Recently I attending a performance of Dracula Re-imagined by Richard Davis. I enjoyed the performance and felt that all the actors were a credit to their profession. I took many notes during the performance and would now like to share my thoughts on the story as a whole.
First, I think that if this production were in a larger venue it would actually decrease the impact of the performance. There is something about a small theater like The Browncoat that heightens certain kinds of drama. This was no exception. I didn't feel like I was part of a large elaborate production, rather that I was back with my primeval ancestors, telling stories around a campfire. This is by no means detrimental, and if anything heightens the action taking place on stage, passing the weight to the actors shoulders.
I would like to touch briefly on the music selection. I understand that there was a theme that was being developed, but I felt that it was a little too heavy handed. Around 30 or 45 minutes in I was struck by the thought of "I get it. Gothic story and vampires. We can quit with the over the top choral pieces." The various covers of the song House of the Rising Sun did fit well with the plot and tone however.
A quick run down of the characters and their place within the story.
The most glaring flaw to me was Jonathan Harker. His whole point in this production seemed to be a piece of meat. The average man being slowly ushered deeper in to horror and actively seeking a way out was not as prevalent as I remember from Bram Stokers original piece. I am not sure if this was Davis's intent or not, but at the end I felt as though I never got to really meet Jonathan.
Mina Harker however, had an obvious amount of time dedicated to her. She experienced quite a bit of character development, and I felt that it was a well executed take on a character that has started to become a bit overdone.
Abraham van Hellsing experience nearly no change from his original form, and I liked that. A little familiarity is good, especially when you are going to manipulate the original story to the degree that Richard Davis has.
When it comes to the character of Lucy, I felt that there may have been more unsaid. She felt like a character that had gone through one too many revisions and not was simply a shadow of what had been originally written.
I couldn't stand the character of Arthur Holmwood, but I think this was deliberate. I have a certain loathing for whiny characters (and people) and Arthur inhabited this very well.
The character of Renfield was equal parts new vision and old homage. I'll get more into this later.
Quincy changed dramatically, from a southern gentleman, to a good ol boy. I'm not sure I really approve, since this change was not essential to the story.
Dracula, was Dracula. His presence was required, but the changes made to his role in the story and his interaction with members of the cast were new and innovative. I would like to see more thought put in to these kinds of adaptations in other works.
The Brides of Dracula were characters whom I wouldn't change a single thing about. They were creepy and sensual. Ol' Bram would be proud.
A few comments on the blocking and directions.
There was far too much pausing in doorways. If it was enough to draw my attention, then it was far above the amount regularly seen in stage shows. It felt like the entire production hinged (pun intended) on important lines being delivered on the threshold. It is called a stage show, and I would like to have seen more work done, on the stage.
I found the use of found footage to be an excellent echo of the original book by Bram Stoker, I found myself wanting more of it over the course of the play, but I was grateful for what I received.
In short, I liked a different take on the story we all know and love, but the novelty grows a little stale. This is a play that deserves one or two rewrites, and would make an excellent found footage film.
Thursday, December 26, 2013
Tuesday, November 19, 2013
The Wind Rises
You are all going to think of my as an incredibly sappy, weak and emotional person. I don't care.
The English trailer for The Wind Rises, the last film from Hayao Miyazaki has been released. I can tell already from the small segments shown in the trailer that Miyazaki has only gotten better at his craft with age.
I was able to keep it together for mostly the entire trailer, until the "Farewell Masterpiece" came up.
Then it hit me.
This man, whom I have never met, has been telling me stories and taking me on journeys since I was 12 years old, when I watched Princess Mononoke for the first time at a friends house. He has told me tale after tale, and now he is finished. I took him for granted all this time, and I never thought that he would really stop. I've learned a lot in that time, and some of my morals have been shaped explicitly by some of Miyazaki's films.
I learned leadership skills from Naussica, I finally figured out how to make someone laugh from Lupin, and through nearly all of them I was indulged in my passion for flight.
Now in his final piece, he is waving goodbye. Someone I never met, wrote or spoke to has given me years of lessons and is now waving his hand as he departs this medium.
It is sad to see him go.
I am reminded of a poem by Christina Rossetti
Who has seen the wind?
Neither I nor you:
But when the leaves hang trembling,
the wind is passing through.
Who has seen the wind?
Neither you nor I:
But when the trees bow their heads,
The wind is passing by.
Farewell Miyazaki, thanks for everything.
The English trailer for The Wind Rises, the last film from Hayao Miyazaki has been released. I can tell already from the small segments shown in the trailer that Miyazaki has only gotten better at his craft with age.
I was able to keep it together for mostly the entire trailer, until the "Farewell Masterpiece" came up.
Then it hit me.
This man, whom I have never met, has been telling me stories and taking me on journeys since I was 12 years old, when I watched Princess Mononoke for the first time at a friends house. He has told me tale after tale, and now he is finished. I took him for granted all this time, and I never thought that he would really stop. I've learned a lot in that time, and some of my morals have been shaped explicitly by some of Miyazaki's films.
I learned leadership skills from Naussica, I finally figured out how to make someone laugh from Lupin, and through nearly all of them I was indulged in my passion for flight.
Now in his final piece, he is waving goodbye. Someone I never met, wrote or spoke to has given me years of lessons and is now waving his hand as he departs this medium.
It is sad to see him go.
I am reminded of a poem by Christina Rossetti
Who has seen the wind?
Neither I nor you:
But when the leaves hang trembling,
the wind is passing through.
