Back at It

New posts! It's been a while, but I'm once again in production. So far, a new post tonight (see below), with at least one more to follow this weekend.

Yeah, the holidays are a busy time, but I'll be throwing out the randomness once again, so feel free to stop by and veg out as an escape from your friends and family, or from the fact that you have no friends or family.

Those Crazy Nights In Thailand

Man, I still love the news. All I want to know from this one is: why on Earth did these people do this?

Dammit

This is both a good thing and a bad thing. Yesterday, I went running for the first time with my dog. The problem is that it's the first time I've gone running in like six weeks, period.

At first, she was all over the place. She's perfectly trained when walking - stays right by my side without pulling on the leash. After about a (LONG) quarter mile, she levelled out and ran right alongside me. It was awesome. She's so smart!

It didn't take long, though, before my puppy was kicking my ass. She was huffing and puffing, but I couldn't breathe at all. At one point, in agony, I made her stop, but she was anxious to get on to the squirrel she saw at the end of the block.

In the end, here we were; my 4 month old puppy wondering why Daddy gave up:

So damned sad.

Rebuild It?

Oh, man, this is so much like my boss:

The Daily McCain

This is beyond partisanship; it's just a daily-updated fantastic sendup of John McCain. He regularly craps himself, loves his "Little Eskimo" Sarah Palin, and is disgusted with that "suckup" Joe Lieberman.

The Daily McCain

Check him out, every day. Here are a couple of my favorites:

Bump In The Night

So I went on vacation last week. A week in the Middle of Nowhere, New Brunswick (that’s Canada, northeast of Maine). We stayed in an old house on an island in the Bay of Fundy, which used to be a bed & breakfast.

It was a wildly uneventful weekend, which was great. I read a whole book and wrote almost a whole short story. We ate lobster every day and had more blueberries than I can even speak of.

The one thing that sticks out most in my mind about the week, though, was the one night I stayed up late, drank too much, and wrote the majority of that short story.

The only bathroom was on the second floor, by all the bedrooms, and as anyone who really knows me is aware, I have a really weak bladder when I’m drinking. So, for a couple hours that night I was tiptoeing up to that bathroom every 20 minutes.

Now, the house itself was a little creepy in the dead of night. I was waiting for a gang of folks with bags on their heads to come kill us all or ghosts to pour out of the rafters by the dozens.

So please understand my state of mind as I went into this bathroom. Drunk. Writing about creepy shit (I can’t write anything else). Alone. In a creepy house in the woods.

And I tiptoe to this bathroom to pee:



So, I’m standing there, doing my business, and I have this nagging feeling of someone standing behind me or looking over my shoulder. So, I turn my head to the left to look behind me. That’s when I realized what was creeping me out – this picture:


I’m serious. His name is Benton Hill. Just look at him a while. He’s scary. He was especially scary that night. Again and again I headed up to that bathroom and stood there, hoping this guy wouldn’t eat me alive. He JUST KEPT STARING at me.



Now, I try not to be the type to get scared in real life – I do enough of that in my sleep – but trust me, his gaze was enough to chill your bones, that night.

Hooray, Commissioner Gordon!

OK, so we all know Heath Ledger's performance as the Joker was awesome.

But did you notice, in the backgrouond, just how incredibly good Gary Oldman's performance was? The man's an incredible actor.

And Rob is right - Katie Holmes was much better than Maggie Ghyllenhaal.

I Love You, Running. I'm Sorry I've Been Gone So Long.

I'm not ashamed to admit that marketing worked on me.

Before the Dark Knight last night, I saw this commercial, and while it didn't inspire me to buy New Balance, it did inspire me to get back out there.

Rut

I can't help but think that, despite my best efforts, I've landed in something near enough to the stereotypocal suburban bullshit lifestyle to be able to call it just that.

Gonna have to do something about that.

The Story Ends With Me Putting Him in the Wall

Warren Wallace is my hero. This is the kind of attitude I hope to go through life with.





Don't eff with me, 'cause that story will end with me putting you in the wall.

Pimps Don't Commit Suicide

It occurs to me that I have not yet extolled the virtues of Richard Kelly's latest "doesn't make sense but we love it anyway" soon-to-be-cult film, Southland Tales.



I first heard about Southland Tales from Rob over at Murder by Baltimore, and his commentary on the film, I must say, was pretty much dead on.

