Leave Luck to Heaven

Posted by E

Monday, April 7, 2008

On September 23, 1889 a young Japanese man by the name of Fusajiro Yamauchi started a small company called "Nintendo Company, Ltd". The original intent of this company was to manufacture handmade hanafuda playing cards. Nintendo was successful in this venture and through the years became one of the dominant players in Japan for playing cards, even being the first Japanese company to make cards out of plastic.

However, in 1956, current company president Hiroshi Yamauchi paid a visit to the United States to meet with the US Playing Card Company, then the world leader in their industry. Yamauchi was stunned to find a small and sparse office as the headquarters of an industry leader. Yamauchi decided at that time that Nintendo needed to move in other directions if they truly wanted to grow as a company.

The playing card market hit a saturation point in 1964 around the time of the Tokyo Olympics and soon the company's stock plummeted from 900 yen a share to 60. Nintendo soon began to branch out into other ventures, trying to find the market that was right for them. Over the years they dabbled in taxis, love hotels, a TV channel, instant rice and many other products. It was the release of a toy called "The Ultra Hand" in 1970 that pushed Nintendo headlong into the electronic entertainment industry.

Seeing that there was money to be made in electronics, Nintendo secured the Japanese distribution rights for the Magnavox Odyssey. At the time the Odyssey was the only game console on the home market, predating even the Pong units.

Based on the success of the Odyssey and the desire to more fully enter the market, Nintendo developed a series of dedicated home consoles known as the "Color TV Game" series. Many consoles were released in this series, beginning with the "Color TV Game 6" which offered 6 variations of a game called Light Tennis which was heavily based on Pong.

This continued with "Color TV Game 15" which contained two controllers and 15 variations of Light Tennis. The series continued with "Color TV Racing 112", a racing game that came complete with a steering wheel and gear shifter. Next up was "Game Block Kuzushi" which was a console based on Breakout. The final unit in this series was called "Computer TV Game" and was a port of Nintendo's first arcade game.

In conjunction with the Color TV Game series, Nintendo began manufacturing arcade games, beginning with Computer Othello. They also tried their hand at the hand held console market with a series of games known as "Game and Watch".

Realizing the potential of the home market, Nintendo set to work on creating a home console that would be both affordable and powerful. Their original designs called for a 16-bit processor and a floppy disk drive to be priced at $75-100 USD, but these designs proved too costly to implement and Nintendo soon found themselves rethinking their ideas from the ground up.

On July 15, 1983, Nintendo released their system in Japan. This toy like apparatus was designed to be a fun diversion for the family to enjoy together, hence the name FamiCom (Family Computer).

The FamiCom came complete with two hardwired controllers (the second of which had a microphone built in) and an expansion port that would later be used for various add-ons such as the Zapper, Power Pad, a keyboard for creating BASIC programs and a cassette drive, amongst other things. Most of these additions were never released outside of Japan.

The initial runs of the FamiCom contained a number of problems involving systems freezing and locking up. In order to generate good faith with consumers Nintendo announced a total recall of every unit and re-designed the motherboard. Once these issues were worked out the FamiCom began to shine.

The FamiCom was an unmitigated success and by the end of 1984 Nintendo had sold 2.5 million units in Japan alone. Bolstered by the influx of cash and the prospects of an even better venture overseas, Nintendo began to investigate releasing their console in the American market.

Hoping to find a partner for this venture, Nintendo first approached Atari to see if they would be interested in the distribution rights for their console, then known as the Nintendo Enhanced Video System. Atari was initially interested in this prospect until the unveiling of Donkey Kong for the Coleco Adam at the 1983 Consumer Electronics Show. Atari wrongly believed that this adaptation was an indication of Nintendo being duplicitous and asserting themselves to multiple companies. (However, Nintendo had no role in the creation of this iteration of Donkey Kong.) This mistrust caused Atari to pass on the deal. Subsequently, Atari was nearly destroyed by the "Great Video Game Crash" shortly thereafter.

Nintendo worked on a mockup of what would be their American console, this time branded the Nintendo Advanced Video System. However, analysts disliked the machine and speculation was rampant that it would fail.

Nintendo went back to the drawing board and ultimately created the Nintendo Entertainment System (NES) which ended up being the released console. Two major points were settled on prior to releasing the unit stateside.

First, Nintendo did studies and market analysis on the USA and determined that playing with their family was not what most gamers envisioned. Therefore, they removed the reference from the console's name.

Secondly, because of the recent market crash and the fear that video games were a fad that had already passed, Nintendo did not want to brand their console as a video games system. So the initial sets came bundled with a robot called Robotic Operating Buddy (R.O.B.) as well as a light gun called the Zapper.

The initial release of the NES came on October 18, 1985 when 100,000 units were set loose on New York City. Nintendo, aware of retailers' concerns with carrying yet another game system, offered to purchase back any unsold units, therefore putting all of the financial risk on themselves. The system flew off the shelves and by the time of the nationwide release in February of 1986, 90,000 of those initial units had been sold.

Before long the system was a worldwide success and Nintendo found themselves at the forefront of the gaming industry. Whereas a few years prior Atari had been synonymous with gaming, Nintendo now held that mantle. Kids did not play video games, they played Nintendo.

One of the pack-in games for the initial release was Super Mario Bros., the game that more or less created the platform genre and served as the introduction to gaming for an entire generation of American youth.

Apart from the overwhelming success of Super Mario, many other game series which continue to exist today began their life on the Nintendo, including The Legend of Zelda, Final Fantasy, Metroid, Kirby and many others.

In order to maintain strict control over the games market, Nintendo placed inside the NES a chip known as the 10NES, which acted as copy protection for the console. In order to legally manufacture a game for the NES a company had to submit their game to Nintendo who was the sole manufacturer of cartridges for their system.

Some crafty third party vendors devised methods for bypassing the protection scheme and released unlicensed cartridges for the system. However, Nintendo was not shy about taking companies to court for unapproved usage of their system and companies such as Tengen and Galoob found themselves facing the infamous Nintendo legal staff.

As the NES aged, Nintendo felt that they needed to expand their influence. Remembering the success of their earlier Game and Watch systems, Nintendo set out to create a hand held gaming system.

The result of this was the Game Boy, a pocket sized gaming console that had graphics comparable to the NES, though on a 2 color screen that lacked backlighting. The vast library of games as well as the inclusion of some of Nintendo's flagship titles helped the Game Boy dominate the hand held market even after competitors released machines that were more impressive from a technical standpoint.

Nintendo's control of the home market was so strong that even after more advanced systems had been created, (namely the TurboGrafx-16 and Genesis, known overseas as the PC-Engine and Megadrive) many retailers held off on stocking them.

However, Nintendo was not content to rest on their laurels and in 1990 they released the Super Nintendo Entertainment System (Super FamiCom in Japan). The SNES was more powerful than the NES and ushered in the 16-bit era.

Though Nintendo maintained their lead, they began to feel the bite as Sega began to draw players away from Nintendo. This was never more so the case than the release of Mortal Kombat for their respective systems.

Mortal Kombat was a sleeper hit at the arcades, a graphically violent fighting game that involved the killing of your opponent in gruesome and detailed methods. When the time came to release the game to the home market, Nintendo refused to budge on their "no blood" censorship policy.

As a result the Sega version of the game outsold the SNES version by 3 to 1, even though Nintendo's console offered better graphics and sound. It was becoming apparent that Nintendo was not moving forward and progressing with the wants and needs of their audience.

On December 9, 1993, congressmen Herb Kohl and Joe Lieberman held Congressional hearings on video game violence. As a result of this hearing, the Entertainment Software Rating Board (ESRB) was created.

