Georgia Reinvigorates My Gag Reflex

Oh, man, Georgia has done it again. I'm telling you, there is no need to ever travel to this cesspool.

First, it was the first integrated prom this past spring. Parents may have feared interracial sex at that event, but now they have something greater to fear: their third-grade sons gang-raping the local middle-school hottie.

As homage to the great gods of journalism, I first implore you to read the original article.

Then, feel free to view this twisted event as I do:

And, as part of my continued efforts to keep you safe, here is another informational reference handout:

Keep yourselves, and your daughters, safe - stay out of Georgia.

Another Hilarious Idea, Brought to You By The Internet

I swear, I'm always the very last person to find out about anything funny.

I stumbled on something hilarious yesterday. Apparently, two years ago, Brad Neely did an alternate soundtrack for the Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone movie, called Wizard People, Dear Readers. Better I find out late than never, I guess.

It's been compared to Mystery Science Theater 3000, but it's not. This is an actual soundtrack narration for the whole movie, as opposed to quips inserted throughout. Like MST3K, though, it's hilarious. For example:

Harry sees one boy disappear, cart of luggage and all, right into the brick wall between the 9th and 10th platform. “Holy Balls, I am not doing that,” he thinks.

Dumbledore erects himself slowly, and tells jokes about death that most of the kids just don’t get.

Harry holds up the snitch and bellows, “I am a beautiful animal! I am a destroyer of worlds! I am Harry Fucking Potter!”

--“Hey Ron, you look tired. Have you ever beer tested for diseases?”
--“At least I’m not a hideous fucker.”

Holy fucking shit, there’s a sickass face on Queerman’s head! Harry almost vomits all over him.

You can get and burn the discs from Neely's website, www.creasedcomics.com, to watch over the DVD, or you can watch it on YouTube, where the good folks of HarryPotterCentral have done it for us.

And, because I'm so good to you, for your viewing pleaseure, I give you Wizard People, Dear Readers:



Chapter 1 --- Chapter 13 --- Chapter 25
Chapter 2 --- Chapter 14 --- Chapter 26
Chapter 3 --- Chapter 15 --- Chapter 27
Chapter 4 --- Chapter 16 --- Chapter 28
Chapter 5 --- Chapter 17 --- Chapter 29
Chapter 6 --- Chapter 18 --- Chapter 30
Chapter 7 --- Chapter 19 --- Chapter 31
Chapter 8 --- Chapter 20 --- Chapter 32
Chapter 9 --- Chapter 21 --- Chapter 33
Chapter 10 -- Chapter 22 --- Chapter 34
Chapter 11 -- Chapter 23 --- Chapter 35
Chapter 12 -- Chapter 24

"I Swear Every Word of This is True..."

From time to time, I find myself in a situation, looking around, thinking, "Is this the beginning of a Penthouse Letter?"

Some situations just lend themselves to it. For example, the time the hot female plumber showed up and told me she was there to clean out my pipe.

OK, so the plumber thing never happened, but stuff like that does. Tonight was one of those nights. Don't worry - nothing sexual happened, so don't fear I'm about to gross you out.

The girlfriend wasn't around; she had a work thing this evening, and would be gone all night. I was left home alone, and I decided to do some laundry.

On the way back from the laundry room down the hall, I realized I'd left the keys in the apartment and locked myself out. Awesome.

Trip to the front desk. Bribe the guy to lend me the landlord copy of my key without charging me the big landlord fee. Run upstairs and get my own keys.

When I got back down to the ground floor, I jogged back to the front desk - in a hurry to finish the bribe transaction. On the way, a fairly attractive girl stopped me.

Now, were this a Penthouse letter, I'd tell you how incredibly hot this girl was. I'd say things like "perfect tits" and all that. But, this is my "seems like a penthouse letter" story, so I'll say this: she was attractive to the point where if people really wrote Penthouse letters and I were one of them, I could make such exaggerations without getting laughed at too much by anyone who saw her.

One Penthouse Letters kind of thing I would not have to exaggerate: she spoke with a Russian accent. Sexy. Because of this, I'm going to call this woman Natasha. And you have to say it out loud in something like a half-whisper. Natasha.

She asked me if the hallway I was coming from was the south building of my apartment complex. I replied quite politely that it was, and resumed my jog to the front desk to remit the key and said bribe.

From the front desk, content with my having averted financial and laundry disaster, I began to stroll back to my apartment from the lobby, where I saw, from afar, Natasha entering the elevator.

I entered another elevator a minute or two later. Halfway up to my floor, the door opened. Not paying attention, and being the only one in there, I almost stepped out, thinking it was my floor. I was stopped by almost running headlong into, you guessed it, Natasha.

She got in to the elevator. I was going up, but she was going down. Sorry, had to say it. She hit the button for the first floor, but as the elevator was still going up to my floor, she and I got to spend another 30 seconds together.

I asked her if she was ever going to make it to her destination, in a manner that seemed to me handsomely witty, and probably seemed to her totally asinine.

She laughed and smiled, and said she thought she might be in the wrong apartment complex altogether.

I explained that there is another complex one block away, set up like mine, and politely gave her directions.

Don't get me wrong, at this point, I was still just being nice, and seriously was not thinking anything sexual about this woman. I have two friends who will say, here, that I'm lying. Eat me; I am not.

But then, as I stepped out of the elevator, thinking my helpful directions would be the last of it, Natasha took a step toward me. I don't know why, but she did, and I began to have that dawning realization that I was in a Penthouse Letter-type situation.

She continued the conversation for another minute, saying something about this place looking different than one she'd been to before. But she was looking directly at me. In my eyes. Having just taken a step forward toward me. It was weird.

This is where all the freaky stuff happens in Penthouse Letters. But since this is real life, this is where I said, "Well, good luck. Have a nice evening."

Could I, though, have said something to convince her to come back to my apartment? Would it have taken much? I don't know. Since I'm not a believer in the truth of Penthouse Letters or similar stories told to me by friends, I wasn't about to test it out.

Then again, who knows? Maybe one well-placed line, like, "I'm in apartment - - - , if you need a place to stop and rest as you find your way," might have done it. Maybe "wanna come down the hall and get it on?" might have done it. As I said, I don't know, because I wasn't about to try. I guess that's why nothing even approaching the craziness of a Penthouse Letter has ever happened to me.

This Halloween, I Went as a Music Critic

Have you ever had an acquaintance go out of his way and do something really meaningful for you, making you realize that he's really a friend? OK, that's a little deep, but that's how I feel about The Bravery, who I saw play a Halloween show last night.

I've known and sort of liked The Bravery ever since I heard their ultra-catchy An Honest Mistake a few years ago. I bought their sophomore CD almost as an afterthought. I listen to them at times, like when they pop up on shuffle on my MP3 player. But I've never been into them or thought of them much.

My girlfriend recently became enamored with The Bravery when they landed on her IPod from my computer. So, last night, at her suggestion, we saw them play a Halloween show at the 9:30 Club in DC.

I hadn't really expected much, but it was a fucking blast.

There are many things that stand out about the show, and the costume contest at the end was not least among them (Lieutenant Dangle from Reno 911! won). Many in the crowd, of course, donned various costumes, from the shamelessly slutty to the highly inventive. I was also quite impressed with the guy who dressed as an IPod playing The Bravery - to the Bravery concert.


The Bravery came out in full costume. Most notably, their bass player played almost the entire show (minus the encore) wearing a 3-foot horse head with white top hat. It was utterly disturbing and fantastic. The keyboard player wore one of those lame skeleton costumes a la The Karate Kid.

Within minutes of the opening, I came across something I had never realized before - The Bravery rocks. I don't mean that in the sense of "The Bravery is the most talented band I've ever seen," but I do mean it in the sense that their songs are good, their stage presence is wonderful, and their show was just, well, really damned fun.

Other minor observations that led to this conclusion: The Bravery's songs have good backup harmony vocals that add a lot of depth to their music. Moreover, those backup vocals, I think, are secretly the lead vocals - they're the part the crowd sings along with.

