For whatever reasons the synapses in my brain continue to misfire, I've been thinking about children and raising them lately. Rest assured, it's been in a bemused, ironic sort of way. No biological egg timer has gone off inside me, and if it had, I'd wonder how an egg timer found its way into my torso--wound, I might add--when I've never even gotten black-out drunk in Mexico before. On top of that, my wife constantly reminds me that, at least for the foreseeable future, not even a shred of my genetic code is going to find its way into her fallopian tubes. But that's alright. I'm a patient man. And cunning.
I suppose the event that triggered these uncharacteristic thoughts was the USA Cheer competition I attended last Saturday. You see, my wife is the assistant coach for a high school varsity cheer squad, so I drove out to Anaheim to support her, and thus was allowed to watch the routines from the stands like a normal person, rather than from the front seat of my van and through a telescopic lens, as some of you were no doubt imagining. Indeed, that's my very point. At some time in the past (no doubt while I was sleeping, unawares) I passed the line where cheerleaders were an admittedly cliche fetish and instead became just kids. As I was watching their routines, hoping none of them fell in such a way that bones would protrude from their flesh, I couldn't help thinking that their skirts should have been a little longer. I wondered if my daughter, one day in the future, would still be allowed to compete in a similar event when she arrived in a set of mechanic's coveralls, her school letters amaturely sewn to the back by her father, and all her sleeves and pant legs securely duct taped closed. Sure, there might be a minor deduction, but that should just inspire the girls to perform all that much better.
Also, I realized that being the sole male cheerleader during a high school cheer competition presents an interesting paradox. On one side, you inevitably draw bemused smirks from a crowd who, at best, will applaud you like they do the kid who finally managed to find the finish line in the Special Olympics 100m dash. On the other hand, any man even partially honest with himself must admire the cahones necessary to get out there by yourself amidst a gaggle of teenage girls who you are either 1)hopelessly in love with or 2)convinced are bitches because they look so much better in the skirts than you do, and pretend to cheer your non-present school teams to victory.
What compounds matters so much is that a mere day or two later I read that Britney Spears's little sister, at the ripe old age of 16 (much like those damn cheerleaders from above), is pregnant with her first child. Excuse me, but what the fuck? I already realize I'm a bit old fashioned, but this is a first world country and it's the 21st century. It's not like she's finally siring an heir for the 12th century French earl who her parents wed her to for estates in Burgundy. But I digress. I realize my incredulity is symptomatic of my naivete, but I bring this gem to the fore, rather, to circle back to the question of parentage. I want to send some sort of trophy to Lynne Spears for the bang-up job she's done, but I can't find a gold statuette of a mother pounding a 40oz while holding an upturned baby by the ankle. You'd think those would be in more demand. Yes, there's the nature v. nurture debate, and Britney's train-wreck could always be attributed to the corrosive influence of celebrity, but there are still signs to the contrary. I mean, there are photos of her walking in and out of a truck stop bathroom with bare feet. I wouldn't let my dog walk in such a place, and his paws smell funny all the time.
Honestly, at what point did this family so offend the gods, because the needle on the celebrity barometer is slowly creeping toward "Greek Tragedy." If I follow their ancestry back far enough, will I find that at some point a father sacrificed his daughter to ensure fair winds at sea, or was some great-great-great-grandmother raped by a swan? So who does 16 year old Jaime-Lynn's baby have to turn to? In many teen pregnancy situations I relax a bit because there is a strong matriarch there to oversee the child. And who would that be in the Spears clan? They'd better put an add on Craig's List for a competent necromancer, because if the kid's great-grandmother can't be called up from the soil, I can only imagine what kind of disaster will result. Then again, I won't have to imagine at all; she'll be on the cover of every magazine in the supermarket any-damn-way.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
An Obscure Star Trek Reference*
I apologize for being negligent again, but the final weeks of the quarter/semester have finally arrived, which means even the most oblivious and self-absorbed students have raised their heads from the trough, eyes glazed, still senselessly chewing their dining commons cud as the reptilian portion of their brain struggles to buy its host another day. Finally they hear the distant, tolling bell as it peals across the campus, not realizing that it marks their own funeral. When exactly is that hallowed ceremony to begin? On that glorious last day of instruction, when they ask how their constant absences and missing essays will affect their grade. "How?" you ask. "Not unlike how a bullet tearing through a human skull affects brain activity."
There are, of course, the dedicated students, who despite even personal tragedy will still turn papers in on time and attend every lecture. Yet I cannot help but marvel at their polar opposites, their alternate dimension counterparts who emerge on the starship College Education, identical to their antitheses save for the curious goatee perched on each of their chins.* These are the guilty parties most likely to wander into class after being gone for a week, as if having accidentally stumbled into the wrong room on their way to buy a churro, and genuinely ask, "Did we do anything while I was gone?" What do you say to that? "No, we did nothing important. The class spent the hour deciding whether a rabid giraffe would beat a unicorn in a fight. We settled on a tentative 'no,' but only so long as it was a fair fight." Was it too blunt to just ask me if I did my job while you were away? Bloody twits.
I suppose I have simply become tired (as one does every term at about this point) with repeatedly encouraging the students to show up to class and turn in their assignments. You'd think this was obvious, but you'd also think they'd realize that them being absent the day a paper is due doesn't adequately justify its late submission. I wish I were making that up, but even hearing that transpire (it did) made something no doubt delicate and essential to the system quietly snap inside me. And thus, until I find a Swiss watchmaker who dabbles in repairing the human soul, I will be forced to shuffle along with that something rattling impotently inside me. Should it ever be fixed, I may finally decide to tell a class what they should really hear. I don't know precisely what that is, but I have an idea:
"Don't say another Goddamn word. Up until now, I've been polite. If you say anything else -- word one -- I will kill myself. And when my tainted spirit finds its destination, I will topple the master of that dark place. From my black throne, I will lash together a machine of bone and blood, and fueled by my hatred for you this fear engine will bore a hole between this world and that one.
When it begins, you will hear the sound of children screaming -- as though from a great distance. A smoking orb of nothing will grow above your bed, and from it will emerge a thousand starving crows. As I slip through the widening maw in my new form, you will catch only a glimpse of my radiance before you are incinerated. Then, as tears of bubbling pitch stream down my face, my dark work will begin.
I will open one of my six mouths, and I will sing the song that ends the Earth."
Perhaps this is too much. I never know, but I imagine my point will be made. Also, not to dip into the stagnant waters of plagiarism, of which I warn my unheeding students routinely, let me point out that the quoted text above is yet another gem from the writer of Penny Arcade. Can you see he's a bit of an influence? Honestly, if I could write like that at will, I would seriously consider scrapping the Ph.d program and actually making some money in this world.
Then again, if I did dare to tread outside the barren and paper-strewn halls of academia, I fear one of my former students would inevitably be my boss. And then...hating your ignorant boss with every fiber of your being...well, who honestly wants to become a cliche?
There are, of course, the dedicated students, who despite even personal tragedy will still turn papers in on time and attend every lecture. Yet I cannot help but marvel at their polar opposites, their alternate dimension counterparts who emerge on the starship College Education, identical to their antitheses save for the curious goatee perched on each of their chins.* These are the guilty parties most likely to wander into class after being gone for a week, as if having accidentally stumbled into the wrong room on their way to buy a churro, and genuinely ask, "Did we do anything while I was gone?" What do you say to that? "No, we did nothing important. The class spent the hour deciding whether a rabid giraffe would beat a unicorn in a fight. We settled on a tentative 'no,' but only so long as it was a fair fight." Was it too blunt to just ask me if I did my job while you were away? Bloody twits.
I suppose I have simply become tired (as one does every term at about this point) with repeatedly encouraging the students to show up to class and turn in their assignments. You'd think this was obvious, but you'd also think they'd realize that them being absent the day a paper is due doesn't adequately justify its late submission. I wish I were making that up, but even hearing that transpire (it did) made something no doubt delicate and essential to the system quietly snap inside me. And thus, until I find a Swiss watchmaker who dabbles in repairing the human soul, I will be forced to shuffle along with that something rattling impotently inside me. Should it ever be fixed, I may finally decide to tell a class what they should really hear. I don't know precisely what that is, but I have an idea:
"Don't say another Goddamn word. Up until now, I've been polite. If you say anything else -- word one -- I will kill myself. And when my tainted spirit finds its destination, I will topple the master of that dark place. From my black throne, I will lash together a machine of bone and blood, and fueled by my hatred for you this fear engine will bore a hole between this world and that one.
When it begins, you will hear the sound of children screaming -- as though from a great distance. A smoking orb of nothing will grow above your bed, and from it will emerge a thousand starving crows. As I slip through the widening maw in my new form, you will catch only a glimpse of my radiance before you are incinerated. Then, as tears of bubbling pitch stream down my face, my dark work will begin.
I will open one of my six mouths, and I will sing the song that ends the Earth."
Perhaps this is too much. I never know, but I imagine my point will be made. Also, not to dip into the stagnant waters of plagiarism, of which I warn my unheeding students routinely, let me point out that the quoted text above is yet another gem from the writer of Penny Arcade. Can you see he's a bit of an influence? Honestly, if I could write like that at will, I would seriously consider scrapping the Ph.d program and actually making some money in this world.
Then again, if I did dare to tread outside the barren and paper-strewn halls of academia, I fear one of my former students would inevitably be my boss. And then...hating your ignorant boss with every fiber of your being...well, who honestly wants to become a cliche?
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
The Killing Joke
Just wanted to share with you this cover shot of Heath Ledger as the Joker. I'd probably prefer to have him giving a full-on grin, or at least a smile, but the smirk is appropriate for the somewhat "darker" tone the movie is shooting for. Then again, anyone who thinks the Joker isn't a dark character to begin with hasn't read the comics, so maybe it's more accurate to say The Dark Knight is aiming for a truer representation of the Joker, rather than the absurd or the camp versions we are typically subjected to. We shall see, but until then, feast your eyes on this.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Why can't I think of catchy names like that?
