Grave of the Fireflies: A Review

Released in 1988, Grave of the Fireflies is the. . . I. . . Released in 1988, Grave of the. . . Grave of. . . nope. Nope. Can't do it. I can't. . . I just can't do it.

Fuck.

I just want to go home, guys.

What a face!

"The whole modern world has divided itself into Conservatives and Progressives. The business of Progressives is to go on making mistakes. The business of the Conservatives is to prevent the mistakes from being corrected."

Read GK Chesterton. It'll only take up so much of your time and you'll be a slightly better person for the wear.

Dance, Dance, Dance: A Review of Dancer

Can I say that I'm a espionage thriller connesuer without sounding like an asshole?

What's that? Other people can, but not me? I gotcha. That's fair.

Who is Jake Ellis? is a fantastic book. It feels like the hybrid of a 1970's spy movie with the kind of USA TV show you would watch because you're too drunk to get off of the couch. It's pure entertainment wrapped in a high concept that manages to work. Instead of feeling like a gimick, it feels like a new kind of spy thriller. Dancer is what happens when that high concept fails.

In a way it should be a slam dunk. The doppleganger is a class film noir trope. Considering that this story takes place in Europe, that sort of connection with German expressionism and France's post-war fascination with the American genre films they missed out on, you have a very smart set of texts to play around with. Then you layer on something like Metal Gear Solid, which includes the same kind of plot device to get moving, Dancer should be an excellent. You look at all this and you think "Hey, this should be good, this should work."

And then it doesn't.

It doesn't work because I don't care. I won't go into what the concept is supposed to be as removing the surprise might smother what little life this story has in it. But it doesn't work because it's a silly idea, the reason this story doesn't work is that the plot and the characters are paper thin. So, while all of this action is going down and then there's the silly high concept waving to you in the background, reminding you of just how silly this entire story is. It's a refrain that I've been hearing a lot lately. In a way it's good to see that comic book

Oh, no, wait, it's the opposite of that.

Speaking of characters, though  the villain doesn't work and if the villain doesn't work in a story like this, then it's bad news for the reader. Bad news indeed.

Bond had Goldfinger and Jaws. Bourne had Chris Cooper and Brian Cox. What you got here? Some kind of half-assed Khan Noom Singh (or is this a half-assed Hannibal Lector)? Come now, really? It doesn't work in the same way that the rest of the book doesn't work. It never quite comes together, never quite gets out of first gear.

Then there's the ending, which without sounding like a smartass, is the best thing in the book, but it's exactly the same as every single one of the Bourne movies and, it's 2013, do we really need to be biting Bourne's style? Why would you ever want to draw comparison to those movies?

Dancer simply shows how great of a book Who is Jake Ellis? was and what a nice surprise that was. While the art works quite well, the story drags it down. It also reminds us that the best way to bite Jason Bourne's style is to make a fantastic movie. But not every story can be Casino Royale, can it?

Now, if you'll excuse me, I want to post this because it uses the word "dance" in it--

This, I Love

 Which of the Seven are you?

If it wasn't for the fact that I don't have room or frames for the pictures I currently have, I'd snag one of these up right quick.

WHAT'S STOPPING YOU THEN?

Bum's Rush: Road Trip Journal Part X

After driving through the mountains of Montana and the plains of Wyoming and coming over the Rockies into Colorado we finally arrived in Denver.

And then the scum came out of the wood works. Instead of sad, abadoned buildings and ruined turn-of-the-century archicture, we have buildings full of cheap souveniers and ugly, modern buildings. Instead of wild antelope, we have guys barely playing guitar. Instead of a running stream we have sizzling summer heat and smoke. It's an uneven trade. What's more if that I wanted to see an ugly city, I'd just stay home. At least then I'd have my own pillow.

The worst of it came walking back from the Ship Tavern in the Brown Palace. There's a long promenade that runs all along 16th Street (or is it Avenue? I know Denver has both for some reason*). If you've ever seen the 3rd Street Promenade in Santa Monica, it's a bit like that, except lower rent. And it has two Corner Bakeries. It's also lousy with people who don't seem to have anything better to do than to stand in place, smoke, and spit, which is crazy because the public library isn't that far from where we are and outside it is hot.

Idaho didn't have a lot of people that were just standing around. Neither did Montana. I don't even think Wyoming had those people. I assume that they just freeze to death in that part of the country. Or they own property and just do that shit on their own time. Here in Denver it's a part of the local color.

