The Most Disturbing Thing I've Ever Watched

Posted by E

Tuesday, July 15, 2008

Some things, once seen, can never be unseen. Such is the curse for me, due to my inherent need to view things I'd be better off avoiding. I have mentioned many times in the past my inborn need to watch disturbing material, sometimes of a graphically violent nature, sometimes of a generally disgusting nature.

My accursed mind will forever draw itself towards things I find repugnant. As a result, I continuously push myself beyond my own boundaries, horrifically scarring my mind and burning into my psyche things best left unthought.

In some respects, this can be a cathartic, even somewhat useful thing. For someone who enjoys writing and is possessed of a sinister imagination, witnessing atrocities and horror first hand can prove a valuable insight, particularly when attempting to understand the minds of those who would commit such acts and the thoughts of those who would suffer them.

But some things dig deep into your skull, burrowing into the darker recesses of your mind, echoing out their diseased noises when all around is dark, raising your hackles when nothing is afoot and ultimately leaving you terrified of the actions of others, for you have had the opportunity to look death in the eye.

For many of us, it started the same. In the video age we contented ourselves with such films as Faces of Death, Traces of Death and Death Scenes, films that catered to the dark need to see, to understand the evil that exists in the world around us. These films allowed us to see the human body for what it is, a frail vessel that merely ferrets our inner selves around. The damage wrought upon it can be severe and immediate.

Once the age of the Internet arrived, the ghouls started finding new places to converge, seeking the company of others who understand that same dark compulsion, that desire to forever lift up the carpet to see what has been swept underneath.

The advent of the Internet as a medium allowed for an exploration into the evils of man far more intense than those proffered in the past. Now we could take the time to examine the acts, pause them, zoom in, see them for what they really were.

Many of the ghouls recognize the "old standards" that float around. Most have seen the "Natural Born Loosers" (sic) set, depicting the murderous actions of a naked woman and her boyfriend, dispatching of and then summarily dismembering and playing with the corpse of her jilted husband.

We're all familiar with the case of R. Budd Dwyer, state treasurer for the state of Pennsylvania who, after being convicted of bribery charges, called a press conference, only to produce a .357 magnum from an envelope and pull the trigger in front of the unblinking eye of the camera.

For a long time the holy grail of online gore was a video known either as "The unknown Russian soldier" or its more common name, "chechclear", which depicts, up close and in living color, a young man gasping in pain and terror, a Chechen jackboot perched upon his head. In short order and without warning a large knife is plunged into his throat, slicing outward, splaying his neck into a large red blossom. The horrific scream that chokes into a bubbling gurgle stays in the mind far longer than the actual act.

As the US entered into the war in Iraq, a new type of tape became commonplace, the beheading. These propaganda videos almost all started with the accused relaying their crimes (real or implied), usually of the nature of providing aid or comfort to the American or resistance forces. A group of masked men would stand behind the victim, reading a statement until such time as a blade was brandished and the condemned was drawn to the floor as the executioner used the blade to end the life of his prey.

These acts are, as they sound, horrific beyond words. Why do some wish to see them? What do we gain from seeing the misery and anguish of others?

Of course, I cannot speak for others, only myself. For me, it is a means of confronting both evil and mortality, to see for myself things that will hopefully forever remain outside of my life. As a creative type, I need to understand these situations for future reference. No pleasure is gained from these viewings, only a better knowledge of humanity.

But there is one thing I have seen that sticks out in my mind, coming to me in my dreams, appearing as a shadow behind my normal vision, never allowing itself to leave my thoughts. This is a thing so horrific and brutal that words fail me when attempting to describe the horror and brutality it displays.

The feelings of empathy that flow through me as I watch these moments bring a heavy and sullen feeling to the air, the weight of doom and despair that certainly was felt by those present at these actions. This is a tape of such unconscionable behavior that I can literally feel my beliefs in the underlying good nature of people die within me.

Before getting to the tape proper, it is best to understand the context of what is happening on screen.

A group of rebel Chechens, led by Salautdin Temirbulatov crossed into the Republic of Dagestan, in an attempt to rout out the occupying Russian forces. Temirbulatov's group came across a village being defended by a sparse group of 13 Russian conscripts. Upon realizing they were greatly outnumbered, 7 of the soldiers fled, while the remaining 6 continued to fight. Once they had run out of ammunition, they surrendered themselves into a promised POW status.

The tape opens with the six soldiers laying on the ground, face down, the one furthest to the right is straddled by a Chechen soldier, who is sawing at the neck of the soldier, leaving his twitching, gurgling body to lay face down in a spreading pool of thickened blood.

The other five soldiers do their best to ignore their friend's plight, totally aware of similar gruesome fates that doubtless await them. Shortly thereafter the leftmost soldier is assaulted, stabbed in the chest and shoulders to subdue him before running his throat out as well.

The cold eye of the camera moves in for a fetishized closeup as his skin turns ashen from blood loss. The lack of oxygen slows his movements and reflexes, and we are left to watch the exposed trachea struggling to pull in air, a high-pitched whistling ushering forth from the gaping maw opened by the blade. The Chechen pauses to wipe the soldier's blood from his blade onto the hand of the dying man.

The remaining three lay motionless, wondering when their turn will come. The Chechens carry on as if nothing unusual is happening, even occasionally laughing to one another.

Number two is told to stand, while someone runs over to deepen the wound in six's throat, as he is not bleeding out sufficiently fast. He still struggles to raise himself from the ground, but the pain and weakness are beginning to overtake him and he fades in and out of consciousness as the blood continues to flow.

The second soldier is pulled off to the side, about 10 yards from his dying comrades and is kicked to the ground, a Chechen brandishing a large knife stands above him, making fervent attempts to slice at the side of the soldier's throat. The soldier cowers and blocks until covering his head with his hands and crying for his mother. The camera cuts away as the rebel strikes home with the blade.

The camera pans back to the lineup of soldiers, pausing to zoom once again on the wide opened throat of number one, who is slowly moving his hands towards his head, while lulling from side to side. We see the gathering rebels standing around the crowd of dying soldiers, some pointing and laughing, some carrying on about their business.

Now the camera pans back to the second soldier who has been separated from the group. A small puddle of blood has formed under him, but it is apparent that his injuries are not life threatening. A second rebel comes to finish the job and the soldier pulls himself up as the man moves to cut. They struggle briefly and then the Russian charges from the scene. We do not see his fate, but are led to believe that he was shot in the back during his escape.

The next is pulled and separated from the remaining soldiers, begging for his life. He points out where some weapons are hidden and attempts to appeal to his captors. I provide below a translation of the next part, provided by a user at the Ogrish Forums named Warlord47, the provider of the tape I am describing. His translation helps to describe the horror underpinning the events as they unfold:

Kid laying on the grass ....
Chechen with the knife "Turn around"
Kid moves abit sideways ..
Chechen off camera "LAY DOWN!"
Chechen takes the knife out and bends towards the kid ..
Aleksey Lipatov "You dont need to cut me..I'll tell you everthing.."
Chechen with the knife "what are you gonna tell me?"
Chechen off camera "Go ahead talk ..."
Aleksey Lipatov "I'll tell you where its located"
Chechen off camera "Where is it located?"
Aleksey Lipatov points towards a hill with houses "There in that house"
Chechen with knife "What ?"
Chechen off camera "What is in that house?"
Aleksey Lipatov "Weapons and ammo"
Chechen with knife "Where ? In that house?" and points
Aleksey Lipatov "Yes from there"
Chechen with knife looks at his combatant
Chechen off camera "Hes lying ... "
Chechen of camera "Lay on the ground"
Chechen with knife "what else you have to tell us?"
Chechen off camera "Where are the weapons!"
Aleksey Lipatov "what ?"
Chechen of camera "The weapons and the ammo"
Aleksey Lipatov "ON the top of the mountains"
Chechen with knife "where ?"
Aleksey Lipatov "There on top" and points.
Chechen with knife "Are you sure?"
Aleksey Lipatov "Yes, yes"
AK shots fired ...
Chechen with knife backs off and he doesnt want to cut .. feels sorry for the kid "What do you want me to do?" in chechen.
Chechen of camera "Just cut him"
Aleksey Lipatov "There its right there" and points.
Chechens yelling "Leave him alone and come back!" .. a bunch of them yelling at once.
Gun shots fired from AK.
(The kid if fucking LAYING waiting to be cut ... I dont get it ... RUN BOY!!! )
Chechens keep yelling "leave him the alone ....come back already" (they are reffering to the other kid that ran)
Chechen with the knife "Turn around"
Chechen "take off your belt"
Chechens of camera "Come on cut him up"
Aleksey Lipatov "You dont have to"
Chechen of camera "just cut im up already"
Aleksey Lipatov "You dont need to, please ..."
Chechen scum hits him with the belt
Chechen "All right come on!"
Chechen with Adidas jacket "Hands back!"
Aleksey Lipatov "Please dont"
Chechen (Adidas) "Hands back!"
Chechen (Adidas) hits him in the face "I said hands back!!"
Gets hit with AK.
Chechen of camera "quickly, quickly"
Aleksey Lipatov "Please lets talk.."
Chechen with camera "HANDS BACK! you fuck"
Chechen "fuck the belt"
Rifle hits the kid
Chechen of camera "Just fucking cut him already!"
Aleksey Lipatov "Please I dont want to do " ... they wrestle
Aleksey Lipatov screaming" I DONT WANT TO DIE! PLEASE!"
Chechens "cut him"
Aleksey Lipatov crying
Aleksey Lipatov "I DONT WANT TO DIE PLEASE!! you are very good people, please!"
Camera man "Yes, we are very very good people.... THE BEST"
Chechen "get the knife"
Chechen punches the kid in the head a few times
Chechen with the knife "Stop fucking hitting him"
Camera man "You gonna live in the grave city"
Aleksey Lipatov "MOM! MOM!"
Camera man "torture him"
Aleksey Lipatov "I WANT TO LIVE!"
Camera man in sarcasm "He wants to live!"
Aleksey Lipatov screaming .. 3 on 1
Aleksey Lipatov "Come on fellows ... I just want to live"
Chechen "CUT HIM NOW"
Aleksey Lipatov "Leave me alone!"
Knife goes thru throat.
Aleksey Lipatov is kneeling while get butted in the head with an AK
Chechen with knife to the guy with the AK "What the fuck are you doing, fuck off"
Chechen with knife "Ill do this by myself!"
Cutting Aleksey Lipatov
Stabbing in the neck ... over and over and over .... Aleksey Lipatov is no more.

