Dream On

Well, a new Guitar Hero game released this weekend, so I guess it goes without saying that it’s time for E to commence with the proselytizing...

The latest release is Guitar Hero: Aerosmith; a game, if you can’t tell by the title, that focuses on the music of rock legends Aerosmith. GH:A allows you to step into the shoes of Joe Perry (or, in multiplayer, Tom Hamilton or Brad Whitford) and rock out to old Aerosmith classics that we all know and love.

The first thing that struck me while playing through the songlist is that they did not stick to just the well known hits of Aerosmith. Sure, you’ll be playing Love in an Elevator, Rag Doll and Livin’ on the Edge, but at the same time you’ll be kicking to lesser known tunes like No Surprize, Nobody’s Fault and Uncle Salty. What this means for the player is a more well rounded experience. One that completely skips their gagtacular ballads like Angel, Crazy and Amazing. (Hint for Aerosmith, stick to songs with more than one word in the title, those tend to be your better ones.) On top of the heaps of Aerosmith you’ll be playing, there are also 12 songs by a wide assortment of bands such as Mott the Hoople, Cheap Trick and Stone Temple Pilots.

Gameplay is much the same as what we’ve come to expect from the Guitar Hero series. The more advanced players will find that the timing window on notes and HO/POs has been reduced, giving a wee bit more challenge on the complicated parts, though not by any major amount. Neversoft seems to have gleaned a better understanding of note charts this go around, as well. There are no songs in this game designed to be difficult just for the sake of being difficult. (Slipknot from GH3, I’m looking at you.)

The graphics, I’m sure, are clean and good looking and Aerosmith themselves are no doubt meticulously rendered. However, any player worth their salt in Guitar Hero will remark of the graphics with, “What, there’s graphics in this game? I thought there were just the notes.” Seriously, once you start playing, everything but the notes disappears.

On a more serious graphical note, it’s worth pointing out that Aerosmith came into the studio and performed full motion capture of them performing each of their songs. If you’re just watching the game, there’s plenty to see as the highly detailed Steven Tyler opens his massive mouth to croon while Brad Whitford stares blankly in one direction. (I’ve seen them in concert several times and that’s exactly what he does.)

The difficulty has been lowered on this one. If you’re new to the Guitar Hero franchise, this is an excellent starter game. The songs are challenging enough to be fun but never over the top difficult. If nothing else GH:A will end up as a great competition game as 100%ing songs should not be hard at all for experienced players.

Every GH game has one or two standout songs and without question the high point of Aerosmith is playing Walk This Way with Run DMC. The note chart is a blast on this one, really giving you a feel for that funky groove and kicking into some very fun solos by the end.

All in all GH:A is a worthy entry in the Guitar Hero series. It’s certainly not as massive as some of the other games, but it holds its own and is well worth the money. If nothing else, it’s 42 new songs to inject into our collective veins until the arrival of Guitar Hero: World Tour.

No Ice? You Mean I Gotta Drink This Coffee Hot?

In 2004 Rockstar Games released Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas, the latest entry in an already controversial series of video games. Criticism soon followed detailing the game’s supposed immorality, encouraging acts of real-life violence and ultimately bearing responsibility for the inevitable decline of civilization into a barren warzone. Okay, so maybe that was a tad hyperbolic, but anybody following the news at the time would have been lead to believe that this game would single handedly bring about the end of the world.

And so it followed that the greatest assault on the minds of America’s youth, video games, would continue to be the whipping boy for the elder generation, much as heavy metal before that, and Dungeons and Dragons before that, and Elvis before that, and comic books before that, and movies before that, and books before that, and I’m sure if you did some research, stone tablets before that.

The point is that mass hysteria over emerging media is as American as bearing false witness and before long ill-informed parents were frothing at the mouth over the “murder simulators” that their children had been playing, unbeknownst to them.

No article about Grand Theft Auto would be complete without bringing up Jack Thompson, a Florida lawyer who had previously made a name for himself for working to have 2 Live Crew’s ‘As Nasty as they Wanna Be’ banned from being sold on grounds of obscenity. Jack had been working tirelessly since that time to speak out against media that he considered damaging or obscene and video games soon became a target of his, specifically the GTA series which he felt constituted a true threat to American society due to the deleterious effect it could have on the developing brains of America’s youth.

In June of 2005, however, the spotlight would focus on San Andreas with unparalleled brightness. Whereas previously the game had been derided for the content it offered, a mod was released that brought to light some code left behind in the final game, inaccessible through normal means. This code started the “Hot Coffee” controversy.

For those unfamiliar with the story, here’s the gist of it. A mod was created for the PC version of San Andreas that allowed users to play some sex-themed mini games that had been removed from the final release of the product. Although the mini games themselves were not part of San Andreas, they had apparently been considered at one point and the code for these games was left behind. Through use of a third party utility, PC users could ‘unlock’ these games and play what were essentially interactive sex scenes.

The points to bear in mind are that these games were absolutely not playable without modifying the game code.

A) The game had to be hacked in order to make these scenes playable
B) A user had to know where to download this hack.
C) The user then had to install this hack

The average parent was unaware of this, however, and the media portrayed the ‘controversy’ as if these sex games were freely available for all to play. Hysteria overtook the nation and before long senators were discussing the game, protestors were lining up outside Rockstar’s headquarters, and a class action lawsuit was brought up against Take-2 (the publisher of Grand Theft Auto).

This suit was initially brought forward by Florence Cohen, an 85 year old grandmother who had unwittingly purchased Grand Theft Auto for her 14 year old grandson, unaware of the content within. I present here an image of the cover of San Andreas. It’s easy to see how one could look at this cover, with the rating of M for Mature and various pictures of gun-toting hoodlums performing drive-bys and not realize that perhaps its content was inappropriate for younger gamers.



But, because America is a victim culture, our hearts went out to this poor, hapless woman who may very well have caused her precious grandchild to grow up to be a cop killer, the jury found in her favor and Take-2 was ordered to pay back a sum of $5-35 to any consumer who returned the game to them due to offense taken.

And herein is why I am writing this article. As of today, June 26, 2008, a grand total of 2,676 people have come forward to demand their money. Let me repeat that: After all the hysteria surrounding this game TWO THOUSAND SIX HUNDRED SEVENTY SIX PEOPLE have come forward to claim damages from this case.

Yet again America shows its true colors, where the verbal minority manages to claim a stranglehold on media coverage of an event, only to discover later that they do not represent the will of the people. Once more the appearance is given worldwide that this country is a bunch of whining hysterical extremists whereas, in truth, we can be a pretty reasoned and rational people, given the chance.

It’s a shame that this latest revelation will not make the front pages the way the initial firestorm did. Nobody cares about rationalism in the press. It’s much more EXCITING to lead with stories highlighting terror, hysteria and panic.

Thank god Grand Theft Auto 4 is out, at least we have something to be truly worried about in this world.

Wuzhannanan

I heard a song last week that made me openly weep for the future of humanity. A song so awful that my faith in mankind’s ability to persevere was shaken. A song so horrendously offensive to my senses that I would rather assault my genitals with a meat tenderizer than endure another minute of its banal repetition. This is a song so sick-inducingly horrifying that I debated whether I would even link to it in this article.

