I know, I know. Zero posts in August. Boo hoo.
Actually, my month long blog-hiatus was probably a good thing. Sometimes it's best for us writers to take a break and let our minds re-fuel with new ideas. I could have forced myself to puke out posts, but they would've probably been just as chunky, smelly, and unfunny as real vomit.
First of all, let's back-track. From Aug 25th - Sept 1st, I dived down to Chicago and New York City. Great places! But I'm not here to bore you with places; I'm here to entertain you with people. Women, in fact. Big City Women. So without further ado, let me introduce you to Jane, Mary, Stephanie, Joan, The Queen of Tuesdays, and Miss Frisk.
Jane, a 65ish woman I met on the plane from Saskatoon to Chicago, was either eccentric or lunatic. We sat beside each other for two hours without saying a single word. During our descent, however, she started asking questions about where I was from, where I was going, etcetera. Turns out she was from Chicago, and went on to warn me about certain neighbourhoods, shitty restaurants, and drive-by shootings. Two things about her interested me: one, she had a son in Big City advertising (my career goal), and two, she was wearing a large expensive ring (sign of wealth?). Somewhat shamingly, both those things led to me giving her my name and email address. I don't even think she knew what email was. Anyway Jane, if you're alive and listening, I'm sorry I led you on. Let's just be friends... but only if you're rich.
Next is Mary, another 65ish woman (the start of a depressing geriatric trend). She was a ticket-taker at the Indiana Beach rollercoaster themepark. The only thing she said as we entered the gate was: "Now I wanna hear you scream!". Umm, Mary? I want to hear you shut up -- you're rickety wooden rollercoasters make me nervous enough.
Now Stephanie was only 11. Tall, yes, but only 11. We had supper with her and her family one night, and her dad reminded us every five minutes of just how young Stephanie was. Did he think we were going to hit on her? Sorry, dad, but I only whore out to old ladies with expensive rings and city connections.
Joan the Docent was our 65 year old guide through the Chicago architectural boat tour. She often went off topic a lot to talk about her personal tastes in real estate. Joan was awesome.
Now if I thought Jane (the old lady on my plane ride to Chicago) was entertaining, that was nothing compared to the one on the way back. A 65ish year old spinster sitting one row ahead was so cheery and giddy about life that we quickly named her "The Queen of Tuesdays". Why? Well, it was Tuesday and she was loving it. Plus, she seemed the type to orgasm over cheap movie nights and Toonie Tuesdays at KFC. She chortled violently every time the stewardess mispronounced "Saskatchewan", and gabbed tirelessly about things like Saskatoon berries and airport transfers. Trust me, if you never meet The Queen of Tuesdays, you're not missing much.
Finally, after claiming luggage back at our home airport and clearing customs, my two travel buddies were given permission to exit the airport and go home. I, however, was randomly selected for a random bag search. Argh. Now let me introduce you to Miss Frisk.
Miss Frisk was a pokey, proddy airline guard who loved opening my suitcase and asking embarassing questions. In fact, I'm not sure some of her questions were even official. Example:
Miss Frisk (holding laptop): "Any adult content on here, sir?"
Me: "Umm no--"
Miss Frisk: "ANY AT ALL, sir?"
Me: "Really, no--"
Miss Frisk: "Webcam pics? Girl on girl action? Double penetraish?"
Me: "NO! LEAVE ME ALONE!"
Anyways, despite this strange vacation overview, I had a blast. Of course there were wonderfully beautiful glamazons strutting 5th, plus decked out models on Michigan Ave and gorgeous actresses with angelic voices... but for every million of those in NYC, there's a hundred frumpy airline guards, ten retired docents, and one Queen of Tuesdays.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Cure for HPV
No, not the human papillomavirus. Geesh get your head out of STI Alley... and Double Entendre Avenue, if you please ;)
Anyways, my lowbrow bloggies, I thought I'd open up with something sincere today. No Britney Spears mad gabs. No Beyonce. No Pokemon. No placenta. A few pornstars, maybe, but no bathroom peeper.
As most of you know, I'm a writer keen on pursuing the entertainment world. Mostly I write screenplays in hopes of making a sale (having currently completed five feature specs) or at least clenching an option. It is an unfortunate fact, however, that Hollywood is as impenetrable as The Virgin Mary. More unknown writers wilt and die than wannabe actors, directors, and gaffers combined.
I, however, know how to beat the system.
A few months ago I stumbled upon a revelating fact. Los Angeles does not only have one billion dollar entertainment industry; it has three:
H - ollywood
P - ornography
V - ideo games
HPV. At least if my top choice falls through, I have two interesting backups. Better odds, right? Wrong. Why waste my time on one of these stupid ventures only to fail and have to start back at square (or frame or bed or pixel) one?
So what's better than scaling to the top of the Hollywood world? Or Pornography Planet? Or the Video Game Universe? How about climbing all three -- the whole galaxy of entertainment -- at once?! Oh yes, bloggies, take notes. Donald Trump once said: "Be ruthless to ruthless people you meet on your way up if you don't intend on coming back down". The entertainment industries are infested with these people, these sharks. The only way to deal with them is fight. The only way to win is to have power. And the only way to get power? Combine all available resources.
Eureka!
Film pornstars playing videogames.
...
Now isn't that the most AWFUL, gut-wrenching, jaw-grinding idea ever thought up?