Also, the lead singer graced us with something to which I feel entitled but never receive - interaction with the crowd. I'm pretty sure he told us what every one of their songs is about.

So, this band that was an acquaintence is now a good friend. The Bravery has proven to me that they deserve more rotation on the MP3 player. If nothing else, I can listen and think back to this show. It was a really good concert, and the crazy Halloween shenanigans only made it more fun.

iGetting Old, iThink

Today, Wired Magazine led me to wasting my entire day looking through the internet and touring all of the crap I am not connected to, and can't find a reason to connect to. It all led to the inexorable conclusion: I must just be getting old. Because, seriously, I don't get it, and that frightens me.

I'll step back and build up to today's epiphany. First, ignore that I have a blog. Becuase I'm obviously not a "blogger," so I don't think this counts. This is just my cute little way of keeping in touch, as you guys well know.

It started back in college, when, ironically enough, I heard about Jenni and jenniCAM.com, where some crazy chick was running a camera from her apartment to the internet, and letting everyone see her life. It was a bizarre curiosity that most of us forgot.

Then, a few years a go a friend sent me an invite to Friendster. My reaction: are you serious? I do not need to be involved with this shit. Friends, check. Girlfriend, check. Everyone I know has my phone number, check. What's the point? Decline invite, and move on.

After that came MySpace and Facebook. Same reaction - what do strangers need to know about me? Nothing. What do my friends need to know that they already don't? Nothing. No need for a MySpace page: I'm not a band, I'm not an author (yet), etc. - I have nothing I need to get out there. Proceed with life accordingly.

A few months ago, my first issue of Wired told me a story about Twitter and all its weirdness. People are txting the crap out of their lives and having it posted to this networking/blogging service. Wired made an interesting observation - it's dumb, unless your circle of friends is all doing it, which then leads to an interesting sharing with the peopel in your life. Hm, neat. But I don't have the circle of friends doing it, so it's not for me. Once more, I press ahead.

Understand, this whole time, I feel like I'm keeping up, for the most part. I have a lot of gadgets. I spent near the maximum for this here laptop. The only technology I gave up on was a PDA, but partly because it came out just before that stuff became connected to phones. So, I was under the (apparantly mistaken) impression that I was keeping up with the times.

Then, the iPhone came out. We all know that story.

And today, I read in Wired about justin.tv, where people "lifecast" themselves. Freaks like Jenni, methinks. But, whoa ho, what's this? iJustine, a "freelance designer/video editor" who has her whole life on camera.

Justine seems to be having a lot of fun with her wired yuppie life. I know because I can watch her 24/7. I watched her all day today, while looking around the web at shit, like Last.fm, that I don't understand, trying to fathom how I suddenly became one of the disconnected ones. For the first time, I realize I've gotten behind, and it scares me.

So here I am, barely conversant in technology that's becoming ubiquitous, while there's Justine. Admittedly, she's on the opposite end of the spectrum - FULLY plugged in - but she shows me just how far I have to go to keep up. She's successful, and for the most part, not weird. She has a Facebook page. She has a MySpace page. She has numerous blogs. She's on Twitter. She's on Last.fm. She's on groovr. She's on virb. She sends an average of 30,000 txt's a month. I can watch her entire life on the internet, for God's sake!


Watch live video from ijustine on Justin.tv

So what does all of this mean to me? Not much, other than the realization I just described - I'm behind in the world of technology, and thus I feel old. I'll get over it. But if you want to help me live a more "wired" lifestyle, please drop me a line and help an old man out.

Plugging Good Music Without Shame

I feel no shame in plugging the new album Fears & Accusations by two talented musicians, Brent Bowman and Bryan Lisa. While many musicians have talent, it doesn't mean a thing unless they can put together a tight, impressive product. But, these guys have done just that.

Before its release, I had heard that I should expect a brooding, acoustic album inspired by the likes of Iron & Wine, Bob Dylan, and Tom Waits. However, upon my first listen, I realized Bowman and Lisa have created something more. These songs could easily be the calm artful tune in the middle of the kickass album of any of your favorite rockers, like Snow Patrol, Jet, or the Foo Fighters.

Opening with the catchy waiting, the album welcomes you into a genre of music as difficult to describe as Bowman and Lisa have framed it on their MySpace page: "your basic acoustic/alternative/emo/folk/blues/alt-country/rock band."

Bowman and Lisa continue with a dozen more tracks that might at first seem to run around high-five'ing as many influences as possible - Chris Isaak, Waits, B.B. King, Radiohead, and Townes Van Zandt, to name just a few - but, in the end, they take some great sounds from these genres and influences, and put them together to create something excitingly new and yet comfortably familiar.

The haunting exhuming you recounts the mixed emotions of a past relationship that Mark Kozelek of Sun Kil Moon would know well, while on looking back, Bowman channels powerful crooning similar to the Chris Martin warhead of Coldplay's musical arsenal. Bowman, however, infuses it with a strength and grit that Martin could never pull off, making for an emotionally stirring ballad.

Other tracks on the album show Bowman and Lisa's lighter side, with the fun romp, i'm the man, showcasing Bowman's guitar talent and successfully trashing every controlling golddigger ever to think she could latch her hands into a musician, while the blues-infused something in our skies will have even the most mainstream-pop listening whiners stomping their feet.

While the album heads out with increasingly dark tunes, such as the final destructive ballad of a man using prostitutes to dream of his lost love, it reminds me that beneath all the bubblegum pop out there, good musicians are still making good music.

I hesitate any time I think of plugging a certain artist. There are simply too many people out there endorsing absolute crap for all the wrong reasons. So, I thought hard about whether to do so for these guys, but the fact is that I think you'll like their album. It's simply good music, and you'll be humming these songs to yourself long after the closing notes.



Buy Fears & Accusations

Today, in the fading twilight, I finished the first draft of my first short story. Absolutely no fanfare accompanied the event.

You Can't Make This Stuff Up

OK, this is for real. Honest.

Apparently, the other night, two chicks dressed as ninjas - you heard me right, fucking ninjas - robbed a suburban Pittsburgh gas station convenience store at - you guessed it - swordpoint.

I don't even know where to begin.

Part of me wants to up and announce that I'm moving back to Pittsburgh so I can be where the coolest crime EVER occurs. Ninjas are no longer reserved for kung fu blood feuds and mega-corporation private armies! Now they're part of mainstream crime!

Another part of me muses that, if we must endure one of the most violent societies in the world, at least the violence is getting interesting. I knew a kid in high school who just told the guy with a gun that he wasn't going to give him the money. Seriously. "Classic" gas station robberies are so 20th Century.

And, of course, the established press didn't fail to make me laugh my ass off about this one, so I've made comments, below. I'm sure you're sick of my chicken scratch, so this time I Photoshopped it in with red text.

First, read the original article, here.

'Tis the Creepy Season

With the approach of Halloween, I got to thinking this morning about the video for "Tear You Apart" by She Wants Revenge. I don't know exactly why, but it makes me think of old horror movies with werewolves and vampires.



I love those scary fall nights.

Tedium...and Talent?

Well, the summer interns have left my office, and so fall has arrived. I'd like to think they got something valuable out of their time with us, but I'm not so sure. I just found a notepad tucked in a desk drawer, with something left by one of our little friends.

It's kind of a photo essay of his internship, I think. Moreover, I think it might be a photo essay of many people's work experience:

Maybe he's into sailing. Then again, maybe he'd just like to sail away from the copier.

Ah, daydreaming about the female intern across the hall. I think my boss was having daydreams, too, but his drawings of him with her weren't quite so G-rated.

Also, what's the deep terrible significance of crossing her out? Maybe she snubbed him.

Staring into space. Inner space. I stared at my desk phone like this last Friday. Hell of a hangover.

And the coup de gras. I knew I liked this kid.

This drawing speaks to me on so many levels. It's that guy who calls every day from vacation. It's a humerous image of ridiculous notion. It's a commentary that the grass is always greener. Whatever it is, I'm impressed.

When I was bored at my internship, I Googled myself. This kid put some thought into passing the tedium. If he ever starts a business, I'm investing.