How can I explain this in a way that will show what you're getting into, but without scaring you away from it? I hold little hope that I can.

The shortcut way: are you a big fan of Donnie Darko? This is like Donnie Doarko's bigger, more bombastic sibling - a large ensemble cast, multiple interwoven subplots, and a story that is huge in scope, with riots, explosions, and a couple of dance numbers. If you really, and I mean truly, like Donnie Darko - this follows the same mindbending never-fully-explained type of story, but through a much larger Kelly-created universe.

To the non-Donnie-Darko-initiated: I'm not sure where to go next. I just spent 15 minutes trying to type a little summary, and it spun completely out of control. So, I'll give you Wikipedia's summary:

El Paso and Abilene, Texas have fallen victim to twin nuclear attacks on July 4, 2005 – a catastrophe of unimaginable proportions which has sent America into World War III. The PATRIOT Act has extended authority to a new agency known as US-IDent, which keeps constant tabs on citizens – even to the extent of censoring the internet and using fingerprints in order to access computers and bank accounts. In order to be able to respond to a newfound fuel shortage in the wake of global warfare, the German company Treer designs a generator of inexhaustible energy which is propelled by ocean currents, called "Fluid Karma." Unbeknownst to them, the generators alter the currents and cause the Earth to slow its rotation, ripping holes in the fabric of space and time.

In Los Angeles, a city on the brink of chaos overshadowed by the growth of the underground Neo-Marxist movement, we follow the criss-crossed destinies of Boxer Santaros (Dwayne Johnson), an action film actor stricken with amnesia; Krysta Now (Sarah Michelle Gellar), ex-porn star in the midst of creating a reality tv show; and twin brothers Roland and Ronald Taverner (both played by Seann William Scott), whose destinies – on one evening – become intertwined with that of all mankind.

Sound confusing? It is. What's more, this movie is parts IV-VI of a six-part story, and the first three parts are in a graphic novel. Like Donnie Darko, not everything is explained and much is left open to interpretation.

In the end, Southland Tales is a film about an unexpected and unconventional apocalypse, set in a hypothetical, but familiar, United States during the summer before the 2008 presidential election. If you don't look too hard for the answers to every question it presents, you'll enjoy a nearly tongue-in-cheek film about people looking for sense in a frightening world, as well as belief in themselves (& each other).

Like Donnie Darko, Southland Tales begs for multiple viewings before it's fully understood. It's understandable that this is a dealbreaker for many viewers, but some (like yours truly) appreciate the art-as-film asthetic that directors like Richard Kelly go for. Watching the second time around is an absolute treat, as you work through your own interpretation of the the film.

One last note - I'm a sucker for puzzles like Southland Tales, so I immediately bought the graphic novel containing parts I-III, and if you liked the movie, I daresay you're obligated to read it. To taunt those of you who've seen this movie, let me tell you a few things I now know (no spoilers, of course - not from me).

I know, among other juicy tidbits:
-- what Pilot Abeline and his friends are up to
-- why Boxer Santeros bleeds the image of Jesus
-- why Taverner can't have a bowel movement
-- the exact origin and purpose of the screenplay
-- just what happened in Fallujah

So, go watch Southland Tales, if you believe you can stomach it. Get back to me about what you thought. The thing I love most about this movie is that, no matter what, it leads to discussion.

Damn, Ninja!

Man, I dropped the ball on this one. I found the article below back in January, and it got lost on my work desktop. But, here it is now, in its small glory.



Now, you probably know how much I love ninja criminals. The great twist to this one is that this particular ninja, dubbed the Staten Island Ninja by some, has been caught, and he's, *GASP* Albanian!

Now, I know, you're probably thinking, "How could this be? The only Albanian ninjas went their separate ways after the cold war, when ex-soviet spy-criminal-masterminds could no longer afford their own private ninja armies!"

And you'd be half-right, there. Here's what I think, as I've said before: this is just a really bad time for ninjas, man. Most of the old ninja/samurai blood feuds have died out, evil mega-corporations are downsizing their ninja staff in favor of additional legal representation (far more dangerous, really), and criminal masterminds have trended toward rockstar-bodyguard-type hulking muscle:



There simply isn't much work out there for an honest ninja anymore. They're out of work. Lonely. Desperate. And at times like this, they turn to the only thing they know – awesome stealthy criminal behavior.

