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January 31, 2007

As Funny As A Slap in the Face

We got an email from Dave in Texas. You remember Dave. He's the guy with the Crap Christmas Tree. Dave wanted to know what I thought about the Three Stooges. Seems he has this idea that only guys like the Stooges. Something about bad chromosomes or something.

I have two daughters. They're teens now (ok, one is older than a teen and in college).
They have two X chromosomes. And what that means it when they hit puberty, they stop thinking in the 3 Stooges are funny.
They can't help it. It's science.
But when they were little, we'd pile on the bed every evening at 6, and watch them.
It was so cute. They'd go "yay! it's Curly!!" whenever Curly was in the cast.
If it was "Shemp", they'd say "awwwww". Although I think Shemp was very underappreciated.
Still, Curly rocked.
I miss those days. Before cars and college and boys.
But I still laugh at the Stooges.
Because I am retarded.
And have a Y chromosome.

So he emailed and directed me to his post and the youtube videos and said: I dare you. Ask Turtle to look at these clips and say "oh that's not funny". I want the report.

I asked Turtle. The answer was what Dave expected. And a Stooges argument was born. Because my feelings on the Stooges (I have the sudden urge to listen to Seek and Destroy) is pretty typical. I hate them.

And thus, a Late Night Typing was born. Turtle defends, I defy and Dave just admits that guys are retarded.

nuttystooge.jpgTurtle has a theory:

The thing that most women don't get about the Three Stooges is the real meaning behind what they do. Why they beat on each other might seem like an easy explaination to some. They simply hate each other. But, if you take a deeper look and peel of the simple facade that is mindless beatings that is "The Stooges" you will see the real meaning behind the madness.

Latent homosexuality.

This is where I am confused. Most chicks dig guy on guy action. Look in any girls porn collection and they will have a video or two. Don't believe me? Think about it. Most chicks dig gay porn like most guys dig lesbian porn. Keep in mind that this is just one of my running theories. This theory also kinda gets in the way of a few other of my theories but over time, you will find that most of my theories run into that grey, crossing over area. I use them to suit my needs. In this case, I believe that the Three Stooges really beat on each other because they lived in a society that repressed their true feelings for each other. They only way they could show their feelings for each other in a society that would surely outcast them if they were allowed to become who they really were, was to beat on each other.

In fact, each time they punched each other or tweaked each other's heads, you can see a look in their eyes. A look of "I am really sorry I have to do this. If we were only born into a better society that respected each others rights, this fist in your gut would be a kiss on your lips."

It is there. Like seeing Bobby Brady stoned in that one Brady Bunch episode, it is there. That look. Bobby was stoned. You could tell. Same way I can tell the Stooges wanted to move to the Castro.

I think it is just too bad that instead of being left a legacy of black and white gay porn films we get three men beating each other up. -T

Michele has a theory, too:

I go against the grain when it comes to the usual gender-specific likes and dislikes. I prefer video games and comic books to shopping and shoes. I like action movies, not Lifetime flicks. I dig muscle cars and action figures and I have a well documented case of penis envy.

But stick me in front of a tv playing the Three Stooges and I'll either stare blankly or get up and walk away after two minutes.

stoogesfreud.jpgMaybe I don't like slapstick humor. I like my jokes subtle. Low key. I like humor that makes me think. Slapping someone upside the head forty times in half an hour only makes me think "Who the fuck is lauging at this and when did he get that lobotomy?"

Maybe once or twice I actually watched the show for longer than five minutes, but that was just to study the group dynamics rather than laugh.

You know what I figured out? You're gonna love this.

Moe, Larry and Curly each represent ourselves. The id, the ego and the super-ego. Yes, the Three Stooges are Freudian humor. Which really gives credence to Turtle's sexual metaphors.

Not really. Nothing ever gives credence to Turtle's metaphors. Maybe if you had some cheap vodka and a few hits of acid, you could make sense of his thinking, but us straight laced folk just follow along and nod at the appropriate times and wonder if maybe he isn't some kind of supergenius whose thinking is just light years above ours, making it difficult for us to understand.

Where was I? Oh yea. Stooges. Representing ourselves. The part of us that likes to get beat up and the part of us that likes to beat upon others. The part that likes to bark orders and the part that likes to be bossed around. There's a whole submissive/dominant thing going on here. What you can really learn from watching the Stooges is that each of us, in some way, is a sado-masochist who likes to be dominated by our own self.

No, I have not been drinking.

I'm just trying to find something nice to say about the worst comedy team this side of Seigfried and Roy.

What? They aren't comedy?

Shows you what I know about what's funny.

[this explains nothing about why girls don't like stooges and guys do, but i think the whole chromosome thing is pretty self explanatory] -M

Michele and Turtle may not share laughs at the Stooges, but they do laugh together.

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Apathy

I don't know why we keep at it. Really, I don't.

People don't care about live music. They want to hear things that are on the radio, exactly like it is on the radio. Places that would be good for live music don't have it, and won't pay for it. People complain that there's nothing to do, that they're tired of the few local live bands that are here, but try to drag them out to something different and you may as well have cement shoes on. B-listers get all kinds of publicity when they come through town, and no one ever says a peep about supporting your local musicians or bands. In fact, if a local band tried to get in to the place where the out-of-town musicians play, they get laughed at.

Now here's the funny part. I could travel the 250 miles to where I used to live and ask for a lot more money than we used to get playing there, and get it. Because suddenly, I'd be part of an out-of-town band, but people who live there who have huge more amounts of talent than I do can't get a gig for more than $200 a night. And that's twisting arms.support your local band.jpg

I was part of a band here that had eight people in it. We'd play regularly- and, if it was me booking, we wouldn't have been playing this place- at a place that didn't want to pay out any dollars. But we got free food and booze. So we'd all bring our significant others and get steak dinners and drink all night. Because if they weren't going to put the money in our pocket, we'd eat it out of theirs. That didn't last long. Now, you get your penny, a cheap dinner for one and like two Budweisers. Oh and someone else's worthless opinion. Yeah, buddy, here's my bass- you get on up there and show me how it's done, mmmkay?

I have gone on before about how we play for ourselves. But if you're going to hire people to entertain your crowd, and those people have a combined 250 years experience playing, aren't their skills worth something? You pay your doctor. I mean, you'd never say to your doctor that you'll pay him a week's worth of McDonald's UnHappy Meals and six rolls of quarters. The doctor wouldn't do it. You can't tell the guy who's fixing your sink that you'll tell everyone you know how great he is and here's a bag of cans and a sandwich and expect anything less than a punch in the face.

So yeah, I don't understand why we allow people to stomp all over us. When I book, no one stomps on me or my bandmates. Maybe I'm tired of being dragged all over for a shitty attitude from the toothless bartender and the paws of a drunk on my ass for four hours, to walk out with $20 and no buzz and an hour's drive home at 3:30 AM.

I've been grouchy lately and isolating myself because I'm really tired of other people's crap and I think anyone who's been playing as long as some of the people I know deserve a lot more respect than they get.

Pril might be getting getting that "fuck the audience" attitude.....maybe...

http://fasterthantheworld.com/profile/shut_up_and_play_guitar.html

It Can’t Be Thirty Years!

So we’re doing the 70s this week. I thought I’d go with the difference between me now and me 30 years ago.

1977: I hated waking up earlier that 9:00 A.M..

2007: I wake up at 0500 no matter where I am or what I’m doing that day. Waking up later I feel like I’m wasting a lot of time. I sometimes sleep in on the weekends.

1977: I only drank coffee for breakfast, except on weekends or to go to the diner.

2007: No change.

1977: I was perfectly comfortable in Levis, hiking boots, black t-shirt and a flannel shirt

2007: Ummm, I’ve switched to Wranglers and running shoes and rarely wear flannel but otherwise, yeah, kind of comfortable there.

churchsignlesbians.jpg1977: Two years out of Catholic School believe that the Church is one of the most fundamentally evil organizations on the planet mostly made up of frustrated lesbians and pedophiles.

2007: Shrug.

1977: Honestly believed that one evening when “Sky” Daniels was broadcasting on the LOOP FM, that we’d receive our instructions for taking over the world.

2007: Wonders who's brownies I’d stolen.

1977: Thought Springsteen was the be all and end all of rock’n’roll stars.

2007: Can rarely stomach anything of Springsteen’s done after 1977 and none of his folksy, “I gotta be Bob Dylan” stuff.

1977: Was rabidly anti-military. No, seriously, the military was nothing but evil men doing evil things for an evil government. I thought that all war was useless.

2007: About to retire from the Air Force with 23 years of service. Realized that we’re not perfect, but we’re better than most.

1977: Refused to watch television except for Saturday Night Live. Wonder if this “Bill Murray” guy is going to be as funny as Chevy Chase.

2007: Cheddar who?

Evil Computer.jpg1977: Computers are evil and they’re going to destroy us all.

2007: Computers are our friends, computers are our friends, computers are our friends.

1977: Never went to bed before midnight, usually didn’t crash until one or two A.M..

2007: If I’m awake past 11, I’m kind of screwed for the next three days.

1977: Honestly believed that Jimmy Carter was going to bring hope and dignity back to The White House.

2007: Hawwwwk! Tooooie!


1977: Was waiting to see if the Space Shuttle was going to work and was anxious for the International Space Station to be completed.

2007: Waiting to see if the Space Shuttle is going to work and no longer care if the International Space Station will ever be completed.

1977: Started hearing some band called The Clash on college radio.

2007: I listen to part of The Clash Anthology just about every day.

1977: Stood in line to see Star Wars. Over and over and over and over again.

2007: Smile when Boyo tells me he’s taking the collection to watch it yet again.

1977: Very excited for the future because The President has created The Department of Energy promising a comprehensive energy policy to reduce our dependence on foreign oil and research renewable fuel sources.

2007: Yeah, 30 years ago, still freaking waiting.

talkingheads1-9921.jpg1977: The Commodore PET computer is first sold. I figure it’s a geek thing, who’s going to need a computer at home?

2007: There are currently five computers in various states of disrepair in our home. Three work well.

1977: Psycho Killer by Talking Heads is released. We all wonder WTF is this shit?

2007: Never did figure that out.

1977: Never Mind The Bullocks, Here’s the Sex Pistols is released in the United States. Most of us already have the import.

2007: I have no idea why I ever listened to The Sex Pistols except I know that Vodka was involved.

1977: Saturday Night Fever is released. I’m pissed off that almost everyone misses the message of the movie about how hollow and pointless “the boogie life” is. Can’t believe I spent an hour in line in the fucking snow to see this shit. Seriously, she wasn’t that cute.

2007: Thirty years later, most folks still haven’t figured it out. She’s married to one of my best friends. She still makes him “Hustle” and “Electric Slide” with her at weddings.


Timmer made this up, as anyone who remembers the 70s, simply wasn’t there.
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Satan Drives A Trans Am With A Chain Link Steering Wheel

So it’s all about the 70’s this week then, back when was a kid, cutting my teeth on ghost stories and vampire comics. What’s weird is that I remember a lot of stuff from when I was a little kid, especially stuff on TV. Like ads for movies I figured I’d never get to see because they were about grown up stuff. Movies about Satan and walking corpses and mass murderers and high school. Every now and then, I’d overhear a conversation about a movie that I was too young for, so I’d file that movie title away for years. And that memory served me fairly well when I got a little older and managed to watch those movies. The Seventies weren’t as bad as the Eighties when it came to horror. The 70’s had its share of shitty movies to be sure, but come on. We all know that the 80’s is the peak of shitty horror production.

cwo.jpgA Clockwork Orange – 71

Is this even a horror movie? Depends on your constitution, I guess. I’ve seen this in all kinds of sections at different video stores – horror, drama, even comedy. For that matter, I’d call it a comedy before a drama. As sickening as it is, there’s some funny shit going on there.

If you haven’t seen this then you should check it out. It makes your life better. You understand more jokes on The Simpsons.

This movie’s set in the near future (as Stanley Kubrick or Anthony Burgess saw it) and follows Alex, a fucking depraved psychopath of a teenager. Which is, honestly, to say that he’s much like the rest of us except for the fact that he put more of his thoughts into action. He stole, he raped, he killed, but not before he got good and fucked up on milk with knives in it. Alex eventually gets caught having his fun (after he kills a woman with a huge ceramic dick) and gets thrown into prison, where he makes a concerted effort to pretend to reform. He doesn’t give a shit about reforming though, he just wants out…. One of the funniest and sickest scenes shows Alex reading the Bible and describing how inspirational and uplifting he found it, how he could almost picture himself back in biblical times; then you see Alex imagining himself dressed as a Roman soldier, smiling and whipping a thorn-crowned and bloody Jesus, dragging his cross to his own crucifixion. That’s sick but it’s also funny, and that’s why people like Kubrick.

Anyway, Alex undergoes the Ludovico Technique, a violent form of classical conditioning where he’s shot full of dru…. holy shit, this is boring like a book report. So the doctors fixed him too good and he got completely passive. Then his crimes and past victims came back to bite his ass when he was in no condition to protect said ass. He eventually ends up no better off than he was at the beginning, but with a lot more experience. At the end of the movie he knows who the fuck he is.

And that thing with the eyelids is legendary. My wife watches as many horror movies as I do, but she just can’t watch Alex’s eyelids peeled back like that. Me, I just don’t want to be killed by a dick. And I don’t want to live in a wheelchair and be tended to by some macho gay dude in revealing gym attire.

But I would like one of them little cars that go really fast down country roads. And a bowler hat.

And a cane with a knife in the handle.

And drugs that come from boobs.

The Exorcist – 73

Now this, unlike the last one, is without question a horror movie. Talk to someone who was young when this came out and they’ll tell you. bsf.jpg By today’s standards it’s still a pretty creepy movie, and if you’re traditionally religious, like pious, then this will scare the shit out of you. You shouldn’t watch it. I first saw it when I was about twelve, and yeah, it was fucking creepy. The scariest thing for me at the time was the thought that my parents might find out that I’d seen it. Statements like Let Jesus Fuck You and Your Mother Sucks Cocks In Hell, they didn’t go over too good at my house. I’m glad for that guidance though, because it makes the bad things seem worse and that is more fun. And this movie is fun. Pissing in public and priests kissing concrete. Get the poor girl a jackhammer Jesus…. No, take the crucifix away, she’s not even old enough to be doing that.

The Texas Chainsaw Massacre – 74

I’ve been over this one in detail. One of my favourites. Fucked up from beginning to end and with hardly a second’s break in the increasing violence and insanity. This is another one that freaked people out at the time, but it doesn’t deserve the slasher reputation it has because there’s hardly any blood in it. It’s all atmosphere, baby.

Bloodsucking Freaks – 76

I haven’t mentioned this one before and I’m not going into a lot of detail now. It needs a lot of space, and I’ve been meaning to watch it again for a while….. but watching this movie isn’t quite as enjoyable as watching a lot of others so I keep putting it off.

It’s a Troma movie. Aside from low budgets and bad acting, Troma is known for making movies that other people wouldn’t do – usually because they wouldn’t bother. But with Bloodsucking Freaks, I don’t think anyone else would touch it. It’s about a guy who likes to torture and kill girls in front of other people. In order to have his fun he starts to operate a performance art show, so that he can act like he’s pretending to hurt and kill people – when in fact he’s actually doing it – and he gets the applause of the audience in return. Sounds interesting, hey? It is, but not to state the obvious, there’s a lot of torture in it. Degradation with nudity. Kind of like softcore porn for the really fucking maladjusted. Not for everyone. But maybe, just maybe, it’s the thing for you.

I Spit On Your Grave – 78

Like the last one, I’ve been meaning to watch it again but I just haven’t gotten around to it. Some people hated this movie because they thought it was misogynistic, and others hated this movie because they thought it was full of that newfangled women’s lib garbage. I Spit On Your Grave couldn’t win with a lot of people. It’s what you call a revenge movie. It gets grouped with a lot of exploitation movies but it’s much better than that. Which makes it more disturbing.

It’s about a girl who wants to get away from the city, so she rents a cottage in the countryside. A few local hicks spot her and notice she’s alone, and they eventually assault and rape her. Repeatedly.

I seem to recall that at one point, they had their way and let her go. So she ran and ran through the woods, naked, bloody, crying, terrified. And in her panic she ran right into the guys again. So they grabbed her and raped her again, over a dead log in the woods.

In any case, the poor kid gets away long enough to devise her own plan…. And she gets those guys back in understandable, graphic and disturbing ways. You won’t forget watching it.

Dan is maladjusted and likes softcore porn, but that doesn't mean he thinks Bloodsucking Freaks is high art. Or does it?

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Day of Portraits

It’s January but it’s not cold like it should be this time of year. The sun set about 5:30 or so this afternoon. Rain fell earlier today and then the sky cleared somewhat. As the sun set, the sky was most beautiful. The light was warm and soft and red.

I attempted to take pictures of the kids in this beautiful, natural glow of the end of the day.

Yeah. Let’s see how far I got.

I started with Kaiya, who insisted on wearing her purple parka even though it was 51 degrees. She’s been a little punky this week since being diagnosed with a double ear infection on Wednesday and then having to endure the invasion of a newborn baby on Friday. (Remember the portrait of Wendy and Jayden from a few weeks ago? Baby Jayden had her first half day with Mr. Marty on Friday. And don’t worry – the ear infection is bacterial and not contagious.)

shawna230.jpg

It’s apparent that Kaiya will have no part of the picture taking tonight, despite the beautiful light that we have been given. What am I gonna do with this two-year old?

No other choice but to move on to my other two spawn.

The boys, Jake and Riley, are so much more accommodating because they understand that mom has a deadline and has procrastinated yet again and the light is good and the little sister won’t cooperate and they know that if they want dessert tonight they’d better be the little angels that they pretend to be and give mom some good shots.

So I got this.

shawna330.jpg


Don’t ask me if they have the same father because right after I tell you to fuck off, I’d tell you that they do indeed have the same father.

So, then I decided to do my first ever self-portrait. Yeah, first ever. This picture was totally manipulated in Photoshop. I asked Riley if the picture looks like me. He said 60/40 – 60 me and 40 “something else”. Not “someone else”, yet “something else”.

shawnaself.jpg


I thought about taking a picture of Dad’s goatee, which I found in a pile in the bathroom drawer tonight. All four inches of it. But it looked kind of gross, like a severed limb or something…

And we’re supposed to get snow tonight but no “accumulation”. The boys are pissed.

Shawna has her own, natural glow.


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When Starbuck Had A Penis

There are three good things that came out of the 70s: Me, Star Wars, and cheesy TV science fiction. This was a time before Richard Hatch was a fat, naked man on an island. This was a time before everyone was moody and depressed about every damned thing. This was a time when Starbuck had a penis.

starbuck.jpgThe two biggest sci-fi shows to emerge in the late 70s were Battlestar Galactica and Buck Rogers in the 25th Century. Galactica was coolness incarnate, especially if you were a kid. It had a thundering theme song that left no doubt in your mind that Lorne Greene was about to do some epic shit with his ragtag fleet. It was an upbeat march that was both triumphant and hopeful. There's no muted, mournful wail of regret and loss to be found where Lorne Greene treads. When you hear Galactica's theme song, you don't think, "Hmm, I guess I better settle down for an hour of nihilistic romp and drunken regret." Aw hell, no. that's not how we rolled. When the final notes of that theme song were still echoing in your ears, you knew that it was time to strap your ass in, hit the Turbo, and kick some Cylon cans back to their old and busted Base Stars.

Galactica '78 was almost operatic in scope and tone. From Lorne Greene's basso voice intoning deep respect for the Lords of Kobol, to his rock-solid faith in finding Earth, you knew that everything was going to be okay. You see, Galactica gets a lot of crap about their almost immediate partying after humanity was wiped out. I'm sorry, but if I knew Lorne Greene was in charge, I'd cut a little rug myself. It was the 70s. You didn't dwell on the negative vibes; you picked yourself up, dusted yourself off, and went about your way to a bright, new future. There's an inherent optimism in Galactica that doesn't exist in sci-fi today. These days, everything has to be dark and moody, plus all the characters have to be morally ambiguous people with deep, personal conflicts. That's fine for what it is, but we get enough of that stuff in the real world. Sometimes it's nice to escape to a place where the men are men, the woman wear low-cut dresses and lip gloss, people fly cool spaceships, and Jane Seymour dies.

The one weird thing about Galactica, other than the feathered hair, was the fact that they kept bumping into humans. The Cylons were supposed to have wiped out humanity, apollo starbuck.jpgleaving only tiny rag-tag fleet to flee the cylon tyranny. The only other place in the galaxy with humans was Earth, yet Galactica regularly found planets with humans running all over the place. There was a Wild West Planet, as well as an almost identical planet called Terra. Neither of these were Earth, but they were habitable, they had functioning human societies, and they were outmatched by Galactica's mighty power. Yet Galactica would always move on at the end of the episode, looking for that shining beacon in the night. If I were Starbuck or Apollo, I think I would've just lied about it. When Adama asks if this is indeed the Earth of legend, I'd just look around, shrug my shoulders and report, "Uh, yeah. Yeah, it's Earth all right. No doubt about it." But heroes didn't lie in the 70s, so they were stuck trying to find that one special planet amongst the teeming multitude of humanity. When they finally did find it, it was really lame and they all had super powers. They also didn't become the gods of ancient legend. Bummer.

The TV kin to Battlestar Galactica was Buck Rogers in the 25th Century. There are really only two things you need to know about Buck Rogers, and they were both nestled in the tight confines of Erin Gray's spandex outfit. Oh my god. That woman was so hot that the portion of outer space she occupied at any given moment was always above absolute zero. In fact, if you look at the cosmic background radiation, you can just make out the shapely form of Erin Gray heating up her surrounding space. Millions of years from now, that space will become the hottest galaxy in the universe. Universal expansion will cease and contraction will begin as all the other galaxies begin racing toward the beckoning Erin Gray galaxy.

eringrey.JPGThere was more to Buck Rogers than Erin Gray, but not much. There was Twiggie, or Twinkie, or Twingy, or whatever the hell that little robot bastard's name was. He was voiced by Mel Blanc, who I always wanted to hear say, "Be-de-be-be-de...go fuck yourself, Buck." Buck himself really wasn't all that cool. Here was a guy who got frozen in space and was recovered 400 years later. Everyone he knew and loved was dead. His world was gone, destroyed in a fiery apocalypse. He was in a strange land that he couldn't possibly hope to understand. But he seemed to be pretty cool with it. Hey, it was the 70s. Everyone and everything you knew is gone, but Erin Gray's here and they let you fly a spaceship. I'm down with that.

Buck also got a kick out of spouting his cool 20th Century Earth catch-phrases and watching the resulting confusion wash over the faces of people who were genetically superior to himself. I guess you could say he was like John Crichton's dorky older brother, who was always trying to look hip, but just ended up being so pathetic that you were embarrassed for him. Now that I think of it, Farscape was pretty much Buck Rogers done right. Shit, I never really thought of it that way before. Thanks, FTTW!

I recently tried watching both shows to see if they held up to my childhood memories of them. Galactica held up fairly well. Sure, the hairstyles and outfits are goofy, but the Vipers still looked cool and the stories were fun, lighthearted romps as the the old battlewagon tripped the light fantastic across the stars. Richard Hatch and Dirk Benedict still made for a good heroic duo and their acting chops weren't bad at all, considering what they had to work with. The old Cylons were still menacing, even if they couldn't hit the broad side of a barn and moved at a glacial pace. Still, I prefer them over the newer cylons, who are really just mute, mindless robots.

buck and wilma.jpgDoes Buck Rogers hold up? Not so much. I really couldn't make it through an episode. I mean, there's cheesy, and then there's just bad. The costumes sucked. Well, the ladies evening gowns were quite well designed, especially those worn by hottie space princesses and Erin Gray. The men's outfits were embarassing. If Gil Gerrard gained 16 ounces, his suit would've torn in 16 different places. The spaceships really sucked, which I guess is why we never spent hours trying to draw a perfect Buck Rogers ship. Not like we did with Vipers. In my school, you were considered the shit if you could draw a really cool Viper. Nobody drew Buck Rogers' ship, although I think a few of the older kids traced the lovely outlines of Erin Gray on more than one desktop.

The scripts for Buck Rogers also sucked more than an old-ass space vampire in a lame-ass casino. You can say what you want about Battlestar Galactica, but it was the Sopranos compared to Buck Rogers. I don't know who they got to write the scripts for Buck Rogers, but the episodes played more like a bad episode of Vega$ than anything approaching a serviceable story. The fact that they were in space and in the future always seemed incidental to the plot. The series became more sci-fi oriented in its following seasons, when they finally hopped aboard a spaceship and Buck befriended Hawkman, an honorable warrior whose wife was killed by some bad people. He was like a proto-Dargo. Again, not as cool as Old Squidbeard, but a rough sketch of things to come. I sometimes wonder if the writers for these seasons of Buck Rogers went on to create Spencer: For Hire, as the plots are often eerily similar. Buck, looking quite a bit like Spencer, would say something like, "Hawkman, there's danger ahead. Why don't you go check it out while I sneak around back?" And then Buck would get the girl in the end while the cool guy who did all the work sat there stewing in his sexually frustrated juices. At least Hawk went on to command a space station, surrounded by hotties and considered a prophet by the natives. Hawkman may have been The Fonz's stuntman once or twice.

Ambrosa.jpgSo there you have my flashback to 70s sci-fi. The production values have improved, the acting is a little bit more natural, but we've lost a lot of that happy-go-lucky attitude and objectification of naturally curvy women that made the 1970s so endearing. It was a time when the good guys didn't torture people, Lorne Greene made the right choices, and people took responsibility for their actions. You sure as hell wouldn't find Apollo blaming the media or the Capricans for the colonial fleet's failure to prevent the Cylon attack, that's for sure. Heroes didn't do that back then. They went on adventures, chasing after lusty, busty women and performing amazing feats of derring-do. For all the realism and nuance present in today's sci-fi, I think I'd rather fly on Lorne Greene's Galactica than the emo ship of drunks held together by Edward James Olmos' shear force of will. Those '78 Galacticans knew how to party.

Paul really does leave his basement. For Cheetos.

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Chapter 14

Part II

"What does it feel like?" asks Melissa.

"I don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know?"

"I mean, I don't know. I don't have anything to reference it to."

"Because you've always been this way?"

I nod. We're walking down the street at dusk, passing storefronts that have been closed for two hours now. The restaurant we're going to, she assures me, is very clean. This is a couple of days after my first appointment with my psychiatrist.

That first day, I walk into the office with minimal apprehension. I feel blank. I feel like there aren't any feelings inside me at all. Just me, peeking out through my own eyes at a world that wasn't really a true representation of itself at all.

As if everything isn't a variant of something it isn't.

There are all sorts of colorful toys lining the walls of the waiting room. Big wooden platforms with squiggly metal bars drilled into them. On those bars are small little shapes that you could push up and over one squiggle, only to watch it fall victim to gravity as it careened down to the bottom of the loop. The entire thing is bolted to a table. And why not? Who could trust kids with mental problems? If that thing wasn't bolted down, some messed up bastard could pick it up and throw it across the room.

There are colorful magazines. One of them is even named Rainbow. Under the title is the tag line, "Because every child is special."

Special is one of those words that mean something different to the person saying it than it means to the person hearing it.

"You're just special," says my foster mother on the way to the doctor's office. "And we want to make sure that since you're so special, you're happy."

This from a woman who was fucking my brains out three nights before. A woman who is supposed to care for me and make me safe. Now she's calling me 'special' like I have a fucking disease. She can't even look at me. She didn't have a problem looking at me the morning after I was balls-deep in her asshole; but now that I'm 'special,' she won't meet my gaze.

There are stuffed animals in the waiting room. Most of them look worn out. They have been touched by the hands of thousands of children, in my estimation. Grubby little hands that probably hadn't been washed after they wiped an ass. There is one teddy bear in particular that rests up against a plush unicorn. The bear looks worn out, tired. It's missing part of its bowtie and an eye. The fur is worn and dingy, blackened from years of handling by children who just didn't understand what germs are, what they can do to you.

A small child waiting in the office is staring at me. I stare back. He's sitting next to the only available seat, on a small leather couch facing the receptionist. We just look at each other for a moment. Then he sneezes. Snot comes out all over his hand, which he wipes on his jeans and on the couch.

"You can sit anywhere you like," says the receptionist, not looking to see that there is only one other place to sit, whether I like it or not.

"I'll stand, thanks."

My foster parents are working on the papers with the receptionist when my name is called.

"Dr. Norovim will see you now. Third door down, on the right."

Well, this will make things easier, I think. Three doors, I can handle that, and so I walk through the first door into the hallway, one, two, three times.

I don't realize that there is a woman at the end of the hallway, outside the third door to the right, watching me. I stand still.

"That's ok. Keep doing what you're doing. Just walk down here like you would normally walk everywhere."

I walk up to her door. Will she try to shake my hand? Will she understand if I refuse to shake hers back? I'm thinking about this as I walk through the door to her office one, two, three times. When I get inside, she follows, closes the door, and sits across from me.

"Hello. I'm Doctor Norovim. I understand you're suffering from some anxiety issues?"

I shrug. "I haven't had anymore panic attacks, if that's what you mean."

She starts writing this down. Again with the writing. Won't anybody just listen?

"Your foster parents said they found you last night curled up in the bathtub with ice cold water running over you. You wouldn't call that a panic attack?"

"A panic attack is when you feel like you're going to have a heart attack. I didn't feel like that last night. I just felt…numb."

Her pen scratching against the paper is the only sound I hear.

"Panic attacks are very strange," she says as she writes. "Some of them feel like what you described first—a heart attack. But others can feel different. Did you feel like yourself last night when this happened?"

I answer immediately. "I didn't feel like anything at all."

"Tell me about the way you walked in here, just a second ago. Walking through doors three times. Do you do that all the time, or just when you're nervous?"

"I do it all the time. It's when I don't do it that I start getting nervous."

"What other things make you nervous?"

How much time do you have? I think to myself.

"We have plenty of time," she says, reading my mind. "And we'll talk again in the week, so don't feel pressured to cover everything today, because we won't. Now tell me, what else makes you feel nervous?"

"Germs," I manage. "Just the germs that are everywhere, waiting to infect us. Things not being clean. Screen doors that let too much air in from the outside. Talking on a telephone that hasn't been properly disinfected. The idea of running out of soap in the shower—that's terrifying."

"What about…"

"People not keeping to their schedules," I continue. "People who act like my schedule doesn't matter. They're the worst about it at school. You can sit all day in the office, waiting to talk to someone, and it's like they don't even care that you're waiting there, that you may have something else more important to do."
She's writing feverishly.

"I don't like not knowing things. Not knowing how people feel about me. Not knowing why people talk to me the way they do, or what they're saying in Hushedwhispers."

She puts the pen down for a second. "Hutch wispers?" she says, as if it's in a foreign language.

"No, hushed whispers. The language people use to talk about you when they aren't sure whether or not you can hear them."

"Did you come up with that name by yourself?" she asks, writing again.

"Well, kind of. It's from a book. The Castle in the Sky. I can't remember the author. The line goes something like, 'He could barely hear what they were saying in their hushed whispers, but he knew it was about his family.' "

"So people talking behind your back makes you nervous?"

"It isn't even that. People talking behind my back wouldn't make me nervous if I didn't know they were talking behind my back. It's just knowing that they're talking about someone behind their back, and not knowing whether it's me."

"It sounds like you care a great deal what people think about you."

"That's just it—I don't. I don't give a shit whether Sally Whatshername thinks I'm weird, or whether Bobby Jockhead wants to beat me up. I don't care."

"Then why does it make you nervous?"

"I don't know!" I say, frustrated, louder than I intended. "Sorry."

She puts down her pen and looks at me. "That's ok. You can yell at me—I won't get upset. Sometimes everyone needs to yell."

She's nice. By the time we're done that day, I feel comfortable with her. She tells me that she wants to talk to my foster parents, and that I'll see her again in a week. In the meantime, she gives me some pamphlets to look over: "The Obsessive Compulsive Personality," "Depression: Don't Suffer Silently," and "Anxiety and You."

In the days before my date with Melissa, I thumb through the pamphlets and discover that I have almost all of the symptoms they talk about.

"Will they give you medicine for it?" she asks as we get closer to the restaurant.

"I don't know," I say. "Some of the pamphlets said that sometimes you can get over it with therapy. Sometimes you can't."

She hooks her arm around mine and leans in closer to me. "I went to a psychiatrist once. He said I needed Xanax. You ever taken Xanax?"

"Never heard of it." Cars screech past, one two three, one two three. We walk together. I time my steps with hers, one two three one two three.

"I took one, didn't like it. Felt like I was all messed up. It's supposed to relax you, but they say some people get even more anxious because of it."

"That doesn't sound any good."

"Well, it wasn't for me. I ended up just letting my mom have it after she begged me for awhile. Now I just go back to the psychiatrist to get the prescription refilled so she can have more. Tell him it's working, blah blah blah, I think next time it might be my breakthrough. God, it sucks that you have to lie to please people in this world."

When we arrive at the restaurant, my first thought is that it isn't as clean as Melissa originally insisted. As we sit down, Melissa asks a question that raises another thought:

"What will the medication do to you?"

It isn't long before I find out, because it isn't long before my doctor puts me on Prozac. Now, up on this hill, with my almost-dead girlfriend and the bastard she was sleeping with, I can't help but think that all of it—all of this, all of what I've become—is because of that Prozac.

That goddamned medicine.


- E. Branden Hart

Previous chapters

That Seat At The Table Is Empty For A Reason

Kids are always trying to put things together that don't fit, always trying to put the square peg in the round hole, so to speak.

It's starts early. The toddler struggles with one of those sturdy wooden educational puzzles. He’s probably trying to fit an elephant into the cut-out for the rhino (and you're wondering if it wouldn't have been a good idea to ask for the results of your Baby-Daddy's IQ test right after you received his introductory email on Match.com and certainly before you agreed to breed.) Anyway, instead of realizing and accepting that the smiling blue wooden elephant is not going to fit in the rhino-shaped spot now or anytime in the near future, your-cutest-if-not-the-smartest-little-guy-in-the-world struggles and struggles and eventually has a frustration-induced tantrum. That's about the time you decide that educational toys are more detrimental to your health and well-being than inhaling second hand smoke in a tanning booth, hand him a glass of Koolaid and plop him in front of the tube.

uncomfortablesilence.jpgMy “grown” kids never stop trying to put me back together with their father. No, no, they don't want us together, but they do want us both in the same place on holidays and such. And it's got nothing to do with me, nothing to do with my ex. It is, as usual, completely and utterly about the kids. They are "sick of having to visit both parents on the holidays so that no one is alone." My oldest daughter, Salmoncrier, delivered this complaint via phone one night ( and the resulting suggestion that even though we are divorced we get together for dinner on major holidays.) Now I realize the idea didn't necessarily originate in her brain. Her sister, Gadget Goes Hawaiian, is known to plant seeds in the ever fertile field of family gossip and then Salmoncrier picks the lovely ripe complete thought fruit and presents it proudly to me, and is consequently the only one subject to the resulting shit.

Ok, where was - ? Right. Fear of being alone. I quickly assured Salmoncrier that if the choice were between sitting at a dinner table with Mr. Small and sitting in the dark drooling and rocking, I'd choose the latter, hands down.

Now, I know a lot of divorced parents do this kind of thing, and I'm here to tell you that I think it's not only wrong but it's wrong. I'm reminded of a strained scene in "Less Than Zero," where not only the parents, but the new spouses of the parents got together for Xmas dinner for the sake of the children. You could slice the tension with a Ginsu knife. And I may be simplifying this a bit, something I am prone to, but if you wanted to continue looking at your ex's mug across the table, wouldn't you still be enjoying three-minute-don't-move-sex with him on Friday night and watching dumb shit fly out of his mouth every fucking minute of every fucking day? I'm just askin'.

Apparently he encourages this crazy notion by suggesting it every time he has a get-together with the kids. Why doesn't your mother come for dinner? For the love of Jesus as well as his kind of gross bleeding heart, where to begin?

And this brings me to denial, a place I not only visit occasionally but have a tastefully decorated, moderately priced flat with a view of the water on it's fashionable east side.

I think that although it's considered amicable and civilizied, (WARNING: overused divorce words! Overused divorce words! Please proceed to the nearest exit!! )I think it's, well, not natural, not human to engage in such pretenses and deny our true feelings. (I'm thinking a touch of soft angel wing music here would be nice.)

divorce.jpgMaybe it’s just a simple misunderstanding. Maybe my kids don’t really understand what the word DIVORCE means. So, just for fun, let's look at some other ways to say the D word, shall we?

* Split up
* Break Up
* Separation
* Failure to Thrive
* This sucks too much
* I'd sooner poke myself in the eye with an ice pick than fuck you again

See? These all suggest being apart. Way apart. All the time. I found no small print in the divorce agreement stating that we can go our separate ways except for all major holidays including Coming of Age day (Japan) and it's my birthday day (Lovemonkey) when we'll be in the same room and I'll delight in the fact that you look older and/or fatter than me.

So to sum it up my friends, let's stop putting on our best behavior gloves and go back to sticking little pins in the homemade doll with the big mouth and the tiny penis like normal people. Ok?

Let's keep divorced people separated. Let’s keep it real. -LM

Lovemonkey has a doll made for each of you... So be nice.


Archives

January 30, 2007

Disco Sucks

70's week! This is where I get to tell you about the horrible clothes my mother made me wear and the Dorothy Hamill haircuts and reminisce in a melancholy way about how great things were back then.

Except they really weren't. I started out in the 70's as a little kid and when they ended, I was on the brink of graduating from high school and becoming a responsible (insert laugh here) adult. So the first part of the the decade was all about whatever it is I did when I was in elementary school and the last half of the decade is one big blur. And that blur smells like bong water and resin.

discostu.gifThe one thing I do remember clearly about the 70's is the great war.

I am a veteran of the great war between Disco and Rock, circa 1976. I fought the good fight, guys. I did it for you. I did it for the future. I did it for rock and roll.

Some say it was more than a war over music. Historians have written miles of papers on the subject, some claiming that it was a battle over masculinity; disco was turning our men into girly boys. Others claim it was a battle of bigotry; the rockers represented "the man" and were looking to quash a rebellious movement by minorities and gays to grab the culture limelight.

As one who stood in the middle of the battlefields of that war (I think I was a sergeant or a gunnery captain or something like that. Or I just like the word gunnery), I can tell you that our battle cry had nothing to do with race or sexuality. It was about the music, stupid. Just the music.

While disco had been around in one form or another since the early 70's, the genre took hold of our country some time around 1976. That was the year when artists like Vicki Sue Robinson, the Andrea True Connection and Thelma Houston all had huge hits and discos starting popping up on every city corner. In fact, Newsweek printed an article at the time that said there were 10,000 discos in America in 1976. 10,000. That shit was viral.

Meanwhile, rock and roll was being pissed on in the charts. Sure, you can say that rock fans really didn't care about hits, but when music by Kiss and Blue Oyster Cult and Zeppelin were being gang raped by songs like Boogie Fever, it was disheartening. And kind of embarrassing.

What was a rocker to do? How could we battle the biggest trend to hit the nation since flower power when we didn't have the power of hit music to back it up? Oh, rock wasn't about the charts at all, but we were in desperate need of some firepower, some heavy hitting power chords to knock the dancing fools off the cover of weekly magazines. Who would save us? The state of rock music was abysmal. Prog rock and arena rock were not good weapons to be holding in this war because they were nothing more than different forms of the pretentiousness that was disco. We weren't unarmed, but our arsenal was kind of lame.

Little known to us suburban kids, A 1976 counter movement had already begun. Sure, we already knew of bands like The Ramones and The Sex Pistols, but we never thought they would form the soundtrack to our fight against polyester. Apparently, my little group of three or four disco haters were not the only ones who wanted to wage war against the Donna Summers of the world. Punk music would help us rise above. Punk music would bring our weaponry up to speed.

It got worse as 1976 became 1977. Saturday Night Fever hit the theaters and John Travolta's Tony Romero became the boilerplate for every guy who wanted to score with the babes. Polyester leisure suits became the norm and all we could do was stand and watch with our jaws dropped, horrified that this plastic, narcissistic culture was taking over not only our airwaves, but our country.

And thus, the Disco Sucks movement was born. No matter what anyone tells you, this was all about the music and the clothes. discosucks.jpegWe hated those wide lapels. We despised the simplistic beats and the cheesy lyrics. We loathed the repetition of the 12" versions of every song to hit the charts. Disco, we decided, must die.

And so war was declared. We armed ourselves with Disco Sucks buttons and wore them proudly. We spiked our hair up, wore black leather jackets and thought about putting safety pins in our cheeks. Thought about it. And then decided to put them in our ears in place of earrings. Hey, we were in high school. We still had our parents to answer to.


On Friday nights, we would have Marianne's older brother drive us around town so we could speed past the long lines of overdressed, overdrugged dancing queens and kings waiting to get into the local discos. We would shout "disco sucks!" as we passed by and one or two of them would come running after the car, shaking their fists at us. Yea, ok. Not really much of a war, but it was all we could do out here in the burbs. So we settled for being a minor squadron in a big war. At least it was something. We fought. We fought hard, man. We tormented those disco bastards!

Eventually we tired of taunting them. We were happy to sit in Marianne's basement, alternately reveling in our punk badness by listening to the Clash or getting high and tripping out to Pink Floyd. We were as unsure of who we were as the crowds of people dancing in Studio 54.

Years later, we would recognize that we weren't much different than our disco brothers. While they spent hours making themselves up in order to be accepted by the beautiful people inside the velvet ropes of the discos, we struggled to become outsiders, to make people's heads turn when they saw us with our spiked hair and ripped army jackets. We both wanted to be noticed in different ways. But the culture wars of the time forbade us from every forming a therapy group aimed at figuring out why we cared so much what everyone thought about us. Enemies until the bitter end.

TD-disco.jpgAnd the end did come, in July of 1979 at Comiskey Park, in a blaze of glory. Well, not so glorious, really. The night was somewhat of a disaster. And it did not really mark the end of disco, but the end of our war against it.

A few years later, I got swept up in the new wave craze. One night while doing some drunken, spastic, new wavish dance to the extended mix version of Blue Monday, dressed to kill in torn fishnet stockings and the requisite black and pink mini skirt, I realized that I had become this era's version of the disco queen.

It's a war that wages on, I suppose, in various forms. Whether it's rap v. rock or prog rock v. hair metal, the battle remains even if the battlefield and weapons change hands every once in a while. But it's a passionate war. I'd rather spend my emotions fighting you to the death in a steel cage match to determine whether Dream Theater is really a better band than Queensryche than get dragged into another "let's secede from the nation!" argument.

And disco still sucks.

Michele admits to dancing to Funkytown every so often.

Archives

Fondues and Dont's

It's 70s week here at FTTTW! (The third T stands for The seventies) That made me happy, because I'm ridiculously busy at work, and I barely have time to think about anything. That way, when I was presented with a theme I could work with, I jumped at the chance.

FONDUE PARTY BITCHES!!!

I've got 3 different fondues here. I'll give you the recipe for it and some suggested dippers. Bust out some bell-bottoms, put on one of the albums we listed in This Week's TAFC, and get crackin.

The first recipe might be perfect. Just read the ingredients, you'll agree.

cheesefondue.jpgSpicy Bacon-Cheese Fondue

1 clove garlic, cut in half
2 oz bacon, chopped fine
2 Tbsp good tequila
2 Tbsp lime juice
12 oz medium-dark beer
5 oz sharp cheddar cheese, grated (about 2 cups)
5 oz pepper jack cheese, grated
1 Tbsp rooster sauce
2 Tbsp corn starch

Rub a medium saucepan with the garlic clove. Cook the bacon over low heat for about 20 minutes, till all the fat is rendered out and the bacon is crispy. Add the tequila, lime juice, and beer, and crank the heat up to medium-high.

Toss the cheese with the corn starch. It'll help it melt. When the liquid just comes to a simmer, add a handful of the cheese and stir till it's completely melted. Then add the next batch. Lather, Rinse, Repeat.

After it's all melted, add the rooster sauce. Yer done.

Possible Dippers: Bread, hard veggies (carrots, bell pepper, celery, etc), Kielbasa, meatballs, chicken tenders

The next one was inspired by a soup I made last week.

coconut.jpgAsian Hot Pot Fondue

1 1-inch piece of ginger, smashed
1 clove garlic, smashed
1 3-inch piece of lemon grass
1 qt chicken broth
2 Tbsp lime juice
3 Tbsp fish sauce (nuoc mam)
1 small bunch of mint, bruised
2 tsp Thai green curry paste (optional)
1 cup coconut milk (optional)

Put everything in a saucepan and bring to a simmer for 25 minutes. Fish out the solid stuff. You really should serve this still simmering -- an electric fondue pot will be best for this.

Possible Dippers: noodles, veggies, raw seafood or thin sliced meat (lamb, beef, pork) -- simply drop them in and let them sit for a minute or two. If the broth has a heat source under it and is still simmering, it'll cook the meat right there. If you are just keeping it hot, cook the meat first.

What fondue party would be complete without dessert?

Chocolate - Peanut Butter Fondue*
1/3 c sugar
1 Tbsp cornstarch
1 1/4 c cream
1 1/4 c milk
1 Tbsp instant coffee powder
1 tsp vanilla extract
8 oz bittersweet chocolate, chopped
1/2 c peanut butter

Whisk together the sugar and cornstarch. Slowly whisk in the cream. When it's all incorporated, add the milk, vanilla, and coffee powder. Bring this mixture slowly to a boil and cook gently till it's thickened. This'll take 3 - 4 minutes.

Put the chocolate and peanut butter in a big bowl. Pour the boiling liquid over the stuff and whisk to combine. It'll melt as you stir.

Possible Dippers: Regular bananas, Strawberries (with stem), Marshmallows, Toasted cubed pound cake, Pineapple chunks, pear slices (unpeeled)

* Author's Note: This recipe was adapted largely from Gale Gand's Mexican Hot Chocolate Fondue recipe, which can be found here.

Today's metal review sticks with the theme but strays from Dishful of Metal tradition greatly.

g26843y0dxj.jpgQueen
Sheer Heart Attack
Elektra Records

Queen isn't really metal. That much is true. But they're definitely the A. Afarensis of today's metal -- just enough chromosomes to be considered related. But with songs like "Stone Cold Crazy" (which Metallica covered before they jumped the shark), "Brighton Rock", and "Flick of the Wrist", no self-respecting metalhead can possibly speak ill of them.

Ok, this album came out 7 years before I was born, and it didn't have thie hits on it as some of their later works. I'm not super familiar with it, but I wanted to shine the light on a great 70s metal precursor.

Now that I've told you some of mine, fair readers, I ask of you: what are some of your favorite 70s party foods and rock albums?

Baby Huey is taking every opportunity during 70s week to call the other editors of FTTW old.

My Mana Tap Brings All The Boys To The Yard

blood eleves.jpgBy creating the beautiful Blood Elves, Blizzard taps into the market of Barrens chatters who want to play Horde and look pretty at the same time. If you're lucky enough to never have encountered the Barrens phenomenon, imagine a text-based Lord Of The Flies. While questing, Horde lowbies use the chat channel and the spelling is terrifying, the questions idiotic and the answers almost always obscene.

With the arrival of Burning Crusade, the folks asking for hints and walkthoughs, and the folks answering "UR MOM!" now look like glowing, fair-skinned, delicate elves.

While I was waiting for the expansion, I was excited about the new Alliance race, the Draenai, and the new profession, Jewelcrafting, but mostly I couldn't wait to play a Blood Elf. I was enamored with their pretty hair and high magic homeland. The Blood Elves' racial abilities are a mana tap, a stackable power which sucks opponents mana and gives it to your avatar, and area-of-effect spell silencing. These are especially impressive when compared with the dwarven ability to spot treasure and the human ability to spot certain hidden characters.

And they're pretty. Did I mention how pretty? Blood Elves are the first and only attractive race for the Horde side, which previously had only Trolls, Orcs, Tauran and Undead. Before the expansion, players who wants to join the Horde could only play characters with horns, facial piercings or rotting flesh. My highly reliable and technical research (typing "Who's a real girl?" on the chat channel) led me to believe that while there are a fair number of XX chromosomes, the majority of players are actually teen boys enjoying the dance emotes and sexy new clothes. If you look closely at the WoW orgy picture, you might notice that one of the characters is named FuuckMe... which means Fuck Me was already taken.be2.JPG

Game developers are always trying to find ways to attract women to their game. "Women" is too huge of a category... by trying to attract Tetris players on the telephone, Sim-playing girls, and Quake chicks, developers often come up with something that pleases no one. When I refer to a rhinestone-covered pink Nintendo DS, designed by Paris Hilton, please believe it's an actual product and not a clever use of literary hyperbole. Blood Elves seem brilliant because they are aiming not for a mythical Female Market Sector, but for goth teen players and for typical Horde players beginning to outgrow Barrens chat.

The Blood Elves' emotes and hair are a little over the top, which means that other WarCrafters can enjoy the campy fun. The female Blood Elf flirts by saying "My mana tap brings all the boys to the yard," while the male asks "Don't you wish your girlfriend was hot like me?" My personal favorite is still the male dwarf's flirt "You look pretty. I like your hair. Here's a drink. Are you ready now?" I heard that one a lot, probably because I'm one of the few lady dwarves in Azeroth. If you're playing WoW and see a female dwarf, stop and say hi, it's probably me.

Then again... I haven't made a Draenai yet...

Meg will make a Draenai soon...very soon...

Archives

The Most Highest Mountain In Japan

"A wise man climbs Fuji once, but only a fool would climb it twice."--Japanese Proverb
"I hate this fucking mountain" -- My proverb
"He didn't mean it Fuji-san, he's an idiot! Please forgive him!" -- My companion's apology to the mountain spirits for my proverb

Nine o'clock at night, somewhere near the 7th stage, Mt. Fuji, Japan: The two of us lay between two large boulders in a small outcropping, sharing body-warmth and the shelter provided by a small emergency rain poncho that bowed and floated as the wind whistled over it. We shivered there, huddled together. Strictly speaking, we weren't supposed to be resting without paying extortionate fees for a night-long stay in one of the small cabins that were scattered across the slopes; we had instead snuck off the well-marked trail until we found this small nook, and had settled down for a break and to warm ourselves. The weather was definitely getting worse.

Will and I, best friends through high school, had been climbing Mt. Fuji, Japan's sacred mountain and national icon, for about 4 hours. Starting from The 5th Gate, about 2300 meters above sea level, we began climbing the remaining 6300 meters at about 5 p.m. that day in July, 2005. The two of us had been in Japan for about 3 days on the trip that we had sworn we would take back when we were freshmen in high school; graduated now, and fluent in Japanese, we made good on our promise to each other and went. We had been watching Mount Fuji, referred to in Japanese with the honorific Fuji-san, for two days already when we began the morning that would end so many miles later with us cold, hungry and wet, trudging down the side of a dormant volcano two thousand miles from home.

fujilodge.jpgStarting from the 5th gate, about half-way up the mountain, Fuji-san lures prospective climbers in with its beauty and an easy, sloping climb. From the massive hunting-lodge style buildings where one can find food and supplies for the climb to ponies offering to take riders farther up the mountain, anyone stupid enough not to know better would certainly assume that the climbing of Fuji-san is a symbolic pilgrimage, not a true pilgrimage of personal danger and sacrifice. If nothing else, the long, long trains of elderly Japanese, outfitted with walking sticks and parkas, embarking on a mountain climbing expedition would certainly give the impression that Mt. Fuji is iconic but mostly harmless. The guide books note, however, that no one should be dumb enough to attempt to climb the mountain wearing light summer clothes: I was wearing a hoody and my Converse high-tops. I'm certain, now, that the idea of being scaled by a punk American kid in Converse angered the mountain spirits greatly, and they proceeded to take a giant dump on the two of us.

We had been climbing for 20 minutes when we walked straight through a cloud that was sitting lazily, resting from its journey on the sides of the sacred slopes. Walking through the Japanese forests, rich with mosses and ferns, soon gave way to the desolate barren landscape of a now-retired volcano: rocks, gravel, sand, rocks. As the climb grew harder, sometimes to the point of lifting ourselves over rocks on hands and knees, the weather was growing worse. Wind and cold tore down the small corridors of the path carved into the mountain, and our energy ebbed and sank. We rested where we could, and [Will walks into a cloud] then again where we weren't allowed to, but we kept climbing until we could no longer see the towns in the valleys below.

walkingfuji.jpgThe plan, in our minds, was to climb from 5 in the evening to 5 in the morning and then sit and watch the sunrise. It was an iconic, traditional goal: the kind of memory that you could proudly tell grandkids and friends for years to come. But I wasn't athletic, or even fit, and I was scraping the bottom of the barrel to continue taking steps through the volcanic gravel towards the top. I just kept saying to myself that I would climb this mountain no matter what - that I would make it to the top.

Hours later, near the eighth gate, I broke first and suggested that we sleep for a couple of hours (it was now about one in the morning) at a stupidly-priced wooden mountain shack. Sick from the altitude, tired and hungry, I got the worst three hours of sleep of my entire life. It wasn't enough, but we still wanted to be up so we could watch the sun rise over Japan from the peak of her holy mountain. We rose, bundled up, and stepped outside. To our dismay, the weather had only gotten worse, and hail and rain had joined the wind in pelting us directly in the face as we tried to climb through the soft, sifting red rock.

It was one of the defining moments of my life thus far: I gritted my teeth and walked, one foot in front of the other, because I was going to climb this mountain. The wind came barrelling down the zig-zagging corridors, physically pushing us back into our own footprints; with each step, the sliding rocks and the wind pushed us back half a step. The rain was frigid and horizontal, slowly soaking us to the bone and pulling warmth away from out bodies. I kept going, literally pulling myself along using a frozen steel handrail; no matter the shit, no matter the weather, no matter my legs burning like someone had set fire to my jeans, I was going to get on a plane and come home from Japan with the successful conquest of Fuji-san under my belt. I climbed as if my manhood, reputation, and life were staked on it, as if I would be shamed by coming home without reaching the top. It just wasn't meant to be.

As we neared the top: 400 meters, 300 meters, only 45 minutes to go, only 30 - we started to see people walking down the mountain on our trail instead of the standard descent path on a second face. We caught eyes with a German woman climbing down with her friend, and she told us that the weather was the worst on the peak, and that officials were sending down anyone who made it that far. We were apparently 20 minutes away from the peak, and were climbing into a full-on storm. Will and I looked at each other, reluctant to give up. I laugh now when I remember that we actually kept climbing for five minutes after receiving that news. We were moronically set on our goal, but we turned a corner and got a full blast of grit and rain on the wind: we shuddered, then turned and headed back down the mountain: 20 minutes would have to be close enough. We consoled ourselves with the knowledge that the view of the sunrise would be obscured by the storm clouds, and we were in too much physical danger to keep going for pride alone.

fujicarpark.jpgAnd we did find ourselves, on our way down, in real physical danger. Because of the altitude sickness, Will had given me his rain poncho, which broke the wind and kept me considerably warmer than I should have been; conversely, Will was soaked and starting to feel hypothermic. We were sleep deprived and hungry. We slipped and scattered rocks on our fast retreat down the mountain, and I could see a glaze start to come over Will's eyes, and his teeth chattered. As we fled the storm, I gave back the poncho and put my arm around him and tried to rub circulation back into his limbs; most of all, I made sure we kept walking. He saved my ass on the way up, and I saved his ass on the way down.

Two years later, I still tell people that I climbed Mount Fuji in Japan. If they ask, I'll tell them that I never reached the top due to the weather, but failing to reach the peak never felt as disappointing as I imagined it would. There was certainly no shame brought down upon me. Fuji-san is a sacred, ancient peak that teaches lessons in life to any who climb it; it has done for hundreds of years. The Japanese, in fact, say that everyone should climb the mountain once in their lives. But, in the end, Fuji-san taught me more lessons in denying my victory than by granting it.

I'm still sure to mention, however, that I did it all -every last step- wearing my Converse.

Ian remembers that every journey begins with a single step. Archives

The Itch

I've been hanging out with John a lot lately. And the more I hang out with him the more it makes me realize how much I need a real boyfriend. One who isn't gay.

John is what you may call my beard. He is my always on call good looking guy friend who is available for weddings, birthdays, and bar mitzvahs. He looks great in a suit, superb in a tie, and never wears jeans. He also looks better in my Diane von Furstenberg dress than I do. He can put his arm around me like he means it and do that head tilt that all boyfriends tend to do, and sometimes he even buys me coffee. Most importantly, he laughs at all of my jokes. I have based many a friendship on that alone.

flirty.jpgAt first I thought that if I had John, this awful, horrible, girly feeling gnawing on me like a dog to a squeaky toy would go away. The one that starts in late January and stays with me until just after Spring. I think it stems from someone in my Pituitary gland, and it tells me that I need a boyfriend.

Suddenly, I am looking at anything that moves. "C'mon," the feeling says to my brain if it catches me looking at a scruffy guy in a Smith's t-shirt, "He probably doesn't even know who the Smith's are, but will that affect how he kisses? Why don't you find out?"

Its horrible and with me everywhere I go. The supermarket. The movies. School. Uncle's weddings…

I sat with my cousin Alison in the lobby of our Santa Barbara hotel. She's twenty-three and far more worldly than I'll ever be, but we both agreed, that despite the beach and the shops, we were beyond bored. I sat reading Allure when Alison nudged me, "That guy's cute," she whispered, nodding to a tall, dark haired boy walking into the lobby.

I look up and squint to save me from putting on my glasses. "Yeah," I agree, "I'd probably let him have sex with me," I joke and she laughs as my dad passes us in the lobby looking like he's on the way to the pool.

"What are you girls up to?" he asks. He doesn't wait for our answer as he spots the dark haired boy at the check-in desk with an older man, presumably his father.

"Steven!" he shouts with the excitement of a ten-year-old boy at Christmas. "I haven't seen you in ages!" He makes his way over to the counter. "Girls!," he calls after, giddy on Mai Tai, the "ultimate in vacation drinks," as he explains later, "Come say hello to your Uncle Steve and your cousin Seth!" Alison and I exchange looks and my dad continues talking, "I don't think you've seen them since you were about five, Stephanie!" he tells me. "This is so great!"

Oh yeah. Fantastic

Stephanie likes boys who have a good sense of humor, a small collection of Smiths t-shirts and who aren't related to her. Candidates can apply to needboyfriend@fttw.com.

Archives

24: 11am - 12pm (Spoilers Inside!!)

Welcome to the newest FTTW column: We're Running Out of Time!

SPOILERS WITHIN!

This is the Tuesday morning quarterbacking thread for all things 24. Where some of the FTTW writers discuss Monday's night episode, make predictions, engage in the usual snark and invite all 24 fans to come and talk about the best show on tv.

We'll be doing this every Tuesday. Normally we publish our day's content at midnight, but on Mondays we will wait til 1am EST in order to give the west coasters ample time to digest the night's episode.

So let's start this thing! Today, Michele, Baby Huey and Ernie have their take on last night's episode.

Baby Huey is not amused.

Ok, let's recap what just happened:

- Douchey nerd guy was a douchey nerd
- Pushy broad quit
- Hot Middle Eastern chick had problems doing her job
- Jack got pistol whipped

Let's recap what did NOT happen:

- Someone got shot
- A nuke went off
- A main cast member died
- Something exciting

Seriously, the most exciting 90 seconds of this week's episode were the previews for next week. D+ episode. -BH

Ernie hearts Chloe:

That was definitely a piss me off episode, where all the bad guys seemed to win.

I can’t believe Karen Hayes gave in to that weasely Ghostbusters Viggo painting worshiping guy and resigned!! WTF !! !!

Hate that Ghostbusters guy. Hate him!!

I think Karen Hayes has a plan. When she gets to CTU she’s going to pull some kind of trickery out of her hat. Use CTU resources to gather evidence perhaps??

AND

I can’t believe that Jacks ASSHOLE brother, who I still think is really his step-brother, got one over on Jack!! DAMMIT!!

HATE HIM!!

My Wife predicts that Jack’s brother’s wife is going to be a key person in a future episode. She is going to help turn the tables on EVIL Grahm.

Misc:

Milo is going to get in trouble for helping out whats-her-name the middle-eastern decent chick and there’s going to be some kind of ruckus at CTU.

Chloe was awesome at decrypting that cell-phone info that Wali got off one of the detainees. She was really bossy in that episode. I like the way her hair kind of rests on her shoulders and curls back up too… (What??) -E


Michele crashes and burns

i drank what?Let's talk about the crash that comes after a high.

I know, it's the 24 thread. Bear with me here.

See, today I had about eight cups of coffee and two ginormous things of soda. So I had this nice, smooth caffeine buzz going all day. Then about 8:45. Crash. Boom. The high was gone and I was left with a dull ache in the back of my left eye.

Then 24 came on. And guess what? Jack and company just crashed off five episode high. That's like...umm......20 cups of coffee and three Big Gulps. And maybe some meth. Tonight's episode was the big comedown.

Yea, I know it can't be exciting all the time. I know that little details have to be taken care of. Like letting us know that Ghostbusters dude is really the Anti Christ and the dude from Oz fucked up royally and Weird Bald Guy should have been beaten by dad a bit more as a kid.

But the truth is, I need death. And no one died this episode. What is up with that? No death? YOU ARE SLACKING, JACK! KILL! KILL! KILL! FINISH THE JOB WHEN YOU PUT A BAG OVER SOMEONE'S HEAD!

Yea, I just had another Big Gulp. -M

And there ya go. Another week, another Bauer Power Hour come and gone.

Predictions, anyone?

January 29, 2007

And the Best Horror Movie Is...............

awardnotld.jpg

Wow, that was really close. Read nothing into the fact that my movie pulled it out at the end and Turtle's didn't. For once, I came out ahead of him and I am going to celebrate that fact because it very rarely happens. In fact, I spent all weekend getting my ass kicked Turtle style playing Turok. Eh, I really didn't care if I won or not, I just wanted to shoot the cool guns.

Anyhow, congrats to Night of the Living Dead and thanks to everyone who participated in this one. Check over there somewhere (I'm pointing to the front page of FTTW) for this week's poll.

(You can see the final results of the poll here)

Archives

TAFC#4: Worst Song of the 70's (a/k/a Shooting Fish in a Barrel)

It's 70's week at Faster Than The World! Groovy! Neat! Peace love and nakedness!

This week's poll has to do with the 70's and later on in the week, we'll have a 70's themed Group Late Night Typing and Friday's Editors' Picks column will have a 70's feel to it. Also, some of our authors will be doing some far out 70's related columns this week.

Which brings us to another week of The Almost Final Countdown. This time, we move from horror movies to horrible songs. Specifically, horrible songs of the 70's.

Nothing gets people arguing like a conversation about songs that suck. While it has been scientifically proven that "We Built This City" is indeed the worst song ever made, there will always be people - bless their warped little hearts - who will defend it as quality art.

We here at Faster Than The World love good arguments. Hell, we love bad arguments. We love stirring up shit. So what better way to get the week rolling than to ask you all to nominate the Worst Songs of the 70's for this week's poll?

We'll start you off with a few of our own but rest assured, there are literally THOUSANDS to choose from. Let's just say that era 70's pop music was a dark, dark time in musical history.

Michele:

There was just too many to choose from here. I am a child of the 70's and my parents always had the radio on, so many of the really bad songs are etched permanently in my brain (mostly showing themselves during nightmares that include Leo Sayer and Frankie Vali). I decided to discount a lot of the songs that came to mind at first, like Muskrat Love or Run, Joey, Run or Seasons in the sun because I know damn well someone else will nominate them. And really, they were so bad as to only be remembered as bad. I wanted to take on some songs that the majority of people (most of whom were too high in the 70's to know the difference between good and bad music, because it all sounds deep, meaningful and awesome after a couple of bong hits) think were really good tunes. In fact, so many people think these songs were good that I found some of them on Best of the 70's lists. And I bet a lot of you have them on your fancy little song player things. It doesn't mean I think any less of you.

Wait, yes it does.


Hotel California

I just don't like long songs. Let's just say that right away. Maybe back in the 70's when I was listening to this stuff while sprawled out in someone's groovy basement trying to see through my hand, long songs were cool. Now, not so much. After two minutes I'm ready to move on to the next tune. See, in New York, we have two radio stations that play rock music. And both of them play only classic rock. So there are some songs that they play about 50 times a day because, I don't know, Satan makes them or something. What I want to know is, does anyone ever really want to hear Hotel California? Or are the DJs just playing this on the mistaken assumption that the masses want to hear another one of those "rock musicians gone poetically awry" songs? This song is BORING. It's like watching a horrible movie with false endings, where you keep shifting in your seat thinking, ok,pantypeeler.jpg credits are going to roll......right.........now! No...wait....NOW. Ok, it's going to end...........hey, it's a solo! Another long, drawn out, masturbatory guitar experience! Pass the bong!

Cats in the Cradle

My god. Is it me? It must be. Because everyone else says things like "that song makes me cry like a baby!" Listen, I have kids. I know the whole "time goes so fast, spend some of it with your children instead of watching COPS and scratching your balls all night" deal. Still, this song does not tug at my heartstrings. Maybe I don't have heartstrings because all those songs that are supposed to make me cry or feel bad or call my mother just make me want to stab someone in the face. And dude. The dad in this song totally deserved being blown off by his son. You reap what you sow, Chapin!!

Paradise By The Dashboard Light

This is the coveted winner of Michele's Most Hated Song Ever. I already wrote about it here. I don't want to think about it anymore. Just suffice it to say that if you sing this song around me, I will sneak into your yard at night and piss in your garden. When Meatloaf died in Fight Club, I actually stood up in the theater and yelled "That's for Paradise, you son of a bitch!" And people applauded. Really, who likes this song besides drunk chicks and horny guys who think a drunk chick acting out a bad song has "I'm gonna get laid" written all over her?

You're Having My Baby

Didn't have to keep it
Wouldn't put ya through it
You could have swept it from you life
But you wouldn't do it

A song about a girl who slept with a guy and then, to prove her love to him, didn't have an abortion. -M


Turtle joins EST.

Before we start this all of, I want everyone to join in my mantra of "Bob Seger sucks." Say it again and again with me. Bob Seger was the reason all those people down in Guana drank the Kool Aid Bob Segersegerevil.jpg brought you AIDS and disco. I point all fingers to that man when I look at the sad state that was the 70's music scene. Bob Seger killed Elvis. Which might or might not have been a bad thing. I mean don't get me wrong. I am no Elvis fan but I did enjoy watching his bloated, drugged out ass in those last few Vegas shows. THAT is the Elvis the world needed at the time. The King gave up. Do you get it? The music was so bad, the King of Rock and Roll shit out his brains whacked out on polyester pussy and cheap speed. Elvis choose to kill himself on fried peanut butter sammiches than to listen to the shit the radio was putting out.

Bob Seger had everything to do with why the 70's sucked.

Bob Seger had nothing to do with skateboarding though. Although I sense he in some way brought about Tony Hawk. I dunno. Maybe Bob Seger was playing in the background when Mama Hawk was getting cornholed by Papa Hawk. Bob Seger had something to do with Tony Hawk. I just haven't figured out what exactly that is yet. Give me a little time.

Meanwhile, I thought I'd give you a list of my other non-Bob Seger hated songs that came from the 70's. Keeping in mind that these songs are bad, but not as god awful as Bob Seger songs. But close. Well, not really close. Cause Bob Seger sucks ass drippings.

John Denver - Rocky Mountain High

Ok. Somebody put down the bong. I know everyone was all earth and shit like mud hippies and all but this is taking it a little too far.hawkdad.jpgI mean this is the kind of a guy who never talks to girls, never looks anyone in the eye, but get a few drinks in him and he will fuck you up bad. All that repressed anger flowing out like the piss his kidneys filtered cheap vodka through. It is really too bad he was on The Muppet Show so many times. Way to fuck up any good childhood memories I had there, John. No really. Thanks. All I need to add to my repressed memories is being anal raped by my uncle and we got all the bases covered there to make the next bulldog killer in New York out of me.

I am glad he died in an ultra light.

Guess Who - These Eyes

The only thing I remember is the Guess Who reunion album. An ad for it was on late at night. They played this song. Does anyone remember it? Well anyways, they introduced the band and the drummer came out. Fat, bald and with a pair of thick glasses. He rocked. Big ass tie dye on his belly. That rocked.

I hated the song though.

Engelbert Humperdinck - After The Loving

Any girl who gets fucked by a guy named Engelbert should surrender her woman pass.

Queen - We Are The Champions

Oh bite me. You know it sucks. - T

Baby Huey makes fun of the other, much older, editors:

This was hard for me because I had to pick songs from a decade that ended a year before I was born. I'm surprised Leif Garrett isn't on anyone's list. Actually, I'm not. I'm sure they're all closet Garrett fans. This leads me to my first choice:

sq-garrett_l.gifLeif Garrett - I Was Made for Dancin

I write a weekly column exhorting the virtues of extreme heavy metal. I'm ragging on a disco tune. Do I need to draw you a fuckin map? I can imagine all the screaming 70s girls and the 10 year old boys in their short shorts, tube socks, and permed hair, and I'm simultaneously disgusted and just a little turned on.

What?

Starland Vocal Band - Afternoon Delight

This song does have one redeeming quality. It was used to trap a bunch of old stuffed shirts in PCU, which is obviously one of the greatest movies ever. Skyrockets in flight, indeed. If I were locked in a room with that song on repeat, not only would I kill myself, I would do my damndest to take everyone there with me.

Kansas - Dust in the Wind

From "Carry On My Wayward Son," one of the greatest rock songs ever (and fuck you if you say otherwise) to "Dust in the Wind" in the span of only one album. My oh my, how the mighty have fallen. Combine the facts that this song is some sort of early emo ancestor and the fact that Will Ferrel sang it (who, by the way, is really starting to jump on my last damn nerve), and you've got a recipe for a shitty song. And I know recipes.

Kiss - I Was Made For Loving You

I was joking earlier about the Leif Garrett thing, but I will bet money that at least one of the other editors of FTTW own or owned this song on LP. Kiss's attempt at disco. A genre of music dominated by pretty people. Kiss are the ugliest group of motherfuckers on the planet (at least until the Ramones show up). What were they thinking?

Don McLean - American Pie

If there was a merciful god, the music WOULD have died when this abomination of a song came out. Seriously.

Don't even get me started on the music of the 80's. -BH


thefinn definitely does not feel like dancing:

Leo Sayer : You Make Me Feel Like Dancing
. Let’s start simply. Leo Sayer is a twat. Period. A high pitched, juvenile, old twat. I didn’t like his rotten old ass in 1976 when this song was released and I sure as hell don’t like him now, after having watched him behave like a child for ten days on Celebrity Big Brother. He doesn’t like it when he doesn’t get his way, he’s obsessed with the idea of celebrity (but really only in how it should impact his daily life) and he’s a poor, poor sport. Enough of the personal attacks. The song is too happy for it’s own good. Really. If it were possible to overdose on happiness and sappy pop schmaltz, this song would have killed millions. The pitch of Sayer’s voice is painful on a good day and on a bad day it makes dogs go into convulsions.
A link to something that does not scream "Celebrity", Mr. Sayer.

carly_simon.jpgCarly Simon : Nobody Does It Better. Sometimes, somethings just work right. There’s a click and the pieces come together and suddenly everything makes sense. Shirley Bassey singing “Goldfinger” is a perfect example. Hot, throaty vocals over a quick jazz number and it’s one of the best Bond theme songs ever. This is not that song. As a matter of fact, this song is so far removed from the greatness that is Shirley Bassey, that she wouldn’t piss on it to put it out if it was on fire. It almost ruins a really good movie (even though Roger Moore’s in it) from the get go because all I can picture is the horse toothed jackass singing it.

Barbara Streisand : The Way We Were
. Makes me want to stab people in the face and rip off one of my own arms just so I can beat myself to death with it. My mother would listen to this song over and over in the car one painfully long winter. The heater would be on full blast and making me slightly nauseous while Streisand wailed in the background about some horrible shit that happened between her and her man. Who fucking cares ? I understand, some lame movie that came out the same year needed a lame theme song to full achieve the full state of lameness that usually takes years to cultivate. But come on!! Fucking Christ, just let it go and whine someone else.

Steely Dan :
Anything by Steely Dan throws me into a homicidal rage. If you have any desire to watch an old mick completely lose his shit and start strangling every within earshot of the jukebox, just play Deacon Blues or Hey Nineteen. The blood will flow!!! Flow I say!!

And now that I’ve thoroughly worked myself into a tizzy just before bed, I’m off for a Xanax and a beer in the hopes that I’ll sleep. --F

Those are our nominations. We're not putting a specific number on the poll this time. We'll see what you guys nominate and just make the poll from there. Really, this could get into the hundreds and we're probably gonna try to narrow that down to 25, just to make the voting stage more intense.

Remember, you have all week to nominate as many songs as you want. After today, you will be able to get to this column from the sidebar. So just keep coming back and naming your poison (or defending it) and the actual poll will go up on Friday.

Keep on truckin!

Archives

we have a date with the underground, chapter 35 again

I've been trying to pick up an old instrument lately but it seems there is some weird force that keeps stopping me from learning how to play clarinet. Something missing or broken or whatever. Who knew these things needed reeds? And ligatures? Fuck me, looks like I am heading back to the music store. Hey, I found an instrument in the garage and decided it was time to learn a new thing. So this year will be my learning to play the woodwinds year. What the hell. I think it would be a cool thing. Electric Clarinet. electric clarinet.jpg

Think about it.

While I was looking for parts and cords to get this thing amped, I thought back on something. Anyone who plays anything, especially miked, knows what a pain in the ass it is to have all this equipment lying around your house. So today, I thought I will rate the main instruments in a band and how well they stack up against my rating scale. Meaning, if I can watch TV while they are in the same house. More specifically, on my sofa.

It is a 1 to 5 scale.

1 being that I can sit on a sofa with them and still hear the TV.

5 being that I can't sit in the same house and hear the TV.

Feel free to add any or tell me I am wrong.

Drummers

Drummers don't have much of a problem with leaving shit around. When a stand or cymbal is broken it is usually in the garbage in a few days. Or being creatively used for some kind of TV stand. Every once in awhile you will step on a screw with your bare feet, but as a whole, they aren't that bad. Just kiss off a small corner of your house and everything else is cool. Plus, when drummers practice in front of your TV, all you can hear is them hitting pillows. Much better for my TV watching purposes. And what else can you buy for a drum set? You aren't going in to the music store every other day to get some picks or strings. Maybe you will get a UPS package every once in awhile with a cymbal in it. So no big deal. The hardest thing I have ever had to snag for a drummer was a parking curb to stop his drum from sliding. The only reason I helped him with this is cause we got to skate on it in the house when he wasn't using it. Usually drummers are on the same note as you, too. When a good show comes on, they can figure it out and shut up.

I give them a 3.

no mic.jpgSingers

I don't think singers practice and really, if a singer started bellowing out something in the middle of my living room, it would look a little weird. Singers only have egos that they toss around and I'm not going to trip over that as I walk to fridge in the middle of the night. So while they don't scream during shows, they tend to have big mouths and because of said mouth, they sometimes interrupt important dialogue of "Little House." And that’s a bad thing cause someone may go blind and you might fucking miss it. Pretty simple. No microphone, no sound.

I give them a 2.

If "Little House" is on, I change my rating to a 4.

Bass

Bass players are perfect. No one else can get your shit running tight and fast, keep a cool head and hold the band together. Except drummers. Most of the drummers I have known can build almost anything you want with anything they have. Bass players are the exact same. Give me a few 2x4's and I'll build you a castle as long as you shut up and keep out of my way. Besides, bass players won't sit in front of your couch and play for hours while watching "24". This is a big plus in their corner. Most of the times, bass players are focused on what we need to do right fucking now to get through this situation so if they happen to be trying to get through an episode of "Andy Griffith" you know damn well they will be focused on that TV till Otis passes out or Barney is dead. They will get through the next half hour. What breaks next, meh, deal with it when it happens.

I give them a 1. My best rating. guitarsofa.jpg

Guitarists

I've saved the best for last.

The worst offenders of this are guitarists. Christ, they have junk everywhere. Maybe I was blessed with the things I play, but Jesus, can you guys at least throw away broken strings? And you might want to figure if you know how to replace a pickup before you rip your guitar apart because I am sure as shit not going to help you replace that. Guitarists buy shit and leave it around. They don't get rid of old shit. Rather, you get new beer coasters on your table every time they go to a music store. And, as god as my witness, I can't stand someone unplugged, sitting on my couch, playing some never ending solo while I am watching TV. Listen asshole, the headphones don't work. I still hear it. And yes. Yes I did hear you nail that. No. No you don't have to play it again for me. I heard it the first 15 or so times. Besides, "24" is coming on. Shut up.

I give them a 5. My worst rating.

So in the end, I think it is pretty obvious to all that guitarists are a pain in the ass when it comes to watching TV and fixing things they broke.

Stay tuned for my woodwind rating scale that will be posted when I learn how to play my new clarinet. - T

Archives

Bridging The 6-String Divide

I learned to play guitar in Mountain Home, Idaho. I doubt it had anything to do with Idaho – other than the fact that there was not much else to do there – and had more to do with the fact that everyone in my age group at that time was trying to pick up a guitar and start the next Metallica.

I am self taught, which is code speak for, “I suck.” But at the time, I wasn’t too bad. I spent hours a day just playing my guitar and have never really played like that since then.

We moved to Mountain Home at the beginning of my sophomore year of high school. We moved there from Biloxi, Mississippi. So, I was moving from an emerging urban area to the middle of nowhere.

prepboy.jpgMy style didn’t really fit in there. This was 1988. I was moving to a place where half of the population came from farms or ranches. So, the cowboy look was big. There was, of course, the standard high school prep. And there were those into heavy metal and hard rock – long hair, blue jean or leather jackets and T shirts were the uniform. I didn’t fit in with any of them. My clothes were all black. I wore old military fatigues with hand-painted band logos on them. I had a recently cut mohawk. Everyone was into Guns and Roses and Poison. I was into the Misfits and Suicidal Tendencies.

One of the worst issues I had occurred in the first week of my English class. I was wearing a green fatigue top that had a Samhain logo with “I get what I want, and I want you to bleed” written under the logo. There was this guy there, Kip (doesn’t that just sound like the kind name that you’d have a problem with?) and he’s sitting behind me, a couple of rows over. He looks over at me and says, “You think you could make me bleed?”

With a bravado borne out of inexperience, I said something to the effect, “Of course I could.”

He looks at me with a stare of death and says, “No. I really don’t think you could.”

I’d love to say that I wound up kicking Kip’s ass, or stood up to him in some way. Hell, I wish I could say I at least fucked his sister. But none of it happened. He was a wrestler, with wrestler friends and I really didn’t look forward to getting my ass handed to me.

Because there were so few people I identified with, I spent a lot of time in my room, smoking, watching movies and eventually, learning to play guitar. I grew my hair out long and adopted a look more like the metal bands I was beginning to listen to more and more.

In my junior year, in our junior English class, we had an assignment where we had to write about a hobby. We had to bring an example in to class and talk about it. I brought my guitar. I played a couple of Metallica riffs and then a couple of Misfits riffs.

At the end of class, Kip walks over to me and said, “That was cool, man” and went off to his next class.

Politicians can say all they want about being great communicators and uniters, I’ll stick with the guitar.

Cullen eventually showed Kip his bowhunting skills.

Archives

Cartoons—Not Just for Saturday Morning Anymore

When I was growing up, Saturday morning meant cartoons. I was never the kind of kid who slept in on the weekends. I was usually up by six in the morning, fixing myself cereal and orange juice, and watching whatever was on. Hell, I really can’t even remember what cartoons I used to watch religiously. I don’t think I had any. I just watched whatever caught my eye when I was flipping through the stations.

Things change. As an adult, I can still enjoy some children’s cartoons. But what I really enjoy are the adult cartoons out there. I’m not talking about hentai. I mean, seeing some woman get fucked by a guy with a cock that talks and has moving parts has its plusses, but I’m really talking about shows like the Simpsons. Cartoons are firmly rooted as a viable form of entertainment for all ages.

I found out today that on Sunday, one of my favorite cartoons—King of the Hill—will start its eleventh season. So I thought this would be a good time to share my favorite adult cartoons of all time.

1. King of the Hill

I grew up in Texas, so this show is right up my alley (no pun intended) anyway. But what makes it special is that, unlike recent episodes of The Simpsons or Family Guy, it doesn’t rely on gimmicks. It's a sitcom, through and through. Hank, a stalwart man, trying to fight change, and his family are just a pleasure to watch. This is a cartoon unlike any that are on television. Stories are heartfelt, with subtle references to the subjects being lampooned. It's worth noting that King of the Hill was only the third prime time cartoon to succeed (the first was The Flintstones, the second was The Simpsons). Quite the accomplishment for Mike Judge (co-creator of the series) which leads us to the next entry.

beavisscream.jpg2. Beavis and Butthead

I owe a large amount of my sense of humor to this show. The stories and ten-minute episodes were often hilarious, but looking back on them now, they seem a little stilted and don't really stand the test of time. What DOES stand the test of time is the classic B&B commentary on music videos. If you have not seen Beavis and Butthead comment on videos, you have missed an essential part of American humor. From Beavis imitating Andy Rooney during a critique of the video "Funk That," to Butthead's unrivaled excitement at seeing a Gwar video, these segments are classic in American television. People have screamed in horror when buying early compilations of the series when they discovered that the videos weren't included. But that time has passed, as the Mike Judge collection of Beavis and Butthead has been released, and includes many of the video judgments we all know and love.

3. The Simpsons

Is there anything more classic? The Simpsons have been part of our lives for two decades. From a lowly start on The Tracy Ullman Show, America's favorite family grew into its own. And while the last few seasons have been disappointing, nobody can deny how much this show has influenced television, as well as American society. I remember my mom forbidding me from watching this show because she didn't want me to adopt Bart's flagrant underachiever attitude. Well, I love you mom, but you were wrong. Bart's attitude about life, school, and all things fun is satire at its finest. With distinguished writers like Conan O'Brien, this series has packed more laughs in its run than most TV sitcoms put together.

4. Dr. Katz, Professional Therapist

I'll admit that, for the most part, Dr. Katz was a place where up-and-coming comedians basically did their act in an animated form. But there's something about the squiggly animation (seen most recently in Home Movies) and the interaction of Dr. Katz with his patients, son, and secretary that is simply charming. I used to stay up on Sundays to watch this show. It came on Comedy Central after The Critic (another underrated animated series) and it's downright hilarious. The first and second seasons are on DVD right now—you better believe I have both.

5. Aqua Teen Hunger Force carl.jpg


What can I say? This is by far one of the most absurdly hilarious series ever to hit television. Documenting the antics of a large milkshake and his buddies—a wad of meat and a huge, flying carton of French fries—this is one of the most innovative animated series to come out in the past decade. If there is any series that leaves you saying, "What did those guys smoke before they came up with that?" this is it.

I know I've left out so many great animated shows. Sealab 2021, Family Guy, American Dad, Futurama—they're all great. But these five take the cake for me. Yet it can't be denied that there is a vast multitude of cartoons that we should all pay attention to beyond this list. So, I leave it up to you readers to tell me what those are.

Uberchief still has Spongebob Squarepants sheets on his bed.

Archives

Relationship Karma

Another super fun week has passed and here we are again! I hope that the week went a bit better for you than it did for me! (I hit a bit of a rough patch.) Other than that, things around here have been quite a whirlwind of angry guests and friends and everything. Which begs the question, when do things go from mature to immature? What happened to people discussing their problems in an even voice, without escalating to the point where say; crockery is thrown about the kitchen? In my family when there is a disagreement or a fight of any sort, the two parties take a bit of time to cool off, compose their thoughts and then discuss the situation, how it made them feel, and what can be done to help make things better between them. I recall one afternoon my father and I life_in_hellfttw.jpgwere having quite a heated discussion about something and you know at this point I can’t even remember what we were fighting about. But we started to raise our voices and yelling at one another. Neither one of us really wanted to back down and compromise on anything…

At about the same time in my life I had begun taking some classes in karate. During those classes, I learned a lot about my own emotions and how to deal with them. I learned that when I am feeling strongly about anything, especially when dealing with negative emotions, I have to take a few deep breaths and allow myself to get angry, accept that I am upset, and then I can calm down, because I am not fighting against my emotions, I have allowed myself to feel and accept them. This enables me to move on away from them. It surprises me that many people will sit and stew or overreact to any given situation simply because they continue to wallow in their own self misery. One of my many mantras about life is: “If you don’t like your life, change it.” This states that you are the only one in control of what goes on in your life, and instead of dwelling upon what you have lost, or what you haven’t gained, make a change to enable more positive energies into your life.

In my opinion, if you spend your time wallowing about with a “Poor me, everyone hates me” attitude, no one will like you because you’re just feeling sorry for yourself instead of making any changes to your life that can actually have a positive impact upon yourself. I accept that I do many foolish, stupid and insensitive things sometimes. I’m only human life_in_hellfttw2.jpgafter all, what sets me apart from a lot of people that I have come to observe, is my ability to accept those faults within myself and move on, all the while trying to be a better person.

It really is quite amazing to me the lengths that some people will go to in order to “Get back” at the person that had wronged them. Most of what they wind up doing is subversive, and immature, resembling more like a 16 year old girl with a heartbreak than a mature, thirty year old man or woman. You see crap like this all the time on TV. Jerry Springer’s show is a perfect example of the extreme ridiculousness that some people actually think is an ok way to behave, beating upon one another instead of acting like adults and talking out their problems. I have had relationships fall apart before, usually amicably, and we are still friends. I have seen other relationships that wind up looking like an all out war. I have seen people who actually make the underhanded attempt to get one’s friends to turn against them to favor the Ex –lover. This involves the breaking of many confidences in order to sway one’s friend to his/her particular “side”. This is the most underhanded part of any break up. So for me, I don’t need friends to define whether or not I am right or not. I know when I have not been a great example of humanity, but I also know when I am not given proper respect as well. I give all those around me as much respect as I can.

Though, as I have said I am not without faults. But when talking and interacting with them I do not fly off the handle with odd accusations, hysterical theories, or foolish comments. I keep my voice calm and even. I try not to say things I don’t mean, and I try to say things that are non-confrontational. And I try to get my feelings across in as direct a way as I can. I am not about to beat a dead horse just to keep the fires of unrest burning. If I am wronged or even if I am the perpetrator of any wrongdoings, I typically will come to one of two conclusions about the situation. Either the relationship is worth salvaging, or it isn’t. If there is still a great friendship there that is marred my current events, I will give the other party time to cool down, and then begin negotiations upon how the situation can be life_in_hellfttw3.jpgrectified. If the situation is unsalvageable, then I’d rather let bygones be bygones and understand that while I may have lost that particular person, I might be better off without them anyway. I am a great believer that things happen for a reason, and that things will be as they should.

So I try to maintain what I have to the best of my abilities, and if certain aspects of my life leave for one reason or another, I know that it will be ok because something new will always come to fill the emptiness that was left behind. I take solace in my family, and in my menagerie of animals, and I know that someday I will be the wonderful person that I want to be. I feel sad when things change rapidly in my life, whether for the good or the bad, change can be life altering. The impact of those events can be eye opening. Sometimes I will long for the way things used to be. I recall however, that life never moves backwards and so I look forward to the future. While remembering what has brought me to this point. These events are the ones that shape and mold us all. I hope we become better and more mature with each new experience presented to us. A friend once said to me: “God only tests the strong.” Gee, I must be made of adamantium. Bless you all in the coming weeks and may you find the joys and happiness that you long for. Don’t worry about me, I’m a Drag Queen, What do I know?


Matthew doesn't like to cope, he likes to change.
Archives

January 26, 2007

I Think I Just Peed a Little

So this being Horror Week and all, we decided to keep the theme going for one last night.

