The Whip and the Body - Movie Review and Ode to Mario Bava

The Whip and the Body is a film that is usually outshined by its own director – Mario Bava. He is one of the most important directors in Italian cinema He began his movie career as a cinematographer in 1943 and then reigned supreme as the director to work for during the Golden Age of Italian horror in the 1960’s. His influence was felt globally.


Bava is credited with directing the first giallo film, The Girl Who Knew Too Much; his final black-and-white film which again showed his mastery of using shades and tones of a scene to influence the mood of a film. These talents would be taken to a new extreme with his second color film and second in the giallo genre, Blood and Black Lace. Every scene is a mobile, Technicolor painting, accenting the carnage or depressing the calm, and though this film as considered even more influential to future giallos than The Girl Who Knew Too Much, it was with The Whip and the Body that most critics claim as his masterpiece.

The Whip and the Body brought Mario Bava back to horror, but this was a unique type of horror film. This was a romantic tale for the macabre; a love story for sadists. The story brings Kurt Menliff (Christopher Lee; The Lord of the Rings trilogy, Dracula has Risen from the Grave) back to his family’s castle, wanting to congratulate his brother, Christian Menliff (Tony Kendall; Machine Gun McCain, Corleone) on his new found financial success, but no one believes Kurt for an instant. They all feel that he is there only to torment the family; especially his brother’s wife, who happens to be Kurt’s ex-lover, Nevenka (Dalia Lavi; The Demon, Some Girls Do). When Kurt abandoned the family before, Nevenka went into a depression that the household thought she would never recover from, but with Christian’s aid, she did, so they all feared that Kurt would attempt to claim her once again.

Unsurprisingly, Kurt and Nevenka do reprise their intimate relationship, because only Kurt knows Nevenka’s secret temptation. Nevenka is a sadist and is quickly aroused when she is abused, particularly with a whip; she even dreams at night about it and wakes up smiling. Once Kurt engages her in this romantically vicious game, Nevenka falls for him once more, but one day soon after, Kurt is murdered. While some of the household is concerned, and all are suspects for the murder, most of them seem thankful – until – Nevenka begins seeing Kurt’s ghost roaming around the castle, seeking vengeance on anyone that may have had a hand in his murder and still pursuing his gratuitous affair with her.

The cast does a fine job as everyone’s role seems to fit their best thespian features; Christopher Lee, playing the mischievously vile tormentor, and Daliah Lavi as a strong-willed, but overly passionate countess. The pacing is slow, but to grasp the haunted atmosphere aided by the tortured tenants, it works. The true star here, however, is Mario Bava’s directing. His cinematography is the finest orchestrated use of color that I personally could rival only to John Boorman’s Point Blank (1967). There is not a single wasted scene in either movie. Each frame of film is a carefully crafted neon-lit composition that would make for a fine tattoo to be poked on to someone’s drunken butt at a horror film festival, or a questionable treasure to be hung inside the snootiest of art museums.

The Whip and the Body is a fine film with excellent directing. The director will probably be forever known more than most of the movies he ever worked on, and that alone is a tribute to the heart and mind that Mario Bava gave to a genre that most movie-goers and film lovers would pass off as uniquely adorable or even silly, but Mario Bava treated it as serioiusly as Orson Welles would treat any of his mainstream, multiply paised films; and the fans of horror and of Mario Bava, past, present, and future, would and will appreciate his work one-hundred times more.

Bava influenced the master of giallo, Dario Argento and horror maestro John Carpenter, and even haunted positively the likes of Martin Scorsese and Ridley Scott. His film Kill, Baby, Kill….influenced the popular Japanese film genre, J-Horror. So, to say that Mario Bava had a hand in shaping the horror of today would be an understatement because he helped shape all movies of today.

Seeing Red - An Observation About Comics, Movies, Adaptations & Remakes

Being a fan of the 3-issue mini-series, Red, by Warren Ellis and Cully Hamner, I was a bit disheartened to hear that it had been optioned by Summit Entertainment for a motion picture deal; but, that occurred around the time that my ideals towards cinematic adaptations were finalizing their maturation, plus, several Warren Ellis properties were being optioned or had already been optioned.

Global Frequency had it's probation-fire doused before even hitting television's airwaves, but it did find critical and sub-cultural commercial success via the internet. I did get to see it and, personally speaking, it was damn good and had all the potential in the world to be a fine series, but the budget-per-episode is what killed the show. Since then, Ocean and even Gravel have been optioned for either a movie or television deal.

With Red, though, there seemed to be a light at the end of the watered-down ketchup bottle. Bruce Willis became the lead of the film, although he still seemed too young in comparison to the Paul Moses of the comic book who is in his late-fifties, but when it comes to Hollywood, changes are inevitable for the sake of a dollar, especially considering that the original source material for Red could not possibly fill even a ninety minute feature film; so there was no doubt that the Hollywood puppets assigned to the movie would have to expand, even change the root of the source.

Once I saw the trailer for the Red feature film, I was immediately frustrated, and if I were the uptight comic-geek that I was - - not even three years ago, I would have thrown a fit, but I stated before, my ideals towards adaptations and remakes were changing, maturing; and I allowed myself to finish viewing the rest of the trailer, happy that the film was starring a handful of my favorite actors next to Bruce Willis - -Hellen Mirren, Morgan Freeman, and John Malcovich - and listening to the Hollywood script, it did seem attempting to channel some of Warren Ellis' unapologetic brevity. And for these qualities, I am looking forward to the film even though I cringed during those first few seconds of watching the trailer, knowing that these bastards had butchered an already well-told-tale. The tone of the original mini-series and the tone of the movie are as far apart as oil and water, but it doesn't mean that both stories cannot be and are not good ones.

I have read the Red mini-series, enjoying it to no end, and even though the movie will be nothing like the comic I still look forward to being entertained by the film, because as the multiverse continues to reveal and explain itself; what is good for one culture, one era, one medium, doesn't always make itself so relatable to the next medium; which is one reason why this recent uprising in remakes and reboots of fan-favorite films isn't so hurtful. Comic books have been rewriting their super heroic characters' origins for nearly eight decades - - eighty fuckin' years - - and Hollywood has been remaking/rebooting their films for almost an entire century, but Hollywood movies were accepted into households and adult lives far quicker than comics. Right now, it is the year 2010, and comic books are just beginning to be accepted into the main stream of pop culture; loyal followers are just now feeling courageous enough to read a comic book, particularly a superhero comic, in public without fear of complete ridicule, because there will always be a lingering sense of a lower social ranking, but only with an open mind can anyone know where to stand on top when it comes time to watch the rest of the world collapse and burn.

Consider This the Ribbon

For some reason, any reason, whatever reason; I don't care - when it comes to birthdays, the best gift that I've ever been able to give is a poem. It started back in high school and has since sustained its usefulness.

Today, a great comrade (yeah, that's exactly what she wants to be called - SHUT IT, Yyyyoooouuuu) marks another notch in her mortality belt, and this is my gift to thee...

Sleep to rest; dream if so lucky,
For at times the morning sun may seem a vex,
But a dream is a treasure to those aware
That they are now breathing their last breaths.

......Blow out the fuckin' candles already.

Doghouse - Movie Review

Doghouse is the latest in a long line of zombie-inspired films, this one coming out of England. This one is brought to us by director Jake West, who gave us the largely unheard of splatter-masterpiece that was Evil Aliens; and writer Dan Schaffer, best known for the underground comic book favorite, Dogwitch.


In Doghouse, Vince (Stephen Graham) is a recent divorcee having difficulty adjusting to his lonely situation. So, six of his friends decide to take him to the countryside to a village called Moodley, where the female population outnumbers the male population 3:1; much like colleges in North America.

The men are taken to the village by bus, driven by an attractive woman named Candy. Warning signs emerge a dead sheep is found, blocking the road to Moodley, which Candy and Neil (Danny Dryer) - the unapologetic misogynist of the group, move out of the way. Suddenly, everyone’s cell phones begin ringing, aggravating Neil since this is supposed to be a “boys’ weekend,” so he gathers everyone’s phones and stashes them away.

The group finds their way to Moodley only to discover that the village is void of all life until they begin encountering mutated women with a hankering for male flesh. In the midst of their ordeal, they run into Sergeant Gavin Wright (Terry Stone) who admits to being part of the British military division responsible for the mutations. And, once the group discovers the secret military base, linking them back to military headquarters, they realize that the mutations they have previously fought were just the first part of a larger mutation.

Any zombie-comedy, especially a British one, is going to be held up the standard set by Shaun of the Dead, and while Doghouse doesn’t reach the highest peaks set by it the film still holds its own when it comes to the funny and to the gore. Every insult man has ever hoped to drop on a woman is touched upon in the script, including blaming the virus on “bird-flu,” having a drink at a pub called “The Cock & Balls,” and battling the mutated mavens with not only remote control toy cars, and cross dressing, but a military device using sonar with pitch-ranges so high that only women can hear it. And, any way a man or a woman have ever wanted to butcher their girlfriend, boyfriend, spouse, friend-with-benefits; most of them are covered in Doghouse.