Because a ratings system was now in place for games, Nintendo allowed the adaptation of Mortal Kombat II to reach the SNES unmolested from its arcade form. This version outsold the Sega release by a substantial margin.

As time wore on, the move towards 32-bit gaming and 3-D hardware became inevitable. Not wanting to be left behind by the next generation of games, Nintendo sought to both extend the life of the SNES and work on a new console that would fill the needs of modern gamers.

Nintendo had received assistance from Ken Kutaragi at Sony when choosing the sound processor for the SNES. In the end they had settled for the Sony SPC-700. Because of the connections they had formed when making this decision, Nintendo approached Sony to see about creating a CD-ROM add-on for the SNES.

This addition was to come in two stages, the first being an add-on for the SNES, the second was to be a brand new console that utilized both Nintendo and Sony's hardware and upped the ante for what a home system could do.

Nintendo found themselves unhappy with the terms of the contract they had signed with Sony, feeling that Sony retained too much control over the titles made in the SNES-CD format. Because of this they began working in the background with Philips to the same ends.

At the 1991 CES, Sony was shocked to find that Nintendo did not announce their partnership, but instead announced their partnering with Philips. This was an unforeseen and stinging blow to Sony.

This move turned out to be an enormous mistake for Nintendo, as the wrath of Sony played out in the next generation of consoles and Nintendo found their control of the market slipping away. Nintendo's joint venture with Philips, the CD-i was a complete failure. Nintendo entered into lawsuits to prevent Sony from continuing on with their project, but ultimately it came to fruition.

The codename of their original joint venture? The Playstation.

Life's Lessons

Posted by E

Friday, April 4, 2008

We've all heard it said in the past that the best way to learn things is the hard way; that pain and misery are the best teachers we have. I think it goes without saying that many of us have had to learn a good deal of life's lessons this way and in the spirit of both A) offering sage advice to our younger readers and B) getting a post up for the sake of keeping Bonez updated, I would like to offer up some of the things that I have learned over the years that could prove useful to our readers.

1) Do not draw on cars with dry erase markers. Now, you're probably of the same mindset that my friend and I were when undertaking this venture; namely that dry erase markers ERASE, and therefore one can safely draw on any surface and enjoy the screams of terror of those whose things are being destroyed. In retrospect, bad idea. It might have even been incumbent on us to draw a test phallus on one small section of the car before covering the entire thing in various representations of male genitalia. For the record, not only does dry erase NOT wipe off of cars, it also does not happen to wash off. Ever. If you ever come across an 80's model gray Oldsmobile that is covered trunk to hood in penises, great and small, you can smile quietly to yourself knowing that somebody thought that was hilarious to do...20 years ago.

2) Do not use a lighter to light a gas grill. Now, this is one of the few times in my life that just prior to an accident I said, "Hey, I don't think this is a good idea". It is subsequently also one of the few times that I was right. No matches were available, and since I was a smoker at the time and always had a lighter handy, reaching in there and "sparking her up" seemed like a grand idea. Or not. I lost most of the hair on my right arm that night. 3 years later (Yes, ONLY 3 years ago) and I still do not grow hair on a large area of my arm. Oh well, at least the burgers were tasty.

3) Do not attempt a flying Jackie Chan style kick at a door if you are not, in fact, Jackie Chan. I learned this one in my teenage years. The end result was my foot slipping, throwing my arms out to break my fall and in turn breaking one of my arms with my fall. Yes, you read that right, I broke my arm kicking a door. To make matters worse I had to leave where I was to go do lights for a play. In order to get to that play I had to ride my moped, which I managed to do by bracing it with my feet, revving the throttle with my left hand and then dropping my rapidly swelling and useless hand onto it. I managed to perform lights for the ENTIRE play (Oliver, so you know) before heading off to the hospital to tend to my wounds. Broken bones hurt. They hurt even worse when you just let them dangle and do little, if nothing to repair them for a few hours.

4) If you are a teenager, never trust a group of your friends who promise you won't get hurt. Chances are you will. If you're one of that group of friends, never stop egging your friend on. Their pain is pure hilarity.

5) Yes, the little metal plate they put on your table at a Greek restaurant prior to bringing out the plate of meat is heated. It is not just a good conductor of heat for when the meat arrives. If you don't believe me, I recommend that you test this by poking it with a finger, not with your entire palm. Ouch.

6) Burying your feet in snow does not actually keep them warm. In fact, snow is frigidly cold.

7) Yes, you can draw blood with Nerf.

So there you have it, a handful of things to avoid in life, or at least the answers to a few questions that you never asked.

Bombs Away

Posted by E

Wednesday, April 2, 2008

Michigan was mired in yet another of its frigid winters and I was forced, as was my daily routine, to make that half mile walk down to the bus stop to await the yellow chariot that would transport us to school. Our house was situated back from the main road by a driveway roughly one half mile in length. To wander down this road you would find but two houses, ours and THEIRS. In the twenty plus years that my family has lived in that house, I have come face to face with THEM perhaps five times. Ever. It helps to be from a non-social family that happens to live next door to another non-social family.

Setting forth for the stop that day, I had a strong suspicion that I would not ulitmately be ferried to our vaunted den of education. No, I had the knowledge that my parents would be leaving on yet another of their interstate ventures, this time to peddle antique books somewhere in the suburbs of Chicago. That meant that freedom was mere minutes away. As soon as they left, I would once again have full control of the house for whatever term they would be gone, which in this particular case was about a week.

My bus stop was used by only one other student, namely Terry. You should be aware that we were regular partners in crime, so any plans I had for cutting out on class and in general being a juvenile reprobate would no doubt need to include him. I met him down at the bus stop at our normal time and proceeded to delicately broach the subject of hiding out at my place instead of actually going to school.

"I don't think I'm gonna go to school today, man. Wanna join me?" Again, I wanted to make sure that the subject was handled with all due aplomb.

"Sure" he said, and at that point our blood vow had been made. No school would be attended by us that day, and in fact, we would make a solemn vow to ensure that no education of ANY TYPE took place in the time that we should have been in attendance.

The only thing to do at this point was to avoid getting on the bus while also remaining hidden from both the bus driver and by my parents as they made their way out. No problem, we figured, as it was still early in the morning (ergo, dark) and there was a baseball field across the street from our bus stop.

The plan was simple, make our way behind the concession stand at the baseball field, wait until my parents venture forth and then head to my house to reap the spoils of our clever and devious ways. The only thing standing in our way at this point was the cold. The frigid cold. The oppressive, HOLY FUCK Michigan cold. Fortunately, we were both completely underdressed for this venture, having assumed when we got ready that we would either be attending school or would quickly be heading to my house. Of course, no such luck was to be had.

The bus came and went at 6:30 and we basked in the warm glow of our clever hiding spot. A glow that was neither warm enough nor long lasting enough to assist us as the time wore ever on. 7:00 came and went. As did 8:00.

Far from being warm enough to handle such a situation, we found ourselves in desperation, digits turning beet red and then purple due to restricted blood flow and soon we were burying our appendages in the snow in order to capture what little warmth was leaving our bodies. I'm sure it would have looked odd to passersby to see two teenaged boys, almost purple with cold packing their hands and feet in the snow, assuring one another that this was "for warmth".

By the time 9:00 rolled around, we were beginning to become seriously worried about frostbite. This is the sort of shit we had more or less come to expect from life. You come up with a great idea and then life decides to fuck it all up by necessitating a trip to the emergency room. Sigh.