As my dad and I were walking back to the hotel, we were paralleled by a group of, I don't know, vagrants? Not bums. Not hobos. Just people who, let's say, took less care in their

And we did what everyone on earth would do, which is ignore them and walk on by. What are we going to do, start a conversaiton with them? Ask about their musical influences? I know my dad isn't, that's for sure.

Then the guy takes it upon himself to be a smart-ass. He's going to right this wrong, apparently. "Excuse me, sir, could you please just ignore us?" he said in the tone that I imagine someone who believes they are owed something.

Dear Moocher: Being a passive-aggressive and rude to people who don't want to give you money for no reason makes you into an asshole.That sort of thing has also got to make the stationary beggars unhappy. Or at least feel a bit chagrined. Here comes some out of towner, pissing off possible donations and not even doing it right.

Not to say that we didn't run into people of all kinds on the trip. Most everyone was decent and helpful and accommodating. The jerks are the exceptions. The crappy things tend to shade everything else more than they should.

So, don't try to ruin my vacation, please. That's our job.

High Point of the Day: I don't remember. This whole entry is three or four days late. Let's just assume it was that massive seafood chowder I had at the Ship Tavern. Oh and the seafood pasta thing. My God that place was good.

Low Point of the Day: That bum.

*In Idaho I heard the line "I think it's on the corner of First and Second" and he wasn't a guy huffing glue.

So Long Stink State: Road Trip Journal IX

Yesterday we finally got the fuck out of Wyoming

We're now in northern Colorado and it's almost as though we're back in a civilized part of the world. There are people with teeth and there isn't nine bars open at breakfast and it doesn't look like a place that's just looking for a bomb.

Even my dad, in his obliviousness to Wyoming's hicks and horrors said that Colorado is a great state. Apparently it's his favorite state to travel to outside of Ohio (and telling from his constant, unsolicited editorials, it might even be nicer than California, which he apparently hates passionately. He says this almost like we're not going back there). Colorado is a pretty nice place. I have some pretty decent memories of this place and, at the very least, it isn't Wyoming.

Hey, why does Wyoming have so much wind? Because Nebraska blows.

Here's proof that I'm no longer on the frontier: This coffee shop that I'm at sells kombucha.

Part of the trip's appeal is to see things and places that I don't normally see in California. Things like indigenous trees. Things like open country. Things like fresh air. Things that LA normally doesn't care about or can't be bothered to have. Though, Colorado has the same kind of appeal that a lot of Los Angeles has, which that it doesn't make me immediately and palaply feel the specter of death.

I mean, they smoke weed and make kombucha up here. This is God's country. Clearly.

I guess I should draw more. Or just do more of something. Listening to podcasts and twiddling away on a “travelogue” is hardly actual work. I'm supposed to get stuff down out here. In a way I sort of have. I started and finished Ledfeather, a book my friend gave me. It's. . . incomprehensible, but I finished it. Since it's by an Indian and Indians, I'm just going to assume that it's a cultural thing so I don't have to live with the thought that the only Native American author I've ever read (besides, like, one Sherman Alexie short story). The idea of that makes me sad. Guilty sad. White guilty sad mess.

I am writing, though. That's nice. I also started up Jo Nesbo's Headhunters, so that should be fun. I can imagine Jamie Lannister pulling a Chigurh.

Anyways, I'm at a coffee shop. There's a flat screen TV on the wall (because what doesn't have a screen nowadays?) and the news is playing. The story is about Paris Jackson testifying in a civil trial. And now I kind want to go back to the country. I know the news over there is going to be the same. It's just that I get the sense that up there people might not watch it. The kombucha is nice, at least.

High Light of the Day: We saw a bear.

Low Light of the Day: It was a baby bear separated from it's ma. Shit suuuuucks.

The Show Men the Way Out State Part VIII

Every time I dislike something this far away from home, I get this feeling n the back of my head that I'm just that way because I'm a snooty, delicate Los Angeles douchebag.

But fuck Wyoming. It's a sea of nothing.

None of this is helped by the fact that I started my day watching Dick Cheney talk about how the NSA domestic spying program isn't being sold well because the executive branch has lost some of its respect and prestiege. Dick Cheney said that. I don't think he was being ironic.The rest of the day went kind of like that.

