Tonight, I Don't Know.
Wednesday, April 29
I am having such a hard time mailing this fucking game. I've tried to send it through Best Buy, apparently doing that will make some man some where so pissed that he'll walk to my house barefoot through broken glass so that he can shoot me in the chest. I tried putting the damn box in the mail box, box won't fit. I even stood outside the mailbox repeatedly forcing and removing the box in hopes that it would compact a little more and fit comfortably. Nope. It just looked like I was pleasuring the mailbox with both my fists. This thing is becoming a curse, eventually I'm going to have to take it to USPS or wait for the mailman and intercept. He's going to be pissed. There's probably a bunch of work involved in taking a package and he most likely won't want to do it. Mail people are known for their laziness. Nevermind, Homer Simpson is known for his laziness. Mail people are known for their indestructible breasts.
What?
So, sometime this weekend I'm going to compete in this challenge. Two people sit down at a table, you and your partner. The waiter brings you a 28 inch pizza. You have 1 hour to finish it. IF you finish this pizza in 1 hour, they will reward you with 100 dollars. Ya know what? Easiest 50 bucks I will ever make. Without a doubt. They're going to be PISSED. Just drive to the bank lady, I want it in singles.
They take your picture too. I wonder if it'll be a POLAROID. Woah.
Ted, Don't Fall Asleep!
Sunday, April 26
This "GAME" is starting to drag me down, man. Drag me the fuck down. Into hell. This is the circle that frat boys end up in. Who's grand fuck idea was this?!
Goddamnit, it was mine.
I wish I just thought one particular little thought before I called TK like a kid in middle school who just stayed up and watched 'skin'-amax for the first time; "Would I be willing to eat an entire can of monkey fingers?" Then none of this would've happened and I could finally be happy. I would start dreaming again when I fall asleep instead of waking up screaming with dried tears on my face. No one could eat the fingers of any animal and keep their sanity, no one. And before you say anything, -No- 'Chicken Fingers' aren't real fingers. I looked it up. Anyway, tonight was some sort of pepper soaked in the sweat of Satan. Unfortunately, I can't get too detailed about all the "Holy fuck!" and "TITTY CANCER!" that went on tonight, because I want to save it for after the game is over, when I publish my official "Myth-tery Can" journal. Which is complete with pictures, by the way.
It was 92 degrees today. 92 degrees in April. I want a rope around mars that several million of us can pull to move us a little farther away from the sun when there's a "this-shit-aint-right" kind of day.
Darling, I Know You Need The Cash.
Saturday, April 25
It may be too "Poppy" for you, but "Tell Me What To Do" by Metro Station can relax even the most terrified of hearts. Even that one heart in Temple of Doom that got pulled out of that poor guy's chest and was still beating until it burst into flames.
And now, an excerpt from a text conversation I had with my drunk girlfriend (typos are EXACTLY as written):
Me: How much have you had?
Her: A shot and a hakf. Do yot have money for _______ and ill pay you cack>
Me: Your messages are FUCKED up.
Her: UUUNGHH. Whau wnu doing?
Me: Haha. I'm with Scott, Helen Keller.
Her: I thougu ynu were with tl and the gang
Me: I said "friends".
Her: snrry
Me: What are you doing?
Her: When ynu wopkhng tomorrow
Me: Don't
Her: playing kgnks
Me: I'm on my way?
Notice her response to "What are you doing?" She RUINS the word "working" but levels out "tomorrow" like a champ. How did this happen? Also note how she is going to pay me "cack" in exchange for actual money.
Oh yeah, if you're reading this Helen Keller, I'm sorry about the joke.
We Know All Your Bad Habits.
Friday, April 24
Joblo.com finally posted something about the planned Ninja Turtles (live action) remake. Apparently the studios want to concentrate on a reboot, which seems to be the popular way to fuck things up these days, and discard the story and personalities that an entire generation of young (money having) adults have grown up with. Oh well. There's no sense in writing anything now, I have no idea of what they want. Neither do they actually, it's just going to be a toy movie. Sometimes you hope for something else, though, another Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. Where the product fails and the movie prevails and the studios look like total fucking idiots.