Aside from that, Doghouse also shows that not all men are degenerate pigs and, while still upholding to some chauvinistic tendencies, there are nice guys that have been lumped into the general sum of the degenerate pigs that are the majority of the male population on Earth, which seems all too familiar to this writer.

Doghouse seems to accomplish the job set for it: Tell a humorous and charming tale about the conflicts between men and women, and how one can never fully appreciate the other, particularly when one becomes a murderous, cannibalistic creature. The trade of dialogue among the six friends really helps break the constant violent tension, showing the power of friendship, and makes the audience care a bit more when one the friends begin getting picked off by the mutants.

Doghouse is a worthy viewing, and whether it stands the test of time is something else, but in this modern era is definitely recommended. Plus, for people that have not already discovered Stephen Graham (Inkheart, Gangs of New York, Snatch), this is their chance to see him in a smaller film before hitting it really big when he plays Johnny Depp’s right-hand-man in the upcoming Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides.

Chloe - Movie Review

At first glance, Chloe’s main star would look to be Amanda Seyfried (Jennifer’s Body), and sometimes being the main star doesn’t always mean having the most screen-time. Sometimes the main character is represented more as a force of nature trapped inside a human being.

David Stewart (Liam Neeson, Taken) misses his flight home on the night of his birthday. Catherine Stewart (Julianne Moore, A Single Man), is dismayed to find this out as she had spent significant time gathering all of his closest friends and co-workers together for a surprise birthday party. This proves to be another blow to their shaken marriage. Adding to her burden is their reclusive, moody, musically gifted son – Michael (Max Thieriot, Stay Cool), treating her like she is the immovable thorn in his sensitive side, completely disdained to any authority she feels entitled to.

The following morning, David is home and life is receding back to normalcy until a ringing cell phone picked up by Catherine from David’s bag reveals that David may not have missed his flight at all, but the spent the night out with a younger woman. Catherine’s suspicions get the best of her, so by chance she meets and hires Chloe. Catherine wants Chloe to bump into her husband, spend time with him, and report back the events that happen. The stories that Chloe recites equally enrage and entice Catherine, and she begins to experience a sexual longing that had been long forgotten. So, rather than confront David at first, she allows these feelings to intensify until finally, her frustrations erupt into one weak, emotionally charged moment with Chloe which Chloe mistakes for love, and Chloe will not be told to go away, or be bought off with money or gifts; she will find some way to be in Catherine’s life, at the cost of anyone else’s life.

Individually, the cast turns in worthy performances as Liam Neeson and Julianne Moore are often guaranteed to deliver something credible. Amanda Seyfried does seem like the outcast here and it works completely for her and her character. She is supposed to an outcast, someone thinking outside of the i-Phone obsessed, instantly gratified, impatient internet life. Her devious actions are nearly dismissed because of her beauty and innocence when she is onscreen, yet her damaging effects are everlasting when she is nowhere to be seen.

Chloe is a movie worth renting or catching at the dollar theater while you can. If you are a fan of any of the three main stars (Seyfried, Neeson, & Moore) it is definitely worth seeing, but Chloe – the film, isn’t anything we haven’t seen before, which isn’t so bad, but it isn’t mandatory viewing.

DB prematurely reviews Splice - Species meets Dirty Dancing. It gives "Eat a dick," a whole new meaning.

Bad Boys (1983) - Movie Review

Bad Boys hosts one of Sean Penn's earliest roles; at the very least, the first of his many feature films, and there are times when this movie almost feels like an afterschool special that were so prevelant in the 1980's, but there is enough foul language and effective violence to snap the viewer out of any such idea.

Sean Penn plays Mick O'Brien, a  teenage, wannabe street thug in Chicago that feels like he is on his way to the top. The only redeeming quality about himself is his girlfriend J.C. played by Ally Sheedy. Drossingly vying for her affections is Paco Moreno (Esai Morales), an up and coming drug runner who thinks he's a kingpin.

One evening, Mick attempts to rob Paco, but things go horribly wrong; Paco's younger brother ends up dead, accidentally because of Mick, and Mick gets sent to a juvenile prison while Paco is left out in the streets, thristing for vengeance, and he does what he needs to get it.

Anyone watching this film during its initial release could tell that Sean Penn was something special. They may not have been able to predict the "superstar" he was to become, but his talent grandly shows. The casting, overall, was perfect for this film from Penn and Morales to Clancy Brown as Viking Lofgren, the bully of the prison; even Jim Moody plays the perfect supervisor while Roman Herrera is exactly the kind of counselor one would expect to find in a place like the hell these young men place themselves in.

This movie is dated, but the emotions are not. For being so young, all of these young actors, some future stars, others future bit players, deliver great performances that will impress you and creep you out equally. The film was directed by Rick Rosenthal (Halloween II), and there is an old school easter egg hidden within the middle of the film that gives a shoutout to Halloween fans.

Bad Boys was a film that I wasn't expecting to keep thinking about days after I watched it, but I am; and while it is not the best piece of cinema, for the subject matter and the era it was made - the tone and violence were well ahead of their time.

Double Barrel on Movie Remakes and Sequels....and Those That Care

Remake, re-imagining, reboot, sequel; I have grown numb to all of these things. Hollywood can redo whatever the hell it wants. Do-overs have been part of the Hollywood staple since Hollywood's inception. Frankenstein was one of the first films ever made (1910); how many times in how many years has that been redone? I officially don't give a fuck.

Let Steven Soderbergh remake Citizen Kane for all I care - and right about now there will be dozens of trolls bashing, "WHAT?! TRAVESTY!" No, he's not - but if anyone did, I think he'd be the better choice - not the best one, just the better one. Because right now there are several generations that feel Citizen Kane is overrated anyway.

Remakes are easy to make, and easier to financially capitalize on, easier to sequelize, and the only difference between remakes, horror films, and horror film remakes are the budget; horror is monetarily cheap - and much like the music industry; anyone that says they aren't in it for the money are full of complete, narcassistic shit.

Blame comics for all I care. If comic books can get away with rehashing, re-thinking, and recreating someone's origin, or erasing someone's death just to sell a book, well guess who Hollywood's looking at for inspiration these days. If comics have been doing it for a near century, Hollywood has every right to tell its consumers to stick two fingers up their ass, straight into their wallets because you are either stupid or apathetic enough to pay for it.

You don't like it, don't watch it; otherwise, be prepared to Eat Hollywood Dick like the sadistic whore you are because they are not paying you to get yourself fucked in the ass with razorblade dildoes, you are paying them to fuck you in the ass with razorblade dildoes.

Just be thankful that the internet is around for you to vent your frustration for dozens of people to read, because there are millions more who don't give a damn about what you think .

....And guess who's one of those millions.

I Sell the Dead - Movie Review

I Sell the Dead is the story of two happy-go-lucky grave robbers, Arthur Blake (Dominic Monaghan) and Willie Grimes (Larry Fessenden) during the 19th century. The film is set in a prison after Arthur and Willie have been arrested for their crime, as Arthur recounts his and Willie's career to Father Duffy (Ron Perlman, Hellboy), who is interested in keeping these tales in print for his own personal collection.

As a young boy, Arthur learns the art of grave robbing from Willie, and the two form a unique bond that carries them over the years through poverty and a bevy of rascals.

They are painfully employed by Dr. Vernon Quint (Angus Scrimm, Phantasm) to dig up the dead so he may perform experiments on them. They are paid in cheap wages and threats of blackmail until one night, the dead body they exhume from the grave turns out to be rather undead. Then, they discover that there is a market for these kinds of beings with reclusive clients that are willing to pay more   money than either Willie or Arthur ever expected to see in their lifetimes.

 I Sell the Dead is a fun movie that harkens back to the gothic-horror legacies of the original Hammer Horror films mixing in with British humor. Director and writer Glenn McQuaid seems to be heavily influenced, visually, by Sam Raimi as there are scenes with the similar texture, reminiscent of Evil Dead 2 and even Drag Me to Hell.

Like most British horror, the pacing is slow allowing room for character development, and when the frights occur, they aim to shock, surprise, and humorously entertain the viewer. So, if you enjoy gore-soaked horror, this isn't the film for you, but if you like your mania witty and playful, this movie is worth a look.

Man-Whore Begins

Gwar - The Salaminizer

This song is an example of why music has always been fun for me. And the only reason I still listen to Gwar is because they've never failed to deliver an enjoyable live show, and when in the 7th grade my two-year-crush asked to borrow their albums. I warned her, told her she wouldn't like them. She didn't, but she gave'em a chance because they were different.

She was an unbelievabally beautiful person the last time I ran into her. She said she was happy, and that was good enough for me.

And after the first night I  ever saw Gwar; I remember only being at school - - Algebra 2 - flicking off what was, hopefully, pseudo-blood and pseudo-sperm from my shirt, pulling out flakey chunks of the concoctions from my hair.

DB & a Movie: X-Men Origins - Wolverine

I love this piece of shit. Why? Liev Schreiber and Hugh Jassman's monologue setting up the acme, and then his young-Brando exit with some James Cagney in the mix.