The camera moves back to the group laying on the ground and zooms in for a closeup of the face of the next soldier as his head is pulled back and his throat slashed. He has a very low blood pressure, so we see the contortions of agony in his face as throws his body and rolls around, neck ripping wider with each passing moment, until he too lays motionless.

We never see the death of the sixth, but we do see his corpse.

The video ends with the soldiers' corpses being unceremoniously dumped into a shallow grave.

I have seen this video more times than I care to admit, each time hoping that someone will find a way to turn the tables, that some might escape or survive. That such events can take place in the modern world sickens me, but that such a fetishistic glee can be taken with capturing those moments on film is beyond upsetting.

We should all consider ourselves lucky for likely never finding ourselves in a situation such as that. But such actions should not go unnoticed. Odd as it may sound, I feel that I'm doing those killed a disservice by not seeing the torments wrought upon them.

They died so that those images could be used for propaganda purposes. If nothing else, viewing their final moments allows a small piece of them to reside in the minds of the masses, to make their senseless deaths have more meaning than some sickening act played out in front of the cold mechanical sights of a camera.

These evils exist in our world. We cannot deny it.

It Takes a Major Turn Halfway Through

Posted by E

Thursday, July 10, 2008

In 1999, geeks the world over were chomping at the bit over the impending release of Star Wars: Episode I: The Phantom Menace, a movie so loved and cherished by the populous at large today that we sometimes forget just how major a release it was.

All kidding aside, prior to the release of the film, geeks such as myself were literally shaking with excitement. Lucasfilm, in all of their wisdom, decided that 1999 would also be the year that they would throw their first sanctioned Star Wars event in 12 years, a convention in Denver, Colorado to be held from April 30-May 2, just a few days prior to the release of the film.

Being the type of guy that had Star Wars tattoos, it was pretty much a given that I'd be attending. I felt pretty badly for my coworkers, who were having to endure my endless enthusiasm for a movie that I'd ultimately rate with a "Meh", so I figured a few days surrounded by others just as excited as myself would help ease the pain of waiting.

Accompanying me on this trip were two friends, Teddy and Batman. Teddy wasn't so much a geek, he was just interested in seeing the kind of people that would fly halfway across the country to attend a convention. Batman is most definitely a geek. And a crime fighter.

We had planned these three days to be as fun-filled and excitement packed as we could possibly stomach. Life, as always, planned differently.

We boarded the plane early morning on Friday, the 30th. One thing that one must know about me; whenever a story begins with "We boarded the plane" you can rest assured that drugs were involved. There is nothing on this plane of existence that terrifies me more than the metallic coffin that is the modern day airplane. I would rather sleep in a tub full of vipers than ride on one of those abominations. Of course, this meant that I had to get up at 4 in the morning, meet up with Teddy and Batman and then take massive doses of over the counter medications in a vain and ultimately failed attempt to knock myself out in time to miss the experience of flying.

Batman had never flown anywhere before, so while I was as somber and morose as one could hope to be, he was giddy with excitement and recording EVERYTHING with a video camera. For the next three days I would never see his face, just the cold glass eye staring me down.

After the trip was over and I received a copy of the tape, I saw that he had text on the screen like "Leaving Mos Eisley Spaceport" and "Aboard the Falcon". Needless to say the first 10 minutes of the tape is me scowling and slipping in and out of consciousness. My drug addled conspicuity caught the attention of the TSA, whom hastily pulled me to the side for some extra searches, all the while threatening Batman to "turn the camera off".

I have no real recollection of the flight itself, as I managed to actually maintain unawareness for the few hours we were in transit. Thankfully, though, Batman managed to capture all the magic and his tape astounds the viewer with more than 20 minutes of footage of clouds passing by, as well as a nice view of the airline meal.

I staggered off the plane and we made our way towards ground transportation. We needed to rent a car and check into our hotel prior to hitting the convention proper. I couldn't help but notice the weather once we got outside. It was 40 and pouring.

Now, I had lived in the south for a few years at this point, and I had made the association that May = warm, which was completely accurate were it not for the fact that it was totally wrong.

Shit.

Of course, if you were to open my luggage at that point you would see a handful of t-shirts and shorts and that's it. No jeans. No slacks. No coat. No long sleeved shirt. But I figured "what the hell, I'm originally from Michigan. I'll tough it out". Friggin' machismo.

We checked into the hotel and then made our way to the convention itself. From everything I had read, all indications pointed to a crowd of about 7,000 people converging on this airplane hangar for a few days of lightsabers, force powers and wookiees. Initial calculations proved to be off by a bit, though, and soon we were treated to a crowd of nearly 30,000 people all waiting to get into the same building and the same tent.

30,000 people in the pouring rain, sloshing about in a field, churning up mud so thick that you would sink past your ankle with every step. Within minutes of arriving my skin began turning purple and I found myself huddled under a B-52 rubbing my arms for warmth. Every once in awhile I would attempt to squeak out a "woo hoo!" and a thumbs up, but usually found my extremities to be uncooperative.

The oft repeated joke of the event was that Lucas spared no expense in bringing the swamp planet Dagobah to his fans. And boy, did we mean it. Everybody was covered in mud and frozen to the bone. We waited almost four hours that day just to get into the main exhibit, which turned out to be largely displays for all the products that people would be selling in a couple of weeks.

After another hour or two wait, we were able to make our way into the dealers' tent, where we were free to shovel wheelbarrow loads of cash over for vintage Star Wars goods. This managed to bring up a somewhat major mistake on the organizer's part. The official street date for ALL Episode 1 merchandise was May 3, which meant that all of the die-hard fans in attendance at this event would be in transit when everything actually went on sale. To cap this off there were strict orders that NO Episode 1 items were to be sold to the attendees.

Here we were, 1400 miles from home, at an event absolutely dedicated to enticing us to buy merchandise and they were refusing to sell any of it to us. More than a few of the 30,000 people in attendance pissed a collective bitch over that one.

After spending some money and freezing some more, we made our way back to the hotel to crash out for the night. Back at the room we decided to go check out Denver the next day and then return to the convention on Sunday. Much to the amusement of Teddy and myself, we found a pair of tights under Teddy's bed, which we continuously hid in Batman's luggage. We figured he had brought them with every intention of sneaking out after we fell asleep to fight crime. Ahh...superheroes.

And now it's time for me to throw the curveball to the story, the bit that brings the fun level down a few notches. Remember how I mentioned that this convention took place in Denver, Colorado from April 30-May 2?

On April 20, 1999, Dylan Klebold and Eric Harris, two seniors at Columbine High School arrived at school with a plan for both mass violence and suicide. In the space of a few hours Klebold and Harris left 12 students and a teacher dead and more than 23 others wounded before taking their own lives. Their actions stunned our nation and devastated the small Denver suburb where it took place.

To say that Denver was reeling from the shock and pain of the horrific atrocities that had been committed would be an understatement of biblical proportions. Columbine was the word on everybody's mind, but the one word above all others that must not be spoken.

Being the curious types, we decided to head out towards the school just to see with our own eyes where such malice had been born. Finding the school proved to be a difficult task as we really did not want to stop and ask for fear of looking like ghouls.

While making our way towards the school we ended up ensnarled in a traffic jam in the downtown area, brought on by the arrival of Charlton Heston and the NRA. Protestors lined the streets and we found ourselves stuck in the area for quite some time. After finally detangling ourselves from the mess wrought by that fiasco, we decided to stop and ask for directions.

I ended up in the gas station inquiring where the school was. I did my best to not appear exploitive, but the pain and anger that was felt by the community at large was easily visible in the clerk's eyes as he gave me the directions.

We really didn't know what we expected to see there, we just felt that we needed to experience it for ourselves.

Once we found the school we found ourselves stripped of our ability to speak. The weight of the situation hung oppressively thick in the air. The weight of the world had converged on this little slice of America, driven so beyond its ability to cope with the grief that the very sky seemed to be crying for its residents.