I'm getting that feeling again. The "Gotta-Get-Out-Of-Here-And-Sleep-In-The-Desert" feeling. All I can do now is daydream of cheap motels in the middle of nowhere, flickering fluorescent bulbs, rainy nights in the midwest and blue hour looking out on Seattle.
Still want it and I hope that want never goes away.
There's A New Boss In Town.
Wednesday, April 22
Hearing Scott's desperate vocals, after walking in while he was recording (unknown to him), I got to hear for the first time what true artistic sincerity sounded like. I'm guessing it was a song about lost loves and mistakes, but there was a notion of humility that resonated throughout. Good hook, great layering, something that could mutate into an unruly monster and then dominate the radio waves with an sledgehammer. It, I guess, was just somewhat shocking. The level of honesty in his music, it was him without his fists up. Out of shell.
I just sat and listened while he sang in the studio, somewhere in the middle of the refrain he messed up and cut himself off with a sharp "Fuck." He looked somewhat surprised/somewhat aware that I was just outside the door and laughed awkwardly. Perhaps he was embarrassed, I'm not sure, maybe he just thought it was funny that he fucked up. Whichever it was, I felt like I had walked in front of the camera just as the flash went off. Like I screwed with his gumption and I would see Hell or high water before I heard him sing again. So we played Halo.
This captain's log makes me feel the same way. If my friends are reading it, fine, but I hope they never bring it up. I hope they never ask me about the embarrassing truth I jot down here, I don't want them to see me like that. The doubt is what keeps it all alive, that maybe nobody-yet-everybody knows about this place. It's how I keep it honest and in thirty years, that's how I'll prefer it. Honest. Please son/daughter, don't make me regret typing this out. If you're reading this, know that I do love you and that I really don't want to throw you off a cliff. No matter how serious it sounds, I probably don't really want to do it. Unless you suck as a child, in which case I'm thinking it. Really hard. Say "no" to any trips to the Grand Canyon.
Seriously though, I had or am having sex with your mother. I win. You lose. Get a job. Don't touch my comics (unless you're a boy). Go out and fall in love (unless you're a girl).
I want to make music, awesome music. And I want to be on Conan O'Brian.
The future's gonna suck.
That's What I'm Gonna Do.
Monday, April 20
I just finished Eastbound and Down. My god, that ending was depressing. Fitting, but draining to the last drop. At the end, when Kenny's in the truck and you can tell he wants to cry but just can't, you want to cry for him. Why will no one cry for me? I NEED SURROGATE TEARS BECAUSE I'M TOO FUCKING MANLY.
True story.
The end of my day was depressing, I guess, but a different level of depression. A crushing defeat from the worst step parents you could ever have - Mother Earth & Father Time. They are old. Boring. Dickheads. Here, I'll tell you why:
I woke up to my beautiful girlfriend cuddling all over me. Snoodling. She was actually snoodling. That's fine, who wouldn't want to wake up to that? Well, I finally saw the time and it was ten o'clock. Fuck. I thought she was going to wake me up at noon. Unfortunately, she was a responsible adult and made a doctor's appointment earlier that morning and I guess settled on 1:00 PM. Good girl. You couldn't have made it two or three? Had to do one? Okay, okay, okay. One's fine, whatever. ANYWAY, I get up to find that none of my eBay items have shipped. Whatthefuck. These are hot items, bitches. You all should be snatching up this garbage with the quickness. Get killed. I shrug that shit off and grab my keys. BUT FIRST, gotta check to see if my dad left me the money he owes me, for it certainly would help since I have to drive up to Reston AND pay for lunch AND pay for the appointment. OH what do you know, he didn't leave me shit. Whatever "Dad". I'll get you back later in life, I promise.
