Goals for the Summer

(In order of priority)

Write a script and make a movie out of it.
Write a short story for the Esquire fiction contest.
Write a play of some kind
Experiment with different literature
Experiment with different movie genres (I've never seen a blaxploitation movie!)
Watch the entirety of Star Trek: The Next Generation
Drastically improve physique
Attain employment
Sins of the flesh

A moment of clarity

I'm sitting at my desk, it's almost 1 AM. I'm in my pajamas, eating pasta, balancing out all that protein with some carbs. I'm listening to NWA as I'm reading Looking Back in Anger, a pretty decent play by John Osborne.

Life is good, man.

My favorite movie

People who actually take ten seconds to learn about me know my favorite movie is Sergio Leone's magnum opus, the third in the Man with No Name trilogy, The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly, a film with such style, such grace that the only damn word I can use to describe it is perfect. It is agonizingly slow, as are all Leone westerns, and perhaps all westerns in general, but the technical merits of the film are simply what's so remarkable about it. The constant use of close-ups, the panoramic shots of the desert, the minimalist dialogue. All of it is executed with supreme style, even if the story isn't exactly Citizen Kane. Standard western fare, hunt for gold, etc. The film also stars Clint Eastwood in his premiere role, as Blondie, "The Good." Lee Van Cleef makes his appearance as Sentenza, Angel Eyes, "The Bad," a villain so horribly memorable that my current AIM screen name is modeled after him. The ever-so memorable Eli Wallach stars as Tuco, "The Ugly," who teams up with Blondie to find the cache of gold in the desert. Those who can look past the slow yet subtle pace, the paper-thin plot will find an extremely rewarding film, one of the most stylish movies of all time that has techniques that will make any movie buff wet his pants. Also, the final climactic duel between all three characters is just so mind-bogglingly insane that I can't even describe it or post the YouTube video. You really have to see it for yourself.

PS. I wish I were a cowboy :(

A moratorium on trends in the current video game market

An industry that once prided itself on original and fresh entertainment has fallen victim to a disgusting plague of sequels and shooters, completely devoid of anything compelling. Video games these days fall under three categories these days:

*The Casual Market. This is the sector of the industry that makes so much money that it's going to be completely impractical to discontinue them. While simplistic games have been around since their inception, never have they been so prevalent. The advent of the Nintendo Wii, as well as the Playstation Network and Xbox Live Arcade have carved a rather large niche for simple, enjoyable games. Unfortunately, for every Puzzle Quest and Bejeweled, we have to contend with truly atrocious garbage that floods the market; most of it on the Wii and even published by the bigwigs at Nintendo themselves! Wii Music is not a fucking video game! Carnival Games can be replicated by going to a fair while stoned on eight tabs of LSD! Casual gaming is a cornerstone and essential building block of the industry, but the popularity of the Wii has simply turned it into a bunch of imprecise stick-waggling nonsense that isn't so much video gaming as it is random stick waggling with the occasional button press.

*Sequel mania. Once upon a time, about five years ago, I used to rag on Electronic Arts' rehashing of Madden NFL every year, implementing few changes and cornering the market with that ridiculous exclusivity fiasco. With the benefit of hindsight, I think we can agree that while Madden's staleness has gotten significantly better, and the teats of that cow are somewhat fresher. However, the same cannot be said for a certain franchise called Guitar Hero, a series that has been so exploited, it might as well be renamed Frederick Douglass. Originally a series that was crafted with loving care from the music maestros at developer Harmonix, once Activision passed the money-grubbing franchise to the hack studio Neversoft (developers of the tenacious Tony Hawk franchise, another series that gets rehashed to death every year), who have released an ungodly amount of sequels and expansions to the series, each as needless as the last. The greed that has taken over this series is really quite sad, but just to give you a taste of what the franchise used to be, here's a timeline:

Under Harmonix's creative control:

Guitar Hero - 2005
Guitar Hero 2 - 2006
Guitar Hero Encore: Rocks the 80's - 2006

Under Activision's creative control:

Guitar Hero 3: Legends of Rock - 2007 Neversoft.
Guitar Hero: Aerosmith - 2008
Guitar Hero: On Tour - 2008
Guitar Hero: On Tour Decades - 2008
Guitar Hero: World Tour - 2008
Guitar Hero: Metallica - 2009
Guitar Hero: Modern Hits - 2009
Guitar Hero: Van Halen - 2009

I think you get my point. It's not just Activision that's wringing this cash cow's nipples dry, there's a Call of Duty sequel every year, Gears of War seems to have a certain release schedule, and even the holy BioShock, one of the greatest, most original titles is getting the sequel treatment. There are such things as good sequels, but the bad ones, the Guitar Heroes and Maddens are still the same rehashed garbage as they always have been.

*Gritty, realistic games. Here's my biggest beef with the industry. Why is it that these games, with their high-end graphics, impressive production values wasted on the same plots, the same scenarios, and the same bullshit? Killzone and Gears of War have the exact same plots, basically a bunch of huge, war-mongering dickholes march into battle with their guns mounted on their improbably huge power armor gruffly screaming the virtues of murder while occasionally spicing it up with ridiculous and unbelievable melodrama that fools no one. I'm so sick of these games; they may have the best gameplay in the world, but none of that matters when we're playing in the same environments, following the same linear storylines, shooting the same aliens in the same ruined environments. Are we so devoid of creative ideas that we can't put a fresh spin on shooters? What's with all the Space Marines? Shooters could have spies, Native Americans, and misogynists as their protagonist, are we that afraid of change? Come on now.

My ideal industry is one that pumps out creative, innovative and fun-to-play games. I'm willing to overlook flaws in exchange for experimentation, which is why I loved Mirror's Edge so much. The most exciting release this year is Brutal Legend, led by legendarily creative mind Tim Schafer, in his take on a heavy metal action game. It's creative. It's new. And it's what the industry should be experimenting with instead of Zone of Kill War Gears 9: Revenge of the Hell Locust.

PS. I hardly even play video games any more, which makes this incredibly long-winded entry ironic, or something like that.

Stuff that pisses me off: Volume 1

Jesus Christ, I've been pretty mellow on the pure, unadulterated hatred front for a few months now, but the past couple of days have really cranked my abhorrence wheel up like a sloth on crystal meth. I am referring, of course, to the wildly reported outbreaks of swine flu, a deadly, lethal, dangerous, mortal, debilitating, crippling, horrifying, biblical plague, the latest in a line of diseases that the media deems so fit to exaggerate for better ratings and to fulfill their monthly scare-mongering quota. In the Bay Area, grandiosely describing the abduction and murder of that little girl from Tracy wasn't quite doing it, so hey, let's try to wet some pants with this new sickness!

I'm not going to quote statistics, or specific cases, or any data for that matter. All everyone needs to know is that a certain strain of the flu, supposedly originated in Mexico, has spread like a wildfire on cocaine, resulting in the shut down of various facilities, such as schools and churches. Quick aside: Mexico's poorest regions are shitholes, and we're surprised that diseases are spreading? It's like working inside of an empty septic tank and becoming shocked when you're covered in gallons of liquid shit. What's even more appalling is that people who caught the disease were hospitalized, then released with a clean bill of health, as evidenced here: http://www.reuters.com/article/topNews/idUSTRE53P23920090426

You see? If the most destitute people in the world can survive a nasty bout of the flu like this, why in the name of Jehovah are the people who live in the most industrialized, medically advanced society suddenly wearing doctor's masks and ostracizing people who sneeze like they've possessed by a demon? I'm sorry I missed the memo where Satan told all of his demons he would be manifesting himself on earth as a harmless effect as a result of a harmless cold! And the people who actually died of the disease I suspect had compromised immune systems, were already in poor health, or simply didn't receive medical care. It's a fucking strain of the flu. It's treatable. Even in Tijuana.

What else pisses me off about this whole affair? Ah yes, the unquellable hysteria that it brings on. Any change to society, any exaggeration, the advent of the downfall, will cause panic among the people. Of course, when it's an actual threat, say a Category-5 hurricane capable of decimating everything from here to Azerbaijan, the obvious thing to do is to sit on your porch, spitting chewing tobacco into an old coffee tin as a prostitute with beads provides you with furious fellatio. No, evacuating would be mildly inconvenient! But when something as minor and insignificant as a slightly more virulent type of flu comes out, the first instinct is to gobble down antibiotics, cold meds, and holistic bullshit like Airborne and those things that are little more than Vitamin C megadoses as though they were delicious candy. My God, the people who use antibacterial soap, antifungal deodorant, antiviral testicle cream – they're part of the problem. Simple biology dictates that certain strains of whatever nasty organism you're tangoing with are resistant to certain measures, and when they develop resistances to whatever you've been using, then you're kind of fucked aren't you? Methicillin-resistant staph aureus was bred by our own stupidities, and when we're about to cough up our lungs through our assholes, we realize that we should've listened to the doctor's instructions.

Hey people. Remember SARS? Bird flu? Anthrax? West Nile Virus? Yeah, they were touted as the possible trigger for a global pandemic too. Did it fucking happen? I don't think so. Maybe there were just four different flukes. Or maybe we're all just panic-prone idiots that suck up every word of the ratings-hungry media dumps into our willing mouths, like a good-mannered prostitute. The Black Plague was a pandemic. Smallpox. But those took place when there was no medical technology and about as much sanitation as my toilet. Stop acting so goddamn crazy, and if you do get swine flu, just have some chicken soup. You'll be fine.

PS. I have bird flu from being so ASIAN.

More faggy introspection

A Loosely Connected Rant on Nothing in Particular

The horribly clichéd phrase “Nice guys finish last” is a lasting adage for a reason. It's true. While it's great for making yourself feel better about your inadequacies, by taking false pleasures in the happiness of others, any substantial relationship is unsustainable by being a “nice guy.” Outside of biological imperative, the stereotypical nice guy is boring, insecure, and wallowing. It's an image no one wants to have.

