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OMNIPHOBIC.COM

2008-09-11T18:26:00.002-07:00

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

E

I Have Been Inside George Clooney

2008-08-19T05:38:00.001-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Time to repay the favor, Clooney.

I Pick Things Up, I Am A Collector

2008-08-07T16:10:00.001-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Death of Golobulus

2008-08-05T15:36:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Their death was to be in two stages.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Hunt

2008-08-04T14:51:00.001-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Give It Up For Ultraporn

2008-07-29T15:21:00.001-07:00

How about the two of us play a little game? I want you to close your eyes and think very hard about the absolute most disgusting and reprehensible thing you can possibly imagine. It doesn't matter how vile, perverse or disturbing it may be. I'd just like you to focus on it for a minute.

Done? Good, go ahead and open your eyes. Okay, tell me what it was you thought of. Don't worry, I won't think less of you, no matter what it was. In fact, if it's filthy enough I might even think MORE of you.

Now let's get to the upsetting part. Whatever it was you just thought of, regardless of whether it turns your stomach or makes your blood boil, either way somebody masturbates to it.

Don't believe me? Hit google. No matter WHAT you thought of, I'll bet it's been filmed and I'll bet somebody's charging $20 a month for dudes to come spank to it. (In all likelihood, it was filmed in Japan.)

It boggles the mind when you really sit and think about it. Every single thing that has ever been conceived since the dawn of time is somebody's total turn on. This thought occurred to me this morning as I followed one of those links I knew I'd regret seeing. (For the record, a Japanese woman tongue fucking not one but TWO dogs' asses!)

Let that sink in for a minute. Somebody had to recognize the marketability of human/canine analingus. They had to then go and analyze the market to determine just how niche it was, then take the time to get some equipment, hire an actress and get their hands on a couple of dogs. And why? Because somewhere out there (very likely the next cube/desk over) really wants to see a dog have his chocolate starfish violated by the probing tongue of a young Japanese woman in a schoolgirl's outfit.

As we become more numbed to perversity, thanks in no small part to the internet, peoples' tastes for the pornographic seem to be wavering more towards the extreme. Is this because we've seen it all at this point?

Why settle for plain old vanilla fellatio when you can load up a Max Hardcore film and watch him make those beauties vomit from the forceful face fucking (ooh, alliteration!) he so unpleasantly dishes out?

2 Girls 1 Cup? Pffft. How about 2 Girls 12 Eels? Seen it. Octopus stuffing? Yawn. Cakefarting? Who doesn't like cake? 620 person gangbangs? That's so 2006.

Every time I see a video of this ilk I am transported back to my childhood. (Cue Pepperidge Farms music.) NO, my childhood was NOT that fucked up. Let me explain...

See, I was a kid back in a simpler time, a time when all we had was a 9 year old issue of Playboy that we'd surreptitiously read in the storm drains at my elementary school and the occasional late night Skinemax movie. We were 14 before we were able to get our hands on our first adult movie, thanks to Terry's dad being piss poor at hiding stuff. (For the record, it was called Live Nude Girl and featured a great lesbian scene set to a muzak version of "We're Not Gonna Take It" with dialog so hilarious that 20 years later we still quote it when we get together.) For years the best we could do was an occasional GIF image on a floppy disk.

And today? Jesus. If I could have had access to 24 hour a day amputee fisting, I don't believe I'd ever have left the house. I would have grown up without friends. Why go out and hang with other kids when you can watch a Japanese woman vomit into a bowl, eat that vomit, then force herself to RE-VOMIT it out, only to RE-CONSUME it. That shit is amazing.

Alright, so this is largely tongue in cheek. (Pardon the pun.) I shudder to think that today's kids will actually view this material and find it humdrum and ordinary. What the hell are they going to have to do for the next generation of kids? If everything I've described above becomes the norm, then somebody (the Japanese) is going to have to produce something even MORE vile.

Just like rock and roll has always been about bugging your parents, so too must modern day porn be about offending the shit out of everybody. (Except those who would rush over to eat it afterwards.)

So, I guess it's up to us, as the adults of today, to come up with the ultra porn of tomorrow. Let's take a gander at it, shall we? (If your name is "my mother", please stop reading if you have not already done so. If your name is "my psychiatrist", please pretend that somebody else is writing this.)

The scene opens on a putrescent corpse, green and bloated, with all manner of creepy crawlies munching on the skin which has begun to slough off the skull. A young hermaphrodite lays nearby, inserting the rotting toes of the corpse into her female parts while jabbing at the male bits with a cactus connected to a car battery.

A man with a knife enters the frame and begins stabbing at the corpse, explosive bursts of decompositional gasses blasting forth with each abdominal thrust. The hermaphrodite continues the self satisfaction as a donkey is lead into the room, a box of scorpions affixed on its back.

Almost on cue, as the hermaphrodite begins fellating the donkey, the man with the knife begins pulling out large handfuls of maggot laden viscera and excrement from the corpse. He carries this detritus over to the man in the gimp suit who is missing his lower jaw. The man with the blade affixes a funnel into gimpy's cavernous gullet and forces the foul mixture into the gimp's stomach.

As the gimp begins to shudder with violent, retching spasms, blade man goes back to the hermaphrodite and stabs he/she in the abdomen . Gimpy quickly runs over and vomits into the gaping knife wounds before taking the knife from blade man and carving off his own testicles, which he then excitedly tosses to the mating tigers in the corner.

Gimpy then loosens the funnel wrenched in his throat and affixes it into the pulsing rectum of the hermaphrodite. Blades then proceeds to fill the funnel (and consequently the rectum) with the writhing contents of the scorpion box.

At this point the parade of disfigured midgets marches into camera, each waving their dessicated and missing limbs at the camera before making their way over to the litter boxes. After ganging up on the weakest of the lot, the midgets proceed with smashing out the teeth of their victim before taking turns urinating into its bleeding and swollen mouth.

The whole scene concludes with the placing of the hornet hive over the manhood of the hermaphrodite, while the most muscular midget fists its abdominal knife wound.

This whole depraved and disturbing scenario brings forth a few burning questions that I intend to set to work immediately to answer, such as; where can I rent the cameras, where can I find some midgets and how much do I charge for it once it's filmed?

No, I Will Not Fix Your Computer

2008-07-29T05:15:00.001-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It isn't.

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

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

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

Fuck you.

Fix your own goddamn problems.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wait! When Did That Happen?

2008-07-24T13:22:00.001-07:00

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

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

Yes, I really am that much of a geek.

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

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

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

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

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

Me: So, what did you think?

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

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

Her: I do have one question, though.

Me: Okay, what's up?

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

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

Her: Robot legs? When did that happen?

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

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

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

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

Her: Cut off? When did THAT happen?

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

Her: I didn't notice that.

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

Her: No.

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

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

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

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

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

I guess some of us just watch movies differently.

The Most Disturbing Thing I've Ever Watched

2008-07-22T16:55:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spoiler Alert!

2008-07-22T15:23:00.001-07:00

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

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

We weren't far from the truth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

New Things Afoot

2008-07-17T04:07:00.001-07:00

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

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

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

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

We don't bite.

Hard.

It Takes a Major Turn Halfway Through

2008-07-10T16:00:00.001-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In France, Douche Means Shower

2008-07-09T15:00:00.001-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Top secret stuff, man.

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

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

We wanted a douche.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Terry's response was "Fuck yeah!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You're right.

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

Bored Games

2008-07-08T14:33:00.001-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Snake? SNAKE?? SNAAAAAAAAAAAAAKE!!!!!!!!

2008-07-07T17:01:00.001-07:00

I was afforded the opportunity this weekend to play on a Playstation 3. (Thanks, Annie Wilkes!!) Specifically, I was given the chance to play Metal Gear Solid 4: Guns of the Patriots. Let me give you a quick rundown while sparing you the gruesome details.

The Metal Gear series, for me, has always been about bonding with my brother-in-law. Metal Gear Solid was his first major foray into the world of video games, so each and every time a new one hits we like to get together and pass the controller back and forth for a little bit of Snake action. Hell, his nickname is Snake.

Here's where it gets tricky, though. After ten years of playing these games, he hasn't gotten any better. And I'm not exaggerating, for wont of better language he really, really sucks. But honestly, I don't begrudge him or even give him too much shit over it. The fact is that I enjoy our time together on these games. A little bit of male bonding, if you will.

But a rather humorous thought struck me as we were playing through part 4. I had just handed over the controller when another of the game's lengthy cut scenes kicked in, this time detailing our first encounter with Rat Patrol 01, a team of soldiers led by Meryl, a character we knew from a previous game. She was using her impressive powers of exposition to forward the plot when all of a sudden we were ambushed by the elite FROG squadron. As we all geared up for the ensuing battle, Meryl said the following:

"We've got a real live legendary hero with us. Try not to choke."

And here is how that scene played out with Snake at the controls...

Snake dashed from the room, eager to test his mettle in combat against the elite troops of Liquid's army. Steeling his resolve for the forthcoming conflict, Snake ran to the edge of the balcony. Then he turned and ran back the way he came. Pausing to check his weapon, he half turned back towards the combat and stared solemnly at the floor.

Then he heard the sound of the gun ratcheting to his left. He quickly turned to his right, turned on his night vision goggles, then switched from his machine gun to his tranquilizer darts. After turning off his night vision, he again pulled out his machine gun. Pausing to check his weapon once more, Snake looked directly upward to investigate the ceiling.

Snake felt the punch of bullets smashing against his body suit. Upon noticing that the bullets were coming from behind him, Snake turned to the right and checked his map. After satisfying himself that he actually was where he thought he was, he crouched.

Turning to face his foe, Snake fell from his crouching position to a full prone position, hoping that by laying on the floor 3 feet from his opponent he would remain hidden, thus buying himself precious seconds to put away and take back out his weapons three or four more times.

Sensing that his strategy was not working as he'd hoped, Snake stood, then promptly squatted again. After laying prone and squatting, he once again stood to face his foe. Drawing his weapon, he aimed a foot or so to the left of his enemy, emptying a handful of warning clips in the hopes that his terror stricken opponent would flee in terror.

But it was not to be, and before long the fiend had emptied a clip of his own into the chest of Solid Snake. Snake, visibly upset, fell to his knees, then stood, then fell once again and finally stood before checking his weapon.

And then, through sheer luck, Snake managed to drop one of his grenades in the 36 inch space that separated him from his opponent. The force of the blast obliterated the FROG soldier and sent Snake reeling.

Regaining his composure, Snake squatted, checked his map, checked his weapon, checked his map again, lay down and then stood. After running directly into the rail in front of him for 15 seconds while staring at the floor, Snake rejoined his team so that he could further offer his legendary battle skills to their conflict.

What I loved best about all this is that at no point did his teammates mention what a HORRIBLE soldier Snake was. I mean, seriously, I'm not making this stuff up. He literally squats, stands, squats, stands and checks his weapons over and over. I almost wet myself when he unloaded MULTIPLE CLIPS at an enemy at point blank range and missed EVERY SINGLE SHOT. This shows a degree of lacking skill that far exceeds any non-ability I've ever encountered in my life.

I won't lie, it can be extremely frustrating to watch this kind of gameplay, particularly at boss battles, which have been known to stretch past an hour, trying the same failed tactic over and over and over. But most times I just find myself amused, as Solid Snake runs in circles, throws punches at the air and misses all his shots. He's just legendary in a different way, I guess.

Snap, Crackle, Pop and Pow

2008-07-02T16:46:00.001-07:00

"Tell me about Pow," I say, referring to the fourth elf from the Rice Krispies ads who has long since been missing. "Whatever happened to him?"

