Q: WHAT'S UP? A: MY DOSAGE [16 Oct 2006|10:56am] ...and so after listening to my friend's casual racism for the last ten yearss i have to stoically watch three of the best looking black girls I've ever seen throw themselves at him in a way I thought only happened on bad TV. Not much else to say. 9 comments|post comment

Vendetta - fuck your non-electric guitar [04 Oct 2006|09:10pm] It has been over a year since my last update. I'd like to say something has happened since then. Nothing has. But I have a new vendetta. It's simple. It's plain. You the reader might be able to relate. Here's the deal: the next time I'm in a living room or even a bedroom and some guy whips out an acoustic guitar and starts strumming and singing, I'm going to rip that guy's throat out with my teeth. If I was a girl this guy was trying to fuck I might understand. Actually, I'd probably fuck him, because girls love that shit. But I'm just a guy who only wants to hear acoustic after I've already downloaded all the regular songs from whatever band I care enough about to steal their intellectual property. I know for a fact that even after taking two pills of esctasy I still don't enjoy hearing some handsome boy strum his guitar and sing songs. ESPECIALLY SONGS HE WROTE HIMSELF. I also don't like people singing along with the radio/CD player. Worse than that is people singing along with the iPod that's only in their ears. I guess the theme of this livejoural entry is pretty simple: SHUT THE FUCK UP ALREADY. If you think you have something to say, put it on the internet. Then people can ignore it in auditory comfort. 4 comments|post comment

Terse [16 Aug 2005|07:10pm] And here's another reason why, despite some ideological overlap, I'll never identify myself as Republican or conservative. http://fumento.com/military/overthere.html I don't know anything about Michael Fumento, but I know about the three episodes of “Over There” that have aired. I'll spare myself the several minutes it would take to explain why the show is good and I like it and will instead briefly defend Steven Bochco with swearing: God DAMN, a man tries to make something decent to watch on the television and bitches are up in his shit like fuckin' hemorrhoids. The realism isn't reality, the show isn't flawless, but Fumento is pissed because “Over There” doesn't play like a John Wayne movie. That isn't some kind of backhanded sissy-slap at John Wayne, either. Fumento seems like the kind of guy that would whine about “The Searchers” because it doesn't play like a John Wayne movie. The same crybabies complained about Stephen Spielberg's “War of the Worlds” because they said it empathized with terrorists. Actually, according to the screenwriter, it did. But still. Shit. I honestly wasn't in a mood when I started writing this, but I'm getting there. What could possibly make me feel better... Cindy Sheehan is mildly fucking retarded. At least assuming this has been transcribed accurately: http://msnbc.msn.com/id/8972147/ Feel bad? I ought to feel bad for anyone even stupider than I am. I don't know how much sympathy I can summon up for a dancing monkey. Wind her up and watch her go to Texas. She's dim and being exploited, but aren't we all? If I had the right or the conviction I'd say a prayer for her son. That which spawned him means nothing to me. Now I feel a little better. I don't think I feel like voting against someone in the next presidential election. I can be, am, negative all year long. If I get out of bed to do something I want it to be some kind of positive gesture, voting for something or someone, and I don't think that will happen. So I'll opt out. “It's your sacred duty as an American to vote,” some say, “rock the vote!” Fuck that (fuck you). My only duty as an American, sacred or otherwise, is to do whatever the hell I want to do, contingent on not causing harm to others. And hopefully being left alone in the process. And it WILL involve rocking. A lot better. My world is getting smaller every day, and that's okay. 1 comment|post comment

“Bill? Is that you, Bill? You need to stop calling here.” [14 Aug 2005|02:50pm] The moment that it occurred to me that I watch too goddamn many horror movies, it was much too late. It was Friday. I'd spent every hour from Monday until then watching horror movies or sleeping, or watching horror movies and smoking, or driving fifteen minutes to the nearest grocery/video store to pick up horror movies and cigarettes. The epiphany struck during “Mortuary,” a shitty 80's slasher sold in a box that looks like there might be zombies, but there aren't. The killer stabs people with a mortician's tool; I don't know exactly what it's called, but it's a long sucky thing. As always the protagonists start with a suspect who turns out to be innocent and soon after dead, leaving a minor character to turn out to be the killer. Surely that piece of movie logic was running through the back of my head while I watched the scene with the killer POV shot, and the heavy breathing. At this point in the movie the killer's identity hadn't been revealed. In the back of my mind, I knew who the killer was just by reading the credits on the box, but in the forefront of my mind I was watching the scene, listening to the heavy breathing (this is the only scene where the killer seems to have respiratory problems), and thinking to myself... “That's Bill Paxton, breathing heavy.” Of course it turned out I was right. It took a little longer for it to sink in on me that it's strange, real strange, that I recognize the sound of Bill Paxton breathing heavy, as if I get obscene phone calls from him regularly. The most troubling thing is that I can justify sitting through 90 minutes of stupid 80's slasher to myself by saying it was worth it just to see Bill Paxton skipping through a cemetery in a hilariously fruity way. i <3 Hudson 1 comment|post comment

