Cult of the Absurd

Missing You

2011-11-26T09:54:00.001-08:00

It's been ten years and a thousand beers...no it's just been several months and I miss you already, cult of the absurd. As much as I enjoy running around the tumblr realm, you are my very first blog and you'll always be special, cult. Don't ever forget that. Someday, I'll have time for you, but until then, I'll just have to post random nonsense to remind you of how much you mean to me.

Dear Reader

2011-09-10T23:51:00.000-07:00

I would like to apologize to the one or three people who drunkenly peruse this blog occasionally, and those who looking for hemorrhoid relief or S & M who stumble across it, because I will be very light with my posting for a while. I just started school again, full time (emphasis on full time) and won't be able to commit nearly as much time as I desire to the fine art of blogging.

Be this as it may, Cult of the Absurd will continue on a limited basis, as will my more regular and poorly edited posts on life in code. Bear with me. Once I'm out of school in a couple of years, I'll likely be bound to an uninspiring "real" job and have plenty of time to bitch and moan through rants and so forth.

Thank you patient reader, you make life worth the unknown miles ahead. See you, out there in the blogosphere (*haghkk* I just threw up in my mouth for using that word).

My favorite Cult of the Absurd referrals

2011-08-19T02:33:00.001-07:00

(I know this is blogging de rigueur, but it’s fun!):

besthelpforhemorrhoidsnow.com

www.google.com/search?q=tied+up+cum+shots

www.bodybuildingrx.com/products.html

Favorite Key words:

the song digestion boogaloo (Just gotta say huh?)

tied up cum shots (back for its second round!)

cult rabbit head (what cult is this? Sign me up!)

kierkegaard existentialism (now this just makes me happy)

Hey blog perusers from everywhere – keep reading the posts, I’ll keep writing them.

If you’re looking for higher quantity postings, you might want to check out my tumblr account as well, as I post there almost daily (nothing against this blog, I simply try to keep its quantity and quality more consistant) at http://lifeencoded.tumblr.com/

See ya in the (no, I can’t say it…) blogosphere. (Blech!)

Tweet This!

2011-08-11T20:51:00.000-07:00

These are some of my rejected entrants in the NYC Midnight micro-fiction contest (hope you enjoy the losers):

An old story: boy meets girl, boy sleeps with girl, boy never calls. Worlds divided by empty words.

The words were dark, making his heart wrench. He drove his fist into the other man, driven by rage.

As they they lay there, he said many things. But in the end, his words were as empty as his heart.

Words, ties which bind us to forever. Clouds floating in Machiavellian glee. New concepts absorbed.

Born of sentences. Stung by words. Eviscerated by paragraphs. Reformed by phrases. Vaguely dubious.

As she walked home, the stars exploded with words. She couldn't believe she'd met a pleasant person.

Birthday (Fiction in 55)

2011-07-30T12:23:00.000-07:00

The sun beat down as I marched up the hill. It was my girlfriend's birthday and I'd just been in a car accident. Her flowers were wilting, her card was smudged, but at least the bottle of wine wasn't broken, much like my spirit. I've never wanted to be home so much in my life.

Which best describes you? (like a non-job interview)

2011-07-23T20:29:00.000-07:00

Several times a day...

1. I follow the leader.

2. I contemplate the existence of Jebus.

3. I fall down laughing from Existential Irony.

4. I attempt to decipher (on my own) the Rosetta Stone.

5. I meet with my superiors to determine the best way to assassinate world leaders.

6. I watch television.

7. I end my long career in journalism.

8. I await orgasm with baited breath.

9. I watch my neighbor's murder through the back window of my apartment.

10. I supplement my CCG collection on Ebay.

11. I find substance where there is none.

What qualifies as an unusual day?

2011-07-13T15:50:00.000-07:00

1. A man (my second customer of the day) refuses to pay eighty-nine cents more than his assumption of an original, post-tax purchase of plastic, display flowers, and argues with me, a co-worker and a manager in Spanish for five minutes.

2. The night before, I have trouble sleeping on account of strange dreams involving sinister shadow-shapes trying to abduct Nicole and I. That and work until close (one am) and have to be at work at ten am the next morning. I've always had trouble calming down when I work late. I don't know why.

3. When the couple in front of her don't have enough food stamps to pay for their order, they walk off, never to return (this is not abnormal). After waiting for a considerable amount of time, enough to clear out and return their order - and upon finding her Chicken Salad sans any price or UPC code - she is still remarkably cordial.

4. A man, upon finding out he was accidentally charged for the next customer's soda, rather than making a stink or requesting a refund, simply gives the other fellow the soda.

5. I find out that my college transcript, which was supposed to be sent to a prospective college a month ago, is being held, pending my summer semester grades. Problem being: I'm not taking any summer courses.

6. I hit my elbow against a basket and rather than the old tingling, funny-bone action as per usual, an odd pain leaps up my arm, causing me to get really fucking dizzy.

7. Its not bad enough I'm running around pushing baskets in the blacktop at 103 degrees Fahrenheit, but on top of that, a bunch of cranky, just after nine-to-fivers keep nearly running me over in their quest for the perfect parking spot.

All things considered, yesterday was a fucked up day.

First Impression (Fiction in 55 or less)

2011-07-03T00:17:00.000-07:00

I saw him coming out of a barber shop, walking down 15^th Street. He stared at me an unhealthy length of time, his gaze leering and inappropriate. I readied my "see anything you like," comment as he gawked interminably at me. As he got closer, I realized he was blind. I felt like an utter fool.

Waiting Game

2011-06-17T13:42:00.000-07:00

Why are humans so very impatient these days? For that matter, why am I so impatient? I started wondering about this when I noticed myself tapping my fingers and toes anytime I had to wait for anything. When did I decide that life was taking too long? I wonder if it has something to do with being over thirty (or was I always this impatient?). Everywhere I go, I notice the same tell-tale signs: people rolling through stoplights, constantly checking their phones for time, texts or voice mails, rolling their eyes whenever somebody breaks out a checkbook. I mean, does it really take an interminable amount of time to scribble shit onto a tiny piece of paper?

Perhaps our everything-at-our-fingertips world taints our ability to persevere. Perhaps being able to flip through channels when commercials come on, or flip between windows when our movies are buffering, led us down this path. Is it really so bad to wait? Are we so insufferable when we're waiting because we smell the end at hand (and I don't mean all this 2012 nonsense)? And I'm certainly not suggesting I'm immune to this behavior. It's not that difficult to wait in line, or sit at traffic lights, but somehow it seems as though anything usurping our precious time ought to wind up before a tribunal on crimes against humanity. The rapid pacing of our lives seems to have eaten away at our ability to slow down, to take our time. To savor the universe around us, rather than spin ever faster down our paths. This is tragic. Perhaps we all need to sit back for a few seconds every day and watch the clouds marching across the sky (unless you live in Texas right now, then imagine them, like I do), enjoy the birds chatting up each other in the trees, or the accidental sculpture of hills and valleys. Because our internal clocks are right. We are running out of time. And the truly saddest people will be those who lived without enjoying themselves, because there are no guarantees as to what awaits us when life's over.

So I beg you (maybe not you in particular): savor the small things, slow down for just a second or two. You'll get where your going eventually, but will you be ready for what you don't find?

Vacation-Based Absence

2011-06-09T12:12:00.000-07:00

Hello to the occasional browser or repeat viewer. I've been on a three week vacation and limited in my ability to access the internet. In any case, its been a while since I've updated Cult, but rest assured there is more material about my inane existence forthcoming.

We had a pleasant if strenuous (meaning both travel-time and alcohol intake) vacation, which brought us back into the tumultuous Midwest and its wildly vacillating climate - for example, when we arrived in Madison, it was in the upper fifties (at night, that is). That weekend, we climbed into the seventies, nearly to 80, but by the time we arrived up north (to the Lake Tomahawk area), temperatures were in the fifties during the day.

But the relaxation and the booze both flowed freely, and now its back to the daily grudge. Above is an assortment of imagery from the journey, with a high-speed tourist review of Memphis, TN forthcoming.

Pictures (from top):

Arkansas Rest-Stop Flag (I'd never been to Arkansas. We stopped in Bill Clinton's home town of Hope. The last president we had a stable economy under was from Hope. Hmm...)

Walking to Downtown Memphis, with our friends Aleks and Tyler.

Weird picture of a semi on the way out of Memphis.

Stormy rural Missouri.

Stormy Madison, Wisconsin.

Stormy Austin Morning

2011-05-12T08:55:00.000-07:00

Initially, upon doing my climatological homework (something I now require before moving to a new location), I discovered that Austin had a fairly decent amount of stormy weather. This was good news. Of course, to my dismay, we moved here during La Nina, and the weather has been unseasonably hot and dry. So it came as a great relief (and comfort - as it reminded me of my home town, Madison, WI) to get a barnstorming severe storm tearing through Austin today. At one point, while driving through the east side of town, the wind patterns had an eerily cyclonic appearance - although upon further review, no tornadic activity was reported. In any case, following along both my amateur meteorological and amateur photographic bent, here are some pictures of my tempestuous morn. (By the way, the middle picture is of a pea-sized hail stone - in case you were wondering)

The War on Symbolism

2011-05-03T08:37:00.000-07:00

I admit, I usually prefer to keep this a place of creativity before politics (mostly because its probably painfully obvious where I stand), but on occasion I feel the need to rant about current events, and this is one of those times. Bear with me please.

The recent "announcement" of Osama (Usama) Bin Laden's death comes as a continual reminder of the problem of scale within our modern society. Of course, the US populace's first reaction is one of flag-waving celebration. This I can understand, although it seems rather jingoistic and somewhat empty to me. Of course much of the country is relieved to find him dead - he did take credit for the most heinous attack on US soil in decades. But what perturbs me to no end are the implications surround the entire course of events.

