The monster won.
Hate won. Ugliness won. Lying won. Spite won. Fear won. Desperation won. Revanchism won. The wrong person won. A lot of bad things are coming with him.
There's a lot of things that we could talk about now. Why such a man could get so many votes. How it came as a surprise. Why she didn't win. I don't know. A million other things. Frankly. I'm at a loss. Smarter people than myself are at a loss and I don't think they're as many beers into the evening as I am (I'm working on my third and it's Stella, so I think I'm good).
I am at a loss.
Still, I stand by what I said. Tomorrow is going to mark the beginning of a long project. It's not the project that's going to be about fucking up this man and his hostility towards basic human rights and democracy. That is only one aspect of what we have to do. We have to help out our fellow man. Not just the ones that vote like us, but all of them, because obviously they're hurting too. They're going to hurt worse by the time this thing has run its course. And it will run its course. We have to get to work building each other and our country back up as much as we have to tear down the things they're going to build to destroy us. And they will try to destroy us. We're going to survive and we're going to do it by being smarter, wiser, and better.
And I don't know.
We're all in this together. All of us. E plurbus unum. You know this.
Things will change. The anger will die off and his supporters will be left out in the cold again. Spurned, used, abandoned. It is what he does. When the tables turn and they learn what they have elected into office, we have to be there to bring them along with us. It's a long road and we're going to get there together. I believe that. I have to. Because if I don't, then I don't know what I stand for. I don't know why I am against this man. If we don't believe that we're together, only then does he really and truly win.
As I said before, they do not get to win.
Tomorrow, I am going to get up, hungover and with dread in my gut and a bitterness knowing that in the other room my dad is actively cheering on the destruction of the country he proports to care about. And I am going to get to work. I am going to find charities. I am going to find organizations. I am going to talk to people that need my help (or don't need my help or don't even want my help). I am going to get to work. That's just me. That's what I have to do.
I'll be looking, but I am all ears. I'm here to learn. I'm here to help.
I swear I'll get to
Showing posts with label USA. Show all posts
Showing posts with label USA. Show all posts
08 November, 2016
Upsidedown States of America
As of my writing this, neither side has lost. Neither Trump has lost, nor has America lost. Not yet. It isn't looking good.
I am tentatively holding on to the delusion of hope. I'm clinging to it. Not that Hillary will win. Even if she does, she still has to contend with 40% of America that are okay with a profoundly unstable and ignorant man in office (to say nothing of his more specific biases). I'm hopeful because this is still America.
And in America the bad guys do not get to win.
Even when this ends, and if it looks like it's over, nothing is over. Even if it's over, it isn't over. As Barack Obama said tonight, "The sun will rise in the morning." And it will. And it will again and again and again. There's a hope in that. There has to be. For as long as the decent people of the world, on every side of the political spectrum draw breath, we can still fight this cancer that has slowly spread across this country. Despair won't beat it. Despair is what built it.
And fuck that. To quote somebody else, long lost to the Internet's interlocking spheres of re-purposing, it isn't fair that Donald Trump can look in the mirror and feel good about himself and you look in the mirror and you feel terrible.
There's another quote, one we all cling to, one built into the myth of this country's fourth estate. Or at least, it is amongst the pantheon of liberal America. It's from Edward R Murrow. It's from a longer speech, which you can easily watch on your own. The line that sticks out to me, though is this:
It's a beautiful sentiment. It's also a fantasy. Of course we are. We are descended from Indian-killing, witch-burning, slave-driving, segregating, lynching men. We are also descended from men that stood by the wayside for centuries while these things went on.
We are also descended from heroes. Great men and women of all shades, all genders, all religions, all sexualities. People like Frederick Douglas and Harriet Tubman. Clifford Clinton and Abraham Lincoln. Audy Murphy and Joshua Chamberlain. Harvey Milk and Mary Harris Jones. There are victims, as well. Names and places and people that are too numerous to name. They do not deserve to be lumped in with the stains that cover our history. But the fearful men's blood is in our own. It's alive tonight. It's speaking to us.
Elections have always been carnivals of horrors. They rarely seem to be civil, they only ever seem to be less terrible. The past two elections were rather tame compared to 2004. Especially when compared to 2000. The fearful men were at work there, as well. It's always been this way. From LBJ back to Andrew Jackson. Fear and loathing is an intrinsic part of the American process.
Which is why the American experiment is so expectional. It is that despite the worst of the worst being allowed to live amongst us and occasionally rule over us, we prosper. What makes America exceptional is that despite
Donald Trump is not strong enough to break our Union. Neither is his lapdog Mike Pence. Nor are the cowards in congress or the criminals advising him. He does not get to do that. They do not get to do that. Neither do his supporters. To us liberals it might seem like the United States has been turned upside down. It hasn't. It's doing what it is always doing. It is carrying on. It is continuing an ugly, uneven legacy. Despite that, it will work.