Non-flesh related irritation [31 Jul 2005|06:59pm] Since the entire population of the country has crawled up John Robert's ass to find out if his shit smells Conservative or not*it falls to me to sum everything else up. Karl Rove vs. National Security Since I'm still hearing about this I should clarify exactly why it's controversial. It's controversial because people rarely get the chance to use the words “undercover C.I.A. Agent” in a sentence that isn't summarizing the plot of a spy novel or movie. It just sounds so cool when you're using it “for reals” that people can't stop doing it. If anyone is wondering what Karl Rove's reaction to all this was, I think I can guess: “That bitch was supposed to be undercover? Nice one, Novack. Shit. Well, no real harm done. I'm sure the Dems aren't still so bitter about losing another election that I'll be hearing this months or years down the road.” Hillary Clinton's Political Aspirations vs. Remaining Sane Democratic Party Members Dear MSN, dear everyone, stop acting like that will ever happen. It's just fucking sad. Do you want to know what those Jesus freak Republicans pray for? They pray for a Clinton/Dean ticket in '08. Mrs. Clinton's newest vendetta is against Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas. Is she so stupid that she doesn't realize that all the young potential Democrats were too busy playing GTA:SA to vote on November 2nd? [Aside: Funny thing, it took me almost five minutes to rememer Howard Dean's name. I was thinking of “yelly guy” and getting his face confused with John McCain's. That's five Dean-free minutes. I think I'm getting better.] Morgan Spurlock vs. Documentary Medium When I was young I heard that documentaries, like French films, were for pretentious jackoffs. What I heard turned out to be only half right; it turned out that documentaries have all the comedy/pathos of feature films, but they're real, which makes them better in some non-abstract way. The assumption that everything in documentaries was “real” was one of the most recent vestiges of my childhood innocence to be obliterated. I still trust Errol Morris, but now whenever I watch a documentary I have to ask myself where the director/editor is jerking me off and where they're jerking off their favorite political party. It didn't use to be like this. I didn't watch a single episode of “30 Days.” Thanks to USA Today and commercials, I didn't need to. Here's an epiphany to rival “eating nothing but McDonald's will make you fat,” “Muslims-Americans get picked on.” Here's another one: “If you wear something stupid on your head, mean people will make fun of you for it.” Oh yes. Yamulkes? Dumb looking. The Pope's hat? Retarded. I'm extremely glad Christians don't have to wear anything goofy on their heads or I'd hate to be seen in public with my family more than I already do. But the really objectionable thing is that Spurlock scripts his shows to make whatever point he intends to make at the outset. Not always successfully: the “30 Days” season finale featured a mother binge drinking to try to keep her daughter from doing the same. It didn't work for obvious reasons, though one of the producers deemed it a successful experiment since the drunken mother scared the hell out of her nine year old son. As if he's going to remember that in seven years. Yeah, fuck you, Spurlock. The one thing I don't understand is why Leftist filmmakers want to make themselves as physically repulsive as possible. Yes, I get it, you think you're a documentarian and you're not Tom Cruise. I see where you're coming from. Now shave that disgusting hair off your face. Me vs. People Trying To Help Me This has no doubt been going in since time immemorial, but the people I'm complaining about don't have much use for historical context. I hear it, and read it, every day. The American populace is being dumbed down. Corporations sell people crap they don't need. They media doesn't tell people what they really need to know. I want to ask these people... “The media doesn't tell people what they really need to know. Do you keep yourself suitably informed?” “Well yes, of course...” “Has any corporation forced you personally to spend money on something you didn't want to spend money on?” “No, I own a Macintosh and I don't watch TV.” “You obviously think you're pretty smart. Has someone been dumbing you down, making sure you don't reach your full potential?” “Of course not. But other, lower, I mean, lower-CLASS people, they need...” “You? Has it ever occurred to you that you're not so much a brave culture warrior as you are a nosy busybody? No? Think about that. And while you're at it, go fuck yourself. I know I shall.” 2 comments|post comment

My First FAQ [21 Jul 2005|12:56am] “My job is to go into grocery stores, specifically the Albertsons chain, and rearrange the products on the shelves. I do this by taking the products (cans, boxes, bottles, etc) from where they are and putting them where my xeroxed pieces of paper (called “schematics”) say they should go.” That's essentially what I tell relatives when they ask me questions about my job. They're just acting like they care, so I don't mind them so much. Who I mind asking is the customers. I want to answer some frequently asked questions from Albertsons customers. Also, I'll provide answers to some frequent statements that aren't actually questions. First. Whether we are “workin' hard” or “hardly workin',” the answer to your question remains the same: fuck you. Second. You wish you had my job? You see me sitting on a milk-crate with my back resting up against some shelves and you wish you had my job, motherfucker? Do you see me squinting at this shitty xerox? I'm trying to make sure the tiny numbers on the xerox match up with the tiny numbers next to the bar code on these products, those numbers you'll never had to look at in your entire life. I put my back up against these shelves because it hurts when I'm hunched over a xerox for twenty minutes at a time, okay? It's funny that you should pick this particular time to tell me how great my job is, because this is actually the worst part. Pretty soon I'll be looking through fifty pages of stickers, each sticker featuring more tiny numbers, and I'll be peeling them off to...you know the price tags under every product? How do you think those get there? Asshole. Third. What are we doing here? By your tone I infer you mean “what are all you people doing here, clogging up the aisle, getting in the way of my shopping cart?” What we're doing here is WORKING, you abhorrent cunt. You, on the other hand, are shopping. I know you probably think you're shopping is important, you might have even made a little list, and what's in this aisle is on your little list. We're in this aisle for whatever money we can get out of it, because we're poor. The worst part of your supermarket experience will be eventually paying money for stuff that will eventually become feces and urine and fat. By contrast, the worst part of our supermarket experience is you. Fourth. Why are we doing this? We're just following orders, okay? If you must know, we move all the products around so that old ladies will get confused and wander around the store and eventually buy more than they originally intended to. Yes, we fuck over old ladies for a living. Yes, we hate ourselves. We hate you more. Fifth. Can I tell you where what is? Just because I'm here in this aisle working in this store doesn't mean I WORK IN THIS STORE. Individual Albertsons stores mean about as much to me as individual Johns mean to a whore. I do 'em, I collect my money, and I try to forget. That's all. Find someone with a polo shirt that has “Albertsons” written on it somewhere and ask them where to find your goddamn coconut milk*. *Fun Albertsons Fact! Coconut Milk can be found in the “Oriental Food” section of many Albertsons. If you didn't know, “Oriental” is now an ethnic slur for Asian-Americans, and probably for Asians in general. About half of the Albertsons I've worked in have changed the word “Oriental” to “Ethnic,” but others have not. I am absolutely against political correctness, but using the word “Oriental” to encompass food from Japanese, Chinese, Korean and Taiwanese cultures is utterly retarded. Sixth. What are we doing here? Again? Check the first paragraph. You want to know what we're REALLY doing here? Dying on the inside. We move products around a grocery store to confuse old ladies. The only real work we do is cleaning the dust and dirt and spilled filth off the shelves, and frankly I avoid doing that whenever I know the products will cover up the shelves when I'm done. You should know that when we move out of your way, we hate you. We wonder what possessed you to bring your motherfucking grocery cart down an aisle that you could clearly see was jam-packed with people and grocery carts and milk crates already. Was it physics? You were pushing your cart and even though your brain told you it couldn't possibly fit down the aisle you were heading for you simply couldn't stop the momentum so you just pushed on? Factor the fact that you're an asshole into the equation and that might work. We honestly hate you. We say “excuse me” and “no problem,” but we have a problem, and you're it, and there is no excuse. You could have left your screaming baby at the end of the aisle. No one wants to steal your screamy, mongoloid baby. The only thing we want is to finish what we're doing so we can go home to whatever homes we have and forget how many hours of the day we spent wasting everyone's time in an Albertsons. And right now you're wasting our time, with your questions, with your grocery cart and your enormous body. We might hate ourselves and our lives, but right now we only hate you for making us be here a few seconds longer. BONUS! [from when I was merchandising for a beer company] Am I having a good time tonight, a big party parhaps? Haha! Because I'm carting around a shitload of alcoholic beverages, you ask? Heh! Yes! I am purchasing these products! Haha! Good one, sir! Yes, they are for me. I will drink twenty-four cases of beer tonight. Ho-ho! Yes, big party! Crazy times! I am not obviously a vendor or anything like that! You and me, we're just two guys who like beer, joking around, yes? Yep, I'm having a “big party” tonight, haha, shoulder jab. Guess who's not invited? You, fag. 2 comments|post comment