Rachael is Love

So I was getting ready for the She Wants Revenge concert tomorrow night, and I watched one of their two latest videos on YouTube:

WATCH IT HERE
(Damned Universal and their foiling my embedding!!)

Aside from the fact that I LOVE videos by She Wants Revenge, I have a special place in my heart for this one, because I think it's a darkly stylized version of one of my favorite episodes from Tales From the Crypt, Loved to Death. Fuck, Tales From the Crypt was awesome, even when it was cheesy as hell. Check it out:

Part 1:


Part 2:


Part 3:


Oh, CryptKeeper, where would I be without you in my life?

And for dessert...
Another SWR video straight out of the same genre, which teaches another important lesson: Don't start an orgy you can't keep control of.

Kenny and I Had the Same Dream Last Night

Part 1:

Part 2:


Damn, I have to stop drinking so much. Vacation's over.

New Posts

Hey, kids. Just a quick note - I've got three new posts undeneath this one.

I've been quiet for a few weeks, but a vacation this week has me back on a roll with a lot of things: golfing again, climbing again, writing again.

Still drinking too much, though. It's a vacation; what do you expect? Enjoy!

Adding to the Lexicon

Friends, wherever you are right now, be it your living room, your office, or your DungeonMaster Lair (you know who you are), I'd like you to stand up and start clapping.

Why, you ask? To what do owe collectively applaud? Why, to ourselves, of course. I just saw on urbandictionary.com that the term douchebottle has made it into the lexicon!

It seems only yesterday (though it was August 2004) that I was sipping margaritas in L.A. with my good friend Eve and my lovely lady, where we had a discussion about the overuse of the term douchebag. To which, I pondered, "Does a douche even come with a bag?"

No, it does not, we discussed. It comes with a bottle. As such, I realized that I needed to change the world by updating this outdated term to douchebottle. Well, friends, with your support, it has caught on, and you can see the Urban Dictionary page that proves it (created on June 9, 2005).

[NOTE - yes, there's an earlier definition of it on there, but that references crackheads. I think only a crackhead could have written the entry and I refuse to acknowledge it, as it makes no sense.]

This is a great accomplisment, my friends, and soon the term douchebag will be forever retired. Keep up the good work!

In the spirit of this momentous occasion, I'd like to introduce a couple more terms we should begin using. These are original from me, regardless of whether they can already be found on the internet. (I mean, seriously, you can probably find pictures of Buddha taking a dump on the internet, so it doesn't much count - unless I say it does.)

Starbucksian, adjective: a manner in which one is mocked for supposedly incorrect participation in a process, immediately prior to suffering the mistakes of the mocking party, such as when a Starbucks employee rolls his/her eyes at you for slightly mispronouncing "venti mochacaffefrappAmerispresso," only to then serve you a grande hot tea. Suggested use: "Man, my boss bitched me out about my report, but then couldn't even explain our project to the customer. He's so Starbucksian."


feck, intransitive verb, noun; (akin to fuck): to engage in coitus with—sometimes used interjectionally with an object (as a personal or reflexive pronoun) to express anger, contempt, or disgust. This word is somewhat interchangeable with "fuck," except that it to be used solely in the inquisitve, as in, "What the feck?" The purpose of this word is, essentially, to refresh the phrase, "What the fuck?", which is vastly overused, but still so damned useful.

Go, my friends, and spread the word(s). Together, we can modernize cynical commentary on the world, one tortured vulgarity at a time.

Thank You FIFA 2008

So, I'm addicted to FIFA 2008. More than any video game in a long time, I could play this thing for hours.

Also, I could rifle through the extensive menus for hours, just to listen to its kickass soundtrack of tunes from around the world.

My current favorite is Monster by The Automatic. Have a listen (from their website, http://www.theautomatic.co.uk/):

~MONSTER - THE AUTOMATIC~

Open to Interpretation

Well, I heard from a number of you about the Nick Cave song, Hold On To Yourself, in my previous post. Interestingly no one thought of the same meaning that I did. Also interestingly, I haven't heard the same interpretation twice.