Being stuck in a car with my dad for the eighth day in the row is start to wear on me. I hate this state. I hate going through it. There's nothing here worth looking at any longer. I know I'll be better with it behind me. I have to be.

Alright. I'm going to finish this coffee and meet the day.

High Point of the Day: Sleep. Because Wyoming can't hurt you in your sleep.

Low Point of the Day: All of it. It just kept on going and going and then there's the tears.

Waldoism of the Day: “Just close down the border!” – His solution to our current immigration problem (note that border isn't the Canadian border for some dang reason).

Hot Springs Eternal: Road Trip Journal Part VII

Hungover. So hungover.

Maybe it's just the abuse I've done to my body, but I am in no real mood to chow down right now. So maybe that's what makes these items from La Comida so unappetizing--

Breakfast Quesadilla-- Yeah, sure, okay. I'm willing to let breakfast tacos happen, so I'll willing to let this happen. Okay. Go on.

Fruit Quesadilla-- Wait. . . What? What the fuck is that even?

Breakfast Churros-- Alright, I'm going home.

Breakfast Margarita-- Not an actual item, but it was what a man and his wife were drinking on the patio.

I'm sitting here in the shade of this hotel's awning, listening to Miles Davis and watching their waterfall flow. I'm sure I embarassed myself last night. That's almost assured. But this is the west. If I can't just get ino a vehicle and start fresh here then where could I? 

 I survived this hangover, I'll survive the next. Also, I think I drunk texted myself into a hunting trip this fall. So that's a new mistake to live through.

High Point of the Day: We found a hotel that doesn't look like a place snuff porn victims were dumped. That was great.

Seriously, though, it was Cody's Dug Up Gun Museum. It's got the coolest collection of rusty shit that you're ever going to see. I mean, if that's your sort of thing.

It isn't like the Cody Center of the West that's up the block, which is simply overwhelming with its content, this place tells a story.Why was this weapon dropped? Who was it that lost this weapon? Why weren't they ever picked up? There's some very obvious reasons for some of them, but then you wonder with

Like I was saying in an earlier entry, these things tell a story.

Low Point of the Day: At the Firearms Exhibits at the Cody Center of the West, I was looking at a Gatling Gun in a display case when I noticed an Indian fellow sitting there staring at it. He then asked me and my dad "It looks happy, doesn't it?"

I don't know if I had a good response to that.

Waldoism of the Day: “This bar is full of the three B's: Bikers, billionaires, and bums.”

Et Cetera: Besides the abundance of camping and gun stores, proof that I am no longer in California can be seen in the little things. There's the laxer smoking laws, there' the fact that I haven't seen a red curb in six days (the same goes for parking meters), and, more than anything, it's the proud lack of a state sales tax over here that really hammers home that I am not in the bureaucratic stronghold that is California. But then you just get the weird things.

“Fireworks Outlet.” Now, I don't know about you, but I were to buy fireworks, I don't think an outlet store would be the first place that I'd head to. If push came to shove, I mean.

As I am writing this in the car, a man walked by without his dog on a leash. Maybe we've got a few things figured out in California that they just don't want to admit to. The opposite is probably true of us, though, right?

Internetless in Montana: Road Trip Journal Part VI

Our streak of decent hotels was broken last night. God, was it ever. Out of desperation or fear or some other base emotion, my dad settled on a place called the "Big Sky Inn." I cannot implore you enough: Do not spend the night here.

Everything was wrong with it. Cheap towels. Cheap beds (which I'm pretty sure had a plastic guard on them, you know, the kind they put on the beds of kids who piss themselves). Pilows with less give than the average cardboard box.Then we couldn't even get to sleep properly because we'd be woken up by a train high balling it on the tracks across from us.

Sometimes you gotta eat some mud to make the custard stand out. That's a saying right? I don't know. I'm running off of not a lot of sleep and a minor hangover. I'm satisfied enough with just being able to form words.

We're headed into Wyoming. Tomorrow (or today or the next day, depending on when this gets posted) we'll be in Cody. With any luck we'll be staying at the Irma, which, for those keeping score, was established, like the rest of this town by Will Bill Cody.

Until them, I'm just going to try to hold this meal down and forget that I ever hard the name of the Big Sky Inn.