I don't like to have fun. No, really. [13 Jul 2005|08:00pm] No, I don't want to go out. I don't want to go to a bar. I don't want to go to a club. I don't want to go to someone's apartment. No, I don't want to do something or try anything or try something or do anything. No, I don't want to see anybody. I don't want to look at girls. I do want to go back to my room. No, it's not still early. No, I don't see the nobility in making an effort. I want to be left alone alone alone I want to be left alone - I don't want to the phone to ring or the door to be knocked on or the window to be rapped on and the bust above the door can remain raven-fucking-free - if you can't understand that then understand that I haven't had my pills and I need those more than I need people. No, I don't want to do anything fun. I want to be left alone alone - the pressure is piling up and I feel my sanity running out of my ears - just alone and I'll be okay. [This happens in and out my head every couple days. I'm hoping it will happen less frequently if I write it down here.] post comment

July 4, 2005: Let Freedom Mutate [11 Jul 2005|06:48pm] The plan was that, lacking explosives, I would celebrate the fourth of July by myself, drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon, humming ditties from Team America: World Police, and watching all ten hours of Band of Brothers. If there's a better way to celebrate without blowing anything up I'd like to hear about it. I was eight hours into BoB when I saw the hump in the mirror for the first time. The location didn't surprise me; on my left shoulder, right where I'd landed a month prior. I took a five foot pratfall and if I hadn't been drinking I probably could have gotten something other than my clavicle underneath me to cushion the impact. As it was I rolled across the parking lot and almost got hit by a car driven by people who were extremely unhappy to see me, or anyone, but probably especially me, almost rolling under their tires. Later, my friend attempted to one-up me by crashing his own car. We ended up walking the last half mile to his house. I had a hell of a time getting my shirt off the next morning. Raising my left arm wasn't really working out, so I ended up sticking it forward and yanking my shirt over my head with my right hand. My shoulder hurt for the next week, then it hurt a little less, then a lot less. A month later it was feeling almost fine, so I was surprised to see the hump itself, though not by its location. My right shoulder flows smoothly from bottom of neck to upper-arm, uninterrupted by any muscle. My left shoulder used to be the same way. Now it looks the same save that a ping-pong ball appears to have been shoved under the skin. According to the doctor that I spent the rest of July 4 with, I broke my clavicle a month ago. I had no frame of reference at the time, so a fracture felt the same as an extremely bad sprain. Without a cast to push my shoulders into place my collar bone healed at the wrong angle, with the end poking skyward instead of off to my left. So, that's my new deformity. In the silver lining department, I now have an utterly literal chip on my shoulder. From now on July 4 will be called “Hump Day” whether it falls on a Wednesday or whenever. The disease that the Elephant Man suffered from is called Proteus Syndrome, by the way. 2 comments|post comment

Here we go again [26 Jun 2005|10:22pm] I've been away a while. I'm just posting now to prove to myself that I still can. America has gotten Nazi fever in the last month. And that's great, because Nazis are great. You might not think so, but consider: what's your least favorite Indiana Jones movie? Temple of Doom, of course. Why? Don't bullshit. I've watched the trilogy dozens of times, and Temple of Doom is just as good as Raiders and Crusade. But there aren't any Nazis. Nazis are the one group that no Leftie fruitcake will ever attempt to empathize with. No one cares what motivates Nazis. And no one cares when you shoot or bomb one. Except Kurt Vonnegut. That guy cares about everyone and it's starting to take a serious toll on his brain. Post-9/11 some people got pissy when the word “Evil” was applied to crazy-as-fuck mass murderers. If it wasn't for Nazis the E-word would have to completely retired, which would be a pity. Nazis are the standard bearers for the absolute bottom of humanity, and we should appreciate them for that. Sometimes it's important to have standards. People making completely retarded allusions to Hitler and Nazis is nothing new, though it's somewhat original to do it when you're a U.S. senator, and you're on TV. But it's not like I'm innocent. I think I reached my Hitler-analogy zenith a few months ago. It was near the end of a long work day and I was having a mood. One of my slow-ass co-workers was sitting on a milk crate, working on his section. There was merchandise in piles hither and yon. I pulled up my own milk crate and picked up some products to stock and move about and whatever else the job required. Co-worker: “Don't touch those! I have a system! I've got a plan here!” Me: [slowly turning my head toward him] “So did Hitler.” That seems egregious, but to be fair to myself I should say that we were merchandising aerosol cans of Zyclon-B. So. I was thinking of trying to get away from that sort of thing, especially since it's so hip and popular now. But fuck that. I love Nazis, and I'm not going to cut them out of my life just because some trendy fuckers like Durbin and every other asshole with a picket sign and a black marker think they're so cool with their Nazi allusions. If they can do it, I can do it better. From now until I forget, every blog entry of mine will have a Hitler/Nazi simile. I'll start with myself. Me: Mostly Tuetonic origins...just like Hitler. Likes dogs...just like Hitler. Would overrun France given the least opportunity...just like Hitler. Dark hair, very blue eyes...just like Hitler. Decorated war hero (Halo, Halo 2)...just like Hitler (World War 1). Myriad sexual hang-ups...just like Hitler. Man, this is getting eerie. Shitty painter...just like Hitler. Often ignore the good advice of my more knowledgeable associates...just like Hitler (and Rommel). Okay, I give up. I'm Hitler already. Never come back to this blog, because this is motherfucking HITLER'S blog. Also, it's apparently an episode of the Twilight Zone, because the dog just gassed me in an ironic twist. I'm going to bed. 6 comments|post comment