The Demon's Crow

In case you didn’t know this about me, I’m prone to twisted evil dreams. Believe me, you don’t want to see what I see when I close my eyes at night. So, I had a dream last night that is a perfect example. In all seriousness, this was fairly average for me.

Stepping out of the car, I looked at the scene. A couple of miles back, on the main road, the sun would soon be up, but there in the thick of the woods, the grey before dawn was just barely perceptible through the canopy of the trees.

The small home was flanked by nearly a half a dozen police cars, their lights still flashing. Uniformed officers milled around, their hands in their pockets and their breath visible in the air. They had arrived less than a half hour before. There had been a frantic 911 call. There had been screams and sounds of violence.

The house, as best as I could see it by a few sets of headlights, had originally been a trailer, but had since been expanded upon. It was an old, dirty place. As I approached, a detective in a trenchcoat walked up to me.

“Glad you’re here. There was some sort of fight. When uniformed officers arrived, the parents were gone,” said the detective.

“Yeah, they were attacked by vampires!” shouted a uniformed cop, evoking a round of laughter. It was obvious that this wasn’t the first round, by any stretch.

“I’d tell it,” said the detective, “but I may as well let the kids. They saw the whole thing. They’re inside.”

Saying nothing and ignoring the further comments that we had better bring crucifixes and garlic along, I followed the detective inside. Once there, we entered the sole bedroom, which was clearly where the entire family of seven slept. There were blankets and pillows throughout the room.

Officers were talking to most of the children. As the detective began to offer more information, I knelt down and spoke to a little blond girl, about five or six years old.

“Hello,” I said. “Is this where you sleep?”

“Yes.” The girl glanced around furtively. She avoided looking me in the eye.

“Were you sleeping here tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see where your parents went?

“Yes.”

“Where did they go?”

“The dark men took them. They came in through that window,” she gestured to a small window near the ceiling, about two feet by three feet. “They got in a fight with my mommy and daddy, and then they took my mommy and daddy with them.”

Just then, the detective tapped me on the shoulder. “You should come see this.”

I followed the detective into the living room, where a crow sat perched on the back of the couch. It remained still, and seemed to be watching us. I knew the crow immediately for what it was. A calling card, of sorts.

I also now knew what I was dealing with. It was no vampire that had visited the house that evening, but a demon. Or two, if little Emily had gotten it right. It had left the crow behind, in part, to send the message that it had been there, but also, like a killer returning to the scene of the crime, to watch the resulting mayhem. It could see through the crow.

I reached out gently. The crow took a step back, flapped its wings once, and cawed loudly. I lunged and snatched it. It immediately panicked and began cawing more, and louder, while still flapping its wings wildly.

“What the hell are you doing?” cried the detective. “Let go of that thing!”

“No.” I said loudly, over the crow’s cries. “It can tell me something.” And then, more softly, to the crow, I said, “I know what you are. Tell me what you will tell me.”

At that moment, the crow stopped cawing and moving. It seemed to look directly at me again, and slowly, fully spread its wings. Then, almost inaudibly, I heard a whisper that seemed to come from the crow. Its voice was an evil, malicious hiss. “Yes, I see you. You won’t get them back!”

At that moment, the crow began to thrash even more wildly, and snapped at my hands and arms with its beak. I tried to squeeze it or ring its neck to kill it, but it was useless. The thing seemed indestructible. Its fit was becoming more intense, though.

I ran out the front door with the crow, hoping to find a stick or rock to hit it even harder. As I got just past the police cars, I tried one more time to break its neck, and as I did, its whole body suddenly crushed under my grip.

Blood began to spew out of the crow. More blood than it could have ever held in its body, even if it had contained nothing else. The blood gushed from it over my hands and down my arms, and though I tried to, I couldn’t let go.

I heard a scream. I knew immediately it belonged to the little girl. I turned toward the house and saw her in the window. Somehow, I knew it was just a vision, and that I was not truly seeing her. She was pale, like death. Her eyes were bleeding down her cheeks. She screamed again, “Wash my eyes with blood! Wash them with blood, and then I’ll see!”

She vanished and I looked at my blood soaked hands, which had dropped the lifeless crow. I laughed. Somehow, I knew - I had to go back into the house, to the girl, and rub the blood over her closed eyes. That would give her the power to track the demon, using the same connection that the crow had had with it.

I knew she would be able to help me find her parents.

Effed up, right? Sleep tight, kiddies. I know I will, after that one.

Sad Sunday Night Mini-Fiction

It's Sunday, it's getting late, and I've got quiet, sad music on. I've had a little too much to drink, and my demons are whispering to me tonight. This scene came to mind. It's not part of anything larger (for now), nor does it have any grand significance to me. I will say, though, that I feel so bad for this guy. Hope you can connect with him, too, on some level.

The rest of the island was practically empty. Just about everyone had evacuated that morning. Glen understood. To stay was suicide.

Glen had had to commit a little breaking & entering to get into his old suite at the Palm. Twenty-eight hundred square feet of luxury. It had taken roughly two hours to remove all of the boards and other exterior protection over the windows and doors.

Now, the grand French doors were open to the veranda, facing out onto the mighty Pacific Ocean. Glen, however, did not–would not–look in that direction. Not just yet.

He poured himself another glass of Jameson. The suite had such beautiful glassware. He had always had a bizarre urge to throw one of those finely crafted tumblers onto the volcanic rock below the veranda, so he picked one up and did so. It exploded into a thousand sparkling pieces that mixed in with the sparkle of sea spray. He wouldn’t need any more than the one from which he drank, anyway.

Speaking of which, he tossed its contents down his throat and crossed back to the suite’s bar to pour himself another.

It was about time to make the call he’d been planning for a week. Glen pulled his mobile phone from his pocket. Good thing he’d spent so much on the satellite phone. He heard the cells had gone dead around mid-morning.

He took a huge breath and an only slightly smaller sip of the whiskey in his hand. He closed his eyes, unconsciously opened the phone, and hit the auto-dial. Stored phone number 1. Lily had always been number one.

Glen held the phone to his ear. After a moment, he spoke. “Yeah, Honey, it’s me...no, no, I didn’t make the plane...No, it’s going to be fine...Honey, listen, I’m fine...Everything is fine.”

She didn’t believe him any more than he was telling the truth. She told him so in enough many words that he began to feel dizzy.

“Lily, listen. Listen, damnit! There is nothing to be worried about. But, I have to tell you something, just in case...Christ, no that doesn’t mean I’m lying, just let me tell you this! In the office, there’s a copy of The Catcher in the Rye. It’s on the shelf just to the left of the door into the foyer. In there, I’ve tucked a key to a box at First National.”

He listened as she collapsed into nearly wordless grief. He listened as long as he could. He told himself so for the rest of his life.

“Lily, I have to go. I love you.” Silence. Her terrified response. And he hung up.

Glen had managed to drain the glass once more during the call. He refilled it again.

Turning from the bar, Glen walked back out to the veranda. Finally, he looked out on the ocean. The sun had just now finally been blocked out by the clouds, as the winds began to pick up. The water had grown to a green-grey sort of hue. It seemed like something evil. Like something the devil would make you drink.

The thought compelled Glen to have another sip of Jameson.

The churning ocean water held nothing, however, to the monstrosity that was the sky above it. The clouds approaching stretched from the tops of the waves to the pillars of heaven themselves. They seemed to pulse with life, shifting between various colors; purple, grey, green, black. Forks of lightning danced within them, like the tongue of a dragon. A dragon that would annihilate everything in its path.

That beast was swimming through the Pacific, straight at Glen.

He sat on one of the veranda chairs he and Lily had shared many times. He had promised to always share everything with her. He hadn’t kept that promise lately. Directing her to the box at First National was hopefully the beginning of making up for that.

It would certainly share everything he had kept from her until today. She would know what had been going on. She would know how to undo the parts that had gone wrong. Most of all, she would know she would be provided for, no matter the outcome. With a month of preparations, Glen had made sure of that.

The only part that Glen couldn’t have planned, couldn’t guarantee, was whether Lily would forgive him. Whether Lily would still love him. Well, some things had to be left to fate, didn’t they?

