That’s right profane comic fans, The Good Ship Faakensheize is back on the air and season 2 promises to deliver even more thrills ‘n spills than season 1!

For those new to this groundbreaking space dramedy, here’s the blurb from season 1

This is the story of the Good Ship Faakensheize and its maverick commander – Flip.
Commander Flip is a man on a mission; not an important one, but a mission nevertheless.
He captains the Good Ship Faakensheize and its crew as they explore space and time, though not necessarily in that order.

The ship’s computer knows that, in fact, there is no-one on the ship other than Commander Flip, but does not tell him this.

And now in season 2 the cast and crew return after an extended leave of absence, due to protracted contract negotiations and rehab, ready to rock your galaxy.
Unfortunately the show’s producers couldn’t agree on terms with the ship’s computer (undisputed star of season 1) and therefore he hasn’t returned in season 2. But don’t worry! The cast has been amended with several thrilling new characters, including the delightful Skinny Intern, and the writing remains at an acerbic genius pitch.

So strap on your starship goggles as we head back towards the inner reaches of outer space!

Yes, so there it is – I’ve finally picked up my old online comic again. I struggled for a long time with how to go about writing a second season for this series.
The premise is simple, each season has twelve episodes and each season I intend to each season use the same (poorly)drawn panels and to just change the text. We also always only see one character on the screen (Commander Flip) which means that the other characters have to, somehow, be able to plausibly remain off screen.
A few weeks ago I happened on the thought that if season 2 (in the absence of the Computer character) was about the making of the TV show (which is what season 1 was) I could get away with the other characters being off screen as they are the crew that produce the show (the director etc).
I’m also explicitly linking seasons 1 and 2 to bounce the two sets of jokes against one another, but I’m taking a lot of care to not just re-phrase the same jokes in a new context. The first two episodes of season 2 do mirror season 1 closely, but from episode 3 onwards I’m looking to broaden my horizon and rely less on the spaceship angle and more on Commander Flip’s struggle as a daytime TV actor.

Oh yes, and there will be even more fucking swearing than in season 1 – and sex.

The world keeps exploding; a Burmese cyclone and the junta block all ports, China’s earthquake inconveniences the Olympics and in South Africa xenophobia causes barbaric violence. There is no beauty to be found in misery or fear, but a Chinese wedding photographer recorded something haunting[1].

These photos were taken when the recent earthquake (which has thus far claimed 50 000 lives) struck during a wedding in Sichuan, China – all 33 guests survived.

The combination of the formal intention of the photographer who is flung into a documentary role together with the detached shock of the wedding party produces some amazing images that seem at once posed formal and lost. I want to connect the image of the bride with Marie Antoinette as Versailles is lost.
More than anything it reminds me of my favourite Cindy Sherman image – particularly the colour.

PS. The above slidy script is modified from CrossFade2

As is my wont I am again, in lieu of actual content, presenting someone else’s poetry.
Today it is John Betjeman’s ode to Slough, home and workplace of David Brent.

The full, subtle reading is, as always, on Youtube[1].

Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough!
It isn't fit for humans now,
There isn't grass to graze a cow.
Swarm over, Death!

Come, bombs and blow to smithereens
Those air -conditioned, bright canteens,
Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans,
Tinned minds, tinned breath.

Mess up the mess they call a town-
A house for ninety-seven down
And once a week a half a crown
For twenty years.

And get that man with double chin
Who'll always cheat and always win,
Who washes his repulsive skin
In women's tears:

And smash his desk of polished oak
And smash his hands so used to stroke
And stop his boring dirty joke
And make him yell.

But spare the bald young clerks who add
The profits of the stinking cad;
It's not their fault that they are mad,
They've tasted Hell.

It's not their fault they do not know
The birdsong from the radio,
It's not their fault they often go
To Maidenhead

And talk of sport and makes of cars
In various bogus-Tudor bars
And daren't look up and see the stars
But belch instead.

In labour-saving homes, with care
Their wives frizz out peroxide hair
And dry it in synthetic air
And paint their nails.

Come, friendly bombs and fall on Slough
To get it ready for the plough.
The cabbages are coming now;
The earth exhales.

On my last nite in Austin I went and saw The Raconteurs at Stubb’s Bar-B-Q and had a rockin’ great time. When I last visited Atlanta I saw the Black Crowes and had just as rockin’ a great time, but Stubb’s was a different kettle of fish entirely. Whereas the Black Crowes was a wonderfully bundled up experience where the weather and the venue and the band melded together into a glorious Southern-style Sunday evening[1] this was really just a bar-type touring rock band show. But don’t get me wrong, it was fuckn great – just not as awash in sensory glory.

The deal is that The Raconteurs are touring behind their new album, Consolers Of The Lonely and true to their vagabond-deluxe aesthetic Stubb’s had a large, blacked out tour bus parked round the back. Despite the band’s mega-famous co-frontman[2] this is not Motley Crue touring with their own private jet and drug-preparing hostesses, this is a tour by bus from state to state.

Lonely Consolers

And so the stage was set[3] for a dusty outdoors gig with beers in hand and rock on stage. The supporting act was Birds of Avalon and they were great, though I suspect a bit on the jammy side for the hook-hungry crowd. Still, a great band – a tight unit with a thick sound. But no-one was there for a series of extended instrumentals, we were all there to see Jack White. And so the Birds dutifully trundled off[4] while we awaited the The Raconteurs’ promised explosion of sweat and underwear-shredding rock. And this is what’s is still amazing to me about America – on any given Friday nite(especially in Austin) you can go and see some really world class musicians. You can go down to Redriver street in shorts and flip-flops, pay your 30 bucks, buy a beer and be one of six or seven hundred to see The Raconteurs work for their money. No papparazzi, no global news coverage – just another live show.

And what a fucking live show it was. The Raconteurs are a great band, great songs, great sound – great rhythm section and great slide guitar from their frontman/guitarist Brendan Benson. Great songwriting, also by Benson. But Jack White is in a different league entirely. The most important guitarist of his generation, he came out with something else, something larger than life[5] – something truly explosive. Everything from the way that he walks to his uncomfortably plain haircut to his Pete Townsend hops to the way he yelps past the microphone when driving a song to its payoff makes it clear that he will be remembered for years to come as the leading light in blues/country-based rock.

Just how good is he? Well, he replaces the touring pianist (some dude) to play the show’s only piano solo on You Don’t Understand Me and burns the place down. His shrill voice remains intact throughout and he plays those fucking cool, iconic guitars of his like he’s ripping apart phone books.
It was amazing to see one musician dominate an entire set without even trying. But he’s not perfect by any measure. Frankly, he is a poor host[6] – not warm or engaging and, despite his confidence and sound, seemingly not really interested in sharing with the audience. In comparison to AC/DC (all of them) he is cold and distant. But he does rock.

The Raconteurs were great, but Jack White was astounding in his assuredness and ability to back up his swagger with revolutionary musical skill and intent. And I have a feeling that Friday’s show wasn’t even close to what he’s capable of in full, delirious flight.
Well done to The Raconteurs, great show. But jesus, he may not have the social warmth of Brian Johnson, but Jack White is fucking iconic.