no more blogging at blogspot

I tried to publish a simple post about football predictions but I keep getting html errors. I have no idea what errors I am making nor do I know how to correct html errors. Fuck blogspot. You can find me on Facebook from now on. Peace. Nick.

troof

I agree with many of the reviews. Al Gore seems more politically motivated than environmentally conscious in ‘An Inconvenient Truth.’ I found myself wondering why he felt the need to take on a rural Tennessee accent in his presentation and narration when in all phases of his political career he spoke like a human being. The interludes describing his childhood on the family tobacco and black angus farm were unnecessary and tedious. Combine these and ‘An Inconvenient Truth’ looks more like a paid political message than a crusader’s desperate attempt to raise awareness of global warming. Something on this scale ought to precede a White House bid, but in Gore’s own words he has no interest in such an endeavor. Why seek to improve an image that for all intents and purposes won a presidential election only to have it swiped away by political maneuvering? In ‘An Inconvenient Truth’ we have facts disrupted by glitz, which dampens the effect. I disagree with the same reviews because they demand empirical evidence and claim that none has been offered. In response I point to every photograph taken in the last five years that demonstrates glacial recession. What more empirical evidence do you want to highlight rising global temperatures than the disappearance of the snows of Kilimanjaro or the thawing of Alaskan permafrost? To see Gore’s charts marking the drastic global temperature increase in the last forty years juxtaposed with 600,000 years of the planet’s natural temperature cycle and still say there is no empirical evidence to say global warming exists is tantamount to choking on dinner and trying to cram more food down your throat while the world goes hazy. If you come crying when the Atlantic Ocean is in your living room, I will drown you in it. People don’t want to be bothered with what they can’t see. I don’t live in a place whose timeless beauty has disappeared because the temperature suddenly skyrocketed at an unprecedented rate. I don’t live there and can’t see it. Therefore it must not be happening, and even if it is it’s not important enough for me to worry. Ignoring the problem is easier than taking action. Turning the whistle-blowers into Cassandra’s is more fun than listening to them (I won’t explain that allusion because you have search engines to find the answers). Many of the reviews I read called on Gore to bring forth specific scientists who could back up his claims. Why do we need one scientist when every scientist agrees? Gore mentions Carl Sagan towards the end of his presentation. Read ‘Billions and Billions,’ Sagan’s last published book, to find empirical evidence, and then choose to listen or to keep ignoring it. No one enjoys hearing something is their fault. It’s easier and more fun to blame bovine flatulence than it is to blame yourself. Automobiles aside, though, carbon emissions from Hummers and Cadillac Escalades aside, we can do a lot to combat global warming. We have no idea how much we can achieve in our own homes. Every appliance we own that plugs into a wall outlet drains energy and affects the environment. If you turn off an appliance and a stand-by light remains illuminated, the appliance is draining energy and raising your electricity bill. Unplug your appliances when they are not in use and you can do more than you can imagine. I leave my microwave unplugged. It’s not hard, especially if it’s a device you rarely use. Something this ridiculously easy carries a certain level of absurdity, though. How can one person make a difference by unplugging their microwave? What if everyone did this? A little bit here and there adds up, and then we have a significant impact. This is asking a lot. I know. It’s better to complain and berate than to take simple action. By way of a PS, ‘The Belle of Avenue A’ by the Fugs started playing as I wrote this. I dreamed of a bum seven foot tall who crushed the bourgeoisie to the grass. Now it’s twelve o’clock and it’s time to say your useless prayers. There is a God.

observe and report

Every time I set foot on a battlefield I have an overwhelming sense of perspective. Examining lines drawn on a map or figurines arranged on a sand table is one thing. Being present on field is another. You don’t understand how small it is until you are there. The Roanoke College Choir made a tour of the northeast after my junior year, and our first stop was Gettysburg for a show at the seminary. The following morning we took a guided tour of the battlefield from our bus, and when we passed the wheat field I understood just how much of a tiny, horrific mess it was. Our guide said that combined casualties in the wheat field were equal to the total number of American casualties at Omaha Beach. To put this in perspective, Omaha Beach was a strip of sand that stretched for five miles on the Normandy coast. The wheat field at Gettysburg was a small piece of land that might have been four or five acres. I can almost wrap my mind around 3000 dead and wounded in an area that small. You think about combat tactics of the period, relatively unchanged since the days of Napoleon and earlier. You think about improvements in weapon technology, the development of accurate rifled guns both handheld and artillery, and you begin to see the futility of 3000 dead and wounded. An image begins to form and my mind shuts off, and I thank it. Today at Manassas I made my first stop at the Henry House walking tour behind the Visitor’s Center. I examined the map on the first marker and followed the dotted line indicating the trail, and I proceeded to spot the next marker. It was a short stroll over to the hill where Rickett’s guns did their best to fend off Stonewall Jackson. From there it was an even shorter stroll to the Henry House. I looked at the map scale, which was portioned in one thousand-foot increments. The entire walking tour which covers an entire day’s fighting is about two miles, maybe only one-and-a-half. Total casualties that day were 3553 killed or wounded, not nearly equal to the carnage at Gettysburg or even the single day’s bloodshed at Antietam, but it’s still 3553 people killed or wounded. Near the end of the tour we see where the 33rd Virginia Infantry massed for their assault, where they hid in the tree line as Northern guns pounded their position. Two Union canons set up on a rise not 100 yards away. Had either of those guns fired canister at the advancing Virginians they would have decimated the line, but neither one discharged. Regardless of whether or not those guns fired, how does anyone walk straight into imminent death that is only 100 yards away? It’s close enough to wave hello to your neighbor down the street. In college I took an Honors course that focused on the experience of combat, and two of the books we read dealt with World War I. Veterans who returned to the front years afterward commented on how small no-man’s land was, how large it seemed when they were there as youngsters but how compressed it was later in life. I imagine Civil War veterans had similar experiences. It’s impossible to fully understand the magnitude of something so small, something so deadly, be you an active participant or a mere visitor. The best thing to do is observe. No more, no less. Observe and pray it doesn’t happen again.

scenes from a coffee shop 5

Dramatis Personae: Nick, twenty-something Starbucks employee, determined writer, failed writer. Drive-thru Barista, Nick’s twenty-something male coworker. Drive-thru Customer, male, early thirties. Child Voice #1. Child Voice #2. (Nick stands at espresso machine. Drive-thru Barista stands at expeditor register) (Ping over headset) Drive-thru Barista: Thank you for choosing Starbucks. What can we get for you today? Child Voice #1: (over headset, yelling) I want one. Child Voice #2: (over headset, yelling) Can I…? Child Voice #1: (over headset) I want one. Child Voice #2: (over headset) I…get one. Child Voice #1: (over headset) I want one I want one I want one. Drive-thru Customer: (over headset after brief pause) Can I get a…venti…pumpkin spice latte? Drive-thru Barista: A venti pumpkin spice latte. Anything else? Child Voice #2: (over headset) Get one. Drive-thru Customer: (pause) No thanks. Drive-thru Barista: All right. Your total will be five-oh-one, we’ll see you at the window. (more yelling between Child Voice #1 and #2. when they finish yelling we hear a zany cartoon xylophone scale over the headset. silence as the car pulls up to the window) Nick: (to Drive-thru Barista after placing sticker on cup) That was the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard. Drive-thru Barista: (pushing buttons on his till screen) That was quite weird. (car arrives outside Drive-thru window. the face is indiscernible until the window opens. when the window opens we find Drive-thru customer slouched in the driver seat, a look of self-pity awash over his face as though he just saw a dog eating his last meal) Drive-thru Barista: (to Drive-thru customer) Hi there. Your total is five-oh-one. (Drive-thru customer hands over his debit card. window closes as Drive-thru Barista rings the order) Drive-thru Barista: (to Nick) This guy is sad. Nick: (pouring his milk into the cup) What do you mean? Drive-thru Barista: (tearing receipt) Just look at him. (window opens as Drive-thru Barista hands back debit card and receipt. look remains on Drive-thru Customer’s face with more yelling from Child Voices. Nick glances after applying whip to beverage) Nick: Oh, my. (places lid on cup. carries cup to window. to Drive-thru Customer) Here you go sir. And here. (reaches under Drive-thru Barista’s till and pulls up a bottle of malt liquor) This is for you sir. Drive-thru Customer: (takes bottle) Thank you. (Exit) Drive-thru Barista: That was really considerate of you. Nick: We do what we can. Poor guy. (FIN)

for my money it's still better than blair witch

Three thoughts after watching ‘Quarantine.’ “She is exhibiting the same symptoms that Mrs. Espinoza did right before she bit three people. I don’t think it’s a good idea to touch her. Let’s leave her here and barricade the door so she doesn’t come downstairs with the rest of us who are acting normal.” “The vet calls it super rabies? I have an idea. Let’s leave the three people who are currently foaming at the mouth in this creepy fabric storage room, close the reinforced shutter, and keep them as far from us as possible. If anything comes through that shutter, we shoot it. If anything comes down those stairs, we shoot it. If any of you start foaming at the mouth, we shoot you. This is no longer a matter of saving their lives. This is about keeping ourselves safe.” “They’ve been bitten. We’re trapped in this room. You have a sledgehammer. Are you retarded? I didn’t think so.” I applaud the Army for sealing off the building and shooting whoever tries to escape. The problem was contained before they had a major biological incident. That’s how you roll in a zombie-pocalypse. By way of a PS, I just watched ‘Say Anything.’ If there is blood dribbling all over your mouth from your broken nose and she still wants to kiss you, that’s love.

scenes from a coffee shop 4

Dramatis Personae: Nick, twenty-something Starbucks employee, determined writer, failed writer. Barista, Nick’s twenty-something female coworker. Technician, male, portly, bald, wearing a work uniform. (Technician works on an open espresso machine while Nick stands to the side watching) Technician: That should do it. (closes espresso machine) Nick: You fixed it? Technician: Let’s see. (pushes a button to make espresso shots. shots successfully run all the way through) Nick: Excellent. You have no idea how difficult this thing has been with us. Technician: When it reads ‘powder error’ like that usually it means you have to vacuum the grinder really well. When the message doesn’t go away that’s when you need to call us. You did the right thing. Your espresso machine should operate without any headaches now. Nick: Thanks. You’re a life saver. (Nick signs the invoice. Exit Technician) (Enter Barista) Nick: It works. Barista: Thank God. (a sticker prints out of the drive-thru printer. Barista takes sticker and places it on a cup. Barista moves to espresso machine. Nick stands next to her as she pushes the button for espresso shots. espresso machine makes a DEP-DEP-DEP noise like the Millennium Falcon’s faulty hyperdrive. Barista glares at Nick) Nick: He told me he fixed it. (opens espresso machine while another sticker prints out of drive-thru printer. Barista places sticker on a cup and another sticker prints) It’s not my fault. FIN

lock s-foils in attack position

Everyone knows the hypothetical Star Wars scenario, the great ‘what if’ of the first movie. What if the gunner on the star destroyer had fired upon the escape pod carrying R2D2 and C3PO? The Death Star plans never make it to Tatooine, Obi Wan Kenobi never leaves to save Princess Lea, and the Empire crushes the Rebellion. All the events of the three Star Wars movies hinge on this split second decision by an ordinary gunner. If he shoots, the story never happens. Talk about the butterfly flapping its wings. Watching Star Wars again today I came across another ‘what if,’ one whose implications aren’t so much chaotic as they are nefarious. Darth Vader holds the captain of the Corellian cruiser three feet off the ground, gripping his throat, trying to strangle the whereabouts of Princess Lea and the Death Star plans out of him. Vader says the Empire intercepted a transmission to the ship during the great battle mentioned in the title sequence. The captain says they received no transmission and that they are a simple cargo ship on a diplomatic mission. Vader doesn’t buy it and we have the lovely crunch as he tosses aside his captive. Think about the opening title sequence. Nowhere does it say Princess Lea’s ship was involved in the battle. All we hear is that Rebel spies were involved. At some point during the battle they transmitted the Death Star plans to Leia aboard the cruiser. It is quite possible the captain knew nothing of these plans. Princess Lea was aboard that cruiser for seemingly diplomatic purposes, and perhaps she was the only one who knew what she would eventually transport to Alderaan. When engaged in espionage, why inform your transport of your mission when it could endanger everything you fight for? The captain did exactly what he was supposed to do. He denied that a transmission took place and claimed the plans were not aboard because, in his mind, he was telling the truth. If you believe a lie to be the truth because all you have ever heard is the lie, how could you possibly be lying? What if Princess Lea sold out the Corellian cruiser to save her own skin? It’s a disheartening prospect. Maybe I’m up in arms over a bit of sci-fi fantasy because of all the reports about a half-assed attempt to rescue a kidnapped British journalist and his Iraqi interpreter. ‘Journalist, journalist!’ Something tells me it wasn’t the Taliban who shot him.

scenes from a coffee shop 3

Dramatis Personae: Nick, twenty-something Starbucks employee, determined writer, unsuccessful writer. Barista 1, Nick’s female twenty-something coworker. Barista 2, another of Nick’s female twenty-something coworkers. Woman, middle-aged customer, short, graying hair. (Nick and Barista 1 stand at the counter. Barista 2 stands at espresso machines making drive-thru orders that keep printing out of the sticker machine. Barista 2 has no lines but is in constant action the entire scene) (Customer approaches counter) Barista 1: Good morning, you. Customer: Good morning. Barista 1: You want your usual latte? Customer: Yes indeed. Nick: (marking the cup) We got it. Five pumps, right? Customer: Right. (Nick marks the cup and places it in the bar line. Barista 2 takes cup without looking and sets to work making the drink) Barista 1: Excellent. Four-seventy-nine. Customer: (hands over money) There you go. (Barista 1 completes the transaction and hands over Customer’s change) Nick: How are you today? Customer: My cat died last week. Barista 1: I’m sorry to hear that. Nick: Oh, no. Customer: Yeah. She was the sweetest thing. A black long-hair, and she was so friendly. It didn’t matter if she knew you or not. If you were sitting on the couch or wherever she would just crawl right in your lap and be friendly. Barista 1: That’s so sweet. Nick: What was her name? Customer: Cinder. Barista 1: Aw, Cinder. Customer: Yeah. (reaches in her purse) I miss her, but I carry her with me wherever I go. (Customer digs in her purse as though looking for a wallet photograph. Customer pulls out a cremation urn and places it on the counter. Customer opens cremation urn with a little puff of ash.) (Lights go black) FIN

scenes from a coffee shop 2

Dramatis Personae: Nick, twenty-something Starbucks employee, determined writer, unsuccessful writer. Barista, Nick’s male twenty-something coworker stationed in drive-thru. Drive-thru Voice, female. (Nick stands next to Barista in drive-thru. Headset intercom pings to indicate a customer has approached) Barista: Thank you for choosing Starbucks. Can I interest you in a Pumpkin Spice Latte today? Drive-thru Voice: No thanks. (pause) Barista: What can we get for you? Drive-thru Voice: I’d like my iced venti decaf white mocha with four shots, nonfat, with whip. Barista: (punches in complete order) Okay, anything else? Drive-thru Voice: Make sure it’s decaf. Braista: Okay, anything else? Drive-thru Voice: Make sure it has whip. Barista: Okay, anything else? Drive-thru Voice: I’d like one of your classic sausage muffins. (Nick walks to warming station and keys inside-channel on headset) Nick: (to Barista) We’re out of the sausage. We have the artisan ham, the turkey-bacon, and the spinach wrap. Barista: (to Drive-thru Voice) I’m sorry. We’re actually out of the sausage right now. We do have the artisan ham, the turkey-bacon, and the spinach wrap. (Nick has reached the warming station and waits for the response) (pause) Drive-thru Voice: I suppose I’ll have the artesian ham. (pause) That means I’ll pay more. Nick: (opens fridge, keys inside-channel on his headset) Yes, it does mean you will pay more. (pause) Barista: Okay, anything else? Drive-thru Voice: No. Barista: Your total is eight-twenty-five. We’ll have that for you at the window. Drive-thru Voice: Okay. Barista: (keys inside-channel, to Nick) You have to stop making me laugh, Nick. Nick: (keys inside-channel, to Barista) That’s how I roll. FIN

scenes from a coffee shop 1

Dramatis Personae: Nick, twenty-something Starbucks employee, determined writer, unsuccessful writer. Man, middle-aged Starbucks customer, slender, balding, glasses. Barista, Nick’s twenty-something female coworker. Nick: What can we get for you, sir? Man: I’ll just have a tall black coffee. Nick: (pushing his till buttons) Room for cream in that? Man: No thanks. Nick: Okay, you’re total is a dollar-eighty-two. Man: (as Nick puts money in his till) How are you doing today? Nick: Quite well. It’s lovely outside. Man: It’s hot out for a fall day. Nick: Oh, well. Summer has a couple of weeks left. It doesn’t give up so easily. (turns to get the cup of coffee). Man: That’s true. (enter Barista) Barista: (to Man) How are you today, sir? Man: Well, my bleeding ulcer seems to be easing up, so things are looking pretty good. I got checked up back in the spring and the doctor found an ulcer on an x-ray. Thankfully it didn’t require surgery but I’ve been taking medication for it. On my last check-up my doctor told me things were clearing up, so it’s a good day. Barista: Ah. (during this exchange Nick finished filling the twelve-ounce coffee cup and stood still until the man completed his story) Nick: Here is your coffee, sir. Man: Thanks. You have a good day. Nick: You, too. (exit Man) Barista: Please don’t tell me about your bleeding ulcer. (Nick cuts off his face with a box cutter) FIN

police constable nicholas leitzke

I have a coworker who says she would make a terrible police officer because she would apprehend everyone she saw breaking the law. She used traffic violations as her prime example, and I asked her what the problem was with punishing people who break traffic laws. Maybe her disillusionment comes from the fact that so many people disobey traffic laws, but we have these laws for a reason. You’re behind the wheel operating a multi-ton lethal weapon. You need to be held accountable for ignoring safety procedures. Several times a day I wish I had police lights on my roof and a nice siren. I really wish I could be sitting at a red light, witness a violation, and pull out to give the jerk a ticket. I’m astounded at how terrible Roanoke drivers are, but there’s one thing in particular that I’ve seen more and more of recently. People are treating left turn stoplights as stop signs, stopping at the light to wait for traffic to clear and then proceeding. That is waaaaaaaaaay illegal and I wish I could turn on my lights and siren and give these people the tickets they deserve. How stupid do you have to be? I see this all over town, not quite as rampant as speeding and tailgating but it’s close to number three on the list. I’ve thought about this a lot. What makes people disobey traffic laws? I know the United States isn’t the only nation with citizens who disobey traffic laws, but it’s my only point of reference. Bearing this in mind I can only conclude that speeding and tailgating and illegal left turns are the result of racecar culture. It’s as though Americans have it ingrained in their minds that they have to get there first. I own this car, I’m a privileged WASP, and you’re in my way. Yeah? Well, church will still be there whether you speed or not. How many times have you been tailgated by someone on a two-lane highway for minutes before he or she finally passes you, only to find yourselves side-by-side at the next red light? Speeding really got you where you’re going. Couple this with the parking lot in front of my Starbucks. We’re in a plaza at the mall, and our drive-thru is on the end. Our drive-thru has two lanes – one for the drive-thru customers and one for traffic, and both are one way the same way. There is a clear “Do Not Enter” sign posted at the mouth of our drive-thru, but dozens of drivers every day ignore it and go right on ahead. The police aren’t going to waste manpower on placing a squad car in our drive-thru to catch people who do this, so I came up with two options. First, I would have severe tire damage spikes placed in the drive-thru. Every time someone goes the wrong way their tires are destroyed, their vehicle immobilized, and a trap door full of lava opens beneath them. Problem solved. Second, every time someone goes the wrong way in our drive-thru they are met head-on by a snowplow coming the opposite direction. The snowplow pushes the wreck to the dumpster area and they are taken out with the rest of the mall’s refuse. Problem solved. Of course, all of this rests on the notion that neither myself nor my coworker will ever become police officers. Traffic court would be packed if we were. By way of a PS, we learned in Driver’s Ed that obeying the speed limit is actually better for your car. Your engine doesn’t work so hard, your brakes don’t wear out as fast, your transmission isn’t going haywire, and your tires stay stronger.

to go out watching 'spaced' with dinty moore

The other day I sat down with a bowl of Dinty Moore beef stew to watch the guest commentaries on the second series of Spaced. There’s something homey about Dinty Moore beef stew, probably because I associate it with being home. Dinty Moore was a weekend staple of mine before I went to college, and now whenever I’m home my mother gives me a few cans to take back to Roanoke. I used to sit with an entire can and watch Simpsons episodes on VHS, so watching guest commentaries for Spaced is to be expected. Some of my readers (if I have any) may be gagging at the thought of eating processed beef stew, but I love it. I won’t wax poetic on every bit of shredded beef, every succulent potato chunk or juicy carrot coin, but just know a bowl of Dinty Moore beef stew is enough to incapacitate me for thirty minutes in a state of reminiscing happiness. I forget which ‘Spaced’ episode I was watching and who the guest commentator was. It was either Quentin Tarantino or Patton Oswalt. I was about halfway through the bowl when I began chewing a new mouthful. I slid a succulent potato chunk onto my tongue and I think for the first time ever I had one of those moments that lasts a lifetime. For whatever reason the broth made this potato chunk extra slippery, and time stopped as I nearly lost control of the thing. I nudged the morsel to my molars and chewed, and it suddenly hit me that I nearly choked to death on my Dinty Moore beef stew. I sat there listening to the commentary, eating my food, thinking about how isolated I am in my apartment. My neighbors are generally home on weekends, but what do I do when I’m choking on a potato? Would I have the strength to find my feet and beat down my neighbor’s door, or would I waste away on the floor only to be found days later blue-faced and lifeless with a spilled bowl of Dinty Moore by my side and the DVD menu playing over and over? And I didn’t even think about this part as I began writing this entry, but it just hit me. This has happened before in my building. My previous neighbor was an old lady who kept to herself. If I saw her it was when she went outside to get her mail, so it wasn’t uncommon to go weeks without a sign of life. One weekend a few Mays ago I went home to Martinsburg. Earlier in the week I had noticed a smell in the basement. I thought something had died in the walls or behind the washing machine, so I went about my business. When I came back to Roanoke after my trip my other neighbor told me I missed all the excitement. Apparently the old lady had died in her sleep and nobody knew about it for days until the tenant who used to live downstairs noticed a more pungent odor than what I came across. That could have happened to me Sunday evening. I just rewrote the end of this entry because I remembered this. I probably am lucky to be alive. I don’t thank my lucky stars that I’m still here, but I’m still here. There’s something to be said about that. The most important thing is that I still love my Dinty Moore.

he's writing about video games

All I ask for when I’m in the writer’s block doldrums and bored out of my skull is the freedom to play Resident Evil 4 on a cleared round, complete with my infinite ammunition rocket launcher that makes boss battles as easy as breathing. That’s not much to ask. Apparently Resident Evil 4 doesn’t think so. Every time I play this game, regardless of the difficulty, I do it with the understanding that I will die at least once. Either Leon will die or Ashley will die while I’m protecting her. It never fails. The rocket explodes and kills the monster with Leon taking no damage yet Ashley, who stands behind me, somehow bears the full explosive brunt and dies. I know there are three Ganados around this cave corner and I usually use a flash grenade to stun them first, but this time I stupidly toss a regular hand grenade and it bounces wrong, bounces back to me, explodes and kills Ashley. This particular boss hides inside a protective shell, so you have to shoot the little head thingy in the eye to open the shell and take him out with a rocket blast, but the game won’t let me shoot straight and the head thingy lunges at me and swallows me whole. All three of these things have interrupted my gaming experience. Maybe that’s what makes me irate. I play this game through expecting an uninterrupted story, but the game finds a way to piss me off, huff and puff for thirty minutes on the internet, and return cooled off and ready to kick its ass like it knows I should have before. I’m ready for anything to happen, but the other day it was something new. I’m in a wide chamber with two monsters called El Gigantes – troll design rip-offs from ‘Fellowship of the Ring.’ I’m trapped in this chamber until both beasts are dead. In the middle of the floor is a covered lava pit. Ideally, the way to beat them is to climb a scaffolding on one side of the chamber, luring the beasts over, and then riding a cable across the room to the lever that operates the cover to the lava pit. One of the beasts will fall in, and the other I can dispose of with a blast from my infinite ammunition rocket launcher. First phase works like a charm. One of the beasts falls in the pit. He writhes in his death agonies while I circle the room to get some distance, and I fire my kill shot at the second monster. He dies, and the first monster sinks beneath the lava surface. The deed is done. I stand still a moment and wait for the pit cover to close, but then the monster lunges out of the lava, grabs me, and pulls me under. ‘Wow,’ I find myself saying. ‘Wow. That has never happened before. That is really cool. Fuck you, game.’ And I turn Resident Evil 4 off and huff and puff on the internet for thirty minutes before going back and finishing the level the way it should have gone the first time. It’s as if the game learns every time you play it. One would think that with a programmed storyline and monsters that jump out at their assigned moments you could prepare and fight through with no trouble, but that’s not the case. Is a little uninterrupted action too much to ask for? The same thing used to happen when I played Grand Theft Auto 3, although it wasn’t quite as vexing. The only way I could beat the last mission of Grand Theft Auto 3 was to steal a tank, which if everything goes right is easier than you might think. All you have to do is climb the parking garage on the second island, shoot pedestrians and policemen with the sniper rifle, explode police cars with the high powered machine gun, shoot down a police helicopter or two, and then toss grenades on the army men when they get out of the tank. Jump off the roof, get in the tank quick, drive the tank to your garage, switch to a fast car like the Banshee or Cheetah, get your ass to the spray shop, spray your car and lose your wanted rating, drive back to your hiding place, and save your game. You got yourself a tank. The way I see it I was just playing the game. I wasn’t cheating. I stole this tank fair and square. You’re able to do it in the game, so you get what you work for. I never used a cheat code to get a tank. Mine were honest. But I digress. While on the parking garage roof, sometimes you would wait forever for the right things to shoot and raise the wanted level. Or sometimes you would stand there shooting down helicopter after helicopter with no results. Or sometimes nothing but army trucks would arrive. It’s as though the game knows what you’re doing and withholds what you’re after. It’s enough to make me huff and puff for thirty minutes on the internet and blog about it two days later. Recently watched: ‘Spaced: the Complete Series.’ Edgar Wright and Simon Pegg had it going on in 1999. I’ve never seen a truer, more meaningful slow motion pantomime shootout.

thank you 'spaced'

"I just had a moment of clarity, you know. I woke up. It's like when you have an orgasm on your own. You're lying on the sofa watching some porn movie you bought on a drunk and lonely night in Soho and you're lying there and everything is really great. You're getting totally turned on by the absurdly graphic images. Everything seems so right. And suddenly, pvvt! Bingo. You wake up. And you're lying there sweating, desperately looking for the tissue which you know is still in your pocket and the remote control which is just somewhere on the floor. And it's like walking in on yourself. It's just like, what are you doing? That's what I felt tonight sitting here feeling my heart skip a beat every time the door opened. What the fuck are you doing?" Amen.

it's tangled

I don’t know what’s worse about going to the movies – paying seven-fifty for a ticket and eight-fifty for a small Coke and a box of peanut M&M’s or having to piss my guts out for two minutes when the final credits roll. Regardless of which is more torturous, I recommend that everyone go see District 9 as soon as possible. It’s the best movie nobody heard about. I had heard nothing about District 9 until two weeks ago. Mind you I rid myself of cable back in the spring and all of my television viewing since has been 4:30am showings of Cutlery Corner on Ion Television and watching the gorgeous anchorwoman on CBS’s early morning news before I go to work. It was on one of these wee-hour editions of the news that I saw a piece about District 9. I give props to any movie that can be made for a fraction of the typical Hollywood budget and still manage to blow every drooling blockbuster out of the water. Operating on a budget of 30 million dollars District 9 had already made a profit of 10 million after its first weekend, compared to a monstrosity like GI Joe which was still struggling to break even after weeks of release and a budget of over 200 million. That in and of itself caught my eye, but it doesn’t hurt to have a cast of nobodies on the bill. Add to the cast of nobodies a plot that circles around a documentary about aliens in Johannesburg, and I’m putting on my shoes. Drop Peter Jackson’s name and I’m outside petting my neighbor’s cat before I finally break away and get in my car for a trip to the movies. District 9 is a documentary-style movie about a ship full of aliens that stalls out on Earth in the early 1980’s. It’s rather fitting that they stall out above Johannesburg, South Africa, since when we finally make contact with the beings they are malnourished and in need of immediate care. A massive refugee camp called District 9 is constructed beneath the inoperable ship, and the days of apartheid slums return in all their glory. Please note that I refuse to use the term “mock-umentary,” since to my ears this implies the movie is making a mockery of the documentary style. This movie does nothing of the sort, and no true “mock-umentary” would do such a thing. Except maybe This Is Spinal Tap, which doesn’t just make a mockery of the documentary but also of the subject matter. But I digress. Our story unfolds with an unruly Johannesburg populace fed up with the alien refugees and their strange, sometimes criminal, seemingly savage behavior. The alien mother ship has been broken down for two decades and is beyond repair. Confound this with the fact that only aliens are able to use alien technology, which operates on a DNA recognition. Earth is stuck with its visitors like it or not, and something has to be done. Enter the feds who roll in with a plan to move the refugee camp from District 9 to a new barbed-wired location called District 10. Our hero is named Wikus van de Merwe, a desk-jockey assigned to head the eviction operation. And it is absolutely that. His job is to go from shack to shack issuing eviction notices to these aliens and to obtain their signatures by whatever means necessary. Certainly South African apartheid is in play here, but one can’t help but see undertones (or overtones) of Palestine. Toss into the mix the use of private contractors to provide added security for Wikus and his men and Iraq comes seeping through the cracks. District 9 is very relevant regardless of the intent. No matter the setting, oppressor views oppressed as filthy vermin and will do what it takes to eradicate their fine city of infestation. District 9 is indeed a documentary-style movie, and it is quite believable. Typically I see movies done in this style failing miserably because the actors don’t know how to act like regular people. Nothing in this movie is forced, and that natural interview style – that perfectly candid personable interaction that can only be achieved in the moment – lends a powerful brunt to the storytelling. It is an effective documentary, but it is also a werewolf story. We know something will go amiss when Wikus leaves his interview to join the mission and his microphone gets caught on his nametag. “It’s tangled,” he says. And things go wrong. Shots are fired. Casualties mount on both sides, but he continues his job with bureaucratic persistence. While searching a suspicious alien shack Wikus comes across a cylinder full of fluid gathered by a small group of these beings for a purpose to be disclosed later. As Wikus examines the cylinder the liquid sprays him in the face, and soon he begins undergoing a metamorphosis into a human/alien hybrid. Remember that alien technology is only operable by beings with alien DNA. The feds have a stockpile of alien weaponry, and the chase is on to find our Wikus. He slowly changes more and more into something between species. The werewolf story is a tragic story. See every werewolf movie ever made. The hero doesn’t ask to be turned into a werewolf and he winds up destroying the people he loves before ultimately being destroyed himself. Think An American Werewolf In London. Wikus involuntarily begins his inhuman transformation, and more devastation and heartache ensues as he realizes the error of his ways and tries to fix things. Not to be too much of a spoiler, but while District 9 is not a pure tragedy it doesn’t have a happy ending. We find ourselves in flux. With a movie as good as this telling a story like this, I don’t want to leave that state of flux. Read: I don’t want a sequel to answer my questions. Let this sci-fi werewolf tale end the way it does. Leave the final stone unturned and begin working on a new story. This one is for the ages, and it’s gold. I spent sixteen dollars on this movie and emptied my bladder for two minutes, but it was worth it. A list of trailers and why I think Hollywood is out of ideas. Sorority Row – I know what you did last summer and this time I have a tire iron. Jennifer’s Body – Megan Fox plays a bisexual vampire…and that’s it, and lots of men will masturbate. Legion – Dennis Quaid and Roc (who I haven’t seen since Alien 3) save the world from killer angels, but it’s not The Prophecy. Surrogate – Minority Report meets I, Robot and Bruce Willis, yet somehow I don’t care. But I will definitely see Zombieland. No doubt about that.

all of my heroes are jagjaguwars

Four CD’s are making a rotation in my car stereo. When it comes time to leave for work I find myself having a playoff to decide which one has the honor of going with me. I divide them into two brackets and flip a coin in a best-of-seven decision, denoting one CD as heads and the other as tails and seeing which one prevails. It’s funny how every time I investigate Jagjaguwar’s yearly catalog I find a slew of new loves. This year it happened again, and they are competing for my affection. It’s also funny how all of my musical loves for the year are the work of musicians I already appreciated. Spencer Krug of Wolf Parade is proving to be an all-time hero, and everyone involved with Black Mountain is showing their versatility and skill. It’s impossible to say which I love more. Spencer Krug’s side project Sunset Rubdown released an album in 2007 called ‘Random Spirit Lover’ that I thought was record of the year. This year he is back with the rest of the band and another addictive release called ‘Dragon Slayer.’ I am close to crowning this record of the year already. Every time I listen to this album the songs surprise me with how good they are, which is a hard thing to accomplish. One thing I’ve always appreciated about Sunset Rubdown and Krug’s songwriting is that these songs sound like compositions. He didn’t just sit down with a guitar, strum out a riff, write some half-assed lyrics to go with them, and then repeat the process eleven more times to pad out an album. These songs sound like he thought out every measure, every harmony, every note to the point where nothing is disposable. These songs are great because everything is essential. Another thing I immensely appreciate about Krug is that the guitar is more than just a riff. The guitar is an instrument that blends with the rest, not just settling for a three-chord progression but playing a line that threads its way through the piece like a soprano singing an aria. You can get lost loving this music. Every song is worth listening to again and again but ‘You Go On Ahead’ is the one I find myself getting stuck on. On the same Spencer Krug token, Swan Lake are another new acquisition I can’t keep my hands off of. I had no idea Krug was a member of Swan Lake until I visited their myspace page. I listened to a couple of tracks, liked what I heard, scrolled down, and there was his picture. ‘Figures,’ I thought. ‘Enemy Mine’ is a more artsy endeavor than ‘Dragon Slayer.’ He teams up with Daniel Bejar of the New Pornographers and Carey Mercer of Frog Eyes and creates a sound that changes with each distinctive voice. All three of these men have an idiosyncratic voice, and the music adapts to each one. Krug’s high point on the album is ‘Paper Lace,’ which is actually a song that can be found on ‘Dragon Slayer.’ The Swan Lake version is a much mellower version than Sunset Rubdown’s, but it’s powerful nonetheless. Listening to these songs, I have to wonder if one of these men went through a nasty divorce in the last year or so, and I have to wonder if it was Krug. The cover of ‘Enemy Mine’ is a courtroom painting with lawyers and clients in front of a judge, and Carey Mercer’s homerun ‘Heartswarm’ is about seeing your ex with someone else: “Do my eyes deceive me/Or is it truly springtime in Paris for that piece of shit…Dearest darling, no one’s in it for the long haul.” And in ‘Paper Lace’ Krug sings, “The stupid house you made/Fell away like paper lace…Paper burns and paper fades/And paper crumbles into ugly shapes.” Whatever the case, I love this album. And now Black Mountain must have their way. I read about Lightning Dust on another blog and had to check them out. I reviewed ‘Infinite Light’ at amazon.com and said, “I want to marry Amber Webber’s voice.” I’ve heard Stevie Nicks comparisons, but regardless of my love/hate relationship with Stevie Nicks, let me say Amber Webber is light-years beyond Stevie Nicks. These are simple songs about ditching a wasted love and searching for something new, finding something new, and not necessarily being pleased with the result. I get lost with “Take It Home,” the last track. After an entire album of empowerment and self-improvement, the first line of this final track is, “Take it home and listen to a sad song.” You’ve moved on from that wasted love, but you’re still not happy. Will you ever be? Amber Webber made her mark in Black Mountain and in Lightning Dust, paired with Joshua Wells (also of Black Mountain), she proves her importance in today’s music. I love ‘Infinite Light’ so much I’m going to my first show in nearly two years this September to see them. Stephen McBean has his say this year, as well. With Pink Mountaintops and ‘Outside Love’ he makes me understand why I’m so picky with my music. It’s because I know what I like, and apparently so does he. These songs range in style from Jesus and Mary Chain to Neil Young, but they are all distinctly McBean’s. He employs the work of a number of other musicians, including a few from Black Mountain, including Amber Webber and Joshua Wells, but this effort stands on its own. They are all love songs – songs about passion, songs about breaking up, loving those intimate moments no one will see but you and the dark, loving the drunkenness of simply being alive. ‘While We Were Dreaming’ is an achingly beautiful ballad with the best line I have heard in a long time: “And if I could find your heart I would pull it from your chest and smash it with my fist ‘til it was beating.” It’s funny how after so many thousands of years of human creativity you’d think the love song would be a cliché by now, but it’s not. Every great love song is as though nobody ever wrote one before. I’m loving for the first time with Pink Mountaintops and ‘Outside Love.’ And I’ll be flipping another coin tomorrow morning before I go to work. Oh, Jagjaguwar! Bloomington, Indiana, is the epicenter of my favorite music.

to hear the voice

She walks into the coffee shop almost unseen. A blur steps through the door and passes in front of the Plexiglas splashguard. On instinct I speak. “Hello.” She says hello, and I smile, but I don’t see a thing as I continue with my macchiato machinations. The steam wand smothers her order, and her marked cup enters line behind four drive-thru patrons and another café customer. I process the forgettable orders and find two iced cups, CRF and L. I make the frappucino first and call it out. Then I make the latte, and there she is, taking both drinks, smiling when I tell her to have a good day. She’s a pretty girl, but then again aren’t they all. The dark blue of her jeans somehow takes hold of her brown hair and floats on an ocean. The green and white tee-shirt dances when she moves, but you can’t look for long. Those blue eyes say it all. She’s pleased, and it’s over. You let it go. She’s a customer and there’s nothing else to be said. Go back to the line and keep making drinks. She tucks away in memory’s backlog, another pretty face to forget until the next pretty face comes along and replaces all who came before. I pass two more drinks to drive-thru and she’s there at the café handoff, saying something, but the headset is blaring in my ear. I lift the earpiece an inch and ask her to repeat herself. She smiles and says she hates to be a bother but do iced coffees come in flavors. She wonders if it will cost extra to add a flavor to the latte, but I would give her an entire bottle free at this point. That accent. I have lived in what claims to be the South for six years and have never heard an accent like hers. Music when she speaks and it’s nothing but half country and half sophistication, but my heart skips a dozen beats and I’m begging God to let me take her latte just to risk a passing fingertip glance. Let me connect just once if once is all I’ll ever get. Let her keep speaking because in her voice I see a fire that could burn indefinitely. I want to be with that accent. I want to hold that accent. I want to crawl in bed next to that accent. I want to love that accent and be loved, but then he is there. He is everything I am not. He is the male equivalent of her, and he says he doesn’t need a flavor. They joke and giggle and she nudges him, and my heart breaks because it’s absolutely right. I’m the man behind the Plexiglas and she is with the one who ought to be with her. In a blink she is gone. My line of drinks is three deep and I set back to work with a treacherous memory pushing her to the surface of my thoughts. The irreplaceable song. Longing is a gift the Devil gives man.

the basterd is back

Sitting here in the First Team Subaru service waiting room, surrounded by middle-aged ladies clucking over the latest on Michael Jackson’s autopsy on Headline News, I feel the urge to begin blogging again. I saw Inglourious Basterds last night. I heard both sides of the reviews. On one hand I heard the positives – the newspapers and websites praising Quentin Tarantino for another hip epic and raising the bar for every subsequent movie in the genre. On the other hand were the negatives – the magazine claiming the must-see deleted scene is Shirley Temple liberating Buchenwald to the soundtrack of Glenn Miller, freeing the Jews and then leading the SS guards to the gas chambers. As with anything the best voice to acknowledge is the voice within yourself, so here’s what I saw. Not that you have to agree with my voice. While Inglourious Basterds does have a few issues, the positives far outweigh the negatives. I’ll begin with the negatives. I have two problems with Inglourious Basterds. First, for all of Tarantino’s skill and for as good as this movie was, watching this movie was like watching another Kill Bill. His use of chapter headings to divide the movie into parts is good, but if he keeps doing this it will turn into a gimmick. On the same token the soundtrack for Inglourious Basterds features Ennio Morricone, a staple sound from the Kill Bill films and an obvious choice to illustrate a movie about outlaws in the French countryside of World War II. A movie’s soundtrack needs to play a character, adding its own imprint to the story’s emotional drive, and this soundtrack is effective. However, Tarantino goes so far as to use exact tracks from Kill Bill. Not just similar tracks, but exact tracks. He needs to put a leash on this before his soundtracks become typecast. Style is one thing. Repetition is another. I did enjoy his use of David Bowie’s “Cat People (Fighting the Fire).” When our French-Jewish heroine is preparing for her night of revenge she stands in her window wearing a stunning red evening gown, gazing across the Paris cityscape with thoughts of fear and determination oscillating in her eyes. This scene felt like it was straight out of Streets of Fire. Loved it. My second issue with Inglourious Basterds is that for a movie titled Inglourious Basterds one would think the movie is about the Inglourious Basterds. They occupy only half of the story, and even then only Brad Pitt has meaningful dialogue. Most of the Basterds are voiceless faces who may cheer as a cohort beats a German sergeant to death with a baseball bat. I wanted more out of the Basterds, but we only have a few fleeting glimpses. They are all good actors and very interesting characters. Unfortunately they are one of three competing storylines and are sidelined as the other two play out. When the climax occurs I find myself wondering why the Basterds are even necessary for the plan to succeed. Limit the story to two or only one storyline and this would be a more powerful movie. But this is a really good movie. Christoph Walz plays Colonel Hans Landa, aka “The Jew Hunter,” and he deserves to go down in motion picture villain history. He’s the anti-Colombo, knowing our heroes are up to no good and toying with them until he’s had enough. When faced with a dog and pony show all Landa can do is laugh so hard in derision that he has to excuse himself to catch his breath. He will get his man, or woman. And he does. Then we have Diane Kruger cast in the role of German actress Bridget von Hammersmark. I read today that she was not Tarantino’s first choice for the role. When the original actress dropped out Kruger literally begged Tarantino to give her the part. After an audition she got her wish, and rightfully so. I was only familiar with Kruger from Joyeux Noel (goes to show how many movies I’ve never seen), and seeing her in this role was like seeing Richard Gere in I’m Not There. When you see Gere in I’m Not There you think, “That’s the guy from Pretty Woman,” which is exactly what Todd Haynes was going for. You want to see this man as a storied artist known for particular roles escaping into exile but unable to shake the stigma brought on by those roles. When I saw Diane Kruger playing the elegant German actress I thought, “That’s the woman from Joyeux Noel,” which is exactly what you need to think when you see Bridget von Hammersmark. You need to think this is German celebrity transplanted into a violent world of espionage, and you have to question whether or not her choices will work. Brad Pitt of course is Brad Pitt and nails Lieutenant Aldo Raine. His best line is at the end, after the plan explodes and his German prisoner declares he will be shot for such behavior. “Nah,” Raine says. “More like chewed out. I’ve been chewed out before. I can take it.” Director Eli Roth plays a significant role as one of the Basterds, and Melanie Laurent is superb as Shosannah Dreyfus in her quest for vengeance. Inglourious Basterds is a fun movie. I laughed more than I thought I would. Tarantino has done it again. By way of a PS, the man on the First Team wireless internet log-in page looks like he’s wearing a judge robe. What I’ve listened to since I last blogged: Bob Dylan, Flight of the Conchords, Bob Dylan, Neko Case, Bob Dylan, Supergrass, Bob Dylan, Orchestral Manouvres In the Dark, Roxy Music, Bob Dylan, Sunset Rubdown, Swan Lake, Pink Mountaintops, Lightning Dust, and Bob Dylan.