Balanced Chaos

Beck and my love life, part 1

2012-01-18T21:36:00.002-06:00

I've always enjoyed how Beck's stream-of-consciousness lyrics can allow his songs to be open to different interpretations at various points in my life. A song that was happy years ago can now be bittersweet, sad, angry...you name it.

But invariably, the only songs that have stayed static in their meaning for me have been the ones I've associated with specific relationships. It's always been kind of funny to me, because many times the girls don't "get" why I associate a song with such strange lyrics with them. Sometimes it's just the mood of the music, and sometimes it's just a couple lines from the song. It's hard to say. So let's start at the beginning.

My first love, Jennifer, got a B-side song that I didn't even hear until well over a year into our relationship. She never understood it, but I'll give a shot at explaining it.

The music itself is perfect teen romance. It sounds youthful from the standpoint that it's not trying to put up the facade of "passion" or "sexiness," it's just sweet and happy to be there. Much as Jennifer and I were at times.

I think lyrically the first verse is the most fitting. "Tonight the city is turned off" is to me a really creative way of saying that you're alone with this person, away from the nonsense going on out there.

"Look at me, I'm wearing your shirt, and it's burnt" was just hilariously "us." We were teenagers, we didn't know what the hell we were doing, and those lines just kind of fit that, for me.

"These sensuous morons are dissing you, dissing me, keeping the friendship in massive supply" kind of described our attempts to get out of the dramatic nonsense that tends to follow around groups of teenagers. And at first, our every trial and tribulation only brought us closer together.

Even the chorus, "That's why I got no mind," was perfect because we weren't thinking about the future, didn't give consideration to a lot of things that maybe we should've...we were just in the moment, and happy to be with each other.

"And where there's smoke and there's grease and an unperfect peace, the free and easy letdown will make it all come alive" was just...Hobart, and the steel mills, and all that adult stuff we didn't want to consider at the time.

"The makeshift scene, mildly insulting...you really said it when you said I was just a scavenger" was the kind of vaguely hippie/alternative group of friends we ran with. Jen and I shopped our asses off at resale shops, and some of our more well-to-do friends got really nice designer clothes and fucked them up to look "grunge."

So yeah. It never made sense to her, per se, but it made perfect sense to me. -grin-

I guess I'll say my next relationship was Kristel, though I may have allegedly had a "thing" with Rebecca before that. Can't really call it a relationship when the girl's engaged to your best friend, though, can you?

Anyways...the song that always reminded me of Kristel is "Feather in Your Cap."

The song is, of course, sad. Fitting. lol

"Make a move with what you can / dead waters rise higher than your mind" was just how Kristel was a pathological liar, and seemed to have nothing but darkness inside her head.

"Disappointment is a feather in your cap / you want the truth so you can brush it in your lap" reminds me of how she would always completely fuck me over just to see the sadness on my face that let her know how much she meant to me. And brushing the truth in her lap was how she treated reality like a pet to amuse and comfort her...not really "real," just there to keep her company when she needed it.

"There's no map that can tell you where you are / You're in between things that only go halfway / Your tangled brain, your tired old refrain / You'll be singing it in your tired old asylum" was just how Kristel was completely lost as a person both because she didn't know what was real (literally, in a nearly psychotic way), and because she stuck by her lies to the bitter end.

"You want the best, you want contests / My eyes are filled with prizes you've been showing / Your disappointment is a card up your sleeve / Place your bets at the door before you leave" reminds me of how she felt like she was this amazing prize much of the time, and she strung me along competing against people who either didn't exist or shouldn't've mattered if she could give a fuck about me.

Um, yes. A rather fucked-up person. That song fits her perfectly. I hope the best for her, but have suspicions it probably isn't going well. Sad, really.

I'm tired, and so I think I'll finish this post tomorrow or the next day. I need to relax for a bit.

A word on classical music

2012-01-10T07:34:00.005-06:00

This is an area I've exploring a bit when I'm not yelling "FFFFFUUUUUUUUUU-" over some new blues piece. I'm still not over knowledgeable, I'll admit, but here's a few things I've found that aren't entirely "obvious" or "famous."

I love the seemingly infinite variations on the same theme Paganini used on this one:

I honestly don't much care for Mozart, I'm finding. He does these amazing quiet parts, then covers it in grandiose horns and strings. I just can't do it. Calm down, Sparky.

This is very famous, but it's still just amazing.

Fur Elise hasn't aged well for me, by the way.

The real point of this is to play this, though. Read up on Shostakovich here:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dmitri_Shostakovich

And listen to this amazing piece. It was meant to be his musical suicide note.

Blues History: Robert Johnson

2012-01-10T07:10:00.003-06:00

There's nothing I can write that hasn't been written, so just a link to a wikipedia page, and five songs. But take into account that these songs were written and performed in the mid- to late-30s, and we still haven't really figured out how to play them. Seriously.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Johnson

Blues History: Charlie Patton

2012-01-09T03:44:00.002-06:00

This is someone who's kinda new to me, as I try to expand on my knowledge of the blues. I will probably choose to keep this short, since I'm still learning about him. If you're interested in more, just read this. Frankly, I'm not going to be able to expand on it much anyhow. Not without going into mythology, anyway.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charlie_Patton

The song that really did it for me initially was "Spoonful Blues." Check out the amazing slide guitar.

What I'm discovering as I get further into his recordings is the gravelly scream he used on most of his songs. "Spoonful" is rather subdued compared with some of the other songs.

This seems to be a rare recording where he actually had a proper microphone and recording equipment. So many of his other recordings are scratchy and in poor condition. Actually, it may just be the condition of the source tapes/albums.

I try to be better informed before I start a post, but I was excited to hear a new blues musician I wasn't too acquainted with.

Fuck my horseshit. Just check the man out. I gotta listen to "Spoonful Blues" again.

This was the best Christmas EVER.

2012-01-06T22:52:00.005-06:00

I was wondering what the hell I was going to write about, and I realized that I hadn't written at length about what was, seriously, the best Christmas I've had in 32 years on this planet.

It wasn't because of anything I got, and I don't mean that in some grubby, wannabe-hippie, anti-consumerism way. I got some good things this year: a hooker-stickin' blade, cyanide in a Binaca spritzer, a baseball bat with railroad spikes hammered into it...this was a good year for me. Don't get confused.

No, this was the best Christmas I've had because of what my brother received. Now, to fully understand the wolf's den that is our family, maybe some Freudian background about his childhood is in order.

Early on, we knew we were destroying him, and it made us giggle. One day when he was maybe 3 or so, he was told by our parents that he couldn't do something, so he started running out of the room screaming, "You suck! You weawwy suck!" I started laughing, so he glared at me and yelled, "You suck too, Gwegwee!" That was when I knew he was gonna be okay.

From Pictures

One of our favorite pastimes during parties was to...well, to give Travis brain damage. Travis was a big fan of the Mighty Morphin' Power Rangers, so we improvised a game where he would try to attack me with his Megazord, and I would send him flying across the living room by hitting him with a hard pillow. I know that sounds like hyperbole, but this was one of those pillows where you could "pack" the stuffing, and it would be like getting hit with a goddamn flail. There were quite a few times I thought I'd hurt him, and he got up giggling, ready to run back at me.

From Pictures

I think my favorite thing of all-time has to be the zombie game, though. It was simple enough. You'd be sitting watching television with him, or playing video games, and out of nowhere you'd stick your arms out, get an intense dead stare in your eyes, and try to attack Travis. He'd run out of the room screaming, "Mom, mom! Greg turned into a zombie!" Well, mom knows this game too, so she'd do the same thing, and you'd hear him scream and run out of the room. "Dad, dad! Mom and Greg both turned into zombies!" "Urrrrr!" "Ahhhhh!" And then you'd find him barricaded in his room half an hour later. That was the best.

From Pictures

So, you kind of get the impression of a kid who's maybe a little weird. Maybe a bit off the beaten path. Somebody who likes offbeat gifts, perhaps. Well, he got a couple this year.

My mother is already a notoriously bad gift-giver. Like, if it's going to embarrass you or make you look corny, it's yours. Gift-wrapped, no less. I honestly don't know when that started, either, because I remember getting some really kick-ass gifts from her over the years. Either way...it ain't good now.

So let's just go straight to Christmas morning. He unwraps a box cutter knife and some work-related stuff. Good. Great. Guys tend to love that shit, because we're too retarded to buy it for ourselves. We'd walk around in tattered rags at work, if left to our own devices.

Then my 19 year-old brother, who has had girlfriends...who has been blackout drunk...who has had to make a lot of adult decisions...opens up this:

From Pictures

A guitar shirt. That functions. You can...play it...while you...wear it.

My brother looked excited enough that I was going to nominate him for an Oscar.

But not to be outdone (by herself) my brother opens up his next gift, and it's like one Yates child after another. Just when you said it couldn't possibly get worse, it did.

From Pictures

A Criss Angel magic kit.

My brother is 19. Without being crass, he has...known women. Does my mother expect him to be at his next party doing...tricks...going "Taadaa!"?

From Pictures

And that, my friends, is why Christmas 2011 was the best Christmas I could've ever asked for. Seeing the juxtaposition of his trying-to-look-excited face inside our grandma's house, versus the exasperated "What the fuck am I supposed to do with this shit?" rant in the car was...magical. I wish everyone I know could've been there. It was better than just about anything I've ever experienced.

Oh, by the way...since my brother's work has been slow lately, he's holding a magic show/benefit event at my house in a couple weeks. Call me for details. 708-TAA-DAAA.

Smashing Pumpkins, "Rocket" acoustic

2012-01-06T22:35:00.001-06:00

What a great band.

RIP Patrice O'Neal

2011-11-29T20:19:00.003-06:00

Rest in peace, Patrice O'Neal. I will truly miss you. This is just off the top of my head. Damn, man.

Redlettermedia's "Star Wars: The Phantom Menace" review

2011-10-25T05:02:00.003-05:00

This is an unbelievable evisceration of "Star Wars: The Phantom Menace." You need to either watch it in sections, or set aside an hour of time, but it's one of the funniest, most intelligent things I've seen on Youtube. You will never, ever be able to watch that hunk of shit again, no matter how fondly you think you look back on it.

My last post and comedy albums

2011-10-20T09:50:00.004-05:00

So the last thing I posted was an experiment, and I'm not quite happy with it. I was orally dictating the words into the voice keyboard, and...I'm not as good at saying things as writing them. I guess it's kind of always been that way. I've long admired my dad for being a good storyteller, and I've...worked at it, but it's just not there. Not to the level I want it to be, anyhow.

So I'm going to go back and edit the shit out of that post. Feel free to read it again in a bit, because I'm a good writer and editor, just not quite there with storytelling.

As an addendum to that last post, by the way, let me say this: my family is also responsible for my sick sense of humor. From the time I stole Eddie Murphy's "Delirious" out of my parent's room as an 8 year-old, to the time I sneaked off with Andrew Dice Clay's "The Day the Laughter Died" at 12, I've always been into some pretty fucked-up, hilarious stand-up comedy.

Eddie Murphy has what I consider the best ten minutes of comedy ever performed. That is a lofty statement, but the routine, called "The Barbecue," makes me laugh hard even now 24 years later, when I know what jokes are coming. It's a perfectly paced story, and Murphy's timing has never been better. Charlie Murphy came out on Chappelle's show and told some hilarious stories about Prince and Rick James, but that only made us temporarily forget how truly great his brother was in the 80s.

I'm Gumby, damnit.

But for me, the greatest comedy album of all time remains "The Day the Laughter Died." I know that might shock some of you. Andrew Dice Clay has taken on this reputation of having been an agent provocateur, someone who was shocking for the sake of shocking, but in reality he was a smart comedian, and in later years a great father who dropped out of the limelight to raise his two children following a nasty divorce.

And I know, I know. Richard Pryor, George Carlin, Woody Allen, Lenny Bruce, Chris Rock, Louis CK...there have been some great comedians putting out amazing work over the years. Let me make my case, though.

Andrew Dice Clay is not as dumb as he seems. When he mispronounces a word, he's doing it on purpose. That is a character he's portraying on-stage. A lot of people might not get that, but...well, hell. Richard Pryor wasn't the guy he was on-stage, either. Go check out some interviews.

Anyway. It's always been fascinating (even when I was 12) to hear Dice drop the facade a couple times on this album. At one point he started going over his notes and half-mumbles under his breath, "So I thought at this point...subsequently...that we would..." It was such a small thing, but I knew even as a dimwitted 12 year-old that those weren't the words of Dice, but the actor portraying Dice. It was like overhearing something you weren't supposed to.

The album was recorded over the holidays on a weeknight. Dice knew he was going to get a shitty audience, and...well, he got one. That was by design. I think he knew the arenas he was filling with his comedy were great and all, but also kinda bullshit. He wanted to go back to his roots and...on purpose, mind you...eat his balls in front of a small club audience. Well, mission accomplished. And it was fucking great.

The album is a brilliant deconstruction of comedy from top to bottom. Near the end he goes into this rant about how he doesn't know what the fuck he's talking about. And then in the ultimate explanation of everything comedy is, he links the words "hour" and "back" together in a brilliant, absurdist/surrealist bit that describes comedy at the most basic level. "You don't know why you're laughing, but you are. It's because I'm funny."

And that, my friends, is comedy. He's spouting nonsense, but because of his timing and phrasing, the audience is laughing hysterically in spite of themselves, with no idea what the fuck he's saying. This was a deconstruction of comedy back to when we lived in caves, the most thorough look at comedy's DNA at the cellular level.

Sometimes the clown doesn't get to laugh. This was Andrew Dice Clay laughing at the clowns. Showing them why they were clowns. Showing the audience why things were funny, but also how nothing could be funny. The laughter between the jokes. It was free-form jazz with implied notes between the notes.

Sometimes people look at Andrew Dice Clay like he's crude and simple, but he had us sized up from the beginning. It's just nobody ever bothered to ask.

I'll see you around.

Raiding my family's music collections was better than the internet

2011-10-18T22:41:00.007-05:00

I'm a little embarrassed to admit it, but only as a 31 year-old man did I discover that the lyrics to Iron Man were "Icy thoughts within his head," not "I see thoughts within his head." Maybe it's only a marginal difference, but how can you see thoughts within someone's head? Maybe I thought the narrator was psychic.

That got me to thinking about all the great music I found in my family's album collections. It started in 1988 with the Eagles' "Hotel California." I heard that song on the radio one day and my dad mentioned having the album. I in turn stole it from him, and within a week had everyone so sick of it, they probably can't stand it even now. I didn't really care for the other songs on the album, which pretty much sums up my feelings on the Eagles as an adult.

It was the days before the internet, so having a good music collection was something of a rarity. I would go to my friends' houses and see the lame-ass music collections their parents had and laugh. No Pink Floyd? Bob Seger? Who the fuck is Neil Sedaka? Ulkh. How they survived I'll never know.

We had "Live Bullet," "The Wall," "Dark Side Of the Moon," (the latter two borrowed on vinyl from my aunt Brenda) and I still to this day love that music. It gave me an appreciation of older music and showed me how shitty the 1980s hair bands were. Nobody was singing about anything even remotely esoteric, and half the riffs were stolen.

In 1990, my friend John turned me on to Metallica, and that was the beginning of the end. I kind of put away my parents' albums for a while and concentrated on my own stuff. Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Smashing Pumpkins...it was a good time for music.

Looking back, the early 90s was really the only time I ever loved modern music. It started with Metallica, Faith No More and Jane's Addiction, then moved on to bands like Nirvana. Before that, in the late 80s and very early 90s, I was reliving the 60s and 70s.

Even after discovering some modern music I loved, one of the next great cassettes I found was Black Sabbath's "Live Evil." Holy shit. The version of Iron Man on there was incredible. Dio sounded great, even if it was his enunciation that led to "I see thoughts within his head." Hell, I don't think I knew that Ozzy was the original lead singer for a good 5 years after I discovered Sabbath. Chalk that up to youth, I guess.

Kind of embarrassing, but I got turned on to Sabbath by my dad overhearing Faith No More's cover of "War Pigs" one day. I was rocking out, and he came in my room and said it was a cover of a Black Sabbath song. Again, I had no idea. So yeah. It was a long time in the making, getting educated on music.

In 1992, I discovered Otis Redding in my grandmother's basement. She had an old cassette tape that was labeled R&B, so out of curiosity I put it on. I wasn't hooked until maybe five songs in, "Ole Man Trouble." All this worldly hurt being sung about a concept like...just...trouble. Issues in general. I loved it. It appealled to my teenage angst, I guess. The next morning I asked if I could borrow it, and she never got it back.

The internet came along a few years later, and nothing's been the same. People can inundate themselves with whole discographies and nobody really cares about music like they used to when it meant something, or was treated as something more than a product. Old music isn't wise or timeless, it's just...old music.

Well I'm here to tell you I love that old music. And if you like today's musicians, you'd absolutely love the bands they're stealing from.

Memphis and The King

2011-10-15T10:00:00.005-05:00

Waiting for the hotel van driver in Memphis, TN. One of those rare weeks where I'm allowed to work day shift. Memphis isn't so bad in the daylight. All the shittums are asleep after the night's marauding, leaving only the few productive souls left in this ghost town to scurry between rocks and buildings, trying to eek out a life.

A crackhead aggressively tried to clean my windshield at the West Memphis Pilot truck stop last night. I angrily waved him off, not wanting to be bothered with his crackhead bullshit nonsense. He took the hint, thankfully. The last thing I wanted was to be presented with an open, expecting hand after he gave me a service I didn't want.

There's a picture of young, thin Elvis in front of Graceland here in the lobby. Somehow I don't think today's Memphis is the same city it was when he was alive. Then again, I guess a lot of Memphis has adopted some of Elvis' habits, though on a much tighter budget. I can't imagine Elvis offering to wash windshields at a truck stop.

You know what? Given the magnitude of his habit, maybe it was best he went out when he did. Elvis selling Taco Bell might've been the showbiz equivalent of squeegie duty. Maybe Memphis should celebrate The King knowing when to bow out...on the toilet...with a kilo of coke crusted into his mustache with a mushy stick of butter.

I'll see you around.

An odd thought I had today regarding my friend Paul

2011-10-14T03:29:00.003-05:00

So I've known Paul for...well, fuck. I guess somehow it's been a little over 12 years. I can't even begin to fathom that. Wow.

Okay, shocking-to-me start to this over with, we first met when I was the copy editor for Cityview Magazine. He was one of our feature writers, and I made a completely rookie, shithead move by deleting a jab he took at Bruce Springsteen from one of his stories. We got into a fantastic fight. My managing editor went so far as to warn me that Paul was most definitely not fucking around when he threatened me, but I was too brave/stupid to back down, and in a weird way I think Paul respected that...even if I was, admittedly, wrong.

Six months later, the staff at Cityview went off to start another magazine called "Cover." I was quickly ousted from that venture and went back to work at Cityview, this time under Paul, who had in the meantime become the new managing editor.

I learned a lot from Paul, both good and bad. For instance, I learned how to put on 20 pounds eating Beggar's Pizza every day for lunch. That was maybe not so good. But a handicapped person I saw today reminded me of one of the things I always admired him most for.

Paul made a handicapped person feel like a million bucks. It didn't matter if the person was fucked up beyond belief, if they were deaf, whatever it was...he would walk up to them, see how they were doing, compliment them on whatever they were doing, and it never came off as patronizing. Hell, the motherfucker knows sign language. No matter who it was, or what their affliction, Paul always made that person's day.

I know enough about myself that I don't have that effect on people. If I see a handicapped person, I tend to get weirded out by that reminder of what could've happened to me if my DNA or chromosones had gone just a few different ways.

I would love to be more like Paul in that respect, but...hell. That's just Paul. I don't think it's anything he necessarily learned, he's just kind of a natural entertainer like that. And maybe I bust his balls a lot, but his treatment of the handicapped is one thing that's incontrovertibly awesome about him.

...and yes, I know there are parallels between his treatment of handicapped people and his taking me under his wing as a young writer. Don't think that escapes me. Fuck you anyway. Jerks.

I'll see you around.

Belated movie review: The first "Paranormal Activity"

2011-10-12T13:25:00.003-05:00

With the third "Paranormal Activity" in theaters, I thought it'd be fun to go back and re-watch the original. You know, the one where everyone was running around yelling "We made it for only $694!" or whatever the amount was. I think it's always healthy to go back and check something out once the hype has died down, just to make sure your opinion isn't a reaction to things other people said.

In the past, because I'm kind of a snob, I've utterly hated movies that were universally beloved because I was judging whether the movie deserved all the accolades it received rather than watching the movie for the movie. Once something gets built up to that level, it's hard to live up to that reputation. It's not fair, and I realize that. Most of those accolades come from people with the right mindset: going in not knowing what to expect and being pleasantly surprised.

Once you open the Pandora's box of expectations, though, you can't go back. When I try to sell someone on a movie, I keep the details to a minimum and let them form their own opinion. That's probably the way the studios should market, but unfortunately this internet culture feels the need to spoil every twist in a movie and analyze all the minutiae, so it's pretty much impossible.

In a perfect world, all a trailer would say is "You gotta check this shit out, son!" followed by one non-revealing line from the movie. Instead, you get the entire story arc in 3 minutes, almost like the studios are saying "If you liked this Youtube clip of our movie, check out the other 87 minutes you missed!"

"Paranormal Activity" was maybe a movie where I did that to a point. The ads basically said the movie was going to make me shit my pants, and it just didn't. It's not that kind of movie. There are a lot of quiet moments that build up to a climax that...is believable. They never went over the top, which to me kind of adds to the creep factor. But much of the movie is quiet and meditative.

Watching it the second time around, I was kind of bothered by the formula: stuff happens at night, then the characters react. It bothered me, but there was really no other way to make the movie. It's a tough spot, I realized.

The actors were pretty fantastic. Real. You believed this stuff was happening to them, right down to the douchey "I'll protect you!" chivalry of the boyfriend. It's not how I would've done it, but I know plenty of guys who would. My whole thing is...call the fucking demonologist, guys. Once I see the three-toed footprints in baby powder, I'm done. But no, not Micah (pronounced "Mee-kuh," which is just fucking stupid). He's gonna beat this thing.

Well, spoiler alert: he doesn't. I won't go into details in case you haven't seen a movie from several years ago, but...it doesn't go well for those two. Not at all.

Now that we're out of the hype machine, we're left with...a pretty good movie. It doesn't scare the shit out of you, but there are a couple moments that made me jump. This movie knows that without quiet, there is no loud. So while there aren't giant orange pulsating anuses in the walls (a la "Poltergeist"), there are some pretty creepy, realistic moments.

On a scale of 10, I'll give it a strong 7. I've re-watched it, I probably won't again. One viewing out of the advertising bubble will be sufficient. Let's hope Paranormal Activity 3 maintains some of the realism of this one, because that's what made it so eerie.

I'll see you around.

Thoughts on UFC 136

2011-10-11T00:29:00.004-05:00

Although I'm reticent to do yet another mma blog, it does happen to be one of my interests. I can't help it that everyone thought it'd be a neat idea to write (often poorly) about it. That isn't to say I feel like I'm going to go above and beyond what exists out there, either. I'm just going to throw shit and hope it sticks.

The prelims were garbage. Everything went to a decision, including one split decision. I don't think there's anything more dubious in combat sports than the split decision. What the fuck was that judge looking at? Why did the other two judges disagree? Even though you "won" the fight, it wasn't decisive at all. And if you lost, apparently you were one or two maneuvers away from swaying one of the other two jackasses.

The only prelim fight I was truly interested in anyhow was Demian Maia's fight. He's a submission machine, and one of my favorite fighters. Even that one went to a goddamned decision (which Maia won unanimously), so...fuck it.

So after 6 prelim/undercard fights that all went to the cards, you've gotta be thinking you're in for a night that is nothing short of funneling ground glass into your corneas...and then the first main card fight starts.

Melvin Guillard vs. Joe Lauzon was a classic slugger/submission fight. With Guillard, you sometimes don't know which guy's gonna show up, so it's never a guarantee that he's going to beat the shit out of his opponent. He's been on a run lately, though, so...chances were good he'd do well.

Not so much. Lauzon tagged him with a punch that knocked him down, took his back, and rear naked choked his ass into submission. You always have a puncher's chance until your opponent's behind you with his arms around your neck, squeezing your carotids. Tap or good night, and Guillard chose the former. Lauzon won "submission of the night" for his performance.

Leonard Garcia vs. Nam Phan seemed like good wholesome featherweight fun. These guys so rarely knock each other out, but it's fun to watch them stay active and beat the shit out of each other for a few rounds. Though it went to a decision, it was a fantastic fight that ended up winning "fight of the night" honors.

Garcia is a particularly powerful puncher for the featherweight division, and though his fights often go to the cards, he can punch the fuck out of a guy for a while. I didn't know much about Phan going in, but he's a very intelligent fighter who patiently picked apart an increasingly winded Garcia (who threw bombs most of the fight). At the beginning of the third round, they smiled and high-fived each other before giving it their all. In the end, Phan did more and won a unanimous decision. Great fight, from start to finish. Phan could be someone to watch.

The third fight was Chael Sonnen vs. Brian Stann. Sonnen is an absolute dick who makes me laugh my ass off in his interviews. The best part is, he backs up everything he says in the octagon. He's the only person to not only challenge, but dominate Anderson Silva for 4.5 rounds before succumbing to a triangle.

Brian Stann was an interesting challenge for Sonnen. Not fighting-wise (he won the fight via arm triangle choke pretty easily), but instead because of his Marine background. It's tough to trash-talk a person who's sacrificed for their country, though he did say he was gonna give him an "all-American ass-whoopin'" before the fight.

In one of the best post-fight interviews ever, Sonnen ignored Joe Rogan's questions and proclaimed "Anderson Silva absolutely sucks." He then challenged Silva to a rematch, and said if he lost, he would leave the UFC. Probably nothing more than a WWE-style stunt that won't bear fruit, but hilariously awesome nonetheless.

Jose Aldo (who pronounces his first name Joe-zay, like Joe-zay and the Pussycats) vs. Kenny Florian was an intriguing fight, because Aldo has seemed like an unstoppable force in the featherweight division lately, and Florian was dropping down in weight from the lightweight division so he could be a little bigger than his opponents.

Florian came out looking great, using his grappling and wrestling skills in the first round to completely control Aldo. It was interesting to see Aldo get truly challenged, since he's been ridiculously good the last four years (and finishing fights with KOs and TKOs no less, which is a rarity in that division).

Slowly Aldo started to establish himself, guarding the takedown from Florian (who wanted oh so desperately to go to the ground and deliver some elbows to Aldo's face) and working the leg kick. The latter was a great strategy because it gets increasingly difficult to perform a takedown once your legs are damaged. I don't feel like Aldo dominated this fight, but Florian was unable to use his gameplan, which rendered him ineffective. It went to the cards, and Aldo took it unanimously.

The main event was just great. It had everything. I'll put this in my top 5 fights of the year, easily. Frankie Edgar vs. Gray Maynard III. That's right, the finale of a trilogy. In the first fight, Maynard handed Edgar the only loss of his career by unanimous decision. In the second, they fought to a draw. To me, the third fight was the best of them all.

