Tales of the Burning West

obligatory New Year reflection piece

2012-01-21T09:08:00.000-08:00

I suspect we are deep enough into January that most everyone will have returned to normal life, or at least tentatively peeked outside before finally stepping out of the makeshift shelters in which most of us attempted to weather the last couple months of the clusterfuck that was 2011. It was a brutal, unforgiving shitstorm, maybe not the worst in recent memory, but the worst we've seen since the Post-Patriot Act Debacle of '01.

Depending on when they went to ground, there are probably a few survivors refusing to believe that the worst is over, and so they wait like Japanese soldiers, too full of distrust and bitter resentment. My heart goes out to these shell-shocked remnants, in the sense that “there but for the grace of God” and et cetera. I only hope that we can correct some of the damage done while they're gone.

And here we may have our work cut out for us. The GOP have served as a fairly telling barometer for the times: candidates that appeared seductively sane and capable in the turgid months of 2011 revealed their twisted, unstable natures in the dawn of 2012. Three of the little shit-ticks have dropped off, defeated in the first few weeks of the new year, though two are left with their ugly, gnashing little heads still buried deep in their own moronic ideals, trying to suck the life out of the Republican nomination. I'm not a big fan of Ron Paul or Mitt Romney, either.

Meanwhile, Speaker of the house Boehner and his simpering peons spent the last year planting their heels and deliberately undermining progressive legislation in an attempt to protect their corporate masters. Senate Minority Leader Mitch McConnel openly attributed this behavior to their most vital goal of unseating the President, saying that this was the “single most important thing” the GOP wanted to achieve.

2011 is the year the Republicans were willing to default on our national debt, rather than raise taxes on the über rich. It was the year Japan was ravaged by a tsunami, and a handful of scum had the audacity to claim they deserved it. It was the year unarmed students were maced and assaulted by city officials as they peacefully protested economic injustice. Perhaps worst of all, it was the year the President, the same man who rode into office on a wave of “Hope”, signed into law the ability to indefinitely detain American citizens, without trial.

Thankfully, the opening of 2012 has helped us wash away much of the taste of bile and santorum. Between the “defeat” (read: postponement) of SOPA and the Keystone Pipeline, the new year already carries a grudging promise of change.

And of course, there's always the matter of the Apocalypse.

Logically speaking, there is no real reason to think that the world might end this year, regardless of what John Cusack might have taught us. And really, it's not the end of the world that interests us, so much as the end of the world as we know it that makes us feel so fine, the dramatic upheaval that rudely deposits the survivors in a world inherently different than what we once knew. In this sense, it is a promise of drastic change, which would bring about an entirely new world, with new rules for survival and prosperity, appealing to the pioneer spirit within us, that ambition to explore and discover that has quietly stagnated through collective years of public education.

Alternatively, there is the Apocalypse Hollywood has speculated about for years, along with what the days after the end of the world would be like. Heroic survivors pitting their mettle against the roving bandit hordes, the freedom to do as you wish, freed from the mundane shackles of the 9 to 5. This sparks in the mind of the anarchist, the idea of a universal “reset” button, wiping the slate clean and demanding mankind rebuild with complete impunity, where “anything that happened before the Big Bang could not affect what happened after.”

My logical faculties assure me that the ancient Mesoamerican astrologers had other reasons for ending their calendar this year, and I have noted with disdain as the Apocalypse has serenely passed me by twice before. I kept my feet firmly on solid ground as the Rapture came and went, and I doubt this Christmas will be any different.

That being said, I have always considered myself an optimist. In light of this, I will be throwing a grand party between the dates of December 20th and the 22nd. I'll be sure you all get your invitations.

And so it is that I shake the dust of 2011 off my boots and feel thankful to be rid of it. I have a full year to look forward to, and I intend to make the most of it.

* I do recognize that the last year wasn't a complete waste of our time. 2011 also brought us the first synthetic organ transplant, the death of Kim Jong Il, and the defeat of Don't Ask Don't Tell. It was also the year we killed Bin Laden, the Boy King's boogeyman, for whatever that's worth.

Jaded Optimist Votes Change!

2011-11-06T17:46:00.000-08:00

Just recently, I received a little pink card in the mail, adorned with the logo of a bunny: a cute (if strange) reminder that I am registered to vote as a Missoula Citizen. Not that it was necessary...I am of a strong democratic mind, and early in life I was infected with a lust for politics, so naturally I vote whenever the opportunity presents itself.

The Missoula City Council has reached the end of it's term, and the old regime finds itself contested. In a vaguely intrigued way I am interested in the election as a whole, but one chair in particular. Ward 4 encompasses the southern half of Higgins, the Lewis and Clark Villages, and Pattee Canyon Road. Most of my poor student friends live in this area, and so it is my sincere hope that Missoula's Ward 4 representative have the best interests of our youth in mind. Sadly, for the past few years, this has not been the case.

Lyn Hellegaard is Missoula's current Ward 4 representative. She is 53 years old, a graduate of Sentinel High School, and executive director of Missoula Ravalli Transportation Management Association. Hellegaard cares strongly about taxes and government spending, and has fought hard for her beliefs. I only wish she would fight so hard for my friends.

In 2007, Hellegaard expressed concern about our community, saying that she felt our wishes had been largely ignored by the City Council. However, in March of 2010, she also expressed concern for the Bigfork community by voting against Missoula's anti-discrimination ordinance, citing concerns that the bill violated the Constitution...that is to say, presumably, that she fears equal rights for everyone might infringe on someone's constitutional rights.

Luckily, Hellegaard is not unopposed. Caitlin Copple is a co-founder of Missoula's celebrated LGBT newspaper, Out Words. Currently 28 years old, she graduated the University of Montana in 2007. She has previously been employed as the marketing and communications coordinator for YWCA Missoula, and the associate director of the Montana Innocence Project. She has also worked extensively with numerous non-profit organizations, and throughout she has promoted the rights of women and the LGBT community at large.

In the clusterfuck legislative session of 2011, Copple stood in defense of Missoula's city council, and in defense of local control. In the face of the petty and bigoted pro-discrimination ordinance, House Bill 516, Copple stood before the Montana State Senate. She spoke on behalf of the LGBT community, and on behalf of Missoula.

“As LGBT Montanans, we are a minority and we lack basic rights at the state level. But Missoula came together and decided to award us some basic rights through the city ordinance, and it sent a message that, regardless of your sexual orientation, gender identity or expression, that you belong in Missoula Montana...That all of you belong, and I belong too, and my relationship belongs...and isn't that what we all want? To be part of a community as equals, and to believe in each others' right to live a life of peace, justice, freedom, and dignity? In Missoula we are little bit closer to that ideal because of this ordinance...please don't take it away from us.”

The young adults of Missoula, especially those of the LGBT community, have finally started coming into their own. We are actively involved with the world in which we live, shaping policy, in spite of the countless voices set against us. At its core, the race for Ward 4 representative has become a simple question between a stagnant consistency in clinging to fading ideals, or optimism through social innovation.

So, do you want to stay the course? Or do you want to change the world?

Sakuracon for the newbie

2011-05-04T22:59:00.000-07:00

It's been a long time since I collapsed from exhaustion. I've been drained before, my seemingly limitless stores of psychotic energy quite simply run dry, but never quite like this. I feel wrung out, my vital essence sapped as creative fuel for the greatest, most frantic explosion of excitement and joy that I have ever seen: Sakuracon anime convention.

To the layman, an anime convention is an event in which any number of people, of all ages and walks of life, may come together in celebration of whatever brought them into the fandom. In practice, Sakuracon is just too great and fluid a thing to be so neatly defined, especially while neck-deep in giant-eyed revelry.

I would say the constant barrage of color and surrealism takes some getting used to, but the implication would be that one can grow accustomed and learn to function normally here. This idea is insane. Surrounding yourself with this caliber of person, typically unique and startling in their individuality, is to cast off from the world you knew and surrender to the seas of something greater and as yet unknown. Be cautious: here there be monsters, and they will glomp you.

Any newcomer to anime or manga will most likely be struck by the wild swings of tenor and tone that results in fits of laughter during what would otherwise be a disturbingly dramatic moment, or sharply pulled heartstrings in the subtext of lighthearted antics. This fluidity is characteristic of the medium, and an appreciation for it is what keeps us crawling back.

Reverence of this feeling, and of the source of our appreciation, translates visually into a dream-like fantasy world. Though not the absolute rule, cosplay is in the distinct majority, which only helps to shrug off the restrictive tarp of the expected norm.

The effects of most drugs can be replicated in this fluid environment, the unlikely combinations coming together in ways the most fantastic sci-fi writers could never have foreseen. Robots bump tin-and-plastic elbows with anthropomorphic animals, two-dimensional characters step off the page to share space with video game veterans. Meekly smiling catboys thrill the eyes even as they dart from sight, and ever-present are glimpses of flitting, flirting Panty and Stocking. I am surrounded by a sea of familiar faces in a crowd of folks I've never met before, and the sense of home, of belonging, embraces me always.

We are of all walks of life, together in this place, our different creeds and backgrounds forgotten in favor of the one thing we share in common. Freed of obligations or expectations, we are free to do as we wish, a freedom which proves surprisingly peaceful as we discover ourselves naturally predisposed to coexistence.

This is a level of peace I'm not accustomed to, and I have found it amidst a riot of happy-hardcore jubilation.

I've been home for a week, the dream-state lingering like smoke, sticking like glittering cobwebs, even through the eight hours it took to return from Seattle, even well into the next day, leaving me confused and disappointed when it finally fades. I may have returned, but even a week later I'm still not quite back. I'm hooked now, itching to return to an otaku Narnia, but the next Sakuracon remains resiliently a whole year away.

On the other hand, I've discovered that I'm just in time to sign up for this autumn's Yaoi-con.

a decade in the making

2011-05-02T19:53:00.000-07:00

Where were you? What were you doing? We'll be hearing those words a lot in the coming weeks. What were you doing, and what did you do when you heard?

I was with friends, learning how to play backgammon and tossing twisted political humor over pizzas and coffee. I got a call from an old friend, a one-time “partner in crime” telling me something that just refused to register.

“I'm serious, it's playing on every channel!”

Something I could work with. I told our host to turn on the news. NBC came on, framed in an official-looking red globe graphic, and for several seconds it still refused to compute. It certainly could not be real...it was on television, for Christ's sake!

It took some of the fire out of me. I found a repressed nugget of hurt, long-forgotten, cooling and falling away as it lost its target of retribution. It its wake, as stunned silence descended, I did not share in the celebratory chest-bumps and jingoistic revelry. I found myself instead calm, and subtly relieved, and I recognized the sensation as closure. At long last, after almost five years of uncertainty, we had news...not the last, but the last that mattered.

Almost ten years ago, I watched my country go to war at the command of a manchild who would be king. I understood the reasons, and I felt the anguish and dull dread as sharply as anyone, and still I could never justify to myself the necessity of killing. Almost with a sense of vindication I watched as the war dragged us down, stripping us of our moral integrity, exposing us to the horrors of our fellow man. Like a sick Midas, we seemed to spread hurt to all we touched.

At the core of it all, the origin, like a cancer in a beard and attached to dialysis. While the middle-east suffered and bled, we responded to each retaliation by tightening our grip, surrendering our freedom in favor of safety. Now, after almost a decade, we have surgically removed the cancer at its core. The war will go on, blasts of chemo to keep the growth from returning, but at long last we have hope of recovery. We have hope of regaining our freedom and retaining our safety.

I cannot in good conscience celebrate. But consider: it's done. Never mind that ridiculous photo-op aboard the USS Abraham Lincoln...this is our “mission accomplished.”

the wolf at the door wants to know if you've found Jesus...

2011-03-30T00:03:00.001-07:00

There is a wolf at the door, and he wants to kill us. This is not an exaggeration...I wish it was. I have seen his face, and I am here to warn you of what I have seen...

I recently made a trip to Helena, to stand with a small army of my people against a bill that would strip us of what little equality we had won, a bill pushed by a raving handful of modern-day Pharisees, screaming for the enforcement of The Law at the cost of the Christ. Had we been in a house of God I would have been nervous, for it is obvious to me that the almighty abandoned those hate-soaked dens of evil long ago. As it was, we were in a house of Man and of Law, and so I was confident in our chances. After all, the justification for the pro-discrimination ordinance included one man (a pastor, God help us all) who openly called for all homosexuals to be put to death. How could such hate and dementia prevail against us, brilliant individuals who wished only for the freedom to love whom we love?

The bill passed in the House. For a time, it looked like it might pass in the Senate.

I have spent the last while deep in the dark confines of depression, my awareness sliding fluidly between crushing horror to violent fury and back again. I lubricated my consciousness with evil substances and tortured my body with neglect. For a brief time, I turned to my old comrade of self-destruction, paralyzed by my fear of the world in which I lived.

After a time of self-imposed exile, I return...my fear has been burnt out of me, my will tempered to iron, my outrage unleashed. I recognize what happened, although I refuse to accept it...cowboys don't quit, after all. What happened in Helena was nothing less than a crime.

However, I am happy to announce that the Moral Elite have achieved nothing. House Bill 516 was finally sent back to committee, to be neglected as an item unworthy of the resulting fallout. It was put aside to quietly die.

We, the people of Montana and especially those of the BLT community, have dodged a bullet. We might still retain our freedom, our right to be who we were divinely made to be.

We have escaped the Moral Elite today, but HB516 will return next year, brought again before the House. Without a clear and certain victory, we still find ourselves hunted, vilified by the Moral Elite and the political puppets held in their thrall. Moral Elite frontrunner Fred Phelps of Westboro Baptiste Church recently won the right to continue his hateful and blasphemous allegations that God hates homosexuals so very much that He would kill off thousands of innocent bystanders just because the BLT community has been allowed to exist.

I'll let that sink in a moment. Phelps believes that God hates America because America has not wiped us out.

I have mistaken the Moral Elite for a minor annoyance, a group of irrational zealots toting the extremist fringe of a religion slowly unwinding to a loose code of watered-down morality. The truth is far more frightening...Dallas Erickson, Tei Nash, and Pastor Harris Himes are only a local manifestation of a disease that has been recognized across the globe. They defend their right to discriminate, to create “scapegoats” of innocent bystanders, to single out groups of people based on a perceived “otherness”, and hide their hypocrisy behind their insistence that our nation was founded in Christian ideals.

