Life has been pretty serious lately and everyone around me seems to think so too. I want to try an experiment here. I’m just going to let my mind loose on all of you. No censorship, no pattern or reason to these thoughts. I’ll simply allow myself to naturally move from one thought to the next. Plus, to make light of current events, I felt it a good time for irreverence. So for you, a stream of thoughts on a lazy Saturday:
I hate it when people say, “You can’t have your cake and eat it too.” Really? I can’t? Then what in the fuck is the goddamned cake for then, huh?! Cake is pointless if I can’t eat it. Come up with a better proverb. Or just be more specific: You can’t both preserve your cake and consume it too. There, solved.
Maybe I shouldn’t have said this to my girlfriend directly following a handjob: “You know, what if my semen were flammable? Then we could be like a super hero duo where you make the motions and I’ll hold a lighter out in front of my wang.”
Are the Girl Scouts affiliated with the Boy Scouts? I mean do they hold the same fucked up and morally-corrupted “values”? If so, they can take their delicious cookies and go fuck themselves. Excuse me, what was that little eight year old girl standing in front of the grocery store? Do I want a box of cookies? YOU CAN GO FUCK YOURSELF.
Anyone who doesn’t like the song, “Africa”, by Toto can go to hell.
After reaching age 30, I often think back on all the crazy shit I did in my early twenties. Sometimes I really miss those days and other times I wish I’d get hit by a truck.
Anyone else going to be really disappointed when December 21st of this year finally rolls around and nothing happens? It reminds me of the time in high school when a girl I had a crush on told me that she was going to bang me at this party on Friday night. She said she was going to bang me hard. Well the only thing getting banged was my head. Against a wall. Because come Friday, she was totally not bringing about the complete annihilation of planet earth due to an ancient calendar’s end day.
Michael Bay is remaking The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Only they’re not teenagers. Or turtles transformed by mutagen. They’re space aliens. We should all dedicate this Sunday to the memory of TMNT. It might be the last time you remember them fondly before they become Space Alien Ninjas That Look Like Turtles.
On that note, why is Michael Bay, A.) still legally allowed to produce, write and direct movies, B.) such a complete rim jobber, and C.) still alive?
Ever since viewing a horrifying picture of rectal prolapse, I have an illogical and irrational fear that my ass is going to fall out.
On second thought, I’d still eat girl scout cookies regardless of the organization’s views on civil rights so long as the cookies are free.
It really bothers me when people say crap like, “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.” Can you imagine if we lived in a world where this replaced the golden rule? I mean, seriously. People do shitty stuff and it’s your responsibility to let them know they’re being shitty.
Cut it out already with the ironic mustache; you’re not fucking Tom Selleck. As an added thought, if you ever see a group of girls sporting fake mustaches and taking pictures, go murder a kitten so we can bring some truth to this notion: Every time a girl takes a picture in a fake mustache, a kitten is murdered.
My girlfriend just started fostering two kittens in her apartment. They smell like their own poop.
What kind of person does it take to be a juggalo and have no shame? I just don’t get it.
Everyone has different tastes and preferences. Some people vote Republican and some people have sense. This means that we can logically come to the conclusion that someone out there doesn’t like nachos. Can you believe that shit?
I mentioned in my review for Double Dragon Neon that there’s no better combination in the world than Double Dragon and nachos. I stand by that statement.
If anyone has anything to add, please think it aloud in the comments below. I would like to know what other people’s brains do.
You may be seeking some words of wisdom here, but the truth is that there just aren’t any. No words to alleviate, no phrases to soothe. Your best course of action is acceptance; cope with this head-on and force yourself to understand the consequences of your loss. Take a moment and fucking think about it. Understand that you will never again have a physical interaction with this person you loved, liked, or loathed. Harsh reality is the only reality there is and avoidance only begets bitter mourning.
Over the weekend, I lost another friend. This means a life of fewer inside jokes, fewer understandings between myself and another human, fewer rounds of gay-chicken and far less man hands groping my crotch. This is something I’ve experienced before (both the loss and the action of another man grabbing my crotch). The bleak surroundings of emotional distress and that jaded emptiness are all too familiar. Welcome to another death; another life devoured and swallowed by the great nothing.
As a staunch atheist, I don’t have some kind of false knowledge that my friend is now in a better place. I don’t feel his presence watching over me. I don’t have any inclination that he is now in better hands or in the care of his loving, omnipotent creator. The only knowledge I carry with me is that I no longer have the opportunity or privilege of being in the same realm of existence as this former life.