Crackle chokes back a snort of derisive laughter, mumbles the word 'bastard' under his breath and slams back the rest of his whiskey.

"I ain't sayin' shit until I get another of these," he says, angrily slurring his words while staring at me through shifty eyes. "What the hell you wanna know about that bastard for, anyway?" he asks.

I motion to the bartender who, in short order, places an open bottle of Jack Daniel's in front of my elven compatriot and walks away.

Crackle contemplates the scene for a minute, then pours himself another shot and slams it back, his eyes reddened and watery.

"All right, fine," he says, "Let me start at the beginning..."

"Back in the day, the four of us were inseparable, always hitting whatever parties and broads we could and snorting blow. A LOT of blow. Don't believe me? Ask Pop to show you the trick he can do with a handkerchief and his nose. Poor bastard's got no septum left at all."

"Anyways, one night the four of us were sitting around doing some lines, when who shows up at the door but Toucan Sam? That guy was ALWAYS looking to score some candy. Always carried a coffee can with him, usually full to the rim with coke. He'd plop down lines with a scoop and whiff em up that enormous schnozz of his. Between the women and the blow we always called him "Two Can Sam", 'cause he always had a can he was packing and a can he was tappin', if you know what I mean."

"So Sam tells me that he's got a line on several kilos of premium shit, I'm talking dynamite toot, totally pure and uncut. He wants to know if we want in on the action. It won't just be us, though, Sam's made arrangements through Sonny Bird, who was going to get Lucky to front the cash. Sonny was always a bit highstrung, but the guy knew his shit, and if he said this stuff was gold, well, who was I to argue?"

"We all threw in on what we figured would be a great deal, and I'll tell you what, man, it was. This shit was fantastic! Honestly, I was a bit wary of the stuff, it seemed awfully cheap for the quality, but hey, when in Rome, you know?".

Crackle stared at the liquor in his glass as he slowly spun its contents. Gazing remorsefully into nothing, he sighed, downed the shot and continued his tale.

"So there we are, a handful of us sitting on top of "old Cokey", trying to figure out what the hell to do with it all. Yeah, we could keep it and live off that shit forever, but why not recoup some of the cost, you know? Shit like this we could cut three, four, maybe five times and nobody would be the wiser. It was just THAT good."

"We were all raring to go on selling it, but no one was as excitable about it as Pow. That bastard was absolutely itching to off some of the stuff, almost as if he knew something we didn't. Which, of course, it turns out he did."

"Anyways, we cut this stuff what WE thought was pretty heavy and took a batch to our first buyer, Tony the Tiger. Tony wasn't hardcore about his dope, he just kind of dabbled a little bit, here and there. You know, he liked to get frosted, but he didn't need to be snowy. We told him the price and then popped down a couple of lines for him to try out. Of course he thought they were great, and within a few minutes we'd dropped off a bit of coke and lightened Tony's load by a few G's."

"I hooked up with one of our regular pushers, a smack fiend named Sugar Bear. I told him what we were looking to offload. That's where I heard about the truth behind this shit for the first time. Apparently the original owner of this piece was some Colombian overlord whose name I don't remember. Anyways, he had ended up on the wrong side of Crazy Craving. I don't suppose I need to mention where he got the name Crazy from. After a little unpleasantness between them, Crazy just had the
motherfucker offed, then took his stash and dropped it on the streets at bargain basement prices."

He slammed back another shot.

"I was incredulous, man. I mean, here I am offloading a mountain of some dead Colombian's shit. Who knows who's gonna come looking for this stuff? I brought it up with Snap, Pop and Pow and Pow just starts laughing, telling us he knew all about this because he heard Sonny talking about it once while Sonny was jacked up on crack."

"What's more, I start getting trickles here and there that Pow is running his mouth off about what we're up to. That's bad juju, man. I like getting high as much as the next guy, and I ain't got nothin' against makin' a dishonest buck off the goods, but I don't need no loudmouth ruining my operation for the sake of a few yuks. Come on, man, we're talking thousands of dollars worth of pure coke. Fucking blood coke, when you get right down to it. This isn't the sort of thing you want to advertise."

"Before long, Pow's mouth got to be a big problem. Too many people were catching drift of what was going on, and if we weren't careful we were gonna catch some serious heat. I called a meeting with Snap, Pop, Sonny, Toucan and Lucky. I laid out our situation and said that before we parted ways that day we needed to figure out an answer to our problem."

Crackle went silent. His head dropped and he stared daggers at the bottle that was now half empty in front of him.

"So," I asked, "did you figure out a solution?"

A pregnant pause filled the air between us as Crackle contemplated his answer.

"Yeah," he said, "we figured it out."

"The problem ended up being twofold. First off, how do we take care of the problem and secondly, what do we do with the second problem we'd create when we got rid of the first one, catch my drift?"

"The first problem was simple enough. We arranged a hiking trip for the seven of us, nothing but 'bro's and blow'. We made the whole thing sound like a fun chance to get wasted and kick back. Once we were out in the woods we drew straws to see who would take care of Pow. It turned out to be Sonny."

"Sonny's already a bit unhinged, and having to both off AND dispose of Pow really set that guy off. Before he went to do the deed he inhaled a fucking mountain of blow. The two of them went off to 'find some firewood'. I didn't see him do the deed, but I heard Sonny screaming at Pow to watch him while he died. I guess he really got off on Pow going to the grave knowing he was killed by a trusted friend."

"Whatever, you know, Sonny's always been out there. But disposing of Pow sent him over the edge, man. He'd always been a bit weird beforehand, but after knocking out the teeth, removing the hands and feet and burning them, then burying the rest of the corpse, the dude just went off the deep end. Ever since he's had this wild look in his eyes. You seen him lately? The guy seems just about ready to snap."

"Once we got home we constructed this scenario where Pow got pissed at all of us and ditched off for Europe. We just burned most of his possessions. Lucky forged a note for us. It was simple, really. Too simple, when you get down to it. The fact of the matter was, we pulled it off. No more Pow, no more problem."

"We laid low on the rest of the dope and just kind of withdrew from the scene for awhile. Eventually it all blew over and now we're all pretty much living life like normal."

"Fuck it, you know? Who's perfect these days? Not me, and I'm sure not you."

He finished off the bottle and flipped his glass over.

"I don't know why I told you all this, man. I guess I just trust you."

He climbed off the stool and stumbled towards the doorway. As he opened the door he turned and said, "Thanks for the whiskey."

"No problem," I said, and then quietly whispered, "He's clear now guys, take him down."

Almost immediately the team swarmed Crackle, pulling his screaming frame down to the floor, weapons brandished threateningly and stuffed in his face.

"You BASTARD!" he spat at me, eyes burning with rage. "How could you do this to me? I trusted you!"

I slowly made my way to where he was spread across the floor.

"Pow was my brother," was the last thing he heard me say before I kicked him into unconsciousness and spat on his diminutive frame.

Dream On

2008-06-30T15:39:00.001-07:00

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.

EWA

2008-06-27T00:42:00.000-07:00

Straight up, I am the whitest person you will ever know. For real. It doesn’t get any whiter than me. Donnie and Marie got more street cred than I do. Pat Boone is a hard, pipe hittin’ nigga compared to me. I can name exactly two things on this Earth that are whiter than E: albinos and those aliens from Cocoon. Don’t believe me? Allow me to give you some of my history.

I’m from a small town up in southeastern Michigan. An area so remote that the population of that entire county is less than the population of the ten square miles surrounding me currently. If Northerners had a reputation for raping outsiders at gunpoint while demanding that they squeal like a pig, this is the town it would happen in.

At the time I moved there, the grand wizard of the Northern chapter of the KKK lived exactly one town over. So, if I had to sum up my childhood with one word...and today were opposite day...that word would be “diversity”.

There’s a joke by Emo Philips that sums up my town quite nicely:

“We had a blackout there the other day, but fortunately the police made him get back into his car before he got too far.”

Don’t take this to mean that I’m racist. Far from it. I can find a million reasons to not like somebody without having to resort to something as simplistic as skin color. My point is, although I don’t care about race one way or the other, I did not have an upbringing that focused on diversity. There was a black kid at my high school. He was a couple of years older than me. I don’t know that I ever actually spoke to him, but he was there nonetheless.

Race was never a factor in anything in my hometown. None of us were particularly interested in the Klan, and I cannot recall anybody having anything particularly nasty to say about any other races. It seemed we were all more or less ambivalent to issues of race.

Coming from an area like that, you can imagine that I’ve had very little exposure to urban culture, outside of movies and music. And even there the exposure hasn’t been all that great. I saw “Boyz n the Hood” once. I thought it was a good movie but it didn’t really speak to my life experience.

And why am I telling you all this? Do I have some grand point I’d like to make or some little slice of humanity that you can take away from this, feeling like a richer and better person? Ha, NO. I have no real moral or punch line to this story. It just occurred to me on my way home from work today.

One of the speakers in my car (back passenger one, to be specific) blew out on me a couple months back. As a result, everything I play distorts through that speaker like I have a 40 inch subwoofer in my trunk. It makes my car rattle when it does that, and generally makes me feel like one of those douchebags that’s always blasting his bass while driving down the road.

Well, as a result of my piece on Soulja Boy and some various reading I’ve done lately, I took an interest in listening to ‘Straight Outta Compton’ by NWA today. I hadn’t heard it in a long time and figured now’s as good a time as any. So I jumped in the fo, hit the juice in my ride. I got front and back, side to side.

As I was driving I couldn’t help but see the irony in the music I was listening to. Seriously, I’m as far from ghetto as you’re likely to meet. Ever seen the movie Office Space? I reminded myself of Michael Bolton at the beginning of the film, kind of shirking down and hiding any time someone would notice I was bumpin’ that shit.

As I neared the house I got stuck at a traffic light. I had NWA turned out respectably loud, but with the windows mostly rolled up so I wouldn’t bother the other drivers. But that little blown speaker was going NUTS in the back of my car and I ended up getting the stink eye from some lady the next car over.

It all felt like the ending of a Twilight Zone episode…

My god! The douchebag…..it’s ME!!!!!!

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

2008-06-26T02:46:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-25T03:20:00.001-07:00

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

2008-06-25T02:28:00.001-07:00

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

2008-06-24T00:49:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-23T02:40:00.001-07:00

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...

2008-06-23T00:39:00.001-07:00

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

2008-06-19T16:15:00.001-07:00

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

2008-06-18T15:27:00.001-07:00

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

2008-06-17T14:39:00.001-07:00

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

2008-06-16T15:21:00.001-07:00

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

2008-06-11T14:26:00.001-07:00

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

2008-06-10T03:30:00.000-07:00

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?

2008-06-09T05:42:00.001-07:00

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.

2008-06-04T14:40:00.001-07:00

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

2008-06-03T05:03:00.001-07:00

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.

The Home of the Brave

2008-05-30T15:30:00.001-07:00

"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

2008-05-21T17:00:00.001-07:00

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

2008-05-20T04:16:00.001-07:00

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...

2008-05-19T08:02:00.001-07:00

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....

2008-05-15T14:38:00.001-07:00

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

2008-05-15T03:25:00.001-07:00

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

2008-05-15T03:23:00.000-07:00

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.

For My Number One Fan

2008-04-30T15:56:00.001-07:00

One of the more exciting aspects of writing for Bonez is the fact that over the last year I have managed to amass my own little fanbase. Of course, by fanbase I mean that there are three or four people who do not immediately close the page when they see my frivolous pontifications gracing the banner headline.

But I would be remiss in my duties as chronicler if I neglected to mention the most insidious of all readers, namely "The Number One Fan". I call mine John, as that's what I've been informed its name is.