Who has seen the wind?
Neither you nor I:
But when the trees bow their heads,
The wind is passing by.
Farewell Miyazaki, thanks for everything.
Thursday, October 31, 2013
The Man in the Suit
I had been working the case for weeks. A random murder in a suburb. We had made no progress, no murder weapon, no suspect. Our investigation team had only found the body by chance. I was on the verge of madness, the district attorney was breathing down my neck. Apparently the woman's father was a golfing buddy of his and they wanted results. It should seem obvious the choice I then made.
I made him up.
Honestly I did. There was no murderer, and there was nearly no evidence. What was I to do?
So I invented him.
A middle aged man, medium build, with grey hair, and wearing a suit.
I typed up a fictitious transcript of an interview with a local drifter who had also been found dead. I had something to show the DA, and I thought that it would disappear.
But I was wrong.
The anguished father found out of course, and he plastered wanted posters with the description of my fake suspect for miles around. A sketch was on a billboard, news anchors were discussing him. Everyone was talking about the man in the suit.
I had made a living hell for myself.
I was forced to answer questions, and invent more lies. I gave interview after interview about this man who didn’t exist.
He may have a scar on his left cheek, he could be driving a black sedan, his preferred weapon was a Glock 17 fitted with a suppressor due to the lack of reported gunshots.
I hear you disagreeing, but you must understand that he was never real.
At least that’s what I keep telling myself.
Then the sightings came.
The 22nd of November, six weeks after the murder, he was spotted on a security camera buying gas not two miles from the suspected scene of the crime.
Of course I didn’t follow up the leads, I had invented this man after all.
But the next day there was another sighting.
Then another.
And another.
I finally had to act, and instructed my fellow police officers to be on the lookout and to bring him in if spotted.
None of them did.
But the reports kept coming in.
Outside the dead womans house, near the church she visited, at the entrance to the city morgue.
It was impossible. I was receiving reports of the figure across town at exactly the same time.
After a week I was called in to the DAs office.
He wanted to know why I hadn’t caught this man. Why he was still out on the streets making a mockery of his town and its police force.
I had no answers for him of course.
Then he told me to go out there personally. He sat there, in his leather high backed chair and told me that I was forbidden to return to my office until I had apprehended the suspect.
What was I to do? How could I handcuff someone who I invented?
I went home and pondered just ending it all with a gun in my mouth.
But then I looked outside, and there he was. Standing underneath the streetlamp, right next to his black sedan, staring back at me.
I froze.
It was impossible. How could he be here, looking back at me with those blue eyes. Or were they grey? My fictional account wasn’t sure, and right now I couldn’t be either. He seemed to be almost a painting, or illustration given manifest form.
He shimmered, and seemed to constantly change as though out of focus or viewed through frosted glass.
I backed away from the window and put my .38 revolver in my coat pocket, then stepped out the front door.
The closer I approached him, the darker the surrounding lights became, until even the streetlamp seemed to be just a flickering memory. A greyish haze more than a light.
He was just as I had described him. Tall, gaunt, with a scar on his cheek and a slightly unshaven face.
“Who are you?”
I asked.
He smiled.
“You know exactly who I am.”
He said.
“You made me. You gave me life, purpose, and a face. Faith is a powerful thing detective. You trumpeted my existence to a town of half a million, and they all wanted to see me. They all wanted me to appear. And lo, I did. Here I am detective. Am I everything you wanted?”
I was quaking. Days without sleep had brought about his hallucination, I was certain of it. But I had one way to prove it.
I plunged my hand into my coat pocket, and fired all six shots into his tall figure.
The bullets passed through, leaving his clothing unmarked, but they all impacted the brick wall across the street.
He smiled.
“I’m more than a man now detective. I am a shared belief. And those are much, much more difficult to kill. Not even the truth can bring me down now.”
I watched helplessly as he pulled a suppressed Glock from his coat, and shot me twice in the chest. As I fell to the pavement he grabbed me by my shirt, and holding me close to him whispered into my ear.
“Thank you.”
He dropped me like a wet sandbag onto the sidewalk, strode to his car, and drove off.
I know you think me mad. You think all of this stress has gotten to my head, but I tell you it is the truth. He is not real. I swear it! He is not real!
I typed up a fictitious transcript of an interview with a local drifter who had also been found dead. I had something to show the DA, and I thought that it would disappear.
But I was wrong.
The anguished father found out of course, and he plastered wanted posters with the description of my fake suspect for miles around. A sketch was on a billboard, news anchors were discussing him. Everyone was talking about the man in the suit.
I had made a living hell for myself.
I was forced to answer questions, and invent more lies. I gave interview after interview about this man who didn’t exist.
He may have a scar on his left cheek, he could be driving a black sedan, his preferred weapon was a Glock 17 fitted with a suppressor due to the lack of reported gunshots.
I hear you disagreeing, but you must understand that he was never real.
At least that’s what I keep telling myself.
Then the sightings came.
The 22nd of November, six weeks after the murder, he was spotted on a security camera buying gas not two miles from the suspected scene of the crime.
Of course I didn’t follow up the leads, I had invented this man after all.
But the next day there was another sighting.
Then another.
And another.
I finally had to act, and instructed my fellow police officers to be on the lookout and to bring him in if spotted.
None of them did.
But the reports kept coming in.
Outside the dead womans house, near the church she visited, at the entrance to the city morgue.
It was impossible. I was receiving reports of the figure across town at exactly the same time.