So, Glen accepted then and there that Lily would have to make up her own mind about him and what he’d done. No use looking at it any other way. He had left her everything she needed in order to understand, not least of which was his return here. She had always loved this place.

He finished the glass of whiskey, but this time didn’t get up to refill it. Instead, he lobbed the glass over the railing and, though he couldn’t see it, heard it crash on the rocks below, like the one before.

He stared out to sea, into the heart of the largest and deadliest typhoon in recorded history. It had already stripped dozens of islands bare, leaving little more than the soil that peeked out of the waters of the Pacific.

All Glen needed to do was wait. It wouldn’t be long, now.

The Devil Made Me Do It

CLICK HERE to see the original article.

Maybe Not Brilliant, But Definitely Beautiful

Thanks to Entertainment Weekly, I'v been reminded of a weird, beautiful quirk of musical art. A few years back, Coldplay had a thoughtful little video for their song, The Scientist, where the protagonist, Chris Martin, journeys backward, while singing forward, to the moments preceding a car crash:



When played in reverse, it is visually more sensical (despite no explanation in either as to why he walked away from the crash). But the resulting song - in reverse - is as hauntingly beautiful as the the original:



Coldplay is a brilliant live band - it's a small dream of mine to see them play The Scientist forward, and the segue right into doing it backward. Chris Martin can sing the nonsense to make it sound like the backward version, or make up lyrics that sound like the backward vocals - I'll let them surprise me.

The Budos Rise Again

If you haven't heard of The Budos Band, I'll forgive you.

But if you read this, listen, and don't go out and buy a Budos Band record, I'll question your judgment.

Supported by Brooklyn-Based indie label, Daptone Records, The Budos Band (along with other great talent from that label) are proving that the sounds of funk, jazz, and afro-beat are far from dead.

Their first album, self-titled, opened with the killer track, Up From the South, and explored these sounds with such skill and grace, they make you wonder why this stuff isn't still in the forefront of mainstream music today.

With their upcoming release, The Budos Band II, it looks like these guys are going to prove all the more how the jazz band kids from your high school are actually much cooler than you. Head over to their MySpace page to check them out.

The first track from the new album, Budos Rising will, like all other Budos songs, have you bobbing your head and aching for some outdoor summetime concert party (where they're playing, of course), with a drink in your hand, dancing with a scantily clad gorgeous member of the opposite sex.

To put it another way, as the folks at Audiversity did, "you almost want to make a movie inspired by this soundtrack because it will inevitably be one badasssss film."

All hail the return of the Budos Band, August 7.

I Said Yes to the Mighty Smashing Pumpkins

I'm a lucky bastard. I had the opportunity to see the Smashing Pumpkins at their CD release party at the 9:30 Club in Washington this Tuesday.

Reviews for both the new album, Zeitgeist, and the show have not been too good. I'm wondering about the critics' expectations, though. Mostly, I've read that the major problem is that Billy Corgan & Co. haven't changed much even after reforming with two new members.

OK, so let me figure this out. The Smashing Pumpkins of today sounds too much like the Smashing Pumpkins we loved 10 years ago?

I'll do some math, here: (a) we liked Siamese Dream and Mellon Collie, (b) Zeitgeist sounds like both. (a) squared + (b) squared = only a jackass would try to be so high-handed as to be disappointed in a new album of a sound they love.

OK, sorry. Got a little frustrated, there. Really, though, the Smashing Pumpkins are flawed, like all great musicians. But that doesn't change that they're great. In the words of a friend of mine, Zeitgeist is "a tad overindulgent. Although, when have the pumpkins not been overindulgent?"

Exactly. Remember "Porcelina of the Vast Oceans"? Remember "Silverfuck"? Zeitgeist has songs like that. But it also has rockers like "Zero" and "Hummer."

In short, you take the Smashing Pumpkins for what they are - good and bad. And then, you let them rock you. They rocked us at the 9:30 Club on Tuesday night.

Check out "Hummer," from the show:


Also, they opened with the new oh-so-Pumpkins 9-minute-guitar-bass-and-drum orgy, "United States." Check it out.

Fratboys & Injuns

I had a dream last night that I was at a summertime fraternity party. Upon my arrival, just after dark, there was a commotion on the property of the fraternity house. It was on a corner lot, and there was a group of trees right up at the corner. The main fraternity activities were to take place out on the lawn - a pig roast, beers, music, and other summertime outdoor activities.

There were a number of lights in the trees, though. A couple guys came and ased me to go talk to some people there. Once I got to the trees, I saw that one had fallen. Around it stood a number of native-looking fellows in grass skirts, with weird sticks through their ears, noses and lips, holding torches.

Apparently, the fallen tree had been the tallest of the bunch, and these natives, who lived across the street, had worshipped it from afar like it was a god. Now that it had fallen, they wanted to all come over to the fraternity property that night and hold some big ceremony.

So, now that I had arrived, the fraternity guys wanted me to sort the whole thing out. They didn't want anything getting in the way of their fraternity party, and they weren't about to share their celebration activities with the natives' funeral for their god.

So, I took the natives back across the street and tried to talk sense to them. This wasn't easy. Their religion demanded that they hold this ceremony on the night that their god-tree fell. They spoke perfect English (and even offered me a soda). They were insistent. I asked them more about the ceremony, and they explained that it entailed music, drinking their native fermented drink, dancing and a celebration of the god-tree's life.

Needless to say, I was struck with inspiration. I ran and grabbed two of the fraternity guys and brought them across the street to the natives' home. I explained to everyone there that they all, in essence, had the same the same plans for the evening. Why not share the fraternity lawn for it? All the better to get to know your neighbors.

The fraternity brothers and the natives agreed. That night, they drank, and they danced. The fraternity guys bid a respectful farewell to the god-tree. The natives learned new dances from the college girls. They partied late into the night and were friends forever after.

There I go, creating world peace, one effed up boozy dream at a time.

Thanks to An Old Single Serving Friend

This is random. I was just cleaning out some old papers when I found a poem a girl wrote for me in high school. Don't worry, this won't get sappy, lame, or gross.

I'll call this girl Maggie. She sat behind me in English class. If not for that, we'd have never spoken. She was cool and nice, and she ran with the hippie crowd, and even they were cooler than me.

One day I walked into class in a miserable state. I had just experienced a classic high school overly dramatic, artifically devastating breakup. My girlfriend had insulted me, embarassed me, and ditched me. I was heartbroken.

Maggie asked what was wrong. I gave her a quick outline of the breakup, and class began. 42 minutes later, as the bell rang, she handed me a piece of paper and said, "Keep this around for a while. If you find yourself wondering how you should feel, this is the answer. Have a good one." And she walked away.

The poem wasn't great art or stunning literature. But it was a declaration of independence. A condemnation of past wrongs. And, most of all, a funny reminder that moving on can be its own adventure. It was a creative act of kindness from a single-serving friend that I never forgot. Here it is:

Dear ------,
In case you haven't noticed, in case you haven't heard,
I find you quite repulsive, I think that you're a turd.
Sometimes I think I miss you, but then I catch myself:
"Hey, I don't like that chick; I'd rather date a warty elf!"
I'm sure you didn't mean to hurt me, but you've done a real bad job.
You my have killed my tender being and ALMOST made me sob.
So go on with your measly life and don't you worry about me.
You haven't murdered my morale as far as you can see.
But the whole point is, I'm over it.
In fact, my love, I give less than a shit.
Because you're a no good, rotten, stinkbug of a thing.
Find someone else's bell to ring.
Beaver.

Told You So

He and his filmmakers claim that the meanings of these are supposed to be obvious. I say the only thing that's obvious is that Mike Gravel is still a nutbag.

Fingers Crossed...

The Lord of the Rings trilogy proved that fantasy movies could be done well and appeal to a broad audience.

The Chronicles of Narnia added some credibility to that notion.

The Harry Potter movies also contributed, though they have their rough spots.

Eragon made us think it had all been a fluke.

On August 10, we get Neil Gaiman's Stardust:



Redemption? God, I hope so.