May 17th, 2005 4:00 PM - I go mad again, get 24 (twice), and find a use for teenagers. [20 May 2005|03:28pm] Counting time in utero I'm now just one season shy of half of fifty-years old. I got the first season of “24” for my birthday. It seemed like an appropriate way to note the passing of another rotten but television-heavy year, though not as appropriate as an archaeologist picking through my relatively well-preserved body and noting “Amazing! His emotional and intellectual development seems to have been stunted at the age of twelve, while his body continued to grow to enormous size! Also, he appears to still be technically alive. Look! That vomit on his shirt is fresh!” would have been. At 4 P.M. I wandered into a pawn shop and went mad again within five minutes. No sane person buys VHS movies in this day (May 17) and age (twenty-fucking-four), especially people who have been trying to save money. And no sane person spends money on sci-fi/horror movies from the 70's and 80's that no one even cared about in their respective decades past (at least two of them. They're so old, so very old). “Four VHS movies for $10” my eyes tell my brain, and my brain responds by flipping some switch inside to “go time.” My wallet whispers that my brain is a cocksucker, but the complaint is muffled because my body is already sliding on its ass across the floor to get a better look at the bottom row of tapes. No, no one cares about these old tapes anymore. They're old. They were never much good in the first place. Many of these movies will never be reissued on DVD or anyplace else. The pawn shop is their last chance to be seen, and if I don't buy them the proprietor (who struck as more of a gun fan than a film fan) will throw them in a dumpster. Unwatched, unrewound. When I was much younger (over half a lifetime ago) my parents, as opposed to everyone else's parents, didn't let me watch R-rated movies. While it's tempting to call this censorious or puritanical or repressive, and maybe it was, it was probably for the best. I was awfully sensitive about the movies back then, having yet to learn the learn the wretched, wretched grown-up trick of separating fantasy from reality. Everyone died for real. We still watched movies of course, though we had to rent the VCR as well as the VHS tapes. And the truth is I wouldn't trade “The Princess Bride” for a thousand of the shitty movies I missed back then. Still, I always had my interests. I spend 90% of my time in video stores perusing the racks of horror movies. It would be tempting to say I only did this because they were denied to me, but that's not remotely it. In the library I checked out Teen books with skulls on the cover. I rarely read them, I just liked the skulls. Later I graduated myself to Stephen King books (actually reading them this time) while mom tore her hair out wishing I would read “To Kill A Mockingbird.” She loves her some Atticus Finch. I do too, but I guess I would have liked him more if he was a skull. I thought the youth of America were worthless back when I was a member, and doubly so now that I'm so far removed. But I've managed to find at least one use for them, in their slang. My friends say my mother is crazy, but that's synonymous with “insane”, which seems a little strong. Searching for a word that best describes her mental state, the closest I could come was “dotty,” which sounds too British. Finally the kids, despite being illiterate or because of it, appropriated the word “random” and made it an adjective. My mother is totally random. So that's settled. Back in the videostore, the interest I had in the horror movie shelves wasn't the tapes themselves, which I knew were off-limits, or what was on the front of the boxes. It was the back of the box, always the back. Back in the day, when I was young and the world seemed better but wasn't, movie producers knew more than what they gleaned from their teen daughters squealing about how scary the movie “Scream” was. They knew how to put their best foot forward, “best foot” meaning “decapitated corpses and flesh-dripping demons,” and “forward” meaning “pictures of...on the back of the box.” Those latex creations (made with sweat and sticky syrup, far before the era of wretched CGI in which we now live unhappily and movie characters die unmessily), usually looked better in still frame, I have learned. Sweat, stink, uncertain gait, can't talk right, can't think not slow, the worst poetry of the world in stuttering motion. With no writer and no editor, uncreative dream sequences punctuate a twenty-four year long Director's Cut without a director. My life is better in still frame. My parents took me to church for years. I remember most of the gist, though I think anyone could pick up the same gist after living in western civilization for twenty-four years. I remember the pictures from the backs of the horror movies much better. It wasn't long before I found a familiar box (front and back) in the pawn shop. “Leviathan” (1989) doesn't have any good pictures, but it has a description on the back that brought back fond imaginings. Starring Peter Well (“Robocop”), Richard Crenna (“Rambo”) and Ernie Hudson (“Ghostbusters”), and directed by George P. Cosmatos (“Rambo: First Blood Part Two”), with special effects by Stan Winston (“Aliens”). The part that triggered my youthful fantasies was the description of the titular creature. “...a true masterpiece of the grotesque. The perpetually regenerating, mutant aberration – gilled head, five inch long spiked teeth, scaled body and a tail formed from human legs – presents a hideous image of unforgettable terror.” Whoa, whoa, whoa. “Tail formed from human legs”? Movie box, you had me at Richard Crenna and the black Ghostbuster. Now you're just making me crazy. Er. I found a George A. Romero movie called “Season of the Witch” which I haven't seen and had not, in fact, ever heard of before. I found a movie starring Wil Wheaton (“Rising star Wil Wheaton” -the back of the box) called “The Curse” that I'm going to give to Mike because I care about my friends. Specifically, I care about weirding them out on occasion. The box promises a movie loosely based on Lovecraft's “The Colour Out of Space” and “murderous, slime-oozing fiends!” No idea if Wil runs away with space Native Americans at the end. I bought “It's Alive” because someday it might behoove me to write an article about abortion and it therefore behooves me to use “It's Alive” (and possibly “It Lives Again” and “It's Alive 3: Island of the Alive”) as talking points since abortion fans and detractors haven't updated their rhetoric since the motherfucking 60's. I found two zombie movies, one that I like, one that looks terrible, both that I don't own. I bought them both. I buy any zombie movie I see. That's a rule. On the last rack, on the bottom shelf, I found my validation. “Shatter Dead,” a 2001 indie, and another zombie film. I had considered paying $20 for it on eBay. Saving $17.50 on it ensured I will be going mad again in the future. 4 comments|post comment

FIVE MORE THINGS I SAW IN CALIFORNIA [08 May 2005|10:10pm] 1.Cuba Gooding Jr. Stalking back and forth between the aisles I saw a completely normal looking African-American man shopping for candy. I did an incredibly slow double take, walking ten feet further, stopping, then turning around to look again. I checked one more time to confirm what I thought (“Yep, that's Cuba Gooding Jr.”), and immediately felt guilty for following the guy around to look at him, if only for a few seconds. Nevertheless I told one of my co-workers who had caught some sort of celebrity fever after seeing Cameron Diaz driving next to her a few days prior. She borrowed my camera to take a picture Cuba in the parking lot. According to my co-worker and the clerks he's “very, very nice.” Probably so. I felt a momentary sense of guilt since I wouldn't hesitate to say horrible things about him here on this blog. Regardless of his acting ability he makes terrible film choices and I have no respect for that. I couldn't imagine saying that to his face when he was standing ten feet away since I have no personal animosity toward him. That made me think I should be more careful about saying cruel things about people I've never met, like calling them “cunts” and so forth. But I only thought that for a few seconds. God speed, Cuba. I should have offered to be your agent. 2.An octopus. In contrast to the tide pools I've seen in Washington and Oregon, California's tide pools have octopi. That makes them better. The short version of the story is that I wrestled an immature octopus from the churning waters and we fought. He squirted me. I squirted him. Pictures were taken. I tried to dodge his razor sharp beak, forgetting that it's squid that have beaks. Eventually I let him go because he had been a worthy if gelatinous adversary, and he agreed to tell the ocean who the baddest motherfucker on dry land is (Vic Mackey). 3.Murder on the news. Back in Spokane a murder makes the news every month or two. Around L.A. There's a new one every day. My first night in town I heard about a wheelchair bound married couple found shot to death in their home. I heard a newscaster say that a murder suspect (possibly in a different murder, I have no idea) was also suspected of selling rocket launchers. I mentioned this to Mike and he said “There are fifteen million people in this area. Odds are at least ONE of them is selling rocket launchers.” Mike works with statistics FOR A LIVING, but even if he didn't I wouldn't argue with his logic there. 4.Rumble in the high school. According to the reporter (and for some reason the reporters in L.A. seem less professional than the ones in Spokane) two Hispanic girls were arguing, a black male student did something (the reporter had no idea what), and a little later over a hundred students were getting into it. No one seriously injured, surprisingly. 5.More murder on the news. This last one the reporters had to put on their sad faces for. An eleven year old boy was beaten to death with a baseball bat by his friend. They were both playing baseball and the soon-to-be deceased kid was teasing the soon-to-be-murderer for losing, or something like that. The kicker came with the coverage of the funeral. A reporter stuck a microphone in the face of a bereaved teenage friend of the deceased. Here is the comment: “I know he'd [want] to go like that, with his favorite sport.” 1 comment|post comment

