The Home of the Brave

"The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants."

- Thomas Jefferson


The once proud nation of America has been usurped from the hands of the people and placed in the control of tyrants and madmen. No longer are we the nation of "give me your tired, your poor...". These days we have become the nation of "give me".

Where once I used to believe that America was a bastion of freedom, I am left only with the bitter taste of hatred that drips from the cracks and seams which have opened on the veneer of patriotism, held aloft by the standard bearers of media, telling each and every one of us what reality they wish us to perceive at the moment.

Where once we were believed to be an industrious people, strong of will and generous of heart, we have been rendered fear stricken, cowering in terror from our own shadows, afraid of that which we reap while continuing to sow the seeds of discord, discontent and alienation.

The media has conspired against us, lulling us into a somnambulant goosestep, hackles raised at the first murmur of dissonance.

The talking heads fill our minds and mouths on a daily basis, imploring us to hate and despise those who think differently, hoping to stamp out dissent by keeping the populace angered yet indifferent.

There was a time when independent thought, rational analysis and polite discourse was considered to be the paragon of appropriateness, when we took the time to discuss and understand the concerns and feelings of others. Nowadays it's "Us vs Them", "Red vs Blue", "Dems vs Reps". "You're either with us or against us." "If you (x), then the terrorists win." "Why do you hate America?"

Why do I hate America, indeed.

Don't get me wrong, I love my country. I consider myself fortunate to have had the opportunity to grow up in a country where my mind was free to develop and where I had the chance to make a difference, even if it was only in my personal little corner.

But the salad days of youth were put to rest on a certain date that I will not mention out of disgust for how it is used. On that day I moved from a healthy cynicicsm about the world around me to downright dismay.

On that day I watched as the powers that be put into motion the greatest feat of opportunism I have ever beared witness to. I watched as the masses were told what to feel, how to think and who to hate. And from there I watched as that power was strengthened on an almost daily basis.

I was one of the ones who took the time to evaluate what I was being told. I got my information from multiple sources. I considered what I read and heard and I formed my own conclusions. As a result I was one of the ones who recognized the dangerous path we were treading. I can proudly state I was against the acts of aggression and imperialism that my country has committed in my name.

But say that in today's America and you're branded a "truther", a "socialist" or the ultimate modern insult, "a liberal".

The irony? I'm NOT. Political philosophy, regardless of what we've been led to believe cannot be summed up in a nice one word package.

But the shades of gray have left this country. We are left with only two remaining colors, red and black, both used to describe the flowing undercurrent of blood running through the veins of our people. You're either a red blooded, flag waving, "We can do no wrong" lover of America, or you are a black hearted hater of freedom, seeking to dismantle the social fabric with over the top demands.

You either love Jesus or you love Stalin.

I can't turn on the radio without hearing about those horrible liberals and their insidious plans to destroy the earth. I seem to hear on an almost daily basis from almost every mainstream "news" source how the "liberal media" is seeking to disrupt and destroy us. I can't read the comments on ANY political articles without seeing hateful screed flung back and forth from both sides.

There is no innocence left in this country. There is no more understanding, no comradery, no acceptance of disparate ideas. We have been told to believe that we are the enemy and I'm sad to say that far too many of us have bought into it.

This country needs change. Real change. I'm not talking about voting in Obama. I'm talking about the need for Americans to wake up and take control of their country again.

Too long have we allowed corruption at the top levels. Too long have we allowed aggressive and xenophobic policies to be enacted in our name. Too long have we sat idly by while the "government of the people, by the people, for the people" strengthened their stranglehold on its citizenry. Too long have we stared complacently at mindless drivel while the stage was set for our economic collapse. Too long have we allowed the media to wedge a splint into the heart of this proud nation, for the second time in our history turning brother against brother, all in the name of the almighty dollar.

How much longer can America endure the strains which now plague her?

We are perceived as obese and slovenly, and like that perception, so too has America's heart become clogged, blocking the flow of idea and thought until only a few remain in her veins.

How long until she suffers cardiac arrest? How long until her heart gives out and her once proud shell is left to rot while the rest of the world moves on?

We need action. We need our citizenry to stand up and be counted. We need to have our voices heard. Yes, we will disagree, but that's fine. This isn't a red vs blue situation, it's becoming a life vs death situation with our homeland on the line.

Patriotism is not waving the flag and saying, "Yay, America" every fourth of July. Patriotism is loving your country so much that you can recognize her faults. It's caring enough to want to see her do better. It's struggling to make ourselves and our actions speak to the nobility of us as a people.

The system has failed and unless something is done soon, America too will fail.