Spoilers (a/k/a Professor Snape Kills Tony Soprano, Who Doesn’t Know He’s Dead)

GUESS I HAVE TO FOLOW MY OWN ADVICE: SPOILER ALERT RE: HARRY POTTER (BOOK 6) AND THE SIXTH SENSE – I CAN’T SEE HOW THESE COULD REALLY END UP BEING MY FAULT AT THIS POINT, BUT BE WARNED

In the aftermath of the final episode of The Sopranos, I’ve come across a very awkward situation today – trying not to be a spoiler for anyone who’s still waiting to see it.

A good friend got me into the Sopranos, and I stepped gingerly in conversation this morning. I blew one of the recent episodes for him, assuming that my most Sopranos-fanatical friend would have been watching as it aired. But, with Tivo and a busy life, he was exposed to the death of Christopher Moltisanti all too soon by my misstep.

So, this morning, I made sure to check whether he’d watched last night before I said anything. Good thing for me and my conscience – he hadn’t.

What sucks is that there are far too many “spoilers” out there – people unwilling to appreciate the arts enough to have discretion, or worse, actively to seek to ruin it for others. This is clearly the mark of a small penis.

It’s one of these genitalia-stunted retards who zinged me with this one on some public transportation a couple of summers back: “Yeah, Dumbledore was killed – it was crazy.”

Yeah, and THANK YOU, ASSHOLE. Like hearing about your mom’s summer flu wasn’t annoying enough for my evening’s commute, now you just screwed up my enjoyment of a well written book.

I’m not even a Harry Potter nut. I can’t imagine how those people must have felt if/when it was spoiled for any of them by shitty people who can’t keep conversation to a civil tone on the train.

It’s really not too much ask: once you’ve experienced some big moment in a book, on TV, or in a movie, which you know people all around you may want to experience (such as the most popular novel series, movie, or TV series in years), keep your effing cakehole shut about it in public for a while.

Bragging about how you know what happened in a loud voice only confirms your shriveled little penis for the rest of us.

It’s hard to sort out the good stuff in the arts these days, so when something is clearly quality, let people enjoy it on their own. Otherwise, some of them may be out for people like you...

America's Crazy Uncle for President

Two democratic debates down, and Mike Gravel is shaping up to the the Al Sharpton of this race, making crazy statements that skirt real points without actually making any.

I'm starting to really like this guy, but not exactly in the "I'd Ever Vote for Him in a Million Years" kind of way. It's more like a purely guilty pleasure of watching a nutbag run for president.

Damnit, Hollywood; You Suck.

Brewing for a couple of years, the live-action G.I. Joe movie project is starting to gain momentum, as the Transformers summer blockbuster gains steam even before its release.

At first, there was hope that producer Lorenzo di Bonaventura was preparing for something great. We children of the ‘80’s waited with fevered anticipation for any word. Rumors abounded that Mark Walberg would likely play Duke, and that the movie would be some sort of “origin of Cobra” story. Sweet.

Then, our wild-running imaginations were fueled in late 2005 by El Mayimbe’s review on Latinoreview.com of a bootlegged script, previewing a fantastic film sure to satisfy any G.I. Joe purist:

The six G.I. JOE’s that made the cut for now in the draft are – Duke, Scarlett, Snake Eyes, Hi-Tech, Heavy Duty, and Wild Bill. [Assuming sequels, more could come in later films.]

The antagonist of the piece is DESTRO…THE BARONESS is in this thing along with STORM SHADOW.

Yes folks, there is the Snake Eyes and Storm Shadow rivalry in this draft and they duke it out in the 3rd act. Strom Shadow has a cool back-story. In the script, he is considered the greatest hand-to-hand fighter in the world…

…Snake Eyes and Storm Shadow were trained by the same master and were rumored to have fought once. They fought for two days before a single blade landed. Storm Shadow made a mistake and was defeated. However, the rage induced by Storm’s disgrace and has fueled ten years of further study in South America under a different master, under a weapons-free discipline of Brazilian Jujitsu.

Speaking of Snake Eyes, [he] and Scarlett are in a relationship in this draft and are in therapy because well, Snake Eyes doesn’t talk and has taken a vow of silence as a way of furthering his martial arts training and discipline! I thought the therapy scene on page 26 was hilarious. Very creative.

There is a COBRA in this draft. He is not COBRA COMMANDER, he is simply COBRA and he is a former G.I. JOE named REX. This story is a Cobra origin story of sorts…

…the Joes carry out the mission and something goes horribly wrong. Rex is horribly scarred as a result…

…Destro wants Cobra to lead his army of super soldiers. The super soldiers are the best mercenaries from around the world that are also being injected with the same juice as Rex is. So basically that is what G.I. JOE is about - Duke and the Joes must stop Destro, Cobra and the chemically enhanced super soldiers…

I’m practically salivating. This is on par with the epic struggle that raged on my family room floor for years.

But, as with all good things Hollywood takes a bite of, there must come the inevitable shit.

Finally updating on the situation last week, El Mayimbe informs us that di Bonaventura ditched the sweet-assed script and commissioned a new one. Low-lights of the new one include:

-- A buddy-film between Duke and Alex Mann from Action Man. Never heard of them? Of course not – they suck. They were the cheap international version of G.I. Joe.
-- No Cobra, no Destro – a villain named “Cool Dude.”
-- A host of cheesy lines and corny quips

This blows. Hopefully, di Bonaventura will see the light. Maybe he’s just shopping around for different ideas. I can only hope.

But really, El Mayimbe is right: the least they can do is stay faithful to the few basic premises that lie at the core of the franchise. If they’re not going to do that, I hope they scrap the project. Better to leave G.I. Joe at the height of his glory, as I left him on my family room floor a few decades ago.

Any producer seeking to recreate a classic story should know that. “And,” as Duke always said, “knowing is half the battle.”

The Wildest Story Ever Told, Part 5

Here it is; my conclusion to the completely wild story of the Bible. Here are the previous chapters:

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4

With Jesus, God had created a human that was fully trained, the way he wanted the rest to be. God liked humans’ ability to choose to respect him. No one wants to be surrounded by mindlessly devoted bootlicks. So, he’d worked long and hard to train a set of humans to respect him and acknowledge him the way he deserved.

With Jesus, God had left the final blueprint for appropriate human behavior. He’d certainly put plenty out there, so far. So, from there, God left the humans to develop and exist on their own. As they died, he kept their souls in storage, marked for sorting day as being good enough to being into the house or bad enough to simply destroy.

The one extra thing God allowed was for Jesus to teach one final lesson to his last surviving disciple, John. In a dream one night, he showed John what was going to happen. John wrote of this revelation (in heavily symbolic language) in the last book of the Bible.

From there, humans then existed for some indeterminate period of time – let’s say at least a few thousand years. Did you hear it? That whooshing sound was this story shooting through the present day.

One day, long after God had first set Jesus on the humans, he sent Jesus back to finish the experiment. They gave the humans no warning.

Out of nowhere, God pulled out a bullhorn and, with Jesus charging out into the human world, he pronounced that this was the end of the exercise. God had spent enough time outside with the animals. It was time to sort out the quality humans from the bad.

Jesus was now a vicious attack dog, and it was a good thing. Many humans were all-out hostile to him and God. Many had been corrupted by evil forces out in the distance, off of God’ property. God hadn’t messed with these forces previously, but Jesus came and tore them to shreds.

Amongst the remaining humans, one human rose up with what appeared to be a lot of power, given to him by evil forces out in the wild of the universe. This was all a sham, though, and Jesus ripped him apart, too.

In the process, all of the souls that had been in storage were woken up and thrown in to the mix. Those God liked get called into the house almost immediately. Of those not yet dead, God gives one last chance to by torturing them. In this quick test way, he could see who would really behave, and who would not.

In the end, the good humans were brought into God’s house, and the bad ones were destroyed entirely, while the evil forces of the universe were left to suffer for the rest of time.

The moral of the story, of course, is that God is ultimately badass. Humans were given the power to acknowledge this, but also the power to ignore it. In making humans this way, God made something better than the rest of creation.

