Dancing with the Stars

I clearly haven't been keeping up with this blog, and there isn't much that would light enough of a fire under my ass to take it back up again, at least not until the semester's over...and then I saw this.


Needless to say, my face liquified like that Nazi who beheld the Ark of the Covenant in Raiders of the Lost Ark. Not in a good way, either, like a killer guitar solo melts face. No, this is like actual face melting: an unmistakable sign of divine, seriously Old Testament displeasure with man's folly.

I'm really at a loss here, so I'll have to go collect myself later and decide whether I have it in me to edit the post and write some more. For now, though, here are a few thoughts:

1) George Lucas sends cease and desist orders to random bars that have marathon Star Wars movie nights, but endorses this? What kind of drugs is he on (apart from the ones he must take daily to prevent his neck-sack from continuing to inflate and engulf his head)?

2) No fucking way Han Solo would be in a mood to dance right before being encased in Carbonite.

3) Where's Vader in all this? He was a humorless dick when he was still Anakin Skywalker (spoiler!); I can't imagine he's down with the hippity hop.

4) If there is one person in the Star Wars universe who should be hosting a dance party, I readily grant that Empire Lando Calrissian, complete with the blue cape of a space pimp, is the only man for the job. That is the one element of this game with which I have no qualms.

5) Han Shot first.

6) Who puts a DJ station in a mineral refinery? Empire makes abundantly clear that Bespin's operations are run by droids and small, likely enslaved alien species, neither of which would merit the courtesy of background music in the workplace. And wouldn't that be distracting? Industrial operations have significant safety concerns to begin with. Start playing some Rhianna, your maiming statistics spike, and next thing you know, the Galactic Empire revokes your permits. Stupid.

7) I like to think that Han Solo would be a better dancer than this.

8) This likely cancelled Chewbacca's life-debt to Han, as Han is clearly already dead inside.

Any points I miss? Feel free to share your insights and condolences for the Star Wars universe in the comments section.

Lionel Richie is the Soundtrack to my Heart

Shockingly, I immediately fell off the 'one blog post a week' wagon as soon as the semester started. I'll make sure to post something more characteristic of my usual long-winded gibberish this weekend, but in the meantime, I thought you might appreciate this video. Not only does it feature spliced together movie dialogue to reproduce the first verse and chorus of "Hello" by Lionel Richie, but it's also a gentle reminder that even at my most manically productive, I will never put my time to such good work as the saint who made this video.

Enjoy.


Hello from ant1mat3rie on Vimeo.

New Years Resolutions, or A List of Things I'll Fail at this Year, as "Life" is Simply Too Broad

Like so many others, I enjoy creating a short list of resolutions at the cusp of the new year, just as the throbbing pain of 2011's parting nut-shot still radiates upward through one's torso and the piercing shriek of the infant 2012 ruptures your ear drum. It's a magical intersection of hope and the can-do spirit of self-improvement, long before reality (re)asserts itself and forcibly reminds us that our fundamental character is etched into our very soul and that we stand doomed to repeat the same sins, foibles, and lapses until the slow rotation of the Earth grinds the planet to dust.

Or, you know, not. Um...How's the new jogging regimen going?

Despite the rather grim turn of my introduction, I do think these resolutions have genuine merit, if only as a moment of self-reflection that considers the topography of our character and responds with a well-meaning mission statement for bettering ourselves that calendar year. And so, in that spirit, I humbly offer my resolutions--in no particular order--for a new year that, my Mayan friends tell me, will see the catastrophic termination of life as we know it.

Play More Golf. I include this not only because I enjoy it, but because it is becoming increasingly apparent with each passing year that my income and standard of living are not sufficiently projecting the aura of white privilege that is quite literally my genetic birthright. I don't know enough about economics to commit white collar crime, so it's this or tennis, and the latter has way too much staccato movement for my taste. Also, it's harder to get blind drunk playing tennis than golf.

Punch Clean through a Man's Chest. This is a standing resolution every year, and obviously needs no further explanation.

Outsource My Paper Grading to a Third World Country. The university is effectively a corporation in many respects (which has become particularly apparent now that I work at a private one), so I think I'll take a cue from many other American corporations and get the dirty manual labor of my profession taken care of by someone else. Bonus points if, like the manufacturers producing Apple's products overseas, this paper grading somehow manages to pollute China's water and air. They aren't going to let us remain the largest economy on the planet by asking nicely, people--most of them can't even understand English.

Accumulate More Obscure Knowledge about Punctuation and Typeface. Just this week I've learned the difference between the en dash and em dash (em dash is longer and is the standard punctuation mark), not to mention why they have those names (they are the length of the letters n and m respectively), as well as the distinction between a hair space and thin space. Because my priorities are irreparably warped, I found this genuinely interesting, and have vowed to learn even more arcane minutia of the printed word. Then I can become a copy editor and finally have a legitimate reason to kill myself. To my readers who are copy editors, I apologize. Yours is an exciting and life-affirming profession. Now get back to combing over the punctuation in the latest Harlequin romance novel. Who else will tell us whether "purple-headed warrior" really needs that hyphen or not?