Ryan over at More Rants than Raves has once again birthed a charmingly unique and fascinating idea. While it's not nearly as funny as the DMV picture project, this one has considerably more potential. Sorry unibrow Ryan from the last license. Anyway, he's christened it "The Invisiblog," and since the glass from the broken champagne bottle is still strewn across the docks, you might yet catch the project's maiden voyage as it slips gleefully out to sea.
The premise behind the project is a blog where the host posts only titles, leaving the remainder of the post blank. The post is then (re)constructed through visitor's comments on whatever title they choose. Essentially, it's a sort of group, found-text piece, where subsequent visitors can elaborate and redirect the shape of the original "post," thereby making the blog visitors the actual "bloggers." For instance, today's title (he posts them almost daily) was simply "Aliens," so I left a somewhat incredulous comment where I insist I still believe him, but since he was driving home from a winery at the time, he may have imagined the whole thing. I didn't consult Ryan at all, of course; that's not the nature of the project. But now someone can begin, from reading my comment, to reconstruct what the original post might have been, and should they in turn leave a remark, the invisible post grows from there. So check it out here--if you have even a shred of creativity in your body, you can help write an invisible blog post today.
P.S. For those of you who might recognize the nature of my invisipost, it's based on an actual story. My high school geometry teacher, the vampire Lezot (or so we called him), insisted that he was buzzed by a low flying UFO one night while, you guessed it, driving home from wine tasting. Why he would open himself up to such potential ridicule is beyond me, but the man was a high school math teacher, so I suppose it goes with the territory.
The premise behind the project is a blog where the host posts only titles, leaving the remainder of the post blank. The post is then (re)constructed through visitor's comments on whatever title they choose. Essentially, it's a sort of group, found-text piece, where subsequent visitors can elaborate and redirect the shape of the original "post," thereby making the blog visitors the actual "bloggers." For instance, today's title (he posts them almost daily) was simply "Aliens," so I left a somewhat incredulous comment where I insist I still believe him, but since he was driving home from a winery at the time, he may have imagined the whole thing. I didn't consult Ryan at all, of course; that's not the nature of the project. But now someone can begin, from reading my comment, to reconstruct what the original post might have been, and should they in turn leave a remark, the invisible post grows from there. So check it out here--if you have even a shred of creativity in your body, you can help write an invisible blog post today.
P.S. For those of you who might recognize the nature of my invisipost, it's based on an actual story. My high school geometry teacher, the vampire Lezot (or so we called him), insisted that he was buzzed by a low flying UFO one night while, you guessed it, driving home from wine tasting. Why he would open himself up to such potential ridicule is beyond me, but the man was a high school math teacher, so I suppose it goes with the territory.
I Rolled a 4 on my Concentration Check
To be honest, I've always been somewhat ambivalent about the whole mainstream appropriation of geek culture. I'm not too concerned, since certain things like role-playing (particularly D&D) remain rather taboo, which allows me the luxury of believing I still know something they don't. To be more specific, I know the sweet joy of rolling a natural twenty when you're just about to be killed by the evil ninja Jubei, and in turn running him through with your own sword; I know the satisfaction of talking your way past a guard by bluffing him into thinking you have even an speck of clout with the local duke; and, of course, there's the mixed feelings about not knowing the touch of a woman for probably too long because of all-night gaming sessions fueled by Dr. Pepper and crippling social anxiety. But I digress...
Of late, World of Warcraft has been running commercials featuring celebrities (a term I bandy about rather loosely, as you'll see) talking about their WoW characters. I realize that they probably have absolutely no idea what the hell they're actually saying, and yes, I do find the idea that you can pay someone enough money to say things in front of a camera that, to them, sound like gibberish to be utterly delicious. So delicious that I could eat it with a spoon. I can only hope that one day I will be in a position where I can decide what these trained chimps/parrots (perhaps a chimparrot? a colorfully plumed but flightless simian?) will say for their camera. I have no doubt that when this day arrives, I will be sitting in a lair, lazily stroking a pug that is sleeping lazily on my lap. Oh, and the pug will be wearing a Yoda costume. But I continue to digress...
I've posted a clip from youtube that splices the two commercials together. Both are fun in their own way, though the second does have William Shatner dressed essentially like a Jedi. You'll see what I mean.
Of late, World of Warcraft has been running commercials featuring celebrities (a term I bandy about rather loosely, as you'll see) talking about their WoW characters. I realize that they probably have absolutely no idea what the hell they're actually saying, and yes, I do find the idea that you can pay someone enough money to say things in front of a camera that, to them, sound like gibberish to be utterly delicious. So delicious that I could eat it with a spoon. I can only hope that one day I will be in a position where I can decide what these trained chimps/parrots (perhaps a chimparrot? a colorfully plumed but flightless simian?) will say for their camera. I have no doubt that when this day arrives, I will be sitting in a lair, lazily stroking a pug that is sleeping lazily on my lap. Oh, and the pug will be wearing a Yoda costume. But I continue to digress...
I've posted a clip from youtube that splices the two commercials together. Both are fun in their own way, though the second does have William Shatner dressed essentially like a Jedi. You'll see what I mean.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Really? Again!?
I don't know what's wrong with me. I can't bring myself to post for over two weeks, and now I make three posts in the course of an hour (or so). Although, I don't know if these last two even count as posts, since I'm basically just poaching "the funny" (the judges would also have accepted 'bogarting the funny,' 'Winona Rydering the funny' or 'Juno, Alaska' as acceptable alternatives) from another site. Ah well. I never pretended to originality. Anyway, here are my top five favorite bad ice-breakers, once again shamelessly taken from our friends at RADAR online.
"You might recognize me from your window."
"Do you come to this hospital chapel often?"
"Want to hear a joke? Okay, first I have to know if anyone here is Jewish, gay, or a raccoon that's recently been drugged or sodomized."
"Well, well, well. If it isn't the guy who took the last Zima."
"The Muppets are bullshit, and let me tell you why."
"You might recognize me from your window."
"Do you come to this hospital chapel often?"
"Want to hear a joke? Okay, first I have to know if anyone here is Jewish, gay, or a raccoon that's recently been drugged or sodomized."
"Well, well, well. If it isn't the guy who took the last Zima."
"The Muppets are bullshit, and let me tell you why."
Speaking of Self-Help
As the tail end of my previous post seemed to dip into the well of self-help (advertising, at least), I thought I'd pass along some of the more obscure self-help titles out there. You probably won't find them on the shelf at your local Borders, but that's probably a good thing. Here are my top ten favorites, but you can read the other ninety by following this link.
1. Everything You Always Wanted to Know about the Opposite Sex but were Tasered for Asking Previously
2. Shut Up About your Dead Wife! Dating after 60
3. Controlling Your Rage with Arson
4. Anal Only: Raising your Christian Teen as a Technical Virgin
5. Suck it Up: No one in the Sudan has Chronic Fatigue Syndrome
6. The Child of your Field Hockey Coach has Two Mommies
7. YOU: Grimly Eating Lunch Alone in your Car
8. Some Women are Also from Mars: Learning to Love a She-Male
9. I Think Def Leppard is Pretty Rad, Too: Communicating with Today's Teenager
10. So You're Attracted to Grandma
1. Everything You Always Wanted to Know about the Opposite Sex but were Tasered for Asking Previously
2. Shut Up About your Dead Wife! Dating after 60
3. Controlling Your Rage with Arson
4. Anal Only: Raising your Christian Teen as a Technical Virgin
5. Suck it Up: No one in the Sudan has Chronic Fatigue Syndrome
6. The Child of your Field Hockey Coach has Two Mommies
7. YOU: Grimly Eating Lunch Alone in your Car
8. Some Women are Also from Mars: Learning to Love a She-Male
9. I Think Def Leppard is Pretty Rad, Too: Communicating with Today's Teenager
10. So You're Attracted to Grandma
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Errata
I've been away from the helm for nearly two weeks now. If you were a dog left in a station wagon on a hot summer afternoon, you'd be attracting vultures by this point. If you were my child (God help you), I imagine you'd be industrious enough to scrounge out sustenance for the duration, but by now child protective services would have unburdened me of the responsibility of fatherhood. I imagine I'd be thrown in prison too, and once it got around that I was in there for neglecting a kid for weeks....well....I just better hope I shiv a guy that first night, or I will emerge, years later, a deeply changed man. And of course, I mean "deeply" in the most anatomical of senses.
Truth be told, of late I have been hit with a deluge of work. Regrettably this work entails grading papers and writing a prospectus for my dissertation, rather than the myriad other labors that stand as considerably more preferable--including, but not limited to: inspections at the tickle factory; finding out how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll pop; fighting, beating, and tagging a hobo for future scientific inquiry; or naming the condiments in your fridge (i.e. Gertie, Duchess of Mustardia). As such, things have been rather tame, but per my obligation to keep this leaky vessel of digital text afloat, I've decided to make a short list of the dire omens that remind us the cosmos is askew and the grand clock of the universe is flashing 12:00.
My fantasy football team remains undefeated. Yeah, I'm just as shocked by this as you are. And no, we're not talking the kind of "fantasy football" where you can have a 12th level half-orc barbarian on your defensive line, though I readily confess that would be sweet. Of course, you'd lose every match, as you would be hit with so many penalties for unnecessary roughness (read: physically tearing limbs from the opponent) that it wouldn't be worth watching unless you are the kind of person that really enjoyed the Rambo trailer. No, I'm referring to an actual fantasy football team. Things have gotten so strange that last week, when I went up against the guy with the next best record in the league, his otherwise superstar quarterback (Payton Manning) and kicker (some guy on the Colts whose last name starts with a V--yes, that's how much I know/care about football) both essentially threw crap at a wall for the duration of their game and allowed me to slip by with another victory. However, we're getting close to the playoffs, so if my center fielder can just continue getting the wicket during the scrum, and my caddie doens't hand me a damn three iron for the penalty kick attempt, I should be okay.
Hollywood has greenlit and already begun casting a live action movie version of Dragonball Z.
