics are supposed to be funny, but he doesn’t stop there. He continues to drive this point over and over and over again. It’s almost as if Ware decided that there should be no room for humor in his comics, only bitter tragic irony. To this end, Ware is a master and an insane genius.

Rocket Sam bags a space deer on some surreal alien world.

Upon opening the issue, one catches a glimpse into Ware’s madness. Every line of text, every image, every splash of color, every intention is surgically executed. Four pages of faux advertisements, all skillfully drawn without a shred of carelessness. I can’t even fill in a multiple-choice test bubble without getting impatient; but Ware proves to everyone that he is a true artist. Actually, he doesn’t just prove it, he says it and shows it. In the first few strips, Ware takes on the history of the artist – a talented being whose works and worth are underappreciated. The artist never gets invited to the orgies in Acient Greece, nor do his Jewish-skewed political cartoons get appreciated by the Egyptians. However, I wouldn’t describe this work as self-pitying but somewhere in between pity and self-loathing, which is where most of his works seem to exist.

Big Tex gets abandoned in the woods.

For example, other works in No. 7 include Big Tex and Rocket Sam, strips that conclude tragically. In Big Tex, the protagonist, Tex, is a person with slight mental retardation (at least that’s how I interpreted the character’s slow wittedness) whose father loathes his existence. In one story, after Tex’s mother had passed away, his father takes him out for ice cream, but once they arrive to the middle of the woods, he tells Tex to never come back home. How can anyone feel anything but pity for this character? As for the other extreme, Ware’s character Rocket Sam is a royal dick. For the most part Sam’s stories revolve around abandonment; they start with Rocket Sam creating a companion and they end with him leaving it.

Whether Ware empathizes with his main characters or whether they personify things he hates about himself is unclear. What is clear though is that Ware truly believes that comic books are art. And you know what? He’s right.

A very special installment of Crisis on Indefinite Earths this week. Rather than an impending disaster, instead we take a look at a crisis averted.

With comic books swiftly executing a complete coup d’etat of popular culture, I’ve long been seeking out comics of every stripe to see the myriad approaches to the still-evolving medium. From the wide range of American comics — superhero, indie, underground — to the many vibrant comic cultures around the world — Japan, France, Belgium — I’ve tried to sample from each, at the very least. And while my list of favorite titles seems to be ever expanding, one series has stayed king of the hill the entire while: Garth Ennis’ Preacher.

A long, winding journey of an American preacher traveling the country in search for an awol God, the series blends a grotesque vision of Americana, a deranged sense of humor, and a refreshingly clearheaded sense of morality. And, of course, let’s not forget the vampire, the superpowers, and the copious bestiality with small animals. In other words, it’d be perfect for an adaptation by HBO, which is exactly what was in the works. Until it was canceled.

The extent of Preacher’s appeal: Friends and I had Zippos from the comic engraved.

Ever since hearing about the project, I’ve been a bit anxious about it, which is not to say I believe that adapting Ennis’ great American graphic novel is in itself a fool’s errand. Rather, it was the show’s executive producer, Mark Steven Johnson, the man behind the movie adaptations of Daredevil, Elektra, and Ghost Rider. In other words, he knows how to ruin a good thing. So while the Watchmen trailer has filled me with grave doubt (too much glitz, not enough shabbiness), the notion of Johnson slowly obliterating Preacher is enough to make me lose sleep at night. Even Ennis’ own involvement, Frank Miller style, didn’t ease apprehensions.

So, the cancellation comes with some relief. Unfortunately, the show was done in for all the wrong reasons. According to TV Squad, HBO head of production Sue Naegle put the order through due to the show’s extreme violence and its interpretation of Christianity, which would surely be a powder keg waiting to go off, what with its portrayal of a deadbeat-dad God. As such, the cancellation is a bit of an upsetting move from a channel that has been fearless in the face of controversy, letting its creators roam free, completely uncensored.