Frankie Edgar, the lightweight champion, is a natural lightweight. He doesn't cut weight at all, naturally staying in the realm of 155 pounds. Gray Maynard on the other hand weighs between 180 and 190 pounds, cutting a ridiculous (for that division) 25 and 35 pounds. Basically up to 20% of his body weight. Maynard was much taller and had a two-inch reach advantage, which looked much greater when you saw them together.

I like Edgar, and I wanted him to win. To say that Edgar got his ass beaten in the first round is...no. Just no. Maynard found out Edgar's defense was susceptible to uppercuts, and landed probably a good four of them right on the button. While he was rocked after the first one, Maynard landed a nice shot that broke Edgar's nose. Edgar was blind for probably a minute after that, his eyes watering and his face spraying blood. I'd pretty much given up on my guy at that point.

Somehow, though, Edgar zombie-walked like a goddamn corpse back to his corner (after being pointed in the right direction) and his corner cleaned him up. He looked...like himself, only with a broken nose, at the start of the second. I still didn't have much hope, but...it was something.

Then a funny thing started happening. There's some debate whether Maynard was using strategy or had punched himself out, but either way he slowed his pace. Did I mention Edgar is a cardio machine? I probably should've. Because he doesn't cut weight, his conditioning is pretty much optimum at any given point. In previous fights where he's taken it to the ground, he's looked a lot like a gremlin, just changing angles and positions, landing strikes the entire time.

Only...this fight didn't go to the ground. Not once. Maynard felt he had the advantage standing, and Edgar agreed to face him on his turf. Oh, what a badass. On paper, though, that strategy seems kinda dumb. I said before it was a two-inch reach advantage? Yeah, what I meant to say was that Edgar has cute little T-Rex arms. They're adorable. You could eat one and be hungry in half an hour. Seriously.

But Maynard slowed down, and Edgar used a stick-and-move strategy to pop him in the face and get out before a lumbering haymaker could land. The shots started to wear on Maynard, and then in the fourth round, Edgar went for a takedown that Maynard thwarted, then cracked him in the jaw with an uppercut as he stood up from the takedown attempt. Maynard stumbled, so Edgar took that as his opportunity to land another uppercut and a hook, which sent Maynard careening back against the cage. Well, when you fall back against the cage, you tend to bounce. In this case, most serendipitously, there was a fist waiting for Maynard as he bounced off. A fist that sent him crashing onto the ground.

Edgar pounced, sending fists at Maynard's chin from an awkward angle under his arm and around his chest; one landed, and Maynard's face mushed into the mat. Referee stoppage, incredible comeback complete.

Fuck. Yes.

My screaming at the Bourbon Street Thunderdome shredded my vocal cords to where I was talking like Tom Waits much of the next day, but it was totally worth it. Drink some tea and suck it up, Nancy. That was a hell of a fight. Edgar's kind of like a more successful Scott Smith. That made a couple MMA fans chuckle.

Oh, and Edgar won "KO of the night," too. Well-deserved. Reach advantage + power < T-Rex arms + speed. It doesn't always add up like that, but it's a good time either way. Sure as hell was on Saturday.

I'll see you around.

A return to form, and quick movie reviews

2011-10-09T23:14:00.003-05:00

Do I truly have this little to say? I am letting life pass me by, and I need something to give/change, or it'll be over before I even know it. I've accomplished so little, and it seems like a whole slew of things to some people, but they're just even more of underachievers than I am. I really need to get my head straight.

I made the decision that I'm ready to start writing again. And when I say that, I mean every day, and screw what my job says. I drive a truck so I don't have a boss breathing down my throat. Time to take advantage of that. It may not be here, but somewhere, something. Every day. No matter what.

I saw "Scott Pilgrim vs. The World recently." It was righteous. I can't believe that movie did poorly at the box office. Nerds should've been lined around the block to see it. Maybe Michael Cera finally got overexposed and we were all tired of seeing his dumb shy kid act. If that's the case, then we the people made a big mistake en masse with that one. See it immediately.

"Thor" was...2/3 of a good movie? It was going along well, and then all of a sudden he started making huge decisions based on a relationship the viewer was never made to care about. The wheels fell off very quickly, to a degree where I can't even recommend anyone watch it.

"Inception" was nothing short of amazing. I've heard people complain they couldn't follow it, but they're stupid. Pay attention, stop texting your frat boy friends during the movie, and you'll be fine. Matter of fact, I wanna watch this one again just to see if I missed anything. Probably an instant classic.

"Four Brothers" came out in 2005, but I just saw it a couple weeks ago. Pretty damn good. It wasn't anything I'd re-watch, but as far as an action movie with heart? Yeah, it got the job done.

"Priest" was an absolute pile. Confused, confusing, a rather positive view of a nightmare future...ulkh. Not good. I couldn't even really tell you much about it, because it was so hyper-paced that nothing made an impact on me. Garbage.

But the worst movie I've seen all year has to be "Quarantine 2." What. the. fuck? I was trying not to curse in this post, but I can't describe how truly awful this movie is without swearing. And all you ironic douchebags thinking "maybe it's so bad it's good!" are just wrong. It's so bad it's bad.

Maybe a good concept, but such a horrible execution that it negates any inventiveness on anyone's part. And while it's neat that we find out the guy in the attic in the first "Quarantine" wasn't the crazy bastard who created the virus (Hint: he's on the plane!), it just...fucking...flat-out...sucks.

I guess it wouldn't be an entry from me without some new music, so let me sign off with a song that my brother showed me. I haven't had the chance to look into these guys yet, but this song pretty much rocks.

Thanks for reading, and I'll see you around.

"Better Than That or Good For Me?"

2011-04-08T16:40:00.004-05:00

So many questions,
but do you really think
the crass answer
that quiets the clamor in me
is gonna work for you?

Am I hypocritical
for not wanting that for you,
or smitten and can't admit it?
Do I only want the best for you
because I like you?

Do I have gender issues
where I can whore around
but girls should remain chaste?

What do I think I'm doing to girls
when I use them?
Certainly not helping their chastity.

So why not you?
Would it be okay
if you were MY whore?

But because I can't
come up with a name
for the war we're fighting this battle for,
I find it easier
to just drive you to his house
and quietly torture myself.

"Merely Mortal"

2011-04-08T16:04:00.002-05:00

I don't know
how to talk to women
now that I'm flesh and bone.

When I was crazy,
I was a force of nature
and an energy that
exploded light bulbs
when I entered a room.

Now I'm just a guy
with some victories
under his belt,
some failures,
who has no superpowers
to speak of.

I've even hung up my cape.

Sanity is so...grey.
Time to start using the full palette
and get hospitalized again.

"Indignant"

2011-04-08T15:11:00.003-05:00

An old acquaintance and I
were going over the last ten years
since we'd talked
on a web site.

I half-joked
that my wife and I
were making amazing money
and were looking for a girl
to come live with us,
implying sexual servitude
and house chores
would be her only rent.

She got huffy.
"I've GOT my own money,"
apparently taking it as an invitation,
which it wasn't.

Our first conversation in a decade,
and I'm going to offer
to let her live with me?
She must think I'm classy.

First off,
I guarantee my wife and I
make no less
than ten times what you do,
so don't talk to me about "having money."
You're out of your element and in over your head.

Secondly,
why would we be interested in your bitter ass?
We'd much rather buy a teenager.

Social theory while watching pornography.

2011-01-05T22:54:00.003-06:00

I had a half-formed quasi-epiphany the other day while watching porn. In the last few months I've decided that porn chicks are kind of...well...disgusting. Like, really greasy and awful. So I was in this kind of pornographic existential crisis, when all of a sudden I discovered homemade amateur porn.

Homemade amateur porn is nice. Simple. Passionate people doing passionate things for the love of the game. I find it impossible to go back to professional mainstream porn, and I'm kind of surprised by that.

I got bored with normal porn. I got extreme as fuck for a while there. The more degrading the act was, the better I thought it was. I was afraid I was losing my humanity, some of the things were so shocking. And then it hit me...the porn industry is perhaps eventually going to go away.

If I'm bored by these sleazy bitches, other people have to be. For the first time I'm watching porn videos without the girl bellowing in a Valley Girl accent "Oh yaaahhhhhhh...Oh yahhhhhh!!!" It's nice.

We are in our adolescence on the Internet. We're seeing all this crazy shit, but eventually we're going to mature and go back to our human nature...to a point. We're still attention-craving creatures, and this is why fucking for money on film is going to go away: people will do what they do for free for a modicum of notoriety.

It also led to other questions: what else will go away for a cheap 15 minutes of fame thanks to the new technology we have? Professional musicians and albums? Live performances? Movies?

I'm still thinking it through, but...it's a hell of a thought.

All thanks to porn.

Thank you, porn. Thank you.

Amazing song and cover: "Only Shallow" by My Bloody Valentine

2011-01-05T22:32:00.002-06:00

This is a wonderful song from one of the albums I hate most on this earth, and then a gorgeous cover of it.

Baby Bingo items

2010-12-13T20:17:00.003-06:00

So Randy and I went to a baby shower over the weekend, and there were "Baby Bingo" sheets in front of all the seats. The games works like this: you pick items from a list of gifts, and as the mother-to-be opens her wrapped gifts, you mark them off. If you get five in a row in any direction, you win.

I thought it might be fun to cheat and play two cards. Here's what they looked like:

Card 1

Vibrating Barney action figure
Baby's first ball gag
"Crawl like a dog" brand onesie
Ugly baby broken safety glass mirror
"I shooda ben an aborshun" T-shirt
"Sexy baby" thong diapers
Penis-shaped pacifier (flavored)
"I'm plenty old enough, you pansy" baby hoodie
"Ethnic Cock: A Retrospective" pop-up book
"I know he's my dad. Maury said so!" bondage hood
Pez-flavored candy panties
"Shock da Baby!" toaster and fork set
"The Shocker" brand finger condom/thermometer
"To da Ballz" brand gag reflex suppressor
"Daddy's Lil Retarded Side Piece" hockey helmet
"William Tell Jr." target onesie
"I won't tell if you don't pull out - I can't speak, silly!" T-shirt
"Daddy's Lil Secret" brand condoms (with Lidocaine)
"Lil Navigator" brand car seat with random ejection spring
"Mama did Thalidomide!" flipper gloves
"Lil Wrangler" branding iron and veal pen
"Lil Squirt" baby-sized speculum and miner's cap
"Jesus Juice" brand bad baby sleepy-time concoction
"Baby's First Gang Bang" pastel baby animals easy clean-up tarp

Card 2

"Hush-a-Bye" pillow with handles
"Hed Tromma" anvil mobile
"Bloo Bebe" happy funtime plastic bag
"Whoops-a-daisy" brand pool deck wax
"Krispy Kritter" baby flamethrower
"Lil Adventurer" tree climbing noose
"Davey Jones' Locker" tiny cement shoes
"Gentle Ben" baby's first bear trap
"Lil VC" baby napalm
"Bloody Buddy" sandpaper baby wipes
"Brisk Briss" circumcision hedge clippers
"Woodland Friends" mace gun/bear bait
"Our Lil Cornish Game Hen" E-Z bake oven and coffin set
"Krib Deth" plastic sheets
"Shake Da Baby" happy time activity center (with new and improved springs)
"Baby's First Oil Change" hydraulic jack
"Indiana Jones" snake venom antidote lab set
"Sudden Death" cyanide suckers
"Ron Jeremy" baby rectal thermometer (with Hedgehog scent)
"Little Mengele" flash cards
"Helen Keller's Lullabye Collection" (12-disc box set)
"Super Warm Bebe" kerosene-soaked gauze Snuggie (now with napalm)
"Agent Orange" flavored pacifier
"Agitated Baby" overnight outdoor crib with mosquito bait

------

For whatever reason...I didn't win. I was pretty upset.

Funeral for a friend's sister and thoughts on her service

2010-11-30T20:19:00.002-06:00

I attended a funeral today. It was nobody I'll claim to have known intimately; hell, it was nobody I will say I met more than five times. They were a memorable five times, but you can't say you understand the full breadth of a person after such a scant few meetings.

No, I was there for my friend, her brother. From the stories I heard over the last couple days, I wish I had gotten to know his sister a lot better. She sounded like a pretty cool person, someone who made you laugh in-spite-of, no matter what. If I could ease the pain of my friend and everyone else who knew her, I would...but it's hard to lose someone like that, and impossible to replace them.

Being a little detached from the direct grief (I mourn for my friend, whom I love and hate to see suffering), I was kind of bothered by the Catholic service in a couple ways. Everything they did essentially amounted to a four-hour infomercial about the joy and splendor this girl was now experiencing thanks to the Catholic religion, and how you too could see it if you just gave your life over to them.

At the wake, following a long sermon, they allowed her friends and family to speak. It was the only moment in the whole two-day affair that was really dedicated to her. Sure, the priest tried to tie aspects of her life in to his service, essentially comparing her to disciples, saints and prophets; however, the last I checked, she was none of those. She was a person who was loved by many, and who should have had much more time dedicated to her.

In one of my favorite moments, a few of us secularists were off in a corner, and one of them summed up what we were feeling perfectly: “That Jesus guy was a little arrogant, huh?”

Yes. Yes He was. But He is also giving...what's-her-name eternal life. That's a fuckload more than any of us can provide for her right now, ain't it?

But maybe we don't need to hear your commercial. Maybe we needed to have more of those human moments wherein we admitted we didn't know what to do, felt powerless, and...hell...missed the girl we were there to mourn. I've never met an apostle. I don't miss them. I feel like I missed out on an opportunity to meet a pretty cool chick, but...if the angry glares of the priest are any indication of the culture surrounding Jesus, I don't think I missed out on anything 2,000 years ago.

We should have been celebrating the life we were there to honor, not watching a ham-handed man who was talking about something else try to loosely tie her in to his topic at hand.

To her friends and family...hell. Who knows. Maybe she's up there cruising with Janis Joplin in a Mercedes Benz, headed over to see all the other family you poor people have lost in the last few years. Probably what she would've wanted. It's the best we can hope for at this point.

And, Steve...I'm sorry this happened, sir. I can only begin to know what Mary meant to you. If you read this and need anything, just let me know.

(...and yeah, that song is pretty fucking terrible.)

My favorite poem ever.

2010-11-24T21:41:00.001-06:00

All Watched Over by Machines of Loving Grace
by Richard Brautigan

I like to think (and
the sooner the better!)
of a cybernetic meadow
where mammals and computers
live together in mutually
programming harmony
like pure water
touching clear sky.

I like to think
(right now please!)
of a cybernetic forest
filled with pines and electronics
where deer stroll peacefully
past computers
as if they were flowers
with spinning blossoms.

I like to think
(it has to be!)
of a cybernetic ecology
where we are free of our labors
and joined back to nature,
returned to our mammal
brothers and sisters,
and all watched over
by machines of loving grace.

Ladies and gentlemen...

2010-11-17T19:58:00.003-06:00

I give you Ray Wylie Hubbard.

Outlaw country is alive and well, just not on the radio.

Open letter to my brother.

2010-11-06T21:26:00.001-05:00

...I like visitors. *grins like puppy not cute enough to get adopted as a needle glistens threateningly in the background*

I know there are cooler people who still have their appendixes that you'd rather visit...I mean, I used to do the same thing and discriminate against them: "Fucking appendix-less loser! Go get a fucking APPENDIX!" I'd bellow as my friends and I drove by the appendix barrios. In response they'd wave their "Need appendicks" and "Wil wurk for apendix" signs in sorrow, blessing us in the name of organ grinder Jesus that He might heal our vision and help us see the error of our ways.

Truth is there isn't a whole lot of difference between you and I now, little brother. Just a red, 17-pound, pulsatingly infected organ that normally doesn't do anything anyways.

I know you want to just hang out with your "whole" friends, but...a little acceptance would go a long way. Look at how it's worked for whites and blacks, Travis. Why, if we started hanging out again now that I'm broken and un-cool...before too long, I could be picking your pockets and impregnating fat whores with appendixes who theoretically should know better.

Think of what that would do for my self-esteem.

Just think.

YES WE CAN.

This has instant hit written all over it.

2010-08-30T11:58:00.002-05:00

That Gnarls Barkley guy fucking rules. I hope the profanity doesn't hurt this song, because it's awesome. Check this shit out.

My top 30 albums of all time

2010-08-30T11:13:00.001-05:00

Scenario: you have to live on an island for the rest of your life. You only get to bring 30 albums with you. You are allowed to burn compilations if necessary, but no more than five.

Here's mine, in no particular order other than how they came to me.

1. Leo Kottke, "6- and 12-string Guitar." The greatest guitarist of all time at the height of his power. Awe-inspiring.

2. Steve Martin, compilation disc. This is a weird one, but Steve Martin is a fantastic banjo player, and I really enjoy his compositions. I also like noting how he's changed some of the songs over the last 30 years.

3. Nas, "Illmatic." The greatest rap album of all time. Yeah, Eminem came on strong this decade, but even that's starting to sound dated. "Illmatic" is timeless. It doesn't sound like any other rap album, because Nas raps over jazz beats.

4. Smashing Pumpkins, "Siamese Dream." Tender but powerful, emotional but strong. This is a perfectly balanced, mysterious album that feels like a dream.

5. Rage Against the Machine, "Rage Against the Machine." Just the height of hopeless anger and desperation. Yeah, a lot of teenagers from the suburbs latched on to this one, but the original art itself is powerful.

6. John Coltrane, "Coltrane Plays the Blues." Coltrane knew how to do the blues right, a skill he probably picked up from playing with Miles Davis on "Kind of Blue." More about that in a bit.

7. Nirvana, "Nevermind." The album that started a revolution. Sure, many people think it's over-rated, but there's just something incredible about the music on this album, if you just listen and forget all that external bullshit.

8. Metallica, "Master of Puppets." Screaming about the devil over music that sounds like the gates to hell opening? Where do I sign up? Metallica at their height, for sure.

9. Beck, "Mellow Gold." Probably my favorite album of all time by my favorite artist of all time.

10. Beck, "Odelay." This is a weird choice for me, because I didn't like this album when it came out. Now that I'm older, I love it. Maybe I just had to catch up to its brilliance.

11. Beck, "Sea Change." So emotional I can't bear to listen to it sometimes. Genius.

12. Robert Johnson, "The Complete Recordings." A blues master whose haunting voice and virtuoso guitar can never leave my mind. Almost ethereal.

13. Jimi Hendrix, "The Ultimate Experience." Yeah, I like the hits. Who doesn't? This greatest hits album goes a little deeper, though, and has all of Hendrix's stuff that made him a legend off the air, as well.

14. Metallica, "...And Justice for All." Metallica still at their height, this time without Cliff Burton, but still a force of nature.

15. Nirvana, "With The Lights Out Box Set." Three discs of grungy, unfiltered Nirvana. The Nirvana from concerts, before producers could clean them up.

16. REM, "Automatic for the People." I can't explain to you why this is a great album. You just have to listen to it and see where it takes you. Michael Stipe's lyrics were perfection on this one.

17. Elliott Smith, compilation disc. I don't know why, but I can't get into any one of his albums as a whole. I cherry pick, and songs like "Happiness," "Say Yes," "Sweet Adeline," "Tomorrow, Tomorrow," and "Coming Up Roses" always hit the spot. Sweetness and sorrow.

18. Miles Davis, "Kind of Blue." Another great blues album by a jazz genius. There's something about jazz musicians that is able to tap into the heart of the blues, filter it with their jazz, and come up with a wonderful hybrid. Set aside an afternoon and give this a spin.

19. Alice in Chains, "Dirt." I'm an asshole for this one, because I never paid much attention to Alice in Chains in the 90s. I had Nirvana, Beck and Pearl Jam to keep me busy, but Alice in Chains would've blown my little teen mind away, for sure. Maybe I'm glad I waited until I was an adult to check this one out, because I probably wouldn't've gotten a lot of the themes as a teen.

20. Gomez, "Bring it On." This is just genius. Perfectly textured and layered, this trippy album gives you truth, fear, loathing, psychedelia and escape in one epic album.

21. Stone Temple Pilots, "Purple." A perfect blend of musicianship and ambiguous lyrics has led to me staying engaged with this album for 15 years now. Just when I think I have it figured out, I think of another possible meaning.

22. The White Stripes, "De Stijl." I love the White Stripes, and this album (recorded before they'd hit it big) is a perfect crystallization of their band. My favorite part of it is every one of my friends has a different favorite song from this album. Diverse, weird and definitely the White Stripes.

23. Nine Inch Nails, "The Downward Spiral." A frightening view into hopelessness, despair, rage and suicide, this album was what all electronic music could've and should've been. Not even Trent Reznor was able to reach this plateau again, though.

24. Otis Redding, "The Complete Recordings Box Set." The master of soul and R&B, I find more joy in Redding's sadness than I can begin to describe. There was just something sublime about him and his work.

25. Radiohead, "OK Computer." The album that threw Radiohead off the beaten path. They decided they'd done everything with a guitar that they could after this one, and...maybe they were right. Another larger-than-life, epic album.

26. Liz Phair, compilation disc. If you don't know how awesome Liz Phair used to be before she became a sell-out, you're missing out. Go buy her first three albums and burn a compilation disc. It'll be with you for the rest of your life. "Whip Smart" is her best album, in my opinion, but you need some of the songs from the other albums to fill her library out.

27. Aesop Rock, "None Shall Pass." A virtuoso New York underground rapper, Aesop Rock has been hammering at lyrics and bars for over a decade now. I think he finally perfected it on this album.

28. Beck, "One Foot in the Grave." I once played this album for a friend of mine, and he fucking hated it. That made me love it even more. Beck explores folk, blues, and noise on this K Records-produced disc, and it just sounds like a bunch of friends hanging out and recording songs in their living room.

29. Blues compilation disc. I had to do this because artists like Skip James, Tommy Johnson and Blind Willie McTell have such small discographies (14 songs, in Tommy Johnson's case) that you almost have to do it like this to get your full 80 minutes worth.

30. Blind Melon, compilation disc. I'd probably do most of the first two albums, but then you need the performance of "Soup" from Woodstock and some other amazing singles to fill this out.

--------

So yeah, I think I got everything. This is a fascinating exercise, because you can make a list like this and save it somewhere for a few years. When you re-do your list after some time has passed, it's amazing to see how much you and your music has changed with the years.

I'll see you around.

-Butler

EDIT: Randy reminded me of a great album I forgot to put on here. Failure, "Fantastic Planet." Honestly, I might bump Beck, "One Foot in the Grave" to get it on here. Ugh. Such a tough list to make. Damnit. Either Beck or Blind Melon, and neither of those choices is easy.

"The Last Exorcism" movie review

2010-08-30T09:13:00.004-05:00

"The Last Exorcism" is almost a good movie. It did everything in its power to stay on the rails, but fell off in the last 10 or 15 minutes. That said, there were some really effective moments in a well-made movie up to that point, so maybe you'll still want to give it a shot.

The movie follows a snake oil salesman preacher's son who is giving up the game for another line of work. On his way off the pulpit, he has decided his work with the church isn't quite completed: the opening of the Vatican's exorcism school has incensed him to blow the whistle on exorcisms, because he's afraid less gentle or skillful priests could kill the "possessed" victims they purport to help.

He should know all about exorcisms...he's performed dozens of them.

He explains that the exorcisms he performed weren't fraudulent, but rather they provided the victims and their families with a service. He often exorcised psychological demons from the house, rather than actual spirits.

He's a charismatic guy, and you really feel a wink-wink nudge-nudge kinship with him as a jaded product of the new millennium. "Let's go placate the rubes," you think to yourself with visions of 4chan memes in your head.

So he chooses a letter from a stack of exorcism requests, and invites the film crew along to witness his work.

Right from the start, as they arrive in the small Louisiana town where the possessed girl lives, things get creepy. They meet a young man who, in a not-so-gentle way, suggests that they turn around, get back on the highway, and leave. He punctuates his matter-of-fact delivery with a couple rocks as they drive off. Instantly creepy, and a great way to set the tone.

But then we meet the girl. She's really endearing, a quiet and withdrawn girl who seems to have incredibly low self-esteem. At one point a crew-member gives her a gift, and she acts like it's the first gift she's ever been given. You can see in her eyes how grateful and disbelieving she is that someone would bother to give her a gift.

So the preacher decides to give her one of his bullshit "exorcisms." He puts up a speaker system, ties string to pictures on the wall, lights some candles, and he's ready to roll. The son of a bitch even has a shocking device on his thumbs run on a 9-volt battery, so that the girl would feel pain whenever "good" touched her. Hilarious.

So he performs the exorcism. He gives the family a great show. I mean, complete with demon sounds from the Ipod he hooked into those aforementioned speakers. He's good. He's a douche, but he wears it well.

He casts out the demons, grabs a fat handful of cash, and retires to a hotel room with the camera crew before the long drive home the next day. Mission accomplished.

And then the girl shows up at the hotel. She didn't know which hotel they were staying at. Nobody but the three of them did.

And then things get weird.

I'll spare you all the spoilers from here on out. The only reason I went into the previous stuff so much is because it's not germane to the rest of the story. It's funny, though, and definitely worth the watch. I left out some good stuff, too. No worries.

The story is taut with tension from here on out. You don't know if the girl is crazy, possessed, or otherwise. It's handled so well right up to the end. The storyline has a twist at the end, and I expected them to go in one direction, but they went in another completely hack, abominable direction that completely sucked.

I want to get into what they did, but...that's the ending of the movie. I'm not going to spoil that. I'll leave this phrase for after you've seen it: "Because all small towns are like that, right Hollywood? Fucking hell."

This movie is all about the actress portraying the possessed girl. She does low self-esteem, abused, isolated chick better than almost anyone I've ever seen. It's not over-the-top, it's understated and realistic. And when she "changes," her stare is absolutely electric. You can't take your eyes off it.

And, as the director found out after he started filming, she's double-jointed. I'll leave it at that, but...wow. Ashley Bell, welcome to Hollywood, and consider me a fan.

Patrick Fabian is perfect as the preacher. Spot on. Obviously a fraud, but able to win you over with his undying charisma and logic. The way Fabian portrays him, that preacher could have a television ministry or a strong career in politics. He is a fine personification of the cult of personality.

Those two performances stand out, but there isn't a bad performance in the whole movie. The only problem lies in the writing. Fabian did his best with the action the script told him to do at the movie's end, but...that's not a realistic action for that character. Period.

Great movie, great actors, great directing...the tone and mood are there, the cinematography is...well, it's one of those "Blair Witch" hand-held camera movies, but it works. I kept expecting them to suddenly turn the camera on some scary shit, and they did. Good job working with the genre, I guess.

But the script? What were they thinking? "Slap something on the end of this thing, and let's roll it on out," evidently. Ugh.

It was what I think every horror movie in this "age of enlightenment" (read: jaded era) needs to be: they take your bored, been-there, done-that attitude, give you a character who agrees with you, and then put that character in a very unusual, dangerous situation that breaks their will to be a jaded douche hack (like you). It was that. Must've run out of ideas.

Such a careless way to finish what could have been a great movie. Don't let that ending ruin what is, up to that point, a pretty damn good flick, though. It won't change your life, but it'll make you jump a couple times. That's all you can ask for, and...unfortunately? That's all they delivered.

Holy shit!

2010-06-01T00:11:00.002-05:00

Check out these two gems from Chicago's past. This is the Southside Movement; they're not widely known outside of the hiphop community (you maybe recognize some samples from their work, for sure), but they fucking rocked for three years (1972-1975) and broke up before they could get the attention they deserved.

