Digression

I realize that often my posts (or articles, as I call them, for reasons I'm about to explain) frequently and blatantly come off as preachy and annoying. In light of this, I should clarify that at no time am I trying to generate a serious following of minds dedicated to my thoughts, opinions, or theories. In fact, a lot of this is rambling and cranial extradition.

Being dissatisfied with my surroundings comes at greater ease than amusement and so if the blog is disappointing in regards to its level of humour, that's because it's mostly just for me, and I don't really care if it makes anything but a dent in the psyches of anyone reading. That's also why a lot of the jokes I make go unnoticed; the majority of them are funny to me and maybe five other people who I haven't met on the whole planet.

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Am I the only person who thinks that Goosebumps could benefit from a re-imagining of sorts? If not directly, than in subject matter alone, at least. As a twenty-one year old man, I feel quite a serious lack of whimsical horror anthologies in the format of episodes and seasons. There are shows like Fear Itself, but they're so low-budget and painful at times that it's almost like watching a puppy get stepped on just because you wanted to hear a really loud bark; the enjoyable part of the situation is far overshadowed by its reprehensible  lack of fulfilment.
Anyone who watches American Horror Story knows what I mean when I say "I want this to have a different plot and setting every episode." In the interest of a lengthy arc, perhaps the story could switch up every second or third episode, but the idea is still there.
That would rock.

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I think my ideal pet would be of an unusual aquatic nature. A medium-sized shark that's tank-friendly, or a large octopus, or a deep-sea angler if I could swing it. Barring one large animal, I'd enjoy several small ones. I imagine watching several shrimp scuttle about in a four-foot aquarium to be rather entertaining. I've heard stories about salt-water tanks that you can have in your home, however the expense is hefty and I'd most likely be unable to foot a bill of such monthly magnitude. That, and when you think about it. Salt-water is salty due to a combination of Earthen gases and large sea animals urinating and ejaculating constantly into unfiltered waters.
So maybe that's something one would want to stay away from.

Marriage is Awful, Weddings Are Worse Pt. 2

In the interest attempting to maintain what little attention span is offered on this vast machinescape, I've separated this post into two parts of semi-equal length. Just makes things easier.

Part 2: Weddings

I've dissected the institution of marriage, extracting whatever emotion serves to cloud what is already a very unnecessary course of action. Weddings are infinitely easier to testify against.
We are a species that prides itself on selfish indulgence and false justifications. Gods are great because they say they are, obesity is a disease, and bigger is better, because it's bigger. That makes it better. Because it's bigger. Shit.
For many, weddings are a celebration created entirely to please family members, largely at the expense of the happiness had by the two getting married. This is a process that rivals Las Vegas for the title of "greatest time-wasting financial black hole." Many spend months in preparation for one or two days, organizing with and paying hundreds of people to ensure that everybody but them enjoys the experience for a few measly hours while cramped into chairs around tables full of people they rarely talk to. The ceremony itself is long and formal, which guarantees that people like me are going to hate existence for its entirety.

While couples could be hoarding their earnings, saving them for the purchase of a home or even for frivolities that are much more enjoyable for a much longer timespan, they instead (often due to direct parental pressure) opt to throw money directly into the garbage, with expenditures that flaunt price tags that shouldn't even be legal. Exploitation of what was initially designed as a day of conventional celebratory entertainment has effectively ruined whatever "sanctity" the ceremony intends to preserve. You're destroying as you create. When you think about it, though, you're not even creating anything good.
Sometimes, during the preparation stage, a couple will, under unbelievable stress and tension, discover things that they despise about each other. Perhaps one half of this partnership isn't as assertive as they could be, and subsequently loses a reservation and must resort to the second-choice venue. For some, this is so pivotal that the entire thing is aborted, and irreversible damage is done to the relationship (to one's "soulmate", as well as with their parents, because if you ruin this you might as well just dig up Grandpa Jones and fuck him right in the ass, since he's already rolled over in his grave). This is a situation that could be avoided entirely if there never was a wedding in the first place.

Included on the list of "reasons why this is more of an awful idea than a good one," is the expectation that the relationship is magically made better by these acts alone. There are no words that strengthen a bond between people, because it is not, and never has been, verbal language that ties two people together emotionally. Being inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame won't magically improve your batting average. Wining an Oscar doesn't make your acting better than it was before you won it. If anything, it makes you sloppy, acting as a milestone in which you plunge your dick and leave it. Both marriage and a wedding will individually and collectively lower your self-imposed standards for relationship quality, over time.
As well, the presence of a minister directly infringes on many people's "keep your religion the fuck away from me" policy, an ideology that must be relinquished for literally no good reason whatsoever.

In case you weren't already convinced, I'll gladly remind you of the ideas behind the "bachelor" or "bachelorette" party. What we've concocted here is a night that is symbolic of one's transition from being unmarried to the horrible, restrictive alternative. Not only does this offer the opportunity to spend hours in the company of other sexually desirable people in a very suggestive and almost insistent environment, but it brings with it the implication that you can be, and up to this point have been, unfaithful to your significant other. You're insinuating that dating someone is so basic and loose that you could have and probably were fucking anything and everything, but you can't do that after tonight, or else you might lose your mate.
Well, fuck you then, for questioning my ability to commit to another, and assuming I haven't already.

I have yet to be presented with a reasonable use for the traditional wedding, unless your aim is to bankrupt yourself and ensure that whatever offspring you may produce during your "night of consummation" (another big issue; I and many other people like to keep their personal lives person, and your whole family knows exactly what you're doing and is happy about it) will be well-versed in the art of panhandling for years to come. I welcome any contrasting views, and wish anyone luck in trying to sway this giant novel of concrete absolution on the matter.

Marriage is Awful, Weddings Are Worse Pt. 1

The clarification is necessary, because many people will complain endlessly about marriage, when in actuality they dislike a traditional wedding ceremony. Often, the conversation will be the same, with the target being reversed.

I, on the other hand, hate both. Unequally, maybe, but there is definitely a hatred reserved for each as a separate entity.

Now, I understand that these opinions are not unknown or unpopular, and there's much I can't say that won't be reiteration. I'm not trying to provide a new point of vantage on the matter, instead I want to elaborate further, for those who may still be in favour of either institution, because they're both very silly.

Part One: Marriage

Marriage continues to survive as a mildly sexist idea. Though much of its male dominance has ceased to be part of the convention, it still exists for many on the pretence that a woman is leaving her biological family to join a new one under the supposed rule of her male counterpart. It's well established that this was once part of a tradition that included trading a woman for livestock and acreage. It hasn't developed much since then (other than the inclusion of marriage within the same gender), instead undergoing a sort of shrinking process.

It has (probably in the interest of saving time) mostly been boiled down to paperwork that serves the purpose of legally splitting your lifelong accumulations in half and ensuring consequence should you consider any infidelity or abandon any progeny. If you're feeling particularly bold, you can grab some more papers that instead promise that, wish you ever to part ways, you'll be able to do so with all of your belongings. A hefty gamble, as this request is so insulting to some that they'll end the relationship immediately, effectively ruining two lives for an undetermined, possibly indefinite period of time.

Is that an odd custom to anyone else?

What you're telling me, by requesting this certificate of partnership, is that you have moderate difficulty with commitment, unless you're presented with the opportunity to sign something that says you're going to be damn good at it. This is especially true of those who demand this as a form of affirmation; either they can't maintain a relationship without some sort of legal binding, or they're terribly insecure, and think that their significant other will just pick up and leave at any time.

Continuing in that vein, I get the impression that one's ability to connect emotionally isn't a sufficient adhesive with which to hold two people together. Aside from the aforementioned documents, there is no difference in relationship level or quality following the process of marrying someone. Being with someone isn't climbing Mount Everest; there's no peak, after which you never again need to worry about whether or not they're going to stick their dick into - or open their crotch-gape and welcome - another person. there's no "that's it, you're there," moment. It's a continuous investment in your own happiness (or if you're altruistic and sacrificial - you're not - the happiness of another). Marriage as an attempt to promise that happiness in the future is a fruitless venture, because nobody can guarantee anything about the future, regardless of how many dotted lines you handwrite upon. If someone's determined to be adulterous, they're going to do it. If they're presently unhappy, they're going to take measures to alleviate that unhappiness, possibly at the expense of others. Fuck your signature.

Failing all of that, you're saying that if someone ever fucked your life severely enough, you'd take their shit as punishment.

Ultimatums and consequences are no base upon which to build an endless connection with another human.

There are some evident exceptions to the rule that marriage is essentially a useless land-claim. Any couple who marries so that one can garner citizenship, wherever the agreement was conducted, is great. There are few ways to effectively give the middle finger to multiple people from multiple cultures simultaneously, and fucking the system for personal gain (from a third party, an important distinction) has and always will be an excellent example.

Note: many of these arguments rely on surface-level judgement, as some people do have their own, irrefutable reasons for desiring this method of partnership. I'm not trying to defame anyone based on their convictions; I'm trying to defame the principles behind the concept of marriage itself.

Part 2 later in the month.

Semi-Famous People Say Some Really Stupid Shit

Humility seems to be the first thing to make a hasty exit from one's internal repertoire as soon as they garner more than a whiff of  fame. This is less prevalent within the community of the YouTube famous, yet the exceptions are few and far between; the ratio of arrogance:modesty is heavily in favour of the negative. Coupled with that comes the opinion that one (perhaps literally) shits untouchable gold and that everything that may secrete from one's fingers, mouth, or pores, should be heralded as pure genius, even when it's actually something that everybody - everybody intelligent - already understands.