USA TODAY: STAFFED BY THE RETARDED? [24 Apr 2005|09:43pm] “Conventional wisdom would seem to suggest that bloggers – people who post personal stories and fiction on their Internet Web logs – would turn up their noses at the brick-and-mortar world of book publishing.” That's the first paragraph in Carol Memmott's article about bloggers getting book publishing deals. Speaking for bloggers worldwide, on the INTERNET WEB, I would like to say to Carol Memmott that she is entirely correct - we bloggers find the idea of getting paid large sums of money for doing what we're currently doing for free to be entirely insane. Against conventional wisdom, even. Got that, Ccarroll? You fucking nimrod. Note: According to the article two of the bloggers who got book deals, Jessica Cutler and Stephanie Stein, apparently blog about what outstanding sluts they are. That's their gig. Just awesome. 1 comment|post comment

FIVE THINGS I SAW IN CALIFORNIA [23 Apr 2005|06:56pm] 1) An eight-year-old girl swinging around a pole in the Panda Express I was having lunch in, while her mom ordered food. The kid's shirt said “JUICY DEBUTANTE.” I'm already mostly soul-deadened to the sluttification of preteen girls going on, but “JUICY”? Who designed that shirt, Albert fucking Fish? To my right there was a Hispanic man who appeared to be intently reading his orange chicken and rice...with his eyes shut. After a few seconds I realized he was praying. Hopefully for the juicy eight-year-old. 2) Mike, Mike's girlfriend, their cat. When most people visit their friends in California for the first time they probably go bar hopping, or club hopping, or site seeing, or to the beach, something. We stayed in with vodka and played Gamecube. While that was going on I was thinking to myself, “Just as the good Lord intended.” Tupac says that California...knows how to party. I don't. My comfortable niche is slightly sloshed in front of a TV with a controller. Mike's apartment is perfect for that kind of thing. The next night we went bowling, and I found out that when I'm sober I can throw the ball straighter. 3) ”Bio-Dome,” starring Pauly Shore and some shit eating Baldwin. My roommate got a bug up his ass to watch “Bio-Dome.” He told me it was hilarious, though he later revealed that he hadn't seen it in over five years. The movie started. A damnable Baldwin ate a corn off Shore's foot. At some point I started reading a book, but I could still hear everything. Eventually the movie ended and I put my book down. “Hey. HEY. Look at me.” This was the first time I'd snapped at him. I've unslurred the words here for the reader's convenience, and also probably added some words that I thought about saying later. “You see this. You see THIS? You see this shirt?” I pointed at my “Kingpin” t-shirt, prominently featuring Bill Murray as Ernie McCracken. “This is Bill Murray. Bill FUCKING Murray. You've seen me wearing this shirt before. I've been wearing this shirt all day. I was wearing this shirt when you rented that movie. I was wearing it when you started playing it. Now, what...the FUCK...made you think that “Bio-Dome” contains an acceptable amount of comedy for me to watch?” My roommate haltingly conceded that Bill Murray is a god, but that “Bio-Dome” was “good for a Pauly Shore movie.” “NOT ACCEPTABLE. Not even remotely. God Dammit, I can't even get a blog entry out of reviewing “Bio-Dome” because everyone on earth, except for you apparently, already instinctively knows how terrible it is.” “I'm sorry,” he said, “I guess I just have bad taste in movies.” I recognized this as his trying to accuse me of being some sort of comedy snob, but it wasn't true. When someone farts, I laugh as much as anyone. But if that someone grabs my head and shoves it into their ass, I stop laughing. 4) Hispanics parking their vehicles in entirely the wrong places. Since someone else probably doesn't want to mention this marvelously true stereotype on their blog, I'll do it here. 5) A strange parrot dog. People tie up their dogs outside the store I worked in all day long. Our crew was walking outside for lunch when I saw a small dog with long ears and curly black hair. She looked pretty forlorn, for a dog. My boss John said: “I think she wants her mom.” A second later another co-worker walked out, stopped, and complained of an achy chest. About the same time the dog started mewling, or howling, or something. I've never heard anything like it from a dog before. It sounded like: “Arr wharrr RAUGHM.” Or: “Ar Waar AUGHM.” I'm going for an onomatopoeia here, and failing. What it really sounded like, though, was: “I WANT MOM.” I'm not crazy. After twenty seconds of the dog's peculiar warbling a clerk walked out, looked at the dog, and said “I thought there was a kid out here.” 5 comments|post comment

Jane Fonda: Some Kind of Imbecile? [10 Apr 2005|05:37pm] I'm taking a vacation with this article. Equally challenging ideas for a blog would have been: “Paris Hilton: Some Kind of Dumb Slut?” Or, “Michael Moore: A Little Chunky?” I'm also taking a vacation down to Marina Del Ray, by the California coast, for two weeks. The idea is that I'm supposed to work for at least 80 hours while I'm down there, but I'm trying not to think of that. “Me: Too Gross-Looking For A Bathing Suit?” Fonda is the quintessential vapid celebrity, dumb blonde, and spoiled American. Current celebrities can't even come close. It might be fun to make fun of Tim Robbins, but he was in “The Shawshank Redemption” and no one can ever take that away from him. I'll skip the “Hanoi Jane” episode since I assume anyone who could possibly care already knows about it. The thing that irritated me anew was in USA Today, and I saw it because the hotel I was at a week ago gives guests free copies. From the tripe: ATLANTA — This is not where a movie star is supposed to live. The street Jane Fonda calls home is in what real estate agents might call a "transitional" neighborhood. It's industrial. Run-down. And right in downtown Atlanta, a five-minute drive from the pied-à-terre she once shared at the CNN Center with ex-husband Ted Turner. To get to Fonda's loft, an open space filled with white couches, minimalist tables, books and ethnic-looking knick-knacks, you park on the street, walk to her building and ring a buzzer. After her assistant answers the door and then serves water in the living room, Fonda emerges from her kitchen, all layered hair, perfectly made-up face and lightly tinted eyeglasses. When it's suggested that someone of her stature might be expected to live in the more posh Buckhead neighborhood or a suburban gated community, Fonda vehemently shakes her head. "Oh, no!" she says. "I chose to live here. This is really great. When I lived in California, I didn't live in Beverly Hills or Bel Air. I lived in Santa Monica before it was chic." She says she wanted to be near her daughter, Vanessa, who lives nearby. And she chose a grittier area because "I wanted to make a statement." Blah-be-de-fuckin'-blah, here's the rest: http://www.usatoday.com/life/people/2005-04-04-fonda_x.htm That's the problem with American Communists. They think they're deep oceans of empathy with the poor, they all want to appear “down with the brothers” (note the ethnic-looking knick-knacks), but they're just sickeningly spoiled goddamned trust-fund children with plenty of backdoors to step out of if things start getting just a little TOO ethnic for their refined tastes in downtown Atlanta or wherever they're “making a statement.” I wonder if Fonda's “transitional” neighbors might feel like making a statement about their new multi-millionaire best friend, if anyone bothered to interview them. Given the crude language of the underclass the statement might include the F-word a lot, and unromantic uses of “kiss” and “my ass.” I hope so anyway. 1 comment|post comment

