Thursday, December 18, 2014
Wednesday, October 29, 2014
Hunter Davis
Nicholas “Hunter” Davis passed away from complications from glioblastoma, a brain tumor that had plagued him for over 3 years. Author, music hound, wanderer, companion, lover, dreamer, spiritualist and seeker of the unknown—a few words from the volume that describe this great man.
Hunter would give you the shirt off his back, even though it was his last one, and fraying at the seams. He would flip back his hair, whistle a tune—slapping his thigh to the beat you would never recognize— take instant mashed potatoes (probably the only thing he had left in the pantry) and turn them into a culinary, gut-bombing masterpiece for you two to share. You would always get the larger half.
As with all dreamers, sometimes you would have to reel Hunter in. Anyone who knew Hunter was familiar with his penchant for getting stranded in Portland late at night—too busy catching up with friends and exploring downtown to bother with things like public transportation schedules. He was never without a place to sleep, though—the circle of people who loved him and offered him their couches for the night were outnumbered only by those who would themselves be out and about, exploring the city with him.
Husband, son, brother, friend – Hunter was one of those people that you never forget—even if only met in passing. His death has affected us all more than we would like to admit, and are each working hard to remember him for who he was, and who we will see again someday.
"You feel, nothing ever stays the same as it was
You'll take, no more remedies to force yourself true
You say, every motion and fall fail you too
This song is not about you
The life that stands without you
Your body and blood
Your body and blood
You're leaving us all."
-Black Rebel Motorcycle Club “Head Up High”
Saturday, June 28, 2014
We Know God
People in this country know God.
They Know what he wants, they Know what he doesn't want, and they Know where he lives.
They Know that He wants their basketball teams to win. He wants their daughters to make prom queen. He wants their marriages to succeed and their temptations to fail.
They Know that He doesn't want passion for anything but Him. They know he is a jealous God who does not care for rival lusts and desires. They know he does noy want us to have tattoos or piercings, for those are for heathens and the despairing sons of Cain. They know that--while He does want love to exist--it should only exist in very limited, very contextually relevant circumstances.
They know that He lives in the hearts of the most pious, and repels Himself from the damned and unholy-if-not-well-intentioned. They know He lives among us yet above us, aloof but succumbing to the wants and needs and whines of man. They know He lives solely to serve us and to allow us to pass judgement on the weak.
The people here live in God's country, and I pity Him for that.
Monday, June 23, 2014
Why I Hate Books
Saturday, June 21, 2014
I'm really just not feeling very loved or appreciated right now
And I think I'm not quite sure how to handle that. Not an uncommon feeling in my life, by any means, but still an unpleasant one.
I'm not sure how to handle that.
Monday, May 26, 2014
Pervading the darkest corners of my mind at night when I can't sleep.
I find myself always scanning that horizon for the mountain. Even if I don't see it, sub-consciously, the search is there. Passively active, if that makes sense.
I find myself reflecting on the things I've done. Choices I've made. People I've loved, lost, and love still, despite their many flaws. Not that I'm exactly innocent of any crime.
I'm teaching myself to grow past that. To grow past them. Listening to the songs I associate with them the most, re-visiting places that had long since become impregnated with the worst of memories: a dark heavy sludge coating every street corner, spreading from the darkest corners of my mind and eroding the most optimistic ones. It is slow work. Never finished.
Maybe some day I'll finally catch up.
Tuesday, March 25, 2014
11 Movies That Don't Get Their Due
This film is exactly that.
The costumes, the one-liners, the Eddie Izzard—but whenever I mention this film to someone, it’s always “Oh, but that's so bad! It’s such a shitty superhero movie!” Well, yeah, shit wads, that’s kind of the point. The father of two with a pot belly in place of a chiseled jaw, the bowling champion who bickers with her dead father about attending grad school—that’s what makes this film so great. There actually has some outstanding actors in it, too (want a mind fuck? Go watch Geoffrey Rush’s performance in Quills and then watch this). Yep, if you want a break from the tsunami of Marvel-DC crap, you’ve got to give this movie a try.
That is basically this film.