In specific regards to suicides, there are always those reactions that frustrate me. Firstly, a popular reaction to a suicide is anger. Allowing yourself to be consumed with unabashed anger will only exacerbate your processing of loss. There you are, providing the discourse stating your aversion to the victim’s decision has led you to believe this person a complete asshole. What an astute observer! This person has taken his or herself away from me so I think they are an asshole. Yes, a cliche conclusion and one that forms as a result of inward thinking. I don’t think my friend was an asshole and I won’t feign an understanding of their decision. I won’t make assumptions that if only we had been more attentive, or if only we truly listened, they may be here right now.
Blame and wonder are irrelevant and maddening. These are things that should be collected in a puddle of excess emotion and left to evaporate. Don’t approach either in casual stride and don’t allow yourself to get caught up in the questions. Move forward only in the understanding of what this is and what this creates.
You will always have to deal with those who become the departed’s best posthumous pal. Everyone’s life is a fickle cocksucker with an insatiable need for importance and relevance. Nothing will avail the desires of the insecure, so allowing this to happen may be in your best interest. Perhaps this posthumous pal only knew the departed as an acquaintance, but wants to reminisce of the two hours they spent laughing together. This holds no relevance in your own ability to cope.
Everyone will cope with death very differently. The only advice I can give you as man who has lost two close friends to suicide, is that you must allow the loss to affect you. You must put effort into memory, and be relentless in allowing yourself some understanding. Understand what this means for you and for what follows. Remember their voice, remember the jokes you made together, and remember the embarrassing moments you shared. Then cry about it. Cry because you’ll never experience those things with this person again. Cry because all you have left are memories that fade with the inevitable passing of time.
So find solace in the knowledge that this is now over. The outcome is an unfaltering stone of finality; irreversible. Your friendship and experiences in tact and unable to be altered.
October has been approaching us at its usual and steady pace; and with its imminent arrival comes the veritable smorgasbord of horror films. I’m a bit of a fan of horror films. Okay, I’m more of a rabid fanboy sporting Pinhead’s face on a t-shirt and discussing all of the clear reasons why zombies that run are complete and utter bullshit lacking any metaphoric substance. One of the first films I remember viewing was 1979′s ultimate classic, Alien. It was 1986 and I was four years old. I always thought of Alien as something of a haunted house movie, just in space. It was since that spectacular viewing that I’ve been in bed with horror films. I grew up with Jason Voorhees and Pumpkinhead. I grew up with (the real) Dawn of the Dead and Evil Dead 2. This is, far and away, my favorite genre of film, so I hope you won’t take this review too lightly.
I don’t recall specifically when it was that I heard of The Tall Man‘s existence. I do, however, remember hearing about it and immediately thinking this was going to be a film about Slender Man. If you’re unfamiliar with the Slender Man meme, read about it here: knowyourmeme.com/memes/slender-man . So here’s what I gathered regarding The Tall Man: It’s about a mysterious figure, tall and shadowy, who kidnaps children. Alright, sweet, so definitely Slender Man, right? Wrong as fuck. I was assured months prior that this would not be a film surrounding the Slender Man myth at all, whatsoever, not inspired by, the end. Okay, so I guess we’ll just see what this is really all about.
I was under the impression that this film would see a theatrical release. It was a film I never had much of an interest in firstly; mainly due to the Hollywood aesthetic on display in the trailer, and the presence of Jessica Biel. So it shouldn’t be much of a surprise that I completely forgot about it until perusing Netflix late last night. Bam! There it was, sitting among a library of some pretty classic horror romps. “Oh yeah…”, I thought aloud. “I thought this was coming to theaters around October this year. Huh…let’s give it a view.”
Let me state here that you should not have an interest in seeing this film, so when I say that there are some minor spoilers to follow, that shouldn’t dissuade you from finishing this review. Here’s the first spoiler: This is not, in any universe or dimension, an actual horror film. To give you an idea of what this film is, I’m going to pitch you a concept here and let’s see what you think: I want to make a comedy. Yes, it will be billed and marketed as a comedy. The film will be ninety minutes of a man being brutalized, tortured, and raped but we’ll have a laugh track to coincide with the wailing screams. Get it? It’s really a fresh take on comedy. But wait, there’s more. We’ll have an important, but incredibly preachy, social message for the audience to take away from it. Here’s the twist: We’ll make sure to write it carefully so everyone knows that we’re really not convinced the message is right in the first place. Yes, a fresh take indeed!