If you didn't know this was horror week, that's ok. We forgive you. If you missed it this week, we have been running a new box in the side bar with our weekly poll. Click on it to see the topic and make your nominations and Friday, which I think is today, we post them all and you guys all vote on them. Then they win some prize or golden watch or something like that. Maybe our forever adoration. Idunno.

Anyways, back to what we are doing this week. We have already covered scariest movies so that one is done. So, since we are not going to be making a poll on scariest scene in a movie, we decided to run a post on that topic and ask you guys about yours.

You know. The scariest one. Maybe it was just a creepy scene. The music building up. Something was going to happen and you aloready knew what it was. You just had to watch it again for that adrenaline kick.

Yes. We like adrenaline.

These are our kicks.

Turtle goes first.

John Carpender's The Thing - The blood testing scene

Jesus christ. I've done this movie three times this week. Grrr. OK. One vote for non-originality on my part. One more time.

big_the_thing.jpgThe scene where all the guys are tied up. Kurt Russel (yeah, I know) is testing their blood to see if any of them are (or is?) the alien. By heating up a piece of copper wire and sticking it in the blood of the tied up Arctic employees (that's fun to say. Arctic employees! Arctic employees!) they can see who the alien is (are?) because their blood reacts with the heat of the copper. I'm not going to explain it anymore cause most of us know the scene. Well, the one guy they thought wasn't the bad guy (guys?) was the bad guy (guys?) and proceeds to fuck a lot of them up while the other guys try to escape the ropes that hold them all together. Flame throwers don't work. Bad things happen to people. Just an all around "oh shit" scene.

Really fun to watch if you are addicted to that rush of "Oh crap. Well that didn't work out the way we planned it. What the fuck now?"

It's also kind of funny that the guys who were tied up right next to him (them?) didn't get hurt. Or did they?

I love the scene. - T

You can watch that scene here.

Michele:

My scary scene comes from a movie I really didn't like all that much. Thing is, I like creepy more than I like scary. Gore and guts and blood and monsters popping out from nowhere may give me chills or make me jump out of my seat, but it's the creepy things that stay with me and keep me from turning the lights off at night. While I get immense enjoyment from great horror films like Dead Alive or Evil Dead, it's movies like Session 9 and Event Horizon that stay with me long after the credits roll and give me nightmares.

I did not enjoy Blair Witch Project. I thought it was long and drawn out and really boring in too many parts.blairwitch2.jpg I struggled to stay awake for most of the movie. Yet the film has one redeeming feature. It contains what, in my eyes, is one of the creepiest moments on film. The ending, where Michael is standing completely still and facing the corner. It was so unsettling, so unnerving that it made sitting through that entire movie worth it. I can't even explain to you why I found it so creepy or why I saw that scene when I closed my eyes for many nights after I saw the movie or why I still get chills when I think about it. I think it was the ambiguity, the absence of any explanation, the total unknowing feel about it that gave me the creeps.

I do have another one - the scene in the Hitcher when Jennifer Jason Lee is tied between two huge trucks and pulled apart. You never see what happens - it all goes on off screen - but you know it's happening and what you imagine in your head is probably as bad as it would have looked if they shot the scene. What a way to go. -M

Baby Huey goes all religious on yo' ass:

omen_priest.jpgNo question for me. The scariest thing ever for me was the scene in The Omen after the priest explains what is happening to Mr. Thorne. By this point in the movie you've seen the photographer's pictures with the ominous lines near relatively vital parts of (soon to be deceased) people's bodies. The wind starts blowing hard, and that poor bastard priest knows exactly what's going down. He needs to get himself to a nunnery on the quick.

JUST as he gets to the church and all seems well, the goddamned door is locked, and he left his key in his other ... whatever the hell priests wear. Looking up to see the spire of a church just as it's about to impale you is NOT my idea of an ideal way to go. All I have to say about that is, if I do die the way I want to, don't let my mother see, don't clothe me, and don't wipe the smile off my face.

thefinn is ready for his closeup:

There’s definitely a delineation (at least in my head) between creepy and scary. When I get scared, it’s usually only for a second or so. A quick jump, a missed beat in my heart and that’s it. Over. Done. But being creeped out can last forever. The subconscious feeling of something crawling up your back. The “I know it’s not real, but that really makes me uneasy” feeling in the pit of your stomach. You know what I’m talking about.

audition_asami.jpgAnd that’s why “Audition” is a creepy fucking movie. The first half isn’t that creepy. It’s actually a well written, character driven romantic movie that doesn’t make me sick to my stomach. But there are a few hints in the first half that lay the groundwork for the creepiness to come. Essentially the movie boils down to an older, widowed film producer (Aoyama) who takes the advice of a friend and starts holding audtions for his newest film. The auditions are just a ruse, however, as he’s actually looking for another wife. And it appears his dreams come true when he meets Asami, a pretty young woman who’s very respectable and a little enamored of him. The pair starts dating and things seem to be going very well.

I’m not going to ruin the film for you, but one of the creepiest scenes in the movie is also the shortest. When Aoyama finally decides to call Asami, the scene shifts to her tiny and sparsely furnished apartment. As soon as the phone rings, we see a very large canvas bag (behind her) begin to twitch and spasm about. A smile comes across Asami’s face that can only be described as ruthless and suddenly you realize that you’re not watching a cute little romantic movie. --F


So those are our scariest scenes. Some are just cool and others are really scary. I don't know. I guess it is all how you look at it. Really doesn't matter though. As long as it got your blood pumping and the little hairs standing up, it worked.

So those are ours. You guys know that you have yours.

What are they?

Time to Vote: 50 Best Horror Movies Poll

Ok gang. This is it. You nominated the movies and we stuck them all in a poll. You can vote multiple times in one shot and you can also come back and vote again. This ain't no democracy. This is anarchy!

Have fun with this and check back Monday morning for the results and for a new category (I think it might have something to do with the music of the 70's. Maybe).

And if there's anything you would like to see put up to a poll in The Almost Final Countdown, let us know!

This poll is closed. Check back after midnight Sunday evening to see the results.

Thanks for voting!

My Rules

Rather bloody hockey fight.jpgOk there are no football games this week. NONE! So now what the hell are we supposed to do with ourselves, huh? Well ya got me because seriously, I have no idea. After six months of devoting my Sundays to football, what do I do when it’s gone?

Thankfully, at least we have hockey back. That will help to fill the span of nothingness that exists between The Superbowl and opening day of baseball season, sort of, I guess.

Thankfully we don’t have to worry about that just yet because even though there’s nothing this weekend, there’s still one last game left, the biggest game of the year… Next week is The Big Game, THE SUPERBOWL!

But in the meantime, this week, nuthin.

Maybe there’ll be some bmx motor-cross or figure skating or something on this Sunday. I don’t know. All I know is, somehow, we’ll get through it.

Since there’s no games for me to talk about this week, I thought I’d write about something that everybody here at Faster Than the Fucking World seems to like, music! Music that makes me think about football to be exact!

These are some of my favorite songs and even though they really have nothing to do with football, for some reason these songs always make me think about the game. Here we go!

Metallica - Damage Inc

This song makes me think about running backs.

Slamming through, dont fuck with razorback
Stepping out? youll feel our hell on your back
Blood follows blood and we make sure
Life aint for you and were the cure
Honesty is my only excuse
Try to rob us of it, but its no use
Steamroller action crushing all
Victim is your name and you shall fall

Once again, in reality, nothing to do with football, but in my reality, it’s all about football. Whenever I hear this song I think about a running back, smashing his way forward, stiff-arming some helpless linebacker and bashing his way into the end zone for a touchdown. As a football game wears on and nears the end, it’s the running back’s job to lay the beat down on a tired defense, pummeling them into submission and running out the clock till the game is over and another win is checked off on the schedule.

misfits157.jpgMisfits - Astro Zombies

For some reason this tune always makes me think about NFL Coaches. Yeah, I know the song is really about astro-zombies coming down to destroy the whole fucking race, but when I hear it, I always think about some coach buried away in some office, spending endless hours of their lives trying to figure out how to defeat whoever their opponent is on any given Sunday.

With just a touch of my burning hand
I’m gonna live my life to destroy your world
Prime directive, exterminate
The whole fuckin race


I don’t know why, but all I can think about when I hear that is an NFL Head Coach. These guys devote their lives to the game and to destroying their opponent every week.

Rollins Band - On My Way To the Cage

On the way to the cage
I heard the crowd roar
Thoughts of you were long behind me
I couldn’t ask for more
The lights are almost blinding
Come closer, see yourself in my eyes
Fear me

To me, this song is all about the quarterbacks. The outcome of the game rests on their shoulders. They stand back there, block everything out and look the oncoming rushers in the eye. The quarterback delivers the ball and takes the hit. Then they get up and do it again. And again. And along the way, more times than not, they’ll make you pay if you don’t get there fast enough. “Fear me”

Godsmack -Time Bomb

This one is all about the cornerbacks and safeties. Hanging back like predators, like lions in the grass. They wait for the quarterback to make a mistake and then they pounce. They wait for that moment to pounce on the ball snatch it from the air right in front of the intended receiver and take off in the other direction. All the way in for six if they’re lucky.

I’m a bad motherfucker who lives it every day.
You never look at me now, you never look me in the face.
I’m a timebomb, timebomb, baby.

T-shirt-Black-Flag-My-Rules11.GIFOk last one. This is one I always think about in the days and moments leading up to the game.

Black Flag - Forever Time

Time
Time
Forever time
Its time to walk by me
One last time, its time
At first
Relax
Get set
Get your message from time
Time, time, time, time

I look forward to football every week. I really do. I know it’s weird to some people, they say ‘it’s just a game’ but watching the games on Sunday is a thing that I truly enjoy.

One more week and it’s gone for six months. Consider this week practice for what’s coming up.

One more game left. Got any songs that make you think about the game?

Ernie will stick rock..even though the Pats are out.

Archives

Frankenstein Monologues

Hello again, gang. This time Frankenstein continues his discussion of interrogation and briefly points out human murderability while drunk.

Frankenstein: Interrogation 2 (Intelligence Interrogation)

frankinter.jpg


In this video, Frankenstein returns to the topic of interrogation, looking at it from an intelligence perspective. In case you missed the first discussion, Frankenstein focused on interrogation from a law enforcement point of view and it's available in last week's archive.

Frankenstein's "We All Have An Off Switch" Public Service Announcement

frankshawn.jpg


This video is a response to a YouTube user named D4Shawn who suggested that thinking of yourself as "better than human" might help in dealing with people who annoy you. It's quite brief and Frankenstein pretty much just drunkenly points out that we can all be killed rather easily. The implication was supposed to be that on some level we're all equal, but perhaps Frankenstein had one too many drinks to effectively be able to make that point.

Thanks for joining me again this week and take care!

Kory thinks death is the great equalizer.

Archives

January 25, 2007

"Tiny Bubbles?" Again?!

url1134.htm
So it might be no secret to some of the people around here that FTTW is changing fast. A lot of things are happening behind the scenes so our time has been a little cut back for this weeks Group LNT. Cause let's face it, we all have been running on real short schedules so we need something fast, dirty and fun for everyone to do.

"Fast, dirty and fun".

That sounds like a bad Burt Reynolds movie.

Anyways, our topic is pretty simple and we really want to hear everyone's response.

The topic?

What is your "karaoke song"?

You know, that one song you would sing if you were to get up in a crowded bar and belt one out?

That one. We wanna know about it.

And you are dying to know about ours.

Ready?

Ernie goes first.

If I was going to do karaoke I'd have to go with a kick-ass rendition of 'Steel Bars' from Michael Bolton. Hey if I'm up on stage doing karaoke, it's extremely likely that I'm already embarrassed and possibly drunk anyway so why not go for the gusto at that point.

Nobody rocks the house like Mr. Bolton.

elvis01a1.jpg
Rockstar Mommy

I can NEVER get enough Total Eclipse Of The Heart - Bonnie Tyler.

Stop laughing.

Cullen

I used to do a lot of karaoke -- before I had kids. There were a few songs I did often. Beatles and Elvis tunes were mainstays. But MY song, the one I sang to take down the house, is CCR's Travelin' Band. I sing it pretty true to the original, but maybe with a bit
more growl.

BTW, the Japanese will buy you beers for the rest of the night if you can rock an Elvis tune decently.

"Jay-er Haas Lrock!"

Baby Huey

When I was in college, I worked as a cook in a bar. Every Wednesday, we'd have heavy metal karaoke, complete with full band. People would get up and sing with the band, and it was usually terrible. But PBR was a buck, so who cares, right? Well, they made the employees get up and sing too, to prime the audience. I was in some singing groups in college, and usually drunk by the time this went down, so yeah! Awesome. I would get up every week and sing a few songs. I had favorites: "Give it Away Now", "Sweet Child O' Mine", "Back in Black", "You Shook Me All Night Long", "War Pigs" (oh man, the drummer hated that song). However, my favorite was, and still is "Run to the Hills" ... I knew I sucked at it, trying to nail those high notes, but please refer to my previous "I was drunk" statement.

kali

uhm i'd do me and bobby mcgee. (the kris kristoferson version) there was a time that i'd do acapella karaoke to that one. -- read: give the drunk girl a pint of soco and she thinks she's janis.karoke111.jpg

seriously though i never had the balls to do karaoke drunk much less sober. i always go and watch everyone else do it and then go home kicking myself for not playing along.

if there's karaoke at the wedding will you guys make me do it please? heh.

Ian

Alcohol by Barenaked Ladies or anything by Cake

I'm a huge fan of singing along with the Barenaked Ladies for a couple of reasons: their lyrics and wordplay are fantastic, and their lead singer has mostly the same vocal range as I do, so I can sound like the band does, instead of a two-octave-lower version .

Both reasons ring true for Cake as well: I could bring down the place with Opera Singer or Comfort Eagle . It's actually ironic that I've never been to a karaoke place, because while riding a motorcycle you can friggin scream your ass off and the whole world can't hear you; I get lots of practice that way.

Dan

The only time I ever did karaoke, I did Young MC's Bust A Move. The amount of beer I drank is irrelevant.

I drank nine.

Michele

The way I figure it, if I'm gonna get up there and embarrass the hell out of myself (I can NOT sing, drunk or sober), I may as well go full tilt. It's not like they're going to applaud me - it will be more like one of those early contestants on American Idol where you sort of squirm uncomfortably as they hit every bad note and key.

Which is why I'd sing King Diamond's "One Down, Two to Go." The sheer joy of watching the horrified look on people's faces as I sang "You used to be so beautiful, but now you're gonna diiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee" in a wretched falsetto that would make Bruce Dickinson sound like the dude from Cannibal Corpse in comparison would be so worth the ensuing humiliation.

Just have a few shots of tequila on hand for me.

Deb

I'll have to second the "Me & Bobby Magee", except the Janis Joplin version. I totally rock this song, drunk or sober. I prefer drunk.

Shawna

Oh geez. I so can't sing. But if I HAD to do the karaoke thing because it was a matter of life and death (like mine)....and I had consumed a lot of alcohol....and someone was holding a gun to my mother's head.... I would totally do Elton John's Daniel. Sometimes I sing along to it when no one is home. Sometimes I actually sound good to myself! Sometimes I drink a few too many glasses of wine.... but hey... Daniel, my brother. You are [pause] older than me... Where's that CD....

Paul

I do both parts of "Summer Lovin" from Grease. The worst part is I don't even have to be very drunk to do it. Of course, it's better when there's a chick who knows the words and everybody's yelling "Tell me more! Tell me more!" at the tops of their lungs.

Meg

In college, I always sang Human League's Don't You Want Me Baby? at classicists' drinking nights. Oh, yeah, my college antics usually involved a dozen Latin, Greek and ancient history students in our local dive bar. I'm so freaking cool.

The Finn

There has only been the one karaoke experience. And I can only really sum it up this way. Bar. Friends. Tequila. Beer. More beer, followed closely by tequila and then a few more beers to determine why the tequila wasn't doing it's job. I don't remember much after that, just that my friend Will made a very convincing argument and the next thing I knew he and I are wailing our way through "Roxanne" by The Police and laughing like a couple of retards. We were the only act that night that got booed off the stage.

davidkaraoke.jpgTurtle

I think the best experience I have ever had was shitfaced drunk on cheap beer and cheaper methamphetamine. Have no idea why I got up there or why i started taking my clothes off but NIN "closer" came on ., Some girl was singing the verses and all I knew was the "I want to fuck you like an animal" part.

Well, after the first time I screamed it out to the PA, my clothes were halfway off and I was covered in beer or something. Fuck if I know. The second time the "fuck you" part rolls around, we are talking nude Turtle here. I start to scream and they kill the power. Toss me out.

Damn, that was fun.

Now there are a bunch of my friends who do it sober. Sing that is. I just can't imagine that. Being sober in a bar is weird enough and now you are going to add in "sing like a fool"?

Meh. Not for me.

Branden

My karaoke song is and always will be "Humpty Dance" by Digital Underground. I learned all the words to this song explicitly so I could sing it at the honky-tonk karaoke place we lived close to a couple of years ago. This was the kind of place where everyone sang Toby Keith or "Elvira" or some other country shit. So I'd get up there and start the Humpty Dance, and all these cowboy hicks would turn and glare at me. Sometimes, it would make me scared for my life, and I guess that was a big part of it--the adrenaline. Fight or flight? Fuck flight, I'm stayin', and these assholes are going to hear about my affinity for girls with the boom, as well as the time I got it on in a Burger King bathroom.

Jo

I've had 1 experience singing at Karaoke. I was 17 y/o and working in a Claire's Boutique* at the local mall. (Tiffany's for little girl's and costume jewelry.) My boss, Amy, was freshly 23 y/o and her normal routine after work would be to get stoned in the mall parking lot and then go sing Karaoke at the Holiday Inn Lounge across the highway.
One night I'd asked for a ride home from her and she asked me if I wanted to join her for a song or two. It was a weekend, so I called my mom and told her I was going to hang out with my boss and I'd be home later. We got stoned and drove across the highway to the Lounge.

karaoke-night.gifAt this point I'd never drank in a bar before and I figured if I asked for a drink, they'd card me. Amy bought drinks for us. I had my first bitch beer in a bar and they thought I was over 21. So I rapidly got trashed with Amy and listened to her sing Black Velvet and some song by INXS. Se was good and everyone liked her.

Then some random female stranger walked up to me and started talking to me like I was her long-lost best friend. I soon realized she was trashed more than I was. She kept begging me to go up on stage and sing a song with her. She really wanted to sing, but was scared to do it alone. I finally gave in and said I'd join her. She asked if I knew any Janice Joplin. Well, DUH! Of course I did! So she picked out the song and we stood up on that stage with all those strangers watching us and my boss cheering me on. The song came on and the little screen was showing lyrics I didn't know. It was "Bobby McGee" and I didn't know the lyrics. I sang along as best I could and bring a first soprano in HS choir wasn't making me feel any better as I has destroying Bobby McGee through a drunken voice.

After the song ended I ran offstage back to my boss and didn't realize that the audience was clapping. I cried to Amy that I was horrible and they probably wanted to flog me. She turned me around, showed me the audience and said to me "These people are too drunk to realize that you sucked. To them you were Janice on a bender." I smiled and realized that the audience had already forgotten me and was watching the next drunken performer on stage butcher Elvis.

Since then, I prefer to be drunk in a seat and watch.

Pat:

Pat Benetar's "Hit Me With Your Best Shot"
Why? Because Benetar is who I listen to every time I'm pissed at the man in my life, so I know the words REAL well, and because, well, I've already done this - sang it at a karaoke night - very drunk, very annoyed that this dweeb had gotten up and MURDERED Benetar, so of course I had to prove I could do it better, right? The things we do on our birthdays....

So that's it.

Yeah. We admitted our songs. Some were ugly and some might be alright but in all reality I am scared of hearing any one on hear sing. Hey, I could be wrong but that is just the feeling I am getting.

Anyways, we told you ours.

What are yours?

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I Should Be President of The World.

After the State of The Union Address I have decided that, for the betterment of man kind, I should be president of the world. I may not have any political experience, and I may not seem like the most likely candidate, but I think I can do it. Below is my list of qualifications.

All sissies will be slapped around with olive loaf

Tired of cry babies ruining everything? Tired of hearing about superficial law suits that happen because some people are to stupid to breathe on their own? Tired of hearing people whine about being offended and getting their feelings hurt? Well in my administration, as President of The World, one of my minions (yes I would have minions) would carry around a softball bat size log of Olive Loaf. Anyone caught whining would be summarily beaten with said giant tube of Olive Loaf. Sissies don't deserve to be bludgeoned with real lunch meat.

My Secret Service would be an army of ninjas
To hell with having an elite protection force that attempts to blend in with low grade business men. My secret service will be nothing but ninjas. They will dress like ninjas. They will carry nunchucks, swords, and guns like ninjas. Most of all, they will kick ass like ninjas. If you were even thinking about stepping up to me, my elite team of ninja ass kickers would tear you a new asshole.

I would be a fighting president
Sick of seeing higher ranking people sending out the lower level personell to fight wars? Well once I am declared president of Earth I will kick ass along side the average joe. Of course seeing as how there will be no more war on Earth, the next place we are going to war with will be Mars. We'll show those filthy red planet bastards. And once we conquer Mars, we'll move on to Saturn. There is something in those rings, I must have them!!!


My Ninjas and I preparing to kick wicked amounts of ass on Mars.


My Vice President Would Rule

This is something that I have been debating heavily. Who should be my vice president? Considering all of the options I have narrowed it down to two possibilities: A Midget or A Hot Chick. Obviously everyone can see the comedic value in having a midget as a Vice President. There's lots of height jokes that can be made on late night tv, and if I ever run out of places to rest my cocktail, I can use his flat head. However, The Hot Chick, I mean come on, HOT CHICK! I can use her as eye candy to distract the martian scum and then whoop their asses with wicked style. This one's tough, I'll let you vote on it.

I will not censor anything

Tired of the government telling you what you can and can't listen too? Tired of the FCC dominating your television viewing? Well I refuse to censor anything, that's right, television and radio will be uncensored. I've been fed up with parents not doing their jobs as parents and expecting the government to step in for them. Once I am president of the world deciding what is morally decent for your kids will be your job, not mine. Don't want them to see sex, then don't let them watch it. Offended by what you hear on the radio, then change the station. I, on the other hand, will enjoy finally seeing wrestlers cuss at their opponents, and I am axiously awaiting Fear Factors "all naked playmate" episode. *scrumptious*

I will issue licenses to hunt Michael Jackson

I'm fucking fed up with Michael Jackson. How many times does he have to be brought up on charges of touching kids before someone makes the charges stick. As PRESIDENT OF THE WORLD I will issue hunting licenses spefically for Michael Jackson. I think that the death penalty takes too long, but I am willing to give him a sporting chance.


I will create another moon Now while you may be thinking that this will fuck up tidal stuff, and throw the earth of it's axis sending us plummeting directly into the sun, you're wrong. Also consider, what other President has ever been able to successfully create a whole new moon? NONE! How am I going to accomplish this you ask? How can you possibly create another huge piece of flotsam floating out in space, orbiting our planet? Simple. My room mate, Megan, has a huge head. By huge, I don't mean abnormally large, I also don't mean mishapen and disgusting. Megan has a nice round head, it's just gargantuan. One time when we were driving to work, she turned her head to quickly and caused a seventy-two car pile up. Nuns ran screaming from burning busses, four boy scouts never walked again after that day, and I am pretty sure her head killed a puppy. So, for the safety of all involved, and because it would be neat to be the ONLY president to create a new moon, I am sending Megan's head into space.


Now I understand that many of you may have questions so I have created a FAQ for you to reference for the time being.

Q: Will you have your own version of the White House?

A: yes

Q: Where will this new Presidential Estate be located?

A: The Playboy Mansion

Q: What is your philosophy on foreign policy?

A: Look stupid, I am PRESIDENT OF THE WORLD, there are no more foreigners. Except for those filthy Martians, and oh how they will pay!

Q: Ninjas? Really?

A: SHIT YEAH!!!

Q: What kind of car will you drive, as President of the World?

A: The Batmobile, duh.

Q: When should groveling or ass kissing begin?

A: No need, I am a benevolent leader. Do you have a hot sister?

That's all the questions I have received so far. If you have a question, or you just want to voice your support for me becoming PRESIDENT OF THE WORLD just leave a comment.

Thank You

Let's kill them filthy martians!

Travis

P.S. Don't forget to vote for Vice President.

President Travis is now taking applications for Director of Celebrity Detention Camps.

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Math Is Fun!

could this new year be any newer? for fuck's sake. so you all know that i've started a new job (remember the pole? ya i still have to take pictures...) and you may or may not know that i've begun a new relationship. (fucking awesome by the way, he's moving in. whaaat? we waited like 2 weeks. wanna hear a joke? what does a drug addict bring on a second date? a u-haul. hA!)

so yah now my grad school program has started up again. and last night was the first meeting of my quantitative decision making class. WTF? quan who? the only quan i know is michelle. cripes. the book is called "introduction to management science." there's a science to management doncha know. ok but here's the bad news. it's fucking math! MATH, people!!! i haven't had a math class since my first semester of college. and just so i seem even more pitiful that was over 15 years ago.

mathbook.jpgi was a go get 'em freshman in the mechanical engineering program at cornell university. for like a week (the go get 'em part. i did last the full semester. i was on a navyROTC scholarship -- marine option, but that's a story for another fucking day) my first semester read like a "classes you hate" list. chemistry, physics, calculus, computer programming (fucking PASCAL it was so long ago...) and one english class. dude i have no idea. i was away from home for the first time hanging out with marines and yada yada you know the rest. school fell a distant third to drinking and fucking. and mine was not a schedule in which i could "slide by."

we'll just skip to the end of the story at this point and tell you that i ended up sliding by 5 years later as a theatre major at a local state university. hA! my god what i put my poor parents through.

anyway i'm going to try not to let this end up being an "i hate myself" post... and i'll do that by saying that in the past year i've accomplished more and felt better than i ever have in my whole life. and also by saying that if i didn't do all that than what the HELL WOULD I BLOG ABOUT??? heh.

ok so what the fuck was i talking about? oh ya. this class is freaking me right the fuck out. and thursday i'm scheduled to start a macro-econ class. fucking hell, dude. i think i might have to drop that one. perhaps i should have spoken to a counselor about my class schedule before i signed up for these two. nah. too easy.

so let's add up my life and see what the hell's on the agenda. a new job. a new relationship. i'm in my 15th month of recovery (which is a fuck of a lot of work. all this changing behavior is fucking work , don't let them tell you any different.) and now MATH. and it's not just regular math either. there are symbols and letters involved. something called a "sigma" for christ's sake.

so ya i'm scared. but i seem to remember feeling this way after the first meeting of every class i've taken so far.

i'm just amazed at how quickly my brain tells me to quit. that i'm too dumb to get through grad school. still and all, i think i'll stay. i may, however, drop the econ class and concentrate on one at a time.

thought? opinions? experience?

kali is just teasing us now with the pole pics.

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I Want My MTV (Yeah, RIGHT)

I mentioned recently that I've had an indecent amount of MTV exposure as of late because of my teenage step-kids' obsession with it. Even though there is not one moment while that channel is on my television that I do not mumble under my breath how I would rather adopt a kid with Woody Allen than be forced to watch another minute of such mind-numbing horse shit, sometimes it truly is just impossible to look away. Talk about a train wreck. Let's see, we've got:

face_answer.jpgI Want A Famous Face
The show that showcases the most pathetic of all homosapiens who are so insecure and vain, that they decide to have plastic surgery to look like the celebrity they find the most beautiful. I've watched this show only once and I didn't make it to the end, even though I really wanted to see the end result, because I was too busy looking at the inside of my toilet bowl while dry heaving.

The Real World, Season 8,935,076,352
Admittedly, I watched the first Real World season. But, in my defense, reality show was non the lifeform it currently is. There were game shows, Candid Camera, and Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. Oh, and I was 11. So, there's that. It was still annoying, but slightly fascinating. But now I don't understand why people keep watching. It is virtually the same thing over and over again. And after the first three dozen seasons, it became comparable to HBO's Real Sex series. And at least with Real Sex, they don't blur out the boobs in the fake-lipstick-lesbian hot tub scenes.

Room Raiders
Where a "hot" and extremely "cool" male/female picks from 3 potential "hot" and "cool" dates by raiding their bedrooms while no one is home, including searching through the dirty clothes hamper... with a black light. Substitute the words "hot" with "a little less than overwhelmingly grotesque" and "cool" with "more irritating than Fran Drescher's voice on whip-its" and you've got it.

My Super Fucking Sweet Sixteensteveirwinsouthpark.jpg
Daddy's rich. Noted. Now can I punch you in that spoiled, bratty, rotten little face of yours? If for no other reason than to steal all those Dior gift/goodie bags you're handing out to your guests.

TRL
A bunch of teenyboppers gathered around Time Square to talk about good music. I'm not even sure why I get annoyed with this one at all. It'd be like NASA asking Lindsay Lohan to help them get their broken down rocket ship home from Mars. Don't be surprised when she IM's Bruce Willis to ask for Ben Affleck's number to figure out how they launched off of that meteor last minute like that.

And finally,
The Pussycat Dolls
While not exclusively an MTV thing, they're ALWAYS on there, so they get included in the package. Okay, we get it, you're hot as hell. But couldn't you better suit the world with a traveling burlesque show? Or a Hustler centerfold? Or a Paris Hilton style sex tape? Or tossing each other into a ring of Jello with Mini-Me as the referee? Whatever is your thing, please do it and stick to it. But, it's quite obvious this "singing" thing is not it. So for the sake of humanity, please STOP with the singing. My boyfriend probably does wish I was sexy like you, you're right on the money. We're in full agreement. Please, let's move on now. You're making my kids tone deaf.

I'm deeply ashamed even admitting I've made it through any of the above. But MTV, in my opinion, is just like popping a massive zit on someone else's back. You know you really shouldn't be doing it and you're completely disgusted, but sometimes you have to find out just how gross it can get.

Rockstar Mommy and the editors of FTTW agree: The Pussycat Dolls have zero redeeming qualities. At all. Ever.

Burden of Proof - Moonstruck Album Review

burdenofproof.jpgThis week brings a slight change of pace for Lo-Fi. I'm reviewing the new album, Moonstruck, from Burden of Proof, an indie rock band from Los Angeles. I haven't done a real, dedicated album review yet here on Faster Than The World, so this should be exciting. Or it should be a review, which I suppose isn't always the most exciting of articles to read. But I promise if you read it all the way through, you'll feel like a rock star. Seriously.

I had not heard of Burden of Proof before being sent this CD. My guidance on the band was pretty much what you read above—they're an indie rock band from LA. Armed with this formidable knowledge, I dived into the album, giving it a couple listens so I could begin to form an opinion, which is often how I approach CDs. First there's the listening, then there's the deciding. I'm thinking of patenting the process.

The album opens well with a catchy track. There's a solid backing guitar riff and the voice of Neil Gall, the lead singer, comes through nicely over the instrumentation. Right off the bat, Gall's voice is enjoyable, with a hoarse and scratchy quality that I'm familiar with from certain emo acts. However, I don't want to place these guys into the emo category. Well there may be some influence, they really exist in a more general alternative rock world.

The first half of the album, unfortunately, is not as strong as the first track, which really is catchy. The next couple songs exist in a strange place in which they weren't quite able to truly grab my attention and left me, instead, vaguely entertained but not truly impressed. I definitely like Gall's voice, and the backing instrumentals are certainly serviceable, but aside from the first track, the first half of the album is relatively common and forgettable.

It starts to pick up during the second half, though. Starting with "Into the Sun," it seems like the band begins to play more to their strengths. Considering the scratchy, emotive quality of Gall's voice, the album works better with songs that bring out those strengths. "Into the Sun" does this by incorporating slower elements while building the song into something more complicated and faster. moonstruck.jpgThis technique, however, doesn't fully pay off until the next track, "These Days." The song starts out slow, dwelling on themes of pain and addiction. Then, at about the three minute mark, the song kicks up the sound level and Gall seems to lose himself in the lyrics, his voice strained and raw, pushing forward through an affected, satisfying conclusion.

The band then switches up the sound of the CD with a transition into a song with much more upbeat instrumentation and an altered singing style. It's an interesting change that, ultimately, didn't work well for me, though the short song did start to grow on me by the time it wound to a close. The next track, though, moves the band right back into the musical frame they were in previously, with strong results. "Shut Up" starts off slow, depressing, pained and builds into anger, frustration, a certain seething, underlying emotion. This is perhaps the album's strongest track, making perfect use of Gall's voice, backing it up with solid, complimentary and varied instrumentation and showcasing some compelling lyrics.

The last two tracks are a mixed bag. The second to last is a decent song, again with a slow opening that builds. The song is decent, but nothing outstanding. It does become more compelling with about a minute and a half left, when it transitions into a finale that involves a nice backing of acoustic guitar and Gall's torn voice. After that, though, comes the final track, which is largely a waste. It's a twelve minute track that consists of about eight minutes of distorted sounds overlaid with quiet, random bits of dialogue, as well as a couple minutes of silence and then the big finish of about a minute of quiet singing. It's nonsense filler, basically. This kind of thing may work for some people, but it pretty much just pisses me off whenever I hear it—and I hear it way too often, on all kinds of albums, and often from artists I otherwise greatly respect. Personally, I find it a poor way to end the album and I think it weakens it.

As a recap then, I think Moonstruck is a decent, if at times less-than-compelling album. The first half is not particularly strong, aside from the very enjoyable first song. The second half of the album finds the band really starting to settle into their sound and comes off much better, with the exception of the mostly worthless final track. While I wouldn't tell you to rush out and buy the CD, I would say they're worth at least checking out on MySpace and seeing if you like their sound.
__________

Burden of Proof's new album, Moonstruck, will be available in February. The band is currently touring Northern California with Slow Car Crash and will be playing Luna's Cafe in Sacramento on Friday, January 26th with Reggie Ginn. For information on other tour dates or to listen to select songs, visit their MySpace site.

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Witchcraft 101, Part 2

As promised, I'm going to cover stone magic and essential oils (related to herbalism) this week.

Okay, stone magic. Remember that bit about everything we think is solid is actually energy vibrating at different wavelengths? Well, that includes rocks. Over the course of human existance, trial and error has found certain stones to be helpful in affecting certain things, particularly with regard to healing. Just as the different chakras control and affect certain organic systems in the body, so too do certain stones.

amethystpat3.jpg
For example, amethyst seems to vibrate at approximately the same wavelength as the brain chemical seratonin. Wearing amethyst, or sleeping with one under your pillow, will encourage relaxation, calm, a feeling of well-being and peaceful sleep. This occurs because the energy vibrations of the stone reinforce the natural sedative and euphoric properties of seratonin. The scent of lavender accomplishes the same thing. I've spoken with parents who have found that using a lavender room spray in the bedroom of their ADHD child helps the child sleep as nothing else does, including medication.

Okay, so the kicker here is that the color violet is associated with the crown chakra, on the top of the head, which indeed does affect the emotional state, in addition to the spiritual state. The vibrational signature of the color, the chakra, amethyst and lavender all jive with the vibrational signatures of the beneficial brain chemicals affecting mood.

And yes, the color/chakra/stone/herb/flower correspondences do go on... and on... and on.

Just to confuse matters, however, then there are all the traditional associations for stones: tigereye is supposed to be a strong protective stone, the Roman legions used to embed it in their shields; rose quartz is supposed to be the stone of love (I'm not sure why, except that it's pink [blech!]); lapis lazuli was thought by the Sumerians to grant the power of the Divine to the bearer, so it was worn by kings and queens. It can be mind-boggling.

One of the best reference books I've found on the uses of stones is Cunningham's Encyclopedia of Crystal, Gem & Metal Magic by Scott Cunningham. I've also had The Crystal Bible by Judy Hall suggested to me, although I haven't had a chance to pick it up. There are numerous books available on the uses of crystals and gemstones in healing, and these tend to deal with the stone/chakra connection. There is also a wealth of information out on the Net, but as with everything out here in cyberspace, let the buyer beware!

lapis lazulipat4.jpgSo how do I do it? I keep a selection of stones in a bowl on my household altar. When I have a situation arise that I want to use a stone for, I scatter them on a flat surface and go over them with my receptive hand, feeling for the right energy. When I find the stone that calls to me, being a paranoid person, I check it against my reference books to see if it's even close to being appropriate. Almost always it's dead on.

Sometimes, though, there is no appropriate stone. Then I use a clear quartz crystal, preferably a Herkimer 'diamond'. These stones, along with opal, can be 'programmed' to vibrate at any wavelength needed to accomplish whatever you want, by interfacing your energetic system with the stones. They carry an energetic charge with great clarity and endurance.

A few years ago I programmed two Herkimer clusters to work in tandem. The first was set up to drain off negative energies from my daughter's room, which was the scene of continual high emotional drama from her and her friends. That was initially just set to drain into the ground to let the earth purify and recycle the energies, and keep all the crap from poisoning Jo's room. Then my sister down in Georgia, who is an instinctive energetic healer (runs in the family), was trying to energetically support a young man crippled with osteoporosis and her sister-in-law who was dying of cancer. I set up the second cluster to link with the first, to pull in the purified energies from the earth down there (the circuit ran down the Appalachians, for anyone who's interested), so she could draw on them to help her loved ones without draining herself into exhaustion. It helped. He's still hanging in there, and so is the sister-in-law who was supposed to be dead three years ago.

Oh, yeah, and the second cluster was blood-locked, so only someone of my blood could use it. I'm not quite silly enough to send something like that "out there" without some kind of limitation on it!

Now, calm down, just because I mentioned "blood" doesn't mean we have to start getting hysterical here. White witches do use blood in some circumstances - usually their own, and only in minute amounts. We're not talking decapitating the chicken and swinging it around by the feet, here.rose quartzpat5.jpg

Essential oils. Back to the subject here. Okay, essential oils are extracted from plants. They are used in aromatherapy, perfumes, medicines, and a slew of other applications. Like herbs, they have a lot of empirical evidence behind them. For anyone who doesn't know, herbs are the primary source of modern medicines. Aspirin originally came from willow bark (that's why you'll keep reading about willow-bark tea in fantasy novels); digitalis from deadly nightshade, etc. etc. etc. This is one of the reasons that in many European countries there has been a concerted effort made to recover the "old wive's remedies" - turns out there's a lot to be said for a mustard plaster for breathing troubles.

For the most part, essential oils are used in this country for aromatherapy. I've actually seen a chart hanging on the wall at my pharmacy that details which oils stimulate which parts of the brain for what results. Like the lavender listed above.

** BIG CAUTIONARY NOTE HERE: Do not use any essential oils without checking a reputable source book for their precautions. There are oils that are flat out poisonous, but are available for pesticide use. There are others that make you light sensitive, shouldn't be used by pregnant women, cause impotence (don't breathe real camphor, guys!) or can cause migraines. Any oil can cause an allergic reaction. Don't mess around. Do the research. **

I have four aromatherapy blends I've developed, that I sell as oils in varying strengths for diffusers, perfume and an after-bath moisturizer. I also blend them into salts for bath salts, and into a massage cream base and massage blend base oil for professional body workers.

I also develop signature scents for people - personalized blends that evoke their personalities and trip some of their brain triggers in good ways. I always involve them in the development, so their noses are telling me which scents they need to be smelling. These scents are never marketed to the public.

Then there are the actual therapuetic blends. These utilize oils that have a definite physical affect. One I call "Breathe Easy", which is a blend of eucalyptus, peppermint and clove, meant to be inhaled in steam or used in a room diffuser. It works well, particularly for people like my mother who can't take oral decongestants. Another is an oil for topical pain relief, for conditions such as arthritis, muscle aches and so forth. I've sold this to people with those conditions and gotten very good reports back from them. Sold some as part of a Christmas basket to a nursing mother, because she didn't want to take pain killers while she was nursing, but oh, her aching back!
aromatherapypat6.JPG
Found out by accident that it works well on sunburns, too, so I'm developing a sunburn cream from it. Also working on an intense moisurizer oil for people like me who have rattlesnake skin.

Essential oils are probably the most concrete and provable of the aspects of my craft. My primary source book is The Complete Book of Essential Oils & Aromatherapy by Valerie Ann Worwood. She is a British aromatherapist, and it is an amazing book. Also, for the more herbalism end of things, I use Herbal Medicine, the Expanded Commision E Monographs from the German Federal Institute for Drugs and Medical Devices. This is the most thorough and complete book I have ever seen on herbal medicines, their drug actions, interactions, uses, etc.

** I stood up to get that book so I could give you the proper reference, and got my seat stolen by a cat - the trials of being a witch with multiple cats **

So there you have the basics, or Witchcraft 101. I had a very abbreviated version of this discussion with a woman who stopped at my Farmers Market stall this summer. At the end, she looked at me wistfully and said "So, you mean there's really no magic?" I told her that of course there is, but magic is just science we don't understand yet.

I was wrong, though, in how I answered her. There is magic alive in this world. Wherever there is love, wherever the sun shines through apple blossoms, wherever the moonlight ripples across the water, wherever babies are born, wherever elders die in peace, there is magic. I've just never known anyone who could clean their house with a twitch of their nose - and man, didn't I feel cheated when I figured out I couldn't!

Next week: Meditations of a Menopausal Witch -or- Aren't you glad I don't hex people?!

Blessed Be!

Pat will be selling these online pretty quick. Watch for more details.

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Student Government ?

I don’t understand the self-importance of my fellow college students. It’s partly because I went back to finish undergrad work at the age of twenty-five after years of messing around, so the idea of protesting this or that issue of the day seemed like a dumb waste of time. Also, whatever they were whining about either seemed pretty unimportant or I disagreed with the aims of their protests. Add to that a healthy fear of stupid people in large groups and you get a pretty apathetic student. Don’t get me wrong: I have opinions and, well, I’m opinionated about them, but I’m not suffering under the delusion that I can actually cause huge changes either within the university or outside of it without a substantial bankroll.

Girl_with_Dunce_Cap.jpgIn the grand scheme of things, the world does not really need college students, and I daresay that the last thing the world needs is more college students, especially humanities students like me. We need people to take out the trash, stock groceries, run global corporations, create wonder drugs, etc., but the market is showing that there are too many people out there who majored in Urban Hip-Hop Studies or Global Peace and Happiness. The only things you can do with degrees like that are activism or finish grad school to become a professor and add another layer to the Ponzi scheme.

The point is to look at the situation this way: If you are an undergraduate, you are paying money to sit in a crowded lecture hall, write papers and take tests. If you are a graduate student, you are paying to be an indentured servant. Some people call school a job, but if you have to pay in order to do your job what does that say about your job? You are as replaceable as a thumbtack.

Now, I like my “job.” If I do it correctly I will have that rare opportunity of not only pushing adolescence well into my thirties but I can also maintain the façade that doing so is somehow respectable. You know, pretend like it’s some sort of sacrifice while really praying the whole time that the Boomers will all magically retire in the next five years and I’ll get a cushy position in some university and never have to do the nine to five thing ever again. But I will never be under the impression that being a student somehow makes me important.

This is all just a bunch of background. The real target of this little rant is what must be the ultimate pinnacle of college vanity and folly, namely student government. Student government in high school is an excusable bit of frivolity, since it really is nothing more than a popularity contest and everyone knows it. Student government in college, though, has a special layer of stupid that I find far less forgivable. If college is meant to prepare a person for a future career, then student government can only function as a means to create future bureaucrats. What makes this especially silly is that many real government jobs require no experience at the entry level and offer career level promotions within the time it takes to earn a degree. I’ve been there. I know.

British_House_of_Commons_1834.jpgRecently at my school, the student council did something so utterly frivolous and moronic that it almost seemed like a Dada-type joke. Last year, a company decided to renovate some housing near the campus to create student housing. This jacked up the rent on what had been low-income housing and a bunch of people were evicted. The student council passed a resolution (I hate that word) to pull funding from any entity that did business with this company. First off, in their rush to do the politically correct thing, the council failed to notice the irony of the situation: the housing was renovated for student living. The students are the ones demanding more and raising rent prices. For God’s sake, it’s a freaking college town. Students are the very reason that this particular neighborhood exists and the company was catering to them. Well, at least this boosted the council’s self-esteem, which we all know is far more important than anything else, like, say, advocating development which would lower housing prices overall. No, we wouldn’t want to build more houses. There’s a rare species of dung beetle in that undeveloped area and we wouldn’t want to disturb its natural habitat and cause a nuclear winter or something.

The student newspaper (which is also silly, but at least entertaining) then offended the little gods of the student government by letting the development company run an ad in the paper. An ad for student housing. In a school newspaper. The clowns in the student council are now threatening to pull funding from the paper. The newspaper is bringing up the typical freedom of association argument while a particular member of the council compared the ad to Nazis advertising for genocide, thereby achieving the perfect mix of a stupid and offensive analogy and trivialization of the Holocaust. I suppose you can tell whose side I am on.

As for the low income families, they all live in my neighborhood now. If it’s good enough for me, they’ll survive.


Philbrick plans to push his adolescence as far as he can. Archives

Terminal Embarrassment

I hadn't seen Geoff for about three weeks when I got his voicemail. He and I had worked together for a few years prior to his leaving the company and to say that I missed his wry wit and biting sarcasm on a daily basis would be an understatement. So, when I got his voicemail, telling me that he'd be around the shop for a few days, I called him back and told him we should go to lunch.

embarrassing.jpgA couple of days later, he and I met up at the diner near the shop for lunch. And, in a somewhat strange turn of events for us, the conversation turned to women. Like I said before, Geoff and I had worked together for a few years, but for some reason, the topic of women had never come up. I guess it was because Geoff was scared of them. Well, no, not necessarily scared of them, but the possibility of rejection by them. To which I was flabbergasted. Geoff’s a decent looking kid in his thirties; he drives a nice car and has a better job than I do. He’s pretty neat and a pretty snappy dresser. I didn’t see the problem. The odds of him being rejected by your standard woman seemed a little low to me.

What really amazed me, though, was his fear of being rejected. When I further questioned him on it, he confided to me that what it really boiled down to was his fear of embarrassment. He’s absolutely terrified of being embarrassed. And that makes him not ask girls out and stops him from doing lots of other things. Which, to some extent, I could understand. But I’ve never let that stop me. Hell, if you add up all the stupid shit I’ve done over the last thirty or so years, roughly half my life has been spent in some sort of situation one would consider embarrassing.

Take my virginity. Please. Okay, no bad jokes. But really, I’m not sure how you lost your virginity (feel free to tell me if you like), but I lost mine to a girl I’d been dating on a bathroom floor at a party. What ? Not that bad, you say ? What if I told you that almost immediately after the act was completed, the door to said bathroom burst open and a couple of idiots, armed with ketchup bottles, made the place look like something out of The Shining ? You see, they thought it was my girlfriends first time (it wasn’t) and thought that it’d be funny to have as much blood on the walls as they assumed would be on the bathroom rug. Did I mention that my girlfriend and I were completely nude when the ketchup shower started ? Standing in a starkly lit bathroom that smelled of sex and booze, completely covered in ketchup an covering my rapidly withering erection with both hands and I couldn’t stop grinning like an idiot. Because I’ just gotten laid.

Robbie_ODavis_broken_nose.jpg And that’s only fifteen or so minutes of my life. There’s hours of this crap. How about the time I was trying to impress a cheerleader with my leet skateboarding skills ? That’s kind of a long story, but let’s just say I ended up on my back with blood spurting from my nose and I was pretty sure I was paralyzed. What about when I finally got up the nerve to ask Gina Magana out and then proceeded to vomit all over her shoes ? Or the time I got sucker punched outside a bar and ended face first in dog shit. I actually laugh about that one now. You see what I mean. Any other person would be mortified. Terminal embarrassment. But not this kid. Because I really don’t let it stop me. So what if I broke my nose trying to impress a girl ? I eventually got her to like me and we dated for a while. I won the fight with dog shit on my face. And it cleans up pretty good, with a little soap and water, and if you’re too drunk to care that you missed a spot behind your ear. While Gina didn’t speak to me again after I blew chunks on her Chucks, her friend did.


I tried to convey all of this to Geoff and while he seemed a little hesitant at first, he cottoned on to what I was saying pretty quickly. Time will tell if he’s able to suck up his fear and ask a woman out. All I could tell him was that for every woman who says no to him, there’s another woman who will say yes. And sometimes you have to go through quite a few “No’s” before you find the few that’ll say “Yes.” Like I said, time will tell.

So, how about you guys ? What embarrassing things have you lived through ?

thefinn doesn't embarrass easily, but you're welcome to try. Archives

January 24, 2007

Deadlines Suck, Man

Deadlines.

Today on FTTW we thought it would be a good time to talk about deadlines. Cause we all got them. Those things you hate that are always there. Maybe you are hiding from them or in the case of most of us, straight up ignoring them.

We admit it. We are cowards when it comes to deadlines.

So let's talk about all the ways to get out of or to ignore a deadline until the last possible second.

Turtle is up first.

Deadlines are easy to ignore. First thing you have to do is quit calling them fucking deadlines. They a "suggestion lines". They suggest that you get your project done by a certain time. Cause I mean really, what does the "suggestion line" mean in the grand scale of things anyways? This will become a little more clear after you drop some of that mighty fine LSD I saved from last 4th of July. Ready?

See, The Man makes your brain wake up to the fact that The Man knows you have all the answers but to calm down that amazing power your brain has, The Man must put things in your way to stop your brain from reaching it's full potential.

Dig it?

Not yet?hells_angels (40).jpg

OK then. Drink a beer and this will get a crystal clear. Cause crystal is clear. You can see into your soul with crystal. I don't mean that crystal meth shit, either. Nah, man. That stuff is made by bikers and shit, man, they live in Chico and just cook that stuff cause they can't find the truth. See my theory is that bikers made the "suggestion lines" "deadlines" cause they don't care. When has was the last time a biker on speed ever come up and hugged you out of nowhere? Never, man. But my brothers and sisters in the "suggestion" group do. All the time. You can feel the love between us brothers and sisters and we try to escape The Man and The Hate Bikers with their oppressive laws and their evil drugs. They try to repress us and put us down. We don't need these suggestions either, man. Since when did we have to live by anyone's rules anyways? Why do they tell us to wear clothes? I'll tell you what. Clothes are another symptom of The Man and The Hate Bikers. They all want us to wear that Abercrome stuff. Levi is like an acronym. You didn't know that?

It is.

Po L iticians
ar E
taking
o V er
Jim I

Get it?

Don't know who Jimi is or why they want to take him over but it must be fucking heavy, man. He must know something. So me and my brothers are going up to Seattle to dig up Jimi Hendrix to see if he is really dead. Cause that might be the Jimi they are talking about. Either way, I heard there is some good pot up there. After we get out out of jail for grave robbing or some other law inflicted on us by The Man, we will probably fly to Southern Guana.

There might be a few flaws in my plan but stick with me here.

Want to come along? - T

See what Turtle did there? He started talking about deadlines and went off somewhere else.

This is what I do when a deadline approaches. I deal with everything except what I'm supposed to be doing? I'm supposed to have that on your desk by 3:30? Ok, that means up until 3:20 I will be talking about and doing anything else except what I'm supposed to be doing. The way to deal with looming deadlines, of course, is to ignore them. It's like when you're driving and your car suddenly makes a weird noise, so you turn up the radio. Sure, the noise is still there and it's not getting fixed, but if you don't hear it, you can pretend it doesn't exist.

Oh, I always meet my deadlines. I work best under pressure. 3:20. That's when I'll start doing six hours worth of work. Yep, I'll get it done in ten minutes flat. And it will be precise and error free. It's just how I do things. Ignore, ignore, ignore, EVERYBODY PANIC!!!

The best part of all that is what I do during the time I should be working on whatever I'm supposed to be working on. It's not like I fill my time with mundane things, like making animals out of paper clips or surfing for porn on company time. See, my brain is on full go when there's a deadline coming up. Imagine if I poured a combination of Jolt soda, Starbucks coffee, crystal meth and a gallon of Kool-Aid into my brain. My mind gets kind of wired. Maybe even fried. Because instead of thinking about the thing it is I need to have done, my mind is going in four thousand different directions, none of them the right one. It's like my brain is firing off neurons or whatever you call them, these tiny little projectiles filled with random thoughts that keep me from keeping my eye on the prize. My eyes glaze over and I start thinking of what it would be like to have sex with Glenn Danzig, but not in a real sexual way, more out of curiousity than anything else. For instance, I wonder if Glenn would like a mirror on the ceiling so he can stare at himself while we go at it? And would he moan his own name when he came? Then I'll think about how it would feel to drive a fork through someone's brain. And that leads me to thinking about watching brains slowly slide out of someone's head, which leads me to thinking about lunch, which leads me to zombies, which is really, when you think about it, what it all boils down to anyhow. Zombies. Everything you know, everything you do, ends up being about zombies.

Then some random song lyric will pop into my head. Did you ever have one of those moments where you are merrily singing along to one of your favorite songs and you realize you've been doing it by rote for so long that you never stopped and thought about the lyrics, so you do, and then you're sorry? My brain suddenly is firing snippets of Monster Magnet's Spacelord at me and I relaize I never really did think about what I was singing. So grease up your baby for a ball on the hill? Whatever. But that makes me think about grease. Which makes me think about food. A lot. Greasy, fattening, buttery, death-inviting food. Grilled swiss cheese sandwiches with bacon. French fries and cheese, bacon and sour cream. Anything with lots of salt. And cheese. Even shit would taste good with cheese and salt. Maybe.

Then I look at the clock and I'm about to think about work and a deadline but instead I I think about my old Sega Genesis and I'm really proud of myself for remembering the code to get to the cheat menu on Aladdin. I think about Ewoks and it makes me all pissed at George Lucas all over again because man, we should have seen JarJar coming. And then I get to thinking that all my favorite bands don't exist anymore and not because of age or anything, just that they all broke up at some point over artistic differences or who was fucking whose girlfriend. For some reason - I don't always follow the trail of the firing brain pistons here - that makes me think about farts and I try not to think about farts too much, so we won't go there. But I will glance at the clock once more and be hit by the thought that Master Shake is really a dick to Meatwad. He needs a smackdown. And how come Meatwad doesn't ever get rancid and filled with maggots like any other piece of meat would, unless it's because he's, you know, a cartoon character and all. But still, I can't blame Carl for not letting Meatwad swim in his pool. I wouldn't either.

Fuck. It's 3:20.

Gotta jam.

Deadline. -M

The Back Booth

Introduce Myself, Why Not?

Michele's been asking me to join the band here at FTTW for awhile and with everything going on, I was kind of putting it off. Then I realized I was spending more time commenting here than I was writing over at The Daily Brief.

That makes sense to me. Even back in the ASV days I felt like had Michele and I grew up in the same neighborhood in the same town, we would have hung out, listening to her cousin's or my big sister's albums when we could get out of their houses with them under our army jackets or pea coats. We would NOT have dated...that would have been weird, genesis11.jpgbut we would have bought beer for one another and hung out when the other's umfriend turned into a bitch/dick. We both knew that guy who carried his guitar with him where ever he went and wore John Lennon glasses and smelled like a cat box and refused to learn the words to Louie Louie/Hang on Sloopy yet insisted on singing them at every freaking party. It's not just 'Chele. All ya'all here seem to have grown up doing the same shilly sit (sic) and now we're over it trying to figure out what to keep from the old days and what to drop and how the hell to be grownups and parents for Christsakes. How the fuck did our generation get through the 70s and 80s without going completely batshit crazy, I dunno.

Wow, "The Carpet Crawlers" just popped up on Radio Paradise , I wish I could import RP into my car. Genesis was so fucking GOOD with Peter Gabriel.

What? Your head never does that? Shhhhaaah.

So I'm over here now and if you're expecting military news or political rants, ummm, you should probably go over to The Daily Brief 'cuz I'm going to leave that over there. Better still if you want mil news, hit up Blackfive or Greyhawk. If you do go over you'll see I don't write much of any of that anymore anyway. It's kind of been boring to me.

I'm more likely to go off about a new favorite album or old favorite album, or sci-fi novel or latest Eastern Philosophy thing that's caught my eye. I watch a LOT of TV and movies. I practice Tai Chi. I play Frisbee with our dog Max when it's fucking warmer out and this winter fucking SUCKS for the cold and wind and snow. I'm not a huge sports fan but if Da Bears or Cubbies are doing well I'll be doing happy dances.

Sometimes you might see this out of me too:
Listening to: The Wallflowers, Gin Blossoms and Toad the Wet Sprocket. I think it's the cold weather...these are summer bands in my head.
Reading: The Spiritual Path by Osho. Yeah, I know he was some sort of culty Guru but so far his take on Buddha is pretty clear-cut. It was on sale at Borders...shrug.
Watching: I gave in and started watching 24 again this season after missing a couple seasons. The DVR makes all the difference. So currently, it's 24, House, Grey's Anatomy, CSI (not any of the tagalongs JUST CSI), American Idol and waiting for Battlestar Gallactica to start up again.
Cool Blog of the Week: Lifehacker really good and yes, useful, downloads for both Mac and PC.

http://www.preinheimer.com/1984macintro.movOh, I'm a recently converted Machead. When my Toshiba started acting weird I bought a MacBook Pro based solely on the performance of our iPods and iTunes. Yeah, I'm one of them. Couldn't be happier. I'm sold. If we could get more games for the bigger Macs, we'd go Mac throughout the house.

What else, oh, we're getting ready to retire from the Air Force and move back home to Idaho. Gorgeous Daughter lives there with Dashing Son In Law and our best friends are back that way. Boyo's 10 and has more air miles than most grownups who don't travel for a living. It's time to settle him down where he can make friends he isn't sure he's going to have to say goodbye to.

And that's enough out of me for the first time. I've got stuff ta do.

Timmer's settling in. Say "Hi", dammit!

Archives

In The Shadows

For the third time since the beginning of December, I have come in contact with some dreadful virus. Scratchy throat, bad cough… it’s getting old. Is global warming to blame for this, too? Or should I just blame Bush like everyone else?

OK, anyway.

My point is, this may be short and I apologize.

I’ve introduced Shawna to you in the past. She first appeared in The Band Pictures in November 2006. At some point during our friendship I made her sit for this shot. It was after 1988 because I remember the place that we shot these photos. My sister and I had rented an apartment in Vista, CA and we lived there while Mom and Dad remodeled Grandpop’s place so it could be sold. A few months later the family abandoned me in California and moved to North Carolina.

The front window of our apartment had this incredibly bright floodlight just outside of the window. The light coming in though that window was intense. The only light source in this shot was that light outside the window and I shot the picture at night. It created some awesome shadows on the walls. Shadows can create wonderful elements in a black and white photo, but I only like them when I have control of them.

Lesson for today: Sometimes shadows work! Use them.

shanwajan.jpg

Shawna belongs to a group of friends where everyone is named Shawna.

Archives

The Perfect Pub

When you're a beer drinker, there's perhaps nothing more important than finding a good pub to frequent. Of course, you may be the kind of beer drinker who purchases the cheapest shit on the market and drinks can after can in the comfort of his or her own home, but I commonly refer to those people as alcoholics. pub.jpgThat's a whole other category that really has nothing to do with the simple appreciation of a fine beer. If you simply enjoy the occasional excellent brew—or perhaps not so occasional, for I'm not saying that alcoholics are strictly confined to drinking cheap beer at home—then it's likely you have or are on the lookout for a fine pub within which to indulge your hobby. This week, therefore, I'm looking at what makes for a good pub.

Now, personally, when I'm looking for a good pub, I'm looking for a place in which I can hang out with a friend or two. As such, there are some crucial elements as to what makes the perfect pub. If I'm going to be hanging out with friends there, then one of the things I'm looking for is a place that offers the opportunity for some decent and entertaining conversation. This means that I don't want a place that is too loud. Generally speaking, I don't want live music in my pub. If there is live music, I want it quiet and unobtrusive, and I don't want to be a pariah for carrying on a conversation during the music. In other words, my pub should not have live music, and if it does, it should be as subtle, not-too-loud background music rather than a performance that's expected to be focused on.

On the same note, my conversation shouldn't be drowned out by the conversations of people around me. For instance, there's a pretty cool English pub near me with a good beer selection, but damn if you can have a decent conversation in there on a Friday or Saturday night. It's so damn packed and noisy, that you can hardly hear a person sitting two feet away from you. Now, granted, I want my pub to be popular enough to stay in business, but I don't want it so popular that to enter the place is to give up any sense of personal space or typical hearing ability. Full is fine, packed to the brim is bullshit.

Further, an important factor in any pub is the atmosphere. As far as I'm concerned, the darker the better. I only need enough light to be able to read the menu and find my way to the bathroom—otherwise keep it dim and murky. A pub should be lighted much as my bedroom would be on the day of a nasty hangover. Nothing bright, nothing piercing. I'm not seeing a doctor, I'm not grocery shopping, I'm not getting a goddamn tan. I'm getting a buzz, and I prefer to do that in the murkiest lighting feasible. Granted, decent lighting isn't a deal-breaker as are some of these other requirements, but a darker place is much preferred.

Of course, the most important factor of any good pub is the beer selection. If I can only get Bud, Coors and PBR, or if your idea of a top notch beer is a Fat Tire, then I don't have much use for you, even if you do have perfect atmosphere. Sure, Fat Tire is a decent beer, but I need some darkness. A good pub needs to at least have a couple options in the stout, porter and dark ale categories. I like my pub dark and I like my beer dark, as well, so if you can't offer me something thick, black and delicious, then I'm going to have to move on to the next place. pabst.jpg I realize this isn't the majority of the population's cup of tea (or pint of beer, as it were) but it's mine, and I expect a decent pub to at least pay me some lip service with one or two good options on tap. I need something heavy on the malts and not overpowering on the hops. The more options that fit this criteria, the better.

While a good beer selection is absolutely critical, it's also nice to have a decent food selection. Even better is a decent selection of cheap food. Here's the thing though—keep it pub fare. I'm not looking for anything involving pine nuts or foie gras or spinach with lemon juice—I'm looking for something salty and greasy. I want fries and onion rings and mozzarella sticks, bread sticks, pizza, burgers—and I want it damn unhealthy and damn delicious. It better be good and it better not be fancy. If I'm going to be a snob, it's going to be about the beer, not the food. I go to a pub to drink—the food is more a necessity than a desire. Keep it simple, greasy, and delicious, and all will be right in the world.

Meanwhile, I want to get that food in a timely manner. I want my beer in a timely manner, as well, and I sure as hell don't want to be sitting at my table for fifteen or twenty minutes with an empty glass in front of me. onion rings.jpgWhat I'm getting at is that I want some decent service. It doesn't have to be perfect, because I realize being a server in a restaurant or bar can suck ass. But here's the deal—I'm considerate, I'm nice, and I'm happy to give you a decent tip. What I fucking hate is going to a pub and not being able to get beer. It's why I'm there, and if I'm left not able to maintain my buzz because no one wants to bring me another drink, I get annoyed. And while I won't yell at you or be an asshole about it, I probably won't be coming back, either. Keep my glass filled and I'll be happy. Leave me staring longingly at the taps at the bar and . . . well, that certainly doesn't fit into my definition of the perfect pub.

Finally, I want a certain authenticity to the pub. This cuts both ways. First of all, I don't want something sleek and soulless. I don't want something too terribly trendy. I don't want a place that has no heart, has no attitude, and has no soul. Here's the thing though—I'm not looking for a shithole, either. I don't want a dive. I don't want a place that's filthy. If the bathroom's dirty, so be it. That's often the reality of a decent pub and I can deal with that, so long as there isn't shit strewn all over the place. But the main room better be in at least halfway decent shape. I don't want cockroaches running around my feet while I'm sitting at my table, I don't want any funky smells other than good old cigarette smoke, and I don't want to be left thinking I'm going to leave the place with a disease.

So that's about what I'm looking for in the perfect pub. I want a place that's dark, has good atmosphere, isn't too loud, is relatively clean, offers decent service, greasy and delicious pub fare, and a good beer selection that includes some dark, malty, not-so-hoppy selections.

What do you look for in an ideal pub or bar?

Joel likes his pubs like he likes his women......

Archives

The Songs Everyone Hates

on_stage_skynard11.JPGIt’s part of the Standard Bar Cover Band set list. Mustang Sally, Sweet Home Alabama, Shook Me All Night, Bad Moon On The Rise.

I went ten years playing without ever having to bother learning Mustang Sally. I still don’t know it “right”. I don’t want to learn it. I have this problem about learning songs. If it’s something I have no interest in, something that makes me change the station or run out of the store, I’m not going to go home and listen carefully to it to learn all of it’s nuances. I could give a shit about it.

I was recently asked to be in a band that’s starting up. I was looking over the list of songs they want to play. There, at about the middle, was “Sweet Home Alabama”.

“I’m not playing “Sweet Home”, guys”.

“Oh. Well, we just figured, we all know it, and it makes people dance and...”

“Yeah well I’m not playing it.”

From what I have been able to tell by talking to the bar patrons around town, no one really wants to hear that song anyway. So I don’t know why so many people insist on playing it.

There’s about a hundred other great CCR songs worth playing besides “Bad Moon On the Rise” (or “Bathroom on the Right”). “Lodi” is just a better song. “Sweet Hitchhiker” really moves. “Bad Moon”, eh? Lame.

Finally... AC/DC songs. There are some really great, fun to play AC/DC songs. “You Shook Me” is not one of them. Unless you play it like Everclear did.

I know I’m not the only person tired of hearing these songs, or sick of playing them. I MAY be the only one in this town, though. Which sort of cracks my spirit a little.

Pril begs you not to put your lighter in the air.

Archives

Audience of Shadows - The Story So Far

Branden took a little break after the last chapter and now he's back writing again. Before we bring you the new chapters, let's revisit the entire story so far - the first 13 chapters - in one sitting.

Chapter 1

For the first time in a long time I can't remember a detail: How many bullets do I have left?

I fired one into the air, one into the head of my girlfriend, and one into the leg of the bastard she was sleeping with. Keeping up with what's been discharged isn't the problem; it's how many bullets I loaded in the first place. Had I loaded a full clip? Or were there some missing from the time I'd spent practicing? I can’t remember the details, and I'm pretty sure it's from the goddamned medicine.

I might as well be a librarian, or a researcher. My aptitude tests say either would suit me fine. I spend most of my time collecting information.

What I remember about walking down the hall at school:

Three doors on the right.

Four on the left.

Total of fifty-seven steps and counting...

I used to try to count the lockers as I passed them, but the numbers got jumbled up with the doors and the steps, and I ended up having to go back to the classroom I started in and go through the whole process again. After that, the lockers laughed at me when I walked by. You can't quantify us, they mocked. We are here, and you won't ever know how many of us there are.

When this fact bothered me to the point of stomach upset, I went to the school office and asked to see the blueprints so I could count the lockers. When the secretary I spoke to looked at me like I was crazy (an accurate perception, according to most) I said Just go ask Mr. Granger, Ok?

When she returned, she had the blueprints in her hands. "I'm sorry," she said, "I talked to Mr. Granger, I didn't know." Not sure what to do, she rolled it to me across the desk. It was like a steamroller; every inch of it came into contact with years of germs and microbes, except the area right around the rubber band, where it was raised just enough to save that virgin white from being contaminated. That’s where I picked it up, using two fingers.

"Thanks," I said. She smiled, visibly relieved; she'd done her job and done it well. She told me with her actions she didn't want to touch me; what she didn’t say was why. Was it because she knew about my phobia? Was it because she was afraid she might catch whatever it was that I had?

"Whatever it is" is the name a lot of people give to my disorder. Disease is another. Most people think I deserve a handicap-parking sticker. I’m not handicapped, I tell them; I can still walk. I just have to be very, very careful where I step.

Dirt is where I'm standing right now. Lots of dirt, with thousands and thousands of years of microbes and germs and god knows what else waiting to be stirred up with just the kick of a shoe. A thought comes into my head: how many feet above sea level are you? It makes a difference. Some germs die at higher altitudes...

The screaming brings me back, this infectious high-pitched laugh of a scream. That's coming from the guy she's been sleeping with. I used to know his real name, but it's the one detail I'm happy to forget this evening.

He stamps his leg, screaming over and over about hospitals and tests and IVs and all we had to look forward to after this night. Jail cells, thin cotton sheets on even thinner matresses, we got 'em all. Come on down.

His stamping is stirring up dust. I don't notice this as immediately as I should; damn medicine. I watch the thin spirals burst into the night sky, up and up, riding on the light air at this height (I should have remembered the altitude) thousands of years of rot and decay looking for a place to rest, and more than likely, at least some of it would end up in my nose, in my lungs, a part of me.

I put the gun to my side for a second. I realize that I just thought "at least some of it would" contaminate me. But some of something every day gets into our bodies and roots around. ‘What good is all of this,’ screams a part of myself I had successfully shut up years before, ‘if you can't even be conscientious of the most important means of preventing infection?’

It's a voice I've heard so often in my life. My psychologist calls it Rationality. Rationality, she says, is almost like another person in my head, and he just can’t let himself be heard over all the commotion of the main part of my head. She doesn’t have a name for that part. She says once the medicine starts working, I will be able to listen more carefully to Rationality and leave old What's-his-name? behind.

Rationality makes sense tonight, for the first time ever. The guy is still kicking around, stirring up dust; I lean over into it. Tendrils of the stuff caress my face, and I breathe in, soft at first, until Rationality says, "Go for it. It won't hurt. Most importantly, it won't kill you."

That last part's the kicker. My psychologist says that half the reason for my disorder stems from an unwarranted fear of mortality I haven’t dealt with. I tell her I've dealt with death my whole life. She isn't talking about just experiencing it, she says; she’s talking about incorporating it into my ideal self, into the person my soul wants me to be.

The dirt tickles my nose, and I sneeze, and it feels good; I don't sneeze that often. I keep a list of places and situations that can cause sneezing, as well as remedies to arrest the urge, in the "Things to avoid and ways to avoid dealing with them" part of my brain. It's the biggest part of my brain, I think. And I wonder if, after tonight, there’s going to be any use for it.

Damn medicine.

“Who's fault is it?" asks the guy my girlfriend's been sleeping with. "Is it mine? Or hers? Is either one right? Either one to make you feel as though you aren't the one to blame. Well you know..."

I put another bullet into his leg to shut him up. The screams multiply. It sounds like there are two voices screaming. I look at him and realize he isn't making a sound. His mouth is open, but nothing comes out.

I turn around. I'm caught between the warring factions of my mind, watching, listening, as sirens and blue and red lights slowly work their way through the town laid out below us. I have to think, and the screaming in my head doesn't help. I have to think back over what's happened, what led up to all this. Then I can decide whether or not to kill the bastard.

That is, says one of my minds—I'm not sure which—if you still have any bullets left.

Which I had not thought of when I shot his leg.

I'm breaking apart here.


Open the bedroom door.

One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand, four one thousand...

Open the fridge and get out shot glass. One one thousand...

Open the cabinet, get out vodka. One one thousand...

When I hear the tequila bottle break it ruins everything. Who knows what will happen next? My dad might clean it up. He might still be drunk from last night. I don't really know what time it is; I haven't had a working clock in my room since I was ten. But I wake up every morning when he gets out of bed. I hear the creak of his mattress through the apartment's thin walls. That's the longest count: forty-five one thousand. I picture him sitting on the edge of the mattress, head in his hands, wondering whether or not he'd hit me the night before, although, I had to admit, he was probably most concerned with how he'd gotten home and why he hadn't gotten laid, whatever that meant. After this, I hear him thud across to his bathroom. I can actually hear him taking a piss. I used to hold off counting at this point, until I realized that every morning his piss lasted between twelve and fourteen one thousands. Never the full forty-five he always took up on his mattress. Everything else in the bathroom; brushing, a quick shave with a dry razor, was twenty-nine. Still, nothing stood up to the time on the mattress.

That morning, I waited to hear the door shut to the outside. I started counting once the bottle had dropped. By ten one thousands, he had done nothing.

By twenty, I was getting a little worried. What was he doing, just standing there? I hadn't seen my father in over two weeks and had no desire to confront him now.

At fifty one thousands, I got out of bed, left foot first, took three large steps to the door, and opened it. I walked through the doorway one, two, three times, each time setting my right foot only outside in the hall and then turning swiftly on it, only the last time leading out with my left foot and down the hall, five steps, across the doorway three times, and finally into the kitchen, left foot first.

He isn't there.

Wondering how he managed to get away from the kitchen without me hearing the creak of the floorboards horrified me. I should have heard that. Because there was only one place he could go.

He's in his bathtub. I should have been able to count the steps. Had he treaded so lightly on purpose? Did he know my routine as well as I did?

"What," he said, drowning the last bit of liquor in his glass.

I stand, like I always do, ashamed to ask a Question. One of those Questions that I know is stupid, that I know isn't worth anything, but that something inside compels me to ask. My psychologist tells me that if I listen to that something, I'll never be able to live life to its fullest. I tell her that she needs to find a way to shut that something up.

"Dad, if I masturbate while I'm in the shower, and it gets on the shower curtain, do I need to wash the shower curtain? Can people get germs from me that way?"

I stare at him, waiting for his reaction. He might just answer nonchalantly, tell me I was worried about something that wasn't important, and encourage me to use my brain in more productive ways. He might ask me why I thought that was important, and help me figure out why I was concerned about it, and whether that was warranted. But those were fantasies. He would probably go nuts on me. Maybe he would break my nose, I think. Then I could go to the hospital, they would say, "My, this fine young man lives with such a monster. He would do so much better on his own; we should put him up in a nice apartment and see how he does for himself."

Who was I kidding. I would go straight to a psych ward.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters, his face covering his hands.

He says nothing else. Just sits. And I'm standing there, wondering whether he thinks I've asked a stupid question, or whether his amazement is an indication of something I've done wrong. Guilt flows from the wellsprings of my mind. Wellsprings of serotonin and GABA receptors.

He leaves that morning without saying anything to me. In fact, we missed each other, as he left while I was cleaning my toilet. And then I had to clean the gloves I used to clean the toilet, which took the longest, but then when I was done, I had to use the toilet, and the cycle started all over again, until I was late for school, and decided that instead of going to learn about chemical reactions and attending driver's education in the afternoon, I would clean the whole fucking house. Then, my father and I would at least have something to talk about that night.

The kitchen, my room, the living room, and the hallways took about an hour. Disinfecting spray, a quick vacuum, more disinfecting spray, and a final vacuum (with a new bag). His bedroom was messy. It took an hour to do that, then another hour for me to get myself clean, and then clean my bathroom again. The last room was his bathroom.

It's the most disgusting thing I've seen. Ever. Mold grows in every crack and corner. I see some of it pulsating. The bottom of the bathtub, which is visible from where I stand in the doorway, has dirt in it. Dirt from the old man in the bath tub. The dirt of his life.

One thing that happens when I'm in unpleasant environments is panic attacks. And the biggest cause of these attacks is germs. Germs, dust, and dirt. So when I see the bottom of his bathtub, I feel a throbbing pain in my chest. And by the time I register all the mold, my left arm is numb.

When he finds me after he gets home that night, I'm in bed, curled up. There's nothing else I can do.

"Have another attack?" he slurs. Even feet away, the liquor on his breath makes me gag, and I can't answer. After a moment,

"Did you take your pills?"

I don’t even have the mind to remind him that the last time he managed to steal Xanax for me was several months ago. He used to buy it. But now…

Only the black tells me that the door has closed. He leaves the conversation with no goodbye, no wishes of a good-night's sleep. He just leaves.

The next morning, I wake up without knowing what time it is. I listen for his first movements.

Open the bedroom door.

Open the bedroom door.

He never sleeps late.

Open the bedroom door.

Open the bedroom door.

By the time I realize the apartment is empty, the phone is ringing. I pick it up.

"Hello, this is H. Ellison High School, and we just wanted to confirm with your father that you are absent from school today. Can we speak to him?"

"My father's gone," I say as I hang up the phone once, twice, three times, using my left arm first...

If you have to think of the word you use the most, the one single word in the world you use the most, what would it be?

In a survey of one hundred people, one percent may say fire (as in "You're Fired") or God (as in "Praise Be to God") or freeze (as in "Freeze—you're under arrest"). The other ninety percent will say hello, or one of its many variants.

As if everything isn't a variant of something it isn't.

Any conversation anyone has usually starts with some sort of greeting.

The word I use the most is quirk. When someone asks me why I walk through the door to a classroom three times, I say, "It's a quirk." When they ask what I'm counting, I tell them, "Just counting my footsteps--it's a quirk."

"Why are you washing your hands again?"

"Well, I touched part of the towel dispenser, and it might be dirty. It's just a quirk."

Nobody ever says hello to me. Their greeting is always a variant of "Why are you doing that," and I answer, "Quirk."

My own little variant of goodbye.

Because anytime anyone hears that it's a quirk, they shut down. Everyone is concerned, not for me, but themselves. "Why is he walking through the door three times? Is it for any good reason?" No, just a quirk. "Phew," they think, "as long as it doesn't have anything to do with me." Their faces are all compassion.

Feigned pity and madeover relief are the two emotions I get from people.

At my new school, the one I go to after my father leaves and I'm shipped to a "Home for Displaced Children" across town, things are the same. I hear people talking to each other, saying hello-goodbye, then people talking with me in the why-quirk language I'm accustomed to.

Familiarity with ritual breeds surprise when that ritual is called into question.

"Why did you do that?"

I turned. I'm in the library at my new school and was putting a copy of The Stranger back into its spot on the shelf one, two, three times.

"Quirk," I say out of habit.

"Oh," she says, coming to stand beside me. "I like quirks."

She's not looking at me; she's searching the stacks for something. It looks like an attempt to be close to someone, but nobody has ever tried that with me before.

"Have you ever had naked lunch?"

My heart pounds, my stomach wrenches tight, a clamp on itself. I'd never been hit on before. My tongue swells up in my mouth, my brain goes crazy/ier trying to figure out when to kiss her, hold her hand, do all the things I had to admit to myself I knew nothing about.

"No," I manage. "But I'm up for anything."

It's the kind of line that I always hear guys in the movies saying, but it comes out as a strained jumble of words I'm certain she won't understand.

"Well you should try it," she says, and leans up close to me, where her breasts are touching my arms, firm beneath the fabric of her shirt, and I think I'm going to come right then, and then she leans the length of her body against me, her breasts pressing against my arm, my first contact with that flesh, and I do come, right then, in my pants.

"Burroughs is an amazing writer," she says, looking at the cover of the book she's just pulled from the stack right above the copy of The Stranger I was looking at. She hands it to me before walking away.

Naked Lunch by William S. Burroughs.

For one brief moment, I have an independent thought—one that doesn't stem from my disorder at all. In that second, I forget that I'm walking through a door only once. I forget that I have a disgusting mess in my pants that I have to clean up. I forget everything besides what I observed during my conversation with a beautiful woman:

It's amazing how much 'read' can sound like 'had' when you want it too.

Another part of me says it isn't amazing, not at all.

Just quirky.

Chapter 4

What my father won't tell me is where he keeps his porn.

This was long before he left.

"If you want to know about sex, read a book," he yells through slurred words and the aroma of malt liquor. "They've got books about stuff like that in school"

Not in our school, I tell him.

"So make friends with some older boys. Ask them. That's what a boy’s friends are for."

What my father won't tell me, I decide to find out for myself.

After he's gone, they let me go back to the apartment. I'm sixteen now, and that's old enough for even that bit of autonomy. "Give him time," I overhear one of the case workers saying, just right outside of the distance adults think they have to get so kids won't hear their conversations, just inside the distance she truly needs to be.

I go to the closet in the living room. Inside, under mounds of old clothes and packed boxes, I find the slab of whitewall that had been removed so many years ago, I'm assuming to hide what was inside from my mother.

What was inside fit on a film reel that he kept in his bedroom. After my mom died, we used to watch home movies on that reel and sit up in bed. He would drink beer. That was back when he might drink a six pack of beer a night, get smiley and happy, and sit with his arm around me, telling me he loved me. That we would be alright, that things would change, that see, he wasn't even hitting the hard stuff, just enough beer at night to help him relax.

Just two months later, when my father wouldn't tell me where he kept them (insert aroma of Wild Turkey), when he wouldn't talk to me about sex (insert the smell of Mad Dog 20/20), I spent my two hours between when I got home and the earliest he ever stumbled through the door looking for them. I found them, without incident, underneath the boxes where he kept my mother's things.

This afternoon, I found them where I had left them the last time I used them. Underneath the boxes, which were now underneath all the clothes my father had become to thin for. I used to think his skin just melted into his clothes when I was younger. I was old enough to know now that it was the alcohol that absorbed every part of his body.

I put one of my favorites on the old newsreel. Two men, one woman. The men were fucking her hard. I knew that much, because the woman kept saying it. “You are fucking me so hard,” she would say as she spit on her hand and wiped it on the other one's penis, dick, whatever, same thing, and started to jerk him off. I knew she was jerking him off because he said how good she was at jerking him off. I'm pretty sure what I was doing right then as the film spun and clicked and clacked beside my head was jerking off, but I wasn't sure if it made a difference since I didn't have a girl and another guy there, or a girl and a girl, or two girls and a guy, or two guys, or any one of the myriad other assortments and arrangements of partners I had seen on these films, my outlet to the world of fucking.

It was all I knew, because I had no friends to ask about it. People treated me like I was invisible. I was quiet, I kept to myself, and there were other people to pick on. The geeks, the dorks, the fags, they were all more valuable fodder than some kid who walked in the door weird every now and then. The fags and dorks walked around weird all the time. No use picking on the guy with the quirks.

I sufferred this shit in silence, anger welling up. The anger was fueled by not being able to go to some guy I knew, some guy I called a best friend, who knew me, who cared about me, who loved me as a friend, and say, “Hey man, do you know what making love is?”

What about fucking?

Ass fucking?

Sucking off?

Felching?

Because I do. I hear the people on the pornos I watch talk about it all the time. I can tell you about them, if you tell me something.

This is the kind of friend that would say sure in a heartbeat, say lay it on me, what do you want to know, my big brother's told me everything!

And I would say, what's sex? Because that's the thing I hear people at school whispering about the most, gigling about, talking about after seeing the new couple walk down the hallway, holding hands. I would see people watch them, “Do you think they're having sex?” and giggling, and I know it has something to do with what the people on the pornos are doing, but it's the one word I never hear them say.

Chapter 5

My art teacher tells me it has to stoppp. The threes threes threes. They have to stop. They have to stop. They have GOT to stop.

I tell her with the way she's talking, it sounds like my quirk is catching.

This is from the day when I meet Mr. Granger.

She sighs and tells me to follow her. We march down to the school office and she signs me in, then says she has a class to attend to and leaves me there. The secretary tell me I'll have to wait, he has a scheduled appointment, and I say that's fine. I've been waiting my whole life. She gives me the very funny look I've become used to and I smile and wait politely, patiently.

In about an hour, after kid after kid walks out around me, some through the office because its a good shortcut, some to see the principal, or one of the three vice principals, and even after that, when the halls are calm again and the final bell for third period has sounded, finally Mr. Granger calls my name. His blue eyes peek out at me from behind horn-rimmed spectacles, which I immediately notice need cleaning very badly.

"Well, let's see here. Miss Finney seems to think you may have an addiction to the number three."

I laugh. I tell him Miss Finney has an addiction to ignorance.

Despite my expectation of scowl (a variant of “You know better than that you little smartass”) he laughs softly and smiles.

"Well, she does think she knows a little more than she really does, in some cases, though as a teacher, she is extremely competent. Why did you walk through the doorway three times when you came into my office?"

"It's a quirk I have."

He writes this down.

"Right, I understand that. But why do you do it?"

I shrug, frustrated.

He writes this down.

"You see, your identifying this as a quirk is fine and good, but identification is a far reach from explanation. I want to know what compels you to do it."

I shrug again. "I don't know what to say, it's a quirk, I just feel I need to do it. Like breathing, or taking a shit."

He writes this down.

"I understand you are probably upset right now," he tells me, "but if you wouldn't mind, I take offense to the words fuck, shit, piss, pussy, cunt, dick, cock, or asshole." He looks up from writing. "I'm not partial to tits, or any other variants on breasts."

As if everything else isn't a variant of something it isn't.

What about damn and hell? I ask him.

"I can get into trouble for even mentioning those words, let alone forbid their use. They are tied very deeply in religion," then he stops, remembers something, and begins writing again, "and it is my job to stray as far away from that as possible when talking to you kids."

“How do you do that?” I ask him.

"Do what?"

“Write while you’re talking. How do you separate those two functions?”

He shrugs, then starts writing again. "I don't know. How do you not know why you walk through the door three times?"

“You ask that as if the answer to both questions are the same.”

He shrugs again—this time while he's writing. It doesn't affect his output. "Maybe it is," he says, and then, with grave finality, closes the notepad he's been writing in and says, "Listen. I've seen your scores on the Iowa tests. They're good. Have you ever had an IQ test before?"

I shake my head.

"Would you be willing to take one?"

I nod.

"Good. I'll have to clear it with the State, since they are technically in charge of you now, but I'll arrange it. In the mean time, tell me about your parents? About your father. How are you holding up after the loss?"

There is a whirr of the fan in the distance that I just notice. It makes an unsteady tapping noise that I can easily divide into threes if I concentrate hard enough.

"I said how are you holding up?" asks Mr Granger after the third set of threes weighs down the silence between us too much.

Solid, I tell him, somehow dividing my mind between my counting task and his question. I'm holding up fine, two three, six, two three...

Chapter 6

There is a language besides English that I am fluent in. It's spoken in every country in the world, and I assume on any other world in the universe where people say things in front of people they don't want them to hear. It's called Hushedwhispers.

It took me longer to learn Hushedwhispers words than it did to learn English, mostly because the words in Hushedwhispers aren't spoken at all sometimes. It's a language of nodding heads, or arching eyebrows, or clever smiles. It's a language of deception. There is no Hushedwhispers-to-English dictionary; don't look. It is a language you have to learn on your own. And you only have a chance to learn it when people are talking about you in Hushedwhispers. It's hard to tell sometimes. My trick is to find two people talking in Hushedwhispers and walk toward them, concentrating on the face of the person looking in my direction. If that person looks to me quickly then goes back to the conversation, I don't have to worry; I’m not being talked about. But if he or she smiles, goes out of his or her way to say hi to me over the shoulder of the other person, or moves the conversation to another location, I can be guaranteed that the conversation is about me.

You get better at it as you go along. The first few times you try this, the people will move away. Make sure this isn't because you're creeping them out. Don't stare at them, just make obvious attempts to gain attention. Look repeatedly over a small period of time—you'll always catch someone's eye. Smile a little, just a friendly, how-do-you-do-sorry-didn't-mean-to-stare-I-was-zoned-out smile, and then see what happens.

Of course, none of this will be necessary once you begin to understand your name in Hushedwhispers. The audible language of Hushedwhispers is, in its English equivalent, composed primarily of hard sounds made with the tongue, for example, 'S' or 'Ch'. Don't expect to hear this right off; it is very muffled and hard to detect. But slowly, the more you listen to conversations in Hushedwhispers, the more you understand. Pretty soon, words will come together. They may sound like English words, but if you spelled them out phoenetically you would see they are quite different.

When you can hear and understand Hushedwhispers (nobody actually speaks the language) you have to learn the other 'words/phrases/sentences' used commonly in Hushedwhispers. An eyebrow arched in your direction, combined with the correct Hushedwhispers translation of your name, means either "That guy over there" if you are not acquaitances with the people talking, or "[Insert your name here]. Look, he's sitting over there." Arms up in the air in a shrugging motion can mean "I don't know" (or variation); "I don't know what he was thinking" (or variation); "I don't know why in the hell he did that" (or variation); "I don't know who the fuck he is" (or variation) and so on.

When you have reached a casual listening level, you can begin listening to conversations for extended periods of time, as long as you look natural and occupied around the people in dialogue. I like to carry one book for pleasure, at least one piece of homework to work on, and a pad of paper. You can carry more, but the rest of my bag is filled with handi-wipes, antibacterial soap (I keep it in a glass jam jar), and Kleenex. I need those things more.