I love this film the way I love Ang Lee's Hulk; Nick Nolte's Shakespearian rant just before one of the crappiest slugfests in comic-book movie reality, and it has actors acting, although Wolverine also has rappers needing to talk less. I did get a kick out of Kevin Durand's Blob. Ryan Reynolds refuses to avoid every other movie I've seen for the past four years and I  now want to punch a midget-pimp that pimps midgets, or just pimps.

The movie's story is a mix of Watchmen and the first Superman film, including someone being naked in all three films. Why I know that is the only reason psychology majors are able to make money.

Christopher McQuarrie (Usual Suspects, writer) scripted the sequel. I've enjoyed all film things involving Christopher McQuarrie, plus he wrote/directed one of my favorite films - Way of the Gun with Ryan Phillipe punching the shit out of Sara Silverman and some intelligent criminals provided with wicked dialogue. 

Liev Schreiber is the shit. An excellent dickhead in Repo Men. Schreiber and Jackman make me enjoy this flick It's a guilty pleasure with a pleasant aftertaste post-wretching.

Doube Barrel @ the Movies: Book of Eli

Book of Eli was Denzel's segue into the comic book world. I have no idea what his personal take or history on comics are, but I know the Hughes Brothers are hooked - they directed Deppster in From Hell, adapting it from Campell's and Moore's likeable but challenging graphic novel. Book of Eli had the feeling of a back-to-basics approach for everyone involved, catching up with technology.

I can only speak for myself; personally, the story went to a variant of an expectation, leaving me wanting more chilli-cheese nachos.

Side Note: I had zero tolerance of Mila Kunis pre-70's Show; now.....putting it lightly, she was the only reason I didn't scalp my scrotum with a severed popsticle stick while watching Max Payne. And she's never been better, I think, than in Book of Eli. Still don't want to watch American Psycho 2. It still feels....dirty.

Listening for an Exit

I once had sex with a woman - - young(er) woman, because she reminded me of another woman: one of the few that I cared about, but this particular whisper had been thousands, even hundreds of thousands of miles away for over a decade, according to my functioning memory-relays. Our lives were not crossing paths, physically, any time soon and I had to download the memory of her through my cranial zip-drive - I wouldn't wanted to have explored living an existence without remembering her smell, her texture - her ideas.....her voice.

The reasons behind our attraction were rarely agreed yet never defined. We knew how to push each others' buttons and still come out laughing about it, and her only bio-enhancement was medically relevant unlike the rest of us that indulged in the body modification craze of 2013.
.........Wait, did I say "...still come out laughing." or   "still come out lacerated?"  This relationship shit is a tricky, mind-raping business

The Secret of Magic Canopy Street

There is a street that I sometimes use when the red light two blocks away and a trail of traffic convince me to make the turn instead of staying forward. It is a simple street; a routine route for those living on that road and for those living nearby or that hold jobs within the area.

The street is not the important part, however; the trees (some bright Hackberries, others melancholy Mesquites) on this street do something enchanting. All along the street, the opposing trees are parallel from one another; they have a counterpart on the other side that seems to be anxiously awaiting their touch. After decades of growth, hurricanes, lightning storms, heatwaves, cold fronts, and all other agrarian blitzkriegs that the Earth unleashes, and the waste stream that drunken men and quivering dogs unleashed, these trees have found their ways into each others arms, forming a beautiful canopy of nature; green and gray hovering over the worn, weary gravel, sanctifying the people and their homes.

Like every act of beauty, there are secrets behind the majesty. During the day, most folks leave for work while some cars remain parked in front of the houses. But at night, after nine-thirty in the evening, Magic Canopy Street is barren; no cars anywhere in sight, no lights on within any of the houses, and the only light signifying any life at all stems from the moonbeams stretching from the galaxy halo encircling the moon.

An uneasy, quixotic feeling blankets my insides every time I drive down Magic Canopy Street after nine-thirty at night. I know the names of everyone murdered on that street, in the last six years, right when the tree limbs began to touch, the last murder occured; and while the deaths have stopped, disappearences have not, so I wonder, as I drive down this dark, lifeless avenue, if other stranger things have not already begun.

Nooner Movie Reviews

Wolfman - enjoyed it. Far from perfect but still felt like an upgrade of the 50's. Needed more scares, but there was some nice action; the CGI gypsy bear was harsh, but this flick better CGI/live-action blends than most flicks.

Repo Men - laughed me arse off. Dug it quite a bit.

Hot Tub - nicccccce.

Imaginarium of Doctor...- I think the crowd wanted to see a deceased man acting more than the movie, but I was surprised by the turnout, pleased even; despite the draw being thespian zombies. Tom Waits was coolness, yet again. Terry Gilliam set a nice standard for himself, all things considered.

Brooklyn's Finest - Review

With Brooklyn's Finest, Antoine Fuqua returns to the cop-genre; returning with him is Ethan Hawke. Also coming for the ride-along is Don Cheadle, Richard Gere, and the re-emergence of Wesley Snipes to the big screen.

The film weaves three different tales of three different types of cops, each caught in a career crossroads. Don Cheadle is an undercover agent on the brink of ending his case, which has cost him his regular life as his wife is ready to divorce him, but once he sees it through, he'll be settled behind a desk. Ethan Hawke plays a loving husband and father of what seems like a dozen children with twins on the way. He needs to get his family out of their home and in to a bigger and better one, but money is the one thing he doesn't have. Richard Gere plays a self-loathing street cop on the verge of retiring from an uneventful, unimpressive, two-decade career. Wesley Snipes, back as an actor not an action star, is the boss of a drug ring that has been freed after eight years in prison, and it is up to Don Cheadle's character to end his operations.

The performances expected from actors of their caliber are great. Ethan Hawke earned an Oscar nomination working on Training Day with Fuqua, and while he will probably be overlooked he should earn another one for his performance in this film. He went the extra mile to not only act as a morally, deeply conflicted officer, but his appearance alone shows you that he is under some kind of stress, and the opening sequence (with a surprise cameo by the uber-talented Vincent D'Onofrio) lets the audience know what his limits are, only so he can continue to push them even further.

Don Cheadle seems lost at times, which is exactly what the character is. He wants to do himself and his dwindling home-life right by his actions, but he has been undercover so long, he has found himself caring too much for the one person necessary to return normality to his life, which is Wesley Snipes, who, in my opinion, didn't get enough screen-time, but that is my opinion as a fan of his work, but he can still act finely without throwing a single punch.

Richard Gere's character, the retiree, comes off as almost a coward, if not in fact a coward. He has spent his entire time on the police force wanting to just stay alive rather than serve and protect. No one really respects him because no one really knows him, except prostitute whom he sees as his only viable relationship; and once the ending draws near, anyone with a brain of healthy oxygen can tell where the story is going for all three men, which imposes a crushing blow to a film that could have been great but ends up being only good.

Antoine Fuqua brings a damaged, pot-hole gritty look to the film, once again using color sequences to stimulate the visuals and the tone of the moment. You see darkness because there are dark things happening, and the lighted segments are few and far between as they show you the tiny traces of hope that the story and its characters cling to.

Brooklyn's Finest had all the capabilities of being something special but falls just flat of it. There are performances worth seeing from everyone involved but if expectations are too high, the grade of disappointment will vary from person to person. One thing is certain though, if you do not live a life like these characters, you will be much more appreciative of it because sometimes the only silver lining is the one people see once their heart stops beating.

Buried Enlightenment

I stumbled down another gravel road with cars parked all along each side. I figured I was on Roseberry St. because there was a lady sweeping the sidewalk in front of the restaurant with the red door that brewed good coffee, and I figured that lady was Mrs. Maldonado. It must've been because she bid me a good morning, like she knew me, or like she really wanted me to purchase a cup of the eatery's coffee.

I said hello when I walked in; to whom, hell if I know. A publicly jumbled retort replied, but some arms waved in the air where the cooks were, so they must've known I was a regular, which was great, but I was clueless. I just know I liked the smell of the place, but not the people in it. Not even myself.

The coffee arrived - so did questions.

"Did you hear about Mr. Dreg?" Mrs. Maldonado asked.

I murmured something that must've been a "No" as I tasted the coffee, but instead of a taste I just got a new numbness, but it was an awakening numbness, so it was either bad coffee or Irish coffee.

"Si', he died," said the blurred lady that was starting to form into Mrs. Maldonado, but I was still ready to punch it if it wasn't her.

"There's a wake?" I asked as I dove back into the bad coffee.

"Right now," Blurry Maldonado said. "Across the street, at Mr. Garza's funeral home?"

It made me wonder, which made me ask, "What time is it?"

"Enrique!" the Mrs. Blurry Maldonado shouted. "Qual es el tiempo?"

"Nine!" the voice said.

I walked across the street - Garza knew me too well, so he let me in.

"Was he a friend?" he asked.

"He was somebody," was all I could say. "Is he ready for show?"

"Yes."

"Can I see?"

He was apprehensive, like always, but - like always - he let me have first look. He always let me have first look when it was someone I knew.

There he lied, in his pearl casket. I tried to remember who he was, but I couldn't; but, apparently, my tongue could because I started licking the back of my mouth, gathering saliva, and as I opened my mouth to pay my respects, the only thing that came out was a gigantic gob of spit that landed right between his eyes.