To paraphrase Obi-Wan Kenobi, "I felt a great disturbance in the grammar, as if millions of English teachers suddenly cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced."

I’m sure you’re reading this and wondering, “What could possibly be that awful?” I know, I know, just a week or two ago I wrote about the olfactory obsessions of Riskay with my tongue planted firmly in cheek. Could this really be any worse?

Yes. Oh god, yes. The fact that I even have to THINK about this song to write about it is making my stomach do somersaults. I have stared into the eyes of the unspeakable horror known as Soulja Boy, and I will never again be the same.

I can endure bad music. We’re all assaulted with endless mediocrity throughout an average day. Turn on the radio and you’re bound to hear some untalented group of young adults warbling and whining about the Lexus they didn’t get for Christmas, mixed with that flat, high volume buzz that we’ve come to expect since the rise of cd’s. We’ve come to accept auto-tuned vocals and over-produced instrumentation as the apex of musical talent.

If nothing else can be said for “Wuzhannanan”, at least it is not overproduced. Or underproduced. Or produced, for that matter. This song bears none of the hallmarks of what we consider “music” in the traditional sense. It runs so counter to our ideals of music as an abstract that it almost becomes its own entity. A song so devoid of “songness” that it becomes music’s anathema.

Wesley Willis developed a reputation for simple song structures generally composed with what sounded like the “demo” setting of a Casio SK-1. The songs were very much of the verse/chorus/verse variety and used almost identical lyrical foundations. Sing four lines, repeat a chorus, sing four lines, repeat chorus, finish up with praise for Wheaties. At least Willis tried to be original, penning songs based on hundreds of different ideas, such as “Suck a Cheetah's Dick”, “Rock and Roll McDonald’s” and “Casper the Homosexual Friendly Ghost”.

Soulja Boy cannot even seem to follow a structure as simplistic as that. Here is the basis for pretty much EVERY song he has recorded:

• Come up with a hilarious and original concept (Wuzhannanan, Yahh, Crank Dat)
• “Write” a “song” that repeats that phrase ad nauseum
• Throw in some “lyrics” that are barely identifiable as English
• ?
• Profit!

It would be one thing if the lyrics were simply juvenile and sophomoric; we all have our guilty pleasure songs. But Soulja’s lyrics are completely incomprehensible.
Take the title of the song alone: Wuzhannanan. How the hell do you turn “happening” into “hannanan”? Is that supposed to be cute? Ironic? Clever?

Part of me wants to go snatch him off the street, lock him in a dark basement and go all Pygmalion on his ass.

“Repeat after me: The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain”
“Da rayn n spayn faw mainy awn da pain.”

Buckwheat would be insulted by this shit. It sets the English language back by almost 200 years.

I’m sure plenty of his “fans” would challenge me to write better music. There are two logical fallacies to be found in that argument, however:

A) His fans would not take the time to read something with as many words as this. Don’t believe me? Go read their defenses of SB on YouTube. I shit you not, somebody came to his defense with “Hey fi u haet this Song so much why do you even listen to it? Didnt ur momma ever say if u dont got nothing mice to say dont say it at all? think about it. i personally love this song i think its awesome. I♥SouljaBoyy.” - For the record, I do NOT have anything “mice” to say about this swill.

B) He doesn’t write music. Soulja Boy’s “music” is the equivalent of the little plastic anus shapes you get with a Play-Doh fun factory. He literally just pushes down on a lever and this excrement slides through the little starfish shaped hole, heaving a moist sausage of amusement into the hungry minds of those seeking his unique blend of entertainment. - For you Soulja Boy fans out there who may not understand metaphor, I just called his music shit.

It is one thing to write garbage like this in the spirit of “clowning”. Even the most serious of artists like to cut loose and have fun every once in awhile. (Remember Mozart’s “Fuckin’ wit da Trick Ho’s”?) But it can easily be argued that Soulja’s songs are written without irony, that these lyrics are meant to be taken at face value and (GASP!) seriously.

Let’s delve a little deeper into his lyrical genius. This is taken directly from YouTube, so I accept no responsibility for mistranslations. (My Rosetta stone was unavailable at the time of this writing.)


How Come You Won't Tell Me What's Hannenin'? (What's Hannenin) [x16]

What's Hannein'? (What's) What's Hannenin? (What's) What's Hannenin? (What's) What's Hannenin (What's)

What's Hannenin, Hannenin, Hannenin, Hannenin, Hannenin, Hannenin, Hannenin, Hannenin

[Verse 1:]
Man Tell Me What's Really Goin' On. Soulja Boy Up In This This Thang, I'm Ready, What's Hannenin?
And I'm Ready With The Dough, I Gotta Have A Mill Stashed In The Studio, What's Hannenin?

I'm Down, N***A I'm Down, Soulja Boy 2006, It's My Time To Clown.
And I'm Ready, Any Place, Soulja Boy Up In This Thang With My Dj, What's Hannenin?

(What's Hannenin) [x16]

What's Hannenin (Hannenin, Hannenin) [x4]

[Verse 2:]
N***A I'm Down, Down With The Thugs. Soulja Boy Up In This Thang, 6 Inches Past Dubs.
I'm Down With The Crew, Lookin So Clean Everytime I Ride Through, What's Hannenin?

2006, 2006, My Time To Shine, Hit The Block Sittin On 26's.
2006, 2006, My Time To Shine, Hit The Block, What's Hannenin?

(What's Hannenin) [x32]

[Verse 3:]
My Turn, My Turn To Shine. This Year I Swear To God I'm Gonna Put Down.
I'm Gonna Do It Big, Hit The High School Sittin On 26's, What's Hannenin?

Do It Big, I Wanna Do It Big, Do It Big, What's Hannenin?
Do It Big, I Wanna Do It Big, Do It Big, What's Hannenin?

(What's Hannenin) [x16]

What's Hannenin (Hannenin, Hannenin) [Until End]


Did you notice that [x16] appears TWICE and [x32] makes an appearance as well? There are 97 VERIFIED “What’s Hannenin’s” in these lyrics, as well as who knows how many that they didn’t bother to transcribe.

God will probably kill a kitten for this next sentence, but here goes:

The Insane Clown Posse has a greater understanding of structuring a song around a singular phrase than Soulja Boy could ever dream of. (See “Fuck the World” from The Amazing Jeckel Brothers.)

That’s right, you heard me correctly, ICP are master craftsmen of the lyrical trade in comparison to Soulja Boy. That means that Juggalos can actually LOOK DOWN on another set of fans. That’s a bold statement. When ICP can rightfully claim the high road over ANYTHING, you know the world is not far from ending. Is it raining frogs yet?

Why am I spending so much time railing against some flash in the pan songwriter? Because he has sold 908,783 copies of his album as of June 1! Almost a million copies of an album where every song is a one trick pony, fishing for that next big catch phrase so that another zillion copies can be sold. I can only imagine that the majority of his fan base have to wear helmets every day to protect themselves from injury.

Thousands of true artists work their craft without making so much as a dime. They struggle and work hard to produce their art, done only for the sake of creating art. It’s sickening to see a talentless hack come along and “roll in the Benjamins” while those who truly deserve recognition and praise go unseen.

You know, at least KISS doesn’t pretend to be serious about the music. They openly admit they’re only in it for the money. SB seems to honestly believe that he’s making art.