I have news for you: Regardless of whatever George Washington and the rest of the founding fathers believed spiritually, we are the product of two hundred years worth of psychological and technological evolution since his tree-chopping ass went into the dirt.

I, for one, refuse to be subjected to the judgment of a religion that is not my own. The right to swing your fist ends where my chin begins, and I will take your blows no longer.

Maximilien Robespierre of the French Revolution was once quoted as saying “When the republic is at stake we can do anything.” Well, my people are in danger, our way of life at stake.

There is a wolf at the door, my brothers and sisters, holding a bible and barking blasphemies in the name of a cruel old-testament god. He wants to kill us, and he has made no secret of his murderous intent. So why are we in a real danger of being stripped of our right to defend ourselves?

BOHICA

2011-01-25T23:59:00.000-08:00

There is an old Jarhead saying that goes: “Bend Over, Here It Comes Again.”

The BLT community has met its fair share of attacks from the Moral Elite. Occasionally, and with growing frequency, they even win. Last March, we of the BLT community won a decided victory against the forces of hate and oppression. Our fair city decreed that our citizens should be spared the oppression of discrimination in our jobs, our homes, our communities. Today, Missoula is the only city in Montana that protects its citizens from being fired or evicted because of their sexual orientation or gender identity, though the Montana Human Rights Network strives to bring these civil rights to every place they are needed.

In their way stands long-time Moral Crusader Dallas Erickson. Erickson founded the group NotMyBathroom.com, a pro-discrimination group under the guise of caring about women and children, who (so they claimed) would be at risk if transsexuals were allowed to use the “wrong” bathroom.

Thankfully, Erickson failed in Missoula. Unfortunately, the Moral Elite are not easily discouraged. The very ordinance that the BLT community fought for is now under attack: a bill is being drafted by Erickson and Havre's Republican Representative, Kristin Hansen, attempting to invalidate all we have fought for.

Hansen and Erickson's new bill aims to revert Montana's anti-discrimination legislation back to the days of the Moral Elite, assuredly to eliminate the “threat” of gay rights at the state level, and to lock them into place, thereby crippling lawmakers' ability to address any unforeseen civil injustice. Of course, this is of no concern to the Moral Elite, who have actively opposed any and all social and scientific advance in favor of a strictly controlled religious ideal.

Erickson has again proven his desire to discriminate against the BLT community, this time without even the decency of pretending to have anyone's best interest at heart. How else are we to interpret his actions if not the mechanics of hate for its own sake? Erickson attempted to justify his stance to the Missoulian, explaining that gay people wanted to “legitimize” their orientation, wanted the right to marry and be treated with the same decency and respect as everyone else.

While it seems that Erickson has a surprisingly adequate grasp of the “gay agenda,” what he does not explain is how this would in any way be a negative thing.

New to the pro-discrimination ticket is Havre's Republican Representative, Kristin Hansen. Elected last summer, she ran unopposed. As neither she nor Erickson is local (Erickson being from Hamilton) one can only assume that their interest in Missoula's anti-discrimination ordinance is one of dread in the inevitable: the realization that tolerance is catching, and that it is only a matter of time before civil rights are demanded for everyone, across the state.

For zealots like Hansen and Erickson, this means more than mere change; it is the death-knell of their brand of morality, their world-view. They belong to a moral idealism that has no place in an advancing society, and so their backward superstitions become their last line of defense. Where once they found strength in numbers, they have now all but faded into the annals of history, where they await the same fate as all who have stood in the path of progress: not extinction, but obscurity. They are obsolete, and all too aware of it.

Despite his clearly-defined stance against the civil rights of the BLT community, Erickson insists that this new bill is not his creation. Perhaps this is an attempt to distance himself from such an obvious work of petty maliciousness. At this stage of the game, Erickson is just another old snake. He may be slow, he's most certainly blind, but his bite is still very dangerous. Until he finally dies (or better, loses his teeth in his repetitive attempts to kill) he had best be watched.

EDIT: Previously, this writer had made the mistake of referring to Erickson's daughter, Taryn. This was a mistake on my part, having confused Erickson with his lackey, Tei Nash, on account of having dealt with them in close proximity during the NotMyBathroom fiasco. The error was pointed out during a discussion in the comments, and the necessary corrections have been made. I apologize, but honestly, all you religious bigots look the same to me.

Black Swan: distressingly delicate

2011-01-21T15:29:00.000-08:00

The latest in Natalie Portman's career of spellbinding films teaches us, above all else, that beauty is pain. Her starved and strained body, bent and abused beyond measure during the course of the film, nevertheless retains her unexpected strength as she dons the role of dancer Nina, soon to take on the role that will henceforth shape her career: the Swan Queen.

The movie Black Swan is to step into the shadows of ballet and performance dancing, depicting the brutal, devilish steps taken in order to convey angelic grace. Just so, the film likewise takes aim at Swan Lake's antagonist: the Queen's treasonous twin sister, the Black Swan. Beneath the skillful direction of Daron Aronofsky, the swan transcends its traditional role of majesty and grace, to finally be recognized a cruel and vicious predator. So too, Nina begins to shed her delicate and timid persona in favor of competitive viciousness and madness.

The incessant pressure of perfection, as unforgiving as the swan itself, fills and defines Nina's world. A mother's love more demanding than the harshest routines, the aggressive advances of a corrupt artistic director, and the crippling limitations of her own fearful nature box Nina into a bland and lifeless existence, from which subtle hints of insanity offer the only escape. As she begins to embrace violence and lust, the primal roots of her repressed self, she experiences the resulting Jekyll-Hyde duality as a frightened and horrified witness, unable to fathom that the darkness she rejects lies within her own damaged self.

Though Black Swan's character development certainly holds center stage, the unfurling madness is intertwined with a deep and subtly detailed development of setting. We are plunged into the world of professional ballet, pointed toes stabbing at the abused wooden floor like the twisting, scampering legs of insects. The audience is not spared one split toenail, nor a single precious pound, and the intense focus on the physical element lends a deeper empathy with each crunch of bone or screaming spasm of abused muscle. Most scenes are even stripped of a soundtrack, bringing into sharper contrast each torturous breath and rustling feather. The rising awareness of the weird is violently underscored with the sinister sound of some approaching wicked thing, a rising slither in time with the rasping of necrotic skin.

The lot culminates into a play on the senses and the instincts, an enchantment as real as that of the Swan Queen herself. Black Swan is a vivisection of professional ballet, bringing its inner working to glaring light. Here we find the twisted wiring of the psychology alongside the straining systems of the physiology. Black Swan is fierce and upsetting, a cruel lesson in the nature of pain as beauty.

failures in parenting

2010-11-10T09:59:00.000-08:00

I had an epiphany recently, a realization that is keeping me awake, trembling with horror and rage at the implications. It comes on the heels of yet another first-hand account of a child suffering because of a parent's inability to cope with the frustration and hazards of raising a child.

And so, this one goes out to the parents.

I love the human body, in all its fluid grace and unrealized strength. I love its elegance in design, its incredible potential, and even more so do I love the sight, the feel of the human body doing whatever it does well, pushing itself to the very limits of strength and endurance, only to surpass those limits. As children, we are geared towards one purpose: to learn, explore, discover, and excel. If the entire experience of childhood could be contained within a single word, it would be “MORE” – run faster, jump higher, dive deeper, play longer. Children by their very nature are greedy little beasts, full of unrefined ambition that propels them in every direction with reckless abandon. It is how nature made them, and if raised properly, it is this honed ambition that will drive them to be the very finest humanity has to offer.

However, it has come to my attention that there are beautiful people in this world, of my generation, who are ashamed of their beauty. There are people in my generation who hide their strength, their gifts, willing to crush the things that make them special in an attempt to become invisible; in order to “fit in,” these amazing individuals become less than themselves to appease an ever-present mentality that greatness is somehow secondary to simply surviving. To my horror, these are people that feel no support from the world, even from themselves, and so they set their sights towards what they feel they can “realistically” manage.

Further inquiry reveals a common thread amongst these broken souls, being that all feel they must face the world, and their future, alone. In every case, they are hesitant or even ashamed to approach their family with their hopes and dreams. There is an entire generation of damaged humans cut off from their predecessors by a tangled web of neglect, mistrust, hypocrisy, and abuse.

You know who I'm talking about. I'm talking about those of you who have ever thought of your child as a burden. I'm talking about those of you who have left your child at home because you didn't want them getting in the way of your social life. I'm talking about anyone who has raised a fist in anger at a child, not because they deserved it but because you just couldn't cut it.

I'm talking to anyone who has let their child suffer, for no other reason than it made your life easier.

Ultimately, you are the source of my rage. You did this: by being so very much less than the best of humanity, you have ruined almost an entire generation of children, children that are now becoming men and women. You have created a future of damaged adults, a world that runs the risk of never seeing genius, never seeing a record broken, never seeing a revolution for what is good and decent. Never mind your complete failure to make the world the better place it deserves to be; you very nearly created a world that will not get better, because all the heroes and champions of right were crushed before they had a chance to shine.

You are failures as parents, as people. If you fail as a parent, nothing else matters.

Parents are intended by design to be the emotional and psychological support for a growing child. They are encouragement when times are hard, comfort when times are worse, and exultant when a child finally overcomes and is victorious. It is hard, unforgiving work, and it will exhaust the very limits of your patience without offering an ounce of gratitude. However, the result of this tireless effort is a child without fear, who will go forth into the world and conquer, who will extend and multiply the compassion and love that they were able to learn from your example.

The fact that I have to explain this borders on the obscene. By my reasoning, it should stand to reason that there are some things you just do not do with children. Swearing, violence, and cruelty are all the learned behavior of adults, and have no place in the life of a child. Why would anyone think different?

If you have subjected a child to this outlandish behavior, you are a failure. You are a Bad Parent. And yes, parenting is something that can be graded with a Pass-Fail. It doesn't matter if you regret your actions, it doesn't matter if you “know better now”, it only matters that you were a damaging influence in the life of a child. In order to have any worth as a human being, the remainder of your pitiful existence must address a very simple question: why? Why has it come to this? Why in the world would you undermine your children, stripping them of the right and ability to defend themselves? Why would you rob them of the gifts they would need to be great?

My experience teaches me that most Bad Parents will try to answer these questions. My experience teaches me that no one can.

To keep the record straight, not all parents can be divided into “bad vs. good”. While it is true that there are some Bad Parents, there are also parents who are merely mistaken, and the two must not be confused. While a Bad Parent will behave according to his or her will, subjecting the child to their whims and desires without an ounce of compassion or understanding, a Mistaken Parent is often very conscious of the child's well-being, sometimes to the point of a nervous mania. They are often scared and uncertain, usually having never experienced parenthood before, and they struggle valiantly to be perfect, consulting every resource, listening to all the experts. Of course, therein lies the problem – experts can be wrong. The last ten years have been a plague of misdiagnoses by family physicians, leaving countless active, brilliant children chemically shackled in the name of Attention Deficit Disorder.

The Shaggs once said “parents are the ones who are always there / parents are the ones who really care”. This is generous, considering the way the Shaggs came into being. If you haven't heard of the Shaggs, don't worry about it. They produced what was quite possibly the worst music ever. They were three literally tone-deaf girls, with only a cursory understanding of rhythm. What's worse, they knew it. You see, the Shaggs weren't formed out of any particular passion for music, but because their father had been told (by a fortune teller) that his girls would be the biggest thing since the Beatles. He was so blinded by this dream that he threw the girls together with musical instruments and instructed them to embrace this destiny. I share this not to further embarrass a group of already courageous girls, but to illustrate a point: parents are not always right. In fact, sometimes they can be dead wrong. Sometimes, the people they're listening to can be dead wrong. (Even fortune tellers.)

We must not forget the distinct differences that separate the Bad from the Mistaken, and we must never allow a Bad Parent to pass themselves off as anything less. Failed parents, you are guilty of a grievous sin. Breaking a child is not a matter a mistake. It is not a misunderstanding, some little misdeed that can be glossed over with words or forgiveness. It is much more simple than that: it is wrong, and it must not be tolerated. If there were any justice in the world you would all be hunted down in the streets, gang-raped by baboons, and beaten to death by the very broken souls you brought into this earth.

And now, to the children.

If you do happen to be subjected to a Bad Parent, remember above all else: it is not your fault! Do not blame yourself for their shortcomings. Just survive as best you can, do whatever you can to work up the momentum to achieve escape velocity. Then, as soon as you're able, get the hell out of there. Go into the world as your own person, rather than as a byproduct of a miserable childhood. It will be a tough road, but it is possible.

If you are the child of a Mistaken Parent, know this: for all their faults, for all the struggle, they love you dearly. Smile, shake your head, and try to work with them however you can. They do, in fact, want what's best for you, and you could do a hell of a lot worse than that.

And as you go into the world, mayhap to start families of your own, remember your own upbringing. If you are not highly critical of what you yourself endured, there is a dangerous risk of repeating the cycle anew. If you are capable of learning from your parents' mistakes, perhaps each subsequent generation will be able to flourish again.

Ma, this is not about you: you did good by me. I love you.

pre-release jitters

2010-10-18T14:21:00.000-07:00

Most gamers should be familiar with the Pre-Launch Itch. It's that excited nervousness that creeps up your spine as the hours tick off to midnight. A sort of obsessive compulsion takes root, each train of thought returning to the game with a renewed rush of childish delight. At this age, it's the closest we get to Christmas: our anticipation is rewarded by some magical, faceless entity bringing us presents.

For those of us not blessed by a midnight release, it's even worse – I will be picking up my Collector's Edition of New Vegas at 8am tomorrow, and whereas most Fallout fanboys will follow up the install by actually playing, I will have just enough time to finish installing before school.

It's possible the slight disappointment is helping fuel my cynicism. When Fallout 3 was first released, I championed the game as a worthy heir to the legacy of the post-apocalyptic RPG. Sadly, for reasons I cannot fathom, the vast majority of the old fanboys took a very different view, condemning Bethesda for making changes to their beloved franchise. Now, as New Vegas is born from the mutual genius of Bethesda and Obsidian, the arguments of fanboys begin to lose momentum – Obsidian is, at its core, the remains of Black Isle, the team that originally created the Fallout games, as well as the long-awaited, unreleased Van Buren.