I was satisfied. I bid Garza a good day, and a good show, and muddled my way some place that was serving other things besides bad coffee and bitter dead.

Watched Monsters vs. Aliens; very bleh. Nice effort, but still bleh.

The Price of Knowing

I post shit on the net, yet other than me - who really needs to know these things? There's a needful shadow that surrounds communication; the most necessary delivery is the point. The point can be made with three words or with fifteen dozen; as along as the end-result is a success - what level of success depends on the indivudual's state of mind the moment judgement is cast.

Surviving proves that we are aware of life. Changing our minds proves that we are aware of existence.

I'm typing with a bloody right hand. The weather has been schizophrenic, and being in the recovering-end-stages of an inner ear infection and congestion; My sinuses are not doing too well, being drier than a redheads' bottle of lube. Clearing them proved messy.

Infected Pt.1

A grim horizon sledged its way with cold rain and twisting winds, demolishing the formerly blue, cloudy skyline like it was glass beneath a bulldozer. I waited in my car until the crewman arrived to unlock the warehouse.

There was myself and one other person stationed in the heaven-like clean waiting room; an older lady with a limp that came with the bitter weather, but she never let it sully her pride and thanks for living another day. All I wanted was to get this deed done with sanze decapitating any of the infected with a clipboard I was forced to break in half.

I read through a book I hadn't touched since junior high as my zeal for life found itself drained by the events of the last couple of weeks. My dog had been run over (I had to sweep it's left-hind paw in to the gutter), my mother was about to have both of her legs amputated (because of those damned infected), and my health-coach suggested I should go on a diet despite the fact that I weighed just under three-hundred pounds, could run five-miles a day, and my blood pressure - as the health analyst would soon express - was "excellent." Which continued to confirm my beliefs that once someone left medical school, they knew nothing about people, the human body, or preserving life - only how to open someone's mouth and throw handfuls of pills at them, and whichever one's actually made it inside the mouth were downed with water, the one's that fell to floor were turned into suppositories.

Being a new patiet to this warehouse-clinic, I began filling out the info-sheet when a wheezing hacker limped in and sat next to me. My hands quickly gripped each sides of the clipboard, ready to snap it in half. Jabbing the pen through its larynx would have been a bonus and I would have spilled blood in heaven, but the symptoms of the infected subsided, and I resumed fillling out a contract made unreadable as the final draft had obviously been tossed at the mercy of the computer's spell checker. "I hereby sign his letter of life examination authorization...." unless, these scrub-draped bastards were working for someone - a Him.

Why were there delivery trucks in the back? What went in to this clinic that had to be distributed throughout the city?

Why I Can Never Be a Family Man

I can already see myself - already well on in my age, should I live long enough to experience these fool's-golden years; my sixties, maybe seventies.

I can already feel it - my mind slipping, sanity filtering itself out through life's will, my blood and my shit stains. My wife and children hovering over me like a puppy run over by an the ice cream man after he dropped some bad acid and thought the Berry Swirls were trying to eviscerate his essential scrotum parts with seven different "berry-good" flavors and fiver different "berry-licious" selections.

"Couldn't you just shove the Creamy Puffballs up my ass?" the laced-out, mobile food-provider would whimper.

In my bed I would lie, whithering away in my bed; no one having a clue why. Doctors find no reason for my deteriorating mental health. My family prays. It brings them hope.

Eventually, wife and children grow accustom to changing my diapers, drying my urine-sprayed belly, wiping my crap-stained tushy; and constantly dabbing my drooling mouth. And after the months, or even years; however long I still find the whole thing funny, on the inaugural day of the fourth month, I will prop myself up just as my daily changing is going on, pop to my feet on top of the mattress, and hysterically scream "APRIL FUCKING FOOLS, YOU BASTARDS!"

The last thing I will hear is my own laughter as my family predictably, lovingly, obediently beat me to death because THAT, ladies and gentleman, is how I show people I love them.

Alice in Monotony-Land

When I first heard about Tim Burton filming Alice in Wonderland, I really could have cared less. Even as photos and movie images were released, while displaying Tim Burton's knack for capturing beauty in darkness I still wasn't the slightest bit interested until I started hearing about the story.

I was under the impression that this was another remake coveted in the 3-D format to make money on something that the world has seen a billion times over, and perhaps some people have even read the book. What finally bashed my contemptuous scepticism was finding out that this is a continuation of the story rather than a remake/reboot/re-fisting-up-my-ass.

This brings back to me the time I saw Return to Oz, where a young, pre-psychotic Fairuza Balk donned the mantle of Dorothy, and may I say she performed splendidly, even evoking mannerisms and accents of Judy Garland. It was a fine amalgamation of the previous film with Frank L. Baum's books.

Still - - how many times can someone watch the same story over and over? Alice in Wonderland, The Wizard of Oz, Coraline; all are the same story - a young girl enters an mystical realm, befriends odd creatures, and terrorizes a sex-deprived diva in order to get back home. Then again, how many martial arts films can someone watch until they find one that has nothing to do with acting vengeance upon an evil master? How many superhero films can someone watch before it hits them - IT'S ALL THE SAME SHIT.

But, if it entertains, that's the important part, I suppopse; but even new material can be entertaining as well. However, I look forward to ripping off Lewis Carrol, Frank L. Baum, and Neil Gaiman in the near future.

Dogg-Style Day

Here we are again......Screw Like Pooches Day, or as known better since its reboot - Valentine's Day.

When I hear Duran Duran's Hungry Like the Wolf, I'm reminded of Valentine's Day. It all started with K-9s.

Prior to Christianity's overtaking of Rome, succeeding St. Valentino as the inspiration for this often misconstrued, expensive holiday - which if it were any kind of holiday, if it landed on a weekday, working people would get the day off - - Rome celebrated love through the Parentalia and Feralia Festivals of Purification. February 14th was the second day of this multi-facated event. It was dubbed Lupercalia, supposedly dedicated to Juno-Lupa, the She-Wolf. Priests called Luperci would congregate at the Cave of Lupercal to sacrifice dogs, wolves in other areas, and goats, then smeared the baptised blood across the foreheads of children of nobility. I'm just going over the relevant detailse, there's much more to this pagan"s party.

In Northern Europe, wolves were sacrificed - their intestines used by males to swipe the blood across their desired female's forhead. I'd written a piece on that particular sect many years ago. Sadly, I've lost all materials related to it. And it dawned on me just today - the coincidence(?) - of The Wolfman being released on Valentine's weekend. I haven't stopped laughing.

I want to just flick your ear. And annoy you. But you then smile anyway.

Curly

I knew Curly because I remembered his driver's license with his photo suffering from pube-like growths hovering over his scalp, and because his friends were gracefully replenishingh him with shots and chasers, meaning it was an important night for Curly. Unfortuntely, Aldo had received complaints about Curly. He couldn't keep his hands to himself, and that was not good for business, particularly on a night that was bumpin' like this one was.


I made the call - toss Curly - but only for the first time in a long time did I want in on the experience.

The mystique about "bouncing" is that you kick ass every night, that whole Road House feel, which is what most other bouncers masturbate to once they leave work. Unlike those limp-dicks, I prefer to fall asleep with the tv on. But when you're frustrated, and a long day has been just that, a "long day," the idea is there, festering in your brain - - - I wish this muthafucka would pull something. That night, Curly pulled a knife on me and Aldo. Aldo pulled the knife out of his hands. I lifted Curly off of his feet. Frustration coupled with velocity bounced Curly off of the pavement in front of the club.

Philosophy and Physics are a dangerous combination.

WWWW I.....and the Aftermath

I could see the fire. When no one else would comment or even twitter, fearing for their jobs, their sense of importance - I saw the fire. And it was an electrical one.

Growing up, recognizing the importance in words carefully strewn together not just to make sense, but to deliver relevance; to deliver purpose.

Then, World Wibe Web War One (I) hit us.Wx4I wiped out most of the remaining hospitable environments, once the Aquatic Age was over.

Some peopel want to compare our eras to the Dark Ages, yet the only difference between us and the Dark Ages - the Dark Ages had no electricity. We did. At least up until the.......................................................................

The Last Member of the Great Andamanese Tribe Dies

Boa Sr, who died last week aged around 85, was the last speaker of ‘Bo’, one of the ten Great Andamanese languages. The Bo are thought to have lived in the Andaman Islands for as much as 65,000 years, making them the descendants of one of the oldest human cultures on Earth.

Webbing the Wall

I'm not a "house" person. I've never felt comfortable in a house, thus never feeling comfortable calling any place home. I love lofts - I suspect is why both begin with L. I've enjoyed apartments. The crappiest thing about each are the roomates.

My aunts used to work as a pack, one distracting me while another snuck around, waiting to bash a bannana in my mouth.

I love them so much. All of them. They taught me the meaning of survival, and are partially responsible for me enjoying cold food. I mean it - chilli, fidello; all cultures of pasta, frankly. I don't need a microwave, just an appetitie.

They kept a record, the only problem was the record kept going and going and going - nothing was being done about stopping the asshole that was terrorizing my neighborhood. I spotted him in between 11:30 and 12:45 every night. The same lanky figure swooping his arms to and fro, trying to get away. Unfortunately, your freakishness is landing you in the local penitentiary because no one you know has the kind of bail money required to bust you out of the hole.