Because I can't forget, you can't forget, that nothing in my life at that point is a priority, NOTHING, except remaining clean, pure, through physical cleansing, as well as careful evaluation of and repetition regarding the events of any day.

With all the other shit going on here, it may seem like that's in the background sometimes.

And sometimes, for small fleeting moments, during a sitcom you like, or when you're talking to someone, or when you're doing something mindless, like a crossword puzzle, it is. But only for a second before it comes screaming back, and you chastise yourself when you realize all the things you're going to have to go back and do again because you didn't do them in threes that time, or didn't wash your hands before picking up the soap, or you touched your eye with a finger that clearly brushed up against the backside of a man in the elevator seconds before, and how the hell are you supposed to clean out your eye?

And on and on. Throughout the day. Always there. It becomes a friend. But not all friends are good for you.

You have to remember, you are seeing a rare few moments where my mind gained a little solitude from Friend. And even then, as I look back, I'm doing some fucked up shit. But not as fucked up as what I'm doing right now.

My girlfriend, who I shot in the head from point blank range no less than five minutes ago, just coughed.


Chapter 7

It's one thing when people can tell just by looking at you that you're different.

Not me, though. I wear the same t-shirts, the same baggy pants. My style is non-descript. Blend in. Camouflage for the unwashed masses.

Short hair, nothing fancy, nothing I even need to run a comb through in the morning. People used to call it a buzz cut, but now so many people I go to school with sport them that it's become the norm, and there is no reason to distinguish the norm from the abnorm with a name, because it blends in. It's ignored.

Invisible.

You can only tell I'm different by really watching me, and high school kids are about one step below paramecium in their ability and/or propensity to pick up knowledge through careful, analytical observation. Plus, I have my 'quirks,' and I have them so rehearsed that I can pull them off naturally. I watch people walking into the classroom, waiting for a time I can go in and stop-start-stop-start in the doorway--my prerequisite number of times to enter any room—without anyone knowing any different. Touched a desk without wiping it down? No problem! I just head to the bathroom, act like I'm taking a piss, and then wash my hands. Nobody will bother someone because they washed their hands after taking a piss. A couple of people have said things about my hands being too dry. So I started lathering them in Vaseline and sticking them in socks at night. Dry hands equal attention. No dry hands equal just another guy at school.

That day, I'm going through my ritual in the parking lot. After waiting for most of the students to leave, I begin my walk past the rows of parking spaces. I'm walking by, doing my look right, look left, look right, look left, look right, look left, alright next two rows, look right, look left thing, when I hear someone running up behind me.

"I'm Melissa," pants the girl from the other day in the library.

Somehow I manage to spit out a garbled version of my name. I don’t see how she can understand what I said, but she repeats it. It's been a long time since anyone has introduced themselves to me--no reason to introduce yourself to something in the background.

We stand there for a second. I shift on my feet. Ok, who's job is it to start the conversation? Anyone? Anyone?!?

"So you like Camus?"

I hear camels and think she's asking me out on a date, which makes me even more nervous and I slide back into a car and the alarm goes off, and I stutter, and she walks over to me, pulls at me to get me standing up.

"Are you alright?"

I tell her I like camels.

She laughs. "Me too. Maybe we should go to the zoo sometime. But I saw you taking Camus out of the shelf the other day in the library. Wondered what you thought of it?"

I panic. First I think she asks me on a date, panic, then find out she wasn't asking me, but then she does, and now I feel like a complete fool fool fool...

She doesn't call after me as I run. Just stands there, silent, watching, observing. More than I'd ever seen any of her peers observe anything. A part of me, a part I think used to speak up a little more a long time ago, screams for me to turn around, to get back to her, she obviously wanted to talk.

But the part of me I listen to at this stage in life says to run, and to count your footsteps in multiples of three, six, nine, yes that's right, eighteen, twenty-one, twenty-four...oh yeah, you know the way to rock my world...

Chapter 8

It isn’t long before I have tax-break foster parents. What that means is that the people who take me away after I’ve been in the foster home for a couple of months take in foster children for the tax breaks. In my short time at the home, I saw fifteen through seventeen year olds snatched up every day. You'd meet one, the next day they'd be gone. Most of them had been to jail a few times, and talked about life 'on the outside', and how rough it was, and all they wanted was a couple of tax breakers and a room of their own. Just kind of chill until eighteen. I always said it sounded good to me.

The thing is, the rest of these kids that I watched come and go every day, they were off the streets. Or tossed out by some other foster family. But me, my father had left without a single word. That meant baggage. That meant that I would be upset—possibly suicidal—and upset kids meant trouble. Most of these kids talked about doing nothing but sitting in their rooms, smoking dope, just relaxing until they could turn eighteen and hit the streets to be on their own. Because the tax breakers didn't give a shit, as long as you didn't give them any trouble.

"You don't talk much, do you," asks my foster dad Edward on our way home from the home.

I shake my head.

"That's a nice change of pace," he laughs, slugging his wife Tillie a little on the arm. She laughs too, and slugs him back.

"You can't hit the driver!" he shouts, happy as a little boy wrestling with his best friend. I have to smile a little.

She turns around. "Eddie thinks I talk too much. I say it's all relative. You like Einstein?"

I actually do. "Yeah."

"Smart kid. Well listen, let's get home, and you talk if you want, don't if you don't. What do you feel like eating?"

I shrug.

"We were thinking pizza."

I haven't had a pizza in over a month. I want it like dogs want bones.

Over pizza and a little beer, we talk about the rules of the house. Come and go as you please. In their opinion, my way of paying rent is the tax breaks they get, and they tell me that point blank, and that is that. But the only way it will work out for all of us is if I obey their rules. No smoking indoors (but I can do what I want with my lungs outside the house, even in the backyard). No parties (but I can have one or two people over at a time if I ask them and we stick around upstairs in my room). I think it's bullshit until they show me the eleven-hundred square foot loft that would be my home for the next two years. Last: use common sense when interpreting the rules; just because they didn't say I shouldn't smoke crack doesn't mean I should start up.

I like them because they don't say things over and over, and they make sense, and most of all, they seem to respect me.

What I see in my room now is a wall. There is a large vagina on the wall, the largest I've ever seen. That's because it's the biggest wall I've ever been able to use the projector on. I'm jerking off, watching these two men shove a beer bottle up this slut's pussy. She's not shaven, which I dig, and the guys are hung like horses, which I also kind of dig in a weird, guilty way. She's really getting off, and pretty soon, her juice is everywhere, all over the guys, and they're licking it off of her, and she's still moaning and cumming and the juice is running everywhere and the guys are both jerking off and then they cum, all over her tits and face and she's lathering herself up with it, rubbing it all over, massaging it into her skin, the whole time still moaning, and then I cum, all over the place, an unexpected, TNT-type of explosion, and just then the reel runs out and starts fap-fap-fapping on it's roll, and my eyes are closed tight throughout, and when I open them, Tillie is standing at the edge of my bed. The top of my erect cock hides her face from view, but the curly red hair is a dead giveaway.

She's looking at me, panting, and I search her face for anger, but I can't really look at her eyes, because she's looking down, but not down at the ground in shame of finding me this way.

She's looking at my cock.

"You can watch anything you want," she says. Her voice is sultry, different from when we were in the car earlier. Then it was chirpy, PTOish. Perfect mother. Now, she uses a voice I only hear on the porns I watch. "Just keep the volume down a little. Edward needs to sleep."

She looks me in the eyes for one second before she leaves, and smiles. Then, on her way out, she pats my bare foot a little. It almost feels like she rubs the bottom of it with her thumb, and this immediately makes me hard again. I watch her walk out, hips swaying underneath the shiny fabric of her gown. Her tits swing a little, and I realize they were a little bigger than I initially thought.

I listen to her go down the stairs. I count her steps. When she gets to thirteen, she stops. There are nineteen steps.

Shaking and thinking of her, I reach up and rethread the film. In less than a minute, it's ready to play, and she hasn't moved from the thirteenth step. I start it up, with the volume turned very low, so the only noises are so muffled I can barely hear them, and lay back down on the bed. She's left the door open. I start to jerk myself off again, a little sensitive to the touch after the first session, but get into it pretty quick, and I listen, and then she's moving down the stairs again, onto the carpet, where I can't hear her walking, but she's in my head, and there, I can see her naked.

Chapter 9

"Have you ever heard of obsessive compulsive disorder?" Mr. Granger asks me when I finally make it back to his office for our next meeting. I shake my head.

"Let me ask you something." He leans up on his desk, supporting himself with his hands. "Do you ever do anything that you don't think is necessary?"

"I'm here, aren't I?"

I didn't really mean it, I explain. Just seemed like the right answer at the time.

"I appreciate your honesty, but that isn't really what I mean. You know, like counting things, or washing your hands, or anything else that most people would not do?"

I nod. "Everyone has their quirks."

He shakes his head. "You use that word a lot, quirks. I do not think it means what you think it means."

"So what does it mean?"

"A quirk is a habit or practice someone has that may seem abnormal, but doesn't do any harm. It doesn't get in the way of normal life for a person."

"I don't see how my counting gets in the way."

He writes this down.

"So you do count things, is that what I'm hearing."

"Well, everyone counts. You can't make it through the day without counting."

"But you can't make it down the hall, correct?"

He's looking at me over his glasses. I feel like he's asking a rhetorical question.

"It's not that I can't, it's that I don't want to. I want to know what's there, I want to count. It's my meditation; it's the way I relax on the way from one class to another."

He shifts in his chair. "What about talking to friends? Do you ever talk to friends in between classes?"

I look down. "I haven't been here that long, and haven't had time..." but I can't finish because he's already writing.

"Can you stop that!" I yell.

He looks up. I'm more shocked by the outburst than he is.

"I'm sorry, but..." I sigh. "I'm supposed to be talking to you and I don't even feel like you're listening to me. Just writing things down. I can't even see what you’re writing down?"

He writes this down.

"No, you can't. I know it's frustrating, but I have to work like this. I can't tape you—because that's illegal—so I have to write down what you say because I may not remember it later, and it's later, when I'm pouring over all of this, that I really start listening to what you say. You might as well think of this time as me just collecting information."

"Then what the hell do I get out of it?"

He writes this down what seems like four or five times.

"You will hopefully get some decent advice and guidance by the time all of this is over. But for now, I have to learn more about you, about who you are, so I can try to figure out how to help you. Now, have you met any friends at school?"

Just a girl that turns me on so much I want to fuck the shit out of her every time I see her. I want to grab her tits and shove them in my face and suck until they're bright red with the blood running to the surface. I want to plant my dick so far inside her she screams with pain but asks for more. I want to make her feel me.

"Yeah, a girl."

"What's her name?"

"Melissa."

He does not write this down.

"Melissa who. Is she your year?"

"She's a senior."

He puts down his pen and stares at the wall, over my head. I turn to see if there's anything of interest there, but it's just a blank wall, covered with the institutional white paint that lined the halls of the school.

"Melissa Cantrell?"

It catches me off guard. "Actually, I don't think I know her last name. I mean, I don't know her last name."

He writes this down. I wonder if he's left her name out.

"Good. Friends are good. Melissa is a good kid. Tell me something, how is your life with your new foster parents?"

Seems okay, except it seems like my foster mother is kind of kinky, and I'd like for her to come up to my room one night and watch some pornos with me, and then fuck me, I want her to fuck me, to fuck me rotten, to leave me so sore that I might have to call in sick from school the next day, or at least walk around kind of funny.

"Fine, so far. Nothing special. They give me my space."

He writes this down.

"Now you know that nothing you say here goes anywhere else, right?"

I don't give much thought to the question when I shake my head yes.

"Good. So how is your sex life?"

"My sex life?"

"Yes. Are you sexually active, or not?"

It catches me off guard.

"You mean, do I have sex with people?"

He nods.

"No, I've never had sex with anyone," I say.

He writes this down. Then he takes off his glasses.

"You don't have to answer this question if you don't want to. I really shouldn't be asking you, but I trust you. I don't think you're the kind of kid who's going to run out of here shouting that you were asked an uncomfortable question. I don't think there are uncomfortable questions for you.”

He waits for me to say something, but there’s nothing for me to say. He’s right.

"Do you think of sex as something dirty?"

My answer is no. He sighs, relieved. The bell for lunch rings, and he asks me if I'd like to see him again the next week, and I say yes, because I have a couple of questions to ask, and as far as I can tell, Mr. Granger is the only person who might give me a straight answer.

Chapter 10

There are three main places you touch a woman to get her off. I know this because it is what my foster mother tells me the first night we fuck.

Tits: you touch the tits how the woman wants you to.

"In fact," says my foster mother as she slides into bed next to me that night, "you do everything like the woman wants it. Let her tell you. As for you…"

I feel her hand on my crotch. My dick immediately leaps from the front of my open boxer shorts. She laughs.

"That's the thing about you young men—you're always ready for action. Now relax, and..."

I come. I come all over the place, all over her hands, the sheets, myself. She giggles--she stifles her giggles, they are so powerful--and just starts wiping me off on the sheet.

"Don't laugh at me!" I whimper, still conscious of the importance of keeping volume to a minimum while Edward sleeps below. I finally know what it is like to be on the other side of a conversation spoken in Hushedwhispers. I start sobbing like a baby, and she turns sympathetic, and holds me, lets me cry into her, and I don't know for how long, but by the time I am done, the film on the reel we'd been watching is flapping.

"Feel better?" she asks.

"I'm sorry," and I start to stand up and take the sheets off the bed.

"Wait," She orders.

I stop.

"You haven't learned your lesson."

For a second I think she is going to spank me, and I try to decide whether that's something I want or don't want, but then I remember the three places.

"Oh," I manage.

"Now, for review," and she walks toward me, "What is the first place to touch a woman so she comes?"

"Tits," I smile.

"Very good. The second place is her love button, way up inside the pussy. Sit down, I'll show it to you."

She pushes me down on the bed so I'm laying down, then straddles my face and sticks her fingers inside her pussy. She separates the lips and asks if I see a little button. I tell her that it's too dark. She tells me to feel for it.

I probe softly, exploring. She lets me. I study the outside with my fingers for a while, and eventually go inside with one, until I find a small, hard nub in the soft flesh, and when I probe at that, she lets out a moan like I'd never heard on porns. She begins to buck against my finger, moaning in rhythm, until she bites her finger so the moans aren't so loud. Finally, she bucks so far forward that she almost falls. Holding herself against the wall, she makes a noise almost like someone choking, but inside out.

She looks down at me, a lone tear falling down her cheeks. "Amazing," she says, her hand finding my cock through my shorts, "You are a clever one," and then she gives up the search altogether, rips my shorts down my legs just past my knees with both hands, and starts sucking me off.

Right when I'm so hard I think I'm going to bust (except, after the initial explosion, I don't have anything to bust with) she takes her mouth off and jumps on my cock, and I feel myself in her, and she starts to buck immediately.

"You have a decent-sized cock," she says nonchalantly in the midst of moans of pleasure. "But that doesn't mean you can work it. You have to be able to feel where to put it in any woman to really get her off, and for me, its right here!"

She bucks a little bit farther forward than she had before, and then comes down hard. I feel the tip of my dick hit something, and on the second thrust I come, a flood of it from I don't know where, and the more there is, the more it seems to like it, and she bucks a couple more times, but by this time I'm done and so spent that just the feeling of being inside her has me shaking, and she gets off and collapses on the bed.

"I came too quick," I say.

"No, no, that's the beauty part!" She turns to me and puts her head on her hand. "You got me off before you came—that's the important thing! Because I told you how. But some girls, they aren't comfortable enough with themselves, or they just don't know their bodies well enough, but they won't tell you what it takes to make them feel special inside. So it's your responsibility to be able to figure out, instantly, how to get them off. And I'll teach you that while you're here, if you want."

I consider this for a millisecond and turn back to her. "I need a towel," I say.

"Use the sheet."

I need a towel, I want to yell. You don't fucking understand! I can't use a sheet that you are laying on naked to wipe off what I piss with. No way!

I stop then, realizing that, in the court of law, this is my mother telling me what to do.

A legal guardian can go a long way.

Under her advice, I wipe off with the sheet, three good swipes, and turn back to her, trying to avoid the wet spot. "What's the third place?"

"I thought you'd never ask!" she squeals. "Turn on one of your movies and I'll show you."

I stand and get out my favorite, "Surprise Party," and set it up on the reel. From behind me, my foster mother says, "And skip it to the juicy stuff, huh?" and I nod, not looking back, because I can tell she is moving around on the bed, and something tells me it would be wrong to look at what she's doing. It is only when I hear her squirting some of my lotion out that I turn around. She's in doggy position and reaching back, rubbing lotion all around her asshole.

"It's a fact of life," she says when she notices my shocked face. When my expression doesn't change, she says, "Trust me. You're going to love it. The guys on these movies do."

I look at the film. The surprise party is in full swing, and the host and guest of honor have just been matched for seven minutes in heaven, but decide to go at it in front of everyone. Right when everyone else joins in on the orgy I feel her hand on me.

She leads me to the bed and gets back into position. She pulls me further. I get up on the bed, awkward, almost falling, so she scoots up a little, and then I have plenty of room (I found out the next time she had intended me to stand, but didn't have the heart to say) and she guides me into her. I shiver at what I'm doing, but my 'mom' told me to do it, she said it's ok, and somehow, repeating that thought throughout the act, I'm able to forget about all the germs and shit and everything else and realize that what she said earlier, it's right.

I love it.

Chapter 11

I know the girl sitting outside Mr. Granger's office the next day.

"Hey you!" she says. "Like Camus?"

Sounds a little rehearsed, I say.

"Well, it's just that I've been trying to ask you about it for so long, but you keep ducking me. I thought," she said pensively, "that maybe there was something wrong with the mirrors in my house."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I mean, I thought, maybe these mirrors are tricking me, you know? Like, maybe I'm not a beautiful girl after all. Maybe the mirrors are programmed or enchanted or something to show me a beautiful girl, when I'm really an ugly piece of shit. Then I thought, no way, what about all the other mirrors in the world, but then, what if there is a curse on me, so that every mirror I look into shows me what I wish I looked like, but then I thought no, what about my family and friends, they wouldn't lie to me, but maybe they would, you know?"

She stands there, as serious as possible for a second, then bursts out laughing. "Good one, huh?" she says.

I look at her, speechless.

"You know, you know," she says, waving her hands in the air and rolling her eyes. "I'm acting crazy? I kind of figured you thought I was waiting to see Granger and supposed I was crazy."

Still blank.

She sighs, gives me that oh-I-forgot-you're-new-here look. "The only people who see Mr. Granger are kids the teachers think are crazy. You know, nutballs?"

I nod. I know nutballs, alright.

She shakes her head. "Anyway, what are you here for?"

First thought that comes to mind. "Just passing through."

"It is a good shortcut," she says. "Walk me to class?"

She takes my hand and leads me off in the opposite way from where I was headed. I turn around to look at Mr. Granger's door, and he's standing there with one of those I'm-disappointed-but-that's-too-cute-to-get-mad looks.

"I want to see you sometime," she says as we file past the other ants on their way to second period.

Now I know she's asking me out, so I start counting steps, one, two, three...

"You know, a date. How about tonight?"

I nod.

"Well?" she says after a while. She's still not looking at me.

"Yes," I gulp.

"We're here."

People are filing into the class, all seniors. She turns and looks me in the eyes. I'm trapped in her gaze.

"Here's my number," she says, pulling out a marker and grabbing my hand. When she's done, she caps the marker, and kisses me on the lips. Oohs and cat calls spring into the air around us.

"Shut up," she says to some of the passing people, laughing. Then she turns to look at me again.

"Call me after school," she says. "I want to see you."

She touches my hand and before I know it, my dick is standing straight on end. As soon as she's out of sight, I run, covering my crotch with my chemistry book, to the bathroom. I jerk off really quick in one of the stalls without a door before going to see Mr. Granger and try to explain to him why I missed our appointment.

I call Melissa as soon as I get home from school.

"That was fast!" she says.

I explain that I live really close to school.

"Me too. You aren't in the Contour complex, are you?"

I tell her no, I'm not sure what a contour complex is.

"My apartment complex. I stay here with my mom."

The way she says 'stay here' makes it sound like she's more tenant than daughter.

"Why don't you come over to my place first?" she says. "We'll have a drink or something before we go out."

I ask her how to get there from school. She tells me, says she needs to shower, cook dinner for her mom, who works nights, and eat with her, and then she'd be ready, probably around seven.

I'm pretty far from my house, and I only have enough cash for a taxi one way, so I slink around that part of town for a while, walking, counting, trying to find patterns of three in things around me. I have to stop every now and then to use a bathroom and wash my hands, though most of the places I stop are so dirty they leave me with a worse feeling of filth than I had going in.

I start walking to her place at about fifteen until seven, and by the time I get to the complex, find her building, and scale the steps to the third floor, it's three minutes after seven.

"Come in!" she yells when I knock on the door.

The apartment is nice, average. There is a light on under the door of a room down the hall.

"I'm back here!" she yells.

I walk back and open the door, then immediately close it. She is standing in her bra and panties in front of a mirror.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry. I should have knocked."

She pads to the door and throws it open. She stands in her bra and panties, staring at me like I'm an idiot.

"Come in here silly," she says, and drags me into her room by my hand.

She turns around, faces the mirror, and begins combing her hair.

"How's it going?" she asks.

Fine, I manage while I take in the contour of her ass.

"You get here ok?" she asks.

I nod as I trace the lines of her back all the way down her legs.

"Geez," she says, and I realize she is looking at me looking at her. "It's like you've never seen a woman before."

I instantly realize that I've been so nervous and concentrating on counting steps that I didn't enter any of the doors in her house three times and I jump up and yell that I'll be right back, and run out of the room, three times, and out of the apartment, three times, back in, three, in the room, three, and then I sit down on the edge of the bed and make an effort to avoid her gaze.

"You are truly bizarre," she says. It doesn't sound admonishing. In fact, it sounds kind of like a compliment.

She turns around and begins work on her hair again. She applies a small amount of makeup while she talks, but not too much.

"I was thinking about Campisi's," she says. "It's an Italian restaurant down the road, pretty nice. You like Italian?"

"Yeah," I finally manage to speak.

"Good deal. Let me put on my clothes," and she looks at herself in the mirror, licks her lips, turns to face me and claps, "And we'll be ready to go!"

I'm ready to go right now, I think, hoping my erection will go down before I have to stand up.

Chapter 12

"Why?" asks my girlfriend, blood spurting from her mouth when she says it.

To answer, I point the gun at the guy lying on the ground next to her, but then I realize she can't see, what with all the blood in her eyes.

"Why did you fuck him?" I yell.

"Same reason I fucked you," she manages. "For fun. For the hell of it."

I ask if she had sex with him.

"They're the same fucking thing!!!" she screams. She's said it to me time after time; this is the only time she's mad about it.

"They're the same fucking thing," she repeats, coughing in the middle on a stream of blood shooting out of her mouth. "No matter how much they mean to a person, sex and fucking boil down to the same thing."

I put my head in my hands, let out a scream. "But they aren't—they may be the same physically, but even then, there are times..."

"Just because there is emotional meaning behind a sex act doesn't make it different than any other sex act."

I scream again, and, not realizing I have my finger on the gun trigger, squeeze, and fire a shot into the ground next to me. The mystery comes back then: how many shots do I have left?

"What the fuck!" yells the bastard. "What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck! What the fuck is going on?!?"

"We're dealing with a really messed up guy here," says Melissa. "Not only has he learned about sex..."

"Fucking!"

"Fucking!" she blurts, a bubble of blood forming around her mouth, and as she breathes out, it expands, and the portion of our world that it highlights turns a ghastly red. She breathes in and it collapses on itself and into her mouth, and she gags, then continues. "Not only has he learned about fucking solely through watching pornography, he's got some mental disorder."

"It's called OCD," I mumble.

She laughs through her blood. "It's called fucked, that's what it's called."

"It's called obsessive compulsive disorder," said Mr. Granger about a month before all this gunplay and attempted murder (at least up to this point) had started. Before the really intense fucking happened, before I got so deep into sex that I couldn't climb out, I went in to see Mr. Granger. This was the night after I fucked my foster mother.

"That sounds bad," I reply.

"It can be, if it isn't treated. It can seriously impair someone's quality of life and ability to think logically, to extrapolate the right data from erroneous conversations."

I nod, understanding what he's talking about, especially the last part. He stares at me. "What?" I say after a few moments. "Am I breaking out?"

"How did you understand the last thing I said, um, I can't remember it exactly..."

" 'Extrapolate the right data from erroneous conversations'? "
"Yeah," he smiles. "That."

I shrug. "Well, I could be wrong, that could mean a couple of different things, but given the context, and some things I might have said to you before, I thought it was about me listening in on Hushedwispers conversations."

He nods. "It was. Those are just words that most people your age aren't familiar with."

He is careful never to say the word 'kids' or children. Always, 'people your age,' or 'people between the ages of x and y'. But never anything demeaning, patronizing, like kids, or my personal favorite, young'uns.

"I used to read a lot."

"But you don't anymore?" He begins to write again.

I shake my head.

"Why not?"

Because in the life of a book, more than five hundred different people touch that book. More if you get it from a library or buy it used. Not to mention the number of machines that touch it when it's made, or the people who made those machines, the people whose hands they shook that day, and on and on until infinity. Touching books is just one more thing I can avoid, that I don't have to mess with, that life doesn't force me to mess with, and I let them go.

"No time."

"No time," says Granger, and he flips back through the leaves of paper in my file, "and yet last Tuesday you said you had '...nothing but time. Time to count. Counting time fills it, and vice versa.' I'm still a little unclear on that last part..."

"Filling time counts it," I interrupt. "If you fill time with action, then dividing time between different actions is implicit. This is where you start doing one and stop doing another. Sometimes they overlap, but mostly it's a pretty clear start and stop. Counting is simply division of a whole into understandable parts; acting in time, or filling it, is the same."

"I see," he writes furiously, then looks up. "But that wasn't what I was going to ask—you interrupted me."

"Sorry."

"That's ok. What I want to know is why you said you had nothing but time on your hands last week, and now you can't even pick up a book because you're so busy?"

"Things have changed in this past week."

"How?"

I shrug.

He closes his file. "I think you should go see a psychologist. This obsessive compulsive disorder, I think you might have it. In fact, I'd bet my job on it. If you can get help there, things may start going better in other parts of your life."

"I don't believe in psychologists."

"Oh, they exist, I guarantee. I'm married to one. But you won't be seeing her. At any rate, this could help you immensely. I think you should go."

I stare at him.

"You realize I'm talking to you as a friend now, don't you? I can't force you to do anything. You can go or not go—it's up to you. And your foster parents, of course, but from what you said about them, I don't think they would care much."

That last part is almost hurtful. Then who?

"So you decide. Sleep on it—this isn't something that has to be taken care of overnight. But the sooner the better. Because when you let something like this get a hold of you, when it takes over," he sighs and looks down at his hands, "it can ruin a lot of different parts of your life."

He's still looking down at his hands when I decide to ask my question, the question that had been bothering me for years, but seems so much more important after I fucked my foster mother.

"Mr. Granger."

"Yes."

I sigh. I hope this isn't a question I should know the answer to. I don't feel like it is. "I've seen plenty of people fuck. I mean, I've watched the videos. And I fucked someone myself last night, and it was fun and all, but I'm waiting for this one great thing—sex—that everyone keeps talking about. I kind of think it's like fucking, but it's different, you know?"

He looks up from his hands.

"Mr. Granger," I ask, hoping I will leave here with more knowledge than I had when I came in, "What the fuck is sex?"

Chapter 13

Melissa fucks different than my foster mother.

It's hard to say what the difference is exactly. I don't have too much to compare it with. Forced to describe it, I would say Melissa is sort of clumsy, but a little more enthusiastic. With her, things feel more…organic.

During our dinner at the Italian restaurant, Melissa talks constantly. As much as I try to listen and participate, I can't keep my mind off the utensils in front of me. How could I know if they had been cleaned properly? In the life of a restaurant fork, thousands of people put that fork in their mouths. A restaurant plate, which usually has a longer life then the fork, can have tens of thousands of meals served on its surface. A restaurant glass is the worst. They are never cleaned properly. More often than not, they are simply emptied, dipped in a vat of tepid soapy water, rinsed, and left out to dry. The glass is the Petri dish of the restaurant world.

Even though I barely touch my food and have to leave three times to go to the bathroom and wash my hands, Melissa assures me that she is having a great time. When we walk out of the restaurant and get in her car, she asks me if I have to go home.

"Well, I have to go home at some point…" I answer, confused about the question.

"You are so weird," she says. As usual, it sounds like a compliment coming from her. "What I mean is, can you come back to my place for a little bit?"

She puts her hand on my leg, and rubs it a little with her thumb. I smile, and mumble that I suppose I can come over.

About an hour later, we're in her bed, and she's going down on me, and I'm thinking about two things: how good it feels, and how she washes her sheets.

Anything that comes in contact with your body, in my opinion, needs to be washed with the hottest water possible, as well as antibacterial laundry soap. And you can't simply throw the laundry into the machine and assume the water is hot enough. After all, if someone has just taken a shower, there may not be any hot water left. To make sure all bacteria is destroyed; you have to make sure that the water coming out of the washing machine is as hot as possible. It only took me a little bit of time at the foster home to realize that not everyone shares the same opinion as I do when it comes to washing things. And that's scary.

When Melissa quits going down on me and gets on top of me, I start to forget about laundry.

This is after Mr. Granger told me that he couldn't talk to me about sex—it could get him fired. This is after I tell him I don't know who to ask, and he tells me I should talk to my foster parents. This is before I decide to find out for myself what sex is all about.

The lights are off in Melissa's bedroom, but when she gets on top of me, she says she wants to turn one on so she can see me and I can see her. She reaches over and turns on the lamp on her bedside table. The room fills with shadows. Our audience.

As I stand at the top of the hill, the gun heavy in my hand, Melissa's labored breathing sending ripples through the pools of blood collected beneath her, I wonder how things would have been different if I had learned about sex before I went on my date with Melissa. Before I went on my date, I knew two things about sex: it was something people liked to do, and it had something to do with fucking.

After my date, I go home. My foster parents are out for the evening. I decide to find out for myself, once and for all, what sex is.

I go to the computer and type the word into a search engine.

It turns out that I had been having sex. I'd had sex with my foster mother, as well as Melissa. Sex and fucking, for the most part, are the same thing.

That's interesting, I think, as I browse through more pages on the subject, reading about positions, legal implications of sex (I laugh when I realize that, in some places, having sex with my foster mother would be illegal because of my age), and sex in religion. It's interesting, and for a brief moment, I relax in my newfound knowledge, happy that an answer to a question nobody would answer for me has been discovered.

But only for a brief moment. Because the next topic on the page I'm reading is "Sexually Transmitted Diseases."

Something in my stomach twists, and for a moment, I think I'm going to throw up. The feeling increases as I read.

Chlamydia. It can cause infertility in women. In men, it can cause painful discharge from the penis. An estimated three million people in the United States have the disease. One out of every one hundred.

Gonorrhea. In men, it can cause painful, colorful discharge from the penis. An estimated one million people get this disease every year. That's one in three hundred people.

Viral hepatitis—you can die from this one. It affects the liver. It's all over the place. Even being in the same house as someone with hepatitis puts you at risk of contracting the disease.

Genital herpes. The most common STD there is. One out of every five adults in America has it. And you can't get rid of it.

Before I can read anymore, I'm in the bathroom. Checking to see if my eyes are still white (the liver problems associated with hepatitis can make them turn yellow). Looking for spots on my dick with a magnifying glass. Forcing myself to pee so I can find out if it stings. I think it does, but I'm not sure if it is because I've caught something, or because of the force I use to get it out.

That night, I sit in the shower until all the hot water is gone. No matter how much I scrub, no matter what I do, I can't feel clean. I've exposed myself to disease. After all my work, after everything I've done to make sure I kept germs and bacteria out of my body, I've made the one mistake that could completely fuck me over. For good.

The website assures me that if I take precautions such as wearing a condom, I can still have a healthy and satisfying sex life. Which raises the question—in the life of a condom, how many people come in contact with it before I use it? Because if just one of those people has one of these diseases…

When my foster parents come home that night, they find me still in the shower. The water is cold, but it doesn't bother me. My foster mother turns it off and stands me up, wrapping me in a towel, while my foster father keeps asking what's going on, what's wrong with me.

"I think I want to kill myself," I finally explain to him.

The next day, I don't go to school. Together, they drive me to a small office in a strip mall. That's where I meet my psychiatrist.

- E. Branden Hart

An Audience of Shadows will continue next Wednesday.

Today Is Not Backwards Day

So FTTW is using this week’s TAFC to figure out the best horror movies, as determined by you fine people/dirty bastards. So……. something tells me that I should write this weeks’ horror article about music and cars. That makes sense, doesn’t it? This might even be fun. I’ll do my best to avoid G.G.

Dee Snider’s Strangeland

strangeland.jpgAnyone seen this? It’s one of those movies that could have been great, but lost something along the way….. but is still great. I don’t know how many will agree with me on that, so I’ll add that it sucks. Good intentions that got screwed. One thing I know, if they had edited just three more minutes out of this movie, it wouldn’t make any sense at all. Character development is really fucking minimal. The plot is tight enough for a horror movie, but we all know how loose those standards are. The story is about a psycho who hangs out in online chat rooms (be careful out there) and lures teenage girls to his house. Where he tortures and kills them. A cop’s daughter gets taken by Captain Howdy (yeah, that’s what he calls himself, like Satan in The Exorcist), so the cop saves his daughter and gets the psycho thrown in the mental for four years.

That’s the first part.

They put the guy through some Clockwork Orange routine and he comes out of the mental wearing cardigans and shit. His story is hyped in the media and a mob goes after the guy and hangs him. And he doesn’t die, but turns all evil and shit, again. At least as bad as before.

So he goes on a rampage… kills Robert Englund’s character and his wife in a rather amusing scene. Eventually he gets caught, there’s a climactic scene, he dies, roll credits. Pretty predictable overall, some fair acting mixed with a lot of shitty acting. You can tell that Dee Snider of all people knows better than to take himself too seriously – yeah, he plays Captain Howdy.

I heard they’re planning a sequel – I can’t wait. Hey, look at House Of 1000 Corpses and The Devil’s Rejects.

House Of 1000 Corpses

Well. What did you think of this one? I liked it a lot. I loved this shit. This movie was fucked.

It was written and directed by Rob Zombie, and if you’ve ever seen any of his videos then you’ll recognize it in a second. It’s like an R rated 90 minute video. Good times…. Put this one on late at night when you’re still wide awake. Maybe a little high.

A group of kids are on a road trip, documenting weird roadside shit for some college course or something – it doesn’t matter. They hit a gas station/curiosity shop/theme park type place, run by a fucked up clown named Captain Spaulding (yeah, another captain. Weird). The captain has a fucked up family, kind of reminiscent of the Texas Chainsaw family, that the kids eventually have to deal with. There’s a definite TCM influence in this movie. Hell yeah.

Fuck, some people hated this movie because there was so little in it that was original. But that’s what was so cool about it. It wasn’t a ripoff, it was respect. Almost everything in this movie was a tribute to a previous great horror movie.

Halloween

There’s not much to say here, but one of my favourite scenes is where Dr. Loomis and the nurse are heading back to the mental to check on Michael Myers, and all the crazies are wandering around the grounds. Mikey jumps on the roof and steals the car from the nurse while the doctor is fucking around with the gate or the intercom or something. That scene had a car, so there it is.

Christine

I’ve never seen this movie. I have never seen Christine. Seen most of Stephen King’s movies, read most of his books, have neither read nor seen Christine. John Carpenter directed it, I haven’t seen it. Not sure how I even managed to avoid it after all this time.

Feast

I talked about this a few weeks ago. This movie is a great time. It’s got Henry Rollins in it and he wears pink pants. Henry has worked in music from time to time.

Buttcrack

This is a Troma movie. If you’ve seen an average Troma movie then you have a pretty good idea what you’re in for. This one has Mojo Nixon in it. Jumping for Jesus.

The Car

This movie is about an evil car that does evil things. That’s about it. You know it, that one from the 70s. Considered by many to be a cult classic…. Meh, I don’t know. Good enough to get through a Sunday afternoon I suppose.

Dan sometimes gets Captain Howdy confused with Boy Howdy

Archives

Little Miss Independent

Independence - being free from outside control or influence.

We all strive for this as we are growing up. Most of us probably started really pushing for it in high school, maybe a little sooner or maybe even a little later. When our children are born we have wishes and dreams for them (and ourselves) that they will one day be independent and thrive as functioning adults. This independence starts to form and shape in the younger years when they realize that they can dress themselves and feed themselves.

stubborngirl.jpgMy kids are a little different. My son still lies on the bed motionless and let’ me get him dressed in the morning. I know he can dress himself, I’ve seen him do it on numerous occasions. He just would rather not. He also would let me feed him and wipe his ass if I wanted to - which I don’t! He is ambitious with some things but I wouldn’t call him “independent.”

My two year old daughter, on the other hand, is “Little Miss Independent.” She has been trying to “do it herself” since she was born. She started grabbing her own bottle way before I was ready for her to, fought to crawl early, and it seems like she has been talking forever.

She wants to dress, feed, and change herself. She demands to do her own hair and buckle her car seat. I can’t help her open her juice box and since she doesn’t have the dexterity or strength to open it herself she ends up getting very frustrated.

Many people told me it was because she has an older sibling that she tries to keep up with. I think there is something in her chemical makeup that is already encouraging her to rebel against her mother! Anything that I try to help her with she yells, “I do it myself!” This is all well and good until we are five minutes from running out of the door and then the chaos starts.

I encourage her independence and willingness to try it on her own but there are still times it is a hell of a lot easier for me to just do it for her. Where do I draw the line? Well, there are no lines in my daughter's world. There's just one big circle around her. it’s Karlie’s World and no one is going to tell her otherwise.

She is my baby princess but from the way things have been progressing I would say I am in BIG TROUBLE!

Bonnie's pretty sure it's Karlie's World and we're all just here for something.

Archives

January 23, 2007

Songs You Never Heard Of

The title may be misleading. yfbs.jpgPerhaps you have heard of some of these songs. But they are all tunes I listen to and think to myself "Am I the only one who likes this song? Does anyone I know even know this song/band exists/existed?" And then I wonder why there is so much crap out there on the radio and in the record stores and stuff I think is great falls into a musical crack.

Eh, maybe it's just me. Maybe I have weird taste in music. Maybe I'm tone deaf. Or maybe your favorite band sucks and everything I listen to is amazing stuff that only people with extra special musical knowledge powers can understand.

I'm sharing this with you in the hopes that you will dig up some of these songs and listen to them (let me know if you want a.....sample.....) or maybe one of you will raise your hand and say "Holy shit! You like that song, too?"

Gnomes of Zurich - Big Teeth, Skeletal Face
I found this by digging through Turtle's CD collection. There was a sampler from AmRep records that looked interesting so I stuck it in the car CD player. Some pretty good tunes on here, but it wasn't til I got to song number 10 that something really grabbed me. Since I first put this disc in, I've hit repeat on song 10 about 60 times. I'd describe it as minimalist rock, in the same vein as Steve Albini's stuff with Shellac. In fact, I think the Gnomes singer sounds a lot like Albini. I can't find out much about the Gnomes, either. This is about it.

Shellac - Prayer to God
Well, I mentioned Albini and Shellac so I may as well throw this in here. What an awesome song. It's a striking, bare essence tune where the music is not as important as the words or the emphatic singing. A prayer for God to kill two people, voiced over stacatto guitar bursts.

Him - just fucking kill him, I don't care if it hurts.

Yes I do, I want it to,

fucking kill him but first

make him cry like a woman,

(no particular woman),

I don't know why I find that so compelling, I just do. And a lot of people think Albini is a musical genius. He's worked with a lot of bands I like - Nirvana, Pixies, Fugazi, Failure (see down this list), Zao....but I never really dug a lot of the Big Black or Shellac stuff. I know a lot of you have probably heard of Albini, but I rarely come across anyone who knows this particular song.

Far - Waiting for Sunday
I know of three people who know of this disbanded Sacramento band, and all three people knew some of the band members personally and all three people hate them. I guess I'd describe Far as emo/alternative.1525.jpg The singer - Jonah - sort of whines his way through a lot of the lyrics but I think his lyrics are a lot deeper than your average emo crap. Yea, there's self pity here, but not of the "I want to cut myself because my girlfriend decided she would rather just be friends" variety. Waiting for Sunday is an interesting take on organized religion.

We're all so tired
We wear our raincoats every day
To keep the wet and wind and world out
Waiting for Sunday

You probably need to hear the song to appreciate that part of the lyrics. But the tune itself is so quiet it's almost prayerful. Interesting stuff. I really dig that whole album.

Crowbar - Planets Collide
This is one of the heaviest songs I ever heard. The whole album is like this. I call it sludge rock because it makes you feel like you are trudging through a lake of, well, sludge. It's raw, it's heavy, and you feel the bass from the pit of your stomach to the bottom of your feet. It's heavy, heavy metal with hardcore punk roots. Listening to this is like suffocating yourself aurally. Why would anyone want to do that? Eh, sometimes you just want to immerse yourself in some bad ass music. Beavis and Butthead called their music "slow and fat" which kind of fits. This band has featured at one time or another members of Eyehategod, Corrosion of Conformity, Acid Bath and Pantera.

Failure - Stuck on You
How to describe Failure.....hmmm...melodic, for sure. Alternative, for want of a better, more specific word. Part Deftones, part Tool. part Stone Temple Pilots....I don't think I'm doing them justice here. Stuck on You - a song about a song that gets stuck in your head - comes from Fantastic Planet, which I think is an absolutely brilliant album. This album featured Troy Van Leeuwen, who went on to play with A Perfect Circle and then Queens of the Stone Age (my favorite band!).

Glassjaw - Piano
The prettiest song on what is basically an album filled with lots of screaming and emotion. Hence, the (kinda stupid) label of emocore. The guys are from Long Island, which is what made me listen to them in the first place. And I just found out this minute that one of the dudes in the band was also in Gorilla Biscuits and CIV. And also, the lead singer, Daryl Palumbo, is also in Head Automatica, a nifty dance rock band with some groovin tunes.glassjaw.jpg But back to Glassjaw, Everything You Wanted to Know About Silence is a kick in the gut from start to finish. It's vulgar, it's mean, it's sad and it kicks your ass.

Puya - Oasis
Puerto Rican heavy metal fused with Latin beats. Awesome. I saw these guys open for Fear Factory in 98 and fell in love with the sound. I mention this band a lot and people are always like "WTF? Puerto Rican metal? Whatchoo talking bout, Willis?" Turlte is the only one I know who knows of Puya. And I don't really listen to it a lot around him because the other day he mumbled something like "too much vodka!" when I was playing Oasis and I think he had a Vietnam-like flashback.

So that's a bunch of songs that I really like that make me wonder if anyone else but me walks around singing them or if I'm the only person who ever bought their album. I'm thinking that maybe some of you have heard of Glassjaw or Failure, but I'm betting I'll get a zero response on those damn Gnomes of Zurich.

What about you? What's on your playlist that you think no one else ever heard of?


Michele knows damn well you have all heard of (insert obscure indie band here), so she didn't mention them.

Archives

24: 10am - 11am (Spoilers Inside!!)

Welcome to the newest FTTW column: We're Running Out of Time!

SPOILERS WITHIN!

This is the Tuesday morning quarterbacking thread for all things 24. Where some of the FTTW writers discuss Monday's night episode, make predictions, engage in the usual snark and invite all 24 fans to come and talk about the best show on tv.

We'll be doing this every Tuesday. Normally we publish our day's content at midnight, but on Mondays we will wait til 3am EST in order to give the west coasters ample time to digest the night's episode.

jackmullet.jpgSo let's start this thing! Today, Michele, Baby Huey and Ernie have their take on last night's episode.

Michele:
OMGWTFBBQ!1!1!! Ok. It is only half way through the show and the WOWHOLYFUCK moment just happened.

Weird Bald Guy is his BROTHER??!!??

"he has a habit of digging up things that need to stay buried" Oh yea. This is going to get interesting.

Talk about surprises. This is why I love this show. Never a dull fucking moment.

On the other hand, things I can do without: soap opera shit. I really don't care if Jack's sister-in-law wants to bang him or used to bang him or thinks of him when she's banging his brother. Leave that shit on the cutting room floor. I need action, not love triangle drama.

Hey, does anyone else have trouble seeing the retarded brother from OZ in the role of an FBI agent? He does clean up nice, though.

Ok, episode is over. JesusMaryJoseph, that was a lot to take in.

Weird Bald guy = Jack's brother. Hot wife = Jack's former lover? Kid = model for Abercrombie and Fitch?

Whatever. That plastic bag over the head was a cool ending. Weird Bald guy is WEAK without that Bluetooth thing in his ear. Now we know where his power lies!

OHHH do you think Jack's nephew is his son? That would twist the plot a little. Well, not really. It would just piss me off with the whole family drama thing. And what if the hot chick in the car is................JACK'S SISTER???

Dude. Jack's father was the old guy in Babe. So his brother shot Robocop and his father hung out with a pig.

Chloe was awesome with the weird looks tonight. She has really developed that "I want to have sex with you, but maybe at a later date when I'm not busy OPENING SOCKETS!" look.

And mark my word, Weird Little Guy (you know, the Ghostbusters dude) - he's up to no good.

Episode rating: 8.5 on the OMG Richter scale.
My big prediction: Abercrombie Bauer is Jack's son.

Awesome.

Baby Huey:
Ok. You know what? The nuke last week kicked ass. I think they may have blown their wad a bit early. This is getting a bit boring. Oh look, it's bald guy again. I wonder what he's ... wait ... what's that again?

ZMOG. I'm sorry, 24 baby ... I take it back. I'll never call you boring again.

pooredgar.jpgAnd I never thought i'd say this, but a Bauer just got Bauered.

Ernie gets patched through to the PRESIDENT:

Ok. So let me get this straight. The guy that was responsible for the nerve gas attacks in season 5 and who also convinced President Logan to have Jack killed in order to try and keep Jack from finding out the truth about who was behind it all, is REALLY JACK'S BROTHER?? Holy crap! Not to mention, he is ALSO THE GUY THAT SHOT ROBOCOP!!

This Gray (or is it Greg?) guy is obviously pure evil. He can't be Jack's blood brother. He must be the Evil Step-Brother or something, he can't be really related to Jack. OR CAN HE?

Also, Chloe did a great job opening lots of sockets in this episode. That little brunette monkey woman.

ALSO, Jack's father is somehow connected to this whole mess? My head is exploding. And we have to wait a whole week to find out what happens now? DAMMIT WE ARE RUNNING OUT OF TIME! -E

That's our take on the show. What's yours? Did you like the episode? Surprised? Saw this stuff coming all along? Got any predictions for next week, or for the season? Can you PATCH ME THROUGH TO THE PRESIDENT???

note to self: overdosing on caffeine before 24 is a bad combo.

Bring back my HEAT!

I'm from Ohio. I don't mind the cold, really I don't. I find it invigorating -- it's really nice walking from my car to the building at work in 30 degree weather in a t-shirt with no jacket because usually around here, when it's cold, it's bright and sunny. Reminds me I'm alive.

HOWEVER.

Two weeks ago this time, it was damn near 80 degrees here in Durham. Man can get used to those kinda temperatures. Right now? It's 30 and drizzly. Bleh. To counteract this piss-poor weather, I've gone back in the vault to find a nice, healthy, summery recipe to make you feel like it's time for bermuda shorts and cold beer out on the porch. Or something. Hell, I don't know.

Tropical Pork Loinpig.jpg


3 lb pork loin
2 c pineapple juice
1/2 c light rum
1 c salt
1 c water
1 t coriander seeds
1 t whole allspice, toasted then ground
1 T black peppercorns
1 T whole cumin, toasted then ground
2 bay leaves

Bring all the ingredients (except for the pork, of course) just to a boil and then take the mixture off the heat and stir till the salt is completely dissolved. Allow your freshly-created brine to cool back to room temperature.

Put the pork loin in a ziploc bag and pour the brine over it. Marinate for at least 8 hours (overnight would be best).

Heat your oven to 250 degrees. Cook the pork for about an hour - 90 minutes, or until the internal temperature of the pork is 145 degrees.

Wrap in foil for 15 minutes before cutting.

pork.gifAnd because I looked this up when I cooked it, here are the nutritional facts!

Serving Size: 3oz
Calories 178 From fat 74
Total Fat 8.2 g
Saturated 3.0g
Cholesterol 69 mg
Sodium 100 mg
Total Carbs 0 (probably a bit, but negligible)
Protein 24g

I finally got around to reviewing a CD I've had in my queue for a few months now. Partially because I heard part of it and was really impressed, and partially because I'm going to see them in March. Speaking of which, if you're going to be in the Washington, DC area at the end of March and are a metal fan, check out this combo:

March 25: Dark Tranquillity (The Haunted direct support, Into Eternity open) at Jaxx in Springfield
March 26: Lamb of God (Trivium direct support, Machine Head and Gojira open) at the 9:30 club in DC

This leads me to this week's review:

h39831jvssa.jpgGojira
From Mars to Sirius
Prosthetic Records

RIYL: Meshuggah, Amon Amarth, Six Feet Under

Off-tempo, mathy metal from France, Gojira deviates from many of its “math metal” contemporaries by taking it somewhat slow. The songs manage to be simultaneously deliberate and plodding, and all over the map. The guitars are spastic and grindy, bringing bands like Napalm Death to mind. The drums keep the beat, but the rest of the band do their part to derail it. This isn't something you're going to listen to and get into a groove. However, if you feel like hurting your brain, this album might be right up your alley.

Recommended Tracks: "From the Sky", "Backbone", "The Heaviest Matter of the Universe", "Where Dragons Dwell"

Baby Huey wishes it was warm, but will be wishing for cold that first 85 degree day in March. Stupid North Carolina.

Fight For Your Rights

In this column, the time has come to discuss the business of writing: namely, selling rights. After a piece has completed the three steps from last week, you need to decide its destiny by choosing how you wish to sell it: your choices for this sale revolve around your rights. Rights are complicated, rights are legalese, and rights are extremely, terribly boring.


As such, I had a few ideas for how to make this column a bit more fun. I could write this as it would be, cut and dry, and sprinkle in some knock-knock jokes ("Knock-knock. " "Who's there?" "Someone terribly boring." "Oh, hello, you must be Rights - and you can't even be funny in your own lame joke!"). Maybe I could quote Monty Python sketches at random or just write the whole damn thing in limericks. I have to be honest, though: no matter what I do, this column is going to kind of suck. I might as well just get on with it but, remember, I'm very sorry for this one.


Step 4: Selling your rights (in haiku - because I can)

beachjapan.jpgWhen writing freelance

your writing is a business:

you might just get screwed.


You must know your rights-

the better to pimp them out-

maximize your cash.


There are two main rights

good for you – bad for buyers:

negotiate hard.


First serial rights:

Magazines take your writing,

Print it- first time ever!


Buyers are not keen

to run writing that's been seen.
They want fresh and new.

These rights can only

be sold once: sell wisely your

piece virginity.

One-Time Rights for you

are stingy; magazines print

your piece once only.


One-Time Rights may be
sold to multiple markets
at once - be greedy!

Some hate one-time rights,
won't buy: your piece better be
some pretty hot shit.

There, that's settled. I hope you enjoyed that, because it took for-fucking-ever. Anyway, there are, of course, many other kinds of rights - like movie rights or the rights to use your piece in electronic form. To cover them all, you really just have to negotiate with the buyer.

There's also the (I think) unfathomable option to sell ALL rights - which is exactly what it sounds like. I never plan on selling this agreement: just imagine how pissed off you would be if your story about Jack and Jill and their adventures on a hilltop became an award-winning movie featuring Viggo Mortensen and Julia Roberts, but the magazine got paid for it instead of you. Remember: your writing is yours, and you need to make sure the editor(s) you're dealing with know exactly what you're selling, and exactly what they can shove up their asses.

And Now, For Something Completely Different: sorry about the boring column content, so here's a bunny with a pancake on its head:
bunny.jpg

















And now a Cat that looks like Jabba The Hutt:
jabba.jpg














I hope I managed to make a quick discussion on legal creative licensing rights somewhat tolerable. Next week: Query and cover letters!

So, what projects do we have around here? What are we working on? What would we like to get sent in?

And if you see our prestigious editor, Michele, give her some encouragement and make sure she sends something in to a publication that she does not edit. I know you're reading this, Michele: you can't hide from me!

Ian could have done the whole thing in limericks. No, really. Archives

If Faster Than The World was Cosmopolitan Magazine....

If Faster Than The World was Cosmopolitan magazine, instead of a nerdy treatise on "Stop Ninjalooting!" this column would be "What makes a party member keep coming back for more?" - a hip solo's guide to finding and keeping the ideal party.

Even independent gamers need to find a group sometimes. Maybe you're running the Deadmines, or you're getting up there in levels and you're hoping to find a nice guild and settle down. Follow our simple guidelines, and you'll be the most sought-after party member in Azeroth!

Lern 2 play nOob!!!11!!First, consider checking your CAPS LOCK key before offering or responding to an invite. Some people may find chat-channel shouting offensive. The CAPS LOCK key, if you're wondering is located just below TAB, or in WarCraftian, the auto-target button. It's easy to hit it accidentally while in the process of aggroing a huge mob. Remember, really hip gamers don't shout their Chuck Norris jokes either!

Once you find a compatible party in terms of level and player classes, how you interact with other PCs will determine whether you end up on a Friends list... or an Ignore.

What if you get yourself killed? Blindly charging in is one of a gamers unalienable rights, even if the founding fathers forgot about it. However, if it becomes a habit, and more importantly, if your suicide habit starts to affect other party members, you may want to consider apologizing and possibly listening to the group's tactics.

The downtime between battles is a great time for social interaction, but be careful what you say to a new group. Yes, you have a level 60 on every server but this one. And they all have purple-level armor and a quadrillion gold. You might even have a girlfriend who lives in Canada, too, but your party members may not be interested in this imformation. dance_elf.gifSave it for the comparison sessions on guildchat!

Don't assume that all players are male. Actual females, with breasts and everything, play WoW too. As do actual homosexuals, so a considerate gamer might choose to avoid calling other players "fags". Remember, other WarCraft characters may not be fourteen-year-old boys!

Don't ask other party members to undress and emote dance for you. Even if they're playing a female character. Even if you're pretty sure that there's an actual female behind that female avatar. Even if you know for a fact that there's a real female behind that sexy warrior!

Don't ninja-loot. Roll for chests! Don't Need items you won't or can't use! Don't loot while still in combat! Many otherwise compatible groups have been destroyed by a would-be ninja. Don't let this happen to you!

By paying attention to these basic guidelines for hip solos, you'll be bombarded by Van Cleef invites whenever you're in Sentinel Hill!


Meg needs to stop mixing Cosmo and WoW. Speaking of mixing cosmos...

Archives

The FTTW Highlight Reel #1: England Ink

I'd like to say that we decided on doing this because Turtle and I are just nice people who like to nice things for other people but truth is, we are both still getting used to new jobs, new hours, new everything. Late Night Typing is suffering for it, and we are once again putting a repeat in in its place.

But we're not calling it a repeat. We are calling it a highlight And it's not a Late Night Typing, but one of the earlier articles from FTTW editor The Finn. Sure, we are filling a space, but we think we are filling it up pretty nice. We have a lot more readers now than we did back then and I think every once in a while we are going to take something old from one of our writers and give it a chance to be seen again by more of you.

So here's the first from the FTTW highlight reel: Finn's England Ink.


I’m sitting on a very uncomfortable bench, surrounded by Polynesian and Japanese art, placed on reddish walls. There’s bamboo pressing into my back and Flogging Molly is doing something unconscionable to the memory of The Pogues on the stereo. I’m in a tattoo shop just off South Street on a Saturday night, so the place is jumping with tattooed hipsters and South Jersey Wannabes hanging out by the counter. I’m also pretty sure that the place has an all female tattooing staff and the ladies are damn talented. My wife is getting a new piece done tonight and as I sit here, shifting every ten seconds so my butt doesn’t go numb, I think back to the places I got my tattoos in. One in particular….


Tattoogun.jpgWe’d been in Kings Lynn for about three weeks, living in a hotel during the day and working all damn night. Kings Lynn is about 100 miles from London, tucked away in the northeast part of the country and home to virtually nothing but a few memorable pub names and a pie plant. Meat Pies, to be precise. The company I was working for at the time owned this plant as a subsidiary, and my partner and I were there to work out a few things for a project we were on. The majority of the work my partner and I were doing had to be done at night, so during the day we’d sleep and sight-see for a while. Nights out were few and far between, until, near the end of this project, the boss invited us out for drinks.

My partner and I met him at a pub in the center of town called the Pigs Whistle. Smallish place, lots of wood and brown. It was exactly like every other pub I’d been in while in Europe. Marco (my partner at the time, he was a great beast of a man who used to play American football and could drink many men under the table) even made a comment about it when we walked in. We’d been eating in pubs and small restaurants for months and after a while they all looked pretty much the same. He and I ponied up to the table we saw the boss at, and, after the usual greetings, he was off to buy us a round. Let me state for the record, I have no idea what type of whiskey I was drinking that night. All I know is that it went perfectly well with Newcastle Brown and after a bit, I was ordering them as boiler makers and slamming them down. It didn’t take long for me to get what I call “Douglas Adams Drunk”, the point at which you can mumble to yourself at an empty table for ten minutes and still have a great time.

We’re sitting around, drinking and laughing, when Marco nudges his empty pint glass my way. “It must be my round,” I think as I leave the table and head for the bar. The bartender is standing there, and she might be pretty if she had her front teeth. Kings Lynn was a blue collar town and after a while you just got used to things like that. I place our order and she smiles at me again, just for good measure. She turns to get our drinks and I see that she has the most beautiful tattoos I’ve ever seen in my life. I can see a Japanese swordsman facing off against something peeking up from beneath her tank top. Sakura tracing down her left arm, the faces of oni peeking ever so slightly through the flowers themselves. It was some of the most beautiful and detailed tattoo work I’ve ever seen in my life.

She brings the drinks back. I ask her where she got her tattoos done, half expecting to hear “London” or someplace else that was a hundred miles away from where I was. She smiles at me again, and tells me that a local kid by the name of Laurence did them. He’s got a place not too far from the pub and he takes appointments. She tells me to hold on and roots around in her purse for a minute, to produce a simple black and white business card. Laurence’s name and a phone number. The plainness of the card reminded of the ones I’d get from guys who ran numbers. I told her so and she just laughed and walked away.


tattoo samurai.jpgThe next day, I inform Marco that we’re going to accelerate the deployment we’re working on just a bit. Just long enough to allow us some free time to go visit Laurence and to get drilled. There was no way I was leaving this podunk town without letting Laurence make his mark on me. So we rearranged our schedule a little, hauled ass on a couple of throwaway things and made sure that we’d have an entire day off on Friday. I had called Laurence a few days before to set up an appointment. We basically blew through the work, caught a couple of hours sleep and set off to find Laurence’s shop.

We drove around for a while, completely lost and trying to find a specific address without the aid of Mapquest, a GPS or any general knowledge of how the town was laid out. Finally we found the place, a hobbit-sized gray house on a trash ridden corner that was right next to an empty lot. There was blowing trash and empty Silk Cut packets fluttering about. We got out of the car and knocked on the door, looking like a couple of enforcers from the local mob. Marco, a giant in a track suit and me in my standard T-shirt and jeans. We knocked on the door, and it opened as far as the chain would allow. A shaved head and beady eyes peered out at me, a Camel clenched between his teeth. The smoke curling around his head and the barrel of a 9mm peeking out from behind the door frame.

“Who the fuck are you, then?” he inquired as he slowly shakes the barrel in our general direction. “Um, we’re here for Laurence… Tattoos….,” I stammered. It’d been years since anyone had pointed a gun at me and I guess I was a little out of practice.

“Oh,” he smiled, “You’re the Yank that called about the tattoos… Fucking hell, why didn’t you just say so, mate?” He instantly went all toothy grin and wide arms as the door swung open. The gun had magically disappeared and we were let into a small waiting area with a couple of couches, a TV and a Playstation. The room smelt of smoke and whiskey and herb. It looked more than a little shady, and certainly not sanitary, so I asked for a portfolio or a flash book. I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t getting the runaround, you see.

“Portfolio then ?” he asked. “Come with me,” he said. I followed him up the stairs in the back of the room and into what I can only describe as the World’s Messiest Gallery. He had pieces everywhere; canvases piled against the walls, bits of paper here and there, sketches on the walls themselves. As well as a metric ton of clothes, overflowing ashtrays and empty lager cans. But, fuck me… They were all beautiful. There were reproductions of Lichtenstein, Japanese stuff that looked like it was from the Edo and Meiji periods, Sailor Jerry ripoffs and some things I didn’t recognize, but that were instantly familiar. I quickly became convinced. This kid was the real deal.

Samurai_tattoo_sword.jpg
As we headed back downstairs, I told him what I wanted and asked if he could do it. “I can do kanji until the cows come home, mate,” he said. “But lets do some checking real quick…” He headed towards a room in the back, motioning me to follow him. It’s pitch black until he flipped the switch and I’m was standing in a room that was literally floor to ceiling books. He pulled three different kanji dictionaries from three different spots and laid them out on a drafting table near the door. “Just want to make sure you’re getting what you pay for,” he said as he started comparing results from the different dictionaries.

As he’s starts sketching, he tells us to hang out in the waiting room for a bit. We did and twenty minutes later he came over with the sketchbook in his hand. He’s grinning from ear to ear when he shows me. And what he shows me is dead on. It’s exactly what I wanted and full of the intricate line work and small details that make his work so good to look at. I tell him it’s a go and he’s off like a shot to prep the chair and the stencil. He tells me to head into his “studio” and makes another motion with his fingers, showing me the way.

Laurence’s “studio” was also the kitchen, but at this point, I’m too excited to care. I headed over to his workspace, a drop leaf table slightly off center in the room and close to the sink. He’s got a couple of armchairs on either side of it. He offers me a cuppa from the kettle on the counter as I check the rest of the table out. Stencils, ashtrays and old mugs mar the surface of what used to be a beautiful old kitchen table. His gun and inks, however, are lined up directly behind the ashtray and there’s not a spec of dust on them. He sits me down and places the stencil on me. “Ready, then ?,” he asked.

I’m not going to give you the same, tired rhetoric. Yes, getting a tattoo hurts. But pain is relative and I’m sure that you’ve withstood worse. Okay ? That being said, Laurence lit another cigarette and started going to town. He’d pause every ten minutes or so, to light another cigarette or change inks. But his hands were flying. He finally finishes and sits back on his stool, looking a little more exhausted. “Well ?” he asked as he exhaled another plume of smoke. It was odd. I’d watched him work on the entire piece, but it never came together the way it did when he had finished it. And I love it. I tell him so and he just grins.

I paid him and left his kitchen, more excited than I had been in a long time. So, how about you ? What’s your favorite tattoo and where’d you get it ?

Archives

January 22, 2007

And The Best Arcade Game Is.....

spaceinv.jpg

I have to say that this is a much deserved win. I'm kinda glad that damn dodge ball game didn't win it, even though one of the editors here thinks that is the greatest game ever created.

The Space Invaders Shrine
Space Invaders high scores

80's arcade game fun:

Congratulations to Space Invaders. It is now in the FTTW Hall of Fame. Which is in the process of being built. Give us a few years.

Now go check out this week's poll. Horror movies!

Archives

TAFC#3: Best Horror Movies - Nomination Time

After the finish of The Almost Final Countdown #2: The Best Arcade Game Edition, we thought we would jump right in with TAFC #3. Congratulations to Space Invaders for winning the second TAFC, but we need to move on.horroricon.jpg

A change has been made.

For the new TAFC we added something. In the sidebar there will be a link to the nominations. This will be there all week. To check out the nominations or to add your own, click on it and there you go. Get it? So after today, go there to add new nominations. We won't be making new lists every day like we have been.

So let's move on.

For some reason, we have been watching a lot of movies. I have a shitload of them stacking up from Christmas that I am pushing my way through (Give me time. I will get through them all) and we thought it would be fun to see what every one's favorite horror movies were.

Some of these movies are great but some are just great in name only. I mean, for myself, TCM only is great in name. The movie itself kinda sucks. Don't shoot me, but it does kinda suck. As soon as it started, I wanted that cripple dead. But that's just me.

Anyways, we thought that there should be a list, nominated and voted on by you, of the greatest horror movies of all time.

So we decided to take these movies, the ones that were great, and list them. To figure out what was and is the best all time horror movie that ever was. From Nosferatu to whatever the hell is out there now, let's list them and see which ones stand up to the vote.

Same rules as last time. Nominate whichever ones you want. At the end of the week, we take them all and you vote on them.

So let's start this.

The 50 BEST Horror Movies

These are our favorites.

wilford.gifTurtle gets cold.

I think my favorite horror movie of all time was John Carpenter's The Thing. This movie has so many cool things going on with it. First, it was directed by a man with an ego so huge he had to put his name above the title. Just so we wouldn't mistake it with the original. Cause they are so similar. I think it is cool when John Carpenter does that on his movies. Remember when John Carpenter's Assault of Precinct 13 was remade? I was hoping to christ the new title would be "Not John Carpenter's Assault on Precinct 13". Cause that would be funny.

Anyways, what can you say about this movie? It was isolated. It was cold. There was no escape. And to top it all off, it had Wilford Brimley in it! Wilford! You remember him? He was the only guy who could break Paul Newman's cool in Absence of Malice. Man, I loved that movie. Paul Newman was cool in it. But I hated Sally Field. I really hope she gets run over by a tank. It would serve her right for helping the Viet Cong in Vietnam.

But Wilford sure is cool. Too bad he died in The Thing. Serves him right for making that awful Cocoon movie. - T

Michele wants brains:

they're coming to get you, barbaraNight of the Living Dead. My first zombie movie. The movie (well, this and The Fly) that made me fall in love with all things horror.

I don't remember how old I was when I saw it, I just remember that my parents took us to the drive in. They used to always take us movies like this. They never thought we were too young for zombies or vampires or werewolves or whatever. I thank them for that.

Allow me to quote myself, as I've already talked about this movie here:

Yea, social commentary, racism, class warfare, women are weak, blah blah blah. I’ve heard it all. Dude. It’s a zombie movie. People get eaten. Teeth are bared. Kids eat their parents. Brains explode. The living dead! Braaaaainnnnnnnssssss! Who the fuck cares if George Romero was giving us a subtle lesson in social mores? Jesus. There are zombies.....It’s a classic. I don’t know anyone who hasn’t seen it. It paved the way for zillions of zombie movies after it. Without the cheesiness and stilted dialogue and awkward social commentary of Night of the Living Dead, we wouldn’t have Dawn of the Dead or Day of the Dead or Return of the Living Dead or even Shaun of the Dead. And then where would we be? If it weren’t for Romero, I would be just another aimless human being, a worker drone living out a meek existence just waiting for death to come take me away. But, no. I have a goal. I have a plan. I’m going to become a zombie someday! Come on, bird flu! Work your viral magic!

I heart zombies.

Baby Huey takes bad pictures:

The Omen. This is the first horror movie I ever saw (that is, at least, when I was old enough to know to be scared by movies). I was raised mildly Catholic, so this movie scared the crap out of me. And my Dad. That little kid is creepy as fuck, and the movie was so good that, in my opinion, they actually did a decent remake of it. Why? Because they stuck to the story. Not a lot of extra gore. Not entirely different characters. They didn't remake it, they reshot it. And that speaks volumes of the original.

I still check photos of myself for lines near my neck.








thefinn like's his horror in pairs:
deadring.jpgDead Ringers. What do you get when you cross Jeremy Irons, strange and tortuous gynecological instruments and David Cronenberg ? One of the creepiest movies I’ve ever seen. Jeremy Irons plays a set of identical twins, both slightly off and acting, to the rest of the world, as the same person. Of the two of them, Elliot is the more confident, while his twin Beverly is shyer, and slightly more sinister. The twins share everything from patients to a girlfriend, but without telling a soul. It’s a Cronenberg movie, so things start off very strange and get oh so much stranger once the love interest get introduced. Whereas Elliot is a big fan of the old slap and tickle, Beverly consistently seems only to have sex because it’s required of him and for research purposes. Elliot is more confident and bright, while Beverly seems more desperate and lost. The duality is fascinating. Like most of Cronenberg’s work the majority of the horror here is psychological and the way its shot is crawl out of your skin creepy.


That's our favorites. Now it's time to nominate yours. Feel free to add as many as you want. Like we said, the link will be in the sidebar all week, so you can come back and keep the coming. We'll whittle the list down to 50 by the end of the week and put the poll up on Friday.

Archives

we have a date with the underground, chapter 38

I got a new job. Yay me. Unfortunately it is a 3rd shift type of job. That basically means I'll be working 4 PM til 1 AM. Not that big of a deal, but it will take some getting used to. For the last few years, I have pulled the normal daytime shift at jobs, but because of the new move and new job opportunities, I have to do what I do at a different time. No big deal. But, this time flip did remind me of a few things. The way I used to be. This change won't be that hard because I have done it most of my life. But the big question remains. That question that I used to live with everyday for year long stretches.

What the hell do I do during the day?

It is the same question that plagued me when I was playing every night. What do you do? You have to realize that most people do work normal jobs, so they won't want to sit around all day and get fucked up or watch "The Price Is Right" with you, so what do you do?

Back when I played in a band, it was easy. Wake up and drink a few beers then go back to bed. Just sleep until about three then start drinking again. Find some drugs then get ready for the show. Kind of a formula. It was pretty easy as long as you didn't mind being in a perpetual haze from the moment you wake up until the moment you fall down. Which I really didn't really mind at the time. Play the show and then get to where you had to be for the next show. Crash out then wake up and drink a few beers then do it again. One plus one equals type of shit. Really easy. .pool132.gif

Obviously, in that kind of job, your sobriety isn't really a big issue. I could stumble onto the stage and everything would be OK. Maybe I would get a little shit from the rest of the band but most of the time they were as fucked up as myself. As long as I showed up, I would get paid. Maybe not paid well, but enough to get me through the next day

Now, I am sober. Been that way for a long time. So the "sleep all day in a perpetual alcohol coma" thing is over. I really don't think my new boss would take too kindly for me showing up to an IT position barely coherent. It just doesn't seem like that type of a job. I am pretty sure I won't get laid at the end of the shift, either. There will probably be no after work parties. So I guess it is good I don't drink anymore. Well, it is really good I don't drink or do drugs anymore or I wouldn't be sitting here with you guys but the time question remains.

What to do during the day?

I don't really feel like doing the daytime AA thing. Those usually turn into all day coffee shop things and really, I don't like people enough to sit and play chess with them all day with my hand shaking from too much caffeine. And I can only masturbate so many times before I start to get kinda sore and I can only work on FTTW a few hours before I start to fall apart. One good thing, well the thing that will save me during this transitional period is the that the new place I am moving into has a pool and a pool table and a bunch of musical instruments. That will kill a few hours. Not sure if my new roommate knows about my tattoos but what the hell, he looks cool. Looks like I'll have to tell him about my nudist thing, too....

So what does this all mean?

Well it just hit me last night.

Right now it seems like everything is the same as it was 15 years ago minus the drugs and alcohol. I fuck around all day on a pool table waiting to go to work.

It really is weird because I am supposed to be stable now. No late nights and sleepless days killing time trying to make the big hand go faster. If this is the way all of the IT guys work around here, maybe the way I used to live wasn't so different after all.

Who knows.

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John Carpenter and Zuni Spirits

It's just me and you today, guys. Turtle has abandoned me tonight for the world of the working. Nice that he landed a sweet job, sucks that it has to be opposite hours from mine.

So I'm stuck writing a Late Night Typing all by myself, which I hate doing and which makes me grumpy.

But I had a bright idea. Well, actually I had NO ideas. I can't seem to come up with a good LNT topic without bouncing things off of Turtle. Which led me to my bright idea. This week's TAFC poll is about horror movies. So, I should tie the LNT in to that, right? Sweet. Because we've written about horror movies a couple of times already.

Yes, you are getting a repeat. But give me a break, ok? I start a new job (well, new position in old job) tomorrow and I'm anxious as hell. As in, I might puke up my dinner. I'm not going to give you much in the way of entertainment even if I did try to go solo tonight.

So here, from last July, some stuff about horror movies. And Goldie Hawn naked.

Scariest Movie As A Kid.

Turtle is out in the cold:

John Carpenter's "The Thing"

200px-The_Thing_DVD.jpgSee, when you start to get some recognition, you can start writing titles that have your name in it. It wasn't the cheesy low budget move from the 50's anymore. It was now the cheesy low budget John Carpenter movie from the 80's. Hey. Don't confuse one with the other, ok? This one had Kurt Russell in it. And maybe Scatman Crothers. Maybe Goldie Hawn. And maybe Donkey Kong for all the fuck I cared. This movie scared the living crap out of me. It dragged me down thinking of some poor guys trapped in an ice town just getting knocked off one by one. And also Goldie naked in the bathtub in "Wildcats". And Ernest Borgnine in "Escape from New York." Snake Plisskin. Issac Hayes. Naked Goldie. Cause we thought Snake was dead.

Oh yeah.

I had some fucked up dreams.

Hm. The Thing.

I think the best part of this movie was just the total loss of hope. That they had to die to kill it. To save all human life. Kinda like "The Day After" except without Russians. Well, maybe not. That movie was kind of lame.

This was something that I had never seen before. I was a kid. Movies like that are everywhere now. But, back then, it was different. It was like "we have to kill ourselves to end this thing." See. That was cool. Take one for the team. Hell, they were researching snow in the middle of nowhere. It's not like you're getting laid. Or maybe they were. Homosexual acts are not uncommon in all male facilties. But that's just what I heard. I think I would put them on the food chain as one above McDonald's employees, two below Office Depot employees. Not a lot going for them, if you get what I mean. So when it came down to it, they mostly just gave up. I could go into all the details of the banana faced dog or the decaptitated head that sprouted legs or the chest that was punched through and all those who held the thing down had to be burned.

But, I think I'll leave you with the last words of the movie. Two people in the freezing snow. Shelter burning. Confused. Looking at one other. Staring hard. Not trusting each other. Nothing was nothing anymore.

headthing.jpg"The fire's got the temperature way up all over camp... won't last long though".

"Neither will we."

"Maybe we should try and fix the radio... try and get some help."

"Maybe we shouldn't.

"Then we'll never make it."

"Maybe we shouldn't make it."

"If you're worried about anything, let's take that blood test of yours."

"If we've got any surprises for each other -- we shouldn't be in any condition to do anything about it."

"You play chess?"

"I guess I'll be learning."

Did they live or die? Was the thing dead? Was one of them the thing? Did they learn to play chess?

One of the greatest endings to a horror movie ever. - T

Michele catches the spirit:

Trilogy of Terror

I grew up on horror. chiller.jpg I was in maybe first grade when my Mom got me hooked on Dark Shadows and Vincent Price movies. Other kids gathered around the tv with their family on Sunday evenings to watch Wonderful World of Disney. We stayed up late together on Friday nights to watch Chiller Theater. I think watching so much horror from such an early age sort of desensitized me. As I got older I realized that, while I enjoyed scary movies as much as always, I just didn’t get that frightened. I didn’t jump when everyone else did or scream when everyone else did. What I mean is, the movies just didn’t scare me while I was in the theater. It wasn’t until I got home and was by myself in the dark that I turned into a pussy. But I bet a lot of you are the same way. I’m just admitting it.

So, I’ve seen a lot of horror movies in my time. Hundreds. Movies you never heard of. Big budget crapfests. Indie crapfests. Foreign crapfests. Yea, most horror movies end up being crapfests. Just the way it is. The really great ones are far and few between. And lately, even the mediocre ones aren’t that many. The art of making a good horror movie seems to be lost. That's another rant for another day. But - gore, blood, murder, ghosts, vampires, mindfucks, slashers, freaks, voodoo....you name it, I’ve seen it. And out of all of those movies, all of the genres of horror, all of the screams within, the one movie that left such an impression on me that I still freak out when I look at a picture from it was a made for tv movie.

Trilogy of Terror. Written by Richard Matheson. 1975. trilogy14.jpgThree different horror stories, all starring Karen Black. Fuck if I can remember what the other two were about. I just remember the one. The tribal doll. That creepy, evil little doll with the knife and the leer.

For those that never saw this, short premise: Black buys a Zuni fetish doll for her boyfriend. Not for nothing, but if a date ever brought me something that looked like this, I’d think twice about where things were headed. But anyhow, she brings it home and gets ready for her date. Has a fight with her overbearing mother on the phone. Yadda yadda, the doll’s necklace falls off and it’s revealed that’s a big fucking no no. No necklace = live doll.

Let me tell you. What happens in the next ten minutes or so after Black realizes the doll is alive still gives me the chills, just thinking about.amelia2.jpg When she hears the pitter patter of little feet in the kitchen, you know. You want to say to her, get the hell out of the apartment, woman, that doll is gonna spear you! But the doll says, fuck this spear, I need me a knife. He finds a butcher knife. As he torments Black, he repeatedly stabs the knife into the floor. With that look on his face. Mind you, this thing is only like a foot tall, if that. And he moves real quick. And he has this ugly, snarling face of pure evil.

The light goes out in the living room. You hear a sound. He’s slashing at her. In the dark! He backs her into a closet and she traps him in a suitcase. And then you see the knife cutting a circle in the suitcase and the doll is out and back in action. Finally, Black traps the bastard in the oven, which has been on this whole time. He goes up in flames and stupid, stupid Karen Black, you dumb son of a bitch, she opens the freaking oven. Why? Did she want to stick a toothpick in him to see if he was done yet? Well no amount of my screaming at the tv for her not to do that would help. She opened the gates of hell when she opened the oven and the Zuni Spirit of Random Murder flew out of the oven and into Karen Black’s soul. I thought that was the end. That would have been cool. I could have gone to bed satisfied with that and not had too many bad dream moments because of it.

But no. You hear a phone call. She’s calling her mom. Yea mom, come on over. Sorry I think you’re a fucking controlling whack job, mom. Come on over and we’ll do the hug thing, ok? Ok.

And then the camera moves to her. She’s crouched on the living room floor. She’s got....teeth. Fangs. She’s got a knife. And she’s repeatedly stabbing it into the floor.

foto-trilogia-2.jpg


Mom’s in for a big surprise when she gets there.

Hey, you can buy one of these dolls. I'll be damned if I'm gonna put one of those hideous things in my house. Hell, I still can't say Candyman five times into a mirror.


So, now that we have told you ours, think back to when you were a kid. What movie scared the crap out you? Sure, now you can look back and laugh, but then back then is what we are talking about. What hit you and made you sleep with the lights on?

Michele and Turtle will get their act/times together this week and write something new. Or just spend our few minutes together having wild monkey sex and give you more repeats. We'll see.

Archives

Capitalism Sells. But Your Music is Suffering

I am a capitalist. In the grand scheme of things I believe that capitalism, tempered with some minor regulation, is best for a country’s economy and, ultimately, society and its political systems.

henry_rollins_sell_out.jpgThat said, there are some pitfalls to capitalism. One of the areas that suffer greatly under a capitalist system is the arts. When everything is a commodity, people are more interested in marketing what sells than what may be the newest or most innovative. And one area where this is very evident is in music.

A lot of people complain when an underground band they like goes mainstream. Some people may scoff at this, but there is some legitimate concern. Just take a look at the history of bands like The Offspring, Metallica, Red Hot Chili Peppers, and (and I REALLY hate to say this) Henry Fucking Rollins.

It’s insidious, this commercialism.

It starts with better production quality. Think back to Ride the Lightning or Freaky Styley. Then compare those to later releases like … And Justice For All and Mother’s Milk. And then compare those to later releases The Black Album and Blood Sugar Sex Magic. Hear the edge slipping away? Hear the raw power give away to that slick noise gate and compression?

On the earlier work, even though they were studio albums, you knew that under the best of conditions you could expect to hear something similar live as to what you were hearing on these albums. Then you have the transition albums (or albums, in some cases). These albums have better production but still maintain a sense of that raw energy from the earlier studio albums.

Finally, the “Fuck it, lets over-produce the shit outta this” albums come out. It’s the Bob Rock syndrome. Is that album a little too heavy? Lets just smooth it out with some extra chorus and mix it down a little. Let’s over-effect those vocals -- put the singer through some more vocal training first -- and overdub like our lives depend on it. Gotta watch that subject matter also. You have to sound like you’re being controversial without actually being controversial or offending anyone.

While all this is going on, the record label’s marketing team is aggressively pushing the band making them seem like the best thing ever. In the case of Metallica, to your die-hard fans, you’re being sold as “the greatest Metallica album ever,” but to pull in that elusive top-40 audience, you’re being marketed as “a new, edgy voice in this troubled world.” And then everybody and their mother buys the album. And then you hear Johnny McPopCollar singing Nothing Else Matters. And then nothing else matters ‘cept dumping your Metallica collection and forgetting that you ever liked them.

It has nothing to do with them becoming popular. It has everything to do with them trying so hard to get there.

Cullen has a copy of "Load", but uses it as a coaster.

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What Do YOU Watch Anyway?

This week is a little bit off the normal nonsense I write up here. This week I wanted to talk about what I watch and TV weekly and why, and find out what other people like.
deadwood.jpg

Yeah, sounds like a wild time don’t it? So let's put away the ol Hookers and Blow chit chat and talk about some of the things we watch.

I seem to find my taste in television viewing hasn’t really changed in 20 years. I’m not one of those people who droned on over “Friends” or “ C.S.I.” In fact, I have never seen a single episode of C.S.I. Whatever, not for me.

Up until it was canceled, I was pretty religious about “Deadwood.” "Deadwood" is one of those shows where the people and places are dirty, not Disney clean, where it carries and air of subtle misery mixed with the hard reality of the times. It was damn fine TV and I liked every moment of it.

Yeah, I like “The Sopranos” like the rest of the universe, but you can't deny a show that great.

What about the other stuff? Well, I was a HUGE fan of “The West Wing,” not because it was slanted toward my politics, no, because it was smart and clever. That’s why I watch “Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip.” Aaron Sorkin knows his craft, knows how to create engaging shows, and knowing the industry from the inside. That show is A LOT closer to reality than its non-funny or not so clever counterpart, "30 Rock." In fact, I was annoyed the only time I watched "30 Rock." What gives? It's just lame, for lack of a better term.

I digress.

studio_60_on_the_sunset_strip.jpgI you haven’t seen “Shark” with James Woods, you're missing out. James Woods is cool. No matter what he does, he's cool. So yeah, if you wanna watch James Woods be cool and do cool shit, watch "Shark." Woods as a former high end defense lawyer, now working high profile cases as an assistant D.A in Los Angeles is cool. Legal TV isn’t my thing, as I normally stay away from legal shows. This is an exception.

Duhn Dunn. (yeah you gotta say that part out-loud).

Charlie Rose. If your tired of all the fluffy rainbows and unicorn type interviews you see on Leno and the like, this is the show to watch. Charlie Rose really knows what he’s doing and how you do a real interview. Worth it.

"Entourage" is another good show I like. In fact, it makes me want to smack a friend of mine in the head whenever I watch it. Cause if he would have focused, well then I’d be E to his Vince, but the dumbass got distracted. Oh well. I still like the show.

"Friday Night Lights" is another one I like. I am not a football guy either, but I dig this show. I liked the film, and I like the show. It's pretty down and dirty and plays well. It's not some glitzy nonsense, in fact, its pretty much on par with the film. It’s a football show that’s not about football as much as its about the people. Character driven. What can I say, I like it.

house2.jpg"House" is the reigning favorite. I love this show. It's, well, you either like it or you don’t. I can only say that it's great storytelling, it's compelling and well written and the fact that the show is about an asshole that people only tolerate because he's the best at what he does makes it even better. "House" is by far one of my all time favorite programs to watch. I look forward to it each week. So don’t bug me while I watch it, cause it’s the only show I make plans around. If you watch the show you know what I mean. If not, well, you're missing out. Funny thing is I found it by accident after it's third episode. Hooked like a crack addict every since.

So that’s what I watch weekly, for one reason or another. Other than the occasional Nick at Nite re-runs of "Sanford and Son" or "All in the Family," this about covers it. I always wonder what other people like and why. So this is what I like. I wonder if there is a theme in these I am missing.

“Nonconformity; right... I can't remember the last time saw a twenty something kid with a tattoo of an Asian letter on his wrist. You are one wicked free thinker! You want to be a rebel; stop being cool. Wear a pocket protector like he does, and get a hair cut. Like the Asian kids that don't leave the library for a twenty hours stretch. They're the ones that don't care what you think.” -Dr. House.

Jay once watched three episodes of Full House before he realized he was watching the wrong show

Archives

Books with Pictures

A few weeks ago, I wrote about how excited I was to start reading Bone, Jeff Smith's epic comic that has recently been captured in a single volume. I've always been a fan of big books, so I was pleased when I opened the box the book was shipped in and found the tome to be over 1000 pages and about the size of a large-print Bible that includes the Book of Mormon (though, in my estimation, it's a much better read).

I'm about 900 pages into this riveting book, and thought it would be a great time to talk about good stories and comics. I've always been a fan of stories with mysteries. The kind of story where both you and the main character start out with little to no knowledge of what is happening in the fictitious world being described. Stories where you join the main character as a hapless adventurer, where you release yourself to a world that slowly reveals its deepest secrets to you page by page. I've found so many of these stories in my life—Brian Jaques' Redwall series, Twin Peaks, and most recently, the TV series Lost. I love all of them. As I read through Bone, I find the same kind of storytelling at play. Old questions are answered, but in a way that brings up even more mystery than you first thought was there. Stories that contain dynamic characters who change from the way you first saw them. Ancient rituals and powers, and forces strong enough to bring the "regular" world to its knees. And Bone has it all, mixed in with a light-hearted comedic aspect that would thrill children of all ages. This book has me thinking about two things right now.

cbg.gif1. Comic books. I doubt there is anyone who writes for or reads FTTW that hasn't picked up a comic book and read it. I'd be willing to be that there are even people here who counted themselves as avid collectors at one point or another. When I was twelve, I started collecting comic books with my dad. We read everything we could get our hands on. This was during the early nineties, when comic books entered what many have called a second golden age. New publishers popped up every week. The land of comics became even darker, with companies like DC spawning off lines like Vertigo, which were expressly created to explore this dark subject matter. There were new, dark heroes, who defied the expectations of what a hero was in the first place (John Constantine, The Sandman). Things had changed for the world of comics (except, thankfully, female characters with boobs the size of cantaloupes—they're still around). Finally, people began to think of comics as literature. With Neil Gaiman's Sandman series, subject matter such as the true authorship of Shakespeare's plays—which has so long be one of the greatest mysteries of literature—found its way onto those pulpy pages. Besides the stories, the art became more legitimate, and you couldn't go to a comic convention in the early nineties without finding booth after booth of 'original prints' from your favorite books.

2. The serial mystery. This is a type of story that transcends genre definition, because it can be done well by a successful storyteller in any genre. There are serial murder mysteries, science fiction mysteries, or fantasy mysteries. They can happen in any time, or any place, because in the end, it's only the storytelling that matters for these works of art. The reason I use the word serial is because that defines part of the storytelling process. There are other works of storytelling art that contain the same elements. The Hyperion chronicles by Dan Simmons are an excellent example. But those weren't told in a serial manner. You didn't read ten pages and then have to wait another week to find out what was going on. You could just plow through the books. Serial storytelling, however, is something different entirely, and is indeed one of the most important aspects of engaging storytelling. We've all heard the legend of Scheherazade telling her tales over the course of 1,001 nights. Many of us probably had parents who engaged in serial storytelling every night before we went to bed. It's the anticipation that's created in the waiting for the next installment that is so important to serial storytelling, and it's that anticipation that paves the road for success in serial mysteries. We all know about these—Carnivale on HBO was a great serial mystery (FUCK YOU HBO FOR CANCELLING). Twin Peaks was the same way. And while I personally think Keiffer Sutherland sucks donkey balls, many of the writers (and perhaps the founders) of this website find the serial mystery 24 one of the greatest shows of all time.