Tell Them You Mean Business

Time for another one of those great, "What the hell is this" kind of entries. The timing on this one feels a bit odd, considering I have just recently shared with you some of my favorite emails from times past. Well, life found reason to make me write another today, and I enjoyed it so much I thought I might just share it with you all.

You'll find while reading this one that it doesn't make much sense. Really, it's not supposed to. Half the fun was the surrealism of it all. But allow me to give you a very brief idea of what this is all about.

We recently acquired a grouping of four VERY POWERFUL magnets at my office. These things are unlike any magnets you have ever dealt with. (Unless you're a scientist. Don't bother with smarmy comments, I'm well aware that stronger magnets DO exist.) These magnets make monitors go all wonky from two to three feet away. They're just fantastic.

Anyways, for reasons that I cannot quite explain, our office mascot was, until very recently, a magnetic picture of Robert Vaughn taken from a Yellow Pages advertisement. He looks forward with a stern stare, pointing directly through your soul and encouraging you to "Tell them you mean business". This ad is for a local legal firm, though the same advertisement is used across the nation for various firms.

In the course of playing with the magnets, at one point I attached Mr. Vaughn to them. As soon as I removed him, I discovered that his magnetic powers had disappeared. Poof!!!

Like I said, this was our mascot. Sad times, indeed. I felt it best to let the company know what had happened and saw it as an occasion to have a bit of fun with it. Hope it gives you a chuckle.




To the good people of MAGNET COMPANY NAME WITHHELD, Inc.:

Let me begin with a brief introduction. My name is E and I am a support representative for a software company based in Georgia. As IT professionals, my coworkers and I are imbued with puerile, if not downright juvenile sensibilities and humor. So when the opportunity arose for us to procure some of your company's wares and muck about with the dangerous and somewhat eerie powers of magnetism, it's safe to say that we were all quite excited. But some ideas, particularly those in the thrill a minute world of IT, are not necessarily thought through in their entirety and ultimately descend into a whirling vortex of despair.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Our offices are nestled snugly between an orphanage and a children's hospital. Apart from being just another software company, we also breed kittens and make our own taffy, so the average day in our facilities is spent granting wishes and bringing dreams to life. Every day at noon we gather to roast marshmallows and sing songs in a familial gathering known as "Happytime Smile Hour". This tends to be the time that we dispense the most hugs to the children and slip the most tuna under the table to the kittens.

It was during one such Happytime that the package from MAGNET COMPANY NAME WITHHELD came into our lives. A package of 1" x 1 1/2" n50 neodymium magnets heralded by darkened skies and a clapping of thunderbolts, deposited on our doorstep by a mysterious cackling figure cloaked in black.

Perhaps our hackles should have been raised and our senses made keener, but we were so full of both love and taffy that we tore into the package with unbridled enthusiasm. True, we recognized their frightening power straight away, and within minutes all of us had been "bitten" by them. Fingers were pinched and egos destroyed in a matter of seconds. Many of the children ended up in tears as their faith in our omniscience faltered, only to end up shattered as they found their fragile souls trapped between the opposite poles of the cold magnet of reality. Yet even the loss of trust by those poor, poor orphans and adorable kittens could not hold a candle to the greatest transcendence that your foul "hell magnets" perpetuated upon us...the death of Robert Vaughn.

Let me repeat that, in case you missed it the first time. Your magnets KILLED Robert Vaughn. THE Robert Vaughn! The Man From U.N.C.L.E.! Not some cheap Robert Culp knockoff or lame Robert Loggia imitation, but Robert Vaughn. Robert Vaughn, whose magnetic presence sat aloft our cubicles, menacingly threatening all who opposed us. Robert Vaughn who, at every opportunity would "Tell them you mean business". Robert Vaughn, the seemingly invulnerable Yellow Pages advertisement that had withstood the "Plague of a Thousand Darts", who had endured through the "Great Scissor Attack of '07", the man who had been a gleaming bastion of hope for our entire office had all of his wondrous powers stripped with just ONE encounter with your goods.

Some wounds run deep, winding their way deeper into our essence until we find ourselves in a black pit of despair, unable to recover. One of my cubicle mates, typically stoic and unshakable has spent the last day in an inconsolable stupor, hunched over the now non-magnetic frame of Mr. Vaughn, choking feeble and meaningless exultations to god above to return Robert's powers.

Who will tell the children that we mean business?

How will they find the number to Gary Martin Hays and Associates?

Where is THEIR justice?