I've already made plain my views on fanboy foolishness. I'm not concerned with the future of the franchise, as I fully trust Bethesda to do right by the Fallout name. What concerns I do still have are for simple things like software issues. My first, and greatest, concern was actually put to rest rather quickly when Bethesda announced that it would be using Steam as it's Digital Copyright Manager, rather than the aborted placenta-scraping that is Windows Live.

To explain, for those unaware: in this day and age, as technology continues to advance, video game producers have had to find new clever ways to keep their products from being bootlegged, and to keep mischievous little goblins from using their software in any way it was not meant to be used. (A point driven home and hounded by countless simpering savants in lawyer-suits, but that's not important now.) Some DCMs are fairly harmless and unobtrusive, simply hiding in the background and allowing the user to play, until such a time as someone decides they've grown tired of the rules.

What makes Bethesda's announcement so significant is that the DCM they used for Fallout 3 was not one of these polite DCMs. Windows Live demands a lot from its users, not allowing you to play if you are not connected to the internet, making you purchase “Live Points” before you can purchase downloadable content, and forcing you to save your games online, in their glitch-ridden database. Not to mention the incomprehensible apes working in the company's customer-service department, or the swarms of enduring glitches that fester from its network like a sexually-transmitted disease on the loins of a serial rapist.

Twice I've owned games that forced me to use Windows Live in order to play. One game I quit playing out of frustration. The other was Fallout 3. Just to give you an idea of how bad it got, I paid almost $30 for Fallout 3's first installment of DLC, entitled “Operation Anchorage.” The DLC was supposed to cost just under $10, but apparently (according to a customer service monkey) the first download I paid for was exclusively for the Xbox, and the second attempt was charged twice. No amount of arguing to amend these mistakes, and any attempt to do so would only confuse the monkey, who would then attempt to sell me an Xbox.

Needless to say, I am thrilled by the thought of not having to deal with Windows Live again. It's actually added to my anticipation, and I was satisfied to see my rare optimism rewarded...rewarded, at least, until I saw the announcement (the day before release, I might add!) that the first New Vegas DLC would be exclusively for Xbox 360, and hear that Bethesda's VP of Marketing and PR is “excited to continue the partnership between Bethesda and Microsoft.”

I have to remind myself that it's too early to be upset. Understandably, I'm less than thrilled. Still, even this is not enough to stifle my excitement. Tomorrow, I return to the Wasteland, and the franchise I've enjoyed for 13 years. Tonight, I'll find some other way to occupy my time.

i still believe

2010-08-27T01:16:00.000-07:00

Okay, I hate that it's come to this, but I have to say something in hopes that someone is listening.

I know that religion has a problem with me. Which is fine, as I have more than a few problems with it. Specifically, certain sects of Christianity. Specifically, decisions I've made and facts in my life that their doctrine disagrees with. There was some tension between the Church and I for some time, but it never really bothered me, as my world view allows me to be good friends with lots of different people from lots of different walks of life.

However, lately I've actually experienced firsthand some of these people who shun others for their beliefs and lifestyle. I've been put in the position of choosing between Person A (Catholic) and Person B (Gay). I've actually lost touch with a couple friends because their religion got in the way of their humanity.

Personally, I consider myself “Christian” and the last preacher I found myself agreeing with called himself Unitarian. My friends are Catholic, Agnostic, Baptiste, Methodist, Menonite, Atheist, Jewish, Libertarian, Confused, and those are only the ones I know about. I love them all, and I would lay down my life for any of them.

For those of you who haven't done your homework, and who've ever listened to a sermon which began “God Hates,” please consult the following passage:

Proverbs 6:16
There are six things the Lord hates—
no, seven things he detests:
haughty eyes,
a lying tongue,
hands that kill the innocent,
a heart that plots evil,
feet that race to do wrong,
a false witness who pours out lies,
a person who sows discord in a family.

Is that clear? Because I've seen a lot of that nasty behavior coming out of the Christian community, lately.

So, my final word on the subject: Anyone openly practicing hate and condemnation, I will not tolerate your nonsense. In my eyes, such behavior makes you no better than Westboro Baptist Church. And if you or your spiritual leader have ever aligned yourselves with THEIR doctrine, you disgust me.

I'm calling to the Christian Community on behalf of those that have been alienated by the Christian Community: be vocal about your compassion! If you hurt every time you see a sign reading “GOD HATES” or see someone abandoned by the faith, speak up! Stand up to the picket line. BE THE CHANGE YOU WANT TO SEE IN THE WORLD.

rise of the transgeneration

2010-06-09T02:55:00.000-07:00

I had the pleasure of attending the Tranny Roadshow some time ago, witnessed a team of amazing, confident people, each bursting with creativity, each vibrant and beautiful in a way completely unique unto themselves. With individual attitudes, skills, and stories to tell, really the only thing binding this troupe together was a single shared experience, over the course of a lifetime: each, either personally or through a loved one, had been touched by the process of transition from one gender to another.

Though this phenomenon might be relatively new to the mainstream and the uneducated conservative, transsexuality has actually been around for quite some time. Historically speaking, there is abundant evidence and common knowledge of the practice stretching back to Shakespeare's England, not to mention the comparatively sparse records of “two-spirits” of Native America going back even farther – the Natives were one of several spiritually advanced societies which regarded homosexuals and transsexuals with honor and understanding as opposed to the “civilized” world's legacy towards superstition and hate.

Though it seems to go unmentioned alongside the other atrocities of the time, transsexuality was also a prominent target for the hell that was Nazi Germany. From the end of the nineteenth century well into the present, the nature of of transsexuality has remained, being dealt with first as a curiosity, then as a form of mental illness, until finally, being addressed as an indisputable truth of the world at large.

However they are regarded, the facts remain: there are people in this world, with each generation, who live feeling out-of-place in their own skin, constrained by their own bodies. They have endured the world's condemnation, its disrespect, its open maliciousness, and society is finally reaching a place that will allow them to be who they truly are.

Altho this was not my first experience with the concept, or with people so touched by it, transsexuality is still relatively new to me. Ten years ago, I was completely unaware that a transgeneration existed. Five years ago, I was too concerned with the developing awareness of my own sexuality to focus too intently on anyone else. When the process was finally explained to me, it was like hearing of a strange custom from a foreign country: I had absolutely no basis of comparison, and I was inexplicably intrigued.

I became absolutely fascinated with the subject after the first time I started seeing a beautiful young woman who was, shall we say, intimately aware of the process, and all that it entailed. She was a trans-woman and a model, a combination that created, in my eyes, an otherworldly beauty: she seemed beyond the reach of mortal men, and she carried the best attributes that humanity had to offer, from either sex, in a combination I have never seen before or since. Confident and shy, nerdy and active, sweet and cruel, not to mention a body that could only be described as “divinely made”. I really started looking into transsexuality, reading all I could on the subject, admittedly all in an attempt to better understand her.

It was the interest in the subject that remained, after all was said and done. Ironically, I think the sudden realization that one's gender could be changed helped me be more comfortable and accepting of my own. Growing up, I had been intimidated by the redneck “manly-man” mentality that was so common among my classmates. What's worse, I was assured by my elders at every turn that some day, I would understand such behavior.

The masculinity I had been surrounded by, the masculinity I saw within myself, ceased to be a prisoner's chain as soon as I saw others shedding it like an unwanted burden. As soon as I realized that it could be lost, or more accurately, cast off, I began to really consider my latent masculinity, the series of little traits that still allowed me to define myself as male.

Beyond my own experience, my continued interest in transsexuality would best be described as scientific and sociological optimism. As it was explained to me, I found it comparable to the idea of transhumanism: the idea that, through applied science, humanity could improve itself in drastic and almost magical ways. Altho transhumanism typically refers to synthetically altering our selves to incorporate our technological advances, it could also be taken to include the biological modifications or improvements medical science allows, that our bodies might better suit us. We remake ourselves in our own image.

Humanity and science together have achieved the power previously held only by the Almighty: the physical nature of mankind is now that of a canvas and artist, together. Our identities as people are no longer constrained by the physical forms we inhabit. We are capable of change outwardly, just as we change internally. The metamorphosis is just as drastic, and just as difficult.

The process of changing from one gender to the other is long and arduous. It requires a great deal of money, a level commitment that would benefit a married couple, and an even greater amount of patience. The experience itself tests the person enduring it in ways that most of us cannot fathom, honing their mind and spirit just as any rigorous training would hone the body.

It has been said that God, in His wisdom, makes no mistakes. If this is to be believed, perhaps this is the purpose of the transsexual: by being born into the “wrong” body, a person experiences life differently than they would otherwise. They develop a unique perspective from birth, and the process of claiming their true gender evolves their perspective even further. If transsexuals are designed as they are by Divine Will (and I, for one, believe this to be true) then surely this particular perspective is the intention.

In hindsight, I think the conservative men and women I grew up with could learn a thing or two from the transgeneration that will soon surpass them; it seems to me that, in their passion to be themselves, a trans-male has learned more about what it is to be a man than any wife-beating redneck could ever imagine. It seems to me that the only remaining Ladies and Gentlemen in this world are those that have been made thoroughly aware of the alternative, and have deliberately chosen to be themselves.

what's holy about matrimony?

2010-04-26T07:52:00.000-07:00

Apparently it came as quite a surprise to some of my readers that I was a supporter of gay marriage. Why this should be, I have no idea, as I'm not exactly subtle about my feelings on any subject and anyone who spends more than an hour in my general vicinity is likely to learn a great deal more than they might have wanted to know.
So, let me set the record straight: at my core, I do not support marriage at all. I find it dangerous, often foolish, and almost malicious in its frequent misuse. From what I've witnessed, it seems to be a legally-binding trap for the vast majority of the population, tying up assets and stripping away any semblance of individuality.

What's worse, it's completely unnecessary. If a relationship is truly devoted, do they have anything to gain from marriage? Putting the religious rhetoric aside, is a halfway decent marriage anything more than two best friends who live together? Insurance companies and the Internal Revenue Service put some consideration into the act of marriage, but what is the logic in allowing such legal matters to be swayed and directed by an archaic religious system?

And yet, this archaic system permeates still further, leading us to our current controversy. The words of one hypocritical spiritual leader and one verse writ in the time of cold and vengeful gods is the only basis for the Moral Elite's campaign against gay marriage. And yet, in this age of science and reason, the gospel is still regarded as irrefutable, and holds the vast majority of our administrative bodies in thrall.

From my experience and my observations, I am tempted to support a full and unconditional abolition of the entire institution of marriage, as a stubborn holdout of a less civilized age. However, in my few years I have met a handful of couples who, with rare and fascinating degrees of mutual patience and love, force me to wonder if there isn't something behind this whole marriage idea. However, to my recollection, not one of these couples has ever put forth an opinion on any marriage beyond their own.

The church and the Moral Elite spend a lot of time and energy preaching about the “sanctity of marriage” without ever clearly addressing what this means. To hear them speak, however, it seems that the gender of the partners involved seems to be a more significant matter than that of physical well-being, faithfulness, or anything resembling devotion. As I understand it, the act of one man (or woman) marrying another is something that would completely sunder the “sanctity of marriage,” something countless shotgun weddings, unfaithful movie and sports stars, and overly promiscuous Hollywood starlets have somehow failed to do.

Why this should be, outside of the annals of the overtly religious, I cannot fathom. In short, I cannot think of a single reason two capable, consenting adults (regardless of gender, age, religious or political affiliation) should not be able to devote themselves purely to one another, if they believe such a thing would be at all beneficial. What's more, I don't see any reason anyone should have any say in the love life of another.

To the Moral Elite and stubbornly conservative, I can only say: grow up. If a sacred and divinely-consecrated bond between two people ever existed, it would have to be all-encompassing. You can either relent, and allow that perhaps there is a place for homosexuals in the Heart of the Almighty, or you can stick to your guns and decry the disrespectful (and possibly sacrilegious) behavior of this nation's sports heroes, movie stars, and politicians with all the zealous fervor you can muster. You can't have it both ways, and any attempt to maintain a double standard just makes you look more like a hypocritical ass.

not your business

2010-03-27T00:29:00.000-07:00

It happens, from time to time, that someone with an agenda might word things in such a way that the Truth of the matter may become obscured. In more educated circles this is known as doublespeak. Of course the Established Powers have masters of this skill on their payroll, but in the world at large we find many swift-learning pupils, rogue practitioners in the art of misdirection, further blanketing the Truth behind floating veils of self-righteous rhetoric. Occasionally, it may come time to allow the filth to settle, to sift out the bullshit, if necessary, if only to see what is truly lurking at the bottom, waiting to bite.

Which brings us to this latest molestation of Truth. Here's the facts: I've recently been alerted to a city ordinance which would ban discrimination against gays, lesbians, bisexuals and transgendered individuals in the workplace, as well as public places such as restaurants or hotels. An organization called NotMyBathroom.com has taken it upon themselves to oppose this ordinance, citing a coalition of “moral preservation” groups, though only one group has announced allegiance to the organization. The first words of the mission statement on the organization's site reads “NOTMYBATHROOM.COM is an action to defeat Missoula anti-discrimination ordinance.”

To review, and to clarify, NotMyBathroom wants to retain the right to discriminate. Specifically, against the GLBT community.

According to a recent report on the subject, the organization claims that this ordinance would give men the right to access the ladies' restroom and vice versa. They claim that businesses will be forced to add a third restroom to the traditional “Ladies or Gentlemen,” presumably marked “Other.” They claim that this legislature will, somehow, impede the rights and freedoms of men and women not a part of the GLBT community, forcing them to be the helpless victims of sexual predators.

This claim is outlandish, and heavily weighted by the vicious prejudice typical of the “upstanding moral elite.”

Firstly, Montana does not have laws protecting gays and lesbians from discrimination. If you are perceived as being gay in this state, you can lose your job or be denied residence. If you are assaulted for your perceived sexual orientation, it is not considered a hate crime. This new law would be the first of its kind in Montana, thus finally protecting Montana's GLBT community from hate-mongering. Though this legislature does not apply to the rest of the state, it would still be a monumentally progressive step in a state commonly viewed as “backward” by the rest of the union.