Recently, a man who has proven this hypothesis frequently and publicly in the past took to his Twitter to spew forth a textual cacophony of words in what appeared to be an attempt at a mind-blowing epiphany. To paraphrase, he informed what he must conclude to be a mass of uneducated mush that he believes an individual shouldn't be judged or treated unjustly solely because of the decisions that their region's government makes.

This is a sound statement, and it isn't the belief that irks me. I am disturbed because it is an opinion that nobody has an argument against. 

Now, I'm just one person, but in my experience, people don't live in one particular country simply and entirely because they agree with that country's political platform, electoral or otherwise. This is an established and widely agreed upon concept. It's boggling to me that I've even taken the time to type that out. You don't take up residence in England because you enjoy monarchy. Even if someone moved from a democratic nation to a totalitarian one, no person would jump to the conclusion that they did so because they got sick of voting.

Still, that situation is entirely different from the topic of discussion. You can easily form an opinion of a person based on their political views (although it's largely frowned upon and not at all a reasonable way to determine someone's worth), however it would be completely idiotic to choose their country of origin's governmental choices as a vantage point from which to decide whether or not you liked that person. It's as if the man who made this statement imagines that people think we exist in a world where everyone has political sway in their respective locale's parliamentary offices. We don't. You have to go to school for that. 

This wouldn't bother me so much if I wasn't positive that hundreds of people treated that as if it were a gift from a genius. Given this man's propensity to deliver shit from his many orifices like an overzealous geyser of worthless ideas and yet still be well-received by his many fans, one can make the appropriate assumption that many ostensibly intelligent, avid followers promptly hopped on and rode his dick as though he saved them from a world of incomprehensible darkness by proudly displaying his ability to state the completely obvious. Nobody had visibly challenged his assertion, not because it was false, but because it was so true that it needn't be mentioned. Like they're afraid to tell him that we're not as stupid as he seems to think.

This is a man who has achieved popularity by regurgitating various fluids, screaming profusely and dressing as Batman in almost-public (in reference to his attempt to qualify a "public prank" with the presence of one or two passersby). These actions alone are entertaining until done constantly, and are made especially unfunny by his insistence on proselytizing his thoughts in such a way as to make several people believe he thinks he's been sent from the heavens on a silver unicorn that can cure AIDS with its tears.

Don't get me wrong; I don't think I'm better than the guy. I don't consider myself great, nor do I believe I'm deserving of his popularity. I am pleased with my successes, and don't pretend that I'm more enjoyed, recognized or desired by the growing numbers of "internetters" than many of my cohorts. There are aspects of this man's work that I respect highly, unfortunately there aren't enough of those aspects to redeem his egotism, self-love, condescension and blatant misogyny. 

Rant end.

Horror Genre's Ups and Downs

Last month (if I'm correct, far too lazy to check), I posted an article detailing my interests in the horror movies being produced this year. Emerging not only partially disappointed by the titles mentioned (if you want motivation to remove your own eyeballs, go ahead and throw on Wrong Turn 5 one afternoon) but disenfranchised and unenthusiastic about what I've yet to see, I couldn't help but turn my gaze toward the plethora of films riding the coattails, or better put, playing the market created by such popular genre flicks appearing lately.

Oren Peli, director of just about everything I've liked wholly in the past half-decade (that's a blatant exaggeration, so don't call me on it) continues to do things that bring a mild elevation to the sides of my talk-hole. Unfortunately, in a great display of universal balance, the world must continue to preserve my apathetic frown by showing me things that, to a certain extent, drain the faith I had in the film industry.

I haven't been pleased with any alien-related films since The Fourth Kind and, on a lower level, Super 8. Being a proprietor of cranial fantasy and great hopes/dreams in favour of hostile galactic exploration (in other words, visitations from monsters from beyond my long-armed reaches), imagine my excitement when hearing about Dark Skies, an alien abduction story slated for February. Upon viewing the trailer, however, I was alerted to the definite and probably discouraging idea that we'll all bear witness to the return of what I call the "neighbourhood misunderstanding" concept. Often in films, in order to add another layer of story to an already fairly-yet-not-quite-complex-enough arc, many directors will introduce the difficulty of explaining a supernatural situation to a close-knit or friendly group of neighbours. There are only a few destinations on this avenue, the most common sometimes involving a police report filed by a nosy carpool mom, or in this case, a hospital visit that rapidly turns into evidence of domestic violence. I have little patience for characters who refuse to take the time to study the circumstances more closely in order to make a more informed and fair decision, and I believe this is what we'll be seeing here.

In other news, V/H/S was half-good and half-bad upon retrospect (though I think I mentioned that already), and I'm beginning to give independent and low-budget films less and less benefit of the doubt as time wears steadily forward to my demise. I'm growing tired of attempting to convince my cohorts to ignore the poorly post-produced blood splatters and stock screaming, in favour of immersion and suspension of disbelief. In the back of my brain, that nagging feeling of accidental farce continues to haunt me. That's scarier than the ghosts.

Birthdays Suck

Sometimes I'm a cynical introvert with no desire to speak to anything with a mouth and reciprocating thoughts. Other times, more frequently in fact, I come off that way while trying to challenge or defy consistent social norms that have no purpose other than to uphold traditions older than the concept of common sense itself.

Mostly I just dislike birthdays.

I didn't even remind anyone when my birthday was this year. If my computer had ears, it would probably hear you asking "Why, asshole?" Since that's likely the reason why you were roped into reading in the first place, I'm obligated to answer. Interestingly, that ties well into my first point: Obligation.

Say someone of value to me decides to delve deep into their metaphorical "piggy bank" in order to provide me with something I've been verbally longing for. Great. There are few things I hold in high enough esteem to appreciate as a gift, first of all, but I can't say that, since that means their time and most likely their hard-earned-yet-frivolously-cast-aside money has been promptly squandered. I'll accept most presents without much quarrel (sometimes), but the transaction doesn't stop there. Most people expect you to do something equally "nice" for them; be it return the expenditure on the date of their birth, or do them a favour at some point in the future. Whatever it is, it's oft accompanied by a dark and menacing cloud of debt, in which you'll find me. Even if I were to encounter one of the rare few who don't intend for me to keep that balance, I'll still feel like I should. Right now. Forever.

I don't act as though I can read the minds of my various acquaintances and targets of emotional investment, family or otherwise. As such, I can't possibly fathom what others might be desiring once the one day of the year that they're mildly important to work strangers happens to trundle in and invade my senses. Unless you tell me outright, constantly, incessantly, I'm not going to remember what you want. Come to think of it, I have a difficult time remembering when the fuck your birthday is in the first place. There are just so many and they're almost never in close proximity to each other. It's like taking the same aggravating memory exam each year, just as you've finally forgotten what it is you're supposed to memorize.

There's so much emphasis already on the date, individually, that piling even more celebratory measures upon the heap of one's happiness seems unnecessary to me. Especially since birthdays are so un-special. They're literally as common as human beings are. There are several each day. Odds are, someone's singing that awful song right now. More importantly, what's the significance in childbirth in the first place? Every mammalian species does it (discounting some genetic abominations, like the platypus, or some stupid flightless bird which isn't even a mammal really anyway). Whales give birth, and from what I hear, it's gross as hell. People swim in that all the time, especially if they live on a tropical island.
Think about that for a second. You're swimming in diluted whale placenta and poorly-aimed semen.

Happy birthday.

Cyber-Bullying is a Big Joke.

What's more, people who are irked by internet "bullying" for longer than the 10 seconds it takes to read whatever hate comments they recieve are wasting valuable time and emotion.

"Cyber-bullying" is probably the worst way to classify what should, in reality, be called "wearing out your keyboard at no benefit to anything." The fact that I've dedicated this much time already to the topic causes me more emotional distress than any one of the seven and almost a half billion other people on the face of this vast, crumbling celestial rock ever could. There is no merit to the battle against this phenomenon, and continuing to pursue a means of preventing individuals with soft hearts from being perturbed at length by random, negative comments (no matter how great in number) is like trying to stop wolves from killing for sport.

That's another, completely unrelated issue. Some wild animals are indeed sport hunters and you have to be born deficient to deny that. Get off your towering animal-rights activism horse.
That's an oxymoron.
People who take cyber-bullying seriously are oxymorons. Wait, I mean they're morons who breathe oxygen.

I'm no humanitarian, so the things I say may be construed as hostile. However, I'm just one person, on one particular and isolated piece of the internet. Which is my point, really. There is inherently little risk in speaking negatively of someone from quite possibly hundreds of kilometres away. Subsequently, anyone with a working computer and a semi-functional brain can say just about anything they please, often in an attempt to get a rise out of another person, or to fulfil some sort of misplaced sense of inadequacy.
Even more, according to Occam's Razor, perhaps they just want to "start shit."
Those who sit down with the intent to defame someone completely alien to them have less value than the text they manage to type out, through what are most likely grotesque, disfigured and twisted fingers, hands, faces, maybe a third eye, etc. These people should, in turn, be given as much time as they warrant, which happens to be none. Surprise.

Simultaneously, however, I'm not in the business of pandering to those who take comments such as these with anything more than a grain of salt. There is a substantial difference between offering criticism constructively and trying to cause a person mental turmoil. Most people can recognize this and differentiate; the next step being to disregard the iterations that are simply for the sake of torment. Thus, they are able to keep themselves from harm. You wouldn't get all upset and cut yourself if some street-demon with no concept of your existence told you that you were ugly and your life choices were poor (at least not if you're intelligent and have any idea how rarely strangers care about you), so maintain your thick skin, especially against an ignorant online persona. Many people should learn to do this, and quickly, because the world is much less friendly than the seclusion granted by this generation's development process would lead one to believe.

