Faster Than the World

I got this thing. I got this…. hangup, this phobia, and I can’t let go of it. The older I get, the worse it seems to get. It sure as hell isn’t getting better.

It’s wasps, man. Fuckin wasps. I hate them so very much. When I was a kid I used to look forward to summer and getting out of school. Nowadays, well, I still like summer but I always look forward to the fall of the year. That’s when those fuckers start to get all logey and slow moving and dull witted, and eventually they die the fuck off and leave me alone so I can at least shovel the driveway in peace.

It usually is, but it doesn’t even have to be a wasp. If it’s flying and unidentifiable then part of me figures it’s a wasp, or worse. Something evil that will sting me. So I run. And my behaviour is more than a little reminiscent of a little girl, about four or five years old, running away from something that might actually be harmful. I am shamed every time I leave my house and meet a wasp. Have you ever lived in shame with yourself? Have you ever lost your shit, entirely, over a fucking bug?

I mean, don’t get me wrong but I’m not crazy macho like, say, George Bush or Hulk Hogan. At the same time I do enjoy inflicting pain on friends as well as enduring pain for my friends’ enjoyment. Like any other guy. It’s what we all do from time to time, you know; the Jackass crew just filmed that shit and got rich. Anyway, a little pain never hurt anyone, right? So why the hell do I lose my shit over a fucking bug?

It’s like this: I’ll be getting ready to leave my house, on some beautiful afternoon in July. It’s a great day, I have the day off and I have my Nerf football. I have a few friends to meet and I have a few in the cooler. And a few rolled. All is right in the world. I tell myself that everything is going to be fine. I tell myself that I’ll just be calm and rational if I run into a wasp. I leave the house feeling great.

And I notice them everywhere I go. If there’s a wasp within twenty feet of me, I’ll notice it because that fucker is obviously out to get me. If it flies away, then he must be off to tell his friends. I’ll cross the street if I see a wasp on the sidewalk, twenty feet ahead of me. And I’ll feel lucky to have escaped it.

So, you know. I’ve been working hard to work through this. Trying to reduce my fear and increase my tolerance. And things were going okay, until my wife ate her lunch outside last summer. Fuck’s sake… she went and bought one of those submarine sandwiches from one of those submarine sandwich stores, and decided to eat it in the park, all peaceful and harmonious with nature and shit. But nature wasn’t harmonious with her and wanted her sub. And she brushed nature away and nature retaliated with its poisonous ass.

I don’t have any pictures but I wish you could look at that shit. It was swollen for a couple of weeks. That doesn’t fucking help me at all.

I grew up next to the ocean, and although I have a healthy respect for it, I don’t fear water. Not at all. My brother is a pilot and I’ve flown in several types of planes, big and small. I love that stuff. My other brother is a fireman, and I’ve worked with explosives myself (legitimately) quite a bit over the years. That shit doesn’t scare me a bit. Water, heights, flying, all of these are pretty cool to me. I’m not scared of the dark or walking alone. Needles don't scare me and the dentist is my friend. I'm not even afraid of commitment. But I’m scared shitless of a little bug with a pointy ass.

My wife gets sick to her stomach if you talk about eyeballs in detail. You know that scene in A Clockwork Orange, with the guy watching the movies? She can’t just close her eyes when that comes on, she has to leave the room. She can’t even be close to the idea of having metal prongs holding here eyelids open.

My brother in law is scared to death of spiders. 240 pounds, used to be a bouncer at a nightclub, shits himself at the sight of a spider. He lived with me for a couple of years and it worked out pretty well. I killed the spiders and he killed the wasps.

So what about you? What are you afraid of? Speak up, don't be afraid.

Dan wears a skirt in the summertime, just in case.


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Posted by Dan Greene at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (10) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

You knew this was coming.

What does a barreling-towards-middle-age white girl with an SUV that grew up in the more rarefied suburbs of Los Angeles during the ‘70s and ‘80s know about the blues?

Not a fucking thing.

It doesn’t matter, though.

You could argue for days- nay months- with people about what the blues is and isn’t. Or whether it matters what is and what isn’t. Or if so-and-so was blues or more like jazz, and where does one draw the line, because it blurs a lot. But it’s a thing that you have to listen to yourself, and draw your own conclusions about it.

The story of blues is a long and winding journey through American history, beginning with the first slave ship in the late 1600s, passing through the Civil War and spreading through the country slowly, very slowly, so slowly it was nearly forgotten during the Civil Rights era, when it went overseas and came back a few years later as Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, Cream, etc. It was almost forgotten again, but still out there, buried in the funk and the disco. In 1980 or so it reappeared again in a dingy bar in Texas, going by the name Stevie Vaughn. That was right around the same time that John Belushi had seen Curtis Salgado in Eugene, Oregon (as unlikely a place to be bit by the blues bug as any) while he was filming “Animal House”. Curtis was the inspiration behind “The Blues Brothers”. When Dan Akroyd helped open the House of Blues chain, the blues was finally mainstream.

So, there you have the short story. It’s easier, of course, to look at the most recent 50 years. But I’m going to show you the past. Like old country, there’s a definite root to what you now recognize as blues. Robert Johnson is probably the most famous of the real early blues players. Only two pictures of him exist. The songs he recorded were often reworked and rereleased as something else, but if you heard the originals, there was no mistaking where so many other songs came from.

Get thee a Robert Johnson album, and listen well. From then on out, you’ll hear his ghost in almost every Led Zeppelin song, nearly every song Eric Clapton has ever recorded, and in just about any other blues song you listen to.

Muddy Waters. You know what Jimi Hendrix had to say about Muddy? “The first guitarist I was aware of was Muddy Waters. I heard one of his records when I was a little boy, and it scared me to death”. Muddy was one of the first bluesmen to work with an electric guitar. I figure, if he scared Jimi, he’s worth hearing and there ain’t no more to say.

Ledbelly, also known as Huddy Ledbetter, did crazy blues shit on a 12-string. I have a hard time with some of this blues stuff on a 6 string. But I guess if all you have is a 12, then that’s what you play.

There are the Kings, who are not related. Albert, BB, Freddie. “Born Under a Bad Sign” is an Albert King song, and the solo on Cream’s “Strange Brew” is almost entirely swiped from Albert’s “Cross-Cut Saw”. Some folks call “Disraeli Gears” the Albert King Tribute Album.

BB, oh BB, where would we be without this man. BB is to electric blues as Parker is to jazz. If you ask the average person who they think of first when you say “The Blues”, I’d bet the answer is either BB King or Stevie Ray Vaughn. More likely BB. BB is the definition of modern blues.

And now Freddie, a Texan, and we all know everything in Texas is big. Freddie’s blues comes from guys like Lightnin Hopkins and T-Bone walker. To hear Freddie King is to hear a real nice blending of the western part of Country and Western and the blues, in the style of Blind Lemon Jefferson. Who himself influenced both genre’s on his own.

So these are some of the big guys, and you hear them whenever you turn on the classic rock station. You probably just didn’t realize you were hearing them. But there you have it.

Other people who are absolutely worth listening to are Skip James, Charlie Christian and John Lee Hooker.

I never even touched the women, but the first blues records were recorded by women. They were mostly vocal albums with a backup band. Koko Taylor- you must hear her. Bonnie Raitt, you already know her, but she’s more accomplished than a lot of people (myself included) ever realized. A red-headed blueswoman, who would have though of such a thing. Damn.

I haven’t touched Okeh records, either, but I probably will.

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Posted by Pril Stevenson at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (7) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

My husband has been bugging me about moving my “stuff” out of the hall closet for several weeks. The hall closet has turned into a storage closet because, apparently, the garage isn’t big enough. Or clean enough. Oh, and then there are the mice. So, storage in the garage is not an option.

As I was retrieving the few items that I had on the very top shelf of the hall closet, I found my Nikon. I found the “old” camera, the one that uses old-fashioned film. The one that I tossed aside like an old shoe the day I brought home the new digital. I picked it up, brushed the dust off the lens cap and felt a sudden pang of guilt. I’ve been with this camera since my college photography classes a long time ago. I know this camera inside and out. The Nikon is safe, easy and I’m very comfortable using it.

Then, one day when I wasn’t paying attention, technology changed. In the beginning, I stuck with my old friend, claiming the quality of the digital “just isn’t there yet”. For years, I was faithful to my 35mm film box, denying the digital world altogether. But as the quality of the digital camera images increased, I became more and more interested in it, especially after becoming more familiar with computers and graphics programs. My problem, up until I was lucky enough to “win” my Canon 10 mega pixel digital was that I couldn’t afford a really good digital camera; therefore, it was just easier to continue to deny its existence regardless of how good it may be.

Since I got the Canon, I haven’t really thought about the Nikon. Not only have I cheated on the poor Nikon, I have shoved aside our loyalty to one another for the younger, better performing Canon. How could I be so selfish?

So, in honor of my ever trusty Nikon, I give you one of the best pictures of my son that came out of this little metal box (yes, mostly metal moving parts, unlike the Canon to which it compares). T-max 100 film, normal development, variable contrast paper.

This is my son, Riley, who turns 9 years old today. Everyone, say it with me: Happy Birthday, Riley!! His piano teacher informed m on Sunday that Riley has progressed through a year’s worth of piano lessons in six months. He’s a straight A student and just as cute as he can be! I am, however, a bit biased. This was several years ago and he’s sinse grown into those ears a bit more.

I’ve got to go beg forgiveness of the Nikon now and let it know that I haven’t forgotten how it’s been there for me and supported me all of the years. The Nikon will always be my first love.

Shawna is not going to have make-up sex with the Nikon.

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Posted by Shawna Black at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (12) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

I recently saw a call for “Shutdown Day” on 24 March 2007. These folks want us to shutdown our computers for 24 hours. Don’t log on. Keep the computer off for 24 hours.

My first thought was, “What the hell for?”

Their answer:

“It is obvious that people would find life extremely difficult without computers, maybe even impossible. If they disappeared for just one day, would we be able to cope?

Be a part of one of the biggest global experiments ever to take place on the internet. The idea behind the experiment is to find out how many people can go without a computer for one whole day, and what will happen if we all participate!

Shutdown your computer on this day and find out! Can you survive for 24 hours without your computer?”

Now, I’m kind of cool with this. I read a lot. I have a lot of studying to do between now and the end of April to get my A+ Certification done once and for all. I’ve taken the classes numerous times but never bothered to get the paper. I also read a lot of books. Going without a PC or laptop for the day seems more than possible.

But what about my other computers? Technically, without stretching my imagination, I have a LOT of other computers in my house that I use every day.

All of the telephones in my house are digital and are either wireless or on Voice Over Internet Protocol. Computers. Do I have to shut them off all day too?

And let’s not forget about my favorite computer of all time, my iPod. I listen to music every day, usually via my iPod. Okay, go down in the basement and pull out my…CDs which I would play on my home theater…the amp and tuner and CD/DVD player being a…you got it…take away the shell etc. it’s basically a computer.

Okay…so read books, go to the gym, watch TV…wait…the digital deck…can’t watch TV without utilizing a computer…unless I want to try and pick up the old VHF/UHF channels via an antenna.

And now that I think about it I’d have to walk to the gym, because I don’t know about you, but I can’t drive without a computer…my cars both have computers in them. Walking to the gym and back, that would be a workout in itself in my case. We’re talking about 2 miles there and 2 miles back. Again, you want me to just walk around without my Shuffle? Completely dull. It’s not an overly stressful workout, but none the less, four miles isn’t something I normally do all at once especially without headphones.

Stop using computers, even for 24 hours? 24 hours…let me ask you something else…how are you going to keep track of those 24 hours? What exactly do you think all the clocks in your house are? Anyone still have an analog clock they’re winding up? Wait. Isn’t an analog clock STILL a computer? I know, I’m knitting picks but even the simplest mousetrap is a computer.

I guess my point and my question is, “Exactly how far would you like me to shutdown on the 24th of March? How many of my computers would you like me to shutdown?” I mean I could shutdown completely…but I’m thinkin’ it’s going to be a very long, boring day.

Don’t get me wrong, we do fine without technology a few times a year…we call it camping. We drove our daughter crazy with this and plan on torturing our son the same way. When we camp, the rule is, nothing you have to plug in, not even our iPods. We may use a flashlight to get to the latrines…or the hole that I’ve dug if we’re really out there…but that’s about it. Propane lanterns and stove only if there’s an open fire restriction. When we camp, we read, we eat, we might fish, we read some more, we eat some more, there’s a lot of napping, maybe some hiking or swimming, we play cards, more of that napping thing, but we really turn off the signal for a good couple of days. We do take digital pictures. I suppose if we wanted to be pure, I could dig out my old 35 MM.

I’m sorry though…if I’m home and doing a “normal” day, I’m digital. I’ve gotten used to it. I like it. I don’t want to be “unwired.”

You know why I’m jazzed about the iPhone? Because it’s the first step to having more computer in a smaller space. You know Body Glove is going to have something so we can strap it to our left forearms and make it look cool. If they’d offer a bluetooth implant in my skull so that only I could hear what’s being transmitted and I could talk to someone online without having some funky thing hanging off my ear? Dude, I’m so there.

So…no…not going to Shutdown on the 24th of March. It’s way too early to be camping in this part of the country.

Tim really hasn’t been reading too much William Gibson.


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Posted by Tim O'Connell at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (7) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Chapter 18

What I don’t understand when I flush the medicine is that Prozac is a time-release drug. That means that even when I quit taking it, it stays in my system for awhile. So it really shouldn’t have surprised me when I woke up the next morning and still felt no desire to wash my hands.

But it does.

“I thought this was supposed to go away,” I say to myself.

“Residual effects. Probably soon,” my say to Iself.

For obsessive compulsives, internal dialogue is an extremely important part of every day activities. We rehearse possible situations, practice possible conversations with other people, even practice exactly how we’re going to say something that we plan on saying. For an actor, rehearsal gives him control over his lines, the movement on the stage, his interaction with other actors. For the obsessive compulsive, our internal dialogue gives us a false sense of control over the world itself. We plan out a situation with a conversation like this, all taking place in the comfort of our own brains:

Cast of characters:

ME

RATIONALITY

ME: So, another party tonight.

OTHER ME: Yup. Should be fun.

ME: Yeah, but there are going to be a lot of people there.

OTHER ME: So?

ME: So, what if you get into a fight?

OTHER ME: Why would I get into a fight?

ME: Why does anyone ever get into a fight? It isn’t because they want to.

OTHER ME: Well, there are some people…

ME: You know what I mean. You get in a fight because some jackass has something to prove to some chick. And guys like that are all over the place at parties like this.

OTHER ME: So I’ll walk away, tell him to fuck off, no big deal.

ME: But it is a big deal. What if you walk away and he throws a bottle at your head and knocks you out. Hell, if it hits you on the temple, you could die.

[Cue Anxiety, enter stage left.]

RATIONALITY: [To himself.] Well, that may be one of the dumbest things I’ve ever heard.

ME: Come on, seriously? Why would anyone do that?

OTHER ME: [Shrugs.] You got me man. All I know is that I’ve heard of that kind of thing happening before. But even if that doesn’t happen, what if you take the other option you mentioned and tell the guy to fuck off.

ME: What about it?

OTHER ME: Well, maybe he’s got a girl there and decides he doesn’t like some little shrimp saying stuff like that to him, so he decides he and his friends are going to rough you up a little. Things get out of hand, you end up in the hospital with a coma.

RATIONALITY: [To himself, words muffled by Anxiety’s hands over his mouth.] I spoke too soon.

ME: God, how embarrassing would that be.

OTHER ME: You’re telling me. I mean, you’re telling yourself. You know what I mean.

ME: I gotcha.

OTHER ME: And you’re going to be there with Melissa. Which makes it even more likely that some guy is going to try to show you up. You'll want to be on the lookout. Because what would you do if she got hurt?

ME: Got hurt because of me?!?

OTHER ME: Exactly. How are you going to feel riding in the ambulance with her mutilated body on the way to the emergency room, trying to tell paramedics exactly why you couldn't stop a gang of thugs from raping her.

RATIONALITY [Barely a whisper.]: That's ridic…

ANXIETY [Loud and authoritative.]: How would you feel?

ME: I'd feel…I'd want to kill myself.

OTHER ME: And we can't have that.

ME: What if we just went to the movies?

OTHER ME: What if you sit in front of some thug and crunch your popcorn too loud and it pisses him off?

ME: We could always go to a restaurant and then go back to her place?

OTHER ME: Why, so you can make a fool out of yourself and drool all over her only to vomit when she mentions sex?

ME: Christ, what am I supposed to do? Sit at home and play with myself?

OTHER ME: In all honesty, that's probably the safest bet.

ME: [Screaming.]: But it isn't fair! I deserve to go out and have a good time. I deserve to do the things other people want to do. I want to live like a normal person goddammit!

OTHER ME: A great man once said, "You can't always get what you want."

ANXIETY [Soothing and calm.] Here, it is safe and comfortable. If you stay here, no harm will come to you.

ME [Taking off shoes and jacket.] Dammit. Where did I put Melissa's number? Think she'll buy it if I say I'm sick?

OTHER ME: Assuredly.

ANXIETY [Trailing off.]: Safe and comfortable…

Fin.

That’s the way these conversations with yourself go most of the time. I imagine, had I been off the medicine, that’s almost the exact dialogue I would have had before taking Melissa to the party. But even as the days go by and I keep searching for the effects of the goddamn medicine to wear off, I can’t get nervous. Anxiety isn’t there. I think about getting beat up and immediately throw the idea off as ludicrous. I think about going back to Melissa's place after having a few beers and having sex with her and the only feeling in my stomach is excitement—no nausea. What I had control over before I was taking the medicine—the only part of the world I had control over—is gone. There's something else in control now. Because this is the conversation I have as I lace up my boots and get ready to go pick up Melissa:

ME: This is going to be fun!

OTHER ME: I know I shouldn't, but I'll probably get drunk tonight.

ME: S'okay. Everyone needs to take a load off now and then. We can take a cab. You have cash right?

OTHER ME: Of course.

ANXIETY [Timidly.]: But what if…

RATIONALITY [Booming.] There is no "what if." You will have a good time. You are, and always will be, safe, secure, and confident. No need to worry—everything is going to be OK.

Rationality. As I lace up my shoes and put on my jacket, I realize I’m really starting to hate that motherfucker.

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Posted by Branden Hart at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (3) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Every once in a while I get bored. Actually it's more than once in a while. I'm bored alot. There’s a very real possibility that I’m an excitement junkie. That I just can't "be." That I find myself feeling very low when I'm not very high. Yeah, it's possible Dr. Phil. Why don't you go put a spit shine on that head of yours, ok?

I have to admit, I love having something to look forward to, to count the days or “the sleeps” until an anticipated event. I like to have a new toy to play with, a challenge, hell, some email in my in-box is all it takes sometimes. And I've had to consider recently that it's entirely possible that my inability to deal with the mundane might be responsible for some of the problems in my past relationships.

I'm one of those people who change for change sake. I move furniture around, change artwork, buy new plates. My cats lick their fur a different way occasionally so that they don' t end up at the no kill shelter, swapped for some abandoned poodle. I was once married (yeah. it's true. weird, huh?) to a man who had fear of change. Now where is that e-harmony compatibility profile when you need it? He has had the same job since high school, lives in his first home, drives a 1990 car, has never replaced his deceased dog or his ex-wife.

I mean, who's crazier in that scenario? Doesn't a little furniture rearrangement way too often sound perfectly sane right about now? Doesn't it? Yeah? No?

My second marriage (can you fucking belief it? I know!) ended mainly because my husband checked out early, but there were some problems before that and yep. You guessed it. The problems were related to my lack of tolerance for all things boring.

He was too quiet - even our fights were non-fights. They involved the silent treatment which for me is the Silent Killer. Right up there with grudge holding. Besides, I always felt like I was annoying him by continuing to occupy space in the universe. There was a lot of sighing going on. A lot of way too quiet dinners. I remember looking over at other tables in the restaurant, seeing a couple that were leaning towards each other, holding hands, talking in whispers. I remember thinking how bad I wanted to know their secrets, what they were saying - the words to the spell they were under. (I found out, by the way, and it's remarkably easy - a candle, some funny powder and a cast iron pot filled with smelly things. Simmer for one hour while visualizing nice long conversations with a guy you once knew.)

But it's not that I can't do the everyday with someone. I can. I just prefer someone who does the everyday like I do. Who makes the most of life - grabs life by the neck and fucking squeezes the last drop of fun out of it until it goes limp and lifeless. Because you do have to make your own fun, you know. I hate to have to be the one to break it to you - it's not going to be handed to you by the guy who brings your breakfast up to your room on the big tray. You have to learn to recognize it, even when it's buried under a hell of alot of ho humness. Yep, I hate to say it, because I really really hate these kind of cutesy Hallmarky inspirational sayings, but you are responsible for your own happiness. And your own boredom.

In the immortal words of Bunny, overheard as I walked by her office one day a few years ago,

That admission, my friends is the first step towards change.

God Bless
May the Force by with you.
Amen.

-LM

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Posted by Lovemonkey Jolie at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

This all started with the Discovery Channel, which we watch way too much of. But a couple of shows got us thinking about things we would like to do before we kick the bucket, or at least before we get too old to have the energy to kick a bucket.

Turtle gets crabby:

So I have been watching a lot of daytime TV lately. I know it is a problem, but it calls to me. Trust me, I can feel this coming on like an addiction. But what can I do? I get home late and wake up early. Live my life in a half assed fog trying to get from one place to another never looking down. So when I do phase out, I turn on the TV and watch the Discovery Channel. That is when my dreams come up to me and grab me in the ass like a bad bowl of chili. I know my life isn't over and there are still things I want to do. I live trying to do things that other people just think about doing. It's worked for me so far. Albeit I have a rack of addictions now but that just comes along with the game. But I feel that the human life must be explored. "Fuck it" is a lifestyle and not a choice. I never asked to be what I am. I just do it and let the chips fall where they may.

So this brings me to what I want to do next and surprisingly, the Discovery Channel has thrown this pie on my plate. At around 11 or so in the morning, they show a program that calls to me. Something I need to do.

Alaskan King Crab fisherman! See, this is the gig. Make up to $100,000 for five days work. That's right. Five days work. No experience needed. Just show up and get the Captain drunk and you are on. Yo ho ho motherfucker. I am gonna be a Crab fisherman. Or a Crabman. Or better yet, a CRABBER.

So what if it is the most dangerous job there is? So what that you die in under two minutes if you hit the water. I figure that if I just don't fall in the water, I will be keeping out of that statistic. I'm smart like that. So I have decided by this time next year, I will have been an Alaskan King Crab fisherman for the five day crabbing season. Savor the moment and fuck the memories. Give me a steel pod and some frozen smelt for bait! Daddy needs a new car!

Think about it. I could get a new nickname! Turtle will become a thing of the past as I acquire a new name that more closer resembles what I do on the ship. "Smokey" or "Smart Ass." Really, I don't care what nickname I get as long as it isn't "That New Guy We All Gang Raped When We Got Bored."

Any other name than that and I would be cool.

I don't think I will be taking along a computer so I won't be able to communicate with you guys. They say the biggest challenge of being a crabber is the fatigue. I guess staying up five days is something hard for these guys to do. Back in the day, I would stay up for a week just for fun. Well, not fun, but you know what I mean. Sometimes it just happens. But I figure that these guys will know what I am talking about when I say that I have seen a few weeks go by without sleeping. Sucks that since I don't do speed anymore, I might be the slow man on board. A boat full of tweaked out fishermen might not seem like the ideal job but as I say, fuck it. How many other people can work five days out of the year and clear $100,000? I mean I need to be realistic and realize that my dreams of stardom will probably never materialize and the only way I am going to be remember is if I take out a bunch of kids with an AK-47 so if I ain't going to be remembered, I might as well be rich.

Michele has some issues with the danger and risks of me doing this but I kinda have a feeling she will shut the trap when I buy her something chicks dig. Like a car or maybe some shiny things. Chicks dig shiny things. So I figure I'll get her something like that and by the time she realizes it, I'll be a CRABBER!

Plus it is only five days of the year. I mean jeez. It is only five days.

Then I can work on my next dream.

Building a house made entirely of TV's!

Gotta chase your dreams, baby. - T

Michele sees the light:

What do I still want to do with my life? Hell, I don't think I've really done most of what I want to do yet, so I have a lot of crap to do in a short amount of time. Not like I'm dying or anything, but it's not like I'm still in my 20s either. Or 30s. Got a long way to go and a short time to get there. And somewhere along the line, I have to teach someone that "trap" is not proper nomenclature, and using it in that manner will only result in someone putting Ex-Lax in your Hamburger Helper. Talk about opening the traps up....

Anyhow.

1. The top thing on my list of "Stuff to do before you die" is see the Northern Lights. I know there are parts of the states I can see them in, and parts of Canada, but I want to see them in Norway. I don't know why, it's this fantasy trip I've had since I was little. I know I'll get to do this some day; Turtle has already been to Norway and promised we'd get there some day. But I don't know if the whole Northern Lights experience will be as thrilling for him as it will be for me. I imagine the phenomenon just isn't as amazing to someone who is color blind. Maybe if I give him some acid first........

2. Conquer my fears. This means swimming out in the middle of the ocean without freaking out, standing on top of a tall struture without peeing my pants in fear, getting in an airplane for a trip longer than three hours without pulling a William Shatner.

3. Write a book, publish the book, become famous, appear on Oprah, gutpunch her, become a pariah in the publishing industry, have my book made into a movie, appear on Jay Leno, gutpunch him, become a pariah in Hollywood but a hero in my hometown.

I'll settle for just having the book published. Even if the only person who buys it is sleeping with me.

4. Drive a zamboni. Even if this means having to get shitfaced drunk at an Islander game one nigh to work up my courage to run out onto the ice in between periods and knock the zamboni driver unconcious. I don't know how many times I'd get around the ice before they stopped me, but just be assured that when I am riding that thing, I will be yelling YEEEEEHA the whole time.

-M

What about you guys? What do you want to do before your kids are changing your diaper in some smelly hospital room?

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We interrupt your regularly scheduled amateur recipe, metal review, and porn to bring you this special bulletin.

I felt like doing something different this week, and inspired by Uberchief's review of the Roots concert yesterday, I'm gonna tell you about the best meal I ever had, and a concert I saw that very same weekend.

December, 2005. I had a free plane ticket and heard about a concert in Philadelphia I wanted to see (more on that later). I called my buddy Ace in Cleveland, and he was down too. As I was thinking about the trip and how it wasn't going to cost anything to get there, I decided I wanted to go to Morimoto while I was there. I called my friend Liz in DC and she was in. I made the reservation.

Friday night was the concert -- Children of Bodom headlined, with Trivium offering direct support and Amon Amarth opening. Finland, USA, and Sweden all represented. That's my kinda show. The show was Friday night, and Ace and I went to a little Vietnamese Pho place across the street from the Trocadero theater, where the show was. We saw one of the editors of Bare Words and Bloody Knuckles magazine. We chatted a bit, and left the restaurant, and HOLY SHIT. We went into the restaurant and the theater entrance was bare. 40 minutes later and the line was a block and a half long.

Unfortunately, that line kept us from seeing Amon Amarth's set. They were just finishing up as we got in the door. The labels are really cool about hooking me up with tickets, but they can't quite just get me in the door.

Trivium was up next, and hooboy, they ruled. They played mostly stuff off of Ascendancy, and it was still shocking to me how amazing these guys (who at the time were still just 19 and 20) were. Their technical expertise was amazing and they just had stage presence. They RULED that stage. The coolest part of the entire set was the fact that it happened the day after the first anniversary of Dimebag Darrel Abbot's murder, and Matt and Corey were both playing guitars from Dimebag's personal collection. When they covered "Walk" the entire audience LOST it. The nice thing about the Troc is that there's a balcony for over-21ers where they served beer and you could actually sit and enjoy the show. We did that and watched the pit down below go insane.

When Children of Bodom came on, the first thing I noticed was how glam-rock Alexi, the lead singer and shredder, looked. It was pretty awesome. They actually did a set very representative of their entire discography, which was awesome. I generally don't like when bands stick to their latest release, so they definitely came through there. Some big in-song jams and all the hits (Needled 24/7, Bodom After Midnight, In Your Face, etc) made it a fun show. Not the best I've ever seen but it was a hell of a good time.

The next day Ace felt like shit so just Liz and I went to Morimoto. We both ordered the 9 course omakase menu, along with the accompanying 8 course drink omakase. If you're not familiar, omakase is just a chef's tasting menu. The entire meal was $185 + tax/tip, and it was worth. every. penny.

First Course

Toro tartare. Toro is a cut of tuna from the belly. It's fatty and rich and delicious. It was chopped fine with wasabi leaves and crispy fried shallots, and served in a light soy broth. It was accompanied by a fresh lychee (a tart Asian fruit)

Drink: Champagne

Second Course
3 pacific oysters on the half shell. Each had their own sauce -- a black pepper vinaigrette, a chili sauce, and a champagne sauce

Drink: Sake-tini

Third Course
An oil-blanched sea scallop in a yuzu-soy broth. "Blanched" is the only word I can use to describe this scallop. It was just barely cooked on the outside, and still cool on the inside. The broth was tart and salty, and was served with slices of plum tomato and matsutake mushrooms.

Drink: White wine

Fourth Course
Thinly sliced Amberjack (a fish kind of like halibut) sashimi over a bed of microgreens and served with a creamy vinaigrette. I never figured out what was in it, but it was fuggin awesome.

Drink: White wine

Fifth Course / Palate Cleanser
Raspberry - wasabi sorbet. Sweet, tart, just a bit of heat. AWESOME.

No drink

Sixth Course
Jerk-spiced, grilled half lobster with steamed baby vegetables and creme fraiche. When a lobster dish is the weak point of a meal, you know how awesome it was. That's not to say it was bad. The whole meal was just that good.

Drink: Light red wine

Seventh Course
Two roasted baby potatoes with a slice of seared foie gras and American Kobe-style beef. Succulent, rich, and hearty, this was a perfect deep, rich dish.

Drink: Hearty, dry red wine

Eighth Course
Sushi Course. It was six pieces of nigiri sushi. Some standard stuff: tuna, salmon, mackerel, and a couple of pieces that I'd never had before, haven't had since, and no longer remember the name of.

Drink: three different sakes from Morimoto's distillery

Ninth Course / Dessert
Rich chocolate brownie with a scoop of vanilla and white miso ice cream and a shmear of sour apple puree. Sweet, creamy, deep, a little salty, tart ... it was complex and simple at the same time, and very representative of the meal as a whole.

Drink: champagne

There it is. Two hours and $240 later, the best meal I'd ever had. Would I do it again? You bet. Do I recommend you do something similar? Absolutely. Find a fancy restaurant that offers a prix fixe or chef's tasting menu, and do it. They will love you.

I want to know -- what's the best meal YOU ever had, either at home or in a restaurant?

Baby Huey can still taste that scallop. God DAMN it was good.

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One of the things I’ve started doing in an effort to get something, anything, down on paper is what’s called “improv writing.” I just start writing and randomly name the characters and situations off the top of my head. Sometimes something good comes out of it, and sometimes utter crap comes out. Sometimes you get a character and a situation that are interesting, and you want to see more of them. Just like investing, where it takes money to make more money, here it takes writing to make good writing.

All of my writing this week, though, hasn’t been as good as one improv I did almost a year or two ago. As such, I thought I’d reach way back in the archives and share this one with you; bear in mind that it was written in about 10 minutes.

Fairly recently, in a nearby small town, then was a young man named Joe. Among the many notable things about Joe, perhaps the most notable was that he had a dog named Archibald. In fact, Archibald was the most notable thing in the entire town (it was a very, very small town). Joe and Archibald made quite the pair, always following each other around; usually, contrary to popular opinion, Joe was the one doing the following.

Ok, so this story is mostly about Archibald. Archibald and his human, Joe. Archibald was a tall, muscular dog with a proud face and a distinguished nose; his human was just sort of ugly. Every day at four o'clock, Archibald would suddenly take off running into the hillside, nimbly ducking branches and hopping rocks and leaving in his wake only a whoosh of wind and grass and the huff-puffing and ethnic slurring of Joe, who was wildly out of shape and always felt better about his fitness levels when he insulted various persons of various colors.

Archibald had such excellent agility, however, that he would eventually leave Joe behind and would, for a short while, be all alone in the hills and crests of his home in the crappy little town. And every day when Archibald returned to the small farmhouse, Joe would always ask him, "where ya been, mutt?" then spit some tobacco juice onto one of Archibald's paws. Archibald would stare up at his human, shake his head sadly and go circle something enough times to warrant a good lie-down.

Life continued in this plodding, monodramatic way for poor Archibald, surrounded by the concentrated dosage of redneck that was Joe. One day, after many weeks and months of Archibald's daily run-aways and slow-returns, Joe was sitting in his rocking chair underneath his confederate flag and was waiting for Archibald to return from the hills. Off in the distance, he saw an approaching spot that materialized into Archibald, slowly plodding his way back home. When Archibald finally closed the distance, he looked up at his human, who spat and said "where ya been, mutt?

Suddenly, Archibald leapt back on his hind legs, grabbed Joe by his filthy collar with his front paws and pushed him down onto the porch and shouted "I've been trying to get away from your damn nasty stench, you sack of crap! Christ!" Joe stared back up at Archibald completely dumbfounded.

Archibald walked off to find some shade to sleep in, and Joe very slowly got up off the ground and dusted himself off. Very carefully, he said to himself, "I gots ta git rid of that thar dog--he must be broken."

This story is so good it even comes with a moral. The moral of this story? Adopt a pet from a shelter, because you never know what retarded reason some hillbilly had for putting them there in the first place.

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The Straits, Part I and II

By request, a re-print from the now-defunct pirate blog where I used to babble daily. Parts I and II of what was originally a 4-part story of what was probably my first of many pirate adventures. I believe the only background one needs if not one of my regular loonies, is that PW is short for Pirate Wife. Everyone say hello to Pirate Wife when she appears in part II.

I was reminded last night of an adventure I had as a young pirate, just beginning to test his mettle against the sea, or in this case, a couple of Great Lakes and I would like to tell the story. The story lasts 16 years; much longer than the adventure, or is it all an adventure? Only the reader can truly decide, but I prefer to think of it ALL as an adventure...

Way back in 1984, three buddies and I got drunk (a lot of my stories begin this way…) and decided that we had had enough of sailing on tiny, inland lakes in our catamarans. One of us had some experience sailing his in the Florida Keys and suggested we try our hand somewhere on the Great Lakes. Sounded good. We spent a grand total of an hour packing and an hour planning and left for the Straits of Mackinac. We made the 300-mile trip up from Detroit, overnight, in two vans, pulling two catamarans; a 16 and an 18 footer. We got pretty stoned the way and the thing I remember most from that drive was sitting in the open window of one van looking backward, or SOUTH at the most spectacular aurora I have ever witnessed.

We arrived in Cheboygan, on the southern shore of Lake Huron, before dawn and had a welcome breakfast prepared by one of the guys’ parents, who happened to live up there. After breakfast, we drove down to the dock where the Coast Guard ice breaker, USCGC Mackinaw was stationed and illegally launched our cats from its quay. Things went downhill from there. You see, we didn’t really plan well and though we managed to hit on a few key points necessary for survival, the main focus was on getting stoned, exploring and having fun. Pot and roman candles were securely stowed, but we neglected to include a first-aid kit-things of that nature. Beer AND alcohol were present, but we didn’t think of water, or a purifier. We were worried about lightning, but only duct-taped aluminum tent poles to the masts, trailing in the water. A regular recipe for disaster, or adventure, depending on how stoned you were at the time.

The general plan was to sail North, into the straits until we found a place to crash on one of the four islands that can be found just to the East of the Mackinac Bridge. Two were uninhabited and we figured that Round Island, directly to the South of the resort island, Mackinac, would be best since it was closest to the bridge and Mackinac Island, two of our day 2 destinations. Unfortunately, it was also the furthest sail and a nasty storm hit us within the first hour.

Because turning around would have been unmanly and boring, we said a prayer to the tent pole gods, quickly put on a good buzz on and kept sailing for Round Island. The lightning all around us put a damper on the buzz, but eventually we reached Round Island, only to sail around it and find most of it blocked by LARGE boulders-not good in a storm. Finally, after sailing around it twice, we spotted a small stretch of beach cleared of big rocks and quickly put in for the night. It was right then that we realized the backpack that contained EVERYTHING sacred and important was missing. We had allowed the single bag that contained our wallets, money, pot, most of our smokes, ID's and map to get washed overboard in the storm. Another sign from the gods to turn back which we promptly ignored by getting drunk and having a roman candle fight along the beach when the rain let up. We used flaming branches to light the fireworks and I will forever remember running around drunk, watching the flaming branches and fireworks shooting up and down the beach. To the untrained eye, we must have looked like complete idiots.

The morning brought sand in our mouths and the realization that we had neglected to bring water. We each had a couple of beers while the lake water coffee brewed in a chipped, blue enamel coffee pot on the fire. It was a cold, foggy morning when we set sail for the resort island, Mackinac. Things continued their downhill slide as we tried to sail through the wind-less ship channel between Round and Mackinac islands, in the fog. We had rigged one cat with a car battery and a small, trolling motor for just such an emergency (we did hit a few good points in our planning), but neglected to stay together and lost each other in the fog. One cat pulled ahead. My cat wallowed in the middle of a foggy ship channel. It was here we made our first SERIOUS mistake by donning headphones and turning up some mood music to go with the fog...

The 1000 footer that ran us down was hauling ass for the steel mills in Gary, Indiana, I imagine. I know she was empty from her draft and I suspect, hurried by her lack of cargo and daily money loss. I have no idea how many knots a 1000 footer can make, but she was making it and that fact saved our two, measly lives. She had a bulbous bow, which heaved up a giant bow wake, probably 15-20 ft. high.. We only saw the ship roughly 15 feet away, about to hit us dead amidships. Her bow wake hit us almost instantly and sent us flying. My partner pretty much catapulted over the top of me; grabbing for him saved me because he landed on the boat, jamming his legs between the tramp and one hull. I flipped over him into the water, still hanging on to him with one hand so it was easy for him to pull me back onboard. As we spun in circles, we watched the monster slide by. It was a surreal moment, punctuated by the fact that neither of us had lost our headphones and we sat listening to our foggy, mood music until the ship passed. I have always been a believer in having a soundtrack for your life and this is but one example; of both why and an argument for why not, but I will stand firm on this. A soundtrack is better; just choose your music wisely. Nobody wants to die with Brittany Spears playing...

The morning fog quickly burned off and the wind picked up, allowing us to make Mackinac Island in a matter of an hour after getting run down. We pulled up on a hotel beach and made our way into town. We had a few bucks in loose change between us and grabbed an overpriced burger at a restaurant on Main Street. We quickly made our way back to the cats and headed West for open water and the bridge, where we had a little fun running the pylons, flying one hull and hanging in the diaper. Following the bridge North to the Upper Peninsula, we then sailed along the shore to the small town of St. Ignace, MI. Here, we visited the Coast Guard to have a look at their charts since the Michigan road map we brought was in the bag that was swept overboard the first night. The Coast Guard thought we were insane and took down our names and home phone numbers when they heard our plans. Giving them this information turned out to also be a mistake...

We jumped on our little cats and made our way East, staying equidistant from the South shore of the UP and two islands; Mackinac and Harriet, I believe. Our destination was Marquette Island, the largest in the Cheneaux Islands. We experienced a few, very hot, wind-less hours where we utilized the trolling motor and took turns, swimming and towing the two cats, but eventually got enough wind to make for a small, sheltered bay on the southern tip of a large peninsula, just West of the Islands.

It was here, we found a very large and lively beach party in full swing. The first thing we saw as we rounded the point into the bay were 20 or so, bikini-clad women playing volleyball with a net set up in the water. The night was definitely a night to remember. The party was some sort of annual thing brought in on wilderness roads by pick-ups and trailers and they were stocked well enough to provide us with everything four, thirsty, hungry, lonely pirates desired. The hangover in the morning nearly killed us, literally...

One by-product of a hangover is hurting so bad as to not pay close attention to your surroundings. We didn't notice that we were in a VERY sheltered bay and the wind was howling out in the open water until it was too late. Once we realized, there was no turning back without risk of capsizing the cats, with the waves cresting as high as our 32 ft. masts. This was not a pleasant sight while sitting on an open boat with your ass nearly dragging in the water. We managed open water, tied ourselves to the cats, said our goodbyes, literally and tried to learn how to ride the waves like a surfboard. This proved to work, except we then realized that the wind and waves were taking us down the long axis of the lake; a 300-mile trip we were not prepared to make. Little by little, we worked the cats to port and in reach of land. Our next problem was that this beach was also surrounded by boulders the size of school buses and the waves were breaking into the pine trees, past the beach in most places.

The other cat went first and was launched into the trees, just like you would throw one of those little, balsa-wood gliders. When our two buddies did not reappear from the trees, we figured they were injured and decided to make a different approach. Thirty yards from the beach, we dropped sail and slid down the backside of a wave, hopping off the cat at the same time. The problem with that was the sucking action forward of each wave. Our little cat bottomed out in the rocks and I managed to wedge an ankle between two boulders. The next wave smashed up our cat, sprained my ankle and nearly drowned us. Our buddies emerged from the trees just then, unhurt (bastards) and pulled the cat and us up into the trees. Taking stock, I was the only one seriously injured (we thought the ankle was broken). The cats were both damaged, but possibly still watertight and hopefully, repairable-although we had no tools. We had lost every single scrap of gear tied onto the both cats. Our sum total possessions included a wet pack of smokes, a lighter, one pair of headphones and the clothes on our backs…

The Pirate is looking for volunteers to swab his poop deck.

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I know I'm totally alone in this, but I don't like YouTube.

Some of it is that I have extremely unsophisticated taste in television. I grew up without one, so I'm probably the only native-born American who doesn't think The Simpsons is funny. It's just too self-referential, and once Stick explains why it's funny, it's not any more. Now, an alternate-universe Simpsons where all the jokes were lines from Sierra games and Green Lantern comics? I'd understand that.

I don't mean that I don't like TV, just that I watch it the way a martian might. If it involves someone overhearing half of a conversation and misunderstanding, I'll probably think it's funny. It's even better if the scene involves a lot of doors and multiple people walking in and out trying to keep different things secret.

No, sorry, I don't remember the video for this song. Or the girl who played the sister on that show that time. Or that really funny commercial. I learned about the world-famous Mean Joe Green Coke commercial just a few days ago... my mother-in-law was watching an entire program about famous commercials. I know I don't watch TV, but aren't commercials the stuff that interrupts your show? Am I missing something?

My television-free life has made me a pretty undemanding girlfriend. Boyfriends can impress me by lifting entire monologues from Mike Myers, George Carlin and Dennis Leary, just to name a few of the men I think I've dated. I was quite disappointed to learn that Jon Stewart, not Stick, composed those clever diatribes.

But not as disappointed as I am now, three years later, discovering Stick's YouTube addiction. His idea of a great time involves watching stupid crap on YouTube. Which would be fine, if he'd just let me go do something I like better, like getting a root canal or something, but Stick likes to share.

Look! It's an anthropomorphic cat! A guy playing a themesong (I don't recognize) on an unusual instrument! Japanese people playing a game! An instruction video on how to fold paperclips into a model X-Wing! Anything that's vaguely connected to Aqua Teen Hunger Force!

Like any good girlfriend, I tried to feign interest in the beginning. Now, I barely grunt in reply to his shouts of "Look look look this is the coolest!" It's surprising how little encouragement he needs to keep showing me clips. If you know how to stop this need for sharing and togetherness, please tell me. If I have to watch another video of a cat acting like a cat, I'm going to fake a seizure.

Why can't he just watch porn like a normal guy?

Meg has nothing against cats. Just stupid cat tricks.

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Another guest post from Dave in Texas? Yes, but this will be his last. Only because starting next week he will be joining us as a regular contributor with his own column.

This article originally appeared here in September of 2006.

I hesitated writing about this. I wanted to get it out. I did not want to expose it to the world.

A week ago Tuesday I had a little “episode” of mild chest pain and dizziness. It didn’t really hurt, but it felt weird. Something I had not experienced before.

I have made some poor choices over the years. I was way overweight. I might have smoked some.

I started turning that around 3 years ago. Quit smoking.

As of this week, I’ve lost 75 pounds and probably have about 30 left to get to my target.

You cannot imagine how pissed off I was prepared to be under the circumstances..

Anyway, for the next two days I fretted about this pain and that. I had heard too many stories about guys who went to bed “just not feeling right” and woke up dead.

I made an appointment for Friday, but by Thursday I was still jumping like a cat over “this pain” or “that one”.

You get paranoid.

So I drove myself to the ER (impressive guy stupidity, is it not?), walked in, and said “I think I’ve got some chest pain and it’s worrying me a bit”.

Well, welcome to the Machine. There may be a hundred people in the waiting room, but if you come in and tell the triage nurse “my chest hurts”, you are in the express lane.

And by express lane I mean they immediately 1) pop an aspirin in you 2) take your bp and pulse, 3) do an EKG, and 4) take a lot of blood, to see if there’s any sign of cardiac trauma. Then 5) you wait hours for the next test and a doctor to come tell you his opinion of the results.

Well I thought after the EKG and the blood work (which showed no trauma enzymes), I thought they’d let me go home.

I was wrong. They admitted me into the hospital.

That evening, and the next day, I did more tests. Separated by hours of boredom. I went nuts.

Newton Minow was right, television is a vast wasteland.

When did these “stand up before a retired judge and explain why you are an asshole” shows become so popular?

I took more tests, and the results kept coming back negative (in my favor). And at 5pm they let me go home. And I was really ready to get out.

It’s funny, when you think you’re about to die, you want to hang out there. Treadmill test might induce cardiac arrest? Well hell, better here than at home pushing a lawn mower. But when all the tests run so far say I’m fine? Oh great, no big deal, I’m ready to leave now.

You feel a little chagrined, except everyone looks at your age and your history, and says “you should have come in on Tuesday”.

My one mistake.

Gentlemen (and ladies), those of us who are a little older and maybe have some risk factors, if you don’t feel well, don’t screw around. People depend on you.

Go check it out. You’ll hate it, I certainly did.

But you have an obligation to make sure it’s nothing. So go do it.

My heart did not attack me. According to the serious looking doctors, it won’t for a long time.

Guest Writer Archives

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I got the call Wednesday night. The kids and I just got through with our guerrilla mission; hide in the seven foot high snow banks and welcome Matt home to a hail of snowball fire. While peeling off our winter garb, Matt handed me the phone and I listened to my sister begin her sentence with "Don't freak out..." which is a sure sign that what she's about to say will definitely freak me out. As if her impromptu call wasn't insight enough, into the news I was about to receive. My family is peculiar, we almost have designated times to call one another for just a casual conversation; all other calls were for emergencies only. This was not our typical Saturday morning call, this was Wednesday night.

Within fifteen minutes I was en route to New York; one hour and thirty minutes from my house. My sisters' words kept replaying in my mind "Don't freak out, Moms' in the ER....". No songs can distract you and sway your thoughts. It's as though they embellish the mood by accentuating the situation ("Quit playing games with my heart....damn boy bands). Other drivers become the opposition, blocking you from your goal like they play for the other team. One hour feels like an eternity. These are the times when the space we yearned for in our adolescence becomes public enemy number one. It makes us want to reattach the apron strings we thought we wanted to sever in efforts to establish our own space in this world. My space happened to be over state lines; exactly one hour and thirty minutes away.

My mind wandered back to seven years ago; the night my Mother first encountered Death breathing down her neck. It plays out in my mind like a dramatic re-enactment. Hearing the sound of her retching in her bathroom. The lingering smell of pizza in the kitchen we indulged in only minutes before. Approaching her bathroom to find her pale faced, white lipped, hugging the toilet. It was her lips that stop me. The absence of color evoking panic. She creeps to her bed and lays down "I'm so tired, I need to...". I put my finger to her pulse and find that it is shockingly slow and not at all methodic; almost as though it was tired too and decided it was time to lay down. I tell my father it's time to go to the ER and then proceed to walk my Mother to the car, bucket and towel in hand. Ever grateful we live only moments from the hospital, we arrive, fly through Triage and find out that my Mother, at 48 years old, is having a heart attack.

Driving down Route 4, I remember the moments of being escorted out of her room, the moments where leaving her side could in fact be the last moment I ever got to hold her hand, hear her talk or see her face. The moments to follow are a blur. "she's lucky...it could have been a lot worse...", "it's called a stent.....", "she'll need to change her diet...". All this echoing in my mind as I pull into the parking lot of the Emergency Room.

The space between us is only a state. It's an hour and a half drive on a good day; on a bad day with traffic jams and accidents, a whole lot longer. On this day, the space between us felt like a universe of separation and when I saw Mom in her hospital gown, wires protruding from underneath its sheer fabric I realized that the space we pine for is one heart beat away from too far.

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Posted by Jennifer Philo at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (4) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

There is a boy in my History of Cinema class who stares at me. Or maybe just my hair. I’m not sure if he’s actually gay or not. One thing for sure is though, I have great hair.

He sits diagonal to me and the thing that I like best about him is, if you look very quickly, he almost looks like a young Woody Allen. Its most endearing without being attractive in any way shape or form, which is odd really, considering how much I love Woody Allen. I just never knew I had absolutely no desire to date him.

I usually ignore the stares, choosing instead to give all my attention to the giant John Wayne (great ass) as the Ringo Kid on screen. Although dead, I believe I will get more out of John Wayne than a might be gay Woody doppelganger.

Sadly, these class periods are perhaps the most interesting thing that’s happened to me all semester, except for the few bad dates I’ve had, including one boy desperate to get me to convert to Christianity (or Catholicism?). But that is perhaps more scary than interesting.

My friend set me up with a kid named Chris back in December, claiming we’d get along perfectly. “You’re practically the same person,” she told me as she handed me his number. She had dated him previously in the year and after a badly misunderstood break-up via text message, the two had become great fake friends, proving to each other that they no longer felt romantic feelings by setting each other up with their most single of friends. “We’re really more like…I don’t know, cousins or something now,” my friend Katie explained.

“What about that whole “asshole should die for breaking up with me over a text message” thing?” I ask tentatively.

“Oh that?” she waves it off, “He was just having a bad day, and plus, I mean, I did sort of cheat on him.”

“Details,” I joke.

Chris was a former drug dealer ("...I can't believe I'm telling you this...I just feel like I can tell you anything...") with a new found love for Jesus. In fact, he believes he's actually in Jesus. "We are in Christ, therefore, we are saved,” he tells me over lunch, whatever that means, after I joke with him about his former drug sinning.

"I'm Jewish," I tell him.

"Like, how Orthadox?" he'd like to know.

"Please," I shake my head, "I'm not even Kosher. But I'm not a Jew for Jesus or anything. They are crazy!"

"What's so wrong with that?"' he wants to know, stirring Splenda into his iced tea, "Jesus died for your sins too after all."

Ah crap, we haven’t even ordered yet and we’re talking religion. Most people are married forty years before discussing religion. I debate getting angry or playing dumb.

I go for playing dumb because I’m so gosh-darn good at it.

"I don't know enough about religion," I say, dismissing it with my hand. That's a semi-lie. I know what I think is enough about religion. I mean, I’ve seen Superman Returns (I wish Jesus looked like that. If he did, I’d be his follower too) and I believe that having faith and spirituality is more important than knowing all the rules. I think you should know why you believe the things you believe, but I don't think hanging out in church and eating ‘Nilla Wafers and drinking juice makes you a better person than a Jew who might go to Temple on Passover (if they feel like it. I might be speaking from personal experiences.). Especially if they are so blind to what actually makes a person good, like, caring for family, your friends, um, not doing drugs, etcetera.

"You know, my dad is a pastor?" he says, "And I work at my church."

Oops.

"Sometimes," I say, "I watch A Charlie Brown Christmas." To which he responds with a grimace.

"I’m just being honest," I say.

"It’s fine,” he shakes his head, but avoids eye contact. I know it's not, but I let it drop, choosing instead to talk about Flickr, which is my go-to topic when I'm uncomfortable or at a loss for words (this time, I was both). Every Tom, Dick, and Harry thinks they're a photographer, so this topic usually goes over well. The Flickr portion of our conversation ends and there's a pause, followed by a sigh on his part.

"OK, so, here's the problem."

"Problem?"

"Yeah," he says, "OK, so the Jewish religion is based on facts and Christianity is based on grace."

"...Uh-huh."

He practically bursts then, continuing on for some time about Jesus, Peter, PaulandMary, and "Him" (which confused me because sometimes Him was "Christ" and sometimes Him was G-d? But "Christ" is G-d? From what I was trying to understand. He was confusing me, and I started spacing out and thinking about Colbert to be honest, and how I was missing him.) I suddenly felt like I had accidentally opened the door to a Bible's salesman.

"Well, in my religion we just eat a lot of bread..." I say trying to lighten what has turned into a very dark lunch, after, no joke, thirty minutes, "And, I'll be honest, but I understood maybe half of what you just said."

"Read the New Testament," he replies, "It'll help you figure things out."

Figure things out? What do I have to figure out? Plus, let’s break it down; sequels always suck as far as I'm concerned. Well, unless we're talking about Back to the Future II and III. But M:I:III? Why spoil a good thing? I think the Old Testament is just fine. You know, if it ain't broke, don't fix it. Plus, oh hi! I'm Jewish. I'd like to know more about religion but, I'd like the over-view please. And I'd like to have it not shoved down my throat by the son of a preacher man (who, ironically, is the only one who could ever teach me)."I'll read up about it on Wikipedia," I say as a throw away sentence, hoping to shut him up so he can finish his pasta and I can leave.

"No! That won't help you like The Bible! That won't save you!"

"What?"

"You should really read it."

"I will after I finish The Electric Cool-Aide Acid Test," I lie. I haven't even read The old Bible, why would I start with the new? Really now. Don't push your religion onto me. I don't go around with pamphlets telling you why you should convert to Judaism (for the food, mostly, if you’re thinking about it). In fact, when I made a "Well, we are The Chosen Ones” joke, it didn't even get a smile.

"I just- I- That won't help you. That's... that's not going to help," he stutters.

"I'm just being honest," I tell him.

"Me too!" he exclaims.

And after all of this? He wanted to see me again.

"When are you free next?" he asked before I got into my car. "Can I call you tomorrow? Or do you want to set something up now?"

Then he hugged me three times. Eh, at least I got a free lunch.

Stephanie has been invited to stay at the commune for a few days.

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Posted by Stefi Sparer at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (5) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Thanks to everyone who nominated/voted. I truly believe the best car won.

Don't forget to stop by this week's poll.

Posted by Turtle Jones at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Another week, another poll.

This time we're all about the laughs. Specifically, movies that make you laugh. We want to know what your all time favorite comedy is.

Now, we know there are a billion good comedies out there (good being a subjective term to be interpreted by each of you individually), so we're expecting the nomination list to be long and wide. But by Wednesday, we'll narrow that list down to about 25 and put them in the final poll.

We're doing it a bit different this week. Nominations will run through Wednesday night only. Poll will be on Thursday and Friday we will announce the winner.

Get in as many titles as you want. I suggest you say a little something about why you are throwing your movie in, as when we whittle the list down for the poll, you may be able to persuade us to include yours by a few well chosen words.