Good. Those ideas seem to sell.
But I'm not actually being serious, am I? Well no. The main point of this post is to probe one scary question: what's your selling-out point? At what price can the Hollywood sharks skewer the meat strips off your bones?
If you answer "I would never sell myself out!", you're either a fool or a liar. If your answer is anything under $10, please get tested.
Temptation lures the best of us. We have a tendency to romanticize instead of rationalize (whether it's "I'll wait tables until I land that Broadway lead", or "Once I'm done school, I'll start work and meet the man of my dreams"). As you know, these circumstances don't "just happen", and it leads to everyone developing their own unique case of HPV: fall-backs to brace yourselves if you don't accomplish what you really want. The truth about life is that almost anything you set your mind to is possible. The painful question is 'what cost will it come at?' I could throw out a million examples involving surgery, sacrifice, sexual favors, monetary transactions, and/or illegal acts, but you already have a pretty good idea what those entail. This is not to say you should never take risks; rather, what I'm getting at, is that you must take smart risks.
Think about JK Rowling -- a classic rags to riches story. She was a giant failure right up until adulthood, having suffered an exteremely short lived marriage and was practically homeless. In a commencement address to Harvard university, she said:
JK's cure for HPV was hitting rock bottom. She had no other option, so she was forced to succeed or fail. Thankfully most of us won't ever know such extreme hardship, but that is not to say we won't be aquainted with common failure.
I'm not going to Hollywood because I wish I were a screenwriter. I'm going because I've put thousands of hours into writing screenplays and I believe, with more work, I can make it. Groundwork's required -- confidence's foundation is aptitude, not arrogance.
So the cure for HPV is simple. Be prepared. Fling harpoons at the sharks instead of throwing yourselves. I'm not guaranteeing you'll survive the waters, but at least you'll have gone out fighting.
Anyways, my lowbrow bloggies, I thought I'd open up with something sincere today. No Britney Spears mad gabs. No Beyonce. No Pokemon. No placenta. A few pornstars, maybe, but no bathroom peeper.
As most of you know, I'm a writer keen on pursuing the entertainment world. Mostly I write screenplays in hopes of making a sale (having currently completed five feature specs) or at least clenching an option. It is an unfortunate fact, however, that Hollywood is as impenetrable as The Virgin Mary. More unknown writers wilt and die than wannabe actors, directors, and gaffers combined.
I, however, know how to beat the system.
A few months ago I stumbled upon a revelating fact. Los Angeles does not only have one billion dollar entertainment industry; it has three:
H - ollywood
P - ornography
V - ideo games
HPV. At least if my top choice falls through, I have two interesting backups. Better odds, right? Wrong. Why waste my time on one of these stupid ventures only to fail and have to start back at square (or frame or bed or pixel) one?
So what's better than scaling to the top of the Hollywood world? Or Pornography Planet? Or the Video Game Universe? How about climbing all three -- the whole galaxy of entertainment -- at once?! Oh yes, bloggies, take notes. Donald Trump once said: "Be ruthless to ruthless people you meet on your way up if you don't intend on coming back down". The entertainment industries are infested with these people, these sharks. The only way to deal with them is fight. The only way to win is to have power. And the only way to get power? Combine all available resources.
Eureka!
Film pornstars playing videogames.
...
Now isn't that the most AWFUL, gut-wrenching, jaw-grinding idea ever thought up?
Good. Those ideas seem to sell.
But I'm not actually being serious, am I? Well no. The main point of this post is to probe one scary question: what's your selling-out point? At what price can the Hollywood sharks skewer the meat strips off your bones?
If you answer "I would never sell myself out!", you're either a fool or a liar. If your answer is anything under $10, please get tested.
Temptation lures the best of us. We have a tendency to romanticize instead of rationalize (whether it's "I'll wait tables until I land that Broadway lead", or "Once I'm done school, I'll start work and meet the man of my dreams"). As you know, these circumstances don't "just happen", and it leads to everyone developing their own unique case of HPV: fall-backs to brace yourselves if you don't accomplish what you really want. The truth about life is that almost anything you set your mind to is possible. The painful question is 'what cost will it come at?' I could throw out a million examples involving surgery, sacrifice, sexual favors, monetary transactions, and/or illegal acts, but you already have a pretty good idea what those entail. This is not to say you should never take risks; rather, what I'm getting at, is that you must take smart risks.
Think about JK Rowling -- a classic rags to riches story. She was a giant failure right up until adulthood, having suffered an exteremely short lived marriage and was practically homeless. In a commencement address to Harvard university, she said:
Failure meant a stripping away of the inessential. Had I really succeeded at anything else, I might never have found the determination to succeed in the one arena I believed I truly belonged. I was set free, because my greatest fear had been realised, and I was still alive, and I still had a daughter whom I adored, and I had an old typewriter and a big idea. And so rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I rebuilt my life.
JK's cure for HPV was hitting rock bottom. She had no other option, so she was forced to succeed or fail. Thankfully most of us won't ever know such extreme hardship, but that is not to say we won't be aquainted with common failure.
I'm not going to Hollywood because I wish I were a screenwriter. I'm going because I've put thousands of hours into writing screenplays and I believe, with more work, I can make it. Groundwork's required -- confidence's foundation is aptitude, not arrogance.
