Garrison Kelly's Blog, page 54
October 4, 2018
Incelbordination, Chapter 17
“Antero…I know the two of us can’t agree on a damn thing right now…I know all that incel propaganda has made you completely bat shit insane…but what I want to find out is…what the hell are you doing in my dorm…with a machete?!”
The trench coat-clad terrorist snickered while sharpening his blade with a whetstone, looking so casual like this was a part of his every day life. “What am I doing here? What are YOU doing here, buddy? Shouldn’t you be evacuated right now with the rest of the normies and manlets? It’s not my fault you didn’t get the memo, though you kind of have an excuse since you spent the last few nights in jail.”
Clenching his pain-wracked fists, Oswald gritted his teeth and said, “No, Antero. It’s your fault that this shit is happening to begin with! You caused all of this pain because you couldn’t find a girlfriend! You know what? I wanted to believe in your rhetoric. I wanted to believe I could start a revolution with just my two fists. And then I figured out a long time ago that if I gave you an enema right now, you could sleep in a matchbox.”
“Paraphrasing Christopher Hitchens isn’t going to save you from the ass beating I’m about to give you,” said Antero as he stood up and tossed the whetstone at Oswald, barely missing his head. “You want to talk about rhetoric and revolution and all that shit? None of it compares to the pain I feel on a daily basis. It’s not just about chicks and Chads anymore. I’m talking worldwide genocide, bitch!”
“Worldwide genocide, my ass, Antero! You can deny it all you want, but the whole world knows you’re pissed off about not getting laid. That’s all this is or else you wouldn’t be in my dorm room wielding a machete right now. Sooner or later, the police are going to find you. And when they do, the misery you feel inside is going to make your fucking head explode. Then again…you really can’t get any uglier, exploding head or not.”
“Bastard!” shouted Antero before rushing at Oswald with his blade held high. The terrorist took a swing and the dwarf managed to roll out of the way, but not without sending a toxic stream of pain through his body. As Oswald laid on the ground clutching his aching body parts, Antero planted a boot in his chest and held the machete to the little person’s throat. “You won’t get any flowers on your grave as I’ve already told you that morning with Uncle Tuomas. But if you have any requests for what’s carved into your tombstone, make them now or forever hold your peace.”
Instead of giving Antero the satisfaction, Oswald took a bear trap bite out of the terrorist’s toes, causing him to scream in agony and stumble backwards on his ass. The little guy’s pain boiled throughout his entire body as he struggled to pull himself to his feet. Meanwhile, Antero mocked him with, “I had no idea you were into feet, little manlet!”
“Burn in hell, you sick prick!” belted Oswald as he dashed towards the exit, but not without Antero shouting battle cries at him and swinging his machete like a schizophrenic samurai. The so-called “manlet” fumbled with the doorknob and lost precious time, allowing Antero to take another swing. Oswald moved his hand just in time and allowed the blade to slice off the doorknob. The dwarf kicked Antero in the shin and bolted out into the night air.
Try as he might to battle through the pain and ignore the inferno raging in his bones, Oswald stumbled over the sidewalk and allowed Antero to punt him in the ribs. The little guy went flying into a parked car and dented the door, causing the alarm to sound off throughout the neighborhood.
Oswald clutched his ribcage and whined in pain while the car alarm grated against his ears like a cheese shredder. Through watery eyes and darkening vision due to his slowing heart, he could see Antero smiling down at him with the blade pointed at his sorrowful face. This was it. This was how shit was going to end. Oswald thought of his own moments he would never experience in the afterlife. No deflowering. No true love. No Christmas morning. No graduation. No published books. Just a rotting midget corpse lying in the same grassy field as Uncle fucking Tuomas.
The dwarf had one last negotiation tactic before the blade severed his throat. “You should get the hell out of here before the police find you. There’s…” he spat up blood. “There’s an alarm going off, you know.” He spat up even more blood.
“Nobody’s coming to save you, you little shit. Just like nobody’s coming to save me. In the end, we’re all just chalk lines in the fucking concrete, drawn only to be washed away.”
“Sorry, Antero…but quoting Five Finger Death Punch isn’t going to save your life!” Sacrificing his foot, Oswald kicked the blade hard enough to sever a few toes and also blow it back in his attacker’s face. The leaking gash across Antero’s nose and mouth caused his screaming to sound like he was drowning in a bathtub. But instead of calling for help, he called for the one person who he thought could save him in this desperate time.
“Mommy! Help me! I want to go home! I don’t want to die! Don’t let me die! Mommy! Save me! I don’t want to meet Uncle Tuomas! He’ll tear me apart!”
Struggling to sit up with his ribs possibly broken and his foot mangled, Oswald couldn’t help but watch Antero’s melt down with a little bit of pity. He didn’t know if the tears in his eyes were from the pain or from genuine sadness. Here was a guy who thought he could change the world with his violent ways. And now that the violence was storming against him…all he could do was cry for his mommy.
Oswald reached for the dented car door’s handle and lifted himself to his one good foot. He noticed through sopping wet eyes that campus police had gotten word of the car alarm going off and Antero’s subsequent cries for mommy. Two burly men in green security uniforms grabbed the terrorist by his arms and hoisted him to his feet kicking and screaming before cuffing him. No matter how much Antero revolted, the same mommy rhetoric spewed from his mouth faster than the leaking machete wound.
Several students who had not yet evacuated the premise watched Antero’s arrest with tears in their own eyes. Their nightmares had come to an end right in front of them. But could they get their studies done in peace with heads full of trauma? Oswald kept wondering about his own studies, but quickly shifted his attention to his injured ribs and bloody foot. He stumbled across the parking lot and dropped to the ground, coughing up even more precious life fluids.
What happened next was something Oswald never dreamed of expecting in a million years. Other students actually knelt by his side to help him and see if he was okay. One of the girls pulled out her cell phone to call for an ambulance. The strokes of Oswald’s matted hair, the holding of his hands, and the gentle voices calming him down made him believe in worldwide love all over again. It didn’t have to be romantic. It didn’t have to be permanent. It was just people coming together during a moment of crisis and he was okay with that.
“Oswald, don’t die on us!” one of the female students shouted. “Open your eyes! An ambulance is coming to get you, okay?”
The dwarf wanted to get his piece in, but he vomited a geyser of blood all over his own face. The other students stepped back a little in shock, but immediately rejoined him to share his pain. “It’s over,” said Oswald through sloppy lips. “It’s over! He’s finally gone…”
Before he could finish his final thoughts, the dwarf blacked out yet again, which seemed to be a normal occurrence for him throughout these eventful few days under Incelbordination’s watch. He secretly wished he could have slept through this whole story. No pain. No trauma. No horny incels. Just peace and quiet…and maybe Bruce BecVar’s guitar playing and heavenly vocals.
The trench coat-clad terrorist snickered while sharpening his blade with a whetstone, looking so casual like this was a part of his every day life. “What am I doing here? What are YOU doing here, buddy? Shouldn’t you be evacuated right now with the rest of the normies and manlets? It’s not my fault you didn’t get the memo, though you kind of have an excuse since you spent the last few nights in jail.”
Clenching his pain-wracked fists, Oswald gritted his teeth and said, “No, Antero. It’s your fault that this shit is happening to begin with! You caused all of this pain because you couldn’t find a girlfriend! You know what? I wanted to believe in your rhetoric. I wanted to believe I could start a revolution with just my two fists. And then I figured out a long time ago that if I gave you an enema right now, you could sleep in a matchbox.”
“Paraphrasing Christopher Hitchens isn’t going to save you from the ass beating I’m about to give you,” said Antero as he stood up and tossed the whetstone at Oswald, barely missing his head. “You want to talk about rhetoric and revolution and all that shit? None of it compares to the pain I feel on a daily basis. It’s not just about chicks and Chads anymore. I’m talking worldwide genocide, bitch!”
“Worldwide genocide, my ass, Antero! You can deny it all you want, but the whole world knows you’re pissed off about not getting laid. That’s all this is or else you wouldn’t be in my dorm room wielding a machete right now. Sooner or later, the police are going to find you. And when they do, the misery you feel inside is going to make your fucking head explode. Then again…you really can’t get any uglier, exploding head or not.”
“Bastard!” shouted Antero before rushing at Oswald with his blade held high. The terrorist took a swing and the dwarf managed to roll out of the way, but not without sending a toxic stream of pain through his body. As Oswald laid on the ground clutching his aching body parts, Antero planted a boot in his chest and held the machete to the little person’s throat. “You won’t get any flowers on your grave as I’ve already told you that morning with Uncle Tuomas. But if you have any requests for what’s carved into your tombstone, make them now or forever hold your peace.”
Instead of giving Antero the satisfaction, Oswald took a bear trap bite out of the terrorist’s toes, causing him to scream in agony and stumble backwards on his ass. The little guy’s pain boiled throughout his entire body as he struggled to pull himself to his feet. Meanwhile, Antero mocked him with, “I had no idea you were into feet, little manlet!”
“Burn in hell, you sick prick!” belted Oswald as he dashed towards the exit, but not without Antero shouting battle cries at him and swinging his machete like a schizophrenic samurai. The so-called “manlet” fumbled with the doorknob and lost precious time, allowing Antero to take another swing. Oswald moved his hand just in time and allowed the blade to slice off the doorknob. The dwarf kicked Antero in the shin and bolted out into the night air.
Try as he might to battle through the pain and ignore the inferno raging in his bones, Oswald stumbled over the sidewalk and allowed Antero to punt him in the ribs. The little guy went flying into a parked car and dented the door, causing the alarm to sound off throughout the neighborhood.
Oswald clutched his ribcage and whined in pain while the car alarm grated against his ears like a cheese shredder. Through watery eyes and darkening vision due to his slowing heart, he could see Antero smiling down at him with the blade pointed at his sorrowful face. This was it. This was how shit was going to end. Oswald thought of his own moments he would never experience in the afterlife. No deflowering. No true love. No Christmas morning. No graduation. No published books. Just a rotting midget corpse lying in the same grassy field as Uncle fucking Tuomas.
The dwarf had one last negotiation tactic before the blade severed his throat. “You should get the hell out of here before the police find you. There’s…” he spat up blood. “There’s an alarm going off, you know.” He spat up even more blood.
“Nobody’s coming to save you, you little shit. Just like nobody’s coming to save me. In the end, we’re all just chalk lines in the fucking concrete, drawn only to be washed away.”
“Sorry, Antero…but quoting Five Finger Death Punch isn’t going to save your life!” Sacrificing his foot, Oswald kicked the blade hard enough to sever a few toes and also blow it back in his attacker’s face. The leaking gash across Antero’s nose and mouth caused his screaming to sound like he was drowning in a bathtub. But instead of calling for help, he called for the one person who he thought could save him in this desperate time.
“Mommy! Help me! I want to go home! I don’t want to die! Don’t let me die! Mommy! Save me! I don’t want to meet Uncle Tuomas! He’ll tear me apart!”
Struggling to sit up with his ribs possibly broken and his foot mangled, Oswald couldn’t help but watch Antero’s melt down with a little bit of pity. He didn’t know if the tears in his eyes were from the pain or from genuine sadness. Here was a guy who thought he could change the world with his violent ways. And now that the violence was storming against him…all he could do was cry for his mommy.
Oswald reached for the dented car door’s handle and lifted himself to his one good foot. He noticed through sopping wet eyes that campus police had gotten word of the car alarm going off and Antero’s subsequent cries for mommy. Two burly men in green security uniforms grabbed the terrorist by his arms and hoisted him to his feet kicking and screaming before cuffing him. No matter how much Antero revolted, the same mommy rhetoric spewed from his mouth faster than the leaking machete wound.
Several students who had not yet evacuated the premise watched Antero’s arrest with tears in their own eyes. Their nightmares had come to an end right in front of them. But could they get their studies done in peace with heads full of trauma? Oswald kept wondering about his own studies, but quickly shifted his attention to his injured ribs and bloody foot. He stumbled across the parking lot and dropped to the ground, coughing up even more precious life fluids.
What happened next was something Oswald never dreamed of expecting in a million years. Other students actually knelt by his side to help him and see if he was okay. One of the girls pulled out her cell phone to call for an ambulance. The strokes of Oswald’s matted hair, the holding of his hands, and the gentle voices calming him down made him believe in worldwide love all over again. It didn’t have to be romantic. It didn’t have to be permanent. It was just people coming together during a moment of crisis and he was okay with that.
“Oswald, don’t die on us!” one of the female students shouted. “Open your eyes! An ambulance is coming to get you, okay?”
The dwarf wanted to get his piece in, but he vomited a geyser of blood all over his own face. The other students stepped back a little in shock, but immediately rejoined him to share his pain. “It’s over,” said Oswald through sloppy lips. “It’s over! He’s finally gone…”
Before he could finish his final thoughts, the dwarf blacked out yet again, which seemed to be a normal occurrence for him throughout these eventful few days under Incelbordination’s watch. He secretly wished he could have slept through this whole story. No pain. No trauma. No horny incels. Just peace and quiet…and maybe Bruce BecVar’s guitar playing and heavenly vocals.