What's interesting to note is that I'm posting two versions of the same song, recorded three years apart. The first version is my personal favorite, but check out how unbelievably funky they'd gotten by the time they broke up. Holy shit. I prefer the first while acknowledging the far superior funk of the second.

My music is better than yours.

2010-04-08T04:09:00.003-05:00

One thing I had to learn along the way in my musical development (with a great deal of help from Paul) was not to be afraid of pop, especially intelligent pop.

This is a fine anti-war song that examines every side of the situation and exposes it, all done to a jangly, jaunty pop song structure. Fantastic.

"Sixteen Military Wives" by The Decemberists

Absolutely, I'll delete your e-mail from my blog list...

2010-04-07T22:02:00.001-05:00

...but one last message first.

Guaranteed it's the last time you'll ever hear from me.

Heed it, please, just for your own sake. I have no stake in what becomes of you.

My music is better than your music.

2010-04-07T10:09:00.006-05:00

I found a new song I like. And I heard it on THE RADIO. I know. Does not compute, right? For me either.

This song's about the most gut-wrenching part of a suddenly impending break-up, where you found out they were with someone else and you start torturing yourself by asking questions you should never, ever ask.

She had diamonds on the inside...

2010-04-01T03:51:00.004-05:00

One of my best friends in the world lost his mother yesterday. I've known Randy and his family half my life now, from an inauspicious meeting to his realization that I had redeeming qualities because of my music collection a couple months later, and on through today.

I try to be conscious of the role I play in people's lives, and to especially to give them what they need when they need it. This is mainly because I'm such an inappropriate jackass most of the time. I don't do it to be shocking or anything stupid like that...I do it because I know I'm usually pretty damn funny, and I want people to have a good time when they're with me.

That said, I was always very much at home with Randy's family. There aren't many households I could walk into, ask the mom when we were finally gonna hook up, and be told to go fuck myself through laughter. That's a special brand of twisted.

It's all too obviously a sad time for Randy, Harmony and Mike, but I thought I'd offer up three of my favorite memories of their mom. They're not stories I'd tell in mixed company, but they're definitely...her.

When we were maybe 15 or 16, Randy and I stood on his front porch talking with his mom. I felt a hair in my mouth, so I sidestepped to pick it out without making a disgusting spectacle of myself, and pulled out...one of my girlfriend's pubic hairs. My eyes widened as the realization hit me, then Randy's, and I managed to put my hand down by my side just as she turned her head. I turned around and acted as if the thing that caught Randy's attention were behind me. To this day I don't think she ever found out what happened.

Around the time Randy was getting married, he and I were cruising around running errands and whatnot. His mom called his cell and said he absolutely HAD to come by the bar she was tending and see her. We finished up what we were doing and stopped by her work. We decided to shoot a game of pool, and as Randy was lining up a shot, this brunette slut in a red dress came up and started putting the moves on him. After a few minutes of Randy blushing and looking uncomfortable, his mom starts HOWLING laughing. She had hired him a goddamn stripper. Outstanding. I still say to this day he should've married the stripper instead. Would've been way more fun.

And finally, what I think is my favorite memory of all...the Weather Channel. Because it's one thing to SAY you do it while listening to endless forecasts, but it's entirely something else to have your boyfriend (who's not that great with sarcasm) confirm it with a straight face...followed by several members of the family who should know NOTHING about it.

Rest in peace, LuAnn. And as trivial as it may sound in light of all this, I'm sorry for yelling at you that time I was fixing your computer. I can be a dick sometimes.

My dad has this great theory that when someone crosses over to the other side, they learn everything they need to see. As another kid who feels like there's so much left unsaid, let me just say to Randy: she knows. Everything you're torturing yourself over...she knows.

And to LuAnn...

It's something unpredictable,
But in the end it's right.
I hope you had the time of your life.

My music is better than yours #2

2010-03-26T06:41:00.002-05:00

Nirvana always struggled with balancing the raw power of their true sound and the radio-friendlier incarnations of their songs that appeared on albums. They knew that to sell records concessions had to be made; however, once the audience was roped in, a completely different Nirvana existed under the surface. This either worked for you or chased you away because you like your music a little more main-streamlined and spoonfed.

I came across this amazing rough mix of "Breed," already one of the more raucous and loud songs on "Nevermind," on the box set that was released a few years back. You get a better idea of what Nirvana was all about from this recording, because Dave Grohl is barely holding the rhythm together under the bass and guitar's distorted undulations. It's truly controlled chaos on this one, and Nirvana never sounded better.

One thing I want to note, because I've long been bothered by it: they call this a "rough mix," but this is not the recording they used for the album. Kurt Cobain fucked up the lyrics in the first verse on the album, and he sings it correctly in this version. So I don't know what happened there exactly, but to call it a "rough mix" of what appeared on the album is incorrect.

Okay, I'm done being "that guy." Here's the song.

Yes, this is also better than your music and a good reason not to turn on the radio.

My music is better than yours #1

2010-03-26T06:29:00.002-05:00

Singers like to put emotion into their songs, but there's something really haunting about Eddie Vedder's voice on this track, especially toward the end. You all probably know me well enough by now to listen all the way through, because I love a song that builds toward something by the end.

This was a somewhat forgotten B-side to the Jeremy single, along with another brilliant fucking song, "Yellow Ledbetter." It's kind of amazing that they could put one of the top 10 most popular songs of the 90s on a three-track single and have it be the weakest track, but such was the brilliance of Pearl Jam back in the day.

And since I brought it up earlier...

Both of these songs are better than the crap you listen to and should make you never turn on the radio again.

(Yes, they play "Yellow Ledbetter" on the radio now and again, but not often enough to get the emo taste out of your mouth.)

I'll see you around.

My triumphant return

2010-03-26T06:25:00.003-05:00

I purchased a Droid phone, and it has kind of rekindled my interest in the on-line thing. I love doing the album reviews, but maybe they're a bit much for now. One of my favorite things in life is to be the cool friend who turns you on to new music, so I think I'm going to do a series of posts entitled "My music is better than yours," with the subtitle "Reasons to never turn on the radio and leave it to chance again."

This was inspired by the song in my next post. Thank you, and good evening.

I'm really sorry about not posting

2009-11-07T01:58:00.003-06:00

anything in forever, guys...I've been dealing with first a lingering illness, and then getting hired by a company that will require me to be away from home probably more often than not. So I don't know what the future of this blog is...it's perhaps on temporary hiatus. I don't want to get a cellular internet card, so...I guess the best I'll be able to do is write my posts while I'm on the road, and post them when I return. That works.

*sigh*

I had high hopes for this thing. I need to build some momentum again and keep it going. Don't give up on it just yet.

Wow. The Palatine Brown's Chicken massacre finally solved.

2009-09-29T17:54:00.005-05:00

To put it into perspective, my brother was ten weeks old when this happened.

Brown's murder case goes to jury Tuesday

For more background:

Wikipedia: Brown's Chicken Massacre

Yeah, they already got Juan Luna, but this is the final nail in the case's coffin. Wow.

I've been a little lax

2009-09-21T14:21:00.003-05:00

in posting the past couple weeks because I've been sick...I have a mucous oil slick in my ear right now still, but I'm mostly better. AIDS sucks. No, really. All those great things you've heard are propaganda.

Yesterday I watched an episode of the Twilight Zone that was just fucking masterful, so you guys should watch it. Yeah, there are commercials, but it's worth it. Just check it out.

Watch 5. The Twilight Zone - A Game of Pool in Entertainment | View More Free Videos Online at Veoh.com

This is all I've been able to think about yesterday and this morning.

My guarantee to you...

2009-09-02T01:46:00.000-05:00

...your life will never be this awesome.

Ever.

Belated album review: "Blood on the Tracks" by Bob Dylan

2009-08-28T03:20:00.004-05:00

From Pictures

Can I let you in on a little secret? I've never really liked Bob Dylan all that much. I mean, I can see his importance in the evolution of American songwriting, his influence...but in terms of listening to much of his music, I'm good. I'll pass.

That said, I absolutely love the cliche songs: "Lay Lady Lay," "Knockin' on Heaven's Door"...amazing tracks, of course. That's universally agreed upon. But that dumb "Rainy Day Women" song...'Everybody must get stoned..."

Must we, Bob? Must we really?

So I've had the thought over the years that maybe I'm missing out. Maybe Dylan's a lot like Beck in that I hate the singles the record company chooses to release, but the rest of the album is amazing. Let's hope. This is, after all, the 16th greatest album of all time, according to Rolling Stone.

Let's get down to it, boppers.

"Tangled up in Blue" is kinda nice. The guitar really rings sweetly throughout. And Bob's just rambling on through a story...it's almost literature in a way. Books considered "literature" often don't have much excess...they tell a story in a very concise way. That's kinda how this whole song feels. No frills, just a story being told over numerous verses and choruses. Harmonica solo at the end...I dig it. It's not overwhelmingly awesome, but it's nice.

The second track is "Simple Twist of Fate." It's a mix of country and folk, very simple with just guitar and bass. I keep expecting more instrumentation. Maybe some drums or something...there's the harmonica. Okay. I feel vindicated. By the final verse, Bob's voice affectation is fucking enraging. Just sing, you garble-mouthed fuck. The lyrics are nice. It's like Van Morrison without all the instrumentation. Story and guitar. I'm not a huge fan of this one.

"You're a Big Girl Now" has a spanish feel to it. It's a nice, bittersweet song of longing for a woman who made him play the fool. It's a good song. Probably the best so far. This album would need to be this good for the remainder to warrant my top 50 albums even, though.

"Idiot Wind" is the best song so far. The music is entertaining, the story is interesting...it's a good mix for the first time so far. "You're a Big Girl Now" was a quiet, introspective song. This is actually an angry song told from the point of view of an extremely flawed man. It's a nice transition. Hopefully the album's picking up.

Oh. my. gawd. Are you serious? This fucking song is 8 minutes long? You just had to take a good thing and fuck it up. Let me sit here and "give it a chance." zzzZZZzzz...zzzZZzZZzzZzzz...so monotonous...zzzZzZzzz...let it end...zzzZzZZzzZZZzzz

This is awful. Why would he do this? Seriously. Okay. Way too much of a good thing. Not even a good thing anymore. Finally it's over. Yay!

The country tinge is back for "You're Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go." It's okay. Nothing spectacular. I really feel like I've heard this a million times before, and from artists of the same era. I don't know why Dylan was chosen out of all them to be the "voice of a generation."

Oh! Pimp! Wait. "Meet Me In The Morning" has fucking promise. Wow. This fucking kicks ass. I have Bob's arch right in my rectum right now, and it feels great. This is the first great song from this album. I would've expected the whole album to be this good for it to be number 16 all-time, but I'm officially glad I listened to this album now. Wow, wow, wow. I love pimp country music. This explains Wilco's whole fucking career in one fell swoop.

"Lily, Rosemary and the Jack of Hearts" is right back to the fucking formula. Boo! I can't stand this after such an awesome song. Meh. I know he's not going to change it up. I may as well skip to the end. Nine minutes of this shit? Really? Oh my God. Okay, it's country meets polka rhythm, and it sucks, and that's all you really need to know about it. Skiparoo.

"If You See Her, Say Hello" is magnetic. Bob's voice is full of pain, he's telling of a lost love in a way we can all identify with...a damn good song. The minor chords in the middle of each verse are heartbreaking.

"Shelter From the Storm" is a story of losing a love, then seeking the cure for an ailment in a foreign village, but nothing really comes of it. No great point is made...it just rattles on with the same brassy guitar and cadence from start to finish. *yawn*

Last track, "Buckets of Rain." It's a nice love song, with just a little of the unexpected pimp in its step. It's a good closing song for an album. Quiet, thoughtful, but confident with just a little bit of swagger. Not bad.

Final verdict? To me, this isn't a great album. It's a spotty album, with a couple great moments, a lot of okay moments, and a couple unbearable moments. The lyrics are generally amazing, but it really makes me appreciate Van Morrison all the more for actually doing something with the amazing lyrics he wrote, rather than just numbly strumming a guitar.

That said, the best moment on this album, "Meet Me In The Morning," is far better than anything on "Astral Weeks." It's so...fucking...pimp. It's the song Wilco has been trying to write for over a decade. Wow. Just...wow.

This album wouldn't be in my top 100, but I might put "Meet Me In The Morning" in a top 100 songs of all time. Then again...I know a lot of music. God, that would be a challenge. Who knows. Either way, it's a good song, it's a so-so album, and I need to go to bed now. *grin*

I'll see you around.

Warning: not for the faint of heart.

2009-08-27T00:44:00.005-05:00

Apparently the users of 4chan.org figured out who this sadistic fuck is, and now the city where he currently resides has opened a full-on investigation. Good. I hope they throw the book at this sick bastard.

Mentally Challenged Karate "Master" Killed by Marine

I wanted to just imbed it so you could watch it here, but there's an error with the embedding html. Sorry guys. You actually have to click on a couple things. I know, it's tough.

Apparently this poor goofy bastard was going around harassing people in the neighborhood, and decided in his delusional, mentally-ill way that he was going to be the new master at this dojo. Well, the current master, Bobby J. Blythe, took offense at this, and ordered his student to beat the shit out of this guy until he stopped moving.

What's under speculation at this point is whether the guy actually died (anecdotal evidence says the guy was found in a dumpster later on), or whether he was just beaten unconscious. It would seem, given the way he was breathing toward the end, that he'd suffered a catastrophic injury at best. I don't know, though.

Either way...what the fuck is wrong with people?

Looks like they're gonna get theirs, though.

Belated album review: "Rubber Soul" by the Beatles

2009-08-25T09:41:00.001-05:00

From Pictures

Though "Rubber Soul" comes in at number 5 on the Rolling Stone list, the argument could be made it's the most important album in the Beatles' career. This was the big evolutionary moment in John and Paul's songwriting; they'd heard Bob Dylan's songwriting and in assessing their own collection felt kind of...silly. Poppy.

And sure the Beatles had already written some of the best pop songs in history, but when you can make a band that has "Love Me Do," "You've Got to Hide Your Love Away," "Eight Days A Week," "Can't Buy Me Love," and "Yesterday" on their resume feel "silly," that's a fucking accomplishment. Paul McCartney should've walked into divorce court with Heather Mills, dropkicked her fake leg out from under her, said "I wrote Yesterday" with a shrug, and been handed a lifetime of at-will blow jobs from that stumpy cunt.

But suddenly on "Rubber Soul" that old formula wasn't good enough anymore. Lennon and McCartney wanted more.

Moments of the album show they still had one foot in the pop world, but were reaching with the other foot for some unknown songwriting precipice. It's a fascinating metamorphosis to experience, and it was captured at seemingly the perfect moment.

The first track, "Drive My Car," gives the audience something familiar to wrap their heads around. Yeah, the guitar and bass are a little more groovy than usual, but this is just a solid pop song at heart. And it has a helluva lot of cowbell, so that can't be all bad. It's not my favorite song on the album...and the ending ("Beep beep beep beep yeah") is cringe-inducing. Meh.

The second song, "Norwegian Wood (This Bird Has Flown)," is my favorite on the album. Maybe that's why "Drive My Car" is so annoying: it's a roadblock on the way to this. Often credited as the first pop song that featured an actual sitar, this was an alarum to the Beatles' audience that things were about to change. Maybe not so incredibly much on this album, but...it was right around the corner. And it was going to be good.

God, is it difficult to go back to McCartney's unabashed pop on "You Won't See Me" after the brooding Lennon classic before it. It's not a bad song; it has the requisite amazing harmonies from the singers, and it has a touch of soul influence in the guitar. It's just not "Norwegian Wood." *grin*

"Nowhere Man" is where the seams are starting to burst apart a little, and not unpleasantly. The lyrics are thoughtful and deep (Lennon's signature brooding, this time reportedly about himself), but they sort of beg for a template other than the pop framework they're sung over. Even so, they use the pop base to their utmost, and overall it's a very cool song.

"Think For Yourself" is one of a couple Harrison tunes on the album, and it's interesting to note the Beach Boys influence in the chorus. Another unusual thing is the dual bass line: one is straight bass, and the other is distorted. Just another example of their love for experimentation.

"The Word" is equal parts interesting and annoying. I don't really like the high parts very much, but then the guitar gets all driving and powerful...it's interesting that in their early counterculture days, they're already writing about 'love' as a concept, too. I'm too annoyed by the high parts to say I'd listen to this again, but it's still an interesting component of the whole.

"Michelle" is typical McCartney whimsy, to me. It won a Grammy for best song in 1967, which is a farce and a crime, but what do I know? I'm more of a Lennon man anyway. I dunno. It's like, maybe you come in for McCartney, but you stay for Lennon and Harrison. It's a fun song I guess. Maybe I need some fucking coffee.

"What Goes On" is kind of this country-rock-inspired love song...it kinda rocks. I'm not a big fan of Ringo's voice normally, but this is pretty good. It's not The Allman Brothers or Lynyrd Skynyrd, but it gets the job done.

"Girl" aches. This song wants that bitch, and you believe it. Lennon's hurt, and we feel his pain.

"I'm Looking Through You" is probably the best McCartney song on the album, and it features a guitar lick that sounds suspiciously like the Munsters theme. It works well.

And now one of Lennon's absolute masterpieces, "In My Life." Consciously I know this is a greater song than Norwegian Wood...it has a wider scope, and it's one of those songs that can make you melancholy at the drop of a hat. Hell, Lennon had to do something after Paul wrote "Yesterday." This is a worthy opponent.

"Wait" is too stilted for its own good. The rhythm is clunky and unpleasant to me. It's a throw-away in my mind. They've already delivered greatness. Who the fuck are you? *Edit: My good friend Paul correctly points out that this song was a necessary part of their musical evolution, one of the first tracks where they "step out of the seamless airtight pop and into some jangly (dare I say Byrds-inspired) anti-rhythms," to quote Paul.*

"If I Needed Someone" shows the influence the Byrds were having on them, by way of the air-tight harmonies of Harrison, Lennon and McCartney. It's funny that the two Harrison songs show the most obvious outside influence. At once it shows him to be a fan of other great bands, and as a fledgling songwriter who doesn't know how to put his own spin on songs yet. Obviously he'll get there. We've heard the later stuff.

"Run For Your Life" is just a simple rock jam. It honestly sounds exactly like "Last Train To Clarksville" by the Monkees, only recorded a full year beforehand. Makes you wonder if those bastions of musical integrity might've ripped the Beatles off. Hmm.

On the whole, this is a great album by a great band. It's not often you get to see metamorphosis in action, but this was the album between "Help," the last of their great conventional albums, and "Revolver," the first of their truly experimental albums. In Rubber Soul we see both those worlds coexisting, which allowed their fans to acclimate themselves to the changing tides.

Within the band, it feels like Lennon had a chip on his shoulder after "Help," and McCartney took an album off. I guess it all happened at the right time. Lord knows, the goddamn Beatles never had a misstep.

Well, except that dumb Yellow Submarine cartoon. And if I get one response from a pothead telling me how great that shit was, I'm climbing to the top of a tower with a rifle.

The end of the greatest hits

2009-08-25T02:10:00.000-05:00

That's all I've got...time to stop resting on my laurels. It's all fresh material from here on out. Feel free to check out all the old material anytime...it's just about 4 years of my life and stupidity in blog form.

In the coming days, expect a new belated album review from the Rolling Stone 500, and possibly a reaction post for UFC 102, which is Saturday.

See you around.

Saturday August 22, 2009

2009-08-25T02:08:00.002-05:00

Subject: Belated album review: "Astral Weeks" by Van Morrison

I'm not a huge fan of Rolling Stone, but their top 500 albums of all time's top 20 looked like this:

1. Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, The Beatles

2. Pet Sounds, The Beach Boys

3. Revolver, The Beatles

4. Highway 61 Revisited, Bob Dylan

5. Rubber Soul, The Beatles

6. What's Going On, Marvin Gaye

7. Exile on Main Street, The Rolling Stones

8. London Calling, The Clash

9. Blonde on Blonde, Bob Dylan

10. The Beatles ("The White Album"), The Beatles

11. The Sun Sessions, Elvis Presley

12. Kind of Blue, Miles Davis

13. Velvet Underground and Nico, The Velvet Underground

14. Abbey Road, The Beatles

15. Are You Experienced?, The Jimi Hendrix Experience

16. Blood on the Tracks, Bob Dylan

17. Nevermind, Nirvana

18. Born to Run, Bruce Springsteen

19. Astral Weeks, Van Morrison

20. Thriller, Michael Jackson

Even before I'd looked at this list, I'd planned to review the 19th album on their list, "Astral Weeks" by Van Morrison. When I saw this, though, I thought it would be far more intriguing to do all 20. So perhaps we'll go out of order, but we'll get them all done in due time. If you have a request, I can surely speed up the review of one of them.

Maybe this isn't interesting to you guys...I'm not one to care all that much. I mean, at the end of the day, I put things up here that interest me. This is a great venue, because if it were any other way, I'd feel pressure to do stuff strictly for my audience. Personally? I'd rather listen to amazing music.

And apparently you guys dig what I dig (21,000 hits), so...yeah. Good times.

In any event. On with the review.

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

From Pictures

I've read that this album is either a huge step forward for a genius artist, or the self-indulgent, incoherent rambling of a psychedelic ass. I can't help but love an album that gets really ardent opinions that differ so widely.

I don't like Van Morrison at this point in my life. "Brown-Eyed Girl" makes me physically ill. I heard it on the radio a few weeks ago, and that put it into my head to give ol' Van a chance and see what all the hubbub's about. I like to at least be educated about the things I hate...hell, this may even turn my opinion around. We'll do this in real time.

The first track, "Astral Weeks," opens like Spring. It's just warm and airy, a really happy song. It's a song you'd really have to be in the mood for, with the repeated rhythm and delivery of short lines...nonetheless, it's a nice song. And the lyrics are pretty amazing, given their philosophical nature and just...the man's vocabulary is unusually good for a pop music singer. I'll just say that. I dig it.

"Beside You" is just poetry set to music, really. I'm not the hugest fan of Morrison's voice, I'm finding. It kind of grates on me after a while. He does the same vocal effects over and over again in every song. Not much in the way of imagination in that regard. But the lyrics...Jesus. That's straight genius.

"Sweet Thing" is the song I feel like I was meant to hear from this album. I'm sure it's going to be my favorite from the whole thing. The music comes to the forefront for the first time, to where it's not just something nice in the background for Van to sing over...it's dynamic and really happy. A great, uplifting song. Over too soon, really.

"Cyprus Avenue" features what sounds like harpsichord, which rules. Okay, the album really seems to be picking up now. This is whimsical, lively and nice. Van's voice isn't grating on me as much as usual now. I really dig this one, too. "Sweet Thing" is still my fav, but this is a nice second, so far.

If I had to give the mood of this album so far, it would just be...high school summer vacation.

The swing of the next song, "The Way Young Lovers Do," reminds me of my second least-favorite Van Morrison song, "Moondance." I have wanted to drug and kill hookers to that song for years now. Morrison likes that kind of hipster-ish swing sound...I can, but not often. It's short, and it doesn't suck as much as "Moondance" does, so that's something.

"Madame George" is a melancholy look back at someone from the past...it's a bittersweet effect, beautiful music and wistful lyrics.

I'm finding one has to be in a very patient mood to "get" this album. If you're gonna be in a hurry to go somewhere or you're preoccupied, don't bother with it. It's just going to annoy you. I'm just glad I'm in a relaxed mood tonight. I haven't gotten impatient yet, and...I very well might've on an average day, given that Morrison's voice grates on me generally.

Thinking about it...maybe this song could've been cut down some. Van's just babbling on about nothing still. Jesus.

Almost ten full minutes, this track. Yeah. Okay. Getting impatient. The song's picking up some...but Van's really not going anywhere with it. Fuck.

"Ballerina" is something really exciting: a whole new song. Fuck, that last one took the wind out of the sails. This one starts off nice, but then again it just goes nowhere. Don't tell anyone, but I'm gonna go ahead and skip the last 3 minutes. Goddamnit.

The final song, "Slim Slow Rider," is nice...but fuck man. What is with all the godfuckingdamn repetition? And it's a melancholy song again, one of a girl who's grown up and gotten a new boy and a Cadillac...I just...wow, did this album end oddly. On the last line, the flute goes total jazz, and Van starts banging on a guitar case, and it just fades away.

On the whole, this album is okay. Nothing too groundbreaking in its execution, but the lyrics are generally amazing when Van isn't hammering a nice thought into the fucking ground. I think its sweet and happy moments are far superior to its melancholy ones. Van gets a wee bit maudlin at times, so he's far better off reminding us of the good times rather than the bad.

"Sweet Thing" and "Cyprus Avenue" are by far the best moments on this album, to me. I'm glad I listened to it, though I wouldn't even put it in my top 100 albums of all time, realistically. I see why Rolling Stone liked it, given its sometimes-pretentious nature...that virtually precludes my liking it, though.

At least I walked away with a couple really cool songs and a newfound respect for Van Morrison as a lyricist. I forgive him for "Brown Eyed Girl," at least, and that's really the most he could ask of me.

I don't normally like to do covers, but this is pretty exceptional. Plus, I couldn't find the album version by Van. So screw it.

Thursday August 20, 2009

2009-08-25T02:04:00.001-05:00

Subject: Belated album review: "Pink Moon" by Nick Drake

From Pictures

If you listen to melancholy music, much as I tend to at times, the artists you love probably love Nick Drake. Drake was a 70s folk singer/songwriter who was struck with debilitating depression.

His own sister reports the recording of his first album, "Five Leaves Left," like this: "He was very secretive. I knew he was making an album but I didn't know what stage of completion it was at until he walked into my room and said, 'There you are.' He threw it onto the bed and walked out!"

So yeah, kind of a weirdo. The uncomfortably shy, depressed kind of person that you don't even like to be around because they make you feel weird.

Drake recorded three albums during his life, then grew increasingly awkward and antisocial before overdosing on antidepressants and killing himself in 1974. He'd recorded four songs for a fourth album, but Drake had deteriorated so much by that point he couldn't sing or play the guitar well...so in this belated album review, we'll take a look at the last album he recorded while still in control of his faculties, 1972's "Pink Moon."

This album is stark, with just one overdubbed piano track atop Drakes singing and guitar. This is the one Drake and the record company thought was gonna be huge, and its failure to find a wide audience in part led to the breakdown that Drake never recovered from.

Like so many artists who never found an audience during their lifetime, though, Drake (and especially the "Pink Moon" album) has grown into legend. I think there's a definite upside to suicide for artists: the audience is forced to say "Wow...he really meant that shit. Damn."

So are the accolades for this album warranted? Let's have a look.

The first track, "Pink Moon," is easily the best on the album. Hell, you'll probably even recognize it from that Volkswagen commercial from 2000. This is the song where his atonal voice is haunting, and it's such a short song that you really can't tire of it. Drake's magnum opus, to be sure.

"Place to Be," the second track, has this cool insurgent guitar effect achieved through slides and hammer-ons...and boy oh boy, read the lyrics. That's depression, right there. It's a nice track. Drake's enunciation could've maybe used some work...he's tougher to understand than Kurt Cobain, which is some kind of feat. A well-known biography about Drake takes a line from this song. I'll let you figure it out if you're interested. That makes this blog enigmatic and mysterious.