Combine both of these elements, and you have Bone. And though the serial aspect of it is somewhat marred since it can now be had in a single volume to satisfy the consumer's need for instant gratification, it doesn't make it any less exciting to experience the adventure.

Writing this article was entirely selfish, and I'll tell you why: I wrote this in hopes that all of you can share with me two things:

Mag_EQMM_195707.jpg1. Your favorite comic books—comics you think everyone should read at least once in their life.

AND

2. Your favorite serial mysteries. I already have the old TV series The Prisoner on my list of serial mysteries I need to experience.

Because hey, we all need to have a couple of good books, comics, or series waiting in the wings for when we finish our current infatuation. After all, the anticipation of starting the next great adventure is sometimes as exciting as the adventure itself.




Uberchief thinks stuff is the Worst. Stuff. Ever.

The Complexities Of Modern Life

Well, I think I need to apologize first this week to my faithful readers who may have been a bit disappointed when I missed my deadline last week, and there was no new article posted. Actually, this article is being written barely under the wire and as such there may not be an article again for the week that I am composing this for. I also need to publicly apologize to the editors here at FTTW for the same thing. They work hard to make a fun readable website every day, and though things have gotten a bit out of hand on my end, I have failed to give them notice about the wonderful oddness of the past few weeks. Maybe I should tell everyone a bit about what’s been going on.

I work at a hotel located at one of the top ski resorts in the world, and now that the weather has finally begun to co-operate with us, the ski season is in full swing. This means that every evening there is a long line of guests here at the facility that are all vying for my attention at once. One of my own issues when it comes to this particular column of mine is that the only time I have to compose my weekly musings is while I am at work. I am not a computer owner. I would kind of like one, but I am in no real rush to technology-overload2.gifacquire a piece of machinery that would barely fit into my closet like apartment. The past few weekends have been extremely busy, with barely any time to catch “Dear Abby” or even read my own e-mail. So at times like this, it is extremely difficult to write my article, transpose it from writing to the computer, edit, and send it to the editors here at FTTW.

Personally, things have also been a bit strained as well. My guy and I have been doing reasonably well. However I am at a point in the relationship where I do a lot of questioning of myself and my motives. With things as nutty as they are here at work, I find that I have even less time to sit down and really reflect upon the things I want out of my life and the things that I need to accomplish. This puts my poor man into quite a tailspin wondering if he is doing anything to aggravate an already tense situation. (He is hardly a problem… He has been very supportive and sweet.) I look forward to the time I will have coming up where I can sit down with a cup of tea and some nice calm music, and reflect on the flurry that has been the past month.

So let us talk a bit about modern technology. It seems to me that more and more we are depending on technology just to get by these days. I was pondering my circumstances the other day, and was surprised at how dependant my life is upon say, my cell phone. I had never really felt the need to have one. When I decided to go ahead and sign up along with the millions of people already owning one, it was so that I could be reached. I used to have a tendency to wander about the state, and my folks were having a difficult time getting a hold of me. So I figured having a cell phone would enable me to have my own line no matter where I was. Now, about two years later, I wonder how I ever got along without it. To think that almost makes me regret getting the thing in the first place.

thenet.jpgA friend of mine, just recently received a computer to borrow, due to the fact that the owner really had no use for it at this time. To my knowledge, they have spent the past three to four weeks, downloading music and more to this piece of machinery. We are talking about games, music, writings and more. It makes me wonder what would happen if the computer were to crash or get damaged, once they have finished. I imagine they would get distraught. Not to mention mad. And all of that information and whatnot would be lost. All the time they took to do all of that would have been wasted within minutes. I am not sure I could handle that. Or at least I don’t think I could handle it well. Remember that movie “The Net”? If you don’t, it stars Sandra Bullock as a woman who finds a conspiracy involving the internet and viruses. The villains do everything imaginable to her character. They steal her identity, and manipulate the computers to make impossible hurdles for her to jump over in order to stay alive. They even manage to mess with the computers at the hospital! The premise for this movie always makes me shudder. Everything we have is on a computer somewhere, from your medical history; to the CD you bought last week. How easily it can be tampered with boggles my mind. This is why I am very reluctant to have a computer in my home. Between the programs you use for day to day management and the software that needs to be updated all the time to prevent such tampering seems both time consuming and also quite expensive. So I am blissfully unaware of the convenience of having a computer at home.

Aside from not owning a computer, and having a reluctant attitude about my phone, I also do not have cable. I am a great fan of television programs, but I do not believe such a thing should be paid for. When I was a young boy, we had stations that were brought
kids incorporated.jpgin from an antenna placed on the roof of our home. We paid for the antenna, but we never paid monthly fees in order to catch an episode of "Sesame Street", or even that old eighties program: “Kids Incorporated”. The jingle from which I can’t seem to get out of my head, though the last time I heard it I must have been about seven. So as of right now my television programs are either found by using an antenna upon my TV, or on my shelf in a DVD format. I would much rather crack open a book I paid twenty bucks for, then pay thirty dollars a month for cable access that I would find myself surfing through endlessly, while complaining that nothing good was on. Personally, I think I would spend more time reading every month, and then finding programs worth watching on the cable TV. How more “On Demand” can I get, then wanting to watch an episode of Buffy, and just putting into the player, and pressing “play episode”?

I think I am going to close up this article now, due to time constraints and my need to get back to the job that pays for my electricity and my dog food. My apologies again to my readers. Next week we should be back on schedule with my articles returning to their normal length. Bless you all in the coming week, I hope you find the happiness that you are looking for. Don’t worry about me, I’m a Drag Queen, What do I know?


Matthew doesn't realize it yet, but he's already in "The Net".
Archives

January 21, 2007

Michele Stole My Column Title

You know the drill by now.... You got to read about Turtle and Michele's favorite arcades and now it's time for mine and huey's...

-F

I’ve been playing video games an awful long time. Scientists can tell you all they want
that more than half of your mind set comes from the environment that you’re brought up in. I’m not buying it. Sure, I come from a pretty wired household, but entertainment from our electrical devices was never a priority to my parents or my siblings. I made it one for us. As soon as the old man came home with an Apple (our first home computer), I called up my Uncle and asked him to send me some games.

pinball_pool_1.jpgMy first arcade was one on base. We’d just moved into a new house on a new base and, while wandering around one day, I quite literally stumbled onto it. I was looking for the entrance to the convenience store that was located right next door and walked right into the arcade instead. I never made it to the convenience store and ended up spending most of the afternoon playing Spy Hunter when I should have been unpacking. That arcade was fantastic, simply because I was in a pretty confusing time of my life and the arcade gave me a little time to completely escape and live out all my childhood fantasies. I got to be a super spy every time I threw a quarter into Elevator Action, a heavyweight boxer in Punch Out and that retard from The Last Starfighter whenever I got down in Defender. I’d spend a lot of afternoons, if I wasn’t working or doing chores in that place. If I was by myself, I’d get in a lot of time with Outrun or Rampage and if I was with friends, we’d play Gauntlet until I would wake up in the middle of the night, mumbling about the Elf needing food badly. On days when I couldn't get near the arcade machine, I'd play pinball until the late evening, when I knew my mother was going to kick my ass for coming in late. It was a good, pre-teen time. Not long afterwards, we moved back to Germany and there wasn’t another arcade to be found unless I went to Munich. So, I played games on the family’s computers until I moved back to the States and started playing Street Fighter 2 (you might remember me writing something about that here).

As I got older, I started playing more and more games in places I could drink and smoke. I was already spending a good deal of time there and striking out with the ladies, so I might as well do something I was good at. So, once in a while, I take a shot at the PL_107_fetish1_f-720155.jpgGolden Tee machine or one of the Megacrack machines. They just weren’t the same though. Neither one really appealed to me (sorry kids, but I’m not a duffer and the Megacrack is just annoying), so I started checking out some of the other bars in the neighborhoods around mine, finding a good pinball machine here, and a Ms. Pacman/Galaga tabletop game there. There was a period in my life when I would strictly go out to get loaded and play games. Where I went that night totally depended on who had what games and what kind of crowd I was feeling like. If I wanted a moderately quiet night and some Elvira pinball, I went to Mom’s. But if I was feeling a little more raucous and wanted a night of booze and a PacMan/Galaga machine, I went to Ray’s Happy Birthday bar. For a while, these did the trick, but there’s only so much time you can occupy the quieter hours of your life with hooch and games. I mean, eventually, you have to move on to hooch and chicks.

Lately though, I’m old. I don’t get out to the arcades or the bars like I used to and right now my favorite arcade is in my living room. We’ve got seven console currently connected to the receiver and a handful of handhelds laying about. Everyone in the house plays games to some extent (my wife has currently taken over the Wii as I write this and my housemate is upstairs playing World of Warcraft), even the baby has a couple that I let him play with me. When he was smaller, I’d give him a controller that wasn’t connected to the console, but now he and I play a couple of racing games with each other. He’s two and cars are his favorite thing, so for him it’s a giant thrill to get to drive. And that’s what I call father-son bonding time.

thefinn still plays. Sometimes a little too late into the evening.

Baby Huey talks of a very scary experience ...

I wanna tell you about the scariest place on earth. It's not some slaughterhouse, or torture chamber, or Sigfried and Roy's house. Let me explain some of the horrors:

- pizza
- video games
- skeeball
- cheesy prices
- ball pit

cheese-chuck_01.jpgFigured it out yet? Yeah, that's right. I'm talking about Chuck E Motherfuckin Cheese. Now, you are probably saying "Oh, those things aren't scary. What's up, pussy?" I left the worst part of all: the furries.

Yeah, that's right. I don't care if you try to tell me that giant mouse isn't a furry. He hangs around with a bunch of other people in giant animal costumes. Makes my skin crawl just thinking about it. It'd be better if the scorpions from Aqua Teen Hunger Force were there with Zakk Wylde. That'd be pretty sweet.

Sexual deviants aside, CeC had some pretty sweet games. I grew up in the boonies and the nearest one was 45 minutes away in Columbus, so we only went for special occasions -- birthday parties and the like. Seeing as how my shithole town didn't have an arcade, this was the only place with more than 2 or 3 cabinets at once. I got introduced to games like the Simpsons, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and it helped me hone my unbeatable strategy on Street Fighter 2.

I'm still old school, though, and even though I liked those games, I still preferred games like Breakout, Frogger, and analog shit like Skeeball and Whack-a-Mole.

So there it is. My first experience with many of my still-favorite video games AND furries. All in one convenient location.

Baby Huey had his first date in a long time last night. He had fun, but should have taken her to an arcade.

January 20, 2007

Conference Championships!

nflgameday21.jpg

50 Best Arcade Games - The Polls Are Open!

Ok, kids. This is it. The final poll. There are 50 games represented here and it's your job to choose the grand winner.

This time, we made it so you can make multiple choices in one shot. Don't say we never did anything for you.

Ready.

Set.

VOTE!







The Almost Final Countdown

Best Arcade Game EVER!




Rampage
Tecmo Super Dodge Ball
Berzerk
Spy Hunter
Tron
Sinistar
Bubble Bobble
Robotron 2084
Pole Position
Donkey Kong
Mortal Kombat 2
The Simpsons
Joust
Smash TV
Total Carnage
Asteroids
Golden Tee
Punch Out
Battle Zone
Star Wars
Street Fighter 2
Frogger
Ms. Pac Man
Afterburner
Defender
Food Fight
Tempest
A.P.B.
NARC
Galaga
Gauntlet
Major Havoc
Zaxxon
Outrun
RoadBlasters
Super Hang On
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles
Elevator Action
Paperboy
Centipede
Arkanoid
Tetris
Crazy Taxi
Super Tecmo Bowl
Space Invaders
Missile Command
X-Men vs Street Fighter / Marvel Vs. Capcom 2
Alpine Ski
Galaxian
Dig Dug





Winner will be announced Monday, along with the new category.

Archives

Zen Arcade

We had a general theme of arcade games in our mind when we had our team meeting deciding on the editor's picks column for this weekend. So we figured what the hell, let's make this easy. Arcade memories.

Thing is, Turtle and I both had wild and crazy weeks. He had a big interview. And landed the job. I was pushed out of my job and into another. Kind of stressful, but everything worked out for the best in the end. I think. But no matter how good things turn out, the stress kind of killed us. We are exhausted. So we're thinking, how are we going to write our usual amazing, killer stuff if we are so mentally tired? And that's when it hit us. We already wrote about this stuff! Both of ours were posted a while back, so maybe a lot of you haven't read them yet.

Michele tilts first:


I was about 13 years old when I first entered the Palace. I was a tag-a-long to an older friend who was going there just to score a nickel bag.

Pinball Palace was a small, almost hidden place, tucked between the Jerry Lewis Movie theater and a specialty bra shop. From the outside, it looked forbidden and dangerous, two things that combined to point a beckoning finger at me.

Gina opened the door and I followed, knowing that this was exactly the kind of place my parents warned me about. Which made it exactly the kind of place I wanted to be.

As soon as we stepped inside my brain went into sensory overload. The smell hit me first; cigarettes, pot and teenage sweat all mingled together. That sounds nasty but it’s really a powerful, enticing aroma to a 13 year old who was already dabbling in the dark side of suburbia.

The noises. The clacking of pool balls as someone yelled “break!” Dings and whistles coming from the mess of pinball machines that lined the walls. Bikers cursing. Quarters jangling in the pockets of Levis. Fists banging on plexiglass as a machine tilted. And David Essex's “Rock On” on the jukebox. The combination of those sounds and the smells was intoxicating. Overwhelming at first, but so intoxicating.

This was my first time in the Palace and, I have to say, the sensory overload, plus the bikers looking like they were about to start a brawl with some potheads, made me a little nervous. So instead of digging for some quarters and trying out a game, which is what I wanted to do so badly, I kind of just hung back while Gina made her deal with guy at the change counter. When she was done, we went behind the movie theater, smoked a joint, and then snuck in the back door of the theater. They were showing Shampoo. We watched Warren Beatty, naked on the floor and humping the daylights out of the poor girl underneath him and all I remember is a person was watching them through a window and said something like "Now that's what I call fucking!" Gina sat gaping at the screen, taking in every word, every movement, probably taking notes in her head, and all I could think about was going back to Pinball Palace. The sounds played in my head. Pinball machines. Quarters. Rock On. That place was beckoning me like the sea calls to a sailor. Or something like that.

I went back with Gina the next Saturday. This time, I brought quarters. While Gina flirted with her dealer, I made the walk toward the machine in the far corner, toward the thing that haunted my dreams the entire week. It loomed there like a god calling me into its temple. Or maybe it was like a monster luring me to its lair. I stopped. Stood in front of it. Sucked in my breath and admired the beauty that was the Bally Wizard. Pinball Wizard. Tommy. Ann Margaret with her legs spread on the backglass. Tommy.

I hesitated for a split second, then put the quarter in, knowing full well that I would become addicted to the flashing lights and turning numbers. The quarter dropped. I hit the reset button. The silver ball popped into place and I slowly pulled back the lever, feeling the resistance of the coiled spring. I let go. The tip of the lever and the metal ball connected and as that ball went around the curve on its journey towards the playing field, it took with it my grades, my social life, my allowance. From the first loud ding when the ball rang up my first score, I was obsessed.

My fingers worked the flippers as deftly as Gina’s fingers worked rolling joints. I moved back and forth, swinging my hips and nudging the machine a little to the left, a little to the right, careful not to piss it off enough to make it tilt. My eyes darted between the ball and the scoreboard and my heart skipped a beat as I saw the paper taped to the top of the glass with the high scores for the week listed. My name would be up there one day. Yes, it would. A girl’s gotta have goals in life. Some of my friends wanted to discover a cure for cancer or find life on Mars. I just wanted my name written in magic marker on top of that piece of paper. I’m pretty simple like that. You want a higher education? Rip it up. I just wanted a high score.

An hour later, Gina had to drag me out of the Palace. Even when my quarters ran out, I wanted to stay. I wanted to watch the masters play, the guys who turned over the numbers over. The guys who could smoke and drink and play at the same time.

Going with Gina on her Saturday deals wasn’t enough anymore. I started walking to the Palace after school. If Gina wouldn't go there was always someone else willing to hang out and watch me play pinball with me instead of going home. I’d bribe them with a couple of cigarettes and the promise that there were older, hot guys/girls there. We would throw a few quarters into the jukebox (three plays for twenty five cents) and play the same tunes over and over. Black Betty. Trampled Underfoot. Slip Kid. Have A Cigar.

Sometimes I would ask my mother for a ride to the library and when she pulled away after dropping me off, I would duck out the door and run across Front Street, straight to Pinball Palace. I mean, mom never wondered why I went to the library so much because, despite what you may think you know about me, I was really a bookish kinda kid. I liked to read. I didn’t really like lying to my mom, though. Catholic guilt. It wears you down. So I rationalized my lying by, well, justifying it. See, I wasn't out on the streets doing drugs - no respectable 13 year old considered pot a real drug - and I wasn't out getting pregnant like Mrs. Winslow's daughter. I was just playing pinball. Besides, I kept a copy of The Chocolate War tucked into the back of my jeans. Sometimes I read while waiting for the Bally Wizard to free up. So I wasn’t totally lying. Right? That Catholic guilt. It’s still there.

My trips to the Palace got less frequent as the weather got cold. No one wanted to walk that far, not even for a bribe of a cigarette, a few quarters and a slice from Pizza King. Once in a while we’d get a ride to the movie theater and slip inside the Palace instead. Each time I walked through those doors was like the first. The smell, the sounds, the adrenaline rush as I stared down the Wizard. Ann Margaret with her legs spread.

They closed Pinball Palace before the warm weather came back. Neighbors were complaining. Community action groups were picketing. Churches were praying for the souls of the kids caught up in the glare of those flashing lights. They claimed Pinball Palace was a haven for dirty, unkempt teenagers who cursed and drank and smoked. It was stealing the life and soul of the community's young adults. Well, yea. Not to mention my allowance. But hey, it was my choice. I kinda liked having my soul eaten away by the Bally Wizard and Grand Slam and Atlantis.

And then, it was gone. I cried, I mourned, I laid in bed at night, my fingers twitching to imaginary flippers, the game playing out in my mind. We had to find another place. I was an addict looking for a fix. I needed it. I craved it. I played entire games of Grand Slam in my head, complete with tilts and free balls and high scores.

That summer, my parents decided I needed an “attitude adjustment” and pulled me out of the "terrible" public school system. Catholic high school would surely lead me on the path to a righteous life. I would make new friends. Better friends. Friends that didn’t reek of bong water and hang out in pinball places. Friends who wore skirts and ties and gave their quarters to the collection basket instead of jukeboxes and games.

So the new school year starts, I make some friends and mom and dad are happy. I’m staying after school to study and umm...attend chapel.

Not quite. See, the 7-11 across the street from school held a deep, dark secret in its back corner. A Bally Wizard pinball machine. My new friends, who hated ties and skirts and hoarded their quarters like gold, would watch me play for hours each day, taking bets on whether I would break the high score or not. highscores.jpgI had a following. I was the Pinball Wizard. 7-11 wasn't quite the same as Pinball Palace, but Kevin had his portable cassette player and we listened to Thin Lizzy and Wish You Were Here while I worked the flippers. Every day. Bell rings. Class dismissed. Walk across street. Smoke joint. Drop quarters. Special when lit!

Pinball eventually gave way to other video games. Asteroids. Galaga. Space Invaders. Arcades started popping up everywhere. My pinball skills were ancient history. Nobody cared about the high score taped the Bally Wizard. There were aliens to fight. Spaceships to pilot.

I’ll never regret all those hours and quarters spent feeding my pinball frenzy. Learning the exact angles of each machine, getting a rush when my name went up on the high score chart. Those were good times. My mother told me that I was wasting away my life playing those games, that I would never get anything useful out of it. Hah. What does she know? If it wasn't for those quick reflexes and the incredible hand-eye coordination I developed at Pinball Palace, I wouldn’t know the joy of kicking my kid’s ass at Street Fighter. -M

Turtle is next.

I need a job. Dammit. I'm broke. I need something easy to find. Bands were just starting in our neighborhood and strings don't grow on trees. Plus, I needed a job cause the summer was boring. I wasn't one of those kids who ran out and played in the water. If it didn't have to do with beer or a skateboard, I'd be sitting in front of a TV or in some warehouse packed with mics running thru guitar amps. Well, running thru them till the guitarist got there and bitched at us for using his equipment. Guitarists are sucky little whiny bitches when it comes to that stuff. "You are gonna blow my amp! Stop it!"

Meh.

But I needed something to do. Sitting alone in a garage playing for four or five hours a day gets old. Especially when you suck balls on bass. Everyone was working at one place. Well, what the fuck. Let's get a job, turtle. Might as well.

It really wasn't that bad of a gig. I was working in an arcade. Giant one. White pants and blue shirt. Fixing arcade games that had broken to keep them running. Which I really think is kind of illegal. Having a kid work on a busted board while he doesn't even have his driver’s license? Is that legal? Many hot wire burns later, I figured out it wasn't legal, but the damage had been done. But, I learned I could work with an iron and put these things back together. One of the machines that constantly broke down was an old set of Skeeballs. I always had to pull out the boards and work these back together. One thing I always noticed was the amount of change that was in there. In the machine. My friends were all about stealing the quarters, but I never did.

Well.

Maybe once.

Or twice.

But that was over soon. My fingers were burned and my pockets full of change every night. Wait. I just said I didn't do that. Well, hell. You caught me. Or rather, they caught me. Pretty soon, because of my fuck off attitude I was pushed out in the heat. Given a new shirt. A Camo style shirt, and told to go work in the tanks. Out there. In the heat. Past the carnies. Past the kiddie pool with beer cans floating in it. Out there.

Where I was sent to work was supposed to be a punishment. But it seemed like heaven to me.

The Tank Ride

This was one of the most popular rides and one of the few at the park more dangerous for employees than patrons.

In a chainlink fence-enclosed area, small tanks could be driven around for the proper fee for five minutes at a time, with tennis ball cannons that enabled riders to shoot at a sensor prominently mounted on each tank. If hit, the tank stopped operating for 15 seconds, while other tankers often took advantage of the delay to pepper the stricken vehicle with more fire.tankride.jpg

Visitors on the outside could also join in the fun through less costly cannons mounted on the inside of the fence. When workers had to enter the cage to attend to a stuck or crashed tank, which usually happened several times a day, they were often pelted with tennis balls from every direction despite prohibitions against such behavior that could result in expulsion from the park. It is not known if this resulted in any serious injuries, but it made the tank ride the least popular place to work in the park.

Well fuck yeah!

About 20 of these tank like things. One passenger would be in a turret on top. The other would be below driving them. The gun shot tennis balls. The tennis balls went fast. The tennis balls hurt. The driver of the tank would have just a basic peddle. Back and forth, and a wheel to turn the damn tank. Six of these would go out at a time and shoot at targets on the others riders tanks. When the target was hit, the tank would stop for 15 seconds. But they could still fire their tennis balls. At us.

Oh, what glorious days! When people would ram each other after we told them not to, we had to come running out with a baseball bat to whack the side of their tanks to stop them from moving. Catching a high-powered tennis ball in the face and pulling some asshole kid out of the fucking gun and putting his face in the dirt. Parents yelling at us to stop stop hurting their kids when my face was full of welts. Oh, fuck you.

Oh yeah. The dirt and dust. On weekdays, no one would show up for hours. No customers. No kids. I backed my CRX into the tank area in the shade and drank beer with whomever I was working with. Cranking the stereo thinking this isn't such a bad gig. We were drunk the whole time. Dust flying and the stench of carnies.

If you guys don't know, carnies have a tendency to do a lot of meth and they like beer. So we became friends with them. Duh. The exciting world of the carny! I learned many things about that lifestyle. How to cut speed while you still can weigh it down so you can put some in yourself and still make a profit. I learned about the "Jesus Key." If you don't know, the Jesus Key holds the track together on those mini roller coasters. That key was the only thing keeping you from meeting Jesus.

Carnies are funny.

But anyways, every day tanks would stall and I had to work on them. To get them running again. So people could ram each other. So I could get hit in the face with a tennis ball. So I could drink beer. Maybe this job kind of sucked.

The dust blocked up the air filter. Everyday I had to pull an air filter off, park the tank and dump gas on the filter to clean it out. sviairfilter.jpg But, there was one thing. I had to pull it off and put it on the ground. The air filter would be dead for about five minutes before it was dry enough to be useable again. Then I could put it back on and be good to go. Exposed for five minutes. Those little bastards shot the shit out me while I just waited for it to dry off.

My last day working there, I threw a filter on. Just after it was cleaned. Still too wet to get oxygen to the engine. The engine started but stalled. Friday night. Kids waiting on me. I popped the back compartment and grabbed it off. I was going to run it without the filter. I know that's bad but we were in a bad situation. We only had five tanks running and the line was long. Tennis balls shots beside me. Filter still covered in gas. I pull it off. It stays on. The gasoline had made it slick. Too slick too pull off. Fuck that hurts. I look down at my thumb and see the bone in my hand.

Well.

This sucks.

Keep in mind that this was well before I learned how to stitch myself up so I was kind of scared. I could see the bone. The outer metal ridge on the air filter had torn straight into me. Really deep. I took my shirt off and walked into the main arcade. Walked up to the deli. Shirt wrapped around my thumb. Blood coming out everywhere. I grabbed a coke and sat down while the deli girls freaked out after they figured I wasn't joking around.

The Manager was called.

Asked me if I could finish my shift. The deli girls looked at her in shock and explained what had happened. She looked at me and said...

"Well isn't that nice. Can you finish your shift?" - T

So those are our arcade memories. The other two editors, Finn and Baby Huey, will have theirs tomorrow.

What about you? Got any good arcade memories?

January 19, 2007

The Final Four..Wait, This Is The NFL

Well my friends, after last weekend's divisional round, which featured some of the best football games we have seen all year, here we are. This weekend it’s The AFC and NFC Conference Championships. Four teams, two games. These teams have come a long way and now each one is only one game away from making it to The Big Game, also known as The SUPERBOWL. butkus.gif

This is what every person on these teams has worked for since training camps started all the way back in July. To make it to this point is something to be proud of. If your team is still in it, I hope you are enjoying the ride.

Of course, only one team can win each game this weekend, that means somebody is going to go home disappointed and somebody is going to move on for a shot at winning The Superbowl.

I still have not decided on the proper tailgating treats for Sunday. Last weekend I went with chili (3 bowls consumed) and hot-dogs. This weekend I’m thinking sausages, peppers and onions. It’s a classic combo that is sure to please The Football Gods. Maybe some buffalo wings too… Yeah. Sounds good.

How about you? Let us know what you have going on for the games on Sunday.
Sunday, Jan. 21

New Orleans at Chicago: 3:00 pm – FOX

Chicago is in it’s first Conference Championship game since 1988. So why does it seem like people in Chicago are so unhappy with their team? Rex Grossman is not a perfect quarterback by any means, but he’s gotten The Bears to this point, just one game away from The Superbowl. Grossman seems to be very unpopular among Bears fans. I know he makes mistakes but at the same time, look where this team is. I can’t figure it out.

That is just my view as an outsider. Maybe I am wrong about this? Feel free to set me straight in the comments.

New Orleans is playing in the first NFC Championship game in the team’s entire history. They have an explosive offense with the exciting combination of quarterback Drew Brees and rookie running back Reggie Bush. With everything that went on with Hurricane Katrina and the City of New Orleans, this Saints team coming back to The Superdome and making it to the title game is the feel-good story of the year. I think it’s great to see. You can’t make this kind of stuff up.

DonovanColts.jpgNew England at Indianapolis: 6:30 pm – CBS

The Patriots and Colts meet once again in the playoffs with a trip to The Superbowl on the line. This time it’s on The Colts home turf in the air conditioned comfort of the RCA Dome.

The Colts defeated The Patriots during the regular season 27-20 in a game where The Patriots turned the ball over 5 times. The Patriots have cleaned up the turnover problem since then and their receivers are clicking with Tom Brady. Defensively The Patriots are playing great as well. They are tough against the run and are very good at preventing teams from scoring once they reach the red-zone, (the area between the 20 yard-line and the End Zone.)

The mark against the Colts this year has been their inability to stop the run, but in the playoffs they have done an excellent job of handling two good running backs in Kansas City’s Larry Johnson and Baltimore’s Jamal Lewis. With Colts quarterback Peyton Manning not playing his best in the playoffs so far, it has actually been the Colts defense that has kept them in these last two playoff games and the leg of former Patriots kicker, Adam Vinatieri, that has provided the scoring for The Colts.

Expect both of these teams to lay it all on the line in this game. The Colts want to get The Patriots monkey off their back once and for all. The Patriots want to prove that they are still the team to beat in the AFC. Add in the fact that the winner moves on to The Superbowl and you’ve got the makings of a classic (and a potential heart-attack in my living room.)

Enjoy this weekends games everyone!

Ernie is just wondering what to do when this all over

Archives

50 Best Arcade Games - UPDATED

missle command.jpgWelcome to the last day of nominating. Well, the nominations are really over.

THIS IS THE END OF THE NOMINATION LIST.

The first four nomination lists are here and here and here and here.

The official "list" from the reader nominations are:

(in no particular order)

1. Rampage
2. Tecmo Super Dodge Ball
3. Berzerk
4. Spy Hunter
5. Tron
6. Sinistar
7. Bubble Bobble
8 Robotron 2084
9. Pole Position
10. Donkey Kong
11. Mortal Kombat 2Mini-Pic - Defender.JPG
12. The Simpsons
13. Joust
14. Smash TV
15. Total Carnage
16. Asteroids
17. Golden Tee
18. Punch Out
19. Battle Zone
20. Star Wars
21. Street Fighter 2
22. Frogger
23. Ms. Pac Man
24. Afterburner
25. Defender
26. Food Fight
27. Tempest
28. A.P.B.
29. NARC
30. Galaga

Pretty cool list we have started here, eh?

Want to see the last of them?

Then here we go.

gauntlet123.jpg31. Gauntlet
Well this one had to be in here for personal reasons. If I can remember right, this was the first game that was really intimidating. What the hell was going on with this big game? With four players? I didn't understand it and really, I was too afraid to touch it. Too much was going on for my small brain. I did play it in the end though. I always loved the "Elf needs food...badly" thing. Like I didn't know that. I don't think anyone ever got too far without blowing at least a weeks allowance.

32. Major Havoc
Balls out weird game. Really weird controller. Like a spiny type thing. Running around in anti gravity..I think. I remember it as one of those games that was supposed to be high tech but usually left in the background of arcades. I don't know why. It was a good game.

33. Zaxxon
Damn angles. A space shuttle off to do some damage. I really did hate the angle you went in at. One of the first games to learn that if you use normal paint on metal controllers...that paint will come off in the players hand. By the time this game was passed around, the controller looked like something out of a Russ Meyers movie. All beat up and worn out.

34. Out Run
Out run your opponents and get the girl. Just a driving game. I loved it. Rev the engine and let it go.

Or maybe I am mixing it up with Pole Position. Hey, did anyone say Roadblasters yet?

35. RoadBlastersNESElevator Action.jpg
Hah. No one did. So I am going to say it. Sit in the seat and blast away. Someone put on a "nice guy" bonus on this game. The "nice guy" bonus is when the damn game counts the accuracy on your shots. That's pussy. If you ask me, that is. I think that you should be able to shoot more. The more shots that come out of your gun, the higher the bonus. Why should you be rewarded for playing like a pussy? Kill everyone! Even bystanders! And innocent people! Hey that reminds me. Did anyone say Deathrace 2000 yet?

Cause that was fun.

36. Super Hang On

Running out of time. This game was perfect for the NES. But it was in the arcade. Hm. Fun game of just jumping like a redneck with a new jug of moonshine. That reminds me. Did anyone say Bump and Jump yet?

37. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles
I was surprised when I found out this was an arcade game. But, I'll review it cause I am sure it was the same one played at home. Grab a turtle with the weapon you like and bang away. I like the one with the stick. Too bad there wasn't one with a gun. Damn ninjas and their weapons. They needed a gun.

38. Elevator Action
There really wasn't a whole lot to this. Get down the building. Really a simple yet totally addicting game. One of my favorites. Always in the back of arcades cause the owner accidentally bought it instead of renting it. But, you went down levels until you got to your cool car. And then you did it again. I always wondered who left the cool car. Prolly was a cool chick.

They do that.

39. Paperboy
Grrr. Another angle game. Have I told you my dislike for angle games? Throw the papers and try not to bail. Funny thing I just found out about this game: If you make it through the week, the game ends. No shit. When you hit Sunday, the game is over.

I guess it didn't really matter since no one made it past Tuesday.

cent.JPG40. Centipede
I hated how they counted up the mushrooms after you died. Pity points. But what I really loved is when you got that centipede coming down the tubes just a blastin' away at his body. The salamander was cool, too. I think he was waving at you when he was cruising by. Yet another excuse to hate bugs.

Update

Update

Update

Since we misfigured the dates (holiday ya know) these are the last ten.

The voting will start tomorrow

Want to see the last ten?

Then here we go.

41. Arknoid
It was Breakout on speed. One of the games on the list that left more memories of sleepless nights and nightmares than anything else. So simple. Just knock the blocks. But so hard. Grab the gun. Risk it all and grab the gun. Then get greedy and lose the ball. Or whatever the hell it was. I guess there was a storyline behind it. Something about aliens.

I think.

I did a lot of drugs back then, ok?

tetris.jpg42. Tetris
Russians. Who would have thunk Russians could bring us anything better than mail order brides and Yakoff Smirnoff? Not me. Yakoff was funny. But on to the game. Put the pieces of the puzzle together. Funny how something so simple could drive us all crazy.

43. Crazy Taxi
Speaking of crazy. Pick up the people and rock out to some of the most annoying music of all time. How many people cringe when they here that "YA YA YA YA YA" intro to that god damn Offspring song that started out the game. Damn, I hated that. And it wasn't that bad of a song. It was more of overkill. Again and again. But it sure was fun smashing shit up.

44. Super Techmo Bowl
One of the early games that inspired us to greater highs like Madden. I think this was a football game but back then, meh, who could really tell. It was a game that was cool. I wonder if Tecmo is still around. They did make Super Dodge Ball....hm..

They were on a run back then.

45. Space Invaders
I swear I thought this was on the list already. Anyways. I found a cool online version of this game but after I played it in the arcade a few days ago, I realized the online version sucked. Yes, the arcade I went into had it. They also had some 18 wheel truckin' race game which took all of my time. So really, the only reason I played Space Invaders was cause I only had one token left. It was fun buuuut the truckin' game kicked ass. If SOMEONE would ever remember her camera, you guys could have all seen some action photos of me truckin' down to Florida, but NOOOOOOOO.

She forgot it.

I'll forgive her though. She is cute.

46 Missle Command
The trackball always pinched my hand. It hurt.

47. X-Men vs Street Fighter / Marvel Vs. Capcom 2
These two made it against my wishes. Two many lights and moves and learning curves. Plus, it sent me into a seizure one time. But other people like it. So what the hell.

It made it in.

alpineski.jpg48. Alpine Ski
I am assuming it has something to do with skiing.

49. Galaxian
This one made it because all of the Galaga fans kept emailing me saying I better not put in Galaxian or they would kill me.

So fuck you.

It made it.

Intimidating FTTW staff or editors is a no no 'round these parts.

50. DigDug
Oh yes...pump me up. Kinda sexual in a way. I guess. Hell, I don't know. Someone else made that comment. Not me. This time, that is.

So those the last ten that made the list..

We are done!

Nominations are closed,

The final poll will be out soon and run all weekend.

Vote early and often when it comes out.

Thank you to everyone who nominated the games. As you can see, almost all of them made it. Some where way too obscure for any of us, so we kicked those. But I think everyone is happy, right?

Now I have to think of my favorites.....

tHE VOTE WILL START TOMORROW.

Archives

Never Go To The Rink With Wet Hair…

A little tired, a lot drugged up with the good cold medicines with codeine, this week all you’re getting out of my foggy foggy brain is a couple of stories that caught my eye this week and a promise that next week we’ll have a long(ish) discussion about the All Star Game and the upcoming playoff races. They’re not that far away really… Is it summer yet?

Frozen hair.jpgThe Problem with Video Replay

We talked about what would happen when the league got rid of the on-ice goal judges right? Video replay judges. But I just found out something that you all don’t know…

The Video Replay Judges are not even AT the same rink. They’re in Toronto, drinking real beer and deciding whether or not your puck went over the line.

Normally I am ALL about Canadians having some façade of control over the game that we all love (and Bettman hates), but if you’re judging something I kinda feel that you should at least be in the same arena as the game. Gives you a feel for it, makes you focus so you ENSURE you get it right so you won’t face a lynch mob in the parking lot.

Take last Sundays Chicago/Minnesota game. A possible shootout goal by Chicago’s third shooter (Arkhipov) was disallowed after a review. Boo Hoo right? After “careful consideration…”, “one team isn’t going to like the outcome anyway…” crap from Colin Campbell (Director, Operations – NHL) a “close call” was made and they called it a day.

I watched the game – I saw the replay – It was about two inches over the goal line before it was smothered by the goalie. This is going to be fun next season.

The play ends when the puck stops moving right?

Minnesota’s goalie (Fernandez) says “I don’t think it went in.” They obviously listen to goalies.

Pittsburg Takes Control of its Own Destiny

Let me get this straight.

mario-lemieux.jpgThe reason that Jim Balsillie backed out of his deal to buy the Pittsburg Penguins was because the NHL (*coughbettmancough*) wasn’t going to let him move the team. Would not even consider it. Balsillie forfeited $10Million dollars.

Now the league is allowing current owner Mario Lemieux to “entertain offers” from other hungry non-NHL cities while they continue to try and reach a deal with the city of Pittsburgh for a new arena.

The Pens are free to move when the 2006-2007 season ends.

I understand that Ontario really can’t support another NHL team, but what about Winnipeg? Quebec and the Maritimes?

I am going to have to face the fact that as long as a) Bettman remains the head; and b) taxes and incentive are not forthcoming from Canadian Provinces (did you know Ottawa and Montréal pay more tax than ALL the US teams combined?), we are not going to get a franchise.

It still makes me very very angry at the double standard though.

Meet Yutaka Fukufuji, the first native Japanese player in the NHL

fukufuji02.jpgFirst of all, what a great last name.

January 13th LA Kings coach Marc Crawford replaced Goalie Brust with Yutaka making NHL history.

They lost 5-4, with Yutaka stopping 4 of 5 shots. Well it’s the LA Kings, so really it’s not that surprising.

He was an 8th round pick (238th overall), he 6’ 1” and 180lbs. He grew up playing hockey in a small Japanese town named Kushiro, being the goalies because no one else wanted to be.

He saw his first NHL game when he was 15 year old, and never even thought about playing in the NHL until he was drafted. He had been scouted while playing on Japan’s national team. He played for Bakersfield in the ECHL and had a 27-9-5 record with a 2.48 GAA. Not bad, not bad at all.

The Kings need all the help they can get in the net right now (and on defense and offense – what’s with all the soft third period goals?) – I say Good On Ya. He’s going to be an interesting player to watch.

Deb’s looking for the Hot Toddy fountain, call her collect if you find it.

Archives

I Want To Be Anywhere But Here

The weather turned colder than a witch's tit this week. I really have no idea how cold a witch's tit gets (and I'm not about to ask Pat such a personal question), but it's like 800 below zero out there right now.

Ok, maybe it's 20 degrees. But after having global-warming type temps this month, 20 degrees suddenly seems like Mr. Cold Miser just farted winter all over us. Which makes us want to be somewhere else.

Which makes this week's Group LNT question: If you could visit anywhere in the entire world expense free, where would you go?

beach123.htmTurtle gets on the move first:

I would like to go to the Galapagos Islands. Visit all the birds. Throw rocks at all the people. Wear a shirt saying "Darwin was wrong" and scatch my pubic hair a lot. I think it would be a great place to start my own health spa. Maybe a mud spa. "Darwin's Day Spa." All the girls that worked there would wear bird outfits and shit on your back a lot.

[turtle is reminded of the difference between inside thoughts and outside thoughts]

The first thing that comes to mind is Pamplona, Spain. I don't know why, but people always say go with what you think up first. Just like on some SAT test cept I'm not drunk this time. So Spain. And fuck the rebels and shit cause if I am going expense free, I'll pack a few guns with me. Hell, if I play my cards right I could become the new King of the Nuevo Revolution. King Turtle.

I would have to update some things if I were the King, though.

I don't think the running of the bulls has enough trap doors.

Baby Huey:

Sweden. It'd be my metal Mecca. I'd go to all the clubs in Gothenburg and take the pilgrimage of the true metal head. I'd see where bands like At the Gates, In Flames, Dark Tranquillity, The Haunted, Nightrage, and others got their starts. And all the girls there would wear bird outfits and shit on my back a lot.

Michele:

Everyone (well a lot of people) have in their mind a List of Things To Do Before I Die.

Mine is see the Northern Lights.

Sure, I could go to Michigan and get a glimpse of them. I could go to some one horse town in Canada and see them. I could go to Alaska, too.

But I want to see them in Norway. That kills two things off my List of Things To Do Before I Die in one shot.

1. See the Northern Lights
2. Slay Captain Sabertooth

I like to multi task.

Ernie:

I guess I would have to say Australia. It seems like such a cool place with lots of interesting and fun things to do. Lots of awesome beaches to hang out and relax on. I wish I was on vacation.

Pat:a8australia123.jpg

Ireland. I'm ethnic Celtic, besides being a Celtic pagan, and would dearly love to visit Ireland (and Wales & Scotland, but you said "one place"!). I want to crawl inside the sacred mound outside Dublin, visit Tara, and walk the wild places... to nourish my soul and delight my eyes.

Paul:

I've been sent expense-free to many places, but the people there were usually in a race to see who could kill more of the other in the shortest period of time. If the weren't killing each other, they were starving some ethnic minority or seizing control of a government
through a regularly scheduled coup.

So, if I could go anywhere expense free, it would have to be someplace where there's peace, quiet, and friendly people who won't try to shoot you or blow you up when you're not looking. It would have to be Norway.

Jay:

I'd go and spend a month at the North Pole Environmental Observatory or at the South Pole Station in the Antarctic. Yeah, cold and all, but its the last place in the world I'd pay to go, and yet, I still want to. Its be interesting, thats for sure.

Cullen:

New Zealand. There's no other place on Earth that has so many different climates going on in so small a place (relatively). I'd really like to see some of the landscapes we see from films shot there and I'd like to see their icebergs. Awesome stuff.

Joel:

It's hard passing up Australia and New Zealand, but lately I've been dying to go to Ireland. I would just love to explore the countryside, explore the pubs, explore the people. Wait, that sounded a bit wrong. But not necessarily untrue.

A trip through the Irish country and its pubs, an exploration of its history, plus lots of great conversation with strangers. Sounds like a fantastic time to me.

japan-46.jpgIan:

I'd love to go back to Japan. I've been studying Japanese culture and language since my freshman year in high school, and after I graduated high school my best friend and I took of for a trip across Tokyo, Kyoto and the Mt. Fuji area.

It was amazing, but to be able to spend like a madman and really see all the best nightlife, resteraunts and theatres? Man, that would be a dream.

Branden:

Amsterdam.

I don't think I need to say anything else.

They test those hookers, right?

Jo:

A few years back I managed to come across "Heaven for overwight white women". Its on this wonderful little island of Nassua, Bahamas. I spent 6 nights and 5 days there and in that time I was followed, pursued and wooed by ELEVEN (11) different, gorgeous men that happened to live in the island. One even asked if I would be his wife.

I would love to go back there some day with a bunch of my female, overweight friends who feel bad about themselves. I went there and when I left I felt like a goddess to men. (AND NO, I didn't get lucky. I chose not to after I learned that the Bahamas has the highest number of cases of AIDS per capita because of the same size of the island and the large amount of people., but I was offered. ;)

Matthew:

I would go to Australia, I have always wanted to pet a Koala Bear. Why? I have no idea. Plus the men would be cute!moher.jpg

Deb:

They say Mother earthis greening
With each wave that finds her shore
Her soul rises in the evening
So to open twilight's door

Her eyes are the stars in heaven
Watching 'or us all the while
And her heart, it is in Ireland
Deep within the Emerald Isle
(Ireland - Garth Brookes)

I went there in 2003 on a tour,and my heart has been cryong out for me to return and explore on my own ever since. Someday I will.

So that is where we want to go.

Expense free of course. And first class. We don't fly coach.

We know it is cold where you are at. Hopefully you have an idea of where you want to get away from it all. Expense free. Somewhere that has tasty buds and cool waves?

Tell us.

Frankenstein Returns

Hi gang! I have three more videos for you this week...

Zombie: Michael Moore Interview

zombmm.jpg
click for video

Zombie is interviewed by Michael Moore, who shows some clips from a documentary he's making called "The Detainee." The fictitious documentary features Mr. C and references two old TV shows called "The Prisoner." There's a typo in the credits... sorry about that.

Frankenstein: Interrogation 1 (Police Interrogation)

aaip.jpg
click for video

Frankenstein gets drunk again and this time tells you all about cop interrogation tactics.

Frankenstein Rant About God and Religions

fgtb.jpg
click for video

Without even the excuse of intoxication, Frankenstein says things about metaphysics calculated to offend both the pious and atheists alike. This video is not recommended viewing for anyone easily offended by controversial statements about religion.

See you next week!

Kory never needs the excuse of intoxication to offend the masses.

Volume 2, Issue 8

22.jpg

23.jpg


24.jpg

Jo has spent a lot of time in the Weed Fairy's room. If you know what we mean.

Archives

January 18, 2007

50 Best Arcade Games - We Are Getting Close

tokyo2.JPGVideo games. Those fun boxes of shiny things that cost quarters to make the fun go zoom. How we loved them.

Now we must honor them.

Welcome to Day 4 of the nominating process for The Almost Final Countdown - Arcade games edition.


We are almost hitting the top of the nomination list, so if you don't want yours to miss out, you better get it in.

A lot are nominated, but haven't been "officially" been put in yet.

Herein comes the problem. We are looking for the ones that got more than one nomination. So if you said something earlier in the poll and you haven't seen it yet, to make sure it gets in on the top 50, nominate it again.

The first three nomination lists are here and here annnnd here.

The official "list" from the reader nominations are:

(in no particular order)

1. Rampage
2. Tecmo Super Dodge Ball
3. Berzerkpachinko nishijin 3.jpg
4. Spy Hunter
5. Tron
6. Sinistar
7. Bubble Bobble
8 Robotron 2084
9. Pole Position
10. Donkey Kong
11. Mortal Kombat 2
12. The Simpsons
13. Joust
14. Smash TV
15. Total Carnage
16. Asteroids
17. Golden Tee
18. Punch Out
19. Battle Zone
20. Star Wars

Pretty cool list we have started here, eh?

Want to see the next ten?

Then here we go.

21. Street Fighter 2
Does anyone remember Street Fighter 1? I do. It was a huge game where you actually punched these pads to determine how hard you hit in the game. It was stupid. It hurt and it broke a lot. The makers of Street Fighter eliminated that previous problem by getting rid of the punching pads and adding three different buttons. Here you could kick ass with anyone. Cept for the cool ending characters. I always hated that. I couldn't be the cool guys. The fat guy was cool when you couldn't play anyone else. That thousand slap thing he did was for people who didn't know how to play the game.

22. Frogger
Pretty simple. Get the damn frog across. Don't get hit or drown. Or eaten. I was never a big fan of this game. Everyone said I should try it. I would like it. Cause it tasted just like chicken.

OK. That was bad.

23. Ms. Pac Man
Same thing as Pac Man but now the broads didn't feel like man broads when they played it. It was now cool for broads to play videogames. Cause they were playing a broad. See, that's when I knew the Constitution went one step too far. It was fine when the broads got the vote, but when we made a broad videogame, we just went too far.

Michele adds: Ms. Pac Man is a whore.

aburner2m-08.png24. Afterburner
Let's be honest here. Could anyone really see what was happening? I mean, didn't we all just fire like hell and move around a lot? Till we got hit? The crash landinhg was always cool. You didn't just die in that game. You died in a glorious manner. One in which the whole arcade needed to know about. Lights and sounds came from the machine proclaiming that you, yes you, were dead.

25. Defender
Too many buttons.

26. Food Fight
There was something wrong with this game. I get the whole "toss food at the bad guy" thing, but the controlers were wonky on that machine. I never got why the kid just liked ice cream cones. I mean, what if the kid was diabetic? That would suck. To win the game he has to go into some insulin shock or some shit like that. Make those chefs pay. Or maybe that was why the chefs were trying to stop him from eating the cone in the first place. They didn't want him to go into some sugar shock from eating the ice cream......

Think about it.

27. Tempest
One of the last line games on the list. All hail the line games, or whatever they are called. They had their tiime with classic games like Missle Command and Star Wars but time was moving on. If this was one of the last, it had to be one of the best. No story behing it. Just stop those other lines from getting you. And watch out for those other lines. Great game and it had a spinner control! That was fun. Specially when you were tired of it. Just spin the fucker and walk away.

28. A.P.B.
These next two games kinda confused me. This first one had everything in it needed to be a crooked cop. Write fake tickets to get the quota. Smash other cars. Shoot people. And last but not least...shake the shit out of a prisoner to get him to confess before the Sarge gets to the interogation room. This is why this game is so great. The "Confessometer" was just a way to shake the crap out of someone you just arrested. And the best part was, if you didn't beat him up enough, he walked and you had to get him again.

And you thought it was easy to beat up someone in handcuffs.

29. NARC
Needles, right? Are they throwing needles at me? Truely a bizarre game. The junkies I know don't like throwing away their needles. Specially at a cop. And the roaming hordes of junkies coming at you. Junkie avalance. That sounds like a new candy bar. "Try a Junkie Avalance!"galagaxian11.jpg

But as this game always says.."Say no to drugs". That will work. Nancy Reagan said it. And if Mrs. Reagan's big guns don't work, then what the are we left with as a society?

It will be anarchy.

30. Galaga
Like Space Invaders but on acid. I guess. Same game but with colors. Has some cool noises in it too but I always get this one mixed up with the other G game. I don't know if that was intentional, but to this day I am scared of those two games. Kinda like if I call it the wrong name, someone is going to get upset and kick my ass. So one of the G games is cool.

Crap. Now we are going to have to nominate Galaxian just so we don't offend the other half of the G game spectrum.

So those are ten more that made the list..

But, we still need 20 more. If you don't see yours on here and it has been nominated in the past, nominate that sucker again and get it on here!

Nominations are open til Friday, and this is the place to do it. And the more people that nominate a game, the more likely it is to get into the final poll.

Now I have to figure out the difference between Galaga and Galaxian.

Archives

Charles in Charge?

In high school I was really good friends with this girl, Lisa. The two of us were inseparable for a long time and got into more trouble together than I can even bear to stomach when I look at my daughter now, who is exactly like me in almost every way.

reunion.jpgAnyway, after graduation, we both parted ways and went off to college. We continued to stay in touch on holidays and summer vacation, but it wasn't like it had been in high school (but I guess it never is). We had big plans of terrorizing the world together again when she graduated and came back home. But, of course, life got in the way and Lisa decided to follow a big paycheck to Los Angeles. We stayed in touch after that, but nowhere near as much as either one of us promised we would.

One day, out of the blue, I got a call from her telling me that she was home for a visit, wondering if we could get together to catch up on the past few years. So, we did. I told her about about meeting my husband, getting engaged, getting knocked up, getting married, being pregnant, giving birth and filled her in on all the details of married life, motherhood, and work. I realized how much less exciting my stories were than hers when she went on to tell me about how fabulous being single is in LA while making 6 figures and being able to buy $800 shoes at the drop of a $1200 hat. I heard about all the celebrities she met and all the parties she's been to and all the cocaine that she turned down. Oh, and then I heard about how she briefly dated and slept with Scott Baio. Yes, Chachi.

"Pssssht. Who hasnt?" I responded.

"What? You've slept with Scott Baio, too?" she asked.baio_1.jpg

"Well, no. But I think everyone else has. At least that's what he said on Howard Stern."

"Of course he said that to Howard Stern. Although, it might not be entirely inaccurate..."

"I don't get it," I said. "I've never even remotely liked Scott Baio."

[This is the moment in movies where you hear all the background noise interrupted by a really loud record scratching and all the world seems to stop]

"What?!" Lisa asked. "You never liked Scott Baio? That's ridiculous! Every girl loved Chachi!"

"I don't know," I shrugged. "I didn't even find him that cute. Plus, that Charles In Charge song completely ruined him for me."

"What are you talking about?!" she asked.

"You know," [everybody sing] "Charles, in charge, of our days and our nights. Charles, in charge, of our wrongs, and our rights..."

[Okay, you can stop singing now. No, really. Stop.]

"...Didn't that creep you out just a little bit?" I asked.

"No!" she proclaimed. "You're insane! Every girl wanted Charles to be in charge! And I actually had Charles in charge!"

"Insane? Right, clearly I'm the one with issues here."

Rockstar Mommy calls this the magic hour. The day's not quite gone, but the night's not quite here, and somewhere, Scott Baio is plowing a woman he doesn't love.

This Shit Sucks

I have been really irritable as of late, probably due to the fact that I quit smoking and all of the hate and anger that I used to take out on myself by smoking has just been building. So I have compiled a list of shit that's been pissing me off.

Ma-Ti (The kid from captain planet who had the power of heart):

The Good News: you've been chosen to become part of an elite team of super heros. There will be five of you, each with unique powers of the earth.The Bad News: While everyone else gets cool powers like controlling the seismic activity of the earth, and shooting fire, you're the fag who gets the power to make people feel. You're the lamest super hero ever. Even Aquaman laughs at you. (not to mention this cartoon and all the god damn hippies who made it should rot in hell!)

Jay Leno

I don't give a flying piece of monkey shit if he replaced Johnny Carson as host of the tonight show, this guy blows. His jokes are lame and always followed by a rim shot (not rim job) then, when no one laughs, he figures that they just didn't hear the shitty punchline so he repeats it, with another god damn rim shot from the band. Jay Leno you suck, I hope something heavy falls on your grotesquely disfigured head!

Disclaimers on Medicine Ads

Not only is there some new designer prescription for everything from nosebleeds to severe anal leakage, the side effects that they cause are horrificly worse than the problem they are prescribed to get rid of.

John Stamos

Not only did this cheese dick get to bang Rebecca Romajn ,which should put him on the top of anyone's list of "ten people whose asses I want to lodge a small mouthed bass in", but he was also that lame ass, hip-but-sensitive uncle Jesse on full house. And only three good things came out of Full House, Bob Saget’s drug problem, and the Olsen Twins (because we all know that soon enough those two and Britney Spears are gonna be doing porn with Paris Hilton.) John Stamos is a schmuck.

Everclear - The Band

Every song written by this three piece out cropping of dingleberries sounds alike. Don't believe me? Start singing father of mine over that "..we can live beside the ocean.." song. I farted one time and it lasted 74 minutes, the length of a full cd, and it had more tone, charisma, pathos, and talent than every Everclear album put together. I walked out of a free concert that they put on...i then went home and watched my wall, because I had no TV. I hope this band has finally stopped recording shit, and I pray radio someday stops playing them. I also hope that they get on a plane with Sugar Ray and that plane crashes into a fish tank full of ravenous pirahanas that eats their faces off but leaves them to live horribly disfigured lives.

The Hollywood Shit Machine

This is that strange corporate entity that exists in the nether regions of California that churns out one bad movie after another. These are the people responsible for movies like Dude, Where's my car? Dumb and Dumberer, Cool as Ice (The shit hurricane that was vanilla ice's movie career) and various other GIANT WASTES OF DOG SHIT. This is the same cloudy nothingness that finds one actor and decides that they are the golden child of the film industry and makes me hate them. For example: Will Farrell. I liked Will Farrel when he was on SNL, but now that he is in every god damn movie that is put out these days, I would rather have all my teeth ripped out and then be forced to gum my own arm off then watch him stumble through another clumsy, heavy handed performance. One of these days I'm gonna burn hollywood down, and then pee on the ashes.

Ahston Kutcher

When will this no talent fart catcher shrivel up and fucking die? As Kelso on That Seventies Show he was likable as a doofus, but once he became The Shit Machines golden boy, my urge to cause great and frequent bodily harm to him rose to exponential levels. That and he starred in the greatest tragedy film has ever seen: Dude, Where's My Car? I want my eight bucks back you giant piece of toilet left overs. If I was making movies they sure as hell wouldn't star this bag of ass, unless it was a snuff film. I hope someone puts a butcher knife in his head at a county fair informercial.

Gary Coleman

IS THE DEVIL!

Paris Hilton

Can someone please explain to me why this whore is famous and I'm not? I did more to be famous for this morning, when I took a shit, than she has done her entire life. She has the mental capacity of a small woodland creature and is incapable of any tact or substance. She should just go the whole nine and be a full fledged porn star, at least then she'd get paid for being the salacious slut that she is.

On a completely seperate note: I went out to dinner the other night with the girl and some of her friends. Well they were all talking about girlie things and I got bored. So, in search of something to entertain me, I sculpted a scene out of PacMan with the leftovers on my plate. PacMan and the power pellet are made of that weird yellow squash they always give you at Chevys. The Ghost is rice and his eyes are feta cheese. The regular pellets are just chunks of tomoatoe. After I picked up my plate and moved it into better light to take a picture with my camera phone everyone decided it was time to leave.

I guess some people have no appreciation for art, or eighties video games.

bastards.



Travis wants to swim out past the breakers and watch the world die.

Archives

Overrated Excitement

Four more days and my husband will be home from Iraq! Yes, the deployment is coming to an end and I have been given the opportunity to reflect on this short waiting period. Everyone keeps asking me if I am excited that he's coming home. Emails, letters, comments on myspace, phone calls! Everyone is asking me or telling me that I should be or will be excited. While, yes of course, I am excited the elation hasn't really hit me yet.

I know that everyone is being extremely nice and that they are trying to show me that they care. But how would you feel if everyday everyone asks you if you are excited? What I want to say sometimes is duh! Sometimes I want to say no. Obviously I don't mean this to be rude but man it can be too much sometimes.catlady-1.jpg

One example that may clear up the confusion so that you don't think I'm a heartless witch is when you tell your friends that you like cats. I don't particularly care for cats but let's just say you like cats. Now every gift you ever get from anyone is going to somehow be related to cats. Even though you probably meant to say you like YOUR cat and you think SOME cats are cute, suddenly you are the crazy cat person who has cat memorabilia coming out of your ass. Pretty soon, the idea of cats drives you up the wall, and fluffy has a new home.

So to answer everyone's questions repeatedly, yes I am excited. I'm excited, scared, anxious, and I'm not sleeping. But you don't really care about all that detail right? You just want the requisite answer, yes. So here is how I'm really feeling, you asked, so now you are going to sit there and take it! I mean this lovingly of course.

By not sleeping I mean I'm having bad dreams. I had a dream last night that I forgot him at the flight-line. He knocks on the door with bags in his arms and is like WTF?

I had another dream where he got out of his jet with two other women and they were his OTHER wives.

I'm scared that he's going to hate the old and yet somewhat new life he's coming back to.

I'm scared that he's going to take one look at me and say, "that's my wife?"

I'm anxious because no one likes waiting.

And yes, I'm extremely excited, to finally have my everything back home and safe.

Now I'm crying and Shawna (also from Faster than the World) is calling me a pussy

Andrea is not a pussy..she is just excited.


Archives

Getting The Digits

i had dinner with an old high school friend last night. i don't really do high school friends because, well... because i fucking hated high school. i mean i didn't mind school itself, but by the time high school rolled around i was a social leper. i fucking hated the social aspect of it all and just kept getting burnt and steamrolled and talked about and caught in lies and drunk and fucking your boyfriend. ya, that pretty much sums it up for me.

i mean, when those kids shot all those people at columbine? yes, tragedy. yes, horrible. innocent people die and you're not supposed to make jokes about it. and let me tell you that this is not a joke. when parents and other adults were running around crying screaming, wondering why this all happened, i knew. i didn't have to wonder why it was all happening. i fucking HATED those people dude. and some days i could have been those kids. i shit you not. i was bipolar and irrational and i fucking hated those kids for making my life hell. shit i wasn't even the worst of the outcasts and i fantasized about killing some people. thank god i was spineless and without a co-conspirator...1140924767_hool-Sucks.jpg

so i have been shamelessly myspacing this past month and i come across a girl i used to hang with. she was the other outcast slut. we both came from public school to this private hell and we knew how to fight and fuck. so we got along until, well, until we didn't. who the fuck knows what happened. if i had to guess i would say that i so desperately wanted to be popular that at some point i ditched her because she was "keeping me down." ya that probably rings pretty true. this girl wasn't (isn't) perfect mind you, but she was a very loyal friend to be sure. and i was not.

but all high school shit aside, thank god, we came out of it pretty unscathed. she's just like me... an extremely smart girl not living up to her potential. we're both hiding in secretarial jobs. neither of us have been married, no kids, one long term relationship that ended. she still drinks, i don't. that's really the main difference. that and the fact that she has more self esteem than i ever did. i doubt she tried to kill herself with drugs. dunno.

so we get into this conversation. man we fucked some dudes. i mean we really did. i remember making a list in my freshman year of college. that list was 80 some long as i recall. and fuck. freshman year of college is when the fucking really took off!

i told her that at some point in any bartending job the topic of numbers comes up. there's always that player guy that wants to throw around the number of chicks he's fucked. that fucking guy is prolly the same dud i shoulda shot in high school. anyway, he doesn't want to get into a pissing match with me or the friend i had sushi with last night. shit. i got laid whenever i wanted to. it's like that for girls. guys strike out sometimes... even the player bartender. me? not so much. i can't speak to the quality, mind you, but i rarely went home alone.

but you've heard about the thing where you take the number a guy gives you and divide it by three to get the real number of women that he's slept with, right? the same thinking says that you take the number a girl gives you and multiply it by three. let's not do that with my number, ok? because i'm no magic johnson. i mean, i had to work.

so... what are your numbers? you can comment anonymously if you want. only a few people will have your ip address. heh.

kali doesn't know your IP address but I do.

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Witchcraft 101

Quantum physics: All matter is energy, simply existing at different vibrational wavelengths.

EEGs, bio-feedback and lie detectors: The human nervous system is electrical in nature, with thoughts and emotions generating distinct vibrational patterns.

These are the scientific bases of the witch's craft. Laurie Cabot, the Witch of Salem (MA), requires her students in the Craft to study physics and chemistry, in addition to their more esoteric studies.

Most of the rest of us just wing it.

There are four very distinct areas of my own Craft practice that tie into those physical laws: energetic healing, stone magic, essential oil blending and group rituals.

Let me take the last first: group rituals. This actually applies to the religious observances of any faith, not just witches/Wiccans/pagans and so forth. "Wherever two or more are gathered"... you have the potential for affecting the universe. How? Well, a good ritual gets everyone present (or at least the ones not sleeping in the back pews) thinking and, more importantly, feeling along the same lines. It builds that emotional consensus, through singing, dancing, clapping, listening... until it's released in communal prayer. Descriptions of coven rituals refer to it as raising a cone of power, which frankly sounds kind of hinky... but it's the truth. Think of a revival meeting. If you've never been to one, I'm sure you've all seen the Blues Brothers movies. Everyone grooving and jiving together, all that emotional energy sizzling along on the same wavelength, then BAM! It gets put out there in one huge gob of prayerful energy directed toward - whatever the congregation is praying for. If the minister or imam or priestess is leading that ritual right, they can create miracles.

hurricane hugo2.jpg
My most profound experience with that phenomenon was when I was living down South, oh, almost 20 years ago. I was in Florida, but was tapped into a network of light workers who lived in Georgia and the Carolinas. Hurricane Hugo was bearing down on South Carolina, and was predicted to make landfall south of Charleston, then ride the East Coast north to at least the Washington DC area. There was absolutely NO hope of that changing - no possible incoming weather systems to turn it. People were evacuating, but the predictions were in the billions of dollars in damage, and in the hundreds of lives lost. For those of you who've never paid much attention to hurricanes, if they remain over water, or if even half remains over water, they stay strong or even strengthen. They lose their power over land.

The night Hugo was to make landfall, I and every other light worker down South were outside, all pushing the same thought/hope/prayer out there: we wanted Hugo to veer inland. For three hours we were all out there, pushing at the air mass behind it... and it worked. Against all reason, Hugo made landfall at the mouth of the Charles River in Charleston, and rode the river inland. Yeah, it wiped out a whole lot of Georgia Pacific's pine forests, but only fourteen people died. It also managed to destroy the old slave auction site in downtown Charleston - little bit of serendipity there.

Okay, so that's the major, large, blunt instrument type of energetic manipulation possible. Then there's energetic healing. The human bio-electric field follows the human nervous system, because that's the physical carrier of the brain's electrical signals. Most energetic healers deal with that field through the imagry of Eastern practice, which designates seven or eleven chakras, which tend to be in the vicinity of nerve nexuses in the body. The first chakra is in the groin, the second a few inches above around the womb/navel, the third at the solar plexus, the fourth at the heart, the fifth at the base of the throat, the sixth at the third eye/frontal lobes of the brain, the seventh at the crown. If you're working with an eleven chakra system, the other four are the arches of the feet and the palms of the hands, and they serve the body to draw energy in from or drain energy out to the earth.

chakras.jpg
Each chakra has a color associated with it, which is a convenient way to remember the different energetic vibrations for each. Each chakra controls different body systems and mental/emotional/spiritual aspects. No, I'm not even going to attempt to list out all of that here - if you're really interested, go to your local metaphysical shop and pick up a good book on it. Really. Support the folks out there who are trying to keep the light alive.

Umm, sorry. Soapbox Alert!!!!!!!

Anyway, as with any body system, it can get skewed, clogged, depleted and just generally fucked up. We humans are really good at doing that to ourselves. What an energetic healer does is balance, clear and energize that system using his/her own energetic field. In the practice of Healing Touch, which is recognized by the mainstream medical community and is taught by registered nurses nationwide, the healer doesn't actually touch the patient. They use a set of proven movement patterns with their hands to encourage the patient's field to rebalance and clear. Some practitioners can sense the energy flows, but a great number cannot. They still do good work, but they're doing it by rote.

Other energetic healers, including Reiki practitioners, do touch their clients, to one extent or another. Myself, I can do it touchless, but prefer to work someone's field in combination with massage. For me it's easier to feel the energy flow when I touch someone, and everyone LOVES my massages - learned how to do massage decades ago on my dad's feet. Once you learn feet, everything else is easy!

Frequently, when the field gets balanced and cleared, a client will go through an emotional purging - crying is real common. That's because our emotions are energy too, and when the field's out of balance or clogged, our emotions are fucked up too. Then you start to discover just how much our emotions can screw up our bodies through screwing up the energetic body. That's what I dealt with last spring, attending the birth of one of my adopted grandchildren.

gabe23.JPGDev had an emergency C-section with her first child, 'cause Mattie decided to try to come into the world backwards. For her second, she wanted to try to do it the right way, and had been working with a midwife at the birthing center over in Randolph. But she was terrified she wouldn't be able to do it - a lot more terrified than I'd realized.

She went into labor at 3 a.m., and by 4 a.m. we were all over at Randolph. She and Jay, her husband, had asked me to be there. Dev's mom's not good in stress situations, and Jay's mom was taking care of Mattie. Dev potted along for a couple of hours, and then things quieted down and they decided to sleep for awhile. Me, I went to work at that point, cellphone in hand. I was back there by 10:30, at which point the midwife was starting to get worried because Dev wasn't dilating any further - they were starting to make C-section noises - and Dev was freaking out. Turned out her cervix was tipped backwards, so the contractions couldn't do their job. The midwife gave her an hour more to see what would happen before calling the doc.

First order of business was to calm Dev down, then find out what she was so freaked about. Turned out she felt that if she couldn't give birth to this baby the "right" way, she would be a failure as a mother, and that terror was making her body fight itself. Jay was great - he held her, comforted her, calmed her down, and let me work.

Let me tell you, it's a lot harder to turn a cervix than turn a hurricane. First you have to clear and balance the whole system, then work on the specific energies surrounding the muscles that are pulling it out of position - in between contractions and crying jags.

But it worked. By the time the hour was up, she was lined up and 8 sonometers dilated. It took another couple of hours, but early afternoon I got to sit behind her, holding her on the birthing stool, while Jay and the midwife played catch on the floor, as Gabriel came into the world. Man, I was so glad I wasn't in the splash zone!!!!!!

morrigan24.JPGIt was the most incredible experience of my life, helping that little boy be born. I'd been present at the birth of my adopted granddaughter just six days earlier, but her mom was all focused and righteous and zipped Morrigan out in four hours. Yeah, I helped her walk and kept her monitor leads straight and provided moral support, but nothing like helping Gabe into the world.

It was funny, though, that the nurses at both hospitals wanted to know if I had duella training, because I seemed so competant, or how many births had I attended... it was cool watching their faces when I told them that these were the first and second. Didn't have the heart to tell them that sometimes the things we knew in previous lives come through when we need them, and I was pretty sure I'd been a midwife somewhere down my personal timeline. We were getting along so well, I didn't want to wreck it.

Both hospitals were also cool with the fact that I was also there as the families' minister, to bless and ward these little pagan babies as soon as they were born. They let me anoint them, and bind their umbilical cords with amber.

Now, that would be a great segue into talking about stone magic, but this column is long enough as it is - so stone magic and essential oils next week!

Blessed Be!

Patreally doesn't get on a soapbox that much

Archives

January 17, 2007

I Got The Workin' Man Blues

We think jobs suck. But they are a necessary evil. I mean, it is great sitting around the house for a vacation, but if you are like most people, there are only so many times you can nap or clean the house before you get bored and the walls start talking to you. So you need to work. Don't get me wrong. Some jobs are fun. But some just suck.

Seems like more than a few writers on FTTW are starting new jobs. I guess it must be that time of the year cause I am one of them. Michele has a new boss and well, we just thought it would be fun to talk about those days. The starting a new job memories. I guess this column might not apply to you if you are one of the many unemployed citizens of the world, but you may get something out of it. Who knows.

Turtle goes first.

When I was a youngin', I was faced with a rough choice. I was basically living for free at someone's house in a cool little room in the back. Kinda keeping high and under the radar at the same time. So I had a pretty good gig going there. We raided change from cars and sold drugs for beer money. Stay up all night playing music and sleep all day. As I said. Good gig I had going there for awhile.

Problem was, I was still a kid and the other people I lived with were my parents. I had a separate door to get in but there was only so much they could take. My parents were cool but I guess I had crossed the line. The "what are you going to do with your life" questions changed into "get a fucking job or don't come home" questions. Which if you think about it, weren't really questions at all. More like statements or some shit like that.

mcdonalds.jpgSo after a few months of seeing me sit around drunk and high, an ultimatum was given. Get a job today or never come home.

Whatever, dude.

So after sleeping a few weeks on peoples couches, I started to figure out that they might be serious this time.

After carefully considering my options with my education background and priors with the CYA, I became a full fledged member of McDonalds.

They hire anyone.

I was given my brand new polyester uniform and told to report to work 5 AM the next morning. Well this wouldn't work. That's like 12 hours away and I have to be at a show in like four hours. I probably won't even be back into town until about three in the morning. I'll probably be wasted, too....

But what the hell. It's McDonald's. They work with everyone with a disability. Plus I vowed to stick to alcohol only that night. The show can't be that great, right?

After a few hits of acid and a lot of beer (yes, the show was that great), the magical time came around. I had to be into work. Remember those days before we all figured out that drinking all day gives you a certain odor? Well, this was one of those times. Beer DOESN'T stink as long as you brush your teeth. It is NOT coming out my pores and I am NOT seeing shit out of the corners of my eyes. I CAN and WILL flip your god damn McFuckingHappy Pancakes with a smile.

I poured the batter on the grill and smiled at my boss.

After I got fired later that day, I vowed to always remember that polyester sucks and maybe sofa surfing wasn't so bad after all. - T

Michele feels alone.

I'm not good with change. I hate new things. New jobs, new schools, new friends, whatever. I'd be really happy if nothing in my life ever changed again. So starting a new job is an overwhelming kind of thing for me. Sleepless nights, lots of stress, lots of worrying.

I've had a lot of jobs in my life. So I've been through this many, many times. It doesn't get any easier. First day on the job, it always feels like walking into the cafeteria in grade school. You search for a friendly face, someone who looks like they wouldn't scream "COOTIES!" if you talked to them. cooties.jpgYou try to act comfortable, as if you belong there, but you know damn well that everyone is whispering behind your back about your clothes, your hair, your lack of experience, your shoes, your tits. Or maybe that's just me. I tend to imagine things a lot.

Eventually you find your place. That place may be a far corner, out of the way and away from all the people who have worked in the place for ten years and have their little cliques and clubs. You're Milton and they're about to take your stapler.

Or maybe you're just thrown right in with the lions, and you spend your first few days just trying not to be eaten alive.

Maybe you get lucky and the morale is really, really and no one really gives a fuck about the new hire because you're all in a sinking ship anyhow and one more person just means an extra bullet when the mailroom clerk finally goes postal.

Sometimes you luck out. You end up working in a place where everyone is nice and welcoming and they make you feel at home right away. Sure, they are all high or drunk and the assistant manager takes milton.jpgyou aside and teaches you how to slip merchandise out the back door, but hey, it's like a party in there and that's ok. Man, I miss that record store.

But my worst ever first day on the job came almost seventeen years ago. I was totally unprepared for this gig. I had zero experience for the position and honestly, I wasn't even sure if I wanted it. But sometimes things come your way that you just can't say no to.

So there I was, thrown into this job with only conflicting words of advice from several people who had been in the position before. It was terrifying and overwhelming and from the get go I was sure I was making every mistake it was possible to make. People tried to help but everyone was telling me different things. I decided to just ignore everyone and wing it. Maybe I'd get the hang of it eventually.

By the end of that first day, I was in tears. I could not do this. There was no way. Too much responsibilty. I was not cut out for this.

But being a mother isn't exactly a job you can just walk out on.

Seventeen years and another kid later, I still have no idea what the hell I'm doing, but I'm pretty sure I'm doing it ok. - M

So those are our memories of starting new jobs. I know some people have started more than others, but we all had to start at least one. Unless you won the Lotto or something. Anyways, those are our memories.

Feel free to add your own nightmares to this pile cause we want to hear yours.

50 Best Arcade Games - I Love IT!

Asteroidspg1.jpgWelcome to Day 3 of the nominating process for The Almost Final Countdown - Arcade games edition.

We are almost hitting the top of the nomination list, so if you don't want yours to miss out, you better get it in.

A lot are nominated, but haven't been "officially" been put in yet.

Herein comes the problem. We are looking for the ones that got more than one nomination. So if you said something earlier in the poll and you haven't seen it yet, to make sure it gets in on the top 50, nominate it again.

The first two nomination lists are here and here.

The official "list" from the reader nominations are:

1. Rampage
2. Tecmo Super Dodge Ball
3. Berzerk
4. Spy Hunter
5. Tron
6. Sinistar
7. Bubble Bobble
8 Robotron 2084
9. Pole Position
10. Donkey Kong

Pretty cool list we have started here, eh?

Want to see the next ten?

Then here we go.

mortalkom.gif11. Mortal Kombat 2
This game haunted my nights. I guess it was just the all out ass kickiness(?) of the game that made it so great. Maybe it was the way there were really no hard "secret moves" or anything hard you had to memorize. Now, games like this have something like 20 different things you have to get down to really kick ass.

L R L L U D A B L R??? What the hell is that? Memorizing moves like that ruined all the new fighting games.

I miss simple moves like the ones in Mortal Kombat.

Get off my lawn.

12. The Simpsons
I missed this one, so maybe I am not the best person to review it. It sounds fun, but I never have seen it. Doesn't mean it wasn't cool. It just means that my measly arcades never had it. And I worked in arcades. I don't know how it slipped by me. But I guess it is cool. So it is up here.

13. Joust
I have no idea who thought of this concept, but I like it. A happy game. You bonk them on their heads. Turn them into eggs. Then capture their eggs. But don't let them hatch. Or they will grow up to jousters. Then they will catch an ostrich and fly away. Then you must bonk them on their heads again.

I mean c'mon. That is a pretty stupid premise for a game. It reeks of Doug Henning.Smash_TV_intro.gif

But you know what? Damn, that game was fun.

14. Smash TV
Coming out right after "Running Man" of Arnold fame, this game had a great idea. Kill people for cash. That was it. Kill those bastards live on TV and get paid.

15. Total Carnage
Part 2 to Smash TV and my personal favorite. Take one kid on really bad methamphetamine with a pocket full of quarters and you got him (me) in front of this game for 12 hour stretches. Covered in sweat, trying to destroy the baby food company before Saddam (that was Saddam, right?) unleashed his hell upon the Earth. Sure it was a quarter sucker, but it was a good quarter sucker.

16. Asteroids
I forgot how much fun this was until I found it online a few days ago. Somehow I lost about three hours last weekend playing this game. It was that fun. I don't know why I always thought these games were so hard back then. I was so scared of smashing the last asteroid before I was directly in the middle of the screen to get the perfect angle for the new wave that would come at me.

Hell, last weekend I just hit the thruster and fired in circles. It seemed to work the same.

And I think I did a pretty good job.

/And who made the rule that if you Kamikaze the alien ship, you die??? That's a lame rule. I think we should both be destroyed if I ram that fucker. - T

goldentee_controlpanel.jpg17. Golden Tee
Doesn't matter what year or version it was. Gimmie a trackball, half pack of smokes and a few pints of beer and this game was mine. Is it just me or were these games ONLY located in bars?? Not much skill involved here. Maybe holding your piss til your round was over, but that's about it. Push, slam, or whack that ball as far as it can go and drink another beer. I don't really think anyone cared how badly they did either.

I mean, how many times did you just say "fuck it" and just hit in the woods?

18. Punch Out
NES had nothing on this. This was fun. This was fighting. I am sad that wimpy little NES Mike Tyson came out and soiled my memories of this great game. Hell, I can't remember half the characters now. This is all NES fault. I remember Bald Bull...that's about it. The rest are all the NES characters I remember. Damn it. Now I am going to have to go find it somewhere.

19. Battle Zone
A game truly made before anyone cared about getting the germs and sweat of strangers on their faces. Step up and mash your face against the eyesight and destroy some tanks. I am assuming many communicable diseases made this game their home back in the day. But it was still cool to see the little tanks blow up.

20. Star Warsstarwars121.GIF
Minus the annoying talk in the background (Yes. Yes I do know we lost god damn R2, ok?) this was a fun game. Just shoot the crap out of everything. Try to shoot Darth (Did he ever die?) then hit the Deathstar...one more time. The game was repetitive as all hell but you have to admire the Empire.

They sure built them Deathstars fast.

So those are ten more that made the list..

But, we still need 20 more. If you don't see yours on here and it has been nominated in the past, nominate that sucker again and get it on here!

Nominations are open til Friday, and this is the place to do it. And the more people that nominate a game, the more likely it is to get into the final poll.

Now I have to go find who the other characters were in Punch out.


Archives

Doors, King and Dylan

As you know, I love photography and I love to write stories. What you may not know is that I love to read. I can remember reading books as young as six. No, the books weren’t six, I was. When I seven years old, my father retired from the military after 22 years of service. We were living in Fairbanks, Alaska at the time and Mom and Dad decided that we were all moving to Southern California to be near Grandpop. Alaska to California, can we get anymore extreme? Did you know that it’s a seven-day drive from Fairbanks to San Diego? At least it was in 1973. If I remember correctly, the highway from Alaska to Canada was dirt. Not sure if it still is. And it was November.

When we left Alaska, I was seven years old and in the second grade. I have a very distinct memory of reading a book about a bunch of animals (mice, cats?) and their life in the city. I hadn’t finished this book when we moved and I remember my mother telling me that I can get the book again out of my new school’s library. For some reason, I never did find that book and I’ve always wondered how it ended. Unfortunately, I can’t remember the name of the book. For years I wish I knew so I could finish it.

My point? Books, stories, the written word have always had a big impact on me. I suppose that’s why I love the Internet. Anything in the world that you want to read is at your fingertips. Except, of course, for this book that I was reading in 2nd grade when my family moved and have never been able to find (or remember the name of).

So, to make a long story even longer, one of my favorite authors is Stephen King. The man is brilliant. He is to the novel as is Bob Dylan to lyric and music. BRILLIANT! The way King can write a 1000 page book and tie details together and not miss a step is amazing. AMAZING! No Stephen King novel made into a movie has ever given the written words the justice that they deserve and probably never will. I just don’t think it’s possible to translate one to the other. At least, I haven’t seen it yet.

Years ago, my father bought the first of the Dark Tower series by King and I couldn’t wait for him to finish the book so could read it myself. After the first in the series, he bought the second as soon as it was released, and I think maybe we read this book at the same time, because I could not wait for him to finish. There were many years between the release of books three and four and then again between four and five and I’ve just started to reread the series from the beginning. I’m currently on book four.

The Drawing of the Three was the second in the Dark Tower series. The premise of this book was the main character’s need to take people out of other worlds and pulled them into his world for use in his own quest of the “dark tower”. The Main character, Roland, would happen upon free-standing doors on a beach which led to “other” worlds. Other worlds, other dimensions, others times. Fascinating concept.

Which brings us to doors. I have always wanted to do a photograph of one of “the doors” that King describes in The Drawing of the Three. Twenty years ago, I would have accomplished this in the darkroom with a double exposure on paper. Now, I can do this in Photoshop! I shall work on this over the next couple of months.

For now, I give you this door, or set of doors, as it is. I work in a building that is over 100 years old. These doors are on the left side of the building, first floor, and lead to the alley. I doubt the doors are original, but I’m sure that the brick is. I totally manipulated this image in Photoshop, increasing the brightness and the contrast. A lot. I’m still getting to know my new camera.

The contrast between the harsh red brick and the soft window panels in the door is what I like about this photo. Blue and red. Soft and hard. And not in a sexual sense, you perverts. Wait. I thought that. Nevermind.

Pretty cool, though. The doors. I gotta go shoot the doors on the beach. Soon. And if anyone can tell me then name of the book that I didn’t have the opportunity to finish in the 2nd grade? That’d be cool, too.

doors1.jpg

Shawna hopes you didn't think this was going to be about Jim Morrison and Elvis.

Archives

To Define Art

I remember myself in junior high–eighth or ninth grade–sitting in Journalism/Newspaper class. All of us were lounging around the classroom, supposedly working on articles and other such writing assignments, but in reality listening to tapes we had brought in. Alanis Morissette's Jagged Little Pill was playing, and I was liking it. I liked her at the time. Most of the kids were enjoying it, but there was one girl who decided to chime in with condemnation. "I used to like her until she got so popular. Now I don't even like her anymore."

chiquita.jpgIt pissed me off. I went off on a rant and demanded to know what the hell difference it made if she had become popular. She attempted to back pedal, I believe making the case that she just had gotten tired of hearing her on the radio, but I was still annoyed.

Now, I love obscure music. The majority of what I listen to comes from smaller artists and independents. While there are major label, highly popular artists whom I like, the majority of the top selling artists bore me. Most mainstream pop doesn't work for me–I find it repetitive and largely uninteresting. Yet, there have been plenty of popular artists I like. What I've never understood are the people who stop liking an artist simply because they've become popular.

I can understand hearing them too much on the radio and getting sick of a certain song, but do you not like the other songs? And are you now willing to say flat out that you don't like the artist–not just that you're sick of certain popular songs they have, but that you've ceased to like the artist completely? How can more people listening to a specific artist actually cause a person to stop liking their music? It makes no sense and seems to simply be a matter of posturing, rather than a matter of genuine like or dislike.

This can be a huge component of musical likes and dislikes in general, though. Last week, I wrote about embarrassing music I listened to as a kid. I made judgements about Mariah Carey and Boyz II Men and other artists. But who am I really to proclaim them as bad? I have my reasons behind feeling that way, but at least part of those reasons do boil down to popular sentiment. backstreetarthur.gif They're not perceived as great artists, in general, so I buy into that perception and integrate it into my own musical beliefs. Of course, that's not to say I don't engage in personal evaluation of music, but it would be a lie to say that the overriding perceptions of people I otherwise agree with or whose views I'm sympathetic with don't influence my own.

Often times, I think these mass assessments are fair. I'm not going to disagree, say, that Radiohead is a much more accomplished and artistic band than the Backstreet Boys. What is this based on, though? To some people, the strange instrumentation backing Radiohead may seem like little more than ridiculous noise, while the more classic (in a pop sense) backing music to the Backstreet Boys or Mariah Carey may be pleasing to the ear. Therefore, who really has the authority to proclaim one better than the other? Similarly, in reverse, the backing music of the Backstreet Boys is boring as fuck to me, but the strange synthetics of Radiohead's Kid A and the fuzzy, distorted vocals are fascinating. Is my opinion more legitimate?

Well, I think it is. But I can't really say why. I can make the argument above, saying that Radiohead's musical experimentation is interesting and compelling, bringing new sounds to the musical landscape, while the Backstreet Boys are simply rehashing sounds that have been a mainstay in pop music for years. britneyart.jpg Yet, just because something is new doesn't make it better. More unique, perhaps, but that does not automatically translate to a greater quality.

Are the weird lyrics and lo-fi sound of Neutral Milk Hotel more artistic or higher quality music than the clichéd lyrics and sound of Kelly Clarkson? Which is more artistic: repetitive clichés or nonsensical imagery? Are the actual words being sung any real indication of quality, or is it the emotional response that those words create? And if so, is the forty year old soccer mom or twelve year old girl who responds viscerally to Kelly Clarkson's latest song about betrayed love having any less an emotional reaction to that music than the twenty-something hipster who responds viscerally to Neutral Milk Hotel's more uniquely-worded song about betrayed love?

Or am I just over thinking all this?

Maybe it's biological. Does the unique instrumentation of Radiohead create more neurological response within the brain than the latest sappy love ballad topping the charts? I don't know the answer to that, but even if it does, does neurological response denote art? Or is it just base stimulation?

Even if you delve into the subjects of songs and proclaim that this indie rock band confronts complex sociological, psychological and spiritual questions while this mainstream pop artist over here wrote ten shallow songs about love–half of them happy and half of them sad–well, what the hell does that prove? I would hate to live in a world devoid of complex questioning of human reality, absent of scientific inquiry and pursuit, with no great collective drive to discover the mysteries of the universe. At the same time, I would hate to live in a world devoid of the messiness of love, both fulfilled and unfulfilled, or lacking in strong emotional reactions, or without entangling, complicated human relationships. Which is more important to have? Neither. I want them both. So how can I judge one song that tackles the complexities of racism or prejudice as inherently better or more worthy than another that deals with how much it sucks to be dumped?

radiohead tv.jpgI can't.

Which, I suppose brings me to the simple notion that your taste in music is simply your taste in music. People like what creates more enjoyment within them. So while I may find it deplorable that someone could abandon an artist simply because they've become too popular, who am I to condemn that? If a person no longer likes an artist, I can't step in and tell them that's not true. Similarly, if a person thinks the musical styling of Kelly Clarkson or Mariah Carey put to shame the work of Radiohead or Neutral Milk Hotel or Spoon or The Shins, I can't necessarily prove that person wrong. All I can do is argue for my opinion while she argues for her own.

The simple reality is I can't even give a coherent explanation as to what makes art and what doesn't. Worse yet, I can't come up with any kind of universal guidelines as to how you determine what is and is not art. Which kind of sucks.