Those who paid the right respect were taken to a place they could have never conceived.

The fate of the rest was not punishment. It was the simple judgment that they were useless to the universe. As with all useless junk, they were disposed of. Their feeling of self worth, without paying respect to their creator, wasn’t enough to save them.

And in the end, God kept on being God, in his totally badassed glory. He was badass before humans, and he was badass after humans. End of story.

The Wildest Story Ever Told, Part 4

I feel it important for this chapter to again remind you – I’m telling you the story of the Bible, as a story. What you believe is irrelevant, here. This is just the story that I got out of reading it.

When we left off, the Jews had gotten back to the Land of Milk and Honey and rebuilt the Temple. They weren’t free, though – they were occupied by one invading ruler after another, ending with the Romans.

During this time, God started working on his end game.

While it had previously appeared that segregating out the one group would work, he now knew that his special gift to humans – the higher ability to understand and respect his bad-assed-ness – was producing random results. Some in the special groups were ill-behaved, while others outside the group behaved just as he wanted them to.

All along, as humans died, God had been keeping them (their souls) in storage, marked according to how loyal and good they were. Eventually, at the end of the experiment, he’d take them all out, trash the ones he didn’t like, and take the rest into the house.

So, God gave some warnings to his prophets during the exile and rough years of the Jewish people – he’d be sending someone to lead them and fix everything.

And with that, God stormed into his house and didn’t come out until he had constructed a super-human human. This human, he named personally – Jesus.

At this point, I have to jump ahead – throughout the rest of the story, humans (that unfortunately includes you and me) have no idea exactly what Jesus is. This controversy will come up again. I like to think of it as part of humans’ inability to understand how God operates.

Also, suffice it to say, God didn’t have a wife and have a kid, who he named Jesus. The whole “son” business is a term of art, meaning that he’s LIKE God in many ways.

So, I’ll gloss a bit, here, though just the Jesus alone desrves explanation of what is in there, as opposed to how some people retell it. God artificially inseminated a human, Mary, with his new creation. She gave birth to him, and he grew up able to look over the heads of all human existence and see God, standing on the front porch, looking out over all of them. He could even hear anything God happened to shout to him.

Jesus bided his time, and at about the age of 30, started going around teaching humans how to be type that God would choose to bring into the house eventually. These lessons had been told to Jesus directly by God. Most of his message was simple: human rules of how to worship God meant nothing compared to just behaving the way God wanted you to and giving him the respect he deserved.

Part of the message included the whole “be decent to other humans” thing. Another part included giving up on all the human-constructed parts of life, given that they lasted only a moment in the grand scheme, and getting God to pick you out as one to be brought into the house was far more important.

The Jewish Temple leaders had some bad seeds amongst them, who tried to stir up the Romans against Jesus. He was going around disobeying rules that were hard and fast in the human perception of reality – healing people instantaneously, changing matter from one form to another at whim, healing bodies through sheer willpower, and even reinstating souls to their formerly broken bodies.

Jesus’ behavior simply didn’t fit in the scheme of those who’d given up on God and sought the only power they could see – power among humans. So, this group of powerful, ill-spirited folks conspired to have Jesus arrested and executed.

Jesus went along with the whole charade. He was told to by God. When he finished his teachings, he allowed himself to be executed. Then he rose from the dead, all on his own, showed himself to those he’d chosen to continue the lessons, and walked right out of human existence, back to God’s house.

For the rest of the humans’ existence, they debated what the point of this was. To keep it simple, I try to avoid the greatest theological debate in history, if I can help it. I’ll focus on Jesus’ teachings, which seem to be the most important part of his legacy.

Let’s also suffice it to say that, by rising from the dead and stepping out from the crappy human existence back to God’s house, Jesus legitimized that he was fairly badass, himself (though not to the full extend that God was). God was going to use him in his final plan for humans. Jesus had proven himself a very effective proxy.

Form there, a group of exceptionally well-behaved, understanding humans, Jesus’ disciples, spread his lessons, as instructed. Emboldened by witnessing Jesus’ ability to ignore being killed (not exactly something any regular human could do), they spread the word of the basic ways to be good humans who God would choose to bring to his house at the end of the grand human experiment.

From here, I have one last short post, which I’m just going to write right now – this has been heavy stuff, and I’m anxious to get back to posting stupid crap like cartoons and music reviews on my blog. I dare say that those of you who still read this will agree.

The Wildest Story Ever Told, Part 3

On to Part 3 of the story of the Bible. If you haven’t read up to here, check out the first two chapters, below. I’m still on track to finish in 5 posts. Really.

Part 1
Part 2

When we left off, the Israelites had invaded the Land of Milk and Honey and set up shop with no leader but God. They had figured that the rules he’d given them would keep them in line, and the Judges appointed by God took care of any little problems that arose.

After about 350 years, the Israelites started looking for a leader. God wasn’t spending much face time with his chosen flock, and with conflict raging with their neighboring countries, the Israelites began to want a leader amongst themselves.

God heard this and understood, even though it pissed him off. After all, the flock didn’t seem to have much “faith” in him as leader – disconcerting, given his goal of training these humans to be the special ones who really got him.

So, God asked one of his prophets (Samuel) to officiate a sort of vote for king, and the Israelites chose Saul. Saul was popular, but not quite ready for the responsibility of a heading a religious government. He wasn’t even very partial to God, and was kind of a dick, when it came down to it.

Although he did a fairly decent job leading his people in defending their borders, it wasn’t long before Saul figured he was all the leader the Israelites needed, and he decided to ditch the whole paying respect to God thing. So, God got personally involved and chose an obedient and smart guy, David, to be the next king.

What followed was an operatic-in-scope epic civil war between David and Saul, consisting of war, deception, drama, and love worth any other three books. Seriously, someone should make a movie of this stuff – there’s great material there. It’s the Sopranos of the Bible.

Suffice it to say, David came out on top and became the shining example of a king who led his people both on their own level, and as an example of an obedient subject of God. He did screw up a few times, but took his punishments like a man.

Amongst David’s greatest achievements, he had a son, Solomon. Solomon was really, really smart. His intelligence made him massively popular. God was pretty happy at that point, so he had Solomon build a temple – a place to put the Ark and be focal point for his humans to remember to keep following God’s rules for paying proper respect. It seemed God’s plan was coming together.

Unfortunately, Solomon eventually deteriorated into loving his own power, too. He was quite satisfied with himself and forgot about paying respects to God. God basically stood at a distance, arms folded, shaking his head.

After Solomon, a series of other kings followed over about 200 years. Civil war broke out amongst the Israelites, and the country broke into two (Israel in the north, Judah in the south, including Jerusalem, the former capital of both). Generally, they all got worse and worse at behaving properly. Concerned with their own issues, they forgot the major point – pay respect to God, who is, after all, totally badass and the reason they were all there.

God continued to stand by and watch. He covered his face with his hand. All that work, down the shitter again.

But then, God came up with a plan. All the other humans, who God had let do as they pleased without him, had become fairly aggressive. Why not let them attack his special flock? Then, he’d take back the ones who managed to make it through the experience and still come back to him (that temple seemed like a good beacon to watch!).

Start musical montage (covering about 700 years)…

The Assyrian Empire (covered Iraq, Turkey, Syria, Jordan, Israel, and Egypt) attacked the northern kingdom, Israel, carting off most of the Israelites (let’s switch to “Jews” now – I’m sick of mistyping Israel as Isreal), who ended up in slavery.

Then the Babylonian Empire got powerful and conquered the Assyrian Empire (same territory, further down into Saudi Arabia). The Babylonians, led by Nebuchadnezzar, pummeled Judah until it, too, fell. They burned Jerusalem to the ground, including the Temple, and they carted off those Jews into slavery, too.

In the meantime, God whispered to prophets, like Elijah, saying that those who made it through this were in for a treat – some level of redemption from all their troubles.

Next, Cyrus the Great led the Persian Empire to take over the Babylonian Empire. (They came out of Iran, but took the rest, including into Greece – I’ll get to that in a second). Cyrus allowed the Jews under his control to go back to Israel/Judah (the “Holy Land”). Those that returned built a new Temple and continued to pay their respects to eternally-badass God.