I think this one pretty much speaks for itself. If you have no idea what Dragonball Z is, well, you probably also don't know what the hell I was talking about with the whole 12th level half-orc barbarian thing. You've also probably never seen a twenty sided die before in your life; of course, on the other side of the spectrum, I have friends who still carry theirs with them at all times...just in case. Anyway, Dragonball Z is a popular anime show from the 90's that basically involves martial artists from space who can shoot fireballs from their hands, fly, have their otherwise black hair turn platinum blond in a powerup known as going "Super-saiyan," and other such things that will translate splendidly into live action film. This one may very well come to rival Dungeons & Dragons (ironic, I know) and Pop Star as the worst movie I have ever seen in my life.
Computer programs that try to guess your interests from the content of your email. While this fits under the "errata" category simply because these programs are always wrong, it's also a happy mistake I look forward to every time I check my email. As many of you have no doubt noticed, Gmail in particular has a column to the right of any email's text that offers services based on the words you or your friend chose in that latest missive. For example, in a recent email Nicholas sent about the whole Golden Compass daemon thing, gmail proffered these two ads, among others: "Uh oh...I'm Emo! Are you Emo? Take the Emo quiz!" and "What's your purpose? A seven step program to find your purpose and change your life." So, when the Don sent me a series of "motivational posters" like this one
Gmail was nice enough to put forth these advertisements: "Life-coach for Mid-life" and "Positive thinking--Get into a Great State of Mind and Make the Most of your Life!" I can't help but love a program that essentially does nothing but provide non sequitors unknowingly. Indeed, that's the very same reason why I like my students so much.
Truth be told, of late I have been hit with a deluge of work. Regrettably this work entails grading papers and writing a prospectus for my dissertation, rather than the myriad other labors that stand as considerably more preferable--including, but not limited to: inspections at the tickle factory; finding out how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll pop; fighting, beating, and tagging a hobo for future scientific inquiry; or naming the condiments in your fridge (i.e. Gertie, Duchess of Mustardia). As such, things have been rather tame, but per my obligation to keep this leaky vessel of digital text afloat, I've decided to make a short list of the dire omens that remind us the cosmos is askew and the grand clock of the universe is flashing 12:00.
My fantasy football team remains undefeated. Yeah, I'm just as shocked by this as you are. And no, we're not talking the kind of "fantasy football" where you can have a 12th level half-orc barbarian on your defensive line, though I readily confess that would be sweet. Of course, you'd lose every match, as you would be hit with so many penalties for unnecessary roughness (read: physically tearing limbs from the opponent) that it wouldn't be worth watching unless you are the kind of person that really enjoyed the Rambo trailer. No, I'm referring to an actual fantasy football team. Things have gotten so strange that last week, when I went up against the guy with the next best record in the league, his otherwise superstar quarterback (Payton Manning) and kicker (some guy on the Colts whose last name starts with a V--yes, that's how much I know/care about football) both essentially threw crap at a wall for the duration of their game and allowed me to slip by with another victory. However, we're getting close to the playoffs, so if my center fielder can just continue getting the wicket during the scrum, and my caddie doens't hand me a damn three iron for the penalty kick attempt, I should be okay.
Hollywood has greenlit and already begun casting a live action movie version of Dragonball Z.
I think this one pretty much speaks for itself. If you have no idea what Dragonball Z is, well, you probably also don't know what the hell I was talking about with the whole 12th level half-orc barbarian thing. You've also probably never seen a twenty sided die before in your life; of course, on the other side of the spectrum, I have friends who still carry theirs with them at all times...just in case. Anyway, Dragonball Z is a popular anime show from the 90's that basically involves martial artists from space who can shoot fireballs from their hands, fly, have their otherwise black hair turn platinum blond in a powerup known as going "Super-saiyan," and other such things that will translate splendidly into live action film. This one may very well come to rival Dungeons & Dragons (ironic, I know) and Pop Star as the worst movie I have ever seen in my life.
Computer programs that try to guess your interests from the content of your email. While this fits under the "errata" category simply because these programs are always wrong, it's also a happy mistake I look forward to every time I check my email. As many of you have no doubt noticed, Gmail in particular has a column to the right of any email's text that offers services based on the words you or your friend chose in that latest missive. For example, in a recent email Nicholas sent about the whole Golden Compass daemon thing, gmail proffered these two ads, among others: "Uh oh...I'm Emo! Are you Emo? Take the Emo quiz!" and "What's your purpose? A seven step program to find your purpose and change your life." So, when the Don sent me a series of "motivational posters" like this one
Gmail was nice enough to put forth these advertisements: "Life-coach for Mid-life" and "Positive thinking--Get into a Great State of Mind and Make the Most of your Life!" I can't help but love a program that essentially does nothing but provide non sequitors unknowingly. Indeed, that's the very same reason why I like my students so much.
Friday, November 2, 2007
Rambo 47,373,958, Burma 0
Any rational human being should glean little to no sense from the title of my latest blog post. If you know me at all, you will realize that trivialities like that barely give me pause anymore. However, unpacking its rich symbology (thank you, Dr. Robert Langdon of fake Harvard University for bringing this illustrious field to such prominence) is simply too delicious a prospect for me to pass up.
You see, dear friends (he says, leaning closer, as if to impart the dark heart of a conspiracy), there is a final Rambo movie in the making. And I'm not talking about Sly drinking too much rubbing alcohol, having a minor stroke in the middle of the night, banging his head on the headboard and deciding that maybe, in the future, he'll make another. Perhaps after the whole Planet Hollywood thing pans out. No, this movie is due out in May, and already has two scrumptious trailers out, the better (gloriouser? awesomester?) of which I'll link below.
But first, let me set the stage: Rambo has apparently retired to southeast Asia and taken up (what else?) the contemplative life of a blacksmith. This is essential, because it keeps John (Rambo's first name, noob) in touch with the primal elements of male machismo: fire, metal, hitting stuff, and fire. But we need a plot, and so in walks Rita from Dexter and some other do-gooders who want to stop the genocide going on in Burma. Now, I'm no cartographer, but I've heard nastily persistent rumors that "Burma" is now going by "the Union of Myanmar." But as you'll soon hear for yourself, Rambo calls it Burma, so that's good enough for me. Hell, he could call it fucking Candyland or Lumpy Place Estates for all I care. The details are inconsequential here. What matters is that--surprise--the savages that Rita et al went to save people from end up capturing them instead, and so Rambo steps in and, from the look of the trailer, kills every single man, woman, and child in the entire country--which, I might add, has a population of 47,373,958. I'm told this number is as low as it is because the nation is being ravaged by an AIDS epidemic. Tastefully, Sly has decided to set another one upon them in his film, only this one has greasy black hair, a dapper headband, and some as-yet unburned body fat.
I won't go into further details, less because of a desire to leave some surprise as that I've pretty much run out of details. Nevertheless, let me just warn you that this trailer is absurdly violent, but if the Don is indeed correct (my only friend to have served in Iraq), a Jeep mounted .50 cal will indeed make a man explode into hamburger from close range, so maybe it's all legit. Not that John Rambo needs such heavy armament. If this trailer is any indication, he could have done it all with his bare hands. But I'll admit, Burma is a relatively small country. If the Chinese act up, we can give Rambo a spork and team him up with an armored polar bear, and that'll be the end of that. Of course, then we'll have to find someone else to apply lead-based paint to our toys, but I digress.
Be warned, men: as you watch this trailer your Y chromosome will burn hot and bright, like a bar of fired steel, and as the visceral brutality of these scenes hammer that metal again and again, know that Rambo is molding you into the ladle of awesome that he believes you can be. Or perhaps a spice rack of kickass. I bet even Rambo needs one of those.
You see, dear friends (he says, leaning closer, as if to impart the dark heart of a conspiracy), there is a final Rambo movie in the making. And I'm not talking about Sly drinking too much rubbing alcohol, having a minor stroke in the middle of the night, banging his head on the headboard and deciding that maybe, in the future, he'll make another. Perhaps after the whole Planet Hollywood thing pans out. No, this movie is due out in May, and already has two scrumptious trailers out, the better (gloriouser? awesomester?) of which I'll link below.
But first, let me set the stage: Rambo has apparently retired to southeast Asia and taken up (what else?) the contemplative life of a blacksmith. This is essential, because it keeps John (Rambo's first name, noob) in touch with the primal elements of male machismo: fire, metal, hitting stuff, and fire. But we need a plot, and so in walks Rita from Dexter and some other do-gooders who want to stop the genocide going on in Burma. Now, I'm no cartographer, but I've heard nastily persistent rumors that "Burma" is now going by "the Union of Myanmar." But as you'll soon hear for yourself, Rambo calls it Burma, so that's good enough for me. Hell, he could call it fucking Candyland or Lumpy Place Estates for all I care. The details are inconsequential here. What matters is that--surprise--the savages that Rita et al went to save people from end up capturing them instead, and so Rambo steps in and, from the look of the trailer, kills every single man, woman, and child in the entire country--which, I might add, has a population of 47,373,958. I'm told this number is as low as it is because the nation is being ravaged by an AIDS epidemic. Tastefully, Sly has decided to set another one upon them in his film, only this one has greasy black hair, a dapper headband, and some as-yet unburned body fat.
I won't go into further details, less because of a desire to leave some surprise as that I've pretty much run out of details. Nevertheless, let me just warn you that this trailer is absurdly violent, but if the Don is indeed correct (my only friend to have served in Iraq), a Jeep mounted .50 cal will indeed make a man explode into hamburger from close range, so maybe it's all legit. Not that John Rambo needs such heavy armament. If this trailer is any indication, he could have done it all with his bare hands. But I'll admit, Burma is a relatively small country. If the Chinese act up, we can give Rambo a spork and team him up with an armored polar bear, and that'll be the end of that. Of course, then we'll have to find someone else to apply lead-based paint to our toys, but I digress.
Be warned, men: as you watch this trailer your Y chromosome will burn hot and bright, like a bar of fired steel, and as the visceral brutality of these scenes hammer that metal again and again, know that Rambo is molding you into the ladle of awesome that he believes you can be. Or perhaps a spice rack of kickass. I bet even Rambo needs one of those.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Mastery of Language for the win!