Letter to The Easterner editor. [08 Apr 2005|09:12pm] This is a reply to Janica Lockhart's editorial titled “Free Speech Reigns,” and an open letter to EWU students asking: “Are you done making asses of yourselves yet?” Janica says: “The whole point of going to college is being able to think and speak freely without the threat of being personally attacked.” Perfectly wrong. You can “think and speak freely” in your bathtub. The “whole point of going to college” is to get a piece of paper that says to a potential employer “I went to school for 4+ years after getting my high school diploma. Pay me.” The piece of paper is also supposed to tell an employer the bearer is educated, but that's hardly a guarantee, is it? Universities don't hold secret information. It's all there in public libraries and on the internet. Professors get paid to break that information down into semester-sized chunks and then grade students on their memorization skills. Though I'm not a history professor I'll give a paragraph-sized chunk right now, and since I'm not being paid I'll skip the grading: at the end of the Age of Aquarius, when a certain type of person realized they couldn't make money protesting in the street, he or she went into teaching. Once upon a time the point, the actual point, of higher education was to teach young people how to think (or how to find a husband, depending on their sex). Now, to professors, the point is to teach young people what to think. That's more than a semantics difference, and like all college information, it's not a secret. [To ensure this editorial doesn't have a “Good Will Hunting” vibe I should point out that I'm an idiot. And while I find this unfortunate, I'm still one step ahead of idiots ignorant of their idiocy] To break that down: you pay for college through the nose for a piece of paper and professors. And you might get a professor like Ward Churchill. Right-wing activist David Horowitz has been out and about pimping his Academic Bill of Rights, which is either a means to end political indoctrination by professors or right-wing Affirmative Action, or both. A few days ago he was assaulted with baked goods during a speech at Butler University. “...without the threat of being personally attacked.”  Right. You've all heard of Harvard; you're parents would have been REALLY proud if you'd been accepted there instead of EWU. EWU accepts everyone. I know this because I got accepted there. Twice. You all might have heard how Harvard president Lawrence Summers was persecuted when he put forward the idea that men and women's brains might work somewhat differently. It isn't something Summers made up; it's a scientific theory, and not an especially controversial one. But because some people think it's controversial it somehow became controversial. Summers' suggestion has also been a cornerstone of stand-up comedy since roughly the DAWN OF TIME. Not that I expect the collegiate to be as cutting-edge as Bill Hicks or Dave Chapelle, but still. So the free exchange of ideas is a joke at Harvard. Harvard, the number one college in America, is King Shit of Turd Mountain. And if things are that bad at Harvard, how bad are they at Eastern Washington University? Just as bad, though a little different. EWU students don't seem to understand what freedom of speech is, they just support it. The same way people who don't understand Orwell wave their “1984” Cliffs Notes at whatever they think is peeking in at them. Stephen Jordan wasn't violating anyone's rights when he canceled Ward Churchill's appearance. Certainly not students' rights. Lockhart: “Students have now sent a powerful message against the administration that their right to free speech will not be violated.” I'll assume Janica meant “free listening” since Ward would have been furious if anyone had the gall to interrupt his fifteen minutes of self-aggrandizing (complete with conspiracy theory). As far as Churchill's free speech goes, $3,000 isn't free. What Jordan did was send a clear message: “Ward, you're a douchebag. We're not paying for your shit.” Not clear enough, though. Imagining a violation of their favorite amendment, EWU students worked themselves into a self-righteous frenzy culminating in 500 people attending a fifteen minute speech. In the end, what was it? Scared kids beating impotent fists against their own inevitable post-college irrelevance. Kids who fashion themselves as champions of free speech because they want to feel like champs, and the dissonance between free speech and college speech codes doesn't phase them because they paid their professors to tell them what to think, not how to think. Churchill didn't have time for any grave dancing, but he got a very public venue and more gullible tools to clap for him. Someday those tools might look back and realize how silly they looked, but I hope not. I hope they never grow up, because I'm not competing in the Neverland job market. Ben Kromer, former EWU student NOTE: It doesn't take an armchair psychology major to decipher that this letter is full of things I tell myself to feel better about dropping out of college. Three times. So far. Just because I tell myself these things (and so many others) to feel better doesn't mean I don't believe them, or that they aren't true. The part I believe the most is this: “...I'm an idiot. And while I find this unfortunate, I'm still one step ahead of idiots ignorant of their idiocy.” College graduates know more than me, or at least they should. They paid enough, and no matter how much drinking they did they must have picked up something in four years, if only via osmosis (ie: fucking people that talk in their sleep). Being able to memorize and regurgitate information is great and I wish I could do more of it. For some people, that's all they need to do to get by. For me, rhetoric and lateral thinking are much more valuable. Because, using them, no matter how wrong or ignorant I am, I can make it look like I'm right. Because I'm a mean, bitter person. I'm more interested in winning arguments than agreeing to disagree. For the last few years I've been reading college papers and occasionally writing letters like the one above when I'm feeling superior enough. I'm getting past college age now, so it feels a little bit like beating up on little kids. The points I make in the letter are valid enough, but the point of the letter itself was to hurt people's feelings. Because they deserve it. Because I deserve it. I don't know. What I do know is the letter is quite premature. It reads like an old Soviet “Pravda” writer typing up praises of the Communist system at work before going home and killing and eating his neighbor because he's so, so hungry. 1 comment|post comment