We depart. Keys in hand, cargo shorts on, we're set and nothing can stop us. I make it about twenty miles and then realize, STUPID MOTHER FUCK! I forgot my iPhone headset back home. How am I going to endure this sillyfuck drive to Reston without my tunes? HOW?! Conversation and consolation. That's how. Cue the torrential downpour. Yup, cats and dogs and alligators and mystical chinese dragons and shit. The sky opened up it's zipper and it started pissing rain. Then I sat through sixty straight miles of traffic with commuters from Maryland. I don't know if I've ever talked about Maryland motorists here, but it's high times I start. MD doesn't have driving instructors. Did you know that? Look it up. Bring up Google and try to find one, it'll give you a 404 "Cannot Find Web Page" error. That or it'll bring up the closest search possible with the most results and ask you "Did you mean, 'What percentage of automobile related fatalities are attributed to Maryland drivers?' " I'm sure the statistic is staggering. These people should be stripped of feet so that they can never apply pressure to floor mounted foot pedals. We need, to do, something, about this. Right now.
After I fought away the Marylanders with promises of free cigarettes and tasty dirt, we finally found our way to the doctor. I GPS'd my way to the nearest Best Buy while I waited. Turns out it's only a convenient five minutes away. Sweet! I get probably one mile away when the phone rings. It's Daniel Merritt (computer sales supervisor) and I wonder what he wants. "Where are you?"
What? Where am I? Why does this cocksqueezer want to know where I am. He can chew on asshole for all I care. "I'm in Reston bringing my ho to a ho doctor. What's up?"
"You know you work today, right?"
"Fuck you, check again. I wrote that shit down verbatim, right into my phone."
"You work in PC's today."
Dammit.
"Sorry, dude, I'm at the doc like I said and I'm wearing border shorts and haven't showered. What am I supposed to tell you?"
"Uh, fuck, I don't know. I have to go, but I need you to come in. Call me back when you've got this shit figured out."
Mother pusbucket. Ugh, FUCK! I barely made it two feet into the Reston Best Buy before Emily called. "All done! They didn't take my blood." Whyyyyyyyy!? That's what we drove up for! Regardless, in a fit, I screeched back to the doctor and picked up the little one. I explained the situation, but took her to an Indian buffet instead. Finally, something good!
"Not for long, Dexter, not for long." said the Devil.
Somehow we got lost and made a thirty mile mistake, it's gonna take me an hour to get back to Central Park. Hour and eight minutes to be exact. I'm met with nothing but grimaces and scowls. "Let's get you a blue shirt."
Now, I hate PCs. I hate selling things to people who don't want to buy anything. I hate explaining our services and warranties, every fucking time. These people don't understand how they got out of the house in the morning, let alone what accidental damage protection is. What I hate even worse is I had to wear this suffocating long-sleeved blue shirt the whole time. I couldn't walk ten feet without breaking into a sweat. Being out of shape had nothing to do with it, it was as if I was coated in shalaque. I feel like Jill Masterson in this damn thing!
Trust me. Five hours could'nt have gone any slower. All the while this is happening, a tornado watch/waring lapses into effect for Spotsylvania and Fredericksburg. Sweet! I live and work in both of those places. Looks like this god damn storm wanted a piece of my ass no matter what. Emily needed her computer and drove all the way back to my house, luckily I caught her before she did and convinced her to grab my uniform.
The front gate crashes closed and my day is seemingly over. This thought passed through my brain mere moments before the shrill and abrasive shriek of some stupid bitch started echoing off the acoustics. A "Tonya Jackson" broke her AC adapter and came storming into Geek Squad. For some reason she thought the keyboard I repaired TWO MONTHS prior was to blame. Now I know not everyone is tech savvy and may not know this, but, a keyboard and an AC adapter have NOTHING to do with each other. Just as your car tire and your tailor have nothing to do with each other. "He done fitted my fat ass into a suit! Now my tire done blew up! WHITE DEVIL MUSTA DUNNIT!!!!! Obama save meh!" Through a series of events so complex and seemingly unrelated that it degrades the mind to even attempt reasoning it out, I was eventually wrangled into being present for this shitfest.