I don't really like the third track, "Road." I hate how his voice matches the guitar note-for-note during the refrain. It sounds like a kid's song, and is as monotonous as anything Raffi ever did. Banana Phone! W000t! It's just...not good. The lyrics and guitar just kind of...wander. It's not pleasant. At all.

"Which Will" falls victim to the same thing. It's got a nice intricate guitar, but Drake's love of repetition sucks the heart from the song. His songs are sometimes like the audio equivalent of a daydream: wander, wander, tra la la, wander, wander...meh. 2 for 4 so far.

"Horn" is an instrumental track, and it's interesting to me only in that it features some really strange rhythms and picking styles. The average listener who doesn't play guitar would probably find it unpleasant, and even I wouldn't make a habit of listening to it. I tried to imagine myself being the producer in the studio as Drake recorded it...

"Okay, that's a song."

"But it was just you fucking around on the guitar for a minute and a half."

"BURN IN HELL COCKSUCKER! YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND MY GENIUS! THIS THING'S GONNA SELL A MILLION COPIES! I'LL KILL MYSELF IF IT DOESN'T!"

Which is a great point. This was what the record company thought was gonna be his big breakthrough? This has been extremely inaccessible up to now. You'd have to be a musician to dig this. That's probably why he's influenced so many musicians but remained generally unknown to the general public. Meh.

"Things Behind the Sun" is a guitar masterpiece, and its lyrics deal with Drake's failure to find an audience as a musician...and wondering aloud whether it's worth it to try. I like this song, if only because it has an actual chorus and is longer than 2 minutes.

"Know" is kinda cool and hipsterish...Drake mostly hums his way through it, then gives us four lines near the end. I...I really don't know whether to call this artistic vision or laziness by this point.

"Such a poor, gentle boy. Soooo misunderstood...poor Nick!"

"Four fucking lines? Really? That's all he had to say? Depressed shithead."

Given that I'll never listen to this song again now (ZERO re-playability), I'm leaning toward dick move.

"Parasite" is definitely the best song on this album. If you didn't know how to play guitar, and didn't know the lyrics, you'd say this was the most pleasant-on-the-ears song on the album so far. I dig this a lot, and the lyrics are pretty cool. Drake's a deep guy, for sure...it just doesn't come through on a lot of his songs. It does here. I love the punch he gets in at the last line. Really changed the whole song's meaning.

"Free Ride" is the song where Drake's eclectic guitar turns into an art form. Jesus, can anyone duplicate that picking style? You'd have to work at it for years. Yeah, he's doing that "matching-the-guitar-note-for-note" thing again. And yeah, it sounds like a kid's songs at certain points, but it's a really dark kid's song.

"Harvest Breed" is kinda poppy. Meh. The lyrics are either about his increasing depression and how he's ready for it to be over, or about new beginnings. It's hard to say, given how he wrote them. A very middle-of-the-road song.

The album's closer, "From the Morning," is a surprisingly light and airy end to an album that mostly set a morose mood. Sure, it's partly about reminding yourself to remember the things you used to love to do before depression ("and go play the game that you learnt from the morning"), but that's okay. Drake was a depressed guy. The medication sucked back then. At least he was trying.

So where are we at with this album as a whole? I love four songs on this album. 4-for-11 keeps you in the majors for sure, a .364 batting average. But it doesn't keep you alive and making music, evidently.

You'd really have to be in a specific mood to listen to this album all the way through. I think that mood is "sitting in your kitchen and wistfully remembering what it was like to be a child, becoming melancholy about it, but winding up hopeful that tomorrow you can regain that childlike state."

That's kind of a niche audience, Nick. Just saying.

Nick Drake wanted to be famous for his genius, but how he portrayed that genius unfortunately led him to be exactly what he was and is: a relatively unknown artist who would never be listened to at parties while he was alive, but who will be fondly remembered by listeners wearing headphones after his death.

Nick Drake was an artist who had to be remembered to be truly appreciated. None of the things he said meant anything while he was alive. They were the airy drawings of a talented child, and his listeners have become the parents clutching those drawings to their chests wondering what could've been.

Thursday August 19, 2009

2009-08-25T02:03:00.001-05:00

Subject: A Michael Vick post of epic proportions

I was just watching movie reviews on a web site I enjoy, and I just realized...

Pokemon was a cartoon metaphor for dog fighting.

People who are of the right age group will find this fucking hilarious.

I thought of this because Travis and I were having a discussion the other day where he told me my friend Jackson's future brother-in-law has an alligator.

I, of course, took it to "the bad place." Ja9ine will laugh if she reads that. Yes, it requires quotations. Trust me.

I thought about an alligator in Robbins, and of course...

Bring it to the dog fights. Champion, seven years straight. lol

But yeah. That might lead to some confusion. Enjoy imagining how that might go. I know I did.

"Man, that ain't no dog!"

"It's a muhfuckin' mix breed, man!"

"Well...a'ight. But the muhfucka best not fuck with Fang, if he knows what's good for 'im."

*thirty second pause*

*sound of dog howling*

*complete, shocked silence*

Saturday June 27, 2009

2009-08-25T02:00:00.000-05:00

Subject: How much do you wanna bet

Michael Jackson is molesting Eric Clapton's kid as we speak?

Monday June 8, 2009

2009-08-25T01:59:00.001-05:00

Subject: My philosophy on spirituality

I have my own beliefs on the universe...I believe in a God, but I don't think our primitive minds can comprehend just what God is. I think maybe it's more a force (as described in the Tao Te Ching).

My favorite religious texts are Taoist...I love contradictions and thought provocation. I don't want to have to memorize allegories and names. I've read many religious texts (the Bible, Koran, Old Testament, etc.) and think many of them are just kinda childish. They describe invisible men with as many foibles as the human characters.

Churches love conflict between religious factions, too...if there were harmony, some of your parishioners might go give money to someone else, huh? Gotta drive that "one true God" thing home time and time again, huh? It's pathetic and hilarious to me.

All religions pray to the same God. They just have different names for him and have attributed different actions and opinions to him. If you really think God is going to send people to hell for worshiping a deity in the wrong way, you're a moron. That they gave their lives piously to the universe is enough.

God is, to me, the balance that comes from all this chaos. It is the harmonious unification of dissonant forces. It's not an old man on a throne. That's what our pea brains thought up because...everything "intelligent" has to look like us, right? We are the abyss attempting to gaze back into God, and we have attempted to make Him in our image, not the other way around.

Saturday June 6, 2009

2009-08-25T01:58:00.001-05:00

Subject: Why I hate "Twilight"

I know it's the big movie/book du jour for teenagers who don't know any better, and it's probably becoming cliche to complain about, but Rebecca had me sit down and watch this a couple months ago, and...man, was that bad. Just awful.

The kid who plays Edward is a weird-eyebrow-having douche. He can't act, he's not a heartthrob, he sucks as a human being and should be euthanized. Other than that, I don't have strong opinions on him.

Bella sucks as an actress and should be sterilized, thus removing her shitty acting genes from the population. Our entire civilization will be better off without her shitty offspring starring in Twilight: The Next Generation. Trust me on this.

Okay. Now on to the storyline.

Vampires that fucking sparkle in the sun? Are you fucking serious? I hope you die on Christmas morning in front of your entire family...no, seriously, I hope you clutch your chest, grunt painfully through a grimace, and crash through the Christmas tree.

On top of this family-friendly horseshit, they're injecting Christian values into a fucking vampire series. Edward and Bella wait until they're married to have sex! The whole "Edward hasn't changed her into a vampire yet" dynamic is a fucking metaphor for saving your virginity. Oh my God.

I want my vampires dark. I want my vampires to be about wanton, uncontrollable lust. Dracula had a harem. That's how it's supposed to be. They are so beyond the concept of "pimp" that they are just carnal lust incarnate. Stop with this faggoty fucking "sparkle in the sun" Disney shit.

And teenagers don't know any better, so they're eating it up like it's Shakespeare and an Orson Welles screen adaptation. You Twilight fanboys and girls suck, your books suck, and your movies suck. Anything else?

Oh yeah. Could the powers that be not brainwash young girls into being frigid conservative Republicans so my brother can get some fucking tail? Jesus fucking Christ.

Friday June 5, 2009

2009-08-25T01:56:00.000-05:00

Subject: MMA Blog: Brown/Faber

This weekend is the Mike Brown/Urijah Faber rematch. I cannot tell you how excited I am. It's going to be a great fight, I think.

I didn't want to like Urijah Faber, but watching him in a couple fights against the legendary but possibly soon-to-retire Jens Pulver and some other talented guys, I realized the guy was a hell of a lot more than a pretty face. I grew to respect him, begrudgingly.

When Faber faced Mike Brown, I figured it'd be just another romp in the park, business as usual. I'd seen the Jeff Curran fight earlier that year, and it wasn't overly impressive. Yeah Brown won a unanimous decision, but he couldn't put Curran away. Going on limited information, I wondered if he had the ability to put someone away.

Then he caught Faber with that vicious short right as Faber was trying one of his unusual spin moves, and proceeded to beat the shit out of him. Wow. Just an amazing fight.

Part of me wondered if Brown had just gotten lucky until the Leonard Garcia fight. Five seconds into the fight, Garcia missed a punch and Brown came over the top with a right hook that knocked him out for a second...a minute of ground and pound, and an arm triangle choke for the win. Dominant.

Okay, Brown was definitely the real deal. When I looked him up on-line, I found out he'd been the real deal for quite a while...it was because he'd only recently come to the WEC that I'd never heard of him.

Meanwhile, Faber was fantastic in his rematch against Jens Pulver. I don't know whether this means Faber is that good, or if Pulver should just retire; either way, Faber beat his ass. And so now the rematch.

This is going to be one of those fights that I don't care who's going to win (the last was Evans vs. Machida). I just want to see a great fight, and I know this is going to deliver. Then again...

Maybe I want Brown to win just a little bit more because...Faber's been blessed with too much. Good looks, great fighting ability...come on. At least Brown is an ugly fuck. I can get behind that.

Friday May 22, 2009

2009-08-25T01:54:00.000-05:00

Subject: In case you were wondering...

I judge your grammar when you write me. Some of you are subpar, others pretty good...none of you is as good as I am, mind you, but some of you are "okay."

As Dr. Manhattan said, "...and the world's smartest man means no more to me than does the smartest termite." That's kinda how I am with grammar.

Now that I've gotten the uncomfortable truth out of the way, there's a very simple yardstick I use to separate the unusually smart termites from the run-of-the-mill: the semicolon.

I love the proper use of semicolons. When you bust out with "I love cock; however, for some reason I hate the taste of sperm," or whatever other nonsense you prattle on about, it's like music to my ears.

Sometimes you get philosophical on me, and I get the good kind of shiver down my spine: "A man chooses; a slave obeys." Oh, what a glorious day that makes. Unfortunately, the semicolon is basically a lost art form these days. I can't remember the last time a termite didn't settle for a prosaic period where a semicolon could be used.

If you want to impress me, go with the semicolon next time; properly used, it may garner you a pat on the head...which is the most anyone could hope for.

Wednesday May 20, 2009

2009-08-25T01:52:00.000-05:00

Subject: The Navajo Creek Geocache

So of late I've taken to going on long walks to clear my head and hopefully lose some weight. Depression is insidious with me; one day I just kind of look around and say to myself, "I've stopped doing everything I enjoy, and I haven't talked to my friends in weeks." So yeah. Exercise is a good cure for what ails you, I figure. Better than porn, allegedly.

I wanted to hang out with my brother a couple days ago, but I knew I had to go on my daily walk as well; if I don't stay on my own ass like a Nazi, I too quickly fall out of a routine. I suggested a walk together, and he suggested a trail. Easy enough.

The trail, oddly enough, starts in the parking lot of one of our family's favorite restaurants, the Clearview; from there it runs parallel with the Calumet-Saginaw channel to Lake Katherine in Palos Heights. Full of vim, vigor and stupidity, we thought it a great idea to walk all the way to Lake Katherine and back. Why not? It's probably only 8 miles round-trip. Kid's play.

From the beginning we should've seen what lay ahead: a gigantic mud puddle grinned an ominous greeting at the trail's start. A gift from the rain two days prior, no doubt. Traversing the edges, we circumnavigated the obstacle and started on our merry way.

Probably six huge puddles later (the kind where you're clinging to thorny trees on the path's side for dear life as you pray your footing doesn't give out), it became a running joke that we were on some god-awful Lord of the Rings-style adventure to the lake. A bit later, as we reached a plateau that promised dry land, I told him about a lolrus I'd seen a couple days prior.

For the uninitiated, a lolrus is like a lolcat; as such, it's an internet meme that only dorks talk about in real life. Being a dork, I talked about it. I suppose the only thing you need to know about lolruses is that they typically are in search of their fish bucket. It's an inside joke that, when you've run out of all other possible options in life, you may want to explore.

Then I did my typical "Oh no, mah bucket!" exclamation as I tripped on something.

"That's what we are," my brother broke in. "Fucking lolruses on a mission to find our bucket." We laughed, not knowing how true it would prove.

There was a stone foundation where a building once stood, so we tried to apply our best CSI knowledge to determine what the building had been. Coming up with nothing concrete, we decided to Google the damn thing when we got home.

Walking on, checking out the scenery, we came across what can only be described as improvised wetlands. The ground around this miniature lake was dry as the Sahara, but for some unknown reason a fetid pool had gathered, complete with Cat's Tails and other plants usually indigenous to wetlands. I was floored by the very existence of the thing.

"What the fuck?" my brother asked, pointing down. A pool of black figures swirled around.

"Tadpoles," I said. "Make your own jokes."

"Well...what the fuck do they eat?" he asked, as puzzled by the sudden marshland as I was.

"The algae," I said, pointing to a thick carpet of the stuff a few feet away.

"Ugh."

"Yep. Disgusting shit."

We walked on, sort of losing our way but then figuring out where the path went. Under a bridge that spanned the river, then back into the forest. The trail was surprisingly winding now for no apparent reason.

We came to a river we couldn't cross, and stood there stupidly trying to find a way across.

"See those rocks?" my brother pointed.

"Go ahead," I said, arching my eyebrows in doubt.

He examined the rocks a little closer.

"Yeah no."

"Yeah, that's the kind of situation where you slip on the rocks, hit your head on the ground below, and they find your body in the Cal Sag three days later. But hey...go ahead. I'll let dad know what happened."

My brother started thinking we'd gone the wrong way, but then realized he and his friends had crossed this river, and it was just higher because of the rains.

We started looking around our surroundings. I saw some sheets of paper on the ground. Picking them up, they had all these different dates and phrases on them. Kind of weird, I thought. I showed them to Travis.

As he was looking them over, I came across a small pocket notebook on the ground. It said "Navajo Creek Geocache" in black marker on the cover. I told Travis to check it out. He pointed out that the first date in the notebook was 4-21-08, a day after he and his friends had last passed through. (Yeah, I know. A big 4-20 forest walk...ulkh.)

Now we got it...people who came across this place were signing their name and the date in this notebook. That was fucking cool. There were seriously 40 or more names and dates listed. It's so rare to start something that people actually go along with.

"It's like, usually...say you start a blog," I said. "Your best fucking friend only drops in once a month to see how you've been doing. I can't believe how many people went along with this."

Our curiosity with the notebook died down, I pointed out that there had to be a pen around there somewhere. We had to sign the thing. Period. Searching around, Travis found something ominous on the rocks 10 feet below us: a Ziploc Tupperware container.

"Well, 5 o'clock news here we come," I said, visions of bodyparts in my head. "I think we just found Stacy Peterson."

"Should we open it?" Travis asked.

I sighed. "Yeah," I reluctantly replied.

Travis knelt down to pry the lid off, so I put my one foot against the lid to help him get leverage.

"No, I wouldn't do that bro," he said. "You never know what's gonna be in here."

"Yeah, fair enough," I said.

He pried the lid off quickly, and what to our surprise did we find but a goddamn piece of shit. I'm not speaking metaphorically or exaggerating...it was a piece of shit. Literally. And it looked like the leaver needed more bran in his diet. Seriously.

The smell that wafted out of that container can only be described as dirty ex-girlfriend snatch. Just atrocious. Probably what the Chicago stockyards smelled like after a rain. Nothing like fermented feces to freshen the air. No, sir.

We got out of there after I kicked the fucking thing to the rocks below. Just atrocious. What kind of animal...something occurred to me.

"There was no water damage on those sheets of paper," I said out of the blue. "It rained two days ago."

"Yeah...that's kinda weird."

"Oh my God," I said as it all flooded into my head. "The Tupperware was used to house that fucking notebook. Somebody found the container, took the notebook out, ripped out all the pages, and shit in the Tupperware. And it happened recently."

"I officially hate people."

"Yeah, me too."

We walked to the nearest gas station and washed our hands. And then washed them again. We started the walk back to my car, now on a roadside. Our mood was defeated, and we didn't say anything for the longest time.

I giggled. My brother looked at me.

"It's not funny. People are fucking assholes."

"I know, but...seriously? That was a fucking gift from God."

"How do you figure?"

"Think about it. The first date was the day after you last came through here, and this happened probably the day before you came through today. That is a gift just for you from God."

"Some fucking gift."

"Well no...I mean, if any variables had changed, we wouldn't've even found that shit. If the water had been lower, we would've crossed the river and never looked around in that spot. If we'd come here a day before, the Navajo Creek Geocache might still have been intact. That is a gift from God."

He started to laugh and shake his head.

"A wise man once said that in life, everything is either a great experience or a great story. This is the latter, because...God knows, the experience sucked." We laughed.

And, we decided, we have the best inside joke of all time now. "Ugh...today was a real Navajo Creek Geocache" or "Fuck...I got Navajo Creek Geocached" or even "I feel like someone tore off my lid, threw away my notebook, and shit in me."

From Pictures

Monday May 19, 2009

2009-08-25T01:48:00.001-05:00

Subject: My poetry's a fucking dud I guess....

From Pictures

Wednesday April 22, 2009

2009-08-25T01:45:00.000-05:00

Subject: MMA blog: Spider Silva

I've been thinking about Spider Silva's recent title defense against Thales Leites the past few days, and let me just say...I'm livid.

Not to get too technical, but Silva is a waste of time on the level of Brandon Vera when he first cut weight for the light heavyweight division. What does this mean in laymen's terms?

It means my grandmother would rip his intestines out and decorate a Christmas tree with them.

It means Spider Silva should show up to his next fight in a pretty pink skirt and suck his opponent's dick until he submits.

Dana White brings up that he thinks Silva feels "unchallenged" by the fighters in his weight division...how about he start fighting some of the top-tier guys from the division then, instead of Thales Leites? The Patrick Cote fight was a good choice, but that ended unfortunately (or fortunately, given how boring Silva was) due to an unexpected injury. But Yushin Okami or especially Demian Maia would've been a better choice to fight Silva. Shit, I would've rather seen a rematch against Nate Marquardt than Thales Leites. At least there would've been some action.

The problem with Silva is that he is a reactive fighter: he waits for his opponent to attack, looks for an opening, then destroys them. In his last two fights, both guys just stood there waiting for the other to make the first move. Unfortunately, Spider Silva has patience to the point where it should be his introduction song. And it should take him the full 6 minutes of the song (right down to Axl's big breakdown) to get to the motherfucking ring.

So now there's talk of a catchweight fight against Georges St. Pierre or even Rampage Jackson. I personally favor the GSP fight, just because I think GSP is the better fighter and certainly in his prime right now. Plus, Silva would have a huge weight disadvantage against Rampage, a light heavyweight.

So yes. Those are my thoughts on the 25 minutes I wasted watching Silva's latest abortion, and what I hope/think the future holds for him. Either get him top-tier talent in his weight class (Okami or Maia) or have him fight GSP.

And truth be told? I'll be rooting for him to lose. I don't like the man after these last two fights. Not at all.

Saturday April 18, 2009

2009-08-25T01:43:00.000-05:00

Subject: You know what? Fuck notes.

So I was listening to another Myspace troglodyte the other day mewling (as has been the case so often during my two-month hiatus from blogging) that his generic existence was so empty and meaningless without reading my writing. I thought about sparing his life for a minute or two as he droned on about his shitty wife and how my blogs were the lone shining beacons in a grey, suburban reality. Finally I decided what I needed to do. I pointed to something behind him and said "Wow, check that shit out," and brained him with a brick when he wasn't looking.

He did make a couple valid points in his last moments on the earth: I am pretty awesome, and my blog is the best thing in most people's lives. Why not take some time off from the kidnapping, slave trading and child porn to make your lives a little less dreary and more awesome like mine?

Some of you I'm sure have heard that I've been laid off. It was really just a preventative move by the CEO to keep me from getting his job; I had the votes, but now the election's just going to have to wait. If I decide I want the job, I'll just show up with a scabbard and a cutlass, kick in his door, and tell him "I'm here to kick ass and plant daisies...and I'm all out of potting soil." I'm a man who knows how to send a fucking message when the time comes.

What have I been doing in my down-time? I was in talks with NASA to become the first pirate in space, but my porn career has really been taking off, so I haven't had time. They keep calling me, leaving messages fawning over me and begging me to lend my unbelievable cool to the program, but when you're ankle-deep in asshole and snatch, it's kinda hard to pull yourself away. Nothing like a hard day's work. Nothing, I say.

Last weekend I went out on a black ops mission and found Osama Bin Laden...you civilians probably aren't gonna hear about that for some months, but...you're welcome. Kiss up to me enough and maybe I'll thank you in my memoirs. Then again, when you've got as many adoring fans and friends as I do, well...you'll understand if I forget. One dashing smile and you'll be begging to get in the trunk of my car, though. Whether you're male or female. I don't discrminate, because I'm that fucking awesome.

I'm being rude typing away on my FBI crimelab laptop, though. I'm ignoring Michael Jordan, Robert Deniro and all four members of Metallica. Then again, they probably don't miss me, gang-banging Jenna Jameson and Britney Spears on the other side of the estate.

Damn, it's good to be me. Hopefully I can pull myself away to fill you in on the details soon. Cheerio!

Wednesday December 31, 2008

2009-08-25T01:30:00.000-05:00

Subject: Dorky chicks rule!

So, I've got a thing for dorky looking chicks. Now fashion designers are trying this, and it sucks. Blech. How dare they desecrate my sacred ground. Bastards. But we'll get to judging them for their awfulness in a second. For now we'll discuss what I call "dork chic," but what the designers are calling "geek chic."

Because there's a big fucking difference between Napoleon Dynamite and what I'm talking about. This all began with Lisa Loeb, really. Because I always remember watching the B movies where they would have a really hot dorky girl in glasses, and by movie's end they would giver her a glamorous makeover...I liked her before the makeover. Dumb bastards fucking up hotness...ulkh.

From Pictures

Lisa Loeb kinda crystallized what I should've known all along. I love dorky looking women. Glasses, quirky personalities, the whole thing.

So let's look at what's supposed to be sexy versus what actually is to me. I apparently don't have my finger on the pulse of American tastes so much as I have my foot slammed down on it.

Some find Eva Longoria hot.

From Pictures

How about something a little more like this?

From Pictures

Paris Hilton?

From Pictures

I like this much more.

From Pictures

Angelina Jolie?

From Pictures

How 'bout this?

From Pictures

And you can keep Tila Tequila. Ugh.

From Pictures

Uhhh...no. This is what I'm talking about.

From Pictures

So what is Milan and the fashion designers' take on dork chic?

From Pictures

What. The. Fuck?

From Pictures

Friday December 19, 2008

2009-08-25T01:22:00.000-05:00

Subject: Intellectual hullabaloo, since I've been reading all day

So, here's why I think we may be right on the verge of a Depression. Teeheehee!!!

Around the time of the Great Depression, the Federal Reserve contracted the supply of money in the United States at the exact moment that the system required liquidity, sending the entire economy into a nosedive.

(If you're a conspiracy theorist, you think this is because the U.S. government wanted to create a situation where the citizenry relied wholesale on the government, where the U.S. could vilify the gold standard, and where the economy could be made into a fiat currency based on credit rather than something tangible like gold. All of this means that if you're an international banker or a Federal Reserve feeder bank...CHA-CHING!)

Now we have this current crisis, which was started mainly I believe by oil prices. When the price of oil rises, the price of absolutely everything else does as well. It costs more to transport those products we all know and love, so...corporations do not just "eat" price fluctuations, they pass the buck onto their customers. So you're getting fucked at the pump and at Walmart now. Yay!

Prices rise, so now Joe Six-Pack (is that insulting enough for you?) who was barely holding on to his $150,000 house he bought on a forklift operator and a Piggly Wiggly cashier's salary to begin with now has to move back in with his in-laws. Well, now the fucking plant can't afford to ship its product, so they're laying off. Now we've got five people and a dog living in a house that's double-mortgaged. Let's hope this works out, huh?

Anyway. Before, the oil industry had a major nemesis: the trucking industry. Whenever fuel prices got too high, there the trucking companies would be in their faces ready to fight. Good stuff. The supplier against its largest customer. Then...along came the fuel surcharge. Where before trucking companies were affected by fuel price fluctuations, now they just pass the buck on to their shippers. Who pass the buck on to their customers and employees. Not so good.

And we demand more oil, and our U.S. oil companies could give a fuck about finding more of it. Demand steadily increases, supply stays the same...you tell me what the price is gonna do.

And the oil speculators...yeah. Those cunts keep betting the price is gonna go up, which then becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy...as long as someone's making a buck off our agony, I'm happy.

So again. That was the first pillar to go. Then went the mortgages and probably cars (though we're not hearing much about that). And so on.

So here's where we get to the good stuff and bring it all back around. That $700 billion bailout the government gave the financial institutions was kind of a bad move, it turns out. See, the banks don't want to give that money away now that they've got it. They want to handle their own internal affairs and give their hotshot investment bankers bonuses this Christmas, because they've done such a good job up to now, but they don't want to give loans to businesses facing liquidity issues because they fear the businesses may still fail.

So let's recap. The Great Depression was caused by the Federal Reserve causing a lack of liquidity at a crucial time that caused inflation to skyrocket. I'll let you fill in the reason why they did that. We went off the gold standard and moved to a fiat currency, which is credit-based. The financial institutions get into trouble, causing a credit crunch. The government gives these institutions money to free up the flow of money and give the economy some liquidity, but the banks are hoarding the money now. Sounds like...a lack of liquidity that's going to cause inflation to skyrocket.

Right on the verge, as I see it. Good thing the government wrote in some transparency and oversight clauses when it was throwing money like drunken sailors at these failed monoliths.

It will be interesting (if probably unpleasant) to see how this unfolds.

Oh yeah...me am smarty. Just to address the blank looks I'm getting now.

Sunday December 14, 2008

2009-08-25T01:14:00.000-05:00

Subject: Two confessions from a weirdo

Let me warn from this point that you read on at your own peril, and may discover some things about me that you don't need to know.

Starting in 3, 2, 1...

I was dating my girlfriend Jennifer when I was 17, and had already developed some mighty unhealthy habits by that point. We experimented ceaselessly, mostly because she was herself too psychotic to tell me no. She laid the groundwork for a lot of the filth that was to follow (no, I'm not going into details), and for that I'm eternally grateful. She was a shit girlfriend and an asshole, but we did a lot of interesting things sexually.