Learning that there was somebody out there who not only enjoyed my scribblings but ANTICIPATED their arrival was a truly enlightening experience. It means I had crossed the threshold from "Unknown" to "Virtually Unknown", a major step forward towards my ultimate goal of world domination.

Further reflection made me realize that not only was "John" my first and self admitted "Number One Fan", but he might, just might, be the one to ultimately seek out, stalk and destroy me.

Awesome.

But you know what, John? (If I may call you that.) I feel that it might be best if I give you some pointers on how best to develop the disturbing and inappropriate man-crush that will ultimately lead to my downfall and possible execution. This is serious business. Go about stalking me the wrong way and you'll risk losing me. And we don't want that, do we John?

If Hollywood has taught me anything, it's that as a stalker you need to start with innocuous activities. Have fun with the first steps! You haven't begun your gradual decline into madness and full blown obsession yet.

DO: Go out and start purchasing things I talk about. Hey, I wrote about Stinkor, go buy one! That Creepshow flick sounds scary! Go pick it up and invite your friends over to watch while you tell them little bits of trivia you learned from my articles. I seem obsessed with Guitar Hero, go out and get yourself a copy. I find it's best that we begin by imitating our idols.

You'd also do well to start building up an impressive knowledge of trivia and minutiae about my life so that you can both bore and creep out people you come across in your daily life. Some prime examples:

A) I anthropomorphize stuffed animals. As a result I am incapable of throwing them away.
B) I have to check my alarm clock at least three times when I set it.
C) As a result of multiple trips to the Netherlands, I prefer mayonnaise on my fries instead of ketchup.

DO NOT: Try and impress me with YOUR "zany" sense of humor. I write this witty crap as an unpaid semi-professional and don't you forget it! You will not win me over with crazy and over the top behavior meant to mimic my, at times, "odd" humor. So, no sending me yamulkes and asking to have them autographed. No tattooing of my XBox Live gamertag on a halibut. Let's keep it normal, at least for the time being.

Now eventually you'll need to graduate from cute to frightening, but don't worry I'll help you along. Again, it's important that I, as stalkee, do not become overly annoyed or terrified by you, as I may end up involving the authorities. This, again, is not what we want, John.

DO NOT: Get my phone number and start calling me constantly. I mean this. No heavy breathing, no creepy questions that show too much knowledge of my history, no expected direct personal contact.

I.
Hate.
Phones.

If you want ANY chance of stealing me away from my home for whatever nefarious and horrifically violent sexual purposes you've devised, you'll do best not to try and get me to speak on the devil box. Seriously.

DO: Start standing outside my bedroom window, staring longingly and unblinkingly up at me. It's okay if you want to openly and loudly sob to attract my attention. Once you have it, liven things up. Pull out an axe and a tube of KY and make references to vague concepts like "love surgery" and "stump pumpin'".

As you begin to cross the final threshold into utter madness, learn to understand me and my motivations. (Remember, this isn't just about you. You can't spell "social deviant with psychopathic tendencies" without "e".)

For instance:

"I don't like it here," translates into "Cut my achilles tendons so I can't escape!"

"Please let me go," ACTUALLY means "I want to be your limbless love toy."

And, of course, "Oh, god! Make the pain stop!" really means, "Dress me up like a Japanese school girl and post photos of me on the internet!"

Beyond these steps, John, it's best to use common sense. Don't come on too strong too quick. But bear in mind that I have been going to the gym lately, so come on quick before I get too strong.

The One That Goes Too Far?

2008-04-25T11:37:00.001-07:00

Sometimes you're just hit with an idea out of the blue and it's all you can do to contain it in your head long enough to crack it open and let it spill out onto the paper (real or digital). This doesn't necessarily ensure quality, it simply means that inspiration hit and you had something to say. Such was the case for me last night. During a rather innocuous conversation with a friend, I was suddenly struck with the idea of writing a "Letters to Penthouse Forum" style piece that was violent in nature. A little satire, if you please.

I mulled it over on my drive home and played out the scene in my mind. I had a pretty good idea of what I wanted to do with it and how far I intended to go. I'm not going to lie, the piece was intended to be a tad shocking, though it was my plan from the get-go to contain the language enough that it was never overly salacious. The red, red kroovy does NOT flow with any regularity in the piece, though the subject matter would imply otherwise.

I wrote the piece and as intended it gave me a slight chuckle upon my first read. But I knew immediately that it might push the boundaries of what's considered acceptable around here a bit. Again, it's not that the language is overly descriptive or that I went too far with the piece, it's just that it is a morbid little chunk of black humor and those that don't get the joke might find themselves offended by it.

Not wanting to stir up unnecessary controversy, I submitted the piece to Mr. Bonez with a simple query. Is this taking it too far? Is this beyond the fold of what we will allow at Bonez?

I know that if it came down to it, I have other avenues or forums in which I can deposit these little brain leavings of mine, but the simple fact is that I dig it here and the majority of my work debuts right here on the Bonez front page.

Bonez offered some suggestions on what could be done to alter the piece in order to make it more family friendly, but after quiet reflection the fact of the matter is that I don't really wish to change it.

It is what it is, and it's a reflection of where my mind was at last night. Is it dark? Yeah, sure. Is it offensive? Well, that's the rub, isn't it?

Boundaries and taste are a subjective beast. I can assure you that my boundaries do not jive with those of the majority of readers here. It's a simple truth I've had to adapt to most of my life. And while you may be unable to upset me with what most people find offensive, I do try to keep in mind what "most people's" boundaries are.

I re-read my work. I thought it over, and I came to the simple conclusion that my piece is what it is. I have no desire to alter it, nor do I have any desire to battle for it.

It seemed to me that the easiest thing to do would be to provide it here on Bonez, but in such a way that Joe Q. Public won't accidentally read the horrific information contained within.

So, if you have any desire to read my quick little morbid tale, please highlight the blank area below and you shall be able to. If you wish to skip it, by all means please do so. It's not as bad as you might think. And for that matter, not as GOOD either. :P

Choice. It's what's for dinner.

Dear Bonez Forum,

I never thought that this would happen to me! So there I was, all by my lonesome out in some forgotten patch of forest enjoying the brisk country air when out of the blue the most beautiful woman I've ever seen comes traipsing out of the woods. Finding myself both lonely and instantly smitten I called over and invited her to come hang out with me for a bit.

Let me tell you, we hit it off really quickly. She was a librarian out in the woods to "energize her spirit", if you catch my drift. We sat and talked for what felt like hours. Finding myself unable to control my natural male urges I asked if she would be interested in coming home with me, and surprisingly enough she said yes!

After procuring a sufficiently thick branch, I dispatched her with a series of heavy blows, intending, of course, to crush her skull. And boy howdy, did I ever! With her still twitching but quickly dying body laid out before me, I set to work getting her carved up properly so that I could fit her in my duffel bag and head out.

I started with the head, and I'll tell you what, those things are HARD to get off! All I had on me was a somewhat dulled knife, so I went for a mixture of carving at the cartilage and twisting for the better part of fifteen minutes before getting annoyed, at which point I simply started hacking at the vertebrae, hoping to loosen it up. I finally managed to chip my way through one of the discs and was able to pull the rest apart, laying it off to the side.

Realizing that my current methods were going to slow me down, I chose a different approach for the arms. Placing one foot squarely on her ribs, I pulled upward on her wrist until I heard the POP of the ball dislocating from the socket. Once that was done, it was pretty simple to just cut the meat around that joint and pull the whole thing off.

I tried a similar trick for the legs, but they're a lot tougher, and pull as I might, I was unable to dislodge the hip joint. So instead, I stood on the upper part of the femur and pulled the rest of the leg towards me, as hard as I could. My arms were shaking by the time I finally heard the cracking snap of separating bone. After a few minutes of defleshing I was able to pull the legs away.

Knowing that weight would likely be an issue when lugging this cadaver home, I opted to remove the offal, knowing full well that organs retain a lot of excess fluid. By utilizing a deep lateral slash in the lower extremities I was able to allow the viscera to efflux with little effort, though of course I did have to disconnect a few of the wires.

Of course, now the big question was whether or not I could fit the entire corpse in my duffel bag. I managed to squeeze the torso in, and in a flash of inspiration it occurred to me to stuff the head inside the cavernous and newly emptied abdominal cavity. Once those were in place, it was simply a matter of bending the remaining limbs properly and zipping it all up tight.

I sure am glad that I had the forethought to line my duffel bag with tarp some time ago, or else the blood would have left a trail behind me. Wouldn't want to attract any animals!

The good news is we finally did make it back to my house, and what a time we had! I'm sure I'll never have such a chance encounter again, but it was fun while it lasted!

A Quick Little Time Waster

2008-04-23T15:05:00.001-07:00

There are some things in life you just can't explain. Take my car, for example. It's a Hyundai, for all intents and purposes a rather ordinary and unassuming vehicle. But something about my little car seems to inspire outright hatred from other motorists. To be completely honest, I can see no rhyme or reason for it either. It's not just anger that is directed at my little vehicle, but downright hatred.

And I don't mean people angry at me, people are angered down to their shriveled black hearts by the very existence of my little automobile.

The first time I ever experienced this malevolence was at a NASCAR event. Yeah, yeah, I know. Getting me to ATTEND a NASCAR event is a story unto itself, and by my measure should hopefully score me a few points in the afterlife for the completely altruistic and selfless act I committed by exposing myself to that particular crowd. But I digress...

After having spent the day surrounded by drunkards watching cars drive quickly (and monotonously) in a circle we made our way back to my car to begin the eternal process of sitting and doing nothing while 100,000 people try to leave a racetrack at once. At one point during the 40 minute wait before our car moved, a rather inebriated gentleman saw my car, stopped and began berating, threatening and inciting it.

"Fuck you, Hyundai, damn Jap car! (It's Korean, for the record.) I'll kick your ass! Come on! Bring it!"

I simply sat and stared, uncertain if I should be amused or terrified. What was I to do if this guy decided to pick a fight with my car? It may be just a small little Korean car, but in a one on one match, I'm gonna have to go with the HUNK OF STEEL over the fleshy meatbag.

Should I honk, or would that just make him jumpy? Would that be considered throwing the first punch? Maybe he assumed my car was a Korean Herbie. Would a menacing rev of the engine frighten him away? If there was a confrontation would I have to testify on my car's behalf?

"Your honor, the entire altercation was precipitated by the aggressive behavior of Mr. Jim-Bob."

Thankfully I never had to put any of these thoughts to the test as he eventually staggered off, no doubt to vomit down the cleavage of whatever Chevy shirt wearin' hot mama he could entice with his 7 teeth and 91 IQ points.

And though I certainly found the event odd, I never thought it would be an occassion I would have to deal with again. Until...

One night I found myself playing XBox over at my sister's house until the wee hours. Around two in the morning I gathered up my stuff and made my way home. Not far from her house I was stopped by a red light. To my left was a mid-80's model Toyota pickup truck.

I heard a commotion coming from their vehicle and turning to look I could see the passenger hanging out the window, gesticulating wildly. I could pick up mumbled bits of threats, but couldn't quite make out the details.

I managed to roll my window down in just enough time to hear him yell, "I'm gonna eat your car!"

I'm sure that the stare I gave him was nothing more than a mouth agape look of incredulity. Eat my car? Did he SERIOUSLY just threaten to EAT my car? How the hell do you respond to that? Was I supposed to give him puppy eyes and scream, "NO! Not my car! Anything but that!" before tearfully begging him to PLEASE not eat my Hyundai? What am I, 8?

Part of me wanted to yell back, "Okay, but you're not leaving until you eat every last bite!"

But of course, being the mild mannered doormat that I am, I just stared at him quizzically until the light turned green and they peeled off, no doubt to threaten other vehicles with gurgitation.