After a week I was called in to the DAs office.
He wanted to know why I hadn’t caught this man. Why he was still out on the streets making a mockery of his town and its police force.
I had no answers for him of course.
Then he told me to go out there personally. He sat there, in his leather high backed chair and told me that I was forbidden to return to my office until I had apprehended the suspect.
What was I to do? How could I handcuff someone who I invented?
I went home and pondered just ending it all with a gun in my mouth.
But then I looked outside, and there he was. Standing underneath the streetlamp, right next to his black sedan, staring back at me.
I froze.
It was impossible. How could he be here, looking back at me with those blue eyes. Or were they grey? My fictional account wasn’t sure, and right now I couldn’t be either. He seemed to be almost a painting, or illustration given manifest form.
He shimmered, and seemed to constantly change as though out of focus or viewed through frosted glass.
I backed away from the window and put my .38 revolver in my coat pocket, then stepped out the front door.
The closer I approached him, the darker the surrounding lights became, until even the streetlamp seemed to be just a flickering memory. A greyish haze more than a light.
He was just as I had described him. Tall, gaunt, with a scar on his cheek and a slightly unshaven face.
“Who are you?”
I asked.
He smiled.
“You know exactly who I am.”
He said.
“You made me. You gave me life, purpose, and a face. Faith is a powerful thing detective. You trumpeted my existence to a town of half a million, and they all wanted to see me. They all wanted me to appear. And lo, I did. Here I am detective. Am I everything you wanted?”
I was quaking. Days without sleep had brought about his hallucination, I was certain of it. But I had one way to prove it.
I plunged my hand into my coat pocket, and fired all six shots into his tall figure.
The bullets passed through, leaving his clothing unmarked, but they all impacted the brick wall across the street.
He smiled.
“I’m more than a man now detective. I am a shared belief. And those are much, much more difficult to kill. Not even the truth can bring me down now.”
I watched helplessly as he pulled a suppressed Glock from his coat, and shot me twice in the chest. As I fell to the pavement he grabbed me by my shirt, and holding me close to him whispered into my ear.
“Thank you.”
He dropped me like a wet sandbag onto the sidewalk, strode to his car, and drove off.
I know you think me mad. You think all of this stress has gotten to my head, but I tell you it is the truth. He is not real. I swear it! He is not real!
Tuesday, October 29, 2013
How I Imagine Most American Families
Cliff Anderson stared into the runny mashed potatoes. The pinch pot containing the instant potato mix had been made by his son in Reform School pottery class, and while functional, was not aesthetically pleasing at all.
“Dad. Gimme the potatoes.”
Inside Cliffs mind, a little voice suggested picking up the bowl and throwing it at his fourteen year old daughter.
It wouldn't take much, just grab and throw.
Just grab, and throw.
A small smirk flicked across the left corner of Cliffs mouth as he reached over and lifted the bowl, before setting it down within reach of his daughter.
Daisy, was about as far from her namesake as it was possible for a fourteen year old to achieve. She had pierced her lip, nose and left eyebrow. She had also tattooed the international sign for recycle across on her right cheek the size of a coaster.
All her face tackle had been acquisitions she had made while running away from home for the third time.
At the other end of the table sat Cliffs wife Tammy. Cliff found himself attempting to remember back before their children had intruded so pointedly into their lives.
Cliff and Tammy had met at a state fair, she was selling the deep fried HoHos and Cliff was on leave from the Army. He had first seen his wife of twenty three years while watching his close friend vomit up his lunch from the tilt a whirl. The putrescent stream had jetted out from the spinning contraption and hit one of Tammy's customers full in the face.
The young boy had commenced to cry as the bile worked its way down the front of his overalls while his mother stepped back in unbelieving horror.
Cliff had run on up to assist, only to be beaten to it by Tammy. She wiped the boy and awarded the rotund youth a fresh piece of fried food for his trouble.
Cliff had never been a romantic man, but his luck in finding possibly the most promiscuous woman in the carnival awarded him a quick turn with Tammy. She had run off with him back to Fort Hood and the two had somehow managed to survive.
Three children later the pair were starving their way through their two mortgages for a single floor three bedroom house. Their oldest son, Reggie, was in jail following a failed robbery of an adult bookstore, and their two hundred fifty pound, self loathing daughter seemed determined to follow.
Cliffs mind was wrenched away from thoughts about the hopelessness he felt about his sons and daughters prospects by the sudden thud that marked the near daily demise of James Franklin Anderson.
The two year old had put both feet out from his high chair and kicked for all he was worth, catapulting himself and his chair backward in an arc cackling with mad delight. The high chair slammed into the ground bouncing the young childs now unconscious form completely free of the wreckage.
The unexpected lurch of the table caused Daisy to spill her milk all down the front of her t shirt.
She immediately began to cry.
“It’s not fair.”
She said, sobbing into her sausage like fingers.
“It’s just not fair. I didn't ask for any of this to happen! Why won’t this family just leave me alone”
Tammy was on the floor checking on James Franklin while scolding him simultaneously. The young boy had a look of dumb incomprehension on his face, as though his sudden arrival to the floor was entirely a surprise to him.
Daisy continued to sob and berate everything that had happened in her life since she was old enough to understand object permanence.
Cliff simply stood up and took his dinner to the bed room with him, and switched on the television.
“Tonight at 11,”
said a broad mouthed smiling female anchor
“more and more families are eating dinner separately. We ask our resident experts what this means for the stability of the American family.”