October 3, 2018
Why I Post My Works Online
***WHY I POST MY WORKS ONLINE***
As a published author who wants to make money off of my work, it would seem counterintuitive to post my writing online for the public so they can read it for free. It’s the old Napster argument all over again. Why spend money on an album/book/movie when you can have it for free? Will you buy the whole thing if you like bits and pieces of the medium? Some would argue this is a great marketing tool for anybody who doesn’t have the corporate machine backing them. Case in point, rapper Immortal Technique.
At the end of the day, I don’t do it for the marketing. I could be doing it for the constructive feedback and although it’s nice to have it, it’s also not the main reason why I post online. In order to understand why I do this, we have to use the Napster example yet again. Two words: free storage. That’s right. Why would I want to pay X number of dollars to store my writing and art when Deviant Art and Face Book will do it for free? These public forums are hardly my only means of storage since I have three flash drives and also use my email accounts to store my shit. Maybe I’m just paranoid about keeping my art safe.
Just think of how badly it would suck if a project you worked on for years, maybe even decades, was suddenly erased by bullshit means. I take that same approach to my own art and back it up in as many ways as I can. Deviant Art, Face Book, Blogger, Good Reads, Wattpad, god knows what else. But the biggest drawback to this is that if I have to edit a piece of writing for a small error of some kind, that means I have to visit all of those sites and make that change. And then I find another small error. And another. And I have to visit those sites over and over again. Ultimately, I pick my battles and only edit my works on Deviant Art and Wattpad. Besides, I still have my email addresses and flash drives, so it’s not a huge deal.
I don’t have a whole lot to say aside from that. Goddamn, I really didn’t think this blog through, did I? I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain!
***LYRICS OF THE DAY***
“I’ve been mad for fucking years. Absolutely years. Been over the edge for yonks. Been working my buns off for bands. I’ve always been mad. I know I’ve been mad. Like most of us, it’s very hard to explain why you’re mad, even when you’re not mad.”
-Dialogue from “Speak to Me” by Pink Floyd-
As a published author who wants to make money off of my work, it would seem counterintuitive to post my writing online for the public so they can read it for free. It’s the old Napster argument all over again. Why spend money on an album/book/movie when you can have it for free? Will you buy the whole thing if you like bits and pieces of the medium? Some would argue this is a great marketing tool for anybody who doesn’t have the corporate machine backing them. Case in point, rapper Immortal Technique.
At the end of the day, I don’t do it for the marketing. I could be doing it for the constructive feedback and although it’s nice to have it, it’s also not the main reason why I post online. In order to understand why I do this, we have to use the Napster example yet again. Two words: free storage. That’s right. Why would I want to pay X number of dollars to store my writing and art when Deviant Art and Face Book will do it for free? These public forums are hardly my only means of storage since I have three flash drives and also use my email accounts to store my shit. Maybe I’m just paranoid about keeping my art safe.
Just think of how badly it would suck if a project you worked on for years, maybe even decades, was suddenly erased by bullshit means. I take that same approach to my own art and back it up in as many ways as I can. Deviant Art, Face Book, Blogger, Good Reads, Wattpad, god knows what else. But the biggest drawback to this is that if I have to edit a piece of writing for a small error of some kind, that means I have to visit all of those sites and make that change. And then I find another small error. And another. And I have to visit those sites over and over again. Ultimately, I pick my battles and only edit my works on Deviant Art and Wattpad. Besides, I still have my email addresses and flash drives, so it’s not a huge deal.
I don’t have a whole lot to say aside from that. Goddamn, I really didn’t think this blog through, did I? I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain!
***LYRICS OF THE DAY***
“I’ve been mad for fucking years. Absolutely years. Been over the edge for yonks. Been working my buns off for bands. I’ve always been mad. I know I’ve been mad. Like most of us, it’s very hard to explain why you’re mad, even when you’re not mad.”
-Dialogue from “Speak to Me” by Pink Floyd-
Incelbordination, Chapter 16
Oswald traced his fingers along the healing scars on his hands, careful not to pick at the scabs. Though they still made him wince a little, they were healing quite nicely. He might be back to punching a sand bag in no time at all, and no, he wasn’t talking about his English teacher. Any ill feelings he had toward her had disappeared now that he had the benefit of hindsight. A C- on a project was nothing compared to having another human being’s life in his hands.
Though his mind was the loudest it had ever been, the space between himself and Nikita Johnson remained tranquil and quiet. This kind of silence allowed the two of them to relax as they drove down the highway together. If it wasn’t for Oswald having a burning question, he could fall right back to sleep. “What’s your opinion on how to handle this?”
“What’s yours?”
“Well, it depends. What’s going on at school right now?”
Nikita sighed and shook her head. “Everybody’s in shock. The construction crew are going through all of the damaged buildings and roads. Nobody feels like going to their classes. Trauma therapists are everywhere. You should consider seeing one, Oswald. I know I will. From what I hear, the college is paying for their sessions.”
Resting his face on his hand, Oswald said, “I don’t know, Nikita. I feel like that’s all I’ve been doing lately: opening myself up to people. But the more I open myself up, the more I get hurt. Talking about my problems never actually brought me healing. It just made shit worse. It made me relive the worst parts of my life.”
“Yeah, you definitely have some PTSD going on. You’re not going to find your healing just by isolating yourself and puffing away. You need to put yourself out there. Trust me, I know how lonely college life can be.”
Oswald cleared his throat and asked, “Speaking of puffing away, why did you agree to provide the cops with my prescription if you’re such a standup straightedge person?”
Nikita sighed. “I guess it was the only way I could pay you back for everything you’ve done for me. You’ve saved my life twice and all I’ve done for you is get you locked up. That hardly seems fair, and definitely not indicative of the straightedge way. I mean, I don’t agree with what you’re doing, but who am I to tell you otherwise?”
Nikita turned the radio on and fiddled with the knob until she found the new age station, which happened to be playing the piece of acoustic guitar heaven known as “Your Heart Can Sing” by Bruce BecVar. Oswald closed his eyes and was on the edge of dozing off several times. “This is beautiful,” he said.
“You should listen to this kind of music more often. Sometimes a heavy metal scream just won’t cut it. Everybody needs to take the edge off every now and then. Who knows? Maybe if you listened to new age music while smoking one of your joints…” She shrugged her shoulders and smiled in lieu of finishing her sentence.
“It’d be much easier to relax if I knew Antero was locked up.”
Nikita patted Oswald on the head. “You and me both, buddy. You and me both.”
The comforting pats turned into a gentle head scratch, which caused the dwarf to sink into his seat further and get even more comfy. He couldn’t get too comfy in case he got an involuntary hard-on. He crossed his stubby legs for added insurance. He also couldn’t understand how he deserved such a wonderful nail massage considering his hair was probably greasier than McDonald’s fries. Speaking of McDonald’s…
“I can’t believe she hung herself.”
“Who?”
Oswald’s eyes shot up as he unintentionally let the cat out of the bag. “She, uh…she was, uh….just a friend.”
Ending the massage and pointing her fingers, Nikita said, “That’s why you need to see a trauma therapist. You can’t even get your story straight.”
“That’s all well and good, but what can a therapist do for me that my marijuana isn’t already doing? I mean…nothing seems to work these days. No talking. No Mary-Jane. Not a damn thing. It’s like I’m destined to live with this shit for the rest of my life. I fucking hate it.”
Patting the dwarf’s shoulder, Nikita said, “That’s the nature of mental illnesses. They’re nothing like the scars on your hands or anywhere else on your body for that matter. These scars don’t heal overnight. This is something you have to work on and you can’t do it alone. Please, Oswald, see a therapist. If not for your own sake, then at least for mine. You remember what I told you back at that warehouse, right?”
“…I am loved…”
“Yes, and that’s the truth. I mean, do you really believe that the entire world is out to get you? Every single person walking this planet has an agenda to make your life miserable? Every last one of them? Not everyone is a bully, Oswald. It doesn’t really matter that you’re short. Is being short really worse than being evil? Or shallow? Or stupid? Or vain? Your dwarfism is just a body type. It doesn’t determine who you are as a human being. And yes, Oswald, you ARE a human being. Start treating yourself like one.”
The dwarf breathed a heavy sigh and wiped little droplets from his eyes. Maybe there was some truth in what Nikita told him. Maybe the depressive and anxious voices in his head were a bunch of lying thieves trying to rob him of his happiness and potential. But as it was, there was no mediator between Oswald’s heart and mind. He wanted to get better. He wanted to live a normal life. But every time he started to believe, something was raped and taken from him. He wiped more tears from his eyes while Nikita rubbed his shoulders some more.
“It’s okay to cry in front of me, Oswald. I won’t judge you. I just need to know one thing before I drop you off tonight. Who was the woman who hung herself?”
Trying to steady his trembling mouth, the dwarf said, “Not a woman. A girl. Fourteen years old. Her name was Jessica Bradley. She, uh…worked at McDonald’s. Not as a fry cook, but, uh…”
Nikita’s eyes widened. “Oswald, did you try to proposition her?”
“When she said she was fourteen, I took off running. I’d never do that to someone like her, Nikita, you have to believe me. Antero put me up to it.”
“If I find out you’re attracted to teenage girls, I’m going to…”
“I’m not, damn it!” Oswald belted, opening a rift of silence between them for a few long seconds. “I’m telling you, I didn’t have sex with her! I may have been desperate, but I’m not a monster! You said yourself that I should start treating myself like a human being! Well, that’s what I did when I ran away from Jessica and turned her down for sex!”
Before Nikita could formulate a potentially judgmental answer, she pulled up to Oswald’s dorm and said, “Here we are. Get some rest. You’re going to need it.” The dwarf couldn’t get out of the car fast enough, snorting mucous and wiping tears the entire way to his front door. “Oswald! Please…be careful. And don’t forget what I told you…you are loved…”
Nikita drove away while Oswald shook his head. “Why do I not believe her?” he asked himself. “Oh yeah, because I’m fucking anxious and depressed, that’s why. What was I thinking?”
He entered the unlocked dorm commons and saw that it was dark and nobody was home. “Where’s the goddamn light switch?” he muttered while fumbling around.
He didn’t have to fumble for long. The whole commons illuminated while a familiar voice in the background asked a question Oswald was used to hearing by now: “Need a light?”
“No…No…No! This isn’t possible!”
“Evidence in the old eyes, my friend. No magic tricks. No Matrix bullshit. Nothing up my sleeves. Just a nice hard swallow of some good old black pills. It’s me, Oswald. Antero fucking Magnus, Supreme Gentleman extraordinaire. How’s that knot on your forehead feeling? Or better yet…how’re your knuckles feeling after punching a glass door? That’s right, buddy. I caught you with your pants down this time! You’re dead!”
Though his mind was the loudest it had ever been, the space between himself and Nikita Johnson remained tranquil and quiet. This kind of silence allowed the two of them to relax as they drove down the highway together. If it wasn’t for Oswald having a burning question, he could fall right back to sleep. “What’s your opinion on how to handle this?”
“What’s yours?”
“Well, it depends. What’s going on at school right now?”
Nikita sighed and shook her head. “Everybody’s in shock. The construction crew are going through all of the damaged buildings and roads. Nobody feels like going to their classes. Trauma therapists are everywhere. You should consider seeing one, Oswald. I know I will. From what I hear, the college is paying for their sessions.”
Resting his face on his hand, Oswald said, “I don’t know, Nikita. I feel like that’s all I’ve been doing lately: opening myself up to people. But the more I open myself up, the more I get hurt. Talking about my problems never actually brought me healing. It just made shit worse. It made me relive the worst parts of my life.”
“Yeah, you definitely have some PTSD going on. You’re not going to find your healing just by isolating yourself and puffing away. You need to put yourself out there. Trust me, I know how lonely college life can be.”
Oswald cleared his throat and asked, “Speaking of puffing away, why did you agree to provide the cops with my prescription if you’re such a standup straightedge person?”
Nikita sighed. “I guess it was the only way I could pay you back for everything you’ve done for me. You’ve saved my life twice and all I’ve done for you is get you locked up. That hardly seems fair, and definitely not indicative of the straightedge way. I mean, I don’t agree with what you’re doing, but who am I to tell you otherwise?”
Nikita turned the radio on and fiddled with the knob until she found the new age station, which happened to be playing the piece of acoustic guitar heaven known as “Your Heart Can Sing” by Bruce BecVar. Oswald closed his eyes and was on the edge of dozing off several times. “This is beautiful,” he said.
“You should listen to this kind of music more often. Sometimes a heavy metal scream just won’t cut it. Everybody needs to take the edge off every now and then. Who knows? Maybe if you listened to new age music while smoking one of your joints…” She shrugged her shoulders and smiled in lieu of finishing her sentence.
“It’d be much easier to relax if I knew Antero was locked up.”
Nikita patted Oswald on the head. “You and me both, buddy. You and me both.”
The comforting pats turned into a gentle head scratch, which caused the dwarf to sink into his seat further and get even more comfy. He couldn’t get too comfy in case he got an involuntary hard-on. He crossed his stubby legs for added insurance. He also couldn’t understand how he deserved such a wonderful nail massage considering his hair was probably greasier than McDonald’s fries. Speaking of McDonald’s…
“I can’t believe she hung herself.”