In destroying Bin Laden, we've succeeded in what exactly? Killing the figurehead of terrorism across the world? In a biblical "eye for an eye" sense, I can certainly understand the adulation, but what has this accomplished in reality? The war on terror has, in essence, been a war on iconography - on symbolism. A war against ideology has a limited means of success from its very inception. This war may have been one of the Bush Regime's biggest successes. How can you win a war which can never be won? How can you kill an idea? I honestly wonder that if Bin Laden hadn't been ill - possibly dying already, as some sources report - if his reign of terror wouldn't have continued indefinitely.

Now, I'm not trying to drum up ire against the US government here. They can do that excessively well on their own. What I am concerned about are the underlying misconceptions, as well as what the magic mirror of self-examination mentions about our ideological battles. Sure, Bin Laden's dead, the head of Al Qaeda is no more. But what does that mean to us? An icon is dead. Unfortunately, icons have an annoying little habit of becoming martyrs to their causes. When the man dies, though, he doesn't take his ideas with him. Fanaticism is like a hydra - when you cut off its head, typically, it just smirks and sticks another head in your face.

But the underlying theme isn't "terrorism will live forever," because that's a given. As long as their are ideas, there will be counter-ideas, in lesser and greater extremes. The real issue is how did our world become so polarized? How did the United States alienate the fringes of one of the largest religious groups in the world? We're missing the larger image here.

The US has made a habit of stepping on, making shady backroom deals with, and installing politically friendly, if unpopular, leaders in countries where we see opportunities for resources. This is the nasty side of world diplomacy. It makes sense from a Machiavellian point of view. But while we were turning a lauded "freedom fighter" against Soviet forces into "Public Enemy Number One"; while we were supporting regimes who oppressed their peoples' democratic rights, but bowed before the almighty United States (or at least its money); while global corporations were exploiting the underdeveloped resources of impoverished nations - with a blinded US eye; the kindling of frustration erupted into an inferno of resistance. Our iron-fisted "diplomacy" poked the serpents nest and rather than diffusing the situation, we ignored it, or worse:

I try not this cynical, but sometimes I wonder if we didn't welcome it. I wonder, because this burgeoning terrorist network prompted several wars, helped keep US citizens distracted from their problems and focused bigotry into a sharply tuned Islamic point. And once again, much of the US populace missed that fact. We wanted the quick fix. We wanted to punish a previously US supported dictator for non-existent weapons of mass destruction. We wanted to trounce a regime which we once fed with arms and support against the Russians. Suddenly, taking out our former ally, Bin Laden, would solve all our problems - the little anti-terrorist anti-depressant which would make everything better.

We once again missed the forest for a few scraggly trees.

We continually fail to recognize the simple similarities to a childhood idiom - do unto others as you'd have done to you. Now, I'm not a bald-faced idealist like I once was. I recognize that there probably have always, and likely will always be conflict in our world. But if, for once, we acted to support developing nations, rather than taking advantage of their neediness and instability, perhaps we could bolster trust, rather than animosity. If rather than bullying people for resources, we helped them develop them in a non-invasive and ecologically viable fashion, maybe they'd be more likely to see us as thugs and more apt to call us allies. Perhaps if we didn't let our own one dimensional caricatures of other cultures and ideologies shadow our common sense, we could start to really view the world less as potential threats and more as potential cohorts.

Yeah, I know, I really do sound idealistic. But maybe for once we should let a different kind of mindset out in public. It's the 21st motherfucking century for fucks sake! Our planet's running out of space and resources. Our atmosphere may well be artificially warming. Its time we shook off the blinders and understood that killing a terrorist figurehead won't end our problems; that drilling for more oil won't make us economically more viable for much longer; that we're heading for important, potentially world-rending decisions in our lifetime. Its time to stop dicking around with quick fixes and trying to understand - much less solve - the real issues of our times.

Thanks for indulging me. I needed to get that off my chest.

Where are they going?

2011-04-19T13:29:00.000-07:00

Have you ever just sat somewhere (preferably a porch or bar. Also preferably with beer in hand.) and watched people walking by? I have. I always wonder where they're going, why they're in such a hurry (is it the modern phenomenon of "bigger, faster, more" which drives us ever faster or is it simply that we're late to work). Sometimes I like to make up stories or destinations. That tall man on the bus is going to a conference on astrophysics with a brilliant paper tucked away in his tattered saddle-bag. That couple in the Subaru is trying to get to a hospital to see her sister's new baby, but their car is about to break down. They'll make it there eventually, but not without an aura of frustration and subtle hints of grease. That woman is a Brazilian tourist, on her way back to the Motel 6 - only to discover a couple fucking in her room by accident (the accident not being the fucking, but that they're in the wrong room). Will she join in or run screaming to the manager? That cop is about to arrest a flasher in Zilker Park, who'll turn out to be - insert tense fanfare - nothing but a pervy, old flasher.

I can't help being fascinated by people. As easy as it is to get thoroughly sick of humans (ask me about my anti-social binges), its also impossible not to find a sense of wonder, even in the most mundane of human activities (such as heading from point a to point b). I just hope that sense of wonder never fades. I think then, I truly will be a stodgy old man.

Everybody Walks in San Antone

2011-03-30T21:50:00.001-07:00

Some recent candid shots of our trip to San Antonio. And yes, that is the outside of the Alamo. Yes, I am that cliche - for Nicole's mom's visit.

Hemorrhage

2011-03-27T12:59:00.001-07:00

I awoke after the flurries had ended, and glanced out the window. Her footprints left a slushy trail from my apartment. She'd left that morning, after a night that proved more arctic inside than out. Her absence yanked more stitches from the sutured wound of my life. If I didn't hear from her soon, I'd probably hemorrhage completely by tomorrow.

A Moment to Ponder

2011-03-08T23:31:00.000-08:00

I enjoy writing and I enjoy taking pictures, but I've always had a subtle problem with the phrase "A picture is worth a thousand words." While it is true that a picture is able to sum up a vast amount of information in a small space, the converse always struck me as more intensive. One word, can hold ten, a hundred, a thousand or more pictures within it.

Take a word such as plant. To most, it likely conjures various images - a tree, a rutabaga, a blade of grass, a flower, etc. ad nauseum. But it doesn't necessarily bring to mind the exact same image to the every person. Considering there is a bounteous array of flora in the world's numerous regions, and that the word "plant" is likely found in most, if not all languages - the number of images "plant" refers to make it a staggering amount of permutations per person per region per planet.

In that sense, a word has a nearly infinite number of pictures.

And this is what I think about when I can't sleep. Crikey.

Little Slices of Austin

2011-03-08T15:48:00.000-08:00

Austin is a way-point for many migratory birds, but by far the greatest avian populace belongs the grackles.

The Frost building is one of Austin's tallest buildings, but it's not as majestic through an alley.
Austin has a number of nice parks and river set-ups which simply require further exploration.

I inquire, I respond #2 - answer key (for those playing along)

2011-03-03T10:51:00.000-08:00

And now, the answers to those brain-boggling questions from Ir,Iq#2:

1. Do you file 0, 1, or 2, etc. on your W4s?

Shouldn't you buy me dinner before asking such personal questions? Whichever one lets the government have less of my money to start unjustified wars with.

2. Have you ever thought about leaping from a tall building - not to die, but to find out what falling that far feels like?

Every time I'm in a tall building.

3. Would you, if you could get away with it socially, tell people your unvarnished, abject opinions?

I'd like to say yes, but in reality, I'd still probably be too polite to smite someone like that.

4. What is your earliest childhood memory/how far back can you remember your formative years?

My earliest childhood memory is holding my baby sister when I was two. Otherwise, breaking my leg at 3-ish years old.

5. If you were forced to give up either the ability to read or the capacity to enjoy music, which would you choose and why?

In either scenario, hand me the pistol - I'm done!

6. What horror movie would you be in and why?

Dario Argento's Inferno - because its so surreal and it makes little sense. I'd be all right with dying for a chance to live in that wacky part of Italy.

7. Do you believe the term "racism" is valid? Why or why not?

Racism is an archaic and invalid expression. It refers to the bigoted notion that the human "race" is made up of subspecies, which is thoroughly and utterly ludicrous and scientifically unsound. It has as much credence to it as creationism. If the world was actually created several thousand years ago, then maybe various skin tones and ethnicities would actually have major physical and mental differences.

8. What would you choose to power your dream-car?

Bullshit - we've got an endless supply of it on this planet!

9. Where is your ideal place to live?

My dream residence is a little villa on the coast of Spain! Mas cervesa, mas margaritas y tapas vegetariana por favor!

10. Do you ever have brainstorms while going to the bathroom?

Sheesh, are you gonna ask me about my last physical next? Yes! The bathroom seems an oddly fertile place for creative ideas. Next best place: when I'm in bed, just about to fall asleep.

11. If you could get a hold of a time machine, but were only allowed one trip into the past or future (knowing you could not alter anything, merely observe), what would you do with your trip?

I want to say something profound, like watch the first man-fish take its initial steps from the water, or catch Gutenberg as he designed and built his printing press, but I'd probably just check out Otis Redding in his prime, or hop to a Stoodges/MC5 show circa '69.

Breakfast Tacos

2011-02-15T09:19:00.000-08:00

I'm not much of a chef, but I whipped up some breakfast tacos that were pretty damn good today, and I thought I'd share the recipe because it turned out surprisingly delicious. Those fans of breakfast tacos will likely understand, and those new to the breakfast taco really out to acquaint themselves with this delicious breakfast (brunch or brinner) medium.

The recipe is simple for a single serving (increase quantities appropriately if more is desired):

2 eggs
1/4 cup fresh/frozen/canned corn
1/4 cup veggie crumbles/taco-seasoned textured vegetable protein (or real meat if preferred)
onion powder
ancho chile powder (or chipotle powder for a smokier flavor)
a pinch of cumin

beat the (thawed) corn and crumbles with the eggs until frothy
cook to desired texture (although I recommend a delicately golden-brown for maximum internal taco coherence)

Top with a medium salsa of preference
and (here's the odd key) ranch dressing (only in the southwest, right?)

Note: I have yet to experiment with a tofu scramble/vegan ranch base yet, as being a student/full-time employee primarily permits convenience foods. Someday perhaps.