Cliff laughed, spearing a head of broccoli viciously on his fork and worked the vegetable around in the instant gravy.
From outside the door he heard his wife disciplining the two year old, while the slamming of the screen door announced his daughters fourth bid at freedom.
Cliff saluted the slamming door with the impaled gravy soaked vegetable.
“Maybe this time she’ll run off and join the carnies.”
He said, before popping the miniature green tree into his waiting mouth.
Wednesday, October 16, 2013
Be like Barney
Be more like Barney Fife.
Seriously.
Take a moment to look at the sad existence that is the life of deputy Barney Fife. The poor bastard is well aware of the fact that he is not the best law enforcement official in Mayberry. He also knows that he will never be the best law enforcement official in Mayberry. He will forever be in Sheriff Griffith's shadow. But Barney has a quality that far surpasses that of his boss Andy.
Determination.
Every day, deputy Fife has to get up and put on his uniform, and sling his proven impotent holster around his waist, then walk down to the station. He does so with a smile. Because this is what he wants to do in life. Barney Fife is a man humble enough to recognize his limitations, but never, ever stops trying to be something better. No matter how often life takes the opportunity to show him how terrible at his job he really is.
Each day Barney walks back into the sisyphistic office of the Mayberry police station, with the firmly held dedication to serve and protect.
So go out into the world, and no matter how hard life gets, just remember that Deputy Fife got up every morning.
And he did it with a smile on his face.
Thursday, September 26, 2013
Why Sports Clips is Genius
Recently I received a coupon for one free haircut at Sports Clips. I figured it was just a store that operated like Great Clips or any other of the cheap in and out barbershop/salons.
I was wrong.
I was first tipped off that this was going to be very different when I walked up to the store. Outside was a cute girl wearing what appeared to be a NFL referee jersey. It wasn't until I got closer that I realized this was the Sports Clip employee uniform.
"Hi!"
She said.
"Are you here to get a haircut?"
How she could have guessed that I needed a haircut I can't imagine. Although it might have had something to do with the complete lack of a trim or shave for 3 months. My head looked like a particularly abused mop.
We stepped inside and I was immediately struck by how different an establishment this place was. There were at least 12 high definition flat-screens, all showing ESPN Sport Center. I have made clear in previous postings that I do not care at all for any sport. Particularly not football. At the time I took this all to be a gimic as validation to jack up the price of a haircut, but since I was getting it for free, it didn't matter.
I looked up at options above the register. They all contained phrases that revolved around sports.
Varsity, Junior Varsity, Senior Varsity, "The Triple Play," "The MVP Experience."
I could feel indignation and a not insignificant rage fit coming on but I kept it in check.
The young stylist sure earned her paycheck by being welcoming and ushered my back to one of the chairs.
Up to this point I was just trying to keep my rage and hatred of the American Sports worship down. I confess I didn't really notice any of the diligence or attention my stylist was putting into my haircut.
She finished blowing all the loose hairs off my head and shoulders. I was about to pay when she said that we were not finished.
"We still have to do your shampoo and massage!"
I could care less about a wash, but I will never turn down a massage.
I was escorted further back into the store and seated into a massage chair. I then reclined backward so as to rest my head in the wash basin. The stylist began to wash my hair and then flipped on the massage chair.
Instantly all of my tension vanished and I achieved what must be the first step of the Buddhas climb to Nirvana.
It was while I was in this near mindless state that I was further comforted by having a warm towel wrapped around my face.
Bliss.
I felt lost in the cradling arms of a poem by Milton or Burns.
It was while in this state that I had an epiphany.
Sports Clips has done something amazing.
Prior to Sports Clips, were I to go to nine out of ten of my friends and tell them that I just paid $22.00 for a haircut, shampoo and massage, I probably wouldn't be invited to that years cookout. That is probably the quickest way to publicly emasculate yourself.
But, if you disguise the Salon and Spa like treatment with a rough exterior like SPORTS, then you can get away with anything.
This could open the door for all kinds of business plans bent around marketing what was previously viewed as girly but enjoyable experiences to men.
I left Sports Clips, I'm ashamed to say, with the biggest smile on my face. While I don't think I will go back for regular trims ($20 is pricey), I might make an occasion out of it.
Mark my words, give it a year and there will be a "Hard as Nails" manicures for men, with a gun shop inside.
Wednesday, September 25, 2013
The Absurdity of Laughing Cow
I was recently subjected to the travesty that is Laughing Cows newest advertisement. The absurdity was absolutely beyond belief.
How delusional do you have to be to think that a bunch of women are going to be so entertained by your little wedge shaped cheese packages that they have to dance around the kitchen, spreading their unbelievably entertaining dairy product all over crackers, celery, and various other snacks that seem to only exist in the world portrayed by commercials.
If I were to see anyone behave like this in the real world I would immediately assume a heavy use of hallucinogens and controlled substances. In fact, all of the behavior of these women in the advertisement does seem to mimic the behavior I have seen exhibited by a few friends in college after they dived headfirst into experimentation with controlled substances.
Also, am I supposed to just overlook the lack of any men in this video. This is cheese after all, not Activia (more later on how apparently a womans digestive system needs yogurt to function).
What about the lack of men? Are we not allowed to eat cheese now? Is cheese a woman's food?
Damn it ladies, I enjoy some of these foods but I can't eat them or put them in my fridge because they are a threat to my masculinity. You bastards in advertising are limiting my diet! At the rate, in ten years my diet will be limited to Nachos, raw steaks, and beer.