Nothing will ever make me happy - “Sin City” review [06 Apr 2005|07:18pm] After watching a bad comic book adaptation there's usually one thought in the forefront of my mind: “I could have done it better.” That isn't ego talking, what it means is “I couldn't have done it much worse.” Here's how I could have made a better “From Hell” or “League of Extraordinary Gentlemen.” Director me, addressing cast and crew: “Listen, cocksuckers, I ran down to the fucking comic book shop and picked up every goddamn trade paperback of this here story we're doing. I'm going to hand them the hell out, and then I'm going to sleep off this hangover in my trailer. Put what's in the FUCKING book on FUCKING film and make sure I have some FUCKING dailies to watch for tonight. If you have any questions, ask the son of a bitching books. I'm out.” The results might not have been masterpieces, but they would have been better than the movies that got made. - Before I saw the “Sin City” trailer I hadn't thought about Frank Miller's baby in years. I was a big fan in high school, and then something happened. It might have had to do with “NYPD Blue,” “L.A. Confidential,” “Pulp Fiction” and the few old crime noir films I'd seen. I looked at those and then I looked at “Sin City” and I wanted “Sin City” to have realistic dialogue, nuanced characterization, and “gritty realism,” whatever that meant. I think I thought it meant a shaky cam. In the process of getting pumped for “Sin City: The Movie” I reread the comics. The characters aren't nuanced; they're big, and whatever deep oceans of feeling they have they mostly keep to themselves. Comic books are a medium that can't support much realistic dialogue, because real people go on and on, and 32 pages doesn't have room for that. Sin City's residents talk tough and to the point. The reason that “Sin City” fell from grace in my eyes before was a failure of perception on my part. Whatever I was thinking “Sin City” should be, whatever I thought the point was, it wasn't. The point of “Sin City” is to tell a story, be a bad motherfucker, and look good doing it. Looking at the comics for the first time in years, I saw that that is a fine thing. Good enough for me, anyway. - I like Robert Rodriguez, too. The adjective most often applied to his directing is “energetic.” His movies are, and he is. He is also utterly unpretentious. He seems to think that this movie making thing is a dream gig and he might as well have fun with it while it lasts. His book “Rebel Without a Crew” is something every aspiring filmmaker should read, unless they only want to make faggoty art house films. A lot of my favorite movies are faggoty art house films, but I wouldn't want to spend five minutes next to Lars Von Trier, whereas Hispanic homeslice Rodriguez would be an ideal roommate. - I sat down to watch “Sin City,” as pumped as I've been for any movie. I saw a preview for “Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith.” It was good, and I felt used. Fuck George Lucas for making me excited for a movie that will inevitably let me down, hard. “Sin City” started. Bullet points in my brain below. Appropriately, they're not in chronological order: -They didn't use the great music from the previews. -I can understand the desire to cast Bruce Willis, but he looks about twenty years too young for this role. This role was written for Clint Eastwood, circa “Unforgiven.” -Reading the comics, years ago, thinking: “They can never make a 'Sin City' movie because there's no way that anyone could play Marv.” I was half-wrong. Mickey Rourke looks perfect. He doesn't act right though; he's too jovial. Marv has a sense of humor, sure, but mostly he acts fast and thinks slow. In the movie he seems more cantankerous than crazy. Also, they changed the way he escapes from his cell in the farm for some reason. -Bruce Willis slamming his fist on the ground. Michael Madsen smirking. Is this a high school drama production? The subject matter is different, but the acting is the same. What the hell is going on? -Jessica Alba is an airhead. Rosario Dawson and Brittany Murphy; I can hear their interior monologues: “We're doing a comic book movie, tee-hee.” This movie was filmed in front of green screens. That couldn't have helped. Brittany Murphy is REALLY sucking here. Rosario Dawson looks ten years too young for her role, and she's no good either. None of them are as bad as Michael Madsen, though. -Nudity correlates directly to star power. It's a very Hollywood way to do things, but I won't blame Robert Rodriguez. Dammit Alba, if you're getting paid to play a stripper then STRIP. -What's bothering me, exactly? I look for the word and come up with “inflection.” The actors are saying the words I remember, but they're saying them WRONG. They don't sound the way they do in my head. It's not the actors' specific voices, it's the INFLECTION. Too fast, too slow, too high, too low. No, not too slow. No one speaks slowly in this movie. And the lines I know by heart come one after the other. What's missing is the pauses; big fat dramatic pauses. I guess there's no time. “Sin City” has three stories, and each one could take one or one and a half hours to tell. Three to four and a half hours of story, squeezed into two. -Three stories, told start to end and back to back. Why not split them up and weave back and forth between stories, to simulate the breaks between issues if nothing else? It would be confusing, sure, but anyone who followed “Pulp Fiction” or a Kurt Vonnegut book could handle it. -Robert Rodriguez is in love with Frank Miller's words, and I can appreciate that. But he's breaking the “show, don't tell” rule. I'm hearing interior monologues where none are needed. It's okay to let the images show what the characters are thinking or seeing sometimes. “Sin City” comics have a few frames per page; movies have 32 frames per second. This isn't faithfulness to the source material. This is a literal interpretation. This is fundamentalism. There's no need to say one medium is better than another, but it is necessary to acknowledge that film and comics are different mediums. What works perfectly in one works less perfectly in another. -I can hear Clive Owen's accent just under the surface. -The Big Fat Kill is my favorite of the three “Sin City” stories used in the movie. There is a moment when the protagonist, Dwight, appears to have been shot in the chest. He's lying face-down in the grass with a gang of Irish killers around him. One of them finds something on the ground near Dwight. It's a cop's badge. And in the badge the Irishman finds...the bullet. Then the killing really starts. It's a great dramatic moment that only exists in the comic. In the movie Dwight rises up with a blazing gun in each hand, and it just happens. No dramatic swell in the score, nothing. I'm left empty, robbed. -The compositions are beautiful and perfect. The dialogue isn't bad, it just sounds that way. I wish I was reading it in sub-titles, but “Sin City” is as All American as a Western. It wouldn't work for me. Non-English speaking peoples have really got it good this time. -The End. There it is. After everything I've ever said and thought, my chief complaint is that the movie, based on a comic by a writer I greatly admire, is too faithful to the source material. I started admiring the source material again when I learned to appreciate the fact that it's more stylized than realistic. I want the movie to be less cartoony. Evidently, I'll never be happy. At least this time I didn't walk out of the movie thinking “I could have done it better.” I would have done it differently, sure, but I wouldn't have had the guts to do a balls to the wall rendition like Rodriguez did; mine wouldn't have looked nearly as good. I wish I liked listening to it half as much as I liked looking at it. post comment

Terri Shiavo now definitively brain dead. [01 Apr 2005|11:31pm] “After I'm done boiling the vegetables, what do I do with the wheel-chairs?” -t-shirt slogan, presumably seen in Hot Topic. I'm relatively healthy and I've been hoping someone would yank my feeding tube for as long as I can remember, so I'm the last person who should give his opinion about “what would be best for Terri.” Other than her husband, I mean. The Death With Dignity people have a lot of work to do. The first thing they need to do is fix it so people's bowels don't release as soon as they die, because dignity never smells like poop. They could have made things run a lot smoother with the Shiavo case, too. The problem was those videotapes; they no doubt affected public opinion. Terri had that happy look that retarded people have. It made people think that Terri was at some kind of peace with her condition. If someone really cared about her they would have snuck into her room and pulled her mouth down in a rictus of horror. And maybe stapled it there, since according to the New York Times she can't feel anything. Hopefully she can't feel anything. -- Things irritate me. I get out of hand. With the Shiavo case, a lot of people were irritated and out of hand, which irritates me that much more because it makes me feel less special. Here are some people that irritated me: 1)People that spontaneously became experts in medicine and law, but they actually weren't. Also, many discovered latent telepathic abilities. 2)People who criticized politicians for “playing politics.” Ronnie Terriaf made a lot of alley-oop slam dunks for the Gonzaga Bulldogs this year. Here's what never, ever went through my mind after I saw one: “I wish Ronnie Terrief would quit PLAYING BASKETBALL and stump for votes instead.” 3)People who tried to make it a religious issue. I can think of a lot of things that are objectionable about starving a woman to death without querying WWJJ? I know what Jesus's AGENT would do. “J-Man, I can pretty much guarantee you at LEAST a million new followers if you heal this Shiavo chick on Easter. Think about it.” The people who irritated me weren't actually the religious ones though; them I ignored because, like I said, there wasn't a shortage of non-religious arguments. It was the people complaining about the religious people, as if this would be a non-issue without them around. These people complain that Christians think they have a monopoly on ethics and morality, and then... 4)Me. It's very early on March the 28th as i write this. Terri Shiavo hasn't dehydrated to death yet. I felt like writing this tonight, but figured it would have more “oomph” if i published it after she died, so i wrote about her in the past tense. Now i'm going to wait ghoulishly for her to expire, like everyone else. i'm a fucking monster. 3/28 ~1 AM 2 comments|post comment