So the cure for HPV is simple. Be prepared. Fling harpoons at the sharks instead of throwing yourselves. I'm not guaranteeing you'll survive the waters, but at least you'll have gone out fighting.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Trumped
For those who don't know, Jared Kushner recently got engaged to the stunning, chic, sweet, smart, articulate, wealthy, elegant, savvy, chest-endowed Ivanka Trump.
LORD ALMIGHTY! What does he have that I don't?!?!
Well... Harvard schooling, an MBA, a newspaper company, a law degree, New York connections, and multimillionaire status. Psshh, I say he's compensating.
But deep down everyone knows that they'll never end up with their celebrity crush, right? Actually, it's not even that deep down -- it's pretty much a surface floating fact. That doesn't mean we can't dream, though. After all, if everyone really believed in dreams or put stock in them, what would that say about our capacity to recognize true love and follow our hearts? That's why whoever wrote "A dream is a wish your heart makes" was either hopelessly romantic or asexual. Reality? A dream is a wish your crotch makes. If our hearts churned out dreams, we would be broken-hearted every day. Instead, look around. People are generally happy with their state in the world. So here's my advice: if one of your dreams is ever shattered, remember that it has nothing to do with your heart; nothing to do with what's inside of you, alright? Your affection and passion and motivation can't be smashed by a few broken dreams, so protect your heart and let your crotch take the beating.
...ok that came out wrong. Oh well, you get the idea.
LORD ALMIGHTY! What does he have that I don't?!?!
Well... Harvard schooling, an MBA, a newspaper company, a law degree, New York connections, and multimillionaire status. Psshh, I say he's compensating.
But deep down everyone knows that they'll never end up with their celebrity crush, right? Actually, it's not even that deep down -- it's pretty much a surface floating fact. That doesn't mean we can't dream, though. After all, if everyone really believed in dreams or put stock in them, what would that say about our capacity to recognize true love and follow our hearts? That's why whoever wrote "A dream is a wish your heart makes" was either hopelessly romantic or asexual. Reality? A dream is a wish your crotch makes. If our hearts churned out dreams, we would be broken-hearted every day. Instead, look around. People are generally happy with their state in the world. So here's my advice: if one of your dreams is ever shattered, remember that it has nothing to do with your heart; nothing to do with what's inside of you, alright? Your affection and passion and motivation can't be smashed by a few broken dreams, so protect your heart and let your crotch take the beating.
...ok that came out wrong. Oh well, you get the idea.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Hey Asshole, want some butter?
Back in grade nine, I started working at my hometown's one and only movie theatre. Being naturally skilled at popcorn scooping, I quickly advanced in the ranks to a box office position and, three years later, attained the highest accolade achievable by mortal cinema staff: projectionist. Throughout those four tender adolescent years my every emotion was molded by that theatre. Anger, joy, jealousy, arousal, and utter contempt. Mood swings came and went with the movies -- comedies brought joy, dramas induced sadness, and anything Halle Berry raised embarassing questions. A strong part of my personality that formed was patience. People may not know it, but theatre workers are extremely tenacious. Let me elaborate with a recent example.
SCENE:
The theatre lobby is bustling with crowds rushing to see the latest Beyonce thriller, "Obsessed". An OLD BALDING BASTARD approaches the concession counter.
OLD BALDING BASTARD: Gimme four cokes and popcorns! And a kids thing with blue sucker and slushie whatsit.
CIVILIZED DEVON: Which sizes of popcorns, sir? And I'm sorry, but we don't have blue suckers. I'd be happy to give your child a green one and complement it with a tasty raspberry slush, though.
The Old Balding Bastard doesn't even respond. Civilized Devon does the order without losing his cool. The man pays and leaves.
END SCENE
Everyone knows that popcorn sizes and sucker flavors aren't the end of the world, right? I've learned to not get worked up over these ignorant, obnoxious people. But, how would the scene have gone if I let my real emotions show through?
SCENE:
The lobby is bustling with crowds rushing to see the latest Beyonce thriller, "Obsessed". An OLD BALDING BASTARD approaches the concession counter.
OLD BALDING BASTARD: Gimme four cokes and popcorns! And a kids thing with blue sucker and slushie whatsit.
BLOG DEVON: What sizes of popcorns?
OLD BALDING BASTARD: I dunno. Medium. Make it large. No, medium.
BLOG DEVON (getting angrier): Did you want butter?
The Old Balding Bastard starts cracking jokes with his buddies, completely ignoring Blog Devon.
BLOG DEVON: Butter?!
Still no answer.
BLOG DEVON: Hey Assole! You want some butter?
The entire lobby freezes, turning to see the commotion.
OLD BALDING BASTARD: Uhh sure, whatever.
BLOG DEVON: No! It's not whatever. It's my job, alright? I ask if you want butter and you say, since you weigh 400lbs, "yes, fourteen layers please". And while we're at it, it's not called a 'slush whatsit'. It's a slush puppy, bitch. Get it through your fat meat head -- we have blue slush puppies, not blue suckers. And speaking of drinks, we sell Pepsi. Not Coke. Honestly, douche, what masterpiece movie are you in such a rush to see that you can't give me these tiny details?
OLD BALDING BASTARD (gulp): Obsessed.
BLOG DEVON: Obsessed? Obsessed?! With Beyonce??? Alright, all the single ladies put your hands up!