At 9:00 our shivering had become so severe and our inability to feel our fingers and toes so concerning, that we decided to head to my house under the assumption that we had simply missed my parents leaving. I mean, come on, it was nearly 3 hours since the bus had gone. My parents had a 7 hour drive ahead of them and that didn't even include getting a hotel room, setting up for the show, attending the pre-show dinner, etc. There was no way they had dallied behind at the house this long without a reason involving an ambulance making its way down our road.

So, collecting ourselves and our backpacks as best we could with fingers that no longer gripped, we began the long trek down the road to my house, grumbling between us the entire way about how we CERTAINLY had frostbite to some degree on any number of parts of our body. (Author's note: Yep. The toes on my right foot have never been the same and will turn ghostly white the second they get cold.) As we neared the halfway point of the driveway we heard a sound. A sound that sent an even icier chill down our spine than the one currently inhabiting the space.....My parents' van.

"OH SHIT!" we screamed simultaneously as we took off at the most breakneck speed we could manage back down the driveway. Oh fuck, oh fuck, what if they see us?!?! Our run nothing more than a hastened hobble, we managed to make our way back to the end of the road and cut over to the baseball field just in time to see the van pulling out of the driveway and making its way to Chicago. Breathing a collective sigh of relief, we made our way down to my house at the best pace we could manage. Not quite a run, not quite a crawl. (Which was impressive, considering.)

We deposited our backpacks upstairs in my bedroom and proceeded to fill the bathroom sink with warm water. Taking opposing spots on the counter, we submerged our hands and feet in the warm water, feeling the life slowly creep back into our bodies. After some time we were able to switch to hot water and in fact were able to feel our fingers and toes again. Numb with exhaustion and near-hypothermia, we made our way into the den, turned on the tv and were both fast asleep within five minutes.

We awoke later that day still chilly, but ultimately none the worse for wear. (Ahh, the resiliency of youth.) It was decided then and there that lunch time had arrived and we sauntered to our respective lunches. This being my house, I made my way to the kitchen, while Terry ventured upstairs to gather his bagged lunch from his backpack.

I stood in the kitchen preparing my sandwich without much more thought about the future than what movie I intended to watch shortly. And then I heard it.

"Bombs away!" Terry said, followed by a dull thud, which in turn was immediately followed by, "OH SHIT!”

Now, let's be realistic. "Oh shit" really NEVER means something good. But "Bombs away" FOLLOWED by "Oh shit" can only mean disaster. Major disaster. In MY house disaster.

I ran from the kitchen, screaming "What the fuck did you DO?" but didn't even have a chance to finish it before I saw. The pool. The ENORMOUS pool. Of grape juice. On the white carpet. A pool with a four foot radius, glistening in the sunlight streaming through the bay window.

Fear and rage welled in me, twisted and convoluted into an emotion so powerful words cannot describe it. I call it fage, and there's not a teenager alive who hasn't felt fage at some point. Currently, my fage was focused squarely on Terry.

I tried to stammer myself through a repeat chorus of "What the fuck did you do", but found that my fage had stripped me of my voice. The best he could offer in reply was that "I didn't know it was in there" when he dropped the bag. I retorted with the relative idiocy of dropping your lunch from the second story onto the white carpet in the first place with or without the involvement of Welch's.

I'd love to say that I cleverly grabbed a knife, slashed his throat and forced him to bleed out on the very stain he had just created, crafting a meticulous story for my parents about Terry tripping and falling onto the blade. If nothing else, the blame would be deflected from me. But unfortunately, I just wasn't that creative as a lad. And I was left with a rather large, round and increasingly purple problem.

I stormed off to the garage to gather a bucket and a couple of sponges. Filling the bucket with cold water and a liberal amount of Woolite, I made my way back to the living room, stuffed them into Terry's hands and very nicely suggested that he should consider cleaning the mess. (Author's note: I was not nice nor did I suggest anything. I am certain that a threat involving crushed testicles was levied.)

Feeling a tad high and mighty due to the fact that I had NOTHING to do with this fiasco, I watched Terry furtively scrubbing at the stain moreso than get involved. Oh, I scrubbed a bit here and there, but the meat of the work was done by him, as felt fitting at the time, and frankly still does as I write about it.

He scrubbed that carpet until his fingers were but nubs, reddened and raw from the continued motion of the carpet against them, frigid water and copious amounts of Woolite, both from the bucket and applied directly to the stain. After a good hour of cleaning, it became readily apparent that his efforts were completely in vain, this stain was making its way into the carpet and had no intention of leaving without a fight.

Realizing that these efforts were fruitless, it was decided to phone a carpet cleaning place and throw out our favorite question. The hypothetical. Any time we made a phone call starting with the phrase, "Hypothetically speaking..." you could pretty much just assume that we fucked up. Bad. Hypothetical calls were made when we knew we had done something really, really terrible and wanted to see just how deep a hole we had dug for ourselves.

So I dialed the phone and started the conversation with the dread term. "Hypothetically speaking, let's say you spilled a large amount of grape juice on a white carpet. What would be the best way for cleaning that up?". Of course, the answer we prayed for was to spend $5 on some miracle elixir and be done with the whole sordid affair. Unfortunately, that was NOT what they had to say to us. They recommended a steam cleaning but made extra sure to point out that NO MATTER WHAT, do NOT use cold water and Woolite, as you'll just set the stain forever.

Shit.

So, the bad news is that the carpet is ruined and I am filled with a fury so indescribable that Terry fears my imminent explosion, as it will rightfully be directed at him. The good news is that since my parents have left me for the week, a small stipend was left so that I could afford luxuries such as food. So, further phone calls were made to try and get our hands on a steam cleaning unit. Unfortunately, the stipend was just that, a stipend, and nowhere near enough money to cover those costs.

Ultimately, I made Terry come over every day during my parents' absence and clean that spot. By the time they returned from their trip, it had gone from a brilliant enormous purple stain to a vibrantly bright enormous purple stain. But, all things being equal, life decided to be fair on this one. I managed to deflect ALL of the blame onto Terry, and for years he was unable to live down his accident with my parents.

Of course, the version we told involved an innocent Terry having a very severe accident involving a Keatonian pratfall, but nonetheless, the end result was a huge stain, compliments of him. He was therefore banned from ever having a drink in the house anywhere except the kitchen from that point forward, in perpetuity.

We were lucky that time.

Sometimes I'd Do Better To Shut My Mouth

Posted by E

Tuesday, April 1, 2008

Every once in awhile I catch a glimpse of why I'm so awkward in social circumstances. I always try to be as polite, courteous and friendly as I possibly can be with people, but for some reason I just don't feel like I fit in when dealing with them. I'm terrible at small talk and really have no capacity for exchanging pleasantries. It's just not how my brain is wired.

Yesterday I stopped to get a haircut, a scenario that I dread every time it comes to pass, as the barber's seat is one of those places where small talk is pretty much expected. To tell the truth, I normally go to an Asian barber near my work; one of the primary reasons for this being that the language barrier ensures that I don't have to discuss anything more than the weather or how awful the traffic is. But yesterday I wasn't near my normal location, instead finding myself trapped at a shop populated by native English speakers.

I try. I really do. I talked about the weather and the traffic and the things you can do downtown, and I smiled and laughed where appropriate, though internally I didn't give a dingo's kidney for what was being said.

Before long the topic turned to movies. I pointed out that I almost exclusively go to a theater downtown that shows 20-30 year old movies, while my stylist mentioned that she had seen "Meet the Browns" the previous week. (For the record, I am so tired of seeing Tyler Perry's name and face on every single DVD released for the last 3 years, I could scream.)

From there we began discussing "older" movies, namely "I Am Legend". This is where my inability to deal with humans really came to the forefront. I present our conversation, as best I can recall it. (And yes, I actually DO talk like this.)