The editors will start you off with their picks:

Michele:

Rather than go with my all time favorite comedy here (because I know all of them will be nominated at some point, so I don't want to preach to the choir), I'm going to go with what I think is a very underrated, not seen enough comedy: Nothing To Lose.

Funny thing is, I'm not a big fan of either Martin Lawrence or Tim Robbins. But together in this movie, they made me laugh so hard I shot milk out of my nose. And I don't even drink milk.

Sure, the plot is predictable and contrived (black/white good guy/bad guy buddy film), and most of the dialogue is mediocre at best, but it's worth it juts for the freaked-out spider dance Robbins does and Lawrence screaming "Please don't kill me freaky Jason!" and Steve Oderker's security guard bit.

If you never saw it, queue it up in the netflix now and give it a try.

Turtle:

Baby Huey:

My favorite is Snatch. Let me tell you why, other than the sexually suggestive name. The Snatch Drinking Game. The rules are simple. Everyone picks a character. Every time that character comes on screen, you take a drink. If you know Guy Ritchie's fimmaking style, you'll realized how unbelievably shitty drunk you'll be if you have a main character (first time I saw this movie, they made me play the drinking game and I was Turkish). In addition to that, everyone drinks anytime someone says "I fookin hate pikeys".

Don't do this with hard liquor. You will die. -BH

Dan:

South Park: Bigger, Longer And Uncut. It would also get my vote for best musical and best war movie. The jokes in South Park hardly ever get out of the gutter but they still come off as smarter than a lot of the crap you see in other movies. It’s not always easy to write a funny song either, at least it doesn’t happen much, but the whole soundtrack is hilarious… you uncle fucker.

Turtle needs a drink.

Well this is another hard one for me. I am really getting sick of these polls that have a shitload to do with nothing I know about. I mean really, do you guys need any more proof from me that I am talking out of my ass 90 percent of the time? Now you want to bump that up to 95 percent? OK then. Let's do it. Another countdown that I am woefully unfamiliar with. Movies. Funny ones. Well let's try to see if I remember any. Hm. Funny movies.

Ok. One of the best. Just for a few weird reasons that I will get into later, has to be Weird Science. Anthony Michael Hall, a great yet forgotten actor, makes one of his finest appearances in this one. A couple of nerdy kids who get a hot broad. Ignoring the easy answers of what to do with her, they decide to use her to find the broads they are really in love with. Wouldn't really be my first idea of what to do with her but then again how many people want someone else to sit around with them on Sunday afternoons placing bets on how many ways The History Channel can sneak Hitler references into each and every fucking show.

See. That's just me. And maybe Michele. So maybe Michele and I share that. And maybe Hitler. But that is just between us. And The History Channel.

Be that as it may, they DON'T screw her till she sees Jesus and they DON'T make bets on The History Channel with her. Instead they go on a pretty funny trip and make some real cool friends. The guys at the drinking man's bar have to be the coolest cats on screen. Not only are they cool, but they drink bourbon. That makes them cool. Dark smoky clubs, bourbon and friends named "Fats" make you cool. By fucking default you are cool if you also smoke cigars. Add a hat and you are the fucking Pimp Of The Year.

But these cats just make the party bigger and somehow they end up with Wez from the Road Warrior and the Bald Guy from The Hills Have Eyes in their living room. See, another cool part of this movie. Supporting Australian has-been actors. No other movie, sans Shrimp on the Barbie with Cheech Marin, has done so much to support Australian Actors. I mean let's face it. Being in Road Warrior was like discovering King Tut's tomb. Only a few were going to make it out alive and if your name wasn't Mel Gibson you better get ready to have a mummy's dick up your ass.

So the movie was really kind of funny.

All it needed was Randall "Tex" Cobb in it and it would have been up there with Gone With The Wind or some shit like that. - T

There's our picks. I'm sure we'll each come up with a few more in the comments. Now get nominating yours. Remember, you only have through Wednesday this time to get your favorites in. Bring the funny!

Posted by Turtle Jones at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (29) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

and she’s behind the counter with her back to me, her hair, her right arm outstretched above her head, trying for the pay phone that the manager or owner or cook but definitely boss holds just out of her reach. he lets her feel his weight. when she gets on, she looks down, shifts her eyes. a hand on a hip. she doesn’t say a word. hangs up the phone like it owed her, said nothing.

it’s the only phone in this place, this diner. it’s all red and chrome in here. all black tiles and colorless squares, bright white fluorescent lights and flecked formica table tops. the counter sits five or six guys, out late from the night shift or drunk on lousy beer or both.

i take a seat in the booth in the corner with my back to the wall. it’s late and i’m waiting for a rider and i’ve been up too long. the lights pulse in an electric rhythm and i think i can hear them droning on like i’m in school again when the quiet sinks so low it’s heavy and all that’s left is the hum of electricity and the possibility of a lesson to learn. i watch the lights in the upturned spoon, in the stainless steel cream container, in the greasy shine on the table. the words on the paper placemat seem to loose themselves from their anchors, drift to the right, rise. silverware taps and slides across plates across the room and brings me back to where i am.

she’s working along the counter now. she’s fine. filling drinks, pushing hands away from underneath her skirt, taking dishes away. writing on her notepad with a pencil she had tucked into her hair. ripping her writing from the pad in her left hand with a smooth move of the right, onto the wheel in the kitchen’s window, spinning around. the sounds is like the sweetest song. i imagine what i would say, how my name would sound on her lips, what she would feel like, how she would smile in the morning.

i think i see her smiling when she’s walking my way straight on slowly. i’m thinking about who was on the other end of that phone, and what they were saying, and why her eyes looked like crying. i’m wondering where she goes, what her place is like, and where she lays her head at night. who does she call friend, what is her dream, what makes her laugh. i wanna know about her first time and that time she drank that red wine. i will order black coffee and toast but this girl has me thinking about strawberry pie and ice cream. she doesn’t look up from her pad but once or twice. she walks away and i hold my breath for a moment in her breeze.

behind the counter again the men try to grab and laugh, whisper, lick their lips. her boss smiles sideways and puts a hand on her hip. she’s stonefaced, maybe used to the hand’s weight, maybe a thousand times before. i believe her eyes look through that flecked formica counter into something else. she steps sideways, brushes past, into the kitchen or any place to pray.

she comes back with my plate and her voice sounds new and strange unlike i’d imagined it would be or remembered it from before, when i first heard her with her pad in her hand. she smiles, leans into the table with a hip as i keep struggling with small talk, find new questions to ask, speak quickly to keep her close to the table here. she places a knee onto the booth at first, and i lose where i was, unable to think about anything but her weight, and how sweet it must be, and her leg smooth like summertime in the evening when the sun is about to go down and the wind blows and the sweetest thing is your hand on a girl’s thigh. then she swings her other leg around and is sitting here with me and it’s she who’s talking now and i would concentrate on those words if i could, on that voice, but all i can do is smile up my sleeve.

i ask her where she’s going and she smiles and says something like “baby, sometimes i think all i need’s a bus ticket,” and she says this so sweet and sad like rainy days and i slide down her voice and into her own life with its blue walls shouts worn carpets empty bottles mestizo blanket on the wall scars weak green plants unkept words a little sunlight lamplight undone dishes in the sink mud blood splattered on the yellow kitchen floor crime scene phone hanging wooden blinds banging against cracked white windowpane in the living room brown bookcase unopened books cement blocks old stereo yellow light bulb burning in the hallway cigarette ashes on the floor locked doors no connections.

she’s trying to rise.

her boss yells and the guys at the counter snort and she’s gone again.

and it’s now that i know that it’s me she’s been waiting for and so i make my plan, rehearse my lines, set everything straight i’m going to say in my mind. i’m gonna astound her, walk on out of here with her on my arm and their eyes on us as we shamble into the sunrise. yeah. and so now, in my head, i’m talkin’ all this shit, all cocky with it, because i know i can make it happen. just like those guys at the counter know they can make her. just like her boss. just like i imagine that voice on the other end of the phone thinks it can. but i gotta hold on a minute cuz this is the wrong way. i wanted to be her unsuspected hero.

damm.

so i pick up the napkin holder, textured black metal and chrome, white paper, and walk towards the register. she’s there running numbers through the machine and pushing hands away from her skirt. i got that napkin holder, right, take it and bust that big motherfucker at the counter right in the nose. he’s the biggest one there, falls to the ground, blood squirts out, he’s writhing around in pain, you understand, screamin’. the rest look at me, you know, wide-eyed. the manager, he makes a move to do what i don’t know, but i throw the napkin holder at him, watch it bounce of the silver table top behind the counter, tell him to sit down, show the crowd the chrome i keep in my pocket, cuz cab driving can be dangerous, you dig.

and then i look at her and she’s shook, but not like the others. no. like this isn’t all that new to her. not because of the unknown but because of the expected i guess. and i look at her and i try to smile, but my lip is shaking a bit, and i think i’m stuttering, and i say something like “listen, just take the money that’s in there and walk on out of here with me.”

she doesn’t say anything, hits a button and the drawer sputters open. she’s gathering cash and paper, holds it out in a sloppy mess. i got a gun in my hand and the fat man is still whimpering motherfucks on the ground and the manager’s got his hands clasped behind his head in the ground down on all fours. customers at the counter’ve got their hands either up or down on the flecked white top.

“you take it,” i say, “you hold it. you can go your way when you get out of here. whatever. it’s for you, girl. get your bus ticket or something. you know. for you.”

but she’s crying now and she thinks her back's against the wall and “no," she says, "you will never get away with this.”

damm.

so i tip my hat and walk towards the door with my hand in my pocket and say, “i thank you very much.”

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Posted by Johnny St. Clair at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (6) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Wow what a week has passed me by! Already things are moving ahead into this grand New Year! I am looking forward to all the fun changes that will soon be happening! This week was spent suffering at the mercy of the guests at the hotel I work, and driving for hours to my brother’s home up north to have my car fixed. Thankfully I got everything done and was back in town soon enough to actually make it to work on time! Though it was close… I spent a good couple hours in the car with my sister-in-law, my two nephews, ages 6 and 10, and two nieces, ages 2 months and 13 years. It was fun, but noisy! I recommend you never feed those kids any McDonalds until you have the rope to tie them down with! What a mistake that was! My sister and I vowed never to do that again. One or two kids was ok, but FOUR was all together outrageous, not that my baby niece had anything! The day was fun and headache inducing at the same time. After a whirlwind trip we were back at the house calming the storm that was my two arguing nephews. I have to say that I am glad I am not yet a parent! What I can say was that when I awoke the next morning, all that sugar had worn off and my favorite young
men were better behaved. Though not perfect… What little boy is?

So I return home with a few days worth of memories and a car that functions a bit better than before, and the promise of a birthday gift to just die for… My brother surprised me greatly this weekend, and so did the rest of my family! Our birthday (Did I mention I was a twin?) is on March 5th and we turn the terrifying age of 29. The reason it is terrifying (for me) is that there are a certain number of goals I had set for myself to accomplish before I hit the big: “Three-Oh”. Sadly enough, I haven’t even finished one
of the four goals I had wanted to complete, so along with all the fun that normally happens in a year, I am feeling a bit disappointed in myself. When did I forget what I wanted in life? Why does it seem that the minute I might finish one of them, something goes awry and suddenly I’m back to square one?

(Where DID that phrase come from, and does anyone remember the TV show of the same name?) I cannot help but feel that maybe I didn’t try hard enough, or that maybe there was another goal I was supposed to have completed first.

I took my worries to my folks a few days ago, maybe it was weeks, I can’t recall. What I can recall is that they said not to put so much pressure on myself. One thing that sets me apart from my siblings is that I don’t have anyone to really rely on. I have no wife, nor a long term partner. (My brother is on like, year seven I think with his wonderful girlfriend Lisa! I still ask him when he’s gonna’ pop the question.) So in essence I do things in a solitary fashion. When I see things that way I tend to feel better, though not completely absolved of my own lethargy. It is, in essence my own fault that certain goals in my life remain uncompleted. Part of it is that I have so many things that I want to accomplish, that I will start one, and either run out of steam; or begin another without finishing the first thing I had set out to do. This results in neither goal becoming accomplished. I believe that recognizing this in myself will help me to maintain my focus long enough to at least get one of these five things done within the year. I have just about chosen which one it will be, and the equipment to facilitate such an undertaking will be arriving next week! Thanks to my wonderful brother and his family! I LOVE YOU GUYS!

My folks also gave me a gift for my birthday early as well, which was just a sweet and wonderful thing for them to do. I think part of it is for necessity, and part of it is because I have been going through a bit of a hard time with those I care about outside my familial circle. I am grateful to have such a wonderful support ring to remind me of what I have gained over the past year, as well as the true value of what was lost. They help me regain my perspective, and while they tell the truth to me whether it’s good or bad, they are always quick to point out that nothing is set in stone, and some changes can be for the better, and how sometimes you have to be the bad guy because sometimes people just refuse to listen. They remind me to let the past remain in the past, all while not forgetting the choices that brought me to the point where I am. That’s why families are so important to have, whether it is a family you were raised with, or just the people you hold dear!

So I have work to do in the next year! I have plenty to catch up on! Let’s just hope I can keep my mind focused on the one thing I’d like to finish before thirty hits me like a sack of wet handbags!

I hope you all find out the goals that you want to accomplish in this life, and I hope your week ahead is filled with the laughter of children, which to me is almost like hearing a pleased god in heaven! Bless you all! And don’t worry about me, I’m a Drag Queen. What do I know?

Matthew is just old and wise enough to know that old and wise can kind of suck.

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Posted by Matthew Chase at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (4) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

G3, Atlanta, 31 days from now. Last week I talked about guitarist Paul Gilbert, one of the 3 guitarists on this tour. This week I’m going to take a little different tact talking about another guitarist. I’m going to talk about John Petrucci’s Ernie Ball signature guitar.

Most popular guitarists have a signature model. Paul Gilbert, Joe Satriani, Steve Vai, Scott Ian … the list goes on. Petrucci is no different. But where many guitarists will simply take an existing model and tweak it to their liking, Petrucci (after doing that very thing with Ibanez for several years) sought out Ernie Ball Music Man to build him a brand new guitar from scratch.

What they produced is a little different, heavy, fast and great sounding.

At about seven-and-a-half pounds, the guitar is heavy for a “super Strat” style guitar. But that substance equals a ton of resonance. As with all Music Man guitars, the six strings have a four x two tuner configuration on the peg head, but that’s where the similarities with other Music Man guitars end. You can click the link above to get the specs, but the biggest innovations in this guitar are the custom DiMarzio pickups and the John Petrucci-designed tremolo bridge. The guitar can come equipped with piezo picups built into the saddles of the bridge. The upshot of his design is one of the most acoustic-sounding electric guitars out there.

Of course, you’ll pay a premium price for this weapon of shred construction (sorry, I had to) but it’s comparable or lower in price than other guitars in its class. If you have the chance, pick one up at your local Ernie Ball dealer and give it a test run. You won’t be disappointed.

Lastly, there are some great John Petrucci parody videos on You Tube. Years ago, Petrucci did a video called “Rock Discipline” that taught guitarists how to warm up to play so you don’t hurt youself while shredding like the demon he is. This YouTuber took clips from that, dubbed in new vocal for some entertaining videos. The guy doing them is obviously a Petrucci fan, you can kind of get that from his treatment of Yngwie in one of the videos.

---------------

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Posted by Cullen James at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

If there is one thing I’m positive the editors and readers of FTTW share in common, it isn’t venereal disease—it’s a love of live music. Last Tuesday, I went to legendary concert venue Stubb’s Barbeque in Austin to watch one of the most amazing concerts I’ve ever seen: The Roots.

The Roots are one of the most important hip-hop ensembles ever to exist. Started by Black Thought and ?uestlove (pronounced “Quest love”) the band relies heavily on jazz beats and melodic progressions, as well as live instruments and as clever, often poignant rhymes. They are known for their exceptional live shows, and this one was absolutely incredible. Not to mention they were playing with LUPE FIASCO, who I’ve mentioned several times over the past few months.

When we got downtown for the concert, we stepped out of the car (where we were listening to Lupe Fiasco’s American Terrorist) and into the street (where we could hear Lupe doing a live version of the same song). Even though it was completely surreal to go from recording to the same live song instantaneously, my heart sunk, because it meant one thing—I was missing Lupe. We mistakenly figured that Lupe would do some songs with The Roots, but ended up being wrong. No matter, we were able to listen to the Lupe songs as we stood in a line that was fifteen fucking minutes long, trying to get in.

When The Roots finally took the stage, we had our beers and were ready to go. This drunk idiot and his drunk ass girlfriend bought me a beer in exchange for a cigarette, so I was trying to balance three beers while standing there cheering for the band. “Why didn’t you just get two beers?” you ask me. “You obviously don’t know me that well,” I reply. But I digress.

The band had everything. ?uestlove plays the drums. Other instruments include sax, keyboard, trombone, and a Sousaphone. That’s right. A FUCKING SOUSAPHONE. At a hip hop concert. I couldn’t believe it. And that Sousaphonist was rocking out man. Moving as much as he could. I thought he was going to fall over at one point. When the other members took a break, ?uestlove (who doesn’t take breaks and is known to DJ at local clubs after concerts), the guitarist, and the Sousaphonist covered Bob Dylan’s Masters of War. The Sousaphonist did the bass line, dancing on stage the entire time. It was the second truly surreal experience of the night, and absolutely amazing to see.

The band played a lot of their more popular songs, then did a lot of covers as well. I realized at one point I was bobbing my head to an instrumental version of Justin Timberlake’s Sexyback. I promptly punched myself in the testicles. Other than that, hearing The Roots cover a song is something special: not only do you get the feeling that they understand what the song is about, but that they really care about the song in the first place.

The big thing for me about seeing live music is the different senses you can observe music with. For example, the bass produced by the giant speakers on either side of the stage was body shaking. I could watch the sleeves on my shirt vibrate against the sound, and I was at least one hundred yards away from the stage. Being there, seeing the band live, kind of negates some of the things we take for granted when listening to an album or an mp3. You begin to realize the organic nature of what you’re observing, and it’s then that the music takes on a new feeling. THAT’S what is important about live music to me.

The concert ended after about two or three hours. My friends, who have seen the band before, said that every time it gets better, and every time they leave a concert they start looking forward to the next one. Lord knows I’ll be back in Austin next time the band plays. I might even find out where ?uestlove is playing afterwards so I can go listen to him, because I know that the experience will be unlike any I can experience anywhere else, no matter how great my home stereo system is.

So readers, what are your favorite groups to see live? What about favorite concerts? What do you love about seeing live music? Where’s your favorite concert venue? Let’s chat it up motherfuckers. In the meantime, I’ll be waiting for you in the beer line.

Uberchief rocks it sousaphone style.

*eds note: he's wrong. we really do all have VD

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Posted by Branden Hart at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (12) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Ah hell, I don’t know what to do with this. I’m new. When someone asks me a question like that I usually just start talking shit. What spews out is probably accurate enough anyway so fuck it.

I mean, if you’re taking a multiple choice test, you know not to double check your answers, right? That shit will fuck you up.

Friday – PCP Laced Joint
Friday made me laugh a lot. A lot. Straight, sober or otherwise. Particularly otherwise. There were a bunch of good scenes in the first movie….. the second one was pretty good and I haven’t seen the third one, though I hear that’s alright too. But that first one, shit. Hardly a break in the jokes, and all well delivered by a good cast.
Chris Tucker’s become a bit of a pain in the ass lately, but he’s done some good stuff in his career (remember Dead Presidents?) and Friday was great. This isn’t opinion, it’s objective Truth, like capital T Truth. Friday was great.

- “You got knocked the fuck out.”
- “What, you trying to build a clubhouse?”
- “I LIKE PIG FEET!”
- “Remember it, write it down, take a picture, I don’t give a FUCK!”

And it goes on and on. But the first line to come to my mind is always,
“I spent all night in Deebo’s pigeon coop and the only one who could get me out was my Mom.”

That whole scene is good times. Drugs by mistake. Smokey telling Craig a story about why he doesn’t want to sell any weed to Hector. Why ever since then, he’s been like fuck Hector.

Caddyshack – Chocolate In The Pool
Yeah, I’m hangin in the gutter tonight. Caddyshack has a lot of great scenes, but this one is so lowbrow it’s not funny… Wait, I didn’t quite mean that…
I have to thank my wife for this one. I’d never seen Caddyshack until I started seeing her. This movie is funny as hell. You want a few reasons why?

-“Let’s dance!”
-“It looks good on you though.”
-“I got it from a Negro.”
-“They’re like the Viet Cong. Varmint Cong.”

Keep in mind that I also love stupid 80’s stuff. No apologies. You got a better scene from Caddyshack than shit in the pool? I bet you do….. Nominate it! It’s what we’re here for.

Fast Times At Ridgemont High – I Know That Guy
Ah, Spicoli. Jeff Spicoli.

Jeff Spicoli. Sean Penn in one of his best roles. He’s a great actor, you say? He sure is. He’s done more sophisticated roles than this? Sure enough. But he took that role and treated it as importantly as any other role in his career. You know Spicoli’s bedroom? Sean Penn lived there when they weren’t shooting. During the entire gig he refused to answer to anything other than Spicoli.

So you know he was wasted when he was smacking his shoe off his head.

Again, there may well be better scenes in this movie and I hope your opinion is different than mine; in fact I hope you have lots of shit to say about it. But that scene where he first walks into Mr. Hand’s class, late. That kills me. He’s just spaced the fuck out, walks in, kind of talking to the teacher, looking around, sees a guy in the class.

“Hey, I know that guy.”

You fucking stoner.

So what do you have for us?

If you want to work at All American Burger, maybe Dan can talk to Dennis Taylor.

Posted by Dan Greene at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

One person's funny is another person's not so funny. Personally, I don't get the whole Will Ferrell thing, but I know people that think his movies are the highest level of comedy yet to be explored or some shit like that. I got through ten minutes of Anchorman before I knew I was going to hate it. And then there's movies like Dodgeball, Dude, Where's My Car and 40 Year Old Virgin that some of my friends have peed themselves laughing at, but leave me just blinking at the screen, trying to stay awake.

So when I give you my list of funniest movie scenes, it's with the knowledge that a bunch of you are going to look at it and say, what is she, on dope?

Maybe.

1.Slap Shot is one of those movies that just doesn't appeal to everyone. If you don't like hockey, you probably won't get most of the humor. Me, I think it's one of the funniest movies in existence. And my favorite scene doesn't even involve the Hanson Brothers, or take place on the ice.

[At the Chiefs Fashion Show]
Johnny Upton: I'm gonna flash'em, Joe.
McGrath: No, you're not.
Johnny Upton: I'm gonna open up this faggot robe and wiggle my dick at em. And do you know why? Because I want you to have a heart-attack and die so we don't have to do this shit anymore. You and your fucking fashion shows.

Then, Johnny walks off, presumably to do his fashion show walk. Offscreen, you just hear a roomful of women screaming.

2. Big Lebowski
The movie as a whole is incredibly funny and entertaining; it's in my top ten of my all time favorite movies. Maybe even the top three. This isn't really a laugh-out-loud film, but that's ok because most of my favorite humor isn't the "LOL" kind. This scene is directed to perfection, and encapsulates the entire feel movie in about four minutes. Jesus saves.

3. Humor may be subjective, but I don't know anyone who doesn't find Mel Brooks movies funny. This is my favorite scene from my favorite Brooks film, Young Frankenstein:

4. Friday
Just because I don't like Dude, Where's My Car? doesn't mean I don't appreciate a good stoner movie. Chris Tucker is always funny. Plus, I got a thing for Ice Cube.

That's just four of my favorite funny scenes. I'd write more, and maybe even make this funnier, except I've got a wicked stomach ache today and I need to go close myself off in a room and umm....let some air out. See, farts are always funny.

Michele will one day tell you about the time Turtle tried to light his farts on fire. With photographic evidence.

Posted by Michele Christopher at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

What is funny? A lot of things are. Personally, I think the funniest thing to see the reaction of people when they walk through a spider web. That is one of the funniest things that has ever been witnessed. That little freak out dance people do as they try to get all the spider ass string off their face as fast as possible is something that is truly made for memories.

But tonight, or today if you live in Uganda, is a day for funny movies and my personal favorite scenes. This was a tough one cause I usually take the movie as a whole before I take a scene. I still think Stir Crazy was one of the greatest comidies ever made and yet I still can't think of a single scene from that one that has made me fall down laughing. Yet I still love the movie. Same thing goes with the original Out of Towners. Love the movie but no one scene pops into my head.

So this one was a bit tougher to do. How do you just nail one scene on the head with the drop dead funny when the rest of the movie is "eh"? So you can see my dilemma. But here is my best try at this.

The jive talkers from "Airplane!".

These guys were funny. They sounded so jivey(?) yet they were so sweet. Just a couple of dudes making their way through the airport with nothing else to do but talk about true love and god in their own way.

First Jive Dude: Shit man, that honky mus' be messin' my old lady... got to be runnin' cold upside down his head. You know?

Second Jive Dude: Hey home, I can dig it. You know he ain't gonna lay no mo' big rap up on you man.

First Jive Dude: I say hey sky, s'other s'ay I wan say?

Second Jive Dude: UH...

First Jive Dude: Pray to J I get the same ol' same ol'.

Second Jive Dude: Eh. Yo knock yourself a pro slick, gray matter live performas down now take TCB'in man.

First Jive Dude: Hey, you know what they say... See a broad, to get that booty yak 'em.

First Jive Dude, Second Jive Dude: Leg 'er down 'n smack 'em yak 'em

First Jive Dude: Cold got to be. You know? Shiiiiit.

Pray to J? Col' got to be? That is comedy.

The next one is a little tougher cause this one deals with more of a character more than a single scene. So I am kind of cheating on this one. Cause I can. General Garcia at the end of The In Laws.

Alan Arkin and Peter Falk are great together. Sure, Alan Arkin is a pure product from the 70's.

Near the end of the movie when he is finally introduced, this movie takes on a new life. This is the part where Shelly and Vince meet General Garcia in his country and General Garcia is showing the guys all his stuff. General Garcia, in my opinion, is one of the funniest caracters ever written. He is so stupid and yet so insane. A Latin-American dictator whose closest advisor was a cartoon face drawn on his own hand. That's good stuff.

General Garcia: [commenting on his choice for a new national flag, featuring a portrait of himself alongside a topless local prostitute] If it wasn't for the church, this flag would be flying at the U.N right now. But no . . . they stand in the way, THEY STAND IN THE WAY!

and when he is about to shoot the boys at the end:

General Garcia: We have no blindfolds senor, we are a poor country!

So even though 70's week is over, I am gonna have to go ahead and add General Garcia as one of the best things that came out of that god forsaken decade.

And Last up is The Jerk.

So many things about this movie made it incredible. Maybe it was Steve Martin's sweetness or stupidity or maybe it is cause I have seen this movie so many times that it makes it hard to just pick one scene that grabs me. But if I have to pick just one, I'll leave it all up to the one that ends like this...

Navin R. Johnson: And I don't need one other thing, except my dog.

[dog growls]

Navin R. Johnson: I don't need my dog.

..and with that wish you all a fond goodbye for the day.

Now go see some funny movies. - T

Posted by Turtle Jones at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Ok, kids. You made the nominations and now it's time to vote. Poll closes Sunday 3pm EST. Do your best damage before then.

THIS POLL IS CLOSED. PLEASE COME BACK TOMORROW FOR THE RESULTS.

Posted by Michele Christopher at 12:02 AM | Permalink | Comments (11) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

To quote one of the other Editor’s “Lord knows, it’s been a long week!”. And in the spirit of a long week, we came prepared for the weekend. Just for you. Cause we care. No, really. We care. A lot. You see, after a long week of fighting and bustling through the daily bullshit we have to put up with so we can do what we enjoy, sometimes you just need a good laugh. You need to put your feet up on the coffee table, sit back, relax and just laugh ‘til your sides hurt. Because laughter really is the best medicine for when the working week is ailing you.

As such, we, the Editors of FTTW, bring you fodder for a new poll and, hopefully, will make you smile a little bit. Next weeks poll is all about the Best Comedy Movie and here are my picks, followed up almost immediately by Huey’s. Turtle, Michele and Dan will be posting their faves tomorrow. So, let the funny begin!!!

Blazing Saddles – Am I a sucker for old Mel Brooks movies ? Boy, am I ever. Young Frankenstein, The Producers…. Hell, Spaceballs even had about forty five minutes of goodness in it. But there’s something special about Blazing Saddles. And it’s name is Richard Pryor. I’ve been a fan of Richard Pryor since the first time Jonny D and I snuck downstairs with his old man’s copy of SuperNigger and we laughed our asses off. Here, the combination of Mel Brooks zany humor and Pryor’s social commentary really work well together and the end result is a movies with gems like this:

[Lili Von Schtupp offers Bart a gigantic sausage]
Lili Von Shtupp: Would you like another schnitzengruben?
Bart: No, thank you. Fifteen is my limit on schnitzengruben.
Lili Von Shtupp: Well how about a little...
[whispers in his ear]
Bart: [shocked] Baby. I'm not from Havana.

And this:

Olson Johnson: All right, we'll give some land to the niggers and the chinks, but we DON'T WANT THE IRISH.

Best. Line. In, A. Movie. Ever.

The Philadelphia Story – It’s been said, by a good many women I’ve dated, that I have a crush on Katherine Hepburn. And to some extent that may be true. I’ve always been taken by women who are witty, striking and mean. Some say it’s a character flaw, but for me, there’s nothing better to keep me on my toes than a woman who’s as quick minded as she is beautiful and who has a mean streak to boot. And that may be one of the reason’s I love this movie so much. I’ve always said that it’s because I love the “Parlour Comedy”. There’s a fantastic, very dynamic, interplay between Katherine Hepburn and Cary Grant in this movie that’s two parts animal ferocity and one part familiarity that makes the banter between them seem so effortless and natural. Banter like this:

Dexter: You don't look as well as when I last saw you, Kittredge. Oh, you poor fellow. I know just how you feel...Why, you don't look old enough to get married. Not even the first time. And then you never did. She needs trouble to mature her, Kittredge. Give her lots of it.
George: I'm afraid she can't count on me for that.
Dexter: No, that's too bad. Sometimes, for your own sake, Red, I think you should have stuck to me longer.
Tracy: I thought it was for life, but the nice Judge gave me a full pardon.
Dexter: Aw, that's the old redhead, no bitterness, no recrimination, just a good swift left in the jaw.

And that’s what makes the film such a joy. The whole thing is farfetched and outlandish, but the dialog and comfort level in the cast makes it seem so natural. Also, Cary Grant is on fire because he gets lines like this:

Dexter: I thought all writers drank to excess and beat their wives. You know one time I secretly wanted to be a writer.

Raising Arizona – I’ve stated my unequivocal love for the Coen Brothers here on a good many occasions. But it wasn’t nearly as warranted as it is in this particular case. Sure, Millers Crossing is a rum drenched gangster tale set in the forties that feels more like a documentary than it should. And the Hudsucker Proxy makes me laugh and laugh and laugh, even though I can’t stand Tim Robbins or Jennifer Jason Leigh. But Raising Arizona takes the best parts of the screwball comedy and the best parts of the parlour comedy, lays them all out like a map and then plots the shortest course between there and your funny bone. Hm, that didn’t come out quite right, but the film is hella funny. There are great performances by everyone in the cast, but once again, the writing really shines through. Bits like:

Glen: Say that reminds me, how'd you get that kid so darn fast? Me and Dot went in to adopt on account a' somethin' went wrong with my semen, and they said we had to wait five years for a healthy white baby. I said, "Healthy white baby? Five years? What else you got?" Said they got two Koreans and a negra born with his heart on the outside. It's a crazy world.
H.I.: Someone oughta sell tickets.
Glen: Sure, I'd buy one.

And:

H.I.: What kind of name is Ed for a pretty thing like you?
Ed McDonnough: Short for Edwina. Turn to the right.
H.I.: You’re a flower, you are. Just a little desert flower.

Socio-political commentary, romance and zaniness all rolled up into one. Plus, one of the most daring stunts ever pulled off by a pack of Huggies…. Ever.

Anything by the Marx Brothers – I sat here for a good ten minutes trying to come up with the single funniest scene in a Marx Brothers movie and, for the life of me, I can’t pick just one. The movies need to be viewed as a whole, because a two minute clip doesn’t do any of them justice. You need the wordplay, the banter, even the jokes where nothing is said at all, to flow seamlessly into one another. Because the Marx Brothers isn’t just “How he got into my pajamas, I’ll never know”, it’s the sum of the parts. The punchlines don’t count because another one is thirty seconds away. You don’t fully get the first joke until three jokes later and by then you’re dizzy, reeling under a comedy onslaught many have tried to recreate but none have equaled. The Marx Brothers movies aren’t just entertainment, they’re a test of your comedy endurance, and for those that are quick enough and strong enough, well, then you know the heights of comedy.

So, those are my picks. There's a whole lot of the funny in Huey's column, right off the main page, as well. And T and M and D's column's will be up for you on Sunday morning bright and early. Get your favorites together and tell us about them. --F

Posted by thefinn at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

As a dude, there's nothing more fun to me in conversation than inserting an apropos movie quote. Except (nah, I'm not gonna do that to you). These are some of my favorite scenes ... hope you like 'em too. In order of release date:

Crocodile Dundee

[Dundee is threatened by a mugger with a switchblade]
Sue: Mick, give him your wallet.
Mick: What for?
Sue: He's got a knife.
Mick: [chuckling] That's not a knife. [Dundee draws a large Bowie knife]
Mick: *That's* a knife.

Honestly, I defy you to find a funnier line in a movie that's also completely true. Crocodile Dundee was the greatest documentary about the Australian people ever made. And if the scene is parodied on the Simpsons, you know it's funny. Maybe.

Aussie Dundee Guy: "That's not a knife, This is a knife"
Bart: "That's not a knife, that's a spoon."
Aussie Dundee Guy: "Aaah, I see you've played knifey-spoony before."

Mallrats

This movie is such a series of vignettes, and is so all over the place, it's really more a collection of memorable quotes. It's what I love about Kevin Smith movies. Jay and Silent Bob are OK and all, but my favorites are always the characters Jason Lee plays. His delivery was always impeccable. Brodie Bruce in Mallrats always reminds me of how I was in high school -- namely, overly pissed about the smallest things. Ok, I'm still like that, but not at the mall. I hate the mall. I think his rage can be summed up in one quote that I absolutely love.

That's criminal; that kid is back ON THE ESCALATOR AGAIN!

The Big Lebowski

[the Dude, Walter, and Donny walk out of the bowling alley, to find the three Nihilists waiting in front of the Dude's car, which has been torched]
The Dude: Well, they finally did it. They killed my fucking car.
Nihilist: Ve vant ze money, Lebowski.
Nihilist #2: Ja, uzzervize ve kill ze girl.
Nihilist #3: Ja, it seems you have forgotten our little deal, Lebowski.
The Dude: You don't HAVE the fucking girl, dipshits! We know you never did!
[the Nihilists, stunned, confer amongst themselves in German]
Donny: Are these the Nazis, Walter?
Walter Sobchak: No, Donny, these men are nihilists, there's nothing to be afraid of.
Nihilist: Ve don't care. Ve still vant ze money, Lebowski, or ve fuck you up.
Walter Sobchak: Fuck you. Fuck the three of you.
The Dude: Hey, cool it Walter.
Walter Sobchak: No, without a hostage, there is no ransom. That's what ransom is. Those are the fucking rules.
Nihilist #2: His girlfriend gave up her toe!
Nihilist #3: She though we'd be getting million dollars!
Nihilist #2: Iss not fair!
Walter Sobchak: Fair! WHO'S THE FUCKING NIHILIST HERE! WHAT ARE YOU, A BUNCH OF FUCKING CRYBABIES?
The Dude: Hey, cool it Walter. Look, pal, there never was any money. The big Lebowski gave me an empty briefcase, so take it up with him, man.
Walter Sobchak: And, I would like my undies back.
[Stunned, the Germans confer amongst themselves again]
Donny: Are they gonna hurt us, Walter?
Walter Sobchak: No, Donny. These men are cowards.
Nihilist: Okay. So we take ze money you haf on you, und ve calls it eefen.
Walter Sobchak: Fuck you.

I will admit that I'm not a huge Coen brothers fan, but this movie is so fantastic. This scene is so representative of the entire movie. You've got the ultimate cool cat in The Dude, riled up by the big Lebowski's antics, Walter being pissed, and Donny being out of his fucking element. And Flea is a badass nihilist. It's the truth.

Super Troopers

Mac: All right, how about "Cat Game?"
Foster: Cat Game? What's the record?
Mac: Thorny did six, but I think you can do ten.
Foster: Ten? Starting right 'meow?'
[Mac laughs - they walk up to the car, and Foster taps on the driver side]
Larry Johnson: Sorry about the...
Foster: All right meow. (1) Hand over your license and registration.
[the man hands him his license]
Foster: Your registration? Hurry up meow. (2)
[Mac ticks off two fingers]
Larry Johnson: Sorry.
[the man laughs a little]
Foster: Is there something funny here boy?
Larry Johnson: Oh, no.
Foster: Then why you laughing, Mister... Larry Johnson?
[pause]
Foster: All right meow, (3) where were we?
Larry Johnson: Excuse me, are you saying meow?
Foster: Am I saying meow?
[Mac puts his hands up for the fourth one, but makes an "eehhh" facial expression, as he is considering the last one]
Larry Johnson: I thought...
Foster: Don't think boy. Meow, (4) do you know how fast you were going?
[man laughs]
Foster: Meow. (5) What is so damn funny?
Larry Johnson: I could have sworn you said meow.
Foster: Do I look like a cat to you, boy? Am I jumpin' around all nimbly bimbly from tree to tree?
[Mac is gut-busting laughing]
Foster: Am I drinking milk from a saucer?
[feigned anger]
Foster: Do you see me eating mice?
Foster: [Mac and the man are laughing their heads off now] You stop laughing right meow! (6)
Larry Johnson: [the man stops and swallows hard] Yes sir.
Foster: Meow, (7) I'm gonna have to give you a ticket on this one. No buts meow. (8) It's the law.
[rips off the ticket and hands it to the man]
Foster: Not so funny meow, (9) is it?
Foster: [Foster gets up to leave, but Mac shakes his hands at him, indicating only nine meows] Meow! (10)

I wish real cops were like this. That would rule. That is all.

It's really hard to write this because I'm laughing so hard. What are some of your favorite scenes?

Baby Huey had to get this done before dark because he doesn't fucking write on shabbas. SHOMER FUCKING SHABBAS.

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As of Monday, TheFinn will no longer be a part of Faster Than The World. He is leaving us due to time constraints and work, life, etc. We wish him luck and we'd like to leave him with a few thoughts about his presence here at FTTW.

“A journey is best measured in friends rather than miles”

Tim Cahill

Sometimes it is really hard to think of things that way. We all want to get somewhere in this big thing we call life. We all have goals. Somethings we start for fun and some things we start for a purpose and sometimes it is both. Those are the best journeys. When you get to meet and talk with people who become your friends along the way, the trip becomes so much sweeter. Time passes as these friends become your allies in getting to the end of the road. What seemed like a job becomes a pleasure and the end of the walk stops meaning so much to you.

And with that intro, I want to say goodbye to one of the first Editors of FTTW.

Someone who came along at the beginning when the idea of FTTW was just a thought bouncing around in our heads. His presence in the comments of the early versions of FTTW, believe it or not, helped created the idea of having a site where a gathering of writers, musicians and other people who just wanted to have fun could all join together to bitch, whine, moan, kick, scream and shout.

Goodbye The Finn.

We had a hell of a run with you at our side.

What a lot of people don't know is that without Finn making his comments in the first days of FTTW, we wouldn't have even bothered continuing on with our ideas. What he said actually made us think that there were other people out there who could write and could have fun while expressing themselves to the world. People who were out who really didn't give a fuck about what anyone thought of what they were saying. As long as they could hear the words, their job was done.

It didn't hurt that he was funny as well.

So a plan was made between Michele and myself to gather as many good writers we could find and see what happened. Thus the early version of FTTW was born. Clunky and slow, it made its debut with just a few writers with one idea. To just have fun. As the site grew, we quickly became aware that we couldn't do it alone anymore. Editing was killing us and taking away most of our time. Someone else was needed and Finn was the obvious choice. He paid his dues and came on as the first editor of FTTW.

A lot of you don't know the amount of work that goes into getting this thing off the ground every day.

He does.

So to all of you writers on FTTW, I hope you will take a second to thank him for what he has done because believe it or not, he might have been your editor and you just didn't know it. So when you see a pic in your post that just fits your words so perfectly, who knows, it could have been him who put it in there.

And from Michele and myself....

Thank you Lee.

When I say we couldn't have done it without you, I'm serious.

Thanks, mate.

Good luck in whatever you pursue and remember that the door to FTTW is always open to you.

We had a hell of a run there. - Turtle

What Turtle said and more. He expressed everything already, but I just want to add that through this site, I found a damn good friend. Even as he leaves us to concentrate on life and love and a little kid, I know that I gained a friend I'll keep forever. I want to particularly thank him for hanging out with me while Turtle drove across the country and keeping me from having a nervous breakdown. And also for picking up our slack when Turtle was in the hospital, and when either of us were sick or tired or just trying to get out of the house to spend time together. Finn was always more than willing to take on our FTTW duties for the evening when we needed it.

I'll miss his editing skills and the work he did around here, but mostly I'll miss having him around to bounce ideas off of. He was an integral part of not just the site, but in making the site what it is today. Good luck with life, guy. You're welcome back whenever you find some free time again. - Michele

Posted by Turtle Jones at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (24) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

It’s going to be a short one this week. I’m in recovery, fekking Junior A hockey playoffs. So we’ll have some interesting stories from around the league and a quick rant about something that’s been bugging me for awhile.

Boys and their toys...

Here’s a point for the argument that we pay players way too much damn money...

Marian Gaborik (Minnesota Wild) has WAY too much a) money; and b) free time. He owns one of two CXC Simulations. For those of you who are scratching your balls heads wondering what the hell that is I’ll enlighten you.

It’s a simulator that models itself from the high performance race cars used in the Formula One circuit. The vibrations are the same; the handling is the same... Only thing that is missing is the smell of rubber and jet fuel. Well, that and actual danger.

But never fear! Gaborik also has two high performance GO KARTS! Seriously, this buggers go from 0 to 60 in about 3 seconds and have top speed of over 100 MPH. Think about it, a GO KART going 100 MPH, hugging the ground with your ass, with only a fraction of the body and safety features that the larger Formula One models have....

Sounds frightening and tres cool. So here’s to boys with too much money in their pockets a need for speed and great insurance policies.

Bet y’all* thought I wouldn’t be able tie in this weeks theme eh?

Around the League...

Rangers leading scorer Brendan Shanahan is on the injured reserves list, he suffered a concussion after hitting the brick house wall (uh!) that is Flyers Right Winger, Mike Knuble.

Ottawa Senator’s Coach Bryan Murray became the 5th NHL Coach to reach 600 wins with the Sens win over the Oilers on the 20th. He joins greats like Scotty Bowman, Al Arbour, Dick Irvin and Pat Quinn.

Best Headline This Week? - Montreal Canadiens call up Duncan Milroy and insert him into lineup... Luckily for Milroy they went with Plan B eh?

Ranty McRanterton

The GMs had another series of meeting recently in Florida. You know why they have these meetings so near the end of the trade deadline? To talk trades in their “off hours” (more about that next week) and to come up with little ideas from their little minds to piss me right the fek off, surprisingly they didn’t do that this meeting. Here’s what they’re discussing:

1. 3 points for a win. Why? Doesn’t make any sense... They thought it was a brilliant idea before the strike that killed my hockey for a freaking year, but now apparently cooler heads are prevailing. They rejected it. It keeps the races for placement tight and interesting, it’s a good thing =)

2. Ridding Hockey of that awful fighting. JUST KIDDING!!!! They are thinking about changing the instigator penalty so that toughies won’t be afraid of suspension (like they are, they’re petrified of it I hear...) and will be more likely to step up and defend the “skilled” players. Besides they can’t get rid of contact all together, it’d be just like a NWHL game *snore* - no offence to the Mississauga Aeros or the Quebec City Avalanche (and if you DON’T know why this name makes me laugh, why are you reading a hockey column? Seriously.).

3. Video Replay. Giving the refs a direct line to Toronto and video in the penalty boxes. Y’all should listen to me eh? I love it when I’m right =)

4. 1-minute penalties in OT. Interesting idea, and one that they are smart enough to try out in rookie tournaments and the AHL first. This may be the best idea they’ve come up with yet?!?

Something’s gotta give. I’m sure they’ll fek up the trades or something...

Same Bat time... Same Bat station...

So next week we will be focusing on TRADES and PLAYOFF races. I will also be bragging and bitching about my beloved OHL Jr. A team and their elimination from the playoffs.

* I’ve decided I can use y’all because I’m from Southern Ontario. So there.

Deb is not going to buy you a Mercedes Benz, her friends all drive Porsches, Ugos and GOLF KARTS!

Archives

Posted by Deb Beckers at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

It was a Friday night ahead of a long weekend. I left work at the magic hour of 5 o’clock and headed south for Providence R.I. I was going to a club called Lupo’s Heartbreak Hotel so see Satan’s favorite band, Slayer.

Providence was a good hour and a half away and as I drove down I listened to the classic Slayer albums, ‘Seasons In the Abyss’ and ‘Reign In Blood’. This would be my first time seeing Slayer live and I was wondering what to expect at the show tonight and what the crowd would be like. Would it be a bunch of guys standing there banging their heads, or a mosh pit frenzy?

The drive down to Providence was relatively easy. It’s pretty much a straight shot southbound and down. Rt 495, down past Foxboro Stadium, home of The New England Patriots, and on to Rt 95 into Providence.

As I drove down I noted that the traffic on the other side of the highway, heading Northbound, was backed up for several miles, undoubtedly due to the fantastic driving skills of one of my fellow Massholeachusetts drivers.

Once I reached Providence, the traffic got thick. Time to start paying attention and take a glance at the directions. I came to the exit and merged over. There was a stop light at the end of the ramp, so it was backed up all the way onto the highway. Brilliant.

The directions called for me to exit the highway, take a left and then take my next left. Ok, no problem. I followed the directions and found myself, much to my surprise, back on the highway, heading in the opposite direction of where I wanted to be.

What the?? DAMMIT!

I got off the highway at the next exit and back-tracked my way back to where I was supposed to be, passing several fabulous Providence night-spots along the way, such as The Foxy Lady and various other Gentleman’s Clubs, of which there are a great many in Providence…

Mental note for the next time I come here: ignore the directions. Take the SECOND left.

After this slight detour and two full hours after leaving work, I had reached my destination. There is a parking garage conveniently located one street down from the club, so I drove down a side street, ignoring various suggestions from various traffic signals, as all of my fellow drivers were doing, and pulled into the garage.

In the alleyway next to the club, there is a fantastic little place called Murphy’s Deli and Bar. This is my kind of place and I was looking forward to hitting this spot for a little refreshment before heading into the show.

Murphy’s is not to big, not super crowded, is dimly lit and has lots of Patriots, Red Sox and Bruins paraphernalia on the walls. Oh yea and there is a great beer selection and an awesome bowl of chili too.

I settled in on a barstool and ordered a shot of Jack and a Smithwick’s. I quickly downed both and ordered another round of the same, along with a bowl of chili. Cheese and onions on top? Definitely.

I downed the second shot of Jack and then took my time with the beer and chili, relaxing and watching some kooky celebrity basketball tournament on the TV that hung over the bar.

After finishing up and settling my tab, I walked over to Lupo’s. It was a cold night and I had left my jacket in the car. Expecting to be jammed, pushed and packed in with hundreds of other people, I wanted to be wearing the minimal amount of apparel, without having to freeze my ass off at the same time. The club was only a short walk up the street so I was not exposed to the freezing temperatures for very long.

As I entered the club I took everything out of my pockets, keys and a wallet. The less stuff you’ve got, the easier it is for everybody. I got my wristband and headed inside.

As I entered, the second band of the night, Unearth, was already playing, but they had just recently started, so I did not miss too much. I have never heard Unearth before and did not realize they were from Boston until I walked over to check out the merch and saw a shirt that said ‘BOSTON FUCKIN METAL’ written in big white letters.

While I was over there I checked out the Slayer merch. I thought about maybe buying a shirt, but starting at $35 bucks, that was too rich for my blood. I don’t need a $35 dollar t-shirt.

Lupo’s is set up in kind of a tiered arrangement, with each level heading down till you are eventually at the floor. I stood on the top tier and watched Unearth play. I thought they were a pretty good band. Even though I did not know any of their tunes, I thought several of them were pretty good and the band played with a lot of energy.

The singer seemed to have the ability to actually sing a bit and did not just sound like cookie monster with guitars, which seems to be the big thing these days (Heh. I just said ‘these days’. Yeah I’m old. Get off my lawn).

The guitar players would occasionally do a few antics like spin their guitar around their back, and every so often, some guy would appear out of nowhere out on the stage holding a beer funnel for one of them to chug. Kinda goofy but whatever. The lead guitar player seemed to have quite a lot of technical ability and the whole band seemed to be having a good time, which was infectious to the crowd.

I decided Unearth was a pretty good band, worthy of checking out after the show… And they were local, from Boston, and touring with Slayer, so that was cool.

After Unearth’s set, it was time to wait around for Slayer. I headed over to the bar, got a Sam Adams and started to make my way to the tier just above the floor to watch the crew set up for Slayer. It did not take very long and I had just reached the bottom of my plastic beer cup when the lights came down and Slayer walked out onto the stage.

The stage setup for Slayer was minimal. There was a backdrop with a picture of their latest album, ‘Christ Illusion’ and a few red and green lights that would swivel around go give things that Slaytanic look, and that was it. The rest was all Slayer and that was all that was necessary.

The band mixed in a good number of the new songs as well as the older ones that I am familiar with such as War Ensemble, Dead Skin Mask and Raining Blood (from a lacerated sky, bleeding it’s horror… fuck yeah).

Slayer was relentless and the intensity of their playing seemed to ratchet up a notch every time they started in on a new tune. It was like a ball rolling down hill that just kept gaining momentum. With each song, Tom Araya’s vocals seemed to grow stronger and stronger and guitar players Kerry King and Jeff Hanneman traded off between laying down viciously fast riffs along with ranging, piercing solos, intermixed with powerful, heavy bridges that would momentarily slow the pace before jumping back into the speed,. The whole band played together without missing a trick. Dave Lombardo laid down the foundation with his precise, insanely fast drumming.

Slayer would play each tune at a frenetic pace and hit each of the stops perfectly. I was extremely impressed with how well the band played together…

Of course, I did not just stand there and analyze what was going on up on stage. I was right down near the floor, only one level up, and the pushing and shoving was moving me down to the main floor area. I did not resist it and allowed the flow carry me down.

I was on the right hand side of the floor, right where Kerry King was playing. From where I was, I could see King, Araya and Lombardo. I got occasional glimpses of Hanneman off to the left.

Once I was on the floor I was sucked into the pit and pretty much just went with the flow of it, shoving and getting shoved. Occasionally there would be too many people on top of me so I’d swing my elbows, along with a bit of emphatic shoving, and clear people off.

Although the pit was certainly wild and frantic, people were flying all over the place, it was not completely out of hand. People were surfing the crowd and falling on their asses. I helped a few guys up off the floor, as well as a few others up over peoples heads. The code, as I call it, was being followed for the most part, though I did get a gut punch from one younger guy that showed a look of surprise and pain when I paid it back in return along with a good shove.

Don’t fuck with the old guys.

I did not surf. Ernie don’t surf.

Between songs, Slayer would stop and Tom Araya would look around, smile and banter with the crowd. He seemed to like the response and often had a smile on his face. Other songs the band played included Seasons In the Abyss and Spirit in Black. There were of course, many more that I did not know, not that it mattered. They all fully kicked ass.

At one point Araya asked the crowd, ‘Do you wanna die?’ The loud response of ‘YEAH!’ put a smile on his face and he asked again, ‘DO YOU WANNA DIE?’

YEAHHH!

During this brief interaction I could not help but think that the people yelling in the affirmative either had no idea what their reply meant, or they were fully and completely aware of the meaning of their reply. I also happened to look around in this moment and take in Lupo’s in general. It’s and old theater, like a lot of places. I looked up and up over the stage, is a painting of an angel, looking down and smiling on the happenings below. I could not help but find it somewhat humorous and a little ironic too.

And with that Slayer launched into, as Araya emphasized with his introduction, Post-MORTEM. This tune fully kicked things into another gear and crowd responded in kind.

Slayer ended the night with everybody’s favorite, Angel of Death. When the show was over, the band lingered on the stage throwing picks and drum-sticks out to the crowd. I was right near Kerry King. He threw a few picks in my vicinity but I did not catch any. Of course, I was not going out of my way to get one either. I did not think it was worth it to climb on top of someone just to get a guitar pick.

Once King had thrown out his last pick, he held out his left arm and pointed emphatically to each word of the tattoo that covered the underside of his forearm, “God Hates Us All”

And with that, the show was over. Time to head back to the car and head home. I had seen an incredible show. In fact, I would tell my Wife the next day that I thought it was the best metal show I had ever seen. It was not the loudest, the pit was not the craziest, but as far as the band and the music and the experience, I felt it was the best. Hail Slayer.

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Dear Lord,

Today, the world changed. But what am I saying, you already knew that.

I get up at my usual hour (4:00 am) to a gift from the early dawn: a blanket of freshly fallen snow, courtesy of Yours truly.

Thank you.

I walk into the creamy powdered landscape that surrounds my home. I climb into the 2006 Lexus that Daddy (my other Daddy, that is!!!!!) bought me for my half-birthday this year. Your present must be in the mail...

After waiting for the car to heat up I pull out of the driveway. Brrr. Is it just me or does Winter get colder every single year? It seems the earth becomes nippier and frostier with each passing day! Is there anything you could do about this? Parking my SUV in the garage is a no-go because I'm forced to share it with that next-door heathen Stephen (those words don't rhyme for just no reason!)

I know you created everyone in your own image, but surely your mirror must have been grotesquely distorted the day you brought him into this world, if you don't mind me saying. His fourteen-year-old daughter has a tattoo of a dragon on her neck! Of all things! And that's just what I can see, the rest of her bodily mutation is covered by the jet black drapes of fabric that mimic clothing. I ask you to keep a special eye on her as you would the poor pagan babies in uncivilized countries. It is not her fault she was born into
- uh hurm - "atheism".

Now, onwards and upwards! On my daily visit to the homeless shelter, I flip through the radio stations (Harper dismisses election...blah blah blah...India-Pakistan train-bombing...yadda yadda yadda...corn cobs may unlock key to natural gas cars...gobbley goop) when I hear such dreadful, terrible, earth-shattering news.

I'm sure you know exactly what I am referring to, but in case you hadn't noticed a very influential and troubled young pop star has shaved her head. Now, I'm sure you are already working your magic, but let me just say that I am devastated by this turn of events. Please watch over her. Since this first occurred it has been on the evening news, in print and on television, on the internet and radio...I think it's suffice to say that this
cacophonous melody is playing on repeat in the soundtrack of my life, these events have painted themselves in indelible ink on the backdrop of my mind.