You may all gather 'round this email, perhaps chuckling quietly amongst yourselves, unbelieving of the anguish which we, as a team, have to endure. It's easy to separate yourselves from the cold, hard reality of your customers when distanced as we undoubtedly are. But it is not you who will have to explain to the crippled orphans why Mr. Vaughn no longer sits proud atop our cubicles. You will not have to bear the horrible mewing of kittens who don't understand why everybody is so upset. You will not be privy to the Smile Hours that will suddenly feel much colder and lonelier.

Please understand that this missive is not intended to be a sleight on your company. Your product does exactly what was advertised and all in all we have been most pleased with our order. I would just like to suggest that you consider placing warnings on some of your more powerful magnets, letting potential purchasers know that these magnets are so powerful they can destroy 1960's era television stars.

Thank you for your time.

Kind regards,

E

You've Got Mail

Over the years I, like many of us, have sent out beaucoup emails on any number of subjects. However, my email style tends to be a lot more reserved and succinct than my regular writing style. If I'm writing something for Bonez or just something for my own entertainment, I tend to luxure in utilizing over-expressive language laden with adjectives and descriptives.

Email, though, tends to be a pretty formal affair. If you get a message from me, it's usually no more than one or two sentences, very direct and to the point. I guess it stems from my complete lack of social graces and my overall ineptitude when it comes to interpersonal relations.

Every once in awhile, though, I do manage to spit out messages of a tad more substance, almost always written in a humorous vein. I got to thinking about these the other day and decided that Bonez might get a kick out of a couple of my favorite bits from the past.

What follows are two emails that I sent several years ago. These are both 6-7 years old, but have long been kept in my secret stash of writings that I horde for my own entertainment.

This first message was sent to my boss regarding a situation with one of my co-workers. I had written up the person in question (Bill) for giving out inaccurate information to one of customers regarding one of our program's features. However, his immediate supervisor (Ted) had come back to me to point out that Bill was actually correct and that it was our manual that was wrong. I had originally written a letter to my boss explaining that I was incorrect in chastising Bill. However, it turned out that I had good reason for my actions, even if wrong. I decided to clear matters up. This was the mail that resulted:


Boss,

Per the message regarding my retraction of my chiding of the (in)accurate information parlayed by Bill regarding E2K......

While not incorrect to say that the information, while incorrect, was correct from that time period's mindset, I would like to qualify that my assesment was actually accurate and correct, not incorrect as was incorrectly parlayed to me by Ted. I just want to make sure that any confusion infused by that letter was cleared up.

So:

The orginal information, though inaccurate, was accurate according to our knowledge at the time, so my calling it inaccurate was actually inaccurate, as was so accurately parlayed to me by Ted. However, I was not off base or inaccurate by any means for calling that accurate inaccuracy inaccurate.

Also:

The other section regarding PF logging, as it turns out, was inaccurate also. I inaccurately berated Bill for stating that PF logging is available in the Standard edition, when in fact, our documentation regarding this characteristic is in fact, inaccurate. Our training materials most clearly state that this is not possible. However, upon personal investigation by Ted and myself, it became apparent that our own documentation is inaccurate regarding this matter.

So, in summary.....

I was inaccurate in referring to Bill's inaccuracy as inaccurate, as it was merely an accurate inaccuracy.

However, I was most inaccurate in calling the PF issue an inaccurate statement, as my source, which I assumed was accurate, turned out to be most inaccurate.

If you have any questions regarding this matter, I will be at home getting shitty drunk trying to figure this whole damn thing out myself.....



This second email was sent to the staff at Fox News back in 2002. I had just read an article on the forthcoming Star Wars: Attack of the Clones movie, and all of the fans awaiting that movie were placed in a negative light. It had annoyed me that on the same day they had run a piece about "fans" camping out overnight for NASCAR tickets, but they were just painted as "enthusiastic" and "excited". This was my suggestion for their site:


Dear Fox News staff:

I've been a daily visitor to foxnews.com for quite some time now, and have been consistently irked by a trend that I see on your site, one which has been repeated today. Why is it that whenever Foxnews refers to fans of any form of sci-fi/fantasy genre they are labeled as geeks and nerds, while sports enthusiasts are simply referred to as fans? I would say that perhaps it's because fans of a genre fall out of the mainstream and therefore are subject to ire, but I would say that box office returns on such "nerd fests" as the Star Wars quadrology and "The Fellowship of the Ring" would dictate that these are, in fact, mainstream interests. People have a wide and varied range of interests. Some enjoy a good yarn, some enjoy a good book, and some like to watch cars drive around in circles. Does an interest in one of these areas automatically justify using slanderous terms to describe those who partake in and enjoy whatever activity it may be that interests them? Since that seems to be Fox's policy in regards to people with interests, I profer to you some suggestions for other headlines, using the same stereotypes that you seem to enjoy employing against a specific group of people.