Here’s where the movie 300 comes in. When the Persians tried to conquer Greece, they weren’t as successful as they had hoped. At the Battle of Thermopylae, Leonidas and his boys held off the Persians long enough for the Greek culture to evacuate Athens before the Persians invaded there, too.

As a result, the Greeks became a united nation and eventually, led by Alexander the Great, conquered the known world (every territory discussed so far and more), including the lands inhabited by the Jews.

Quickly after Alexander’s death, his empire started to weaken, and it eventually fell to the Roman Empire, which controlled the Holy Land up through the time of Jesus.

And oh, what a turn the story takes from there. Next time, I’ll start with commentary on the years of foreign occupation of the Holy Land, including the treatment of the Jews and God’s thoughts about the whole thing. Then, I’ll spend a disproportionately large time on J-Dawg, because the Bible does, and that’s the story I’m telling.

The Wildest Story Ever Told, Part 2

On to the next installment of the wild story of the Bible. Remember, suspend your perceptions of it as a basis for religion. I’m just telling the story, as a story.

So, we left off with God and his great little pets, humans. He was getting annoyed with their behavior. For example, they were starting to work together at a place called Babel, deciding that by doing so they could rule the universe. Too bad for them that’s God’s job. So, he did what anyone does when confronted with a threat to their job – he sabotaged it (by making the humans unable to speak to each other).

Here’s where things start to focus on mankind itself, like the camera sweeping from behind the zookeeper into the cage to zoom in on the playing tiger cubs.

A guy named Abraham lived in Iraq. God asked to him to move to what is today Israel, so he did. Abraham was pretty good at respecting his keeper. They spoke sometimes. Abraham even almost convinced God to spare some folks, hanging out in Sodom and Gomorrah, from total destruction. But, God decided that whole cities of bloodletting rapists probably could be cleaned up before getting to evaluating the rest. Abraham was that cool, though, so God started to think this could be his next Patient Zero, so he gave Abraham a son at the age of 90.

Just to check Abraham’s loyalty, God asked him to kill his son with no explanation as to why. Realizing that he couldn't think on God's badass level enough to get his plan, Abraham was willing to do so, though it obviously sucked. So, God let him off the hook. He decided to use Abraham’s family line to breed a special line of humans, which he’d keep when he eventually got rid of all the crappy, untrainable, ill-behaved others.

Later, Abraham’s grandson, Jacob (a/k/a Israel) had some little shits for kids – 12 of them, who’d become the 12 tribes of Israel. They sold the only cool one, Joseph, into slavery. Too bad for them, Joseph became Vice President of Egypt, the richest land around, by psychoanalyzing the Pharaoh (obviously not a Scientologist). When Abraham’s family got poor, they went to Egypt for help. Joseph was nice enough to take them in. A better man than I.

400 years passed, and things didn’t go well for Abraham’s family. Now numbering in the hundreds of thousands, they were slaves, or something close to it (much like Mexican day laborers today – living in a great society, but unable to enjoy it).

God didn’t like his favorites getting beaten down by the Egyptians, who ignored him entirely. So, he picked one out and hooked him up. This guy, Moses, was lucky enough to be raised among the Egyptians and get all their secret knowledge. He learned magic, politics, and war, among all sorts of other things.

One day, though, it occurred to Moses that his own people were getting crapped on by the Egyptians he hung out with, so he took off. He and God chatted, and he went back to get his peeps. We all know how this went. He asked God to kick the crap out of the Egyptians, which God did, ending with killing the firstborn son of every family in the country, and the Isrealites picked up and left, via the parted Sea of Reeds (nope, not the Red Sea).

Moses and company fled into the desert of Saudi Arabia, where God decided to do a little training. He threw them food (manna) and brought them to a mountain, where he gave Moses rules to teach to the others (not just the Ten Commandments, but a couple hundred pages of the Bible’s worth of rules and regulations on how to acknowledge the simple fact that God is badass, by which the Jewish faith has lived for thousands of years).

God also told them how to build a radio transmitter to God; the Ark of the Covenant. As long as they followed the rules and kept in touch with him through it, he promised them a great little spot he’d picked out – the land of milk and honey (roughly modern day Israel; it's a great climate - prime real estate - part of the reason it's always been fought over).

This training was slow, hard work – 40 years’ worth. These “chosen people” – the Israelites (Jacob’s family), on repeated occasions, forgot about God and went to the same shitty habits of the rest of mankind (like acting retarded enough to worship their own jewelry).

In a really dramatic scene, Moses then brought the Israelites to some mountains overlooking the Promised Land. It was gorgeous, just the kind of place you’d want o raise a family, and a nation. And there, as his goal came into view before him, Moses died, as punishment for not training his folks better (and, admittedly, he was like 150 years old, and had just climbed that mountain).

Then, the Israelites entered the Promised Land. Sounds so serene, right? Yeah, too bad people were living there. This was prime real estate, remember. So, they proceeded to do the only logical thing – slaughter everyone there, town by town. God didn’t have a beef with this. His focus was on getting this group of his pets to behave. He’d just wipe out the rest on his own, anyway.

After this long, bloody invasion (that’s the only way it can accurately be described), which included great feats like the fall of Jericho, the 12 tribes of Israel got settled in. Their home stretched through what is today Israel, Lebanon, and much of Syria and Jordan.

From there, Israel hung out for about another 400 years, living without a human ruler. Their ruler, after all, was God, so they tried to just live by God’s rules. To deal with human failings, God would tap on the shoulder of especially cool people from time to time. These people – Judges – settled disputes and inspired the people when they needed to be led into battle defend their lands from invaders, etc. (let’s not forget – prime real estate).

That's it for this post. Next time, I’ll get into Israel asking for a king and then get into some more familiar history. I’ll even relate the movie 300 to Jesus. Frighteningly, it’s not a metaphor – they’re connected.

The Wildest Story Ever Told

I spent the last year reading the Bible, front-to-back. I wanted to read a classic, well known, influential book. Idiotic me went for the most classic and influential book I could find.

It was agonizing at times (And unto Eber were born two sons: the name of one was Peleg; for in his days was the earth divided; and his brother's name was Joktan., Genesis 10:25), but I’m glad I did, because it’s an absolutely bizarre and amazing story. And I want to tell it to you. Because, for more than any other reason, I read it just for the story. I was not disappointed.

So, forget what you already know and believe about the Bible, and let me tell you the story, just as a story:

In the beginning (familiar, right?), there was God. Think on that for a second. He was a deity, the one and only. He was God, in the most fundamental meaning of the word – the all-powerful Supreme Being. He operated on a level beyond human understanding in the way that hacking a Tivo is beyond a goldfish’s understanding, but on an even larger scale. God was, under all circumstances, totally badass.

Being industrious, God created everything. Isn’t that what you’d do if you were all powerful? He finished his project off with humans. Adam and Eve. He set up a lush pad for them. Eden. They were basically living on the front lawn of Heaven; God’s personal domain, but not quite inside the house.

God had some of his things lying about; the Tree of Life and the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. He told them, “Go ahead and eat from any tree here, except the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil.” Don’t touch my stuff.

A serpent rolled by one day and convinced Eve to eat from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, anyway. She did, and so did Adam. Oops.

Apparently, this freaked God out, so he kicked them off the lawn and out into the world. C-ya.

Either through this event or because of how he designed humans, God did something he had never done with anything he had created. He gave mankind a little piece of himself; an ability to see existence in a way nothing else had.

You see, everything in the universe instinctively got the concept of how hugely badass God is, except mankind, who now needed to actually think about it. This was a product of mankind’s extra little ability - humans were God's first creation capable of consciously acknowledging him for what he was, instead of assuming it as part of their design.

Of course, since he was God, such an acknowledgment needed to come with a certain level of respect (most faiths call it worship). In this story, that’s not God being egotistical. Remember, God was badass, in the most ultimate sense.