Her: I seen that "I Am Legend" film with Will Smith, you seen that one?

Me: Not as of yet, though I've heard pretty good things about it.

Her: I didn't think I'd like it, cuz Will Smith is all alone for the whole thing. I was afraid it'd be like that Tom Hanks movie....(she pauses, trying to recollect)

Me: Castaway.

Her: Yeah! He was awful in that movie. Why the hell he talkin' to a ball?

Me: (I didn't even LIKE Castaway all that much, but come on, he talked to the ball to try and retain some of his humanity since he was in a situation where he was entirely socially isolated. Wilson was his way of dealing with this.)

Her: But I thought Will Smith did aight in this one.

Me: Yeah, I need to sit down and watch that one. I read the book, but I haven't seen the film.

Her: They wrote a book about it?

Me: Well, yeah, the movie is based on the book by Richard Matheson. It was written in the 50's. 54, I think?

Her: Oh really?

Me: Yeah, and they've made two other film versions of it, "The Last Man on Earth" and "The Omega Man".

Her: Hunh.

Me: And George Romero has openly admitted that it was a large source of inspiration for "Night of the Living Dead". So, in reality, it was the progenitor of the modern zombie film. You can thank it's influence for those and the more modern day contagion films, like 28 Days Later.

Her: ...

Me: ...


At this point you could pretty much hear the crickets chirping. From that point forward she had very little to say to me. And once again I just retreated into my shell, praying that this whole experience could be over soon.

This is the case for me, all too often. I have a bad tendency to delve way too much into trivial information, forgetting that the majority of people I come across don't care, and in many cases are a bit creeped out by somebody that can recall information that quickly. My rather formal methods of speaking with strangers don't help much, either.

Providing boatloads of information where a mere word would suffice has always been a quirk of mine. I tend to make associations very quickly and I rather enjoy verbosity, particularly in conversation. In fact, on a few occasions in my childhood I was called upon by my friends to completely horrify or offend some female who had taken too keen a shine and would not go away. Ten minutes around me could ensure that they'd have no interest in my friends any longer, if it meant they'd have to be exposed to me on a regular basis.


For example, here are some things that have crossed my mind and been spouted out before I realized that the other party likely didn't care:

Upon hearing that a customer's name was Gary Gilmore I pointed out that he was executed in Utah in the 70's by firing squad, was the first person executed after the reinstatement of the death penalty and that both of his corneas were transplanted after death.

Pointing out to a first time passenger in my car that the cd we were listening to (Buried Dreams by Clock DVA) was rumored to be the album that was in Jeffrey Dahmer's stereo when he was caught. I also made note of its themes of sexual sadism and serial killing.

Discussing at great length the methods by which chicken nuggets and hot dogs are created, usually while eating chicken nuggets or hot dogs with somebody.


All of these things are prime examples of why I just don't seem to fit in with the majority of people I meet. Couple that with the fact that I don't tend to like people in the first place and you can imagine that I'm a hoot at parties.

If You Knew 8-Ball, Don't Bother Reading This

Posted by E

Sunday, March 30, 2008

I'm going to be honest up front. If you knew 8-Ball, were friends with 8-Ball, looked up to 8-Ball or thought highly of 8-Ball, please stop reading right now. I did not know 8-Ball. I know very little of his life's work, and everything I will write from this point forward is my personal interpretation of 8-Ball's story. Don't bother writing to correct me. Don't spam me with messages about what an unholy beast I am, talking about 8-Ball so soon after the tragic events. Don't try to convince me that 8-Ball walked on water, cured the lepers and wrote 5 top 40 hits. The fact of the matter is, the truth of 8-Ball isn't as interesting to me as the reality I have built in my head. So once more, if 8-Ball means something to you, stop reading now.

So by now I'm sure you're wondering, "Who the hell is 8-Ball". That's a fair question and one that I can answer to a small extent. Be warned that I'm treading into gallows humor here, as the events I'm describing are only about 31 hours old. Yes, 8-Ball was real. Yes, 8-Ball was killed very close to my home. No, I did not know 8-Ball.

I came home yesterday to a massive traffic jam and several news helicopters hovering above my home. After taking some back roads to get to my domicile, I couldn't help but take my roommate to go investigate what all the hubbub was about, particularly since I could see LOTS of crime scene tape just a little bit up my road. (For the record, crime scene tape is to me what fast moving objects are to a man's testicles; an irresistible attraction.) In fact, my first statement upon seeing the tape was, "Cool! Maybe there will be a head in the road." My second statement was, "Let me grab my phone, it has a camera." (The short time I spent in the Cub Scouts before they threw me out taught me to always be prepared.)

However, yesterday was not my lucky day, and in fact there was very little to be seen. The road was closed off and there were police everywhere, but all I could see was a car that was somewhat banged up. They were taking oodles of photographs, but any bodies, pieces of bodies or small chunks of pieces of bodies had already been removed from the scene. What remained seemed to be of great interest to the local law enforcement.

Unable to glean any real information on what had transpired, we made our way home. My roommate immediately turned on the news, but was unable to find any information. I laughed at his archaic means of information gathering and cast my nets onto the web. Within minutes I had found a small amount of information on what had transpired.

What I know of the truth is this: 8-Ball was assaulted by four men at a local gas station and shot. He then proceeded to take off in his car and rammed a utility vehicle just a few hundred yards down the road. He was transported to the hospital where he later succumbed to his injuries.

Having only this miniscule amount of information my mind set to work trying to fill in the gaps of what actually happened in 8-Ball's tragic final days. What brought him to this untimely end? Who would seek to end the life of 8-Ball, and most importantly, why?

The name 8-Ball, to me, invokes the seedy underbelly of illegal pool hall gambling. Perhaps 8-Ball was a rebellious young player in the underground leagues, making his own personal stab for glory, while at the same time stepping on the toes of his rivals to make it to the top.

Perhaps 8-Ball was the last remaining member of a team called "The Stripes" who have one by one been summarily executed by their blood rivals, "The Solids". With all of the other members taken out, they have only to sink the 8-Ball to claim their place as the rightful rulers of the local pool hall.

I picture 8-Ball being cornered by the gang of four: the dreaded Bank Shot, End Rail, 9-Ball and Scratch, their hatred palpable as they move to strike, and 8-Ball, on cue, makes a break for his car, lest he end up being pocketed.

So 8-Ball dashes off in his vehicle, but the loss of blood begins to weaken his constitution. Upon impact with the utility vehicle, it becomes evident that 8-Ball has indeed been sunk.

I can see the police arriving on the scene, forcefully wrestling 8-Ball from his corrupted vehicle, violently shaking him and demanding answers, receiving only short utterances in reply.

Signs point to yes.

Cannot predict now.

My sources say no.

I see him lying on the ground as the police further interrogate him, eyes slowly glazing over faintly uttering his last living phrase before slipping into unconsciousness. The final words of 8-Ball.

Reply hazy, try again...

A Post With No Real Substance

Posted by E

Tuesday, March 25, 2008

Honestly, folks, I'm working on a piece at the moment. Have been for a day or two. Every time I think I have it where I want it, I end up painting myself into a corner, so to speak and end up shredding sections and starting over. But, I don't want Bonez to end up with too long of a gap without an update.

So, to prove that we're still here, I'm gonna spit a few things down here just so our ravenous masses of fans can have some meat to gnaw off the Bonez until something more substantive arrives. (HOPEFULLY tomorrow.)

Without further ado, here are some incredibly random facts:

Until the age of 19, I thought pesto was an adjective. When something was described as being cooked with pesto, I assumed that they meant it was cooked with great enthusiasm.