High Point of the Day: Dad managed to snag a pair of antelope heads for a god price at a place in Billings. That's all wel and good for him, but on the plus side, that means I get an antelope in my room. Finally. We also hit up a bar, the New Atlas, which was pretty cool. It had not only one old-fashioned back bar, but two-- that and a ton of taxidermy. Not a bad place to drink away the fear of falling asleep in a place not nice enough to be an Indian burial ground.

Low Point of the Day: I've already been over this. Now let us never speak of that place again.

Waldoism of the Day: “Their slogan should be 'Did you die at the Big Sky.'”

Where is Anything Anymore: Road Trip Journal Part V

I'm getting location fatigue. I really have no idea where I've been. It's all a blur. One town after another, one long highway after another. The Red Bulls and drinking every couple of days can't be helping, either. There's no pace to it, no rhythm, just one long slog that molds into another.

Not that this isn't great country or a fine trip, it's just that it is slowly becoming one big ball with no beginning and no end. I guess I have the photos to dileniate one day from the next. I guess that's one of the reasons we keep photos, right?

That's one of the reasons I went on this trip. I won't kid you that I went on it because I love my dad so very much that I had to spend two weeks with him. Hell, I've been in love and I don't know if I'd choose to spend two weeks with her on an island somewhere or a well-equipped SUV, even. I wanted to go on this trip to see large chunks of this country that I've never seen before and I wanted to go on it to find and buy stuff.

Today I finally found some of the things I was looking for. It's only been a small amount of postcards and some clothing items. It proves that this junk is out there, though, it isn't just all

The things we buy have a certain allure. Whether or not that power is a good thing is a whole other discussion, but the things we buy and live around have more meaning than just what they're meant to do.

There's a Japanese called "tsukunogami," which is the idea that after an object hits its centennial, it becomes a living being. I'm sure I'm missing part of the trick here. The general idea remains, though, which is that these objects have an energy of their own.And I love it because it means that I'm not just buying up crap to fill my life with. It means that I'm buying up the spirit of something that has a history and an energy beyond you buying it over a counter. It's why old stuff is cooler than new stuff.

I see that in the photos my dad has already bought, in the photos that spurred this road trip on in the first place.A photo of a bunch of men in mustaches is just that until you come back to that exact place ninety years later and hand that photo back to the person who owns the place. It proves the place existed, that people went there and cared about it back then and it isn't just some ugly place where people get drunk. Not to say that it isn't that, as well.

High Point: Dad and I rolled down into town and after some detective work, which included talking to a cowboy who trained at the same Army base as my dad, we figured out where one of our old bar photos belonged. It was down the street aways and even had an article in the newspaper that very day (none of it mentioned the old business that was in the postcard, much less the giant bear in the postcard. . . ).

I had to talk him into believing that it was the place, but after finding a few architectural indicators, he finally broke down and admitted it was the place (not that I was right, just that it was the place that I was saying it was).

The building was abandoned and the door was wide open. We walked in, shouting ahead of us, partially out of respect for the place and its owners and mostly out of a desire to not get a face full of birdshot to the gut. It is Montana, after all.

Sub-High Point: I got to wear my Brokeback Mountain cordouroy jacket today when it started raining.

Low Point: I lost two pool games in a row by sinking the Eight Ball within three or four turns. It was rough. Real rough.

Waldoism of the Day: "We wake up, we eat breakfast, we dive, we eat lunch, we go to sleep, we wake up, we do it again."

Missouri Break Out: Road Trip Journal Part IV

I want to keep saying that we're in Missouri. But we're not in Missouri, we're on the Missouri. Dad and I are currently in a town called Fort Benton on the Missouri Breaks in Montana.

Rain and hail, complete with thunder and lightning, followed up practically the whole day, right up until we pulled into town. We were in our car most of the day so it wasn't that big of an inconveince, plus I got to wear my new hoodie without feeling slightly silly. Or, no more silly than being an adult in a hoodie should feel, I mean.

It's like most of these small towns, it's got one main drag and a few larger buildings and single story homes fanning out from it, until it eventually dissolves into farmland. And, like most of these towns, the main drag is lined with bars like relics from the old west.

It's got a river, it has a bunch of great looking buildings, and it also has the best hotel we've stayed in to date. It's a welcome change of pace from the gauntlet of sad-looking people and ugly decor, which seems to be most of the people who live highway adjacent.