But then you see your way out. You see the son of a bitch in a college pro's jacket sleeping directly across, smelling either his early warning signal, or the last line of putrid defense. Regardless, its death knows what it's true human instinct requires, and what reckless wish-monger desires - only to suffer later on...

I wish you the best. Peace.

Alone-Time

Sometimes, alone-time is sweeter than sweet. Granted, too much could develop a soul cavity, but some people can get away with more than most other folks and be fine in their social form.

Alone-time can feel like trekking atop your favorite pastry, or wading through the best ice cream, but at some point, you have to use the bathroom during your trek, and I saw you playing Seagulling Marco Polo in the ice cream, so...eventually, your own filth kills the mood. 

Loneliness is saddening, alone-time is a conditioning, and a trust in yourself.

Gawd damnit get your hand outta your pants!

Suffocate

And to think, the only things responsible for pockets of space vacuums not sucking the life and lower intestines out of us is galaxy's gas.

Personally, I hope we're a burp, because I know being the ass-end of the galaxy's descovery of bean burritos is too much fun.

Warm Riding

A friend challenged me to write her a short story for her to read on her way home. She was already at the bus stop - this is what happened:

The crowd at the bus stop dwindled with every passing song blasting through her iport phone; by the time her steel carriage, promptly for a change, she had passed her third Creedence Clearwater Revival track. The driver welcomed iPort Cutey aboard, welcoming the prettiest face he had seen all night as the rest of the passangers couldn't help but smile as she shuffled down the aisle, when, incidentally, her iport's voiceprint alerted her to an incoming call. iPort Cutey retrieved it from her jacket's pocket, thumbing the touchscreen to accept the call, which flashed a full-body, three dimensional hologram of her friend, whom she had recently bastardized for trying to turn sea monkies into cannibals so they'd make better meteorologists than the ones on television. They exchanged greetings and in the midst of playing catch-up, her friend pointed outside the bus window and asked, "Why's that guy trying to fuck that soda machine?" iPort Cutey corrected him in her gently direct way, telling him it was actually a hand-warmer dispencer, and that it was quite cold outside; she even had a hand warmer in her purse, so she didn't have to go around humping any soda machines.

Belief: If they give a fuck, they'll leave a message or call back between 3:30 a.m. & 5a.m. <Killw/Kndnss>

My greatest enjoyment from leaving the venue people asking, "WTF?!" <FearNoBeer>

The third wind - the TRUE 3rd Wind is what seperates nights from adventures.

Welcome to My City

Welcome to my city. We embrace you with open arms. Dump on my city, we rip your arms off and feed the rest of you to the wild alligators in Bayview.

Come, stay; enjoy our food. We don't care if you don't like it because we know you're only passing by and are more interested in liquoring up anyway. Just realise that you're inebriated ass may not end up where its supposed to be the next morning, nor might it be in one piece. Our dogs, and insurging coyotes, do love the extra flabby flavor.

Share our kindness. We're not asking you to buy anything. We're just hoping you are a respectable human being that will treat us equally, otherwise, you're name is filed with the rest of the ghosts strolling around because we like spectral energy, the company it keeps, and the power it provides.

Welcome to my city. We will treat you like kings. Fuck with us, and your own mother will question whether you were ever born.

I love my city.

Dear Gawd, Please Let Me Die Like This

Sparks was the co-owner of a multimillion-dollar construction business and in the prime of his life when symptoms of FTD first started appearing. He was initially misdiagnosed -- as many FTD patients are -- as suffering from stress and depression. But his wife Cheryl and college-age children Graham and Alexandra knew something more was wrong when Sparks stopped caring about his health, couldn’t remember the names of the tools of his trade and could no longer read a clock.

Galactic Kidney Stones

The Martian moons Phobos and Deimos have been photographed in the same frame for the first time.

"Misfired Missile" My Ass

Riddle of the Arctic roll solved as Russia admits 'one of our missiles misfired'

Someone's messing with a Large Haldron Collider, tweaking some of Nikola Tesla's handiwork.

Exercising Communicating Appendages

My mum saw the commercial with the mom and daughter communicating over their laptops as the mother shows off Christmas decorations, only to be surprised by the daughter waiting outside, which is pretty damn creepy if you ask me, but - - - whatever.

Me mum saw the commercial and asked, "Would you do that for me?" with my reply being, " The best I can offer you is a lonely Christmas, knowing that you're son is surviving in the real world."

 My mother then flipped me off.

My pillow is stuffed with angel's feathers.

Ladies and Gentleman - "Fistgate II"

Kevin Jennings and his GLSEN organization did nothing to clean up their act. In fact in 2001 activists handed out “fisting kits” to the children and teachers who attended the GLSEN conference.



That’s correct. Fisting kits.

I guess it's better to learn these kinds of things from a loopy government official than you're life-battered uncle who enjoys walking around elementary schools wearing a trenchcoat, knee-high socks, and a liter of lube.

We Want to Know Space - We Don't Know Shit

The biggest black holes in the universe are also the most perplexing. Scientists have long been confused about just how the earliest, most massive black holes formed, but new evidence now suggests they could have originated inside giant cocoon-like stars.

Ladies and Gentleman - FISTGATE

In 2000, Kevin Jennings (now Obama's Safe School Czar) promoted sexually graphic material to 14 year olds. Some acts included fisting, public masturbation, and pedophilic relationships...

GLSEN’s stated mission is to empower gay youth in the schools and to stop harassment by other students. It encourages the formation of Gay Student Alliances and condemns the use of hateful words. GLSEN also strives to influence the educational curriculum to include materials which the group believes will increase tolerance of gay students and decrease bullying. To that end, GLSEN maintains a recommended reading list of books that it claims “furthers our mission to ensure safe schools for all students.” In other words, these are the books that GLSEN’s directors think all kids should be reading: gay kids should read them to raise their self-esteem, and straight kids should read them in order to become more aware and tolerant and stop bullying gay kids. Through GLSEN’s online ordering system, called “GLSEN BookLink,” featured prominently on their Web site, teachers can buy the books to use as required classroom assignments, or students can buy them to read on their own…

We were unprepared for what we encountered. Book after book after book contained stories and anecdotes that weren’t merely X-rated and pornographic, but which featured explicit descriptions of sex acts between pre-schoolers; stories that seemed to promote and recommend child-adult sexual relationships; stories of public masturbation, anal sex in restrooms,....

If it’s all about tolerance, why is the following question necessary?

David LaFontaine, chairman of the Governor’s Commission on Gay and Lesbian Youth and the man who is mostly responsible for the Gay Straight Alliances in Massachusetts, tells us, “We believe very strongly that all students should not be sexually active in high school.”

Woman: Question is: What’s fisting?


Man: A little known fact is that you don’t make a fist like this. When they do it, it’s like this. This is a lot easier than this. [laughter]


Woman: You work your way up to it… [unclear] one finger, two fingers, three fingers … Some people can take a hand, or they can’t take a hand.

It’s about tolerance? If Gay Straight Alliances are not about sex, why are the people who run Gay Straight Alliances telling students about fisting? What you did not see is the man leading the discussion positioning his hand and showing 14 year olds how to insert their entire hand into the rectum of their sex partner.

Canine Expenses

Noticing a local commercial for a home healthcare company, and all of their noted p.r. folks have decent-to-pretty faces; all have large breasts, I'm assuming at least two of them are women -- damn, sign up my diabetic Great Uncle who craps himself everytime he believes the 2 dogs outside conspire against him to chew on his leg stump while he sleeps.

Sour Milking

Wow; milk enough cows and you too can own your own Van Gogh.

Italian police said they found 19 masterpieces stashed away by the disgraced founder of the collapsed dairy company Parmalat. Calisto Tanzi had long been alleged to have a "hidden treasure" but denied the charge. Prosecutors are probing the alleged concealing of assets in Parmalat's bankruptcy case. Here, officers carry a Giuseppe De Nittis painting hidden by Tanzi.

Why Suicide is Considered a Recess

Watched the first half of Dan in Real Life, or at least until the part when Juliette Benoche becomes jealous. A beautiful and eloquent human being she be.

Of what I saw, I swear, if it weren't a remake of a foreign film it felt like one.

Of what I saw, the two older daughters were bitchy without regard other than being pre-teen teens ( or whatever evolutionary region being a mutant has reached); the youngen had a case. I'm guessing all the baggage came to a front in the second half.

I did get a kick out of Juliette Benoche's jealousy moment.

Today's Perfect Chill

Today provided the perfect chill - a great brumal, if you will. The rain and drizzle that had plagued the previous gelid days was nowhere to be found; it was pure Northern cold today and I loved every moment of it. My nipples got so hard, I could've killed twenty orphans through their retinas before lunch with them.

Watching my breath becoming mist is like watching a dying smoker embracing every drag after finding out their condition is terminal.

F--K ESPN

I fucking hate ESPN these days. Unfortunately, they're the only relevant sports news station around, and they know it. They have monopolized a hooker's douchebag. They have become the E-Hollyweird of sports news, and if it weren't for Chris Berman, Tom Jackson, and the NFL; I'd've dropped these self-important assholes years ago.