My colon quivers in fear at the prospect.
Monday, September 9, 2013
Lets Get Ready to Bumble V
Well now, the season has officially started. Yup, good ol' football season has "kicked off" as the boys are want to say. Okay, just starting the football season.
I have no idea what I am doing.
There have evidently been several games by now seeing as how team Tallyrand now has 154 points. Lets look deeper into the data on this.
Hmm...so I have a projected points of 212.7, but I scored 154. Looks like I'm not the only one who doesn't know what is going on. Whoever comes up with these statistics is as full of crap as a Christmas goose.
My opponent in the first game (how the hell does this work?) has 278 out of a projected 213. Well the two of us are doing an amazing job at beating out projected averages. Maybe I should get a reward for that.
Lets take a look at my players.
Earl Russel of Wilson seems to be doing well enough, despite a fumble . One touchdown, seven rushing yards (whatever those are) and 320 passing yards. Okay, I keep him. I don't need to execute him yet.
King Griffin III hasn't scored anything yet, guess he hasn't played his game yet, neither has the Royal Butler Alfred Morris.
Three names in and I'm bored to hell with these numbers. I'll just check it in a few days and hope it is higher than my opponents. What is the point of this? It's just accounting with sports jerseys!
I already did my taxes once this year and this is starting to seem strikingly familiar. Do I need to call my financial planner? I feel like Wells Fargo should be involved on this on some level. I don't want to end up like a bankrupt Florida retiree because Garcon couldn't score a touchdown.
Until next time then, I'll just be here ignoring the games and looking at numbers like a drunk wall street trader.
I have no idea what I am doing.
There have evidently been several games by now seeing as how team Tallyrand now has 154 points. Lets look deeper into the data on this.
Hmm...so I have a projected points of 212.7, but I scored 154. Looks like I'm not the only one who doesn't know what is going on. Whoever comes up with these statistics is as full of crap as a Christmas goose.
My opponent in the first game (how the hell does this work?) has 278 out of a projected 213. Well the two of us are doing an amazing job at beating out projected averages. Maybe I should get a reward for that.
Lets take a look at my players.
Earl Russel of Wilson seems to be doing well enough, despite a fumble . One touchdown, seven rushing yards (whatever those are) and 320 passing yards. Okay, I keep him. I don't need to execute him yet.
King Griffin III hasn't scored anything yet, guess he hasn't played his game yet, neither has the Royal Butler Alfred Morris.
Three names in and I'm bored to hell with these numbers. I'll just check it in a few days and hope it is higher than my opponents. What is the point of this? It's just accounting with sports jerseys!
I already did my taxes once this year and this is starting to seem strikingly familiar. Do I need to call my financial planner? I feel like Wells Fargo should be involved on this on some level. I don't want to end up like a bankrupt Florida retiree because Garcon couldn't score a touchdown.
Until next time then, I'll just be here ignoring the games and looking at numbers like a drunk wall street trader.
Wednesday, September 4, 2013
A Quick Word with the American Public
Hello readers.
I will get back to writing humorous articles about things I know nothing about soon, but first I think I need to have a quick discussion about this whole Syria debacle. There are a few things I would like to address.
First I would like to speak directly to the American people. I'll get to the International Community in a second. But first, the American public. Really? You decided that now you can't have anything to do with this conflict? You seemed ready to kick some ass when it came to Iraq not too long ago, and hardly any of you noticed when it came out that the entire war had been started under false pretenses. But no, we don't care about that because Saddam was a bad guy. I won't dispute that claim, the man was definitely deserving of both ass kickings he received. But suddenly you guys don't seem to want to have anything to do with these people who are using every weapon they can get their hands on to kill each other. So long as it doesn't affect your 401K then huh? Saddam was horrid because he was a dictator AND messed with the world economy. I guess all we Americans care about is ourselves, and we are perfectly willing to go to war "to protect democracy" so long as your country has valuable natural resources that we can exploit.
Sooner or later a vast section of the world is going to get wise to your thinking. I hope we still have some friends left when that day comes because they are going to come knocking, asking just who the hell we think we are. To forestall this inevitable collection of our moral taxes I suggest we start giving off the impression that we give a shit about our fellow man, and not just the Petroleum reserves he happens to live above.
Now, on to the International Community. Granted our military is the biggest one on the planet, our Defense Spending accounts for 39% of world wide military expenditure, but we all have to live here. Step up to the plate once in a while. I liked the Libya solution. I have to give a serious thank you to the following countries for their commitment to the intervention:
Belgium, Bulgaria, Denmark, France, Greece, Italy, Jordan, The Netherlands, Norway, Qatar, Romania, Spain, Sweden, Turkey, The United Arab Emerates, and the UK.
But, where are you guys now? The same kind of shit storm is kicking off on your doorstep and suddenly you can't be bothered? Do you think that if you just ignore this problem it will go away? That's not how this works. The UK I can kind of understand being hesitant, you are an island after all, and with your empire now a scattering of ports and obscure airfields I could see why you want to maintain a low profile. The rest of you though I don't get. You have to live next to this. Its like hearing gunshots in the apartment next to you, watching as bullets punch through your wall, hoping that someone on the other side drops dead and shuts up. Even worse, you accuse us, the damn police (because none of you wanted the job) of trying to intervene. If you think we shouldn't be involved, then fine. But get off of your ass and fix this before it gets even worse.
As for Russia, shut the hell up. You backed the loser in this fight, now acknowledge that one of your picks didn't turn out the way you planned and start backing better players.