I inquire, I respond #2

2011-02-08T08:32:00.000-08:00

Do you really want to know more about me, or more about yourselves? Maybe not, but in the interest of further self-exploration and self-aggrandizement, I present the second installment of I inquire, I respond (or IiIr for laziness):

1. Do you file 0, 1, or 2, etc. on your W4s?

2. Have you ever thought about leaping from a tall building - not to die, but to find out what falling that far feels like?

3. Would you, if you could get away with it socially, tell people your unvarnished, abject opinions?

4. What is your earliest childhood memory/how far back can you remember your formative years?

5. If you were forced to give up either the ability to read or the capacity to enjoy music, which would you choose and why?

6. What horror movie would you be in and why?

7. Do you believe the term "racism" is valid? Why or why not?

8. What would you choose to power your dream-car?

9. Where is your ideal place to live?

10. Do you ever have brainstorms while going to the bathroom?

11. If you could get a hold of a time machine, but were only allowed one trip into the past or future (knowing you could not alter anything, merely observe), what would you do with your trip?

(answers forthcoming)

(sex)

2011-02-01T14:54:00.000-08:00

Who Shot JR?

2011-01-27T08:27:00.001-08:00

Several months ago, my girlfriend Nicole and I went to Dallas with our friends Lucy and Aleks. These are several alcohol-fueled snaps of the downtown ambiance.

Even in the midst of oil money's ostentatious excess, one cannot escape the indomitable ravages of Subway.

Technically, these were taken in Fort Worth, at the stockyards, but I feel these pictures somehow exemplify the cantankerous, rugged aspects of Texas.

Hicksville Hex (The Devonsville Terror)

2011-01-25T09:54:00.000-08:00

Oh, ya hey der. How's it going? Oh, that's pretty darn good, ya know. Oh, me? Well, not so good ya know. Why's that? Oh, well ya see - I live in this small town in New England. Ya see, everything's supposed to be just hunky-dory, but we've got this little problem - ya see. We got these outsiders. What'ya mean, my accent is too mid-western? Oh well, Wisconsin is the new New England - at least according to this film's location shooting.

Anyway, where was I? Oh, so we had these three young ladies, ya know, move into our tightly-knit, CHRISTIAN community, and well, ya know, they don't seem so great. They been putting all these ideas, see, into our kid's head. Ideas like: women could function without man-folk, like God could be a woman, like maybe, just maybe, there might not be a proper, christian god. I don't know, but I don't like the cut of their jib.

Ya see, many years ago, this small New England town (not, I repeat, not Wisconsin, ya know) was infested with witches. Them witches ran around, messin' up the livestock, withering the crops and corruptin' the men-folk with their way-too-sexy bodies and way-too-radical ideas. Come to think of it, these women bear a peculiar resemblance to some a them? Hmm...

Anyhow, Ulli Lommel he come out here and shoots this film, not too disimilar from our small (ahem) New England lives. I think its supposed to be some allegory about how people oughtn't judge others for being different (think I read something about that somewhere), and how hysteria is never in short supply when superstition outweighs reason and ration, and how ugly truths are often better hidden underneath rhetoric and lies - but I don't know.

Its hard to get past this whole Wisconsin for New England thing. Plus, can't say the acting is da greatest in this little film, ya. I mean, aside from this Donald Pleasance character, its a little sparse in der. The plot takes a while to develop, but ya know, it gets pretty tense. I mean, I don't really see the connection in what we did to them ladies and what them New Englanders did to tha witches, but whatever brings da cows home. Crazy German filmmakers should be out tendin' the livestock, not making pseudo-artsy horror films.

So dats my story. Have a good day.

Oh So Many Guilty Pleasures...

2011-01-14T16:53:00.000-08:00

Let's face it, we've all got cultural tastes which stretch well beyond the cool, the relevant - even the outro - and into the closet of denial. I am now laying bare this murky closet, airing the stinky sock music; the dingy, moldy plates of film; the dust-infested tomes stashed so far from the light that they're practically albino. Enjoy my bathos (in no particular order):

11. Smack by Melvin Burgess.
Now admittedly this book is rather dark and disturbing for young adult fare, but it's still a young adult novel. The subject matter hits a little close to home as well.

10. Oingo Boingo.
Some people tell me I shouldn't feel guilty (and in fact I don't) about liking - no - loving this band. But I seem to get an awfully large amount of odd stares when I start rocking out to "Weird Science." You know what - fuck it! I'm not guilty at all: I love Oingo Boingo!

9. Star Trek (pretty much anything aside from Enterprise - sorry Count Bakula).
I understand that this unquestionably places nerd brackets around me, but I can't help but enjoy their somewhat hackneyed and cloyingly optimistic messages about our society cum the future. Fine! Here's my lunch money - now leave me alone.

8. Third Wave Ska.
Goddamnit I know! It's rather lame! But I loved that sound in the 90s - that I can't make up my mind whether I'm a hardcore/punk band or ska band - and I can't seem to get over it.

7. Secret of N.I.M.H. by Robert C. O'brien.
Look, this book may be for kids but it has it all: action, drama, intrigue, science-fiction cautionary edge (technology vs. human spirit), hyper-evolved rats and it's an allegory to boot! Most adult fiction wishes it had this much going on.

6. Charmed.
I know I have an easy out - numerous sexy women in the cast. But I have to admit that I completely got sucked into this show. That the cast is easy on the eyes doesn't hurt either, but lets face it - this is the definition of guilty pleasure.

5. Dio.
There is no irony in my enjoyment of Dio. I understand how this makes me look. Meh.

4. Weather.
What do I mean by weather? I mean all of it. I love watching the weather channel. I enjoy reading about tornadoes and hail and lightning. I own a video narrated by Buzz Aldrin with nothing but footage of tornadoes. I would be a storm chaser (refer to I Inquire I respond). I would even be a weather watcher - ham radio and all. I'm a weather dork and I accept full responsibilities for all which that entails.

3. Son In Law.
I know - it's a Pauly Shore movie. No one is supposed to like Pauly Shore movies, except after his reinvention - and not even then. I saw it when I was young, and I liked it. I watched it several years ago on television and I still thought it was fun. "Inbreeders!"

2. Diablo II
I've never considered myself beholden to any one thing. I have spent many hours living through consoles or video-blind at a CRT monitor, but my shame comes not from my attachment to, but from my inability to escape from Diablo II. I can't even fathom the number of hours, drained away by that pixellated succubus. My greatest salvation comes from my inability to run Diablo III (upon its release), due to my antiquated computer.

1. "Walking on Sunshine" by Katrina and the Waves.
What can I say? The song just makes me happy. Is it wrong to feel happy? I think not.

Urban Spelunking.

2011-01-12T17:53:00.001-08:00

As I pushed it onto the street, the sewer grate felt like hoisting a locomotive. It was right then and there I decided never to go urban spelunking again. At least it didn't rain and flash-flood all over us, I thought.

Why I thought crawling around in a sewer would be fun is beyond me.

Happy Roo Year!

2011-01-04T10:43:00.000-08:00

Some years flip digits on the cosmic alarm clock without anything more than a requisite hang-over. Others begin with subtle delights which key you into the smells of a good year frying in the skillet. Others, such as this, begin with ominous overtones. By ominous overtones, I mean being roofied at a New Years Party and catching Malware on your computer.

But at least I got rid of the Malware.

I hope your new decade smells better than mine does.

On that cheery note: Happy 2011!

It's one year to the (not-at-all-facetious) End of the World...

2010-12-30T23:26:00.000-08:00

...do you know where your children are?

Recycling Jobs

2010-12-27T18:45:00.000-08:00

Beep, beep, beep that incessantly chipper robot sound reminds me I'm still here. “Hello, how are you doing today, sir?” As though anyone gives two shits about anyone else these days. That reminds me: “Would you like paper or plastic?” I mean, I once had a goal or a dream or some reasonable facsimile thereof. I once had credibility in the career world and now look at me. I'm starting from the bottom again. It's not that I'm better than anyone else, but for fuck's sake, I've done this before – a very long time ago. Back when I was a shy teenager, a mild twenty year old. But now I'm salty; salty and comparatively wizened as well. I've done things – seen things – that some of these people can't possibly even conceive of, but I'm the one who's stuck here, wrapping up their meat; placing it far away from their potatoes. Perhaps some of these people, this constant line of people, have accomplished things I can't fathom. Its possible I'm bagging a Vice Lord's chicken pot pie or placing a container of Juicy Juice into the bag of a Tech CEO whose code powers my cell phone. But that's not the point.

What is it that makes this American dream tick? Were some in righter places than others at the appropriate time? Did they have the requisite degree program or drive or ambition that I supposedly don't? Did they have better opportunities than I do? Because here I am, doing things I long ago thought I'd never have to do again. It has to be the economic downturn, right? It must be my lack of skilled labor. I mean I'm not alone here: Pete over there is pushing fifty, still popping buttons on a keypad, shoving produce past an infrared scanner. Carmella has to have a stranglehold on her mid-forties, yet she's running around the store like a speed-freak chinchilla, gathering discarded items and voiding purchases. How could this “land of opportunity” go so far south?

Did we fly to close to the sun on those fabled wings of wax – our egos spoon-fed by chain restaurants and the rusted laurels beneath our own asses? Empires always seem to falter when they find themselves too stuffed on their own entrails to watch the chair sliding out from under them – a sort of colossi sight-gag. It's no different with our own flaccid dynasty than it was with the Greeks cum Romans, or the Mongols cum China, or the Zulus cum the English cum themselves. The serpent eats its own tail, a fact littered like confetti throughout history, yet ignored to this day by those who write history in their own gilded images. A fact perhaps ignored by myself amongst others who thought that their might and understanding and abilities would preclude them from the same fate befallen those who came before them; those who dared think such ideas themselves.

