Mexico

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.

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.

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 really too high?) and filling their bratty children with the poison of their choice: sugar, alcohol, hookers—anything goes.

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.

No, I have never been to Mexico, but I would not like to live there. There are, after all, too many Americans for my comfort.

The Ocean

The 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.

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.

No.

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.

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.

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.

A Snail's Pace

When 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.

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.

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.

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.

THWACK!

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.

THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!

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.

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.

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.

My Spider

There's this spider in our window.

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.

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. 

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.

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.

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.

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. 

He was quicker to hang with the firefly.

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. 

Two new spiders have moved into the window. Small, bulbous bodies, with long, spindly legs...

Blackberries

Shawna ran up to me, eyes glittering.

“Leah's dad bought her new scissors. The sharp ones. The ones without the rounded edges!” Judging by her look of satisfaction, I must have looked as elated as I felt.

“Have her go to the back and cut there. Those vines are huge!” Shawna nodded and ran off, orders memorized.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 only they had just read their book and waited for their stop!

At home, situations were similarly restrictive. Parents who send their children to private school expect a certain type of behavior, not the kind typically seen in children who attended public school. 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.

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.

             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!

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.

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 by the bushes, but by then we had recruited the third graders, and their recess was on a different schedule than ours.

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 our dream, this was our project, and it was so much more than a game.

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.

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.

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.

Merry Christmas, Guys.

And always keep the holiday spirit...

Hunter Davis

On Monday, October 20th, at 10:55 PM, the world got a little bit darker. 

Nicholas “Hunter” Davis passed away from complications from glioblastoma, a brain tumor that had plagued him for over 3 years. Author, music hound, wanderer, companion, lover, dreamer, spiritualist and seeker of the unknown—a few words from the volume that describe this great man.

Hunter would give you the shirt off his back, even though it was his last one, and fraying at the seams. He would flip back his hair, whistle a tune—slapping his thigh to the beat you would never recognize— take instant mashed potatoes (probably the only thing he had left in the pantry) and turn them into a culinary, gut-bombing masterpiece for you two to share. You would always get the larger half.


As with all dreamers, sometimes you would have to reel Hunter in. Anyone who knew Hunter was familiar with his penchant for getting stranded in Portland late at night—too busy catching up with friends and exploring downtown to bother with things like public transportation schedules. He was never without a place to sleep, though—the circle of people who loved him and offered him their couches for the night were outnumbered only by those who would themselves be out and about, exploring the city with him.


Husband, son, brother, friend – Hunter was one of those people that you never forget—even if only met in passing. His death has affected us all more than we would like to admit, and are each working hard to remember him for who he was, and who we will see again someday.



"You feel, nothing ever stays the same as it was
You'll take, no more remedies to force yourself true
You say, every motion and fall fail you too
This song is not about you
The life that stands without you
Your body and blood
Your body and blood
You're leaving us all."
-Black Rebel Motorcycle Club “Head Up High”

We Know God

People in this country know God.

They Know what he wants, they Know what he doesn't want, and they Know where he lives.

They Know that He wants their basketball teams to win. He wants their daughters to make prom queen. He wants their marriages to succeed and their temptations to fail.

They Know that He doesn't want passion for anything but Him. They know he is a jealous God who does not care for rival lusts and desires. They know he does noy want us to have tattoos or piercings, for those are for heathens and the despairing sons of Cain. They know that--while He does want love to exist--it should only exist in very limited, very contextually relevant circumstances.

They know that He lives in the hearts of the most pious, and repels Himself from the damned and unholy-if-not-well-intentioned. They know He lives among us yet above us, aloof but succumbing to the wants and needs and whines of man. They know He lives solely to serve us and to allow us to pass judgement on the weak.

The people here live in God's country, and I pity Him for that.

Why I Hate Books

I have a bit of a love/hate relationship with literature, and actual, physical books in general.

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.

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 We Have Always Lived In The Castle, you concoct clever yet simple plans and dream of stars alive a la Tristran Thorn from Gaiman's Stardust (and cringe each. And every time. You read his name). 

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?

And that, is why I hate books.

I'm really just not feeling very loved or appreciated right now

And I think I'm not quite sure how to handle that. Not an uncommon feeling in my life, by any means, but still an unpleasant one.

I'm not sure how to handle that.

Pervading the darkest corners of my mind at night when I can't sleep.

I find myself always scanning that horizon for the mountain. Even if I don't see it, sub-consciously, the search is there. Passively active, if that makes sense.

I find myself reflecting on the things I've done. Choices I've made. People I've loved, lost, and love still, despite their many flaws. Not that I'm exactly innocent of any crime.

I'm teaching myself to grow past that. To grow past them. Listening to the songs I associate with them the most, re-visiting places that had long since become impregnated with the worst of memories: a dark heavy sludge coating every street corner, spreading from the darkest corners of my mind and eroding the most optimistic ones. It is slow work. Never finished.

Maybe some day I'll finally catch up.

11 Movies That Don't Get Their Due

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 undeserved hard-earned Oscars *coughGravitycoughcough*.

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…

11.       Mystery Men (1999)

Cast: 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

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.

This film is exactly that. 

The costumes, the one-liners, the Eddie Izzard—but whenever I mention this film to someone, it’s always “Oh, but that's so bad! It’s such a shitty superhero movie!” Well, yeah, shit wads, that’s kind of the point. The father of two with a pot belly in place of a chiseled jaw, the bowling champion who bickers with her dead father about attending grad school—that’s what makes this film so great. There actually has some outstanding actors in it, too (want a mind fuck? Go watch Geoffrey Rush’s performance in Quills and then watch this). Yep, if you want a break from the tsunami of Marvel-DC crap, you’ve got to give this movie a try.

22.       Alien Vs Predator

Cast: Sanaa Lathan, Raoul Bova, Alien, Predator

Alien purists will hate me for this one, but fuck off 'cause I don't care. Anything with Alien (except for Resurrection) 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 really 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 real 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.

3.       Sucker Punch (2011)

Cast: A bunch of people you’ve never heard of who were cast because they’re pretty. Also, Carla Gugino.

So many people—let me repeat that—so many people 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?

It’s a live-action anime.

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.

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 a B-25 Mitchell with Vanessa Hudgens inside it shooting a Browning M2HB at a giant fucking dragon. You go to see zombie steampunk Nazis being shot up by a giant bunny mech-suit. THAT’S why you go see this film, and THAT’S why it kicks ass.

44.       League of Extraordinary Gentlemen (2003)

Cast: Sean Connery, Stuart Townsend, some other guys

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!

That is basically this film.

Although they do kind of butcher some of literatures’ greatest characters in this film (the Mina Harker in this movie clearly read a different Dracula than I did), it is worth the watch for the joy of seeing these characters brought together into the same story line. Be honest: most of the reason why you loved The Avengers was because you got to see all those superheroes team up to participate in a battle of Brobdingnagian (look it up) proportions. Also: Robert Downey, Jr. Speaking of the Avengers…

55.       The Avengers (1998)

Cast: Ralph Fiennes, Uma Thurman, Sean Connery, Jim Broadbent, Eddie Izzard

No, not that one. The other one. The one with Uma Thurman (did you even read 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 still impressed by those kinds of things.  Who wouldn’t? It’s a giant. Fucking. Bubble. And you can use it to walk on water. It’s a win-win here, people.

Anyways…

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.

6

6.       Waterworld

Cast: Kevin Costner, Jeanne Triplehorn

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, why 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.

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 Dances with Wolves banality.

77.       Mom & Dad Save the World (1992)

Cast: Teri Garr, Jeffrey Jones, Jon Lovitz, Wallace Shawn, Eric Idle, Kathy Ireland

Please tell me you’ve seen this movie and love it. 
Please. 
Heard of it? 

Not even once? Ugh, how disappointing, and we were getting to be such friends.

In a tongue-in-cheek, Married with Children meets Space Balls style, the plot follows a set of middle-aged suburbanite parents who get abducted in their station wagon so Emperor Todd Spango (Lovitz) can wed the lovely Marge (Garr). Unfortunately, the planet is filled with idiots, carnivorous, sewer-dwelling mushrooms and Kathy Ireland.

“Today Marge Nelson, becomes Marge Spango! And all across the planet, our hearts will do the tangooooo!”

I blame this movie for my hilarious, genius sense of humor that most people don’t often get but give me weird looks for.

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.

88.       Planet Terror (2007)

 Cast: Rose McGowan, Quentin Tarantino, Josh Brolin, Bruce Willis, Fergie

When this movie hit theaters as a double feature with Tarantino’s Death Proof, all I heard about was how much better Death Proof was, how Planet Terror was the weaker of the two films, how I shouldn't masturbate in a public theater. When I finally watched the two back-to-back, though, all I could think about was how much more I enjoyed Planet Terror.

While Tarantino’s Death Proof sports his classic long-winded, (at times) engrossing dialogue and gruesomely raw violence, Robert Rodriguez’s Planet Terror is unabashedly old-school.  A chick with a machine gun for a leg who leads a group of refugees out of a zombie-filled land and into safety?  Yes, please, I’ll take two. Plus, who could really hate any movie with Bruce Willis—like, ever? He even made Friends fun. Throw in a crashing helicopter that decapitates herds of mouth-breathing zombies with its’ blades, and you’ve got yourself an instant classic that can withstand any cameo-infused movie Tarantino forces himself into.

99.       9

Cast: Elijah Wood, Christopher Plummer, Martrin Landau, John C. Reilly, Jennifer Connelly

No, that’s not a typo. Putting 9 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.

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.

The story itself is alright, but the real genius behind the piece comes from its’ Borrowers-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.

110.   Drop Dead Fred

Cast: Phoebe Cates, Rik Mayall, Marsha Mason (I didn’t recognize any of the names, either)

This was probably one of the most disturbing and most enjoyed films of my childhood—right up there next to that one scene from The Neverending Story 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.

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. 

111.   Coraline

Cast: Dakota Fanning, Teri Hatcher, Keith David

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:

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? 

But I digress. 

Over the course of eighteen months, Laika produced the longest stop-motion film to date, with songs written by They Might Be Giants and ever-so-carefully crafted to be just as creepy as (in)humanly possible.

The plot follows Coraline, a mouthy little twat voiced by Dakota Fanning (enough said) who moves from Colorado to Ashland, Oregon. To be fair, I’d be pretty upset if I had to live in Ashland, too. The blue-haired child manages to find a secret, parallel world where people have buttons for eyes. Coraline is an extremely odd child and is not perturbed by this. Children are creepy as fuck. Anyways, as can be expected, things go awry and she ends up fighting for her familys’ life against the terrifying and only slightly caricatured Teri Hatcher.

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 IT, 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.

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.

Serves me right for trying to eat healthy.

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.

Upon reaching my goal, I was a bit unnerved. Yes, the ingredients at the bar were protected by a sneeze-guard, but the lettuce was low and you never know who may have snotted into their hands and not used the tongs. Ruthlessly, I persevered. No ham cubes, a little bacon, olives, egg, cherry tomatoes, Italian dressing--yes, my rather smushed-looking masterpiece was almost complete. I turned around and made a pass at the opposite side of the bar, ignoring what looked suspiciously like a mesh of quinoa and tapioca pudding. 

Finally, (mostly) vegetarian perfection. My cousin would be proud. 

Then, terror struck.

As I sidled past the many grease-guzzling fatties in line behind me for their daily dose of chicken feed, I knocked over a large stack of plate-sized lids placed at knee-level. Lids ironically to be used to keep you from spilling things. Things like food. 

As I bent down to pick up the lids (always the contentious consumer and respectful patron), all the salad lids in the world could not stop the tragedy that was to come. Quickly, with reckless abandon, my salad flew took advantage of my immediate distraction and flew off the plate and onto the floor--using my precious Italian dressing as some kind of sick luging lube. 

As the blood rushed to my face, noises around me faded, and I achieved a heightened awareness of those around me waiting to get THEIR bastard salads--their foul cottage cheese and Thousand Island dressing-topped abominations. Using my plate as a dust pan, I hastily scraped up what was left of my salad (that now resembled something a very sick vegetarian would expel) with one of the accursed lids. 

At least it was almost over.

Oh God, where are those people who clean things up when there are spills? Janitors? I had a friend once who threw up in the store and had people fighting over who had to clean it up. Maybe that's what happened?

Almost done, and as I turn to rise, yet another stack of lids rains down next to me--I'm pretty sure the bitch next to me nudged them on purpose. Up they go. I will not be blamed for her folly. 

As I stand up, hands sticky with that fucking Dago dressing, a spindly old spinster hobbles up with a broom and a dust pan. "It's okay, honey, there's a hole right over there..." she motions to a trash can "hole" about half the size of what I need to toss my trash into. I hastily--nay, angrily--stuff it into the hole. Bastard salad can go to hell. 

Fuck it. I'm getting a burger.

Professional Attributes

There 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.

I am not a particularly patient person when it comes to disagreements, so--in an effort to counteract that fact--I also try very hard to be a very non-confrontational person. Sometimes this does not work very well. Most of the time, actually.