That's all. I'll have something a bit funnier put up on Friday.
I will get back to writing humorous articles about things I know nothing about soon, but first I think I need to have a quick discussion about this whole Syria debacle. There are a few things I would like to address.
First I would like to speak directly to the American people. I'll get to the International Community in a second. But first, the American public. Really? You decided that now you can't have anything to do with this conflict? You seemed ready to kick some ass when it came to Iraq not too long ago, and hardly any of you noticed when it came out that the entire war had been started under false pretenses. But no, we don't care about that because Saddam was a bad guy. I won't dispute that claim, the man was definitely deserving of both ass kickings he received. But suddenly you guys don't seem to want to have anything to do with these people who are using every weapon they can get their hands on to kill each other. So long as it doesn't affect your 401K then huh? Saddam was horrid because he was a dictator AND messed with the world economy. I guess all we Americans care about is ourselves, and we are perfectly willing to go to war "to protect democracy" so long as your country has valuable natural resources that we can exploit.
Sooner or later a vast section of the world is going to get wise to your thinking. I hope we still have some friends left when that day comes because they are going to come knocking, asking just who the hell we think we are. To forestall this inevitable collection of our moral taxes I suggest we start giving off the impression that we give a shit about our fellow man, and not just the Petroleum reserves he happens to live above.
Now, on to the International Community. Granted our military is the biggest one on the planet, our Defense Spending accounts for 39% of world wide military expenditure, but we all have to live here. Step up to the plate once in a while. I liked the Libya solution. I have to give a serious thank you to the following countries for their commitment to the intervention:
Belgium, Bulgaria, Denmark, France, Greece, Italy, Jordan, The Netherlands, Norway, Qatar, Romania, Spain, Sweden, Turkey, The United Arab Emerates, and the UK.
But, where are you guys now? The same kind of shit storm is kicking off on your doorstep and suddenly you can't be bothered? Do you think that if you just ignore this problem it will go away? That's not how this works. The UK I can kind of understand being hesitant, you are an island after all, and with your empire now a scattering of ports and obscure airfields I could see why you want to maintain a low profile. The rest of you though I don't get. You have to live next to this. Its like hearing gunshots in the apartment next to you, watching as bullets punch through your wall, hoping that someone on the other side drops dead and shuts up. Even worse, you accuse us, the damn police (because none of you wanted the job) of trying to intervene. If you think we shouldn't be involved, then fine. But get off of your ass and fix this before it gets even worse.
As for Russia, shut the hell up. You backed the loser in this fight, now acknowledge that one of your picks didn't turn out the way you planned and start backing better players.
That's all. I'll have something a bit funnier put up on Friday.
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
Top 10 Things Not to do in the Airport
1) Bring along a stereo and a copy of the Audiobook “Alive: The Story of the Andes Survivors” listen to it intently in the Terminal and nod your head whenever a survival technique is brought up.
2) Wave to all the security cameras.
3) Once seated make eye contact with everyone coming down the aisle onto the aircraft, then slowly shake your head.
4) Buy a large metallic case and cover it with biohazard symbols. Inside place a thermos containing blue Gatorade. When you are stopped at security for having the container, drink it spilling as much of it upon yourself as possible.
5) Recite the Litany Against Fear from Dune...in Arabic.
6) When asked if you are carrying your luggage for anyone else respond with “Yeah some guy threw it into my hands at the gate, he was a very interesting man, had a real crazed look in his eye. He ran off like the law was about to catch up with him."
7) Smile. At Everyone. For Everything.
8) Moaning when the TSA Agents slide your pants down
9) Calling the TSA agents “Fat assed government employed Hitlerites with a Voyeurism fetish.”
10) When asked by your fellow passenger if you have flown before “No this will be my last time.”
Monday, August 26, 2013
Lets get ready to Bumble IV
The sun shone through the stained glass windows of the great hall. A multi-colored pattern dancing over the walls, reflected from panels depicting a warrior king, clad in thick armor rushing through an enemy horde. The King, every bit as noble as his silicate image, sat upon a wooden throne at the end of a large table. Upon his person he wore a large jersey, bearing the fearsome image of a Griffon mauling a Lion. In front of him was a long oak table, around which was assembled a fearsome array of warriors. All of them were currently discussing the large leather map laid upon the table in loud voices.
From the shadows stepped a tall spindly man, wearing the garb of a French Nobleman. He leaned in close to the ear of the King and whispered. The King raised an arm with his palm outward to silence his lieges.
"I have news my brothers. The other seven kingdoms are on the march. We must prepare ourselves for conflict. I am pleased that you all sought time to train during the brief peace, but it appears that once again we must be called to war."
The King gestured to a figure wearing the garb of his chief Scout, Sir Reginald of Fleetfoot.
"Sir Reginald, go forth and recall his Lordship, The Cur and his Eagles. They must return to our lands immediately. See that my remaining Vassals are given the order to return as well. They all must be here by the start of the change of the season. Fasano, Little Greg, Malcom the Charger, Sir Christopher the Ivory White, and most importantly Duke Moeaki. All must be ready for battle upon-"
There was a sudden crash and the great wooden doors to the hall burst apart in splinters.
"GGGRRRRROOOONNNNKKK!"
The bellow roared forth from a giant of a man, who was currently beating his opponent alternatively with a chair leg and a large ham hock. In between the bellows from the giant he would take large bites from the ham hock, spewing bits of pork all over his opponent with each cry.