We cannot have every Tom, Dick or Slutty walking around looking like a skinhead prisoner, or a punk-rock marijuana-smoking psychiatric patient. Especially when that Slutty is such an integral thread in the fabric of our culture. I think you understand where I'm coming from. She is a mother of two, and this is my concern. Where are her kids when she is out shaving all parts of her body? Locked up in some death chamber with mini-razors, no doubt, saying "Well, Mommy did it, why can't I?". It's this kind of degenerative behaviour that leads to tattoos, motorcycles, and ultimately, syphillis.

The hair is going for a starting bid of 1 million dollars on the internet. Well, at least some good can come of this. I plan to purchase that hair with the money I had set aside for my operation and donate that hair to charity. I reckon this would make some lucky child a rather beautiful wig, disregarding the scent of vodka, tears and vomit. I can see the child bringing that wig to classroom show and tell. Hopefully she'll have a more faithful and appreciative audience than I at the age of 13.

"This is my best friend, God," I said, spreading my arms open wide, spinning in super-slow-motion. "And he made...........everything." I pause here, forcing the earth into a warm hug. The laughter starts from the far end of the classroom, and grows louder and louder as it reaches the front of the room.

With Love,
Your Faithful Daughter.

Jennifer's YouTube page

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Kory is still on vacation this week. Or moving. Or going into the witness protection program. Either way, he left us some nifty stuff about robots.

The Giant Warrior Robots, known as "Tetsujin Lobo Force" in Japan, were a royal family that in the remote past protected the Planet Eris against evil Giant Monsters. They were a family of three, with the Blue Pilot as the father, the Red Pilot as the mother, and the Gold Pilot as the Son.

Actually, they were somewhat misnamed as their battlesuits weren't really "robots" capable of autonomous action, but instead vehicles that required pilots. The suits themselves were based on Green Knight technology from earlier generations.

Each member of the team wore a different color uniform so that the audience could tell
them apart.

Their series lasted for 36 episodes, each of which essentially had the same story.

They went like this:

On Evil Planet, the evil Blue Skinned King called on his witch to create a horrible giant monster to attack Planet Eris. She created a giant monster and the King sent it to attack.

Meanwhile on Planet Eris, some quirk of fate made it so that the Robot Pilots didn't have access to their Robots. For example, they accidentally locked the keys inside them. So the Giant Monster would rampage across the planet destroying things until finally a locksmith showed up, jimmied open the Robots' cockpits, and then presented the Royal Family with an exorbitant bill. Then the Pilots climbed into their Robots and we saw stock footage of them emerging from the water to kick monster ass.

Next the Robots battled the monster, who had the upper hand at first, until the Robots used one of their special attacks that always destroyed monsters easily. Why the Robots didn't just use this 100% effective attack at the beginning of the fight is one of life's eternal mysteries.

Each member of the team wore a different color uniform so that the audience could tell them apart. The Blue Robot and Gold Robot had different heads for the same reason.

The Many Ways That A Robot's Breasts Can Bring Pain

For me, the highlight of the show was always when the Red Robot got to deliver the coup de grace attack against the Giant Monster, because her technique almost always involved using her breasts as offensive weapons.

Here are some of the attacks that she used throughout the series. Unfortunately the names of the attacks were usually censored in the American release of the series.

Boobie Blast!
Boobie Beat-Down!
Bazonga Barrage!
Rack Smack!
Tittie Twister!
Tornado Tatas!
Tit for Tat!
Mammary Missiles!
The Melon Massacre
The Knocker Shocker
The Funbag Drag
The Jug Slug
The Lovely Little Lump Thump
Udder Destruction

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It's Thursday, which means we've once again gathered our writers in a small, confined space, withheld food and water and told them they couldn't come out until they answered our weekly question.

Someone snuck in Doritos and beer. So they took their damn time writing. But once we piped the Celine Dion music into the room, they knew we meant business and they got to answering our questions. Except the Canadians. They stood and saluted.

Anyhow. It's Car Week here at FTTW, so we had to, of course, ask a car questions.

What was your first car?

Ernie:

First car was a '77 Chevy Nova coupe. Primer gray. Red vinyl roof. Straight 6 motor. Very easy to work on. Often had to stick a screwdriver in the carberator to hold it open so it would start. Not my dream car but it was a car. I took the gay looking hubcaps off and spray painted the rims with some chrome paint to make it look like I had cool rims on there. Very Chip Foose.. Put a sparc-o-matic tape deck in it and some shitty 8 inch sparc-o-matic speakers in the back window. Crank up the AC/DC baby cuz it's a long way to the top if you want to rock and roll. Then the tape got stuck in the deck so that's all I could listen to. Either that or the radio. At least it was a good tape.. TNT. I'm dyno-myte.. Then the passenger side door became frozen shut and was no longer operable. So everybody always had to climb in the passenger side to get in. Great way to impress a date. Climb in sweetheart... It was nicknamed 'the gray ghost'.

Jo:

Like most teenagers I'd asked for a car for my 16th birthday. Like most single, working mothers, my mom couldn't afford to give me the car I'd wanted, or even close to the car I'd wanted. BUT in true Mom-style, my mother did get me a car.

On my 16th birthday I anxiously awaited to be handed a little box with little car keys in it. What I got was a little box with a little car in it. My mom had gone out and bought me a Matchbox VW Bug painted black with little flowers stickers on it and a keychain hanging out of its tailpipe.

To this day its still my favorite car and I still have it.

Shawna:

1973 Opel Manta 4 speed. 3rd gear was stripped, so I had to shift from 2nd to 4th. I dream about this car all the time for some reason. It's kinda weird. In most of the dreams, the car has been stolen. Which is weird cuz why would anyone want a 1973 Opel Manta but me?? I was driving down the street one night when this tick started coming from the engine. It got louder and louder. I wasn't smart enough to realize something was really wrong with that tick until the tick turned into a knock and then it was too late. A bolt on the oil pan blew out and so did all of the oil. Engine froze. I miss that car.

1986 red Honda CRX. I lowered it and made it the La Razamobile. Little chain steering wheel and a skull clutch. I got bored one day and put little dingleballs all over the interior. It was cool. One day I was really bored and I was shopping at a religous store for some priest shirts to wear at a show (don't ask). I found a whole bunch of plastic bible figures. Like little Jesus and little baby Jesus and that kind of crap. So I superglued a few scenes from the bible on my dashboard. I had a little Mary pointing her finger ahead to the road and a little manger scene going on. I had a battle scene happening by the passenger seat. I might have had a few sheep on there too. All in all, it was a cool car.

Michele:

I was the proud owner of a 1973 Oldsmobile Omega. This was in 1980. All my rich friends got BMWs and Camaros when they graduated high school. I had to wait until I saved enough money to buy my own ride. Maybe it wasn't sporty or fast or sexy or brand new, but let me tell you, that car was one solid piece of machinery. When I was behind the wheel of that thing, I felt invincible, like I was driving a tank. Nothing bad could happen to me in that car.

Then I let my pre-licensed sister drive it. With me in the passenger seat. One red light, one distracted sister, one car barreling through the intersection the other way, and my beloved Omega was totalled.

But we escaped unscathed (except for my sister's broken nail, and my promise to her that if she complained about her nail again I would break her head open). The way we were hit and the wreckage of the car and the fact that we weren't dead is a testament to the mightiness of the 73 Omega. You want a car like that today, you'll have to buy yourself one of those monster SUVs that take up six parking spaces.

Jay:

My first car was a 1980 MBZ 450 sel, in 1989. Nice freakin car. It burned down on me in 91. sad.

Meg:

My first car was Squeaky, a '86 Volvo station wagon. Obviously he was my parents' car first, and I didn't get him until he was almost voting age. I drove him all over, thought snowy winters and muddy springs. Squeaky the Swedish Tank also came out victorious in several parking lot misshaps and fenderbenders that would have crippled a younger, newer model. Squeaky didn't quite make it to drinking age, though. Now he's on the farm, where he can run with the other Volvos... and hot Swedish girls come change his oil.

kali:

well, the first car my parents bought me (i wasn't even sixteen yet) was a 1979 pontiac firebird. fuck ya i said that. i was my dad's boy, you see, so he bought this car for me from a friend.

unfortunately, i felt it necessary to steal this car at age 15 to go to the 7-11 to buy dip. and i hadn't learned to drive standard yet. so uhm ya i crashed it. the guy who's car i hit was nice enough to pull his girlfriend off of me so that she didn't kill me with her bare hands. (i did, after all do my best to try to drive the fuck away after i hit it, can't blame her for ripping me out of my seat to pummel me so that i couldn't get away.) he also eventually would report to his insurance company that my mother was driving the car at the time of the accident even though she had to be called at the restaurant where she and my father were have a schmancy meal with their friends.

now that i think about it, i was fucking lucky. that dude saved me jail time, probably.

so years later the first car that i would legally drive would have nearly the same engine but not quite so hot of a shell... a 1981 oldmobile cutlass supreme. ya.. i fucked up

Pirate:

My first car was a red 1962 Jaguar XKE factory lightweight. I eventually sold it to a diamond merchant for 1.3 million in order to finance a much-needed coup in a small, African nation, back in the early '80's.

Um, my next car was an orange 78 mustang with T-tops and a chrome foot print gas pedal. It blew up in my driveway about a year after I bought it and that was good thing after all the trouble it gave me.

Joel:

Let's see. My first car was an 89 Honda Accord, a 2 door. That was around 2000, maybe 2001. I don't remember exactly. The damn thing caused me endless trouble and I made the mistake of having the transmission rebuilt for about $2000--maybe a year before I finally got rid of the damn thing. On the other hand, I'd bought it outright and, if nothing else, it sure as hell could get up to speed quick. That was nice.

Ian:

I would have had a really nice first car, but my parents' finances got tied up in some ugly coup in a small, African nation - apparently some asshole sold the authoritarian dictators a really nice car or something.

So instead, my first car was a '93 Honda Civic, handed down to me from my mom while she got a new car. It's a good little car, and is covered in my hippy-liberal-baby-eating-communist-abortion-party bumper stickers. I still drive it today, occasionally.

My motorcycle, however, is a 2002 Kawasaki Vulcan 750, black trimmed in badass. I love my bike. I nearly cried when it laid down in some gravel and made the gas tank an Innie instead of an Outie.

I'm not sure I would ever bother with a Honda again, though, unless I had money to burn. Which god knows I don't.

Dan:

My first was a crappy old Protege, I didn't have it for very long. It wasn't even that long ago. It was a great car for the money, took me on a lot of road trips, started to crap out but got in an accident just in time. That accident saved me a lot of money.

Branden:

Oh man. I inherited a 1986 Toyota minivan. Good lord, the fun we had in that car. The backseats could be removed, so we took those out and put in bean bag chairs. I touched my first boob in the back of that car. It was mushy and disappointing.

baby huey:

My first car was the truck of pain. Man, that thing was a piece of shit. It didn't have a grill -- we collapsed the box from a case of Busch light and put it in there to protect the radiator. It had no emergency break. The hood release cable came all the way out the first time I pulled it. Had a crappy AM receiver and a worse FM receiver. That was it. No AC. Power nothin.

Finally died on the on ramp to the freeway on the way home from work one day my senior year of high school. Timing chain broke. Would have cost more than the truck's value to fix it.

Bonnie:

My first car was a 1987 Mazda Pick-up with a cap on the bed. It was a stick and had no power steering so for a skinny little 17 year old this machine was tough to drive!! That good ole' machine got me back and forth to college (a 4 hour drive) for four years, one secret trip to NC to visit the boyfriend, a bunch of "road trips" with the girlfriends, and a whole lotta lovin' in the back!! That darn thing didn't let me down once...just one flat tire the entire time I had it! I finally broke down and bought a "real" car (a very girly dodge neon with pink and purple pinstripes) and sold the Mazda to a NY State Trooper for $200. He also got my husband out of a few tickets for that price! The trooper drives it everyday to the station and back home. Did I mention that I had let my little sisters make chalk pictures on it one day?? The black paint was forever scratched with pictures of rainbows and circles but it definitely added character!! Man I loved that thing! I have massive upper body strength from driving that thing!

Matthew:

HEY THERE! My first car was a little red 1989 Hyundai Excel when I graduated high School! It only lasted a month, But we Knicknamed it "The Fairy Flyer on The Pansy Express, Trolley Happy Car!" I had alot of fun driving that piece of Shit!

Timmer:

1967 Malibu Classic in Metallic Mint Green that I had Earl Scheib paint midnight blue for $49.95.

I kind of covered the rest in my current post.

Philbrick:

1983 Oldsmobile Cutlass. Brown. Dented. I bought it from my cousin for seventy-five dollars and a mountain bike. It survived about 90,000 miles before everything died at once at three in the morning on Interstate 5.

Richard:

My first car was a Mexican production VW Beetle, flat barn red, although it hadn't; it looked like it had been painted with house paint. There was an S curve by my house that was a lot of fun to pull hard on the second curve and try to get onto two wheels for a second, which didn't happen for me, I slid 180 degrees and nailed a fire hydrant with the driver's side. I pushed it about 20 feet into the first space in an apartment complex parking lot and walked home. My first real experience with the authoritays was some pissant investigator telling me how incredibly brilliant she was to look for a red car after discovering the leaking yellow hydrant had red paint on it. That and that she apparently didn't think it was easy enough to run the tag, she climbed in and found a crumpled video rental receipt. The worst part of the story is that I now have to admit I got nailed
for renting "Troop Beverley Hills".

Cullen:


My first car was a POS 80-something Ford Fiesta that my parents bought me from a one of my dad's coworkers. He knew it was crap going into it, but, hey, that $300 bought me a few months before it threw a rod.

I used to call it Zot.

MY first car, the first car I bought myself, was a 1965 Ford Custom 500. Now that was a damn car.

So those are our first cars.

Now I've got to go let our writers out of their little room. While they are washing the Doritos dust off their hands and trying to get "My Heart Will Go On" out of their heads, you can tell us what your first car was.

I guess I'll let the Canadians out of the room, too. - M

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I really hate to admit it, but I've become one of those mothers. You know, the kind that puts their kid on the phone with their childless friends to say 'hi'.

Back when I was a *cough*wannabe*cough* rock star, not only did I pretty much hate most kids, but even more I hated the mothers that would put their kids on the phone and make me sit there for an excruciating 7 or 8 minutes talking to their not so bright child.

"Wanna talk to Not-So-Bright-Child? Here, I'll put her on..."

"No, no, no... Really! That's okay, I have to go!"

"Hiiiiiiiii."

"Oh, hi Not-So-Bright-Child."

"Hiiiiiiiii."

"Are you being good?"

"Hiiiiiiiii."

"Are you playing with your toys?"

"Hiiiiiiiii."

"Okay, Not-So-Bright-Child, put Mommy back on the phone."

"Hiiiiiiiii."

"Okay, I really have to go now. Put Mommy back on."

"Hiiiiiiiii."

"Okay, just tell Mommy I'm hanging up now. Bye!"

"Hiiiiiiiii."

[Here is where you start sniffing the nearest Sharpie]

"Not-So-Bright-Child, HANG UP THE PHONE!"

"Hiiiiiiiii."

"Don't think I'm afraid to hang up on a 3 year old! 'Cause I'm not, okay?"

"Hiiiiiiiii."

"Gah! What is wrong with you, you stupid brat? HANG UP THE PHONE!"

"Hiiiiiiiii."

[This is where I start looking for something with which to stab myself in the aorta.]

"Fine! I didn't want to have to do this, but you leave me no choice! You're adopted! And Santa Claus is a big fucking joke! The dude isn't even real! And your Mommy kisses her boss while your daddy 'works overtime' at the bar - and they don't even love you! And they didn't send your puppy to a farm! He got run over and squashed by the ice cream truck!"

"WAHHHHH!!! MOMMMMMMEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!"

"Phew. Finally."

That was me, not so very long ago. But now I'm as lame as everyone else I used to make fun of. It's sad, really. You should pity me.

I don't even want to do it, but someone calls and then something comes over me and the next thing I know, I'm holding the phone up to my daughter's ear and she bashfully babbles some incoherent nonsense while I can hear the words "Put Mommy back on!!!" echoing through the receiver. It's a sickness, I tell you. I just can't help myself.

And so, consider this a warning to those of you who are childless: Never call my house! Or you will be forced to converse with my child which will lead to the sticking of sharp objects in body parts with major arteries.

Rockstar Mommy is down with the sickness...

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Shopgirl Spoiler Alert

I don't make a lot of money, but I don't have a lot of bills either, you might say I live beneath my means. I don't eat the crackers shaped like fish; I eat the crackers shaped like squares, although I could easily afford the fish. Not braggin', just sayin'. Since I have always been the kind of person that would rather pay for something outright than get it on credit, I'm not really familiar with large sums of debt. I had a student loan follow me for a while, from a class that did nothing for me, I'll mention, but I eventually paid it off.

I know about working to pay for things that I would rather do, like staring into this box or watching movies I've purchased. But obviously, I know nothing about getting a movie made out of my novel since I don't have a finished novel, much less a successful published one. Novella, they tell me "Shopgirl" is a novella. I suppose it fits, although I've never been fond of that term. It's a book, it's not short enough to be a 'short story'; just call it a novel and be done with it. This will actually get us to the point of my column, keep reading. So Steve Martin writes this novel, and it surprises a lot of people that never expected such a thing from the likes of him, especially with such past literary oddities as "The Cruel Shoes" and "Pure Drivel". (Both are great for different reasons, but also each a far cry from "Shopgirl".) A series of Hollywood events leads to the treat that is "Shopgirl" the movie, but please don't expect anything other than what the box/IMDb tells you. It's a sad, romantic, real-life kind of thing, with some funny parts. I liked it, even viewed on a 7.5 screen while on vacation. It is on my re-view list as well as my book list, although I don't read nearly enough offline these days. I really just want to see how badly the Jeremy character suffered in the transition from book to film. I sensed, and have had confirmed by someone that has seen and read them both that this is a weak part of the film. It's not like I think she and Ray should have been together, but I wasn't entirely convinced that Mirabelle should give two shakes about Jeremy. I'm guessing he was more developed in the book, I'll let you know.

What I'm getting at is, If Martin's expenses are such that we have to endure such tripe as a string of bride's Father movies, cheaper by the six-pack inanities, Bilko, Clouseau, the remakes, geez, the remakes, if that's what has to happen to allow him to make "Shopgirl"; "Bowfinger"; "Novocaine"; then I say yes, we can forgive you, Steve. If we had to miss out on "Mixed Nuts" or "A Simple Twist of Fate" to eradicate all of your movies with 'House' in the title, then let's just not travel in time to do that.

BUT: All of that is entirely wrong. We live in a society where we are not forced to view things that suck. Therefore, there is no forgiveness necessary, whatever you gotta do to make a buck is fine; it's not like they fooled me into seeing "Bringin' Down the Hizzie" or whatever it was called. One just has to adjust their thinking when deciding whether a film is worthwhile viewing. Just because you're a Steve Martin fan doesn't mean you're going to enjoy everything he's been involved with; he's like Robin Williams now. No harm, no foul; no forgiveness necessary. I even kind of liked "The Pink Panther", although I did see it with juveniles.

I'm not recommending that you go to any trouble to see "Shopgirl", "Novocaine" or "Bowfinger", 'cause none of them is for everyone, but they each worked for me. Bowfinger, in particular, is a great movie, perhaps even a great film, but don't blame me if you don't like it. Bowfinger also stars Eddie Murphy, in what is likely the least make-up he's ever employed to play more than one role. By the way, what's up with that, Eddie? You yourself are the only person you can envision playing most of the roles in your movies, again I say; what's up with that? Anyway, since we've already determined that Steve Martin is forgiven, err, I mean, doesn't need forgiving, let's turn our attention to Mr. Murphy. Y'know, his brother is pretty funny, I've known that since his portrayal of Gusto in "CB4", tyvm Chappelle viewers; why can't he play one of these roles Eddie has himself slathered in putty to portray?

Sorry, sidetracked. The title question turns on a dime during the second week of theaters playing "Norbit": Can we forgive Eddie Murphy? It's been a long time since Gumby, Mr. Robinson's Neighborhood, and Buckwheat's assassination, a very, long, time. Having gone from teenaged stand-up to SNL cast member to movie star in the space of just a couple of years, Eddie released the now rare concert film "Delirious", became a superstar with "Beverley Hills Cop", and then it got interesting, to say the least. With "Coming to America" he apparently became hopelessly enchanted with the idea of wearing prosthetics and playing multiple roles, further evidenced with the underrated, under-appreciated "Vampire in Brooklyn", and firmly established with the 'Nutty' films.

Before all the costumes, before the 'Dolittles', came the concert film "Raw". In this one, Eddie wore an even gayer leather jumpsuit than the one from "Delirious" and spewed misogyny rather than homophobia, not that there is really anything wrong with bashing women or homosexuals for fun and profit; if that's your thing. In the one truly funny section of the film, Murphy relates a series of phone calls with Bill Cosby and Richard Pryor. Apparently, Cosby put on his 'Veteran Show Biz Black Man Nurturer' hat and called Murphy to complain about his use of curse words and adult subject matter. Murphy relates subsequently asking the advice of Pryor, who advised him to "Tell Bill I said to have a Coke and a smile and STFU!" (This was a comment on the fact that, at that time in history, Cosby was not a professional entertainer; he was the soulless shill for Kodak, Coke, Jello, etc.) I bring this up because in the twenty years since "Raw": Murphy has become Cosby.

I don't know if that deserves the irony tag, since it took two decades, but I am certain of one thing, we really shouldn't forgive Eddie Murphy for turning into the poster boy for inane family fare box office. Is this some sort of racist thing, I hear nobody asking, that Martin doesn't even need forgiving yet Murphy both needs it and doesn't deserve it? Stop being stupid, voice in my head; of course not. Was it arbitrarily decided simply because his bad movies are so much worse than Martin's? Yes, yes it was. And maybe a little leftover resentment because of having paid to see "Best Defense". I'll defend my position thiswise: Go sit through a pair of Dr. Dolittles and a pair of Cheaper Dozen movies and you tell me.

Any nominations of your own forgiveness-free former faves gone bad?



Richard has always taken good care of Ruprecht.

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Posted by Richard Wallace at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (5) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

My friends steal my shit. I doubt that they do it on purpose but, to my friends, I’m the local movie rental store. A rental store with a great selection, no late fees and lacking a pipe wielding, ball busting black man to enforce the “please return my shit” rule. Which is why a shit ton of my movies end up missing.

I realized this on a a href=”http://blog.howtokillpeople.com/wordpress/?p=63 target=”_blank”> recent trip I took to Los Angeles – which I understand to mean ‘heaping pile of shit’ in Spanish. My trip can be summed up by my cartoon alter-ego.

click for full size

What I realized on this sordid trip is that my friends are acquiring quite a substantial film collection…by hook or by crook. This is the list of movies most often stolen from my house.

Thomas Crowne Affair

Purchased twice so far.

I love a good crime flick. Especially one that is so ingeniously executed as this one. And if I remember correctly you get to see Rene Russo’ tatas.

Ocean’s Eleven

Purchased twice so far.

Yet again my fucking friends are taking my high crime movies. The smoke and mirrors, misdirection and execution of this “heist of the century” flick is the greatest draw to this film. But it’s also a really good “Buddy Film.” Unfortunately “buddy film” is another way of saying sausage-fest…but still a good film.

Dawn of the Dead

Land of the Dead

Purchased three times so far…EACH

Maddox did a pretty good review of Dawn of the Dead and I’ll be running a review of Land of the Dead sometime soon. But there’s not a zombie movie out that I don’t like. Apparently I’m not the only one ‘cause this shit flies off the shelf faster than baby formula and natty ice in a welfare supported trailer park.

The movie that disappears with the greatest frequency, the movie that I purchased in LA that started this whole review, is a film that most of my friends claim to hate. They claim that it’s not nearly the giant swinging dick of film renaissance I claim it to be in this review. That’s right; Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow, of which I purchased my fifth copy of while in LA, is taken more often than any other movie.

If you fuckers are going to take something why can’t you come take my fiancé’ copy of Chocolat, The Notebook, or those god forsaken Bridgett Jones movies? Thanks for nothing you assholes.

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Posted by Travis Gruber at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

if you know me you know that I LOVE WIENERS!!! currently have two miniature wieners and my boyfriend has one.  (don't tell him his is a mini though, he thinks his is much bigger than mine.)  they are the cutest things ever and last night my two wieners got locked together.  stuck, as it were.  the last time this happened i ended up with four extra little wieners running around.  as you might expect i'm very, very excited.  like i said, i love wieners.

have you gotten it yet?  i'm talking about my doggies you sick and twisted individuals!!!

my little wiener is knocked up!  at least i think she is.  last time the two of them got stuck together my vet said it was a 99.9% chance that she was pregnant and sure enough 62 days later... 4 more wieners!  this time was not as exciting as last time.  this time it happened in my upstairs living room in front of me and my boyfriend.  last time it happened in front of the gas and electric man, and my neighbor with the basketball sized hernia, and my other neighbor dirtball donna, and her husband mike the dyke , and my landlord.

i was out walking the two dogs -- he'd been humping her for at least a week, she would yelp everytime the lipstick would get close to he swollen goods, so no dice.  so i was used to the continual humping.  i turned the corner to head back to my house and i see that the BGE (baltimore gas and electric) dude is sitting in his van right in front of my house.  my landlord is standing at the window talking to the driver.  as usual smith with the basketball sized hernia was sitting on his porch.  dirtball donna and mike the dyke had just woken up in time to nose around to see why the BGE guy was there.

i stop momentarily to have a conversation with my landlord and the BGE dude.  just then, my landlord's wife drives up and pulls in my driveway.  yes, there is quite a crowd gathering.  the dogs are on their leashes at my feet, i say hi to the landlord wife and she points down and says,

"you better watch out you're gonna have puppies."  there is slight yelping but i've learned to tune it out. 

"nah, " i say without looking down, "they've been doing that all week."

"not like this i bet," says my landlord.

lots of yelping, the girl dog is crying, the lipstick is out the boy is frothing, the BGE man stares open mouthed, the girl dog is screaming, the boy dog tries to back up off of it but, uh... can't.

(i don't know if you've ever seen this shit before but when dogs are mating the boy sticks his thingy all the way in there and when he uh gets ready to shoot his load, there are two barb like thingies on either side of the shaft that go in too but they get all swollen and take hold so that he can't pull it out.  it's pretty fucking insane and no matter whether someone describes it to you or not you're still not ready for it when you see it.)

so a crowd has gathered and my dogs are stuck together.  everybody has an opinion of what to do.

"poor water on 'em" says the BGE man

"he's hurting her" screams dirtball donna

"yelp yelp" winnie the girl dog says.  by this time she's so fucking freaked out that she's literally crying, which, in turn, freaks me so far out that i'm now crying.

"leave 'em alone!" smith with the hernia screams.

"water should work" says my landlord.

"holy shit" offers mike the dyke.

and me?  i don't know what the fuck to do... i think i'll finish this next week...

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Posted by Kali Pornia at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (12) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Just kidding.

Thursday afternoon the tranquility of my stucco tower was interrupted by a war protest. Apparently, from what I have gathered, somewhere between seven hundred and one thousand people held a protest at the university along with a general strike. I only witnessed the very end of the thing, arriving on campus to attend a lecture on an eight hundred year old manuscript (yep, my life is that interesting,) so all I saw was a bunch of people wandering across the quad, some holding signs. I found out soon after that the protesters had blocked off part of the highway leading to the school, where CHP and local police in riot gear greeted them. Two people were arrested for crossing police lines; a former student and a professor of Women’s Studies (make of that what you will.)

Thankfully, neither the protestors nor the cops wanted a reenactment of Kent State, so the protesters wandered back to the administrative building and made a bunch of noise until one of the chancellors came out and promised to help get the two arrestees out of jail. The bloated and putrid irony of appealing to the very authority they had just tried to subvert once some of them were held accountable for their actions was lost on this group of malcontents, but the two were later released without charge. I guess that means that they succeeded in doing something, even if it was totally unnecessary. All in all, it was a peaceful demonstration. I noticed that at the very university where they burned down the Bank of America in 1970, students were lined up at the B of A ATM to get cash, most likely for pizza and beer. Everyone left feeling good about themselves, and that’s what’s really important, right?

Anyway, I originally had two other titles for this piece: “No Thanks Guys, I Already Have a Girlfriend” and “Anatomy of a Protest.” The first alternate title will become clear once I explain the second. As I sat and ate an early dinner I watched the group mill about and created within my fevered imagination a portrait of exactly who these protesters were. The following is totally unscientific, uses no statistics, detailed observations, interviews, or media reports. It’s just a guess, really, and perhaps not even a very educated one, but that’s why I write on the internet. So, without further ado, here is my anatomy of a protest.

Activists and Organizers. If I am very liberal with the reported turnout and allow that one thousand people showed up, I would guess that this group made up between seventy-five and one hundred of the people in attendance. About half probably have some affiliation with the university, while the rest come from the surrounding community or one of the other two colleges in the area. These are members of your local Stop All War and End All Poverty and Destroy Capitalism and Give Me Free Coffee collective. They’re energetic and good at putting up flyers all over the place as well as maintaining websites. They also have expendable cash that’s not going toward beer or pizza, though it’s still coming from Mom and Dad for the most part. These are the true optimists of the gang, and I’ll give them some credit for actually caring about what they’re doing. The two mistakes this group usually make are overestimating the numbers of those in attendance and actually thinking that the others in attendance care as much as they do.

Old Hippies. “Man, this is nothing like the sixties, man…” Probably between fifty and seventy-five in attendance would be my estimate. There are two kinds of people in this world who love college so much that they never leave. The first kind become professors and the second are the hippies who live on some convoluted form of disability and stay in the college town for the rest of their lives, hanging around and looking stupid. These are the failed Ginsbergs and Abbie Hoffmans of the world who are so fried on drugs that they continue to bask in the false sense of their own relevance. I’m not too familiar with the East Coast, but in California the perfect places to see this specimen of humanity are Venice Beach and Berkeley. A few live in my town as well.

High School Students. I would put it at about one-fifty to two hundred, though they probably missed most of the action by the time class let out. That is, unless they have an English or Social Studies teacher who gave them credit to go to this little rally, but I doubt that the local school board would be that generous. This segment probably left the protest massively pissed that they arrived just as the highway reopened and had to settle for a few half-hearted chants after paying bus fare and expecting to take part in something they thought would be meaningful.

The Creepy Fringe. “What? There’s a war? Free Mumia!” Eh, fifty tops.

Single Men. They’re horny as hell and they’re not gonna take it any more. Sure, they’re also against war and injustice and all that, but first things first. The single guy goes to these things to meet single girls for free. He has had no luck in the bar scene, club scene or beach scene (due to the heartbreak of psoriasis,) so this is his one chance to show that he’s into really important things by dressing up in protest gear and trying to make more noise than all of those other single guys. I’d place the number of guys doing the protest mating dance at around two hundred to two-fifty.

Single Women. As any sociologist can tell you, women travel in groups. I would be the first to say that this is not unwise, but it makes life difficult for the single protest guy. The same group of three or more women that the protest guy can’t approach in a bar are no more approachable at a protest. I call this the Preemptive Antiwar Cock Bloc. While the intention is probably to fend off old hippies, it really only discourages the young men. Old hippies have no shame. Statistically, the numbers are probably equal to those of the single men.

Protest Couples. Biff: “Hey, this thing is free and we get to skip class. I could show off my passion for social causes and totally get laid tonight for nothing, and I’ll bet Tiffany wouldn’t bug me about playing GTA for the rest of the week.” Tiffany: “Wow, Biff is so passionate about social causes. What a turn on!” Biff and Tiffany go to the protest and later have wild monkey sex. Since this is the final group I’ll let them take up the slack on my math. I can’t come up with any other mean-spirited stereotypes and frankly I’m tired of thinking about it.

Sir Philbrick has a good time when he can work "wild monkey sex", "mean spirited stereotypes" and the burning of a financial institution into the same piece. Archives

Posted by Solomon Philbrick at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (3) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Okay, I've had enough of being serious and depressing. Probably hasn't been any more fun for you folks than it has for me. The "Mom" should be coming home this week, life's getting back to normal...

So, what happens in Vermont when we get socked by 30" of snow in 24 hours? You find out who the truly outstanding humans are! We got hit with a baby blizzard on Valentine's Day (what a GREAT excuse to spend the day in bed with your nearest and dearest!). I say "baby" blizzard, because I grew up in this state and remember snow storms that dumped that much as being a regular part of winter - pre-global warming, that is.

Just to give you a hint of what old-style Vermont winters were like, these statistics say it all: the suicide rate goes up in February, and the birth rate goes up in September. I'm guessing this year there's going to be some real busy delivery rooms around, oh, October-November.

We lived in a 150 year-old farmhouse in Rochester when I was a kid. Out front we had a 6" square granite hitching post. One winter the snowstorms came one right after the other, and they were too much for our neighbor to plow with his farm tractor, so we had to get a bulldozer in to clear the yard. The snow was so deep he didn't see the hitching post, and he was pushing so much of it he never felt it when he ran into it and snapped it off at the ground. We thought something looked a little odd when he was done, but we didn't find the post until spring thaw - 25' from where is started. That was a great winter! The snow pile was so high I could climb it and climb right into the huge oak tree in our front yard.

Our house was in a small valley, with the White River running at the base of the mountains on the other side. The river froze every winter, and sometimes the ice got real thick between the thaws - oh, yeah, there were usually a couple of thaws during the winter, and then everything froze back up again. One February thaw the ice was about 2' thick on the river, and we got hit with not only warm weather, but rain. The ice broke up and jammed at the bend at the end of our valley, so the river flooded the fields across the highway from our house. When the water went down, it left all these baby ice floes all over the fields - chunks of ice 2-3' thick and about that size around. It was awesome.

Of course, sometimes it was downright scary. 80 years ago, the ice jams on the White River caused such high flooding in another valley that it wiped out most of the village of Gaysville - check out the before and after pics. When you've got a river at full flood loaded with huge chunks of ice, wood frame houses tend to shatter like matchsticks. Always amazed me that the townfolks had rebuilt it. I've never understood people who build on flood plains, either.

The highway. That was another memorable part of winter. Route 100 ran right up the middle of our valley. That's the major north-south highway through the center of the state, so it was a heavy tourist highway... and skiers in the winter. We lived at the north end of the valley, just before a sharp bend with a serious drop-off. We met a lot of skiers that way. Usually late at night, after they misjudged the bend and skidded off the road. Funny, nobody was ever hurt - just shook up. They'd come knocking on our door, we'd call the tow truck from Hancock, wrap 'em in blankets and feed 'em hot chocolate and whatever pies or cakes we had in the house until Ev Betis got there to haul them out of the ditch.

Sometimes I think that we have lost that spirit of neighborliness in this era of extreme paranoia, and then we have a snowstorm, and I know I'm home.

Now I live in Rutland, the second largest city in the state (which isn't saying much - the population's around 19,000). We live in an old converted house; one apartment downstairs (ours), two upstairs. We share a driveway with the apartment house uphill from us. Theoretically, there's a guy who's supposed to plow the driveway and parking lot out back. He seems to think that it's only necessary to plow the driveway and straight to the back - one pass, no parking spaces cleared.

Well, on Valentine's day, we had this nice steady snow all day. When it hit about a foot, I went out and shoveled a path from our door to my car. One of the neighbors was shoveling their side out. Then I got carried away and shoveled out all three parking spots on our side and moved my car closer to the house. The plow guy was nowhere to be seen all day. My sister, gods bless her, had a huge cup of hot chocolate waiting when I got inside. With whipped cream, even.

Around midnight, we heard a plow in the driveway. By now we had two feet of snow, and this guy had a fight on his hands. He'd back up ten feet, get a running start, and maybe push the snow pile another foot before he'd run out of oomph. Our driveway's about thirty feet - but he made it. Once he hit the back lot, it wasn't bad because the wind had kept it pretty shallow. Then we realized that another one of the guys living next door was out there shoveling out cars, and the plow was actually clearing the lot! I bundled up and went out, shoveled out our step and talked to the guy shoveling - the guy running the plow was a buddy of his who was plowing us out so his friend could get to work - just out of the kindness of his heart. When they started digging MY car out, I got my keys and moved it for them while Lynne made THEM hot chocolate.

They cleared our entire lot and driveway, not because they had to or were being paid to, but because they are a pair of genuinely nice guys. They even called me "Ma'am". Wow. Polite, too.

We didn't go anywhere that day, even after I'd shoveled out midday. We only have the one car, and I don't trust other drivers in bad weather. I know I can drive in snow - I learned how to drive in this state. One of the things we did, when we were learning to drive, was find a good, big empty parking lot after a snowstorm. Then we'd go and purposefully put the car into skids in the snow, so we could practice getting them out again. It's all fine and wonderful to read the directions in the driver's manual about how to do it, it's another thing to practice it so it's automatic. You don't have time in a skid to think - your reactions had better be the right ones. I remember my first winter with a front-wheel drive car (yes, kiddies, I learned to drive when most everything was rear-wheel drive). I took it to a snow-filled lot after the first storm of the season, and ran through the whole skid-recover routine to learn the difference.

I've never gotten into a skid I couldn't get out of. I'm rather proud of that. I get a kick out of it when someone's riding with me for the first time and I fishtail into our driveway - I do it on purpose, 'cause it's the best way on snow to line the car up with the driveway. Usually freaks my passengers out, though. Unless I'm kind and warn them.

This storm has been kind of fun. The last couple of years the winters have sucked, thanks to global warming. Brown Christmases, ski areas not even opening until January, the whole shit. Granted, it's made for cheaper heating bills, but when a heavy chunk of the state's economy rests on the ski industry, snowless winters are a bad thing.

But today we're buried in snow. The world is clean, the ski areas are dancing for joy, and the kids are having a blast. Actually, my sum total reaction to the huge pile of snow in the middle of the Wal-Mart parking lot was "I wish I was ten! I would so be climbing that right now!"

Maybe I'll just have to sneak down there in the middle of the night and forget that I'm fifty-one for awhile.

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Posted by Pat Carbonell at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

(Note: Due to time constraints, this week's Imbibe and Lo-Fi are being replaced by a two-part entry from my old blog, The Between. Part One ran Wednesday.)

I wasn't prepared to hike in the snow. I didn't expect to encounter snow. It was the middle of June and I was on the first leg of my road trip, staying a few days in Glacier National Park in Montana. Since it was the middle of June, in fact, the title of this post isn't quite appropriate. But ultimately, this is about the snow, which equals winter to me. So onward I'll write.

My plan was to hike the full 17 mile loop at Two Medicine that would take me through Pitamakan Pass and Dawson Pass, as well as over the Continental Divide twice. Everything about the plan sounded great and I even managed to drag myself out of bed early on the day of the hike so I could make the hour and a half drive to the trail and still have time to squeak in the full loop before sunset. Of course, I was still pressing my luck timewise, but I was determined to make the full loop. I knew it would be amazing.

Everything started out well enough and, let me tell you, the trail was indeed amazing. In fact, there is no way I could ever fully explain the pure joy that I experienced hiking that day. The trail initially crept its way up some hills overlooking the lake that the campgrounds were placed around. The view was nice, but nothing spectacular. I was basically hiking on the side of a mountain—one of many mountains around there. As I made my way around the mountain, though, I eventually broke out into a valley that the trail traversed. A river ran through the valley, far down on my left. This valley was absolutely incredible and hiking through it turned out to be the second best highlight of my entire roadtrip.

If you look closely on the right of that picture— you can just make out the trail I was hiking. Look still more closely and you'll see that it stretches throughout that entire valley. Hiking along that, with the view of the mountains in front of me the entire time and the meadow stretching out all around me, trees dotting the landscape and the roar of the river below me, was something I still can't properly describe. A bald eagle literally flew in circles above me and ground squirrels were everywhere in the meadow. They would run off as I came too close but often times they would stand up not far from where I was, looking around in that same ridiculously cute way as prairie dogs do. There were birds and butterflies and at one point—on the way back along that same trail, actually—I was able to watch a herd of mountain goats make their way up the mountain farther up in front of me.

To say the view was impressive would be a magnificent understatement. As I walked through that valley, I felt amazing and completely filled with life. I hiked in awe, astounded that such a place even existed and that I could just walk into it with such ease. I stopped countless time to take pictures and soon was pressing my time advantage even more if I wanted to hike the full seventeen mile loop. Yet I continued on, sure that I could pick up the pace and make it.

The turn off trail for Old Man Lake was about six miles into the main trail. You can see it on the map. It's about a quarter mile from the turn off to Old Man Lake itself. Shortly before I came to the turn off, I started to hit small patches of snow. The first patch I came across on the side of an incline—a small drift that had not yet melted and still covered the trail. I was getting pretty high up in elevation and the temperature had definitely started to drop to the point that it was getting chilly. I think it was probably in the high forties. That first snow I just walked through—the drift wasn't all that big—and continued on my way. I begin to see more patches shortly after that, though they mostly were off the trail itself and resided in shadow.

When I hit the fork, I could see some snow on the trail leading to Old Man Lake, but it didn't look too bad. I knew that I was pushing my time constraints, but I really wanted to hike in and see the lake. So I decided to go, but figured I would make it fast. I started down the trail, keeping a quick pace, and it wasn't long before the snow increased dramatically. Within a couple minute, I was regularly walking through snow to stay on the path. Not long after that, I was almost walking through snow the entire time.

This is the point I became really stupid. For whatever reason, I decided to start running. Why I did this, I still can't tell you, except that I knew I was short on time and I was not ready to give up on the trail and go back. I began to run in snow—in ever-increasing, wet snow drifts. The temperature was still above freezing, so the snow was actually melting and sometimes a wrong step would send my foot sinking deep into the snow. So as I ran, I basically was attempting to break an ankle. Out in the middle of nowhere. Alone. In a place populated with and frequented by bears.

Sometimes I'm kind of stupid.

I knew as I ran that it was stupid. I knew that at any moment I might break an ankle. Usually I respond to such logical thoughts, but this time I just kept running. It was fun—it felt great.

Amazingly, I didn't break an ankle or even twist it. I ran most of the rest of the way to Old Man Lake and by the time I was there, the ground was completely covered in snow. Multiple feet of snow, at that. This wasn't a dusting or a couple inches—this was heavy snow that was in the process of melting in the middle of June, but that was still very much hanging on for life and probably would continue to do so for a couple more weeks—if not longer. Yet I managed not to injure myself or to become lost, which was no small feat considering there were times it was hard to tell where the trail was.

Oh, but when I arrived, it was all worth it. My shoes and socks were soaked, I was tired and I was definitely behind schedule, but the view was absolutely incredible. Take a look at that picture up top again. That is Old Man Lake. It basically is nestled amongst a multitude of glaciers. The lake is a good size, but it's by no means huge. I took that picture while standing on top of a snowdrift that must have been somewhere between three and five feet deep, standing near the edge of the cliff in the trees, snow covering everything around me and this lake—this beautiful lake—sitting in front of me with the water completely still, a stretch of it still covered in ice and snow. I was completely enveloped in overwhelming silence. There was nothing, no one, anywhere near me. Thankfully, no bears were there at the time, though the lake is a popular watering hole for them. No other animals could be seen. There wasn't a single person there, either, and no indication that there recently had been anyone. No jets flew overhead. There wasn't the roar of far off traffic. There wasn't even any nearby rushing water. Everything was perfectly silent and the lake lay in front of me like perfection.

It would be a cliché to say it was a spiritual experience, but it was something akin to that. I felt lifted, exhilirated. I drank every breath, could feel the blood in my veins. The air was perfectly still, yet I could feel it touching my skin. I was immensely happy in that moment.

I stood there and ate some of my packed food. I took pictures of the lake and for a long time I simply stared at it, experienced it. I visually scoured the far banks of the lake trying to see any bears that had come down for a drink, but I saw none. I looked for elk or other life, but there was nothing. It was just the lake and me and this perfect, meditative silence. I could believe that such a place existed as this, but it seemed incredible that I could hike into it. It struck me as insane that the access had been so easy. Surely something this breathtakingly beautiful would be better hidden, harder to find, much more a struggle to gain access to. Yet no, I had only to walk.

Eventually I left. I went back to the main trail and I continued on my 17 mile loop, now thinking that I probably didn't have time to do the full loop. I decided I would hike to Pitamakan Pass and then backtrack. I would have time for that. I never made it that far, however, because shortly up the main trail from the turn off to Old Man Lake, the snow became as thick and heavy as it had been at the lake. I didn't have the willpower, the equipment or the skill to continue through that for another mile, so I turned back. And as much as I wanted to hike that full loop, it hardly mattered to me because I had seen something so incredibly beautiful, so heartening and inspiring, that I would be satisfied no matter what. I would be satisfied for some time to come.

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Posted by Joel Caris at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Car week, eh?

What can I say about car week. Cars are cool. I've worked on them a lot in my life. Not like "Joe Mechanic" type of working. More like "let's get drunk and see if this works" type of car repair. See, if you have about four people who kinda know what they are doing it almost equals one person who really knows what they are doing. This is of course just my theory but it seems to have been true in all of the situations I have been in.

Take last week. I was getting some transmission fluid with Michele for her car. I had been told that brake fluid works just as well as actual transmission fluid and it is a lot cheaper. This is where my "what the hell" attitude comes in. I grabbed a can of it. If it were my car, I would have bought it cause I swear I have done it before. I have used it. I know I have. I mean I really, really remember putting brake fluid in before as transmission fluid. I can still see myself doing it all those years before. But, since it wasn't my car, I did the responsible (read "pussy") thing and made a few text messages to try and get the real answer.

As usual, no one answered my texts so we went ahead and bought the transmission fluid. Turns out you can't use brake fluid as transmission fluid. Hell if I knew. I thought I saw that in some movie, too. A lot of things I do on my car I get from movies. I still remember using urine as a radiator coolant cause Mr. Patrick Swayze did it in Red Dawn. I think I even know how to hot wire a car cause Ice T said something about it in "6 In The Morning". Something like black wire touches red, the car is mine. So I am pretty sure I could boost a car if I have too.

Same thing goes with stilling grain alcohol. While not directly related to cars, I still think it is a pretty good thing to know how to do. I've seen Mr. Edwards do it so many damn times on Little House on thePrairie you could call me Mr Fucking Turtle Daniels. I could be that big. All with the help of my TV friends.

What most people miss is that TV and movies have so much to teach those average everyday destructo bots called humanity that it is just shocking. Fuck the Anarchists Cookbook and give me a couple episodes of the A-Team. Me and B.A. will make a tank out of a couple rusty cans and still find a way to get high off of earwigs by the end of the night. All within one hour. And we would have a cool soundtrack, too.

Maybe there should be an auto class called something like "MacGyver 101." That's when the teacher gives you a broken down car and some chewing gum and tells you to get it working by the end of the semester. See, I would be good at that. I would take the car battery out, a couple of wires and a headlight. Make a connection and I would have a light working! The teacher didn't tell us what we had to get working. Just "it". See. Right there. Thinking outside the box. Easy "A" in that class. Plus I would still have the stick of gum for later.

Siphoning gas tanks is also, in my opinion, just a way to laugh at people who have never done it. In the days of yore, I was in an oldCadillac one night in the backwoods of some California road. Late night with more than a few chemicals running through me. Just a few friends and no gas No gas station in site. But we did see an old farm house in the distance. Like a Charles Manson type of farmhouse. I walked up to the door and banged on it demanding "fuel so I too could experience the American Dream". God knows what I said but it was something like that. An old guy answered the door and looked us over real slow and gave that kind of high pitched slow "I am going to kill you" giggle. Pointing at his lawn mower, he told us that was all he had.

We had a hose and an idea. I was going to get that gas out of the tank of mower. Cause I saw Cheech and Chong do it. So I know how to. I proceeded to put the tube in the tank and give that lawn mover the mightiest blow job it had ever had. Suck. Spit. Suck. Spit. I mean really, it looks funny when you are actually sucking off an engine. All it needs is some little metal balls to massage while I deep throat the Lil' Snapper and we have the workings for some kind of engine fetish video. Doesn't help to have three drunks behind you making jokes relating to money shots.

Well we got the gas out and I got sick. Gas has an awful taste. Spitting bits of saliva out of my mouth the rest of the night while hearing dick jokes is nothing Mr. T or Mr. Patrick Swayze would have tolerated.

Me?

I just drank another beer.

So anyways.

I like cars.

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Before I tackle anything else, I’m going to delve into the genre that all us rockers love to hate. No, not rap, but that’ll be coming along.

Country music. Specifically, the old timey style that has a lot in common with bluegrass. The first “country” music record to be a nationwide hit was the hoary old “Wreck of the Old ‘97”, which was about a real train wreck. It was released in 1924 and performed by a man named Vernon Dalhart. It sold 300,000 copies.

How many copies it sold was sort of important. With the introduction of radio, people didn’t see why they should spend the money on a 78 when they could hear the radio for free. The record companies had to find a way to keep themselves afloat with the new technology (same old story, isn’t it?), and one of the ways they did it was by finding new things to record. Okeh did it in ’20 with the blues, and we’ll look at Okeh in other essays, because it’s considered a blues label and this is an essay about country music.

Anyway, the A&R reps descended on the south. The same guy who recorded that blues song by Mamie Smith for Okeh in ’20 hit paydirt in Bristol, TN in 1927. His name was Ralph Peer, by the way. And what he found in Tennessee was two branches of one of the roots of our beloved rock n roll. The Carter Family AND Jimmie Rodgers.

Jimmie absorbed all the music he heard and spit it back out as his own. He incorporated blues, picking, yodel songs and jazz. What?! Yodeling?! Yeah. You can hear that style in a lot of Hank Williams Sr. songs. It was a popular style, and later, in the ‘30s, the singing cowboys used it. That’s the Western part of Country & Western. But Jimmie spent his life experimenting with music and made it HUGE before he died in ’33.

The Carter family... well, there are fourth generation Carters making music still. The music plunked itself into their genes and has yet to be diluted by any means.

Country music veered off in a lot of different directions, and it was wild. Wild like you wouldn’t believe if you hear much modern country. There were cowboy singers and Texas Swing, which itself was a mishmash of other styles.

If you want a good starting point to the dirt, get a copy of the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band’s “Will the Circle Be Unbroken”. I recommend this because it glues together the root of country with the tree of rock n roll, and therefore is easy to digest by us who hate country music. It’s got some of the Grand Ol’ Opry greats on it. Those guys were working up to old when it was released in ‘72, and they were still playing and touring. Some of them are in their 80s and 90s now, and still get out and play once in a while, I think. You can hear some of the oldest country music there is on that album. I suppose I’m prejudiced, because this album was on our turntable all the time in the house I grew up in, but it’s a piece of music history worth listening to. I can still sing most of the songs from memory.

I love that album.

I love the country music it represents.

Hear “Wildwood Flower” here.

and Vernon Dalhart here.

and Jimmy Rodgers here.

(Credit given to the PBS series “American Roots Music”, from which a lot of this information was absorbed, as well as my Dad, and my Father, and the people I jam with, because I pick their brains all the time.)

Part 3 upcoming, The Blues.

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(Note: Due to time constraints, this week's Imbibe and Lo-Fi are being replaced by a two-part entry from my old blog, The Between. Part Two will run Thursday.)

I love nature. I love everything about nature, from trees to water to the weather—rain and snow and sunshine, a slight breeze on spring days—to leaves that blow across roads in the fall to ice storms and stormy seas, waves that crash on the shore and cliffs, black rocks, mossy rocks, streams in the middle of a forest, the impenetrable quiet in the middle of a forest, the deafening hush that falls over the world during a snow storm, waterfalls—large and small—and lakes and ponds and huge mountains that tower above you in the sky, river rapids and thick forests of evergreens and hot deserts in the middle of summer. I love nature.

Similarly, hiking is an absolute joy. There is little I love more than going out onto a trail and hiking for hours, losing myself in the nature around me. Hiking alone, really, is the best. It allows me to slip deep into my own thoughts, to dwell upon my life and then—all at the same time—to completely lose myself in the majesties of this planet, to be enthralled and enraptured and entirely enveloped in the wonders of trees or the desert or mountains looming around me or a wide open field with wild flowers. There may be squirrels chattering at me from the trees or an eagle soaring in circles high above me—a bald eagle, I think, but I'm not quite positive—or I might even see some elk off in the distance, crashing through the forest, or a herd of mountain goats vertically climbing the hillside while I hike it horizontally. I've experienced all these things and every time, it's been a highlight, a wonderful time in my life. I love hiking.

I also love snow. It is so pure and quieting, a wonderful refreshment. Snow is like renewal. A cold snowy day spent inside, watching it from the window, maybe drinking hot chocolate or tea and reading a book—that's a good day. But it's also great to be out in snow, both when it is falling and once it has covered the ground. Now, those are two very different sorts of feelings. When the snow has fallen and it covers the ground, the feeling is peace and serenity, a great calmness. This feeling is enhanced when the snow is fresh and clean, free from footprints and other marrings. When you're outside and the snow is falling, however, there's a slight difference to the feeling. There's still that encompassing silence and the peace and calm, but there's a sense of energy as well. There's a charge in the air when the snow is falling—that sense of power that always seems to come with weather events. Something is happening. The world is changing, even if it isn't dramatic and even if it's something you've seen a hundred times before. There's still a charge, a boost of energy. When the snow is falling and you're in the middle of it—particularly when it's falling fast and furious—that's exciting.

We don't get much snow here in Portland. We had a great snowstorm last year literally on New Year's Day and that was followed a few days later with a nasty but incredible ice storm that covered the snow, and everything else, in about two to three inches of ice. I went outside into the ice storm at night while it was happening with my roommate and we just walked around, trying not to fall and kill ourselves, marveling at it all. It truly was an experience.

But no, we don't get much snow here, which is a shame. Every winter, I miss snow storms. When I lived in Arizona for a year, we had great snow storms. I lived in the White Mountains, within forty five minutes of a ski resort, so we actually received a good amount of snow, despite it being Arizona. I remember standing in about two feet of snow one winter waiting for the bus to come to take me to school. It sucked that I was going to school, but the snow all over the place made up for it. That was just cool to me, especially coming from an area of the country that typically received significant snowfall only once every couple years.

When I look at the paintings accompanying this post—both by Andrew Wyeth—I think about everything I just wrote. I see that secluded cabin in the middle of nowhere, boxed in by a snow storm with bare trees and a small pond nearby, and it is inspiring to me. The thought of being there is inspiring to me. I think about how much I love snow, how much I love nature, and how much all of it leaves me feeling invigorated. One of the best parts about being out in nature is that it inspires me creatively. When I go hiking or I stand in a snow storm, I feel stirrings in the back of my mind, this desire to create characters and stories. I want to imagine worlds and populate them, to explore what it means to be human with my own creations. Winter does this, as well. A really cold, gray day often leaves me feeling melancholic and creative. But it's particularly strong when it snows or when I'm out in nature. If I'm out in the wild during winter? That's some potent creative juices right there.

You can imagine, then, how amazing it was for me to go hiking in the snow. I did it one time in Glacier National Park, during my roadtrip a few summers ago. I'll write about that Thursday, in part two of "Winter Thoughts."

Don't tell anyone, but I think Joel may be a hippie.

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You ever have one of those moments that you know is just going to come back and haunt you? Well, when you have kids there are MANY of those moments. You don’t even know you have planted a seed for these little moments until they happen and you ask yourself where they stemmed from. They usually just sneak up on you, smack you in the head so hard you see stars, and run away again until the next inappropriate time.

Here’s the story. I’ll give you the background first.