High-Five More. Those are still cool, right?

Maintain my Luxurious Hairline. This is by no means a shot across the b(r)ow of anyone in particular; I just want to be mistaken for a seventeen year old boy for a few more years, okay?

Embrace my Terrible Taste in Music. I am currently listening to an acoustic cover of "The Freshmen," originally by The Verve Pipe (that's what you smoke meth in, right?), and I genuinely enjoy this rendition of "The Dragonborn Comes," which is itself from the video game Skyrim. I think those pretty well make my point for me.

I think that's enough for now. I'll keep you posted (get it? It's a blog, so...I post...blogs) as each one falls by the wayside. Feel free to add your own in the comment section. I reserve the right to shamelessly steal any that seem even potentially doable, particularly if I don't have to upset my daily routine in accomplishing them. Aim low, right? Ooh...that's another good resolution.

Leaving' a Hundred to Make You Feel Slutted

Ryan from More Rants than Raves recently sent me GQ's latest guide to men's style, no doubt as a subtle reminder that I increasingly allow myself to look like a vagrant during any break from teaching. It answered such mysteries as whether brown shoes really are essential with a blue suit (so long as the brown is darker than the suit's blue), whether it's acceptable to forgo a belt with your suit (yes), and what the third button of a three button suit is for (decoration, or a hidden camera for the creepy demographic that finds long range crotch photography from the comfort of your own van too impersonal).

As much as I appreciated Ryan's gesture, both because I do care about the finer points of men's style and because someone needs to let me know I look like I warm myself at a barrel fire, I find these lists tend to miss the true quagmires that dandyism confronts us with: how do I wear an ascot without looking like a douchebag / Jeremy Piven at the Emmys (not being Jeremy Piven is a great start)? Must I wear my monocle at all times, and if so, how do I prevent my cheek and brow muscles from not seizing up (no--only wear your monocle when leveling additional contempt at your subject, as if unaided sight would fall short of fully appreciating their failure as a human being)? Why does my wife feel that every time a man walks by with an awesome mustache with upturned ends she must turn to me, make eye contact, and firmly say "No" as if chastising a miscreant dog (because she is a woman of refinement and class who made a mistake a decade ago and saddled herself with me, a man who aspires to lush mustachios but in reality can barely muster the thin, patchy mustache reminiscent of a convicted sex-offender).

What we must remember, however, is that style is also a matter of how we conduct ourselves in our daily lives, how we interact with our peers and the innumerable strangers whose lives intersect with our own for minutes or hours of the day. Or, in the case of Derek Jeter, the innumerable strangers whose genitals intersect with his own for minutes or hours (who knows? he's a professional athlete, after all) of the evening. Specifically, I refer to the recent revelation that Jeter has a penchant for gifting his sexual conquests with personalized Derek Jeter sports memorabilia when he kicks them out at the end of the night. No wonder this guy wears a pin striped uniform: he is all class. How better to remind a former fling of just how awesome you are than by signing something that they can then sell? There's a special kind of narcissism at work here that lesser men like myself can only admire. Indeed, I just stood up and did a slow, methodical clap by myself in a Starbucks. Sadly, no one else joined in.

And so, as you prepare for your holiday and New Years celebrations, save a few of the stocking stuffers that you were planning to give to your beloved and tuck them away with a Sharpie in a safe place. Then, a few nights from now, bust them own while the post-coital glow is still upon you both. What better way to say "You just had sex with someone awesome" than by rolling over and giving them a signed Unicorn calendar, Panda Express gift card, or Gold Toe sock three pack? No need to thank me, dear reader. This is my holiday gift to you.

Just pretend I signed it and kicked you out of my house immediately afterward.

Ewe Bris

The CDC's Morbidity and Mortality Report last week warned that castrating lambs with your teeth may make you sick. I know. I'm as shocked by all this as you are.

I think it goes without saying that this convoluted and frankly surprising discovery needs to be parsed a bit. First of all, let's note that the operative word here is "may." Just because you use nothing more than a few incisors, an almost preternaturally strong jaw muscle, and a sturdy grip to forcibly remove the testicles of every sheep you can douse with ether and toss hoof-first into your van does not mean you will definitely get sick from a Campylobacter jejuni infection, symptoms of which include "diarrhea...abdominal cramps, fever, nausea and vomiting." On the other hand, the halitosis and the distinct impression that people are avoiding you, I would imagine, are pretty standard across the board, but you're castrating lambs with your teeth, so what the fuck do you care? Life's already a party.