How about:

"Redneck Inbreds" instead of "Nascar Fans" ("Wife-Beating Drunkards" is also acceptable.)
"Mentally Challenged Trogladytes" as opposed to "Football Fan"
"Mindless Wastes of Oxygen" instead of "Baseball Fans"

While we're at it, let's generalize some more:

"Sheep" instead of "People"
"Pedophile" instead of "Priest"

or even

"Bullshit" instead of "News"

See, it's easy (and fun!) to pigeonhole people unfairly in order to elicit a chuckle from a certain percentage of your readership. However, if I were running a news website that is supposed to be unbiased and informative, I would probably avoid broad generalizations of people, and instead stick to presenting the facts as they are, not how I interpret them. But what do I know? I'm just a geek.



These letters were quite fun to write at the time and have been forwarded around my inner circle over the years. I hope you enjoy them.

I Am Not An Animal...

Many years ago I worked with a woman named Paula, a deeply religious woman who belonged to some obscure branch of Christianity that I cannot immediately recall. Although her and I were polar opposites, we managed to find enough common ground to get along.

One of my great loves in life has always been cinema, but that was not a good topic of conversation for the two of us as she watched very few movies. A prime example is my mentioning of Darth Vader in passing, a character she had never heard of.

Okay, never seeing Star Wars? Sure, I can buy it. Although it's rare to meet somebody who hasn't seen those films, they ARE out there. But seriously, not knowing DARTH VADER? The American Film Institute ranked him the third greatest film villain of all time, beaten out only by Hannibal Lecter and Norman Bates. Darth Vader ranked higher than the WICKED WITCH OF THE WEST. I'm assuming pretty much EVERYBODY knows who SHE is. It's not like he has unique or recognizable features.

Argh. Okay, my inner geek is getting the best of me.

Anyways, one day her and I were stuck doing menial work together and we got to discussing movies. And from this innocuous discussion came one of the greatest things I've ever heard.


Paula: We watched a movie last night. It was the funniest movie I've ever seen.

Me: Really? What was it called?

Paula: The Elephant Man.


The following is a snippet of the plot description taken from Wikipedia:

A surgeon at the London Hospital - Frederick Treves - discovers John Merrick in a Victorian freak show in London's East End, where he is managed by the brutish Bytes. Merrick is so hideously deformed that he must wear a hood and cape when in public. Bytes further claims this exhibit to be an imbecile. Treves is professionally intrigued by Merrick's condition and pays Bytes to bring him to the London Hospital so that he can examine him. He then presents a lecture to his colleagues on Merrick's peculiar physique, dispassionately displaying him as a prize physiological curiosity. Treves draws attention to the oversized deformities of Merrick's skull: it is his most obvious disability and (as he was so informed by Bytes) also the most life-threatening, as he is compelled to sleep sitting with his head resting upon his knees, as the weight of his skull would cause a fatal constriction of his windpipe (asphyxiation) if he were to ever lie down. On Merrick's return, Bytes beats him so severely that a sympathetic apprentice alerts Treves, who attempts to take him back to the hospital.

Okay, that little bit of joy is only taken from the first thirty minutes or so of the
constant yuk-fest that is The Elephant Man. A cavalcade of whimsy this film is not.

Of course, all I could manage was a flat stare, followed by:

Me: The Elephant Man? Really? I hadn't realized that one was a comedy.


Well, after a little bit of discussion I devised that she was actually talking about the Bill Murray film "Larger Than Life" and not, in fact, The Elephant Man.

I would have to say, however, that having The Elephant Man branded as the greatest comedy of all time was just fantastic. It was only made better by the fact that if I hadn't corrected her, she might have said that to others as well, propagating the mistaken belief that The Elephant Man was humorous.

As a result, anytime that movie is mentioned in my presence, I point out how hilarious it was. Truly a modern comedy classic.

If You Can't Run With the Big Dogs....

Bonez challenged me today to a friendly game of darts, a game I have not played for close to two years now. Back when I was a regular player I was so feared by Bonez that he would normally cower and retreat any time the proposition of a game came up, so I couldn't help but be intrigued by his newfound courage. But the truth of the matter is that I haven't so much as touched my darts in quite some time, so I feared that my rusty game would be my ultimate undoing.

My fears soon fell to the wayside, though, as even the opening volley where closest to bull determines the starting player fell strongly in my favor, my dart closer to the target not by millimeters, but by inches. But still my unease overpowered me, the certain belief that I would not prevail in this gentleman's tournament tearing away at me, a constant reminder echoing inside my head.