When I believe in something strongly, I feel that it is very important that I am at least heard out. If I feel that I am not being listened to, or that my ideas are thrown out without so much as an attempt at consideration, I get very frustrated very quickly. I also have a tendency to be petty and speak before I think. I am very good at being a bitch; quite the proficient little cunt, I am.

It is the unfortunate combination of these two that tends to cause rather abrasive circumstances, that then lead to poorly-handled situations. I feel that the only way I can escape my frustration, my anger, my outrage at being ignored and brushed aside, is by spitting out whatever jabs and daggers my quick little tongue can slip out. It's not a silver tongue, no, that would be rather pleasing to the ear, and people wouldn't cringe when I reach this level of irrationality. No, I'd have to say it's more like iron: heavy, crude, strong and piercing.

I kind of wish I didn't have this attribute--it gets me into more trouble than I'd like to admit, and it can tend to torpedo my professional relationships in a way that is rarely--if ever--reparable. But, without it, I am also not the bitch I have come to love so much. So, I guess.....fuck you guys.

Why Worms Are Gross: A Limerick

Worms are disgusting, you know that that's true.
I really hate worms, you should hate them, too.

Worms are fucked up, few things are much worse,
Allow me to show you, or explain in verse:

Tapeworms are foul, they live in your ass,
Eating your shit, which comes out real fast.

Pinworms are nasty, their eggs float on dust specks,
Just think about that, next time you have sex.

Worms can be parasites, they'll make you feel sick,
Some anal worms are removed with a stick.

Some worms have teeth, I mean, like, fuck tons,
Bleeding circles of death, why have just one?

They're creepy fuckers, that is a fact,
Like Satan's dick dipped in sludge, alive in your tract.

I hate worms so much, I hope you see why,
When I hope those cunts drown, perhaps now you'll see why.

But they're still not as gross as frogs.

Proof 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.

The other thing I discovered, happily, was that the Marvel needs an X-men called The Honey Badger. Of course, when I say "discovered," I mean drunkenly decided. Same thing, when you get down to brass tacks.

Anyways, this hero. Or Heroine, I suppose. I mean, really, this thing has to be a femme. I'm just being honest. Let's look at my always-flawless reasoning, shall we?

       1. Honey Badgers, as you all know, are creepy asshole fucks. They take on things that are either twice their size or three times as deadly (occasionally both), and fuck. That. Thing. Up. A Honey Badger would kick Wolverine's ass and then proceed to go fuck the shit out of Benedict Cumberbatch, all the while screaming "TAKE me, thinking woman's crumpet, TAKE ME!" But then she'd take him. Cause that's how The Honey Badger does things.

       2. Being an X-men, she'd also have a mutation. She'd, like, be able to overcome fear. Yeah, yeah that. And what else? Oh! She'd be, like, freaky calm, 'cause the Honey Badger don't give a shit. Just calm, cool and collected. And then--wha-BAM! Death and dishonor! Who else could be cold and calm before devouring your soul with a side of cream? Cyclops? Fuck Cyclops. Only she wouldn't. Because she's The Honey Badger. Also no one should.

3. Marvel really hasn't stepped up their game in the "new character" department lately. Granted, they do already have a slew of fantastic ones to choose from, but I think that this also kinda only further proves my point. Why invent new stuff when you can keep throwing money at the old stuff? A new character would do wonders to refresh the Marvel name.

       4. Stan Lee. I really shouldn't have to go into further detail with this one, but I shall. The guy is probably gonna be taken up in those heavenly flaming (did someone say fabulous?) chariots any day now, and, until then, he's whoring himself out for $500 bucks a pop to whatever hapless comic con nerd is willing to shell out the cash in order to feel somewhat loved by a father figure for once in his life. Take ME to the comic cons, I will talk to the nerds for free. Also, I will tell them anything they want to know about their new favorite character, The Honey Badger. Except for those crucial upcoming plot twists, amirite? Eh? Anybody? No? No.

       As you can see, Marvel, I have generously provided you with an artist's rendition of what I think THB should look like:

I promise you that this is in no way just an MS Paint cover-up of X-23 with a slightly different outfit, and she is most definitely not wearing a mask to cover up the fact that I am a terrible artist and any attempts at drawing a nose or mouth only made her look like the drunken prom date offspring of a circus freak and a poltergeist rolled face-first in a fire full of broken beer bottles and those little cheese grater things you use to remove calluses from your foot.