In some cases, people are stupid right off the cuff, doing things they wouldn't ordinarily do, thinking that the anonymity provided by this great technological advancement will provide some sort of barrier between what they've done on their computers and the reality in which they live. The truth is, this is reality, and they coexist. To think that, for instance, getting your breasts and/or testicles out, live, with a webcam, won't come back to bite you in them, is absurd. Especially when your face is visible.
Imagine the internet as if it's one big amusement park. The only one. Now, imagine that when people come here, they can say/do anything they want, to whoever they want, with a mask on. They only have to pay once a month for unlimited access. Lastly, imagine that parents freely and willingly pay for this luxury, and that provides everyone they talk to with the ability to attend this park.
Now stop imagining it, because that's what the fuck this is.
You have to be a retard to get your tits out at Disneyland, and they don't even get half the business that the internet does.
My point is that some people get what they deserve when they act like an idiot.

Now, don't mistake me. It isn't fair to try and ruin the entire home and online lives of businessmen because they weren't smart enough to have more than one password. Nor is it acceptable to drive people to suicide if they like getting naked online. However, if people were to practice a little discretion, or had some common sense, outcomes like these can be avoided completely. It's not the internet's fault for capitalizing on the mistakes of others, because we've been doing that since the conception of this species. This invention has only made opportunities to do so more widely available and frequent. This wouldn't be the case if those victimized would exercise some caution and took steps to keep their internet lives and their "real" ones as separate as possible.

Remember in King Kong when it turns out that we're actually the monsters? Killing the gorilla isn't going to save us from ourselves. He was behind the huge fence until that fat asshole let him out. The tribesmen had a good idea, keeping him on that island, close enough for us to visit, but not so close that we had to see his big hairy dick all the time.

For those of you who are a little slow, King Kong is a euphemism for the internet in this instance.Try and keep up.

Remakes Aren't "better" or "worse," They're Different.

I'm getting tired of people who automatically write-off remakes as though there was no effort put into creating something new. Often, the film in question isn't trying to adhere to any aspects of its predecessor, except for setting, or loosely, the plot. Granted, there have been many so-called remakes that seek to out-do the original, or copy it verbatim, and are miserable as a result, but the list of successful recreations is much longer and can't be ignored just because it shares the name and concept.

Complaining that a remake of an original film tries to one-up the previous by, for instance, revisiting scenes portrayed in the elder film exactly, defeats the purpose of the film. It's not a race to make something better; it's a retelling of the same situation. Instead of imagining the new film to be a young generation's way of telling the old that they're no good anymore, go into a remake as if it's a new adaptation of an idea. Film is an art form; to say, after someone creates a piece, that nobody can imagine the piece in a different way and portray it as such closes doors to entire genres and everything becomes rigid and uniform.

Don't reflexively hate on a new movie because you really like the old one. Don't even treat it like the old one. It's a new movie. That's the whole point. The retardation involved in this decision is mind-boggling to me. It's not the same movie. Often, it's not even trying to be the same movie, at all. Pay attention.

Now, I'm not trying to argue that every remake is an untouchable masterpiece. I'm not defending cash holes that recreate the entry before it scene-for-scene as a money grab. Many are awful, and often on a grander scale because there is an established standard which it, at least, has to live up to. However, remakes should be treated like any other movie, and given the benefit of the doubt until proven otherwise.

If anything, good remakes are great because the scrutiny from the public is so demanding already, without your crass nay-saying. Dick.

It's absurd to think that a new idea can't borrow from, pay homage to or cast an old idea in a different light without people thinking it sucks without giving it any chance whatsoever. New ideas are formed on the backbone of older ones; it's innovation. 

If you want to miss out on a perfectly good experience because it's "been done before," I suggest you stop watching movies altogether. As a matter of fact, you should never leave your house. No, don't even HAVE a house. find a hole in the forest, grab some twigs and leaves, and live there. Actually no, because that's been done before too. You know what? Just die.

Just DIE.

Apologies to anyone who read this on my Tumblr already. Sometimes, I feel as though my opinions deserve a wider audience than the 5-10 individuals who visit this site bi-monthly. This is one of those times.

Shadows of the Damned is an Awesome Game

If you have any sense of the common variety, you'll agree with me. Otherwise, fuck you.
Fuck you right in the demons.

Given that there's no way to gauge completion, I can't tell you exactly how far into the game I was when I arrived at this conclusion. I also dislike divulging too much about the complexities of the video games I play, in the event that some bright or ambitious mind decides to pick it up based on my praise. I would suggest that everyone reading partake in this pure virtual insanity (shout out to Jamiroquai...who doesn't remember that music video? Floor was moving all over the place...shit was crazy), and if I were the principal of Video Games High School, I would make this "required playing."

Third person shooter horror games are high on the list of favourite genres in my books, if not at the summit. I like the idea of survival horror, unless gameplay prevents me from defending myself. Several titles in this vei come to mind; Amnesia, Slender, titles that provide sufficient scares but leave me helpless in the face of them, my only option being to flee in a maddened, heart pounding manner. That's not a game, for me. However. Games in this genre (often the ones most people complain about...look at me with my opinions that contradict the norm) that provide the player with guns or melee weapons, or use the concept of light in concentration to ward off darkness, are some of the greatest games I've ever played. F.E.A.R., Condemned, DOOM, Alan Wake, Shadows of the Damned all fall into this wonderful category.

The last two excel (Shadows in particular) far past the rest by adding little quirks. Humourous extras that provide comic relief and enrich the gameplay. Things like pages from a story in Alan Wake or bottles of Hot Sake as health rejuvenation potions in Shadows of the Damned. Giving baby mouths strawberries to eat in order to unlock doors and continue the level or, even more hilariously, the explanation behind them (they're allegedly made from tongues. Cherries are even worse), given to you by the talking skeletal head you use as a torch to light your journey. Verbal captions that add another dimension to the game as you play it, while still managing to be relevant in a tutorial or descriptive sense. Mini bosses that destroy objects by singing opera. Shooting goats' heads in order to shed light on an area where the darkness would normally damage you, or make enemies more powerful. On top of everything, it's a constant, vulgar, gory mess.

In Shadows of the Damned, your gun is called a "Boner."

Games like this extend boundaries created by rigid genre-centric predecessors and competitors. Shadows manages to capture the concepts contained in multiple styles of design and gameplay. This epic funtime time-waster, and winners like it, are some of the best games I'll ever play.

So I Finally Saw the Suits Season 2 Finale

I must admit, I was pleased, and yet, disappointed. Simultaneously. If that was the aim, then kudos to the creators (the names of whom I'm not going to pretend to know). However, if their end goal was to leave me in a state of suspense, excitement or apprehension, unfortunately the job was only done in part.

You're here, reading the post, so I'll explain why.

Suits, if you don't know, is a television show about a law firm which is almost entirely based on lies. The main character is Mike, an addict with an eidetic memory who at one time would take the "LSATS" (testing for lawyers) for others, ensuring they would get a specific grade in exchange for large sums of money. In order to skirt a drug bust, he ran into a room which turned out to be an interview for a job assisting a popular attorney (Harvey, secondary character) at the firm for which he works, and he gets hired because this particular lawyer likes to "mix it up", which in this case apparently involves fraud and the possible destruction of his entire career and the firm itself.

Aside from that though, it's funny.

Now that I've given a brief explanation of the show, I'll attempt to provide understanding about my feelings regarding the finale without spoiling anything since you people are touchy about that sort of thing.
A large issue involving a former firm partner had ended, much to the dismay of some, but the enjoyment of others. Eventually, the discretion is resolved, to the pleasure of the majority. The collective story arc on this level was extremely entertaining and, for me, the best part of the show; the reason I began watching in the first place. As with most series these days, however, they make a great effort to involve quite substantial emotional turmoil as well, often making the show more full and complete, but at other times this element tends to be nonsensical and at a severe detriment to the feel of the show.

This is the problem I have.
Out of the many directions that the writers could've taken the relationships that Mike tends to immerse himself in, they chose the most farfetched, unlikely and damaging avenue. Nobody in their right mind would have done what he did when faced with the multiple scenarios that weigh him down by the time the last episode in the season rolls around. As with many shows, this one includes a lot of motivational monologues and decisive arguments in the writing which, when done well, makes the experience much more anxious for the viewer (this is a good thing). In this case specifically, though, what was debated earlier in the episode was utterly disregarded by the end, as though Mike didn't feel the same way he did that afternoon. It's absurd to think that he would have changed his mind (since this interaction was threaded throughout the entire show thus far) so quickly and thoughtlessly, and in the end, I'm left with the feeling that the show's writers had little clue how to hook viewers for the onset of the third season. What's more, the problem is essentially resolved already, since many bridges were intensely burned (so much so that it would require a nuclear holocaust to repeat the effect) and probably can't be mended with words alone.

I'm probably rambling, and this post may be difficult to follow if you're not currently housed within my cranium. Do your best to follow, though, and know that I'm about 50/50 on the pleased/displeased ratio. By the end of the season, I'm less inclined to watch the new one, for the same reason that some people look away when the news is showing video of two trains filled with Olympic gold medalists colliding on a track;There's just no positive outcome that hasn't already been achieved.

My Issues Avec Community

That's a French word.
Before you ask, no, I'm not linguistically cultured, I just remember seventh grade. On that note, my memories are fleeting, sporadic and often irrelevant. Does anyone else experience this trauma?

Anyway, back to the matter at hand.