Although they do kind of butcher some of literatures’ greatest characters in this film (the Mina Harker in this movie clearly read a different Dracula than I did), it is worth the watch for the joy of seeing these characters brought together into the same story line. Be honest: most of the reason why you loved The Avengers was because you got to see all those superheroes team up to participate in a battle of Brobdingnagian (look it up) proportions. Also: Robert Downey, Jr. Speaking of the Avengers…
This film is delightfully campy and explosion-y, combining British spies with Uma Thurman and Sean Connery dressed as a weather-wizard teddy bear that wants to take over the world. Sean Connery is—basically—a furry in this flick. Also: Voldemort in a bowler.
Please.
Heard of it?
Not even once? Ugh, how disappointing, and we were getting to be such friends.
In a tongue-in-cheek, Married with Children meets Space Balls style, the plot follows a set of middle-aged suburbanite parents who get abducted in their station wagon so Emperor Todd Spango (Lovitz) can wed the lovely Marge (Garr). Unfortunately, the planet is filled with idiots, carnivorous, sewer-dwelling mushrooms and Kathy Ireland.
Really though, this is an awesome film, and if you see it and hate it…well, I guess we just can’t be friends anymore. Also, I might have to put a hit out on you. So sad.
When this movie hit theaters as a double feature with Tarantino’s Death Proof, all I heard about was how much better Death Proof was, how Planet Terror was the weaker of the two films, how I shouldn't masturbate in a public theater. When I finally watched the two back-to-back, though, all I could think about was how much more I enjoyed Planet Terror.
While Tarantino’s Death Proof sports his classic long-winded, (at times) engrossing dialogue and gruesomely raw violence, Robert Rodriguez’s Planet Terror is unabashedly old-school. A chick with a machine gun for a leg who leads a group of refugees out of a zombie-filled land and into safety? Yes, please, I’ll take two. Plus, who could really hate any movie with Bruce Willis—like, ever? He even made Friends fun. Throw in a crashing helicopter that decapitates herds of mouth-breathing zombies with its’ blades, and you’ve got yourself an instant classic that can withstand any cameo-infused movie Tarantino forces himself into.
It seems to me that this film kind of came and went, and it’s a shame, because it was so beautifully done. A Little Big Planet Sackboy-esque doll wakes up in a post-apocalyptic future and attempts to save mankind.
But I digress.
Over the course of eighteen months, Laika produced the longest stop-motion film to date, with songs written by They Might Be Giants and ever-so-carefully crafted to be just as creepy as (in)humanly possible.
The plot follows Coraline, a mouthy little twat voiced by Dakota Fanning (enough said) who moves from Colorado to Ashland, Oregon. To be fair, I’d be pretty upset if I had to live in Ashland, too. The blue-haired child manages to find a secret, parallel world where people have buttons for eyes. Coraline is an extremely odd child and is not perturbed by this. Children are creepy as fuck. Anyways, as can be expected, things go awry and she ends up fighting for her familys’ life against the terrifying and only slightly caricatured Teri Hatcher.
Thursday, March 13, 2014
Serves me right for trying to eat healthy.
Upon reaching my goal, I was a bit unnerved. Yes, the ingredients at the bar were protected by a sneeze-guard, but the lettuce was low and you never know who may have snotted into their hands and not used the tongs. Ruthlessly, I persevered. No ham cubes, a little bacon, olives, egg, cherry tomatoes, Italian dressing--yes, my rather smushed-looking masterpiece was almost complete. I turned around and made a pass at the opposite side of the bar, ignoring what looked suspiciously like a mesh of quinoa and tapioca pudding.
Finally, (mostly) vegetarian perfection. My cousin would be proud.
Then, terror struck.
As I sidled past the many grease-guzzling fatties in line behind me for their daily dose of chicken feed, I knocked over a large stack of plate-sized lids placed at knee-level. Lids ironically to be used to keep you from spilling things. Things like food.
As I bent down to pick up the lids (always the contentious consumer and respectful patron), all the salad lids in the world could not stop the tragedy that was to come. Quickly, with reckless abandon, my salad flew took advantage of my immediate distraction and flew off the plate and onto the floor--using my precious Italian dressing as some kind of sick luging lube.
As the blood rushed to my face, noises around me faded, and I achieved a heightened awareness of those around me waiting to get THEIR bastard salads--their foul cottage cheese and Thousand Island dressing-topped abominations. Using my plate as a dust pan, I hastily scraped up what was left of my salad (that now resembled something a very sick vegetarian would expel) with one of the accursed lids.
At least it was almost over.
Oh God, where are those people who clean things up when there are spills? Janitors? I had a friend once who threw up in the store and had people fighting over who had to clean it up. Maybe that's what happened?