Here are some of my favorites, (as in, I think it is a reasonable interpretation):
--A dead man determined to come back to life
--A woman masturbating while her man is far away
--A man being tormented by a witch or evil female spirit

Nonetheless, my interpretation was totally different. Refer to the lyrics, below:

VERSE 1: He's alone and upset, questioning God's motives, and thinking that other perceptions of misery have nothing on his.

VERSE 2: He remembers making love with his woman. She was beautiful and she loved him.

VERSE 3: In a seedy town (or part of town), late at night, some guys drinking and driving around come upon her, hitting her and killing her before she can react. Pople lay flowers at the secene.

VERSE 4: He's haunted by the loss of her. He can barely sleep, and even then he dreams of her being whisked to the afterlife.

VERSE 5: He feels totally alone, and he has become angry at God. He's disillusioned at the meaning of anything.

CHORUS: Someday, he'll "come back" to her. He wishes he could now, but eventually, he will, and as soon as he enters the afterlife, he'll find her and hold her again.

Just my take. Like I said, it hit me as soon as I heard it. To me, this song is full of a terrible beauty - the strength of wonderful love in he most horrendous circumstances.

Some people tell me I'm no softie.

Hold On to Yourself

Oh man, Nick Cave's lyrical genius stuns me yet again. What scares me is that I actually get this without even thinking about it:

I’m so far away from you
I’m pacing up and down my room
Does Jesus only love a man who loses?
I turn on the radio
There’s some cat on the saxophone
Laying down a litany of excuses

There’s madhouse longing in my baby’s eyes
She rubs a lamp between her thighs
And hopes the genie comes out singing
And she lives in some forgotten song
And moves like she is zombie-strong
Breathes steady as the pendulum keeps swinging

You better hold on to yourself

Well, cities rust and fall to ruin
Factories close and cars go cruising
In and around the borders of her vision
She says oh woah woah woah
As Jesus makes the flowers grow
All around the scene of her collision

Oh you know, yes I would
I would hold on to yourself

In the middle of the night
I try my best to chase outside
The phantoms and the ghosts and the fairy-girls
On 1001 nights like this
She mutters open sesame and Ali Baba and his forty thieves
Launch her off the face of the world

Well, you know
One day, I’ll come back
And I’ll hold on to yourself

Babe, I’m 1000 miles away
And I just don’t know what to say
‘Cause Jesus only loves a man who bruises
But darling we can clearly see
It’s all life and fire and lunacy
And excuses and excuses and excuses

Well, you know if I could I would
Yeah, I would lie right down
And I’d hold on to yourself
Yeah, I would lie right down
And I would hold on to yourself

One day I’ll come back to you
And I’ll hold on to yourself
Yeah, I’m gonna come back
Gonna lie down
And I’ll hold on to yourself

Feel free to listen on my muxtape (on the right). Tell me what you think it means in the comments section. I'll comment later - I want to see if it says to you what it says to me.

Glamor Shots

I’m not highly photogenic. No self deprecation there, it’s just the way it is. My Irish face lends itself to round cheeks and a double chin no matter how much weight I lose. Also, I see a camera and am completely unable to appear natural.

So, going through my pictures recently (both photo and digital), I notice that (a) there are few of me, since they’re all taken with my camera, and (b) the ones of me aren’t all that great – many are from my holding the camera pointed at myself and the little lady with scenic locales in the background.

It’s kind of a bummer. I’m not at mid-life yet, but not too far from it, and I have few really good pictures of myself.

OK, OK, I know – disgustingly narcissistic. But it’s not. A person needs things in life to attain a positive self image, and something that goes a long way is a great picture of yourself to look back to at sometimes.

So that I don’t wax too philosophical, here, I’ll give you an example. Here’s Rob from over at Murder by Baltimore:


It was taken with a disposable camera during a night of drinking in France. Everything about it is accidental. But it’s a very cool picture.

Exhibit Number Two – Eve at Winning is for Losers:


This picture isn’t even the one I was going to use, but another picture she used to have up is no more. Still, even such a candid shot is better than most of the crap I have of myself.

So what’s my point? My point is that you, my friends, need to step it up. I need you to be active shutterbugs when we’re together. Moreover, I need you to share. Take some candid shots of me, especially in the rare event that I to actually look cool or do something cool. Then send it to me.

Please. This ugly mug needs some redressing.