A lot of tears and crossed arms later, they finally came to the agreement that if she didn't leave the store that some of the geeks were going to McGuyver together a pressure fed device that would fire nails at her. Unnecessary chaos for an unnecessarily chaotic day.
Getting to lie in your own bed with not a care in the world in the late late hours of the night is the only cure for the head cold I would call today. Nothing else could go wrong.
OH yeah. I just found out that one of the items that finally sold was payed with by eCheck. A form of payment that requires five to seven business days to validate.
Dirty. Cock.
May They Sell My Bones.
Friday, April 17
It grows increasingly more difficult to pay speeding tickets. Some part of me wants to lawyer it up and act as my own council, dig through a thousand pages of precedents until I stumble upon some legal loophole and kick sand in the officer's face. I guess it's hard to admit that you made a mistake. Everything else can be covered up and the consequences can dissipate in the night, but not a speeding ticket. Five dollars for every mile over. 44 in a 25. I don't believe in math so you can figure it out yourself, but there is a ragged bullethole in my bank account where almost two hundred hard-earned dollars used to be. Think of the bullshit I could be buying, making me happy. I'm talking epic bullshit that I can pretend to enjoy more than anything else. I hear that the comic book guy needs some of that money so that he'll stop shelving some of my subscriptions.
Well that brings up another bitch-worthy tidbit. The comic book guy, Ed, MY comic book guy. I love 'em, I really do, but some guy I work with who frequents the shop walked by me the other day to fill me in on why Ed probably wouldn't sell me this Silver Surfer he just got in because I haven't been picking my subscriptions. Um, cool, thanks guy, but no one told you to be the doomsayer here. What the fuck is Ed divulging my financial information to some shmuck I referred? He has no clue if I'm best friends or at the very least true acquaintances with this guy, yet he's just rattling off shit like "Your homeboy, Dexter, hasn't been buying comics lately. He's probably got money problems, so I'm going to get rid of some of his subscriptions." Now what do I say to Ed? Actually, I know what I'm going to say. "Oh Ed, I didn't even want those fucking subscriptions. You're the one who insisted that I start up a box so that I didn't have to dig for my new books every week." He turned this into a priority, not me. Shitty shitty shit-shit. For serious. Breaking up with a comic book guy is hard, it's like saying "Sayonara!" to a therapist. You've got a relationship. You develop a sense of loyalty. "My comic book guy is better than yours, his dad can beat up your dad!" Now I'm going in all half-cocked thinking Ed's going to talk me down for not picking up funnybooks. At least I'm not THAT guy. I don't spit venom unless it's my own, sometimes you have to fasten up and stop being a vessel. And that's the truth, Ruth.
I can't wait for Moon.
Cindy Crawford.
Tuesday, April 14
I was just thinking, this morning, "I gotta update today. There's a lot of funny stuff that I've thought up in the last couple of days." Um, yeah, fuck, it's been a week. Seven entire days, what the hell. Whatever, worse things have happened, like sodomy. Hmm, now I'm trying to think of the kind of people who wouldn't mind sodomy and all I can come up with is the gays. The boy gays. Frankly, I'm not going to try and pretend like I know anything about homo-culture, so I have no fucking clue if it's just the boy gays that don't mind sodomy, the girl gays might like it too. Fine, I change what I said. Worse things have happened, like being thrown off a cliff.*
*Update: Apparently children like this.
Okay, so there I am, minding my own business and sitting at the dining room table. I'm eating some tuna, some ranch, some whyeat thins and you know, being a cool guy. Not hurting anybody. That's when I noticed a bag of green apples sitting on the table in some old basket, I think "Dexter. YOU DESERVE A MOTHERFUCKING APPLE BECAUSE OF HOW COOL YOU'RE BEING." and I go for an apple. It finally comes free of the hole I tore into the plastic with my finger when I notice a rather startling visage: the pasty, filthy mug of Hannah Montana staring back at me from the bag. WHAT?! She's invaded my apples? What is she doing here? Promoting her shitty movie on health food? I even more startled to see that she was not promoting her shitty movie, she was promoting apples. They were Hannah Montana apples.
Who. Gave. This. Bitch. The. Nerve. Who? Did they come from her garden? Were they hand picked by Hannah Montana herself? I thought she was just made up. To imply that Hannah Montana somehow grew, picked and distributed her own apples is to imply that Hannah Montana is real. We must now concede that Miley Cyrus is afflicted with Disassociative Identity Disorder. Some schizo tart is just prancing around sining and growing apples? Shenanigans. None of this is right and no one should be proud of what has happened. Next is Hannah Montana kitty litter, and then I'm going to break down because she has even less business being on kitty litter than she does apples. BECAUSE CATS CAN'T IMAGINE. Fuck.
Oh yeah, the other night I had this dream that Emily and I were sitting by a river than ran through a city. We were thinking of things to do when some random guy I work with came out of nowhere and said he's recommend a great place only if I call some person on the phone for him. I called, left a message and he was happy. He showed us to some hidden movie theater that was stuffed inside what looked like an old abandoned warehouse. Sure enough, it was a movie theater, but the auditoriums were hidden somewhat. There were no obvious doors, just several cramped hallways that crisscrossed the various levels of the building that held tiny doors that led into random showings. Hipster kids scurried around with drinks and food in their hands, some punk chick was even showing me around. I told her to beat it though, because if Emily caught us talking she'd be pissed and would probably choke a bitch. It was so incredibly vivid and interesting, so visceral. Think, rock club atmosphere and fluorescent glow with the seediness and disarray of indoor flea markets. Everything tightly packed and accessible. A hangout of grandeur.
Let's Not Ask Why It's Not Right.
Tuesday, April 7
Today at work, my soon to be girlfriend of one entire year brought me Reese's miniatures. I promptly froze them and then ate them. After I clocked off I ran around Central Park gathering up the last of the supplies I needed to finish her present. It all worked out, I scooped her up from the apartment and we went back to my place.
Very soon after, we were forced to sit in my dad's truck for nearly four hours while the power was out. A HAWK flew into one of the lines and knocked the power out for nearly four hundred residents.
How did this happen? How could a hawk fly into a power line so hard that it turns everything into shit? More importantly, how is one line responsible for the power to four hundred homes? This hawk better have been huge. I'm talking pterodactyl. I want grainy black and white newspaper photos of the elusive beast flying around Spotsylvania snapping up children. There is no logical or discernible reason as to why this happened. I'm left blaming my luck. Which, may I add, should've been spiking, because I donated two dollars (to make up for the selfish fuck in front of me) to a cancer research thing after I checked out at Giant. Alas, my luck does suck and I had to babysit a tempestuous little hedgehog in a pickup truck for more than enough hours.
What's that Mr. Brown? Good grief?
Tomorrow is Emily and I's one year anniversary. So...that means, um, DON'TFUCKINGBOTHERME! Okay?!
Okay.
David, Look At The Little Bite Marks.
Monday, April 6
I'm sure every group of guys has come up with the idea of recording a dinner conversation and putting it on film. Just last night when we were choking down canned salmon and sauerkraut, a camcorder was rolling the entire time. I'm sure the footage, when viewed, is going to feel like a "You had to be there." scenario, but I don't think the concept is too far fetched. Tonight TK, Steven, Jason and I sat at Denny's and joked continuously. Few moments existed where we weren't laughing. That's when I started thinking, "Maybe this could work." Would Sundance take an entry that was four guys joking about fictional beaks that rested in ex-girlfriend vaginas? Could people stand to see a fat guy cackle wildly while some guy in the background threw up liver paste? People will watch anything.
