OMNIPHOBIC.COM

If you have happened across this place and seen one or two things that pique your interest, go check out my current happenings: http://omniphobic.blogspot.com This is where my current updates and past history can be found.

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I Have Been Inside George Clooney

By now you have heard my tale of woe regarding the malicious prank pulled on me during "Black Christmas". As a result of the emotional scars suffered that day (and the physical scars on my resulting victims), I vowed to do whatever necessary to get my hands on the holiest of all electronics: The Nintendo Entertainment System.

Being that it was now 1988 and I lived in Stumblebum, I had very few choices. This being a recycling state, I could try and collect as many cans and bottles as necessary to claim my prize, or I could just bite the bullet and...gasp...get a job.

Let's put this into a little bit of perspective first. In early 1988 I was a wee lad of 12. I wouldn't turn 13 until the end of August, so I hadn't even achieved the rank of teenager yet. How in the hell was I supposed to find a job? Well, sometimes living in the ass end of a cow town can work to your advantage.

There was, in the sparse downtown area that my grandfather lovingly referred to as "Greater Metropolitan Stumblebum" a grand total of two job options; the local store (family owned) and a small restaurant called Granny's Place.

Granny's was well known to me as she had a small gaming room filled with all of 6 video games. (At the time that I started working there: Sky Shark, Ikari Warriors, Shinobi, Pole Position, Party Animal (Pinball) and Double Dragon. Being the kind of guy that would end up with Pac-Man and Adventure tattoos on my leg, you can imagine that I spent a great deal of time there playing the games. Granny's held a monthly gaming competition with fabulous prizes like waffle cones and milkshakes as the spoils and each month it was myself or one other regular who claimed the booty.

Granny knew who I was and appreciated the burning desire I possessed to claim a Nintendo for myself. After a few weeks of begging, needling and general cajoling, I got her to agree to take me on as an employee. By the time I turned 13 I was managing the restaurant.

Yes, you heard that correctly. At the age of 13 I was managing a restaurant. And yes, you're probably thinking correctly that this showed a horrible lapse of judgment on Granny's part. I wasn't necessarily a bad kid, (not yet anyways) but putting a teenager in complete control of a business intended to turn a profit is just, well, dumb.

Granny's quickly turned into a haven of free food for my friends and a refuge of general chicanery. My friends and I, though never intending any ill intent, were nonetheless a bunch of young hooligans and reprobates.

I managed to continue the charade long enough to get Terry hired as well, placing me in a position of authority over him which I loved to exploit for my own amusement. I would frequently assign him the shit duties just because I could. To his credit, he took it all with resigned humor.

Stumblebum was a town of about 30 people, a town so insignificant that we didn't even appear in all of the atlases of repute. Because of our minuscule populous, an average day there was spent doing very little real work. With the exception of the rush of ice cream sales after little league games, it was very rare to see more than one or two people there that weren't there just to visit and hang out.

I could regale you for hours with whimsical tales of our antics, but that would be foolish of me. Come on, I'm trying to run a blog here, and it would do me little good to throw all the great stories into ONE entry, now wouldn't it?

But there is one story that stands out from the pack a bit. A tale of intrigue involving Hollywood's cultural elite, sinister voodoo and an unfulfilled debt that I'm certain plagues the thoughts and dreams of at least one A-List actor currently working in the industry.

This is the tale of George Clooney's chance meeting with E.

Terry and I were tooling about the restaurant in our standard manner, i.e. doing nothing productive and ensuring the financial ruin of our employer. Having already taken care of our standard duties for the day, we were simply enjoying youth to our fullest potential.

I stood in front of Sky Shark, hoping to shatter my current high score, singing the jaunty tunes of the game as I played. Terry sat at the bar, gleefully snacking on whatever foodstuff he had snuck from the preparation area. I blasted another wave of enemy ships, oblivious to the world around me when I heard Terry call out.

"Dude, a limo just pulled up!" he shouted over to me, triggering a lapse of concentration and the untimely death of my fighter.

I turned to assault him with a barrage of curses but found myself stunned by the look of excitement in his eyes.

"A limo?" I snorted out, not believing his line for a second. Seriously, this is Stumblebum in the middle of summer. Limos don't pull into my parking lot. Limos don't even drive THROUGH Stumblebum, let alone stop here.

"Yeah," he said, while straining to see out the window. There was a brief pause and then he blurted out, "HOLY SHIT!"

"What?"

"It's that guy from The Facts of Life!" Terry said, giddy with the excitement of recognition.

"Huh? What guy?" I asked, not knowing of any male characters from that show, before tossing out, "You mean Tootie?" Har dee har har, my cutting wit knows no boundaries.

I had no idea who Terry was talking about. At this stage in his career Clooney had done The Facts of Life but had not yet done Roseanne. He was still, for all intents and purposes, a nobody. Terry was intent that this was indeed "That guy from that show" and resolved himself to finding out for certain once he came inside.

Mr. Clooney stepped into our restaurant and made his way to a table, the look on his face indicating that he was every bit as starstruck by me as I was by him. In other words, he could not have cared less if he tried.

Within minutes Terry was excitedly bouncing to the dining room to get Mr. Clooney's order while I began preparing the grill area for whatever he might want. After a short while Terry returned to hand in his order.

"Yeah, it's him alright," he said. "His name's George Clooney. He'd like a gyro and a bowl of potato soup."

A simple enough order for us to fill. I set to work preparing the gyro while Terry enthusiastically poured a bowl of soup, which he delivered to our diner with thumb deeply ensconced. (This was a bad habit of Terry's, and one for which my father yelled at him countless times...Keep your damn fingers OUT OF THE SOUP.)

Luckily for us, George did not notice the thumb in his soup, or at least had the common decency not to mention it. And thankfully Terry had attracted his attention well enough that George did not notice his gyro meat accidentally dropping to the floor. I quickly stooped and grabbed the meat, brushing it briskly against my apron.

Most people have the designated "five second rule" when food falls to the ground, a mistaken belief that it takes a few moments for bacteria and other assorted ickies to make their way onto wayward food. This is of course crap, and seeing as how this food wasn't destined for me, I was adhering to the "five minute rule", which this discarded meat fell well within the boundaries of.

Just prior to slathering a healthy dose of cucumber sauce onto Clooney's gyro, I noticed a hair drop from my head into the sizzling pile of meat and vegetables laid out before me. A little bit of voodoo magic never hurt anybody, I figured, and I let the incident slide.

Terry delivered the hairy, filth encrusted gyro to George's table and we watched with giggly glee as he ate every last bite.

That's right, YOU HEAR ME CLOONEY? I fed you a dirty gyro filled with my hair. My hair is inside you now. Not many people can make the claim that they've been deep inside George Clooney, but I can.

And I can't help but notice that prior to being fed the grimy meat sandwich by yours truly, Clooney was nothing but a bit player, a nobody. But within months of his chance encounter with E, Clooney was well on his way to super-stardom.

Coincidence? Or was it perhaps a machination set into motion by yours truly?

Oh, it was machination alright. Again, you listening Clooney? I demand reparation! If it weren't for me and the potentially deadly foodstuffs I provided, you'd still be nothing. NOTHING.

Time to repay the favor, Clooney.

I Pick Things Up, I Am A Collector

At work, the cubicle next to mine is capped by a wall of Transformers toys, old and new piled on top of each other like a modern day tower of Babel. Don't take this to be a complaint. I'm a man who loves toys, and though I do rightfully complain that the majority of them are trapped in their cardboard cages, they're still awfully neat to look at. (He does let us play with about 10 of them.) The other day, while he was pulling his latest acquisition (a Galvatron, Cyberton edition) from the FedEx box it arrived in, a group of us started a conversation about the nature of collectors.

To begin with, we had to define: what is a collector? It's easy to say that a collector is somebody who just enjoys buying a bunch of some specific item. But seeing it that way is missing the whole idea.

Collecting is not a hobby or an interest. To those with a collector's mind it truly is a way of life. Collectors specialize in some specific area. The cube next to mine: Transformers. In my past I was a major Star Wars collector. This has changed over the years, but we'll get to that later.

Collecting is more than indiscriminate purchasing. It is comprised of several different rituals, all working together in harmony to produce a positive outcome for the host.

In order to be an effective collector, you must do a great deal of research and study into your field and determine where your area of specialization lies. I mentioned earlier that I used to collect Star Wars. In the realm of Star Wars, I was focused on primarily vintage (1970's and 80's) action figures and playsets, with a special interest in anything with Darth Vader. To this day, nothing makes me happier than a nice sculpt of Vader.