NotMyBathroom is correct in saying that this ordinance may also encourage the legalization of gay marriage in this state, but this would be a separate issue to be addressed by the state. Despite what the group claims, no minister has ever been, or will ever be forced to conduct a gay marriage. There are no shortages of spiritual leaders willing to join two homosexuals in holy matrimony, meaning that those unwilling are free to go on as always, keeping and teaching their own like-minded congregations of sheep. If the state decides at any later time to legalize gay marriage, it will be treated no differently than their decision to allow interracial marriages some fifty years ago, undoubtedly with the same level of indignant outrage from the “morally upstanding” fringe.

Back to the matter at hand, it seems that a great deal of NotMyBathroom's contention revolves around the matter of transsexuals. Basically, the argument is nothing but a blurring of the definition, comparing a trans-woman (a man in the process of becoming a woman) to a sexual deviant in a dress. That this comparison is unfair and misleading is bad enough, but it is also cruel. We need to accept that transgendered people exist, and as society becomes more accepting, more of them are becoming willing to be open and honest about their intentions. A man who does not feel at home in his body now has the right and the ability to change, to become the person she knows herself to be. This is not a weekend vacation, a whim to see “how the other side lives,” but a deep, life-changing commitment. To make it out to be anything less is nothing short of insulting.

NotMyBathroom was created by a group of people who want to reserve their right to hate, pure and simple, no different than any supremist organization in history. They recognize that as much as the people of the United States may be reluctant to change, they have been known to turn viciously on those guilty of intolerance. Thus, in order to conceal their narrow-minded agenda, they use hyperbole and exaggerated examples of “what if?” In reference to equal opportunity for housing and apartments, the spokesman of NotMyBathroom was quoted as saying "You can either give the freedom to the people who rent apartments ... or you can take it away from them and give it to the gays." Civil rights laws such as this are not passed to give any group, race, or gender rights superseding the rights of any other; they are passed to undo this very problem, to bring another group up to the level with the rest of the world.

This pro-discrimination group, whose acronym is only a possessive-plural tense away from being NOB, would have you believe that you are somehow threatened by granting the basic human right of safety to the GLBT community. The fact is, if you are not homosexual, bisexual, or transgendered yourself, this ordinance does not affect you at all beyond your ability to hate. Now, with the fear- and hate-mongering warnings of this “moral elite” making bold and baseless accusations in their attempt to cling to their intolerant ideals, we should hold fast to that Most True foundation of this blessed country: that All Men Are Created Equal.

goodbye, my little friend

2010-03-04T23:44:00.000-08:00

As I write this, a tiny body heaves and beats upon my bare chest, just out of sync with the rhythm of my breath or heart. I have no music, nothing playing, to better allow me to hear each labored breath, each beat punctuated by something akin to a whine or a squeak. This tiny body, fur-patched and scratchy toed, struggles. I cannot help, not really, so instead I quietly cheer him on, each breath, each cough, each brief surge of life.

He has never let me hold him without a struggle until today, and as I gently pet his bony shoulders, I miss his fierce independence and typical antisocial manner. His brother sits in a cage, five feet away, restless and confused. They have never been apart for this long, not as long as they've been in my care. Another precedent I miss desperately.

He refuses food, even when I dab it under his nose. I try some wet noodle, some bread, things they've enjoyed before. He ignores it entirely, not even a cursory sniff. I'm left to just being here, looking down into that wide black eye and encouraging him in whispers. Listening, feeling, praying.

It's just after night has begun to shift to morning that he begins to show signs of improvement. His antisocial nature returns, and he starts moving around almost normally. The wheezing rasp never dissipates, but he refuses to sit still any longer. He is stubborn, independent, and he wants back in his own bed, with his brother. I know relief as I kiss his tiny head, which he mightily protests, and take him back to the cage, where he eagerly climbs back into his ratty blue towel. Still rasping, but no longer weak, he sleeps in a fuzzy pile, entangled with his brother, same as always.

Our vet appointment is at 9:30 the next morning, with a specialist. By 7am, he was already gone. What he's left behind is still curled, as if sleeping, but lying on his side, and still. As soon as I touch him I know, and all I can do is wrap him in a pillowcase and place him at the head of my bed. No struggling anymore, not ever again.

His brother is frantic, confused, chewing on their towel and scrambling from one raised platform to the next and back again, grace forgotten. I offer him my hand and he leaps for me, eager. He curls against the base of my neck, and in an apparently universal gesture he buries his face in my neck, not sniffing, but making a hitching, unsteady whine that mirrors my own feelings. Grief is so much more honest in animals, who feel no shame for who they are and what they feel. He licks my fingers, my beard, and makes no attempt to leave my side the rest of the morning. He only reluctantly returns to his cage just before I have to leave.

We have a small funeral in the rose garden, not too far away. It seems right, somehow, poetic. Despite its central location, it's quiet, not too busy. Once, only my close circle of friends ever got to meet him. Now, in the petals of a rose, everyone can enjoy my little friend.

Avatar (science is a verb now!)

2009-12-31T01:14:00.000-08:00

So I just finished watching the new James Cameron movie, Avatar, and now that part of my imagination most obsessed with technological advancement is running wild.

I am sure that some critic or another will point out that Avatar is actually an old story, that of indigenous aboriginal tribes in the face of a technologically superior colonial movement. In fact, it's a story that's been told ever since we stopped colonizing and started settling. In this sense, some critics will argue, the story of Avatar is a bit of a cliché.

What these critics will forget is that, old story or not, Avatar is very, very good.

Borrowing from mankind's history, Avatar discreetly pays homage to such events as the British colonization of Africa and Australia, as well as the fairly more-obvious American motion of western advancement, especially during the gold rush. Several Native tribes are depicted in spirit, tho of course they have been adjusted to fit the narrative. It also helps that the alien world being depicted is somewhat of a literal take on the Native theological view: that of the entire world, and everything in it, being connected, a massive organism in which every life is precious.

Beyond the semi-classical narrative, Avatar is depicts a number of ideas that are considerably more novel. First and foremost is the proposed advances made in human science, from the graceless and likely tools of a corporate military to the biomechanical masterpiece that is Avatar technology. (In brief, Avatars are cloned hybrid bodies, controlled puppet-like by human pilots.)

However, while the tech may be uniquely impressive, the feature that will define Avatar in the annals of sci-fi history is the science behind the setting, the world in which it all takes place. The planet Pandora is as alien to our understanding as the creatures that dwell there, with chunks of mountain floating miles above the ground and trees covered in neural relays instead of branches or leaves. Perhaps the most alien trait is the fact that Pandora's ecosystem is based completely in planet-wide symbiosis. Each species is able to physically attach its neural pathways to any other species, and even to the planet itself through certain “plants”. Two species so linked are able to act together, think together, becoming faster, smarter, more capable than would be possible alone.

As one could imagine, there is an ecofriendly message here, but thankfully it is just subtle enough that the movie does not suffer for it.

It has been quite some time since Science Fiction was able to command any degree of respect. Now, Avatar joins the ranks of extraterrestrial greatness alongside Alien and District 9. After a dark age of Uwe Boll and Micheal Bay, James Cameron is back on the scene, and there was much rejoicing.

the house that metal built

2009-11-20T10:34:00.000-08:00

I attended a benefit for the Watson Childrens' Shelter the other night: three metal bands thrashing it out for the kids. A writhing horde of rockers, metalheads and various other slavering mutants were in attendance, as much in appreciation of the music as for any humanitarian effort.

Even before things got underway (long before, it turns out, as the show began fashionably late) the impending event had raised a building tremor of anticipation. Breath caught with every dimming of the lights, small clusters hover in front of the stage in feigned indifference.

Then, at long last, that moment: the lights fall. The rumbling voice of a Mountain King over the sound system, and the surge of hot bodies pressing forward, reaching for the source of that voice. And we begin.

Universal Choke Sign present as three vikings stepped forward in time, axes and drums slung easily over their broad shoulders, battle-bright eyes snapping across the room, sizing up any potential threat...also, there's a skinny bald guy on bass who is awesome. Their music rumbles and roars forth like a flash-fire. Their sneering humor and brazen celebration of self-destruction is reminiscent of Primus, in some ways, with all the lust and sick joy of a half-drunk Norseman.

With all collections of music, it is important to find balance. Bring out the big guns first, build too quickly, you'll blow your load and lose your audience. Shaman's Harvest was next on the docket, their low tones and intricate melodies soothing the frenzy while allowing the audience to maintain. The throttle-back was received with mixed results, but then, metal will always bring out that group of freaks that live their lives set to “eleven”.

The main event is just such a group. Royal Bliss, rising before the crowd like titans, indomitable, and remaining with all the strength of pillars as the masses crashed like the tides against the stage at their feet, crushing and rushing each other, pressing forward, only to be thrown back. Carrying all the best elements of both the bands preceding, they held those assembled in a thrall from which there was no return.

Metal is auditory mescaline, a drug of sound to infect the mind, tapping into something ancient and primal within us, a power and divinity from before the first gods walked the earth. It is a religion unto itself, or at the very least a form of exultant worship, a thing of untamed celebration and fierce joy in the feral traditions of the Bacchae, whipping its faithful into a fervor, a zealous storm of activity.

The culmination was all the fire and passion that music has ever sought to stir within the hearts of man. Local radio stations have played enough Royal Bliss that even those who do not consider themselves fans were able to recognize individual songs, and soon the collected voice of the people rumbled as strong as the speakers, mighty vibrations ringing through the building's core, as well as the core of all those assembled, awakening a trembling, snarling passion for life, a desire to trample, rush, throw and leap.

They all were able to endure, even at such a manic pace. Hours later found them enduring still, running too hot, their own enthusiasm beginning to break them down. The quivering, ringing moments of the climax, with exhaustion beating through battered muscle still-taut. Voices tear free from raw and shredded throats, roaring for more even as it would burn them out completely. Even the band is swept up, submitting to encore after encore even as the event has begun to wind down, unable to maintain under its own momentum.

Now, with the memory of the event growing indistinct in my mind, my muscles still throb pleasantly, and the quiet is almost a cool relief. Almost as enjoyable as the music itself, still pulsing through my weary bones, is the soft and gentle morning after, a calm only enunciated by the ache.

I still owe a beating to who-ever stole my jacket.

smoked out

2009-10-08T11:52:00.000-07:00

Just recently, a smoking ban passed back in 2005 finally want into effect. Apparently, before the ban, there was no legislation in Montana that prohibited smoking in schools, hospitals, or retirement homes. There was also no law against smoking in bars.

I've heard authoritative noises praising this ban for its benefits to public health and safety, saying how proud they are that Montana is “ahead of the pack”, being only the tenth state in the nation to prohibit smoking in public places statewide. I've heard health nuts ranting happily about how “it's about time,” before they launch into a stream of figures regarding secondhand smoke and its affects on the heart and lungs.

What I'm not hearing is why, exactly, this issue warranted statewide legal action. Previously, if an establishment wished to prohibit smoking, they would post a sign. If anyone violated the sign, they were quietly asked to leave. If they ignored this request, they would be made to leave. A simple system, but effective. In light of this, what is the purpose of a statewide ban if not to remove smokers from the few places they are still accepted?

According to KCFW, only sixteen percent of adults in Montana smoke. This percentage has not changed in over five years. Smokers do not fight for equal treatment; they are segregated by choice. They do not push ideals of any kind; they are united only by their vice. They are, as a group, practitioners of what has been called Montanan Conservatism, holding to this state's traditional adage: “Leave me alone.”

The non-smokers of Montana, however, seem to have some sort of axe to grind. Apparently 88% of Montanans feel that the threat to their health is so great that smoking cannot be tolerated inside any building, be it bar, club, or cabaret. I'm not sure why these establishments are so important to the non-smokers, just as I'm not sure how many non-smokers frequent businesses such as these.

In a neutral environment, demanding someone else change to better suit your comfort is unforgivably selfish. It is putting your importance, your rights, over those of another; this is the behavior of parasites, rather than the cohabitation of civilized men.

Each one of us, as an individual, is granted the freedom to do whatever we choose, and each of us is obligated responsibility for the choices we make. If you want a healthy heart and lungs, avoid places where there's going to be secondhand smoke. A simple system, but effective.

At what point did our comfort begin to hold precedence over the rights of others? When did we begin to require laws and motions to regulate how we interact with one another?

Now that the law has been passed, there is little more that can be done, especially by people grown so accustomed to apathy and inaction. Some businesses will tank, or plead for exception. Others will not notice any difference. Smokers will shiver violently in the cold, or stay home, because despite the intentions of our well-intending lawmakers, the addiction is stronger than any discomfort. People will not quit just because it is suddenly inconvenient or uncomfortable.

So what, if anything, has been accomplished here? What few bars had still allowed smoking will now offer clean air for their remaining patrons. Hopefully the influx of non-smokers will be enough to fill the empty, smoke-stained stools.

NOTE: At the time of this writing, it has been five and a half weeks since the author's last cigarette. He does not, nor will ever, consider himself a parasitic non-smoker.

karma comes to interplay

2009-09-28T07:16:00.000-07:00

Some news from the electronic entertainment front grabbed my interest recently. It seems that Bethesda, publisher of the post-apocalyptic role-playing game Fallout 3, is taking legal action against Interplay, the company that originally birthed the beloved franchise.

The cause cited for this was Interplay's rerererelease of three titles in the Fallout series, namely Fallout 1, 2, and Fallout Tactics, as well as the company's treatment of the long-rumoured Fallout MMO, code-named “Project V13”. Apparently Interplay has simply sat on the project, which they retained the rights to following their sale to Bethesda in 2004. Now, Bethesda is claiming that Interplay has failed to gather the funding for Project V13, and has implied in its legal action that Interplay is releasing its Fallout bundles in an attempt to cash in on the popularity of Fallout 3.

Is it true? Is the company that gave birth to such gems as Earthworm Jim and Clay Fighter stooping so low as to leach off of the success of another? Absolutely, and it's the smartest move they could make.