P.S. If you’re actually a fan of Soulja Boy but have problems with my polysyllabic writing, please follow this link to read a translated version of this article.

Peace out, y’all.

a reespons to dat soulja boy sshyt

I herd a song dat maeks me sad. a song so bad dat it made me angry. a song so terirble dat id rahther beat myslef up dan hear it gin. im sho u read dis and say “ti cant be dat bad”. i know ah clowned on riskay a few dayz bak n shit. cud tihs be wurs?
shit ya niggaz. dis siht do bad it mayks my stumic hyrt. dat shit be souljja boi. I can handdel bad musci if i has to. dat shit dey play on rok stayshuns is shit n soundz bad n shit. but i tink that wuzhannnannnanann is much wors dan dat. Wuzhannnannanannananannan is lyk the wurst shit eva!!!1!
i fink that wesly wills is a bettah artist dna soulllja boyy. Y? cuz soulja boys stuff all sound teh same n shit, like ‘repeet dat shit,yo’. .
i don unnastand sb’s lrics,so i just make fun of him. i make myslef feel smart by ferefencng old weird shyt like ‘pigmillionz’ or whateva that shit is. foo.
de fanz fink I shuld writ betta shit but i caint so ill just make more fun of soulja cuz im an idyot with a tine dick n shit.
aw hell on, now I sayin dat icp is bettah dan soulja boi? fuck is taht shit? icp aint nottin but clownz lol
anyway the poynt of tihs siht is dat im betta dan u

and im a dick lololololol

I'm Burnin' for You

I wasted around the house the majority of this weekend. The reason was simple; I had to ready myself for this particular week. We’re rather shorthanded at the office this week, so I will be working a different shift, namely 3am to 1pm. As I’ve mentioned multiple times in the past, I do not have a good relationship with the Sandman. We had a falling out sometime around my birth and we’ve never been able to meet on common ground since.

Knowing that my shift would be changing, I was doing my best (though admittedly, my best was not good enough) to begin altering my schedule. I figured that the closer I was to this schedule by Monday, the better off I’d be when that alarm went off at 2am.

So, with my schedule somewhat changed and not much else going on, I sat around the house Saturday evening trying to make up my rassoodock what I wanted to do this evening. Ultimately I decided to head to the movies to check out “The Promotion”, the latest comedy starring John C. Reilly (Dewey Cox of Walk Hard).
With my mind made up, I gathered my keys and headed out the door to make my way down to the theater. I was not far, only a mile or two when I saw something interesting approaching from the other direction.

I was stopped at a traffic light when a car came from the opposite direction, a Spy Hunter-like cloud of smoke pouring out the back of it. I kind of chuckled to myself and thought, “Man, those guys are burning some oil” until I noticed the flames. Not detailed flames, but literal flames licking the undercarriage of the car.

Almost immediately a chorus of car horns blasted, attempting to let the guy know that something was amiss. Apparently he heard, because he immediately pulled over a lane and headed into the nearest Chick Fil-A.

Being the ghoulish type that I am, I decided to follow, just in case there was any sweet mayhem or carnage that I could snap pictures of and upload to Ogrish. I turned around at my earliest convenience and parked a few car lengths away at the restaurant.

Mind you, this is less than a minute and a half after I first spotted the car. The car was now abandoned, flames still licking underneath, making their way to the front of the vehicle. I dialed 911, but by the time I was connected to an operator the police were arriving.

The owner and his girlfriend were standing nearby, so I sauntered over and did my
best to assess the situation.

Me: Wow, that’s crazy! I saw you guys coming down the road, absolutely pouring out smoke. I figured you were burning oil. It’s a good thing everybody started honking at you.

Him: Yeah, we never noticed a thing. It wasn’t hot in the car, the gauges didn’t show anything weird. We heard the honking and noticed the smoke coming out the back. It wasn’t until we were out of the car that we noticed the flames.

The employees of Chick Fil-A had begun gathering outside the door to watch the excitement unfold. One of them stood by the entrance to the parking lot directing people the other way so that nobody got to close to the conflagration.

At this point it is maybe 3 minutes since the first time I laid eyes on the vehicle. The flames had overtaken the engine and were now consuming the passenger compartment. There was a ‘crack’ as the windows shattered from the heat and a further ‘pop…hiss’ as the tires started to burn and then exploded.

Even from our distance, the temperature was overwhelming. An oppressive wall of heat assaulted us, burning at our noses. Every few seconds the wind would shift and a noxious cloud of black and green smoke would head our way.

Somebody asked the driver what kind of car that was. Apparently it was some rare model Jaguar convertible. The driver admitted that he’d be very sad about that later, but for now was just happy to be okay.

By the six minute mark the fire department had arrived and were doing their best to combat the engulfed vehicle. The car itself was a total loss, no question, so the fire department had to contain things as best they could. They set to work on the car, tearing apart the bumper and various other components so as to direct their stream better. They managed to put out the flames and quell the remaining smoldering bits in short order.

After all of the excitement, there was only one thing left for me to do; namely, eat Chick Fil-A. Into the restaurant I went to have a chicken sandwich and watch the remaining excitement through the window. The delightful stench of burning rubber filled the restaurant, triggering an enhanced appetite on all who were inside. As nice as that smell was, it was one I didn’t much care for, so I went ahead and grabbed my sandwich to go.

By the time I got back outside the news choppers had arrived. I said a few more words to the owner and then headed home to see if I could catch the excitement on the local news.

No such luck.

George Carlin - 1937-2008

Every once in awhile you read an article or headline that leaves you stunned. Today I had such an experience as I opened a website only to see the headline “George Carlin 1937-2008 RIP”. After reading these words, the very breath of life was sucked from my lungs and I now stare numbly at my monitor.

Through the course of my life there have been a handful of people, some authors, some orators, that fed my interest in the power of words and provided influence beyond measure. Carlin was one such influence on me.

It was 1988 when my dad’s best friend and kids came to visit us at our home in Michigan. Their son, Frank, was my age and we had seen each other off and on throughout our childhoods. Though we never lived near each other or saw one another more than once a year, we still had an interesting rapport strengthened by common interests.

It was during this trip that Frank presented to me a selection of audio tapes comprised primarily of comedians. This was my first exposure to Steven Wright, Sam Kinison, and of course, George Carlin. This being 1988, the tapes that Frank provided were the 70’s version of George Carlin, back when his routine was more about understanding the nature of language and pointing out the various aspects of the human experience that unite us as a species.

I listened in awestruck amazement to FM & AM, Class Clown, Occupation: Foole, On the Road, Toledo Window Box, and An Evening With Wally Lando Featuring Bill Slaszo. Before long I had memorized long portions of the albums verbatim and could recite them word for word, directly on cue. (This is a talent I still possess today. I have the majority of Carlin’s early works completely memorized.)

Carlin awakened a beast within me that I had never really known was there. His understanding of the human language and human nature with regards to words fed my eager young brain. His albums were not stand-up routines, they were lessons, providing me the tools with which to better understand the world and how best to communicate.

Were it not for Carlin, I would not be writing at the moment.

Carlin’s routines changed much throughout the years. Whereas his 70’s output was based around wordplay and the human experience, his later output took on an angry, almost nihilistic attitude. He became less of a comedian and more of a social commentator. The argument over which is the better incarnation is eternal, though my money is squarely on the early Carlin.