“Who?”
Oswald’s eyes shot up as he unintentionally let the cat out of the bag. “She, uh…she was, uh….just a friend.”
Ending the massage and pointing her fingers, Nikita said, “That’s why you need to see a trauma therapist. You can’t even get your story straight.”
“That’s all well and good, but what can a therapist do for me that my marijuana isn’t already doing? I mean…nothing seems to work these days. No talking. No Mary-Jane. Not a damn thing. It’s like I’m destined to live with this shit for the rest of my life. I fucking hate it.”
Patting the dwarf’s shoulder, Nikita said, “That’s the nature of mental illnesses. They’re nothing like the scars on your hands or anywhere else on your body for that matter. These scars don’t heal overnight. This is something you have to work on and you can’t do it alone. Please, Oswald, see a therapist. If not for your own sake, then at least for mine. You remember what I told you back at that warehouse, right?”
“…I am loved…”
“Yes, and that’s the truth. I mean, do you really believe that the entire world is out to get you? Every single person walking this planet has an agenda to make your life miserable? Every last one of them? Not everyone is a bully, Oswald. It doesn’t really matter that you’re short. Is being short really worse than being evil? Or shallow? Or stupid? Or vain? Your dwarfism is just a body type. It doesn’t determine who you are as a human being. And yes, Oswald, you ARE a human being. Start treating yourself like one.”
The dwarf breathed a heavy sigh and wiped little droplets from his eyes. Maybe there was some truth in what Nikita told him. Maybe the depressive and anxious voices in his head were a bunch of lying thieves trying to rob him of his happiness and potential. But as it was, there was no mediator between Oswald’s heart and mind. He wanted to get better. He wanted to live a normal life. But every time he started to believe, something was raped and taken from him. He wiped more tears from his eyes while Nikita rubbed his shoulders some more.
“It’s okay to cry in front of me, Oswald. I won’t judge you. I just need to know one thing before I drop you off tonight. Who was the woman who hung herself?”
Trying to steady his trembling mouth, the dwarf said, “Not a woman. A girl. Fourteen years old. Her name was Jessica Bradley. She, uh…worked at McDonald’s. Not as a fry cook, but, uh…”
Nikita’s eyes widened. “Oswald, did you try to proposition her?”
“When she said she was fourteen, I took off running. I’d never do that to someone like her, Nikita, you have to believe me. Antero put me up to it.”
“If I find out you’re attracted to teenage girls, I’m going to…”
“I’m not, damn it!” Oswald belted, opening a rift of silence between them for a few long seconds. “I’m telling you, I didn’t have sex with her! I may have been desperate, but I’m not a monster! You said yourself that I should start treating myself like a human being! Well, that’s what I did when I ran away from Jessica and turned her down for sex!”
Before Nikita could formulate a potentially judgmental answer, she pulled up to Oswald’s dorm and said, “Here we are. Get some rest. You’re going to need it.” The dwarf couldn’t get out of the car fast enough, snorting mucous and wiping tears the entire way to his front door. “Oswald! Please…be careful. And don’t forget what I told you…you are loved…”
Nikita drove away while Oswald shook his head. “Why do I not believe her?” he asked himself. “Oh yeah, because I’m fucking anxious and depressed, that’s why. What was I thinking?”
He entered the unlocked dorm commons and saw that it was dark and nobody was home. “Where’s the goddamn light switch?” he muttered while fumbling around.
He didn’t have to fumble for long. The whole commons illuminated while a familiar voice in the background asked a question Oswald was used to hearing by now: “Need a light?”
“No…No…No! This isn’t possible!”
“Evidence in the old eyes, my friend. No magic tricks. No Matrix bullshit. Nothing up my sleeves. Just a nice hard swallow of some good old black pills. It’s me, Oswald. Antero fucking Magnus, Supreme Gentleman extraordinaire. How’s that knot on your forehead feeling? Or better yet…how’re your knuckles feeling after punching a glass door? That’s right, buddy. I caught you with your pants down this time! You’re dead!”
September 30, 2018
Face Book Short Takes
Per the encouragement of my awesome Port Orchard friend Anna Bradshaw, here’s a compilation of all the funny short takes I’ve posted on Face Book. Enjoy!
EVANESCENCE DREAM:
I haven’t been remembering a lot of my trips to the subconscious theater lately since they involved competitions of some kind (I never remember those for some reason). I do however remember pretty much all of my concert dreams. Last night was no exception. This time I saw Evanescence play a show in an abandoned bank in the middle of nowhere. Amy Lee and her new band mates were all fifty years old. I repeat, between the release of Evanescence’s first album and this dream, Amy Lee became…fifty years old. She had gray hair, wrinkly skin, Marlboro lines in her face, and she was wearing a pants suit like she was running for office. This whole time I kept asking, “What the fuck’s going on here?!” Thank god I woke up when I did. But yes, it’s true, ladies and gentlemen: as of today, Amy Lee is only fourteen years away from celebrating her fiftieth birthday. Let that sink in for a minute and then you can slowly realize it beats the alternative.
CONCERT CO-HEADLINERS:
Because I was too zonked out today to get any real work done, I made a list of bands I haven’t seen perform live yet and paired them together as fantasy co-headliners. I tried to have the pairings make as much sense as possible. Live Nation? Make them happen!
1. 3 Doors Down X Crossfade
2. David Gilmour X Martin Kesici
3. Gemini Syndrome X From Ashes to New
4. Ghost X Babymetal
5. Hellyeah X All That Remains
6. Killer Be Killed X Down
7. Limp Bizkit X Bloodhound Gang
8. Sepultura X Sworn In
9. Serj Tankian X Tarja Turunen
10. Within Temptation X The Dark Element
BATHROOM BREAKS:
Here’s something I’ve always wondered, but never got an answer to. Why is it whenever you’re talking to someone online and you tell them you have to go to the bathroom, they always think you’re looking for an excuse to get away from the computer? Would they rather you soil yourself? Would they rather you wear a diaper at the computer? I don’t know about you guys, but sitting in my own biological sludge isn’t worth maintaining a conversation with someone. It stinks. It stinks very badly. I know this because my elderly dog Maggie shits and pisses all the time and I’m usually the one who wipes it off the floor. Whenever I tell you I need to go to the bathroom, believe me. This is especially important to me after I have a whole pitcher of iced tea to drink….or two…or three. That’s a lot of urine, more than Smokey’s litter box allows. So yes, I’m going to need a non-diapered bathroom break every once and a while. Deal with it.
FIFTY SHADES JOKES:
If you surf You Tube a lot like I do, you’ll eventually watch a few less-than-romantic videos and some wiseass in the comments section will say, “Still a better love story than Twilight.” Well, I’ve never read Twilight, so I can’t say for certain, but I have read its fan fiction predecessor Fifty Shades of Grey. I gave that book three out of five stars (mixed grade), but now that I have the benefit of hindsight, it deserved less. Much less! So that got me thinking: what are the most extreme, fringiest examples of movies or books that are better love stories than Fifty Shades of Grey? In the interest of bad taste, I’ve actually compiled a list for you so that you don’t have to. Starting with…
1. A Serbian Film
2. Boston Public (stalker episode)
3. Different Strokes (bike shop episode)
4. Fatal Attraction
5. Millennium (A Room with No View)
6. NCIS (Bete Noir)
7. NCIS: Los Angeles (An Unlocked Mind)
8. Pink Floyd the Wall (“Don’t Leave Me Now”)
9. Pulp Fiction (pawn shop scene)
10. Savages (Blake Lively’s captivity)
11. Star Wars: Return of the Jedi (slave Leia scene)
12. Suicide Squad (Joker X Harley Quinn)
13. Tales From the Hood (spinning table scene)
14. Team America: World Police (scat fetish scene)
15. The Shield (David Aceveda blowjob scene)
16. Through the Shattered Glass by Jeanie Clarke (marriage to Stone Cold Steve Austin)
With a virtual cornucopia of extreme examples, I want you to think carefully the next time you make a Fifty Shades joke. Let’s say you decide The Shield is more romantic. You’re basically saying that you’d rather get orally raped by a Mexican gangster than have a bondage romance with Christian Grey. I know, I know, you desperately want to put those things on the same level, but trust me, you’re exercising your hyperbole muscles when venturing into this territory.
BLACK TEA:
In all this time of drinking iced tea, I’ve always thought black tea had a negligible amount of caffeine. I can’t stress the word negligible enough. Turns out it’s one tier below coffee and I’m just now paying the price for drinking entire pitchers of black tea. Caffeine and schizophrenia is a fucking horrible combination. Plus, there must have been some reason why I kept waking up at ten in the morning despite going to bed late at night. If you don’t see any creative work from me for a while, it’s because the black tea caffeine is working its way out of my system and I’m constantly in beddy-bye with Smokey. I can’t concentrate if I’m perpetually sleepy. It probably doesn’t help matters that I’m constantly listening to “True” by Spandau Ballet and having romantic (not sexual) thoughts while doing so. Negligible, my ass!
CHEERIOS AND SOCCER:
When I was a nine-year-old preparing to play in a soccer game, I wanted to eat a bowl of Cheerios before the match, because…and I quote directly from the tube…they had “Morning power! Kid power! Go power!” James laughed his ass off at that while I was having a hard time undoing the brainwashing of television advertising. Truth is, Cheerios won’t help you win a soccer match. As a matter of fact, my team and I, the lovable losers known as The Thunder Eagles, got our asses handed to us like a bunch of jobbers. Drinking warm Gatorade didn’t help me win either. It gave me some cardio, but not a victory. I could have eaten a hot fudge sundae and had the same results. Is it any wonder why I didn’t want to shake the other team’s hands afterwards? Participation trophy, my ass!
BABY INITIALS:
I’m too zonked out today to get any real work done other than build a few of my birthday Legos. So instead I’m going to have some fun with potential kid names (even though I still haven’t any plans to father children). Tonight we’re going to look at initials, excluding the T in Temons and keeping the H in Haines (assuming initials are only supposed to have three letters). Ready? I sure am.
1. Grant Thomas Haines-Temons (GTH (Go to Hell))
2. Heath Edgar Haines-Temons (HEH)
3. Hunter Hearst Haines-Temons (HHH (Triple H))
4. Ivan Cody Haines-Temons (ICH)
5. Marcus Edge Haines-Temons (MEH)
6. Neville Alexander Haines-Temons (NAH)
7. Roger Owen Haines-Temons (ROH (Ring of Honor))
8. Samuel Mitchell Haines-Temons (SMH (Shaking My Head))
9. Tucker Oliver Haines-Temons (TOH (Treehouse of Horror))
10. Uriah Garrison Haines-Temons (UGH)
11. Walter Travis Haines-Temons (WTH (What the Hell?))
That’s all I can come up with for now. Happy Father’s Day!
COUPLES:
Here’s something I’ve often wondered, but never got a definitive answer to. Why is it whenever I go out in public with someone, everybody thinks we’re a couple? I’ve had people assume me and my brother James to be a gay couple, especially when we have Reina in tow. Hell, I’ve had a massage therapist in Hawaii assume that me and Aunt Ruth were a couple. You’ve got to have Ray Charles vision in order to fuck that one up. This isn’t Game of Thrones, people. My family tree actually forks. If it didn’t, then according to Jeff Foxworthy, I might be a redneck. Actually, my neck is red anyways since I go out for long distance walks in eighty degree heat, but that’s beside the point. Back to the topic at hand, it would be REALLY fucking disastrous if someone thought me and Reina were a couple. And while we’re at it, why don’t we just assume that people walking their dogs are in bestiality relationships. Good god almighty!
CREATIVE NONFICTION IS REAL, DAMN IT!:
When I was taking a nonfiction creative writing class in 2009, I overheard some kid questioning whether or not the words “creative” and “nonfiction” belong in the same sentence together. His major talking point was that since the memories are real and nothing is made up, it can’t be creative. The counterpoint to his argument was that the author still had to tell a story, which means the same rules as fictional writing still apply whether it’s showing vs. telling, being a reliable narrator, using colorful descriptions, dictating a desirable pace, using correct grammar, etc. No matter how many times the kid was proven wrong, he just kept insisting that there’s no such thing as creative nonfiction. It was like talking to a brick wall. Actually, the brick wall would have a higher IQ. Roger Waters seems to agree since he built one out of his own insecurities and made a classic rock album out of it with his Pink Floyd mates. See? I told you creative nonfiction was real!
DANIEL BRYAN X PAIGE:
Another weird ass goddamn dream from last night? Sure, why not? This one is WWE themed as it involved Smackdown wrestler Daniel Bryan and Smackdown General Manager Paige. Both of them were kidnapped by a religious cult after yesterday’s show. One of the cult members openly admitted to masturbating to Paige’s leaked sex videos, which naturally made her shiver in disgust. Once the cult’s van got to a high school gymnasium to perform a ritual, they gagged Daniel and Paige with tall Red Bull cans and duct tape. It was up to me and a special team of whoever-the-fucks to raid the gym and rescue the two Smackdown personalities. Daniel was successfully rescued, but Paige was nowhere to be found even as I kept desperately screaming her name. Then I woke up feeling happy for some strange reason, probably because I got a lot of work done last night at one in the morning (blogging Escape From Chehalis, writing Because of You, and reading chapter three of The Savior’s Champion). Although that might not be the official reason for my happiness, I chose not to question the source and actually let myself have a good day today.