The campus was enormous and every square inch of it was covered with cards, signs, stuffed animals, flowers, you name it. There wasn't one square inch of that campus untouched by the collective outpouring of grief and confusion that such an act left in its wake. Signs from schools across the nation, personal letters, photographs, well wishings, prayers, hopes and outpourings of heartfelt emotion. The pain was centered on these few acres, but it was obvious that it was felt across the nation.

And crowds of people. Hundreds of people gathered, many openly weeping, there to help shoulder the burden of pain that was too much for the community to bear. I was approached by the father of one of the slain children, who wore a pin with his child's face on it. He placed a pamphlet in my hand which implored all of mankind to find inner peace, to find whatever it is that makes us happy and able to cope.

Amongst the throngs of people, the media was to be found, scurrilous vermin primping their hair, drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes and above all laughing. LAUGHING. There was no joy to be found in these environs, no jocularity to be shared between those in attendance, no elbows to the ribs. But these bastards stood around in their black trench coats telling jokes while their camera operators tried to find those "perfect shots" to drive home the impact at the end of the piece. I watched one fidgeting with a rose he had stolen from one of the copious bouquets, struggling to make it stick in a wooden fence just right so he could get that perfect shot with the rose in the foreground and the memorial crosses in the background.

We stood in the thickening gloom for an hour, waiting for our turn to visit the memorial crosses which had been erected at the top of a hill. (Two of those crosses, Klebold's and Harris' would be cut down later that night by an angry parent.) We paid our silent respects and then headed back to the car. It was nearly an hour before any of us spoke again.

We finished out our third day with another six hour line, this time waiting to get into the official store so that we could buy t-shirts and posters. If nothing else can be said, the weather had improved and the sun even peeked out of the clouds to warm us just a little.

We saw our exhibits, bought our goods and then made our way home. We had gone there expecting to learn about an upcoming film, instead we learned a little about humanity. It was an experience that none of us would ever forget.

In France, Douche Means Shower

Posted by E

Wednesday, July 9, 2008

Summer time in East Stumblebum, Michigan was a fairly passive and mundane time. Being that we found ourselves separated from the majority of society, it's a safe bet that our days were spent amusing ourselves largely with the strength of our imagination and our sense of humor. Since direct contact with more than a handful of people was never really possible (at least until we got our driver's licenses) we spent our time trying to find something interesting to do.

For some of the us, finding things to do was no problem. There was a local farmer's son named Roy who would regale us with tales of shocking his brother's nuts with a cattle prod. The height of comedy, I would say. He once got on the bus reeking and covered in manure, proudly regaling us with tales of the legendary "shit fight" that he and his brother had just partaken in.

Yeah, not much to do in Stumblebum. Luckily for me, I managed to worm my way into a close knit circle of friends who all shared a good deal of intelligence and a sharp sense of humor. As a result, there was never a shortage of laughs to be found, whether with or at the expense of my group of comrades.

And here we were, trapped once again in a Michigan summer, blessed with gorgeous weather but with the hideous curse of only 1.3 people per square mile. Like I said, we did our best to get by.

Our days were largely spent watching movies and playing Nintendo. At night, if we were lucky, we would sneak out of our respective houses and go off to cause general low level mischief. The good news for our parents was that despite our tendency to sneak off at all hours of the night, in reality we weren't causing any significant trouble. Though we were teenage miscreants and ne'er do wells, we never had any true malice in our hearts. Our reign of terror was anything but terrifying.

On this occasion we had made arrangements for one of our nightly walks. This was most easily precipitated by arranging a sleepover at my house. We had a large backyard that easily facilitated throwing up a tent for the young 'uns to sleep in. Just as conveniently, there was a path leading from my yard to the local cemetery. A quick jaunt through the passage of the dead and you would find yourself in greater metropolitan Stumblebum.

This particular evening we had made up our minds to head down to The Oasis, our local truck stop, about a five mile walk from my house. Not a major distance, mind you, but certainly far enough to make it feel like an adventure. You could have popped in the song "Stand By Me" and pretended we were headed to see a body. Just like the film we tended to be a bit of a rag tag bunch, each of us with our own particular quirks.

This evening's events were to be attended by myself, Terry (who you've heard plenty about) and Kleve. One of the more interesting aspects of this arrangement was the overflowing bounty of animosity between Terry and Kleve. For me it was an endless source of entertainment. For them it was a never ending conflict which would frequently turn to blows. (For years I had a fantastic photograph of Terry quite earnestly trying to stab Kleve in the head but finding himself thwarted by a motorcycle helmet.)

Since we were camping in my backyard this evening, sneaking out was going to be a no-brainer. The first order of business was waiting until an appropriate time. We loved to pretend that we were on some super secret mission, so we found that leaving the house earlier than midnight blew our cover. Half the fun was making it to our destination, which was usually slowed by the fact that we loved to run and hide when cars came by for no other reason than to LOOK like we were up to no good.

We amused ourselves to the best of our abilities in the tent, telling our random stories and jokes, and generally insulting the hell out of ourselves and our associated mothers. Of course, I took the opportunity to bring up my favorite Terry/Kleve conflict tale just to get them riled up and angry. For your benefit and for the sake of explaining their history of animosity, let me derail for just a moment and present you this tale.

Shortly before the events I'm relating currently, we had all been at school gathering our books between classes. Terry was kneeling on the floor in front of his locker and Kleve and I were hovering nearby talking to him. Suddenly, Kleve spotted the hint book for "The Bard's Tale" on the top shelf of Terry's locker. Kleve, recognizing that it was HIS book that he'd lent to Terry some months ago made to grab for it. Terry, displeased with Kleve's intention of claiming what was rightfully his, spun round on his knee and punched Kleve in the testicles as hard as he could.

Of course, Kleve dropped to the floor, clutching at his now seedless groin, howling and red faced. Terry nonchalantly grabbed his things and headed to class. I'm pretty certain Kleve was still there after class, hands protecting his now tender nether regions.

I loved telling that story around the two of them just for the fun of seeing the hatred bubble between them. Yes, I was an instigator. Yes, I was a dick. Hey, we are who we are, and you have to admit, it's pretty damn funny.

When the appointed time finally arrived, we unzipped the tent and made our way through the darkened woods toward the cemetery. Most of the kids we knew in the area were afraid of going through the cemetery by moonlight. Many of them were afraid of this because of us. But, having lived next door to the place for a couple of years, I had watched enough graves being dug and enough bodies being buried to not really care about it all one way or the other.

The downtown area was more or less a dead zone by the time we made it up there. The handful of houses and buildings that littered the area were nothing but lightless windows and vacant rooms. This was exactly how we wanted it. If we were going to get into trouble (we had no intention of it) then we wanted to be sure nobody saw it (nobody would care if they did). We made our way through the four streets that constituted our densely populated region and began the long trek to The Oasis.

Bear in mind, when I say that it's five miles from my house to The Oasis, you have to realize that it's five miles of barren nothingness. If you watch Twilight Zone: The Movie, at the end of the second segment when little Anthony transports himself and Helen to that empty void of nothingness that contains little more than fog and a few laser beams, well THAT'S more cluttered than our walk down to The Oasis. (At least Anthony had fog.)

About two thirds of the way there we passed a house that had a nice little garden. At the front of this garden right before a large tree was a statue of the Virgin Mary, arms spread, inviting all who pass to enjoy the sanctity and quiet serenity of her bountiful garden.

Though our lot was generally composed of atheists and agnostics, we bore no particular ill will towards this statue of reverence, but by the same token we held no great appreciation for it either. We passed by it for the time being, still content to make our way further, pausing only when one of us would scream "CAR!", only to throw ourselves hastily into ditches and hide behind trees.

Top secret stuff, man.

At long last we arrived at our destination. Of course, the big question is "What do we do now?". In a few years time Mortal Kombat would be released, and we'd head up here to play MK and eat omelettes at the little restaurant. But in 1989, there wasn't much to do at all. We did however have one ritual that we partook in whenever we'd make a late night visit.

The ritual was thus; Come up with the most embarrassing thing we can think of and make Terry head into the shop and buy it. On prior trips we had made him purchase items such as tampons, Preparation H, even a book called "Peter Pecker's Guide to the Male Organ". Tonight was no different, we had our challenge.

We wanted a douche.

Terry did his best to protest this arrangement. He had caught on long ago that he ALWAYS ended up being the one chosen for these chores and he really wasn't hip to being a teenaged boy purchasing a late night douche at a truck stop. But Kleve and I would not relent, and after much insistence and insinuation of Terry's lack of testicular fortitude, Terry made his way into the building while Kleve and I stood outside, hysterical tears of laughter streaming from our eyes.

After what seemed an eternity Terry strolled confidently out of the store, a small box of Summer's Eve in tow. To a 14 year old male, he was a god. Not only did he go through with it, he had the cajones to leave the store without a bag. All those big, burly truckers would know that his forbidden zone would be squeaky clean in a few minutes.

Well, now we had the damn thing. What were we supposed to do with it? Seriously, as teenaged boys in a pre-internet world, we only had an idea of what these things were supposed to be used for. Of course the giggles and chuckles flowed like wine as we removed the plastic concoction from its cardboard encasing.

