| Leftovers problem, solved. Other problems, created. |
[Nov. 26th, 2009|11:23 pm] |
Thanksgiving Leftovers Sandwich:
1) Toast two pieces of sandwich bread lightly, just enough to produce rigidity.
2) On one slice, spread a selection of mashed potatoes.
3) Sprinkle corn atop the mashed potatoes.
4) Place turkey meat atop corn.
5) (optional) Add gravy to taste.
6) On remaining slice of bread, spread stuffing, then top sandwich.
7) Shamefully eat sandwich among horrified looks of family.
Am I the only person in the world who does this? |
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| Advertising Schmadvertising |
[Nov. 13th, 2009|06:38 pm] |
Okay, Miracle Whip.
You've seen these commercials, right?
The ones where a generic mass-distributed foodstuff available since 1933 boasts itself as incahoots with today's hipster youth?
Not buying it.
I'm willing to accept advertising can be an element of culture. I don't consider it Christmas time until I see Coca Cola's polar bears. In turn, I'm willing to believe marketing campaigns can foist their way into the national identity. Crap, look at this and tell me it does not accurately represent 1996.
iPhones, soft drinks, blue jeans, etc. I'm willing to suspend my culture-jamming beliefs. Whether we realize it or not, these do actually define our generation. If any of them disappeared, we wouldn't be the same people.
This does not apply to mayonnaise.
Stephen Colbert called Miracle Whip out on this. He did the same thing with Crumbelievables, the pre-crumbled processed cheddar cheese in a bag (Kraft sucks at marketing, apparently). In retaliation for all this, Miracle Whip produced a new series of commercials, specifically for The Colbert Report's timeslot, addressing Stephen's comments directly and by name, insisting they do speak for the independent voice of the people. Kraft calls these ads, and I quote, "In your face and massively dope." It's very clear how well they represent youth culture; they drop the illist of late 90's slang, just like all of us.
If forced to choose sides on who better represents the people, an award-winning television satirist who continually proffers modern social philosophy and wisdom, or a condiment, I'm picking the one not commonly rejected in favor of mustard. |
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| No, I still haven't found a job |
[Nov. 11th, 2009|11:15 pm] |
The problem with DC as mentioned in The Big Bang Theory:
"Do you think my nephew would like this (comic book)?"
"Perfect. He just has to be familiar with Infinite Crisis, 52, Countdown, Final Crisis and the re-emergence of the multiverse."
"What’s the Multiverse?"
"Exactly."
The problem with Marvel Comics as mentioned in The Big Bang Theory:
"Spider-Man, get him Spider-Man..."
"Which Spider-Man? Amazing Spider-Man? Ultimate Spider-Man? Spectacular Spider-Man? The Marvelous Adventures of Spider-Man? Spider-Man 2099?" |
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| Jesse James Gets Assassinated by Robert Ford, Who Was Somewhat Cowardly |
[Nov. 11th, 2009|12:36 am] |
I watched The Birds for the first time yesterday.
I liked it. I mean, I liked it enough. The problem I had was, because it was such a famous movie, I knew where all the shocking moments were. Just as jokes can't be explained, scares can't be expected. In essence, the movie was spoiled for me.
It wasn't spoiled like learning the score of a baseball game, then watching a taped recording of the game. It was more like reading a book about stage magic, then going to see a live magician. The spectacle's all there and its still fun to watch it all play out, but I'm so busy looking for trap doors and wires, I'm missing the intended show.
( Don't wind up like me. If you haven't seen The Birds, don't read this paragraph. )
It's my own damn fault. I have an interest in films so I go to movie lover websites, and watch TV shows about cinematic arts, and read books about filmmaking styles. These sources are going to be talking about movies, assuming the audience already knows the source material. But there's a lot of source material; everyone's bound to have missed something. I hadn't seen The Birds, maybe someone else hasn't seen Blade Runner, or Jacob's Ladder, or . Whatever. Classic movies have iconic scenes, characters and stories that can't be talked about in any manner other than blatant spoilers. It's a sacrifice I choose to make.
But what about the average Blockbuster goer? They don't choose to sit down one Thursday evening and watch a TCM special about Stanley Kubrick. Should they be entitled to the surprise that HAL-9000 kills the crew of Discovery One? Of course not. Even people who never see certain movies know these facets of filmdom. It is ingrained in our cultural society. We go around saying "Bruce Willis is a ghost" and "Brad Pitt is imaginary" without even thinking about it; as if we were saying "2+2=4". But there are kids today and kids tomorrow who haven't even seen these movies and have been completely deprived of the reveal because we can't keep a secret.
The same thing happened when I watched Alien; I knew a xenomorph was going to pop outta the guy's chest. The same thing happened when I watched The Shining; I knew Jack Nicholson was going to go crazy and chase Shelly Duvall with an axe. The same thing happened when I watched Invasion of the Body Snatchers; I knew people were hatching from pods.