Tomorrow the sun will rise. We will know the kind of men that live among us. And then we get to work.
We donate. We volunteer. We march. We picket. We demonstrate. We become allies. We vote. We fight. We act like decent human beings. We tell ourselves that we might be descended from fearful men, but we do not have to be.
Because this is America, damnit.
That means something.
It is up to us to determine what that means.
I am tentatively holding on to the delusion of hope. I'm clinging to it. Not that Hillary will win. Even if she does, she still has to contend with 40% of America that are okay with a profoundly unstable and ignorant man in office (to say nothing of his more specific biases). I'm hopeful because this is still America.
And in America the bad guys do not get to win.
Even when this ends, and if it looks like it's over, nothing is over. Even if it's over, it isn't over. As Barack Obama said tonight, "The sun will rise in the morning." And it will. And it will again and again and again. There's a hope in that. There has to be. For as long as the decent people of the world, on every side of the political spectrum draw breath, we can still fight this cancer that has slowly spread across this country. Despair won't beat it. Despair is what built it.
And fuck that. To quote somebody else, long lost to the Internet's interlocking spheres of re-purposing, it isn't fair that Donald Trump can look in the mirror and feel good about himself and you look in the mirror and you feel terrible.
There's another quote, one we all cling to, one built into the myth of this country's fourth estate. Or at least, it is amongst the pantheon of liberal America. It's from Edward R Murrow. It's from a longer speech, which you can easily watch on your own. The line that sticks out to me, though is this:
We are not descended from fearful men.
It's a beautiful sentiment. It's also a fantasy. Of course we are. We are descended from Indian-killing, witch-burning, slave-driving, segregating, lynching men. We are also descended from men that stood by the wayside for centuries while these things went on.
We are also descended from heroes. Great men and women of all shades, all genders, all religions, all sexualities. People like Frederick Douglas and Harriet Tubman. Clifford Clinton and Abraham Lincoln. Audy Murphy and Joshua Chamberlain. Harvey Milk and Mary Harris Jones. There are victims, as well. Names and places and people that are too numerous to name. They do not deserve to be lumped in with the stains that cover our history. But the fearful men's blood is in our own. It's alive tonight. It's speaking to us.
Elections have always been carnivals of horrors. They rarely seem to be civil, they only ever seem to be less terrible. The past two elections were rather tame compared to 2004. Especially when compared to 2000. The fearful men were at work there, as well. It's always been this way. From LBJ back to Andrew Jackson. Fear and loathing is an intrinsic part of the American process.
Which is why the American experiment is so expectional. It is that despite the worst of the worst being allowed to live amongst us and occasionally rule over us, we prosper. What makes America exceptional is that despite
Donald Trump is not strong enough to break our Union. Neither is his lapdog Mike Pence. Nor are the cowards in congress or the criminals advising him. He does not get to do that. They do not get to do that. Neither do his supporters. To us liberals it might seem like the United States has been turned upside down. It hasn't. It's doing what it is always doing. It is carrying on. It is continuing an ugly, uneven legacy. Despite that, it will work.
Tomorrow the sun will rise. We will know the kind of men that live among us. And then we get to work.
We donate. We volunteer. We march. We picket. We demonstrate. We become allies. We vote. We fight. We act like decent human beings. We tell ourselves that we might be descended from fearful men, but we do not have to be.
Because this is America, damnit.
That means something.
It is up to us to determine what that means.
24 February, 2014
The One and Only True Detective Theory That You Need To Read
There's a lot of chatter on the ol' computer box about who-done-it in the HBO show True Detective. While this show is one of the most talked about programs on TV, one of most important points about the mystery has been ignored. People are focusing on the wrong details and spinning out into crazy conclusions and my theory would save all of those people-- and their readers-- a lot of heartache.I've been through the episodes over and over again and I think I have a real handle on the TV show and where it's going. I'm no expert, so let know what you're thinking.
(MASSIVE SPOILERS AHEAD)
(YOU WERE WARNED TURN BACK NOW!)
Okay, here's my theory:
You all need to shut the fuck up and watch the fucking show.
You're not Poirot. You aren't even Miss Marple. Jesus fucking Christ, if you're anything, you're an Inspector Clouseau if he had taken to smoking industrial loads of ketamine instead of having his manservant randomly attack him. Knock it the fuck off and watch the fucking show. Nobody cares about you half-assed, cockamamy ramblings you've dressed up as a "theory." Remember Lost? Remember it? Remember nanobots? Do you? I can see it on your face that you do.
It's going to show its hand when shows its hand. Stop trying to outsmart it. Like solving the mystery before anyone else in the room does makes you enjoy the show any more. That it makes you understand it any more.