It wasn't out of the box for 3 seconds before the first volley came. SQUIRT! Terry shot the douche's contents straight for Kleve's eyes. Almost immediately Kleve rushed Terry to get his hands on the vinegary weapon and return the favor. As always, I just stood in the background and enjoyed the show. (I tend to be non-interventionist.)

Within moments the douche was emptied. All of that walking and all we had to show for it was an empty douche. Oh well. We figured that we'd head over to our friend Craig's house and see if he wanted to join in our douchey games.

By the time we arrived at Craig's it was nearly three in the morning. We threw stones at his window until he appeared in its frame, rather humorously staring down at the slack jawed group of idiots that had gathered outside.

Can you blame him? Here we are waking him at 3 in the morning saying, "Come on, dude, we have a douche, let's go hang out!" It should come as no surprise that Craig was not nearly as entertained by our douche as we were and he made it rather clear rather quickly that we were to leave his property. NOW.

Dejected, we began the long walk back to my parents' house. And as you would expect, the douche jokes were abundant. We carried on hooting and hollering until we saw it again...the Virgin Mary.

As I mentioned before, I'm an instigator. I'm an idea man, but I almost always lack the balls to do anything myself. But I saw the Virgin Mary sitting by that tree and the douche in our hands and found inspiration.

"Terry! Go put that douche in Mary's hands!"

This is the part of the story where you're probably expecting my friends to turn to me, aghast at the blasphemy I had just uttered. You'd be close.

Terry's response was "Fuck yeah!"

And off he went, sneaking across their lawn Sam Fisher style, until the douche found itself nestled into Mary's arms. No further desecration was done. We did not tape the douche, we did not mess with the statue, we just laid it in her arms. We all had a nice chuckle and then made our way home.

We were amused to go by that house the next day and see the douche still clutched in Mary's arms. We officially christened her "The Unfresh Mary". But then the humor compounded. A week later, that douche was still there. A month? There it was. A year? Mary wasn't getting rid of it that easily.

We literally drove by that house for THREE YEARS, every time seeing that douche tucked in her arms and laughing to one another. We told everybody we knew about it and before long it was an item of legend. The people who had owned that statue must have looked at that douche a million times and never once noticed it.

Well, it finally did disappear, a couple of years down the road. Did they discover it? Did it just blow away? I had always wondered what that scene would have been like when they finally discovered what had been done. Did the lady of the house fall to her knees, crying out to Jeebus to explain how such terrible blasphemies came to be on her lawn?

Life being what it is, I had an interesting coda to this story. Maybe two weeks after the douche disappeared, I found myself walking down that long, lonely stretch of road all by my lonesome. And the skies opened up on me, pouring down sheets of rain and drenching me to the bone.

As I passed Mary's house I noticed a man run out the door and hop into a truck. He immediately pulled out of his driveway and rolled up alongside me. He lowered the window and asked if he could give me a ride as he didn't want to see me walking that distance in the rain.

Oh yes, I took his ride, and the entire time I thought of a million and one things I could say to try and find out what had happened to Mary. But, of course, I didn't want to give up my hand and let him know that I was the one responsible.

He dropped me off at my house and went on his way. I never saw the man again.

You're probably thinking that there's some grand moral to this tale, that I learned some important lesson that I wanted to impart to you, the reader.

You're right.

The moral is, putting a douche on a statue of the Virgin Mary and having it stay there for over three years is fucking awesome.

Bored Games

Posted by E

Tuesday, July 8, 2008

I'll let you in on a little secret. I love board games. Shhh... Don't tell anyone, as it might somewhat kill the evil mystique I've created around here. But, truth be told, I love an old-fashioned board game any night of the week. Especially one that I kick ass at. Like Star Wars Trivial Pursuit.

That's right, you heard me, SWTP, quite possibly the greatest game ever made because I have about a 95% chance of DEMOLISHING my competition. Try and tell me that you wouldn't love playing a game that you totally pwn at, go on, try. My knowledge of Star Wars minutiae is so horrifyingly complete that most mortals tremble in fear when I even pull out the box. (And don't you DARE try and play with Vader. Vader's MINE.)

The name of the dude that greets Vader on the second Death Star? Moff Jerjerrod. The three alien species from Jabba's palace named after a phrase from The Day the Earth Stood Still? Klaatu, Barada, Niktu. Who played Darth Vader? Who do you mean? Jake Lloyd, Hayden Christensen, James Earl Jones, Dave Prowse, Bob Anderson or Sebastian Shaw?

I crush so many hopes and dreams with that game that I was once challenged at a party by a group of 7 friends. Friends who got me so drunk I could barely see. And though they bested me, I DID have all my pie pieces before succumbing.

But with any interest there is a darker side. Some of these games that people want to play are downright nefarious. Games like Sorry.

Have you ever played Sorry? Sorry is a game that's all about fucking over everybody you're playing with. It's a game of total infuriation, where you're three seconds from winning the game one minute and in dead last place the next. Sorry is a game that I'm certain has been the impetus of a million fistfights. People are concerned that video games cause violent behavior? One game of Sorry and I'm ready to go unload my MAC-10 in a crowded shopping mall.

Of course, knowing that Sorry can rile me up so quickly only encourages people to challenge me at it. My opponents love that look I get as all-encompassing hatred fills my eyes. I'm sure it's adorable, especially as I'm whaling on my opponent until they're a squidgy mess after taking out my piece on it's way to Home.

Plenty of other games raise my ire as well. Have you ever played the card game "Phase 10"? You might not recognize it by that name. If you've ever played with me, it's the game I call "FUCK THIS GAME!" before launching the deck across the room. Yet another game where your opponents get every opportunity to point and laugh derisively at your streak of bad luck. Let's take a quick look at the scores, hmmmm...... Player 1 has 15, Player 2 has 35, oh...... E has 1,390. Poor guy.

But not all games are so terrible. I'm rather fond of Pictionary, a game that I will readily admit to not knowing the rules to. There probably are very strict and rigorous rules to the game, but you'd never know if you played with me. Here are the rules to Pictionary: I draw a picture. Whoever guesses it draws next. Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

Playing Pictionary with me is like competing in the Special Olympics. Everybody's a winner!!! YAY!!! Who wants McDonald's fries?

I tried playing that Operation game once, but it's far too nerve wracking. I spent the whole time with my hands shaking wondering what the other player would say if they woke up while I was extracting their pancreas.

Some games are just beyond my reasoning. My sister has this old 70's board game called "Stop Thief" that has this little Merlin looking electric doo-dad. I always just end up pissed off because I can't figure out the rules. Really, I only play because I like listening to the electronic thing. Oh yeah, and to rub it in her face every time we play it that I lost one of the plastic detectives when I was 8. Mwa ha ha.

If you're ever bored, swing on by, we can play a quick round of "Future shopping mall killing spree" or "Fuck this game", two of my favorites. :)

Snake? SNAKE?? SNAAAAAAAAAAAAAKE!!!!!!!!

Posted by E

Monday, July 7, 2008

I was afforded the opportunity this weekend to play on a Playstation 3. (Thanks, Annie Wilkes!!) Specifically, I was given the chance to play Metal Gear Solid 4: Guns of the Patriots. Let me give you a quick rundown while sparing you the gruesome details.

The Metal Gear series, for me, has always been about bonding with my brother-in-law. Metal Gear Solid was his first major foray into the world of video games, so each and every time a new one hits we like to get together and pass the controller back and forth for a little bit of Snake action. Hell, his nickname is Snake.

Here's where it gets tricky, though. After ten years of playing these games, he hasn't gotten any better. And I'm not exaggerating, for wont of better language he really, really sucks. But honestly, I don't begrudge him or even give him too much shit over it. The fact is that I enjoy our time together on these games. A little bit of male bonding, if you will.

But a rather humorous thought struck me as we were playing through part 4. I had just handed over the controller when another of the game's lengthy cut scenes kicked in, this time detailing our first encounter with Rat Patrol 01, a team of soldiers led by Meryl, a character we knew from a previous game. She was using her impressive powers of exposition to forward the plot when all of a sudden we were ambushed by the elite FROG squadron. As we all geared up for the ensuing battle, Meryl said the following:

"We've got a real live legendary hero with us. Try not to choke."

And here is how that scene played out with Snake at the controls...

Snake dashed from the room, eager to test his mettle in combat against the elite troops of Liquid's army. Steeling his resolve for the forthcoming conflict, Snake ran to the edge of the balcony. Then he turned and ran back the way he came. Pausing to check his weapon, he half turned back towards the combat and stared solemnly at the floor.

Then he heard the sound of the gun ratcheting to his left. He quickly turned to his right, turned on his night vision goggles, then switched from his machine gun to his tranquilizer darts. After turning off his night vision, he again pulled out his machine gun. Pausing to check his weapon once more, Snake looked directly upward to investigate the ceiling.

Snake felt the punch of bullets smashing against his body suit. Upon noticing that the bullets were coming from behind him, Snake turned to the right and checked his map. After satisfying himself that he actually was where he thought he was, he crouched.

Turning to face his foe, Snake fell from his crouching position to a full prone position, hoping that by laying on the floor 3 feet from his opponent he would remain hidden, thus buying himself precious seconds to put away and take back out his weapons three or four more times.