It’s the content, then, rather than the talent, that has brought on Preacher’s premature demise. On the grand scale of the universe, was this too great a price to pay? That is, the dismissal of Mark Steven Johnson at the cost of the entire show itself? Sadly, the sacrifice seems too little, for according to Johnson there are talks of adapting the comic book into a film. We can only hope that will die on the vine, too.

47 Words honors those who understand that being a number doesn’t necessarily make you not a human being. Unless you’re actually not one.

Jennifer 8. Lee

New York Times reporter

Publications the U.S. round are rife with pseudonyms, but Lee’s numeric moniker is the real deal. With China already filled with Jennifer Lees, her parents took a number — literally — and their daughter thereupon conquered the front page of the world’s newspaper of record. She then partied hard. -RB

KRS-ONE

Rapper

His name came from his graffiti tag, Krishna Number One, a name he earned because of his association with the Hare Krishnas, but he eventually retconned it to stand for “Knowledge Reigns Supreme Over Nearly Everyone.” Formerly hip-hop’s sacred cow, KRS now spouts insanities at top universities. -JL

Ichi the Killer

Ichi the Killer

The titular character in Takashi Miike’s zealously obscene sadomasochism romcom, Ichi is a young softie brainwashed into becoming yakuza hitman via superhero, with a tendency to cry a lot. Amongst a menagerie of torturers and victims, Ichi is the sorry stand-in for a character worthy of empathy. -JM

Johnny 5

Short Circuit

Before Wall-E endlessly repeated “Eve-ah,” Johnny 5 was showering audiences with a chorus of “No disassemble Johnny 5.” Designed by Syd Mead of Blade Runner and TRON fame, J5 is the OG of the sensitive sentient android set, taking his name from a bouncing El DeBarge song. -JL

#21 and #24

The Venture Bros.

We all know that having minions is awesome. Being a minion, however, seems pretty crappy, requiring fanboyish devotion, military discipline, and a willingness to die horribly. 21 and 24 provide us a window into the lives of henchmen and prove, well, one out of three will do. -JPC

Inspector 34

The Adventures of Pete and Pete

A man of Shakespearean cloth and Seinfeldian magnitude, 34 emerged from the shadows in search of a muse greater than underpants. What ensued was a journey to the locus of perfection and madness, culminating in the realization that life is not meant to be served under glass. -JB

Like anyone trapped in a state of suspended adolescence, I’ve made a name for myself in realms as far-flung as Zebes, Castlevania, Floating Island, and the Mushroom Kingdom. I’ve pillaged Bowser’s fiery keep more times than I can count — though, granted, it helps that he always leaves an ax standing behind his rickety suspension bridge. But through it all, I’ve never been able to shake the feeling that I’m not actually a fan of video games. I’m a fan of Mega Man.

The Blue Bomber’s adventures against the single-mindedly villainous Dr. Wily played such a critical role in my upbringing that I’m tempted to call him a third parent, or at least a second sibling. Mega Man 2, to this day the franchise’s standard-bearer, had such an impact on me that I wore out the tutorial tape at my local video store. A few years later, I was sternly reprimanded when I included a napalm factory in a miniature city I built as part of an after-school program — I had no idea what napalm was, but I did know that Mega Man 5 had a totally awesome Robot Master named Napalm Man.

Thanks to my extensive experience with series classic Mega Man 2, I can boast to potential employers that I can name all eight of Dr. Wily’s Robot Masters in less than two seconds.

In 1996, when the World Wide Web descended upon humanity and offered the world a never-ending fountain of useful information, my first instinct, of course, was to use it to learn more about Mega Man. Eager to show off my writing chops to an already-bustling online fan community, I embarked upon my masterpiece — a seven-part fan fiction epic that would draw upon all corners of the Mega Man universe and thereupon dazzle minds and set souls aflame. Twelve years later, all I remember was that Part Two told the poignant origin tale of a minor character named Ballade from the fourth Game Boy game.