It takes 37 muscles to frown but only about 8 for me to rip the throats out of the damn dogs that won't stop barking next door...

I don't "get" dancing. I appreciate that it takes a lot of skill, practice and athleticism to do it well, but it all seems like wasted energy to me. (And pompous, to boot.)

As mentioned in a post over at my personal blog, I personally discovered that if I use a uniform licking pattern, it takes me 3,602 licks to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop. (Take THAT, Mr. Owl)

My lifelong ambition as a young child was to cook french fries at McDonald's. I got a job at McDonald's at the age of 17. I was employed there for exactly 24 hours.



Okay, so after that, if you're still around all I can say is "thanks for sticking in there". As I said, myself and others are working on some fun new material for Bonez. But hey, creativity takes time and unfortunately I have a life that keeps me from being able to write all day. (Though admittedly, that would be heaven.)

And remember, part of what we do around here is listen to our readers. If you have an idea that you'd like us to look into, drop us a line. Our various email addresses are listed off to the right.

A Seemingly Random Collection of Anecdotes

Posted by E

Friday, March 21, 2008

It seems the world that surrounds me is more colorful and exciting than that which others occupy. Not because I have things any better or because I'm psychotically happy all the time. (Trust me, far from it.) I say this because it seems to me that a large number of very odd situations and scenarios play out around me. Sometimes they're strange, sometimes amusing and sometimes downright hilarious. The downpoint to this is that whenever I tell stories of odd things that have happened in my life, invariably I am accused of making them up because, well, face it, I write. :P

But because I'm feeling whimsical tonight, I've decided to commit to (digital) paper a few odds and ends that have occurred to me in the last couple of years. I swear on all that is dark and unholy that these stories are true and that I have made every effort to stray from hyperbole for the sake of amusement.

This first little ditty I refer to as my "That's not fair" story, as that's exactly what I screamed towards the sky upon it happening. To set this up just a little bit, there is a character that appears on South Park from time to time named Halfy. Halfy exists only to be the punchline of a joke. For example, in the episode "Cartman's Mom is a Dirty Slut" Mr. Garrison states that he has slept with Cartman's mother, "But who the hell hasn't?". Various townspeople look nervously at one another until one man says, "I haven't". Mr. Garrison then states that, "You don't count, Halfy, you don't have any legs," upon which the camera pulls back and we see that Halfy is, in fact, a double amputee.

So one day I'm at Wal-Mart with my wife, and as we're walking to the register I am pretending in my oh so adorable way that her opinion is irrelevant and that I don't care what she has to say. As I get in line I turn and finish my little tirade with, "You don't count, Halfy, you don't have any legs." Turning back to put my items on the belt I notice, OF COURSE, that the gentleman assisting us is in a wheelchair and also OF COURSE doesn't have any legs.

Is it even worth pointing out that he was maybe the second legless person I've EVER SEEN? And that he just happens to be sitting there right as I make what could be construed as a very insulting and insensitive remark. Of course as soon as I realized that Halfy was sitting in front of me I turned beet red and just screamed "That's not fair" into the ether. I mean, come on. Really?

My next story isn't so much an astounding or ironic situation, but it helps to know that if you ever encountered me face to face I tend to be extremely shy. Get to know me and I'm horridly obnoxious and vulgar, but I clam up around those I'm unfamiliar with. Which is why my friends never believe this one...

As has been made abundantly clear through my posts, I am a massive dork. I love all sorts of geeky things and can talk your ear off about insignificant minutiae, as well as rattle off long skits, scenes and routines verbatim. So it should come as little surprise that I spent an afternoon collecting music from old Nintendo games to play in the car. Jumping into my slick hoopty after work one afternoon, I rolled down the windows and blasted the other cars with various video game soundtracks.

I had to make a quick stop by Kroger on the way home, so I rolled into the parking lot with the soundtrack to Super Mario 2 cranked all the way to 11. As I'm getting out of my car, two young black women are loading up their car in the spot next to mine. As I step out one of them approaches me and the following short conversation begins:

Her: I just gotta know, was that Mario playing in your car?
Me: You know it, gotta respect the classics.
: I told you! I told you he was playing Mario.
Me: Wanna see something really stupid?
Her: Sure.
I then roll up my right pant leg. If you've ever seen my icon in the comments, you would know that I have a tattoo on my right leg of a Pac-Man maze with Pac chasing a blue ghost while being chased by two others.
Her: Damn! That's awesome! Aw man, I'm a hater now.
Me: Hey, don't hate the player. Hate the game.

I then turned and made my way into the store. Again, this is totally out of character for me, but I'd never before been able to weave that phrase into polite conversation, so I have to admit I beamed with a bit of pride afterwards.

Story number three involves a gentleman I used to work with. Now, it's hard to tell this story without coming off as racist, but let me assure you that I most certainly am NOT a racist. I hate all people equally.

Anyways, my coworker was a young black man who we all got along with at the office. He was a Jehovah's Witness and was just so nice and friendly that you couldn't help but like him. But every single day for lunch he wanted chicken. I don't mean a couple of times a week. I mean that every single day he wanted wings or fried chicken or baked chicken. The man just liked chicken. And we teased him for this just because it amused us. We even made a sign that proclaimed his cubicle "Casa des pollo".

One day he went with me to lunch. I stopped by Subway to get a sandwich. As we're walking out of Subway he asks if we can go to the chicken wing place around the corner so he can get something to eat. Of course I said yes and we walked over there so he could get some food.

After placing his order he joins me in the dining area to wait for it. Now, this was a black establishment, owned by blacks, operated by blacks and a clientele that was exclusively black. Again, I don't care. Whatever. The man wanted some chicken, and from what he told me, they make some great wings.

But all of a sudden my friend nudges me in the ribs with his elbow rather hard and then loudly points out, "Look, E, you're right, WE DO ALL EAT CHICKEN!" All eyes suddenly turn to me, and I might as well have just shoved my fist forward and screamed "White power!". The best part was, he had no idea that what he had said just MIGHT have been inappropriate. The only response I managed was a look of sheer terror and a, "What the fuck did you just say that for?!?!". Yeah, we all still get a laugh out of that one. Bastard.

My final story was so weird when it happened that I don't think I could have made it up if I tried. When I got back to the office after this one all I could say was, "If I didn't live my life, I wouldn't believe it."

I had to run to the local Target at lunch one day for a handful of items. As I pull into my parking spot I see a young and rather short Phillipino girl walking between the cars. She makes a beeline towards mine just as I'm opening my door. She stands right in my door so that I cannot get out and asks in very broken English if I have any money I can give her, as her family is unable to pay rent and her child needs diapers.

Let me tell you, I'm a sucker for a sob story. I really am. And I'm not going to deny that I felt bad for the poor girl. Being broke and in a bad situation can feel really overwhelming, so being the sucker that I am I open my wallet to see if I have a couple bucks I can give her. All I had was four one dollar bills and a hundred, so I handed her the four ones. (I'm a sucker but I'm NOT an idiot.)

Unfortunately she noticed the hundred and her eyes lit up. She looks at me and asks if I speak French. Lucky for her I speak a little, and I told her as much, but made a real point of emphasizing the "little" bit. I managed to get by in France and Belgium, but really just enough to ask "How much is this?", "I'll have an omelette" or "I would like to eat your baby".

But she launches into a mile a minute story in French and I pretty much just stare at her and keep asking her to slow down. Slower, please. SLOWER. Apparently, as she has noticed my hundred dollar bill, she feels that she needs it more than I do. So she repeats her story over and over. They're living in a church. Her baby has no diapers. She needs formula. I repeat to her ad nauseum that she can't have my hundred. It's mine. I earned it and it's all I have. I feel for her, but SORRY.