In conclusion, drunken decisions are the best decisions, I feel that I have proved that here quite well. Also, The Honey Badger would be the best character decision Marvel has made since Deadpool, and oh my God she needs to be with Deadpool. Dead Badger? Honey Pool? That last one kind of sounds like what they'd leave behind after a steamy evening in a hot tub, so maybe not that. Maybe we just stick with THB and Deadpool wreaking havoc on society and having wild passionate bouts of love making in between bouts of kicking ass and breaking the fourth wall.

But don't tell Benedict. He's still waiting for her to call.

How 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.

Like, I know I'M NOT A terrible writer. I can halfway construct a decent sentence, and I occasionally have witty quips and semblances of meaningful thought. But--all these people above me, all these people who are out there, getting published, being loved by everyone and adored for their gifts to the world--I'm not one of those. How can I live up to them? They're all so far out of my league, I can't even see them anymore. There are so many wonderful, talented, amazing people out there doing wonderfully talented, amazing things, and I'm just...kinda bein' me, you know? How is "me" supposed to live up to "them?"

I'm not looking for solace, or an ego boost, or even consolation, I just really am at a loss as to what to do. I can't even decide what this fucking blog is going to be about. That's important, right? Like, blogs need a theme to help them catch on and be big. Humor, drama, cooking recipes--they've all got some cohesive THING that pulls it together and helps it be one of the best. Mine isn't like that. One day it's some random story, another it's weeping over X,Y or Z, and another it's some random shit about fly racing. Who can relate to that?

I guess...I guess I really want to be relatable. I really want to reach people, to speak to them on a level they get very deeply, and to wow them and show the world how beautiful words can be sculpted into being with the right craftsman.

Relatable. Beautiful. Popular.
It sounds pretty petty when I put it that way. I'm just not sure how to accomplish all these things.

For a friend...

So, I've discovered that you can't make people love you.

Shocking, right? I know. Even weirder, you especially can't make them respect you.

No matter how much love or appreciation you give, no matter how much you lift up the other person and show him/her they mean the world to you, they always have a choice. They can always refuse that support, that love, and that contribution to their world.

It doesn't mean that this person is bad, or that you didn't give them enough love, and it certainly doesn't mean that you aren't deserving of the same in return. It means that--for whatever reason--they are either unwilling or incapable of change. At least, in that area of their lives.

Maybe something happened to them when they were a kid, and they just never told you. Maybe they think they're better than you and that you're not worth their time or love. Never think that. No one is ever above accepting (or at least acknowledging) another's love. Maybe...just maybe...they're just as damaged as you thought yourself to be. Maybe they can't move past those things in their life that froze them into this damaged, echoing cavern, and all they can do is reject you and who you are, or who you try to be for them.

It's not a reflection on you. That's very important to remember.

Maybe I'm saying this to myself, maybe it's my own way of coping with the rejection of the love that I've given people very close to me. But I prefer to think of it as a final way of giving back. Of reaching out to that damaged, insecure, broken person, and letting them know that I do love them. That I can honestly say--with no ego--that I understand and forgive what they did. That we've all been in that position, all hurt those who we know love us, in spite (and because) of our flaws. None of us are perfect, none of us are ever going to be. It's not about that. It's not about managing to come across as funny, or charming, or witty, or curvy or sexy or thin.

It's about finidng those who love us back. And you've found that person. I just hope you'll see it. I love you.

The Infected...

   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. "Okay," she talked herself down, "just through the window and up the fire escape. The roof will last for a while. They hate the sun. That I've seen." 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 loved once.  

It could be that way no longer.  

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.  

 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.

   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 knew, 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. “No, stop that!” Duela panicked--”don't give it a name. That's how it enters. That's how it starts...” 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.

   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. BINARY! 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.”

   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 “Deathpool? Deadpond? No! Stop thinking about it!” 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?!

   "I'm almost there," she thought, determined. "I just have to get to the roof, I can hold out there for a while, at least." 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. No, please God not this--white makeup—anything but this, please—black lipstick—ANYTHING else—pig tails—just please...don't let me be...

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.  

She had become a N.I.R.D.  

She was....in cosplay.

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!”

Stink Bug Sadist

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.

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. Anyways, I slowly raise part of the blinds (being very careful not to dislodge the little guy) and open my window. Phase 1 accomplished. 

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. 

Instead of mourning for his untimely death, I laughed. Chortled, even.


Little fucker shouldn't have been in my room.

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.