So, knowing that my primary interest lay in vintage figurines, I had to learn the relative value of all of the figures, carded and loose, as well as variations in production, who the rare figures were, and how to spot counterfeits and tricks. At the time I collected the holy grail of Star Wars figures was a carded vinyl cape Jawa. They're really easy to counterfeit, all you need to do is trim a vinyl Obi-Wan Kenobi cape.

Armed with knowledge, a collector next has to determine their personal methods for pursuing their interests. For me, the thrill of the hunt was the majority of my enjoyment. There is a certain rush of adrenaline one gets when finding something they really desire after poring through some dusty collection, whether it be at a garage sale or a flea market. It's the thrill of knowing you have found something of great personal value, yet trying not to appear too excited, lest they decide to jack the price up on you.

Even once you've found items and built your stash, what is your intent? Are you collecting for future value? For sentimental value? Are these items that you intend to leave in their packaging, or do you want to open them? Again, we're all different. I was an opener. Of course, I had some items that remained in boxes, but all in all I'm a very tactile person, so holding and touching my treasures resulted in the greatest pleasure for me.

This whole conversation was made more interesting by the introduction of Doodface's collecting interests: nothing. To him, the concept of dedicating so much of your mental and physical energies to a hobby like this is just not part of his mindset.

That's not to say that either side of the equation is better. As humans, we all seek something to provide some level of interest or comfort in our lives, it's just the means that we undertake to achieve that can be quite different.

To one with no real interest in collecting, the whole concept can seem pretty alien. Who cares about G1 Transformers? What makes an Alpha Black Lotus so special? Who cares about blue Snaggletooth?

If you have no vested interest in hording or collecting of any sort, the above questions matter very little. To a collector, they mean a lot.

I'm not even that much of a Transformers fan, myself, but I get giddy with glee every time a new one arrives, because I understand the sense of joy and fulfillment that comes with a new acquisition.

I mentioned earlier that I had given up on Star Wars collecting (aside from an occasional Vader) some time ago. This was due to a fundamental change in the nature of collecting. For some it was a boon, the dawning of a golden age. For others, such as myself, it signaled the end of an era. The entity of change? The internet. More specifically, Ebay.

It used to be that the pursuit and procurement of collectibles would take dedication, a willingness to "hit the bricks" and scour all of the local shops and haunts looking for an elusive item or a fantastic deal. Now all you have to do is logon to Ebay and rest assured that some guy out there has bought every item in stock at your local store and is willing to sell it to you at three times market value.

No, thank you. Where's the reward if you don't have to work for it?

Since the dawn of the internet age, I have turned my interests elsewhere. I now hunt three primary things: movies, video games, and information.

Movies and games have long been an interest of mine, so that's really just an extension of an old hobby. But information has proved to be a fun and rewarding hobby. I love to learn, so going on the hunt for information is a natural extension of my interests. Plus, it gives me the ability to spout out interesting tidbits of knowledge at inappropriate times.

It's also allowed me to channel my interests for others. Anytime somebody has some obscure bit of information they're looking for, I'll give you one guess who they come to.

So what about you? Are you a collector? Does all this talk of little plastic action figures and robots get you excited, or would you be just as happy to look at a rock?

The Death of Golobulus

The teenage years are a rough time for any male; a tsunamic flood of hormonal and physical metamorphosis that renders the majority of us into confused drooling monstrosities. It was much the same for me, finding myself overwhelmed by the thirst for carnage and blood that ravages the minds of the demented. For my part, my pubescent transformation resulted in the ultimate obliteration of many an unfortunate toy.

There were only two "races" of action figure spared from my genocidal tendencies: Star Wars and Transformers. These both ranked as sacrosanct, outside the bounds of even my most homicidal urges. Sometimes they'd even be brought along for the sheer joy of the kill, to laugh alongside me as their plastic brethren departed the earth.

Without question the most frequent targets for my destructive actions were the good men and women of the GI Joe unit. Wankers, the lot of them. I had no qualms whatsoever in proposing and carrying out creative methods of execution, all for my twisted amusement.

For every termination there were two important parts; the determination of method and the reading of the last rites. Every toy sentenced to death would have their charges read out before them. Occassionally I would allow them to argue for clemency, though I'm afraid that the majority found that justice's ears are firmly plugged.

The methods varied. Duke found himself bound a pair of bottle rockets, launched into the stratosphere only to suffer a violent explosive episode before plummeting back towards the Earth at terminal velocity. Gung Ho found himself strapped to the outside of a helicopter on its way to a head-on collision with a tree. He found the pilot of said vehicle to be a terrifying master, indeed, as his splintering crash had to be repeated seven or eight times until the headsman was satisfied.

Another Mengelian experiment in which I took joy was the grafting of the limbs from one victim to the ample torso of another. To facilitate these actions would require a blowtorch and a great deal of creativity, heating the limbs on victim number one until soft enough to be pulled from the torso, only to attach the limb to his compatriate and let the bubbling plastic cool. Many a mutant was created in such a fashion.

Ahh...the mutants. Herein lies my finest hour.

Golobulus was the mutant leader of Cobra-La, the original incarnation of Cobra, the primary nemesis of the GI Joe universe. Good old Golobby was a serpentine mutant, half man, half snake. He came into my life not as a single figure, but as part of a three pack of Christmas joy, accompanied by Nemesis Enforcer and Royal Guard.

To his credit, Golobulus was a pretty cool figure, what with his segmented mutant body and accompanying baddies. All in all I was rather fond of the lot of them.

But fancy can be a fickle thing, and the following summer I found a death sentence handed down from the high courts, boldly stamped with Golobulus' name, his two henchmen named as accomplices.

I'd love to say that I argued eloquently on their behalf, acting as an informal Clarence Darrow with the hopes of swaying the opinion of the judiciary. I'd love to, but it would be a bold faced lie. In truth, I relished the idea of their forthcoming execution and quickly set to work with determining the means and timing of my justice.

And so it was that one fine Spring morning, Golobulus and his crew found themselves wrested from slumber and carted off to the nearby baseball field. I dragged them off to a little used nook and laid them on the ground before digging them a shallow grave with a garden trowel. A grave, I might add, that they WATCHED me dig. I made no reassurances that they would not occupy this earthen stronghold posthaste.

At the appointed hour I read the charges against them and informed them that they had been sentenced to death. A sentence to be carried out immediately. They were stood before their future grave and the ceremony communed.

Their death was to be in two stages.

Stage 1: Artillery fire. A BB gun provided the small birdshot pellets that would tear their tender flesh to shreds, or at the very least dent their tough plastic casing. This stage would cease when the final accused dropped into the plot behind him.

Stage 2: Chemical bath and immolation. Once the accused had been fired upon and laid to rest in their shallow grave, they were to be bathed in WD-40 and set alight, to smoulder and boil into a formless blob of plasticized chemicals.

When the acrid black smoke finally cleared I offered the cermonial "Ashes to ashes" speech and then covered their remains with the dirt used to construct their grave.

Years went by, and I relished the memories on countless occassions. I would even make constitutionals over to the ball field to revisit their eternal resting place. But as time wore on and my memory dimmed, I found myself unable to pinpoint the exact area of execution.

The knowledge of their forgotten grave began to eat at me, my brain shifting at odd moments to the spectral monsters that no doubt lurked the field in the evening. I wouldn't have been surprised to see the Mystery Machine pull up to investigate the scene.

And so, one August afternoon in 2003 (that coincidentally turned out to be the day of the great blackout) I took my stepchildren and brother-in-law over to the field with a metal detector in hopes of finding my forgotten prey.

We spent the better part of three hours combing the land, hoping that the BB's or metal pins in their joints would set off the detector, allowing me to glimpse with pride once more at the destruction wreaked upon those hapless victims oh so many years ago.

I regaled the children with tales of what we were searching for, pointing out the sites of various misdeeds of my youth. (Which included the area where Terry and I hid for another misdaventure.) We fervently struck at the soil at various points hoping to blindly stumble across the victims while I did my best to reconstruct the scene in my head.

But it was to no avail. The final resting place of the Cobra-La squad remains lost to the ages. I fear that Golobulus will never see daylight again.

The Hunt

I cannot even begin to count the number of times I have performed the ritual. Each time I feel its pending arrival, my hairs stand at end, electric energy flowing through my body, urging me to carry out the nefarious acts it knows will soon follow.

Everybody has their rituals, be it how they prepare their coffee, how they organize their desk, or...other things. But the rituals of others matter not I say, for my hungers find themselves unsatiated by standard fare, forcing me to seek out a darker object to satisfy my desires.