The comic below, gleaned from Wednesday's post on Penny Arcade, is so very far up my alley that sunlight no longer penetrates its shadowy narrows. Were one to wander this far themselves, they would undoubtedly be accosted by nare-do-wells, and at knife point, would be forced to participate in tom-foolery, shenanigans, and if truly unlucky, ballyhoo. Enjoy.
Def Whyte Man's Burden
Guitar Hero III will be hitting stores tomorrow, or at least that's what the fine purveyors of electronic entertainment tell me; I remain rather skeptical, mainly because video games tend to be released on Tuesdays, not unlike DVDs and many CDs. Isn't it amazing what one's youth in customer service will learn' ya? Anyway, what spurs me on to write this post, apart from the simple fact that it's been over a week since my last one, is rather the harsh self-realizations that playing the GH III demo on Xbox Live has made brutally apparent: I have horrible taste in music.
Anyone who knows me even a little soon realizes that my musical tastes cull from the most stagnant and vile corners of the barrel. The most acceptable layers are those that fifteen year old girls swoon over (read: Fall Out Boy) on Total Request Live (or TRL, if you're into abbreviations, and who isn't?), and while I whole-heartedly cling to that tired, cliche answer that their last album before their 'discovery' is my favorite and that I'm less of a fan of the mainstream stuff, I won't go so far as to call anyone a 'sell-out.' I believe that phrase is one among many that I, as a white, middle-class male, am not allowed to use, unless ironically. Same thing goes for any complaints about me being oppressed or not being paid as much as someone else for the same job.
I would be a far happier man if a guilty affection for the "Sugar We're Going Down" guys was all I had in my musical closet. Instead, we're talking the kind of shit that keeps you from getting elected Senator or ever holding a job where you're around kids. For instance, out of the five songs put forth on the GH III demo, the one that really sent shivers up my spine was "Rock You Like a Hurricane." Yes, the one by the Scorpions. First of all, any person should be wary of liking a band with an animal in the name or band logo; if the word "white" is added into the mix as an adjective (Whitesnake, White Lion) or any part of the name is deliberately misspelled, then you might just need to go put a pistol in your mouth and rock yourself like a bullet to the brain pan. The only possible exception to the animal rule is Modest Mouse, and that's because they got the name from a Virginia Woolf quote.
Believe it or not, though, the 80's aren't my true weakness. Sure, I may have a fondness for singing "I Just Died in your Arms Tonight" while playing Halo 3 online, mainly to annoy/amuse my friends, and Patrick Swayze's "She's Like the Wind" may have somehow found a way onto my iPod, but my real kryptonite is 90's music. Oh yes. I'm talking songs so bad that hearing them has a scientifically documented chance, however slight, of inducing coma, as a sort of bodily defense mechanism, not unlike how a computer crashes. Dare I confess my affection for the Gin Blossoms, or even worse, the fact that I have yet to erase Deep Blue Something's "Breakfast at Tiffany's" from my iPod, and because of that delinquency, now refuse to take it off out of sheer stubborn obstinacy? No. This horrid truth would rend the very fabric of the mind, and with what tattered shreds remain, my friends would one by one bid me a hasty adieu.
Of course, they don't seem like they're that bad to me. However, I must confess I am not completely oblivious to how the outside world might see me. Like the portly bachelor in his fifties who has an extensive porcelain doll collection with which he enacts his favorite scenes from Jane Austen and the Bronte sisters' collected works, I realize others would look at me askance, and thus indulge my aberrant whims in the secrecy of long drives home and stolen moments of solitude in my study/lair/Batcave. Still, there is a pull to these songs that I cannot ignore, and if that makes me a pariah, then I suppose the sweet siren song of Eddie Murphy's "My Girl Likes to Party all the Time" will rock me into a fitful sleep, one that, I pray, is without dream.
Anyone who knows me even a little soon realizes that my musical tastes cull from the most stagnant and vile corners of the barrel. The most acceptable layers are those that fifteen year old girls swoon over (read: Fall Out Boy) on Total Request Live (or TRL, if you're into abbreviations, and who isn't?), and while I whole-heartedly cling to that tired, cliche answer that their last album before their 'discovery' is my favorite and that I'm less of a fan of the mainstream stuff, I won't go so far as to call anyone a 'sell-out.' I believe that phrase is one among many that I, as a white, middle-class male, am not allowed to use, unless ironically. Same thing goes for any complaints about me being oppressed or not being paid as much as someone else for the same job.
I would be a far happier man if a guilty affection for the "Sugar We're Going Down" guys was all I had in my musical closet. Instead, we're talking the kind of shit that keeps you from getting elected Senator or ever holding a job where you're around kids. For instance, out of the five songs put forth on the GH III demo, the one that really sent shivers up my spine was "Rock You Like a Hurricane." Yes, the one by the Scorpions. First of all, any person should be wary of liking a band with an animal in the name or band logo; if the word "white" is added into the mix as an adjective (Whitesnake, White Lion) or any part of the name is deliberately misspelled, then you might just need to go put a pistol in your mouth and rock yourself like a bullet to the brain pan. The only possible exception to the animal rule is Modest Mouse, and that's because they got the name from a Virginia Woolf quote.
Believe it or not, though, the 80's aren't my true weakness. Sure, I may have a fondness for singing "I Just Died in your Arms Tonight" while playing Halo 3 online, mainly to annoy/amuse my friends, and Patrick Swayze's "She's Like the Wind" may have somehow found a way onto my iPod, but my real kryptonite is 90's music. Oh yes. I'm talking songs so bad that hearing them has a scientifically documented chance, however slight, of inducing coma, as a sort of bodily defense mechanism, not unlike how a computer crashes. Dare I confess my affection for the Gin Blossoms, or even worse, the fact that I have yet to erase Deep Blue Something's "Breakfast at Tiffany's" from my iPod, and because of that delinquency, now refuse to take it off out of sheer stubborn obstinacy? No. This horrid truth would rend the very fabric of the mind, and with what tattered shreds remain, my friends would one by one bid me a hasty adieu.
Of course, they don't seem like they're that bad to me. However, I must confess I am not completely oblivious to how the outside world might see me. Like the portly bachelor in his fifties who has an extensive porcelain doll collection with which he enacts his favorite scenes from Jane Austen and the Bronte sisters' collected works, I realize others would look at me askance, and thus indulge my aberrant whims in the secrecy of long drives home and stolen moments of solitude in my study/lair/Batcave. Still, there is a pull to these songs that I cannot ignore, and if that makes me a pariah, then I suppose the sweet siren song of Eddie Murphy's "My Girl Likes to Party all the Time" will rock me into a fitful sleep, one that, I pray, is without dream.
Friday, October 19, 2007
My Soul May Carry Rabies
While I would hesitate to call myself an online quiz aficionado, I do take them from time to time. I typically steer away from the IQ rating ones and have long since given up on the purity tests, mainly because the results for both are so dismally low that they suggest I spent my first twenty or so years of life caged in the basement of some dilapidated Victorian home, fed fish-heads from a slop bucket twice a day but denied even the barest education or social contact for fear that my mongoloid form would diminish whatever cultural capital the family had up to that point managed to accrue. Should the comparison have crossed your mind, I would readily grant that Boo Radley metaphors are also appropriate.
So anyway (the lingual calling card, I might observe, of the serial meanderer and long-story-teller), the other day I took the "Meet Your Daemon" quiz on the spiffily interactive website for New Line Cinema's forthcoming The Golden Compass. Why was I there in the first place, you ask? Perhaps it was my affection for fantasy literature and Hollywood's oft unrealized potential to visually bring off that literature spectacularly. Perhaps because when you glance at only the final eleven letters of the URL, one finds themselves staring into the face of "assmovie.com." Most likely, it's because I had already seen the new international movie trailer. I mean, for God's sake, there's fucking armor-clad polar bears fighting in this thing! These "gentle giants" have once and for all cast aside their Coke bottles and Christmas cheer and returned once more to what the Creator intended them to be: hulking bastions of savage ass-kickery.
The idea behind the Daemon in general, at least within the book/movie's mythology (as far as I can tell), is that every person's soul is manifested in an animal companion of the opposite gender, and while children's (because of their open potential) Daemons may often change shape during these early, formative years, as people progress toward adulthood this avatar gradually settles into a fixed shape. Thus the type of animal companion you have is a representative of your personal characteristics. This handy quiz allows you, after answering a mere twenty questions, to find out what your Daemon would be.
Diligently, I completed the quiz and waited with bated breath to see what totem my soul would greet me as. I am not an entirely arrogant man, and thus felt no compulsion to see a great lion, a majestic eagle, or even a damn marmoset saunter across my screen. But what did I get? A mouse named Aurora. Yes, the very core of my being can best be summed up as a tiny rodent that lives behind your appliances and, centuries past, may have helped spread plague throughout Europe. Indeed, mine is an animal almost universally put forth as a sign of helplessness and timidity, and should sufficient numbers of my soul congregate in one locale, words like "infestation" are bandied about. This, dear reader, is the type of man whose blog you read. Furthermore, if I did have the utter misfortune of residing in this fantastic universe, what the hell use would I get out of dear little Aurora? Send her out to scare housewives, or harvest me modest amounts of expired cheese? Perhaps I could throw her at the eyes of an attacker, hoping those disturbing little pink paws of hers might find purchase on a retina. I, of course, would never know, as I would be frantically sprinting the other way. Hurumph. Mouse indeed.
My wife's daemon simply puzzles me. Hers is a honey bee named Borealis. Now, I of course appreciate the synchronicity of our two daemons obviously suiting each other so well (if you don't get why they are suited yet, then congratulations on failing fifth grade science), but apart from that, what traits does one associate with the honey bee? Hard working, I suppose, though the word "drone" can too easily be bandied about. Colorful? Okay, if yellow and black are your thing. There is, of course, the vast array of material associated with "honey," but even I will only go so far, dear reader, to sate your boredom; allow me to politely decline.