Georgia Hates Fat People

Apparantly feeling it has done all it can do hating black people, Georgia has moved on to victimizing the overweight. Awesome.

I swear to you, when I scour the news for things to comment upon, I do not look for Georgia-related material. It's just that ridiculous headlines catch my eye, and apparantly Georgia is good at being ridiculous. (For Example, and Example.)

Check it out, with my comments in red:




Now, kids, the obilgatory public service announcement:

Very Cool

Thanks to Rob over at Murder By Baltimore for introducing me to Muxtape - an online mixtape service. As soon as I saw this I rushed to try it out.

Here is the near-instantaneous result.

I'll be updating from time to time and proably put a permanent link to my Muxtape in the sidebar. Happy listening.

It Has a History

It was one thing when I recently admitted all my lifelong nightmares to my mother. Even now, I'm afraid she'll have me committed. All the same, when I did, all I got was, "Yeah, you always had a lot of nightmares."

Huh!? OK, I guess it stands to reason that she'd have noticed, but it just seemed weird that I would not know, late into my 20s, that my own mother knew I had some strange shit cooking up in the old brain pan.

Well, now I've even managed to creep myself out. I just found my third-grade composition notebooks, in which I had to write stuff a couple of times a week. They'd usually give a topic, but we weren't required to follow it. I'd often write about getting my own helicopter or getting out of school early.

In flipping through my literary genius, though, I found a very short entry (they were all short - it was third grade), and rereading it now, I wonder that I wasn't walked straight down to the school therapist. It essentially said the following:

"Everyone's going to die someday, but not me! I'm not going to die, because I'm already dead! Haha!"

What the jumping shit!? I wrote that? At the tender age of 8?

I have no response to my own deranged thought processes.

Back to Normal

Three nights, three nightmares. I don't welcome this condition, but I'd gotten so used to it since childhood that after their disappearance for the last two months, I'm actually relieved they're back:

In prep for St. Patty's, I guess, I dreamed last night that I was at a haunted house. There were woods outside, from which I heard a faint sound of bagpipes, supposedly from the ghost of the Irish inhabitants of the house 100 years ago.

The night before last, I was leading my family in some ritual or spell that was going to destroy the world.

I don't even remember the one from the night before that, but I woke up winded and sweating. (I hope I hadn't actually been running around in my sleep. I was on Long Island in a hotel, and scantily clad...)

Pub?

Two weeks, and I can get the new Elbow album, Seldom Seen Kid.

Will I be willing to wait until it comes out in the U.S., or will I buy the import from the U.K. for $36? Sadly, I don't think I can avoid the latter.

About two months ago, my fevered anticipation began with a clip of a great new song on their website. Check it out.

Now, as a result of periodic YouTubing, I find they've released their first video and single, Grounds For Divorce. It's a fantastic thumping anthem of a man who spends his life in the local pub, instead of with his wife and son. Awesome.

I'm not sure why Guy Garvey pounds his mug on the table throughout the song, but I love it. Maybe it's a nod to the Masons, who pound their mugs down as a means of hearkening to the sound of cannon fire. Or perhaps it's an expression of anger at himself for drinking his life into ruin.

I know I've wanted to slam my mug down for both reasons. Do I need much more excuse?



Well, consider my pants peed. I'm headed to Amazon.

Ridiculous Comments from John

1. "Dude, I'd have brought him my kid's winning Pinewood Derby car for his kid to use." -- You mean like a ringer? -- "Yeah, then he wouldn't have to spend the time building one with his kid and could come drinking with us."

2. "Strippers like Guy-In-Jeans way better than Guy-In-Suit"

And he hasn't even arrived yet. It's going to be a long night.

Uncertainty Fails as Heaven Surrounds

Hey, I just saw a setting in my blog that said you have to have a Google account to comment on my blog. I've switched the setting to "Anyone," so go ahead and tell me where to shove it or that I'm not making sense.

Fucking Assholes

Let me tell you something. I don't give a shit. After today I'm nothing but righteous fury, which is ultimate and immovable.

So, to the wretched fuck who tried to make me feel bad about myself: eat shit, choke on it, throw it up, and eat what you threw up. You're lucky I haven't made things worse for you so far. Moreover, be thankful that in civilized society it's verboten to kick people readily in the privates.