That said, I also had an overactive fantasy and self-abuse life by that point as well (I can't very well expect someone to keep up with me, and...well, I have a nice time by myself, frankly). One of the things I've always dug is a woman in satin panties. They're just...perfect. *grin* It was always innocuous, really. Jennifer wore them pretty often as a treat for me, and life was good (in every other aspect of our life it was shit, but...I'm telling a story. Listen.).

That all changed in 1997. I'd just graduated high school and gone to live with Jennifer's family. Trying to escape my awful life, I retreated into a life of Sony Playstation and television. And then I saw it.

Fiona Apple's "Criminal" video. Jesus. H. Christ.

I remember it well: the beginning of the second verse. There she stood in all her satin-y beauty...I mean...still to this day. Fuck. Her ass is absolutely impeccable. Round, tight...okay. Getting creepy. Moving on.

But of course being so young and not-yet-desensitized, I was completely taken with this video. When I say "taken," I mean I jacked off like a lab animal to the thing whenever it came on. And by whenever, I mean every single fucking time it came on, regardless of the circumstances.

The worst instance of this goddamn video victimizing me (I'm not taking responsibility for jack shit) was one evening when Jennifer was at work and her parents were in their television room, which was directly next to the living room where I was. The video started, and I was compulsively drawn to do what I did when it came on. Grabbing a pillow to cover myself, I...yeah. I'm gonna just leave it up to you to fill in the blanks there.

With her parents right in the next room.

God, and I wonder why they didn't want me living with them later on. I was atrocious. It was probably one of those things they couldn't put their finger on, but...yeah. You just know.

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

Nothing's changed with age. A couple months ago, I was on a web site reading about new masturbation techniques. I'm obviously very happy with my sex life with Rebecca, but...I'm adventurous. Teeheehee!!!

I read about one where you kinda fold up a couple socks in a certain way, put it in something to hold it in place, put lubricant in a condom, and...well, you can put two and two together. Sounded kinda interesting, and less stupid than some of the horrible ideas on the site.

So I tried it. Honestly it wasn't that great. I felt stupid and quit in the middle of the ordeal. I cleaned up and forgot about it.

That night Rebecca came home from work, and went into the bedroom to change out of her work clothes. After a moment I heard, "Honey, can you come in here?" with an inquisitive, puzzled tone.

As I walked into the room, she pointed at the bed and asked, "What the hell is that?" Well, I'm sorry to say it was a couple bunched up socks hanging like a woolen vagina from between the two mattresses. It still had a...hole opened up in the side of it. *sigh* God fucking damn it.

"I dunno," I said, trying to sound puzzled. "That's so...fucking...weird." Because it was. Oh. Yeah. Your fiance was fucking the bed this afternoon while you were at work, snickerdoodle. Ulkh.

I dropped it that night, but eventually had to cop to the episode the next day because I felt like such an ass. "Just do me a favor...don't tell anyone what I'm about to tell you," is how that little tale started. Any conversation that starts like that...no good can come of that. Now that it's been a couple months, whatever. lol

Yes, I masturbate in a compulsive and obsessive manner, and I've fucked my bed. What's it to ya?

From Pictures

Saturday December 13, 2008

2009-08-25T01:04:00.000-05:00

Subject: Clea DuVall deconstructed

So I was sitting with a couple lipstick lesbians last night, watching a John Waters movie called "But I'm a Cheerleader." It was, admittedly, pretty good for a John Waters movie (his movies fucking suck, I'm sorry...I know you love him because he's kitsch and fucking zany, but he's just not a good director). But there was one problem: the lipstick lesbians (including the one I'm currently banging) were drooling over Clea DuVall.

Look...on top of disrespecting me (I am and should be the end-all be-all of sexual attraction for all women, not just the one I'm currently wrecking for all other men sexually), this flat-faced bitch simply isn't hot. I'm sorry.

Let's have a look at her in Cheerleader:

From Pictures

Okay...kinda innocent and fuckable, if you bound her hands behind her back and put a plastic bag over her head, but otherwise, not so much.

I know based on that picture you're saying "I think you're being overly judgmental, Greg, but I'd still drown my spouse in a corrugated metal tub just to hold your hand." I know. So let's take another look.

From Pictures

Alright...kinda wholesome. But...kinda flat-faced, too.

From Pictures

She looks like she oughta be offering herself to returning fishermen on an Asian wharf somewhere, which is kinda hot, but kinda disturbing. She'll never, ever be as hot as Emma Watson (the 18 year-old woman who plays Hermione Granger in the Harry Potter series...even though I've been talking about how hot she is for probably four or five years now). I could name a hundred women hotter than Clea Duvall, and yet I had to listen to Niagra Falls forming between these two's legs the whole night...

So I thought about the whole thing this morning, and it finally occurred to me what was wrong with the whole thing:

They somehow found someone other than me attractive, which I thought (and I'm sure you'll agree) was completely impossible.

From Pictures

Yes, you heard me. The bitch looks like Josh fucking Hartnett. That was the revelation that made me run into the bedroom this morning, and club my two-timing bisexual whore of a girlfriend like an Iraqi insurgent.

So, ladies...and smooth, hairless young boys (vers but prefer top, d/d free, 18-25, race unimportant, vwe)...I'm available. Come and get it.

Wednesday November 5, 2008

2009-08-25T00:55:00.000-05:00

Subject: Yes we can.

I haven't talked much about politics recently; not on this blog, not to Rebecca or Travis, and not to my friends (except Randy's blog). Now I can say it: I've been supporting Barack Obama from the beginning.

I didn't say anything because I didn't want to jinx it. I didn't want to openly believe in something that may not happen. I have very little faith in white people, especially when it comes to race. Part of me just knew (erroneously, it turns out) that whitey was going to fuck this up.

For all the shit I talk about racism being a thing of the past, parts of me wonder if maybe because I live in a major metropolitan city, I have a view of race that differs from the cornfields of the midwest and the inbred hovels of the south. Open racism doesn't fly around here in Chicago, but I've seen firsthand that it does down south and in the barren areas of the midwest. I hate when it's assumed that I'm "in on the joke" when some shitty comment is made. I don't hate blacks--I hate the rich and the elite. They're the ones fucking with us...and we're that much easier to fuck with when we're divided.

I viewed this election as a litmus test that would determine how mature we are as a nation. To me, that's all racism (from both sides) is: the childish pre-judgment of a person based on some perceived flaw. Whether they're black, white, funny looking, poor, seem dumb, have small tits or a tiny cock...if you shun someone before they have a chance, you are making a child's decision to cut yourself off from an experience because it's yucky.

In one fell swoop, this election has shown me how far we've come. Think about it: white people have no clue what it's like to feel overwhelming pride as they look at a president with their skin color...it's taken for granted. There is no comparable experience for a white person. I saw it in the faces of Obama's Grant Park victory gathering. There is no word for that emotion.

For the past eight years, white people jumped the shark with the George W. Bush presidency. If that was the best that white America had to offer, then maybe that "master race" horseshit could go fuck itself. For some reason, Republicans want a "regular guy" to lead their country. Someone who reflects their own mediocrity and dullness.

Looking back over the four presidents who have previously been in office during my lifetime, this is the first time I've ever been able to look at the president and feel a sense of pride as I look at my leader. Hell, this is the first man I would openly call my leader. In years past, I would just call them "the jackass that somehow finagled an election."

Reagan was too old; yes, he was a great communicator, but he was a doddering old fuck. Bush Sr. was a fucking weenie. Clinton was...cool, but not necessarily a great leader. He was like that uncle that lets you drink a few years before it's legal. Fun and charismatic, but maybe not the best influence. And W. was W.

I got chills listening to a speech for the first time in my life last night. It really drove home the mediocrity we've endured the last two terms. From the stumbling, bumbling asshole we've had to the measured, intelligent competence of Barack Obama...night and day.

The one thing that embodied the hope I feel at the outset of this presidency was when the man said, "There are many who won't agree with every decision or policy I make as President, and we know that government can't solve every problem. But I will always be honest with you about the challenges we face. I will listen to you, especially when we disagree."

These are not the words of the radical militant Republicans have tried to paint Obama as. These are the words of a wise man who recognizes the weight of his decisions to come. This is not a rich hillbilly cokehead's lark; this is a man recognizing and embracing all the positive and potentially negative aspects of his new position.

In a time where we face unprecedented economic and socio-political challenges, to simply state "Yes we can" and mean it...and give it meaning...that is the uniting force we've needed. That is our rallying cry.

Obama has to unite the partisan children on capitol hill if he wants to accomplish his audacious hopes. If anyone can, I believe it's him. He is a thoughtful adult among kneejerk children. Honesty and reason may win out in the end.

He's already changed an entire race's paradigm of what is realistically attainable in this country. Where before we were told the sky was the limit, black people saw that the limit was the sky.

And now? Yes we can.

Truly.

Yes we can.

Monday November 3, 2008

2009-08-25T00:51:00.001-05:00

Okay, so I'm enjoying these. Sue me.

From Pictures

If you're looking for a frame of reference, this is my favorite album of all time. I can't say enough good things about it. Quirky, random, and completely all over the place, this album hit me at just the right time in my life.

Kurt Cobain had just killed himself a couple months before, it would be several years before Metallica's next (mediocre) album release, and Pearl Jam just got less and less interesting with each release. Vitalogy remains the last of their albums I purchased, and I feel vindicated in that decision.

So out of the sea of distorted guitars and screaming, deep-voiced singers came a completely angst-less, strange album that combined nearly every genre: folk, rock, rap, country, psychedelia, blues, and maybe even some dance music. Odelay was even more random and far more danceable, but I look to the odd bleakness of this album, where Beck seems infinitely sad about incomprehensible problems that not even he understands, as the pinnacle of his musicianship.

The first track is the ultimate one-hit wonder track, "Loser." You thought you would never hear from Beck again after this one, but goddamn was it a great song. It kind of caught the aimless low self-esteem of the alternative culture of the time, where our leader was gone and we didn't know what the fuck we were doing.

The song had been originally released long before Kurt Cobain killed himself, but really caught fire in the time after. We all felt like fucking losers after the alpha loser died, so why not just kill us? That was the exact feeling of the time, which sort of pissed Beck off: he didn't want to ride the wave of a fad, he wanted to be a musician. He hadn't written the song because the voice of our generation was gone, and he didn't want to be his replacement. He wrote it during a stint of homelessness because...well, goddamnit, he felt like a loser.

And the song stands up, even 14 years later. Hilarious whiteboy rap over folk guitar picking, the bounciest slide guitar riff this side of the delta, and a spanglish chorus. What's not to love?

The next track, "Pay No Mind," is a study in both bleakness and contradictions. The basic premise of the song seems to be "I don't get what's going on in the world, so I'll stop paying attention." That message rings loud and clear with me even now. And in addition to being a great song...I challenge you to find a folk song with that much low end. The bassist is playing heavy on this one, so you may wanna lower that on your stereo so there's no distortion.

"Fuckin' With my Head (Mountain Dew Rock)" is just Creedence Clearwater Revival meets the modern age by way of the underworld. This is how Satan's CCR cover band would sound.

The fourth track, "Whiskeyclone, Hotel City 1997," is a bleak look at modern poverty and materialism. I still get chills during the breakdown, the line "Starin' at sports cars........cryin'." Ugh. If you feel out of sorts with the world and like you'll never make anything of yourself (as I did, and many others like me), this is a good track to end your life to. Teeheehee!!! Even the chorus is out of sorts...a real reality-bender.

"Soul Suckin' Jerk?" A fucking great anti-establishment, anti-corporation rocker. Throw this on and quit your job, motherfuckers.

"Truck Drivin' Neighbors Downstairs" is a simple, detuned guitar country affair that features Beck's friend and K Records founder Calvin Johnson on vocals...he has a fucking creepy deep voice, and it rules on this song. Especially with Beck's still-developing falsetto during the bridges. This is country in the Johnny Cash tradition, when it still rocked.

The next track, "Sweet Sunshine," is just a weird kind of satanic children's song...it starts off with a child's mobile song, then progresses into a modern Native American drum beat, then just sounds dark and threatening the whole rest of the way. Just awesome.

"Beercan" is just the fun dance song...it doesn't make sense, and it doesn't have to. All-American fun, goddamnit.

The next song, though, is an interesting animal. "Steal My Body Home" is by fucking far the best stoner song I've ever heard. It's repetitive, it rises and falls, and it makes the world seem like it's melting. There's a very detuned fiddle, distorted and evil-sounding vocals, and then...there's a kazoo solo at the end. If you've never heard it...it's really something.

"Nitemare Hippy Girl" is a folksy ode to a stoner chick, and it ends with, like, a hundred different metaphors for what she is. It's fun...not the best track on the album musically or lyrically, but...having known a girl like this makes the song fun and a bit poignant.

"Mutherfuker" is suburban white boy angst before Limp Bizkit franchised it. It's just a balls-out rocker with no pretenses. If you need an adrenaline rush before your big UFC fight, this is the one.

The most beautiful song on the album is the closer, "Blackhole." The bleakness and hopelessness that had been hinted at and talked about the entire album lives in this song. It's ambient, full of echoes...it sounds like the ghost of a great song.

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

I don't know what the legacy of "Mellow Gold" is, because I think music has gone horribly awry in the corporate landscape of the 14 years since its release. When you consider Beck accomplished this on a four-track recorder in someone's living room, you know that talented people don't get breaks often enough.

Beck's voice has maybe been lost since "Sea Change," which is sad because I think the world needs voices like his now more than ever. Even so, it's always great to go back and see the beginning of the hopeless, post-apocalyptic world we now live in.

Kurt Cobain was maybe our last hope. "Mellow Gold" foresaw all the nothing to come, but fuck if it didn't leave us one last milestone album on the way out.

Tuesday October 28, 2008

2009-08-25T00:43:00.001-05:00

Subject: Belated album review: "Loveless" by My Bloody Valentine

From Pictures

When I hear a certain level of hubbub about an album, I feel compelled to check it out. Such is the case with My Bloody Valentine's "Loveless." Several internet sites have hailed this the best album of the 90s, a landmark in sonic genius...I felt cheated, having spent all that time with Nirvana, Failure, Smashing Pumpkins, NIN and Alice in Chains. Just by reading a few (hundred) reviews, I felt duped by the man and his big advertising dollars.

Easily influenced by peer pressure, I ran (I did not walk) to get this album. Judging by the response it gets wherever it goes, indie women on the south side of Chicago were going to hear me playing this monolith album and beg to get in my car and suck my brilliant dick. I might even get a couple fingers up the ass just for being so cool. Life was good.

And then I played the fucking album.

Ulkh.

The album started off so promisingly, too. It was kind of sad to see. The first song, "Only Shallow," is a melancholy shoegazer in the mold of...well, I think they heavily influenced a band I really like, Viva Voce. It reminds me a lot of their stuff. I've heard the lead riff compared to Black Sabbath meets the psychedelic era...this is a horseshit comparison. Black Sabbath's riffs could explode skulls and destroy cities...this one smells like bubble gum and homework, and definitely not in a bad way. I truly love this song.

The next track, "Loomer," is ambient and has its beautiful components, but I realize this is the track where the muddiness starts...the coherency starts to fall away, and all the dynamicism goes out the door. Maybe it could be said I'm used to the Pixies/Nirvana quiet/loud formula of music, but that would be a welcome relief in this miasma of noise.

Track 3, "Touched," is just a sound clip. There are no lyrics, and there is a sound like an elephant getting fisted (but kind of liking it) in the background.

Track 4, "To Here Knows When," is where I notice we're lost in the sea of shit. The vocals, for whatever reason, are pushed all the way back in the mix, and the song goes nowhere. That's what gets me: you get fooled by this album. You think to yourself, "This has to be going somewhere. It has to be a brilliant statement by a brilliant person, because nobody would record this if it didn't...mean something." And then you sit there for two minutes, and wake up. "Holy shit I've been sitting here for two minutes, and nothing fucking happened. It was the same shit for two whole minutes, and it never changed. What the fuck?"

You think at the beginning of "When You Sleep" you're about to get some good old-fashioned Cure depression pop, but no. You're gonna get unintelligible lyrics (and I'm a Nirvana fan saying this) and a lush-but-pedestrian musical arrangement. Bleh. It is the soundtrack to mediocrity.

"I Only Said" starts off with another cool gimmick, and then just melts into a mess. People think the production is amazing on this album...I think it sounds alternately tinny and muddy. This track is the latter. It sounds like a cassette recorder on low batteries. And yes, this was intentionally done...but why would I intentionally listen to it?

The production techniques may be amazing, but the end result is a fucking mess. I know they influenced the Smashing Pumpkins and many later bands with their production, but...when you're over-producing repetitive horseshit, there's not much you can do with it.

Oh, and fuck you and your tremolo arm, faggot. There, I said it. And it needed to be said.

"Come in Alone" sounds at first like it wants to be the album's savior. This album was released in the time of cassette tapes, and this would be the first song on the B side. These chickenshit fuckers made the first song on either side of the tape the only two coherent songs on the entire album. I'd like to take a diarrhea tapeworm shit on their drum kit. Seriously. A good song, but not as good as the first track. It's airy and nice, still.

"Sometimes" makes you want to blast the fucking volume until you can understand the fucking lyrics because the song sounds pretty lyric-driven. But no amount of volume-tweaking will help, because that same shitty "Glycerine"-sounding guitar distortion will always be louder than the singer. Sorry. That's just the way it is. And yes, that's exactly what this song is: "Glycerine" with keyboards. Ulkh.

The levels are enragingly bad on this track. The least dynamic instrument (said distorted guitar) is brought to the foreground, and everything else is off in the background playing with itself. The keyboard gets a nice bump toward the end, but who cares? It's just doing simple note progressions itself. What yak shit.

"Blown a Wish" just meanders along, gazing at its own belly button. Fuck it. I'm getting worn out by this repetitive album. Jesus. And can you imagine the first time I listened to it, I stayed with all these songs to the bitter end waiting for them to change and become dynamic in some way? Oh, he's a cruel God, isn't he?

"What You Want" is not a Beastie Boys cover, sadly. That would've been much more entertaining. More repetitive shit. I'm skipping the track because I'm bored.

The final track, "Soon." Do they try and save the album with one last flourish? Let's listen. I've forgotten, because all the songs sound alike.

Ahhh yes. There he goes pushing that tremolo arm...sounds like the tape is melting, doesn't it? Sounds like ass.

Okay...we've gone through this three times already...change up the fucking song, you cunts.

Oh my gosh! On the fourth time through, they added some distortion! Angsty!

A minute left of this shit, and I want to cut the throat of the keyboardist in front of his mother. Listen to this shit...I'm serious. That's endurance, to keep playing the same shit over and over without variation.

And then they go to mono, and they fade it out.

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

On the album as a whole:

I really have said the word "repetitive" until (irony of ironies) it became repetitive, but I can't say it enough times to where it will fully encapsulate how generic and awful this shit is. One song fades into another, and there are differences, but not enough to wake you up.

All of this said, if and when I get back on drugs, this will be literally the first album I listen to. Okay...second. Beck's "Mellow Gold" will always be first in my heart. hehehe

But I just know that this was music created by stoners for stoners. Because who else but a stoner could do this shit? Have you ever watched a druggie do the same thing over and over and over and over until they think they've gotten some kind of meaning out of it? They never tire. And I think that's where My Bloody Valentine fucked themselves.

Instead of using their time to create different pieces of music to meld into songs, they just found a rhythm they liked because it felt neat in their drug haze, repeated it endlessly, and recorded it. Then jackoff Kevin Shields played around in the studio, pushing levels around with reckless abandon. This is a band that doesn't care how it sounds or what the audience will think, this is a band that selfishly got high and realized they were actually Gods in human vessels. Their self-absorbed nonsense got miraculously recorded and released, and the audience amazingly bought the hype. Well, once the record company's spin doctors worked their magic, anyway.

"No, no...they're not self-indulgent drug addicts...they're geniuses who take drugs to dull the pain of their genius. Surely you see the difference...and you're a lame-ass cunt if you don't. Quite frankly, I'm going to invite your mother down to the label's office and rape her on my fine mahogany desk if you don't get it."

Shitty musicianship, shitty producing, shitty vision and concept...what's not to love about this miasma?

Saturday August 23, 2008

2009-08-25T00:31:00.000-05:00

Subject: 'Dark Knight' thing with spoiler alert...

All these people keep blowing the new Batman movie...it wasn't good. I'm sorry.

The logical closure point was when Harvey Dent becomes Two-Face, and the chick gets killed.

Period.

The movie did not need to continue after that.

It dragged on another 45 minutes. I felt like I was watching part three of the series after that point.

Stupid.

The Joker and Two-Face each deserve their own movie. For you to cram them both into the same movie is asinine.

Stop feverishly believing the hype. It is not good.

I'm sorry.

It's not.

Thursday July 31, 2008

2009-08-25T00:28:00.000-05:00

Subject: Damnit, they fucked up the new Batman franchise...

I loved the new Batman franchise. Loved it. Looked at it as a new mother does her child. Defended it to ignorant naysayers who think some faggot in a blue cape giving baby oil handjobs to bald supervillains in seedy truck stops is somehow better than Batman.

"Superman is a faggot, and I found that movie unwatchable," I boasted confidently. "When people remember how to tell a story as they did in Batman Begins, the world will be a better place."

I mean, Batman Begins had it all: backstory, Tom Cruise's brainwashed wife, Christian Bale doing the crazy rich guy thing again...what the fuck more do you need, people? Qui-Gon Jinn playing a badass Buddhist monk supervillain? You got it, motherfucker. Add to this the Scarecrow villain, and you've got reason to cream in your fucking jeans until you whimper.

So Heath Ledger bites the big one a few months ago, and rumors have abounded concerning this very dark Joker character he had to play in the months prior to his death for the new Batman. Intriguing. The insinuation has been made that playing the infamous engine of chaos took him to a very dark place and increased his drug use to the point where they found him stiff and cold one morning. Well now I gotta see it. As if the prequel wasn't gonna be enough...the role killed Heath Ledger? Oh yeah. I'm there.

...it never quite lives up to the hype, does it?

Batman Begins struts. It lays there confidently with its big man cock dangling like an engorged python between its legs, and it tells you a fucking story. It doesn't care if you've been watching Youtube for so long your attention span is--it just tells you the fucking story. And it's a great fucking story, and you're a fool if you don't listen.

The new Batman falls victim to the new type of storytelling that's become prevalent in Hollywood, particularly in action films: Attention Deficit Disorder Theater. Or Youtube Storytelling. I don't know what phrase I want to coin for it yet, but stay tuned. I think it's gonna be the latter when I'm on the Interwebz, and the former in person.

Anyway...Youtube Storytelling is the Gestalt view of filmmaking. "The whole is greater than the sum of the parts." You sit through a series of somewhat connected vignettes starring the same people without the usual connector scenes that would show how the character got from point A to point B, and somehow after you've connected far more dots for the director than you should care to, you've got a "story."

It's as if the director is going "Look! Look what's happening over here! But then shit! There's this! And while you paying attention to that, you missed this! And this! But that was really just leading up to this!"

There is no story, just a series of events. The director does not choose to show the character in any scene that does not move the "plot" ahead, which is a huge mistake. It is those scenes that don't move the story forward that can be used to "fill in" the character: background, personality, relationships, etc. Modern filmmakers do not find this important, they just want to throw a two-dimensional stereotype into a series of events that are somehow "thrilling."

If you identify with these characters, it is only because of their looks and perhaps facial expressions, because you know literally nothing else about them.

That said, Heath Ledger gives a great performance. It's dark, creepy, and real. Everything that Jack Nicholson's performance as the Joker wasn't. Nicholson was cartoony, Ledger was menacing. Loved it.

The argument has been made by several people I know that if you've read the comic books, you'll hate Ledger's performance because it doesn't follow the original vision of the Joker. I'm not a comic book reader. Couldn't care less. I can only judge what is before me, and I have to say I like it a lot.

The filmmakers could have let Batman be a little more two-dimensional in this movie because his story has already been told. With the exposition out of the way, they can let this familiar character roam free in the series of events they have planned for him.

But to not tell the story of the Joker? What the fuck, people. You got my attention as a storytelling franchise, one where we learn all the secrets of the characters on-screen, and you turn your back on that in the second fucking movie? What horseshit.

And then...to horseshoe in the Two-Face character in a movie that could've just focused on the Joker? Awful. Just atrocious.

The movie should've ended with the creation of Two-Face and the death of a character who I'm not going to reveal if you're going to see this farce of a movie. But the movie goes on at least another hour.

You tried to do too much and ended up not doing anything for me. Stupid people will attend in droves, but the "mega-movie" you tried to create here is a hollow, soul-less piece of shit. Everyone's caught up in the excitement of a record-breaking blockbuster event, but the movie wouldn't even be worth watching without Ledger's performance.

The man should win a posthumous Oscar, because he did the best he could to save a steaming dung heap. It wasn't worth the price of admission on its own, but it is something. And in a movie this bad, you need to latch on to whatever you can.

Monday July 21, 2008

2009-08-25T00:23:00.000-05:00

Subject: The aforementioned 'big news.' Journal entry 7/19/08: "Say Yes"

We are sitting in the airport waiting several hours for the flight. Vegas is over. It was a mostly glorious trip--I had a blast. On night number two as we walked a Bataan Death March down and up the strip, I did the second version of something that was sort of funny but awful the first time.

The year was 2001. Rebecca and I were maybe six months into a whirlwind romance--the end of her relationship with my best friend Jim, the end of my relationship with the extremely passionate but entirely insane Kristel, and...the end of my friendship with Jim, thanks to my actions with Rebecca and the devious whistleblowing of Kristel.

Then again, Rebecca and I may not be where we are if not for Kristel, because I don't know that I would've willingly given up my friendship with Jim, so Rebecca and I may not have gotten as serious as we did.

"Maybe I'm just part of your Karma," Kristel pretentiously told me at the time. To Kristel I now say: maybe you were part of your own. If you hadn't done that, you maybe could've slithered back into my life after the good times in St. Louis ended so we could continue that unhappy farce of a relationship. But you screwed us over, which only drew us closer. Oops. Your bad.

Rebecca and I got into the CD and movie bootlegging business with my family, and money began pouring in. The hours were crazy, but so was the money. Thousands of dollars a week sometimes. Hundreds on a bad week.

We decided to take a week off and get away to the Wisconsin Dells. We got there later Friday night and just slept. The next night, we walked to a bar called Brothers In Law. Five strong Long Island Iced Teas later, I got sentimental on the walk back to the hotel.

"You know what?" I slurred as Rebecca wondered how she would ever pick me up if I fell. "If I were to do something stupid like get married...it'd be with you."

Yes, that famous quirky Greg romance...somehow it works, against the odds. It stuck, that alleged "proposal." It was dumb, and it was rather improper as those things go, but it was also strangely "us." So we went with it.

How does a relationship that started off so young and offbeat and innocent go so wrong? I still don't know. The actions and feelings have been well-documented on my blog and in my journals, but the "why" is still just beyond my reach. Maybe the happier I get, the less I reach, though. So the answers may never be mine, though they're probably out there somewhere.

This time around, I wanted something better for us. Yeah, we're still the same offbeat jackasses we've always been, but being a little older and a little more well-off does imply and require a certain level of sophistication at the moments where it's inherently necessary. So, take two.