Movies, and primarily horror movies, are supposed to entertain. I literally would have been more entertained if I spent that hundred minutes making repeated feeble attempts to fart out of my nose. There’s a damned good reason I can watch The Running Man over ten times a year, and I’d rather be billed as a human “pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey” for children’s birthday parties than spend another two hours sitting through The King’s Speech. Speaking technically and objectively, the King’s Speech may be the better of the two films. But fucking corndogs on a cross, is it BORING. So The Tall Man’s first, and largest, shortcoming is in its complete failure to entertain me. However, it should be stated that the cinematography is marvelous, with outstanding sound to boot. The film is wonderful to look at sometimes, and the eerie melodies help set the mood to great effect. Really a great crew here that played well together. It’s just unfortunate they were destined to work with the likes of Pascal Laugier and the cast.
When I said that the film’s biggest problem was in its failure to entertain, I lied. Ensuring that the audience is entertained is the responsibility of the writer and the director. Here, they are one and the same – Pascal Laugier. Writer/Director Pascal Laugier wrote a script that feels disjointed, is at times incoherent, is overly preachy about a message that he himself is unsure of (as evidenced in a voice over to wrap the film up), and forces the film’s cast to deliver dialogue that is mostly unconvincing. I’m unsure of how much influence Laugier had on the film’s camera shots, but the bulk of those were setup rather well. He was able to pull some passable performances from the cast, but the characters themselves are largely unlikable.
Remember how I just said the film’s largest problem was Pascal Laugier? I lied again. The largest problem is that it is billed and marketed as a horror film. This means that, regardless of affiliations and context, I’m going to see this movie. If it’s horror, I’m there. The film starts eerily enough with oppressive atmosphere, and some gorgeous visuals. Location means a lot here, and we’re given a glimpse at an aging, dilapidated Washington town; seemingly locked in a time capsule, far away from the advances of modern society. We’re introduced to Jessica Biel portraying a nurse. She cares for a child in her home, she cares about the community that she’s a part of. The first boring fifteen minutes are so poorly written, that you’ll often be a bit confused about who characters are, what their relationship is in regards to the lead, and what relevance they have, if any. All of this leads us to Biel’s supposed child being taken by what we’re led to believe is “the Tall Man”. Only he’s not really tall. Or at all. SPOILER: (If you don’t want the movie spoiled, skip ahead to the bold letters marked, “Safe to read” . Seriously, though; you shouldn’t care.)This is because this isn’t actually the Tall Man.
Here’s where shit gets weird and my interest was finally piqued: Again, spoilers: Turns out Biel’s character has been kidnapping the town’s children, caring for them for a short amount of time before apparently handing them over to the Tall Man (who seriously, in all depictions of him, is NEVER tall). Well this could be interesting. The film mentioned her dead husband earlier. My mind began to race and I became excited in my anticipation for the reveal. At this point in the film, here’s what I had going on in my horror-addled brain: Her dead husband, once a doctor and philanthropist, was taken by some wild demon from a far away land whilst out…philanthroping? So now his tortured soul hides in the basement, awaiting his weekly delivery of fresh children to feed on. He swallows the souls from their bodies, leaving behind the pruned corpses. So yeah, I was really wrong about that. THE SPOILER TO END ALL SPOILERS: Here’s what was really going on. While Biel is now imprisoned for the kidnapping and alleged murder of eighteen children, one final child is whisked away by the Tall Man. I started to piece it all together. I knew Biel’s character couldn’t actually be the villain. She goes off on one of the victim’s mothers from behind prison glass: She can’t stand the bureaucracy, the endless cycle of hoops that must be leapt through in order to help millions of children in need. Yep, the Tall Man is indeed her not-so-dead husband. They’re kidnapping children from messy, broken households and giving them new lives (in close proximity to their origins) in the city. LAMEST “HORROR” STORY EVER. FUCKING EVER!
There are more than a few logistical issues surrounding what the story implies. This just wouldn’t work. Children would be found. Furthermore, the writer begs the question (from the child’s perspective), “Am I better off? Am I? Hmm?!?!” Yes, the voice over of the final child literally spews that question out and repeats the words, “Am I!?!” So…what the fuck is your goddamned point, man?! Jesus, this film was boring, poorly paced, ill-written, preachy, and full of logistical plot holes. Furthermore, IT’S NOT A FUCKING HORROR MOVIE. Sorry to yell, but this movie deserves it.
SAFE TO READ:
To recap, I feel this sums the movie up very well: It’s like torture porn with a laugh track and I would have been better off spending my time trying to fart out of my nose. Don’t see this pile of shit. It’s worse than shit, it’s uber-shit. If this movie were a politician, it would be like Rick Santorum and Mitt Romney blowing each other for eternity and making an endless parade of mouth babies. Not very eloquent, I know, but this movie doesn’t deserve eloquence, it deserves mouth babies.
1/100 (Yes, that’s one out of one-hundred)
Okay, fine. I’ll truthfully give it a 4/10 for its great use of sound and spectacular cinematography.