So should you find yourself bored anytime in the near future, pop over to the website mentioned above and see what your Daemon might be. As is ever the case in these things, it's best to answer truthfully and not in the hopes of getting a specific beastie, since the character traits these deranged people associate with certain animals can, at times, boggle the mind. For instance, when I retook the test (I was still hoping for something a little higher up the mammalia food chain), I got a snow leopard named Elpis (the majestic symbol of, I shit you not, the Girl Scout Association of Kyrgyzstan). First on the list of descriptors was "spontaneous." How exactly is a snow leopard spontaneous? Does he suddenly decide, mid attack, that rather than biting the throat of his prey as usual, he'll instead try mauling its genitals just for the hell of it? Is it merely a ploy used by this cunning feline on its Match.com application? Needless to say, I'm not all that spontaneous, and disturbingly, the snow leopard's diet tends to subsist off of rodents. Poor Aurora has her work cut out for her, it seems.
So anyway (the lingual calling card, I might observe, of the serial meanderer and long-story-teller), the other day I took the "Meet Your Daemon" quiz on the spiffily interactive website for New Line Cinema's forthcoming The Golden Compass. Why was I there in the first place, you ask? Perhaps it was my affection for fantasy literature and Hollywood's oft unrealized potential to visually bring off that literature spectacularly. Perhaps because when you glance at only the final eleven letters of the URL, one finds themselves staring into the face of "assmovie.com." Most likely, it's because I had already seen the new international movie trailer. I mean, for God's sake, there's fucking armor-clad polar bears fighting in this thing! These "gentle giants" have once and for all cast aside their Coke bottles and Christmas cheer and returned once more to what the Creator intended them to be: hulking bastions of savage ass-kickery.
The idea behind the Daemon in general, at least within the book/movie's mythology (as far as I can tell), is that every person's soul is manifested in an animal companion of the opposite gender, and while children's (because of their open potential) Daemons may often change shape during these early, formative years, as people progress toward adulthood this avatar gradually settles into a fixed shape. Thus the type of animal companion you have is a representative of your personal characteristics. This handy quiz allows you, after answering a mere twenty questions, to find out what your Daemon would be.
Diligently, I completed the quiz and waited with bated breath to see what totem my soul would greet me as. I am not an entirely arrogant man, and thus felt no compulsion to see a great lion, a majestic eagle, or even a damn marmoset saunter across my screen. But what did I get? A mouse named Aurora. Yes, the very core of my being can best be summed up as a tiny rodent that lives behind your appliances and, centuries past, may have helped spread plague throughout Europe. Indeed, mine is an animal almost universally put forth as a sign of helplessness and timidity, and should sufficient numbers of my soul congregate in one locale, words like "infestation" are bandied about. This, dear reader, is the type of man whose blog you read. Furthermore, if I did have the utter misfortune of residing in this fantastic universe, what the hell use would I get out of dear little Aurora? Send her out to scare housewives, or harvest me modest amounts of expired cheese? Perhaps I could throw her at the eyes of an attacker, hoping those disturbing little pink paws of hers might find purchase on a retina. I, of course, would never know, as I would be frantically sprinting the other way. Hurumph. Mouse indeed.
My wife's daemon simply puzzles me. Hers is a honey bee named Borealis. Now, I of course appreciate the synchronicity of our two daemons obviously suiting each other so well (if you don't get why they are suited yet, then congratulations on failing fifth grade science), but apart from that, what traits does one associate with the honey bee? Hard working, I suppose, though the word "drone" can too easily be bandied about. Colorful? Okay, if yellow and black are your thing. There is, of course, the vast array of material associated with "honey," but even I will only go so far, dear reader, to sate your boredom; allow me to politely decline.
So should you find yourself bored anytime in the near future, pop over to the website mentioned above and see what your Daemon might be. As is ever the case in these things, it's best to answer truthfully and not in the hopes of getting a specific beastie, since the character traits these deranged people associate with certain animals can, at times, boggle the mind. For instance, when I retook the test (I was still hoping for something a little higher up the mammalia food chain), I got a snow leopard named Elpis (the majestic symbol of, I shit you not, the Girl Scout Association of Kyrgyzstan). First on the list of descriptors was "spontaneous." How exactly is a snow leopard spontaneous? Does he suddenly decide, mid attack, that rather than biting the throat of his prey as usual, he'll instead try mauling its genitals just for the hell of it? Is it merely a ploy used by this cunning feline on its Match.com application? Needless to say, I'm not all that spontaneous, and disturbingly, the snow leopard's diet tends to subsist off of rodents. Poor Aurora has her work cut out for her, it seems.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Not fat, but "Prosperous"
To be honest, I've been worried lately that I was already experiencing a drought of sorts. Apart from the olfactory incidents in my junior college classroom, I didn't have a whole lot I felt compelled to write about. Sure, I could force it, but like so many other things in life, forcing it results in a poor product, or in other contexts, jail time--where a whole lot more "forcing it" tends to take place, I hear.
Then I checked my email on Wednesday, and to my delight, found one of my dearest friends had been kind enough to send me a link to photos taken at my recent, 10 year high school reunion. New worlds of possibility suddenly laid themselves bare before my eyes. I felt like a cheetah on the Serengeti who had accidentally stumbled upon the wounded, retarded, and elderly section of the gazelle herd; yes, my friends, there was bounty to be had here. So much, in fact, that my frail mortal mind could not adequately process the brutal stimuli strewn before me as I clicked through picture after picture of this delightful little get-together. Indeed, I slipped into a comatose state, and only now, days later, have I regained enough consciousness to share my thoughts.
First impression? Overwhelming relief that I did not go. Now I know how passengers who missed a flight must feel when, driving home from the airport in irritation, they hear that their plane detonated over the Pacific; or how the promiscuous Lothario feels when learning that a former conquest has gonorrhea but he, despite his utter and persistent disregard for protection, escaped with his junk (Mr. Peeps) untarnished. Such was the feeling of serene calm that swept over me, so much so that I immediately slaughtered a fatted calf and burned fragrant herbs in praise of my merciful God.
Interestingly, the other sensation that most forcibly warred with my relief as I perused these crime-scene snapshots was a deep-seated, almost bewildering confusion. The title on the web page claimed that this was my high school and my graduating class, and every six to ten pictures did contain someone I vaguely remembered, but the vast majority of these pictures were inhabited by souls I, as far as I could tell, had never seen before in my entire life. For many of you, this may seem unremarkable, but bear in mind that my graduating class clocked in at somewhere around 200 people. At one time, I knew the names of every single one of these kids, but whatever the years had done to them, it had erased the once rigid contours of their profile to leave a fleshy, dead-eyed caricature in its place. Let me pause a moment to emphasize that first adjective a bit: indeed, were there a machine bolted to the gymnasium floor that night that could pare away the excess pounds that had accumulated over the past decade, they could have molded themselves at least another fifteen people to enjoy the festivities.
I could go on for quite some time, so I'll cut this short. Despite what my previous paragraphs might suggest, I hold no persistent distaste for my high school or my former peers; indeed, there were a number of people I saw in the pictures who I really did wish I was still in contact with, and another few who are still close to me. I don't mean to malign these people, or the rest of the gang in attendance. I suppose it's just that I don't have a whole lot to say to them, nor they to me, I imagine. Come on--I don't even remember their names. Showing up that night would be tantamount to saying, "I never cared enough to remember you after graduation, but I do care enough now to squint at your name tag and feign enthusiasm about your life for as short a period of time as possible." I respect them enough to save them the implied condescension. Though, I suppose, not enough to simply not condescend in the first place. God, I'm a prick. Maybe I did them a favor not showing up.
Then I checked my email on Wednesday, and to my delight, found one of my dearest friends had been kind enough to send me a link to photos taken at my recent, 10 year high school reunion. New worlds of possibility suddenly laid themselves bare before my eyes. I felt like a cheetah on the Serengeti who had accidentally stumbled upon the wounded, retarded, and elderly section of the gazelle herd; yes, my friends, there was bounty to be had here. So much, in fact, that my frail mortal mind could not adequately process the brutal stimuli strewn before me as I clicked through picture after picture of this delightful little get-together. Indeed, I slipped into a comatose state, and only now, days later, have I regained enough consciousness to share my thoughts.
First impression? Overwhelming relief that I did not go. Now I know how passengers who missed a flight must feel when, driving home from the airport in irritation, they hear that their plane detonated over the Pacific; or how the promiscuous Lothario feels when learning that a former conquest has gonorrhea but he, despite his utter and persistent disregard for protection, escaped with his junk (Mr. Peeps) untarnished. Such was the feeling of serene calm that swept over me, so much so that I immediately slaughtered a fatted calf and burned fragrant herbs in praise of my merciful God.
Interestingly, the other sensation that most forcibly warred with my relief as I perused these crime-scene snapshots was a deep-seated, almost bewildering confusion. The title on the web page claimed that this was my high school and my graduating class, and every six to ten pictures did contain someone I vaguely remembered, but the vast majority of these pictures were inhabited by souls I, as far as I could tell, had never seen before in my entire life. For many of you, this may seem unremarkable, but bear in mind that my graduating class clocked in at somewhere around 200 people. At one time, I knew the names of every single one of these kids, but whatever the years had done to them, it had erased the once rigid contours of their profile to leave a fleshy, dead-eyed caricature in its place. Let me pause a moment to emphasize that first adjective a bit: indeed, were there a machine bolted to the gymnasium floor that night that could pare away the excess pounds that had accumulated over the past decade, they could have molded themselves at least another fifteen people to enjoy the festivities.