Know When to Shut Up

And that brings me to my currents state of  literature. I've grown tired of adult fiction. It's becoming oversaturated, monstrously detailed, and there's very little fun going on in that part of the literary world these days. In fact, the last three or four novels I have read are all geared supposedly towards a younger audience - The Graveyard Book by Neil Gaiman (excellent), The Witches by Roald Dahl (a childhood delight revisited), Bridge to Terabithia by Katherine Paterson (who has an exquisite writing voice) - and these writers, these stories know when to let the reader go and use their imagination, rather than bogging down the whole experience with useless details about the jagged edge on a single cloud or what brand and year the murder weapon was when it proves to be insignificant throughout the rest of the adventure.

As a prose writer - no, as a writer, one of the hardest things to learn is to know when to shut up and let the story tell itself, and allow the reader to have some fun.

Currently Reading....

I am currently reading Night by Elie Wiesel. Yes, that little Pulitzer Prize winning number.

I have to admit, I'm slightly burnt out on the holocaust, but a good read is a good read and this is one damn good read. It is based on Wiesel's own experiences as a young man; driven from his home with his family and community, taken to Auschwitz and Buchenwald during WWII. Throughout these horrible occurences, Wiesel lost his faith in both God and mankind.

Originally, Wiesel wrote the book for a more mature audience but later adapted his writings for a wider populace. You'll find Night on many junior high and high schoool reading lists, but it is worthy of anyone's attention.

Italian Man Controls Robotic Hand with His Mind

An Italian who lost his left forearm in a car crash was successfully linked to a robotic hand, allowing him to feel sensations in the artificial limb and control it with his thoughts, scientists said Wednesday.

There's a man in Oregon who is a paraplegic also experiencing neural interface; controlling his television, answering his telephone, commanding his computer, and maneuvering his wheelchair with a microchip implanted in his brain.

The robots will rise, and they will destroy us all by skullfucking the technology out of our cranial orifices.

Pirates Use Stock Exchanges to Fund Hijackings

Somali pirates have created a new exchange in Haradheere, Somalia, to fund their hijackings offshore, Reuters reports. The pirates have made tens of millions of dollars so far, and their stock exchange offers shares for anybody to buy.


"Four months ago, during the monsoon rains, we decided to set up this stock exchange. We started with 15 'maritime companies' and now we are hosting 72. Ten of them have so far been successful at hijacking," said one pirate.

R.I.P. Paul Naschy

Today, Paul Naschy succumbed to his battle wit cancer. If you are a fan of horror, specifically classic Spanish horror films, then you may be familiar with Paul Naschy (perhaps without even knowing it). He portrayed several of the classic beasts including Dracula, The Hunchback, and for over a dozen films - The Wolfman for the Hombre Lobo film series.

He thrived throughout the '60's and '70's, and unlike most American horror regulars, Paul Naschy was actally acclaimed for his acting. The Hombre Lobo films are still some of my favorite werewolf movies; it's a shame to lose another horror legend, but what a wonderful legend he is.

Cold Pleasant Rain

I stepped outside this morning to find a storm approaching in the sky, unfortunately it did nothing to daunt the humidity; thus, I opted to leave my sweater where it hanged. I ate breakfast, brushed my teeth, and promised to whatever being listens when you promise to no one that I would do my best to not make my assistants cry or make life looking down the barrel of a tank cannon bliss compared to working with me. At least the sun would be taking a break today.

Of course, what should happen the instant I set foot outside for work? The northern wind blasts heavy doses of itself through the city, and the humidity is soon less than a memory; it may have never even existed. Nipples everywhere cowered at this brisk norhthern force. Then, after the wind followed the rain.

Normally, I don't like the rain and cold mixing together as it makes the roads more dangerous as people cannot even drive well when the days are clear and the streets are dry, but throw in muggy frost and you've got yourself a full day's entertainment over on Brianson's overpass.

Even now it continues to rain, and the cold proved to harsh for even I to continue working outside, which did help me get through a chapter I was having difficulty structuring, but I think the context of the work and the content of the weather kickstarted my brain. Now, I'm inside with some coffee, the hint of cigarettes (an odor I still adore, though I myself do not smoke), and the clicking of a keyboards mingling with the tapping of chilled raindrops over the building; its roof and windows. The colors are never as bright as just after a colde pleasant rain.

A Julian Sands sighting! Something about Robin Hood & Sherrif Sands' porking of Merrian being regulated to a "Director's Cut" dvd.

A Thanksgiving Walk

After thirty minutes, the family was done with one another. The gray sheep of the blacks decided not to show because the charcoal sheep was plaguing accusations of theft, deception, and other scoundrel-like qualities towards the gray one. I myself sat back and enjoyed the meal, and after two chews of turkey, I recall why I loathe the moody, dim-witted bird.

I left after dessert; vanilly ice cream, because I don't trust the words "potato" and "pie" in the same sentence nor the same dish. As I walked home, I saw the prostitutes beginning to occupy their typical territories. I wondered what they were thankful for. I'm sure one was thankful for her coat, which she draped over her left arm, but the chill was diming as the cold drew nearer, which the meant the bitch slaps, beatings, and knife-cuts would sting much worse the longer they were forced to work. The blemishes and blood would be darker as their blood's pigmentation reacted to the temperature-dipping weather.

Be thankful to breathe another breath, I wished upon them. Then, I looked for a truck to throw myself in front of, with no such luck. The streets were empty save for the lost souls wandering about on this very block.

My home was warm, my clothes were dry, and my bottles were empty, and I knew the name of every death on the street where those prostitues huddled together for warmth; for survival.

Sports Evolved

MMA had become the norm for the streets, except when you have the triangle choke fixed tightly on your opponent, you also expect his friend to be coming around to kick you in the face.

After a the neuro-wipeout decade, most of the fighting styles blended together; only the spiritually on-line could decode the movements, placing them with their origins.

What the new fighters had forgotten was what I embraced. We both honored discipline, but only I still embraced the will to kill. It wasn't about a victory, it was always about survival to me. I never stopped pounding until they stopped moving. I never broke a hold until I heard a broken bone.

The suits still made their money ever since they got in league with the police, having surveillance cameras placed on every street corner, with alerts and Ante Wormholes opening to accept all bets on any streetfight that broke out, or any riot that lasted longer than ten minutes. Vegas appreciated it since the NFL became sad and predictable when the salary cap was lifted. Some people called it the Yankee virus.

Embracing the Public

Sometimes I wonder if musicians against downloading walk about in public, passing strangers, humoring fans; wanting to beat the watery shit out of some of them.

"Oye, I'm a big fan. Have been for years; I love all you're stuff."

- "Izzat a fact. What was the last album you bought."

"Haven't dropped coin since you're debut, what - six years ago...."

...and just thrash the motherfucker!"It was ten years, you thieving, fuckless bastard! Drop some coin if the album's at least good enough you walking herpes machine!"

I can't believe that grannies orgasming to Motorhead is the only recollection I have of Nevada.

Insomnia hit full throttle last night. Knocked out research, a few pages of stories; continued designing my next tattoo. No sleep tonight either; work to do.

Fire Dancing

There were days when my brother and I played music, and there were days when we simply pounded strung cat fur and bashed dead cow skin. Then, when the fire erupted, spreading throughout the fields, harvesting the ashened essence of a scorched earth while embracing the freshness of a new one, we realised exactly what kind of power we had and what kind of sacrificial destiny we were doomed to fulfill.

Moon Praises.

Enjoyed this one quite a bit. I don't come across too many films involving Sam Rockwell, but he is good and takes risks. He did an excellent job as he was the only human being in the flick.

I warn, the quotes on the dvd cover are a wee bit overly generous in their conotations, but it is a great movie.

Damning Geriatrics

I feel it's liklier in a small town to hear someone in their home yelling after an ambulance blazes by, "Damnit, I bet you there's a fucking nursing home down there somewhere."

- heh heh heh.

Back in the Saddle

The gym is now open at it's new location. I pounded the crap out of my legs yesterday, then turned the rage on to my arms today. I feel alive again, and my cardio is kicking ayuzz. Tonight - - pizzaaaaaa.

Why? Because I can. Shyow

Quick Movie Critiques (because reviews mean I don't give my opinion)

Halloween 2 (2009): Tyler Mane was an excellent raging killer. He was the best thing about this movie. With that sad, the movie itself was a disappointment. The sister's whiney delivery made her annoying and unlikeable, along with the rest of the cast whom you either did not care for or wanted to see Michael butcher them as they had no redeaming qualities. Dr. Loomis' character was retooling was disasterous, and I loathed him.

Rob Zombie's visuals were creepy and equally enchanting. He gets better as a director with each film (The Devil's Rejects still being his best), but someone else needs to tackle his scripts.

The Haunting of El Superbeasto: Sticking with Rob Zombie, this was his first animated feature film, and as expected it was a wicked acid trip with some good and bad hallucinations. He pokes fun at himself with cameos by some characters from his previous films with Paul Giamatti providing the voice of Dr. Satan who is nothing like the Dr. Satan from House of 1000 Corpses.

The elevator scenes were the best parts of the film.