And once more, a couple of months ago I was out with a friend to see a movie. As we're on the way home, yet again a car full of people pull up next to me threatening to kick my car's ass before tearing off into the distance.

I'm seriously beginning to wonder about my car's history.

An Aside To My Previous Post

2008-04-22T17:28:00.000-07:00

This will be much shorter and ultimately far less interesting. If, however, you managed to make it through the utter yawnfest I wrote earlier known as "Where's My Cake" AND you bothered to follow my links, you will have found yourself viewing the segment of Creepshow that I spent so many pointless words rambling on about.

What I'm getting at is this: If you DID watch the videos, you would see that the Father's Day segment ends with Nathan presenting the head of Sylvia on a platter, proud of the cake that he has managed to fetch for himself. Richard and Cass are stunned and can do little more than shake and scream.

I find myself constantly wondering...Does Nathan kill them as well? Is it necessary? I mean, he GOT revenge, didn't he? Richard and Cass are more bystanders than anything. They were not directly responsible for his death, though they were certainly aware of it.

Do they deserve death? I suppose you could argue that they do. I don't feel that it is entirely warranted, but hey, that's really up to Nate at this point.

So, after the skit ends I can see two possibilities for its ultimate conclusion.

A) Nate invites Richard and Cass to join him for cake, at which point they all sit around the dining table and attempt to make awkward conversation with the reanimated corpse of their great uncle. I suppose it would be a rather strange scene, as one of them will have to attempt to slice the "cake" that he's made. I don't imagine that the kitchen knives would be sufficient for sawing through a skull. It's not as if anybody would actually EAT the damn thing anyways, though they might politely mime the action. After dining, what next? I guess Nate would wish everyone well and head on home. Tell you what, that would almost make for an equally awesome story.

B) Nate dispatches Richard and Cass leaving just himself and his cake. But of course, being a skeleton he will be unable to eat it, as he lacks salivary glands, a tongue and organs for digestion. I just picture him sitting at the table, staring at Sylvia's head, maybe feeling a bit forlorn that this was all rather anticlimactic. In the end, as the candles burn down to nothing he would simply sigh, push back from the table and then make his way back to the grave. What a shitty Father's Day that would be.

I guess you can't help but feel bad for the guy. No matter what happens he ends up celebrating Father's Day alone, probably lonely and dejected. Doesn't seem like much of an improvement from his earlier state.

Where's My Cake?

2008-04-22T17:23:00.001-07:00

As I'm sure you've figured out by this point in our relationship, I am a bit of a horror junkie. I guess "bit" is an understatement. Okay, the fact is that I love horror movies. Love, love, love em. Give me blood and guts and horror and torture and sadism and I am one happy guy.

I'll watch anything you throw at me. Cannibal Holocaust? Been there, done that. Traces of Death? Yawn. Aftermath? Whatever.

The point is that I'm a rather jaded individual when it comes to entertainment of this nature. There's very little that I have seen that evokes any kind of reaction from me, visceral or otherwise.

But in reality, I have a secret shame involving horror, namely one specific visage of terror that, to this very day sends chills down my spine and makes me cower in the corner, babbling like a baby.

In a previous post I made mention of my love for a film called Creepshow, a modern day masterpiece by the master of terror, George A. Romero. As a lad I watched this movie almost daily, absorbing all of the gruesome details and macabre humor it contained.

Before I was even allowed to see the film with my own eyes, I had a copy of the comic book and had more or less memorized all the dialog. I would spend hours poring over the luscious illustrations of torment and death, excited for the time when I would finally see it all with my own eyes.

And see it I did, around the age of 7, excitedly staring at the tv as the movie unfolded in all its stylized glory. But although I knew the stories well from having read them time and time again, nothing had prepared me for the real life visualization of one of the monstrosities that made itself known early on.

I watched as little Billy was both chastised and abused by his father for having brought home the latest issue of Creepshow magazine, only to have the issue ripped from his hands and dumped unceremoniously in the trash can outside. I didn't flinch as "Raoul" (the nickname for the Crypt-Keeperesque host of the movie) appeared in little Billy's window, enticing him to open the window and join him. But it was early into the tale of "Father's Day" that I first realized that things were leaving my safe zone.

A waspish family lounges in a mansion on Father's Day, the matriarch telling her daughter's new husband the tale of dotty old Aunt Bedelia, a woman so tormented by her overbearing father that she was driven to murder. A woman whose only love was murdered at the behest of Nathan Grantham, from a mixture of fear and jealousy. Nathan, who sat in his wheelchair incessantly rattling his cane, DEMANDING his Father's Day cake, while his daughter in full knowledge of the crimes he's had perpetrated against her struggled to prepare it for him.

Pushed beyond her limits and unable to deal with the mixture of grief and rage that overpowers her, she takes hold of a large marble ashtray and does her father in with one well placed crack to the skull. Her actions were known by both the cook (Mrs. Danvers) and her sister, Sylvia, who conspired to obscure the truth and put forward the tale that poor Nathan had suffered a spill in his wheelchair, hitting his head on the way down.

And so every year on Father's Day the family gathers to celebrate the windfall that was given unto them upon the untimely death of Mr. Grantham. Aunt Bedelia traditionally comes to pay tribute at Nathan's grave before drunkenly staggering into the house at 6 for a ham dinner.

And so I watched as these events played out, framed in a comic book style and lit in basic primary colors to give the impression of a comic book come to life.

Bedelia sits by Nathan's grave, lamenting the fortunes that have placed her in this position, cursing Nathan's very name, a bottle of Jim Beam clutched defensively in her hand. Though she is upset and angry the scene remains serene.

And then it happened.

Nathan's decomposed hand springs forth from the ground to the high-toned electric squeal of a synthesizer. Awash in red light, he claws his way upward from his grave, clumps of dirt and decomposed flesh cling to his skull as maggots and other insects continue to feast on what remains of him. Eyeless sockets fix on Bedelia and as he slowly crawls towards her he speaks his famous line for the first of many times.

"Where's my cake, Bedelia? I WANT MY CAKE!" he cries, his voice impeded by the dirt lodged in his mostly decomposed larynx, gravelly and distorted. He asks without mercy, expecting no answer. He has returned to wreak revenge and reclaim what he felt was rightfully his.

That voice. That voice terrifies me to this day, his frenzied demands for his cake still disturb me to the point where I frequently will leave the room or conveniently adjust the volume to miss as much of it as possible. That curdling questioning coupled with the remnants of decaying flesh that cling to his body, putrescent flesh and dirt are caked upon the dessicated and torn remnants of his burial suit.

"It's Father's Day, Bedelia. I want my cake."

After his dispatching of Bedelia we cut back to the remaining victims, enjoying a lighthearted time together, in celebration of the wealth they share because of the actions of the now dearly departed Bedelia.

It does not pass their notice, however, that dear Bedelia appears to be late for the festivities. Hank, the new husband of Sylvia's daughter Cass offers to step outside to both look for Bedelia and to have a quick smoke.

After making a few furtive attempts at rousing Bedelia's attention he decides to make his way to Nathan's grave, in hopes of finding Bedelia there. He finds only the bottle of whiskey from which he immediately takes a swig before losing his footing and finding himself in the loose dirt within Mr. Grantham's grave.

Laughing at his misfortune he reaches for a nearby plant to pull himself up, but instead finds himself pulling the horror struck corpse of Bedelia on top of him.

As ominous piano music kicks in, the stone above Hank begins to shift, making its way forward. After a moment shadow passes before the stone and soon Hank finds himself face to face with the hideously grinning face of the returned Nathan. Frozen with fear he remains motionless until the tombstone loses balance and comes crashing down atop him, his final scream silenced before it has left his throat.

The shambling corpse turns and heads to the house, continuing its intonations.

"Where's my cake? I want it. It's mine."

Back in the house the remaining family members continue their evening, quite unaware of the murders taking place. Ultimately Sylvia decides to let Mrs. Danvers know to start finishing dinner even though Bedelia hasn't arrived yet.

She makes her way into the darkened kitchen and stops upon noticing the trail of dirt encrusted footprints leading further inward. She calls out for Mrs. Danvers not noticing the corpse that is now shoved against the door behind her. Upon seeing Mrs. Danvers' body, she turns to run only to find herself face to face with the undead horror.

"I want my cake", he demands, and then reaching out with both hands violently twists Sylvia's neck so that her head faces completely backwards, the crunching of vertebrae echoing loudly.

Cass and Richard, the final two victims sit alone in the dining room, becoming keenly aware of the absence of all the other family members. Cass finds herself fretting and concerned, while Richard maintains that everything is just fine. At Cass' urging Richard agrees to accompany her into the kitchen to find Sylvia.

They too notice the dirty trail that leads into the kitchen, but before they've had a chance to get to the door, it springs open and Nathan enters carrying a silver platter which is adorned with Sylvia's head, hastily covered in candles and frosting.

A much happier Nathan intones, "It's Father's Day, and I got my cake. Happy Father's Day!"

The scene fades out into a comic book and we are taken to the next story in the film.

But truth be told, the other stories never mattered as much. I loved the movie as a whole, but Nathan's demand for cake never ceased to terrify me.

And why am I telling you all this? Why have I just spent all this time describing a 26 year old movie?

Well, as I said earlier, it STILL scares the hell out of me, even as an adult. As I will mention in a future article, I went and got some new tattoos last weekend, taking my grand total up to 7. Getting inked always brings forth a desire to get MORE tattoos, and after getting my latest two I set to work deciding my next one.

I found that the choice was simple, I wanted, no, NEEDED to get Nathan Grantham holding the platter tattooed on me. Something that has horrified and tormented me for so long deserves a place of honor as far as I'm concerned, so I've spent the better part of my last two evenings poring through my DVD of Creepshow (the imported 2 disc version, of course!) snapping screenshots of various Nathan poses and images.

But finding the images I needed meant having to stare my terror in the eyeless sockets for hours on end, while hearing his horrific voice over and over. I have to admit, I ended up turning the volume way down and tried to not stare at him for any length of time.

Unfortunately, however, placing myself in the line of fire like that resulted in me being wrested from sleep ELEVEN times last night due to nightmares starring that damn skeleton. He haunted my dreams in youth and has returned to terrify me as an adult.

At least I'm smart enough to have him tattooed on my back so I won't have to look at him all the time.

(Shudder)

A Wrap Up of the Democratic Debates

2008-04-17T15:33:00.001-07:00

Expectations were high and tensions higher at the Pennsylvania Democratic Debate, as Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama squared off in what is likely to be the last face to face meeting of the candidates prior to the American citizens picking their nominee for the Democratic Party.

Both candidates have had their share of scandal of late, from mistaken Bosnian memories displayed by Mrs. Clinton to the association of Mr. Obama with the Rev. Wright, a fiery preacher who has been both friend and confidante for many years.

Eager to recapture a strong lead in these final days, both candidates are striving to win the favor of the American public at large, hoping to become the final nominee and enter the final race for the highest office in the land.

However, the American political climate has shifted over the past few years and the candidates have to contend with the popular perception that the Democratic Party has undergone a massive swing to the left, leaving both candidates branded, at best, communists and at worst, liberals.

Another key factor in this race has been the loyalty and allegiance of the nominees to American values and the overall strength of their patriotism. Many on the right have called into question whether these final two contenders love their country nearly as much as their Republican opponent.

So it came as little to no surprise when Senator Obama took the stage in a red, white and blue suit, with an American flag tie, bearing no less than 200 lapel pins in the shape of a flag. Atop his head he wore a stovepipe hat festooned with a crucifix, the little statue of Jesus holding flags in each hand. He had also apparently rigged an electronic device into his sleeves so that every time he adjusted his tie, the strains of "God Bless America" thundered from his collar while a miniature fireworks show erupted from the top of his hat.