When I type "community," I'm not referencing large groups of individuals who live within a very close proximity to each other. Instead, I mean the highly popular and lucrative television series. The negativity of this article will overshadow the opposite, but that's because I don't mean to talk about the things I enjoy. That's easy.

• The Moral - If there is one thing that upsets me about adult television, it's when it, for the sake of adorable hilarity, masquerades as a show that makes serious attempts to teach those watching a valuable lesson. Even worse, if that show integrates the concept into the core of the script, dedicating unnecessary time to the emphasis of said lesson (in a sense, 'drilling' it into the brain of the viewer), I begin to dislike the show as a whole. Community is written in such a way that it doesn't hinge on this principle, however, several episodes do end in this fashion. Some seem to effortlessly save themselves in the face of this catastrophe (citation: Anthropology episode), however many spend too much screen time focusing on a message that anyone with half their cranial filling has retained and understood for decades. The type of epiphany garnered by the characters on Community nearing the end of each episode is not fit for a show of this age-range; the mix of adult, crude humour and moralistic learning curve is kin to oil and water. I'm not saying don't try to educate viewers morally, but if you want to, don't approach it like a caveman, as though everyone watching is a one-legged retard with missing teeth and a sister-mom.
• Theme episodes - Whether or not I've touched on this in previous posts (perhaps, for instance, my stance on Metalocalypse could tie in well here), I feel the need to iterate my hatred for throwaway episodes that focus the attention on a change of, as an example, production style or progression format. Citing the Christmas episode from either season one or two of Community, I question the motives behind making the entirety of the episode a fabrication in the Abed character's mind, and, more importantly, doing it wholly in clay. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy witnessing a director or producer spread their artistic wings in an attempt to be creatively diverse or press their luck at a different medium. What I don't like, however, is when what is essentially a sketch comedy show in a longer format tried to be something is isn't. If I wanted to watch Robot Chicken, I'd blow my brains out with a shotgun and save my eyes/ears the trouble of sitting through it. Additionally (and in relation to my previous argument), the episode revolved completely around Abed's coping with his mom's integration into a family that was not his. In other words, the whole episode was about coping with divorce. Once again, focusing too much and too long on a subject not fit for the audience that the show initially pitched itself to.
• Senor Chang - Put bluntly, there isn't enough of him.

For the time being, these points are the most important reasons I have for not enjoying the show thoroughly. However, I should make clear that I think it's a hilarious experience, it deserves more credit than it gets (from people who aren't on the internet), and the issues I have with it are worth wading through in order to view this sensory gold.

Piss, shit, and dicks.

Just filling my swear quota.

Ramblings

I'm a couple years behind on this Left Rights album, but I'm not anywhere close to satisfied with its duration. The songs are mostly all amazing, but none are a length that pleases me. I find myself repeating several almost constantly for an hour longer than the album actually lasts, because I require more of this aural earthquake. Jimmy Urine knows how to hook.
----
There's been a new addition to the living organism tally in my household, in the form of a second feline companion. This one, however, is not to satiate me, as I've already obtained such. Needless to say, Elizabeth hasn't quite taken a liking to this intrusion. Initially, she had been passive; reacting to the turn of events as one would the news of a benign tumour, responding with apathetic acceptance. This was until the new one, dubbed Strange Puss by the CHUDs below (those familiar with Patrice O'Neal will understand the reasoning behind this name, and those familiar with my friends and I will understand why we're CHUDs) began to, as they say, "start shit." What has up until some days ago been pure aggression, in the form of vocal rumblings and wide-mouthed, raspy, territorial anguish, has devolved into piercing stares and the occasional punch in the face. These actions exchange between the two of them, neither being more at fault than the other. This may continue for some time, and I'm already anticipating such results for months into the future. My noir dove, dumpy pitch-black nightmare has had her Queen Bee status brought into question, and will not take this news lightly. As it stands she doesn't rest often when the two are directly sharing living space, which I'm sure means that both are unnaturally fatigued, and will require more real sleep (although, they're fucking cats, so they already get 90 hours' worth in a day). These are all predictions, though, and time will tell.
----
I know it to be fact that my excitement regarding the new Deftones album, due the 13th of November, is not mine alone. So far their singles have been gold (as Chino has been known to spin lyrics into) and I await the fruits of others laborious journeys to enter my ears, repeatedly, over a long period of time.
----
As stated in a less-than-elderly video of mine, I've begun collecting Ripley's Believe It Or Not! books, and I must say it's an investment I'm proud of. The strange is a fascination of mine (I just recently sent electronic correspondence to an Italian man who makes particularly gruesome and apocalyptic art, asking if it would be possible to acquire his pieces) and these books are exactly the right size to fit into my gaping maw. My emaciated oesophageal tunnel, metaphorically bereft of sustenance, in the absence of this candy.
----
I'm sure there is a large group of individuals who follow my online doings and think, consciously or otherwise, that my use of vocabulary is a means of showing off, as though I'm displaying some sort of verbal feathers, warding off predators in a dazzling display of meaningless self-indulgence. Or mindless (see what I did there? Yeah, you fucking do, dick). Let me reassure everyone reading that I try my utmost to facilitate this manner of speech as much as possible in my day-to-day, and I treat it as a form of mental exercise before anything else. My career choices don't present much chance to stretch the analytical or verbally creative parts of my brain, so I have to find ways to keep my mind sharp in different ways.

That's all for now.

P.S. Apparently Blogspot reads this, and heeded my complaint regarding the text-input section, because there is now a scroll bar. Good on you, sky-master of the blogosphere.

What is Happening in Hollywood

The answer is "just about everything I like"

Dredd is already out in theatres, and based on what I've heard about it, I'm going to be waiting a while for a dvd release (because it's going to stick around the big screen for so long).

October is a month filled to the tip with delight. More than five movies I've been anticipating hit the Earth en masse in less than a week and I will be voiding my bowels promptly upon their arrival. Say what you want about the Paranormal Activity franchise (I tend to say a lot of negative things about it even though I love it), the fourth one, although appearing terrible at first glance, has been met with my adaptation to the concept. In other words, it has grown on me of late. Wrong Turn 5 is apparently the goriest one yet, and if the trailer is any indication, it should be much better than the previous instalment (honestly if I see more shoddy special effects I'll kick my own bucket right now in my seat). With the popularity of recent supernatural occurrences and the incline of the found-footage genre, there seem to be more and more films that incorporate that particular style in one sense or another. Sinister is one. Not to mention the advancement of the calendar means I'm closer to my other cinematic aspirations; Chernobyl Diaries has to hit shelves someday, the sooner the better. Then there are more classically-oriented projects such as Possession and The Apparition, capitalizing on fame obtained by such monstrosities as The Woman in Black and The Unborn...a lot of "The" titles this year. Good.

Since Sin City there hasn't been much in the way of comic interpretation for screen that I've really enjoyed (save for Bunraku, unless you count Batman or the Grindhouse series, neither of which I do because one isn't really true to any source material and the other has no graphic counterpart), so I'm looking forward to Dredd with great fervor and rarely-acquainted high hopes. There always seems to be one month out of a year that brings me decent amounts of film-related excitement, and how fitting that Halloween month is the winner this year. It's almost as if they planned it or something.

Oh wait they totally planned it

I'm not an idiot

So that's what I'm ready for. I just finished acquiring three movies that have piqued my interest for some time, one of which I had seen once at a vulnerable age. Horror day, today. Horror day. Horror MONTH. Horror LIFE.

I Spent Two Hours Cooking Today.

That's not a song lyric or a metaphor, an anecdote or segway. I actually just spent, collectively, two hours cooking today.

Now, to preface, I should say that cooking is a hobby in which I partake a substantial amount. I don't make anything that could be considered a "masterpiece," or a unique exercise in culinary art form. Instead, I cook meals and snacks because I prefer it to buying things packaged. Whenever I'm in the kitchen making things they're usually from scratch, with the exception of some canned ingredients or, in today's case, pre-mix.

Lately, my preparations have been increasing in frequency, due in part to my disgusting sleep schedule. I, unfortunately, can no longer sleep in. My internal clock has always been a little haywire. Some months I'll sleep far into the afternoon, others I'll wake up before the rest of my hemisphere. I haven't yet, however, found a way to control this occurrence. I read somewhere (probably a Cracked.com article) that you can control it via your eating habits, but that doesn't seem to help. Typically I don't ingest any material until noon or later, as a personal rule (mostly to keep my weight in check), but doing this hasn't ever altered my sleep schedule. My brain will just rouse me whenever it sees fit. It was a nuisance at first, but I've since learnt to cope in various ways. Making food happens to be one of them.

Submitted for the approval of The Midnight Society, I call this story, "The tale of the botched salsa."

It's safe to say that my favourite, albeit easiest, meal to form is pasta-based. Penne (without the accent because I'm not a Francophony...haha get it?) would have to be my noodle of choice, although traditional spaghetti comes a close second. I have, to date, made several different, large portioned meals using "noodlies", and decided that I ought to take a break, lest I become disenchanted with the ingredient. My grandmother often buys cake mix and other things, leaving them in the cupboard for months to go bad and/or collect dust, unless they're possessed and dance around on the shelf or something. With all this in mind, this morning I made a loaf of pumpkin bread. It would be silly to get into the intricacies of the creation since it was mostly pre-mixed, but it suffices to say it was delicious and perfect. That shit took an hour.

Not to be an egotist or anything.

Then I went to Starbucks. I realize that there's an inherent redundancy in the details of my day, but as someone who rarely leaves his house, these things are tantamount in the story of my existence. I took the long way home, because I was wearing reflective sunglasses; I enjoy people-watching (a story I'll save for another post entirely), and aviators make it really easy to stare at odd-looking individuals without looking like one yourself. But I digress.