At the last home we lived in we had a neighbor who was a little different. Well, not so different as just down on his luck. This man has had a hard life....no family, no stable job, can’t seem to catch a break. He is the type of guy who you know will get your back if there is a crisis. This man lived in his home with no electricity, no running water, not too much food. We would help him out whenever we could. Buying him candles, letting him charge his cell phone in our garage, giving him rides every once in a while. He would never take up our offer to come over for dinner or sleep in our guest room when it was freezing outside. “I am a warrior, gotta protect what’s mine....” That is always his answer.

He also has a pig. A huge, evil looking pig named Wilbur that he takes care of for his boss. The boss gives him money to feed the pig and clean the pen. This man often goes without dinner but that damn pig eats like a king.

He always has a knack for calling just as we are sitting down to dinner. I told him that my husband would call him back when we were done. I went back into the dining room.

“Jay, call your boyfriend...he needs you”.
PJ said, “Dad has a boyfriend?”
“Yup, Mr. Chris needs Dad...again”

Now cut to Tuesday afternoon. I help out at the kindergarten during lunchtime. As I’m passing out bagels and juice one of the little girls asks me, in her sweetest voice but so everyone else can hear:

“Does PJ’s dad have a black boyfriend named Chris who has a pig”?

Holy shit. Everyone, including the teacher, is silently staring and waiting for my reply. I glance over at PJ who is grinning from ear to ear, obviously very proud of himself.

“PJ’s dad has a FRIEND named Chris who has a pig and is African American, yes.”

That was it, no other questions. Everyone went back to eating their bagels, the boys arguing about who is stronger, Batman or Spiderman and the girls chatting about being puppies and Strawberry Shortcake.

On her way out the door, Pj's teacher whispered to me “good save.”

Wait, what?? Does she think my husband really has a boyfriend who has a pig?

I am sweating and stuttering and wondering how to explain the situation, but she is gone. Off to write a little note in PJ’s file I am sure.

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Hmmm, car week.

Fuck.

I’m not a car guy. I’ve never been a car guy. I mean, I used to like change my own oil but after I turned into the email joke I started letting Jiffy Lube handle it.

My buds Mark and Mike and Paul were the car guys in high school. Denny in college was a car guy. Hell, our buddette, Tracey in Germany could change a tire and not lose her entire freaking cigarette ash.

Me…not the car guy.

Dad wasn’t a car guy either…but he liked big fucking boat cars. If you hit my archives you’ll see him standing next to his 47 Caddy. That was BEFORE Mom and me and my sister. At least I know where I get my “Got money? Must buy something NOWWWW!” thing. It’s genetic.

But I got some car stories.

The first car I remember us driving around in was a 1965 Mercury Montclair Breezeway. You know the one you think about when Steve Miller sings about his Mercury with the fins in aqua blue?

Of course Dad sold that car just as I was coming of age. Something about my lead foot not getting that much engine in front of it. Looking back, Dad was a wise man, but seriously, when he and I drove around in the Merc while I had my training permit? That was some of the most amazing driving I’ve ever experienced. That car rocked.

My Dad was pretty cool. In the middle of winter, while there was a LOT of snow and ice on the ground, he made me drive over to the big ass parking lot at Lawrence Beach. It was completely empty. He had me pull over and said, “Okay, go crazy. I want you to whip donuts, get into skids, get OUT of skids like I’ve showed you. Basically, do everything you’ve been taught NOT to do and do it right here.” That was two hours of pure fucking magic. At one point he had to get out and go talk to a cop who had pulled in with his lights flashing and I guess that worked out alright because the cop went away.

My first car? I had a 1967 Malibu Classic with a small block.

Mine was in no way as cool as the one above. I bought it off a friend of my Dad’s for $400.00. That left me just enough to take it to Earl Scheib for a $49.95, “No ups, no extras” paint job to transform it from metallic mint green to midnight blue. My friends who were into cars and somehow managed to have an entire mechanic’s garage full of extra parts behind the local Italian Shoe Repair shop (Hey, in my neighborhood, some stereotypes were based on fact, sorry.) had great plans for my car. Bigger engine, nice rims, chrome pipes. My biggest problem was trying to figure out how to explain how I was going to make the mods on my Drugstore Delivery Boy salary. Dad would have understood how you could deliver things besides groceries and prescriptions, but Mom? She’s SUCH a farmgirl from Wisconsin.

Like I said, we had plans for the Malilbu…and then I had to give Barb a ride home from The Center (Teen Center, LONG story, it’s coming someday). Barb was the one that always seemed to get away. I was dating someone else, or SHE was dating someone else. We only hooked up once and it was brilliant…but this was before that and it was raining and she had a long way home so…I gave her a ride. Which meant that I wasn’t paying attention to the road, I was paying attention to her soaked t-shirt and she knew it and I was trying to figure out where to park for awhile that wasn’t tacky but wasn’t a cop cruise. I was running East on Albion at the stop sign crossing Ashland. I stopped. There was a big ol’ panel truck on the corner. I didn’t see anyone coming from the North, I couldn’t. The car coming from the South was plenty far away. I hit the gas. The tires spun on the wet pavement, I moved out slowly into the intersection. BAM from the North, sliding sideways, BAM from the South. T-boned two different ways. Barb had a cut on her head and my neck was fucked up for a couple weeks, but we were okay. That was the end of the plans for the Malibu…and parking with Barb. Yeah, in that order, I was 16. What?

I wound up driving my Mom’s ’73 Montego on and off through high school and college. Had a Grand Prix and a Caddie Seville as work cars when I worked for Harry in the siding business. Why would I have sweet rides in the siding business? When I wasn’t pounding the pavement, trying to sell home improvements, I made a lot of pickups and deliveries where I didn’t ask and he never told. Let me put it this way, when a 72 year old Jewish man who’s got a picture of himself shaking hands with a smiling Al fucking Capone on his wall tells you, “Don’t ever open up one of these envelopes or I’ll break your fucking kneecaps.” You just sort of nod and enjoy the ride. You gotta remember I grew up in a neighborhood named for Roger “The Terrible” Touhy. Respect was paid.

These days, with all the dreams of being a player long behind me, I don’t spend a lot of money on my “rides”. We have a Hyundai Elantra and Santa Fe. Any extra money for toys is spent on iPods and computers and home theater stuff. I want a car that gets me from point A to point B. I like the looks of cool cars. I lust after the latest Shelby creation, but I refuse to be one of those middle aged guys riding around in a muscle car to compensate for my dick not having the, shall we say, OOMPH, it once had. It’s just so sad.

I do wish I could get my hands on an ol’ Mercury though. I just remember all that CHROME on the dashboard and in the stereo speakers in the back. And that rear window that slid down, mixed with the vent windows…who needs air conditioning?

Timmer admits to owning Steve Miller’s Greatest Hits…but he doesn’t inhale.

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A few weeks ago I wrote about Anne and Wendy and their brand new little baby girl, showing a picture of Wendy and baby that I took in the hospital they day after the baby was born.

Last week, Anne mentioned to me that Wendy had scheduled an appointment with a major department store to have their family portrait taken.

“Umm. No. Let me take the pictures. I’ll do a much better job,” I said.

So, we scheduled a time for Saturday, this past, and I got some great shots.

Anne, who happens to be the creative director for the ad agency for which I work, sent out an email to the company plugging my services of portraiture. I have three people from work who want me to take their family pictures.

Wendy, who works at a radio station, also emailed me to say that she also has a co-worker who wants me to take her family’s pictures.

And I’ve also been asked to do the photography for a project at work.

For years, I’ve wanted to start my own thing. Maybe it’s time.

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So why do you watch horror movies? Why do you like them? Why are they even popular?

And do you even want to talk about this? I don't think I do. I mean, we could go on and on about the sociological ins and outs of the placement of horror movies in North American culture in the twentieth and twenty first centuries – and by all, means, let me know if you ever want me to go that way – but for now let’s just talk about it on a personal level. Some people say that they like being scared and that it’s like riding a roller coaster. Adrenaline rush. Other people like stories that explore the darker side of human nature. Some people appreciate the special effects. Some people, a lot of people like the blood…. Some people are affected by things they’ve seen.

We all have a few stories. Some stories are too serious and morbid for right now though; I’m not about to talk about dead friends or anything. Just those stories that highlight the stupidity of us all, the ones you tell over a beer. Here are a few of mine, pulled from different times and places.

When I was six years old, I really had a thing for carrots. Raw carrots. One day I took a paring knife and tried to peel one myself. Unsuccessfully. I sliced through my left thumb, right to the thumbnail. The thumbnail was the only thing holding the top of my thumb onto my hand, for that matter. It bled a lot. All over the knife, my clothes, Mom’s clothes, the floor and sink. Even a little spray on the walls as I initially twisted in shock and surprise, more than pain. It didn’t really hurt but I was six years old and watching the top of my thumb flop around like the top of Guy Smiley’s Canadian looking head. We raced to the hospital, got it all fixed up and life was good.

Until I was eleven and tried to peel a potato. Unsuccessfully. Same thumb, further down this time. Halfway between the tip and the first knuckle, just below where the bone starts. I saw that bone; first time I ever saw bone like that. I cut right into the thumb, and when I pulled back I inadvertently peeled back the top of my thumb and exposed about a quarter inch of bone. I’d sliced and ripped. Holy fuck did that ever bleed. I almost passed out by the time we got to the hospital. I didn’t peel a fucking vegetable for a long time after that. That thumb still feels fucked up when it gets cold.

When I was about five years old, my oldest brother was about eight or nine. He was fucking around in the backyard, playing with a football or something. He wasn’t looking where he was going and ran into a tree. One of the twigs from a branch went directly into his eye socket. Not his eyeball, mind you, his eye socket. He didn’t lose vision or anything, but he did have to wear an eye patch all summer. When he pulled back from the tree, he had a steady line of blood streaming down his eye and a piece of a fucking tree sticking out of his head. Off he went to the hospital, and I thought for sure that he was coming back with a cane and a dog.

When I was seventeen I saw a guy, drunk as fuck, stumbling around in a pond. Just at the shoreline, not too deep. Just deep enough to get his pants wet up to his knees, and stir up a lot of mud from the bottom. Down he went, right onto an old beer bottle left behind by someone as smart as himself. He put a nine inch gash into his arm… the dirty brown water went kind of purple when it mixed with the ample amount of alcohol-diluted blood, and the guy almost stood up completely before he passed out face first into the water. He wasn’t breathing when he was pulled up. Mouth to mouth resuscitation from his drunk girlfriend, and he finally comes to. Pukes up dirty water, beer and lunch all over himself and his still bleeding arm. He puked in his wound. Holy shit. He got vomit in his blood. He ended up in the hospital for five days with his injuries.

When I was about thirteen I was at some outdoor festival being held at a waterfront park. It was nighttime and they were getting ready with the fireworks display. The place was pretty crowded with families and couples…. Kids were running around with sparklers and shit. One kid, about nine or ten I guess, was zipping around with one of those big sparklers, like two feet long. Sparks flying everywhere, he’s swinging that fucker around and not looking where he’s going. Neither was the other kid. Kid one ran into kid two with the sparkler. Drove the hot end of the sparkler right into the top his arm. Stabbed him with fire. Kid one also managed to gash his own hand and arm with the other end of the sparkler, pretty seriously. He looks at his hand and immediately passes out, while the other kid is screaming for his Mom (hell, I would too), running in circles and leaving the smell of burnt kid all over the playground. Kinda put me off my pretzel.

So some on, what do you have? We’ve all got a few good disturbing stories. Who remembers the kid who ripped his nutsack on the chain link fence? Who’s seen and heard fingers broken in a car door? Who’s played lawn darts for real?


Dan spent most of his childhood recoiling and hiding.

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Chapter 17

When Melissa first asked me what it felt like when I was on Xanax, I told her it felt like I was drunk. She said, “I thought you’d never been drunk before. I told her she was right, but that my dad had taken one of my pills one day and told me it made him feel drunk. For me, it felt good, like my head might float away, or my limbs were rubbery. But really, the only thing that I cared about was that when I was on the pill, I didn’t have to worry about panic attacks. The point is, when you are on Xanax, you know you’re on Xanax.

The same doesn’t go for Prozac. You don’t feel anything. You simply wake up one morning, like I did, and realize you don’t care about doing some of the things you normally do anymore. Activities or situations that used to terrify you just aren’t that big of a deal after you’ve been on the medicine a couple of weeks. You sit on the edge of your bed, reeling from the fact that you don’t care about whether or not you wash your hands before you go eat breakfast. Then you realize you didn’t wash your hands the night before either. You’re a little frightened about the fact that not only didn’t you wash your hands before bed, but you didn’t think about the fact that you weren’t washing them.

But pretty soon, that fear subsides as well.

In the middle of second period, you realize with a start that you haven’t used your hand sanitizer all day. You would have used it countless times just yesterday. But here you sit, not concerned about the germs crawling around on your hands. They might make you sick, but who cares? Everyone gets sick every now and then.

You walk down the hall and touch things. You explore the texture of surfaces that used to make you gag. You use the water fountain by the bathroom--the one you wouldn’t even go near a week ago, even if you hadn’t had water in days—without worrying about who else might have had his mouth on it, or whether germs from the bathroom had migrated out, just waiting for an unsuspecting victim to pounce on.

At lunch, you buy your food from the cafeteria for the first time ever. You don’t worry about whether or not it was prepared in a sanitary environment. After all, you’ve never heard of anyone getting food poisoning from the food at school. But even if you get food poisoning, it doesn’t matter. Pretty much everyone gets food poisoning sooner or later.

Pretty much everyone.

You walk up to a table of guys and girls where there is an empty seat and ask to sit down. It isn’t something you’ve ever done before. They look at each other and eventually invite you to join them. Before you know it, you’re eating pizza that tastes like cardboard and laughing it up with everyone. You make jokes, and you don’t worry whether or not people are going to like them. In fact, the one time you do make a joke that nobody laughs at is when everyone (yourself included) eventually laughs the hardest.

You make plans to go to a party that weekend, and go to your next class feeling excited. You don’t even notice that you touch something wet on the garbage can when you’re throwing away your fruit cup. You just wipe it off on your jeans and keep going.

That afternoon, you go to the library and pick up a book. You don’t look on the inside front cover to see how many people have checked the book out before you, then calculate how many hands that means have touched its pages. You flip through, page after page, until the pages are screaming by, then you put it back and get another one. You do this with several books until your hands feel grimy. And even then, you never think of reaching in your bag for the hand sanitizer.

You check out several books. You write your name on the sign-out card using a pen that’s probably been touched by hundreds of different people. You don’t really care. You carry your books to the bathroom and drop one on the floor. You pick it up without even thinking about what’s on the bathroom floor. After taking a piss, you consider washing your hands. It is the first time this has happened to you for as long as you can remember. Washing your hands after going to the bathroom has always been a necessity—not a consideration. You leave without doing it.

Of course, this doesn’t happen in just one day. It happens slowly, over a period of weeks. But looking back, I can see what a drastic change it was, and it almost feels like a day, it happened so quickly. How the medicine turned off whatever switch it was in my brain that served as the conduit for all my obsessions and compulsions—in hindsight, I still perceive it as something that happened overnight. Prozac is a hindsight drug. You don’t even realize it’s working until you look back on your actions and thoughts and examine them.

One would think that such a change would be constructive and meaningful. That whoever this is happening to would be grateful that they are “better,” that their “sickness” has gone away.

But there’s one missing variable. People like me—the obsessive compulsives of the world—we love control. Losing control over any situation creates a significant level of anxiety in us.

I didn’t notice that the medicine had stolen control from me for the first few weeks. I didn’t notice it when I was going through my day and leaving behind rituals that had become my companions. When I was at the party, dancing with Melissa, telling her I was better and planning a date with her for the following evening, I didn’t notice it. Over the next two weeks, when I started making new friends at school, hanging out with different groups of people, raising my hand and talking in class without the least bit of anxiety, it never registered.

Then one day, Mr. Granger calls me into his office.

“It’s been awhile,” he says. “How are you doing?”

“Great!” I answer happily, smiling. “Better than ever, in fact. I’m on Prozac. It’s doing some amazing things.”

“I can tell. You only walked through my door once!”

It wasn’t supposed to be a remark of any significance. In fact, it was supposed to be comforting. Mr. Granger was simply highlighting the progress I made. I understand that now, but it doesn’t change the way I felt when he said it.

What I felt when he said that was a complete and utter loss of control. I understood then that the medicine was controlling my mind. I felt like I wasn’t me anymore. The person that I had been no longer existed, and it scared the shit out of me.

When I leave Mr. Granger’s office, I run to the bathroom. I begin washing my hands. I dry them off. I wash them again two more times, each time using three paper towels to dry off, each time motioning toward the waste basket three times before actually pitching the used towels inside.

It isn’t that I need to because I’m worried about getting sick. I don’t care about that anymore. Germs are the farthest thing from my mind. The only thing I’m thinking about is control. The control the medicine takes away from me, and the control I intend to take back.

I pull the bottle of Prozac out of my backpack and empty the contents into one of the toilets. I flush it away. Then I go back to the sink, where I wash my hands one, two, three times…

Previous chapters

Posted by Branden Hart at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (4) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

I've done a lot of stupid things in my life. I'm pretty sure I'm not done doing stupid things. Which is fine, as it will make for interesting future columns, I guess. Or stories to tell my kids when I'm on my deathbed and want to leave them with some kind of lasting legacy. And by legacy, I mean stories they can tell at Christmas dinner about me after I'm gone that will get a laugh out of the grandchildren. What the hell, everyone laughs at me now. Might as well keep that mockery train running after I'm dead.

It's Car Week here at FTTW, so this is a great time to tell everyone the incredibly stupid things I've done involving cars.

Do people hitchhike anymore? You know, stand on the side of the road, stick your thumb out and wait for someone to pull over, offer you a ride and maybe kidnap, strangle and mutilate you? That's how I got around back in the day. Either we were very trusting as kids or very stupid. Given the title of this article, I'll let you figure that out.

Even after being picked up by a neighbor, a friend of my aunt's, a co-worker of my father's and a teacher, I still didn't give it up. Lecture on top of lecture did nothing for me. This was the 70's. We were fun-loving, caution-to-the-wind, free spirited kind of people! Read: stupid. There wasn't a whole lot of abductions in the news back then, and most scary hitcher stories had to do with ghosts rather than serial killers. And, being the naive, fantasizing young teenage girl I was, I always held out hope that some hot guy in an old Chevelle (with mag wheels, of course) would pick me up and we'd fall madly in love and drive off into the sunset and I'd call my parents from some romantic beach in Florida to tell them I wasn't ever coming home (but please send my stuff, thanks).

Right.

The last time I hitched a ride was in late 1979 when I was headed to the mall with two friends. Stuck my thumb out, tried to appear as sexy and alluring as an awkward, stoned, 16 year old girl in a denim jacket and torn jeans can appear. Actually, we weren't going for sexy and alluring. We found pathetic and needy worked better.

A station wagon pulled up alongside the road. That was a good sign. Despite my romantic notions of a hot guy in a muscle car, we knew that a station wagon was our best bet. Getting a ride from a suburban mom who picked us up just to save us from getting picked up by an insane madman was always the best scenario, lecture notwithstanding.

I leaned into the passenger window of the station wagon to see if the nice lady could get us all the way to the mall.

Staring back at me was a 30something man with an unsettling look in his eyes. A look that I didn't know then, but would recognize later as "lonely, desperate and insane." I glanced over at my friends. We were hesitant. Rain started to fall. We were about four miles from the mall.

We got in.

Stupid is, as stupid does.

I got in the front. My two friends got in the back.

About thirty seconds into the ride, the automatic door locks went down. Our driver smiled as he pushed the button.

My mind took about four seconds to come up with 7,000 scenarios, most of them involving torture, screaming, pain and grieving parents who stood in front of teenage-sized coffins shaking their heads and saying "I told her not to hitch hike!" I turned around and looked at my friends. Eyes wide. Mouths open. Faces white. Like little dolls frozen forever in terror. I could see it was going to be up to me to get us out of this.

I had a plan. I would talk to this guy. Be nice to him. Don't act afraid of him, just act like nothing at all is wrong and you just want to make small talk and find out a little about this nice, caring man who is driving three girls to the mall so they don't have to walk in the rain. It will catch him off guard. Yes, that was my entire plan. Again, stupidity.

I took a deep breath and slowly turned my head toward the guy. I was going to say something like "I had no idea it was supposed to rain today, thanks so much for saving us from walking four miles in this weather!" I put my fake smile on.

"I had no......"

The guy was smiling. A weird, creepy smile. He only had one hand on the steering wheel. The other hand was in his crotch. Where his dick hung out of his pants.

I blinked. Speechless. I actually watched for about two seconds as the guy carressed his rather limp and unimpressive ween. Not out of curiousity or anything like that, mind you. I watched because I wanted to make sure that's what I was seeing.

We stopped at a red light. He started to really go at it. I tried to signal to my friends what was going on but the dude was staring at me the whole time with a "don't say a word" look on his face. Torture, screaming, coffins........

Then he made this weird face. I was a good little girl. I had no idea what an "O" face was. Had I known, I would have realized that the guy was about ten seconds away from a money shot on his steering wheel. But not knowing exactly what was going on, I started to giggle. I mean, he looked really funny. Sitting there with this twitchy, spastic look on his face while furiously stroking his little dick. My one friend leaned over toward the front to see what I was laughing at. When she saw what the guy was doing - and the look on his face - she gasped and then started laughing.

The guy stopped what he was going, I'm sure about one stroke away from finsishing his deed. The safety locks popped open.

"Get out of my car."

I blinked again. What?

He pointed at the passenger door.

"All of you. Out. Now."

I guess we embarassed him. We got out of the car and stood on the side of the road in the now pouring rain, laughing until our guts hurt.

And then we got serious. Maybe it wasn't all that funny. The guy was deranged. A predator. Sicko. He should be locked up. He's a menace to society. A danger to children everywhere.

Oh. My. God. Did you see that face he made? And we went on laughing.

Not only did that event scare me off of hitching every again, but it made me afraid of sex for a while. Is that the face all guys make when they're about to blow their load? How would I ever keep a straight face?

I got over that eventually.

Believe it or not, hitch hiking was not my stupidest car trick. That belongs to skitching (well, maybe it belongs to drunk driving, but we're not going to get into the more sordid aspects of my early adult years yet).

Skitching is the fine art of grabbing onto the bumper of a car, bus or truck when there is snow or ice on the ground, and riding along with the vehicle until a) it stops (and you better know how to dig your heels into the snow to keep yourself from ending up under the car); b) you fall off (and you hope no other cars are behind you) or c) the driver realizes there is a stupid kid attached to his vehicle and he either yells out the window for you to get the fuck off his car or he starts fishtailing on purpose in which event you start remembering every prayer you ever learned in catechism and you make some kind of deal with god that if he lets you live you will never stick a firecracker up a frog's butt again.

And then you wait for another car and do it again.

Never underestimate the stupidity of youth or the addictive nature of the adrenaline rush.

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Posted by Michele Christopher at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (4) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

It's car week here at FTTW! These days, food in cars is so universal, I figured it'd be way easy to come up some food-related stuff. I was wrong. I had a couple of ideas that I could work with:

- my take on fast food
- food you could cook on your car
- tailgating food

Then I decided to do my favorite road trip food. Everybody loves road trips. Unless you don't. In which case you totally suck. This food is tasty, it's not messy (if you make it right), and you can suck one down (hehehehe) while you're driving.

Vegetable Panini

2 thick slices sourdough bread
roasted red peppers
smoked gouda cheese, grated
butter
fresh baby spinach
tomato slices
salt and pepper
mayonnaise

Spread a very thin layer of mayonnaise on one side of each slice of bread and butter on the other (if you don't like mayo, butter both sides. the fat in the mayo or butter will help prevent the bread from getting soggy). Sprinkle the mayo side of both slices with some of the cheese. On one slice, place a single layer of the spinach leaves. On the other, place one or two slices of the roasted red pepper and a slice or two of the tomatoes. Season with salt and pepper.

Cooking the panini requires even cooking on both sides at the same time, and pressure. You can achieve this a couple of different ways:

1. Panini Press

This is the obvious way. If you have one, you're set. Use it according to the manufacturer's instructions.

2. Cast Iron Skillets or Bricks

Since I don't have a panini press, this is my preferred way to do it. Take two big cast iron skillets (or four bricks, wrapped twice in aluminum foil) and put them in an oven. Heat the oven to 400 degrees. Leave them in there for at least 20 minutes. Put one skillet upside down (or two bricks side by side) on your stove and put the sandwich on it. Place the other skillet face up (or the other two bricks) on top of the sandwich and leave it there for 10 - 15 minutes. There's plenty of residual heat in the skillets / bricks to cook the sandwich without another ounce of external fuel.

3. Foreman Grill

Put the sandwich on the grill, close it, and weigh it down with something (even just your hand).

In any case, the sandwich is done when the cheese is melted and the spinach is slightly wilted. The weight will seal the sandwich, making it perfect for road tripping. They're almost as good room temperature, and perfect for long drives.

This week's metal review is something old AND something new.

Destruction
Thrash Anthems
Candlelight Records

RIYL: Slayer, Kreator, Exodus, old school thrash

Destruction is one of the progenitors of the European thrash movement, which evolved at about the same time, yet fairly independently from, American thras bands like Slayer and Metallica. They are similar in many facets, but differ in a few ways. Specifically, the guitars have a lot more melody than their American counterparts. Destruction led the way for bands like Kreator, Hypocrisy, and At the Gates, which really spawned the entire European death metal genre. Thrash Anthems is a collection of their greatest hits, but they're not just compiled here – they went into the studio and re-recorded them all, which did them a great service, if you ask me. While I love 80s thrash metal, I generally think most of the albums could handle a coat of spit and polish on the mixing board, and these songs are no different. The sound is clearer and heavier, and the low end missing from so many analog recordings of the day is precise and focused. This album also contains two previously unreleased tracks that, while not the high points of the record, are solid songs that are very enjoyable.

Recommended Tracks: "Tormentor", "Profanity", "Total Desaster", "Bestial Invasion"

Baby Huey made a poop joke AND a blowjob joke in this week's post. He's actually very proud of that.

Posted by Baby Huey at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (3) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

The house was beautiful. A two-story colonial with white vinyl siding and black shutters. It had a vast screened in porch on the back and a beckoning entrance, complete with decorative molding and a wrought iron door knocker. From the street you could see a winding staircase and a baby grand off to left of the foyer. Even the lawn was meticulous. A flower for every season and towering maples that lined the driveway to the two car garage. It was situated in what many of us would refer to as the "ritzy" side of town and I fell in love with it. It was mine. It always broke my heart when the brief pause at the stop sign would end and we would exit the neighborhood that for years would be the object of our affections. Mom had a house there, as did my sister and even now when I make my infrequent trips back home, I tell my own children "there's my house, isn't it beautiful?"

I stalked this house for years. This house was more than a house; it was my first true taste of wanting what the Jones' had. I didn't even know the Jones' that dwelled inside its fantastic walls but I was certain that they didn't appreciate their home nearly as much as I did. It wasn't a fair assessment, but they had the house and I didn't so fair wasn't a big concern for me. Driving through these lavious neighborhoods became the equivalent of finding the most decorated house around the holidays or leaf peeping in the fall for my family. In retrospect, we made a game out of wanting and began to understand the concepts of fantasy versus reality. As if the wanting wasn't enough, it put into perspective the definitive difference between rich and poor and my family was at the latter end of that.

My family and I lived in a single-wide trailer in a nice park on the "wrong side of the tracks", but what we lacked in architectural prominence we more than made up for in love. My house became a sanctuary for most of my friends, elementary through high school, and was the central location for most of the holiday festivities and birthday parties. It wasn't until recently that I began to understand the difference between a house and a home and I'm happy to report that I had the best home a young girl could have asked for.

Websters defines a house as "a place to live in" while it defines a home as "the place where one lives". Websters is about as useful as a screen door in a submarine sometimes, so I want to interpret my own distinct separation of the two words. A house is just a structure. The carcass of a home, if you will. It's the support system of what we put into our homes. I'd like to think that Mom and I were truly trying to find a house that reflected what we had inside our own home. Adornments of love and happiness, decorations of welcome and embrace, all of the beautiful things that we wanted, but never really needed.

When Matt and I moved to Vermont, we looked at many homes in neighborhoods that varied from right and wrong side of the tracks, to in the middle of the rails in some circumstances. I found a house that had the same white vinyl siding and black shutters. It had the screened in porch and resided in a fairly nice neighborhood. It lacked the maples and the meticulous lawn, but there it was; the house I always wanted. I remember literally shaking with excitement as we approached the screen door. We entered the porch and I braced myself for the unveiling; entering the cloned-home of my dreams.

It was....alright. The heat was set to a staggering 500 degrees (slight exaggeration) and the lingering smell of someone else's home was overpowering. Still, it's not as though I expected an exact replica my dream home, right? Forging on, the kitchen was large, bedrooms were small and lacked closets of any kind and the basement was all dirt and stone; perfect atmosphere for mice and spiders and everything I didn't want sharing my home. Still, this has to be it! I mean fate wouldn't put this house in my life for nothing , right?

We didn't end up getting the house. The long and short, the price was too high for what we'd be getting. My world had collapsed; my dream home obviously just slipped through my fingers and there was no going back. The neighborhood, the black shutters and the porch, all gone. I felt as though someone had ripped out my heart. We continued our search, though I felt "the one" had already passed. Then we got a call from our realtor and that's when it happened.

It was on a major route that could get you from Burlington to Rutland in a span of an hour and a half. It was surrounded by beautiful pines and spruce trees, set back from the road and seemingly in a world all its own. The aged vinyl siding was cream colored and the windows were accentuated by dark brown shutters and as soon as we opened the door, I knew that I found my home.

My house is a trailer. The very same thing that launched my fantasies about glorious homes with multiple stories and manicured lawns, ended up being the home I had always wanted. It's been six years since we moved in. For all six, we've entertained a plethora of people; from birthday parties to Superbowl parties, from holidays to just-because get-togethers.

I still drive by homes and look adoringly at their facades. I still shake my head when I see a meticulous lawn and know, very soon, my crabgrass will be peeking through to say hello. My vinyl siding is still aging and my shutters, once dark brown, are calico from sun and wear. But when I walk into my house and feel the warmth and love I had as a child, I know that I'm home and what others see, is just a house.

Jenn drives past your house each Tuesday at nine.

Archives

Posted by Jennifer Philo at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

What wakes you up in the morning? I bet you all hate your alarm clocks, don’t you? I can hear everyone whining about how loud and annoying they are. I bet you all have a fucking snooze button and use it, repeatedly. You take your extra half hour of milk-toast dreams, ball-scratching and snoring in 5 minute shots, punctuated by a pathetic, little “beep, beep, beep” that sounds more like the last gasps of a dying baby chick than a real alarm clock and then you finally slide out of bed and go about your morning rituals, all in relative peace. Well, I’m pretty pissed off this morning as I sit down for my shift and thought I would tell you all about the Pirate’s morning ritual at sea.

Imagine you’re sleeping peacefully; dreaming of bath time with Valeria Mazza and Tyra Banks from the cover of the 1996 Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition; the three of you sipping a spicy Multipulciano and eating smoked oysters on tiny crackers, topped with a slice of melted havarti cheese and a small sprig of fresh basil. (I need to stop here and mention that it was a surreal experience, photoshoping this image while listening to Jackie DeShannon singing Burt Bacharach’s What The World Needs Now Is Love)

Ah, the stuff dreams are made of....

Then imagine a 6'8" 290 pound skinhead biker walks up to your Bath Time Olympics and jabs a Philips-head screwdriver in your left eye just as Valeria is climbing on top to feed you the last oyster and…….You wake up, clutching your face covered in sweat to this:

You're laying inside a large steel box and some asshole is kneeling on top of it, chipping paint with a jackhammer. He pauses, and then smacks your steel box with a six-pound hand sledge. Not satisfied with the thought that he’s left you with a wilting hard on and a pounding headache, he fires up the dreaded needle gun…

I don’t know very much about needle guns. The only time I’ve ever observed one up close was on another boat where I found one laying around all alone on the back deck. I picked it, up turned over, then beat the fucking thing to death with a hammer and tossed it overboard. All I know is that it runs off high-pressure air and looks like a large gun with 50 long spikes, or needles sticking out of it. Satan and his minions wield it, chipping paint off the decks and hammer sleeping brain cells into so much oatmeal.

So there I am; wilting, head pounding and totally confused, standing inside the loudest metal box you can possibly imagine, unless you have actually been through this. Because it gets worse. Now I have to pee. This is maddeningly similar to pining your own hand to a wooden table with a Buck knife, right between the 3rd and 4th fucking metacarpals-BAM! I have to step from my large steel box of a cabin, into a smaller steel box that is my bathroom, or head. It is louder, much louder.

Somewhere in midstream, the noise will switch to a large grinder and I usually start screaming obscenities at the unseen asshole somewhere above my head, until I resign myself to the cold, hard fact that he can’t hear me and shake it off, mentally and literally. Now for the gauntlet, the penultimate torture and a true test of one’s mettle. I know I have a higher pain threshold than you. Any of you. Because I can take a shower in the morning.

My shower is the smallest and loudest steel box on the planet, haunted by the bent memories and psychotic shadows of those went before me and since I happen to believe that everyone deserving of damnation will find themselves in their own personal Hell; one not shared with the multitudes so they can commiserate with each other, I have, then, met mine and bested it. That’s right-Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of my shower, I will fear no evil because I am the baddest motherfucker in the shower.

The sound inside that moudly, yellow, seventh level of hell is felt more than heard. Yeah, your ears might bleed, but having the fillings rattled out of your head is more to the point. The pain? I used up my best analogy back at the pisser-sorry. I’ve already split my metacarpals with steel and I go with what I know. OK, try grabbing your upper lip and ripping it back over the top of your head and let me know how it feels. On a side note, I’ve witnessed a handful of births and 24 hours of labor looks a lot like the long version of my morning shower, so I guess mothers can relate.

You can imagine that showers onboard are short and scarce and that also might explain why the companionway smells like the inside of someone’s colon. Hmmm.

The whole point of this is that to a certain extant, this defines me as a person. When the sales idiot at Office Max offers to help me and then attempts to answer my question on portable hard-drives by reading off of the box and I rip it out of his hand, telling him to go jerk off somewhere else, it’s not because I’m just an ornery bastard-I’m just having a shower flashback. When I finally hit the beach after a month or two at sea and drink enough vodka to float a battleship, I’m just smoothing out the rough edges. This is why I have a few screws loose upstairs and why one of the greatest pleasures in my life is a nice long, QUIET shower when I get home.

Anyway, that’s what I endure every morning for half of my life, so I can spend the other half laying on the couch in my boxers, drinking Baileys and coffee till noon wondering how the office dicks are enjoying their Monday mornings.

What’s your morning like?

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Posted by The Pirate at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (9) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Guest author Miker gets in on Car Week and tells us about his favorite piece of crap.

Say AMC to most people and they think "Ooooh, the Pacer. What a crap car." While it was a crappy car, the Pacer had personality. Especially if it had the faux wood panelling outside and you had the guts to paint fish on the windows inside. AMC's true entry in the Crap Car Hall 'O' Fame was the Gremlin. It was just as crappy, but without the Pacer's dubious charms. Even the special edition Levi's edition and the nasty hockey stick decals on the "X" model couldn't save it from the crapulence. I know, because Chappy, the '74 Gremlin I drove in high school had chocolate brown hockey sticks over oatmeal colored paint and it oozed crapitude.

To be fair, it was smokin' fast for a Gremlin because of the small block Ford 305 V8 which (believe it or not) came as a factory option and made it monstrously overpowered. When it chose to run, it'd run like a scalded cat. Because the car was so light, it'd grab air time if you went over a rise at any speed over 45 mph, which was good for many a Dukes of Hazzard moment. Other than that, it was an automotive trainwreck.

For starters, it was responsible for my failing my driver's test. The Fat Man wasn't appreciative of the driver's side door falling open into traffic when executing an otherwise perfect right turn. Any other time, I would have just held the door closed, but The Fat Man insisted on both hands being on the wheel. Go figure.

Then there was the gas gauge, or the lack of one. Not for lack of trying. It was replaced five or six times, with each one crapping out within weeks. Eventually I gave up and kept a notebook in the car to record mileage and the amount of gas put in the tank. Needless to say, I learned to carry a gas can with me for those tragic mileage miscalculations.

Speaking of mileage, it got around eight to ten mpg. My second car, the beloved Queen Elizabeth, got better mileage and it was an almost nineteen foot long '67 Buick Skylark sedan with a 340 c.i. V-8 under the hood and a trunk that could comfortably hold five standard sized beer kegs.

The exhaust leak was a problem too. I like fresh air as much as the next person, but driving around in the dead of winter with the window open to avoid carbon monoxide poisoning was uncomfortable. It did let me hang my arm out the driver's side window to keep the door closed during turns.

At the other end of the car, the windshield leaked. I was the only kid in high school who had to scrape snow and ice from the outside and inside of his car during the winter.

Mechanically, there was the air conditioning and the transmission which kinda sorta balanced each other out. The a/c worked almost too well, but there's an automotive engineer somewhere out there who's laughing his head off about the maximum setting, which AMC inexplicably chose to call "Desert Only," as if you would get frostbite if it was used on an average sweltering humid day during an Indiana summer. As well as the a/c worked, the transmission didn't. It would drop out of drive and into neutral at stoplights. You'd only notice it when the light turned green and the engine would rev higher and higher until finally it would drop into gear and surge drunkenly forward with an earsplitting chirp of tires. If it wasn't for those high-backed bucket seats I'd still be walking around with whiplash twenty-three years later.

I stopped driving it in '84 when the front suspension gave out and I began to hear the oilpan scrape the pavement while driving down a perfectly level road. Turns out that AMC designed the suspension for a four cylinder or a small six. That small block V8 was a teensy bit too heavy for it. After rusting quietly in the backyard for a couple years Dad sold it for five bucks to one of my little brother's friends who turned it into a white trash hoopty complete with a custom paint job and a lift kit like you can still see on pickups driven by the hillbilly elite.

Since then I've driven a lot of crap cars. Chevettes. LeCars. A Buick Electra that was worth more sold by the pound for scrap than as a trade-in. A Triumph TR-7. Every car I ever popped during the year that I moonlighted as a repo man. I still have a soft spot in my heart for Chappy, the POS that's made me appreciate any car that runs. There's a perverse little part of me that wishes I still had that car. It was so crappy that it's almost come full circle to being ironically cool.

Miker never fed his Gremlin after midnight.

Previously by Miker
Guest Author Archives

Posted by Michele Christopher at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (4) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

I should have known when we started passing more and more Nascar-stickered pick-ups. Actually, I should have known by the look on Stick's face when he asked if I wanted to go to the race, and meet his extended family, who'd all be there to see Stick's brother, a pit crew chief. This is back in the early days of Stick, and I'd recently learned that "pit stop" is more than just a euphemism for a bathroom break.

When I told my friends that I wouldn't make our weekly Aberrant game because I was going to the races with Stick, they looked at me in disbelief. Not only was I breaking the sacred code of games before dates, but watching cars drive in a circle? Is that really a reason to skip tabletop superheroes?

When we arrived, the stands were crowded with people, some of which were hot guys without their shirts! Yay! And some of which were sweaty grandfathers without shirts. Ick. Every surface is covered in ads for Budweiser and KFC, Trimspa and Stacker 2. Really good cyberpunk gives me a frightening vision of the future, but as I watch cars slam into the Nextel ads amid cheers and applause, I wonder if it's entirely fiction.

I was raised by hippies (Stick's introduction to my extended family is another story for another time. I think I'll save it for FTTW's humiliation-themed week) so I've missed out on a lot of pop culture, including America's fastest-growing sport. That would be Nascar, for those of you who still think of baseball or football as our national pastime. Unlike football, though, I can't pick a favorite driver based on car color. I chose by number, which was a Very Bad Idea.

Since then, I've started to understand the cult of personality around racecar drivers, and the excitement of race fans seeing a down-to-earth, next-door-neighbor kind of guy winning huge money in sports, especially with other pro athletes making scandalous headlines. The following is even stronger around Dale Earnhardt Jr., and others who are good sons, following the family business. I don't know if Martin Truex Jr.'s public urination problem or the recent cheating is enough to turn racefans away. In the case of Stick's family, I know it's not. I don't think a nuclear holocaust would turn them away from Nascar.

When I agreed to go with Stick, I thought that the race was around the track, not 200 times around the track. I began to envy those with beer coolers and hip flasks. Sometimes the cars got a flat or needed gas or, in my extremely technical vocabulary, started making the CHchCHchCHchCHchCHch noise, and they have to pull over and get fixed. This, for the family of a pit mechanic, is where it get interesting. I can't really tell a hubcab from a tranmisserator, and at times I wondered if our conversation was entirely in English. I leaned over to Stick, and whispered "I feel like Margaret Mead in Samoa,"

"You don't have to whisper," he told me "No one here knows who that is,"

I learned that if a driver does something wrong, I'm a little hazy on exactly what you need to do wrong, maybe it's passing on the right, they get a stop-and-go penalty. That means they have to parallel park. I love this part, to punish professional drivers, the judges make them parallel park. See? It's hard for them, too!

"Well, that's over," I announced to my household several excruciating hours later, dropping my bag and throwing myself headfirst on the couch.

"The car thingy, or you and Stick?" Eric asked, looking up from his game of Civ3.

"I think just the race... although... He's not going to make me do this again, is he? I mean, he knows it's a circle, right? And the cars don't actually go anywhere?"

My housemates considered it karmic punishment for skipping our game.

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Posted by Meg at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

The night was still young when Sandeep called me, "It's Saturday night," he whines, and I feel the frustration in his voice. He hasn’t had a sip of alcohol in over four hours.

"It's between you and TiVoed Colbert tonight," I say, "Duke it out."

He ignores me, "See you in fifteen. Bring Rachel."

Rachel. Rachel is our mutual friend from eighth grade science class who is back in town from her Close-but-not-quite-Ivy-League university for the week. “Stop calling it that,” she tells me. “So many famous people went there, you don’t even know.”

“No, I don’t even care,” I correct her.

It takes some persuasion to get her to agree to join us, “It’s late,” she argues, “But I guess I’ll go.”

The three of us meet up at a coffee house only to find its been closed. Sandeep looks pained. “Now what?” he wants to know. And so do I.

“Let’s go to Look Out Point!” Rachel offers, an extreme suggestion coming from her, but Sandeep and I agree since we were in the mood to go to a romantic area and not make out, which, coincidentally, is also the story of my life. Once we got there however, we spent more time looking at the stars than the view. That’s when Rachel got her idea to go extreme, well, for her anyway. "You guys..." she said, "Let's go find a dark place and look at the stars." I know. Almost a little too extreme. Sandeep and I agreed, because we too are extreme people who do extreme things on Saturday nights in Arizona.

It took some driving, but we found a dark road that would be the perfect place to be raped and then strangled without a single soul knowing for months. No Trespassing the sign read in both English and Spanish at the beginning of the dirt road. "I dunno guys..." Rachel hesitated, stopping the car momentarily. She had grounds to be scared. The area did look like the setting to a bad horror film starring Paris Hilton, but we egged her on.

"No," I say from the back of the car, "It's OK, because if the cops ask, we'll say we're French and couldn’t read the sign." That was enough for her. We went a little ways and then parked the car and the three of us climbed on the hood to observe the sky. It was all fun and games until…

"What was that?" Rachel sat up.

"What?" Sandeep almost doesn’t care. I'm jumpy at the best of times, and suddenly, I hear it too. A low rumble. I sit up, alarmed.

"It's nothing-" Sandeep says, and he tries to pull us back down.

"No, no! Shhhhhhhhh," Rachel and I shush him. The rumbling now sounds like a growl.

"OK, I heard it that time, too!" Sandeep sits up.

“Time to leave,” I jump off of the hood. “Let's pack it up, Jimmy." I say as I try to practically dive back into the car. We get ourselves buckled in just in time to realize it was a plane flying overhead.

"I really thought we were gonna die," I explain. The others say nothing, embarrassed, but I know they thought it, too.

Rachel then suggests just driving around Fountain Hills, her homeland, aimlessly, like a VW commercial. We feel safer inside the car, so we agree. At one point, we come to a road that warns us of dips. The posted speed is 35 mph, but we’re feeling extreme and no one is on this long, dark road, so Sandeep and I suggest to Rachel that she drive somewhere in the 70 MPH area. Rachel, resident badass, goes forty-five. As we pass a sign warning of animal crossings I laugh, “What if there’s a cow crossing and we can’t stop?” My two friends giggle, amused at the thought of running into a cow. Realizing that forty-five isn’t half as much fun as seventy-five, she kicks her car into gear and we go over a few dips when out of nowhere, a family of javelina appear.

“Oh, shit!” I shout.

“Fuck!” Rachel screams, and manages to “lightly tap” –her words- the javelina as she tries to swerve out of the way. Unfortunately, she over corrected her wheel and we went into a 360 spin. The tires screeched and the smell of burnt rubber wafted into our noses as the three of us screamed like little girls. We ended half in the dirt, half on the road, completely bewildered.

We’re silent for a moment as we collect ourselves, but I speak first.

“That was awesome!” I say, and mean it, excited by the adventure and the fact that we didn’t die. Sandeep finally releases his hands from the door handle and laughs.

Rachel is shaking, “Oh my God! Oh my God you guys!” I cannot tell if she is laughing or crying. The three of us embrace.

“No, seriously,” I say, “That was cool, but we should probably get on the right side of the road now.”

“Did you see the expression on that javelina’s face as you hit it?” Sandeep grinned, “That shit was hilarious!”

Ah, nothing like the smell of death to make you feel so alive.

Stephanie's bottling the Smell of Death and it should be in stores this fall.

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Posted by Stefi Sparer at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

[CAMERA fade In]

[A crowded, dirty, office meeting room. Trash litters the floor, and stacks of philosophy textbooks prop up the tables and clutter the chairs. Tattered pornography hangs in the windows]

JOSH: Hey, thanks for coming everybody. I know this meeting was impromptu, but we really needed a column idea for this Tuesday, and the deadline is coming up quicker than a freight train on a gimpy squirrel. Oh- sorry, Nutsy.

NUTSY: Yeah, whatever. Ass.

JOSH: Moving right along – I was thinking about something regarding writing good characters: how to develop them, how to really flesh out many competing personalities in just a short segment of writing.

NUTSY: Josh, I have a question.

JOSH: Yes?

NUTSY: You’re a tool.

JOSH: Let it go, Nutsy. Look, I’m just tossing this idea out there – any comments?

DR. HEIFEN: Jah, I theenk is good idea. Characters very important, no? All kinds writing. Verrrry important.

JOSH: Right – no matter what kind of writing you’re doing, the selection, development and use of the characters will be a key factor in the delivery of the story.

DR. HEIFEN: I theenk that most easiest way to show character is with dialogue. Capture how people talk - you show how people think. Make for compelling character, no?

PHILIP: Exactly! Like last night, on American Idol –

NUTSY: Oh don’t be that guy, Philip. Nobody likes that guy.

JOSH: Look, back on topic, please, ok? We have two tests in our classes this week and the less time we spend dicking around, the more time we have for studying.

KEVIN: Psh. Studying? So sorry to distract you from your books, there, Nancy Drew.

JOSH: There's no need for name-calling, Kev.

[NANCY DREW pokes her head into the room]

NANCY: Did somebody need something?

PHILIP: Um, no... but could you get us some coffee?

NANCY: Fuck you, Philip.

[NANCY DREW leaves]

KEVIN: OOoohh, SOMEBODY's still ticked about the office party.

PHILIP: Shut up, Kevin.

JOSH: Guys, PLEASE, we need --

NUTSY: Hey, you guys - you know what I hate? Winter.

KEVIN: Know what I hate? Rodents.

NUTSY: That's it - your nuts are mine!

KEVIN: Fine -just suck my dick while you're down there, Bullwinkle.

NUTSY: What? Bullwinkle wasn't even a squirrel - did someone lobotomise you when you were a child?

JOSH: Shit, guys, SHUT UP! How can we expect to get anything done when you're all running around in here yelling all the time? It's like watching a bunch of monkeys try to fuck a football.

KEVIN: Hey, that football was asking for it - didn't you see the way it was dressed?

[ALL start talking over each other, laughing and throwing paper]
[HOBBES pokes his head into the room]

HOBBES: Josh, could I talk to you? Calvin and I are having a... moment.

JOSH: What, again? Shit... yeah, whatever. It's not like this bunch of cerebral palsy patients was giving me any good material anyway.

[JOSH gets up and starts to leave]

NUTSY: Aw, don't be that guy, Josh. Nobody likes that guy.

[JOSH slams the door shut, fluttering all of the papers in the room with a gust of air]

NUTSY: [stands up, stretches] Later, chumps. I'm going to go check out the memory archives and look at all our ex-girlfriends naked.

[CAMERA zooms out of office window, out of office building into the night sky, above the murky canals and dimly-lit back alleyways; CAMERA gets darker until it fades to black]
[CAMERA pulls out of black and appears to have just exited IAN's left eye]

IAN: Sweet - I think I have an idea for this week's column!

IAN'S GIRLFRIEND: Wasn't that column due, like, an hour ago?

IAN: Don't be that guy, baby. Nobody likes that guy.

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Posted by Ian Birnbaum at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

After a week off, TAFC is back and we're going vroooooom vroooom on this one. It's Car Week at FTTW and we thought long and hard about a poll to go with this one. One of the editors mentioned something about the Batmobile during our weekly board meeting and the light bulb went on. Best cars from movies and tv!

This is almost too easy. There are so many cool cars out there. From McQueen's ride in Bullit to the Flinstonemobile, you've got an awful lot to choose from in making your nominations for this poll.

Our editors give you some of their choices first, then it's up to you to fill out the ballot so we can get a poll up here this weekend.

Coolest cars from movies and TV. Hit it.

Michele has a killer pick:

The Car. Made famous in a 1977 movie called...wait for it......The Car. A creepy, frightening movie about, you guessed it, a car. This slick, black car - a modified 1971 Lincoln Continental Mark III designed by George Barris of Batmobile fame - would just torment people by following them around and running them down. And, this being some small desert town where evil dwells beneath the surface, like in every horror movie ever made, all the townfolks (that’s what they are called in places like this) are quite sure the car is driven by Satan himself.

I swear to you, this car was scary. If you watch this movie today, maybe a souped up Lincoln won’t seem so scary to you. Maybe the movie will seem cheesy and that fog horn that plays every time the car runs someone down will seem hilarious. Hey, at least it didn't play La Cucuracha like my neighbor's car horn does.

But this was circa 1980. What we consider cheesy now was groundbreaking and cool back then.

We never really get why this car was murdering random people in this town. Maybe it just doesn’t like the desert? Maybe it was offended at the way the Indian guy was portrayed? Maybe it hated band geeks or James Brolin's facial hair? Who knows. We got evil, suspense, an explosion, some cool mow-downs, and enough false scares to make some paranoid (read: stoned) teenagers nearly wet their pants. Hey, I said nearly. All that was missing was Yeardley Smith yelling out We made you!

Very cool, if disturbing, car.

-M

Turtle hits the road:

My car is not really a car but it is my pick. Yeah, that's right. A semi. Fuck them. It's no secret to anyone who has been hanging around me lately that I have become addicted to a new video game. And really, this game kicks ass on so many levels that it has made me rethink my prior beliefs on the great American institution called long distance truck driving. The game is 18 Wheeler if anyone cares. It, as a game, has made me think a little harder about choosing a new profession. A noble profession. One of honor and dignity and more than its share of methamphetamine. That's right. I wanna be a trucker. So in honor of this revelation that has been dropped on me like a newborn child's first solid shit, my "car" nominee shall be The Truck From Smokey and the Bandit.

It might have a name. Or not. All I know is that when the fat guy and the midget need some beer transported through state lines without payin' any taxes, Turtle is gonna be the man they call to get that motherfucking Budweiser through.

Pull the horn and drop the hammer. Be it hell or Hell's Angels, Imma getting some hicks drunk tonight.

East bound and down. - T

Dan gets mysterious:

See, I’m not much of a car guy. It wouldn’t be so bad if I was David Hasselhoff or something, hanging out with my hand down my pants while the car brings me my fucking slippers. It wouldn’t be so bad if I was Brandon Walsh with a crapped out Mustang that my rich Dad helps me fix, as long as I learned something from it. It wouldn’t be so bad if I was Inspector Gadget for that matter, falling ass backwards into good luck at every turn.

But you know what? I want a van like The Mystery Machine. A van is freedom. I want to be able to stretch out on the floor. I want to be able to sleep in parking lots and take fourteen people for a drive. I want to beat my small cock and wait for no girls to call me in the middle of the night.

And I want to my van to come with a talking dog and a bunch of pothead hippies who are afraid of ghosts but don’t mind talking to the cops. I would have it so made in that scene. Sharing snacks and telling ghost stories all the time, then hanging out in the van while they deal with the law. What’s that Freddie, you think there’s a ghost out there? Maybe Frankenstein has been hanging out in the abandoned mine shaft again? Hell yeah, I’ll check that out, let’s just hotbox this van one more time first. Officer Shanahan is out there with some questions? He thinks we’re meddling? Yeah, your turn dude. I can hardly keep my eyes open. You’re wearing a fucking ascot for God’s sake, you look respectable. Go work your magic.

Only problem is that you know the music sucks, they’re going to be playing old Beatles and other poppy crap from the 60’s. Maybe some James Taylor in the later episodes. I’ll have to bring some tapes. - D

Finn heads to the bat cave:

The Batmobile -Because if you’re going to own one ride from a TV Show or a movie, you’re gonna want the one with a jet engine, a convertible top and missiles that shoot from the quarter panels. Though it’s gone through a series of transformations (the one from the Fifties, the the cheesy Sixties TV version, even that disgusting piece of crap they pawned off on us in the Clooney movie), the essence of the Batmobile is always there. It’s the ultimate gadget for the man who (literally) has everything and an almost perfect embodiment of using tools to get things done.

For me, the Batmobile has never been cooler than in the Tim Burton Batman movies (although the one in BTAS is a damn, damn close second). It looks like a tank, if a tank was designed by Hugo Boss and designed to be incredibly stylish and pants wetting at the same time. It comes standard with the prerequisite video phone, jet turbine and uber-security system. It plow through crowds and traffic alike and goes from zero to 60 in just under 3 seconds. And even tough the ladies might get a little wet because of the cape and the cowl, they all come running for the car. --F

So that's our picks.....now you tell us your favorite fictional ride. Nominate as many as you want and we will throw the top 20 or so into a poll that will go live on Friday.

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Posted by Michele Christopher at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (40) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

I'll get right down to it: the Nintendo Wii lives up to all the hype that's been heaped upon it like so many mashed potatoes with gravy. White gravy. I can't stand that brown gravy. Does anyone really like that brown gravy? Or is it just cheaper to make? Maybe Wii'll never know. Which brings me back to my original point: the Wii is fucking awesome.

During early development of the Wii, Nintendo called it the "Revolution." Indeed, this little, relatively cheap machine (compared to its next-gen Microsoft and Sony counterparts) marks a true revolution in home gaming. The idea of active gaming, where the player is required to move to perform actions in-game, isn't anything new. I remember going to comic conventions back in the day and playing "virtual reality" games in these big ass helmets. The games looked like shit, but you actually had to move around inside this little podium they set up to play. Then arcades were hit with a storm of skiing and snowboarding games, where you stood on a platform and could manipulate it with body motion that mimicked the act of skiing or snowboarding. Next was Dance Dance Revolution, which took active gaming to the fat-burning level. Kids actually lose weight doing this stuff—I shit you not. Integrating physical action into the video game experience is not an innovation—it's been around for quite some time.