I could go on for quite some time, so I'll cut this short. Despite what my previous paragraphs might suggest, I hold no persistent distaste for my high school or my former peers; indeed, there were a number of people I saw in the pictures who I really did wish I was still in contact with, and another few who are still close to me. I don't mean to malign these people, or the rest of the gang in attendance. I suppose it's just that I don't have a whole lot to say to them, nor they to me, I imagine. Come on--I don't even remember their names. Showing up that night would be tantamount to saying, "I never cared enough to remember you after graduation, but I do care enough now to squint at your name tag and feign enthusiasm about your life for as short a period of time as possible." I respect them enough to save them the implied condescension. Though, I suppose, not enough to simply not condescend in the first place. God, I'm a prick. Maybe I did them a favor not showing up.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Update: Still Silent, Still Deadly
So it's been a week since my students approached me after class complaining about the anonymous flatulence of their peer, and the only good news to report is that they haven't approached me a second time, despite the lack of any impotently vague announcement in-class on my part. This silent killer continues to bombard the innocents around him/her with such unflinching persistence that WWII artillery metaphors spring unbidden to mind. The original plaintiffs who brought the matter to my attention have taken one of two courses: some suffer stoically, their jaw muscles taut as their breath hisses in and out between clenched teeth; others simply persevere until their all-too human willpower inevitably crumbles, and at this point, rise abruptly mid-lecture to re-seat themselves in a marginally better--and certainly further removed--location.
Charmingly enough, as of Wednesday another student has taken a slightly different approach. Stopping me as I was passing out their latest batch of quizzes, he opined that there must be something wrong with the ventilation system above the room, because an unfamiliar stench had been seeping down onto him from above. My first impression? That be it for reasons of delayed guilt or (if this young person is truly the virtuoso of biological warfare that I suspect he is) for reasons of barely restrained pride, the culprit himself had broached the subject with me, thereby elevating the game of cat, mouse, and expired brie to the next level. He was giving me a way out, an avenue to discuss the subject in class without attaching the onus (don't transplant vowels now, dear reader) to any particular individual. The fact that this may very well have been provided by the guilty party only underscores the point that he has no intention of stopping. The ritual has merely evolved, to a point now where the prodigy demands public acknowledgement, albeit obliquely so.
The only gesture to be made on my part, at least for the moment, will remain a passive one. By incrementally increasing the complexity (and thus the difficulty) of the grammar lessons, one by one my students should become so fixated on the gibberish on the board--and more importantly, on their woeful inability to adequately master those grammatical skills--that their concern over their course grade will snap them into an attention rapt enough, I would hope, to block out the more visceral stimuli surrounding them--namely the fact that they are forced, twice a week, to attend class in a Dutch oven.
Charmingly enough, as of Wednesday another student has taken a slightly different approach. Stopping me as I was passing out their latest batch of quizzes, he opined that there must be something wrong with the ventilation system above the room, because an unfamiliar stench had been seeping down onto him from above. My first impression? That be it for reasons of delayed guilt or (if this young person is truly the virtuoso of biological warfare that I suspect he is) for reasons of barely restrained pride, the culprit himself had broached the subject with me, thereby elevating the game of cat, mouse, and expired brie to the next level. He was giving me a way out, an avenue to discuss the subject in class without attaching the onus (don't transplant vowels now, dear reader) to any particular individual. The fact that this may very well have been provided by the guilty party only underscores the point that he has no intention of stopping. The ritual has merely evolved, to a point now where the prodigy demands public acknowledgement, albeit obliquely so.
The only gesture to be made on my part, at least for the moment, will remain a passive one. By incrementally increasing the complexity (and thus the difficulty) of the grammar lessons, one by one my students should become so fixated on the gibberish on the board--and more importantly, on their woeful inability to adequately master those grammatical skills--that their concern over their course grade will snap them into an attention rapt enough, I would hope, to block out the more visceral stimuli surrounding them--namely the fact that they are forced, twice a week, to attend class in a Dutch oven.
Friday, October 5, 2007
The sinster limits of good pedagogy
I've been teaching at the college level for about five years now. Let me clarify that a little by explaining I've been teaching at junior colleges and universities for that long, and not giving a college-level lecture to a kindergarten finger-painting class. And while I'll be the first one to admit that this isn't an overly substantial period of time, and that therefore I have not seen everything in "the book" (whatever that malevolent volume might actually be), I like to think I've at least experienced the basics of the profession, along with the more common curve balls that are thrown--inevitably at the skull--of whoever happens to stand before a classroom and speak 2-3 days a week.
So when three of my students waited to speak to me after class the other day, I assumed they had a question about the lecture, or perhaps were unclear about some procedural issue from the syllabus. I am delighted (read: appalled) to reveal that this was, indeed, not the case. Rather, these students felt obliged to inform me that another member of the class, seemingly without scruple, had been mercilessly and quite continuously farting during lecture--enough so that the heady aroma of this person's gastrointestinal tract had become distracting to these unfortunate neighbors/victims. They corralled me after class to complain and beg me to "do something about it."
I was so taken aback by the situation, that I rattled off a placating sentence or two and sent them on their way, unwisely promising I'd try to remedy the situation. But what, I ask, can I do? My purview as instructor reaches no further than teaching the subject matter to my students, evaluating their performance in class, and maintaining some semblance of decorum during our time together so that the majority of students who want (and choose) to learn can. Personal hygiene is not something I should have to deal with, nor can I imagine broaching the subject with the suspect to be anything other than leaving yourself wide open for complaints to the administration, or at the very least, an extremely embarrassing conversation for everyone involved.
So what am I going to do? Pretend to forget about it on Monday, and should the issue come back, explain to these students that they may need to take the bull by the horns themselves and find a moment to talk to this kid. Or simply move seats. I, for one, will continue to pray that the ventilation in that classroom will continue to keep my nostrils free of that most oppressive aroma, or that should it not, I will have one of my dry-erase markers handy to shove up my nose. The minor brain damage should be well worth the trouble.
So when three of my students waited to speak to me after class the other day, I assumed they had a question about the lecture, or perhaps were unclear about some procedural issue from the syllabus. I am delighted (read: appalled) to reveal that this was, indeed, not the case. Rather, these students felt obliged to inform me that another member of the class, seemingly without scruple, had been mercilessly and quite continuously farting during lecture--enough so that the heady aroma of this person's gastrointestinal tract had become distracting to these unfortunate neighbors/victims. They corralled me after class to complain and beg me to "do something about it."
I was so taken aback by the situation, that I rattled off a placating sentence or two and sent them on their way, unwisely promising I'd try to remedy the situation. But what, I ask, can I do? My purview as instructor reaches no further than teaching the subject matter to my students, evaluating their performance in class, and maintaining some semblance of decorum during our time together so that the majority of students who want (and choose) to learn can. Personal hygiene is not something I should have to deal with, nor can I imagine broaching the subject with the suspect to be anything other than leaving yourself wide open for complaints to the administration, or at the very least, an extremely embarrassing conversation for everyone involved.
So what am I going to do? Pretend to forget about it on Monday, and should the issue come back, explain to these students that they may need to take the bull by the horns themselves and find a moment to talk to this kid. Or simply move seats. I, for one, will continue to pray that the ventilation in that classroom will continue to keep my nostrils free of that most oppressive aroma, or that should it not, I will have one of my dry-erase markers handy to shove up my nose. The minor brain damage should be well worth the trouble.
Thursday, October 4, 2007
Drawring Is the Funzorz!
I used to draw quite a lot, but regrettably, I simply don't have the time anymore. I have the time to dabble every now and then, but the thing about drawing (at least for me) is that if you don't keep your skills up through constant practice, you won't get results you're entirely thrilled with. So if and when I do "dabble," I get crap, which only frustrates me and thus I put the pencil and pad aside for another month or so. Thank God I have a good metabolism, because I fear I would rather easily fall prey to a shame spiral that would eventually involve me eating my weight in roast beef covered in chocolate sauce. For those of you playing along at home, the roast beef would be the thing covered in chocolate sauce, not me. That would be just weird, and the kind of mental image I would only wish upon sworn blood enemies.
Nevertheless, there are times when things just click, regardless of how long away I've been from the medium. Case in point: the picture heading this post. I drew it last year sometime, but despite how rusty I was, everything came out crisply and fell right into place. I imagine this is what athletes mean when they talk about being "in the zone," though for someone of my meager athletic ability to attempt approximating even an understanding of that trope may smack of hubris. Still, I think it gets the point across.
Anyway, I'm only writing this post because I want that picture to be in my profile, but apparently, the system demands the arcane sacrifice of the pic included in a genuine blog post, from which the profile can then steal away. It makes no sense to me whatsoever, but then again, I can't understand how an entire electronic language can be composed solely of 1's and 0's, and of course, my persistent belief that the world is indeed flat and that ships routinely sail off the edge of the sea into the great abyss. Call me old-fashioned, I guess.
Then again, I have been thinking I need more grist for my diseased mind to mill over (wow...I fit both "grist" and "mill" into the same sentence without literally talking about an actual mill) in these blog posts, so perhaps I'll start including brief (at the mere mention of that word, I can hear my loyal reader--yes, singular--breathe a heartfelt sigh of relief) posts with any promising sketches that happen to have bled from my pencil that week. Of course, that would entail me drawing every week. Still, should anything worth sharing come up, I'll let you know.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Government Identification is his Plaything
This is something I have laughed at, very hard, many times. My friend Ryan has a habit of taking ridiculous photos for his driver's license, enough so that he has worked out a system. Apparently, if you make too strange a face when having your picture taken, the DMV employee, whose soul has undoubtedly been eroded to a dull husk even God would look askance at, will grumpily tell you to stop fucking around (in so many words) and take a real picture. Ryan's solution? You simply have to hold whatever face you want to use from the very moment you enter the DMV. He has numerous, harrowing accounts of employees and other customers watching him and pointing at him the whole time. And still the man perseveres, and thank God he does, because the images below never fail to make me crack up. Also, notice the use of makeup in the final image; our young virtuouso is honing his craft, developing an ever-more intriquite ritual that will, one day, culminate in a DMV photo that will literally melt the face of anyone who beholds it. I look forward to that day...except for the face melting part of it. 
Ryan is the proud papa of More Rants than Raves. Check it out for similar hilarity.