The Hurt Locker: A good movie that didn't feel like a movie. It was shot as if they were filming a cable mini-series, but that did not stop the film from being intense, suspenseful, and a bastard of a good time; though it does lose steam towards the end, but it was nice getting inside the minds of the military bomb squad members.

Extract: Mike Judge delivers another good film, although this one is quieter than his previous two live-action efforts, and Mila Kunis' character was almost irrelevant.

Jason Bateman is knocking every role out of the park.

Reign of Fear

Meetings were cancelled today due to an incoming storm. I love the valley. Someone feels a drop from the sky and its the Gawd's Bootstomp reaking havoc upon humanity.

Peoples is funny.

Family

Me mum called today, asking what was going on in me life. Excited, I replied, "I got my latest issue of Scientific American."

"You're such a fucking geek," said my mother.

Regurgitating History

Since I have just thought of it, someone else must have thought of it during the inception of texting - however, I find it humorous that texting is a modern version of the telegraph.

Business As Usual

The insurance man noticed the smile on my face as I ignored his every word. "What are you thinking about?" the bald, blue-suited man asked. "What it would be like to shove a brick through one person's ear and pull it out the othe...r," I replied. "Which insurance plan covers that?"

House Science

You either work for NASA or are a bored junkie when you try to figuring out at what temperature sperm boils.

Homemade Stealth

Never upset a cropduster pilot. If they're any good, they can bomb you while you sleep.

Working Sick While Sicking Work

Work was nice enough while the clock ticked slowly, only in the morning though; by the afternoon activity was rampant. Have not been active these past few days - I've been ill, but today was the best I've felt since succumbing to the light disease. Hopefully, tomorrow I'll feel a bit better. I do feel well enough to return to my training regiment which naturally destroys my immune system on its own. Usually in the second hour of training I begin sneezing or my nose starts to run, occasionally I start coughing, but such is the price I pay for being the stubborn ass that I am.

Tasty Dyke-Toungue

Anyone else ever tasted dyke-tongue?

I am reminded of the times that I have - - I was standing in line, waiting to pay for a couple of dvds: 1)The Dark Knight (which I thought sucked, but I'm hoping with alternative injections, will be better. It worked for Hellboy II, so what the hell....) and 2) Metalocalypse Season 2.

Metalocalypse is a personal taste. It's not something everyone will enjoy, but I love it.

So, I see my two options. Option 1 is a young, geeky pup that will wet himself when I blink my eyes into a wince. Option 2 is a young woman, and yes, dyke-ish in her aura. She's just bleeding dyke - - which may explain why she was excited to see that I was purchasing the Metalocalypse dvd.

I have a great history with lesbians and dykes. I've kissed both species, and nearly decapitated one of them. And so, to all the dykes out there - - lighten up. So you don't have a penis. BIG DEAL. It ain't worth it. Enjoy the vagina. Embrace the vagina.

The vagina controls the world.......stupid dykes.

Horrorgy

Horror is calling me home. There's more than Halloween to it. This temptation of mine has been begging to be unleashed for years, and while from time to time I have given in to the sweet desire, the ideas have been ridiculous. A man shredding his own skin off in one world, while in our own, it seems as though he is having a mere heart attack - pUHleeeease. Simply put, it is full of stuff I would not want to read, and that is already a heavy-negative.

Horror is very precious to me. I grew up with it. My aunts forced me to watch it. I didn't want to, at first. They played Texas Chainsaw Massacre, and I watched it straight through; even watched it without my family. The film version of Children of the Corn made me cringe, only because I like ice cream so much, and the thought of someone losing a body part in an ice cream shop disheartens my appetite for the creamy delicacy.

But I got over it. And I still love ice cream.

I Hate Being Smart

It seems like everyone shit out their brains between five o'clock and eight o'clock this evening. Just because a dude can answer questions in his Grammar class he's suddenly fucking worthy of papparazzi treatment. How pathetic are people becoming?

I know a few words. Leave me alone!

Fuck! There's a word for you. Off! There's a nother. Put'em together and you'll know what to do.

Holey Book

It took nearly 5 hours, but I finished a flyer for a fake literacy event. The flyer, and the entire concept and details for it.

The shit you go through when you want to put a bullet through one of your character's head; oh we'll pick him off at the thing with the kids...jeyzus.

Grampa Fall Down

I swear to Gawd, my aunt will smother my grandfather to death before the night is over. She will pick up one pillow, possibly another one for insurance, and apply pressure until his boney arms stop flailing.

My grandfather was diagnosed with cancer about three or four years ago. He's been deteriorating slowly ever since. Once a night I go to his house, where he lives with his wife (my grandmother, naturally), and one of his daughters, who has two kids on the ever-blazing road to damnation and nowhere. One's going to damnation, the other is just going nowhere

My grandfather has been sequesterd to the living room sofa as he is immobile without assistance. He has a walker, his wheelchair, and as he likes to keep falling off the sofa - me.

Tonight, Grampa took another dive off of the couch. My aunt went out for groceries; one of her kids was at work, the other - a preteen, tween; whatever the fuck these mutants are dubbed these days - so my grandparents were left alone, and Grampa was supposed to be asleep.

Well - - he wasn't. So, he tries to get up, but since he hasn't used his legs solely by themselves, they are not up to supporting his body weight no matter how much weight the cancer has taken from him.

Up - - - AND DOWN. And my aunt is sick of having to find people to help her pick him up. We are looking for hospital beds, but their costs are keeping my family from procurring one. I know a few people in the lower levels of the medical field and could probably sneak one out the back of an old folks' home or a morgue.

I'm just waiting for this damn buzz to kick in.

Dizzy

Workout was a tizzy today. Work wound up being rather unpredictable; even nice.

But the workout was where I puked. There's a big difference betwen a story about a nice day, and a story about a guy puking. Who knows where the puking will lead? Maybe we'll see blood, maybe there's a love interest with a socially sick fetish - - and fuck a moist skunk every day you don't find someone who believes in these things.

Did leg curls, moved to squats, and it was during the squats where my belly signaled its need to expel some toxic demons. I was able to stall it until I did all four sets. After the fourth, I stalled for a bit, struck up a conversation with a couple of folks, but the septic gurgling got the best of me. I bowed down to the toilet bowl.

It wasn't much - I was in an out of the bathroom in, like, three minutes. Afterwords, I did a couple more sets of exercise, happily settled in with the dizziness that still prevailed (starting to think I have/had an inner ear infection), and I made my way home.

That's about it. Nice and quiet at the moment. Could use some rain like yesterday, but the aftermath is brutal as humidity and heat molest one another well into the wee hours of the next day.

Here We Go Again

Decided to slip into some familiar skin. The other place felt - - - ill; sick somehow. Not good. This one comforts easily.

tired. when are we not tired.anymore?

but something's wrong. need a change.

Daily Blur

These past couple of weeks have blurred by. Returning to work has been about as uneventful as karaoke in a morgue, but that hasn't stopped the clock from whirling by, and the sun and moon from playing atomic seesaw all around the Earth.

A new semester has begun at the university, which has quadrupled my workload on its own, nevermind that I'm still getting in my regular workouts, though I've had to shift them from five to six days to four to five days. I'm not sure if it's helping or hurting me yet; still too soon to tell. Today, I saw some things I liked, some things I didn't. The shoulders are popping out, the biceps are starting to show cut; it's just the midsection that needs some atttention, and I know that would go away if I was wise enough to replace some of the lifting with running.

For most folks, it's the other way around, even though they don't know it. More weight is lost by lifting than running.

I'm not saying anyting no one doesn't know or feel. I'm not saying anything anyone wants to hear either. That's why I choose to rarely say anything to anyone.

Dick in the House

Medically employed dick-watchers get upset because someone sardonically comments that they watch dick all day.

Fucking rookie. Was it day one?

Get back here and watch my dick.

Where is Cupid?

I wanted to work on the Cupid Apocalypse story tonight, but I can't find it anywhere. I wrote it years upon years ago, maybe close to ten, close to five; I don't know.

It's one of the first pieces I ever actually liked but for whatever reason I was thinking about it the other day. I probably saw a couple holding hands in the park, or the rehab clinic, or something, somewhere.

I read it and while I did not disapprove of it, I could see where it needed some overviews, particularly during the conversation between Cupid and Death. While they're talking, the three other horseman are unleashing their powers over a Chechnyan village because Cupid is feeling blue; uninterested in bringing humans together in love. Really, he just wants a vacation.

Back to work.

The story was inspired by King's X - Cupid.

Noise

Sitting inside a room, three walls made of rock; the third made of glass, and I can't escape the desire to throw myself through any one of them. W.A.S.P.'s Wild Child continues circulating its melody through my brain and I'm uninterested in relieving myself of it as I am a big fan of their work.

The clicking keyboard keys and a heavy sigh are the only noises I have made for the past four hours. The motor of the a.c. unit hums behind me while the rushing air crashes throug the vents.

Outside - - rain. Sweet purity.

Thinking of It

"Can't you see; she's calling out to me!"

"Is she?!"

"Yes!"

"Is she, really?!"

"Yes!"

"What were you thinking of before you thought of her? Were you thinking of her?"