I particularly appreciate how the article frames the situation as if it were some big mystery. The two workers who came down with C. jejuni insisted that they hadn't eaten the types of foods typically associated with the infection, it explains, nor had they shared food or drink. "Hm...what do we have in common?" they must have asked themselves. "My horoscope did say that...no, but you're a Scorpio and I'm a Capricorn." His coworker starts to raise his hand, then slowly lets it drop, brow furrowed in frustration. "No, no...we both know not to eat Shirley's egg salad sandwiches." The silence must have hung then between them, palpable and thick, as when Hannibal Lecter waits for young Clarice to put together the pieces for herself. "You don't think it had anything to do with using our teeth to castrate those lambs with diarrhea, do you? I mean, I flossed after and everything..."


You must forgive my weakness regarding the title. I realize just how inaccurate it is, both regarding the gender and religious denomination of the species in question (sheep traditionally trend toward Buddhism, I'm told), as well as the specific nature of the genital manipulation, so to speak. But come on. How am I supposed to resist that kind of word play?   

Old Man Fight Prompts Ambivalence, Giggles

As is not uncommon with a leisure class that has known no real suffering, I tend to derive significant pleasure from the misfortune of others. Not genuine misfortune of real people, mind you--I'm not a dick--but I will confess that such plights in the abstract, when distilled to the slithering miasma of their vile essence, do make me smile. As fellow connoisseurs of this debased form of pleasure (after all, dear reader, you continue to peruse my literary tripe despite its clear lack of a moral compass), you too are aware of that special mixture of the taboo, the unexpected, and the absurd that the best of these evince. Exempli gratia: What do you get when you put a baby in a blender? An erection.

I'll give you a moment to let that one sink in.

Particularly when one takes into consideration the nature of my previous post, one wonders whether your dear author has indeed "gone off the reservation," a figure of speech I'm not entirely comfortable using, both because I'm not entirely sure I'm using it correctly, and even if I am, my white guilt makes me feel like I should contribute to a Native American scholarship program or something each time it's deployed, like putting nickels in a swear jar. Clink. There's your five cents, kid.

My point (oh, I have one), is that my frame of reference may have been inevitably skewed over the course of many, many years immersed in this sort of inappropriate tom-foolery. I know what I find funny, but of late, the better angel on my shoulder seems to be absent. Sure, I'll still laugh, but should I also feel guilty for laughing? Case in point:

I'm leaning towards not, but it's so difficult to be sure. The life-long grudge element of this fight (the two were rivals in the Canadian Football League roughly half a century ago, a league devoted primarily to moose hunting and being polite, I'm told) warms the cockles of my cold, dead heart. I'm Irish, after all, and grudges are one thing we do very well; my father, for instance, never liked the British and held a personal grudge against Pope John Paul II for the better part of thirty years. Then there's the irony of the olive branch offering instigating violence, and most obviously, the fact that they both clearly have one foot in the grave already. No disrespect to either combatant, though--I have absolutely no doubt in my mind that the first punch from Sir Olive Branch would have cleaned my clock (clink goes the nickel into the scholarship for watchmakers' children).

But, yeah, old men fighting on stage at public event, which then goes viral on the internet...I can see how maybe I should feel a twinge of guilt for giggling at their misfortune, at least in the abstract. But I'm tapping the glass of the instrument on my moral dashboard, and it's not responding. I think I bought a lemon.

As is so often the case in my life, I find myself torn and unable or unwilling to make a final decision. I turn to you, dear reader, to guide me from this maze. Should I find this funny or not? The suspense is killing me.

Perambulator Chaser

The longer I cling to life, the more the distinct patterns and arcs of our existence come into focus, perhaps as some sort of poor remuneration for the shame and disappointment such lingering engenders. Having largely survived the wedding season (a season which, much like the Westeros of Martin's Song of Ice and Fire, lasted years and years), our playground taunts prove prescient once more: first comes love, then comes marriage, and wouldn't you know it, then comes baby in a ridiculously expensive baby carriage designed to optimize cognitive development by, I imagine, not dropping them on their soft little heads.

In other words, my friends are having babies now, and as the phenomenon has spread from my fringe acquaintances ever inward toward and into my inner circle, I find that some of the myths surrounding parenthood bear some qualification. One very good friend nicely described it as genuinely falling in love with one's son or daughter, and I see as much in the way they describe their boys and girls, the iPhone quick-draw with the latest dozen photos of baby, the catalogue of the week's firsts. I confess, however, that is has been refreshing to also hear the ragged edge to which each parent has been pushed, be it the gruff admission that (x) "can be a little fucker" or (y) being held at arm's length and passed to mother to prevent daddy from burying baby in the backyard.

This isn't some new iteration of my affection for inappropriate humor, I assure you. Rather, it's the comfort in knowing that having and raising a child is as everything else: goods and bads, highs and lows. It makes it seem more possible, more attainable, which right now is something I need, I think.