And here I stand, “Thank you for shopping with us, sir,” among those who chewed the fat until fat became bone and the marrow was all but sipped away. Its far from the end of the world, but with continual ignorance it easily could be the end of our shallow dominion. “Have a great evening.” Am I thankful to be working? Yes. Am I pleased to be on a recidivist career path? Hell no. But until I have nothing more than the shirt on my back and the empty shell of a house for shelter, it still keeps food in my refrigerator and the lights on. “Hi there. Did you find everything alright today, ma'am?”

Beep. Beep. Beep...

Lovely California Home (fiction in 55 or less)

2010-12-25T15:38:00.000-08:00

She hired the hitman, paying him ten thousand dollars. The hitman splattered her lover’s wife across the wall of their lovely southern Californian home. Now their love could flourish. On his way home from his “business trip” he collapsed. The cancer was stage four – he had a week to live. No happy ending for them.

What is Absurd anyway?

2010-12-12T09:44:00.000-08:00

The question may arise in the course of this blog - what exactly do I mean when I refer to the Absurd? Well, allow me to elucidate.

The Absurd is, by its very nature, a personal condition. In classical philosophy, the Absurd often refers to the thin, filmy division between the logical/rational world, the emotional world and the search for meaning in a world without any intrinsic purpose. In the works of Camus, amongst others, our world is a place containing no coherent reason for existence; one which hinges upon our observations and the constructed realities of those around us (as witnessed by Camus' Stranger, who acts according to his own desires, mostly due to his disconnect from other people; or the heroic characters of the Plague who choose to live and thrive in the face of overwhelming odds).

Philosophic absurdity stems from Danish philosopher Soren Kierkegaard - also recognized as the father of atheistic and theistic existentialism - and represents his attempt to understand the nature of this seemingly meaningless universe. It was his positing that, in the face of such bewildering situations human beings could turn to several different outlooks, the primary ones being: either accept that meaningless and seek to create meaning for ourselves, or we could choose to make a "leap of faith" (Kierkegaard is recognized as the first to coin this concept).

But the polemics of philosophy aside, what does the absurd mean to us? To me? Well, it represents a conscious understanding that our world is boundless and shapeless beyond our own understanding of it. It suggest that we construct our comprehensive view of our world and our life from our observations, as well as from the constructs others have built - the infrastructure of culture so to speak.

This notion of a self-made world, can help us to understand why one person grows up to become a dentist, and the other a serial arsonist. Now of course Absurdist ideas don't account for the influence of heredity, and this may be a modern chip in its armor, but that's a topic for an entirely different essay. That aside, Absurdism remains an intriguing worldview, one which sets aside the notion of a contrived, circumscribed universe and allows our observations to mold the shape of the universe. Our universe is not necessarily static and rigid, like the one prescribed by culture or religion.

But most of all, it reminds me to seek out other people and other cultures; to broaden my ideological and emotional contact with my world. For if we never explore beyond ourselves, we risk becoming one-dimensional entities in our self-defined universes.

Eleven Reasons Austin is Kick-Ass

2010-12-07T19:43:00.000-08:00

1. There is a brilliance to downtown, especially when it shines through a hazy November night.

2. T-Shirts and shorts are not-irregular accoutrements in December.

3. How many different shows could I go to on a weekly basis in Madison, WI? 10-12. How many shows can i go to in Austin on a nightly basis? 10-15. Sweetness!

4. Bats under a bridge - fuck yeah!

5. Did I mention muthafuckin' shorts in mothafuckin' December!

6. Hungry around bar time? Walk down the street, towards the nearest mobile cart to burritos, pizza, veggie dogs, gyros and various other moderately overpriced delights all from the comfort of your boozy swagger.

7. The drive time from Madison to the Gulf Coast is approximately 23 hours. The drive time from Austin to the Gulf Coast is approximately 3.5 hours. Once those oil balls dissipate, its time for some serious coastal action.

8. You get a free gun when you buy a hundred dollars worth of booze (just kidding Austinians!).

9. Pizza made with beer in the crust!

10. Because to my difficulties navigating in new places - perhaps due to my easy directional disorientation (yes, I was one of those kids that made the L and backwards L in school) - I appreciate cities with street layouts and names that make sense: one of these being Willie Nelson Boulevard!

11. Terror Tuesdays at the Alamo Drafthouse!

Song 2 (electric boogaloo?)

2010-11-30T12:23:00.000-08:00

(and now...I return to the music of my formative years)

Operation Ivy - "Sound System"

"Sound system gonna bring me back up yeah
one thing that I can depend on"

That line burned a small hole in my psyche the first time I heard it. While the song itself isn't linked to any specific event or moment in my life, it does represent the bridging of two musical time zones for me. It also caused me to become a life-long OpIvy fan (despite the naysayers, including my lovely girlfriend).

Late in high school, my life, despite my growing absorption into punk subculture, was ruled by ska. It was the early-mid nineties after all. My very first non-auditorium show was a Mephiskapheles show at the Rathskeller - a Madison free-show bastion - at the tender age of fourteen (yes I know I'm a late bloomer).

By the time I left for my first collegiate endeavor - a less-than successful one - ska was slowly being phased out of my life, in favor of an growing lust for punk. It was during one of those early, fanatical lapses when I was struck with the realization that no particular musical style had to be remanded to the periphery. You'd think this was common sense, but somehow I misplaced that mentality as an upstart teenager. Some people just get sucked into a realm which saps them of their desire to indulge in anything beyond the sonic smeldings which most appeal to them. I became one of those people. In any case, Operation Ivy reminded me of that fundamental understanding: that aphorism which mentions something about variety being highly preferable when seasoning life to taste and enjoy.

The first time I heard "Sound System," I was hanging out in my friend's basement, contemplating shaving my first mohawk; something which didn't actually happen until college. Several years later a similar moment occurred, when lounging around my friend's dorm room, as he fanned his fiery red mohawk, this minor epiphany struck upon me. Unfortunately, any philosophical development was temporarily shelved, as the conundrum of 18-year-old kids acquiring beer drastically outweighed enlightenment.

That night, we listened to that CD nearly constantly as we rode to the punk show, top down in his restored 68 mustang, mohawks flapping in the breeze. Ever since that evening, a warm glow spreads through me every time I hear this song, and Operation Ivy in general.

Happy Hour's Over

2010-11-24T21:29:00.000-08:00

Our calm was washed out to sea by the anger surging across her face. His eyes reflected a tired shadow cast from broken windows; jagged remnants of demon teeth in his brain. I'd been drunk since clocks forgot how to tick and was itching severely from Sebhoritic Dermatitis. She clicked her heels three times, mentally, trying to rid herself of the fantasy world we all seemed to dwell in. His rectum clenched, preparing for the inevitable harbingers of metaphorical stormy seas; doomsday-tsunami tombs. I loosed a river of vodka down my throat, burning, yearning for something insufferable and insoluble (perhaps ineffable as well). Her machete gaze readied on the back-swing, poised to unleash heads - spurts of emotive arterial spray. His watch hadn't worked in months, but he glanced at it anyway. I leaned my head into my hands, a ruse to dispel any notions that my ears were, at that moment, stretching ever closer to their auditory inferno. That I was, in effect, pulling up an eavesdropping stool. Her teeth grimaced almost individually as her jaw ground back and forth. Her eyes quivered sullenly, pretending to forget everything they'd been privy to. He slid his self-deprecating shield into place and readied his facetious foil, yet remained there, poised above his defeatist dagger. I sucked fire through paper-rolled tobacco, abetting the smoggy ambiance while fluffing at my short-long (now far less business in the front than party in the rear). I motioned surreptitiously to the embroiled, bartender. He slid anxiously down the bar, as though I had asked him a huge favor. She wavered above that razor's edge of the moment, hovering like a swaying cobra's hood, as he recoiled in de facto horror. And I sat there, erect, at new-Army-recruit attention (a feat mimicked by other bystanders). Her imminent strike held us white-knuckled, clutching our respective pints, shots or carafes for dear life. Then, in an appropriate anti-climax, she sighed - a sound far bleaker than an sub-arctic winter morning, plodding out the door with a squeaky clank.

I dare say we all felt deflated as we returned to our drinks; the remote twang of honky-tonk on the jukebox trickling across the suddenly lunar landscape.

Not-so-triumphant return to Cult.

2010-11-22T20:22:00.000-08:00

It has been nearly two years since I deigned to call myself a blogger. I can't believe this site hasn't been utterly shut down. I owe it primarily to Google for itself pushing Plex (user-wise). So, since I'm still here - why not still be here.

So here I am in Austin, Tx (would you believe it!). This from someone who ten years prior promised himself he'd never live in Tejas. Man how the years change a person. Worst of all, I pretty much like it a lot. Of course Austin is a far cry from Texas Proper, i.e. shoot-outs, lynchings, Alamo defending, and gun-rack couture, which is itself a far cry from anything but loophole extremism. And that's just fine by me.

So, here I remit to old habits, to persuading myself that I have the courage to blog again. I rise, not so much like the Phoenix, but more so like the dung beetle from the compost heap, once more into the world wide web of self-promotion and irrelevant data overload. For what is one, if they are not a self-deprecating fool?

Confidant, I suppose.

Why being sick is much worse than being hung over...

2009-02-27T23:41:00.001-08:00

Well, it's simple really. When your hung over, at worst the residual effects last two days (and by that point, merely an occasional reality lag). When your sick, who the fuck knows - could be a day, could be a week. If you live in a shitty cold place like here, it could take a month to recuperate, much less to prepare for the next round. Come on superhuman immune system!

Stick Figure Theater Presents: Work Sucks (part 1)

2009-02-18T00:51:00.000-08:00

(Admittedly this is old work, but unfortunately I don't get much better than this. Part 2 to follow shortly.)