His is a voice that will be truly missed in this world. I know that I am one amongst many who will truly mourn his passing.

No, E, Nobody Cares About This Stuff...

Every Friday the Great Markoni and I head over to a local buffet style Chinese restaurant for the celebration of “The Feast of the Maximum Occupancy”. We trade off each week who will be tithing and making the sacrificial offerings to our respective gods so that consumption of delectable and low cost Chinese food can commence. Last Friday it was Markoni’s turn to make the payment which worked out well, as he brought his niece with him, who was visiting from out of town.

We made our way over to the table and began eating our meals, occasionally lifting our heads from our respective troughs to snort out some vague conversation. (Hey, this IS buffet, you know…) At some point in the meal, Markoni made reference to singer/songwriter Paula Frazer. I recognized the name but could not completely place her.

Markoni issued a quick retort, pointing out that the last time he had mentioned Frazer’s name around me, I had launched into a tirade of knowledge about her. (This is something I do quite frequently. Bring up a topic I’m interested in and then stand back.) I stared at him rather quizzically, as I could not remember this conversation at all.

“Yeah, I had mentioned some band she had been in before and you went off on it. Some band in California that I think you’re kind of into,” was his leadoff.

I spun my gears and thought as hard as I could. I tried to fish a band name, a song title, ANYTHING out of him that would jar my memory. As time wore on I got more and more irritated, as I began to actually recall the conversation in question, but absolutely could not place the band to save my life.

“Invalid search terms, please try again,” I would comment in my best computer voice. I knew that once he gave me the correct keyword, the proverbial floodgates would open.

Thankfully, Markoni happens to be a fellow tech geek, so he pulled out his phone and established a wifi connection so that he could browse Wikipedia for information on Paula. I looked at his niece, smiled and said, “Watch this, as soon as the right word or words is given to me, I will burst with a flood of information.”
The page loaded on Markoni’s phone and I began reading through Paula’s entry until I found the magic words: Faith No More. As soon as I saw those words, my eyes lit up and out sprang the information.

“OH! Paula was one of the temporary vocalists for Faith No More in the 80’s. They were actually kind of a revolving door band when it came to members until they solidified in time for their first release. A young Courtney Love sang for them for awhile, as well.”

“Their first release, after bringing in vocalist Chuck Mosely was We Care a Lot, which was later followed by Introduce Yourself. The song ‘We Care a Lot’ from that timeframe is currently used as the theme song to ‘Dirty Jobs’ on tv.”

“After parting ways with Chuck Mosely, they brought in vocalist Mike Patton, who in his time since Faith No More has proven himself a very talented and eclectic artist, performing in bands such as Fantomas and Tomahawk. Patton was the singer for their breakthrough hit, ‘Epic’, which is currently playable in ‘Rock Band’.”

“Lead guitarist Jim Martin had a cameo appearance in Bill and Ted’s Bogus Journey, and has since more or less retired from the music scene. He does have a world record for 235th largest pumpkin ever grown.”

“Faith No More broke up in 1998 and many of the members have gone on to other projects, most notably Patton, as mentioned before, and Roddy Bottum, who founded Imperial Teen.”

“I was only able to catch Faith No More in concert once, on July 21, 1992, at the
Pontiac Silverdome. They were the opening band, followed by Metallica and then Guns N Roses. This show was about 9 days before James Hetfield was accidentally set ablaze.”

As is typical, I finished my little expulsion of information only to see the stunned face of Markoni’s niece staring back. It always amuses me how people react to information overloads.

This is a sad fact of my life. What I have just described here is something that I do almost daily on tons of different subjects. I’m kind of that guy who knows a bit about everything, and that’s mainly because I find interest in everything. Prime example: I bought a book on the history of salt this weekend. Perhaps I’ll regale you all with some salt based knowledge before too long.

Some Things are Best Left Unsaid

And here I am, trapped in another monotonous conversation with a coworker. A few things of note about myself:

A) I am not a friendly, “Hey! Let’s talk!” kind of guy.
B) I am terrible at small talk
C) I probably have little to no interest in what you’re going to say to me

I know, it sounds elitist, but facts is facts. I can count the people whose company I enjoy for more than 5 minutes on my two hands. Okay, maybe a foot as well.

But the point is, I’m just really not into hanging around and chatting about whatever. But I’m also not very good at asserting myself (ergo, AWFUL) and therefore end up in many situations I’d be happier avoiding. This conversation is one such example.

It’s not that I’m rude, hostile, or excessively patronizing to those I talk to, it’s just that I cannot feign interest in anything for more than a minute or two.

But where this tale gets interesting is a little further down the road. Let’s get started.

Here is the dialog as it progresses:

Not Me: Hey, man, have you heard of this new Nintendo Wii thing?
Me: Yeah, I stood in line for 17 hours the day they came out for mine.
Not Me: Right, right. So, have you played it much?
Me: Well, yeah, I bought it and all. I’m kind of a gamer.
Not Me: I saw a video of some kid playing the baseball game. It looked fun. Is it?
Me: Yeah, the Wii’s a blast. I prefer the bowling myse....
Not Me: Right, right. So, is it good for families?
Me: Yeah, it’s a great family system. It’s a blast all around. It’s a total blast to get a few guys, some beer and nachos and just let everybody flail around like drunken idiots.
Not Me: Right, so, what you’re saying is that anybody can play, right?
Me: Sure. My mother, who has never really played a game in her life could pick up a Wiimote and figure out how to play in a few seconds.
Not Me: So, in other words, you’d have to be pretty much completely incapacitated to not be able to play, right?
Me: Yeah, that’s a pretty fair statement.

Okay, remember how I said it would get interesting? Let me italicize this next statement for emphasis. Again, this is EXACTLY where the conversation went at this point.

Not Me: Yeah, because I know this guy who was in a terrible car accident and has been in a coma for the last two years. He has two daughters, one of whom has never even heard his voice. They’re always asking their mother when Daddy’s gonna wake up.

What. The. Fuck?

Seriously, how are you supposed to keep that conversation going? That’s just a WEE bit of a curve ball, don’t you think?

“Yeah, I hate when that happens”. Would that be appropriate? “How about them Braves?”

Like I said, small talk is not a strong point of mine, but usually if somebody’s going to derail the conversation with something really out there and weird, it’s me. But at least if I did it, I wouldn’t make the other person feel bad for being alive.

I shit you not, the conversation almost immediately turned to people who had been in motorcycle accidents and lost limbs. Get to know me well enough and you’d find that that’s normally a conversation I’d LOVE to have, but with the right person at the right time. And this just ain’t it, man.

As I stood there pondering how the hell I was going to escape this conversation, I played through endless scenes in my head of what could possibly be more inappropriate. A few that I managed:

• Arriving at a funeral with a spinning bowtie and a nose that honks when I squeeze it, constantly making bad jokes while honking and twirling.
• Waiting around a factory for some sort of horrific accident, only to run up with a foghorn playing “Wah wahhhhhh”
• Opening a daycare that caters to scaring the shit out of your kids with evil clown masks while Faces of Death plays in an endless loop on the television

I was really afraid I’d be trapped in this conversation for a long, awkward time, but fortunately another Not Me came by to ask Not Me a question and Me got the hell out of there.