Once again my fears proved in vain as I tore to an early lead, scoring a handsome 118 points to Tony's pathetic 16, my domination over his game rearing its ugly head once more. You should never count T out too quickly, though, and before long he had amassed a respectable pool of points, pulling into a substantial lead, his resolve strengthened by what must have seemed to him an all but guaranteed victory.

I wasn't out of the game just yet, though, and I managed to score a perfect 180 two turns in a row, a feat almost unheard of even by the measure of my previous overwhelming skill. Not one to quit when the going gets tough, Tony managed to score enough points to bring him within a stone's throw of victory, just one double being all that was required for him to go out.

By now I felt I had toyed with my prey enough and in a series of swift surgical strikes I managed to close out the board and finish the game. In a display of good sportsmanship, Tony extended his hand and complimented me on a game well played. Hard as he tried, he could not completely hide the tears of anguish that built behind his eyes, his inner demons threatening to take hold and shake his confidence back to the bleak pit of despair he so frequently occupied in our previous games.

Shaking his hand, I extended my returned congratulations on a game well played and advised that we must play again sometime, my love for the game rekindled even after a game as quick as this one. T tried to smile and shuffle off, but it was easy to spot his shoulders heaving accompanied by the soft sound of sobbing.

Oh well, it's just a game, as long as we all had fun, isn't that all that matters?

(AUTHOR'S NOTE: Every other sentence of this missive is a complete load of shit. Tony beat me pretty soundly.)

One-Eyed Willie's World O' Whimsy

In 1985, Steven Spielberg, Richard Donner and Chris Columbus unleashed upon the American public The Goonies, a modern day adventure tale about a rough and tumble bunch of ragamuffins who go on crazy adventures through pirate caves to enrich both their families and their lives. To many children of the time, it was a laugh a minute funfest full of whimsy and good times, even disregarding the vulgar language, psychological torture, testicular trauma, murder, gunplay, drug jokes and potential death at every turn. (I'm sure more than one or two parents were upset by it.)

But surprisingly enough, I'm not going to launch into one of my expected tirades about the "dark and seemy underbelly" of The Goonies. Nah. All of that is pretty apparent in my eyes, and bears little point in dissection. However, I was able to attend a theatrical screening of this film last week with Captain Colitis and apart from the obvious fun we experienced seeing a film on the big screen that we both had memorized, we couldn't help but pick apart the things that had always bugged us about it. Not that the film is bad, per se, but that certain aspects just don't stand up to logic.

For instance, in order to enter Mikey's house at the beginning of the film, Chunk is required to do "The Truffle Shuffle". (NOTE: He does not shuffle. He shimmies and shakes.) After successfully completing this task, the gang sets about to opening the gate for him. This involves a monstrous Rube Goldberg contraption complete with an egg laying chicken, a sprinkler, a football and other potential points of failure. If one little item does not perform exactly as intended, are we to assume that Chunk cannot enter? Is it really worth having a machine that requires 40 minutes of prep work just to open a gate without leaving the house? Couldn't Chunk just have said screw it and opened the gate himself? How do Mikey's parents get in and out of the house?

Early in the film, Mouth offers to translate Mrs. Walsh's instructions into Spanish for Rosalita, as she does not speak a word of English. (No mention is given as to HOW Mrs. Walsh hired her if that's the case.) Mouth proceeds to mistranslate everything that's said, leading Rosalita to believe that she is caring for a house of sexually deviant drug dealers who will punish her by locking her in a closet with the roaches if she does not do her job properly. WHY THE HELL DOES SHE STAY? She remains with the family throughout the film. Is Rosalita ALSO a drug using sexual deviant? I love kid's movies.

Why the hell does Mikey's dad have all of the town museum's stuff in his attic? I mean this guy LITERALLY has an entire attic full of stuff that's not his, but apparently this is no big deal. Does nobody notice the pirate maps, old clothing, rare paintings and other odds and ends that he's been hiding away? It would seem to me that most museums would eschew the personal collection of THEIR artifacts. This isn't New York we're talking about, it's Astoria, Oregon. They must have one hell of a collection still at their tiny, two room museum to not care about the asstons of paraphernalia and ephemera that Mr. Walsh has stowed away.

And for that matter, if they're about to get kicked out of their house, why haven't they started packing? The house hasn't even so much as been touched yet, and it's pretty evident that this is a packrat family. Shouldn't we see some boxes? Shouldn't SOME effort have been made to start the process?

It's a good thing that Mikey's dad had all that shit in the attic, though, as that's where the 400 year old pirate map happens to be. And fortunately, Mouth is capable of reading and immediately translating Spanish, even older varieties not based on Americanized slang. I've always loved the fact that Willie took the time when writing the map to make sure that everything he wrote would rhyme when translated into an English dialect that wouldn't exist for several hundred years. One of the many, many ways in which Willie was truly a visionary.