All of the single women in the lobby tentatively raise their hands, confused.
BLOG DEVON: GOD! GET REAL BLOODY LIVES!!
Blog Devon jumps on the counter and starts spitting at the single ladies with his weird drool-jet tongue squirts. He kicks over the popcorn equipment (crushing three children) and yanks the butter machine out of the wall, pounding the knob and firing streams of hot scalding butter into the panicking crowds.
BLOG DEVON: YOU WANT BUTTER WITH THAT? HUH?! MORE BUTTER???
SCENE.
Moral of the story: If you have trouble remaining calm around idiots, remember that they aren't worth an ounce of your time or energy. Seek professional help before attempting anything drastic. And if you can't afford therapy, try writing blogs.
SCENE:
The theatre lobby is bustling with crowds rushing to see the latest Beyonce thriller, "Obsessed". An OLD BALDING BASTARD approaches the concession counter.
OLD BALDING BASTARD: Gimme four cokes and popcorns! And a kids thing with blue sucker and slushie whatsit.
CIVILIZED DEVON: Which sizes of popcorns, sir? And I'm sorry, but we don't have blue suckers. I'd be happy to give your child a green one and complement it with a tasty raspberry slush, though.
The Old Balding Bastard doesn't even respond. Civilized Devon does the order without losing his cool. The man pays and leaves.
END SCENE
Everyone knows that popcorn sizes and sucker flavors aren't the end of the world, right? I've learned to not get worked up over these ignorant, obnoxious people. But, how would the scene have gone if I let my real emotions show through?
SCENE:
The lobby is bustling with crowds rushing to see the latest Beyonce thriller, "Obsessed". An OLD BALDING BASTARD approaches the concession counter.
OLD BALDING BASTARD: Gimme four cokes and popcorns! And a kids thing with blue sucker and slushie whatsit.
BLOG DEVON: What sizes of popcorns?
OLD BALDING BASTARD: I dunno. Medium. Make it large. No, medium.
BLOG DEVON (getting angrier): Did you want butter?
The Old Balding Bastard starts cracking jokes with his buddies, completely ignoring Blog Devon.
BLOG DEVON: Butter?!
Still no answer.
BLOG DEVON: Hey Assole! You want some butter?
The entire lobby freezes, turning to see the commotion.
OLD BALDING BASTARD: Uhh sure, whatever.
BLOG DEVON: No! It's not whatever. It's my job, alright? I ask if you want butter and you say, since you weigh 400lbs, "yes, fourteen layers please". And while we're at it, it's not called a 'slush whatsit'. It's a slush puppy, bitch. Get it through your fat meat head -- we have blue slush puppies, not blue suckers. And speaking of drinks, we sell Pepsi. Not Coke. Honestly, douche, what masterpiece movie are you in such a rush to see that you can't give me these tiny details?
OLD BALDING BASTARD (gulp): Obsessed.
BLOG DEVON: Obsessed? Obsessed?! With Beyonce??? Alright, all the single ladies put your hands up!
All of the single women in the lobby tentatively raise their hands, confused.
BLOG DEVON: GOD! GET REAL BLOODY LIVES!!
Blog Devon jumps on the counter and starts spitting at the single ladies with his weird drool-jet tongue squirts. He kicks over the popcorn equipment (crushing three children) and yanks the butter machine out of the wall, pounding the knob and firing streams of hot scalding butter into the panicking crowds.
BLOG DEVON: YOU WANT BUTTER WITH THAT? HUH?! MORE BUTTER???
SCENE.
Moral of the story: If you have trouble remaining calm around idiots, remember that they aren't worth an ounce of your time or energy. Seek professional help before attempting anything drastic. And if you can't afford therapy, try writing blogs.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Pop It, Lock It, Polka Dot It
That title's my pathetic attempt to attract millions of Hannah Montana fans to this blog. Exploitation, you say? I'll tell you what's exploitation. Exploitation is throwing underage-slash-overproduced Miley Cyrus on Cineplex screens and charging me $6.50 to watch her "act".
That will be all.
Actually you know what? That won't be all. I also saw Night at the Museum 2 (so what, you wanna fight about it?). Don't even get me STARTED on that movie.
It was great. Wonderful. Light, playful, perfect. Go see it.
That will be all.
Actually you know what? That won't be all. I also saw Night at the Museum 2 (so what, you wanna fight about it?). Don't even get me STARTED on that movie.
It was great. Wonderful. Light, playful, perfect. Go see it.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Frustrating Fantasy
Last night I fell asleep to Britney Spears' If U Seek Amy. You think that's ridiculous? Sure, but I dare you to try it. Why? Because -- I kid you not -- Britney entered my dreams.
It took place in a strange Las Vegas-ish resort. Top floor, executive suite. There was a GIANT red mattress (equal in size to five kings pushed together), and a jacuzzi that smelled like cotton-candy bubblegum...
The next thing I remember is Britney coming out of a door, completely decked out in her Circus costume.
"Our hue red he fourth hiss?" she whispered.
ummm...wtf?
She didn't say anything else. She simply hopped on the mattress and started giving me the most spine-tingling, toe-twirling massage you can ever imagine. That's right. I was rubbed up, down and all around by Britney Spears. And it was good.
"House sit feal ink?" she suddenly whispered again.