We were walking from the Luxor to our hotel, the Treasure Island. It was a nice enough night, and when you're new to Vegas, things seem much closer than they really are. You count the buildings back to the one you want, and it's only five or six. What your mind fails to realize is that each of those buildings is acres wide. Yeah.

Along the way I saw the Paris. It's a pretty nice hotel, but the outside is really one of the better and...in a sea of blatant corporate showmanship, one of the more romantic. The Paris, maybe New York, and possibly Excalibur were the three best facades in my mind. It's certainly one of the more distinct designs--it's hard to miss a hundreds-feet-tall Eiffel Tower illuminated by such warm lighting rising above the Vegas strip. It's beautiful.

I spotted that, and told Rebecca I needed to rearrange some of the stuff in my identification holder thing (man-purse). As she snapped pictures like some off-duty Asian hooker, I tried to nonchalantly slip out the ring's velvet pouch and put it in my pocket. She walked up as I was putting it away, and she had a weird smile on her face. I thought I was screwed, and it was time to abort the mission. Turned out she was just taken with the Vegas skyline, and feeling a little romantic--well, perfect.

We approached, and I was getting nervous. Snapping photos of everything as we went, Rebecca was oblivious to my relentless planning and plotting. I tried to take everything in as I finagled the ring from its velvet pouch in my pocket. How would I do it? Where? When? Fuck.

We took photos by the fountain in front of the Paris, which is before the tower from the direction we were coing. I was on such shaky ground regarding what the right moment would be that I was considering waiting for another night. I could do it at a romantic dinner, or we were going to Mystere. Maybe there. But the Paris was perfect, but when--fuck!

Across the street, the Bellagio's water fountain show started, and the National Anthem began to play. It was amazing, how high the water shot, and the crazy shapes and directions they made it dance.

She turned to watch, and I stood behind her. As she took even more pictures and took in the scene, I picked the ring from my pocket and palmed it. I looked up. Directly under the tower. This was it.

As the final strains of the National Anthem waned down, my left arm holding her close, under the Paris Eiffel Tower, the water show shooting its most magnificent and complex finale in the Vegas strip sky, I brought my right hand up around her, presented the ring, and whispered, "I know it's not the real Eiffel Tower or anything, but..." I paused, "will you marry me?"

She let out a sigh like the wind had been taken from her for a second, and just put the ring on with a whispered "yes."

Perfect.

Monday June 2, 2008

2009-08-25T00:21:00.000-05:00

Subject: Nas uses racism on his own people to make a point

For those of you who don't know, I'm a big fan of Nas. I think Illmatic is probably the best rap album of all time (I like some of Biggie's singles more than anything, but some of his songs are kinda awful because of the production). Stillmatic was cute, but...to marry old school jazz (not the "smooth jazz" atrocity we have nowadays, the real Coltrane and Miles Davis shit) to hardcore gangsta rap with more syllables per bar than everyone except Twista...sheer ingenuity, friends. Genius.

In the last couple years, Nas has spoken out against his fellow rappers for their formulaic horseshit lyrics, and I have to wholeheartedly agree. WE GET IT. You've got a biiiiig dick, you fuck lots of women, you used sling 'caine back in the day, you're a sicker MC than anyone, you'll kill anyone that gets in your way, you're a millionaire, you drive expensive cars, you can handle any situation with a pimp's grace...WE FUCKING GET IT.

The shit is old, corny and stale. I love rap when it's done well, but I can scarcely remember the last time I really dug a hip-hop song on the radio. Maybe it was...yeah, it was. "Hip Hop is Dead" by Nas. *grin* Anytime you rap over a sample of "In A Gadda Da Vida," you have an instant fan in me.

Nas has gone from being somewhat tactful in saying they are corny and formulaic...to being a fucking sadistic prick now, though. He crossed a line with the help of Nick Cannon, and I couldn't be happier. His new stance is that not only is the shit old, rappers that do those kind of lyrics are just a-shuckin' and a-jivin' fo' de white man, makin' massa that much mo' richa!

Ooof. Kinda stings, when you put it like that. Mainly because it's fairly true.

Saturday November 17, 2007

2009-08-25T00:15:00.000-05:00

Subject: Britney Spears (no, really) and music

While I'm working on a larger project, I have in the meantime acquired some thoughts about pop music and Britney Spears, because the BBC has decided to call the song "Piece of Me" on her new abum Blackout a 'masterpiece.'

It is, admittedly...for a Britney song, mind you...above-average. Probably one of the more lyrically edgy songs she's done. It's a basic, straightforward fuck-you to the media, but given that Britney has never shown an iota of personality or brains in her entire career, I guess it's a step forward. For her.

The song itself will be a minor dance hit here in America, but a huge sensation in Europe. I mean, those tasteless fucks loved that God-awful Paris Hilton nonsense from a few years ago. Enough said.

But lyrically...here's how little we expect in America. She spells it out in entirely un-clever terms, and somehow it's controversial. How could she say it any clearer? As I qualified earlier, it's a step forward for HER, but...songwriters of the past scoff at this horseshit.

Matter of fact, here we go:

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

"Piece of Me"
by Britney Spears

I'm Miss American Dream since I was 17
Don't matter if I step on the scene
Or sneak away to the Philippines
They still gonna put pictures of my derrière in the magazine
You want a piece of me?
You want a piece of me…

I'm Miss bad media karma
Another day, another drama
Guess I can't see the harm
In working and being a mama
And with a kid on my arm
I'm still an exceptional earner
You want a piece of me

I'm Mrs. Lifestyles of the rich and famous
(You want a piece of me)
I'm Mrs. Oh my God that Britney's Shameless
(You want a piece of me)
I'm Mrs. Extra! Extra! this just in
(You want a piece of me)
I'm Mrs. she's too big now she's too thin
(You want a piece of me)

I'm Mrs. 'You want a piece of me?'
Tryin' and pissin' me off
Well get in line with the paparazzi
Who's flippin' me off
Hopin' I'll resort to some havoc
End up settlin' in court
Now are you sure you want a piece of me?
I'm Mrs. 'Most likely to get on the TV for slippin' on the streets'
When getting the groceries, not for real..
Are you kidding me?
No wonder there's panic in the industry
I mean, please, do you want a piece of me?

I'm Mrs. Lifestyles of the rich and famous
(You want a piece of me)
I'm Mrs. Oh my God that Britney's Shameless
(You want a piece of me)
I'm Mrs. Extra! Extra! this just in
(You want a piece of me)
I'm Mrs. she's too big now she's too thin
(You want a piece of me)

I'm Miss American Dream since I was 17
Don't matter if I step on the scene
Or sneak away to the Philippines
They still gon' be pictures of my derrière in the magazine
You want a piece of me?
You want a piece, piece of me…

You want a piece of me?

I'm Mrs. Lifestyles of the rich and famous
(You want a piece of me)
I'm Mrs. Oh my God that Britney's Shameless
(You want a piece of me)
I'm Mrs. Extra! Extra! this just in
(You want a piece of me)
I'm Mrs. she's too big now she's too thin
(You want a piece of me)
I'm Mrs. Lifestyles of the rich and famous
(You want a piece of me)
I'm Mrs. Oh my God that Britney's Shameless
(You want a piece of me)
I'm Mrs. Extra! Extra! this just in
(You want a piece of me)
I'm Mrs. she's too big now she's too thin
(You want a piece of me)
You want a piece of me.

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

I was just entirely underwhelmed by this shit, and the BBC called it a fucking 'masterpiece.' Stop. Just fucking stop it. You fucking people are so Goddamned stupid, you expect so little because you offer so little, and we make it seem like having a media firm behind you is a fucking...talent?

And Rebecca tells me that it's somehow a bad thing that I have to be constantly stimulated, but...with all this vast NOTHING out there getting airplay and publicity for no good reason, does anyone blame me for going waaaaay under the radar to find new music? Interesting people no longer become famous because American suburbanites spend all the money, and for some reason they want the same bleak, uninteresting oatmeal people on stage before they'll fork over their hard-earned dollars.

Even Korn, as much as I like the band, is a whiny white suburban thing. It might be masked with anger in many ways, but as Jonathon Davis gets older, his mesage shines through with more clarity: mommy and daddy pissed him off, so now he's refusing to clean his room and going to bed without dinner. Or his girlfriend broke up with him, so now he's getting revenge and feeling sorry for himself. And that's...kind of...all he writes about. Maybe you replace mommy and daddy with a friend, or you replace the girlfriend with society, but it's your basic disenfranchisement and alienation music.

Granted, I have some of the same anger issues as him, but...it's not music that's going to change the world in any way. Their early, hardcore stuff is great to listen to, but...well...and Rebecca and Heather are going to hate me for this...they're not impressively talented musicians. They are good at what they do, they're a rush to see live, and they've been well-marketed to their target demographic, but people won't be talking about Korn 30 years from now. They're already talking about them less than they did 10 years ago. That's just how it goes. They've sorta...run out of steam.

And how fucked up is it that girls find Jonathon Davis' issues 'hot?' Need someone who's broken to fix, by chance? A damaged man to take under your wing?

Anyway. I just get sick of one- or two-trick lyrical ponies getting called 'geniuses' when they just simply aren't. Period. If you don't think about a song's meaning for a little bit, or aren't compelled to find out more about their life and story after hearing the words they sing, they're not good. I will grant you that Jonathon Davis and Korn definitely once had that, but...not so much anymore. Where are the Kurt Cobains? The Elliott Smiths? The Jimi Hendrixes?

And Britney Spears is the typical product of the typical suburbs. A boring oatmeal person singing about boring oatmeal topics.

But somehow they call this dreck a 'masterpiece.'

Someone help me, I have no idea what these people are talking about, and I don't see a bit of them in me, and I see none of the original joy of life in them, and God your lambs have lost their way...all these people talking have overtaken the silence, but say equally little.

Wednesday August 29, 2007

2009-08-24T23:22:00.000-05:00

Subject: My line of the week

Jackson was saying how neither Starr nor I knew anything about black history or culture.

"You probably don't even know who Booker T. Washington is," he said.

"Of course I do," Starr said. "I've sat through enough boring black history months that I think I've got it."

Jackson looked at her incredulously...my turn.

"Now me personally, I don't think he did his best work till he got with the MGs," I said.

Zing!

Ulkh.

Still...proud of that one.

Tuesday August 21, 2007

2009-08-24T23:20:00.000-05:00

Subject: South side adventures

So, I've been a little off the last few days. Just kinda generally spacey and weird, off-kilter. All that. I called into Yellow yesterday night, and they said there was no chance of my getting dispatched overnight. Sweet. I made a beeline for my bedroom, where there was a fifth of Southern Comfort I'd stashed in my closet.

I poured much of the contents of the bottle (there was maybe a third left) into a glass with some ice and went to town. It was a thing of beauty. It quickly became apparent to Jackson and I more alcohol was needed...if we'd had any brains, we'd've gone before the drinking began, but...somehow alcohol takes any remnants of sense from us and replaces it was an irrepresible need to hump inanimate objects and listen to obnoxiously loud music.

I finished my drink, Jackson finished his bottle of wine..and there we were, thumbs lodged firmly in our asses. Fortunately, Jewel Osco is right up the road a stretch. Matter of fact, here's a map:

From Pictures

So, you see, not terribly far; however, not terribly close, either. Especially when you're already shitfaced and looking to do more damage to your psyche and liver. We slipped on our shoes and trudged our way over there in the humid-as-shit Chicago summer night. I was drenched in sweat by the time we got there. Ulkh.

We sauntered our way over to the liquor section. Saunter might be too smooth a word. We half-stumbled, half-floated our way over there, only to be accosted immediately upon our arrival by a Jewel nazi.

"Let's see some IDs," this friendly-as-a-surly-bouncer sack of shit warbles through her ancient, sagging face. I whip mine out...sure enough, Jackson left his at the house. Mother. Fucker. "We can't sell you anything unless you both have identification," she arthritised out her dentures.

I put on my best sociopathic, be-a-pal smile and try to charm my way through it. The old lesbian, whose ovaries have probably dried up into prune-like sacs by this time in her 'golden years,' would have none of it. Jackson said he would go home to get his ID; I figured I'd try and pull a fast one in the meantime just to save some time.

I grabbed our chips and dip, perused the medical supplies section for a bit (I'm still a pervert at heart, right?), and headed for a cash register maybe 15 minutes later. The phone started ringing the instant I get in line. The cashier answered, and I was informed I could not purchase liquor until my friend showed up with ID.

I left without a word, because I felt extreme violence welling up in me, and I might not have been able to replace the dam if it gave even an inch. Once that water flow started, that probably would have been it until the cops arrived.

So I stood outside and started calling around to some people. Within a few more minutes, Jackson walked back up, ID in hand. We went back in there belligerent as hell, Jackson holding his ID out in front of him like a flashlight on a dark night. Hilarious.

Standing in line, I was being a snide shithead. "Yeah, they're really looking out for us. They stopped two almost-30 year-olds from drinking."

"Boy, if they hadn't, we mighta gotten wasted or something," Jackson said.

I was sobering up by this point, which pissed me off. I hadn't gotten drunk in several months, and was greatly looking forward to inebriation. We got back home, and...the sons of bitches forgot to put our chips and dip in the motherfucking bag. I was livid. After all that, we were gonna have to walk back the fuck over there and get it straight? I thought not.

"I'm done," I said. "No more drinking for me tonight." Jackson suggested we find another thing to eat, but I was more pissed off in principle. These cocksuckers put us through all that, only to fuck up. I hated them all and wished them dead several times over. I mean, in a row, too. You kill them, perform CPR, and kill them again. Three or four times.

Then a knight in shining armor appeared: Jackson's girlfriend offered to come over. A sober person with a car. *Queue heroic music played by wind instruments with a string under-harmony*

Long story short, we got our motherfucking dip and chips. We drank Southern Comfort, wine, Leinenkugel's Berry Weiss, and brandy, and...by the time the night was over at 5:30 a.m., we'd had one hell of a night in our little asylum under Chicago skies.

Damn, things are good somedays.

Monday August 20, 2007

2009-08-24T23:19:00.001-05:00

Subject: True hilarity is when...

your roommate thinks it's a good idea to start going through your stuff while you lounge around on your bed.

He of course found a vibrator, and thought it would be damn funny to start rubbing it all over his face.

"That hasn't been cleaned yet, Jackson."

"Oh, so what? I'm gonna break out?"

"Yeah, something like that."

And it's only later when he's in the shower that you have the heart to tell him exactly how it was used.

And you make a grown man yell and scream in anguish like a wounded yeti just by speaking through the bathroom door.

My work is done here.

And yes, my ass is still sore.

Thursday July 26, 2007

2009-08-24T23:15:00.001-05:00

Subject: Oh holy hell, and Christ on a crutch for good measure...

So, I guess we all occasionally have those days where we know nothing is ever going to be the same again, and we know it pretty much immediately. There's no hemming and hawing as there usually would be, just an assured knowledge that there's no going back for better or worse.

I just had one of those days Tuesday, July 24th. But I guess before I talk about that, I should go back to recent times. I haven't been blogging much, as you may have noticed. That's because the biggest part of what's been going on in my life has been unspeakable. Thus, the rest of the bullshit thoughts rattling around my big Irish head have been muted.

Why haven't I spoken about it? Myriad reasons. A driving force behind that is many people consider my union with this person to be a prominent sign of the apocalypse. They may be right. Even so, I feel much more...complete with this person around. At ease. Lyrics to a recent song work...

"I'm a movement by myself,
But I'm a force when we're together."

I agree with that. She and I destroy anything in our paths during our good times, bad times, and in-between times. She is the definite yin to my yang.

I know you guys are pretty much used to me being a complete ass where women are concerned. Any positivity ever put forth in this blog has been almost exclusively the sort that comes from solitude, from within me. Maybe that's changing. In fact, I can almost guarantee it is.

The 'almost' in that last sentence is another reason I haven't spoken about this situation...the girl's a runner. When she's spooked, she has a tendency to run for the hills. So I haven't wanted to fuck things up by writing a blog and saying too much. I figured I'd roll the dice in person...and if things got fucked up, at least it wasn't a tribulation I'd have to live and address in public.

Things have been very sweet and laid-back. We watch movies. She's fucking hilarious. She makes me laugh harder than almost anyone in the world. One of her more famous lines was "Suck my fuckin' dick...and if you don't like the taste of latex, I'll get you some syrup." Brilliant. More recently, I was talking on the phone, and the little ass (who had just gotten done with her orange chicken) burped and blew it in my face. Goddamnit that's funny. I can't even begin to explain to you how great that is.

And there's so much more...but it's not one of those deals where the hilarity is so sparse that I need to hold on to those moments in my mind. I know another gem is on the way, so I don't have them all at a moment's notice in my mind. I could go on and on about how she makes me laugh. It'd get annoying.

There's more. More than a dumb blog can hold, more than I can admit sometimes, so much more. But I guess the point of this blog is the other day.

It starts off with some bad disappointment. On my way to Dubuque, IA, she'd asked me if we could go to the museum campus when I returned. I said sure. Yellow put me up in a hotel (another one of those fine decisions that means an assload of extra money for me for no reason), and I got running again later that night. When I got back to Chicago, I had hopes that they would let me go home despite my having driven only a few hours. I thought I'd just sneak in my paperwork and slink home unnoticed.

Nope. The guy at the inbound window said I had hours to run, and to get another load from a dispatcher. Well fuck. So I went to the window that could feasibly get me home (it's called the 'turn' window...turns are those deals where I go somewhere and come right back the same night). I told the dispatcher that I had plans in Chicago the following day, and to try and get me back. He told me I'd go to Coldwater, MI, and lay down in the hotel. Fuck. I wrote the girl in question a text, apologizing for my not being able to go.

I run off to Coldwater, just dejected and pissy. I didn't stop once. I thought I may as well get the fucking day over with and return home as soon as possible. When I got there, the Coldwater dispatcher told me I was going back to Chicago. I was dumbfounded. I said I didn't know if I had enough hours to do it...but then I grinned and said I'd make it work. Creative Logbooks 101.

Here's what happened: the dispatcher in Chicago did me a favor, and found a load to put me on so I could get back to Chicago. That's a solid guy, man. I have to thank him sometime. Perhaps with a wet, sloppy blow job. Mano a mano. Just my mouth versus his...okay. Maybe that's not necessary to the story.

I wrote an ecstatic text message, got to Chicago, showered, and we were off. Of course there was a stop for chicken on a stick, but otherwise it was straight to the museum campus.

She wanted to do the Shedd Aquarium and the art museum...but we got such a late start there was only time for the Shedd. So be it. We still had a great time. Lots of turtles...you could say that's a favorite of hers. We watched the dolphin show. We got her a turtle doll (which you can see is her default Myspace pic). Very good, very sweet. We held hands and walked and talked like a couple of teenagers. Tres sixth grade. *grin*

When it was time to leave, she asked about the Botanic Gardens in Glencoe. I'd been there some years before on assignment from my newspaper, and it was fucking gorgeous. She'd been talking about it recently, so we decided to give it a shot. By the time we got there, we had two hours before closing time.

It's hard to believe it was only two hours, really. We had a truly amazing time. Any words I try to use here will come across as either trite or over-the-top, so suffice it to say I will never, ever forget that day. Particularly that part of the day.

At one point, walking through one of the many rose gardens, a performer hired to entertain us visitors played Peter Gabriel's "In Your Eyes," a very meaningful song for us both. I think that may have been one of the first times I'd listened to it in several years. And to look into her eyes...it was easy to see why I'd married her in the first place.

Leaving the gardens, I remembered a moment from our marriage. It was the last day I worked for Goss Communications, the company that owned the newspaper I worked for. She came to work with me because she had the day off, and we had a picnic on a ledge that overlooks the beach on Park Ave. It was my little sendoff to Glencoe, which is a wonderful, beautiful city. I might even live there one day. Who knows.

But looking back, I think that was the last day she and I were...okay. Financially, emotionally, spiritually...any of it. As we looked out into a night sky where we couldn't tell where the lake ended and the sky began, I told her I would've changed everything that happened from that day of the picnic on. And I would. We went places you can't come back from. And then separately we went places you shouldn't come back from.

"Neither one of us deserved it," I told her.

Damnit. Youth truly is wasted on the young. But now that she's in my life again, I feel there's still time. And our time apart changed us in ways that made us both better...for ourselves and maybe each other...

I don't know. I don't have a tidy ending for this. I suppose that's fitting though.

Actually...this is what's fitting. And just know that these things will never change for us at all.

"In Your Eyes"
by Peter Gabriel

love I get so lost, sometimes
days pass and this emptiness fills my heart
when I want to run away
I drive off in my car
but whichever way I go
I come back to the place you are

all my instincts, they return
and the grand facade, so soon will burn
without a noise, without my pride
I reach out from the inside

in your eyes
the light the heat
in your eyes
I am complete
in your eyes
I see the doorway to a thousand churches
in your eyes
the resolution of all the fruitless searches
in your eyes
I see the light and the heat
in your eyes
oh, I want to be that complete
I want to touch the light
the heat I see in your eyes

love, I don't like to see so much pain
so much wasted and this moment keeps slipping away
I get so tired of working so hard for our survival
I look to the time with you to keep me awake and alive

and all my instincts, they return
and the grand facade, so soon will burn
without a noise, without my pride
I reach out from the inside

in your eyes
the light the heat
in your eyes
I am complete
in your eyes
I see the doorway to a thousand churches
in your eyes
the resolution of all the fruitless searches
in your eyes
I see the light and the heat
in your eyes
oh, I want to be that complete
I want to touch the light,
the heat I see in your eyes
in your eyes in your eyes
in your eyes in your eyes

Saturday July 14, 2007

2009-08-24T23:07:00.000-05:00

Subject: So I guess this makes me prejudiced, but...

tall women really bother me.

I'm not talking tall like in girly terms...a girl can get away with 5'11, and often pretty well. It's when they hit that 6-foot mark that it starts to bother me. If a girl is as tall as I am or taller, I want her forcibly sterilized so her genes can be exterminated. Yes, it's a one-inch threshold on this prejudice. Sorry.

I was walking with a cute, shorter girl the other day, and saw a woman who was a good inch or two taller than me. I gnashed my teeth and realized I actually felt physically violent toward her. I wanted to punch her in the stomach, fart in her mouth, and kick her in the cunt. Not necessarily in that order, but preferably.

The fury laid dormant until I cracked open the paper today. I was reading USA Today. They'd named the women's college basketball all-star team.

One girl was 5'5. Awww...a li'l shorty. Just how I like 'em. Another was 5'10. Yeah. Rowr! Hot.

None of the rest of these gargantuan bitches was under 6'1. One of them, I shit you not, was 6'6. That's not a female. That's a Biblical warning. That's something you blind with a slingshot.

How do you get leverage on a bitch like that? Maybe that's why I like my women a little shorter and not as fat as me...so you can really grab a hold of the bitch's shoulders and stuff some tiny mediocrity into her. Well...heh...in my case, anyway.

I mean, are you doing the yoga plank position with ol' Cyclops body when you're on top, or do you put your arms down by your hips and push at her that way? What if her upper leg bones are longer than yours? Do you have to squat behind her for doggy style?

No. You punch her in the kidneys and find a normal girl. That's what you do. You call the Ministry of Genetic Defects, and they rip out her fallopian tubes and whip her back with them. You shoot her with a deer rifle and claim you thought she was a Yeti. Protecting the village, that's all you were doing.

And if you're one of these scientific experiments gone awry, and you're offended by this...I'd fight you, but you have a longer reach than I do (story of my life), and I can't even find your chin under all that facial hair. Get back to the circus. Those people paid good money for a freak, and a freak they'll get, by God. Go easy on 'em. I heard one child ran out screaming in terror last week. That's bad for business, even if it does spread word of mouth.

Crisis averted

2009-08-24T23:05:00.000-05:00

The pictures were too large for my blog, and because photobucket doesn't have a function that automatically sizes them for various functions, I had to switch over to Picasa. In the long run, Picasa will make this much easier; however, for the purpose of posting these greatest hits, it's going to make this process a living hell.

Teeheehee!!! LOL!!!

Test

2009-08-24T18:44:00.000-05:00

From Pictures

We're going to pause with the greatest hits

2009-08-24T18:30:00.000-05:00

while I figure out this issue with Blogger cutting off my photos. Pease hode.

Friday April 6, 2007

2009-08-24T15:19:00.000-05:00

Subject: Dani's decisions versus mine

A few days ago, Dani and I were discussing decisions. Apparently some of her co-workers have old-school relationships where the man makes all the major decisions, and the wife makes the little day-to-day decisions like...dinner. And other assorted cute wifely stuff like that.

Dani, being a reformed feminist, said she would want to be a part of all the decisions in the household. I told her that I wouldn't want to be a part of the 'minor' decisions, but that I would want to take part in the discussion of major decisions.

"Well, yeah," Dani said. "Of course. But it's a discussion. Not just you making the decision. I mean, if it comes down to it, I'm not living in a cardboard box just because you said so."

I started to make another point, but then it struck me what she said without saying there...

"So...you think that if I make the decisions, we'll be living in a cardboard box?"

She said that wasn't what she meant, but...let's explore this concept a little further.

Dani picks a movie:

From Pictures

I pick a movie:

From Pictures

We try it again, after she walks away in disgust.

Dani picks a movie:

From Pictures

I pick a movie:

From Pictures

Let's step up the stakes a bit here, huh? Let's say Dani takes charge of our (assumedly) joint finances. Let's see what kind of things we can afford with her at the helm versus what we'll be able to afford under my plan.

Dani's adult's night out vehicle.

From Pictures

Mine.

From Pictures

Dani's family vehicle.

From Pictures

Mine.

From Pictures

Dani's summer home.

From Pictures

Mine.

From Pictures

Dani's rest-of-the-year home.

From Pictures

Mine.

From Pictures

Dani's road trip vehicle.

From Pictures

Mine.

From Pictures

Dani's houseboy.

From Pictures

Mine.

From Pictures

So I think we can all clearly see I should be making the decisions. I mean...money isn't supposed to matter anyway, right? Are we really too materialistic to enjoy the conditions my decisions bring? I think not.

Saturday March 31, 2007

2009-08-24T14:31:00.000-05:00

Subject: My first commercial

Does this feel like the only proper metaphor for life?

From Pictures

But you don't want to get put on medications by a doctor because they make you feel like this?

From Pictures

Why not try crystal meth?

From Pictures

Yes, crystal meth. The choice of more doctors and truck drivers for dealing with personal problems and decreased productivity, meth is made from all-natural vitamins and minerals straight from nature.

You might've heard propaganda that meth is bad for you. They say you'll wind up looking something like this, right?

From Pictures

You need to understand those people are just jealous. They don't want to see you live the good life.

From Pictures

So what's the reality? You decide for yourself.

What they want you to believe...

From Pictures

...or what they don't want you to find out, but millions of meth users already know.

From Pictures

This message has been brought to you by the Crystal Meth Council of America.

Friday March 23, 2007

2009-08-24T14:27:00.001-05:00

Subject: Tales from the condo, part 1

I needed to go to Wal*Mart and fetch some things, so I asked Jackson to cook dinner. Having just moved in together, either I had handled the cooking or we had just found our own dinners up to this point. So it was Jackson's turn to cook for the first time anyway.