I hadn't even held a baby until about six months ago. The experience was one fraught with self-consciousness, cradling the little man's head and body tentatively as I arched the rest of my body forward, so that should howling Dothraki on horseback burst through the back door, my torso would shield the child from the onslaught of arrows. Now I get it when I watch my friends hold their babies at a strange angle in the crook of their arm, sometimes askew or even upside down, and while I would never do so with someone else's kid, I'm already developing sketches of the obstacle course I'll construct around the house when my little one is strapped to Hurley's back and wearing a Batman / Batgirl outfit.

But I want the other stuff, too, of course. The iPhone quick-draw, the novelty t-shirts that fit for the majority of a single afternoon before outgrown, the garbled utterance that, if you think about it, must have been "you're right, Dad, the Oxfordian theory of Shakespearean authorship is a bunch of bullshit rooted ultimately in classism."

I joke regularly about the carnival of humiliations that emasculate me on a virtually daily basis, and I wonder if having another, utterly vulnerable human being to protect might be my last shot at the 'big time,' seeing as my glandular predispositions bar me from a luxurious pelt of chest hair or a Selleck-esque mustachio, those most recognizable and hallowed signs of masculinity. Then again, to even think so makes all too clear that I am not yet a parent. If there's one thing I've gleaned from my friends, it's that it isn't about you anymore. As an unrepentant narcissist, I find that a harrowing thought.

Still, I'd like to think I'm up to the challenge.

A Latin Lover

Honestly, I don't even know why I try to keep up with this blog anymore. Maybe I'll be able to settle into a regular posting schedule once the school year is over. Maybe.

In the meantime, let's talk language, shall we? Do you find yourself watching Doc Holiday and Johnny Ringo antagonizing each other in Latin in Tombstone and say to yourself, "Golly, I wish I could do that." No? Um...well, then I got nothing. But I'll pretend you responded enthusiastically in the affirmative.

While my own abilities with Latin have atrophied to the point where anything beyond a preposition or the name of a logical fallacy is pretty well beyond my grasp, I did recently stumble upon a site that compiled a number of "Handy Latin Phrases," the most pertinent of which I humbly offer so that you too may speak in the language of Caesar, Livy, Cicero, and Horace.

Mihi ignosce. Cum homine de cane debeo congredi.
Excuse me. I've got to see a man about a dog.

Estne volumen in toga, an solum tibi libet me videre?
Is that a scroll in your toga, or are you just happy to see me?

Utinam barbari spatium proprium tuum invadant!
May barbarians invade your personal space!

and perhaps my personal favorite:

Caesar si viveret, ad remum dareris.
If Caesar were alive, you'd be chained to an oar.

Don't say I didn't ever do anything for you.

The Internet: Long, Hard, and now Full of Sea Men

It's not easy finding someone to love. Or being green, but mainly the love thing. It certainly doesn't help that our culture perpetuates the idea of "the one," that wandering somewhere among the approximately 6.9 billion people on this planet is the single person with whom you are destined to bump uglies in perpetuity, not to mention the problematic assumption that they even occupied the planet at roughly the same time as us. What the hell are you supposed to do if your one true love was a thirteen year old French prostitute who died in 1843 after a brief engagement to a haberdasher? You cock your velvety chapeau at a jaunty angle, by god, and you soldier on.

In recent years, the interwebs have offered the would-be creepy uncles and cat-ladies of the world some succor in the form of dating sites. With a few clicks of a mouse, a scanned portrait of the pretty person whose picture came in the frame, and just the occasional descriptive liberty (like saying you're 'outgoing' as you prepare a website to do the "out" and "going" parts for you), you can make a love connection. Indeed, for every yin there is a yang (or so a cryptic and elderly Chinese gentleman told me, right after he refused to sell me a mogwai), and these sites promise to finally give you a win for your...even I'm better than that.

Ah, but what happens if you have a specific "type," one these cookie cutter dating sites just don't cater to? What if a man who wears Old Spice isn't enough, if instead you crave the hoary beard and seamanship of an old salt eye, a man whose rugged existence and long voyages from home breed certain, unspeakable predictions that dare only be indulged in the murkiest of international waters? Well, ladies, look no further: I give you Sea Captain Date.

Too good to be true, you say (no doubt between salty tears of joy)? Just watch this entirely authentic testimonial, and prepare to finally say "ahoy" to your heart:

Stay Classy, Laguna Beach

I realize I've been neglecting my blog for the better part of six months, but in my defense, it would have been longer if not for the good behavior and the knife fight I lost in the prison laundry last week. But now that I'm a free man again I can happily return to sporadic blog postings scattered across multiple weeks of silence.