The giant wore a tattered red, white and blue shirt and nothing else.
His opponent was dodging every attack that was thrown at him. Ducking one particularly wild throw he raised his hands in an appeasing manner.
"Now Gronk"
He said.
"Remember last time. We don't want to have to clean up the stables again do we."
Gronk seemed about to pound the smaller man into the ground before a look of apprehension stole across his face. The giant slowly shook his head.
"That's right, now go back outside and finish your ham."
The man said.
The giant nodded, then turning slowly around he picked up one of the nearly destroyed doors and set it back against the doorjam, on the wrong side. He then slowly walked down the steps and out into the courtyard.
The King began to slowly applaud.
"That was well done Pierre. Please have a seat, we were discussing the coming season."
<To be continued>
From the shadows stepped a tall spindly man, wearing the garb of a French Nobleman. He leaned in close to the ear of the King and whispered. The King raised an arm with his palm outward to silence his lieges.
"I have news my brothers. The other seven kingdoms are on the march. We must prepare ourselves for conflict. I am pleased that you all sought time to train during the brief peace, but it appears that once again we must be called to war."
The King gestured to a figure wearing the garb of his chief Scout, Sir Reginald of Fleetfoot.
"Sir Reginald, go forth and recall his Lordship, The Cur and his Eagles. They must return to our lands immediately. See that my remaining Vassals are given the order to return as well. They all must be here by the start of the change of the season. Fasano, Little Greg, Malcom the Charger, Sir Christopher the Ivory White, and most importantly Duke Moeaki. All must be ready for battle upon-"
There was a sudden crash and the great wooden doors to the hall burst apart in splinters.
"GGGRRRRROOOONNNNKKK!"
The bellow roared forth from a giant of a man, who was currently beating his opponent alternatively with a chair leg and a large ham hock. In between the bellows from the giant he would take large bites from the ham hock, spewing bits of pork all over his opponent with each cry.
The giant wore a tattered red, white and blue shirt and nothing else.
His opponent was dodging every attack that was thrown at him. Ducking one particularly wild throw he raised his hands in an appeasing manner.
"Now Gronk"
He said.
"Remember last time. We don't want to have to clean up the stables again do we."
Gronk seemed about to pound the smaller man into the ground before a look of apprehension stole across his face. The giant slowly shook his head.
"That's right, now go back outside and finish your ham."
The man said.
The giant nodded, then turning slowly around he picked up one of the nearly destroyed doors and set it back against the doorjam, on the wrong side. He then slowly walked down the steps and out into the courtyard.
The King began to slowly applaud.
"That was well done Pierre. Please have a seat, we were discussing the coming season."
<To be continued>
Friday, August 23, 2013
Lets get ready to Bumble III
"A vaincre sans péril, on triomphe sans gloire. "
Well the fifth and sixth picks for this very unfortunate experiment calling itself a fantasy football league has concluded. I have chosen two individuals based on name alone. I am sure that this is a pattern of behavior that will in no way come back to bite me in the ass.
First, I chose Rob Gronkowski, known as "Gronk." That is awesome. If that doesn't conjure up images of an ogre or some kind of goblin, I don't know what does. There is not much improvement I can put upon a piece of subtle hilarity like "Gronk." According to sources he is unlikely to play the first week because of an injury. I guess I will refer to him as "Gronk the Blooded." Yes, a kind of barbarian warrior, bearing the scars of battle one receives when serving the vanguard of an attacking army. He is the first over the wall, a kind of beserker.
Wait a minute...
Of course I would pick a man who is already injured. The damn season hasn't even started yet and I am already taking casualties! Well at this rate my whole roster should be dead by the playoffs. Lets go team! If you ain't bleedin' you ain't tryin'!
Well lets leave that sour note for my other pick. I have gone with Jordy Nelson. Because that name feels like it belongs in Star Trek the Next Generation; and if I may quote from his Wikipedia page "...and took his redshirt year..." Well, I guess that means that I can count at least one more injury during the course of this season. Lets hope that Jordy keeps his butt a long distance from the teleporter room and any away teams.
One other thing I have noticed about this strange creature of a hobby called Fantasy Football is how everyone is willing to give me "advice." What is especially interesting is that I get more advice from people who seem to know less. They are aware that I am the very definition of a novice and want to assert their dominance by proving that they know more than I do. But, what they don't realize is that I don't care.
This draft is becoming beyond tedious. I believe I will pick the next two players from lower down in the rankings entirely out of spite.
Well the fifth and sixth picks for this very unfortunate experiment calling itself a fantasy football league has concluded. I have chosen two individuals based on name alone. I am sure that this is a pattern of behavior that will in no way come back to bite me in the ass.
First, I chose Rob Gronkowski, known as "Gronk." That is awesome. If that doesn't conjure up images of an ogre or some kind of goblin, I don't know what does. There is not much improvement I can put upon a piece of subtle hilarity like "Gronk." According to sources he is unlikely to play the first week because of an injury. I guess I will refer to him as "Gronk the Blooded." Yes, a kind of barbarian warrior, bearing the scars of battle one receives when serving the vanguard of an attacking army. He is the first over the wall, a kind of beserker.
Wait a minute...
Of course I would pick a man who is already injured. The damn season hasn't even started yet and I am already taking casualties! Well at this rate my whole roster should be dead by the playoffs. Lets go team! If you ain't bleedin' you ain't tryin'!
Well lets leave that sour note for my other pick. I have gone with Jordy Nelson. Because that name feels like it belongs in Star Trek the Next Generation; and if I may quote from his Wikipedia page "...and took his redshirt year..." Well, I guess that means that I can count at least one more injury during the course of this season. Lets hope that Jordy keeps his butt a long distance from the teleporter room and any away teams.
One other thing I have noticed about this strange creature of a hobby called Fantasy Football is how everyone is willing to give me "advice." What is especially interesting is that I get more advice from people who seem to know less. They are aware that I am the very definition of a novice and want to assert their dominance by proving that they know more than I do. But, what they don't realize is that I don't care.
This draft is becoming beyond tedious. I believe I will pick the next two players from lower down in the rankings entirely out of spite.
Wednesday, August 21, 2013
Lets get ready to Bumble II
"Il est difficle de vaincre ses passions, et impossible de les satisfaire. "
Lets have a look at my choices then. My ignorance has not improved. All these numbers are meaningless. If I were putting together a team for last year the numbers would be useful, but since no one can predict the future, this exercise is beyond pointless. Especially since the chances of any of these teams actually existing are beyond the threshold of absolute zero.
I think I will once again have to fall back on my obscure historical knowledge. What would Talleyrand do? (WWTD buy T shirts now.)
Talleyrand would demoralize and manipulate his enemy. I will pick the favorites of other members of the league to ruin their confidence and upset their precious plans.
I will pick Russell Wilson, who is the favorite of one of the members of the league (why he didn't pick him first, I have no idea). Lets read more about this character. According to Wikipedia, a far more reliable source for sports statistics than ESPN, Wilson plays for the Seattle Seahawks. Since his is a quarterback and sends his football aloft and over far distances, I bequeath unto him the title of Earl Russell of Wilson, Royal Falconer. I have a mental image of a football with two fierce talons perched upon his outstretched playbook gauntlet.
I get to pick again eh? Well I might have been screwed over, but don’t say I wasn't at least partially compensated for it.
I think I will go with Larry Fitzgerald. I have a few reasons to back up this pick. First, The Great Gatsby is one of my favorite books. Second, a man with as boring a name as Larry is going to go to great lengths and efforts to make it famous. At least I hope so. If he turns out to be an unmotivated loser, I’m going to be very disappointed. I will rename Larry with the title of Cardinal. Or maybe I will call him Archbishop. We will see how well he performs.
I had a brief Facebook instant message exchange with other members of my league, none of whom know me personally except for one. Their trepidation about my presence was palpable. No doubt they are all reexamining their ambitions and wondering just what kind of chaotic energy has been unleashed onto their safe little hobby.
I fear I may be starting to enjoy this a little too much.
Tuesday, August 20, 2013
Lets get ready to Bumble I
"C'est le commencement de la fin."
-Charles Maurice de Talleyrand-Périgord
After significant peer pressure I have decided to join a friend's fantasy football league. I am going by the moniker of Tallyrand (named for the sleazy French Prime Minister) and hope that this fearsome name enables me to move to the forefront of my league.But first, it is important that you know that I know nearly nothing about football, and even less about fantasy football. It sounds like something akin to Games Workshops Bloodbowl to me. I have a head full of images of wizards using magic to levitate a pigskin. Not a football, an actual pig skin, torn bleeding from the still writhing and squealing hide of an unfortunate porcine sacrifice to the gods of Monday night.
Anyway on to the first round draft! Wait we are drafting? What does war have to do with football? I thought this was about sport! Oh we are picking the players of our team. Hmm...I appear to have the last pick in the first round of the draft. Well screw you guys too! Okay, lets see who I can choose from.
Five minutes into browsing the list and I don’t know who any of these overpaid assholes are. I am going to pick Robert Griffin III, because he sounds the most like a king of the middle ages. I picture a warrior king clad in beefy shoulder pad armor with a Griffon on his jersey. Truly a suitable choice for quarterback. Also he had a high number, around 440, whatever that means.
Oh, I get to pick again! How many players can we choose at once? Why don’t I just fill out my entire roster right now? This doesn’t make any sense.
Wait a minute, I know this name! Reggie Bush! I heard about him being involved in some kind of scandal. Well in keeping with the name of Talleyrand (who only saw American dignitaries in exchange for bribes) I shall pick this Reggie character. I want to keep the spirit of that perverse French cheese eater alive.
Apparently I was able to pick twice in a row because I was last in line to pick for the first round. It is good to know that there is some justice in the world.
With the first round over it is time to read more about the players I have picked. Okay, apparently Robert Griffin III is known by the colloquialism of RG3. Well that is lame. I will refer to him from this day forward as King Griffin the 3rd, the Red Skinned. A much more fitting name than a simple acronym.
As for Reggie Bush, I think a title will better serve him. His position is something called a Running Back. I would assume that this equates him being skilled at running the football to the end zone. As such I bequeath to him the title of Sir Reginald of Fleetfoot.
I might get to like this Fantasy Football thing, but only in the manner I see fit.
Sunday, July 28, 2013
New Beginnings
Hello everyone,
Here is where I come to say things and to put out news. Lately I have been writing a bundle of short stories and will soon be submitting them to several publications. They are mostly Lovecraftian in nature and I cannot wait to inform all of you how they turn out.
-RR
Here is where I come to say things and to put out news. Lately I have been writing a bundle of short stories and will soon be submitting them to several publications. They are mostly Lovecraftian in nature and I cannot wait to inform all of you how they turn out.
-RR
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