What is an innovation is the way the Wii executes this integration. It uses motion-sensing technology to interpret the movement of the Wii-mote and corresponding Nunchuk into real-time actions on-screen. This means exactly what you think: endless possibilities. Upon unwrapping your brand new Wii (or slightly used Wii if you go on eBay like I did) you'll find a copy of Wii Sports (unless the guy selling the slightly used Wii is a complete fucking cheapskate and keeps the copy of the FREE fucking game for himself and slips an old Bananarama CD into the sleeve so that at a polite glance it looks like the game is there. The bastard) which contains a collection of sports simulations including golf, baseball, bowling, tennis, and boxing. Bowling is the most fun, hands down. You swing the Wii-mote in the exact same way as you would bowl a bowling ball. You use other buttons to adjust where your shot is going. You can put spin of any kind on the ball. It's simply amazing.

I'll be honest, I haven't played much else. I started The Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess, but haven't gotten too far because I usually start it after ten or twelve games of Wii Bowling, and I'm pretty drunk by then, because it's like a rule or something that you have to drink while you bowl. I don't know, I read it somewhere. Anyway, in Twilight Princess, you can use your right hand to slice with your sword, and your left to use your shield. Think of how many times kids in our generation (that's kids born between 1976 and 1986 for those older FTTW readers (and editors)) dreamed of being able to do something like this. And now, here it is.

The big downfall of this system is the launch lineup. Not too impressive. Trust me—you'll find plenty of games that will make investment in this machine well worth your while. But there are simply too many licensed titles. Every cute movie from Happy Feet to Open Season has a spot on the Wii lineup. While these games appeal to children (which has been Nintendo's target market for its machines for years) I worry that Nintendo isn't paying enough attention to the needs of long-time gamers (not the same as hard-core gamers) and that it will hurt them in the end.

True, the Wii isn't a system for hard-core gamers. People who worry about frame rates and HD need to go with the 360 or the PS3. The Wii is a system for everyone. As I type, my girlfriend is playing Wii tennis. And this broad HATES video games. But this is the second time a product from Nintendo has enticed her to spend substantial time playing video games (the first was the handheld DS). We're waiting for two friends to come over so we can play a few frames of Wii bowling. The Wii takes video gaming back to its roots, when entire parties could be built around video games (and I'm not talking about LAN parties—I'm talking about real parties with chicks and beer (no offense to folks who have LAN parties with chicks and beer)). I know for a fact that the next time my mom is in town, she'll be surprised and probably even enjoy playing the Wii. It's that good.

Wii is a great name. It lends itself easily to branding, and has already been used cleverly within the system setup (avatars you create to represent you or other players are called Miis). But Revolution would have been the best name to describe this machine. It will change the way the world views video entertainment forever. Who would believe you if, seven years ago, you said that Nintendo would one day make Microsoft and Sony its bitch both at the same time? Only crazy people and drug addicts—that's who.

It's been so exciting, I have to recall the moment I got my hands on other systems from days of yore. There are three I can remember as monumental:

1. Nintendo Entertainment System

This was the first year I decided I didn't believe in Santa Claus. I was seven years old. I woke up and my parents took me into the living room. I walked in and saw the opening screen to Super Mario Bros. Fucking magical. I just looked at my folks. I had to say thank you. Because Santa, you're cool, but I know who really got this for me. And that's when my love affair with video games began.

2. Nintendo Gameboy

Wait—I can play Final Fantasy in the car?!?! Oh, it's just dull green pixels. Wait, here come accessories! A LightBoy! Now I can play anytime in the car—even if it's dark! The original Gameboy, while not really great on the eyes, was the first time my generation really got our hands on a worthwhile portable gaming system. I spent hours with this machine, mostly on Final Fantasy Legends. It saved me from boredom in so many situations—long drives, going with my mom to trade shows, even sitting on the toilet was transformed into an ass kicking experience if you had your Gameboy and plenty of batteries.

3. Playstation

I didn't drink in high school, so when I graduated, some friends and me went to a party, made fun of the drunks for awhile, then went back to my buddy's house for the night. I played a card game called Booray all night with his older brothers. Even though I had no fucking idea what I was doing, I won about $200. The next day, I went out and bought a Playstation. This was a great system, no question. But the reason it means so much to me? Final Fantasy VII. Those of you who have played it know what I'm talking about.

So take this time to share your video game memories. And feel free to ask me questions about the Wii. But I guarantee you, this is the first game console in years that appeals to gamers of every level, and maybe the first console ever to appeal to people that aren't gamers. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to kick this broad's ass in Wii baseball.

Uberchief giggles like a schoolgirl every time he says "Wii"

Posted by Branden Hart at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (14) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

there is a school of thought that puts forth the proposition that there is no such thing as fear; there is only confusion. and while that may seem preposterous at first - or even like some kind of hyper-macho credo - upon further reflection, i am inclined to agree. but you should understand that some of these moments are profoundly more confusing than others, and some will leave much deeper scars on the brain.

i got this one scar when i was driving south in a '69 mercedes benz 250…solid steel, black with blood red velvet interior. i had just crossed the Pennsylvania border when i noticed water soaking the carpet beneath my feet. in the rearview, i could see the alligator's head through a hole about the size of a basketball in the backseat.

i cut the wheel hard to the left and stopped the car in the gravel alongside the interstate. the gator tracked me from left to right as i leaned over to grab a roll of duct tape from the glove box. when i opened the rear door to deal with the problem, the animal gave a slow guttural growl before lunging for my forearm. i grabbed a fireplace poker from the floor behind the driver's seat and chased the beast back into the dark confines of the trunk before taping the hole shut with a healthy amount of duct tape. with any luck, it would patch the hole and keep the alligator confused enough to remain silent until i made the delivery.

it was just after i finished my patchwork, when i was stuffing the dynamite back into the glove box, that i noticed him. he was rustling around in the weeds and empty beer cans along the highway. our eyes locked once he made it onto the asphalt. he stood about knee-high, bald-headed, covered in tattoos and mud, wearing a diaper. after a moment of disbelief, i threw a stick of dynamite at him, but he knocked it aside and let loose this snarling scream and ran at me full-bore. i slammed the driver's door shut and heard him smash against the black steel.

i stomped on the gas. the benz sputtered and wheezed, finally kicking gravel and gripping the road underneath as i lurched it back onto the highway. the gator growled again and thrashed violently as the car picked up speed. i could hear its teeth and claws tearing at the duct tape, ripping it loose from the red velvet. it was when i turned to look at the back seat that i saw that foul dwarf again, running alongside the car just outside the passenger door. as i was about to throw it down into second, he jumped through the open window and bit my arm, clamping down and locking his jaw. i shook the vicious little bastard wildly and heard another rip from the back seat and another low guttural growl. more water spilled onto the floorboard near my feet. i brought the midget forward - still attached to my arm - and smashed his skull against the dash, then wrenched him backwards toward the backseat. i heard the dull thud of flesh and bone against glass as he smashed into the rear window. the gator by now was completely out of the trunk and lying prone across the backseat. the dwarf crawled from the window and stepped down, unaware of the animal. i could hear him yelping and the gator slapping it's tail on the back of my seat as i reached for the glove box. i grabbed a hammer by its rubber handle and swung behind me, never taking my eyes off the road. we were nearing 100. i heard an eggshell-like crack and felt the claw of the hammer catch and grab something like soft earth.

and then silence.

i breathed easy because i was on my way again and no longer confused.

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Posted by Johnny St. Clair at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

For those of you who don’t read my blog (1) or haven’t been by in a while, my wife’s early Valentine’s Day present (2) to me (and, to herself) is a nice evening out in Atlanta to see G3 2007 (3).

[I hate it when there are so many hotlinks stacked in an opening paragraph, so I’ll provide citation: (1) My blog; (2) The entry on my blog where I talk about said present; (3) Joe Satriani’s G3 page.]

Dudes. Check out the name of the column. This concert is like Mecca to me. I am such a fan of these three guitarists in particular, I am nearly bursting my seams waiting for this show. I watch the 2005 G3DVD and listen to the CD pretty often.

So, over the next few weeks, helping build up more anticipation for me than any show could possibly deliver, I’m going to talk about the different guitarists and other aspects of G3. This week I’m going to talk about Paul Gilbert.

Paul Gilbert is lumped in with a lot of different guitarists – sometimes it’s honest, sometimes it’s unfair.

When in Racer X in the mid-80s, he made a name for himself as one of the fastest guitarists in heavy metal. Scarified is considered by many to be one of the best heavy metal instrumentals of 80s.

The other thing that has endured Gilbert to a wide audience is his sense of humor. Manifesting in quirky licks, songs, stage outfits and a truly hilarious Web site.

Gilbert has earned comparisons to some of heavy metal’s “royalty” such as Joe Satriani, Steve Vai, but especially Yngwie Malmsteen. This comparison to Yngwie resulted in the Racer X instrumental YRO (Yngwie Rip Off). Most of this comparison is due to the fact that he studied at the Guitar Institute for a year; the institute using the chops of the aforementioned guitarists as curricula. Gilbert has instructed at GIT and is now the unofficial dean of the MI Japan schools.

Thus, those comparisons come honest. However, he has earned some comparisons that aren’t quite as kind. See, Gilbert is also co-responsible for Mr. Big. Because of he and Billy Sheehan, we have been cursed with I’m the One Who Wants to be With You. Well … everyone makes mistakes. Especially 80s and 90s era metal bands. And even though they gave us that song, there was a hell of a lot of good tunes they put out. Sheehan is a superbassist, you know.

Anyway, check out his stuff, check out his site, and enjoy yourself. It won’t be hard.

Paul Gilbert does a recent version of Scarified:

Watch the bass player rock that Rickenbacker bass!

Here’s a bass solo by Billy Sheehan and later Paul Gilbert comes out and they have a guitar vs. bass duel (it’s very long – drums kick in and Gilbert joins at around 6 minutes).

Who the hell has a scalloped fretboard on the bass? Billy freakin’ Sheehan.

And this is just amazing.

Type “Paul Gilbert” into You Tube and find some other great videos.

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Posted by Cullen James at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Some of the greatest moments in film are not visual. They are the crux of important story changes, they are the words that propel the story forward and endure us to those who speak them. Words carefully written by the writer, and spoken by the actor. Think about it. What would JAWS be without Quint's eerie monologue about the fate on the USS Indianapolis?

“And the idea was, the shark nearest man and then he'd start poundin' and hollerin' and screamin' and sometimes the shark would go away. Sometimes he wouldn't go away. Sometimes that shark, he looks right into you. Right into your eyes. You know the thing about a shark, he's got... lifeless eyes, black eyes, like a doll's eye. When he comes at ya, doesn't seem to be livin'. Until he bites ya and those black eyes roll over white. And then, ah then you hear that terrible high pitch screamin' and the ocean turns red and spite of all the poundin' and the hollerin' they all come in and rip you to pieces.”

Those kind of moments where the actor takes the written word, makes it their own, and volia, serendipity strikes and we end up with one of the greatest moments in film.

There are lots of these examples, moments where you can feel the moment. Like in The Shawshank Redemption where Red tells us how Andy got away.

“In 1966, Andy Dufresne escaped from Shawshank prison. All they found of him was a muddy set of prison clothes, a bar of soap, and an old rock hammer, damn near worn down to the nub. I used to think it would take six-hundred years to tunnel under the wall with it. Old Andy did it in less than twenty. Oh, Andy loved Geology, I guess it appealed to his meticulous nature. An ice age here, million years of mountain building there. Geology is the study of pressure and time. That's all it takes really, pressure, and time. That, and a big god-damned poster. Like I said, in prison a man will do anything to keep his mind occupied. It turns out Andy's favourite hobby was totin' his wall through the exercise yard, a handful at a time. I guess after Tommy was killed, he decided he had been here just about long enough. Andy did like he was told, buffed those shoes to a high mirror shine. The guard simply didn't notice, neither did I... I mean, seriously, how often do you really look at a mans shoes? Andy crawled to freedom through five-hundred yards of shit smelling foulness I can't even imagine, or maybe I just don't want too. Five-Hundred yards... that's the length of five football fields, just shy of half a mile.”

I love these moments in films. They are the brilliant little things that make a moment. In a lot, if not most films today, that seems to be the one thing that’s missing. Story, it seems, gets cast aside for effects, action and general BS that passes or tries to pass a cinema. When is the last time you saw a film and felt, literally felt an emotion just based on the words being spoken? Its far and few between, and some people think bad chatty dialogue passes muster, when in fact, its just a cheap string of words tossed together in hope of it making sense. When did great little moments like James Earl Jones in Field of Dreams telling Costner that people will come?

Ray, people will come Ray. They'll come to Iowa for reasons they can't even fathom. They'll turn up your driveway not knowing for sure why they're doing it. They'll arrive at your door as innocent as children, longing for the past. Of course, we won't mind if you look around, you'll say. It's only $20 per person. They'll pass over the money without even thinking about it: for it is money they have and peace they lack. And they'll walk out to the bleachers; sit in shirtsleeves on a perfect afternoon. They'll find they have reserved seats somewhere along one of the baselines, where they sat when they were children and cheered their heroes. And they'll watch the game and it'll be as if they dipped themselves in magic waters. The memories will be so thick they'll have to brush them away from their faces. People will come Ray. The one constant through all the years, Ray, has been baseball. America has rolled by like an army of steamrollers. It has been erased like a blackboard, rebuilt and erased again. But baseball has marked the time. This field, this game: it's a part of our past, Ray. It reminds of us of all that once was good and it could be again. Oh... people will come Ray. People will most definitely come.”

Those are the moments that hold a whole film together for everyone. It’s the parts that reach inside of you and never leave. I wonder why these moments are so far and few between nowadays. Writers getting more hack-ish? Studios cutting down on the great chit chat? Who knows. Lots of actors think they know how to deliver, but in truth they do not. It’s a sad little fact. If “To Kill a Mockingbird” was made for the first time today, the only person they could cast as Atticus Finch, in my mind would be Alec Baldwin. Say that you will, but he can deliver the goods. Just watch “The Cooler” “State and Main” or “ Glenngarry Glenn Ross”. Now that I think of it, so could Matthew McConaughey. In “A Time To Kill” he gave one of the most moving performances of his career to date. As that young Atticus like lawyer in a heated racial trial. Its one of the few books made into a film that I like the adaptation of. Not a lot can top his summation during the trial to the jury with his monologue. I totally digress.

So what are you favorite moments of well used words in a film? What are the ones that stand out to you? I leave you with this:

Atticus Finch: There are some things that you're not old enough to understand just yet. There's been some high talk around town to the effect that I shouldn't do much about defending this man.

Scout: If you shouldn't be defending him, then why are you doing it?

Atticus Finch: For a number of reasons. The main one is that if I didn't, I couldn't hold my head up in town. I couldn't even tell you or Jem not to do somethin' again.

[he puts his arm around her]

Atticus Finch: You're gonna hear some ugly talk about this in school. But I want you to promise me one thing: That you won't get into fights over it, no matter what they say to you.

Archives

Posted by Jay Scott at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (6) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Here we are a week later, and things here on the mountain are just as crazy if not worse than last week! I hope that everyone had an absolutely wonderful holiday whether cuddling with a loved one or drinking your sorrows away with a group of single compatriots. Personally I am not a fan of Valentines Day; it just seems a very un-inclusive holiday. Especially for the single folk out there. I spent the entire evening working here on the mountain and while quite dull it was not a waste of my time… I was earning money after all! Me and romance however, are not agreeing. At least not just now anyway, but I have faith that someday I will find myself happily in love, with all the benefits and drawbacks that go with it. For those of you curious about my last relationship, we both moved in different directions and decided to part ways. It was sad, but necessary for each of us in order to grow and move forward. So, onward and upward, as my friend Nick says, so we will move forward with this week’s article.

OH! A quick side note, for those of you interested in what happened after my article “El Bandito”. The vet called me the day after I brought him home and told me that he had not received any of his shots, and that he needed to get them and to bring the dog back through the snow to pay them fifty bucks for shots he hadn’t received on time, so I told the vet to stick it and I would get his shots at the local vet in the town I lived in, thank you very much! I thought it might give a few of you a giggle to know that the vet was not on the ball. But bandit got his shots and we lived happily ever after!

Ok then, that’s done, let me see, what to talk about… How about we chat a bit about neighbors, the good, the bad, and the frighteningly ugly! I have bounced about Vermont for just about I’d say 15 or so years and I have lived among many weird people and also some very scary very NORMAL people. I recall living once with a wonderfully accommodating yet DEVOUT elderly catholic woman, who would wake every morning at 4am to have her morning prayers with the nuns on ETWN, at least I think that’s the religion channel.

She was very sweet, and totally clueless about my orientation, and that suited me just fine. I recall one day being invited to join her and her family for dinner, arriving at the table and being surprised to see an old flame of mine sitting across from me. It was uncomfortable, and he acted as though we were strangers so I played the part well and after dinner I stepped out to smoke a cigarette, and found him there on the porch with one himself. In hushed tones he told me that he knew who I was, but that his family did not know about his extra curricular activities. I understood completely, however it did make me a bit sad, to not have your family know who you are deep inside seemed very lonely to me. I suppose I was lucky that I knew and told my folks about my orientation when I was about ten years old. I grew up with a loving and caring support ring about me, and they knew who I was deep inside and I knew that I was loved for all that I am and all that I could be. Looking back it may not have felt much like that at the time, but I was very, very lucky to have parents that could accept and move away from the fact that I was a budding little queer. Thus, allowing me to grow into the unique individual that I am.

I also once had a really neat and handsome next door neighbor named “Buster” it wasn’t his real name I suppose but that man was one of my early crushes, he and I bonded by watching “Jerry Springer” every morning while drinking beer on my days off. He introduced me to the “Playstation” game console and the wonders of “Final Fantasy VII” we had a lot of fun adventures, and he was the first person I ever leaned on to cry that was not related to me. He also introduced me to the hilarity of porn in fast forward. (A funny thing to see, people actually ‘doing it’ LIKE bunnies!)

Funny enough there was a crazy couple that lived in the apartment below Buster, who were the epitome of crazy! I recall one evening the two of them got intoxicated and were yelling at one another when the woman decided to hide out in my home! She ran upstairs and into my living room and locked the door behind her! Her husband came up and pounded on the door until the blue lights were seen on the street. That marks the first time I have ever had to deal with a policeman in my home. He managed to get the squatting crazy lady out of my home and peace was restored soon… Goodness; sometimes those memories seem like yesterday, and other times it seems like a lifetime ago.

I also rather recently have been suffering from a crazy neighbor that does things only an insane person seems to do. Among other things, she parks her car on the front lawn despite the fact that she has been told repeatedly not to, from what I know from my rental company, she has not paid her rent in months, yet recently purchased a new car, and when the noise is a little loud, instead of politely calling or coming to the door to ask that the noise be kept down she simply calls the police for a noise complaint, a half hour after the town “Quiet hours” begins. Seems a bit excessive eh? Anyway enough of that as with everything in life time will heal it all and it will be over. I won’t have to deal with them again! Hehe!

I think I have had one neighbor or roommate that I truly feel I could live with again. That would be the now infamous JaWa. He and I had many adventures together, and we lived really well… Our friendship has been a weird and marvelous session of give and take. What one of us needs, the other seems to have in gross amounts, so that when one of us needs a place to live, the other has the car that will bring us both to work. When one of us had a glass of milk, the other seems to have the perfect cookies to go with it. It is funny sometimes how it seems to even out over time. Anyone else have a friend like that?

In closing for the week I would like to remind us all that everything comes to an end one way or another, whether as a happy ever after, or as a tragic and sad parting of ways, Either way we continue to move forward, and that’s what “Time marches on.” means to me. I hope you all find happiness in the coming week, and don’t worry about me, I’m a drag queen what do I know?

Matthew needs a new neighborhood. Archives

Posted by Matthew Chase at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (7) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

It's Car Week here at FTTW!

Yes, we are starting our week on Saturday instead of Monday. We can do that. Our bylaws say so. Right under the "you must be here three months to access the moonshine still" rule.

Tomorrow, we're going to have a really fun car poll as The Almost Final Countdown comes back. And we'll have some fun car stuff the rest of the week as well. Yep, we remember when we used to write about cars a lot (it's how FTTW got started, after all) and we miss it as much as you. So you're gonna get a full dose of the vroom vroom stuff this coming week.

We're gonna start you off with our editor's picks. This week's theme is loose - we just said - write something cool about cars. At least three of us are writing about our "favorite" crashes.

You'll notice that there are five editor's picks this week instead of four. Please welcome Dan of Don't Go In There as the newest editor of FTTW. HI DAN!

And now, on with the car crash show. -M

I've been in quite a few car wrecks in my time, but this one is still fresh in my mind. Let's go back to March 2006 (inster wavy lines here).

It is a Friday. The last day of the most stressful week of my entire life. No exaggeration there. I am frazzled, on edge and probably within inches of beating a random person just for the hell of it. Hell week, as it were. And it ends like this:

I'm driving home from work, headed east on a four lane road. I have ODB on the stereo and I'm a little jacked up on caffeine and sleepless nights and stress. My senses are heightened. Ever tweak? That's what this feels like. My hair is standing up on end. I'm ready to jump out of my skin. There's something in the air. Something's gonna happen. I can taste the electricity on my tongue. It tastes like battery acid.

I do a little ass shaking in my seat as Baby I Got Your Money ends. I change XM stations and ODB morphs into Black Flag as I drive across a main intersection. Up in front of me, a school bus has stopped. It's facing against me. Westbound. It's got flashing lights going and its stop sign is moved out from the bus like a long arm of the law. And you listen to that arm. It says that traffic going in all directions must make a full stop and wait for the bus driver to turn the lights off and retract that long arm before proceeding. That's the law.

The car in front of me stops.

I stop.

The car behind me stops.

I glance in my rear view mirror. The utility truck coming across the intersection? It's not gonna stop.

I know what's going to happen before it actually does. I watch an ugly scene unfold in my mirror. The truck plows into the car behind me.

And then I brace myself for the inevitable. I know what's coming. I remember that you are supposed to go slack at a time like this. Don't tense up. You'll suffer less damage that way. Well, hell. I'm already tensed up. There is no chance of my body - having been in fight mode all week long - going slack, not even with the knowledge of what's coming. I see the car coming at me, the truck pushing it forward like Mr. Plow pushes snow. Slack is not an option here. I'm stiffer than...well, I'm stiff.

I watch. I wait. I know that car behind me is going to be plunged forward. I know it's gonna smash right into me. I do a brief mental check. No holes in my underwear. I shaved my legs this morning. I figure I'm going to go through the windshield (yes, I was wearing a seatbelt and yes, I was being over dramatic). This all has taken place in about ten seconds, by the way. It's amazing what your mind can conjure up when you think you are about to become airborne through some glass. Or killed. Or crushed.

And then it happens. Basically, the car behind me fucks my car up the ass. That's what I am thinking as I lurch forward on impact. Automobile butt sex. That's going to be my dying thought. Thank Christ no one but me knows that.

I'm not even close to going through the window, though. Really, the whole crash part of the incident is kind of anti-climatic. My car moves about two feet forward. Stops. Still running. Rollins still singing on the stereo. I sit there and take stock of what's happened. I'm more pissed than hurt. All the fear seeps out of me and is replaced with renewed stress, anger, annoyance, desire to kill random people, etc. The whole damn week comes rushing back at me and I decide that this guy driving the truck - and not some random, innocent hobo - is going to suffer the consequences of it all.

I get out of the car. The lady in the car behind me is holding her neck and moaning. Typical post-accident stance. I go see if she's ok, she says she's fine, but she's sure something bad happened to her neck or back. She's laying it on pretty thick and looking around to make sure any available witnesses hear her moans and cries. Some guy is calling 911.

So here comes the jackass truck driver. I look at him and just shake my head like you do at a kid who disappointed you by sticking bugs in the microwave.

He says: "What? You came to a stop in the middle of the fucking road!" I hear Turtle's voice in my head. Calm Michele. Remain calm.

I say, very slowly: "There was a school bus stopped here."

He says: "Where?"

Ok, this is going well. I explain to him that there was a stopped school bus. He looks confused. I explain again, using my best "you must be retarded" voice, that you must stop for a school bus when the lights are flashing. That confused look on his face again. He insists there were no flashing lights. Then he says he was distracted by the sound of a horn beeping. Then he says it's not his fault. Then he starts blaming everything but his own stupidity. Sun glare. Cross traffic. Global warming. Aliens. As he's blabbering about who else is to blame for his mistake, it dawns on me that he has the look and mannerisms of what Beavis would be like grown up. As he talks, I just see Beavis. He's making another excuse, something about the space time continuum, I think. I walk away from him because I'm about ready to kick him in the nuts. I call Turtle because I need my nerves calmed.

The cops arrive and we all pull our vehicles over to the side of the road. We're standing outside of our cars, just waiting for the cops to finish talking to the drama queen with the alleged broken neck, spine, legs and uterus. I swear that's what she said.

Beavis comes over to me, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his dirty jeans. He looks like a chagrined child who just realized that maybe putting ants in the microwave to see if god would save them was not a good idea. See, god doesn't save them. And god doesn't save idiots from themselves.

"I guess you're kind of mad at me?" he says.

I stare at him. "Mad? I get mad at people I know. I don't know you. I just think you're an idiot."

He comes closer, looks at the ID I'm wearing on a chain around my neck. "Oh you work at the court, huh?" I say nothing.

He stares down my shirt. I move over about five feet. He follows me.

"So it's Friday. You headed home or what?" That Beavis look on his face. Still staring blatantly stares down my shirt.

I'm thinking "What the fuck?" but not saying a word. I zipper up my jacket and go over to inspect the damage to my car. Beavis follows, starts to say something to me, but the cop comes over and asks for his license, registration and insurance. Beavis chooses D: none of the above. The cop is obviously annoyed by this. I think of Beavis singing. Breakin the Law, breakin the law!

I go sit in my car for twenty minutes while paperwork is filled out. I wait, I wait, I wait. Beavis paces back and forth by my car, glancing in and giving me strange looks. Then the cops call in his info, all the time shaking their head or calling him back to yell at him. He has no answers to their questions. He seems to not know a hell of a lot more than he knows. He keeps walking past my car and looking in, smiling. Weird smile. Like "I just fucked with your head and I am really enjoying that." Creepy.

The cops finally give me back my license. I can go home now. End this fucking day. End this fucking week. There is a bottle of Jack Daniels at home with my name on it and I am planning on bathing in it when I walk in the door.

I start my car and I see Beavis is sitting in the squad car. The policemen are going through his work truck. Searching it with purpose and determination. Beavis's weird grin is gone.

I drive past the squad car, roll down my window and give Beavis - and the whole damn week, by extension - the finger.

Posted by Michele Christopher at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Car wrecks.

I've been in a lot of them. I have no idea why but these kinda things happened to me like once a fucking year. Seriously, I really get tired of these. Yeah, the Valentine's Curse I had was funny to look at but really, that curse really sucked. If you guys don't know what the Valentines Curse is, I'll explain it.

Every year on that day, I get hit by a car. Don't ask me why*.

So I don't go out anymore on that day.

But since this isn't really one of those stories, let's move on.

My brother was in town. Don't ask me why. I stopped asking questions a long time ago about things like this. But for some reason, he met me out of town. Like thirty miles out of town. Weird. He was going to a show and really needed me to drive his girlfriend's car into town because he was scared to drive in the city. Ok. This is when it gets really weird. He stole his girlfriend's car from a town about an hour and half away and drove to meet me in the pouring rain. I took the car on the outside of town while my brother and my friend slammed back cheap beer in the back seat.

See, that wasn’t that hard to get.

Anyways, we drove through the Bay Bridge and everything was fine. I only had a few beers in me, so it was all cool, but I was going to get drunk before the show started. They needed to know that by the end of the show, someone else would have to drive the car back.

The rain started coming down harder as the radio blasted "I'm only happy when it rains." Don't ask me who sings that. All I knew was to keep driving. We hit the city, found the place and sat in this old car, drinking the rest of our beer and doing cocaine. When we were done, we wandered in. I met some of my friends inside and the show went off.

No big deal, but I was fucking drunk as fuck. I handed the keys to my friend. He was drunker than me. Well fuck. This isn't going to work. My brother trembled at the the thought of driving in the city. Someone had to drive. So it looked like it was up to me.

Before we go any farther I want to say I do not condone drunk driving, nor do I think it is funny in anyway. I think people who do it are incredibly selfish. I, myself, have had three DUIs and those were only the times I have been caught. Anytime I talk about breaking the law, remember there were always consequences for my actions.

*Insert the evils of drugs and alcohol here*

I started the car. My friend was passed out in the back and my brother was happy as a motherfucker that he was in a city. I was closing one eye to find the bridge.

I had asked a friend to follow us home in is car, you know, stay behind us so he could cover me. His little red car followed. I had this made. I hit the pass and on the bridge. "I'm only happy when it rains." That fucking song again.

I know a lot of you are probably familiar with the Bay Bridge, but if you aren't, it is a two-tiered bridge that spans the bay. Designed by two different guys. The first part of the bridge stops in the middle when it hits Yuerba Buena Island. Then you go through a tunnel on the island to get to the second part of the bridge. When you get off the second part, depending on which way you are going, you either hit Oakland, San Francisco or Berkeley.

That really has nothing to do with the story, so let's move on.

That song kept playing as I hit the first part of the bridge. Ok. We can do this. And when I say "We" I mean "I". One eye closed with someone screaming in my ear about how cool the show was, another one in the back snoring and my ears being blasted with this one song. The first part of the bridge was ending. The rain was pouring. My friend who was following me decided it was time to pass me.

We hit the island underpass and it was flooded. The car started to hydroplane. I could feel it happening. No one else knew what was happening. My lungs took a deep breath as I looked over to make sure everyone was belted down.

Don't get me wrong. This wasn't like a long gaze. This was an "Oh fuck!" gaze.

Everyone was belted.

We started to spin.

Oh, just fucking great.

We slammed the wall. My friend’s head nailed the side of the door. 90 mile per hour spin in the middle of the busiest fucking bridge in Northern California. Shitfaced drunk and blocking traffic. Three drunks in a smashed up old Ford with empty 40s of King Cobra lying on the seats.

See, this kinda shit is when I work my best. This isn't like light a cigarette and survey the situation type shit. This is when you need to think, and think fucking fast.

My friend’s car stopped in front of us. He came running back. I flipped the ignition. No bueno. I tried it again. It is going to work. I know it. Dammit. Calm down. Think this through. Cars were pulling up behind me. My friend asks me if we are all ok. "We are good enough for now. Take these empties and throw them off the bridge." My little, fat friend grabbed all the bottles he could hold and ran for the bridge.

Situation one was taken care of.

Ok, now we gotta get this piece of shit of the road before a cop comes. More cars backed up. Ok, turtle. You need to think. Another quarter mile of pushing this car to the off ramp of Yerba Buena Island or another DUI. I tried to push the car, but it wasn't working. The axle was totally bent. Well, not totally, but there was no way I could push this. My friend in the back was screaming he had a concussion while still laughing about the whole thing. My brother leaving with my other friend. Oh. well. fuck.

Gotta keep moving.

Just then some limo driver opened up his door. Some totally wasted out of his mind cocaine dude. He came up and looked at the car. "You guys need to get this out of here." Well fucking thanks for the update J. Edgar, we kinda know this. He got in the car and tried to start it. Then flipped the trunk, pulled off the fuzzy thing that covers it, pushed a button, and the car started. Well, started is not really a good description of it. But, it was rolling.

I managee to get it to the center island, turn it off and park it. Sparks were flying as I did it, but it happened. We made it. Grabbing my friend and the rest of the empties, we abandoned the car and ran up a hill, just to sit and think about our next step. We were in the middle of the fucking bay with a car that was shooting sparks.

Ok. Hold on.

Let me savor the moment of crisis number two being over before we start on number three.

Well, I had about a minute before crisis number three hit me. Getting off the bridge and staying out of jail. We both drank our 40s so if a cop came, we could say we just started drinking right when we got here cause of the stress. I do not know if that gets you out of a DUI. I really think that might be an urban legend. So don't quote me on that one cause I don't really know. But our big problem now was getting out of the middle of a fucking bay.

A tow truck driver came by and asked us if we needed help.

No, we just like the island and decided to crash our car here to look at the new homes.

So, he picked us up and drove us back to our starting ground. Well, my starting ground. Remember this wasn't my brother’s car. He stole it from his girlfriend. He lived another hour or so away. We had to get it back there.

Welcome to crisis number four.

Ok, I needed some sleep bad, but the sun was coming up. No car at her house in the morning equals bad things. This has to be done now. I called in a favor to a friend and had it towed to his place. But I was doing bad. Really, the wreck might have actually done damage to me, but I just didn't care. Something else was happening to me now. Sobering up. Really, the alcohol makes your teeth chatter as it goes through you and away from your body. You can really feel it leave you as you start to sober up. This had been a long night and I was about to go into seizure mode. I can feel when they are coming on. I needed a beer bad or a drink or something because I was seeing those little white circles. I popped Librium so I wouldn't end up in the ER looking up at mom crying over me. I needed a drink but it wasn't 6am yet.

So Librium will have to do. Don't get me wrong, Librium doesn’t get you high. Not at all. It is for when your body is just about at the seizure state. You can not detox without them. Well, you can, but chances are you will be in the hospital and dah dah dah...

So I needed a drink and I needed to fix this car. We got to the shop and my friend was drinking. He handed me a bottle of Captain Morgan’s and I took a long pull as he checked out the car. Axle. Bent. Money. Bottle. What happened?

Just give me a second til this hits me. Please?

The liquor entered my blood stream and I felt my senses coming back. He wanted to know how good friends I was with the owner of the car.

What?

How good friends was I with her?

I dunno. Why?

He could get this fucker running back to where I needed to get it.

Ok hero. How you going to do that?

He pulled out a torch and a crowbar and twisted the metal back into place. Hey dude. Don't ask me what he did. I had to go out to ask other people just to tell me what the button the coked up limo guy pushed to get the car started was , so don't ask me what the fuck my friend was doing.

Well, anyways. I dropped the car off to my brother and just told him good fucking riddance. You know those sad eyes when you steal your chick’s car and his brother wrecks it and then fixes it with a blowtorch and a crowbar? You guys all know those looks?

Well, I don't blame you.

I just gave him the keys and went inside. Turning on the stereo, I let my mind wander.

Just as I was about to fall asleep....

"I'm only happy when it rains..."

God, I hate that song. - T

*curse broken in 2007

Turtle issues the standard disclaimer with this one.

Posted by Turtle Jones at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Boys and girls, this is the story of my first car ever. I will fully admit that this is really only a "funny if you were there" kinda story.

So this all happened like 10 years ago. I used to have this beat up old truck -- a 1987 GMC S15. It was beige. The beige was painted by hand -- you could still see the fuckin brush strokes. Anyway, one summer day I'm hanging out with my friends Tori, Jonathan, Amy, and Shannon. We were over at Shannon's house, and her mom came home and, well, her mom's insane. So we left, sans Shannon, because her Mom felt like flipping out on her. So we went over to Amy's house. More good times. I'm all about fire and we had a bonfire and had much fun. Burgers, smores, lots of combustible hydrocarbons went into the fire. Then, it was time to go. We started piling into my crappy truck. I got in on the driver's side, then Tori on the passenger side and scooted to the middle. Jonathan got in by plopping down -- directly on Tori's hand, which was resting on the seatbelt for the moment. We heard that little bastard pop and it almost immediately started bruising. Jonathan and I, appropriately, began freaking the fuck out. But she was like "it's ok, let's just go home." We do just that.

The next day, I was laying catatonically on my bed, one with the television, as I was wont to do on Sunday afternoons in the summer. Cause, you know, it was fuckin hot and I was fat. Lo and behold, I get a call from Tori, who is holding the phone with her freshly broken hand. Told ya we should have gone to the doctor.

That event garnered my truck the diabolical moniker "The Truck of Pain." She wouldn't even go near it, except to form a cross with her fingers and yell "TRUCK OF PAIN! TRUCK OF PAIN!" at it. Pretty metal, if you ask me.

I had that truck for another year. It finally died, and I got a nice new Ford Ranger as a replacement, because dad had to live up to a promise he made to me in fourth grade that said if I got a full ride to college, I got a car. Goddamn right I called him on it! Anyway, this truck was much nicer than my old pieceofshit. So nice, in fact, that I danced a jig in the bed when I first showed Tori, Shannon, and Amy. It was, from then on, named "The Truck of Mirth and Merriment." My brother got that truck eventually and wrecked it. Dumbass.

Good times.

-Baby Huey

Posted by Baby Huey at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

I can’t remember exactly how old I was, but I couldn’t have been older than 18. Which means that it was too long ago for the coppers to bust me for it, so it’s all good.

I left the house with Mom’s car at about 6:00. Lit a joint two intersections from the house. I was pretty high by the time I got to Kirk’s house, halfway across my little town. He jumped in and we went for another joint or two, way the hell up this dirt road in the middle of nowhere. One of those places for smoking dope and dumping the body. Kirk pulled out a little pill bottle, filled with these little white tablets. Codeine phosphate. You know that shit in prescription cough medicine that dopes you up and knocks you out, the wimpy brother of morphine and heroin? Yeah, well he’s still pretty tough. We crushed one up and threw it in the pipe.

At that point we figured it was a good idea to go pick up another friend, Tyrone. Kirk and I downed two more codeine each and off we went, back into town. Kirk fell on Tyrone’s front steps and cut his forehead open, so he had to go in the house and clean up while mumbling semi coherent bullshit to Tyrone’s hyper-inquisitive Mom.

“Kirk, have you been drinking?”

“No, I just lost my balance is all, that’s all.”

“Kirk, you can hardly stand up, now you’ve either been drinking or you need to go to the hospital.”

“I’m….. I’m just….”

“Kirk, what’s wrong? What’s wrong with you, what’s wrong?”

“I’m TIRED, OKAY? JEESUS! TYRONE, COME ON MAN.”

“Kirk, you’ve never spoken to me like that befor…”

“Jesus, I’m sorry, but I’m tired as hell and I just banged my head open and there’s nothing wrong and you’re just asking me too many questions while I’m cleaning blood off my face, I’m sorry, I’m real sorry.”

“Oh Kirk, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I just wanted to make sure you’re okay, I just wan…”

“It’s alright, you’re a great lady, can your son come out and play please?”

Back up the dirt road for more of the same. I kind of kept away from the codeine because I was still really messed up, but the hash was a bit of alright. Tyrone….. Tyrone started talking about acid. Now, why would you stroll down one road, only to turn around and sprint the other way? I didn’t know either, but why the hell not.

The rain that had been coming down for the last hour or so was starting to turn to sleet, and the roads were getting kind of icy. Fuck that noise, I thought in my infinite wisdom, I’ll just slow down. We gotta get some acid, who cares if it takes while to get there.

Driving along LeMarchant Road, right by the hospital (you know the place), and the light in front of me goes yellow. The cab in front of me starts to slide a little but hits a dry spot and maintains easily enough. Comes to a nice stop right on the white line. Me? I was about five car lengths behind the guy, doing less than the limit, and slowly slid right the fuck into his back bumper. Smack. His two passengers, a young couple in love and on their way to nicer places than we, jerked forward and turned around in shock. Hell, I was in shock too. I turn around to the guys.
“Holy fuck you guys alright, that was fucked right up, holy sh…”

Smack.

The car behind us slid on the same patch of ice and hit us exactly like we hit the cab. We jerked forward and turned around in shock.

Tyrone’s fucking ex-girlfriend. Small town. Or maybe she had been trailing him. I mean, he did leave her because she was a little crazy.
I couldn’t tell if the look on her face was because she’d just ran into us or because she’d just been caught behind us. It was all too much for my fucked up and feeble mind.

“Tyrone, what the fuck is Shelly doing back there?”
“Dude I don’t know, seriously. What the fuck.”

Then the lights. The blue and red lights. Fucking cops. God damn.

Kirk stuffs a felony down his pants and we all get out of our cars to explain and argue and accuse and take breathalyzers. Breathalyzer? No problem, officer. NO problem. Shelly starts crying about the accident and tells Tyrone that she still loves him, and he tells her to fuck off and they go fight loudly about twenty feet away. The cabbie is telling me that I need to pay him for the accident in cash, and that it was my fault and that I can’t go to the insurance companies because it’s my fault and it’s his choice to get paid in cash. His passengers are standing politely off to the side, until after about 25 minutes the guy comes over. Politely at first, all hums and excuse me’s, then louder and louder until finally, “I said, could you turn off the fucking meter please???”

Cabbie had left the meter running and it was up to about forty five bucks. Asshole. He left me and started arguing with the other guy, saying that the accident wasn’t his fault and that the passenger was responsible for the fare. The cop told him that was bullshit and he shut the hell up. Finally.

After it’s all over, damage inspected and insurance information exchanged, the three of us get back in the car. No way am I interested in acid now. All I want to do is park the car, go to someone’s house and maybe relax a while with a little help from the bottle in Kirk’s pants. It’s unanimous. Doped up in a dark room for the next few hours. I’ll tell my Mom about this shit tomorrow morning. I say that out loud.

Kirk says, “Shit dude, your Mom. Didn’t you say you had to pick her up from work tonight?”

“Oh yeah, thanks for reminding me, that’s not until later though.”

“When does she get off work tonight, midnight?”

“No, ten.”

“Dude, it’s quarter after eleven.”

Posted by Michele Christopher at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

I’d love to tell you about a spectacular, fiery crash. One that involves me, high on ephedrine and pumped fulla cocaine. Barreling down the road at 200 miles per hour. Screaming my mother’s name while I plow into a bus full of underprivileged and mildly retarded children from the local church who don’t know that they’re on a one way trip to see Jesus. But I can’t.

I’d love to tell you about the time I was getting busy in the back seat with Mary Jane Rottencrotch. Feeling her breath, hot on my neck, as she moaned into my ear. The whole car smelling of sex and hormones. Glancing over and noticing that the windows have steamed up and that the only heat we’re gonna have tonight is the heat we’re about to generate. But I can’t.

I’d love to tell you the time I was in high school, hopped up on goofballs with some of the best friends I ever had. Fishtailing down back roads, trying not to spill our beer and screaming the words to “Running with the Devil” into the cold October air. One of the headlights doesn’t work and none of us are wearing our seatbelts, but we’re seventeen and invincible and there’s nothing that’s gonna slow us down tonight. But I can’t.

You see, I’m not a car guy. I can’t tell you makes and models (with the exception of the 1967 Chevy Impala, which is the auto equivalent of the sexiest woman you’ve ever seen. That car drips sex, runs offa love juice and can make me hard at fifty yards.), or how to make the engine purr just right (something to do with the carburetor ?). No one I knew in high school had a car (we were in Germany and no one was old enough to drive) and I never made out in the back of anything with anyone. Hell, I’ve only been in one accident and even that’s not that exciting, unless you count being sandwiched between two old men and their incredibly giant cars, as exciting. I can’t tell you the last time I even popped the hood of my car or kicked the tires. All I know is that when I get in it starts and when it doesn’t, I walk over to the mechanic around the corner.

So, instead of telling you about my best times in a car (because really, I don’t have any), I want you to tell me about yours. --finn

Posted by thefinn at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

In honor of FTTW Car Week and in response to you all who keep asking where the cool car stuff has gone, here's one from back in the day.

Michele disses the vette:

We keep getting asked “When are you gonna do the ‘Vette?” “How can you do all these great cars and not get to the Corvette yet?” Well honestly, guys, I’ve been putting it off because truth be told, I just don’t feel about this car the way most of you do. The majority of car freaks look at this thing and think speed, sex, coolness. Me, I look at and think....old man’s car.

Yea, dude. Old man’s car. See, I’ve never know anyone with a Corvette who wasn’t in the middle of some wild mid-life crisis that involved silk shirts, 18 year old call girls and a Corvette.

Oh, there was a time when I thought it was a really cool car. But that was a long time ago, mid 70's I guess. And then one day my father said that an old friend of his was coming over to visit and he had a ‘vette. A ‘69 Stingray to be exact. Oh yea. This was gonna be cool. He might even take us for a ride, dad said. So I spent all day imaging what kind of “old friend” was gonna show up with this car. Maybe someone from my dad’s old days hanging at the biker bar, a guy with a leather jacket and slicked back hair who said “fuck” a lot. Hey, when you’re 13 years old, it’s hard to conjure up an image of a cool guy your dad’s age. I was trying my hardest.

So late in the afternoon, the guy rolls up in this pure white Stingray. Now, I had never seen one of these up close, but in my confined little world, Stingrays were known to be cool. Right? Then why did I feel almost disappointed when I got my first glance at this car? It seemed so....feminine. Like someone offering you a cigarette and you expect a Lucky Strikes No Filter but you get a Virginia Slims 100 Menthol instead.

As if that disappointment wasn’t enough, dad’s friend stepped out of the car. It was like someone stuck a pin in a balloon. All I could hear was this hissing sound as the air was sucked out of my dream of tooling around the neighborhood in a cool car with some aging, yet cool, greaser.

The guy was about 6'9". It was like he unfolded himself when he stepped out of the car. He had a mess of dirty blonde curls for hair, and I knew without even getting close to him that those curls came from a perm. Yea, this guy sat in a beauty salon with fucking curlers in his hair. He was wearing a tan button down shirt, first three buttons undone, chest hair springing out between the gold chains hanging down around his neck. He had on brown, flared pants with a belt so tight that his huge beer gut hung down over his pants like a water balloon about to burst. Jesusfuckingchristonapogostick. I felt sick.

And that was just the beginning. I started to notice it after that. I looked for Corvettes on the road. I scoped them out in parking lots. And every single one of them belonged to some gut-heavy man in a seersucker suit and a toupee. The kind of guy who would leer and wink at a 14 year old girl. The kind of guy who thought that buying a sports car was like buying a time machine and all he had to do was start the engine and he was 18 all over again. Fuck, dude. I’m betting that beer belly and that bald spot weren’t there when you graduated high school.

So I started to associate Corvettes with old, lecherous men who probably masturbated to passing school buses. Dude, look at that picture. Look at who is admiring the car. Notice the beer gut? And one guy is wearing fanny pack? See what I mean?

And really. That is one feminine looking car. Totally a Virginia Slim. I like my cars non-filtered, thanks. -M

Turtle gets all CHiPS on your ass:

The Corvette.

Hmmmm.

This will not end well.....

Pick any year, any make, any size. It doesn't really matter to me. It's always gonna bring up the same memories for me. Something out of CHiPs where Erik Estrada is taking off his shirt to pull the cool "crazy kids" over or some bad pre-teen nightmare about a car that looks like a bad acid trip. Or Erik Estrada and Farrah Fawcett fucking on a beach. Her legs spread in the air. Him waving to the little boys saying "Don't go anywhere 'cause you are next."

The Corvette. Don't ask me about these cars 'cause all the memories I have of them are 70's TV shows, Eric Estrada without a shirt from some fucked up poster my friend had on his wall that he used to throw darts at. A garage of my father's friends house we used to break our knuckles in trying to punch through the sheetrock when we were bored.

Hmmm....

This is already sounding like I was molested as a kid.....

I'm not gay, ok? But I do have alot of broken knuckles.

But thats a story for another time.

We stole this car one time from my friend's dad. Jacked the keys and got that fucker in gear. The smelI of the fumes made us sick as we tried to open the garage door.

I told you this story was going down fast. Geez, that even sounds gay.....I just can't seem to win today...

I think I was about 12. He didn't know how to drive a stick and we spent the whole night drinking and grinding gears. God, that sounds gay. I need to stop watching so much soccer before I write. Too much damn hugging in soccer. I'm telling you, this site is turning weirder everyday. Reel it in turtle...reel it in....pull it back...pull it back...

But anyways, let's get back to the car. I'm not here to bag on it, but it was so...so...70's. I mean, fuck. Most of the cars I do are 70's car so the time frame was right. But this one, this one was so hmmmmm.... I think they got the motive and the body style from some designer's bad mescaline trip. This didn't look like power. This looked like the ocean on a happy day. Something someone designed while watching PBS specials and wondering if he should donate money on the next sponsorship drive.

Hey dude. The car might have had power but it just looks so...hmm...like Mr. Rogers with a hangover asking about The Land of Make Believe while shooting back a Corona. Asking why the Land is in fucking Mexico and why he had no fucking pants on. Why King Friday kept asking him if he was gonna finish that beer and why the god damn owl wouldn't stop flying around his head. I mean the fucking owl never leaves that god damn tree, so why the fuck would he pick today to do it?

"Fuck. I have no pants. Doesn't that god damn owl know today is "Mr. Rogers Gets High In Mexico" day? Jesus. I read the fucking schedule...Can't that god damn owl show me some respect and do the same god damn thing? What the fuck is wrong with him? And fuck you King Friday or Tuesday or whatever the fuck your name is today. That's my beer. Wait. I have an idea. Hold on. Hold on. You need a new name. Why don't we just call you.... "King Shutthefuckupday" and drink a few more shots while you find where the donkey act is tonight. OK? Cause this bottle can still break your little plastic head and spill your little plastic brains all over the god damn table, King Fuck. Wait. OK. That's funny.That's your new name. KING FUCK! All hail King Fuck! Finder of the Holy Donkey Act! And grab me another god damn beer while you finding it, King Fuck. And get this god damn owl outta my fucking hair!"

Just confusion. And cool red sweaters. And owls on LSD.

Cool car but just confusion.

Like a Ford GEO. Something that would only take a few people and leave the rest behind wondering what that was.

GEO...do it like a GEO...suddenly I want to hear The Geto Boys.

Car Archives

And if you don't already, please support you local Public Broadcasting channel. Because without viewers like you, the hosts can't get high. -T

Posted by Michele Christopher at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Well football fans, the season may be over but there is still stuff going on in the world of The NFL.

This past weekend, the Pro-Bowl took place. For some inane reason, the NFL decided to play the game on Saturday night, leaving most football fans, who suddenly found themselves without a game to watch on Sunday, wondering what the hell happened.

I spend the entire day on Sunday doing chores around the house, trying to keep busy and keep my mind off the fact that there was no football game that day. It was not easy to do. All day long there was this annoying feeling that something was missing. I could not put my finger on it, until around 3 PM, I realized what it was: football.

That was the time when I would normally have been watching football.

I need to get something to fill the football void, or I’m just going to spend every Sunday doing chores. And that would fully hella suck.

Or course, as the weeks continue on, things will get easier, especially when there are things to distract us from the fact that football is missing from our lives.

For example, this weekend, there’s the Daytona 500, the Superbowl of NASCAR racing.

I’ll let you in on a little secret (ok, maybe it’s not much of a secret). This may come as a surprise, but I like NASCAR.

Try not to be shocked but it is true. I am one of those people that like to watch cars go around in circles and yes, I do consider racing a sport and drivers to be athletes, so don’t bother wasting your time trying to convince me otherwise.

A little further down the line, there will be baseball. I started switching into baseball mode this week, and now that spring training has started I pulled the Sox cap off the bedpost…

Lets close things out with some recent goings on in the NFL. Even though the games are over, there is still stuff going on.

The big thing to happen recently has been the firing of San Diego Chargers Head Coach Marty Schottenheimer. After The Chargers were defeated by The Patriots in the AFC Divisional Playoffs, Shottzie’s status in San Diego looked to be in doubt. Immediately after the game, it looked like his job might have been on the line, but then several weeks passed and there was no change. Marty’s job looked to be safe. Till now…

Last weekend in the Pro-Bowl, we learned that it’s not always a good idea to actually play in the game, as New Orleans Saints’ QB Drew Brees found out when he injured the elbow on his non-throwing arm. The chance of injury to a player is one of the reasons that I find the NFL Pro-Bowl to be somewhat lame, (besides the fact that it’s really just a big popularity contest.)

To me, playing in the Pro-Bowl is not worth the risk. The Pro-Bowl is about as meaningless of a football game as there possibly is. Why take a chance of some freak accident happening and ruining your career for nothing? Not worth it.

This past Pro-Bowl, The Patriots had only one player represented. Was I unhappy about that? Hell no! Less chance of one of our guys getting hurt for nothing.

If players were smart, they’d accept the honor of being selected to the Pro-Bowl and then find some excuse not to play, like maybe telling the coaches they were on the beach got a really, really bad sunburn and now they can’t wear their pads, or maybe telling them the helmet they packed was too small and does not fit their head. Say that the Hawaiian hula girls are too distracting... Anything! Just don’t play in the game because The Pro-Bowl is not worth the chance of getting hurt.

Alright, that’s it for this week. Feel free to tell me who you’re rooting for in the Daytona 500 on Sunday. Or just try to name a driver besides Dale Jr.

Archives

Posted by Ernie Williams at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (7) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

A bit of a hodge-podge this week. We’ll take a quick look at the current playoff standings (as of the 13th), hear what the Great One thinks about fighting, go to a gay movie, and meet a very angry goalie.

Quick Tales from the Game

February 10th, 2007 - Jaromir Jagr became the 12th player in NHL history to record 1500 points. I bet he would have reached this milestone faster if he had cut his hair sooner. Kind of a reverse Samson thing.

February 10th, 2007 - Jordan Staal became the youngest player in NHL history to record a hat trick. His brother plays in the NHL too. He also has two MORE younger brothers who are up and comers. Watch this family – they may be the next and possibly greatest NHL dynasty that we’ll see for quite awhile. Plus they’re all red heads, so you KNOW they’re evil.

February 13, 2007 - On a sad note, a 10-year old boy from Guelph Ontario died today. He had been playing with friends on an outdoor rink on Sunday (11th) when he was hit, on the head, by a stray puck. Always wear a helmet people! My thoughts and condolences go out to his family.

The struggle begins...

So, the All-Star “game” is over and some folks have finally realized that if they don’t get their collective asses in gear they are not going to make the playoffs (again for some). It’s even made the long-shot Flyers take notice. They certainly gave Detroit a sound whipping on Monday!

The eastern conference is going to be the interesting race to watch. No one is going to catch Buffalo (maybe NJ, but please, spare me) and third through 10th are all sitting in the 60’s with the 11th place Rangers on the verge of joining them. It’s a tough division when wins may just keep you where you are and losses can put you down two spots (right Leafs?).

The west is a tad more spread out with the real fights going to be for the 7th and 8th spots. Eight teams are vying for them right now.

The fight for the playoffs is going to be an interesting one. THAT’s what makes the game exciting=)

Dems Fightin’ Words*

Not exactly noted for his body work along the boards, the Great One, Wayne Gretzky has finally weighed in on fighting in hockey. I know that all of you were holding your breath waiting for this, so I’ll put you out of, most of, your misery – hockey CAN’T be responsible for all of it.

“I don't love fighting, it's not something I tell my players to do, it's not something I would do. But as stupid as it sounds, it probably prevents a lot of stick infractions. The unique thing about our sport is that we play with hockey sticks that potentially can be used as weapons. This is a game that is very emotional and guys are only human. Fighting gives them an outlet to release (energy and frustrations) instead of slashing, cross checking and high sticking. You almost never see a tough guy grab a small skilled guy and start (punching) either. There is still a code.”

Gretzky also admitted that his stance has softened over the years.