Friday, September 28, 2007
Bioshock: thanks for making little girls creepy again
I've been meaning to review Bioshock for some time now. At first I was hesitant because I hadn't finished the game entirely, but only days after I did, Halo 3 hit stores and my decision making faculties were arrested by the desire to pop online and have children and frat boys brutalize my digital avatar and, once they decide they cannot pronounce my gamertag correctly, call me a fag. Kudos to you, guys; you'll be running the country in a few years, God help us all.
I'm unsure if this is exactly the foot I want to start my reflections on, but nevertheless, allow me to say that Bioshock is one of those games that approaches the category of 'art,' enough so that one should second guess Roger Ebert's comparison of a satisfying game to a satisfying crap: both a true pleasure, but neither art (a metaphor which a number of avante garde artists--think Piss Christ--would undoubtedly take umbridge with). Let me see what I can do about disabusing what poor, overweight, aged Mr. Ebert has to say about a medium I suspect he knows little to nothing about.
Now, while I'm hesitant to unreservedly call the game 'art,' (less because of the game itself as the ephemeral nature of the term; I'm always more suspicious of someone who is certain they know whatever art is than those wary of blindly spaming the term) allow me to say that it is an extremely well crafted product that foregrounds a compelling story and visceral atmosphere without sacrificing gameplay in any significant way. To not give too much away, the game is set in a city called Rapture, built underneath the ocean by a renegade industrialist named Andrew Ryan who felt that governmental and religious constraints were hampering the lives and potential of humanity's greatest. As is so often the case in such utopic visions, however, things went awry, and the scientific freedom (in particular) that drew so many great minds to Rapture inevitably led to its downfall. By the time your plane crashes in the ocean and you find a way down there, the city has become a distopic hell where a few survivors hide and try to eeke out a life while genetically manipulated "splicers" roam the halls, quite insane, looking for their next fix of "Adam."
I realize that a few portions of those final sentences may have made no sense whatsoever. That's fine by me, because when you play the game yourself (and you should), you'll figure it all out quickly enough. Bare bones of the story aside, what most impressed me was the atmosphere of the game. The city was supposedly built in the late 1940's, and you arrive in 1960. The walls are covered in classic 50's advertisements, songs like "Beyond the Sea" play eerily in the background, and everywhere you hear Leave it to Beaver-esque jingles and messages advocating narcissism, child experimentation, and a happy acceptance of a rapidly deteriorating and increasingly dangerous society. As you travel around, you pick up radio logs left by important personages of the city, and piece by piece you start recognizing a picture of the city's former political, social, and scientific undercurrents, and why it all went so horribly wrong. There are clear villains in the game, but each one is a man or woman who simply followed too hard a line to fulfill what could, in another situation, have been an admirable philosophical ideal. It doesn't surprise me in the slightest that this game was birthed at the time in American history that it was.
If you have the hardware, be it console or PC, to play the game, I highly recommend it. It is, at least in a game mechanics sense, a First Person Shooter, and thus won't clock in at much more than 15 - 20 hours of gameplay, but the pleasure of being immersed in that vividly and superbly crafted world is well worth the time and money. Enjoy Rapture.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
No one likes it when you call it Frisco
Last weekend I made the slog north to San Francisco to meet up with a few friends for my buddy Jim's birthday. It began with a rather inauspicious start, as one of the chief organizers came down with some sort of stomache flu that entailed him making embarassing sounds on porcelain, or should he stray too far from that tiled room, in his pants. There was more too it than that, I'm sure, but frankly, isn't that enough to keep you from hopping on a plane?
Once there, though, the four of us who could make it did settle in nicely. We've all known each other since high school, and despite the years that have passed, it never ceases to amaze me how quickly and comfortably we realign into our old group dynamics. I don't mean this in any sort of caste system sense: we don't have any fixed designated 'leader,' 'bitchboy,' 'gimp/sex-slave,' or 'backup vocals' slots. Rather, it's simply how much we can be and are ourselves with each other, despite the spatial divides between meetings or temporal ones between conversations.
Per the birfday boy's wishes, the first night entailed going to bars in the Marina. It was my first public outing with the wedding band but sans wife. Apart from the more traditional reading of such a ring as your devoted commitment to another human being, I'm already starting to read it also as a green light for being a jackass to women who talk to me in bars. For instance, later on in the night, when asked if I was really sharing a beer with Nick (I was--he hadn't wanted one that round, then changed his mind), I flashed my ring and told her not to worry, because I was married and Nick was my husband. At that precise moment, my wife smiled to herself somewhere, not knowing why. Then she thought about it, rolled her eyes, and knew it had something to do with me.
The following night we hit a German restaurant Jim has been raving about for months, this time with Kate in tow. Kate is a girl we went to highschool with who I literally hadn't seen in a decade. And why was this? Because I never really talked to her outside of class, let alone in any kind of social context. She's absolutely great, and a blast to go out drinking with, but these weren't things I would have been able to glean during high school. Back then, I drew a fairly clear line in the sand between my friends who knew what to do with a twenty-sided die and those that didn't. And that line was between those people I hung out with. The rest of the school we hid that side of ourselves from, because despite the acts we like to play, you only want to be so much of a pariah in high school. We may as well have been spending our weekend sodomizing livestock, the secrecy we employed amidst the mainstream kids. And Kate was one of those.
But as I said, she's a great girl, and we had a blast with her on Saturday night. So I've gotten over this whole "us and them" mentality, right? Grown up, realized I should take my fellow man and woman for the special embodiments of God's love and Creation that they are, and enjoy the many exciting conversations that will result, right? Fuck no. I will readily admit that there are many people from my past and present who I probably have written off too quickly or simply haven't been able to get to know well enough, and that I regret. I'm working on that. But when, for example, Kate asked (already knowing the answer) whether we'd be going to our high school reunion in a few weeks, well, I don't know language emphatic enough to express the negative response. I mean, the RSVP actually asked, amongst other things, who we had a secret crush on in high school. Really? That's how they're going to try to entice 500 young professionals to return to their hometown and stand awkwardly in a gymnasium for three hours? I would rather hump a burlap sack of broken glass that was only sleeping with me to get even with its ex-lover. Twice.
Below are a few pictures of the guilty parties involved. Names and captions are used to underscore the guilt of those depicted and, hopefully, instill a deep feeling of shame.
Nick, our humble iPhone photographer, is the one in the middle, desperately praying that he is not the roast beef in a sweaty manwich.
Because sometimes, eating a Pizza Bite with sleeves on just isn't gay enough.
Colonel Gentleman and the Don. I'm the white guy wearing a blue tshirt.
Once there, though, the four of us who could make it did settle in nicely. We've all known each other since high school, and despite the years that have passed, it never ceases to amaze me how quickly and comfortably we realign into our old group dynamics. I don't mean this in any sort of caste system sense: we don't have any fixed designated 'leader,' 'bitchboy,' 'gimp/sex-slave,' or 'backup vocals' slots. Rather, it's simply how much we can be and are ourselves with each other, despite the spatial divides between meetings or temporal ones between conversations.
Per the birfday boy's wishes, the first night entailed going to bars in the Marina. It was my first public outing with the wedding band but sans wife. Apart from the more traditional reading of such a ring as your devoted commitment to another human being, I'm already starting to read it also as a green light for being a jackass to women who talk to me in bars. For instance, later on in the night, when asked if I was really sharing a beer with Nick (I was--he hadn't wanted one that round, then changed his mind), I flashed my ring and told her not to worry, because I was married and Nick was my husband. At that precise moment, my wife smiled to herself somewhere, not knowing why. Then she thought about it, rolled her eyes, and knew it had something to do with me.
The following night we hit a German restaurant Jim has been raving about for months, this time with Kate in tow. Kate is a girl we went to highschool with who I literally hadn't seen in a decade. And why was this? Because I never really talked to her outside of class, let alone in any kind of social context. She's absolutely great, and a blast to go out drinking with, but these weren't things I would have been able to glean during high school. Back then, I drew a fairly clear line in the sand between my friends who knew what to do with a twenty-sided die and those that didn't. And that line was between those people I hung out with. The rest of the school we hid that side of ourselves from, because despite the acts we like to play, you only want to be so much of a pariah in high school. We may as well have been spending our weekend sodomizing livestock, the secrecy we employed amidst the mainstream kids. And Kate was one of those.
But as I said, she's a great girl, and we had a blast with her on Saturday night. So I've gotten over this whole "us and them" mentality, right? Grown up, realized I should take my fellow man and woman for the special embodiments of God's love and Creation that they are, and enjoy the many exciting conversations that will result, right? Fuck no. I will readily admit that there are many people from my past and present who I probably have written off too quickly or simply haven't been able to get to know well enough, and that I regret. I'm working on that. But when, for example, Kate asked (already knowing the answer) whether we'd be going to our high school reunion in a few weeks, well, I don't know language emphatic enough to express the negative response. I mean, the RSVP actually asked, amongst other things, who we had a secret crush on in high school. Really? That's how they're going to try to entice 500 young professionals to return to their hometown and stand awkwardly in a gymnasium for three hours? I would rather hump a burlap sack of broken glass that was only sleeping with me to get even with its ex-lover. Twice.
Below are a few pictures of the guilty parties involved. Names and captions are used to underscore the guilt of those depicted and, hopefully, instill a deep feeling of shame.
Jim the Birfday boy and Kate. I realize his hand looks disporportionately large on her shoulder, considering the size of the rest of him, but don't let that take away from the 2 litres of beer--the real star of the picture.
Nick, our humble iPhone photographer, is the one in the middle, desperately praying that he is not the roast beef in a sweaty manwich. Because sometimes, eating a Pizza Bite with sleeves on just isn't gay enough. Colonel Gentleman and the Don. I'm the white guy wearing a blue tshirt.Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Wary of change....and bears
So over a few marathon sessions, I have graduated from having seen absolutely no episodes of Battlestar Galactica to having seen all those available to me on DVD, from the miniseries to the cliffhanger end (aren't they all?) of season 2.5. As it's a show firmly rooted in the science fiction genre, I assume they felt obligated to use decimals in their season notation. Who am I, lowly student of the Humanities that I am, to question their overly precise, mathematical wisdom?