As the Goonies dash out of Mikey's house they stop to let the air out of Brand's tires. Mikey throws a little fit pointing out that it took Brand "376 lawnmower jobs to pay for that, it's his most favorite thing in the world".

Now, let's analyze that statement for a second. Brand's bike, while nice, is just your run of the mill BMX style bike. Brand mowed 376 lawns to earn the money for that bike. This movie was filmed in 1984, so for the sake of it, we'll assume that he charged $10 per mowing. That would mean that this bike was AT LEAST $3,000. Even going by a conservative estimate of $5 per lawn, you're still looking at $1,850 or so for that bike.

Well, I went and did some research and pulled up various bike catalogs from that time frame. From what I can see, a really nice BMX bike at the time was about $400, and a nice touring bike was about $279. We'll go with the high estimate BMX bike at $500. By Mikey's reasoning, we can safely assume that Brand charges roughly $1.33 to mow a lawn. That's a really good price, even by 1984 standards.

Of course, this entire argument is rendered moot once Brand escapes from the house to chase after the Goonies. He hops on his prized possession and tries to take off, only to discover that his tires are flat. And what does Brand scream at this point?

"What? My new tires! They popped my new tires!" Brand's frustration is almost palpable. I mean, who wouldn't be upset if their $3,760 tires were popped. By comparison, a complete set of 4 Goodyear Eagle F1 GS-D3 max performance summer tires for a 2007 Ferrari 612 Scagiletti will run you about $2,016 in modern dollars.

That is one HELL of a bike.

So, off the Goonies go to begin their adventure, before long finding themselves at an abandoned restaurant now being used as home base for the evil Fratellis. Of course, the Fratellis seem to waver between calculated, insidious evil and rampant buffoonery, depending on the nature of the scene.

After an initial confrontation Mikey asks to use the restroom so that he can scope out the lower floor to try and find the entry point to One-Eyed Willie's treasure. This, of course, is where he first encounters Sloth, the hideously deformed and dangerously violent Fratelli who spends his life chained to a wall, having his meals thrown at him due to his lack of appreciation for opera.

In spite of the fact that his life is spent CHAINED TO A WALL, Sloth has 50 inch biceps and is quite capable of breaking his chains any time he wants. However, he seems content to be dehumanized, starved and left to rot instead of making any moves to improve his lot in life.

After discovering the horrifically mutated, seemingly violent tempered and semi-retarded man-child in the basement, Mikey runs in terror, only to be blase about any further encounters with this monster once he returns with the rest of the gang.

By this point Brand has managed to catch up with the Goonies, even after the near-fatal "whacky prank" played on him by Troy. Feeling sympathetic for poor Brand, Andi drags her friend Stef along as they track him down to offer apologies for Troy's homicidal behavior.

But this is a kid's movie, so after finding the executed corpse in the ice cream freezer and making references to naked photos of one another's mothers, the kids begin their crazy adventures in the long forgotten and untraversable caves of pirate antiquity.

By long forgotten, of course, I am referring to the fact that every major stop in town seems to be built into the caverns themselves. The plumbing system for the country club is down there, as some form of piping for a road, as well as the town wishing well. Yep, aside from the few large and unmistakably modern sections, this ENTIRE area is LONG FORGOTTEN. Except when they have to fix the piping or empty the wishing well.

Thankfully, though, the Goonies are awesome little adventurers, as they manage to catch up to the corpse of Chester Copperpot after about TEN MINUTES of adventuring. Not bad. This guy was an ACTUAL TREASURE HUNTER and they're a bunch of 10 year olds, yet they managed to match his life's accomplishments in a handful of minutes. By the way, Chester SUCKED ASS as an adventurer, as he hadn't done anything dangerous yet and in fact died in the same room as an UNTRIGGERED booby trap.

Idiot. I guess he died of old age somewhere along the quarter mile of adventuring he managed.

Chester's corpse is where the kids first get their hands on those crazy candles. But we, as audience, know better. Those aren't candles, they're DYNAMITE!!!! How do we know this? Well, luckily for us EVERY SINGLE TIME somebody pulls those things out, there's ALWAYS ONE that's colored differently and turned so that the word dynamite is facing right at the camera. But those silly kids NEVER NOTICE!

Wocka, wocka, wocka!

The kids continue their zany adventures while their poor and much maligned "friend" Chunk ends up being captured by the Fratellis and TORTURED. Yes, that's right, the Goonies learn lessons about friendship, caring and togetherness while Chunk is threatened with having his hand pureed. Nobody cares about Chunk, though, and his crepulent and acrimonious character continues to grind the nerves of EVERYBODY; Fratellis, Goonies, and theater patrons included.

Onward the movie plods, with the Fratellis now in pursuit of the Goonies, hoping to get their own hands on "One-Eyed Willie" before the kids manage to. But the further along the Goonies get, the more elaborate the traps that Willie has laid become. One room finds them in front of a decomposing organ, a cadaverous musical contraption made from the fingers and bones of several (I'd wager at least 5, considering there appear to be 88 keys) pirates.

This particular invention has always bugged the hell out of me. How in the hell did Willie build this thing? On top of being a bloodthirsty pirate, was he also an out of work organ constructionist? How long did he spend figuring out the resonance of each bone he used? Did he hack a little bit too much off one particular femur and then realize that it had dropped half a tone? Did he have help doing this? If so, who and furthermore, WHY? It seems an awful lot of work just for the sake of stopping someone from potentially stealing your treasure AFTER YOU'RE DEAD.

Were there ghost pirates (or pirate ghosts) that kept a watchful eye on the piano, ensuring that it doesn't go out of tune? What kind of triggering mechanism did he use to ensure that only certain portions of the floor caved in if the dreaded A major chord was played? Was that particular room already lacking a floor? So, did he construct the floor AND the triggering mechanism?

I'm beginning to think that One-Eyed Willie was a renaissance man. Perhaps he turned to a life of piracy because he was shunned for his egregious displays of super intelligence. I mean the man can steal treasure, construct booby traps, build musical instruments, lay down flooring and write prose that rhymes in other languages. That's damn impressive.

I suppose it's lucky for the Goonies that Willie bothered to transcribe the appropriate notes on the back of the map. Which brings up another point, WHY did Willie leave a map? This was HIS treasure and he STAYED with it! Why the hell would he bother telling ANYBODY how to find it, let alone give them the doubloon, key, sheet music and a series of warnings regarding all the other traps. How about you just not tell anybody? Just keep it a secret? The fewer people there are TRYING to find your treasure, the fewer that will actually find it.

But those plucky kids manage to make their way past that nefarious trap, only to find themselves face to face with Willie's waterslide. This doesn't have any real trap element to it, it's just a really cool and fun thing that Willie slapped together for any would be treasure hunters. I imagine that this also took a good amount of time to slap together, as he managed to carve out 3 individual routes that the slide could take, all intermingling with one another, as well as devise a pumping method to keep them flushed with water.

An engineer for the ages.

After riding the waterslide, the gang ends up face to face with Willie's ship, conveniently hidden away in a sealed cave. Upon boarding this vessel they find themselves confronted by the decayed corpses of a zillion pirates that Willie has killed. They're still around because Willie hadn't found the time to turn them into xylophones or theremins or whatever nefarious traps he may have constructed from their bones. He did manage to leave one skeleton perched at the wheel with a dagger in each eye. That was probably "No-Eyed Billie", the heir apparent to the throne of Willie. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.

Mikey makes his way into a large room, only to find himself confronted by the bulk of Willie's treasure and Willie himself. Crossing to the corpse he pulls back Willie's eye patch to figure out why they call him One-Eye. He jumps back with a shiver when he discovers that Willie lacks a second eye socket.

"I guess that's why they call you One-Eyed Willie," he quips. The startled jump is what makes this scene. He has just risked life and limb countless times during his adventure. He has dealt with a group of murderous killers, survived crushing boulders, hordes of bats, spike filled pits, and death pianos, only to finally lose his resolve at the sight of an eye socket that's not there.

EEK!!! A solid spot of bone!

Of course, the Fratellis come and ruin all the fun and more zaniness ensues, with violent man-child Sloth saving the day through beatings and brute force.

Mother Fratelli ends up setting off Willie's final trap, however, by taking the gold directly from his own scale. Another leap of logic. So, you're a pirate and you've got all this gold that you've gone to ALL THIS TROUBLE to protect. Assuming somebody finally makes their way to your treasure, what would their logical punishment be? Well, to break down the cave and set sail, of course. Now that they've stolen your plunder, you certainly wouldn't want them to be sealed in a cave for all eternity, now would you? OF COURSE NOT! Hoist the anchor and set sail for adventure, captain!

Finally, good wins out, the kids get to keep their houses and the Fratellis get their comeuppance. Except Sloth. No, Chunk announces (without even ASKING his parents) that the violent man-child who has spent his life chained in a dank cellar can come live with him. If his parents allow that, they are pussies, plain and simple.