Once my face came to a screeching halt on the gravel, I was able to stand up and feel the meaty flap of skin hanging down where my mouth used to be. I could touch my teeth through my face!

Oh, wait, is now not the right time for that?

Gene Simmons - Paragon of Integrity

In a surprise announcement that has left audiences stunned and sent shockwaves rippling throughout the musical community, Gene Simmons of the rock brand KISS has publicly berated rival band Radiohead for contributing to the demise of the record industry. Simmons, the stalwart songwriter and sometimes crooner of such romantic ballads as "(You Make Me) Rock Hard", "Love Gun" and the ever popular "Lick It Up" expressed concern that Radiohead's recent "Pay what you think the music's worth" campaign for their latest album may have confused audiences by making them assume that music is art.

"I believe in my heart that anyone who gets up there and says what they're doing is art is on crack and is delusional," Simmons was quoted as saying, adding that real reason he or anybody else gets involved with music, "was to get laid and make lots of money". "Anybody who picks up a guitar and tells you that there's some inner message that they're trying to convey . . . it's nonsense. They're not being honest. The reason they're doing this is they wanna get lots of chicks and they don't want to work for a living."

Radiohead, a pretentious art-house band who have thus far produced only one song that made the charts (at number 22, no less) have achieved only 3 platinum and 4 gold albums in a career spanning nearly two decades. At the comparable point in KISS' career, they had already produced 11 platinum and 8 gold albums, as well as a movie, comic books, action figures, condoms, coffins, frisbees, trading cards, books, postage stamps, shirts, underwear, calendars, hats, pins, posters, glassware, jewelry and many other musical accoutrements too numerous to number. To date, Radiohead has barely capitalized on their name, releasing only a handful of posters and shirts.

Simmons expressed remorse over the decision of "art fags" such as Radiohead to provide their "art" for bargain basement prices, but believes he knows what heinous acts drove a decision of such desperation.

"The record industry is dead. It's six feet underground and unfortunately the fans have done this. They've decided to download and file share," Simmons noted, adding that "Every freshly-scrubbed little kid's face should have been sued off the face of the earth."

It is this meticulous attention to detail and understanding of the nature of fandom that has allowed Simmons and fellow KISS members Starchild, Spaceman and The Catman the opportunity to enjoy the finer things that life has to offer.

When questioned about how he was able to balance his integrity against his desire to shovel bags of cash into his personal accounts, Gene had this to say: "Prostitute yourself. As far as I'm concerned, that's even braver than waiting for the public to catch on."

Radiohead, who have to date never once referred to love as "a glove that fits just right" or a "muscle that makes me want to flex" have managed to achieve their minor level of fame without once breathing fire, spitting blood or traipsing about the stage in 8-inch platform shoes and studded codpieces. Simmons feels that this may very well be part of the reason for their comparative lack of success.

"I was never interested in being a rock star," he opined, "I wanted to be in a band that gave bang for the buck. I wanted to be in the band who didn't look like a bunch of guys who, you know, should be in a library studying for their finals." He went on to remind his fellow musicians that "when KISS became the No. 1 band, you know, within a year and a half, we were playing Anaheim Stadium and we had toys, games, comic books, everything you can imagine...And now in the '90s and the 2000 era, we've got over 2,500 licenses."

Gene Simmons can currently be seen on the family drama "Gene Simmons Family Jewels" on A&E.

Scared of My Own Shadow

I have mentioned in the past that I suffer from paranoia issues. Well, perhaps suffer isn't the right word, though at times they are a bit trying. I guess the better way of saying it is that I have paranoia issues. In fact, I seem to be terrified of just about anything on this earth.

Don't believe me? Here's just a quick list of things that frighten me:

The dark, bright light, closed in spaces, wide open spaces, windows (open AND closed), the sound of toilets flushing (shiver), dolls, stairways, corners, loud noises, silence

Seriously, that list is nowhere near complete and everything on it bothers me to some degree. This is an issue that I've more or less resigned myself to. No matter how much I try to ignore my irrational fears, they are always there to torment me.

They've been worse this week than normal and the reason is simple; my roommate is out of town. This means that every night upon returning home there is nobody here to counter the irrational thoughts. There is nobody around who will ignore all of the sounds I swear that I hear. Each minute that's spent alone is another minute that my mind has the opportunity to build on its fear.

I got home from work today and per my daily ritual made directly for the shower. But since I'm here alone I couldn't close the shower curtain all the way. (Of course, this means that the floor got soaked.) The entire time I was in the shower, I swore I could hear thumping and bumping from other rooms in the house, to the point where the water was turned off and on about twenty times, just to check.

Once one fear worms its way into my brain, all the others swarm me as quickly as they can. Before long I'm anticipating decaying corpses calling out for me, just waiting for the door to fling open so that some unholy apparition can claim me.

Once I am able to finish my shower (made all the more difficult by my absolute inability to put my head fully in the water) I have to contend with attempting to dry. No way in hell that towel is covering my face. I can't afford one second of complacency. Like I said, there are monsters afoot.

Of course, now the rest of my evening will be spent locked in my bedroom, too terrified to open the door unless absolutely necessary. If I had a religious bend I'd be sitting here right now with a bible in my lap, a crucifix clutched rigidly in my hand, pointed directly at the door.

Now that the fears have seeped into my brain, I won't even be able to watch a Simpsons Halloween episode, as it will creep me out to no end. Now that I have lost control of my terror, I will have to run from the bathroom when I flush the toilet, racing breakneck back to my room to slam the door, heart pounding, tears almost welling in my eyes.

Yes, I really am that pathetically afraid of my own shadow.

I am a grown man who still feels the need to check the closet for monsters, albeit never unarmed. I am a man who doesn't like going into the kitchen at night because I have a big glass door that leads outside. I'm someone who still has to check the backseat and undercarriage of his car when getting in alone at night.

Like any kind of mental illnesses, there are good days and bad days. Generally I make it through most days with a feeling of overall unease. But I manage to function okay simply because those nagging fears are always there.

It's only when I'm alone and my mind is allowed free reign that I become a true basket case. I have a creative and fast moving brain that loves to try and get my goat, and it succeeds more often than not, particularly when it's just me and it together.

Teenagers Are Idiots, Part MCMXCII

Once again my parents were out of town, and Terry and I found ourselves in sole possession of the homestead. As always, this was a glorious way to be. We were free to do whatever it was we felt like and get into any trouble we deemed appropriate. Being the juvenile reprobates we were, we tended to get into a good bit of trouble, though ultimately we never caused any "true" mayhem. But there were moments where we thought our little world would come crashing down around us.

For example, on this particular occassion, Terry and I had become bored with the entertainment afforded us by our cable provider. We had mere basic cable, with its handful of channels, and this provided little, if any, of the scantily clad and lust-filled women that teenaged boys require. And of course, this caused a serious concern for us.

Bear in mind that we are talking about 1992, here. This was the day of BBS systems with very slow connections, not the literal candy lane of voyeuristic sexuality that today's discerning kids enjoy. These were the times of tattered and faded Playboys, handed down from generation to generation. A time when terms like "scheize film" and "tentacle rape" meant nothing.