Senator Clinton, on the other hand, came dressed as the Statue of Liberty, followed on stage by Lee Greenwood who would break into the chorus of "Proud to be an American" every time she held aloft her torch, while a choir of underpriviledged Latino children would take to the stage with cheers of "Viva America!"

After having taken the stage, the debate was well and truly started, and both Senators had to field tough questions pertinent to the election season, the state of American politics and their plans for the future, should they win election.

The questions flew fast and furious, honed to perfection in order to cut through the chaff and get to the important underlying issues.

"Senator Clinton, as a liberal, why do you demand that fetuses be ripped from unsuspecting mothers in order that we may use their blood to oil the machinery of the state?"

In an exciting display of showmanship, upon reaching the word liberal, videos started playing on the rear screens of kittens being doused with benzyne and set ablaze, while recordings of Vincent Price's evil laughter from Thriller played in a loop.

"Senator Obama, upon reviewing your record and countless interviews with you, it is readily apparent that not once have you stated that should you become President, you have no intention of raping every white woman in America. What is your response to this shocking revelation?"

"Senator Clinton, it has come to our attention that at the age of 13 you once passed a man in a park handing out pro-Castro literature. Should the American people be concerned at the close ties you established in that 18 second period of your life, and what can you do right now to demonstrate loyalty to Old Glory?"

"Senator Obama, you have stated a desire to pull the American military out of Iraq in stages. Explain to the American people why you hate our troops and why you feel Al Qaeda has "so obviously" bested our forces?"

The candidates soldiered on as best they could, attempting to provide answers to these important issues. Senator Clinton's attempts involved answering in three to four word bursts while pausing to fellate a man dressed as Uncle Sam, while Obama answered at least one of his questions while the animatronically articulated corpse of James Brown sang "Living in America".

Unfortunately, even with their best efforts put forward, neither candidate could shake America's perception that they did, in fact, hate their country and instead wished for the swift and total victory of Al Qaeda over our troops.

It would appear after this final debate that despite the best efforts of the Media Matters Ultra Left Wing Liberal Conspiracy Media©, the anti-American homo-liberal communist wing of the Democrat political party has no chance against the wholesome benevolence that is John McCain.

Things to Do When You're Board

2008-04-16T15:42:00.001-07:00

In the early autumn of 1987, my family relocated from sunny Huntsville, Alabama, home of the space shuttle to BFE, Michigan, home of the cow. During this tumultuous and anxiety laden change of culture, I made fast friends with Terry, my frequent co-conspirator and antagonist of at least one previous Bonez posting.

I managed to enter Terry's cadre of friends rather quickly, as we were all rather like-minded teenagers, confused, somewhat angry and full of a love for horror films and special effects. In fact, it is fair to say that our interest in these topics lay beyond just casual interest, to the point that all of us read books and watched videos on the creation and application of gore makeup.

Whereas most children of the day were concerned with the likes of Prince or Paula Abdul, we immersed ourselves in the teachings of the masters; Dick Smith, Rob Bottin, Greg Nicotero, Rick Baker, and the scareman of the board, Tom Savini.

Our lives were endlessly filled with Karo syrup, fake blood, latex appliances, spirit gum and all of the assorted fun that goes with the territory. And soon my parents had to adjust to the fact that their once quiet and timid cello player would now frequently arrive home with large gashes across his forehead, screaming bloody murder and then giggling uncontrollably.

I would say that it's not unreasonable to expect that, in the event of a fairly major catastrophe my parents would have been unlikely to believe that I was actually hurt due to my habit of arriving home with my friends, covered with oozing bite wounds and crying wolf.

Our reputation for the macabre grew with each passing week, until eventually other kids would want in on the action, asking for a gouged this or a torn that. Occasionally we would oblige such requests, but in general the fun was kept to ourselves.

There were a few times that our skills were used to nefarious ends, one of the better being at a Women's Club meeting being held at Terry's house. For some inexplicable reason, we were tasked with keeping an eye on the younger children at the house while the mothers gathered.

Within moments, of course, we had put together a plan on how exactly we would scare the holy hell out of all those kids. The answer was simple. I took them for a walk outside the house, in the dark, and Terry came tearing out from the woods, tackled me, then slashed my throat while I screamed and gurgled. For the record, that act does indeed scare the shit out of little kids.

But let me briefly tell you of my favorite moment involving our love for the grotesque...

When we moved into our home up north, the previous occupants had left behind a handful of items, mainly forgotten remnants. There was a single toy train engine, a bow and a stack of balsa 2x4's. And it was with those 2x4's that we launched our grand plan.

The idea was simple: We would rig the boards with blood squibs, so that if one were to take a 2x4 to the face, an explosion of blood would ensue. Seeing that the boards were balsa, they had no real weight to them, so a full on swing to the head or body caused no pain whatsoever.

We stood by the side of the road, boards in hand, and waited for cars to appear. As soon as they were within sight of us, we would commence pounding the hell out of each other with the 2x4's, wooden beams cracking against bone and spewing crimson with every hit.

So, after an hour or so of cars displaying little to no interest in two young men clubbing the hell out of each other a new car appeared on the horizon. Suspecting that this was going to be the one to stop and run shrieking from their vehicle, we began the fight.

This time Terry landed a spectacular blow to my head and I dropped to the ground, rolling around and screaming in pain and terror as he stood over me, continuously thrashing me with wild eyed concentration, rivulets streaming down my face and droplets flying through the sky with each upswing.

And we were right, as this car did, in fact, stop. Grinning to ourselves over whatever reaction was about to ensue, I managed to steal a glance at the vehicle. It was my mother's.

Terry turned to face the car with a frenzied glare in his eye as the window slowly rolled down. Once it was finished my mother had only this to say to her now comatose son and his bloodcrazed killer:

"I'm going to Wendy's. Do you want anything?"

More about 8-Balls

2008-04-14T12:16:00.001-07:00

Mankind's history is rife with horrific tales of supernatural occurrences and hauntings,narratives so terrifying that the very blood in your veins curdles and runs icy. I had a chance occurrence today with such a dark and evil force. One can never expect a meeting such as this, but the mark it left on my soul will be felt for ages to come.

Quite unexpectedly I found myself in possession of two small yet identical boxes. They were nondescript in nature, black with red striping and a single word, "Prime", emblazoned upon them. They were rather unceremoniously deposited on my desk, no word of explanation given, no note left, merely two boxes left by my keyboard while I was away.

Seeing the boxes threw my mind into a quizzical fit. What were they carrying? What payload of delight or misery was contained within? Would it be a gift befitting a king? A tiny hive of hornets laid as a trap intended to bring harm should I open them?

I found myself mulling over whether or not they should be opened for quite awhile, fear of the unknown pulsing through my body. At last I resolved myself to attempt just one, under the rationale that deadly traps are unlikely to have been lain upon me by my coworkers.

So, with moderately trepidatious fingers I pried open the first box in order that I may cast eyes upon its contents. At last, once the top flap had been pulled back I was able to divine what was within. It was a magic 8-ball.

Finding myself somewhat relaxed at the dearth of deadly insects springing forth at me, I rolled the 8-ball around in my hands, getting a feel for its shape, an almost electric tingling of otherworldly power seemed to surge through it.

Being the curious type I could not help but ask it a question, as that is its very raison d'etre. So, summoning all of the mental concentration I could I focused my mind on the ball and made my query.

The question was this:

"Is there another magic 8-ball in the other box?"

Imagine the frigid bolt of terror that shot through my frame upon the word "YES" making it's way through the ether in the bottom of the ball. It burned itself into my retinas and imprinted itself upon my powerless brain.

The only thought that remained was the ball. The ball and its power. Its ability to divine the future, to see through the cloudy veil of uncertainty to pinpoint with amazing clarity the events which have yet to transpire.

Needing to know full well whether or not this item possessed unholy powers, I turned my attention from the ball as I began feverishly clawing at the second box.

Whether I hoped to disprove the omens of the first, I do not know. But the resolve to determine one way or the other tore at my essence until I beheld the contents of the second box.

It was, indeed, another magic 8-ball.

Sickness permeated my being and I choked back the hot retching that threatened to betray to my coworkers just how tenuous my mental state had become.

How had it known? How could it POSSIBLY have known what was in that second box? Did it receive its knowledge from a source beyond my comprehension? Was its knowledge absolute or were there limits imposed?

In desperation I cried out to the second 8-ball, hoping once again to disprove the evil magic that was obviously at work in these malicious devices. Hoping beyond hope that I could trip it up, I asked the second this question:

"Did the first box I opened also contain a magic 8-ball?"

Need I even tell you what answer swam to the surface? At the emergence of those three hideous letters I tore from my office, clawing at my face and screaming in ever strengthening waves of terror.

It is two hours since and I have only now began to calm myself. I don't know if they are still on my desk, waiting for me to return, mocking me with their simple form which belies the horrendous and nefarious powers that they summon. I hope to never see them again.

I fear what will happen if I do.

Conradus....Domibain.....

2008-04-10T16:51:00.001-07:00

"It has been fated since time immemorial and whispered by the stones and trees prior to the dawning of the age of man that one day Yog-Sothoth shall be reborne, cast in fleshen form, craving of the essence of the living so as to strengthen his true darkness for the coming battle against Xexanoth.

It is rumored that his appearance shall first be harkened by the coming of the throne of discord, ridden upon by the beast which smoulders at length from its face, paired with the hideous she-queen of the acrimonious wailing.

Their power will manifest itself as legion, appearing to millions simultaneously, stunning and immobilizing the masses with their demands for regularly timed worship. From this point hence, three less than half a score the first appearance of the unholy one will make itself known.

He shall come not as one, but as two identical beasts, sharing a singular infernal goal. This second form shall not make itself known immediately, but instead will rear it's fearsome and phallical visage three revolutions hence of the initial manifestation.

Moving to the dissonant beat of secondary instrumentation, his ways will apparently differ from the manners of the masses. Borne from the seat of luxury, his scourge will not truly begin until the happenstance meeting with the ones clad in denym.

And you shall know his wretched power some years after those who ascended prior to his arrival return to feed off the fetid detritus of the prince and his kin."

-- Quachil Uttaus

I present you this quote to serve as warning, for I fear that the arrival of this hideous beast may already have come to pass. Through rigorous study and interpretation, I believe I have been able to divine the clues and determine his true identity.

As was so eloquently stated by Mr. Uttaus, the first signal we have of the arrival of the beast will be the throne of discord being claimed by the smouldering beast coupled with his shrill queen.

What confounded me at first with regards to that statement was the quizzical after statement of this first beast's demand for regular worship. And then after some reflection, the first sign became all too apparent.

In 1971, an American television show called "All in the Family" premiered. It's principal concern was the daily doings of a gruff, yet lovable man named Archie Bunker who was regularly broadcast into our living rooms sitting aloft his favorite chair. Although the chair in question was nothing more than average, Americans quickly found themselves captivated by Archie and his mannerisms. Mannerisms, I might add, that included cigar smoking, all accompanied by the constant screeching of his wife, Edith.

It was from this show that the lives of George and Louise were introduced to us, two enterprising Americans who had worked hard to build a life better than their current means. A life that ultimately afforded them luxuries of which they had never dreamed. A life that found them "movin' on up to the top"; ascending, if you will, to the upper echelons of society.

If we take the clues as written, it should be three less than half a score when the first appearance of the true beast will make itself known. Half a score would be ten years, so three prior to that would place the arrival of the unholy one at 1978.

What I found most shocking was that his arrival was proudly proclaimed with a direct, though distinctly modern translation of the original prophecy.

That translation read:

Now the world don't move to the beat of just one drum
What might be right for, may not be right for some
A man is born, he's a man of means
Then along come the two, they've got nothing but their jeans

And with this terrifying verse we are thrown headlong into the twisted world of Phillip Drummond, a man who ran through three house slaves over the course of his 8 year reign of pain and torment. Mr. Drummond was a wealthy, yet widowed urbanite with the financial means to set forth any nefarious schemes he deemed fit.

His ferocious temper was dampened only by the two young rapscallions that he adopted from the mean streets of Harlem, no doubt to propagate his horrific ideals of conquest in the event that the final events did not unfold.

However, those events DID unfold. For Mr. Drummond was played by a man named Conrad Bain who conveniently had an identical twin named Bonar. It bears mentioning that Bonar himself did make an appearance as an evil twin, Hank Drummond, on SCTV, THREE YEARS after the arrival of Conrad on the American scene.

With all of these events having come to pass, only one piece of the prophecy remained, that of the previous ascenders claiming the scraps that the foul one left behind. Well, I regret to say, that too has come to pass.

Mr. Drummond paid a visit to a young Will Smith in 1996, a man otherwise known as the "Fresh Prince of Bel-Air", with the intention of purchasing the mansion which had formerly been the prince's. Finding himself dissatisfied with the terms he left, only to have the estate purchased almost immediately by George Jefferson. It was with this purchase that the prince's reign came to an abrupt end.

This is all meant to serve as a warning. I cannot prevent the horrific devastation that will undoubtedly soon be wreaked upon this earth, but at the very least I can make its coming apparent to you so that you may take whatever precautionary measures are necessary.

Be concerned. Be prepared. And above all, practice constant vigilance.

Leave Luck to Heaven

2008-04-07T16:05:00.001-07:00

On September 23, 1889 a young Japanese man by the name of Fusajiro Yamauchi started a small company called "Nintendo Company, Ltd". The original intent of this company was to manufacture handmade hanafuda playing cards. Nintendo was successful in this venture and through the years became one of the dominant players in Japan for playing cards, even being the first Japanese company to make cards out of plastic.

However, in 1956, current company president Hiroshi Yamauchi paid a visit to the United States to meet with the US Playing Card Company, then the world leader in their industry. Yamauchi was stunned to find a small and sparse office as the headquarters of an industry leader. Yamauchi decided at that time that Nintendo needed to move in other directions if they truly wanted to grow as a company.

The playing card market hit a saturation point in 1964 around the time of the Tokyo Olympics and soon the company's stock plummeted from 900 yen a share to 60. Nintendo soon began to branch out into other ventures, trying to find the market that was right for them. Over the years they dabbled in taxis, love hotels, a TV channel, instant rice and many other products. It was the release of a toy called "The Ultra Hand" in 1970 that pushed Nintendo headlong into the electronic entertainment industry.

Seeing that there was money to be made in electronics, Nintendo secured the Japanese distribution rights for the Magnavox Odyssey. At the time the Odyssey was the only game console on the home market, predating even the Pong units.

Based on the success of the Odyssey and the desire to more fully enter the market, Nintendo developed a series of dedicated home consoles known as the "Color TV Game" series. Many consoles were released in this series, beginning with the "Color TV Game 6" which offered 6 variations of a game called Light Tennis which was heavily based on Pong.

This continued with "Color TV Game 15" which contained two controllers and 15 variations of Light Tennis. The series continued with "Color TV Racing 112", a racing game that came complete with a steering wheel and gear shifter. Next up was "Game Block Kuzushi" which was a console based on Breakout. The final unit in this series was called "Computer TV Game" and was a port of Nintendo's first arcade game.

In conjunction with the Color TV Game series, Nintendo began manufacturing arcade games, beginning with Computer Othello. They also tried their hand at the hand held console market with a series of games known as "Game and Watch".

Realizing the potential of the home market, Nintendo set to work on creating a home console that would be both affordable and powerful. Their original designs called for a 16-bit processor and a floppy disk drive to be priced at $75-100 USD, but these designs proved too costly to implement and Nintendo soon found themselves rethinking their ideas from the ground up.

On July 15, 1983, Nintendo released their system in Japan. This toy like apparatus was designed to be a fun diversion for the family to enjoy together, hence the name FamiCom (Family Computer).

The FamiCom came complete with two hardwired controllers (the second of which had a microphone built in) and an expansion port that would later be used for various add-ons such as the Zapper, Power Pad, a keyboard for creating BASIC programs and a cassette drive, amongst other things. Most of these additions were never released outside of Japan.

The initial runs of the FamiCom contained a number of problems involving systems freezing and locking up. In order to generate good faith with consumers Nintendo announced a total recall of every unit and re-designed the motherboard. Once these issues were worked out the FamiCom began to shine.

The FamiCom was an unmitigated success and by the end of 1984 Nintendo had sold 2.5 million units in Japan alone. Bolstered by the influx of cash and the prospects of an even better venture overseas, Nintendo began to investigate releasing their console in the American market.

Hoping to find a partner for this venture, Nintendo first approached Atari to see if they would be interested in the distribution rights for their console, then known as the Nintendo Enhanced Video System. Atari was initially interested in this prospect until the unveiling of Donkey Kong for the Coleco Adam at the 1983 Consumer Electronics Show. Atari wrongly believed that this adaptation was an indication of Nintendo being duplicitous and asserting themselves to multiple companies. (However, Nintendo had no role in the creation of this iteration of Donkey Kong.) This mistrust caused Atari to pass on the deal. Subsequently, Atari was nearly destroyed by the "Great Video Game Crash" shortly thereafter.

Nintendo worked on a mockup of what would be their American console, this time branded the Nintendo Advanced Video System. However, analysts disliked the machine and speculation was rampant that it would fail.

Nintendo went back to the drawing board and ultimately created the Nintendo Entertainment System (NES) which ended up being the released console. Two major points were settled on prior to releasing the unit stateside.

First, Nintendo did studies and market analysis on the USA and determined that playing with their family was not what most gamers envisioned. Therefore, they removed the reference from the console's name.

Secondly, because of the recent market crash and the fear that video games were a fad that had already passed, Nintendo did not want to brand their console as a video games system. So the initial sets came bundled with a robot called Robotic Operating Buddy (R.O.B.) as well as a light gun called the Zapper.

The initial release of the NES came on October 18, 1985 when 100,000 units were set loose on New York City. Nintendo, aware of retailers' concerns with carrying yet another game system, offered to purchase back any unsold units, therefore putting all of the financial risk on themselves. The system flew off the shelves and by the time of the nationwide release in February of 1986, 90,000 of those initial units had been sold.

Before long the system was a worldwide success and Nintendo found themselves at the forefront of the gaming industry. Whereas a few years prior Atari had been synonymous with gaming, Nintendo now held that mantle. Kids did not play video games, they played Nintendo.

One of the pack-in games for the initial release was Super Mario Bros., the game that more or less created the platform genre and served as the introduction to gaming for an entire generation of American youth.

Apart from the overwhelming success of Super Mario, many other game series which continue to exist today began their life on the Nintendo, including The Legend of Zelda, Final Fantasy, Metroid, Kirby and many others.

In order to maintain strict control over the games market, Nintendo placed inside the NES a chip known as the 10NES, which acted as copy protection for the console. In order to legally manufacture a game for the NES a company had to submit their game to Nintendo who was the sole manufacturer of cartridges for their system.

Some crafty third party vendors devised methods for bypassing the protection scheme and released unlicensed cartridges for the system. However, Nintendo was not shy about taking companies to court for unapproved usage of their system and companies such as Tengen and Galoob found themselves facing the infamous Nintendo legal staff.

As the NES aged, Nintendo felt that they needed to expand their influence. Remembering the success of their earlier Game and Watch systems, Nintendo set out to create a hand held gaming system.

The result of this was the Game Boy, a pocket sized gaming console that had graphics comparable to the NES, though on a 2 color screen that lacked backlighting. The vast library of games as well as the inclusion of some of Nintendo's flagship titles helped the Game Boy dominate the hand held market even after competitors released machines that were more impressive from a technical standpoint.

Nintendo's control of the home market was so strong that even after more advanced systems had been created, (namely the TurboGrafx-16 and Genesis, known overseas as the PC-Engine and Megadrive) many retailers held off on stocking them.

However, Nintendo was not content to rest on their laurels and in 1990 they released the Super Nintendo Entertainment System (Super FamiCom in Japan). The SNES was more powerful than the NES and ushered in the 16-bit era.

Though Nintendo maintained their lead, they began to feel the bite as Sega began to draw players away from Nintendo. This was never more so the case than the release of Mortal Kombat for their respective systems.

Mortal Kombat was a sleeper hit at the arcades, a graphically violent fighting game that involved the killing of your opponent in gruesome and detailed methods. When the time came to release the game to the home market, Nintendo refused to budge on their "no blood" censorship policy.

As a result the Sega version of the game outsold the SNES version by 3 to 1, even though Nintendo's console offered better graphics and sound. It was becoming apparent that Nintendo was not moving forward and progressing with the wants and needs of their audience.

On December 9, 1993, congressmen Herb Kohl and Joe Lieberman held Congressional hearings on video game violence. As a result of this hearing, the Entertainment Software Rating Board (ESRB) was created.

Because a ratings system was now in place for games, Nintendo allowed the adaptation of Mortal Kombat II to reach the SNES unmolested from its arcade form. This version outsold the Sega release by a substantial margin.

As time wore on, the move towards 32-bit gaming and 3-D hardware became inevitable. Not wanting to be left behind by the next generation of games, Nintendo sought to both extend the life of the SNES and work on a new console that would fill the needs of modern gamers.

Nintendo had received assistance from Ken Kutaragi at Sony when choosing the sound processor for the SNES. In the end they had settled for the Sony SPC-700. Because of the connections they had formed when making this decision, Nintendo approached Sony to see about creating a CD-ROM add-on for the SNES.

This addition was to come in two stages, the first being an add-on for the SNES, the second was to be a brand new console that utilized both Nintendo and Sony's hardware and upped the ante for what a home system could do.

Nintendo found themselves unhappy with the terms of the contract they had signed with Sony, feeling that Sony retained too much control over the titles made in the SNES-CD format. Because of this they began working in the background with Philips to the same ends.

At the 1991 CES, Sony was shocked to find that Nintendo did not announce their partnership, but instead announced their partnering with Philips. This was an unforeseen and stinging blow to Sony.

This move turned out to be an enormous mistake for Nintendo, as the wrath of Sony played out in the next generation of consoles and Nintendo found their control of the market slipping away. Nintendo's joint venture with Philips, the CD-i was a complete failure. Nintendo entered into lawsuits to prevent Sony from continuing on with their project, but ultimately it came to fruition.

The codename of their original joint venture? The Playstation.

Life's Lessons

2008-04-04T17:00:00.000-07:00

We've all heard it said in the past that the best way to learn things is the hard way; that pain and misery are the best teachers we have. I think it goes without saying that many of us have had to learn a good deal of life's lessons this way and in the spirit of both A) offering sage advice to our younger readers and B) getting a post up for the sake of keeping Bonez updated, I would like to offer up some of the things that I have learned over the years that could prove useful to our readers.

1) Do not draw on cars with dry erase markers. Now, you're probably of the same mindset that my friend and I were when undertaking this venture; namely that dry erase markers ERASE, and therefore one can safely draw on any surface and enjoy the screams of terror of those whose things are being destroyed. In retrospect, bad idea. It might have even been incumbent on us to draw a test phallus on one small section of the car before covering the entire thing in various representations of male genitalia. For the record, not only does dry erase NOT wipe off of cars, it also does not happen to wash off. Ever. If you ever come across an 80's model gray Oldsmobile that is covered trunk to hood in penises, great and small, you can smile quietly to yourself knowing that somebody thought that was hilarious to do...20 years ago.

2) Do not use a lighter to light a gas grill. Now, this is one of the few times in my life that just prior to an accident I said, "Hey, I don't think this is a good idea". It is subsequently also one of the few times that I was right. No matches were available, and since I was a smoker at the time and always had a lighter handy, reaching in there and "sparking her up" seemed like a grand idea. Or not. I lost most of the hair on my right arm that night. 3 years later (Yes, ONLY 3 years ago) and I still do not grow hair on a large area of my arm. Oh well, at least the burgers were tasty.

3) Do not attempt a flying Jackie Chan style kick at a door if you are not, in fact, Jackie Chan. I learned this one in my teenage years. The end result was my foot slipping, throwing my arms out to break my fall and in turn breaking one of my arms with my fall. Yes, you read that right, I broke my arm kicking a door. To make matters worse I had to leave where I was to go do lights for a play. In order to get to that play I had to ride my moped, which I managed to do by bracing it with my feet, revving the throttle with my left hand and then dropping my rapidly swelling and useless hand onto it. I managed to perform lights for the ENTIRE play (Oliver, so you know) before heading off to the hospital to tend to my wounds. Broken bones hurt. They hurt even worse when you just let them dangle and do little, if nothing to repair them for a few hours.

4) If you are a teenager, never trust a group of your friends who promise you won't get hurt. Chances are you will. If you're one of that group of friends, never stop egging your friend on. Their pain is pure hilarity.

5) Yes, the little metal plate they put on your table at a Greek restaurant prior to bringing out the plate of meat is heated. It is not just a good conductor of heat for when the meat arrives. If you don't believe me, I recommend that you test this by poking it with a finger, not with your entire palm. Ouch.

6) Burying your feet in snow does not actually keep them warm. In fact, snow is frigidly cold.

7) Yes, you can draw blood with Nerf.

So there you have it, a handful of things to avoid in life, or at least the answers to a few questions that you never asked.

Bombs Away

2008-04-02T10:50:00.001-07:00

Michigan was mired in yet another of its frigid winters and I was forced, as was my daily routine, to make that half mile walk down to the bus stop to await the yellow chariot that would transport us to school. Our house was situated back from the main road by a driveway roughly one half mile in length. To wander down this road you would find but two houses, ours and THEIRS. In the twenty plus years that my family has lived in that house, I have come face to face with THEM perhaps five times. Ever. It helps to be from a non-social family that happens to live next door to another non-social family.

Setting forth for the stop that day, I had a strong suspicion that I would not ulitmately be ferried to our vaunted den of education. No, I had the knowledge that my parents would be leaving on yet another of their interstate ventures, this time to peddle antique books somewhere in the suburbs of Chicago. That meant that freedom was mere minutes away. As soon as they left, I would once again have full control of the house for whatever term they would be gone, which in this particular case was about a week.

My bus stop was used by only one other student, namely Terry. You should be aware that we were regular partners in crime, so any plans I had for cutting out on class and in general being a juvenile reprobate would no doubt need to include him. I met him down at the bus stop at our normal time and proceeded to delicately broach the subject of hiding out at my place instead of actually going to school.

"I don't think I'm gonna go to school today, man. Wanna join me?" Again, I wanted to make sure that the subject was handled with all due aplomb.

"Sure" he said, and at that point our blood vow had been made. No school would be attended by us that day, and in fact, we would make a solemn vow to ensure that no education of ANY TYPE took place in the time that we should have been in attendance.

The only thing to do at this point was to avoid getting on the bus while also remaining hidden from both the bus driver and by my parents as they made their way out. No problem, we figured, as it was still early in the morning (ergo, dark) and there was a baseball field across the street from our bus stop.

The plan was simple, make our way behind the concession stand at the baseball field, wait until my parents venture forth and then head to my house to reap the spoils of our clever and devious ways. The only thing standing in our way at this point was the cold. The frigid cold. The oppressive, HOLY FUCK Michigan cold. Fortunately, we were both completely underdressed for this venture, having assumed when we got ready that we would either be attending school or would quickly be heading to my house. Of course, no such luck was to be had.

The bus came and went at 6:30 and we basked in the warm glow of our clever hiding spot. A glow that was neither warm enough nor long lasting enough to assist us as the time wore ever on. 7:00 came and went. As did 8:00.

Far from being warm enough to handle such a situation, we found ourselves in desperation, digits turning beet red and then purple due to restricted blood flow and soon we were burying our appendages in the snow in order to capture what little warmth was leaving our bodies. I'm sure it would have looked odd to passersby to see two teenaged boys, almost purple with cold packing their hands and feet in the snow, assuring one another that this was "for warmth".

By the time 9:00 rolled around, we were beginning to become seriously worried about frostbite. This is the sort of shit we had more or less come to expect from life. You come up with a great idea and then life decides to fuck it all up by necessitating a trip to the emergency room. Sigh.

At 9:00 our shivering had become so severe and our inability to feel our fingers and toes so concerning, that we decided to head to my house under the assumption that we had simply missed my parents leaving. I mean, come on, it was nearly 3 hours since the bus had gone. My parents had a 7 hour drive ahead of them and that didn't even include getting a hotel room, setting up for the show, attending the pre-show dinner, etc. There was no way they had dallied behind at the house this long without a reason involving an ambulance making its way down our road.

So, collecting ourselves and our backpacks as best we could with fingers that no longer gripped, we began the long trek down the road to my house, grumbling between us the entire way about how we CERTAINLY had frostbite to some degree on any number of parts of our body. (Author's note: Yep. The toes on my right foot have never been the same and will turn ghostly white the second they get cold.) As we neared the halfway point of the driveway we heard a sound. A sound that sent an even icier chill down our spine than the one currently inhabiting the space.....My parents' van.

"OH SHIT!" we screamed simultaneously as we took off at the most breakneck speed we could manage back down the driveway. Oh fuck, oh fuck, what if they see us?!?! Our run nothing more than a hastened hobble, we managed to make our way back to the end of the road and cut over to the baseball field just in time to see the van pulling out of the driveway and making its way to Chicago. Breathing a collective sigh of relief, we made our way down to my house at the best pace we could manage. Not quite a run, not quite a crawl. (Which was impressive, considering.)

We deposited our backpacks upstairs in my bedroom and proceeded to fill the bathroom sink with warm water. Taking opposing spots on the counter, we submerged our hands and feet in the warm water, feeling the life slowly creep back into our bodies. After some time we were able to switch to hot water and in fact were able to feel our fingers and toes again. Numb with exhaustion and near-hypothermia, we made our way into the den, turned on the tv and were both fast asleep within five minutes.

We awoke later that day still chilly, but ultimately none the worse for wear. (Ahh, the resiliency of youth.) It was decided then and there that lunch time had arrived and we sauntered to our respective lunches. This being my house, I made my way to the kitchen, while Terry ventured upstairs to gather his bagged lunch from his backpack.

I stood in the kitchen preparing my sandwich without much more thought about the future than what movie I intended to watch shortly. And then I heard it.

"Bombs away!" Terry said, followed by a dull thud, which in turn was immediately followed by, "OH SHIT!”

Now, let's be realistic. "Oh shit" really NEVER means something good. But "Bombs away" FOLLOWED by "Oh shit" can only mean disaster. Major disaster. In MY house disaster.

I ran from the kitchen, screaming "What the fuck did you DO?" but didn't even have a chance to finish it before I saw. The pool. The ENORMOUS pool. Of grape juice. On the white carpet. A pool with a four foot radius, glistening in the sunlight streaming through the bay window.

Fear and rage welled in me, twisted and convoluted into an emotion so powerful words cannot describe it. I call it fage, and there's not a teenager alive who hasn't felt fage at some point. Currently, my fage was focused squarely on Terry.

I tried to stammer myself through a repeat chorus of "What the fuck did you do", but found that my fage had stripped me of my voice. The best he could offer in reply was that "I didn't know it was in there" when he dropped the bag. I retorted with the relative idiocy of dropping your lunch from the second story onto the white carpet in the first place with or without the involvement of Welch's.

I'd love to say that I cleverly grabbed a knife, slashed his throat and forced him to bleed out on the very stain he had just created, crafting a meticulous story for my parents about Terry tripping and falling onto the blade. If nothing else, the blame would be deflected from me. But unfortunately, I just wasn't that creative as a lad. And I was left with a rather large, round and increasingly purple problem.

I stormed off to the garage to gather a bucket and a couple of sponges. Filling the bucket with cold water and a liberal amount of Woolite, I made my way back to the living room, stuffed them into Terry's hands and very nicely suggested that he should consider cleaning the mess. (Author's note: I was not nice nor did I suggest anything. I am certain that a threat involving crushed testicles was levied.)

Feeling a tad high and mighty due to the fact that I had NOTHING to do with this fiasco, I watched Terry furtively scrubbing at the stain moreso than get involved. Oh, I scrubbed a bit here and there, but the meat of the work was done by him, as felt fitting at the time, and frankly still does as I write about it.

He scrubbed that carpet until his fingers were but nubs, reddened and raw from the continued motion of the carpet against them, frigid water and copious amounts of Woolite, both from the bucket and applied directly to the stain. After a good hour of cleaning, it became readily apparent that his efforts were completely in vain, this stain was making its way into the carpet and had no intention of leaving without a fight.

Realizing that these efforts were fruitless, it was decided to phone a carpet cleaning place and throw out our favorite question. The hypothetical. Any time we made a phone call starting with the phrase, "Hypothetically speaking..." you could pretty much just assume that we fucked up. Bad. Hypothetical calls were made when we knew we had done something really, really terrible and wanted to see just how deep a hole we had dug for ourselves.

So I dialed the phone and started the conversation with the dread term. "Hypothetically speaking, let's say you spilled a large amount of grape juice on a white carpet. What would be the best way for cleaning that up?". Of course, the answer we prayed for was to spend $5 on some miracle elixir and be done with the whole sordid affair. Unfortunately, that was NOT what they had to say to us. They recommended a steam cleaning but made extra sure to point out that NO MATTER WHAT, do NOT use cold water and Woolite, as you'll just set the stain forever.

Shit.

So, the bad news is that the carpet is ruined and I am filled with a fury so indescribable that Terry fears my imminent explosion, as it will rightfully be directed at him. The good news is that since my parents have left me for the week, a small stipend was left so that I could afford luxuries such as food. So, further phone calls were made to try and get our hands on a steam cleaning unit. Unfortunately, the stipend was just that, a stipend, and nowhere near enough money to cover those costs.

Ultimately, I made Terry come over every day during my parents' absence and clean that spot. By the time they returned from their trip, it had gone from a brilliant enormous purple stain to a vibrantly bright enormous purple stain. But, all things being equal, life decided to be fair on this one. I managed to deflect ALL of the blame onto Terry, and for years he was unable to live down his accident with my parents.

Of course, the version we told involved an innocent Terry having a very severe accident involving a Keatonian pratfall, but nonetheless, the end result was a huge stain, compliments of him. He was therefore banned from ever having a drink in the house anywhere except the kitchen from that point forward, in perpetuity.

We were lucky that time.

Sometimes I'd Do Better To Just Shut My Mouth

2008-04-01T19:26:00.000-07:00

Every once in awhile I catch a glimpse of why I'm so awkward in social circumstances. I always try to be as polite, courteous and friendly as I possibly can be with people, but for some reason I just don't feel like I fit in when dealing with them. I'm terrible at small talk and really have no capacity for exchanging pleasantries. It's just not how my brain is wired.