Luckily, being human, and being filled with weird and conflicting emotions, and often being overtaken with a complete lack of logic, I'm just going to keep considering certain kinds of music as more artistically worthy than other kinds. It may not make sense in the end, but it's much more fun being able to make judgements and definitive statements.

Joel has been filled with weird and conflicting emotions ever since Janet Jackson's nipple slip.

Archives

Purloined Letters

[Lacking time, inspiration and running water at the moment, I’m going to use two old Myspace posts for this week’s column. I was always fond of M., but the series never reached its logical conclusion where M. is mauled by a bear on Mulholland Drive. Being semi-autobiographical, though, it lends some explanation to the phrase “Secular Monk.”]

The Solitude of Young M.

January 15, 2006

monk-at-workwl.jpgGreetings and warmest salutations, dear friend. Although it saddens me to be apart from my loved ones, I do so value solitude and the repose that my current situation affords. The comfort of my small office and computer with the blinds drawn leaves me without an unpleasant view of the garden and nature outside of the window. I read in peace and listen to music, and all seems well with the world for the present. Auntie fritters about to and fro, playing her abominable bingo games on the Internet, but we have a quite pleasant relationship, as we see very little of each other. The situation is altogether agreeable.

I wish I could adequately describe the comfort and simple beauty of my office. Everything is plastic and Formica, save for the books stacked on a shelf which I peruse at my leisure. There is no other living thing in the office to disturb my peace, save for a large silver tabby cat which occasionally pokes into the room, meows, and leaves. Otherwise, there are no plants to water and therefore there is no need to let in any natural light. Auntie has difficulty mounting the stairs, so she is not a bother to my tranquility.

As you so well know, I find the bustle and buzz of the outside world dreadfully intolerable. This is what makes my present situation, and especially this quiet Thursday, so delightful. I have no duties to perform, no masks to wear and no necessary studying. Therefore, I can pace my day as I see fit. It is already almost one o’clock and I am still in my pajamas. If only every day could be this peaceful and utterly useless, I do so believe that I should never be bored or anxious, although I would certainly miss those few people whose company I enjoy.

In fact, aside from the lack of good company, the only thing that I regret is that two days from now I will once again have the necessity of joining the normal world once again, with its cares and commotions. In this great land of ours, a temperament that is both introverted and phlegmatic seems to be a cause for some sort of general suspicion, if not outright hostility. This is a world for those who are loud, who sell themselves well. Moreover, it is a world of unreserved emotion, the lack of which is also looked upon with some hostility. I am not one who “wears his heart on his sleeve,” as the cliché goes. My heart is behind my ribcage, where it belongs. After all, a heart on a sleeve is bound to be smashed, even if inadvertently.

This thought makes me a bit gloomy. Even when my heart is heavy, I can find a uniform to hide it. This is simply a matter of decorum, which is sadly lacking in this rather uncouth society of ours. I know that to live in this world one must follow its fashions, and hearts are worn all too openly. I suppose that I must content myself with being unfashionable.

Your friend and confidante,

M.

The Interrupted Happiness of M.

January 16, 2006

Greetings again, dear friend. Although I wrote yesterday that I would not be leaving my living quarters until Tuesday, my voluntary exile was most pleasantly interrupted by a phone call from an old chum from the Oh So Secret Society, of which we were senior members back at the U. We settled in a dimly lit café and reminisced for hours about our times sailing, rowing and beating new recruits mercilessly with paddles. It was an enjoyable exchange, and I left feeling that old youthful spark that I had thought was long gone. In short, it was a most pleasing afternoon, in spite of the dreadful weather and the even more dreadful service that the café offered.

martini-excalibur 1.jpgUnfortunately, my night concluded in a most distressing sequence of events. As I intimated in my last letter, Auntie has some trouble regarding movement, owing to arthritis or some such malady. Therefore, her doctor has prescribed her some form of painkiller or muscle relaxer, I am not entirely sure which. I had repeatedly warned Auntie not to mix these pills with her nightly martini, and though she told me she would take my advice, I think that either the martini or the pills at some point numbed her ordinarily good judgment, and she took the one with the other.

You can imagine my horror, then, upon waking at two in the morning to a dreadful din carrying on right above my head. After the fog of sleep quickly wore from my mind, I could make out someone screaming, “Play me like a lyre, Pericles you magnificent bastard!” I climbed out the bedroom window, and sure enough, it was Auntie on the roof holding her martini in one hand and the silver tabby by the tail in the other hand. (Incidentally, Auntie has never disclosed her real age, but this incident makes me think she may be much older than I had initially estimated.)

How Auntie got up on the roof I perhaps will never know. I got her down by tying a rope around her waist and lowering her down the chimney. She is rather thin. Much to my chagrin, her outburst had awaken the neighbors, who were prepared to call the authorities until I convinced them that Auntie had simply had a bad reaction to some spoilt bratwurst, and that no intervention was necessary. At this moment, Auntie is still passed out on the living room couch. The cat has yet to be found.

So, what I thought would be a pleasant and quiet weekend has turned out rather badly, I am sorry to report. From now on, I must monitor Auntie more closely, and the dreadful specter of work looms in front of me. Please send my regards to your family, who I hope are faring better than mine.

I remain,

M.


Philbrick has since left his aunt for even quieter pastures. Archives

The Cemeteries Are Full of Dimwits

Dan is on vacation this week, so we're re-running one of our favorites of his. - ed

I’m writing this early Friday night and I don’t know what movie to watch yet, but it’s gotta have zombies though, old school. Friday night is time to kick back and watch a few people die. Fridays are good.

nfr-dead.jpgThe laws of horror stupidity apply really well to a zombie movie. You see, if you’re smart you can stay alive for a long time, but no matter what you do, you’re most likely going to be eaten anyway. Zombies can’t run because their bodies are all rotted and shit, but that’s okay. They’re able to take their time because they have eternity to catch you. Zombie movies usually have that sense of inevitable doom. You will run out of places to go and they’ll probably get you. It’s going to spread, everyone may be turned and the world as we know it might end. But every minute, there’s an idiot born who will die before you.

Stupidity isn’t always completely necessary in a horror movie, but it helps explain a lot of situations and it definitely helps the body count. I don’t only love the idiots that die in the movie, it’s the idiots who die before the movie even starts. They’re usually necessary. Those legions of undead have to come from somewhere. The legions of undead are full of idiots who didn’t have the sense to get away. Shit should never have turned out like this… those stupid fucking people…. Jesus, just walk away, just walk. That’s why it’s so satisfying when they get ripped apart or shot in the head. If they’re dumb then it just feels better.

Take that Hare Krishna guy in the original Dawn Of The Dead. They don’t show his history but you know how he bought it. He walked up to someone and said “Love Will Overcome All” or “A Small Donation Will Set You Free.” The point is that he probably walked up to someone. Rama Mageesh promised him eternity but now he gets to crave human flesh until his own flesh rots away. Everyone knows this guy.

And of the four main characters in Dawn Of The Dead, who bought it? The stupid ones. The flyboy, Steven, jumped at every opportunity to act like an idiot, and I’m surprised he lasted as long as he did. Fucking dolt. That other guy, the cop, well he lost it at a crucial moment and he paid for it. It’s truly unfortunate when cops die in horror movies. Truly. Send more cops.

Here’s another good example, Burial Ground. Now there’s a piece of work. Holy shit this crew is stupid. They should have arrived at that tropical island (you know, the one from which they’d never escape) on a short yellow bus. They’re not half as smart as the zombies that kill them and they prove their worthlessness again and again.
These zombies got it together, man. they're coming to get you, barbara They’re well dressed and they haven’t wasted their time while they were in the ground. They were working on their knife throwing and wall climbing skills. These are the type of zombies the Nazis always wanted. Anyway, every living human in this movie is an idiot and they all end up getting what they deserve. The best one of all concerns this kid who wants to make it with his Mom.

Weirdest looking kid I’ve ever seen in my life. Look at that kid. That’s supposed to be a kid? I’ll believe in zombies first. This kid gets all upset because of the walking dead or something, and goes to his Mom for comfort. Get this, he tells her how he needs to touch her, and how she used to hold him to her breasts when he was little. Then he goes for her tits. Mom smacks him down and he cries. The whole scene is pretty damn weird, and more unsettling than the blood and death around them.

Later the kid gets killed, becomes a zombie and finds his Mom. The lady figures that maybe it’s a good idea to let the kid have a go at her after all - now that he’s a fucking zombie - and she ends up getting a tittie bitten off. She must have been out of her mind because nobody is that stupid. Besides the obvious result of being dead, she’s got a gaping hole where her right tit used to be. When she starts to rot, that hole is going to be one of the first places the maggots settle into. That’s just going to be unattractive. Stupid corpse.

Stupidity is rampant everywhere, but especially in the underafternetherworld, so what’s the scene you think of? What’s your favorite display of horror stupidity? Who didn’t listen when you told them not to go in there?

Dan is a certified Surviving in a Cemetery expert and is available for lectures.

Archives

January 16, 2007

It's Been That Many?

What am I talking about?bottlethousandollar.jpg

Something we didn't notice until it jumped up on us. We weren't looking for it. It just popped up one day and someone noticed it.

This is the 1,000th post at FTTW.

Holy crap.

We looked today to find when the big change actually happened in the place. The first format change. The first new writers.The first time we realized that this was getting too big for us to edit alone. The first time we asked Finn in to help us out with all the posts that kept coming in. The second, third and fourth format changes.

But we really couldn't find any. They all started gradually and kept changing everyday to accommodate new ideas and new people with new ideas. The closest thing I could find to any big change in FTTW was just this:

This is Faster Than The World, the new home what used to be a small victory.

The changes are evident: new name, new URL, new format and an additional writer. I think you all know the turtle by now. This is his place as well as mine and we will continue to do what we have been doing the past two months over at ASV - punk rock, fast cars and whatever else seems fun at the moment. Same look, same feel, same two bloggers. We apologize for having lost all your comments in the transition, and there will be other glitches like missing pictures, but new beginnings are sometimes like that. Email us if you notice anything astray.

Welcome to Faster Than the World. Hope you enjoy the ride.

Told you there wasn't much there. What is there isn't really what we do anymore. All of it has changed except for one part.

Have fun.

Today we have decided to put up our favorite personal posts from way back. Ones that we had the most fun writing. You might be able to see in some of these the way this site was heading and, if you are new to this site, some of it might be a little different than you are used to, but just remember, this all had to start somewhere.

What You Didn't Know About Snack Cakes
Of Tigers and Rats
Sundays With Friends and Family
Fishin' and Giggin'
Comfort Foods
The First Thanksgiving

Just as an aside, my favorite posts were all of the ones that were happening when I was driving across country. But, I didn't write any of those. I just thought there were an incredible amount of talented people out there who were picking up my slack. I enjoyed reading them all when I arrived on the East Coast. - T

Ok, I get to put an aside in here too. I really love all the car posts we did together, because that's what started the site. My favorite Late Night Typing posts tend to be the ones we had fun writing when Turtle and I were across the country from each other. Writing as a team every night was the thing that held us together when the distance threatened to push us apart. It's a lot more fun writing in the same room every night, but reading those old LNTs will always make me appreciate being together more. -M

Another aside.... What she said. - T

So before we get all teary eyed and stuff (Don't worry. This will be short. 24 is on in an hour) we just wanted to say thank you to everyone who has been involved in here. Everyone who showed up to add to the 1000 posts. I guess what surprised us the most was how fast it all has been happening. Don't get us wrong. Everyday it still feels like it is the first day and we don't know who is going to be here and who is going to post and what we have to do to get the thing set and ready to go before the next day starts in on us, but it happens.

That is the biggest difference in what was the past and what is now.

It is not Michele and I anymore. It is all of us. And anyone who wants to come aboard for the ride can step up and join it.

FTTW was taken out of our hands along time ago.

So what is up for the next 1,000?

To be honest, the hell if we know. Everyday something new comes up here at FTTW and all we can do is deal with what is happening right now and let the what-ifs and maybes fall by the wayside until we can actually see them.

So we don't know what will happen in the next 1,000.

But, if it is anything like the first 1,000, hang the fuck on and enjoy the ride....

50 Best Arcade Games - Donkeys and Bubbles and Robots, Oh My!

Welcome to Day 2 of the nominating process for The Almost Final Countdown - Arcade games edition.

These are the four from yesterday that the FTTW started the process off with:

1. Rampage
2. Tecmo Super Dodge Ball
3. Berzerk
4. Spy Hunter

And now, six more, culled from yesterday's reader nominations:

lightcycles.jpg5. Tron

From KLOV:

Based on scenes from the Walt Disney movie of the same name, this game has four distinct games per level: Lightcycles, Grid Bugs, Tanks, and the MPC Cone. All four games must be completed before you can advance to the next level.

Play Tron lightcycles (java)

6. Sinistar

From KLOV:

A small, triangular fighter ship is maneuvered by the player through a series of "Zones" in the galaxy. The player must blast Sinisite crystals out of planetoids while fending off attacking enemy drones and Warrior ships. Collect enough crystals to destroy the evil Sinistar before he kills you.

I Hunger!

7. bubble.jpg


Trivia: There were eight different versions of Bubble Bobble, spanning 13 years and various gaming systems as well as coin ops. That's not including several PC versions of the game. The characters fo Bubble Bobble, Bub and Bob, also appeared in Bust-a-Move in the United States.

Play Bubble Bobble, The Revival

robotron.jpg8. Robotron 2084

Each level, or “wave” of Robotron consists of a small humanoid mutant ("the last hope of mankind"), representing the player, in the center of a swarm of enemy robots. The player uses the two joysticks to simultaneously move away from the enemies and dodge their shots, while firing back at them. Once all the destructible enemies are eliminated, the player progresses to the next wave, facing increasingly faster and more numerous enemies.

Play Robotron online (and Defender and Joust and Sinistar and a bunch of other Midway games)
9. Pole Position

(ed note: this game ate ever single cent I made in 1982)

Trivia: This game was one of the choices presented to Bally/Midway from Namco for sublicensing. Bally/Midway chose Mappy while Atari was left with Pole Position. Pole Position went on to become the biggest game of 1983 .


What the driver is thinking during Pole Position.

10. Donkey Kong

You are a workman named Mario who climbs girders and ladders and will stop at nothing to save his stolen love from the clutches of the giant ape.

But....where's the donkey?

zDonkey_Kong.png

A really long list of Donkey Kong games


Donkey Kong on Futurama

Play Donkey Kong online

So that's the first 10 out of 50. Don't worry if the one you nominated isn't listed. There's always tomorrow.

And if your favorite game isn't listed at all, nominations are open til Friday, and this is the place to do it. And the more people that nominate a game, the more likely it is to get into the final poll. So even if your game is already mentioned, throw it in there.

I have the sudden urge to fill my pocket with quarters.


Archives

Saturday Mornings Ain't What They Used To Be

Last week I was in Best Buy killing time while my kids spent gift cards when I spotted the box set for Wacky Races. Must have it! Penelope Pitstop! Dick Dastardly!

I stood there for a minute holding the box and thinking - did I really want this? Or was a little tug of war between nostalgia and memory going on in my brain?

wr3.jpgWas this show really that good? Did I enjoy it enough to spend thirty dollars on it? Or was that silly surge of joy I felt when I saw the box more about a memory of sitting in front of the tv on a Saturday morning, eating sugared cereal and watching cartoons for hours than the actually enjoyment of the show itself?

I got sad for a second as I realized that you can't replicate your childhood with a DVD box set, not even if you had a bowl of Quisp cereal and some superhero pajamas.

Nostalgia v. Memory is why so many bad movies appear on our list of favorites; who really thinks that Attack of the Killer Tomatoes is great stuff? Only someone who had a good time watching that movie. It's why I love songs like "Sister Christian" and "Don't Stop Believing." The nostalgia associated with them makes me react in a positive way to some really cheesy songs. It's why I still read Archie comics and why I get so hyped up talking about old arcade games.

I have a whole slew of things in my house that were bought primarily for the way they make me feel. That has to be it, because not one of these things has held up over the years. They are songs and movies and video games I put on and five minutes into them think, why the hell am I so nostalgic for this shit? Then it hits me. Yea, that night we went to see Last House on the Left was the kind of night that gets talked about at high school reunions 25 years later. It wasn't the movie that made the night good. It was everything we do before, during and after the movie. Hell, I barely remember anything about this flick except for the dick biting incident. But there it sits on my DVD shelf amid honored titles like Lord of the Rings and Empire Strikes Back, as if it earned a right to be there.

There's my Grateful Dead collection, now hidden away in a bin in the garage. I actually went through the trouble of downloading all these albums and burning them onto discs and labeling them as if I really was interested in listening to them. I guess I got the urge one night after watching some Grateful Dead documentary on tv. "Oh yea, Sugar Magnolia! Ripple! Those songs were awesome, man!"

After a listen or two I came to the conclusion that the song were not awesome at all (no offense Deadheads), but the year or so spent smoking bongs and wearing groovy clothes and tripping so hard at concerts I swore Jesus was dancing with me was where the awesomeness was. Not in Friend of the Devil.deadhead.gif Definitely not in Truckin'. Yea, the music makes me smile and makes me almost wistful for a time when I was a free of responsibility (and morals) teenager, but it does not make me wistful for the voice of Jerry Garcia.

Then there's my Atari Anthology collection. And the Namco Museum collection. And all those other "get off my lawn" game packages.

Maybe playing Missile Command til my fingers were numb was a lot of fun. Or maybe it was the combination of playing the game, the friends I was with, whatever I was drinking, whatever bar we were in.....you can't sit in your living room on a Saturday afternoon with your kids fighting in the kitchen, the cat throwing up in the hallway and six piles of laundry waiting to be done and get that same feeling you got back when you stuffed quarters into the machine at at the local pub while your friends handed you shots of Jagermeister. Not even if my kids handed me shots of Jagermeister.

The same thing with watching cartoons. Flintstones, Wacky Races, Hong Kong Phooey. They all make me smile for a couple of minutes while I remember how cool it was to spend a morning with a bowl of sugar and my animated friends. And then the reality sets in. Those shows sucked.

Nostalgia has a way of making your memories a lot better than the real thing.

It happens to all of us.quisp.jpgEven now, my kids will stumble upon an episode of the original Power Rangers and be mesmerized as if they were really enjoying the show, when they are just reveling in the memories of kicking the shit out of their friends while pretending to be the Green Ranger. My 17 year old daughter watches Barney once in a while just because it reminds her of, and I quote here, "when things were simple."

There's nothing wrong with that. Nothing wrong with holding up a DVD set of Wacky Races, knowing it sucks but knowing that just having the box sitting on your shelf will make you stop and smile once in a while. Nothing wrong with preserving some nostalgia in one package, even if that package cost me thirty dollars plus a box of Quisp.

I know what I'm doing Saturday morning.

Michele just bought a box of Kaboom cereal from Amazon, even though she knows it tastes like cardboard (but is fortified with nine essential memories!)

Archives

Montezuma's Revenge

Montezuma is a freaking jerk.

Civilization 4 is the game addiction of choice this week while we let our WarCraft characters rest up in preparation for the release of the Burning Crusade expansion. Every evening, Stick and I load our LAN game and swear that this time, we'll save and go to bed at a decent hour. And every night, I stumble into bed, glassy-eyed and exhausted, dreaming of ways to conquer the world in just one more turn. After much careful consideration, I can say with total confidence that Montezuma's always starting shit.

I say that we've been playing multiplayer, but actually I think we're playing two entirely different games that just happen to look similar. Let's start with the fact that Stick likes to sing the Civilization themesong... which doesn't have words. I don't even turn on the sound. It's not that I don't like the song, I just don't care too much for in-game sound effects. I played the game for months before we happened to play a hotseat game on his PC, and I learned that the units speak in their native languages on activation. The Chinese units (always mine) say "What do you want now?" and the Romans (always Stick's) say "What are your orders?"

Stick will occasionally ask me if I've developed gunpowder or artillery yet. I don't know why he does this, the answer is always negative.

Stick likes to build up a huge organized army and take over other cities. This seems liek a good wya to play a strategy game. And Civ 4 has arranged a sort of rock-paper-scissors system of military units. Pikemen have an attack bonus against mounted troupes, mounts defeat catapults, catapults do serious stack damage to your force of pikemen. There's also a whole set of experience skills available; extra damage, faster healing, better defense. Or I think that's how it works... I don't actually build military units.apollo-spacecraft-over-the-111.gif

I know it sounds a little wonky, admitting that I don't like to build military units but I do like to conquer the world. Fortunately, Sid Meiers agrees with me. There's a whole cultural victory condition, based on creating such a happy and artistic society that the whole world envies you.

With bribery, clever alliances and defensive pacts with my more warlike neighbours, I've been able to win without ever engaging in battle. I usually control resources, arranging blockades or favorable trading relations instead of attacking. I figure if China can maintain good relations with the Democratic People's Republic Of Korea (also known as North Korea) and South Korea at the same time, I can convince Alexander and Tokagawa to spend their aggressive energies on each other, leaving me and my amazing cultural improvements alone.

Sometimes I play like England, trying to colonize the globe, but a freakishly successful British empire, watching cities revolt to join my glorious empire. And it is glorious, too, since I didn't spend any time or resources on building a military. Instead, I look with pride at my Parthenon, my National Epic, my Sistine Chapel, my Spiral Mineret, my Broadway, etc. They're usually in cities defended by a single low-experience warrior, but don't tell Stick, ok?

In theory, there are victory conditions based on having the highest population or the greatest percentage of the world controlled by your civilization. I can never seem to make those work out. As soon as my population increases, they're all moaning about how crowded Beijing is becoming these days, and how they want an aqueduct, and that's hardly making more productive citizens!

There's another method of winning the game, if not actually conquering the globe. I started playing Civ against my friend Eric when Civ2 was new, and I don't think we've had a game without him utterly destroying us all in the space race. One moment you're looking at Eric's wee empire, thinking about how awesome it'll be when you defeat him, and the next, Eric's landed on the moon. But I'd rather lose to Eric than that Montezuma AI.

Because Montezuma's a jerk.

Meg can goad Gandhi into attacking other civilizations.

Archives

The Brutal Tango

Freelancing begins with an intricate 1, 2, 3! 1, 2, 3! dance of the following: Writing, Editing, and Identifying Markets. It's a horrible, never-ending tango: much like being forced to dance at your cousin's wedding with that overweight aunt that you hate because she smells like cats and dead flowers (and always pinches your cheeks and gives you lipstick-caked kisses), this tango doesn't end until you've stepped on enough toes to finally call it a day.

Step 1: Writing
I can't help you here. Take a class or read a book, then copy the author's style, but it's not something that can be taught in a book, magazine or blog. Though I can't help you on how to write, I should also mention: it doesn't matter if you think your work sucks. It really, really doesn't, and you should go ahead and put everything you write into the process that I'm outlining here. Even if you don't like it much, someone else may love it, someone else may have the perfect publication for it - but you'll never know until you mail your letters.

ww2.jpgAlso, you WILL get rejected. It WILL happen, no matter how good you are. And, because it is such an inevitability, go ahead and completely forget about all the editing, all the markets, all the rejection letters, all the crap; while you're writing, just focus on the writing. You'll probably be happier with the end result.

Step 2: Editing

Editing is a tricky business. I find that the best way to start editing is to first let your writing sit. Much like a terrible beer, letting a piece grow old and dusty will help bring out the flaws until they reach up out of the page and pluck a nose hair; it is much, much harder to edit a piece that you have just finished writing because your mind is just too close to it, and you can't view it objectively. If you can, let a piece ferment for about 3 weeks (also much like beer) before you dive in.

I have a painful little system at my desk that I think works pretty well. First, I always work on a hard copy: I find it much easier to see what you're working with when it's not on a screen. I just keep going over and over a page with a pen (the classic color being bright red) taking out words, putting in words, comma here comma there, until I'm tired of looking at it and the carnage looks something like the picture to the right.

The second half of my editing process is something I stole from Douglas Adams , a favorite author of mine. What I do is arrange each page of my story side by side on my wall. When I edit a page, I move it up towards the ceiling; those that I haven't worked with are still down towards the floor. The happier I am with a page, the higher up it goes, and when I've got to retrieve my entire story from the top edge of my wall, my story is ready to mail.

And yes, it does take as long as it sounds like it does. Girlfriends are also notoriously unhappy with the state of their fluttering, New Times Roman double-spaced wall paper, so I use a cork-board and just proof 5 pages at a time (the picture to the right was pages 1-5 earlier today).

ww1.jpgStep 3: Finding Markets
A Market is a fancy term for someone-who-will-buy-your-writing. If you use this term, you will prove to everyone around that you are mentally superior, and this will, in turn, make them want to have sex with you. Really.

Finding a market is done almost exclusively through The Writer's Market so, class: open your textbooks and start looking. Keep the specifics of your story in mind while looking for a market. My story, for example, is a retelling of Greek myth to poke fun at modern vanity and the cult of celebrity. It is also dark and features a crazy man starving himself to death, so Turtle Magazine For Preschool Kids on page 569 of The Writer's Market would not be a good choice - my story would not be bought, no matter how good the person on the other end of PO Box 567, Indianapolis, Indiana thinks it is. Instead, I found a magazine who demands "a healthy knowledge of the great works of antiquity and an equally healthy contempt for most of what passes today as culture"; this market sounds perfect for my story.

While looking for markets, keep your eye trained for anything that might potentially be good in the future. For example, I found a college prep magazine that pays pretty well - I'm sure they'd buy an interview with my University's Dean of Admissions, whom I can email and set up an appointment with relative ease.

And that, my friends, is the brutal tango, and it won't end as long as you're trying to make money in the writing game.

So, what stories are you guys working on? Do you have an editing process that works?

Also: "1. Getting very drunk is the best way to deal with rejection. Discuss."


Ian doesn't let rejection by small minded editors bother him. Archives

"When is a Cookie not a Cookie?"

[FTTWers note, this is from my blog where I had previously mentioned the extreme low classness of my cousin Flem, so for his small part in this narrative, imagine a toothless redneck that can't eat in a restaurant without stealing the silverware and once abandoned his children with his parents for 3 years to shoot heroin on the streets
of Daytona.]


When the Brits get involved it's a 'biscuit', but that's not what I'm going for this time. Reaching into the well of personal stories from my family, this week's guest star is my cousin Flem's son Jebediah. (Name changed to protect what innocence he has left.)

Once upon a long ago, GrandMama hitched her wagon to a star by the name of George "Tipsy" McStagger (name also changed). Tipsy is a so-called 'Health-Nut'; so-called in the sense that paying $4 for a bulb of "organic" garlic is contradicted by downing a bottle of wine every two days. Other than the excessive drinking, the health-nut reputation is well-earned, witness the horribly dry, grainy "organic" peanut butter in their fridge and the "sometimes with bonus blood spots in the yolk organic fertilized" eggs, etc.

evilrooster.jpgThis is the South, so whenever a person enters a home they are quickly encouraged to eat, and excuses are not usually accepted. It is a knowing-glance-traded inside joke within the family that anytime you have anything to drink or eat in Tipsy's presence, you will be offered THE GOOD KIND. Want to make a sandwich, we got THE GOOD KIND of turkey, ham, whatever from the deli. The bread? Why yes, it is filled with whole grains, and some twigs and berries if I'm not mistaken.

Because it's THE GOOD KIND. Some mayonnaise, butter, mustard, pickles, syrup, shoe polish? THE GOOD KIND is available, have no fear. Why the ordinary kind of a lot of things is kept around is not known, it is sometimes implied that GrandMama has stealthily brought in the sub-par versions just to irk Tipsy.

One weekend not so very long ago, while Jebediah was visiting them for the weekend, his oft-repeated phrase "I'm hungry" escaped his reptilian lips. GrandMama responded that supper was not long off, would he like a few cookies to tide him over? Possessing neither the ability to stop time nor a flashy thing like Men In Black, I was not able to advise the boy against the offer without insulting GrandMama and Tipsy; so I said nothing.

"Yeah!!" Jebediah happily exclaimed, and I watched helplessly as Tipsy moved towards the rooster-shaped cookie jar.

Tipsy spoke with more than a little pride as he removed the rooster's head and offered the jar to Jebediah, "You have all you want of these, we made these yesterday, they're THE GOOD KIND."

richard1.jpg I waved off the offer after Jebediah greedily two-fisted himself headlong into regret. You see, THE GOOD KIND of cookie looks a lot like an ordinary chocolate chip cookie from a distance; and the right angle. The closer you get, you start to see bits of what might be
un-ground wheat, oats, even something that looks like it was shredded off of a cattail. There are little brown clumps, (carob chips posing as chocolate); so a kid might overlook the stuff that looks like it was swept up off the floor and chomp right down. Jebediah sure did.

The look on his face was very comical indeed, I can't describe it. Let's compare it to the hypothetical expression one might have if they were to drink from a glass of vinegar if they were expecting lemonade.

Harsh is an understatement. Now you may have gathered that Flem is not too big on social graces, and might not have taught Jebediah about being polite, and you would be right. Less funny for my story, but he picked up the idea somewhere, and didn't immediately spit out the not-a-treat cookie and say what he thought of it. richard2.jpgHe actually
continued to chew and swallow the cookie, and the rest that he now regretted taking from the Evil Rooster of Death. Quite a heroic feat, as chewing these cookies is a lot like eating at the beach, except there is usually some redeeming flavor in whatever you got sand in when you eat at the beach. Good for my story, he did try to palm some of them off on me, which we both got a laugh out of, believe that!

*I don't know if reptiles have lips, or if his lips resemble them, I just wanted to write that sentence that way.

* Carob is a brown substance that vegans and others will have you believe is "better than chocolate - and better for you!", which, you know, it may be healthier but nothing is better than chocolate, and carob doesn't even come close.


Richard is thinking of starting a folk band called Tipsy McStagger. Or maybe that's what he's naming his moonshine.

Previously by Richard

Guest Author Archives

The Good Girlfriend

I’d be a good girlfriend, I decided today as I was driving and listening to the Pussycat Dolls –the ultimate guilty pleasure-.

My boyfriend and I spend our days leafing through books at Barnes and Noble and holding hands while skipping through fields of daffodils and lilies or something. We’d be holding_hands.jpgso cute. Everyone would say, “There goes Stephanie with her boyfriend.” And then someone else would say, “She’s the funnier one in the couple. He’s kinda shy.” Everyone would agree.

Aside from the fact that I’m not curvaceous, busty, blonde, or, sexually active, I like to think I’m fun. I make up for my lack of looks with sass, personality, spunk, and OK, maybe some bitchiness.

I’m also really good at being celibate. Nineteen years strong now. Who, other than Hilary Duff, of course, God’s gift to America, can say that? I can absolutely guarantee you that I will not become pregnant with your baby. I will not let you be my baby daddy because I can promise you that I do not like you like you like me. I’m actually surprised you seem to like me as much as you do, because, seriously, I’m a dork. You should know this. We met in our History of America class. Remember how I was always five minutes late? But I swear, our teacher was starting at least five minutes early.

When you dump me for not giving you oral sex (because, ew.) I will not be upset, but I will write a blog about it and call you gay. Also, I’m probably gonna tell everyone I dumped you.

CoffeeShop.jpg“He wanted me to give him road head,” I will say over my vanilla latte. The new Chunky Monkey. “So I broke up with him.”

My friends, who, by the way, are all gorgeous and had it been a nice break-up and we’d stayed friends I may have set you up with, will scoff, “That’s sick!” Michelle will probably say.

“You should have done it,” Robyn will shrug. Silence will fall upon our group. Nicole’s eyes go wide.

“You guys?” she’ll say, “What’s road head?”

We’ll laugh and I’ll compare us to Charlotte, Samantha, that one lesbian or whatever, and Carrie.

“You’re so Carrie but with Charlotte’s personality,” my friends tell me.

I know, I tell them, thank you.

It’s your loss anyway. After you dump me, I start sleeping with a much older man. And by sleeping, I mean sleeping. Hugh is old, and he doesn’t have much energy to do more than sip some prune juice while watching Murder, She Wrote reruns and using his Jazzy to scoot over to the bedroom. He doesn’t even get dressed anymore. Or shower. But, man, he’s loaded.


No really, Stephanie doesn't like you the way you like her.

Archives

Low Carb my ASS!

I've told you people before that I'm a man of few words. And yet, somehow, I still feel bad if I don't write a novel each time I give you yet another delicious recipe and metal review. I'm not sure what the deal with that is.

This week's recipe is as close to culinary perfection as you can achieve. It has all 4 food groups: 4foodgrps.jpg


- Carbs (yeah, fuck you right in your constipated ass, Dr. Atkins)
- Fat
- Cheese
- Bacon

And it's spicy and good with guacamole. I mean, come on.

Chipotle Cheddar Bacon Cornbread

* 3 cups yellow cornmeal
* 2 1/4 cups flour
* 1 Tbsp salt
* 1 Tbsp baking powder
* 1 1/2 tsp baking soda
* 2 Tbsp honey
* 5 eggs, beaten
* 4 slices of bacon, diced
* 3 cups milk
* 6 Tbsp melted butter
* 3 chipotle chiles in adobo, chopped
* 1 c shredded cheddar cheese

Put the bacon into a 12 inch cast iron skillet. Put the skillet in a cold oven and preheat it to 425 deg for about 10 - 15 minutes.

In a bowl, combine the liquid ingredients, chiles, cheese, and honey. In a second (large) bowl, combine the rest of the dry ingredients. Add the liquid ingredients to the dry ingredients (not the other way around). Stir till it's just combined.

Take the skillet out of the oven and take the bacon out of the skillet. Do not, under ANY circumstances, get rid of that fat. Take a wad of paper towels or a grill brush, and coat the inside of the skillet, bottom and side, with the bacon grease. Add the batter and back into the oven for 15 minutes.

After 15 minutes, sprinkle the bacon on top of the cornbread, and back in the oven for another 10 minutes. A toothpick should come out mostly clean (the cheese may prevent it from being completely dry). Let it cool for 20 minutes before turning it out of the skillet. You can slather it with butter, or guacamole, or rooster sauce, or whatever. It's also excellent for dipping in chili. It'll be awesome. I actually like it with butter and a bit of honey -- sweet and spicy kick ass together.

If that got your appetite working, this week's metal review will make you lose it.

tcme.jpgThe County Medical Examiners
Olidous Operettas
Relapse Records

According to Wikipedia, The County Medical Examiners are an American goregrind band, whose intended purpose is to emulate the classic goregrind of the 1980s - the early albums of Carcass. The band is a power trio of actual medical examiners (at the time of their first releases they were still doing their studies) comprising Dr Morton Fairbanks on guitar and vocals, Dr Jack Putnam on drums and vocals, and Dr Guy Radcliff on bass and vocals. Note that these are not their real names, as they would probably be expelled from the medical profession for playing the sort of music that they do, despite keeping it more tasteful than their idols. Where Carcass would perform Exhume to Consume, The County Medical Examiners do A Brief Discourse On Wound Ballistics. Their lyrical content merely describes what goes on in the morgues of hospitals, rather than discussing grisly acts of necrophilia and cannibalism. The band's frontman is Dr Morton Fairbanks, who writes most of the bands music and lyrics, though all band members are credited. It should be noted that Dr Guy Radcliff (who is many years the senior of the other two band members) is not a goregrind fan, but joined the band as they were short a bassist, and out of his professed love for the avant-garde. The County Medical Examiners have released a few albums, and are sporadically working on a new album. They have never performed live.

Controversy surrounds the identity of the band members, as they use pseudonyms to avoid the wrath of hospital administration and fan attention. One rumor suggests that TCME contains at least one member of Exhumed, mostly because the domain name for the band's website was registered by a former member of Exhumed, and not under the name of the "band members," but it's now commonly accepted that TCME, being uninterested in their online promotion, have many people behind the scenes--including various other Carcass clone bands, as well as Relapse Records staff--donating their time to web design and promotion, as well as guest musical appearances.

One last thing: if you buy this CD (and I recommend you do), the booklet is scratch and sniff. And it smells like rotting flesh.

Recommended Tracks: The Virchow Postmortem Procedure, Expeditious Evisceratory Mishap, Maturating Decompositional Gas

January 15, 2007

And The Winner of Best Fake Band is.........

teethaward.jpg

Congratulations to Dr. Teeth and gang, and thanks to everyone who nominated and voted in this week's poll.

Final results of this poll can be seen here.

The new poll is over here.


Behind the Music with Dr. Teeth (from Robot Chicken)

Electric Mayhem doing 50 Ways to Leave Your Lover

TAFC#2: 50 Best Arcade Games - Part 1

After the finish of The Almost Final Countdown #1 The Fake Bands Edition, we thought we would jump right in with TAFC #2. Congratulations to Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem Band for winning the first TAFC, but we need to move on.

For some strange reason, we have been playing a lot of old games. Well, I have been playing a lot of old games that I totally forgot existed and in going through the collective that is FTTW, we realized a bunch of games were great, almost incredibly great, but were forgotten.

So we decided to take these games, the ones that were great, and list them. To figure out what was and is the best all time arcade game that ever was. From Pong to whatever the hell is out there now, let's list them and see which ones stand up to the vote.

Same rules as last time. Nominate whichever ones you want. We get 50 and list them out as the week goes on from your nominations. At the end of the week, we take them all and you vote on them.

So let's start this.

The 50 BEST Arcade Games

Baby Huey gets things started with a bang. And a crash. And an explosion.rampage.jpg

Rampage

Oh, man. I love this game. I'm not even a big video game person. But I love this game -- Wolfman was my guy. I'd always play as wolfman. GIANT WOLF. CRUSH BUILDING. EAT PEOPLE. I loved it. When you beat a level you got your name in a fake newspaper. You got to break shit and you could get shocked, and you never died. You just turned into a naked dude. That's AWESOME.

Turtle sticks you with the POWERBALL!!

This was one of the greatest games ever made. Sure it was forgotten in the great rush of crap games that came out in the late 80's.ARCADE super dodgeball screen2.png Whilst the line for Double Dragon streched out the door, this game sat in the corners waiting to be played by only those who were too tired to wait for Double Dragon or were just bored. But, when this game was activated, a whole new level of gaming came in. Super Dodge Ball!! Here you had to take the USA to the top while beating the other countries on their home turf. Dodge ball style.

What was really funny about these games were the stereotypes of the playes came into the game. Iceland is cold so you play on slippery ice. Kenya is in African so you play on slow dirt. Japan always passes the ball to their leader who makes the big throw. Germany is a bunch of huge thugs. India is quick . China is a bunch of small guys who get together and gang up on you. The USA were the superstars.

See, that's Techmo Super Dodge Ball.

Always striving for racial equality while sticking you with the powerball. - T

Michele
gets evil:

Berzerk

“Intruder Alert! Intruder Alert!” I can still hear that loud and clear in my head as if I was still standing there, beer balanced on a barstool pulled up next to the machine, quarters laid out in a row as if to say to anyone else “This is my place. I’m not leaving. Don’t even think that you are going to get anywhere near this game tonight. Cause I am on fire and fucking Evil Otto is going to die a brutal death this evening.”

Except Evil Otto could not be destroyed. I knew this, knew this was how the game worked and there was nothing I could do about it, but that did not stop me, especially when I was drunk, from thinking that one more quarter, one more game, would let me somehow find some deep, dark secret hidden deep within the code that would let me destroy Otto.

“Chicken! Fight like a robot!" How could you not love a game that mocked you? -M

And thefinn starts looking for some action:

Spy Hunter

Spy Hunter 3.jpgOh yeah… Slide into the seat, check the wheel and drop the quarter into the slot. The familiar “Peter Gunn” theme starts up and you’re ready to roll. Spy Hunter let me relive just about every pre-adolescent fantasy I had about James Bonds’ Astin Martin. Hauling ass in that souped up little white ride, shooting everything is sight (Who cares if you don’t get points for killing the civilians ?), just trying to get far enough so you can get resupplied by the weapons van. The smokescreen was great for those bulletproof bastards, the oil slick took the piss out of that damned limousine and the missiles dropped that that damned dogged helicopter out of the air. I would spend hours in that seat, just trying to get the car along, a little further down the road. This game had it all; civilian deaths, burning helicopters falling from the sky and enough action to make you want to blow your entire allowance in a single afternoon. Even if it was just to die in a fiery crash by the side of the road. --F


So those are the first four.

Now we need you. You need to tell us what we need to put on the list. This will go on each day untill Thursday when we put them all together.

But for now....

what games were the best?

Archives

The Last Creative Storytellers

We see a lot of stories in movies today that are as interesting as your typical Blues Clues mystery these days. There seems to be this trend where the formula is “as little story as possible” and way too much action. It's like studios feel that a film can be a two hour action sequence with little to no plot development or story. It's weird. Ever watch a trailer and know exactly what the movie was going to be like, start to finish? It's sad really.

uwebollsucks.jpgBack in the good ol days, we had stories. Character development, interesting plots, conflicts that drove the tale forward. Now, we just have a lot of gimmicks. Like movies based on a series of effects. Just toss in some chit chat and voila, people will pay to see it.

Of course, the studios have found out the hard way that’s not entirely true. People will demand more. Loads of big budget films over the last few years have not made the big bucks, unlike small independents that are all story. Those have been doing very very well.

Cycles. It all runs in cycles. Sadly, studio execs are mostly dim bulbs when it comes to this. There are exceptions, like with anything. It's just rare. I think the last creative storytellers have all ventured into the video game industry. What, you say? Yeah, well follow me on this for a second. I was in on this before it became mainstream. I had been involved with projects that never made it, but they were good, and we didn’t sell them short. I wont say which, but know, I know of what I speak.

In the world of video games, they have much more creative freedom to tell stories. And they don’t make chick flick video games. Thank God for that. Honestly, they weave complicated tales and cover everything we don’t get to see in films anymore. Unless they try and make a film out of a game, which hardly ever works. The thing about a video game is all subject. Not just action, but, subject. They put a lot of effort into the set up, the story. The give us detailed storylines and complicated, but manageable plots. It's funny, because whenever I see a really great game, I think, wow, done right, this would make a great film or series, too bad they will only fuck it up.

Example. Games like “Thief-The Dark Project” which has a very intriguing and fascinating storyline, would make great films, but the studios, always playing down to the lowest common denominator, always muck it up. Games Like the fps, F.E.A.R, which is spooky and interesting, yet filled with action, is another. Popular titles, and they have good storylines, but the problem is, a studio will stray from what made the game work and do whatever they want, thus losing the appeal of the original story. I’m sure everyone knows the list of horrible video game films, crapfests like Wing Commander, Mortal Kombat and, say it aint so, Tomb Raider. Yeah, I totally hated those because they made them too cartoony and could have done so much better.

I think, left alone, and given proper budgets and access, Video game companies should take a shot at making films without the studios. They just need to do what they do in games and not try and “make a movie” but instead, use what they know to tell a story. They are pretty good at that. The film will come out of there not being star struck and beholden to the studios. No, in fact, they should spend a few mill and try something new.

Just sayin.

Jay thinks Leisure Suit Larry would have made a great movie

Archives

we have a date with the underground, chapter 37

Moving sucks. There is no other way to put it. You have to do it sometimes if you want to get where you want to go. And even then it is really where you think you want to go. Moving is pretty easy for me. The first few times of moving to a different city are a little scary. Things are not going to work out in the way you want them to but they will work out anyways. That is a hard concept to get but once you do get it, it makes everything easier

A few things came up this weekend about where I have lived and why I moved and all that kind of stuff so I thought I would break down the types of individuals I have found in the world that are in bands.

To put it simply, there are people who are full time musicians and people who have day jobs. Everyone knows that. The hard part about being either one is that day. That one day where you have to decide which one you are. It's easy to make the decision if you have no strings or anything like that, but let's face it, a lot of the time you have to give up a whole lot to get where you want to be. And if that "where you want to be" is just another possibility, it makes it that much harder. What if you have a girlfriend or a boyfriend and you are going to have to move 700 miles away to keep going in this band? What if you have an OK job and by moving, you have to start working in a warehouse again? To start over? What if you have nowhere to go? What if you really start hating each other?moving.gif

I guess it really comes down to if you believe in something or not. It would be great if everyone lived in a town that already had a music scene that was big and was your type of music. But in reality, it doesn't happen that much. You have to go to that scene. Some scenes got lucky and for some reason or another got noticed on a large scale, but really, you have to go where it is happening. All I know is that where I came from, moving wasn't really an option. It was a reality that we would have to face someday.

This is where it sucks to be the "safe man." The man who needs his security and needs to know what is going to happen the next day. Having a place to stay is nice, but hell, we all have lived on sofas before. So what if you do move? What if nothing works out? What if in six months you come back as a failure with nothing to show but a few more addictions and some huge debt that your ex girlfriend ran up cause you forgot to cancel the credit cards that you had been living off of for the last two months?

That reality faces everyone when they move. There is no way around it. Getting a job before hand usually helps but really, by moving you are putting yourself at survival level for the love of your music before the comforts of, well, things like eating. Tell me how many bands haven't done the soup kitchen celebrity or happy hour bar hopping just to eat for the day.

It is really lame when you get something like a good guitarist who won't move with the band because he or she is making a decent living at their day job. Or has a girlfriend. Or whatever. Really splits the band up when you want to take it to the next level. It's hard to practice everyday when you live five hours away from each other. Or even two. So you have to decide.

It is in that moment when you can define who wants to just be in a band after work and who wants to be the band everyday.

Archives

To Uber Man


To uber man:
I have two friends I think would make a perfect couple, but there is one small problem: he is deaf and she is blind. How could I ever get them together?!?!


No mercy in Searcy:

Dear No mercy in searcy,

Unfortunately, I don't feel I can give any specific advice on this question, since I don't know your two friends. However, I can offer you a little fable that may help you understand what a difficult task bringing two people together can be, depending on the situation. You see, for weeks, the animals in Deep Forest had been facing a very serious problem. Bill and Brian Buffalo, the brothers who ran the local liquor store, which was always stocked with the finest berry wine, were in the midst of a deep, troubling argument, and had closed the store indefinitely. The animals missed their berry wine something fierce, and several of them were experiencing significant withdrawal. Why, Dr. Fox had to put Skunk on a steady diet of benzodiazepines to keep him from dying due to withdrawal, and a large prescription of naltrexone to make him throw up if he tried to drink something with alcohol, like paint thinner. One day, Bird called a meeting of all the animals in Deep Forest to talk about what could be done to help the two brothers reconcile and bring back the booze.

"We should just break in there ourselves, take everything we want--even not pay for it!" yelled Terry Turtle. "They have caused enough problems for us--we deserve some compensation."

There was a resounding "Hear hear!" from the rest of the animals.

"Ah," said Bird, quieting the crowd, "but Terry, if we were animals that behaved that way, we would have all broken into your pet store when you had to close it down, and taken all the supplies we could ever need for our pets."

monkey_uber.jpgAbashed, Terry looked at his feet.

"Well then let's all break in and pay for what we take," suggested Dirk Duck. "Then they would get all the money they deserve, and we bring back the booze to Deep Forest!"

This time, the animals silently waited to hear Bird's response.

"But Dirk," said Bird, "how would you feel if you had to close your restaurant, and we all went in there, used your supplies to cook a meal, and then left you money?"

"You filthy animals using my kitchen to cook?!?! That would be disgusting."

"You see," Bird said, addressing them all, "what we need to do is help Bill and Brian help themselves. We need to guide them into the loving, brotherly relationship they used to share! Who is willing to be the mediator between the Buffalo Brothers?"

Ron Rabbit put down what he was doing and said, "I'll do it!"

"Of course, Ron. Here's what I want you to do."

After Ron heard Bird's plan, he set off to the northern part of Deep Forest, where the Buffalo Brothers lived in separate houses. First, Ron hopped and hopped and hopped until he arrived at Bill Buffalo's house. He knocked on the door and waited patiently outside.

"What do you want, rabbit?" growled Bill when he opened the door. He smelled strongly of berry wine and had a burned-out cigarette dangling from his mouth.sotl.jpg


"Hello, Bill," said Ron, a little uncomfortable. "I am conducting a survey for the new Deep Forest Demographics Department. I was wondering if you have time to answer some questions."

"Yeah, whatever," mumbled Bill. "Go for it."

"My first question is: who is your worst enemy in Deep Forest?"

Bill laughed deep and low. "That's easy," he said. "It's my brother, Brian Buffalo."

"Uh-huh, ok," said Ron, writing this down on a legal pad. "And if you were being held at gunpoint and had to say something nice about Brian, what would it be?"

Bill stood thinking for a second, and finally said, "Well, he is a hard worker. He would stay at the store every night as late as it took to count up the till."

"Great! Ok, thanks for answering the questions. I promise your identity will be kept confidential when we report our findings."

Ron turned and began hopping as fast as he could to go to Brian's house. Finally, he arrived on the doorstep, huffing and puffing and ever so tired.

"What do you want, rabbit?" roared Brian when he opened the door. He smelled strongly of cigarettes and had a half-empty bottle of berry wine in his hands.

"Hello, Brian," said Ron, a little uncomfortable. "I am conducting a survey for the new Deep Forest Demographics Department. I was wondering if you have time to answer some questions."

"Yeah, whatever," said Brian. "I got nothing else to do."

Again, Ron asked his questions. As was to be expected, Bill was Brian's worst enemy in Deep Forest. But, when asked the second question, he answered Ron with, "Well, he always knows when I need a hug."

Satisfied, Ron scrambled all the way back to Bill's house. Huffing and puffing even more than before, he knocked on the door.

"Bill!" he said when the door opened. "I just talked to Brian! He was walking to the store. He said that he had enough sitting around and was ready to get back to work. He looked really depressed."

Bill thought for a second, and finally said, "Probably needs a hug. Maybe I ought to go down there and help him out."

Bill headed off in the direction of the store, and Ron ran back to Brian's house.

"Brian!" he panted when Brian opened the door. "I just saw Bill. He said he was inspired by your impeccable work ethic, and was ready to go back and start working the store again! He was on his way down there!"

"Really?" said Brian. "So he thinks I'm a hard worker. Well, maybe I'll go down and help him out."

Rabbit ran off to tell Bird and the others that soon, the Buffalo brothers would be back at the store and have it open for business. The plan had worked! All the animals, so excited that they would finally have their booze back, rushed to the store, ready to stock up on the latest shipment of berry wine. But when they got there, Brian and Bill were standing outside, arguing.

"Well I think YOU need to start working the till at night," yelled Brian. "I've always done it, and I stay up here late while you go get drunk off berry wine and go to the strip club!"

"And I think YOU need to go to therapy," roared Bill. "You're always looking for hugs, always depressed, you're an embarrassment to the Buffalo family!"

"FINE!" sobbed Brian. "You do what you want with the store! I quit, you lazy good-for-nothing jerk!"

"No!" screamed Bill. "I quit! You do what you want with the store, you wimp!"

The Buffalo brothers stormed off in opposite directions. Upset and forlorn, the rest of the animals went back to their homes to spend yet another evening in the nightmarish grip of sobriety.

A few days later, Bill Buffalo was in his backyard by Babbling Brook, fishing, and thinking about what a wimpy brother he had. Just a mile down the bank, Brian Buffalo sat in his backyard, fishing, and thinking about how much his brother could use some sensitivity training.

Suddenly, both of them heard something splash into the water and cry out in terror.

"Oh no--that doesn't sound good," said Bill Buffalo, rising and running in the direction of the screams.

"That doesn't sound good at all!" said Brian Buffalo, who was already running toward the noise.

Right at the same time, Brian and Bill arrived to find the source of the screams: Katherine Kitty had fallen into the water and was drowning.

"I'll get you!" yelled Brian.

"No--I'LL get you!" screamed Bill.

Before the two could start fighting, Bird, who had heard the commotion from his nest in Big Tree, landed on a limb that stretched out across Babbling Brook. "I'm sorry you two," but I think you're going to have to work together this time. You can't either one of you save Katherine by yourself."

"He's right," said Brian.

"Yes," said Bill. "Let's put our differences behind us for the sake of Katherine."

So Brian waded out into the brook and turned around backwards, while Bill held on to him tight. "Katherine!" he yelled. "Bite my tail, as hard as you can. I promise, it won't hurt me." By that time, Brian was already ankle deep in the thick, brown mud at the bottom of Babbling Brook. He couldn't even move his feet.

Once Katherine bit his tail, Brian yelled, "Ok Bill--pull!" Bill pulled as hard as he could and, just when he thought he could pull no more, Brian felt the thick mud start to release its grip on his hooves and said, "That's it! Keep pulling brother!" In a few seconds, Brian and Katherine were both out of harm's way.

"Wonderful!" shouted Bird, as Katherine showered Brian and Bill with kisses, praises, and thank yous. "You guys overcame your problems and saved little Katherine's life. I suppose, though, you'll go back to fighting after this?"

Brian and Bill both looked at each other. "You know, we really should open the store up again," said Bill.

"Yeah, I'm almost out of money anyway," said Brian.

"Sorry I called you a wimp," said Bill.

"Sorry I called you a good-for-nothing jerk," said Brian.

That night, the Buffalo Brother's Boozery opened--for good. And though the brothers argued from time to time, never again in their days did they have an argument they couldn't resolve through rational, civil conversation (and perhaps a bottle or two of berry wine).

The moral of the story is: sometimes, it is extremely difficult to bring to people together. Sometimes, all it takes is a wet pussy.

Hope this gives you some guidance in your matchmaking endeavors,

Uberchief

Uberchief is a closet furry. I just know it.

Concert Going in the Early ‘90s

Sometimes coincidence can be pretty funny, sometimes it can suck and sometimes it can do both.

1993 was a pretty good year for music: The Breeders Last Splash, PJ Harvey’s Rid of Me (an essential album!), Tool Undertow (another essential album), Nirvana In Urtero, Cypress Hill Black Sunday, even Depeche Commode tried to rock it up some with Songs of Suck and Devotion.

It was a great, short era of music. Everything seemed so alive at that moment. Like you could do anything with a guitar and the right attitude about music. There was a lot of burgeoning experimentation among musical genres. Lollapalooza was still the concert event to wait for/attend.

The man and band the media put at the front of this -- I hesitate to call it a revolution, I guess I prefer reawakening because the spirit is always there in the music -- was Kurt Cobain and Nirvana. The ending to his story is sad and we all know it and I’m not going to dwell on it. It is suffice to say that I got to see them during their last tour, but I really wasn’t going to see them.

To say that I wasn’t a Nirvana fan would be a lie. But today I feel like it’s a guilty pleasure. While there are a lot of folks out there who quickly turned their backs on the whole Seattle music scene after his death and the equally quick demise of grunge, I still love the music. I love all my old Pearl Jam, Soundgarden, Alice in Chains and Mother Love Bone albums. There was something raw and articulate about they way they approached their music that I still love today.

Kim Deal kicks ass.In Dec. 1993, my wife (then fiancé) and I made the hour trek to the UNO Lakefront Arena in New Orleans to see Nirvana. The Breeders were the opening band. I admit that I was really going to see them. While Nirvana is still a guilty pleasure (and I’m not that big a fan any more), I am still in love with The Breeders. Anyone who was a part of such a great musical entity as The Pixies and then continued to put out great music in her own project is deserving of praise. Kim Deal has long been one of my favorite musicians.

Still wish I knew where my ticket stub wentHere is a copy of a ticket to the show. It’s not mine, but it’s from the same show. I had kept them for years, but I don’t know if I could even find it or if I threw it out or not. It’s a shame, in retrospect. The important thing to notice here is that only Nirvana is listed on the ticket, no other bands.

After securing my tickets (Damn you, Ticketmaster! Remember that angst?) and waiting for the day, we climbed into my 1965 Ford Custom 500 and drove. At some point during the drive we started talking about what bands were playing. Of course the headliner was locked in, and when I purchased the ticket, The Breeders were on the billboard, but I never heard anything more about them being on the billing. Plus, there was supposed to be a third band, but no one said anything about which band it was and we had no idea.

Worried that it was going to be some really bad band, we started talking about bad bands. My wife had lived in Europe a good portion of her childhood and had just come back from Greece before her senior year of high school. So, she was privy to the horror that is MTV Europe.

From what I’ve heard from her, and other folks since then, MTV Europe at that time was some kind of conduit into the absolute worst music mankind can possibly produce. I was at a disadvantage. I had, up to this point, only lived in the States. My exposure to bad bands, while aplenty, was related to pretty common groups. So, I pulled out the only ace I had in my deck -- Shonen Knife. I had seen them on that alternative show MTV used to run on Tuesday or Wednesday. Crap! I can’t remember the day.

For those of you how don’t know who Shonen Knife are they are an all-girl Japanese band. They play punk pop, a la The Ramones, but very poorly. If you want to hear them, watch Cartoon Network some time and you will eventually hear them.

But back in '93, there was no Cartoon Network and very few people knew who Shonen Knife were. From the little I saw of the video that night, long ago, the atonal nightmare that is Shonen Knife had forever been burned into that portion of the brain that attempts to make humor out of your most horrible experiences. We were both Ramones fans and laughed at the idea of Japanese girl punk.

We arrived at the arena. Got in and started making our way to our seats. No sooner had we walked through the doors into the balcony seating than I heard a strange, painful noise. I looked at the stage and turned to my fiancé. “No way! I said. It’s Shonen Knife!”

We made our way to our seats (left of the stage, not nosebleeds but way up there). Knife was funny. My memory is somewhat clouded by Rum and Coke, but I distinctly remember one number: “Merry, merry Christmas, happy, happy Christmas, merry, merry Christmas and Happy New Year!” sang in happy Japanese-girl voice over Ramones-style punk. I can’t remember ever laughing so hard at a concert. Too funny.

Of course, The Breeders and Nirvana put on inspired shows. It was a great evening. Good show. Great memory.

Cullen sometimes puts on a dress to perform in a Shonen Knife tribute band

January 14, 2007

Divisional Playoffs

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January 13, 2007

You Say It's Your Birthday

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Happy Birthday!

And now, a moment of sappiness.

Turtle,

I don't know what kind of gift to give you that would be equal to the gift you give me ever single day. I'm just so happy to be able to celebrate this birthday with you instead of being thousands of miles apart. I know this year will bring you lots of happiness, love and all kinds of kick ass things because, let's face it, we kind of rule together.

Happy birthday, babe. I love you.

I hope this card made you smile.

Michele

I hope everyone joins us in wishing the turtle a very happy birthday.

50 Fake Bands - THE POLL!

Ok, fake bands fans. This is it. The final countdown.

Below is the poll with 50 bands in it. It is now YOUR job to help us establish a Grand Winner!

Vote early, vote often, just vote. We won't be monitoring the diebold machines or anything. Do whatever you want to get your band to win. Within reason, of course.

The poll will stay up through until Sunday afternoon. Winner and NEW CATEGORY will be announced Monday morning.

Thanks for the nominations and may the best fake band win!
(Scroll down a bit, I don't know how this poll makes all this whitespace or how to get rid of it)

UPDATE:


THE POLL IS NOW CLOSED. PLEASE COME BACK TOMORROW MORNING (actually, after midnight EST) FOR THE RESULTS.

How Did That Get In There?

There were a lot of ways to interpret today’s editor’s picks theme, so I think you’ll get four totally different takes on a subject here.

The idea was to riff off of this week’s Lo-Fi article, in which Joel wrote about the embarrassing music of his youth. We all expanded on that idea a little and went off in our own different directions, but I think that makes it a bit more fun to read, no?

So here’s Michele and Turtle's. Baby Huey's and The Finn's are in the next post over.

Michele gets furry:

CDs In My Collections That I Swear on My Mother’s Soul Are Not Mine

This is not the same as CDs I Am Embarrassed to Own. See, I am never embarrassed about the music I like. I am loud and proud about all the emo, hair metal and Air Supply in my collection.

But there are some discs that appeared mysteriously in my house. No one will take the blame for them or accept responsibility for them being here. I keep saying they aren’t mine, but I get suspicious like looks when I try to pass the buck.

“What the hell is this CD doing here??”
“Hey, whoever smelt it, dealt it.”

You know how that goes.

Nickelback

I hate this god damn band with the hatred of a thousand hateful people. Everything about them - that dude’s voice, his fugly ass face, the insipid lyrics, the same-shit-different-song style - makes me want to stab someone in the eyes. greatmilenko.jpgJust because. So trust me when I say this CD is NOT mine. Why is it here? Because I used to hang with someone who worked for their record label and it’s a promo CD. DID. NOT. PAY. FOR. That’s gotta count for something.

You know what I’m gonna do with this thing? Take it outside and see if I fling it like a frisbee if it will stick in a tree trunk.

Cats, the Original Cast Recording
Listen, I love musicals. There, I said it. But not this one. This thing has “furry lovin” written all over it. People dressed up as cats? Humans with swishy tails? No thanks. That gives me the creeps. This musical put a respectable face on furryism and I ain’t having none of that. And really, does anyone want to hear that broad from Eight is Enough sing that Memories song again? You do? Come over here so I can smack you.


Insane Clown Posse - The Great Milenko
I will deny this is mine harder than Peter denied Christ. Three times, a zillion times, whatever. This is NOT my fucking CD, man. I swear to you. I know nothing about ICP. Nothing. I don’t know what a juggalo is and I don’t know the words to Lords of Illusions and I was never Down With The Clown. Fuck no. Nuh uh. No Way.

Why is this CD in my house? I don’t know. I really don’t know. Maybe the evil clowns who hide in my closet at night left it here once. Yea, that’s the ticket. -M

Turtle gets all eyeliner and shit on y'all.

I have no ideas where I am going to go with this post. Let me just say that I have lost more CD's then I could ever count, been given more CD's than I remember and had to many stolen to remember. I am not innocent in the whole thing either. I stole alot of CD's. Everyone did. That is just the way it was. I mean hell, when you have so many people around and so many people working at record stores, shit is going to happen.

Now I look back at what I still have around and wonder what the fuck I was thinking when I aquired them. I must have heard something on them I liked. I guess. Something about it called to me but what it was is anyone's guess. Just something that flickered in my eye for a moment then lost it's shine. I guess.ist2_355003_broken_cd.jpg

I know I've been through a lot of different musical likes and "my favorites" over the years, so it's really no use asking me why I have this or that. At a certain point in my life, I liked it. I guess I did. Sure, most of it I can't stand anymore, but thats just what happens with music. Well, to me that is.

Some of the music does have some good memories. I can remember good times with certain songs and some songs bring up vivid memories that sometimes I don't want to remember. Just a moment on my life that was recorded on my brain, hitting playback as soon as the music starts.

I don't want to remember some of those things.

So what songs do I have that I am ashamed of?

None really.

Just bits and pieces of the person I once was waiting to be played again.

/I get all moody when it's my birthday. - T

So that's our take on this week's editor's picks. Feel free to interpret the topic at hand at will and tell us your angle on this.

Michele and Turtle are going listen to Pure Disco, Volume 5 now.

Archives

Things That Make You Go...

Baby Huey wonders--

Wait, what the fuck is THIS?

I have excellent taste in music, and I'm not afraid to tell you that. I also have a buttload of hard drive space -- about a terabyte between all my computers. It's kind of hard to justify deleting anything I've got on my machine.

When it was suggested we go through our CD collections, and find shit that embarrasses us, I was presented with a serious problem: all my CDs kick ass. Seriously. I don't pay for CDs anymore, so when I get promos from labels that suck, I just give them away and only keep the stuff I like. What was I going to write about? Then it hit me. While I will give away CDs like they're candy, I never delete MP3s. Time to fire up my filesystem and see what pap has been on there for years.

Boy oh boy, did I hit the jackpot. I found 2 CDs that not only suck, they suck so bad that I will break my normally tolerant (heheh, good one, right?) form and mock you mercilessly if you are caught with it entering your earholes. Keep in mind that I haven't actually listened to these in forever. I checked the stats on them, and the last acccessed time for either of those albums was 2005, which is when I upgraded my server.

Let's bring on the shame spiral, shall we?

Hoobastank

I blame my friend Brad for this. Junior year (or thereabouts) of college, he tells me about this up-and-coming band that's gonna turn the metal scene on its head. I'm intrigued, as he usually has decent taste in music. He sends me a zip file with the album in MP3. I unzip it and look at the title. Hoobastank? HOOBASTANK? That's not a band name, that's a fucking euphemism for feminine odor.

Whatever. Metal bands are not known for their poetry. I put the album on and HOLY FUCK IT'S TERRIBLE. It's whiny. It's poppy. It's that mix of pseudo-acoustic and pseudo-heavy that no one, no matter how hard they try, can pull of, because it's lamer than FDR's legs. And yet, for whatever reason, I didn't delete it.

I bet you thought I'd learn from that experience, wouldn't you? Read on...





Ra

Named for the Egyptian sun god, I was interested in hearing them after Brad told me about them (after ragging on him for hours for the Hoobastank debacle). I mean, Nile sings about Egypt, and they kick fuckin ass, right? Anyway, he sends me their first album, From One, and I put it in.

The first song, "Do You Call My Name?" is kinda lame, but I gotta admit, it was kinda catchy (I still think it is. In fact, I'm pretty sure it's in my iPod's workout mix). After that though? HORRIBLE nu-metal. That hybrid of rap and rock that is just. so. terrible. ICP bad. Fork in an outlet bad. Karen Carpenter's diet plan bad.

I have never, nor will I ever, let Brad live these down.

- Baby Huey wonders if you call his name ...











And finn brings up the rear--

“I listen to everything.” Everyone has at least one friend who says it and doesn’t mean it. Not really anyway. They wouldn’t be caught dead with Britney Spears album or the new Nickelback. I don’t listen to everything. But I listen to a lot of it. And quite often, someone will be browsing my CD’s or flipping through my MP3’s and I can see the “What the fuck ?” moment as it crosses their faces. I love it. I love it because every so often they come across something that’ll completely blow my street cred. Because what you may see is me, a typical South Philly scumbag walking down the street, bobbin my head and listening to my headphones. And you’re sure that I’m listening to some feedback laden guitar masterwork or old school hip hop. What you don’t know is that I’m listening to ABBA and I’m getting down, jack. So here, they are, a few things from the shelves that always make people look at me funny.

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Electric Light Orchestra – The Essential Electric Light Orchestra

Go ahead. Snigger if you want. Guffaw, if you feel you must. But bear in mind that these picks only get worse from here. That’s right, ELO’s at the top of the crop. And Jeff Lynne, as I’ve said on multiple occasions, is a freaking genius. The man writes catchy, stick in your head all day pop songs that won’t leave you alone. Sure, I hear the arguments all the time about the disco influence and the inanity of the lyrics. But remember this; the lyrics for “Obla Di, Obla Da” are inane as well, but it’s catchy. This collections is in now way complete, but if you just need a quick and dirty ELO fix this is a fantastic place to get it.




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Jean Michel Jarre – The Concerts in China

Pretentious Frog Alert! Pretentious Frog Alert!





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Kruder and Dorfmeister – The K & D Sessions

Is it hip hop ? Is it electronica ? Is it trance ? Well, I don’t know what you’d call it but I’ve got two words for you, Booty and Music, and that’s what I call it. I couldn’t single out one thing that makes these two Austrians mesh so well. But mesh they do. Rock and hip hop and jazz and oh so much more make this a great way to chill or a get with the bacon makin’. K & D have ninja level remix skills and even if you recognize one of the tunes that they’ve included on this double disc set, you’ll do so halfway through it. The mix itself is smooth and seamless, often leaving you wondering exactly where they’re going to go next. And if you’re looking for just the right thing to seal the deal with that lovely young lady who’s too young to have an appreciation for Barry White, here ya go kid. Thank me later.



--F


And there you have it. Four completely different takes on what’s on our CD shelves. And how about you ? What makes you embarrassed even though you sing along every time it comes on the radio ? What will you never admit to owning and stash under your mattress ? And what will you shake your butt to, regardless of who’s in the room ?

January 12, 2007

Do Not Take Lightly

Ok football fans, here it is. Divisional Playoff time. 8 teams, four games. The best teams in the NFL are facing each other this weekend. That means you need to be prepared. First of all, if you have any plans, it is time to cancel them. Remind whoever might be inconvenienced or insulted that it is THE DIVISIONAL PLAYOFFS DUMBASS and ask them what the hell were they thinking scheduling a whatever it is they have scheduled on the same weekend as THE DIVISIONAL PLAYOFFS? Seriously. Jeez. DivisionalPlayoffs1.gif

The Divisional Playoffs are not to be taken lightly. Therefore, I fully intend on making an extremely potent batch of chili this weekend to celebrate the glory that is Divisional Playoff Football. Double the jalapenos. Double the chipotle baby and double the mutherfucking cheese and dive in. Since I ate hot-dogs last weekend during The Patriots / Jets game and The Patriots won (in fergi-licious fashion), being the superstitious sort, I will fully be making some hot-dogs to go with that chili this weekend, because chili+hot-dogs+divisional playoffs=totally awesome.

Divisional Playoffs:

Saturday, Jan. 13

Indianapolis at Baltimore - 4:30 pm, CBS

Epic: Definition: Surpassing the usual or ordinary, particularly in scope or size.

There you have it my friends. The definition of this game. Epic. Indianapolis Colts vs. Baltimore Ravens. In case the hugeness of this match-up is lost on anyone out there, or if you did not realize or remember that The Colts once had a proud history in the city of Baltimore, before their owner had them secretly moved out of the city in the middle of the night back in 1984, an event that has not been forgotten in Baltimore, I’ll let my friend and fellow FTTW writer Kali break it down for you.

one of the most vivid memories of my childhood are at colts games, then of my mother telling some poor kid wearing an indianapolis colts t-shirt well before the deal was made that "them's fightin' words." (ahaha and if you knew my mom it would double you over in laughter.) i remember vividly the way those cowards stole away in the night. i can see stock footage of the mayflower moving trucks that they used. and then they kept the fucking name... OUR NAME. the colts belong in baltimore. and on saturday we'll play for johnny unitas and the colts' name. welcome home, give us your jerseys and you can leave wearing your tighty whiteys once we've taken back your dignity. fuckers.\

oh ernie i'm so glad they have to come here!! i think we can do this. "do it for johnny"

Awesome. Do you think Ravens fans want to win this game? Ah, yeah!

I’d say so.

I almost feel bad for Indy for the hate that’s gonna rain down on them on Saturday. Almost. Then there’s The Ravens Defense for them to contend with…

Philadelphia at New Orleans - 8:00 pm, FOX

This is going to be a great game. We all know about New Orleans coming back from the Katrina disaster and The Saints returning to the city after a year of exile in Houston, Texas. QB Drew Brees and rookie running back Reggie Bush have gotten this team into the divisional round and Saints fans are truly psyched. It’s a great story all around. NFC_Div.gif

On the other side of the ball, you have Philadelphia Eagles, who picked themselves up and brushed themselves off after Donovan McNabb went down earlier in the year and have gotten themselves one game away from a Conference Championship match. Who do you root for here?

Sunday, Jan. 14

Seattle at Chicago - 1:00 pm, FOX

Ok. Let’s be honest. Seattle should not even be in this game. Yes I was rooting against the Cowboys last week, so I’m not complaining, but if it were not for a botched hold during a field goal attempt, this is Dallas playing Chicago this week. But, that is the way it works in the NFL. That ball is shaped funny and it bounces in all kinds of crazy ways.

Chicago did not close out the season on a high note and played what was arguably their worst game of the year in their final regular season game vs. Green Bay. They’ve had a whole week to prepare and to get things right heading into this game. I expect this will be a close game. Seattle may not be that great, but I am sure they will take full advantage of the opportunity that was provided to them. Thanks Tony Romo!

New England at San Diego - 4:30 pm, CBSAFC_PO.gif

The New England Patriots vs. The San Diego Chargers. Where do I begin? Last week The Jets had me on the edge of my seat through 4 quarters of football. The Pats came away with the win and now they will face the #1 team in the NFL.

San Diego is stacked top to bottom on offense and defense. They’ve got the MVP of the league, LaDanian Tomlinson at running back, they’ve got a pro-bowl bound QB in Philip Rivers and a terror at defensive end / outside linebacker in Shawne Merriman. They’ve also got a coach, Marty Schottenheimer, with a whole closet full of post-season skeletons. The mark against Marty is that he has never been able to win the big game, even with teams in the past that arguably were just as stacked as San Diego is today.

For the Patriots on the other hand, the question they are hearing is: how do you stop the Chargers? The Pats are used to hearing that question. How do you stop The Rams? How do you stop The Steelers? How do you stop The Colts? The Pats have answered those questions and now they will step up and try to provide an answer to the latest question this Sunday. I have a feeling that Patriots coach Bill Belichick has some ideas on how to slow down LaDanian Tomlinson and how to confuse Philip Rivers. I have a feeling that Patriots QB Tom Brady might be prepared to handle the San Diego blitzing defense. Yes, the Pats are the underdog in this game but this is the playoffs, where the Pats have a 11-1 record with Tom Brady and Bill Belichick, along with a 7-1 record on the road this season. Think they will be ready for this game?

All right gang. Have a great weekend and enjoy the games! And lets hear your thoughts about the games in the comments!

Ernie sweats and sweats.

Archives

TAFC#1: 50 Best Fictional Bands - Part 5 - The End

Welcome back to the fifth installment of the newest new thing at Faster Than The World - The Almost Final Countdown.

You know the drill. We've been doing this for five days.

The first two installments are here and here for you to catch up on.

The second two are here and here.

In case you missed it, that is.


We're ready to roll on to Day 5 of this week's list - the final part of the list before the poll goes up for Saturday and Sunday.

These who have been nominated already are the following 40 bands. The last ten of the list are below that. Nominations are closed, but feel free to bitch about the 50 picks in the comments.

Spinal Tap
Dethklock
Everybody Gets Laid (the band from PCU)
Crucial Taunt (Cassandra's band from the Wayne's World series)
Coq Roq (the band from the Burger King Chicken Fries ad campaign)
The Rutles
Gidget and the Gories
The Banana Splits
Sonic Death Monkey (High Fidelity)
CB4
Billie and the Boingers (Bloom County)
The Queenhaters (SCTV)
The Darlings (Andy Griffith)
Alice Bowie (Cheech and Chong)
Rod Torfulson's Armada Featuring Herman Menderchuk (TKITH)
The Beets (Doug)
2ge+her (from the MTV show)
Arseface (from the comic book Preacher)
The Silver Platters (Brady Bunch)
MC Pee Pants (Aqua Teen Hunger Force)
The Riverbottom Nightmare Band (Emmet Otter's Jugband Christmas)
Blues Brothers
Wyld Stallions
Cold Slither (G.I. Joe)
Eddie and the Cruisers
Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem
B-Sharps
School of Rock
Josie and the Pussycats
Timmy and the Lords of the Underworld
Randy Watson and Sexual Chocolate
Jackie Rodgers, Jr
The Dale Gribble Bluegrass Experience
Jem and the Holograms
The Groovie Ghoulies
Autobahn (Big Lebowski)
Richie's band from Happy Days
Rex Manning (Empire Records)
Niggaz With Hats (N.W.H.)
Figrin d'An & the Modal Nodes

According to your nominations, the new additions to the list are..........

The Lone Rangers from Airheads:

The Oneders

Scum of the Earth (from the "Hoodlum Rock" episode of WKRP)

(that's the whole episode)

Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band

Fingerbang (South Park)

Stewie and the Cowtones

Buckaroo Banzai and the Hong Kong Cavaliers

Hey, it was all I could find. But here's a little bit about the Buckaroo Banzai band from FTTW reader Timmer:


Buckaroo Banzai and the Hong Kong Cavaliers - In 1984, (the same year I joined the Air Force...Jeezus is it time to retire or what?) In 1984 The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across the 8th Dimension hit the theaters and no one paid any attention. Think about it, Ghost Busters, the first time we saw Indiana Jones, who had time for a kitchy cult Sci Fi Renaissance Man who was part Nuclear Physicist and part Rock Star? I think I first saw it at a Midnight Film Festival in Vegas. I don't know why, but it became my first favorite bad Sci Fi movie, bumping Liquid Sky out of the way. I wore out the VHS tape...twice. I bought the DVD the first time I saw it, in a Bargain Bin. The band, made up of Buckaroo, Perfect Tommy, Reno Nevada, Pecos, New Jersey and Pinky Caruthers perform a variety of songs throughout the movie...okay...maybe not...but the discography on the DVD shows: Native Texan (But a Rising Son), Your Place or Mayan?, Echo Location, Progress Over Protocol, and Live at Artie's Artery . It's geeky cool. Thin ties were still in. Billy Vera hadn't sold out yet. Peter Weller hadn't made Robocop yet. So much promise on the horizon for so many.

Smeg and the Heads (Red Dwarf)

Wyld Stallyns

San Dimas High School football rules!

Pain (from an episode of CHiPs)


So those are the last ten nominations.

From top to bottom. We will sort them out on Saturday when we put the voting poll thing up. Until then, this is where you bitch that we didn't choose your band!

Archives

Previously on "Frankenstein!" (again)

Frankenstein conquered the quasi-real representation of the web site youtube.com known as "YouTubia." He taught you to recognize propaganda tactics and then promptly used them in two videos promoting his army. This week the story continues to continue:

Frankenstein Announces Primatization
iamsorry.jpg

Last week Frankenstein announced victory in the war against his enemies and was immediately rebuked by Che Guevara. In this video he demonstrates what a leader should do when he mistakenly announces that the mission is accomplished, but it actually hasn't been yet. Just my opinion...

Zombie
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One of Frankenstein's associates steps forward to offer a solution to the problem of spam. The zombie character will be familiar to those of you who viewed the Fictional Universe feature here during October.

Frankenstein: Live Free or Die
frankcr.jpg

Frankenstein momentarily sets aside his war against spammers to address you, the viewer, directly. This is his second alcohol sponsored video... this time brought to you by Crown Royal at the suggestion of a viewer.

Tune in next week when we show you what Che Guevara looks like clad in an orange jumpsuit...

Kory has a post-modern, ironic tatto of Che on the back of his left thigh.

Archives

The Leftovers

pepto.jpgWell, Christmas came and went with not too much craziness.

We traveled all over the Northeast from New Hampshire to Albany and encountered relatives with all sort of colds and viruses. Christmas left us with some nice memories, a year's worth of pine needles in my carpet, 1,000 miles on the car and a slew of diseases.

From stomach virus to rashes, bronchial coughs and rotten ear infections, these past few weeks have been a test of patience, the strength of over-the-counter medications, and our sewer lines.

It sucks when the kids are sick. There is really no other word for it. I thought it would get better as they get older but it doesn’t. As babies, they really don’t understand what’s going on and they just cry and whine a lot until the Motrin hits. But the big ones, they really know how to milk it and have it drawn out for as long as possible - at least Monday through Friday.

For the first time ever, I was duped by my son. He woke up Monday morning complaining of a stomach ache. We all have had minor stomach bugs so I knew it was coming. Earlier in the year I received a call from school that PJ had thrown up ALL OVER the kindergarten classroom and I needed to come get him immediately. I had visions of this again when he was complaining about his tummy so I had no problem keeping him home...until around 11 o’clock when he was bouncing all over the house and having a grand ol’ time.

hottoddy.jpgI asked him about his stomach and he looked at me like he had no idea when I was talking about.

“What stomach ache Mom?”

Damn.

When I asked him why he lied about his ailments he told me that he didn’t want to go to school because the lion costume I made him for Circus Day was ugly.

“That’s why my tummy hurt, the lion hat looks like, well, not a lion”.

Now it's my turn to take some medication. Someone send some sort of big horse pill to make the pain of my shattered dreams of being the crafty, artsy mom who makes her own costumes go away. It’s my turn to be sick. My turn to have someone take care of me. My turn to be tucked into bed, with a warm drink and some medicine. My turn to stay home from school.

I can do without the rash though - thanks!

Bonnie's favorite "warm drink" on sick days includes Rum as a main ingredient

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This One's For The Bangers

THIS ONE’S FOR THE BANGERS

…and the mashers, and anyone who has ever been the person who maybe isn’t the best at what they do, but who is good enough to get a shot and certainly shows up every day, putting in time, playing for the love of the game.

This is…

Rory Fitz 01.bmpThe Ballad of Rory Fitzpatrick

We all know guys like him. They get to come up to the big show for more than a sandwich and a handshake, but aren’t the name stars. 3rd or 4th line is about all they make, but in truth the game couldn’t survive without these guys.

Rory Fitzpatrick is a Rochester NY native who currently plays for the Vancouver Canucks. He was drafted by the Montréal Canadiens in 1993. From the time he was drafted Rory has played for (lets see if I can get this right…) the Sudbury Wolves (OHL), Fredericton Canadiens (AHL), Montréal Canadiens (NHL), Worcester IceCats (AHL), Montréal again, St. Louis Blues (NHL), Worcester again, St. Louis again, Worcester again, Milwaukee Admirals (AHL), Hamilton Bulldogs (AHL), Nashville Predators (NHL), Rochester Americans (AHL), Buffalo Sabers (NHL), Rochester again, Buffalo, Buffalo, Rochester, Buffalo… until landing in Vancouver.

Nice resume. As you can see he was the perfect choice. How can you hate him? You can’t, he’s a hard worker. This season he is +3, 22 PIMs, and has one assist in 28 games. Not really an offensive threat, but his plus/minus shows that he’s definitely more than a pylon on defense. Maybe Montréal should try and get him back eh?

The thinking when a grass roots movement started? Why not send a regular Joe to the All-Star game?

Why not send Rory Fitzpatrick?

I’ll bet the talking heads at NHL headquarters are kicking themselves for allowing hockey fans to vote as often as they like. Heh. At least until they realize what a great FREE marketing tool this has been, for Rory and for the NHL.

Rory Fitz 03.jpgThe movement even has its own website – www.voteforrory.com. I should point out that this was not done with Rory’s consent or knowledge. Although he is getting a kick out of it, along with some of his teammates who wore “Vote for Rory” shirts to practice.

There have been some media writers and commenters who have jumped on the bandwagon, but the detractors need to take a pill. If I hear one more thing about who DESERVES to go, I’m going to have to go medieval on their collective asses. 905 of the people who deserve to go don’t because it’s a POPULARITY CONTEST. It’s like the cool kids finally get that the geeks get a vote too and are trying to make them look bad for supporting this campaign. Get over it.

In an amazing groundswell of support Rory amassed (voting closed January 2nd) 555,177 votes, putting him third (behind Neidermayer 591,657 and Lindstrom573,069 and ahead of Pronger 433,972 – seriously? I only care that he’s beat Pronger). At one point he was second (top two go to the game)!

I hope that the NHL decides to send him anyway. The fans would certainly love to see that. All Star games are usually BORING. I’d actually watch it if Fitzy was there.

So? Whadda think? Should he stay or should he go?

Rory Fitzpatrick Attack Ad: Scott Niedermayer

Rory Fitzpatrick Attack Ad: Nicklas Lidstrom

Rory Fitzpatrick Attack Ad: Chris Pronger


While Deb does not generally play well with others, she makes an exception for hockey boys and smrt people. Generally.
Archives

Volume 2, Issue 7

amie2 - my deathpg1.JPG

amie2 - i'll sort this out in the amiepg2.JPG

amie2 - erik's nighttime thoughts pg3.JPG

Jo speaks fluent Tribble-ese

Archives

January 11, 2007

TAFC#1: 50 Best Fictional Bands - Part 4 - Almost There

Welcome back to the fourth installment of the newest new thing at Faster Than The World - The Almost Final Countdown.

TAFC is a new column that will appear almost every day. Basically, it's a continuing series of countdowns, lists, and things that have numbers on them and tell you what's the best and worst of something.midget-kiss.jpg

What will happen is this: On Monday, the new category will be announced. The editors (or two of the four editors) will have their picks up for the category, so we start you out with either the first 10 or 20 of the list.

You guys know how to do this.

The first two installments are here and here for you to catch up on.

And the last one.

In case you missed it, that is.

Think of us a VH1 without the ubiquitous presence of Ian Michael Black.

Sounds like fun, right? Not too confusing or anything? Good, because we are ready to roll on to Day 4 of this week's list.

These who have been nominated already are the following 30 bands so no need to nominate them again.

Spinal Tap
Dethklock
Everybody Gets Laid (the band from PCU)
Crucial Taunt (Cassandra's band from the Wayne's World series)
Coq Roq (the band from the Burger King Chicken Fries ad campaign)
The Rutles
Gidget and the Gories
Blues Brothers
The Banana Splitsandydarings.jpg
Sonic Death Monkey (High Fidelity)
CB4
Billie and the Boingers (Bloom County)
The Queenhaters (SCTV)
The Darlings (Andy Griffith)
Alice Bowie (Cheech and Chong)
Rod Torfulson's Armada Featuring Herman Menderchuk (TKITH)
The Beets (Doug)
2ge+her (from the MTV show)
Arseface (from the comic book Preacher)
The Silver Platters (Brady Bunch)
MC Pee Pants (Aqua Teen Hunger Force)
The Riverbottom Nightmare Band (Emmet Otter's Jugband Christmas)
Wyld Stallions
Cold Slither (G.I. Joe)
Eddie and the Cruisers
Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem
B-Sharps
School of Rock
Josie and the Pussycats
Timmy and the Lords of the Underworld


According to your nominations, the new additions to the list are..........

Turtle takes care of the first five:

Randy Watson and Sexual Chocolatesexualchocolate.jpg
I will be honest and say I love Sexual Chocolate. This scene pretty much made the movie for me. He was so serious and so demanding about his band. And make no mistake. That was HIS band. Everyone has seen or knows guys like this. Or maybe has even been one. When the music is so good but no one cares. There must be something wrong with them! What is wrong with them?! Why don't they like us?!

Jackie Rodgers, Jr
Albinos represent! One of the bright spots of whatshisname's career. Jackie Rodgers Jr. was either retarded or stupid. I have no idea which one it was but it shaped my belief system that everyone in Canada is white and stupid. So next time I take a swipe at Canadians, remember, all you have to do is look at yourself for making me who I am.

Actually, I like Canadians. I just like making fun of them. I mean, what would the world be like today without Rush?

The Dale Gribble Bluegrass Experience
As someone pointed out earlier, they were pretty good. For a cartoon. I mean it had Dale in it and as everybody knows, Dale is cool. From his paranoid delusions to his conspiracy theories, he is pure cool. So in theory, if he is cool, he must know his bluegrass. It makes perfect sense to me. Although I really don't like bluegrass. It all reminds me of welfare and that scene from Deliverance. There were others in the band, but Dale was the mastermind. And I don't mean "mastermind" in the Ned Beatty way.

Jem_and_the_Holograms_by_ZzAerynzZ.jpgJem and the Holograms
I guess they were cool. Basic fact of these polls, someone has to review the ones that are nominated but no one likes. This is known as the shit job around FTTW and since I sleep late, everyone else seems to grab the good bands for themselves so I get stuck with the shit jobs. Meh. I'll do them if no one else wants to do them, but most of the time I will bitch as I am typing.

What?

The band?

They were ok, I guess. Although I really think Jem needs a good screwing.

The Groovie Ghoulies
It's Hanna Barbera. I love Hanna Barbera. Did I ever tell you guys that they are the best thing that ever happened to cartoons? The really reinvented the art form by cutting budgets and recycling ideas and formats to an almost mind numbing formula. They had some cool moments too. Unfortunately, those cool moments happened over and over and over again. And over. I think these guys were from either Flintstones, Jetsons or Sacramento. I don't know. But they liked to throw a lot of toys when they were on stage.

Michele hits the next five:

Autobahn (Big Lebowski)

Best. Movie. Ever. So, by extension, Autobahn rules.

Plus, they are nihilists.

Walter Sobchak: Nihilists! Fuck me. I mean, say what you like about the tenets of National Socialism, Dude, at least it's an ethos.

ulirules.jpg

Figrin d'An & the Modal Nodes

It was kind of inevitable that I would put this here. I mean, it's Star Wars. When I get the chance to do something Star Wars geeky, I do it.

Cantina song

Richie's band from Happy Days.
They had no name. Really, I looked it up. The band with no name. I can think of a couple for them. How about Whitey and the White Boys? Because really, there was no one whiter than Richie and his friends. Or maybe some variation of that including the words, geeks, nerds, etc. It's not that I didn't like them, but I liked them within the context of the show. Here they are, in full nerd gear:

buddyholly.jpg

Oh wait, that's not them.

rexysmallerbnw.jpgRex Manning (Empire Records)
Rex Manning (Maxwell Caufield) is the epitome of ego-inflated male teen idols. All winged back hair and full of pomposity, Rex gets his ego taken down a notch or two in this movie. Caufield played this part to the hilt.

Jane: Actually, his new album tested well among teenage males.
Lucas: Jane, did you compare the percentage of teenage male Rex Manning fans to the incidence of homosexuality amongst teenage males?

I loved Lucas in this movie. By the way, this is one of those movies that isn't quite as awesome as you remember it being.

Niggaz With Hats (N.W.H.)
If you have never seen the movie Fear of a Black Hat, you need to get off your ass right now and go purchase/rent/illegaly procure it. It's a documentary in the style of Spinal Tap, and just as good. NWH are kinda dumb and not a really good band but somehow you find yourself wanting nothing but the best for them. What CB4 wanted to be, Fear of a Black Hat was ten times over. Fuck tha Security Guards!

So those are the next ten nominations. Keep nominating and looking back at what is already up there. We have 10 more open slots till the big vote comes in on Friday and we can sort this all out.

From top to bottom. We will sort them out.

The Top 50 Fake Bands in order as decided by you.

But, we still need 10 more nominations!

If we missed yours, they will probably make it and just haven't been put in yet, but to make sure we get them, post them again.

I Want My MTV

I have two teenage step-daughters, 13 and 15. This unfortunately means that I get way more exposure to MTV than is healthy for any adult IQ levels.

I once tried explaining to them that once upon a time, there were these nifty little things called MUSIC VIDEOS where a band would record a video to their music and MTV - the MUSIC TELEVISION STATION - would actually air them in full rotation. Of course, I might as well have told them that I used to have to do my math homework with an abacus and walked to school every day in the snow, uphill, both ways... with Barney Rubble.

"What, you mean there was no Cribs?"

"Nope."

"No My Super Sweet 16?"

"Nope."

"Well then what was the point?"

"Oh, I don't know... MUSIC, maybe? But that's just a shot in the dark. I could be way off base."

I couldn't get them to understand, no matter how hard I tried, why I was so annoyed that MTV actually has scheduled slots for music videos a few times a day between their reality programs and how I felt it should be the other way around.

"Who would want to watch music videos all day long?", they asked.

I know there was a lot of hype about MTV bastardizing music when it first aired. And admittedly, I was a little too young to be apart of the debate, seeing as though I was 8 months old when MTV first hit the air in 1981. But I didn't realize that they - whoever "they" are - were right until I tried to have this argument with my step-kids. Everything is marketing scheme. It's not about the music, it's about the clothes, the shoes, the cars, the makeup, the ghetto booty, and how pimped someone's ride is. And when I asked them, "Doesn't that bother you?", they quite simply and collectively stated, "No".

I guess video really did kill the radio star.


mtvgoodevil.jpg

Rock Star Mommy still has a crush on Martha Quinn

Archives

Let's See Those Dollars, Gentlemen!

ok so i just started this new gig. same employer, new gig. my employer is the largest private employer in the state though, so... uh needless to say i don't know any of my new coworkers.

thank god that it's wintertime. luck has it that i always need to find a new gig in the winter. and as i've now entered into the 9-5 workforce (another good thing don't laugh) i need to look, uh respectable for lack of a better term. and i have tattoos. lots of them. and long sleeves would look really weird in the middle of summer. so ya, the new peeps don't know that i'm a freak. i've lowered the freak flag as it were.

well... the tattooed freak flag.

i always think that i'm going to be really reserved at any new gig. i mean i always think that i'm going to watch my mouth, fly under the radar, act like a full fledged adult. and this time it worked! for one full day i was the nice quiet new girl. polecase.jpg

then they showed me my new office. ok cubicle. but really it's nice. because i am assistant to the head of operations at this place i got a double wide! it's like a long reception desk thingy with lots of room and track lighting. the best thing is that i'm not the receptionist. i fucking hate receptionist duties. i'll personal assist all day long but the meet and greet thing is just not my style.

so.. my eyes follow the desk down the line as i inspect my new abode. and what do my eyes rest upon in the middle of my space? uh. a pole. yes, there is a pole in the middle of my cubicle.

now let's say this right now. i'm not peeved about the pole being in the middle o my space. im not that kinda girl fung shuei? kung fu? whatever. but what is interesting is that I HAVE A POLE IN THE MIDDLE OF MY CUBICLE!!

uhm. how can i stay away from the stripper jokes? the answer? i can't. i just can't. so the stripper jokes started day two and now i've set the tone. and i've set it pretty low as you can well imagine. so now we're painting the pole a different color than the rest of the new space. and the private room jokes have begun! it's... well, it's entertaining. and i'm officially not the nice quiet new girl.

i'm the girl with the stripper pole in her cubicle.

oh just wait until summer comes...

Kali just waits for the summer to let it all hang out.

Archives

Lunch Time!

Anyone who reads this column regularly knows how much I love this town. But if you base your idea of how this town works strictly on my columns, you'd only know how heartbreaking this town can be. I aim to change that. Now while it’s true that this is a heartbreak town, there’s an amazing beauty here. In the people, the architecture, the local customs… They’re the things that made me love this town in the first place. So, over the next few weeks, I'd like to introduce you to a few of my favorite places. Places where I worked, places I drank and places I just hung out and had a good time. They all form the city that I love. One I think you’ll love. So, for the next few weeks, I’d like to introduce you to my Philadelphia. And we'll start this week with my favorite little lunch place in the world.

tokyo1.jpgEveryone who knows me knows that I have a penchant for Japanese food. Well, perhaps penchant isn't a strong enough word. A compulsion to seek out good Japanese may be a better description. Whenever I'm in a new area, I always check for three things, Japanese food, tobacconists and bars. Kind of sums up my big three vices right there. Lemme tell ya, if I ever find a bar with good sake and sushi that sells me French cigarettes, I may never go home.

Many years ago, I was working for a giant, international law firm. It was the closest I've ever come to selling my soul for a buck and one of the worst jobs I've ever had. My boss was a Napoleonic mess, a despicable little man who hated everyone he worked with who yelled constantly at everyone taller than he was. The QA team I was working with was the least functional group I've ever been a part of. And let's just say that the lawyers themselves were the most miserable bunch of bastards it's ever been my displeasure to meet. I hated the place, but a paycheck was a paycheck. Since I was a contractor, the only way I had to figuratively give the company the finger was to take my lunches by myself, away from my boss and the rest of the crap team I was straddled with.

Most days I’d leave the building, glad for the silence that can only come by immersing yourself in a crowd. Headphones on throughout most of these solitary treks, I’d wander around midtown, checking out an area I’d never worked in before. One day I was out wandering around and I stopped by a local electronics store to peer in the window. They had a really graphics card in the window. It was really sweet (especially for the time) but way out of my price rang, especially considering that the wife and I had just bought a place. After a mental “Oh well,” I stepped away from the window and noticed a little Japanese place next door that I had never seen before. There was no sign out and nothing that said if they were open or closed. But the door was open and I could smell tempura cooking inside.

tokyo2.jpgSo, I popped my head in and was immediately greeted by Shiro, the owner. He’s a very smiley, quiet(ish) guy who makes the best damn quick Japanese I’ve ever had. Make no mistake about it, I’m not talking about gourmet food. I’m talking about sushi, teriyaki and udon. Nothing terribly fancy, but this man makes shumai that you’ll kill your mother for. The place is tiny. There’s window bench seating and a large common table right in the middle of the restaurant. And that’s it as far as seating goes. It’s family style because Shiro likes to talk to everyone who sits down in his joint. He likes to meet with them and find out what they like and don’t like. He’s incredibly personable and really likes to get to know the people who frequent his establishment. People who come back here come back fantastic food that’s reasonably cheap and for Shiro’s consistent good mood

After meeting Shiro the first day, I came back religiously three times a week for lunch. I’ve had every kind of sushi he knows ho to make and several he’s experimented with. When I finally had to leave the blood sucking vampires, I’m sorry, I mean the law firm, I stopped in for lunch on my last day and to tell Shiro I’d see him around. He wished me well, and when I returned to the city a couple of years later, his sushi joint was the first place I went. Not only did he remember my name, he also remembered my favorite, soba udon and shrimp tempura. We sat and talked about the old days and it was just like I never left. Since I took my job in the ‘burbs, once again, I don’t get back here as often as I’d like. But every time I walk in, I get that famous smile and damn good food. Like a lot of good things in this town, Tokyo Lunchbox may not be the fanciest place or the most expensive. But it's consistent and damn tasty and for me, that's what counts.

thefinn has had a long, tawdry love affair with soba that the world was never supposed to know about. Archives

A Different Kind of Family

Here in the good old U.S. of A. our society has grown away from the multi-generational agricultural family model. The Industrial Revolution had a lot to do with it, as did the growth of cities and a mobile society. By the 1950's, the ideal American household was Mom, Dad, the kids and the dog. Grandma and Grandpa lived somewhere else, and their entire purpose in life was to spoil the grandkids, in between shuffleboard games at their retirement community.

I have a different kind of family. It kind of evolved through tragedy and hardship. My mom was widowed at the start of my first semester in college. Dad died young - he was only 55. My two older sisters were married, and Mom had my seven year old kid brother. Fortunately, she was a nurse, so Dad dying didn't throw her into poverty, but she became a single working mother.baby jo.JPG

While I went through my four years of college, Mom sold the house and moved to New Hampshire - then came back to Vermont. My graduation present was getting knocked up during final exam week (what? I was stressed out and forgot my Pill for 2 days...). After spending my pregnancy living on welfare and doing my laundry in the sink with a washboard (try doing that around seven months worth of LARGE baby!), I moved in with Mom for the last month so I would (a) be with other people and (b) have access to a phone when the time came.

When Joy arrived, we became a three-generation household... except that Mom was still the MOM and we were her kids, plus a bouncing baby accessory. A few months later I went to work too, so we started edging toward two working moms and two kids - more partners than mother and child. That suddenly got cast in concrete a couple of years later when Mom screwed up the car payments and it got repossessed - the following day she handed me her bills, her checkbook, her bank statements and told me that she was done, it was my headache now. Whew. I suddenly was "Dad".

We got a divorce a year or so later, when my brother and my carping at each other got too much - she kicked Joy and I out. No big deal, I was more than ready for some space of my own. Finished another college degree and started on my career in computer system management. I lived in an apartment complex full of other single working moms, so we networked day care and all that good stuff. The single dad two doors down taught my kid how to ride a bike (I was totally useless - I went inside and told them to let me know when she had it or I needed to take her to the emergency room).

During that time my Mom and brother had moved to Florida. When the college I was working at and I came to a parting of the ways, I looked around and realized I'd have to move to get decent work. I opted to join Mom and my brother in Florida. That was 21 years ago.

So we again became a three generation household, with two working moms and a (now) adult working brother. Yeesh, for awhile we only had one car - those were the commutes from hell! Oh, yeah, and I got the damned bills handed back to me.jo and mom at nexus xmas party.JPG

After a couple of years my brother joined the Air Force and went away. My job turned into one of those 60 hour a week gigs, plus working at home. Mom really became my daughter's "mother" and I was the "father" of the house. I regret those years.

The final shift to me being the head of the household happend fifteen years ago, when my mom retired. I asked her what she wanted for a retirement gift, and she told me she wanted a washer and dryer, so she could do the laundry at home instead of me schlepping it to the laundromat every weekend. No problem! I'd always wanted a wife! It was great! She did the laundry, the cleaning and the cooking. I worked my ass off, paid the bills and did the shopping. Between us we raised my kid.

Then about 13 years ago the absolute craziness down there finally got to me after my kid got hurt during a riot at school, followed by a domestic violence shooting in our complex - I decided it was time to come home to Vermont. At least here we all know who the crazies are - they're our neighbors and relatives!

Mom still kept the homefires burning while Jo finished high school and I worked/finished my Master's degree. Then it was Jo working part time and going to college while I worked full time. Jo finished her degree, went away for a semester and then came home just in time for Mom's first illness... and then everything shifted again.

Mom's pneumonia that winter segued into her heart attacks and triple-bypass surgery the following summer. Jo quit her job to stay home with her grandmother. Then there was the stroke. We finally got help from the state to pay Jo to stay home with Mom so she wouldn't have to go into a home. Then she had stents and an arterial graft for a major anuerism in her belly. Then she started going blind. And then she developed Alzheimer's disease.

Over thirty years, I've gone from being my mother's daughter, to her house-partner, to her caretaker... at least that part's shared with my best friend (my daughter Jo) and my oldest sister, who came to help out a year and a half ago when Mom fell, and stayed because it had become too much for just us (for those of you who want a taste of hell, try being one of four adult women living in the same household!).grandmaruth.jpg

Mostly, I'm Mom's personal private shrink these days. I help her sort out the confused memories, listen to her depression-talk, make bad jokes to make her laugh, and try to find ways we can all make her life easier. One of my oil blends, for arthritis pain, helps her, so I massage her legs with that sometimes. Because she can't see and she's a fall risk, we have to go everywhere with her - including the bathroom. We help her dress, put in her teeth and prepare all her meals so they're either finger food or can be eaten with a spoon.

My mother has become my child. Last night she had a rough night (she just had some corrective surgery on her graft), so I pulled up a chair and slept next to her bed - just like I did with my six year old daughter when she was in the hospital years ago with pneumonia.

And when she passes, she has asked me to conduct her funeral. I'm an ordained minister, and she feels that I understand her spirit and her faith better than anyone else... and I will do it. It will be the last service I can do for my beloved friend, who not only raised me but helped me raise my other best friend.

Of course, being MY mother, she's threatened to haunt me if I don't take extra good care of her cats!!!!

Blessed Be!

Pat is the Uber Mom.

Archives

Never Say Never

The grad school life is a lonely and often boring one punctuated with moments of panic and anxiety. It is unlike the regular college scene, where young singles abound and beer kegs are around every corner. Rather, it is a grey area between student life and professional life and your peers are a bit older than they would have been in an earlier educational incarnation. They enter the environment with (seemingly) more ordered lives: they are often married, engaged or living with a significant other, and sometimes have children. This is a matter of extreme frustration to the straggling few of us who are unconnected and living in a new town and one in which I find myself now. On one hand, popeyeolive_1.gifI’d rather not date anyone in the same department because that could cause major drama. On the other, I am too old to date anyone who is either not old enough to drink or not old enough to know when not to drink. This makes the college pretty much off-limits for anything other than academic pursuits. The solution, then, lies with the townies.

A few days before the new year I found myself doing something that I swore over and over again I would never do, not in a million freaking years, not if my life depended on it, not if it was the last option on earth of meeting anyone...Well, you get it. That something is online dating.

It wasn’t exactly a New Year’s Resolution. I don’t make those. It was really more of a coincidence than anything else. I decided to be less afraid of public embarrassment (and hell, I’m telling everyone that reads this column, some of whom know me in real life) and rejection, and the online thing seemed like an easy option. After all, let’s face it: the worst thing that can happen in a bar, coffee shop or other venue is not that the girl in question might say “no.” The worst thing that could happen is that she will throw a drink in your face or her boyfriend will come out of the bathroom as you’re trying to chat the young lady up and proceed to beat the living hell out of you. I know, I tend to think in worst-case scenarios. Neither of these things has ever actually happened, but you know it could.

Everyone who uses an online dating service is there for a purpose, and it is not to make friends. I have friends, they probably have friends, so why shell out cash to make more friends? Dating online boils everything down to its essence. At the bottom of it all, everyone is looking for some sort of exchange of the more-than-friendly variety, and therefore no one really looks stupid. If I ask someone signed up on one of these sites to come check out my profile, she sure as hell can’t laugh at me for being there in the first place, now can she?

Popeye-a-date-to-skate.jpgOf course there are the worst case scenarios. She could be an axe murderess, her photograph may have gone through ten Photoshop filters before she posted it or she might be a hooker. This, of course, is no different than any other dating situation, though, and it’s why you always meet the person in public and in broad daylight a few times before even thinking about getting serious. Yes, I am a bit of a prude, but I still have both kidneys, thank you very much.

The problem with these little services, though, is that they put a person at the mercy of a computer. Computers are great tools but they are stupid. The computer that beat that one guy at chess is really no smarter than Forrest Gump. For example, Forrest Gump would not need to be told that there is more than one type of couch where he could sit his semi-retarded ass. By contrast, a computer only knows the difference between “couch” and “not couch.” A human being would have to program in variations on “couch” in order for the computer to recognize different couches as such. So it goes with online dating.

The computer could (you know, hypothetically) match me up statistically to a ninety-five percent compatibility rating with another person. The missing five percent is that this person would never date a smoker and I smoke a pack a day. Or that this person thinks popeyeolive_2.gif“open relationships” are fine while I would never go for such a thing. Or that this person wants a guy who pulls in over one hundred grand a year while my broke ass is living on frozen pizza and student loans. The computer is simply too stupid to know just how important these kinds of differences really are. Besides, even if the computer matches us up to one hundred percent (which I find statistically impossible, but I’m no math whiz,) who is to say that I want another version of myself anyway? One of me is more than this world really needs, and good lord I would probably strangle my own twin.

So after weeding out the nonsmokers and money grubbers on the first page of my future potential blushing brides, I emailed each with a more or less bland message that incorporated our shared interests. Basically I yelled out, “Hey, you, notice me!” to very little avail. My one hundred percenter and I exchanged a few messages before quickly becoming bored with one another. Finally I became so irritated that I went through the six or seven pages of possible matches, found someone that the computer ranked me as an eighty-three percent compatible with, and wrote out a nasty and sarcastic message about how stupid the computerized dating system was. She replied in kind, and yesterday we exchanged phone numbers.

To find out if she’s an axe murderer, check the LA Times later next week.

Philbrick always anticipates the worst case scenario and is sometimes pleasantly surprised. Except for that time he woke up in a bathtub full of ice... Archives

Open Mouth. Insert foot

We’ve all had moments in our lives where we open our mouths and spew forth something into the ether that can never be pulled back in. There are some us, like myself, who can shrug this off and say, “Fuck it, you know I’m an asshole and I actually meant that whole ‘I hope you get aids’ thing.” But most people don’t have the intestinal fortitude – which is a fantastic turn of phrase by the way – to own up to the dumb shit that they say and let it haunt them. Or there are people who stick their foot in their mouth in front of me and I refuse to let them live it down and assist in said verbal bowel movement haunting them for the rest of their natural life. The past two weeks have provided me with two of the greatest moments of this that I can ever remember.

Over the Christmas holiday I was allowed to join my fiancé’s family for the first time in almost five years. Aside from a bit of awkwardness it really was a fantastic visit and I enjoyed getting to know her side of the family. At one point in the weekend we were all sitting around drinking, which is something that was done in abundance, when my future father in law and I started making fun of his daughters ex-boyfriends. As the new, and one would hope PERMANENT, man in her life it is completely within my right to assault the character, looks and sexual orientation of all men who have preceded me. So my Father in Law and I are having a grand ole time bad-mouthing the exes and drinking our cocktails when my Mother in Law pipes up with this gem:

“Yes but (fiancé) and her ex-boyfriend would have had BEAUTIFUL children.”

foot-in-mouth-1199.jpg

All conversation stopped and the dozen or so people in the room just stared blankly at me. I can only assume that they were waiting for me to lose my cool or turn into some puddle on the floor writhing over an apparent lack of self worth. Me? Writh out of lack of self worth? I own a t-shirt that says Narcissist: I love myself and I’m better than you. So the question you must be asking yourself is what did I do? I downed my drank and stared at my Mother in Law and let her dig her own grave. She starts back tracking and trying to make up for what she said when she lets this second jewel fly:

“That’s not what I meant. I meant…Justin was a pretty boy and you, Travis, you’re a manly man….your children are going to be ...STURDY.”

So not only are her future grandchildren not going to be pretty but they’re going to be sturdy….I love my new family. I brought this up no less than six times the rest of that weekend and I plan on bringing it up every time I see her. At some point her guilt will get the best of her and I think I might score that X-Box 360 I’ve had my eyes on.

Not to be outdone by my mother in law, a co-worker of mine stuck his foot so far into his mouth I doubt he’ll ever recover. As a matter of fact it was two days ago that he verbally fucked himself and he avoids me in the hallway like I’m a leper.

You see my step mom has had brain cancer for a little over a year and a half and it progressively got worse and worse. Well most of the people in my office know my step mom and would occasionally stop me in the hall to talk about her, how she’s doing..what have you. Well on January 3rd my step mom finally succumbed to cancer and passed away. Now before you start doing the whole “Oh Travis we’re so sorry…” bit: I’m fine. But I was walking the hall of my office the other day when one of my superiors stopped and the following conversation took place:

Him: Travis if you need anything just let me know.

Me: Okay sir, Thanks.

Him: I mean things with your step mom are getting pretty bad right?

Long awkward pause

Me: Dude, she died last week.

And he wandered off to drown himself in the urinal in the bathroom. He, will also, never live this down because I think I might be able to get a pay raise out of that faux paus.

What about you people? Ever stuck your foot so far into your mouth that you had to have it surgically removed? Tell me about it.

Travis loves the taste of Converse on his tongue.

Archives

The Music of My Youth

Okay, it's a new year. No doubt, 2007 will see plenty of fantastic music, much of which I just might have an urge to write about. However, I've yet to hear any of it. At the moment, it's all the same stuff I was listening to in 2006. Come January 23rd, maybe I'll want to write about the new Shins album, but for now, I think I should buck the trend of looking to the future and instead go to the past.

The deep, dark past.

The past that is filled with terrible, embarrassing music.

It started in elementary school. I remember a crappy old tape player/radio that sat on the floor next to my bed. With this device, my habit of listening to music while falling asleep was born. Specifically, the song it was born with was "Like a Prayer" by Madonna. I listened to it time and time again, over and over, completely obsessed. I can't tell you why--I have no idea. But I loved it. No doubt it was a bad omen, and my following musical preferences bore that bad omen out.

When I wasn't listening to that song, I would often tune into my then-favorite radio station, Z100. It was the local crappy Pop station and played all kinds of top 40 type hits--mainstream Pop and R&B, basically. (By the way, do all cities have a horrid goddamn radio station called Z100? With the Morning Zoo, of course? Where is this rule, who made it, and how can I kill him?)

I expanded my love of shitty music listening to that station. mariahcarey.jpg Over time, my two favorite artists became . . . Mariah Carey and Boyz II Men. Yes, these two dominated my musical tastes. Her self-titled debut CD? Sheer brilliance, as far as I was concerned. Emotions? Fantastic. I listened to her albums over and over, completely losing myself in that terrible, terrible music.

Then there was Boyz II Men. Cooleyhighharmony? Sign me the hell up. Of course, their true masterpiece was II. "On Bended Knee," "Thank You," "Water Runs Dry" and, song of all songs, "I'll Make Love To You." How many times did I crank up that song when I was home alone and sing along to it, engulfed in the emotional significance and sophistication of that artistic masterpiece? I can't even say. I played that song and the album time and time again, though, and loved it every time.

At this point I'm in junior high and, yes, still listening to very shitty music. I would listen to Keith Sweat and TLC and LL Cool J, Janet Jackson and Seal, Gloria Estefan and, yes, I would still break out Madonna. Things didn't improve, either, as my taste evolved (which is really an inappropriate term). Do I need to even get into my phase with Sarah McLachlan and Jewel? It would probably be better to not talk about it.

Of course, at the time, many of my peers were listening to the same crap. There's something to be said about claiming the ignorance of youth. My brother would listen to the local alternative station and I always thought it was terrible, to the point of calling it "waste of hearing" music. If only I realized at the time what I would later think of my own listening habits. The alternative station didn't have a flawless line up, by any means, but it was about a thousand times better than the ridiculous crap I was listening to--and watching, with my high enjoyment of MTV, that bastion of nonsense.

I think it's fairly common for there to be that phase of listening to bad or mediocre music as a kid. You have to learn what is good and what isn't. boyz2men.jpg You have to be subjected to all the tame, mainstream bullshit that often passes for music until you eventually start to realize that there's a much larger musical world out there--one that doesn't involve superstars and media whores so much as struggling artists who simply dream of superstardom and media whoredom. Hell, even a few struggling artists who dream simply of making a decent living, putting some food on the table, and getting the chance to be screwed over by the music industry. You need to run any sense of musical decency into the ground and then, dejected and destroyed, give up on the entire music industry until that one, bright, shining day that you discover actual music--niches and small genres and independent artists and good major label artists and all the wheat that's sitting there, just wishing that the dominating, suffocating chaff would hurry up and fucking rot.

Of course, I didn't really start discovering the wheat until the joys of Napster, which I suspect managed to breathe new life into a stagnated music industry and foster the thriving independent scene that exists today. That's another column, though.

So it's confession time. What crappy, embarrassing music did you listen to in your youth? Or hell, yesterday? Let's hear it.

Joel still gets his groove on to Kurtis Blow

Archives

January 10, 2007

TAFC#1: 50 Best Fictional Bands - Part 3

Welcome back to the third installment of the newest new thing at Faster Than The World - The Almost Final Countdown.

TAFC is a new column that will appear almost every day. Basically, it's a continuing series of countdowns, lists, and things that have numbers on them and tell you what's the best and worst of something.fileartsmillivanilli.gif

What will happen is this: On Monday, the new category will be announced. The editors (or two of the four editors) will have their picks up for the category, so we start you out with either the first 10 or 20 of the list.

You guys know how to do this.

The first two installments are here and here for you to catch up on.

In case you miissed it, that is.

Think of us a VH1 without the ubiquitous presence of Ian Michael Black.

Sounds like fun, right? Not too confusing or anything? Good, because we are ready to roll on to Day 3 of this week's list.

These who have been nominated already are the following 20 bands so no need to nominate them again.

Spinal Tap
Dethklock
Everybody Gets Laid (the band from PCU)
Crucial Taunt (Cassandra's band from the Wayne's World series)
Coq Roq (the band from the Burger King Chicken Fries ad campaign)
The Rutles
Gidget and the Gories
The Banana Splits
Sonic Death Monkey (High Fidelity)
CB4
Billie and the Boingers (Bloom County)
The Queenhaters (SCTV)
The Darlings (Andy Griffith)
Alice Bowie (Cheech and Chong)
Rod Torfulson's Armada Featuring Herman Menderchuk (TKITH)
The Beets (Doug)
2ge+her (from the MTV show)
Arseface (from the comic book Preacher)
The Silver Platters (Brady Bunch)
MC Pee Pants (Aqua Teen Hunger Force)

According to your nominations, the new additions to the list are..........

Turtle takes care of the first five:

The Riverbottom Nightmare Band (Emmet Otter's Jugband Christmas)emmet otters.jpg
I remember that this show came out when Jim Henson basically owned everything on TV. He could do no wrong. So what the hell. Make a Christmas special about the an otter with Kermit narrating. What the hell. Put them in a swamp. Well, it worked. A group of swamp dwellers who liked to steal things made the cut in FTTW best fake bands poll.

God Bless Jim Henson

The Blues Brothers
Were they real or fake? One of the bands that caused controversy in this poll. Yes they went on tour and yes, they had a kickass band, but it was all based on a skit so I don't know. All I know is that these guys had other things they were doing and the Blues Brothers wasn't their primary focus so we considered them a fake band. I don't know. But, it was our call and we made it.

Jake and Elwood. The Blues Brothers.

Plus they broke a lot of things when they filmed it, so that was cool.

Wyld Stallions
These guys were cool. They sucked, but they were cool. Another band in the long list of "we are going to make it" types. But somehow, they did make it. And I guess they were so good, they took over the world. Which is pretty cool for being in a band. Plus Ginger Lynn was always hanging around fucking someone's dad. And lord knows, she needs the work.

Cold Slither from G.I. Joecoldslither.jpg
Devious band tempting us to join Venom with their rock and roll beats.

We're cold slither
You'll be joining us soon
A band of vipers
playing our tune

With an iron fist
and a reptitle hiss
we shall rule!

This is the kind of music that Tipper Gore warned you about.

Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem
What couldn't you say about these guys. They all had their own styles and they all just grooved. See, if this band was on a TV show today, you know they would show them getting stoned behind the stage before they went on. Well, maybe Dr. Teeth would be drinking bourbin and maybe Animal would be smoking speed but the rest of them would all be stoned. Specially Flyod Pepper, the stoned ass bass player. That guy was out of it. Janice just gets annoying after awhile but she still grooves along. All in all a steady band that held the show together. Fuck Scooter.

Michele gets the next five:


Eddie and the Cruisers
I gotta be honest with you. I hate this band and I hate this movie, much as I hate anything and everything that resembles Bruce Springsteen in even the tiniest way. But I won't let that stand in the way of the integerity of this poll. So here they are.josiep.jpg In case you don't know, Eddie and the gang are from the self-titled movie about a guy who may or may not have been written to appear really similar to that Springsteen guy. He gets to hate the big time or something and disappears. Or gets lost. Or dies. I don't remember. But here's a clip of the band doing Tender Years.

B-Sharps
Gotta love Homer. He's done everything, been everywhere, met everyone. Here, he is part of a barbershop quartet with Barney, Principal Skinner, Apu. Chief Wiggum figured in there somewhere too. The B-Sharps had some short lived worldwide fame and won a Grammy and had some merchandise with their name on it, including poisonous funny foam.

School of Rock
I have no problem telling you I really dug this movie. Sure, it was predictable and cliched and kind of cheesy in a fromage sort of way. But sometimes on a lazy Saturday afternoon in the middle of winter, that's just what you need. Some School of Rock. One of the only Jack Black roles I can tolerate for more than twenty minutes.

School of Rock on youtube

Josie and the Pussycats
This is where the whole furry thing started. Really. I blame Josie and her seductive tail and animal skin outfit. This is where guys started thinking "Man, I'd really like my woman to have a tail." And where girls started thinking "I wonder what it's like to be a cat?" The downfall of American society followed.

Josie and the Pussycats theme song.

Timmy and the Lords of the Undeworld
TIMMAH! TIMMAH! TIMMAH! TIMMAH!

So those are the next ten nominations. Keep nominationg and looking back at wht is already up there. We have 20 more open slots till the big vote comes in on Friday and we can sort this all out.

Top to bottom.

The top 50 Facke Bands in order as decided by you.

But, we still need 20 more nominations!

If we missed yours, they will probably make it and just haven't been put in yet, but to make sure we get them, post them again.

Sequels Part One – The Decent Ones

I like horror sequels. Okay, I rarely know what I’m talking about and I’ll easily admit to that. But come on, they don’t all suck. Anyone that says so is the worst kind of purist. The number of shitty sequels is obviously higher than the number of good ones, but the good ones are out there. Let’s go look for some…… but keep in mind that I like a lot of crap.

I guess I’m not a purist.

Return Of The Living Dead 2

Make no mistake, this one isn’t as good as Return Of The Living Dead. Some of the humour isn’t as funny as the first, and it’s even more juvenile and silly. It’s just not as original as the original; of course, as a sequel it’s almost self explanatory so why complain, you know? Some parts are hilarious, so it all evens out. And it’s got some decent carnage as well. That’s all we need here.

It’s faithful to the first one. Really fucking faithful. It has some actors from the first movie, playing different characters in similar roles, even saying some of the same lines. That part in particular really appeals to me. Like Frank and Freddie, or Ed and Joey: “Watch your tongue boy, if you like this job.” “Like this job??” Now that’s good times.

This movie doesn’t take itself seriously at all, and it’s cool to see a movie that does that while still trying to make something worth watching. Too many movies weren’t taken seriously by the makers – at least I don’t think they were serious – and the result is a shitload of movies that nobody is interested in. Good sounding titles that waste our time and money.

saw 222.JPGSaw 2

What, were you expected to be as surprised by the second as you were by the first? Hang on, have I berated you for that already? Sorry.... but you’re only going to get the atmosphere and the same kind of storyline; you’re never going to get to see the first one again any more than you can unwatch it.

But number 2 wasn’t bad, was it? I’ve only seen it once but I’ve been meaning to give it another look. Yes, I did think it was weird that a victim from the first one would be in the second one. As soon as I saw that chick I figured something wasn’t right. Easy enough to assume she might be in on it, but you’d like to think the movie had something a little more twisted and original in store. The biggest surprise was Donnie Wahlberg, who’s always going to be a dancing fool to me. He can act and that’s great, but he was a fucking New Kid On The Block. I don’t want to get past that. I can’t wait until he’s 60 or 70 and I can mock him for being an old man who used to be a New Kid. Who cares if I’m poor and feeble and have a bag full of urine and/or feces attached to my hip while he’s rich and tanned and eating more than cat food AND more than once a day; I’ll still have my integrity, baby, and that tastes great.

I still haven’t seen the third one. Soon enough. It’s not going anywhere.

Zombie

Ha ha, suckers. Zombie is the American release name for the Italian movie Zombi 2, which was made as kind of a sequel to Dawn Of The Dead. Gotcha.

Zombie possesses one of the most charming and senseless attributes of horror sequels: it’s got fuck-all to do with the first one. Well, there are zombies in it, and a group of people trying to escape them, but if that makes a sequel then I’d have to deduce that EVERY ZOMBIE MOVIE IS A SEQUEL TO THE FIRST ONE EVER MADE. And that can’t be right. In any case this movie is better than a stick in the eye. I’ve got a friend who knows this guy who uses the internet, and he told my friend that the movie is easily available for download online in torrent form, but that he only recommends it if my friend couldn’t find the movie in a video store (he said hey, we all work for a living, you know?). Then he started talking about the MPwhatever Association being a bunch of good guys like the rest of us who could hardly afford a decent lunch, and my friend walked away without making any sudden movements.


The Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2

A lot of people dislike this one but I say fuck em, I like it; I wouldn’t bother drawing comparisons to the first one myself because I find that to be a useless and frustrating practice. Every horror movie has to be held on its own merits….. Holy shit, I can hardly imagine avoiding Zombi 2 because it was a sequel. The dude in TCM2 who picks the skin off his head and eats it is just beautiful, man. That’s really good stuff. And it’s got Dennis Hopper too.dennis-hopper-mug-taos.jpg

Dennis Hopper. I don’t know what the hell to make of that guy. He can be a great actor – he is a great actor - but he’s picked an awful lot of crappy roles over the years, hasn’t he? A lot of….. um, has anyone seen Riders Of The Storm? That was a fucking weird movie. I did watch it on acid, but I watched it on acid because I heard it was weird and trip-conducive, so I know it wasn’t just me. Wait, what am I talking about? Right, Dennis. Anyone seen that documentary about the making of Apocalypse Now, when He was all coked up and being interviewed? Holy shit dude, he was senseless. Wait, what am I talking about? Right, Dennis.

Dennis Hopper is fucked up. His character in TCM2 gives us the stupidest murder-suicide ever put on film. What does he do, you ask? Well, he finds out where Leatherface et al are hanging out, drives over there, makes his way into the basement and starts chopping at the support beams and rafters while screaming that he’s going to take the whole place down. Dennis, Dennis….. don’t scream while you’re killing people (with a chainsaw) in a manner that’s hardly quick and effective. Also, and far more importantly, don’t fucking kill yourself if you don’t have to? Ever hear of C-4? Ever hear of ammonium nitrate? That Cookbook written by someone who had no interest in food? Jesus, Dennis, your character (who was named Lefty, by the way, a flag for idiocy if there ever was one) is a douchbag. But his character just doesn’t care anymore. The movie wouldn’t be the same without him. Every time you tell someone on your screen not to go in there, you really want them to go in there. Dennis went in there.

Shit, I’ve hardly started on this topic. I covered TCM2 but not Halloween 2. I only talked about the twos, nothing further. So okay, maybe the new title is Sequels Part One (A) – The Decent Ones. Maybe it isn’t. Gimme some good horror sequels or else I’ll give you more good sequels later, and don’t think I’m bluffing. My threats are real. And if you don’t want to give a good sequel then give me a good Hopper movie.


Dan realizes the power of The Hopper and is in awe of it.

Archives

10 Memorable Moments with James Brown

1. New Haven Arena, 1968 or 1969. About 7 of us cram into a subcompact for the 200-mile roundtrip drive from Bard College to the New Haven Arena to see James Brown, not to mention our other favorites: Bobby Byrd, Vicki Anderson and Miss Marva Whitney. The show closer— "Please, Please, Please," with James Brown escorted from the stage, then shedding his cape and returning to the microphone— seems to go on forever, and even after the lights go up, we remain, silent, astonished, hoping that he will come back one more time. The difference between James Brown and Elvis Presley is that no announcer would ever say: "James Brown has left the building." And he never did.

2. A phone conversation with James Brown while he was in jail in 1989 for his misbehavior a year earlier. Patched from the jail through his Augusta, Ga., office, to my phone at home, James Brown says he feels good and insists on speaking only about "the positive."

3. "Papa's Got A Brand New Bag" on top 40 radio, summer, 1965. Remember: This is the the season of "(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction," "Like A Rolling Stone," "Mr. Tambourine Man," "Eve of Destruction," "I Can't Help Myself" and "The Same Old Song," "Ticket To Ride" and "Help!" "Back in My Arms Again," "Help Me Rhonda" and "California Girls." It may be the greatest, most competitive battle-of-the-bands, ever. James Brown wins it with a song that invokes the great, near-great and forgotten dance manias of the previous 5 years: the Jerk, the Fly, the Mashed Potatoes, the Twist, the Boomerang...The Boomerang?

jamesbrown.jpg4. Fall, 1968. A trip to a thrift shop in Kingston, N.Y. yields mint condition singles "Ain't That A Groove," "Money Won't Change You," and "Bring It Up" which immediately go into heavy rotation on the afternoon dance parties emanating from the first floor Stone Row dorm room I share with T.V. Tom Vickers and the drunken guru known as "the Night Owl." 20 years before Prozac revolutionizes psychotherapy, "Bring It Up" is shown to provide temporary relief from clinical depression.

5. The only other job I ever wanted: Bobby Byrd—I'm pretty sure it's Bobby Byrd—chanting "get on up" on "Get Up (I Feel Like Being A) Sex Machine."

6. James Brown's conversational vocal riff on "Ain't That A Groove": "Looka here. I gotta tell ya. Haha, dig this. This'll kill ya." He sings a few words, much less memorable. Then he delivers the real killer: "Hit me band." The band hits him.

7. The fade on "It's A Man's Man's Man's World." Without love, a man is "lost in the wilderness. He's lost, in bitterness."

8. The horn section, leading with the downstroke, on "Give It Up Or Turnit A Loose."

9. More than 25 years into the hip-hop era, I'm still waiting to hear a message as clear, direct and useful as "Don't Be A Drop-Out" and "Say It Loud (I'm Black and I'm Proud)." Not to mention as functionally funky.

10. Scientific evidence of a supreme being; or, proof that this planet has been visited by superior beings, from another planet. No human being, not to mention group of human beings, could have possibly recorded "I Got You (I Feel Good)." The human race simply has not evolved that far.

Wayne Robins is a former music critic for Newsday, Creem, Village Voice and Rolling Stone. He is currently an editor for Billboard and is working on a book about the cultural history of rock music.

Guest Author Archives

The Men

Sometimes, I go a whole week and find nothing really to write about. This last one was one of those weeks. So I’m going to introduce you to The Men. These are guys who have been very important to me in terms of my growth, my style, and my attitude.

About playing bass.

John Taylor: One of the Taylors from Duran Duran. The Good Looking One. (If you have a different opinion, blast away in the comments). Yeah, I was a Duran Duran fan. Big Time. On further retrospection, though, I find I’m actually a John Taylor fan. He had a fantastically crisp tone without sounding overly treble-y. He cut a mean groove without being over-the-top. Just listen to “Planet Earth”. Tell me that song doesn’t make you want to shake your ass. I dare ya.jackbruce.jpg

Jack Bruce: This is the guy playing the bass in that “Crossroads” song. You know, the one everyone says is a Clapton song. That was Cream. That was Jack Bruce, Ginger Baker and Eric Clapton. Eric Clapton’s first attempt at songwriting was with Cream. “Anyone For Tennis”. Hand me a barf bag please because it simply did not get any better than that. These guys were all ego, because they were the best there was at the time, so they had every right to call themselves “the Cream”. Of the crop.

Jack Bruce is one of those freaks called “multi-instrumentalists”. A classically trained cello player who seemed to be able to play anything you put in his hands. A clear, beautiful tenor. He played the thundering mite, a Gibson EB3, in most of the Cream songs. Jack isn’t much taller than five feet, if I remember right. I think his Warwicks are taller than him. But his bass playing was fifty fucking feet tall, loaded with unstable dynamite and someone was lighting a match nearby. Jack is still recording, still touring, and still writing incredible music.

Mike Watt: Well, I don’t know where to start with this guy. His bitchenness shines on the sea that surrounds San Pedro. His music plants itself in my head when I go home to visit. He’s been taking the weirdness of San Pedro out of the air there for over twenty years, close to thirty, and then spewing it back to the world as music. His playing is the supertankers docking at L.A. harbor, it’s the tunnels of a decommissioned military base. It’s Summerland Avenue, Averill Park, the Maritime Museum and Warehouse Number One. The gray of foggy skies and air carriers, dilapidated fishing boats and eastern orthodox cemeteries. Where everything comes in and everything leaves again.

Doe_t.jpgJohn Doe: I didn’t really gain an appreciation for John until a couple of years ago. I’ve been an X fan since ’84 or so, but the music was a whole entity then and I didn’t spend much time listening to the parts very much. I was listening to “Hungry Wolf”, recently, and thinking, damn he was singing and playing that fuckin weird ass Bo-Diddly beat thing with the crash at the chorus. And I was duly impressed, because I can’t play and count to 4 at the same time. But I always liked his sort of dusty, lost and wandering persona, like he just got off his horse after walking the entire course of the Mississippi from Bemidji to New Orleans. Reading about X and John Doe when I was younger made me realize how important a wide and varied taste in music was.

The Guy From KC & The Sunshine Band: I don’t know this guy’s name. I’ve never looked it up. And this one is also a more recent “discovery”. Sure, I loved KC as a kid because it was fun, mindless stuff to bounce off the walls to. Who didn’t? Disco was king when I was 7, and regardless of what anyone says, disco is the perfect music for seven-year-olds. This is another “one day i was listening to the radio when...” kind of things. Yes, I was, and “Boogie Shoes” came on. I was struck by the sheer badassedness of the groove in this song and it’s absence of flash. This bass line says “Fool, you rock to this and it’s all you need”. The rest of the KC catalog is just as grabby (ok except for “Please Don’t Go”). It’s funk authority without an iota of the dreaded slap style. All you slappers out there, you WISH you could lay the shit down like this guy did.

Tijuana Street Dog

In 1999, we moved to a rather spacious house in Spring Valley, CA. The house was thousand square feet, two-story and had a nice big back yard with a nice tall fence. It’s the biggest house we’ve lived in to date.

But the yard and the house were missing something. We needed a dog.

My boss, Peggy, knew of a young dog that was in need of a home. The dog had just had a litter of puppies and she was at the San Diego Humane Society waiting for a family to adopt her. Peggy brought the dog to her house so my family and I could meet the dog. Her name was Goldie.

We decided that Goldie was our dog. We took her home the next evening after filling out all of the paperwork and paying the appropriate fees. As soon as we pulled into our driveway, Goldie jumped out of the car and ran into the house. A few minutes later, my husband needed to go out to the car to get her stuff, and I told him he should let the dog go outside with him. He argued with me that it wasn’t a good idea, that she didn’t know us yet and wasn’t familiar with the neighborhood. I talked him into letting Goldie go outside with him, he didn’t need the leash and she’d be fine.

She immediately took off down the street as fast as she could. My husband immediately got into the car and drove down the street, around the corner, out to the main road looking for Goldie. Nothing. We thought we had lost her forever. Marty said she was probably just a rescued street dog, maybe from Mexico and that we’d probably never see again. We shouldn’t have let her outside without her leash; I was wrong.

Hours later, Goldie made her way back to the house. She decided I was the alpha female of the house and since that first day that she took off, she’s never too far from my side. Wherever I go in the house, Goldie is right there – she waits outside the door while I’m in the bathroom, she follows me into the kitchen, follows me outside, and sleeps under the bed. She hasn’t taken off like she did that first night again.

Goldie is a part of the family and only fitting that I take her portrait.

The other day a friend asked how many pictures I had to take to get a good shot, so I thought I’d also include a “proof sheet” which shows all the images I had to take to get an image with which I was happy. That’s the beauty of digital – instant gratification. The last shot I took ended up being the best – in focus, composition and emotion. The picture I chose had the best of all three elements – especially the look on her face, which is such a perfect representation of Goldie.

Next week I may try some color shots. Maybe. I prefer black and white over color, but I am curious what the new camera will do on the color setting.

goldiebig.jpg

goldie.jpg

Shawna is all about the instant gratification.

Archives

Mark Twain Conquers The Cockneys

As everyone in my family knows, I'm a big fan of the Lord of the Rings. In fact, I devour just about anything Tolkien related. Fortunately, it's the only Fantasy series I enjoy -- all others are a pale, generic shadow of the original and best. Oh gee, a dark wizard is threatening the land again. I guess we have to depend on a young person, along with their Dwarven and Elvish allies, to defeat the mean wizard and restore peace to the land. Yeah. Between Lord of the Rings and Star Wars, I think all the bases have been covered.

Anyway, I got the NPR dramatization of the Lord of the Rings for Christmas, and while I'm sure they did their best, it's really lacking, especially in the voice department. I know I'm being unfair towards it, especially in light of the recent movies and the excellent BBC radio drama, but I think they could've done better. It was produced in 1979, but that's no excuse. The Star Wars Radio Drama, perhaps the best ever made, was produced in 1981 and far exceeds the LOTR in every way.

It's the voice acting in this production that really drags it down. Most of the voice actors sound as if they're reading their lines right off the script instead of acting out the words, while others are horribly miscast. I imagined how it must've sounded to someone who knew nothing about LOTR...

In some far away land, a ring has been found by charming Cockneys. Some old guy found this ring a long time ago and now he's having a party. Samuel Clemens appears and tells the guy to give up the ring, because it doesn't belong to him. The ring bears an inscription reading, "One ring to rule them all. One ring to find them. One ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them." When you put the ring on, you disappear. It's obviously someone's wedding ring.

The old guy leaves town and Samuel Clemens tells Frodo, who lived with the old man, to take the ring to the Elves. Frodo decides to bring along his mongoloid pal who tends to spray it instead of saying it. After all, someone gotta carry all the crap. The two bump into a lesbian couple, Mary and Pippin. Mary, who sounds like Peppermint Patty after two packs of cigarettes and a bottle of Jagermeister, is obviously the bull in the relationship. Pippin is played by Eliza Doolittle and won't trouble ya for a bit of pipeweed, guv'nuh. The four decide to go on together, though why Peppermint Patty and Eliza come along is a mystery. Since Frodo's retarded friend keeps calling him "Dear" and refers to his "soft arms", maybe they think they've found kindred spirits.

rockintomordor.jpgAnyway, they eventually make it to Riverdale, where the Reverend Jim Ignatowski, lately suffering from a stroke, holds court. Everyone from New York to East California is assembled to hear him speak. In an uncomfortable and awkward speech, he finally manages to tell the assembled guests that this guy's wedding ring needs to be destroyed, because the chick this guy was married to was a real bitch and he's better off without her, but the guy can't let go, so he's continually looking for his ring so he can pretend it's like the good old days. Borimir wonders if he can't take the ring and pawn it. After all, one does not simply rock into Mordor. Sam Clemens says no and launches into a humurous tale of Elves and Dwarves roughing it in the Gray Havens. He also declares the Dwarves to be the missing link between man and ape. A racial slur is used to provide local color.

After a pity laugh, the group decides to do the obvious thing and chuck the ring into a volcano. Though there are big friggin' eagles to fly them there, they decide to walk. And so they walk. A lot. They try to climb a mountain, but Samuel Clemens, who made the decision to come this way, suddenly declares that it's up to the Ringbearer to stay or to go back. Only Elven eyes could really see how quickly he passed the buck. Frodo decides to do the obvious thing and go under the mountain.

The group goes under the mountain. The place looks like the aftermath of a Metallica concert. Bones and beer bottles litter the ground, and the distinct stench of urine permeates the air. Borimir feels right at home. Suddenly, the cast from East Enders appears and chases them to a bridge where Sam Clemens fights the ghost of Horatio Alger. Both plummet to their deaths. Everyone's sad for 30 seconds and moves on.

Eventually, the group splits up, with Frodo and his gay retarded manservant going off to find someplace that will recognize their civil union. The two lesbian hobbits are captured by a bunch of East Enders, who debate whether or not to eat them. Goblins like pork above all things. Second only to pork are Hobbits, who taste like Canadian bacon. The Goblins want to eat the Hobbits, but the Uruk-Hai are kosher and disapprove of that sort of thing. A fight breaks out and the two lesbians go hang out with the trees. They eventually hook back up with the rest of the group, but they're fairly boring and so their tale ends here.

Meanwhile the human, the elf and the dwarf are surprised to see Sam Clemens is alive and well, only now he goes by the name of Mark Twain. After relating a humorous story about the giant jumping balrog of Caradhras County, the group decides to save the world. Mark Twain coordinates the fight against the East Enders and eventually defeats them through a deadly combination of homespun wit and incisive social commentary. Meanwhile, Frodo decides he wants to marry his idiot servant, but the ceremony is interrupted by a crack fiend who mugs Frodo and takes the ring. Luckily, they're inside an active volcano and Frodo pushes the crack fiend into the liquid hot magma. The ring is destroyed and everyone's happy, except the guy who owned the ring. He goes all emo and decides to kill himself to Linkin Park. Everyone else is relieved because they never really liked the guy anyway, him being all moody and dark and all. I mean, the only damned thing you'd hear in Mordor all day is the Cure being played over and over again. It was a real depressing scene that not even the wry humor of Mark Twain could penetrate. With Sauron gone, peace returns to the land as the romantic pop rock stylings of Chicago once again echo amongst the hills and dales of this idyllic green country. "Oooh-ooh-oooh girl, baby please don't go..."

That's what listening to the Radio Drama was like. If you're into this sort of thing, do yourself a favor and get the BBC version. The production values are much better, plus it served as a major stylistic influence for the movies. It also helps that everyone in it is actually British, instead of Americans pretending to be Cockneys. Oh, and Gandalf doesn't sound like Mark Twain, either. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.

Paul isn't really sure what's in that pipe, but he's willing to share.

Archives

Houseguests - The Other White Meat

Today's guest writer is Lovemonkey. According to her blog, she's a single, divorced, widowed woman with obvious and completely understandable identity issues. She has cats, candles and a tendency to overindulge in the use of parenthesis. And in this editor's humble opinion, she's hella funny. Enjoy.

-F

Way Too Long Introduction

Because it's that time of year, and/or because I've been talking a lot about this lately, I will write about houseguests, even though it is a difficult subject for me considering all I've been through and my condition and the fact I think I'm coming down with the bird flu. Or Crones Disease. Or something.

Anyway. Houseguests. Thoughts of people arriving at my door with a suitcase makes me start twitching uncontrollably. You see, other people's guests arrive with an overnight bag, while my guests tend to bring steamer trunks.

Trying to Justify my Disdain for Houseguests

I live in a small space and I've lived in small spaces for - well forever. But my cramped quarters never stop the overnight guests from arriving uninvited. They are used to small spaces, you know, like the ones on their credit card limits, places way too small to accomodate a hotel charge of $130 a night. Most of my visitors are family and well, what are you going to do - say no? No. No no's for family. Ok. But every once in a while you say a yes or you don't say a no when you know you should say no to non-family members. No, no, no, fuck no to be exact.

Like the time I didn't say no to the husband-at-the-time's- friend-I-had-only-met-once and his new-internet-girlfriend-who-owned-the-online-sex-toy-shop. Uh huh. I know. I win the Dufus of the Year award, thank you all so much I don't know what to say this is such an honor. Anyway Almost Complete Stranger and his girlfriend pulled into the driveway in the pickup truck, and I knew I had made a truly horrible mistake. Being alive I mean.

International House Guests, the other white meat.
mullet.jpg

You're going to think I'm making this up, because how can anyone be so Northern Canadian but I'm not kidding, she got out of the pickup truck and she had a mullet.

They came in immediately taking up more room than I had imagined and I tried to find some extra space for them - yes them and their several trunks. She immediately started talking about her online sex shop and didn't stop talking about it until she was getting in the truck to head home. In particular she wanted to talk (with my husband at the time) about her website - get his help with it, which it turns out was the whole point of the visit. Ok. I was happy to go into the kitchen (alone) to cook something. When I came back to check on the progress not much had changed. They were still sitting in on the same sofa and chair too small for their bigger than I imagined bodies talking. Then my husband at the time said something truly terrifying like

"Internet Girlfriend writes too. Maybe you can let her read some of your poetry?"

You know, you gotta love John Hughes. I mean even if you think his movies are silly pieces of crap, which I don't because I'm twelve, you have to admit, every once in a while you wish you could put a cool wacky soundtrack to your life, you know, like he did for his characters. At this moment, as the words were leaving my huband-at-the-time's mouth, I remembered the scene in Sixteen Candles when Molly Ringwald's grandmother suggests she take Long Duck Dong to the school dance. You know, not so much the gong noise, but the way her mouth dropped open and then she realized it was opened, so she closed it quickly. yeah, that's what I did. And then I said,

"No."

Survival Tactics (or as I lovingly refer to them) - Plan B

I went back to cooking, somewhat relieved that I admitted to myself early on that I was not going to enjoy this so why even try. All that was left to do now was to figure out how I was going to spend as little time all cooped up with these guys as possible. I planned activities while I pretended to listen to Internet Girlfriend relate the story of her former abusive relationship and how she had met Almost Complete Stranger on the internet and that they were going to get married as soon as she was divorced. (See, I was listening!!!) I planned activities while Internet Girlfriend decided my futon wasn't going to work with her bad back and all and proceded to take the cushions off my sofa and put them under the futon mattress. I planned some more activities while I listened to Almost Complete Stranger snore louder than I thought humanly possible at 2:oo am, while at the same time found myself strangley relieved to hear the snoring because earlier in the night I heard what I really hoped I didn't really hear coming from the direction of where Almost Complete Stranger and Internet Girlfriend were um, "sleeping."

mermaid lighter.jpgI shared my plans with all at the breakfast table the next morning as I sat across from Internet Girlfriends tits. Yeah, the girls were making their appearance underneath a too-flimsy-for-mixed-company-before-ten am nighty. Sidenote: mullets don't look any better in the morning. I didn't get much of a response to my activity schedule since Internet Girlfriend was showering my husband with gifts - a fuzzy rabit with a penis keychain and a brass mermaid cigarette lighter with light up tits and a fiery Whohah. Yeah, you heard me, flames came shooting out of her scaley crotch. They all pissed themselves laughing. I considered suicide. Again. Something very quick, I concluded.

I dragged everyone anywhere that wasn't my place all day long, feeling good about crossing one more day of their stay off the calendar. That night they made an announcement that they just wanted to "hang out" tomorrow. Yeah, I'm not kidding they said "hang out." Hey I guess that makes sense - you travel to somewhere you've never been, travel to another country and what you naturally want to do is spend all your time "hanging out" in a small overcrowded second floor walk up. Yeah, that seems about right.

So I did what I normally do in these situations. What anyone would do, really. I cried. I went in the kitchen to wash dishes and I called my sister and I whispered into the phone something like I can't stand these people anymore and I cried.

God Took Pity Upon Me

No. I'm not pulling the God card. I did not give up on this story and decide to pick a cheap quick way to end it. It really happened. God answered my prayers. Ok, I don't know if I prayed really. I mean there was no down on your knees stuff, but when I went to bed that night I said something like dear fucking god please make this stop. Or something. And at 3:00 am, a miracle. The miracle of birth to be exact. Internet Girlfriend's daughter (yes there are offspring) gave birth. See how this mullet thing gets out of control? Anyway, the next day they were sorry they had to cut their visit short but they really had to go. And oh isn't that a shame, but congratulations on the new baby and have a safe trip back - goodbye! I said as I stood in the driveway waving, waving, waving, shooing them away until they were safely out of sight.

Moral of the Story
Just Say No. No to mullets, pick up trucks, fat chicks in see-through, rabits with erections and fire shooting crotches. Simply put, say no to houseguests


Lovemonkey needs an "Unwelcome" mat.

Guest Author Archives

My Favorite Books of 2006 — Part Two

Once again, this Imbibe column would normally be about some form of alcohol, but I'm instead talking books, as it is one of my other great loves.  Before, I gave you part one of my favorite books read in 2006 and so now I offer up the much-anticipated, much-heralded, and sure-to-be-largely-ignored part two.  Just to again clarify, these books weren't necessarily released in 2006—they're just the books I most enjoyed that I actually read in 2006.

One quick note before I begin.  In penance for this not being about alcohol, I'm actually drinking an 18.7 ounce bottle of Samuel Smith Oatmeal Stout.  Thus, if you have nothing to say about my book writing, feel free to just let me know what your favorite stout is.

Now, on with the books.

history.jpg
A People's History of the United States
- Howard Zinn

And so begins the nonfiction.  I read this right at the beginning of the year and it ended up being a fascinated book.  Zinn is upfront with his agenda right at the start of the book, making it clear that this history would be told from the point of view of average people and would shy away from people in powerful positions.  As such, it's a great reflection on the struggles the general American populace has endured over the course of U.S. history.

Zinn's an excellent writer.  History is one subject that I'm not nearly as familiar with as I should be, so it's been nice to find books that actually make the events of our past interesting, as opposed to pretty much every history text book I used throughout junior high and high school.  It's also very interesting reading about certain events I already had some basic knowledge of, but from the standpoint of the common worker, or the oppressed, and so on—rather than the more official version typically learned in school.

One of the most interesting aspects of the book is Zinn's recurring assertion that the political process is often used to channel rebellious and revolutionary energy, sinking it into a system that is rigged to satisfy the masses with small, incremental changes, thus avoiding larger and more drastic ones.  It's a somewhat bleak viewpoint—which makes it all the more interesting that Zinn ultimately ends the book on an optimistic note.

cosmos.jpgThe Fabric of the Cosmos - Brian Greene
Greene's first book was The Elegant Universe, which was a popular exploration of Super String Theory that served as the basis for a PBS special.  I haven't read that book yet, though I do own it.  The Fabric of the Cosmos does deal with String Theory, but it also serves as a more general explanation of the entire field of physics.  Obviously, that's a lot of information to cover, so a 600 page book simply isn't going to give a comprehensive explanation of the field of physics.  It does, however, do a damn good job of giving a general overview that is fairly understandable, even if you aren't familiar with physics.

Physics is probably one of the areas of study I'm most fascinated with.  When you start getting into the activities of very small scale objects—protons, neutrons, quarks and the such—the physical world becomes fascinating and bizarre.  Similarly, when you start to look at things on a huge scale—as in, the scale of the entire universe, or the speed of light—the physical world again becomes strange and fascinating.  Simply put, we live in an intoxicating, mysterious world and the day-to-day physics we experience are only a small part of the full story.  Greene tries to tell the rest of that story and scores a direct hit, writing a book that makes the more strange and bizarre aspects of physics surprisingly accessible.  Some of the experiments that he details in the book are shocking and exciting, and will make you look at the world in a different way.  If you have any interest in physics, I strongly recommend this book.

lolita.jpg
Lolita
- Vladimir Nabokov

Last week, I wrote that, as a writer, Haruki Murakami sometimes depresses me due to his sheer talent.  Well, let's go ahead and add Nabokov to that list.  Lolita is an amazing novel, with some of the most beautiful language I've ever encountered.  The book is just lyrical, compelling, completely gorgeous even as it deals with a disturbing subject.  In fact, Nabokov does an amazing job of skating a fine line between making the reader almost understand Humbert Humbert's attraction to Lolita due to his own delusions while also keeping it clear that he is delusional, sees the girl only how he wants to see her, and is supremely fucked up.  It's a hell of a trick.

Once Lolita runs away from Humbert, I would say the novel starts to go downhill.  It veers in some directions that just aren't nearly as strong as the first part of the book—though it in no way ruins the novel.  Ultimately, though, this novel's strength does not lie in the plot as much as it does in the simple beauty and lyricism of Nabokov's use of words.  He's a genius, without question.

loudclose.jpg Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close - Jonathan Safran Foer
Jesus.  Like pretty much everyone, I was greatly affected by the World Trade Center attack.  Pretty much, it was like a kick in the balls.  But, ultimately, it was across the country.  I didn't know anyone directly affected by the attacks.  I didn't lose anyone.  For me, the pain of that day faded.

For those in New York, though—well, I really can't imagine.  Those who saw it, who experienced it, who lost friends or family in it.  Or even those living in New York who simply had to endure the barrage of funerals, the missing person posters, the countless stories—it seems like it must still be a dark shadow over the city, always there at least in some small, if not large, sense.

This novel takes place with 9/11 as a constant, dominant theme.  The story involves a nine year old named Oscar whose father died in the terrorist attacks.  Determined to find out more about his father's life and death, he starts traveling the city attempting to find out more about a key he finds in a vase that belonged to his father.

The story's not about Oscar's search, of course, but more about the terrorist attacks and how they affected people.  It's about loss and love and family, about death, about the extreme horror of that day.  Ultimately, while the book is often entertaining and funny, it's also heartbreaking.  It's a brutal, emotional, exhausting book.  Oscar is so well-drawn and fleshed out, that you really do feel that you know him by the end of the book.  That's tough, too, because he goes through a hell of a lot.  This is easily the most emotional, affecting book I read in 2006 and as a work of fiction reflecting back on the effects of September 11, it's an incredible accomplishment.

weather.jpg
The Weather Makers
- Tim Flannery

We end on another nonfiction book.  However, appropriately, this is also a book that actually did come out in 2006.  It's about global warming by an Australian scientist and it's a fascinating, frightening, and ultimately optimistic (if only vaguely) read.  Flannery does a fantastic job of laying out the science behind global warming in a straight forward and easy-to-understand manner.  In fact, I never realized how basic, in many ways, the science in.  He goes over the level of carbon dioxide in our atmosphere, our own production of carbon dioxide, and the likely effects of increased amount of carbon dioxide.  It's actually much more simplistic and straight forward than I ever realized.

It's also pretty damn scary.

The accounts of briefly-glimpsed and now extinct frogs are depressing.  The statistics on likely extinction of further species is also depressing.  The likelihood of polar bears dying out except in captivity is goddamn devastating.  (I freaking love polar bears.)  Ultimately, though, Flannery writes that we can still avoid the worst case scenarios.  While we're dedicated to a certain level of devastation due to the carbon dioxide that's already in the air, there's still time to begin reigning in our own outputs, thus saving multitudes of animals while also saving ourselves.

If you're looking for a primer on global warming, along with plenty of great information about the history and study of the climate, get this book.  It's a great, relatively easy read that provides lots of good information and a list of ways you can reduce your own energy use and carbon dioxide output.


With that, this list of books comes to an end.  Hopefully, you found this at least slightly enjoyable.  Better yet, hopefully you found something to read.  Now it's your turn.  What books did you read in 2006 that you loved?  I may already own too many books, but that's never stopped me from buying more.  So give me some suggestions.  What greatness did you read last year?


Joel was really drinking a 40oz of King Cobra out of a brown paper bag.

Archives

January 9, 2007

We Can't Be That Old!

I don't know which one of us came up with this topic, but either way, my brain is really itching to go into the "off" position tonight. Me, I'm just itching to get on the couch and watch the Ohio State game until I doze off. But we've got to write and we had to come up with a topic and one of us said something about things that happened the year we were born. So be it.

Turtle can't be that old.

So what happened in the year I was born? a-team1123.jpg

1972?

Watergate was happening. Black September was ruining Israels chance of winning any gold medals. U2 was getting an inspiration for one of their first hits and a bunch of rugby players were eating each other in the Andes mountains.

So not much.

Or so you think. Remember that Vietnam was still going on. War crimes and atrocities were happening. Did we win or lose. To some iyt didn't matter anymore. To some the only word on their lips were justice. And they weren't getting any. So they prompty escaped the military jail they were in. Being accused of a crime they did not commit, they escaped to LA using their wits, some wire and a few car batteries. Assuming the identity of an has been actor, a male prostitute, a gold wearing mohawked pimp and a crazy man who just needed to be left alone.

They are out there. Always being chased by the military police for the crime of being proud Americans who help out the sick and poor while vowing to only shoot out the tires of the enemies cars. Driving in the Van of Justice, they will help you. If you can find them.

One day the great injustice will be righted. One day their crimes were be pardoned and the horrible year will be forgotten like G. Gordon Liddy's radio show.

B until then....

We always have reruns of their exploits to remind us of their great sacrafice.

And Little House on the Prairie started! - T

Michele is that old:

1962.

It was kind of boring year, if you're looking for earth shattering news. Or at least something exciting like rugby players eating each other. Maybe what I mean is shocking. not exciting. In a Weekly World News sort of way.

Cuban Missile Crisis
Long story short - the Russians sent missiles to Cuba to protect them from the US. It's like if you were worried about some bully picking on you in school so you pre-emptively hired some thug to walk you to your locker every day.

Being two months old at the time, I really had no stake in this thing at the time. But years later, this would all play part in my fear of the Russians and my anxiety that the cold war was going to break loose at any second and those damn Commies would bomb us out of our underpants. The air raid drills in school didn't help my fears any. However, the whole missile crisis/cold war thing came in handy in the 1980 Olympics when the hatred of Russia was turned into a patriotic war cry to rally together to cheer on our hockey team.

Marilyn Monroe died

Again, being 20 days away from being born when this happened, it didn't really affect me that much at the time. But some time later, Marilyn's death would fuel some late night, drug-induced conspiracy theory talk where I became convinced that she was killed by Fidel Castro in an attempt to silence her so she wouldn't speak out about Fidel's long term affair with JFK. Really. She had pictures. Sometimes a cigar is not just a cigar, kids.

Amazing Fantasy #15
Released a week before my day of birth, Amazing Fantasy #15 featured the debut of Spider Man.

Spider Man would later become one of my gateway drugs to the world of obsessive comic book collecting.

af15.jpg

Other than those things, there were a lot of terrorist attacks overseas and an awful lot of plane crashes and nothing much interesting unless you count the birth of CC Deville, Izzy Stradlin, Axl Rose and Jon Bon Jovi as interesting. I'm thinking there was some kind of devil pact/hair metal thing going on that year. -M

So what happened the year you were born?

Turtle and Michele know that you are only as old as you feel. So we're both around 96.

Archives

Anger Directment Management

[author's note: sometimes a day is kind of long and you need to grab something from the recycle bin to fill your column up. It happens. Tonight's column was written July 29, 2002. I think most of you will be able to pick up a slight difference in attitude and personality from then til now.]

I've been doing a little research on anger management. All this counting to ten and deep breaths seems good on the surface, but I don't buy it. If you repress whatever anger you are feeling at the moment, it will only come out a different - most likely inappropriate - time.

I think the better device to use is something I call Anger Directment. It's about making sure that the rage and frustration you are feeling is directed toward the part(ies) that have caused the feelings in the first place.

Sometimes, you curse and scream at the person driving next to you because you are in a mood. And sometimes, it's just because that person is an asshole. Former bad. Latter good. Misplaced anger can only lead to things like estrangement, family feuds or an appearance on COPS.

I know that this is not the way you have been taught to deal with anger. Violence begets violence and all that touchy feely crap.

Well, this isn't touchy feely time here. This is reality. This is the place where someone tells you the raw truth - that saying "I feel hurt when you call me a stupid bitch" is gonna get you nowhere except crying into your pillow later on that night. Think of how much better a well placed kick would work in that case.

See, if someone pisses me off enough to the point that I feel violent toward them, why should I repress my anger? Why should I push it deep down where it will only simmer and fester and then boil over long after the event that put the anger there in the first place has passed?

Let's invent a scenario.

You are at work. A co-worker stops by your office to chit-chat. You really don't like this person and have no desire to talk with them. Your dislike for them is valid; this person is a self-absorbed creep who looks down your shirt when you talk and is crude, demeaning, sexist and racist.

You are trapped at your desk as he stands in the doorway. In the space of two minutes he has managed to offend you three times and question your integrity, your work ethic, your sexual needs and your lineage.

Now, someone give me a good reason why I should count to ten and take a deep breath in this scenario. Why should I let this person run rampant over my feelings and let it go as if he did nothing wrong?

I know all you armchair therapists out there are thinking something like "Well, Michele, perhaps you should just look him in the eye and say "I feel angry when you speak to me like that." That whole "speak from the I" bullshit. You know why that won't work? Because people like this hypothetical jackass would just laugh. And then he would walk away and I would spend the whole day bitching to myself about what I could have said and what I should have said. By the time I leave work, I will be in a raging frenzy and I will take it out on the poor, unsuspecting souls who are on the road with me, which will only fuel my anger, and by the time I get home I'll be ready to kick the neighbor's dog just to hear it yelp.

The scenario plays out much better if I call the guy a few choice names, tell him exactly what I think of him, and then throw a cup of steaming hot coffee at his crotch. My anger is relieved, my rage has dissipated and I made my point without being wishy-washy about it. And everyone around me is spared my misdirected wrath. Works out for everyone!

My idea is genius. Instead of trying to manage your anger - which is only therapist talk for supressing your feelings - you direct it at the right people. I mean, come on, a person who throws a beer bottle out the car window or says bad things about your family or assumes you want to crawl under his desk and service him just because you are female and he is male, well that person needs to be told in no uncertain terms how you feel about his behavior. That is called positive directive anger. Whether you kick him in the balls, or chase him down the hall with a flamethrower or hurl a string of curses at him that he has never heard before, it's all good. You are the better for it. When you are done you can sit back, relax, have a cigarette and praise yourself for releasing your rage at the right person.

If you hold it in and mutter some psychobabble to him about how your feelings are hurt and then you do your good breathing exercises, you may find yourself stabbing a little old lady in the supermarket later on when she mistakenly puts her lettuce in your cart. That is negative directive anger. Bad.

Next time the person in front of you on the six items or less express line has 12 items on the conveyer, open up her laundry detergent when she is not looking. Then offer to help her bag her groceries, making sure that the laundry detergent is packed in the same bag as her grapes. You will feel better for it, trust me. As a matter of fact, you will chuckle to yourself all the way home and your good mood will last you well into the night. And you won't have to later on deal with the hundreds of phone calls from relatives asking if that was you they saw being hauled away in handcuffs on the local news last night.

Just follow the basic rule: If a person angers you to the point that you feel the familiar stirrings of animalistic rage building up inside you, count to ten. If, by the time you get to ten there is still team coming out of your ears, punch that person in the face. Hard. Anger released, situation settled.

Who needs $150 an hour therapy when you have me? Thank me later.

Tell your dog to thank me, too.

Michele is available to speak at your company's next team-building meeting.

Archives

It's Fergalicious!

You'd think I'd learn my lesson about making sports bets. I mean, I bet on the Jets. What kind of idiot bets on the Jets. This is the team that has "We Will Disappoint You" printed on the back of their seasons tickets.

Well, they should.

300002.jpgSo I lost the bet with Ernie and now, thanks to Turtle, I have to write a glowing review of the Fergie Album The Dutchess.

It should be stated right here that he chose that particular bet because he knows how much I loathe Fergie. You would think that my standing relationship with Turtle would make him tilt the bets in my favor, but no. I think my suffering amuses him.

Well I'll show him. I'm gonna play the entire Fergie album while I write this in the FTTW headquarters. He'll be subjected to this shit if I have to listen to it because of him.

Without further ado, the "glowing" review.

The Dutchess (2006)

The record opens with Fergalicious, in which our dear Fergie laments:

I ain't easy, I ain't sleazy
I got reasons why I tease 'em
Boys just come and go like seasons

Clearly, this song is about feminism. Fergie, a former member of NOW who majored in Womyn's Studies at Barnard College is writing here about throwing off the shackles of the media-hyped definition of what women should be and saying farewell to the antiquated notion that women need to be playthings for men. fergieroar.jpg She wants us to start using boys the way they use girls, turning the tables on their mysogynist ways.

I just wanna say it now I ain't tryin to round up drama little mama I don't wanna take your man
And I know I'm comin off just a little bit conceited and I keep on repeating how the boys wanna eat it
But I'm tryin' to tell, that I can't be treated like clientele

Sing it, Fergie! Tell those girlfriend's boyfriends that if they want to go down on you, they don't have to pay for it! Or.....something like that.

Song 2: Clumsy.

Can't breath
When you touch my sleeve,
Butterflies so crazy, mmm mmm
Whoa now, think I'm goin down
Friends don't know whats with me, mmm mmm

Fergie once again touches on a Very Important Topic in today's society. Rufies. What happens in this song is Fergie's date is spiking her drink so she feels all stoned and tripping.fergiestrong.jpg She is obviously losing control of herself and it won't be long until the dude has her in bed doing all kinds of crazy things to her and she'll wake up in a strange place saying "this is not my beautiful house." This song is a warning about the dangers of accepting drinks from strangers in sleazy bars. I applaud Fergie for taking on such a serious subject.

3. All That I've Got (the Make Up Song)
Here, Fergie continues her Women's Lib thing. She is what some people call a feminazi. I bet you didn't know that you can often see Fergie at rallies, marches and the like, holding up signs that detail the plight of the Woman of Today. For instance, she once led a march in front of L'Oreal headquarter to champion the cause of Feminists For Facial Freedom (4F) - a militant womyn's organization that wants the sale and distribution of all cosmetic products banned.

Would you love me if I didnt work out or I didnt change my
natural hair
I could be the one you could grow older with, baby
I’ll give you all that I got

You go, girl! What she's saying in this tune is that her man has got to love her, even without the hair extensions and eye shadow and hot bod. Love the person on the inside, not the outside! It would be really cool if Fergie took this all to heart and let herself go. Just dig into the Cheetos and stop working out and let her hair go all ratty and see if her man still loves her.

Then again, I think feminists don't really need men. Just batteries and each other.

4. London Bridge
Now As The drinks start pouring,
And my speech start slurring,
Everybody start looking real good.

[Verse 2] Grey goose got your girl feeling loose.
Now I’m wishin’ that I didn’t wear these shoes. (I hate heels)

You see what this song is about, right? 4f.jpg It's about shoes and how The Man keeps us women down by telling us we need to wear high heels all the time. Most workplaces have dress codes in effect that dictate that a woman pretty much has to wear dressy shoes with heels. You know why they do that? So we can't run from them when they are grabbing our asses. There's something about drinking in here, too, and how men are all ugly unless we have our Vodka Goggles on.

Basically, the rest of the album visits the same themes as these songs. It's an ode to Fergie's dedication to the cause of putting women in a good light and showing the world that we aren't just hos to be played with, we aren't just trophies with tits, we aren't your property. Bitches up, hos down! Fergie the Feminist sets straight the record on this album - Womyn are people, too!

Dutchess is part social commentary, part feminist manifesto, and all booty-shakin'.

At least that's what I got out of it. Your fergalicious miles may vary.

TAFC#1: 50 Best Fictional Bands - Part 2

Remember back in the early days of FTTW when we did the Top 100 Punk Songs and then the Best Punk Albums? Well, we had a lot of fun with that and we decided to run something like that again, but on a permanent kind of basis.

Welcome to the newest new thing at Faster Than The World - The Almost Final Countdown.

TAFC is a new column that will appear almost every day. Basically, it's a continuing series of countdowns, lists, and things that have numbers on them and tell you what's the best and worst of something. Like that.31monkees.jpg


What will happen is this: On Monday, the new category will be announced. The editors (or two of the four editors) will have their picks up for the category, so we start you out with either the first 10 or 20 of the list.

See here for the rest of the rules and regulations and stuff

Think of us a VH1 without the ubiquitous presence of Ian Michael Black.

Sounds like fun, right? Not too confusing or anything? Good, because we are ready to roll on to Day 2 of this week's list.

TOP 50 FICTIONAL BANDS

I bet you didn't know just how many there are.

Yesterday two of the FTTW made their picks. Like we said yesterday, it's your job to use the comments to help us come up with the other bands to round out the list. Then, on Sunday we'll put up a poll of all 50 to determine the numero uno, king of the hill, top of the crop, etc., etc., etc.

You guys did a great job coming up with some bands yesterday. There's still room for more.

Ready to do it again?

Baby Huey is next in line.

11. Spinal Tap
I almost considered not putting this band on there, considering they actually did put out quite a few albums. However, with songs like "Break Like the Wind" they're one of my favorite bands, real or no.

12. Dethklokmetalocalypse.gif
DO YOU FOLKS LIKE COFFEE? This band is blacker than the blackest black. Times infinity. The best part is they actually got real metal people (Kirk Hammet and James Hetfield from Metallica, Warrel Dane of Nevermore, King Diamond, Corpsegrinder Fisher from Cannibal Corpse, and more) to be on the show, to lend creedence to a totally kickass cartoon.

13. Everybody Gets Laid (the band from PCU)
They were gonna call themselves Naugahyde Windpipe, for chrissakes. That alone put them on my list. But the fact that Megan Ward was in the band clinched it. She makes me feel funny in my boy parts.

14. Crucial Taunt (Cassandra's band from the Wayne's World series)
Tia Carrere is hot in purple lingerie, plays a mean bass, and their cover of Ballroom Blitz is absoultely zang.

15. Coq Roq (the band from the Burger King Chicken Fries ad campaign)
Ignoring the fact that the song in the commercial was actually kinda catchy, any band that pisses off Slipknot is OK by me.

The Finn's picks:

rutles.jpg16. The Rutles – The Rutles were not the Beatles. Let’s just clear that up right now. Granted, the two bands had a few similarities. The mop top haircuts. The catchy melodies and turning of phrase. But no, they were not the Beatles. The band was originally formed when Ron Nasty and Dirk McQuickly joined up with Stig O’Hara as a trio. The trio performed well enough together but finally found the integral fourth piece when they discovered Barrington Womble hiding in their van. They made us fall in love with them on their self titled album, firmly established their pop dominance with “Let It Rut” and took us on a strange psychedelic journey in “Sergent Rutter’s Only Darts Club Band”. They continued their atmospheric rise to success only to have it all go bad by the time “Let It Rot” was released. But Rutlemania will always be alive and well in our hearts and our minds.

17. Gidget and the Gories – You all remember Gidget. The cute, sweet all American girl from the surfing capital of the world ? Little did you know that she had a dark side. For a short time, she fronted a psychedelic band (and very spooky) band called The Gories. It all started because Gidget was trying to inspire a little self confidence in her friend Larue. So, the two of them joined a folk band and convinced the rest of the members in the band to try out for a spot on a TV show. Right before they were supposed to audition, Gidget shows up in white face and heavy eyeliner and announces that the band has gone spooky. The rest of the band loves the look, but no Larue, so they decide to kick her out. Gidget is furious and demands that they ask Larue back or she won’t perform with them any more. So, The Gories drop them both, work the audition and get the gig. And Gidget learns a hard lesson about friendship.

banana-splits.jpg18. The Banana Splits – The Banana Splits lived in Hocus Pocus Park, a giant amusement park that was consistently under siege by the evil Sour Grape Bunch. They drove six wheeled dune buggies, ran around and bumped into each other quite a bit. But they weren’t well known for their security skills. They were also the greatest cartoon introducing band of all time. The band consisted of Fleegle (a beagle), Drooper (a lion), Snorky (an elephant) and Bingo (a gorilla) who made some of the most fun music ever. The theme song alone will get stuck in your head for days.

19. Sonic Death Monkey – It’s the world’s loss that this would be supergroups’ only live performance was captured on celluloid and attributed to “Barry Jive and the Uptown Five” instead of their original and so much cooler band name. Barry’s soulful rendition of “Let’s Get It On” can move a grown man to tears and can strip the clothes off the most chaste of women. Unfortunately, after their first and only public performance was completed, the band changed their name to Kathleen Turner Overdrive and went on to change folk music history.

20. CB4 – The hardest hitting gangsta rap group ever is called CB4. Comprised of M.C. Gusto (Albert Brown), Dead Mike (Euripides Smalls) and Stab Master Arson (Otis), this was the hardest of the hardcore rap scene. The group was formed in prison (Cell Block 4) and went on to rule the charts with such hits as “Straight Outta Low Cash” and “Sweat From My Balls”. What they say is true. You may hear them once, but you’ll never forget them. This is not "Bohemian Rhapsody".


The rest of the week will be your nominations up here until we round out the top 50 and get ready for the big vote.

So this is all up to you. Have fun with it.

Here's The Dickies doing the Banana Splits theme song: (download)

(If you didn't see yesterday's, check the comments for all the bands that were nominated on that thread)

This Column Is Brought To You By The Letter F

Last week I told you a bit about half of my professional writing ventures – namely, being a sports bitch at a local newspaper. This week, I'll begin to go into the other half: freelancing.

newsie.jpgWhile the sports position is certainly a Just For Now Job (also discussed last week; special condolences to Dan, who worked as a security guard for a year – that must have been awful), my dream job is to write for magazines and to write novels and screenplays. The best way to get these jobs is to show up with talent, confidence and a bursting, quality portfolio. And freelancing is the only way to build a portfolio.

A quick etymological tangent: a freelance worker is someone who hires themselves out to a profession where they will work temporarily for people who work full time in the same field. It comes from a name for medieval mercenary knights; these knights would work for any client, general or army that chose to pay them – they were, by trade, "free lances". There, you learned something; that'll be a dollar.

If you want to start getting paid for your columns, opinions, short stories, poems or novels, you absolutely must have a sibling or spouse working in publishing. Barring that, what you really need is a copy of The Writer's Market. They print new editions of this tome every year, but a deluxe edition should easily last two years or more for the beginning freelancer.

Inside The Writer's Market is a listing for every magazine you've ever heard of, and hundreds of others that you haven't, a listing for book publishers for all genre of manuscript and many tips on the legal and professional business of selling words.

In the coming weeks, I'll be documenting exactly what I'll be doing as I prepare to send off my first prospective article. I'll be talking about how to choose potential markets, how to edit, how to sell, what the hell a "First North American Rights" agreement means, and the cold, cruel hands of the mistress Rejection, that heinous bitch.

For the rest of this column I'll give you a prestigious sneak peek at the short story I'll be trying to sell in the coming weeks. Titled Celebrity, it is a retelling of the Greek myth of Narcissus. In my modern version, the story is related by the main character after his own death, and it just gets more interesting from there. Enjoy.

Narcissus.jpg
Celebrity

That... man I see now at my feet – lying there, with his head propped up onto the box spring of the bed, his eyes sightless, his mouth slack, drawn – bears no resemblance to the man that you might see, were you to have known us.

You, dear viewer, you would have seen a young man, a strong, charismatic, beautiful man in his late twenties. You might have seen a wicked sense of humor, or flashing smile, a magnetism that fascinated everyone who met him. Ha! You would have been fooled.

You could not have seen through to reality. You could not have seen, just like I did not see until now, the mind behind the sparkling green eyes that was juvenile, pathetic, a grubby-handed child pawing for praise, clamoring for recognition, whoring himself for the attention he knew he deserved.

You could not have seen his furtive glances towards the windows at night, the posturing, the flexing, sucking in his gym-hardened stomach, bleaching his hair to blonde, crooning his pathetic fucking jaw-line, his pointed fucking cleft chin. God how, at last, I loathe that scrubbed complexion. I would murder a child for a scar on that pretty face, a pimple on that perfect nose.

I can’t believe what I once thought mattered.

Well, yes, I am angry. I’m bloody furious! Imagine yourself, waking with a start in the middle of the night, feeling disembodied, out of place...then discovering that you are, in fact, disembodied. That you, as one dead fucking person, are, in fact, out of place in this world of the living. That your hands are nonexistent at worst, spectrally dodgy at best! Hands that earned your money, that combed your white locks, that framed your infernal mental movies are now a hint of a whisper on a breeze, and just as useful.

Imagine how angry you would be, discovering in the ass-crack of night that you are standing over your own twisted corpse.

Of course I’m angry. But now, in this moment of confession, this generous moment of reflection granted me by who-knows-who, I can also admit: I am also excruciatingly sad, heartbreakingly disappointed... in my self, in my life, in this world, in this end... in everything.

So now here it is for you, simply stated: I, Dante Giordano, am dead. I am standing in my room in my small flat in Clapham, looking down at my own broken corpse. I am being allowed to stay here: here in this realm called Earth, here in this place called London, for as long as it takes for me to tell my story. My story as far back in my family’s history as I know through to the end of my miserable life. To tell that story, in its honest entirety, to you.


Ian thinks he looks pretty when he looks in the mirror. Archives

Help this, Motherfucker!

A while back, Turtle challenged me to do a Dishful of Metal based on jazzing up Hamburger Helper. Far be it for me to back down from a challenge. I went at it, and I set some rules of my own to make it harder.SexAndLoveWithRussianWomen1.gif

I had to do it with Hamburger, Chicken, and Tuna Helper. I couldn't spend more than $5 on each dish to jazz it up, cause come on. Most people eating Tuna Helper aren't gonna be able to afford to substitue lobster, right? I made a couple of assumptions -- specifically, that you would have the following ingredients on hand (and therefore, not count against the $5 limit):

- Fresh garlic
- Fresh lemons or bottled lemon juice
- Rooster sauce (cause, come on. It's FTTW.)

Hamburger Helper

1 Box Cheeseburger flavored Hamburger Helper

Additions:
1 green bell pepper, cut into strips (approx $0.69)
2 cloves garlic, minced
1/2 c sour cream (approx $0.99 for a 1 c container)
1/3 c fresh cilantro, chopped (approx $0.79 for a bunch that yeilds about 2 c)

In a large skillet, saute the bell pepper and garlic with the ground beef. Cook the helper according to the box's instructions. After it's finished, add the sour cream, cilantro, and some rooster sauce if you're feeling feisty. See how easy this is?

Tuna Helper

1 Box Creamy Pasta flavored Tuna Helperrussian-bride-shocking-truth.jpg

Additions:

1 8 oz jar marinated artichoke hearts, quartered (approx $1.99)
1/2 c prepared pesto sauce (approx. $2.49 for an 8 oz container)
juice of 1 lemon (approx 2 t of bottled juice)

Cook the helper according to package instructions. Stir in the additions at the end. Done.

Chicken Helper

1 Box Chicken Enchilada flavored Chicken Helper

Additions:

1 chipotle chile, chopped ($0.99)
1 c shredded cheddar cheese ($1.79 for the bag)
1/2 c Fritos, crushed lightly ($0.89 for a snack-sized bag)
chopped cilantro if you have some leftover from Hamburger Helper night

Prepare according to the package directions, adding the chipotle when you add the liquid. At the end, add the cheese and Fritos, and stir to combine/melt the cheese.

They're really that easy, folks. If I may make one suggestion, though, from experience: DO NOT, under any circumstances, make all three of these on consecutive nights. You will pay if you do.

072.jpgFor my first metal review of the new year, I'm going back a bit, because I
haven't really gotten anything new yet at the station.

Dream Theater - Score: Live with the Octavarium Orchestra
Rhino Records

This 3-CD album (or 1-DVD live concert) is from the last show of the band's 20th anniversary tour (hence the title) that took place in April at Radio City Music Hall, and is a fairly representative sample of the band's history. While it focuses mostly on their latest studio album, Octavarium, selections reach all the way back to their 1989 DreamTheater debut, When Dream and Day Unite (I know what you're thinking, 2006 - 1989 < 20, but from 1986 to 1989, they were known as Majesty). This album really doesn't feature a lot of their heavier numbers, but focuses more on the orchestral, ballad-like, and dare I say poppy, tracks. The second 2 discs feature a full orchestra (we're not talking NY Philharmonic sized, but it's fully instrumented). The two hella long songs, Six Degrees of Inner Turbulence (clocking in at 42 minutes) and Octavarium (24 minutes), are cool concept pieces that are actually closer to one-act rock operas and are among my favorite songs of theirs of all time.