As has been noted many times before, the thrill of the hunt is half the excitement, and I will not lie, I enjoy haunting the Wal*Marts and the dollar stores in search of my elusive prey. I find that the quality of victim is little changed by the locale I find it in. They all ultimately provide the same attraction.

Once I have staked out my quarry and made my move, it's time to return to my sanctuary, so that I may carry out my actions in private, away from the prying eyes of those who could not possibly understand. The arrival at my home allows me to carry on the second, more ritualized aspect of the hunt. Namely, it allows me time to both prepare and execute the kill.

When the appointed hour arrives, I extricate my prey from its temporary storage and place it on the altar of sacrifice. Almost without exception they will stare up at me, frozen in terror, unable to move or scream.

I begin by removing whatever outfit they are wearing and placing it in a pile next to them. We wouldn't want to stain their clothing, now would we? Their naked frame remains before me, unmoving, yielding to my dark intent.

Now it's time to remove their eyes, damnable windows to the soul that would otherwise stare accusingly at me while I desecrated their home. Sometimes I'll use an implement such as a knife to remove their ocular apparati. Sometimes I'll just claw them out with my bare fingers, relishing the feel of them loosening then ultimately separating from the body proper.

The eyes are soon cast aside so that the real game can begin. But I am not an entirely heartless monster. This is the point in the ritual where I will apologize to my victim, explaining that life is a matter of survival of the fittest.

And now it's time for the kill proper. You might think from the above descriptions, that I would slash and cut at the soon to be lifeless frame, fetishistically thrilling with each downward thrust.

But honestly, I have no need for abject cruelty, so, having removed their eyes and leaving them unknowing of what will come next, I strike for the face. The intent is to burrow through the face into the frontal lobes of the brain as quickly as possible.

That I need to feast is without question. I have no desire to torment the victim. Sometimes I can make my way through the outer casing of the head in a simple crushing bite. If I (or they, as might be said) am unlucky, then a few blows are required before the fatal one strikes home.

Once I am assured that only a hollow corpse lays before me, I set to work, hungrily devouring all that remains of its mortal shell.

After all is said and done, I say a brief word of thanks for the sustenance that has been provided, then I dispose of the remnants and discarded bits.

The ritual is complete until next year, when the chocolate bunnies go on sale once again...

Give It Up For Ultraporn

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No, I Will Not Fix Your Computer

Would you call your paleontologist friend up at 9:00 at night just to ask with help differentiating a Cambrian from a Paleozoic trilobite? Would you expect some physicist that you barely know as a third-party acquaintance to drop what they're doing and assist with your kid's homework? Then why would you expect me to come and fix your computer?

Has it ever occurred to you that I spend my entire day working on machines and that JUST MAYBE I would rather not have a pile of them to deal with when I get home? Did it cross your mind that perhaps I like to enjoy some of my free time, just like anybody else?

Have you noticed that stores exist that make a lot of money by helping people out with their problems? Just because I have a little knowledge I should be expected to do it all for free? (Or at least dirt cheap)

Let me say this one more time, a little more clearly. No, I will not fix your computer.

You see, if I agree to come to your place and work on it (or allow you to drop it off at my place), then you make assumptions about our future interactions.

For example, if I work on your machine today, that does not mean that you get a lifetime warranty from me, nor does it mean that I absolutely insist on resolving every issue you ever experience.

"Remember when you installed Office for me in 1997? Well, now Internet Explorer won't start. It must be from something you did."

It isn't.

I know little Jimmy is having a rough go of it, not being able to use his computer. Perhaps he shouldn't have installed Limewire so that he can get all of these infected warez. Fuck, kid, if you're going to pirate, at least do it right.

Good job infecting that thing with over 3,000 different kinds of malware, grayware, spyware, adware, trojans and viruses. Thank god cleaning that shit up is a breeze and guaranteed to maintain stability.

Here you go, Jimmy, I just spent nine hours cleaning it all up for you. What's that, you downloaded "deadly_virus.exe" and ran it? Looks like you hosed your system up again. Let me give you two words of advice.

Fuck you.

Fix your own goddamn problems.

As much as I love sitting down to work on a machine only to see 119 programs loaded in the system tray, I'm gonna have to pass.

Shocking, I know, but I really have no desire to deal with your constant phone calls, asking for this answer or that, demanding your machine be finished and otherwise hassling me while I'm trying to scour your machine for whatever halfway decent porn you might have stashed away.

What? You don't even have GOOD porn? Sigh, why am I even looking at this thing?

Seriously, Jimmy, I don't give one shit about your computer woes. If you would just practice a little common sense, perhaps you wouldn't have clicked the link in the spam that simply read, "Good boner is what she really need".

And, for the love of Christ, do NOT give my phone number out to others. Yeah, there's nothing greater than the late night phone call from the friend of the sister of the aunt of the cousin of the hairdresser of the dog groomer of some dude that was friends with a guy that I bumped into a Burger King back in 1984 asking for computer tips because they heard that I'm "in the know".

I can appreciate that you're a neophyte. I'm the same way when I have to take my car to a mechanic. You see, Jimmy, I can call my mechanic friends and ask them those kinds of questions because I can barter with them. I'll fix their computer if they can help me with my car. You, being a teenager, have little to nothing of value to me. Ooooh, you'll give me a bunch of mp3's from My Bloody Valentine and Jimmy Eat World if I help you? How can I say no to that?!?!

I'm not trying to be an asshole here, Jimmy. If you had a marketable or useful skill, you'd understand. But I've noticed that you seem to have difficulty tying your shoes without drooling all over your hands.

You're an idiot, Jimmy. Plain and simple. Quit asking me for help.

Wait! When Did That Happen?

The arrival of a new Star Wars film in the theater is always a major event in my life, and the release of Revenge of the Sith in May of 2005 was no exception. In the context of my own life experience, the arrival of Episode 3 could be considered the most important and exciting cinematic event of my lifetime.

My whole life had been building up to the release of this film, beginning with the release of the original Star Wars in 1977. My entire childhood had been built around the mythology that these movies created. Even during the 16 year gap between trilogies, I could still be found watching the films, collecting the toys and reading the novels. Hell, when Episode 1 was released and I saw it for the first time, I cried when the opening music blasted and the text crawl began.

Yes, I really am that much of a geek.

Episode 3 was to be a milestone in my life, marking the end of the Star Wars series as a live action theatrical experience and finishing the story begun nearly thirty years previous. Not to mention the focus of this episode was to be the rise of the Empire and the fall of Anakin Skywalker. This would be the emergence of Darth Vader, quite possibly the coolest character ever created in any medium. In the space of two hours, George Lucas would present to us the final events that turned Anakin from the universe's whiniest bitch to the darkest force of evil ever known.

Within the first 24 hours of its release, I had managed 4 viewings of Revenge of the Sith. As is standard for me, I took everybody I knew to see the film, sometimes paying for both tickets. All of my friends wanted to see this movie with me, as they all know what the Star Wars universe means to me. (And it doesn't hurt seeing a movie like this with a walking encyclopedia to help explain everything that's happening.) One such pairing for this film was my sister and her husband, who joined me for a weekend matinee.

My sister has been exposed to the Star Wars films for the entire run of my life, more or less. I watched them obsessively as a child and could recite the scripts verbatim. I cannot count how many times she came to watch the television, only to have to deal with me geeking out for the umpteenth time.

But despite the endless barrage of movies, toys and discussions, she's never really figured out what the movies are all about. Yeah, she's seen them, but she never cared enough to fully digest them. Starting a discussion on the topic brings to the forefront almost immediately how little she's paid attention all these years. The final hour of Return of the Jedi, with its four plots intertwining has always remained a source of confusion for her.

I knew full well going into this viewing that she would not fully understand what was going on, but if nothing else the movie was exciting and had plenty of eye candy to stare at. But her complete lack of comprehension of the plot was fully divined to me as we left the theater and made our way back to the car.

Me: So, what did you think?

Her: Honestly, I really liked it. That's the first one of those movies that I truly enjoyed. I think I'll probably buy it when it comes out on DVD.

Me: Really? That's awesome! Yeah, I really liked it, too. It really tied everything together quite nicely.

Her: I do have one question, though.

Me: Okay, what's up?

Her: At the end, when Darth Vader got up off that table, he kind of wobbled when he walked. What was up with that?

Me: Well, he just had robotic legs put on. He wasn't used to walking on them yet.

Her: Robot legs? When did that happen?