I twitched. "House sit feal ink?" hmm...house-sit-feal-ink...house-it-feel-ink..house-it-feeling...
How's it feeling!?
Good god, I suddenly understood. She was speaking in Mad Gabs.
"If eel soup her," I responded without thinking.
GASP! And I was too!!
"Real hacks," she said as I sprung for the exit, "Isle prom hiss two day gets low." She wrapped her arms around my pounding chest once more, getting closer, and murmured softer, "Butt eye him sofa king oar knee."
...
Now hold on a bloody second. Normally I'd say that if Britney Spears appeared in my dream, I wouldn't hold one muscle back. But these dirty mad gabs of hers were driving me up the freaking wall. So I turned to her, focusing all my mindpower on speaking normally, and said, "Listen, Britney. I know it's hard but please, for the love of God, stop talking like that. No one thinks it's sexy, alright? Just...try better."
She looked up, disappointed, and replied "Sore he, deaf in."
My eyes snapped open, staring back up at my ordinary condo ceiling. The monster size bed, the bubblegum jacuzzi, and Britney Spears had all vanished.
Looking back on it, I think I did the right thing. Someone seriously has to sit Britney down and tell her that her lyrics border severely retarded. As for myself, I'm hoping that she'll revisit my subconscious sometime soon. Between me and you, Gimme More is going on repeat tonight.
It took place in a strange Las Vegas-ish resort. Top floor, executive suite. There was a GIANT red mattress (equal in size to five kings pushed together), and a jacuzzi that smelled like cotton-candy bubblegum...
The next thing I remember is Britney coming out of a door, completely decked out in her Circus costume.
"Our hue red he fourth hiss?" she whispered.
ummm...wtf?
She didn't say anything else. She simply hopped on the mattress and started giving me the most spine-tingling, toe-twirling massage you can ever imagine. That's right. I was rubbed up, down and all around by Britney Spears. And it was good.
"House sit feal ink?" she suddenly whispered again.
I twitched. "House sit feal ink?" hmm...house-sit-feal-ink...house-it-feel-ink..house-it-feeling...
How's it feeling!?
Good god, I suddenly understood. She was speaking in Mad Gabs.
"If eel soup her," I responded without thinking.
GASP! And I was too!!
"Real hacks," she said as I sprung for the exit, "Isle prom hiss two day gets low." She wrapped her arms around my pounding chest once more, getting closer, and murmured softer, "Butt eye him sofa king oar knee."
...
Now hold on a bloody second. Normally I'd say that if Britney Spears appeared in my dream, I wouldn't hold one muscle back. But these dirty mad gabs of hers were driving me up the freaking wall. So I turned to her, focusing all my mindpower on speaking normally, and said, "Listen, Britney. I know it's hard but please, for the love of God, stop talking like that. No one thinks it's sexy, alright? Just...try better."
She looked up, disappointed, and replied "Sore he, deaf in."
My eyes snapped open, staring back up at my ordinary condo ceiling. The monster size bed, the bubblegum jacuzzi, and Britney Spears had all vanished.
Looking back on it, I think I did the right thing. Someone seriously has to sit Britney down and tell her that her lyrics border severely retarded. As for myself, I'm hoping that she'll revisit my subconscious sometime soon. Between me and you, Gimme More is going on repeat tonight.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Past Blast Part 2
OK bloggies, I'm back for round 2. Be sure to read the blog before this one to know what's going on (basically I've gone back to the 90s with hopes of debunking once awesome anime shows). Yesterday I had my way with Sailor Moon, and now it's time to move on to a whole other league. That's right. You haven't heard nothin' yet.
Now, admittedly, I could go off on every shitty cartoon concept ever created in the last decade -- Samurai Pizza Cats, Shark Attacks, Captain Planet -- but honestly, it's not worth my time. Why? Because, well, no one cares about most of them. [And notice that I didn't bring up Care Bears. Any kid who watched Care Bears has been made fun of enough. Just leave them alone.]
Think bigger -- I'm talking HISTORICAL. Listen closely. Twice every hundred years the Japanese unleash something that threatens North American homeland security. The first major attack of the 20th century happened on December 7th, 1941.
It was Pearl Harbor.
The second attack aired September 8th, 1998. It was much more subtle. It was much more evil. It was much more deadly.
It was Pokemon.
DO NOT LAUGH! Pokemon has destroyed many more souls than atomic bombs or nuclear warfare ever will. Don't believe me? Let me show you the truth.
Everyone was bloody obssessed with the show when it came out. Fair enough -- it boasted cool fights for boys and cutesy creatures for girls. Unlike Trailerpark Moon, the characters had dignity and the plot-line was decent...
Pokemon, however, was a virus. All of a sudden there were gameboy games. And action figures. And books, and movies, and stuffed animals. But you know what, none of that really mattered because of one key component: trading cards.
They BRAINWASHED us. "Gotta catch 'em all," the voices whispered. "Buy more packs, steal the shineys-- do whatever it goddamn takes!"
Gulp. And did we ever.
I lost my Pokevirginity to a cute girl at church. One Sunday School morning she slipped an Abra in my palm like it was some sacred holy communion wafer -- and in God The Father's holy household, of all places! Can anyone say 'False Idol'? But I didn't care; hell, it was free! A gift! Satan's own starterpack.