The only theory I have about the show and the mystery is that you're all wrong and you're driving me nuts. Shut the fuck up and just be grateful that we're living in the greatest age of television since. . . ever.
Alright. I'm sorry I yelled, but this is what you have brought me to. You think I'm happy about this?
(END SPOILERS!!!!!11!)
03 July, 2013
Social D was Right
I was wrong about The New Frontier. I was wrong and I'm sorry about that. So very, very sorry.
My main problems were that the beginning of the story struck me as dirivative of Watchmen which I think is a fair assumption considering how much of the landscape of comics is dirivative of Moore and Gibbons' work. (Also Cooke wrote and drew a Before Watchmen story and wrote another so, in hindsight, I am not all that far off base. But let's not waste any more calories than we already have). Where it becomes a stupid opinion is that it's much, much more than that, which is something most Watchmen rip-offs do not manage.
There's also a few more nebulous problems like the lack of Batman (and the Trinity in general), the appropriateness of the Centre as a villain (and it's inexplicable and hateful British spelling), and the fact that it's both too sprawling and too small.
Yet, now I feel the flaws less acutely and those few niggling doubts are overcome by the quality of the art and the quality of the storytelling. They're just mars on the piece, they aren't the piece itself. Darwyn Cooke might not be the literary heavy weight that Alan Moore is (which I mention because, rightly or wrongly, he weighs heavily in my outlook on comic books. . . mostly wrongly the more time goes on) or as prolific as a Jason Aaron or as clever as Jonathan Hickman, but he delivers something that none of these men can, which is that he can draw the stories that he writes.
He delivers something that is inherently part of the whole. There is no invisioning, there's no collaboration or compromises, there's just the finished work. Not every comic written and drawn by the same guy have that cohesion, though. Darwyn Cooke is just the guy who can fuse those things together, through style, though design, and through story. As a guy who piddles about with pens and pencils sometimes and has a back catalog full of genre bullshit that is inspiring. It means that someone can do it and do it well.
I think a lot of my esteem for Cooke comes from the work he did after The New Frontier (ie: the work I read after I read The New Frontier). Books like The Spirit and his odd story in Jonah Hex (a Canadian western? Okay. I guess that's not too weird) and especially his work on the Parker graphic novels have opened my eyes to the talented writer and artist that he always was. It wasn't that he got better it was that I was just too full of shit to see what was in front of me. The guy who forged that epic run on The Spirit is the same guy who spun out this wonderful not-quite Elseworlds tale.
Cooke loves good old fashioned fun and The New Frontier is chock full of that feeling-- that feeling that some things were better back then and if they weren't, at least they were simpler, more pure, more black and white. It's nostalgia done well. It doesn't shy away from the ugliness of the past, either. That's just another layer that he uses.
Another thing I find myself saying a lot and writing a lot is that this feels like storytelling judo. Cooke isn't screwing with things or skewering them or anything, instead he's it's using the momentum of nostalgia and the weight of the past to move into something else, bigger, and more impactful. And, again: It's great to see that someone can actually manage that.
I'm know I'm not breaking any news, I just wanted to make a correction. At least to increase the power of my other opinions, I'll say it again: I was wrong about The New Frontier.
That cartoon is still unlistenable, though. You'll bury me with that opinion.
And here's a Social Distortion song--
SIDE NOTE: The New Frontier was also a Las Vegas hotel. Like most of Las Vegas, it is thankfully long gone. What remains, though, are a few precious shards of history. I was going through an auction catalouge on my road trip with my dad and I found, coincidentally, some New Frontier chips for sale. They were estimated to sell for at least a thousand dollars. We are all obviously in the wrong racket.
My main problems were that the beginning of the story struck me as dirivative of Watchmen which I think is a fair assumption considering how much of the landscape of comics is dirivative of Moore and Gibbons' work. (Also Cooke wrote and drew a Before Watchmen story and wrote another so, in hindsight, I am not all that far off base. But let's not waste any more calories than we already have). Where it becomes a stupid opinion is that it's much, much more than that, which is something most Watchmen rip-offs do not manage.
There's also a few more nebulous problems like the lack of Batman (and the Trinity in general), the appropriateness of the Centre as a villain (and it's inexplicable and hateful British spelling), and the fact that it's both too sprawling and too small.
Yet, now I feel the flaws less acutely and those few niggling doubts are overcome by the quality of the art and the quality of the storytelling. They're just mars on the piece, they aren't the piece itself. Darwyn Cooke might not be the literary heavy weight that Alan Moore is (which I mention because, rightly or wrongly, he weighs heavily in my outlook on comic books. . . mostly wrongly the more time goes on) or as prolific as a Jason Aaron or as clever as Jonathan Hickman, but he delivers something that none of these men can, which is that he can draw the stories that he writes.