I’ll allow you to make your own joke.

A heartwarming tale...

Breakfast With Scott is a movie based on a 1999 novel of the same name. It’s the story of a former Toronto Maple Leaf player, his partner, the team’s lawyer, who become the guardians of an 11-year old boy who has some problems of his own.

The NHL looked at the script, gave their approval and passed it on to the Leafs for final approval. They got it.

The NHL is being called groundbreaking. The Leafs head, Richard Peddie, uses the mainstreaming of gay culture (like Will & Grace) as being a factor in their decision to participate in this project.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I support their decision, even admire the fact that they went ahead with this knowing how the Red states were going to react, but then I thought about it.

1. The Red States don’t really care about hockey (some do, like Colorado, but I’m generalizing here);

2. Great publicity for the league and for the movie if there are protests; and

3. Gay (et al) people have money too. Maybe this will bring them a whole new demographic?

I think #3 was their most important deciding factor, for the NHL anyway – the Leafs don’t have to worry about money or fans. Good-on-them for taking a bit of a calculated chance.

Angry? You don’t want to see me angry!

Ottawa Senator’s goalie Ray Emery has been suspended for three games for a goal crease slash on the Montreal Canadiens' Maxim Lapierre in a game last Saturday (10th). Watch it...

What do you think? I call bullshit. Lapierre wasn’t hurt, and could have caused Emery damage with that nice little jab he game him as he was diving the net.

Emery is well known for his temper throughout the AHL and NHL, which may be why the suspension was so harsh. In Emery’s own words (curtsey of the Ottawa Citizen)...

”I think for two games (the Canadiens) made an effort to bump me or kick my feet out or do whatever they could to get me off my game, and I was stupid enough to let it work. I made a mistake and now I'm paying for it.”

$15,000 USD and three games is what he’s paying.

For Turtle

Now that Disney isn’t the owner, you think they’ll change their name? Dancing Flamingos? Prancing Elk? Mighty Moose? I could actually get behind the last one...

Mini Rant

How boring was the All-Star game? Watching paint dry would be an overused saying, but I’m going to go for it anyway.

SNORE.

Look – I don’t expect the normal excitement of an NHL game, no one wants to get hurt, lines haven’t played together before so there is going to be a learning curve. But for the love of Bob, give me something.

What was the final score? I don’t know – I didn’t watch it live. I did tape it though, I stopped half way through. Thank Goddess there is a fast forward is all I’m sayin’.

* quotes courtesy of canoe.ca.

Deb would like to take this opportunity to say good-bye to the best hockey mom who never had a kid actually play organized hockey. My Mom, Margo Beckers, passed away on January 24th. If you want to know more about this amazing woman you can see a bit on my blog (www.deborahbeckers.com) or at the Burlington Cougars website (www.burlingtoncougars.com). Miss ya Mim!

Archives

Posted by Deb Beckers at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (1) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Another new author? Yes, it's another new author. Meet Jennifer, video diarist and the newest member of the FTTW clan.

Jennifer tells us a bit about her column:

"Verbal Diary-ah": Egos and alteregos express the goings-on in their complicated, tortured lives through open letters and diaries. These individuals appear to suffer from several psychological disorders. Rebecca Judith Stone takes hold of my pen quite regularly as she is particularly afflicted and oppressed in her everyday life. Writing letters allows her to 'settle the score' by blaming those who are responsible, accusing those who aren't, all the while ambiguously admitting to having committed rather
hideous crimes against humanity and society. Children, tennis instructors, and cats are regularly injured. Inspiration comes from the sound of waves lapping against rocks and sand; the crunch of leaves underfoot in the tender thrust of fall; tiny footsteps up a carpeted step, the creak of a door, the rustling of bedsheets, the calm, calculated placing of hands around a slumbering neck, and then the near silent gasp of an ex-lover as he takes his final, stifled breath of air.

Jennifer at Youtube

Posted by JK Murphy at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (6) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Dr. Zeus is the smartest monkey who ever lived, with an IQ of well over 200. That's really something when you think about how culturally biased our IQ tests are against monkeys. Still, Dr. Zeus is a monkey at heart and not above amusing himself by flinging his own feces at the audience as they listen to his lecture on hyperstring theory.

Monkeys are the ultimate paradox. On the
one hand they're quite cute, but on the other
hand you never know when they're going to
flip out and conquer humanity.

In the past Monkeys achieved many great
things. A million of them, typing on a million
typewriters, for a million years, produced the
complete works of Shakespeare.
Shakespeare found these works and
published them in Elizabethan England,
leading him to live a life of ease and luxury.

Monkey astronauts also existed before
humans did... in the modern age, anyway.
Let's not consider here issues of what may
have happened long ago in galaxies far far
away.

The first monkey in space was Albert the
Rhesus Monkey who mysteriously
disappeared during the flight.

Monkeys were able to achieve these and
other great things due largely to their
relationship with a mysterious talking rock
named "The Megalith." This bizarre object
taught the monkeys many things... including,
unfortunately, how to take over the world.

So it should come as no surprise that in the
future, monkeys take over the world and
grind humanity underneath their cruel
barefooted heels. And yet, they remain
monkeys... not above such simple pleasures
eating bananas and flinging their own fecal
matter at random passersby.

If there's one thing that monkeys really find amusing, it's enslaving human beings. The premise of the show "Newman the Human" is that some monkeys have a human for sale, but nobody ever wants to buy him. Occasionally people will buy poor Newman to have him work on a chain gang or something and hilarious hijinx ensue. Ultimately, Newman always somehow ends up back in the hands of his original cruel owners.

Kory is on vacation this week, and left some monkeys in his place

Archives

Posted by Kory Schaubhut at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (3) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Previous Issues

Posted by Jo Carbonell at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (7) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

It's that time! Group LNT! First, I want to say welcome to the new writers. From what I have seen of your work, it looks like you have found a home on FTTW. And welcome. If I didn't say that. Cause sometimes I forget. I blame hard drug abuse and Judas Priest for my memory loss.

Because it is just too easy to do it. In fact, I want everyone to go around today and just tell one person that "it is all Judas Priest's fault." Just walk up to them and look them straight in the eye. Say it. Then walk away.

We at FTTW try everyday to make everyone's life a little bit more surreal.

Anyways.

Back to the group LNT.

This week is about driving songs. That one song that is the soundtrack to the engine that purrs in the parking lot. The song that plays when you are driving, cruising, racing or hitting small, defenseless orphans.

The song that is "the" song that plays when you push the accelerator or lower the hydraulics.

Crush the fucker and light the cigarette cause this is the soundtrack to driving fast.

So what's your driving song?

Turtle hits the gas first:

Hellacopters - Fire! Fire! Fire!

Well it is no secret that when the Hellacopters first came out, the songs were all somehow related to me. I don't know how a band from Sweden had my number so well. Every song was about booze, buicks, broads and buckley. I mean shit man, they just didn't fuck around when it came to what they liked. But this one was really it. Screw you. Screw your job. Give me a six pack and a fast car and pretty much all the rest is a blur of details. I don't care who I fucked last night as long as someone left a beer in the fridge for me.

Time's right now, I wanna get some kicks
Booze, tough chicks and spaghetti flicks
Oh yeah!!!

What the hell is not love about this? Toss it in your deck and watch the sun go by.

Oh yeah!

RockStarMommy:

Master Of Puppets. Amen.

Johnny:

you think i ain't worth a dollar, but i feel like a millionaire - queens of the motherfuckin stone age

pretty much the soundtrack to everything

along the lines of the Judas Priest thing, i like to look people in the eye and say "i'm not scared of you anymore."

Travis

White Zombie - Black Sunshine

When I hear this song while I am on a road trip I am prone to drive very fast and wreckless. I picture myself in some sort of b-rated 70's slasher flick with the cops hot on my tail and a body in my trunk. I make no allusions...the wiring in my head is all sorts of fucked up.

Uber:

Pantera--Cemetary Gates

I'm one of those people that used to make fun of the guys in middle school who wore Pantera t-shirts. It's like they were trying so hard to be hard core. I always thought it was pathetic. Which was stupid because I didn't know anything about Pantera. In fact, I didn't listen to them at all until I was 16, when my buddy bought a CD with Cemetary Gates on it. This song has a very interesting effect on driving. The first minute is slow, even melodic. Nice guitar arpeggios, and then BAM, the hard core shit starts. As you listen, you'll notice your foot slowly becoming heavy on the accelerator. Before you know it, you're going eighty miles an hour on the street in front of the private school hoping to run down Catholics with your Death Machine. Great song for driving.

Ian:

Since I drive a motorcycle about 75% of the time, I generally make a habit of keeping my iPod going with the earbuds snaked up under my helmet. As such, when I'm really in the mood to drive, I always go to my list and select the same song to get started: Bullet In Your Head by Rage Against The Machine.

You know that feeling you get when you're certain that everyone on the street is looking at you and thinking that you're a badass? That's how I feel when I ride with that song.

And of course, I love singing inside my helmet at full volume (no one on Earth can hear you inside a helmet on the freeway), especially to RATM's Killing In The Name. "Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me!"

I'm so angsty.

Ernie:

Mike Ness - I'm In Love With My Car - Well first off, it's a song with a great guitar riff that's all about driving a car, a '54 chopped Chevrolet, and driving it really fast and getting chased by cops, because this man is dangerous, and we've lost him...

Pril:

I got a speeding ticket listening to the Deftones "7 words" (50 in a 25 zone). Shortly after, on the same day, I got another ticket for blowing through a stop sign while "Engine #9" was on. Well, that whole weekend was a wash anyway, and i ended up in jail for "obstructing the investigation of a police officer". My bro and I put down 200 beers, and 4 pints of cheap bourbon over about four days.

But yeah, the Deftones make me put the pedal to the metal. And get caught at it apparently. Can't hep it.

Michele:

My driving is song is White Zombie, Thunderkiss 65.

I dare you to put this song on and not feel obligated to press down hard as hell on that accelerator, open the windows, turn it up to 11 and drive like the cops are chasing you.

Kali:

blood. will. fol. low. blood.
dy. ing. time. is. here.
damage incorporated

GO....

(do i really need to say any more?)

Deb:

Damn it! Michele took mine! That's what I get for not checking my email every, well, hour =)

I'll go with my second choice... Otherwise known as my ANGRY driving album...

Rollins Band - Weight, especially "Fool".

I got my first speeding ticket to that song.

Paul:

"If You Leave Me Now" by Chicago. If you've ever seen Three Kings,
you'd know why.

Richard:

"Space Truckin'" Deep Purple. When I was in high school one guy named Mike (there were actually so many of them that they went by their last names) had a blue Chevy van with a couple of carpeted benches and so forth, the, I mean THE PARTY VAN. Space Truckin' was qued up to begin a lot of mischievous adventures. I never drove the van, I used to jam on the freeway to Red Barchetta, give the chance.

The Pirate:

At the risk of being mainstream, I'll have to go with Ozzy - Revelation Mother Earth/Steal Away. My kids tighten their seatbelts when that comes on in my truck. Polka-dots aside, something about the way Randy Rhodes plays guitar makes me drive into the woods and run shit over at high speeds.

...On the other side of the coin, give me a summer day in the country, driving my pick up with the windows down and the Allman Brothers, Jessica playing and I'm at peace with the world.

Philbrick:

"Clash City Rockers" by, uh, you know, The Clash. If it's in the CD player then everyone's safe because I'm prepared for the adrenaline to hit. If it pops out of the radio then it's danger time.

Cullen:

Jesus Built My Hotrod . It's a love affair. Mainly Jesus, and my hotrod.

*Sigh* Back when Ministry rocked.

Baby Huey brings up the rear:

First of all, bite me Cullen. Ministry is good again. Just sayin. Second of all, my song is Lamb of God's "Now You've Got Something to Die For." It's got their trademark guitar sound. No other band at all sounds like them. That, and when I put that song on, and the chorus comes around, the look on any passengers' faces is usually priceless.

That's what we all drive to when we want to push the pedal to the metal. What about you?

The writers of FTTW do not condone driving over the speed limit. However, if you do get pulled over, we suggest blaming Judas Priest.

Archives

Posted by Turtle Jones at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (5) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

as i type this i'm sitting at my new job nearly alone me and the boss and his boss are here but that's about it. the university had planned to open at 10:30 but i decided to come in regular time to see if i could help out. you see i work for plant operations. you probably don't know what the fuck plant operations does at a university but we make shit run.

and when shit breaks, we fix it.

so now that we've have some snow and tons of ice, we're fixing shit all over the place... pipes break, elevators stop working, heat shuts off, etc ad infinitum. oh ya also we have a grounds crew. and they're responsible for snow removal.

so i get here at 730 everybody is duly impressed i'm making a great impression when the university decides to close. which means all non-essential staff gets a day off.

now i'm not an "essential employee" but the dude who is the essential employee got his car stuck on the way here. so guess who's been temporarily promoted to essential. ya. and it's valentine's day. which used to not be such a big deal. like michele said earlier in the week, i used to hate valentines day. now i'm a mush monger. it's really fucking gross actually.

he dropped by my work earlier with a dozen roses. i don't think i've even gotten a dozen roses before. oh ya, shit i forgot! there was that time when i got 16 sweetheart roses for my sixteenth birthday. but those were from my 19 year old sister's 24 year old ex-boyfriend. (reads like a jerry springer show title, doesn't it?)

other than that i've always tried to be the cool girlfriend that doesn't need too much, doesn't want to much, is easy to talk to, and likes sports. you know, the kind that says "flowers suck because they die -- don't waste your money -- diamonds are stupid -- who needs a contract to say you love someone."

my good friend refers to such behavior as wanting to be "the man whisperer." you know, the one that's not like all the other girls. for years being the man whisperer worked for me. i got tons of dick with no strings attached. but recently, much like michele, something has changed inside of me. all of a sudden i like flowers. i like diamonds. getting married sounds romantic and sweet and damnit i LIKE TO BE HELD AFTER SEX!!!

there. i said it. i'm her. that girl. in fact i'm not afraid i always was that girl but was fully denying it until i got a boyfriend who did sweet things for me.

ah well, it was a good run...

but if i start saying shit like "camcorder" and "minivan" someone please shoot me....

Posted by Kali Pornia at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (14) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Before I had kids, I would go to concerts and shows pretty much every night of the week. Good ones, bad ones, it didn't really matter. It was just something to do rather than sitting around my friends' apartments asking each other, "What do you want to do?", "I dunno. What do you want to do?". It got to the point where it was damned near impossible to name a band that was around at the time that I hadn't seen, probably multiple times. I'm glad I did, though, because even the shittiest of shows gave me some memories to hang on to to keep me entertained while I'm doing the 3AM hallway bounce with a baby crying in my ear.

Like the time I went to see the Beastie Boys and the guy standing next to me who kept asking me for my phone number by saying "Gimme the digits" got stabbed in the shoulder (it wasn't me, I swear, but I can't say I didn't think about it a few dozen times) by a complete stranger, for no reason at all, and the guy didn't even realize it. I had to tap him on the other non-bloody shoulder and tell him "Dude, you've got a knife in your back." He looked back at the knife and exclaimed, "Fuck." But it wasn't a "FUCK!" you would think you would hear someone yell in a moment of panic. It was a simple, quite matter-of-fact, "Fuck." As in, "Fuck. Now I gotta buy a new shirt."

Or like the time I thought I was buying tickets to see The Cranberries. (Shut up, I said it was something to do.) But, I guess I hadn't learned how to read just yet because I actually bought tickets to see The Cardigans and spent the night listening to some annoying, perky broad singing about kissing her by the broken tree house or some shit. There was this guy there who was visiting The States from Ireland who kept hitting on me and I let him because he was cute but mainly because I was under legal drinking age. I couldn't understand a word he said, though, because he didn't have an accent like the Lucky Charms guy and instead talked like he had a mouth full of shit. I just kept nodding my head and agreeing with everything he said because it was loud and I wasn't really all that interested anyway. Later on that night after the perky broad was done singing and I could understand him a little bit better, I found out that I had agreed to go back to Ireland with him and I had to act like I was an escaped mental patient in order to get him the hell away from me.

Then there was the time I went to a Beck show and decided I would give the mosh pit a visit since I didn't picture Beck fans getting all that rough in their white pleather shoes and brown polyester suits. I mean, honestly, who would expect anyone who looked like Mr. Furly from Three's Company to know how to throw a punch? But, the second that Beck came out and started singing a song called "Satan Gave Me A Taco", the crow turned into Slayer fans from hell and started throwing me all over the place. For the next week, I lied to anyone who asked why I was all bruised up that I had fallen down the stairs because I would have rather been known for being a clumsy fool than for getting beat up by a bunch of Beck fans.

There was the Korn show (oh, the shame!) I went to where within the first 5 seconds of the first song, my red sneaker came off and I spent the rest of the show hopping around on one foot looking for it. I never did find it, but by the end of the show, when everyone had cleared out, there was a graveyard of shoes up front. I dug through the pile but never did find my shoe. So, I actually had to pick a stranger's scuzzy shoe and wear it home. I know, eww, but Athlete's Foot seemed a lot more appealing than having to take Philadelphia Public Transportation home in a bare foot. Itchy foot rot beats the hell out of Hepatitis any day, if you ask me.

I could go on and on and on some more, but I will spare you. Point is, I miss going to shows all the time, even the shitty ones. I used to swear that I would never get old and stop going to shows. But, I had kids and got old and stopped going, save maybe one or two a year. And those two usually end up being something like Sesame Street Live or Disney on Ice. Which, you know, aren't really the venues for future storytelling. Unless, of course, you want to hear about the time Imade a 6 year old cry by buying up the last $22 Elmo beach ball. That's pretty hardcore, right?

Rockstar Mommy told u she was hardcore

Posted by Rockstar Mommy at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (26) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

I'm addicted to music. I admit this. But to break that statement down further, I'm also addicted to new music. Sure, there are multiple albums and musicians whom I find myself listening to again and again, month after month. However, if I start going weeks without a new album to listen to, I get a bit anxious. It's not that the old music isn't satisfying me, it's just that I constantly need something new, something unrecognizable, something that I can fall in love with. I need a different experience than the one I've had tens or hundreds of times before. The auditory senses in my brain need to be stimulated in some new and exciting way.

When those new and exciting ways aren't present, I start to feel an overwhelming need to find them. Of course, the way to find them is with a new CD, a new band, new download—just new music in some form or another. Unfortunately, while there are constantly new albums being released and many decades worth of musical back catalog that could not possibly ever be fully experienced, it can still be hard to find a new album that really grabs me. It's not that the albums aren't out there, of course, it's just a matter of finding them.

Thankfully, the magnificence of the internet has helped with this task in fantastic ways. There's a multitude of musical recommendation sites, whether it be Amazon or last.fm or Pandora. Then there are awesome pay services like Emusic, which I find brilliant on levels I can't even explain. Often times, when used properly, these places can even give you good recommendations that you actually will come to appreciate, rather than just wondering how the hell a suggestion could go so very wrong.

To a large degree, those services work together to help me avoid bad music purchases, but that was not always the case. Even just a few years ago, there were many, many times that I found myself being seduced by a slick CD case, fueled by my unquenchable desire to own new music. It was at its worst when I worked in the electronics department of Fred Meyer, a general retailer here in the Northwest. The CDs resided in that department and there were many slow nights when I would find myself browsing through them, thinking about how great it would be to get off work and pop a new CD in my stereo as I drove home, great new music dominating my world.

Oh, if only it worked that way.

It would be ten at night, an hour from the store closing, and I would find myself flipping through the miscellaneous letter sections. This was where all the CDs that we didn't have specific artist cards for lived. So in the "A - Miscellaneous" section one night, I found Aiden. It was an obvious emo disc and a big sticker plastered across the front of the CD case proclaimed the band to be for fans of My Chemical Romance and Taking Back Sunday. Well shit, I was a fan of both!

Sadly, that sticker turned out to be for the undiscerning fan of My Chemical Romance and Taking Back Sunday. (Yes, I see the obvious joke there.) Whereas I enjoy both of those bands because they have a solid base of talent that has allowed them to compose compelling and entertaining fusions of pop and emo, Aiden seemed more for the fan who loved them for their over-the-top brooding lyrics and wasn't as concerned about the actual quality of the songs. It's not that the CD turned out to be bad so much as it turned out to be mediocre—a solid but completely forgettable effort.

Now this is where the urge for new music becomes quite dangerous. If I indulge that urge and purchase a new CD, I'm essentially scratching an itch. If the new CD turns out to be a stellar purchase—top notch, ridiculously entertaining or emotionally compelling or both—then I've successfully neutralized the itch. But if my new CD turns out to be okay at best, that scratch has only served to flare up the itch. Now I really need a new CD, and I need one that's going to blow me away.

It was a vicious circle, made worse by my easy access to all these unknown CDs. It was also made worse by the fact that, during that time, I gravitated toward all the emo albums. Granted, that's much of what I was listening to at the time, but there were plenty of other kinds of music I was listening to, as well. I think the problem was that the emo CDs are so easy to pick out. So I could be browsing through all these bands I'd never heard of before and usually I could quickly grab two or three discs that obviously were of the emo persuasion. Their covers screamed it. Then I could listen to them on the listening stations to see if they were any good.

I was only digging my hole deeper, though. For you see, the CDs that are easily pinpointed as emo are the ones that have slick packaging and marketing—and those are often the ones that suck, or slip away into the ether the moment you're done listening to them. They come in a pretty package, but the packaged goods aren't so pretty. It's an old story—one I'm sure you're finding heartbreaking.

Worse yet, these CDs almost always sound good on the listening station. I would hear some good, solid riffs, some overwrought lyrics, a bit of screaming, and I would think I was on to something. So I'd check out the second and third tracks, as well, and those seemed decent. Then I'd buy the damn thing and pretty soon realize that the first three tracks are pretty good, if nothing amazing, and the rest of the CD largely sucks. Of course, there was usually the obligatory slow and melodic track, and those I sometimes found compelling. But ultimately, I would end up truly enjoying maybe two tracks at best, yet I'd be out ten bucks.

Bad trade.

This pattern repeated itself again and again until I finally left Fred Meyer. Now, it's not so bad. My very low AmeriCorps stipend keeps me from experimenting on new CD purchases and my Emusic account lets me download a lot of new music every month, to help keep me constantly experiencing new sounds. Best of all, if I download an album off that service that I'm not too impressed with, I'm only out two or three dollars rather than ten. That's much more manageable.

Still, there are times I get that itch. When I do, it's hard not to find the nearest music store and start buying. It's hard not to scratch.

Joel is in need of a good backscratcher.

Archives

Posted by Joel Caris at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Yes, it's another new writer at FTTW! You might already know Richard, as he has written a few guest posts for us (which we will put into his archives eventually). Richard will be appearing her every Thursday.

I had some friends that I had been cliqueing with since high school and at one point two of us were working a construction job together. Sometime in the Summer of 1988, Frizzle (name changed for pretty good reasons) and I worked one particular job, a new patio deck and some remodel work inside. The owner of the house was an Italian-American guy with a lot of money (lays finger along side of nose). The wife and kiddies were never there and briefcase-and-shiny-suit guy was amiable enough when he would sidle through on his way in or out; but he had a Mother-in-law, (or Grandmother or something), that didn't speak any English and hung around watching us all the time.

On one sunshiney day Olda Cronia was watching as we did nothing for about two hours while we waited for our boss to bring back more lumber for the deck. Apparently Olda Cronia was unfamiliar with the concept of contracted work, she was very agitated that we were there not doing anything; I believe she thought we were on her clock slacking off. Of course, we were being paid by the hour, but our idle time was hurting our boss, not his client. Nevertheless, she eventually meandered out near where we were and started speaking gibberish* and motioning for us. We walked over to her and listened as she waved her arms about and said things we didn't understand. She became increasingly exasperated with us for deliberately not learning any Italian as she harangued us on the topic of ... like I said, I think it was loafing on her dime, I will never know for sure. I started nodding to her, thinking she might shut up and go away if she thought we were agreeing with her -- but that made her get louder. I probably agreed to do something and then didn't do it, I sympathize with her vexing situation.

Eventually she summed up, (I concluded from the context of her sweeping arm gestures that she was nearing the end of her rhetoric), so I nodded most agreeably and said "Yes, yes, penis fluid"; with my most agreeable smile and continued nodding. Agreeably. Frizzle, of course, cracked up, causing Olda to storm off with steam blasting out of her ears, (not literally). Being a friend of mine he had been chosen for his skill/sense of humor in finding me hilarious, but it was a pretty funny moment I must say so my damn self. I could have said anything, she had made it very clear she didn't understand a single word of English; 'yes, yes, penis fluid' just happened to be the funniest thing I could think of to say at the time.

Forever after that day, the phrase joined well-worn movie and song quotes in our gang's lexicon. Anytime someone said something nonsensical, especially if they were very earnest, one of the other of us would invariably start nodding his head, then the punchline "yes, yes, penis fluid." Followed by gales of laughter and a look of consternation from the nonsensical babbler.

* I say 'gibberish' not as a gibe towards the fine language of Italian, but as a commentary on someone continuing to blather to a person they know does not understand.

Richard is writing a soon-to-be hit song called Penis Fluid.

Posted by Richard Wallace at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (4) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Allow me to paint you a picture. Right now, it's 8pm Wednesday night. About an hour ago, Michele IMs me. Turns out we're one article short for today's FTTW. Baby Huey to the rescue. I mention I've got a rant in mind about the Grammies and I could probably squeeze a post's worth of blood out of that turnip. I sit down to write it, and just like that. Writer's block. Ain't that a bitch? I pour myself a big ol' glass of scotch, and the juices -- and words -- start flowing. This post works well with just a little drunken rage, so I'll use that to my advantage.

I'm on the radio. Most of you know this. A slightly lesser-known fact is that I don't like listening to the radio. The real gems are college radio, but most of it just isn't my cup of tea. Don't get me wrong, I love that we, in college radio land, promote local bands and artists that'll never see the inside of a Virgin megastore. It's usually music I just can't get behind, but god help me, I respect it. This is not true for most everything right of 92 on the dial. It's slick, mass-produced pap full of so much mindless banter that it makes me want to stab someone in the face all the time forever.

This lowest-common-denominator bullshit spills over into the rest of the industry, and ultimately, its awards as well. The Grammies were this Sunday, and I didn't even know because I don't pay attention to that shit. However, a friend sent me the list of best Heavy Metal Performance nominees as well as the winner. And surprise, surprise. They fucked it up. Again.

The nominees for best Heavy Metal Performance are:

Stone Sour
"30/30 - 150"

Look. I'm not even gonna talk about this. One of the guys from Slipknot put together another shitty band. It sucked. Shouldn't have even been nominated.

Ministry
"Lies, Lies, LIes"

I'm on a mission to dig up the truth
You think we're stupid and there's no proof
Well let me tell you that the time has come
To pull the trigger on the smoking gun

Ministry is finally back. In 2004, they put out Houses of the Mole, which was their best work, in my opinion, since Psalm 69. Then back in May, they put out Rio Grande Blood and got even better. "Lies, Lies, Lies" is a smart, dark, vaguely tin-foil political song. I really enjoyed it and I wouldn't have been disappointed if it won.

PS. This nominee holds the distinct honor of being the only song nominated that is actually the best song on the record.

Lamb of God
"Redneck"

So goddamned easy to write this,
you make it spill off the page.
So drunk on your self, self-righteous.
The laughing stock of your own fucking stage.

The first single from Sacrament, this nominee holds the dubious distinction of being the funniest video of last year. Check the YouTube video up there for it. This song is the slickest on the album, for sure, and I think there are better songs on the album. That being said, "Redneck" was definitely Lamb of God's coming out party. Ashes of the Wake certainly cemented them in the heavy metal aristocracy, but Sacrament was the album that stormed the mainstream and made it cool to be metal again. If the Grammy were solely my choice, this is the song that would have won.

Mastodon
"Colony of Birchmen"

Run with death
Run with death
Gone away
My heart's gone away
Taking everything
My heart's gone away
Take it now

If I'm being completely honest with myself, this song should probably have won. The album is brilliant, but is rather inaccessible. Not that that bothers Mastodon. From the NPR article:

Brann Daillor, the band's drummer, says his genre has grown into something that fosters innovation.

"There's this preconceived notion that if you want to be successful and be on the radio, you have to dumb it down," Daillor says "Just give them a four/four, the song has to be three and a half minutes long, verse/chorus/verse/chorus/bridge, and that's it. Besides jazz, there's the possibility with heavy music to be really technical and really push yourself as a musician."

Mastodon, which came together in Atlanta during metal's commercially lean years, unapologetically embrace the genre's grandiose beginnings. Each of their albums tells an epic story — Leviathan, from 2004, is a retelling of Moby Dick; last year's Blood Mountain is about a quest to climb a mountain made of blood to capture a crystal skull.

"Imagery and storytelling and the art of the whole thing is interesting to us to write about that stuff and have the artwork on the cover. [It's] the mystique of it all," says Bill Kelliher, one of Mastodon's guitarists.

"For us it has to be epic and it has to be a giant something or other," adds Daillor. "A mountain. Something monolithic. A giant squid, a giant whale. It makes for really bad-ass T-shirts, too."

That's better than I can say it.

Slayer
"Eyes of the Insane"

Got to make it stop
Can't take it any more!
Death's face keeps haunting me
And just keeps coming back for more!

It is a travesty that this song won. This song isn't even the best song of this ALBUM, let alone this YEAR. Christ Illusion wasn't Slayer's weakest album, but it was definitely in the bottom 3. They're shells of their former selves. This is akin to Jethro Tull winning in 1991. That is not to say that Slayer isn't metal -- Slayer is metal defined. However, this is yet another case of a band winning on name and name alone. I think that Slayer should have won in the past. Seasons in the Abyss? THAT should have won in 1991. Divine Intervention? Probably could have won in 1995. Christ Illusion? Not so much.

I'm drunk, I'm tired. I've said all I can, and I can't says no more.

Baby Huey doesn't care that much, he just wanted yet another excuse to rant drunkenly

Posted by Baby Huey at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (4) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Okay, so I ripped off the title from a series they're doing on NBC News this week, but it's a good title for this topic: taking care of one's elderly parents. I've been up to my eyeballs in this topic for the past six weeks in my family, so I'm inviting you along for the ride.

Brief synopsis: My mother is 80. She's had degenerative osteoarthritis in her spine for 50 years - ate a lot of Excedrin so she could keep going. She retired at 65 after a career as a nurse, quit smoking and proceeded to keep house for herself, me and my (our) daughter. We've been together for 21 years now, so she's Jo's other parent. I'm the Dad for the house.

Summer 2001: 2 heart attacks and a triple bypass. Fall 2001: mild brain stem stroke. Winter 2001: pneumonia. Jo came home and started taking care of her grandmother while I worked full time. Mom named me her agent under a Durable Power of Attorney for Health Care Decisions, which means that if she can't answer, I do.

2002: Mom started going blind. Summer 2002: stent surgery to stabilize a major aortic aneurism in her belly plus a graft on her right femoral artery.

2003: Mom fell on top of her walker, broke her collarbone. Now a fall risk, got bed rails to keep her from walking around by herself. Diagnosed with mixed dementia.

2004: pretty quiet. The blindness progressed, along with the dementia.

May 2005: Mom fell getting into the car at my sister's house, wrenched her knee and concussed herself on the driveway. A week after the fall she told me she was never getting out of her bed again. I called my oldest sister in Georgia and asked her to come help for a couple of weeks. Mom asked her to stay. She's still here.

2006: also pretty quiet, except for the stress of having our home taken over by my sister, and my getting laid off in July.

Which brings us to 2007.

Mom was scheduled for surgery Jan. 3, to clean out an infection around her graft. Knowing the risks of anestheshia, I sat down with her and went over her final instructions and bequests. Mom doesn't have any property or anything like that. This was what did she want for her funeral and who gets the salt & pepper shaker collection. It's just a hand-written document, but she signed it and I witnessed it, so it's good for the family. It'll never have to go to Probate.

But she came through the surgery great. So great that she was sent home two days later, which kind of struck us as a bit fast, but her doctor explained that Medicare rules were that as soon as she met Medicare's discharge conditions, she had to be discharged or Medicare wouldn't pay for any part of her stay. Nice to know how little our doctors have to say about things these days. We got to transport her 90 minutes in the back seat of my Ford Escort with a six inch open wound in her groin. Great!

Then came three weeks of recovery. The surgical wound healed fine, but Mom's mental state was not doing great - real confused, depressed, crying, more word-loss from the dementia. Plus she was nauseous from the antibiotics so she wasn't eating worth a damn. She lost 15 pounds in that month.

January 31st she woke up with mumbled rambling speech, could barely walk, and couldn't feed herself breakfast. Lynne (my sister) and I figured she'd had a stroke and called the ambulance. We were right.

In the emergency room her doctor asked us what her living will said. I winged it, and then went home and pulled the originals. Then I went back and told her nurse exactly what they meant: she would accept an IV for liquids and a feeding tube for food, but if she stopped breathing or her heart stopped, let her go. No machines, no shock paddles, nada. Mom had seen them do all that to my Dad 30 years ago, and didn't want it for herself. And as her agent, it was up to me to make those instructions clear.

Sitting alone with her in the E.R., I told her that if she was ready to go, it was okay. Jo and I would be okay. She could join Dad if she was ready.

But she isn't ready. She rallied and the stroke damage disappeared within a couple of days. Her doctor was really concerned about her weight loss and loss of strength, so we decided that she should go into a nursing home rehab center for a few weeks.

I get a laugh out of the people who think this is going to be a break for us, her caregivers. Nursing homes are fine for two types of the elderly: those who are so out of it they don't know or care where they are and just want to sit and vegetate, and those who have physical limitations but are mentally sharp enough to do as much as they can for themselves and know how to ask for help with the rest. Mom is neither of those. She's almost totally blind now, so something as simple as finding the call bell is a challenge for her, plus with the dementia (Alzheimer's) she forgets that she needs to push the bell for help. She yells, instead. Or sits and does nothing. She cries. I've been called at 7:30 am because she wanted to know why I wasn't there when she woke up. We're spending, on average, between the three of us, seven to ten hours a day up there with her, keeping her company and keeping her calm.

Don't get me wrong, it's a good facility, and the staff are very caring. It's just that she's used to being in her home, where all she needs to do is call one of our names and someone's there to see to her. She's not independant enough for the nursing home.

So we're going to see how much weight she's gained by the end of this week, and how she's doing on her walking. If she's made enough progress, we're going to ask her doctor to send her home.

Maybe then our lives can get back to normal for awhile.

It's kind of crazy, dealing with family during times like this. The sister who doesn't live with us thinks that we should put Mom in the nursing home permanently, so Jo and I can get on with our lives... except that Mom is a big part of our lives, and we promised her that as long as we could care for her, we would keep her in her home. It's not like I have a husband and/or a career that I'm putting on hold to do this - I don't.

My brother, and a good friend, have both asked me what I'm going to do after she dies - what's my plan. Yeesh. I'll deal with it when it gets here. She could die tomorrow, she could last another five years. I don't know. I'll keep working to pay the bills and feed the cats and go from there.

I'd love to get my business up and running this year, which kind of depends on me getting a real job and some money coming in. I plan to do the Farmers' Market again this year. I have these things in the works, but they're not A PLAN.

One of my favorite quotes of all time is "Life is what happens while you're making other plans." So I don't make many plans, 'cause life's going to happen without them.

Wow. So, the moral of the story is that as your parents age, you need to be ready to face the hard choices. You need to be prepared to be strong. You need to brace yourself for making choices out of love and caring - what's right and best for them. Sometimes that's fighting for their right to die with dignity. Sometimes it's fighting for their right to come home. Sometimes it's recognizing that you can't care for them and it's time for them to go somewhere where they can be cared for. You'll go through a very long, drawn out period of grief as you watch them decline, and watch the parent you love slowly disappear. You'll find yourself praying for a peaceful end, and be ashamed that you ever thought that.

And then you'll get up the following day, and do it all again.

Peace. Blessed Be.

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Once again, I have nothing new for this week’s column and presentations coming up, so I headed back and mined the old Myspace blog just to have something to post. The first installment of the series can be found here. These are the last of M.’s writings to his old friend before he died tragically at the hands of angry Korean transvestites on Hollywood Boulevard. Unless, of course, I’m wrong.

SM

January 20, 2006

Greetings once again, dear friend. As you know, I have once again joined the "world of e-mails and passive aggression," as E.M. Forster so aptly put it. After the pleasant solitude of this last weekend (disrupted by Aunties antics,) this world is most trying. Last night a gaggle of women brought their screaming, bawling brats into my workplace just as I had taken my break and was outside reading my beloved John Milton. As you can well imagine, attempting to read poetry with screeching humanoid offspring in the background is rather difficult, and retiring to the break room offered no relief, as I could still hear the row. Most aggravating, I must say, especially since it occurred during the only ten minutes of peace upon which I normally can rely. I spent the rest of the night in the office, annoyed but not particularly anxious to return to my living quarters, for reasons that I will further outline.

Yesterday morning, I happened upon a most startling discovery. It seems that someone has been reading my correspondence to you when I have been away from my writing table. The evidence for this came in the form of a scrawled letter left on my table, written in what I at first believed to be blood, but thankfully turned out to be nothing more than chocolate milk. I first suspected that it was Auntie, but she is still passed out from the other night's dreadful episode. I then thought that possibly the ignorant popinjay who lives next door may have broken into the house for no other reason than to cause mischief. However, all the entrances to the house were locked from the inside.

As my mind raced through the short list of possible suspects, I heard a slight clatter from the attic. I quite naturally thought that the noise was caused by rats, so I retrieved a ladder and some very non-humane traps with which to catch the little pests. Upon entering the attic, I was most shocked at my discovery and at the same time found out the identity of the culprit, for there, kneeling next to a grimy cot and in front of a dusty chest, was a young woman who I almost instantly recognized as my long lost cousin S.

This was indeed a most shocking discovery, as I had not seen S. in almost twenty years. Indeed, Auntie had long ago told the family that S. had died in a tragic food fight gone awry, but it appears that instead S. had at some point gone quite mad and Auntie had shut her away in the attic, feeding her only water and leftover olives from her martinis. (If all of this sounds like something out of a bad nineteenth century novel, I can only assure you that truth is sometimes at least as strange as fiction.) So, to add to my cares, I must now watch the doings of S. as well as monitor Auntie. I shall in the future surely lock the door to my bedroom.

Sincerest regards,

M.

M. Goes to a Party

January 28, 2006

Oh, dear friend, how trying these times can be. Last night, a friend of mine found himself in a bit of a pinch and required something called a "deejay" for a party he was holding. As you may well remember, back in my days in the Oh So Secret Society I used to throw quite excellent soirees, so I thought that this request was not too difficult to meet. Besides, my continuing difficulties with S. and Auntie have made life as a willful recluse more of a bother than it is really worth. (In answer to your question, Auntie finally did wake up, though she does not remember that nights events and demurred when I inquired about her reference to Pericles. Let it be said that I am still a bit suspicious.)

Anyway, I accepted the request and dusted off my trusty gramophone and my Lawrence Welk 78s along with some jazz to "spice things up" as they say. You know that I cannot stand the dreadful noise that these jazz "musicians" produce, but I am sensitive to the changing times I realize that to entertain a crowd nowadays one must at least attempt to keep up with current fashions. However, on the whole I made every attempt to keep the evening’s musical entertainment as tasteful as possible, in order to not offend any ladies that might be present. One must be ever so sensitive regarding these things, as you so well understand.

I dutifully brought my gramophone and record collection to the home where this party was being held, and was immediately horrified at the degenerate state of the event. First of all, these young folks were swilling some awful beer called “Bud Light” from cans. Cans, friend! You know full well that I have no churlish objection to a fine ale now and then, but these rowdy youths were making quite a scene. I have never seen such
meanness of dress and behavior or heard such foul language in my (admittedly short) life. Well, I decided to keep a stiff upper lip and perform my duties as a "deejay," even if I thought the scene atrocious. It is, after all, a man's duty to keep his promises. Sensing immediately that this audience would not appreciate the fine music of Mr. Welk, I placed a jazz album onto the gramophone and resigned myself to a dismal evening.

My friend, things only got worse from that point, the beginning of a complete downturn of events. This group of ragamuffins hooted and catcalled the moment I began playing records, demanding to hear some person named "M&M" or "J.Z." I was then pelted with half-empty beer cans and assaulted with epithets that I would not dare to write down on paper, lest I should be associated with these disorderly creatures. Then, a group of these thugs grabbed me, summarily dragged me into the lavatory and dunked my head into the toilet. My gramophone and Lawrence Welk albums were destroyed in the fracas.

This morning, the host of the party telephoned and apologized profusely, saying that the youth these days expected to hear some new form of music called "rock and roll" and "hip hop" (two revolting phrases, I think you would agree) and that they listened to them on something called a "seedy." Seedy, no doubt. Once again, I must lament the tastelessness and ugliness of our modern society, which has apparently spread even to the fairer sex, who were dressed last night in clothing that I find too repugnant to describe. Suddenly, S. and Auntie do not seem such bad company.

Will my sorrows ever cease?

M.

Sir Philbrick should know better than to taunt Korean transvestites. Archives

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This, I think, is our greatest gift to the universe. You could get all heavy and say it was our constitution or something like that, and that’d be fine, but I would still say it’s been music.

Our music comes from the dirt. It came from the slaves and the hill people and the fishermen and the first nations, and later the Okies and Arkies and the Mexicans, and it got filtered and reworked and refiltered and electrified and stripped down and added to with a dash of something here and a dash of something else. Some of it went overseas and came back so loud and incredible we almost didn’t recognize it, and so we hammered at it some more and put some glitter on it or yanked out the solos and it was ours again. Rock n Roll, the Blues, Jazz, Bluegrass, Rap, Country, Metal and Punk are wholly American inventions. And they have two roots- Blues and Country, both of which are simply the lament of the common people.

Listen, it took about 200 years for us to take what we came over here with and make it ours. Those European folk songs that belonged to the dirt over there in the 1600s turned into Elvis after he mixed it up with what the black people were doing. By the mid 1800s, we had the blues in its earliest forms. In the 1950s, American music was total anarchy, and I wish I had been alive back then to witness it. People were even excited about music. There were riots over it. Musicians were ferocious about getting heard. Bus loads of people were traveling all over the country and seeing and hearing things they hadn’t ever even imagined, learning things from each other and reincorporating it. People from rural churches with angelic voices were cutting records for the masses (no pun intended). Everyone I know who was a kid in the 50s and 60s played one instrument or another in their garage with their friends. There’s no exception. Maybe the ones you know are different. Maybe not.

When recorded music was still young, a guy who called himself the Singing Brakeman, Jimmie Rodgers, was the biggest seller. Millions of records in the 30s. When people could barely afford to feed themselves, they still picked up one of his records when they could. And they all probably went to someone’s house with a victrola with a dozen or so other friends and listened to it together. Or they sat around a radio and listened to the Grand Ol Opry and those people in the radio sang them the stories they already knew because they all were living them too. When Jimmie came to town, you better have bought your ticket quick or you weren’t going to get to see him.

Johnny Cash didn’t go to the country capital, Nashville, to make it big. He went to Memphis because the music coming out of Memphis at the time had a better feel to it, he thought. Well, Memphis has always been one of the seats of the blues, and then later the soul and R&B. There’s an awful lot of blues in Cash’s country. Johnny’s mother-in-law, Maybelle, invented one of the most widely used guitar strumming styles. It’s called the Carter Lick. You pick the melody on the two bass strings and strum the chords on the rest. I bet if you’ve played guitar for any length of time, you can do it and you might notice how handy it is.

I’m a little disappointed in what gets played on the radio now. I don’t hate it. Just disappointed. Where’s the excitement and the passion and the ferocity? Even the protests songs are weak and tired. Where’s the freakin rock n roll, man, the dirt? Where’s my American Music?

(This is part one in a group of thingies where I am going to talk about American music)

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“How are you handling all of this?” asks my psychiatrist on my second visit.

‘All of this’ is a phrase people use when they want to let you be the one who actually brings up a problem. Most people don’t want to point out problems they see other people as having—they want those people to provide those problems themselves, and then begin their criticism.

“You’re going to have to be more specific,” I reply.

“Let’s start with how you feel about the death of your foster mother.”

Oh, the woman I lost my virginity to? The first person in this world to show me the carnal side of life, who took advantage of me, who could go to jail for what she did if she wasn’t a coward and hadn’t offed herself? How do I feel about the fact that she wrote a letter to her husband and told him we had been together and that’s the reason she put a bullet through the back of her head?

“I feel fine. I mean, it sucks, but I feel fine. I didn’t know her that well.”

“It must have been difficult to leave that night. The state gave me a little information. You were picked up by police?”

Literally. When you walk around for nearly ten hours without anything to eat or drink, your body breaks down. I had been walking all night, since I left my foster parents’ house. I didn’t have any other idea what to do, had no place to go. I couldn’t go back to Melissa’s—it was too late. I didn’t have any friends, family, anything. I just had a change of clothes, Kleenex, and antibacterial hand sanitizer. And that was about to run out when I fainted.

“Yeah, they took me downtown until my foster father could come pick me up. I tried to tell them that there was no way he would pick me up, that he had kicked me out.”

Not only had he kicked me out, he had displayed quite a bit of control since he hadn’t picked up the gun and shot me in the face for fucking his wife.

“And why did he kick you out?”

I shrug. “I guess he blamed me. For his wife dying.”

“Why would he blame you?”

I could feel heat rise in my cheeks as I blushed. “Hell if I know. Had to blame someone, I guess.”

She writes for several seconds, then puts her pen down. “But your foster father did pick you up, didn’t he? Otherwise, you probably wouldn’t be here.”

Surprisingly, she’s right. He came into the station less than an hour after they called him. I heard him tell the clerk that I had run away that night, that we’d had a misunderstanding after he found my foster mother, and that he’d been out looking for me.

“Yeah, he did.”

“And how are things going between the two of you? What did he say to you?”

He told me that he’d be damned if he lost his tax breaks because of this. He said that I needed to stay the hell out of his way and not to make a sound. Told me I should start seriously thinking about coming home as late as possible and leaving as early as possible to avoid seeing him, because he doesn’t know if he’ll snap the next time he sees me. He told me that he’d still pay for my psychiatrist. When I asked him why he would do that, he said, “Because that only costs me ten dollars. That’s nothing compared to what you save me. And I don’t want to come home and find you in the shower again.”
“He just said that he probably wouldn’t feel like talking to me for awhile.”

“So how are things for you now?” she asks, writing more.

Oh, just dandy. I get up at 5 in the morning so I can avoid my foster father. I walk around aimlessly until it’s time for school. I go to school and spend the day worrying about what I’ve touched and who’s touched what and was that just a stinging in my dick and oh my god I must have caught something and maybe that’s the reason my foster mother killed herself because she found out she had something or holy crap could she have been pregnant? Then it’s off to the bathroom to either puke or have diarrhea because I’m worrying myself so much my stomach is doing horrible things. I spend time after school wandering around town, stopping at a phone every now and then to call Melissa, to see if she’s around, but I only get her the first time I call, and then she says she has work to do and tells me she thinks we should take a break and shouldn’t talk, and then I ask her why and she hangs up. So I continue to walk until it feels like my feet are going to fall off. I usually make it home around 10, quietly make a sandwich, and try to wash off all the dirt and grime from the city with a long, hot shower.

“Things are fine.”

“You aren’t talking much today,” says my psychiatrist as she’s writing.

“Not much to say.”

Or not much I feel like I can say. How can this woman who doesn’t even really know me help me with these problems? The counting, the germs, everything else, I’m sure she can help me with that. But not this.

“I can’t help you if you don’t talk,” she says.

“Talk about what? You know my problems. It’s your job to fix them.”

Writing. “And I want to, but you have to be open with me. You know, other parts of your life are affected by your disorder. The way that you deal with those other parts--that’s part of your disorder as well.”

I break. “What, are you saying that the way I deal with the fact that my foster mother and I fucked like rabbits for the few weeks before she offed herself has something to do with my disorder? Are you saying that the fact that I can’t even look at my girlfriend without wanting to vomit because I found out exactly what kind of disease can be spread through sex has something to do with my disorder? How about the fact that I’m starting to wonder if she has another guy on the side, and I’m scared what I’ll do if I ever find out that’s true. Does that have something to do with my disorder?”

She looks up from her pad. “Not something—everything.”

I’m not sure what I expected, why I didn’t tell her these things before. Maybe I was worried she would turn against me. That she would find me disgusting. Maybe I was worried that she would tell me she couldn’t see me anymore, or send me to a psych ward, or call the police and tell them about all of this. But I realize I was worried about something, and as I sit there, staring at her staring at me, watching her face free of all emotion, I realize that all that worry was in vain.

I realize she isn’t here to judge. She’s here to help.

“Well,” she says, looking at her watch, “we’re out of time today. But I want you to come back next week. We have a lot of ground to cover, especially in light of what you’ve just told me. In the meantime, I’m going to write you a prescription. It’s for Prozac. Prozac is an antidepressant, but it helps people who don’t necessarily suffer from depression. People like you. I want you to take one capsule—twenty milligrams—every day. You probably won’t notice anything at first. You might not even notice anything before you come back next week, because it is a time-release medicine. But it will start working soon.”

She hands me a piece of paper with illegible writing on it.

“Don’t worry,” she laughs as she sees me trying to decipher her handwriting. “Take it to the pharmacy next door—they know my chicken scratch.”

How could she be like this? I just admitted what horrible things I had done over the past few months. And now she’s joking with me?

She stands and sticks her hand out. I shake it, trying to repress the anxiety that causes. “Take care this week, ok? I think we had a really good conversation today. And don’t forget to take your medicine.”

It takes them fifteen minutes to fill my prescription at the pharmacy. I buy a water and down my first pill in the parking lot. I take the second one when I wake up the next morning. I take my pill every day, every day, waiting for something to happen, but nothing ever does.

And then one day, about two weeks later, after I’ve been back to the psychiatrist and told her I’ve noticed nothing whatsoever, I wake up and find importance in the nothingness.

For the first time in years, I don’t have the urge to wash my hands. I sit there on the edge of my bed, and think, “What’s the use? There are germs everywhere. Washing your hands fifty times a day isn’t going to do anything to keep you from getting sick. Just wash them when they’re actually dirty. But that time isn’t right now.”

It’s a familiar voice. But this is the first time I’ve actually been able to listen to it.

And that’s when things start getting weird.

Previous chapters

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Guilty pleasures. Those movies you love to watch even though everyone bags on them. Movies that mostly suck, but for some reason you think they are cool. They probably have bad acting. Stupid plot lines. Cheesy dialogue. But maybe that’s what you like about them. Maybe some people only watch movies that win awards. Maybe they don’t know what they’re missing. The fun of watching something that you know is really bad. Just getting lost in the special effects or gratuitous sex and violence. Sometimes you just gotta have fun. That’s what guilty pleasures are all about. We all have them. We watch the movies that other people say are unwatchable. Here’s two of ours.

Michele bugs out:

Starship Troopers

I know the haters are out there. I’ve run into you before. Whining about loyalty to the book. Nerds. All of you. This movie rocked. I don’t care if it strayed from Heinlien’s book. Why argue over that? So it was different. Big deal. You still ended up with a kick ass movie.

Yea, there’s some intricate morality things going on here and Verhoeven kind of turns it into a gore and sex fest, as he is prone to do, and maybe at some point you do root for the bugs or wish for Jake Busey to just die already but god damn this is a fun flick.

Let’s look at what we’ve got here. Bugs. Giant bugs. BUGS IN SPACE. Forget your snakes on a motherfucking plane. We’ve got bugs in motherfucking SPACE. And there’s gore. Brains being sucked out of someone’s head. Doogie Howser. God damn Doogie Howser playing a space Nazi. The cheesiest, wooden acting you can ask for in a cheesy movie. Yes, it’s pure cheese. Yes, it’s absurd. Yes, I know that it’s got flaws out the ass and the dialogue is ridiculous. "You're some sort of big, fat, smart-bug, aren't you?"

Dude. It’s got tits. Dina Meyer in a shower. Tits and giant alien bugs. What’s not to like? Forget that it’s not like the book. Forget all the political/moral undertones. Forget that they didn’t include the power suits. Take the nerd hat off, put your brain on stand by and watch this flick. Sex. Violence. Giant bugs. Rue McLanahan.

There’s only one thing to say to all of you who hate this movie: You got a bug problem, man? -M

Turtle goes to the drive in:

Roadhouse

Don't ask me why I defend Mr. Patrick Swayze all the time. I really just think he is the most underrated actor of all time. You can say Gary Coleman or even that little short kid from "Webster" holds this title, but I will have to disagree with you. Midgets are cool, but Mr. Swayze breaks knees. He was the cool while Gary Coleman was asking about what we were talking about.

Confused midget verses knee breaking ass kicker.

I think Mr. Patrick Swayze wins.

Plus Mr. Patrick Swayze has one advantage.

He breaks knees.

Why is this movie so cool, you ask? It all has to do with one summer. Bored kids with no money to spend except just enough to buy a few forties of malt liquor. Sitting in an alley way. Maybe just a street corner. Passing a bottle around just waiting for the rain to come to wash away the boredom. We had nothing to do and we were poor. Just drink, pass, drink, pass. You get the idea.

A van pulled up one night. A friend. He looked us up and down. We were a sad lot of kids. Drinking warm beer and counting our last smokes before we would have to shoplift again. He asked us if we wanted to go to the drive in with him. He had to take his sister to see some dumb movie. He didn't want to go alone. Meh. We have no cash. It's the drive in, dude. Unless you are a cripple that can't hop a fence you better get the fuck in the van.

We drove to the drive in and found a way in. Hopped a back fence and wandered into the parking lot. That's when we knew we were seeing something big. This was it. This was something to behold.

Kegs overflowing and staff not caring. Lounge chairs all around the parking lot. Bodies running into each other as everyone screamed the words to the movie!

The Summer Of Swayze was born!

No more alley ways. No more dead end streets waiting for the night to end. No more drinking cheap beer. All The Summer of Swayze asked you to do was hop a fence, grab a beer and watch him kick ass for 90 minutes! This was awesome. We owned the parking lot! It was ours! People too drunk to talk! Mumbling out "Pain don't hurt" as they passed out! Bodies having sex in the bushes! Bar fights on the screen! Drive in parking lot fights in front on me! Grab a beer and get numb! The movie played three times in a row every night for the entire summer. I know that movie like the smell of yesterday's keg of Pabst that no one bothered to fill up again. Questions were always left unanswered. People left feeling dead after watching it three times in a row every single god damn night for three months.

But you know what?

We kept coming back.

And so did Mr. Patrick Swayze.

Until the Summer ended. - T

So we did it! We admitted what our own guilty pleasures are. I like spending a Saturday watching golf all day, if that gives you any more ammo. Well, the thing about this, it was fun.

What do you watch, other than porn, that you are afraid to cop to? Cause we all watch porn so that's not like a guilty pleasure. More of an addiction. So what is your favorite movie that no else likes?

Michele and Turtle never feel guilty about watching badly dubbed martial arts films.

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What if the people who've migrated to this land for the past 10,000 years brought their gods with them, only to forget and abandon them? That's one of many questions asked by American Gods by Neil Gaiman, a novel about old gods fighting for survival against the new American gods of technology, the free market, and the media. The novel's main conceit is that the people who came to this land eventually abandoned their gods, leaving the poor sots without purpose and worshipers. And if there's anything a god needs, it's to be worshiped and adored.