DISTURBING NAPTIME MUSIC:
As someone who likes good music and good naps, I can tell you now that there’s nothing depraved about falling asleep to “She Don’t Want the World” by 3 Doors Down. The lyrics are disturbing as fuck, but the music is soothing enough to cure insomnia. Same thing goes with “Out of Hell” by In This Moment, a gentle piano melody with…questionable content. Not once have I fallen asleep to these songs and had a horrible nightmare afterwards. Most of my dreams are about school, concerts, and occasionally Unitarian churches (I used to go to those as a kid and a teenager, but not anymore). Last night’s trip to the subconscious was about me actually WANTING to go to school, so I signed up for a creative writing class and a gym course. Normally Roger Waters and I would agree when it comes to crappy school experiences, but this time, I actually wanted to go. Huh. Weird shit.
JAPANESE RESTAURANT:
It’s day three of zombie brain BS, so the most you’re going to get from me today is a post about a weird ass dream I had last night. Or as I like to call it, a trip into the subconscious theater. The dream opened with me getting a report card from college: two Ds and one F. I was so fucking pissed that I threw my report card in the garbage and went on a hissy-fit rampage in front of my teachers. To calm me down, one of the teachers suggested that I find a job at the Japanese restaurant on campus. When I started working there, the TVs at the sushi bar were playing Isle of Dogs and nobody batted an eye. I changed the channel to WWE and watched Dean Ambrose, Carlito, and Mojo Rawley give a member of The New Day a triple power bomb a la The Shield. I woke up wondering just what the hell happened (what a fucking surprise). Now that I’ve written this dream post, there might be some hope for me yet when it comes to creative work. The question now is, do I want to write a blog entry about Incel Terrorism or Creative Crossroads? Hmm…decisions, decisions…
SPIRO’S FAUX PAS:
As I ate dinner with my brother James at Spiro’s, he introduced me to a new word I apparently should have learned a long time ago: Faux Pas. It comes from the French for “false step” and it’s an idiom for an embarrassing or awkward mistake. Apparently during dinner, I made two Faux Pas that night. One, I ate the entire chocolate topping off of James’s peanut butter pie (which reminded him of the episode of South Park where Eric Cartman eats the crispy skin off of everybody’s KFC meals). The other Faux Pas was when I refused to engage in small talk with our waitress. She asked me if I did anything fun for the fourth of July and I simply said, “No”, prompting James to chuckle awkwardly for some reason. Even though he’s introverted too, he can’t understand why small talk is so difficult for me. All in all, it was a fun way to end our evening. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have many more Faux Pas to make.
STUPID HOSE!:
A few years ago, I was out on the back porch trying to get my garden hose to work. I can’t remember if I was watering flowers or cleaning out the rubbish bin, but I needed that hose to work. Much to my frustration, the damn thing wouldn’t spray any water. I tried everything from checking for knots to turning the faucet on. Nothing. Instead of looking for calmer, more rational solutions, I scream, “Come on, you stupid fucking hose, get working!” Little did I know that there were little children getting off school and parents who could have misinterpreted the word “hose” as being spelled H-O-E-S. What a disaster that would have been if someone thought I was a pimp. But I assure you, I’m just a guy who gets pissed off at little things. If you’ve ever wondered why my stories and poems have an angry tone, that’s why. I swear I’m not a pimp. Hehe!
GARRISH:
One day while going out to lunch with my dad and brother, the clerk who made my sandwich called me Garrish instead of Garrison, which my dad attributed to my poor handwriting when I placed my order. Dad and James joked that Garrish sounded like an Eastern European name, but it turns out it’s a real English word, albeit spelled with one R instead of two. Dictionary.com defines it as “tastelessly colorful”, like the Hawaiian shirts I used to wear back in my twenties. You learn something new every day, folks.
INUYASHA, SIT BOY!:
One of my favorite things to watch as a college kid was Inuyasha, but the one thing that always frustrated me about that show was how Kagome could bend Inuyasha to her will by using a “sit” command. Every time she said the magic word, the dog demon would fall flat on his face and become instantly obedient. Well, I think I’ve figured out a solution to that mess. To paraphrase Agent Smith from The Matrix, “What good is a sit command if you’re…unable to speak?” Sorry Kagome, but there are no M’s in the word sit. Hehe!
LIMP BIZKIT:
Whenever I need entertainment in the late hours of the night, I can always count on the subconscious theater to deliver a five star performance. Some might disagree about the five stars in this particular dream, but I don’t. Last night’s dream featured yet another weird ass rock concert, but this time the venue wasn’t in a building that was supposed to be something else like a Chinese restaurant or an art museum. This time the nightclub setting actually made sense. The main act? None other than one of the most hated bands on planet earth, Limp Bizkit. Some of their onstage antics included blowing cigarette smoke out of a desk fan, having a face-to-face screaming match with yours truly, and doing a cover of Metallica’s “St. Anger” (as if they couldn’t be more hated). It was a nice way to wake up for my 33rd birthday, to say the least. Another nice way to wake up was seeing everybody’s birthday wishes on my Face Book page, so thank you all for that. The rest of my birthday was well-celebrated and now all I want to do is nap with Smokey. Maybe if I nap with her long enough, Limp Bizkit will give me another kick-ass performance.
MANIC PIXIE DREAM GIRL:
I just looked up the term Manic Pixie Dream Girl on Wikipedia. It’s a literary pejorative for a supporting female character whose main role in the story is to boost the self-esteem of the depressed or brooding male protagonist, thus helping him come out of his shell. Examples include Susanna from “The Way, Way Back”, Sam from “The Perks of Being a Wallflower”, and to some extent Sophie from “Obselidia”. When it comes to my current work in progress called Silent Warrior, I have strong reasons to believe Adrienne Simpson also falls under this category. Good god, what have I done?!
THE MARINE TEST:
Today’s my second straight day of mental sluggishness, so instead of actual writing, I’ll tell you all about a weird ass dream I had last night. In this episode of the subconscious theater, Mom, Dale, and I were vacationing in Afghanistan. While there, Mom had me apply for a job and as part of my recruitment, I had to take something called The Marine Test. It wasn’t actual military training like one would expect, but a written exam followed by a drawing test. I gave up halfway through it and decided to fly home to America. I called Mom and asked her when she and Dale were coming home. Mom said they were stuck in Israel, so I got even more frustrated. Then when I went out to the driveway, Dale and Mom were pulling in. I woke up wondering what the fuck just happened. The Marine Test? What does that even mean? And why was drawing something part of the exam? I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation for this, but unfortunately, Sigmund Freud is one dead motherfucker and I’m not trained in the art of necromancy. Bummer.
MEET JOE BLOW:
When I was in middle school in the late 90’s, I refused to go on a date with a girl because the movie we were going to see at the theater was Meet Joe Black. I wanted to see either American History X or Rush Hour, but no, it had to be the lovey-dovey Meet Joe Black because it meets the criteria for a “date movie”. Fast forward to 2014 and I realize that anything can be considered a “date movie” no matter what the genre. My now ex-girlfriend and I went to see The Lego Movie and Peabody & Sherman when they came out. Let that sink in for a minute. Still to this day, I haven’t watched Meet Joe Black nor have I desired to. Maybe I’ll research it on Wikipedia and call it a day. Or maybe one of you, my lovely readers, has seen it and can give the Cliff’s Notes version of it.
WHY ARE YOU UP SO LATE?:
I have a question for my fellow night owls. Have you ever been online past midnight and a friend sends you a message asking why you’re up so late? Usually these people live in a time zone far ahead of yours, so they’re technically up much later than you. I swear to god, one night I was online at ten-thirty and someone from the east coast asked me why I was up so late. By my math, that means the guy asking me is staying up until one-thirty in the morning. What is HE doing up so late? I’m not sure what the time difference is between the pacific coast in America and countries from across both oceans, but I’ve gotten the “Why are you up so late?” question from friends over there as well. Technically, I should be going to bed at a reasonable hour since I have sleep apnea and psychological exhaustion is one of the reasons why I don’t write or read every single day. My body says, “Go to bed”, but my mind says, “Fuck no” and wins that battle on a frequent basis. Maybe I just think that listening to music and fucking around on the internet is more entertaining than lying in bed. Perhaps this will answer some of your questions as to what I’m doing up so late, even though technically you’re up much later than I am.
ROCK AND ROLL WILL NEVER DIE!:
Would someone like to explain to me why I keep hearing the phrase “rock is dead”? Last time I checked, brand new rock and heavy metal albums are still being released to the public. Plus, if you love the old stuff, you can always, I don’t know, go back and listen to it. Music genres don’t just “die out”. People said rap rock was dead in 2001, but you still have bands like Hollywood Undead and From Ashes to New performing in that genre. Hell, there are still people performing classical symphonic music. Lindsey Stirling plays a goddamn violin, for Christ’s sake. Nightwish uses an orchestra for some of their songs. Hell, Evanescence released a symphonic album called Synthesis in 2017. If you have a favorite music genre, don’t give up on it because it’s not “trendy” or “hip”. Trends come and go, but music is forever. It’s the soundtrack of our lives. It’s medicine for the soul. Rock and roll isn’t dead now and it won’t be dead anytime soon. If for some reason it does die out (which it won’t), don’t blame it on young people, because that’s just a cheap copout. Plus, it’s bigoted as fuck. Can’t we all just…enjoy the music?!
TARJA TURUNEN DREAM:
It’s been a while since my last weird ass dream (mostly because I couldn’t remember them in the morning). This one really takes the goddamn cake. I dreamed I was in a long distance relationship with Tarja Turunen. While we’re talking on the phone, she mentions having to be cryogenically frozen until there’s a cure for whatever she has. She also says that because she lives in Philadelphia (she doesn’t in real life) and it’s polluted as hell, kissing her would be the equivalent of drinking hemlock. I tell her that since I live in the Pacific Northwest, kissing me would be the equivalent of kissing Walt Disney (because it’s cold up here and Mr. Disney is frozen). Before we hang up, I make a promise to wait for her until she’s awakened from cryogenic stasis. My mom then tells me that I don’t actually love her and that I’m only crushing on her for “pedestrian reasons”, whatever that means. I woke up with Smokey curled around my head since she’s made a habit out of trying to steal my pillow. Pedestrian reasons?! What?!
THEY’RE JUST FUCKING CLOTHES:
You know how people like to say, “He doesn’t know how to dress himself?” Well, I’ve come up with a little test to see if that’s true. Are you naked? If not, then congratulations, you know how to dress yourself. It doesn’t matter if you’re wearing sweatpants, New Romantic style, Goth boots, an Armani suit, or even a Speedo. If you’re clothed, you’re clothed. Hands down. End of story. Although I must admit, if these sweatpants weren’t so damn comfortable already, I wouldn’t mind dressing like a Goth or a New Romantic (despite the fact that it’s no longer the early 1980’s). But as it is, fashion is overrated and clothes are only good for warming up an otherwise naked body.
OVER-THE-TOP NAMES:
Reina and I just had a conversation about unrealistic names in my stories. When it comes to a college drama like Incelbordination, she thinks the names Oswald Crow and Antero Magnus sound too over-the-top and fantasy-like. They sound like they’re about to slay dragons rather than pine over hot chicks. Then there’s Beautiful Monster. Reina was strangely okay with the name Windham Xavier, but she thought the name Shelly Atwood didn’t fit the bill for a gothic seductress. Reina’s grandma is named Shelly. She rests her case. And then there’s Silent Warrior, which features a monstrous puppet teacher that appears in Scott’s dreams. Her name is…drum roll please…Aloysius Striker. As long as she’s relegated to the nightmare role, Reina has no problem with that name. Basically, her rule for naming characters is to have one of the names be fancy and the other be basic. She would have been okay with a name like Oswald Smith and she’s okay with Nikita Johnson. And then I explained to her that Crow was the last name of a pop singer (Sheryl Crow) and an actor (Russell Crowe). She didn’t buy that excuse. Me? I bought it with one hundred percent interest. I plan on showing Reina more of my overly exotic names tomorrow. Right now, it’s time for bed. Goodnight, everyone!
BEAUTIFUL MONSTER WEAPONS:
I have an hour to kill before WWE Monday Night Raw comes on TV, so I’ll use part of it to explain why in my WIP Beautiful Monster, Windham uses a whip and Tarja uses a staff. There’s no Freudian psychology behind either of those choices. Windham isn’t secretly into BDSM or anything like that, but if that’s what you got out of his characterization, I won’t argue with you. The reason I gave Windham Xavier a whip is because Simon Belmont from the Castlevania videogame series had one too. I gave Tarja Rikkinen a wooden staff because Donatello from the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles franchise had one as well. As long as I’m dispelling Freudian psychology in my weapon choices, Commander Rinehart doesn’t use a punching dagger because he’s secretly into fisting. He uses it for the same reason anybody else would: because it fucking hurts. I shall say no more. I’ve said enough already. Hehe!