Allow me to remind you of the ending of Revenge of the Sith. Anakin, having turned to the dark side and assuming the title of Darth Vader, was sent by the Emperor to Mustafar to eliminate the remaining separatists. He is followed there by Padme, who seeks to confront Anakin about his actions. Obi-Wan, unbeknownst to Padme, has sneaked aboard her ship. He appears during Padme and Anakin's discussion and in a blind rage Anakin attacks Padme. This quickly devolves into a confrontation between Anakin and Obi-Wan, followed by an extended lightsaber duel on the molten surface of Mustafar.

Obi-Wan emerges the victor in this battle after successfully liberating Anakin's left arm and both of his legs from his torso. Obi-Wan leaves the limbless form of Anakin to die on the surface, and as he leaves Anakin bursts into flame.

Anakin is rescued by the Emperor, who takes his charred body to a secret lab in order to have robotic limbs grafted to his body. Vader's transformation is completed when he is encased within his mask, making him more machine than man, completely dependent on his suit for survival. This entire scene is played out with a myriad of droids assembling his limbs and surgically attaching them to Anakin while he screams in agony.


Me: That's what that whole scene was! They were giving him new legs and arms since his had been cut off.

Her: Cut off? When did THAT happen?

Me: Are you serious? Obi-Wan sliced them off in their duel.

Her: I didn't notice that.

Me: DIDN'T NOTICE?!? You don't remember him writhing on the ground and screaming before catching on fire?

Her: No.


I was stunned. Absolutely flummoxed and flabbergasted. Like I said, I know she doesn't pay much attention to the films, but really, she didn't notice the fetishized closeups of his mangled frame rolling around while burning?

I found myself more amused, than anything. I have related this story many times over the years. I mentioned it to her yesterday and she didn't have any memory of that conversation. Too funny.

Since then, I have many times considered taking the same stance after a film, just to get a rise out of my fellow movie watchers.

"Yeah, Passion of the Christ was really good, but what I couldn't figure out was, why did he die at the end?"

"I really liked Pulp Fiction, but why was Marcellus Wallace going to have Zed killed?"

I guess some of us just watch movies differently.

The Most Disturbing Thing I've Ever Watched

Some things, once seen, can never be unseen. Such is the curse for me, due to my inherent need to view things I'd be better off avoiding. I have mentioned many times in the past my inborn need to watch disturbing material, sometimes of a graphically violent nature, sometimes of a generally disgusting nature.

My accursed mind will forever draw itself towards things I find repugnant. As a result, I continuously push myself beyond my own boundaries, horrifically scarring my mind and burning into my psyche things best left unthought.

In some respects, this can be a cathartic, even somewhat useful thing. For someone who enjoys writing and is possessed of a sinister imagination, witnessing atrocities and horror first hand can prove a valuable insight, particularly when attempting to understand the minds of those who would commit such acts and the thoughts of those who would suffer them.

But some things dig deep into your skull, burrowing into the darker recesses of your mind, echoing out their diseased noises when all around is dark, raising your hackles when nothing is afoot and ultimately leaving you terrified of the actions of others, for you have had the opportunity to look death in the eye.

For many of us, it started the same. In the video age we contented ourselves with such films as Faces of Death, Traces of Death and Death Scenes, films that catered to the dark need to see, to understand the evil that exists in the world around us. These films allowed us to see the human body for what it is, a frail vessel that merely ferrets our inner selves around. The damage wrought upon it can be severe and immediate.

Once the age of the Internet arrived, the ghouls started finding new places to converge, seeking the company of others who understand that same dark compulsion, that desire to forever lift up the carpet to see what has been swept underneath.

The advent of the Internet as a medium allowed for an exploration into the evils of man far more intense than those proffered in the past. Now we could take the time to examine the acts, pause them, zoom in, see them for what they really were.

Many of the ghouls recognize the "old standards" that float around. Most have seen the "Natural Born Loosers" (sic) set, depicting the murderous actions of a naked woman and her boyfriend, dispatching of and then summarily dismembering and playing with the corpse of her jilted husband.

We're all familiar with the case of R. Budd Dwyer, state treasurer for the state of Pennsylvania who, after being convicted of bribery charges, called a press conference, only to produce a .357 magnum from an envelope and pull the trigger in front of the unblinking eye of the camera.

For a long time the holy grail of online gore was a video known either as "The unknown Russian soldier" or its more common name, "chechclear", which depicts, up close and in living color, a young man gasping in pain and terror, a Chechen jackboot perched upon his head. In short order and without warning a large knife is plunged into his throat, slicing outward, splaying his neck into a large red blossom. The horrific scream that chokes into a bubbling gurgle stays in the mind far longer than the actual act.

As the US entered into the war in Iraq, a new type of tape became commonplace, the beheading. These propaganda videos almost all started with the accused relaying their crimes (real or implied), usually of the nature of providing aid or comfort to the American or resistance forces. A group of masked men would stand behind the victim, reading a statement until such time as a blade was brandished and the condemned was drawn to the floor as the executioner used the blade to end the life of his prey.

These acts are, as they sound, horrific beyond words. Why do some wish to see them? What do we gain from seeing the misery and anguish of others?

Of course, I cannot speak for others, only myself. For me, it is a means of confronting both evil and mortality, to see for myself things that will hopefully forever remain outside of my life. As a creative type, I need to understand these situations for future reference. No pleasure is gained from these viewings, only a better knowledge of humanity.

But there is one thing I have seen that sticks out in my mind, coming to me in my dreams, appearing as a shadow behind my normal vision, never allowing itself to leave my thoughts. This is a thing so horrific and brutal that words fail me when attempting to describe the horror and brutality it displays.

The feelings of empathy that flow through me as I watch these moments bring a heavy and sullen feeling to the air, the weight of doom and despair that certainly was felt by those present at these actions. This is a tape of such unconscionable behavior that I can literally feel my beliefs in the underlying good nature of people die within me.

Before getting to the tape proper, it is best to understand the context of what is happening on screen.

A group of rebel Chechens, led by Salautdin Temirbulatov crossed into the Republic of Dagestan, in an attempt to rout out the occupying Russian forces. Temirbulatov's group came across a village being defended by a sparse group of 13 Russian conscripts. Upon realizing they were greatly outnumbered, 7 of the soldiers fled, while the remaining 6 continued to fight. Once they had run out of ammunition, they surrendered themselves into a promised POW status.

The tape opens with the six soldiers laying on the ground, face down, the one furthest to the right is straddled by a Chechen soldier, who is sawing at the neck of the soldier, leaving his twitching, gurgling body to lay face down in a spreading pool of thickened blood.

The other five soldiers do their best to ignore their friend's plight, totally aware of similar gruesome fates that doubtless await them. Shortly thereafter the leftmost soldier is assaulted, stabbed in the chest and shoulders to subdue him before running his throat out as well.

The cold eye of the camera moves in for a fetishized closeup as his skin turns ashen from blood loss. The lack of oxygen slows his movements and reflexes, and we are left to watch the exposed trachea struggling to pull in air, a high-pitched whistling ushering forth from the gaping maw opened by the blade. The Chechen pauses to wipe the soldier's blood from his blade onto the hand of the dying man.

The remaining three lay motionless, wondering when their turn will come. The Chechens carry on as if nothing unusual is happening, even occasionally laughing to one another.

Number two is told to stand, while someone runs over to deepen the wound in six's throat, as he is not bleeding out sufficiently fast. He still struggles to raise himself from the ground, but the pain and weakness are beginning to overtake him and he fades in and out of consciousness as the blood continues to flow.

The second soldier is pulled off to the side, about 10 yards from his dying comrades and is kicked to the ground, a Chechen brandishing a large knife stands above him, making fervent attempts to slice at the side of the soldier's throat. The soldier cowers and blocks until covering his head with his hands and crying for his mother. The camera cuts away as the rebel strikes home with the blade.

The camera pans back to the lineup of soldiers, pausing to zoom once again on the wide opened throat of number one, who is slowly moving his hands towards his head, while lulling from side to side. We see the gathering rebels standing around the crowd of dying soldiers, some pointing and laughing, some carrying on about their business.

Now the camera pans back to the second soldier who has been separated from the group. A small puddle of blood has formed under him, but it is apparent that his injuries are not life threatening. A second rebel comes to finish the job and the soldier pulls himself up as the man moves to cut. They struggle briefly and then the Russian charges from the scene. We do not see his fate, but are led to believe that he was shot in the back during his escape.