13 reasons I need to see the Friday remake

2009-02-09T12:52:00.000-08:00

(in somewhat of a particular order)
13) I have to find out whether Marcus Nispel fucked it up like he did when he directed the Texas Chainsaw Massacre remake.
12) It sounds as though the the first 3 movies are rolled into one - and I want to see if Shelly's character returns as well.
11) I bet they won't be cool enough to bring back the 'you're doomed' guy (even though he's probably a hundred fifteen by now)
10) It may be refreshing to see a fast Jason, not just a teleportational one.
9) To make sure its not all just some Krueger-induced fever dream (FvJ had a rather ambiguous ending).
8) In order to encourage Hollywood, and distributors to keep backing horror films. The last few years have been good to horror, but they've been dropping the ball on distro and marketing on some really interesting concepts (Repo, Inside, Midnight Meat Train, etc.)
7) You just can't beat a tried and true formula - stalk, kill, repeat. It's like evil shampooing.
6) Mrs. Voorhees, Jason's Burlap Sack, Jason's Hockey mask all together in one movie.
5) I was somewhat disappointed with the resurgence of Michael Myers (arguably my favorite slasher ever). Hopefully F13 makes up for it.
4) Blood, Guts, Tits, Ass, Jason. Duh!
3) I'm a friggin' horror dork.
2) In the vain hope that steadycam isn't used in every single motherfucking scene.
1) see #4.

Soundtrack (part 1)

2009-01-15T00:58:00.000-08:00

What elements create and enrich the mix tape of life - exemplify the good, the bad, the neutral? How strongly are our lives tied to a sonic format? I'm truly amazed how a few bars or a catchy chorus associatively tethers me to my memories.

Here I'd like to delve deeper into the notes that bind my life; to find resurgences of details, lost thoughts. This is a multiple-portion series - essentially the liner notes to the soundtrack of my life so far. Perhaps my journey might jostle some relevant slash mirrored experiences from your own life. Please enjoy with me (not necessarily in chronological order):
SIDE A - Miasma oblongata

AC/DC - Back in Black

This song is for anyone who ever had a close childhood friend; one that you wanted to keep to yourself. They may not have been your best friend. I had a best friend, but (and I don't know if this happens with girls as well as guys...) this friend was the friend I chose to spend most of my time with - and vice versa. We seemed to recognize the universe's entropic progression better than any of our other cohorts. He was also the friend that, in a minute fashion, planted the seeds of 'teenage rebellion' in my spongy young brain.

The song 'Back in Black' - and subsequent album - were in all reality, the first music I heard beyond my parent's music and the kid-friendly music my friend parent's allowed played. A touch less acceptable (I'm imagining my parent's dismayed gaze as 'You Shook Me All Night Long' rocked its roguish tendrils into my seven year old cranium. Of course at that point, sexual elements were well removed from my grasp.) But it was a rash departure from safe kiddie fare like Raffi or the oldies and classical my parents tended to cherish.

In a fashion, it was an early sampling of the bittersweet departure from childhood. These secrets were shared primarily between my friend and I, even though neither of us grasped entirely what the gist of those secrets were. We just sat on my kitchen floor with my minute boom box playing a tape that plugged us into new, forthcoming realities.

..and the streets will run technicolor with their grue (Street Trash)

2008-12-12T01:00:00.000-08:00

They called me a lunatic. They said I was a fool, but I was there I tell ya. They said "look at the crazy old bum." Well, I might be a little eccentric, but I ain't crazy.

Y'see, these kids lived down in the junkyard that fat fuck ran. They had a sweet setup - a bit hard to believe how clever that setup was - but I guess them Gilligan's Island people did some crazy, ingenious shit too. These kids are real connivers, scamps. They eke out an existence by themselves cause their folks went crazy.

Older bro Fred, see he's a wildcat - fuckin' round with the local homeless; stealin', scammin', whatever floats his boat. But the younger kid Kevin, he ain't so good at it, so his older bro gets down on him. The little kid also hangs with this cute Asian chick (She got a crush on him, so I hear. Can't imagine how that works him bein' all filthy and whatnot) that's employed by the junkyard.

Across the fence though, is this wack-job Bronson - a real Vietnam headcase who runs the bum show. They let him push 'em around cause he's meaner than a cock-punched wolverine (he scared the shit outta me, lemme tell 'ya). He's got lieutenants like Wizzy; all nasty nutjob drunks. Don't blame 'em neither.

So this fat fuck Ed who runs the cheapie liquor store finds this crate of shit - Tenafly Viper - in his basement. Shit's gotta be 60 fuckin' years old. He sells it cheap. The real trouble starts when Fred pinches a bottle of it.

Turns out the shit's toxic (thought things got better with age, guess not cheap-jack liquor). Fred's bottle gets swiped by Paulie, one of Bronson's charges. He hides out on this old toilet, and from what I heard he just melts into this multicolored goo. Messed up shit!

From there, everything goes to shit. We got a he-man cop rovin' the streets, lookin' to put the squeeze on Bronson. Crazy mobsters and their drunken girlfriends runnin' around the place. Hell, some poor SOB even gets his John Hancock lopped off, and the nasty assholes play fuckin' keep away. Can you believe it!

I tell you, it may not be the most coherent shit I ever heard, but it sure is a crazy time. I wouldn't believed it if I ain't seen it with my own eyes. It's a gruesome spectacle, but one that I'll never forget. Swear to Holy Christ, if they ever made a movie about it, I'd probably watch it. Although I can't imagine it would make much sense, but I bet they'd get good special effects an' hopefully cast actors that don't suck at all.

I ain't yankin' your chain. It's all the Goddamn truth. I was there to see it. Not a bad little story, eh. Now, how about it bud, can you spare some change?

I inquire, I respond.

2008-12-09T00:02:00.001-08:00

What was the most frustrating moment in your life (or embarrassing if you don’t mind divulging anonymously to strangers)?
Getting a DWI test across the street from the liquor store was pretty embarrassing (I was sober).

If you were a color, what color would you be? Why?
Navy blue or twilight - so I could blend in with the night when I stood by open water.

What has been the most influential object in your life?
My stereo.

What would be on the soundtrack to your life (5 songs with band)?
Concrete Jungle (The Specials). Tools of the Trade (Carcass). State of Fear (State of Fear). Seaweed (The Gits). Kinda Blue (Miles Davis).

How do you react to authority when cornered?
Begrudging respect or moderate annoyance is my typical response (depending on who said authority is).

If you had to die in a malevolent fashion (i.e.) murder, violent accident, natural disaster, etc.), how would you choose to go?
Nuked!

What movie have you seen the most often?
Ghostbusters.

Do you carry a defensive weapon (if yes, what is it?)?
I have a hammer in my car.

If you could have any useful device cybernetically implanted, what would it be and why?
I'd rather not be a cyborg.

Would you be a tornado chaser?
Unquestionably - hells yeah!

Do you have a nemesis (a nemesis being someone close to you, but in competition with you) and/or do you have an arch-fiend (being someone who hates and wants to fucking destroy you)?
I don't really have a nemesis, except life at times. My arch enemy is Marcus Nispel (for that awful Texas Chain Saw remake), although he may redeem himself with the Friday remake. Remains to be seen.

But it goes up to 11 [part 1].

2008-12-07T15:59:00.000-08:00

From time to time, I dream up a smattering of questions that, while in all probability irrelevant to the world in which we live, still serve as an amusing distraction. If you (like me, obviously) have nothing better to do, feel free to take a few minutes out and indulge the questions. If you want more time to ponder, feel free to copy and paste the little fuckers. If your really bored, you can even send me the answers (in the form of a comment). Once again, anonymity, if desired, won't be a problem. I'll post my answers the following day as well

[Please answer as in depth, yet succinctly as possible.]

What was the most frustrating moment in your life (or embarrassing if you don’t mind divulging anonymously to strangers)?

If you were a color, what color would you be? Why?

What has been the most influential object in your life?

What would be on the soundtrack to your life (5 songs with band)?

How do you react to authority when cornered?

If you had to die in a malevolent fashion (i.e.) murder, violent accident, natural disaster, etc.), how would you choose to go?

What movie have you seen the most often?

Do you carry a defensive weapon (if yes, what is it?)?

If you could have any useful device cybernetically implanted, what would it be and why?

Would you be a tornado chaser?

Do you have a nemesis (a nemesis being someone close to you, but in competition with you) and/or do you have an arch-fiend (being someone who hates and wants to fucking destroy you)?

Ghosts of the Basement

2008-12-07T15:36:00.001-08:00

Grand Guignol and the Art of Canned Ham (Theater of Blood)