Baby Huey has a way better memory than me cause I don't remember this, but what the hell. I'll cook something up - Turtle

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An Exercise In Superiority

My father used to say, “Act civilized!” to both my sister and me when we were too rowdy in the backseat of the car on a road trip. For some reason, this was never as effective as the “shut the hell up, already” that he usually resorted to. From an early age, I was taught to “act civilized”. And for my first eight or so years, I just thought that “civilized” was defined as “to be bored and not talk”.

I know better now. It also means “to not leave the door open because we don’t live in a barn” and “to eat with your mouth closed because you’re not an animal.” Although, technically, we are, but I won’t get into that.

milly.jpgNowadays I like to think that civilized behavior doesn’t have to end with abiding everyday civil laws, but can be extended to every day social norms as well. For example, not driving drunk is not only the law, but a consideration to the public and a well accepted social norm. By being sober, you’re being polite, being safe, and practically giving a cheerful wave as you zoom-zoom by in your five-mile-to-a-gallon cherry red Hummer with spinners. “Hello!” you seem to say in your civilized manner, “I am not drunk today!” You use your blinkers out of courtesy, you stay inside your lane, you even stop on red. You are a model citizen.

“So easy, a caveman can do it”? Please. No. The Neanderthals weren’t half the civilization we are today. The stone flint has nothing on the modern day matchstick. Why have a cave when you can have a McMansion? And OK, yeah, they had slightly bigger brains than we do, but they were also incredibly hairy with huge teeth and a heavy brow ridge. You are so much prettier than Neanderthals. And classier. No one can cut a perfectly small piece of fire roasted chicken with a knife like you can. No one can not burp in public like you can! No one can not expose themselves in the middle of the mall like you can! You wear clothes. You have a language. Hot damn. You are civilized.

Being that, civilization also takes a certain amount of superiority, as you can see. And some civilizations are more superior than others.

For example, you might say that its true that Americans speak English, but British people will tell you that only the British speak English, and that the Americans speak American. It is a very well known fact in England that every time an American mispronounces “schedule” as “skedule” a Spice Girl loses her solo career.

I myself feel I am civilized. I’m not particularly lewd or crude and I eat the European way. I am polite, I follow rules and regulations, I’m a big fan of puppies, and I’ve never killed anyone. Why I haven’t received some sort of a medal already is beyond me.

Stephanie is way classier than the Neanderthal.

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Life Imitates Art... Er... WarCraft

After downloading all the patches that came out since I left the US last year, my boyfriend, Stick, and I restarted our long-awaited adventures on World of WarCraft. Can I just say that "long-awaited" doesn't even come close to how much I missed Ironforge, Stormwind and even the Barrens?

Even in China, I YouTubed South Park's now-famous Make Love, Not WarCraft episode, and forced my non-gaming co-worker to watch it with me. He said it was very funny but I think that had more to do with shutting me up than actually finding the Sword Of A Thousand Truths even a little bit amusing. I kept daydreaming about improving my Mandarin reading so I could play Chinese WoW, when in reality my character-recognition skills are almost good enough to read a simple menu. China billboard wow.jpg

More than I missed WoW, I missed playing with Stick. I've always thought smugly of our MMORPG cooperation when listening to my friends tell me their boyfriends are on a different wavelength. On EverQuest, City of Heroes, even playing D&D or Betrayal House, Stick and I work well. We're not so much a precision team as a dramatic three-hit-points-left rescue duo. That translates well to the non-gaming parts of my life. Planning how to pull just one murloc, and then replanning on the spot when the whole village is aggroed, was great training for teaching middle-schoolers.

Last night, I was back in the US, back with Stick and and ready to play our brand new level-one characters. But there was just something off about it. Sure, there were still Chuck Norris jokes on the chat channel (will that never get old?), angry Defias bandits chasing us around with their freshly-sharpened blades, clever and misspelled guild names, and bikini-clad emote dancers. It seemed like the same Azeroth.

No, the problem was Stick and me. We were off our game, handing each other useless items and accidentally selling necessary objects. Instead of dramatic rescues, there were near-misses and one disastrous fight when we both totally forgot that we're in the same room and can talk to each other mid-battle. Have we soloed too long to form a decent party? Are we doomed by these low-level antagonists?

Tonight, I'll be playing more WarCraft... for the good of my relationship, of course.


Meg foolishly mocks Chuck Norris as she plays WoW.

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January 8, 2007

TAFC#1: 50 Best Fictional Bands

Remember back in the early days of FTTW when we did the Top 100 Punk Songs and then the Best Punk Albums? Well, we had a lot of fun with that and we decided to run something like that again, but on a permanent kind of basis.

Welcome to the newest new thing at Faster Than The World - The Almost Final Countdown.

TAFC is a new column that will appear almost every day. Basically, it's a continuing series of countdowns, lists, and things that have numbers on them and tell you what's the best and worst of something. Like that.

What will happen is this: On Monday, the new category will be announced. The editors (or two of the four editors) will have their picks up for the category, so we start you out with either the first 10 or 20 of the list.

This is where you come in. This is an interactive kind of thing. On Monday when we post the category and our picks, it's your job to head over to the comments and give us your nomination list for that category. You can name 1, 5, 459, whatever floats your boat. We'll pull nominations from the comments in order to continue the list for the rest of the week until we reach the determined number (sometimes 50, sometimes 100, could be some random number). Then on Sunday, we'll put up the final list and a POLL. From the voting on that poll we will determine the winner of that list category (AND THE NUMBER ONE SONG THAT REMINDS YOU OF YOUR FAILED HIGH SCHOOL RELATIONSHIP IS.....like that)...and we'll announce the winner of that category as well as introduce the new list on Monday. The winner gets a beautiful, hand photoshopped, engraved trophy that goes into the FTTW TAFC Hall of Fame.

Think of us a VH1 without the ubiquitous presence of Ian Michael Black.

Sounds like fun, right? Not too confusing or anything? Good, because we are ready to start with this week's list.


.....drum roll.......

TOP 50 FICTIONAL BANDS

I bet you didn't know just how many there are.

For the first 10 from the list, we have two of our editors making their pics. The other two editor's picks will be up tomorrow. It's your job to use the comments to help us come up with the other (does quick math in head) 30 bands to round out the list. Then, like I said above, on Sunday we'll put up a poll of all 50 to determine the numero uno, king of the hill, top of the crop, etc., etc., etc.

And now, the first ten. 1-5 are from Turtle.


17120880-0-m.jpg1. Billy and the Boingers (Bloom County) - AKA Deathtongue before Steve Dallas caved in front of some kind of replica of the PMRC. Love rhinos and acne from space were no match for them. Middle of the road. Man it stank. Let's roll over Lionel Ritchie with a tank. These guys were truly before their time. Plus if you got the book, you got a flexi-single in it with such timeless wonders like "U Stink But I Love U."

I miss the electric tuba.

2. The Queenhaters - This was just a gimmie. Booked on Mel's Rock Pile on SCTV, this punk band held no words when it came to their disgust of the Falklands War. Man, they were pissed. Taxes and inflation were causing dope prices to go sky high and they couldn't afford them anymore. So they were taking it to the streets and letting Canada know that they were pissed.


3. The Darlings - Andy Griffith makes it in here with these lovable stone faced moonshining backwoods gitar playing hillbillies. They were a family of people would give the banjo player in Deliverance a run for his money. Always causing a ruckus by not doing anything. True backwood men who could pick and grin with the best of them then turn around and still up some of the best moonshine Mayberry had ever seen. Plus, they had a jug player. That's just funny.

4. Alice Bowie (Up in Smoke) Chong and his Qualude shirt and Cheech in whateverthefuck standing on the stage. Too cool for school. I remember when I was a kid, if you knew the lyrics to Earache In My Eye, you were considered not only a stoner, but a super stoner. Only the upper echalon of stoners knew the words to this. And if you could play the riff on the guitar? Amplified? That meant you were a Dope God to be worshipped by the fools who only "kind of" knew the words to this song.

"Caught me in the bathroom with a pair of pantyhose."

Yeah. You guys all know it.

What was with the Mexican background band anyways?

5. Rod Torfulson's Armada Featuring Herman Menderchuk - This was a great band. It reminds me of a lot of garage bands. In fact, this is the garage band to beat all garage bands. Three kids in their parent's basement trying to figure out the music industry while still trying to figure out puberty. The Kids in the Hall brought us this trio of kids with dreams who were, come hell or high water, gonna make it. Cause you're just a tramp, tramp trampoline girl.

6-10 are from Michele

6. The Beets (Doug)
I just thought it was cute how Doug was really into this band and was always trying to score tickets and stuff. Plus, they had a song called Killer Tofu. In my next life, when I'm a rock and roll star, my band will be called Killer Tofu.

7. 2ge+her (from the MTV show)
Shut up. I loved this show so much. I was surrounded by grade school girls who were totally into the boy band rage at the time, and this show was a much needed parody of all that. And it was funny. How can you not love a song with lyrics like "Say it, don't spray it. I want the news not the weather." Or "I know my calculus, it says you + me = us." That's quality stuff right there.

8. Arseface (from the comic book Preacher)
Long story short. Arseface was a loser kid who worshiped Kurt Cobain. His father abused him, his mother didn't care and he only had one friend. When Cobain offed himself, he and the friend made a suicide pact, where they would shoot their own brains out.. The friend aced the pact. Arseface failed at dying and ended up with a face that, well, looked like an ass. Arse if you're English. Arseface was exploited by this guy called The Sergeant and embarked on a rock and roll career, if you call "hey, let's see what this freak is gonna do/say next" a career. Which, really, a lot of rock stars do. Anyhow, I kinda liked Arseface. Or pitied him. Either way, I thought he deserved better than he got.

9. The Silver Platters (Brady Bunch)
This is a total nostalgia pick. It was either this or the Banana Splits and I happen to know one of the other editors is grabbing the Splits, so I ended up going with this. This group really personified the Bradys and what they were all about. So wholesome. Pure angelic goodness. The lengths they went through to get money to get the silver platter for their parents was enough to make even Charles Ingalls feel humbled. I always wondered why they didn't just sell Cindy on the black market to get the money. No one liked her anyway.

mcpeepants.jpg10. MC Pee Pants (Aqua Teen Hunger Force)
So Meatwad is totally grooving to this new song:

I want candy, bubble gum, and taffy
Skip to the sweet shop with my sweetheart Sandy
Got my pennies saved so I'm her sugar daddy
I'm her Hume Cronyn and she's my Jessica Tandy, I want candy!

The new hit from MC Pee Pants is doing something weird to Meatwad and, well, there's stuff about subliminal messages and power drilling to hell and demons and a spider wearing Depends. Just another day on ATHF.

I picked this not just because a spider wearing Depends and singing about candy is cool, but because it's MC Chris.

So there's 1-10 of the best fictional bands ever. Now it's your turn. Nominate some bands and we'll take them and put them up on the list during the week.

Here's a slew of fake bands to get you started. thinking. Now get nominating and let's get this countdown party started.

Update:

I Don't Believe That Happened

Long weekend. I won't lie to you. We are both exhausted. The nice weather around New York forced us to go outside and do exercise type things. In other words, we had to leave the FTTW headquarters and partake in the checking out of the beach and hanging out in the park and, ug, socializing with people.

So we are a little bit frazzled.

So for today, we thought we would talk about disappointments.

Kinda goes with the whole football thing. I mean hell, we had a great weekend, but Michele's team lost, so it got us thinking. What were the biggest sports disappointments we had ever seen.

I know we usually go "Best Of" moments, but today, we are doing shittiest moments.

Those ones that you still remember and seethe at when you hear someone talk about them.300px-Clark_si_cover.jpg

They are that bad.

So let's do this.

turtle hates San Francisco 49er's.

"The Catch"

After being called a 49er fan today by someone on this site who obviously does not know how much I hate this team, I thought I would give a little background as to why I hate this damn team so much I wish they would be rubbed away like so much dog shit on a runner's shoe. Oh yeah. I don't like them. I don't care where I was from and how I should like them or whatever. I just don't like them.

Take a little kid with all his birthday money. Take an evil relative who has a gambling problem. The evil relative forces the young kid to take the Cowboys in a bet. Let the date be January 10, 1982.

Let the young child's birthday money be taken away because of "The Catch" and spent by the evil relative in Reno on craps.

That little boy will hate the 49ers and his Uncle for the rest of his life. And Joe Montana. Grrrrrrrr. I hate him too. All I got was a Micronaut that year for a gift. Not even one of the good ones. One of the cheap ones.

Fuck Joe Montana.

My worst moment is really Chris Webber getting injured in the 2003 NBA playoffs against the Mavericks knocking the Kings out of the Western Conference Semifinals, but since we are in football mode today, I thought I'd stick to NFL.

And no. I am not bitter about the injury. Or the way the team split up the next year. How a rag tag shit hole team that was mocked by the entire NBA for years for gathering players who were old and untested slowly worked their way up to the loudest fuck you in the face NBA team in the league who had their fingers on the greatest "FUCK YOU MOTHERFUCKERS! LOOK AT US NOW!" moment in the entire history of the NBA (for me that is) lost it all cause of a injury that sucked out the wind in their sails.

But you know what? I am still there for them. You can't keep them down. They have been fucked over before and they will be fucked over again. But they will still be there. Just waiting to pick up who you threw away and put them together in the right place on our team. Then we will be back.

But I'm not bitter about the injury.

I'm not bitter about that.

At.

Fucking.

All.

- T

Michele swings next.

The 2004 American League baseball playoffs.

No contest on this one.

The Yankees held a three games to none lead over the hated Red Sox. Three games to none. They had to win ONE game out of the next four. Just. One. Game.

"Red Sox are three outs away from being swept out of the American League Championship Series for the first time since 1988"- That was Joe Buck at the start of the bottom of the ninth of game 4.

We were psyched. This was awesome. We were running the fucking Sox into the ground. Humiliating them. Punishing them. Who's your fucking daddy now? This was GAME ON and we were loving it.

And then the pact Big Papi made with the devil (or with Ted Williams's head) kicked in and all hell broke loose.

The games came and went and suddenly we found ourselves in front of the tv watching a game seven that should never have been.

tshirt.jpg"The 1-0 pitch, swing and a groundball to second base, Pokey Reese has it, he throws to first and the Red Sox have won the American League Pennant."

I'm telling you. I was stunned.

I remember back in whatever year that was that I saw Apocalypse Now in the movie theater. At the end of the movie, as the credits rolled, the theater was completely silence. Shock and awe. Everybody just sat there like, what the fuck did we just see?

It was like that in my sister's apartment. We all just stood there with our mouths hanging open. Nobody said anything for a long while. I think we were post traumatic.

Well, maybe not all those things. Maybe I was more angry than anything else. Maybe I threw a couple of things. Maybe I broke a few Yankee bobbleheads in the middle of the street by running them over with my car. Maybe I looked up Curt Schilling's phone number and told him I would take that damn bloody sock and shove it so far down his throat he'd be shitting cotton and blood for two weeks. Maybe I went home and stared at my photo of Bucky Dent hitting that homer over the Green Monster and cried into my pillow.

Let it be know, I wasn't really crying because the Yankees lost. I mean, it's sports. It isn't my life.

I was crying because they lost to the Red Sox.

And now I'd have to face every Red Sox fan I brazenly taunted after game three, when I thought there was no way in hell the Yanks would lose this series.

Chickens coming home to roost and all.

I'd like to say I learned a valuable lesson in sports humility that day.

But...eh. I just learned how to be really bitter. -M

So those are our moments. Things that will stick with us forever. From the look on their eyes to the feelings in our hearts. The moment that we knew this was the end of the season. It hurts. But, we will always be fans. We will always want more.

What are your biggest disappointments? The ones that really made your earn your fan status for sticking around?

/Go Kings!

Michele and Turtle were both very upset about the whole National Lawn Bowling League scandal.

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Dear Uberchief

Ted Rhobe Rae is unable to write this week, as he is dealing with a joint lawsuit brought against him by Child Protective Services and the Association for Protection of Midget Rights. Below, Uberchief dishes out advice in the form of a fable from the magical land of Deep Forest, where animals can talk, get drunk, and contract venereal disease.

Dear Uberchief,

I have a friend who has been having an affair with a married man for a year an a half. A few months ago, she had a fling with another guy and feels that she has "cheated" on the guy that she is having the affair with. WTF??

Signed,

My friends are nut jobs

Dear My friends are nut jobs,

Wow, that is quite a quandary! On one hand, your friend sounds like quite a slut, which is always a good thing in my book. On the other hand, she sounds batshit crazy. It reminds me of the tale of Ron Rabbit.

Ron Rabbit was the most caring rabbit in all of Deep Forest. When Craig Caterpillar needed a ride to the methadone clinic, Ron put down what he was doing to take him. When Lucy Ladybug needed to get tested for HPV and herpes, he put down what he was doing and took her to Planned Parenthood. When Bird needed someone to help clean his nest out for Spring, he put down what he was doing and went to help. There was nobody in Deep Forest who didn't count on Ron in some way.

One day, Percy Porcupine was walking by as Ron Rabbit was fixing the door to his rabbit hutch.porcupine113.jpg

"Good morning Percy!" said Ron, smiling.

"Not for me, it isn't," grumbled Percy. "One of the workmen at the clinic must have stopped up the toilet--there's crap all over the floor and it stinks worse than usual in there."

"That sounds horrible Percy! What can I do to help?"

"Could you bring your tools and help me figure out how to fix it?"

"Sure!" said Ron. He stopped fiddling with the door to his hutch, grabbed his tools, and followed Percy to the free clinic. Sure enough, raw sewage was everywhere, and it was even seeping out from under the front door.

"Well, this is going to take some work Percy," sighed Ron. "But I'm up for it! They don't call me the most helpful animal in Deep Forest for nothing!"

"That's the spirit!" said Percy. "Let's get to work!"

They worked and worked all morning long. By late that afternoon, tired and ready for a nap, Ron announced that he had found the source of the backup and was done with his work.

"Thank you so much Ron!" said Percy. "I don't know what I would have done without you!"

"No problem!" said Ron.

The next day, Ron was working on fixing his door when Luther Lion walked by.

"Good morning Luther!" said Ron.

"Not so good for me," growled Luther. "I lost every single bit of my money at the track last night. And I thought I had a sure thing!"

"I'm sorry," said Ron. "You know you shouldn't be gambling. Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Actually," whispered Luther, "if you can help me fix tonight's race, I'll get my money back, and enough extra to help you buy a new door!"

Though Ron didn't agree with Luther fixing the race, he had never turned anyone down who asked for help. "Sure!" said Ron. He stopped fiddling with the door and followed Luther to the track.

"Now what I need you to do," said Luther when they arrived, "is spread a rumor that Number 5 is sick and won't be racing well today. Then I'll be the only one who bets on Number 5, and we'll be rolling in cash!"mountainlion1123.gif

"Well, this is going to take some work Luther," sighed Ron. "But I'm up for it! They don't call me the most helpful animal in Deep Forest for nothing!"

"That's the spirit!" said Luther. "Let's get to work!"

All it took was a couple of well placed whispers, and in minutes, the entire park was abuzz with news of Number 5's recent illness. Soon enough, Luther was the only animal with money on Number 5. Ron and Luther watched the race in silence, and sure as Sun, Number 5 placed first!

"Oh Ron, thank you thank you thank you!" he handed Ron the money for a new door, and went off to celebrate.

The next day, after going to Home Depot with the money Luther gave him, Ron was working on installing his new door when Betty Bat flew by overhead.

"Good morning Betty!" yelled Ron as she zoomed around overhead.

"Purple skyscraper cheesecake!" shouted Betty in a high pitched voice.

"Um...excuse me?" asked Ron.

"Purple--a purple one! Brown is fat. Rename the brown fat!"

"I...um...maybe I'm not understanding you..."

"Young tampon ridiculous! Ridiculous tampon! Pew! Pew!"

Ron was losing his temper. Why was Betty always so crazy? Every time she flew close to him, he tried to ask her what she was talking about, but every time, she would zoom off, babbling about young, ridiculous tampons over and over again.

"Wow--she is crazy!" thought Ron to himself. "I'm going to try and talk some sense into her."
The next time Betty swooped toward him, Ron, using his strong bunny legs, jumped up and grabbed her out of the air. He took her and shook her and yelled, "What are you trying to say you crazy bat!" to which Betty replied in her loudest, highest, screechiest voice, "PURPLE YOUNG RIDICULOUS TAMPONS!" and began flapping her wings as hard as she could. Before Ron knew it, she had carried him high into Deep Forest--so high, he couldn't see the ground.

"Betty!" he yelled. "Put me down!"

"Tampons!" she screeched.bat1123.gif


As they flew higher and higher, Ron saw Bird perched in his new nest. "Bird!" he yelled. "Look what crazy Betty is doing! How do I get her to put me down?"

"You can't!" yelled Bird. "She's crazy, and crazy people don't listen to reason. Better just hold on tight, and try to enjoy yourself."

And that's just what Ron did. By the time Betty got tired and flew down to the ground (now just whispering things about tampons quietly to herself) Ron had seen parts of Deep Forest he had never seen before! The crisp, sparkling waterfall and the crystal clear lake, the hills that jutted out of the south above the tip tops of the trees. They were beautiful! And for the rest of his days, when he felt life was too boring, or something exciting needed to happen, he just sat back and dreamed about the day Betty Bat took him on a wild, crazy adventure.

The moral of the story is: you can fix a toilet, you can fix a horse race, but you can't fix crazy. Might as well just hang on and enjoy the ride!

Your friend,

Uberchief

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El Bandito

Another week of the ski season has flown by and here we are… the temperature is a balmy sixty five degrees and I’m roasting in a cashmere sweater. Who knows why the weather does the things that it does, but we are all surely feeling it here on the mountain! Sales are down, and upset guests abound. Meanwhile I have to continue to smile and greet guests with the energy and happy attitude they expect. Even when I can feel the sweat beading off my forehead. It can get taxing, and when I am finished with a day at work there is nothing I like better than for someone to wait on me while I kick back with a beer, a glass of wine or a good Jack Daniels on the rocks. Sometimes it works out nicely and other days the dog is just too needy for me to get comfortable. He’s Sixty-seven pounds and he thinks he is a lap dog. He crawls all over people when they are on my couch! However he has the sweetest demeanor you know all he wants is your attention.

bandit.jpgBandit, (my dog) is my pride and joy. I was about 22 or 23 when he came into my life and I think he is the greatest pet I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. All pet owners are proud and happy with the animals they care for so I admit to being biased. How he came into my life is a story I love to share, so if you have heard this story, shut up and let others hear it for the first time.

My memory is not very accurate, but I would have to say that it was about four or five years ago. I was living at a small ski resort here in Vermont, in the Warren and Waitsfield areas called Sugarbush. Part of my employment at the area included my housing, for which they deducted money from my paycheck every week. Now at this time in my life I was earning decent money, and pretty happy with my life aside from feeling lonely all the time. Well not all the time because my pal JaWa lived in the same area and we would get together almost nightly to drink, ski or sled, and otherwise enjoy the great company. Well I was moved from the hotel size room I had been living in, to a large four bedroom “ski in, ski out,” condo. Where I received three very unpleasant roommates. After about a month, all three had gone and I had one new roommate about to move in. It was during these three weeks living alone in that building, that I moved myself into the master bedroom and bathroom, and put a decent lock on the bedroom door, so that I had my own full bathroom, and a safe place to lock up my valuables. In truth I was set up as the BIG QUEEN ON SITE! I was baroness of the household and I could dictate as such. JaWa and I frequently had gatherings and other fun things going on in that place and it was also about the time that JaWa adopted “Mr. Big”, a black and white cat. However JaWa kept the animal at the local housing shelter because there were three good sized dogs at the condo he was currently renting with some friends. He was afraid the dogs would traumatize his new pet. While as the summer changed into winter we found that we had a problem with mice at my little home. Thus, we had a meeting of the minds and it was decided that if the corporate office said ok, I would foster JaWa’s cat to help keep the house free of mice.

So that weekend when the corporate office worker came to check on the condition of the house, My latest roommate and I asked him if it would be ok to have a cat to act as a mouse deterrent. He said: “I don’t care what you do to this house as long as you keep it nice.” As soon as he had left I had made up my mind to get a dog. I had always wanted one.

banditbean.jpgIf one could find my Christmas lists from the years in which I ranged from about seven or eight to about fourteen, one would see that each one of them had a dog or a puppy written down somewhere on them, sometimes even highlighted as the thing I wanted most. Now here I am in my early twenties, at last with the space and the finances to own a pet that I had wanted for years. The hunt began the next day; I went scouring the paper for just the right kind of animal for me. What I had in mind was a multi-colored mutt of some sort. But at around February there were no “Free Puppies” signs anywhere, and the paper had some puppies available, but the owners wanted six to seven hundred dollars for these “registered” dogs. Personally, I think it is an insult to ask so much for an animal. Secondly, I am not about to pay that much for a purebred dog, when purebred animals tend to have more problems than your average mutt, Including cancer, hip displacements, diabetes, and any other number of hereditary issues. Because a mutt is one or more breeds mixed together, they tend to get stronger resistances to a lot of hereditary issues. ANYWAY, one afternoon I get a call from my Sister-In –Law. She and my niece were, (at the time) working as volunteers for the Randolph Animal Hospital and Shelter. She told me that there was a little black and white puppy and an older dog at the shelter that both needed a good home. I agreed to meet her there the following day to take a look at the puppy, but I told her I wasn’t really interested in something I could not train myself.

The next day JaWa and I took the hour long drive to Randolph to rendezvous with my sister-in-law, and my nephews and niece to examine the dogs. When we arrived, I was informed that the puppy had been adopted that morning, so all there was left was the older stray dog. They told me that the dog was a male, neutered, approximately a year and a half old, (though they really had no idea) and that he had been found out playing with the schoolchildren at the local elementary facility. I was not really enthused about the prospect of an older dog, they can be set in their ways sometimes, or they may have issues I was not ready to deal with. JaWa told me that we were at least going to look at him because ‘like hell was he gonna sit in the car for that long again’, with absolutely NOTHING to show for it. We were led down a hall of kennels, most of which were empty, and the few that had animals were there by appointment. To the very end where there was a clipboard attached to the side of the kennel with the words “STRAY”, and the phrase: “This Dog SMILES!!” with a little smiley face. The attending vet opened the door and we were assaulted by a dog that was about the height of my thighs, who ran here and there, up and down the hall, licking every face that was close enough. He even managed to topple my 6 year old nephew in his exaltation at being freed from his cell. My nephew was laughing, and the rest of us called to him so that we could get a good look at him. Once he came within range, JaWa; who at the time worked at a grooming facility for animals in Waitsfield, looked him over for lice, ticks, and other problems, and examined his teeth and paws. I kept him still by petting him and looking at his fur patterns. I was struck by the mask like appearance of the black fur on his face which covered his eye area, but kept his nose relatively free of the markings. It reminded me of bandit the wonder dog.jpgJohnny Quest and his dog “Bandit” So I looked at him and I said: “If you were mine I’d call you Bandit.” (This is the one thing you are NOT supposed to do when looking for an animal. Name it before you’ve decided to receive it.) The Vet told us on our way out that if someone did not adopt the dog within a few weeks that the dog would probably be put down. That made all of us sad, and as I drove home with JaWa, we stopped at the local McDonalds for some fast food to comfort ourselves. JaWa said that the dog seemed fine and still young enough to train. I was in a lot of confusion over it. I knew that if I didn’t take him, he might die a sad and lonely death, but if I did take him, we might not get along I might get hurt and he’d be put down anyway. We still hadn’t decided anything by the time we got to the counter at the restaurant, so when they asked us if we wanted to purchase a paper heart for Valentines Day to support heart disease I did so and wrote on it: “For Bandit- May you find the home you deserve. Love JaWa and Matthew” We ate our dinner, and talked a bit more and then finished the drive home. When we arrived back at the homestead, JaWa had this to say: “Why don’t you adopt him on a trial basis? If you get him and the two of you don’t get along, you can at least get him to a humane society that is a no- kill shelter. If you get bitten, don’t mention what dog it was…” I love that man for thinking of something I never would have considered.

The next day I made a call to Randolph and told them that I would like to adopt the dog now known as Bandit, they said that they would have to charge me for updating his shots but that I was free to take him as soon as I wanted, so I made an appointment for the following Wednesday afternoon at 5pm. During that time I went and bought a supply of dog food, dishes, and one of everything dog related that I could find based on his weight and age. I think I bought him one of every toy I could find! When the day finally arrived I was excited when I got out of work at three in the afternoon. I was excited to hop into the car and get my new pal. I walked out the front door to discover a blizzard had decided to hit Vermont that day. There was over four or five inches of snow on the ground, and it hadn’t stopped snowing yet. JaWa, who had borrowed the car that day and was there to pick me up, asked me if we shouldn’t call the vet and pick up the dog on another day. I was so mad and stubborn I looked at him and said: “No, if that dog is going to be mine I will not have him spend one more night in that little dump! Move Over, I’m driving!” It took us two hours and fifteen minutes to drive through that blizzard to our destination. I drove by following the two foot wide strip of pavement that was all you could see on the interstate. We arrived fifteen minutes late for my appointment. When we pulled in there was over seven inches of snow on the ground, and one lone red car in the drive with about the same amount of snow covering it. The lights were off and I was immediately upset. I began banging on the door, and cursing to JaWa, that the least they could have done was call me and let me know they were closing early that night. (Although in hindsight, how could they have? I didn’t own a cell phone at the time!) All of a sudden I hear a meek voice call out “Hello???” and a person appeared from around the back of the
building. “Can I help you?”

Taffy-Snow-Mtn-1.jpg“Yes you can help me I’m here to pick up my dog. I’m about fifteen minutes late, but the roads are crap.” She looked at me for a second and then explained that the electricity had gone out, and then asked which dog was mine. “The stray on the end” I replied. “He should have had all his shots either today or yesterday.” The young woman then let me inside and led me through the darkened office, she told me that she couldn’t see to find the paperwork, but that they would call me sometime tomorrow about it. I was then once again in the hallway of kennels and she asked if I wanted her to get him or if I would like to do it myself. I had my leash with me so I said I would take care of it. “The Door is by the end, just take him out that way, and give a call in the morning.” I thanked her and then made my way alone to the end kennel where Bandit sat. We sat a moment looking at each other through the wire kennel walls when I said: “I’m bustin’ you out of here!” I opened the door and he practically leapt into my arms! I struggled with the excited dog for a second while I fastened his leash to the collar he was wearing at the time, and then I opened the door. He bounced around in the falling snow in such a way that one is reminded of a small deer. After a few minutes of jumping about we finally got him into the car for the long trek home. During which the poor thing threw up three times. By the next afternoon there was no way anyone could separate the two of us. EVER. So that’s pretty much his first story; and one of my favorites. It truly is nice to finally have something that appreciates me, without any expectations other than wanting to be fed and pet often. He was, and is, the dog I havealways wanted and the companion I have relied on all these years since he came into my life. Thank you for listening to me tell his adoption story and I hope to hear some from my readers about their little companions!

Until next week I hope you find happiness in the days to come, and joy in the events of the New Year!


Matthew knows the value of a good friend, the kind that'll drive you all over Vermont looking for a dog and the kind that just wants to lay on your lap.
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Rocky George

Rocky George is a hell of a guitarist, and one who is simultaneously well-liked and hated by those who would normally be just fine with his catalog of work. Punk fans have a major issue with George. He’s the person primarily responsible for moving Suicidal Tendencies away from punk and into thrash.

Due to a variety of record-label, personnel line-up and legal problems, Suicidal Tendencies had a huge break between their seminal, self-titled album and it’s follow up Join the Army, the former released in 1983, the latter in ‘87. During that time, George had a huge influence on singer/band leader Mike Muir and the sound of the band. But JtA can still be classed hardcore punk and is one of the most listened to skate-punk albums of the era.

But then came 1988’s How Will I Laugh Tomorrow … ? and almost everything punk about ST had changed. Musically, at least. Thematically, Muir was still writing about the same stuff, but it was now framed by thrash and somewhat progressive metal. Even incorporating some funk elements when bassist Robert Truijillo joined the band and they released Lights…Camera…Revolution! in 1990. Rocky.jpg

George stayed with the band until 1995 (and three more albums) and played for other bands, including the Cro-Mags, until joining Fishbone in 2003.

George has what has come to be understood as a typical metal style. His rhythms are succinct but full and his solos are frenetic and tasteful and have influenced many guitarists to date. Some of his earlier work suffers from bad tone and bad recording quality. Typical of many metal guitarists of the early-to-mid 80s, those early adopters of high-end effects, his solos are over-produced – they have too much chorus, too much compression and lose some of their bite. Notes meld into each other rather than being distinct. Notice, however, how different his sound is on Lights…Camera…

Suicidal holds a special place in my heart as one of the first metal bands I ever started listening to and the first punk album I ever heard. Because of that, I’m probably very forgiving of the change in style – evolution, I guess. Regardless of what you may feel about the band, George is well-worth listening to.

All Cullen wants is a Pepsi. Just a Pepsi. And she wouldn't give it to him. Just a Pepsi.

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Dr. Strangelove

The first time I posted this, Michele and Turtle had just announced their upcoming nuptials. Their news inspired me to share how I met my wife with you all. As it's been a long day at Casa de Finn and I've had little time to clean up the post I originally had planned, I'm reposting it for those who may not remember and for those of you who are new. I hope you enjoy it and look for a new post on Thursday.

-F

It’s hard to remember the first time I met her. Most things about that time in my life are hard to remember. There was a steady drip of poisons running into my bloodstream, most notably the whiskey… Whiskey was the great eraser, nothing could blow out a bad day (week, month, year) like a bottle of Tullamore. We were cleaning the blackboard tonight and I was ten kinds of self imposed importance and bravado. I had been talking to this kid I was supposed to be mentoring for about an hour, slamming back doubles the entire time, hidden away in a little bar on the right side of Broad. I hadn’t eaten all day and the hooch was kicking my head in something fierce, making time with the kid that much more tedious.smomsbar.jpg

He got up to go to the jukebox. I tried to the read the menu that the waitress had set down in front of me an hour ago, hoping that by at least glancing over it she’s stop shooting me dirty looks and just keep bringing me the booze. Tonight was not a night for southern comfort food. Tonight was a night to get rid of the kid, get a retard drunk on and hope that someone would kick my teeth in on the way back to wherever I was going to sleep. Then, maybe, just maybe, I’d feel a little better than I had when I woke up this morning.

Luck not being on my side, the kid returned and started in on me again. We’d had a running argument for three days now about whether or not Perl could be considered a “post-modern” programming language. Yes, it was a pretty geeky conversation, but I had to give the kid credit. I’d leave him little openings here and there and he’d jump right in. Bright kid, that one. Did more than his fair share of dumb shit, but he could be bright when properly motivated. We were arguing the merits of persistently defined variables versus ones that could be defined in an array, on the fly as it were, when something from across the bar caught his eye. The way he took off, it was either another music hound or a bird. I didn’t care, but I had my money on a bird.pbrs.JPG

Tom Waits was playing on the jukebox. I definitely remember that. All smoke and hurt, the man’s voice just wrapped around me. I love that voice. The smoky, boozy, voice of reason bouncing off these little red walls. Oh crap, I was getting maudlin. I waved the waitress over and ordered two more doubles. The words completely fell out of my mouth, jumbled from a drunks tongue and too many teeth. She looked at me like I was crazy. At that moment, she would have been right.

She brings me my drinks. Sets them down on the table and fixes me with the look. I’m gonna get a lecture. She knows that I’m not going to start trouble here. I come here at least three nights a week, get stupid and stumble home. But she knows that some of the people I associate with here are… We’ll call them “Less Than Productive Members of Society”, mainly because calling them scumbags seems more harsh than I mean to be. They were good kids with bad habits, just like me. She also knows that most of them are in the bar tonight and that they’re headed towards raucous. So, she simply offers me warning and leaves me the drinks. She knows I’ll back them up if it goes down. But that’s not what tonight’s about. Tonight’s about erasing whatever I have left, dumping gasoline on it and watching that motherfucker burn. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll try again tomorrow.

Luck actually left the building at this point, turning when she got to the door and blowing me a kiss on her way out. The kid came back, looking satisfied. I’d been right, it was a bird. I smiled silently to myself as he lit a smoke. He told me he’s just run into a couple of people and that they’d be over shortly, both girls, both pretty. I was in no mood for fun. I had no time for frivolity. I called the waitress over again and asked for whatever she could fit into a rocks glass. She gave a little laugh at my joke, until she realized I was serious. She went back to the bar and I could see her whispering to the bartender…

That’s when they sat down. I know it was a they, because the kid stood up and greeted whoever sat on my left. She didn’t matter. The kid didn’t matter. Nothing in the room mattered except for the girl on my right. She was beautiful. Long black hair, amazing green eyes, freckles. My head was swimming suddenly and, for the first time in a long time, it wasn’t just the booze doing it. I actually had to exhale, simply because I had forgotten to breathe. She and the other two at the table started talking about a band, while I just sat there and stared. I was completely dumbstruck. Too drunk and out of practice to talk to a woman like that, I was grateful when the waitress returned with my drink. I drained it without thinking about it, lost in the curve of her neck and the way her eyes lit up when she got excited.
rocks.jpg

After five minutes of total silence on my part, I knew I had to leave. She’d be my ruin. My little plan of self destruction, so perfectly carried out until now, would be tossed out the window if she so much as smiled at me. I reached for my wallet, threw a handful of bills on the table and said goodnight to the kid. As I was putting on my jacket, she looked over at me and said “Nice to meet you”….. and smiled.

My knees started to buckle a little. “Dammit, boy!” said the voice in my head. She smiled at me. And I really wanted to smile back. I wanted to tell her sad stories of fallen kings and run my fingers through her hair as we listened to Bonnie Prince Billy on the stereo. I wanted to smell her close to me when I woke up in the morning. By god, I could do anything with this woman at my side. But my defenses were strong, strengthened by so many years of doing my self in and getting hurt.

“You didn’t.” I answered. And I walked out the door.

And that’s how I met my wife.


So, how about you ? How’d you meet your significant other ?

January 6, 2007

Wild Card Weekend

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Ernie just wants to beat the Jets. Is that so wrong?

Archives

What Ever Happened To Predictibility?

The editor's picks this weekend was my idea. Pick a fictional place from a tv show where you'd like to live. So why did I have such a hard time coming up with something? I hate when that happens. But after agonizing over it (I was sure I was going to pick some cartoon world the whole time then decided at the last minute that I don't want to live in a 2D world, although it would be kinda cool to live in Marioland or something like that), I came up with my ideal fictional television place to live.

Full House.

That's right. I said Full House. Now, before you go and make fun of me, you should know that I'm not really, nor have I ever been, a huge fan of this show. Sometimes I just watched it because it was on and I was too lazy to click the remote. Or maybe I was drunk. I was still relatively young when this show started, so I can theoretically blame my viewing of it on alcohol.


deadkim.jpgLately, I've been watching it because my son and his friends have, for some reason, become obsessed with it. Whatever. 13 yr olds are weird.

So why would I want to live in a place that is the home of a show I don't really care for? Well, there's a couple of reasons. And I think I'll make a good case here so you will have to refrain from making fun of me.

1. All my problems will be solved in half an hour.

That's the best thing about tv shows. No matter what crisis comes up, be it a dating disaster, school problems, getting fired, drug addiction, a crisis of faith, divorce, death of beloved pet, friend or family member, murder, suicide, trouble with the law, cheating, fire, tornadoes, burned dinner, bullying, gang rape, coming out of the closet, etc., it can all be solved in half an hour. Maybe an hour if you're living in a drama, but half an hour for most sitcoms.

Life happens in a blur. You start off your episode with some kind of conflict and before that 30 minutes is up, everyone on your show has helped in some way to solve your problem and end the conflict in a way that brings happiness and joy to everyone around. Find out your best friend is a serial killer who stuffs hookers in his trunk? Don't worry. Danny and Uncle Jesse will take care of everything. Got a big zit on the day of a big date? No problem. DJ and Kimmy will find a way to cover up that nasty pimple. Feeling down, depressed, and suicidal? Never fear, Joey is here to tell a really stupid joke and smile in the offhand, smirky way, that makes you forget that your period is a week late and the guy you slept with has herpes.

It's like magic. Pure, television magic.

2. Kimmy Gibler.

Brazen, annoying and god damn nerve-wracking, Kimmy took the cliche of "quirky neighbor" to new heights. think Andrea Barber, the actress that portrayed Kimmy, felt seriously threatened by those cute, darling Olsen twins. She must have known that some day those adorable girls would grow up to be two anorexic, drug addicted babes who run their own media empire from the confines of their rehab center and poor Andrea would be left with nothing but a future episode of Where Are They Now? or a bit role in Skateboard Kid 2.

I can't say that she doesn't deserve that shitty fate. Maybe if she didn't overact in every scene and steal the thunder from the other fine actors of Full House, and maybe if she didn't do such a crappy job piericing Steph's ears (which I think was intentional because everyone knows that Steph hated Kimmy and maybe Kimmy was hoping Steph would get an ugly infection and die), meatquiiin.jpgwell, maybe she would still be acting. And maybe I wouldn't have to be writing this thing where I want to live in the Full House world just so I can take a steak knife to Kimmy Gibbler's voice box. It would be a Very Special Episode, indeed. One in which the whole "com" part of sitcom goes out the window as Kimmy lays in the Tanner kitchen in a pool of blood and no one moves to call an ambulance or anything because hey, it's Kimmy, and she's god damn annoying and maybe not having her around anymore wouldn't be such a bad thing. So they all stand around and watch Kimmy thrash around the floor and listen to her blood gurgle as it pours out of her throat and Steph maybe kicks her a couple of times and says things like "That's for my earlobe infection, you filthy whore!" And DJ says something like "I never liked you, I was just your pity friend!" And then at the end of the episode, when the medical examiner comes to take the body away just as Joey is standing over the corpse saying Cut. It. Out! Danny and Uncle Jesse come on the screen and say something like "What you just saw was fiction. But it could happen to you. Don't be that girl. Don't be an annoying, wacky neighbor. If you do know someone who is an annoying, wacky neighbor, call 1-800-Kimmyisdead and we'll help you with your problem. We here in the Tanner house care deeply about you. Don't end up like this."

The more you know.

3. Joey

Pretty simple here. A really good reason to live in this house. See, I'm going to punch him in the face every time he says Cut. It. Out. It will only be a matter of time before he has this Pavlovian reaction every time I walk in the room. That's right, Joey. You better flinch. Cause my fist is itching for your mouth. I'd also make sure to spend every episode telling him how much his jokes suck and how unfunny he is and I'd leave want ads for fry cooks in his bed with the words "don't quit your day job" written on them. There would be some point in every episode where I would make Joey cry. Eventually, the futility of his life and chosen career will smack him upside the head like a brick and he'll lock himself in his room and write really bad poetry and one day we'll be looking for him and Steph will find him in the bathtub, the words Cut It Out sliced into his arm, blood everywhere. And Kimmy will say something like, "Is this because I told Dad about how you asked me to dress up in that Sailor Moon outfit last week?"


4. Uncle Jesse

I just want to prevent him from marrying that washrag of a woman. Has there ever been a sitcom character so lacking in personality? Really. What the hell was her name anyhow? Becca...Becky...Rebecca....hey, wasn't Stamos's wife's named Rebecca in real life? Weird. Anyhow, I just can't stand that chick. No idea what Jesse saw in her. She didn't even have big tits. And she looks like the kind of chick you'd pick up at a NASCAR thing. I have no idea what that means.

fullhouse.jpgAlso, I'd tell Jesse that his Elvis-type rock music that Jesse and the Rippers play is fag and he should consider shaving his head, getting some tattoos and starting a punk rock band. Jessie and the Jackboots or something. Because I'll be honest with you, the only thing that kept me from having any kind of sexual fantasy about Jesse was the whole crappy music thing. What? Oh come on, like you didn't have the hots for him when he was bad boy Blackie on General Hospital.

See, I have good reasons for wanting to live in this place instead of somewhere like the land of Aqua Teen Hunger Force (I'd so party with Carl) or some Batman cartoon series just so I could have a hot, lesbian fling with Harley Qunn. Those things are all well and good, but I'd get no lasting lessons out of them and everyone knows that tv life is all about lessons. Sure, Meatwad might teach me a valuable lesson about making the homies say ho and the girlies want to scream and Harely might teach me a thing or two about what it's really like to fuck a cartoon, but that just doesn't compare to what you get out of Full House:


Everywhere you look , everywhere you go.
There's a face
Of somebody who needs you.
-M

Michele named her vibrator Master Shake.

Maybe This Is About Walnut Grove. Maybe Not

What time of day is it? Guess I'd better start this. After a late night of cold sweats and bad TV, there is nothing like sitting down and typing something out. Since I think I may have finally hit the "bad" stage with my leftover sauerkraut and sleeping with the TV on, this post might be a little weird.sauerkraut1121.jpg

I know the rules to today's post are something like "pick a fictional place from TV or comics or something like that and tell why you like it" or something like that so I'll stick to that main theme. Idunno, it was something like that. But since I can't remember where I was last night, I am going to go with the ol' standby excuse. "I can't remember what the theme was so I just went out on my own." It works sometimes. All I have to do is avoid any conversation about what we are supposed to be writing about, then give that dumb, confused look when all of the Editor's Picks get published the next morning. You know that look. It's kinda like that "You didn't tell me I was supposed to be sober. What am I? A fucking mind reader?" look. Ceptin' this one is more like, "We were writing about what? Oh. Sorry about that."

So since I already told you what I will be looking like when you are reading this, I figure I might as well go all the way.

Sure. Everyone thinks I am going to write about Walnut Grove from Little House on the Prairie. What a wonderful place it would be to live with all those little life lessons and shit. Well fuck that. I ain't no one's patsy and I don't flip like a dog. I am not your puppet and all those early 80's hair metal bands song titles. Cause If you are going to pour some sugar on me baby, you are going to find out every rose has its thorn.

So let's get back to the topic. Walnut Grove. Shit, I think I spent a few paragraphs talking about not doing Th' Grove and I am going to end up doing it anyway. Oh well. I would like to live there. Sure. But it would have to have a few changes. So stick with me as I wave my magical wand over this quaint little town and turn it into Turtleland. You know. Turtleland. A nice place to visit but a shitty place to ride. So let's do this.

Nellie would be dead.OLSON_Nellie_Vernon_-1916_at_13.JPG

I don't wish on her a painful death. I mean hell, she was just annoying. So nothing gruesome has to happen to her. Just a public death that makes you stop and look at her body for a few seconds before moving on thinking to yourself, "I never thought about it like that before," and continue humming some fucked up version of "The Entertainer" from The Sting. Speaking of the Sting, did anyone else ever wonder exactly what year they cut off Paul Newman's balls and he started making salad dressing for poor people? I mean, I know the 70's were rough but fuck man, it's like he marched his way into old age with a chastity belt on. Every time I buy his salad dressing I don't know whether I am supporting poor people or NASCAR so I just avoid that stuff like the plague and stick to Best Foods Salad Dressing*.

Let's get back to the story.

This town's main business looks like mischief and, well either stillin' moonshine or farming. Still haven't figured that out. Hell, I still don't even know what the hell Charles is farming. He is always out tilling or whatever farmers do, but for some strange reason, they never grow anything but good, wholesome values and blind kids. Fucking freak farm out there filled with junkies and orphans. If they had welfare back then, this place would be a gold mine of barefoot kids, cashed government checks and Kool cigarette butts. Charles seems to spend more time at the lumber mill in town anyways. And really, if you think about it, he is a little too goody god damn two shoes for my liking. In fact that whole family is. So they need to go. Now I don't want them dead. That would be mean. Without that family, the present day as we know it would not have blind people and junkies. It's kinda like Back to the Future. You can't kill them off cause without their offspring, we would have no blind people to make fun of. Plus I can't think of any more songs from the Sting, so they could live.

Yes, I can make fun of blind people. The fuck they gonna do? Put their fingers on the monitor and Braille this shit out? Fuck the blind!

So the Ingalls would have to go.

Let's get back to the town.

Simple enough. This town has resources that could better go to use in this time of great American Expansion. This town just needs a product that involves grain and metal working. Something that every town seems to have. And they have a lot of sugar. Well this is going to be easier than I thought.

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Moonshine.

Have you ever thought that there is a reason that most of life's problems can be solved with that little word? There is a reason for this. Say it with me. Moonshine. Moonshine. It almost rolls off the lips. Well as far as I can see it, you could plant everything around that town and it would grow, so the possibilities of flavors are endless.

So there is the plan.

Now we need to put the plan into effect. Or is it affect? I always get those two mixed up. But we need to start cooking. This shit ain't gonna make people go blind on its own.

So with a plan in place, we can now start. Mr. Henson would provide the metal materials for the still. Mr. Olsen would provide the sugar. Someone could blow glass for the containers. We could use the children for that. Children have a higher sensitivity to pain and heat so they would be perfect plus they are expendable. I mean hell, every time a new kid comes on that show, it is titled "The New Kid with Some Incurable Disease Who Will Die Before The End Of The Show" so they must be pretty used to kids flopping around like fish out of water.

So I got that covered.

I guess I would have to bring back Charles to grow the crop. Dammit. And I liked him gone. This might be a problem.

But as Momma Turtle once told me, every problem provides you with a new solution. So we bring Charles back but cut out his preachy ass tongue. Maybe snag his kid or something to shut him up. Idunno. We could figure something out.

I didn't say this plan was perfect.

The next thing is the school. It would have to go. Or...we could get all Saddam and shit on the rest of the world and cook the 'shine in the school house. No one would ever look there for it. If it is illegal that is. Shit. Never thought about that. This might be another big problem. Never sell anything to anyone that they can make or produce themselves legally. Basic rule of thumb that everyone needs to know. Kind of like "Never Sue Poor People." Man, if the guys on People's Court ever figured out that rule, I would lose all my daytime TV so maybe I ought to keep that one quiet. Did you guys know Rusty from the People's Court is dead? Pretty sad if you ask me. Plus it fucks up more of my plan.

Geez, I'm not even done yet and my plan is falling into the shitter.

Ok. No Rusty. I can refigure (?) this plan and move on. We need help to get moonshine illegal. Rusty is out. He can't go to congress and petition them to make it illegal to save the children from the demon seed known as booze so I am kind fucked there. Otis from Mayberry is dead too. So can't bring in a Master Stiller to finish the job. I am pretty sure Charles is dead too.

Crap.

FTD21.jpgOk. I can get over this. All I need is Merlin Olsen and everything will be cool.

Oh christ.

I hope he's not dead.

So I guess my plan of turning this town into a moonshine distribution hub for the entire country is going down in flames fast.

But, I still have Merlin.

I guess we could sit around and grow flowers all day taking turns having sex with Nellie but since I already killed her off, that would be kinda gross.

I mean what kind of lesson could you take from that?

Fucking the dead and growing flowers for FTD would not make a good TV show.

Sometimes life isn't like the A-Team.

Sometimes plans don't come together.

Hey! Did you guys know George Peppard is dead?

Damn shame, if you ask me. - T

*Known as Hellmans East of the Rockies.

Turtle is going back to bed.

Where Everybody Knows My Name (Whether I Want Them To Or Not)

So Michele asked us where we wanted to live, if we lived in TV land. After thinking, I came up with 3 ideas.

- Sarah Chalke (Dr. Reed from Scrubs)'s pants. Oh my god, if I lived there I'd never leave the house. But it was a copout and kinda lame. Not to mention the fact that there's no way I'd get a full post out of it.

- In the world where Dethklok is king of all metal bands. However, I'm not actually *in* the band, so my life expectancy would be approximately 12 minutes. That's no good.

- The bar from Cheers. That's IT.

Let me tell you why. First things first: I don't mean I want to live in Boston and frequent Cheers. I mean, I want to live in the bar. My liver is evil and must be punished. Don't get me wrong. I don't want to live there because it's where everyone knows my name. Fuck that. If I'm in a bar, if I want to talk to you, I'll start. I really don't want to you to start talking to me out of the blue. Unless you've got some sweet tits. Anyone who shouted "Jooooooosh" as I walked into the bar would be getting a punch in the crotch. Goddammit, I know my own name, and I'm home now! Let me get somethin to eat! Let me get somethin to drink! Let me take a shit! Go in the kitchen and get me my big piece of chicken! (apologies to Chris Rock)

I would want to live at Cheers because there are some pretty cool folk that work/drink there. Let's break down what they'd be in my world:

Norm
Oh, Norm. My mentor. You fat, drunk fuck. I have so much to learn about being drunk and fat from you. Your one liners are second to none, and I'd imagine that none of your jokes were longer because you'd be out of breath.

Sam
I like a bartender who knows how to pour a beer and I could probably beat up. Seriously, Sam's a wuss. Unless he tried to bludgeon me with his fivehead. That would suck.

cockpunch2fi.jpgDiane
Ooooh, my Diane. You would so be my concubine. I would violate that innocent body in so many ways. So pure, so beautiful. I love you Diane. So much better than that fat cow Rebecca (more on her later).

Carla
Carla would be security. Sure, she's small, but that crusty old bitch is wiry. Seriously, would you fuck with a pre-menstrual Carla? I'm 275 lbs, and I wouldn't go near her if she told me to back off.

Cliff
Dude. He'd be my mailman, and he'd drink in my house. How cool would that be? He'd always have my mail on time, and I could totally threaten to shank him if he ever brought me junk mail. That shit would be sorted on the quick, I tell you what.

Woody
Seriously, fuck that patchouli stink hippie.

Rebecca
She'd be in charge of keeping the place clean, and occasionally getting Sam's dick wet so he wouldn't be so irritating. So, basically what she did on the show. God I hate her. Maybe she can go on Jenny Craig and lose all her weight and die.

Frasier
Isn't it obvious that I need some psychiatric help? However, the fact that a doctor frequented that shithole of a bar really made me skeptical towards the veracity of his medical credentials. That doesn't matter. Barroom psychiatrists are the best in the universe, MD or no. And he'd make housecalls! How cool is that?

So, there it is. My burgeoning drinking problem would be full-fledged alcoholism in a few short episodes. I'd have people to sex, people to knife, and people significantly more pathetic than I am. How could it be better?

Baby Huey once bombed a patchouli factory

You'll Never Know The Wonders I've Seen

So when the question floated out at our Editor’s Meeting (held, as they always are, in the stately boardroom at FTTW World Headquarters) “What Fictional Place From Television Would You Like To Live ?” I knew that there was only one choice. Out of all the TV I’ve watched in my ninety some years, there has only been one place where life would never get boring, where there would always be something new to check out and there would always be a new problem to solve.

Moya. Just thinking about it gives me chills. In case you’re not a giant sci-fi geek like me, Moya is the name of the living ship that acts as a home to a group of “criminals” in Farscape. Yes, I said a living ship. She eats, respires, communicates (sort of) and even gives birth to others of her kind. But she looks like your standard metal ship, so there’s none of that unsettling squishy stuff. She’s huge and fast and contains very little weaponry, only what she needs to deter someone looking to blow her outta the sky. And she’s home to one of the most diverse crews I’ve ever borne witness to. Moya was originally a prison ship and home to a number of creatures that had been locked away for violating one galactic law or another. Through a series of strange events, her prisoners became her crew and they became family. Sort of.

Pilot : is just that, the ships pilot. He’s hardwired (literally) into Moya, kind of like a parasite. Parts of his anatomy are grafted, physically into hers and he’s got a direct connection to her nervous system. He feels what she feels, knows instinctively what she needs and helps the crew take care of her. He and Moya don’t fully trust the crew (and once you meet them, you’ll understand why), but they will do everything they can to help them.

Rygel the XVI
: is the sovereign ruler of an entire planet. And, due to a coup that was orchestrated by his cousin, he found himself turned over to a militant race called the Peacekeepers and dethroned. The Peacekeepers held and tortured him for over three hundred years before he was finally released from his captivity. He’s arrogant, mean tempered,farts helium and believes all other living things are beneath him. And yet somehow, he manages to get along well with the crew and eventually becomes a strange sort of father/creepy uncle figure to them.

Ka Dargo
: is a big motherfucker. A member of a warlike race called the Luxans, he's the type to shoot first, then beat the hell out of whatever’s left. Questions never even enter into it. He represents the most basic of the instincts (eat, fuck and kill) and had been imprisoned for killing his wife. He and the main character John Crichton eventually come to an understanding of sorts and wind up acting more like siblings by the series end.

farscape_crew.jpgZhaan : is the spiritual center of the crew. A member of a race of aliens that are incredibly spiritual and peace loving, she also acts as the medic and doctor when the situations are called for. Oh yeah, she’s also a plant. No, really. She has no bones and is instead composed of fibrous tissues and photosynthesizes. She resembles a blue woman in her early forties and even though she preaches peace, love and understanding, there is a dark side to her that emerges from time to time.

Aeryn Sun : is, or rather was, one of the Peacekeepers, a humanoid race that shares many of the same characteristics as humans. She’s a warrior and an aces pilot. She can hold her own with the men and the women and she was immensely proud of the fact that she was so hard core. But, due to her prolonged contact with the very prisoners she swore to keep caged, she became “contaminated” by the prisoners and was rejected by the rest of her race. And so, she became part of the crew. Her first instinct is usually to fight, but as time goes on, she learns that she is capable of so much more than that.

John Crichton : is one part astronaut, two parts Han Solo, one part Mad Dog Murdock and has a little mad scientist for flavor. He’s the only human for billions of light years in any direction, due to a little malfunction that involved the experimental ship he was piloting and a wormhole. He’s trapped aboard a living ship with a bunch of ex-prisoners and an entire race of people is looking to kill him. And the people he’s living with aren’t too fond of him either. He’s slightly crazy but also crazy smart. He’s a brilliant tactician and a very reluctant leader, but the other members of the crew come to follow and respect him once they all finally realize that he’s more than just some talking ape.

To have the width and breadth of the universe available to me, to be able to explore and fight. Yeah, that sounds pretty good to this old mick. Although, I do have to say that living on the “Serenity” came a damn close second while writing this. But that’s a post for another day.

So once again, we ask you… If you could pick any television show to live in, where would it be ?

-F

thefinn is only one part Han Solo and thirty parts Big Giant Nerd. Archives

January 5, 2007

It's Morning Already? Group LNT Time!

breakfast112.jpgWelcome back to another edition of Group Late Night Typing. Once again, if you don't know how this works, we think of a question at the beginning of the week and send it out to all the writers and see who responds. If you want to know how we come up with these questions, you can read this thread to understand our thought process.

Anyways, we send out the question and sometimes people respond. Sometimes they don't. We usually get about half of the writers to come out. Sometimes more. Sometimes less. It all depends on the topic and who is around. What can you do.

So after we thought up the topic, the question went out and these are the responses. Enjoy them and maybe try one or two of them out. You never know. You might like them.

Today's question?

Odd food.

What is a food that tastes good fist thing in the morning. A food that may sound odd or weird but you really like it. Could be leftovers to hangover foods to just something that typically isn't considered breakfast food but works.

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Branden starts us out.

Breakfast tacos. There are endless possibilities with these culinary treats. My personal favorites are papa ranchera, which has potatoes, tomatoes, bell peppers, onions, all sauteed together and thrown in a tortilla. The other is eggs and chorizo mixed together, with a little bit of refried beans, topped with copious amounts of hot, homemade salsa. With a little coffee and lots of water, these tacos will cleanse your system and get rid of a hangover in no time flat. Beautiful.

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Turtle likes early 80's bands.manich.htm


Menudo. I have no idea where this food got it's legendary anti hangover-myth from. I mean it is boiled cow stomach. Jesus, just thinking of that sober makes me a little green. You damn well know that this food was made the night before. Something the cooks thought of while drunk. "Hey man, you know what we be good? Cow stomach!"
Or maybe it was a mixture of alcohol and pot that brought out this wonderful stew. You know, stoned enough to eat everything out of the fridge including the last sticks of butter and drunk enough to look at "Betsie" in the field and think there must be another part of a cow they could eat. Eat the stomach, man! And it works. Maybe it is the tomatos and the broth or maybe it is the suction cup like feeling of the lining in the stomach as it almost grabs it's way down your throat as it slides on back to your "tummy zone."

Or maybe it's the four beers you drank while eating it.

Doesn't really matter why it works, it just does.

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Deb drank too much.

My sister drinks chocolate milk the morning "after" which just squids me out. Unless it's Baileys, nothing milky is being ingested the morning after. Seriously (including what your dirty little minds are thinking, jeeze).

My personal favourite morning food is a medium rare burger with sauteed onions & mushrooms, swiss cheese and a metric tonne of ketchup. I almost died because of this prediliction.

I was at a diner with a friend getting ready to add the finishing ketchup to the burger of perfection. The ketchup was in a glass bottle, you know the kind, you need patience or a bread knife to get any out... But I digress.

The ketchup needed shaking (as ketchup is wont to need) so I shook it. I shook it all over the back of the Hell's Angel who was sitting behind me, emptied the entire freaking bottle. He was a good sport, I only had to buy him breakfast, but let me tell you... My burger never tasted sweeter after that brush with death. =)

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Jo likes ice cream.

The weirdest breakfast food I like to have in the morning, usually when no one is around to watch me, is Ben and Jerry's Ice Cream. It doesn't matter what flavor, but ice cream just does something to wake me up and put me in a good mood for the start of my day. Even better if you have it over a cup of coffee and a tape of old Looney Tunes.

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rweirds2.jpgErnie gets "Chet" on us.

I like a greasy pork sandwich on a dirty ash tray.

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Josh does the standby.

My standby weird breakfast food is cold pizza and rooster sauce. That'll put some serious lead in your pencil. However, my absolute favorite hangover remedy food is the Rise and Shine burger. Get the biggest, greasiest burger you can find, slap a couple of strips of bacon, some jalapenos, and a nice, over-easy egg on it. To quote one of the dumbest comedians of all time, and I'll let you figure out who, it'll put some serious hitch in yer giddy-up.

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Ian has a sammich that will kill you. In a good way.

Since my favorite weird food is the not-weird-at-all cold pizza (the breakfast of champions), I thought I'd just share my favorite sandwich. And by sandwich, I mean "oh God, I think I'm going to die, someone call the hospital" on a bun.

Take a 9-inch italian hero, slice it in half, and put two spicy breaded chicken cutlets inside. Then, pile in with mashed potatoes (lumpy) and Kraft Mac-N-Cheese, dash pepper over the whole thing, put the top half of the roll on top of the mountain-o-doom, and eat until you pass out.

This sandwich, called "The Comfort Zone" came in 5th in the top 5 sandwich recipes in Maxim Magazine some months ago. And because it came in 5th, it means there are 4 more that are worse. My friends and I all got together and made all 5 one day. The groceries alone cost $80, they took 4 hours to cook it all, and then we exploded. Good times.

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Philbrick gets greasy on us.

I find most food is absolutely disgusting in the morning unless it is fried and greasy. Therefore, the perfect breakfast food is a grilled ham and cheese sandwich. It's nice and heavy and makes for the perfect pre-cigarette meal. A nice fat nicotine buzz awaits after one of these things. There's nothing particularly weird about this, but it's not typically a breakfast meal.

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Bonnie is TCB MTO.jimlunch.JPG


When I was in college in PA there was this gas station/convenience store named Sheetz that had MTO (made to order) subs. When thoroughly drunk we would wander into Sheetz and stumble to the touch screen menu and order food. My favorite was the grilled chicken. I can see the touch screen in my mind now and remember exactly where all the condiment buttons were located! Microwaved grilled ckn, mayo, mustard,
blk olives, green peppers, pickles piled into a wheat sub roll and warmed again in the micro!!! Nothing like it...just don't consume unless you are drunk!!

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Cullen doesn't really like breakfast.

It is rare that I can eat anything after I wake up. It takes several hours for me to be able to stomach anything. At most, I have a V8 and some Tabasco.

The rare, rare times when I can eat breakfast or when we do the breakfast for dinner thing, I prefer traditional breakfast fare. Waffles and sausage probably being my favorites. And not the sausage links -- gotta be the ground up kind that you make into
patties. Unless it's smoked sausage from Stripling's or andouille.

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Shawna once lived in San Diego...sigh...I like San Diego.

Leftover Bo Jangles fried chicken. The spicy kind.

Or leftover carne asada burritos from Marta's taco shop on 30th Street in North Park (San Diego). Man, I miss that place.

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Joel's sounds really good right now.

I think the problems with being a vegetarian really come into play during a major hangover. What you need is crazy amounts of grease and fat, but it's a lot harder to get when you're not eating meat. Nonetheless, I've had some success.

These aren't weird--I don't really eat weird food in the morning--but they're good. First, a great one for a hangover is just a huge breakfast. Being vegetarian, that's generally going to include either an omelette with tons of cheese, or a huge pile of greasy hash browns. Actually, it's probably going to involve both. And maybe a side of fries.

Speaking of which, I was just up in Seattle, had a hangover, and found myself at the 14 Carrot Cafe. So I ordered up a Gardenburger and fries, and goddamn, that was a delicious meal. It's standard, sure, and I imagine some of you are gagging, but it worked for me. I drenched that thing in mayonnaise and ketchup, lettuce and onions, and gobbled it down. They did that thing with the bun where you butter and grill it, so the bun is a little crispy around the edges, but still soft. Also, the fries were thick and completely drenched in grease, which I don't normally love, but it worked that morning. Man, it was a fantastic meal.

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nacho cheese machine 3.jpgMichele's just sounds painful.

Breakfast used to consist of two cups of coffee and a cigarette. But I don't smoke anymore. So now it's three cups of coffee and a South Beach bar. Well, sometimes. I'm not as good at sticking to diets as I am at sticking to not smoking.

I'm not one of those people who think certain foods should be eaten at certain times of day. I eat breakfast food for dinner a lot, and dinner food for breakfast. Especially leftovers. But I don't always have leftovers.

That's when I make nachos for breakfast. I like to wake my tastebuds up with a bang. Some Cool Ranch Doritos, a ton of shredded mexican type cheese (you know , the kind that comes pre shredded in a plastic bag), buffalo wing sauce, rooster sauce, a handful of jalapenos. Throw it in the nuking machine for about two minutes, then throw a little sour cream or blue cheese on top. Add some more rooster sauce when it comes out of the nuker.

If I have this, I usually won't eat again until dinner. Except for a few Tums for lunch.

Damn, I'm hungry all of a sudden.

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thefinn gets you moving.

The perfect breakfast and the perfect hangover cure are never the same thing. The perfect breakfast consists of waffles and home fries and eggs and … And in the space of two sentences, I’ve completely moved off topic. But when I wake up in the morning after a night out with the Gunmen, head pounding and a little nauseous, I have two sure fire cures.

The first, Cold Veggie Lo Mein, may sound a little gross to anyone who hasn’t tried it. It’s your standard Chinese fare, but the noodles and the grease do a fantastic job of quieting a queasy stomach. And after a night in the fridge, everything will be well congealed and easy to swallow. The veggies take a little longer to kick in (and give you a nice boost), but around two o’clock on a busy afternoon, you’ll be glad you had them.

The other sure-fire hangover killer isn’t used as often as it used to be, for two reasons. It’s a multi step cure and requires a convenience store. That’s usually not a problem in the city, but I understand that there are places where you don’t have five convenience stores within a two block distance. It’s pretty simple though, if you have all the required ingredients. You need some Tylenol (3), a box of little chocolate doughnuts, the biggest caffeinated soda you can get your hands on and the knowledge that this will only last for about four hours. After consuming that much chocolate, caffeine and sugar, you will be ready to roll. But once your body burns it up, you be left a jittering, shaky mess.

Both of these should get you moving and grooving after a long night out, but remember that prevention is the best cure of all.

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So those are the responses we received this week. Pretty good compliment of the writers. As I said, usually about fifty percent. And as always, if you feel you have something to add to our group, please gmail at fttw.submit@gmail.com and we would be happy to talk to you. Maybe you have something to add to FTTW.

Have a great weekend everyone and if you are hungover, feel free to try any of these.

Just don't blame us if doesn't work.

But these work for us.

That's all we can say.

What works for you?

Late Night Typing will resume its regularly scheduled chaos on Monday.

Archives

Incidental Punishment After The Ball Is Blown Dead

All right fooseball fans. Time to strap in because it’s time for PLAYOFF FOOTBALL. All or nothing sudden death. No five game series, no seven game series, FUCK. THAT. SHIT. It’s one game. You either win and move on, or you lose and go home and work on your golf game.

This weekend is ‘Wildcard Weekend’ in the NFL Playoffs. And it… is… just, WILD. WILD! I’m telling you it’s nutty koo-koo crasyz.

Ok I might have gotten a little overboard there. Let’s (me) try to calm down a little.

There are 4 games this weekend, two division winners vs. two wildcard teams in each conference. The two teams with the best record in each conference get a bye week. That is their reward for earning the two best records during the regular season. While the lower seeded teams are slugging it out this weekend, the number one and two teams in each conference can sit back, rest and watch the lower seeded teams beat the poo out of each other.

Here are this weekend’s match-ups:

Saturday, Jan. 6:

kansasleaven.jpgKansas City at Indianapolis: 4:30 pm, NBC:

This should be a good game. I’m sure most people are expecting the Colts to roll over the Chefs, but don’t be too sure. The Chefs had to fight their way into the playoffs and then hope for some help from other teams, Denver to be exact, who lost to San Fran in their final regular season game.

The Colts on the other hand, tailed off at the end of the season, though they won their last game vs. Miami. Frankly, I’m picking the Chiefs, and not just because I always pick against The Colts. The fact is, it’s the playoffs, and we all know, the playoffs for The Colts and Peyton Manning is equivalent to the clock striking midnight for Cinderella. Pumpkin time.

Dallas at Seattle: 8:00 pm, NBC:rg1-750-220_t.jpg

Dallas had a chance to win the NFC East and they blew it, losing to lowly Detroit in the last game of the season, but they still made the playoffs as a Wildcard team. They are heading into a tough place to play up in Seattle. That being said, even though Seattle is a division winner, I think Dallas is actually the better team. Seattle plays in one of the weakest divisions in the entire NFL, while Dallas has played tough games against two playoff teams in the Philadelphia Eagles and The NY Giants. Even though the two teams have the same record at 9-7, I give the edge to Dallas.

Personally, I’m rooting for Seattle in this one. I can’t root for a team that is coached by Bill Parcells and also has Terrell Owens on it. That would be like rooting for The Russians in the movie ‘RED DAWN’. It’s just not right.

Sunday, Jan. 7:

Prison1.jpgN.Y. Jets at New England: 1:00 pm, CBS:

Ok, I’m not going to even try to pretend to be un-biased for this one. If you’ve read this column even one time, you know that I’m a hard core Patriots fan, so I’m not expecting anyone to take what I say about this game too seriously.

It should be a very good game between these two divisional rivals and the idiots in the press have been playing up the whole Pats / Jets ‘border war’ aspect of the game all week. I will tell you that I think these two teams are pretty evenly matched. After splitting their regular season games, both the players and the coaches know each other very well, not to mention the fact that Jets head coach Eric Mangini is just one year removed from his position as The Patriots defensive coordinator. This will be a game where each coach knows each others moves before they make it. It should be interesting to watch the chess match play out and I will probably need to be peeled off of the ceiling by the time it’s over.

The key to this game in my mind will be turnovers. The team that plays a clean game and does not give the ball away will have the best chance at winning. Field position will also be a big factor in this game (as it is in every football game, duh). Coaches often talk about hidden yards. These are the yards that are lost or gained depending on where a team gets the ball to start an offensive series. Obviously a team wants to start with the best field position possible.

One thing that has pissed me off about this game: all the ridiculous talk that has gone on about Pats head coach Bill Belichick and Jets head coach Eric Mangini and the handshake that took place after the end of the last Pats / Jets game, in which the Jets won at Foxboro. When the two coaches met in the middle of the field after the game was over, their handshake was, shall we say, less than enthusiastic... I heard one reporter state, ‘Just shake hands and don’t make a big story out of it’. Jackass, YOU and your fellow fools in the press are the ones making a big deal out of it. Anything to sell papers… Stupid media.

N.Y. Giants at Philadelphia: 4:30 pm, FOXrikers2.jpg


This should be another good game that pits two division rivals against one another. The Giants squeaked into the playoffs as a wildcard team at 8-8. They don’t even have a winning record for crying out loud. (That bothers me.) Meanwhile The Eagles rallied behind backup QB Jeff Garcia after Donovan McNabb was lost for the season and have been playing well with Garcia leading the team. I’m picking Philly in this one.

Teams with Bye Weeks:

AFC: Baltimore Ravens, San Diego Chargers

NFC: Chicago Bears, New Orleans Saints

In other NFL related stuff, some coaches have already gotten the ax while others have left (or given up, depending on your viewpoint) for other teams. Dennis Green is out after doing a pretty pathetic job out in Arizona, which posted 3 losing seasons while under his control. The team went 5-11 this season, but with a brand new stadium and a top 10 draft pick as their QB, expectations are higher than that. Arizona has been a losing team for a long time. It would be nice to see them climb out of the basement.

The Atlanta Falcons fired coach Jim Mora after they missed the playoffs. The Falcons are most likely looking for a coach that can take better advantage of Mike Vick’s scrambling / running around for his life skills at QB.

The Dolphins now former head coach, Nick Saban, gave up, I mean, resigned after only two years at the position. He is heading back to the college ranks and will take over as the head coach of Alabama. It will be interesting to see who Miami chooses to replace Saban.

On a final note, I want to pass on my feelings about how sorry I was to learn that 24 year old Denver cornerback Darrent Williams had been shot and killed on New Years Eve. Williams by all accounts was a great person and he had been a great player for The Broncos this past season. He had a bright future with a lot of good things in front of him. All I can say about this tragedy is that it is a terrible shame and a senseless waste of a young life.

Ok, have a good weekend everybody and enjoy the games. I will be a raving maniac on Sunday so you might see some interesting comments by me in the gameday thread. Feel free to check in and witness the insanity that could ensue.

Ernie will be glad to show you his states prisons if you are ever there.

Archives

Previously on “Frankenstein!”

Frankenstein’s monster declared himself dictator of YouTubia, a quasi-real representation of the YouTube web site. His Army of Frankenstein killed some people. And he taught you about brainwashing. This week the story continues:

Frankenstein tells you about Koans and Propaganda

In which Uncle Frankenstein drinks too much Jack Daniels and then spends almost ten minutes drunkenly ranting at you about the nature of propaganda.

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Army of Frankenstein: War on SPAM

In which the Army of Frankenstein takes the fight to the enemy and in which the audio is annoyingly way too loud.

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Army of Frankenstein: WHY WE FIGHT HATERS
In which the Army of Frankenstein takes the fight to the enemy some more.

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Frankenstein: Mission Accomplished
In which Frankenstein prematurely declares victory and receives his comeuppance from Che Guevara. Heh. Comeuppance. I always wanted to use that word.


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Bonus Video:
“Drawing Mysterywalker’s Frankenstein” (fan-made video)


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Notes:
There’s some progress in audio quality this time around. I apologize to anyone who feels put off by the YouTube-oriented nature of this storyline. As I mentioned last week, it was largely conceived as a way to take a break from intensive production work over the holidays. Frankenstein seems to have developed a small following on YouTube and hopefully some of those people will visit FTTW.

Kory was not under the influence of Jack Daniels when he made these videos. Maybe.

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The Old Better Catch Up With The New

The following content does not necessarily reflect the opinion of the editors of Faster Than The World.

In my blog, I wrote that one of the best things in the tech world in 2006 was the level of competition amongst all the players which has resulted in great products at a lower cost to consumers. While purchasing a 50" plasma HDTV may still be out of range for some consumers, a 37" LCD HDTV or a 40" plasma HDTV is certainly doable. LCD monitors, laptop computers, mp3 players, digital cameras, and other electronic gadgets have all come down in price over the last few years despite the fact the products have improved and have more features. I recently purchased a new Dell computer. For $150 I was able to upgrade from a standard 19" LCD to a 20" wide screen LCD that has USB ports, a DVI input and can be used for the Xbox or Playstation. Four to five years ago, that would have set me back $400-$500. The tech players know the deal, and they're benefiting from providing the public with good products at great prices.

The same cannot be said for the movie and music industry. They are still stuck in the past, losing money and customers as a result. The problem is, they see piracy and users of BitTorrent and P2P file sharing programs as the enemy and as the reason for their failures. Yes, illegal downloading of movies and music as well as pirated DVD's cost the industry money. But the notion that all of their troubles can be put at the feet of those who illegally downloaded the latest Weezer CD or uploaded the gayest video ever made to Youtube is nonsense.

This is not a new tactic from these two industries. Just under 30 years ago, the video cassette recorder and the cassette audio tape were the new inventions that would supposedly bring the movie and music industry crashing down. Jack Valenti, former head of the MPAA said this in 1982:

I say to you that the VCR is to the American film producer and the American public as the Boston strangler is to the woman home alone.


That was not a tongue in cheek quote. That was what Valenti said in testimony before Congress.

The music industry was able to have a royalty tax imposed on every blank audio cassette in the 70's and 80's because the RIAA was convinced all of the music being released would just be copied and handed off instead of purchased. That was also nonsense. One can examine this list to see how many records were produced and released within those years selling tens of millions of copies. So not only did the RIAA makes tons of money, they made more money every time you bought a new blank cassette tape. The RIAA is now convinced that pirated music costs them so much money, that they have asked panel of federal copyright royalty judges to reduce royalties paid to publishers and songwriters. That's in addition to the almost 400 lawsuits they have filed against people who have downloaded music. I wonder which genius decided that the best way to capture the hearts and minds of a younger generation was to hit them with lawsuits demanding $3000 in damages.

There are several ways both industries can make money and appeal to the hearts and minds of a generation that want their music and movies.

1. Put out a better product. How many good artists and bands are left to use self-promotion with their recordings because a record label wants to spend money on a Paris Hilton or Kevin Federline project? What good movies are not getting made because some pinhead at a movie studio gave the green light to a Larry The Cable guy film? Or Deuce Bigalow: European Gigolo? The movie industry does have a tougher battle because HDTV and HD DVD (or Blu-Ray) with surround sound is bringing the theater experience to homes and unless people cannot wait, would rather watch on their 50" HDTV than spend $40 for tickets and snacks at the local theater. The movie industry is going to have to adopt a Moneyball type approach to their business model.

2. Find a better and less expensive way to deliver the product to us. Some people would say that 99 cents is a cheap price to pay to download music from places like iTunes. Others say paying $15 a month for a service such as Rhapsody which allows unlimited downloads to your computer and portable devices is worth it. That may be true, but it could be better and less expensive and they would still make a lot of money. While 99 cents is not a lot of money, it still gives me pause to download and buy a particular song. But if the price were 25 cents, I wouldn't hesitate at all. I tried Rhapsody on a trial basis and I liked it, but not for $15 a month. They could easily offer it for $5 a month and gain that many more subscribers and still make money. I'm a capitalist. It's not as if I don't want people to make money. I do. And they will, despite the lower prices. It's all about the content and how it is delivered.

It is more difficult for the consumer when Hollywood and the music industry are in bed together, but the Internet age has made it easier for the consumer to fight back. Blogs, podcasts, and the immediate free flow of information around the world doesn't allow for back-room deals to made as easily as they used to.

To their credit, Disney is one of the first big companies to recognize that suing people is not the path to victory. They actually recognize piracy as a business model and as such have started to offer episodes of their ABC lineup on the Internet after they air on television. It has been a success for them and shows have not suffered in the ratings as a result.

In the movie 'Wall Street' there is a scene where Gordon Gekko (Michael Douglas) is showing Bud Fox (Charlie Sheen) a hand held color television he bought for his son. He says to Fox, "We're going into a new age, pal." That new age has arrived. People no longer just want their MTV. They want their MTV fast, inexpensive, and want the ability to move it from device to device without having to jump through hoops or make multiple purchases to do so. The technology world and the audio/video world heard what Gekko said and have responded. The result is a bustling industry with people rushing to take it all in. The problem is the content delivery. The movie industry and the music industry haven't heard what Gekko said. And unless they do something about it, they will slowly fade into irrelevance pretty much like the 2 inch color television Gekko was showing off to Bud Fox.

Jay Caruso writes daily at Pop And Sports.

The Editorial Page is open to anyone. If you would like to submit an editorial for future publication, please write us a fttw.submit@gmail. com (att: editorial column).

Volume 2, Issue 6

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Jo does a boob check every morning

Previous Issues

Piss on Old Time Hockey!!!

Piss on Old Time Hockey!!! Eddie Shore? Piss on Eddie Shore!!!

Icing happen when the puck comes down, bang, you know, before the other guys, nobody there, then my hand goes comes up, then play stops then start up.

I thought I’d give myself a bit of a break this week – I haven’t watched many NHL games this week – I’ve been watching the Junior Worlds. Great hockey – TSN (http://www.tsn.ca/) has even been streaming the games live so I can watch at work – at least until someone figures out where all our bandwidth is going…

Where was I…

If you’re like me you spent a nice portion of these past hellidays with your family and then hibernated in front of the television watching movies (sometimes even at the same time). My tradition is, shockingly, to watch my favourite hockey movies for the hundredth time. So, just for shits and giggles I give you my TOP FIVE hockey movies to watch when you’re trying to either avoid the family or are hoping to shut them up.

Deb’s Top Five

Mystery alaska.jpg5. Mystery, Alaska (1999)

What’s not to love. There are boys who love hockey, there’s an entire town who are hockey crazy, there’s black ice, Burt Reynolds is the mayor and Russell Crowe vowed never to work in Canada again after freezing his ass off in Alberta. How can you lose?






les boys.jpg4. Les Boys (The Boys) (1997)

Canada’s top grossing French film (until #3 came along). Try and find the version that has subtitles (not dubbing for the love of iPod!). It’s, shockingly, a film about small town boys with big dreams who love hockey. If you ever wondered what actually goes on in the locker rooms… this is the 18+ version you’ve been looking for. Seriously though – it’s just a great movie.











Bon Cop.jpg3. Bon Cop, Bad Cop (2006)

I cannot recommend this movie too much! Love Hockey? Hate Buttman Bettman? Interested in learning about the differences between Francophones and Anglophones in Canada (i.e. the French/English “problems”)? Plus it’s really really funny.











Oilers 1987.jpg2. The Boys on the Bus (1987)

It’s a documentary. A documentary that follows THE biggest hockey dynasties in my generation (sorry Montréal). Filmed over the 1986-1987 season, it follows the Edmonton Oilers on their quest for their third Stanley Cup. This movie actually makes me cry. THIS is what a team needs to be (in whatever sport) it’s funny and moving. If you can find a copy GET IT. The most storied team in recent history at their pinnacle, before the trades and the other crap that has sullied the league. Pure Hockey.








slap_shot.jpg1. Slapshot (1977)

How to win fans and influence fashon. Lord save me from the Hansons. Personally I liked the French Canadian goalie the best, but I’m prejudiced. Go into any bar, in ANY hockey town in North America and there will be someone dressed as a Hanson Brother. No movie before and no movie after will ever match it (especially Slapshot II – *SHUDDER* - all copies of that movie should be burned and restitution made to everyone who lost a little bit of their soul watching that piece of CRAP). Most hockey players I’ve known can recite almost the entire movie by heart (and act it out, but that’s another story). BEST MOVIE EVER.









Honourable Mention

The Sweater.jpgLe Chandail (The Sweater) (1980)

This short cartoon from the National Film Board of Canada rocks. It follows the story of a young boy growing up in Montréal, where the Canadiens are kings. He grows out of his hockey sweater so his Mom orders one from “Mr. Eaton”*. The box finally comes and he’s so excited that he can go and play at being The Rocket again. He opens the box… and life lessons are learned. It’s a sweet short.

Alright I’ve giving you mine – Fess up – I know you have some of your own. Maybe even some that AREN’T sponsored by the Rat…

*Canadian department store (EATONS) – it went bankrupt a few years ago – Sears bought what was left.

Deb is going back into her movie coma, send beer (but not that crappy American shite). Archives

January 4, 2007

It's Only A Video Game...

You can call me a bastard now. Go on, I’ll wait. Done ? Good. Yes, I bought a Wii. It’s wonderful and sleek and lovely and possesses the most intuitive control system I’ve ever used. And I’ve played a couple of consoles. Currently the PS2, the SNES, the Dreamcast, the Gamecube, the Wii and the Xbox are all connected to the TV. These aren’t every console I’ve ever owned (and there are a few still in the basement, as well as a bunch of handheld systems lying about), but they are the systems I play often. I was goofing around the other day with the Virtual Console feature (it lets you download chun-li.jpgolder games that you may not have had any luck finding at garage sales, swap meets, etc.) when something caught my eye. It was a game that I used to be really good at once and it got me into some serious trouble. I hadn’t played it since.

In case you’re a youngn’ or just not that into games, there was a time when consoles started outpacing the arcades. Tons of new games that were never released for the arcade audience, were coming out on consoles. After initially dismissing the rise of consoles as a trend, arcade games makers started to take notice when their larger francise arcades started to lose money hand over fist. Atari and Namco were the first to feel the pinch and after a year or so, they weren’t alone. But they continued to develop for the arcade.. The initial hope was that they’d at least make back their R&D money in their arcades and sell a few thousand units and make a profit.

One of the first games I remember them making a killing on was Street Fighter II. Street Fighter was released a couple of years earlier and made a modest amount of money. Enough that when a new producer approached Capcom about making a sequel, they said yes. Two years later, there were lines in every arcade in D.C. You couldn’t play the game, at all, unless you stood in line. And even if you stood in line, there was no way you were going to play by yourself. You see, the Street Fighter series is just that, a fighting game. So after you’ve been in line for twenty minutes, you have to play against the guy who been handing dozens of other people their ass. Two minutes later, it’s game over and you’re back in line.

STREET FIGHTER ANNIVERSARY COLLECTION.jpgI got eaten alive the first time I played. It was a Sunday morning and there was no one in the arcade except the attendant, a younger Asian kid and myself. As soon as I walked in, I headed over the Street fighter II machine and dropped a quarter. About two minutes into it, my character had been pounded into dust and I was dropping another quarter. The Asian kid came over and started giving some pointers here and there. And after about ten minutes, I was completely hooked. The Asian kid started playing against me a little after that, stomping me every time we played. But I kept at it until I was out of quarters and went back for more. After a week or so of playing at the arcade in the mornings, I got good enough to consistently take the Asian kid down. Since he wouldn’t play against me, and since I worked the afternoons and nights (when the arcade would be full), I started looking around for more machines. And, as luck would have it, I found one.

I didn’t work on Friday nights, and could have gone to the arcade then, but that was family time. And by family time, I mean that I went bowling with the people I lived with. It was always a lot of fun (hey, we were a fun group…) and involved lots of beer and shoe theft. It just wasn’t a Friday night unless we were drunkenly throwing balls at pins that kept moving about. And the bowling alley we frequented had just gotten a Street fighter II machine. We were halfway through our first game when we ran outta beer. And it was my round. So I headed to the bar area, empty pitcher in hand and thoughts of a turkey running through my head. I saw a short line over in the arcade area and headed over to check the action out. And there she was. I watched other players for a few minutes and knew I could take them down. So I went to the bar, grabbed two pitchers, and dropped them off at the lane. I told the guys that I was ditching them and went to the arcade area to rack up some wins.

Street Fighter II World Warrior1.jpgWhich I did for several hours. There were a few guys in the line that provided me with some decent competition, but for the most part I was running the show. Until He came along. A tall redneck with a mullet and a trucker cap, who was insistent on beating me. He had come up through the line like everyone else, talking shit to the guys in front and back of him. He’d been drinking almost as much as I had (after the first four or five rounds, some of the guys around the machine had started to play me for drinks) and by the time he and I were ready to square off, he was slurring like a madman. He finished the rum and coke he had been drinking as he came up to the machine, looked me square in the eye and said “Boy, I’m gonna beat your ass one way or another.”