"Always."

"No, imbecile. Before you thought of her, were you thinking of her?"

"No."

"What were you thinking of?"

"Cable tv."

"And now you know you're answer."

The Dark Knight

Finally made it around to watching The Dark Knight. Indeed, a good film, but I liked Begins more.

Outstanding peformances by the entire cast; Ledger did well, but is ultimately replaceable, and Gary Oldman (a personal fave) once again blew his role away, this time as Commisioner Gordon.

Bale's bat-voice was more annoying in this one than in Batman Begins. Fear does not sound like a dog birthing an elephant.

- Heath is replaceable
- the movie was an endless slideshow
- hope for more Two-Face
- Nothing happened. Throughout the whole movie - nothing - happened.

To an Extent

Have you ever had a chunky girlfriend (or significant other) that lost a significant amount of weight, and when you look at the before and after pictures you wonder - why?

Leave me be a pig tonight. I've earned it damnit. I need a break from being a gentleman. Women hate those - REMEMBER!

Cute-Toed-Girl

Soundtrack: Local H - Twelve Angry Months

Cute-Toed-Girl - - well, she's more than a girl. She is an intelligent young woman with the social happenings of a radical girl. I met her earlier this summer during the first summer session at the university. We were instantly comfortable around one another, sitting side by side, absorbing information, trading study tactics, and growing annoyed simultaneously with the other classmates.

People could say her face was plain, but I called it beautiful all the same. It was the mind behind the face with the dark soul-panes that I liked. She was sharp, ruthless for a good grade; I couldn't help but at the very least be slightly smitten. On this particular day of discovery, she was wearing a lime green vest over a brighter, similar colored tank top with a skirt that had a matching grass pattern with speckles of lavender colored flowers all around. Her legs showed that she tried to stay fit; her small size makes her easily susceptible to weight gain. Her footwear were plain colored fashion sandals that exposed those adorable feet-digits. They were the cutest toes I had ever seen. Most women in my area have outstretched, battered toes inherited from their mothers and grandmothers who typically work eight to sixteen hours a day all on their feet, walking everywhere they went, but her toes were short and perfectly round like a blossoming spring-time bud, making her much more unique considering it was summer.

We maintained a steady friendship, never venturing beyond our cordial boundaries. She told me about her life, her troubles with men. I told her things about me that kept her telling me more about herself.

On that last day, that lingering spark of attraction escaped the shadow of idea and fleshed itself out into reality. She wore pink and white converse shoes. We were sitting outside the classroom awaiting for the previous class to leave; I told her how cute I thought her toes were. Her 'thank you' was strong and undoubtedly appreciative. She mentioned that she is very self-conscious about her feet, she went on, and had she known I was looking she would have pulled them away from my eyes. I told her I figured she would, so I never said anything until then.

The day of our class final I kept my headphones wrapped around my ears, losing myself in Nada Surf's Lucky album. She studied, but awkwardly she wouldn't stop looking at me. I wanted to give her all the possible to peruse her notes. She gained control of herself and did, but occasionally she still glanced in my direction. I desperately wanted to acknowledge her, but couldn't. Our hearts were right, our minds were close, but our social worlds were so different - she still enjoyed the outings that a young person should; the night clubs and the parties. I didn't; I never had. Plus, she still had ties to an on-off-again boyfriend, which I wanted no part of. As much as we knew about one another, it wasn't enough. Maybe she was the type of woman who needed drama in her life. I'm too easygoing and focused to be trifled with that unnecessary headache. 

And yet....maybe I could have used a little drama.

We took our exams. Our last class day, we compared grade; I beat her by four points. We said bye, and we hugged. It was a hug that never wanted to end. We pulled apart, and for a brief moment the silence was begging to be filled. We looked in each others' eyes, both begging for the other to say something, and all I came up with was "bye."

I have yet to see her again. I hope she's well. I hope she's happy. Her toes are still the cutest ones I have ever seen.

Somehow, I find myself having to move on from her at least once a year. She just pops into my head; I'm not sure what the subconscious trigger is, but annually I keep moving on. It's all we've ever done, all we can ever do.  

Explosions

Explosions occur every day all around the planet. Most of them are underground as the Earth slowly regenerates itself, like scab forming on a wound, eventually becoming new flesh. Sometimes these explosions spread their actions to the surface. Volcanoes all around the globe have been acting up lately, some of them even having been dormant for as long as over 9000 years.

Man creates explosions, with some even mastering the art of combustion. They can make a large object explode or implode. They can decide how long the explosion will last, and even what color the explosion will be.

Within our minds, man explodes every day. We lose our job. Someone dies. Our love leaves us. Some people explode largely, unleashing all their frustrations out at once. Sometimes its harmless, other times blood is spilled; maybe theirs, maybe someone elses.

Some people explode lightly; one tiny burst at a time until the big one happens. Those usually involve bloodshed. And some people control their explosions, waiting to discharge on the right person(s).

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The Lost Channel

I've been reduced to threatening my television. The Tri-Nations rugby season has begun and it seems my cable provider no longer carries the station showing it. I'm yelling at the ugly transmissions box, demanding it show a channel that is all likely not there.

I think I'll go outside, where it's been raining for nearly a week (and I can't tell you how much that pleases me, especially when living on the third bump of hell's right testicle); but I think I'll go outside and find some stray cats to yell at, even though all they do is look at me like I'm a retarded gorilla that ate their fish. Then, I feel guilty and get them some fish.

I think I'll stick with yelling at people and telelvisions that won't give me rugby.

Alone, Not Lonely

Alright, bastards. I had to go to summer sessions, meaning I couldn't concentrate on my prose work; so I was forced back into poetry. Blame yourselves; it's easier for all of us.

Alone, Not Lonely

Laughing atop a cloud;
A cloud shrouding the mind,
Blinding eyes to problems defined.
Life has been good, but nowehere near great.
Nothing of passing relevance that others would consider
Exquisite, lavish, or radiant.
To an outsider, the littlest of little things need be large indeed
For them to comprehend the sense of happiness
Within the circle where all but one, the most loving one,
Never seems to unerstand, recognize, or about them implore
A person that loves their people,
But loves being alone slightly more.

Judgemental and Violated

Sitting at the library pub, which isn't a dyslexic term for public library. That shit went out the wayside when the cold fronts began and coats with bottle-portable pockets became an every day necessity.

Studying as I was, a young woman walked my way. To my right were some vacant computer terminals. I dressed in my long-sleeved grey sweatshirt and exercise pants had my nose buried in my testing notes, though I'd be lying if I said she didnt strike my fancy. She herself was decked out in running garments; a bit tight, I might say.

I suppose disgusted her a bit. She made a quick b-line to the vacant terminals on the other side of the room. I wasn't offended; I'm used to disgusting the general public. They disgust me more times in a day than a gonzo porno playing in a catholic convent. I don't think "love thy neighbor" meant sticking dildo drills and analbeads into frumpy, nerve damaged orifices of women that look like your niece.

Soon though, a slender, uptight, well dressed man found his way to the same station as the lady runner, occupying the vacant terminal next to her. It got me to thinking - - hope she doesn't mind passing up the scruffy looking gentleman who would have left her alone for the suit and tie, serial killer the media has dubbed The Wound Fucker. He slices his victims; bores holes in them, and then molests the wounds.

Either that, or they're going gonzo right now.

Itchy Nose Ass-Fucking

The generations arive sooner and sooner. A whole lotta fucking going on. Did you know fucking is the only infix in the English language.

But the world's creating more languages now. Text speak skipped into the real world. So did formatting.

Everyone's been fucking.
..Annnd fucking and fucking fucking and fucking fucking and fucking.

Well - enough fucking for the rest of us.

Recursion Bandit

FINALLY.

Finally had a good chest-day. Injuries suck and waiting for the cables is as close to mental sate masochism as I've been in years. I remember now why I stopped.

Today was different. I've found the proper time zone for chest-day.

Oh, I love making mistakes. Not the life-shattering ones any more; you know, not the I Said There'd Be Blood kinds of mistakers, for there are more than a handful of subcategories for such things. Especially with blood involved.

Just the innocent mistakes. The ones that sting because you want them to. They don't shatter the stratosphere, in fact they help you reestablish yourself, or, "check yoself, fool." as the kids say these days. I was partial to "fuck off or get raped with an elbow" myself.

Longshot Died Anyway

The nights are getting longer. The routine-cycle is spinning again, and again we're having to shift quicker than we wanted to, but that's never a bad thing. I'm manking new mistakes, and thinking about new people to make new mistakes to make with; things are so different without the fences around anymore.

They were supposed to be cages...

....but really, they were fences. We could have jumped them anytime we wanted to. The shooting towers kinda messed things up for us.

Then that whole hypnotic suicide shit.

Angry John

A friend of mine used to work for a nursing school. This particular nursing school used to be a brothel. Through verbal passage I heard the stories of the debautchery that occured one single night while this brothel was happening.

It turns out that this brothel, which became a nursing school, is the sight of a massacre. An angry boyfriend discovered that his significant other was a prostitute at this brothel. One night, he entered the premises and butchered everyone in sight.

The place even has a pool.

Nice.