2008-12-03T00:13:00.000-08:00

"Can you imagine it?"
"Imagine what?" she said looking coy.
"Ok, you like a good horror flick, right?" I raised my eyebrows.
"Does the pope wear a stupid hat?"
"Depends on your perspective, I suppose. But if I were to grossly generalize your average horror film - emphasis on average - tends to be a touch underdone, right?"
"And that's a bad thing?" she shrugged.
"Also perspective dependent."
"Touche."
"And depending on what you consider low-brow, if you consider it to be bad, per se -"
"Quit being so goddamn middle of the road."
"Ok. But for the sake or argument, let's take your average viewer. Movies with a gore quotient (say on the Gore Score levels) above five, tend to be shafted in favor of psychological or "scary" films.
"I suppose your average Jane Six-pack (sic), when faced with a double feature option of Evil Dead and The Haunting would prefer The Haunting, probably."
"What if there were movies that had both high art and solid sanguinary spills?"
"I'd say it was made in the seventies in all likelihood."
"Correct you are. It's called Theater of Blood. It's a movie that takes a solid list of ingredients: good cast (Vincent Price, Diana Rigg, Ian Hendry, etc.), an amusing script and clever direction - plus a tongue well tucked into cheek - and utilizes them for an optimum cinematic effect.
"Spill it," she winked.
"Well, everyone knows the dichotomy of artist and critic; it's a love-hate sort of thing. Of course, the people who hate critics more than any other are the artists, writers, directors, etc. who find their work constantly defiled by wretched reviews.
"In seventies England, no one suffers the wrath of the critics more than Edward Lionheart. His Shakespearean company is drug over hot coals and razor wire by the entire Critics Circle - the poshest of the posh critics. When he loses their coveted Critics Choice award to a 'neophyte,' he can no longer bear it, and lavishes the critics with a hammy rendition of Hamlet before plunging off their penthouse balcony to his death."
"Brutal."
"Indeed. Sometime later, members of the Circle begin to die in horrible fashions. Their deaths are inspired by the gory demises fashioned by Shakespeare himself. Of course, everyone would suspect Lionheart, save the buffering factor of his own corporeal end."
"So did you just pull spoiler on me, or is it a punch-less who-done-it?"
"Oh, it's no mystery. Now I admit, this film does have a few flaws - such as the fact that no one bothered to look into Lionheart's demise more thoroughly. Also, his ability to escape from dramatic assaults takes some suspension of disbelief. Although they do manage to eschew much of it to his mad brilliance. Of course, the biggest curiosity - not a technical one anyhow - is how a man of such charismatic intelligence manages not to realize that he's a corny, scene-chewer of epic proportions."
"You know men and their egotistical pride."
"So there are some flaws, a couple of plot holes, but -"
"But..."
"Put it this way, the film's pluses distinctly outweigh its negatives."
"Such as?"
"Well, I already mentioned the stellar acting. Diana Rigg (Emma Peel from the Avengers) is ravishing and her acting is subtle, yet lush - at times. Handry and a cast of veteran thesps. also provide solid and fascinating characters, between the haute couture Circle and the befuddled police.
"But the true feast is our consummate chiller actor Mr. Price. Its a perfect role for a man of his ability and he takes the ham-sandwich and transforms it into gourmet fare. Of course all ready known for chewing the occasional scene (brilliantly!) he becomes the maw of a black hole - enveloping our attention.
"In addition to thespic glory, it has superb set design and the set pieces abound with sublime Shakespearean menace. And does the stage ever run red. We have surgically severed heads, impalings and the odd electrocution - all wickedly executed.
"Director Douglas Hickcox knows how to pace a film as well. The veteran auteur sets up solid camera angles and framing to create proper menace and spectacle. Writer Anthony Greville-Bell's gallows humor plays well off the pomposity of the major characters and also the suspenseful under- and overtones. They really pull off a genuinely entertaining story on top of everything else.
"Plus, I'll never forget the disgusted looks Lionheart shoots his assistant during the bedroom surgery. Classic!"
She looked at me with piqued interest.
"If I didn't know any better, I would have thought you were reviewing it."
"Yeah I suppose so."
"Sounds like a hell of a horror-comedy, though. And I don't use that combination lightly. Where can I find it?"
"It's out on DVD (MGM's Midnight Movies imprint - some impressive films, thoroughly unimpressive features). Shouldn't be to hard to find. But, since you're my friend, I'll lend you my copy."
"Thank you kindly, I look forward to the massacre."
"As well you ought to."

Skulking Weather

2008-11-30T03:34:00.000-08:00

When the lights dim in dismal fuzz
Fog slithers past the daylight
moist euphoria on my skin
Dusk's clam opens my flesh
up. Rivers of adrenaline flush me
I trip on a root and laughter echoes across
the willing sky.
As I tumble across hollow schisms that rend the earth
The sky alights night with beautiful crackles
that shimmy across the invisible stars. I stutter
as my feet tremble with quick diatribes to
night's hollow footsteps as they
blot earth with their ink.
The slippery dark clots me with hollow ephemeral bliss
and I cry out
in joy
to mother's blanketed countenance.
I sink into a blissful stupor
as my eyes adjust - twinkling in the haze
as my brain bisects itself, tendrils stretching across the
peaceful, misty void.

punk rock love

2008-11-30T02:20:00.000-08:00

Imagination is boundless - and (supposedly) love knows no bounds (mi amigos amore - bueno) passion is a shapeless void in the construct of humanity (seriously, I'm really trying not to be completely obtuse and hyper art-fag, but I may have failed). But, for reals, this is raw human emotion - I can't make this shit up.

Lucky Rabbit

2008-11-06T23:21:00.000-08:00

I found a rabbit the other day, outside my house. I thought of its head: body crushed by a truck or car. Life is a futile chess game, missing everything save the pawns. The poor thing looked up at me with its hazy, unpasted peeper, from of its pile of pasta sauce and fur, at a moaning, gray sky and it was pissed!

I saw it’s severed, mashed dome screaming through the cosmos like shrapnel; its eyes and teeth red with fanatical revenge fantasies. It hopped an ethereal pecking order from the steel-belted beast that obliterated it; to the bi-pod that handled the beast; on up the food chain (so to speak) until it found out whomever started carving up prairies and fields for clone housing. This little head spat acid from its vampiric mouth and laid historical waste to the so-and-sos responsible. Poor fucker.

I looked from the smudged square to an adjacent oil slick (from which I witnessed an eons deceased , irate velociraptor materialize – screaming for vengeance -- incensed at its carcass being processed to make pocket fishermen). I realized it was beer o’clock, so I tromped into my house; the smattering nihilism of the human subspecies rattling my brain as I flipped on the stereo, gathering my frothy canister of fermentation.

The aggressive sounds pouring from my stereo jived me back to a misery-loves-company place. It wasn’t the rat-feces plateau of misery which got me down. It was this bloated, suit-clad martini-and-plutonium vision of reality. It flowed from the way life can be like cheap beer; the way it tastes like downstream horse piss, but in the pinch of a low-budget night, it works the same magic. You yearn for the good stuff but you can't scrape for it every time. And the hangovers can be just as bad a drum circle. It’s that carrot of prosperity, the one Status drives past with us on the freeway. All the time you know her tits are fake and her smile is just as impotent as her date, but you can’t help thinking how much fun it would be to be the pinball in between those silicon bumpers - if only for a second. Then the dawn lights you up: Wouldn’t it be clever not having to worry about getting sick or being flipped from your pad in lieu of a fucking good meal? They must have it all, right? Maybe they do, but all is nothing, all is a fraud. All is the shine on the game show host’s blinding teeth.

So I pace the place in a kamikaze furor, all-the-while sinister staffs plaster me from the stereo. The cheap beer rolls down and gets recycled and the world looks somewhat brighter - like taking off your sunglasses at dusk. You think 'maybe it’s not all so offal.' It just might not be. So I perch on the couch like a gargoyle, contemplating which record will support my new-found optimistic mental erection. Musical porno, I suppose. So I dig up something which sounds like sandpaper grating with the grain as opposed to against it. Between that and the alcohol-blood transfusion, I think: hey this shithole ain’t such a dead horse! Then I looked out the window and watch the neighbor’s mutt ingesting the poor rabbit’s head. Que sirah…

But I didn’t lose it completely. Now mind you, this wasn't exactly a a spotlight and choral backed epiphany, but this world is a dog eat hare-guts world, and sometimes it's not such a bad gig. It wasn's as much a chainsaw to the guts illumination, as much as it was a surreptitious sucker-punch. What made reality a filth-greased chute was the vast and under-realized potential of our species. As I sat sucking down somewhere between eight and number ten of the night (speaking of potential lost), it seemed that my cultural dimmer-switch was set for an evening – a long evening – of romantic alcohol-based denial.

We, the flickering night light in the bathroom that people are, can smell the miasmic void we're dangling above, but can't seem to scrounge-up any proper contingency plans. We have so many options beyond our videodrome, camera-headed existence, but we let the high-ballers sip from their opulence, while driving their economic combines through our fragile swaying existences, as we gasp for new and better reality constructs. Our TVs reflect our own failures, allowing us to twist the daggers into our backs until we’ve bled-out to nothing but the gut-rot whiskey, which itself was fermented from our ho-hums and oh wells (like the roads paved with our idyllic intent). Where did we go wrong? Can we stop the future before it consumes us like morbidly obese buffet goers, all set up with their between-plate magazines? Sometimes I hear it in the night - a subtle murmur - the scraping metal on metal of our collective unconscious’ gears. But it’s so faint that I often attribute it to sleep-deprived or intoxicated aural hallucinations.

Outside in the yard, my mangy neighbor is smacking his lips above the partially-incgested Sumerian astrology chart which used to dart around the yard. I’ve once again smacked into the brick wall of my own short comings again as the number nine (or is it ten?) pop-hisses it's arctic, hoppy goodness at me. Gotta flip the record. Maybe change it all-together.

Wherever you are, oh severed bunny head -distended and ruptured and angry - do your worst!

A Change in Seasons

2008-10-22T20:57:00.000-07:00

What is 30? Its a number. Its a feeling that you've progressed beyond the rambunctious 20s; leapt further into the quagmire of "mature adulthood." Its a kick to the emotional testicles (or feminine comparable) that leaves you crumpled to the ground. Yet it really isn't that bad at all. It merely is.

Why is it a big deal? I don't know. When I careened into double digits, I honestly can't recall it presenting me with any internal consternation. 16 was a worthless number to me, seeing as I didn't get my drivers license until I hit 17. 18 meant porn and cigarettes - not too shabby at all. 21 was the coup de grace for me. The lack of paranoia - the hefty satchel strewn over your shoulder at the bar removed - now that was inherent beauty. And of course there were full nude strip clubs and being able to drive cab for some companies (ok, that one wasn't so neat).

I remember being a little freaked about hitting 20, due to my assumption that I'd never survive to see it. Obviously, that proved fictitious. I may dwell on birthdays a bit too much, but whatever. We've only a finite grouping of them.

A far as I know, there is no set precedent for celebrating birthdays after you hit your twenties. Some people enjoy the recurring family gathering. Others indulge in bar-hopping with friends (or family). Still others prefer to be alone. Personally, I enjoy the gloved hand of terror on my back (for a moment), a dollop of introspection and then capping it off with a room-spinning evening of some sort - good friends, decent alcohol and a hangover to introvert me on the next day serves me well. But I've rambled tangentially - as I'm wont to do - away from the original subject. 30.

Does 30 mean its time to settle down, work on a career and prepare for the proverbial picket fences and the shit machines? Not per se - at least in my inhabited flesh bag. Of course those thoughts permeate my brain as would gunshots no matter what I do, but I won't allow social tradition and atavism to drag me down completely. I'm building my iconoclasm one snafu at a time. Still, that temptation to club me a wife and pump her full of gism until she blurts out my demon seed dwells within the catacombs of my biology. If I had to, I'd rather pull my shit together first though. I'll worry about the procreation and other such nonsense later - preferably when I'm dead.

'They' say 30 is the new twenty (which would bump every other decade up I suppose). I have to admit, I know numerous post 30-types still attached to the rapscallion life. I'm not sure I want to leave that wacky club either. But responsibility looms like a jagged edifice. My parents are getting older and are by no means wealthy. Plus, supposing I decide to spawn - for some elusive reason - having something more solvent than a shit job would be useful. Still, I seem to be caught in a Peter Pan bear trap of my own volition. Indecision during this phase of life seems a more potent energy siphon than ever before. All this excess effort could be willingly funneled into personal productivity and progression. Dwelling on this planet is far from a study in absolutes, though (unless you're a zealot). How does one go about reaching balance? In a strictly figurative sense, no fat kids allowed on my teeter totter.

Turning 30 means - aside from utter shock at my continued existence - that middle age is pulsing ever closer. Admittedly, there is no guarantee that the species will survive long enough for me to see this fabled realm, but if it does I've got a lot of inner-demons to polka with first. Can I maintain the body breaking pace I'm at for much longer? The resilience of my early 20s is like an old pair of boxers - I just don't hold up as well. My liver is waiting for the divorce papers to arrive and my kidneys are attempting to donate themselves. All these hideous biological klaxons resound throughout me (and let me tell you, they sound worse through the droning throb of a hangover). My internal derision is at a new high-water mark. It's like puberty part 2 (ok, that's a step too far). It certainly gives life bonus confusion layers.

Th only real conclusions I've drawn about turning 30 are sparse. I'm pretty sure I'm not ready for it - but time's jackboots march on into Poland. I guess I am ready for it. Contradictory? Yes. Human? I suppose so. Its a touch freaky-deaky, but it's no Rick James. If my personal history has taught me anything, its that I'm not dead yet, and have no such agenda towards those ends. Sometimes life slaps you around. All you can do take it and return in kind whenever appropriate. I have no fucking clue what I'm doing on this planet, and I've certainly got much less time than I originally did to figure it out (unless that reincarnation thing is correct - and call me skeptical), but at least I'm not alone. I'm far from the first or last individual to run across such philosophical trees felled onto the one way street of life. So, I'm 30 - fuckin' bring it on!

The Thing in the Kitchen

2008-10-15T23:55:00.000-07:00

I’m terrified of it. All its gurgling, churgling, chortling noises frighten me so. I can’t see what it is but it torments me every day, all day long. I can’t even leave my house for fear that it will spread. Nor will I attempt to go to the refrigerator to eat until I’m completely starving and at which time, only in make-shift body armor. I have no dishes left, well, no clean ones anyway. I can’t heat up foods on the stove or even use my microwave. What kind of monster is it that I have? You may call me insane, but it is my sink.

No, it isn’t in my sink contrary to what you may think. It is my sink! I won’t venture near that thing for more than a second or two.

It wasn’t always a problem, you know. When we first moved in here life was spectacular. My kitchen was spotless, sparklingly new and efficient in energy and space both. My wife, oh the meals she would whip up. She’d be banging away on the faux-marble counters putting together all varieties of culinary delight. The dual door fridge stood in its off-white glory with its beige trim calling attention to its splendor. It hummed peacefully all the while dispensing ice, food that was fresh and delicious. The wood grain cabinets stocked with delicate china and glass ware. Oh it was quite a sight - my wife hunched over that silver, oversized oven with its dual windows of clear pyrex – removing a royal feast of turkey or meat loaf. But then there was that sink; that brushed steel sink and its shiny new garbage disposal. It was nothing but twin basins of despair.

We didn’t use it often. We had no need for it. We had a state-of-the-art dishwasher. It handled most flotsam and food grit easily. Other pieces of large food were typically fed into the compost heap by the back fence in the yard. Obviously in cases where more delicate items needed washing, we utilized the sink. We even used the garbage disposal from time to time (especially when we were too lazy or it was too cold to go outside and toss leftovers in the compost). For the most part, though, the sink sat idle.

While it wasn’t obvious, there should’ve been some indications that all was not proper. There were occasions, witnessed by myself alone - unfortunately not by my wife – that should have provided forewarning to the onslaught of terror that overtook my kitchen.

One day while I rummaged around for batteries I noticed that the faucet handle (one of those chrome jobbies, vaguely L-shaped although at more of an acute angle than a typical L, and pointing downwards of course) was amiss. When I first entered the room it was pointing directly towards me when I was on the left end of the kitchen pawing through drawers. When I concluded my search on the right side of the kitchen, I could swear that the handle was still pointing towards me. But, silly fool, I played it off thinking nothing further of it.

Several months later the odd occurrences continued to manifest. I was washing wine glasses for a change from merlot to Chablis and I noticed the disposal growling to life. It was only for mere moments, but despite the running water I could swear I heard the distinct sound of grinding gears. But it was just for a second. I turned the water off and listened – nothing. I returned to my washing, think ‘ok, that’s odd, but I must’ve bumped the switch or something. Just a fluke.’ Several moments later, there it was again. I switched the faucet off one final time. Nothing. It was unquestionably bizarre, but once again I paid it little heed.

The next time though, a warning light in my subconscious lit up. I recalled something odd happening to me several days ago, maybe a week or two. I decided that perhaps our fairly new kitchen needed some handiwork. This time I heard the sound of running water coming from in the kitchen. I thought it odd so I trekked toward the kitchen, although by the time I got near the sound had ceased. I knew my wife was out running errands, so I assumed perhaps the faucet had a leaky gasket. I tore into the assemblage, unscrewed as many pipes, seals and gaskets as I could find. My search yielded nothing disparaging. I checked the disposal (making certain the power was off) and found nothing that was obviously faulty. So I sat back down on my plush recliner to watch some TV and lo and behold, the faucet was running again. Unfortunately from there it merely escalated.

I tried to explain to my wife that something eerie was afoot with the sink. She refused to believe me. Even after further anomalies, she still held firm that I was being ridiculous. We hired a plumber; I’m the first to admit I’m woefully inadequate when it comes to pipe based know-how. When she found nothing amiss, it was both assuaging and disquieting to my creeping dread – mostly disquieting. That silver bastard had to be malfunctioning or worse! I didn’t realize how right I was.

When the tables turned on me, it became tantamount to realize the gravity of the situation. The realization was none other than our sink was somehow evil. The moment of truth came during an otherwise pleasant evening. My wife and I discussed in depth what she felt was an ‘increasing attachment’ to the sink (I believe obsession may have even crept into conversation once or twice). I curtailed my sinking suspicions for the sake of the evening, merely warning her that all was not right in our ultra-modern kitchen. We agreed that we would call the plumbers as soon as possible and have them replace the sink. Sadly that was the positive omega of the evening. We continued enjoying our Japanese takeout (I admit to being very wary about leaving my wife alone in the kitchen, hence I accompanied her. She said I was making her nervous, so we opted for takeout). After dinner I cleared the plates, taking them cautiously to the sink for a rinse. I may have been facing my fears a bit on this one. I began rinsing, still aware of a sinking presence, when I felt a tug.

All at once the disposal groaned to life snatching my overhanging tie in its vile clutches. I scrambled for the switch mere inches away on the wall only to find that it was all ready in the off position. I gathered as much of my tie as I could and wrenched at it. My effort was in vein. Repositioning myself a second time I pulled and this time it gave. The sink was toying with me.

Sadly my wife heard little of my desperate, gurgling struggle having retreated to the living room for post-dinner television. I tried to explain my predicament, but somehow the beast had allowed me to leave unscathed. My tie wasn’t even damp. She refused to hear any further of my ‘lunacy’ and we got into a heated argument. Unfortunately many things were said in moments lost too quickly to review. Many things I regret dearly. I refused removal of the sink until she was convinced of its beastly nature and I was vindicated. She told me that unless it was removed immediately, she would remove herself, immediately. I pled wither her to come with me to see it. To stare into its menace, to believe me, and its countenance would be no more. But she wouldn’t listen. I could only watch in horror as she locked the bedroom door to pack travel bags. She just wouldn’t listen. Perhaps she couldn’t conceive…or perhaps. No, the though was too hideous to contemplate.

As she left, I attempted to gain her support once more. I told her that if she came with me, I would personally disassemble the monster and she could stay here. She winced but gave me one more opportunity.

I crept towards the dank kitchen, bathed only in streetlight. As I leered in the doorway, it growled at me sending waves of its menace at us. My spine shivered palpably. It feigned supremacy, but I knew it was far more than that. That sink intended to destroy me – to extinguish my candle. Despite displaying its guile before, I knew in my heart that it would succeed this time. Its tendrils were growing in power and influence. I didn’t know how, being that humans are infinitely cleverer than machines, but I also knew that this was no machine. It was a techno-demon, plain and simple.

I tried to get my wife to listen, but I didn’t know how to convince her of the true danger. In the end what choice did I have but to let her leave? It was the safest stratagem. Even if the monster didn’t kill me, its bloodlust may have focused itself on her, her not being as wary as I. Its cunning rage didn’t extend beyond the kitchen yet, but for how long? I knew that I alone was destined to keep watch – somehow I could formulate a plan to destroy it.

So that brings us back to the present. I can feel its bastard tentacles squeezing, tightening its grasp on the house. The kitchen is nearly completely ensconced by its evil. I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be able to gather food from the cupboards or the refrigerator.

My wife won’t call me anymore. She says I frighten her. She no longer resides at the same motel she first went to and if she’s with her parents or her sister, neither will say. Originally she had the neighbors check on me every now and then, but I warned them away. It senses their fear and continues to thrive. I don’t know how I’ll get food if the creature cuts me off from the kitchen. Perhaps I could reacquaint myself with the neighbors if only to have them drop food on my doorstep. Strange people also stop by from time to time and I fear that they’ve come to aid the beast. They ask me odd questions. I can’t leave this place until I figure out its weakness. I’ve lost everything – my wife, my job, my dignity and my security. This may be some sort of test. I don’t know. But I know this, I can’t falter. I must fend off its advances or, well, the situation would be grim.