Today some Hispanic CUNT called me an asshole for not sending a laptop to her cousin in Mexico. Today I was one minute late for work, because a woman in front of me stopped her fucking car in the middle of the road to dump a soda out the window. Today I promised a cop that I would find him a fish screensaver so that he wouldn't tow my car. Today a friend farted at dinner and it smelled like my breath did after I ate a can of liver paste. Today I put a pocketknife in my pocket and stabbed myself in the leg. Today a co-worker turned off my music and I told him I would peel the skin from his bones and he replied, "Payback." and I can't figure out what for. Today I heard something fall over in the basement, I grabbed a knife and found nothing after further investigation. Today I woke up and my back was killing me, because of how hard I was throwing up last night. Today I handed a sixteen year old cashier my debit card and she laughed and said, "That's funny." even though I never said a word.
Someone tell me that life has an update coming out soon that will fix all these god-damn glitches.
My Name Is Yo-Yo.
Sunday, April 5
Do you remember when you were young and working and your boss would call you in on your day off and you'd just let it ring so as to create the illusion that somehow you're not by your phone or it's on vibrate? Yeah, totally did hat shit today. Watched it ring incessantly knowing in my head that David was probably vomiting cobras into my voicemail. Sorry, David, today just wasn't a working day. It was a stay at home with girlfriend and take a truck-full of trash to the dump. Today was a Mystery Can Round 2 and bowling with your ass later day. I'm quite surprised he didn't tackle my ass, judging by the frequency and the inactivity between calls, he definitely sent a message of utmost urgency. Meh, who cares. He downed some beers and bowled like he was practicing his arabesque and everything seemed fine. I, on the other hand, bowled like a retarded toddler. There were strikes, there were spares, but to further illustrate my ineptitude: I never broke 100. Not once. My bowling name was Tilda Swinton. Our team was going to be Supporting Actress Oscar Winners, but they wanted to go with androgyny as a theme. David Bowi, Lily Tomlin and Lori Petty joined me as well.
Ted, TK, Bryant, Daniel (David Bowie) and I met up at Ted's to finish our second cans. I will only say that mine was Liver Paste, because I have an entire tirade planned out when I publish my Mystery Can logs (with pictures). After bowling I met up with Emily again so that I could tell her I love her and then immediately hurl my guts up in her bathroom. Hearing about this, Ted and Bryant called me a vagina. Several times. Why do I feel a hole rotting through my stomach?
Night on Earth just finished and I'm feeling good about that. So I have no other plans, but to sleep. Please listen to Bright Mouths by Electric President.
I Didn't Want To Hit Your Computer.
Saturday, April 04
The sentence I just typed, that I ended up deleting, was the most prodigiously boring thing I've ever written. It excelled at lassitude and was a remarkable example of why I refuse to marry this journal. I can type whatever I want here, I can say whatever I want here. There's no rules governing what content gets posted. I could collate pornography and upload pages and pages of it. Why not? I FUCKING OWN THIS PLACE AND I CAN BURN IT ALL DOWN IF I WANT TO. I don't want to. It's just nice to know that I have something I can build and destroy at my leisure. Hey! I have to tell you something interesting!