I think the universe, or possibly just the collective chi of Montana wanted us to be here. We booked the last room in a restored hotel called the "Grand Union" that just happens to be the destination of a bunch of clas

And I use the term "classic" in the same way that some music is classic. I mean that these cares are almost 90 years old. These cars predate air conditioning, dashboard radios, penicilin, and racial integration and these crazy bastards drove these things hundreds of miles in the dust and the rain to. . . I don't know, prove that they are incredibly awesome, I guess.

High Point: We actually managed to find an old back bar. My dad thinks that it might be a "Mont Oro," whatever the hell that is.

It's in a disused building that's for sale for three-hundred grand, which, despite being in Middle-of-Nowhere, Montana and sharing the main boulevard with one or two completely abandoned buildungs, it still completely insane. In Pasadena, a building like that would cost a million dollars, easily and it'd be torn down and turned into a condo almost instantly.

We then talked to an elderly lady while her husband waited in their Buick. The license plate on the car read "IwoJima" and that is my favorite thing in the entire world, I think.

Low Point: While driving down from the mountains, I started noticing white stuff off of the side of the road. I couldn't figure out what it was and I just about figured it was sand until my dad told me. As it turns out, it was snow.

Waldoism of the Day: There is no Waldoism of the Day. I can't remember anything. More on this later.

This is How it Ends: Road Trip Journal Part III

I'm so drunk and tired.

Stop me if you've heard this one before.

Bust after bust after bust is, in short, every attempt to hunt down the machines. We had one lead, but as it turns out there is a big difference between Silverton, Idaho and Silver City, Idaho.As it turns out the place that we need to go to is nine hours in the opposite direction. As it turns out one is a residential area in the mountains and the other is a ghost town. And as it turns our our LEAD IS TOTALLY FUCKING FUCKED.

That's okay. At least I got some gravy biscuits out of the deal.

On that note: What's going on with Game of Thrones? As great as this season was and as great of an episode as "The Rains of Castemere" was, I can't help but feel that, well, that was an incredibly weird season finale. I mean, everyone is just left in this really weird place where things are about to happen, but we don't know what that is.

It feels like thirty minutes got cut out of the episode and we're just left to figure out what those thirty minutes were until the next season (which has been every season finale of that show).

You've got Jaime just kind of showing up, with no resolution to Brienne. You have Arya just doing a thing and then there's the next scene and that kind of goes on for every character. I could go on like this naming characters who don't have a real end to their story (Maybe Bran? Probably Sam?). There's no real importance religated to anyone, except Dany who we haven't seen for a whole episode and just has this episode title handed to her. Is that how you end and episode? Is that how you end a season?

It isn't a cliffhanger and it isn't catharsis. It's just stuff coming to a close, capped off by a credits sequence.That's pretty cool, I guess.

Meanwhile in the Bookiverse, you have one of ONE MILLION IMPORTANT EVENTS to end the season on and none of them go down. I understand why this is-- budget, time, pacing, artistic choice-- yet what they chose falls so far short of the mark, it's

Again: It isn't a climax, it's just an ending.

I'm sure season four will start strong, but I still have to wonder: What the fuck? Maybe it was because I was watching it stone cold sober in Mormon country with an internet connection that only allowed me to watch the episode two minutes at a time. This whole situation was not ideal.

That was our Tuesday. Tomorrow we'll be in Montana and then who knows. I keep getting told that things are going to really pick up in Montana and I think that might be the only time anyone ever said that of that state.

High Moment: Dad and I revisited one of the darkest, ugliest hotels we've ever been to which was the Blue Gum Motel. My dad upon seeing it re-christened it the "Blue Bum Motel." He even had a song that went along with it. Well, after fifteen years or so of traveling we have found a rival in Wallace, Idaho's Brook's Motel, which has all of the ambiance of a prison converted into a dorm room. I am not a tall man, but I can touch the ceiling just by reaching up my arms. As good as the internet connection might be, I can't help but feel that I accidentally got booked into a federal prison.I'm half expecting a Saudi to kick down our door and ask if we want hookah.

(We don't.)

Low Moment: We over stayed our welcome at a bar where we were the only customers. While talking to her and her chest tattoos we found out that she had four kids. The whole time this nineteen year old with an energy drink was hanging out the whole time, chewing on his sunglasses. He didn't know who Jackie Gleason was. Neither did the bartender. Then she let her hair down to look sexy.He was a carnie. Then we left. And now I weep.