First, be warned this is less a review of the show's quality as it is a rumination on my own hesitance to fully embrace it. The curious thing to me is that this show couldn't be much more tailored to the sorts of things I enjoy watching. It's well written, and while they did dip into the same well from time to time for a plot gimmick, the core elements of the series maintain senses of tension and suspicion that keep the viewer (well, me at least) entirely enthralled without going over the top and leaving the viewer feeling used or manipulated (which is often the case in this sort of endeavor). I feel affection for a number of the characters, and an equally positive sign, distaste for others--it's the apathy you don't want. When certain characters have been killed--and kill them this show does--I have felt disappointed about the loss. But as I loan it out to friends now, I do so not because of a compulsion of my own to share it but more of a sense of fair play, that the "buzz" is that this is a good sci-fi series, and thus if I have it in my possession I may as well share it with friends that I believe appreciate the genre.
This is my dilemma. The standbys of the genre, mine at least, have lost some of their glitter for me over the years (though I suspect this is the natural result when you place a trophy on a shelf and smile at it affectionately from a distance as it slowly collects dust) but still I cling to them. I still love Star Wars, but I'm not going to pretend that Lucas didn't do some damage to its mythology, at least in my eyes, with the prequels. Moments of those films were like watching a father beat his child, and not in the way you wish some would do in grocery stores, airports, and Chuck-E-Cheese. After I had seen Firefly and Serenity, I made a conscious effort to spread that aborted series and film through my network of closest friends. But with BSG, I feel no such compulsion. And this brings me to my point. It seems as if I have reached some critical mass where I appreciate new entertainments but cannot embrace them with the fervor I once did.
And it's not all about BSG. God help me if I degenerate into such musings over one show. But it's the same across the board: the music I listen to, the subjects I study, the games I like--I haven't significantly deviated in any of these for over a decade. How bleak a statement is that? But whatever handicap I might have in the academic and entertainment portions of my life, the good news is that I've found a happy medium with the more important part of that same life: my relationships. I still maintain a stubborn loyalty to the best people from my past, but I thankfully seem to show no hesitance to embrace new ones, even here in the land God forgot. Unlike this television series, I have no reservations about telling everyone about my new friends, forcing them to meet my old friends when they visit, to make them team up together with me when gaming online to have our collective asses stomped by children literally too young to even understand the remedial classes we teach.
So what the hell is the point? Not much, really, save perhaps a warning not to let those murky green waters stagnate too much. And if you're interested, give Battlestar Galactica a try. Of course for me, those are one and the same thing.
First, be warned this is less a review of the show's quality as it is a rumination on my own hesitance to fully embrace it. The curious thing to me is that this show couldn't be much more tailored to the sorts of things I enjoy watching. It's well written, and while they did dip into the same well from time to time for a plot gimmick, the core elements of the series maintain senses of tension and suspicion that keep the viewer (well, me at least) entirely enthralled without going over the top and leaving the viewer feeling used or manipulated (which is often the case in this sort of endeavor). I feel affection for a number of the characters, and an equally positive sign, distaste for others--it's the apathy you don't want. When certain characters have been killed--and kill them this show does--I have felt disappointed about the loss. But as I loan it out to friends now, I do so not because of a compulsion of my own to share it but more of a sense of fair play, that the "buzz" is that this is a good sci-fi series, and thus if I have it in my possession I may as well share it with friends that I believe appreciate the genre.
This is my dilemma. The standbys of the genre, mine at least, have lost some of their glitter for me over the years (though I suspect this is the natural result when you place a trophy on a shelf and smile at it affectionately from a distance as it slowly collects dust) but still I cling to them. I still love Star Wars, but I'm not going to pretend that Lucas didn't do some damage to its mythology, at least in my eyes, with the prequels. Moments of those films were like watching a father beat his child, and not in the way you wish some would do in grocery stores, airports, and Chuck-E-Cheese. After I had seen Firefly and Serenity, I made a conscious effort to spread that aborted series and film through my network of closest friends. But with BSG, I feel no such compulsion. And this brings me to my point. It seems as if I have reached some critical mass where I appreciate new entertainments but cannot embrace them with the fervor I once did.
And it's not all about BSG. God help me if I degenerate into such musings over one show. But it's the same across the board: the music I listen to, the subjects I study, the games I like--I haven't significantly deviated in any of these for over a decade. How bleak a statement is that? But whatever handicap I might have in the academic and entertainment portions of my life, the good news is that I've found a happy medium with the more important part of that same life: my relationships. I still maintain a stubborn loyalty to the best people from my past, but I thankfully seem to show no hesitance to embrace new ones, even here in the land God forgot. Unlike this television series, I have no reservations about telling everyone about my new friends, forcing them to meet my old friends when they visit, to make them team up together with me when gaming online to have our collective asses stomped by children literally too young to even understand the remedial classes we teach.
So what the hell is the point? Not much, really, save perhaps a warning not to let those murky green waters stagnate too much. And if you're interested, give Battlestar Galactica a try. Of course for me, those are one and the same thing.
Thursday, September 6, 2007
A Gentle Reminder
This may be coming a little late in the season, what with summer drawing to an end and people returning to school. Then again, perhaps this is timed right: if long, unattended hours at home for little Billy were the perfect opportunity to experiment with empty toilet paper tubes and a belt sander, the inconvenient intrusion of learnin' once more into his daily routine will necessarily put a dent in his stats. Perhaps, then, he can ride this decline all the way to a complete cessation of self abuse. Unless, of course, he hates kittens:
Now if a chronically obese bearded man, drunk off eggnog and possessing the magical power of breaking into your house once a year isn't enough to scare kids straight (well, flaccid, I suppose), then I don't know what will. Kitten-haters.
Of course, he might. It is not unheard of for people to dislike kittens, what with their surly attitudes and complete inability to articulate complex ideas. This is why Santa Clause, a venerable saint of the Catholic Church (albeit a Lycian one) has also decided to become proactive and address an open letter to you:
Now if a chronically obese bearded man, drunk off eggnog and possessing the magical power of breaking into your house once a year isn't enough to scare kids straight (well, flaccid, I suppose), then I don't know what will. Kitten-haters.
Monday, September 3, 2007
A Beautiful, Bouncing, Baby Zombie Boy
So I finally caved and made myself a blog. I should have known that this was inevitable, that someone whose profession essentially amounts to reading and writing all the time wouldn't be able to resist the free publication of his random thoughts. I suppose I was hoping that my egotism would be overpowered by my fear of appearing egotistical (ironically), but to quote Val Kilmer, "it appears my hypocrisy knows no bounds."
Now, don't get me wrong. I'm certainly not condemning the idea of a blog. Indeed, I'm rather enamored with it, and I try to regularly read those of my friends. But for whatever reason, I just cringe at the thought of a blog of my own. A scene from Dawn of the Dead (2004) comes to mind, which is rather funny to write, since I had to look up the damn title on IMDB just to make the reference. Already I lay bare my mechanism, it seems. But I digress. As anyone reading this blog will already know by heart, the bite of the zombie essentially begins a transformation that cannot be retarded or reversed; it's only a matter of time until you too will crave the succulent moisture of brain between your incisors as you shamble down the streets of your hometown looking for a wandering innocent to devour--preferably one without a camera crew behind him/her, because those ones tend to be the stars of major motion pictures, and that typically means they're well armed with heavy weapons and horribly written dialogue. And if you happen to turn a corner and see Bruce Campbell, you run the other way, because that man will end your zombie ass pronto.
Anyway, amidst the survivors who make it to a mall in the first third of Dawn of the Dead is a young couple, but surprise, the young pregnant wife has been contaminated by a zombie bite. The husband, because chivalry never picks an opportune time to charge a windmill, decides he can't kill her but instead ties her down to a bed, hidden from the others, even after she fully becomes a zombie. Long story short, she eventually gives birth to a zombie baby, and the husband (by this time completely insane) is holding the kid up like he just pulled the Christ child from the manger. This is what I worry my blog will be: a hideous, flesh-eating infant that only its maniacal father believes is at all worthy of love or even existence.
Be that as it may, it has allowed me to pepper my first ever blog post with some of my favorite things: unnecessarily big words, zombies, overindulgent metaphors, zombie babies, the semicolon, and parenthetical aside. So it can't be all that bad, right?
Now, don't get me wrong. I'm certainly not condemning the idea of a blog. Indeed, I'm rather enamored with it, and I try to regularly read those of my friends. But for whatever reason, I just cringe at the thought of a blog of my own. A scene from Dawn of the Dead (2004) comes to mind, which is rather funny to write, since I had to look up the damn title on IMDB just to make the reference. Already I lay bare my mechanism, it seems. But I digress. As anyone reading this blog will already know by heart, the bite of the zombie essentially begins a transformation that cannot be retarded or reversed; it's only a matter of time until you too will crave the succulent moisture of brain between your incisors as you shamble down the streets of your hometown looking for a wandering innocent to devour--preferably one without a camera crew behind him/her, because those ones tend to be the stars of major motion pictures, and that typically means they're well armed with heavy weapons and horribly written dialogue. And if you happen to turn a corner and see Bruce Campbell, you run the other way, because that man will end your zombie ass pronto.
Anyway, amidst the survivors who make it to a mall in the first third of Dawn of the Dead is a young couple, but surprise, the young pregnant wife has been contaminated by a zombie bite. The husband, because chivalry never picks an opportune time to charge a windmill, decides he can't kill her but instead ties her down to a bed, hidden from the others, even after she fully becomes a zombie. Long story short, she eventually gives birth to a zombie baby, and the husband (by this time completely insane) is holding the kid up like he just pulled the Christ child from the manger. This is what I worry my blog will be: a hideous, flesh-eating infant that only its maniacal father believes is at all worthy of love or even existence.
Be that as it may, it has allowed me to pepper my first ever blog post with some of my favorite things: unnecessarily big words, zombies, overindulgent metaphors, zombie babies, the semicolon, and parenthetical aside. So it can't be all that bad, right?
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