Consider: Interplay essentially tanked in 2004. They were hemorrhaging money, and in a desperate attempt to regain the popularity they enjoyed in their prime, they called on Charles “Chuck” Cuevas to produce another title in the Fallout series, namely Fallout: Brotherhood of Steel.

Those who know me are probably tired of this old chestnut, but for those who don't, let me explain. If you search the interwebs for Interplay games, you will not find this title amongst what is being called the “original Fallout Trilogy”. Indeed, many web sites do not list it at all. At IGN.com, this game is charitably, inconceivably described as “just what the doctor ordered-- a post-apocalyptic, mutant-killing, trash-talking, hotty-filled, bad mamma-jamma of a game.” It then goes on to proudly announce “It's got prostitutes, swearing, giant rats, drinking... and did we mention prostitutes? It even makes a reference to Office Space ... how cool is that?”

Long story short: Nothing I could say could adequately depict the offensive tripe that is F:BoS. It was as though the creators of Redneck Rampage took a passing glance at the Fallout series after watching a trailer to Beyond Thunderdome. (Considering that Redneck Rampage was also released by Interplay, I really cannot find any evidence to the contrary.)

What I'm trying to say is that, in poverty-influenced desperation, Interplay put one of its finest children in the hands of an irresponsible frat boy, and the resulting failure ended the Fallout franchise with all the cold brutality of a hot bullet.

This is the part of the story so many die-hard fans seem to ignore. The Fallout name was not quite dead, but it was terminal, and salvation was obviously well beyond the ability of its creators. Desperate fans scrambled to save what was left, and the development of project Van Buren should stand as a testament to their ability and their devotion to all that Fallout had been. It is easy to forget that most of us came to think about Fallout with nostalgia.

Then came the ridiculously popular, obscenely successful creators of the Elder Scrolls RPG series. When Bethesda took Fallout from Interplay, the post-apocalyptic RPG was a used husk of its original self, barely alive, barely remembered by any but the most devoted of fans. For the next four years, Bethesda was hard at work: rebuilding, redesigning, and basically showing the franchise all the respect that it had lost after being horrifically raped by Chuck Cuevas and his team.

Then, in October of 2008, Fallout 3 was revealed to the world at large, and the finest RPG ever created was known and loved once again.

Since then, Bethesda has gone on to produce one Creation Kit and five expansions based in the Fallout universe, and with each, the newest installment further cements itself in the lore of the series. Meanwhile, still struggling to pull out of their financial tailspin, Interplay attempts to cash in on the success of their estranged child by yet again releasing their Fallout bundles.

Frankly, I could not care less about the slow stagnation of Project V13. Not that I wouldn't love to wander the post-apocalyptic wasteland with my friends at my side, but Interplay has most effectively proven that they can no longer be trusted to produce anything of quality, and I care too much for the Fallout universe to leave it in the hands of amateurs.

I guess we'll see if that applies to Obsidian once they release Fallout Vegas.

here's to you, old man

2009-04-18T01:21:00.001-07:00

driving home tonight, it hit me. hard. the loss, that realization that an influence is gone from my life, that i've learned all i can from him.

part of what's bothering me, i think, is the recent recognition of my slowly fading awareness of the spiritual world. i can't say how it happened...i just don't think about it like i used to. not that i don't believe...i just don't think about it.

he taught me well. i'll never forget what i learned while he was here, the stuff he said. "women will come and go, but friends are forever." "you can work the rest of your life, play while you can." "it's just stuff." and, of course, "...but you can't do that now!"

it's easy to forget, sometimes, that he's not there. i used to be wonder whether he'd be proud, if he could see me today. a while back i realized it didn't matter what i did, how i was, who i slept with, what trouble i got into...of course he'd be proud of me. he loved me, and no matter how deep i got, he would always smile, roll up his sleeves, and find some way to laugh at the situation.

i try to do that myself, now. shake it off, cowboy up. find a way to laugh.

so here's to you, Dad. i know you're around somewhere, and i just want to say: you raised me right. a little rough around the edges, but good job.

i can take it from here.

thank you.

dead dogs and false gods

2009-02-25T15:06:00.000-08:00

So I'm sitting in the Oxford in downtown Missoula between the god-forsaken hours of three and four, enjoying the bent remains of a cigarette over a steaming cup of coffee and a half-eaten fried egg sandwich. The ladies behind the counter banter easily with the customers, mostly greasy late-night blue-collars and small packs of frail, giggling emo kids.

The whole night probably would have gone unnoticed, unremarkable and par for the course, if I had not been idly eying the muted television in the corner of the room. As it was, I happened to be watching when news of a now-homeless octuplet mother was suddenly interrupted by the red and flashing announcement of “BREAKING NEWS”.

So yeah. I can honestly say that I remember exactly where I was sitting when Mickey Rourke's dog died.

Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against Mickey Rourke. Aside from the role of Marv in Sin City, where he did a fantastic job, I can honestly say that I do not have an opinion about Mickey Rourke one way or the other. I'm sure he's a great person.

That being said, why should I care about his dog?

Did this dog perform any heroic feats during the course of its life? Doubtful. Was it a rare breed slowly dwindling into extinction? No, it was a chihuahua, a miserable breed inexplicably far too plentiful in this country, a quivering pseudo-rat mutant. As far as I can tell, the only thing special about this creature was the fact that it just happened to belong to Mickey Rourke.

What I can't figure out, what I keep coming back to, is why this nonsense is being tossed around, publicized, and openly discussed as though it is actual news. Newsflash: dogs die. For some reason, old and sickly dogs seem to die more often than young, healthy dogs. What we're really discussing here is not the fact that a good dog died so much as the fact that a dog belonging to a celebrity died. The only way I could be more irritated is if I saw this amount of publicity when Paris Hilton's neglected mongrel finally choked on a used condom.

Has our celebrity-worship finally come this far? These people are not gods, or even anywhere close, as much as Tom Cruise would like to think so. They are human beings who are paid ridiculous amounts of money to entertain you and, according to some schools of thought, keep you stupid and docile. They are not special, they are no better than any one of you. Some of them are even arguably worse than the average scum on the street, and because our culture elevates them to the status of heroes, they are able to shrug off the consequences.

So why do we put up with this foolish nonsense? In this time of struggle we have people starving to death in gutters within a mile of where an actor or sports hero is grudgingly selling their second or third home. On one end of the country a couple wonders how they are going to pay for a life-saving surgery, while on the other an oversexed rap artist settles out of court, parting with three times the cost of the surgery without batting an eye.

I've proudly told many people that one memory I will always treasure is seeing Paris Hilton wail like an abused child as she was carefully loaded into the back of a cop car. This is why. You treat someone like they shit gold for long enough, they will begin to believe it. This is a group of people so adapted to our devotion, they don't even have the decency to be embarrassed by the attention they get.

Why do we allow this to continue? If we choose to continue believing that everyone gets a fair shake in this society, can't we at least be reasonable when it comes to our economic worth? If anyone deserves to be paid ridiculous sums of money just for getting up in the morning, why not someone performing a vital service instead of an entertainer? Doctors, cops and teachers all over the country scrape by as a drug-addled rapper drinks fine wine from a jewel-encrusted mug.

Strangely, I've noticed a similar pattern pertaining to senators. I'm sure it's merely a coincidence.

January 20th, 2009

2009-01-21T18:26:00.000-08:00

The sun rose as it always did, noticed dimly through the unrelenting cloud cover. People rose from their beds, showered, dressed, and ate hurried breakfasts before moving on to what jobs were still available. People put on heavy coats against the lingering chill of years past, and cameramen checked their gear alongside optimistic teens checking cell and camera phones. A handful of paranoid mountain men hopped in their pickups and made one last run to pawn and gun shops, convinced that they would not get a second chance. Somewhere, a journalist snarled and lit a cigarette in the same city that a gay couple sat holding hands in front of a television. At exactly ten o'clock mountain time, in one small corner of the internet, a timer finally hit zero, winked off, and was forgotten.

Change was in the air.

Say what you will about Governor Bush, the Boy King. It matters not what we thought of the decisions made or the motions passed in recent years, as at this juncture we have nothing to gain from casting blame or pointing fingers. The past is past, and all that matters now is how to move on, to thrive yet again in the face of certain peril.

A sea of color and smiling faces radiates from the capitol, still thick at the base of the Washington Monument about a mile away, the likes of which some have never seen, and aren't likely to see again. People of different races and creeds, both young and old, the well-to-do rubbing shoulders with the barely-getting-by. Americans, all. The rumbling of the celebratory cannons is still only distant thunder under the wave of cheers of these people gathered.

Elected in a time of crisis beyond the botched war that has taken so much, the President is not naive about the task set before him. This has marked itself as a historical time, not by chance of race, but by the sudden awakening of people long comfortable with the niche, the groove they had been worn into and the holes they would otherwise be buried in. We have long descended into a hell of our own making, through our tolerance for selfishness and our willingness to be led. Long ago, a wise man told me that no one really wants to hear the truth. This day, I happily saw the people of this nation prove a wise man wrong.

It is humbling to hold witness to a speaker of this nature, a man who captures and holds your attention in spite of yourself. They have been around, I understand, but in my lifetime I have not born witness to such a man before today. He speaks of unity, of joining together as the world falls apart. He speaks of how far we've come, the acts of greatness that history has shown us to be capable of. Can I tell you how much fear is in me? Can I convey how my hope swells with each uninterrupted word? The task before us is what it is, and it is, to say the least, daunting. The President (and how long has it been since I've proudly been able to use that word respectfully!) meets the future before us on his feet, unflinching, and smiling.

This is a pivotal time in our history. We have existed through crisis before and succeeded. We must do so again. For too long we have segregated ourselves, pitting ourselves again “them”, whoever they might be this week. Neighbors have been wary to join hands with one another, simply on foolish notions such as sexual orientation, class, or race. We have become the United Selves of America, and it has brought us to the very brink of ruin. Now, at long last, we have a chance to redefine ourselves in the light of the world, to be something different in the eyes of our brothers across nations.

I am honored by the chance to see such a change in my lifetime. These will be the days we look back upon and smile, and I cannot wait to tell my children of the days to come.

I'll be your friend

2008-12-03T17:42:00.000-08:00

Possibly the strangest experience I've ever had is that of rejecting someone, especially when it's someone who wants to be with me.

In the biblical sense. You know what I mean.

Luckily, it does not happen at all often. Some old baboushka once said that, in every relationship, there is the chaser and there is the person being chased. For the most part, I have always been a chaser. As a chaser, I should not have to turn people down...it goes against the very nature of the thing. And yet, I have discovered that there are people in this world who chase even harder than I.

It's an uncomfortable feeling, especially when there are mutual feelings of attraction, which leaves me feeling more than a little confused. I mean, why not accept someone who wants me, especially if part of me wants them as well, even the slightest bit? Unfortunately, the only answer I have to offer is lame and explains nothing: I don't want to.

I've thought about the Marxist approach to this...the Groucho Marxist approach, stating "I don't care to belong to any club that will have me as a member." A very good point, and I'm sure it plays a part, but then there's also the case of "friend versus partner"...that is, I know I can be friends with someone, but I do not know if I could have or keep them as a partner. Friends are wonderful, especially the kind of friends you can call in the ungodly hours of morning, friends who accept you as the eccentric freak that you are...but then, how many friends have I kissed during the night for reassurance, or held in silence just because I was afraid of coming apart?

Not many. Read: none.

My dad was fond of saying "girls will come and go, but friends are forever." I like to believe I've been fairly true to that. When I've come screaching to a stop, battered and broken and bleeding out of every orriface, there is no partner at my side, believing in me even in my self-destruction. When I can't crawl anymore and I need someone to carry me, I don't have a partner and none would stand with me...that's what friends are for.

I am still looking for a relationship, a partner, and I prolly won't stop until I find the one that sticks. If none sticks, fine...I'll miss what a relationship has to offer, but I would rather lose out on the affection, the support, the intimacy, than corrupt friendships by looking for intimacy where it should not be.

Here's to you guys. It would be great, but being able to talk to you is more important to me than seeing you naked.

Cheers.

eology for someone I never met

2008-04-05T15:20:00.000-07:00

This morning feels surreal, at best. At worst, intimidating…like the still-peaceful beginning of a nightmare. Impending…“something wicked this way comes”. Don’t tell me I’m being paranoid, I’ve seen enough hell to recognize that heavy drumming in the distance.

Someone I never met died. It affected good people. Given the situation, it’s not like I can say anything to help, or even offer my condolences, but I’ve known that pain before, and it makes me want to do something. I wish there was something that could be done, but how do you even try to talk to someone who has just stepped into an entirely different world, an unknown, colder place fraught with unsympathetic eyes and automatons with functions of their own?

People tried, when this sort of thing happened before. Maybe it helps others, sometimes, I don’t know. Maybe it’s something you never really get over. Perhaps you’re not supposed to, but instead we’re meant to carry that pain like a scar, an eternal memory of someone gone. Rough, horrible, and I wouldn’t wish such pain upon my worst enemies. Just as bad and maybe worse, I think, to experience that pain again…and again.

Do you ever wish you had some piece of wisdom to offer, something that will bring understanding to those who need it so desperately? I do, more often than I care to think about. The sad truth is I have no wisdom…especially when it comes to death. I don’t know why it happens, not really, and I can’t tell you for certain what it is to die. I do know that a good man is no longer with us, and I’m sure that his presence will be sorely missed.

It’s not my place to speak on this subject. Indeed, I don’t even know if my feelings will be accepted, or if these words shall be seen as an intrusion, into a world in which I have no place. If so, so be it…these are my thoughts, and I present them only for your consideration, not your approval. Shalom.

Consider this an investment!

2007-10-12T09:48:00.000-07:00

eBay has thrilled and pleased me more times than I care to mention. Often I'll find myself looking at something I held as a child, or something so rare that I count myself lucky to even see it. I don't even buy anything, most of the time...I simply enjoy perusing this digital marketplace, watching as shoppers haggle, each with their own method, a modern retelling of the port-based shops of old.

Today, I've found something that almost literally knocked me out of my chair. I share with you simply because this is something far too wonderful to keep to myself.

Behold, the future home to the Burning West!