She's not having it, though, and she REALLY wants my money. Next thing I know she's offering to have sex with me in the Target parking lot for my $100. I'm a pretty adventurous guy, but sex with a French speaking Phillipino stranger in the parking lot of a Georgia Target really isn't my bag.

But still she persists. My normally cool and easy going demeanor is rapidly falling to the wayside so I make one final offer. I tell her that she can accompany me into the store and I will buy diapers for her baby and hand them over. But that's it. No cash. No sex.

Of course her response to this was no, so I had no choice left but to rather rudely push my door open, tell her to get the fuck out of my way and storm off. Truth be told, I was a bit afraid when I came back out of the store. What if she was waiting for me? What would I do if I had to go back to work and say that I got my ass kicked by a 5'4" Phillipino girl? That would likely be the third or fourth most embarassing thing to happen to me that summer and the guys at the office would never have let it rest. Luckily, the concern was for naught, for she and her imagined five point exploding heart death touch were nowhere to be found.

So there you have it, a few tales of whimsy to pass a little of your time? Are they amazing? Not really. But I hope you found some entertainment in them. There are others, but come on, this is a blog, not a novel.

Our Pasta Who Art In Heaven

As a pastafarian, I feel it is my duty to express solidarity with religious brethren of all persuasions and denominations, particularly during festivities and ceremonies celebrating our faith.

Some may disagree with the tenants of my personal faith, but therein lies the beauty of belief. We are all free to believe what we wish no matter what others may think.

In the pastafarian faith we believe that the Flying Spaghetti Monster (cheese be upon him) touched the void with his noodly appendage and created first a hill, then trees to populate that hill and finally a midget to run free amongst the trees. Therein lies the creation of our planet.

Whereas today is a day of significance for those in the Christian faith, it should be noted that every Friday is a religious holiday for pastafarians. Every Friday we are encouraged to dress like pirates, as pirates are "absolute divine beings" who gave away candy to small children until demonized by other religions in order to promote their faith.

Like most religions we have a heaven and a hell, though in our heaven we have a beer volcano and strippers. Should you be cast down into the dark realms of Antipasto's hell, then you will find the beer a bit flat and the strippers have VD.

I have attached these pictures as a statement of faith. The first image was created by myself, while the second and bumper sticker came from Brian Burns. Feel free to share our images and spread the word of his Holy Pastaciousness.

May you be touched by his noodly appendage.

Ramen.

Reason Number 8,428 Why I'm a Geek

Posted by E

Tuesday, March 18, 2008

If you're one of the handful who have suffered the great misfortune of having read some of the carrion that I leave scattered about the facade of Bonez, then you're apt to recognize that I'm a man who enjoys his video games. I have written several articles detailing their history and my personal interactions with them, and it would be no lie to state that I have a great love affair with them. I can speak about games as eloquently and voluminously as Ebert can discuss film. And so it should come as no surprise that I am once again going to occupy a few moments of your time bleating on and on about the same old shit. In fact, ultimately, this article will conclude with me talking about a game I've already written about. Twice. Consider this fair warning.

Talk to anybody who frequently games, and you'll find that everybody has specific genres and styles that they appreciate above all others. In the modern age, my most frequently played games are first person shooters, though I'll admit that I'm no expert at them. But I'm no snob. I dabble in all of the various genres aside from MMORPG's. However, my most sincere gaming love transcends genre and is hard to describe with a simple label.

The games I love best are those that I call my "man vs machine" games. I deem them this not because of any intrinsic futuristic qualities, but due to what the games offer. Familiarity. I like a game that presents an identical experience every time I play. Enemies who will always appear at specific locations. Squadrons of planes that come in specific formations at precise times. Games with hundreds of boxes to open, but only a few that I deem necessary. Some examples of this style of game would be Contra, Shinobi, Sky Shark, DoDonPachi, Half-Life, Heavy Barrel and Guitar Hero.

These titles appeal to me because of their predictability. I know when bad guys will appear, I know where they'll be, and I have a decent idea of what lies ahead. This changes the gaming experience for me. I am no longer playing against the machine, I'm playing against myself. Knowing with a certain level of accuracy what to expect in the future ensures that every session comes down to a test of my skill. These games don't cheat, they're not unfair, they don't throw curveballs at you. They simply test your reflexes, your foresight and your skill.

Much like a single move in chess changes the future outcomes, so too do the split second decisions one makes in these games. Do I go for that powerup? If I do, I may find myself cornered by a squadron and shot down. Do I open that box? There could be a piece of the mega gun inside, and I like to time when I assemble that. Do I deploy star power? If I do it at the wrong time, I may gain points but I'll be at a disadvantage during the harder parts of the song.

These are the games I play when I want to quiet my mind, to zone out as it were. These are the games that require intense concentration and cat-like reflexes in order to come out the victor. Subsequently, these are the games that have left their most indelible mark on me.

So, after all of this verbal masturbation, what is the point? Why have I chosen to write at length about a bunch of games that most have likely never played. Well, as I said earlier, it comes down to a game that I've written about in the past, namely Guitar Hero.

I've been playing Guitar Hero since the first one came out. It would be fair to call it an obsession. I don't practice for hours on end, but I do play. A lot. And I have to admit, I'm pretty good. I'm no god at it, but I've always felt that I was better than most.

Well, this weekend I went and picked up Guitar Hero 2 for the XBox 360. I'd already played it to death on Playstation 2. In fact, I've bought two copies for PS2 and played the hell out of my sister's copy to boot. But, the 360 offered a handful of new songs and one other nifty feature; online leaderboards.

Viewing the leaderboards allows me to see where I stand against all of the other players out there. After running through my career and checking my stats, I was pleased to find that my rank is 8,428th place.

I know, that doesn't sound all that impressive. 8,000th place is really nothing to call mom about. That's the kind of placement that gets you a ribbon at "Everybody gets a ribbon day". But I am proud, and I will gloat for a few minutes.

It helps to put that number into perspective. I rank 8,428th place out of 1,328,902 entrants. Makes that 8,000 look a bit better, doesn't it? The upper 10% are those that rank in the top 130,000. The top 1% are in the top 13,000. 8,428th place puts me in the upper 0.6 percentile.

8,427 who can beat me are spread across 50 states. That means that there are only 168.54 per state that can claim to be better. Georgia is comprised of 57,919 square miles of which 1,522 are covered by water. This means that in this state there is one better player than me per 334.62 square miles. In essence, that means that I am quite likely the best player in my neighborhood. (Which is comprised of a waste management facility, a meth lab and a few old people.)

Perhaps my skill at this game will trigger some form of alert at a secret government agency. Before long I may be approached by Centauri asking me to fight for all of humanity in a Guitar Hero showdown against the dreaded Kodan Gunstar. This, of course, is unlikely, but a man can dream.

So pardon me while I gloat for a few over my own personal triumphs. I may never again get to feel so awesome at so minimal an achievement.

Putting Things Into Perspective

Posted by E

Wednesday, March 12, 2008

He squats in the weeds, face bloodied for reasons unknown and radiating the stress and deference to authority that inform us, the viewer, that he has been caught in the act of some transgression, though what it was we do not know. Though the few words you can hear are foreign and muffled, the intent of his captor is clear.

Upon a moment's observation it becomes plain that he has been in this situation before; his left hand missing completely, the arm ending in a fleshy nub. Whatever circumstances caused the loss of the left hand have been repeated and now he is being entreated to place his right hand upon the rock before him, in full knowledge that within moments it too will become a stump.