The book opens with Shadow, a man released on parole after serving three years in jail for assault. He finds out his wife is dead and meets a mysterious stranger named Mr. Wednesday, who offers him a job as a bodyguard. So begins Shadow's adventure amongst the gods as Wednesday tries to bluff and con his way into starting a war between the old gods and the new. The gods Shadow meets are mere shadows of their former selves, old and sickly. There's no one left to worship them, so they get by doing odd jobs and turning to crime. They often lament that "this is not a good land for gods," as the people tend to adopt and forget their gods with every generation.

The major problem with the book is that it ignores the 800 pound semitic sky god in the room. He and his kid are quite popular in America and have been for some time. A character pays lip service to this inconvenient fact in a throwaway line, but to say that gods don't get on very well here is a bit far fetched. Still, it was a concession to the point Gaiman was trying to make; namely, that everyone in this land, even the Native Americans, is from someplace else. The gods they brought with them were soon forgotten or changed as tribes mixed and morphed into other things. When the Europeans came, they too brought their gods, but as they mixed with people from other lands and cultures, the gods were forgotten and left bereft of worship. Gods are so much a part of a culture's identity that they can not be uprooted and plopped down in a foreign place with other peoples. It just doesn't work that way. Gods were as much a part of the identity of a tribe as the ideas of liberty and the Bill of Rights are to us. The only way for a god to move someplace else was through the conquest of another people and their gods. The Exodus story is a twist on this familiar tale. One people try to prove that their god is more powerful than the foreigner's god, so the two gods duke it out to see who's more powerful. Traditionally, this meant that one people had conquered another and erased the old gods from memory. Exodus changes things up a bit and makes it into a tale of liberation from the conquerer instead. The problem with America is clear: there was no real conquest and obliteration of one European culture over another. Even the near genocide of the natives wasn't complete: they still remember and honor their spirits. What remains is a mish-mash of half-remembered tales and creatures that are quickly receding from memory as new gods replace them.

Even the neo-pagan movement gets a bit of a ribbing in Gaiman's book. A waitress professes to be a pagan, prompting Odin to ask which pantheon she worships. When she answers "all of them, I guess", Odin asks whose shrine is in her home and what animal she sacrifices to her god. The girl can't answer. Odin makes clear that she's not actually worshiping anything but old fairy tales. The gods were real to the people who worshiped them. Their fortunes rose and fell with their gods and proper rituals had to be obeyed to ensure the continued survival of the tribe. In Gaiman's book, the gods feed on worship, but he alludes to a time when the gods demanded much more. You may have read about the "nectar of the gods" or "Soma" or some other type of mystical food or drink that sustained the gods. These foods were essentially distilled belief, from which the gods derived their nourishment. Other cultures sacrificed animals, whose blood sated the god's wrath and earned the people the god's favor for a period of time. The earliest and most primitive human cultures offered their gods the most potent sacrifice of all: Man. If you really wanted to show a god you cared, you sacrificed a human to it. Blood nourished the gods. Even the Christian god demanded a blood sacrifice to forgive the people's sins against it, though fortunately it was a one time deal. In a clever twist, Christians metaphorically drink the blood of the human sacrifice, deriving spiritual sustainment from it. The nectar of a god now sustains Man.

But what can sustain these old gods as they battle the new? How can gods whom no one worships defeat those who enjoy the adoration of the masses? Gods may not be real, but what is a god but an idea? Ideas have power, but only if they have champions to fight on their behalf. The gods are nothing without Man. America is a land of ideas, all jostling for prominence and attention. Gods, being mere ideas, must compete for attention within the frothing roil of American culture. Gaiman touches upon this theme in an off-hand manner, but I don't think he really gets what makes America tick. Sure, we have our religious types who put their god above the State, but at least they recognize the existence of the secular State. In the Old World, the gods ran things. Their agents on Earth were the State. To remove the gods was to remove the State. Competing ideas were treason; worse, they could be a cancer that brought down a nation from within. Even with our ignorant and superstitious folk, we're still a land of transient ideas, some of which may seize the popular imagination for a little while before being discarded for the next hot, new thing, but at least we can offer new ideas without destroying the cosmic order. As for the gods? Well, with the free market, technology, and the pursuit of happiness, we really only have room for one ethereal god, and he's got market share that even Bill Gates would kill for. The most any upstart can hope for is to be the Linux of the gods.

In the end, Gaiman's book is a fun and thoughtful romp across America, delivering great cons, oversexed fertility goddesses, a dozen pantheons, and a wife who just won't stay dead. Give it a spin, but be warned: the gods are petty and cruel creatures, expressing the most grotesque fears and faults of the human psyche. They're presented in the book unvarnished and cleansed of the fairy-tale patina we moderns have applied to their memory. You might not think much of them, but that's okay -- they don't really think much of you, either. Happy reading.

Paul love the rollicking tale incorporating a Old God, a road trip and a blind, near crazed sun god.

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Posted by Paul Waldowski at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

My two boys watched a movie with their dad the other night; they watched Mr. Holland's Opus. I didn't necessarily sit down and watch the movie with them; however, I did find myself watching from the doorway of the back room, not really watching – not exactly. One of these "watching but not really watching" parts was when Mr. Holland helped the girl playing the clarinet realize that she could play if she just felt it in her heart. Or some sappy crap like that. At the time, this particular scene didn't strike me as important; it was just another attempt by some director to move me in an emotional manner. This is partly the reason I hate to watch movies. Most scenes like this cater to the highly hormonal female psyche and just pretty much bore the shit out of me.

The movie did give me the idea for my next photo. Jake, my oldest, is learning Beethoven's Fur Elise for the 5th grade talent show next month. I thought it'd be neat to shoot a series of pictures of his hands while he was playing the song. I asked him to practice the song so I could figure the best way to compose the shots. As he started to play, he told me he didn't need the music because he memorized it. At this point, the first flashback of the movie popped in my head. Didn't Mr. Holland say something about playing not just the notes on the page but rather, to feel the song? So, as Jake is playing this classic song, I stop what I am doing to watch him. He starts to sway back and forth, side to side, his hands do a crossover and he hits the petal at the bottom and doesn't miss a beat. I actually start to cry watching my eleven-year old kid not just play the notes but feel the music. He's feeling it! It was a very powerful moment that I will never forget.

Damn Mr. Holland and his ability to reach my highly hormonal female psyche.

Here are the two shots I like the most from the Jake Playing the Piano shoot. Digital, black and white, and full frame. No cropping allowed.

Shawna blamed her hormones when she cried during Air Bud.

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Posted by Shawna Black at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (4) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

I have an undying sense of humor despite my repeated attempts to bash its little head in.

In truth, I don't wish my sense of humor dead - I don't wish to murder it in the most gruesome way because my sense of humor is about the only constant in my life and also because let's face it, you have to laugh. No, I'm not trying to be the boss of you, wise ass, I'm just sayin' you have to because the alternative - rocking and cutting yourself - while something to do while sitting alone, is not socially acceptable. There's no crying in baseball Tom Hanksey McHankerson. Or pretty much anywhere else either.

And that's why it's not easy being a woman of a certain age. Like me. Well, it's not easy being a woman like me at any age, but certainly getting older adds another level of challenge. And horror. For one thing, crying is harder as you age. When I was a child - an Irish redheaded terror, I would drop to the floor and perform a display of tantrum throwing the likes of which never before seen on earth. I had two shows daily and a Saturday matinee. And after each show I'd wipe my eyes, grab myself a box of Junior Mints, down a cold Moxie and happily return my attention to Barbie and Midge who were getting ready for the prom, but let's face it there was only one Ken doll and Midge didn't have a chance. Still, I dressed her up all pretty like so that she wouldn't give up on life before she at least attempted to hide the freckles with make up and add some highlighting to her natural shade of rodent brown.

Now, after throwing a rather pathetic fit of rage, which really only amounts to flopping on the sofa, my whole body limp, one shoe falling off, it takes days to recover. Come to think of it, that "fit of rage" appears more like surrender, and when I say surrender I'm not talking about the new-agey let go and let God kind, I'm talking about the I fucking give up kind.

There's this store in the mall called Sephora. I'm sure a lot of you women out there know about this little goldmine. It's full of the highest priced top of the line skin products and makeup. They specialize in products for difficult skin, which includes all problems associated with aging. Every time I've walked by it (I've only gone in once and nearly fainted when I got the credit card bill) it's mobbed. Puffy eyed red-faced women sniffling and grabbing little tubes of stuff. I did happen to get this great yellow stick thing which hides anything red, which really came in handy the time Fatso and I decided to pretend we were 16 again and he left a telltale mark on my neck. Anyway, some genius - probably a woman over 50 - realized that if she didn't get these products together in one convenient place, the world was going to be overpopulated with bulgy eyed creatures who scare little children in public places. So. Sephora was born. And now we can slap some specially formulated cream on our distorted faces and once again brave the elements which, lets face it, were probably responsible in some part for our misery in the first place.

was I ---oh yeah. Sense of humor. I spare my sense of humor's life repeatedly because it's the equivalent of those little arm floatee things I used to put on my kids before they went "swimming." Or went in the wading pool, the tub, or drank a large glass of water. These floaties aren't (and the warnings repeatedly remind you of this fact) approved floatation devices - you can't rely on them to save your life you if you should be thrown fall overboard into the frosty Atlantic or if your cruiseship hits an iceberg and starts to sink to the bottom of the sea but they do allow your almost swimming-by-him/herself toddler to practice all the moves in preparation for the day when he/she will no longer need them to stay afloat.

Yeah, my little yellow airbags of humor are holding my head just above water while I wave my arms and kick my feet like a fool. And I don't care as long as eventually I get to the other side of the pool.

There's also the endorphin aspect of it, which if I had mentioned earlier would have made this whole piece completely unnecessary and much less entertaining. You are being entertained, right? No? Yeah? Well, if not - don't let me keep you.

I'll see ya next time.

Lovemonkey wears her swimmies in the shower

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I still don’t like to make lists very much. This article still isn’t a list. This is just a shitty little piece describing the movies that my wife, Carol and I tend to watch a lot when it’s late on a Saturday night and we’re kind of high and we’re looking to watch a horror movie but we can’t decide what to watch. We might fall asleep in front of the TV and we might not. We might end up watching movies until five in the morning or we might fall asleep in twenty minutes. The following conversation is probably the same as the one you have at your place from time to time:

“What do you want to watch?”

“I don’t know, nothing’s jumping out at me. What about you, anything?”

“Um…. Uh, I don’t know, there’s the Friday movies (the 13th, not Ice Cube), um, Zombie, Demons… Cabin Fever. I downloaded The Dead Zone the other day, do you want to watch that? It’s been a while.”

“No, I might fall asleep. I want to see all of that one. I’d rather watch something kinda shitty.”

“Yeah, me too….. How about ________?”

“Yeah, fuckit, that sounds about right.”

And we watch that. Well, we pack a bowl, take a leak and let the dogs out, then we let the dogs in, and then we watch that.

Demons

This is a great movie from 1985, directed by Dario Argento. I’d be surprised if I hadn’t mentioned this one before now. The movie has a lot of holes in it, stretching logic to its limit time and again for our entertainment.

Or maybe the holes are there to trip us up. Why is that guy wearing that thing on his face? Why won’t he answer the girl when she asks about it? Who would go through the trouble of locking down the movie theatre anyway, besides a demon? Why did that helicopter crash through the roof towards the end? And what the hell does Nostradamus have to do with any of that shit?

A lot of the demons here tend to drool and ooze green slime. Green slime, any slime always makes me curious and a little let down at the same time….. it’s too easy. You know? Blood and foaming at the mouth are expected in movies like this, so maybe you think I’d like to see something different. But no. Unless it’s bilious or it portrays the contents of organs n’ entrails, then I humbly submit that you stick to what works.

That pus filled zit, though. That was kinda nasty. Grade nine all over again.

And I love it anytime somebody transforms in a movie and you get to see the fingernails. Anytime you see demon nails growing out through the human ones, you have your answer. Yes it hurts.

Also, please note that there are tips for picking up girls, hot European girls, in this fine film….. demonstrations of going all Fonzie on a vending machine for the benefit of da leddies. The whole movie theatre come-on thing reminds me of the drive-in come-on scene in The Outsiders. So easy to tell who Cherry Valance is. I completely expected that other chick to throw her drink in Eurodude’s face too.

Best quote from the movie?

“That’ll teach you to touch things!”

Halloween

This movie is a favourite of mine, but you’d never tell from the amount of respect I give it when I fall asleep halfway through. I’m not even going to talk about it much today, I’ve done it before and I’ll be back.

If I like it so much then why do I not bother throwing it into the tray until 2:30 in the morning?

You know what I like about Michael Myers?
He’s resourceful and smart. I mean, the guy was tossed in the mental while he was still young enough to think that dressing as a friggin clown for Halloween is cool. Spent most of his formative years and a few of his adult ones locked up in that place. When he broke out that fateful night, I mean shit, he was stealing cars and stalking people in broad daylight. He just don’t give a fuck. And who taught him how to drive?

That’s the thought I take with me to sleep… then I wake up about an hour later and ask myself why anyone would try and hide in a closet with those slatted, um, with those slats.

Return Of The Living Dead

I’ve seen this one so many times it doesn’t matter if – or when – I fall asleep – or wake up. It’s A Way Of Life.

Slumber Party Massacre

Man, I love this movie. It’s not great, by the way, not at all. Formulaic and predictable. A fairly decent story…. almost no nudity, almost no blood, but it does have a few things going for it. It’s strange you know; this movie was a ripoff of a few other movies (and please… putting “slumber party” and “massacre” together in order to pull in horny teens is as obvious as calling the movie Sex Party Violence. Hell, I’d watch that movie too, now that I think about it.) but it still has a few original elements. A few things to call its own.

There you go, four more movies that somehow have taken up hundreds of hours of my life. Well, dozens anyway, if you subtract the hours I slept. And I don’t mean it in a bad way. These movies to me are like the music you probably listen to when you drift off. It might not be completely mellow, but it’s comfortable and familiar. Like the driller killer. Sleep well, little one.

Dan has a slumber party he wants to invite you to...

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So our old friend calls us last Sunday and tells us that he may have found the perfect house for us. We’ve known him for almost 20 years and one of the few real friends that has stayed in touch through all the military moves. Our daughter and son-in-law went over to see the place; they think it’s perfect. Daughter sends pictures and friend sends contract. Credit Union jumps in with a fully pre-approved application. Wow…looks like this is happening. But wait a minute…I put in for leave and get it and then drive my happy butt ten hours West on 80 then 84 because, I’m not signing for almost a quarter of a million bucks for a house that I haven’t at least walked through. I guess it’s the old cold warrior in me…trust but verify.

I LOVE driving I80 across Wyoming. I know, call me weird, but the prairie changing to buttes, changing to mountains is one of the most calming and centering drives I know of. Even wired on two Full Throttles and a Diet Coke, I feel calmer than I have in forever…even Utah didn’t bring me down. It’s the Mormons. They make me nervous.

Driving around with my daughter has been amazing too. The town’s changed, but it’s still pretty cool. The mountains to the North have a fresh dust of snow while it only rained down here in the valley.

There are more Moxie Javas than Starbucks and for me, there’s no better coffee shop. They play better music and they’re coffee doesn’t taste burnt. Starbucks suffices but it’s not Moxie.

And there are at least four diners I know of that serve up the best breakfasts ever. Rae Dean’s has the most amazing chicken fried steak I’ve ever tasted. Tender, crispy, and juicy with real cracked pepper in the white gravy. I had it for breakfast with a couple of perfectly basted eggs and just right crispy hash browns.

And the house? Well the neighborhood is mostly 60s and 70s ranch houses and it sits on .21 acres of REAL grass that used to be mostly alfalfa back in the 50s…it helps to have a realtor who was a teenager in the area you want to move into…they know all the weird stuff. You have to be military to understand that getting a house that doesn’t have a dead lawn is such an amazing happening. I just walked around the lawn and it felt amazing to my feet…it was aerated in the past year, felt amazing. Three bedrooms on the main floor. HUGE kitchen dining room area with big and deep cabinets. The back yard is big enough to put in a flower garden, a vegetable garden, a Zen garden and even an octopus’ garden in the rain. Two old growth trees take the edge off the sun. The basement is laid out a lot like the main floor and is fully finished…including another fireplace and kitchen. No one can legally live down there until we get either a window deepened or an entrance dug…but that’s for later when Boyo is tired of us and we’re tired of him and he wants to move out but isn’t 18 yet.

I drove around the town today, checking to see if old favorite places are still there and wondering which direction I want to take for my second career. Taking another government job seems the safest bet, but too easy and I’m not sure I want to make my whole life about federal service. There’s nothing wrong with it, I’m just not sure if I’m more tired of the military or of the bureaucracy. And I know there’s bureaucracy no matter where you go, but Uncle Sugar tends to really know how to do it.

I’m not sure how I can make this make sense to folks who haven’t spent their whole adult life moving, but to actually be buying a house somewhere we know and are comfortable with feels amazing. Getting ready to leave the military feels like I’m losing about 100 pounds off my shoulders.

Right now I’m sitting in one of my favorite Moxie Javas, sipping a double mocha and enjoying some of the fastest wireless I’ve ever seen, and listening to some of the weirdest coffee orders I’ve ever heard. Some white kid with dreads just ordered a lowfat soy chai latte with…lowfat chai? The gal behind the counter doesn’t even know what that means. And Fall Out Boy just came on over the speakers. Yeah…June can’t come quick enough. I might even freak out my old Sifu and drop in on Monday Night Tai Chi and Chocolate Chip night.

Oh…I just remembered…this is being posted on Valentine’s Day…otherwise known as Hallmark’s make or break day. Give your sweetie a shnogg and let him/her know you lover them. You can’t go wrong with an appropriately timed shnogg.

Timmer knows good coffee, and good people, when he finds 'em.
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Posted by Tim O'Connell at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (4) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Let's talk about Valentine's Day.

I mean, we might as well. It's staring us right in the face. Not like you can ignore it. Every store you walk into is decorated in red and pink and filled with so many heart shaped things you start thinking that Cupid is gonna come out and stab you in the ass with his arrow.

Then you would fall in love with the semi-literate shelf clerk at Walgreen's and spend the rest of your life trying to figure out what you saw in her to begin with. Besides the charming hand-knit sweater vest with the likeness of her kitten on the back. And besides the way her breath smells like a combination of grape Bubble Yum and desperation.

Where was I? Oh yea. Valentine's Day. Stores. And the purchase of goods and services to give to your significant other in an exchange for a chance to feel good about yourself for a day. You know what I'm talking about. You don't think of being romantic or spontaneous or thoughtful all year long. Yet you think there is one specific day where you can do these things and then get off the hook for the rest of the year.

Valentine's Day is not a day of amnesty. It is not a day where a guy or girl can say "Well, I've been shitty to my partner all year long, but if I buy them a huge boquet of flowers on February 14th, I'm off the hook!"

Yea, I'm talking to you. But not you. You, with the guilty look.

Confession. I used to hate Valentine's Day. Well, I told myself I hated Valentine's Day in much the same way I told myself I hate diamond rings and romantic proposals and long walks in the park and pina coladas in the rain.

See, it's easy to get over the knowledge that you'll never have that stuff if you pretend to hate it. Candy and flowers? Meh. Who needs them? A nice card? A romantic dinner? A sweet gesture? That stuff is for sissies!

That's what I told myself anyhow. Sometimes it's just easier to pretend.

Truth is, I am a romantic. And I love Valentine's Day. And I love getting flowers even if they do make me sneeze. And I love cute greeting cards and romantic dinners and holding hands and small, thoughtful gestures of love.

It's much easier to admit it now that I don't have to sulk that I'm not getting any of it.

Still, even after acknowledging my inner romantic and even after having spent the last few months in a state of romantic bliss, I have to find some fault with this holiday and its false pretenses and its way of making single, lonely people feel like buying a bottle of gin and a large bottle of sleeping pills and maybe stabbing a few people to death at a Lover's Lane before offing themselves in their ex wife's garage.

Honestly, this day has a way of even making people in stable relationships feel awkward. All the commercials for diamonds and gold and restaurants where an appetizer costs more than a heart transplant are enough to drive even the most hardcore romantic away from Cupid's bow and arrow. How much is enough? Why do all the commercials make me feel that no matter how much I spend I have to spend even more if I want to prove my undying love and affection? Why do all these advice columnists on tv and the internet imply that while my loved one can get away with plunking down some cold cash on flowers or jewelry, I have to dress like a five dollar stripper and suck him dry in order to please him? And after that make him dinner and serve it in a French Maid's outfit while the soundtrack to some porn movie plays in the background. It's kind of unfair. Why can't I buy him flowers or why can't he dress like a two dollar whore for me?*

Do I sound bitter? Maybe I am. Have you ever been that kid in class who got one valentine (from the teacher) while everyone else got 20? Have you ever sat home on Valentine's night crying in your beer and eating a pint of chocoalte chip mint ice cream because you bought your special someone a really thoughtful gift and all you got in return was a look that said "this better not mean that you think you can get away with cooking for me tonight"? Then you know. You know how Valentine's Day only causes pain.

Even for the guys who have a girlfriend, because they feel they can't live up to the expectations that the media has set for them as far as presents go. Diamonds are a man's best friend apparently, and the only way to truly show her you love her is to spend the equivalent of three months salary on some raw material that Dopey and Sneezy dug out a South African mine.

For the girls who have a special someone, it sucks if they have been watching a morning television show where some guy pops out of the audience in a tuxedo and gets down on his knee and begs his girlfriend, who is a grip or stagehand or something, to marry him. And then Katie Couric or one of those hags on The View are sends them on a trip around Manhattan in a horse drawn carriage and the snow falls gently on their heads as he puts a diamond ring on her finger and....well, that's not reality for everyone, folks. So don't think it's yours. Valentine's Day only serves to get your hopes up and then have them crashed down on top of you by the end of the night when all you got was a half-hearted kiss and an offer to let you watch while he plays Grand Theft Auto.

Anyhow. For the men out there who are, at this late date, still contemplating what to buy your wife/girlfriend/mistress/companion/dog/RealDoll(c), a word or two of advice:

Chocolate is not a good gift. Chocolate says "I would like you to gain a few pounds so then I can say to you in a week or so that you look like you could lose a few pounds."

Flowers are not good. Flowers say "Here are some beautiful works of nature that will wilt or dry out and lose their beauty in a relatively short time. Like you. Which is when I will leave you for a younger woman."

Sexy lingerie is not good, because that just says "I really hate the way you look naked. Do you think you could dress like a stripper when we have sex so I can pretend that you are Shana from The Raven's Nest?"

So what is a good gift? I'll tell you. And this applies to men and women. But not RealDolls.

A really good gift would be to just be thoughtful and sweet every day of the year. To make your relationship a romantic one all the time, not just one day. To say "i love you" every single day and look in their eyes while you say it. To turn off the tv once in a while and just sit and cuddle and remind each other why you fell in love. To not take each other for granted, or take the time you have together for granted. To make your partner smile each day, whether by a word or a gesture or the way you touch them. Be spontaneous. Be romantic. Enjoy each other all the time. Don't wait for a Hallmark holiday to remind the person you love that they mean something special to you.

You don't know unless you have lived thousand of miles away from the person you are deeply in love with how lucky you are to be able to hold and kiss and look at that person every single day. Take a little time every day to remind that person that they are your Valentine all the time, not just on February 14th. That's a perfect gift.

Unless you have just started dating the person. Then it would seem kind of stalkerish. I suggest a nice sushi dinner and a movie then.

*this does not really apply to the turtle, who is, by far, the most romantic, thoughtful man who makes every day a valentine's day
**however, this is not to be construed as a signal that i don't want anything for valentine's day
***dressing up like a two dollar whore might be more fun than a dozen roses
****you, not me

Michele is taking her own advice and using this column to remind a certain turtle that he is her valentine every day. She also wants you to know she is PMS and not really responsible for all the sugary sweetness in this column. Sort of.

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Posted by Michele Christopher at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (18) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Ok, so I'll start this pre-Valentine's Day post by saying I fucking hate Valentine's Day. I call it Singles Awareness Day. Michele's Gauntlet article today says exactly what I want to say much more eloquently. Men, be good to your women (or men) every day. Women, same can be said for you.

That being said, I love romance. And since we Americans most associate romance with tomorrow, I will join the fun and help other people get laid (since god knows I'm not). I've put together a full romantic meal that, if you pull this off (and it's not hard -- dinner only took an hour, dessert 45 minutes) you are SO in.

Rather than give you the individual recipes, I'm going to give you a menu and an order in which to do things. It will make your life much easier.

Menu

Baby Spinach and Gorgonzola Salad with Mascerated Cherries
Red Wine, Cherry, and Rosemary Risotto
Cocoa-crusted Ribeye Steak with Cabernet Demi-Glace

That sounds fancy, right? It's not that hard to make!

Ingredients, in order of use

3 c cabernet sauvignon wine
1 c dried cherries
1/4 c cocoa powder (unsweetened)
1/4 c salt
2 Tbsp pepper
1 tsp cayenne pepper
2 8 oz ribeye steaks
1 small red onion, minced fine
2 ribs celery, minced fine
2 Tbsp fresh rosemary (2 tsp dried)
2 Tbsp olive oil
1 tsp peanut oil
1/2 c arborio rice
2 c very hot water
1/4 c parmesean cheese
2 c beef stock
3 Tbsp butter
1 tsp lemon juice

Place an ovenproof skillet in the oven and preheat the oven to 400 degrees.

Place the cherries in a bowl with 1 c of the wine and put in the microwave for 2 minutes, then let it set for 10 minutes. Strain the cherries but reserve the wine.

In a large zip bag, add the cocoa, cayenne, 1 Tbsp black pepper, and 2 Tbsp salt, and mix well. Add the steaks and coat completely. Press the seasoning in. Allow them to sit for at least 20 minutes. They should be at room temperature.

Heat 1 Tbsp the olive oil in a 3 qt saucepan over medium heat. Add the onion, celery, cherries and rosemary. Add 1 Tbsp of the remaining salt and the remaining pepper. Cook this mixture for about 5 minutes, till the veggies are soft. Add the rice and toast for about 1 minute. Drop the heat a bit, add the wine, and stir until the wine is almost completely absorbed.

At this point, take the skillet out of the oven, add the peanut oil, and put it over medium high heat. Add the steaks and sear on one side for 5 minutes.

While the steaks are searing, you should be adding the water, 1/4 c at a time, to the rice. Stir until the liquid is absorbed, and then add a bit more.

After 5 minutes, flip the steaks and put in the oven for 5 minutes for medium rare. Continue adding water to the rice -- you're going to use most, if not all, of that 2 cups.

When the steaks come out, put on a plate, cover tightly with aluminum foil, and allow to rest for 15 minutes. In the skillet that you cooked the steaks in, over high heat, add the beef stock and remaining salt and boil the shit out it, till it's down to about half a cup. Add the wine and boil it down till you're back to about 3/4 c.

At this point the risotto should just be done. Add the parmesean cheese and 1 Tbsp of the butter. Add the other 2 Tbsp of the butter to the sauce.

To make the salad, Toss the spinach with the gorgonzola and remaining chopped cherries. Drizzle with olive oil and lemon juice.

See? That really wasn't that hard.

Dessert

Pears poached in Cabernet Syrup with Cocoa Dust and Vanilla Bean Ice Cream

Ingredients

1 bottle cabernet sauvignon (preferably the same kind you had above)
1 1/2 c sugar
juice and zest of one orange
2 bosc pears, preferably a little underripe (ripe pears will fall apart in the poaching liquid)
Vanilla ice cream
cocoa powder

Bring the wine, sugar, and orange juice to a simmer over medium-low heat. When the sugar's dissolved, add the peeled pears and simmer for 30 - 45 minutes, till a knife *just* goes in easily. Start testing at 30 minutes, but realize it may take longer if your pears aren't very ripe.

Cut the pears in half length-wise and remove the core with a melon baller. Place the still-warm pears over a scoop of ice cream and sprinkle with the orange zest. Add a spoonful of cocoa powder to a small strainer, and tap with a spoon to dust the pears. Garnish with fresh mint leaves.

There it is. If that doesn't get you laid, then you're as pathetic as ... well, as me.

Happy Singles Awareness Day, fuckers.

This week's album is slightly less romantic.

Impious
Holy Murder Masquerade
Metal Blade Records

RIYL: Dark Tranquillity, God Dethroned, Kreator

This is the first time I've said “this album will definitely be on my Top 10 of the Year list” so far in 2007. This album is unbelievably awesome from the very beginning. A concept album about a man on a killing spree who believes he was sent by God, Holy Murder Masquerade starts with ominous church bells and a man saying “Bless me father, for I will sin” and then BOOM. Right into the music. The band is Swedish and they definitely take some influence from their countrymen, as there's definitely a Gothenburg sound to it, but it also draws heavily from European and Bay Area thrash metal too, as is evidenced by some seriously kickass solos. If you liked their last album Hellucinate, you'll probably like Holy Murder Masquerade even more.

Recommended Tracks: "Three For One", "The Confession", "Everlasting Punishment", "Bloodcraft", "Holy Murder Masquerade"

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Please welcome another new writer at FTTW - The Seismic Pirate!

Well. Here I am at my new home and the first thing I notice is the fucking noise! My old home was awful quiet and this place is full of all sorts of people, topics and moods. It reminds of an apartment building I once lived in. I’ve read some great stuff here already and see I that I might end up the FTTW equivalent of the creepy uncle who smells like cabbage, but I’m cool with that. Come over here and pull my finger….

I took a good look around here yesterday, poking around in all the nooks and crannies and even scoped out the medicine cabinet for a stray Valium or two, just to calm the first-day jitters. No joy there- I’ve got to wing it sober since I’m still out at sea and the wine and woman are 127 hours and twenty-two hundred miles north of right now.

That’s right. I’m currently hangin’ tight on a ship at sea. A self-styled pirate, I make my living at sea and can be found at any given time just about anywhere in the world. I spend a little more than half my life at sea and the remaining time in a little, back woods village north of the 45th parallel, holed up with the wife and kids and a few good friends. There, I prefer to kill, and then eat large, indigenous mammals, washed down with a robust Mutlipulciano, or possibly the firm tannins of a Syrah, which, in truth should do more justice to wild game.

As I explained to the good folks here at FTTW, until recently, I was content to be a small-time, anonymous blogger writing about the fuzz in my bellybutton (drugged up and bedridden after shattering my sternum learning to snowboard last month), or perhaps the 6 foot-6 cook in lime green stretch pants and a hairnet who force-fed me deep-fried green beans on my last ship. Life was good until my present employer stumbled upon my site, forcing me to shut it down on the off chance I might have given away State Secrets like the brand of toilet paper used throughout our fleet, or the fact that the office dicks have a massage parlor operating in the building at their beck and call (lucky bastards). What you’ll get out of me here at FTTW is anybody’s guess…

Whatever, I’ll be a little more careful about the wherefores and whatnots of my top secret business and stick to the piratey bits like the exact amount of alcohol it took to make me puke my guts out in a flower pot sitting next to a 14 ft. stuffed grizzly bear, while blogging from an airport I can’t name, or that the sound of shrimp fucking interferes with my job. Shit, I probably shouldn’t mention that, but they were really getting busy today and I think some of my regular readers need an update on the horny, little bastards. Yes people, the shrimp are back, fucking like mad, and I am breakin out the pirate porn tonight. Shiver me timber…

But before I go, I need to clean up a few stray thoughts-

***

All you guys who popped in here from the pirate’s old hideout? That place is dead and gone, but I might post a few oldies but goodies, just to get the folks here up to speed. Maybe I’ll try to burn out Q1’s eyes with my bellybutton again, or outline my business venture with the good Barrister Richard Wilson from Dakar, Senegal cause guess what? He replied. Honest.

***

I tend to stay away from current events unless something really pisses me off, or really makes me want to puke. This topic has managed to elicit both reactions, since it WON’T GO AWAY…

Wednesday, February 7th, 2007, Raymond S. Aubin died. He wasn't famous. He never posed in Playboy. I sure he wasn't even considered. He didn't abuse drugs, or jerk off an ancient billionaire for few months just to get a shot at his loot. He didn't have an impressive set of tits and never lost 240 pounds in three months by shooting Trimspa and speedballs for breakfast. He also didn't have children so he could fuck them up by being a drug-addicted, sorry-ass excuse of a mother.

Point of fact: I don't even know who he is. I pulled his name from the online edition of my hometown newspaper. I didn't know her either, but I figure chances are he earned having his name in print by being a decent father/husband/son/uncle/friend and soldier, unlike the pathetic loser that wasted every god-given thing she ever had, especially her children. To those who say she had a tough life and I’m just a cold-hearted piece of shit, I’ll bet my left nut that his life was tougher.

Raymond S. Aubin, 12/26/21 – 2/07/07 R.I.P.

***

Finally, I owe Travis the opportunity to rape and pillage the port of his choice for suggesting FTTW. I think I’m gonna like it here once I find a place to hang my sword and eye patch.

Arrrggghhh!

The pirate has been tried many times, but never convicted.

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It's hard to read a headline like that and not immediately think of Al and Peg Bundy, at least if you've been alive long enough to remember the show. If you haven't been alive long enough to remember the show, please inform your parents you're on-line and a twenty eight year old, unmarried mother of two is about to reveal all of the hushed subjects they've been putting off since your own conception. In lieu of you, of your now stressed parents, childless couples everywhere and to those anticipating cupids arrow this Valentines' Day, I dedicate this article.

The show was a comedy, a simple, sardonic half hour sitcom about a shoe salesman and his under-sexed wife living with a promiscuous teenage daughter and a smart-mouthed son. Although it made us laugh (and in some cases made men sneer at the remote possibility of having a wife or girlfriend who wanted to have lots of sex), the show was a far cry from the glorious world of Ozzy and Harriet or June and Ward Cleaver that our parents had to endure a few decades before. Shows like Married with Children, Roseanne and even Just the Ten of Us (please tell me I wasn't the only one who watched it) put the fun back in dysfunctional and had us looking at our own lives in a whole new perspective. We didn't buy into reaching for the stars; we aimed for about waist high and felt proud of our decision and finally our televisions reflected that.

I bring up the shows of my youth not just because I lived/ live vicariously through the t.v, but because it was a pivotal point in my own perception of how my parents' marriage related to the "norm". It validated that parents got angry with their children. It confirmed that yelling was in fact a form of communication. It reassured the world that even if you moved to an elite neighborhood, there was a slight possibility your son's best friend would be named Boner (Growing Pains, come on people). Above all else, the new revolution in television proved that love and marriage took more than a batch of homemade cookies and Stepford-like children to work.

Love was never the hard part, even outside the realm of television. In fact, my eight year old greeted me at the door recently to relay some very exciting news. He and a fellow classmate were in love and apparently plan on attending the fifth grade prom together, that being two years from now. I smiled, tucked him back into his Incredible Hulk comforter, kissed him on the forehead and then proceeded to ingest more asprin than warning labels recommend I take. Last week girls were, and I quote, "gross"; this week we're picking out prom dates. That's how quick love works people. Even in the world of eight year olds, love is alive and well. On the flip side, my three year old still considers me his girlfriend and in a few years will understand how "gross" that was.

Love is defined by Websters as "a strong affection or liking for someone or something". Marriage is defined as "the state of being married" (o.k...) or "a union". Now, I don't know about you, but I don't put merit into a definition that uses the actual word you're trying to define in said definition. Quite honestly, I never put much stock into marriage at all. Marriage to me seemed more like an establishment than a celebration of love everlasting. Aside from being introduced to the more patriarchal rules and regulations of marriage at a very early age ("My name is Jennifer and I'm a recovering Catholic...") traditions that were implemented thousands of years ago are no longer applicable, at least in mass quantities, to our society. Women no longer have dowries, monarchal and tribal mergings exists in a world far away from the small confinement of Vermont, and my personal favorite, arranged marriages, are seldom announced in your local paper under Weddings and Engagements. Despite having indisputable evidence that marriage is nothing more than a piece of paper and a blood test, Matt and I are getting married at the end of June this year. Settle down children, I'm not sewing on my scarlet letters rendering me a hypocrite just yet.

In light of my own discoveries and theories concerning marriage, I've always seen adjusting rules and bending regulations beneficial in numerous walks of life. From helping children do homework beyond our comprehension ("I'll just check your answers on this calculator") to inviting Betty Crocker and her fabulous one box creations to your next potluck event, we constanly tweak the rules of engagement to accomodate our ever-hectic lifestyles. Using this philosophy in respects to marriage proved to be no different. Matt and I have been together for ten years this past October. We have two children, a house, two vehicles, a dog and a cat under our proverbial belts. To further exploit how together we are, we work at the same hardware store. What if we looked at marriage as the prize at the bottom of the Cracker Jack box rather than the start of the feeding frenzy to find it? In other words, why not take the journey together instead of waiting to see the fairytale begin after you say "I do"?

Ten years is a lot of time to get to know one another. In fact, one might argue that we've earned our right to get married. We've made it through ten years of good and bad times, and patiently saw each other through the really bad times. We watched the time pass together as my contractions for each child hit and patiently held one another close when our youngest drifted off into a medically induced sleep under the watchful eye of a plastic surgeon; twice. We've also watched each others waist lines expand and felt no apprehension when it came to telling one another that fat isn't fun at any age. After all of this, we still love each other, so we're going to get married.

Getting married shouldn't be about being able to wear Vera Wang or china patterns. Getting married should be about an evolving friendship that doesn't dull after Lionel Ritchie sings some ode to ceiling dancing. When Matt and I get married, we know what to expect. I expect that he'll still make me laugh when I need to, he'll still make me cry over stupid arguments and he'll still make me angry for not rinsing the cups after drinking milk. And I'll expect to love him unconditionally for all of these things (the milk thing is pretty annoying though) and more.

As the song says, love and marriage "go together like a horse and carriage". Please note that it didn't specify which one has to come first. We assume the horse has to pull the carriage, but after doing a little investigating, you'll find that by tweaking the carriage, it may run without Mr. Ed's help at all. Don't use marriage as a reason to be together. Use marriage as the final step in a union that you took the time and effort to work at, for the sake of keeping love alive. Mr. Ed will thank you for it.

Jen learned everything she knows about housekeeping by watching Mr. Belvedere.

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Now that Celebrity is in the mail, the entire submission process is on hold - at least for a few weeks. The trick now is to keep writing and submitting, writing and submitting, so that when one of your stories happens to get picked up, you'll have previous submissions providing you with a stream of income until the payday comes in.

One thing that I've always been notoriously bad about is finding time to write. Just about everything I write, including these columns, are written because I have committed myself to a deadline and I have to meet it. Celebrity itself was actually a story I wrote, as an assignment, for a Creative Fiction class at the university (I got an A). This is fine, of course, for things like this column and breaking news stories at the paper, but, for a freelancer, this kind of work ethic just turns you into an unproductive waste of space. For freelancers, there ARE no deadlines. Celebrity could have been mailed tomorrow, or in a week from now, or not until the summer: the editor at Brutarian (unless he happens to read this column) doesn't even know yet that it's headed his way, much less that he really ought to buy it because it's great (nudge nudge, there, Mr. Editor).

So this past week I've decided to start something new. I'm a very busy guy, but every day without fail, I have some free time from 5-6 p.m. during the week. I used to watch TV or replay a level of Half-Life 2, but, starting this past Monday, I've been using that hour to write. I just sit and stare at a blank page, then start writing whatever comes to mind. Whether it's great or it's crap or it's just me bitching about my day, I've found that writing every day really helps oil the hinges of the creative mind.

For example, I came up with a premise for a narrative - I think it was on Tuesday that I jotted it down while I was writing in the back yard and my kitten was playing in the grass around me. It is essentially a fight-the-power story from feudal Japan involving supernatural powers and traditional tattoos - when I have more written on it I'll probably share more about it here. Is it great? Not really. Does it have promise? Potentially. It could be utter crap brought on by my current quest to get a bit of tattoo work done. But, whatever it is, it's some creative exercise. If it doesn't pan out, I will have gotten just that much more writing practice. And practice will eventually pay off when I write something really worth reading (and selling).

Other than this (potentially) productive development, all's quiet around here for while - at least until I hear back about Celebrity. In the next few weeks I'll just be sharing some snippets of short stories or just pondering life, the universe and everything.

So what time every day do you guys write? Time every week? What motivates you?

Kittens and grass are all it apparently takes to motivate Ian. Archives

Posted by Ian Birnbaum at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (7) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

I don’t really like to admit just how big a dork I am. I can admit the small stuff. Everyone watches The Daily Show and Colbert Report (my “power hour”), and watching CNN can be excused, and Al Franken is cool because he’s on Letterman all the time, but listening to Discovery Radio on Sirius in your car, when you could be listening to Cavino and Rich talk about “nussies” and “knobbers” on Maxim radio, or even Howard Stern on one of his 800 stations is… well it’s a tad on the Chess Club President side (but to set the record straight, I was only their secretary).

But the thing is, I really like Discovery Radio. I really like learning about rare monkeys in Africa and then, later, about the American Civil War. It is so totally my thing.

Which is why I listen to / am completely ass over head in love with Mo Rocca*.

And I shouldn’t be. He is what I dated in high school. That Elvis Costello-glasses wearing-cardigan sporting-drama nerd in the honors program is exactly what screwed me up back in the day.

But I love him.

Even if we could only ever be just friends.

That’s why I called into his Discovery Radio show. I never thought I was one of those people who call into radio stations… I never thought I would be. I never expected it to happen. I didn’t know what I was doing. “Call in now to talk to Mo!” his producer urged. And, I could blame it on lack of sleep or dehydration, but something inside of me made me pick up my cell phone and dial. Something inside me whispered “today is your day to win a When Dinosaurs Roamed America DVD.”

I expected a busy signal. I never expected him to pick up. Actually, I never expected him to not screen calls either.

“Hello?” He wants to know who’s calling.

Big. Fucking. Pause.

“Hello?”

“Um,”

“Hello?”

“Oh. Hi?”

Um. Oh. Hi. Fuck.

“Hi, and who’s calling?”

Oh shit.

“Stephanie?”

“From where?”

“Arizona?”

I have forgotten my purpose for calling, my name, my state, I think also my address and phone number. I am completely disoriented. And I am driving. I begin to think, If I crash my car and die on air… could that get me face time on ET? Probably not, but maybe Extra? They’re sorta slutty… is Mo still talking? Should I be listening? I have to concentrate. Concentrate… concentrate… MO!

“Oh yeah! What part?”

Oh fuck me.

“Phoenix? Paradise Valley area?”

This is where I black out. Just as the conversation was about over, I can vaguely recall spitting out (after a sarcastic rant about… football and Navy Seals? What?), “But, no, seriously, I love you and your show!”

“Oh, well… great! Thanks! And congratulations!”

Wait… Did I win something?

“I need your address so I can send the DVD,” his producer is now on the line with me.

I’m brazen, “Can you get Mo to send me an autograph too, please?”

Big. Fucking. Pause.

“Uh, I’ll see what I can do.”

Still waiting.

*(Q.- “Who?” you ask. A. - The dude from I Love The… whatever year and a former Daily Show correspondent… he’s also a judge on Iron Chef sometimes and does work for Leno and CBS on Sunday mornings? His book is All The Presidents’ Pets … Why am I so alone in the world?)

Stephanie likes to get her nerd on.

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Local music newspapers are so naive. Or maybe they are so much fun. Or maybe they don't care. Whatever the cause may be, I love me some local newspapers. They can be your biggest friends.Just get a few people on the staff who love you and watch what happens.

The only reason I bring this up is cause of all the voting on FTTW lately reminded me of a thing that happened a few years ago in a different town that had to do with voting. And me. And a local paper. Funny how FTTW reminds me of a lot of things I once thought forgotten.

Anyways, in was a rebuilding time in the town. Bands were rediscovering fans and in most cases drugs as well. Hm. Let me explain this a little better. After some bands got big, they decided to change the rules and bands broke up. It happens. So there were a lot of unstable bands around just filling time with gigs before they found something new they liked. So "super groups" formed.. Fans knew who these people in these side projects were and some of those side projects became big. Well sometimes.

Here is where the newspapers come in. The town I was in knew about a few of the bands and decided that they would hold a yearly contest. The best bands of allgenres type of thing. Just really a popularity contest. Best rock, best punk, best metal, etc. You guys can get the rest. So the guys at the paper decided to put some of these bands on the ballot. The thing was that this paper modeled the awards after a real big California award show for local bands. They tried to use this other award shows format and by this I mean a free newspaper with a ballot inside of them. You fill the ballot out and that was it.

Problem was, when it came to alternative bands on the list, there were one or two on there that pretty much were signed and rich and really not living in the same state anymore. I mean these guys were still cool and still hung around but they pretty much had made it big and only came to hang around every so often. They kinda made big.

Soooo this is where the paper story comes in. We knew that the best punk category was going to be a wash. Best alternative band was gone, too. Two bands that are still huge today had those slots and no one was going to take them away. But the thing is that this award show was a joke. Most people knew that almost everyone on the ballots didn't even live around locally anymore so what the fuck? The bands didn't need the press. They didn't care.

So some of the bands that was just a small side project made it on the vote. No one knew who they were except for people who knew them from the music scene. So we formed a plan.

Now when I say no one cared, you have to remember that yes, some people cared about who won this thing. So maybe I should change that. Some people cared about who won, but it sure as fuck wasn't us. We just wanted to fuck things up. So with the help of our newspaper friends, we got about 2,500 pre-filled ballots and handed them out in stacks to some of our weirdest friends. See, we had them all filled out for one of these bands. The ones no one had heard of.

So off everyone went. To bars, coffee shops, restaurants, bingo halls, churches, anywhere and everywhere people gathered. Just to get these things signed. It was a shitload of fun. The 2,500 were signed in under a week.

We needed more. Cause this was just too much fun. Drunk people wandering into malls harassing people for their names on a piece of paper to "support your local music scene, god dammit." We had them filled out for the write in bands. The spot were you could write in your own bands were filled in. Christian bands were written in for the Death Metal category. Best vocalis tnominees were written in for best Industrial band.

And off another stack went to be signed.

Basically we just fucked the whole thing up.

A common theme for us.

So award night came around and off course everyone who had done this ended up in a bar rather than go to the ceremony. I mean fuck it. Most people just were happy with reading about what was going to happen in tomorrows paper. But not me. In my infinite wisdom, I decided to go pick up the award. Well, whichever one we had one. Who knew at this point. So shitfaced drunk in a Cadillac with three strippers, I cruised down to the theater to get the awards. Some of the other bands nominated were on tour and therefore not around, so I designated myself and the girls as their official awardreceiver . So we had it made. The paper had made the ballots. The fans had got the ballots signed and really, no one cared. I just wanted to see what would happen.

I stumbled out of the theater after we lost each and every one we had cheated for.

What the hell happened? We had so many votes. We cheated for two weeks straight to get this award, any award "no one cared about" and we fucking lost. It just blew my mind.

I walked back out to the Cadillac car and hoped in the back with the last of my vodka. We all headed back to the bar to give everyone the bad news.

A few days later, I ran into one of the bands that did win an award. I really don't know what category they won for and really I don't remember caring about it that much anymore. I did want to know one thing though. How the hell did they win? We had fucking everyone signing our ballots. I know I signed at least 200 hundred myself so how did they do it?

"We sent the drummer to Kinko's with about 50 signed ballots and he photocopied about 10,000."

10,000???

That must of cost a shitload of money.

"Well, we wanted to win, dude."

See.

Some people did care.

Fucking weirdos.

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This one was really close. Ah Ha was leading almost the whole time. I gues the Duranies came out at the end and clicked away.

Congrats to Simon and the boys for winning such a coveted award. Who needs the Grammys when you can get a shoddy Photoshop graphic with your name on it from Faster Than The World?

Final results here.

TAFC is taking a break this week, but will return next Monday in all its amazing glory.

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Today I step a little further outside the confines of my self-imposed guitar-centric theme and discuss a more general music topic – cover songs.

When I joined the Army in 1994, the school for my career field (Public Affairs) was in Fort Benjamin Harrison, Indiana. It closed down shortly after I graduated, but there will always be strong memories I associate with that place. There are certain activities I will associate with that place also. One of them is developing film. Another is cover songs.

Part of the Print Journalism PAO program is Photojournalism, and 12 years ago when I went through we were still using wet film. There was an intro to digital manipulation, but it was all of a two-hour class. The rest of the time, we were shooting with old full-manual Canons (the kind that could double as a mace) and developing the film. The building where the Photojournalism instruction took place had been a jail in World War II. The individual cells had been converted to individual darkrooms. Two students were paired and shared a cell.

Before the IPOD and the portability that MP3 players brought, the smallest CD players we could get our hands were about the size of a breadbox. But that’s what we had, and my darkroom partner and I had ours set up every day while we made our contact sheets. One disc I was burning out at the time was The Breeders’ Pod. One of the songs often replayed (the meat, FINALLY!, such a circuitous route to get here, eh?) was their cover of The Beatles’ Happiness is a Warm Gun. The other day, that song popped up in rotation on my MP3 player and I thought, “What a good topic for a column!”

So, here is my list of my personal favorite cover songs and my reasons why. They are in no particular order, just some of the cover tunes I really like.

Stevie Ray Vaughan – Little Wing: Jimi Hendrix was a genius and most guitarists that have come after him have been pale imitations or have had to work hard to distinguish themselves in some other fashion. Vaughan was one of the few guitarists brave enough to play a lot of Hendrix tunes. He not only played them, but he played them well. In the case of Little Wing, this is one of the few cases where I believe the remake surpasses the original. By cutting the vocals and focuses on mood and tension, Vaughan changes the dynamic of Hendrix’s original version. However, while you don’t get the specific identity that Hendrix gave with lyrics, I believe that Vaughan far more successfully conveys the mood the song portrays.

The Breeders - Happiness is a Warm Gun: Well, this one had to be on the list, being the catalyst for the entire piece. The original Beatles song is a classic and arguably one of their very best songs. Musically, The Breeders’ version is very true to the original. I mean, the music is a bit tighter and production value is modern, but there’s no major divergence from the source material. The main difference is in how Kim Deal chose to sing almost under the music. Her vocals add a subtlety that the original doesn’t possess. Now, I still prefer the original, but there aren’t many other cover songs that do as good a job as covering as this song.

Joe Satriani - Sleep Walk: Another cover song that is very true to the original. What Satch does though is take the song off the steel guitar and puts it entirely on a normal 6 string. Where the song greatly benefits is modern production and Satch’s ear for tone.

Slayer - Dissident Aggressor: When I first heard South of Heaven, I was not a big fan of Judas Priest. The only songs I knew were the mass consciousness ones like Breaking the Law or Living After Midnight. So, I didn’t know that this song was a Priest tune. When I first heard it I thought it was a very different sound for Slayer, but I still thought it sounded good. It’s a fun song to listen to, especially with Slayer’s dissonance added to it. Since hearing the Priest original, I have that much more respect for Slayer by making a good song out of that steaming pile of platypus crap.

Ramones - Palisades Park: This one was tough. The Ramones did so many covers, but they did such a great job with Palisades Park it rises to the top. I could have easily put the Spiderman theme song, R.A.M.O.N.E.S., Have You Ever Seen The Rain?, or others. Palisades Park is such a fun song and the Ramones do a great job of capturing the feeling of the tune while still being the Ramones.

Well, those are a few of mine, what are some of yours?

Cullen once did a death metal cover of the Canadian National Anthem

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You can act tough and say you never succumb to “work talk.” But you know you do. We ALL do. If you work in corporate America, chances are, you’ve said most of the things I’m going to talk about here. Because, overall, you can’t get away with not saying them. Yes, it’s the dreaded work lingo. Every office has something unique about its lingo, but there are several universal things that everyone knows and understands. And while it may be stupid, it’s also necessary, unless you want to be the office dick.

1. Days of the week

There are three days during the standard five day work week that are used in work lingo. The first is Monday. Here’s the standard Monday morning conversation:

Bob: How’s it going?

Mary: Pretty good—for a Monday!

*hearty chuckles all around*

Bob: Yeah, I know what you mean. The weekend just isn’t long enough.

Well no shit Bob. Of course the weekend isn’t long enough. It’s only two fucking days. And most of the weekend, you’re miserable, because you drank too much on Friday, so you woke up and started drinking again on Saturday, and that puts you in really bad shape on Sunday, and you have shit to do on Sunday, but you don’t feel like it, so you start drinking again and play video games until you pass out on the couch with half a Ding Dong hanging out the side of your mouth and your girlfriend screaming that you’re a worthless good for nothing and that she should have taken her mom’s advice and married that rich Asian kid from down the block when she had the chance.

But I digress.

Next comes Wednesday. “It’s Hump Day!” Here’s Bob and Mary on a Wednesday.

Bob: Hey Mary! How’s it going?

Mary: Pretty good—halfway there!

Bob: I know! The weekend’s in sight now.

Wait a second, weren’t you complaining about how short the weekend was just two days ago Bob? And now you’re looking forward to it? See, Bob’s your standard American business man, who looks forward to things that he knows are going to disappoint him in the end. And why does he do this? Because he’s a spineless little sheep, that’s why. So, Bob and Mary spend a good portion of their Wednesday informing other people that it is Wednesday, as if this is some cause for celebration. Then comes Wednesday’s bastard child Thursday—not much ever happens on a Thursday. Next is the mother of them all: Friday. Let’s drop in on Bob and Mary and see how their conversation goes Friday.

Bob: Hey Mary! How’s it going?

Mary: Great—it’s Friday!

Bob: That’s right! The weekend is finally here!

Yes Bob, the weekend is finally here, the weekend you’ll be complaining about being too short on Monday, when this whole crapfest starts all over again.

2. Touching Base

This usually means “I want to make sure you’re doing what you’re supposed to be doing.” Let’s see what happens when Bob has something he needs from Mary.

Bob (peeking around the edge of Mary’s cubicle): Hey Mary! Just touching base to see how those expense reports are coming.

Mary (trying to not look suspicious while closing an Internet browser window. She’s probably reading an email about someone’s cat or forwarding some stupid “Microsoft will give you a dollar” shit to everyone in her goddamn address book. You know the kind of person I’m talking about.): Pretty good Bob! Should be able to get them to you within the hour.

Bob: Woah! That’s great! But no pressure, no pressure—take your time.

No pressure. Right Bob, you presumptuous asshole. You presume that Mary doesn’t have her shit together (you are right about that, though) and then you presume that she has a bunch of pressure on her about finishing these expense reports. But Mary doesn’t give a shit about the expense reports. She’s still thinking about that janitor she sucked off in your office the night you made her work late, and whether you’ve ever noticed the stain on your leather chair. Next!

3. Action Items

Might as well just call this what it is—shit you need to do. But no, this is business, and we need to make sure that all our words and phrases sound like something they really aren’t. Let’s take a peek at what happens at the end of a meeting with Bob and Mary.

Bob: Ok group, let’s look at the action items resulting from this meeting. We’ll start with yours Mary. Your first action item is to retrieve the industrial hole punch from Accounting.

Mary: I’m on it Bob.

Bob: Next, you need to find some Vaseline.

Mary: Not a problem, Bob.

Bob: After that, I want you to help me insert the handle for the hole punch into my anus. Jack will take care of getting the dress I’ll wear while we’re doing this, so you don’t have to worry about that.

Mary: Sounds good Bob.