When I got home, I still had most of the day to kill. Since I usually spend that time glued to the screen upon which I type these words, I thought it to be a healthy change of scenery to stay away for a while longer. Somehow, my thoughts turned to the plethora of hot peppers my significant other has supplied me with sporadically, to the point where I have so many that I may need to get a second freezer bag for them.

SO I MADE SALSA.

My initial attempt turned out horrid; I used a blender to combine the ingredients in lieu of a food processor. I don't buy kitchenware or machinery when I have what I has thought to be the equivalent sitting there already. To make a long story short, my salsa turned into a congealed mess of vegetable paste that was too spicy to put your nostrils near, let alone allow it clearance into your oesophagus.
Upon second try, sticking closer to the recipe and using one that actually fit the supplies I had with me (canned tomatoes instead of whole fresh ones...the can had been sitting in the furnace room for a few months, I had begun to become concerned that, once someone here got around to using it, it would be a civilization). The process took about an hour and a half totally, and the result is currently sitting in my fridge while the flavours blend. We'll see how this turns out, but I can announce with confidence right now that it looks tasty.

More on Guerrilla Filmmaking

Before you bust my ass, I know that it wouldn't be [by definition] acceptable to call my filmmaking "guerrilla". I'm certainly not an insurgent performing military operations. However, I feel the name is fitting, since the majority of my time spent bush-jumping is on the property of someone unknown to me and vice versa. Additionally, most of these people would probably be seriously upset if they saw me defiling their painstaking handiwork. Therefore, technically, I am an "irregular", in a way infiltrating hostile territory and striking a vulnerable target.
In all honesty I think it's funny that I pick up my shit and get out of the neighbourhood immediately.

In this case, though, it covers a larger area of description. I think it's deliciously badass (and somewhat narcissistic) to refer to my style of stunt filming this way. What I mean when I say it is that I'm small operations. Mostly it's just me, a camera, and a tripod, trying to set up in a way that catches all the pivotal moments of whatever it is I'm hurting myself with today. Especially when jumping into bushes, I feel like a hit squad because I don't waste time loitering, waiting to be spotted by someone with a cache of firearms sitting in their living room. I typically fill a backpack with essential materials, and sometimes I don't even do that. Diving head first into where is essentially behind suburban enemy lines (a phrase which here means the worst that can happen to me really is getting chastised by a senior citizen) is exponentially more thrilling if you imagine some Clint Eastwood character sitting in front of his bay window in a rocking chair, caressing a rifle, just waiting for an asshole like me to dismantle his hedge clipper penguin art.

The term isn't limited, though, to just bush-jumping; Les Stroud [as mentioned in the video I uploaded this week] could easily get away with calling his practice by the same name. Subsequently, I would consider placing a solitary camera in a tree in order to catch the hilarity that ensues directly below it a form of guerilla filmmaking as well. I wouldn't want to confine it to a definition that doesn't properly represent its diversity, but if I had to, I think I would describe it in whole as, "using limited materials to quickly, sufficiently, and creatively capture the entirety of an action sequence," and even that seems too constricting. It's significant to the definition that whatever content being discussed is largely unscripted and spontaneous. The adverbs are very important here, because without those three words it's just "sticking a camera somewhere retarded to watch someone walk at a dumb angle or something for an hour." I may have paraphrased it relatively well, but it probably does leave out some necessary aspects.

Another element that doesn't apply to everyone is doing it solo (that sounds dirty). I have some, but not as much experience with trying to get a difficult shot creatively when there are others involved. The term is more effective when you recognize "resources" to include individuals, because then being limited to one or two, maybe even three people would still fit the definition. With grandiose stunts, ones that would definitely require two or more angles to capture, especially in a public area, the term stretches to cover trying as hard as possible not to be apprehended (in the event that whatever you're doing could be construed as illegal) or even as loosely as trying to get as much as you can in as short of a time as possible (for instance, between periods of business in a heavily populated area). To this extent, as well, one could consider certain public pranks a form of guerrilla filmmaking, since sometimes you have to leave before your ruse is figured out.

I suppose, at the end of the day, a lot of internet video content could be defined as "guerrilla" the way I'm using it. We stuntmen and pranksters use time and the element of surprise to our advantage. We get as much footage in as little time as possible. We live fast and we die hard. Never forget, never surrender.

Just kidding; I'm really just a dick with a video camera, and no regard for the well-being of shrubbery.

Keeping up w/ FOTL

That's Future of the Left, for those who aren't inside my head.
So, all of you.

 Yep.

 For those who don't know, I'm about a year behind literally everything. With that in mind, my learning that Future of the Left's bassist (who has an almost unbearably weird name) defected in 20-fucking-10 is right on track, really. Since he left, there has been an EP(*1) and a new album in June of this year. I have it now, finally. It's DIFFERENT.

 I don't like change.

 Not that I don't enjoy when a band ceremoniously severs a limb, a gangrenous growth, a malignant appendage serving no purpose other than to take up space. HOWEVER, I don't enjoy when a three-part band loses 50% of why they're good (through no fault of their own, apparently...don't you hate when people are so tight-lipped about their personal lives?) and then pick up two randoms, one of whom has a voice nothing akin to that of the original. I also appreciate the gusto, the speed at which they replaced what had been for me a very pivotal individual. There are still many things I don't understand, though;

 - Why a fouth guitarist? Half of your appeal was, among other things, based upon your very indie, dressed down and naked sound. I hate indie bands as they are, but Future's "Curses" can't be classified as much else...maybe alt rock. I don't frequently enjoy such soft sounds, and the originality of vocals that comprised their first one-two albums is what initially drew me in. Most of that, unfortunately, is gone now, and replaced with a sound that lacks its tastelessness. There was a harmony involved with the old bassist, a delicious malformation of noise that can't easily be replicated. Oldguy's backup vocals weren't complimentary, so much as strikingly contrasting. I liked the assault on my auditory sense. Now, everything's radio-friendly and happy.

 - I'm stuck in the stone age as far as the development of the band and I stupidly thought perhaps there would be a return to the sound that I was initially drawn to. Seems to me, though, FOTL continues to progress towards the "generic rock" area of the musical spectrum(*2). What was, for lack of a better word, tweaked, in the beginning of this orchestral journey is beginning to fizzle out, and transform into the same old, same old.

 - Thank god you've kept your whimsical lyrical style, Falco(*3). Yes, you've said that on your new album, you try to write some actually meaningful lyrics. I guess my advice to you would be to dial that back to 1. Or zero. Your seemingly insatiable desire to remove the most appealing aspects of your music irks me. I don't listen to the Left to contemplate life. Your music has always been glorious nonsense, and that's why I love it.

DON'T LOSE ME MAN.

(*1) which I hated
(*2) bring back Kept By Bees, asshole.
(*3) That's your name. Your name is Falco. That's not even a joke.

Why I Hate Metalocalypse

As a fan of most things heavy (fat chicks and steel re-bar notwithstanding) and many things Adult Swim (unless you mean literally in which case it's mildly disturbing...bunch of sweaty hairy fucks in a community pool discussing things like earning a living through hard honest work and how their stocks are doing), it would be only a modest leap of faith to assume I would like the harmonious pairing of the two that is Metalocalypse, or at least, the band in it. In reality, however, there are a few very important distinctions to make between this show and, for instance, a good show. Brendon Small has, in the past, done things with voices and animation that have made me marvel at the sheer splendour of his accomplishment. This (and to a lesser extent Galaktikon which is irrelevant to my frustration) turn he chose to take is, in my opinion, for the worse, and you're here to find out why.

Otherwise, really, why are you here? To piss me off? Success.

I don't have some personal hatred-vendetta towards this man. What he wants to do with his time and a guitar is up to him, be it a good idea or otherwise. I'm simply the ambassador to enlightenment, watchful eye cast upon bad decisions made by my idols. Metalocalypse had great potential, squandered by gripes which are minor, yet pivotal to the show's image as it stands. To change these issues now would probably be career suicide, and I don't desire that outcome. I'll just point them out.

• Background music. Before you defecate and ruin a perfectly good pair of whatever undergarment you're currently wearing, let me clarify; orchestra is a great tool for atmospheric emphasis and more often than not assists in conveying emotions that could otherwise be overlooked. There is, however, a difference between background music and background noise. When trying to listen to a conversation between two characters who are apparently chock full of speech impediments (another issue I'll touch upon shortly), what I don't need is to listen to Small's mental soundtrack. Those who have seen "Stranger Than Fiction" know what I'm talking about. I myself haven't even seen it and I know it's awful. Will Ferrell is often enraged that his every day life has to come with a narration. Similarly, I find full songs behind dialogue distracting to my auditory sense. In a brilliant contradiction, more often than not this will detract from the scene, leaving in its wake a blur of noise and lisp. Which brings me to my second point.
• Voice acting. Once again, the show takes a good thing in its burly, lumberjack arms, hugs it tight, and throws itself out of the crow's nest into the murky depths below; an excellent display taking a concept overboard to the point of murder-suicide. Perhaps one character whose accent and tongue-wiggling deficiency double-team requires me to re-watch many scenes would be amusing. When four out of the five main characters are afflicted with some sort of Parkinson's disease that has centralized around the vocal chords, sitting through an episode is more of a chore, ordeal, or even torture, than it's worth. The excessive plurals from one character coupled with the hackneyed Swedish from another, add a literal lisp and sprinkle with the guttural toad noise from the main character. This is a recipe for an aggravation sundae. Sadly, the antagonists on the show are more articulate than their counterparts, leaving me rooting for those who I would ordinarily hate.
• Music videos. This is not about the phenomenon itself, so much as it is the frequency. Of the few episode I've watched, more than several have contained music videos of some kind or another. This refers to a break in the main story to provide some sort of musical interlude. Like an eleven minute show requires an intermission like this. Metalocalypse seems to revel in their trend of beating a horse into the afterlife and back, not stopping until it has died three, sometimes four times consecutively. I realize that this could be partially the fault of a lack of research on my part, but when the admittedly small number of attempts I've made to enjoy the series is met with such content regularly, I find myself less inclined to continue studying. This would be a fine and, again, amusing mechanic if done less frequently.