Though we lack full knowledge of the situation, it is obvious that it is both dire and grim. The man lacks a single scrap of clothing, covered instead with a veil of fear. It is obvious that he does not wish to put his hand on the rock, but judging by the blood on his head and the large machete wielded by his captor, to refuse will surely result in a punishment worse than the loss of a hand.

One can't help but wonder what will befall this man once justice has been meted. The simplest things we take for granted; writing, counting change, using doorknobs; these things and multitudes of others will soon become difficult, if not impossible tasks. This handicap will only be further exacerbated by the social shunning that is to ensue. One can imagine that if the loss of a hand signifies the mark of a thief, brigand, or any other stigma, that the loss of both will permanently brand him an outcast.

Yet the basic survival instinct supercedes all rational thought and the man agrees to the punishment due. He places his hand across the rock and waits for the searing pain that is mere seconds away.

In the space of an instant it is over. The blade comes down and cuts through sinew and bone as if they were not even present. The hand falls forward and we are left with a visual of our victim soundlessly running away, the only accompanying soundtrack being the harsh clang of metal on stone.

You may wonder, and rightly so, why I keep posting about and offering links to videos showing the most desperate moments and situations resulting in trauma or death. I assure you that by providing it here on Bonez I am not attempting to appeal to your basest and most prurient desires.

I post this kind of material to help you step back from your reality for just a moment. We tend to get caught up in our day to day stresses, concerned only with what is happening in our own little sphere of reality; and sometimes we delude ourselves into believing that the worst of the world has befallen us.

Videos like this help to center yourself; to realize that no matter how bad things may be for you at the moment, for someone else it is far worse. Maybe you've lost your job, fallen out with a loved one or been rejected, it doesn't matter. The point is that our problems, no matter how massive they may seem at any moment are much more fleeting than the issues of others.

Sometimes material like this is not so much a celebration of the gruesome as it is a means to putting your own problems into perspective.

As always, I will not put the link to the video here on Bonez. If you wish to see the video, it is available at my personal blog. For those on the fence about watching, know that you will not see any blood (aside from the small amount on his head), nor will you hear any screams. The gravity of the situation is what it will show, not the gratuitous details.

America's Got Talent....Redux

Posted by E

Sunday, March 9, 2008

Okay, I've got to admit, I really wasn't expecting the kind of traffic we've been getting for my America's Got Talent post. I know that some of you are finding your way here because of a link on NBC's official forums for America's Got Talent. You came looking for an honest dissertation on the contestants of the day and who won and lost. Instead you got one of my snarky and self centered rants against the American populous. In the spirit of fairness, I have decided to give you the complete stats here, as I know that's what drew many of you here. I only hope that we can continue to keep you here to gnaw the meat from the various Bonez to be found in the pile.

Onto the stats:

Everything posted here is from the second taping in Atlanta, GA on February 27. (NOT the Dallas taping, as the original forum post might lead you to believe.) I have included names where I could and whatever details I could recall based on the notes I took.

1) Beverly "Guitar" Watkins and her band, made up of three of her sons. I know that they played a Ray Charles song, I want to say it's "What'd I Say", but don't quote me on that. The crowd loved them and they moved forward to Vegas.

2) The next act was a large group of women performing traditional African percussion and dancing. They were very upbeat and friendly and were accepted for Vegas, though they were given a warning that their act would require "more" in order for them to succeed. Singing was suggested.

3) Three women with retired service dogs that were to dance together. The women were dressed in cowgirl outfits and the dogs essentially stayed at their side looking for treats. They did not get to move on. One of the dogs is from my home town. :)

4) A gentleman named Ken. (I missed his last name.) He was playing a self constructed instrument he called a "Hockey Racket" that contained a hockey stick, tennis racket and various other odds and ends that made a very odd sound. He did not progress.

5) A zombie clogging troupe that clogged to Thriller by Michael Jackson. They did not make it through as the judges felt that clogging had already been represented by an act from a previous taping and that their act lacked originality.

6) Next up was a 5 time national champion female impersonator. His character for the show was Dionne Warwick. He looked very convincing but his entire act consisted of lip synching. He did not move up.

7) Brian Tierney and Jerry. They were a ventriloquist act. They did not advance as the judges felt that the previous year's winner (a ventriloquist, I'm led to assume) so excelled in his art that everybody else came up flat.

8) Erin and Alexis Jones, a sister team from Louisiana. They made note of how much their grandmother admired David Hasselhoff. The audience was rather displeased with their performance of "Killing Me Softly" and they were ultimately "buzzed" by all three judges. They were given a rather harsh critique of their performance, after which they noted that their grandmother, who had so loved Hoff, was in fact dead.

9) Michelle and Melanie, twins performing a clogging routine. Mentioned a now dead cat of theirs that had been named for Jerry Springer. They were very quickly buzzed by all three judges.

10) The Marching Abominables. This was a very large troupe (77 members) of colorfully dressed people, from young to old performing a marching band routine with baton twirlers and full regalia. Their costumes looked like Elton John teamed up with Sid and Marty Krofft to design Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. They did not move up, but were very upbeat and took it all in stride.

11) K-9. A rapper also known as "Man's Best Friend". Buzzed out by all of the judges rather quickly.

12) "The Puppet People", a puppet troupe of singing and instrument playing puppets. Featured were a generic diva, Ray Charles and Willie Nelson. They were enthusiastically received and were nominated for Vegas. They mentioned that they have a total of 27 different puppets already made.

13) Alistair McQueen. He was dressed up like a nerd and performed a burlesque/strip tease act. He was not enthusiastically received by the judges and made a disparaging remark to the Hoff about eating cheeseburgers off the floor. Hoff was not amused.

14) Ken Panse with "Hummer the soccer gator". A local reptile wrangler that was attempting have an alligator hit a soccer ball into a net with its tail. This was unsuccessful, possibly due to the low temperatures on the stage. A gracious contestant even after being buzzed by all three judges.

15) Michelle Wallace singing "All By Myself" by Celine Dion. Almost immediately buzzed by all three judges and harshly rebuked for her lack of talent.

16) An impersonator whose name I did not catch. Although he finished his act and was decently liked by the audience, the judges did not advance him. He was very gracious about accepting his defeat.

17) Buddy and Honey, a local comedy duo. They were not very well received by the judges, but they readily admitted that their material was usually a bit more mature than what was permissable on network tv. They had been an act for 6 years and dating for 12. They stated that if they won, they'd get married.

18) Veronica and Talulah, performing a burlesque routine. Not well received. Sharon made note of the fact that she is friends with Dita von Teese, and that the girls just weren't up to snuff for that kind of entertainment. The girls countered that they were asked to change their routine on fairly short notice. They did not advance.

19) Taylor Daniel, a 15 year old singing Frank Sinatra. (I believe it was Come Fly With Me, again, I'm sorry if incorrect.) He was well received by the crowd and Piers and Hoff said yes. Sharon was on the fence about whether or not she'd let him through, mostly because of his age and inexperience. In order to ensure a good commercial break, they had him leave and come back later for the decision. He was ultimately accepted, due in large part to the audience reaction.

20) A 48 year old woman whose name I did not note. She performed a song and dance number and was buzzed by all the judges.

21) Daniel Burton, performing a dance routine. Although he did not advance, he was told that he was quite capable of making a good living as a background dancer.

So there you have it, folks, 21 acts performed and 4 moved on to Vegas.

Disregard the title of my previous post, apparently 19% of America's "Got Talent".

If you happened here because of the link from NBC, please stick around a bit and sample our wares. Most of us don't bite.

America's Got Talent (No, It Doesn't)

Posted by E

Wednesday, March 5, 2008

"UPDATE: If you came here as a result of the link from NBC, there are actually two articles of interest to be found. This article deals with my impressions of the taping itself. If you are primarily interested in the performers for this taping, please click here and you will get a full rundown.