I'll keep this one short, as I'm still easing back into the vacuous and glib persona you know and tolerate so well--it involves a knock-off Insane Clown Posse mask and a handle of gin, but that's neither here nor there. What is both here and there, so long as you live in Laguna Beach, CA, is this somber and pointed invocation of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.'s legacy:
Now, I realize it may not seem like it at first blush, but there are actually a number of things wrong with this advertisement. First of all, who the hell surfs that close to a tree? I call shenanigans. Secondly, isn't the shameless misappropriation of a Civil Rights leader's memory on the very day named for him worth a little more than 20%? I mean, we're talking Laguna Beach here; they can afford to shave a little more off the top.

Perhaps most egregious, though: All Black Products? Can't we be a little more specific than that? Especially because, closet racist that I apparently am, "black product" and "Surf shop" aren't really inhabiting the same patch of real estate in my mind. But maybe this is just because of my advancing years that I'm still sensitive to the lingering presence of institutionalized racism and broader, even defiant pockets of discrimination that are sadly alive and well today. After all, "The shop's young employees and patrons, [the shop owner] Cocores said, come from a generation that is beyond historical racial tensions." Phew! *wipes brow in an exaggerated fashion* Thank God that problem's past us. Now we can all just float in the surf holding hands on our new boards. Isn't this what King's dream was all about? Wet suits, black products, and 20% off. The respect is just the icing on the cake. Or, you know, ironic.

Eponyms: Nothing to Do with My Little Pony

I think it's safe to say that we children of the 80's were blessed with the best cartoon and action figure IPs of any generation. While Reaganomics was trickling down financial viscera upon the needy and John DeLorean (of the New Jersey DeLoreans) struggled to birth a cocaine empire to salvage his mondo-awesome car company, we were treated to Fred and Daphne repeatedly abandoning the serious business of investigating groovy mysteries for the immediate gratification of their gratuitous and frankly depraved sexual predilictions, leaving a plucky lesbian, a degenerate hippie with obvious learning disabilities, and a talking dog to do the yeoman's work. If drug culture and alternative lifestyles weren't your bag, there was always the communist utopia of the Smurfs, whose uniformity was broken only by the disparate skill-sets they had to offer up to their red, bearded Papa as the greedy capitalist Gargamel strove to distill from their minature corpses the ingredient essential to his alchemical formula for gold. And if communal living, alchemy, and political theory didn't do it for you, there was He-Man.


I embed this painting by, I believe, Matisse (though it may actually be a Renoir from his 1883 summer in Guernsey) not to emphasize the glistening musculature and overly modest loincloths of these unrepentantly heterosexual superheroes and villains, but rather to appreciate the subtle poetry of these characters' names. The eponymous protagonist needs little analysis: how better to immortalize the nuance of his unique motivations and the complex psychology of the hero mindset than by lashing together the masculine pronoun and the generic noun for the male gender? This is the equivalent of e.e. cummings's "l(a" or William Carlos Williams's "The Red Wheelbarrow," and like these works, are best appreciated in quiet contemplation.

But what of the myriad other names from this elaborate and rich universe? Shall I speak of the wind warrior Sy-Klone, the bee-like Buzz-Off, or perhaps he of many faces, Man-E-Faces? Might I dwell upon the inspirational tales of men overcoming conspicuous physical disability to triumph and thereby grasp at immortality: a man with a disproportionately large metal hand named Fisto; the crab man named Clawful; the conjoined evil twins, Two-Bad. Sure, the poet-philosophers who crafted this pantheon may have plumbed the depths of certain wells a few too many times: Skeletor, Spydor, Stinkor, Spikor, Panthor, and Grizzlor. Of course, those of a certain moral deformity might unscrupulously appropriate one or two of these names to dub acts of sexual licentiousness that would make Daphne and Fred blush a crimson worthy of that man's neckerchief. For instance, a "Thunder Punch" to the "Moss Man" below one's "Mantenna" might produce a "Dragon Blaster" on your "Man-at-Arms." I call it a "Prince Adam."

Looking back at this now, I confess I didn't appreciate how much the He-Man universe resembled the harrowing chronicles of two rival circuses sending their carnie abominations into gladiatorial contest. But honestly, if you were the ringleader of that menagerie, what else would you do? Apart from a lot of coke, of course.

Yo Soy En La Bibliotecha

It doesn't take a clairvoyant to guess that I'm a big fan of Old Spice's ongoing absurdist ad campaign; indeed, I've even used one or two of the commercials as objects for analysis in class. Even less surprising, with the popularity of the campaign has come a number of parodies, but the following one, dovetailing off the Old Spice guy's own shout-out to libraries, warms the cockles of my cold, dead academic heart. For years, university libraries were getting a bad rap, what with the hobos / hippies sleeping in window alcoves and perverts stalking (and occasionally assaulting) students in the stacks. But in my defense, I was just making sure my students were performing proper research techniques for their papers; the bear mace was really unnecessary on their part.

First the original video by the Old Spice guy, then the parody from Bring-Them-Young University.





The moral of these stories: litereseas is goodest. No need to despair for the plight of American edukation. OMG. ROFL!!1!! :) BYOB C U LATR!