The next is pulled and separated from the remaining soldiers, begging for his life. He points out where some weapons are hidden and attempts to appeal to his captors. I provide below a translation of the next part, provided by a user at the Ogrish Forums named Warlord47, the provider of the tape I am describing. His translation helps to describe the horror underpinning the events as they unfold:

Kid laying on the grass ....
Chechen with the knife "Turn around"
Kid moves abit sideways ..
Chechen off camera "LAY DOWN!"
Chechen takes the knife out and bends towards the kid ..
Aleksey Lipatov "You dont need to cut me..I'll tell you everthing.."
Chechen with the knife "what are you gonna tell me?"
Chechen off camera "Go ahead talk ..."
Aleksey Lipatov "I'll tell you where its located"
Chechen off camera "Where is it located?"
Aleksey Lipatov points towards a hill with houses "There in that house"
Chechen with knife "What ?"
Chechen off camera "What is in that house?"
Aleksey Lipatov "Weapons and ammo"
Chechen with knife "Where ? In that house?" and points
Aleksey Lipatov "Yes from there"
Chechen with knife looks at his combatant
Chechen off camera "Hes lying ... "
Chechen of camera "Lay on the ground"
Chechen with knife "what else you have to tell us?"
Chechen off camera "Where are the weapons!"
Aleksey Lipatov "what ?"
Chechen of camera "The weapons and the ammo"
Aleksey Lipatov "ON the top of the mountains"
Chechen with knife "where ?"
Aleksey Lipatov "There on top" and points.
Chechen with knife "Are you sure?"
Aleksey Lipatov "Yes, yes"
AK shots fired ...
Chechen with knife backs off and he doesnt want to cut .. feels sorry for the kid "What do you want me to do?" in chechen.
Chechen of camera "Just cut him"
Aleksey Lipatov "There its right there" and points.
Chechens yelling "Leave him alone and come back!" .. a bunch of them yelling at once.
Gun shots fired from AK.
(The kid if fucking LAYING waiting to be cut ... I dont get it ... RUN BOY!!! )
Chechens keep yelling "leave him the alone ....come back already" (they are reffering to the other kid that ran)
Chechen with the knife "Turn around"
Chechen "take off your belt"
Chechens of camera "Come on cut him up"
Aleksey Lipatov "You dont have to"
Chechen of camera "just cut im up already"
Aleksey Lipatov "You dont need to, please ..."
Chechen scum hits him with the belt
Chechen "All right come on!"
Chechen with Adidas jacket "Hands back!"
Aleksey Lipatov "Please dont"
Chechen (Adidas) "Hands back!"
Chechen (Adidas) hits him in the face "I said hands back!!"
Gets hit with AK.
Chechen of camera "quickly, quickly"
Aleksey Lipatov "Please lets talk.."
Chechen with camera "HANDS BACK! you fuck"
Chechen "fuck the belt"
Rifle hits the kid
Chechen of camera "Just fucking cut him already!"
Aleksey Lipatov "Please I dont want to do " ... they wrestle
Aleksey Lipatov screaming" I DONT WANT TO DIE! PLEASE!"
Chechens "cut him"
Aleksey Lipatov crying
Aleksey Lipatov "I DONT WANT TO DIE PLEASE!! you are very good people, please!"
Camera man "Yes, we are very very good people.... THE BEST"
Chechen "get the knife"
Chechen punches the kid in the head a few times
Chechen with the knife "Stop fucking hitting him"
Camera man "You gonna live in the grave city"
Aleksey Lipatov "MOM! MOM!"
Camera man "torture him"
Aleksey Lipatov "I WANT TO LIVE!"
Camera man in sarcasm "He wants to live!"
Aleksey Lipatov screaming .. 3 on 1
Aleksey Lipatov "Come on fellows ... I just want to live"
Chechen "CUT HIM NOW"
Aleksey Lipatov "Leave me alone!"
Knife goes thru throat.
Aleksey Lipatov is kneeling while get butted in the head with an AK
Chechen with knife to the guy with the AK "What the fuck are you doing, fuck off"
Chechen with knife "Ill do this by myself!"
Cutting Aleksey Lipatov
Stabbing in the neck ... over and over and over .... Aleksey Lipatov is no more.

The camera moves back to the group laying on the ground and zooms in for a closeup of the face of the next soldier as his head is pulled back and his throat slashed. He has a very low blood pressure, so we see the contortions of agony in his face as throws his body and rolls around, neck ripping wider with each passing moment, until he too lays motionless.

We never see the death of the sixth, but we do see his corpse.

The video ends with the soldiers' corpses being unceremoniously dumped into a shallow grave.

I have seen this video more times than I care to admit, each time hoping that someone will find a way to turn the tables, that some might escape or survive. That such events can take place in the modern world sickens me, but that such a fetishistic glee can be taken with capturing those moments on film is beyond upsetting.

We should all consider ourselves lucky for likely never finding ourselves in a situation such as that. But such actions should not go unnoticed. Odd as it may sound, I feel that I'm doing those killed a disservice by not seeing the torments wrought upon them.

They died so that those images could be used for propaganda purposes. If nothing else, viewing their final moments allows a small piece of them to reside in the minds of the masses, to make their senseless deaths have more meaning than some sickening act played out in front of the cold mechanical sights of a camera.

These evils exist in our world. We cannot deny it.

Spoiler Alert!

I read on the internet prior to my trip to see The Dark Knight this weekend that showings of the movie on IMAX would be preceded by an exclusive 15 second trailer for the new Harry Potter movie. First off, YES, I am a dork for Harry Potter. I've read all the books (at least twice each) and can readily argue and debate the entire story arc ad nauseum. Knowing this, it should come as little surprise that I was intrigued by the possibility of an early glimpse at the sixth movie.

But, of course I am the jaded type, and I knew full well that 15 seconds ain't shit when it comes to previewing a new film. We bandied the idea about in the office that the trailer would consist of nothing more than Harry standing there, wand drawn, only to have the title drop down in front of him.

We weren't far from the truth.

In actuality, it was a single line of dialog (spoken by Dumbledore) followed by the title and the announcement that it was coming in November. A bit of a disappointment.

This got me to thinking about the awesomeness that COULD HAVE BEEN, had they hired me to edit together the trailer for the sixth film. My trailer is thus:

Camera zooms in on Severus Snape, his wand drawn, face curled back in a sneer.
"Avada Kedavra!" he shouts, and a green flash fills the screen followed by Dumbledore's corpse flying out of a window.
"WHAT HAPPENS NEXT? HARRY POTTER AND THE HALF BLOOD PRINCE - NOVEMBER 2008"

Now granted, for the millions of children that haven't read the book yet, this will upset them. Fuck them, I say. If you can't be bothered to read the book, you have no business complaining. Personally, I think that'd make a great trailer.

You could really work these out for a ton of films.

Trailer 1:
"Coming this summer, the exciting conclusion to the Star Wars trilogy."
Clip 1: The Emperor says to Luke, "And now, young Skywalker, you will die."
Clip 2: Yoda dies and then disappears.
Clip 3: The Emperor says, "I assure you we are quite safe from your friends here."
Clip 4: Vader throws a screaming Emperor down the reactor shaft.
Clip 5: The Death Star explodes.
Clip 6: A maskless Darth Vader falls back and dies.
The title appears on the screen: "Return of the Jedi, coming summer 1983"


Trailer 2:
Rawlston: What were Kane's last words?
Dissolve to Kane laying in his bed, dying. He utters the word "Rosebud" and drops a snow globe onto the floor, shattering it.
Rawlston: When he comes to die, he's got something on his mind called Rosebud. What does that mean?
Cut to a pile of items being shoveled into a furnace. Atop that pile is a sled. The camera zooms in and we see the word Rosebud written on it.
"Citizen Kane - Coming soon"


Trailer 3:
Charlton Heston looks at the screen and screams, "Soylent Green is people!"
Title card: "What is the secret of Soylent Green?"


Had I seen any of these trailers prior to seeing the respective films, I probably would have gone to see them, figuring if the stuff they're showing is that earth shattering, just imagine what the rest of the film must be like!

As an aside to this, I really did have a similar experience with Return of the Jedi.

Jedi, as mentioned above, came out in May of 1983, a time when movie theaters only had one, maybe two screens. Being a child of that era, I was absolutely obsessed with Star Wars, and the three year gap between the films was an eternity for me. I tried to pass the time as best I could with the myriad toys and novelties available, but nothing could match the excitement of actually seeing the films on the big screen.

As the release of Jedi approached, I began a full blown campaign to remind my parents on an hourly basis of the exact date of release, and implore of them with my biggest and most adorable eyes to take the family to view what was, for my money, the third arrival of Christ.