One afternoon while sitting around the house lamenting our boobless times, an idea popped forth in our brains. My parents had recently had a cable box put in their bedroom so that they could receive the "Encore" movie channel. It occurred to us that if we were able to open and infiltrate this box, perhaps we could somehow supercharge it to receive the Playboy channel FREE OF CHARGE! The brilliance of this plan was sublime, and at once we set to task to crack the mysteries of the box so that we might enjoy some of its 40D goodness.

Mere seconds into the operation, however, we discovered our first major stumbling block; the screws. These puppies were designed so that lust-filled teenagers would not be able to open them. They required a very specific and special type of screwdriver bit to be turned, incorporating the star shape we are familiar with, with a recessed area in the screw head. All in all, no such tool was to be found in my parents' basement.

Fortunately, however, Terry happened to be a regular MacGyver. He was one of the types you could run to in a pinch and his standard response would be, "Get me an apple, 7 inches of string and a paper clip". I was always more of a defeatist and the second I saw the screws I started commenting that this was futile.

Terry would have none of it, though, and in short order had used a dremmel tool to forge the necessary components to get the case open. And open it we did, confident in our ability to rewire it.

The first thing we noticed after getting it open was the little tab that separated from the mainboard to let the cable company KNOW you had just popped it open. We were smart enough to recognize that this could very well be our ultimate undoing, but desperate enough for mammary glands that we pressed ever onwards.

Now that the thing was open, we realized our next dilemma. What the hell do you do with a circuit board? It's not like we could really rewire anything. We just stared blankly at the thing for awhile, aware that we had just screwed ourselves by opening the unit, but having not achieved our ultimate goal. Despondent that we were unable to procure free jibblies, we slapped the machine back together and proceeded to rewire it to the tv.

But there was a problem. A big problem. An, "OH SHIT" problem. Once turned on, the box would now display NOTHING but the TV Guide channel. NOTHING. You could try every single channel, but this was the only one you could get.

So now we've broken into the box, left the trail obvious, AND destroyed it. We knew that something had to be done or we'd end up in a world of trouble, so it was time to go for the obvious and destroy that box somehow.

However, we were not entirely certain that our actions would go unnoticed by the cable company. Being young and frightened, we were unable to determine if cable was a one-way or two-way medium. The big question was, could the cable company ALREADY KNOW that we'd monkeyed with this thing? If so, had authorities already been dispatched?

Within minutes we had the machine unhooked and had made our way up to Flint to discuss our situation with the ever helpful staff of Best Buy. We struggled to maintain an air of maturity and approached the associate there with one of our world famous "hypothetical questions".

"Hypothetically speaking," I began, attempting to come off as Basil Rathbonesque as possible, "if one were to open a cable box and said box were to accidentally cease to function as a result, would the cable company be able to infer this via the cable line?"

Of course, we thought we were pretty suave, but the truth is we were blatantly obvious about what shenanigans we had gotten into. Luckily, the salesperson was able to recognize WHY we were asking and gave us reassurances that cable is a one-way medium. They can transmit the signal, but that little box has no way of reporting back to them.

Somewhat calmed by this information, we made our way back to my place to begin phase two of the operation, namely the destruction of the box.

We knew that whatever methods we used to destroy it, its destruction had to be "invisible". (ie, no crushing destruction or any other methods that just could not have happened.) Before long we had narrowed the death of the box down to two choices: electrocution and immersion.

For electrocution, we decided that the best and easiest means would be to hook it up to a car battery and just give it a power surge. The immersion was Terry's preferred option, but one I could not get behind.

This is his honest to god idea for immersion:

"Okay, we'll go to the cable store together and I'll wear a helmet. You can introduce me as your retarded brother, Mongo, who peed all over the cable box because he didn't know any better."

I shit you not, that was his idea. And believe it or not, he was incensed that I was deadset against it.

"I'm not going to pretend that you're my retarded brother, Terry," I would protest, only to have him redouble his efforts to convince me.

"What if I drooled more?" he would ask, or, "What if I REALLY pissed on the box?"

I knew that convincing him otherwise would not work, so I simply set to work on electrocuting the box. If I just got started, he would acquiese and start to help me out. We got the thing outside and in almost no time had it wired up to my car battery.

I hopped in my car, turned it on and gave it several strong revs. The box didn't seem to be affected one way or the other, so just to be certain I gave it a few more revs. We took it back inside, plugged it in, and lo and behold...Nothing had changed, the TV Guide channel still taunted me with its knowledge of our upcoming schedule.

Resolute that this matter be resolved immediately, we moved into phase two of the operation...total immersion. For this phase simply filled a bucket with water, dumped the stupid box in and turned it on. We let it run in that water for a good five minutes or so and then took it back in the house. No change.

We knew SOMETHING had to be done, so we moved to phase three, electro-immersion. For this phase we hooked it up to my car battery, turned it on AND submerged it in a bucket of water, then sat there and revved the car for another five minutes or so.

This one HAD to have taken care of the problem, so we turned it off, unhooked it and then drained the remaining water out. We took it back into the house and...NO CHANGE.

I have to admit, at this point we just gave up. We were defeated. There was no Playboy channel and no way we would escape this unscathed. We settled on a final story to give to the parental units upon their return home. As always, this story involved placing all of the blame on Terry.

The excuse was thus, Terry had gone into the room to watch some television, tripped, and managed to dump his glass of water all over the box. In retrospect, this was about the dumbest and most translucent excuse we could have given, but hey, we were like 16 and that was all we had.

The beautiful thing is, they bought it! My dad was even happy in the end because he didn't like the fact that they charged him extra for that box. We got away with it and never saw an ounce of punishment for our actions.

Of course, later in life I confessed the truth of the story to my father, who was ultimately amused by our actions, even though we were, in his words "Idiots".

Oh well, I guess we deserved the label.


In all fairness, I feel I should give a sentence or two worth of credit here. I had been considering doing another piece on the infamous Terry, when I noticed that one of my friends from the good old days in Michigan, C, posted on his blog another entertaining story about Terry. (For the record, I believe that C's entry was the better of the two, but hey...) Please do yourself a favor and see C's side of another Terry story...

Tales of Yore

For those who grew up with me back in good old Stumblebum, Michigan, it was well known that my parents' house was...interesting. Whereas everybody else lived in average homes filled with everyday, run of the mill goods, mine was more of a museum.

The house itself sat on the remnants of an old landfill, surrounded by swamps and located next door to a cemetery. As if this doesn't ignite the old homefires enough, it's worth noting that my parents were collectors and dealers of antiquities, so the interior of the house was filled with furniture, documents, and other ephemera that could be tied to people of note throughout history. (It was from these items that I can categorically state that Oliver Cromwell suffered from arthritis in his elder years, based on the appearance of his signature.)

While these items were of great interest to myself and the majority of my friends, it certainly curtailed my social abilities as a youth. It's just not practical to stage a large scale party in a home where you're not allowed to touch anything. So my gatherings tended to be resigned to a handful of trusted friends whom I could trust around all the items of yore.

As my parents traveled a good deal in my youth in order to fill up their stocks, I was afforded a great many opportunities to gather up my friends for evenings filled with movies, music and mirth. Without fail, however, at least one person would end up with a severe case of the heebie jeebies after spending an evening at the house.