Irish Kung Fu: Apparently, We're not Great at Everything

For weeks now I've been reveling in France's utterly pathetic showing at the World Cup. Their much publicized bickering, subsequent collapse, and international shame are so delicious that I could eat it with a spoon, calories be damned. If I weren't already wed, I'd marry that debacle and spend the rest of my life faithfully loving it. You see, the delicate sauce that flavored this travesty so perfectly was the sweet tang of justice: in their last qualifying match, France eliminated Ireland through an equalizing goal that was set up by a Thierry Henry hand ball that was not called by the ref. In short, Ireland was denied a place in the World Cup because of a blown call. And though both nations are predominantly Catholic, God clearly took sides on the issue and made a point of raining Old Testament calamity upon the French side. Amen.

Sadly, I have come to learn that said hand ball was actually divine retribution itself. Behold the one and only foray by the Celtic race into kung fu films and see if you too don't feel the righteous fury of the Almighty swell within your breast:

I honestly can't think of a better way to sell this movie than they already do: "A classic good versus evil action flick, mixed with kicks, guns, motorcycles and a hot babe!" Of course, this may be because I'm utterly enamored by the alliterative phrase "mixed with kicks." I think it should be attached to everything. "Penicillin - now mixed with kicks." "Quick dry cement - please mix with kicks." And of course, "Your Mom: Mixed with Kicks."

However, this glorious line of poetry says little about the film's true substance. Luke McKinney over at Cracked puts it best: "Fatal Deviation is an ancient curse on the Irish people ('ancient' being 1993), passed on by a few VHS tapes like cinematic herpes until DVD technology re-released it on the world in exactly the same way archaeological digs 're-release' angry mummies...Fatal Deviation is not a parody. It's an Irish martial arts movie about a secret kung fu tournament run in a barn by a group of hobo-monks in the scenic village of Trim."

Clearly, Jimmy Bennett, the star / writer / director / cinematographer / "Fight Action Choreographer" / great shame of the Irish people / producer of this "film," played Mortal Kombat and thought it had a pretty sweet premise. The "hobo-monks" who organize the tournament and apparently train young Jimmy clearly have nothing to do with the decades of sexual abuse scandal that have plagued the Catholic church here and abroad:


I guarantee that haunting image is the last thing a number of children saw before an ether rag was shoved over their mouth and they were thrown into the back of a windowless van. Of, if we're going by the background, the last thing a smiling couple on a romantic hike saw before a hobo, reeking of the Elmer's Glue he just had for lunch, stabs them with a filthy Taco Bell spork and drags them off to his den, where he leisurely eats them both over the course of the next few weeks. The fact that the robe evokes Ben Kenobi on Tatooine makes it even worse for me. Pederasty and cannibalism are not the Jedi code.

Where was I? Oh yeah, talking about how much this movie is an affront to God and the entire history of cinema. The list of why this "movie" is so terrible stretches off into the horizon like the scrawl of text at the opening of a Star Wars movie (see what I did there?), and thus is far too lengthy to innumerate in its entirety. Still, if you ordered a sampler of this delicacy at your local pub, it would go something like this: pathetic fight choreography, editing that could only have been done by a chimpanzee with severe head trauma, an unintentional car crash because the ass couldn't navigate a narrow country road, a cast list that includes a member of the one Irish boy band from the 90's (Boyzone, which, I'll admit, one of my cousins was obsessed with when she was 6)...God, I feel disgusted with myself. Just watch this trailer for the movie and see for yourself. Or, save yourself two and a half minutes and just gouge your eyes out now.



Also, I found this gem from the same distributor:


Honestly, it seems like you can't throw a fucking rock without hitting an underground fight tournament in these movies. They really need to come up with an original premise. Like how an awkward and unpopular girl gets made over to become the prom queen, or how a grizzled detective plays by his own rules to catch the bad guys. Or maybe a grizzled girl plays by her own rules to get the prom queen, who is a bad guy / trannie. I'd pay to see that.

A Little Bit of Upkeep

Just a quick note to point out I've finally corrected the link to Miss Carousel's Livejournal page on this page's sidebar. Where I rant about the absurd mainly to show off how clever I think I am and Ryan over at More Rants than Raves simply appreciates similar stories' absurdities for the sake of their own absurdities, Miss Carousel actually writes about her life and experiences with a candor I could only hope to fabricate during my best attempts at playing at being a full human being. It's a refreshing change in tone from my own inanity, and for those of you who knew her while she lived in the 'Side, I trust you'll enjoy catching up on her Livejournal page as much as I have.

Monoglots Need Not Apply

Unless you're blind, you've noticed the aesthetic revisions made to the blog's template. If you are blind, please stop pawing at the computer screen; you're getting fingerprints all over it and you look fucking ridiculous (you'll have to trust me on that last part).