EVANESCENCE DREAM:
I haven’t been remembering a lot of my trips to the subconscious theater lately since they involved competitions of some kind (I never remember those for some reason). I do however remember pretty much all of my concert dreams. Last night was no exception. This time I saw Evanescence play a show in an abandoned bank in the middle of nowhere. Amy Lee and her new band mates were all fifty years old. I repeat, between the release of Evanescence’s first album and this dream, Amy Lee became…fifty years old. She had gray hair, wrinkly skin, Marlboro lines in her face, and she was wearing a pants suit like she was running for office. This whole time I kept asking, “What the fuck’s going on here?!” Thank god I woke up when I did. But yes, it’s true, ladies and gentlemen: as of today, Amy Lee is only fourteen years away from celebrating her fiftieth birthday. Let that sink in for a minute and then you can slowly realize it beats the alternative.
CONCERT CO-HEADLINERS:
Because I was too zonked out today to get any real work done, I made a list of bands I haven’t seen perform live yet and paired them together as fantasy co-headliners. I tried to have the pairings make as much sense as possible. Live Nation? Make them happen!
1. 3 Doors Down X Crossfade
2. David Gilmour X Martin Kesici
3. Gemini Syndrome X From Ashes to New
4. Ghost X Babymetal
5. Hellyeah X All That Remains
6. Killer Be Killed X Down
7. Limp Bizkit X Bloodhound Gang
8. Sepultura X Sworn In
9. Serj Tankian X Tarja Turunen
10. Within Temptation X The Dark Element
BATHROOM BREAKS:
Here’s something I’ve always wondered, but never got an answer to. Why is it whenever you’re talking to someone online and you tell them you have to go to the bathroom, they always think you’re looking for an excuse to get away from the computer? Would they rather you soil yourself? Would they rather you wear a diaper at the computer? I don’t know about you guys, but sitting in my own biological sludge isn’t worth maintaining a conversation with someone. It stinks. It stinks very badly. I know this because my elderly dog Maggie shits and pisses all the time and I’m usually the one who wipes it off the floor. Whenever I tell you I need to go to the bathroom, believe me. This is especially important to me after I have a whole pitcher of iced tea to drink….or two…or three. That’s a lot of urine, more than Smokey’s litter box allows. So yes, I’m going to need a non-diapered bathroom break every once and a while. Deal with it.
FIFTY SHADES JOKES:
If you surf You Tube a lot like I do, you’ll eventually watch a few less-than-romantic videos and some wiseass in the comments section will say, “Still a better love story than Twilight.” Well, I’ve never read Twilight, so I can’t say for certain, but I have read its fan fiction predecessor Fifty Shades of Grey. I gave that book three out of five stars (mixed grade), but now that I have the benefit of hindsight, it deserved less. Much less! So that got me thinking: what are the most extreme, fringiest examples of movies or books that are better love stories than Fifty Shades of Grey? In the interest of bad taste, I’ve actually compiled a list for you so that you don’t have to. Starting with…
1. A Serbian Film
2. Boston Public (stalker episode)
3. Different Strokes (bike shop episode)
4. Fatal Attraction
5. Millennium (A Room with No View)
6. NCIS (Bete Noir)
7. NCIS: Los Angeles (An Unlocked Mind)
8. Pink Floyd the Wall (“Don’t Leave Me Now”)
9. Pulp Fiction (pawn shop scene)
10. Savages (Blake Lively’s captivity)
11. Star Wars: Return of the Jedi (slave Leia scene)
12. Suicide Squad (Joker X Harley Quinn)
13. Tales From the Hood (spinning table scene)
14. Team America: World Police (scat fetish scene)
15. The Shield (David Aceveda blowjob scene)
16. Through the Shattered Glass by Jeanie Clarke (marriage to Stone Cold Steve Austin)
With a virtual cornucopia of extreme examples, I want you to think carefully the next time you make a Fifty Shades joke. Let’s say you decide The Shield is more romantic. You’re basically saying that you’d rather get orally raped by a Mexican gangster than have a bondage romance with Christian Grey. I know, I know, you desperately want to put those things on the same level, but trust me, you’re exercising your hyperbole muscles when venturing into this territory.
BLACK TEA:
In all this time of drinking iced tea, I’ve always thought black tea had a negligible amount of caffeine. I can’t stress the word negligible enough. Turns out it’s one tier below coffee and I’m just now paying the price for drinking entire pitchers of black tea. Caffeine and schizophrenia is a fucking horrible combination. Plus, there must have been some reason why I kept waking up at ten in the morning despite going to bed late at night. If you don’t see any creative work from me for a while, it’s because the black tea caffeine is working its way out of my system and I’m constantly in beddy-bye with Smokey. I can’t concentrate if I’m perpetually sleepy. It probably doesn’t help matters that I’m constantly listening to “True” by Spandau Ballet and having romantic (not sexual) thoughts while doing so. Negligible, my ass!
CHEERIOS AND SOCCER:
When I was a nine-year-old preparing to play in a soccer game, I wanted to eat a bowl of Cheerios before the match, because…and I quote directly from the tube…they had “Morning power! Kid power! Go power!” James laughed his ass off at that while I was having a hard time undoing the brainwashing of television advertising. Truth is, Cheerios won’t help you win a soccer match. As a matter of fact, my team and I, the lovable losers known as The Thunder Eagles, got our asses handed to us like a bunch of jobbers. Drinking warm Gatorade didn’t help me win either. It gave me some cardio, but not a victory. I could have eaten a hot fudge sundae and had the same results. Is it any wonder why I didn’t want to shake the other team’s hands afterwards? Participation trophy, my ass!
BABY INITIALS:
I’m too zonked out today to get any real work done other than build a few of my birthday Legos. So instead I’m going to have some fun with potential kid names (even though I still haven’t any plans to father children). Tonight we’re going to look at initials, excluding the T in Temons and keeping the H in Haines (assuming initials are only supposed to have three letters). Ready? I sure am.
1. Grant Thomas Haines-Temons (GTH (Go to Hell))
2. Heath Edgar Haines-Temons (HEH)
3. Hunter Hearst Haines-Temons (HHH (Triple H))
4. Ivan Cody Haines-Temons (ICH)
5. Marcus Edge Haines-Temons (MEH)
6. Neville Alexander Haines-Temons (NAH)
7. Roger Owen Haines-Temons (ROH (Ring of Honor))
8. Samuel Mitchell Haines-Temons (SMH (Shaking My Head))
9. Tucker Oliver Haines-Temons (TOH (Treehouse of Horror))
10. Uriah Garrison Haines-Temons (UGH)
11. Walter Travis Haines-Temons (WTH (What the Hell?))
That’s all I can come up with for now. Happy Father’s Day!
COUPLES:
Here’s something I’ve often wondered, but never got a definitive answer to. Why is it whenever I go out in public with someone, everybody thinks we’re a couple? I’ve had people assume me and my brother James to be a gay couple, especially when we have Reina in tow. Hell, I’ve had a massage therapist in Hawaii assume that me and Aunt Ruth were a couple. You’ve got to have Ray Charles vision in order to fuck that one up. This isn’t Game of Thrones, people. My family tree actually forks. If it didn’t, then according to Jeff Foxworthy, I might be a redneck. Actually, my neck is red anyways since I go out for long distance walks in eighty degree heat, but that’s beside the point. Back to the topic at hand, it would be REALLY fucking disastrous if someone thought me and Reina were a couple. And while we’re at it, why don’t we just assume that people walking their dogs are in bestiality relationships. Good god almighty!
CREATIVE NONFICTION IS REAL, DAMN IT!:
When I was taking a nonfiction creative writing class in 2009, I overheard some kid questioning whether or not the words “creative” and “nonfiction” belong in the same sentence together. His major talking point was that since the memories are real and nothing is made up, it can’t be creative. The counterpoint to his argument was that the author still had to tell a story, which means the same rules as fictional writing still apply whether it’s showing vs. telling, being a reliable narrator, using colorful descriptions, dictating a desirable pace, using correct grammar, etc. No matter how many times the kid was proven wrong, he just kept insisting that there’s no such thing as creative nonfiction. It was like talking to a brick wall. Actually, the brick wall would have a higher IQ. Roger Waters seems to agree since he built one out of his own insecurities and made a classic rock album out of it with his Pink Floyd mates. See? I told you creative nonfiction was real!
DANIEL BRYAN X PAIGE:
Another weird ass goddamn dream from last night? Sure, why not? This one is WWE themed as it involved Smackdown wrestler Daniel Bryan and Smackdown General Manager Paige. Both of them were kidnapped by a religious cult after yesterday’s show. One of the cult members openly admitted to masturbating to Paige’s leaked sex videos, which naturally made her shiver in disgust. Once the cult’s van got to a high school gymnasium to perform a ritual, they gagged Daniel and Paige with tall Red Bull cans and duct tape. It was up to me and a special team of whoever-the-fucks to raid the gym and rescue the two Smackdown personalities. Daniel was successfully rescued, but Paige was nowhere to be found even as I kept desperately screaming her name. Then I woke up feeling happy for some strange reason, probably because I got a lot of work done last night at one in the morning (blogging Escape From Chehalis, writing Because of You, and reading chapter three of The Savior’s Champion). Although that might not be the official reason for my happiness, I chose not to question the source and actually let myself have a good day today.
DISTURBING NAPTIME MUSIC:
As someone who likes good music and good naps, I can tell you now that there’s nothing depraved about falling asleep to “She Don’t Want the World” by 3 Doors Down. The lyrics are disturbing as fuck, but the music is soothing enough to cure insomnia. Same thing goes with “Out of Hell” by In This Moment, a gentle piano melody with…questionable content. Not once have I fallen asleep to these songs and had a horrible nightmare afterwards. Most of my dreams are about school, concerts, and occasionally Unitarian churches (I used to go to those as a kid and a teenager, but not anymore). Last night’s trip to the subconscious was about me actually WANTING to go to school, so I signed up for a creative writing class and a gym course. Normally Roger Waters and I would agree when it comes to crappy school experiences, but this time, I actually wanted to go. Huh. Weird shit.
JAPANESE RESTAURANT:
It’s day three of zombie brain BS, so the most you’re going to get from me today is a post about a weird ass dream I had last night. Or as I like to call it, a trip into the subconscious theater. The dream opened with me getting a report card from college: two Ds and one F. I was so fucking pissed that I threw my report card in the garbage and went on a hissy-fit rampage in front of my teachers. To calm me down, one of the teachers suggested that I find a job at the Japanese restaurant on campus. When I started working there, the TVs at the sushi bar were playing Isle of Dogs and nobody batted an eye. I changed the channel to WWE and watched Dean Ambrose, Carlito, and Mojo Rawley give a member of The New Day a triple power bomb a la The Shield. I woke up wondering just what the hell happened (what a fucking surprise). Now that I’ve written this dream post, there might be some hope for me yet when it comes to creative work. The question now is, do I want to write a blog entry about Incel Terrorism or Creative Crossroads? Hmm…decisions, decisions…
SPIRO’S FAUX PAS:
As I ate dinner with my brother James at Spiro’s, he introduced me to a new word I apparently should have learned a long time ago: Faux Pas. It comes from the French for “false step” and it’s an idiom for an embarrassing or awkward mistake. Apparently during dinner, I made two Faux Pas that night. One, I ate the entire chocolate topping off of James’s peanut butter pie (which reminded him of the episode of South Park where Eric Cartman eats the crispy skin off of everybody’s KFC meals). The other Faux Pas was when I refused to engage in small talk with our waitress. She asked me if I did anything fun for the fourth of July and I simply said, “No”, prompting James to chuckle awkwardly for some reason. Even though he’s introverted too, he can’t understand why small talk is so difficult for me. All in all, it was a fun way to end our evening. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have many more Faux Pas to make.
STUPID HOSE!:
A few years ago, I was out on the back porch trying to get my garden hose to work. I can’t remember if I was watering flowers or cleaning out the rubbish bin, but I needed that hose to work. Much to my frustration, the damn thing wouldn’t spray any water. I tried everything from checking for knots to turning the faucet on. Nothing. Instead of looking for calmer, more rational solutions, I scream, “Come on, you stupid fucking hose, get working!” Little did I know that there were little children getting off school and parents who could have misinterpreted the word “hose” as being spelled H-O-E-S. What a disaster that would have been if someone thought I was a pimp. But I assure you, I’m just a guy who gets pissed off at little things. If you’ve ever wondered why my stories and poems have an angry tone, that’s why. I swear I’m not a pimp. Hehe!
GARRISH:
One day while going out to lunch with my dad and brother, the clerk who made my sandwich called me Garrish instead of Garrison, which my dad attributed to my poor handwriting when I placed my order. Dad and James joked that Garrish sounded like an Eastern European name, but it turns out it’s a real English word, albeit spelled with one R instead of two. Dictionary.com defines it as “tastelessly colorful”, like the Hawaiian shirts I used to wear back in my twenties. You learn something new every day, folks.
INUYASHA, SIT BOY!:
One of my favorite things to watch as a college kid was Inuyasha, but the one thing that always frustrated me about that show was how Kagome could bend Inuyasha to her will by using a “sit” command. Every time she said the magic word, the dog demon would fall flat on his face and become instantly obedient. Well, I think I’ve figured out a solution to that mess. To paraphrase Agent Smith from The Matrix, “What good is a sit command if you’re…unable to speak?” Sorry Kagome, but there are no M’s in the word sit. Hehe!