Consider this food for thought; when does a spoiler become not a spoiler, and just common knowledge? Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde being the same person was once a spoiler. Long John Silver being a pirate used to be a spoiler. Dracula being a vampire was once a spoiler.
I'm not trying to change the world with this post and I'm not just typing up an "I hate when that happens" rant. I'm simply saying, spoilers happen. We live in an artistic society and we love to talk about the artistic products. We live in a digital age, and these references reach millions instantly and unintentionally. Let's just keep on doing what we've been doing and hope it doesn't get worse.
Have you ever been really deprived because of a spoiler? |
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| Everything you know about zombies is wrong |
[Oct. 26th, 2009|06:55 pm] |
It has become readily apparent that the vast majority of people have malformed information about the upcoming Zombie Apocalypse (853 days and counting). As such, here is a basic survival guide, bullet-pointed for your convenience. It is taking every ounce of strength to not make this an 'Everybody's Free to Wear Sunscreen' parody.
- Zombies are the living dead. They are not caused by a virus, but a paranormal parasite moving them like a puppet. If you are bit, you are not necessarily a zombie. If you bleed out, however, you're boned.
- Seriously. There may be no correlation between bites, scratches or fluid transfers (ewwww) and zombification. A small injury in battle should be treated like any other wound. But if Johnny Porkfat has a coronary at the dinner table, get his bloated corpse far away from you.
- There is no cure for zombiism. If someone is a zombie, they have died and have been resurrected. Through tears or gritted teeth, say goodbye and shoot the bastards.
- Neo-Romeroans believe shopping malls and other stores are safe havens. Have you ever been to one of these places on Black Friday? Death by trampling. Now imagine all those people are being chased.
- Dennis Hopper and people who look like Dennis Hopper always put their interests first. If forced together, be wary of his actions, and split paths as soon as possible.
- Marksmanship is not an inherent trait. Don't handle firearms unless you have practice with that particular caliber of weapon. This includes operation and maintenance.
- You know how NRA guys have that phrase "From My Cold Dead Hands?" They mean it. Just because Johnny Truckerhat has a veritable armory doesn't mean he's going to share. Same goes for everyone and their respective supplies.
- Speaking of which, get a respective supply. Become known as a valuable contact for an essential or luxury item so when the opportunity for trade arises, you are the only option, and prices swing in your favor. Maybe you're the only one on the planet with French roast coffee. Maybe you have D-Cell batteries. Maybe you're the last bastion for literature. Just make sure you have something worth trading for. Your video games don't mean dick now that there's no electricity.
- There are three phases of the zombie apocalypse: The Panic, The Endurance, The Rebuilding. The Panic is where the zombies feast on the majority of the population. The Endurance is where the ragtag bunch of survivors try and survive. The Rebuilding is the the removal of zombies as a problem, either by control, isolation or genocide, and human civilization tries to re-establish itself. Stay hidden during The Panic. Stay wary during The Endurance. Stay cautious during The Rebuilding.
- During The Panic, every major road and highway will be overrun with cars. All of which will be abandoned as panic ensues, forming a never-ending traffic jam. Get a bike, go off-road, or just avoid roads altogether.
- Death is not a concern for zombies. They will not starve to death. Do not tough it out and wait for the whole thing to blow over; they can wait longer for you. 28 Days Later is inaccurate.
- Do not set zombies on fire. Dry logs take hours to burn. Flesh will take much longer. While you're waiting, you will have a lumbering, flaming humanoid trying to bite your face. Plus he's setting all your stuff on fire.
- Zombies do not operate via the remnants of their central nervous system. Aiming for the brain will not help. Sever the muscular and skeletal systems, making movement impossible. Broken legs are just that: Broken. Unusable.
- The fresher the corpse, the more ability it will have. The newly dead will be capable of sprinting, and possibly even speech. corpses suffering from decay and rigor mortis will be significantly less ambulatory. Corpses reduced to skeletons may not be able to support their own body weight, but could still grab a leg and trip someone.
- Zombie bodies are modular. Again, the central nervous system is not an issue. Impale him, he's still gnashing his teeth. Cut off his legs, his upper body will crawl towards you, spine dangling behind. Chop off an arm, make sure that arm doesn't come after you Evil Dead II style.
- Zombies are neither cold-blooded or warm-blooded. They are no-blooded. Snow, ice, rain, sun and heat have no impact on their performance. Run to Alaska, run to Mexico; it doesn't matter.
- The Zombie Virus applies to all species. Beware of feral chipmunks. Look out for enraged pigeons. Swarms of bees are infinitely more terrifying. Every fish is now a piranha.
- Zombies are dead bodies. Dead bodies float. Whether zombies can swim has yet to be discovered. Do not rely on your assumption.