Wow...even I feel a little ashamed about that last line. And it didn't even involve sex tangentially, which is the usual source of my ever-present Catholic shame. Dammit. I just know I'm going to be conned by gypsies in a few years for that one. Or I'm going to lose my own sight in a tragic amateur falconry accident. Ah, the bitter price we pay for our aristocratic pleasures. But I digress.

The cartographical theme is, at least in part, inspired by recent events. A post I made shortly before my absence seems to have garnered no small bit of international response. Apparently, something of my doggerel poetry in anticipation of my annual Dungeons & Dragons vacation struck a cord in my fans from the Far East, for at last count, there are a full fifty two comments on the post. Now, I can draw sounds as well as the next guy, but the strange markings in each of these responses remain utterly impenetrable to me. American monoglot that I am, anything that isn't in English is ultimately gobbledygook to my stunning blue-green eyes, save for the occasional halting Spanish inquiries regarding the location of the library (which, if you were wondering, esta en la ciudad).

Still, the very opacity of their comments tantalizes me, not unlike how sometimes the most enticing accoutrement on a lovely woman obscures more than it reveals. And yes, I just compared language to a nubile female body and the act of translation to her disrobing; I am not the first to do so, and even if I were, I remain utterly unrepentant. My point is this, though: I want to know what these comments say, and thus if any of my readers could translate even a few of these remarks, I would be eternally grateful. Chances are they're advertising solutions to erectile dysfunction, or if I really struck a chord, threatening my life. Maybe both. Still, before I can appreciate these haiku and their poetic conceit of cherry blossoms in winter as flaccid genitalia / my life's expiration, I need your help in disrobing this exotic beauty. I promise we'll keep it between you and me.

Continuing to Insult Your Sensibilities

Despite your fervent wishes that I do something productive with my life, I resolutely - defiantly, even - continue my humble blog. I was going to make an extended metaphor (is there another kind?) about keeping it plugged into the wall a little longer, but I've had some experience with that sort of thing, so I will forbear. I know, I know: I was as surprised as you are that life support systems aren't that funny. I think it's the incessant beeping - well, at least one hopes it's incessant. Sort of the point, right?

Well, look at me. Four months absent and I take a decidedly macabre turn in under five lines, and a full seven before I interject an unnecessarily French word. And yes, that grammatical construction was intended: the use of the word is entirely essential, but the word itself is far more "French" than it should be. Try to tone it down a little, "macabre." Why not just French-Canadian? You'd make a killing in Hollywood and be almost obnoxiously grateful and modest about it the whole time.

Admittedly, I'm being a tad more self-indulgent than usual this time out, if only to remind you what you're getting yourself (back) into. Consider yourself warned. I now return you to our regularly scheduled programming: the good Colonel ponderously railing against the trivialities of life in a desperate gambit to avoid confronting the genuinely important matters that swirl around us all, like windstorms and the rampant corruption in professional midget tossing.

Great Travel Deals! Ask About Our Imperial Discount!

Interested in wading through the swamps of Dagobah? Sledding on Hoth? Perhaps a picnic on Endor, followed by a romantic speeder chase and finished with some recreational Ewok clubbing? The galaxy is your space oyster, my friend. Glance through the exciting bevy of systems that await you. Leave your worries behind. Just bring your sense of adventure. And your credits.




These are the product of a graphic designer our of Chicago, Justin Van Genderen. If you're interested in tracking down a print of one of these Star Wars Tourism posters, you can browse here. I'm thinking of doing so myself. It can go next to my replica lightsaber and above the shelf with my dog-eared copies of How to Make Friends, Resignation: Accepting That You Will Die Alone, and Cat Fancy.

I Am Such a Nerd

As many of you know, the lads from high school and I annually gather for one week during the summer to luxuriate in each others' company. This often entails binge drinking, video games, a disparate mixture of fast food and carefully crafted dinners by the various attendees, and binge drinking. On occasions there are also minor altercations, like last year, when one cultist playfully backhanded another gentleman's "swimsuit area" (like you do), to which the other responded by immediately standing...okay, wait. Every male reader knows you don't "immediately stand" after a shot to the mommy-daddy button, but let's just fast forward past the intervening moments of palpable agony this man endured. Ahem. So he stood, face jutting forward menacingly at his foe. Whenever confronted with such a threat, the animal portion of the brain makes its instinctive "fight or flight" decision, which I've always understood to be no decision at all. Apparently the victim's brain, wracked by agony as it was, misfired in some way and accidentally chose "fight." Thankfully nothing came of it. That shit will get you killed, yo.

What also has been known to merit the violent cessation of life is writing doggerel children's poetry for your Dungeon's and Dragon's group. You see, each year's ostensible purpose is not merely getting together again and acting like 15 year olds, but it's to get together and act like 15 year olds and play DnD. Each year a different member is in charge of crafting and running the campaign, and this year I have accepted that most holy of mantles. My first communique to my victims was simply this:

The knave, the seer,

The bastard weird,

Approached the ruin black;

The smith and squire,

Climbéd the spire,

To turn the trio back.