I feel that I should once again clarify; I enjoy many things about this show. The animation and characters are great. Each episode I've actually watched is written with classic Brendon Small humour and intelligence. Although I largely don't enjoy story arcs, as long as they're not overbearing, this isn't a large issue. Metalocalypse does a lot of things right. It's just very hard to enjoy these things when so many other aspects are so distracting, so wrong. 

Out.

The Update Crawl

What's the date on the post below this? May? Early May? I apologize to anyone who reads this on some sort of schedule; I'm afraid I just haven't had much to say. There's that, and the second issue is that I have a lot of ideas, and would be nonplussed to post five or six times in one day. Then again, few people follow this blog, and I know for certain that one of them rarely visits the site as a whole. I doubt this readership warrants any regret on my part. Feel free to correct me if I'm wrong.

As I'm typing this, Aesop Rock's Skelethon rests on a shelf somewhere, waiting for my hard earned money to allow for my glorious embrace. To feel the splendour touch my soul that is metaphorical poetic storytelling.
Too bad I'm poor.
I don't think there such a thing in my library that would qualify as a guilty musical pleasure. I, as many other males my age, under and over, despise the likes of modern popular music. Even the unpopular is beginning to decline; with the advent of the internet, everyone has surpassed any expectation of recognition, and the aforementioned "fifteen minutes" stretches to hours. Days, if you're lucky. I'm working on my luck.

I returned the Skeleton Key. Nocturna is pleased, and should be floating some better judgement in my direction.
(Skyrim reference)

I'm digressing. De-grassing? Like tearing up a lawn, or in the case of some agoraphobics, taking a shower and washing the mould out from in between the folds of their back hair.

This new blogspot format is questionable, primarily because once a post gets long enough, the screen indiscriminately expands downward, causing a rather appalling glitch effect. Eventually it repairs itself, but in those few minutes, this website resembles a high school project.

Though this rambling may make it seem as if I have no plans for this entire experience, I can assure the four people who give at least one shit that the situation is quite the contrary. Instead, I don't know where to start, so I'm kind of procrastinating. Anything valuable and retina-worthy is being saved for when it can be truly appreciated. Like, when I've been awake for more than an hour. Sleep is a cruel mistress, and lately I've been rising against my will at ten in the morning, regardless of when I lay down the night before. An intelligent, forward-thinking person would apt to sleep at an earlier time than 3:30AM, but I have things to do. Important things. A lot of them involve cats, so I'm sure you understand. The internet always understands cats.

Looking back, I realize that I've pretty much summarized every reason why I haven't been updating more regularly. Reading between the lines is helpful in this instance.

 I don't know how much you few and proud know about Codemasters, the video game publishing company responsible for many reputable titles, but they released a game called Damnation in early 2009 that gives Uncharted a run for its treasure-hunting money. The mechanics are very similar, enough for me to mistakenly identify it as being created by the same studio, although the gameplay is very different. In some ways, much better, but in others, very, very horrible. I'll give a full review of it at some point over the next couple of weeks. I'm also planning to do a Bodycount play-by-play, which I know I'm late on, but I've been staving off that entertainment for a time when I can really enjoy and appreciate it. Those are two of several ideas I have for posts, so don't get excited, but don't give up hope, either.

Slam Death Metal Has New Life

For me, in the form of Disfiguring the Goddess' new album "Sleeper" (Big Chocolate does everything ever now I hear. Good for him.)

I'm at least a month late on getting it/talking about it, I know, but it deserves all the praise imaginable. I've had an on-and-off relationship with DTG's music. Listening to it used to be like eating a band-aid; whether you do it quickly or slowly, it's unpleasant, but there's a sort of self-confidence you feel after successfully traversing the challenge. It's like an entry-level feat into maturity, like you haven't really become a god damn man until you try to listen to Disfiguring's slam death. Like an angry, gory bar mitzvah.

Yesterday, I decided (against some better judgement) to listen to their new EP which, by now, is at least a month old. Titled "Sleeper". At seven tracks, it feels like an EP; seven is right on the cusp of distinction between a demo and a full album for me. Anything below seven, often, I won't even bother downloading, because it's like half a meal. Especially when well-established, popular bands with a few albums release little samplers of their new music, I begin to develop a seething, deep hatred that often manifests itself in the form of pulling out my dick and slapping the vocalist of said band on stage. Hard.


But I digress.


Sleeper is, in short, fucking amazing.

Their last album, Circle of Nine, was well-crafted. A lot of what I used to have of them is pre-2011 garbage, and anything older than 2011 is almost exactly that. However, it had a few flaws which were difficult to get over. Most of them were specific to certain songs on the album (Void Leacher, for example, has the most annoying chanting right in the middle. You don't need that. If I wanted to listen to gospel opera, I'd go to church, and if I wanted to do that, I'd just blow my brains out right here and now), still it had a good overall feel, certainly better than any predecessor.

Sleeper manages to bridge any gaps between my musical taste and Disfiguring the Goddess' particular brand of ear candy. On this EP, the inclusion of synth sounds is more frequent, and far more articulate, improving the sound as a whole. I should clarify, I'm not a puss-fest who only enjoys music with a techno edge. On top of that, DTG  doesn't apply the use of synth in any sense that would classify it as "techno", or "normal". Imagine someone being bludgeoned with a Chromeo keyboard that was still plugged in. Sample that and throw it into some Sleeper songs and you've got gold. Pure gold. They've managed to be just as brutal (Disfiguring's probably the reason why people use that word to describe any metal ever), but with a sound that's cleaned up; compositional majesty. They even look at breakdowns from a new angle; the entire experience is fresh and I must say I'm pleased.

Go get it.

The Theatre Bizarre

Was an interesting, fruitful (yet at the same time, mildly disappointing) experience.

The six short films, presented as an anthology and touring the Film Festival (Toronto International, to name one) circuit for the past year - much to my chagrin - finally felt the cold, judgemental embrace my eyes provide to anything that isn't made by Oren Peli or stars Jack Nicholson. The films are very difficult to describe in entirety, since they were largely separate in subject matter and ran the gamut from terrible to excellent. The nice thing about the chronology was that they were evenly spaced; one segment, if it was a particularly emotional or deep trip, would be followed by a more humourous or shocking piece. It kept the entire film light, making sure you weren't stuck in one place emotionally for too long.
I don't like spoiling movies for those who read reviews by explaining or describing them in any great, lengthy detail. I will, however, say that if you're halfway through the set and find your interest waning, hang in there, because they saved the best one of the six for last.

The setting is inconsequential, and therefore I have no problem typing it here; a woman, obsessed with an abandoned theatre across the street from her hovel of an apartment, is shocked to see the doors open and, stupidly, decides to walk in. She's then presented six stories (supposedly true, at least in that world) about six different people in six situations. Sixuations.

Some levity, since this article has been so serious up until this point.

Once again, without giving too much away, I was pleased to learn that the stories were so wide in variety. Many deal with every day issues; mortality, relationships, life after death, etc.. but they do so in very fresh and unique ways. A few of them are even twisted and disturbing, pleasantly enough to keep me around through the whole sequence (since that was what I initially had thought I signed up for).
One in particular was especially well-done to me, because the reality it was set in was very concrete. I really hate it when a main character is thrust into a world that they're unfamiliar with, full of customs and normalcies that they haven't encountered and subsequently reject. Many of these stories operated on the principle that everyone involved was accustomed to the way things were. Nobody was shocked, like, "Oh my god, you keep children as pets until they're old enough to have their own? That's awful! Everyone's awful (This is an example, and it has nothing to do with any of the films)!" Then they're exiled or tortured or something because they can't get with the program. I don't enjoy watching that. Instead, each person involved in each story was fully aware of how that world worked and was fine with it. It was a welcome change.

Of the few issues that did arise for me, the largest would have to be the pacing of the films as individuals. It was kind of awful. Firstly, there's a difference between building atmosphere and dragging out a conversation to fill a time deadline, figure it out. Sometimes I got the idea that the directors didn't sit down to judge the length of time passing between lines or actions. A couple of the films were downright boring, right up until their climax. This is a problem. If I'm at the circus, it's cool that the bear's riding a unicycle. After watching that for twenty five minutes with the only difference being whether or not he rides clockwise or counter, I begin wondering what I'm going to have for dinner tonight. Then, by the time the handstand tightrope walker comes out, I don't really care, and he has to do an extra backflip to get me interested again. I found myself wondering whether or not it would be beneficial to skip through the first scenes of some of these pieces.

That's not to say the delivery at the end of the films wasn't sharp. In fact, two or three in particular became easy favourites for me because of their endings alone. It was odd, seeing a movie and thinking "I'll never watch this again", right up until the last bit, and feeling your thoughts change to "I'll watch this entire movie three times just for that four minute part." If that's what you were going for, director sir, kudos.

