tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52511707812708038222024-03-04T21:07:56.654-08:00Occupational HazardHard Rock Poserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08176060414938051096noreply@blogger.comBlogger44125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5251170781270803822.post-88527106540407820622016-04-25T17:17:00.002-07:002016-04-25T17:17:27.573-07:00Mexico<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In 2012, over 6 million Americans
visited Mexico. I’ve never been to Mexico, but I imagine that it
is terrible. Full of escaped convicts and kids with fatal cases of
affluenza—it would just be too much for me.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I imagine warm beaches, soft, sandy
turf, punctuated by snub-nosed men in white shirts, half-unbuttoned
and flapping in the breeze, proudly flaunting their nearly-hairless
chests and supple, puffy man boobs.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The locals are nice—warm, convivial,
always ready to offer a helping hand when needed—just stay out of
the prisons and cartel paths and you’re golden. But the
tourists…now THEY’RE the ones you need to look out for. Always
jabbering in sacrilegious attempts at Spanish, bitching the whole
time about how “no one here speaks damn English in this country.”
Haggling with local vendors over their chotchki prices (is $1.50
American <i>really </i>too high?) and filling their bratty children
with the poison of their choice: sugar, alcohol, hookers—anything
goes.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And then there are the convicts. Prison
escapees, or so the movies tell me. Corrupt bankers, murderers,
rapists—Leavenworth Federal Penitentiary’s finest, just ready for
their next golden opportunity at freedom and perversion.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">No, I have never been to Mexico, but I
would <i>not </i>like to live there. There are, after all, too many
Americans for my comfort.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<br />
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<br /></div>
Hard Rock Poserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08176060414938051096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5251170781270803822.post-20433602025710264342016-03-27T14:40:00.001-07:002016-03-27T14:40:47.371-07:00The OceanThe drive up was uneventful, for the most part. Your typical Kentucky drivers, interspersed with the occasional larger-than-average roadkill, rolled into little more than a bloody hide and some legs. A coyote? A deer? One could only hazard a guess by the size of the smear.<br />
<br />
When I die (although, of course, I hope it is a long ways off), I want my ashes returned to the ocean. Not the beach-- the beach is some soft, weak little thing that gently laps against the sand, while you sit twenty feet away, sipping your third margarita.<br />
<br />
No.<br />
<br />
I want to be given to the ocean. Those powerful, ivory-capped waves, riding atop a gunmetal gray berth that itself hides more than man can fear.<br />
<br />
I say "returned," as it has already tried to claim me once. When I was 9, a sneaker wave crept the shore, and for all the world a mini tsunami tried to well up and take me home.<br />
<br />
Although it elicited fear for years afterwards, I now see the strange, natural complement it had given me. I was a part of it, and will be again someday-- once my contributions to this land are done. We will rejoin, and, one day, the sea will have the tribute it tried to claim so many years ago.Hard Rock Poserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08176060414938051096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5251170781270803822.post-2575657124017437012016-03-20T18:01:00.004-07:002016-03-20T18:01:40.792-07:00A Snail's PaceWhen I was a child, we lived in an apartment complex in northern California that was inundated with snails. I was only three or four, but I still remember not even being able to walk down the sidewalk without accidentally crunching a few.<br />
<br />
Eventually, my dad was able to get rid of them all (milk jugs + beer = snail death), but not before they showed me a little game. A game with snails.<br />
<br />
The game was simple, easily-learned by someone with my (arguably limited) cognitive ability. You find a snail, lay down next to it, and poke it's eye stalks over and over again, watching them extend and retreat, over and over again. Eventually, even a snail is capable of catching on, and they no longer ventured their eyes out into the world of 4-year olds. That's when the end of the game began.<br />
<br />
Carefully, you grabbed the snail on each side of his shell, and proceeded to pull him from the sidewalk. Oozing slowly, he hung there between my thumb and forefinger, dreading...waiting.<br />
<br />
THWACK!<br />
<br />
With all the force a small child fueled by curiosity and slightly rabid excitement could muster, the snail was hurled across the yard and into the fence.<br />
<br />
THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!<br />
<br />
Snail, after snail, after desperate snail followed his brethren, unwilling and yet completely incapable of resisting their fate of peeling through the air at what must have been (to them) unthinkable speeds, before finally shattering their homes and bodies across a steadily-growing, vertical graveyard of crushed shells and dismembered bodies.<br />
<br />
Hours, I would spend doing this, and for hours my parents would hear the tiny, echoing deaths of hundreds of unlucky participants. Finally, my mother or father would pull back the sliding glass door, and (now possibly a bit concerned with my newfound fervor) urge me to come inside, wash my hands, and go watch Cinderella.<br />
<br />
An obedient child, I would reluctantly oblige, but quietly, with the patience of a monk, I would await the next day, when the backyard would be full of new victims, blithely living their lives, mere feet below their eventual, eternal damnation.Hard Rock Poserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08176060414938051096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5251170781270803822.post-57970582410748027292015-08-12T20:06:00.001-07:002015-08-12T20:06:06.219-07:00My Spider<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">There's this spider in our window.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">It was just a small spider, at first. Long, spindly legs emerging from a dark, bulbous body--unpleasant to look at, but probably not deserving of the hate it has received. I hate this spider more than I should. I hate it more than my job, I hate it more than my ex, I hate it more than people who change lanes in intersections and then slow down to fifteen miles per hour under the speed limit. Every time I see this spider, my hatred for it grows exponentially. I often contemplate lifting the window and drowning him in raid and maybe a little fire, and would readily carry out my threat, if not for the off chance that it would scuttle away, and find some way to hide in our house.</span><br />
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">It occupies our small kitchen window, this spider, carefully nestled between the screen and glass, so that if we were to open the window, we would expose ourselves to it. </span><div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">My first encounter with it was late in the morning on a Saturday. It had spun its careful little web between the two "walls," and, while still small, was patiently waiting for its trap to be sprung. I snubbed my nose at it, and continued washing the dishes, trying not to think about the endings that would be faced in that web.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Later that night, I saw it again. A firefly had stupidly wandered in past the screen, and had flown at exactly the wrong angle at exactly the wrong time of night and enticed exactly the wrong type of attention he had been hoping to attract. As my spider spun, the bug flailed desperately against the threads, flashing his last means of communication in a final attempt at rescue. Around, and around, and around he spun, how close must he be to the thing's face? Did his exoskeleton crack as its fangs sunk in? I kept the window closed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Several days later, my spider had grown. Its abdomen had swollen, and now ended in a visible point at the end. Each of those long, spindly legs were connected with a small ball of tendons and blood--or whatever passed as such. A few more gray, muted bodies now lay wrapped in their cocoons, although none as large as its first attack.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">A newcomer had joined in the mix. Small, orange, but otherwise strongly resembling My Spider. Same long, thin legs, same bulbous, sagging abdomen, laden with threading. He had found a place of plenty, and was quick to establish a small section of the window for himself, brandishing a few, small husks of his own. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">He was quicker to hang with the firefly.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">It is now fat and slow, this spider. Its abdomen is dully spotted, and its legs can now easily wrap around prey that once had to be handled with the caution and precision of a crane operator. It will die someday, hopefully due to exposure to the elements, or perhaps by another, larger spider that has decided to impose upon the lovely little safe haven it has found. Perhaps soon. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Two new spiders have moved into the window. Small, bulbous bodies, with long, spindly legs...</span></div>
Hard Rock Poserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08176060414938051096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5251170781270803822.post-43548092681016571302015-05-07T16:58:00.002-07:002015-05-07T16:58:28.282-07:00Blackberries<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Shawna ran up to me,
eyes glittering.
</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Leah's dad bought
her new scissors. The <i>sharp </i>ones.
The ones <i>without</i> the
rounded edges!” Judging by her look of satisfaction, I must have
looked as elated as I felt.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Have
her go to the back and cut there. Those vines are huge!” Shawna
nodded and ran off, orders memorized.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I
stepped back for a moment, surveying our progress so far. Impressive,
but not yet complete. It would take several months' worth of recesses
to reach our goal, and that was if we didn't get rained out most
days—which we did. But still, victory was close. We could smell it.
Smell it in the rotting blackberries beneath our feet. Smell it in
the green, sticky sap of the fresh-cut vines and in the sun-warmed
leaves above our small heads. This was the fourth grade, and this was
our freedom.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Before
the planning, before the work, before the multitude of stinging
scratches covering our arms, legs and faces, there was a fence. Not a
particularly unusual fence, to the untrained eye. To teachers,
parents, and anyone else over the age of eight, it was just a long,
low, chain-link fence that surrounded the school yard, corralling
those of us who soon grew bored with tire swings and picking out
quartz from the playground gravel. There was a narrow gap, just where
the two ends of the chain-link met, but (due to poor planning on the
part of some half-cocked engineer) did not line up. The poles they
had used to stabilize the fence were placed close together—too
close for someone to escape, perhaps, but far enough apart to stick a
daring arm or leg through, if one were so inclined. The breeze in the
forest was cool and soft. The hairs on our arms stood up as it kissed
us, reaching out desperately as we were, and we inhaled deeply,
breathing past the metal scent of the fence and inhaling the scents
of moss and fresh, growing trees.
</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Beyond
the fence were the woods. Tall, dark pines and fir trees crowded up
against each other, choking the warm sunny days down to little more
than a shady grove. There were things in those woods, bad things.
Ian's brother said so, and he was a year older than us. Things like
“bear traps” and “wild dogs” and “pedophiles.” We
surmised the last one to be some sort of robber, garbed in black and
white-striped pajamas with a sack of money over his back. Whatever
they were, they were all in that forest. And we wanted out.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> The
Seventh Day Adventist church—to which our school
belonged—encouraged a life of modesty and veganism. Women wore
dresses, jewelry was strongly discouraged, and the land of milk and
honey is roughly translated into something like the land of Boca
Burgers and tofu. Carob was a daily tragedy. Once a week, we would
walk to the church across the street and listen to a sermon. Daily
class activities included bible-based based board games, and it was
here that I was subjected to Veggie Tales instead of classroom
movies.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Obedience
and placidity were enforced above all else, save God. Once, when the
younger students had started to become “too rowdy” on the bus,
the driver went from class to class, preaching about the dangers of
distracting the bus driver and not sitting quietly in your seat. He
was armed with a double chin, the vice-principal's blessing, and a
PSA-style VHS that showed multiple reenactments of students causing
their entire school to crash tragically into the swampy abyss—if
<i>only </i>they had just
read their book and waited for their stop!</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At
home, situations were similarly restrictive. Parents who send their
children to private school expect a certain type of behavior, <i>not
</i>the kind typically seen in
children who attended <i>public school.</i>
The term itself was nearly filth in your mouth, after all. When a
school bully—who proudly referred to himself as “Bubba”—refused
to stop teasing me, I told him God didn't love him, so when He made
him, he put his head between his legs so he could kiss his own ass.
He was in the eighth grade, and he cried. I was kicked off the bus
and grounded for two weeks.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Many
of us accepted our fates with the kind of weary patience seen only in
prisoners and the elderly. Day in, day out, do our time and just get
out of there. A few, however, were not subdued so easily.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Eventually,
we devised a plan. A dirty, mischievous, stupid little plan that only
fourth graders or failed supervillains could come up with. Along one
part of the fence, there was a section of overgrown blackberry
bushes. An invasive species, these monsters quickly overtook any open
space available, turning fields into endless brambles, and fences
into walls of thorns and snapping vines. The logic was that, since
the woods had always been there, the bushes had, too, so the fence
must have been built around them. If we could find some way to cut
through the vines, we could eventually reach through to the other
side, and travel that magical land of bear traps and pedophiles. Our
own secret tunnels, just like in Mexico!</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Implementation
didn't take long. All that was required for our plan were scissors
and a willingness to become bruised, scratched, and mildly
dehydrated. It started out small, but quickly gained steam. Five,
sometimes six of us at a time would spend their recess feverishly
hacking away at the vines, with two or three (usually new recruits)
being forced to carry away and dispose of the debris. Such
determination seemed to be frowned upon, however, so the rest of us
set out to distract the teachers—pulling hair, starting fights,
flattering their egos. Soon we had a cave of vines big enough to hide
almost all of us, and still we kept cutting.
</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> The
teachers grew suspicious that this was more than just a passing fad.
This was no “members only club” that lasted for a week and was
based off of your love of horses and hatred of Matt Formby. No, we
meant business, and this time, we little bastards were organized.
They began cracking down on our plans, hoping to avoid parental
involvement (and potentially a lawsuit). They chased us away, we'd
quietly sneak back. They'd pat us down for scissors, we began hiding
them in the bushes before we left. Eventually, they stationed a
teacher <i>by </i>the bushes,
but by then we had recruited the third graders, and their recess was
on a different schedule than ours.
</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 200%;">At
this point, our parents had started asking us how the hell we were
going through scissors so fast., and where were we getting all of
those scratches from? We lied. For a bunch of elementary-schooled
kids stuffed into a private school without their consent, this was
our best chance at independence. From school to the bus to home to
back to school again, our lives were rarely our own. Even church was
not an escape, as the school belonged to the Seventh Day Adventists.
While we were nowhere near physically capable of taking care of
ourselves, none of us really cared. This was </span><i style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 200%;">our</i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 200%;">
dream, this was </span><i style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 200%;">our </i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 200%;">project,
and it was so much more than a game.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Finally,
the teachers struck their killing blow. “Recess is a privilege, not
a right,” they told us, and those who abused the privilege were to
be punished by having it taken away.
</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We
weren't hard to spot: grass-stained clothes, peppered with minor
flesh wounds, and guilty, terrified looks plastered on our faces
whenever the topic of scissors was broached. The other, more
“well-behaved” children would be allowed to go out and play,
while the rest of us stayed inside, organized our desks (books from
tallest to shortest, they told us) and twiddled our green-stained
thumbs. There is always weakness within the resistance, and the
teachers were able to pick out the weaker ones in the class with
startling ease, manipulating them with sweet, toxic bribes of
extra-long recess and volumes of praise. Soon, our forces had
dwindled, until only Shawna and myself were left. When we had finally
“earned” back the privilege of recess, the ravenous blackberries
had grown back to nearly their full glory, and their knotted traps
were even too much for most grown men to handle on their own, let
alone two small girls.
</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> A
few feeble attempts at revival were made: we tried to build a fort
out of old grass clippings by the runner's track. Escape was no
longer an option, but perhaps we could hide ourselves, glean some
privacy even as we gleaned the freshly-cut soccer field. We were
scolded and the clippings were removed. After a while, the dream had
caged itself, giving up on any chance of success or escape to the
world beyond our own. Sometimes, though, we would wander back to the
chain-link fence, slipping our arms through the gap, relishing the
cool forest breeze, and wondering about bear traps and pedophiles.
</span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
Hard Rock Poserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08176060414938051096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5251170781270803822.post-35925639073661596522014-12-18T08:29:00.001-08:002014-12-18T08:29:13.677-08:00Merry Christmas, Guys. <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://imgur.com/L51dK4v" target="_blank">And always keep the holiday spirit...</a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>Hard Rock Poserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08176060414938051096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5251170781270803822.post-1674761356350167632014-10-29T10:07:00.003-07:002014-10-29T10:07:40.113-07:00Hunter Davis<span data-reactid=".1i.$mid=11414076738213=22ca5ccfcc01afcca65.2:0.0.0.0.0.0.$end:0:$0:0" style="background-color: white; color: #3e454c; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15.3599996566772px; white-space: pre-wrap;">On Monday, October 20th, at 10:55 PM, the world got a little bit darker. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br data-reactid=".1i.$mid=11414076738213=22ca5ccfcc01afcca65.2:0.0.0.0.0.0.$end:0:$1:0" style="color: #3e454c; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15.3599996566772px; white-space: pre-wrap;" /></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span data-reactid=".1i.$mid=11414076738213=22ca5ccfcc01afcca65.2:0.0.0.0.0.0.$end:0:$2:0" style="color: #3e454c; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15.3599996566772px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Nicholas “Hunter” Davis passed away from complications from glioblastoma, a brain tumor that had plagued him for over 3 years. </span><span data-reactid=".1i.$mid=11414076738213=22ca5ccfcc01afcca65.2:0.0.0.0.0.0.$end:0:$4:0" style="color: #3e454c; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15.3599996566772px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Author, music hound, wanderer, companion, lover, dreamer, spiritualist and seeker of the unknown—a few words from the volume that describe this great man. </span><span data-reactid=".1i.$mid=11414076738213=22ca5ccfcc01afcca65.2:0.0.0.0.0.0.$end:0:$6:0" style="color: #3e454c; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15.3599996566772px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #3e454c; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15.3599996566772px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Hunter would give you the shirt off his back, even though it was his last one, and fraying at the seams. He would flip back his hair, whistle a tune—slapping his thigh to the beat you would never recognize— take instant mashed potatoes (probably the only thing he had left in the pantry) and turn them into a culinary, gut-bombing masterpiece for you two to share. You would always get the larger half. </span><br />
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<span data-reactid=".1i.$mid=11414076738213=22ca5ccfcc01afcca65.2:0.0.0.0.0.0.$end:0:$8:0" style="background-color: white; color: #3e454c; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15.3599996566772px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span data-reactid=".1i.$mid=11414076738213=22ca5ccfcc01afcca65.2:0.0.0.0.0.0.$end:0:$8:0" style="background-color: white; color: #3e454c; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15.3599996566772px; white-space: pre-wrap;">As with all dreamers, sometimes you would have to reel Hunter in. Anyone who knew Hunter was familiar with his penchant for getting stranded in Portland late at night—too busy catching up with friends and exploring downtown to bother with things like public transportation schedules. He was never without a place to sleep, though—the circle of people who loved him and offered him their couches for the night were outnumbered only by those who would themselves be out and about, exploring the city with him.</span><br />
<span data-reactid=".1i.$mid=11414076738213=22ca5ccfcc01afcca65.2:0.0.0.0.0.0.$end:0:$8:0" style="background-color: white; color: #3e454c; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15.3599996566772px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span data-reactid=".1i.$mid=11414076738213=22ca5ccfcc01afcca65.2:0.0.0.0.0.0.$end:0:$8:0" style="background-color: white; color: #3e454c; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15.3599996566772px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span data-reactid=".1i.$mid=11414076738213=22ca5ccfcc01afcca65.2:0.0.0.0.0.0.$end:0:$8:0" style="line-height: 15.3599996566772px;"><br /></span><span data-reactid=".1i.$mid=11414076738213=22ca5ccfcc01afcca65.2:0.0.0.0.0.0.$end:0:$10:0" style="line-height: 15.3599996566772px;">Husband, son, brother, friend – Hunter was one of those people that you never forget—even if only met in passing. His death has affected us all more than we would like to admit, and are each working hard to remember him for who he was, and who we will see again someday. </span><br data-reactid=".1i.$mid=11414076738213=22ca5ccfcc01afcca65.2:0.0.0.0.0.0.$end:0:$13:0" style="line-height: 15.3599996566772px;" /><span data-reactid=".1i.$mid=11414076738213=22ca5ccfcc01afcca65.2:0.0.0.0.0.0.$end:0:$14:0" style="line-height: 15.3599996566772px;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span data-reactid=".1i.$mid=11414076738213=22ca5ccfcc01afcca65.2:0.0.0.0.0.0.$end:0:$8:0" style="background-color: white; color: #3e454c; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15.3599996566772px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span data-reactid=".1i.$mid=11414076738213=22ca5ccfcc01afcca65.2:0.0.0.0.0.0.$end:0:$14:0" style="line-height: 15.3599996566772px;"><br /></span></span>
<span data-reactid=".1i.$mid=11414076738213=22ca5ccfcc01afcca65.2:0.0.0.0.0.0.$end:0:$8:0" style="background-color: white; color: #3e454c; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15.3599996566772px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span data-reactid=".1i.$mid=11414076738213=22ca5ccfcc01afcca65.2:0.0.0.0.0.0.$end:0:$14:0" style="line-height: 15.3599996566772px;">"You feel, nothing ever stays the same as it was</span><br style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; line-height: normal; white-space: normal;" /><span data-reactid=".1i.$mid=11414076738213=22ca5ccfcc01afcca65.2:0.0.0.0.0.0.$end:0:$16:0" style="line-height: 15.3599996566772px;">You'll take, no more remedies to force yourself true</span><br style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; line-height: normal; white-space: normal;" /><span data-reactid=".1i.$mid=11414076738213=22ca5ccfcc01afcca65.2:0.0.0.0.0.0.$end:0:$18:0" style="line-height: 15.3599996566772px;">You say, every motion and fall fail you too</span><br data-reactid=".1i.$mid=11414076738213=22ca5ccfcc01afcca65.2:0.0.0.0.0.0.$end:0:$21:0" style="line-height: 15.3599996566772px;" /><span data-reactid=".1i.$mid=11414076738213=22ca5ccfcc01afcca65.2:0.0.0.0.0.0.$end:0:$22:0" style="line-height: 15.3599996566772px;">This song is not about you</span><br style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; line-height: normal; white-space: normal;" /><span data-reactid=".1i.$mid=11414076738213=22ca5ccfcc01afcca65.2:0.0.0.0.0.0.$end:0:$24:0" style="line-height: 15.3599996566772px;">The life that stands without you</span><br style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; line-height: normal; white-space: normal;" /><span data-reactid=".1i.$mid=11414076738213=22ca5ccfcc01afcca65.2:0.0.0.0.0.0.$end:0:$26:0" style="line-height: 15.3599996566772px;">Your body and blood</span><br style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; line-height: normal; white-space: normal;" /><span data-reactid=".1i.$mid=11414076738213=22ca5ccfcc01afcca65.2:0.0.0.0.0.0.$end:0:$28:0" style="line-height: 15.3599996566772px;">Your body and blood</span><br style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; line-height: normal; white-space: normal;" /><span data-reactid=".1i.$mid=11414076738213=22ca5ccfcc01afcca65.2:0.0.0.0.0.0.$end:0:$30:0" style="line-height: 15.3599996566772px;">You're leaving us all."</span><br data-reactid=".1i.$mid=11414076738213=22ca5ccfcc01afcca65.2:0.0.0.0.0.0.$end:0:$33:0" style="line-height: 15.3599996566772px;" /><span data-reactid=".1i.$mid=11414076738213=22ca5ccfcc01afcca65.2:0.0.0.0.0.0.$end:0:$34:0" style="line-height: 15.3599996566772px;">-Black Rebel Motorcycle Club “Head Up High”</span></span>Hard Rock Poserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08176060414938051096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5251170781270803822.post-29993598081480008102014-06-28T20:33:00.001-07:002014-06-28T20:33:00.845-07:00We Know God<p dir="ltr">People in this country know God.</p>
<p dir="ltr">They Know what he wants, they Know what he doesn't want, and they Know where he lives.</p>
<p dir="ltr">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.</p>
<p dir="ltr">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.</p>
<p dir="ltr">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.</p>
<p dir="ltr">The people here live in God's country, and I pity Him for that.</p>
Hard Rock Poserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08176060414938051096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5251170781270803822.post-26003106953820610622014-06-23T09:54:00.001-07:002014-06-23T09:54:02.767-07:00Why I Hate BooksI have a bit of a love/hate relationship with literature, and actual, physical books in general.<div>
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Ever since I was little, the book store was simultaneously the best and worst place in the world. You don't set a diabetic fat kid loose in a candy store, and you don't let me loose in a book store. First of all, I'll spend ALL my money. All of it. Secondly, it's a maddening experience for me. The choices whisper at me from row upon row of thick, heavy paper and flimsy paperback bindings. The books leer down at me in an arrogance unrivaled in my mind--knowing I would sooner go insane than know the piece I bought was the right one, that there was not a better one--more--out there for me.</div>
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When you finally make your decision--when you finally adopt your paper and ink child--you (hopefully and dismally) become absorbed in the piece. You adopt the writer's profile, their thoughts, their way of life and speech. You struggle to not speak in the voice of the tweaked teenager in Shirley Jackson's <u>We Have Always Lived In The Castle</u>, you concoct clever yet simple plans and dream of stars alive a la Tristran Thorn from Gaiman's <u>Stardust</u> (and cringe each. And every time. You read his name). </div>
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They become a part of you, you know. Whether you like it or not, people are capable of osmosis. Whatever you read, you become. Forget what you eat--or, rather, you eat books. At least I do. Sometimes they're dry, sometimes unpleasant, but more often, they are savory and exciting, dancing in the mind like citrus on the tongue. The best ones linger, singing your thoughts like the Ghost pepper. You wash it down with glass upon glass of milk, page upon page of some softer, less grabbing material, but the burn stays, sometimes scarring your very way of thinking forever. There is nothing you can do to escape this fantastic experience, save possibly shutting yourself off from the written word entirely--and what kind of an individual would do that?</div>
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And that, is why I hate books.</div>
Hard Rock Poserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08176060414938051096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5251170781270803822.post-60476609406258574372014-06-21T20:57:00.001-07:002014-06-21T20:57:58.823-07:00I'm really just not feeling very loved or appreciated right now<p dir="ltr">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. </p>
<p dir="ltr">I'm not sure how to handle that.</p>
Hard Rock Poserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08176060414938051096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5251170781270803822.post-799253498046101532014-05-26T20:15:00.001-07:002014-05-26T20:15:09.542-07:00Pervading the darkest corners of my mind at night when I can't sleep.<p dir="ltr">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.</p>
<p dir="ltr">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.</p>
<p dir="ltr">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.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Maybe some day I'll finally catch up.</p>
Hard Rock Poserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08176060414938051096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5251170781270803822.post-67954762640645449702014-03-25T07:06:00.001-07:002014-03-25T07:06:22.757-07:0011 Movies That Don't Get Their Due<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Ah, movies...Them “movin’ pictures” have certainly taken over every
aspect of our lives—influencing the way we dress, walk, talk, and even think.
While some may have fall to the wayside, gone and probably forgotten, others
are lifted up and showered with <s>undeserved</s> hard-earned Oscars *cough<i>Gravity</i>coughcough*.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A few, though, fall into this weird little niche that is
neither here nor there—the awkward, semi-palpable void of the cinematic world,
if you will. These films each possess their own unique attributes and should
hold a place in every movie-buffs’ collection, but for some reason, don’t.
Allow me to lecture you on the poor choices the general public has made thus
far… <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>11.<span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></b><!--[endif]--><b>Mystery Men (1999)<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibu7UbqlKrt2ot20fqYfP-O9kBi6oEm3O2L_oWqSyhoBmitEqJXOJIh0W3z7REU0kCz71LeKlmTbDwGfrm2rcl8w6j_rEXdfXRzg3kKHGXjMp75DVnoMiS4WVzek6u2yf-f_hlTCupKr0/s1600/mystery+men.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibu7UbqlKrt2ot20fqYfP-O9kBi6oEm3O2L_oWqSyhoBmitEqJXOJIh0W3z7REU0kCz71LeKlmTbDwGfrm2rcl8w6j_rEXdfXRzg3kKHGXjMp75DVnoMiS4WVzek6u2yf-f_hlTCupKr0/s1600/mystery+men.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Cast: </b>Ben
Stiller, Hank Azaria, William H. Macy, Janeane Garofalo, Kel Mitchell, Paul Reubens,
Wes Studi, Greg Kinnear, Geoffrey Rush, Eddie Izzard, Tom Waits, Claire
Forlani, Ceelo Green, Dane Cook<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Recently, comic book titan Stan Lee made nerd headlines by
denouncing the lack of “ugly” superheroes, and--unfortunately--the over-paid, over-hyped octogenarian is completely right. In a
culture so completely overly-saturated with Iron Spider men and Dark Super Knight Xaviers,
it would be nice to occasionally see a take on the shitty heroes, the D-listers--the ones not even good enough to make second (or third) string. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This film is exactly that. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The costumes, the
one-liners, <i>the</i> Eddie Izzard—but whenever I mention this film to someone, it’s
always “Oh, but that's <i>so bad</i>!
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—<i>that’s </i>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 <i>Quills</i> 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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>22.<span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></b><!--[endif]--><b>Alien Vs Predator<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGkw8cqcsu-4bM8wRRLCdS2PtfALRvioPNtXcvVISFmKHcQzwvoDI0-BShYosUR7zqlYvhWO0GUzYFjk94MMxn7UTkC27dL-SoKeRoymyxMyZ75BclLiNx7fnVhtlFzq5jy8SrC3tOsvc/s1600/avp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGkw8cqcsu-4bM8wRRLCdS2PtfALRvioPNtXcvVISFmKHcQzwvoDI0-BShYosUR7zqlYvhWO0GUzYFjk94MMxn7UTkC27dL-SoKeRoymyxMyZ75BclLiNx7fnVhtlFzq5jy8SrC3tOsvc/s1600/avp.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Cast: </b>Sanaa Lathan, Raoul Bova, Alien,
Predator<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Alien purists will hate me for this one, but fuck off 'cause I don't care.
Anything with Alien (except for <i>Resurrection</i>) I totally geek out over, and this movie is no exception. I’ve always
preferred Alien over Predator, and I love getting into debates with people over
who <i>really </i>won the battle at the end.
Really, the only reason they even have meat-bags in this film at all is just to add a bit
of relatability to the film—basically just cannon fodder—skeet
targets for the two <i>real </i>stars of the
show. Moral of the story is, watch the movie for the AvP showdown, not because
you’re really expecting an Oscar-winning performance. There’s a reason they
didn’t spend any money on the casting. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></o:p></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>3.<span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></b><!--[endif]--><b>Sucker Punch (2011)<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Cast:
</b>A bunch of people you’ve never heard of who were cast because they’re
pretty. Also, Carla Gugino.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So many people—let me repeat that—<i>so many people</i> hate this film, and I think I know why. But, the
thing is, they haven’t realized what makes this film so great. Wanna know it’s
secret?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It’s a live-action anime.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">While it’s not actually based on any anime I’ve ever scene
(see what I did there?), stop for a minute and try to wrap your tiny brain around it. Beautiful women
with bizarre power-ups and revealing outfits that find themselves in
out-of-this-world situations who strip tease their way to freedom. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You don’t watch this movie for the plot, and you certainly
don’t watch this movie for the acting. Just stop that right now. Just stop it. You watch it
for the shiny. You watch it to see a little blonde schoolgirl trapped in an
insane asylum fight off three, three-story tall stone samurai with a katana and
a pistol. You watch it to bask in the glow of a mind-blowing soundtrack,
including the best remake of “Go Ask Alice” that's ever graced these perfectly-sculpted, doubly-pierced ears (well...one hold grew back together...giggity). You go to see <i>a B-25 Mitchell with Vanessa Hudgens inside
it shooting a Browning M2HB at a giant fucking dragon.</i> You go to see <i>zombie steampunk Nazis being shot up by a
giant bunny mech-suit. </i>THAT’S why you go see this film, and THAT’S why it kicks ass.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>44.<span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></b><!--[endif]--><b>League of Extraordinary Gentlemen (2003)<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPoDFwOYNtHkNdz1Gd2LWj5R6g0s5f_jKlo-Kcf9OAbNkDtJlfGwFsykcQfy6elvCcLVOpMa0mEgJBpZWNRgDVqdTKWYCSdD8aQOiGcoZH_ajV8EkEdQj41nN9WKrSWqrFGKV30ZYt-co/s1600/loeg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPoDFwOYNtHkNdz1Gd2LWj5R6g0s5f_jKlo-Kcf9OAbNkDtJlfGwFsykcQfy6elvCcLVOpMa0mEgJBpZWNRgDVqdTKWYCSdD8aQOiGcoZH_ajV8EkEdQj41nN9WKrSWqrFGKV30ZYt-co/s1600/loeg.jpg" height="320" width="215" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Cast: </b>Sean Connery, Stuart Townsend,
some other guys<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Captain Nemo, the Hulk, Bella Swan and every American action
hero EVER save the world from World War II machines designed solely for the
destruction of mankind! Sunday Sunday Sunday!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That is basically this film. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />Although they do kind of butcher some of literatures’
greatest characters in this film (the Mina Harker in this movie <i>clearly </i>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 <i>The Avengers</i> 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…<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>55.<span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></b><!--[endif]--><b>The Avengers (1998)<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW_HxZGyQrH6Xx3gjqAWS5ps3oXhwz4EW53p-BnD0VcZ5t6xkDxELZW6Uwle-RjuXYjV_F4ST8dhMzu_0-55dVwcLFl3qnk7_3uap8LuqkqnTzIg7x6bbrLwgrs6fXU-G4x4QIZZTrIYY/s1600/avengers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW_HxZGyQrH6Xx3gjqAWS5ps3oXhwz4EW53p-BnD0VcZ5t6xkDxELZW6Uwle-RjuXYjV_F4ST8dhMzu_0-55dVwcLFl3qnk7_3uap8LuqkqnTzIg7x6bbrLwgrs6fXU-G4x4QIZZTrIYY/s1600/avengers.jpg" height="320" width="214" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Cast: </b>Ralph Fiennes, Uma Thurman, Sean Connery, Jim Broadbent,
Eddie Izzard<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">No, not that one. The other one. The one with Uma Thurman
(did you even <i>read </i>the cast list?).
This movie came out when I was a kid and was still impressed with things like
giant plastic bubbles you can walk in while crossing a lake. Well, okay...maybe I’m <i>still </i>impressed by
those kinds of things. Who wouldn’t?
It’s a giant. Fucking. <i>Bubble.</i> And you can use
it to walk on <i>water.</i> It’s a win-win
here, people.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Anyways…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>6</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>6.<span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></b><!--[endif]--><b>Waterworld<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVXdt7JY4YD0Yl-NBlkG7gnGkfa_sFM33adhnRj9IHSGP78xgDsTnGV2HhgsdFB7mqIAqw7iU_cHOQnlfuFusr0BkW_b9IleqzQ9NtWPQ6-F9O4VqwkTRo6ZL9rSoZkyfpZX6gTfNpmJI/s1600/ww.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVXdt7JY4YD0Yl-NBlkG7gnGkfa_sFM33adhnRj9IHSGP78xgDsTnGV2HhgsdFB7mqIAqw7iU_cHOQnlfuFusr0BkW_b9IleqzQ9NtWPQ6-F9O4VqwkTRo6ZL9rSoZkyfpZX6gTfNpmJI/s1600/ww.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Cast: </b>Kevin
Costner, Jeanne Triplehorn<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When I was a kid, I always used to confuse this movie with
Battlefield Earth, which I have actually never seen. I don't know, I also used to confuse Jim Carey with Drew Carey, and Julia Roberts with Sandra Bullock. Whatever. One of the few Kevin Costner movies actually worth watching (seriously, <i>why</i> is The Postman a thing?), it presents an
interesting take on the whole post-apocalyptic world scenario: the polar ice
caps have melted, and the few survivors sail between floating towns, bartering
for supplies and salvaging whatever they can. For some reason, this poor kid
some cruel parent named “Enola” is sporting a wicked back tattoo that will lead
the last survivors to dry land, and adventure ensues. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Movies like this are pretty hit-or-miss, but, even though it
stars one of Hollywood's biggest, most boring douchebags, it’s
entertaining and unique, without sporting his usual <i>Dances with Wolves</i> banality.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>77.<span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></b><!--[endif]--><b>Mom & Dad Save the World (1992)<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSUSezCFuELCv1PDHCBY91jeDXoWM9nuO_Zj-25Twlj2OYoOMnJpu1eWrdjSVKarh4fT4Vay9sjIcYtd7ghbaDeeS8Aqp0II61ZIXZa2F5u83TbpAS_3dGXeH-dRS3_4_sH20U2MPNHjg/s1600/mom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSUSezCFuELCv1PDHCBY91jeDXoWM9nuO_Zj-25Twlj2OYoOMnJpu1eWrdjSVKarh4fT4Vay9sjIcYtd7ghbaDeeS8Aqp0II61ZIXZa2F5u83TbpAS_3dGXeH-dRS3_4_sH20U2MPNHjg/s1600/mom.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Cast: </b>Teri
Garr, Jeffrey Jones, Jon Lovitz, Wallace Shawn, Eric Idle, Kathy Ireland<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Please tell me you’ve seen this movie and love it. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Please. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Heard of it? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Not even once? Ugh, how disappointing, and we were getting to be
such friends.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In a tongue-in-cheek, <i>Married
with Children </i>meets <i>Space Balls</i> 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. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Today Marge Nelson, becomes Marge Spango! And all across
the planet, our hearts will do the <i>tangooooo!</i>”<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I blame this movie for my hilarious, genius sense of humor
that most people don’t often get but give me weird looks for.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>88.<span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></b><!--[endif]--><b>Planet Terror (2007)<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvfI6LqYYa2-FUX-mA6zp2-7S4KCDPX2i83C4BPcGheMpGN-3fBnHI7t4vnc4efmkdEwSmPj1aHBQLDKRE3buaY0hLe5ogQXF7J_0lL3C9AcS2IOvhUgtzVcvnmQOptTtqrAKjAVzENqs/s1600/girnd.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvfI6LqYYa2-FUX-mA6zp2-7S4KCDPX2i83C4BPcGheMpGN-3fBnHI7t4vnc4efmkdEwSmPj1aHBQLDKRE3buaY0hLe5ogQXF7J_0lL3C9AcS2IOvhUgtzVcvnmQOptTtqrAKjAVzENqs/s1600/girnd.jpg" /></a><b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Cast: Rose McGowan, Quentin Tarantino, Josh Brolin, Bruce Willis,
Fergie</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When this movie hit theaters as a double feature with
Tarantino’s <i>Death Proof, </i>all I heard
about was how much <i>better</i> Death Proof was, how <i>Planet Terror </i>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 <i>Planet
Terror</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">While Tarantino’s <i>Death
Proof </i>sports his classic long-winded, (at times) engrossing dialogue and gruesomely raw
violence, Robert Rodriguez’s <i>Planet Terror</i>
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 <i>Friends</i> 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. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>99.<span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></b><!--[endif]--><b>9<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjncXun5o8dfFVkc3rG6B3KB2PMnk9ujuwbHgfC17_VG_i9bkLfMDv10H0Lw4NFdmN9QP87wZnNi3Kr4MzcT5hblN7IsqVUiIhUoqDXAe4QjMvN6QMERPJyvfkgd2wF5FKhZQHRYLLHqG4/s1600/9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjncXun5o8dfFVkc3rG6B3KB2PMnk9ujuwbHgfC17_VG_i9bkLfMDv10H0Lw4NFdmN9QP87wZnNi3Kr4MzcT5hblN7IsqVUiIhUoqDXAe4QjMvN6QMERPJyvfkgd2wF5FKhZQHRYLLHqG4/s1600/9.jpg" height="320" width="216" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Cast: Elijah Wood, Christopher Plummer, Martrin Landau, John C. Reilly,
Jennifer Connelly<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">No, that’s not a typo. Putting <i>9</i> as number nine on this list was a complete (happy) accident. Then I kept it in there as I edited it because I was pleased with myself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The story itself is alright, but the real genius behind the
piece comes from its’ <i>Borrowers</i>-esque
use of small, everyday objects to create an entire microcosmic world that the
viewer can easily identify with. It’s also fairly creepy in a Bioshock sort of
way, and some of the monsters are just downright disturbing—like the robotic
cat with a feline skull and glowing red eyes. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>110.<span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></b><!--[endif]--><b>Drop Dead Fred<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJYCTAP149fQRmRDPMyLPpzHpIGnWwQUh9W9IZtHh3SG19v0Fs7eP83T7bl3u5KYnap31gqzFd3Al1idmtQe7Fk7b7oyb1HXbpSG7by4GYrfdjRWiWX1dyUjBhpAZpEEG70-wLMG3_hTU/s1600/drop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJYCTAP149fQRmRDPMyLPpzHpIGnWwQUh9W9IZtHh3SG19v0Fs7eP83T7bl3u5KYnap31gqzFd3Al1idmtQe7Fk7b7oyb1HXbpSG7by4GYrfdjRWiWX1dyUjBhpAZpEEG70-wLMG3_hTU/s1600/drop.jpg" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Cast:
Phoebe Cates, Rik Mayall, Marsha Mason (I didn’t recognize any of the names,
either)<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This was probably one of the most disturbing and most
enjoyed films of my childhood—right up there next to that one scene from <i>The Neverending Story</i> with Atreyu and the wolf that I could never skip past because VHS tapes either skipped ahead too fast or not fast enough. You’d have to have
lived in a closet your entire life not to know about this warped little bauble,
and maybe it’s better if you did.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The story follows a young woman who has an imaginary friend
from her childhood pop back into her life as she struggles to deal with her
control-freak mother and womanizing husband. It’s every bit as bizarre as it
has potential to be, and I still get weirded out when I think of Fred’s head
getting caught in the fridge when someone closes the door. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>111.<span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></b><!--[endif]--><b>Coraline<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFF2wplSx0dp2KmCRr5uO8QesZv7rX0gfLkL5VlH-11FuMOMeq2bzFJJdTOYH8aiFnRkKZcchkFhNm2ZI2MiAQ4wwMJmj1F4jML9JYB12ogd6Irgn3-Ot9yrtAulzLhD9zeRXv4k0ikz8/s1600/coraline.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFF2wplSx0dp2KmCRr5uO8QesZv7rX0gfLkL5VlH-11FuMOMeq2bzFJJdTOYH8aiFnRkKZcchkFhNm2ZI2MiAQ4wwMJmj1F4jML9JYB12ogd6Irgn3-Ot9yrtAulzLhD9zeRXv4k0ikz8/s1600/coraline.jpg" height="320" width="215" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Cast:
Dakota Fanning, Teri Hatcher, Keith David<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Aw man, this movie you guys—you guys, this movie. It’s
almost impossible for me to rave too much about it, but allow me to try:<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">How this movie was ever classified as a “children’s film,” I
will never know. The movie was created by Laika, a Portland-based company that
employs seemingly awesome individuals that you spend three hours talking to in
a coffee shop who then never call you back even though things seemed to go so
well? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But I digress. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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 </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">perturbed</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The art in this film is reminiscent of Tim Burton’s earlier
stuff, but much more detailed and with a refreshing twist of color contrast
that he always seems to avoid. It is also rather reminiscent of Stephen King’s <i>IT,</i> in that it deals with children
literally fighting demons their older, more “adult” companions seem to have
little to no idea of whatsoever. Bonus: there are dancing, trumpet-playing
rats and Scottie dogs with little angel outfits.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Regardless of your opinion of this not-so-brief (I like to ramble), definitely
not-so-complete (I don't ramble well) list, I think one thing we can all agree on is that there are
way too many movies out there that fall into cinematic obscurity, forever
doomed to never receive the proper credit and passion they are owed. These
films will be constantly lurking in the bargain bin section of the electronics
stores, or pitifully sulking at the bottom of the “most downloaded” lists. So let's go watch some bad tv.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
Hard Rock Poserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08176060414938051096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5251170781270803822.post-70771606228147466462014-03-13T10:23:00.001-07:002014-03-13T10:24:18.239-07:00Serves me right for trying to eat healthy.<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">While feeling particularly self-righteous and smug today, I decided to make the landmark decision to eat lunch from the salad bar. Boldy I stalked past the fried, fatty foods, raising a skeptical eyebrow at the daily special: hot wings that smelled like barf.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Finally, (mostly) vegetarian perfection. My cousin would be proud. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then, terror struck.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At least it was almost over.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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, <i>angrily</i>--stuff it into the hole. Bastard salad can go to hell. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Fuck it. I'm getting a burger.</span>Hard Rock Poserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08176060414938051096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5251170781270803822.post-32084008790759306652014-03-09T17:16:00.001-07:002014-03-09T17:16:50.613-07:00Professional AttributesThere are times in our lives when we meet people we just do not get along with professionallly. The closed-minded boss, the coworker who thinks you should do things just a little (or a lot) differently, constantly ranting about their vast cosmic superiority within the realm of their half-cubicle. These people are something you must learn to get along with, even if you sometimes want to punch them in their fucking face.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.Hard Rock Poserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08176060414938051096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5251170781270803822.post-25014004094750134392014-02-25T21:08:00.001-08:002014-02-25T21:08:44.645-08:00Why Worms Are Gross: A Limerick<p dir="ltr">Worms are disgusting, you know that that's true.<br>
I really hate worms, you should hate them, too.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Worms are fucked up, few things are much worse,<br>
Allow me to show you, or explain in verse:</p>
<p dir="ltr">Tapeworms are foul, they live in your ass,<br>
Eating your shit, which comes out real fast.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Pinworms are nasty, their eggs float on dust specks,<br>
Just think about that, next time you have sex.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Worms can be parasites, they'll make you feel sick,<br>
Some anal worms are removed with a stick.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Some worms have teeth, I mean, like, fuck tons,<br>
Bleeding circles of death, why have just one? </p>
<p dir="ltr">They're creepy fuckers, that is a fact,<br>
Like Satan's dick dipped in sludge, alive in your tract.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I hate worms so much, I hope you see why,<br>
When I hope those cunts drown, perhaps now you'll see why.</p>
<p dir="ltr">But they're still not as gross as frogs.</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKvXGO-QbRzf1_3qSOT2MQcOTW0cbCEN0HlqobO5Fzh9-1A0wSTHBJrGgQ9eydAH503q5Q2_nd4V8NX8JNpxLOkBiWc0w421NUh8rovHEtYwERKSDDd94lkG1ykbuCnPOwm5IsZjLT7Zw/s1600/openMouthTeeth_2144136e.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> <img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKvXGO-QbRzf1_3qSOT2MQcOTW0cbCEN0HlqobO5Fzh9-1A0wSTHBJrGgQ9eydAH503q5Q2_nd4V8NX8JNpxLOkBiWc0w421NUh8rovHEtYwERKSDDd94lkG1ykbuCnPOwm5IsZjLT7Zw/s640/openMouthTeeth_2144136e.jpeg"> </a> </div>Hard Rock Poserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08176060414938051096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5251170781270803822.post-2783112711925902212014-02-24T00:15:00.002-08:002014-02-24T00:15:41.828-08:00Proof that I am a genius. Also, I need sleep.Last week, I discovered a few things. One of these things was that you should definitely NOT go to hot yoga, sweat out a pound and a half of water weight and then go hit the bars. This is a terrible life choice.<br />
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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.<br />
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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?<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>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.<br />
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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.<br />
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As you can see, Marvel, I have generously provided you with an artist's rendition of what I think THB should look like:<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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But don't tell Benedict. He's still waiting for her to call.Hard Rock Poserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08176060414938051096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5251170781270803822.post-69555282407555372192014-02-20T21:40:00.003-08:002014-02-20T21:40:58.366-08:00How can I measure up?I really, really, really really wish that I was a better writer. I wish I was able to captivate people the way so many of my idols (pedestal patrons? Literary heroes?) are. J.R.R. Tolkien was able to capture grandiose and detail in unparalleled precision, and created works of literary art that has transcended generations. Peter Beagle is able to take a basic concept for a child's story and layer it, add depth and swirls and tweaks in the characters and plot until it's something that reaches to people on every level. Even smaller-time writers, like Allie Brosh. She has this fantastic blog, is capable of taking the most outlandish, bizarre stories and presenting them in a relatable, hilarious, horrifyingly close-to-home fashion and has millions of fans/readers who adore her and her ability to show us that mirror we unknowingly look in every day.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>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?"<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>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?<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>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.<br />
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Relatable. Beautiful. Popular.<br />
It sounds pretty petty when I put it that way. I'm just not sure how to accomplish all these things.Hard Rock Poserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08176060414938051096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5251170781270803822.post-77141731794453637422014-02-02T16:07:00.001-08:002014-02-02T16:07:16.380-08:00For a friend...So, I've discovered that you can't make people love you.<br />
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Shocking, right? I know. Even weirder, you especially can't make them <i>respect </i>you.<br />
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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.<br />
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It doesn't mean that this person is bad, or that you didn't give them enough love, and it <i>certainly </i>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.<br />
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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.<br />
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It's not a reflection on you. That's very important to remember.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.Hard Rock Poserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08176060414938051096noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5251170781270803822.post-41080504876685666322013-11-05T18:21:00.001-08:002013-11-05T18:21:53.164-08:00The Infected...<p dir=ltr>   Duela panicked as she slammed the heavy door behind her and bolted it shut, gasping for breath and grasping desperately for something resembling coordinated thought. "<i>Okay,</i>" she talked herself down, "<i>just through the window and up the fire escape. The roof will last for a while. They hate the sun. That I've seen.</i>" She glanced down at her bloodied, pale hands. How many had she clawed her way through to get here? How many once-helpless innocents had she mown down for the sake of her own safety, for the priceless, rare gem of an opportunity to be alone, to sort out her thoughts, and to arrange some sort of plan in this madness? It's always fight or flight, I suppose they say, but this time...this time it was different. These were people she knew, people she <i>loved</i> once.  </p>
<p dir=ltr> It could be that way no longer.  </p>
<p dir=ltr> Taking a deep breath, she focused, calmed, steadied her hands in front of her. The feeble, persistent scratching from the other side of the office door started them shaking again. Who knows how long that door would hold.  </p>
<p dir=ltr>  It was an old house, built when real wood and metal were used liberally throughout the construction of such things—that had been what saved her. They were weak, but they never stopped coming, and their numbers were ever-growing. Her mother. Her brother. Her own fiance—all had succumbed to the sickness. Narcoleptic Introvert with Radical Domains, was what the news called them. N.I.R.D.s, for short. </p>
<p dir=ltr>   It had started small enough, she supposed: a few stories on the news, singular, alarming only in their irregularity. Then a few more. Then people on the street started showing signs—people she <i>knew,</i> people she talked to every day! Ugg boots replaced with Converse, Abecrombie gave way to the Avengers. Even Starbucks—for years, a safe haven when all else had failed her—had become infected! “Free double-shot for every Whovian!” their blackboard up front had boasted in bold, brightly-colored letters, a miniature TARDIS carefully sketched out next to it in cerulean blue chalk. <i>“No, stop that!”</i> Duela panicked--<i>”don't give it a name. That's how it enters. That's how it starts...”</i> But, try as she may, she couldn't block out the image of this morning. That horrible, nightmarish image as she turned the corner of her own hallway to pour some cereal or drink some coffee or whatever her regular ritual had become since the turn. </p>
<p dir=ltr>   Her brother. Her own dear brother, the one she had tried so hard to protect. Gone was the faux-hawk—shaved down now to a close-cropped crew cut. The eighty dollar jeans—pre-torn so carefully by the slave workers in India or Vietnam or wherever the hell they were from this year—replaced by denim just a little too short, revealing his custom Joker-fied sneakers. His collar was no longer popped—indeed, there wasn't even a collar to be popped any more—if there was, it was covered up by some ghastly abomination of a hoodie: black, with “1 + 1 = 10” on the front. He said it was binary. <i>BINARY!</i> But the worst of all—the thing that had set her screaming and running into the street for relief—was what he held in his hands. In those small, scabbed-up little boy hands—those hands she had held so lovingly when he was a baby as she sang him to sleep with Kanye West's latest hit—was a Nintendo DS. Some ungodly yellow mouse-looking thing scarred the front with it's abominable visage, and the boy was mumbling something under his breath about “Missing No.” </p>
<p dir=ltr>   She had found this place in her panic—thrown aside countless tweens with “Keep Calm and Chive On” tee shirts, clawed her way past deceptively loving couples with matching Deathpool shirts <i>“Deathpool? Deadpond? No! Stop thinking about it!” </i>and finally to this sanctuary. They had followed her, of course, cruel mimicries of concern echoing through the halls. “Such concern! Wow! Many anger , very confuse!...You have yoga pants, we have a Hulk!...Do you want a banana? I like bananas, bananas are good for you!”God would they ever STOP?! Wasn't it enough that they had to take her brother—now they had to come for her, too?!<br></p>
<p dir=ltr><i>   "I'm almost</i><i> there,</i>" she thought, determined. <i>"I just have to get to the roof, I can hold out there for a while, at least."</i> Another deep breath, and Duela crossed the room, reaching for the window latch. She stopped. Fingerless gloves. Shaking in horror, she looked down. A red leather underbust cinched her waist, coupled with a white shirt and some leather pants—one leg red, one black. Three black diamonds on the red leg. Thigh-high, heavily buckled boots completed the ensemble—again in the mismatched red and black. Her breath came in quick, short bursts—slowly, she walked closer to the window, studying her reflection in the glass through tear-clouded eyes. <i>No, please God not this</i>--white makeup—<i>anything but this, please</i>—black lipstick—<i>ANYTHING else—</i>pig tails<i>—</i><i>just please...don't let me </i><i>be...</i></p>
<p dir=ltr>Duela had dropped her guard while she regrouped her thoughts. She had focused too much on the sickness, too much on the symptoms and that look in her brother's eye—the brother now forever lost, like her. While she had mourned, It had set in, becoming embedded in her system deeper than the purest, most predisposing genes.   </p>
<p dir=ltr>She had become a N.I.R.D.  </p>
<p dir=ltr>She was....in cosplay. </p>
<p dir=ltr>Tears streaming down her face, streaming her heavy black eyeliner, Duela crossed back to the door, unlocking it with trembling fingers. Clenching her teeth and closing her eyes for a moment, she slowly opened the door. Suddenly laughing manically, she stepped through the door, screaming out in a high-pitched, tear-strained voice, “Hi, Puddin! Harley's home!” <br>
</p>
Hard Rock Poserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08176060414938051096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5251170781270803822.post-82007246583717310812013-10-06T14:31:00.001-07:002013-10-09T15:16:15.586-07:00Stink Bug Sadist<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So like, Kentucky has these Stink Bugs, right? Little shield-shaped fuckers designed to just not really do anything and be annoying due to their sheer volume. Oregon has them, but nowhere near the fuck tons that Kentucky does. It's fucking annoying. At any given point and time there's at least one on my blinds, hovering over my head, waiting to drop down on my face and scare the literal shit out of me.</span><br>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Anyways, I saw one of these little shit bags just, like, chillin' on my blinds, same as always, and I decided to get rid of him. I didn't want to kill him, partly because I'm a kind soul, mostly because I didn't want him to stink bug all over me. My bedroom has storm windows, so I basically have two sets of glass separated by about a 2" gap between them. Only one one window though, 'cause apparently fuck storms for the other one. But whatever, I decide to push him out the window that doesn't have two pane of glass so he can fly away and do whatever these little shits do. Whatever. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Anyways, I slowly raise part of the blinds (being very careful not to dislodge the little guy) and open my window. Phase 1 accomplished. </span><br>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Phase 2 didn't go as well as planned. I gently shook the blinds while holding a piece of paper below him, hoping to push him out the now open window. However, these guys didn't scramble to the top of the food chain by being the smartest little buggers (hehe), in fact, they're nowhere near the top of the foodchain at all. He loses his grip on the blinds, falls, bounces off the piece of paper and falls on his back just outside the window. Whatever, job done, he can figure out how to get up on his own. As I begin to slide the window shut, (his six little legs flailing frantically in what can only be waves stark bug terror and panic,) I realize that not only have I shooed him out the window that he CAN'T escape from (read: he is now between two panes of glass with no hope of escape), but as the window snaps shut a gigantic spider pounces down on him with venomous passion. Thankfully, I didn't see what happened next. </span><br>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Instead of mourning for his untimely death, I laughed. Chortled, even.</span><br>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Little fucker shouldn't have been in my room.</span><div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">UPDATE: I just raised my blinds to watch the rain. I can see his little web-spun carcass hanging by the spider--some kind of horrific dead bug trophy. I slowly lowered my blinds and tried not to think about what I've become. </span></div>Hard Rock Poserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08176060414938051096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5251170781270803822.post-42739954678537765302013-09-28T12:23:00.000-07:002013-09-28T12:23:05.431-07:00Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Douchebags...When you're new to a town, you don't know the rules. You don't know where to go for food, friends, stuff to do--it's unexpected and an intriguing twist when you've grown up in one place for so many years. You meet a few people here and there, but your social circle just isn't as large as you'd expected it to be, so you run out of ideas and join a dating site. You meet a couple neat people, and one in particular sparks your interest.<br />
<br />
After a few weeks of texting (yes, one of the precious few you gave your number to), and a few rescheduled meet-ups, you agree to an impromptu date of sorts. I mean, why not? You were already out and about, had already had a few, and now's as good a time as any. Your aunt drops you off at the local gay bar (his suggestion), and you can't help but smile a bit as you question whether he really did mean this to be a date for the two of you. But, the drinks are good and strong and the environment's fun, so you stay.<br />
<br />
You're smart about it, though. You finish your drinks before you go to the bathroom, you order a glass of water in between drinks, and you ask the bartender if you can charge your phone--just in case. He was nice, funny, and more than a little intelligent and charming. He makes a few awkwardly obvious attempts at physical contact: a touch of the knee, comments on how sore his neck is, etc. He invites you to his place to watch Doctor Who, but you politely decline--that's not how you wanted the evening to end. A few drinks later, he asks if you want to hit up another bar, maybe grab some food at a local crappy diner (Waffle House, anyone?). Sure, that sounds fun, safe, and you're more than a little hungry after such...significant servings of booze.<br />
<br />
Being more than a shade more sober than you are, he offers to drive. "You know, I'm just at the point where if I have another drink, I won't be able to drive you home," he frowns a bit. "You know what I could really go for? Some Angels in Manhattan. I've got them on my hard drive at my place, and I could pour you a drink there, if you want. Then I could drive you home. Does that sound good?" It's awkward now. You already said no once, but it's a decent offer, and you don't want to come across as rude or stand-offish. You agree. You chat a bit more on the way to his place, and you end up talking about sex. Big surprise, right? "Are you a slut?" he asks, laughing a bit. "No judging at all if you are, I'm all for equal gender empowerment." You laugh uneasily, and say no, that you really don't sleep around with guys until you've known them for a while. He proceeds to spout some thinly-veiled spiel about women being called sluts when they sleep around, and how it's unfair since men aren't held to the same standards of chastity.<br />
<br />
You pull up to his place (a large house shared by several students), walk up the stairs and he unlocks the door. Walking down the hallway to his apartment, you can't help but feel a bit intimidated: the ceiling is high, the walls are close, and the lighting is poor. You're sure he mentioned something about roommates before, but it's a one bedroom. He must have just meant he used to have roommates. An easy misunderstanding--the bar was distracting, and all the alcohol is really starting to go to your head. Actually, it's hitting you pretty hard.<br />
<br />
You follow him into the kitchen, where he proceeds to make your drink--a coke and something strong with a dash of grenadine. You're still careful, and you watch him make it, just in case.<br />
<br />
The damn thing nearly sets your breath on fire, and the glass is full to the brim. It's impossible not to spill a bit on the floor/yourself. He tells you not to worry about it, and starts to rub your neck as you turn to leave the kitchen. It feels so nice to get some of those kinks out, and you spill some more of your drink.<br />
<br />
He turns on the tv and launches the first episode. "Why don't you sit down here on the floor?" He suggests, "Then I can rub your shoulders." Again, you feel awkward. A sip of the drink to ease your nerves, and you slide down onto the rug. You lean back between his knees, trying to avoid leaning back <i>too </i>far. You're already worried about the impression you're giving him. The show starts, and you try to focus on the show and not on the fact that his fingers are pressing harder...wandering further, even momentarily pushing themselves up the back of your shirt before respectfully pulling it back down. You tense up, but his fingers press into your shoulders so hard--it kind of hurts. He begins to massage your scalp, but then starts to pull your hair a bit. It's getting harder to watch the show like this. Pushing one sleeve to the side, he rubs under your bra strap--just a bit. Lower, further, his hands always pressing themselves where they shouldn't be--pushing the boundaries and your top a little further away from where they should be.<br />
<br />
"You smell nice," he mutters, and you realize his face is right next to yours. "Um, thank you..."<br />
<br />
Of course, somehow, he kisses you. It wasn't hard, he's still pulling your hair with barely contained self-control. The fingers, attached to those hands, wend themselves down your shirt. The front this time. Uninvited, unwelcome, unrestrained at first by you. This was not how you wanted the evening to end. The alcohol is really hitting your head by now. You must taste like it. You can't tell if he does. Something sharp in the corner of your mind. Some dying, drowning semblance of sobriety? "I should call a cab." You shrug him away, leaning forward and moving your drink away from you.<br />