When whence they left,

The former cleft,

That split them was no more.

Their purpose knit,

Their skill and wit

Averted certain war.

Rejoice, dear friends,

Our violent end

Has missed us by a hair.

But trust you not

This peace they wrought;

Our doom comes through their heir.

—children’s rhyme used to begin a game of “Heroes’ Choice”

See you all this summer.

Honestly, can someone explain to me how I found a woman willing to marry me? I guarantee that the second I post this, every person who has even felt a twinge of affection for me will feel a deep and palpable shame settle over them, like a quilt woven of horrible realizations.

I'd explain myself further, but the other members of the gang read this blog, and I dare not unpack my doggerel's pregnant lines for fear I accidentally let slip the glittering clue with which they might avert their doom. And that just simply will not do. I mean to destroy them all.

Argh. Even I rolled my eyes at that last line.

There Is No Good Beer in the Philippines

Dear God, it took me four tries to spell Philippines right. Honestly, they just give Ph.Ds in English out to anyone off the street nowadays.

Ahem. But I digress.

A very good friend of mine has started a blog about his various (mis)adventures and wry observations. At first blush, this may sound rather mundane. After all, A Lie Told Well began as something akin to this, but I had to drop the "various (mis)adventures" part because I'm pretty much a shut in. This has instead left you, dear reader, with only the "wry observations" part, which quickly degenerated into self-indulgent prose desperately seeking the crassest denominator for humor at others' expense. Not surprisingly, though, I remain obstinately unapologetic.

But what would happen if a blogger of similar vision actually lived a life of international intrigue, grandiose globe-trotting, and other alluring alliteratives? Could that excitement be encapsulated in the limited confines of human expression? Could lightning really be captured in a bottle (honestly, that's not rhetorical. I'm horrible at science)? By way of answering, let me simply make three observations: 1) this is the man who told me about The Hobbit Hole, a bar in Manila that is Lord of the Rings themed and staffed exclusively by little people; 2) his blog already contains a picture of a "Cat Feeding Station" and has a different post entitled "There Are No Pumpkins in Kenya;" 3) I actually don't have a third observation, but for whatever reason, I (like everyone else brought up in the American educational system) feel compelled to group things in threes.

In short, check out the Great Adventures of Stewart Pinecrest, which unless I'm mistaken, is the auteur's porn name. Well played, Monsieur Pinecrest. Well played.

New Moon Makes Girls Swoon, Unattractive

Call it Karma or simply the machinations of a thoroughly vengeful Old Testament God, we reap what we sow in this life, and all the trite agrarian metaphors in the world won't change that. While I cannot recall precisely what grave sin I committed in the past that merited the punishment, it must have been dire; indeed, there may very well be the body of some innocent girl scout bricked up in the wall of my home, her boxes of thin mints and carmel delights moldering alongside her. Without a tell-tale heart or black cat to alert the authorities, I might have escaped scott-free, and so the universe has taken a more subtle hand, for I can see no other reason how I could deserve the harrowing ordeal I was given. Perhaps this is a generational concern, a reckoning visited upon the son for the father's crimes. After all, during his minority in Ireland, my father was known to drown kittens for money. Maybe I pay for that deed, like my friend who must forever bear the curse of horrible foot odor because his own father once spit on a gypsy. I cannot know for certain. But whatever the reason, I was made to watch New Moon.

Needless to say, death is sweet release compared to the 130 minutes of agony that is this movie, but like the "vampires" that populate the local high school, I must apparently suffer in perpetuity. I put the word in quotes, of course, because they're nothing of the sort. When a vampire is exposed to direct sunlight, they burn to ash. They don't fucking sparkle. Honestly, if I hadn't already seen Twilight (which I'm pretty sure was punishment for a joke I made in 1996 about a special needs individual), I would have burst out into laughter at the sight, as I actually did when I first saw that ridiculousness on DVD. While it's true I now understand the literal meaning of the "I love boys who sparkle" t-shirts I've seen around, the connotative meaning remains the same: "I will die alone, unmourned by even my dozens of cats, which will probably feast on my remains after an indecorously short period of time." Funny how five little words can say so much, huh?

I won't go into how much I hate that movie, for drudging up any specifics sears my very soul. What I can tell you is that every second in that theater corroded my already delicate masculinity, leaving a ruin that will take years of deliberate effort to reconstitute. Thankfully a friend passed along this picture, which is constituted by such raw virility that I no longer entirely despair for my own plight. If you, too, have been subjected to moody stares of Robert Pattinson, the "my acting repertoire consists of four alternating facial expressions" performance of Kristen Stewart, the inexplicable reasoning behind werewolves never wearing shirts but always wearing knee length jean shorts and running shoes, or God help you, a sparkling vampire, behold and be saved: