Buttered Balls

11/16/06

With the holidays approaching like a commercial-laden freight train, I thought some of you out there might enjoy a few cooking tips and recipes. Remember, the more time your relatives spend cramming things into their rotund bellies the less time they’ll spend actually talking to you. So get out those stretchy pants*, put the doctor on speed-dial and hunker down, you madcap cooks out there, Jett Fumes is comin’ at’cha Thanksgiving-Style, you sum-bitch!

Some of my more faithful and veteran readers may remember that last year for Thanksgiving I was charged with making the turkey to take over to my mother’s house. As per usual with anything culinary, I couldn’t be satisfied with simply popping a gobbler in the hot box for a few hours and calling it a day, no, no. I had to make a Turducken, which is a turkey stuffed with a duck stuffed with a chicken. Read all about it here. This year I think I’m going to forgo Ultra-Mega Turkey and just go with a more traditional bird.

How Much of What Kind?

A good average for how much bird to buy is 1-1 ½ pounds per guest. Unless your guests happen to be those guys who enter professional eating contests.


Now, there are numerous different kinds of turkey. “Frozen” means that the turkey has been taken down to zero degrees F and hasn’t been brought above 26˚F. Why so cold? While water will freeze at 32˚F the fluid in meat won’t necessarily follow suit, since it contains sodium and all manner of other goodies; the more components in water the colder it has to be for it to freeze. These bad boys are rock hard, solid frozen.

“Refrigerated” turkeys are brought down to 24-26˚F, but not frozen solid. They don’t need as long for “thawing” since they’re not technically frozen. But that’s about the only difference. Both frozen or refrigerated are fine; don’t be a snob. There is a 3rd category, “Fresh”, which means the bird has never dropped below 26˚F. This one just seems like more trouble than it’s worth (bruising, contamination, escaping on foot, etc) not to mention hard to find in the first place.

Into the Briny Deep

I cannot imagine why anyone would cook a turkey without brining it. Sure, it’s one extra step, but it’s essential if you want to guarantee a flavorful, juicy bird. However, make sure you’re not using a self-basting bird for this, as it has already been injected with salt and…other stuff.

Brining can be used for any meat, but it works very well with poultry and pork which are easy to overcook but need to be brought to a significant temperature to ensure bacterial genocide. The salt in the brine creates osmosis which drags whatever flavors are in the brine into your meat, trapping them there and holding onto much more liquid whenever you finally cook that bad boy. Here’s the recipe I prefer:

1 gallon (16 cups) vegetable or chicken stock
1 gallon ice water
1 cup Kosher salt (3/4 cup regular table salt)
2 Tbsp whole black peppercorns
2 bay leaves
Several rough-chopped sprigs parsley (about 1 cup worth)

Bring all ingredients except the ice water to a boil, just to marry and release the flavors. In a 5-gallon bucket or other large container combine brine with the ice water. Add turkey. Brine in fridge or a cold area, like the garage (as close to 40˚F as you can get) for 10-12 hours, turning bird once.


You can use just plain water instead of stock for a perfectly fine and cheaper alternative, but double the amount of salt.

Fire It Up, T-Bird

Kudos to you who got The Crow, reference above, by the way. Okay, here’s the skinny on cooking that poultry prize; ignore that demonic little plastic timer. That device is set to pop at 180˚F and while that’s great for dark meat, the white meat will be something not unlike vulcanized rubber by that time. Dark meat does take longer to cook, and to compensate for that use a sheet pan with a lip (to catch drippings) and a flat roasting rack, plus a digital thermometer with a probe. The shallow pan will accelerate air over the lip of the pan and into the dark meat, cooking it faster. The thermometer probe should be inserted into the deepest part of the turkey and set for 161˚F. Yes, this will kill any salmonella bacteria lurking inside your bird.


Rub the turkey down with a polish of canola oil and stuff the cavity with a few sprigs of parsley, rosemary and sage, plus ½ of a rough-chopped onion and ½ of a lemon.

Roast the turkey at 450˚ for 30 minutes, then mold aluminum foil over the breast and return to oven, reducing the temp to 350˚. The timer should go off in about another hour and a half. Pull the bird and let it rest for at least 15 minutes before carving her up; this will give any juices floating around time to reabsorb into the meat.


The drippings from the pan can be used to make a dynamite gravy, but that’s another blog. Plus, with all the TLC you’ve put into your fowl it should be tender and juicy enough to stand on its own. Eat in good health, dear readers.



*Contrary to popular belief, the average American only gains about 1 pound over the high holidays. The trouble is most of us don’t bother to lose that pound over the next year and after mama earth makes 15-20 trips ‘round big daddy sun, that starts to add up.

Ask Dr. Jett

11/15/06


I randomly decided to start a piece where I pretend to be an expert on, well anything, really, and answer questions about which you probably never wondered and couldn’t give less of a shit. Enjoy!





Q: Dr. Jett, why do men have nipples? I mean, other than to make that suit from
Batman and Robin look utterly ridiculous, what purpose do they serve?


A: Yeah, what was that suit about? Creepy. Anyway, nobody can specifically tell you for
what purpose do men have nipples, but we do know why…kind of.


Prior to 14 weeks in the gestation process, all fetuses have both male and female parts. At this point either testosterone kicks in and you grow up to enjoy exploding things and embarrassing junior high erections, or it doesn’t and you get to derive pleasure from things like shoes and Thelma and Louise. Nipples are not tied either to estrogen or testosterone, specifically, and develop well before either hormone makes us male or female. Estrogen will cause them to become fully functional and grow lovely globes of fat around them called boobies that men inexplicably want to squeeze. Men still have remnants of their original hardware and in some cases, with enough estrogen, they can grow breasts and lactate.

More interestingly, we originally have several sets of nipples. Normally only 2 develop fully to have nerves and blood supply, but about 1 in 100 babies will be born with extra titties which usually resemble nothing more than a freckle or mole. Unless you’re that mutant broad from Total Recall.




Q: Dr. Jett, is my girlfriend/wife/hooker just frigid, or am I really that bad in bed?

A: Well, I’ve never met you, but couldn’t it be both? Actually, a lack of female orgasm is just about as common as popular culture would have us think.

Anorgasmia is a predominately female condition, though this may be skewed by the fact that men who can’t achieve orgasm might be a bit wary about letting other people know about it. Perhaps with some complex rig of tubes and warmed yogurt they could fake it, I dunno. According to MedlinPlus Medical Encyclopedia, a staggering number of women don’t orgasm the way they would like, “surveys…suggest between 33% and 50% of women experience orgasm infrequently or are dissatisfied with how often they reach orgasm.”

Good gravy! Primary orgasmic dysfunction (there’s a fun phrase to trot out at parties) where a woman has never gotten her rocks off affects 10%-15% of women. Anorgasmia can be a condition one has always had, or it can develop suddenly and, my guess is, quite frustratingly.

The causes vary widely. It’s been proposed that most often it’s a mental condition owing to performance anxiety or early predisposition to sex being unpleasant or painful. There are some physical causes, such as mood enhancing and antidepressant drugs such as Prozac, Paxil, Zoloft and Lexipro. Hmm…suicide or don’t cum…that’s a tough call.