LIMP BIZKIT:
Whenever I need entertainment in the late hours of the night, I can always count on the subconscious theater to deliver a five star performance. Some might disagree about the five stars in this particular dream, but I don’t. Last night’s dream featured yet another weird ass rock concert, but this time the venue wasn’t in a building that was supposed to be something else like a Chinese restaurant or an art museum. This time the nightclub setting actually made sense. The main act? None other than one of the most hated bands on planet earth, Limp Bizkit. Some of their onstage antics included blowing cigarette smoke out of a desk fan, having a face-to-face screaming match with yours truly, and doing a cover of Metallica’s “St. Anger” (as if they couldn’t be more hated). It was a nice way to wake up for my 33rd birthday, to say the least. Another nice way to wake up was seeing everybody’s birthday wishes on my Face Book page, so thank you all for that. The rest of my birthday was well-celebrated and now all I want to do is nap with Smokey. Maybe if I nap with her long enough, Limp Bizkit will give me another kick-ass performance.
MANIC PIXIE DREAM GIRL:
I just looked up the term Manic Pixie Dream Girl on Wikipedia. It’s a literary pejorative for a supporting female character whose main role in the story is to boost the self-esteem of the depressed or brooding male protagonist, thus helping him come out of his shell. Examples include Susanna from “The Way, Way Back”, Sam from “The Perks of Being a Wallflower”, and to some extent Sophie from “Obselidia”. When it comes to my current work in progress called Silent Warrior, I have strong reasons to believe Adrienne Simpson also falls under this category. Good god, what have I done?!
THE MARINE TEST:
Today’s my second straight day of mental sluggishness, so instead of actual writing, I’ll tell you all about a weird ass dream I had last night. In this episode of the subconscious theater, Mom, Dale, and I were vacationing in Afghanistan. While there, Mom had me apply for a job and as part of my recruitment, I had to take something called The Marine Test. It wasn’t actual military training like one would expect, but a written exam followed by a drawing test. I gave up halfway through it and decided to fly home to America. I called Mom and asked her when she and Dale were coming home. Mom said they were stuck in Israel, so I got even more frustrated. Then when I went out to the driveway, Dale and Mom were pulling in. I woke up wondering what the fuck just happened. The Marine Test? What does that even mean? And why was drawing something part of the exam? I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation for this, but unfortunately, Sigmund Freud is one dead motherfucker and I’m not trained in the art of necromancy. Bummer.
MEET JOE BLOW:
When I was in middle school in the late 90’s, I refused to go on a date with a girl because the movie we were going to see at the theater was Meet Joe Black. I wanted to see either American History X or Rush Hour, but no, it had to be the lovey-dovey Meet Joe Black because it meets the criteria for a “date movie”. Fast forward to 2014 and I realize that anything can be considered a “date movie” no matter what the genre. My now ex-girlfriend and I went to see The Lego Movie and Peabody & Sherman when they came out. Let that sink in for a minute. Still to this day, I haven’t watched Meet Joe Black nor have I desired to. Maybe I’ll research it on Wikipedia and call it a day. Or maybe one of you, my lovely readers, has seen it and can give the Cliff’s Notes version of it.
WHY ARE YOU UP SO LATE?:
I have a question for my fellow night owls. Have you ever been online past midnight and a friend sends you a message asking why you’re up so late? Usually these people live in a time zone far ahead of yours, so they’re technically up much later than you. I swear to god, one night I was online at ten-thirty and someone from the east coast asked me why I was up so late. By my math, that means the guy asking me is staying up until one-thirty in the morning. What is HE doing up so late? I’m not sure what the time difference is between the pacific coast in America and countries from across both oceans, but I’ve gotten the “Why are you up so late?” question from friends over there as well. Technically, I should be going to bed at a reasonable hour since I have sleep apnea and psychological exhaustion is one of the reasons why I don’t write or read every single day. My body says, “Go to bed”, but my mind says, “Fuck no” and wins that battle on a frequent basis. Maybe I just think that listening to music and fucking around on the internet is more entertaining than lying in bed. Perhaps this will answer some of your questions as to what I’m doing up so late, even though technically you’re up much later than I am.
ROCK AND ROLL WILL NEVER DIE!:
Would someone like to explain to me why I keep hearing the phrase “rock is dead”? Last time I checked, brand new rock and heavy metal albums are still being released to the public. Plus, if you love the old stuff, you can always, I don’t know, go back and listen to it. Music genres don’t just “die out”. People said rap rock was dead in 2001, but you still have bands like Hollywood Undead and From Ashes to New performing in that genre. Hell, there are still people performing classical symphonic music. Lindsey Stirling plays a goddamn violin, for Christ’s sake. Nightwish uses an orchestra for some of their songs. Hell, Evanescence released a symphonic album called Synthesis in 2017. If you have a favorite music genre, don’t give up on it because it’s not “trendy” or “hip”. Trends come and go, but music is forever. It’s the soundtrack of our lives. It’s medicine for the soul. Rock and roll isn’t dead now and it won’t be dead anytime soon. If for some reason it does die out (which it won’t), don’t blame it on young people, because that’s just a cheap copout. Plus, it’s bigoted as fuck. Can’t we all just…enjoy the music?!
TARJA TURUNEN DREAM:
It’s been a while since my last weird ass dream (mostly because I couldn’t remember them in the morning). This one really takes the goddamn cake. I dreamed I was in a long distance relationship with Tarja Turunen. While we’re talking on the phone, she mentions having to be cryogenically frozen until there’s a cure for whatever she has. She also says that because she lives in Philadelphia (she doesn’t in real life) and it’s polluted as hell, kissing her would be the equivalent of drinking hemlock. I tell her that since I live in the Pacific Northwest, kissing me would be the equivalent of kissing Walt Disney (because it’s cold up here and Mr. Disney is frozen). Before we hang up, I make a promise to wait for her until she’s awakened from cryogenic stasis. My mom then tells me that I don’t actually love her and that I’m only crushing on her for “pedestrian reasons”, whatever that means. I woke up with Smokey curled around my head since she’s made a habit out of trying to steal my pillow. Pedestrian reasons?! What?!
THEY’RE JUST FUCKING CLOTHES:
You know how people like to say, “He doesn’t know how to dress himself?” Well, I’ve come up with a little test to see if that’s true. Are you naked? If not, then congratulations, you know how to dress yourself. It doesn’t matter if you’re wearing sweatpants, New Romantic style, Goth boots, an Armani suit, or even a Speedo. If you’re clothed, you’re clothed. Hands down. End of story. Although I must admit, if these sweatpants weren’t so damn comfortable already, I wouldn’t mind dressing like a Goth or a New Romantic (despite the fact that it’s no longer the early 1980’s). But as it is, fashion is overrated and clothes are only good for warming up an otherwise naked body.
OVER-THE-TOP NAMES:
Reina and I just had a conversation about unrealistic names in my stories. When it comes to a college drama like Incelbordination, she thinks the names Oswald Crow and Antero Magnus sound too over-the-top and fantasy-like. They sound like they’re about to slay dragons rather than pine over hot chicks. Then there’s Beautiful Monster. Reina was strangely okay with the name Windham Xavier, but she thought the name Shelly Atwood didn’t fit the bill for a gothic seductress. Reina’s grandma is named Shelly. She rests her case. And then there’s Silent Warrior, which features a monstrous puppet teacher that appears in Scott’s dreams. Her name is…drum roll please…Aloysius Striker. As long as she’s relegated to the nightmare role, Reina has no problem with that name. Basically, her rule for naming characters is to have one of the names be fancy and the other be basic. She would have been okay with a name like Oswald Smith and she’s okay with Nikita Johnson. And then I explained to her that Crow was the last name of a pop singer (Sheryl Crow) and an actor (Russell Crowe). She didn’t buy that excuse. Me? I bought it with one hundred percent interest. I plan on showing Reina more of my overly exotic names tomorrow. Right now, it’s time for bed. Goodnight, everyone!
BEAUTIFUL MONSTER WEAPONS:
I have an hour to kill before WWE Monday Night Raw comes on TV, so I’ll use part of it to explain why in my WIP Beautiful Monster, Windham uses a whip and Tarja uses a staff. There’s no Freudian psychology behind either of those choices. Windham isn’t secretly into BDSM or anything like that, but if that’s what you got out of his characterization, I won’t argue with you. The reason I gave Windham Xavier a whip is because Simon Belmont from the Castlevania videogame series had one too. I gave Tarja Rikkinen a wooden staff because Donatello from the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles franchise had one as well. As long as I’m dispelling Freudian psychology in my weapon choices, Commander Rinehart doesn’t use a punching dagger because he’s secretly into fisting. He uses it for the same reason anybody else would: because it fucking hurts. I shall say no more. I’ve said enough already. Hehe!
September 29, 2018
Hollow Hills Presents: Still Standing
***HOLLOW HILLS PRESENTS: STILL STANDING***
Bullying comes in many forms. It could be an immature insult. It could be a punch to the face. It could be a lifetime of negative messages. It could be an all-out sexual assault. The pain a victim feels from bullying has lasting psychological repercussions and in many cases has led to suicide. I know this because I too was bullied once upon a time. In other words, you’re not alone. In fact, nobody should have to face this horrible social crisis alone. And thus, we have the anthology known as Still Standing. Four short stories and one poem where the victims become the conquerors. They will go through pain, torture, and torment, but will always come out the other end empowered and emboldened. If you want to read about relatable characters who will always be there for you, grab a copy of this book when it’s released to the public on December 14th, 2018. All profits from the anthology’s sales will be donated to the Crisis Text Line.
Good Reads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/4...
Hollow Hills Author Bios: https://www.hollowhillsbooks.com/meet...
***LYRICS OF THE DAY***
“My friends are so depressed. I feel the question of your loneliness. Confide, ‘cause I’ll be on your side. You know I will. Ex-girlfriend called me up, alone and desperate on the prison phone. They want to give her seven years for being sad. My friends are so distressed and standing on the brink of emptiness. No words I know of to express this emptiness. Imagine me taught by tragedy. Release is peace. I heard a little girl and what she said was something beautiful. To give your love no matter what is what she said. I love all of you. Hurt by the cold. So hard and lonely too when you don’t know yourself.”
-Red Hot Chili Peppers singing “My Friends”-
Bullying comes in many forms. It could be an immature insult. It could be a punch to the face. It could be a lifetime of negative messages. It could be an all-out sexual assault. The pain a victim feels from bullying has lasting psychological repercussions and in many cases has led to suicide. I know this because I too was bullied once upon a time. In other words, you’re not alone. In fact, nobody should have to face this horrible social crisis alone. And thus, we have the anthology known as Still Standing. Four short stories and one poem where the victims become the conquerors. They will go through pain, torture, and torment, but will always come out the other end empowered and emboldened. If you want to read about relatable characters who will always be there for you, grab a copy of this book when it’s released to the public on December 14th, 2018. All profits from the anthology’s sales will be donated to the Crisis Text Line.
Good Reads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/4...
Hollow Hills Author Bios: https://www.hollowhillsbooks.com/meet...
***LYRICS OF THE DAY***
“My friends are so depressed. I feel the question of your loneliness. Confide, ‘cause I’ll be on your side. You know I will. Ex-girlfriend called me up, alone and desperate on the prison phone. They want to give her seven years for being sad. My friends are so distressed and standing on the brink of emptiness. No words I know of to express this emptiness. Imagine me taught by tragedy. Release is peace. I heard a little girl and what she said was something beautiful. To give your love no matter what is what she said. I love all of you. Hurt by the cold. So hard and lonely too when you don’t know yourself.”
-Red Hot Chili Peppers singing “My Friends”-
Time's Up
OPENING LINE
I see your gaslight and I raise you a scorched earth!
VERSE 1
The nightmare in her head
Isn’t limited to the bed
Never forget the shit they said
Never forget they wish her dead
CHORUS
Time’s up, you filthy animals!
Time’s up, sexual cannibals!
Time’s up, you phony god!
Put down the staff and rod!
VERSE 2
Call it witch hunt if you’d like
Carry your torches and your pikes
Thump your bible, preach your sermon
You’re still a bunch of toxic vermin
Your brutal past isn’t going away
No matter how many times you pray
Face the music or go fuck off
Her life is not yours to rob
EXTENDED CHORUS 1
Time’s up, you filthy animals!
Time’s up, sexual cannibals!
Time’s up, you phony god!
Put down the staff and rod!
Time’s up, Mr. High and Mighty!
Time’s up, Mr. Gaslighting!
Time’s up, Mr. Law and Order!
Time’s up, Mr. Sexual Torture!
VERSE 3
As long as you’ve got the magical R
It doesn’t matter if you’ve lowered the bar
Your sheep will follow, continue to swallow
Your bullshit until the inside is hollow
EXTENDED CHORUS 2
Time’s up, you filthy scum!
Justice for all, a free pass for none!
Time’s up, you barbarian!
None of this is hilarious!
Time’s up, you cockroach!
The plank is yours to approach!