In conclusion, as I said after watching The Theatre Bizarre, the movie was a decent expenditure of my time. I'm glad I watched it. I'm especially glad I hunkered down through what I didn't enjoy. Honourable mention goes to the human-puppets who introduced each film; they are successfully the creepiest dolls I've ever seen in my life.


I no longer rate movies on a 1-to-10 scale, because I find it to be very confining. Read the review and take from it what you like.

The Anti-Facebook Race

I don't have a Facebook.

I don't have the need nor the desire to update the entire world every time I have a decent bowel movement, or when my (non-existent) baby doesn't urinate all over my waist for once and therefore find Facebook unnecessary. Myself and the others who share this philosophy - ALL of them - are competing to see who can successfully exist longer without a Facefuck page.


There are strict qualification rules in order to even and minimize the playing field. Eligible competitors must:

- Have a computer with internet access. This automatically disqualifies most third world countries, including but not limited to Africa (and most of France, because aren't French people always like "hawhawhaw, what is le internet? Baguette croissant"). Which is good really, because if they can go weeks without food and still manage to crawl to the stagnant, near-dry watering hole for their daily allowance of liquid, just imagine how long they can keep from "poking" each other.
Side note: Air quotes kind of piss me off. Is it just me?

- Be under the age of 50. Now, I understand that there are some (maybe five) competent seniors who understand and may even have Facebook already. I'm not being prejudiced, it's just that they have the added advantage of knowing how to work a rotary phone and send messages through morse code. Plus, a lot of their friends are extremely easy to reach, because they're either four doors down at the home or neatly packed into a jar on the mantle.

- Be able to type coherently. This automatically disqualifies most people under 18, since a lot of you either can't or refuse to form a proper sentence and probably should stick to the macaroni pictures of your divorced parents that somehow make their way onto the fridge even though there are more important things like, for instance, shopping lists, on there. If you need to abbreviate words that are already one or two syllables, you should either be kept away from the computer entirely or electrocuted after each offense.

- Know what Facebook is. Anyone who doesn't understand what a proper social networking site is (you'll find most of them on MySpace) is immediately cut from the running, and should return to your rock, the depths of which you gelatinously emerged from. The decision to separate yourself from Facebook has to be conscious and informed, unlike the rest of your life probably.


Since this criteria narrows the playing field down significantly (to about twenty people worldwide), it should be a short race. Wish me luck.

Veil Of Maya's Eclipse is Damn Good

I'm definitely a bit late on this one.

I've liked deathcore since I found out about it in the tenth grade, showing my friend Sam the first As Blood Runs Black video (My Fears Have Become Phobias) instead of doing any actual work in my Multimedia studies class.
It wasn't a big deal, though, because our teacher was more lenient than a sugar cane in gale winds. That is so say, he bent and swayed with our grades like Michael Phelps' coach does with weed intake.
Pot joke.

Anyway, one of the few bands that I've been following from the beginning of my stint into the more destructive side of the musical spectrum is Veil of Maya. They've been consistently heavy while still managing to keep me interested with technical, melodic riffs and original material since their demo.
The first time I heard their "debut", full-length album (The Common Man's Collapse), the orgasmic and sexually confusing love was immediate. Since then, few bands have been able to match their talent, at least in my eyes, and still they remain one of my favourite bands to date. I even mailed away for a shirt; I haven't done that since I bought my own from my store (this isn't a shameless plug and I'm not fucking my own mouth but in case you're curious here it is).
Their newest album (circa 2012 for your late ass if it's late), Eclipse, has managed to deliver with the same intensity as the past three, while managing to keep a fresh sound and slowly adding more and more melody into the lines between the songs (reading is for losers, listening is for bosses).
If I had to criticize one element, it would be that the low, guttural exhales from the vocalist seem to be higher than in the past, which by comparison is weak, but on its own still very, very strong and independent.
I'm a big fan of guttural exhale, and a proprietor of the low inhale (among three or four others on the entire planet; believe it or not, if it sounds good, anyone who complains is a whiny puss who is trying to impress the people AROUND them and not themselves). For that reason, I've stuck to pig squeals longer than just about every one of my friends.
The greatest part about Eclipse, and VoM as a whole, is that they've never needed the raspy inhale to be as brutal as those who use it. I don't want to act as the authority on the subject; I'm just as fallible and human as anyone else. I like what I like, and my point is that even without such a staple of deathcore infamy, Veil of Maya manage to bring the pain relentlessly.

I'm proud of Veil of Maya, I always have been. Eclipse has made me even more so.
Keep it up doods.

Bejeweled 3 Hates You and Your Mom

Thesis: Bejeweled 3 has about as much faith in your decision-making skills as most fathers have in their daughter's claim that she won't get fucked at the drive-in movie she's going to with her boyfriend tomorrow night.

In your car.

Bejeweled and I go way back. Years, probably. I've been playing that 64-tiled love machine since it was free on the internet (yes, I know, it still is, but not the good version asshole), and I continue to play it with as much vigour as a child in a candy store, clutching his last $5 and holding out for what will inevitably be stale regret.
Maybe I'm not explaining well enough.
You see, in my apparent naivety, I like to think I'm fairly decent at thinking ahead. In this case, at the very least I try to plan my tile swaps two or three moves in advance, based on how jewels will look like they're going to fall. I try my best to set up nova gems and hypercubes, and oft it feels like I'm working against the system...Perhaps, however, it's the system that's working against me.
The hypercubes I plan out are always horizontal. They're most often in the middle, because that provides me with the highest probability that I'm going to be able to match that elusive middle gem. Normally I'll fiddle around just above the two pairs that are spaced, ever-so-daintily, one tile apart, in order to line up some sort of vertical match, bringing a group of three new gems raining down upon the rows above. When I get lucky enough, a hypercube is one move away.
Let me now explain how the world vies for my failure in these moments.

I'll even set the scene.

Imagine a standard 8x8 Bejeweled 3 board. Before you are two pairs of red square gems, lined horizontally with a space between each pair for another gem of the same type. Above that space is a group of three blue diamond gems, moved to stack vertically. Once they line up, three brand new gems topple forth, and one (by the gods themselves) is the one you're looking for. It's the second in the group of three, which means you must eliminate the first in order to be able to manoeuvre it into the proper position. Easy enough task, it just so happens that it's a pink triangle and it's one move away from elimination. Ecstatically, you notice that there seems to be no apparent downside to this decision, so you begin to swap it into position.
That's when you notice.
You can't do it.
You can't do it because Bejeweled 3 was created by kamikaze war pilots who survived and are subsequently bitter that they didn't die with honour. Turns out, one of the other two gems happens to line up with two that match it, setting off a chain reaction that drops down a couple other red gems, connecting one of the two pairs you've set up, destroying any chances you've had for happiness since that one time you accidentally copped a feel on a classmate in seventh grade.
Bejeweled 3 does this because it knows that however good your odds are, you'll never do a single thing right. You especially won't be able to fathom the two swaps necessary to make a hypercube in this instance. That's two too many, and Bejeweled 3 knows that everything you do is a mistake. Why bother allotting you some free will, when it could plan your entire life for you before you get a chance to explode from its hideous vortex womb?
Other times, it taunts you with the opportunity for a hypercube, and then causes another chain of hope-dashing events in the same breath, forcing you to watch as your hopes and dreams crumble, silenty laughing. Just loud enough for you to hear.
Don't bother trying to save them, either. Apparently Satan himself has been hard-coded into the game's binary. It'll see you, sitting there, and think, "The nerve of this bag of douches. What's he/she doing, not setting that hypercube in motion? He/she probably can't even see it. I'll fucking show it to you then." Then it makes a group of four, causing the fourth to explode right beside it, taking with it a meager three, maybe four gems of the same colour.

The world of a bitter, cynical place. War, pestilence, death, and that other one that nobody cares about. You know, where you're really hungry. At the epicentre of the chaos, on a throne of gore, sits Bejeweled 3. Plotting its next maniacal chess move. "Eventually," it says to itself, "you'll break. And when you do, I'll be waiting."

Bottom line? I can't get a god damn break, guys.

Dante's Inferno: Darksiders With Some God In It

I'm not even complaining, because so far it's great.

There's something about killing minions of hell that gets me hard like no "real man" ever could. After a particularly involved cutscene wherein you watch the main character sew a cross into his chest with a tapestry of what is apparently his shitty, treacherous life story, you're thrust immediately into the killing of innocent men dressed in old Arabian garb.
Then you die.
Then you kill death, take his scythe, and presumably shit on his face/neck/up his nose so that if he ever does come back, he will have to smell it forever.