The bad news is that unless it has a specific physical cause it’s very difficult to pin down what’s causing it and how to fix it. The good news? A large portion of women who can’t orgasm still enjoy and get pleasure out of sex, they just can’t cross the finish line.

My guess is that I’ve unknowingly dated women with Anorgasmia exclusively.



Q: Dr. Jett, what is with that little shudder I get at the end whenever I pee? Do I have cancer?

A: Yes, you have cancer. Or not. Probably not. I do know that some of you out there probably don’t know what we’re talking about, but I’ve experienced this as well so it must be totally normal, right?

This seems to be a condition limited to men, as every time I’ve ever asked a woman if she gets a little shudder or cold chill right at the end of her pee she looks at me as if I’ve just asked if I could fuck her cat. Perhaps I should stop asking strangers in line at the grocery store.

At any rate, it seems that most all of us experience this at some time, but some people take little or no notice of it. Most often it occurs when you really have to pee badly and expel a heroic volume of urine. It’s just a little involuntary shake like a cold chill. Which may in fact be what it is, because I have yet to discover in my perusal of source material any medical reference to this condition. I guess most doctors are working on “sexier” problems such as AIDS and impotence; they don’t have time for my “cold-chill pee” experiments, bunch of philistines.

I’ve only heard guesses as to why this happens, and it was the assumption that I’ve made myself: Whenever you pee you’re releasing a large amount of heat in the urine, and the body wants to hold onto that so it gives a little shudder in an effort to stop it. Not only do shudders generate heat from muscle constriction, but it squeezes veins and capillaries away from the skin to retain heat. Sounds pretty good, right?

I bet it’s embarrassing if you’re giving someone a “golden shower”, though.

That's a 4-person portable urinal in The Netherlands. Drafty.

P.S. The technical term for a “golden shower” fetish is Urolagnia. It’s very powerful word on the Scrabble board.

Window to My Soul

11/14/06

What my car may have looked like at some point in the distant past.

As many of you are no doubt aware, I’ve moved residences recently. Where I was once a scant five minutes from work (about 1.5 miles) I now have the ludicrous travel time of some twenty minutes, or about 6 miles, to sit in a cubicle and goggle at the fact I have not yet been fired.* As many of you are also no doubt aware, much to the hilarity of everyone, my car is…not the optimal method of conveyance over any significant distance. It’s a 1990 New Yorker and the odometer stopped clocking at around 250,000 miles well before I purchased her for $400 some three years ago. The engine has a tendency to get rather warm owing to the fact that the fan doesn’t work, which is only problematic in the summer when you have to run the heater to keep the vehicle from overheating. I don’t take it on the highway because she starts to shudder like an old man with a voracious chill at around 55 mph. The left turn signal doesn’t work precisely right, in that you have to toggle it manually to make it blink and the driver’s side window is permanently stuck in the down position. At least, until last weekend.

One of the many fringe benefits of dating my fiancé is that her brother-in-law is a mechanic, not to mention the fact that she forces me to do things I should do but valiantly refuse to do such as acquiring a valid driver’s license and, as was the case last weekend, drive my behemoth of a car the ungodly 12 miles out to Billings so her sister’s husband could fix my window. Nobody was more surprised than me when the vehicle made the trip (significant portions of the drive are 60 mph and one lane) without incident. We dropped the car off and her brother-in-law not only fixed the window** but also replaced a $2 bulb which repaired the left turn signal. I must confess, I hardly know what to do with myself now that I have what appears to be a legally functioning automobile. I’m as giddy as a budding school girl, I must say.

Of course, there is still the issue of the car’s body resembling something that didn’t place terribly well in a demolition derby, and the back windshield is a plastic sheet sort of rammed in there because the glass was broken out, and the interior is less than pristine due to years of rain coming through the open window and flooding the trash that is now sort of forever affixed to my floorboard, and the passenger side door only opens a crack because part of the body panel is jammed against it, and the brakes will need replaced pretty soon if I do not wish to become interpretive art on Kansas Expressway, but…what was my point again?

Oh yeah; anybody want to buy a car? With all the repairs I’ve made to it I could let it go for, oh, say $800? I’ll even throw in the flat spare tire in the trunk, no charge! No pushing please; form an orderly line to the right.



What's your car worth, suck'a?

*Office Survival Tip: If you suddenly see everyone in your department avoiding eye contact while suddenly going to a meeting to which you have not been invited, you’re getting fired, Poncho.

**That is to say, it is now permanently in the “up” position but cannot be rolled down.

Examples of Why I Shouldn’t Be Allowed to Interact with Humans

11/13/06


The following are conversations I’ve had at work with one of the minuscule number of coworkers whom I like.



She’s Not the Brain-Damaged Type of Vegetable

Coworker: So why does your girlfriend wear that pumpkin shirt almost everyday?
Me: What the hell are you talking about?
Coworker: Francine*
Me: Heh…I haven’t noticed what she’s wearing, but I assume that you get less picky with the clothes you wear the closer you get to resembling the shape of a blueberry.


*She’s talking about someone clearly not my girlfriend; name has been changed

_________________________________________________________________

It’s Much Easier Than Assaulting an Adult

Coworker: I have to disagree with your blog. I really enjoyed The Island. Now I have never seen the one that you compared it to but tell me what movie that comes out now that isn’t a remake?
Me: We’re not talking about a “remake” per se. We’re talking about an unauthorized copy of someone else’s movie. It’s not similar to the other film, it is the other film. Let me put it this way, it’s more similar to the other movie than the remake of Planet of the Apes was to the original. It’s fucking rip-off.
Coworker: Well whatever it was, I liked it!
Me: Jesus. I don’t know if I can be friends with you now; that’s almost like saying you like raping babies.

_________________________________________________________________

Office (Pocket) Pool

Me: What time are you going to the benefits meeting?
Coworker: I went this morning. Boring, very boring. Take a pillow.
Me: It’s alright, I’m wearing specially designed pants that allow access to my “special purpose” from inside the pockets; I’ll amuse myself somehow.
Coworker: Well that sounds fantastic. Make sure you sit in the corner.
Me: Yeah, I suppose the severance package for termination due to exposing oneself to your coworkers is pretty slim.

__________________________________________________________________

The Crimson Tide Comes In

Coworker: God, this chair is so gross and dirty.
Me: Yeah, it looks like you started early this month.

The Island Review

11/11/06



Alright, saddle up ladies and gentlemen because I’ve got some knowledge to drop on your asses. For those of you who’ve seen this steaming pile of nonsense you have my deepest empathy. For those who haven’t, there are spoilers ahead, but if you were thinking about watching this film in the first place you should probably just go ahead and cram the business end of a broom into your ass now; it would be less painful.

First of all, the entire premise behind the film is just dumb. Thousands of clones are created and housed as organ harvesters for the rich and famous in a secret facility. So, if I understand it correctly, we have medical science capable of creating functioning, viable human clones we somehow age to adulthood in a matter of 2-3 years, but we can’t grow a simple human liver in a dish? I dunno if you know this or not, but it’s harder than Ron Jeremy on Viagra to clone a human. In the movie they say the Department of Defense has given the facility $120 billion dollars, on top of the $5 million per clone they get from each person wishing one grown. You expect me to believe that with that kind of scratch it’s not easier to learn how to grow individual organs instead of secretly cloning entire people, feeding and housing them, hiring thousands of staff to control and maintain them, not to mention look at yourself in the mirror every morning knowing your butchering human beings because some actor drank his liver into cirrhosis? Yeah…that seems much simpler.


That’s all before we have to keep all this quiet! The public doesn’t know about it, of course, but you’re telling me not one of the people working for this organ farm has a moment of guilt and moral quandary and blows the whistle? It’s not just the hundreds of people smart enough to get through medical school that have no moral compass; there are the guards, the cooks, the janitors, the maintenance workers and out of all these thousands of people nobody every let slip about the disgusting human carnage going on in an old military bunker underground? This place has been around a minimum of seven years, because the oldest clone in the movie is said to be seven years old. For fuck’s sake, President Bush couldn’t even keep the secret wire tapping out of the public eye for, what, five years tops? And that didn’t even involve cutting someone’s heart out while they trustingly look up at you like a doe-eyed Anime character.


The movie is supposedly set in 2019, but in a scene where the director of the clone facility is talking to potential clients he mentions a law “of 2050.” (Just a side note here, in the commercial played for the clients the narrator says, “the human organism…perfect in every way except one: like any machine, it wears out.” That’s kind of like saying, “the water’s perfectly safe to drink…oh, except for the cyanide poisoning.”)

Whether it’s 2019 or 2050; either one have their problems. If it’s 2019 that means that in 13 years we went from unable to keep a cloned monkey alive for more than a few months to totally viable human copies. Not only that, but we have levitating trains, hover bikes, fingerprint scanners for door locks and fully-contained holographic video games like a la the Holodeck in Star Trek. That’s a fuck of a lot of progress for a half-generation time span! And if it’s 2050 we go back to the whole problem of “why can’t we clone individual organs again?”

The pseudo-science in this lark must have been written by a retarded chimp on heroin because it’s all over the fucking map. Ewan McGregor’s character Lincoln had his clone made because he has hepatitis and his liver is failing; we can clone and super-age people but can’t cure hepatitis? It’s about at this point you need to beat yourself in the face with a hammer just to choke down the fact that the clones are even up and walking around in the first place because “keeping them unconscious causes the organs to fail; the clones need life experience.” I guess a lung will just give up the ghost if it doesn’t feel “fulfilled” in life. AGGGHHHH!

Lincoln 6 Echo’s (Ewan) questions about his existence reach a head whenever he sneaks into the hospital above the compound where they take the clones who have “won the lottery” to harvest their organs. He reaches this supposedly most secret of secret areas through an air duct, which he later uses to ludicrously easily escape the entire compound. Hey, secret death-base, here’s a tip; maybe (A) Don’t make the air ducts large enough to drive a Mack truck through and (B) Use something more secure than a simple plastic lock to prevent your clones from skedaddling; Lincoln 6’s owner has a fingerprint pad for his house for godssakes. But I digress.

Lincoln sees several clones murdered, the most idiotic of which is Michael Clark Duncan, who wakes up in the middle of the surgery and sprints down the hall before being dragged back to have his liver vacuum-packed. What the fuck are they using for anesthetic in the future? A rubber mallet to the back of the head? DAMNIT!


Speaking of escaping the facility, Lincoln drags Jordan with him when he escapes with absolutely no question from her. She even bashes one of the guards in the face with a wrench despite the fact that, you know, the clones were “bred to be non-violent and complacent.” After the couple emerge into the outside desert, we get the joy of watching the Michael Bay-i-est chase scene ever to be burned to celluloid. Bay single handedly strangles suspension of disbelief to death as the clones

1. Survive having the cop car they’re riding in cut in half by an armored truck
2. Jump onto a passing semi truck
3. Survive the poorest-aimed machine gun fire on earth
4. Kill the pursuing hover-bike pilots
5. Steal hover bikes (which they can now drive, apparently)
6. Drive bikes through a damn building
7. Finally crash-land into a sign hanging from said building
8. Survive more badly aimed gunfire
9. The sign detaches from the building and falls 40 stories
10. And finally land safely in a construction site net


Wow. It’s later explained that Lincoln knows how to drive because he has residual memories from the dude he’s cloned after. ‘Cause genetic memories are possible now, apparently. Pseudo science! Since this is getting long, let’s do a rapid-fire list of some other idiocy.

1. They find Jordan’s benefactor’s number in the phone directory, despite the fact that she’s a famous actress and would definitely have a private number.
2. Lincoln’s number isn’t in the phone book, oddly.
3. The man-hunter sent after them is told to keep a low profile, but turns downtown L.A. into a war zone and murders cops in cold blood.
4. The “train wheels” dumped off the back of the semi in their escape wouldn’t bounce down the road like that; they’d punch through and just stick.
5. It’s hazy how old the clones are; Lincoln is told he’s three, then five, then later a clone in the same Echo series is told he’s seven.
6. Puerile ruses still work in the future, apparently, as the merc sent after Lincoln is fooled into shooting the “real” Lincoln when the two are standing next to each other. “No, he’s the clone!” “No, he is!”
7. Sex drive is suppressed in the clones. Why? Uhm…BECAUSE!
8. It’s either 2019 or 2050 and Lincoln destroys the entire complex by throwing one lever. Nice.

The product placement is just wildly out of control in this movie, but I guess that’s to be expected when Michael Bay and Stephen Spielberg are involved. Among others, Michelob Light, Aquafina, Cadillac, NBC, MSN and Puma are prominently displayed alone on screen for huge swaths of time.

















Back to hell, demon!


One final point and I’ll let us all get on with our lives. Almost nobody in this abysmal movie has any redeeming qualities whatever except for the hired mercenary who suddenly has a change of heart at the end of the movie because the plight of the clones remind him of his family’s persecution in Africa. This is the same man who gunned down innocent police men in the streets. Perfectly reasonable.



Despite containing some of my favorite actors, this is a very bad and confusing movie.

Fiveson Update

11/11/06





Earlier I posted an email that was sent to me by Robert Fiveson concerning my Clonus post. (Read first part of the story) I emailed Robert back and he courteously replied to my query. In case anyone out there is even vaguely interested in our correspondence, here’s the email:



From: Ryan Jett
Date: 11/10/2006 4:11:05 PM
To: Robert Fiveson
Subject: RE: Good Job

Ah yes, my mistake. Thanks for the correction. Just out of curiosity, how did you come across my post?

______________________________________________________


From: Robert Fiveson
Date: 11/10/2006 7:08:41 PM
To: Ryan Jett
Subject: RE: Good Job


Because we are in a Federal suit - anything in the blogosphere or elsewhere re the two films could have relevance. Google has a search that updates as items show up. You showed up.

No preamble, no threat - no lie.



ROBERT FIVESON
EXECUTIVE & PRODUCER

________________________________________________________



The “no preamble, no thread – no lie” line is in reference to me saying “I'm not sure how I feel about the fact that he only wrote one line with no preamble at all; I don't think I like the implied threat there,” in my previous post.

I can now totally add Robert Fiveson to my list of quasi-celebrities to which I’ve had personal correspondence! It’s not a long list; the only other name with this dubious honor is Bill Shatner, though that doesn’t really count since he has yet to respond to my 12-page letter in which I included a full-sized glossy print of myself rubbed down with olive oil.

Clonus Island II

11/10/06


I was hoping to post the follow-up review of The Island today, but alas I have yet to finish it, so it might be tomorrow before it's up; I know you're waiting with baited breath. But as an appetizer, I offer this curiousity.

When I checked my email today I found the following:


From: Robert Fiveson
To: wxaine@hotmail.com

9:57 pm
11/09/06

Subject: Good Job

It was over 400 times the budget.














Needless to say I was somewhat surprised that less than a day after I’d posted Clonus Island, the director of Clonus had apparently contacted me to correct my math on the budget of the two films. Either that or someone is messing with me. I really have no idea how he stumbled across this post, unless, like me, Mr. Fiveson spends ridiculous amounts of time Googling his own name.

Still, I thought that was pretty cool. Thanks for the correction, Robert.

















Fiveson on the set in 1979.

Clonus Island

11/9/06


I called in sick to work on Monday and early in the afternoon found, as is often the case, there is nothing on the television at 1 in the afternoon on a weekday. Even on expanded digital cable. So what do I do? I decide to watch something I know I’ll hate if for no other reason than it might have some redeeming qualities and in the likely event that it does not, at least I can write about how badly it sucked. The Island seemed to do just fine in this respect.

I’m splitting this post up into 2 days because, well, the movie is just so kick-you-in-the-crotch awful that I have more to cover than can be conveniently crammed into 900 words. Tomorrow we’ll examine why the film is gloriously awful in its own right, but today I wish to explain why it’s a complete rip off of another movie which was bad in its own right, but cost 200 times less to produce.

This was one of those rare movies in which I actually like all of the actors (Ewan McGregor and Scarlett Johansson specifically) and completely loathe everything else about the film. I can only assume that Ewan and Scarlett signed on before dream-killer Michael Bay was attached to direct. At least that’s what I’m telling myself so I can still enjoy their work. Without further ado, here’s why you should not see this movie and/or why you are now dumber for having watched it.

First off let me say that by virtue of the fact I am an avid fan of Mystery Science Theatre 3000, I recognized that the premise to this film was dangerously close to a 1979 film panned on MST3K called Parts: The Clonus Horror. What I assumed was a funny coincidence soon turned to stark terror when, the longer The Island went on, the more and more closely it resembled Clonus. So much so that I cannot believe the screenwriter didn’t have this movie in mind when writing The Island. I even have a hard time believing that he had seen it years ago and unknowingly was “borrowing” from it rather than sitting there with a notepad jotting down plot points. I wasn’t the only one to see the similarity, it seems, as Robert S. Fiveson, director of the awful Clonus movie sued DreamWorks when The Island came out. As of August 25th of this year a judge ruled that there was sufficient evidence (90 incidences of similarities!) for the suit to go to trial.

Sadly, I’m not nearly the first person nor the most clever in the media to point out these similarities; Premiere Magazine wrote “the first hour of “The Island” plays like a much more expensive albeit scene-for-scene remake.” I certainly hope Fiveson gets his just rewards for being totally ripped off, but I must say I have much less sympathy since I read a Variety article where he was talking about The Island and said, “honestly, I really liked it. Because this is the way the movie should have been done.” No, Robert, no it’s not. In fact, neither movie probably should have been made in the first place. They’re both ridiculously idiotic and illogical premises and-- ah, but that’s for tomorrow!

For those of you not lucky enough to have a rolodex of bad movies inside your brain, here’s a comparison of the two films:


The Island

Premise: An isolated compound in the American desert is breeding clones to be used for replacement organs for wealthy politicians.

Plot: Two clones learn of the true nature of the facility, escape, and attempt to find their “real” counterparts to blow the whistle on the secret base and shut it down, saving all the clones.

Method of Control: They keep the clones in the dark by totally controlling their environment and maintaining the clones in a state of childlike naiveté. Clones are told that one day they can “win the lottery” and go to “the island” where they’ll live in bliss. In reality this means “cut up and harvested for organs.”

Protagonist: Lincoln 6 Echo, (Ewan McGregor) tired of being told what to do/eat/think all the time, begins to question if there isn’t more to life, especially when he finds a moth that came out of an air duct from the supposedly contaminated world above.

Love Interest: Scarlett Johansson as Jordan 2 Delta; an unquestioning clone who Lincoln pals around with (the clones don’t know about sex, for…some reason) and, oddly, seems to have no qualms about being dragged along while Lincoln escapes.


The Clonus Horror

Premise: An underground desert compound is breeding clones to be used as replacement organs for politicians and the wealthy.

Plot: Exactly the same, only it’s just one clone that learns of the plot and escapes, though he does tell a female clone that he’s smitten with about the plan.

Method: The facility…uhm…yeah, that’s pretty much exactly the same, too. OH! Except instead of winning the lottery they hope one day to “go to America.” So…that’s…that’s different, right?

Protagonist: Richard, played by Timothy Donnelly, begins questioning why things are the way they are (i.e. boring and strictly regulated) especially when he finds something he’s never seen before in the form of an empty beer can while walking the grounds and being morose. Hey, it is set in Minnesota.

Love Interest: Lena (Paulette Breen) is a rather vapid, unquestioning clone who Richard hangs out with. In a more realistic reaction, I feel, she doesn’t go with Richard when he leaves and is lobotomized at the end of the film.



Some more specific similarities include the fact that the clones wear track suits in both movies and are constantly monitored by guards with earpieces. Also, both one of Richard’s friends and Jordan 2 Delta find out their going to “America” and “The Island,” respectively, immediately following an athletic event with the main character. In Clonus it’s disturbingly shirtless wrestling, and in The Island it’s what appears to be the worst imagining of virtual boxing I’ve ever seen.

Both movies have a scene where you get to see a clone duped, drugged and operated upon, and in both instances the clone wakes up during the operation. You know, just to make sure you as an audience member gets bludgeoned over the head with the fact that they’re killing human beings. And yes, that is Darren from Bewitched.

Both Lincoln 6 Echo and Richard decide, oddly, to go find their “outside world” counterparts to help them. I’m not sure what they are thinking here, as it seems any other human on the planet would be a better choice than the one that wants you around until he needs a lung or two. Oh, and both of their counterparts predictably betray them.

I didn’t notice this, but according to the agony booth: Green liquid is injected into clones in both movies to kill them, and both are covered with a translucent tarp afterwards.

Why DreamWorks would rip-off a movie that was already bad to begin with, change almost nothing about it, and attach Michael Bay to direct it just in case there were any chance of it not totally sucking ass is beyond me. I hope they get their asses handed to them for copying and releasing a very bad, bad movie. Also, Michael Bay should suck demon cock in hell. Thank you and goodnight.



Sources:
Variety
The Agony Booth
IMDB

Hey, Hey, Hey, Goodbye

11/8/06

Breaking News: Rumsfeld Resigns!