Good Friday to Easter, feeling more or less alive. [27 Mar 2005|10:57pm] - My little sister can't stop fucking up. She got caught shoplifting on Friday. - I went to church on Sunday, to make my mother happy for a change. It was just like I remembered. I saw a terrible Passion skit, accompanied by terrible (but sincere) singing. I had hoped without much hope that Mel Gibson's movie might put a stop to this sort of thing. Pastor Chuck would say “Now we're going to dim the lights, everyone please sit quietly as we watch this extremely well-made movie.” - Little sister feels the need to put on makeup before church. She sat in the car to do so, and after she was done she threw open the car door and dented the car adjacent to us. A week ago the parents received the $200+ phone bill she'd racked up calling her best friend in Deer Park, a town just a few miles outside local calling range. She simply can't keep from fucking up. I look great by comparison. - Whether she's capable of thinking or not, it was very thoughtful of Terri Shiavo to hold off on dying until Easter is over. post comment

WARD CHURCHILL'S EWU SURVIVAL GUIDE [20 Mar 2005|11:48pm] When EWU president Stephen Jordan canceled Ward Churchill's talk he cited “security concerns.” Now it appears that Churchill is indeed coming to Cheney, and there is no evidence that security conditions have improved. As a fan of free speech the thought that normally docile Cheney residents might use violence to silence Prof. Churchill makes me sick, and puts me in mind of a famous passage: When They came for the whacked out college professors, I said nothing. When They came for the whacked out college students, I said nothing. When They came for me, there was no one left to speak, except sane people, and I said “What happened to all those crazy people?” And they said, “Don't worry about it.” And I replied, “I wasn't, really. Well, see ya.” Chilling. The most chilling part is that the last part takes place in a movie theater. I hate it when people talk during movies, so I'm going to do my part to make sure that doesn't happen. I'm going to tell Ward Churchill everything he needs to know to survive a trip to EWU. He'll know every trick and trap ahead of him, and as the imperialist dog Joe said, “Knowledge is power.” This is addressed to Ward himself, and I'm going to add as many extraneous Third Reich references as possible so he feels comfortable reading it, and enough ass kissing that he feels secure as tenure. FIVE THINGS WARD CHURCHILL NEEDS TO WATCH OUT FOR 1)Smallpox. You tried to educate people about how European settlers gave Indians smallpox infected blankets to kill them like Nazis, but a bunch of liars said that wasn't true because no one knew how viruses were transmitted back then. I say that's bullshit, and not only did they know all about smallpox back then, now the little Dr. Mengeles have a lab set up with smoking vials of smallpox, smallpox coated darts, and also smallpox in powder form to slip into your food and drink. Adolf Hitler was a vegetarian. 2)Firewater. Both fireand watercan beextremelyhazardousunder thewrong circumstances. SORRY, my space bar was stuck. As I was saying, fire may look pretty but can be dangerous. Nazis used to put people in fire. Water is good to drink (though not as good as it was before this land was stolen from the native ecologists) but can be dangerous if you have your head under it for too long. Erwin Rommel probably drank a lot of water in the African desert. Also, avoid alcohol. I had a hangover for about twelve hours last weekend, and you can't afford that kind of thing with your busy speaking schedule. Adolf Hitler was a very good public speaker. 3)The White Man. 4)EWU history professor Bob Dean. Ward, the things you say are extremely well-reasoned and thought out, you never stoop to using hyperbole, and your metaphors thunder across the intellectual plains like a mighty buffalo herd. By contrast, Bob acted like your uninvitation was some kind of First Amendment violation and then compared EWU to Joe McCarthy. Following the Trail of Tears of Dean's tortured logic, EWU has violated the rights of every single person on earth who hasn't been paid to speak at EWU. Bob was probably about two seconds away from mentioning Orwell, Voltaire, Nazis, and Salem. He's a bad influence. If you hang out with him you might start using clichés and painfully twisted logic and other stupid stuff like that. Plus, he's probably white, and you should be keeping it real. Panzer. 5)The first four are important, but the most important thing to watch out for, Ward, is people who think they know you're not a real Indian. I don't know where they get their crazy ideas; probably Rush “Himmler” Limbaugh, Sean “Uber-Himmler” Hannity and Fox “INIFINITE HIMMLER!” News. It's obvious you're a Native American because you understand their pain, and because you look like one. Except for those streaks in your hair, I don't get those, but my sister says they're “totally cute.” The kind of person who would question the authenticity of your heritage would also fly in like a Luftwaffe of lies and say a lot of stupid stuff about you “copying” art and then passing it off as your own, and “plagiarizing.” Even worse, one of them might think it's okay to make a bunch of Indian jokes aimed at you because they think you're a “poser” that's only claimin' Native for personal gain or simply because you're insane. As I said, I'm a huge supporter of free expression, but if someone steps like that steps to you you should bury them up to their neck in an anthill. UPDATED 3/30: NOW WITH MORE HITLER. post comment

Curse you, Bush! [14 Mar 2005|10:47pm] Someday, probably not soon, but someday, I'm going to try to do something to break out of this vicious cycle. It begins on the first of January and ends at December 31st. Then, immediately, it begins all over again. What exactly I'm going to attempt I don't know yet. The details aren't really important at this point. However, there are two general points that are extremely evident and extremely important. First point: Whatever I do is going to take money. Probably a lot. The best way to make money appear where there is none is with credit cards. I get a new credit card offer in the mail every few weeks. Apparently I am already approved. They credit card companies must really like me. Second point: Whatever I attempt, I will almost certainly fail. All the money, estimated at “a lot,” will be gone. The credit card companies will stop liking me. And then I'll declare bankruptcy and be back to where I am now, minus the $205 dollars in my checking account right now. And the credit card companies won't send me junk mail anymore. [This is where the cursing starts] That was the motherfucking plan, at least until this asshole bankruptcy law reform bill went through congress like shit out of an ASS. DAMN, BITCH! It was a good goddamn plan, even if every last fucking detail wasn't totally worked out; not much point putting the finishing goddamn touches on it now, is there? Shit, no. Bush, or whoever is specifically personally fuckingly responsible for this, hear me: my dreams aren't just some unwanted fetus you can suck the brains out of whenever you feel like it. Except apparently they motherfucking ARE. ASS. post comment

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