I laughed him off as he dropped his quarter. And two minutes later, it was over. His character was down and mine was jumping about with jubilant glee. And the redneck pushed me. “Motherfucker,” was all I heard as his hands came crashing into my chest. He knocked me away from the machine and was headed towards me, his head down and his legs gaining speed. Now, I’d been drinking and was just having fun. I didn’t wanna fight this guy, especially not in the bowling alley I went to every week. So I waited on him to get close and sidestepped him, throwing my foot out to trip him. He bounced off the wall behind me and was right back on his feet, swinging and cursing at me. I took a step back, and then another, watching his fists and looking for an opening. But the booze got the better of me.

ken.jpgThe booze slowed my reaction time. While looking for an opening I barely noticed his left coming at me. I ducked my head back just in time to save my chin, but not fast enough to save my glasses. He clipped the right lens ever so slightly and knocked them off my face. Let’s get one thing straight, I go Velma immediately without my glasses. I can see about three feet in front of me, but no more. And when I heard them hit the ground and the lenses shatter, I lost it. Fuck being nice to this asshole. All I did was beat him at a video game and he just broke my glasses that I can’t afford to replace. So I rushed him. I got right up in his face and pinned his right arm back. I told him to knock it off and he spit on me. Right in the face. So I head butted him, right in the bridge of the nose. I heard the cartilage go and his scream when his nose broke. I felt him go a little limp in my arms, so I let him drop and proceeded to kick him in the ribs while he was down. After two or three good kicks, I felt my arms get grabbed from behind me and I was pinned against the wall.

The cop who had pinned me against the wall put cuffs on me before he kicked my feet out from under me. Once he had been assured that I wasn’t going to start anything with him, he removed his knee from my back and led me to his car. I spent the night in the drunk tank while the redneck went to the hospital. Luckily he never pressed charges and I was free to go the next morning. But I swore off the bowling alley and Street Fighter for quite some time.


thefinn swore off games for a while and now only plays with those he knows. Archives

Up On The Rooftop

New Years weekend was very low key in our house, which is exactly how I like it: Home with the family, stuffing our faces, watching movies, taking down Christmas decorations. My husband spent New Year's morning on the roof taking down the Christmas lights. I followed him up there with the brand new camera Santa brought me to play around with it and see if I could get some good shots. But, before I got a chance to take any pictures, he pointed out that my shoelace had come untied. I handed the camera over to him and asked him to hold onto it for just a second while I bent down to lace my boot back up.

From this forward, I'm not quite sure how the events that occurred happened; I just know that they did. One second I was tying my shoe, the next I was watching my husband slide off the side off the roof - and I knew this wasn't something that was supposed to be happening because I heard God's name called followed by a long string of four letter words.

fallroof.jpg I jumped up and as I ran to the edge, I could feel my heart pounding through my chest. What the hell was I going to do? The thing that I loved most in this world, that helped me get out of bed in the morning, that gave me a sense of comfort and calm in such a crazy world -MY CAMERA!- could be gone in one big SPLAT!

Oh, and my husband too.

I peeked over the edge at my husband dangling on the edge, just over a small eve of the house, hanging on for dear life.

"Are you okay?" I asked.
"Do I look okay?"
"Did you drop the camera?"
"The camera? Who cares about the camera? Just help me up!"
"Who cares about the camera? I care about the camera!" "We're not really having this discussion right NOW, are we?"
"But it was expensive!"
"HELP ME!"
"Okay, okay. Jeeze. Just hang onto the camera tight, okay?"

This is when he began speaking to Jesus Christ with a bunch of expletives again. I wasn't paying attention, though, because I had to figure out a way to get him back up onto the roof. I knew I wasn't strong enough to lift him myself, so I had to come up with something. I remembered an old episode of McGyver where he made a pulley with a few blades of grass, some tree bark, and a cigarette. But I didn't have any of those things handy, so I fashioned together the craziest, most unheard of rescue invention ever; I call it The Rope. (I'm gonna patent that.)

The Good News: Husband and camera are doing well, both still in the original packaging in which they came.

The Bad News: I didn't get to take any pictures of said event.

I'm about as good of a blogger as I am a wife.

Rock Star Mommy will be selling "The Rope" on the Home Shopping Network

Archives

A Trippy Trike

so things have been in an upheaval state over here in kali-land. not to be confused with the state on the west coast. this is east coast elitist representing.

ya things are good, perhaps that's why the upheaval. i mean i'm not so used to things going my way. i've done some crappy stuff made some bad decisions. don't get me wrong i've always been blessed. i just never really saw it that way. never really took advantage of the good rolls, ya know.

the only thing bigger than my fear of failure is my fear of success. i know that some of you can relate.

so here i am. i had the best new year's eve that i can remember in a long time. and the other new year's eves that were better? well, i can't remember much of them anyway. i do have a vague memory of riding a bicycle in key west on NYE all hopped up on cocaine and lsd. the bike kept turning into a tricycle and it was really freaking me the fuck out. see? that's my old definition of a good time. RAWR! still and all, i love those memories. it was the explaining to the current boyfriend why my lsd hit was so much stronger than his which was the bitch. i mean he's kinda tripping but my bike is TURNING INTO A TRICYCLE!!! ya. so when i had to tell him that i had just snorted like twenty seven lines of raw cocaine that i was stealing from our drug dealing roommate... that was when new year's ever turned ugly.wwlittle.jpg

so that's it. my "good times" always turned bad at some point. so when things are going well, i have this self destruct mode that creeps in. like fuck it, if i'm going to lose it, i might as well blow it up myself. at least then i'll have a cool explosion... am i making any sense anymore?

let's get back to this year. i knew it was going to be good when i heard CLUTCH was playing on NYE. i mean, they're from maryland, i came up going to their firehall shows. fun fun fun. clutch shows are always a good time for me. i fucking lose myself in the show. kinda like drugs only no i'm-stealing-cocaine-from-our-roommate aftermath. good times.

so then i start dating this guy. this guy who i've been friends with for a while. the first guy i've dated who has similar taste in music in quite a while. the first guy in 8 years who would actually enjoy himself at a CLUTCH show. (ya i know i don't have the greatest track record with men. i choose poorly. shit, why should my love life be any different than the rest of my life.) but this year has been the year of changes in my life. the year of better decisions. a new start and i couldn't be fucking happier.

so on midnight december 31, 2006 i was in the pit with the man i love. i had broken my glasses, (a nice young man held off the pit and lit the ground with a lighter while i crawled around on all fours to find them after they flew off my head,) i had a black eye getting larger and blacker by the moment from a head butt, i was sweaty, my knee was bleeding from a bout with the floor and when neil fallon growled "happy new year" i turned and stuck my tongue down my date's throat....

... and i knew right then. this is going to be a very very good year.

(around 1am me and my man left the pit aching and sweaty and bruised, reminding each other how old we are and patting ourselves on the back for a show well done. we left the pit to the kids for the rest of the night)

kali is getting too old for the pit. Jeez, so are we.

Archives

The Wickerman: Reviewed

I'll warn you that this article contains spoilers but trust me: by reading this you are going to save yourself nine dollars and the urge to bludgeon someone. Honestly, don't even rent this movie. Here, I'll give you the synopsis: (give it a sec for the pictures to load.)

When I saw the trailer for this movie I though it had the potential to be a great psychological thriller. What i got was a giant pile of crap. Not only was this movie hackneyed and cobbled together in an attempt to make a barely cohesive film, it was completely lacking in character. The first ten minutes of the movie doesn't need to exist and should have been spent on developing how much Nicholas Cage's character missed his fiance; who ran away from him. If you had done that I would have understood why he dropped everything when she sent him a mysterious letter requesting his help. But nope, you just chucked everyone in to the middle of your clusterfuck. What you should have done is hire the guy who made this movie look interesting in the commercials, and have him make the actual movie because the monkey fucker who actually made this movie should be making advertisements for Purina: dog chow.

Have you ever watched a movie and the show something that appears to be important, especially in a thriller, only to have them drop it later? That would be almost the entirity of this movie. In normal thrillers that's called a "Red Hearing". It's a movie gimmick used to make you think you know what's going on, only to lead you astray. In this movie it's called "HOLY FUCK WE NEED TO FILL ANOTHER HALF HOUR OF FILM!" Though I do have to say that the movie had one redeeming sequence: Nick Cage cold-cock-decks the living shit out of Diane Delano's character, and I mean flat-out-DECKED,then he Jump Kicks LeeLee Sobieski. I laughed so had at this that the rest of the audience was laughing at my raection more than they were watching the film.


Since I've been a fan of Nicholas cage for a while, and everyone knows I have a top-secret database of the instant messenger screen names for celebrities, I wanted to talk to Nick about this personally:

...and the truth shall set you free.

Travis spends his weekends sending racy IMs to Mel Gibson.

Archives

Part V: The Dilettante

Part V: The Dilettante

Thomas: Simon, you seem even more listless than normal today.

EmilyDickinson.jpgSimon: Thomas, I’m afraid it’s not me. You see, the author is writing this piece on New Year’s Day and is therefore somewhat hung over. That’s why it’s so cloudy outside and our parlor is in disarray.

Thomas: Oh, dear. Why did he not plan better?

Simon: Because he’s an idiot, Thomas. Pure and simple. We could have been having this conversation yesterday or the day before, but the author is always procrastinating and just came home from LA an hour ago with a headache and no shower. So where does that leave two poor fictional characters like ourselves? What is there to talk about when your very creator does not feel like typing?

Thomas: Well, there was that final category of American artist you wished to speak about - the dilettante, I think you called him.

Simon: Oh, yes, the dilettante. My dear Thomas, I do believe that I saved the best category for last.

Thomas: How odd for you, Simon. Well, how do you define this dilettante?

Simon: The dilettante is the least visible and therefore the most tolerable of artists. You probably would not know the dilettante if you saw him. He has a day job and makes little or no money producing his art, yet he keeps producing it without giving much thought to financial or other rewards. He is the man who dies comfortably at the age of ninety-three. When his relatives dig through his possessions, they find several novels, an attic full of paintings or reams of poetry that are not completely dreadful. Although it is rare, the dilettante’s work might wind up in a museum or anthology long after his death.

Wilfred-Owen.jpgThomas: Why does the dilettante do this? It seems like a lot of work for absolutely no reason.

Simon: Honestly, I could not tell you. The dilettante simply has some strange drive that forces him to create. I have no doubt that there are at least a few million dilettantes wandering around America alone. They write poetry but don’t torture others with it at coffee shops, post things on this “Internet” thing I’ve heard about with little chance of any attention, they paint, they draw cartoons in their notebooks, perhaps someone out there is even trying to attempt a piss-poor knockoff of an Oscar Wilde dialogue. They are out there, though, doing their thing and receiving little or nothing in return. Patti Smith once wrote that “this is the era where everybody creates.” Well, that was the seventies and Ms. Smith was a bit bitter. I would prefer to repeat that line as a celebration.

Thomas: So those are your five categories?

Simon: Yes. As with everything they are debatable, but I think I stand on solid ground. Having wrapped this up, the author now must create some new damn content by next week.

Fin


Philbrick firmly believes in a lot of work for absolutely no reason. Archives

The Royal Tenenbaums

You may be reading this on January 4th, but I'm writing it on January 1st.  As such, Happy New Year!  I managed to get very trashed on New Year's Eve and, frankly, I'm not going to be able to write anything significant today.  Therefore, this week's Lo-Fi comes from my old blog, The Between.  I wrote it back in March 2005.  It's a review of The Royal Tenenbaums.

Yes, I realize that has basically nothing to do with music.

Also, there are spoilers, so if you haven't seen the movie for some reason and still plan to, you might want to leave now.
_______________


rten1.jpgThe Royal Tenenbaums, perhaps more than any other film, is what made me realize that trying to recommend movies to strangers is consistently a terrible, horrible, disastrous mistake. I tend to like very peculiar, odd, off-beat movies that other people are not always so inclined to like. I can certainly find people who share my taste in movies, but when a stranger comes into the store, let's say, and asks me what a good movie is, any recommendation I make will almost certainly be impressively inappropriate for that person. It would be as if a mother of three small children came in asking me what I would suggest she pick up to keep her kids busy for the night and I, thoughtfully stroking my chin, told her with complete confidence that Jenna Jameson's newest movie would be just right. Therefore, whenever a customer comes in asking for advice on what DVD to buy for a night of entertainment, I generally glare at them and stalk away, grumbling about Paul Thomas Anderson and Mark Wahlberg's prosthetic penis, or some other such nonsense.

There was a time, though, that I still attempted to make these suggestions. Once a fellow employee—though from a different department—came in with his girlfriend and asked for a suggestion on what movie to pick up. I thought a moment and said, with unshakable confidence, "The Royal Tenenbaums." I handed him a copy of it. He looked at the box dubiously, looked at me dubiously, and said—some might say a bit dubiously—"Really?"

"Oh, yeah," I said. "It's a great movie."

"Is it funny?"

"Hilarious," I assured him. "Trust me, you'll love it."

"Okay," he said, but he still looked less than certain. He purchased the DVD and went on his way, with me feeling satisfied that I had made a fine suggestion. After all, how could you not love The Royal Tenenbaums? The movie is wonderful, delicious, ridiculous and quirky, funny and heartbreaking and thoughtful, terribly insightful.

He came back the next evening, looked at me with the sort of expression that causes me to cover sensitive areas of my body and look for weapons with which to defend myself and said, "What the hell was that?"

"What? You didn't like it?" I asked with genuine confusion.

"No! You said it was funny."

"It is."

"What are you talking about? rten2.jpgIt wasn't funny at all!"

I stopped and thought for a moment, running the movie through my head the best I could remember. I didn't agree with him that it wasn't funny, but suddenly I began to realize my mistake. Sure, it was funny to me, but it was a very peculiar and dry sort of funny—the kind of humor that you either love or hate. Also, it's quite melancholic and depressing, as well, and the characters are by no means bundles of joy. The film is filled with amusing quirkiness, absolutely, but the wrong person could easily find it unfunny, depressing, frustrating and very possibly pretentious. I thought, shit. Then I thought, and said, "Well, I guess there is that attempted suicide" and the look that he gave me suggested that there might soon be an attempted homicide.

I apologized. And I stopped recommending movies to people I didn't know. In fact, I've stopped recommending movies to many people I do know. Unless they've expressed love for some of the stranger and more weird films that I love, then I generally avoid trying to steer people toward the type of movies I like because, frankly, they probably won't appreciate them in the same way I do. The movies I truly love are usually not mainstream flicks that do big business—they're oddities that many people cherish, but that the vast, vast majority of the country would sigh dramatically about just before launching into a rant about the different ways in which they would kill the filmmaker if only they could get their hands on him.

I suspect The Royal Tenenbaums—and pretty much all of Wes Anderson's films—fall into this category. But damn if I don't love this movie. It is so wonderfully eccentric, filled with character and life, pain and misery and joy and bits of wonder mixed in it all for good measure. It's silly and funny, ridiculous at times, meandering and heartfelt and cruel and painful, but then heartening at the same time. I love that every one of these characters is hurting and yet still goes on to live their lives, to struggle through and try to make sense of their existence. I love the relationship between Luke Wilson's Ritchie and Gwyneth Paltrow's Margot, no matter how strange, inappropriate and lacking in boundaries it may be. I love the tent in the living room and the headband and sunglasses, the stealthy smoking, the utter ridiculousness that is on display every time Owen Wilson's character, Eli, comes on screen. I love—God, how I love—the attempted suicide. It is so shocking and sudden, so harsh and brutal, coming out of nowhere and just crawling under my skin, digging right into my gut and seizing me, refusing to let go. I love how it is preceded with the shaving and the look of pure desperation in his eyes as he rids himself of hair. It is one of the most haunting scenes I have ever seen in film and it affects me, greatly, every time I see it.  I still think about it any time I hear "Needle in the Hay" by Elliott Smith.

The movie is inspired by Salinger's writing, without a doubt, and specifically by the Glass family. I love that. This surely must be the closest Salinger's writing has ever come to being captured on screen. Hell, I'm not sure if there are even other attempts, but I can't imagine that any that do exist would do as good a job as rten3.jpgThe Royal Tenenbaums does. Like in a Salinger story, these characters are too smart for their own good, over-thinking everything, often to the point of inaction. I do that all the damn time, so I love seeing it up on screen. I love the complete dysfunction and the bizarre family dynamics. I love how all of these people are essentially good people who can't help but screw up their lives and the lives of those around them.

The performances are wonderful, every one of them. Owen Wilson is ridiculous, Luke Wilson is fascinating and heartbreaking. Gwyneth Paltrow is beautiful and overwhelmingly depressing. Gene Hackman is silly and his character can be absolutely terrible, yet you can't help but care for him and wish him the best. Bill Murray makes great use of his small role, as does Danny Glover, and Anjelica Huston floats gracefully through the movie, a calming force.

The writing is beautiful. Wes Anderson and Owen Wilson are one of the best writing teams working and The Royal Tenenbaums is their most accomplished work (though Rushmore is funnier.)

This is easily one of my all-time favorite movies. Every frame of it is pure quality. It's dark and incredibly haunting, yet has so many moments of great, dry humor and plenty of other silly and ridiculous scenes. Pagoda sticking a shiv in Royal's belly, Eli being chased down by Chas after crashing into the house, Eli slipping out the window during his intervention, the stacks of porn and the ridiculous television interview with Eli, Dudley pointing out the flaws of a Gypsy Cab—all of these are wonderful, funny moments. I adore them.

Yet, it's the movie's sorrow that most gets to me. It's the attempted suicide, the way Ritchie shaves off his beard and most of his hair, his eyes showing him to be lost and desolate. It's the entire relationship between Ritchie and Margot. It's Margot saying, "I think we're just gonna to have to be secretly in love with each other and leave it at that, Ritchie." All of these moments wear me down, leave me scraped and raw.

I was wrong, I was. The Royal Tenenbaums is a funny movie, but it's not a comedy. It is a heartbreak that ends on bittersweet hope and it's a film that I absolutely love.

_________
Needle In The Hay - Elliott Smith (MP3)

Joel is neither royal nor a Tenenbaum

Archives

January 3, 2007

FTTW: Behind the Scenes

You ever find yourself wondering, what goes into making FTTW? You say things like "How do those guys come up with all these amazing ideas and schemes and stuff? How do the ideas for the Group LNT and Editor's Picks come about? Why, I bet they have nightly meetings where they brainstorm and use each other's razor sharp minds, intelligence, creativity and maturity to come up with new and interesting subjects for the readers of FTTW!"

Yes. Something like that.

Want to see?

Then pull back the magic curtain and witness the email conversation that went on today between the four editors of FTTW: Michele, Turtle, Finn and Baby Huey. What follows is a glimpse into the inner workings of a well-oiled machine. Think a Fortune 500 company business meeting, if the CEO was handing out crack and vodka. Or if everyone there was 12 years old.

M: Yea, it's only Tuesday, but we need to start thinking. Especially about the group LNT for this week? Any ideas? Any ideas for editor's picks for this weekend?

T: weirdest and best early morning breakfast. only cause i am eating saurkraut. and it is good. something with food?

M: something to do with food works for me.....breakfast foods....any other ideas?

menudo87.jpgBH: i like the idea of weird breakfast foods, cause i'm all about cold pizza and rooster sauce to get your day going.

T; gross sounding foods for breakfast that really are kinda good?
like menudo?

F: Odd food that taste good first thing in the morning should be a goldmine, as long as everyone doesn't go with cold pizza....And for the record, cold veggie lo mein rocks the house....

T: ug. the only time i can eat chinese food is when it is cold. it's weird cause that's when all the fat goos together and it really is kinda gross, but man, your shit slides right out of your ass after a big pile of noodles first thing in the morning.

you guys prolly didnt need to know that. but im going with menudo.

BH: you like eating 1980's latino boy bands for breakfast?

M: hey you already accused him of messing with thai boys today. One pedopheliac sexual innuendo per day! Or people will start to wonder. About you.

BH: thai LADYboys, thankyouverymuch.

T: menudo was cool. i remember them on ABC in the early 80's. menudo was cool.
i am glad they all died in that car wreck.

M: was that the same week that Mikey from Life cereal died from eating pop rocks and soda?

T: mikey died of a broken heart when he found out cyndi from the brady was doing porn with the sniper who was killed in vietnam.

you know. she was fucking the beaver.

speaking of funny nicknames, i once knew a guy called "lefty" cause he lost his right testicle in a football accident. even his parents called him "lefty". that was funny.

T: speaking of ladyboys, does anyone else call out "ladyboy" instead of "ladybird" when hank hill calls his dog on "King of the hill?"

or is that just me? LAADDYYBOYYYY!!

M: That's just you babe. Lay off the dope. Or the saurkraut. Or the Thai Ladyboys.

F: It might be the combination of ladyboys and saurkraut... Very potent and I'm not sure even the Turtle could handle it.... I tried it once and was blind for a week.

M: Ok, i'm starting to think that "ladyboys" doesnt mean what i think it means.

T: they are like those cute ladybugs except they are prepubecent men dressed as woman who fuck for money.

and they don't eat aphids.

well maybe they do if you pay them enough.

M: I see.

Ok. Now I have this image in my mind of some pre-teen Thai boy in a Ladybug costume eating aphids while some naked European businessmen throw money at him.

T: now you see what i see everytime i close my eyes. ceptin the businessmen all have butterscotch sundays.

i like butterscotch.

M: You told me that when you close your eyes you see Martin Short in a tutu, slathering himself in Crisco.

T: i USED to see martin short when I closed my eyes . USED to.

Before i took care of the problem.

Before you go opening your mouth anymore about my past, you might wanna ask yourself why you don't see Martin Short making movies anymore......

F: You used the "Lil' Brain Surgeon Home Lobotomy Kit" didn't you ? What
have I told you about unsupervised home sugery ?

You might get it infected...

M: He got the home lobotomy set mixed up with the home distilling setup and drank some of the wrong fluids.

Explains the whole Martin Short thing, but not the ladybugs.

T: home distilling is easy.

i figured it out in a dream one night and when i went on line in the morning, my dream was right.

but someone won't let me make any in her garage.......

M: Dude. This is not Mayberry. As much as you want it to be.

T: you tell otis that when he is YOUR cell mate

the only thing otis is good for is a quick cum drum. Shit, he still pees standing up! What kinda cell bitch is he gonna make?

F: I made a still for my seventh grade science class... I flunked the project because it was an "unapproved project"... The old bastard still drank my booze...

T: hah!

we used to do that in art class. We made bongs that looked like half pipes and ashtrays and shit like that.

brainstormingthecastle.jpgI swear the teacher took those fuckers home.

M: I made a bong in 8th grade art class and got a passing grade on it. i told the teacher it was an abstract art vase. i don't think he fell for it, but he seemed to like it.

Ummm how else would Otis pee? He's a guy.

F: I used to live with a guy who sat down to pee... He'd insist on it. Of course, he was the hairiest individual I've ever met, so sitting down was the least of his problems....

BH: (replying late the to the Mayberry thing) Pretty close here. We've even got a statue of Andy and Opie in downtown Raleigh.

Suck on that, Strong Island.

M: Sure, but do you have a statue of Otis?

We're erecting one in my backyard. Made entirely out of barley and hops.

And if you ever say STRONG Island again, I'll knife you in the face.

M: Which leads me to an idea for editor's picks for this weekend:

A fictional place from tv where you would like to live.

F: And that motion is seconded.... I call Moya....

Also, the only time the "Strong Island" is appropriate is if you're Chuck D circa 1989 and you're performing. "Rebel Without A Pause" live at the Hammersmith. Other than that, it should never be used.

M: Even then it's kinda iffy.

People who say "Strong Island" all look like they belong on Growing up Gotti.

I'm thinking I want to live in that place where the Beaver lived.

BH: i want to live in sarah chalke from scrubs's pants. i wonder if i can make a whole post out of that.

T: walnut grove would be pretty cool.

i could rule that town the first day i came in.

i like the idea.

M: Gee. Who woulda thought that you'd say Walnut Grove?

BH, that's a lame cop out.

T: you want to go thru the spankin' machine again tonight?

M: Would it be weird if I said yes?

T: i could be charles ingals and you could be nellie olsen?

always up to your tricks?

but getting "straightened out" "in the end" til "my rod is sore" and you are filled "with my cum"?

/couldn't really disguise that last one.

M: I think this borders on Too Much Information for BH and Finn.

Then again, maybe not.

I'm gonna go buy a pinafore on my way home.

BH: Bite me. I'll come up with something better.

F: Spanking machine ?? What's wrong with you kids today ?? I remember, back in my day, that if I wanted to redden my little woman's bottom, I used my hand! Not some new fangled, nuclear powered machine !! You kids have machines for everything !!

T: what with their nicotine, and their dan fogelberg rock and roll music.

T: i think ill come up with something better too. too bad more shows weren't done about tijuana.

T: or more shows about prostitution...

i guess a case could be made for the Golden Girls having something to do with the sex industry....

BH: oooh the house from designing women. i'd be the only straight guy there. i'd get more bumper than a body shop.

too bad i never watched the show.

F: I tell ya!! I haven't bought a record since Mel Torme quit the business the hard way.. Nothing says "sweet lovin" like the Velvet Fog and a freshly smacked ass.... Damn kids....

And Golden Girls.... Just ew.

T: i though of designing women too but everytime i think about it, either delta burke's fat ass stomps its way into my mind like a fat woman at an all you can eat buffet or the blond comes in trying to implicate the president on some case of selling nerve gas to terrorists

so tha's a no go for me.

M: I want to live in the Square Pegs world! Or maybe the Ponderosa. Or in the twilight zone.

BH: i was gonna be metal and say i want to live in dethklok's world, but since i'm not actually IN the band, i'd have a life expectancy of about 8 minutes.

1048086957_bottlebong.gifBH: Ok, I got it. I'm calling Cheers. Yes. I want to live in the bar. I'll have my post done by Thursday.

F: "What do your favorite editors get on about when they should be working ? Ladybugs, Mel Torme, spanking machines and the Ponderosa... That's what..."

T: what about baywatch

every week you would get to see someone drown and learn life saving techniques

M: Uh yea. THat's what you watch Baywatch for. Uh huh.

T: too bad there werent any good coal mining tv shows

maybe cause working in a coal mine kinda sucks and it's just not that fun watching to see if the canary dies every week.

M: I think I want to live in the Aqua Teen Hunger Force world. Cause living in a world where shape shifting meat lives would rule.

F; Hanging out with the Mooninites would be a good time.... But you'd always be paranoid about leprechauns stealing your shoes.

BH: i'm a country bumpkin, remember? i only own shoes because i have to. having them stolen would just be a convenient excuse to not wear them. besides, ATHF world would rule if only because I would get to hear Spirit Journey Formation Anniversary every February 18th (yes, that's a hint.).

And that's where our story ends. We all scattered to our little worker bee stations and got on with our regularly scheduled Tuesday. But we managed to come up with two column ideas as well as some colorful, imaginative sexual scenarios.

All in a day's work.

And that's behind the scenes at an FTTW think tank. Our minds were a terrible thing to waste.

Sidekick Dicks

I feel like talking about those guys that play annoying supporting roles in movies. Sometimes the guy is an asshole at every turn, antagonistic and angry, or they’re nice guys who just piss me off for one reason or another. They usually die but not always, and there’s nothing more satisfying than watching one of the good guys bite it. Those fuckers.

Some of them are cool, but they are there to support the main character and make him look good. Therefore, they are often stupid and deserve what they get.

Scotty - The Evil Dead

That guy was a bit of a dick, don’t you think? You could tell he had personality issues, blowing up at those poor guys on the side of the road like that. Fucking around and scaring Ash in the basement. Making everyone listen to the tape for longer than anyone really wanted to. Just being a dick.

Ed – Fright Night300px-GrifDunn.jpg

He doesn’t believe his friend at first, then he becomes a vampire himself and stirs up shit. Fucking jerk. He’s annoying through the whole movie too. Just watch it and tell me you’re not waiting for Evil Ed to just fucking die and get off your screen.

Stephen – Dawn Of The Dead

Worst waster of bullets ever. He seemed to think highly of himself but he seemed to have nothing going for him besides the flying thing. I guess that was enough. But shit, how bad of a shot was he? Idiot.

Jack – An American Werewolf In London

This sidekick doesn’t really bother me at all, so he doesn’t fit perfectly with this topic. Having said that though….. Man, if I was David I’ve have done my best to ignore Jack too. Jack wouldn’t let up on the guy. He’s all, “Oooh, you gotta kill yourself and get us all out of limbo, ooh, please help me rest in peace, oooh, you are a werewolf and I am dead”. I’d probably have acted the same though, I mean, he did give his reasons. “Have you tried talking to a corpse? It’s boring!”

malachai.gifMalachai – Children Of The Corn

Malachai was kind of second in command of the corn rows, with Isaac being the leader. It’s kind of hard to say who was worse because they were both evil kids, but Malachai was mutinous as well. Evil or not, man, you gotta have loyalty or you got nothing but corn.

L.G. McPeters – The Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2
This guy should have been more aware, working the late shift in that isolated radio station and wearing that nifty hat. Did he not realize that someone would be coming for that hat eventually? At least he died well, sans hat.

Beverly/Elliot – Dead Ringers

This isn’t the first or last time I’ll say that David Cronenberg’s a genius. This movie is about identical twin gynecologists who essentially act as if they’re one person, then try to “separate” with nasty results. Sound weird? It sure is. This isn’t a particularly gory Cronenberg movie but the horror is in the psychology – check out the medical tools they want to use at work. Anyway, Beverly is the more introverted of the two twins, but when he finds some of his individuality he also finds that his brother suffers. Elliot’s used to being in charge but eventually learns that he’s actually used to just feeling in charge. If you haven’t seen the movie, go watch it. Then come back and tell me if you’d trust either of those guys as your sidekick.

Drew – Pet Sematary 2

That kid was fat and weak, never stood up to Gus (his dad) his whole life. He was good for grunt work and that’s about it. ‘Nuf said.

Richard – From Dusk Till Dawn

Dude was crazy. I don’t care how loyal you are…. Well, that’s a lie, I do care. But that goes out the window when you’re crazy. How the hell am I supposed to know what your idea of loyalty is? Lucky you’re my brother or I’d have killed you myself by now.

Mick and Pnub – Idle Hands

Man, these guys call themselves friends of Anton? Pnub wouldn’t even share his weed with the guy, like, ten minutes into the movie. Serves him right for getting killed the way he did.

So what you got? Any sidekicks that bother you?


Dan hates all sidekicks. Don't let him fool you.

Archives

New Starts, New Jams

[due to a clerical error (read, a oversight by an editor whose name starts with an M) we missed this column that Cullen sent us before he went on vacation. So here it is today, in a special edition of All About the Guitar]

I started playing guitar because of heavy metal. The first song I learned how to play was Am I Evil and then several Metallica songs after that. Basically, I was absorbing every simple metal tune I could and slowly getting better at playing it.

geetar.jpgOver time, my listening interests have grown. I grew up on country, gospel and classical. My rebellion to that was metal and punk. Since then, my appreciation for music has grown to accept those forms from my youth and multitudes of other forms of music since.

My point is that while I was “under the influence” of metal and punk alone, I was hyper-critical of just about every other kind of music out there. If it didn’t have loud, distorted guitars, it sucked. And, if you listened to that music, something must be wrong with you.

Perhaps that’s just a juvenile mentality, but you still see it everywhere. I guess, with the new year upon us (well, here by the time this is read), I think back on that time and look at me now and wish I hadn’t been such a closed-minded asshole.

That’s what New Year means to me. It’s not a time to attempt to self-impose worthless resolutions that will fail as quickly as Paris Hilton in a math class. It’s a time to accept new things and realize that there’s a bigger world out there than that imagined in your philosophy.

A big world certainly applies to music. There’s plenty out there that I don’t like, and there’s plenty out there I think legitimately sucks. But those are personal opinions and opinions tempered by knowledge and study. It’s the knee-jerk reaction we have to be wary of.

How does this relate to the guitar? I’m not entirely sure. Heck, my birthday is today, so accept new and bigger things and buy me a damn Gretsch! Fuck the “bigger world” shit, it’s all about me! Buy me stuff, dammit!

And happy New Year.

Cullen just might want you to buy him stuff.

Archives

The editors of Faster Than The World wish Cullen a very happy birthday.

Jake – Future Musical Genius

Jake, my oldest kid. Jake is his nickname. We’ve been calling him Jake since the day he was born even though we named him Jacob. In retrospect, I now wonder why we didn’t just name him Jake. All of his friends call him by his given name because of his school records, I suppose. He has a crush on a girl named Blair (but won’t admit it), who attended Jake’s birthday party on Saturday, and she asked me why we call him Jake. I told her that it is his nickname and it’s what we’ve always called him. I heard Blair call him Jake the rest of the day. So cute.

Jake has taken piano lessons every Saturday morning for the past year and a half. He’s learning to read music but he’s getting bored with the piano, I’m afraid. I’m sure he won’t give it up but…

Christmas is three days before Jake’s birthday. On Thursday, he turned eleven. Eleven! My little red head, who’s still got the red hair and the red eye brows and the red eyelashes that he was born with, inherited Dad’s musical talent. Thank God.

Dad gave Jake an electric guitar for Christmas. Dad is teaching Jake where to put his fingers on the neck of the guitar in order to create the same notes that he’s familiar with on the piano.

Here’s Jake playing his new guitar.

Shot taken with the new Canon digital. I hate the harsh shadows. But such is life when one procrastinates to the point when the article is due and it’s raining outside all day and one can’t use the natural light that was intended, and well, fuck. Here we are with the flash indoors.

Better next week, I promise.

jakeguitar.jpg

Shawna may not be able to play the electric guitar, but she kicks ass at air guitar

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Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Melissa fucks different than my foster mother.

It's hard to say what the difference is exactly. I don't have too much to compare it with. Forced to describe it, I would say Melissa is sort of clumsy, but a little more enthusiastic. With her, things feel more…organic.

During our dinner at the Italian restaurant, Melissa talks constantly. As much as I try to listen and participate, I can't keep my mind off the utensils in front of me. How could I know if they had been cleaned properly? In the life of a restaurant fork, thousands of people put that fork in their mouths. A restaurant plate, which usually has a longer life then the fork, can have tens of thousands of meals served on its surface. A restaurant glass is the worst. They are never cleaned properly. More often than not, they are simply emptied, dipped in a vat of tepid soapy water, rinsed, and left out to dry. The glass is the Petri dish of the restaurant world.

Even though I barely touch my food and have to leave three times to go to the bathroom and wash my hands, Melissa assures me that she is having a great time. When we walk out of the restaurant and get in her car, she asks me if I have to go home.

"Well, I have to go home at some point…" I answer, confused about the question.

"You are so weird," she says. As usual, it sounds like a compliment coming from her. "What I mean is, can you come back to my place for a little bit?"

She puts her hand on my leg, and rubs it a little with her thumb. I smile, and mumble that I suppose I can come over.

About an hour later, we're in her bed, and she's going down on me, and I'm thinking about two things: how good it feels, and how she washes her sheets.

Anything that comes in contact with your body, in my opinion, needs to be washed with the hottest water possible, as well as antibacterial laundry soap. And you can't simply throw the laundry into the machine and assume the water is hot enough. After all, if someone has just taken a shower, there may not be any hot water left. To make sure all bacteria is destroyed; you have to make sure that the water coming out of the washing machine is as hot as possible. It only took me a little bit of time at the foster home to realize that not everyone shares the same opinion as I do when it comes to washing things. And that's scary.

When Melissa quits going down on me and gets on top of me, I start to forget about laundry.

This is after Mr. Granger told me that he couldn't talk to me about sex—it could get him fired. This is after I tell him I don't know who to ask, and he tells me I should talk to my foster parents. This is before I decide to find out for myself what sex is all about.

The lights are off in Melissa's bedroom, but when she gets on top of me, she says she wants to turn one on so she can see me and I can see her. She reaches over and turns on the lamp on her bedside table. The room fills with shadows. Our audience.

As I stand at the top of the hill, the gun heavy in my hand, Melissa's labored breathing sending ripples through the pools of blood collected beneath her, I wonder how things would have been different if I had learned about sex before I went on my date with Melissa. Before I went on my date, I knew two things about sex: it was something people liked to do, and it had something to do with fucking.

After my date, I go home. My foster parents are out for the evening. I decide to find out for myself, once and for all, what sex is.

I go to the computer and type the word into a search engine.

It turns out that I had been having sex. I'd had sex with my foster mother, as well as Melissa. Sex and fucking, for the most part, are the same thing.

That's interesting, I think, as I browse through more pages on the subject, reading about positions, legal implications of sex (I laugh when I realize that, in some places, having sex with my foster mother would be illegal because of my age), and sex in religion. It's interesting, and for a brief moment, I relax in my newfound knowledge, happy that an answer to a question nobody would answer for me has been discovered.

But only for a brief moment. Because the next topic on the page I'm reading is "Sexually Transmitted Diseases."

Something in my stomach twists, and for a moment, I think I'm going to throw up. The feeling increases as I read.

Chlamydia. It can cause infertility in women. In men, it can cause painful discharge from the penis. An estimated three million people in the United States have the disease. One out of every one hundred.

Gonorrhea. In men, it can cause painful, colorful discharge from the penis. An estimated one million people get this disease every year. That's one in three hundred people.

Viral hepatitis—you can die from this one. It affects the liver. It's all over the place. Even being in the same house as someone with hepatitis puts you at risk of contracting the disease.

Genital herpes. The most common STD there is. One out of every five adults in America has it. And you can't get rid of it.

Before I can read anymore, I'm in the bathroom. Checking to see if my eyes are still white (the liver problems associated with hepatitis can make them turn yellow). Looking for spots on my dick with a magnifying glass. Forcing myself to pee so I can find out if it stings. I think it does, but I'm not sure if it is because I've caught something, or because of the force I use to get it out.

That night, I sit in the shower until all the hot water is gone. No matter how much I scrub, no matter what I do, I can't feel clean. I've exposed myself to disease. After all my work, after everything I've done to make sure I kept germs and bacteria out of my body, I've made the one mistake that could completely fuck me over. For good.

The website assures me that if I take precautions such as wearing a condom, I can still have a healthy and satisfying sex life. Which raises the question—in the life of a condom, how many people come in contact with it before I use it? Because if just one of those people has one of these diseases…

When my foster parents come home that night, they find me still in the shower. The water is cold, but it doesn't bother me. My foster mother turns it off and stands me up, wrapping me in a towel, while my foster father keeps asking what's going on, what's wrong with me.

"I think I want to kill myself," I finally explain to him.

The next day, I don't go to school. Together, they drive me to a small office in a strip mall. That's where I meet my psychiatrist.


- E. Branden Hart

Previous chapters

Even Mennonites Get The Blues

I was sitting around at the jam, talking to someone, and in walked probably five guys, all with the same sort of beard. I thought “Huh”. And then a woman came in behind them in an ankle-length skirt, long-sleeved shirt and a little hat, and I went “Ok, I get it now. Sort of. What the hell?”.

Maybe one of these five people was over 25, and the guys all had skater shirts on and jeans and things, so, that was odd. You see Mennonites around town a lot at the store and things like that. Well, actually, I don’t know for sure if these are Mennonites or Hutterites or what. I’ll just call them Mennonites because I know there’s a colony around here. amish drunk.jpg

Anyway, so there was this group of them, and they went back to the back part of the bar, and the bartender took out three pitchers and a half-dozen glasses. My friend and I wondered to each other if that was okay. I’d never seen a Mennonite in a bar, fer pete’s sake. We decided it was probably all right, and God wouldn’t care too much, as long as they didn’t get shitfaced and rowdy.

Well.

The pitchers kept coming. Soon, they came out to the dance floor and boogied like MTV had babysat them. They were having a great time. Picture Amish people freak-dancing, and you’re close.

Sometimes it’s like being in a movie.

I’m not sure what they were celebrating. A wedding or a birthday or something. But they did get shitfaced and rowdy, and it was great to watch.

I have to write this down as one of the weirder things I’ve seen from the stage. Mennonite break-dancing to the blues.

Who knew?

Pril gets down and funky with anyone.

Archives

January 2, 2007

I Think I'll Eat Some Worms And Die

I'm tired, I've eatin more in the past two weeks than I ate in all of 2006, it's the last day of my vacation and I'm pissed because the courts are open tomorrow even though we were closed on Reagan's day of mourning. Gerald Ford doesn't matter? This is bullshit. I am alerting the press. I'm going to let them know that GERALD FORD DIED IN VAIN! What's the point of a grand death and funeral if state employees don't get the day off for it?

Speaking of death, tonight's topic is cool ways to die. I don't want to even get into how we came up with this subject. You'll find out soon enough. Suffice it to say, this was Turtle's idea. I, Michele, had nothing to do with the thinking process that went into this one. I just had the camera. He's the one who did something that made him think of this topic. Dude likes to live life on the edge. I'm just here to take the pictures and laugh and wait for him to die in some way that will become a Fark headline. At least he'll have that going for him.

So...Cool ways to die.

Turtle has been thinking...

So tonight has been a morbid night. I don't know if the Twilight Zone marathon had anything to do with it or the fact that I am turning 54 in two weeks. Close to AARP age but so far away from Senior discounts. This is why I hate America. I've told everyone that America was going downhill right when HBO stopped showing skinflicks but no one listened. Fools.

So tonight I have been preparing for my death. I had to ask everyone around me what would be the coolest way to die. I mean, everyone would love to die with their family around and some warm glow pissing over their pale skin as they repent for all their sins of watching to much Mayberry and lusting over Aunt Em's frosted pies but in reality, that shit don't happen. Most of the people I have seen die have been in some stupid suicide pact over the new Harry Potter book or cause someone forgot to restock the shelves with the new My Chemical Romance CD. Kinda boring stuff. I mean if you want to go out, blast the fucking doors and let it all loose.

So if I had to die, these are the ways I want to go out.

If I had a choice that is.forum_logo.gif

Riding naked off a cliff on a chopper

This would have to be first. Hell, since I was a kid, I knew I was going to die on a motorcycle. Those things seemed to take out most of my friends who have had them so it is only logical that this is the way for me to go. Sure, I have been in motorcycle wrecks, but none that would justify my blood on the street. Face it. Dying on a 50cc motorcycle is something that would make your momma cry for your pussy ass way of meeting the hereafter. God don't like pussies in his gang. So if-in I die, it's going to have to be naked on a chopper.

I think this would be easy to tell when I was going to die, too. I mean, the next time I get on a chopper naked, I would be able to tell that this might be the final ride. And think of all the cool stories you could tell in the big pool hall in the sky.

"I was hit by three semi trailers. Racked my body for 75 feet before the trucks stopped. How you die?"

"Shot by fourteen cops. I killed them all but one. You?"

"I got my testicles caught in the crankshaft of a fully converted Indian while driving offa cliff singing an Allman Brothers song."

"What song?"

"Whippin' Post."

That would be cool.

The next way would have to be lighting a body part on fire. Granted this one would be harder to tell when it was coming on. I like to play with fire. I like to see things burn. It's not a problem. It's a situation. I feel that god gave me something...a part of me..that was highly flammable, God put that in me for a purpose. And if that flammable material just happens to come out of my ass, then who am I to judge God's will?

Yes, I light farts. Go ahead and laugh at me. I blame my parents for never getting me a Nintendo machine when I was younger.

But anyways, my ass gas will be the death of me. I think the best part of going up in a fireball of Methane and processed ass gas cabbage rolls would be the look on my face when I realize that maybe the third helping of sauerkraut wasn't the best idea.

Besides, then I could make it on Ripley's Believe It Or Not or some show like that. Right next to the guy with the spike in his head. "The Asstastic Fire Blaster." Think about it. They could make a movie about me! An ABC after school special!

With Kenny Rogers playing me!

Really, anyone could play me. I don't care.

As long as "The Gambler" is on the soundtrack.

Cause I like that song.

Jumping into a volcano as it is erupting

This is something that I always wanted to do. Maybe it was cause I was always fascinated by Pliny the Elder.* He liked volcanoes and went up to Vesuvius to check it out before it overwhelmed him and took out some city like Pompeii or something like that. See that's cool. Knowing that you are going to die and instead of trying to escape or help your fellow people out before the lava and ash kills you all, cruise up to where it is coming out of the fucking mountain and check that fucker out. Fuck it, man. We're all going down anyways. Tell the whole world to kiss my ass cause if this whole fucking city is going down and at least I'll die with my dick pointing towards the danger rather than you cowards.

I could think of some more ways to go out but right now, it is time for a little "fire on the mountain" if you know what I mean. - T

*FTTW is not responsible for anyone learning anything on this site.

Michele gets gets explosive:

Give me a minute to think here, because I never really put "dying" and "cool" in the same sentence before.

Ok, got it.

1. Zombies

You had to know this would be first. How many times have I written here about my fascination with all things zombie and my desire to actually become one of the undead some day. I don't know if this is a good enough answer or not, because when you get killed by a zombie you don't really die, you kind of...un-die. But you have to be dead first to become undead, right?

Anyhow, when the zombie invasion comes, I'm not going to be running away like the rest of you pussies. I'm not going to hide in a shopping mall or try to kill the army of zombies with homemade flamethrowers. Instead, I am going to climb on the top of a low building, probably the nearest elementary school. I'm going to hang out on the roof until a roving gang of undead people spot me and they swarm in front of the building trying to figure out how to get me down off the roof to make a meal out of me.hollister.jpg But they won't have to worry. Because I'll be up on that roof with my old school Sony Walkman on, with a cassette tape of Slayer's "Season in the Abyss" turned up to 11. And I'm gonna do the most bad ass stage dive ever known to mankind. As soon as "Dead Skin Mask" starts off I'll fly right off that roof into the waiting arms of my new zombie overlords. And I will become one with them.


2. Strapped to explosives

Why the hell not? If I'm gonna go out, I'm taking as many people as I can with me. I've played out the "shoot everyone from a water tower" scenario in my head and while it might be cool to go down in a hail of SWAT team bullets, it's probably not near as much fun as standing in the middle of a mall wearing some TNT fashion statement and yelling things like "I'M GONNA LIGHT THIS FUCKER UP! I MEAN IT! AND I'M TAKING ALL THE EMPLOYEES OF ABERCROMBIE AND FITCH WITH ME!" Then I'd just watch those girlie men with their dirty white boy haircuts and 80 dollar t-shirts pee their factory wrinkled cargo pants. By the time I finally set off my explosives and go off to that great gig in the sky, I'd have tormented everyone working/shopping at American Eagle, Hot Topic, PacSun, Sharper Image, Baby Gap, Banana Republic, Hollister, The Apple Store and Build-a-Bear. Just for shits and giggles. I may be about to die, but I'm gonna do it with a satisfied grin on my face.

3. Embarassment

Not really a cool way to die, but certainly a conceivable option when your 34 year old boyfriend posts on the internet a picture of himself lighting his farts on fire.

And that's some of our cool (albeit foolish) ways to die. Let's hear yours.

Turtle and Michele implore you to not try these things at home

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Riverdale, 90210

After leaving a comment about Archie comics on Matt's article yesterday, I got to thinking about Archie and the gang.

Yes, I read Archie and Veronica. I was about seven when I started reading them and, as I mentioned yesterday, Archie was my gateway drug to a lifetime of comic book addiction.

I wasn’t really into superheros at the time and Archie comics were the only other genre available on the shelf at the store. Well, the only ones I could reach. So Archie it was. I admit it, I got hooked. I got to know the characters. They became my friends. I lived in this imaginary world where Archie and Betty and Jughead were my buddies.

Hey, you do what you have to when you’re friendless and bored. I was one of those kids. Stuck in my room after school while all the other kids were doing whatever it is kids with friends do after school. I’d go home, close my bedroom door and start reading. I lived vicariously through the gang at Riverdale High. Sad, but true.

The thing is, I was way too young to realize what was really going on in Riverdale. On the surface, in my little kid mind, this was just a typical town with a typical high school filled with typical teenagers who had all kinds of fun escapades with each other. I couldn’t wait to get to high school! Malt shops! Dances! Jalopies! Ok, so I wasn’t that lame. I knew this really wasn’t typical stuff. But it was all I had. So these guys were my friends. Archie. Veronica. Betty. Jughead. Reggie. Forget the rest of them. I never cared much for Milton or that chick with the perky tits he always chased who was dating the dumb football guy. Moose? bettyver.jpgWas that it? I only cared about the gang and Pop’s Choklit Shop. Pop was a cool guy.

When you think about it, this was the pre-cursor to 90210. A gang of kids hanging out at a cool place where they could eat and listen to music. A friendly guy who runs the shop and gives them jobs/advice. And if you really, really think about it, all the same social dynamics were there.

Because I did really, really think about. Years later, under the influence of something or other, I thought about it.

Life in Riverdale was definitely on a soap opera level. Love, lust, jealousy, secrets, rumors and violence. It's all there. Yep, even violence. Didn't Moose beat the shit out of Jughead or Milton a couple of times? If not, I'm sure that he smacked Midge around off-panel. All it really needed was someone with a drinking problem. Reggie was a frat boy type guy. I bet he started hitting the gin right after Veronica got knocked up. What, you don't remember that one? I think the took the abortion issue off the shelves. Hey, if Little House on the Prairie can have an episode about heroin addiction, Archie comics can cross the abortion threshold. Archie comics were the steamy, heated stuff that afternoon soaps were made of. Maybe you couldn’t see it when you were a kid, but look back on it now and it’s all so obvious. I can’t believe my parents tried to take my Mad Magazines away and left this smutty stuff for me to read. Little did they know.

Here’s what I don’t get about the whole set up. And I’m sure you have had this discussion before. Don’t lie. You have talked about this. Archie. Betty. Veronica. The greatest love triangle of all time. But why? Archie was such a doofus. Pasty skin, a face full of freckles and his red hair always had that tic tac toe board thing going on. Plus, he was way emo. Archie had more angst than the dude from Dashboard Confessional and Brandon Walsh combined. I’m surprised the Archies never came out with a song called “The Darkness of My Despair on a Fall Day in Riverdale,” or something like that.

Anyhow. I don’t see the attraction. Especially when you take into consideration that Archie was playing both girls at the same time and they both knew it. Who puts up with something like that? Well, for Veronica, it was more of a challenge. She wanted to see how many times she could fuck with Betty’s head by taking Archie’s attention away. She was just a C U Next Tuesday kind of girl. She didn’t want Archie at all. She was getting plenty of play from Reggie, who had a fast car and thick wallet and was probably hung like John Holmes and knew what to do with that. Veronica spread her legs for the cash. I don’t mean in a hooker kind of way. I mean that as long as Reggie was spending money on her, she was gonna put out. Archie had no money. All he got from Veronica was blue balls. And all Veronica wanted for him was a way to fuck up Betty. She just wasn't into Archie in that way. He was a means to and end.

When you think about it, Betty kind of deserved what she got. If you want to be that passive aggressive in a relationship, you are only going to get dumped on. A wise person once said to me “You get what you tolerate.” And that goes for Betty. She tolerated Archie trying to get some on the side with Veronica. She tolerated his being a vain, shallow guy. She tolerated being second string. Hey, if that’s your gig, go for it. But don’t get all weepy when it’s prom night and Archie hasn’t shown up yet because he’s still standing outside Veronica’s window playing “In Your Eyes” on his boombox and begging her to dump Reggie and go the prom with him. He knows damn well he has a willing and able Betty on the backburner. She’ll wait for him. He could show up at 11:00 and she would still jump into his arms like he was her god damn savior. He knew this and he used it.bigethel.jpg You think Archie was all innocent and shit, but he was playing poor Betty bad. One night he’d be in her pants telling her he loves her, the next night he’d be saying “we’re just friends, Betty. Just friends.” And Betty just took it. The only thing that saved Betty from slitting her wrists and bleeding out all over her depression poetry was Ethel. No matter what Betty did, there was always a girl in town who was uglier, nerdier and more of a loser than her.

Meanwhile, Veronica laughed at Betty's plight and Reggie knew he had it made because he had the hot chick and all he had to do was throw a trinket at her every once in a while to keep her wet and willing.

See what I mean? There was way more drama and decadence in Riverdale than in Beverly Hills. It was just subtle. You had to know how to read between the lines.

Ok, maybe I was just a very bored kid with an overactive imagination. Maybe Mad Magazine was warping my mind. Maybe I needed to start reading Superman instead. Maybe I should have put the comics down and gone outside. Well I did, but years later. And you could still find me many nights after being out partying and getting high and whatever else we did, sitting on my bed all tweaked out reading the latest issue of Archie and Veronica and wondering why Betty was still letting Archie pinch her nipples while Veronica was in his thought bubble.

Michele just might need a new hobby

[actually, I do have another hobby (besides over analyzing comics) and I have started a new project for 2007 to go along with it, which you can see here]

Archives

Coconuts Attack!

Happy 2007. I'd like to take this opportunity to give 2006 a hearty fuck you and good riddance. It had its moments, but sucked on the whole (hehehe, sucked on the hole).

It's 10pm on New Year's Eve as I'm writing this. Yeah, I'm a party animal. You can't stop me, you can only hope to contain me. My recipe for today is what I made for dinner tonight. It was awesome, and frankly, because of how much I like cooking and how much I dislike people, I really couldn't have enjoyed myself more (please, let me have my delusions here).

Anyway, here's the recipe, let me wallow in my depression! Heh.escrima1.jpg

Thai Chili-Coconut Stew

3 c coconut milk
3 Tbsp rooster sauce
3 Tbsp fish sauce (if you don't have this, you can use 2 Tbsp soy sauce)
2 inch piece of lemongrass
2 inch piece of ginger
1 large onion, sliced
4 oz shiitake mushrooms, sliced
3 cloves garlic, minced
8 oz udon noodles
1 lb chinese long beans (use green beans if you can't find the long beans)
6 oz chinese sweet sausage (you can use andouille if you can't find the chinese stuff)

Cook the noodles according to the package directions. Drain and put them aside for a couple of minutes.

Take half of the ginger and grate it. Take the other half and bruise it with your knife. In a small saucepan over medium-low heat, combine the bruised ginger, coconut milk, fish sauce, lemongrass, and rooster sauce. Let this stew for about 25 minutes.

In a big saute pan, over medium heat, add the sausage and cook for about 10 minutes, to render out the fat. Add the garlic and grated ginger, and cook for about 45 seconds. Add the onions and mushrooms and cook for about 5 minutes, till they're just tender. Add the long beans and cook for about 5 minutes. Toss in the noodles. Fish out the ginger and lemongrass piece from the coconut milk and pour that over the vegetables and noodles. Serves 4 - 6.

I got nothin in the way of metal reviews this week, so here's a sample of what I'm excited for in 2007:

Megadeth - "United Abominations" ... coming out in March.
3 Inches of Blood - Title TBD ... coming out in April.
Job For A Cowboy - Title TBD ... coming out in March.
Mnemic - "Passenger" ... coming out in Feb.

Others for sure, but those are definites I'm excited about.

We all know Josh is hott for coconuts. I still don't know what that means.

-------------------------------------
Baby Huey - deadofthenight@gmail.com
Metal Director and Host of "Dead of the Night"
Every Tuesday, 10pm - midnight
WXDU, 88.7 FM, Durham, NC


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Wii, Wii, Wii.....All The Way Home

I was predisposed to like the Wii. I don't mean I was standing in line on release day. I was predisposed to like the Wii because it was the third activity my brother and I got into when I came back to America, after being separated for a year. The first was waiting in line in the lost-luggage office at the airport, filling out Baggage Irregularity Reports for my missing possessions. The second was getting violently ill from my long-awaited American food. Actually, I was one who got violently ill, he just picked up the check.

So, anyway, I was predisposed to like the Wii.

I think I would have liked anything in English at this point, but a few rounds of Wii bowling later and a few near-misses with lamps,sonicdrink.jpg the WiiMote and over-enthusiastic gamers, I was ignoring my jetlag to play just one more round. "Just one more turn" is a siren song of sleeplessness to me. Anything turn-based, like Civ, is fatal to me. I'll play just one more turn until it's morning. Or until I conquer the world!

I don't want you to think that the Wii replaced all family bonding. Thanks to GoogleTalk, Skype and blogging, we didn't have a year's worth to catch up on. I did ask my brother about his impending wedding (we had time to chat while my boyfriend was choosing features for his Mii) and he showed me pictures (on the Wii's photo editor, of course) of the lovely periwinkle dress I'd be wearing. And my brother did ask me about my year in China - that would be all those stories that began "So I got into this taxi in Beijing, and the driver... Strike! Oh yeah! Who's the best at virtual bowling?"

It's not quite how I imagined coming home, but, of course in my imagination the airline didn't lose everything I own, either.


WiiSports lives up to its claims, and lures in non-gamers (and non-sports fans) faster than you can say "Hey, what're those nerds doing?" My little sister, a hippie and deadhead who actually has patchouli-scented shampoo (trust me, I used it while mine was off in lost-luggage land), came in to see what the fuss was about and stayed to get pwned. With deceptively simple multiplayer games, like Monkeyball's Simon Says or Jumprope, the Wii begs to become a high-tech drinking game. Which sounds like another great night at my brother's house...


Meg needs to find an American job before Blizzard releases Burning Crusade.

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Just For Now Jobs

Everyone has had a "just for now" job. If you haven't had one, you will have one; if you haven't ever and won't ever have one, we, the people of Earth, would like to say that we despise you.

By Just For Now Job, I mean, of course, the position of secretary/waiter/librarian assistant/delivery driver/bitch that we, as members of the working class, drag ourselves to every day to pay the bills. We put up with these shitty, temporary positions as the kent.gifbitches of society to make money, make connections, or make a resume in the hope that one day we will finally become the Doctor, Lawyer, Fireman, Ballerina, Astronaut, Queen-Of-Everything or Bionic Mercenary (that one's mine) that we have always wanted to be. We put up with the bitch-work of now in the hope that, when we get where we're going, we can treat other people like the bitches.

My JFN Job is working at the local newspaper in my college town. I work in the sports section, which is ironic because anyone who knows me knows how I hate sports. American Football is one of my Least Favorite Things EverTM, and Baseball and Basketball aren't personally held in much higher esteem. Still, I spend a lot of time working with the lowest minutia of these sports (and others) because that's what I'm paid to write by people who want to read such things. Such is the existence of a part-time professional bitch.

It's not all bad, of course. For one thing, the guys I work with a endless fun; for example, they have a game where they find the Out Of Context Quote of the Night and share it with the rest of us. The game goes like this: coaches never shut up, and will talk endlessly in sports jargon and euphemism about their team, strategy and sport. When taken out of context, these diatribes make for some favorites which are oft-quoted at the office, such as:

* The basketball coach who is STILL trying to perfect his offense "spreading wide and thrusting through" the other team.
* The sultry female volleyball coach who, when asked about the importance of a
OAR-P2-Flat-6.jpgrecent semi-finals win, said "oh, it's SOoooo HUUUUUGE". This one was delivered in person on a tape recorder and was played back at random moments in the office for about a week.
* The coach of a girls' gymnastics team at a school reputed to be full of lesbians describing their successful championship run as "a magic carpet ride".

But Master, you might say (hey, it's my column, I can make you say anything I want), Master - I love sports! Writing about sports would be a dream job for me. How can this possibly be a Just For Now Job?

Well, little Timmy, let me explain -exactly- what it is that I do. When I'm at parties hitting on girls, "writing at the [newspaper]" is plenty specific, but, to you, I promised honesty, so here it is:

I walk in at 8:30 with the fast food greasy meal of my choice, and sit down at a desk used by someone else for the majority of the day. I watch whatever sporting event is on the overhead TV, eat, and read articles and peruse the internet. When my phone rings, it is the coach of a local high school volleyball, football or basketball team. I get the names of the kids and their personal scoring contributions, a quick quote about how we "played a good game with a lot of hustle, next week we're going to work on the cohesive forward pressure of a dynamic offensive movement" and that's it.

His-Girl-Friday.gifI write this story into a 150 word blurb that will only be read by the mothers of the kids mentioned, and even then only to check that I spelled their angel's name "Jazzmynee" as it should be, not "Jasmine" like some common stripper. I will write many of these (sometimes as many as 20) in a night, and all of them are due up on the server by midnight. Most of the time I don't get a by-line (simply "Staff Reports") unless I go out and cover a big event in person. I am also, in the interest of full disclosure, paid $45 for three hours' work, no matter how much (or little) I happen to do that night.

High school sports coverage in small towns in Texas. That's my Just For Now Job. It could be worse but it could be much, much better. And, aside from freelance work, it's my first professional connection to writing for a living. So I put up with it, because, hey, it's just for now.

So, tell me: what are your Just For Now Jobs, and how long have they been Just For Now? Oh and kids, what do you want to be when you grow up? If anyone else wanted be a Bionic Mercenary, let me know. We'll start a Yahoo! club.


Ian doesn't own a fedora, but he does have a press pass. Archives

Germ Chernobyl

I love kids. I never used to, but something happened between high school and college and now, I think kids are adorable.

joeblow.jpgUntil they start doing that thing where they sneeze into your face. I stop breathing and back away in horror, “You can handle that…” I tell my mother as she expertly maneuvers the small boy, Spencer, with just one hand. He’s wearing a colorful construction paper hat still thick and wet with more glue than glitter and now the paper is bending dangerously close to his brown hair with the extra weight, threatening a shmear of glue. It’s Christmas time again and yesterday it seemed like a good idea to agree to get up early to teach my little cousin’s pre-school class all about Chanukkah on my winter break, but I failed to remember how germy kids are.

I was never like that. I was a clean kid. Maybe too clean. Bad Seed clean. My dress was never soiled, my nails always shined like justice, and I showered every day. Sometimes twice. I was, perhaps, a parent’s dream until it came to cleaning something other than myself. Then you could forget it. I might have been sparkling fresh, but I was a lazy thing too.

“How about we sanitize before we teach the kids?” I ask my mother. She nods in agreement and extends her hands without letting me finish. “I have some Purell in my purse. It’s not a big bottle though, do you think that’s enough for fifteen kids?”

My mother takes her hands back and sighs, “Steph, you can’t sanitize someone else’s child…” Somewhere in the room, a child coughs and I tense up.

“Something needs to be done,” I struggle to breathe.

Jeffery wipes his hand along his nostrils and then grabs a yellow plastic dreidel from out of my hand and I shrivel up like a tree in Chernobyl. My hands are now covered in germs. It is all I can think about. I panic. Also, simultaneously, I have the most incessant urge to touch my eyes, my nose, and my mouth.

It turns out, kids get bored with the dreidel game. Not that I can blame them. Gambling isn’t really much fun until you’re at least seven and three quarters. I was never so into the dreidel game as much as I was into eating the chocolate coins that are used in the game.

My mother and I received children in groups of two or three and in the ten short minutes we had to teach them about Chanukah, we tried to shove as much culture into their brains as possible. It was obvious a lot of them were fed up and just wanted to get to the chocolate part. It was OK for the first three minutes, until the rules started getting involved and then it wasn’t just a fun game where you spin a top anymore.

“I’m done!” one girl, Samantha, announced, holding up a dreidel in her sticky hand.

“Me too!” her friend Jaxson giggled.

My mother shrugged, “OK, we should have girl talk then!” she suggested.

kid-mess-with-peanut-butter.jpg“Oh, yeah!” Jaxson exclaimed while trying to push back the pink headband in her curly blonde hair.

“Who’s your boyfriend?” my mother asked Jaxson.

“Mmmm… Ray!” she said, kicking her feet up in the air. “Is this mine?” she added, gripping the chocolate so hard her knuckles were turning white.

I nodded as we turned our attention to quiet little Samantha who stopped spinning her dreidel long enough to look up at us with her giant blue eyes.

“Who’s your boyfriend?” my mother asked.

She answered without hesitation, “Brandon. He’s really nice.” Then added quietly, “But sometimes, he hits me.”

My mother and I exchanged glances.

I lifted an eyebrow and nudged her, “Foreshadowing.”


Stephanie sanitizes like a mad woman.

Archives

Yo, Adrian

INT. BLUE DOOR FIGHT CLUB - NIGHT

SUPERIMPOSE OVER ACTION... "NOVEMBER 12, 1975 - PHILADELPHIA"

... The club itself resembles a large unemptied trash-can. The boxing ring is extra small to insure constant battle. The lights overhead have barely enough wattage to see who is
fighting.

In the ring are two heavyweights, one white, the other black. The white fighter is ROCKY BALBOA. He is thirty years old. His face is scarred and thick around the nose... His black hair shines and hangs in his eyes. Rocky fights in a plodding, machine-like style. The BLACK FIGHTER dances and bangs combinations into Rocky's face with great accuracy. But the punches do not even cause Rocky to blink... He grins at his opponent and keeps grinding ahead.

The people at ringside sit on folding chairs and clamor for blood... They lean out of their seats and heckle the fighters. In the thick smoke they resemble spectres. Everyone is
hustling bets... The action is even heavier in the balcony. A housewife yells for somebody to cover a two dollar bet.

The BELL RINGS and the fighters return to their corner... Somebody heaves a beer can into the ring.

And that’s how it started. That’s the opening of the greatest underdog story of our time. That’s how the film “Rocky” opens. Along with that amazing theme music from Bill Conti, that inspires anyone who listens. It's all there. A hero we root for, someone who we can really take one of the greatest personal journeys ever made with. I mean, we get to be there for it. hamster2.jpg

In 1977 “Rocky” won best picture at the Oscars. It won numerous others including Best Editing, and Best Director. And guess what? Sylvester Stallone wrote it. He wrote all the Rocky films, and directed the 2nd one til the end. Did you know he's one of only three people to EVER get nominated for best actor and writer? The others were Charlie Chaplin and Orson Wells. Kinda makes you think, don’t it? Don’t judge Stallone over the zillions of action movies he was in, judge him on what HE wrote and directed.

Now I recently went to see “Rocky Balboa” because I am a fan of these films. Well, I, II, II and the current one. It's no small feat for Stallone to have created and guided one of the best franchises in film history. Sure, Stallone's Jar-Jar Binks was Dolph Lungren with the “I must break you” and whatever.

In the end, Stallone puts the perfect ending together. Let us not forget, it was Stallone who created this, Stallone who gave us Mr. T in the form of Clubber Lang, gave us Mickey and Adrian and the great Apollo Creed and his trainer and corner man, Duke, who becomes Rocky’s trainer when Apollo gets him to find “The Eye of the Tiger.” Stallone, well, he was the underdog in real life. He wrote it and when everyone wanted to buy it, he turned down a lot of money to stand by his one true goal. He wanted to play the title role. Stallone held out and the studio gave in. And we got the perfect Rocky Balboa.

I must insist that everyone go see this final film. Its, well truthfully, it's a lot like the first film. Just like Rocky himself, it's all heart. There are some very touching moments in this film, and Stallone delivers. Big time. He goes back to the Rocky we first met, the one we all know and root for no matter what. He takes us to the end of this old prize fighter's journey, and does it with dignity. Its poetic. I’m not going to write reviews and breakdowns of all the films, I am going to just suggest that you pick up the box set and watch them. All the way through over a week. It's pretty amazing. After all, it's like a time machine. I love watching the story unfold about this guy from Philly who gets a shot, and takes it. You just can't beat Rocky; try as they do, you can't beat a guy whose heart is in it. I love that theme, that life lesson.

So, if you haven’t, see the last installment. Then see the rest again. It will not disappoint you, I promise.

A-Yo, Rock. You did it.

“Ah come on, Adrian, it's true. I was nobody. But that don't matter either, you know? 'Cause I was thinkin', it really don't matter if I lose this fight. It really don't matter if this guy opens my head, either. 'Cause all I wanna do is go the distance. Nobody's ever gone the distance with Creed, and if I can go that distance, you see, and that bell rings and I'm still standin', I'm gonna know for the first time in my life, see, that I weren't just another bum from the neighborhood.”

Jay taught Clubber Lang to say "Pain" and "I pity the fools".

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January 1, 2007

Pine Cones Go in Here, Party Liquors Comes Out Here

happynewyear.jpg

Late Night Typing will return from vacation on Tuesday.

Michele and Turtle wish you a very happy and healthy New Year and lots of Squidbillies goodness.

we have a date with the underground, chapter 36

This is the last New Years story and since everyone, well most everyone, is hungover and not reading this today, I might as well go out with a bang. First of all, there have been some great New Years stories over the past few weeks on FTTW. Some funny, some amazing and some sad but they have all been great. If you haven't read them, I would take a few a few minutes and go back over them. There are some amazing people here with a lot of great stories.

But enough about that. Let's get back to getting fucked up at shows and almost getting killed! The fun stuff. This one goes back to those crazy dot com years in San Francisco. Paper millionaires and stupidity. Where everyone knew it wouldn't last but really didn't care.

You remember those days.

For weeks I'd been seeing my friends get jobs. Not just jobs, good jobs. I really didn't understand it. Well, I understood it enough to know that something was going on. No one would ever want these people to work for them unless something was going on, right? They were alcoholics and drug addicts but for some reason they were all being hired at tech places for reasonable money. When I say reasonable, I mean above minimum wage. Sure, we were all still broke, but these jobs put them in contact with the top people in the industry. Top people in the industry means more opportunities for us. And we all know that computer dorks always wanted to be cool and hang out with the band guys.*

* That theory might not be true, but it's my story and I have to rationalize it somehow.sfapart.jpg

We used to go into these "new" buildings where they worked late at night and see all this stuff. Stuff. It was weird. What was once an abandoned warehouse was now a huge office complex filled with those computer like things and little offices. What was once rats and homeless people was now servers and workstations. The stench of urine was now masked by the exhaust of brand new SUV's.

Very strange times.

But, as usual, we had to get in on it.

Private parties, and not so private parties, pretty much were an every night thing. If some company went IPO, booze was passed around and a party was started. And these things happened weekly.

One night we had played some show and were invited to three or four after parties to keep going. More music. Different people in the band. Really stopped mattering at that time. This was a weekend party that ended on New Years Day or sometime that week. Don't ask me cause back then, the party really never stopped. Just slowed down to mind numbing speeds until we hit the pass out stage. Then the party kinda died for us.

But back to the party I was talking about. We walked in to this huge house. Champagne everywhere with piles of cocaine in the back room. Bottles hard alcohol were set up everywhere. Pills being passed around. Don't ask me if I imbibed. I did.

Someone noticed that my friend was stealing things from the bar and we were thrown out. Packed full of stolen booze and loaded with drugs, we hit a MUNI and just drove around until we found another party. It was somewhere downtown. Some renovated area. That's all I remember about the location. Somewhere I had never been. I knew that at least. I walked up the stairs to where we supposed to be going when a raindrop hit me. But we were inside. More rain. Someone must be spitting on me. We were inside. I looked up. The entire roof had a huge hole in it. It's hard to describe the way it looked. The actual apartments circled the building with a garden in the middle and a hole so the sun could get in cut out of the roof. Fuck if I know. I had never seen anything like that before.

Well, we got into the building and it was huge and all that. More drugs and more booze. We were thrown out within a few minutes. Duh.apt03.jpg

I do know we took the party in a big samba line up to the top of the roof to throw bottles at all of the people way down on the streets below. Yes, we were kinda of dicks back then. Shit was going crazy on the streets and the roofs were getting filled with people. So many people that cop helicopters were circling a row of buildings we were all on. So we did the rational thing and started jumping rooftop to rooftop to check out the other parties. It was about five or so stories up and we just went cruising along. All I really remember was the "whoosh" of air as I cleared alleyways. Then the "thud" when I hit the next roof and landed in the tiny pebbles that covered each of them. By the time I was running out of breath, my face looked like a pin cousin from all the rock scrapes on my face.

I turned around and went the other way. Back to the original party. See, I had really had enough. This was fun, but I could tell my body was giving out and I needed to be on the street before I went down. Back down there. To relative safety.

I cleared about three buildings. Not all at one time, but you know what I mean. The original party was still going strong. My friend was chasing me. Almost racing. I hit the last wall and looked back at him. He was running harder. Laughing at him, I accelerated and cleared the final wall. One look back at him with a laugh. Suddenly. my neck tightened. My legs pulled out from underneath me.

I was tackled.

I looked up to see what happened. He tackled me from a full sprint. My body dragged about three feet in the tiny pebbles before I came to a standstill on the ground. Behind me was him, holding my legs and yelling at me. In front of me was the open roof. Five floors down to the garden. I was running right for it and he tackled me. Didn't even see it.

So that pretty much ended the night.

Of course, a few months later the stock market crashed and everyone became unemployed again, but hey hell, it was fun while it lasted.

Happy New Year everyone.

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Happy New Year!

Goodbye 2006! Yes, it's the new year, and if you're reading this, it means you didn't drink yourself to death last night. Congratulations on that.

There are several things I'm looking forward to this year.

1. Getting rid of this hangover.

Should be easy enough—I made sure there's beer in the fridge for this morning, and we have OJ and champagne for mimosas. Next!

2. The Sopranos finalesopranosone more.jpg

"Is this series ever going to end?" I cry softly into the night. And the night answers, "Why yes it is—this year, in fact." That's right, HBO is finally bringing its mobster drama to a close. Let's face it—the last few years have been pretty bad for this show. The series is languishing in petty side-stories, and nonsensical plot twist mar the landscape of what was at one time television's most respected drama. I hope that the final episodes bring closure to those of us who have faithfully followed this series. But seeing the way writers have treated the Sopranos universe over the past two seasons, I think the only finality we'll see is that it's all finally over.

3. Lost season 3—continued

This is by far my favorite television series right now. That may completely change come February, when new episodes of Lost begin airing. The mysteries and twists in this show are right up my alley. It's captivating, and the world being created is simply amazing. But the question is whether it's too amazing. There is a wonderful serial storytelling methodology at play here: every time you answer a question, raise another question. That's the key to the Lost storyline. However, as in all serial storytelling ventures, you have to be very careful not to rely on one method too heavily. Some of the work on this show has been pure genius to this point, and I hope that we see that tradition continued in the upcoming episodes.

4. God of War II

God of War II could possibly be the last great game released exclusively for the Playstation 2. The followup to the 2005 ultraviolent action game looks to be every bit as intense, with several new additions to Kraitos' arsenal of weapons and items, including Icarus wings. I found the original God of War to be a fine game, but didn't think it deserved the accolades it received. It didn't redefine the action genre, and came to an extremely disappointing close with one of the most anticlimactic boss battles ever. Nevertheless, I'm excited about this game, because despite its downfalls, God of War was a blast to play. The sequel is shaping up to be just as fun, and with new weapons, items, enemies, and more gruesome death sequences, it should be a fine addition to any PS2 owner's game library.

5. Buying a Wii

It's going to happen. I will buy a Wii this year. When, I'm not sure. I'm not going to spend an exorbitant amount of money on eBay, and other than that, the availability is pretty sparse. But with the demand for this revolutionary game system through the roof, I think we can plan on seeing Wii availability increase, especially by mid-year. We can also plan on seeing the game lineup for the system become more respectable, because right now, it isn't too impressive. It can't be denied, though, that Nintendo has finally done something right with this system. When videogamers are actually getting sore playing games, you know that the revolution has arrived.

6. Lupe Fiasco's CoolWii_main.jpg

The followup to my favorite album of 2006 should be out this year. And I can't wait. Because this album will determine the rest of Lupe's career. Is he going to continue with his clever, cerebral raps that plumb the depths of human nature and experience? Or is he going to go the way of celebrity rapper, and tout bling, cars, and money? Will he abandon the brilliant instrumental backtracks that were a signature on last year's album for drum kits and cheap production? I hope not. Lupe has a choice—to be himself, or to be commercial—and I hope that he chooses the former.

7. Reading Bone

The comic Bone, which came out in 1996?, has been on my list of must-reads for just as long. Right now, I have the complete collection on its merry way to my doorstep, courtesy of the fantastic Austin-based book seller BookPeople. The drawing is simplistic and complex at the same time, with the cartoonish Bones contrasted with intricate scenery and creatures. The story is intriguing—when the Bone brothers are run out of Boneville, they end up in a forest, where they meet horrible creatures and discover that they have a destiny beyond their wildest dreams. I've only read the first six issues of the series, and can't wait until my tome containing all 50? issues arrives, so I can entrench myself in this world that captured my imagination first over a decade ago.

So, as you sit nursing your hangover, think for a second about what you are most looking forward to this year, and tell us about it.

Happy New Year everyone!

Uber has obviously forgotten about the new season of "24" but we will let it slide this time.

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Power Pack Attack!

Happy New Year to all of my faithful readers!

The holiday season is now over, and as we treat our happy holiday hangovers, lets chit chat just a bit.

voltron.jpgThis holiday season was a joy for me and my family, despite the low budget that everyone had. I came away with a new backpack made entirely of leather. My brother had quite a giggle when he gave me an “American Idol” bathroom radio, shaped like a microphone so I can sing in the shower! I was also the happy recipient of a new bed set, and the second edition of “Voltron”. More importantly, I got to spend some time with my nephews and my niece. We even had some playtime at the local playground. My guy and I teeter tottered, used the swing-sets and ran amok with them for a couple hours. In the evening I spent quality time with my twin brother and his wife.

We had the adult gift exchange on Christmas Eve, and after a lovely evening I went home to my own bed to sleep. Once I woke up on Christmas Day, I got a coffee hopped into the car. Trotted on back to the homestead and enjoyed breakfast and a gift exchange for the kids. This year each one of them received an MP3 player, and a Game Boy “Micro”. I have to say that this kind of made me a bit sad. The reason why, is that such expensive equipment can so easily be broken or lost. It seems each one of my nephews and my niece also has a PC, and untold amounts of toys. To me it seems a bit excessive, but given a bit of thought, that’s the day and age that we live in. Everything has to be modern, electronic and snazzy. Sadly making me long for the days where a coloring book and crayons made a better gift than the latest gizmo to hit the market. I am sure that it’s just a sign of the times. But if that’s where the times are going, I am not sure I want to follow. I enjoy my TV shows, but I am not about to pay big bucks for about a million channels I will never bother to see aside from flashing by on my way to the latest episode of “Buffy The Vampire Slayer”. It just seems a bit excessive, don’t you think?

Buffy-Gilesposter.jpgSpeaking of “Buffy”, I miss that show dearly; I also miss “Charmed” quite a bit. I find that those shows, and a lot of the ones that aired on the WB, were involved and fun to watch. More so than the shows on some of the neighboring stations. I can’t tell you how sick I was of TNT for cramming it’s programming with episodes of “Law & Order”. (Though there are episodes of “Charmed” that would air in between time slots.) At this point, I chose not to have any cable programming, or any stations other than what I can receive by placing a set of “bunny ears” on the top of my television. (I can get CBS, and PBS.) Any other items I’d like to see are either purchased, or rented DVD’s and videos. (I have the habit of collecting seasons of my favorite programs. This includes my entire 7 seasons of “Buffy”, my five seasons of “Smallville”, and six seasons of “Charmed”.) I enjoy a collection of horror flicks, and I have no idea how many “super hero” movies I have collected so far. I even have a copy of the lost pilot for the TV show based on my favorite comic book of all time, “Power Pack”.

Power Pack” was/is published by the Marvel Comics Group, and had its first issue published in 1984. I have been fond of the series since the day my family and I were on vacation long ago. Our family vacations usually involve driving for a number of hours and pitching a tent up by a large body of water for a few days. On this particular trip, the drive was excruciatingly long. So you could imagine it being the early eighties, and here are three kids crammed into the back seat of a small car, who are progressively getting more bored by the second. Finally we make a pit stop at a gas station and we all gratefully stretch our legs while the car is being loaded up with gas. After everyone has used the bathroom, and the car is ready we all pile back into the beige vinyl seat, careful not to burn the back of the knees on the already scorching hot plastic. The car starts and begins barreling down the road again. Worn out with singing, and playing the license plate game, we all begin to get a bit shifty. I recall my mother looking back at the three of us and saying something to the effect of: “I know you guys are tired of being in the car, so I got these for you.”

ppcover1.jpgShe then handed my older brother Josh a “G.I. Joe” comic, and my twin brother Nate a “Casper and Friends” comic. “You’ll have to share” She said, and turned herself around. I sat there between my brothers; upset and bored, waiting as patiently as any young man can for one of my brothers to finish what they were reading. Now as far as I know, out of the three of us, I was the one to really take a shine to reading, and excelled at it to the point where my teachers had to verify that I had actually read the books I did reports on, because they were so far advanced from my classmates reading levels. Vacation time is the worst time; however, to complain. I know the horrors of being punished for bad behavior during vacation, and there is little worse for a young fairy like myself who has a love of water, than to be secluded to the beach watching others play in the surf. Back to my story…

So here I am, fidgeting and doing my best to be patient so instead of trying to read over my brothers shoulder, I look out onto the road between my folks, thinking maybe I would see something interesting that my otherwise engrossed brothers would miss. I did. While I was casually doing my best to look like a good kid, from below my line of vision was movement coming from the other side of the armrest that my parents had between them. Slowly but surely, and much to my wonder and glee, a third comic rose up from between the seats. I can still see the look my mother had on her face as my own lit up and I grabbed Issue #24 of “Power Pack” I don’t know if it was my mothers decision, or if fate just happened that way. But from then on whenever I read that comic book, I feel special, and loved, as though it was written just for me. It took many, many years to find every issue. (The original series had 62.) The search ended for me only about three or four years ago when FFTW’s own J.W. Carbonell found the last issue #62 on eBay I think. It was one of those days that left me glowing for DAYS.

Recently there has been a new “Power Pack” comic that I have tried to find, but there is a serious lack of comic stores in Vermont now. I have a few of the recent mini series issues, but there are more to collect. It is nice to see the newer stories, but they do not follow the original continuity, sadly enough. But either way I’m glad that the series is developing a new fan base, and I will be first in line if they ever were to do a movie. (See the Internet Movie Database for more information if you are curious.) I am curious as to whether anyone has had a similar experience that followed him or her into adulthood… Let me know!

So as we go into the New Year with all the new things to see and do, remember that it’s ok to sit back and be a bit nostalgic, and curl up with those things that make you feel loved.

Many Happy New Year Wishes from Me to all of you!


Matthew is still looking for a good comic store in Vermont.
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Brawls, Broads and Booze

What was it about the mid-sixties that inspired so many cool spies ? Was it the broads ? The booze ? The suits ? Or just the tensions of the Cold War that seemed to surface in everyday life ? What ever it was, I love the spy shtick from the sixties. Now don’t get me wrong, there’s no smoother spy than James Bond (Connery, of course. Are you trying to insult me ?). But some days you don’t want the smooth sixties spy. You want the wacky one. Or the sinister one. Or best yet, the hipper than thou spy duo. Two, two, two spies for the price of one! I love them all and here’s a quick look at some of my favorites.

Matt Helm

Silencers-bra.jpgMatt Helm (as portrayed by Dean Martin in four films) is a smooth, sauced, roll with the punches kinda guy. Dean Martin basically took his onstage persona for these films (The Silencers, Murderer’s Row, The Ambushers and The Wrecking Crew) and applied to the tried and true “spy film” formula. Hilarity ensues as he fires off one liners and get himself out of all kinds of sticky situations with humor, wit and just a dash of cunning. And, as always, the beautiful thing about the Matt Helm movies isn’t the gadgets (although his “ten second delay” gun is pretty hot) or the dames. It’s Dino, being Dino. Throughout most of “The Silencers”, he’s a little hit or miss with the “I’m a little drunk and people are trying to kill me” routine but by the time we get to “Murderer’s Row”, the man’s got it down pat. He’s suave, debonair, half in the bag and he always gets the girl. It’s entertaining as hell to watch Dino does what he does best, be Dean Martin.

Derek Flint

coburn-ourmanflint1.jpgWhen I think of James Coburn, I don’t think wise talking International Man of Mystery. I think of the cool, calculated killer he’s played a million times. But that was before I saw “Our Man Flint” and “In Like Flint”. Super cool secret agent Derek Flint lives in seclusion, surrounded by beautiful women and a doting staff that care for this no retired secret agent. But when a mysterious organization called GALAXY threaten the planet; he’s called into action once again. Armed only with his sidearm, a multifunction cigarette lighter and that sly Coburn smile, Flint saves the world and looks good doing it. While Bond can be interpreted as pretentious and self confident to the point of arrogant, Flint is the epitome of cool. There’s no questioning it. Any man who can fight his way through a madman’s army using only his feet and walk away with five new girlfriends is a man to be reckoned with.


Kelly Robinson and Alexander Scott

i-spy-1.jpgI Spy wasn’t originally a movie (and if one person brings it up, it’s curtains for ya….) but was instead a fairly complex, dialogue heavy show about a pair of secret agents who worked for the US Government. Robert Culp played Robinson and Bill “Puddin’ Pops” Cosby played Scott, a pair of agents who masqueraded as a tennis pro and his trainer. Their cover was that they were a couple of tennis guys who bummed around and played tennis against rich people, mainly for cash and room and board. In reality, they were tracking spies and traitors and taking them down. The interplay between Culp and The Cos is why this show is still a classic. I haven’t seen chemistry this good between two men in well… Let’s not go into that now. Let’s just say that I was young and my girlfriend thought it’d be hot. These two play off each other so well that at times you forget that they’re out to kill and imprison people for the government. Can’t recommend this one highly enough.

There’s tons of other good spies and these are just a few off the top of my head. So, how about you ? Who are some of your favorites ?

thefinn is often glad his wife doesn't have a bra gun. Archives

Afghan Jam

Cullen is on vacation this week, so we are running a "best of" for his column. This is the first thing he ever wrote for FTTW, when Michele and Turtle were on vacation back in August.

The hadji-ee-ee don’t like it, rock the chapel, rock the chapel

Believe it or not, I'm walking on air. I never thought I could feel so free.For those of you who don’t know, I spent 10 years in the Army. A significant chunk of my last year in was spent deployed to Afghanistan.

I was a REMF, a pogue, a leg, a garrison puke.

However, I was deploying out of Fort Polk, and during my tenure had spent a lot of time in the "box" at the Joint Readiness Training Center. By the time we deployed, I had about as much field time as any infantry troop. One of the things I knew was that to survive long deployments, you needed to take as many comfort items as possible.

The main comfort item I decided to take was my guitar.

Which spent most of the time zipped up in its case, stacked behind my coffee counter in my office while I surfed the net (thank you internet gods from GE contracted by the Army to run our backbone).

The building I was in (an old Russian office building) was next to the base chapel (another converted building). So, the chaplains would come over to our office often to try and get us to publish information about upcoming services or events they were holding.

Oh yeah, I was the editor of the newspaper.

Anyway, every chaplain in the Army has an assistant. One of the assistants turned out, like me, to be a fan of punk and metal. He also happened to be a drummer. He also happened to have a drum kit. Well, it was the chapel’s kit, but still, there was a kit.

And lo, it came to pass, two Army sergeants jammed Misfits tunes mightily in the Bagram Air Base chapel. And lo, it came to pass, several other military folks did enter the chapel. And lo, they did think it good, even though the guitarist sucked.

We jammed for about an hour and did this about three times. The third time, one of the chaplains came out and motioned for us to stop playing.

"Um," he said. You know that look that people get when they’re about to tell you something you don’t want to hear, well he had that. The thing you have to keep in mind is that people in a war zone don’t like giving each other bad news. You see, you carry a loaded weapon with you everywhere. Unless you’re a chaplain.

But we knew he was about to take our toy away. We’d already started packing up when he motioned for us to stop.

"This is probably not the best place to be playing that kind of music," the chaplain said.

"Okay, sir," I said. And our jamming was over.

While we found other things to occupy our time (I mean, I still had the internets), it made both me and my drummer pal happy to hear that several people who’d stopped by to hear us had asked the chaplain why we weren’t playing any more.

His reply? He didn’t think that kind of music was "good for morale."

How gorgeous is this view? It can be a very pretty place, but you wouldn't imagine some of the crap you'd see right off the base. This is a more recent view, we didn't have those hard-stand buildings for living like you see right behind the vehicles.

Cullen

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