You make your way into hell itself to rescue your wife because she, in typical woman fashion, made a deal with the devil behind your back, probably to assert her independence as your spouse, because she never gets to do anything "with the guys." You're out fighting the holy war with her brother and she's stuck at home cleaning your crusted over ham and cheese omelette off the plate you left by the couch. This inevitably damns her soul, which is what she gets because she took on a job that only a man should handle.
Along the way you meet several very real forsaken individuals from very real points in history (except for a couple that you really only have the bible to reference, so it's like a Robert Munsch book because you're thinking maybe this actually does happen somewhere but you've never heard of it except on paper), and you have the choice to "punish" or "absolve" them. One gives you holy points while the other gives you unholy points for being a bad, bad man, which you use to unlock attacks and defenses depending on whether you want to be righteous or evil. These skill trees are fairly balanced, although I hear tell that the final boss is easier with the god almighty buffs that the holy side gives you.
Dante's Inferno does a very good job of distancing itself from Darksiders. Here, you're just a man...a really strong man with a huge dick that probably would kick the shit out of War with strategically-placed mushroom slaps. Some enemies are similar, however overall more varied and original (I just got through a room full of babies with blades for arms, hopping around on them like coping polio victims), and have been tied in well to religious origin. Although the mechanics and controls are essentially the same, the attacks are quite different. The holy skill tree is also exclusive to this one.
The game has a linear play style, there is very little emphasis on any open world aspects. However, sometimes you'll have to stray from the obvious path i order to find whatever secrets are hidden around. For example, sometimes a hallway will have two branching corridors that you can choose from. The obvious downside here is that with a 50/50 chance, sometimes you'll pick the one that advances the story, and often it won't let you backtrack to go the other direction. You literally have to wait until your second playthrough to get some of the secrets you've missed.
The mini-bosses are, so far, all different and entertaining. If anyone reading has ever played Bayonetta, they'll know what I mean. It's like the complete opposite though; Bayonetta fights all these gods from ancient texts. Dante here is killing demons. The most hilarious thing about being in hell is that all around you are half-dead, eternally damned corpses just screaming up a storm. The atmosphere is very active, and dank.
The "Lust" stage just makes you feel dirty, like a rapist who targeted an old lady for lack of any more appealing talent. Like you satiated your sexual thirst on a chick in a wheelchair because her arms weren't buff enough to push as fast as you can run. Seriously, everything is shaped like a vagina, and gross vagina beasts spew forth like the wall-vaginas are on their wall-vagina menses.

It's awesome.

It's a hard ass game, despite all that. I just got through the third stage of what I think are ten, and it took me like an hour to pass both bosses. If you like merciless, hearty prison rape from time to time, be sure to pick up this title, because it delivers a whole lot of it.

8/10

"We Need To Talk About Kevin" is Effective, Lacks Delivery

My movie reviews aren't traditional, in that I don't waste time explaining what the movie's about. I'll cut to the chase:

That one crazy woman from Constantine gives birth to a psychopathic kid. The entire movie cuts between her life before and after he massacres the student body of the high school he's enrolled at.

I'm not going to spoil any of the movie for you either. What I said above can be inferred from the first ten to twenty minutes of the film. The kid's a big asshole and the fat guy from Step Brothers (to clarify, John C. Riley...Will Ferrel's no spring chicken) performs surprisingly well, given his secondary role as "Dad who means well but is generally oblivious."

The child acting in the film is well-done and convincing, as opposed to in-for instance-The Omen, where the little brat doesn't say or do shit, making it easy as hell to play. The characters are convincing, although somewhat dumb, a term which here means, "in any competent household, this kid would have been submitted for psych evaluation probably around age eleven or twelve." Constantine Woman is believable in the role, due largely to her physical appearance (tall, emaciated women always strike me as very emotionally patient and accepting, and Mom here gives her crazy son too many chances to do right, although in this case it's mostly the fault of the father that all the shenanigans went unnoticed).

The film is well-paced (mostly), and disturbing, but for the wrong reasons. Namely, instead of leaving the viewer with an unsettling feeling, I found myself skipping forward through one or two scenes in particular that only really had one way of ending (surprise surprise, I was right), and spent too much time trying to pull me in. You know that part when a guy's trying to pick a chick up in romantic comedies, and he brings out some long-winded, unnecessarily impressive and ultimately ineffective speech about some dumb shit like his job at the stamp factory or how many genital diseases he's fought off with sheer power of will, and the woman at the other end says, "You had me at 'Hello'"? That's this movie. I was drawn in and involved early on, so the shock-value style that the movie had at times for that purpose weren't worth sitting through.

The other main qualm I had with the film as a whole was its climax. It lacked. That's not to say that there wasn't a decent ending, because there was (until the last twenty seconds, but I'll touch on that shortly), it just didn't deliver. The director drew out a couple scenes that he should have kept short, and left crucial elements out of some sections that would have made them more powerful. Also, the ending is lackluster, in the sense that everything that had happened is supposed to be justified in a big, pivotal realization, which in the face of the rest of the film, doesn't stand up.

This movie is, in its entirety, very half and half. Great atmosphere, acting, good pacing, poor delivery.
If your movie's about a school shooting, I damn sure want to see one, asshole.

5/10

Old Movies Suck.

I feel like I shouldn't have to say that.

I recently skimmed an article - I say skimmed because there's no part of me willing to put the time and/or effort into more than perusing this subject matter - discussing the restoration amd re-release of Hammer Films "Classic movies" on Blu-Ray. Seems that standard and HD DVD are so yesterday that film companies are once again wasting money trying to adapt grainy, scratched film relics, with stains reminiscent of faecal waste put through a wood chipper and sprayed onto 32mm film strips, for the minuscule population who gives more than three and a half fucks about Blu-Ray while simultaneously giving just as many to flicks that have been bad since 1984.

I'm going to give you five names.
1. Grace Kelly
2. Marlene Dietrich
3. James Stewart
4. Kim Novak
5. Doris Day

Be honest with yourself, how many of them have you heard of? Two, three maybe? Now, how many of their movies have you seen? That's what I thought. I'm trying to illustrate two points here:

Point 1. Whether or not you're a memorable actor/actress has little to do with the movies you're in. It has to do with your performance on and off the screen, and your stay value. In other words, everyone knows who Boris Karloff is, and less than half of you have seen the original Frankenstein. I haven't even seen it, because I don't give a fuck. Everyone knows who Audrey Hepburn is, because nobody stops talking about how nice of a woman she was. If she was a bitch, people would say "She was good in movies" and then probably flip off her ghost for being so crusty.

Point 2. Films don't need to be adapted for young audiences, because if someone is genuinely interested in either the history or the performances in said films, they're going to watch them regardless of the video quality. Collections of Alfred Hitchcock originals sell by the boatload, none of which are adapted or remastered. Real buffs don't care.

"People want to see these movies because they want to see innovation at work. Hammer Films revolutionized the horror movie industry." See point 2.

"But regular DVD players won't be available forever, and Blu-Ray is the new wave in video technology." Okay, sure, and by the time that happens, every single one of these movies will be public domain and available online, or more importantly, in a library anywhere.

This move is about money and nothing else. I'm not going to be a liberal piss hole and whine, moan and period all about exploitation of cinema or consumers, companies sucking money out of the layman, etc. My larger point is, if people are more like me, without a Blu-Ray player because Sony is the devil incarnate, or legitimate vintage film enthusiasts, or (once again like me) understand that old movies are like old books and old people, meant to be locked away to collect dust and taken out only when you really want to hear a bunch of farfetched, poor quality, hazy stories, the whole adaptation concept is a waste of time and money.

It's also probably the reason why movies like "Hobo With a Shotgun" exist; nobody's paying any god damn attention.

My Effed Up Dream

So I'm back in high school (I'm 20. This is unnecessary and humiliating).

I suppose I was picking up classes in order to qualify better for something in University (that has been on my mind lately; I do almost nothing for a good majority of the week in terms of financial or educational success so maybe I should fill that time with a scholastic return). Adam (friend of mine) is there. We're in a Hospitality class - let me be clear now that I would never take hospitality. The last thing I want to know is how to:

A. serve people in a shitty restaurant as a Maitre' d, taking all the flack from uptight, perturbed customers because their steak isn't exactly 140.38 degrees centigrade.

B. Entertain guests at any gathering whatsoever, because I hate people and the less acquainted and polite I am, the better.

Needless to say I don't really belong in this class. The teacher (who looks suspiciously like the father from That 70's show...which is another thing I hate; Mila Kunis and Ashton Kutcher have a "relationship" like a midget has a "height issue") hands us menus, and we go off into a big restaurant-style room.

There is an asian man here who promptly begins to urinate down his leg, making small stains on the floor as he rushes for the bathroom in embarrassment. We all laugh, but I go to check because apparently in my dreams, I'm a humanitarian. Must be in backwards-land or something. The fellow tells me not to tell anyone that he peed himself; redundant since everyone saw it anyway. But I told him I wouldn't, and tried unsuccessfully to find a stall for myself (they all had piss in them...I might have a problem).

There is a long space here with nothing I can recall. I'm in the hallway of my old school, standing around, waiting for something that probably never came because isn't that always how dreams work. There are several people from my classes strewn about, some for whom I don't give a fuck or a fist. I might have climbed stairs at some point.

We return to the Hospitality room as before. This is after my typical "Can't find my fucking class" routine I go through almost every time I have a dream about high school. It's no longer a bother, because it happens so frequently, so I suppose my dream-self doesn't give his last shit about being punctual anymore. Minutes of me running around the various floors and castle windows (that are native to this sequence and only appear here). The teacher has provided us with a box on wheels, full of smaller boxes that are full of magic tricks. The room is white carpet; we're supposed to be giving some sort of demonstration to other students. The boxes are black with purple designs, stars if I remember correctly. I immediately spill every box onto the floor, and trip over them several times because, naturally, they're invisible unless they're face-up. The professor, in some sort of saving-face moment, ribs me about being unfit for the class; for some reason, it gets to me pretty effectively.

Then I announce that I'm dropping the course. I had thought about it earlier, but I was worried that I had no other classes with Adam, and it has been a while since I've seen him so I wouldn't want to spoil it. Somehow I go from a standing position to on my side, trying to crawl at the door. The teacher, sensing that I'm vexed, proceeds to defame me; he accuses me of "flinging shit" in the bathroom earlier in the day (no doubt because I went in there to check on that asian man) and pistol-whipping another student, which is absurd to me because I don't even have a gun license. He then says "Exactly"; implying that I, in perfect Gang-star fashion, have procured this firearm illegally, as all black people do. This is so frustrating that I grab his pant leg and attempt to knock him over, unsuccessfully.

Then I woke up.

Interpretation is welcome.