It’s hard to pin down exactly why the series appealed to me so much at the time — or, for that matter, why it still appeals to me today as I continue to snub my nose at the siren song of maturity. Maybe it’s the fact that even with the endless possibilities offered by games as impressively open-ended as Grand Theft Auto IV, sometimes it’s just more relaxing to walk in a straight line and shoot. Or maybe it’s the sheer consistency of its brainless celebration of pleasure — whereas Mario and Sonic respectively represent the Beatles and Stones of the video game landscape, Mega Man is clearly the AC/DC.

Sadly, though my passion to fight for everlasting peace persisted, the series’ shift into darker territory with the Mega Man X series set the tone for every game that followed. As Capcom farmed out dozens of iterations over a decade-long period, I dutifully tried to keep up, but with each new subtitle (Zero, ZX, Battle Network, Star Force) it felt less and less like the little blue guy who once taught me how to live.

Luckily, the latest generation of home consoles has proven itself a raging juggernaut of nostalgia, with everything from Galaga to Bionic Commando being repackaged as high-definition, downloadable treats for the Information Age’s gaming masses. For this reason, higher authorities have deemed the market suitable for the unleashing of an honest-to-god, NES-style continuation of the original Mega Man series.

Same as it ever was. Same as it ever was. Same as it ever was.

Will Mega Man 9 be the exact same Mega Man game I’ve already played eight times? I’d be shocked if it weren’t, honestly. Does its release feel like a cheap lunge at my wallet laminated with the sentimentality of a bygone gaming youth? Sure, except that I play the older entries so frequently that I’m not convinced that said youth ever lapsed. So be it — your ploy has worked, Capcom. Now let’s see if you’ve still got the chops to give gamers a true taste of the NES fury.

Female Trouble was John Waters’ follow-up film to Pink Flamingos, and he employs largely the same cast in similar roles. What differentiates the two films are their focus: Pink Flamingos is clearly about the lows of society and the limitations of cinema and decency, whereas Female Trouble is a feminist film, crassly defending the struggle of women through over-the-top scenarios. It’s comical, but the notion is out there that views of women are somewhat tainted by societal norms rather than the content of women’s character.

Divine again plays the heroine, Dawn Davenport, a juvenile delinquent who gets knocked up by Earl (also played by Divine; a funny “go fuck yourself” moment) and runs away to Baltimore. There she pays her dues to society starting off as a waitress, then a burlesque dancer, and finally a prostitute and petty thief. She leads a miserable single life with her irritable child, Taffy (played by Mink Stole, whom I love more daily), until she marries Gater, a straight hairdresser who lives next door with his heterophobic Aunt Ida (the inimitable Edith Massey). Then, she is miserable and married with only her ostentatious salon hairstyles to make her happy.

Divine².

The owners of the hair salon, the Dashers, take notice of Dawn’s “unique” beauty and make an offer for her to model for them while enhancing her loveliness with criminal behavior. The Dashers photograph Dawn while she robs houses, beats her daughter, and breaks things in her house. When she kicks Gater out of the house, Aunt Ida comes storming in and throws acid into Dawn’s face. She is terribly disfigured, but the Dashers believe this only adds to her beauty. They book her a performing gig where she executes all kinds of repulsive acts, including rubbing dead fish on herself and shooting a member of the audience. Dawn is so wrapped up in her fame and notoriety that she crows about her infamy through her friends’ treachery and her eventual dismal end.

Waters holds the female condition near to his heart in this film. At the start, audiences will identify with Dawn as she sasses back to her teacher, smokes in the bathroom, and throws a tantrum when she doesn’t get cha-cha heels for Christmas. As she struggles to make ends meet doing a variety of odd (and odder) jobs, the audience may feel sympathy for her. Only when the typical vulgarity of Divine’s persona starts to shine through do audiences realize that this has all been a ruse to conjure up some feelings for Dawn Davenport before exploiting her before wealthy opportunists and the media circus. Were it not for Divine’s extra-cinematic fame, the audience might have fully invested in the well-being of this girl, but because it is also a cynical romp, we are one step removed.