But that was just the beginning. This stuff was meth on school playgrounds. I can still see the shady transactions underneath the steel slides. Twitchy kids, scratching at imaginary itches while they pawn their Pikachus and get high off holographic pokeporn. There were dealers and burnouts, beggars and bitches. Status was defined by HP, and "he's huge" referred to deck size.
Truly terrifying times.
Looking back on the 90s, I can honestly say that I'm surprised any kid could survive through that TV-show-shit. It was madness, and for what? Our card collections are worthless today. Of course, maybe they'll hold high values waaaaay down the road, but I am not gonna sit around scratching my pokeballs waiting for that to happen.
Now, admittedly, I could go off on every shitty cartoon concept ever created in the last decade -- Samurai Pizza Cats, Shark Attacks, Captain Planet -- but honestly, it's not worth my time. Why? Because, well, no one cares about most of them. [And notice that I didn't bring up Care Bears. Any kid who watched Care Bears has been made fun of enough. Just leave them alone.]
Think bigger -- I'm talking HISTORICAL. Listen closely. Twice every hundred years the Japanese unleash something that threatens North American homeland security. The first major attack of the 20th century happened on December 7th, 1941.
It was Pearl Harbor.
The second attack aired September 8th, 1998. It was much more subtle. It was much more evil. It was much more deadly.
It was Pokemon.
DO NOT LAUGH! Pokemon has destroyed many more souls than atomic bombs or nuclear warfare ever will. Don't believe me? Let me show you the truth.
Everyone was bloody obssessed with the show when it came out. Fair enough -- it boasted cool fights for boys and cutesy creatures for girls. Unlike Trailerpark Moon, the characters had dignity and the plot-line was decent...
Pokemon, however, was a virus. All of a sudden there were gameboy games. And action figures. And books, and movies, and stuffed animals. But you know what, none of that really mattered because of one key component: trading cards.
They BRAINWASHED us. "Gotta catch 'em all," the voices whispered. "Buy more packs, steal the shineys-- do whatever it goddamn takes!"
Gulp. And did we ever.
I lost my Pokevirginity to a cute girl at church. One Sunday School morning she slipped an Abra in my palm like it was some sacred holy communion wafer -- and in God The Father's holy household, of all places! Can anyone say 'False Idol'? But I didn't care; hell, it was free! A gift! Satan's own starterpack.
But that was just the beginning. This stuff was meth on school playgrounds. I can still see the shady transactions underneath the steel slides. Twitchy kids, scratching at imaginary itches while they pawn their Pikachus and get high off holographic pokeporn. There were dealers and burnouts, beggars and bitches. Status was defined by HP, and "he's huge" referred to deck size.
Truly terrifying times.
Looking back on the 90s, I can honestly say that I'm surprised any kid could survive through that TV-show-shit. It was madness, and for what? Our card collections are worthless today. Of course, maybe they'll hold high values waaaaay down the road, but I am not gonna sit around scratching my pokeballs waiting for that to happen.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Past Blast Part 1
I sincerely apologize for this blog becoming a bad one night stand lately. I think it happens with all blogs -- the writer riles you up at the start, you both have a little fun, maybe a LOT of fun, and then suddenly the bastard jets off without warning. Yep, the SOB just jumps out the window right when you're getting used to them, damnit.
Well, good news: Susan Blip's too fat to fit through the window. This blog is here to stay, no matter how inconsistant or flakey or rude it comes off as. I'm not ready for big blog commitments, but just because we souldn't get attached doesn't mean we still can't have fun ;)
So let's cut this foreplay and get to the good stuff!
This is part one of a two-parter blog entry entitled "Past Blast". I'm going back in time to rediscover a particular fad from the 90s. A fad, you ask? Which one?
Pogs? Nope.
Hammerpants? Try again.
The Running Man? The Macarena? Carleton's dance from Fresh Prince? Pff, yeah right.
Still can't guess? Well buckle your blog-belts because... drum roll... shitty anime shows are making their comeback!
Let's kickstart this time-travel with two simple words:
Sailor. Moon.
Hands up -- who loved Sailor Moon? Come on guys, don't be ashamed. I admit my love 100%! Honestly, she was global porn for preteen boys. Popular but humble, strong but girly. And what a kickass theme song!
Fighting evil by moonlight,
Winning love by daylight,
Never running from a real fight,
She is the one named Sailor Moon.
But that was then, this is now. Through a startling revelation, I've come to realize that Sailor Moon was merely a horrible trap for children. Let me elaborate.
Girls, take a look at Miss Moon. Is she a good role model? Far from it! Oftentimes she can't even beat the enemy without relying on other people. And don't get me started on that transformation sequence. Listen carefully, Sailor Moon: closing your eyes and twirling around in colorful patterns only to wake-up in different clothes does not mean you're a superhero, alright? It means you've been roofied. Like three times per episode.
And boys? Don't fall for this TV trash. A relationship with Sailor Moon will not work. She's fighting evil by moonlight and winning love by daylight; between the two she can't even find time to book a much needed haircut -- what makes you think she'll have time for you? And don't give me that "hot skirt" excuse. "But, but, b-but..." you protest? But nothing. Do you really want a relationship with some skank in spandex whose pants are less than two inches long? Trust me, everyone is sneeking peeks at Sailor Poon. You can do better.
Stay tuned for more 'Past Blast' tomorrow! I would keep writing, but I have a final in less than two hours. Plus I'm still in pajamas.