- Zombieland had it right: 1) Cardio. 2) Beware of Bathrooms. 3) Seatbelts (In theory. remember, you won't be driving.) 4) Double Tap. Apparently, Zombieland's viral marketing didn't feel it necessary to write all 32 rules canonically. C'mon guys, Wedding Crashers had 115.
- For more lessons, coupled with visual aids, seek out Return of the Living Dead, a much more accurate portrayal of the ensuing apocalypse than any other film on record.
Good luck everyone. Keep together, don't trust strangers, and watch the itchy trigger fingers when visiting former Ghostbusters. |
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| Cornetto! |
[Oct. 22nd, 2009|07:58 pm] |
Yes.
Oh God, yes.
Whatever it is, Yes.
If you need help with this, I will help you, yes. |
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| Four corners still doesn't count |
[Oct. 21st, 2009|01:49 am] |
The air is cool and crisp, pumpkins have been marked down, and all the horror movies released in late September are already out of theaters. Ladies and gentlemen, it is Halloween time.
My costume assembly will begin tomorrow (I found the hot glue gun in the back of the closet, finally), but let's take a moment to consider the less fortunate among us. Those with no imagination. Those among us who, every year, display their lack of originality and imagination by wearing overused or just plain bad costumes on Halloween. Maybe they have no foresight. Maybe they're lazy. Maybe they really like their costume and everyone else is ruining their well-planned act of expressionism through wardrobe. Whatever the reason, what better way to chide them and their poor decisions than with another installment of Halloween Bingo.
By analyzing cultural trends, mass media, and observations gleaned from October 31st, 2008, I have selected 25 costumes which are all but guaranteed to be over-represented by the great unwashed this year. Five in a row wins... nothing. I can't really spring for gifts. Sorry folks. But it's fun to play anyway.
Starting in the upper left, we have:
- Esoteric superhero
- Costume that seemed like a genuinely good idea at the time, but is ridiculously bulky and restrictive
- Star Trek
- Eyes Wide Shut orgy participant
- White guy who thinks its a good idea to walk around an urban area dressed like a pimp
- Sarah Palin, portrayed by someone who doesn't understand how timeliness or topical humor works
- Twilight fans who are in for a rude awakening concerning the franchise's popularity among drunkards
- Four guys playing the Anchorman quartet (sucks to be the guy who got stuck as Brian Fantana)
- Whitey being racist
- Lady Gaga
- Furry who gets to wear his weekend clothes out in public
- Ridiculously homosexually themed costume (also Bruno)
- Free Space: Any celebrity who died in June 2009 (automatic win if its David Carradine or Ed McMahon)
- Poser who's too cool for Halloween costumes, or some other anti-costume bullshit rhetoric
- Fake-legs-jockey/cowboy riding ostrich with reins type costume. I don't know what the hell you call it.
- Sexy flight attendant
- Where the Wild Things Are
- Banana (seriously, I saw like eight of these last year. Why are bananas so popular?)
- Sexy girl scout
- "Free Mammogram" or some other lame attempt to see boobs
- Watchmen
- Dominatrix
- Rule 63 (For any given male character, there is a female version of that character)
- Cardboard, duct tape, sharpie representation of Youtube, Facebook, etc.
- Gorilla
And a new rule this year: Double points if the costume is ridiculously terrible. I don't know how double points works for bingo, but it sounds exciting, doesn't it? |
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| Nickleback is terrible, but you knew that. |
[Oct. 18th, 2009|12:18 am] |
In my attempts to certifiably certify the best songs of the 00's (I pronounce it Aughts), I've learned three shocking things.
1) People don't understand how decades work. The 00's began on January 1st, 2000. In order to qualify as a song from this period, it must have been released after this date. Either as a single, or on an album, I'm not picky. Yet every list I peruse for reference inevitably has stuff released from September-December 1999. One list even has a song from 1997. Their defense? It received significant airplay and popular reception in 2000.
Bohemian Rhapsody gained popularity in 1992 because of Wayne's World, it's not on anybody's "Top songs of the 90's" list. Rick Astley's been getting mass reception since 2006 (not exactly popular, but reception nonetheless), and he's not considered an artist from the aughts. The national anthem is played before every major sporting event, nobody's attributing it's musical significance to this millennium. You may have digital clocks to cover up the fact you can't tell time, but if you can't figure it out on a decadal level, consider making it a new year's resolution. That's in Late December/Early January. Or when people are drinking a lot in silly hats.