As this removed audience, even though we feel for Dawn, we still want to know what kind of hijinks she gets into, and we hope to be wowed, grossed out, and offended. Dawn will always remain more an object than a true female heroine, a vehicle for humiliation more than a figure living the American dream. But while audiences of the 1970s could detach from this film as fiction, it was a time when women were still seen as objects for men’s amusement, and didn’t garner the same respect as men in social issues and the workplace. Feminism had taken huge strides since the early 1960s, but there was still domestic inequity and, to this day, women get paid less than men for comparable jobs.

Perhaps Waters’ message was intentional, perhaps not. I have heard him speak, however, and he is quite an intelligent person, so I would not deny him that insight. He is cited as having his finger on the pulse of contemporary society, and of understanding the basest aspects of human nature better than most. Female Trouble might seem like an ironic title at first, but it is very particularly selected. The troubles don’t necessarily belong to the main female in the film, rather, it is about the trouble people have with reconciling females as equal citizens, and the disconnect between realizing that the objectification of a film character may not be so different from someone’s home situation.

As this removed audience, even though we feel for Dawn, we still want to know what kind of hijinks she gets into, and we hope to be wowed, grossed out, and offended. Dawn will always remain more an object than a true female heroine, a vehicle for humiliation more than a figure living the American dream. But while audiences of the 1970s could detach from this film as fiction, it was a time when women were still seen as objects for men’s amusement, and didn’t garner the same respect as men in social issues and the workplace. Feminism had taken huge strides since the early 1960s, but there was still domestic inequity and, to this day, women get paid less than men for comparable jobs.

Perhaps the message was intentional, perhaps not. Waters is cited as having his finger on the pulse of contemporary society and understands the basest aspects human nature better than most, so I wouldn’t deny him that insight. Female Trouble might seem like an ironic title at first, but it’s well chosen. The troubles aren’t necessarily those of Dawn Davenport, but rather the trouble society as a whole has with reconciling women as equal citizens. As the Dashers objectify Dawn on screen, Waters illuminates the subtler injustices which constantly play out around us.

Next time: Desperate Living

47 Words pays tribute to individuals willing to break the constraints of traditional nomenclature, spicing up their names with letters and acronyms.

GOB Bluth

George Oscar Bluth, Arrested Development

Millionaire playboy, Segway trendsetter, hot cop? All of these describe the domineering and insecure eldest Bluth sibling, but only one word can truly evoke the man who made the band Europe popular again: magic! Just don’t ask him to escape from anything or make a boat disappear. -MC

M.O.D.O.K.

Mobile Organism Designed Only for Killing, Marvel Comics

Née George Tarleton, this Advanced Idea Mechanics company man was transformed in an experiment into a six foot tall homicidal Boglin. Enemy of many superheroes and supervillains alike, most notably the Avengers, M.O.D.O.K. still maintained a healthy love life with his female counterparts Miss M.O.D.O.K. and M.O.D.A.M. -JM

EPICAC

Kurt Vonnegut character

Jonesing to get into his programmer colleague’s jeans, a nameless computer technician asks his brainy supercomputer to compose poetry for her in his name. However, EPICAC falls hopelessly in love with her and, the ability to drown his sorrows in Internet pornography still decades away, commits suicide. -RB

U-God

Wu-Tang Killa Bee

U-God only said 86 words on the Wu-Tang Clan’s classic debut album, but he is famous for being one of the unknown members of the Clan. Blaming his obscurity on discrimination due to his lighter skin color, U-God ignores the fact that his rhymes lack any weight. -JL

ZHA-VAM

Zeus Hercules Achilles Vulcan Apollo Mercury

Fearing their might would be supplanted in the 20th century by invincible Jesus figure Superman, the Greek (and, apparently, Roman) Pantheon assembled a mythological amalgam to defeat him. Sadly, for some reason they also gave him Achilles’ heel, leaving the Man of Steel an easy way out. -RB

Mr. T

Actor, motivational speaker, wrestler, humanitarian

“First name: Mr, middle name: period, last name: T.” Starting off his career as a bouncer and bodyguard to the world’s badasses (Bruce Lee, Muhammad Ali, Michael Jackson), this mohawk-sporting sage’s true talent is distributing diplomatic, penetrating wisdom. Cut the jibba jabba and treat your mother right. -JL

This Week: Metal Gear Solid 4, on first blush, turns out to be … actually good!