...But wait! If I try spinning around with my eyes shut maybe I'll magically change clothes like Sailor Moon!
[insert long pause while Devon tries twirling in feminine patterns]
...
Nope. Definitely need crack for that.
Well, good news: Susan Blip's too fat to fit through the window. This blog is here to stay, no matter how inconsistant or flakey or rude it comes off as. I'm not ready for big blog commitments, but just because we souldn't get attached doesn't mean we still can't have fun ;)
So let's cut this foreplay and get to the good stuff!
This is part one of a two-parter blog entry entitled "Past Blast". I'm going back in time to rediscover a particular fad from the 90s. A fad, you ask? Which one?
Pogs? Nope.
Hammerpants? Try again.
The Running Man? The Macarena? Carleton's dance from Fresh Prince? Pff, yeah right.
Still can't guess? Well buckle your blog-belts because... drum roll... shitty anime shows are making their comeback!
Let's kickstart this time-travel with two simple words:
Sailor. Moon.
Hands up -- who loved Sailor Moon? Come on guys, don't be ashamed. I admit my love 100%! Honestly, she was global porn for preteen boys. Popular but humble, strong but girly. And what a kickass theme song!
Fighting evil by moonlight,
Winning love by daylight,
Never running from a real fight,
She is the one named Sailor Moon.
But that was then, this is now. Through a startling revelation, I've come to realize that Sailor Moon was merely a horrible trap for children. Let me elaborate.
Girls, take a look at Miss Moon. Is she a good role model? Far from it! Oftentimes she can't even beat the enemy without relying on other people. And don't get me started on that transformation sequence. Listen carefully, Sailor Moon: closing your eyes and twirling around in colorful patterns only to wake-up in different clothes does not mean you're a superhero, alright? It means you've been roofied. Like three times per episode.
And boys? Don't fall for this TV trash. A relationship with Sailor Moon will not work. She's fighting evil by moonlight and winning love by daylight; between the two she can't even find time to book a much needed haircut -- what makes you think she'll have time for you? And don't give me that "hot skirt" excuse. "But, but, b-but..." you protest? But nothing. Do you really want a relationship with some skank in spandex whose pants are less than two inches long? Trust me, everyone is sneeking peeks at Sailor Poon. You can do better.
Stay tuned for more 'Past Blast' tomorrow! I would keep writing, but I have a final in less than two hours. Plus I'm still in pajamas.
...But wait! If I try spinning around with my eyes shut maybe I'll magically change clothes like Sailor Moon!
[insert long pause while Devon tries twirling in feminine patterns]
...
Nope. Definitely need crack for that.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Squirt
I have a medical problem. I'm man enough to admit it. It's sort of embarassing, though... especially in certain circumstances... but here it is. Plain and simple.
I squirt.
Well, my mouth squirts. Like sometimes I'll open up to say something and, without warning, streams will just jet out. Actually, it kind of looks like Spiderman's webs (except that it's slobbergoo flowing from my under-tongue).
eeEEeeeEeeEEwww, you say?
eeEEeeeEeeEEww indeed.
I first discovered this mutant ability at the dentist's office six years ago. He said "open up" and it simply came spritzing out. It was funny; we laughed. But it didn't stop. His assistants kept trying to go in with their Dr. Seuss instruments, but my mouth wouldn't let them. It just kept squirting and squirting and squirting! And let me tell you, it is NOT hilarious to have the fifty-five year old hygenist tell you "you're quite the squirter". Yeesh.
I didn't think about it for a long time afterwards (I mean, how often do 'drool jets' come up in everyday convo?), that is, until I saw the first X-MEN movie. This quote got me thinking:
Hmmmmmmmmmmmmm....
I'm convinced!
But seriously, whether I had slobbergoo [starting to like that word] powers, or was just some weird kid, I didn't want anyone knowing. So I suppressed that talent.
Cut to last week: I was in my prof's office. We were going over an assignment when, from out of nowhere, I opened my mouth and squirted all over the papers.
The prof cocked an eyebrow. She straightened up, leaned forward, and whispered telepathically, "You have a gift!"
OK OK OK, so that last bit's a lie. But I did squirt her papers then try to wipe it up while she watched apathetically. Oh if only you could see that squinty look she gave me... pursed lips, raised eyebrows, semi-frown... it made me angry -- SO angry that I whipped open my mouth again and shot her right in the eyeball.
...ok so that's a lie too. But boy I wished I could.
Apparently this whole mouth squirting thing isn't that uncommon. It's called 'gleek'. But who knows, maybe I just gleek more than most people. Besides, if that's the weirdest thing I've got going on, I'll take it!
.
So that's my story (2 blog posts in March -- I hit my target!). One more thing before I go, though. A warning, if you will:
If we ever meet in real life, please don't ask me to "squirt my slobbergoo". It's just awkward.
I squirt.
Well, my mouth squirts. Like sometimes I'll open up to say something and, without warning, streams will just jet out. Actually, it kind of looks like Spiderman's webs (except that it's slobbergoo flowing from my under-tongue).
eeEEeeeEeeEEwww, you say?
eeEEeeeEeeEEww indeed.