See what Bob did there? Basically gave Mary the worst job anyone could think of, but made it sound exciting by calling it an action item. As you can see by now, Bob is one slimy dude.

4. Ensure quality/quality control

This really just means, “We’ll do our best not to fuck this up.” When used in conjunction with “Action Items,” it means “We’ll do our best not to fuck this up next time.” This is one I use ALL the time. But it isn’t because I fuck up all the time. It’s because other people fuck up and I have to clean up their messes. Just like our friend Mary.

Mary: Bob, the handle is stuck on your asshair.

Bob: What's wrong?

Mary: Well, it seems that, due to shoddy craftsmanship, the handle has several metal splinters sticking out from it.

Bob: What are you going to do about that Mary?

Mary: From now on, I will implement a serious quality control system for all office supplies that you may want to have inserted into your anus.

Bob: Excellent! You sure are a go-getter Mary!

The thing is, we all say this shit. You can't get away with NOT saying it in corporate America. It's our plight, really. We're all stuck in a fucking nightmare. So share your nightmare with me guys. What lingo do you despise at your workplace? If we're going to be scared, we might as well be scared together.

Uberchief will leverage the paradigm synergy in your butt.

Posted by Branden Hart at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (16) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Another guest post from our friend in Texas, Dave. Originally appeared here.

In my first post on this fascinating topic, I posed a question, which was my theory that most of us wear as adults what our moms bought for us when we were kids and teenagers, and we just got used to it or whatever, and that was that.

As several people pointed out, except for special occasions I’m not really trying to make a fashion statement, I just want to be comfortable.

Part of the reason I find this theory so plausible is that my own anecdotal evidence supports it fully, so I can treat it like global warming theory. Another reason though is the special relationship a mother and a son share. It’s different from fathers and sons, and of course completely different from that of parents and daughters.

Unless a power tool is missing. Then you’re all equally guilty under the law.

However special and close the mother / son relationship might be, there are areas where open communication is not really a priority.

That’d be talkin about underwear. No boy, no adolescent, no teenager, hell who am I kidding, no man in his 40s wants to discuss this with mom. Not at all. Not ever. Don’t get me wrong, moms can talk about it all the time and dear God we wish they would just please shut up about it. “Look what I got for you at Target today David, the other ones were looking so thin and threadbare and yak, yak, yak, yak”. “Mom, ok, uh, yeah just, all right already, ok, ahh,, AIYEEEEEE”!!

So we wore what they bought and that was it. The alternative was discussing it.

When I was 19 my mom had a friend who lost a son to a premature heart attack. He was about 31. About my size.

I think you all know where this is going.

To understand my mom’s thought process in this nightmare, you have to appreciate (which I of course did not at the time) that she was a child of the depression. It affected her life profoundly. She grew up poor on a little farm in Alabama. Her dad was a carpenter. She was a teenager during WWII, and she remembered rationing. Most of you are aware that every single commodity you could buy was rationed. Meat, eggs, milk, bread, gasoline, tires, clothing.. No coupon, no buy.

People of limited means survived the depression by saving everything. You wasted nothing. They had grease drives for cryin out loud… save your grease drippings from meats.

So you might be able to understand when my mother came home from her friend’s house with two paper grocery bags, she thought she was doing a very good thing.

It was this guy’s underwear.

I swear to God, she brought me another man’s underwear.

A DEAD man’s underwear. And she had a co-conspirator, who probably came up with the idea.

“Martha sent these over today. They were Ken’s”. I open bag, look in, and drop it, backing away like it’s full of baby rattlesnakes.

I think I screamed like a girl. I don’t remember exactly. I said something.

“No way. Uh uh. Not happening” I said. She goes all ‘practical on me’.

“Oh hush, they’re practically new. And he was exactly your size”.

memo to self: this size can equal premature death from heart disease. think about it bub.

“Mom, they’re some other guys underwear. A dead guy’s underwear”.

“Well they only needed one pair for the service David. I don’t understand what’s wrong”.

Oh great, there’s one pair missing from the set.

“I am not wearing those. He is dead. Death could have jumped into them. Death does that, it doesn’t care where it goes. Those could be Death Briefs! Don’t you want grandchildren someday”?

I almost had her there. But she found her second wind.

She carried on for a bit about how ungrateful children were or something, I don’t know. At some point in my youth I learned to filter that frequency. It was a coping mechanism that helped me survive. Anyway, I took those bags and shoved them in the garbage can, and planted the lid.

Firmly.

Before I left to go back to school, I looked in the trunk of my car.

Yep. Tucked way up in the back. Behind the spare.

Depression children are not just resourceful.

They are sneaky as all hell.

Dave won't tell if he wears boxers or briefs. Or neither.

Guest author archives

Posted by Michele Christopher at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

“so what are you doing now?”

“i’m driving a cab.”

“you drive a cab?”

“yeah.”

“ok.”

“yeah…it’s alright. i mean, it’s certainly a change of pace, a change of scenery. different mindset. i like it.”

“you like it?”

“yeah, motherfucker, i like it.”

“sure you do. so is this like a Yellow Cab or what?”

“no, it’s not yellow.”

“no?”

“naw…sometimes it’s a car, but there’s this old black limo that i get. a lot of my runs are from the airport to downtown. vice-versa. it’s a little classier than a regular cab, i guess.”

“what’s the name of the company?”

“i’d rather not go into that.”

“…uh…”

“sixty dollars plus tip is the cab fee…that airport run. i get some crazy riders in there. it’s a cool job. sometimes some crazy shit, ya know. like in the summer, i had Michael Keaton.”

“you had him?”

“yeah man.”

“in the Biblical sense?”

“no. i picked him up at the airport, and then i was taking him to the stadium for some kind of interview and then the Pirates' game. he was throwing out the first pitch, i think. then to the Hilton. i was supposed to drive for him while he was here.”

“supposed to?”

“yeah.”

“well?”

“well what?”

“well what the fuck happened? ‘supposed to.’ what happened? why didn’t you drive him?”

“i did.”

“you just said you didn’t.”

“i did not. i said i was supposed to drive for him while he was here. i didn’t stay on the whole time.”

“why not?”

“problems, man, problems. i mean…everything was cool. i picked him up at the airport. he introduced himself like, ‘i’m Batman.’ started laughing, real corny. he seemed okay. he talked a little on his cell phone. talked to me about growing up here. about LA. real Hollywood shit. whatever, ya know. so, i picked him up and took him to the game. i had to wait…walked around on the North Side, bought some drugs, ate a sandwich. you know, and then it was back to the Hilton.”

“fascinating.”

“yeah, so…when we got back to the Hilton, i popped the trunk on the cab…”

“i thought it was a limo.”

“yeah, it is. the limo. cab. whatever. what the fuck was i saying?”

“the trunk.”

“the trunk? oh. yeah…so i popped the trunk and let the little bellhops monkey around with his bags. and i was like ‘hey, Batman, how about something, you know, for the effort.’ and he gets all Michael Keaton on me. movin’ his eyebrows and buggin’ his eyes out and shit. ‘well, ah…a tip…ah…jeez…ah…’ patting his pockets down. you know, lookin’ all perplexed and shit. kinda like Reverend Jim on Taxi.”

“who?”

“not important. so anyway…i get to thinkin’ that Keaton’s gonna stiff me on the tip, right. he says ‘a tip? hey…i…ummm…i’ll get you some stuff. autographs. memorabilia. e-bay. you know. i’ll be seeing you around later. you’re my driver here in the ‘Burgh, right? OKAY!!!’ and i just kinda nod, just lookin’ at this cheap motherfucker. i mean, come on, right? he’s a fuckin’ millionaire. i’m pissed.”

“is he?”

“i guess so…fuckin’ Batman, right?”

“learn to fuckin’ type.”

“what?”

“a tip? please. that’s offensive. why don’t you just get a styrofoam cup and spare for change on Liberty?”

“whatever…so Keaton. he’s all like smiling at me after he tells me he’s about to stiff me, or give me some cheap movie promo shit. fuck that. and then in an instant, his face gets all serious, and he thrusts a fist out at me.”

“a fist?”

“yeah.”

“he punched you?”

“yeah…i mean, no. he didn’t. he didn’t punch me. he just wanted a pound or to bump fists or whatever.”

“Michael Keaton’s a rap guy?”

“right! i definitely didn’t see that one comin’. and when he got all serious and threw out his fist, i thought he was about to punch me. that’s a natural reaction. a reflex. and when he got all serious like that and put his fist out…”

“you thought he was trying to punch you.”

“i thought he was trying to punch me.”

“…so…”

“you know…i clocked that motherfucker.”

“you punched him?”

“yeah man.”

“that’s nice. that’s real fuckin’ classy.”

“laid him out.”

“unbelievable.”

“come on…who expects Keaton to get all ‘Source Awards’ up in here?”

“certainly not you.”

“of course i didn’t.”

“you’re lying.”

“i’m lying? i’m lying? ok. i got his autograph out in the car, some posters, and this yellow plastic thing that he says was his utility belt in the movie.”

“no shit?”

“no shit. ask your girl about my batwings, too.”

Archives

Posted by Johnny St. Clair at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (5) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Hello again to you all! You know, its funny how things can go awry at the last minute isn’t it? I had an article all set to be posted and wouldn’t you know it, I got all sorts of busy at work and left with it still on the screen! So my co-worker, quite by accident, forgot to save it. I lost all the material with no time to compose my article again in order for it to be posted after the “Super Bowl”. Just insanity I tell you! I worked during that time and failed to see the commercials or the game itself. Which I heard was quite exciting. The last time I saw the “Super Bowl” was also, funny enough, the same night I saw Janet Jackson’s boobie. Wasn’t there a whole lot of attention drawn to this small infraction? It was shown at about eight thirty or so if I recall correctly. If I’m not mistaken that was about the same time in the evening that we used to be treated to a myriad of “Butt Shots” on shows like NYPD Blue, or even a racy episode of “Law and Order”. I suppose my question at this point is: “What in hell goes on in the minds of the ratings people?” It seems to me that there is a HUGE enormous problem with the ratings for some videos, movies, and television programs. For example let’s just take the video “Alien vs. Predator” and one of my personal favorites: “It’s My Party”, and compare the films and the ratings they were given.

“It’s My Party” is about the lives of a number of people in the mid-nineties, or current day. The central story is that of two gay men living together. One of the men contracts HIV and the relationship unravels shortly thereafter. Flip to a few years into the future and our infected young man begins to deteriorate. Instead of pushing throughout the painful progression of his disease, he decides to throw a party with everyone he knows present. He wants no wake or funeral; but the opportunity to say goodbye to his loved ones and family. The Drama unfolds from there, and the movie has an absolutely incredible cast: Eric Roberts, Olivia Newton- John, Bronson Pinchot (remember “Perfect Strangers?”), Roddy McDowell, Marlee Matlin, And Margaret Cho. Among many others. There are a few drag queens and a scene where a naked male jumps into a pool in the background during a party scene, probably a few swear words, and a few scenes which might trouble those sensitive to the subject of AIDS related death. The story is sensitive and touching, and does not make the gay lifestyle a novelty for comedic purposes. This video is a recommendation for all. It is rated “R” for thematic elements and sexuality.

“Alien Vs Predator” is a Sci-Fi/ Horror film set in 2002, based on characters that both have their own franchises. “Alien” and “Predator” respectively. This long awaited film pits the two creatures against one another in a battle set here on earth. The humans that are in this film, and our heroine, are sent to Bolvatoya Island. Located in the arctic; in order to investigate an odd heat signature under the ice. They discover a pyramid, set off a booby trap and the slaughter and mayhem ensue. The movie is a fun adventure with plenty of gore, slime, screaming, and death, a few wonderfully fantastic fight scenes which are graphic and gross. The plot, while thin, is a perfect vehicle to bring these well loved monsters together for a showdown that even I was cheering for. This gruesome and nightmare invoking film is rated “PG-13” for gore, violence, and language, adult situations and scary images/horror.

I suppose my question is which one would you rather a 13 year old watch? Personally, I think I’d rather them watch the film about life, and love, and relationships. I believe that the two ratings should have been reversed. I encountered a similar problem when I realized that the Oscar nominated “Brokeback Mountain” was also rated R for sexuality. Does this mean that if a film is gay in nature that it is inappropriate for our young adults? I understand that the two sex scenes in the film might just be enough to warrant a rating of PG-13. However the situations depicted in the film are similar to many romantic dramas that have a man and a woman as the main characters. Most of those films have severely more nudity, and more graphic sex scenes.

This means that if I was a young gay male of about 15, (which at one point, I was) I would not be able to see the films about gay lovers, however most of my friends could watch films loaded with half naked chicks screwing reasonably attractive actors onscreen.

There seems to be a great lack of consistency in the ways that many films are rated. Many horror films that I have seen lately have been rated PG-13. Are we that desensitized to violence, and yet overly sensitive about loving one another? When did we begin thinking that it is ok to show our youngsters how to make a pipe bomb in order to defend against a giant bug, and yet attempt to shelter them from any growing feelings of attraction they may have for someone of the same sex, retarding the social growth of some young boys and girls destined to grow up gay? It seems to me that any diversity in character development on film is restricted to the adult audience over 18 years of age. A shame really. I recall growing up watching shows that had characters expressing feelings grief, love, hate, and joy. Whereas today it seems many people feel sexual attraction, violence, and never really take much time to develop any other real human characteristics. I think that when I become a parent I will be screening everything my kids want to see. And I think I will most likely allow them to see many films not recommended for them by the film ratings administration. While depriving them from some films that society deems acceptable… While it may be time consuming to screen all of the material that will enter my kids’ brain, I think it is every parent’s duty to ensure a well rounded child. If the parent does not consider the future of the child, and allows them to hate, be prejudiced, or a bigot, than it is the fault of the parent. Not the child. Though later in life, the child will be responsible for his/her own actions. (Another lesson many parents seem to fail at.)

To close this week, I just have to say that my faith in the people who rate television and film is gone. Despite all the political correctness in ratings lately, it is, and will always be, up to the parent to know that is going on. Relying on someone else to dictate your children is irresponsible, and careless.

I hope you find joy in the week to come, and happiness in the quiet times shared with loved ones. Don’t worry about me, I’m a drag queen, what do I know?

"Relying on someone else to dictate your children is irresponsible, and careless."
Matthew rules. Archives

Posted by Matthew Chase at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (6) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

So this week Anna Nicole Smith died in a bit of a mystery. I’m sure soon we can all go on with our lives once we know how she died and the circumstances surrounding her untimely demise. I expect that we will hear more and more about how much people liked her, how wonderful she was and all the ballyhoo that goes with it. It seems while she was alive she was a bit of a joke to everyone. I mean five minutes of the “Anna Nicole Show” and you get it. She wasn’t aware of very much and now with her passing it seems history will be re-written and she will become some modern re-telling of Marilyn Monroe. Yes, Hollywoodland is just that vulgar. They will ride this for weeks and guess what? Its gets even sadder.

Hollywood is truly the weirdest place on Earth. So next will come the retrospectives, the confessions and the worst part, her five month old baby will suffer through a life of her mother's past. She will be the center of a greed fest and money scandal before she can even say “momma”. Sad isn’t it? I’m sure her estranged white trash loser family will pop outta the wood work seeking the “Child's best interest” and with that, the money this little girl stands to inherit. Anna Nicole didn’t speak to her family for a reason and now I hear them on Larry king talking about her like they just spent the past 10 years with her. It's twisted. Its going to be the media's newest thing. They will be all over this like a bum on a Twinkie. If you remember last week I was going on about the sad state of reality TV, well now it has its first death of any significance. Anna Nicole Smith.

It's really horrible that there will be long drawn out legal battles over this. It's even sadder that in the middle is an infant baby girl. So this is what we have come to. This is what we have created. This kid doesn’t have much of a chance for a normal life but let's hope she gets a shot at one. Let's hope she doesn’t go the way of her mother. Hollywood has a history of making things worse. This is no exception but the rule it would seem. In the center of this frenzy, a little girl lost her mom. Her trials and tribulations are just begining, and le'ts hope we as a public will just let her slip off into obscurity. Of course, who am I kidding. We have not heard the last of this that’s for sure.

One day we should hold the mirror up to ourselves and see if our weird little lives could stand up to the scrutiny, the invasion and the constant BS that comes with it. I don’t understand why anyone would want to be famous. It seems to suck a lot as all you see and hear is drama, tragedy and asshattery on a grand scale. We created this mess, that’s for sure.

All I can say is buy some boots. The bullshit is going to flow in the next few weeks and you don’t want to get any on you do you?

Archives

Posted by Jay Scott at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (4) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

The nominations are in, the poll is set and now it's in your hands.

We've narrowed it down to ten to make the voting more.....intense. Poll stays up until Sunday 4pm EST.

Vote now, vote later. Just do your civic duty and vote.

FRANKIE SAYS VOTE!

The polls are now closed.
The winner will be annouced tomorrow morning

ed note: TAFC will be taking a rest next week. We'll be back the week after with a brand new thing to nominate/vote on/argue about.

Posted by Michele Christopher at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

So it is getting close to the end of 80's week! Whoop de doo. Actually we have had a lot of fun this week kicking the shit out of memories and some of the things we used to do. We found out that some of our writers have been through hell during the 80's and some of us just stayed drunk. Please remember that both of those things aren't mutually exclusive.

I like using big words like that.

Makes me feel all smart and shit.

Anyways, we as editors tried to think of one thing that would truly unify everyone on this site, except for Meg of course, cause she grew up with hippy parents with corn husks coming out of their hair.

So what did we think of?

MTV shows!

Everyone remembers those damn shows, except for Meg (see above). Hell, they have been on for 30 years. You have to know some of them. Love them or hate them, they were there.

So tonight we will be reviewing out favorite shows on the Music Television. If we miss yours, like add it in, dude. Ta hell is wrong with you? We want to hear it. Except for Meg who can tell us how to tell what time of day it is by licking a tree or something like that. (Just kidding Meg.)

Anyways. In no particular order, here are our favorites.

Turtle goes first.

Wow. So many good shows. So many to choose from. Actually, that's not really that true. I hated MTV growing up. I mean, it was the same crap they played on the radio. There was really nothing it offered me. Well, there were a few shows, but they put them on in times where the clearly showed the world that they didn't want us. Well you know what? Fuck them. If they didn't want me, the fuck would I want to be part of their scene?

'Cept for those few shows. Cause they were ok. Those shows?

120 minutes

Ah. A perfect example. Nestled in that prime time slot of midnight to 2 o'clock on Sunday nights. See, this is what I love about MTV. They had their finger on the pulse of the next big wave in popular music. Years before bands like Nirvana were breaking out and breaking big, MTV had the foresight to put the bands that influenced the "next big things" on late at night. They knew their audience well.

That was my sarcasm meter turning red.

Well, this show started out cool, but like Elvis in many of his Hawaiian movies, it got it's balls cut off. What started out cool turned into a joke. After a year or so, they dumped the original host and just replaced him with some daytime host who, get this, put on a leather jacket to show he was hard.

Well the harder music slowly left the show and suddenly it turned into another industry showcase for bands that MTV thought were edgy. Yeah. Next time anyone says to me the Sugarcubes ate "edgy" slap me right in the fucking face and give me two farts to jesus cause if this is edgy I must be listening to some Norwegian Death Metal type of shit.

Wait. I was.

Oh well. When MTV can't even satisfy your fix, all hope be lost.

Moving on from that rant, let's get down and funky!

Yo! MTV Raps

This was a good show. Playing everyday! Well it was when Dre and Ed Lover took over from that god awful Fab Five Freddy. Jeez he was bad. Fab Five Freddy. A little trivia for you all. In that Blondie video for "Rapture(?)" that's Fab Five Freddy dancing around in the back. Once again calling me to shout out my old mantra "Debbie harry was not punk." For christ sakes.

Well actually. If you think about it. Anthrax and Public Enemy teamed up for some song and really so did Sir Mix A Lot and The Accused so maybe my point holds no water.

Having arguments with me is fun because if you just let me keep talking, eventually I'll talk myself into a circle and shoot my own point down. It's like shooting fish in a barrel with me. Another reason I didn't pursue my true calling as a pimp.

Where the hell was I at?

Oh. Yo! MTV raps! Dre and Lover ruled. Simple point in life: if you want to make it big, have a morbidly obese sidekick. Never forget that rule. Look at Abbot and Costello. Right there. The skinny guy may be funny but fat people get the funny trump card. So I spent many a weekday enjoying my days away with my cheap beer and my two ghetto TV friends. Hey! They were my friends! If Mr. Rodgers wanted to be my friend, then they could be my friends, too. They could teach me cool things that Mr. Rodgers just couldn't. For example: Ed Lover taught me how to do that funky dance he did with his hips while Mr. Rodgers taught me how to make paper mache.

Cool kids don't make paper mache.

Cool kids do the funky Ed Lover dance.

God bless that dance.

Last but not least is Sisqo's Shakedown.

He was just cool cause everyone likes thongs, right?

thong thong thong thong thong thong

Fun Turtle trivia! I met Sisqo at Disneyland before. Sisqo does not like it if you just say "thong thong thong thong thong thong thong" to him.

I am not going any farther into the new stuff and the new people on MTV because Bam is an asshole.

Nothing personal though. - T

Yes, Bam is an asshole. But I'm going to do a couple of more recent shows, anyhow.

Jackass

The show that caused thousand of brain dead children to run out into the streets and scream "I WILL TRY THIS AT HOME!" You think that might be a bad thing, but it's not. Kids who were once content to sit on their fat Cheeto loving asses and flip the remote control all day while downing Big Gulps and yelling at their moms to bake them a pie suddenly got off the couch. They went OUTDOORS. Sure, they were out there breaking bones, breaking laws, breaking everything in sight, but they were being active. They were moving. So what if by "moving" I mean rolling down a steep incline in a shopping cart? Who cares if every night ended up with a concussion? They were getting some much needed exercise in the process. Losing a few brain cells or having some metal implanted in your leg is a small price to pay for leaving behind a sedentary lifestyle for one of adventure, excitement and multiple fractures.

Plus, it never gets old to see someone getting hit in the balls with heavy objects.

Remote Control

Remember this show? The first time I saw this I thought, finally - they made a game show that I can actually win. With categories like Brady Metaphysics and Inside Tina Yothers and Dead or Canadian, I felt like they had created this thing with me in mind. I remember some other stuff about popcorn and big chairs and a wheel of torture - these things come back to me eventually if I light a fire under my brain - and Denis Leary and Adam Sandler. And Sing-a-Long with Colin Quinn! And some chick named Marisol. Beat the Bishop! Man, that was a fun show.

Oh, I just remembered I had the home version! And the NES version!

Sucker Free MTV

This is a current show. According to Turtle - and he would never lie to me about such a thing - you must watch a portion of this show every day in order to keep your home sucker free. Because who the hell wants a home with suckers in it? You ever have a sucker problem? Those things invade your home like flies. Get into your liquor cabinet and put their feet on your furniture and dirty your sheets and play crap like Vanilla Ice. You got to keep those suckers out of your home! You must be SUCKER FREE! Just a few minutes of this show each day will keep you safe from someone coming into your home when you least suspect it and rapping Snow's Informer while they piss on your rug. The one that tied the room together. Dude.

I think I'm overtired. -M

So those are the few, the proud, the MTV shows we picked. They weren't that bad, now were they? I mean the Real World was kinda funny when they put the guy from WAR in with the Black Panther. Them race riots just keep getting funnier every day.

MTV. Love it or hate it. It is still around.

So those were ours.

What were yours?

Michele and Turtle are both sucker free today. Are you?

Archives

Posted by Turtle Jones at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (10) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Baby Huey gets things started:

I was born in '81, so I'm a toddler of the 80s. My real heyday was the 90s, but hell, I still enjoyed MTV. It started broadcasting 6 months after I graced y'all with my presence. I've always been an MTV fan. A little story for you (I swear to god it's true):

As a toddler, I was a huge MTV fan. I'd watch it all day long. My dad came into the TV room one day and asked me what I wanted to do when I grow up. I looked right at him and said "I wanna ROCK!" He took me to Threshold, the local record store, and bought me a Twisted Sister button. My mom promptly shit a brick. They've been divorced for 20 years. Coincidence?

I'm going to briefly explore the greatest MTV show ever, and its sad, sad replacement ... and how it's really indicative of MTV today.

To me, the 80s meant a lot of things. It meant John Hughes movies, it meant slasher flicks. It meant Valley girls, but more than that, it meant MTV. And nothing said MTV in the 80s like Headbanger's Ball. Granted, I didn't start watching it until the 90s, but still. In retrospect, the 80s? Totally Headbanger's Ball.

The Ball came out in 1987, with the metallest motherfucker this side of a guitar, Riki Rachtman at the helm, replacing Dee Snider and Heavy Metal Mania. This show had it all. I mean, where else can you see Death Angel followed by Poison followed by Prong followed by Twisted Sister? It was fannnnntastic. It defined the genre of the 80s. Fuck new wave. Seriously. Fuck it right in its stupid fucking asses. Pop? Laaaaaaaaame. Metal? Fuck yeah. Then in 1995, dammit, they cancelled it. Out of nowhere. Didn't even tell Riki.

In the spring of 2003, I was a college senior. I already had a job. I heard Headbanger's Ball was coming back. I did a few shots in celebration. I heard Riki wasn't coming back. Hmmm .... that's OK. They'll get someone totally metal. See? They just announced they're going to use metal bands as rotating hosts! That'll kick ass. Who's first? Oh ... Metallica? That'd have been super cool in 1987. But whatever.

I watched that first episode. After four years of college radio, I was pretty in tune with the metal scene. Or so I thought. Everything they played was mainstream. ... Maybe that's what people really like, says I. Ok, let's see who's on next week. Rob Zombie? This is starting to set off some alarms.

Today, Headbanger's Ball is a laughable shell of its former self. Hosted by Jamey Jasta of Hatebreed, the show is rehearsed and polished. It's sad. You have a 2 hour show ... sort of. Sometimes it's 1:50 so they can fit whatever new, sophomoric pap Bam Margera got optioned. Two hours of Headbanger's Ball time is like two hours of football time: that much may pass on your watch, but they only cover 35 minutes of ground. Seriously. They'll do a video or two, then 5 minutes of commercials. Repeat ad nauseum. They'll have 2 or 3 great bands (Goatwhore, Kreator, Cannibal Corpse, Napalm Death -- they've all had good videos soon) and the rest are metalcore and ... fuckin SCREAMO. SCREAMO!!!!. I want to kill every fuckin "metal" band where the singer's hair is gelled down and swept across his head. FUCK!

Just like everything else in MTV, they took a fantastic idea that had a lot of fans and commercialized it to the point that even the most ardent followers want to stab someone in the trachea after watching it.

Shame on you, MTV.

- BH

BH was drunk when he wrote this, giving the post a genuine rage tempered with drunken anger. -ed

and thefinn draws this little adventure to a close....

Being a child born in the seventies meant that I watched more than my share of MTV as a kid, until I went back to Germany. Little news for you, MTV Europe, not nearly as much fun. And when I came back in 1990, MTV had changed. More original programming, “new and exciting” shows (long before the days when they ran 23 hours of reality TV) and SOMETHINHG HERE. Initially, I got sucked back in, but that only lasted for a couple of weeks before I got bored. What brought me back though was something I never thought I’d see on MTV.

Cartoons.

I’ve stated my love for the animated on this site a hundred times, so this might as well be one hundred and one. Liquid TV tuned my head when they first started running it, even though the first few episodes were all they ran for months. Apparently though, there was an audience for this kinda stuff and MTV started an animation renaissance that continues (sorta) to this day. Here’s a few of my favorites.

The Maxx – Once upon a time, an amazing writer by the name of Simon Keith had a very popular comic book called “The Maxx”. Mr. Keith amazing characters and had a very imaginative mind and when MTV called and asked him to do an animated version of his comic, he jumped at the chance. This was before MTV (and subsequently it’s parent company Viacom) started buying up great ideas and turning them into shit, so it seemed like a wise move. The story revolves around a homeless man called Maxx, who lives on the streets and adventures in a parallel world called The Outback. He’s befriended by a therapist named Julie who attempts to break him of his psychosis and who ends up being pulled right into it. It’s compelling writing and a strange little story that sadly hasn’t been released on DVD, but can be found here and there on the internerds.

Aeon Flux – Maybe I just have an affinity for oddball characters who’s motives are always questionable. Are they a good guy ? Is she a bad guy ? Ah, fuck it… Morality’s for suckers. Aeon flux originally ran on Liquid Television as a series of five minute shorts that, I think, dealt with the missions and subsequent deaths of a series of cloned assassins. Huh ? Yeah, I did the same thing. Essentially, the series followed the adventures a female assassin (who could catch flies with eyelashes) as she made her way through a futuristic city looking for her target. There’s virtually no dialogue and it makes use of context to do more of the storytelling than anything else. Oh yeah, the main character seems to die in every episode, but with each new episode, she seems miraculously unharmed and continuing the mission.

Beavis and Butthead – Do I really need to cover this ? Unfortunately, this was the last great gasp of the MTV creator owned cartoon. Not long after the show started, MTV decided to buy Mike Judge out and they screwed him in the process (the did the same thing to John K., so at least he’s in good company), but for those first few seasons you were reminded of how consistently funny a couple of retards could be. They were a couple of idiots who sat on the couch and made fun of music video. They were miscreants who played frog baseball and “washed the dog”. And I’ll be damned if they weren't hella funny.

And that wraps us up. So now the question goes to you… What were/are your favorite shows on the MTV ? Let us know and we’ll ridicule you mercilessly for having an opinion.

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Ok, that’s it… Show’s over… Everybody go home… The Colts won. The season is over. No more football till August. Well, unless you count the Pro Bowl this weekend, I guess, which I don’t…

So like millions of other football fans, I now must ask myself, ‘what the hell am I supposed to do now? No football?? Now what?’

Well, I suppose there are a few things I could do to keep me occupied now that my Sunday’s don’t involve football games anymore.

I could:

Wait for baseball season to start, but that’s not till April. Damn, that’s a long way away. Spring training does nothing for me. I need the real thing.

At some point I’ll switch from Patriots mode to Red Sox mode. I’ll take the Sox hat off the bedpost and put the Pats hat in it’s place, and I’ll switch out the winter hats from the blue knit hat with the Pats ‘Flying Elvis’ logo to the red knit hat the Sox ‘B’ logo on it. But that is going to be a while. I can’t just switch it off, this football thing. Change has gotta come at it’s own pace, like Spring.

Perhaps I could:

Watch hockey. That’s something I guess. It does not help that my team totally kinda blows at this current juncture…

Watch the NBA. Phht! Ha ha! Yeah. That’s a good one!

Wait for the NFL Draft and work on pretending I actually know who all these college players that people are going to be talking about are. ‘Oh sure that’s Jack McGillicutty out of Georgia Tech. 6’3 250. Lineman. Gonna go in the fourth round to the Bills I bet…’ What do you think? Sound convincing?

Other ideas… maybe:

Take up needlepoint. Yeah. Not gonna happen.

Organize my old Patriots Football Weekly mags. Nah.

Watch a documentary about global warming. Um, have you been outside this week? It’s frikkin freezing out Mr. Bigglesworth. Global warming my ass…

There’s the Daytona 500 next weekend. I like to watch cars going around in circles, so I guess there’s that to look forward to… WHAT ELSE? THERE’S GOT TO BE SOMETHING ELSE!!! HELLLP!!!

Oh wait, what’s this? An e-mail from Patriots.com? Hmmm. Says here I can join The Pats Cheerleaders in exotic Punta Cana (sounds hott) for their swimsuit calendar shoot. Includes private dinners and volleyball games with the squad! Hot damn. NOW we’re talking. Oh shit. What would the Wife say? NO, of course…

Dammit.

Plus, I’m broke.

Double dammit.

Oh well, The Patriots Cheerleaders will just have to have fun in exotic Punta Cana without me.

Dudes and ladies I am stumped.

Life without football. I’m forced to go cold turkey and I’m not handling it very well. Got any ideas for me? Because obviously I’ve got nothing to write about here…

Ernie will find something to occupy his time....somehow...

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Ah the 80’s, those halcyon days of my now faded youth... or some such shite. The decade started off with US dominance, moved into Canadian rule and ended up with Canada’s heartbreak. And you thought it was just all about the Hockey hair...

In 1980 there was the “Miracle on Ice”. Leave it to you Americans to give what the Canadians had done, let’s say better, already in 1972, a loftier title. We just called ours “The Summit Series” and kicked ass. The only movie that we made about it is the actual footage of the game. Take that Kurt Russell.

The NHL in the 80’s

What had once been a game of skill and style had become what basically amounted to a boxing match on skates (yes I am looking at you Philly). I don’t know what made the players so angry, I can only guess that the death of Disco had SOMETHING to do with it, but something needed to change.

What we needed was a balance, someone to show the world that hockey was a game of skilled players, not goons! Well, not ALL goons anyway. The 80’s became a decade that was dominated by one man, THE GREAT ONE, but that comes a little later...

The 80’s were dominated by two teams, the NEW YORK ISLANDERS and the EDMONTON OILERS.

1979 – 1983

Top of the heap in 1979, the Isles exited the playoffs, losing to their hated rivals (NY Rangers), who were considered (at the time and still by some) to be a vastly inferior team. After that major disappointment the Isles focused on post season play for their 1980 Stanley Cup run, it worked and the Isles went on to an amazing four (4) year run as Stanley Cup Champions.

Their biggest challenge came in the 1983 finals against the Oilers. Some up-and-coming whippersnapper named Gretzky was shattering scoring records and making the opposing teams scramble to come up with a way to shut him down. The Isles had his number, they swept the Oilers in Four (4). Gretzky didn’t get a single goal.

1984

The 1984 finals found the same two teams fighting for dominance. The Oilers squeaked a 1-0 win in the first game and the Isles came roaring back, winning 6-2 in the second game. Unfortunately, that was pretty much it for the Isles (sorry Michele); they lost the last three (3) games 7-2, 7-2, 5-2. The longest post season win streak in history was over, a new team was emerging.

1985

In 1984 the Oilers had a franchise record of 57 wins (119 points) AND the Stanley Cup. The team carried their momentum over into the ’85 season, defeating the Philadelphia Flyers for their second taste from the Cup.

1986

The Oilers continued their domination during the regular season, breaking franchise and league records, only to lose their division final to the Calgary Flames in seven (7) games (a feat that Edmonton has never really forgiven Calgary for – the bad blood continues to this day). Gretzky may have broken his own scoring record (215 pts – 52g/163a), but a weird bounce off the Edmonton net minder’s skate (Fuhr) ended their quest for three straight cups.

Montréal won that year. I know this not only because I watched the finals, but because the French Immersion teachers at my Middle School went crazy (well crazier) and made us sing hockey songs in French. Oh La La.

1987

Oilers return to the final and win it in seven (7) against the Flyers and their Conn Smythe Trophy winner, rookie goalie, Ron Hextall (who, BTW, according to sources had the hardest shot in the league for a number of years – I believe it – he’s the first Goalie to actually SCORE a goal...).

1988

Oilers win again, losing only two playoff games and sweeping the Bruins in Four (4). Well, really it was in 4 ½. In game four the lights went out in Boston Garden in the second period with the score tied 3-3. The stats from that games still stand, but a full game four was played in Edmonton, where the Oilers won the cup for the last time in ... well let’s just say until they win it again.

88 was also the first year that an “informal” team photo was taken on ice with the Cup. It was suggested by Gretzky and has continued ever since.

1988 – The Darkness Descends, or, Why Canada Hates Janet Gretzky

Gambling problems aside, the darkest day in Canadian NHL history happened on August 9, 1988, when Gretzky announced that he (along with McSorley and Krushelnyski) were being traded to the Los Angeles Kings, for what amounted to a block of wood and a bag of frozen hockey pucks. If we could find a way to blame Bettman for this we would.

An era was over. Canada Wept.

1989

The Calgary Flames won the Cup. They played against the Canadiens. Nobody cares because we are all dead inside. Gretzky is playing in LA.

Deb is glad to be back, mostly. Mainly she’s just shielding herself from the fekking “Artic Air Mass” that is hovering over Southern Ontario like a cloud of really cold locusts who can’t decide if they should stay or go now. If they stay there will be trouble, oh yes there will be. Archives

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Kory is in the process of packing up and moving from Germany to the states.

That's right. THE STATES. I know, it's kind of arrogant. But we're Americans. It's what we do.

Anyhow, we're going to run some stuff from Kory's amazing website The Mystery Walk while he's getting his papers in order and packing up as much German contraband as he can hide in his kid's suitcase.

Kory will not reveal what he means by "German contraband"

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Jo SO rocks

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80's week rolls on here at FTTW and for this week's Group LNT we decided to put our poll question to our writers. What's your favorite music videos from the 80's?

We have an eclectic bunch here.

Cullen

My favorite 80s video?

Tom Petty and the Heartbreaker's "Don't Come Around Here No More."

video on youtube

While I've always been fond of Tom Petty, this is not a good song. I'd go as far as to say that the song is bad to the point of annoying. However, the video is fantastic.

First, everything about the video screams 80s. The hairstyles, the color schemes, the checkerboard uniformity, the surrealism, all very key to 80s style art. This video encompasses a lot of what was going on in pop culture at the time. In some parts of the video it's like an Olivia painting come to life. In others, we get the "lost babe in the woods" sensation that a lot of media was trying to convey at that time.

And then turn a chick into a cake and eat her. I mean... just damn.

Ernie

I'm going with Sharp Dressed Man by ZZ Top.

With the help of a super cool car, three smokin hot, spandex-clad babes and the magic of ZZ Top, a total loser gets shows up his jerky boss and gets the girl at the end of the vid.

Plus it's a good tune by a good band and the video actually tells a story. Definitely one of the best of the era in my mind.

Michele:

Duran Duran, Girls on Film.

My inner lesbian called this one Free Porn. Didn't have to titl my head to watch this through scrambled lines. It was all laid out right there on my tv screen. I could switch my lustful gaze between the boys in the band and the girls on film. A win-win situation.

I also want to give props to David Lee Roth for anything he ever did on video. The man was (yes, was) a genius.

Jay

Fav 80's music video, easy, as long as you put it into the context of the time, Frankie Goes To Hollywood's Two Tribes Video was well played, so was the banned version of Relax, which was a cinematic version of every sexual taboo imaginable, but well put together and if you dont believe me, check out you tube for the banned version.

Also, The Art of Noise's Peter Gunn video is great, with the awesome Ric Mayall in it. Lastly few things David Lee Roth did after leaving Van Halen when he made Just A Gigolo, California Girls etc. Those videos were comic genius.

Turtle

I'm going with an Art of Noise one too, but for different reasons.

I like Close(To The Edit) cause the chick was hot.

Branden

No question. Without a doubt, my favorite 80s video is Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five--The Message.

Not only is this song classic, the video is so laughable it hurts. From the clothes to the horrible dubbing, where at one point Flash is rapping but it's Melle Mel who is lip synching, it's pure cheese. My buddy and I had a tape of this video we recorded from MTV and used to watch it over and over. Classic hip hop, and classic eighties cheesiness.

Johnny St. Clair

"...people pissin' on the stairs, man they just don't care..."

damm...where do i go here? ZZ Top already mentioned...loved those girls.

then there's madonna's "like a virgin" and the one with tawny kitaen all over that car. who was the band, led zeppelin or something? sike.

what about dio's "the last in line?" it was on the video machine at the mall's arcade, like, constantly. fuckin' metalheads. and i can't forget the beastie boys "fight for your right to party." oooooo...or the cro-mags "we gotta know."

but i'm puttin' my money on herbie hancock's "rockit." it's totally 80's. fer sure. tripendicular. gag me with a coke spoon.

Travis

Guns N' F'N Roses - Welcome To The Jungle

Travis = WIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

kali

i'm going with DLR's yankee rose. on the forreally though, this thing reminds me of the 80's more than any other.

every SINGLE time the actor lady screaming about the laxatives almost falls on her ass because she accidentally slips on one of the boxes she just threw on the floor, i can't help but pee a little in my panties.

seriously -- he was making fun of 7-11 owners WAY before the simpsons.. you can't help but watch this thing all the way through...

and the outfits in the actual music video after? classic.

i'm telling you this was MTV in the 80's..

Philbrick

Well, since I've been threatened with the loss of my meth lab priveleges I figured I ought to go along with this one. My favorite video from the 80s is "Bastards of Young" by The Replacements. It's just one long shot of a stereo and some guy sitting in front of it who occasionally appears in the frame. At the end he kicks in the speaker, yells something and walks out of the room. Basically it's just a video that flips MTV the bird back before everyone knew how awful MTV really was.

Paul

Since all of the good ones were taken, I guess I have to go with Hungry Like The Wolf by Duran Duran. I think videos prior to this one being pretty straightforward: band playing their instruments on stage and singing to the camera. Or in the case of Journey, pretending to play their instruments while emoting as hard as they could to the camera. Hungry Like the Wolf was the first video I remember having something resembling a storyline and on-location shooting in exotic locales. The video also perfectly matched the song so perfectly, that it's almost impossible to imagine the song without immediately seeing the video in your head. It didn't hurt that it had a quasi-Indiana Jones vibe to it, either.

Lovemonkey

She blinded me with Science - Thomas Dolby.

Meg

I think this is a good time to mention that some of us were raised by hippies and grew up without a TV and have no idea what any of you are talking about. Again. Not that that's me or anything.

Timmer

I'm going to stick with "Money For Nothin'." Between the Thunder Drums of Doom, Sting's wailing, Knopfler's guitar and the neon animation, that video just makes the 80s for me. Either that or "Dancin' in the Dark" because that's what we were watching at the Airman's Club while I was in Basic, and I can't even type that with a straight face. Everyone was so disappointed because "Bruce was a purist. He'd never sell out." How wrong were we? Okay, while I'm thinking about it, the Springsteen video is 23 years old. How come Courtney Cox still looks like she's in her thirties? She's at LEAST my age.

Shawna

Duran Duran's Save a Prayer. I still love that video.

DJ Baby Huey

despite the fact that i boiled turtle's blood the other day for picking Metallica's "One", today I'm gonna pick Lita Ford's "Kiss Me Deadly" because hell fucking yes. I was like 7 when that video came out and I still had about a half a pack of rolaids going on down there. She's the first celebrity I ever had those funny feelings for. Unless you count She-Ra. But I'm pretty sure she was fucking her brother He-Man, so that's kinda gross.

Deb

Coming in late again... What the 80's meant to me, music wise was late afternoons at my friend Jenny's, taping the videos we liked from "Toronto Rocks" and "The New Music" and anything on "Much Music" (aka Canada's much better version od MTV).

I have two favourite videos from that time:

1. a-ha; "Take On Me" - the combination of animation and live action was, and still is, fantastic. I still have a crush on Morten.

2. Helix; "ROCK YOU" - Legendary Canadian rock band, sorta. It's fun to watch - total cheese. Who doesn't like cavemen?

And those are the videos our writers admit to liking. Don't think we don't notice the blatant lack of hair metal. I wonder how many of us (and by us, I mean you) sat around like Beavis and Butthead with our hair sprayed high, banging our heads and doing the metal sign while watching Warrant videos?

Don't look at me....

Got a favorite? Tell us about it and then go nominate it over here.

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this decade is where i did my growing up. after i grew out of my motley crue phase i started listening to inxs (pronouced "inks" because i'd only read about them in hit parade.) give me a break motley crue was some hard shit back then and i didn't know how else to be bad. until, that is, i heard punk rock. charlie sexton didn't stand a chance. adam ant was closer but mike muir was my voice.

i was just a betty hanging at the half pipe. what i really mean is that i was in middle school and one of my friends lived close to the highschool hangout which was the ramp with the most vert in the neighborhood. wow. so there i heard suicidal and the buttholes and the spermbirds and oh some uh descendants and those innocent type punk rock bands.

i started cutting the sleeves off of my dad's old dress shirts and wearing them buttoned all the way up with some sort of brooch or pin at the top button. i started wearing black eyeliner and long underwear under shorts. i was so cool that it hurt my parents to look at me. i started smoking and stealing my parents' car at night just to drive around and buy cigarettes and show off to the other kids.

needless to say, i wasn't watching a whole lot of tv. (i do remember, however, really digging "moonlighting.")

i was off the hook when i got my own car (yes my parents bought me a car... two, actually but that's a spoiled brat story for another day -- let's just say that the first car was a 1979 firebird and the second was a 1983 oldsmobile cutlass supreme...) in the meantime i drove a bunch of skinheads around in my mom's wood panelled station wagon, but i've told that story before (i believe.)

i spent a bunch of the eighties at the 930 club in DC. funny that i hate underage shows for making me feel old today. but then? how fucking cool was that? punk rock shows for kids in DC! there were matinee shows at the safari club!! and don't forget that your friends' bands are playing at the firehall on friday night. i think i've said all this before, but these were the best and worst years of my life (in that horrible cliche way.)

i hated high school. i mean i fucked up there so much socially that it was just pure hell. when i hung out with the angry kids i just felt like i could do no wrong. i was that rich girl with the car, but hopefully not that annoying one. (i hope not anyway cuz she was a real trick.) i was the private school girl that cared just a little too much about what other people thought. that tried her best to make it home at least somewhere NEAR curfew.

in the 80's i went from hanging out at the mall to hanging out at house parties tripping on sugar cubes. i went from cut off jordache and baseball tees to doc marten's and bomber jackets. a global leap in anyone's book.

the eighties are THE decade for me. i can't explain it and it don't mean it in an "i love the eighties" sorta way. i mean i don't think i owned one pair of leg warmers. (i do now, though... sue me.) it just was the decade that defined my growth. i found punk rock and camaraderie.

i also found blackouts... i'd guess you'd call it a trade-off of sorts. heh.

kali remembers how cool it was to wear long underwear under shorts. Cause it was and is cool, dammit.

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ATTENTION IDIOTS OF THE WORLD: I'M PUTTING YOU MOTHERFUCKERS ON NOTICE; I'VE HAD IT!

I would like nothing more right now than to put boot to face of ninety-nine percent of the worlds population. I am fucking amazed that some of you morons can breathe on your own without the assistance of visual aides. The idiocy that abounds is enough to make me want to violently upchuck everything I have eaten since birth. Can someone please explain to me how a group of such hopeless, dickless, brainless morons can be so prolific in society these days? Can someone please give me a reason as to why, for example, a person can rob a liquor store, hurt themselves on the way out, and then sue the store owner? I want to meet the legal fuck-stick who helped set that precedent. People these days lack all common sense and personal responsibility when it comes to their own lives. If you take a loaded handgun, point it at your head, and fire it your relatives are somehow allowed to sue the gun manufacturer because somewhere along the way you weren't informed of some very simple survival instincts. Some people would say it is our responsibility to outfit every window licker on the face of the planet with a helmet and flashing red safety light in order to protect them from the world. Other nancy-asses, who don't understand the concept of self preservation, think we should put warning labels and caution signs on everything anyone could ever come in contact with. All you accomplish by rubber padding the world is prolonging the process of natural selection. I, honestly, would like nothing more than to assist in the wholesale slaughter of every idiot on the face of the planet. Seeing as how it is inappropriate for me to perch myself on the roof of a bus-station with a high powered rifle and go people hunting I have decided on the next best thing: I am petitioning Congress to allow me to start my own branch of government. The Department of Euthanization.

This is our emblem that will be branded on T-shirts, Coffee Mugs, Baby Bibs and the homeless.

Everyone has seen the bumper sticker that says You, out of the gene-pool , that's our job. The doctrine of The Department of Euthanization is fairly simple: to cull the herd of two-toothed, slack-jawed dipshits who seem to be dilluting the genepool and generally just weakening the intelligence quotient of the entire population. Our job would be to cut the dead weight. The members of The Department of Euthanization would all dress like regular people, they would carry a badge displaying our emblem and logo, and a modified Beretta nine millimeter that shoots cyanide darts. We would have authority anywhere in the U.S and seperate branches would be instituted throughout varying regions in the world to assist us.

Obviously by now some of you are getting your panties in a twist about a group of people whose sole dedicated purpose is to end the lives of human beings. I can understand that feeling, but let's face it folks, like the badge says, some people are just too stupid to live. In order to put the rest of the world at ease, for the time being, here is the priority list of targets that the D.O.E will be gunning for.

These kids parents

Any parent who lets their kids look like this and then blame society because their children are social outcasts and mocked openly. What happens then is that fatty's mommy raises enough of a ruckus that I can't order a Double Western Bacon Cheeseburger anymore because she's too stupid to realize her walrus children have been cramming down the caloric intake of a 750lb sumo-wrestler since the age of two. It's your fault your kids arteries are clogged because you've condoned their diet of fat, grease, and smaller children. Instead of screaming that McDonalds needs to make their food healthier why don't to you jack-hammer juniors super-sized ass off of the couch and make him do some pushups. It will be good for him, or he'll suffer a massive coronary, either way it's a win-win situation. I'm not the healthiest person in the world but even I know that if I eat Carl's Junior and Mongolian bbq seven days a week I am going to rival Shamoo in weight, girth, and water displacement and I give the D.O.E permission to shoot me in the eyeball if i ever utter anything to the effect of if only Carl's Jr. had told me their food wasn't healthy. Of course it's not healthy, hell I'm fairly certain that McDonalds hamburgers don't even contain actual beef. Unfortunately it would probably take two or three cyanide darts to take these parents down because they're obviously the size of a wooly mamoth.

Along these lines anyone on the Atkins diet is suspect as well. I don't know who the fuck "atkins" thinks he is, but no good can come of his diet. There is no simple, or easy, way to lose weight. I takes hard work, excericse, eating smaller healthier portions and being conscious of the fact that you need to lay off fast food and mudpies. If you're pushing a metric ton then there should be no thought in your mind whatsoever that you should lay off bread and rice and eat more meat.

The other thing I hate is how people on the atkins diet announce that they are attempting to lose weight but are pushing their cholesterol levels through the roof.

WAITER: And what will you have sir?

FAT GUY: I would like the three pound roast beef sandiwch with cheese, mayo, mustard, bacon, and lettuce, but no bread *pats grotesquely large belly* I'm on the atkins.

dipshit.

Next up on the list is vegetarians. If you don't eat meat you're a moron. I am so sick and tired of all of these skinny, wheat smelling, ass-puppets telling me that meat is murder or eating red meat is unhealthy. Wanna know what's unhealthy? Being fourteen pounds, soaking wet, and then trying to lecture me on the benefits of your diet and how healthy you are. Would you like to know what else doesn't eat meat? Everything that is made of meat that I eat.

See these, those are canine teeth, they are meant for tearing flesh. If you don't use them for ripping meat off bones, and do so as a conscious decision, you are on the same level of the food chain as other animals that I spend good money on to cook over an open fire. I love these vegetarian enthusiasts who go on and on ,ad naseuam, about theories of how much land and water it takes to raise cattle. How about this for a chart for you assholes.

This is where I will put your bodies, because irony, to me, is eating meat grazed on fields fertilized by the bodies of vegetarians.

I'd also like to include a general category for sissies. People who have bumperstickers that say things like this:

only mark themselves as sissies. You can also substitute the phrase EMO for sissy. This group of openly emotional, cry at the drop of a hat, tree-hugging, peace-loving, don't harm a fly, horses asses only breed complacency and wimpiness into future generations. I wish it were possible to raise the dead because I would personally resurrect General Patton to be the director of the D.O.E. General Patton doesn't take shit from sissies and I am certain that he would enjoy the field of work of tracking down a sissy at a group hug convention, or an Enya concert, and beating the piss out of them before he put them out of his misery. Sissies just breed sissies. Sissies are the thin skinned little tattle tales who run and scream every time they get even slightly offended. These are the assholes who made it so i have to go to meetings where they say things like if you're telling a joke you have to think are you going to offend anyone around you, not just the person you are telling the joke to. Last time I checked I didn't give a fuck! The last thing I want is a world where everyone is too afraid to act because they don't want to hurt anyone's feelers....

Up next?

Napoleon Dynamite and fans of this movie. This movie licked so much scrotum that Jon Heder eventually ended up imploding after licking his own scrotum for three consecutive days. This movie sucked ass, lots of ass, immense amounts of ass, and fans of this movie lick even more ass. If it's not bad enough that my room mates swore up and down that this movie ruled (which it did not) but now I have to hear every lame ass imitate it. Every time I hear someone say gosh, or idiot, like the lead character I want to chop them in the larynx and cut off their oxygen supply. I have spoken on the virtues of story-telling, pathos, drama, and story structure on more than one occassion, and this movie is a shining example of how you can masturbate on film and the public will eat it up. Now Napoleon Dynamite propaganda and consumer products over run every store shelf. I see no need for people with such obvious weak-wills and bad taste to continue existing. The only way this movie could have been worse is if it starred Ashton Kutcher. Let's see if I am wrong. I asked my friend Tim what he thought of Napoleon Dynamite.

EVERYONE INVOLVED IN REALITY TV..EVER! This means cast, crew, producers, and fans. Reality TV is, by far, the most hideous waste of electrons ever, wanna know why? Because instead of going out and doing things like...well...anything, they sit at home and watch what is going to happen to other people's lives. I am all for television and movies because I believe everyone should enjoy a good, well told, story. Movies and TV are great entertainment and I will concede that i do occassionally plant my ass in front of the one eyed god of knowledge. (usually on nights when pro-wrestling is on) I detest reality television. Reality TV is hardly ever reality because there is a cast and crew behind the scenes antagonizing certain characters, editing things a certain way, but all in all it's a dumb fucking idea. It's about the most apathetic form of entertainment ever.

Writer One: Hey bill, do you want to write a story with me?

Writer Two: Sure, but actually writing and researching takes effort.

Writer One: yeah that's true, I've got a lot of time invested in sticking household items in my rectum. So how do we preserve my ass-spelunking time and still get on tv?

Writer Two: Let's just stick a buncha people in a house and film it.

Writer One: Good idea, let's make sure that when we do it we include every horrible stereo-type.

Writer Two: We should also include a flaming homo, establishing that every homosexual is a flamboyantly flaming homosexual, and at least one guy who uses the phrase I hate fags on more than one occassion.

Writer One: Great idea...how much would you like to bet that I can stick this mag-lite up my ass?

Filth. Reality Television is horribly cliched, fit every stereotype, thus perpetuating those stereotypes, piece of monkey shit. I would enjoy storming the set of shows like American Idol, Survivor, Big Brother and all of the other shitty reality tv shows. It will make for a great series finale. Oooh, it looks like generic white stereotype and generic black stereotype are finally learning to get along. HOLY CRAP THE DEPARTMENT OF EUTHANIZATION HAS JUST STORMED THE BUILDING AND LAID WASTE TO THE ENTIRE PLACE. Now that's good television. Dave Chapelle, I will personally pay you out of my pocket to come back and do another season...black white supremacist...that shit's funny.

And Finally MIMES

Clowns are bad

Street Performers are worse

The French are evil

And then there are MIMES. Mimes are the most pervasive form of evil and villiany on the face of the earth. Nothing says shoot me in the face, I deserve to die like dressing up as a mopey, french, silent, clown, street performer.

Obviously this list is only of first run, intial targets. Here's a partial list of futre targets:

Clowns

The why lie I need a beer guy

Old people who drive.

The French.

Trailer Trash.

Everyone in Utah except Maddox .

Leonardo DiCaprio.

Child Molesters.

I'm sure there's more, but if you have any suggestions. Email Me.

Travis is really a nice, sweet guy who loves puppies and rainbows and fluffy bunnies.

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