This 57 acre property is just an hour and a half west of Spokane, contains 16 underground buildings (up to and including a 160-foot-tall missile silo and two 100+ foot domes), and is currently available for just $1,500,000!!!

Do I have a one and a half million? No. Do I even have the $300,000 required for a down-payment? Not even close. Is that going to stop me from some day converting this missile silo into my ultimate home and lair, a fortress against the further expanse of stupidity across this great nation??

Not a chance in hell.

Let it be known that as of this moment I am accepting donations. All parties interested in helping a fine cause please feel free to email, and all other interested parties please note that I am willing to co-own the base with as many as three parties. Again, if anyone is interested in co-owning a Titan Missile Base, or donating to the fund for the new home of the Burning West, please email me at burningwest@gmail.com.

For further information on the silo, please visit the silo's homepage here! Bids on behalf of the Burning West are greatly appreciate. Bids against the Burning West will be met with generous helpings of ultraviolence.

INFECTED

2007-10-10T16:02:00.000-07:00

The injustice of this empire continues to infuriate and confound me. It's not just this pet war, which is the source of endless tears and countless sorrows, nor is it the lies that have broken and confused us, led us into a constant state of fear.

No, more maddening than these is the inexplicable way which We The People continue to put up with it all.

This is old news, now, and the days since the third of October have been nothing but a blur of chemical self-mutilation and ultraviolence. I speak of course of the use of the Boy King's fourth veto, which brought a merciless end to the State Children's Health Insurance Program. This program, which cost $35 billion over the course of five years, promised insurance to children whose parents could not otherwise afford it. Apparently Bush is completely oblivious to the needs of "the little people", i.e. those who didn't grow up having their asses wiped with fifty-dollar bills.

Before anyone gets on me about this, please consider: The Boy King's pet war has, to date, cost this country almost $500 billion. That's right; $500 billion to chase down shadows and occupy an unwilling country, that's okay. $35 billion for little poor children, that's too much.

And just think: this is the same cum stain that vetoed embryonic stem cell research because he didn't want to "violate the dignity of human life."

I can forgive someone for voting for Bush. Truly, I can. I can even forgive someone for voting for him twice. I'm sure you have your reasons. Where my patience ends is when all those who understand, all those who behold the workings of the Boy King and do nothing.

All that is necessary for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing. How much evil will We The People allow before we start fighting back?

----------------------~*~----------------------

Hey kids! Check out the current price of the president's War on Terror!

bitterness and nostalgia

2007-10-02T09:37:00.000-07:00

Things move so quickly, painfully so, while I'm busy living. I often regret not simply being, if only to make memory this incessantly frantic time.

I look back upon myself, I remember what I was and when, and without fail I am shocked, bewildered, that the laughing voice of just one year ago could have survived even its own naivety. Remembering how I once viewed the bohemian ideals of truth, beauty, freedom, and love with such amber shades, like precious stones shining, beaming on the horizon, distant and difficult to attain. Recalling how mere pleasures of the present, physical and fleeting as they were, once seemed so much more desirable than Truth in their palatable closeness.

Much has happened in the past year, all of it (I feel) necessary, for that young and raving fool would have been simple fodder for the enemies of Truth, unable to speak boldly of the ideals that have become the keystone, the very foundation his life has come to build itself upon.

I know what must be done, and in the little wisdom I have gained in the past year, I know that I am nowhere near ready. This emboldens me, gives me comfort, for if I did feel confident in my ability to bring Truth to a people consumed by ignorance and greed, I would have learned nothing at all.

Little Boys with Big Guns

2007-09-08T17:30:00.000-07:00

Let us address the unsettling issue of children in power.

It seems more and more that the Boy King and those most loyal of his subjects (Cheney and the like) have taken to playing a little game, a game of house in which the administration are the all-knowing, benevolent patron, laughing and gently chastising We the People, their ignorant and protesting wards, as we are far too simple to understand what's best for us.

Recently, I've found multiple videos depicting that yes, it must be a game of some sort. Why else would the Boy King get so perturbed when we "little people" insist on incessantly questioning him on uncomfortable subjects, topics that make him look like something other than the benevolent leader he is? Obviously, We the People are not playing by the rules.

Various other supporters of the Bush Regime have made reference to these all-important rules, referring to them as Bush's Plan, the great Decision, always striving valiantly for what's best for this country, whether We the People want it or not. Bush has never told us (honestly) how his game is played, though he has succeeded in leading us along for over six years now, all along berating us for our lack of vision or accusing us outright of being traitors to the cause.

Granted, there are some individuals who are content with the games of the Boy King, who support him as his personal agenda drives our nation into the ground. However, for the rest of the world, the Boy King's game has become more than a little childish.

Pleistocene Park (Science-Fact?!)

2007-07-13T15:33:00.000-07:00

Welcome to the world of tomorrow, ladies and gentleman: a cloned mammoth is in our foreseeable future.

Yes, this nigh-mummified pachyderm is exactly what it seems: a juvenile member of a species that faded into nothingness 5,000-9,000 years ago.

Though not the first discovery of its kind, this is only the fourth juvenile to be discovered (in ANY condition!) and this is the most preserved specimen on record, with only a damaged tail to show for its 10,000-year wait beneath the ice and snow of Siberia.

The second-best preserved mammoth on record, found in Taibyr Siberia in 1997, led one geneticist to comment "If you can get us good DNA, we'll have a baby mammoth for you in 22 months." Perhaps this statement was made in jest, or perhaps the geneticist was a bit optimistic, but with this priceless discovery (ripe with nigh-perfectly preserved mammoth DNA), I for one cannot wait to hear what scientists can report by May of 2009.

Return to the Wastes

2007-05-19T07:30:00.000-07:00

I first played the Fallout series four years after it first hit shelves in 1997. Between the first two, I've spent more time in post-apocalyptic American wastes than I have in any other video game world. By the time I found Fallout Tactics (bootlegged copy, god forbid I find it for sale here in B.F.E.) I was hopelessly addicted. Like countless fans before me, I can only wait for the heretofore rumored addition to the series as I played the first three games again and again.

Two paragraphs was all Game Informer gave this title. Two small paragraphs off to the right side of the page, and I was stammering like an idiot, reading and re-reading, convinced my dreams of Fallout 3 had at long last become hallucination. Luckily for all of us, these two humble paragraphs remained, the first heralds of the return to the end of the world.

At last, from the arms of oblivion the beloved title hath been saved. The official website is up, with still images of the game in question. In 17 days, we will have a teaser, and after that: who knows? Does it matter?

Fallout is back.

* * *

Update...

Watching the days count down to the teaser. Though my days are (slightly) more productive, the steadily disappearing days are reminiscent of the game that started it all with a failing water chip and 150 days to find a replacement. Tho not the best game of all time (controls are a little awkward to figure out and the strict turn-based battle sequences might bewilder any gamer without sufficient D&D experience), the original does deserve honorable mention for first exposing us to the Vault Dweller and his (or her) world of survival in the face of nuclear oblivion.

Fallout was an incredible beginning for this series, but the game did need work. Luckily, the company producing the game, Black Isle, proved more than worthy of the task when they released the sequel.

Fallout 2 was the beginning of group control in this series. While the original Fallout had a handful of NPCs that would follow you around and fight alongside you, their AI was not the brightest (Ian's uncanny ability to shoot the main character as often as the enemy is the stuff of legend) and the player's options for interaction and group customization were practically nil (leading to classically frustrating moments of being trapped in a room by your own comrade, or watching your entire team charge an automatic turret armed only with knives). Now, while Fallout 2 remains a strongly main-character oriented game, at least now you had some say in how you were covered.

Further changes include an even more developed story (even when compared to its elaborate, multi-faceted predecessor) the addition of The Car (or Highwayman, if you prefer, arguably the bast thing to happen to the Fallout series) and an even greater emphasis on player-NPC interaction, so that every choice you make will come back to bite or reward you later on. Given that this meant the game could rarely be played the same way twice, this gave Fallout 2 loads of replay value.

One feature that did not change was the turn-based battle sequence, which by this point made very little difference to fans of the original.

Then came Tactics.

Fallout: Tactics was, in many ways, the shining final moments of Black Isle. Group control and strategy became the order of the day, with a slight sacrifice (or to be more accurate, a rethinking of) a decision-controlled story. Where once your karmic bonus and speech skill could get you far and help you to conserve ammo, Tactics saw the need for player-NPC interaction all but eliminated, prompting the player to instead rely heavily on the skills and abilities of their massive pool of teammates. To fans of the original two games, this change was bittersweet, as NPC interactions had been most of the driving force behind the colorful, expansive story. On the other hand, being able to individually guide the strategy of each character meant a more efficient and versatile fighting force (extremely important, especially in the face of even greater improved AI). Further, having each individual teammate just as capable as the player gave Tactics the ability to produce a multiplayer option, another first for the series.

Tactics also saw a drastic reworking of turn-based battle, its most dynamic change from the original series. Now, while turns took place on both sides (player and AI), the decisions and actions made during said turns happened simultaneously, with turns changing automatically. The result was smooth, fluid, action-driven gameplay across the board. For this reason above all others, Fallout: Tactics spoke of a glorious future for the post-apocalypse. Even when Black Isle disintegrated, the devoted fans could still turn their eyes to Van Buren (the fan-made Fallout project) and see that, yes, this change to turn-based battle would live on, even as the style of the originals returned to its proper place.

The Fallout series has come a long ways from its humble beginnings. Its name has become synonymous with the post-apocalypse genre (sadly underrated and underused, admittedly). It has spawned countless fan-made offshoots, from Fallout: Yurop to Apocalypse Quest. In-game references have run the gambit from Amelia Earhart to Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy to They Live. Best of all, the series has established a precedent for being able and willing to improve upon itself with each additional installment. It is this fact, above all others, that I hold in my mind as I watch the days count down to zero, watch time tick away to the greatest gaming secret in my lifetime.

Slopping Hogs (or Boozing Pigs)

2007-05-04T12:48:00.000-07:00

I'm out early this morning with Irish and my girlfriend, early being a euphemism for "we weren't feeling tired yet". Took the wretched little car down to Smith's to pick up some Hornsby's. (My darling had an awful thirst for hard cider, made worse by the current living situation or lack thereof.)

The night had been fine until this quiet adventure; we had a place to sleep (out in Bigfork), we'd been fed, and, having acquired our amber prize, we were slipping south under the blinking orange stoplights of Main. As I said, the night had been fine, at least before I spot the black and white pulling a very obvious U-turn in the rearview.

I was off and parked on a side-road, lights off, even before the po-po started flashing. No dice- they pulled up right behind, and while I was digging out my insurance card, the first little piggy is pounding on my passenger-side window (spooked Irish) telling everyone in the car to keep their hands on their knees, where they could be easily seen.

Second little piggy sidles up to my window, makin' nice. Asks where we've come from (Bigfork) and where we're going (also Bigfork). Asks if I've had anything to drink (nosir). Asks if I know why I've been stopped (nosir).

Apparently I was going ten miles over the speed limit, doing 35 in a 25. I have to take his word for this, seeing as how the wretched wretched little car has no working speedometer. Mr. Good-Cop calls attention to the Hornsby's (unopened) still in the back, asks if anyone in the car has had anything to drink. (While all this is going on, Mr. Bad-Cop has pulled Irish and my girlfriend's IDs. He has seen that Irish is not quite twenty years old.)

The second little piggy zeroes in on Irish. "Have you had anything to drink tonight?" As soon as Irish hesitates, I know we're boned. "...Nosir." Cop hears it too, asks if he's lying, asks if he's had anything to drink. Irish admits he's had a little.

Irish gets pulled, has to go around back and talk to both little piggies and breathe into a tube while my girlfriend and I wait. After a moment or so, Good-Cop sidles up to my window again, asks my girlfriend to hand him the Hornsby's. Once he has the drinks in hand, he informs me that he "cannot allow a minor, especially one who's been drinking, to travel in a car containing alcohol."

He is very knowing, this shifty-eyed piggy. His words, the words themselves, betray nothing, while his twitchy smile and the tone of his voice make an ultimatum of his neutral statement. He says "I'll be taking this" and "Do you understand?". I nod "yesir" and we trade, the drinks for Irish.

They interrogate him for several more minutes while I fume. When he comes back, the piggies flank us one more time. Good-Cop tells us that he's cut us two big breaks, seeing as how we were speeding and how Irish didn't pass his test. He reminds us what a big favor they're cutting us. Then, right after he tells us we can go, he picks up the Hornsby's. "Now it's time for our break" he says. Big laugh from the piggies.

We drive back to Bigfork. I fume. Not the first time I dealt with dirty cops. Certainly won't be the last. Kalispell has more than enough.

"Yes, Virginia...There Are Monsters."

2007-04-17T20:55:00.000-07:00

I do not even know where I should begin. Of course, when something like this happens, the first person you want to talk to are your eyewitnesses. Unfortunately, I've read the reports from the students of Virginia Tech; All I've found are larger questions, with implications so dark I find myself wondering if I want to know the truth.

The shooter (whom has finally been identified as Cho Seung-Hui) was an intelligent 23-year-old English major. He was smart, or slick enough, to purchase one of the most efficient personal killing-machines today (namely, the 9mm Glock 19) over a month before the most ruthless campus-slaughter in history. A year and a half before, his writings, tho not explicitly direct, were laced with enough general anger and malice that a professor pulled Cho from a creative writing class.

We know that he was a loner, a resident alien from South Korea. We do not know his motives, not exactly, but we do know that he wrote of his loathing for "debauchery" and "deceitful charlatans" in a note found in his dorm room. We know that he wrote two very graphic, violent plays, which I have no doubt will someday be sold in bookstores nationwide, just a shelf above Mein Kampf and A Modest Proposal. We know, from survivor testimony, that he was "very serious but very calm" as he walked from one classroom to another, firing indiscriminately into the student population.

What we do not know, and what I would like someone to tell me right fucking now, is why the school sent out a couple of e-mails at a time of day when their students were all rushing to their designated classes, why no-one was reading a prepared statement into an intercom, why nobody thought to call every local radio station and get a full-scale manhunt underway as soon as the first shooting was reported at West Ambler Johnston.