Having a real sweet spot for his pet humans, Adam and Eve, God didn’t obliterate them for their misbehavior. He just kicked them out into the not-so-pleasant part of creation that God wasn’t squatting on.

Now Adam and Eve had to live the hard life and go to work. I doubt I’ll ever forgive them for leaving me that legacy. They had some kids, and there was a whole murder plot thing. It’s a bit of a side note, except to show that humans tended to do things their own way.

In letting mankind wander around like this, God had started an experiment, to see if he could train mankind to do what only it could – acknowledge him on their own.

The problem was, mankind wasn’t acknowledging him very well at all. They were running amok, convincing themselves they were as powerful as God, and trying to rework everything of his. They were clearly going to totally eff up creation by ignoring God and trying to do better on their own (which they most assuredly could not).

So, in another mentionable side note, God got upset with the way humankind was turning out. This wouldn’t be the last time. His favorite pets were killing each other and threatening to wreck the place. So, he restarted the experiment, using nice-guy Noah as his new Patient Zero, trying to engineer humans he could train and get along with.

A few more generations, and God reevaluated mankind once again. Unfortunately, they still weren’t quite going to plan. These pets of his were awfully unruly. God needed a new tactic to properly train his favorite pet.

I’ll pause here until my next post to continue. The whole story won’t be too long (I’m aiming for 5 posts total).

Next time, I’ll tell you about how, since God thought his new pets were super cool, he made a hard choice – train a few to behave, eventually sort them out, and dispose of the rest.

Apologies to the Cold War Kids

Furthering my belief that professional reviewers are fucking idiots, I got a listen to the Cold War Kids ("CWK") abum, Robbers and Cowards this weekend, and they're not half bad.

Essentially, the Amazon review I had read said that CWK was just an average example of a merely average genre of pop music today, touting that upon listening to it "you realize that Cold War Kids is just another mainstream band over-mining a once fertile underground sound is short enough that you can cut your losses and find something more worthwhile."

I'l agree to a certain extent that there is something of a genre of grainy rock bands "fascinated with the first Strokes album and bent on expanding the promise of that artistically ill-fated group." Tied to them is the Modest Mouse hopefuls and pretenders out there. It's a crowded field, and to be sure, there's little there to excite the senses.

CWK isn't necessarily a great band. But, they do pretty well with some good beats and fun vocals. The singer's voice is a bit whiney, but so is Billy Corgan's, and Corgan can rip the devil out of hell and beat him senseless with his vocals. A number of the songs on the CWK album are forgettable, but I’m a believer that a band who has pulled half of a good album out might deserve my money, if it’s a slow release month.

If nothing else, CWK are a decent example of the "genre," if such a thing exists (I'm not a fan of such categorizations, myself). I can’t definitelyely tell you to buy their album, but I don’t want to say not to, either. A number of their songs absolutely rock, and the rest may grow on you.

I think it might depend on your view of the genre, or your belief that this genre even exists, as described.

Give their song Passing the Hat a listen (click the pic here - slightly lower quality recording than on the album). If you like it, you'll probably like the album.

Softball Was Fine, Everything Else is Dumb

Well, they put me in right field. Where else would you stick the new guy? I didn't totally suck. I even managed to hit the ball, catch it, and throw it - those basic motor functions that I'd had no faith in.

I can't believe it's been a week since I posted. I've meant to tell you so many things.

Year Zero (NIN) has refamiliarized me with alternate reality gaming, resulting in my utter disappointment. What horrible irony, having kids pretend to be part of an underground resistance that is really part of a coordinated marketing campaign. At least the music is pretty good, and the disc itself is hypercolor!

Allergies suck ass. Do does bronchitis, as well as the sinus infection.

I was shocked to see the first negative review I've ever seen on Amazon (not the user reviews, but the critic ones Amazon provides). Apparantly, don't buy the new Cold War Kids Album, because they're a great example of what's wrong with music today. Thanks for saving me money, Amazon!

I finally saw Dr. Strangelove. Don't you dare try to tell me that the underlying background premise of Spies Like Us wasn't a direct appropriation of the Kubrick film.

Well, it's not much, but that's me today. I've been having nightmares and just finished reading the entire Bible, so expect to hear from me soon.

Fast Pitch Emotional Scars

It’s the top of the 5th, and there are runners on first and third. My team is up by two, and there are only five innings in the game, given that gym class is only 42 minutes long. The opposing team is at bat, and there are two outs. One more, and we win.

I’m playing catcher in eighth grade gym class softball. What can go wrong? I’m practically a spectator, here. Even the kid in right field has seen more action than me.

Basically, I’ve been watching this game, not playing it. And that’s fine by me, because I suck at softball. Why? Because I’m left-handed. Because no one will teach me. Because I’m lazy. Something.

Two strikes. It’s all over after this pitch. Jeremy launches a wobbly softball in my direction. Pete swings wildly – I think his eyes were closed – and I hear the crack of the bat connecting with the ball.

Still not my problem, right? Wrong. The ball goes straight up in the air. Deep down, I know this, but that’s not where it was supposed to go. It was supposed to travel either to my glove, or far away from me. But it didn’t. Returning to Earth, it lands on the ground right next to me and bounces a few feet away, rolling down the hill behind our makeshift home plate.

I’m still staring into the outfield. Why isn’t the ball out there? Damnit. I turn around with all the speed of molasses rushing out of the bottle. I see the ball, and all at once, reality rushes back, carried on the voices of my classmates calling me names that actually amuse my gym teacher. Even he barks, “What the hell are you doing?”

My team won that game, in the bottom half of the sixth. But no thanks to me. We had to come back from a tie. Two runs were scored off of my error – the last guy stopped just past third, only because I was standing on home plate with the ball, holding back adolescent tears. It was months before I was picked anything but last in any sport in gym class.

This is my relationship with baseball and softball. I’ve since found aptitude with other sports and count myself as a fairly confident, athletic person. But to this day, the notion of swinging a bat or trying to catch a ball with a glove nauseates me. So, why the hell did I just join a rec softball team?

It’s all because someone I respect told me I should. I’ll call her Betty. The conversation went like this:

ME: “I have emotional scars from softball and baseball in gym class as a kid. I suck, and haven’t played since then.”

BETTY: “No way, I’m sure you’re at least competent. You should join our softball team. You’d have a lot of fun.”

And what do I say, before my brain can catch up with my mouth? “Sure, that’d be great.” Well, hello, you mental midget. I haven’t seen you since you decided to ignore the pop fly that wounded you for life! Welcome back.

I just couldn’t show weakness in front of Betty. I respect her personally and professionally, and she was showing signs of respecting me back – the thing I’ve been striving for ever since that eighth grade softball game. I was too scared to tell her I didn’t deserve it.

(OK, this is a bit of an exaggeration, but the principle I’m describing IS why I couldn’t bring myself to say no. How do you, as an adult, tell someone with a straight face that you feel incompetent at something? Me, I just don’t. I plow ahead and hope they’re not looking when I do it.)

So, I have to buy a glove and a bat this weekend. And a ball, I guess. I haven’t done this since high school. And the first game is next week. A little practice can’t hurt, right? I’m going to have to find someone to throw the ball at me and see if I can catch it or hit it. It needs to be someone I trust not to reopen old wounds with snide comments.

I’m sure it’ll all be fun and drinking. The team takes a $10-per-head booze collection for each game.

Then again, I can still hear my classmates and gym teacher, mocking me.

Hell, I’ll give the team $20 for the booze collection, for all I’m going to suck down to calm my nerves.

My Disgust Runneth Over

Every once in a while, I read something in the news that really frightens me. I mean, more than the everyday indications that Hell will soon be on Earth, as the ice caps melt and Iraq & Iran boil over into World War III.

Today, I was horrified by an article I saw on CNN.com, which I had been trying to ignore since yesterday. I admit I can believe this is how things are in parts of the United States, but it saddens me to witness it. I couldn't help but jot down some thoughts as I read:

(click the pics to see full screen)




After reading, I had to find the location of this backward little hellhole of a redneck cesspool. As I suspected, it's at least 150 miles from anything even resembling civilization. God help me if I ever break down along I-75.