2) People really don't ever learn The Man's tricks. While searching for eligible candidates from 2000 and 2009 (I only have five from each), I noticed patterns. Specifically, media creations resembling Frankenstein sans neckbolts, lumbering around singing songs crafted from marketing executives who took a night school class in poetry, gobbling up radio airtime like a drunkard wolfs down greasy pizza, selling records by the millions until they turn 25 and society gets wise to their act and abandons them for the next Modern Prometheus. Or at least until they notice a shiny object in the room. This is not good music. You only think it's good because it's popular. It's only popular because they make it popular. The only difference is now the major perpetrator is Disney Channel instead of MTV. Which leads me to point three.
3) Disney Channel. What the fuck, Earth? I was willing to let the little kiddies enjoy their terrible music, complacent in the fact that they'll give it up after a few years, then when they turn 16, they'll discover The Doors or Pink Floyd and become pretentious until midway through college where they'll either become well-rounded people or else erupt into full-blown Hipsterhood (the long term effects are still unknown. Consult a physician, or you know, don't). All this will occur, meanwhile the Disney Channel shows will get cancelled, the child stars will go onto pathetic C-list lifestyles, and the process will repeat itself ad nauseum. There's shame in it, yes. I myself listened to the Space Jam soundtrack, convinced it was musical perfection. But it's a rite of passage.
But seriously, what the fuck, Earth? The Jonas Bothers and Billi Rae Cyrus Jr. are actually appearing on Billboard Charts and getting Grammy nominations and playing on radio stations that don't play the Mary Poppins soundtrack between 10 AM and 2 PM. Are there adults actually listening to this? This goes beyond secret shame and dirty pleasure. This is straight up grounds for eviction from the species (you have until Sunday to decide between lemur and dolphin). Listening to this music when you're old enough to remember the Clinton presidency puts you into a special kind of stupid. You shouldn't be allowed on rabbit farms stupid. You're a parent in a kid's cartoon stupid. Delia rants about you on Twitter stupid.
In short, music sucks, but the fans suck even more. Which makes my self-appointed mission to find the few aural gems, acknowledge them, and fruitlessly herald them to nobody in particular on Youtube all the more noble. |
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| Neil Gaiman can listen to Spotify anywhere. |
[Oct. 8th, 2009|12:51 pm] |
Hey literati of the cybertubes, I think it's time we take a fraction of the superweb back, one meme at a time. The following courtesy of Jim C. Hines
1. Neil Gaiman once wrote a Nebula-winning story using only the middle row of his keyboard.
2. Harper Collins has taken out a 2.5 million dollar insurance policy on Neil Gaiman’s accent.
3. If you write 1000 words and Neil Gaiman writes 1000 words, Neil Gaiman has written more than you.
4. Neil Gaiman does not use Microsoft’s grammar-check. Microsoft uses a Gaiman-check.
5. Neil Gaiman once did the New York Times crossword puzzle in pen. In fifteen minutes. He won two Hugo awards for it.
6. Neil Gaiman is who the Ghostbusters call.
7. Most agents charge a 15% commission. Neil Gaiman’s agent pays him an extra 15% for the privilege of saying “I’m Neil Gaiman’s agent.”
8. William Shakespeare once came back from the dead to ask for Neil Gaiman’s autograph.
9. Neil Gaiman is the reason nobody teaches “I before E except after C” anymore.
10. Some writers take inspiration from the muse. The muse takes inspiration from Neil Gaiman.
11. Neil Gaiman once groped Harlan Ellison.
12. The pen is mightier than the sword; Neil Gaiman has mastered fourteen different styles of penmanship.
13. Rumor has it that a NY editor rejected Neil Gaiman’s first book. This can not be confirmed, as the editor in question was never heard from again.
14. Neil Gaiman can tweet 175 characters.
15. Neil Gaiman’s personal library includes an autographed copy of the Necronomicon.
16. Hitler actually won World War II. Then Neil Gaiman wrote an alternate-history story in which the allies won, and reality was too intimidated to argue the point.
17. Some authors write in omniscient point of view. Neil Gaiman lives it.
18. Neil Gaiman’s next novel is expected to win the Nebula, the Hugo, and the Heisman Trophy.
19. In any given week, 7 of the top 10 books on the NYT Bestseller List are by pseudonyms of Neil Gaiman.
20. Neil Gaiman has never written a deus ex machina ending. However, God once wrote a Gaiman ex machina ending.
21. Neil Gaiman writes faster than Harriet Klausner reads.
22. Neil Gaiman solved the Rubix Cube in 7 minutes. One-handed.
23. Chuck Norris could roundhouse kick Neil Gaiman in the head. But Neil Gaiman could write Chuck Norris out of existence. |
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| I'm Crazy Newspaper Face! Gimme some can-day! |
[Sep. 26th, 2009|07:31 pm] |
We are now halfway between Halloween and when Rob Zombie apparently thinks Halloween is. Society as a whole should now be focusing entirely on the holiday which exists exclusively for commercialization, whose origins are as muddled as beef stew, and whose name rings merrily to dentists.
After ramping up my Halloween playlist to 57 songs (at least fourteen of which are questionable inclusions) and making myself nauseous on fun-sized Heath bars, I now turn my sights on the final aspect of the holiday. Expressing myself to the community at large by becoming an avatar for my subconscious, both interests and desires, in the manner of becoming a facsimile of an element of culture which I feel both represents me and who I wish to be. In other words, getting a costume together and getting blasted.
Taking stock of my last four costumes, I've noticed a pattern. In odd-numbered years, I've been lazy and threw on a single accessory and boasted that as my costume. In 2007 I taped a sign that said "Idaho" to my chest and claimed I was Ralph Wiggum. In 2005 I wore sunglasses at night and claimed I was Corey Hart.
In even numbered years, I bought a shirt off Jinx.com, and used them as jumping off points. In 2006 I had a 42 shirt, grabbed a bathrobe and went as Arthur Dent. In 2008 I had a Blue Sun shirt, borrowed Dave's combat boots and went as Jayne Cobb.
Seeing as I'm unemployed for the foreseeable future, it looks like the pattern continues. I'll consider it a success if I don't turn out like these four:
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| With my imagination I can see it, with my pencil crayons I can draw it. |
[Sep. 18th, 2009|04:19 pm] |
Life imitating art, imitating life, imitating art, imitating life, ad nauseum. Like when two mirrors face each other and you can see into infinity.
I have a tendency to draw people too rigidly, as if they have an aluminum rod as a spine. Everyone looks boring and inexpressive. In an attempt to better my artistic talent, I decided to draw four images, each displaying a person with one of four emotions: Jubilation, Pride, Frustration, and Sorrow.
Jubilation (which is such a fun word, by the way) was first. Here, the person in question had an arched back, raised arm, and bent knees, as if she was preparing to jump, or just powerfully thrusting her hands upward. It was hard to get everything linear, but after some effort, it all meshed. Then, all the little annoyances became inconsequential; hair was a cinch, facial expression was elementary, clothing was no sweat. Usually, those three elements alone constitute 4/5ths of my drawing frustrations.
Pride was next. Walking on metaphorical sunshine acquired from my ignoble achievement, I banged out a final product in record time. A gratified man stands, hands on hips, looking onwards and upwards to the receptive world.
Then there's frustration. Halfway between positioning the framework and defining the outline, I realized the spine curvature was wrong. The head was twice the size it should be. The arms were going every which way except the right way. And the right foot. Oh, the right foot. Why can't you be like the left?
Now taking a breather, I put it on the backburner and move on towards the final page, now depressed and defeated, insecure of my talents and unsure of my abilities. Maybe I should try and draw an image of someone finding a large diamond before the day is over. |
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| Jasper's Inferno |
[Sep. 14th, 2009|12:46 am] |
The first circle of Hell is limbo. It's not Hell at all. It's just a state of emptiness. There's no pain, or suffering, it's just an eternity of deficiency.
The first circle of Hell is a waiting room for an appointment that will never come. There's a couple of magazines, and a small TV you can't change the channel on. There are vending machines, but you don't have any money. There's nothing terribly wrong with it, but there's a million other things you'd rather be doing, and an infinite number of places you'd rather be. You could spend five minutes here if you had to. You could spend ten. Or twenty. But you're spending eternity. And it doesn't matter, because you've lost all track of time, anyways.
The second circle of Hell is for the lustful sinners. For their lives of needlessly and aimlessly pursuing pleasure, they are eternally tossed about by a violent wind, never allowed to stop. Never allowed to rest.
The second circle of Hell is playing with a five-year-old. You may be willing, and eager to play with them at first, but they have no concept of rest, breaks, time outs, or game overs. They just want to run and scream and jump and play well after you've had enough. And they want you to play too. You can't pawn them off on someone else, you can't convince them its getting dark and they have to go, you can't set them in front of the TV so you can do something else. You just have to try and keep up.
The third circle of Hell is for the gluttons. Those who were never satisfied. Those who always took more than they needed. They are forced to lie in sludge and garbage, paralleled to the wasteful consumption of their lives.
The third circle of Hell is washing dishes. Not just any dishes either; restaurant caliber dishes. Buffet, even. Plates and cups and knives and spoons and bowls and baskets. Each of them mired in meal remnants and sauces, forcing you to scrape and scour leftovers of salad and chili and meatloaf and mac and cheese and soft serve frozen yogurt. And they just keep on coming, down a little conveyor belt, each one needing to be soaped, scrubbed, washed, rinsed, sanitized, sterilized and dried by hand because there's no machine to do so. It just doesn't seem necessary to get one.
The fourth circle of Hell is for avarice. The greedy people who would hoard money and objects. Those who were sticklers, uncharitable and miserly. They were forced to battle, using as weapons weights, corresponding in size to their wealths. The richest had large boulders which could only be pushed with their chests.
The fourth circle of Hell is moving. Collecting every single item you own, boxing it up, protecting the fragile, wrapping it, labeling it, sealing it, lifting it, carrying it, stowing it, carting it, it unpacking it. But it is not a one time thing. You must move every day of your life. And you simply can't just carry boxes around place to place, no, you have to unpack and repack everything as well. You have to assemble and disassemble your furniture. You have to beg your friends for help, and be extra nice to the one friend with the truck. With every squat, hoist and step, you internally ask yourself, 'did I really need all of this? Can't I just throw this out?' And you can. And you do. And eventually you're left with either nothing, or a minutiae of items you have no problem moving. But then, your friends need help moving. And you have favors to pay back.
The fifth circle of Hell is for the angry and the lazy. Yeah, they have to share a circle. The wrathful fight one another for a small parcel of land while the sloths, too unmotivated to get involved, lie underwater eternally in the nearby River Styx. At either time, members from either group can change roles, fostering an illusion of control, but the punishments are still the same: Fight and never stop, or drown and never die.
The fifth circle of Hell is being near a fight. Nearby, two people have mutually decided "I dislike you so much, I want you to feel terrible. Physically, preferably." And the two begin to exchange blows. Everyone, regardless of their knowledge of these two individuals or their respective sides in the argument, is now linked simply by geography. You are forced to assume one of two roles. A) Get involved in the fight. Choose either side, exchange blows, quickly decide who is righteous and who deserves a beating. Or else, attempt to stop the fight, not realizing that the hotheads want to exchange blows, and you are interfering. They are now fighting you and their original opponent. Or B) Sit back, look away, ignore the brawl, slink out of the room. It's not your fight. Nevermind they have interrupted your otherwise pleasant evening. Nevermind one or both of them will get seriously injured. Nevermind it's the coward's way out. It's not your fight, and it will probably resolve itself eventually...
The sixth circle is for the heretics. Those that reject rules and regulations of the church, either to justify one's past actions, or out of sheer laziness/selfishness.
The sixth circle of Hell is talking to your grandparents. Two kindly septuagenarians who have known you since birth. They knew you when you were a baby, a pre-schooler, a third-grader, a middle-schooler, and a high school graduate. But now you're an adult. But not an adult like they know, you're a 21st century adult. And they want to know how you're doing. Suddenly, you're forced to confront, explain, and justify everything you do. 'What have you been up to?' 'Well, I graduated from college, died my hair lime green, pierced a nipple, and got a job at the car wash. Usually I wake up at noon, watch cartoons all day, then have zombie movie marathons with my friends where I drink boilermakers until I vomit. I've been drawing pictures of the Disney Princesses as Marvel superheroes in my free time, I have a ferret named "Bisquick," and I play freeze tag quite often with this Australian guy I met and his friends.'
The seventh circle of Hell is for the violent. Those that lashed out against others, those who were masochists, and those who tried to upset the balance of things for their own interests. They are treated with unyielding torment and physical torture.
The seventh circle of Hell is an amusement park that's too crowded. It's hot, you're tired, and thirsty. But there's no open benches, they're all filled by fatties eating funnel cakes. The water fountains don't seem to work, and lines for drinks are too long. Too expensive, too. You force your way through the crowd, getting knocked constantly on each elbow and shoulder in rapid succession. You want to get on a ride, but the wait is an hour at least. But there's nothing else to do, so you wait and wait and wait, all the while, shrill voices and loud noises bombard your ear drums. As the sweltering heat and humidity rises exponentially, you and the hundreds of other sweaty, cantankerous guests are queued too close together between burning sun and scorching tarmac. You just now realize you're standing in someone's puke. You're claustrophobic for the first time ever. You strain for a hot, salty breath to reach your larynx, all the while shuffling forward three inches every five minutes. And yet, you just don't go home. You want to stay.
The eighth circle of Hell is for the fraudulent. Steep cliffs and ravines separate this layer from the others. Here, charlatans, perjurers, counterfeiters, alchemists and liars of all sorts are forced to suffer terribly. Their suffering is the penultimate torture because they consciously and intentionally made life hell for others more innocent.
The eighth circle of Hell is being lost on a November night in a city you don't know. You walk hurriedly down a sidewalk, not sure where you're going or where you are. You don't even know what you're looking for. Noises occur off in the distance. You're scared about the possibilities of what it could be, but equally inquisitive as its your first contact with another soul in a long, long time. You quarrel over whether or not to hide, ignore, or attempt further communication. All you know is you're lost, scared, cold and tired, and all you want is to get off the street to somewhere warm, dry, safe and quiet. But you can't. You don't even know how safe this neighborhood is; any minute now you could be mugged or shot or raped or stabbed or beaten or who knows what else. You hear someone else's footsteps on the slick sidewalk. You decide to just keep walking.
The ninth circle of Hell is the final punishment. It is the worst of the worst for the worst of the worst. This is the level for the traitors. Those who have deliberately betrayed those who trusted them.
The ninth circle of Hell is telepathy. Everyone around you, your family, your coworkers, your friends, even strangers on the bus are no longer allowed or capable to keep secrets from you. It all comes pouring down; a torrent of information you were never meant to hear. Every fact about you, every judgment, every opinion, no matter how insignificant is now abundantly clear. You see exactly how others see you. All your annoying quirks, all your insufferable character traits, all your intolerable habits. You find out everything you do that annoys someone, by how much, and why they hate it. And you're powerless to change it. Because they all know you have telepathy, and they downright hate you for it. As long as you're around, they have no privacy. You're an eternal eavesdropper, a security breach to their sanity. They don't want you around. You're left alone, abandoned and burdened. Everyone you ever knew and loved hates you for any multitude of reasons. And despite it all, it's something entirely different, something totally unrelated that forces them from your life permanently.
The center of Hell is a special prize. Only three people have ever made it here. Five, if you count Virgil and Dante. These are the ultimate betrayers: Judas, Brutus, and Cassius. They are eternally gnarled and chewed in the the three mouths of Satan himself.
The center of Hell is a special place, unlike any you've seen before. There are levels and platforms. Rooms and nooks. Some with tables, some with chairs. Some with doors, some with walls. Every single square inch is insufferable. But just slightly. One area contains a very quiet, but still audible radio playing an ever-so slightly staticky iteration of your least favorite radio station. One area contains a large plush sofa, in which small fibers have been sewn to create a terrible itchiness. One area has a dead deer carcass. One area is lined with Big Mouth Billy Basses. One area has the ceiling an inch too low for you to stand, and the walls an inch too narrow for you to sit. One area has a pungent aroma of feet, but only is present when you're not paying attention to it. You're free to traverse and move about these areas, selecting which you wish to inhabit, how long, and in what order. You're even allowed to do whatever you want in these areas, as if you had the ability to rectify any of the small problems. And all the while, you're being watched by everyone on the other nine circles. They don't know about the staticky radio. They can't feel the itchy couch. Their view of the deer carcass, singing fish and cramped room is obscured. All they see is a fickle person moving from one nice place to another, unsatisfied with their current environment. They judge you and envy you and hate you, not knowing the true hell you're going through.
All hope abandoned at the front gate can be retrieved at the lost and found terminal. |
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| I Guess That Makes It Official |
[Sep. 8th, 2009|04:40 pm] |
I guess all the finagling with my advisor, the admissions board, and the French Department finally came through.
I guess walking to class everyday, lugging twenty pounds of textbooks, be it in the sweltering summer sun or February's freezing rain paid off.
I guess writing up lengthy papers and reading (*cough*) lengthy books about all sorts of subjects, ranging from engaging to banal.
Because in the mail today I received certification that I have completed all requirements necessary for the Bachelors of Arts degree in the field of Cinema.
I am a college graduate. I am finished. It feels good.
Now, how do I top this? |
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| *Jaws Theme* |
[Sep. 2nd, 2009|11:15 pm] |
Wednesday, September 2.
11:15 PM.
TV Land.
...First Christmas Commercial |
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| No Job Yet, But I Have Done This |
[Aug. 27th, 2009|09:31 pm] |
On my MP3 Player:
10 Days ranked in increasing quality:
Bad Day
Long Day
Someday
Just Another Day
Brand New Day
One Fine Day
Good Day
Better Day
Beautiful Day
Wonderful Day
10 Periods of time in increasing length:
Happy Hour
Every Morning
First of May
One Week
Eight Days a Week
November Rain
A Long December
Summer of 69
1979
21st Century
10 Locations in increasing size:
In My Room
Our House
Ocean Avenue
Dirty Old Town
Amsterdam
Ohio
In a Big Country
Radio Free Europe
The World I Know
Across the Universe
10 Speeds in Increasing Velocity:
Still
I Walk the Line
Fox on the Run
Wild Horses
Motorcycle Drive By
Little Red Corvette
Runaway Train
Fly
Speed of Sound
Ray of Light |
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| Olive Garden, On the Border, or P.F. Chang's tonight? |
[Aug. 24th, 2009|02:06 pm] |
It occurs to me after my mom made pasta for the fifth time in nine days that American culinary options are far more limited than typically perceived.
We have chicken, and we have steak, and we have hot dogs, but other countries don't. Most other countries have to make do with their own available crops and livestock, be it in their culturally formative years, or because of their modern happenstances. Modern America has access to literally everything, but we don't care. We eat chicken, we eat steak, and we eat hot dogs. And only rarely do we step outside of these safe zones.
Of the 160 or so different countries and cultures of the world, there are only really three that Americans realize as acceptable for their typical, amalgamated palates: Italian, Chinese, and Mexican. Every other country in the world can go suck an egg. If you're foreign, you'd better be Italian, Chinese, or Mexican, or else people are not going to eat your food.
And that's not enough. While we're willing to accept these foreign menus, they can't be too foreign. The quintessential Italian food is spaghetti and meatballs, but no one in Italy eats that. Meats and marinara are reserved for tubular noodles. Long noodles such as spaghetti, vermicelli, and capellini are served with butter and cheese. Mexican food is pretty accurate, except for portions and servings. The typical restaurant burrito contains about five meals all rolled into one. It's like one of those futuristic food pills, but it weighs two pounds. Chinese food is the worst. Pretty much every meal served under the name "Chinese" was invented either in San Francisco, New York City or for some reason Springfield, Missouri.
Sure, sometimes other nations get pretty lucky and can get some attention. But the same problems permeate. Cuban food is generally Tex-Mex with a side of fried plantains. Greek restaurants took the gyro and reinvented it enough times to fill a menu. Thai places serve Chinese food with extra spices. Japanese grills are as Japanese as The Chan Clan. Tim Hortons have found their way into the northeast, but they're co-owned by Wendy's.
The closest thing to accurate ethnic food for mass consumers are sushi places and falafal huts. But good luck finding any of them outside of college towns.
So what am I really trying to say with this? Why am I wasting everyone's time with this assuredly over-simplified and most likely inaccurate post? Because if I have to eat one more slice of lasagna, one more scoop of mostaccioli, one more plate of linguine, or one more sliced salsiccia, I am going to lose it. |
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| When you grow up, your heart dies. |
[Aug. 6th, 2009|10:28 pm] |
Generations X and Y lost one of their strongest voices today. Pouring one out for John Hughes and angst-ridden suburban teenagers everywhere, past and present.
Click the link to go to Youtube and see the best possible tribute to the man. |
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| Adieu, Adios, Aloha, Ciao, Arrivederci, Dosvedanya, Sayonara, Goodbye, Farewell, and Amen |
[Jul. 31st, 2009|12:32 pm] |
The screen door slams
Mary's dress sways
Like a vision she dances across the porch
As the radio plays
Roy Orbison singing for the lonely
Hey that's me and I want you only
Don't turn me home again
I just can't face myself alone again
Don't run back inside
Darling you know just what I'm here for
So you're scared and you're thinking
That maybe we ain't that young anymore
Show a little faith, there's magic in the night
You ain't a beauty, but hey you're alright
Oh and that's alright with me
You can hide `neath your covers
And study your pain
Make crosses from your lovers
Throw roses in the rain
Waste your summer praying in vain
For a savior to rise from these streets
Well now I'm no hero,
That's understood.
All the redemption I can offer, girl
Is beneath this dirty hood.
With a chance to make it good somehow
Hey what else can we do now?
Except roll down the window
And let the wind blow
Back your hair.
Well the nights busting open,
These two lanes will take us anywhere.
We got one last chance to make it real
To trade in these wings on some wheels.
Climb in back
Heavens waiting on down the tracks
Oh-oh come take my hand
Riding out tonight to case the promised land
Oh-oh thunder road, oh thunder road oh thunder road.
Lying out there like a killer in the sun
Hey I know it's late we can make it if we run
Oh thunder road, sit tight take hold
Thunder road
Well I got this guitar,
And I learned how to make it talk.
And my cars out back
If you're ready to take that long walk.
From your front porch to my front seat
The doors open but the ride it ain't free
And I know you're lonely
For words that I ain't spoken
But tonight well be free
All the promises'll be broken.
There were ghosts in the eyes
Of all the boys you sent away
They haunt this dusty beach road
In the skeleton frames of burned out Chevrolets
They scream your name at night in the street
Your graduation gown lies in rags at their feet
And in the lonely cool before dawn
You hear their engines roaring on
But when you get to the porch they're gone
On the wind, so Mary climb in
Its a town full of losers
And I'm pulling out of here to win. |
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| Ghoulies and Ghosties and Long-Leggedy Beasties and Things That Go Bump in the Night |
[Jul. 17th, 2009|08:20 pm] |
Monsters are, according to Dictionary.com:
1) An animal or plant of abnormal form or structure
2) One who deviates from normal or acceptable behavior or character
3) A threatening force
4) An animal of strange or terrifying shape
5) One unusually large for its kind
6) Something monstrous, especially a person of unnatural or extreme ugliness, deformity, wickedness, and/or cruelty
And since idle hands are the devil's playthings, I've spent the majority of a Friday evening compiling a pointless list
The 100 Greatest Monsters of All Time
Agree or Disagree?
( Grendel is Overrated ) |
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