There is a very real possibility that I am doing my best to cope with a senseless loss of life and just want to lash out at someone. However, I do feel that my question is valid, as does one Virginia Tech student who commented "I think the university has blood on their hands because of their lack of action after the first incident".

Their were no public-address statements. Two hours after the first shooting, a killer came to Norris Hall. From the initial reports directly following the shooting, there were 22 dead, 21 if you ignore the body of Cho himself, who (it is reported) took his own life before he could be apprehended.

Now, a day later, the body count has climbed from 22 to 33, the obvious implication being that a large number of the "injured 12" did not have the luxury of a quick death.

To call this a tragedy would be the cruelest of understatements. There are so many things I want to know: why Cho was still a student when he had such obvious anger problems, why the only students warned were those who happened to be online, why we as a country are fighting a war and struggling to help others when we have such monolithic problems of our own that need solving. This event has only filled me with questions, and unfortunately, no-one has seen fit to offer an answer.

I can only do what we all should do: I can hold the ones I love close, and pray.

tribute to Dr. Timothy Leary

2007-02-04T02:19:00.000-08:00

Focusing on the itch in the side of my head and my lucidity, my ability to focus, my sight, to a degree, all fluctuate like breath. I feel pain in my tongue and I am not sure if I just did that or earlier. Frustrated that my thoughts run so fast, eased, comforted by the knowledge that they rotate, come around, with--

Wander away when a word fails to interest me. Engaged in epic tails, heart-wrenching, tails of heartache. Each action, each thought, connected as they are blown apart. I need scissors. 61.

Feeling changes in my physiology, my biology. Heart thunders, or stills as the world settles. Aware of the dulled (or attention deficit?) nerves, achy toenails, dry eyes. A throat, dulled for sure, rumbles with stomach sounds tasted, dimly, and heard, most.

Brief seconds of focus exploding. Times when, despite it all, everything made sense.

And the morning after. Such pressure, coupled with the still-present inability to focus, to separate any one thing from anything else. I'll be able to function today, possibly even pass it off as sleep deprivation, but it won't be pleasant.

Self-discovery through self-exploration...

Eragodammit!

2007-01-30T22:28:00.000-08:00

I have been a bibliophile for the majority of my natural life, ever since I was just a lad of three, thumbing my way through the colorful “Serendipity” series. Needless to say, when a Montana author—a kid my own age, no less—managed to make a name for himself writing something different than “local interest” pieces, I was all over his first novel: a brilliantly-written fantasy called Eragon.

I all but tore through that first epic tale, and I found myself marveling that, at long last, another author had arisen with the blessings of Tolkein, wielding the innate ability to breathe life into a world of ink and paper. When the sequel, Eldest, hit the shelves, I devoured the expansion, noting that Frank Herbert also must have played his part, sharing familiar characters and environments with the budding wordsmith. Since I closed the second book, I have been eagerly awaiting the necessary closer to this epic trilogy.

I write these words now, having just returned from the motion picture that had too soon been made from these fantastic works. I would like to be fair, and not unnecessarily cruel, for I know that a lot of time and effort went into this piece, but to be quite honest, seldom have I been literally offended by the creative liberties taken on a work of literature.

I’m not sure if director Stefen Fangmeier ever read Eragon, or exactly how he came to the conclusion that he was gifted or educated enough to take this incredible work into his careless hands, but the last time something was put together this shoddily, it did not even see theatres. (Bloodrayne, 2005) I do not know how much of a budget Fangmeier had to work with, but I can say for certain that nigh the entire account was blown on the dragon, Saphira (who, especially in newborn-hatchling form, was the only saving grace in the entire picture). Why else would the main heroine be forced to give up the pointed ears of her elven heritage, along with being addressed as an elf at all? Why else would we see none of the fierce dwarves, swinging axes and smashing heads alongside the Varden?

Unfortunately for Hollywood, only a portion of my rage is vented upon the deserving director. Further, I have a few words to say to whom-ever was in charge of casting for this train-wreck. John Malkovich (whose name shall henceforth be synonymous with every curse in my vocabulary) is not a person who is easily taken seriously, let alone an awe-inspiring, malevolent dictator. Further, while the books depicted Eragon as an inexperienced yet good-hearted hormone-driven teenager, watching Edward Speleers run around with a learning disability was just irritating. Please, Edward: stop trying to act.

As long as I’m berating the cast and creative juices behind this waste of celluloid, let me not forget the editors that made this all possible. I have a word of advice for you, ladies and gentlemen, especially if you ever want to keep an audience: the time-lapse is your friend. You are not going to confuse anyone by changing the laws of time and space. We’ve seen it before, we understand that the dragon is not experiencing a twelve-foot growth spurt in thirty seconds, and we are patient enough to understand that movie-time is not real-time. Easier, then, to explain a time lapse than “magical growth clouds”.

In my lifetime, it seems to me that vampires and scientology have drained Hollywood of her creative juices. In her death throes, I have seen everything from urban legends to popular video games scavenged in attempts to make a halfway-decent movie, and it pains me to think that both of these mediums have translated better to screen than the travesty I have witnessed tonight. In his inexperience, Stefen Fangmeier has taken a fantasy world as vibrant and expansive as Narnia or Middle Earth and transformed it into Mystery-Science-Theatre schlock.

I only pray that he leaves the rest of the series alone.

Letter to the spider living in my writing desk

2006-11-10T13:01:00.000-08:00

Interesting that we should both come to accompany this same bit of space; you, a silent, timid watcher, filled to the brim with the tenacity of survival made manifest; myself, a quiet and reserved observer of the human world, stubborn from generations of hard-boiled blood and years of misunderstood energy.

And yet, how strange that my first thought upon meeting you was, of course, “how different”. How arrogant the human mind, that anything not myself in appearance, in voice, is immediately christened separate, apart.

As we got to know each other, as I admired your bravery and your determination, your inquisitiveness as you plotted the lay of the sprawling plastic landscape, I realized that what stories we humans tell are all in praise of your very traits…in the guise of our own heroes, of course, faces and names from our dim and ill-remembered past. How much time is wasted, I wonder, in trying to hold fast to such stories of misnamed and exaggerated heroes, even for the lessons their trials teach us. It seems, as I watch, that our energy would be better spent forgetting these warriors and conquerors of old, surrendering their arrogance in exchange for the humble majesty that is the watcher, the all-seeing hunter in the shadows.

And yet, your people would have no such thing, would they my new office-mate? Ever the enigma, ever the mysterious figure, you would have none of our hero-worship, preferring instead to remain ever-quiet, ever unknown, the face in the empty room.

Perhaps this is yet another trait that we should seek to idolize: humility. Selflessness. Amidst all your commendable, admirable qualities, it is this quiet modesty that is the most rare, the most incredible, for with all your other gifts, you seek not recognition as a man. Do you understand that these gifts are yours by right, no great achievement or challenge, and thus see them as unworthy of boasting?

Yet, even when you do accomplish something great, be it a massive and elaborate web or a particularly stubborn horsefly, still you seek not recognition; you just go about your next task, with bowed head and set mandibles, as single-minded as the most skilled of monks, living each moment and what it offers and no more.

Though I’m sure you care little for my opinion, I am a great admirer of your work, great Anansi. Please remain my desk-mate, my quiet companion, for as long as you wish.

November Seventh: Our Small Rebellion

2006-11-07T10:35:00.000-08:00

Another couple of years has come and gone, and We the People have had quite a time, haven’t we? We’ve been misled, misinformed, and misrepresented. We’ve been abused, had supplies we’d grown to rely on take greater strain on our already debt-filled pockets.

We’ve condemned a man that we put in office, for doing the heartless, militaristic things that we knew he would.

We’ve ignored a floundering war and the deaths of our sons and brothers in favor of political scandal and questions of decency, nevermind that there has been nothing moral or decent about this government since this selfsame war began.

The current administration is playing We the People like a nation of puppets, fighting amongst ourselves and tangling our strings over trivial matters and stubbornly avoiding the big questions, because those questions have no pleasant or easy answers.

However, as unpleasant as this may be, this stubborn ignorance and irresponsible behavior has gone on long enough. We, yes, We The People have allowed the administration to grow unchecked through three generations. And yes, as We The People, the responsibility for this malignant institution and its actions falls squarely upon our shoulders. It is our own creation, and thus, it is our cross to bear.

But fear not! For I do not come to condemn but instead speak of a way in which even the laziest citizen, the most fearful of conflict, even the most apathetic of us can make amends by bringing this power-hungry political machine to a crashing halt.

Our forefathers, those ingenious giants of political ideal, our country’s distant Golden Moment, gave us this Seventh of November, that we might share our opinion peacefully, in mass and in force, before our government could hoard too much power, if it’s not already too late.

This day, coupled with our 1st Amendment, is the simplest way We The People can remind our government who they work for.

Did I lose anyone, there? Let me reiterate: this is not a process of choosing our next John, of picking a new bully to push us around; this is a job application before us, where we choose the best employee available. We’ve gotten some good, hard workers in the past, some employees of the month, but we’ve also hired a number of shitcans, haven’t we?

If you don’t like, or don’t trust any of the names on your ballot, fear not: it’s to be expected. The day I trust a political figure is the day I grab my ankles for anyone on the street. However, even picking from a nest of spiders, we needn’t choose one with blood on its mind.

Obviously, looking at the election of our Boy King, the voting process is not what it used to be. Be that as it may, if we do not vote, if we do not put forth the effort for even this small act of rebellion, we are essentially facing our next disease-ridden John with shit-eating grins, willfully submitting to a stranger.

In that case, we might as well go the extra mile and begin referring to ourselves as BITCH.

We take this weight willingly upon ourselves. Knowing that, I cannot see how We The People would knowingly take on a greater burden than they could bear. I have faith that you, or at least most of you, will have enough freedom of thought to choose the right man (or woman), regardless of party lines or peer pressure.

On the other hand, perhaps I’m giving you too much credit…maybe you’ve already forgotten how to rebel.

I guess we’ll find out at the polls.

This one goes out to the ones I love...

2006-10-04T10:50:00.000-07:00

This one goes out to all of you who have “a wonderful personality”; those of you who have ever been like a brother or a sister to the person you love most dearly; to those of you who have been rejected, with no explanation as to why; to the “nice guys”; all of you who have ever stared hard into the mirror, looking for that deciding flaw; this goes out to all of you who have realized that you are truly alone, and all who are afraid:

You’re beautiful. I love you. Don’t ever give up.

This one goes out to all of you who “hook up” without even trying; those of you who grimace at the idea of bestowing affection on someone who does not meet your superficial ideals; to those of you who thought you could do better; to those of you who ever asked “is it cheating if”; to anyone who ever said “you’re such a nice guy”; this one goes out to the beautiful, to the confident, to those whose worst fears could be nothing more than, at worst, the repercussions of your decadent ways:

Fuck you. Fuck you all.

You live as though you have it all under control, either not hearing or ignoring the cries of those hearts you break. Is it possible that you don’t understand that these are lives you’re toying with, lives only different from your own in that they (apparently) were not blessed enough to be born under the same narcissistic star? You’re emotional carnivores, little better than vampires in your depraved lust for attention and pleasure, not even having the decency to end the suffering of those you injure in your relentless psychological assault.

As a strong believer in karma, O egotistical assailants, I do not pity you. I’m simply thankful that at least you, too, will someday understand the pain that you have brought into this world.

Congratulations on your abusive boyfriend, well done on that STD you got from that beautiful stranger, and I’m so happy to hear that your period is over two weeks late. These are the tender fruits of the garden you have sewn. They are as much yours as the scars your victims will never be able to forget.

Bloody Dollar

2006-10-01T14:38:00.000-07:00

So let me tell you about this bloody dollar...

This dollar I carry around in my wallet is part of a tip I received a few weeks back. I don’t remember the order itself, but it must not have been much, as I was able to balance the paper bag in one broad hand as I knocked.

It must have been my first stop on that run, because the bag was still hot.

The woman who answered the door was thin. I would even be comfortable calling her malnourished. Even after I announced that I was from Chinatown, she still looked confused.

As she moved away from the door, turning back into the apartment, I became aware of the smell: over-sick, over-sweet, more harsh than anything I’ve ever drawn into my own lungs. I took two deep sniffs and couldn’t place it.

The man of the house would have answered to “thug”. He was ripped at one time, I’m sure, but whatever he was using had eaten him almost as slight as his girlfriend. Faded, indistinct tattoos marked his back and shoulders, and the contours of his frame were highlighted with the same red that peeked at the corner of his eyes.

Judging from their squinting, I’m sure the opening door was the first time light had greeted them for some time.

He found my money amidst the couch cushions, enough for the food and a tip. (Not a bad tipper, for the record.) He even attempted to count them out, a handful of blood-smeared ones and fives that would have alarmed me if not for that over-sweet stench.

As I walked away from that stinking apartment, my head buzzing even from the faint contact I’d had from that enclosed apartment, I realized that despite his appearance, that man was probably making more money than I would ever see in my time as a delivery boy. Sure, the cost was greater, for though his frail form was nowhere near the leprous skeletons that have become the poster-children for meth here in Montana, he had certainly left the better part of his health behind him.

This was my glancing blow with the drug-cooking underground of Kalispell. Two malnourished bodies, a handful of tattoos, eyes lost and confused as abused children, and a handful of wrinkled, bloodstained bills. Not people to be feared, hunted, or ridiculed, nor, I would say, to be pitied, for this is a lifestyle that has been chosen for its benefits, and everything must have its price.

I present them to you, as they are, not for judgment, but only for your consideration.

Live Without Fear

2006-09-06T15:03:00.000-07:00

Welcome, children. Today, we're going to talk about fear.

Specifically, we're going to talk about the differences between you, the afraid, and those that long ago shed their fear the way a snake sheds skin and sharks shed teeth.

You see, walking amongst us are a select few, the fearless. The Enlightened. Those who have hit rock-bottom and found themselves whole. They looked around and realized that once you have nothing left to lose, you have nothing left to fear.

Again, from another angle: those who have everything live in fear. Those who have nothing live in peace, without fear. It is the very idea of nothing that we fear, and fear drives us to flee from that perilous-sounding position of "rock bottom", that place in which dwell madmen and zealots lurk like monsters.

What we fail to realize is "rock bottom" is also the place of meditation for gunslingers and samurai.