Sensing that his strategy was not working as he'd hoped, Snake stood, then promptly squatted again. After laying prone and squatting, he once again stood to face his foe. Drawing his weapon, he aimed a foot or so to the left of his enemy, emptying a handful of warning clips in the hopes that his terror stricken opponent would flee in terror.

But it was not to be, and before long the fiend had emptied a clip of his own into the chest of Solid Snake. Snake, visibly upset, fell to his knees, then stood, then fell once again and finally stood before checking his weapon.

And then, through sheer luck, Snake managed to drop one of his grenades in the 36 inch space that separated him from his opponent. The force of the blast obliterated the FROG soldier and sent Snake reeling.

Regaining his composure, Snake squatted, checked his map, checked his weapon, checked his map again, lay down and then stood. After running directly into the rail in front of him for 15 seconds while staring at the floor, Snake rejoined his team so that he could further offer his legendary battle skills to their conflict.

What I loved best about all this is that at no point did his teammates mention what a HORRIBLE soldier Snake was. I mean, seriously, I'm not making this stuff up. He literally squats, stands, squats, stands and checks his weapons over and over. I almost wet myself when he unloaded MULTIPLE CLIPS at an enemy at point blank range and missed EVERY SINGLE SHOT. This shows a degree of lacking skill that far exceeds any non-ability I've ever encountered in my life.

I won't lie, it can be extremely frustrating to watch this kind of gameplay, particularly at boss battles, which have been known to stretch past an hour, trying the same failed tactic over and over and over. But most times I just find myself amused, as Solid Snake runs in circles, throws punches at the air and misses all his shots. He's just legendary in a different way, I guess.

Snap, Crackle, Pop and Pow

Posted by E

Wednesday, July 2, 2008

"Tell me about Pow," I say, referring to the fourth elf from the Rice Krispies ads who has long since been missing. "Whatever happened to him?"

Crackle chokes back a snort of derisive laughter, mumbles the word 'bastard' under his breath and slams back the rest of his whiskey.

"I ain't sayin' shit until I get another of these," he says, angrily slurring his words while staring at me through shifty eyes. "What the hell you wanna know about that bastard for, anyway?" he asks.

I motion to the bartender who, in short order, places an open bottle of Jack Daniel's in front of my elven compatriot and walks away.

Crackle contemplates the scene for a minute, then pours himself another shot and slams it back, his eyes reddened and watery.

"All right, fine," he says, "Let me start at the beginning..."

"Back in the day, the four of us were inseparable, always hitting whatever parties and broads we could and snorting blow. A LOT of blow. Don't believe me? Ask Pop to show you the trick he can do with a handkerchief and his nose. Poor bastard's got no septum left at all."

"Anyways, one night the four of us were sitting around doing some lines, when who shows up at the door but Toucan Sam? That guy was ALWAYS looking to score some candy. Always carried a coffee can with him, usually full to the rim with coke. He'd plop down lines with a scoop and whiff em up that enormous schnozz of his. Between the women and the blow we always called him "Two Can Sam", 'cause he always had a can he was packing and a can he was tappin', if you know what I mean."

"So Sam tells me that he's got a line on several kilos of premium shit, I'm talking dynamite toot, totally pure and uncut. He wants to know if we want in on the action. It won't just be us, though, Sam's made arrangements through Sonny Bird, who was going to get Lucky to front the cash. Sonny was always a bit highstrung, but the guy knew his shit, and if he said this stuff was gold, well, who was I to argue?"

"We all threw in on what we figured would be a great deal, and I'll tell you what, man, it was. This shit was fantastic! Honestly, I was a bit wary of the stuff, it seemed awfully cheap for the quality, but hey, when in Rome, you know?".

Crackle stared at the liquor in his glass as he slowly spun its contents. Gazing remorsefully into nothing, he sighed, downed the shot and continued his tale.

"So there we are, a handful of us sitting on top of "old Cokey", trying to figure out what the hell to do with it all. Yeah, we could keep it and live off that shit forever, but why not recoup some of the cost, you know? Shit like this we could cut three, four, maybe five times and nobody would be the wiser. It was just THAT good."

"We were all raring to go on selling it, but no one was as excitable about it as Pow. That bastard was absolutely itching to off some of the stuff, almost as if he knew something we didn't. Which, of course, it turns out he did."

"Anyways, we cut this stuff what WE thought was pretty heavy and took a batch to our first buyer, Tony the Tiger. Tony wasn't hardcore about his dope, he just kind of dabbled a little bit, here and there. You know, he liked to get frosted, but he didn't need to be snowy. We told him the price and then popped down a couple of lines for him to try out. Of course he thought they were great, and within a few minutes we'd dropped off a bit of coke and lightened Tony's load by a few G's."

"I hooked up with one of our regular pushers, a smack fiend named Sugar Bear. I told him what we were looking to offload. That's where I heard about the truth behind this shit for the first time. Apparently the original owner of this piece was some Colombian overlord whose name I don't remember. Anyways, he had ended up on the wrong side of Crazy Craving. I don't suppose I need to mention where he got the name Crazy from. After a little unpleasantness between them, Crazy just had the
motherfucker offed, then took his stash and dropped it on the streets at bargain basement prices."

He slammed back another shot.

"I was incredulous, man. I mean, here I am offloading a mountain of some dead Colombian's shit. Who knows who's gonna come looking for this stuff? I brought it up with Snap, Pop and Pow and Pow just starts laughing, telling us he knew all about this because he heard Sonny talking about it once while Sonny was jacked up on crack."

"What's more, I start getting trickles here and there that Pow is running his mouth off about what we're up to. That's bad juju, man. I like getting high as much as the next guy, and I ain't got nothin' against makin' a dishonest buck off the goods, but I don't need no loudmouth ruining my operation for the sake of a few yuks. Come on, man, we're talking thousands of dollars worth of pure coke. Fucking blood coke, when you get right down to it. This isn't the sort of thing you want to advertise."

"Before long, Pow's mouth got to be a big problem. Too many people were catching drift of what was going on, and if we weren't careful we were gonna catch some serious heat. I called a meeting with Snap, Pop, Sonny, Toucan and Lucky. I laid out our situation and said that before we parted ways that day we needed to figure out an answer to our problem."

Crackle went silent. His head dropped and he stared daggers at the bottle that was now half empty in front of him.

"So," I asked, "did you figure out a solution?"

A pregnant pause filled the air between us as Crackle contemplated his answer.

"Yeah," he said, "we figured it out."

"The problem ended up being twofold. First off, how do we take care of the problem and secondly, what do we do with the second problem we'd create when we got rid of the first one, catch my drift?"

"The first problem was simple enough. We arranged a hiking trip for the seven of us, nothing but 'bro's and blow'. We made the whole thing sound like a fun chance to get wasted and kick back. Once we were out in the woods we drew straws to see who would take care of Pow. It turned out to be Sonny."

"Sonny's already a bit unhinged, and having to both off AND dispose of Pow really set that guy off. Before he went to do the deed he inhaled a fucking mountain of blow. The two of them went off to 'find some firewood'. I didn't see him do the deed, but I heard Sonny screaming at Pow to watch him while he died. I guess he really got off on Pow going to the grave knowing he was killed by a trusted friend."

"Whatever, you know, Sonny's always been out there. But disposing of Pow sent him over the edge, man. He'd always been a bit weird beforehand, but after knocking out the teeth, removing the hands and feet and burning them, then burying the rest of the corpse, the dude just went off the deep end. Ever since he's had this wild look in his eyes. You seen him lately? The guy seems just about ready to snap."

"Once we got home we constructed this scenario where Pow got pissed at all of us and ditched off for Europe. We just burned most of his possessions. Lucky forged a note for us. It was simple, really. Too simple, when you get down to it. The fact of the matter was, we pulled it off. No more Pow, no more problem."

"We laid low on the rest of the dope and just kind of withdrew from the scene for awhile. Eventually it all blew over and now we're all pretty much living life like normal."

"Fuck it, you know? Who's perfect these days? Not me, and I'm sure not you."

He finished off the bottle and flipped his glass over.

"I don't know why I told you all this, man. I guess I just trust you."

He climbed off the stool and stumbled towards the doorway. As he opened the door he turned and said, "Thanks for the whiskey."

"No problem," I said, and then quietly whispered, "He's clear now guys, take him down."

Almost immediately the team swarmed Crackle, pulling his screaming frame down to the floor, weapons brandished threateningly and stuffed in his face.

"You BASTARD!" he spat at me, eyes burning with rage. "How could you do this to me? I trusted you!"

I slowly made my way to where he was spread across the floor.

"Pow was my brother," was the last thing he heard me say before I kicked him into unconsciousness and spat on his diminutive frame.

Dream On

Posted by E

Monday, June 30, 2008

Well, a new Guitar Hero game released this weekend, so I guess it goes without saying that it’s time for E to commence with the proselytizing...

The latest release is Guitar Hero: Aerosmith; a game, if you can’t tell by the title, that focuses on the music of rock legends Aerosmith. GH:A allows you to step into the shoes of Joe Perry (or, in multiplayer, Tom Hamilton or Brad Whitford) and rock out to old Aerosmith classics that we all know and love.