A staggering news day, ladies and gentlemen; with Democrats already taking control of the House of Representatives and quite possibly the Senate as well, it would have been a fabulous day for liberals and yours truly even without the news that Secretary of State Donald Rumsfeld is resigning. Rumsfeld, apparently seeing what all of us knew six years ago, that his close-your-eyes, plug-your-ears and substitute-your-own-imaginary-reality approach to the war in Iraq has failed utterly and miserably, will be replaced by former CIA director and current president of Texas A&M Robert Gates. (pictured at right)

Rumsfeld has been the whipping boy for Democrats, Republicans and senior military officials alike when it came to the debacle that is the Iraqi war. Calls for his resignation have been circulating for years now and I guess we all just wished hard enough that the fairies made it true! That, or the fact that yesterday Americans overwhelmingly cast a vote for administration and policy change by sweeping the Democrats into power.

Rush Limbaugh has been heard to say that, had Rumsfeld resigned a week ago, it could have saved some Republicans their seats in Congress. There is some truth to that, probably, but, as was pointed out by my devilishly gleeful fiancé, had the Dems not swept the election, Rumsfeld never would have resigned. So you have a little catch-22 there. But the important news is that the man that has been saying “everything’s cool, dude,” for years now concerning the increasing failure and bloodbath of Iraq, is gone.

I think I have an erection.

Blue Again

11/8/06

I…I’m shocked. I woke up this morning stalwartly prepared to be disappointed only to discover that yes, Virginia, there really is a Santa Claus! These are the most current election results as of this morning. Let’s go to the Jett Election Score Board, shall we?

Missouri


U.S. Senator (3678 of 3746 Precincts Reporting) Votes % of Votes
Claire McCaskill (DEM) ………………… ……........................ 1,028,375 49.5%
Jim Talent (REP)……………………………………………….................986,007 47.4%
Frank Gilmour (LIB)…………………………………………….................46,977 2.3%
Lydia Lewis (PRG)……………………………………………................…17,994 0.9%

That’s right, ladies and gentlemen; Missouri is a blue state again! Granted, Claire McCaskill is at best a very conservative Democrat (no queers marrying, in other words) but I’ll take what I can get. This one was really the lesser of two evils.

Constitutional Amendment 2 (3570 of 3734 Precincts Reporting)
YES NO
Stem Cell Initiative 50.7% 49.3%

It seems that Missouri will indeed allow stem cell research. I’m dumbfounded. And very, very happy. Moving on!

Constitutional Amendment 3 (3570 of 3734)

YES NO
Tobacco Tax 48.3% 51.7%

The Tobacco Tax would have amounted to 4¢ per cigarette plus 20% of the initial price of the pack, which essentially would have almost doubled the price altogether. But it looks like it’s going to fail, gods be praised. Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em.

Constitutional Amendment 6 (3570 of 3734)
YES NO
Tax Exemption for Veterans Organizations 61.4% 38.6%

Admittedly, this one is kinda boring, but we will now have a tax exemption for personal property of non-profit or veterans organizations. Potential for tax dodging, sure, but it seemed to me that the good outweighed the potential evil. My vote wins again!



Constitutional Amendment 7 (3570 of 3734)
YES NO
Elected Officials Compensation Pensions 84.4% 15.6%

This one was pretty sweet; it was to vote whether or not an elected official or government employee would have their pension forfeited if convicted of a felony while in office, or removed or impeached while serving. Awesome.

Proposition B (3570 of 3734)

YES NO

Raising Minimum Wage 75.6% 24.4%

Hooray! We likes us some livin' above the Poverty Line!

For the most up-to-date results here’s the link for the State of Missouri.




Nationwide

I was elated last night while watching the Daily Show midterm election coverage when I learned that the Democrats had retaken the House of Representatives for the first time in 12 years of that GOP machine. Dems picked up at least 27 seats in the House and it’s still too close to call on the Senate, but it’s entirely possible they could take the entire Congress. Democrats took 4 seats in the Senate and need 2 more to take a majority. Right now it all hangs on Virginia and Montana, which are still returning very close race results. I…I’m just so proud.

All in all this election was better than I expected and more than I had hoped. Having my dreams dashed in the past two Presidential elections had made me a bit cynical and gun-shy as far as hope springing eternal, but there is light at the end of that demonic Dubya tunnel! “Stay the course” my ass!

Oh…right…he still has 2 more years. Well, see you at the apocalypse anyway, then.




For the most recent election results:
Google News
Yahoo News
NPR

Robbed Blind

11/3/06

If you don’t read either comics or comic book blogs—and let’s face it, those of you pretending to be adults unlike me probably do neither—than you’ve doubtless never heard the name Rob Liefeld. Those dear readers out there who are aware of him are laughing even as we speak, despite the fact I haven’t written a single joke yet. We’ll get to why Rob Liefeld is the most comic-blogged name in a moment; first, a little back-story!

During the 90’s comics underwent a huge upswing in popularity. Well, more accurately I should say they experienced a huge upswing in sales. That’s an important distinction because it became very fashionable to purchase multiple copies of the same issue in the vain hope that it will be worth a small mansion someday…hopefully next week. Yes, the internet wasn’t the only sector to have a 90’s bubble, as publishing companies pumped out new titles with six different covers for the same book at a pace that would make Gutenberg blush. (Johannes, not Steve.) The Internet Bubble burst when people started realizing that business couldn’t support hundreds of different dotcom startups per month, especially when most of them didn’t seem to actually do anything more than open with a ridiculously inflated stock price. Similarly, people eventually realized that the reason Action Comics #1 is worth $190,000 (I’m not kidding) is that it’s the first appearance of a popular, beloved character and there are very few of them left in existence. Armies of adolescents wept upon waking up in 1997 and realizing the 12 copies of the new Wonderman #1 was worth…well about 95¢ less than they paid for it in 1992 because Marvel printed 8 million of them. Oh, and the character/story/art sucked out loud. But that’s just potatoes; here comes the gravy:

With so many titles being produced a lot of things there were really rather shitty were making it to the shelves. Rob Liefeld’s work doesn’t just fall into this category; it plummets there. Liefeld’s work is a little bit like spotting a hot chick from across the bar; if you’re drunk and it’s dark and she’s 30 feet away, you might be able to overlook the fact that she has vomit down her dress, one lazy eye, and a penis. Liefeld’s work looks like comic book art at a glance, but I can assure you it’s nothing of the sort. Well, here, just look:

Just what in the bloody blue-fuck is that?! I can’t even begin to guess what thoughts went swirling through the mind of the colorist who was handed this monstrosity to enhance. Probably something like “dude…this fucking suuuuuuuuuucks!” It’s not just the fact that Liefeld has the anatomical knowledge of a Brazil nut, either. He also seems to believe human heads can be represented as anywhere from tangerine to basketball-sized.

Liefeld also pulls a trick I used to employ, and near as I can tell he does it for the same reason. I used to draw the worst legs and feet on the planet, and so when I got down to the bottom of a drawing I’d conveniently sketch in a rock or a plant or an inexplicable explosion to ensure I didn’t have to explain why my character appeared to have garden spades attached to their ankles.

Another trick just about any artist uses is copying the work of better artists. Only most of them get this out of their system while still learning how to draw, say, around junior high. Liefeld never saw the need to actually create his own drawings. Liefeld had a mercifully short run on Wolverine, and there’s an issue starring Ghost Rider that I hope I can find to show you what I’m talking about, because Liefeld copied a cover drawing of Wolverine from X-men #1 by Jim Lee for one of the panels inside the book. Until I find it, though, here are some examples from Clamnuts, a less lazy blogger with pictures.

In 1992 Liefeld and several other artists (two of my favorites, Marc Silvestri & Jim Lee included) split off from Marvel and founded Image Comics, which might have the worst website ever. Personally I didn’t much care for most of their books, as the bulk of their characters seemed to be rehashed Marvel rip-offs. And whenever you think poor rip offs, think Liefeld.

Remind you of anyone? Leaving aside the fact that Agent America seems to have hundreds of muscles which don't exist in the human body, of course.

All that being said, clearly Liefeld has talent. It’s just a kind of wild, unfocused and inconsistent talent which is below par with what should be allowed in print. The thing that’s great about Liefeld, though, is that he gives me hope. If he can get published, surely I can get some illustration work once I start producing drawings I feel are “good enough.” Being unpaid for my work and criticizing Liefeld is sort of the illustrator’s equivalent of yelling at the TV because the quarterback is “so f-ing stupid!” while you shovel bleu cheese-drenched hot wings into your maw and sweat whenever you get up to pee. But looking at bad comic book art is like reading bad fiction for me; it makes me think “well I can do better than that.”

Attack of the Clones

10/31/06

There seems to be some confusion out there. I realize trying to extrude the nugget of truth buried somewhere inside the shit-mountain of political ads and 20-second sound bites can be difficult. Voter turn out in this country hovers right around the 50% mark and most people think their vote matters about as much as what flavor icing to put on their toaster strudel. This mentality I can understand. What I also understand but find staggeringly terrifying is the number of willfully ignorant people who go to the polls and vote without really being aware of what their voting for or why. I don’t mean they’re stupid, though there’s no shortage of that category, either; no, I mean seemingly functional adult human beings who vote, I guess, based on something they read etched into a bathroom wall.

Aside from the great honor of choosing either a right-wing ass-clown who gutted Medicaid or an uncharismatic left-winger who is so moderate I could die in the Senate race this year, Missouri has several amendments on the ballot for the upcoming election. The most hotly debated is Amendment 2. If passed, Amendment 2 would allow stem cell research to be conducted in the Show-Me State. I’ll just wait while the sound of rifles cocking and bibles opening subsides.

I had thought the idea was straight-forward, but apparently even one as cynical as I can have bouts of naïveté. I had thought that the fact stem cell research is not cloning, and the fact that Amendment 2 does not allow human cloning, would be enough to assure people that we’re not attempting to turn Missouri into a haven for hand-wringing madmen bent on creating a personal army of super-soldiers. Well, you know, that, and the fact that it’s a plot from Star Wars, but in either event, I was wrong.

I was nearly shocked into a coma when talking to a friend of mine the other day and he mentioned that some very special individuals at his job believe the point of Amendment 2 is to allow fully-formed human clones to be warehoused, I guess, for organ harvesting. Which…is also a movie plot. After I got over the initial jolt of a reminder at just how insane our species can be, it was almost funny. I would have imagined that if one thought about it for more than six seconds, they would realize that, aside from psychotically detached from reality, that theory has the gaping hole of necessitating a Senator with enough balls to introduce a bill which contains allowances for cloned organ farms.

As far as I’m aware, the Stem Cell Initiative is meant for the development of medical procedures and treatments for diseases such as Parkinson’s and Alzheimer’s, not the plot to a Superman comic from 1965. It’s not human cloning, okay? It’s just not. You can call it cloning if you want, but then again, you can call syphilis chocolate syrup; it doesn’t make it so and please don’t put it on my ice cream.

Speaking of Parkinson’s Disease, let’s talk about Michael J. Fox. There is a commercial running right now which has Michael talking about the importance of the Stem Cell Initiative so in the future, people like him can, you know, not die. Care to watch?



Pretty depressing, huh? The worst part of this whole thing is that after the ad came out, right-wingers led by Rush Limbaugh blasted him for allowing himself to be used by and “shilling for” the democrats. Yeah, how dare he go on television and express an opinion for what he believes in to find a cure for the disease he has. What a selfish prick. Oh, did we mention that Michael won’t even be around to enjoy the cure? Yeah, he’ll die of Parkinson’s before it can be found even if Amendment 2 passes. What a shill.

Rush, sensitive son of a bitch that he is, even suggested that Fox was hamming it up for the camera, making his tremors worse than they actually were. Either that, or Rush surmised that Fox had deliberately not taken his medication to that end. Is it irony for Rush to suggest someone else is abusing prescription drugs? Any description of what a selfish, disgusting prick of a human being Limbaugh is couldn’t come close to the truth, so I just leave it to your imagination, dear reader.


If you’re voting, there is no excuse in this day and age of instant information at your fingertips not to get informed, preferably from a third-party source not affiliated with any particular agenda before you form an opinion. Then ask me if you’re right or not; I’ll be happy to tell you what you should think.

Vote November 3rd, ladies and gentlemen!



See here to read more about Amendment 2 and the other bills on the ballot for Missouri.

In My Office

10/27/06


Stupidest Thing to be Smug About Ever:

“I tell you what, I’m trying to go faster but the computer can’t keep up with
me. I put the numbers in faster than it can post and it’s causing problems.”

Doubly stupid since this was said to a peer; nary a superior in sight. The only thing sucking sideways can get you is those around you imagining new and creative ways to do you bodily harm. Saying something like this illustrates you as a person who would call someone into a room so you could spend ten minutes pointing out the fascinating way in which you arranged your houseplants. What a douche-bag.


Proportionate Response

I think it’s unfair that you can walk around the office with a wild scowl on your face, carrying a handful of pruning knives and people just think you’re headed to the cafeteria for lunch, but you try to play catch with one squirrel… Oh now, then you’re crazy.


Stupidest Thing Heard Before 9 a.m.

Bear in mind the following was said without any irony whatsoever.

“We are so much more smart.”

Yes. You certainly are.

Dead Alive

10/24/06

I'll just put it here on the table: I watch the Lifetime Network. Yes, this might quite possibly put my testicular fortitude in jeopardy, but let it be known that I only tune into "the network for women" from 11 p.m. to midnight for a double shot of Frasier; I'm not watching the seemingly endless train of Lifetime "special" films where, oddly, women are perpetually getting raped, beaten, killed and stalked. But in the course of my Dr. Frasier Crane hour I'm inevitably subjected to the sometimes frightening advertising of this channel.


Lately they've been promoting a new show by Lisa Williams called Life Among the Dead, premiering Oct 30th. This advert, shown at every possible commercial break, is not as bad as Off the Leash, which is a steaming nugget of a show someone actually thought up, pitched, produced and edited about a talent agency which promotes dogs for TV, movies and commercials in Hollywood. How the earth can keep from just vomiting lava all over anyone psychotic and pretentious enough to put the phrase "is that bottled water? Oh no, she only drinks bottled water," on television referring to a fucking dog I'll never know. But we've gotten way off track here. I was talking about Lisa Williams.

Lisa is—am I actually writing this?—a medium. She talks to the disembodied souls of rotting corpses, in other words. I had thought the fad where people you've never met give you completely useless information that you already knew about your deceased loved ones burned itself out seventeen or eighteen minutes after John Edward went on the air, but clearly I was mistaken. Now I'm sure Lisa is a perfectly nice human being, and in case that were in doubt, Lifetime gently tugs at the maternal heartstrings by working in the fact that Lisa is a mother during her promo. How could you possibly refuse to watch some trite, sideshow malarkey when she has a family to support? Are you heartless demons?

I should point out that I don't have anything inherently against psychics, save the fact that I think most of them are more inferring ability than genuine paranormal perception. Despite the fact that I am an atheist, there is no evidence in the physical laws of the universe precluding ghosts and spirits. I personally think that humans are not inherently more special than dogs or cats or lungfish, and the biochemical energy (or soul, if you prefer) in our bodies just slowly leaks away like a 9-volt in a smoke detector until there's not enough to keep this corporeal body going and we just cease to be. But sure, I've seen enough evidence to suggest that something deeply fucked up goes on in certain places that lends itself to the idea of ghosts hanging around because of a violent or sudden end. Do I think Aunt Mae is just hovering about out there in the void waiting for Lisa Williams to deliver the message that she's very pleased with how you're raising her seven cats she graciously willed you after her death? Good gods I hope not.

I guess my real problem with these celebrity dead-whisperers is that even in the best case scenario, it all just seems really fucking boring and mildly depressing. Does the fact that you have to have some spiky- haired talk show host act as liaison between you and your loved ones give anyone comfort? They make the afterlife just seem like some big waiting room with everyone gathered around playing solitaire or whatever until the outside chance that a medium wanders by. And they don't strictly give advice or even provide anything other than what you already know and can confirm. Grandma's happy, Grandpa is playing poker with Malcolm X and little crippled Jimmy who drowned in the pool can finally walk again on magic spirit legs! Who the fuck cares? There's never anything even remotely helpful; you never see a destitute cousin on there asking where tightwad Uncle Rufus buried all those IBM stock certificates, for example. I'm also slightly skeptical over the fact that you never get to hear from some genuinely repugnant friend or relative who comes through to give you the phantom finger, despite the fact that every medium I've ever seen is very careful not to endorse the idea of "heaven" vs. "hell." It just makes better fiscal sense that way; you can't go alienating over half your audience by suddenly claiming to channel Jesus. No, THAT would be nuts.


And who the fuck wants to exist in an afterlife where you're the same miserable douche bag you were here on earth? I find the idea that everyone is exactly the same, no matter how pleasant, as they were while alive to be just terminally sad. Isn't the payoff of dying that you get to finally know a few secrets of the universe? Well, no, sorry; apparently crossing the threshold of death is about as enlightening as crossing the street to get a Dilly Bar, because these "spirits" never have anything more encouraging than "I feel great!" like some kind of deceased Tony the Tiger. Lisa Williams sums this complaint up when she says "What do dead people sound like? They sound like you and me." Oh, well that's just spit-on-your-crotch terrific! I think I've never heard anything quite so depressing. Forget visiting new and exhilarating secrets of the universe; you're still the same unenlightened, boring ass-face you were down here! Way to drop the ball, Jesus!

Buddhism; now there's a religion I could get behind. They don't get all bizarrely caught up with this whole "what happens after death" bit. They are mellow and content to be around and accept that some things are beyond the reach of mortals. The Buddha didn't say there wasn't a god, but he did say that there was no point in looking for one, since the nature of reality and the divine was fundamentally unknowable by our weak little senses.

I wish people would rub my belly.

Ice-Scrapers and Martinis

10/22/06


There are few things more frustrating than (1) waking up late so you have to rush to get ready for work, and (2) going out into the parking lot in 32° weather only to realize that, inexplicably, your ice-scraper has vanished from inside your vehicle and now you have to look like someone who moves his lips when he reads in front of your neighbors because you're scraping your windshield with a spatula while cursing in vaguely incoherent language.

Dude…what kind of sick mind would hijack an ice-scraper? They're like 69¢. Oh, in case you were wondering, no; a spatula does not work well to remove frost. Try peeing on the glass instead. I'm getting a martini.

Schadenfreude*

10/20/06

It hasn't been an easy 6 years for liberals, but '05 and '06 have vindicated those of us who, after watching the 2004 election results, shook our heads in stark bewilderment and considered applying for Canadian citizenship. And thank goodness, because if the level of liberal outrage fatigue I felt had continued unabated I can only assume a massive stroke was in my immediate future. But finally the GOP started to implode like a big, fat red giant star collapsing into a singularity under its own bloated gravity. The majority of American citizens awoke from what I can only assume was a drug-induced coma that nevertheless didn't prevent them from reaching a voting booth, blinked in the bright sunlight of reality, and discovered, hey, I don't think the Republicans had my best interests in mind.

With President Bush currently the political equivalent of a flaccid dry-hump and Republicans across the board champing at the bit to be the next big scandal, I'm feeling pretty good about the changing direction in America. Instead of the impotent rage I once felt anytime I heard a representative of the GOP speak to the public, what I now feel as we ramp up toward Congressional elections in November can best be described as elated hilarity. Two years ago the Republican reaction to recent scandals would have sent me sprinting to the bathroom cabinet intent on medicating myself into a stupor because the American public would have actually listened to what now just seems sort of pathetic and sad in a really, really funny way.


Mark Foley's Underage Cyber-Diddling


For those of you living in a cave on the moon for the past month, you can clue into what we're referring to here. How do you distance yourself from the fact that your party knew it contained a mild sexual predator with a penchant for underage boys? Well, for my money it doesn't get better than crazy conspiratorial speculation worthy of the X-files:

The following is a transcript from the October 8th episode of CNN's Late Edition with Wolf Blitzer, interviewing Rep. Patrick McHenry (R-NC) who made wild-eyed claims that the Democratic Party knew about Foley's actions and sat on the info until now so it could do the most political damage. My favorite line is in bold.

Blitzer: Well you don't have any evidence though, right?

Rep. McHenry:
Well look at the fact points...four weeks out from a national election...

Blitzer: Yes or no: do you have any evidence? Do you have any evidence
Congressman?

Rep. McHenry: Do you have any evidence that says they
weren't involved?

Blitzer: I'm just asking if you're just throwing out
an accusation or if you have any hard evidence.

Rep. McHenry: No, it's a
question Wolf. The question remains, were they involved? And if they were not
involved they need to say clearly, and it's a question, it's not an accusation.

Touché, Mr. McHenry! Because nothing says "my party is innocent" like asking someone to prove a negative. I can't, for example, prove that dinosaurs aren't still wandering around; ergo, pterodactyls might be behind the nasty, borderline pedophilic instant messages Foley sent to Congressional page boys.