Just what in the fuck is an aging, white male supposed to wear fashionably in 2012? If you’re going to tell me khakis and a polo shirt, you can fuck right off with your business-casual agenda and have fun taking out that second mortgage to support your mid-life Corvette crisis. This, and only this, is the true plight of an American white man. I mean it, this is the only social shortcoming you are allowed to complain about as the most privileged and pampered, fleshy commodity on our planet. Nothing sends more rage-filled thoughts to my steaming brain than a white, American male harboring a major lack of understanding regarding his worldly privileges. If a white male complains about something, it should be his complete inability and ineptitude surrounding fashion. I’m admitting it right here: I probably dress like an asshole, and I’m completely unaware and oblivious in my doing so.
Have you ever seen that guy roaming the city streets with absolutely zero sense of what he’s doing with his life? You know the one; he’s mid-fifties, has a shabby-looking grey beard, shorts that reach about six inches above the knee, flaunting his pasty thighs, and white tube socks pulled straight up reaching some mysterious place once considered unattainable. I forgot to mention the white, gaudy sneakers. That guy is my biggest fear. I spent the latter part of my twenties and all of year thirty putting forth immense efforts in avoiding my becoming of that guy. He looks absolutely goddamned ridiculous, and the worst part is that he is blissfully unaware of the permanent mental damage he’s doing to anyone under the age of fifty that sees him in that sordid getup.
What about that other guy? The one with pleated khakis, that awful checker-patterned, button-down shirt tucked too tightly, the boring-as-ever penny loafers, that black belt mismatching his shoes. He’s probably in his early forties. I’m afraid of this guy, too. It’s all too easy to read exactly how this guy’s life is currently playing out: He has next to no passions, his job is anthropologically meaningless outside of the world we’ve created for him, his wife is equally as drab, and his kids are going through school without a hitch. If you read that sentence, the only word you may have been able to make out is this: BORING. I mean that equally sincerely as I hate the Republican party’s current political platform.
I can’t forget about the guy that is currently threatening the moral fabric of my now thirty-year old existence: Stone-washed jeans that were purchased already torn by some unfortunate child in a third world country, the excess of gel in his short, thorny hair, the chrome belt buckle complete with skull and crossbones, and the tucked in, worn-looking Affliction or Tapout shirt. Oh Christ, this guy. This guy is probably around my age. He probably drives a lifted truck that gets two miles to the gallon and dumps an industrial city’s worth of black smog all over your windshield as he peels out in front of you at the stop light. I fear this guy quite a bit less. Probably due to the fact that I’m already his age and I’m certainly not him. I don’t go to dance clubs looking for someone to molest, I wouldn’t ever call another man, “bro”, and the word “faggot” is something I can’t comprehend speaking out loud, let alone call someone.
I’m not saying fashion is directly responsible for your way of life, but it’s certainly linked to it. How you dress is a reflection of how you view yourself; how you want the world to perceive you at first glance. This is apparently a concept that these men just can’t grasp. So just what in the hell am I supposed to wear? I honestly have no idea. My girlfriend will tell you that possibly no other man in history has received more compliments on his shirts from other men. I have two modes: Safe mode and expression mode. In safe mode, I’ll put on a nice pair of jeans and couple that with a hint of button-down shirt. Possibly a plaid shirt if I’m feeling sassy. In expression mode, I’ll once again slip into some nice jeans. Only this time, I’ll wear a t-shirt with some kind of graphic printed on it. These can range from horror movie icons, video game references to bands. I try my hardest to stay away from band shirts at my age, but I just have so many old metal shirts that I can’t be bothered to toss in the trash. My jeans play it safe as well: They aren’t really skinny jeans, they’re just skinny jeans. I don’t know, maybe those are out of favor already, but I’m too old and fashionably inept to know the difference.
Perhaps my favorite place to man-purchase myself some fucking spectacular shirts is over here, at http://www.redbubble.com/ . Here I can find all of those old horror movie icons on a shirt and such. I picked up a super neat shirt there with a white mage and black mage from Final Fantasy facing each other as if to engage in mortal combat. Fashion for a man at thirty is just so damned tricky. I’m not suave enough to pull off some of the stuff I see on fashion sites, but I’m not boring enough to get myself some khakis and polo shirts. I’m not enough of a consummate douchebag to wear Affliction shirts and belt buckles, but I’m not old enough to just stop caring anymore either. Yep, tricky business indeed.
Disclaimer: I claim no responsibility for the consequences faced by following my guidance. I make no claims of being any sort of fashion guru and, in fact, I’m completely useless when it comes to it. Thanks for your time.