To that person who said what they said: you should go back to manipulating your rectum with your little finger. It's safer and more pleasant than what someone like me (but possessing less restraint) might do if they ever find you.

To the guy on the train who thought my head was an armrest: oh, you fucker, you fucker, you fucker...

To the person helping me with that thing: too damned bad. Do you think I care? Probably not, but let me make it clear, just in case; I don't. Moreover, be thankful that in civilized society it's verboten to readily stab people in the hand with my pen.

To the friend who thought they were looking out for me and wound up judging me, I love you like family, but seriously, suck my stubbly balls. I put up with your shit, so don't even mention mine. Didn't Jesus say something like that once? Yeah, actually he did, but way nicer than that. Look it up.

To that person who won't shut the fuck up: shut the fuck up!

To that one-time-phone-call person whose bullshit I had to endure: you're not going to get far with that attitude. I'll bet you don't talk that way to people in person - because your voice breaks down people's willingness to obey what is verboten in civilized society. I know.

To the person who keeps forcing me into that situation: I don't dare scream "Stop it you self-involved donkey-loving prick!" because I know it would do no good. Nonetheless, if you can find it in your heart to cut it the fuck out, I might find it in mine to keep resisting that urge to pee in your beverage. You may be frightened to know I actually fully fantasized that out the other day.

To anyone reading this and thinking I'm going a little overboard here: yeah, I am, but this is my forum to say what I want, and right now I want to say fuck you to a list of people. So, I win.

Who Says Westerns Can't Take Place in Australia?

I'm not normally a huge fan of westerns, but I know a good one when I see one. And I'll bet you haven't seen this one.

In 2005, an Australian western came out called The Proposition. Surprisingly penned by the ever-badassed Nick Cave, who you know I love, it tells the story of a police captain who forces an outlaw to hunt down and kill his older brother, or else the captain will hang the outlaw's younger brother. Ah, such western-film-plot-gold!

What follows is a downright poetic tale of the fallout as these men struggle to cope with the results of their faustian deal. And no surprise that it should be told so brilliantly. In his music, Cave has spun many such tales of brutality and love. Though it may seem odd that he made the transition to screenwriting, this movie is merely a feature length extension of what Cave has been doing for years.

Brilliant performances by Guy Pearce, Ray Winstone, Emily Watson, and John Hurt are complimented by a haunting and effective soundtrack by Cave that deeply connects the viewer with the characters.

As an example, Cave delivers such emotion with a repeated tune - spoken, sung, and even whispered, that seems at times like a hymn and at others a dirge, to imbue Guy Pearce's character with aura of both mourning and danger. Its quiet despair is highlighted by lyrics delivered almost subliminally:

'When?' said the moon to the stars in the sky
'Soon' said the wind that followed them all

'Who?' said the cloud that started to cry
'Me' said the rider as dry as a bone

'How?' said the sun that melted the ground and
'Why?' said the river that refused to run and

'Where?' said the thunder without a sound
'Here' said the rider and took up his gun

'No' said the stars to the moon in the sky
'No' said the trees that started to moan

'No' said the dust that blunted its eyes
'Yes' said the rider as white as a bone

'No' said the moon that rose from his sleep
'No' said the cry of the dying sun

'No' said the planet as it started to weep
'Yes' said the rider and laid down his gun

It's not the greatest film or greatest western out there, but it was a damned good movie. Throw it on that Netflix queue; you won't be disappointed.

Batshit Insane

That's how Gene Ray's Time Cube web site was first decribed to me by a friend a few years ago. Amazingly, this crackpot is still going strong. His website professes to explain some unifying theory of the universe based on something called the Time Cube.

You have to read his web site for the full explanation, but it's practically too hilariously fucking crazy to get through. Thus, we're all too stupid to grasp his higher intelligence.

GIVE IT A TRY

Then there's all the little extras that add to the entertainment that this old racist ex-marbles-champ (seriously - he's an ex-marble champion) dishes out:

POWER ABOVE GOD

ARE YOU JEWISH?

ALL CLOCK FACES ARE WRONG

Ah, now I get it. Thanks, Gene.

"Out of the way...documenting."

Thank goodness I didn't waste my money. I had to go see Cloverfield, just because you all know how much I hate having shit spoiled for me. I had truly not expected to be impressed, but I really was.