And there you have it. The Goonies is certainly an entertaining film, it just leaves a few leaps of logic in place. I would say that kids don't notice that kind of stuff, but everything I've mentioned here has bugged me for years.

You Can't Joke About Rape, Rape Isn't Funny

I've heard it said that there are certain topics you just don't joke about, rape being very high up on the list. But every once in awhile it's fun to break with tradition and thumb our collective noses at the norms of society. Such was the case for myself and a group of others last night as we attended a theatrical screening of the 1972 Wes Craven classic, "Last House on the Left".

LHotL tells the story of Mari Collingwood, a young girl turning 17 who plans to celebrate this event by venturing into "the city" to see the band Bloodlust with her friend Phyllis. Her parents, though not enthralled at the thought of their young daughter going to what is essentially a ghetto area to witness a band most famous for dismembering a chicken onstage (but they only did that once!), are nevertheless a progressive and caring lot who lovingly lavish their child with affection before sending her on her way.

Mari and Phyllis are ultimately good kids, as evidenced by the scenes of them playing by a pond and enjoying ice cream together, but they still like to get into a little mischief here and there and decide on the way to the concert to get their hands on some marijuana, so that they may better enjoy both the show and their evening. Keeping their eyes open for someone who might be holding, they finally manage to spot a young man named Junior and follow him back to his place so that they can score.

However, had Mari and Phyllis had been as astute as the audience, they would have noticed the warning coming over the car radio earlier advising them of a gang of escaped convicts who have already left a swath of death and destruction in their wake. (At least a priest, two nuns, some guards and even a dog have paid the price for standing in their way.) It goes without saying WHOSE apartment Mari and Phyllis end up at.

Soon thereafter the psychotic gang, made up of ringleader Krug, creepy Weasel, psychotic Sadie and Krug's heroin addicted son, Junior, decide to kidnap the two girls with the intention of raping and murdering them both. Unfortunately their car breaks down (right outside Mari's house, no less!) and they take the girls into the woods to commence with the good times. Good times, of course, meaning the 20 minutes of rape and violence that the movies delves into. The girls are tortured, dehumanized and violated before being violently dispatched of. After cleaning up the gang stop by the nearest residence (Mari's house) for an evening of rest and relaxation.

Mari's parents, however, soon catch onto the fact that A) Mari is dead and B) this gang killed her, and launch into a Culkinesque scheme of setting traps around the house and then killing off the gang one by one in progressively more savage manners.

By the time it's all over, the entire gang has been killed and poor Mari's death has been avenged. Queue the house lights, everybody shuffle out.

Part of what makes the film interesting is the juxtaposition of barbaric imagery with lighthearted moments and music. There is a side story of two bumbling cops (one played by a young Cobra Kai leader) attempting to make their way to Mari's house to track down the gang. Between running out of gas, hitchhiking, and a misadventure involving a truckload of chickens, they manage to lighten the mood whenever the rape and torture gets too heavy.

The music itself seems oddly out of place, with songs written and performed by David Hess, the actor who plays Krug. The songs describe the action on screen, down to mentioning raping and killing the girls, but is all done with banjos, acoustic guitars and kazoos. It's all so whimsical that you can't help but chuckle.

Of course, this film being 36 years old ensured that everybody attending the screening last night had seen it multiple times, so it was not unexpected for people to be loud or raucous during the course of its presentation.

I attended the viewing with Captain Colitis, and before we had even made our way into the theater the rape jokes had started. The presenters were offering the opportunity to get your picture taken in a recreated scene from the movie. (For once I declined, as I was being entertained in the line by a magician.) More than once it was mentioned that tonight was to be a celebration of rape, and I joined in the fun by loudly announcing that, "Tonight is a good night for rape!"

Any time the goofy music would kick in during the film, I would sing improvised songs of rape to accompany the on screen action. I heard jokes aplenty from others in the theater as well, and laughter abounded throughout the screening.

I couldn't help but get a chuckle at the thought of a hundred people walking out of a theater showing a RAPE movie with big grins, all having had a right jolly old time watching the horrific events unfold.

To be honest, it's things like this that make me love the horror community. Yes, the subject matter is dark and no, none of us actually find humor in rape. But the fact of the matter is it's a movie and nothing more. It's not a fictionalized account of reality, and nobody was actually injured in its making.

This was nothing more than a gathering of people there to enjoy a rare treat, a bonafide horror classic on the big screen. It is an honor to share that experience with a group of people who are there for the sheer love of both film and horror.

Last House on the Left was part of the Splatter Cinema series of films at the Plaza Theater in Atlanta. Every month they present a horror classic on the big screen in full 35 mm glory. This is not the first time I've written about them, nor will it be the last. Come check it out sometime, it really is a great time.