The house itself was rather dark on the inside, painted in a deep burgundy with only a handful of lamps. Being situated deep in the woods, there was very little natural light that found its way to my home, so even in the middle of day the house seemed dimly lit.

My friends would frequently comment on a heavy feeling in the air, as if a presence was in the room with them, and almost across the board they would describe this presence as possessing an air of malice, a hostile intent that it would bare upon them via a perceived stare. The eyes could never be found, but its gaze could be felt, fixated, causing the hair on the back of our necks to prickle at attention. It was not uncommon to feel cold patches moving freely throughout a room, frequently coupled with a shadow of movement on the fringes of perception.

We did not discuss these things at great length, as we were teenagers and nobody wanted to look like a "baby", but we were keenly aware of a certain unease in the air that would impress itself upon us, threatening to suffocate us with its overbearing negative presence. A darkness that was felt but never fully seen.

Being the type that's rather easily spooked, it's fair to say that I spent the majority of my alone time in that house looking over my shoulder, always feeling the burning embers boring into my soul from the corner, but never able to envision what detested me so.

My room at the time was arranged so that my bed rested across the room from the door, the wall abutted on one side, a table on the other. Across the room sat a chair and stereo where I would wile my hours away with headphones, sometimes arranging myself on the floor for solitaire. Behind that chair sat a desk with a small shelf above it, containing a set of encyclopedias. And finally, next to the door was a bookshelf containing hundreds of various volumes.

One evening I was on the phone with my girlfriend, lazily detailing the day's events before laying down for the evening. As the conversation wore on, I decided to more or less climb into bed, so I switched off my tableside lamp and turned myself towards the wall, darkness overtaking my vision.

No sooner had the light gone off than a tumult of noise began clattering from the area of my bookcase. It was the sound of the shelves being flipped, books falling and banging against one another. But this sound lasted far longer than just the moment it would take for its contents to unsettle. This was a cacaphonous blast of activity, items hurling and colliding for several seconds.

I had heard the term, "Blood running icy in the veins" before that evening, but had never understood its meaning until that very moment. I lay in the dark absolutely paralyzed, too terrified to move or even open my eyes. I choked back tears as I tried to wrap my mind around what that noise possibly could have been.

"What the hell was that?" my girlfriend asked over the phone, and even the simple response of "I'm not sure" seemed to take years to squeak forth from my suddenly parched throat.

I knew that I needed to turn on the light, to assess what on earth had just happened behind me, but I found myself unwilling and incapable of making even the slightest movement. A large part of me feared what I would find if I switched on that light. I envisioned in my head a scene of rolling over and turning the dial on the lamp, only to have the eerily lit visage of some blood starved presence staring back at me, violence swimming in its eyes.

Finally I gathered the resolve and slowly turned myself towards the rest of my room. With fingers shaking I flicked on the light. I was half right on my first assumption. There was, indeed, a snarling vision of evil staring me in the eyes, but it only took a momentary flash for me to realize that it was not entirely real.

Whereas normally the chair sat facing the stereo, it was now turned so that the back faced my bed. The back, I might add was covered by my jacket whose entire back was taken up with a patch of "Killers" by Iron Maiden, an album cover featuring their decaying mascot, Eddie, with a homicidal glint in his eye, a hatchet dripping blood clutched in his hand and a pair of hands hanging futilely onto his belt, clinging as much to Eddie as they were to life itself.

The bookshelf was in completely normal order, not a single book or item was misplaced, but the shelf above my desk had emptied itself of books. Some were scattered on the desk, one had made its way under the desk and against the wall, while two more had stacked themselves by the door to my room. Several CD cases were smashed and various other items were turned, twisted or otherwise manipulated.

The strangest display of the evening was my coin bank. I had one of those over sized Coke bottle banks, about 3 feet tall that you couldn't get so much as a finger into. All of the coins in that bank had arranged themselves around the outer wall into little stacks, as if they had all undergone one massive centrifugal swing and then settled back down.

I never knew what to make of those events at the time, and to this day I have never really been able to fully discern exactly what the hell happened. I am an agnostic by nature, and as such do not have any predisposition towards belief in the supernatural.

Was it a ghost that lived at that house? A presence? A poltergeist? I'll never know the answer to that question. I know that there were things I cannot explain, but that does not mean that they are unexplainable.

Years have passed since that incident and it still gives me a shiver of fear to think of it.

In the years since I moved out of that house, that presence, whatever it was, has gone. The house no longer has that heavy feel of impending danger, and honestly, that's a major relief.

Yoshi's Island

Throughout the 1980's and 1990's the name Nintendo became synonymous with gaming. On top of successfully launching several franchises which are still alive to this day, it can be argued that their Mario series singlehandedly revived gaming after the great crash of 1983.

So, in 1995 when Nintendo released Yoshi's Island, the highly anticipated sequel to Super Mario World for the SNES, gamers around the world opened their wallets to enjoy the further adventures of Mario. Except this game didn't star Mario and was nothing like any other entry in the series.

The first thing that strikes a player upon starting Yoshi's Island is the style. This game has style in spades, from backgrounds drawn with crayon and water colors to the colorful characters, everything about the game screams attention to detail. Miyamoto once again outdid himself bringing his ideas to life.

There is a story from within Nintendo that the higher ups wished to see the new Mario game look like Donkey Kong Country. However, Miyamoto was not fond of DKC and did not wish to strive for that realistic look, therefore he pushed Yoshi's Island in the complete opposite direction. And the graphics, while dripping with happiness and cute smiles absolutely work within the context of the game. But games are based on more than visuals and gameplay is where Yoshi's Island really shines.

Unlike previous Mario games you do not die if struck by an enemy. In YI, if you are poked, prodded, slapped or otherwise hit, Baby Mario falls off your back and floats around the screen in a bubble, wailing loudly. Fail to pick him up before your timer reaches zero and you'll lose a life.

Much like Mario, Yoshi can attack certain enemies by jumping on their head. But Yoshi also has some other tricks up his sleeve, such as the ability to swallow and digest his enemies, defecating them back out as eggs, which he can then lob at his enemies.

The egg throwing mechanic seems gimmicky at first, but after a short while you begin to see how the game utilizes the eggs for the puzzles and combat situations. Before long throwing the eggs becomes second nature.

The game's music fits the mood perfectly, with songs ranging from jaunty to mysterious. The soundtrack always fits the mood of the levels.

The game's difficulty curve slowly ramps itself up. Early levels are a breeze to run through and get perfect scores on, while the later levels prove to be quite challenging, though never unfairly difficult.

There is a massive variety of enemies and puzzles and almost every level introduces one or two new play elements, ensuring that the player never becomes complacent or bored.

For the OCD types out there, YI offers a ton of things to collect, in the form of flowers, red coins and stars. How much of these you collect determines your score at the end of the level. (Up to a possible 100 points.) Get 100 points on all 8 levels in a world and you unlock two extra levels. There are mini-games galore to be found in YI, accessible either through a roulette system at the end of each level or by unlocking for permanent play.

For my money, Yoshi's Island offers about as close to a perfect gaming experience as you're ever likely to find. It is challenging, cute, colorful, entertaining, and above all fun.

Out of the thousands of games I have played through in my life, YI easily ranks in the top 5, and I find myself popping it in about once a year to do a 100% run.