But it's hard when your heart gets ripped out your scrotum and all you want to do is listen to the melancholy tunes of Opeth and The Cure, write shitty poetry using your own blood as ink, and coming up with extravagant suicide scenarios, like skydiving naked into one of those silos in a nuclear power plant, or charging into a terrorist stronghold wearing a kilt and brandishing a harpoon gun. Even sadder is seeing the other party genuinely happy, without you, your services, excellent, one-of-a-kind services in your self-pitying mind, are no longer needed. All of this would make anyone feel like French-kissing a cobra.

But it's all something we have to cope with, I suppose, which is why I'm telling you this story. Call it a cautionary tale. It's bad feeling bad, pain and depression that can only be allayed with the strongest of barbiturates. It's nice, hitting the reefer, taking speed, smoking like a chimney, and taking enough sleep aids to knock out an insomniac for several years at a time. These escapades are all set to the dulcet tunes of jazz music of course, the most decadent and libertine of all musical genres, the equivalent of Marquis De Sade on cocaine.

Hear me out though. While wild drug romps are great, it just delays the issue, which culminates, eventually, one way or another, in you moving right along, becoming a better and wiser person. You can bury the issue temporarily with drugs and alcohol, it'll give you fleeting pleasure and distractions from your problems, but like a good zombie, whatever problems you have will just keep coming back, returning from the grave to haunt your pathetic, hung-up mind. When there's no more pot to smoke, no more vodka to drink, or any parakeets to strangle, you will wallow in your misery. You will drown in sadness, and suck on the poisoned nipple of melancholy. But that's how you move on. You will formulate thoughts, think critically and perhaps bitterly. You may want to listen to crappy music just to give yourself a bit of familiar comfort, but this is what builds character. This snowfall of sorrow will help you move along. It may feel like someone is wailing on your nuts with a pneumatic drill, but this is the good kind of pain. The type of pain you feel after an excruciating workout. It might not be immediate at first, but with time you'll realize it.

Almost always, you'll find some coping mechanism. The cool people read critically acclaimed satirical novels in an attempt to make themselves seem smarter, write irreverent pieces on seemingly nothing in particular, and watching foreign films as though they know something about movies. You'll feel better though. I promise, and if you don't, you can call my number for a refund. The whole thing can effectively be summed up as “Better to have 'loved' and lost, than to never have 'loved'” at all. I put massive irony quotation marks around the word 'love' because it's been used more than cocaine in a Bangkok brothel. Consider it an experience. Consider it learning. Be smart and try to wring some enjoyment out of life. Try not to get hung up on stuff like this because it will slowly kill you.

Walk out of the tunnel bitter, angry, and ready to kill. But as you keep walking, you'll realize your idiocy, bless the sunshine, and move onto the next coke orgy. I mean PTA meeting.

PS. That blurred the line between flash fiction and more incoherent ramblings spewed forth from God-knows-what in my brain.

Lightning strikes twice?

Good Morning

Of course, I forget to set the alarm to wake up. Damn it all, why wouldn't I want to wake up to go perform the equivalent of eating my own head for about eight hours? It's great to wake up to the feeling of being stabbed in the ears by swords dipped in the gonorrhea discharge of Satan himself. Must remember to destroy it, along with the vibrating shower head that whirs with all the urgency of a narcoleptic koala.

Of course there's no hot water, because using all of it up to make green tea for your three hundred cats is infinitely more important. I remember when I looked forward to my morning masturbation prospects, the one shining spot of my day. However, that's hardly possible when your balls are shriveled up like dehydrated grapefruits because the water's colder than an Eskimo's vagina.

Of course there's a mixture of both pubic, facial, and cat hair in the sink, making me wonder what that clinically insane roommate of mine does to his cats when I'm asleep or out of the house drinking myself to death. It's great when you brush your teeth and instead of spitting out toothpaste, you end up picking out bits of fur between your teeth. Also fantastic how the toilet seat isn't so much used as support, as a fun little game to play to liven up those dull, dull urinary sessions.

Of course, when I get dressed, my best clothes are torn, when the scratching post is just outside my door. It's always fun to open your hamper to look for older shirts and have a nice, steaming surprise staring back at you cheerily. Also nice to know that you can have the color of your shirts changed all for free. Only available in yellow, though.

Of course, when it's time to leave the house, collect my briefcase and things, it's always essential to be raped in the ear canal by a flaming condom, which may sound like hyperbole, but it's not when you hear the usual uninformed opinions on “The Man” by a group of pugnaciously smelling hippies, your cat-loving, hairier than a sasquatch with hirsutism roommate among them. It's either that or you enter the living room and the collective hisses of three hundred felines combine into one giant super hiss, something the largest anaconda would be jealous of. As a music lover, it's also really nice to occasionally wake up to the sounds of an untuned acoustic guitar played by an uncoordinated liberal douche who has all the talent of a short story writer who writes humorous vignettes instead of actual substantial works.

So after all of this, I opened my front door and walk downstairs to the parking garage to my car. I warm it up, listening to NPR as I do as I come to a startling, but not altogether surprising revelation.

Today's going to be a bad day.