Yesterday I stopped to get a haircut, a scenario that I dread every time it comes to pass, as the barber's seat is one of those places where small talk is pretty much expected. To tell the truth, I normally go to an Asian barber near my work; one of the primary reasons for this being that the language barrier ensures that I don't have to discuss anything more than the weather or how awful the traffic is. But yesterday I wasn't near my normal location, instead finding myself trapped at a shop populated by native English speakers.

I try. I really do. I talked about the weather and the traffic and the things you can do downtown, and I smiled and laughed where appropriate, though internally I didn't give a dingo's kidney for what was being said.

Before long the topic turned to movies. I pointed out that I almost exclusively go to a theater downtown that shows 20-30 year old movies, while my stylist mentioned that she had seen "Meet the Browns" the previous week. (For the record, I am so tired of seeing Tyler Perry's name and face on every single DVD released for the last 3 years, I could scream.)

From there we began discussing "older" movies, namely "I Am Legend". This is where my inability to deal with humans really came to the forefront. I present our conversation, as best I can recall it. (And yes, I actually DO talk like this.)

Her: I seen that "I Am Legend" film with Will Smith, you seen that one?

Me: Not as of yet, though I've heard pretty good things about it.

Her: I didn't think I'd like it, cuz Will Smith is all alone for the whole thing. I was afraid it'd be like that Tom Hanks movie....(she pauses, trying to recollect)

Me: Castaway.

Her: Yeah! He was awful in that movie. Why the hell he talkin' to a ball?

Me: (I didn't even LIKE Castaway all that much, but come on, he talked to the ball to try and retain some of his humanity since he was in a situation where he was entirely socially isolated. Wilson was his way of dealing with this.)

Her: But I thought Will Smith did aight in this one.

Me: Yeah, I need to sit down and watch that one. I read the book, but I haven't seen the film.

Her: They wrote a book about it?

Me: Well, yeah, the movie is based on the book by Richard Matheson. It was written in the 50's. 54, I think?

Her: Oh really?

Me: Yeah, and they've made two other film versions of it, "The Last Man on Earth" and "The Omega Man".

Her: Hunh.

Me: And George Romero has openly admitted that it was a large source of inspiration for "Night of the Living Dead". So, in reality, it was the progenitor of the modern zombie film. You can thank it's influence for those and the more modern day contagion films, like 28 Days Later.

Her: ...

Me: ...

At this point you could pretty much hear the crickets chirping. From that point forward she had very little to say to me. And once again I just retreated into my shell, praying that this whole experience could be over soon.

This is the case for me, all too often. I have a bad tendency to delve way too much into trivial information, forgetting that the majority of people I come across don't care, and in many cases are a bit creeped out by somebody that can recall information that quickly. My rather formal methods of speaking with strangers don't help much, either.

Providing boatloads of information where a mere word would suffice has always been a quirk of mine. I tend to make associations very quickly and I rather enjoy verbosity, particularly in conversation. In fact, on a few occasions in my childhood I was called upon by my friends to completely horrify or offend some female who had taken too keen a shine and would not go away. Ten minutes around me could ensure that they'd have no interest in my friends any longer, if it meant they'd have to be exposed to me on a regular basis.

For example, here are some things that have crossed my mind and been spouted out before I realized that the other party likely didn't care:

Upon hearing that a customer's name was Gary Gilmore I pointed out that he was executed in Utah in the 70's by firing squad, was the first person executed after the reinstatement of the death penalty and that both of his corneas were transplanted after death.

Pointing out to a first time passenger in my car that the cd we were listening to (Buried Dreams by Clock DVA) was rumored to be the album that was in Jeffrey Dahmer's stereo when he was caught. I also made note of its themes of sexual sadism and serial killing.

Discussing at great length the methods by which chicken nuggets and hot dogs are created, usually while eating chicken nuggets or hot dogs with somebody.

All of these things are prime examples of why I just don't seem to fit in with the majority of people I meet. Couple that with the fact that I don't tend to like people in the first place and you can imagine that I'm a hoot at parties.

Please feel free to check out my more regular bloggetry at Bonez.

Putting Things Into Perspective

2008-03-12T16:25:00.000-07:00

He squats in the weeds, face bloodied for reasons unknown and radiating the stress and deference to authority that inform us, the viewer, that he has been caught in the act of some transgression, though what it was we do not know. Alhough the few words you can hear are foreign and muffled, the intent of his captor is clear.

Upon a moment's observation it becomes plain that he has been in this situation before; his left hand missing completely, his left arm ending in a fleshy nub. Whatever circumstances caused the loss of the left hand have been repeated and now he is being entreated to place his right hand upon the rock before him, in full knowledge that within moments it too will become a stump.

Though we lack full knowledge of the situation, it is obvious that it is both dire and grim. The man lacks a single scrap of clothing, covered instead with a veil of fear. It is obvious that he does not wish to put his hand on the rock, but judging by the blood on his head and the large machete wielded by his captor, to refuse will surely result in a punishment worse than the loss of a hand.

One can't help but wonder what will befall this man once justice has been meted. The simplest things we take for granted; writing, counting change, using doorknobs; these things and multitudes of others will soon become difficult, if not impossible tasks. This handicap will only be further exacerbated by the social shunning that is to ensue. One can imagine that if the loss of a hand signifies the mark of a thief, brigand, or any other stigma, that the loss of both will permanently brand him an outcast.

Yet the basic survival instinct supercedes all rational thought and the man agrees to the punishment due. He places his hand across the rock and waits for the searing pain that is mere seconds away.

In the space of an instant it is over. The blade comes down and cuts through sinew and bone as if they were not even present. The hand falls forward and we are left with a visual of our victim soundlessly running away, the only accompanying soundtrack being the harsh clang of metal on stone.

You may wonder, and rightly so, why I keep posting about and offering links to videos showing the most desperate moments and situations resulting in trauma or death. I assure you that by providing it here on Bonez I am not attempting to appeal to your basest and most prurient desires.

I post this kind of material to help you step back from your reality for just a moment. We tend to get caught up in our day to day stresses, concerned only with what is happening in our own little sphere of reality; and sometimes we delude ourselves into believing that the worst of the world has befallen us.

Videos like this help to center yourself; to realize that no matter how bad things may be for you at the moment, for someone else it is far worse. Maybe you've lost your job, fallen out with a loved one or been rejected, it doesn't matter. The point is that our problems, no matter how massive they may seem at any moment are much more fleeting than the issues of others.

Sometimes material like this is not so much a celebration of the gruesome as it is a means to putting your own problems into perspective.

Video is linked here.

EMO

2008-03-09T17:10:00.001-07:00

I had the opportunity to meet Emo Philips last night. I must admit that I am still giddy with glee. He was a very courteous and gracious man, and though I only spoke to him for a moment it meant the world to me. I managed to tell him that his work was a great influence on my own and very briefly discussed the kind of writing I do. I intend to write a longer piece about it on Bonez, but I just wanted to mention it for the time being. The man is a hero of mine and has been for a great many years. If you're not familiar with him, check out his albums, E=MO2, Live at the Hasty Pudding and Emo Philips. The man is a genius.

I Hate Cows

2008-03-05T18:46:00.000-08:00

I have to say it. I hate cows. I had one trapped in my room earlier tonight. It's WINTER! The cows should all be dead. But no, I can hear that fucker buzzing around the window. Damn cows. Always buzzing around your head. You know how if you watch a cow when it lands on you it picks up its hooves and rubs them together? IT'S TASTING YOU! They've managed to ruin just about every picnic I've ever been on. God damn I hate cows.

Vowel Movement

2008-02-26T16:02:00.000-08:00

I had quite a productive day today.

In fact, you could say that I had a vowel movement. A warm softserve of my information starfished feverishly into the cup of life called the internet.

You slather my information all about you until possessed with a steaming desire to discuss it further. Soon we vigorously exchange the mucilaginous paste of assimilating knowledge betwixt us.

And lo, though my writings may satiate your deepest hungers, fulfillment arrives only from violently retching the hot splash of semi-processed information back into my eager mind.

Once again the free exchange of thought wriggles down the serpentine tunnels of the mind, imbued with your musky heft of discovery and speckled with the partially consumed nuggets of my original idea.

Or you could just say I managed to get a lot written.

If you WOULD HAVE said the former, please send me an email with a picture, phrenology measurements for each of the 27 brain organs, and a 200 word essay on how "Teen Wolf, Too" changed your life.

Masks - Part I

2008-02-20T17:07:00.001-08:00

We all wear masks. Every one of us, every day. Whether it be for the point of "doing the right thing", or not offending or pretending to be something we're not is irrelevant. The point is that every one of us pretends a little bit each day.

I have anxiety and depression issues. I hesitate to say that "I suffer" from them, as in general I do not. On occasion one of them can flare to a point of discomfort. At such times I have no issue with taking medication to level back out. But I dislike the thought of staying medicated.

Anxiety and depression are deeply intertwined with the funny little creature I like to call me. Lose my anxiety and my energy levels drop. I lose some of the idiosyncrasies of my character that are brought about by my constant fears and paranoias. If my depression is taken away, the cynical side of me somewhat dies. Medicate me and I cease to be me, the voice in my mind that controls my fingers and urges me to create dies out.

So, you take the good with the bad. I'm currently in a bit of a depression swing. As a result my output has lessened over at Bonez. I'm not mired in a sea of self pity or anything like that, just a general malaise and lack of enthusiasm for life. I'm not sad, just...ambivalent. The world has gone gray. A wasteland of banality, devoid of color and almost deafening in its silence. This tends to make me distance myself a bit from those I care about and I generally become a "frump", easily irritated and moody, but never an outright jerk. (That's just not part of my personality.)

But in the interest of keeping up appearances I put on the mask of normalcy. Or, as normal as people expect me to be. (Which honestly, is pretty far from normal.) I trudge into work after an evening of no rest and sleepwalk my way through the day, pushing the appropriate buttons and saying the correct words in order to make time pass as easily as possible. I come home and blindly surf the net or play games.

It's times like this that I just lose my drive and my interest. I apologize for the dearth of posting on my part at the moment and I will no doubt return in the near future. Usually the desire to create will hit and then I'm right back on the wagon.

Those of you who also deal with mental issues will understand. Those that either lack mental issues or choose to ignore them sometimes have a difficult time in understanding why some of us just "switch off" from time to time.

Gory Musicals? I'm In!!!!

2008-02-14T16:55:00.000-08:00

I have to admit, this amuses me greatly. I carry in my car at all times the complete scores to no less than 10 musicals. I have a nice collection of extremely gory horror films to boot. I won't even begin to mention my almost encyclopedic knowledge of serial killers. Is it worth pointing out that my neighbor would likely describe me as "Quiet, nice, pretty much kept to himself"?

Appy polly loggies for the lack of updates of late, both here and on Bonez. Had a rough week at work, thanks to our beta schedule and then had to deal with a crash, to boot. I got the computer sorted out. She's gonna need a new hard drive, but I should be able to keep her alive and breathing for another month or two. I have some fun ideas for Bonez. Hope to get them up in the next day or two. Tomorrow is the premiere of Diary of the Dead. :)

Is This Thing On?

2008-02-02T10:32:00.000-08:00

My voice is crap. I'm working on a fun little thingamajig for Bonez that involves overdubbing a commercial. I do NOT have an announcer's voice. My voice is rather high pitched and a tad nasally. Couple that with my consuming dislike for being recorded and it's taking me seven trillion takes to get single words like "Plastic" recorded. Oy. I'll just have to keep on trying. Maybe I can work some studio magic and clean up in postproduction. :P