I no longer sleep well, not any more. When I do I can sense it skulking into my dreams. I wake up screaming. I can’t let it get to me, but it’s made several more attempts on my life. I won’t delve into its insidious plots but it always attacks when I try to procure food. It may be too powerful. I don’t know ho much longer I can hold out. But I will do my damnedest! This is my crusade! This is my trial. The creature is strong, but I will prevail. No sink shall ever defeat humanity! Let it torment me with its gurgles (please send food) and growls around the corner, but I will be victorious!

Nostalgic for Splatter (Hatchet)

2008-10-12T23:20:00.000-07:00

Let me tell you a little story. You may or may not remember it as well as I do. Maybe you remember it better. In any case, beware, for this is a temporally situated tale. Let me lay the foundation for you.

It was the vainglorious 80s. An era by and large that was all about being rich, getting shitty haircuts and doing a lot of coke (or Quaaludes, if you preferred) - the milieu of trickle down economics, teflon coated figureheads and Cyndi Lauper. One of the few things that actually, from time to time, kicked the generally stagnant, homogeneous culture in the happy-sacks, was horror films (and yes, I'm aware of how homogeneous they could be as well, but at least they had a picante flavor). The most prevalent of these was the slasher - reigning overlord of 80s horror. Love them, loathe them, shove them up the MPAAs ass, you couldn't avoid them. They were omnipresent. They shook their gory junk in your face - The Burning, Friday the 13th, Evil Dead, Nightmares in a Damaged Brain, etc., etc. The type of film that gave Tipper Gore PR hardons to go with her nightmares (despite the fact I've never actually met gore hounds that actually went on to KILL someone!)

But sadly, as the mullets receded into small towns, as hair metal fell to seattle sound and political correctness ingratiated itself as newspeak, horror films of this variety split for the crotchety hills Kandarian demons came from. Occasionally, during the 90s, splatter would rear its ugly head. Dead Alive, Darkness, The Johnsons (Neatherlands) - films like this stoked the fires as best they could, but for the most part, horror was flapping in the breeze like a Central Park pervert. Cheesy thrillers and weak sequels weren't enough (although I still have a soft, squishy spot in my heart for Jason Goes to Hell - unrated of course). Scream, despite varying opinions, did help renew latent interest in the genre, but it was limited to smart-assed, yawn-inducing knock-offs of the ...Last Summer variety. But somewhere in our collective cinematic unconscious, ancient tape-based chants were playing. The woods would fill with blood once more. Of course we had to wait for tame PG-13 "fright" films and lame J-horror remakes to slough off, but the red tide built steadily off-shore.

Hooray!

I heartily thank the new perveyors of B & G & T & A. Suddenly, those of us who grew up on grue, struck back from directors chairs and typewriters (well, word processing programs anyhow). The crimson surf hit with full force, taking our entrails with it. Amongst the many responsible was Adam Green. He represents the true believers of the splatter world and his film Hatchet resounds with homage, pastiche and resplendant love for a much-maligned genre.

Unfortunately, it never came to a theater near me. I thereby missed out on surround sound squishiness (and the entertaining to a point audience participation). I was stuck with my couch and my off-color television, late New Years Day ('08). I was nursing a brutal hangover on top of it - ironically from New Years Day rather than Eve. But I was far from deterred. I sat there all alone, laughing, squirming on occasion and yelping 'Fuck yeah' as the blood gushed.

The story is simple, to the point. Students partake in the standard Mardi Gras festivities. Our protagonist Ben, is nursing his aching heart (after a recent break-up) and bores with the festivities. He convinces his friend Marcus (reluctantly) to voyage into the haunted bayou with a ragtag gaggle of touristas. According to local legend, a deformed child was accidentally killed by his father some years ago. Now he prowls the woods, filled with malevolent, spectral rage, searching for any unfortunate trespassers. As you may have guessed, the folklore is anything but, and things go awry - big time.

Hatchet is a slasher film with its rudimentary elements in place, but also well aware of their surroundings. While it eschews the trite, hyper self-awareness of late 90s slashers, it maintains its brain along with its guts (mmm...brains). And what guts it has. This is not a movie for those shy of the sanguinary arts. It reaches down your gullet and garrotes you with your own intestines - in an SFX manner of speaking. Hatchet also has a fair share of suspense and good old jumps, elevating it far above numerous other slashers of a similar ilk.

Admittedly, not all the gags work to perfection, but it mingles low brow with insider winks and dry humor rather well. Its sensibly self-aware, tossing in juicy nuggets for horror fans without being off-putting to the casual viewer. But let's face it, even though the neophyte can enjoy it, this movie was made for us ravenous splatter fans. It contains some marvelous genre cameos and bit parts - Robert Englund as a redneck, Tony Todd as, well, Tony Todd in a top hat. Another bonus is solid casting (I know, I was as shocked a you were). While some of the actors are better than others, the main cast is well above average - especially for a slasher. But most of all, this film makes me misty for those cool, spring afternoons spent waiting at the old IGA for my friend's mother to finish shopping. We'd sift through the spinning racks, lusting after the most carnage-drenched titles, hoping we could convince her to rent them. Hatchet invokes the little ghoul inside me that never forgot the bountiful joys that a few practical effects and a shitload of Karo syrup brought. For that, I salute you Mr. Green, from the bottom of my fiendish heart.

Now, where did I put that machete.

Scared

2008-10-03T01:25:00.000-07:00

I'm scared that who I am, the society I live in is crumbling, a sandcastle in the surf. I'm scared that who I am isn't consistent and I'm not sure if I ever knew who I was (standard that). I'm scared that I did at one point but it fluttered away. I'm scared that I won't be capable of acting when necessary. I'm terrified that I will. I'm scared of indecision. I'm scared that repercussions will be oceanic, sending ripples in every conceivable concentric direction (but more so that there will be none whatsoever). I'm scared that my life, my culture, my world is skidding ass-over-tea kettle into a sparkling rimmed void, and that the last thing I hear will be a satisfied belch from said void.

I'm scared that my life is a waste. I'm terrified of my emotions but even more so that I'm a budding sociopath watching my emotions wither in the callous human sun. I'm concerned that I'll be wholeheartedly embraced for that. I'm scared that I'm just a dream and someday someone will crave bacon and eggs or have to take a piss and I'll drift off into a vapor and dissipate completely. The likelihood is higher that I'm a nightmare and the worst is forthcoming. Surprisingly, that really doesn't freak me out that much.

I'm worried about later and all the echoes it sends back. I'm scared of infinite possibilities inherent within existence - more so the horrifying ones rather than the wonderful ones, but they're kinda freaky too. (Will we ever evolve?) I don't want to be forgotten, but I'm not sure I want to be remembered either. I'm afraid of failure and mortified of success. I don't want to know what happens to me either way. But if it does, will it alter me physically, mentally and emotionally. Will my metamorphosis be a butterfly or a dung beetle (sorry roaches). I'm not afraid of dying, or getting cancer or terrorists. Should I be? That probably should scare me.

I'm wary of chaos and live in terror at the idea of order. I'm scared to leap when I've looked and even more so that I can predict the outcomes accurately. I perturbed by the idea of certainty circumventing uncertainty and kicking me right in the happy sacks. I'm utterly horrified at the prospect of anything beyond random patterns to the universe. I'm down for Kurt Vonnegut's Church of God the Indifferent if no other choice but to be religious.

What if I never sleep again, that freaks me out. But when Dream has me in her embrace, I still want to wake up and roll out of bed. I'm scared that the world never will give two shits about the nasty case of crabs it has, and when said crabs run out of food and oil and poison their own surroundings or incinerate themselves - unless the black hole beats us to it - that we won't even register as a sub-footnote in the end notes of the universe. I'm also entirely certain this will happen. I'm also certain I'm living the exact opposite lie than I desire to - now that's freaky.

The list of fears is ominously long: scared to love, scared to hate, scared to care...Confrontation gives me hives. Reality and its repercussions are fucking my brain up. Dating and relationships - now there's a manufacturing plant of fear and repression. I'm spooked out that I'll wake up one day and really get it through my thick skull that I'm an image package designed by a sarcastic, nihilistic art culture that offered me up as a living joke (not a god, this is a human package). That's a punchline I don't relish.

I'm frightened of my own potential and of finding out that I have none. My friends scare me more than strangers. But i love them for it - now that's fuckin' tweaked out. I'm scared that some day I'll look in the mirror and a dullard's face will gawk back at me. I'm afraid it's already the case, though. And ism's, ism's make me wet my pants: narcissism, nihilism, fascism, patriotism, solipsism, onanism, organism...shit I could go on and on (spose I already have) , but let's face it I'm just SCARED!

Wait a minute. After sloshing all these words onto paper - well pixellated paper anyway - it's like being 5 and pulling the old rusty chain in the basement. 60 faded watts of incandescant illuminates everything. I'm not really scared of these things. It's all in my head.

Now that's scary.

So this is where it all begins

2008-10-02T00:17:00.000-07:00

(So I have decided to feast anew on the wacky notion of introductory statements. My prior introductory statement was a little bit too akin to the Fuck You mindset I exhibited when I first began my blogging experiment. Realizing that now a few people have actually stumbled across my blog, and were possibly confused by my opening statement, I present the redux):

Anew the day breaks, and its freshly becoming one of those days: the ones where your keys fall into the toilet, your boss seems extra-intolerable and your pants seem to have shrunk one size in the wash. Or perhaps its been a lovely day, where the sun smiles upon your shoulder, your smart-phone gains its own personality - a rather delightful one - and your body melts into the dashboard of your car, allowing you unusual distraction from your commute.

Either way, you're here now, and you really are capable of choosing whether you wish to peruse, exit or imbibe. Either way I hope you stay; put your feet up, watch a horror movie or sample a story from my day or my subconscious.

Welcome. It's your life - for better or worse - and I can only distract you from it. Hopefully with positive results.