The first thing that struck me while playing through the songlist is that they did not stick to just the well known hits of Aerosmith. Sure, you’ll be playing Love in an Elevator, Rag Doll and Livin’ on the Edge, but at the same time you’ll be kicking to lesser known tunes like No Surprize, Nobody’s Fault and Uncle Salty. What this means for the player is a more well rounded experience. One that completely skips their gagtacular ballads like Angel, Crazy and Amazing. (Hint for Aerosmith, stick to songs with more than one word in the title, those tend to be your better ones.) On top of the heaps of Aerosmith you’ll be playing, there are also 12 songs by a wide assortment of bands such as Mott the Hoople, Cheap Trick and Stone Temple Pilots.

Gameplay is much the same as what we’ve come to expect from the Guitar Hero series. The more advanced players will find that the timing window on notes and HO/POs has been reduced, giving a wee bit more challenge on the complicated parts, though not by any major amount. Neversoft seems to have gleaned a better understanding of note charts this go around, as well. There are no songs in this game designed to be difficult just for the sake of being difficult. (Slipknot from GH3, I’m looking at you.)

The graphics, I’m sure, are clean and good looking and Aerosmith themselves are no doubt meticulously rendered. However, any player worth their salt in Guitar Hero will remark of the graphics with, “What, there’s graphics in this game? I thought there were just the notes.” Seriously, once you start playing, everything but the notes disappears.

On a more serious graphical note, it’s worth pointing out that Aerosmith came into the studio and performed full motion capture of them performing each of their songs. If you’re just watching the game, there’s plenty to see as the highly detailed Steven Tyler opens his massive mouth to croon while Brad Whitford stares blankly in one direction. (I’ve seen them in concert several times and that’s exactly what he does.)

The difficulty has been lowered on this one. If you’re new to the Guitar Hero franchise, this is an excellent starter game. The songs are challenging enough to be fun but never over the top difficult. If nothing else GH:A will end up as a great competition game as 100%ing songs should not be hard at all for experienced players.

Every GH game has one or two standout songs and without question the high point of Aerosmith is playing Walk This Way with Run DMC. The note chart is a blast on this one, really giving you a feel for that funky groove and kicking into some very fun solos by the end.

All in all GH:A is a worthy entry in the Guitar Hero series. It’s certainly not as massive as some of the other games, but it holds its own and is well worth the money. If nothing else, it’s 42 new songs to inject into our collective veins until the arrival of Guitar Hero: World Tour.

No Ice? You Mean I Gotta Drink This Coffee Hot?

Posted by E

Thursday, June 26, 2008

In 2004 Rockstar Games released Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas, the latest entry in an already controversial series of video games. Criticism soon followed detailing the game’s supposed immorality, encouraging acts of real-life violence and ultimately bearing responsibility for the inevitable decline of civilization into a barren warzone. Okay, so maybe that was a tad hyperbolic, but anybody following the news at the time would have been lead to believe that this game would single handedly bring about the end of the world.

And so it followed that the greatest assault on the minds of America’s youth, video games, would continue to be the whipping boy for the elder generation, much as heavy metal before that, and Dungeons and Dragons before that, and Elvis before that, and comic books before that, and movies before that, and books before that, and I’m sure if you did some research, stone tablets before that.

The point is that mass hysteria over emerging media is as American as bearing false witness and before long ill-informed parents were frothing at the mouth over the “murder simulators” that their children had been playing, unbeknownst to them.

No article about Grand Theft Auto would be complete without bringing up Jack Thompson, a Florida lawyer who had previously made a name for himself for working to have 2 Live Crew’s ‘As Nasty as they Wanna Be’ banned from being sold on grounds of obscenity. Jack had been working tirelessly since that time to speak out against media that he considered damaging or obscene and video games soon became a target of his, specifically the GTA series which he felt constituted a true threat to American society due to the deleterious effect it could have on the developing brains of America’s youth.

In June of 2005, however, the spotlight would focus on San Andreas with unparalleled brightness. Whereas previously the game had been derided for the content it offered, a mod was released that brought to light some code left behind in the final game, inaccessible through normal means. This code started the “Hot Coffee” controversy.

For those unfamiliar with the story, here’s the gist of it. A mod was created for the PC version of San Andreas that allowed users to play some sex-themed mini games that had been removed from the final release of the product. Although the mini games themselves were not part of San Andreas, they had apparently been considered at one point and the code for these games was left behind. Through use of a third party utility, PC users could ‘unlock’ these games and play what were essentially interactive sex scenes.

The points to bear in mind are that these games were absolutely not playable without modifying the game code.

A) The game had to be hacked in order to make these scenes playable
B) A user had to know where to download this hack.
C) The user then had to install this hack

The average parent was unaware of this, however, and the media portrayed the ‘controversy’ as if these sex games were freely available for all to play. Hysteria overtook the nation and before long senators were discussing the game, protestors were lining up outside Rockstar’s headquarters, and a class action lawsuit was brought up against Take-2 (the publisher of Grand Theft Auto).

This suit was initially brought forward by Florence Cohen, an 85 year old grandmother who had unwittingly purchased Grand Theft Auto for her 14 year old grandson, unaware of the content within. I present here an image of the cover of San Andreas. It’s easy to see how one could look at this cover, with the rating of M for Mature and various pictures of gun-toting hoodlums performing drive-bys and not realize that perhaps its content was inappropriate for younger gamers.



But, because America is a victim culture, our hearts went out to this poor, hapless woman who may very well have caused her precious grandchild to grow up to be a cop killer, the jury found in her favor and Take-2 was ordered to pay back a sum of $5-35 to any consumer who returned the game to them due to offense taken.

And herein is why I am writing this article. As of today, June 26, 2008, a grand total of 2,676 people have come forward to demand their money. Let me repeat that: After all the hysteria surrounding this game TWO THOUSAND SIX HUNDRED SEVENTY SIX PEOPLE have come forward to claim damages from this case.

Yet again America shows its true colors, where the verbal minority manages to claim a stranglehold on media coverage of an event, only to discover later that they do not represent the will of the people. Once more the appearance is given worldwide that this country is a bunch of whining hysterical extremists whereas, in truth, we can be a pretty reasoned and rational people, given the chance.

It’s a shame that this latest revelation will not make the front pages the way the initial firestorm did. Nobody cares about rationalism in the press. It’s much more EXCITING to lead with stories highlighting terror, hysteria and panic.

Thank god Grand Theft Auto 4 is out, at least we have something to be truly worried about in this world.

Wuzhannanan

Posted by E

Wednesday, June 25, 2008

I heard a song last week that made me openly weep for the future of humanity. A song so awful that my faith in mankind’s ability to persevere was shaken. A song so horrendously offensive to my senses that I would rather assault my genitals with a meat tenderizer than endure another minute of its banal repetition. This is a song so sick-inducingly horrifying that I debated whether I would even link to it in this article.

To paraphrase Obi-Wan Kenobi, "I felt a great disturbance in the grammar, as if millions of English teachers suddenly cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced."

I’m sure you’re reading this and wondering, “What could possibly be that awful?” I know, I know, just a week or two ago I wrote about the olfactory obsessions of Riskay with my tongue planted firmly in cheek. Could this really be any worse?

Yes. Oh god, yes. The fact that I even have to THINK about this song to write about it is making my stomach do somersaults. I have stared into the eyes of the unspeakable horror known as Soulja Boy, and I will never again be the same.

I can endure bad music. We’re all assaulted with endless mediocrity throughout an average day. Turn on the radio and you’re bound to hear some untalented group of young adults warbling and whining about the Lexus they didn’t get for Christmas, mixed with that flat, high volume buzz that we’ve come to expect since the rise of cd’s. We’ve come to accept auto-tuned vocals and over-produced instrumentation as the apex of musical talent.

If nothing else can be said for “Wuzhannanan”, at least it is not overproduced. Or underproduced. Or produced, for that matter. This song bears none of the hallmarks of what we consider “music” in the traditional sense. It runs so counter to our ideals of music as an abstract that it almost becomes its own entity. A song so devoid of “songness” that it becomes music’s anathema.

Wesley Willis developed a reputation for simple song structures generally composed with what sounded like the “demo” setting of a Casio SK-1. The songs were very much of the verse/chorus/verse variety and used almost identical lyrical foundations. Sing four lines, repeat a chorus, sing four lines, repeat chorus, finish up with praise for Wheaties. At least Willis tried to be original, penning songs based on hundreds of different ideas, such as “Suck a Cheetah's Dick”, “Rock and Roll McDonald’s” and “Casper the Homosexual Friendly Ghost”.

Soulja Boy cannot even seem to follow a structure as simplistic as that. Here is the basis for pretty much EVERY song he has recorded:

• Come up with a hilarious and original concept (Wuzhannanan, Yahh, Crank Dat)
• “Write” a “song” that repeats that phrase ad nauseum
• Throw in some “lyrics” that are barely identifiable as English
• ?
• Profit!

It would be one thing if the lyrics were simply juvenile and sophomoric; we all have our guilty pleasure songs. But Soulja’s lyrics are completely incomprehensible.
Take the title of the song alone: Wuzhannanan. How the hell do you turn “happening” into “hannanan”? Is that supposed to be cute? Ironic? Clever?