Almost done, and as I turn to rise, yet another stack of lids rains down next to me--I'm pretty sure the bitch next to me nudged them on purpose. Up they go. I will not be blamed for her folly.
As I stand up, hands sticky with that fucking Dago dressing, a spindly old spinster hobbles up with a broom and a dust pan. "It's okay, honey, there's a hole right over there..." she motions to a trash can "hole" about half the size of what I need to toss my trash into. I hastily--nay, angrily--stuff it into the hole. Bastard salad can go to hell.
Fuck it. I'm getting a burger.
Sunday, March 9, 2014
Professional Attributes
I am not a particularly patient person when it comes to disagreements, so--in an effort to counteract that fact--I also try very hard to be a very non-confrontational person. Sometimes this does not work very well. Most of the time, actually.
When I believe in something strongly, I feel that it is very important that I am at least heard out. If I feel that I am not being listened to, or that my ideas are thrown out without so much as an attempt at consideration, I get very frustrated very quickly. I also have a tendency to be petty and speak before I think. I am very good at being a bitch; quite the proficient little cunt, I am.
It is the unfortunate combination of these two that tends to cause rather abrasive circumstances, that then lead to poorly-handled situations. I feel that the only way I can escape my frustration, my anger, my outrage at being ignored and brushed aside, is by spitting out whatever jabs and daggers my quick little tongue can slip out. It's not a silver tongue, no, that would be rather pleasing to the ear, and people wouldn't cringe when I reach this level of irrationality. No, I'd have to say it's more like iron: heavy, crude, strong and piercing.
I kind of wish I didn't have this attribute--it gets me into more trouble than I'd like to admit, and it can tend to torpedo my professional relationships in a way that is rarely--if ever--reparable. But, without it, I am also not the bitch I have come to love so much. So, I guess.....fuck you guys.
Tuesday, February 25, 2014
Why Worms Are Gross: A Limerick
Worms are disgusting, you know that that's true.
I really hate worms, you should hate them, too.
Worms are fucked up, few things are much worse,
Allow me to show you, or explain in verse:
Tapeworms are foul, they live in your ass,
Eating your shit, which comes out real fast.
Pinworms are nasty, their eggs float on dust specks,
Just think about that, next time you have sex.
Worms can be parasites, they'll make you feel sick,
Some anal worms are removed with a stick.
Some worms have teeth, I mean, like, fuck tons,
Bleeding circles of death, why have just one?
They're creepy fuckers, that is a fact,
Like Satan's dick dipped in sludge, alive in your tract.
I hate worms so much, I hope you see why,
When I hope those cunts drown, perhaps now you'll see why.
But they're still not as gross as frogs.
Monday, February 24, 2014
Proof that I am a genius. Also, I need sleep.
The other thing I discovered, happily, was that the Marvel needs an X-men called The Honey Badger. Of course, when I say "discovered," I mean drunkenly decided. Same thing, when you get down to brass tacks.
Anyways, this hero. Or Heroine, I suppose. I mean, really, this thing has to be a femme. I'm just being honest. Let's look at my always-flawless reasoning, shall we?
1. Honey Badgers, as you all know, are creepy asshole fucks. They take on things that are either twice their size or three times as deadly (occasionally both), and fuck. That. Thing. Up. A Honey Badger would kick Wolverine's ass and then proceed to go fuck the shit out of Benedict Cumberbatch, all the while screaming "TAKE me, thinking woman's crumpet, TAKE ME!" But then she'd take him. Cause that's how The Honey Badger does things.
2. Being an X-men, she'd also have a mutation. She'd, like, be able to overcome fear. Yeah, yeah that. And what else? Oh! She'd be, like, freaky calm, 'cause the Honey Badger don't give a shit. Just calm, cool and collected. And then--wha-BAM! Death and dishonor! Who else could be cold and calm before devouring your soul with a side of cream? Cyclops? Fuck Cyclops. Only she wouldn't. Because she's The Honey Badger. Also no one should.
3. Marvel really hasn't stepped up their game in the "new character" department lately. Granted, they do already have a slew of fantastic ones to choose from, but I think that this also kinda only further proves my point. Why invent new stuff when you can keep throwing money at the old stuff? A new character would do wonders to refresh the Marvel name.