Ok, folks. In just a few minutes we're going to begin loading you into the next staging area."

With those words the porcine mass of people pushed ever forward, stopped only by the resistance at the front of the crowd. I stood in the middle, crammed between the ass cheeks of one stranger and the genitals of another. The moistened stench of alcohol, sweat and cheap perfume threatened to overcome me.

You might be asking yourself, what am I doing within this herd? Why am I allowing this reeking group to shove me hither and thither, grinding against my body in places heretofore unexplored? The answer is simple. I'm here to see a tv show.

Let's back up a step. As I said, I'm here for the taping of a television show. (groan) An American television show. (shudders) A reality show. (shuddering groans)

I suppose it would behoove me to point out that I don't watch television. And I don't mean, "Oh, I only watch 6 or 7 hours a week", or "I only keep up with a handful of shows". No, I watch ONE show. It has 14 new episodes a year, so I watch exactly 7 hours of television a year. I gave tv up about 4 years ago and I've never looked back. (For the record, my single show is South Park.)

And yet, in spite of my general distate for television, when my sister called and asked if I'd like to join the swathing collective of dead eyed surburbanites hoping to catch a glimpse of "a star", my answer was a resounding "HELL YES!". The show in question that I'm attending is America's Got Talent. (For the record, no it doesn't.)

Being both masochistic and meticulous, I did my homework before attending this taping. America's Got Talent is essentially American Idol, except only about 1/5 of the acts are singers. The rest are alligator wranglers, dancers, comedians, puppet acts, ventriloquists and oh so much more.

It's a modern day Gong Show, where you have three judges capable of ending the act at any point. Once the act is complete the "talent's" ego is either demolished or boosted by:

A) Piers Morgan - Asshole Brit
B) Sharon Osbourne - Less assholish Brit
C) David Hasselhoff - The Hoff

After being dispensed from the stage the act has a follow up interview with none other than Jerry Springer.

As you can see, this is a class act all the way.

We stood in the main lobby for over an hour, our sweat and body odors mingling into a bouquet of Americana. Apparently it is rather shocking to admit to your fellow Americans that: You don't watch television; You've never heard of America's Got Talent; You don't give one shit either way, you're just here to absorb the idiocy.

At the appointed time the doors opened and we ever so slowly moved towards the auditorium. I have to admit, I couldn't help myself from mooing loudly every time we'd shuffle forward a few inches. They were only letting groups of four or five people in at one time and there were several hundred waiting in the lobby.

Ever so slowly we made our way to the auditorium until we were next in line. However, my sister's husband managed to get in ahead of us and demanded that we be let in with him. (He has a way with people. Any day with him is an adventure.)

Into the auditorium we plunged until the most audacious realization of the night hit me. They were choosing seats for us. But they weren't just filling in rows or evening out the crowd, no, there was a whole battalion of soulless bastards using headsets, verbal cues and hand signs to determine our seating based on our ATTRACTIVENESS. God forbid the American public looks at the tv and realizes that we are NOT all beautiful people.

I figured the jig was up at this point. I'm no prize pig. The last pig competition I was in I placed a dismal 12th, so I had a bad feeling about this. However, my brother-in-law, via whatever mystical power he holds over people managed to score us seats down front. By the judges. In fact, FOUR SEATS AWAY from the judges. Mind you, this means we won't be on camera much, but hey, at least they figured we were either attractive enough to be on tv or dangerous looking enough that they didn't dare fuck with us. (Thug 4 life, yo.)

I rather amusedly pointed out the two seats at the end of our row, separated from all the others and assumed that two rather ugly people would end up there. I didn't have the heart to tell those that took the seats that my theory proved out. (The previous wasn't a fair statement. They weren't UGLY, just non-traditional looking.)

The couple with their daughter that we had exchanged sweaty rubbings with in the lobby found themselves separated from their child, only because she was "hot" and they were "not".

What was most disconcerting about this was how blatant they were about the whole thing. The crew really were not hiding the fact that they were sectioning the crowd based on camera time and relative hotness.

Once all the cattle were staged on the killing floor, it was time for the warm up act; none other than mega star Frank Nicotero. To say that his humor came up a little short would be an understatement. To say that his punchlines begat a cacophonous symphony of crickets would be an understatement. To say that the very earth opened up and swallowed the auditorium whole, drawing us deeper into the sixth circle of Hell where we found ourselves trapped in the flaming tombs of heresy next to the Epicureans would be overdoing it. But honestly, not funny. At all.

Now bear in mind, we were here for a reality show, so the order of the night was catching America's honest and immediate reactions to what we were experiencing. So, to ensure that our reaction was as pure and "real" as possible, they did several shots of the crowd "laughing at something hysterical" or "reacting to something shocking" on the stage.

The shocking bit really sent me into giggles, as I can assure you that what I find shocking and what you find shocking are two totally different things. Somebody could take that stage, kick his feet up the respective asses of two puppies and wear them as slippers while using a shark tooth encrusted phallus to forcibly penetrate a geriatric nun and I'd half smirk and give him credit for originality.

Needless to say, I did not take part in those "real" moments.

Once the judges made their way to the table the real meat of the show started. I will spare you the details of the show itself. It's just a reality show. I can tell you that the episode airs in June and that the only good act involved puppets. They kicked ass. Puppet ass.

I'll tell you what, though, the interest of people in David Hasselhoff is staggering. He struts and runs around with his arms flailing like a madman and people just eat that shit up. WHY?!?!? He's not really all that great of an actor. I guess he's charismatic enough. I can't claim that he's attractive just because of the sheer amounts of surgery the man has had to stay looking like, well, David Hasselhoff.

But you know what I got from him? Look to the side. Boo yeah. From his hand to my heart. That's an official Hoffograph®. That's the sort of thing you leave for the children as an inheritance. That's the sort of thing that you save for a high stakes poker game. "I'll see your $5,000 and raise you A HOFF!"

So, I'm going to leave it at that. The show will be on in June, if you're really all that interested. You should be able to spot me in the crowd pretty easily. I'm just a few seats to the left of Piers. I'm the one that doesn't smile, doesn't clap, doesn't stand and doesn't cheer.

Bo Shuda

Posted by E

Tuesday, March 4, 2008

I have all sorts of neat stuff to write about at the moment and many cool posts coming up soon. However, I've found myself a bit pressed for time as far as opportunities to write are concerned. Ultimately, this is not a bad thing, as my lack of time for writing is mainly due to the increased time I am currently spending tending to my own needs.

It could be stated with some degree of accuracy that I am a massively obese monster, content on consuming all who get in my way. Each morning after a quick "bath" comprised of a washcloth stuck to a toilet brush, I roll my way down to the car hoping that I don't once again crack the frame of my door as a I attempt to hurl myself through.

Okay, so maybe that's a tad of an exaggeration, but the point is that I have a few extra pounds hanging off of me. Well, an opportunity afforded itself this week and I am now being taught a decent exercise regimen with a three month target date for reaching my ideal weight. (For the record, 200 is my ideal, although they want to add 10 pounds of muscle to that.) So my goal is to try and lose my 30 pounds by the time Radiohead rolls into town for their concert.

Admittedly, I'm a lazy bastard. I work in IT. I write and play video games for hobbies. If I had to describe myself in one word, sedentary would be as good as any. But what I lack in overall enthusiasm I more than make up for with an almost masochistic need to push myself to my limits when necessary.

So there you have it. I will have a couple of new posts up in the next few days including my amazingly exciting trip to the taping of a reality show.