Not really. Right now, sitting in the dark with a sleeping girlfriend by my side and Owl City trying to drag me into dreams, I'm trying to figure out how to tell you about my day without making you fall asleep. Okay, I think I've got it. Let me ask you a question first, I saw this picture yesterday of these two sisters who are conjoined at the...body. They share the same fucking body, but had separate heads . HOW DOES THAT WORK!? Two heads, two brains, two necks, two boobs...one vagina. Who controls what? Does one have to say to the other one: "How about you breathe today, I'll walk. I breathed yesterday." Do they fight over who has to shave their legs? Is it a cooperative effort? Are they right handed?! You'd be surprised at how long these questions have been powerballing around in my head. SO, my day, yeah, it just kinda flew right by. I even had time to leave the precinct (that's actually what we call the Geek Squad department) so that I could go check out what deals we had on blu-ray. Sleeping Beauty will be 24 next tuesday, same with Wall-E. I thought about buying The Matrix, but I sincerely don't need to buy anything right now. Too many things need saving up for. SO I didn't buy anything and I'm dreading Mystery Can tomorrow night. I'm sure I'll end up eating caterpillars or some shit. Whatever, fucking game, now I have to grow a bear for three months.
Also, I'm starting on a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles screenplay. There was a rumor going around that starting 2010, New Line was going to begin options for a live action Ninja Turtles movie. First, let me tell you how immature this project is, at least for me. A twenty-two year old does not need to be writing, essentially, fan-fiction for Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. I stand little to no chance of actually achieving the ultimate, getting my draft optioned by New Line, but it's worth trying on for size just in case I get lucky. I actually called up Warner Brothers and talk to a "Robin Martin" about what would be allowed in a treatment and what the studios wouldn't be allowed to touch. She told me that anything and everything is fair game when you're only writing a screenplay and that if things were to progress then I could make changes as input started to feed in my direction. Surprisingly, the outline is already finished and the plot points are already organized. I've got Shredder back, a more mature interpretation of the turtles, Splinter's health is failing and the turtles are pushing themselves a little harder. KRANG. Motherfucking Krang. If the movies are considered canon then the events that took place in the fourth movie mean that their universe is capable of dimensional tampering, Dimension X. Shredder hijacks a new gang, reassembles The Foot and takes over a research facility (where a Dr. Stockman will be working) and hacks into Dimension X so that he can secure an army. Krang is ejected from X and the machine melts down. Shredder steals a prototype exo-skeleton and places Krang in it so that he will survive in our atmosphere. Whilst Krang busily tries to reassemble the device to reconnect us to Dimension X, Shredder tries one more time to mutate some new goons in order to provide security. He decides that last time he chose animals and it didn't work out, so now he finds two humans. Bebop and Rocksteady. He successfully mutates the two, however they are rendered mute and can only grunt or snarl. The turtles learn of the reemergence of Shredder and set out to take the facility by siege and destroy the portal. Havoc, chaos, and stunt heavy martial arts laden action sequences ensue and the turtles save the day of course. I chose not to saturate the story with previously never-before-seen characters so that it didn't look like I was only trying to satisfy fanboys. Keeping the Rock Soldiers, Stockman's Fly Form and the Mousers out of it allow the audience a chance to breath and (hopefully) plenty of time to take in all the detail. This will also field test the audience's ability to suspend belief long enough in order to understand that there is a talking brain on the screen. Perhaps we can get away with PG, as well. There will be violence, but it'll be guys in suits throwing each other around and kicking others through walls. I think this can happen. I really do.
Some motherfucker (in Virginia, WTF?!) parked the URL http://www.pizzabones.com until 2010. It's a technique that some cats use in order to make a quick buck. They think of a bunch of popular terms and park them so that someone will give them a call and offer them a ton of money to fork it over. What makes this so Kafke'esque is that he's allowed to park it for free. I can understand waiting it out and making this guy suffer by paying for a domain he'll never use, but GoDaddy.com lets you park a domain for free. How is that fair? Pizzabones is just a fantasy anyway. I just want to have options. You know?
Seriously though, if one of them doesn't want to have sex with a guy and the other one does and succeeds is it considered rape? I NEED ANSWERS!
She Asked You To Call Her.