Waldo Wisdom: "Everybody in Idaho has a big ass and wants to fuck."

Somewhere in the distance I can hear a drunk howling. He must have read my blog.

Too Tired to Die: Road Trip Journal Part II

Right now I'm missing E3* and watching a reality TV show about a gay couple looking to buy a silo. I don't know if this me hitting rock bottom or if this is the moment that my entire life has been leading up to.

Every single person in every single bar is the exact same guy. It's like they minted them sometime in the late fifties and they accidentally broke out of their government-sponsored matrix. I don't know what it is about living in a dead-end town in the middle of nowhere interesting that just makes you want to hang out a bar a one in the afternoon. . .Oh, wait, I see it. Good work, Idaho townies.

Sorry if this is a lackluster blog entry. There's just something about sitting in a car for ten hours that makes me feel like I just got over a bought of malaria. It's nine at night and it's still light out and I want to pass right the fuck out.

I feel like I need to take a nap before I go to sleep. It's terrible.

Maybe I can score some benzadrine. This is meth country, right, so I can probably get some sweet trucker speed for a song. Maybe the cop who owns this motel will know.

We did another five hundred miles today. Tomorrow we drive up along Idaho's border with Oregon and then head east towards Montana. Hopefully my body will have adjusted to its vigorous regime of sitting down and reading Ledfeather.

Anyways, if you don't hear back from me make sure they bury me in real America.

*I did manage to notice that the next Metal Gear has STEALTH HORSE ACTION. That was a nice surprise.

The Snackening: Road Trip Journal Part I

I want to talk to you kids about something important: The Squatch.

Where can I get this? Where did you get this? Why don't I have any now? Did you take my sweet Squatch?

Let's slow down, pilgrim, and see what their press release has to say:

Harvested from the flesh of free-range bigfoots and mixed with the finest of secret Oriental spices,  Link Jack's "Squatch" represents the next generation of meat stick products. Squatch Stick: Shove in your face.

Who could resist a sales pitch like that? It's like reading fine poetry.

Let me tell you, if you like chewing, I have a snack-like food product for you. Not only is it full of all sorts of spicy tastes, looking at the nutritional information you will also

We hit the 600 mile mark exactly upon entering the town of Scipion, which I think is named for a famous Roman battle that took place here. Upon checking into our hotel my dad and I were told that this was a dry town. Before we could bolt the desk clerk told us that he might have two beers in storage that he just had left over and gave them to us. And if this couldn't get any more Mormon, one of the signs on the desk had a hand-written addendum "Please" taped onto it.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I've a continental breakfast to polish off.

The Dumbest Odyssey

On Sunday I'll be entering into a two week long expedition into the heart of America. I will be doing so with my father. We'll be driving the entire way, from Pasadena, California on into North Dakota and maybe even Canada.

Why would I be doing this with my father? We're going to be hunting antiques.

Yup.

It's been something that's he's been wanting to do for years. In fact, we had planned to do this trip last year, but it never quite came together. It wasn't until a tax return and sheer attrition finally got this ball rolling. This sort of trek is something my dad has been doing for years, since he was even younger than I am now. He would saddle up and drive through Colorado and the Dakotas and all of these places alone hunting for what he calls "moose parts." He was incredibly successful.

I don't know what we'll find out there. Probably nothing. Obviously my dad hopes that he's going to find artifacts that never got picked over or stolen away by the internet age. For me, I just hope to get some writing done and maybe see something out there worth writing about.

I remember the last time we went on a successful trip. I say "successful" because we once went on a trip to San Francisco that ended outside of Bakersfield when our radiator blew up. The next eight hours was us riding in a tow truck back home.

We drove up the PCH the entire way listening to Johnny Cash. It was magical. Nothing but plains and mountains and the ocean all the while Johnny Cash moaning about prison and dying. For me, it was great. Then my dad said, "I can't listen to any more Johnny Cash."

Because that's what a trip with your dad through California is like and, honestly, he was right to call me on that bullshit.

Anyways, if you have any questions or what me to post anything specifically, let me know.

Also I need a male to male USB cable right now, no bullshit. I need one bad. Mission critical shit here. Hook me up, damnit.

Your tears give me strength!

Yessss! Yesssss! Cry all you want, I will only grow stronger!