Part of me wants to go snatch him off the street, lock him in a dark basement and go all Pygmalion on his ass.

“Repeat after me: The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain”
“Da rayn n spayn faw mainy awn da pain.”

Buckwheat would be insulted by this shit. It sets the English language back by almost 200 years.

I’m sure plenty of his “fans” would challenge me to write better music. There are two logical fallacies to be found in that argument, however:

A) His fans would not take the time to read something with as many words as this. Don’t believe me? Go read their defenses of SB on YouTube. I shit you not, somebody came to his defense with “Hey fi u haet this Song so much why do you even listen to it? Didnt ur momma ever say if u dont got nothing mice to say dont say it at all? think about it. i personally love this song i think its awesome. I♥SouljaBoyy.” - For the record, I do NOT have anything “mice” to say about this swill.

B) He doesn’t write music. Soulja Boy’s “music” is the equivalent of the little plastic anus shapes you get with a Play-Doh fun factory. He literally just pushes down on a lever and this excrement slides through the little starfish shaped hole, heaving a moist sausage of amusement into the hungry minds of those seeking his unique blend of entertainment. - For you Soulja Boy fans out there who may not understand metaphor, I just called his music shit.

It is one thing to write garbage like this in the spirit of “clowning”. Even the most serious of artists like to cut loose and have fun every once in awhile. (Remember Mozart’s “Fuckin’ wit da Trick Ho’s”?) But it can easily be argued that Soulja’s songs are written without irony, that these lyrics are meant to be taken at face value and (GASP!) seriously.

Let’s delve a little deeper into his lyrical genius. This is taken directly from YouTube, so I accept no responsibility for mistranslations. (My Rosetta stone was unavailable at the time of this writing.)


How Come You Won't Tell Me What's Hannenin'? (What's Hannenin) [x16]

What's Hannein'? (What's) What's Hannenin? (What's) What's Hannenin? (What's) What's Hannenin (What's)

What's Hannenin, Hannenin, Hannenin, Hannenin, Hannenin, Hannenin, Hannenin, Hannenin

[Verse 1:]
Man Tell Me What's Really Goin' On. Soulja Boy Up In This This Thang, I'm Ready, What's Hannenin?
And I'm Ready With The Dough, I Gotta Have A Mill Stashed In The Studio, What's Hannenin?

I'm Down, N***A I'm Down, Soulja Boy 2006, It's My Time To Clown.
And I'm Ready, Any Place, Soulja Boy Up In This Thang With My Dj, What's Hannenin?

(What's Hannenin) [x16]

What's Hannenin (Hannenin, Hannenin) [x4]

[Verse 2:]
N***A I'm Down, Down With The Thugs. Soulja Boy Up In This Thang, 6 Inches Past Dubs.
I'm Down With The Crew, Lookin So Clean Everytime I Ride Through, What's Hannenin?

2006, 2006, My Time To Shine, Hit The Block Sittin On 26's.
2006, 2006, My Time To Shine, Hit The Block, What's Hannenin?

(What's Hannenin) [x32]

[Verse 3:]
My Turn, My Turn To Shine. This Year I Swear To God I'm Gonna Put Down.
I'm Gonna Do It Big, Hit The High School Sittin On 26's, What's Hannenin?

Do It Big, I Wanna Do It Big, Do It Big, What's Hannenin?
Do It Big, I Wanna Do It Big, Do It Big, What's Hannenin?

(What's Hannenin) [x16]

What's Hannenin (Hannenin, Hannenin) [Until End]


Did you notice that [x16] appears TWICE and [x32] makes an appearance as well? There are 97 VERIFIED “What’s Hannenin’s” in these lyrics, as well as who knows how many that they didn’t bother to transcribe.

God will probably kill a kitten for this next sentence, but here goes:

The Insane Clown Posse has a greater understanding of structuring a song around a singular phrase than Soulja Boy could ever dream of. (See “Fuck the World” from The Amazing Jeckel Brothers.)

That’s right, you heard me correctly, ICP are master craftsmen of the lyrical trade in comparison to Soulja Boy. That means that Juggalos can actually LOOK DOWN on another set of fans. That’s a bold statement. When ICP can rightfully claim the high road over ANYTHING, you know the world is not far from ending. Is it raining frogs yet?

Why am I spending so much time railing against some flash in the pan songwriter? Because he has sold 908,783 copies of his album as of June 1! Almost a million copies of an album where every song is a one trick pony, fishing for that next big catch phrase so that another zillion copies can be sold. I can only imagine that the majority of his fan base have to wear helmets every day to protect themselves from injury.

Thousands of true artists work their craft without making so much as a dime. They struggle and work hard to produce their art, done only for the sake of creating art. It’s sickening to see a talentless hack come along and “roll in the Benjamins” while those who truly deserve recognition and praise go unseen.

You know, at least KISS doesn’t pretend to be serious about the music. They openly admit they’re only in it for the money. SB seems to honestly believe that he’s making art.

P.S. If you’re actually a fan of Soulja Boy but have problems with my polysyllabic writing, please follow this link to read a translated version of this article.

Peace out, y’all.

I'm Burnin' For You

Posted by E

Tuesday, June 24, 2008

I wasted around the house the majority of this weekend. The reason was simple; I had to ready myself for this particular week. We’re rather shorthanded at the office this week, so I will be working a different shift, namely 3am to 1pm. As I’ve mentioned multiple times in the past, I do not have a good relationship with the Sandman. We had a falling out sometime around my birth and we’ve never been able to meet on common ground since.

Knowing that my shift would be changing, I was doing my best (though admittedly, my best was not good enough) to begin altering my schedule. I figured that the closer I was to this schedule by Monday, the better off I’d be when that alarm went off at 2am.

So, with my schedule somewhat changed and not much else going on, I sat around the house Saturday evening trying to make up my rassoodock what I wanted to do this evening. Ultimately I decided to head to the movies to check out “The Promotion”, the latest comedy starring John C. Reilly (Dewey Cox of Walk Hard).
With my mind made up, I gathered my keys and headed out the door to make my way down to the theater. I was not far, only a mile or two when I saw something interesting approaching from the other direction.

I was stopped at a traffic light when a car came from the opposite direction, a Spy Hunter-like cloud of smoke pouring out the back of it. I kind of chuckled to myself and thought, “Man, those guys are burning some oil” until I noticed the flames. Not detailed flames, but literal flames licking the undercarriage of the car.

Almost immediately a chorus of car horns blasted, attempting to let the guy know that something was amiss. Apparently he heard, because he immediately pulled over a lane and headed into the nearest Chick Fil-A.

Being the ghoulish type that I am, I decided to follow, just in case there was any sweet mayhem or carnage that I could snap pictures of and upload to Ogrish. I turned around at my earliest convenience and parked a few car lengths away at the restaurant.

Mind you, this is less than a minute and a half after I first spotted the car. The car was now abandoned, flames still licking underneath, making their way to the front of the vehicle. I dialed 911, but by the time I was connected to an operator the police were arriving.

The owner and his girlfriend were standing nearby, so I sauntered over and did my
best to assess the situation.

Me: Wow, that’s crazy! I saw you guys coming down the road, absolutely pouring out smoke. I figured you were burning oil. It’s a good thing everybody started honking at you.

Him: Yeah, we never noticed a thing. It wasn’t hot in the car, the gauges didn’t show anything weird. We heard the honking and noticed the smoke coming out the back. It wasn’t until we were out of the car that we noticed the flames.

The employees of Chick Fil-A had begun gathering outside the door to watch the excitement unfold. One of them stood by the entrance to the parking lot directing people the other way so that nobody got to close to the conflagration.

At this point it is maybe 3 minutes since the first time I laid eyes on the vehicle. The flames had overtaken the engine and were now consuming the passenger compartment. There was a ‘crack’ as the windows shattered from the heat and a further ‘pop…hiss’ as the tires started to burn and then exploded.

Even from our distance, the temperature was overwhelming. An oppressive wall of heat assaulted us, burning at our noses. Every few seconds the wind would shift and a noxious cloud of black and green smoke would head our way.

Somebody asked the driver what kind of car that was. Apparently it was some rare model Jaguar convertible. The driver admitted that he’d be very sad about that later, but for now was just happy to be okay.

By the six minute mark the fire department had arrived and were doing their best to combat the engulfed vehicle. The car itself was a total loss, no question, so the fire department had to contain things as best they could. They set to work on the car, tearing apart the bumper and various other components so as to direct their stream better. They managed to put out the flames and quell the remaining smoldering bits in short order.

After all of the excitement, there was only one thing left for me to do; namely, eat Chick Fil-A. Into the restaurant I went to have a chicken sandwich and watch the remaining excitement through the window. The delightful stench of burning rubber filled the restaurant, triggering an enhanced appetite on all who were inside. As nice as that smell was, it was one I didn’t much care for, so I went ahead and grabbed my sandwich to go.

By the time I got back outside the news choppers had arrived. I said a few more words to the owner and then headed home to see if I could catch the excitement on the local news.

No such luck.

George Carlin - 1937-2008

Posted by E

Monday, June 23, 2008

Every once in awhile you read an article or headline that leaves you stunned. Today I had such an experience as I opened a website only to see the headline “George Carlin 1937-2008 RIP”. After reading these words, the very breath of life was sucked from my lungs and I now stare numbly at my monitor.

Through the course of my life there have been a handful of people, some authors, some orators, that fed my interest in the power of words and provided influence beyond measure. Carlin was one such influence on me.

It was 1988 when my dad’s best friend and kids came to visit us at our home in Michigan. Their son, Frank, was my age and we had seen each other off and on throughout our childhoods. Though we never lived near each other or saw one another more than once a year, we still had an interesting rapport strengthened by common interests.

It was during this trip that Frank presented to me a selection of audio tapes comprised primarily of comedians. This was my first exposure to Steven Wright, Sam Kinison, and of course, George Carlin. This being 1988, the tapes that Frank provided were the 70’s version of George Carlin, back when his routine was more about understanding the nature of language and pointing out the various aspects of the human experience that unite us as a species.

I listened in awestruck amazement to FM & AM, Class Clown, Occupation: Foole, On the Road, Toledo Window Box, and An Evening With Wally Lando Featuring Bill Slaszo. Before long I had memorized long portions of the albums verbatim and could recite them word for word, directly on cue. (This is a talent I still possess today. I have the majority of Carlin’s early works completely memorized.)

Carlin awakened a beast within me that I had never really known was there. His understanding of the human language and human nature with regards to words fed my eager young brain. His albums were not stand-up routines, they were lessons, providing me the tools with which to better understand the world and how best to communicate.

Were it not for Carlin, I would not be writing at the moment.

Carlin’s routines changed much throughout the years. Whereas his 70’s output was based around wordplay and the human experience, his later output took on an angry, almost nihilistic attitude. He became less of a comedian and more of a social commentator. The argument over which is the better incarnation is eternal, though my money is squarely on the early Carlin.

His is a voice that will be truly missed in this world. I know that I am one amongst many who will truly mourn his passing.

No, E, Nobody Cares About This Stuff...

Every Friday the Great Markoni and I head over to a local buffet style Chinese restaurant for the celebration of “The Feast of the Maximum Occupancy”. We trade off each week who will be tithing and making the sacrificial offerings to our respective gods so that consumption of delectable and low cost Chinese food can commence. Last Friday it was Markoni’s turn to make the payment which worked out well, as he brought his niece with him, who was visiting from out of town.

We made our way over to the table and began eating our meals, occasionally lifting our heads from our respective troughs to snort out some vague conversation. (Hey, this IS buffet, you know…) At some point in the meal, Markoni made reference to singer/songwriter Paula Frazer. I recognized the name but could not completely place her.

Markoni issued a quick retort, pointing out that the last time he had mentioned Frazer’s name around me, I had launched into a tirade of knowledge about her. (This is something I do quite frequently. Bring up a topic I’m interested in and then stand back.) I stared at him rather quizzically, as I could not remember this conversation at all.

“Yeah, I had mentioned some band she had been in before and you went off on it. Some band in California that I think you’re kind of into,” was his leadoff.

I spun my gears and thought as hard as I could. I tried to fish a band name, a song title, ANYTHING out of him that would jar my memory. As time wore on I got more and more irritated, as I began to actually recall the conversation in question, but absolutely could not place the band to save my life.

“Invalid search terms, please try again,” I would comment in my best computer voice. I knew that once he gave me the correct keyword, the proverbial floodgates would open.

Thankfully, Markoni happens to be a fellow tech geek, so he pulled out his phone and established a wifi connection so that he could browse Wikipedia for information on Paula. I looked at his niece, smiled and said, “Watch this, as soon as the right word or words is given to me, I will burst with a flood of information.”
The page loaded on Markoni’s phone and I began reading through Paula’s entry until I found the magic words: Faith No More. As soon as I saw those words, my eyes lit up and out sprang the information.

“OH! Paula was one of the temporary vocalists for Faith No More in the 80’s. They were actually kind of a revolving door band when it came to members until they solidified in time for their first release. A young Courtney Love sang for them for awhile, as well.”

“Their first release, after bringing in vocalist Chuck Mosely was We Care a Lot, which was later followed by Introduce Yourself. The song ‘We Care a Lot’ from that timeframe is currently used as the theme song to ‘Dirty Jobs’ on tv.”

“After parting ways with Chuck Mosely, they brought in vocalist Mike Patton, who in his time since Faith No More has proven himself a very talented and eclectic artist, performing in bands such as Fantomas and Tomahawk. Patton was the singer for their breakthrough hit, ‘Epic’, which is currently playable in ‘Rock Band’.”

“Lead guitarist Jim Martin had a cameo appearance in Bill and Ted’s Bogus Journey, and has since more or less retired from the music scene. He does have a world record for 235th largest pumpkin ever grown.”

“Faith No More broke up in 1998 and many of the members have gone on to other projects, most notably Patton, as mentioned before, and Roddy Bottum, who founded Imperial Teen.”

“I was only able to catch Faith No More in concert once, on July 21, 1992, at the
Pontiac Silverdome. They were the opening band, followed by Metallica and then Guns N Roses. This show was about 9 days before James Hetfield was accidentally set ablaze.”

As is typical, I finished my little expulsion of information only to see the stunned face of Markoni’s niece staring back. It always amuses me how people react to information overloads.

This is a sad fact of my life. What I have just described here is something that I do almost daily on tons of different subjects. I’m kind of that guy who knows a bit about everything, and that’s mainly because I find interest in everything. Prime example: I bought a book on the history of salt this weekend. Perhaps I’ll regale you all with some salt based knowledge before too long.

Some Things are Best Left Unsaid

Posted by E

Thursday, June 19, 2008

And here I am, trapped in another monotonous conversation with a coworker. A few things of note about myself:

A) I am not a friendly, “Hey! Let’s talk!” kind of guy.
B) I am terrible at small talk
C) I probably have little to no interest in what you’re going to say to me

I know, it sounds elitist, but facts is facts. I can count the people whose company I enjoy for more than 5 minutes on my two hands. Okay, maybe a foot as well.

But the point is, I’m just really not into hanging around and chatting about whatever. But I’m also not very good at asserting myself (ergo, AWFUL) and therefore end up in many situations I’d be happier avoiding. This conversation is one such example.

It’s not that I’m rude, hostile, or excessively patronizing to those I talk to, it’s just that I cannot feign interest in anything for more than a minute or two.

But where this tale gets interesting is a little further down the road. Let’s get started.

Here is the dialog as it progresses:

Not Me: Hey, man, have you heard of this new Nintendo Wii thing?
Me: Yeah, I stood in line for 17 hours the day they came out for mine.
Not Me: Right, right. So, have you played it much?
Me: Well, yeah, I bought it and all. I’m kind of a gamer.
Not Me: I saw a video of some kid playing the baseball game. It looked fun. Is it?
Me: Yeah, the Wii’s a blast. I prefer the bowling myse....
Not Me: Right, right. So, is it good for families?
Me: Yeah, it’s a great family system. It’s a blast all around. It’s a total blast to get a few guys, some beer and nachos and just let everybody flail around like drunken idiots.
Not Me: Right, so, what you’re saying is that anybody can play, right?
Me: Sure. My mother, who has never really played a game in her life could pick up a Wiimote and figure out how to play in a few seconds.
Not Me: So, in other words, you’d have to be pretty much completely incapacitated to not be able to play, right?
Me: Yeah, that’s a pretty fair statement.

Okay, remember how I said it would get interesting? Let me italicize this next statement for emphasis. Again, this is EXACTLY where the conversation went at this point.

Not Me: Yeah, because I know this guy who was in a terrible car accident and has been in a coma for the last two years. He has two daughters, one of whom has never even heard his voice. They’re always asking their mother when Daddy’s gonna wake up.

What. The. Fuck?

Seriously, how are you supposed to keep that conversation going? That’s just a WEE bit of a curve ball, don’t you think?

“Yeah, I hate when that happens”. Would that be appropriate? “How about them Braves?”

Like I said, small talk is not a strong point of mine, but usually if somebody’s going to derail the conversation with something really out there and weird, it’s me. But at least if I did it, I wouldn’t make the other person feel bad for being alive.

I shit you not, the conversation almost immediately turned to people who had been in motorcycle accidents and lost limbs. Get to know me well enough and you’d find that that’s normally a conversation I’d LOVE to have, but with the right person at the right time. And this just ain’t it, man.

As I stood there pondering how the hell I was going to escape this conversation, I played through endless scenes in my head of what could possibly be more inappropriate. A few that I managed:

• Arriving at a funeral with a spinning bowtie and a nose that honks when I squeeze it, constantly making bad jokes while honking and twirling.
• Waiting around a factory for some sort of horrific accident, only to run up with a foghorn playing “Wah wahhhhhh”
• Opening a daycare that caters to scaring the shit out of your kids with evil clown masks while Faces of Death plays in an endless loop on the television

I was really afraid I’d be trapped in this conversation for a long, awkward time, but fortunately another Not Me came by to ask Not Me a question and Me got the hell out of there.


Once my face came to a screeching halt on the gravel, I was able to stand up and feel the meaty flap of skin hanging down where my mouth used to be. I could touch my teeth through my face!

Oh, wait, is now not the right time for that?