I first discovered this mutant ability at the dentist's office six years ago. He said "open up" and it simply came spritzing out. It was funny; we laughed. But it didn't stop. His assistants kept trying to go in with their Dr. Seuss instruments, but my mouth wouldn't let them. It just kept squirting and squirting and squirting! And let me tell you, it is NOT hilarious to have the fifty-five year old hygenist tell you "you're quite the squirter". Yeesh.
I didn't think about it for a long time afterwards (I mean, how often do 'drool jets' come up in everyday convo?), that is, until I saw the first X-MEN movie. This quote got me thinking:
JEAN GREY: Ladies and gentlemen, we are now seeing the beginnings of another stage of human evolution. These mutations manifest at puberty, and are often triggered by periods of heightened emotional stress.
Hmmmmmmmmmmmmm....
I'm convinced!
But seriously, whether I had slobbergoo [starting to like that word] powers, or was just some weird kid, I didn't want anyone knowing. So I suppressed that talent.
Cut to last week: I was in my prof's office. We were going over an assignment when, from out of nowhere, I opened my mouth and squirted all over the papers.
The prof cocked an eyebrow. She straightened up, leaned forward, and whispered telepathically, "You have a gift!"
OK OK OK, so that last bit's a lie. But I did squirt her papers then try to wipe it up while she watched apathetically. Oh if only you could see that squinty look she gave me... pursed lips, raised eyebrows, semi-frown... it made me angry -- SO angry that I whipped open my mouth again and shot her right in the eyeball.
...ok so that's a lie too. But boy I wished I could.
Apparently this whole mouth squirting thing isn't that uncommon. It's called 'gleek'. But who knows, maybe I just gleek more than most people. Besides, if that's the weirdest thing I've got going on, I'll take it!
.
So that's my story (2 blog posts in March -- I hit my target!). One more thing before I go, though. A warning, if you will:
If we ever meet in real life, please don't ask me to "squirt my slobbergoo". It's just awkward.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Post Patty's Day
Here's the thing... I haven't blogged for almost a month. I apologize, but please understand that I've been more busy than God was in the first week of creation (plus I don't even get my own sabbath). So deal with it.
************************************
Here's a St. Patrick's Day poem I wrote yesterday. Usually I don't post material online, but I think this one has an important message that everyone should hear. Enjoy!
The Shamrock Resignation
On Saint P’s Day of March ’09,
All leprechauns worldwide resigned.
To sum it up, they’d had enough --
The year was bad and times were rough.
Stocks in gold hit bottom lows,
Then left and right their banks foreclosed.
On every channel news was bleak,
And spirits waned with every week.
So boarding up their woodland homes,
They waved goodbye to elves and gnomes;
They traded in their shoes for boots,
Their hats for caps and coats for suits.
Nevermore would any slide
Down rainbow ribbons in the sky,
Nor play their flutes or jig through mobs,
For all now needed steady jobs.
So off to interviews they went
(With no skills or experience)
And, big surprise, they failed at those,
Losing out to Average Joes.
For months and months things just got worse,
Like some 1930’s curse,
“But wait!” cried out the Irish midgets,
“That’s it! Let’s build up army widgets!
We’ll start a war, it fuels new jobs
To help out all the unskilled slobs.
Humans fight through history --
Let's fight off our misery!"
So down to work the small men went,
Sweating to the full extent.
They built an army, strong hate brewin’,
Then waged a war... upon the humans!
The humans laughed, was this a joke?
These tiny things who once were broke
Now thought they’d stand up face to face
To battle out the human race?
But war was war – begun at noon
And, sad enough, was done by two.
The leprechauns, all now destroyed,
Were taken down like action toys.
It's hard to see the times ahead --
Some succeed, some wind up dead.
It's sad, I know, but learn the lesson:
Don’t start wars to fight recessions.
************************************
Here's a St. Patrick's Day poem I wrote yesterday. Usually I don't post material online, but I think this one has an important message that everyone should hear. Enjoy!
The Shamrock Resignation
On Saint P’s Day of March ’09,
All leprechauns worldwide resigned.
To sum it up, they’d had enough --
The year was bad and times were rough.
Stocks in gold hit bottom lows,
Then left and right their banks foreclosed.
On every channel news was bleak,
And spirits waned with every week.
So boarding up their woodland homes,
They waved goodbye to elves and gnomes;
They traded in their shoes for boots,
Their hats for caps and coats for suits.
Nevermore would any slide
Down rainbow ribbons in the sky,
Nor play their flutes or jig through mobs,
For all now needed steady jobs.
So off to interviews they went
(With no skills or experience)
And, big surprise, they failed at those,
Losing out to Average Joes.
For months and months things just got worse,
Like some 1930’s curse,
“But wait!” cried out the Irish midgets,
“That’s it! Let’s build up army widgets!
We’ll start a war, it fuels new jobs
To help out all the unskilled slobs.
Humans fight through history --
Let's fight off our misery!"
So down to work the small men went,
Sweating to the full extent.
They built an army, strong hate brewin’,
Then waged a war... upon the humans!
The humans laughed, was this a joke?
These tiny things who once were broke
Now thought they’d stand up face to face
To battle out the human race?
But war was war – begun at noon
And, sad enough, was done by two.
The leprechauns, all now destroyed,
Were taken down like action toys.
It's hard to see the times ahead --
Some succeed, some wind up dead.
It's sad, I know, but learn the lesson:
Don’t start wars to fight recessions.
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