You see, I had a man crush on Darth Vader. Vader was my boy. I was absolutely inspired by a man who could walk into a room and have every mouth close out of complete fear. This was a guy who didn't sweat bad news, he just strangled the messenger. Vader was not one to be trifled with. If I could have grown up to be anybody, it would be Vader. (Fun fact: The life-size Vader that Doodface referred to? Still in my house. As well as a painting of Vader that has hung in every bedroom I've slept in since 1986.)

After weeks and months of cajoling, I finally got the parental units to agree to take us to the film. Though I had immersed myself in Star Wars lore, I had done my best to avoid spoilers, as I wanted to savor the movie as it arrived. Especially since Empire had ended on such an awesome note, with that candy ass Luke getting his hand lopped off and having his innocence stripped from him. (Again, mad love to Vader.)

Off to the theater we went to stand in line for who knows how many hours. You didn't just "pop in" to see a new Star Wars film, you had to tough it out. Boys became men in those lines. And wait we did, until we ended up in the final stretch of waiting in the lobby of the theater.

Like I said, this theater only had two screens, both of which were showing Jedi at the time. And as we stood there in the lobby I couldn't help but notice that we could hear the movie coming from one of the theaters.

Here I was, just minutes away from seeing the glory of Jedi with my own eyes and I was hearing the ending. The awful, devastating, miserable ending. The Emperor dies? The Death Star blows up? Vader dies?!?!? DARTH FUCKING VADER DIES?!?!?!?

In that instant my heart dropped through my stomach, my bowels released and I fell to the ground in an inconsolable heap, tears streaming from my eyes as I looked to the heavens screaming "WHY? Why Vader?!? Take me instead, but NOT VADER!!!"

My parents did their best to ease my suffering, but I merely rocked back and forth, clutching at my sides, repeating over and over, "He's not dead, he can't be dead, he's not dead, he can't be dead..." I can't really recall the rest of the evening, particularly after the EMT crew arrived and gave me that shot.

It's 25 years later now, and though I've never forgiven George Lucas for taking away the greatest hero of all time, I've at least come to grips with the fact. Most days I can make it through without crying. The medication helps.



SPOILER ALERT!
If you haven't read Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince or seen Return of the Jedi, Citizen Kane and/or Soylent Green, DO NOT read the preceding article.

New Things Afoot

I would like to take a moment for shameless self-promotion. A moment to toot my own horn and tout the awesomeness that myself and others have been working on behind the scenes. The awesomeness that is Omniphobic.

What is Omniphobic? Well, it's an all new blog experiment started by myself and some other writers of my ilk, opinionated and cynical folk who are looking for creative ways in which to spread their effluence.

Is it Bonez, Mark II? Not quite. you may recognize some of the faces over at Omniphobic, but you certainly won't know them all. And the ideas and opinions expressed may at times be a bit more direct than what you normally see here at Bonez.

This is not a goodbye on my part. I will still continue to produce pieces here at Bonez. But if you're interested in other things that I'm working on, or reading some fun content from other like-minded individuals, you should really swing on by.

We don't bite.

Hard.

It Takes a Major Turn Halfway Through

In 1999, geeks the world over were chomping at the bit over the impending release of Star Wars: Episode I: The Phantom Menace, a movie so loved and cherished by the populous at large today that we sometimes forget just how major a release it was.

All kidding aside, prior to the release of the film, geeks such as myself were literally shaking with excitement. Lucasfilm, in all of their wisdom, decided that 1999 would also be the year that they would throw their first sanctioned Star Wars event in 12 years, a convention in Denver, Colorado to be held from April 30-May 2, just a few days prior to the release of the film.

Being the type of guy that had Star Wars tattoos, it was pretty much a given that I'd be attending. I felt pretty badly for my coworkers, who were having to endure my endless enthusiasm for a movie that I'd ultimately rate with a "Meh", so I figured a few days surrounded by others just as excited as myself would help ease the pain of waiting.

Accompanying me on this trip were two friends, Teddy and Batman. Teddy wasn't so much a geek, he was just interested in seeing the kind of people that would fly halfway across the country to attend a convention. Batman is most definitely a geek. And a crime fighter.

We had planned these three days to be as fun-filled and excitement packed as we could possibly stomach. Life, as always, planned differently.

We boarded the plane early morning on Friday, the 30th. One thing that one must know about me; whenever a story begins with "We boarded the plane" you can rest assured that drugs were involved. There is nothing on this plane of existence that terrifies me more than the metallic coffin that is the modern day airplane. I would rather sleep in a tub full of vipers than ride on one of those abominations. Of course, this meant that I had to get up at 4 in the morning, meet up with Teddy and Batman and then take massive doses of over the counter medications in a vain and ultimately failed attempt to knock myself out in time to miss the experience of flying.

Batman had never flown anywhere before, so while I was as somber and morose as one could hope to be, he was giddy with excitement and recording EVERYTHING with a video camera. For the next three days I would never see his face, just the cold glass eye staring me down.

After the trip was over and I received a copy of the tape, I saw that he had text on the screen like "Leaving Mos Eisley Spaceport" and "Aboard the Falcon". Needless to say the first 10 minutes of the tape is me scowling and slipping in and out of consciousness. My drug addled conspicuity caught the attention of the TSA, whom hastily pulled me to the side for some extra searches, all the while threatening Batman to "turn the camera off".

I have no real recollection of the flight itself, as I managed to actually maintain unawareness for the few hours we were in transit. Thankfully, though, Batman managed to capture all the magic and his tape astounds the viewer with more than 20 minutes of footage of clouds passing by, as well as a nice view of the airline meal.

I staggered off the plane and we made our way towards ground transportation. We needed to rent a car and check into our hotel prior to hitting the convention proper. I couldn't help but notice the weather once we got outside. It was 40 and pouring.

Now, I had lived in the south for a few years at this point, and I had made the association that May = warm, which was completely accurate were it not for the fact that it was totally wrong.

Shit.

Of course, if you were to open my luggage at that point you would see a handful of t-shirts and shorts and that's it. No jeans. No slacks. No coat. No long sleeved shirt. But I figured "what the hell, I'm originally from Michigan. I'll tough it out". Friggin' machismo.

We checked into the hotel and then made our way to the convention itself. From everything I had read, all indications pointed to a crowd of about 7,000 people converging on this airplane hangar for a few days of lightsabers, force powers and wookiees. Initial calculations proved to be off by a bit, though, and soon we were treated to a crowd of nearly 30,000 people all waiting to get into the same building and the same tent.

30,000 people in the pouring rain, sloshing about in a field, churning up mud so thick that you would sink past your ankle with every step. Within minutes of arriving my skin began turning purple and I found myself huddled under a B-52 rubbing my arms for warmth. Every once in awhile I would attempt to squeak out a "woo hoo!" and a thumbs up, but usually found my extremities to be uncooperative.

The oft repeated joke of the event was that Lucas spared no expense in bringing the swamp planet Dagobah to his fans. And boy, did we mean it. Everybody was covered in mud and frozen to the bone. We waited almost four hours that day just to get into the main exhibit, which turned out to be largely displays for all the products that people would be selling in a couple of weeks.

After another hour or two wait, we were able to make our way into the dealers' tent, where we were free to shovel wheelbarrow loads of cash over for vintage Star Wars goods. This managed to bring up a somewhat major mistake on the organizer's part. The official street date for ALL Episode 1 merchandise was May 3, which meant that all of the die-hard fans in attendance at this event would be in transit when everything actually went on sale. To cap this off there were strict orders that NO Episode 1 items were to be sold to the attendees.

Here we were, 1400 miles from home, at an event absolutely dedicated to enticing us to buy merchandise and they were refusing to sell any of it to us. More than a few of the 30,000 people in attendance pissed a collective bitch over that one.

After spending some money and freezing some more, we made our way back to the hotel to crash out for the night. Back at the room we decided to go check out Denver the next day and then return to the convention on Sunday. Much to the amusement of Teddy and myself, we found a pair of tights under Teddy's bed, which we continuously hid in Batman's luggage. We figured he had brought them with every intention of sneaking out after we fell asleep to fight crime. Ahh...superheroes.

And now it's time for me to throw the curveball to the story, the bit that brings the fun level down a few notches. Remember how I mentioned that this convention took place in Denver, Colorado from April 30-May 2?

On April 20, 1999, Dylan Klebold and Eric Harris, two seniors at Columbine High School arrived at school with a plan for both mass violence and suicide. In the space of a few hours Klebold and Harris left 12 students and a teacher dead and more than 23 others wounded before taking their own lives. Their actions stunned our nation and devastated the small Denver suburb where it took place.