Jesus, the one they called The Christ, realized this. That is why he said "sell all you own and follow me." He was challenging his followers to throw themselves to that place of enlightenment, to embrace "rock bottom" and live without fear.

Give up your fear. Before we embrace what it is to have nothing, that is exactly what we will have: nothing.

You have to give up.

You have to give up.

What're the insomniacs watching?

2006-08-14T16:52:00.000-07:00

Sitting cross-legged, back against the stacked-high king in a cheap room somewhere in Colorado. Unable to force interest in the softcore plot flickering mutedly across the screen. Marvelling at how very dry it all is, just barren forms feigning desire, twin deserts of flesh without feeling, dead husks in a dull pantomime of passion.

Again and again the impotent play unfolds, as indifferent and relentless as the emotions they pretend to feel. An equation makes itself clear, in time. Just insert the variable--blonde, brunette, redhead. Not even their names matter...Regardless of what they call themselves, at one level, one name covers all the bases.

I try to justify its being, struggle perhaps to make it something profound, seeking a metaphor for life in a weak plot of laughing betrayal and faux lust. A fool's errand, a work of futility, for this pseudo-erotic ballet is only facinating in its inability to touch, understand, in any way capture anything living, be it emotion or form. A study in unlife on channel 18.

Where have all the flowers gone?

2006-07-05T20:21:00.000-07:00

I'm not meeting a whole lot of individuals, anymore. I've met members of groups, I've met minorities, and I've met a all kinds of employees, but I'm beginning to wonder if the individual hasn't become an endangered species.

Think about it. You go to a fancy shindig, your host introduces you to an old friend. What's the first thing you hear, almost attached to the old friend's name? Their occupation. "This is Mister Samson, Banker at the First National, and over here we have Linda Barfurl, Sewer Technician."

Even worse when someone disregards their occupation and decides to identify themselves through their race, becoming the stereotypical ideal for the black/hispanic/white/asian citizen! Do all those "gangstas" you see in dark alleys really want to be there, or do they whistle showtunes while their macho comrades aren't looking?

Then we have the political activists, those who allow their own moral fiber to take a back seat, instead trusting "the Party" to know what is best, and using their small, yet significant vote just to further the will of the Party.

There are many other examples, but I think you get the idea. When was the last time someone had the courage to say "Hello, I'm Jim-Bob-Charlie-Frank" and let it be? I would rather talk to an individual, learn what makes them different from the world (and love them for being different) than meet another clone who takes their strength and identity from the masses.

Individuals, you are needed; we have been catering to the masses for far too long. We are not a hive-mind, we are not clones, we are not slaves.

We are people. We are different. We are free.

Pharmacy and the X-Chromosome

2006-06-18T19:47:00.000-07:00

So I tweaked the hell out of my back at work yesterday. Hobbled like an old man until this morning. I'm chalking it up as a "learning experience", despite the fact that this is the fifth or so time I've done this in as many years.

Took eight Tylenol in three hours, trying to alleviate the pain. (If you've read the warning label on the Tylenol bottle, you know I was flirting with death.) Despite the warning, it did nothing. Not a thing. No-thing. Not even a mild high from the grams of acetaminophen coursing through my veins. My back still hurt like someone had loosed a bonesaw betwixt my shoulderblades and I didn't even have the comfort of light-headedness to distract my nervous system.

On the upside, it inspired me to write this.

Judging from my experience, I have come to the conclusion that Tylenol was a drug invented by a man. I'm not trying to be sexist or anything, but let's face it: a man's responce to pain is "shake it off". This explains why a man's painkiller would be designed to do little more than take the edge off, leaving the man to stoicly ignore the remaining ache.

Now I'm not trying to say that a woman is in any way weaker than a man...just smarter. Why the hell would you not design a drug to eliminate as much pain as possible?! As men, we have no idea what real pain is. Take my example...

Some time ago, I used to live with a girl who was cursed with impossibly-painful cramps one week out of every month. I used to sit up with her and offer whatever comfort I could, but really, it was like bringing chicken soup to a third-degree burn victim: I couldn't do shit for her, and her pain was intense enough to scare the shit out of me. (And if you know me, loyal reader, you know that I don't scare easily.)

Back when we were dating, this person I cared deeply for (tho occasionally worried about) used Ibuprofin. I never really discussed this with her, but for me, seeing a woman take a specific brand of painkiller is enough to make me go out and buy a bottle. The logic: if you want advice on pain, talk to someone who was told as a child they could look forward to having a three-pound parasite removed through their pee-hole.

You see, I'm an absolute wuss when it comes to pain, and the idea of having to shoulder it without a word just to be manly? Piss on that happy crappy. Ibubrofin and Bayer have gotten me this far, and for anything worse, there's always Morphine.

"Is loving one another so damn hard?!"

2006-06-01T00:11:00.000-07:00

It began with a very simple, very innocent question, one that rocked me to my heels: "What's wrong with being comfortable?"

An honest question, one worthy of responce. What's wrong with just being comfortable? In a word, everything.

We live in a culture that believes, somehow, that the only way to address the poor and downtrodden is by ignoring them. This is a culture that wastes more than most cultures consume. Liars and thieves run our major businesses, their cutthroat business ethics bringing thousands of jobs to India while the rift between our Upper- and Middle-class grows ever more imposing.

Men and women are in prison awaiting trials for crimes they did not commit. Murderers and rapists have been squeezed out of overcrowded cells, and wander the streets fighting for the same level of survival that most of us are satisfied to attain. It doesn't matter if you win, so long as you don't lose. It doesn't matter who's in charge, so long as they don't mess with your life, your own little drama.

Hate exists. Supremists exist. Rape and fear and hopeless situations exist. People are murdered because someone got bored. Hospitals turn people away because they have become a business, a business of helping those who can afford it.

Every day, children become so used to the idea that no one is coming to save them, that the safest way to play is to let go of their dreams.

Comfortable? I don't want to meet the person who's comfortable with what I see.

The Cradle Will Fall

2006-05-24T08:37:00.000-07:00

A post by my ex recently drew my attention back to the "sexual predator" track that shows like Dateline are so fond of. In case you're new to the scene, here's the score so far: some local news stations have signed up with the police to coverthe entire process of luring and trapping sexual predators, so that the footage might give hope to the families of sexual crimes and parents who sit terrified every time their daughter leaves the house. All well and good, and while I don't care two jerks about Dateline themselves, I applaud the police forces who seek to keep children safe from these sick men.

The problem, as always, comes when everyone starts reaching for someone to blame. Nightline has covered various stories of underage girls engaging in a range of illegal, immoral activity, from drug abuse to prostitution. This is nothing new...In my father's generation, the hippy generation, they would have covered the exact same thing. However, in my father's generation, they would have turned around and blamed the Beatles.

In our generation, Nightline is blaming MySpace.

This is where I speak out. I'm not denying that these girls are here, or that they are doing any of the things Nightline was claiming. (Back in the day, my friends and I would see these same girls on the street, engaging in the same giggly, too-flirty behavior. We called them "tinywhores".) No, where I take issue is the idea that this behavior is somehow the fault of MySpace, any more than murder is the fault of the gun.

The problem here (it seems to me) is the same one America has always had: everyone is trying so hard to follow that age-old rule of "Don't tell someone else how to raise their children." Well, bullshit. In my humble oppinion, that gets you as far as common sence before you're due a smack in the head.

Parents of America, pay attention to your children. If they're dressing like a pop idol, with their legs and belly showing, say something. If they're wearing makeup like an adult woman, speak up. If thinking about them, dressed as they are, alone on the street makes you uncomfortable, put a stop to it. Remember: you're their parents! You hold the most sway over their lives!

If they balk at your decision, if they hate you for a week, a month, a year, so what? How many times did you scream "I hate you" when your own parents put their feet down?

I don't care what anyone else says, and unlike a lot of people, I don't really care what they do with MySpace. If they lock it down, I'll sigh and shake my head (once again) at the foolishness of mankind. However, if it's the final loss before people wake up and start looking at parenting, I'll say it was a worthy sacrifice.

Note: For the blog that inspired this, visit Ivy's stuff.

Damn you Hollywood

2006-05-23T21:13:00.000-07:00

If you perk at the sound of an igniting engine like some individuals I could mention, you're probably familiar with the Fast and the Furious series by now. Not the best series, by far...hell, not a good series by any stretch of the imagination outside of certain circles. Luckily, however, it was a series that had been put to bed before it could reach the infamous "trilogy" status that had doomed so many before. Though the concept and so-called "plot" would always be bad, it was acceptably bad.

That is, until Justin Lin thought it would be a good idea to raise the formerly-dead series with its newest installment: The Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift.

This has to stop. Seriously. This street racing thing is becoming a cancer, beginning in the foul, disease-rotted minds of the vampires controlling Hollywood and manifesting its worst symptoms in innocent, impressionable kids who, within the space of 90 minutes, are irrevocably convinced that small Asian cars can be "pimped" or "tricked out" to be massive, unquestionably-cool speed demons.

You know these kids. They're the kids who laugh like jackals as they wast an inch of rubber from their already too-low tires. They're the kids who spend thousands on a great sound system so that they can play music with all the grace and melody of tribal drums, at high enough decibals to permanently scar their auditory nerves. They're the kids who buy neon lights that illuminate the road under their ugly little cars as they race down this or that main drag, winning not even the respect of their peers with whatever skill they might have.

No one has ever informed them that their Civic will never be as fast as Vin Diesel's, and that they could easily save their "mod" money and invest in a car with far more power right off the line, without customizing a thing.

No one has informed these poor little children that the very culture that made their cars made them to conserve fuel, sacrificing speed in the process.

No one has taken the time to point out to these kids that, within twenty years, they are still going to be working a dead-end job, lusting after high school girls, and cruising Main with kids half their age.

As I said, this has to be stopped. I like a good chase scene as much as the next guy, but I prefer mine in a nice little package of plot. Let the children go, Justin Lin. Let them grow up to be real people.

The Reverend Mr. Black...

2006-05-19T12:29:00.000-07:00

There is something altogether wrong with Christians today, and I think it begins with the term "God-fearing."

I'm not wrong about this. Jesus, the one they call The Christ, said "unless you can come to me as a child, you will never be able to see my Father's kingdom." Even today our priests and evangelists share this story, saying this is The Way, this is the straight and proper road...yet in the same breath, they are able to call themselves and others, those whom they praise as those following The Way, "God-fearing".

Perhaps I'm the only one who sees the irony in this. Perhaps I'm the only one pointing at all God-fearing evangelists of the world (the prophets with the fire of God lit 'neath their devine hindquarters) and laughing myself sick. These men, for men thy are, preach of a God powerful and mighty, fearsome in his love, and I realize that they have no idea what the hell they're talking about.

Have I lost you? Let me paint a picture, as Jesus would have done: A child does not fear God. If a child fears something, it runs. If a child knows its creator, it knows a presence not unlike that of the ultimate parent: a protector when one is scared, a friend when one is lonely, an ear when one has a secret. In the heart of a child, God is in all the beauty and the joy of life...To a child, fearing God is as ridiculous as fearing the sunshine.

"Come to me with the heart of a child." Come with hearts full of love and joy.

Fear of Happiness

2006-05-09T20:42:00.000-07:00

Been thinking of my exes lately...which is unusual, because of the three, I only have contact with my first. (And her rarely!)

With Ali's help, I think I'm close to having someone again...which makes me feel good, warm and loved, but also makes me think of them. The closer I am to happiness, the more I think about other times I've known it...and then lost it.

"Happiness is fleeting", as Drew once said.

Three...each different. Each special to me, in their own way.
Each one gone under different circumstances.

If I wasn't more in control of my mind, I'd prolly give up before I got hurt anymore...as it is, I think I'll take the uncertain, painful road.

I will embrace fear, I will rejoice that I am alive.

south of the border

2006-05-04T06:38:00.000-07:00

Just heard this little snippet on the news. Apparently the Mexican government is adjusting their drug laws so that there will be more lenient punishments in cases of "individual use" and more extreme penalties for traffickers, pushers, and dealers.

Tom Brokaw and the other anchors immediately began ranting about how horrible this was, how wrong it was to let up on any drug-user, and interviewed American addicts who told how easy it would be to go down to Mexico and buy heroin.

Now, not to be argumentative or anything, but hold up just a minute. What are we really trying to stop here? Are we trying to stop people from using drugs in the privacy of their own homes (where some might argue that it is their own business whatever they do) or are we trying to stop the sale and spread of these same drugs?

As for me, I don't care what someone does in their own home, so long as they don't hurt anyone else. It's unfortunate that they feel the need to drown themselves in chemicals, but it is their problem. As soon as they bring it on the street, they share their problems with the world.

I think that this adjustment is the best idea the Mexican government has had in quite some time. If we could get our own government to adopt this kind of thinking, maybe we wouldn't have prisons full of victimless crimes.

Return to Silent Hill...

2006-04-30T20:29:00.000-07:00

Just saw Silent Hill, starring Radha Mitchell. Mixed feelings all around.

I have to begin by saying that I have played the games this movie is based on, and have completed the first game, so I do have a fair grasp of the series' backstory. (I have achieved the "bad-plus" ending, thusfar.)

So you know, the backstory was changed drastically so as to be acceptable in a mainstream Hollywood feature. (I cannot say how, as I do not wish to spoil the movie.) This was wrong...the story of Silent Hill should not be "acceptable"...it is disturbing. It is haunting. It is everything one would expect from a brief glance into a nightmare, or perhaps from Hell itself.

This was captured superbly in the visual affects. Certain images and camera shots made famous by the game did appear in the movie, though the subtle slivers of a world gone wrong were often overlooked. (A mummified doll, for example.) I was also thrilled with the director's addition of the ashfall, provided as a fitting explanation to the constant drifting whiteness from "fog mode".

There's more I'd like to say, changes or consistancies that I do and do not agree with, but I am going to hold fast to my rule about not spoiling movies. I will reiterate, however, that "acceptable" is in no way synonomous with "good".

It bothers me immensely that the Scientologists and vampires among the Screen Actors Guild got their grubby little paws on the sinister beauty that is Silent Hill. Here's hoping that Hollywood's rendition inspires some gifted Japanese director to do better.