Tuesday, August 3, 2010

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Homer Simpson in a popup book wants to be my friend, although he hasn’t fallen into a sinkhole or is not standing in a spill deemed the worst of its kind. Or he wants protection from the person on the other page: Alice Cooper, with the veil of meat exhibition ripped off him. His page looks like a classroom presentation (a little Bart popup in the background) while Alice’s looks very industrialized – metal plows, robotic arms, a huge tin funnel with a right-angled spigot. Thing is, I don’t know how to protect him:

I’ve come across, in my ramble through the towering pages, some impromptu backbones but when I use them, or try to use them, they seem missing. I see the different side of the symbolic gesture – which closing doors do you love? Which poor actor stands behind them? What does a pustule turned into a hat try to tell you about itself? And what is it good for? It makes you talk like a demon, and shows you how with enough banter you can blackmail a villain like Alice Cooper.

But first there’s the 3-D cardboard concourse to navigate…

With a beer bottle I skewed the green light in order to drive over beach goers, crushing mere ankles and a little school of prawn lecturers cuddling on towels reimaged with ice-cream truck motifs. Then on for some platonic invigoration mingling with characters on pages 5 – 7 in the body-armor of a love gadget. Yes and but … before knowing it I’m actually already competing for a kidney donation among crazy, bean-shaped commuters in the viaduct margins of page 7 throwing their faux kidney bodies into the sea. Smooth-playing here is peremptory overkill, so willing everybody – everybody but Homer and the villainous Alice – in this book is to be helped. The hydraulic that could overturn mountainous pages 7 through 13 – it is perhaps the only thing here craving smoothness, lubrication or whatever…

How to be the pustulent host, the great writer, architect, dog, god, that loves his guests and nevertheless sits still during his forgettable cameo in his own kitchen … In other words how to make the art of deceptive marketing … I don’t know …

work?

Your average automated pop-up book can really fuck with your mind. But one containing the Simpson family, drawn wrongly and reimaged with all the love of a free haircut, sparks disruptions in the very soul of the brain: that femora with the two bums at either end stuck through the septums of headhunters. A disease-outbreak in rough transit defines this read, a King Kong-smashed rotorcraft - that whirring sound when it closes. A lanced bug: something that happens to you during the following hours' sleep.   

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