"You should..." he smiles, kissing your neck and pulling you back to him.<br />
"No...I....I should call a cab.."<br />
"okay..." he's still moving, he's still not supposed to be here--<i>you're </i>not supposed to be here. This wasn't how you wanted the evening to end. But it's been so long since you've....<br />
"NO." The last drowning bit of your self-restraint wakes up again, and you're glad of it. "I'm going. I'm calling a cab." You break out of his grasp, grabbing your purse and standing--stumbling--up this time.<br />
"Do you want to wait here while you wait for it to arrive?" He walks nearer, placing his hands on my hips--or maybe my arms--I can't really tell right now.<br />
"No. I'll--I'll be okay. I have to go. I have stuff to do tomorrow."<br />
"Okay, thanks for the fun night." He mutters as he smiles, kissing you again. His front door was locked. It shouldn't bother you as much as it does just then. You unlock it and practically slam the door behind you. That narrow hallway now seems like something from a dream: the door to the stairs outside is right there, if you can just reach it without being harassed. It's so far though. But you reach it. Of course you do. There's no reason why you shouldn't have. It's not like he was going to physically keep you from leaving.<br />
<br />
You practically run down the stairs, jog past his house, glancing up at his windows. Your lips are still wet. You hastily wipe them off, then do the same with your neck, although that is dry. You half run once you hit the corner. Your phone. It's charged. You pull it out and text your aunt. She agrees to come pick you up.<br />
<br />
You're not sure where you are, but you see a tall building with "Hilton" lighting up the side. A brief reprieve from the otherwise mostly flat Lexington skyline, and a near literal Godsend as to helping you get your surroundings. You power-walk the four or five blocks there, repeatedly wiping off your lips, your neck, the back of your neck like you're swarmed with some invisible swarm. People on the street must think you're high. You really shouldn't be so freaked out, but you are. You really shouldn't have felt so violated, but you did, and, for some unexplained reason, you keep glancing behind you, expecting to see his truck pull up and to have him offer you a place to crash for the night--to sleep it off.<br />
<br />
There's a cop car in front of the Hilton, and for some reason this is more comforting than it should be. You lean against a concrete pillar until your aunt arrives, letting the cool, roughly-pebbled surface calm you back to reality a bit.<br />
<br />
Two quick beeps, and your aunt pulls up. Your dog is in the front seat, all you can see is her head, and she's elated to see you. It's obvious that the adventure of both a car ride <i>and </i>seeing mom was almost too much for her soft little head to handle. You hold her the rest of the way home. You try to rationalize it. Your aunt helps put that to rest. You start thinking about all the men you've been with before, about what you would have done if any one of them had pulled away. About how they've all responded when you've turned them down in the past. Certainly not like this one had. You hug your dog closer as she tries to climb on the window to smell the fall air.<br />
<br />
You settle in bed, surrounded by your things, your animals, your mess. Your phone lights up. It's a text message from him.<br />
<br />
"Hey, you get home okay? :)"<br />
You roll over and go back to bed.Hard Rock Poserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08176060414938051096noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5251170781270803822.post-12901613965815725842013-09-24T17:19:00.001-07:002013-09-24T17:19:05.662-07:00I hope you know...I hope you know, you fucked it up.<br />
<br />
When you pick up that phone to text me a quip about your day, I hope you hesitate a little with regret before putting it back in your pocket. When you smile at an inside joke that is brought to light by something you see on the street, I hope you cringe a little inside at the thought of what you ruined.<br />
<br />
When you hope there's someone there for you, when you ache not to feel alone and unloved--when you want someone to reach out to, but they're already gone, I hope you remember: you caused this pain.<br />
<br />
I'm not trying to harp on you (or maybe I am), for I know that words hold no meaning anymore to situations like these. Words are empty, words are hollow, and--for all the power they hold--they can't fix it. And, my dear, they can't fix you.<br />
<br />
I'll move on, I suppose. Mourn a little less every day, try to push those thoughts of you from my mind--try not to wonder what you're doing or think about what we had--brief as it was, real or not. Someday, I'll grow old and tired of this mindset, move on to the next good thing in my life, and appreciate what you did do for me--what we did for each other.<br />
<br />
Until then, though: I hope you walk around the streets at night on your own, flipping your phone in your hand and debating calling me and apologizing for hours before your bitter pride gets the best of you. I hope there are moments--those terrible, bittersweet, truthful moments--where you're alone in your house, or car, or at work--when you break down inside and pray to God you lose the ability to grasp what you lost. Where you hang your head in your hands, pushing away the migraines and the troubled dreams and the occasional tears that prickle at the corner of your eyes, and you know--know then, more than ever--that you fucked this up.Hard Rock Poserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08176060414938051096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5251170781270803822.post-4838209695158291212013-09-14T18:02:00.001-07:002013-09-14T18:02:44.353-07:00Hi<p dir=ltr>I still wait for that text message. The one saying you're sorry..you hit just the right place, cracking open all my emotions and engorging the hemmorage with a crowbar</p>
<p dir=ltr>And then you left.</p>
<p dir=ltr>I still check your facebook, looking for signs that you miss me. I sure miss you.</p>
<p dir=ltr>I didn't think I could grow so attached so quickly, and yet in did. Only to be let down. Thrown down.</p>
<p dir=ltr>Although I should move on, memories of happiness in others causes me physical pain and disgust.</p>
<p dir=ltr>I still wait for you, although I shouldn't. </p>
Hard Rock Poserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08176060414938051096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5251170781270803822.post-67037454196688016592013-06-15T11:57:00.002-07:002013-06-15T11:57:44.047-07:00Fly Racing...<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
So today, whilst nonchalantly sipping
my instant coffee (only the best for me) and watching my dog lick the
last of my cereal milk from the bowl (which eventually ended up
almost under the couch), I noticed several flies on the window.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Since we leave the doors open for the
pets, flies are not an uncommon occurrence in the house—at any
given time, we probably have 2-3 hanging around, pissing off the dogs
that are too lazy/too scared to work their way around the cats to eat
them. These flies, however, were different.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Three small, determined little bastards
seemed to be in a race to get to the top of the window. Not sure why,
but they're not at the top of the evolutionary food chain for a
reason, now aren't they? Anyways, seeing as how I've working in the
horse racing industry for entirely too long, I started narrating
their race, adding little names to them as they scuttled.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“It's Fly Me to the Moon in the lead,
followed closely by Free Flyin' and Flyin' High bringing up the
rear—Free Flyin' is closing the gap and might just catch up—OH
NO! Free Flyin' has fallen off the fucking window and hit the sill
behind the couch! Fly Me to the Moon seems to have taken a break and
is resting—this could cost him dearly in the last leg. Flyin' High
has forgotten where he's going, and—yes folks, he appears to be
wandering SIDEWAYS on the track! Free Flyin' is still trying
desperately to get back in the game, but he can't seem to figure out
how to get out from between the window and the couch! He's jumping,
he's flyin', but he keeps hitting the window and OOOH NOOO he's down
again! Now it's between Fly Me to the Moon and Flyin' High, he's
going, going, goooone! Folks for the third consecutive time, Fly Me
to the Moon has won the Window Cup!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I probably spent a good 10 minutes doing
this....this is why I shouldn't be left to my own devices when I am in possession of caffiene.</div>
Hard Rock Poserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08176060414938051096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5251170781270803822.post-84231266262270209302013-06-08T18:48:00.001-07:002013-06-08T18:48:49.292-07:00And my dog just won't stop barking at them...<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“The fireflies are out.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
They float and turn like some burning
ember drifting from a fire, catching on the leaves and in the air
before fading away almost as quickly.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Something new for me, a west-coaster.
We have frogs, we have slugs, and we have mosquitos. But fireflies?
No, nothing so quaint, so dainty, so memorable as those horny little
beetles anxious to get a piece before they pass along into the soil
they spent so much time cradled in.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I sit outside, the pale, sickly
blue-yellow sky fading into a dusty indigo flecked with stars as I
look farther and higher up. Trees form near-silhouettes on the border
of my vision around me, surrounding me with a quiet arena of summer
evenings.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
They're pretty slow-moving, these
fireflies. They nearly lumber about in the air, seemingly unconcerned
by birds, bats or the easily distracted house cat. Just embers,
drifting off to sleep, flicking off and on from the corners of your
vision and skipping out of sight when you look at them, like when you
rub your eyes too hard with your fists.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Power cables stretch across the
backyard, and the bugs glint into a nearby lawn, behind the bushes
and out of my line o fision.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Except one. Or two. They always come
back. Just to remind you that they're still there. That they're still
horny, still looking for a mate, and still drifting slowly away from
that fire, and ever back towards the soil...</div>
Hard Rock Poserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08176060414938051096noreply@blogger.com0