If you haven't played this game, I cannot urge you strongly enough to go do so. There is a remake available for the GameBoy Advance, if you do not have a SNES. If you do not have access to original hardware, I suggest you get an emulator and find a copy of the ROM. (For my money, SNES9X and ZSNES are the best SNES emulators around.)

Why You Comin Home at Five in the Morn?

The great thinkers of history achieved their notoriety through their willingness to question everything that surrounded them, causing them to place forward questions that, while controversial at the time, forever changed human perception. Some examples of this would be the Copernican formulation of heliocentric cosmology and Isaac Newton's laws of motion. These were questions that turned the world on its ear, forcing us to question the very nature of life and existence.

But great minds are not consigned to history alone, and even today some iconoclasts seek to nurture a reinterpretation of human value and natural law. One such modern intellectualist is the divine songwriter and lyricist "Riskay" who has asked of the world, "Can I smell your dick?".

Much like Shakespeare before her, Riskay centers her pieces on affairs of the heart, showing an innate understanding and appreciation of the human condition. Her ability to break down our fears resonates with her audience, allowing us to appreciate the depth of concern she has about the possibility of her betrothed having lusty interludes with another female.

Not content to accept the false statements of a partner trapped in a lie, she demands arbitration of a different type, inviting her lover to present his genitals for olfactory inspection, allowing her to determine conclusively if malfeasance is afoot.

"Why you comin home 5 in the mornnn
Somethins goin on, can I smell yo dick
Don't play me like a fool, cause that ain't cool
So wat u need to do is lemme smell yo dick"

Whereas Shakespeare favored iambic pentameter when penning his creations, Riskay does not concern herself with standard convention, ascribing to neither a set rhythmic device or rhyming scheme. Her comprehension of the fears that drive us, coupled with her mastery of the spoken word allow for a song that's meaning transcends the boundaries of language, her words connecting with her audience at an almost primal level. To paraphrase Antonio Salieri, after viewing her lyrics, "I was staring through those meticulous keystrokes at an absolute beauty".

But even though she persists with her osmatic demands, she is still willing to hear out the pleadings of her mate, showing a willingness to assimilate all aspects of a situation before determining her final stance on the matter.

"I might break bread, with one or two strippaz
But that don't mean u gotta pull ma zippa
Thinking I be down the whole town
Even though I got enough dick to go around"

And though her mate may make a good case against Riskay's directions, ultimately she persists in her request, demanding that she be allowed to smell his nether regions.

Mere words cannot put into perspective the meticulous attention to detail that Riskay has imparted into her lyrics, nor can they ever express the depth and breadth of feeling that she conveys. If you haven't had the opportunity to discover Riskay's body of work, I implore you to seek her out.

Today we speak of Homer, Plato, and Shakespeare. There is no doubt that in days to come we will look back at Riskay as one of the preimminent thinkers of the 21st century.

Nets. We Do Not Have Them.

7:00 AM

Got into work at my normal time. Fixed myself a cup of coffee and headed to my desk to catch up on the emails that have arrived since last night. Aside from one or two niggling issues this is shaping up to be a pretty average day.


7:14 AM

Scott just announced that our internet was down. Woo hoo! A couple of minutes away from the daily grind. Things are definitely looking up.


7:45 AM

The net is still down. Boredom has begun to creep in. Scott has wavered between reading a book and playing the built-in Windows games. It's creeping me out a tad.


8:32 AM

Tensions are beginning to run high. This is the 21st century. I'm not entirely positive what we can do without the net. We tried talking, but relating face to face just feels so old fashioned. LOL just doesn't translate into analog speak.


9:18 AM

Scott and I just had an extremely aggressive shouting match. Apparently he's jealous of the limited internet capabilities of my phone. He tried to snatch it from me but I held fast. I no longer trust him. I'm beginning to notice a rift in the office, almost as if we were beginning to take sides.


11:49 AM

Those bastards! We sent Steve over to negotiate terms on coffee machine usage and they killed him! His head is on a pike outside Scott's cubicle, staring us down. There is a sense of urgency regarding our retaliation. I only pray that our men are able to carry out their orders.


2:17 PM

Losses on both sides have been catastrophic. Our office, once 100 strong is down to just a handful of associates. I'm not certain how much longer either side can hold out. All I know is, we still control the cellular phone.


3:51 PM

The internet is back on. It took about twenty minutes to clear the carcass fort from around my desk. Fixed a cup of coffee. Started catching up on the mails that came in since this morning. My workload has significantly increased. Sigh.

I Got My Cake

Some of us like to watch movies, some like to listen to music, and some, like me, enjoy having amusing drawings carved onto their flesh with white hot needles. Yes, that's right, another week, another tattoo for E. As you can see from the picture at the left, this one's a real beauty.

In fact, if you go back over some of the things I've written in the past here on Bonez, you may just recognize the happy little character now emblazoned across my back. Here's a hint...it's Nathan Grantham, the re-animated and cake desiring skeleton from Creepshow.

As you can see, much to Nate's delight he finally got his cake. And forever will that cake remain in his possession, thanks to the power of permanent inks and dyes.

If you've never gotten a tattoo before, let me go ahead and remind you that they don't tickle. In fact, they downright hurt. But for those that have never had one, let me provide a quick guide to understanding the process.

A) Preparation phase: This phase is begun with the shaving of the area about to inked as well as placement of the stencil for the final job. This is usually where I will try and bribe the artist to make it hurt a little less, if at all possible.

B) Beginning phase: This is where the needle first makes contact. Any artist who has ever worked on me knows that this is where my screams are the loudest. I will usually thrash about in the chair, begging for mercy.

C) Mid tattoo: Okay, so now they've been working on me for an hour or so. By now the screams have abated and I have begun openly weeping, sometimes begging the gods to make the pain stop.

D) Towards the end: At this point I'm two or three hours into the work. Generally, by this point I am curled up in the fetal position, suckling my thumb and begging for my mommy.

E) Tattoo is done: Here's where I hop up, wipe the tears from my eyes, look at my tatt and acknowledge how much I like it. This is also when I start playing it off as "No big deal" and "That didn't hurt all that much".

There is at least one aspect of this tattoo that the average person will not recognize, namely that the head on the plate is actually that of my sister. (Yeah, what better way to show familial love than to have the torn off head of your kin topped with frosting and candles being carried by the bloodthirsty undead abomination that has kept you awake late at night more times than you can count...)

No, I'm not going to explain WHY it's my sister's head on that plate. That's between her, the court system and myself. You can get in a lot of trouble for breaking NDA's.

Nate was created and inked by Paul Major of Olde School Tattoo in Marietta, GA. This is not my first piece by Paul, nor will it be my last. I have seen several examples of his art applied to both myself and my brother-in-law, and I have to admit, I think he does fantastic work.

This was the first piece I've had done that allowed for some artistic expression. Most of my tattoos to date have involved graphics or logos that left little room for interpretation. For this one I created a webpage containing several graphics of Nathan as well as an explanation of what I was looking for. Once I was down at the shop I was able to further discuss these matters so that he could do the best job possible.

I couldn't be happier with Nate, honestly and truly. If there are any Bonezenites living in the greater Atlanta area, I cannot recomend Paul's work enough. He is courteous, friendly, and ALWAYS willing to play some Pink Floyd for you.