Ladies and gentlemen, sing it from the rooftops! After emerging from the vision quest mire of Sons of Liberty and Snake Eater, those monuments to design indulgence, Metal Gear Solid 4: Guns of the Patriot is not only fun, but suprisingly so. Perhaps it has the advantage with the ornate punishment of the previous games so fresh in my mind, but this latest endeavor is refreshingly clean in comparison.

The big game of the year thus far along with Grand Theft Auto IV, Guns of the Patriot was released to massive buzz and, as is sadly to be expected of high profile releases, critical acclaim. Sons of Liberty also was lauded, with a Metacritic score of 96, and not until later did it rightly come to be regarded as the steaming pile of shit that it actually is. So, despite the initial rush of dopamine that Guns of the Patriot offers right off the bat, the true cut of its jib remains to be seen.

One of the new beasties in Guns of the Patriot, the Gekkou, whose cow-like “moo” will strike fear into even the most battle hardened warrior.

Although at its core the gameplay of Patriots isn’t fundamentally different from that of Snake Eater, the balance of all the elements has been readjusted to be more lenient in almost every regard. The alarm timers are dramatically faster and less touchy, granting the player the ability to explore at leisure. Subsystems have been streamlined and incorporated into other systems, and in some cases, such as the camouflage system retained from Snake Eater, they are invisible within the in-game action. Finally, the game liberally provides the player with tactical information, meaning maneuvering around the levels is nearly as simple as it was in the first game.

With these simple tweaks to balance and design, paired with the smoothed out controls that allow Solid Snake to move and shoot much more easily, the game unfolds at a clip more akin to a zippy first-person shooter. And the dopey guard staples of the series are joined by hyper-aggressive enemies that instill a raptors-in-the-kitchen level of terror, who occasionally turn the typical stealth gameplay into some wild Mexican standoffs.

The plot has done a fine job so far of keeping up, too. The game globetrots along like a good espionage flick, changing locales through each of the five acts (only the first of which I’ve completed). It’s a fresh change of pace in a series that usually sticks to one locale over the course of a entire installment.

Jumping into the near future, the game once again follows Solid Snake, now an old man due to an accelerated aging process built into his genes, a control valve purposefully installed to limit the lifespan of a human weapon. The world has devolved into an international culture of war dominated by private military corporations, with the armies of national governments having evaporated in the conflict-focused economy. In an effort to maintan this stable chaos, every soldier, vehicle, and piece of equipment is monitored in a massive computer database, like some kind of stock market of blood. The System, as it is so cleverly named, is used both for tactical information and to constantly adjust the going values of territory, the PMCs’ services, and arms on the fly.

It’s actually a fairly compelling setting, despite the myriad plotholes I’m sure lie beneath the surface. Many flaws from previous games cling on for dear life, but they’re impact on the actual gameplay is reduced nearly to the point of invisibility — excepting, of course, the ample cutscenes, slick and exciting as they are.

Hopefully, the quality of the gameplay will allow the game’s — and the series’ — themes and authorial quirks to rise to the surface. Now in the final chapter, it’s time to dig in and chow down and see what Hideo Kojima has really been up to all of these years. Has the Solid series just been a gun nut’s rambling military fantasy, or an auteur’s thoughtful allegory on the modern world?

Next Time: Gravitas vs. diarrhea. Toilet humor, fan service, and sexism.