To say that Denver was reeling from the shock and pain of the horrific atrocities that had been committed would be an understatement of biblical proportions. Columbine was the word on everybody's mind, but the one word above all others that must not be spoken.

Being the curious types, we decided to head out towards the school just to see with our own eyes where such malice had been born. Finding the school proved to be a difficult task as we really did not want to stop and ask for fear of looking like ghouls.

While making our way towards the school we ended up ensnarled in a traffic jam in the downtown area, brought on by the arrival of Charlton Heston and the NRA. Protestors lined the streets and we found ourselves stuck in the area for quite some time. After finally detangling ourselves from the mess wrought by that fiasco, we decided to stop and ask for directions.

I ended up in the gas station inquiring where the school was. I did my best to not appear exploitive, but the pain and anger that was felt by the community at large was easily visible in the clerk's eyes as he gave me the directions.

We really didn't know what we expected to see there, we just felt that we needed to experience it for ourselves.

Once we found the school we found ourselves stripped of our ability to speak. The weight of the situation hung oppressively thick in the air. The weight of the world had converged on this little slice of America, driven so beyond its ability to cope with the grief that the very sky seemed to be crying for its residents.

The campus was enormous and every square inch of it was covered with cards, signs, stuffed animals, flowers, you name it. There wasn't one square inch of that campus untouched by the collective outpouring of grief and confusion that such an act left in its wake. Signs from schools across the nation, personal letters, photographs, well wishings, prayers, hopes and outpourings of heartfelt emotion. The pain was centered on these few acres, but it was obvious that it was felt across the nation.

And crowds of people. Hundreds of people gathered, many openly weeping, there to help shoulder the burden of pain that was too much for the community to bear. I was approached by the father of one of the slain children, who wore a pin with his child's face on it. He placed a pamphlet in my hand which implored all of mankind to find inner peace, to find whatever it is that makes us happy and able to cope.

Amongst the throngs of people, the media was to be found, scurrilous vermin primping their hair, drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes and above all laughing. LAUGHING. There was no joy to be found in these environs, no jocularity to be shared between those in attendance, no elbows to the ribs. But these bastards stood around in their black trench coats telling jokes while their camera operators tried to find those "perfect shots" to drive home the impact at the end of the piece. I watched one fidgeting with a rose he had stolen from one of the copious bouquets, struggling to make it stick in a wooden fence just right so he could get that perfect shot with the rose in the foreground and the memorial crosses in the background.

We stood in the thickening gloom for an hour, waiting for our turn to visit the memorial crosses which had been erected at the top of a hill. (Two of those crosses, Klebold's and Harris' would be cut down later that night by an angry parent.) We paid our silent respects and then headed back to the car. It was nearly an hour before any of us spoke again.

We finished out our third day with another six hour line, this time waiting to get into the official store so that we could buy t-shirts and posters. If nothing else can be said, the weather had improved and the sun even peeked out of the clouds to warm us just a little.

We saw our exhibits, bought our goods and then made our way home. We had gone there expecting to learn about an upcoming film, instead we learned a little about humanity. It was an experience that none of us would ever forget.

In France, Douche Means Shower

Summer time in East Stumblebum, Michigan was a fairly passive and mundane time. Being that we found ourselves separated from the majority of society, it's a safe bet that our days were spent amusing ourselves largely with the strength of our imagination and our sense of humor. Since direct contact with more than a handful of people was never really possible (at least until we got our driver's licenses) we spent our time trying to find something interesting to do.

For some of the us, finding things to do was no problem. There was a local farmer's son named Roy who would regale us with tales of shocking his brother's nuts with a cattle prod. The height of comedy, I would say. He once got on the bus reeking and covered in manure, proudly regaling us with tales of the legendary "shit fight" that he and his brother had just partaken in.

Yeah, not much to do in Stumblebum. Luckily for me, I managed to worm my way into a close knit circle of friends who all shared a good deal of intelligence and a sharp sense of humor. As a result, there was never a shortage of laughs to be found, whether with or at the expense of my group of comrades.

And here we were, trapped once again in a Michigan summer, blessed with gorgeous weather but with the hideous curse of only 1.3 people per square mile. Like I said, we did our best to get by.

Our days were largely spent watching movies and playing Nintendo. At night, if we were lucky, we would sneak out of our respective houses and go off to cause general low level mischief. The good news for our parents was that despite our tendency to sneak off at all hours of the night, in reality we weren't causing any significant trouble. Though we were teenage miscreants and ne'er do wells, we never had any true malice in our hearts. Our reign of terror was anything but terrifying.

On this occasion we had made arrangements for one of our nightly walks. This was most easily precipitated by arranging a sleepover at my house. We had a large backyard that easily facilitated throwing up a tent for the young 'uns to sleep in. Just as conveniently, there was a path leading from my yard to the local cemetery. A quick jaunt through the passage of the dead and you would find yourself in greater metropolitan Stumblebum.

This particular evening we had made up our minds to head down to The Oasis, our local truck stop, about a five mile walk from my house. Not a major distance, mind you, but certainly far enough to make it feel like an adventure. You could have popped in the song "Stand By Me" and pretended we were headed to see a body. Just like the film we tended to be a bit of a rag tag bunch, each of us with our own particular quirks.

This evening's events were to be attended by myself, Terry (who you've heard plenty about) and Kleve. One of the more interesting aspects of this arrangement was the overflowing bounty of animosity between Terry and Kleve. For me it was an endless source of entertainment. For them it was a never ending conflict which would frequently turn to blows. (For years I had a fantastic photograph of Terry quite earnestly trying to stab Kleve in the head but finding himself thwarted by a motorcycle helmet.)

Since we were camping in my backyard this evening, sneaking out was going to be a no-brainer. The first order of business was waiting until an appropriate time. We loved to pretend that we were on some super secret mission, so we found that leaving the house earlier than midnight blew our cover. Half the fun was making it to our destination, which was usually slowed by the fact that we loved to run and hide when cars came by for no other reason than to LOOK like we were up to no good.

We amused ourselves to the best of our abilities in the tent, telling our random stories and jokes, and generally insulting the hell out of ourselves and our associated mothers. Of course, I took the opportunity to bring up my favorite Terry/Kleve conflict tale just to get them riled up and angry. For your benefit and for the sake of explaining their history of animosity, let me derail for just a moment and present you this tale.

Shortly before the events I'm relating currently, we had all been at school gathering our books between classes. Terry was kneeling on the floor in front of his locker and Kleve and I were hovering nearby talking to him. Suddenly, Kleve spotted the hint book for "The Bard's Tale" on the top shelf of Terry's locker. Kleve, recognizing that it was HIS book that he'd lent to Terry some months ago made to grab for it. Terry, displeased with Kleve's intention of claiming what was rightfully his, spun round on his knee and punched Kleve in the testicles as hard as he could.

Of course, Kleve dropped to the floor, clutching at his now seedless groin, howling and red faced. Terry nonchalantly grabbed his things and headed to class. I'm pretty certain Kleve was still there after class, hands protecting his now tender nether regions.

I loved telling that story around the two of them just for the fun of seeing the hatred bubble between them. Yes, I was an instigator. Yes, I was a dick. Hey, we are who we are, and you have to admit, it's pretty damn funny.

When the appointed time finally arrived, we unzipped the tent and made our way through the darkened woods toward the cemetery. Most of the kids we knew in the area were afraid of going through the cemetery by moonlight. Many of them were afraid of this because of us. But, having lived next door to the place for a couple of years, I had watched enough graves being dug and enough bodies being buried to not really care about it all one way or the other.

The downtown area was more or less a dead zone by the time we made it up there. The handful of houses and buildings that littered the area were nothing but lightless windows and vacant rooms. This was exactly how we wanted it. If we were going to get into trouble (we had no intention of it) then we wanted to be sure nobody saw it (nobody would care if they did). We made our way through the four streets that constituted our densely populated region and began the long trek to The Oasis.

Bear in mind, when I say that it's five miles from my house to The Oasis, you have to realize that it's five miles of barren nothingness. If you watch Twilight Zone: The Movie, at the end of the second segment when little Anthony transports himself and Helen to that empty void of nothingness that contains little more than fog and a few laser beams, well THAT'S more cluttered than our walk down to The Oasis. (At least Anthony had fog.)

About two thirds of the way there we passed a house that had a nice little garden. At the front of this garden right before a large tree was a statue of the Virgin Mary, arms spread, inviting all who pass to enjoy the sanctity and quiet serenity of her bountiful garden.