4. Stan Lee. I really shouldn't have to go into further detail with this one, but I shall. The guy is probably gonna be taken up in those heavenly flaming (did someone say fabulous?) chariots any day now, and, until then, he's whoring himself out for $500 bucks a pop to whatever hapless comic con nerd is willing to shell out the cash in order to feel somewhat loved by a father figure for once in his life. Take ME to the comic cons, I will talk to the nerds for free. Also, I will tell them anything they want to know about their new favorite character, The Honey Badger. Except for those crucial upcoming plot twists, amirite? Eh? Anybody? No? No.
As you can see, Marvel, I have generously provided you with an artist's rendition of what I think THB should look like:
I promise you that this is in no way just an MS Paint cover-up of X-23 with a slightly different outfit, and she is most definitely not wearing a mask to cover up the fact that I am a terrible artist and any attempts at drawing a nose or mouth only made her look like the drunken prom date offspring of a circus freak and a poltergeist rolled face-first in a fire full of broken beer bottles and those little cheese grater things you use to remove calluses from your foot.
In conclusion, drunken decisions are the best decisions, I feel that I have proved that here quite well. Also, The Honey Badger would be the best character decision Marvel has made since Deadpool, and oh my God she needs to be with Deadpool. Dead Badger? Honey Pool? That last one kind of sounds like what they'd leave behind after a steamy evening in a hot tub, so maybe not that. Maybe we just stick with THB and Deadpool wreaking havoc on society and having wild passionate bouts of love making in between bouts of kicking ass and breaking the fourth wall.
But don't tell Benedict. He's still waiting for her to call.
Thursday, February 20, 2014
How can I measure up?
Like, I know I'M NOT A terrible writer. I can halfway construct a decent sentence, and I occasionally have witty quips and semblances of meaningful thought. But--all these people above me, all these people who are out there, getting published, being loved by everyone and adored for their gifts to the world--I'm not one of those. How can I live up to them? They're all so far out of my league, I can't even see them anymore. There are so many wonderful, talented, amazing people out there doing wonderfully talented, amazing things, and I'm just...kinda bein' me, you know? How is "me" supposed to live up to "them?"
I'm not looking for solace, or an ego boost, or even consolation, I just really am at a loss as to what to do. I can't even decide what this fucking blog is going to be about. That's important, right? Like, blogs need a theme to help them catch on and be big. Humor, drama, cooking recipes--they've all got some cohesive THING that pulls it together and helps it be one of the best. Mine isn't like that. One day it's some random story, another it's weeping over X,Y or Z, and another it's some random shit about fly racing. Who can relate to that?
I guess...I guess I really want to be relatable. I really want to reach people, to speak to them on a level they get very deeply, and to wow them and show the world how beautiful words can be sculpted into being with the right craftsman.
Relatable. Beautiful. Popular.
It sounds pretty petty when I put it that way. I'm just not sure how to accomplish all these things.
Sunday, February 2, 2014
For a friend...
Shocking, right? I know. Even weirder, you especially can't make them respect you.
No matter how much love or appreciation you give, no matter how much you lift up the other person and show him/her they mean the world to you, they always have a choice. They can always refuse that support, that love, and that contribution to their world.
It doesn't mean that this person is bad, or that you didn't give them enough love, and it certainly doesn't mean that you aren't deserving of the same in return. It means that--for whatever reason--they are either unwilling or incapable of change. At least, in that area of their lives.
Maybe something happened to them when they were a kid, and they just never told you. Maybe they think they're better than you and that you're not worth their time or love. Never think that. No one is ever above accepting (or at least acknowledging) another's love. Maybe...just maybe...they're just as damaged as you thought yourself to be. Maybe they can't move past those things in their life that froze them into this damaged, echoing cavern, and all they can do is reject you and who you are, or who you try to be for them.
It's not a reflection on you. That's very important to remember.
Maybe I'm saying this to myself, maybe it's my own way of coping with the rejection of the love that I've given people very close to me. But I prefer to think of it as a final way of giving back. Of reaching out to that damaged, insecure, broken person, and letting them know that I do love them. That I can honestly say--with no ego--that I understand and forgive what they did. That we've all been in that position, all hurt those who we know love us, in spite (and because) of our flaws. None of us are perfect, none of us are ever going to be. It's not about that. It's not about managing to come across as funny, or charming, or witty, or curvy or sexy or thin.
It's about finidng those who love us back. And you've found that person. I just hope you'll see it. I love you.