He delivers something that is inherently part of the whole. There is no invisioning, there's no collaboration or compromises, there's just the finished work. Not every comic written and drawn by the same guy have that cohesion, though. Darwyn Cooke is just the guy who can fuse those things together, through style, though design, and through story. As a guy who piddles about with pens and pencils sometimes and has a back catalog full of genre bullshit that is inspiring. It means that someone can do it and do it well.
I think a lot of my esteem for Cooke comes from the work he did after The New Frontier (ie: the work I read after I read The New Frontier). Books like The Spirit and his odd story in Jonah Hex (a Canadian western? Okay. I guess that's not too weird) and especially his work on the Parker graphic novels have opened my eyes to the talented writer and artist that he always was. It wasn't that he got better it was that I was just too full of shit to see what was in front of me. The guy who forged that epic run on The Spirit is the same guy who spun out this wonderful not-quite Elseworlds tale.
Cooke loves good old fashioned fun and The New Frontier is chock full of that feeling-- that feeling that some things were better back then and if they weren't, at least they were simpler, more pure, more black and white. It's nostalgia done well. It doesn't shy away from the ugliness of the past, either. That's just another layer that he uses.
Another thing I find myself saying a lot and writing a lot is that this feels like storytelling judo. Cooke isn't screwing with things or skewering them or anything, instead he's it's using the momentum of nostalgia and the weight of the past to move into something else, bigger, and more impactful. And, again: It's great to see that someone can actually manage that.
I'm know I'm not breaking any news, I just wanted to make a correction. At least to increase the power of my other opinions, I'll say it again: I was wrong about The New Frontier.
That cartoon is still unlistenable, though. You'll bury me with that opinion.
And here's a Social Distortion song--
SIDE NOTE: The New Frontier was also a Las Vegas hotel. Like most of Las Vegas, it is thankfully long gone. What remains, though, are a few precious shards of history. I was going through an auction catalouge on my road trip with my dad and I found, coincidentally, some New Frontier chips for sale. They were estimated to sell for at least a thousand dollars. We are all obviously in the wrong racket.
12 June, 2013
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.
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.
10 June, 2013
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.
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:
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.
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.
07 June, 2013
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.
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.
01 March, 2012
Listen to Your Prophets
This vignette speaks to how I feel in a way that I couldn't ever express in so few words. I agree with him completely. This is what America is. This is the America somebody has built.
Try and tell me I'm wrong.
Try and tell me I'm wrong.
16 February, 2012
I'm Afraid of American Vampires
If you like comic books of a pleasing nature then you should already be buying American Vampire. I mean, if you're not, what are you, some sort of an idiot? It's got everything: Compelling characters, gross amounts of elaborate gore, cowboys, Stephen King, a loving rendition of recent American history, and wonderful art. Just because I liberated my first hardback from Borders when they were closing doesn't mean you
With all of that said, I just bought the third trade paperback. My local comic book store didn't have the second one in stock and not only did I not feel like waiting to buy them in order, the third volume is about Nazi vampires and Japanese vampire bio-organic weapons.
It's a great book, all told. There is a certain amount of spit in my eye, though, and I keep coming back to it. It is plaguing me.
I've found two glaring historical inaccuracies in the book. Naturally, they were about booze and guns.
INACCURATE FACT NUMBER ONE--
The mai tai is mentioned in the first arc. The mai tai was not invented officially (or named the "mai tai") until the 1950's when tiki themed bars were as common as people with jobs and crippling diet pill addiction.
INACCURATE FACT NUMBER TWO--
2) One fellow is clearly using a Colt Python. While one of the coolest and most iconic handguns ever to exist, the Colt Python was not minted until, again, the mid-1950's, when handguns were as common as people with jobs and airplane pilots' mistresses.
Also, the book is about vampires and everybody knows the last vampires were killed by the Vatican's secret army in the mid 17th-century and those who were no vanquished fled to Outer Thule to bide their time and dream of the day when man would fear them once again.
Maybe the aesthetic he was going for was one slightly ahead of the times. Lord knows that's a common thing to do, especially in books that are as steeped in science fiction and fantasy as a book about the legacy of fucking vampires in the goddamn United States. Metal Gear Solid 3 had its hover chairs, so why not let American V-pire (as we all call it down at the comic mine) have its anachronistic booze and Dirty Harry guns?
Oh, also a helicopter appears in the book to save the day, but I'll let that one go, because what kind of a nerd gives a good goddamn about the history of helicopters?
And, now to consecrate my love of this book, of blood suckers, and of David Bowie references apropos of nothing, here is the opening of The Hunger-- which is perhaps the bluest movie of the time.
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