Though our lot was generally composed of atheists and agnostics, we bore no particular ill will towards this statue of reverence, but by the same token we held no great appreciation for it either. We passed by it for the time being, still content to make our way further, pausing only when one of us would scream "CAR!", only to throw ourselves hastily into ditches and hide behind trees.

Top secret stuff, man.

At long last we arrived at our destination. Of course, the big question is "What do we do now?". In a few years time Mortal Kombat would be released, and we'd head up here to play MK and eat omelettes at the little restaurant. But in 1989, there wasn't much to do at all. We did however have one ritual that we partook in whenever we'd make a late night visit.

The ritual was thus; Come up with the most embarrassing thing we can think of and make Terry head into the shop and buy it. On prior trips we had made him purchase items such as tampons, Preparation H, even a book called "Peter Pecker's Guide to the Male Organ". Tonight was no different, we had our challenge.

We wanted a douche.

Terry did his best to protest this arrangement. He had caught on long ago that he ALWAYS ended up being the one chosen for these chores and he really wasn't hip to being a teenaged boy purchasing a late night douche at a truck stop. But Kleve and I would not relent, and after much insistence and insinuation of Terry's lack of testicular fortitude, Terry made his way into the building while Kleve and I stood outside, hysterical tears of laughter streaming from our eyes.

After what seemed an eternity Terry strolled confidently out of the store, a small box of Summer's Eve in tow. To a 14 year old male, he was a god. Not only did he go through with it, he had the cajones to leave the store without a bag. All those big, burly truckers would know that his forbidden zone would be squeaky clean in a few minutes.

Well, now we had the damn thing. What were we supposed to do with it? Seriously, as teenaged boys in a pre-internet world, we only had an idea of what these things were supposed to be used for. Of course the giggles and chuckles flowed like wine as we removed the plastic concoction from its cardboard encasing.

It wasn't out of the box for 3 seconds before the first volley came. SQUIRT! Terry shot the douche's contents straight for Kleve's eyes. Almost immediately Kleve rushed Terry to get his hands on the vinegary weapon and return the favor. As always, I just stood in the background and enjoyed the show. (I tend to be non-interventionist.)

Within moments the douche was emptied. All of that walking and all we had to show for it was an empty douche. Oh well. We figured that we'd head over to our friend Craig's house and see if he wanted to join in our douchey games.

By the time we arrived at Craig's it was nearly three in the morning. We threw stones at his window until he appeared in its frame, rather humorously staring down at the slack jawed group of idiots that had gathered outside.

Can you blame him? Here we are waking him at 3 in the morning saying, "Come on, dude, we have a douche, let's go hang out!" It should come as no surprise that Craig was not nearly as entertained by our douche as we were and he made it rather clear rather quickly that we were to leave his property. NOW.

Dejected, we began the long walk back to my parents' house. And as you would expect, the douche jokes were abundant. We carried on hooting and hollering until we saw it again...the Virgin Mary.

As I mentioned before, I'm an instigator. I'm an idea man, but I almost always lack the balls to do anything myself. But I saw the Virgin Mary sitting by that tree and the douche in our hands and found inspiration.

"Terry! Go put that douche in Mary's hands!"

This is the part of the story where you're probably expecting my friends to turn to me, aghast at the blasphemy I had just uttered. You'd be close.

Terry's response was "Fuck yeah!"

And off he went, sneaking across their lawn Sam Fisher style, until the douche found itself nestled into Mary's arms. No further desecration was done. We did not tape the douche, we did not mess with the statue, we just laid it in her arms. We all had a nice chuckle and then made our way home.

We were amused to go by that house the next day and see the douche still clutched in Mary's arms. We officially christened her "The Unfresh Mary". But then the humor compounded. A week later, that douche was still there. A month? There it was. A year? Mary wasn't getting rid of it that easily.

We literally drove by that house for THREE YEARS, every time seeing that douche tucked in her arms and laughing to one another. We told everybody we knew about it and before long it was an item of legend. The people who had owned that statue must have looked at that douche a million times and never once noticed it.

Well, it finally did disappear, a couple of years down the road. Did they discover it? Did it just blow away? I had always wondered what that scene would have been like when they finally discovered what had been done. Did the lady of the house fall to her knees, crying out to Jeebus to explain how such terrible blasphemies came to be on her lawn?

Life being what it is, I had an interesting coda to this story. Maybe two weeks after the douche disappeared, I found myself walking down that long, lonely stretch of road all by my lonesome. And the skies opened up on me, pouring down sheets of rain and drenching me to the bone.

As I passed Mary's house I noticed a man run out the door and hop into a truck. He immediately pulled out of his driveway and rolled up alongside me. He lowered the window and asked if he could give me a ride as he didn't want to see me walking that distance in the rain.

Oh yes, I took his ride, and the entire time I thought of a million and one things I could say to try and find out what had happened to Mary. But, of course, I didn't want to give up my hand and let him know that I was the one responsible.

He dropped me off at my house and went on his way. I never saw the man again.

You're probably thinking that there's some grand moral to this tale, that I learned some important lesson that I wanted to impart to you, the reader.

You're right.

The moral is, putting a douche on a statue of the Virgin Mary and having it stay there for over three years is fucking awesome.

Bored Games

I'll let you in on a little secret. I love board games. Shhh... Don't tell anyone, as it might somewhat kill the evil mystique I've created around here. But, truth be told, I love an old-fashioned board game any night of the week. Especially one that I kick ass at. Like Star Wars Trivial Pursuit.

That's right, you heard me, SWTP, quite possibly the greatest game ever made because I have about a 95% chance of DEMOLISHING my competition. Try and tell me that you wouldn't love playing a game that you totally pwn at, go on, try. My knowledge of Star Wars minutiae is so horrifyingly complete that most mortals tremble in fear when I even pull out the box. (And don't you DARE try and play with Vader. Vader's MINE.)

The name of the dude that greets Vader on the second Death Star? Moff Jerjerrod. The three alien species from Jabba's palace named after a phrase from The Day the Earth Stood Still? Klaatu, Barada, Niktu. Who played Darth Vader? Who do you mean? Jake Lloyd, Hayden Christensen, James Earl Jones, Dave Prowse, Bob Anderson or Sebastian Shaw?

I crush so many hopes and dreams with that game that I was once challenged at a party by a group of 7 friends. Friends who got me so drunk I could barely see. And though they bested me, I DID have all my pie pieces before succumbing.

But with any interest there is a darker side. Some of these games that people want to play are downright nefarious. Games like Sorry.

Have you ever played Sorry? Sorry is a game that's all about fucking over everybody you're playing with. It's a game of total infuriation, where you're three seconds from winning the game one minute and in dead last place the next. Sorry is a game that I'm certain has been the impetus of a million fistfights. People are concerned that video games cause violent behavior? One game of Sorry and I'm ready to go unload my MAC-10 in a crowded shopping mall.

Of course, knowing that Sorry can rile me up so quickly only encourages people to challenge me at it. My opponents love that look I get as all-encompassing hatred fills my eyes. I'm sure it's adorable, especially as I'm whaling on my opponent until they're a squidgy mess after taking out my piece on it's way to Home.

Plenty of other games raise my ire as well. Have you ever played the card game "Phase 10"? You might not recognize it by that name. If you've ever played with me, it's the game I call "FUCK THIS GAME!" before launching the deck across the room. Yet another game where your opponents get every opportunity to point and laugh derisively at your streak of bad luck. Let's take a quick look at the scores, hmmmm...... Player 1 has 15, Player 2 has 35, oh...... E has 1,390. Poor guy.

But not all games are so terrible. I'm rather fond of Pictionary, a game that I will readily admit to not knowing the rules to. There probably are very strict and rigorous rules to the game, but you'd never know if you played with me. Here are the rules to Pictionary: I draw a picture. Whoever guesses it draws next. Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

Playing Pictionary with me is like competing in the Special Olympics. Everybody's a winner!!! YAY!!! Who wants McDonald's fries?

I tried playing that Operation game once, but it's far too nerve wracking. I spent the whole time with my hands shaking wondering what the other player would say if they woke up while I was extracting their pancreas.

Some games are just beyond my reasoning. My sister has this old 70's board game called "Stop Thief" that has this little Merlin looking electric doo-dad. I always just end up pissed off because I can't figure out the rules. Really, I only play because I like listening to the electronic thing. Oh yeah, and to rub it in her face every time we play it that I lost one of the plastic detectives when I was 8. Mwa ha ha.

If you're ever bored, swing on by, we can play a quick round of "Future shopping mall killing spree" or "Fuck this game", two of my favorites. :)