A little background: prior to moving in, I had mentioned wanting to hire some European immigrant to come to the place once a week and cook us food. Being bachelors with (I thought) little or no culinary skills, I figured it would be more than worth the $50 dollars a week involved. Plus, said immigrant would cook us healthy food, rather than the Cheeto and fried chicken casseroles often seen in bachelor pads.

With some goading from the females in my life and Jackson, I backed off the idea (for now). I don't have the funding to do that right now, and many kind-hearted folks have offered to send simple recipes, so I figure we can make this work.

In addition, I quickly discovered that the old boy still has some tricks up his sleeve. I hadn't cooked in literally four years, so I figured I'd completely lost any skills in the kitchen. Oddly enough, it turns out I can still make some pretty fucking tasty dishes. Pastas, fried chicken, chili, Hamburger Helper...you know, some kind of basic things, but...well, I'm working my way back up to the difficult stuff.

On top of even all this, Jackson told me he can cook his ass off, and that he'd be willing to do all the cooking at the new place. Well hell. We can make this work, I figured. No smelly Russian cook for now. Maybe some day, but this will definitely do for now. Hakuna mattata.

So this brings me back to the day in question. I'm off praying at the altar of Sam Walton, and Jackson is back home cooking my favorite kind of Hamburger Helper, beef stroganoff. Mmmm...I'm putting a CD/DVD shelving unit in my little cart and salivating just thinking about it, right?

I get home, and there are immediately signs something has gone awry. The hamburger smelled a wee bit funny as it cooked. I just figured we got the ground kidneys and assholes variety of beef. No big deal. Hamburger Helper yumminess will mask any intestinal tainting, I figure.

Problem number two: Jackson puts the sauce mix in, and goes to the refrigerator to search for American cheese. "Uhhh, why the fuck would you put American fucking cheese in beef stroganoff? That will taste fucking horrendous."

"I like to experiment, man," was his reply. Okay. I appreciate that, but stay away from the American cheese.

From the corner of my eye, I see problem number three: Jackson heading for the pot with Ranch dressing in his hand. Oh lord. "Fucking quit it, man!" I yell, just wanting the fucking Hamburger Helper in its original state. He exasperatedly says "Fine," and replaces it to the refrigerator.

Zero hour was 10 minutes later. The food is in our bowls and ready to eat. I sit in the dining room to surf the internet while I eat, and Jackson goes to the living room to watch television and eat.

I get my first forkful, blow on it to cool it, and put it in my mouth. "Hmmm, that's kinda weird," was my first thought. I assumed it was just my palate being off. A second forkful proved further evidence something wasn't right. By the third forkful, I figured it out: salt. I spat the food back into the bowl.

"Jackson?"

"Yeah, man."

"Why is this so salty?"

"I dunno, man."

"Did you put salt in the food?"

"Naw, man."

"So why is it so salty?"

"Well, I mean, I seasoned the meat. But I didn't put anything in the food."

"Okay. And what did you season the meat with?"

"I dunno...uhh...seasoning salt...garlic salt...regular table salt..."

"You're an idiot. I just want you to know that."

Jackson ate his first bowl of food, then returned to the kitchen for a second. Later, I told him I don't know how he did it.

He sheepishly admitted, "Well, I was kinda only doing it to spite you, since you were making such a big deal about it."

"Ah. It all makes sense now. Pride."

That smelly Baltic cook is sounding better by the minute. Please somebody help. And...send food.

Wednesday November 8, 2006

2009-08-24T14:07:00.000-05:00

Subject: Wisconsin passed a pro-gay-bashing proposition last night...

...well, more or less. Wisconsin chose to tell all the horrible child-molesting faggots in their state that they don't appreciate their kind around there--and don't consider them human, really--when they passed an anti-gay marriage item on their ballot.

Andrea among others in the state are pissed. But what you need to see, Andi, is that you live in a really progressive, cool city in a state full of peckerwoods. Wife-beating alcoholics who put on hats with earflaps and shoot small defenseless animals for sport. Close-minded Christians who breathe their sour mash breath into a lesser person's face while telling them how they should live their life, completely forgetting that whole "judge lest ye be judged" thing.

Hypocrisy is a beautiful thing. They all act like mincing faggots on a daily basis in their homoerotic church clothes, then go beat up on the few, the brave, the proud--the faggots. The people who have the courage to try what they've always wanted to. If only Jesus hadn't gotten into their heads at such a young age. They too could be mowing down on a cock in boy's town. Damn.

Let's get this straight: the heteros have already destroyed the INSTITUTION OF MARRIAGE you hold so dear. Look at the divorce rates. Not good, Christians. These people have cheapened what you're fighting so hard to protect...

Oh. And if I hear one more of you PECKERWOOD COCKSUCKING HILLBILLY REDNECK DOUCHEBAGS SAY 'IF WE ALLOW THIS, WHAT'S NEXT? A MAN AND A SHEEP?' I WILL PRAY TO YOUR GOD FOR NUCLEAR HOLOCAUST. ARE YOU ACTUALLY GOING TO COMPARE TWO HUMAN BEINGS GETTING MARRIED TO BESTIALITY? IS THAT HOW IT WORKS IN YOUR TWISTED SICK LITTLE MIND? LIKE YOU DON'T HAVE THE LITTLE THINGS YOU LIKE IN BED. LIKE YOU DON'T LIKE THE WIFE TO DRESS UP LIKE A SLUT NOW AND AGAIN--POLYGAMY! YOU'RE THINKING ABOUT SOMEONE ELSE! WE SHOULD BURN YOU AT THE FUCKING STAKE! DIE, SINNER! YOU'VE JUDGED, NOW YE BE JUDGED, FAGGOT!

Yes, that's right, homos--Wisconsin and other people on the right basically compare you to livestock. What's worse, it makes sense in their minds. They try to spin and juke, providing you with "civil unions." Do you know what that sounds like? Apartheid. "Separate but equal." Don't let the niggers go to the whites-only drinking fountain. Yeah. Same fucking thing. Just wait. Firehoses in front of churches when Adam and Steve approach the church. (OH ISN'T THAT A FUCKING FUNNY ONE? "GOD MADE ADAM AND EVE, NOT ADAM AND STEVE." I LAUGH EVERY TIME I HEAR IT. DIE.)

Civil unions are a stopgap measure to me. It could work in the short term, as long as they got EVERY SINGLE PROTECTION MARRIAGE GIVES US HETEROS. We're not that special. We shouldn't get that little something extra for liking the opposite sex. It's a 50/50 thing. Either you were born one way or the other. Either you were born white, or you were born another color. This is starting to sound awfully familiar, isn't it?

"Aw, but this is a choice. We let the niggers come to the party 'cause they didn't have a choice. And they're not so bad now, when you compare 'em to the spics 'n ragheads."

Is it a choice? Do we know for sure? Could it be a mixture of the two? This argument is immaterial. It is what it is. They're here. They're queer. They're not going to go straight just to fit into your narrow-minded box and get equal rights. They can't. It's never worked. The best you can hope for is suppression.

But that's what you Christians are all about, now isn't it? Jesus sucked all the fun outta your life, and you're just passing on the favor. Fuck you. All organized religions should be outlawed. Seriously. "Oh, that's just Greg being outrageous again." No. Seriously.

Saturday October 21, 2006

2009-08-24T04:18:00.000-05:00

Subject: Pharoahing 101: Building a Pyramid

So you're a pharoah. Maybe it's one of those things nobody but you knows, but as sure as the people you see on the streets are only free because you haven't enslaved them, you're the real deal.

Are you trying to ease these people into the idea of your God status, just to lessen their shock when the neighbor they once thought was a weirdo suddenly has dominion over them? Sure you are. You're a benevolent ruler, after all.

What better way to say 'I'm moving up in the world' than by building a pyramid?

From Pictures

Okay, that's a picture of the Great Pyramid of Giza. I don't think you need to build one this big to proclaim your pharaocity. The Great Pyramid's base is over 13 acres around, which could be a serious zoning issue in your city. You may want to stick to something that fits in your back yard or other suitable plat of land. You definitely want something large enough that you can leave traversable tunnels within the pyramid, so keep that in mind.

Once you've planned your pyramid (making sure it's structurally sound--you may want to hire someone who's an 'architect,' though this may not be necessary depending on your level of Godliness and genius), and of course worked out a delivery system for the numerous stone blocks you'll need, you're ready to go.

First, let's get one thing straight: you're a pharoah. You need not slave away in the sun building this thing yourself--Ra wouldn't have it anyhow. No, you need to go to the local mission, shelter, or alley behind the local convenience store, and pick up some homeless people.

This can be done one of several ways.

1. 'Hooch.' In layman's terms, this is alcohol. You're not worried about these people's health, so any rotgut shit will do. Dark Eyes or McCormick vodka, Old Granddad whiskey, Everclear (more bang for your buck, obviously), or even moonshine from the local commoner's distillery will suffice.

2. Drugs. This is a great choice, because regardless of the type, drugs will ensure complete subservience and belief in your power, once you explain the nature of the project.

3. Sex. Back-alley whores can be attained for little to no money or crystal meth. During the day, you can let them rest in the workers' rickety lean-tos.

So first, you need to have the bums create the work camp. This can easily be done in a matter of hours, because the quality of workmanship is immaterial. They won't notice any flaws if kept properly sedated.

That done, and assuming the local quarry has delivered the first load or two of blocks, it's time to get down to the important work.

If you've decided on an underground structure, hand them shovels and get ready to start directing. Now that the smelly servants are working on something you care about, micromanagement is key. Bums are not homeless because of bad breaks. They are stupid, lazy, and often insane.

If one of your servants gets surly, you want to be very careful. Many pharoahs' first instinct is to permanently disfigure the infidel. Methods include 'hobbling' (for further research, see Stephen King's 'Misery'), beating, or the removal of appendages.

Your decision greatly depends on the number of homeless in your area. If you have a finite, lesser number, you will want to take greater care than a Pharaoh with a large pool to draw from.

Many Pharaohs either tire of dealing with their workers or value their time far too much to deal with the construction aspect of creating their pyramid. A construction foreman may be a consideration, depending on your needs. Of course, everyone involved should know that if you had the time and desire to be involved with the project, it would be done far better than any mere mortal could ever conceive. But...the Pharaoh's will is law. You know better than anyone.

Historians say the Great Pyramid of Giza took 100,000 slaves decades to build. Because you're dealing with a much smaller scale, and the slabs of stone don't have to be dragged miles, it's safe to say your pyramid could be built within a year, depending on the size you have chosen. Most importantly, don't let time figure into your plans. This pyramid is to make a statement on your life and divinity. It should be nothing less than the grandest concepts you have in mind.

Good luck, and happy Pharaohing.

Thursday October 19, 2006

2009-08-24T04:17:00.000-05:00

Subject: Blog circle tryout...

Topic: Interview an inanimate object that was close to someone who died. Include paperclips and scented candles.

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

Greg Butler: I can't tell you what an honor it is to finally meet you.

Jayne Mansfield's Severed Head: Do you have any idea how wrong this is?

GB: I wouldn't call it wrong, so much as 'sexy.' So it's been a while since you were in the public eye. Care to tell us what you've been up to?

JMSH: Uh, well...I dunno. Decomposing? I mean, look at me. Have you seen photos of what I used to look like?

GB: Beauty's in the eye of the beholder. I can barely wait till this interview's over. So what was it like being so close to Jayne Mansfield?

JMSH: See, we're having some kind of crazy 'disconnect' here. I was Jayne Mansfield. I had my fucking head cut off. It's not like I was Marilyn Monroe's tampon.

GB: Touchy, touchy. So what kind of things did Jayne do with you?

JMSH: You know what? You're a fuc...okay, I'll play the game here. But I'll do it on my own terms. I used to put on very alluring make-up, go out on the town, pose for cameras, have my pick of the litter of men...I had it all. Fame and fortune. Everything I could've ever wanted.

GB: Jayne sounds like a bit of a skank. It's a shame a nice inanimate object like you had to be stuck around her like that. Boy are you starting to stink. Let's get some scented candles going. Alright. Much better. So what were your favorite movies of Jayne's?

JMSH: Okay, first of all, I wasn't a skank. And I always liked how 'The Girl Can't Help It' turned out. The Beatles sure didn't complain. Their favorite movie, you know.

GB: Yeah, they're all dead now, you know. Well, that is to say, Ringo may as well be, and Paul is going through a fate worse than death to a woman with a coat rack leg. At least John had the foresight to let himself get shot to escape that pretentious whiny idiot wife of his. You know?

JMSH: Huh?

GB: Oh yeah. You're probably a bit behind the times, and you were never bright to begin with. Never mind. So Jayne was coasting with her stardom, and you were along for the ride. What was it like to watch her decline from starlet to star to Wayne Newton/Celine Dion-level kitschy Vegas strip notoriety?

JMSH: Huh?

GB: Oh Christ. I shouldn't use so many words. That's my fault. Wait a second...is that something dribbling outta your eye? Lemme get at that...here I have a paper clip...ewww...that's like maple syrup. Wow. So anyways. I was saying. What was it like to watch Jayne go from star to talentless slut?

JMSH: Ha! Honey, I was earning $25,000 a week back then. Later I was making $35,000.

GB: Yeah, it's amazing what they'll pay for Hollywood has-beens.

JMSH: I wasn't a has-been. My priorities just changed.

GB: So did the studios'. They wanted to move beyond pumping out embarrassing B-movies, I guess.

JMSH: I was a talented woman, asshole.

GB: You were a cock ornament. Guys only found you interesting because they wanted to lay you. The funniest thing you ever did was get decapitated.

JMSH: This interview's over.

GB: Fair enough. Lemme get the Saran Wrap. You're goin' in my freezer.

JMSH: Please don't do this.

GB: Okay, I won't. I'm sorry. Just kidding. In ya go.

Saturday October 14, 2006

2009-08-24T04:13:00.000-05:00

Subject: Cliche girls the average guy wants to bang, not realizing they're unfuckable retards

First a note on unfuckable retards. We all know them. You girls generally refer to them as 'really nice guys' or 'sweet.' They're the guys that you like 'just as friends' you wouldn't bang to save a litter of puggle puppies.

Any number of things could make them unfuckable retards: they're just legitimately nice and don't have that killer instinct to close the deal when it comes to getting pussy, they have low self-esteem and aren't confident enough, they quote Monty Python (I know. We all love Monty Python. But if you quote that shit to a chick, it's the anti-pussy. Trust me.), or they are video gamers, larpers, or involved in any Dungeons and Dragons-type activity.

There are girls that will fuck these guys. They are not in and of themselves unfuckable retards. In reality, sometimes these guys wind up with pretty cool chicks. They have issues, but at least they have personality--moxie, if you will. I think whenever a larper gets a chick, an angel gets its wings. It's a beautiful thing.

My theory? Eighty-five percent of the time, whenever a girl says a guy is 'nice,' or 'sweet,' you can replace that word with 'unfuckable retard,' and it works out just fine. Many of the girls reading this are clicking their tongues, and getting that high voice to say 'noooo...that's not riiiiight...' but if you were really honest, you'd see some truth in it.

Let's face it...if he were so great, you'd be fucking him (or at least interested), now wouldn't you? Why aren't you? Because he's an unfuckable retard.

But it's not just guys guilty of this. Women can be unfuckable retards too. We need to note the differences in what creates an unfuckable retard for both genders, though. In guys, it's simple: if you have a Gundam collection, that's it.

For women, the really, truly, super-hot chicks are generally unfuckable retards. I know this. I've done my research. I've fucked some truly hot women in my time, and...yeah. Unfuckable retards, all of them. It was just problematic in my research that I didn't discover this until after I'd already made the mistake.

Chicks who are superhot never had to develop a personality. Idiot fuckin' guys who place so much stock in a woman's looks because of social mores are always lining up to fuck them. They should have merging traffic signs leading up to their asses. Seriously.

And you'd like to think that a superhot girl would do all the nasty things you've seen them do in the porn movies, right? Oh, yeah...she's gonna be suckin' your dick goin' "Ummmmah*smack* Ummmmmah*smack*" right? Wrong. Much in the way they've never had to develop a personality, they've also never had to learn how to fuck. They think, often correctly, that all they have to do is lie there and be superhot to make the guy happy.

So why are the superhot porn chicks always so animated? Because they're getting paid, dumbass. "Ohhh yahhhhh...that's sooo biiiiig....oh fuck yah! Oh that's such a big....paycheck I'm gonna get at the end a this! Fuck yah!"

Superhot porn chicks aren't even good at faking good sex. I literally have to put porn on mute now. No joke. I cannot handle another one of these wooden robots poorly simulating what they think good sex looks and sounds like--because they've never had it. They're not smart enough. They have no experience to draw on.

So what do you have? A thin, pretty chick with a beautiful face, big tits, and a heavenly ass who lies there like a tumor on a lung, then can't even offer good pillowtalk afterwards. They tell you about their musical tastes, and it's a top 20 station's wet dream. They tell you about their favorite movies, and they're the most heavily-advertised and most-attended movies of recent years.

I'll take the funny chick who fucks well over that nonsense any day, regardless of how she looks. I don't look like much either, you know.

So because they're hot we have to put up with these waifish retards on the various forms of media because they know how to make a lettuce leaf and diet pills hold them over until dinner, which consists of a baked chicken breast and an enema. That's not a talent that makes for riveting television. Or good music. Or good acting. It doesn't mean much of anything other than tooth decay from bulimia.

So who are some fine examples of unfuckable retards?

Britney Spears
Jessica Simpson
Hilary Duff
Jenna Jameson
Tara Reid
Tyra Banks
Paris Hilton
Angelina Jolie (I know this one hurts, because you reserve these ideas of her being witty and intelligent, but I've seen interviews. Nobody's home, folks.)

It's not an exact science. Uma Thurman is brilliant. Jodie Foster is well-spoken. Jessica Alba. Halle Berry. Natalie Portman graduated Harvard. Sure. I understand. I didn't paint in black and white here. Just pointing out some trends.

The bottom line is this: incredible stupidity trumps hotness. Every time.

Wednesday October 11, 2006

2009-08-24T04:11:00.001-05:00

Subject: The Big Mac

I like Big Macs once in a while. Every few months I forget about the shitty food at McDonald's and how Ronald looks like a skinny John Wayne Gacy mixed with a child molestor, and go have a date with food poisoning. It's a good system.

I tried the quarter pounder with cheese, but it's just a mushy piece of shit. Their chicken nugget things are like the balls of a retarded 40-year-old (just soggy and awful). The McChicken sandwiches are alright, if you get them without fuckiing mayo. What is that off-yellow bull cum they use for mayo, for fuck's sake? Jesus Harold and Mary Christ.

But the Big Mac is king. Out of the box, you are promised this:

From Pictures

I'm not so unrealistic to see that not a single Big Mac in history has ever looked like this. This is the unfucked Britney Spears' 18 year-old vagina of Big Macs. Totally unrealistic, and you will never meet it in real life. Ever.

Instead you get this:

From Pictures

Okay. Big fuckin' drop off. This is the Ashley Simpson's blown-out, my-father's-been-fucking-me-and-my-sister-please-help vagina of Big Macs, and it's something we should all be acquainted with, even if only as children.

You can deal with that, right? I mean, it's still a kinda famous vagina, even if it's living off the glory of its sister and the restaurant it's attached to, which has had pervasive ads running since the time of Hieroglyphics and Sanskrit.

The problem is this:

From Pictures

That's right. 1000 Island Dressing. Who the fuck put pureed vomit on my fucking burger? Is this infant mucous? Did a girl with chlamydia sit on my all-beef patty?

I don't know whose grand idea it was to put this...substance on Big Macs, but they should be drugged and sterilized in a dentist's chair beneath the Pentagon. Seriously. That shit shouldn't come anywhere near a burger, especially one that's the Joaquin Phoenix of burgers to begin with.

"Aw lawdy lawd, my brother's break dancing in front of the Viper room! What am I gonna do? Maybe I'll take acting lessons and bore the entire world with my lack of gift!"

And thus the Big Mac was born. For the record, I don't even know one person who puts that 1000 Island shit on SALAD. So where they got off thinking this was the key ingredient to the burger--and then to call it "SECRET SAUCE!"--mystifies me like a Down Syndrome child listening to a professor.

I have to say, much in the way the McChicken is pretty decent without the off-yellow mule spunk, the Big Mac isn't half bad without this abortion juice and the sour joke McDonald's uses for pickles. How do you fuck up a pickle? It's a fucking cucumber in VINEGAR. But they do.

I don't know how this should end. I could call for a letter-writing campaign, but most of you have lives and would readily tell myself to get fucked for suggesting such a thing. I could say I'll never go to McDonald's again, but I have the will power of a 247-pound 10 year-old. Not gonna last, that boycott.

Maybe it just comes down to this: fuck McDonald's. And fuck the people who make their sauces.

And if you put that shit on my Big Mac one more fucking time after I asked you, in polite and plain English, not to do so, I will...well, I'll probably just scrape it off to the side like an aborted fetus and eat it. But I'll think about hanging you from a meat hook and curing you with salt in my basement.

Tuesday October 10, 2006

2009-08-24T04:08:00.000-05:00

Subject: King Tut can suck a fucking DICK

I went to the Field Museum today. My friend Ja9ine is in town visiting, and she's wanted to see this exhibition for some time. The fucker's in town, so let's go see his crusty Egyptian ass, right? Right. We paid our $25 each (it was discount day, so general admission was free--it would've been, like, $40 each otherwise) and

It started off nice. Artifacts galore. The stories behind them. The stories of Tut, his mother and father, Tut's wife...the story of how Tut's father (or allegedly his wife Nefertiti) changed Egypt for the worse by ending its polydeity religion in favor of worshipping one God, the sun.

Tut changed that shit back as soon as possible. It was tearing the country he inherited apart, and that wasn't cool with him, yo. So he was very popular with the people of Egypt.

And there were things that Tut used as a child, including footstools and the like. Very cool, mundane things that took on special meaning only through the special person they were linked to. I liked that.

It got more intense. There was a gold container used to store his internal organs when they mummified him...it all seemed to be leading up to the big reveal: the sarcophagus Tut was buried in.

A video: Tut had FIVE sarchophaguses. Oh cool. They would HAVE to have one of the FIVE sarcohpaguses. If you look at the Field Museum web site, THEY USED THE FUCKING THING IN THE ADVERTISEMENTS.

No sarcophagus. 0-for-5. If they had another chance and got one, they would only be batting .167, which isn't even enough to keep you in the majors.

Fuck you, Field Museum. Fuck you in your ass.

I didn't expect a motherfucking mummy. That thing has places to go, things to see. I understand. But at least the fucking sarcophagus, if you're going to use it in the FUCKING ADS.

Fuck King Tut in his dead Egyptian ass.

How does the Field Museum sleep at night?

Probably in a yarmulke, on a bed stuffed with Franklin faces.

Friday October 6, 2006

2009-08-24T04:04:00.000-05:00

Subject: Goddamn Nirvana...

I've been watching Nirvana videos on Youtube all morning. God fucking damnit am I depressed.

My brother doesn't understand why I don't like for him to play Nirvana all the time the way he does. It's because it fucking hurts. It doesn't hurt in that "I was once young and innocent and the world was better" stereotypical way...he doesn't know what it was like when Nirvana was around. There was the REAL FEELING that Kurt Cobain was going to save the world with that music. That he was going to have a breakthrough, and come up with something even more amazing than what he'd already done, and it was going to show us something we never would've thought of on our own.

There has not been a celebrity like Kurt Cobain since. Nobody that when they're on the television screen I tell people to shut up so I can listen to. Maybe Beck, but...Beck isn't out to change the world, and he won't. Kurt Cobain, you got the feeling, could and would.

That was the most exciting time of my life. Of everyone's life who lived it, who wasn't off listening to gangsta rap or pop music. Regardless of age. Something was happening. You could feel it. And it was good.

And one day it was taken away.

Travis knows how the story ends from the very start. He wasn't there to see the open-ended endless possibilities, the feeling that things were changing. He just knows there was this cool guy once, and he's dead now. But the music's kinda cool.

Kurt Cobain died for our sins, and a few of his own, and I am fearful we'll never see another artist like him again the way the record industry has changed in the time since.

They keep shoving these pop punk bands down our throat like they could ever mean a fucking thing to us...giving us rappers who tell us how great they are rather than showing us...giving us bands who tune down their guitars and whine into the microphone like that's going to connect with us...

Fuck these bands. They're pale and quiet. Nobody will roar that way again, I fear. And fuck do I miss it.

It's been eerily quiet for 12 1/2 years now. Everything is so spread out now that no one thing will ever again catch our attention.

Isn't technology great?

We can hear and see all this...nothing.

Friday September 29, 2006

2009-08-24T03:58:00.000-05:00

Subject: The Aristocrats!

A family walks into a talent agent's office: a mother, a father, son, obviously pregnant daughter and the family dog. The father says to the agent, "Mr. Kikeberggoldenstein, have I got an act for you."

The agent leans back in his leather chair, puffs thoughtfully on his cigar as he sizes up the family. "I don't do family acts. You need the Christian agency up the street."

"Please, sir. We've already been there, and they threw us out. They said we weren't..we weren't quite what they were looking for, and we've traveled so far to try and get our big break..."

"Alright, alright. Enough with ya life story. Let's see what you got..."

The family springs into action. The father and son disrobe, lie next to each other, and start jacking their cocks. As they become erect, the daughter and mother simultaneously read from a piece of paper, "On Sept. 11, 2001, our nation lost a confirmed 2,948 people. We would now like to recreate the events of that day."

The mother and daughter begin screaming "Allah Akbar!" as they open their mouths and dive in on the father and son's turgid towers. Sucking with expert precision, they quickly bring them to simultaneous completion. Removing their mouths with the sound a plunger makes on a linoleum floor, they begin screaming "Oh lawdy lawd, dey's jumpin' from de billins," as sperm sprays from their cocks like so many people did that day.

The father, a notorious multiple cummer, hops up and starts making airplane noises: "vroooooooooom..." He jauntily glides around the room a moment, then plunges his cock into the family dog, who yelps in instant pain.

"I think a plane just hit the Pentagon," says the wife, holding a mock phone up to her ear with a confused look on her face.

The son, having had some time to recover, regains his erection and makes airplane noises as he glides around in a perfect recreation of the father's act. Suddenly he falls cock-first to the floor with a horrifying 'crunchsplat' sound.

"Flight 93 was the only plane that was stopped before it hit its intended target," the mother reads.

The father and daughter pull a curtain shut. Five minutes go by as the agent questions his path in life and religion. Suddenly, there is great commotion and screaming. When the curtains reopen, it's a complete manger scene: the father, son, and a third man who was not originally part of the act play the wise men. The daughter, playing the part of Mary, lies on a cot in shock. Crude, rusted tools lie next to her, covered in blood. She is no longer pregnant, her belly slashed from one hip to the other. A slimy baby lies in a makeshift crib..the baby Jesus. The mother stands off to the side, a sheep herder. She raises a stick over her head and cries "Staff of Negro summoning, I command you to deliver unto-"

Suddenly the Harlem Globetrotters crash past the three wise men. Their ringleader punches Mary (the daughter) in the face as hard as he can with a meaty thud, knocking her unconscious, while the rest of the team pulls the baby Jesus from the crib, mucous trails of placenta and myriad body fluids stringing like a macabre spider web.