I won't say much (again, keeping the spoilers at bay), but I will say the following:

The action was great. I do, however, feel for anyone who was in lower Manhattan on September 11, 2001 and then sees this movie - the first 30 minutes were way too reminiscent of that morning. The filmmakers were classy enough about it to keep from being offensive, but man, it was tense in that theater.

On the other hand, unexpectedly, it was quite funny. Hud, the character holding the camera, starts out as a doofus, and never quite grows out of it. And there's nothing better in the middle of a disaster than a doofus making stupid comments...

--"What the hell is that?"
--Hud: "Something terrible."
--"And what's that?"
--Hud: "Somthing else, also terrible."

Lastly, let me say for the record - I totally fucking called it. Then again, maybe it was pretty obvious. All the same, to be safe, I should have put these next few lines up on here four weeks ago:

History shows again and again
How nature points up the folly of men.

Nice

The Whe Whole Album/Video:

They've also broken it up track, if you look at the bottom.


An Alternate Take of Reckoner:

Goodbye 2007, and Good Riddance

2007 is finally over, and I can’t say I’m sad to see it go. Not that I'm holding much of a grudge, but really, my relationship with 2007 didn’t work out the way I had hoped.

I had a nice little honeymoon with 2007. Work was calm. I even got a raise early in the year. I didn’t suffer too greatly from spring allergies for the first time in nearly half a decade. I even managed to complete my loss of 35 lbs and ran a pretty good time in the St. Patty’s race.

By mid-summer, though, things generally began to slide toward shitty status, and I found myself feeling a bit of estrangement from my beloved 2007. Work started to go to hell. My best friend in the office left (for much better things), people at work (the ones I wouldn’t normally expect it from) turned into real pricks. Nothing was really going right at work and nothing else really existed at all, which sucked.

Come the fall, I was trying to avoid 2007 altogether. I started trying to escape the soured relationship with booze. Money was far too tight. So was my schedule. People generally just pissed me off from every angle. I began to wonder whether 2007 had put them up to it.

Even worse, in October, my favorite author, Robert Jordan, succumbed to his battle with amyloidosis and passed away, half a book shy of completing his 12-volume epic tale, The Wheel of Time. Now 2007 was just getting mean.

I will admit that I was also able to medicate with some really decent Pop Dope. Some of this stuff made 2007 worth experiencing, for all the shit it doled out.

In film, there was:
- the hilarious Hot Fuzz
- the terrifying 28 Weeks Later
- the long awaited The Simpsons Movie
- Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix
- the imaginative Stardust
- the unbelievable Sweeney Todd

While, in music, there was:
- Nine Inch Nails’ Year Zero
- Radiohead’s ingenious and ballsy release of In Rainbows
- The Budos Band’s epic Budos Band II
- Elvis Perkins’s heart-wrenching Ash Wednesday
- Grinderman
- The White Stripes’ best ablum yet, Icky Thump
- Bowman & Lisa’s stellar independent release, Fears & Accusations
- The Smashing Pumpkins’ fucking awesome comeback, Zeitgeist
- The Veils’ kickass Nux Vomica

Nonetheless, by the end of 2007, I was beaten, broken, and had run completely out of steam. Jaded and disillusioned, I am so glad to be leaving it behind. I have cautious hope for 2008.

Brandon Sanderson has been selected to spend the year completing the Wheel of Time, and has reported that the final book, A Memory of Light, was so heavily detailed in notes by Robert Jordan before his death that Sanderson will be able to write “this book to be very, very close to the way [Jordan] would have done.”

Also some exciting film events are in the works:
- M. Night Shyamalan will release The Happening
- the return of Indiana Jones (with Karen Allen!)
- a conceivably good Punisher movie
- the return of The X-Files
- Harry Potter’s next blockbuster

The same goes for music:
- the unexpected return of Sun Kil Moon!
- the unexpected return of Alice in Chains!
- Elbow’s fourth incredible album
- The Secret Machines’ latest (if I’m lucky)
- the highly anticipated return of Coldplay

The fact is, despite any good that came of it, I’ve had it with 2007, and I hope to hell 2008 is better. I am optimistic, even when it comes to all the personal shit that made me hate 2007 for, which I won't spew extensively here.

And so, I go into the coming year optimistically, with one last gesture back to 2007, which comes from the wonderful, wonderful, Hot Fuzz: