To: Friends, Family, and my fellow Americans
Subject: Get America Back On Track!
It's not too early to be thinking about the future of this country and who's going to lead it. Election after election we're given the "choice" between two unappealing candidates and have no choice but to vote for the one we dislike less. But now, that's about to change.
Stepping up to the forefront of politics is a new type of leader, motivated by his love for his country, not special interest groups. His distinct image and captivating voice you already know, and now it's your chance to make him the leader of the people, for the people, by the people. That's right... Christopher Walken is running for President.
Now, at this early stage of the campaign, is when the grass-roots voters like us can really influence the candidates we'll see in the elections. So take a few minutes to visit the Walken 2008 Home Page at http://www.walken2008.com, read about the man and his ideas, and send them a message of your support. This is how the system should work, and now's your chance to have your voice. Don't let it slip away!
Sincerely,
-David Biastock
Thursday
Wednesday
Monday
Sunday
So, here's a story. This post has been spurred by a series of recently acquired recurring dreams. I'm not sure I've posted this to my blog previously, so forgive me if I repeat myself.
About a year ago I had gotten this whim to visit the house I'd grown up in. For the normal individual, this involves a slow drive by in the hopes that the new occupants don't notice your interest and call the police. However my situation is a little different.
My home was built and owned by my grandparents. Of the two, my grandmother was the last to pass on. This left a house with no owner. Nobody in the family actually wanted the house, and it was decided that it would be easier to sell it to a real estate company and then divide the monetary gains between those mentioned in the last will and testament of Dorothea Biastock.
It took a period of time before someone actually purchased the four acres of property, and the house attached to it. When I had been notified that closing procedures had begun, this prompted me to go check out my old stompin' grounds.
It was an overall melancholy experience brought on by the changing countryside around the house, as well as the changes in the protective bubble surrounding my childhood recollection. At this point the house seemed more like a memory than ever, even though I was standing beside it.
As it turned out, the house was unlocked. The power was still on. I believe the water was still running, too. All in all it was a veritable squatter's paradise.
There were some areas I didn't dare visit. My reasoning at the time lost all ration. But I did bring my camera with me, and I did document the majority of my visit. It might not be as uncomfortable for the casual observer, but I could feel the figurative ghosts of the house pulling at me throughout my visit.
I haven't gone back since. I imagine that the house has been destroyed, and the land surrounding it has been paved over. Pipes and concrete having reshaped the ground and unearthed treasures long buried.
As I lived there, I hated that house and the daily frustrations associated with it. But when you spend over fifteen years in one location, it becomes indelibly marked upon your subconscious. If I had the ability to do so, I'd purchase everything and leave it to decay naturally. A sort of museum of remembrance.
About a year ago I had gotten this whim to visit the house I'd grown up in. For the normal individual, this involves a slow drive by in the hopes that the new occupants don't notice your interest and call the police. However my situation is a little different.
My home was built and owned by my grandparents. Of the two, my grandmother was the last to pass on. This left a house with no owner. Nobody in the family actually wanted the house, and it was decided that it would be easier to sell it to a real estate company and then divide the monetary gains between those mentioned in the last will and testament of Dorothea Biastock.
It took a period of time before someone actually purchased the four acres of property, and the house attached to it. When I had been notified that closing procedures had begun, this prompted me to go check out my old stompin' grounds.
It was an overall melancholy experience brought on by the changing countryside around the house, as well as the changes in the protective bubble surrounding my childhood recollection. At this point the house seemed more like a memory than ever, even though I was standing beside it.
As it turned out, the house was unlocked. The power was still on. I believe the water was still running, too. All in all it was a veritable squatter's paradise.
There were some areas I didn't dare visit. My reasoning at the time lost all ration. But I did bring my camera with me, and I did document the majority of my visit. It might not be as uncomfortable for the casual observer, but I could feel the figurative ghosts of the house pulling at me throughout my visit.
I haven't gone back since. I imagine that the house has been destroyed, and the land surrounding it has been paved over. Pipes and concrete having reshaped the ground and unearthed treasures long buried.
As I lived there, I hated that house and the daily frustrations associated with it. But when you spend over fifteen years in one location, it becomes indelibly marked upon your subconscious. If I had the ability to do so, I'd purchase everything and leave it to decay naturally. A sort of museum of remembrance.
Friday
More new things! I've also added a photo gallery to the site. This can be viewed under the Showing link. I've gotta get uploading!
Tuesday
May I please direct your attention to the left hand side of the web page for my newest addition. Brought to you in part by the good folks at celebrity death beeper dot com, I give you: Deceased.
Umm... basically, I made a pretty picture and I'm using it to stream information about famous deadies.
I give you this great service because I care.
But perhaps I don't care about your resolution... otherwise I wouldn't have made the picture so spectacularly huge.
Umm... basically, I made a pretty picture and I'm using it to stream information about famous deadies.
I give you this great service because I care.
But perhaps I don't care about your resolution... otherwise I wouldn't have made the picture so spectacularly huge.
Saturday
Friday
Wow... I don't know if you remember my little rant previously outlining how I find annoyance by people in wheelchairs who use their chubby little legs to propel themselves around PDX? As I'm sitting on my front porch smoking a cigarette, I see two people scoot past my yard on electric wheelchairs within the span of five minutes. Perhaps with serious maladies which have kept them wheelchair bound, and thusly the chunkiest of monkeys. One of these individuals was roughly in his twenties, listening to thrash metal on headphones while smoking a Virginia Slim... and it was comedy.
Looking for some new desktop wallpaper? Look no further! I'm completely enamored by Pixelgirl Presents, and you should be as well! Currently, David Biastock is sporting this one!
I'm also currently enamored by Paranoia Agent! Maybe it's because Lost has gone the way of reruns for the summer months that this little gem has caused my heart to be filled with such joy, I'm not sure. It sort've has the same overall plot structure. Each episode revolves around a different protagonist whose life is somehow intermingled with the other characters. And all the characters share the common bond of being whacked upside the cranium with an aluminum baseball bat.
My name is Mud.
Looking for some new desktop wallpaper? Look no further! I'm completely enamored by Pixelgirl Presents, and you should be as well! Currently, David Biastock is sporting this one!
I'm also currently enamored by Paranoia Agent! Maybe it's because Lost has gone the way of reruns for the summer months that this little gem has caused my heart to be filled with such joy, I'm not sure. It sort've has the same overall plot structure. Each episode revolves around a different protagonist whose life is somehow intermingled with the other characters. And all the characters share the common bond of being whacked upside the cranium with an aluminum baseball bat.
My name is Mud.
Saturday
Good morning world!
Good morning sun!
Good morning lack of creative inspiration which makes me want to make homicidal gestures towards walls and kittens and such!
Blargh.
Me 'n' Alicia are finally putting the finishing touches on our home loan, and I am ripe with the feeling of impending doom. Not so much that this is a bad purchase, as it's not. It's probably one of the most financially sound decisions Alicia has talked me in to. However, the inevitable mantle of settling down is wearing heavy on my shoulders.
In my more ambitious years, I never thought past the age of 21. That was the last great milestone in my life, and everything after 21 wasn't even worth a second thought. There was something about lowered car insurance at 25, but who owns a car?
Me... I own a car. I own a credit card. I own various amounts of accumulated debt... I own a house.
And with each new addition to the grand pile of accumulated responsibilities, I feel less and less inspired. More and more insipid. Less and less myself.
I guess I never really saw a future for myself where I'd be spending my free time mowing lawns and organizing finances. I've never worried or given a thought about consequence regarding anything before, and now I lay in bed at night obsessing that I've developed high blood pressure.
With the loss of youthful innocence, I don't believe I have gained anything worthwhile. I feel that I've simply become another muddled citizen kept quiet by the daily struggle to resist resistance in an attempt to maintain a carefully manicured lifestyle. Another soulless drone whose mind has become atrophied from the national deficit of free will.
There's no art for me in the everyday. There's no captured spirit in the mundane. I'm bored and average, and I hate it.
*Sigh* Phew! There! I feel better all ready.
Good morning sun!
Good morning lack of creative inspiration which makes me want to make homicidal gestures towards walls and kittens and such!
Blargh.
Me 'n' Alicia are finally putting the finishing touches on our home loan, and I am ripe with the feeling of impending doom. Not so much that this is a bad purchase, as it's not. It's probably one of the most financially sound decisions Alicia has talked me in to. However, the inevitable mantle of settling down is wearing heavy on my shoulders.
In my more ambitious years, I never thought past the age of 21. That was the last great milestone in my life, and everything after 21 wasn't even worth a second thought. There was something about lowered car insurance at 25, but who owns a car?
Me... I own a car. I own a credit card. I own various amounts of accumulated debt... I own a house.
And with each new addition to the grand pile of accumulated responsibilities, I feel less and less inspired. More and more insipid. Less and less myself.
I guess I never really saw a future for myself where I'd be spending my free time mowing lawns and organizing finances. I've never worried or given a thought about consequence regarding anything before, and now I lay in bed at night obsessing that I've developed high blood pressure.
With the loss of youthful innocence, I don't believe I have gained anything worthwhile. I feel that I've simply become another muddled citizen kept quiet by the daily struggle to resist resistance in an attempt to maintain a carefully manicured lifestyle. Another soulless drone whose mind has become atrophied from the national deficit of free will.
There's no art for me in the everyday. There's no captured spirit in the mundane. I'm bored and average, and I hate it.
*Sigh* Phew! There! I feel better all ready.
Monday
ARRRRGGGHHH
This is very upsetting. I was randomly clicking through amihotornot.com seeking something I had posted at least 6 years ago. When I realized that I still remembered my username and password, happiness and joy filled my brain for .097 seconds. This fleeting elation was quickly crushed when I noticed my rating.
After rotating in cyberspace for 6 years, it was a freakin' 5.6
See for yourself.
This is very upsetting. I was randomly clicking through amihotornot.com seeking something I had posted at least 6 years ago. When I realized that I still remembered my username and password, happiness and joy filled my brain for .097 seconds. This fleeting elation was quickly crushed when I noticed my rating.
After rotating in cyberspace for 6 years, it was a freakin' 5.6
See for yourself.
Tuesday
Ode to eight things I'll never see again because I'm apparently not as good at locking my car as I ought to be
- To the Game Boy Advance in the glove compartment, whom I never really played. Your shitty screen and it's need for sunlight caused my love to fade.
- For the rechargable batteries inside that Game Boy, who were as dead as Josef Stalin. You were eco friendly, and barely used. Your loss is quite appalling.
- Here's to Mario 3, who I'll never see.
- And to Katie's Jackass: The Movie!
- Here's to five dollars in change, which is sadly estranged.
- And the headphones I bought at Sam Goodie.
But the losses most great, are seven and eight. I shall miss them most of all.
Goodbye MP3 player, and your car kit adapter... I think... I may start... to bawl...
Thursday
Battle of the Nerds.
The following are two user comments taken from Amazon.com item number B0002JJBZY, more commonly known as the first three seasons of the original Star Trek.
Behold the splendor of the nerd in their native environment:
This offensive comment could not be left alone. A champion must rise up and fight for all that is sacred. For the sake of William Shatner's staccato delivery of his lines! For the honor of every seductively clad alien! For the right to boldy fly model spaceships where no man has flown a model spaceship before!
(Note: This is much more entertaining when mentally read in the style of "Comic Book Nerd" from the Simpsons.)
The following are two user comments taken from Amazon.com item number B0002JJBZY, more commonly known as the first three seasons of the original Star Trek.
Behold the splendor of the nerd in their native environment:
Are you kidding!, August 17, 2004
Reviewer: Mr. T. Herrmann "kingofrockandsoul" (Vernon Hills,IL) - See all my reviews
I love Star Trek. That said, you would have to be nuts to buy this package. $272 for all three seasons! If you buy them individually, they would cost $255! This is based on the $84 for the first season. I have all the episodes on tape. I will probably purchase the dvds for the sound and picture quality. But, I'm not stupid enough to fall for this.
This offensive comment could not be left alone. A champion must rise up and fight for all that is sacred. For the sake of William Shatner's staccato delivery of his lines! For the honor of every seductively clad alien! For the right to boldy fly model spaceships where no man has flown a model spaceship before!
(Note: This is much more entertaining when mentally read in the style of "Comic Book Nerd" from the Simpsons.)
No Mr. Biggest YES Fan Ever... thank you.I'd pay for this timeless DVD complete series., November 28, 2004
Reviewer: Biggest YES Fan Ever! "Star Trek Fan" (Frisco, TX USA) - See all my reviews
Unlike T. Hermann below, the "Kingofrockandsoul," I am willing to pay the listed price for the complete series and its "futuristic capsule" packaging. If you're a cheapskate and a penny-pincher (you're probably too destitute to make this purchase anyway, Mr. Hermann), then go elsewhere, perhaps a second-hand record store, and good luck! For a true Star Trek fan like myself (obviously unlike Mr. Hermann below), I think this is a good deal (only approximately $5.00 per episode, each of which will be watched many times). PS-If you're a cheapskate/tightwad, please go somewhere else to complain about your inability to purchase something due to your own destitution. It's nobody's fault but you're own that you can't afford to buy it. Get a life and, better yet, get a better paying job if you can't afford these prices. There are people that CAN afford and ARE willing to buy the things they love, like the complete original Star Trek episodes on DVD, and we don't appreciate reading your negative miserly comments. Thank you, Amazon.com, for offering this wonderful Complete Original Star Trek series on DVD. I've been waiting a long time for this to come out on DVD. Thank you!
Monday
I'm going to tell you one of my biggest pet peeves. And that's people who sit in wheelchairs, and then propel their flabby lazy bodies around on their flabby lazy legs. "Jesus H" I cry, "how did this trend ever begin?" I shudder to think of how many times I've seen someone in the greater Portland metro area toolin' around on their fatty mobile (Probably nicknamed The Cadillac) with no better intention then to buy a pack of Virginia Slims and a Moonpie.
And then they whine about their disability! What 'bout people with honest to god handicaps?
Why should they get the priviledged parking spots? Why should they get to ride around in electric shopping carts? THEY'RE JUST LAZY WALKERS.
Okay. I'm done. Now click on something funny.
And then they whine about their disability! What 'bout people with honest to god handicaps?
Why should they get the priviledged parking spots? Why should they get to ride around in electric shopping carts? THEY'RE JUST LAZY WALKERS.
Okay. I'm done. Now click on something funny.
Thursday
So, I'd like to give a warm shout out my homies over at Portland Office Furniture who saved me from what could have been a very crappy, crappy morning.
In short, they saved me from being late to work and left me with enough time to enjoy my morning cigarette.
"How is this possible??" you ask, shortly before I give you a wedgie and call you Sally.
The answer is simple. They sell office supplies. That means they sell white boards. That means some friggin' GENIUS who is probably getting paid less than they deserve took one of those white boards, wrote "Accident on the Hawthorne bridge," and left it where the passerby could easily view it.
Who am I to argue with a whiteboard?
I took their information to heart, detoured my normal route and hopped onto the Ross Island. Needless to say, I felt a bit smug when listening to the stories of those afflicted by the traffic.
So thank you Portland Office Furniture. Never in the past would I have thought to stop by your store, but this weekend I may be in the market for a new wacky mousepad.
In short, they saved me from being late to work and left me with enough time to enjoy my morning cigarette.
"How is this possible??" you ask, shortly before I give you a wedgie and call you Sally.
The answer is simple. They sell office supplies. That means they sell white boards. That means some friggin' GENIUS who is probably getting paid less than they deserve took one of those white boards, wrote "Accident on the Hawthorne bridge," and left it where the passerby could easily view it.
Who am I to argue with a whiteboard?
I took their information to heart, detoured my normal route and hopped onto the Ross Island. Needless to say, I felt a bit smug when listening to the stories of those afflicted by the traffic.
So thank you Portland Office Furniture. Never in the past would I have thought to stop by your store, but this weekend I may be in the market for a new wacky mousepad.
Well, life's funny sometimes, ain't it?
I'd like to preclude today's post with a little something I read recently:
With that said, I segue now into today's observation.
Thanksgiving is upon us, and all the world's population (Except for those little Etheopian kids. And France.) will be gathered around their respective dining room tables for a moment of wholesome family togetherness, and unabashed gluttony. It's a time for Football... reflection... and enough triptophane to stop Grandpa's heart.
But mostly it's about Turkey.
Really, only once a year do we all get a chance to appreciate the Turkey for what it is. Sure, up until November we've all had our share of Turkey sandwiches, or Turkey... umm... hot dogs? What the hell else do you do with a Turkey except make sandwiches? Turkey penny loafers?
Sorry. As I was saying, only once a year do we get to see that beautiful golden bird in all it's glory. Lovingly basted in it's own meaty juices, with an aroma that fills the house and makes your nervous system lock up everytime mom or grandma open the oven door.
"Is it done yet? Is it done? Did the Turkey look done? How about the button? Did it pop? Whaddayamean it's not a Butterball? It's been cooking since four fucking A.M., is it done yet? BACK AWAY FROM THE OVEN, GRANDMA. DADDY NEEDS HIS FIX."
But I have sad news for you America. They're trying to take it all away from us. The anticipation. The scoldings caused by pre-meal snacking. The shifty "Turkey eye". They're taking it away, America.
For this.
Now, for those of you who don't have broadband I'll explain what's being displayed while the others are (hopefully) being horrified beyond the limits of their own sanity.
Deep fried turkey.
SEE? SEE WHAT IT DOES? It robs the capital T from turkey, and leaves the word naked and violated. It takes a reminder of a beautiful moment, and makes it cheap 'n' dirty. Like a used condom your little brother found in the trash.
"Look! What's this?"
"It's nothing! Don't touch that! Throw it away!"
See, I've heard about deep fried turkey. Just like I've heard that women have sexual relations in exchange for small amounts of crack cocaine. But hearing about a crack whore, and seeing a crack whore are two completely different things.
After watching this video, I witnessed two individuals completely crap on an American institution that's been around since America was friggin' NAMED America. One person was a young, hip male chef employed by the food network in order to give lonely housewives something to fantasize about while folding their husbands laundry. (You may email me at kungfuporcupine@hotmail.com, but do try to at least spell "chauvinist" correctly.) The other person was a young attractive girl... who I believe had never seen a turkey before. Maybe not even a turkey sandwich.
So there they are, making every effort to get through a five minute spot on how to destroy a turkey without tearing each other's clothes off, and over they prance to a fourty quart pot leading a platoon of bottles filled with peanut oil.
*Prance prance prance*
"Isn't ruining tradition fun, Bambi?"
So using some very clever scientific tricks they pulled from an episode of McGuyver, they measure the necessary amount of liquid needed to deep fry a turkey.
And fry it they did.
Oh ye gods, to see this 22 pound beauty methodically stabbed with a horse syringe full of "seasonings" and transformed into a heroine junkie before being slowly lowered into a bubbling pot of grease and evil... well... it made me a little sad... and then a little afraid.
Had the terrorists won?
"Oh, think of the time you'll save! By boiling poultry in fourty quarts of oil, you'll be closer to your family... and Allah!"
Okay, my point here is pretty simple. We as a society are too dependant on convenience. We want quick, easy, and a teflon surface you clean with a paper towel. But I just want to say that time, effort, and patience are the ingredients needed to make a little dish I like to call...
fucking appreciation.
I'd like to preclude today's post with a little something I read recently:
"Americans, let's face it: We've been a spoiled country for a long time. Do you-- Comedian Greg Giraldo, from "Underwear Goes Inside the Pants" by Lazy Boy
know what the number one health risk in America is? Obesity. They say we're in
the middle of an obesity epidemic. An epidemic like it is polio. Like we'll be
telling our grandkids about it one day. The Great Obesity Epidemic of 2004.
'How'd you get through it, Grandpa?' 'Oh, it was horrible Johnny, there was
cheesecake and pork chops everywhere.'"
With that said, I segue now into today's observation.
Thanksgiving is upon us, and all the world's population (Except for those little Etheopian kids. And France.) will be gathered around their respective dining room tables for a moment of wholesome family togetherness, and unabashed gluttony. It's a time for Football... reflection... and enough triptophane to stop Grandpa's heart.
But mostly it's about Turkey.
Really, only once a year do we all get a chance to appreciate the Turkey for what it is. Sure, up until November we've all had our share of Turkey sandwiches, or Turkey... umm... hot dogs? What the hell else do you do with a Turkey except make sandwiches? Turkey penny loafers?
Sorry. As I was saying, only once a year do we get to see that beautiful golden bird in all it's glory. Lovingly basted in it's own meaty juices, with an aroma that fills the house and makes your nervous system lock up everytime mom or grandma open the oven door.
"Is it done yet? Is it done? Did the Turkey look done? How about the button? Did it pop? Whaddayamean it's not a Butterball? It's been cooking since four fucking A.M., is it done yet? BACK AWAY FROM THE OVEN, GRANDMA. DADDY NEEDS HIS FIX."
But I have sad news for you America. They're trying to take it all away from us. The anticipation. The scoldings caused by pre-meal snacking. The shifty "Turkey eye". They're taking it away, America.
For this.
Now, for those of you who don't have broadband I'll explain what's being displayed while the others are (hopefully) being horrified beyond the limits of their own sanity.
Deep fried turkey.
SEE? SEE WHAT IT DOES? It robs the capital T from turkey, and leaves the word naked and violated. It takes a reminder of a beautiful moment, and makes it cheap 'n' dirty. Like a used condom your little brother found in the trash.
"Look! What's this?"
"It's nothing! Don't touch that! Throw it away!"
See, I've heard about deep fried turkey. Just like I've heard that women have sexual relations in exchange for small amounts of crack cocaine. But hearing about a crack whore, and seeing a crack whore are two completely different things.
After watching this video, I witnessed two individuals completely crap on an American institution that's been around since America was friggin' NAMED America. One person was a young, hip male chef employed by the food network in order to give lonely housewives something to fantasize about while folding their husbands laundry. (You may email me at kungfuporcupine@hotmail.com, but do try to at least spell "chauvinist" correctly.) The other person was a young attractive girl... who I believe had never seen a turkey before. Maybe not even a turkey sandwich.
So there they are, making every effort to get through a five minute spot on how to destroy a turkey without tearing each other's clothes off, and over they prance to a fourty quart pot leading a platoon of bottles filled with peanut oil.
*Prance prance prance*
"Isn't ruining tradition fun, Bambi?"
So using some very clever scientific tricks they pulled from an episode of McGuyver, they measure the necessary amount of liquid needed to deep fry a turkey.
And fry it they did.
Oh ye gods, to see this 22 pound beauty methodically stabbed with a horse syringe full of "seasonings" and transformed into a heroine junkie before being slowly lowered into a bubbling pot of grease and evil... well... it made me a little sad... and then a little afraid.
Had the terrorists won?
"Oh, think of the time you'll save! By boiling poultry in fourty quarts of oil, you'll be closer to your family... and Allah!"
Okay, my point here is pretty simple. We as a society are too dependant on convenience. We want quick, easy, and a teflon surface you clean with a paper towel. But I just want to say that time, effort, and patience are the ingredients needed to make a little dish I like to call...
fucking appreciation.
Wednesday
Thank you to the two fans whose request for more bullshit has pulled me out of retirement.
Joshua... Dylan... this post's for you.
First and foremost, as a public service announcement, I would like to advise those of you intending to view the movie Saw to instead contribute your price of admission to a more worthwhile cause. Such as one of these useless bottomfeeders. This movie was one of the more painful cinematic experiences I have had in quite awhile. The best part of the movie is when you realize the tubby bastard trying to squeeze out some sort of realistic emotion is none other than Cary Elwes. I feel his dark portrayal of husband-powerless-to-save-his-uninteresting-family would have been better had the director been off camera silently setting a cheeseburger on fire.
Overall the whole movie could have been saved if the persistent police-officer-gone-schizo, played by Danny Glover, had voiced some kind of personal concern for being too old for this shit.
In other news, there's a possibility that I may be getting a roommate to move in with me 'n' the Missus. It'd be kind've fun to have a friend around the house with which to drink beer and play network games on the ol' computer. Aaah... long hours of network gaming... I can feel my skin lose it's pigment. More info as things develop.
Well, I'm afraid I'm going to have to leave you for now dear friends. Wednesday nights at eight o'clock mean one thing. Lost. After becoming painfully addicted to this show, I still can't tell if it's going to be really awesome or really gay. But until I figure it out, I'll be dedicating the next sixty minutes of my life to ABC.
Which doesn't stand for American Booby Channel.
Joshua... Dylan... this post's for you.
First and foremost, as a public service announcement, I would like to advise those of you intending to view the movie Saw to instead contribute your price of admission to a more worthwhile cause. Such as one of these useless bottomfeeders. This movie was one of the more painful cinematic experiences I have had in quite awhile. The best part of the movie is when you realize the tubby bastard trying to squeeze out some sort of realistic emotion is none other than Cary Elwes. I feel his dark portrayal of husband-powerless-to-save-his-uninteresting-family would have been better had the director been off camera silently setting a cheeseburger on fire.
Overall the whole movie could have been saved if the persistent police-officer-gone-schizo, played by Danny Glover, had voiced some kind of personal concern for being too old for this shit.
In other news, there's a possibility that I may be getting a roommate to move in with me 'n' the Missus. It'd be kind've fun to have a friend around the house with which to drink beer and play network games on the ol' computer. Aaah... long hours of network gaming... I can feel my skin lose it's pigment. More info as things develop.
Well, I'm afraid I'm going to have to leave you for now dear friends. Wednesday nights at eight o'clock mean one thing. Lost. After becoming painfully addicted to this show, I still can't tell if it's going to be really awesome or really gay. But until I figure it out, I'll be dedicating the next sixty minutes of my life to ABC.
Which doesn't stand for American Booby Channel.
Oooh, a new month is upon us. Innocent eyed and gleaming with the hopes of new possibilities.
Some people might say that this month is so new... it's "fresh."
A fresh month.
Yes, some people might say that. And both of them are outsourced as the WB's advertising executives. If I have to hear about one more "fresh" episode of Smallville during King of the Hill reruns, I swear to christ I'm going to get off my couch, go out on my back porch... and... smoke a cigarette. But I'll smoke it really mean.
Scare the squirrels right out of the yard.
Television is an enigma. I hate it so much sometimes, yet I've probably spent more time in front of the tube than your average American. Suckling the teat of corporate media in the hopes that unfettered entertainment might come my way.
This is why I love cable access.
I love it so fucking much I wish I had TiVo. I love it so fucking much I may buy TiVo. Or a VCR. What ever happened to VCRs, man? Who actually owns one anymore? Everyone's knocking back high fidelity components like shots of Jager, scrambling for Sony's flotsam.
There are simple principles in life. You will never be able to recreate the setting of a movie theater. You won't. Take that $2,300.00 plasma screen T.V. and shove it up your ass. My $8.00 movie ticket blows the hell out of your THX certified stereo components.
Sure, sure. Some may argue that with movie going comes a stadium full of careless strangers that interrupt your movie. Well how many times have you sat through a movie at home and not pressed pause due to some kind of distraction? To answer the phone, let the dog outside, bury another one of Stephen Baldwin's dead hookers.
God, who let him in here anyway? I thought we changed the locks?
Some people might say that this month is so new... it's "fresh."
A fresh month.
Yes, some people might say that. And both of them are outsourced as the WB's advertising executives. If I have to hear about one more "fresh" episode of Smallville during King of the Hill reruns, I swear to christ I'm going to get off my couch, go out on my back porch... and... smoke a cigarette. But I'll smoke it really mean.
Scare the squirrels right out of the yard.
Television is an enigma. I hate it so much sometimes, yet I've probably spent more time in front of the tube than your average American. Suckling the teat of corporate media in the hopes that unfettered entertainment might come my way.
This is why I love cable access.
I love it so fucking much I wish I had TiVo. I love it so fucking much I may buy TiVo. Or a VCR. What ever happened to VCRs, man? Who actually owns one anymore? Everyone's knocking back high fidelity components like shots of Jager, scrambling for Sony's flotsam.
There are simple principles in life. You will never be able to recreate the setting of a movie theater. You won't. Take that $2,300.00 plasma screen T.V. and shove it up your ass. My $8.00 movie ticket blows the hell out of your THX certified stereo components.
Sure, sure. Some may argue that with movie going comes a stadium full of careless strangers that interrupt your movie. Well how many times have you sat through a movie at home and not pressed pause due to some kind of distraction? To answer the phone, let the dog outside, bury another one of Stephen Baldwin's dead hookers.
God, who let him in here anyway? I thought we changed the locks?
Tuesday
What did you do this weekend?
Sort've a cheesy tagline, but it just about sums up the sense of pride you get from the chaotic explosion of creativity that accompanies the 48 Hour Film Project.
I have my reservations as to the quality of the finished product, however I invite you to judge for yourself this Thursday at the Hollywood Theater.
Seven o'clock, beyotch.
I think the greater outcome from this project, at least for myself, is the hyper localized need to continue making cinema. I for one have talked my self blue about movie projects, and buried myself under a drift of half finished screenplays. But working on a project like this forces you to focus and complete something without getting distracted by soft core on Skinemax.
And once you're done, that's when all the stagnant bits of creativity come to life. The unfinished ideas that had to be left behind due to time constraints. They all gang up and burrow a little spot into your brain.
I'm talking with my buddy about making a music video for his band. Nothing too complex, but I fully plan to rip off the ideas used for Radiohead's Street Spirit video.
I will most definitely post the finished product(s) for all to critique.
Sort've a cheesy tagline, but it just about sums up the sense of pride you get from the chaotic explosion of creativity that accompanies the 48 Hour Film Project.
I have my reservations as to the quality of the finished product, however I invite you to judge for yourself this Thursday at the Hollywood Theater.
Seven o'clock, beyotch.
I think the greater outcome from this project, at least for myself, is the hyper localized need to continue making cinema. I for one have talked my self blue about movie projects, and buried myself under a drift of half finished screenplays. But working on a project like this forces you to focus and complete something without getting distracted by soft core on Skinemax.
And once you're done, that's when all the stagnant bits of creativity come to life. The unfinished ideas that had to be left behind due to time constraints. They all gang up and burrow a little spot into your brain.
I'm talking with my buddy about making a music video for his band. Nothing too complex, but I fully plan to rip off the ideas used for Radiohead's Street Spirit video.
I will most definitely post the finished product(s) for all to critique.
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