Time’s up, nowhere to run!
Time’s up! Time’s up!
I see your gaslight and I raise you a scorched earth!
VERSE 1
The nightmare in her head
Isn’t limited to the bed
Never forget the shit they said
Never forget they wish her dead
CHORUS
Time’s up, you filthy animals!
Time’s up, sexual cannibals!
Time’s up, you phony god!
Put down the staff and rod!
VERSE 2
Call it witch hunt if you’d like
Carry your torches and your pikes
Thump your bible, preach your sermon
You’re still a bunch of toxic vermin
Your brutal past isn’t going away
No matter how many times you pray
Face the music or go fuck off
Her life is not yours to rob
EXTENDED CHORUS 1
Time’s up, you filthy animals!
Time’s up, sexual cannibals!
Time’s up, you phony god!
Put down the staff and rod!
Time’s up, Mr. High and Mighty!
Time’s up, Mr. Gaslighting!
Time’s up, Mr. Law and Order!
Time’s up, Mr. Sexual Torture!
VERSE 3
As long as you’ve got the magical R
It doesn’t matter if you’ve lowered the bar
Your sheep will follow, continue to swallow
Your bullshit until the inside is hollow
EXTENDED CHORUS 2
Time’s up, you filthy scum!
Justice for all, a free pass for none!
Time’s up, you barbarian!
None of this is hilarious!
Time’s up, you cockroach!
The plank is yours to approach!
Time’s up, nowhere to run!
Time’s up! Time’s up!
September 26, 2018
Uncomfortable
VERSE 1
All this time I was dating a stranger
Thinking she was my queen and savior
Couldn’t get comfortable for a second
I couldn’t form a wisecrack sentence
Stutter, stutter, stutter, stutter
Iron courage melts like a stick of butter
The keys to her heart, far out of reach
Infinite charisma, could never teach
CHORUS
Uncomfortable on her couch
Uncomfortable kissing sounds
Uncomfortable silence so loud
Uncomfortable! Uncomfortable!
VERSE 2
They say I’m too shy, too out of place
Too much sadness written on my face
Too much anger building up inside
Not enough zeal, too much pride
Could never open up, make the first move
For fear of having everything to lose
Couldn’t get comfortable for a minute
The kiss goodbye never tasted so vicious
CHORUS
Uncomfortable on her couch
Uncomfortable kissing sounds
Uncomfortable silence so loud
Uncomfortable! Uncomfortable!
VERSE 3
A new friend, a new song of silence
Cower away from the seductive siren
She takes my hand, she tries to dance
Another way to try to get in my pants
Discomfort became seen as weakness
My broken heart shattered into pieces
I swear it’ll be different the next time
Except there won’t be another next time
EXTENDED CHORUS
Uncomfortable on her couch
Uncomfortable kissing sounds
Uncomfortable silence so loud
Uncomfortable! Uncomfortable!
Uncomfortable in my head
Uncomfortable is what I said
Should I try to say it again?
Or will this loneliness never end?
All this time I was dating a stranger
Thinking she was my queen and savior
Couldn’t get comfortable for a second
I couldn’t form a wisecrack sentence
Stutter, stutter, stutter, stutter
Iron courage melts like a stick of butter
The keys to her heart, far out of reach
Infinite charisma, could never teach
CHORUS
Uncomfortable on her couch
Uncomfortable kissing sounds
Uncomfortable silence so loud
Uncomfortable! Uncomfortable!
VERSE 2
They say I’m too shy, too out of place
Too much sadness written on my face
Too much anger building up inside
Not enough zeal, too much pride
Could never open up, make the first move
For fear of having everything to lose
Couldn’t get comfortable for a minute
The kiss goodbye never tasted so vicious
CHORUS
Uncomfortable on her couch
Uncomfortable kissing sounds
Uncomfortable silence so loud
Uncomfortable! Uncomfortable!
VERSE 3
A new friend, a new song of silence
Cower away from the seductive siren
She takes my hand, she tries to dance
Another way to try to get in my pants
Discomfort became seen as weakness
My broken heart shattered into pieces
I swear it’ll be different the next time
Except there won’t be another next time
EXTENDED CHORUS
Uncomfortable on her couch
Uncomfortable kissing sounds
Uncomfortable silence so loud
Uncomfortable! Uncomfortable!
Uncomfortable in my head
Uncomfortable is what I said
Should I try to say it again?
Or will this loneliness never end?
September 25, 2018
Incelbordination, Chapter 15
“Hello? Is there anybody in there? Just nod if you can hear me. Is there anyone home?” Oswald sang to the dark wall in front of him. He hadn’t a single clue how much time had past since his incarceration. He could feel his brain popping like popcorn. He could feel his soul exiting through his mouth as he sang Pink Floyd lyrics. Any smile he had that day could be chalked up to mind-numbing insanity. It didn’t even occur to him to call for help even though nobody would answer him. It occurred to him even less to pound on the walls. His stomach growled in a leonine voice, but all he could hear were the echoes of a distant time come willowing across the sand.
And then his one-man show was finally interrupted by the opening of his cell door, keys jangling in the lock and all. The intense light flooded the room and burned Oswald’s retinas so badly that he cowered in the corner shielding his face. All he could see past his fingers was the silhouette of a trench coat-wearing female. It was nothing like the kind of coat Antero regularly wore to keep up his Matrix gimmick. This was professional-looking. And the woman’s voice was nothing short of professional-sounding.
“Bad few days, huh, Mr. Crow?” said Detective Mia Barry, whose face came into plain view once the light had dimmed a little.
Through a withering voice, Oswald asked, “What do you want from me this time?”
“I have some good news for you, Oz-Man.”
“You saved a bunch of money on your car insurance by switching to Geico?”
Mia giggled. “No, not that, although they do have nice customer service. I’m talking about good news as it relates to your charges.”
Oswald lowered his hands as his red eyes adjusted to the darkening light. “I’m listening.”
“Our tech guys scoured your computer and sifted through further evidence. There’s no proof you were ever involved with Incelbordination. From the looks of things, you couldn’t get out of that chat room fast enough.”
“W…wait a minute…you mean…what I did at the warehouse? That’s been cleared up too?”
Folding her arms and leaning against the cell door, Mia explained, “Three witnesses put you at that scene. Well, only two if you’re not counting that meathead Wacey Judge. Miss Sand and Miss Johnson put in a good word for you. They said you were argumentative, but otherwise safe to be around. You should thank those two, you know. They stuck their necks out for you. They wouldn’t do that if they thought you were a terrorist.”
Oswald could finally open his eyes to full capacity in expression of disbelief. “Those three…they’re alive?”
“Actually, we performed some necromancy on them and asked them the hard-hitting questions once they were properly summoned. Of course they’re alive, silly!”
A slowly forming smile crept upon Oswald’s face. “Does that mean…you finally got Antero?!”
Scratching her nose, Mia said, “Actually, that’s where the bad news begins. Antero Magnus is still out there somewhere. He and his incel buddies bailed on us at the last minute. Of course, you wouldn’t know that, because you got knocked the fuck out before we got there. You’ve still got a knot on your forehead from whatever Antero did to you.”
Oswald winced in pain as he prodded the fresh bruise on his forehead.
“Are you ready to hear the other half of the good news or do you want to poke your forehead some more?” Oswald excitedly nodded and Mia was happy to present the news after clearing her throat. “It turns out you do have a legal prescription for your marijuana use. The only reason why it was so hard to obtain was because you used your monthly dosage too soon. Just how much of that shit have you been puffing on at once?”
On account of being kneed in the face by Antero, Oswald actually had to think his absolute hardest to find out. He had been puffing every day like a diesel train without a thought of consequence. He puffed whenever he was nervous. He puffed because he could. He puffed whenever his favorite song came on his play list. Puff, puff, puff, nonstop, twenty-four-seven. No wonder his trench coat always smelled awful. He damned himself when he said, “Stupid!” and would have face-palmed if that bruise wasn’t jutting out so far.
“Yeah, you need to be more careful with your medication, Oz-Man. It’s not supposed to be for recreational use.”
“Well yeah, it makes sense now! I…just have one more question and then I’ll leave you alone.”
“You can ask as many questions as you want, Oswald. This isn’t an interrogation. Besides, I kind of owe you that luxury after you’ve spent so much time in here for nothing. This would actually be a good time for your marijuana usage.”
Oswald sighed and rubbed the sleepiness out of his eyes. “Whatever happened to Jessica? Is she going to be alright?” Mia’s face softened at the mention of her name. “What? What’s going on?”
“You must be referring to Jessica Bradley, the teenage prostitute we stuck you with. Yeah, she, uh…” Mia scratched the back of her neck in search of the right way to say what she needed to say. She sighed and finally spit it out. “She hung herself the night Antero took you away. We tried CPR, but she didn’t make it. I’m sorry, Oswald. She’s dead.”
The dwarf buried his face in his hands and let the tears sting his already burning eyes. His heart sank into the pit of his stomach. His posture hunched over to where his neck ached. He even shouted, “Fuck!” as he pounded the wall behind him, aggravating his fist injuries even further. “Fucking hell!” he groaned while massaging his hand.
“Fourteen years old, Oswald. Even with prostitution on her record, she had her whole life ahead of her. She must have had some tough demons to face beforehand. Come to think of it, you’ve probably got some demons of your own to face. I would advise you to seek psychological help once you’re free. We don’t need another suicide, especially when you yourself have your whole life ahead of you as well.”
The dwarf gasped hard in between sobs. “Everything…I touch…turns to shit!”
“You see that? You see?!” Mia snapped, her following words growing more erratic as she pointed her finger. “That’s the reason why you need help! You are not a horrible person! You are not an incel terrorist! You are not a drug addict! You’re a human fucking being! If you kill yourself like Jessica did, you will have wasted your freedom and wasted an opportunity to set things right! Is that what you want?!”
“I just…I just want…” Oswald snorted snot up his nose and wiped the rest away with his sleeve. “I just want things to make sense, that’s all.”
Mia nodded and softened her tone. “I guess that’s something we all want, don’t we? But if you don’t seek help, nothing will ever make sense again. I know therapy is expensive, but it’s worth every penny. Oswald, I don’t want to watch you die in front of me. You’re innocent. You’ve been proven innocent by someone who’s waiting for you in the parking lot right now. She wants to give you a ride back to your dorm. She’s also the reason why we found your prescription in the first place. Come on, let’s go meet her.”
The detective approached Oswald and helped the sobbing dwarf to his feet. The two of them held hands together as they walked out of the police station. He knew she was just being a comfort to him, but handholding actually felt good for what it was. It didn’t have to be lovey-dovey. The kind gesture should have been appreciated and it was. I could never be an incel, thought Oswald as the last of his tears dried up on his sleeve.
After Oswald received his belongings (sans pot), Mia held the door open for him and said, “Have a good evening, little man. Get some sleep. You need it.”
His eyes lit up behind glassy vision when he saw a familiar woman standing next to her car with her arms folded. “No way,” said Oswald. It was true. She too had been through a lot. She too had watery pupils. She too had a bruise on her face, though hers was swollen over one eye.
“Come on, little dude. Let’s get you home,” said Nikita Johnson as she opened the passenger door and offered to help Oswald inside.
And then his one-man show was finally interrupted by the opening of his cell door, keys jangling in the lock and all. The intense light flooded the room and burned Oswald’s retinas so badly that he cowered in the corner shielding his face. All he could see past his fingers was the silhouette of a trench coat-wearing female. It was nothing like the kind of coat Antero regularly wore to keep up his Matrix gimmick. This was professional-looking. And the woman’s voice was nothing short of professional-sounding.
“Bad few days, huh, Mr. Crow?” said Detective Mia Barry, whose face came into plain view once the light had dimmed a little.
Through a withering voice, Oswald asked, “What do you want from me this time?”
“I have some good news for you, Oz-Man.”
“You saved a bunch of money on your car insurance by switching to Geico?”
Mia giggled. “No, not that, although they do have nice customer service. I’m talking about good news as it relates to your charges.”
Oswald lowered his hands as his red eyes adjusted to the darkening light. “I’m listening.”
“Our tech guys scoured your computer and sifted through further evidence. There’s no proof you were ever involved with Incelbordination. From the looks of things, you couldn’t get out of that chat room fast enough.”
“W…wait a minute…you mean…what I did at the warehouse? That’s been cleared up too?”
Folding her arms and leaning against the cell door, Mia explained, “Three witnesses put you at that scene. Well, only two if you’re not counting that meathead Wacey Judge. Miss Sand and Miss Johnson put in a good word for you. They said you were argumentative, but otherwise safe to be around. You should thank those two, you know. They stuck their necks out for you. They wouldn’t do that if they thought you were a terrorist.”
Oswald could finally open his eyes to full capacity in expression of disbelief. “Those three…they’re alive?”
“Actually, we performed some necromancy on them and asked them the hard-hitting questions once they were properly summoned. Of course they’re alive, silly!”
A slowly forming smile crept upon Oswald’s face. “Does that mean…you finally got Antero?!”
Scratching her nose, Mia said, “Actually, that’s where the bad news begins. Antero Magnus is still out there somewhere. He and his incel buddies bailed on us at the last minute. Of course, you wouldn’t know that, because you got knocked the fuck out before we got there. You’ve still got a knot on your forehead from whatever Antero did to you.”