North Korea & Iran: Bombs of Disruption


North Korea just conducted a successful test of a nuclear bomb and Iran is undauntingly refusing to back down from nuclear programs of its own, albeit supposedly for peaceful energy production, despite UN threats and sanctions. Of course, being threatened by the UN is sort of like when the library sends you a letter informing you that if you don't return your book this week, you'll be charged 13 cents. But don't be fooled, America! It's not only the hated Left who wishes to undermine our beloved Republicans! Just ask clinically insane GOP mouthpiece Bill O'Reilly:

Oct 9th edition of The O'Reilly Factor:

"Now, the reason North Korea is causing trouble is that it wants to influence
the November election. As we discussed last week, Iran's doing the same thing in
Iraq -- ramping up the violence so Americans will turn against the Bush
administration."

"That is not a partisan statement. It is a fact."

"Iran has ordered its killers to up the violence in Iraq for the next
month."

Okay. Well, wow. I don't know why we waste all our time with military intelligence when we could just ask O'Reilly what foreign nations are planning and from whence their motivations come. Sounds to me like they send him a typed itinerary in the mail. Or maybe he's secretly a superhero, I dunno. Anyway you slice it he's a big bag of crazy. How narcissistic and egotistical do you have to be to believe that other countries engage in openly hostile actions with no objective other than possibly influencing a mid-term election in America, where voter turnout is lucky to hit 20%?



Now all Democrats have to decide is precisely how and to what dramatic level they can take all this momentum and completely fuck it up before the election.




* Shadenfreude is a German word meaning "to take pleasure in the misfortune of others." God bless Deutschland for providing us with such a useful and deliciously malicious turn of phrase.


Sources: Media Matters
The Huffington Post
CNN.com

Co-Habitat for Humanity

10/16/06

Few things can make one so intimately aware of just how repulsive your taste in surroundings is as living with a girlfriend or fiancé. I was somewhat dimly aware that I had an affinity for, shall we say, eclectic furniture and belongings before Hanni and I lived together, but moving into our new apartment several weeks ago has brought this into stark, naked view. Apparently most adults approaching the third decade of life don't find it perfectly acceptable to own things predominantly procured from the garbage. What a bunch of Philistines.


As I've lived either on my own or with other bachelors for all of my adult life, I had no real idea that "inherited" furniture repeatedly patched with glue, duct tape and several grosses of nails sticking out of it at awkward, skin-ripping angles should be replaced at some point with new products not made from particle board. And take note, gentlemen; couches and chairs that look like a motel sex-crime investigation under a black light actually cause women to think twice about sitting on them. Near as I can tell, the main difference between men and women is the amount of dirt and semen they're willing to happily ignore in their homes. I can look at the huge, plaid chair in the living room and have no compunction about plopping myself down on it, blissfully dismissing the fact that the upholstery has, over the years, slowly taken on the shade of a burn victim's skin. Hanni looks at the same chair and apparently sees a grotesque object, possibly pulled out of the swamp, that has been used as a prop in a Roman orgy.


B.C. (Before Co-habitation) I was only aware of this information in a vague, sort of offhanded fashion, the way you feel gravity when walking around on the surface of a planet. Combining all of Hanni's worldly possessions with my own has made me aware of it in the way you feels gravity when a large building falls on you.

We're getting new furniture, is what I'm saying. I have no specific, loving attachment to most of these objects, so it will be a novel change to have objects that no one has previously spilled wine on, urinated upon, or been murdered in. I don't mean to paint my future wife as some sort of shrieking demon who is forcing me to get rid of everything near and dear to me (even if she did make me move my toy collection into the office instead of the living room) on the contrary, she is very concerned that the new stuff we get be something we can both live with, and I retain veto power. That being said, clearly the only way new objects are coming through that door is if neither of us is perfectly "happy" with the purchase. Which I believe is the definition of a compromise.

The only real causes for complaint I have on this whole process are when it comes to lamps and paper maché. For whatever bizarre reason, I like horrible lamps. The uglier they are the better I like them. Lamps from the 70's are a particular gold mine for this reason. Made out of suede with an animal print? Bring it on in! You say it has a clear base with a shrunken head inside? Sign me up! What's that? A 4-foot red velvet cigar-shaped lamp that hangs from the ceiling? I'll give you $500! This last example is not a hypothetical; this specific model exists at a local flea market and it takes everything in my power not to get an erection at the thought of owning it. Aside from the fact that it matches nothing in the apartment and we have no place with enough room to put it, it's perfect! I think Hanni's more afraid she'll wake up one night and find me naked, lovingly stroking the lampshade and whispering diabolical plots to it than she is of just how ugly the goddamn thing is.

As far as paper maché goes, Hanni has forbade me to make any more life-size paper maché characters like Ramses, the Egyptian fellow I created last year. Well, she forbade me to make any more that I don't give away. I fail to understand what sort of person doesn't want large, entirely un-functional mannequins hanging around the house. Few things have caused more comment whenever people enter my house than the sight of Ramses standing there looking smug. And he's anatomically correct to boot! I must confess, this is the only viewpoint of hers I cannot at least see where she's coming from.

I'm totally going to open a lamp store. I'll either call it "Let There Be Light," or "Red Light District," I dunno. Aside from the money I don't have and business expertise I don't possess, I see no flaw whatever in this plan.

Ring Toss

10/10/06



For those of you who still don’t know (and I can’t imagine there are a great many of you) I would like to take this opportunity to say that about a week ago I proposed that Hanni and I spend the rest of our lives together in holy matrimony. True, we had decided quite some time ago that we were going to get married; had even settled on a date, so this proposal didn’t come as any great surprise to her, but she is dutiful and wonderful enough to have acted surprised and delighted. I even got down on one knee and everything.

We went ring shopping and narrowed it down to two different baubles, but my dear fiancé made it abundantly clear which one she preferred. The deal was that she knew which ring she was getting; she knew I was going to propose, but she didn’t know when. Last week was when. Incidentally, for those of you wishing to purchase high-quality jewelry at very reasonable prices, I highly recommend Loftis Jewelry; they’re quite helpful to boot.

So, wallet stinging from the dent I’d just made in its hide, I took the little treasure to my future wife. Let me just say that, for someone unused to carrying around either large suitcases of cash or kilos of high-grade cocaine, carting around an easily-stolen ring worth more than any single other item in my life is terrifically nerve-wracking. Oh, here’s a picture of the ring:

As you may have noticed I've completely obliterated much idea of scale here so as to make it look as big and impressive as possible. I have a very fragile ego.

She said yes, by the way. This must be what it feels like to be happy. I must say it is an emotion with which I am not intimately associated. Kinda feels itchy, but nice. This is very dangerous now, me being happy and all, because I love her unfailingly and now have actual hope and optimism for our future life together. Damnit. I suppose I’ll just have to get used to being happy. Things were so much easier when I was alone and depressed and didn’t much care whether I woke up the next morning or not. Ah well, bygones.

I love you, Hanni. The rest of you can just pretend that this blog was about, I dunno, how much I hate Larry the Cable Guy or something.