Unsheathing their massive black cocks, the Globetrotters put the kid on the rotisserie in every conceivable conglomeration. They do behind the back passes, the baby Jesus landing perfectly on the receiver's proud, erect member. They knee Jesus, sending him through a makeshift hoop, only to land on another veiny shaft. For the finale, one Globetrotter spins the child on one finger, vaults him into the air still spinning, and two of them catch the child in mid-air with their cocks, thrusting through the mouth and ass.

"The autopsy will later show this was the blow that killed the baby Jesus," the mother reads. "Be sure to vote Republican to stop the liberals and minorities from killing Jesus again."

The curtain closes. There are faint cries from a woman, pleading, and the sound of hammering from behind the curtain. When it opens again, the family is wearing party hats and singing "Happy Birthday" to the son, who is strapped to his seat. Above him, his sister hangs from a crucifix, bleeding. She too is gagged, and far too weak to whimper around the mass stuffed in her mouth. A crown of thorns bites into her head, and a butcher knife has been shoved to the hilt in her side.

"...happy birthday to yoooooou," they finished. The son looks about side to side, not knowing where to look, and definitely not wanting to.

"How many times were we gonna have to tell you to use protection to avoid impregnatin' yo' sistah?" the father asks in a sophisticated southern drawl as he whittles a piece of wood, a fifth of George Dickel by his side. "I know we reside in a trailer park for the time bein', but we don't have to live up to each and every single stereotype that abounds about folk like us...

The father considers it a moment as he hums 'Yankee Doodle'.

"I think we all know what's gonna hafta happen before you learn ya lesson, boy. Me and God, we gots ahselves a plan," he spits, putting the whittled wood to the side and taking a better grip on the knife. He stalks over quickly while the boy shakes his head and sinks the knife into his groin with a sickly gushing sound. The boy pitches forward, nearly overturning the chair. His eyes roll back into his head as the curtain closes. There is a faint sawing sound, then silence.

When the curtains open again, the now-dead daughter's arms have been severed and turned into a Menorah. The mother, son, father and dog wear Yarmulkes. A dreidel spins between the three of them as they sing the dreidel song merrily. Suddenly there is a knock on the door. The son volunteers to answer it.

An Asian man stands in the door, his gloved hands rubbing furiously together in the cold. The son greets him.

"Hi, young man. I don"t mean to intellupt your horidays hele, but...I was wondering if there was any way at arr you courd herp an ord man with a coupre dorrahs during this fine horiday season..." the old man says.

"Hang on a second," the young man says. He approaches his father, the door still open. "Father, the man wants to know if we can help him out with a couple dollars, it being the holidays and all."

The father shoots the boy an enraged look as he digs into his pocket, pulls out a couple bills, and shoves them into the boy's hands; he delivers them to the old man, oblivious to any problem.

"Oh, bress you forks. Bress you. Happy horidays. Merry Chlistmas, Happy Hanukkah, whatever it is you guys do this time of year. Oh. And solly about that whore Pill Hahbah thing, huh? See ya rater, loundeyes." The old man waves and walks away gratefully smiling. The son shuts the door and walks back over to his family, now glaring at him like he was Mel Gibson at a Jewish pride parade. Even the dog.

"Dreidel, dreidel, dreidel," he begins to sing. The father reaches out and whips a fist into the son's mouth.

"Do you mean to shame me in front of that man, asking me for his money right in front of me? You can't tell him 'no' and just shut the door, rather than obligating me to pay him his pity money? Is that how this family has gotten ahead in this world? By spending and giving money so foolishly?" the father bellows as he throttles the son with fists to the face and head.

With the young man dazed on the floor, the father retrieves a rusty meat hook from a drawer on the far side of the room. Hanging it from a chain he's lowered from the ceiling, he turns the boy onto his stomach and pulls his shirt up. He begins shoving and hammering it with his bare hands into the underside of the boy's ribcage, piercing a lung in the process. The boy is unable to scream. The hook firmly in place, he pushes a button and the boy is hoisted off the ground. Dangling there, blood pours from his open, shocked mouth. The father puts a bucket underneath him to collect the blood.

"A penny saved is a penny oined," the father says, pulling a Torah and a hacksaw from a cabinet. The father reads a prayer from the book, then grabs the hacksaw. "Hold his legs steady, would you dear?" he asks his wife. She pulls his leg downward hard, pulling him with even greater force onto the meathook.

"What are you doing?" he finally manages, barely above a whisper, as the father places the hacksaw flush against his knee.

"I was making sure you were Kosher," the father says, matter-of-factly, as he begins to saw through the leg. "If you're going to cost us money like that, we have to find ways to cut corners. Looks like you'll be providing us with dinner for the next week. I think we can call it even now." The leg's tendons give way, and the appendage thumps into the bucket with a meaty, heavy, wet plop.

The curtain closes. When it reopens, the father and son are both in blackface, jewelry on every finger and hanging heavy around their necks. Fried chicken and watermelon are stacked high on a nearby table. The mother sits at the bar, alternately smoking crack and running off to the bathroom with older men to get money for more. The father puts in the 8 ball.

"Game," the father says.

"I ain't seen shit, nigga," the son says.

"Oh, you think just cuz you Eminem's boy you ain't hafta live by the rules like the rest a us? You ain't shit," the father says.

The son pulls out a gun, and the father quickly unholsters and puts a bullet in the son's head.

"I gotchyo 'proof' right there, bitch," the father says with a laugh.

The curtain closes. When it reopens, there is a lavish Eastern Indian setting. Both the father and mother have cartoonishly large dots on their foreheads. Curry wafts through the air. The son's torso hangs on the wall, the daughter's arms stapled to his midsection. A sign hangs around his neck: 'VISHNU' it says in jagged crayon writing.

"You fat, hairy bitch!" the father exclaims in an Indian accent. "You ate all de baba ganoush! I divorce thee, I divorce thee, I divorce thee!"

"Patel...please calm down," the wife says softly. She grins. "Remember when we were young? Those were great times."

"They were," he says. They both consider this a moment.

"Can you do it?" she says, with a wicked grin.

"Oh come on...I'm not in the mood," he says, now also grinning.

"Come on, darling...please?"

"Oh fine," he says, clearing his throat. "Shumtiiiiiiiimes I feeeeeeeel like a mudderlesh child..." he sings. "Sheeesh a lady...rotdotdeederdon...sheeeesh a lady..."

"I love your Tom Jones impression, baby," she says, laughing warmly.

"That's PATEL Jones, thankyouveddymuch." They laugh.

"What do you think? Torture some Pakistanis in the basement tomorrow, then cook them in some curry?" the wife asks.

"Like there's anything else in the world I'd rather do..."

They embrace. The curtain closes.

The curtain reopens to the father half passed out drunk lying in a gutter, next to his wife. A white man walks by, throws a small pox blanket on them, just for old time's sake. The father wears a giant headdress. The wife wears a small headband with a feather sticking out the back. Like her hair, it's matted in gutter slime.

A gay Mexican couple walks past them.

"Hey, at least we..re not them," the husband laughs.

"What, Mexican?" the wife asks.

"Well, yeah...there's that. But gay ALSO? That's like being the parasite on the back of a parasite."

"I don't have a problem with that," she says. The husband crashes his empty liquor pint into her face, shattering it and causing blood to pour from her face.

"The Great Spirit told me to do that," he says. "Sorry about that. He says you're wrong about the gays, so you had to be punished. Agrees with you on the Mexicans, though."

The curtain closes. When it reopens, the mother is on her knees in an orange jumpsuit, while the husband reads aloud from the Koran. The words become hypnotic after several minutes. Without warning, he unsheathes a large knife, pulls her to the ground by the hair, and saws her head off.

With the head still in his hand, he steps forward.

"Well, that's it. What'd ya think?" he asks.

"M...my God. I-I..m afraid to move," the agent says. "Are you going to hurt me?"

"No, no...we were just here to show you our act. We've never gotten past the first act. So what..d you think?"

"Well, it was unlike anything I've ever seen before. What the hell could you possibly call a...a thing like that?"

"The Aristocrats," he says with a grin, pulling a gun from his belt, then putting it into his mouth and pulling the trigger.

Sunday September 10, 2006

2009-08-24T03:47:00.000-05:00

Subject: You fucking Republicans make me SICK.

You don't have thoughts unless Rush or Hannity tell you to, you believe your leaders are honest (no gladhanding or nepotism here, folks), and you say you favor smaller government, even though your leaders say they favor smaller government...until JESUS gets involved. Then it's...

"WE GOTTA SPEND AS MUCH MONEY AS POSSIBLE SHOVING JESUS' DICK DOWN THESE HEATHENS' THROATS! TAKE JESUS' VEINY DICK DOWN YA THROAT! TAKE IT! TAKE IT! AND YOU'D BETTER FUCKIN' SWALLOW OR WE'LL BLOW YOUR FUCKIN' BRAINS ALL OVER THIS ALLEY! THAT'S JESUS' SEED! WE SHOULD ALL BE SO LUCKY!"

Here's what I think of your last two big oil and military machine puppets:

From Pictures

Then again, you Democrats are fucking stupid as well. You allow special interest groups to take our freedoms away...as long as they're not Christian special interest groups. That's separation of church and state, right?

We can't say anything anymore because of political correctness. You know what me and my wife used to do as we were falling asleep back when I was married? Call each other racial slurs and giggle like retards. Oh. I'm sorry. Developmentally challenged wastes of oxygen.

You think the government knows how to spend our money better than we do? That we should give as much as possible to the government for them to redistribute amongst us in a fair and equitable manner? THE GOVERNMENT SPENDS $100 ON A HAMMER, YOU FAGGOTS.

From Pictures

Anyone who fancies themselves a 'Republican' and favors smaller government and the government LEAVING YOU THE FUCK ALONE should check out the Libertarian party.

Goddamn sheep on both sides. Fuck the government. You're born totally free, the government fucks you out of half of it, and you sit there waving your flag. Suck my dick.

Been on a surveillance camera in Chicago lately? Yeah, I have. Thank God I wasn't doing anything wrong, right folks? Otherwise it could've been an infringement on my freedom. Wake the fuck up already.

Friday September 8, 2006

2009-08-24T03:44:00.000-05:00

Subject: This has been bothering me

Two of the lines from this fucking thing didn't rhyme, and I came up with a great substitution, but I never posted it. Here we go again...

Captain: Are you ready kids?

Kids: Aye-aye Captain.

Captain: I can't hear you...

Kids: Aye-Aye Captain!!

Captain: Oh! Who lives on a crucifix on Mount Calvary?

Kids: Stickback Holehands!

Captain: Abandoned and holy and pious is he!

Kids: Stickback Holehands!

Captain: If spears in the side of your savior you wish...

Kids: Stickback Holehands!

Captain: Then make water wine and we'll net some fish!

Kids: Stickback Holehands!

Captain: Ready?

EveryBody: Stickback Holehands! Stickback Holehands! Stickback Holehands!

Captain: Stickback...Holehands!

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

Also, this line from a survey I took a long time ago made me laugh out loud earlier:

If I were a tree, I'd be: flinging houses from my branches, killing children

Saturday August 19, 2006

2009-08-24T03:36:00.000-05:00

Subject: Pez

I was going back over some of my favorite drunken exploits, and I remembered how hilarious this one was.

I was hanging out with my friend Chris Manos, when unannounced our mutual acquaintance Ryan McKay showed up at the door. Looking back, I can't call Ryan a 'friend' of mine, because you can't really be friends with someone who is their own best friend and worst enemy at the same time. It doesn't work out.

Ryan had a bottle of tequilla in his hand. Tequilla has never been a friend of mine. Within the last couple years I was one-shotted by Cuervo 1800...meaning I threw up after one fucking shot because it sat wrong on my stomach.

But when I was 16, I still had the constitution for the stuff apparently. So we got to doing our shots and chasing with Pepsi or whatever pop (and you fucking coasters know what the fuck I'm talking about--it's "soda pop" for fuck's sake) was around my house.

Manos decided in his inimitable style that he wasn't getting drunk fast enough, so he turned the bottle upside down and chugged easily 1/3 of the fifth in maybe 5 seconds. He was chugging so hardcore there was a 'glug-glug' sound coming from the bottle.

We began to view Manos as a chemistry experiment. It was only a matter of time before he became a 'melt' (our term for someone who had done too much drugs/alcohol...it was usually applied to acid, but I'm taking liberties. Blow me). We wanted to see how bad this was gonna get.

Manos became giddy, as he usually did when he was fucked up. Whereas I was pretty depressed about it most of the time (ask Manos about the song "Steal My Body Home" when we were high sometime...), Manos embodied everything annoying and hilarious about Jim Carrey when he got high. Annoying if you were sober, hilarious if you were doing whatever substance alongside him.

We gave him some shit about getting fucked up, and he decided to walk a straight line. He stood up Bambi-on-ice-like, took two steps, and crashed onto me. I stood him up and pushed him back into his seat, where he giggled like a little girl for a while.

Some time passed, and because he got quiet, we could tell he was losing the battle. I asked him if he was alright, and he stood up to do his 'walking the line' trick. Only this time when he fell, I gave the old 'ole!' and moved out of the way, and he slammed face-first onto my bed. He literally didn't move a muscle. Made no attempt whatsoever to get up or even prove that he was a human life form.

Ryan and I decided it would be best if we moved my garbage can underneath his face, as he was lying on the edge of my bed. It was a prophetic decision, because a short time later Chris got sick. He didn't even move. He had no idea what was going on. I got the impression that if he hadn't been lying on his stomach, he would've pulled a Jimi Hendrix right there on my bed.

The only movement Manos made was to move his head slightly up as if looking up from paperwork to talk to somebody. He looked like a bottomless human Pez dispenser. He really was the gift that kept giving that night.

Ryan got grossed out by the scene, so he split. Manos eventually stopped puking and rolled onto his back. I was drunk, so I decided to listen to music for a while. Why not enjoy the buzz if nothing else, I figured.

About two hours later, as I sat in my chair writing and listening to music, Chris out of nowhere sat bolt upright, waved his arm with his pointer finger extended like some drunken conductor, and proclaimed 'I was never drunk!' then slammed back down on the bed, passed out again. It was the damndest thing I'd ever seen.

The next day, Chris had to go to church. He went, and puked numerous times throughout the morning. His mother was livid. She never has liked me, ever since. I think she thought I was a bad influence. I don't know where people come up with these things.

Monday at school, Manos had a new nickname. Pez. That one stuck until we graduated.

Friday August 18, 2006

2009-08-24T03:35:00.000-05:00

Subject: An embarrassing story starring me

A long time ago (we're nearing the decade mark on this one, come to think of it), I was living with my girlfriend's family. Shit had gotten intolerable at my mom's house, and I got out only to move in on another type of hell.

When you live in a hellish situation, and that situation is set in Northwest Indiana, there is only one option: angrily drink your problems away.

I was a stocker at my girlfriend's mother's liquor store. One day my coworkers invited me to a li'l get-together. No one called it a 'party.' It was just an innocent night. What, with me being 18 and all, it would be illegal to invite me to a 'party' where alcohol would be served. Right?

So I get to the party, and everyone's already shitshacked. I gotta catch up. I'd been drinking on a regular basis since I was 15, so I could handle my shit. Or so I thought.

They were mixing screwdrivers in 32 oz. cups. The first few were pretty good. A nice mix of vodka and o.j. Then the new stocker I'd been training that month brought me a cup that was mostly vodka with a tinge of juice. Aww fuck. And of course, he's this really manly hillbilly, so I have to act all cool about it...just kinda go 'ooh, hey...that's a stiff drink...' and then down as much of it as humanly possible.

The rest of the night is a blur. They decide someone needs to deposit me in a shopping cart on my girlfriend's front lawn, or something like that. One of the cashiers hasn't been drinking too much, so she volunteers to drive me. I proceed to puke all over the side of her car.

I blur into the house. I decide to go to the bathroom...knowing I wouldn't have much aim, I sit down to pee. In midstream, I get the urge to throw up again. So, flinging piss around with abandon, I whirl around to ram my head into the bowl, not even bothering to pull up my pants from their station around my ankles. I pass out.

It is in this state my girlfriend's mother finds me two hours later: passed out, my pants around my ankles, my head in the toilet. She is laughing so hard my girlfriend has no idea why she was awakened until she opens the bathroom door.

My girlfriend collects me, gets me to bed, and I'm back at work the next day being laughed at by the very bastards who did it to me as I try to get my stomach to accept solid foods.

To add insult to injury, my girlfriend's mother spreads it around that I must have a small cock because she couldn't see shit as I was sprawled out nude in the bathroom.

Yeah, those were the days. They were 'youthful indiscretions' back then. If I tried that shit now, I'd be forced into a 12-step program. And perhaps given a penis pump.

Monday August 14, 2006

2009-08-24T03:32:00.000-05:00

Subject: Book report, shitty authors with great characters and concepts...

Been a while since my last post, kiddies. I've been dealing with fatigue and low-level depression the last few days. Nothing too bad. It just left me without the urge to write. I'm back. Though if you look at the hour this is posted at, you'll be forced to wonder (much as I am right now) how long I'll be back for this time.

I write with a purpose, though. I read a book recently...a horrible, awful book that many of you would find completely unfinishable once the first gay sex scene wafted its way into the air. I, being the intrepid pervert I am, was not put off too terribly by this (though it isn't my cup of tea, frankly), and finished the fucking thing in three sittings.

The book is Poppy Z. Brite's "Exquisite Corpse." Don't whip out your wallets just yet. Believe me. The book sucks corpse cock. This is a book report in the way of a question: why do shitty writers create such compelling characters?

James Patterson. The man is literally developmentally challenged. He should be shitting in a plastic bag. Seriously. But he creates the best characters and the best fucking story lines...damnit. I'd never read one of his paperback abortions, but I find myself going to see every one of the fucking things that is adapted to the silver screen (yes, I made that term up).

And of course Morgan Freeman has to star in it, and--well, has nobody noticed he has the acting range of Keanu Reeves? He plays the same refined black man in every fucking role. Jesus, does that shit get old.

"A movie with a wise black man? Aw shit, get Morgan on the line!" Ulkh.

Poppy Z. Brite is of this same school with this book. She created a couple very compelling serial killers in Jay Byrne and Andrew Compton. They are so compelling and stand so far above and beyond the book that I think she misrepresented them in her book with her pop psychological nonsense and lewd sexual descriptions It's something of a shame.

And the ending? Holy shit. Not since "Hannibal" have I wiped my ass so vigorously with a book once I finished. "Let's cut his head open and eat his brain, because that's a perfectly plausible finish to this tale." "Okay."

Yeah fucking right. Clarice would've gone for it. Surely. Sure as I'm an autistic seven year-old with a knack for numbers.

One of the serial killers ends up on a train eating a sandwich containing the meat of the other following their brief but intense love affair.

Um, no?

I love in particular the Andrew Compton character. He's self-aware, sadistic, sardonic, witty, etc...he reminds me of me, except gay and a serial...well, except that he's gay. Teeheehee...el oh el!!!

The character deserved a better book. Poppy Z. Brite's complete lack of gift strikes again. What I've said to everyone about her up to now holds true. She stinks in ways only an unshowered retard can.

But it's bedtime. Keep pressuring me and maybe you'll get another blog out of me soon. I've been hearing nothing but complaints, and it's sort of flattering.

Good night all.

Wednesday July 26, 2006

2009-08-24T03:27:00.000-05:00

Subject: A real conversation with Ja9ine

A Real Conversation

I was telling Ja9ine about a guy
who held a girl hostage in his truck
for three months
while he raped and beat her.

"That's horrible," she said.

"I know," I said.
"He must've been a real trooper,
'cause she couldn't've been a treat hygienically."

Click.

Thursday July 13, 2006

2009-08-24T03:10:00.000-05:00

Subject: So...

I'm sitting around the house with my brother, and Pee Wee's Playhouse comes on the Cartoon Network. Travis sits there quietly absorbing the Pee Wee experience for a while, and then he turns to me and goes "You know, I'd be more scared if this guy wasn't molesting children."

Try all you want. That was the laugh of the day.

Wednesday June 14, 2006

2009-08-24T02:39:00.000-05:00

Subject: Lifetime Network Press Release

Lifetime Network Fulfills Mission Statement, Calls it Quits

June 14, 2006

New York - Upon completion of its mission statement, Lifetime Network has announced that following a month-long retrospective of its greatest moments, it will cease broadcast at midnight EST on July 31.

"We've killed every type of man we could think of," said Executive of Creative Affairs Melinda Dykecunt-Maneater. "Assholes, perverts, molestors, abusers, cheaters, inattentive jerkoffs...hell, we even shitkicked and stomped a few innocent ones, just to show that we could. Being the superior gender and all."

Upon shutting its doors, Lifetime will pay out a sizable severance package to all female employees. Male employees will be given a chastity belt and offered a job tidying up former female employees' houses.

"We were sitting around the board room, trying to decide our next move, when it suddenly occurred to us we were done," Dykecunt-Maneater said. "We laughed. We were thinking about another alcoholic abusive guy that a wife could kill and get away with it, but Jenny (Thundercunt) turned to me and said we'd already done that 31 times. I passionately kissed her on the lips, stuck my strap-on into her mouth, and thrusted in triumph. Once that was over and I'd done my little 'end zone' dance, we started making plans to shutter this fucker."

Dykecunt-Maneater says once the Lifetime transition is complete, she plans to return to her previous career, serving as a roady for Bob Seger.

For further information on the end of the Lifetime Network, call Melissa Porkclit at (866) FUCK-MEN.

Monday June 12, 2006

2009-08-24T02:33:00.000-05:00

Subject: Sufficient time has passed, and I am still proud of this one.

At 3 o'clock in the morning several months ago, I received a call for help via myspace from my best friend's brother's friend. Though completely shitfaced, I proceeded to "Shut this fucker up," as the young man suggested.

File this under "Don't fuck with me or mine."

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

Point:

----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: *************
Date: Apr 8, 2006 3:22 AM

Give me a response to shut this fucker up.

Yeah sorry I dont know how to spell a word talking about liking little kids. That has nothing to do with me so I dont know about it. How do you know I have no street smarts? You've never met me? Fuck being a sensitive guy to you. You're a lil bitch and dont need to be nice to you. 3.23 is a lil over a B avg which means you are stupid. How hard is it to make straight A's in hs or college. Not too hard at all. Your picking up a 2k a month job? Wow good job I make double playing a VIDEO GAME. Then you talk about me not being able to keep a girl? I bet you've been in a relationship that hasn't lasted considering you're not married. However, if you've never been in a relationship period I understand.

No what makes you the loser is that you brag about drinking like that makes you cool. Wow anyone can drink its not hard to put liquid to your mouth then swallow. Its gonna be funny when you get in the military and get dishonorably discharged for getting in a drunken brawl since you say you like to fight so much. You're pathetic kid.

Again you state that everyone who doesn't take a combat job is a pussy. No we smart people just let the dumb ones go die in war. While we take our luxuary. I mean look at the bright side. We keep our freedom and lose dumb genes in the process. Its win win for America.

Daddy could make it better too. I bet he could just buy your mom for me.

Also who says owned at the end of what they say? Isn't someone else supposed to say it for you?

I hope you end up in Iran or China or North Korea and tortured.

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Counterpoint:

----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: Greg
Date: Apr 8, 2006 3:56 AM

I'll write this from your point of view.

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Most pedophiles aren't self-aware enough to diagnose their own problems, so it's completely understandable that you wouldn't know how to spell a word talking about liking little kids. You're so caught up in that world you've never had time to examine what it is you're doing. Completely understandable. You are pardoned.

You speak about having street smarts, then you go on and on about the perfect little suburban life you have...playing Halo for a living, a nice relationship...when you're in a relationship, does the dumb hole make you go shopping for venetian blinds? I bet she does. I bet she makes you think your opinion really matters, and that it's an important decision, and you guys should really talk it out before you act rashly...goddamn, how could I not envy that? I nearly cry when I think of you picking out a comforter for that fine California King bed of yours.

Let me lay it out for you, pudding pop: if and when you settle down, your wifey will suck every dime out of you she can while fucking everything with an animalistic cock for miles around. Young Marine cock, young Army cock, young Air Force cock, and young Navy cock. You know...real men. Maybe she'll even go down to the local truck stop and work the glory hole for a couple hours, servicing cranked-out truckers with cocks that resemble day-old hamburger--and then come home and kiss you on the mouth. Passionately. Like she loves you even more at that moment than when you first met.

Stupid.

You ask how hard it is to pull straight A's in school...all those good grades mean is you never questioned a fucking thing in your life--you just absorbed every minute detail your teachers shoved down your throat and regurgitated it back to them verbatim. Sheep make great students because they tell the teachers what they wanna hear. Congratulations. You were almost the best sheep in school. Maybe that'll give you something to shoot for in the corporate world. At least until cost-cutting measures make your position obsolete.

Drinking does make me cool. You know why? Because I hang out with my friends, I develop relationships that will last beyond my next job, and I am a fucking God some nights. Do you know what it's like to be a God in the eyes of your peers? No, you don't. You know what it's like to be a faggot in a polo shirt under fluorescent lights that make him look like a pig with high blood pressure. Make fun of my lifestyle all you want, but I know you envy it some nights. When you're all alone, looking out into a dark room with your head on the pillow...'did I sacrifice having a life just to get ahead scholastically? Will I sacrifice having a life just to get a job?' It's fine. You do that while I have the time of my life. I have friends you will never, ever have. You will die alone in a nursing home squatting over a bedpan--nobody will come to see you. Not your boss, not your family, not even your wife. She'll just be waiting for the check from your lawyer. Keep leading that hollow life. It's fine. Keep tuning out. Be a space cadet. Play video games. Don't form real relationships with people. You'll show us.

Yes, drinking is easy. Liquid goes into your mouth, and you swallow. Your father taught you well during those late nights with beer breath and stubble in your face...but then again, maybe you don't consciously remember. You were eating cotton candy at Six Flags while whatever was going on in reality...your little legs kicked about confusedly as your daddy drunkenly thrusted...I'd play video games for a living too. Anything to stay away from reality, brother. I understand.

And look at all the anger you have for your dad following those years of molestation: 'we smart people just let the dumb ones go die in war. While we take our luxuary. I mean look at the bright side. We keep our freedom and lose dumb genes in the process. Its win win for America.' Someone sure has a lowly view of his Military Big Dick Daddy. Is that what he makes you call him? Just curious. I'd have some resentment too, brother. I see where you're coming from now.

And did you just go with a 'your mother's a whore' joke? I mean, seriously. At least wipe the Navy cum moustache off your mouth before you try it next time so I take you seriously.

But in spite of our differences, I hope you see I'm making strides in understanding where you're coming from. I know the molestation did emotional damage, and I'm really trying to build a bridge with empathy. I hope you see that I understand.

As for who ends a sentence with 'owned,' I think maybe that question will be answered for you the night your wife comes home from a hip hop club with 'Black Owned' written in lipstick across her stomach and ass.

Don't forget to kiss her. I'm sure it'll taste familiar.

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The response of the young man I wrote this for?

'You are a GOD.'

It's little things like this that make ya feel all warm and tingly inside. Teeheehee...lol!!!