Oswald winced in pain as he prodded the fresh bruise on his forehead.
“Are you ready to hear the other half of the good news or do you want to poke your forehead some more?” Oswald excitedly nodded and Mia was happy to present the news after clearing her throat. “It turns out you do have a legal prescription for your marijuana use. The only reason why it was so hard to obtain was because you used your monthly dosage too soon. Just how much of that shit have you been puffing on at once?”
On account of being kneed in the face by Antero, Oswald actually had to think his absolute hardest to find out. He had been puffing every day like a diesel train without a thought of consequence. He puffed whenever he was nervous. He puffed because he could. He puffed whenever his favorite song came on his play list. Puff, puff, puff, nonstop, twenty-four-seven. No wonder his trench coat always smelled awful. He damned himself when he said, “Stupid!” and would have face-palmed if that bruise wasn’t jutting out so far.
“Yeah, you need to be more careful with your medication, Oz-Man. It’s not supposed to be for recreational use.”
“Well yeah, it makes sense now! I…just have one more question and then I’ll leave you alone.”
“You can ask as many questions as you want, Oswald. This isn’t an interrogation. Besides, I kind of owe you that luxury after you’ve spent so much time in here for nothing. This would actually be a good time for your marijuana usage.”
Oswald sighed and rubbed the sleepiness out of his eyes. “Whatever happened to Jessica? Is she going to be alright?” Mia’s face softened at the mention of her name. “What? What’s going on?”
“You must be referring to Jessica Bradley, the teenage prostitute we stuck you with. Yeah, she, uh…” Mia scratched the back of her neck in search of the right way to say what she needed to say. She sighed and finally spit it out. “She hung herself the night Antero took you away. We tried CPR, but she didn’t make it. I’m sorry, Oswald. She’s dead.”
The dwarf buried his face in his hands and let the tears sting his already burning eyes. His heart sank into the pit of his stomach. His posture hunched over to where his neck ached. He even shouted, “Fuck!” as he pounded the wall behind him, aggravating his fist injuries even further. “Fucking hell!” he groaned while massaging his hand.
“Fourteen years old, Oswald. Even with prostitution on her record, she had her whole life ahead of her. She must have had some tough demons to face beforehand. Come to think of it, you’ve probably got some demons of your own to face. I would advise you to seek psychological help once you’re free. We don’t need another suicide, especially when you yourself have your whole life ahead of you as well.”
The dwarf gasped hard in between sobs. “Everything…I touch…turns to shit!”
“You see that? You see?!” Mia snapped, her following words growing more erratic as she pointed her finger. “That’s the reason why you need help! You are not a horrible person! You are not an incel terrorist! You are not a drug addict! You’re a human fucking being! If you kill yourself like Jessica did, you will have wasted your freedom and wasted an opportunity to set things right! Is that what you want?!”
“I just…I just want…” Oswald snorted snot up his nose and wiped the rest away with his sleeve. “I just want things to make sense, that’s all.”
Mia nodded and softened her tone. “I guess that’s something we all want, don’t we? But if you don’t seek help, nothing will ever make sense again. I know therapy is expensive, but it’s worth every penny. Oswald, I don’t want to watch you die in front of me. You’re innocent. You’ve been proven innocent by someone who’s waiting for you in the parking lot right now. She wants to give you a ride back to your dorm. She’s also the reason why we found your prescription in the first place. Come on, let’s go meet her.”
The detective approached Oswald and helped the sobbing dwarf to his feet. The two of them held hands together as they walked out of the police station. He knew she was just being a comfort to him, but handholding actually felt good for what it was. It didn’t have to be lovey-dovey. The kind gesture should have been appreciated and it was. I could never be an incel, thought Oswald as the last of his tears dried up on his sleeve.
After Oswald received his belongings (sans pot), Mia held the door open for him and said, “Have a good evening, little man. Get some sleep. You need it.”
His eyes lit up behind glassy vision when he saw a familiar woman standing next to her car with her arms folded. “No way,” said Oswald. It was true. She too had been through a lot. She too had watery pupils. She too had a bruise on her face, though hers was swollen over one eye.
“Come on, little dude. Let’s get you home,” said Nikita Johnson as she opened the passenger door and offered to help Oswald inside.
Your Name Is Motherfucker
VERSE 1
Dehumanize you like you do to your foes
It’s such a mature tactic as everyone knows
I don’t care what it says on your ID card
Your name is motherfucker, now play the part
Your name is dip-shit, your name is jackass
A whole lot of flash, but not a lot of class
I can be cool and edgy just like your bitch ass
But in the end, we’re going nowhere fast
CHORUS
Your name is motherfucker! X4
VERSE 2
Can’t we talk to each other like grown men?
Or on a sour note will our conversation end?
Your name is mud, your name is bullshit
Drag you through them both if I so wish
CHORUS
Your name is motherfucker! X4
BRIDGE
You did it to yourself with nobody’s help
Put us all through hell with the lies you tell
Defamation and subjugation
Diplomacy has become lost in translation
VERSE 3
Don’t blame the victim, blame the attacker
Don’t use the words of a middle school slacker
Don’t build and army of trolls and assholes
Don’t build a wall of your critics’ skulls
Your name is coward, your name is lunatic
Your past is covered with abusiveness
Your name is six-double-five-three-two-one
It’s the number on your orange uniform, son
CHORUS
Your name is motherfucker! X8
Dehumanize you like you do to your foes
It’s such a mature tactic as everyone knows
I don’t care what it says on your ID card
Your name is motherfucker, now play the part
Your name is dip-shit, your name is jackass
A whole lot of flash, but not a lot of class
I can be cool and edgy just like your bitch ass
But in the end, we’re going nowhere fast
CHORUS
Your name is motherfucker! X4
VERSE 2
Can’t we talk to each other like grown men?
Or on a sour note will our conversation end?
Your name is mud, your name is bullshit
Drag you through them both if I so wish
CHORUS
Your name is motherfucker! X4
BRIDGE
You did it to yourself with nobody’s help
Put us all through hell with the lies you tell
Defamation and subjugation
Diplomacy has become lost in translation
VERSE 3
Don’t blame the victim, blame the attacker
Don’t use the words of a middle school slacker
Don’t build and army of trolls and assholes
Don’t build a wall of your critics’ skulls
Your name is coward, your name is lunatic
Your past is covered with abusiveness
Your name is six-double-five-three-two-one
It’s the number on your orange uniform, son
CHORUS
Your name is motherfucker! X8
September 24, 2018
Batman vs. Superman: Dawn of Justice
MOVIE TITLE: Batman vs. Superman: Dawn of Justice
DIRECTOR: Zack Snyder
YEAR: 2016
GENRE: Superhero
RATING: PG-13 for violence and language
GRADE: Mixed
In the public eye, Superman is either seen as a godlike savior for the neighboring cities of Metropolis and Gotham or a reckless oaf who leaves destruction as part of his heroism. The Wayne Enterprises building and the people inside happened to be victims of Superman’s carelessness and now Batman wants revenge for the fallen. Stirring the pot between these superheroes is Lex Luthor, a corporate prodigy who comes into possession of Kryptonite (Superman’s weakness). Can Batman and Superman get along and team up against the real threat to humanity or will their shades of gray characteristics blind them into fighting each other to the death?
The fact that Zack Snyder uses shades of gray logic to define Batman and Superman is part of what makes this movie unique. Superman can be careless when it comes to containing his powers, but Batman can be just as sadistic and merciless when he brands the bat symbol onto criminals before sending them to jail. These two characters cancel each other out when it comes to the moral high ground, so much so that political pundits such as Charlie Rose and Neil Degrasse Tyson had to be brought in to discuss their risk vs. reward values. I’m not saying we’ll have a recklessly devastating superhero scenario in real life, but if we did, are we as a society prepared to make compromises and see the middle ground? We ccouldn’t find that middle ground even without Superman and Batman killing everything, so we’re pretty much doomed. Just look at all the buildings that get destroyed in the name of superhero politics. People give anime a hard time for having buildings burn to the ground so easily, but they need to see this movie for more of the same.
This fictional political climate might have been more jarring to watch if the shooting of the movie was better executed. Something about this movie makes me want to give it a mixed grade despite all it has going for it. It could be the lack of character investment. It could be the slow pacing. It could be the cliché violence and destruction. It could be that the pieces of this plot were lazily thrown together. Maybe it’s the way the movie dragged on for over two hours of nothingness. I can’t pinpoint one feature of this movie that’s responsible for the negative reviews it got, but when my brother asked me what I thought of it, all I could say was, “Meh”. The movie had loads of potential to be something great, but something about it just made me want to tune out.
Whatever the main negative point could have been, it certainly wasn’t Jesse Eisenberg’s acting when it came to his portrayal of Lex Luthor. I know he got a Golden Raspberry award for worst supporting actor, but I disagree with that opinion. Lex’s character drew a lot of parallels to Heath Ledger’s version of The Joker with how delightfully insane and quirky he was. I have a soft spot for crazy-minded characters due to how relatable they are (not in every way, but in some ways). Sometimes the villains are more relatable than the superheroes. In fact, they can be just as “shades of gray” as Batman and Superman are in this movie. I keep wondering what it was that made Lex Luthor snap the way he did. We don’t get a clear answer by the end, so that makes me even more curious. Either way, I love his kooky portrayal! The body language, the tics, the cadence in his voice, even Lex’s hairstyle reminds me of The Joker. Golden Raspberry, my foot!
While Batman vs. Superman isn’t a perfect movie, I’m not going to completely dump all over it despite its glaring flaws. A mixed grade is nothing to sneeze at, especially considering everybody else seems to be headhunting these days when reviewing suspicious movies. I wanted to enjoy this movie. I love the DC Universe. I stuck with the film until the end. Again, it’s not perfect, but the haters can calm down just for a little while before they click that one or two-star option.
DIRECTOR: Zack Snyder
YEAR: 2016
GENRE: Superhero
RATING: PG-13 for violence and language
GRADE: Mixed
In the public eye, Superman is either seen as a godlike savior for the neighboring cities of Metropolis and Gotham or a reckless oaf who leaves destruction as part of his heroism. The Wayne Enterprises building and the people inside happened to be victims of Superman’s carelessness and now Batman wants revenge for the fallen. Stirring the pot between these superheroes is Lex Luthor, a corporate prodigy who comes into possession of Kryptonite (Superman’s weakness). Can Batman and Superman get along and team up against the real threat to humanity or will their shades of gray characteristics blind them into fighting each other to the death?
The fact that Zack Snyder uses shades of gray logic to define Batman and Superman is part of what makes this movie unique. Superman can be careless when it comes to containing his powers, but Batman can be just as sadistic and merciless when he brands the bat symbol onto criminals before sending them to jail. These two characters cancel each other out when it comes to the moral high ground, so much so that political pundits such as Charlie Rose and Neil Degrasse Tyson had to be brought in to discuss their risk vs. reward values. I’m not saying we’ll have a recklessly devastating superhero scenario in real life, but if we did, are we as a society prepared to make compromises and see the middle ground? We ccouldn’t find that middle ground even without Superman and Batman killing everything, so we’re pretty much doomed. Just look at all the buildings that get destroyed in the name of superhero politics. People give anime a hard time for having buildings burn to the ground so easily, but they need to see this movie for more of the same.
This fictional political climate might have been more jarring to watch if the shooting of the movie was better executed. Something about this movie makes me want to give it a mixed grade despite all it has going for it. It could be the lack of character investment. It could be the slow pacing. It could be the cliché violence and destruction. It could be that the pieces of this plot were lazily thrown together. Maybe it’s the way the movie dragged on for over two hours of nothingness. I can’t pinpoint one feature of this movie that’s responsible for the negative reviews it got, but when my brother asked me what I thought of it, all I could say was, “Meh”. The movie had loads of potential to be something great, but something about it just made me want to tune out.
Whatever the main negative point could have been, it certainly wasn’t Jesse Eisenberg’s acting when it came to his portrayal of Lex Luthor. I know he got a Golden Raspberry award for worst supporting actor, but I disagree with that opinion. Lex’s character drew a lot of parallels to Heath Ledger’s version of The Joker with how delightfully insane and quirky he was. I have a soft spot for crazy-minded characters due to how relatable they are (not in every way, but in some ways). Sometimes the villains are more relatable than the superheroes. In fact, they can be just as “shades of gray” as Batman and Superman are in this movie. I keep wondering what it was that made Lex Luthor snap the way he did. We don’t get a clear answer by the end, so that makes me even more curious. Either way, I love his kooky portrayal! The body language, the tics, the cadence in his voice, even Lex’s hairstyle reminds me of The Joker. Golden Raspberry, my foot!
While Batman vs. Superman isn’t a perfect movie, I’m not going to completely dump all over it despite its glaring flaws. A mixed grade is nothing to sneeze at, especially considering everybody else seems to be headhunting these days when reviewing suspicious movies. I wanted to enjoy this movie. I love the DC Universe. I stuck with the film until the end. Again, it’s not perfect, but the haters can calm down just for a little while before they click that one or two-star option.