Friday, April 03
What happened? Good question. I doubt anyone was checking, but just in case you're new I would like to tell you that I was gone for a while. Today I re-read the last post I made, December 1st. In it I talk about planning to disappear in March. That never happened, but I could've sworn that I only had that idea but of recent. How did all of December, all of January, all of February and all of March go by without my notice or distinction? It's fucking April. IT'S BEEN FOUR ENTIRE MONTHS and I managed to get a speeding ticket, a hedgehog and a haircut. What have I been doing? I'm not entirely sure and neither is my girlfriend. However, I am sorry Internet. I am sorry I left you for so long and I'll try to never do it again.
Eh, doubtful. But you know that already.
So, just to break the champagne glass over your head on my fourth maiden voyage, some minor changes. First, if you have a larger monitor, I changed the background images so that they were larger and didn't tile and look like a motherfucking third grader did it. Then I added a link in my pictures second to my Polanoid account where I've been taking pictures for years. I think they're pretty decent. Actually, just skip my pictures and take a look around, there's some seriously talented photographers all over that place and some things you may really need to see.
What else...I'm still with Emily Akers. She is the absolute love of my life and I'd have it no other way. She's perfect for me and we'll have been together officially for one year on the 8th of this month. I love you, baby. Thank you for everything
While reading over older posts I noticed that I orphan all of the smaller details of my life, which was never supposed to happen. Somehow at the last second I can only think of bitching about something and can never remember any of the cookies that are supposed to be in this cookie jar. Like my Criterion Collection. I have become utterly fascinated and infatuated with Criterion over the last six months and find myself buying two or three every week. Most of them are from eBay, but I have to keep up with the new releases as well. I'm up to 103 as of last count and just bought Do The Right Thing for fifteen bucks with free shipping. Then, I believe, my little Emmy bought me a little something for the anniversary coming up. Which I thank her for, from the bottom of my heart, you never have to buy me anything. Now my shelves are full and in order and I feel a little less like a puddle, more like marsh really. One day I will have them all and I will hand them off to my child who I will give the chance to love film as much as I do. What an oddly mature dream that is. I guess that is where these things go.
I wish there was more to say, perhaps something I hated that I could rant endlessly about. Slow drivers, maybe? Feminism and anarchy? People who haggle. Those who blame everyone else. The needy. The spoiled. The lazy. Crocs. Helena Bonham Carter? Pan's Labyrinth. Barack fucking Obama. Celebrity presidents. People who are insecure about PDA. People who are rude about PDA. Wal-Mart. Malicious pricks who invite themselves to play Mystery Can and only get cans of bugs, because they don't understand that the game is not a vehicle for your immaturity. Ingrown hairs, can't for get those. Speed traps. Chris Brown. Collegiate sluts who throw themselves at Chris Brown. People who find god in their twenties. Friends who get married too early and retain the ignorance that marriage requires a steady income. Running into ex-girlfriends at Wal-Mart and having to face the reality that they're still breathing. Onions. Oh my fucking god, onions. Cleaning up Hoggifer's wheel constantly. The emergency response team in Spotsylvania, VA. Spiders. High school kids that talk in theaters. The mall. Uno's. People who use earpieces/Jawbones. Small talk. Boxxy. Women who wouldn't vote for Sarah Palin but would vote for Hilary Clinton. Anyone who's ever said that they didn't like a movie because the book was better. I'm going to pause for a moment and mention that the people in the previous sentence make me so angry that I want to shove them into the street and smash their heads in with a cinder block. BOOKS HAVE MORE CONTENT, you only looking for content? Read a fucking phone book. You don't look like an intellectual when you say that, and nobody truly gives a shit. Shut the fuck up and grow the fuck up. You'd have to be an infant to not understand what a movie is trying to accomplish with an adaptation. Also, I'm pretty sure that they left little superfluous details out of the Twilight movie that they had in the book, but it didn't look like anyone cared. It's all recycled, bubblegum, pitiful dreck and you know it. Some of us just don't want to commit to hours upon hours of page turning to come to that conclusion, a movie will suffice. Shut the fuck up. Seriously. Dammit, I've exhausted the list.
It feels good to be back.
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